note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) the canterville ghost by wilde an amusing chronicle of the tribulations of the ghost of canterville chase when his ancestral halls became the home of the american minister to the court of st. james. illustrated by wallace goldsmith john w. luce and company boston and london list of illustrations miss virginia e. otis "had once raced old lord bilton on her pony" "blood has been spilled on that spot" "i really must insist on your oiling those chains" "the twins ... at once discharged two pellets on him" "its head was bald and burnished" "he met with a severe fall" "a heavy jug of water fell right down on him" "making satirical remarks on the photographs" "suddenly there leaped out two figures" "'poor, poor ghost,' she murmured; 'have you no place where you can sleep?'" "the ghost glided on more swiftly" "he heard somebody galloping after him" "out on the landing stepped virginia" "chained to it was a gaunt skeleton" "by the side of the hearse and the coaches walked the servants with lighted torches" "the moon came out from behind a cloud" i when mr. hiram b. otis, the american minister, bought canterville chase, every one told him he was doing a very foolish thing, as there was no doubt at all that the place was haunted. indeed, lord canterville himself, who was a man of the most punctilious honour, had felt it his duty to mention the fact to mr. otis when they came to discuss terms. "we have not cared to live in the place ourselves," said lord canterville, "since my grandaunt, the dowager duchess of bolton, was frightened into a fit, from which she never really recovered, by two skeleton hands being placed on her shoulders as she was dressing for dinner, and i feel bound to tell you, mr. otis, that the ghost has been seen by several living members of my family, as well as by the rector of the parish, the rev. augustus dampier, who is a fellow of king's college, cambridge. after the unfortunate accident to the duchess, none of our younger servants would stay with us, and lady canterville often got very little sleep at night, in consequence of the mysterious noises that came from the corridor and the library." "my lord," answered the minister, "i will take the furniture and the ghost at a valuation. i have come from a modern country, where we have everything that money can buy; and with all our spry young fellows painting the old world red, and carrying off your best actors and prima-donnas, i reckon that if there were such a thing as a ghost in europe, we'd have it at home in a very short time in one of our public museums, or on the road as a show." "i fear that the ghost exists," said lord canterville, smiling, "though it may have resisted the overtures of your enterprising impresarios. it has been well known for three centuries, since in fact, and always makes its appearance before the death of any member of our family." "well, so does the family doctor for that matter, lord canterville. but there is no such thing, sir, as a ghost, and i guess the laws of nature are not going to be suspended for the british aristocracy." "you are certainly very natural in america," answered lord canterville, who did not quite understand mr. otis's last observation, "and if you don't mind a ghost in the house, it is all right. only you must remember i warned you." [illustration: miss virginia e. otis] a few weeks after this, the purchase was concluded, and at the close of the season the minister and his family went down to canterville chase. mrs. otis, who, as miss lucretia r. tappan, of west d street, had been a celebrated new york belle, was now a very handsome, middle-aged woman, with fine eyes, and a superb profile. many american ladies on leaving their native land adopt an appearance of chronic ill-health, under the impression that it is a form of european refinement, but mrs. otis had never fallen into this error. she had a magnificent constitution, and a really wonderful amount of animal spirits. indeed, in many respects, she was quite english, and was an excellent example of the fact that we have really everything in common with america nowadays, except, of course, language. her eldest son, christened washington by his parents in a moment of patriotism, which he never ceased to regret, was a fair-haired, rather good-looking young man, who had qualified himself for american diplomacy by leading the german at the newport casino for three successive seasons, and even in london was well known as an excellent dancer. gardenias and the peerage were his only weaknesses. otherwise he was extremely sensible. miss virginia e. otis was a little girl of fifteen, lithe and lovely as a fawn, and with a fine freedom in her large blue eyes. she was a wonderful amazon, and had once raced old lord bilton on her pony twice round the park, winning by a length and a half, just in front of the achilles statue, to the huge delight of the young duke of cheshire, who proposed for her on the spot, and was sent back to eton that very night by his guardians, in floods of tears. after virginia came the twins, who were usually called "the star and stripes," as they were always getting swished. they were delightful boys, and, with the exception of the worthy minister, the only true republicans of the family. [illustration: "had once raced old lord bilton on her pony"] as canterville chase is seven miles from ascot, the nearest railway station, mr. otis had telegraphed for a waggonette to meet them, and they started on their drive in high spirits. it was a lovely july evening, and the air was delicate with the scent of the pinewoods. now and then they heard a wood-pigeon brooding over its own sweet voice, or saw, deep in the rustling fern, the burnished breast of the pheasant. little squirrels peered at them from the beech-trees as they went by, and the rabbits scudded away through the brushwood and over the mossy knolls, with their white tails in the air. as they entered the avenue of canterville chase, however, the sky became suddenly overcast with clouds, a curious stillness seemed to hold the atmosphere, a great flight of rooks passed silently over their heads, and, before they reached the house, some big drops of rain had fallen. standing on the steps to receive them was an old woman, neatly dressed in black silk, with a white cap and apron. this was mrs. umney, the housekeeper, whom mrs. otis, at lady canterville's earnest request, had consented to keep in her former position. she made them each a low curtsey as they alighted, and said in a quaint, old-fashioned manner, "i bid you welcome to canterville chase." following her, they passed through the fine tudor hall into the library, a long, low room, panelled in black oak, at the end of which was a large stained glass window. here they found tea laid out for them, and, after taking off their wraps, they sat down and began to look round, while mrs. umney waited on them. suddenly mrs. otis caught sight of a dull red stain on the floor just by the fireplace, and, quite unconscious of what it really signified, said to mrs. umney, "i am afraid something has been spilt there." "yes, madam," replied the old housekeeper in a low voice, "blood has been spilt on that spot." [illustration: "blood has been spilled on that spot"] "how horrid!" cried mrs. otis; "i don't at all care for blood-stains in a sitting-room. it must be removed at once." the old woman smiled, and answered in the same low, mysterious voice, "it is the blood of lady eleanore de canterville, who was murdered on that very spot by her own husband, sir simon de canterville, in . sir simon survived her nine years, and disappeared suddenly under very mysterious circumstances. his body has never been discovered, but his guilty spirit still haunts the chase. the blood-stain has been much admired by tourists and others, and cannot be removed." "that is all nonsense," cried washington otis; "pinkerton's champion stain remover and paragon detergent will clean it up in no time," and before the terrified housekeeper could interfere, he had fallen upon his knees, and was rapidly scouring the floor with a small stick of what looked like a black cosmetic. in a few moments no trace of the blood-stain could be seen. "i knew pinkerton would do it," he exclaimed, triumphantly, as he looked round at his admiring family; but no sooner had he said these words than a terrible flash of lightning lit up the sombre room, a fearful peal of thunder made them all start to their feet, and mrs. umney fainted. "what a monstrous climate!" said the american minister, calmly, as he lit a long cheroot. "i guess the old country is so overpopulated that they have not enough decent weather for everybody. i have always been of opinion that emigration is the only thing for england." "my dear hiram," cried mrs. otis, "what can we do with a woman who faints?" "charge it to her like breakages," answered the minister; "she won't faint after that;" and in a few moments mrs. umney certainly came to. there was no doubt, however, that she was extremely upset, and she sternly warned mr. otis to beware of some trouble coming to the house. "i have seen things with my own eyes, sir," she said, "that would make any christian's hair stand on end, and many and many a night i have not closed my eyes in sleep for the awful things that are done here." mr. otis, however, and his wife warmly assured the honest soul that they were not afraid of ghosts, and, after invoking the blessings of providence on her new master and mistress, and making arrangements for an increase of salary, the old housekeeper tottered off to her own room. ii the storm raged fiercely all that night, but nothing of particular note occurred. the next morning, however, when they came down to breakfast, they found the terrible stain of blood once again on the floor. "i don't think it can be the fault of the paragon detergent," said washington, "for i have tried it with everything. it must be the ghost." he accordingly rubbed out the stain a second time, but the second morning it appeared again. the third morning also it was there, though the library had been locked up at night by mr. otis himself, and the key carried up-stairs. the whole family were now quite interested; mr. otis began to suspect that he had been too dogmatic in his denial of the existence of ghosts, mrs. otis expressed her intention of joining the psychical society, and washington prepared a long letter to messrs. myers and podmore on the subject of the permanence of sanguineous stains when connected with crime. that night all doubts about the objective existence of phantasmata were removed for ever. the day had been warm and sunny; and, in the cool of the evening, the whole family went out to drive. they did not return home till nine o'clock, when they had a light supper. the conversation in no way turned upon ghosts, so there were not even those primary conditions of receptive expectations which so often precede the presentation of psychical phenomena. the subjects discussed, as i have since learned from mr. otis, were merely such as form the ordinary conversation of cultured americans of the better class, such as the immense superiority of miss fanny devonport over sarah bernhardt as an actress; the difficulty of obtaining green corn, buckwheat cakes, and hominy, even in the best english houses; the importance of boston in the development of the world-soul; the advantages of the baggage-check system in railway travelling; and the sweetness of the new york accent as compared to the london drawl. no mention at all was made of the supernatural, nor was sir simon de canterville alluded to in any way. at eleven o'clock the family retired, and by half-past all the lights were out. some time after, mr. otis was awakened by a curious noise in the corridor, outside his room. it sounded like the clank of metal, and seemed to be coming nearer every moment. he got up at once, struck a match, and looked at the time. it was exactly one o'clock. he was quite calm, and felt his pulse, which was not at all feverish. the strange noise still continued, and with it he heard distinctly the sound of footsteps. he put on his slippers, took a small oblong phial out of his dressing-case, and opened the door. right in front of him he saw, in the wan moonlight, an old man of terrible aspect. his eyes were as red burning coals; long grey hair fell over his shoulders in matted coils; his garments, which were of antique cut, were soiled and ragged, and from his wrists and ankles hung heavy manacles and rusty gyves. "my dear sir," said mr. otis, "i really must insist on your oiling those chains, and have brought you for that purpose a small bottle of the tammany rising sun lubricator. it is said to be completely efficacious upon one application, and there are several testimonials to that effect on the wrapper from some of our most eminent native divines. i shall leave it here for you by the bedroom candles, and will be happy to supply you with more, should you require it." with these words the united states minister laid the bottle down on a marble table, and, closing his door, retired to rest. [illustration: "i really must insist on your oiling those chains"] for a moment the canterville ghost stood quite motionless in natural indignation; then, dashing the bottle violently upon the polished floor, he fled down the corridor, uttering hollow groans, and emitting a ghastly green light. just, however, as he reached the top of the great oak staircase, a door was flung open, two little white-robed figures appeared, and a large pillow whizzed past his head! there was evidently no time to be lost, so, hastily adopting the fourth dimension of space as a means of escape, he vanished through the wainscoting, and the house became quite quiet. on reaching a small secret chamber in the left wing, he leaned up against a moonbeam to recover his breath, and began to try and realize his position. never, in a brilliant and uninterrupted career of three hundred years, had he been so grossly insulted. he thought of the dowager duchess, whom he had frightened into a fit as she stood before the glass in her lace and diamonds; of the four housemaids, who had gone into hysterics when he merely grinned at them through the curtains on one of the spare bedrooms; of the rector of the parish, whose candle he had blown out as he was coming late one night from the library, and who had been under the care of sir william gull ever since, a perfect martyr to nervous disorders; and of old madame de tremouillac, who, having wakened up one morning early and seen a skeleton seated in an armchair by the fire reading her diary, had been confined to her bed for six weeks with an attack of brain fever, and, on her recovery, had become reconciled to the church, and broken off her connection with that notorious sceptic, monsieur de voltaire. he remembered the terrible night when the wicked lord canterville was found choking in his dressing-room, with the knave of diamonds half-way down his throat, and confessed, just before he died, that he had cheated charles james fox out of £ , at crockford's by means of that very card, and swore that the ghost had made him swallow it. all his great achievements came back to him again, from the butler who had shot himself in the pantry because he had seen a green hand tapping at the window-pane, to the beautiful lady stutfield, who was always obliged to wear a black velvet band round her throat to hide the mark of five fingers burnt upon her white skin, and who drowned herself at last in the carp-pond at the end of the king's walk. with the enthusiastic egotism of the true artist, he went over his most celebrated performances, and smiled bitterly to himself as he recalled to mind his last appearance as "red reuben, or the strangled babe," his _début_ as "guant gibeon, the blood-sucker of bexley moor," and the _furore_ he had excited one lovely june evening by merely playing ninepins with his own bones upon the lawn-tennis ground. and after all this some wretched modern americans were to come and offer him the rising sun lubricator, and throw pillows at his head! it was quite unbearable. besides, no ghost in history had ever been treated in this manner. accordingly, he determined to have vengeance, and remained till daylight in an attitude of deep thought. iii the next morning, when the otis family met at breakfast, they discussed the ghost at some length. the united states minister was naturally a little annoyed to find that his present had not been accepted. "i have no wish," he said, "to do the ghost any personal injury, and i must say that, considering the length of time he has been in the house, i don't think it is at all polite to throw pillows at him,"--a very just remark, at which, i am sorry to say, the twins burst into shouts of laughter. "upon the other hand," he continued, "if he really declines to use the rising sun lubricator, we shall have to take his chains from him. it would be quite impossible to sleep, with such a noise going on outside the bedrooms." for the rest of the week, however, they were undisturbed, the only thing that excited any attention being the continual renewal of the blood-stain on the library floor. this certainly was very strange, as the door was always locked at night by mr. otis, and the windows kept closely barred. the chameleon-like colour, also, of the stain excited a good deal of comment. some mornings it was a dull (almost indian) red, then it would be vermilion, then a rich purple, and once when they came down for family prayers, according to the simple rites of the free american reformed episcopalian church, they found it a bright emerald-green. these kaleidoscopic changes naturally amused the party very much, and bets on the subject were freely made every evening. the only person who did not enter into the joke was little virginia, who, for some unexplained reason, was always a good deal distressed at the sight of the blood-stain, and very nearly cried the morning it was emerald-green. the second appearance of the ghost was on sunday night. shortly after they had gone to bed they were suddenly alarmed by a fearful crash in the hall. rushing down-stairs, they found that a large suit of old armour had become detached from its stand, and had fallen on the stone floor, while seated in a high-backed chair was the canterville ghost, rubbing his knees with an expression of acute agony on his face. the twins, having brought their pea-shooters with them, at once discharged two pellets on him, with that accuracy of aim which can only be attained by long and careful practice on a writing-master, while the united states minister covered him with his revolver, and called upon him, in accordance with californian etiquette, to hold up his hands! the ghost started up with a wild shriek of rage, and swept through them like a mist, extinguishing washington otis's candle as he passed, and so leaving them all in total darkness. on reaching the top of the staircase he recovered himself, and determined to give his celebrated peal of demoniac laughter. this he had on more than one occasion found extremely useful. it was said to have turned lord raker's wig grey in a single night, and had certainly made three of lady canterville's french governesses give warning before their month was up. he accordingly laughed his most horrible laugh, till the old vaulted roof rang and rang again, but hardly had the fearful echo died away when a door opened, and mrs. otis came out in a light blue dressing-gown. "i am afraid you are far from well," she said, "and have brought you a bottle of doctor dobell's tincture. if it is indigestion, you will find it a most excellent remedy." the ghost glared at her in fury, and began at once to make preparations for turning himself into a large black dog, an accomplishment for which he was justly renowned, and to which the family doctor always attributed the permanent idiocy of lord canterville's uncle, the hon. thomas horton. the sound of approaching footsteps, however, made him hesitate in his fell purpose, so he contented himself with becoming faintly phosphorescent, and vanished with a deep churchyard groan, just as the twins had come up to him. [illustration: "the twins ... at once discharged two pellets on him"] on reaching his room he entirely broke down, and became a prey to the most violent agitation. the vulgarity of the twins, and the gross materialism of mrs. otis, were naturally extremely annoying, but what really distressed him most was that he had been unable to wear the suit of mail. he had hoped that even modern americans would be thrilled by the sight of a spectre in armour, if for no more sensible reason, at least out of respect for their natural poet longfellow, over whose graceful and attractive poetry he himself had whiled away many a weary hour when the cantervilles were up in town. besides it was his own suit. he had worn it with great success at the kenilworth tournament, and had been highly complimented on it by no less a person than the virgin queen herself. yet when he had put it on, he had been completely overpowered by the weight of the huge breastplate and steel casque, and had fallen heavily on the stone pavement, barking both his knees severely, and bruising the knuckles of his right hand. for some days after this he was extremely ill, and hardly stirred out of his room at all, except to keep the blood-stain in proper repair. however, by taking great care of himself, he recovered, and resolved to make a third attempt to frighten the united states minister and his family. he selected friday, august th, for his appearance, and spent most of that day in looking over his wardrobe, ultimately deciding in favour of a large slouched hat with a red feather, a winding-sheet frilled at the wrists and neck, and a rusty dagger. towards evening a violent storm of rain came on, and the wind was so high that all the windows and doors in the old house shook and rattled. in fact, it was just such weather as he loved. his plan of action was this. he was to make his way quietly to washington otis's room, gibber at him from the foot of the bed, and stab himself three times in the throat to the sound of low music. he bore washington a special grudge, being quite aware that it was he who was in the habit of removing the famous canterville blood-stain by means of pinkerton's paragon detergent. having reduced the reckless and foolhardy youth to a condition of abject terror, he was then to proceed to the room occupied by the united states minister and his wife, and there to place a clammy hand on mrs. otis's forehead, while he hissed into her trembling husband's ear the awful secrets of the charnel-house. with regard to little virginia, he had not quite made up his mind. she had never insulted him in any way, and was pretty and gentle. a few hollow groans from the wardrobe, he thought, would be more than sufficient, or, if that failed to wake her, he might grabble at the counterpane with palsy-twitching fingers. as for the twins, he was quite determined to teach them a lesson. the first thing to be done was, of course, to sit upon their chests, so as to produce the stifling sensation of nightmare. then, as their beds were quite close to each other, to stand between them in the form of a green, icy-cold corpse, till they became paralyzed with fear, and finally, to throw off the winding-sheet, and crawl round the room, with white, bleached bones and one rolling eyeball, in the character of "dumb daniel, or the suicide's skeleton," a _rôle_ in which he had on more than one occasion produced a great effect, and which he considered quite equal to his famous part of "martin the maniac, or the masked mystery." at half-past ten he heard the family going to bed. for some time he was disturbed by wild shrieks of laughter from the twins, who, with the light-hearted gaiety of schoolboys, were evidently amusing themselves before they retired to rest, but at a quarter-past eleven all was still, and, as midnight sounded, he sallied forth. the owl beat against the window-panes, the raven croaked from the old yew-tree, and the wind wandered moaning round the house like a lost soul; but the otis family slept unconscious of their doom, and high above the rain and storm he could hear the steady snoring of the minister for the united states. he stepped stealthily out of the wainscoting, with an evil smile on his cruel, wrinkled mouth, and the moon hid her face in a cloud as he stole past the great oriel window, where his own arms and those of his murdered wife were blazoned in azure and gold. on and on he glided, like an evil shadow, the very darkness seeming to loathe him as he passed. once he thought he heard something call, and stopped; but it was only the baying of a dog from the red farm, and he went on, muttering strange sixteenth-century curses, and ever and anon brandishing the rusty dagger in the midnight air. finally he reached the corner of the passage that led to luckless washington's room. for a moment he paused there, the wind blowing his long grey locks about his head, and twisting into grotesque and fantastic folds the nameless horror of the dead man's shroud. then the clock struck the quarter, and he felt the time was come. he chuckled to himself, and turned the corner; but no sooner had he done so than, with a piteous wail of terror, he fell back, and hid his blanched face in his long, bony hands. right in front of him was standing a horrible spectre, motionless as a carven image, and monstrous as a madman's dream! its head was bald and burnished; its face round, and fat, and white; and hideous laughter seemed to have writhed its features into an eternal grin. from the eyes streamed rays of scarlet light, the mouth was a wide well of fire, and a hideous garment, like to his own, swathed with its silent snows the titan form. on its breast was a placard with strange writing in antique characters, some scroll of shame it seemed, some record of wild sins, some awful calendar of crime, and, with its right hand, it bore aloft a falchion of gleaming steel. [illustration: "its head was bald and burnished"] never having seen a ghost before, he naturally was terribly frightened, and, after a second hasty glance at the awful phantom, he fled back to his room, tripping up in his long winding-sheet as he sped down the corridor, and finally dropping the rusty dagger into the minister's jack-boots, where it was found in the morning by the butler. once in the privacy of his own apartment, he flung himself down on a small pallet-bed, and hid his face under the clothes. after a time, however, the brave old canterville spirit asserted itself, and he determined to go and speak to the other ghost as soon as it was daylight. accordingly, just as the dawn was touching the hills with silver, he returned towards the spot where he had first laid eyes on the grisly phantom, feeling that, after all, two ghosts were better than one, and that, by the aid of his new friend, he might safely grapple with the twins. on reaching the spot, however, a terrible sight met his gaze. something had evidently happened to the spectre, for the light had entirely faded from its hollow eyes, the gleaming falchion had fallen from its hand, and it was leaning up against the wall in a strained and uncomfortable attitude. he rushed forward and seized it in his arms, when, to his horror, the head slipped off and rolled on the floor, the body assumed a recumbent posture, and he found himself clasping a white dimity bed-curtain, with a sweeping-brush, a kitchen cleaver, and a hollow turnip lying at his feet! unable to understand this curious transformation, he clutched the placard with feverish haste, and there, in the grey morning light, he read these fearful words:-- +------------------------------------+ | ye otis ghoste | | ye onlie true and originale spook, | | beware of ye imitationes. | | all others are counterfeite. | +------------------------------------+ the whole thing flashed across him. he had been tricked, foiled, and out-witted! the old canterville look came into his eyes; he ground his toothless gums together; and, raising his withered hands high above his head, swore according to the picturesque phraseology of the antique school, that, when chanticleer had sounded twice his merry horn, deeds of blood would be wrought, and murder walk abroad with silent feet. hardly had he finished this awful oath when, from the red-tiled roof of a distant homestead, a cock crew. he laughed a long, low, bitter laugh, and waited. hour after hour he waited, but the cock, for some strange reason, did not crow again. finally, at half-past seven, the arrival of the housemaids made him give up his fearful vigil, and he stalked back to his room, thinking of his vain oath and baffled purpose. there he consulted several books of ancient chivalry, of which he was exceedingly fond, and found that, on every occasion on which this oath had been used, chanticleer had always crowed a second time. "perdition seize the naughty fowl," he muttered, "i have seen the day when, with my stout spear, i would have run him through the gorge, and made him crow for me an 'twere in death!" he then retired to a comfortable lead coffin, and stayed there till evening. iv [illustration: "he met with a severe fall"] the next day the ghost was very weak and tired. the terrible excitement of the last four weeks was beginning to have its effect. his nerves were completely shattered, and he started at the slightest noise. for five days he kept his room, and at last made up his mind to give up the point of the blood-stain on the library floor. if the otis family did not want it, they clearly did not deserve it. they were evidently people on a low, material plane of existence, and quite incapable of appreciating the symbolic value of sensuous phenomena. the question of phantasmic apparitions, and the development of astral bodies, was of course quite a different matter, and really not under his control. it was his solemn duty to appear in the corridor once a week, and to gibber from the large oriel window on the first and third wednesdays in every month, and he did not see how he could honourably escape from his obligations. it is quite true that his life had been very evil, but, upon the other hand, he was most conscientious in all things connected with the supernatural. for the next three saturdays, accordingly, he traversed the corridor as usual between midnight and three o'clock, taking every possible precaution against being either heard or seen. he removed his boots, trod as lightly as possible on the old worm-eaten boards, wore a large black velvet cloak, and was careful to use the rising sun lubricator for oiling his chains. i am bound to acknowledge that it was with a good deal of difficulty that he brought himself to adopt this last mode of protection. however, one night, while the family were at dinner, he slipped into mr. otis's bedroom and carried off the bottle. he felt a little humiliated at first, but afterwards was sensible enough to see that there was a great deal to be said for the invention, and, to a certain degree, it served his purpose. still in spite of everything he was not left unmolested. strings were continually being stretched across the corridor, over which he tripped in the dark, and on one occasion, while dressed for the part of "black isaac, or the huntsman of hogley woods," he met with a severe fall, through treading on a butter-slide, which the twins had constructed from the entrance of the tapestry chamber to the top of the oak staircase. this last insult so enraged him, that he resolved to make one final effort to assert his dignity and social position, and determined to visit the insolent young etonians the next night in his celebrated character of "reckless rupert, or the headless earl." [illustration: "a heavy jug of water fell right down on him."] he had not appeared in this disguise for more than seventy years; in fact, not since he had so frightened pretty lady barbara modish by means of it, that she suddenly broke off her engagement with the present lord canterville's grandfather, and ran away to gretna green with handsome jack castletown, declaring that nothing in the world would induce her to marry into a family that allowed such a horrible phantom to walk up and down the terrace at twilight. poor jack was afterwards shot in a duel by lord canterville on wandsworth common, and lady barbara died of a broken heart at tunbridge wells before the year was out, so, in every way, it had been a great success. it was, however an extremely difficult "make-up," if i may use such a theatrical expression in connection with one of the greatest mysteries of the supernatural, or, to employ a more scientific term, the higher-natural world, and it took him fully three hours to make his preparations. at last everything was ready, and he was very pleased with his appearance. the big leather riding-boots that went with the dress were just a little too large for him, and he could only find one of the two horse-pistols, but, on the whole, he was quite satisfied, and at a quarter-past one he glided out of the wainscoting and crept down the corridor. on reaching the room occupied by the twins, which i should mention was called the blue bed chamber, on account of the colour of its hangings, he found the door just ajar. wishing to make an effective entrance, he flung it wide open, when a heavy jug of water fell right down on him, wetting him to the skin, and just missing his left shoulder by a couple of inches. at the same moment he heard stifled shrieks of laughter proceeding from the four-post bed. the shock to his nervous system was so great that he fled back to his room as hard as he could go, and the next day he was laid up with a severe cold. the only thing that at all consoled him in the whole affair was the fact that he had not brought his head with him, for, had he done so, the consequences might have been very serious. [illustration: "making satirical remarks on the photographs"] he now gave up all hope of ever frightening this rude american family, and contented himself, as a rule, with creeping about the passages in list slippers, with a thick red muffler round his throat for fear of draughts, and a small arquebuse, in case he should be attacked by the twins. the final blow he received occurred on the th of september. he had gone down-stairs to the great entrance-hall, feeling sure that there, at any rate, he would be quite unmolested, and was amusing himself by making satirical remarks on the large saroni photographs of the united states minister and his wife which had now taken the place of the canterville family pictures. he was simply but neatly clad in a long shroud, spotted with churchyard mould, had tied up his jaw with a strip of yellow linen, and carried a small lantern and a sexton's spade. in fact, he was dressed for the character of "jonas the graveless, or the corpse-snatcher of chertsey barn," one of his most remarkable impersonations, and one which the cantervilles had every reason to remember, as it was the real origin of their quarrel with their neighbour, lord rufford. it was about a quarter-past two o'clock in the morning, and, as far as he could ascertain, no one was stirring. as he was strolling towards the library, however, to see if there were any traces left of the blood-stain, suddenly there leaped out on him from a dark corner two figures, who waved their arms wildly above their heads, and shrieked out "boo!" in his ear. [illustration: "suddenly there leaped out two figures."] seized with a panic, which, under the circumstances, was only natural, he rushed for the staircase, but found washington otis waiting for him there with the big garden-syringe, and being thus hemmed in by his enemies on every side, and driven almost to bay, he vanished into the great iron stove, which, fortunately for him, was not lit, and had to make his way home through the flues and chimneys, arriving at his own room in a terrible state of dirt, disorder, and despair. after this he was not seen again on any nocturnal expedition. the twins lay in wait for him on several occasions, and strewed the passages with nutshells every night to the great annoyance of their parents and the servants, but it was of no avail. it was quite evident that his feelings were so wounded that he would not appear. mr. otis consequently resumed his great work on the history of the democratic party, on which he had been engaged for some years; mrs. otis organized a wonderful clam-bake, which amazed the whole county; the boys took to lacrosse euchre, poker, and other american national games, and virginia rode about the lanes on her pony, accompanied by the young duke of cheshire, who had come to spend the last week of his holidays at canterville chase. it was generally assumed that the ghost had gone away, and, in fact, mr. otis wrote a letter to that effect to lord canterville, who, in reply, expressed his great pleasure at the news, and sent his best congratulations to the minister's worthy wife. the otises, however, were deceived, for the ghost was still in the house, and though now almost an invalid, was by no means ready to let matters rest, particularly as he heard that among the guests was the young duke of cheshire, whose grand-uncle, lord francis stilton, had once bet a hundred guineas with colonel carbury that he would play dice with the canterville ghost, and was found the next morning lying on the floor of the card-room in such a helpless paralytic state that, though he lived on to a great age, he was never able to say anything again but "double sixes." the story was well known at the time, though, of course, out of respect to the feelings of the two noble families, every attempt was made to hush it up, and a full account of all the circumstances connected with it will be found in the third volume of lord tattle's _recollections of the prince regent and his friends_. the ghost, then, was naturally very anxious to show that he had not lost his influence over the stiltons, with whom, indeed, he was distantly connected, his own first cousin having been married _en secondes noces_ to the sieur de bulkeley, from whom, as every one knows, the dukes of cheshire are lineally descended. accordingly, he made arrangements for appearing to virginia's little lover in his celebrated impersonation of "the vampire monk, or the bloodless benedictine," a performance so horrible that when old lady startup saw it, which she did on one fatal new year's eve, in the year , she went off into the most piercing shrieks, which culminated in violent apoplexy, and died in three days, after disinheriting the cantervilles, who were her nearest relations, and leaving all her money to her london apothecary. at the last moment, however, his terror of the twins prevented his leaving his room, and the little duke slept in peace under the great feathered canopy in the royal bedchamber, and dreamed of virginia. v a few days after this, virginia and her curly-haired cavalier went out riding on brockley meadows, where she tore her habit so badly in getting through a hedge that, on their return home, she made up her mind to go up by the back staircase so as not to be seen. as she was running past the tapestry chamber, the door of which happened to be open, she fancied she saw some one inside, and thinking it was her mother's maid, who sometimes used to bring her work there, looked in to ask her to mend her habit. to her immense surprise, however, it was the canterville ghost himself! he was sitting by the window, watching the ruined gold of the yellowing trees fly through the air, and the red leaves dancing madly down the long avenue. his head was leaning on his hand, and his whole attitude was one of extreme depression. indeed, so forlorn, and so much out of repair did he look, that little virginia, whose first idea had been to run away and lock herself in her room, was filled with pity, and determined to try and comfort him. so light was her footfall, and so deep his melancholy, that he was not aware of her presence till she spoke to him. "i am so sorry for you," she said, "but my brothers are going back to eton to-morrow, and then, if you behave yourself, no one will annoy you." "it is absurd asking me to behave myself," he answered, looking round in astonishment at the pretty little girl who had ventured to address him, "quite absurd. i must rattle my chains, and groan through keyholes, and walk about at night, if that is what you mean. it is my only reason for existing." "it is no reason at all for existing, and you know you have been very wicked. mrs. umney told us, the first day we arrived here, that you had killed your wife." "well, i quite admit it," said the ghost, petulantly, "but it was a purely family matter, and concerned no one else." "it is very wrong to kill any one," said virginia, who at times had a sweet puritan gravity, caught from some old new england ancestor. "oh, i hate the cheap severity of abstract ethics! my wife was very plain, never had my ruffs properly starched, and knew nothing about cookery. why, there was a buck i had shot in hogley woods, a magnificent pricket, and do you know how she had it sent to table? however, it is no matter now, for it is all over, and i don't think it was very nice of her brothers to starve me to death, though i did kill her." "starve you to death? oh, mr. ghost--i mean sir simon, are you hungry? i have a sandwich in my case. would you like it?" "no, thank you, i never eat anything now; but it is very kind of you, all the same, and you are much nicer than the rest of your horrid, rude, vulgar, dishonest family." "stop!" cried virginia, stamping her foot, "it is you who are rude, and horrid, and vulgar, and as for dishonesty, you know you stole the paints out of my box to try and furbish up that ridiculous blood-stain in the library. first you took all my reds, including the vermilion, and i couldn't do any more sunsets, then you took the emerald-green and the chrome-yellow, and finally i had nothing left but indigo and chinese white, and could only do moonlight scenes, which are always depressing to look at, and not at all easy to paint. i never told on you, though i was very much annoyed, and it was most ridiculous, the whole thing; for who ever heard of emerald-green blood?" "well, really," said the ghost, rather meekly, "what was i to do? it is a very difficult thing to get real blood nowadays, and, as your brother began it all with his paragon detergent, i certainly saw no reason why i should not have your paints. as for colour, that is always a matter of taste: the cantervilles have blue blood, for instance, the very bluest in england; but i know you americans don't care for things of this kind." "you know nothing about it, and the best thing you can do is to emigrate and improve your mind. my father will be only too happy to give you a free passage, and though there is a heavy duty on spirits of every kind, there will be no difficulty about the custom house, as the officers are all democrats. once in new york, you are sure to be a great success. i know lots of people there who would give a hundred thousand dollars to have a grandfather, and much more than that to have a family ghost." "i don't think i should like america." "i suppose because we have no ruins and no curiosities," said virginia, satirically. "no ruins! no curiosities!" answered the ghost; "you have your navy and your manners." "good evening; i will go and ask papa to get the twins an extra week's holiday." "please don't go, miss virginia," he cried; "i am so lonely and so unhappy, and i really don't know what to do. i want to go to sleep and i cannot." "that's quite absurd! you have merely to go to bed and blow out the candle. it is very difficult sometimes to keep awake, especially at church, but there is no difficulty at all about sleeping. why, even babies know how to do that, and they are not very clever." "i have not slept for three hundred years," he said sadly, and virginia's beautiful blue eyes opened in wonder; "for three hundred years i have not slept, and i am so tired." virginia grew quite grave, and her little lips trembled like rose-leaves. she came towards him, and kneeling down at his side, looked up into his old withered face. "poor, poor ghost," she murmured; "have you no place where you can sleep?" [illustration: "'poor, poor ghost,' she murmured; 'have you no place where you can sleep?'"] "far away beyond the pine-woods," he answered, in a low, dreamy voice, "there is a little garden. there the grass grows long and deep, there are the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale sings all night long. all night long he sings, and the cold crystal moon looks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its giant arms over the sleepers." virginia's eyes grew dim with tears, and she hid her face in her hands. "you mean the garden of death," she whispered. "yes, death. death must be so beautiful. to lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. to have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. to forget time, to forget life, to be at peace. you can help me. you can open for me the portals of death's house, for love is always with you, and love is stronger than death is." virginia trembled, a cold shudder ran through her, and for a few moments there was silence. she felt as if she was in a terrible dream. then the ghost spoke again, and his voice sounded like the sighing of the wind. "have you ever read the old prophecy on the library window?" "oh, often," cried the little girl, looking up; "i know it quite well. it is painted in curious black letters, and is difficult to read. there are only six lines: "'when a golden girl can win prayer from out the lips of sin, when the barren almond bears, and a little child gives away its tears, then shall all the house be still and peace come to canterville.' "but i don't know what they mean." "they mean," he said, sadly, "that you must weep with me for my sins, because i have no tears, and pray with me for my soul, because i have no faith, and then, if you have always been sweet, and good, and gentle, the angel of death will have mercy on me. you will see fearful shapes in darkness, and wicked voices will whisper in your ear, but they will not harm you, for against the purity of a little child the powers of hell cannot prevail." virginia made no answer, and the ghost wrung his hands in wild despair as he looked down at her bowed golden head. suddenly she stood up, very pale, and with a strange light in her eyes. "i am not afraid," she said firmly, "and i will ask the angel to have mercy on you." he rose from his seat with a faint cry of joy, and taking her hand bent over it with old-fashioned grace and kissed it. his fingers were as cold as ice, and his lips burned like fire, but virginia did not falter, as he led her across the dusky room. on the faded green tapestry were broidered little huntsmen. they blew their tasselled horns and with their tiny hands waved to her to go back. "go back! little virginia," they cried, "go back!" but the ghost clutched her hand more tightly, and she shut her eyes against them. horrible animals with lizard tails and goggle eyes blinked at her from the carven chimneypiece, and murmured, "beware! little virginia, beware! we may never see you again," but the ghost glided on more swiftly, and virginia did not listen. when they reached the end of the room he stopped, and muttered some words she could not understand. she opened her eyes, and saw the wall slowly fading away like a mist, and a great black cavern in front of her. a bitter cold wind swept round them, and she felt something pulling at her dress. "quick, quick," cried the ghost, "or it will be too late," and in a moment the wainscoting had closed behind them, and the tapestry chamber was empty. [illustration: "the ghost glided on more swiftly"] vi about ten minutes later, the bell rang for tea, and, as virginia did not come down, mrs. otis sent up one of the footmen to tell her. after a little time he returned and said that he could not find miss virginia anywhere. as she was in the habit of going out to the garden every evening to get flowers for the dinner-table, mrs. otis was not at all alarmed at first, but when six o'clock struck, and virginia did not appear, she became really agitated, and sent the boys out to look for her, while she herself and mr. otis searched every room in the house. at half-past six the boys came back and said that they could find no trace of their sister anywhere. they were all now in the greatest state of excitement, and did not know what to do, when mr. otis suddenly remembered that, some few days before, he had given a band of gipsies permission to camp in the park. he accordingly at once set off for blackfell hollow, where he knew they were, accompanied by his eldest son and two of the farm-servants. the little duke of cheshire, who was perfectly frantic with anxiety, begged hard to be allowed to go too, but mr. otis would not allow him, as he was afraid there might be a scuffle. on arriving at the spot, however, he found that the gipsies had gone, and it was evident that their departure had been rather sudden, as the fire was still burning, and some plates were lying on the grass. having sent off washington and the two men to scour the district, he ran home, and despatched telegrams to all the police inspectors in the county, telling them to look out for a little girl who had been kidnapped by tramps or gipsies. he then ordered his horse to be brought round, and, after insisting on his wife and the three boys sitting down to dinner, rode off down the ascot road with a groom. he had hardly, however, gone a couple of miles, when he heard somebody galloping after him, and, looking round, saw the little duke coming up on his pony, with his face very flushed, and no hat. "i'm awfully sorry, mr. otis," gasped out the boy, "but i can't eat any dinner as long as virginia is lost. please don't be angry with me; if you had let us be engaged last year, there would never have been all this trouble. you won't send me back, will you? i can't go! i won't go!" [illustration: "he heard somebody galloping after him"] the minister could not help smiling at the handsome young scapegrace, and was a good deal touched at his devotion to virginia, so leaning down from his horse, he patted him kindly on the shoulders, and said, "well, cecil, if you won't go back, i suppose you must come with me, but i must get you a hat at ascot." "oh, bother my hat! i want virginia!" cried the little duke, laughing, and they galloped on to the railway station. there mr. otis inquired of the station-master if any one answering to the description of virginia had been seen on the platform, but could get no news of her. the station-master, however, wired up and down the line, and assured him that a strict watch would be kept for her, and, after having bought a hat for the little duke from a linen-draper, who was just putting up his shutters, mr. otis rode off to bexley, a village about four miles away, which he was told was a well-known haunt of the gipsies, as there was a large common next to it. here they roused up the rural policeman, but could get no information from him, and, after riding all over the common, they turned their horses' heads homewards, and reached the chase about eleven o'clock, dead-tired and almost heart-broken. they found washington and the twins waiting for them at the gate-house with lanterns, as the avenue was very dark. not the slightest trace of virginia had been discovered. the gipsies had been caught on brockley meadows, but she was not with them, and they had explained their sudden departure by saying that they had mistaken the date of chorton fair, and had gone off in a hurry for fear they should be late. indeed, they had been quite distressed at hearing of virginia's disappearance, as they were very grateful to mr. otis for having allowed them to camp in his park, and four of their number had stayed behind to help in the search. the carp-pond had been dragged, and the whole chase thoroughly gone over, but without any result. it was evident that, for that night at any rate, virginia was lost to them; and it was in a state of the deepest depression that mr. otis and the boys walked up to the house, the groom following behind with the two horses and the pony. in the hall they found a group of frightened servants, and lying on a sofa in the library was poor mrs. otis, almost out of her mind with terror and anxiety, and having her forehead bathed with eau de cologne by the old housekeeper. mr. otis at once insisted on her having something to eat, and ordered up supper for the whole party. it was a melancholy meal, as hardly any one spoke, and even the twins were awestruck and subdued, as they were very fond of their sister. when they had finished, mr. otis, in spite of the entreaties of the little duke, ordered them all to bed, saying that nothing more could be done that night, and that he would telegraph in the morning to scotland yard for some detectives to be sent down immediately. just as they were passing out of the dining-room, midnight began to boom from the clock tower, and when the last stroke sounded they heard a crash and a sudden shrill cry; a dreadful peal of thunder shook the house, a strain of unearthly music floated through the air, a panel at the top of the staircase flew back with a loud noise, and out on the landing, looking very pale and white, with a little casket in her hand, stepped virginia. in a moment they had all rushed up to her. mrs. otis clasped her passionately in her arms, the duke smothered her with violent kisses, and the twins executed a wild war-dance round the group. [illustration: "out on the landing stepped virginia"] "good heavens! child, where have you been?" said mr. otis, rather angrily, thinking that she had been playing some foolish trick on them. "cecil and i have been riding all over the country looking for you, and your mother has been frightened to death. you must never play these practical jokes any more." "except on the ghost! except on the ghost!" shrieked the twins, as they capered about. "my own darling, thank god you are found; you must never leave my side again," murmured mrs. otis, as she kissed the trembling child, and smoothed the tangled gold of her hair. "papa," said virginia, quietly, "i have been with the ghost. he is dead, and you must come and see him. he had been very wicked, but he was really sorry for all that he had done, and he gave me this box of beautiful jewels before he died." the whole family gazed at her in mute amazement, but she was quite grave and serious; and, turning round, she led them through the opening in the wainscoting down a narrow secret corridor, washington following with a lighted candle, which he had caught up from the table. finally, they came to a great oak door, studded with rusty nails. when virginia touched it, it swung back on its heavy hinges, and they found themselves in a little low room, with a vaulted ceiling, and one tiny grated window. imbedded in the wall was a huge iron ring, and chained to it was a gaunt skeleton, that was stretched out at full length on the stone floor, and seemed to be trying to grasp with its long fleshless fingers an old-fashioned trencher and ewer, that were placed just out of its reach. the jug had evidently been once filled with water, as it was covered inside with green mould. there was nothing on the trencher but a pile of dust. virginia knelt down beside the skeleton, and, folding her little hands together, began to pray silently, while the rest of the party looked on in wonder at the terrible tragedy whose secret was now disclosed to them. [illustration: "chained to it was a gaunt skeleton"] "hallo!" suddenly exclaimed one of the twins, who had been looking out of the window to try and discover in what wing of the house the room was situated. "hallo! the old withered almond-tree has blossomed. i can see the flowers quite plainly in the moonlight." "god has forgiven him," said virginia, gravely, as she rose to her feet, and a beautiful light seemed to illumine her face. "what an angel you are!" cried the young duke, and he put his arm round her neck, and kissed her. vii [illustration: "by the side of the hearse and the coaches walked the servants with lighted torches"] four days after these curious incidents, a funeral started from canterville chase at about eleven o'clock at night. the hearse was drawn by eight black horses, each of which carried on its head a great tuft of nodding ostrich-plumes, and the leaden coffin was covered by a rich purple pall, on which was embroidered in gold the canterville coat-of-arms. by the side of the hearse and the coaches walked the servants with lighted torches, and the whole procession was wonderfully impressive. lord canterville was the chief mourner, having come up specially from wales to attend the funeral, and sat in the first carriage along with little virginia. then came the united states minister and his wife, then washington and the three boys, and in the last carriage was mrs. umney. it was generally felt that, as she had been frightened by the ghost for more than fifty years of her life, she had a right to see the last of him. a deep grave had been dug in the corner of the churchyard, just under the old yew-tree, and the service was read in the most impressive manner by the rev. augustus dampier. when the ceremony was over, the servants, according to an old custom observed in the canterville family, extinguished their torches, and, as the coffin was being lowered into the grave, virginia stepped forward, and laid on it a large cross made of white and pink almond-blossoms. as she did so, the moon came out from behind a cloud, and flooded with its silent silver the little churchyard, and from a distant copse a nightingale began to sing. she thought of the ghost's description of the garden of death, her eyes became dim with tears, and she hardly spoke a word during the drive home. [illustration: "the moon came out from behind a cloud"] the next morning, before lord canterville went up to town, mr. otis had an interview with him on the subject of the jewels the ghost had given to virginia. they were perfectly magnificent, especially a certain ruby necklace with old venetian setting, which was really a superb specimen of sixteenth-century work, and their value was so great that mr. otis felt considerable scruples about allowing his daughter to accept them. "my lord," he said, "i know that in this country mortmain is held to apply to trinkets as well as to land, and it is quite clear to me that these jewels are, or should be, heirlooms in your family. i must beg you, accordingly, to take them to london with you, and to regard them simply as a portion of your property which has been restored to you under certain strange conditions. as for my daughter, she is merely a child, and has as yet, i am glad to say, but little interest in such appurtenances of idle luxury. i am also informed by mrs. otis, who, i may say, is no mean authority upon art,--having had the privilege of spending several winters in boston when she was a girl,--that these gems are of great monetary worth, and if offered for sale would fetch a tall price. under these circumstances, lord canterville, i feel sure that you will recognize how impossible it would be for me to allow them to remain in the possession of any member of my family; and, indeed, all such vain gauds and toys, however suitable or necessary to the dignity of the british aristocracy, would be completely out of place among those who have been brought up on the severe, and i believe immortal, principles of republican simplicity. perhaps i should mention that virginia is very anxious that you should allow her to retain the box, as a memento of your unfortunate but misguided ancestor. as it is extremely old, and consequently a good deal out of repair, you may perhaps think fit to comply with her request. for my own part, i confess i am a good deal surprised to find a child of mine expressing sympathy with mediævalism in any form, and can only account for it by the fact that virginia was born in one of your london suburbs shortly after mrs. otis had returned from a trip to athens." lord canterville listened very gravely to the worthy minister's speech, pulling his grey moustache now and then to hide an involuntary smile, and when mr. otis had ended, he shook him cordially by the hand, and said: "my dear sir, your charming little daughter rendered my unlucky ancestor, sir simon, a very important service, and i and my family are much indebted to her for her marvellous courage and pluck. the jewels are clearly hers, and, egad, i believe that if i were heartless enough to take them from her, the wicked old fellow would be out of his grave in a fortnight, leading me the devil of a life. as for their being heirlooms, nothing is an heirloom that is not so mentioned in a will or legal document, and the existence of these jewels has been quite unknown. i assure you i have no more claim on them than your butler, and when miss virginia grows up, i dare say she will be pleased to have pretty things to wear. besides, you forget, mr. otis, that you took the furniture and the ghost at a valuation, and anything that belonged to the ghost passed at once into your possession, as, whatever activity sir simon may have shown in the corridor at night, in point of law he was really dead, and you acquired his property by purchase." mr. otis was a good deal distressed at lord canterville's refusal, and begged him to reconsider his decision, but the good-natured peer was quite firm, and finally induced the minister to allow his daughter to retain the present the ghost had given her, and when, in the spring of , the young duchess of cheshire was presented at the queen's first drawing-room on the occasion of her marriage, her jewels were the universal theme of admiration. for virginia received the coronet, which is the reward of all good little american girls, and was married to her boy-lover as soon as he came of age. they were both so charming, and they loved each other so much, that every one was delighted at the match, except the old marchioness of dumbleton, who had tried to catch the duke for one of her seven unmarried daughters, and had given no less than three expensive dinner-parties for that purpose, and, strange to say, mr. otis himself. mr. otis was extremely fond of the young duke personally, but, theoretically, he objected to titles, and, to use his own words, "was not without apprehension lest, amid the enervating influences of a pleasure-loving aristocracy, the true principles of republican simplicity should be forgotten." his objections, however, were completely overruled, and i believe that when he walked up the aisle of st. george's, hanover square, with his daughter leaning on his arm, there was not a prouder man in the whole length and breadth of england. the duke and duchess, after the honeymoon was over, went down to canterville chase, and on the day after their arrival they walked over in the afternoon to the lonely churchyard by the pine-woods. there had been a great deal of difficulty at first about the inscription on sir simon's tombstone, but finally it had been decided to engrave on it simply the initials of the old gentleman's name, and the verse from the library window. the duchess had brought with her some lovely roses, which she strewed upon the grave, and after they had stood by it for some time they strolled into the ruined chancel of the old abbey. there the duchess sat down on a fallen pillar, while her husband lay at her feet smoking a cigarette and looking up at her beautiful eyes. suddenly he threw his cigarette away, took hold of her hand, and said to her, "virginia, a wife should have no secrets from her husband." "dear cecil! i have no secrets from you." "yes, you have," he answered, smiling, "you have never told me what happened to you when you were locked up with the ghost." "i have never told any one, cecil," said virginia, gravely. "i know that, but you might tell me." "please don't ask me, cecil, i cannot tell you. poor sir simon! i owe him a great deal. yes, don't laugh, cecil, i really do. he made me see what life is, and what death signifies, and why love is stronger than both." the duke rose and kissed his wife lovingly. "you can have your secret as long as i have your heart," he murmured. "you have always had that, cecil." "and you will tell our children some day, won't you?" virginia blushed. [illustration: "so we went down our stairs."--chap. ii.] _cecilia de noël_ by lanoe falconer macmillan & co., limited st. martins st., london [illustration: title page] cecilia de noËl chapter i atherley's gospel "there is no revelation but that of science," said atherley. it was after dinner in the drawing-room. from the cold of the early spring night, closed shutters and drawn curtains carefully protected us; shaded lamps and a wood fire diffused an exquisite twilight; we breathed a mild and even balmy atmosphere scented with hothouse flowers. "and this revelation completely satisfies all reasonable desires," he continued, surveying his small audience from the hearthrug where he stood; "mind, i say all reasonable desires. if you have a healthy appetite for bread, you will get it and plenty of it, but if you have a sickly craving for manna, why then you will come badly off, that is all. this is the gospel of fact, not of fancy: of things as they actually are, you know, instead of as a dreamt they were, or b decided they ought to be, or c would like to have them. so this gospel is apt to look a little dull beside the highly coloured romances the churches have accustomed us to--as a modern plate-glass window might, compared with a stained-glass oriel in a mediæval cathedral. there is no doubt which is the prettier of the two. the question is, do you want pretty colour or do you want clear daylight?" he paused, but neither of his listeners spoke. lady atherley was counting the stitches of her knitting; i was too tired; so he resumed: "for my part, i prefer the daylight and the glass, without any daubing. what does science discover in the universe? precision, accuracy, reliability--any amount of it; but as to pity, mercy, love! the fact is, that famous simile of the angel playing at chess was a mistake. very smart, i grant you, but altogether misleading. why! the orthodox quote it as much as the others--always a bad sign. it tickles these anthropomorphic fancies, which are at the bottom of all their creeds. imagine yourself playing at chess, not with an angel, but with an automaton, an admirably constructed automaton whose mechanism can outwit your brains any day: calm and strong, if you like, but no more playing for love than the clock behind me is ticking for love; there you have a much clearer notion of existence. a much clearer notion, and a much more satisfactory notion too, i say. fair play and no favour! what more can you ask, if you are fit to live?" his kindling glance sought the farther end of the long drawing-room; had it fallen upon me instead, perhaps that last challenge might have been less assured; and yet how bravely it became the speaker, whose wide-browed head a no less admirable frame supported. even the stiff evening uniform of his class could not conceal the grace of form which health and activity had moulded, working through highly favoured generations. there was latent force implied in every line of it, and, in the steady poise of look and mien, that perfect nervous balance which is the crown of strength. "and with our creed, of course, we shift our moral code as well. the ten commandments, or at least the second table, we retain for obvious reasons, but the theological virtues must be got rid of as quickly as possible. charity, for instance, is a mischievous quality--it is too indulgent to weakness, which is not to be indulged or encouraged, but stamped out. hope is another pernicious quality leading to all kinds of preposterous expectations which never are, or can be, fulfilled; and as to faith, it is simply a vice. so far from taking anything on trust, you must refuse to accept any statement whatsoever till it is proved so plainly you can't help believing it whether you like it or not; just as a theorem in--" "george," said lady atherley, "what is that noise?" the question, timed as lady atherley's remarks so often were, came with something of a shock. her husband, thus checked in full flight, seemed to reel for a moment, but quickly recovering himself, asked resignedly: "what noise?" "such a strange noise, like the howling of a dog." "probably it is the howling of a dog." "no, for it came from inside the house, and tip sleeps outside now, in the saddle-room, i believe. it sounded in the servants' wing. did you hear it, mr. lyndsay?" i confessed that i had not. "well, as i can offer no explanation," said atherley, "perhaps i may be allowed to go on with what i was saying. doubt, obstinate and almost invincible doubt, is the virtue we must now cultivate, just as--" "why, there it is again," cried lady atherley. atherley instantly rang the bell near him, and while lady atherley continued to repeat that it was very strange, and that she could not imagine what it could be, he waited silently till his summons was answered by a footman. "charles, what is the meaning of that crying or howling which seems to come from your end of the house?" "i think, sir george," said charles, with the coldly impassive manner of a highly-trained servant--"i think, sir george, it must be ann, the kitchen-maid, that you hear." "indeed! and may i ask what ann, the kitchen-maid, is supposed to be doing?" "if you please, sir george, she is in hysterics." "oh! why?" exclaimed lady atherley plaintively. "because, my lady, mrs. mallet has seen the ghost!" "because mrs. mallet has seen the ghost!" repeated atherley. "pray, what is mrs. mallet herself doing under the circumstances?" "she is having some brandy-and-water, sir george." "mrs. mallet is a sensible woman," said atherley heartily; "ann, the kitchen-maid, had better follow her example." "you may go, charles," said lady atherley; and, as the door closed behind him, exclaimed, "i wish that horrid woman had never entered the house!" "what horrid woman? your too sympathetic kitchen-maid?" "no, that--that mrs. mallet." "why are you angry with her? because she has seen the ghost?" "yes, for i told her most particularly the very day i engaged her, after mrs. webb left us in that sudden way--i told her i never allowed the ghost to be mentioned." "and why, my dear, did you break your own excellent rule by mentioning it to her?" "because she had the impertinence to tell me, almost directly she came into the morning-room, that she knew all about the ghost; but i stopped her at once, and said that if ever she spoke of such a thing especially to the other servants, i should be very much displeased; and now she goes and behaves in this way." "where did you pick up this viper?" "she comes from quarley beacon. there was no one in this stupid village who could cook at all, and cecilia de noël, who recommended her--" "cecilia de noël!" repeated atherley, with that long-drawn emphasis which suggests so much. "my dear jane, i must say that in taking a servant on cissy's recommendation you did not display your usual sound common sense. i should as soon have thought of asking her to buy me a gun, knowing that she would carefully pick out the one least likely to shoot anything. cissy is accustomed to look upon a servant as something to be waited on and taken care of. her own household, as we all know, is composed chiefly of chronic invalids." "but i explained to cecilia that i wanted somebody who was strong as well as a good cook; and i am sure there is nothing the matter with mrs. mallet. she is as fat as possible, and as red! besides, she has never been one of cecilia's servants; she only goes there to help sometimes; and she says she is perfectly respectable." "mrs. mallet says that cissy is perfectly respectable?" "no, george; it is not likely that i should allow a person in mrs. mallet's position to speak disrespectfully to me about cecilia. cecilia said mrs. mallet was perfectly respectable." "i should not think dear old ciss exactly knew the meaning of the word." "cecilia may be peculiar in many ways, but she is too much of a lady to send me any one who was not quite nice. i don't believe there is anything against mrs. mallet's character. she cooks very well, you must allow that; you said only two days ago you never had tasted an omelette so nicely made in england." "did she cook that omelette? then i am sure she is perfectly respectable; and pray let her see as many ghosts as she cares to, especially if it leads to nothing worse than her taking a moderate quantity of brandy. time to smoke, lindy. i am off." i dragged myself up after my usual fashion, and was preparing to follow him, when lady atherley, directly he was gone, began: "it is such a pity that clever people can never see things as others do. george always goes on in this way as if the ghost were of no consequence, but i always knew how it would be. of course it is nice that george should come in for the place, as he might not have done if his uncle had married, and people said it would be delightful to live in such an old house, but there are a good many drawbacks, i can assure you. sir marmaduke lived abroad for years before he died, and everything has got into such a state. we have had to nearly refurnish the house; the bedrooms are not done yet. the servants' accommodation is very bad too, and there was no proper cooking-range in the kitchen. but the worst of all is the ghost. directly i heard of it i knew we should have trouble with the servants; and we had not been here a month when our cook, who had lived with us for years, gave warning because the place was damp. at first she said it was the ghost, but when i told her not to talk such nonsense she said it was the damp. and then it is so awkward about visitors. what are we to do when the fishing season begins? i cannot get george to understand that some people have a great objection to anything of the kind, and are quite angry if you put them into a haunted room. and it is much worse than having only one haunted room, because we could make that into a bachelor's bedroom--i don't think they mind; or a linen cupboard, as they do at wimbourne castle; but this ghost seems to appear in all the rooms, and even in the halls and passages, so i cannot think what we are to do." i said it was extraordinary, and i meant it. that a ghost should venture into atherley's neighbourhood was less amazing than that it should continue to exist in his wife's presence, so much more fatal than his eloquence to all but the tangible and the solid. her orthodoxy is above suspicion, but after some hours of her society i am unable to contemplate any aspects of life save the comfortable and the uncomfortable: while the universe itself appears to me only a gigantic apparatus especially designed to provide lady atherley and her class with cans of hot water at stated intervals, costly repasts elaborately served, and all other requisites of irreproachable civilisation. but before i had time to say more, atherley in his smoking-coat looked in to see if i was coming or not. "don't keep mr. lyndsay up late, george," said my kind hostess; "he looks so tired." "you look dead beat," he said later on, in his own particular and untidy den, as he carefully stuffed the bowl of his pipe. "i think it would go better with you, old chap, if you did not hold yourself in quite so tight. i don't want you to rave or commit suicide in some untidy fashion, as the hero of a french novel does; but you are as well-behaved as a woman, without a woman's grand resources of hysterics and general unreasonableness all round. you always were a little too good for human nature's daily food. your notions on some points are quite unwholesomely superfine. it would be a comfort to see you let out in some way. i wish you would have a real good fling for once." "i should have to pay too dear for it afterwards. my superfine habits are not a matter of choice only, you must remember." "oh!--the women! not the best of them is worth bothering about, let alone a shameless jilt." "you were always hard upon her, george. she jilted a cripple for a very fine specimen of the race. some of your favourite physiologists would say she was quite right." "you never understood her, lindy. it was not a case of jilting a cripple at all. she jilted three thousand a year and a small place for ten thousand a year and a big one." after all, it did hurt a little, which atherley must have divined, for crossing the room on some pretext or another he let his strong hand rest, just for an instant, gently upon my shoulder, thus, after the manner of his race, mutely and concisely expressing affection and sympathy that might have swelled a canto. "i shall be sorry," he said presently, lying rather than sitting in the deep chair beside the fire, "very sorry, if the ghost is going to make itself a nuisance." "what is the story of the ghost?" "story! god bless you, it has none to tell, sir; at least it never has told it, and no one else rightly knows it. it--i mean the ghost--is older than the family. we found it here when we came into the place about two hundred years ago, and it refused to be dislodged. it is rather uncertain in its habits. sometimes it is not heard of for years; then all at once it reappears, generally, i may observe, when some imaginative female in the house is in love, or out of spirits, or bored in any other way. she sees it, and then, of course--the complaint being highly infectious--so do a lot more. one of the family started the theory it was the ghost of the portrait, or rather the unknown individual whose portrait hangs high up over the sideboard in the dining-room." "you don't mean the lady in green velvet with the snuff-box?" "certainly not; that is my own great-grand-aunt. i mean a square of black canvas with one round yellow spot in the middle and a dirty white smudge under the spot. there are members of this family--aunt eleanour, for instance--who tell me the yellow spot is a man's face and the dirty white smudge is an elizabethan ruff. then there is a picture of a man in armour in the oak room, which i don't believe is a portrait at all; but aunt henrietta swears it is, and of the ghost, too--as he was before he died, of course. and very interesting details both my aunts are ready to furnish concerning the two originals. it is extraordinary what an amount of information is always forthcoming about things of which nobody can know anything--as about the next world, for instance. the, last time i went to church the preacher gave as minute an account of what our post-mortem experiences were to be as if he had gone through it all himself several times." "well, does the ghost usually appear in a ruff or in armour?" "it depends entirely upon who sees it--a ghost always does. last night, for instance, i lay you odds it wore neither ruff nor armour, because mrs. mallet is not likely to have heard of either the one or the other. not that she saw the ghost--not she. what she saw was a bogie, not a ghost." "why, what is the difference?" "immense! as big as that which separates the objective from the subjective. any one can see a bogie. it is a real thing belonging to the external world. it may be a bright light, a white sheet, or a black shadow--always at night, you know, or at least in the dusk, when you are apt to be a little mixed in your observations. the best example of a bogie was sir walter scott's. it looked--in the twilight remember--exactly like lord byron, who had not long departed this life at the time sir walter saw it. nine men out of ten would have gone off and sworn they had seen a ghost; why, religions have been founded on just such stuff: but sir walter, as sane a man as ever lived--though he did write poetry--kept his head clear and went up closer to his ghost, which proved on examination to be a waterproof." "a waterproof?" "or a railway rug--i forget which: the moral is the same." "well, what is a ghost?" "a ghost is nothing--an airy nothing manufactured by your own disordered senses of your own over-excited brain." "i beg to observe that i never saw a ghost in my life." "i am glad to hear it. it does you credit. if ever any one had an excuse for seeing a ghost it would be a man whose spine was jarred. but i meant nothing personal by the pronoun--only to give greater force to my remarks. the first person singular will do instead. the ghost belongs to the same lot, as the faces that make mouths at me when i have brain-fever, the reptiles that crawl about when i have an attack of the d.t., or--to take a more familiar example--the spots i see floating before my eyes when my liver is out of order. you will allow there is nothing supernatural in all that?" "certainly. though, did not that pretty niece of mrs. molyneux's say she used to see those spots floating before her eyes when a misfortune was impending?" "i fancy she did, and true enough too, as such spots would very likely precede a bilious attack, which is misfortune enough while it lasts. but still, even mrs. molyneux's niece, even mrs. molyneux herself, would not say the fever faces, or the reptiles, or the spots, were supernatural. and in fact the ghost is, so far, more--more _recherché_, let us say, than the other things. it takes more than a bilious attack or a fever, or even d.t., to produce a ghost. it takes nothing less than a pretty high degree of nervous sensibility and excitable imagination. now these two disorders have not been much developed yet by the masses, in spite of the school-boards: ergo, any apparition which leads to hysterics or brandy-and-water in the servants' hall is a bogie, not a ghost." he knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and added: "and now, lindy, as we don't want another ghost haunting the house. i will conduct you to by-by." it was a strange house, weald manor, designed, one might suppose, by some inveterate enemy of light. it lay at the foot of a steep hill which screened it from the morning sun, and the few windows which looked towards the rising day were so shaped as to admit but little of its brightness. at night it was even worse, at least in the halls and passages, for there, owing probably to the dark oak which lined both walls and floor, a generous supply of lamps did little more than illumine the surface of the darkness, leaving unfathomed and unexplained mysterious shadows that brooded in distant corners, or, towering giant-wise to the ceiling, loomed ominously overhead. will-o'-the-wisp-like reflections from our lighted candles danced in the polished surface of panel and balustrade, as from the hall we went upstairs, i helping myself from step to step by atherley's arm, as instinctively, as unconsciously almost, as he offered it. we stopped on the first landing. before us rose the stairs leading to the gallery where atherley's bedroom was: to our left ran "the bachelor's passage," where i was lodged. "night, night," were atherley's parting words. "don't dream of flirts or ghosts, but sleep sound." sleep sound! the kind words sounded like mockery. sleep to me, always chary of her presence, was at best but a fair-weather friend, instantly deserting me when pain or exhaustion made me crave the more for rest and forgetfulness; but i had something to do in the interim--a little _auto-da-fé_ to perform, by which, with that faith in ceremonial, so deep laid in human nature, i meant once for all to lay the ghost that haunted me--the ghost of a delightful but irrevocable past, with which i had dallied too long. sitting before the wood-fire i slowly unfolded them: the three faintly-perfumed sheets with the gilt monogram above the pointed writing: "dear mr. lyndsay," ran the first, "why did you not come over to-day? i was expecting you to appear all the afternoon.--yours sincerely, g.e.l." the second was dated four weeks later-- "you silly boy! i forbid you ever to write or talk of yourself in such a way again. you are not a cripple; and if you had ever had a mother or a sister, you would know how little women think of such things. how many more assurances do you expect from me? do you wish me to propose to you again? no, if you won't have me, go.--yours, in spite of yourself, gladys." the third--the third is too long to quote entire; besides, the substance is contained in this last sentence-- "so i think, my dear mr. lyndsay, for your sake more than my own, our engagement had better be broken off." in this letter, dated six weeks ago, she had charged me to burn all that she had written to me, and as yet i had not done so, shrinking from the sharp unreasonable pain with which we bury the beloved dead. but the time of my mourning was accomplished. i tore the paper into fragments and dropped them into the flames. it must have been the pang with which i watched them darken and shrivel that brought back the memory of another sharp stab. it was that day ten years ago, when i walked for the first time after my accident. supported by a stick on one side, and by atherley on the other, i crawled down the long gallery at home and halted before a high wide-open window to see the sunlit view of park and woods and distant downland. then all at once, ridden by my groom, charming went past with feet that verily danced upon the greensward, and quivering nostrils that rapturously inhaled the breath of spring and of morning. i said: "george, i want _you_ to have charming." and it made me smile, even in that bitter moment, to remember how indistinctly, how churlishly almost, atherley accepted the gift, in his eager haste to get me out of sight and thought of it. it was long before the last fluttering rags had vanished, transmuted into fiery dust. the clock on the landing had many times chanted its dirge since i had heard below the footsteps of the servants carrying away the lamps from the sitting-rooms and the hall. later still came the far-off sound of atherley's door closing behind him, like the final good-night of the waking day. over all the unconscious household had stolen that silence which is more than silence, that hush which seems to wait for something, that stillness of the night-watch which is kept alone. it was familiar enough to me, but to-night it had a new meaning; like the sunlight that shines when we are happy, or the rain that falls when we are weeping, it seemed, as if in sympathy, to be repeating and accenting what i could not so vividly have told in words. in my life, and for the second time, there was the same desolate pause, as if the dreary tale were finished and only the drearier epilogue remained to live through--the same sense of sad separation from the happy and the healthful. i made a great effort to read, holding the book before me and compelling myself to follow the sentences, but that power of abstraction which can conquer pain does not belong to temperaments like mine. if only i could have slept, as men have been able to do even upon the rack; but every hour that passed left me more awake, more alive, more supersensitive to suffering. early in the morning, long before the dawn, i must have been feverish, i think. my head and hands burned, the air of the room stifled me, i was losing my self-control. i opened the window and leant out. the cool air revived me bodily, but to the fever of the spirit it brought no relief. to my heart, if not to my lips, sprang the old old cry for help which anguish has wrung from generation after generation. the agony of mine, i felt wildly, must pierce through sense, time, space, everything--even to the living heart of all, and bring thence some token of pity! for one instant my passion seemed to beat against the silent heavens, then to fall back bruised and bleeding. out of the darkness came not so much as a wind whisper or the twinkle of a star. was atherley right after all? chapter ii the stranger's gospel from the short unsatisfying slumber which sometimes follows a night of insomnia i was awakened by the laughter and shouts of children. when i looked out i saw brooding above the hollow a still gray day, in whose light the woodlands of the park were all in sombre brown, and the trout stream between its sedgy banks glided dark and lustreless. on the lawn, still wet with dew, and crossed by the shadows of the bare elms, atherley's little sons, harold and denis, were playing with a very unlovely but much-beloved mongrel called tip. they had bought him with their own pocket-money from a tinker who was ill-using him, and then claimed for him the hospitality of their parents; so, though atherley often spoke of the dog as a disgrace to the household, he remained a member thereof, and received, from a family incapable of being uncivil, far less unkind, to an animal, as much attention as if he had been high-bred and beautiful--which indeed he plainly supposed himself to be. when, about an hour later, after their daily custom, this almost inseparable trio fell into the breakfast-room as if the door had suddenly given way before them, the boys were able to revenge themselves for the rebuke this entrance provoked by the tidings they brought with them. "i say, old mallet is going," cried harold cheerfully, as he wriggled himself on to his chair. "denis, mind i want some of that egg-stuff." "take your arms off the table, harold," said lady atherley. "pray, how do you know mrs. mallet is going?" "she said so herself. she said," he went on, screwing up his nose and speaking in a falsetto to express the intensity of his scorn--"she said she was afraid of the ghost." "i told you i did not allow that word to be mentioned." "i did not; it was old mallet." "but, pray, what were you doing in old mallet's domain?" asked atherley. "cooking cabbage for tip." "hum! what with ghosts by night and boys by day, our cook seems to have a pleasant time of it; i shall be glad when miss jones's holidays are over. castleman, is it true that mrs. mallet talks of leaving us because of the ghost?" "i am sure i don't know, sir george," answered the old butler. "she was going on about it very foolish this morning." "and how is the kitchen-maid?" "has not come down yet, sir george; says her nerve is shook," said castleman, retiring with a plate to the sideboard; then added, with the freedom of an old servant, "bile, _i_ should say." "probably. we had better send for doctor what's-his-name." "the usual doctor is away," said lady atherley. "there is a london doctor in his place. he is clever, lady sylvia said, but he gives himself airs." "never mind what he gives himself if he gives his patients the right thing." "and after all we can manage very well without ann, but what are we to do about mrs. mallet? i always told you how it would be." "but, my dear, it is not my fault. you look as reproachfully at me as if it were my ghost which was causing all this disturbance instead of the ghost of a remote ancestor--predecessor, in fact." "no, but you will always talk just as if it was of no consequence." "i don't talk of the cook's going as being of no consequence. far from it. but you must not let her go, that is all." "how can i prevent her going? i think you had better talk to her yourself." "i should like to meet her very much; would not you, lindy? i should like to hear her story; it must be a blood-curdling one, to judge from its effect upon ann. the only person i have yet met who pretended to have seen the ghost was aunt eleanour." "and what was it like, daddy?" asked denis, much interested. "she did not say, den. she would never tell me anything about it." "would she tell me?" "i am afraid not. i don't think she would tell any one, except perhaps mr. lyndsay. he has a way of worming things out of people." "mr. lyndsay, how do you worm things out of people?" "i don't know, denis; you must ask your father." "first, by never asking any questions," said atherley promptly; "and then by a curious way he has of looking as if he was listening attentively to what was said to him, instead of thinking, as most people do, what he shall say himself when he gets a chance of putting a word in." "but how could aunt eleanour see the ghost when there is not any such thing?" cried harold. "how indeed!" said his father, rising; "that is just the puzzle. it will take you years to find it out. lindy, look into the morning-room in about half an hour, and you will hear a tale whose lightest word will harrow up thy soul, etc., etc." as lady atherley kindly seconded this invitation i accepted it, though not with the consequences predicted. anything less suggestive of the supernatural, or in every way less like the typical ghost-seer, was surely never produced than the round and rubicund little person i found in conversation with the atherleys. mrs. mallet was a brunette who might once have considered herself a beauty, to judge by the self-conscious and self-satisfied simper which the ghastliest recollections were unable to banish. as i entered i caught only the last words of atherley's speech-- "---- treating you well, mrs. mallet?" "oh no, sir george," answered mrs. mallet, standing very straight and stiff, with two plump red hands folded demurely before her; "which i have not a word to say against any one, but have met, ever since i come here, with the greatest of kindness and respect. but the noises, sir, the noises of a night is more than i can abear." "oh, they are only rats, mrs. mallet." "no rats in this world ever made sech a noise, sir george; which the very first night as i slep here, there come the most mysterioustest sounds as ever i hear, which i says to hann, 'whatever are you a-doing?' which she woke up all of a suddent, as young people will, and said she never hear nor yet see nothing." "what was the noise like, mrs. mallet?" "well, sir george, i can only compare it to the dragging of heavy furniture, which i really thought at first it was her ladyship a-coming upstairs to waken me, took bad with burglars or a fire." "but, mrs. mallet, i am sure you are too brave a woman to mind a little noise." "it is not only noises, sir george. last night--" mrs. mallet drew a long breath and closed her eyes. "yes, mrs. mallet, pray go on; i am very curious to hear what did happen last night." "it makes the cold chills run over me to think of it. we was all gone to bed--leastways the maids and me, and hann and me was but just got to my room when says she to me, 'oh la! whatever do you think?' says she; 'i promised ellen when she went out this afternoon as i would shut the windows in the pink bedroom at four o'clock, and never come to think of it till this minute,' she says. 'oh dear,' i says, 'and them new chintzes will be entirely ruined with the damp. why, what a good-for-nothing girl you are!' i says, 'and what you thinks on half your time is more than i can tell.' 'whatever shall i do?' she says, 'for go along there at this time of night all by myself i dare not,' says she. 'well,' i says, 'rather than you should go alone, i'll go along with you,' i says, 'for stay here by myself i would not,' i says, 'not if any one was to pay me hundreds.' so we went down our stairs and along our passage to the door which you go into the gallery, hann a-clutching hold of me and starting, which when we come into the gallery i was all of a tremble, and she shook so i said, 'la! hann, for goodness' sake do carry that candle straight, or you will grease the carpet shameful;' and come to the pink room i says, 'open the door.' 'la!' says she, 'what if we was to see the ghost?' 'hold your silly nonsense this minute,' i says, 'and open the door,' which she do, but stand right back for to let me go first, when, true as ever i am standing here, my lady, i see something white go by like a flash, and struck me cold in the face, and blew the candle out, and then come the fearfullest noise, which thunderclaps is nothing to it. hann began a-screaming, and we ran as fast as ever we could till we come to the pantry, where mr. castleman and the footman was. i thought i should ha' died: died i thought i should. my face was as white as that antimacassar." "how could you see your face, mrs. mallet?" somewhat peevishly objected lady atherley. but mrs. mallet with great dignity retorted-- "which i looked down my nose, and it were like a corpse's." "very alarming," said atherley, "but easily explained. directly you opened the door there was, of course, a draught from the open window. that draught blew the candle out and knocked something over, probably a screen." "la' bless you, sir george, it was more like paving-stones than screens a-falling." and indeed mrs. mallet was so far right, that when, to settle the weighty question once for all, we adjourned in a body to the pink bedroom, we discovered that nothing less than the ceiling, or at least a portion of it, had fallen, and was lying in a heap of broken plaster upon the floor. however, the moral, as atherley hastened to observe, was the same. "you see, mrs. mallet, this was what made the noise." mrs. mallet made no reply, but it was evident she neither saw nor intended to see anything of the kind; and atherley wisely substituted bribery for reasoning. but even with this he made little way till accidentally he mentioned the name of mrs. de noël, when, as if it had been a name to conjure by, mrs. mallet showed signs of softening. "yes, think of mrs. de noël, mrs. mallet; what will she say if you leave her cousin to starve?" "i should not wish such a thing to happen for a moment," said mrs. mallet, as if this had been no figure of speech but the actual alternative, "not to any relation of mrs. de noël." and shortly after the debate ended with a cheerful "well, mrs. mallet, you will give us another trial," from atherley. "there," he exclaimed, as we all three returned to the morning-room--"there is as splendid an example of the manufacture of a bogie as you are ever likely to meet with. all the spiritual phenomena are produced much in the same way. work yourself up into a great state of terror and excitement, in the first place; in the next, procure one companion, if not more, as credulous and excitable as yourself; go at a late hour and with a dim light to a place where you have been told you will see something supernatural; steadfastly and determinedly look out for it, and--you will have your reward. these are precisely the lines on which a spiritual séance is conducted, only instead of plaster, which is not always so obliging as to fall in the nick of time, you have a paid medium who supplies the material for your fancy to work upon. mrs. mallet, you see, has discovered all this for herself--that woman is a born genius. just think what she might have been and seen if she had lived in a sphere where neither cooking nor any other rational occupation interfered with her pursuit of the supernatural. mrs. molyneux would be nowhere beside her." "i suppose she really does intend to stay," said lady atherley. "of course she does. i always told you my powers of persuasion were irresistible." "but how annoying about the ceiling," said lady atherley. "over the new carpet, too! what can make the plaster fall in this way?" "it is the quality of the climate," said atherley. "it is horribly destructive. if you would read the batch of letters now on my writing-table from tenant-farmers you would see what i mean: barns, roofs, gates, everything is falling to pieces and must immediately be repaired--at the landlord's expense, of course." "we must send for a plasterer," said lady atherley, "and then the doctor. perhaps you would have time to go round his way, george." "no, i have no time to go anywhere but to northside farm. hunt has been waiting nearly half an hour for me, as it is. lindy, would you like to come with me?" "no, thank you, george; i too am a landowner, and i mean to look over my audit accounts to-day." "don't compare yourself to a poor overworked underpaid landowner like me. you are one of the landlords they spout about in london parks on sundays. you have nothing to do but sign receipts for your rents, paid in full and up to date." "mr. lyndsay is an excellent landlord," said lady atherley; "and they tell me the new church and the schools he has built are charming." "very mischievous things both," said atherley. "ta-ta." that afternoon, atherley being still absent, and lady atherley having gone forth to pay a round of calls, the little boys undertook my entertainment. they were in rather a sober mood for them, having just forfeited four weeks' pocket-money towards expenses incurred by tip in the dairy, where they had foolishly allowed him to enter; so they accepted very good-humouredly my objections to wading in the river or climbing trees, and took me instead for a walk to beggar's stile. we climbed up the steep carriage-drive to the lodge, passed through the big iron gates, turned sharply to the left, and went down the road which the park palings border and the elms behind them shade, past the little copse beyond the park, till we came to a tumble-down gate with a stile beside it in the hedgerow; and this was beggar's stile. it was just on the brow of the little hill which sloped gradually downward to the village beneath, and commanded a wide view of the broad shallow valley and of the rising ground beyond. i was glad to sit down on the step of the stile. "are you tired already, mr. lyndsay?" inquired harold incredulously. "yes, a little." "i s'pose you are tired because you always have to pull your leg after you," said denis, turning upon me two large topaz-coloured eyes. "does it hurt you, mr. lyndsay?" "mother told you not to talk about mr. lyndsay's leg," observed harold sharply. "no, she didn't; she said i was not to talk about the funny way he walked. she said--" "well, never mind, little man," i interrupted. "is that weald down there?" "yes," cried denis, maintaining his balance on the topmost bar but one of the gate with enviable ease. "all these cottages and houses belong to weald, and it is all daddy's on this side of the river down to where you see the white railings a long way down near the poplars, and that is the road we go to tea with aunt eleanour; and do you see a little blue speck on the hill over there? you could see if you had a telescope. daddy showed me once; but you must shut your eye. that is quarley beacon, where aunt cissy lives." "no, she does not, stupid," cried harold, now suspended, head downwards, by one foot, from the topmost rail of the gate. "no one lives there. she lives in quarley manor, just behind." denis replied indirectly to the discourteous tone of this speech by trying with the point of his own foot to dislodge that by which harold maintained his remarkable position, and a scuffle ensued, wherein, though a non-combatant, i seemed likely to get the worst, when their attention was fortunately diverted by the sight of tip sneaking off, and evidently with the vilest motives, towards the covert. my memory was haunted that day by certain words spoken seven months ago by atherley, and by me at the time very ungraciously received: "remember, if you do come a cropper, it will go hard with you, old man; you can't shoot or hunt or fish off the blues, like other men." no, nor could i work them off, as some might have done. i possessed no distinct talents, no marked vocation. if there was nothing behind and beyond all this, what an empty freak of destiny my life would have been--full, not even of sound and fury, but of dull common-place suffering: a tale told by an idiot with a spice of malice in him. then the view before me made itself felt, as a gentle persistent sound might have done: a flat, almost featureless scene--a little village church with cottages and gardens clustering about it, straggling away from it, by copses and meadows in which winter had left only the tenderest shades of the saddest colours. the winding river brightened the dull picture with broken glints of silver, and the tawny hues of the foreground faded through soft gradations of violet and azure into a far distance of pearly grey. it is not the scenery men cross continents and oceans to admire, and yet it has a message of its own. i felt it that day when i was heart-weary, and was glad that in one corner of this restless world the little hills preach peace. meantime tip had been recaptured, and when he, or rather the ground close beside him, had been beaten severely with sticks, and he himself upbraided in terms which left the censors hoarse, we went down again into the hollow. then lady atherley returned and gave me tea; and afterwards, in the library, i worked at accounts till it was nearly too dark to write. no doubt on the high ground the sky was aflame with brilliant colour, of which only a dim reflection tinged the dreary view of sward and leafless trees, to which, for some mysterious reason, a gig crawling down the carriage-drive gave the last touch of desolation. just as i laid my pen aside the door opened, and castleman introduced a stranger. "if you will wait here, sir, i will find her ladyship." the new-comer was young and slight, with an erect carriage and a firm step. he had the finely-cut features and dull colouring which i associate with the high-pressure life of a busy town, so that i guessed who he was before his first words told me. "no, thank you, i will not sit down; i expect to be called to my patient immediately." the thought of this said patient made me smile, and in explanation i told him from what she was supposed to be suffering. "well; it is less common than other forms of feverishness, but will probably yield to the same remedies," was his only comment. "you do not believe in ghosts?" "pardon me, i do, just as i believe in all symptoms. when my patient tells me he hears bells ringing in his ear, or feels the ground swaying under his feet, i believe him implicitly, though i know nothing of the kind is actually taking place. the ghost, so far, belongs to the same class as the other experiences, that it is a symptom--it may be of a very trifling, it may be of a very serious, disorder." the voice, the keen flash of the eye, impressed me. i recognised one of those alert intelligences, beside whose vivid flame the mental life of most men seems to smoulder. i wished to hear him speak again. "is this your view of all supernatural manifestations?" "of all so-called supernatural manifestations; i don't understand the word or the distinction. no event which has actually taken place can be supernatural. since it belongs to the actual it must be governed by, it must be the outcome of, laws which everywhere govern the actual--everywhere and at all times. in fact, it must be natural, whatever we may think of it." "then if a miracle could be proven, it would be no miracle to you?" "certainly not." "and it could convince you of nothing?" "neither me nor any one else who has outgrown his childhood, i should think. i have never been able to understand the outcry of the orthodox over their lost miracles. it makes their position neither better nor worse. the miracles could never prove their creeds. how am i to recognise a divine messenger? he makes the furniture float about the room; he changes that coal into gold; he projects himself or his image here when he is a thousand miles away. why, an emissary from the devil might do as much! it only proves--always supposing he really does these things instead of merely appearing to do so--it proves that he is better acquainted with natural laws than i am. what if he could kill me by an effort of the will? what if he could bring me to life again? it is always the same; he might still be morally my inferior; he might be a false prophet after all." he took out his watch and looked at it, by this simple action illustrating and reminding me of the difference between us--he talking to pass away the time, i thinking aloud the gnawing question at my heart. "and you have no hope for anything beyond this?" something in my voice must have struck his ear, trained like every other organ of observation to quick and fine perception, for he looked at me more attentively, and it was in a gentler tone that he said-- "surely, you do not mean for a life beyond this? one's best hope must be that the whole miserable business ends with death." "have you found life so wretched?" "i am not speaking from my own particular point of view. i am singularly, exceptionally, fortunate, i am healthy; i have tastes which i can gratify, work which i keenly enjoy. whether the tastes are worth gratifying or the work worth doing i cannot say. at least they act as an anodyne to self-consciousness; they help me to forget the farce in which i play my part. like solomon, and all who have had the best of life, i call it vanity. what do you suppose it is to those--by far the largest number, remember--who have had the worst of it? to them it is not vanity, it is misery." "but they suffer under the invariable laws you speak of--laws working towards deliverance and happiness in the future." "the future? yes, i know that form of consolation which seems to satisfy so many. to me it seems a hollow one. i have never yet been able to understand how any amount of ecstasy enjoyed by b a million years hence can make up for the torture a is suffering to-day. i suppose, dealing so much with individuals as i do, i am inclined to individualise like a woman. i think of units rather than of the mass. at this moment i have before me a patient now left suffering pain as acute as any the rack ever inflicted. how does it affect his case that centuries later such pain may be unknown?" "of course, the individual's one and only hope is a future existence. then it may be all made up to him." "i see no reason to hope so. either there is no god, and we shall still be at the mercy of the blind destiny we suffer under here; or there is a god, the god who looks on at this world and makes no sign! the sooner we escape from him by annihilation the better." "christians would tell you he had given a sign." "yes; so they do in words and deny it in deeds. nothing is sadder in the whole tragedy, or comedy, than these pitiable efforts to hide the truth, to gloss it over with fables which nobody in his heart of hearts believes--at least in these days. why not face the worst like men? if we can't help being unhappy we can help being dishonest and cowardly. existence is a misfortune. let us frankly confess that it is, and make the best of it." he was not looking at his watch now; he was pacing the room. at last, he was in earnest, and had forgotten all accidents of time and place before the same enigma which perplexed myself. "the best of it!" i re-echoed. "surely, under these circumstances, the best thing would be to commit suicide?" "no," he cried, stopping and turning sharply upon me. "the worst, because the most cowardly; so long as you have strength, brains, money--anything with which you can do good." he looked past me through the window into the outer air, no longer faintly tinged, but dyed deep red by the light of the unseen but resplendent sunset, and added slowly, dejectedly, as if speaking to himself as much as to me-- "yes, there is one thing worth living for--to help to make it all a little more bearable for the others." and then all at once, his face, so virile yet so delicate, so young and yet so sad, reminded me of one i had seen in an old picture--the face of an angel watching beside the dead christ; and i cried-- "but are you certain he has made no sign; not hundreds of years ago, but in your own lifetime? not to saint or apostle, but to you, yourself? has nothing which has happened to you, nothing you have ever seen or read or heard, tempted you to hope in something better?" "yes," he said deliberately; "i have had my weak moments. my conviction has wavered, not before religious teaching of any kind, however, nor before nature, in which some people seem to find such promise; but i have met one or two women, and one man--all of them unknown, unremarkable people--whom the world never heard of, nor is likely to hear of, living uneventful obscure lives in out-of-the-way corners. for instance, there is a lady in this very neighbourhood, a relation of sir george atherley, i believe, mrs. de no--" "her ladyship would like to see you in the drawing-room, sir," said castleman, suddenly coming in. the doctor bowed to me and immediately left the room. chapter iii mrs. mostyn's gospel "no, they have not seen any more ghosts, sir," replied castleman scornfully next day, "and never need have seen any. it is all along of this tea-drinking. we did not have this bother when the women took their beer regular. these teetotallers have done a lot of harm. they ought to be put down by act of parliament." and the kitchen-maid was better. mrs. mallet, indeed, assured lady atherley that hann was not long for this world, having turned just the same colour as the late mr. mallet did on the eve of his death; but fortunately the patient herself, as well as the doctor, took a more hopeful view of the case. "i can see mrs. mallet is a horrible old croaker," said lady atherley. "let her croak," said atherley, "so long as she cooks as she did last night. that curry would have got her absolution for anything if your uncle had been here." "that reminds me, george, the ceiling of the spare room is not mended yet." "why, i thought you sent to whitford for a plasterer yesterday?" "yes, and he came; but mrs. mallet has some extraordinary story about his falling into his bucket and spoiling his sunday coat, and going home at once to change it. i can't make it out, but nothing is done to the ceiling." "i make it out," said atherley; "i make out that he was a little the worse for drink. have we not a plasterer in the village?" "i think there is one. i fancy the jacksons did not wish us to employ him, because he is a dissenter; but after all, giving him work is not the same as giving him presents." "no, indeed; nor do i see why, because he is a dissenter, i, who am only an infidel, am to put up with a hole in my ceiling." "only, i don't know what his name is." "his name is smart. everybody in our village is called smart--most inappropriately too." "no, george, the man the doctor told us about who is so dangerously ill is called monk." "i am glad to hear it; but he doesn't belong to our parish, though he lives so close. he is actually in rood warren. his cottage is at the other side of the common." "then we can leave the wine and things as we go. and, george, while the boys are having tea with aunt eleanour, i think i shall drive on to quarley beacon and try and persuade cecilia to come back and spend the night with us. i think we could manage to put her up in the little blue dressing-room. she is so good-natured; she won't mind its being so small." "yes, do; i want lyndsay to see her. and give my best love to aunt eleanour, and say that if she is going to send me any more tracts against popery, i should be extremely obliged if she would prepay the postage sufficiently." "oh no, george, i could not. it was only threepence." "well, then, tell her it is no good sending any at all, because i have made up my mind to go over to rome next july." "no, george; she might not like it, and i don't believe you are going to do anything of the kind. oh, are you off already? i thought you would settle something about the plasterer." "no, no; i can't think of plasterers and repairs to-day. even the galley-slave has his holiday--this is mine. i am going to see the hounds throw off at rood acre, and forget for one day that i have an inch of landed property in the world." "but, george, if the pink-room ceiling is not put right by saturday, where shall we put uncle augustus?" "into the room just opposite to lindy's." "what! that little room? in the bachelor's passage? a man of his age, and of his position!" "i am sure it is large enough for any one under a bishop. besides, i don't think he is fussy about anything except his dinner." "it is not the way he is accustomed to be treated when he is on a visit, i can assure you. he is a person who is generally considered a great deal." "well, i consider him a great deal. i consider him one of the finest old heathen i ever knew." fortunately for their domestic peace, lady atherley usually misses the points of her husband's speeches, but there are some which jar upon her sense of the becoming, and this was one of them. "i don't think," she observed to me, the offender himself having escaped, "that even if uncle augustus were not my uncle, a heathen is a proper name to call a clergyman, especially a canon--and one who is so looked up to in the church. have you ever heard him preach? but you must have heard about him, and about his sermons? i thought so. they are beautiful. when he preaches the church is crammed, and with the best people--in the season, when they are in town. and he has written a great many religious books too--sermons and hymns and manuals. there is a little book in red morocco you may have seen in my sitting-room--i know it was there a week ago--which he gave me, _the life of prayer_, with a short meditation and a hymn for every hour of the day--all composed by him. we don't see so much of him as i could wish. he is so grieved about george's views. he gave him some of his own sermons, but of course george would not look at them; and--so annoying--the last time he came i put the sermons, two beautiful large volumes of them, on the drawing-room table, and when we were all there after dinner george asked me quite loud what these smart books were, and where they came from. so altogether he has not come to see us for a long time; but as he happened to be staying with the mountshires, i begged him to come over for a night or two; so you will hear him preach on sunday." at lunch that day lady atherley proposed that i should accompany them to woodcote. "do come, mr. lyndsay," said denis. "we shall have cakes for tea, and jam-sandwiches as well." "and there is an awfully jolly banister for sliding down," added harold, "without any turns or landing, you know." i professed myself unable to resist such inducements. indeed, i was almost glad to go. the recollection of mrs. mostyn's cheerful face was as alluring to me that day as the thought of a glowing hearth might be to the beggar on the door-step. here, at least, was one to whom life was a blessing; who partook of all it could bestow with an appetite as healthfully keen as her nephew's, but without his disinclination or disregard for anything besides. the mild march day felt milder, the rooks cawed more cheerfully, and the spring flowers shone out more fearlessly around us when we had passed through the white gates of woodcote--a favoured spot gently declining to the sunniest quarter, and sheltered from the north and north-east by barricades of elm-woods. the tiny domain was exquisitely ordered, as i love to see everything which appertains to women; and within the low white house, furnished after the simple and stiff fashion of a past generation, reigned the same dainty neatness, the same sunny cheerfulness, the native atmosphere of its chatelaine mrs. mostyn--a white-haired old lady long past seventy, with the bloom of youth on her cheek, its vivacity in her step, and its sparkle in her eyes. hardly were the first greetings exchanged when the children opened the ball of conversation by inquiring eagerly when tea would be ready. "how can you be so greedy?" said their mother. "why, you have only just finished your dinner." "we dined at half-past one, and it is nearly half-past three." "poor darlings!" cried mrs. mostyn, regarding them with the enraptured gaze of the true child-lover; "their drive has made them hungry; and we cannot have tea very well before half-past four, because some old women from the village have come up to have tea, and the servants are busy attending to them. but i can tell you what you could do, dears. you know the way to the dairy; one of the maids is sure to be there; tell her to give you some cream. you will like that, won't you? yes, you can go out by this door." "and remember to--" lady atherley's exhortation remained unfinished, her sons having darted through the door-window like arrows from the bow. "since miss jones has been gone for her holiday the children are quite unmanageable," she observed. "oh, it is such a good sign!" cried mrs. mostyn heartily; "it shows they are so thoroughly well. mr. lyndsay, why have you chosen that uncomfortable chair? come and sit over beside me, if you are not afraid of the fire. and now, jane, my love, tell me how you are getting on at weald." then followed a long catalogue of accidents and disappointments, of faithlessness and incapacity, to which mrs. mostyn supplied a running commentary of interjections sympathetic and consoling. there were, moreover, many changes for the worse since sir marmaduke had resided there: the shooting and the fishing had been alike neglected; the farmers were impoverished; the old places had changed hands. "and a good many quite new people have come to live in small houses round weald," said lady atherley. "they have left cards on us. do you know what they are like?" "quite ladies and gentlemen, i believe, and nice enough as long as you don't get to know them too intimately; but they are always quarrelling." "about what?" "about everything; but especially about church matters--decorations and anthems and other rubbish. what they want is less of the church and more of the bible." "i believe mr. jackson has a bible-class every week." "but is it a bible-class, or is it only called so? there is mr. austin at rood warren, a romanist in disguise if ever there was one: he is by way of having a bible-class, and one of our farmers' daughters attended it. 'and what part of the bible are you studying now?' i asked her. 'we are studying early church history.' 'i don't know any such chapter in the bible as that,' i said, and yet i know my bible pretty well. she explained it was a continuation of the acts of the apostles. i said: 'my dear child, don't you be misled by any jugglery of that kind; there is no continuation of the bible; and as to what people call the early church, its doings and sayings are of no consequence at all. the one question we have to ask ourselves is this: '"what does the book say?"' what is in the book is god's word: what is not in the book is only man's." the effect of this exposition on lady atherley was to make her ask eagerly whether the curate in charge at rood warren was one of the austyns of temple leigh. "i believe he is a nephew," mrs. mostyn admitted, quite gloomily for her. "it is painful to see people of good standing going astray in this manner." "i was thinking it would be so convenient to get a young man over to dinner sometimes; and rood warren cannot be very far from us, for one of mr. austyn's parishioners lives just at the end of weald." "if you take my advice, my dearest jane, you will not have anything to do with him. he is certain to be attractive--men of that sort always are; and there is no saying what he might do: perhaps gain an influence over george himself." "i don't think there need be any fear of that, for at dinner, you know, we need not have any religious discussions; i never will have them; they are almost as bad as politics, they make people so cross." then she rose and explained her visit to mrs. de noël. "but, mr. lyndsay," said mrs. mostyn, "are you going to desert the old woman for the young one, or are you going to stay and see my gardens and have tea? that is right. good-bye, my dearest jane. give my dear love to cissy, and tell her to come over and see me--but i shall have a glimpse of her on your way back." "i hope mrs. de noël may be persuaded to come back," i said, as the carriage drove off, and we walked along a gravel path by lawns of velvet smoothness; "i would so much like to meet her." "have you never met her? dear cecilia! she is a sweet creature--the sweetest, i think, i ever met, though perhaps i ought not to say so of my own niece. she wants but one thing--the grace of god." we passed into a little wood, tapestried with ivy, carpeted with clustering primroses, and she continued-- "it is most mysterious. both cecilia and george, being left orphans so early, were brought up by my dear sister henrietta. she was a believing christian, and no children ever had greater religious advantages than these two. as soon as they could speak they learnt hymns or texts of scripture, and before they could read they knew whole chapters of the bible by heart. george even now, i will say that for him, knows his bible better than a good many clergymen. and the sabbath, too. they were taught to reverence the lord's day in a way children never are nowadays. all games and picture-books put away on saturday night; regularly to church morning and afternoon, and in the evening henrietta would talk to them and question them about the sermon. and after all, here is george who says he believes in nothing; and as to cecilia, i never can make out what she does or does not believe. however, i am quite happy in my mind about them. i feel they are of the elect. i am as certain of their salvation as i am of my own." a sudden scampering of feet upon the gravel was followed by the appearance of the boys, rosy with exercise and excitement. "well, my darling boys, have you had your cream?" "oh yes, aunt eleanour," cried harold, "and we have been into the farm-yard and seen the little pigs. such jolly little beasts, mr. lyndsay, and squeak so funnily when you pull their tails." "oh, but i can't have my pigs unkindly treated." "not unkindly, auntie," cried denis, swinging affectionately upon my arm; "we only just tried to make their tails go straight, you know. and, mr. lyndsay, there is such a dear little baby calf." "but i want to give apples to the horses," cried harold. so we went to the fruit-house for apples, which mrs. mostyn herself selected from an upper shelf, mounting a ladder with equal agility and grace; then to the stables, where these dainties were crunched by two very fat carriage-horses; then to the miniature farm-yard, and the tiny ivy-covered dairy beyond; and just as i was beginning to feel the first qualms of my besetting humiliation, fatigue, mrs. mostyn led us round to the garden--a garden with high red walls, and a dial in the meeting-place of the flower-bordered paths; and we sat down in a rustic seat cosily fitted into one sunny corner, just behind a great bed of hyacinths in flower. the children had but one regret: tip had been left behind. "but mamma would not let us bring him," cried harold in an aggrieved tone, "because he will roll in the flower-beds." "do you think it is nearly half-past four, aunt eleanour?" asked denis. "very nearly, i should think. suppose you were to go and see if they have brought the tea-kettle in; and if they have, call to me from the drawing-room window, and i will come." the tempered sunlight fell full upon the delicate hyacinth clusters--coral, snow-white, and faintest lilac--exhaling their exquisite odour, and the warm sweet air seemed to enwrap us tenderly. my spirits, heavy as lead, began to rise--strangely, irrationally. sunlight has always for me a supersensuous beauty, while the colour and perfume of flowers move me as sound vibrations move the musician. just then it was to me as if through nature, from that which is behind nature, there reached me a pitying, a comforting caress. and in the same key were mrs. mostyn's words when she next spoke. "mr. lyndsay, i am an old woman and you are very young, and my heart goes out to all young creatures in sorrow, especially to one who has no mother of his own, no, nor father even, to comfort him. i know what trouble you have had. would you be offended if i said how deeply i felt for you?" "offended, mrs. mostyn!" "no. i see you understand me; you will not think me obtrusive when i say that i pray this great trial may be for your lasting good; may lead you to seek and to find salvation. the truth is brought home to us in many different ways, by many different instruments. my own eyes were opened by very extraordinary means." she was silent for a few instants, and then went on-- "when i was young, mr. lyndsay, i lived for the world only. i went to church, of course, like other people, and said my prayers and called myself a christian, but i did not know what the word meant. my sister henrietta would often talk seriously to me, but it had no effect, and she was quite grieved over my hardened state; but my dear mother, a true saint, used to tell her to have no fear, that some day i should be sharply awakened to my soul's danger. but it was not till years after she was in heaven that her words came true." i looked at her and waited. "we were still living at weald manor with my brother marmaduke, and we had young people staying with us. they were all going--all but myself--to a ball at carchester. i stayed at home because i had a slight cold, which made me feel tired and feverish, and disinclined to be dancing till early next morning. i went to bed early, and when i had sent away my maid i sat beside the fire for a little, thinking. you know the long gallery?" "yes." "my room was there; so i was quite alone, for the servants slept, just as they do now, in the opposite end of the house. but i had my dog with me, such a dear little thing, a black-and-tan terrier. he was lying asleep on the rug beside me. well, all at once he got up and put his head on one side as if he heard something, and he began barking. i only said 'nonsense, totty, lie down,' and paid no more attention to him, till some moments afterwards he made a strange kind of noise as if he were trying to bark and was choked in some way. this made me look at him, and then i observed that he was trembling from head to foot, and staring in the strangest way at something behind me. i will honestly tell you he made me feel so uncomfortable i was afraid to look round; and still it was almost as bad to sit there and not look round, so at last i summoned up courage and turned my head. then i saw it." "the ghost?" "yes." "what was it like?" "it was like a shadow, only darker, and not lying against the wall as a shadow would do, but standing out from it in the air. it stood a little way from me in a corner of the room. it was in the shape of a man, with a ruff round his neck, and sleeves puffed out at the shoulders, as you often see in old pictures; but i don't remember much about that, for at the time i could think of nothing but the face." "and that--?" "that was simply dreadful. i can't tell you what it was like. i could not have imagined it, if i had not seen it. it was the look--the look in its eyes. after all these years it makes me tremble when i think of it. but what i felt was not the same nervous feeling which made me afraid to turn round. it went much deeper--indeed it went deeper than anything in my life had ever gone before; it went right down to my soul, in fact, and made me feel i had a soul." she had turned quite pale. "yes, mr. lyndsay, strange as it sounds, the mere sight of that face made me realise in an instant what i had read and heard thousands of times, and what my mother and henrietta had told me over and over again about the utter nothingness of earthly aims and comforts--of what in an ordinary way is called life. i had heard very fine sermons preached about the same thing: 'what is our life, it is even a vapour,' and the 'vain shadow' in which we walk. have you ever thought how we can go on hearing and even repeating true and wise words without getting at their real sense, and, what is worse, without suspecting our own ignorance?" "i know it well." "when henrietta used to say that the whirl of worldly occupations and interests and amusements in which i was so engrossed did not deserve to be called life, and could never satisfy the eternal soul within me, it used to seem to me an exaggerated way of saying that the next world would be better than this one; but i saw the meaning of her words, i saw the truth of them, as i see these flowers before me, and feel the gravel under my feet: it came to me in a moment, the night these terrible eyes looked into mine. the feeling did not last, but i have never forgotten it, and never shall. it was as if a veil were lifted for an instant, and i was standing outside of my life and looking back at it; and it seemed so poor and worthless and unreal--i can't explain myself properly." "and did the figure remain for any time?" "i do not know. i think i must have fainted. they found me lying in a half-unconscious state in my chair when they came home. i was ill in bed for weeks with what the doctors call low fever. but neither the fever nor anything else could remove the impression that had been made. that terrible thing was a blessed messenger to me. my real conversion was not till years later, but the way was prepared by the great shock i then received, and which roused me to a sense of my danger." "what do you think the thing you saw was, mrs. mostyn?" "the ghost?" "yes." slowly, thoughtfully, she answered me-- "i am certain it was a lost soul: nothing else could have worn that dreadful look." she paused for a few moments and then continued-- "perhaps you are one of those who do not believe in the punishment of sin?" "who can disbelieve it, mrs. mostyn? call it what we like, it is a fact. it confronts us on every side. we might as well refuse to believe in death." "it is not that i meant! i was talking of punishment in the next world, mr. lyndsay." "well, there, too, no doubt it must continue, until the uttermost farthing is paid. i believe--at least i hope--that." she shook her head with a troubled expression. "there is no paying that debt in the next world. it can only be paid here. here, a free pardon is offered to us, and if we do not accept it, then---- it is the fashion, even among believers, nowadays to avoid this awful subject. preachers of the gospel do not speak of it in the pulpit as they once did. it is considered too shocking for our modern notions. i have no patience with such weakness, such folly--worse than folly. it seems to me even more wrong to try and hide this terrible danger from ourselves and from others than to deny it altogether, as some poor deluded souls do. mr. lyndsay, have you ever realised what the place of torment will be like?" "yes; once, mrs. mostyn." "you were in pain?" "i suppose it was pain," i said. for always, when anything revives this recollection, seared into my memory, the question rises: was it merely pain, physical pain, of which we all speak so easily and lightly? it lasted only ten minutes; ten minutes by the clock, that is. for me time was annihilated. there was no past or future, but only an intolerable present, in which mind and soul were blotted out, and all of sentient existence that remained was the animal consciousness of agony. i cannot share men's stoical contempt for a gehenna, which is nothing worse. "mr. lyndsay, imagine pain, worse than any ever endured on earth going on and on, for ever!" a bird, not a thrush, but one of the minor singers, lighting on a bough near us, trilled one simple but ecstatic phrase. "do you really and truly believe, mrs. mostyn, that this will be the fate of any single being?" "of any single being? do we not know that it is what will happen to the greatest number? for what does the book say? 'many are called but few are chosen.'" through the still, mild air, across the sun-steeped gardens, came the voices of the children-- "aunt eleanour! aunt eleanour!" "many are called," she repeated, "but few are chosen; and those who are not chosen shall be cast into everlasting fire." there was a pause. she turned to look at me, and, as if struck by something in my face, said gently, soothingly: "yes, it is a terrible thought, but only for the unregenerate. it has no terror for me. i trust it need have no terror for you. after all, how simple, how easy is the way of escape! you have only to believe." "and then?" "and then you are safe, safe for evermore. think of that. the foolish people who wish to explain away eternal punishment, forget that at the same time they explain away eternal happiness! you will be safe now, and after death you will be in heaven for evermore." "i shall be in heaven for evermore, and always there will be hell." "yes." "where the others will be?" "what others? only the wicked!" "aunt eleanour! aunt eleanour!" called the children once more. "i must go to them! but, mr. lyndsay, think over what i have said." and i remained and obeyed her, and beheld, entire, distinct, the spectre that drives men to madness or despair--illimitable omnipotent malice. in its shadow the colour of the flowers was quenched, and the music of the birds rang false. yet it wore the consecration of time and authority! what if it were true? "mr. lyndsay," said denis at my elbow, "aunt eleanour has sent me to fetch you to tea. mr. lyndsay, do you hear? why do you look so strange?" he caught my hand anxiously as he spoke, and by that little human touch the spell was broken. the phantom vanished; and, looking into the child's eyes, i felt it was a lie. chapter iv canon vernade's gospel there was no mrs. de noël in the carriage when it returned; she had gone to london to stay with mrs. donnithorne, whom atherley spoke of as aunt henrietta, and was not expected home till wednesday. "i am sorry," lady atherley observed, as we drove home through the dusk; "i should like to have had her here when uncle augustus was with us. i would have asked mrs. mostyn to dine with us, but i am not sure she and uncle augustus would get on. when her sister, mrs. donnithorne, met uncle augustus and his wife at lunch at our house once, she said she thought no minister of the gospel ought to allow his child to take part in worldly amusements or ceremonials. it was very awkward, because uncle augustus's eldest girl had been presented only the day before. and aunt clara, uncle augustus's wife, you know, who is rather quick, said it depended whether the minister of the gospel was a gentleman or a shoe-black, because mrs. donnithorne was attending a dissenting chapel then where the preacher was quite a common uneducated sort of person. and after that they would not talk to each other, and, altogether, i remember, it was very unpleasant. i do think it is such a pity," cried lady atherley with real feeling, "when people will take up these extreme religious views, as all the atherleys do. i am sure it is quite a comfort to have someone like you in the house, mr. lyndsay, who is not particular about religion." * * * * * "if this is the best aunt eleanour has to show in the way of a ghost, she does well to keep so quiet about it," was atherley's comment on that part of the story which, by special permission, i repeated to him next day. "i never heard a weaker ghost story. she explains the whole thing away as she tells it. she was, as she candidly admits, ill and feverish--sickening for a fever, in fact, when the most rational person's senses are apt to play them strange tricks. she is alone at the dead of night in a house she believes to be haunted; and then her dog--an odious little beast, i remember him well, always barking at something or nothing;--the dog suggests there is somebody near. she looks round into a dark part of the room, and naturally, inevitably--all things considered--sees a ghost. did you say it wore a ruff and puffed sleeves?" "so mrs. mostyn said." "of course, because, as i told you, aunt eleanour believed in the elizabethan portrait theory. if it had been aunt henrietta, the ghost would have been in armour. ghosts and all visitors from the other world obligingly correspond with the preconceived notions of the visionary. when a white robe and a halo were considered the proper celestial outfit, saints and angels always appeared with white robes and halos. in the same way, the african savage, who believes in a god with a crooked leg, always sees him in dreams, waking or asleep, with a crooked leg; and--" here we were interrupted by a great stir in the hall outside, and lady atherley looked in to explain that the carriage with uncle augustus was just coming down the drive. her manner reminded me of the full importance of this arrival, as well as of the unfortunate circumstance that, owing to the ill-timed absence of the dissenting plasterer, the canon must be lodged in the little room opposite to my own. however, when i went into the drawing-room, i found him accepting his niece's apologies and explanations with great good-humour. to me also he was especially gracious. "i had the pleasure of dining at lindesford, mr. lyndsay, when you must have been in long clothes. i remember we had some of the finest trout i ever tasted. are they still as good in your river?" his voice, like himself, was massive and impressive; his bearing and manner inspired me with wistful admiration: what must life be to a man so self-confident, and so rightly self-confident? "is not uncle augustus a fine-looking man?" asked lady atherley, when he had left the room with atherley. "i cannot think why they do not make him a bishop; he would look so well in the robes. he ought to have had something when the last ministry was in, for aunt clara and lord lingford are cousins; but, unfortunately, the families were on bad terms because of a lawsuit." the morning after was bright and fair, so that sunlight mingled with the drowsy calm--sunday in the country as we remember it, looking lovingly back from lands that are not english to the tenderer side of the puritan sabbath. but i missed my little _aubade_ from the lawn, and not till breakfast-time did i behold my small friends, who then came into the breakfast-room, one on either side of their mother--two miniature sailors, exquisitely neat but visibly dejected. behind walked tip, demurely recognising the change in the atmosphere, but, undisturbed thereby, he at once, with his usual air of self-satisfied dignity, assumed his place in the largest arm-chair. "the landau could take us all to church except you, george," said lady atherley, looking thoughtfully into the fire as we waited for breakfast and the canon. "but i suppose you would prefer to walk?" "why should you suppose i am going to church, either walking or driving?" "well, i certainly hoped you would have gone to-day; as uncle augustus is going to preach it seems only polite to do so." "well, i don't mind; i daresay it will do me no harm; and if it is understood i attend only out of consideration for my wife's uncle, then--" he was interrupted by the entrance of the person in question. many times during breakfast denis looked thoughtfully at his great-uncle, and at last inquired-- "do you preach very long sermons, uncle augustus?" "they are not generally considered so," replied the canon with some dignity. "denis, i have often told you not to ask questions," said lady atherley. "when i am grown up," remarked harold, "i will be an atheist." "do you know what an atheist is?" inquired his father. "yes, it is people who never go to church." "but they go to lecture-rooms, which you would find worse." "but they don't have sermons." "don't they? hours long, especially when they bury each other." "oh!" said harold, evidently taken aback, and somewhat reconciled to the church. "when i am grown up," said denis, "i mean to be the same church as aunt cissy." "and what may that be?" inquired the canon. denis was silent and looked perplexed; but some time afterwards, when we were talking of other things, he called out, with the joy of one who has captured that elusive thing, a definition: "in aunt cissy's church they climb trees and make toffee on sundays." after which lady atherley seemed glad to take them both away with her. it was perhaps this remark that led the canon to ask, on the way to church-- "is it true that mrs. de noël attends a dissenting chapel?" "no," said lady atherley. "but i know why people say so. she lent a field last year to the methodists to have their camp-meeting in." "oh! but that is a pity," said the canon. "a very great pity--a person in her position encouraging dissent, especially when there is no real occasion for it. clara's nephew, young littlemore, did something of the kind last year, but then he was standing for the county; and though that hardly justifies, it excuses, a little pandering to the multitude." "cissy only let them have it once," said lady atherley, as if making the best of it. "and, indeed, i believe it rained so hard that day they were not able to have the meeting after all." then the carriage stopped before the lych-gate, through which the fresh-faced school children were trooping; and while the bell clanged its last monotonous summons, we walked up between the village graves to the old church porch that older yews overshadow, where the village lads were loitering, as sunday after sunday their sleeping forefathers had loitered before them. we worshipped that morning in a magnificent pew to one side of the chancel, and quite as large, from which we enjoyed a full view of clergy and congregation. the former consisted of the canon, mr. jackson, clergyman of the parish, and a young man i had not seen before. not a large number had mustered to hear the canon; the front seats were well filled by men and women in goodly apparel, but in the pews behind and in the side aisles there was a mere sprinkling of worshippers in the sunday dress of country labourers. our supplicaitions were offered with as little ritualistic pageantry as mrs. mostyn herself could have desired, though the choir probably sang oftener and better than she would have approved. in spite of their efforts it was as uninspiring a service as i have ever taken part in. this was not due, as might be suspected, to atherley's presence, for his demeanour was irreproachable. his little sons, delighted at having him with them, carefully found his places for him in prayer and hymnbook, and kept watch that he did not lose them afterwards, so that he perforce assumed a really edifying degree of attention. nor, indeed, did the rest of the congregation err in the direction of restlessness or wandering looks, but rather in the opposite extreme, insomuch that during the litany, when we were no longer supported by music, and had, most of us, assumed attitudes favourable to repose, we appeared one and all to succumb to it, especially towards the close, when, from the body of the church at least, only the aged clerk was heard to cry for mercy. but with the third service, there came a change, which reminded me of how once in a foreign cathedral, when the procession filed by--the singing-men nudging each other, the standard-bearers giggling, and the english tourists craning to see the sight--the face of one white-haired old bishop beneath his canopy transformed for me a foolish piece of mummery into a prayer in action. so it was again, when the young stranger turned to us his pale clear-cut face, solemn with an awe as rapt as if he verily stood before the throne of him he called upon, and felt its glory beating on his face; then, by that one earnest and believing presence, all was transformed and redeemed; the old emblems recovered their first significance, the time-worn phrases glowed with life again, and we ourselves were altered--our very heaviness was pathetic: it was the lethargy of death itself, and our poor sleepy prayers the strain of manacled captives striving to be free. the canon's sermon did not maintain this high-strung mood, though why not it would be difficult to say. like all his, it was eloquent, brilliant even, declaimed by a fine voice of wide compass, whose varying tones he used with the skill of a practised orator. the text was "our conversation is in heaven," its theme the contrast between the man of this world, with his heart fixed upon its pomps, its vanities, its honours, and the believer indifferent to all these, esteeming them as dross merely compared to the heavenly treasure, the one thing needful. certainly the utter worthlessness of the prizes for which men labour and so late take rest, barter their happiness, their peace, their honour, was never more scathingly depicted. i remember the organ-like bass of his note in passages which denounced the grovelling worship of earthly pre-eminence and riches, the clarion-like cry with which he concluded a stirring eulogy of the christian's nobler service of things unseen. "brethren, as his kingdom is not of this world, so too our kingdom is not of this world." "i think you will admit, george," said lady atherley, as we left the church, "that you have had a good sermon to-day." "yes, indeed," heartily assented atherley. "it was excellent. your uncle certainly knows his business, which is more than can be said of most preachers. it was a really splendid performance. but who on earth was he talking about--those wonderful people who don't care for money or success, or the best of everything generally? i never met any like them." "my dear george! how extraordinary you are! any one could see, i should have thought, that he meant christians." atherley and the children walked home while we waited for the canon, who stayed behind to exchange a few words in the vestry with his old schoolfellow, mr. jackson. as we drove home he made, aloud, some reflections, probably suggested by the difference between their positions. "it really grieves me to see jackson where he is at his age. he deserves a better living. he is an excellent fellow, and not without ability, but wanting, unfortunately, in tact and _savoir-faire_. he always had an unhappy knack of blurting out the truth in season and out of season. i did my best to get him a good living once--a first-rate living--in sir john marsh's gift; and i warned him before he went to lunch with sir john to be careful what he said. 'sir john,' i said, 'is one of the old school; he thinks the squire is pope of the parish, and you will have to humour him a little. he will talk a great deal of nonsense in this strain, and be careful not to contradict him, for he can't bear it.' but jackson did contradict him--flatly; he told me so himself, and, of course, sir john would have nothing to say to him. 'but he made such extravagant statements,' said jackson. 'if i had kept quiet he would have thought i agreed with him.'--'what did that matter?' i said. 'once you were vicar you could have shown him you didn't.'--'the truth is,' said jackson, 'i cannot sit by and hear black called white without protesting.' that is jackson all over! a man of that kind will never get on. and then, such an imprudent marriage--a woman without a penny!" "i have never seen any one who wore such extraordinary bonnets," said lady atherley. "who was that young man who bowed to the altar and crossed himself?" asked the canon. "i suppose that must be mr. austyn, curate in charge at rood warren. he comes over to help mr. jackson sometimes, i believe. george has met him; i have not. i want to get him over to dinner. he is a nephew of mr. austyn of temple leigh." "oh, that family!" said the canon. "i am sorry he has taken up such an extreme line. it is a great mistake. in the church, preferment in these days always goes to the moderate men." "rood warren is not far from here," said lady atherley, "and he has a parishioner--oh, that reminds me. mr. lyndsay, would you be so kind as to look out and tell the coachman to drive round by monk's? i want to leave some soup." "monk, i presume, is a sick labourer?" said the canon. "i hope you are not as indiscriminate in your charities as most ladies bountiful." "mr. jackson says this is a really deserving case. he knows all about him, though he really is in mr. austyn's parish. monk has never had anything from the parish, and been working hard all his life, and he is past seventy. he was breaking stones on the road a few weeks ago; but he caught a chill or something one very cold day, and has been laid up ever since. this is the house. oh, mr. lyndsay, you should not trouble to get out. as you are so kind, will you carry this in?" the interior of the tiny thatched cottage was scrupulously clean and neat, as they nearly all are in the valley, but barer and more scantily furnished than most of them. no photographs or pictures decorated the white-washed walls, no scraps of carpet or matting hid the red-brick floor. the monks were evidently of the poorest. an old piece of faded curtain had been hung from a rope between the chimney-piece and the door to shield the patient from the draught. he sat in a stiff wooden arm-chair near the fire, drawing his breath laboriously. "he was better now," said his wife, a nurse as old and as frail-looking as himself. "nights was the worst." his shoulders were bent, his hair white with age, his withered features almost as coarse and as unshapely as the poor clothes he wore. the mask had been rough-hewn, to begin with; time and exposure had further defaced it. no gleam of intellectual life transpierced and illumined all. it was the face of an animal--ugly, ignorant, honest, patient. as i looked at it there came over me a rush of the pity i have so often felt for this suffering of age in poverty--so unpicturesque, so unwinning, to shallow sight so unpathetic--and i put out my hand and let it rest for a moment on his own, knotted with rheumatism, stained and seamed with toil. then he looked up at me from under his shaggy brows with haggard, wistful eyes, and gasped: "it's hard work, sir; it's hard work." and i went out into the sunshine, feeling that i had heard the epitome of his life. that night mrs. mallet surpassed herself by her rendering of a menu, especially composed by atherley for the delectation of their guest. their pains were not wasted. the canon's commendation of each course--and we talked of little else, i remember, from soup to dessert--was as discriminating as it was warm. "i am glad you approve of our cook, uncle," said lady atherley in the drawing-room afterwards, "for she is only a stop-gap. our own cook left us quite suddenly the other day, and we had such difficulty in finding this one to take her place. no one can imagine how inconvenient it is to have a haunted house." "my dear jane, you don't mean to tell me you are afraid of ghosts?" "oh no, uncle." "and i am sure your husband is not?" "no; but unfortunately cooks are." "eh! what?" then lady atherley willingly repeated the story of her troubles. "preposterous! perfectly preposterous!" cried the canon. "the education act in operation for all these years, and our lower orders still believe in bogies and hobgoblins! and yet it is hardly to be wondered at; their social superiors are not much wiser. the nonsense which is talked in society at present is perfectly incredible. persons who are supposed to be in their right mind gravely relate to me such incidents that i could imagine myself transported to the middle ages. i hear of miraculous cures, of spirits summoned from the dead, of men and women floating in the air; and as to diabolic possession, it seems to have become as common as colds in the head." he had risen, and now addressed us from the hearthrug. "then mrs. molyneux and others come and tell me about personal friends of their own who can foretell everything that is going to happen; who can read your inmost thoughts; who can compel others to do this and to do that, whether they like it or no; who, being themselves in one quarter of the globe, constantly appear to their acquaintances in another. 'what!' i say. 'they can be in two places at once, then! certainly no conjurer can equal that!'" "and what do they say to that?" asked atherley. "oh, they assure me the extraordinary beings who perform these marvels are not impostors, but very superior and religious characters. 'if they are not impostors,' i say, 'then their right place is the lunatic asylum.' 'oh but, canon vernade, you don't understand; it is only our western ignorance which makes such things seem astonishing! far more marvellous things are going on, and have been going on for centuries, in the east; for instance, in the brotherhoods of--i forget--some unpronounceable name.' 'and how do you know they have?' i ask. 'oh, by their traditions, which have been handed on for generations.' 'that is very reliable information indeed,' i say. 'pray, have you ever played a game of russian scandal?' 'well; but, then, there are the sacred books. there can be no mistake about them, for they have been translated by learned european professors, who say the religious sentiments are perfectly beautiful.' 'very possibly,' i say. 'but it does not follow that the historical statements are correct.'" "i gave my ladies' bible-class a serious lecture about it all the other day. i said: 'do, my dear ladies, get rid of these childish notions, these uncivilised hankerings after marvels and magic, which make you the dupe of one charlatan after another. take up science, for a change; study natural philosophy; try and acquire accurate notions of the system under which we live; realise that we are not moving on the stage of a christmas pantomime, but in a universe governed by fixed laws, in which the miraculous performances you describe to me never can, and never could, have taken place. and be sure of this, that any book and any teacher, however admirable their moral teaching, who tell you that two and two make anything but four, are not inspired, so far as arithmetic and common sense are concerned.'" "hear, hear!" cried atherley heartily. the canon's brow contracted a little. "i need hardly explain," he said, "that what i said did not apply to revealed truth. jane, my dear, as i must leave by an early train to-morrow, i think i shall say good-night." i fell asleep that night early, and dreamt that i was sitting with gladys in the frescoed dining-room of an old italian palace. it was night, and through the open window came one long shaft of moonlight, that vanished in the aureole of the shaded lamp standing with wine and fruit upon the table between us. and i said in my dream-- "oh, gladys, will it be always like this, or must we part again?" and she, smiling her slow soft smile, said: "you may stay with me till the knock comes." "what knock, my darling?" but even as i spoke i heard it, low and penetrating, and i stretched out my arms imploringly towards gladys; but she only smiled, and the knock was repeated, and the whole scene dissolved around me, and i was sitting up in bed in semi-darkness, while somebody was tapping with a quick agitated touch at my door. i remembered then that i had forgotten to unlock it before i went to bed, and i rose at once and made haste to open it, not without a passing thrill of unpleasant conjecture as to what might be behind it. it was a tall figure in a long grey garment, who carried a lighted candle in his hand. for a moment, startled and stupefied as i was, i failed to recognise the livid face. "canon vernade! you are ill?" too ill to speak, it would seem, for without a word he staggered forward and sank into a chair, letting the candle almost drop from his hand on to the table beside him; but when i put out my hand to ring the bell, he stayed me by a gesture. i looked at him, deadly pale, with blue shadows about the mouth and eyes, his head thrown helplessly back, and then i remembered some brandy i had in my dressing-bag. he took the glass from me and raised it to his lips with a trembling hand. i stood watching him, debating within myself whether i should disobey him by calling for help or not; but presently, to my great relief, i saw the stimulant take effect, and life come slowly surging back in colour to his cheeks, in strength to his whole prostrate frame. he straightened himself a little, and turned upon me a less distracted gaze than before. "mr. lyndsay, there is something horrible in this house." "have you seen it?" he shook his head. "i saw nothing; it is what i felt." he shuddered. i looked towards the grate. the fire had long been out, but the wood was still unconsumed, and i managed, inexpertly enough, to relight it. when a long blue flame sprang up, he drew his chair near the hearth and stretched towards the blaze his still tremulous hands. "mr. lyndsay," he said, in a voice as strangely altered as his whole appearance, "may i sit here a little--till it is light? i dread to go back to that room. but don't let me keep you up." i said, and in all honesty, that i had no inclination to sleep. i put on my dressing-gown, threw a rug over his knees, and took my place opposite to him on the other side of the fire; and thus we kept our strange vigil, while slowly above us broke the grim, cold dawn of early spring-time, which even the birds do not brighten with their babble. silently staring into the fire, he vouchsafed no further explanations, and i did not venture to ask for any; but i doubt if even such language as he could command would have been so full of horrible suggestion as that grey set face, and the terror-stricken gaze, which the growing light made every minute more distinct, more weird. what had so suddenly and so completely overthrown, not his own strength merely, but the defences of his faith? he groped amongst them still, for, from time to time, i heard him murmuring to himself familiar verses of prayer and psalm and gospel, as if he sought therewith to banish some haunting fear, to quiet some torturing suspicion. and at last, when the dull grey day had fully broken, he turned towards me, and cried in tones more heart-piercing than ever startled the great congregations in church or cathedral-- "what if it were all a delusion, and there be no father, no saviour?" and the horror of that abyss into which he looked, flashing from his mind to my own, left me silent and helpless before him. yet i longed to give him comfort; for, with the regal self-possession which had fallen from him, there had slipped from me too some undefined instinct of distrust and disapproval. all that i felt now was the sad tie of brotherhood which united us, poor human atoms, strong only in our capacity to suffer, tossed and driven, whitherward we knew not, in the purposeless play of soulless and unpitying forces. chapter v austyn's gospel "he did not see the ghost, you say; he only felt it? i should think he did--on his chest. i never heard of a clearer case of nightmare. you must be careful whom you tell the story to, old chap; for at the first go-off it sounds as if it was not merely eating too much that was the matter. it was, however, indigestion sure enough. no wonder! if a man of his age who takes no exercise will eat three square meals a day, what else can he expect? and mallet is rather liberal with her cream." atherley it was, of course, who propounded this simple interpretation of the night's alarms, as he sat in his smoking-room reviewing his trout-flies after an early breakfast we had taken with the canon. "you always account for the mechanism, but not for the effect. why should indigestion take that mental form?" "why, because indigestion constantly does in sleep, and out of it as well, for that matter. a nightmare is not always a sense of oppression on the chest only; it may be an overpowering dread of something you dream you see. indigestion can produce, waking or asleep, a very good imitation of what is experienced in a blue funk. and there is another kind of dream which is produced by fasting--that, i need hardly say, i have never experienced. indeed, i don't dream." "but the ghost--the ghost he almost saw." "the sinking horror produced the ghost, instead of _vice versa_, as you might suppose. it is like a dream. in unpleasant dreams we fancy it is the dream itself which makes us feel uncomfortable. it is just the other way round. it is the discomfort that produces the dream. have you ever dreamt you were tramping through snow, and felt cold in consequence? i did the other night. but i did not feel cold because i dreamt i was walking through snow, but because i had not enough blankets on my bed; and because i felt cold i dreamt about the snow. don't you know the dream you make up in a few moments about the knocking at the door when they call you in the morning? and ghosts are only waking dreams." "i wonder if you ever had an illusion yourself--gave way to it, i mean. you were in love once--twice," i added hastily, in deference to lady atherley. "only once," said atherley, calmly. "do you ever see her now, lindy? she has grown enormously fat. certainly i have had my illusions, and i don't object to them when they are pleasant and harmless--on the contrary. now, falling in love, if you don't fall too deep, is pleasant, and it never lasts long enough to do much mischief. marriage, of course, you will say, may be mischievous--only for the individual, it is useful for the race. what i object to is the deliberate culture of illusions which are not pleasant but distinctly depressing, like half your religious beliefs." "george," said lady atherley, coming into the room at this instant; "have you--oh, dear! what a state this room is in!" "it is the housemaids. they never will leave things as i put them." "and it was only dusted and tidied an hour ago. mr. lyndsay, did you ever see anything like it?" i said "never." "if lindy has a fault in this world, it is that he is as pernickety, as my old nurse used to say--as pernickety as an old maid. the stiff formality of his room would give me the creeps, if anything could. the first thing i always want to do when i see it is to make hay in it." "it is what you always do do, before you have been an hour there," i observed. "jane, in heaven's name leave those things alone! is this sort of thing all you came in for?" "no; i really came in to ask if you had read lucinda molyneux's letter." "no, i have not; her writing is too bad for anything. besides, i know exactly what she has got to say. she has at last found the religion which she has been looking for all her life, and she intends to be whatever it is for evermore." "that is not all. she wants to come and stay here for a few days." "what! here? now? why, what--oh, i forgot the ghost! by jove! you see, jane, there are some advantages in having one on the premises when it procures you a visit from a social star like mrs. molyneux. but where are you going to put her? not in the bachelor's room, where your poor uncle made such a night of it? it wouldn't hold her dressing bag, let alone herself." "oh, but i hope the pink room will be ready. the plasterer from whitford came out yesterday to apologise, and said he had been keeping his birthday." "indeed! and how many times a year does he have a birthday?" "i don't know, but he was quite sober; and he did the most of it yesterday and will finish it to-day, so it will be all right." "when is she coming, then?" "to-morrow. you would have seen that if you had read the letter. and there is a message for you in it, too." "then find me the place, like an angel; i cannot wade through all these sheets of hieroglyphics. in the postscript? let me see: 'tell sir george i look forward to explaining to him the religious teaching which i have been studying for months.' months! come; there must be something in a religion which mrs. molyneux sticks to for months at a time--'studying for months under the guidance of its great apostle baron zinkersen--' what is this name? 'the deeper i go into it all the more i feel in it that faith, satisfying to the reason as well as to the emotions, for which i have been searching all my life. it is certainly the religion of the future'--future underlined--'and i believe it will please even sir george, for it so distinctly coincides with his own favourite theories.' favourite theories, indeed! i haven't any. my mind is as open as day to truth from any quarter. only i distrust apostles with no vowels in their names ever since that one, two years ago, made off with the spoons." "no, george, he did not take any plate. it was money, and money lucinda gave him herself for bringing her letters from her father." "where was her father, then?" i inquired, much interested. "well, he was--a--he was dead," answered lady atherley; "and after some time, a very low sort of person called upon lucinda and said she wrote all the letters; but lucinda could not get the money back without going to law, as some people wished her to do; but i am glad she did not, as i think the papers would have said very unpleasant things about it." "the apostle i liked best," said atherley, "was the american one. i really admired old stamps, and old stamps admired me; for she knew i thoroughly understood what an unmitigated humbug she was. she had a fine sense of humour, too. how her eyes used to twinkle when i asked posers at her prayer-meetings!" "dreadful woman!" cried lady atherley. "lucinda brought her to lunch once. such black nails, and she said she could make the plates and dishes fly about the room, but i said i would rather not. i am thankful she does not want to bring this baron with her." "i would not have him. i draw the line there, and also at spiritual seances. i am too old for them. do you remember one i took you to at mrs. molyneux's, lindy, five years ago, when they raised poor old professor delaine, and he danced on the table and spelt bliss with one _s_? i was haunted for weeks afterwards by the dread that there might be a future life, in which we should make fools of ourselves in the same way. what is this?" "it is the carriage just come back from the station. mr. lyndsay and the little boys are going over to rood warren with a note for me. i hope you will see mr. austyn, mr. lyndsay, and persuade him to come over to-morrow." "what! to dine?" said atherley. "he won't come out to dinner in lent." i thought so myself, but i was glad of the excuse to see again the delicate, austere face. as we drove along, i tried to define to myself the quality which marked it out from others. not sweetness, not marked benevolence, but the repose of absolute spiritual conviction. austyn's god can never be my god, and in his heaven i should find no rest; but, one among ten thousand, he believed in both, as the martyrs believed who perished in the flames, with a faith which would have stood the atheist's test;--"we believe a thing, when we are prepared to act as if it were true." rood warren lay in a little hollow beside an armlet of the stream that waters all the valley. the hamlet consisted of a tiny church and a group of labourers' cottages, in one of which, presumably because there was no other habitation for him, the curate in charge made his home. an apple-faced old woman received me at the door, and hospitably invited me to wait within for mr. austyn's return from morning service, which i did, while the carriage, with the little boys and tip in it, drove up and down before the door. the room in which i waited, evidently the one sitting-room, was destitute of luxury or comfort as a monk's cell. profusion there was in one thing only--books. they indeed furnished the room, clothing the walls and covering the table; but ornaments there were none, not even sacred or symbolical, save, indeed, one large and beautifully-carved crucifix over a mantelpiece covered with letters and manuscripts. i have thought of this early home of austyn's many a time as dignities have been literally thrust upon him by a world which since then has discovered his intellectual rank. he will end his days in a palace, and, one may confidently predict of him, remain as absolutely indifferent to his surroundings as in the little cottage at rood warren. but he did not come, and presently his housekeeper came in with many apologies to explain he would not be back for hours, having started after service on a round of parish visiting instead of first returning home, as she had expected. she herself was plainly depressed by the fact. "i did hope he would have come in for a bit of lunch first," she said, sadly. all i could do was to leave the note, to which late in the day came an answer, declining simply and directly on the ground that he did not dine out in lent. "i cannot see why," observed lady atherley, as we sat together over the drawing-room fire after tea, "because it is possible to have a very nice dinner without meat. i remember one we had abroad once at an hotel on good friday. there were sixteen courses, chiefly fish, no meat even in the soup, only cream and eggs and that sort of thing, all beautifully cooked with exquisite sauces. even george said he would not mind fasting in that way. it would have been nice if he could have come to meet mrs. molyneux to-morrow. i am sure they must be connected in some way, because lord--" and then my mind wandered whilst lady atherley entered into some genealogical calculations, for which she has nothing less than a genius. my attention was once again captured by the name de noël, how introduced i know not, but it gave me an excuse for asking-- "lady atherley, what is mrs. de noël like?" "cecilia? she is rather tall and rather fair, with brown hair. not exactly pretty, but very ladylike-looking. i think she would be very good-looking if she thought more about her dress." "is she clever?" "no, not at all; and that is very strange, for the atherleys are such a clever family, and she has quite the ways of a clever person, too; so odd, and so stupid about little things that anyone can remember. i don't believe she could tell you, if you asked her, what relation her husband was to lord stowell." "she seems a great favourite." "oh, no one could possibly help liking her. she is the most good-natured person; there is nothing she would not do to help one; she is a dear thing, but most odd, so very odd. i often think it is so fortunate that she married a sailor, because he is so much away from home." "don't they get on, then?" "oh dear, yes; they are devoted to each other, and he thinks everything she does quite perfect. but then he is very different from most men; he thinks so little about eating, and he takes everything so easy; i don't think he cares what strange people cecilia asks to the house." "strange people!" "well; strange people to have on a visit. invalids and--people that have nowhere else they could go to." "do you mean poor people from the east end?" "oh no; some of them are quite rich. she had an idiot there with his mother once who was heir to a very large fortune in the colonies somewhere; but of course nobody else would have had them, and i think it must have been very uncomfortable. and then once she actually had a woman who had taken to drinking. i did not see her, i am thankful to say, but there was a deformed person once staying there, i saw him being wheeled about the garden. it was very unpleasant. i think people like that should always live shut up." there was a little pause, and then lady atherley added-- "cecilia has never been the same since her baby died. she used to have such a bright colour before that. he was not quite two years old, but she felt it dreadfully; and it was a great pity, for if he had lived he would have come in for all the stowell property." the door opened. "why, george; how late you are, and--how wet! is it raining?" "yes; hard." "have you bought the ponies?" "no; they won't do at all. but whom do you think i picked up on the way home? you will never guess. your pet parson, mr. austyn." "mr. austyn!" "yes; i found him by the roadside not far from monk's cottage, where he had been visiting, looking sadly at a spring-cart, which the owner thereof, one of the rood warren farmers, had managed to upset and damage considerably. he was giving austyn a lift home when the spill took place. so, remembering your hankering and lindy's for the society of this young ritualist, i persuaded him that instead of tramping six miles through the wet he should come here and put up for the night with us; so, leaving the farmer free to get home on his pony, i clinched the matter by promising to send him back to-morrow in time for his eight o'clock service." "oh dear! i wish i had known he was coming. i would have ordered a dinner he would like." "judging by his appearance, i should say the dinner he would like will be easily provided." atherley was right. mr. austyn's dinner consisted of soup, bread, and water. he would not even touch the fish or the eggs elaborately prepared for his especial benefit. yet he was far from being a skeleton at the feast, to whose immaterial side he contributed a good deal--not taking the lead in conversation, but readily following whosoever did, giving his opinions on one topic after another in the manner of a man well informed, cultured, thoughtful, original even, and at the same time with no warmer interest in all he spoke of than the inhabitant of another planet might have shown. atherley was impressed and even surprised to a degree unflattering to the rural clergy. "this is indeed a _rara avis_ of a country curate," he confided to me after dinner, while lady atherley was unravelling with austyn his connection with various families of her acquaintance. "we shall hear of him in time to come, if, in the meanwhile, he does not starve himself to death. by the way, i lay you odds he sees the ghost. to begin with; he has heard of it--everybody has in this neighbourhood; and then st. anthony himself was never in a more favourable condition for spiritual visitations. look at him; he is blue with asceticism. but he won't turn tail to the ghost; he'll hold his own. there's metal in him." this led me to ask austyn, as we went down the bachelor's passage to our rooms, if he were afraid of ghosts. "no; that is, i don't feel any fear now. whether i should do so if face to face with one, is another question. this house has the reputation of being haunted, i believe. have you seen the ghost yourself?" "no, but i have seen others who did, or thought they did. do you believe in ghosts?" "i do not know that i have considered the subject sufficiently to say whether i do or not. i see no _primâ facie_ objection to their appearance. that it would be supernatural offers no difficulty to a christian whose religion is founded on, and bound up with, the supernatural." "if you do see anything, i should like to know." i went away, wondering why he repelled as well as attracted me; what it was behind the almost awe-inspiring purity and earnestness i felt in him that left me with a chill sense of disappointment? the question was so perplexing and so interesting that i determined to follow it up next day, and ordered my servant to call me as early as mr. austyn was wakened. in the morning i had just finished dressing, but had not put out my candles, when a knock at the door was followed by the entrance of austyn himself. "i did not expect to find you up, mr. lyndsay; i knocked gently, lest you should be asleep. in case you were not, i intended to come and tell you that i had seen the ghost." "breakfast is ready," said a servant at the door. "let me come down with you and hear about it," i said. we went down through staircase and hall, still plunged in darkness, to the dining-room, where lamps and fire burned brightly. their glow falling on austyn's face showed me how pale it was, and worn as if from watching. breakfast was set ready for him, but he refused to touch it. "but tell me what you saw." "i must have slept two or three hours when i awoke with the feeling that there was someone besides myself in the room. i thought at first it was the remains of a dream and would quickly fade away; but it did not, it grew stronger. then i raised myself in bed and looked round. the space between the sash of the window and the curtains--my shutters were not closed--allowed one narrow stream of moonlight to enter and lie across the floor. near this, standing on the brink of it, as it were, and rising dark against it, was a shadowy figure. nothing was clearly outlined but the face; _that_ i saw only too distinctly. i rose and remained up for at least an hour before it vanished. i heard the clock outside strike the hour twice. i was not looking at it all this time--on the contrary, my hands were clasped across my closed eyes; but when from time to time i turned to see if it was gone, it was reminded me of a wild beast waiting to spring, and i seemed to myself to be holding it at bay all the time with a great strain of the will, and, of course"--he hesitated for an instant, and then added--"in virtue of a higher power." the reserve of all his school forbade him to say more, but i understood as well as if he had told me that he had been on his knees, praying all the time, and there rose before my mind a picture of the scene--moonlight, kneeling saint, and watching demon, which the leaf of some illustrated missal might have furnished. the bronze timepiece over the fireplace struck half-past six. "i wonder if the carriage is at the door," said austyn, rather anxiously. he went into the hall and looked out through the narrow windows. there was no carriage visible, and i deeply regretted the second interruption that must follow when it did come. "let us walk up the hill and on a little way together. the carriage will overtake us. my curiosity is not yet satisfied." "then first, mr. lyndsay, you must go back and drink some coffee; you are not strong as i am, or accustomed to go out fasting into the morning air." outside in the shadow of the hill, where the fog lay thick and white, the gloom and the cold of the night still lingered, but as we climbed the hill we climbed, too, into the brightness of a sunny morning--brilliant, amber-tinted above the long blue shadows. * * * * * i had to speak first. "now tell me what the face was like." "i do not think i can. to begin with, i have a very indistinct remembrance of either the form or the colouring. even at the time my impression of both was very vague; what so overwhelmed and transfixed my attention, to the exclusion of everything besides itself, was the look upon the face." "and that?" "and that i literally cannot describe. i know no words that could depict it, no images that could suggest it; you might as well ask me to tell you what a new colour was like if i had seen it in my dreams, as some people declare they have done. i could convey some faint idea of it by describing its effect upon myself, but that, too, is very difficult--that was like nothing i have ever felt before. it was the realisation of much which i have affirmed all my life, and steadfastly believed as well, but only with what might be called a notional assent, as the blind man might believe that light is sweet, or one who had never experienced pain might believe it was something from which the senses shrink. every day that i have recited the creed, and declared my belief in the life everlasting, i have by implication confessed my entire disbelief in any other. i knew that what seemed so solid is not solid, so real is not real; that the life of the flesh, of the senses, of things seen, is but the "stuff that dreams are made of"--"a dream within a dream," as one modern writer has called it; "the shadow of a dream," as another has it. but last night--" he stood still, gazing straight before him, as if he saw something that i could not see. "but last night," i repeated, as we walked on again. "last night? i not only believed, i saw, i felt it with a sudden intuition conveyed to me in some inexplicable manner by the vision of that face. i felt the utter insignificance of what we name existence, and i perceived too behind it that which it conceals from us--the real life, illimitable, unfathomable, the element of our true being, with its eternal possibilities of misery or joy." "and all this came to you through something of an evil nature?" "yes; it was like the effect of lightning oh a pitch-dark night--the same vivid and lurid illumination of things unperceived before. it must be like the revelation of death, i should think, without, thank god, that fearful sense of the irrevocable which death must bring with it. will you not rest here?" for we had reached beggar's stile. but i was not tired for once, so keen, so life-giving was the air, sparkling with that fine elixir whereby morning braces us for the day's conflict. below, through slowly-dissolving mists, the village showed as if it smiled, each little cottage hearth lifting its soft spiral of smoke to a zenith immeasurably deep, immaculately blue. "but the ghost itself?" i said, looking up at him as we both rested our arms upon the gate. "what do you think of that?" "i am afraid there is no possible doubt what that was. its face, as i tell you, was a revelation of evil--evil and its punishment. it was a lost soul." "do you mean by a lost soul, a soul that is in never-ending torment?" "not in physical torment, certainly; that would be a very material interpretation of the doctrine. besides, the church has always recognised degree and difference in the punishment of the lost. this, however, they all have in common--eternal separation from the divine being." "even if they repent and desire to be reunited to him?" "certainly; that must be part of their suffering." "and yet you believe in a good god?" "in what else could i believe, even without revelation? but goodness, divine goodness, is far from excluding severity and wrath, and even vengeance. here the witness of science and of history are in accord with that of the christian church; their first manifestation of god is always of 'one that is angry with us and threatens evil.'" the carriage had overtaken us and stopped now close to us. i rose to say good-bye. austyn shook me by the hand and moved towards the carriage; then, as if checked by a sudden thought, returned upon his steps and stood before me, his earnest eyes fixed upon me as if the whole self-denying soul within him hungered to waken mine. "i feel i must speak one word before i leave you, even if it be out of season. with the recollection of last night still so fresh, even the serious things of life seem trifles, far more its small conventionalities. mr. lyndsay, your friend has made his choice, but you are dallying between belief and unbelief. oh, do not dally long! we need no spirit from the dead to tell us life is short. do we not feel it passing quicker and quicker every year? the one thing that is serious in all its shows and delusions is the question it puts to each one of us, and which we answer to our eternal loss or gain. many different voices call to us in this age of false prophets, but one only threatens as well as invites. would it not be only wise, prudent even, to give the preference to that? mr. lyndsay, i beseech you, accept the teaching of the church, which is one with that of conscience and of nature, and believe that there _is_ a god, a sovereign, a lawgiver, a judge." he was gone, and i still stood thinking of his words, and of his gaze while he spoke them. the mists were all gone, now, leaving behind them in shimmering dewdrops an iridescent veil on mead and copse and garden; the river gleamed in diamond curves and loops, while in the covert near me the birds were singing as if from hearts that over-brimmed with joy. and slowly, sadly, i repeated to myself the words--sovereign, lawgiver, judge. i was hungering for bread; i was given a stone. chapter vi mrs. molyneux's gospel "the room is all ready now," said lady atherley, "but lucinda has never written to say what train she is coming by." "a good thing, too," said atherley; "we shall not have to send for her. those unlucky horses are worked off their legs already. is that the carriage coming back from rood warren? harold, run and stop it, and tell marsh to drive round to the door before he goes to the stables. i may as well have a lift down to the other end of the village." "what do you want to do at the other end of the village?" "i don't want to do anything, but my unlucky fate as a landowner compels me to go over and look at an eel-weir which has just burst. lindy, come along with me, and cheer me up with one of your ghost stories. you are as good as a christmas annual." "and on your way back," said lady atherley, "would you mind the carriage stopping to leave some brandy at monk's? mr. austyn told me last night he was so weak, and the doctor has ordered him brandy every hour." atherley was disappointed with what he called my last edition of the ghost; he complained that it was little more definite than the canon's. "your last two stories are too highflown for my simple tastes. i want a good coherent description of the ghost himself, not the particular emotions he excited. i had expected better things from austyn. upon my word, as far as we have gone, old aunt eleanour's is the best. i think austyn, with his mediæval turn of mind and his quite mediæval habit of living upon air, might have managed to raise something with horns and hoofs. it is a curious thing that in the dark ages the devil was always appearing to somebody. he doesn't make himself so cheap now. he has evidently more to do; but there is a fashion in ghosts as in other things, and that reminds me our ghost, from all we hear of it, is decidedly rococo. if you study the reports of societies that hunt the supernatural, you will find that the latest thing in ghosts is very quiet and commonplace. rattling chains and blue lights, and even fancy dress, have quite gone out. and the people who see the ghosts are not even startled at first sight; they think it is a visitor, or a man come to wind the clocks. in fact, the chic thing for a ghost in these days is to be mistaken for a living person." "what puzzles me is that a sceptic like you can so easily swallow the astonishing coincidence of these different people all having imagined the ghost in the same house." "why, the coincidence is not a bit more astonishing than several people in the same place having the same fever. nothing in the world is so infectious as ghost-seeing. the oftener a ghost is seen, the oftener it will be seen. in this sort of thing particularly, one fool makes many. no, don't wait for me. heaven only knows when i shall be released." the door of monk's cottage was open, but no one was to be seen within, and no one answered to my knock, so, anxious to see him again, i groped my way up the dark ladder-like stairs to the room above. the first thing i saw was the bed where monk himself was lying. they had drawn the sheet across his face: i saw what had happened. his wife was standing near, looking not so much grieved as stunned and tired. "would you like to see him, sir?" she asked, stretching out her withered hand to draw the sheet aside. i was glad afterwards i had not refused, as, but for fear of being ungracious, i would have done. since then i have seen death--"in state" as it is called--invested with more than royal pomp, but i have never felt his presence so majestic as in that poor little garret. i know his seal may be painful, grotesque even: here it was wholly benign and beautiful. all discolorations had disappeared in an even pallor as of old ivory; all furrows of age and pain were smoothed away, and the rude peasant face was transfigured, glorified, by that smile of ineffable and triumphant repose. many times that day it rose before me, never more vividly than when, at dinner, mrs. molyneux, in colours as brilliant as her complexion, and jewels as sparkling as her eyes, recounted in her silvery treble the latest flowers of fashionable gossip. i am always glad to be one of any audience which mrs. molyneux addresses, not so much out of admiration for the discourse itself, as for the charm of gesture and intonation with which it is delivered. but the main question--the subject of atherley's conversion--she did not approach till we were in the drawing-room, luxuriously established in deep and softly-cushioned chairs. then, near the fire, but turned away from it so as to face us all, and in the prettiest of attitudes, she began, gracefully emphasising her more important points by movements of her spangled fan. "i do not mention the name of the religion i wish to speak to you about, because--now i hope you won't be angry, but i am going to be quite horribly rude--because sir george is certain to be so prejudiced against--oh yes, sir george, you are; everybody is at first. even i was, because it has been so horribly misrepresented by people who really know nothing about it. for instance, i have myself heard it said that it was only a kind of spiritualism. on the contrary, it is very much opposed to it, and has quite convinced me for one of the wickedness and danger of spiritualism." "well, that is so much to its credit," atherley generously acknowledged. "and then, people said it was very immoral. far from that; it has a very high ethical standard indeed--a very moral aim. one of its chief objects is to establish a universal brotherhood amongst men of all nations and sects." "a what?" asked atherley. "a universal brotherhood." "my dear mrs. molyneux, you don't mean to seriously offer that as a novelty. i never heard anything so hackneyed in my life. why, it has been preached _ad nauseam_ for centuries!" "by the christian church, i suppose you mean. and pray how have they practised their preaching?" "oh, but excuse me; that is not the question. if your religion is as brand-new as you gave me to understand, there has been no time for practice. it must be all theory, and i hoped i was going to hear something original." "oh really, sir george, you are quite too naughty. how can i explain things if you are so flippant and impatient? in one sense, it is a very old religion; it is the truth which is in all religions, and some of its interesting doctrines were taught ages before christianity was ever heard of, and proved, too, by miracles far far more wonderful than any in the new testament. however, it is no good talking to you about that; what i really wanted you to understand is how infinitely superior it is to all other religions in its theological teaching. you know, sir george, you are always finding fault with all the christian churches--and even with the mahommedans too, for that matter--because they are so anthropomorphic, because they imply that god is a personal being. very well, then, you cannot say that about this religion, because--this is what is so remarkable and elevated about it--it has nothing to do with god at all." "nothing to do with what did you say?" asked lady atherley, diverted by this last remark from a long row of loops upon an ivory needle which she appeared to be counting. "nothing to do with god." "do you know, lucinda," said lady atherley, "if you would not mind, i fancy the coffee is just coming in, and perhaps it would be as well just to wait for a little, you know--just till the servants are out of the room? they might perhaps think it a little odd." "yes," said atherley, "and even unorthodox." mrs. molyneux submitted to this interruption with the greatest sweetness and composure, and dilated on the beauty of the new chair-covers till castleman and the footman had retired, when, with a coffee-cup instead of a fan in her exquisite hand, she took up the thread of her exposition. "as i was saying, the distinction of this religion is that it has nothing to do with god. of course it has other great advantages, which i will explain later, like its cultivation of a sixth sense, for instance--" "do you mean common sense?" "jane, what am i to do with sir george? he is really incorrigible. how can i possibly explain things if you will not be serious?" "i never was more serious in my life. show me a religion which cultivates common sense, and i will embrace it at once." "it is just because i knew you would go on in this way that i do not attempt to say anything about the supernatural side of this religion, though it is very important and most extraordinary. i assure you, my dear jane, the powers that people develop under it are really marvellous. i have friends who can see into another world as plainly as you can see this drawing-room, and talk as easily with spirits as i am talking with you." "indeed!" said lady atherley politely, with her eyes fixed anxiously on something which had gone wrong with her knitting. "unfortunately, for that kind of thing you require to undergo such severe treatment; my health would not stand it; the london season itself is almost too much for me. it is a pity, for they all say i have great natural gifts that way, and i should have so loved to have taken it up; but to begin with, one must have no animal food and no stimulants, and the doctors always tell me i require a great deal of both." "besides, _le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle_," said atherley, "if the spirits you are to converse with are anything like those we used to meet in your drawing-room." "that is not the same thing at all; these were only spooks." "only what?" "no, i will not explain; you only mean to make fun of it, and there is nothing to laugh at. what i am trying to show you is that side of the religion you will really approve--the unanthropomorphic side. it is not anything like atheism, you know, as some ill-natured people have said; it does not declare there is no god; it only declares that it is worse than useless to try and think of him, far less pray to him--because it is simply impossible. and that is quite scientific and philosophical, is it not? for all the great men are agreed now that the conditioned can know nothing of the unconditioned, and the finite can know nothing of the infinite. it is quite absurd to try, you know; and it is equally absurd to say anything about him. you can't call him providence, because, as the universe is governed by fixed laws, there is nothing for him to provide; and we have no business to call him creator, because we don't really know that things were created. besides," said mrs. molyneux, resuming her fan, which she furled and unfurled as she continued, "i was reading in a delightful book the other day--i can't remember the author's name, but i think it begins with k or p. it explained so clearly that if the universe was created at all, it was created by the human mind. then you can't call him father--it is quite blasphemous; and it is almost as bad to say he is merciful or loving, or anything of that kind, because mercy and love are only human attributes; and so is consciousness too, therefore we know he cannot be conscious; and i believe, according to the highest philosophical teaching, he has not any being. so that altogether it is impossible, without being irreverent, to think of him, far less speak to him or of him, because we cannot do so without ascribing to him some conceivable quality--and he has not any. indeed, even to speak of him as _he_ is not right; the pronoun is very anthropomorphic and misleading. so, when you come to consider all this carefully, it is quite evident--though it sounds rather strange at first--that the only way you can really honour and reverence god is by forgetting him altogether." here mrs. molyneux paused, panting prettily for breath; but quickly recovering herself, proceeded: "so in fact, it is just the same, practically speaking--remember i say only practically speaking--as if there were no god; and this religion--" "excuse me," said atherley; "but if, as you have so forcibly explained to us, there is, practically speaking, no god, why should we hamper ourselves with any religion at all?" "why, to satisfy the universal craving after an ideal; the yearning for something beyond the sordid realities of animal existence and of daily life; to comfort, to elevate--" "no, no, my dear mrs. molyneux; pardon me, but the sooner we get rid of all this sort of rubbish the better. it is the indulgence they have given to such feelings that has made all the religions such a curse to the world. i don't believe, to begin with, that they are universal. i never experienced any such cravings and yearnings except when i was out of sorts; and i never met a thoroughly happy or healthy person who did. if people keep their bodies in good order and their minds well employed, they have no time for yearnings. it was bad enough when there was some pretext for them; when we imagined there was a god and a world which was better than this one. but now we know there is not the slightest ground for supposing anything of the kind, we had better have the courage of our opinions, and live up to them, or down to them. as to the word 'ideal,' it ought to be expunged from the vocabulary; i would like to make it penal to pronounce, or write, or print the word for a century. why, we have been surfeited with the ideal by the christian churches; that's why we find the real so little to our taste. we've been so long fed upon sweet trash, we can't relish wholesome food. the cure for that is to take wholesome food or starve, not provide another sickly substitute. pray, let us have no more religions. on the contrary, our first duty is to be as irreligious as possible--to believe in as little as we can, to trust in nobody but ourselves, to hope for nothing but the actual, to get rid of all high-flown notions of human beings and their destiny, and, above all, to avoid as poison the ideal, the sublime, the--" his words were drowned at last in musical cries of indignation from mrs. molyneux. i remember no more of the discussion, except that atherley continued to reiterate his doctrine in different words, and mrs. molyneux to denounce it with unabated fervour. my thoughts wandered--i heard no more. i was tired and depressed, and felt grateful to lady atherley when, with invariable punctuality, at a quarter to eleven, she interrupted the symposium by rising and proposing that we should all go to bed. my last distinct recollection of that evening is of mrs. molyneux, with the folds of her gown in one hand, and a bedroom candlestick in the other, mounting the dark oak stairs, and calling out fervently as she went-- "oh, how i pray that i may see the ghost!" the night was stormy, and i could not sleep. the wind wailed fitfully outside the house, while within doors and windows rattled, and on the stairs and in the passages wandered strange and unaccountable noises, like stealthy footsteps or stifled voices. to this dreary accompaniment, as i lay awake in the darkness, i heard the lessons of the last few days repeated: witness after witness rose and gave his varying testimony; and when, before the discord and irony of it all, i bitterly repeated pilate's question, the smile on that dead face would rise before me, and then i hoped again. between three and four the wind fell during a short space, and all responsive noises ceased. for a few minutes reigned absolute silence, then it was broken by two piercing cries--the cries of a woman in terror or in pain. they disturbed even the sleepers, it was evident; for when i reached the end of my passage i heard opening doors, hurrying footsteps, and bells ringing violently in the gallery. after a little the stir was increased, presumably by servants arriving from the farther wing; but no one came my way till atherley himself, in his dressing-gown, went hurriedly downstairs. "anything wrong?" i called as he passed me. "only mrs. molyneux's prayer has been granted." "of course she was bound to see it," he said next day, as we sat together over a late breakfast. "it would have been a miracle if she had not; but if i had known the interview was to be followed by such unpleasant consequences i shouldn't have asked her down. i was wandering about for hours looking for an imaginary bottle of sal-volatile jane described as being in her sitting-room: and jane herself was up till late--or rather early--this morning, trying to soothe mrs. molyneux, who does not appear to have found the ghost quite such pleasant company as she expected. oh yes, jane is down; she breakfasted in her own room. i believe she is ordering dinner at this minute in the next room." hardly had he said the words when outside, in the hall, resounded a prolonged and stentorian wail. "what on earth is the matter now?" said atherley, rising and making for the door. he opened it just in time for us to see mrs. mallet go by--mrs. mallet bathed in tears and weeping as i never have heard an adult weep before or since--in a manner which is graphically and literally described by the phrase "roaring and crying." "why, mrs. mallet! what on earth is the matter?" "send for mrs. de noël," cried mrs. mallet in tones necessarily raised to a high and piercing key by the sobs with which they were accompanied. "send for mrs. de noël; send for that dear lady, and she will tell you whether a word has been said against my character till i come here, which i never wish to do, being frightened pretty nigh to death with what one told me and the other; and if you don't believe me, ask mrs. stubbs as keeps the little sweet-shop near the church, if any one in the village will so much as come up the avenue after dark; and says to me, the very day i come here, 'you have a nerve,' she says; 'i wouldn't sleep there if you was to pay me,' she says; and i says, not wishing to speak against a family that was cousin to mrs. de noël, 'noises is neither here nor there,' i says, 'and ghostisses keeps mostly to the gentry's wing,' i says. and then to say as i put about that they was all over the house, and frighten the london lady's maid, which all i said was--and hann can tell you that i speak the truth, for she was there--'some says one thing,' says i, 'and some says another, but i takes no notice of nothink.' but put up with a deal, i have--more than ever i told a soul since i come here, which i promised mrs. de noël when she asked me to oblige her; which the blue lights i have seen a many times, and tapping of coffin-nails on the wall, and never close my eyes for nights sometimes, but am entirely wore away, and my nerve that weak; and then to be so hurt in my feelings, and spoke to as i am not accustomed, but always treated everywhere i goes with the greatest of kindness and respect, which ask mrs. de noël she will tell you, since ever i was a widow; but pack my things i will, and walk every step of the way, if it was pouring cats and dogs, i would, rather than stay another minute here to be so put upon; and send for mrs. de noël if you don't believe me, and she will tell you the many high families she recommended me, and always give satisfaction. send for mrs. de noël--" the swing door closed behind her, and the sounds of her grief and her reiterated appeals to mrs. de noël died slowly away in the distance. "what on earth have you been saying to her?" said atherley to his wife, who had come out into the hall. "only that she behaved very badly indeed in speaking about the ghost to mrs. molyneux's maid, who, of course, repeated it all directly and made lucinda nervous. she is a most troublesome, mischievous old woman." "but she can cook. pray what are we to do for dinner?" "i am sure i don't know. i never knew anything so unlucky as it all is, and lucinda looking so ill." "well, you had better send for the doctor." "she won't hear of it. she says nobody could do her any good but cecilia." "what! 'send for mrs. de noël?' poor cissy! what do these excited females imagine she is going to do?" "i don't know, but i do wish we could get her here." "but she is in london, is she not, with aunt henrietta?" "yes, and only comes home to-day." "well, i will tell you what we might do if you want her badly. telegraph to her to london and ask her to come straight on here." "i suppose she is sure to come?" "like a shot, if you say we are all ill." "no, that would frighten her. i will just say we want her particularly." "yes, and say the carriage shall meet the . at whitford station, and then she will feel bound to come. and as i shall not be back in time, send lindy to meet her. it will do him good. he looks as if he had been sitting up all night with the ghost." it was a melancholy day. the wind was quieter, but the rain still fell. indoors we were all in low spirits, not even excepting the little boys, much concerned about tip, who was not his usual brisk and complacent self. his nose was hot, his little stump of a tail was limp, he hid himself under chairs and tables, whence he turned upon us sorrowful and beseeching eyes, and, most alarming symptom of all, refused sweet biscuits. during the afternoon he was confided to me by his little masters while they made an expedition to the stables, and i was sitting reading by the library fire with the invalid beside me when lady atherley came in to propose i should go into the drawing-room and talk to mrs. molyneux, who had just come down. "did she ask to see me?" "no; but when i proposed your going in, she did not say no." i did as i was asked to do, but with some misgivings. it was one of the few occasions when my misfortune became an advantage. no one, especially no woman, was likely to rebuff too sharply the intruder who dragged himself into her presence. so far from that, mrs. molyneux, who was leaning against the mantelpiece and looking down listlessly into the fire, moved to welcome me with a smile and to offer me a hand startlingly cold. but after that she resumed her first attitude and made no attempt to converse--she, the most ready, the most voluble of women. then followed an awkward pause, which i desperately broke by saying i was afraid she was not better. "better! i was not ill," she answered, almost impatiently, and walked away towards the other side of the room. i understood that she wished to be alone, and was moving towards the door as quietly as possible when i was suddenly checked by her hand upon my elbow. "mr. lyndsay, why are you going? was i rude? i did not mean to be. forgive me; i am so miserable." "you could not be rude, i think, even if you wished to. it is i who am inconsiderate in intruding--" "you are not intruding; please stay." "i would gladly stay if i could help you." "can any one help me, i wonder?" she went slowly back to the fire and sat down upon the fender-stool, and resting her chin upon her hand, and looking dreamily before her, repeated-- "can any one help me, i wonder?" i sat down on a chair near her and said-- "do you think it would help you to talk of what has frightened you?" "i don't think i can. i would tell you, mr. lyndsay, if i could tell any one; for you know what it is to be weak and suffering; you are as sympathetic as a woman, and more merciful than some women. but part of the horror of it all is that i cannot explain it. words seem to be no good, just because i have used them so easily and so meaninglessly all my life--just as words and nothing more." "can you tell me what you saw?" "a face, only a face, when i woke up suddenly. it looked as if it were painted on the darkness. but oh, the dreadfulness of it and what it brought with it! do you remember the line, 'bring with you airs from heaven or blasts from hell'? yes, it was in hell, because hell is not a great gulf, like dante described, as i used to think; it is no place at all--it is something we make ourselves. i felt all this as i saw the face, for we ourselves are not what we think. part of what i used to play with was true enough; it is all mâyâ, a delusion, this sense--life--it is no life at all. the actual life is behind, under it all; it goes deep deep down, it stretches on, on--and yet it has nothing to do with space or time. i feel as if i were beating myself against a stone wall. my words can have no sense for you any more than they would have had for me yesterday." "but tell me, why should this discovery of this other life make you so miserable?" "oh, because it brings such a want with it. how can i explain? it is like a poor wretch stupefied with drink. don't you know the poor creatures in the eastend sometimes drink just that they may not feel how hungry and how cold they are? 'they remember their misery no more.' is the life of the world and of outward things like that, if we live too much in it? i used to be so contented with it all--its pleasures, its little triumphs, even its gossip; and what i called my aspirations i satisfied with what was nothing more than phrases. and now i have found my real self, now i am awake, i want much more, and there is nothing--only a great silence, a great loneliness like that in the face. and the theories i talked about are no comfort any more; they are just what pretty speeches would be to a person in torture. oh, mr. lyndsay, i always feel that you are real, that you are good; tell me what you know. is there nothing but this dark void beyond when life falls away from us?" she lifted towards me a face quivering with excitement, and eyes that waited wild and famished for my answer--the answer i had not for her, and then indeed i tasted the full bitterness of the cup of unbelief. "no," she said presently, "i knew it; no one can do me any good but cecilia de noël." "and she believes?" "it is not what she believes, it is what she is." she rested her head upon her hand and looked musingly towards the window, down which the drops were trickling, and said-- "ever since i have known cecilia i have always felt that if all the world failed this would be left. not that i really imagined the world would fail me, but you know how one imagines things, how one asks oneself questions. if i was like this, if i was like that, what should i do? i used to say to myself, if the very worst happened to me, if i was ill of some loathsome disease from which everybody shrank away, or if my mind was unhinged and i was tempted with horrible temptations like i have read about, i would go to cecilia. she would not turn from me; she would run to meet me as the father in the parable did, not because i was her friend but because i was in trouble. all who are in trouble are cecilia's friends, and she feels to them just as other people feel towards their own children. and i could tell her everything, show her everything. others feel the same; i have heard them say so--men as well as women. i know why--cecilia's pity is so reverent, so pure. a great london doctor said to me once, 'remember, nothing is shocking or disgusting to a doctor.' that is like cecilia. no suffering could ever be disgusting or shocking to cecilia, nor ridiculous, nor grotesque. the more humiliating it was, the more pitiful it would be to her. anything that suffers is sacred to cecilia. she would comfort, as if she went on her knees to one; and her touch on one's wounds, one's ugliest wounds, would be like,"--she hesitated and looked about her in quest of a comparison, then, pointing to a picture over the door, a picture of the magdalene, kissing the bleeding feet upon the cross, ended, "like that." "oh, mrs. molyneux," i cried, "if there be love like that in the world, then--" the door opened and castleman entered. "if you please, sir, the carriage is at the door." chapter vii cecilia's gospel the rain gradually ceased falling as we drove onward and upward to the station. it stood on high ground, overlooking a wide sweep of downland and fallow, bordered towards the west by close-set woodlands, purple that evening against a sky of limpid gold, which the storm-clouds discovered as they lifted. i had not long to wait, for, punctual to its time, the train steamed into the station. from that part of the train to which i first looked, four or five passengers stepped out; not one of them certainly the lady that i waited for. glancing from side to side i saw, standing at the far end of the platform, two women; one of them was tall; could this be mrs. de noël? and yet no, i reflected as i went towards them, for she held a baby in her arms--a baby moreover swathed, not in white and laces, but in a tattered and discoloured shawl: while her companion, lifting out baskets and bundles from a third-class carriage, was poorly and evenly miserably clad. but again, as i drew nearer, i observed that the long fine hand which supported the child was delicately gloved, and that the cloak which swung back from the encircling arm was lined and bordered with very costly fur. this and something in the whole outline-- "mrs. de noël?" i murmured inquiringly. then she turned towards me, and i saw her, as i often see her now in dreams, against that sunset background of aerial gold which the artist of circumstance had painted behind her, like a new madonna, holding the child of poverty to her heart, pressing her cheek against its tiny head with a gesture whose exquisite tenderness, for at least that fleeting instant, seemed to bridge across the gulf which still yawns between dives and lazarus. so standing, she looked at me with two soft brown eyes, neither large nor beautiful, but in their outlook direct and simple as a child's. remembering as i met them what mrs. molyneux had said, i saw and comprehended as well what she meant. benevolence is but faintly inscribed, on the faces of most men, even of the better sort. "i will love you, my neighbour," we thereon decipher, "when i have attended to my own business, in the first place; if you are lovable, or at least likeable, in the second." but in the transparent gaze that cecilia de noël turned upon her fellows beamed love poured forth without stint and without condition. it was as if every man, woman, and child who approached her became instantly to her more interesting than herself, their defects more tolerable, their wants more imperative, their sorrows more moving than her own. in this lay the source of that mysterious charm so many have felt, so few have understood, and yielding to which even those least capable of appreciating her confessed that, whatever her conduct might be, she herself was irresistibly lovable. a kind of dream-like haze seemed to envelop us as i introduced myself, as she smiled upon me, as she resigned the child to its mother and bid them tenderly farewell; but the clear air of the real became distinct again when there stood suddenly before us a fat elderly female, whose countenance was flushed with mingled anxiety and displeasure. "law bless me, mem!" said the newcomer, "i could not think wherever you could be. i have been looking up and down for you, all through the first-class carriages." "i am so sorry, parkins," said mrs. de noël penitently; "i ought to have let you know that i changed my carriage at carchester. i wanted to nurse a baby whose mother was looking ill and tired. i saw them on the platform, and then they got into a third-class carriage, so i thought the best way would be to get in with them." "and where, if you please, mem," inquired parkins, in an icy tone and with a face stiffened by repressed displeasure--"where do you think you have left your dressing-bag and humbrella?" mrs. de noël fixed her sweet eyes upon the speaker, as if striving to recollect the answer to this question and then replied-- "she told me she lived quite near the station. i wish i had asked her how far. she is much too weak to walk any distance. i might have found a fly for her, might i not?" upon which parkins gave a snort of irrepressible exasperation, and, evidently renouncing her mistress as beyond hope, forthwith departed in search of the missing property. i accompanied her, and, with the aid of the guard, we speedily found and secured both bag and umbrella, and, as the train steamed off, returned with these treasures to mrs. de noël, still on the same spot and in the same attitude as we had left her, and all that she said was-- "it was so stupid, so forgetful, so just like me not to have asked her more about it. she had been ill; the journey itself was more than she could stand; and then to have to carry the baby! she said it was not far, but perhaps she only said that to please me. poor people are so afraid of distressing one; they often make themselves out better off than they really are, don't they?" i was embarrassed by this question, to which my own experience did not authorise me to answer yes; but i evaded the difficulty by consulting a porter, who fortunately knew the woman, and was able to assure us that her cottage was barely a stone's throw from the station. when i had conveyed to mrs. de noël this information, which she received with an eager gratitude that the recovery of her bag and umbrella had failed to rouse, we left the station to go to the carriage, and then it was that, pausing suddenly, she cried out in dismay-- "ah, you are hurt! you--" she stopped abruptly; she had divined the truth, and her eyes grew softer with such tender pity as not yet had shone for me--motherless, sisterless--on any woman's face. as we drove home that evening she heard the story that never had been told before. "you may have your faults, cissy," said atherley, "but i will say this for you--for smoothing people down when they have been rubbed the wrong way, you never had your equal." he lay back in a comfortable chair looking at his cousin, who, sitting on a low seat opposite the drawing-room fire, shaded her eyes from the glare with a little hand-screen. "mrs. molyneux, i hear, has gone to sleep," he went on; "and mrs. mallet is unpacking her boxes. the only person who does not seem altogether happy is my old friend parkins. when i inquired after her health a few minutes ago her manner to me was barely civil." "poor parkins is rather put out," said mrs. de noël in her slow gentle way. "it is all my fault. i forgot to pack up the bodice of my best evening gown, and parkins says it is the only one i look fit to be seen in." "but, my dear cecilia," said lady atherley, looking up from the work which she pursued beside a shaded lamp, "why did not parkins pack it up herself?" "oh, because she had some shopping of her own to do this forenoon, so she asked me to finish packing for her, and of course i said i would; and i promised to try and forget nothing; and then, after all, i went and left the bodice in a drawer. it is provoking! the fact is, james spoils me so when he is at home. he remembers everything for me, and when i do forget anything he never scolds me." "ah, i expect he has a nice time of it," said atherley. "however, it is not my fault. i warned him how it would be when he was engaged. i said: 'i hope, for one thing, you can live on air, old chap for you will get nothing more for dinner if you trust to cissy to order it.'" "i don't believe you said anything of the kind," observed lady atherley. "no, dear jane; of course he did not. he was very much pleased with our marriage. he said james was the only man he ever knew who was fit to marry me." "so he was," agreed atherley; "the only man whose temper could stand all he would have to put up with. we had good proof of that even on the wedding-day, when you kept him kicking his heels for half an hour in the church while you were admiring the effect of your new finery in the glass." "what!" cried lady atherley incredulously. "what really did happen, jane," said mrs. de noël, "was that when edith molyneux was trying on my wreath before a looking-glass over the fireplace, she unfortunately dropped it into the grate, and got it in such a mess. it took us a long time to get the black off, and some of the sprays were so spoiled, we had to take them out. and it was very unpleasant for edith, as aunt henrietta was extremely angry, because the wreath was her present, you know, and it was very expensive; and as to parkins, poor dear, she was so vexed she positively cried. she said i was the most trying lady she had ever waited upon. she often says so. i am afraid it is true." "not a doubt of it," said atherley. "do not believe him, cecilia," said lady atherley: "he thinks there is no one in the world like you." "fortunately for the world," said atherley; "any more of the sort would spoil it. but i am not going to stay here to be bullied by two women at once. rather than that, i will go and write letters." he went, and soon afterwards lady atherley followed him. then the two little boys came in with tip. "we are not allowed to take him upstairs," explained harold, "so we thought he might stay with you and mr. lyndsay for a little, till charles comes for him." "if you would let him lie upon your dress, aunt cissy," suggested denis; "he would like that." accordingly he was carefully settled on the outspread folds of the serge gown; and after the little boys had condoled with him in tones so melancholy that he was affected almost to tears, they went off to supper and to bed. silence followed, broken only by the ticking of the clock and the wailing of the wind outside. mrs. de noël gazed into the fire with intent and unseeing eyes. its warm red light softly illumined her whole face and figure, for in her abstraction she had let the hand-screen fall, and was stroking mechanically the little sleek head that nestled against her. meantime i stared attentively at her, thinking i might do so without offence, seeing she had forgotten me and all else around her. once, indeed, as if rising for a minute to the surface, with eyes that appeared to waken, she looked up and encountered my earnest gaze, but without shade of displeasure or discomfiture. she only smiled upon me, placidly as a sister might smile upon a brother, benignly as one might smile upon a child, and fell into her dream again. it was a wonderful look, especially from a woman, as unique in its complete unconsciousness as in its warm goodwill; it was as soothing as the touch of her fine soft fingers must have been on tip's hot head. i felt i could have curled myself up, as he did, at her feet and slept on--for ever. but, alas! the clock was checking the flying minutes and chanting the departing quarters, and presently the dressing-bell rang, mrs. de noël stirred, gave a long sigh, and, plainly from the fulness of her heart and of the thoughts she had so long been following, said-- "mr. lyndsay, is it not strange? so many people from the great world come and ask me if there is any god. really good people, you know, so honourable, so generous, so self-sacrificing. it is just the same to me as if they should ask me whether the sun was shining, when all the time i saw the sunshine on their faces." "by the way," said atherley that night after dinner, when mrs. molyneux was not present, "where are you going to put cissy to-night? are you going to make a bachelor of her too?" "oh, such an uncomfortable arrangement!" said lady atherley. "but lucinda has set her heart on having cecilia near her; so they have put up a little bed in the dressing-room for her." "cissy is to keep the ghost at bay, is she?" said atherley. "i hope she may. i don't want another night as lively as the last." "who else has seen the ghost?" asked mrs. de noël, thoughtfully. "has mr. lyndsay?" "no, lindy will never see the ghost; he is too much of a sceptic. even if he saw it he would not believe in it, and there is nothing a ghost hates like that. but he has seen the people who saw the ghost, and he tells their several stories very well." "would you tell me, mr. lyndsay?" asked mrs. de noël. i could do nothing but obey her wish; still i secretly questioned the wisdom of doing so, especially when, as i went on, i observed stealing over her listening face the shadow of some disturbing thought. "well now, cissy is thoroughly well frightened," observed atherley. "perhaps we had better go to bed." "it is no good saying so to lucinda," said lady atherley, as we all rose, "because it only puts her out; but i shall always feel certain myself it was a mouse; because i remember in the house we had at bournemouth two years ago there was a mouse in my room which often made such a noise knocking down the plaster inside the wall, it used to quite startle me." that night the storm finally subsided. when the morning came the rain fell no longer, the cry of the wind had ceased, and the cloud-curtain above us was growing lighter and softer as if penetrated and suffused by the growing sunshine behind it. i was late for breakfast that day. "mr. lyndsay, tip is all right again," cried denis at sight of me. "mrs. mallet says it was chicken bones he stole from the cat's dish." "is that all?" observed atherley sardonically; "i thought he must have seen the ghost. by the bye, cissy, did you see it?" "yes," said mrs. de noël simply, at which atherley visibly started, and instantly began talking of something else. mrs. molyneux was to leave by an afternoon train, but, to the relief of everybody, it was discovered that mrs. mallet had indefinitely postponed her departure. she remained in the mildest of humours and in the most philosophical of tempers, as i myself can testify; for, meeting her by accident in the hall, i was encouraged by the amiability of her simper to say that i hoped we should have no more trouble with the ghost, when she answered in words i have often since admiringly quoted-- "perhaps not, sir, but i don't seem to care even if we do; for i had a dream last night, and a spirit seemed to whisper in my ear, 'don't be afraid; it is only a token of death.'" after mrs. molyneux had started, with mrs. de noël as her companion as far as the station, and all the rest of the party had gone out to sun themselves in the brightness of the afternoon, i worked through a long arrears of correspondence: and i was just finishing a letter, when atherley, whom i supposed to be far distant, came into the library. "i thought you had gone to pay calls with lady atherley?" "is it likely? look here, lindy, it is quite hot out of doors. come, and let me tug you up the hill to meet cissy coming home from the station, and then i promise you a rare treat." certainly to meet mrs. de noël anywhere might be so considered, but i did not ask if that was what he meant. it was milder; one felt it more at every step upward. the sun, low as it was, shone warmly as well as brilliantly between the clouds that he had thrust asunder and scattered in wild and beautiful disorder. it was one of those incredible days in early spring, balmy, tender, which our island summer cannot always match. we went on till we reached beggar's stile. "sit down," said atherley, tossing on to the wet step a coat he carried over his arm. "and there is a cigarette; you must smoke, if you please, or at least pretend to do so." "what does all this mean? what are you up to, george?" "i am up to a delicate psychical investigation which requires the greatest care. the medium is made of such uncommon stuff; she has not a particle of brass in her composition. so she requires to be carefully isolated from all disturbing influences. i allow you to be present at the experiment, because discretion is one of your strongest points, and you always know when to hold your tongue. besides, it will improve your mind. cissy's story is certain to be odd, like herself, and will illustrate what i am always saying that--here she is." he went forward to meet and to stop the carriage, out of which, at his suggestion, mrs. de noël readily came down to join us. "do not get up, mr. lyndsay," she called out as she came towards us, "or i will go away. i don't want to sit down." "sit down, lindy," said atherley sharply, "cissy likes tobacco in the open air." she rested her arms upon the gate and looked downwards. "the dear dear old river! it makes me feel young again to look at it." "cissy," said atherley, his arms on the gate, his eyes staring straight towards the opposite horizon, "tell us about the ghost; were you frightened?" there was a certain tension in the pause which followed. would she tell us or not? i almost felt atherley's rebound of satisfaction as well as my own at the sound of her voice. it was uncertain and faint at first, but by degrees grew firm again, as timidity was lost in the interest of what she told: "last night i sat up with mrs. molyneux, holding her hand till she fell asleep, and that was very late, and then i went to the dressing-room, where i was to sleep; and as i undressed, i thought over what mr. lyndsay had told us about the ghost; and the more i thought, the more sad and strange it seemed that not one of those who saw it, not even aunt eleanour, who is so kind and thoughtful, had had one pitying thought for it. and we who heard about it were just the same, for it seemed to us quite natural and even right that everybody should shrink away from it because it was so horrible; though that should only make them the more kind; just as we feel we must be more tender and loving to any one who is deformed, and the more shocking his deformity the more tender and loving. and what, i thought, if this poor spirit had come by any chance to ask for something; if it were in pain and longed for relief, or sinful and longed for forgiveness? how dreadful then that other beings should turn from it, instead of going to meet it and comfort it--so dreadful that i almost wished that i might see it, and have the strength to speak to it! and it came into my head that this might happen, for often and often when i have been very anxious to serve some one, the wish has been granted in a quite wonderful way. so when i said my prayers, i asked especially that if it should appear to me, i might have strength to forget all selfish fear and try only to know what it wanted. and as i prayed the foolish shrinking dread we have of such things seemed to fade away; just as when i have prayed for those towards whom i felt cold or unforgiving, the hardness has all melted away into love towards them. and after that came to me that lovely feeling which we all have sometimes--in church, or when we are praying alone, or more often in the open air, on beautiful summer days when it is warm and still; as if one's heart were beating and overflowing with love towards everything in this world and in all the worlds; as if the very grasses and the stones were clear, but dearest of all, the creatures that still suffer, so that to wipe away their tears forever, one feels that one would die--oh die so gladly! and always as if this were something not our own, but part of that wonderful great love above us, about us, everywhere, clasping us all so tenderly and safely!" here her voice trembled and failed; she waited a little and then went on, "ah, i am too stupid to say rightly what i mean, but you who are clever will understand. "it was so sweet that i knelt on, drinking it in for a long time; not praying, you know, but just resting, and feeling as if i were in heaven, till all at once, i cannot explain why, i moved and looked round. it was there at the other end of the room. it was ...--much worse than i had dreaded it would be; as if it looked out of some great horror deeper than i could understand. the loving feeling was gone, and i was afraid--so much afraid, i only wanted to get out of sight of it. and i think i would have gone, but it stretched out its hands to me as if it were asking for something, and then, of course, i could not go. so, though i was trembling a little, i went nearer and looked into its face. and after that i was not afraid any more, i was too sorry for it; its poor poor eyes were so full of anguish. i cried: 'oh, why do you look at me like that? tell me what i shall do.' "and directly i spoke i heard it moan. oh, george, oh, mr. lyndsay, how can i tell you what that moaning was like! do you know how a little change in the face of some one you love, or a little tremble in his voice, can make you see quite clearly what nobody, not even the great poets, had been able to show you before? "george, do you remember the day that grandmother died, when they all broke down and cried a little at dinner, all except uncle marmaduke? he sat up looking so white and stern at the end of the table. and i, foolish little child, thought he was not so grieved as the others--that he did not love his mother so much. but next day, quite by chance, i heard him, all alone, sobbing over her coffin. i remember standing outside the door and listening, and each sob went through my heart with a little stab, and i knew for the first time what sorrow was. but even his sobs were not so pitiful as the moans of that poor spirit. while i listened i learnt that in another world there may be worse for us to bear than even here--sorrow more hopeless, more lonely. for the strange thing was, the moaning seemed to come from so far far away; not only from somewhere millions and millions of miles away, but--this is the strangest of all--as if it came to me from time long since past, ages and ages ago. i know this sounds like nonsense, but indeed i am trying to put into words the weary long distance that seemed to stretch between us, like one i never should be able to cross. at last it spoke to me in a whisper which i could only just hear; at least it was more like a whisper than anything else i can think of, and it seemed to come like the moaning from far far away. it thanked me so meekly for looking at it and speaking to it. it told me that by sins committed against others when it was on earth it had broken the bond between itself and all other creatures. while it was what we call alive, it did not feel this, for the senses confuse us and hide many things from the good, and so still more from the wicked; but when it died and lost the body by which it seemed to be kept near to other beings, it found itself imprisoned in the most dreadful loneliness--loneliness which no one in this world can even imagine. even the pain of solitary confinement, so it told me, which drives men mad, is only like a shadow or type of this loneliness of spirits. others there might be, but it knew nothing of them--nothing besides this great empty darkness everywhere, except the place it had once lived in, and the people who were moving about it; and even those it could only perceive dimly as if looking through a mist, and always so unutterably away from them all. i am not giving its own words, you know, george, because i cannot remember them. i am not certain it did speak to me; the thoughts seemed to pass in some strange way into my mind; i cannot explain how, for the still far-away voice did not really speak. sometimes, it told me, the loneliness became agony, and it longed for a word or a sign from some other being, just as dives longed for the drop of cold water; and at such times it was able to make the living people see it. but that, alas! was useless, for it only alarmed them so much that the bravest and most benevolent rushed away in terror or would not let it come near them. but still it went on showing itself to one after another, always hoping that some one would take pity on it and speak to it, for it felt that if comfort ever came to it, it must be through a living soul, and it knew of none save those in this world and in this place. and i said: 'why did you not turn for help to god?' "then it gave a terrible answer: it said, 'what is god?' "and when i heard these words there came over me a wild kind of pity, such as i used to feel when i saw my little child struggling for breath when he was ill, and i held out my arms to this poor lonely thing, but it shrank back, crying: "'speak to me, but do not touch me, brave human creature. i am all death, and if you come too near me the death in me may kill the life in you.' "but i said: 'no death can kill the life in me, even though it kill my body. dear fellow-spirit, i cannot tell you what i know; but let me take you in my arms; rest for an instant on my heart, and perhaps i may make you feel what i feel all around us.' "and as i spoke i threw my arms around the shadowy form and strained it to my breast. and i felt as if i were pressing to me only air, but air colder than any ice, so that my heart seemed to stop beating, and i could hardly breathe. but i still clasped it closer and closer, and as i grew colder it seemed to grow less chill. "and at last it spoke, and the whisper was not far away, but near. it said: "'it is enough; now i know what god is!' "after that i remember nothing more, till i woke up and found myself lying on the floor beside the bed. it was morning, and the spirit was not there; but i have a strong feeling that i have been able to help it, and that it will trouble you no more. "surely it is late! i must go at once. i promised to have tea with the children." * * * * * neither of us spoke; neither of us stirred; when the sound of her light footfall was heard no more, there was complete silence. below, the mists had gathered so thickly that now they spread across the valley one dead white sea of vapour in which village and woods and stream were all buried--all except the little church spire, that, still unsubmerged, pointed triumphantly to the sky; and what a sky! for that which yesterday had steeped us in cold and darkness, now, piled even to the zenith in mountainous cloud-masses, was dyed, every crest and summit of it, in crimson fire, pouring from a great fount of colour, where, to the west, the heavens opened to show that wonder-world whence saints and singers have drawn their loveliest images of the rest to come. but perhaps i saw all things irradiated by the light which had risen upon my darkness--the light that never was on land or sea, but shines reflected in the human face. * * * * * "george, i am waiting for your interpretation." "it is very simple, lindy," he said. but there was a tone in his voice i had heard once--and only once--before, when, through the first terrible hours that followed my accident, he sat patiently beside me in the darkened room, holding my hot hand in his broad cool palm. "it is very simple. it is the most easily explained of all the accounts. it was a dream from beginning to end. she fell asleep praying, thinking, as she says; what was more natural or inevitable than that she should dream of the ghost? and it all confirms what i say: that visions are composed by the person who sees them. nothing could be more characteristic of cissy than the story she has just told us." "and let it be a dream," i said. "it is of no consequence, for the dreamer remains, breathing and walking on this solid earth. i have touched her hand, i have looked into her face. thank god! she is no vision, the woman who could dream this dream! george, how do you explain the miracle of her existence?" but atherley was silent. the end transcriber's note: several spelling errors were corrected: childen/children, greal/great and spendid/splendid. richard clay and sons, limited, bread street hill, e.c., and bungay, suffolk. macmillan's sevenpenny series _cloth gilt. with frontispieces. d. net per volume_ * * * * * the forest lovers. by maurice hewlett. a roman singer. by f. marion crawford. the first violin. by jessie fothergill. misunderstood. by florence montgomery. elizabeth and her german garden. the house of mirth. by edith wharton. diana tempest. by mary cholmondeley. the choir invisible. by james lane allen. a waif's progress. by rhoda broughton. john glynn. by arthur paterson. * * * * * macmillan's sevenpenny 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huxley. johnson. by sir leslie stephen. keats. by sidney colvin. lamb. by canon ainger. landor. by sidney colvin. locke. by prof. fowler. macaulay. by j. cotter morison. milton. by mark pattison. pope. by sir leslie stephen. scott. by r.h. hutton. shelley. by j.a. symonds. sheridan. by mrs. oliphant. sir philip sydney. by j.a. symonds. southey. by prof. dowden. spenser. by dean church. sterne. by h.d. traill. swift. by sir leslie stephen. thackeray. by anthony trollope. wordsworth. by f.w.h. myers. * * * * * macmillan and co., limited, london. the haunted house: a true ghost story. being an account of the mysterious manifestations that have taken place in the presence of esther cox, the young girl who is possessed of devils, and has become known throughout the entire dominion as the great amherst mystery, by walter hubbell. * * * * * the author lived in the house and witnessed the wonderful manifestations. * * * * * saint john, n.b.: "daily news" steam publishing office, canterbury street. . introduction. the manifestations described in this story commenced one year ago. no person has yet been able to ascertain their cause. scientific men from all parts of canada and the united states have investigated them in vain. some people think that electricity is the principal agent; others, mesmerism; whilst others again, are sure they are produced by the devil. of the three supposed causes, the latter is certainly the most plausible theory, for some of the manifestations are remarkably devilish in their appearance and effect. for instance, the mysterious setting of fires, the powerful shaking of the house, the loud and incessant noises and distinct knocking, as if made by invisible sledge-hammers, on the walls; also, the strange actions of the household furniture, which moves about in the broad daylight without the slightest visible cause. as these strange things only occur while miss esther cox is present, she has become known as the "amherst mystery" throughout the entire country. the author of this work lived for six weeks in the haunted house, and considers it his duty to place the entire matter before the public in its true light, having been requested to do so by the family of miss cox. the haunted house. chapter i. the home of esther cox. amherst, nova scotia, is a beautiful little village on the famous bay of fundy; has a population of about three thousand souls, and contains four churches, an academy, a music hall, a large iron foundry, a large shoe factory, and more stores of various kinds than any village of its size in the province. the private residences of the more wealthy inhabitants are very picturesque in their appearance, being surrounded by beautifully laid out lawns, containing ornamental trees of various kinds and numerous beds of flowers of choice and sometimes very rare varieties. the residences of parson townsend, mr. robb, doctor nathan tupper, and mr. g.g. bird, proprietor of the amherst book store; also that of mr. amos purdy, the village post master, and others too numerous to mention, are sure to attract the visitor's attention and command his admiration. on princess street, near church, there stands a neat two story cottage, painted yellow. it has in front a small yard, which extends back to the stable. the tidy appearance of the cottage and its pleasant situation are sure to attract a stranger's attention. upon entering the house everything is found to be so tastefully arranged, so scrupulously clean, and so comfortable, that the visitor feels at home in a moment, being confident that everything is looked after by a thrifty housewife. the first floor consists of four rooms, a parlor containing a large bay window, filled with beautiful geraniums of every imaginable color and variety, is the first to attract attention; then the dining room, with its old fashioned clock, its numerous home made rugs, easy chairs, and commodious table, makes one feel like dining, especially if the hour is near twelve; for about that time of day savory odors are sure to issue from the adjoining kitchen. the kitchen is all that a room of the kind in a village cottage should be, is not very large, and contains an ordinary wood stove, a large pine table, and a small washstand, has a door opening into the side yard near the stable, and another into the wash shed, besides the one connecting it with the dining room, making three doors in all, and one window. the fourth room is very small, and is used as a sewing room; it adjoins the dining room, and the parlor, and has a door opening into each. besides the four rooms on the first floor, there is a large pantry, having a small window about four feet from the floor, the door of this pantry opens into the dining room. such is the arrangement of the first floor. upon ascending a short flight of stairs, and turning to the left, you find yourself in the second story of the cottage, which consists of an entry and four small bed rooms, all opening into the entry. each one of the rooms has one window, and only one door. two of these little bed rooms face towards the street, and the other two towards the back of the cottage. they, like the rest of the house, are conspicuous for their neat, cosy aspect, being papered and painted, and furnished with ordinary cottage furniture. in fact everything about the little cottage will impress a casual observer with the fact that its inmates are happy, and evidently at peace with god and man. this humble cottage is the home of daniel teed, shoemaker. everybody knows and respects honest hard working dan, who never owes a dollar if he can help it, and never allows his family to want for any comfort that can be procured, with his hard earned salary as foreman of the amherst shoe factory. dan's family consists of his wife olive, as good a soul as ever lived, always hard at work. from early morning until dusky eve she is on her feet. it has always been a matter of gossip and astonishment, among the neighbors, as to how little mrs. teed, for she is by no means what you would call a large woman, could work so incessantly without becoming weary and resting for an hour or so after dinner. but she works on all the same, never rests, and they still look on her with astonishment. dan and olive have two little boys. willie, the eldest, is _five_ years old; he is a strong, healthy looking lad, with a ruddy complexion, blue eyes, and brown curly hair; his principal amusements are throwing stones, chasing the chickens, and hurting his little brother. george, the youngest of dan's boys, is the finest boy of his age in the village and is only a little over a year old; his merry little laugh, winning ways, and cunning actions to attract attention have made him a favorite with all who visit at the cottage. besides his wife and two little boys, dan has under his honest roof and protection his wife's two sisters,--jane and esther cox--who board with him. jane is a lady-like, self-possessed young woman of about twenty-two, and is quite a beauty; her hair is very light brown and reaches below her waist when she allows it to fall in graceful tresses--at other times she wears it in the grecian style; her eyes are of a greyish hue; a clear complexion and handsome teeth add to her fine appearance. in fact, jane cox is one of the village belles, and has hosts of admirers, not of the male sex alone, for she is also popular among the ladies; she is a member and regular attendant of parson townsend's church, which, by the way, the good parson has had under his care for about forty-five years. esther cox, dan's other sister in-law, is such a remarkable girl in every respect that i must give as complete a description of her as possible. she was born in upper stewiacke, nova scotia, on march th, , and is consequently in her eighteenth year. esther has always been a queer girl. when born she was so small that her good, kind grandmother, who raised her, (her mother having died when she was three weeks old) had to wash and dress her on a pillow, and in fact keep her on it all the time until she was nine months old, at which age her weight was only five pounds. when she was quite a little girl her father, archibald t. cox, married again, and moved to east machias, maine, where he has since resided. having followed his second wife to the grave, he married a third with whom he is now living. esther's early years having been spent with her grandmother, she very naturally became grave and old-fashioned, without knowing how or why. like all little girls, she was remarkably susceptible to surrounding influences, and the sedate manner and actions of the old lady made an early impression on esther that will cling to her through life. in person esther is of low stature and rather inclined to be stout; her hair is curly, of a dark brown color, and is now short, reaching only to her shoulders; her eyes are large and grey, with a bluish tinge, and an earnest expression which seems to say, "why do you stare at me so; i can not help it if i am not like other people." her eye-brows and eye-lashes are dark and well marked, that is to say, the lashes are long and the eye-brows very distinct. her face is what can be called round, with well shaped features; she has remarkably handsome teeth, and a pale complexion. her hands and feet are small and well shaped, and although inclined to be stout, she is fond of work, and is a great help to her sister olive, although she sometimes requires a little urging. although esther is not possessed of the beauty that jane is famous for, still there is something earnest, honest and attractive about this simple-hearted village maiden, that wins for her lots of friends of about her own age; in fact, she is quite in demand among the little children of the neighborhood also, who are ever ready to have a romp and a game with _ester_, as they all call her. the truth is, a great many of the grown up inhabitants of the village call her _ester_ also, dropping the _h_ entirely, a habit common in nova scotia. esther's disposition is naturally mild and gentle. she can at times, however, be very self-willed, and is bound to have her own way when her mind is made up. if asked to do anything she does not feel like doing she becomes very sulky and has to be humored at times to keep peace in the family. however, all things considered, she is a good little girl and has always borne a good reputation in every sense of the word. there are two more boarders in the little cottage, who require a passing notice. they are william cox and john teed. william is the brother of olive, jane, and esther, and is a shoemaker by trade, and one of dan's workmen in the factory. the other boarder, john teed, is dan's brother. john, like his brother, is an honest, hard working young man, has been raised a farmer, an occupation he still follows when not boarding with dan in amherst. as the reader may, perhaps, be anxious to know how dan, good, honest hard working dan, and, his thrifty little wife olive, look, i will endeavor to give a short description of each. so here goes. dan is about thirty-five years old, and stands five feet eight in his stockings. he has light brown hair, rather thin on top, a well shaped head, blue eyes, well defined features, a high nose, and wears a heavy moustache and bushy side whiskers; his complexion is florid; rheumatism of several years standing has given him a slight halt in the left leg. he does his work, spends his salary as he should, and leads a christian life, has a pew in the wesleyan church of which rev. r.a. temple is pastor, belongs to a temperance society, and, i dare say, when he dies will be well rewarded in the next world. olive, as i have already said, is not a very large woman. she is good and honest, like her husband, and goes to church with him as a wife should. her hair is dark brown, eyes grey, complexion pale and slightly freckled. although not as beautiful as jane, nor at any time as sulky as esther can be, she has those motherly traits of character which command respect. being older than her sisters she is looked up to by them for advice when they think they need it, and consolation when they are in sorrow. olive's wise little head is sure to give the right advice at the right time, and in the family of the cottage her word is law. i do not mean to say that she rules her husband. no! dan is far from being a hen-pecked man, but, as two heads are always better than one, dan often takes her advice and profits by it. such is the cottage and household of honest dan teed. to-day is cool and pleasant. the hour is nearly twelve noon--the hour for dinner in the cottage. esther is seated on the parlor floor playing with george to keep him from running out in the hot sun. willie is out in the yard near the stable tormenting a poor hen, who has had a log of wood tied to one of her legs by olive to prevent her from setting in the cow's stall; but master willie seems to think she has been tied so that he may have a good time banging her over the head with a small club, which he is doing in a way that means business. suddenly his mother comes out of the kitchen, and after soundly boxing his ears, sends him howling into the house, much to the relief of the poor hen who has just fallen over with exhaustion and fright, but upon finding her tormentor gone is soon herself again. presently olive hears dan at the gate, and comes to the front door to meet him and tell him that dinner is almost ready, remarking that he cannot guess what she has for dessert. honest dan replies that no matter what it is he is hungry and will eat it, for he has been working hard. so in he goes to wash his hands and face at the wash-stand in the kitchen. jane is coming down the street. esther, who is seated on a chair with george on her lap, sees her sister from the bay window in the parlor. jane has a position in mr. jas. p. dunlap's establishment, and goes to her work every morning at seven o'clock. as soon as esther sees jane she takes george up in her arms and runs in to tell olive that jane is coming, and suggests that dinner be served at once, for _she_ feels hungry. so olive, with esther's assistance, puts the dinner on the table, and they all sit down to enjoy the meal, and a good substantial meal it is; plenty of beef-steak and onions, plenty of hot mashed potatoes, plenty of boiled cabbage, and an abundance of home made bread and fresh butter made that very morning from the rich cream of dan's red cow. little george, who is seated in his high chair at his mother's right hand, commences to kick the bottom of the table in such a vigorous manner that not one word can be heard, for he makes a terrible noise, the toes of his shoes being faced with copper to prevent the youngster from wearing them out too soon. olive asks esther to please get the old pink scarf and tie his feet so that he will be unable to make such a racket, esther does not move, but upon being requested a second time gets up rather reluctantly, goes to the hat rack in the hall, gets the scarf and ties the little fellow's feet, as requested. upon reseating herself at the table it is noticeable that she has a sulky expression, for she does not like to be disturbed while enjoying dinner, nor in fact any meal, for the simple reason that her appetite is voracious, being particularly fond of pickles, and she has been known to drink a cupful of vinegar in a day. all ate in silence for some minutes, when jane inquires if the cow was milked again last night? "yes," says dan, and "i only wish i could find out who does it; it would not be well for him, i can tell you. this is the tenth time this fortnight that she has been milked. oh! if it was not for this rheumatism in my hip, i would stay up some night and catch the thief in the act, have him arrested, and--" "and then," remarks esther, with an eye to the financial part of the milk question, "we should have just two quarts more to sell every day; that would be--let me see how much it would come to." "never mind," remarks john teed, "how much it would come to, just hand me that dish of potatoes, please. they are so well mashed that i must eat some more. i can't bear potatoes with lumps all through them, can you jane." "no, john, i cannot," replies jane. "neither can i," joins in william cox; "if i ever marry i hope my wife will be as good a cook as olive; if she prove so i shall be satisfied." "gim me 'nother piece of meat, do you hear," is the exclamation which comes from master willie. "ask as a good boy should," remarks dan, "and you shall have it." "gim me 'nother piece of meat, do you hear," says the young rascal a second time, louder than before. a good sound box on the ear from his father, prevents further remarks coming from the unruly boy during the rest of the meal. however, after a slight pause, dan gives him a piece of beef-steak, his mother in the meantime says: "i wonder how that boy learns to be so rude." "why," replies john teed, "by playing with those bad boys down near the carriage factory. i saw him there about nine o'clock this morning, and what's more, i can tell you that unless he keeps away from them he will be ruined." "i'm going to take him in hand as soon as he gets a little older and make him toe the mark," says dan. "well mudge,"--dan nearly always calls his wife mudge, for a pet name--"give me another cup of tea, woman, and then i'll go back to the factory, that is as soon as i have taken a pull or two at my pipe." "what! are you going without eating some of the bread pudding i went to the trouble of making because i thought you would like it?" asks olive. "oh, you've got pudding have you; all right, i'll have some if it's cold," replies dan. "oh, yes, it's cold enough by this time. come, esther, help me to clear away these dishes, and you, jane, please bring in the pudding, it is out on the door-step near the rain-water barrel." the dishes having been cleared away, and the pudding brought, all ate a due share, and after some further conversation about the midnight milker of the cow, esther remarks that she believes the thief to be one of the micmac indians from the camp up the road. everybody laughs at such a wild idea, and they all leave the table. esther, takes george from his chair, after first untying his feet, and then helps olive to remove the dishes to the kitchen, where she washes them, and then goes to the sofa in the parlor to take a nap. dan in the meantime has enjoyed his smoke and gone back to the factory, as has also william cox. john teed has gone up the main street to see his sister maggie, and jane has returned to mr. dunlap's. willie is out in the street again with the bad boys, and olive has just commenced to make a new plaid dress for george, who has gone to sleep in his little crib in the small sewing-room. esther, after sleeping for about an hour, comes into the dining room where olive is sewing and says, "olive, i am going out to take a walk, and if bob should come while i am out, don't forget to tell him that i will be in this evening, and shall expect him." "all right esther," says her sister, "but you had better be careful about bob, and how you keep company with him; you know what we heard about him only the day before yesterday." "oh, i don't believe a word of it," replied esther. she looked at her sister for a moment, and then said in an injured tone, "i guess i am old enough to take care of myself. what! half-past two already? i must be off;" and off she went. supper being over, esther put on her brown dress and took her accustomed seat on the front door step to talk to dan, as he smoked his evening pipe. jane dressed in her favorite white dress, trimmed with black velvet, her beautiful hair fastened in a true grecian coil, and perfectly smooth at the temples, is in the parlor attending to her choice plants, presently her beau comes to spend the evening with her. so the evening passes away. olive has sung little george to sleep, carried him up to bed and retired herself. dan has smoked his pipe and retired also. it was now ten o'clock. esther still sat on the front step humming the tune of a well known wesleyan hymn to herself as she gazed up at the stars, for it must be remembered that although she was not by any means pious, still, like a dutiful girl, she went to church with dan and olive. as the girl was just passing into womanhood, and felt that she must love something, it was perfectly natural for her to sit there and wait for bob to make his appearance. about half-past ten jane's beau took his departure, and jane not having anything further to keep her up, decided to retire, and advised esther to follow her example. esther took a last look up and down the street, and then went into the house with much reluctance. after locking the front door the girls went into the dining room and jane lighted the lamp. esther had taken off her shoes and thrown them on the floor, as was her custom, when it suddenly occurred to her that there was butter-milk in the cellar, and the same instant she made up her mind to have some. taking the lamp from jane, she runs into the cellar in her stocking feet, drinks about a pint of butter-milk and runs up again, telling her sister, who has been meanwhile in the dark dining room, that a large rat passed between her feet while in the cellar. "come right up to bed you silly girl," said jane, "and don't be talking about rats at this time of night." so jane took the lamp and esther picked up her shoes, and they went to their bed-room. after closing the door of their room, "esther," said jane, "you are foolish to think anything at all about bob." "oh, mind your own business, jane," esther replied "let's say our prayers and retire;" and so they did. chapter ii. the fatal ride. esther and jane arose on the morning of august th, , as was their usual custom, at half-past six, and ate breakfast with the rest of the family. after breakfast jane went to mrs. dunlap's, dan to his shoe factory with his brother-in-law, william cox, john teed also went to _his_ work, and none of the family remained in the house but olive and esther, who commenced to wash up the breakfast dishes and put the dining room in order, so that part of their work at least should be finished before the two little boys came down stairs to have their childish wants attended to. what with making the beds and sweeping the rooms, and washing out some clothing for the boys, both esther and olive found plenty to occupy their time until the hour for preparing dinner arrived. when olive commenced that rather monotonous operation, assisted by esther, who, as she sat on the door-step between the dining room and kitchen paring potatoes, and placing them in a can of cold water beside her, attracted her sister's attention by her continued silence and the troubled expression of her countenance. "what in the name of the sun ails you to-day, esther?" inquired olive, really worried by her little sister's sad appearance. "oh, nothing, olive! only i was thinking that if--that if--that if--" "well! well, go on, go on, it is not necessary to say that if--five or six times in succession, is it, before telling me what's the matter with you, you nonsensical, giddy, hard-headed girl. i believe you have fallen in love so with bob mcneal, that you are worrying yourself to death because you know he is too poor to marry you and you are afraid some rich girl will fall in love with him, and that he will marry her and give you the cold shoulder. there, that's just what i think _is_ the matter with you, and i can tell you one thing my young lady, and that is, that the sooner you get over your infatuation for that young man, the better for you, and the better for us all. there now, i'm done. no i'm not either, listen to me, girl, and don't make me angry by turning up your nose while i am giving you good advice." "i'm not turning up my nose at you, olive. i only felt like sneezing, and wanted to stop it before it had fully commenced, and how could i try to stop it except by working my nose in that way, when i have a big wet potato in one hand and this ugly old knife in the other, and all wet, too." "oh, nonsense, girl, don't keep on talking about ugly old knives and wet potatoes, but listen to me. i feel it in my bones that trouble is in store for us, and all through bob mcneal. now do be a good girl, and take my advice and never invite him to call again; because i tell you, esther, that trouble is coming to you through that young man, for i feel it in my bones." "well, olive, i will tell you the truth; the fact is that--why here's jane! why, jane, what has brought you home at this time of day? it is only eleven, and dinner won't be ready for an hour." jane, who had just taken off her hat and hung it up in the hall, replied, "that as there was nothing more to be done at dunlap's until the afternoon, she thought she might as well be at home attending to her plants as at the shop." after looking at esther and olive a moment, she said, "what were you two putting your heads together about when i came in? esther stopped talking as soon as she saw me, and olive, i noticed that you went to the stove and poured so much water into the tea-kettle from the bucket that it ran over, just because you were looking at me instead of at the kettle. you are both up to something, i know you are. now come, tell me all about it; is it a great secret? i won't tell anybody; tell me, do." esther, who has just finished paring the potatoes and is now putting them on the stove to boil, takes a seat in the dining room on the settee and has one of her sulky moods, during which she always declines to speak when spoken to. jane looks at her a second and then says in a playful manner, "oh, it's all right, esther, i can guess what it was; what nonsense. i'll go and attend to my plants. why, i declare it's a quarter past eleven already, and i have got to comb my hair before dinner, too. oh! my, how time flies!" so off jane goes to her plants in the parlor, leaving esther in the dining room and olive in the kitchen getting dinner ready as fast as she can. olive had just gone behind the kitchen door that leads into the yard to get another stick of wood for the fire when she was startled by a scream; she feels instinctively that one of her children is in danger, and she is right, for little george has just been saved from a horrible death by maud weldon, their next door neighbor. the little scamp had managed to crawl through the fence and get as far as the middle of the street, when maud saw him, and was just in time to prevent him from being run over by a heavy wagon drawn by a pair of horses that were being driven at a breakneck pace past the house. of course the fair maud screamed, young women generally do at such times; but she saved george all the same. her piercing shriek brought the stately miss sibley and her mother to the door of their house, which is almost directly opposite dan's, and also caused mrs. mitchell and mrs. bell to become so nervous that they kept their children in the house for the rest of the day, when they heard of the dangerous adventure george had had, for they both arrived too late to witness the rescue. the watchfulness and care they both bestowed on their little ones for the next week was so much time thrown away, however, for it so happened that no more fast teams came through that particular street for about a month. well, after the brave blonde, maud weldon, had become the heroine of the hour, she went into dan's cottage with esther and jane, who both ran out when they heard the scream. olive had already taken her boy in, washed his little hands and face, put on his clean over-dress, and was now holding him in her lap in the large rocking-chair. maud weldon was in the parlor with jane and esther looking at the flowers and telling them about her new beau, how handsome he was, and that she intended to marry him if he asked her, winding up her conversation on the subject of beaux with the remark that she was bound not to die an old maid, but was going to get married for she wanted to have a house of her own to keep. and so the conversation ran on between the three girls in the parlor until dinner was nearly ready, when mrs. hicks, maud's aunt, called her and she went home. after dinner, esther and olive were washing the dishes in the kitchen and talking over george's narrow escape, when esther suddenly made up her mind to tell her sister what she was about to do when jane's rather unexpected return from the shop put an end to their conversation. so after having put all the dishes away in the pantry, she told olive if she would promise not to tell anybody, not even dan, she would tell her something that must be kept a secret, because if it became known it might make people nervous and could do no good. "very well," replied olive, "wait until i get my sewing, then we will go into the parlor, you can tell me all about it, and i promise that i won't tell." so they went into the parlor. esther sat in the rocking-chair and olive on the sofa. "well, olive," said esther. "now don't laugh, for it is about a dream." "a dream!" exclaimed olive. "a dream! go on, let me hear it." "well," began esther, "last night i sat for two hours on the front step looking at the stars. after i came in i went down into the cellar in my stocking feet and drank about a pint of butter-milk and a large rat ran between my feet; then jane and i went to our room, shut the door, said our prayers and went to bed, and in a short time we both fell asleep, and i dreamt that when i got up in the morning every thing and every body was changed except myself. this cottage instead of being yellow was green; you, dan, jane, brother william, john teed, willie and george, all had heads like bears, and you all growled at me, but yet could talk, and, what was very strange, you all had eyes as large as horses' eyes, only they were as red as blood. while i was talking to you i heard a noise in the street and on going to the door i saw hundreds of black bulls with blue eyes, very bright blue eyes, coming towards the house, blood was dripping from their mouths and their feet made fire come out of the ground. on they came, roaring very loudly all the time, right straight for the house. they broke down the fence, i shut the front door, locked it and then ran to the back door and fastened it. then they all commenced to butt the house so violently that it nearly fell over. it shook so that i woke up and found that i had fallen out of bed without waking jane. so i got in again and soon fell asleep; but the dream is still in my mind. i can see it still, and wonder what it means until i get the head-ache. what do you think about it olive? do you think there is any truth in dreams? did you ever know of one to come true, or do you think it was all caused by the pint of butter-milk and my going into the cellar in my stocking feet, and the rat?" "well," said olive, "i never could make up my mind fully on that subject; but of this i am certain, whatever dan dreams comes true; there is no doubt about that. but don't tell him anything about this dream, esther, or he will be floundering around all night trying to find out what it means; or jane either, because, perhaps, it will scare her so that she will be unable to sleep." "don't believe it, olive, i have told jane, and she says it was all caused by the butter-milk i drank. she says it made me see a rat in the cellar just after i had drank it, and that it was no wonder i saw bears and bulls, too, after i went to sleep. oh, my sakes alive, if i only had a dream book, like the one mrs. emery used to have, i'd soon find out what it means. do you know, olive, i have a great mind to go out to the indian camp this very afternoon and try if that fortune-telling squaw who told maggie teed's fortune, and mary miller's, too, can't tell me all about it. i want to know if it means that something terrible is about to happen or not." "well," said olive, "esther, don't talk any more about it but read your bible, go to church, say your prayers, and ask god to take care of you; then you need never fear dreams or anything else, for you must always remember that god has more power than the devil, and always will have." "oh!" replied esther, with a smile, "it is all very well for you to talk in that way, but i shouldn't wonder if the devil saw more of me than he ever has yet before i die." "oh, esther, how can you talk so; you ought to be ashamed of yourself, and to think that you were brought up by grandmother too." and so the afternoon passed slowly away, the beautiful blue sky which had been so clear all day began to assume a darkish aspect, and threatening clouds spread themselves between the earth and heaven. by the time dan and the rest had come home to supper, it looked very much like rain. dan said it was going to rain sometime during the night; he knew it, because his rheumatism was bad. supper being ready, they all sat down and enjoyed it. after supper dan took a smoke, jane went to her accustomed seat in the parlor near her plants, william cox and john teed went out to see their girls, olive put the boys to bed, and esther sat down on the front door-step all by herself and sang "the sweet by-and-bye" in a low voice. the hands of the old fashioned clock in the dining room indicated ten minutes to eight, when a carriage drove up to the gate, and a well built young man jumped out, opened the gate and came in. as he entered the house he shook hands with esther, saying as he did so: "go and put on your hat and sack and take a ride with me esther, and i will tell you why i did not call last evening as i promised." this young man was bob mcneal, by trade a shoemaker, and a fine looking young fellow he was, too. his hair and eyes were black, features, rather handsome, and he wore a small black moustache. as soon as esther had received his invitation she ran up stairs, got her hat and sack, ran down again, jumped into the carriage, which was a buggy with room for two only, and off they drove. jane came out to the front door and called after them, just as they were driving away: "you had better put the top up bob, for it will certainly rain before long." dan, who had been sitting in the dining room in one of the easy chairs, remarked to jane as he was going up stairs: "what a pity bob mcneal is such a wild fellow. i'm afraid he will never amount to much. he is a remarkably fine workman too; he has improved in his work since i took him into the factory with me. oh well, i suppose it's all right; good night jane." "good night dan," said jane. "i hope your rheumatism will be better in the morning." "so do i," replied dan. and up he went to bed, jane returning to the parlor to wait for her beau. bob and esther drove through amherst, and turned down the road leading to the marsh. they were going to take a ride into the country. bob said that was the best road to take, and esther did not care much which way they went, so she got a ride. while driving through a small wood, bob seemed to be suddenly seized with an attack of what lawyers are pleased to term emotional insanity, for he dropped the reins and leaped from the buggy. upon reaching the ground, he drew from the side pocket of his coat a large revolver, and, pointing it at esther, told her, in a loud voice, to get out of the buggy or he would kill her where she sat. she, of course, refused to do as he requested or rather commanded, and, as it was raining and becoming quite dark, she told him to get into the buggy and drive her home, and not act like a crazy man. the remark about acting like a crazy man seemed to enrage him past endurance, for he uttered several terrible oaths, and, aiming the revolver at her heart, was about to fire, when the sound of wheels were heard rumbling in the distance. he immediately jumped into the buggy, seized the reins, and drove at a breakneck pace through the pouring rain to dan's cottage. esther was wet through by the time they had arrived at the gate. she jumped out, opened the gate, entered the cottage and ran up stairs without noticing jane, whom she passed in the hall. bob, as soon as she got out, drove rapidly down the street. as the hour was now ten o'clock, esther immediately retired and, after crying herself to sleep, slept until morning. jane entered the room about half an hour after her sister, engaged in prayer and then retired, without disturbing her. for the next four days esther seemed to be suffering from some secret sorrow. she could not remain in the house, but was continually on the street, or at some of the neighbors' houses, and every night she cried herself to sleep. of course her woe-begone appearance was noticed by the family, but they refrained from questioning her, for the simple reason that they supposed she and bob had quarrelled; and as they did not approve of the attachment between him and esther, they were rather glad that his visits had ceased, and gave no further attention to the matter, supposing that she would be herself again in a week or two. bob's continued absence from the cottage--for he used to be there every other day--strengthened them in the belief that they were right in their supposition, and so they let the matter rest. chapter iii. the haunted house. supper is just over. dan and olive are in the parlor. jane is up stairs in her room, talking to esther who has retired early; it being only seven o'clock, she asks esther: "how long she is going to continue to worry herself about bob?" not receiving a reply, she puts on her heavy sack and remarks: "i am going over to see miss porter, and will soon return; it is so damp and foggy to-night that, i declare, it makes me feel sleepy too. i think i will follow your example, and retire early. good night, i suppose you will be asleep by the time i get back;" and off she goes. as the night is so very damp and disagreeable, all begin to feel sleepy long before half-past eight, and go up to their rooms. before dan goes up stairs, he takes the bucket and brings some fresh water from the pump--which he, as usual, places on the kitchen table--taking a large tin dipper about half full up to his room for the children to drink during the night. it is now about fifteen minutes to nine. jane has just returned from her visit, and has gone to her room, which is in the front of the house, near the stairway, and directly next to dan and olive's room. she finds esther crying, as usual, for the girl has actually cried herself to sleep every night since the fatal ride. after getting into bed, she says: "oh, my, i forgot to put the lamp out," rises immediately and extinguishes the light, remarks to esther that "it is very dark," bumps her head against the bed post, and finally settles herself down for a good sleep. esther, who has just stopped crying, remarks to jane that "this is a wretched night," and says, "somehow i can't get to sleep." "no wonder," says jane, "you went to bed too early." "jane, this is september the fourth, aint it?" asks esther. "yes," replies jane. "go to sleep and let me alone, i don't want to talk to you, i want to go to sleep. what if it is september the fourth." "oh nothing," replies esther, "only it is just a week to-night, since i went riding with bob! oh, what will become of me?" and she instantly burst into another crying spell. "esther" said jane, "do you know i think you are losing your mind, and that if you keep on this way you will get so crazy that we will have to put you in the insane asylum." this had the desired effect, for she stopped instantly. for a few minutes everything was perfectly still. no sound was to be heard except the breathing of the two young girls, as they lay side by side in bed. they had remained perfectly quiet, for about ten or fifteen minutes, when esther jumped out of bed with a scream, exclaiming that there was a mouse under the bed clothes. her scream startled her sister, who was almost asleep, and she also got out of bed and lit the lamp, for she is as much afraid of mice as esther is. they both searched the bed, but could not find the supposed mouse, supposing it to be inside the mattrass. jane exclaimed "oh pshaw, what fools we are to be sure to be scared at a little harmless mouse; if there really is one here it can do us no harm, for see, it is inside the mattrass, look how the straw is being moved about. the mouse has gotten inside and can't get out, because there is no hole in the ticking. let us go back to bed esther. it can do us no harm now." so they put out the light, and got into bed again. after listening for a few minutes without hearing the straw move in the mattrass, they both fell asleep. on the following night the girls heard something moving under their bed. esther exclaimed: "there is that mouse again, jane. let us get up and kill it. i'm not going to be worried by mice every night." so they both arose, and on hearing a rustling in a green paste-board box, filled with patch-work, which was under the bed, they placed it out in the middle of the room and were much amazed to see the box jump up in the air about a foot and then fall over on its side. the girls could not believe their own eyes; so jane placed the box in its old position in the middle of the room, and both watched it intently, when to their amazement the same thing occurred again. the girls were now really frightened, and screamed as loudly as they could for dan, who put on some clothing and came into their room to ascertain what was the matter. they told him what had just taken place, but he only laughed, and after pushing the box under the bed, and remarking that they must be insane or perhaps had been dreaming, he went back to bed grumbling because his rest had been disturbed. the next morning the girls both declared that the box had really moved; but, as nobody believed them, they saw it was of no use to talk of the matter. jane went to the shop, dan to his shoe factory, and william cox and john teed about their business as usual, leaving olive and esther to attend to their household duties. after dinner olive took her sewing into the parlor, and esther went out to walk. the afternoon was delightful, and there was quite a breeze blowing from the bay. walking is very pleasant when there is no dust; but amherst is such a dusty little village, especially when the wind blows from the bay, that it is impossible to walk on any of the streets with comfort on a windy day during the summer. esther found this to be the case, so she retraced her steps homeward, stopping at the post office and at bird's book store, where she bought a bottle of ink from miss blanche. on arriving at the cottage she hung up her hat and joined olive in the parlor, took little george on her lap, and, after singing him to sleep, lay down on the sofa and took a nap. after supper esther took her accustomed seat on the door-step, remaining there until the moon had risen. it was a beautiful moonlight night, almost as bright as day. while seated there gazing at the moon, she said to herself, "well there is one thing certain anyhow, i am going to have good luck all this month, for on sunday night i saw the new moon over my shoulder." at half-past eight o'clock, esther complained of feeling feverish and was advised by olive and jane to go to bed, which she did. about ten o'clock jane retired for the night. after she had been in bed some fifteen minutes, esther jumped with a sudden bound into the centre of the room, taking all the bed clothes with her. "my god!" she exclaimed, "what can be the matter with me! wake up jane, wake up! i'm dying, i'm dying!" "dying!" responded jane; "why dying people don't speak in that loud tone. wait until i light the lamp, don't die in the dark esther." jane thought her sister only had the night mare, but when she lit the lamp, she was considerably alarmed by her sister's appearance. there stood esther in the centre of the room, her short hair almost standing on end, her face as red as blood, and her eyes really looked as if they were about to start from their sockets, her hands were grasping the back of a chair so tightly that her nails sank into the soft wood. she was truly an object to look on with amazement, as she stood there in her white night gown trembling with fear. her sister called as loudly as she could for assistance; for jane, too, was pretty well frightened by this time, and did not know what to do. olive was the first to enter the room, having first thrown a shawl around her shoulders, for the night was very chilly. dan, put on his coat and pants in a hurry, as did also william cox, and john teed, and the three men entered the room about the same time. "why what in the name of thunder ails you esther?" asked dan. william and john exclaimed in the same breath, "she's mad!" olive was speechless with amazement, while they stood looking at the girl, not knowing what to do to relieve her terrible agony. she became very pale and seemed to be growing weak; in fact, she became so weak in a short time that she had to be assisted to the bed. after sitting on the edge of the bed for a moment, and gazing about the room with a vacant stare, she started to her feet with a wild yell, and said she felt like bursting into pieces. "great heavens," exclaimed olive, "what shall we do with her; she is crazy?" jane, who always retains her presence of mind, took her sister's hand and said in a soothing tone: "come esther, get into bed again." as they found that she could not do so without assistance, olive and jane helped her, and placed the bed clothing over her again. as soon as she had been assisted to bed she said in a low choking voice, "i am swelling up and shall certainly burst, i know i shall." dan looked at her face and remarked in a startled tone. "why, the girl is swelling, olive, just look at her, look at her hands too, see how swollen they are, and she is as hot as fire." she was literally burning up with fever, and yet as pale as death, while only a few minutes before her face was as red as blood, and her entire person as cold as ice. what a strange case, pale when hot, and blood red when cold, yet such was really the fact. while the family stood looking at her, wondering what would relieve her, for her entire body had swollen to an enormous size and she was screaming with pain and grinding her teeth as if in a fit, a loud report like thunder was heard in the room. they all started to their feet instantly and seemed paralyzed with fear. "my god!" exclaimed olive, "the house has been struck by lightning and i know my poor boys are killed?" after giving vent to this exclamation, she rushed from the room to her own where the children were, and found them both sleeping soundly, so she returned to the room where they all stood looking at esther, and wondering what had produced the terrible sound. on entering, olive told them that the boys were both sound asleep. "i wonder what that awful noise was?" she said. going to the window and raising the curtain she saw that the stars were shining brightly and was then satisfied that it had not been thunder they had heard. just as she let the curtain drop, three terrific reports were heard, apparently directly under the bed. they were so loud that the whole room shook, and esther who a moment before had been swollen to such an enormous size, immediately assumed her natural appearance, and sank into a state of calm repose. as soon as they found that it was sleep and not death that had taken possession of her, they all left the room except jane, who went back to bed beside her sister, but could not sleep a wink for the balance of the night. the next day esther remained in bed until about nine o'clock, when she arose, seemingly all right again, and got her own breakfast. as her appetite was not as good as usual, all she could eat was a small piece of bread and butter and a large green pickle, washed down with a cup of strong tea. she helped olive with her work as usual, and after dinner took a walk past the post office, around the block and back to the cottage again. at supper the usual conversation about the strange sounds took place, all wondering what had caused them. as no one could ascertain the cause they gave it up as something too strange to think about, and all agreed not to let the neighbors know anything about it, because they argued, that, as no one would be likely to believe that such strange sounds had been heard under the bed, the best thing to do was to keep the matter quiet. about four nights after the loud reports had been heard, esther had another similar attack. it came on about ten o'clock at night, just as she was getting in bed. this time, however, she managed to get into bed before the attack had swelled her up to any great extent. jane, who had already retired, advised her to remain perfectly still, and perhaps the attack would pass off, but how sadly was she mistaken. esther had only been in bed about five minutes when, to the amazement of the girls, all the bed clothing flew off and settled down in the far corner of the room. they could see them going for the lamp was burning dimly on the table. they both screamed, and then jane fainted dead away. the family rushed into the room as before, and were so frightened that they did not know what to do. there lay the bed clothes in the corner, esther all swollen up, jane in a dead faint, and perhaps really dead for all they knew, for by the glare of the lamp, which dan held in his hand, she looked more dead than alive. olive was the first to come to her senses. taking up the bed clothes, she placed them over her sisters. just as she had done so, off they flew again to the same corner of the room. in less time than it takes to count three, the pillow flew from under esther's head and struck john teed in the face. he immediately left the room, saying that he had had enough. he could not be induced to return and sit on the edge of the bed with the others, who in that way managed to keep the clothes in their place. jane had by this time recovered from her swoon. william cox went down to the kitchen for a bucket of water to bathe esther's head, which was aching terribly. just as he got to the door of the room again with the bucket of water, a succession of reports were heard, which seemed to come from the bed where esther lay. they were so very loud that the whole room shook, and esther, who had a moment before been swollen up, commenced to assume her natural appearance, and in a few minutes fell into a pleasant sleep. as everything seemed now to be all right again, everybody went back to bed. in the morning esther and jane were both very weak, particularly esther. she, however, got up when her sister did, and lay down on the sofa in the parlor. at breakfast they all agreed that a doctor had better be called in. so in the afternoon dan left the factory early and went to see dr. caritte. the doctor laughed when dan told him what had occurred. he said he would call in the evening and remain until one in the morning if necessary, but did not hesitate to say that what dan had told him was all nonsense, remarking that he knew no such tomfoolery would occur while he was in the house. as the hands of the clock pointed to ten, in walked the doctor. bidding everybody a hearty good evening, he took a seat near esther, who had been in bed since nine o'clock, but as yet had not been afflicted with one of her strange attacks. the doctor felt her pulse, looked at her tongue, and then told the family that she seemed to be suffering from nervous excitement and had evidently received a tremendous shock of some kind. just as he had said these words, the pillow from under her head left the bed, with the exception of one corner, which remained under her head, straightened itself out as if filled with air, and then went back to its place again. the doctor's large, blue eyes opened to their utmost capacity, as he asked in a low tone: "did you all see that; it went back again." "so it did," remarked john teed, "but if it moves out again it will not go back, for i intend to hold on to it, even if it did bang me over the head last night." john had no sooner spoken these words than out came the pillow from under esther's head as before. he waited until it had just started back again, and then grasped it with both hands, and held on with all his strength. the pillow, however, was pulled from him by some invisible power stronger than himself. as he felt it being pulled away, his hair actually stood on end. "how wonderful!" exclaimed dr. caritte. just as the doctor arose from his chair, the reports under the bed commenced, as on the previous night. the doctor looked beneath the bed, but failed to ascertain what caused the sounds. when he walked to the door the sounds followed him, being now produced on the floor of the room. in about a minute after this, off went the bed clothes again, and before they had been put back on the bed, the sound as of some person writing on the wall with a sharp instrument was heard. all looked at the wall whence the sound of writing came, when to their great astonishment there was seen written, near the head of the bed, in large characters, these words: "esther cox, you are mine to kill." everybody could see the writing plainly, and yet only a moment before nothing was to be seen but the blank wall. the reader can imagine their utter amazement at what had just taken place. there they stood around the bed of this wonderful girl, each watching the other to see that there was no deception. they knew these marvellous things had taken place, for all heard them with their own ears and beheld them with their own eyes. still, they could not believe their own senses, it was all so strange. but the writing on the wall--what did it mean, and how came it there? god only knew. as doctor caritte stood in the doorway for a moment wondering to himself what it all meant, a large piece of plaster came flying from the wall of the room, having in its flight turned a corner and fallen at his feet. the good doctor picked it up mechanically and placed it on a chair. he was too astonished to speak. just as he did so, the poundings commenced again with redoubled power, this time shaking the entire room. it must be remembered that during all this time esther lay upon the bed, almost frightened to death by what was occurring. after this state of things had continued for about two hours, everything became quiet and she went to sleep. the doctor said he would not give her any medicine until the next morning, when he would call at nine and give her something to quiet her nerves; for she was certainly suffering from some nervous trouble. as to the sounds and movements of objects, he could not account for them, but thought if she became strong again they would cease. in the morning the doctor called as he had promised, and was much surprised to see esther up and dressed, helping olive to wash the dishes. she told him that she felt all right again, only she was so nervous that any sudden noise made her jump. having occasion to go down into the cellar with a pan of milk, she came running up, out of breath, exclaiming that there was some one down in the cellar, for a piece of plank had been thrown at her. the doctor went down to see for himself, esther remaining in the dining room; for it must be borne in mind that the cellar door opens into the dining room. in a moment he came up again remarking that there was nobody down there to throw a piece of plank, nor anything else. "esther, come down with me," said he. so down they both went, when, to their great surprise, several potatoes came flying at their heads. that was enough. they both beat a hasty retreat. the doctor left the house, and called again in the evening, with several very powerful sedatives, morphia being one, which he administered to esther about ten o'clock as she lay in bed. she still complained of her nervousness, and said she felt as if electricity was passing all through her body. he had given her the medicine, and had just remarked that she would have a good night's rest when the loud sounds commenced, only they were much louder and in more rapid succession than on the previous nights. presently the sounds left the room and were heard on the roof of the house. the doctor instantly left the house and went out into the street, hearing the sounds while in the open air. he returned to the house more nonplussed than ever, and told the family that from the street it seemed as if some person was on the roof with a heavy sledge hammer pounding away to try and break through the shingles. being a moonlight night he could see distinctly that there was not any one out on the roof. he remained until twelve. everything becoming quiet again, he then departed, saying he would call the next day. when he had got as far as the gate, the sounds on the roof commenced again with great violence, and continued until he had gone about two hundred yards from the cottage, at which distance he could still hear them distinctly. the next week it became known throughout amherst that strange things were going on at dan teed's cottage. the mysterious sounds had been heard by people in the street as they passed the house, and the poundings now commenced in the morning and were to be heard all day long. esther always felt relieved when the sounds were produced by the unknown power. dr. caritte called every night, and sometimes during the day, but could not afford her the slightest relief. one night, about three weeks after the doctor's first visit, as he and the family were standing around her bed listening to the loud knockings, esther suddenly threw her arms up towards the head of the bed, and seemed to be seized with a spasm, for she became cold and perfectly rigid. while in this state she commenced to talk, and told all that had occurred between herself and bob mcneal on the night of the fatal ride. this was the first anybody knew of the affair, for she had never told of it, and bob had never been seen in the locality after that night. when she came to her senses again, they told her what had been said by herself during the strange state from which she had just emerged. upon hearing this she commenced to cry, and told them that it was all true; that he had threatened her with his revolver, but becoming frightened by the sound of wheels in the distance, had driven her home without offering her any further show of violence. "there!" exclaimed olive, "didn't i tell you that i felt it in my bones, that harm would come to you through that young man, and now you see he really is at the bottom of all this. ah, it is bob, who makes all these strange sounds about the house; i know he is the cause." instantly three distinct reports were heard, shaking the whole house with their violence. "do you know doctor," said jane, "that i believe that whatever agency makes these noises, it can hear and understand what we are talking about, and perhaps see us." the moment she had finished the sentence, three distinct reports were heard as loud as before. "ask if it can hear us doctor?" said dan. "can you, whatever you are, hear what we say?" asked dr. caritte. again three reports were heard, which shook the entire house. "why, that is very singular," remarked the doctor. "i believe jane was right, it can hear." "well, let us try again," said dan. "if you can see and hear, tell us how many persons are in this room?" esther did not know how many were present, for she was lying in the bed, with her face buried in the pillow trembling with fear. as dan did not receive an answer, he asked again. "how many persons are in the room? give us a knock on the floor for each one." five distinct knocks were made by the strange force on the floor, and there were just five persons in the room, as follows:--dr. caritte, dan, olive, esther and jane, william cox and john teed having left the room after esther had burried her face in the pillow. "well, it certainly is strange remarked the doctor, but i must go, it is getting late." so he departed after saying he would call the next evening. the next evening the doctor called and remained for about an hour, but as nothing occurred he departed feeling rather disappointed. for the next three weeks no one could tell when the manifestations would take place. sometimes they would commence in the morning and continue all day, and at other times they would only take place after esther had retired. it had now become a settled fact that esther must be in the house or there would be no manifestations of any kind. they never occurred during her absence. about one month after the commencement of the manifestations, dr. edwin clay, the well known baptist clergyman, called at the house to behold the wonders with his own eyes. he had read some little account of them in the newspapers, but was desirious of seeing and hearing for himself, not taking much stock, as the saying is, in what other people told him about the affair. however, he was fortunate enough to have his desire fully gratified. he heard the loudest kind of knocks, in answer to his various questions, saw the mysterious writing on the wall, and left the house fully satisfied that esther did not produce any of the manifestations herself, and that the family did not assist her as some people believed. he, however, was of the opinion that through the shock her system had received the night she went riding, she had become in some mysterious manner an electric battery. his theory being, that invisible flashes of lightening left her person, and that the knocks which every body could hear distinctly, were simply minute claps of thunder. he lectured on his theory, and drew large audiences as he always does, no matter what the subject is. perfectly satisfied that the manifestations are genuine, he has nobly defended esther cox from the platform and the pulpit. rev. r.a. temple, the well known wesleyan minister pastor of the wesleyan church in amherst, has witnessed some of the manifestations. he saw, among other strange things, a bucket of cold water become agitated, and to all appearances boil, while standing on the kitchen table. as soon as people in the village found that such eminent men as dr. clay, dr. caritte and rev. dr. temple took an interest in the case, it became quite fashionable for people in the village to call at dan's little cottage to see esther cox and witness the wonderful manifestations. while the house was filled with visitors, large crowds often stood outside unable to gain admittance. on several occasions the village police force had to be called out to keep order, so anxious were people to see and hear for themselves. many believed and still believe the whole affair a fraud, and others say that esther mesmerizes people, and they think they hear and see things which never have an existence. dr. nathan tupper is of this belief, although he has never witnessed a single manifestation. dr. caritte, who continued to be one of the daily callers at the cottage, would have a theory one day that would seem to account for the manifestations he had witnessed, and the next day something wonderful would occur and upset his latest theory completely, so that he finally gave up in despair and became simply a passive spectator. things went on in this way until december, when esther was taken ill with diphtheria, and confined to her bed for about two weeks, during which time the manifestations ceased entirely. after she had recovered from her illness, she went to sackville, n.b., to visit her other married sister, mrs. john snowden, remaining at her house for about two weeks. while there she was entirely free from the manifestations. on returning to dan's cottage the most startling part of the case was developed. one night while in bed with her sister jane in another room, her room having been changed to see if that would put a stop to the affair, she told her sister that she could hear a voice saying to her that the house was to be set on fire that night by a ghost. the voice also said that it had once lived on the earth, but had been dead for some years. the members of the household were called in at once, and told what had been said. they only laughed and remarked that no such thing as that could take place, because there were no ghosts. dr. clay had said it was all electricity. "and," added dan, "electricity can't set the house on fire unless it comes from a cloud in the form of lightning." as they were talking the matter over, to the amazement of all present, a lighted match fell from the ceiling to the bed, and would have set it on fire had not jane put it out instantly. during the next ten minutes, eight or ten lighted matches fell on the bed and about the room, but were all extinguished before any harm could be done. in the course of the night the loud knockings commenced. the family could now all converse with the invisible power in this way. it would knock once for a negative answer, and three times for an answer in the affirmative, giving two knocks when in doubt about a reply. dan asked if the house would be set on fire, and the reply was three loud knocks on the floor, meaning yes; and a fire was started about five minutes afterwards. the ghost took a dress belonging to esther that was hanging on a nail in the wall near the door, rolled it up, and, before any of the persons in the room could remove it from under the bed, where the ghost had placed it before their very eyes, it was all in a blaze. it was extinguished, however, without being much injured by the fire. the next morning all was consternation in the cottage. dan and olive were afraid that the ghost would start a fire in some inaccessible place and burn the house down. they were both convinced that it really was a ghost, "for" said olive, "nothing but the devil or a ghost with evil designs, could do so terrible a thing as start a fire in a cottage at the dead of night." dr. clay's theory might be true, but it was not clear to them how electricity could go about a house gifted with the cunning of a fiend. "it is true," said dan, "that lightning often sets fire to houses and barns, but it has never yet been known to roam about a man's house, as this strange power does. and as esther can hear it speak, and it does whatever it says it will, why i believe it to be a ghost, or else the devil." while olive was churning in the kitchen one morning about three days after the fire under the bed, she noticed smoke coming from the cellar. esther was seated in the dining room when olive first saw the smoke, and had been seated there for the last hour, previous to which she had been in the kitchen assisting her sister to wash the breakfast dishes as was her custom. on seeing the smoke, both she and esther were for the moment utterly paralyzed with fear. what they so dreaded had at last come to pass. the house was evidently on fire, and that fire set by a devilish ghost. what was to be done? olive was the first to recover from the shock. seizing the bucket of drinking water, always kept standing on the kitchen table, she rushed down the cellar stairs, and was horrified at the sight which burst upon her view. there in the far corner of the cellar was a barrel of shavings blazing almost to the floor above. in the meantime esther had reached the cellar, and stood looking at the crackling flames in blank astonishment. the water olive had poured into the barrel was not enough to quench the flames, for in the excitement of the moment she had spilled more than half of it on her way down. what was to be done? the house would catch and probably be burned to the ground, and they would be rendered homeless. "oh! if dan were at home, he could put it out," olive managed to articulate, for both she and esther were nearly suffocated with the dense black smoke with which the cellar was filled, and now the barrel itself had caught. the cellar was very small, and everything in it would soon be blazing unless the fire could be extinguished at once. "oh! what shall we do," cried esther, "what shall we do?" "run out in the street and cry fire as loud as you can. come, let's run at once or the whole house will burn down," exclaimed olive, by this time wild with fear. so, both she and esther ran up stairs and out into the street, crying "fire! fire!" of course their cries aroused the whole neighborhood. at the moment a gentleman, a stranger in the village, who happened to be passing, instantly threw off his coat, rushed into the cottage, picked up a mat from the dining room floor, and was down in the cellar in a second. he put the fire entirely out, and then, without waiting to be thanked, walked out of the cottage and was soon lost to view in the distance; and, what is remarkably strange, nobody knows who he was or whence he came, for from that day he has not been seen. the news of the fire which the ghost had set in dan's cellar soon travelled all over the country and created a great deal of curiosity. people who had set the whole affair down as a fraud began to think that perhaps it was all true after all, for certainly no young girl could set fire to a barrel of shavings in the cellar and be at that instant in another part of the house, under the watchful eye of an older sister, who was continually at her side. the fact that both the little boys were out in the front yard at the time the fire was kindled, and consequently could not have had anything to do with setting it, was also calculated to throw an air of mystery around the whole affair. the family believed that it had been started by the ghost. the fire marshals of the village seemed to be of the opinion that esther set both fires herself; the villagers held various opinions. dr. nathan tupper, suggested that if a good raw hide whip were laid over her back by a strong arm, the manifestations would cease at once. fortunately for esther, no one had the right or power to beat her as if she were a slave, and so the mystery still remained unsolved. for the next week manifestations continued to take place daily and were as powerful as ever. the excitement in amherst was intense. if the cottage in which dan lived should catch fire when the wind was blowing from the bay, the fire would spread, and if the wind was favorable for such a terrible calamity, the whole village would soon be reduced to ashes. as if to pile horror upon horror, one night, as esther and the entire family were seated in the parlor, the ghost appeared. esther started to her feet and seemed for the moment paralyzed with terror. in a second or two, however, she recovered her self-possession, and pointing with a trembling hand to a distant corner of the room, exclaimed in a hoarse and broken voice: "look there! look there! my _god_, it is the ghost! don't you all see him? there he stands all in grey; see how his eyes are glaring at me and he laughs when he says i must leave the house to-night or he will start a fire in the loft under the roof and burn us all to death. oh, what shall i do, where shall i go; the ground is covered with snow--and yet i cannot remain here, for he will do what he threatens; he always does." "oh, i wish i were dead." after this exclamation, she fell to the floor and burst into an agony of grief. "well," said dan, after lifting her up, "something will have to be done, and quickly, too. the wind is blowing hard to-night, and if the ghost does as he threatens, the house will burn down sure, and perhaps the whole village. you must go, esther. remember, i don't turn you out; it is this devil of a ghost who drives you from your home." they all knew none of the neighbors would shelter esther, because they all feared the ghost. what was to be done? heaven only knew. it suddenly occurred to dan that john white would perhaps give her shelter, for he had always taken a deep interest in the manifestations, and had often expressed pity for the unhappy girl. so dan, after putting on his heavy coat--for it was snowing fast, and the night was intensely cold--went to white's house. after knocking for some time, the door was opened by john white himself. he looked at dan a moment in amazement, and then exclaimed in an inquiring tone: "what's the matter, teed? has the house burned to the ground or has the girl burst all to pieces?" dan explained his mission in a few words. when he had finished, white thought a moment, and then said: "wait until i ask my wife; if she says yes, all right, you may bring her here to-night." he asked his wife, and fortunately for the miserable girl, she said "yes," and that very night esther cox changed her home. chapter iv. the walking of the ghost. when john white took esther to his house to reside, he performed a charitable deed, which no man in the village but himself had the heart to do. both he and his good wife showed, by the kindness with which they treated the poor unhappy girl, that heaven had at least inspired two hearts with that greatest of all virtues--_charity_. it was now january, ,--just four months since the manifestations first commenced. esther had been at white's residence for two weeks, and had not seen anything of the ghost. she had improved very much in that short time, her nervousness having almost subsided, and she was contented and happy. mrs. white, who found her of great assistance in the house, had become much attached to the girl, and treated her with the same kindness that she did her own children. towards the end of the third week her old enemy--the ghost--returned. while esther was scrubbing the hall at her new home, she was astonished to see her scrubbing brush disappear from her hand. when the ghost told her that he had taken it, she became much alarmed and screamed for mrs. white, who, with her daughter mary, searched the hall for it in vain. after they had abandoned their search, to the great astonishment of all, the brush fell from the ceiling--just grazing esther's head in its fall. here was a new manifestation of the ghostly power. he was able to take a solid substance from this material world of ours, and render it invisible by taking it into his mysterious state of existence; and, if he could take one object why not another; if a brush, why not a broom? but why speculate on so great a mystery? the ghost did it, and as we must draw the line somewhere, it is better to draw it here than to allow our minds to become dazed by such fellows as ghosts. many other remarkable manifestations continued to take place almost daily for the next two weeks. the ghost could now tell how much money people had in their pockets, both by knocking and by telling esther. he would answer any question asked in the above mentioned manner, and behaved himself very well indeed until the end of the sixth week, when his true devilish nature broke out again. he commenced setting fires about the house, and walking so that he could be heard distinctly. of course john white would not run the risk of having his house burned down. so he persuaded esther to remain during the day in his dining saloon, which stands opposite the well known book store of g.g. bird, on the principal street. while standing behind the counter in the dining saloon, also while she worked in the adjoining kitchen, many new and wonderful things were witnessed by the inhabitants of amherst and by strangers from a distance, and many plans were tried to prevent the manifestations. among others, some one suggested that if she could stand on glass they would cease. so pieces of glass were put into her shoes, but as their presence caused her head to ache and her nose to bleed, without stopping the manifestations, the idea was abandoned. one morning the door of the large stove in the kitchen adjoining the saloon was opened and shut by the ghost, much to the annoyance of mr. white, who with an old axe handle so braced the door that it could not be moved by any known mundane power, unless the axe handle was first removed. a moment afterwards, however, the ghost, who seemed never to leave esther's presence while she was in the saloon, lifted the door off its hinges, removed the axe handle from the position in which it had been placed, and, after throwing them some distance into the air, let both fall to the floor with a tremendous crash. mr. white was speechless with astonishment, and immediately called in mr. w.h. rogers, inspector of fisheries for nova scotia. after bracing the door as before, the same wonderful manifestation was repeated, in the presence of mr. rogers. on another occasion, a clasp-knife belonging to little fred, mr. white's son, was taken from his hand by the ghost, who instantly stabbed esther in the back with it, leaving the knife sticking in the wound, which bled profusely. fred, after drawing the knife from the wound, wiped it, closed it and put it in his pocket. the ghost took it from his pocket, and in a second stuck it in the same wound. fred again obtained possession of the knife, and this time hid it so that it could not be found, even by a ghost. there is something still more remarkable, however, about the following manifestation: some person tried the experiment of placing three or four large iron spikes on esther's lap while she was seated in the dining saloon. to the astonishment of everybody, the spikes were not removed by the ghost, but instead, became too hot to be handled with comfort, and a second afterwards were thrown by the ghost to the far end of the saloon, a distance of twenty feet. during her stay at the saloon the ghost commenced to move the furniture about in the broad daylight. on one occasion a large box, weighing fifty pounds, moved was a distance of fifteen feet without the slightest visible cause. the very loud knocking commenced again and was heard by crowds of people, the saloon being continually filled with visitors. among other well known inhabitants of amherst who saw the wonders at this period, i may mention william hillson, daniel morrison, robt. hutchinson, who is john white's son-in-law, and j. albert black, esq., editor of the _amherst gazette_. towards the latter part of march, esther went to saint john, new brunswick, and while there was the guest of captain james beck, and remained at his house for three weeks under the protection of his wife. her case was investigated by a party of gentlemen, well known in saint john as men whose minds have a scientific turn. doctor alward, mr. amos fales, mr. alex. christie, mr. ritchie, and many others witnessed the manifestations, and talked with the ghost by the aid of the knocks on the wall and furniture, and, strange to relate, other ghosts came and conversed also; among them one who said his name was peter cox, and another who gave the name of maggie fisher. all claimed to have lived on the earth before they entered the land of ghosts, but none were apparently as strong and healthy as the old original fire fiend of the cottage, who now gave the name of bob nickle, and said that when he lived on the earth he had been a shoemaker. the ghost who called himself peter cox, claimed to be a relation of esther's, and said he had been in ghost land about forty years; he was a quiet old fellow, and did all he could to prevent bob nickle and maggie fisher from breaking the articles which they threw, and from using profane language, a habit in which _they_ were fond of indulging. dr. alward and his scientific friends also conversed with the ghosts by calling over the alphabet, the ghosts knocking at the correct letters, and in that way long communications were spelled out to the satisfaction of those present. after remaining in saint john about three weeks, esther returned to amherst, and accepted an invitation to visit mr. and mrs. van amburgh, who reside about three miles from the village. she remained eight weeks with them, during which period the ghosts allowed her to enjoy the calm repose of a life in the woods, the van amburgh farm being literally situated in the woods. at the expiration of the eighth week she returned to amherst, and went back to dan's cottage to reside, being employed during the day in white's dining saloon. the manifestations soon commenced again, and were as powerful as when the author commenced his investigation of the case. chapter v. the author and the ghosts. i closed my engagement with the dramatic company of which i was a member, in newfoundland, and went to amherst, to expose, if possible, esther cox, the great amherst mystery. where occasion requires allusion to myself, i shall simply say the author. at seven o'clock on the morning of june st, , as the sun was shining brightly, and the cool breeze was blowing from the bay, the author entered the haunted house. after placing his umbrella in a corner of the dining room, and his satchel on the table, he seated himself in one of the easy chairs to await results. esther and olive were present. he had been in the room about five minutes when, to his great astonishment, his umbrella was thrown a distance of fifteen feet, going over his head in its flight. at the same instant a large carving knife came jumping over the girl's head, and fell near him. not at all pleased with this kind of a reception on the part of the ghosts, he left the room and went into the parlor, taking his satchel with him, and there sat down paralyzed with wonder and astonishment. he had been seated only a moment when his satchel was thrown a distance of ten feet. at the same instant a large chair came flying across the room striking the one on which he was seated, nearly knocking it from under him. it suddenly occurred to him that he would take a walk, during which he could admire the beauties of the village. on his return to the cottage, the ghosts commenced their deviltry again with redoubled violence. he had no sooner entered the house than all the chairs in the parlor--and there were seven by actual count--fell over. concluding not to remain in that room, he went to the dining room, when the chairs in that, his favorite room in every house, went through the same performance. feeling hungry, not yet having had his breakfast, he sat down to a good substantial meal, esther sitting directly opposite. after pouring out his coffee, she handed it to him with the remark, "oh, you will soon get used to them; i don't think they like you." "no," he replied, "i do not think they do either. in fact, i am satisfied they do not; but, having come here to investigate, i shall remain until they drive me from the house." while eating breakfast the ghosts commenced to hammer on the table. by the system in use by the family when conversing with them, he carried on a long conversation, they answering by knocks on the bottom of the table. before entering into the conversation, however, he sat so that esther's hands and feet were in full view. the ghosts told the number of his watch, also the dates of coins in his pocket, and beat correct time when he whistled the tune of "yankee doodle." chairs continued to fall over until dinner, during which there was a slight cessation of manifestations. after dinner, the author lay down upon the parlor sofa to take a nap, as is his custom in the afternoon. esther came into the room for a newspaper. he watched her very closely, keeping one eye open and the one next her shut, so that she would think he was asleep. while watching her intently to see that she did not throw anything herself, a large glass paper weight, weighing fully a pound, came whizzing through the air from the far corner of the room, where it had been on a shelf, a distance of fully fifteen feet from the sofa. fortunately for the author, instead of striking his head, which was evidently the intention of the ghost who threw it, it struck the arm of the sofa with great force, rebounding to a chair, upon which it remained after it had spun around for a second or two. being very anxious to witness the manifestations, he requested esther to remain in the room, which she did. after seating herself in the rocking chair, little george came into the room, when she placed the little fellow on her lap and sang to him. as the author lay there watching her, one of the child's copper-toed shoes was taken off by a ghost and thrown at him with great force, striking his head. the place struck was very sore for three or four days. the balance of the day passed quietly away. evening came, and the author had a good night's rest in the haunted house of which he had heard so much. the next day being sunday, everything was peaceful in the cottage, though why the ghosts should respect the sabbath the author has never been able to ascertain; however they always remain quiet on that day. on monday morning the ghosts commenced their mad pranks again, and seemed ready for anything. at breakfast, the lid of the stone-china sugar bowl disappeared from the table, and, in about ten minutes, fell from the ceiling. after breakfast; over went the table; then the chairs all fell over, and several large mats were pitched about the room. the author immediately left the room and went into the parlor, when, to his astonishment, a flower pot containing a large plant in full bloom was taken from its place in the bay window and set down in the middle of the room and a large tin can filled with water was brought from the kitchen and placed beside it. during the afternoon a large inkstand and two empty bottles were thrown at him. the ghosts also undressed little george, and, as if to make a final climax to the day's performance, bob, the head ghost, started a small bon-fire up stairs, and he and the other ghosts piled all the chairs in the parlor one on top of the other, until they made a pile about six feet in height, when, as if in sport, they pulled out those underneath, letting all the others fall to the floor with a crash. on tuesday morning when the author took his seat at the breakfast table, he placed the sugar bowl lid beside his plate, so that he might have his eyes on it. in a second it disappeared and fell, in exactly eight minutes by the clock, from the ceiling, a distance of fully twenty feet from the table. the ghosts got under the table, as on the previous morning, and were so obliging as to produce any sounds called for, such as an exact imitation of the sawing of wood, of drumming and of washing on a wash board. during the morning several knives were thrown at him; a large crock of salt was taken from the kitchen dresser and placed on the dining room table; the tea kettle was taken from the stove by one of the ghosts and placed out in the yard, as was also the beefsteak, pan and all, which was frying on the stove; and, after dinner, the table was upset. during the afternoon, while in the parlor, the author made the acquaintance of all the ghosts,--bob nickle, the chief ghost; maggie fisher, another ghost almost as bad as bob; peter cox, a quiet old fellow of very little use as a ghost, because he never tries to break chairs, etc.; mary fisher, (who says she is maggie's sister) jane nickle and eliza mcneal. the three last are "no good" as ghosts, as all they do is stalk about the house and occasionally upset something. as there are only six ghosts all told, and they were all present, the author asked them numerous questions, all of which were answered by loud knocks on the floor or on the wall, just as he requested--all seeming anxious to converse. the first question the author asked was: "have you all lived on the earth?" a.--"yes." q.--"have you seen god?" a.--"no." q.--"are you in heaven?" a.--"no." q.--"are you in hell?" a.--"yes." q.--"have you seen the devil?" a.--very loud--"yes." many other questions were answered, but the answers are not worth repeating. at the conclusion of the interview, one of the ghosts threw the author's bottle of ink from the table to the floor, spilling the contents on the carpet. the next day as the author and esther were entering the parlor, both saw a chair fall over and instantly jump up again. neither the author nor esther were within five feet of the chair at the time. during the whole of the next day the ghosts stuck pins into esther's person. these pins appeared to come out of the air and the author pulled about thirty from various parts of her body during the day. in the afternoon the family cat was thrown a distance of five feet by one of the ghosts, and almost had a fit from fright. she remained in the yard for the balance of the day, and ever afterwards while in the house seemed to be on the lookout for ghosts; possibly she saw and heard them on several occasions afterwards, for her tail often became quite large, as cats' tails always do when they are frightened or angry, after which she would leave the house in a hurry. the author saw esther coming down stairs late in the afternoon, and when she had reached the hall a chair from his room came down after her. the only other person in the cottage at the time was olive, and she was at that instant in the kitchen. on june th, two or three matches fell from the ceiling at the author's feet. being a great smoker, he requested the ghosts to throw down a few more, which they did. he would simply say, "bob, i would like a few matches, if you please." when down they would come from the ceiling. forty-five were thrown during the day, and on another day during the afternoon forty-nine fell to the floor. it must be remembered that all the manifestations witnessed by the author took place in the broad light of day, and that the only other persons present were the various members of the family. on june th, the sound of a trumpet was heard by the author and all the family. it continued to be blown about the house from early morning until late in the evening. the sound was very distinct and was at times close to their ears. late in the evening "bob" let the trumpet fall in one of the rooms. it is composed of some metal very similar to german silver, and is now in the possession of the author, who intends to place it in a museum on his return to the united states. where the ghosts got it no one knows. it had never been seen in amherst, so far as had been ascertainable, until it fell upon the floor, and its true origin will doubtless always remain a mystery. it is hardly necessary that the author should weary the reader with a minute account of the manifestations produced by these ghosts during his residence of six weeks in the haunted house, he could easily fill a book containing twice the number of pages that this one does, with an account of what was done by the ghosts alone, without mentioning the name of a single living individual except esther cox; but i suppose the reader, by this time, is ready to cry "_quantum sufficit_." so by referring to a few more facts, he will end this chapter. one afternoon, while esther was out walking, she called on rev. r.a. temple. during the visit he prayed with her, and also advised her to pray for herself. on her return to the cottage, one of the ghosts, either bob or maggie, cut her on the head with an old bone from the yard, and a moment afterwards stabbed her in the face with a fork. while the author lived in the house, scarcely a day passed that some article was not thrown by the ghosts. they would often steal small articles and keep them secreted--heavens only knows where--for days at a time, and then unexpectedly let them fall in one of the rooms, to the amazement of every one. in that way, shoes and stockings, knives, forks and other articles too numerous to mention would be missed, sometimes for weeks, and on one occasion some copper coins were taken from dan's pocket and placed upon the author's knee. it was a common thing for the ghosts to throw knives at the author, but fortunately they were all dull and he was never cut; he was, however, often struck by small articles, never sufficiently hard, however, to draw blood. during his stay in the house, esther often went into a state very similar to the mesmeric sleep, during which she talked with people invisible to all present; among others, her dead mother. on coming out of this strange state she always said she had been to heaven among the angels. on several occasions, bob, the head ghost, tormented her so at night that it was with difficulty she could remain in bed. on one particular occasion the author was called up by dan at midnight so that he might behold for himself what was going on. after dressing, he went into esther's room, and was horrified by the sight which met his gaze. there, upon the bed, lay the poor, unhappy girl swollen to an enormous size, her body moving about the bed as if beelzebub himself were in her, while between her gasps for breath she exclaimed in agonizing sobs: "oh, my god, i wish i were dead! i wish i were dead!" "oh, don't say that, esther," plead olive, "don't say that." "now, mr. hubbell," said jane to the author, "you see how much she suffers." "yes, i see," said hubbell, "but let us endeavor to hold her, so that this fiend cannot move her about the bed, and then, perhaps, she will not suffer so much." so dan and himself tried to hold her so that she could not be moved, but in vain. "well," said hubbell, "one ghost is certainly stronger than two men. are you sure nothing can be done to relieve her?" "no," replied olive, "dr. caritte has tried everything without affording her the slightest relief. medicine has no more effect on her than water." jane, olive, dan and the author remained up with her for about three hours, during which time she continued to move about the bed, after which the ghost left her and she sank from sheer exhaustion into a state of lethargy. she had several attacks of this kind during the author's residence in the cottage, and on one occasion she was seen by mr. g.g. bird, mr. jas. p. dunlap, mr. amos purdy and several ladies; on another occasion by dr. e.d. mclean, mr. fowler and mr. sleep. towards the latter part of july the manifestations became so powerful that it was no longer safe to have esther in the house. fires were continually being started, the walls were being broken by chairs, the bed clothes pulled off in the day time, heavy sofas turned upside down, knives and forks thrown with such force that they would stick into doors, food disappeared from the table, finger marks became visible in the butter, and, worse than all, strange voices could be heard calling the inmates by name in the broad light of day. this was too much; if the ghosts continued to gain in strength they would take possession of the house and all in it, for there were six ghosts, and only five persons in the flesh all told, as follows: dan, olive, jane, esther and the author, not, of course, counting the two children--william cox and john teed having left the house before esther went to st. john, literally driven away by ghosts. there was but one remedy, and that was that esther cox should leave the house even though her sisters loved her dearly. simple hearted village maiden! fate decreed that she should be torn from their home, but not from their hearts for the simple reason that her room was far more agreeable than her company. so one morning, after packing up all her worldly possessions, she kissed the little boys, embraced her sisters, shook hands with the rest, bade them all farewell, and departed never to return. chapter vi. conclusion. esther is living with her friends the van amburgh's, on their farm in the woods. the ghosts do not torment her now. with the van amburghs she has a quiet, peaceful home. one thing is certain, if she returned to dan's cottage manifestations would, in a short time, become as powerful as ever, and heaven only knows where the matter would end. the author went to see her at the farm, on august st, , and found her making a patch-work quilt, on which she stopped working every few minutes to play with the little children. she informed him that she read her bible regularly every day, and was contented and happy. before departing he advised her to pray earnestly that she might never again, be possessed by devils. she promised to take his advice. so hoping that her prayers would be answered, he bade her farewell forever. in dan's little cottage all is now harmony and peace. pretty jane still tends her plants with loving care. olive works as hard as ever, and so does honest dan. and there may they reside for years to come, enjoying the blessings which the virtuous always receive from the hands of providence. reader, a word. this account of the "haunted house," in which esther cox suffered so much, and the author had such a remarkable experience, is no fanciful creation of the imagination, but really what it is claimed to be,--"a true ghost story." the end. * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious spelling errors repaired. quotation marks normalised. all other printing errors retained. historic ghosts and ghost hunters historic ghosts and ghost hunters by h. addington bruce _author of "the riddle of personality"_ new york moffat, yard & company _copyright_, , _by_ moffat, yard & company new york *** _published, september, _ _the plimpton press norwood mass. u.s.a._ to the memory of my friend john j. henry contents page preface ix i. the devils of loudun ii. the drummer of tedworth iii. the haunting of the wesleys iv. the visions of emanuel swedenborg v. the cock lane ghost vi. the ghost seen by lord brougham vii. the seeress of prevorst viii. the mysterious mr. home ix. the watseka wonder x. a medieval ghost hunter xi. ghost hunters of yesterday and to-day preface the following pages represent in the main a discussion of certain celebrated mysteries, as viewed in the light of the discoveries set forth in the writer's earlier work "the riddle of personality." that dealt, it may briefly be recalled, with the achievements of those scientists whose special endeavor it is to illumine the nature of human personality. on the one hand, it reviewed the work of the psychopathologists, or investigators of abnormal mental life; and, on the other hand, the labors of the psychical researchers, those enthusiastic and patient explorers of the seemingly supernormal in human experience. emphasis was laid on the fact that the two lines of inquiry are more closely interrelated than is commonly supposed, and that the discoveries made in each aid in the solution of problems apparently belonging exclusively in the other. to this phase of the subject the writer now returns. the problems under examination are, all of them, problems in psychical research: yet, as will be found, the majority in no small measure depend for elucidation on facts brought to light by the psychopathologists. of course, it is not claimed that the last word has here been said with respect to any one of these human enigmas. but it is believed that, thanks to the knowledge gained by the investigations of the past quarter of a century, approximately correct solutions have been reached; and that, in any event, it is by no means imperative to regard the phenomena in question as inexplicable, or as explicable only on a spiritistic basis. before attempting to solve the problems, it manifestly was necessary to state them. in doing this the writer has sought to present them in a readable and attractive form, but without any distortion or omission of material facts. h. addington bruce. brookline, n. h., july, . i the devils of loudun loudun is a small town in france about midway between the ancient and romantic cities of tours and poitiers. to-day it is an exceedingly unpretentious and an exceedingly sleepy place; but in the seventeenth century it was in vastly better estate. then its markets, its shops, its inns, lacked not business. its churches were thronged with worshipers. through its narrow streets proud noble and prouder ecclesiastic, thrifty merchant and active artisan, passed and repassed in an unceasing stream. it was rich in points of interest, preëminent among which were its castle and its convent. in the castle the stout-hearted loudunians found a refuge and a stronghold against the ambitions of the feudal lords and the tyranny of the crown. to its convent, pleasantly situated in a grove of time-honored trees, they sent their children to be educated. it is to the convent that we must turn our steps; for it was from the convent that the devils were let loose to plague the good people of loudun. and in order to understand the course of events, we must first make ourselves acquainted with its history. very briefly, then, it, like many other institutions of its kind, was a product of the catholic counter-reformation designed to stem the rising tide of protestantism. it came into being in , and was of the ursuline order, which had been introduced into france not many years earlier. from the first it proved a magnet for the daughters of the nobility, and soon boasted a goodly complement of nuns. at their head, as mother superior, was a certain jeanne de belfiel, of noble birth and many attractive qualities, but with characteristics which, as the sequel will show, wrought much woe to others as well as to the poor gentlewoman herself. whatever her defects, however, she labored tirelessly in the interests of the convent, and in this respect was ably seconded by its father confessor, worthy father moussaut, a man of rare good sense and possessing a firm hold on the consciences and affections of the nuns. conceive their grief, therefore, when he suddenly sickened and died. now ensued an anxious time pending the appointment of his successor. two names were foremost for consideration--that of jean mignon, chief canon of the church of the holy cross, and that of urbain grandier, curé of saint peter's of loudun. mignon was a zealous and learned ecclesiastic, but belied his name by being cold, suspicious, and, some would have it, unscrupulous. grandier, on the contrary, was frank and ardent and generous, and was idolized by the people of loudun. but he had serious failings. he was most unclerically gallant, was tactless, was overready to take offense, and, his wrath once fully roused, was unrelenting. accordingly, little surprise was felt when the choice ultimately fell, not on him but on mignon. with mignon the devils entered the ursuline convent. hardly had he been installed when rumors began to go about of strange doings within its quiet walls; and that there was something in these rumors became evident on the night of october , , when two magistrates of loudun, the bailie and the civil lieutenant, were hurriedly summoned to the convent to listen to an astonishing story. for upwards of a fortnight, it appeared, several of the nuns, including mother superior belfiel, had been tormented by specters and frightful visions. latterly they had given every evidence of being possessed by evil spirits. with the assistance of another priest, father barré, mignon had succeeded in exorcising the demons out of all the afflicted save the mother superior and a sister claire. in their case every formula known to the ritual had failed. the only conclusion was that they were not merely possessed but bewitched, and much as he disliked to bring notoriety on the convent, the father confessor had decided it was high time to learn who was responsible for the dire visitation. he had called the magistrates, he explained, in order that legal steps might be taken to apprehend the wizard, it being well established that "devils when duly exorcised must speak the truth," and that consequently there could be no doubt as to the identity of the offender, should the evil spirits be induced to name the source of their authority. without giving the officials time to recover from their amazement, mignon led them to an upper room, where they found the mother superior and sister claire, wan-faced and fragile looking creatures on whose countenances were expressions of fear that would have inspired pity in the most stony-hearted. about them hovered monks and nuns. at sight of the strangers, sister claire lapsed into a semi-comatose condition; but the mother superior uttered piercing shrieks, and was attacked by violent convulsions that lasted until the father confessor spoke to her in a commanding tone. then followed a startling dialogue, carried on in latin between mignon and the soi-disant demon possessing her. "why have you entered this maiden's body?" "because of hatred." "what sign do you bring?" "flowers." "what flowers?" "roses." "who has sent them?" a moment's hesitation, then the single word--"urbain." "tell us his surname?" "grandier." in an instant the room was in an uproar. but the magistrates did not lose their heads. to the bailie in especial the affair had a suspicious look. he had heard the devil "speak worse latin than a boy of the fourth class," he had noted the mother superior's hesitancy in pronouncing grandier's name, and he was well aware that deadly enmity had long existed between grandier and mignon. so he placed little faith in the latter's protestation that the naming of his rival had taken him completely by surprise. consulting with his colleague, he coldly informed mignon that before any arrest could be made there must be further investigation, and, promising to return next day, bade them good night. next day found the convent besieged by townspeople, indignant at the accusation against the popular priest, and determined to laugh the devils out of existence. grandier himself, burning with rage, hastened to the bailie and demanded that the nuns be separately interrogated, and by other inquisitors than mignon and barré. in these demands the bailie properly acquiesced; but, on attempting in person to enforce his orders to that effect, he was denied admittance to the convent. excitement ran high; so high that, fearful for his personal safety, mignon consented to accept as exorcists two priests appointed, not by the bailie, but by the bishop of poitiers--who, it might incidentally be mentioned, had his own reasons for disliking grandier. exorcising now went on daily, to the disgust of the serious-minded, the mystification of the incredulous, the delight of sensation-mongers, and the baffled fury of grandier. so far the play, if melodramatic, had not approached the tragic. sometimes it degenerated to the broadest farce comedy. thus, on one occasion when the devil was being read out of the mother superior, a crashing sound was heard and a huge black cat tumbled down the chimney and scampered about the room. at once the cry was raised that the devil had taken the form of a cat, a mad chase ensued, and it would have gone hard with pussy had not a nun chanced to recognize in it the pet of the convent. still, there were circumstances which tended to inspire conviction in the mind of many. the convulsions of the possessed were undoubtedly genuine, and undoubtedly they manifested phenomena seemingly inexplicable on any naturalistic basis. a contemporary writer, describing events of a few months later, when several recruits had been added to their ranks, states that some "when comatose became supple like a thin piece of lead, so that their body could be bent in every direction, forward, backward, or sideways, till their head touched the ground," and that others showed no sign of pain when struck, pinched, or pricked. then, too, they whirled and danced and grimaced and howled in a manner impossible to any one in a perfectly normal state.[a] for a few brief weeks grandier enjoyed a respite, thanks to the intervention of his friend, the archbishop of bordeaux, who threatened to send a physician and priests of his own choice to examine the possessed, a threat of itself sufficient, apparently, to put the devils to flight. but they returned with undiminished vigor upon the arrival in loudun of a powerful state official who, unfortunately for grandier, was a relative of mother superior belfiel's. this official, whose name was laubardemont, had come to loudun on a singular mission. richelieu, the celebrated cardinal statesman, in the pursuit of his policy of strengthening the crown and weakening the nobility, had resolved to level to the ground the fortresses and castles of interior france, and among those marked for destruction was the castle of loudun. thither, therefore, he dispatched laubardemont to see that his orders were faithfully executed. naturally, the cardinal's commissioner became interested in the trouble that had befallen his kinswoman, and the more interested when mignon hinted to him that there was reason to believe that the suspected wizard was also the author of a recent satire which had set the entire court laughing at richelieu's expense. what lent plausibility to this charge was the fact that the satire had been universally accredited to a court beauty formerly one of grandier's parishioners. also there was the fact that in days gone by, when richelieu was merely a deacon, he had had a violent quarrel with grandier over a question of precedence. putting two and two together, and knowing that it would result to his own advantage to unearth the real author to the satire, laubardemont turned a willing ear to the suggestion that the woman in question had allowed her old pastor to shield himself behind her name. back to paris the commissioner galloped to carry the story to richelieu. the cardinal's anger knew no bounds. from the king he secured a warrant for grandier's arrest, and to this he added a decree investing laubardemont with full inquisitorial powers. events now moved rapidly. though forewarned by parisian friends, grandier refused to seek safety by flight, and was arrested in spectacular fashion while on his way to say mass. his home was searched, his papers were seized, and he himself was thrown into an improvised dungeon in a house belonging to mignon. witnesses in his favor were intimidated, while those willing to testify against him were liberally rewarded. to such lengths did the prosecution go that, discovering a strong undercurrent of popular indignation, laubardemont actually procured from the king and council a decree prohibiting any appeal from his decisions, and gave out that, since king and cardinal believed in the enchantment, any one denying it would be held guilty of lese majesty divine and human. under these circumstances grandier was doomed from the outset. but he made a desperate struggle, and his opponents were driven to sore straits to bolster up their case. the devils persisted in speaking bad latin, and continually failed to meet tests which they themselves had suggested. sometimes their failures were only too plainly the result of human intervention. for instance, the mother superior's devil promised that, on a given night and in the church of the holy cross, he would lift laubardemont's cap from his head and keep it suspended in mid-air while the commissioner intoned a _miserere_. when the time came for the fulfilment of this promise two of the spectators noticed that laubardemont had taken care to seat himself at a goodly distance from the other participants. quietly leaving the church, these amateur detectives made their way to the roof, where they found a man in the act of dropping a long horsehair line, to which was attached a small hook, through a hole directly over the spot where laubardemont was sitting. the culprit fled, and that night another failure was recorded against the devil. but such fiascos availed nothing to save grandier. neither did it avail him that, before sentence was finally passed, sister claire, broken in body and mind, sobbingly affirmed his innocence, protesting that she did not know what she was saying when she accused him; nor that the mother superior, after two hours of agonizing torture self-imposed, fell on her knees before laubardemont, made a similar admission, and, passing into the convent orchard, tried to hang herself. the commissioner and his colleagues remained obdurate, averring that these confessions were in themselves evidence of witchcraft, since they could be prompted only by the desire of the devils to save their master from his just fate. in august, , grandier's doom was pronounced. he was to be put to the torture, strangled, and burned. this judgment was carried out to the letter, save that when the executioner approached to strangle him, the ropes binding him to the stake loosened, and he fell forward among the flames, perishing miserably. it only remains to analyze this medieval tragedy in the light of modern knowledge. to the people of his own generation grandier was either a wizard most foul, or the victim of a dastardly plot in which all concerned in harrying him to his death knowingly participated. these opinions posterity long shared. but now it is quite possible to reach another conclusion. that there was a conspiracy is evident even from the facts set down by those hostile to grandier. on the other hand, it is as unnecessary as it is incredible to believe that the plotters included every one instrumental in fixing on the unhappy curé the crime of witchcraft. bearing in mind the discoveries of recent years in the twin fields of physiology and psychology, it seems evident that the conspirators were actually limited in number to mignon, barré, laubardemont, and a few of their intimates. in laubardemont's case, indeed, there is some reason for supposing that he was more dupe than knave, and is therefore to be placed in the same category as the superstitious monks and townspeople on whom mignon and barré so successfully imposed. as to the possessed--the mother superior and her nuns--they may one and all be included in a third group as the unwitting tools of mignon's vengeance. in fine, it is not only possible but entirely reasonable to regard mignon as a seventeenth-century forerunner of mesmer, elliotson, esdaile, braid, charcot, and the present day exponents of hypnotism; and the nuns as his helpless "subjects," obeying his every command with the fidelity observable to-day in the patients of the salpêtrière and other centers of hypnotic practice. the justness of this view is borne out by the facts recorded by contemporary annalists, of which only an outline has been given here. the nuns of loudun were, as has been said, mostly daughters of the nobility, and were thus, in all likelihood, temperamentally unstable, sensitive, high-strung, nervous. the seclusion of their lives, the monotonous routine of their every-day occupations, and the possibilities afforded for dangerous, morbid introspection, could not but have a baneful effect on such natures, leading inevitably to actual insanity or to hysteria. that the possessed were hysterical is abundantly shown by the descriptions their historians give of the character of their convulsions, contortions, etc., and by the references to the anesthetic, or non-sensitive, spots on their bodies. now, as we know, the convent at loudun had been in existence for only a few years before mignon became its father confessor, and so, we may believe, it fell out that he appeared on the scene precisely when sufficient time had elapsed for environment and heredity to do their deadly work and provoke an epidemic of hysteria. in those benighted times such attacks were popularly ascribed to possession by evil spirits. the hysterical nuns, as the chronicles tell us, explained their condition to mignon by informing him that, shortly before the onset of their trouble, they had been haunted by the ghost of their former confessor, father moussaut. here mignon found his opportunity. picture him gently rebuking the unhappy women, admonishing them that such a good man as father moussaut would never return to torment those who had been in his charge, and insisting that the source of their woes must be sought elsewhere; in, say, some evil disposed person, hostile to father moussaut's successor, and hoping, through thus afflicting them, to bring the convent into disrepute and in this way strike a deadly blow at its new father confessor. who might be this evil disposed person? who, in truth, save urbain grandier? picture mignon, again, observing that his suggestion had taken root in the minds of two of the most emotional and impressionable, the mother superior and sister claire. then would follow a course of lessons designed to aid the suggestion to blossom into open accusation. and presently mignon would make the discovery that the mother superior and sister claire would, when in a hysterical state, blindly obey any command he might make, cease from their convulsions, respond intelligently and at his will to questions put to them, renew their convulsions, lapse even into seeming dementia. doubtless he did not grasp the full significance and possibilities of his discovery--had he done so the devils would not have bungled matters so often, and no embarrassing confessions would have been forthcoming. but he saw clearly enough that he had in his hand a mighty weapon against his rival, and history has recorded the manner and effectiveness with which he used it. footnotes: [a] aubin's "histoire des diables de loudun," a book by a writer who scoffed at the idea that the nuns had actually been bewitched. for an account by a contemporary who firmly believed the charges brought against grandier, consult niau's "la veritable histoire des diables de loudun." this latter work is accessible in an english translation by edmund goldsmid. ii the drummer of tedworth there have been drummers a plenty in all countries and all ages, but there surely has never been the equal of the drummer of tedworth. his was the distinction to inspire terror the length and breadth of a kingdom, to set a nation by the ears--nay, even to disturb the peace of church and crown. when the cromwellian wars broke out, he was in his prime, a stout, sturdy englishman, suffering, as did his fellows, from the misrule of the stuarts, and ready for any desperate step that might better his fortunes. volunteering, therefore, under the man of blood and iron, tradition has it that from the first battle to the last his drum was heard inspiring the revolutionists to mighty deeds of valor. the conflict at an end, charles beheaded, and the fifth monarchy men creating chaos in their noisy efforts to establish the kingdom of god on earth, he lapsed into an obscurity that endured until the restoration. then he reëmerged, not as a veteran living at ease on laurels well won, but as a wandering beggar, roving from shire to shire in quest of alms, which he implored to the accompaniment of fearsome music from his beloved drum. thus he journeyed, undisturbed and gaining a sufficient living, until he chanced in the spring of to invade the quiet wiltshire village of tedworth. at that time the interests of tedworth were identical with the interests of a certain squire mompesson, and he, being a gouty, irritable individual, was little disposed to have his peace and the peace of tedworth disturbed by the drummer's loud bawling and louder drumming. at his orders rough hands seized the unhappy wanderer, blows rained upon him, and he was driven from tedworth minus his drum. in vain he begged the wrathful mompesson to restore it to him; in vain, with the tears streaming down his battle-worn, weather-beaten face, he protested that the drum was the only friend left to him in all the world; and in vain he related the happy memories it held for him. "go," he was roughly told--"go, and be thankful thou escapest so lightly!" so go he did, and whither he went nobody knew, and for the moment nobody cared. but all tedworth soon had occasion to wish that his lamentations had moved the squire to pity. hardly a month later, when mompesson had journeyed to the capital to pay his respects to the king, his family were aroused in the middle of the night by angry voices and an incessant banging on the front door. windows were tried; entrance was vehemently demanded. within, panic reigned at once. the house was situated in a lonely spot, and it seemed certain that, having heard of its master's absence, a band of highwaymen, with whom the countryside abounded, had planned to turn burglars. the occupants, consisting as they did of women and children, could at best make scant resistance; and consequently there was much quaking and trembling, until, finding the bolts and bars too strong for them, the unwelcome visitors withdrew. unmeasured was mompesson's wrath when he returned and learned of the alarm. he only hoped, he declared, that the villains would venture back--he would give them a greeting such as had not been known since the days of the great war. that very night he had opportunity to make good his boast, for soon after the household had sought repose the disturbance broke out anew. lighting a lantern, slipping into a dressing-gown, and snatching up a brace of pistols, the squire dashed down-stairs, the noise becoming louder the nearer he reached the door. click, clash--the bolts were slipped back, the key was turned, and, lantern extended, he peered into the night. the moment he opened the door all became still, and nothing but empty darkness met his eyes. almost immediately, however, the knocking began at a second door, to which, after making the first fast, he hurried, only to find the same result, and to hear, with mounting anger, a tumult at yet another door. again silence when this was thrown open. but, stepping outside, as he afterward told the story, mompesson became aware of "a strange and hollow sound in the air." forthwith the suspicion entered his mind that the noises he had heard might be of supernatural origin. to him, true son of the seventeenth century, a suspicion of this sort was tantamount to certainty, and an unreasoning alarm filled his soul; an alarm that grew into deadly fear when, safe in the bed he had hurriedly sought, a tremendous booming sound came from the top of the house. here, in an upper room, for safe-keeping and as an interesting relic of the civil war, had been placed the beggar's drum, and the terrible thought occurred to mompesson: "can it be that the drummer is dead, and that his spirit has returned to torment me?" a few nights later no room for doubt seemed left. instead of the nocturnal shouting and knocking, there began a veritable concert from the room containing the drum. this concert, mompesson informed his friends, opened with a peculiar "hurling in the air over the house," and closed with "the beating of a drum like that at the breaking up of a guard." the mental torture of the squire and his family may be easier imagined than described. and before long matters grew much worse, when, becoming emboldened, the ghostly drummer laid aside his drum to play practical, and sometimes exceedingly painful, jokes on the members of the household. curiously enough, his malice was chiefly directed against mompesson's children, who--poor little dears--had certainly never worked him any injury. yet we are told that for a time "it haunted none particularly but them." when they were in bed the coverings were dragged off and thrown on the floor; there was heard a scratching noise under the bed as of some animal with iron claws; sometimes they were lifted bodily, "so that six men could not hold them down," and their limbs were beaten violently against the bedposts. nor did the unseen and unruly visitant scruple to plague mompesson's aged mother, whose bible was frequently hidden from her, and in whose bed ashes, knives, and other articles were placed. as time passed marvels multiplied. the assurance is solemnly given that "chairs moved of themselves." a board, it is insisted, rose out of the floor of its own accord and flung itself violently at a servant. strange lights, "like corpse candles," floated about. the squire's personal attendant john, "a stout fellow and of sober conversation," was one night confronted by a ghastly apparition in the form of "a great body with two red and glaring eyes." frequently, too, when john was in bed he was treated as were the children, his coverings removed, his body struck, etc. but it was noticed that whenever he grasped and brandished a sword he was left in peace. clearly, the ghost had a healthy respect for cold steel. it had less respect for exorcising, which, of course, was tried, but tried in vain. all went well as long as the clergyman was on his knees saying the prescribed prayers by the bedside of the tormented children, but the moment he rose a bed staff was thrown at him and other articles of furniture danced about so madly that body and limb were endangered. mompesson was at his wits' end. well might he be! apart from the injury done to his family and belongings, his house was thronged night and day by inquisitive visitors from all sections of the country. he was denounced on the one hand as a trickster, and on the other as a man who must be guilty of some terrible secret sin, else he would not thus be vexed. sermons were preached with him as the text. factions were formed, angrily affirming and denying the supernatural character of the disturbances. news of the affair traveled even to the ears of the king, who dispatched an investigating commission to mompesson house, where, greatly to the delight of the unbelieving, nothing untoward occurred during the commissioners' visit. but thereafter, as if to make up for lost time, the most sensational and vexatious phenomena of the haunting were produced. thus matters continued for many months, until it dawned on mompesson and his friends that possibly the case was not one of ghosts but one of witchcraft. this suspicion rose from the singular circumstance that voices in the children's room began, "for a hundred times together," to cry "a witch! a witch!" resolved to put matters to a test, one of the boldest of a company of spectators suddenly demanded, "satan, if the drummer set thee to work, give three knocks and no more!" to which three knocks were distinctly heard, and afterward, by way of confirmation, five knocks as requested by another onlooker. now began an eager hunt for the once despised drummer, who was presently found in jail at gloucester accused of theft. and with this discovery word was brought to mompesson that the drummer had openly boasted of having bewitched him. this was enough for the outraged squire. there was in existence an act of king james i. holding it a felony to "feed, employ, or reward any evil spirit," and under its provisions he speedily had his alleged persecutor indicted as a wizard. amid great excitement the aged veteran was brought from gloucester to salisbury to stand trial. but his spirit remained unbroken. instead of confessing, humbly begging mercy, and promising amends, he undertook to bargain with mompesson, promising that if the latter secured his liberty and gave him employment as a farm hand, he would rid him of the haunting. perhaps because he feared treachery, perhaps because, as he said, he felt sure the drummer "could do him no good in any honest way," mompesson rejected this ingenuous proposal. so the drummer was left to his fate, which, for those days, was most unexpected. a packed and attentive court room listened to the tale of the mishaps and misadventures that had made mompesson house a national center of interest; it was proved that the accused had been intimate with an old vagabond who pretended to possess supernatural powers; and emphasis was laid on the alleged fact that he had boasted of having revenged himself on mompesson for the confiscation of his drum. luckily for him, mompesson was not the power in salisbury that he was in tedworth, and the drummer's eloquent defense moved the jury to acquit him and to send him on his way rejoicing. thereafter he was never again heard of in wiltshire or in the pages of history, and with his disappearance came an end to the knockings, the corpse candles, and all the other uncanny phenomena that had made life a ceaseless nightmare for the mompessons. such is the astonishing story of the drummer of tedworth, still cited by the superstitious as a capital example of the intermeddling of superhuman agencies in human affairs, and still mentioned by the skeptical as one of the most amusing and most successful hoaxes on record. to us of the twentieth century its chief significance lies in the striking resemblance between the tribulations of the mompesson family and the so-called physical phenomena of modern spiritism. all who have attended spiritistic séances are familiar with the invisible and perverse ghost, which, for no apparent reason other than to mystify, causes furniture to gyrate violently, rings bells, plays tambourines, levitates the "medium," and favors the spectators with sundry taps, pinches, even blows. precisely thus was it with the doings at mompesson house, where many of the salient phenomena of modern spiritism were anticipated nearly two hundred and fifty years ago. the inference is irresistible that a more or less intimate connection exists between the disturbances at tedworth and the triumphs of latter-day mediumship, and it thus becomes doubly interesting to examine the evidence for and against the supernatural origin of the performances that so perplexed the englishmen of the restoration. this evidence is presented in far greater detail than is here possible, in a curious document written by the reverend joseph glanvill, a clergyman of the church of england and an eye witness of some of the phenomena. his point of view is that of an ardent believer in the verity of witchcraft, and his narrative of the tedworth affair finds place in a treatise designed to discomfit those irreligious persons who maintained the opposite.[b] it is therefore evident that his account of the case is to be regarded as a piece of special pleading, and as such must be received with critical caution. the need for caution is further emphasized by the important circumstance that of all the phenomena described, only those most susceptible of mundane interpretation were witnessed by glanvill or mompesson. all of the more extraordinary--the great body with the red and glaring eyes, the levitated children, etc.--came to the narrator from second or third or fourth hand sources not always clearly indicated, and doubtless uneducated and superstitious persons, such as peasants or servants, whose fears would lend wings to their imagination. keeping these facts before us, what do we find? we find that, so far from supporting the supernatural view, the evidence points to a systematic course of fraud and deceit carried out, not by the drummer, not by mompesson and glanvill (as many of that generation were unkind enough to suggest), not by the mompesson servants, but by the mompesson children, and particularly by the oldest child, a girl of ten. it was about the children that the disturbances centered, it was in their room that the manifestations usually took place, and--what should have served to direct suspicion to them at once--when, in the hope of affording them relief, their father separated them, sending the youngest to lodge with a neighbor and taking the oldest into his own room, it was remarked that the neighbor's house immediately became the scene of demoniac activity, as did the squire's apartment, which had previously been virtually undisturbed. here and now developed a phenomenon that places little miss mompesson on a par with the celebrated fox sisters, for her father's bed chamber was turned into a séance room in which messages were rapped out very much as messages have been rapped out ever since the fateful night in that saw modern spiritism ushered into the world. glanvill's personal testimony, the most precise and circumstantial in the entire case, strongly, albeit unwittingly, supports this view of the affair. it appears that he passed only one night in the haunted house, and of his several experiences there is none that cannot be set down to fraud plus imagination, with the children the active agents. witness the following from his story of what he heard and beheld in the oft-mentioned "children's room": "at this time it used to haunt the children, and that as soon as they were laid. they went to bed the night i was there about eight of the clock, when a maid servant, coming down from them, told us that it was come.... mr. mompesson and i and a gentleman that came with me went up. i heard a strange scratching as i went up the stairs, and when we came into the room i perceived _it was just behind the bolster of the children's bed and seemed to be against the tick. it was as loud a scratching as one with long nails could make upon a bolster_. there were two modest little girls in the bed, between seven and eight years old, as i guessed. i saw their hands out of the clothes, and they could not contribute to the noise that was behind their heads. _they had been used to it and still[c] had somebody or other in the chamber with them, and therefore seemed not to be much affrighted._ "i, standing at the bed's head, thrust my hand behind the bolster, directing it to the place whence the noise seemed to come. _whereupon the noise ceased there, and was heard in another part of the bed; but when i had taken out my hand it returned and was heard in the same place as before._[d] i had been told it would imitate noises, and made trial by scratching several times upon the sheet, as five, and seven, and ten, which it followed, and still stopped at my number. i searched under and behind the bed, turned up the clothes to the bed cords, grasped the bolster, sounded the wall behind, and made all the search that possibly i could, to find if there were any trick, contrivance, or common cause of it. the like did my friend, but we could discover nothing. "so that i was then verily persuaded, and am so still, that the noise was made by some demon or spirit." doubtless his countenance betrayed the receptiveness of his mind, and it is not surprising that the naughty little girls proceeded to work industriously upon his imagination. he speaks of having heard under the bed a panting sound, which, he is certain, caused "a motion so strong that it shook the room and windows very sensibly"; and it also appears that he was induced to believe that he saw something moving in a "linen bag" hanging in the room, which bag, on being emptied, was found to contain nothing animate. therefore--spirits again! after bidding the children good night and retiring to the room set apart for him, he was wakened from a sound sleep by a tremendous knocking on his door, and to his terrified inquiry, "in the name of god, who is it, and what would you have?" received the not wholly reassuring reply, "nothing with you." in the morning, when he spoke of the incident and remarked that he supposed a servant must have rapped at the wrong door, he learned to his profound astonishment that "no one of the house lay that way or had business thereabout." this being so, it could not possibly have been anything but a ghost. thus runs the argument of the superstitious clergyman. and all the while, we may feel tolerably sure, little miss mompesson was chuckling inwardly at the panic into which she had thrown the reverend gentleman. * * * * * if it be objected that no girl of ten could successfully execute such a sustained imposture, one need only point to the many instances in which children of equally tender years or little older have since ventured on similar mystifications, with even more startling results. incredible as it may seem to those who have not looked into the subject, it is a fact that there are boys and girls--especially girls--who take a morbid delight in playing pranks that will astound and perplex their elders. the mere suggestion that satan or a discarnate spirit is at the bottom of the mischief will then act as a powerful stimulus to the elaboration of even more sensational performances, and the result, if detection does not soon occur, will be a full-fledged "poltergeist," as the crockery-breaking, furniture-throwing ghost is technically called. the singular affair of hetty wesley, which we shall take up next, is a case in point. so, too, is the history of the fox sisters, who were extremely juvenile when they discovered the possibilities latent in the properly manipulated rap and knock. and the spirits who so maliciously disturbed the peace of good old dr. phelps in stratford, connecticut, a half century and more ago, unquestionably owed their being to the nimble wit and abnormal fancy of his two step-children, aged sixteen and eleven. it is to be remembered, further, that contemporary conditions were exceptionally favorable to the success of the tedworth hoax. in all likelihood the children had nothing to do with the first alarm, the alarm that occurred during mompesson's absence in london; and possibly the second was only a rude practical joke by some village lads who had heard of the first and wished to put the squire's courage to a test. but once the little mompessons learned, or suspected, that their father associated the noises with the vagrant drummer, a wide vista of enjoyment would open before their mischief-loving minds. entering on a career of mystification, they would find the road made easy by the gullibility of those about them; and the chances are that had they been caught _in flagrante delicto_ they would have put in the plea that fraudulent mediums so frequently offer to-day--"an evil spirit took possession of me." as it was, the superstition of the times--and doubtless the rats and shaky timbers of mompesson house did their part--was their constant and unfailing support. everything that happened would be magnified and distorted by the witnesses, either at the moment or in retrospect, until in the end the rev. mr. glanvill, recording honestly enough what he himself had seen, could find material for a history of the most marvelous marvels. in short, the more closely one examines the details of the tedworth mystery, the more will he find himself in agreement with george cruikshank's brutally frank opinion: "all this seems very strange, about this drummer and his drum; but for myself i really think this drumming ghost was all a hum." footnotes: [b] glanvill's "sadducismus triumphatus," a most instructive and entertaining contribution to the literature of witchcraft. contemporary opinion of glanvill is well expressed in anthony à wood's statement that "he was a person of more than ordinary parts, of a quick, warm, spruce, and gay fancy, and was more lucky, at least in his own judgment, in his first hints and thoughts of things, than in his after notions, examined and digested by longer and more mature deliberation. he had a very tenacious memory, and was a great master of the english language, expressing himself therein with easy fluency, and in a manly, yet withal a clear style." glanvill died in at the early age of forty-four. [c] used here in the sense of "always." [d] the italics are mine. iii the haunting of the wesleys the rev. samuel wesley is chiefly known to posterity as the father of the famous john wesley, the founder of methodism, and of the hardly less famous charles wesley. but the rev. samuel has further claims to remembrance. if he gave to the world john and charles wesley, he was also the sire of seventeen other wesleys, eight of whom, like their celebrated brothers, grew to maturity and attained varying degrees of distinction. he was himself a man of distinction as preacher, poet, and controversialist. his sermons were sermons in the good, old-fashioned sense of the term. his poems were the despair of the critics, but won him a wide reputation. he was an adept in what whistler called the gentle art of making enemies. though more familiar with the inside of a pulpit, he was not unacquainted with the inside of a jail. he raised his numerous progeny on an income seldom exceeding one thousand dollars a year. and, what is perhaps the most astonishing fact in a career replete with surprises, he was the hero of one of the best authenticated ghost stories on record. this visitation from the supermundane came as a climax to a series of worldly annoyances that would have upset the equanimity of a very job--and the rev. samuel, in temper at any rate, was the reverse of job-like. his troubles began in the closing years of the seventeenth century, when he became rector of the established church at epworth, lincolnshire, a venerable edifice dating back to the stormy days of edward ii., and as damp as it was old. the story goes that this living was granted him as a reward because he dedicated one of his poems to queen mary. but the queen would seem to have had punishment in mind for him, rather than reward. located in the isle of axholme, in the midst of a long stretch of fen country bounded by four rivers, and for a great part under water, epworth was at that epoch dreariness itself. the rev. samuel's spirits must have sunk within him as the carts bearing his already large family and his few household belongings toiled through quagmire and morass; they must have fallen still farther when he gazed down the one straggling street at the rectory of mud and thatch that was to be his home; and they must have touched the zero mark, zealous high churchman that he was, with the discovery that his peasant parishioners were presbyterian-minded folk who hated ritualism as cordially as they hated the pope. whatever his secret sentiments, he lost no time in endeavoring to stamp the imprint of his vigorous personality on epworth. forgetful, or unheedful, of the fact that the natives of the isle of axholme were notoriously violent and lawless, he began to rule them with a rod of iron. thus they should think, thus they should do, thus they should go! above all, the rev. samuel never permitted them to forget that in addition to spiritual they owed him temporal obligations. in the matter of tithes--always a sore subject in a community hard put to extract a living from the soil--he was unrelenting. necessity may have driven him; but it was only to be expected that murmurings should arise, and from words the angry islanders passed to deeds. for a time they contented themselves with burning the rector's barn and trying to burn his house. then, when he was so indiscreet as to become indebted to one of their number, they clapped him into prison. his speedy release, through the intervention of clerical friends, and his blunt refusal to seek a new sphere of activity, were followed by more barn burning, by the slaughter of his cattle, and finally by a fire that utterly destroyed the rectory and all but cost the lives of several of its inmates, who by that time included the future father of methodism. the bravery with which the rev. samuel met this crowning disaster, and the energy with which he set about the task of rebuilding his home--not in mud and thatch, but in substantial brick--seem to have shamed the villagers into giving him peace, seem even to have inspired them with a genuine regard for him. he for his part, if we read the difficult pages of his biographers aright, appears to have grown less exacting and more diplomatic. in any event, he was left in quiet to prepare his sermons, write his poems, and assist his devoted wife (who, by the way, he is said to have deserted for an entire year because of a little difference of opinion respecting the right of william of orange to the english crown) in the upbringing of their children. thus his life ran along in comparative smoothness until the momentous advent of the ghost. this unexpected and unwelcome visitor made its first appearance early in december, . at the time the wesley boys were away from home, but the household was still sufficiently numerous, consisting of the rev. samuel, mrs. wesley, seven daughters,--emilia, susannah, maria, mehetabel, anne, martha, and kezziah,--a man servant named robert brown, and a maid servant known as nanny marshall. nanny was the first to whom the ghost paid its respects, in a series of blood-curdling groans that "caused the upstarting of her hair, and made her ears prick forth at an unusual rate." in modern parlance, she was greatly alarmed, and hastened to tell the misses wesley of the extraordinary noises, which, she assured them, sounded exactly like the groans of a dying man. the derisive laughter of the young women left her state of mind unchanged; and they too gave way to alarm when, a night or so later, loud knocks began to be heard in different parts of the house, accompanied by sundry "groans, squeaks, and tinglings." oddly enough, the only member of the family unvisited by the ghost was the rev. samuel, and upon learning that he had heard none of the direful sounds his wife and children made up their minds that his death was imminent; for a local superstition had it that in all such cases of haunting the person undisturbed is marked for an early demise. but the worthy clergyman continued hale and hearty, as did the ghost, whose knockings, indeed, soon grew so terrifying that "few or none of the family durst be alone." it was then resolved that, whatever the noises portended, counsel and aid must be sought from the head of the household. at first the rev. samuel listened in silence to his spouse's recital; but as she proceeded he burst into a storm of wrath. a ghost? stuff and nonsense! not a bit of it! only some mischief-makers bent on plaguing them. possibly, and his choler rose higher, a trick played by his daughters themselves, or by their lovers. now it was the turn of the wesley girls to become angry, and we read that they forthwith showed themselves exceedingly "desirous of its continuance till he was convinced." their desire was speedily granted. the very next night paterfamilias had no sooner tumbled into bed than there came nine resounding knocks "just by his bedside." in an instant he was up and groping for a light. "you heard it, then?" we may imagine mrs. wesley anxiously asking, and we may also imagine the robust anglo-saxon of his response. another night and more knockings, followed by "a noise in the room over our heads, as if several people were walking." this time, to quote further from mrs. wesley's narrative as given in a letter to her absent son samuel, the tumult "was so outrageous that we thought the children would be frightened; so your father and i rose, and went down in the dark to light a candle. just as we came to the bottom of the broad stairs, having hold of each other, on my side there seemed as if somebody had emptied a bag of money at my feet; and on his, as if all the bottles under the stairs (which were many) had been dashed in a thousand pieces. we passed through the hall into the kitchen, and got a candle and went to see the children, whom we found asleep." with this the rev. samuel seems to have come round to the family's way of thinking; for in the morning he sent a messenger to the nearby village of haxey with the request that the vicar of haxey, a certain mr. hoole, would ride over and assist him in "conjuring" the evil spirit out of his house. burning with curiosity, mr. hoole made such good time to epworth that before noon he was at the rectory and eagerly listening to an account of the marvels that had so alarmed the wesleys. in addition to the phenomena already set forth, he learned that while the knocks were heard in all parts of the house, they were most frequent in the children's room; that at prayers they almost invariably interrupted the family's devotions, especially when mr. wesley began the prayers for king george and the prince of wales, from which it was inferred that the ghost was a jacobite; that often a sound was heard like the rocking of a cradle, and another sound like the gobbling of a turkey, and yet another "something like a man, in a loose nightgown trailing after him"; and that if one stamped his foot, "old jeffrey," as the younger children had named the ghost, would knock precisely as many times as there had been stampings. none of these major marvels was vouchsafed to mr. hoole; but he heard knockings in plenty, and, after a night of terror, made haste back to haxey, having lost all desire to play the rôle of exorcist. his fears may possibly have been increased by the violence of mr. wesley, who, after vainly exhorting the ghost to speak out and tell his business, flourished a pistol and threatened to discharge it in the direction whence the knockings came. this was too much for peace-loving, spook-fearing mr. hoole. "sir," he protested, "you are convinced this is something preternatural. if so, you cannot hurt it; but you give it power to hurt you." the logic of mr. hoole's argument is hardly so evident as his panic. off he galloped, leaving the rev. samuel to lay the ghost as best he could. after his departure wonders grew apace. thus far the manifestations had been wholly auditory; now visual phenomena were added. one evening mrs. wesley beheld something dart out from beneath a bed and quickly disappear. sister emilia, who was present, reported to brother samuel that this something was "like a badger, only without any head that was discernible." the same apparition came to confound the man servant, robert brown, once in the badger form, and once in the form of a white rabbit which "turned round before him several times." robert was also the witness of an even more peculiar performance by the elusive ghost. "being grinding corn in the garrets, and happening to stop a little, the handle of the mill was turn [_sic_] round with great swiftness." it is interesting to note that robert subsequently declared that "nothing vexed him but that the mill was empty. if corn had been in it, old jeffrey might have ground his heart out for him; he would never have disturbed him." more annoying was a habit into which the ghost fell of rattling latches, jingling warming pans and other metal utensils, and brushing rudely against people in the dark. "thrice," asserted the rev. samuel, "i have been pushed by an invisible power, once against the corner of my desk in the study, a second time against the door of the matted chamber, a third time against the right side of the frame of my study door." on at least one occasion old jeffrey indulged in a pastime popular with the spiritistic mediums of a later day. john wesley tells us, on the authority of sister nancy, that one night, when she was playing cards with some of the many other sisters, the bed on which she sat was suddenly lifted from the ground. "she leapt down and said, 'surely old jeffrey would not run away with her.' however, they persuaded her to sit down again, which she had scarce done when it was again lifted up several times successively, a considerable height, upon which she left her seat and would not be prevailed upon to sit there any more." clearly, the wesley family were in a bad way. entreaties, threats, exorcism, had alike failed to banish the obstinate ghost. but though they knew it not, relief was at hand. whether repenting of his misdoings, or desirous of seeking pastures new, jeffrey, after a visitation lasting nearly two months, took his departure almost as unceremoniously as he had arrived, and left the unhappy wesleys to resume by slow degrees their wonted ways of life. such is the story unfolded by the wesleys themselves in a series of letters and memoranda, which, taken together, form, as was said, one of the best authenticated narratives of haunting extant. but before endeavoring to ascertain the source of the phenomena credited to the soi-disant jeffrey, another and fully as important inquiry must be made. what, it is necessary to ask, did the wesleys actually hear and see in the course of the two months that they had their ghost with them? the answer obviously must be sought through an analysis of the evidence for the haunting. this chronologically falls into three divisions. the first consists of letters addressed to young samuel wesley by his father, mother, and two of his sisters, and written at the time of the disturbances; the second, of letters written by mrs. wesley and four of her daughters to john wesley in the summer and autumn of (that is to say, more than nine years after the haunting), of an account written by the senior samuel wesley, and of statements by hoole and robert brown; the third, of an article contributed to "the arminian magazine" in (nearly seventy years after the event) by john wesley. now, the most cursory examination of the various documents shows remarkable discrepancies between the earlier and later versions. writing to her son samuel, when the ghost was still active, and she would not be likely to minimize its doings, mrs. wesley thus describes the first occurrences: "on the first of december, our maid heard, at the door of the dining-room, several dismal groans like a person in extremes, at the point of death. we gave little heed to her relation and endeavored to laugh her out of her fears. some nights (two or three) after, several of the family heard a strange knocking in divers places, usually three or four knocks at a time, and then stayed a little. this continued every night for a fortnight; sometimes it was in the garret, but most commonly in the nursery, or green chamber." contrast with this the portion of john wesley's "arminian magazine" article referring to the same period: "on the second of december, , while robert brown, my father's servant, was sitting with one of the maids, a little before ten at night, in the dining-room which opened into the garden, they both heard one knocking at the door. robert rose and opened it, but could see nobody. quickly it knocked again and groaned.... he opened the door again twice or thrice, the knocking being twice or thrice repeated; but still seeing nothing, and being a little startled, they rose and went up to bed. when robert came to the top of the garret stairs, he saw a handmill, which was at a little distance, whirled about very swiftly.... when he was in bed, he heard as it were the gobbling of a turkey cock close to the bedside; and soon after, the sound of one stumbling over his shoes and boots; but there were none there, he had left them below.... the next evening, between five and six o'clock, my sister molly, then about twenty years of age, sitting in the dining-room reading, heard as if it were the door that led into the hall open, and a person walking in, that seemed to have on a silk nightgown, rustling and trailing along. it seemed to walk round her, then to the door, then round again; but she could see nothing." as a matter of fact, the contemporary records are silent respecting the extraordinary happenings that overshadow all else in the records of and . in the former, for example, we find no reference to the affair of the mill handle, the levitation of the bed, the rude bumpings given to mr. wesley. there is much talk of knockings and groanings, of sounds like footsteps, rustling silks, falling coals, breaking bottles, and moving latches; allusion is made to the badger like and rabbit like apparition; and there is mention of a peculiar dancing of father's "trencher" without "anybody's stirring the table"; but the sum total makes very tame reading compared with the material to be found in the accounts written in after years and commonly utilized--as it has been utilized here--to form the narrative of the haunting. not only this, but a rigorous division of the contemporary evidence into first hand and second hand still further eliminates the element of the marvelous. admitting as evidence only the fact set forth as having been observed by the relators themselves, the haunting is reduced to a matter of knocks, groans, tinglings, squeaks, creakings, crashings, and footsteps. we are, therefore, justified in believing that in this case, like so many others of its kind, the fallibility of human memory has played an overwhelming part in exaggerating the experiences actually undergone; that, in fine, nothing occurred in the rectory at epworth, between december , , and january , , that may not be attributed to human agency. who, then, was the agent? knowing what we do of wesley's previous relations with the villagers, the first impulse is to place the responsibility at their door. but for this there is no real warrant. years had elapsed since the culminating catastrophe of the burning of the rectory, and in the interim matters had been put on an amicable basis. moreover, the evidence as to the haunting itself goes to show that the phenomena could not possibly have been produced by a person, or persons, operating from outdoors; but must, on the contrary, have been the work of some one intimately acquainted with the arrangements of the house and enjoying the full confidence of its master. thus our inquiry narrows to the inmates of the rectory. of these, mr. and mrs. wesley, may at once be left out of consideration, as also may the servants, all accounts agreeing that from the outset they were genuinely alarmed. there remain only the wesley girls, and our effort must be to discover which of them was the culprit. at first blush this seems an impossible task; but let us scan the evidence carefully. we find, to begin with, that only four of the seven sisters are represented in the correspondence relating to the haunting. two of the others, kezziah and martha, were mere children and not of letter-writing age, and their silence in the matter is thus satisfactorily accounted for. but that the third, mehetabel, should likewise be silent is distinctly puzzling. not only was she quite able to give an account of her experiences (she was at least between eighteen and nineteen years of age), but it is known that she had a veritable passion for pen and ink, a passion which in after years won her no mean reputation as a poetess. and, more than this, she seems to have enjoyed a far greater share of jeffrey's attentions than did any other member of the family. "my sister hetty, i find," remarks the observing samuel, "was more particularly troubled." and emilia declares, almost in the language of complaint, that "it was never near me, except two or three times, and never followed me as it did my sister hetty." manifestly, it may be worth while to inquire into the history and characteristics of this young woman. her biographer, dr. adam clarke, informs us that "from her childhood she was gay and sprightly; full of mirth, good humor, and keen wit. she indulged this disposition so much that it was said to have given great uneasiness to her parents; because she was in consequence often betrayed into inadvertencies which, though of small moment in themselves, showed that her mind was not under proper discipline; and that fancy, not reason, often dictated that line of conduct which she thought proper to pursue." this information is the more interesting, in the present connection, since it contrasts strongly with the unqualified commendation dr. clarke accords the other sisters. from the same authority we learn that as a child miss mehetabel was so precocious that at the age of eight she could read the greek testament in the original; that she was from her earliest youth emotional and sentimental; that despite her intellectual tastes and attainments she gave her hand to an illiterate journeyman plumber and glazier; and that when the fruit of this union lay dying by her side she insisted on dictating to her husband a poem afterward published under the moving caption of "a mother's address to her dying infant." another of her poems, by the way, is significantly entitled, "the lucid interval." there can, then, be little question that hetty wesley was precisely the type of girl to derive amusement by working on the superstitious fears of those about her. we find, too, in the evidence itself certain fugitive references directly pointing to her as the creator of old jeffrey. it seems that she had a practice of sitting up and moving about the house long after all the other inmates, except her father, had retired for the night. the ghost was especially noisy and malevolent when in her vicinity, knocking boisterously on the bed in which she slept, and even knocking under her feet. and what is most suggestive, two witnesses, her father and her sister susannah, testify that on some occasions the noises failed to wake her, but caused her "to tremble exceedingly in her sleep." it must, indeed, have been a difficult matter to restrain laughter at the spectacle of the night-gowned, night-capped, much bewildered parson, candle in one hand and pistol in the other, peering under and about the bed in quest of the invisible ghost. to be sure, it is impossible to adduce positive proof that hetty wesley and old jeffrey were one and the same. but the evidence supports this view of the case as it supports no other, and, taken in conjunction with the facts of her earlier and later life, leaves little doubt that had the rev. samuel paid closer attention to the comings and goings of this particular daughter the ghost that so sorely tried him would have taken its flight much sooner than it did. her motive for the deception must be left to conjecture. in all probability it was only the desire to amaze and terrorize, a desire as was said before, not infrequently operative along similar lines in the case of young people of a lively disposition and morbid imagination. iv the visions of emanuel swedenborg in mid april of the memorable year , two men, hastening through a busy london thoroughfare, paused for a moment to follow with their eyes a third, whom they had greeted but who had passed without so much as a glance in their direction. the face of one betrayed chagrin; but the other smiled amusedly. "you must not mind, dear fellow," said he; "that is only swedenborg's way, as you will discover when you know him better. his feet are on the earth; but for the moment his mind is in the clouds, pondering some solution to the wonderful problems he has set himself, marvelous man that he is." "yet," objected the other, "he seems such a thorough man of the world, so finely dressed, so courtly as a rule in speech and manner." "he is a man of the world, a true cosmopolitan," was the quick response. "i warrant few are so widely and so favorably known. he is as much at home in london, paris, berlin, dresden, amsterdam, or copenhagen as in his native city of stockholm. kings and queens, grand dames and gallant wits, statesmen and soldiers, scientists and philosophers, find pleasure in his society. he can meet all on their own ground, and to all he has something fresh and interesting to say. but he is nevertheless, and above everything else, a dreamer." "a dreamer?" "aye. they tell me that he will not rest content until he has found the seat of the soul in man. up through mathematics, mechanics, mineralogy, astronomy, chemistry, even physiology, has he gone, mastering every science in turn, until he is now perhaps the most learned man in europe. but his learning satisfies him not a whit, since the soul still eludes him,--and eludes him, mark you, despite month upon month of toil in the dissecting room. if the study of anatomy fail him, i know not where he will next turn. for my part, i fancy he need not look beyond the stomach. the wonder is that his own stomach has not given him the clue ere this; for, metaphysician though he be, he enjoys the good things of earth. let me tell you a story--" thus, chatting and laughing, the friends continued on their way, every step taking them farther from the unwitting subject of their words. he, for his part, absorbed in thought, pressed steadily forward to his destination, a quiet inn in a sequestered quarter of the city. the familiar sounds of eighteenth-century london--the bawling of apprentices shouting their masters' wares, the crying of fishwives, the quarreling of drunkards, the barking of curs, the bellowing of cattle on their way to market and slaughter house--broke unheeded about him. he was, as the gossip had put it, in the clouds, intent on the riddles his learning had rendered only the more complex, riddles having to do with the nature of the universe and with man's place in the universe. nor did he rouse himself from his meditations until the door of the inn had closed behind him and he found himself in its common room. then he became the emanuel swedenborg of benignity, geniality, and courtesy, the swedenborg whom all men loved. "i am going to my room," said he to the innkeeper, in charming, broken english, "and i wish to be served there. i find i am very hungry; so see that you spare not." while he is standing at the window, waiting for his dinner, and gazing abstractedly into the ill-paved, muddy street illumined by a transitory gleam of april sunshine, let us try to gain a closer view of him than that afforded by the brief account of his unrecognized acquaintance. the attempt will be worth while; for at this very moment he has, all unconsciously, reached the great crisis of his life, and is about to leave behind him the achievements of his earlier years, setting himself instead to tasks of a very different nature. we see him, then, a man nearing the age of sixty, of rather more than average height, smooth shaven, bewigged, bespectacled, and scrupulously dressed according to the fashion of the day. time in its passing has dealt gently with him. there is no stoop to his shoulders, no tremor in the fingers that play restlessly on the window-pane. not a wrinkle mars the placid features. well may he feel at peace with the world. his whole career has been a steady progress, his record that of one who has attempted many things and failed in few. before he was twenty-one his learning had gained for him a doctorate in philosophy. then, enthusiastic, open-minded, and open-eyed, he had hurried abroad, to pursue in england, holland, france, and germany his chosen studies of mathematics, mechanics, and astronomy. returning to sweden to assume the duties of assessor of mines, he speedily proved that he was no mere theorizer, his inventive genius enabling the warlike charles xii. to transport overland galleys and sloops for the siege of frederikshald, sea passage being barred by hostile fleets. ennobled for this feat, he plunged with ardor into the complicated problems of statecraft, problems rendered the more difficult by the economic distress in which charles's wars had involved his kingdom. here again he attained distinction. yet always the problems of science and philosophy claimed his chief devotion. from the study of stars and minerals he passed to the contemplation of other marvels of nature as revealed in man himself. and now behold him turned chemist, anatomist, physiologist, and psychologist, and repeating in these fields of research his former triumphs. still, indomitable man, he refused to stop. he would press on, far beyond the confines of what his generation held to be the knowable. "the end of the senses," to quote his own words, "is that god may be seen." he would peer into the innermost recesses of man's being, to discern the soul of man, mayhap to discern god himself. but, if he were scientist and metaphysician, he was also human, and that pleasant april afternoon the humanity in him bulked large when he finally turned from the window and took his seat at the bountifully heaped table. he was, as he had told the innkeeper, very hungry, and he ate with a zest that abundantly confirmed his statement. how pleasant the odors from this dish and that--how agreeable the flavor of everything! surely he had never enjoyed meal more, and surely he was no longer "in the clouds"; but was instead recalling pleasant reminiscences of his doings in one and another of the gay capitals of europe! there would be not a little to bring a twinkle of delight to his beaming eyes, not a little to soften his scholastic lips into a gentle smile. and so, in solitary state, he ate and drank, with nothing to warn him of the impending and momentous change that was to shape anew his career and his view-point. conceive his astonishment, therefore, when, his dinner still unfinished, he felt a strange languor creeping over him and a mysterious obscurity dimming his eyes. conceive, further, his horror at sight of the floor about him covered with frogs and toads and snakes and creeping things. and picture, finally, his amazement when, the darkness that enveloped him suddenly clearing, he beheld a man sitting in the far corner of the room and eying him, as it seemed, reproachfully, even disdainfully. in vain, he essayed to rise, to lift his hand, to speak. invisible bonds held him in his chair, an unseen power kept him mute. for an instant he fancied that he must be dreaming; but the noises from outdoors and the sight of the table and food before him brought conviction that he was in full possession of his senses. now his visitor spoke, and spoke only four words, which astonished no less than alarmed him. "eat not so much." only this--then utter silence. again the enveloping darkness--frogs, toads, snakes, faded in its depths--and with returning light swedenborg was once more alone in the room. small wonder that the remaining hours of the day were spent in fruitless cogitation of this weird and disagreeable experience which far transcended metaphysician's normal ken. nor is it surprising to find him naïvely admitting that "this unexpected event hastened my return home." imagination can easily round out the picture,--the rising in terror, the overturning of the chair, the seizing of cocked hat and gold-headed cane, the few explanatory words to the astonished innkeeper, the hurried departure, and the progress, perchance at a more rapid gait than usual, to the sleeping quarters in another section of the town. arrived there, safe in the refuge of his commodious bed-room, sage argument would follow in the effort to attain persuasion that the terrifying vision had been but "the effect of accidental causes." be sure, though, that our philosopher, dreading a return of the specter if he permitted food to pass his lips, would go hungry to bed that night. that night--more visions. to the wakeful, restless, perturbed swedenborg the same figure appeared, this time without snakes or frogs or toads, and not in darkness, but in the midst of a great white light that filled the bed chamber with a wonderful radiance. then a voice spoke: "i am god the lord, the creator and redeemer of the world. i have chosen thee to lay before men the spiritual sense of the holy word. i will teach thee what thou art to write." slowly the light faded, the figure disappeared. and now the astounded philosopher, his amazement growing with each passing moment, found himself transported as it seemed to another world,--the world of the dead. men and women of his acquaintance greeted him as they had been wont to do when on earth, pressed about him, eagerly questioned him. their faces still wore the familiar expressions of kindliness, anxiety, sincerity, ill will, as the case might be. in every way they appeared to be still numbered among the living. they were clad in the clothes they had been accustomed to wear, they ate and drank, they lived in houses and towns. the philosophers among them continued to dispute, the clergy to admonish, the authors to write. but, his perception enlarging, swedenborg presently discovered that this was in reality only an intermediate state of existence; that beyond it at the one end was heaven and at the other hell, to one or the other of which the dead ultimately gravitated according to their desires and conduct. for, as he was to learn later, the spiritual world was a world of law and order fully as much as was the natural world. men were free to do as they chose; but they must bear the consequences. if they were evil-minded, it would be their wish to consort with those of like mind, and in time they must pass to the abode of the wicked; if pure-minded, they would seek out kindred spirits, and, when finally purged of the dross of earth, be translated to the realm of bliss. to heaven, then, voyaged swedenborg, on a journey of discovery; and to hell likewise. what he saw he has set down in many bulky volumes, than which philosopher has written none more strange.[e] with the return of daylight it might seem that he would be prompt to dismiss all memory of these peculiar experiences as fantasies of sleep. but he was satisfied that he had not slept; that on the contrary he had been preternaturally conscious throughout the long, eventful night. in solemn retrospect he retraced his past career. he remembered that for some years he had had symbolic dreams and symbolic hallucinations--as of a golden key, a tongue of flame, and voices--which had at the time baffled his understanding, but which he now interpreted as premonitory warnings that god had set him apart for a great mission. he remembered too that when still a child his mind had been engrossed by thoughts of god, and that in talking with his parents he had uttered words which caused them to declare that the angels spoke through his mouth. remembering all these things, he could no longer doubt that divinity had actually visited him in his humble london boarding house, and he made up his mind that he must bestir himself to carry out the divine command of expounding to his fellow men the hidden meaning of holy writ. forthwith, being still fired with the true scientist's passion for original research, he set himself to the task of learning hebrew. he was, it will be remembered, approaching sixty, an age when the acquisition of a new language is exceedingly difficult and rare. yet such progress did he make that within a very few months he was writing notes in explanation of the book of genesis. and thus he continued not for months but years, patiently traversing the entire bible, and at the same time carefully committing to paper everything "seen and heard" in the spiritual world; for his london excursion beyond the borderland which separates the here from the hereafter had been only the first of similar journeys taken not merely by night but in broad daylight. to use his own phraseology: "the lord opened daily, very often, my bodily eyes; so that in the middle of the day i could see into the other world, and in a state of perfect wakefulness converse with angels and spirits." his increasing absorption--absent-mindedness, his friends would call it--his habit of falling into trances, and his claim to interworld communication, could not fail to excite the surprise of all who had known him as scientist and philosopher. but these vagaries, as people deemed them, met the greater toleration because of the evident fact that they did not dim his intellectual powers and did not interfere with his activities in behalf of the public good. true, in he resigned his office of assessor of mines in order to have more leisure to prosecute his adventures into the unknown; but as a member of the swedish diet he continued to play a prominent part in the affairs of the kingdom, giving long and profound study to the critical problems of administration, economics, and finance with which the nation's leaders were confronted during the third quarter of the century. so that--bearing in mind the further fact that he was no blatant advocate of his opinions--it seems altogether likely his spiritistic ideas would have gained no great measure of attention, had it not been for a series of singular occurrences that took place between and . toward the end of july in the first of these years, swedenborg (whose fondness for travel ceased only with his death) arrived in gottenburg homeward bound from england, and on the invitation of a friend decided to break his journey by spending a few days in that city. two hours after his arrival, while attending a small reception given in his honor, he electrified the company by abruptly declaring that at that moment a dangerous fire had broken out at stockholm, three hundred miles away, and was spreading rapidly. becoming excited, he rushed from the room, to reënter with the news that the house of one of his friends was in ashes, and that his own house was threatened. anxious moments passed, while he restlessly paced up and down, in and out. then, with a cry of joy, he exclaimed, "thank god the fire is out, the third door from my house!" like wild the tidings spread through gottenburg, and the greatest commotion prevailed. some were inclined to give credence to swedenborg's statements; more, who did not know the man, derided him as a sensation monger. but all had to wait with what patience they could, for those were the days before steam engine and telegraph. forty-eight anxious hours passed. then letters were received confirming the philosopher's announcement, and, we are assured, showing that the fire had taken precisely the path described by him, and had stopped where he had indicated. no peace now for swedenborg. his home at stockholm, with its quaint gambrel roof, its summer houses, its neat flower beds, its curious box trees, instantly became a mecca for the inquisitive, burning to see the man who held converse with the dead and was instructed by the latter in many portentous secrets. most of those who gained admission, and through him sought to be put into touch with departed friends, received a courteous but firm refusal, accompanied by the explanation: "god having for wise and good purposes separated the world of spirits from ours, a communication is never granted without cogent reasons." when, however, his visitors satisfied him that they were imbued with something more than curiosity, he made an effort to meet their wishes, and occasionally with astonishing results. it was thus in the case of madam marteville, widow of the dutch ambassador to sweden. in , some months after her husband's death, a goldsmith demanded from her payment for a silver service the ambassador had bought from him. feeling sure that the bill had already been paid, she made search for the receipt, but could find none. the sum involved was large, and she sought swedenborg and asked him to seek her husband in the world of spirits and ascertain whether the debt had been settled. three days later, when she was entertaining some friends, swedenborg called, and in the most matter of fact way stated that he had had a conversation with marteville, and had learned from him that the debt had been canceled seven months before his death, and that the receipt would be found in a certain bureau. "but i have searched all through it," protested madam marteville. "ah," was swedenborg's rejoinder; "but it has a secret drawer of which you know nothing." at once all present hurried to the bureau, and there, in the private compartment which he quickly located, lay the missing receipt. in similar fashion did swedenborg relate to the queen of sweden, louisa ulrica, the substance of the last interview between her and her dead brother, the crown prince of prussia, an interview which had been strictly private, and the subject of which, she affirmed, was such that no third person could possibly have known what passed between them. more startling still was his declaration to a merry company at amsterdam that at that same hour, in far away russia, the emperor peter iii. was being foully done to death in prison. once more time proved that the spirit seer, as swedenborg was now popularly known, had told the truth. a decade more, and again we meet him in london, his whole being, at eighty-four, animated with the same energy and enthusiasm that had led him to seek and attain in his earlier manhood such a vast store of knowledge. and here, as christmas drew near, he found lodging with two old friends, a wig maker and his wife. but ere christmas dawned he lay a helpless victim of that dread disease paralysis. not a word, not a movement, for full three weeks. then, with returning consciousness, a call for pen and paper. he would, he muttered with thickened speech, send a note to inform a certain john wesley that the spirits had made known to him wesley's desire to meet him, and that he would be glad to receive a visit at any time. in reply came word that the great evangelist had indeed wished to make the great mystic's acquaintance, and that after returning from a six months' circuit he would give himself the pleasure of waiting upon swedenborg. "too late," was the aged philosopher's comment as the story goes, "too late; for on the th of march i shall be in the world of spirits never more to return." march came and went, and with it went his soul on the day predicted, if prediction there were. they buried him in london, and there in early season, out of his grave blossomed the religion that has preserved his name, his fame, his doctrines. to the dead swedenborg succeeded the living swedenborgianism. * * * * * but what shall those of us who are not swedenborgians think of the master? shall we accept at face value the story of his life as gathered from the documents left behind him and as set forth here; and, accepting it, believe that he was in reality a man set apart by god and granted the rare favor of insight into that unknown world to which all of us must some day go? the true explanation, it seems to me, can be had only when we view swedenborg in the light of the marvelous discoveries made during the last few years in the field of abnormal psychology. beginning in france, and continuing more recently in the united states and other countries, investigations have been set on foot resulting in the solution of many human problems not unlike the riddle of swedenborg, and occasionally far more complicated than that presented in his case. all these solutions, in the last analysis, rest on the basic discovery that human personality is by no means the single indivisible entity it is commonly supposed to be, but is instead singularly unstable and singularly complex. it has been found that under some unusual stimulus--such as an injury, an illness, or the strain of an intense emotion--there may result a disintegration, or, as it is technically termed, a dissociation, of personality, giving rise it may be to hysteria, it may be to hallucinations, it may even be to a complete disappearance of the original personality and its replacement by a new personality, sometimes of radically different characteristics.[f] it has also been found, by another group of investigators working principally in england, that side by side with the original, the waking, personality of every-day life, there coexists a hidden personality possessing faculties far transcending those enjoyed by the waking personality, but as a rule coming into play only at moments of crisis, though by some favored mortals invocable more frequently. to this hidden personality, as distinguished from the secondary personality of dissociation, has been given the name of the subliminal self, and to its operation some attribute alike the productions of men of genius and the phenomena of clairvoyance and thought transference that have puzzled mankind from time immemorial. now, arguing by analogy from the cases scattered through the writings of janet, sidis, prince, myers, gurney, and many others whose works the reader may consult for himself in any good public library, it is my belief that in swedenborg we have a preëminent illustration both of dissociation and of subliminal action, and that it is therefore equally unnecessary to stigmatize him as insane or to adopt the spiritistic hypothesis in explanation of his utterances. the records show that from his father he inherited a tendency to hallucinations, checked for a time by the nature of his studies, but fostered as these expanded into pursuit of the absolute and the infinite. they further show that for a long time before the london visions he was in a disturbed state of health, his nervous system unstrung, his whole being so unhinged that at times he suffered from attacks of what was probably hystero-epilepsy. it seems altogether likely, then, that in london the process of dissociation, after this period of gradual growth, suddenly leaped into activity. thereafter his hallucinations, from being sporadic and vague, became habitual and definite, his hystero-epileptic attacks more frequent. but, happily for him, the dissociation never became complete. he was left in command of his original personality, his mental powers continued unabated; and he was still able to adjust himself to the environment of the world about him. but, it may be objected, how explain his revelations in the matter of the fire at stockholm, the missing receipt, the message to queen ulrica, and the death of peter iii.? this brings us to the question of subliminal action. swedenborg himself, far in advance of his generation in this as in much else, appears to have realized that there was no need of invoking spirits to account for such transactions. "i need not mention," he once wrote, "the manifest sympathies acknowledged to exist in this lower world, and which are too many to be recounted; so great being the sympathy and magnetism of man that communication often takes place between those who are miles apart." here, in language that admits of no misinterpretation, we see stated the doctrine of telepathy, which is only now beginning to find acceptance among scientific men, but which, as i view it, has been amply demonstrated by the experiments of recent years and by the thousands of cases of spontaneous occurrence recorded in such publications as the "proceedings of the society for psychical research." and if these experiments and spontaneous instances prove anything, they prove that telepathy is distinctively a faculty of the subliminal self; and that a greater or less degree of dissociation is essential, not to the receipt, but to the objective realization, of telepathic messages. thus, the entranced "medium" of modern days extracts from the depths of his sitter's subconsciousness facts which the sitter has consciously forgotten, facts even of which he may never have been consciously aware, but which have been transmitted telepathically to his subliminal self by the subliminal self of some third person.[g] so with swedenborg. admitting the authenticity of the afore-mentioned anecdotes--none of which, it is as well to point out, reaches us supported by first-hand evidence--it is quite unnecessary to appeal to spirits as his purveyors of knowledge. in every instance telepathy--or clairvoyance, which is after all explicable itself only by telepathy--will suffice. in the marteville affair, for example, it is not unreasonable to assume that before his death the ambassador telepathically told his devoted wife of the existence of the secret drawer and its contents; if, indeed, she had not known and forgotten. it would then be an exceedingly simple matter for the dissociated swedenborg to acquire the desired information from the wife's subconsciousness. nor does this reflect on his honesty. doubtless he believed, as he represented, that he had actually had a conversation with the dead marteville, and had learned from him the whereabouts of the missing receipt. in the form his dissociation took he could no more escape such a hallucination than can the twentieth-century medium avoid the belief that he is a veritable intermediary between the visible and the invisible world. not that i would put swedenborg on a par with the ordinary medium. he was unquestionably a man of gigantic intellect, and he was unquestionably inspired, if by inspiration be understood the gift of combining subliminal with supraliminal powers to a degree granted to few of those whom the world counts truly great. if his fanciful and fantastic pictures of life in heaven and hell and in our neighboring planets welled up from the depths of his inmost mind, far more did the noble truths to which he gave expression. it is by these he should be judged; it is in these, not in his hallucinations nor in his telepathic exhibitions, that lies the secret of the commanding, if not always recognized, influence he has exercised on the thought of posterity. a solitary figure? true: but a grand figure, even in his saddest moment of delusion. footnotes: [e] the most complete enumeration of the writings of swedenborg will be found in the rev. james hyde's "a bibliography of the works of emanuel swedenborg," published in by the swedenborg society of london. including books on swedenborg, this bibliography contains no fewer than thirty-five hundred items. for a detailed account of swedenborg's life the reader may consult dr. r. l. tafel's "documents concerning the life and character of swedenborg," or the biographies by william white, benjamin worcester, james j. g. wilkinson, and nathaniel hobart. of these, the white biography is the most critical. [f] illustrative cases will be cited in the discussion of "the watseka wonder" on a later page. for a detailed explanation of "dissociation" the reader is referred to dr. morton prince's "the dissociation of a personality," or dr. boris sidis's "multiple personality." [g] this point is more fully discussed in my earlier book, "the riddle of personality." v the cock lane ghost the quaint old london church of st. sepulchre's could not by any stretch of the imagination be called a fashionable place of worship. it stood in a crowded quarter of the city, and the gentry were content to leave it to the small tradesfolk and humble working people who made up its parish. now and again a stray antiquarian paid it a fleeting visit; but, speaking generally, the coming of a stranger was so rare as to be accounted an event. it is easy, then, to understand the sensation occasioned by the appearance at prayers one morning, in the year of grace, , of a young and well dressed couple whose natural habitat was obviously in quite other surroundings. as they waited in the aisle--the man tall, erect, and easy of bearing, the woman fair and graceful--there was an instant craning of necks and vast nudging of one's neighbor; and long after they had seated themselves a subdued whispering bore further, if unnecessary, testimony to the curiosity they had aroused. probably no one felt a more lively interest than did the parish clerk, who, in showing them to a pew, had noted the tenderness with which they regarded each other. it needed nothing more to persuade him that they were eloping lovers, and that a snug gratuity was as good as in his pocket. all through the service he fidgeted impatiently in the shadows near the door, and as soon as the congregation was dismissed and he perceived that the visitors were lingering in their places, he hurried forward and accosted them. his name, he volubly explained, was parsons; he was officiating clerk of the parish; likewise master in the charity school nearby. no doubt they would like to inspect the church, perhaps to visit the school; it might even be they were desirous of meeting the pastor? he would be delighted if he could serve them in any way. "possibly you can," said the man, "for you doubtless know the neighborhood like a book. my name is knight, and this lady is my wife. we--" he stopped short at sight of the changed expression on the other's face, and breesquely demanded, "how now, man? what are you gaping at?" "no offense, sir, no offense," stammered the disappointed and embarrassed clerk. "i beg your pardon, sir and madam." there was an awkward pause before the man began again. "as i was saying, my name is knight and this lady is my wife. we have only recently come to london and are in search of lodgings. if you know of any good place to which you can recommend us, we shall be heartily obliged to you." whatever he was, clerk parsons was not a fool, and these few words showed him plainly that he was face to face with a mystery. elopers or no, such a well born couple would not from choice bury themselves in this forbidding section of london. with a cunning fostered by long years of precarious livelihood, he at once resolved to profit if he could from their need. "i fear, sir," said he, "that i know of no lodgings that would be at all suitable for you. we are poor folk, all of us, and--" "if you are honest folk," interrupted the lady, with an enchanting smile, "we ask no more." her husband checked her with a gesture and a look that was not lost on the now all-observing clerk, though it was long before he understood its significance. "we are willing to pay a reasonable charge, and shall require only a bed-room and a sitting-room. if possible, we should prefer to be where there are no other lodgers." "in that case," responded the clerk, with an eagerness he could scarcely veil, "i can accommodate you in my own house. it is simple but commodious, and i can answer that my wife will deal fairly by you." "what think you, fanny?" asked the man, turning to his wife. "we can at least go and see." this they immediately did, and to clerk parsons's joy decided to make their home with him. nor did their coming gladden the clerk alone. his wife and children, two little girls of nine and ten, from the moment they saw the "beautiful lady" conceived a warm attachment for her. her geniality, her kindliness, her manifest love for her husband, appealed to their sympathies, as did the sadness which from time to time clouded her face. if, like parsons himself, they soon became convinced that she and her husband shared some momentous secret, they could not bring themselves to believe that it involved her in wrongdoing. for the husband too they entertained the friendliest feelings. he was of a blunt, outspoken disposition and perhaps a trifle quick tempered, but he was frank and liberal and sincerely devoted to his wife. for all in the household, therefore, the days passed pleasantly; and when mrs. parsons one fine spring morning discovered her fair guest in tears she felt that time had established between them relations sufficiently confidential to warrant her motherly intervention. "come, my dear," said she, "i have long seen that something is troubling you. tell me what it is, that i may be able to comfort, perhaps aid you." "it is nothing, good mrs. parsons, nothing. i am very foolish. i was thinking of what would become of me if anything should happen to my husband." "dear, dear! and nothing will. but you could then turn to your relatives." "i have no relatives." "what, my dear, are they all dead?" "no," in a solemn tone, "but i am dead to them." in a voice shaken by sobs, she now unfolded her story, and pitiful enough it was. she was, it appeared, the sister of knight's first wife, who had died in norfolk leaving a new born child that survived its mother only a few hours. at knight's request she then went to keep house for him, and presently they found themselves very much in love with each other. but in the canon law they discovered an insuperable obstacle to marriage. had the wife died without issue, or had her child not been born alive, the law would have permitted her, even though a "deceased wife's sister," to wed the man of her choice. as things stood, a legitimate union was out of the question. learning this, they resolved to separate; but separation brought only increased longing. thence grew a rapid and mutual persuasion that, under the circumstances, it would be no sin to bid defiance to the canon law and live together as man and wife. this view not finding favor with their relatives, and becoming apprehensive of arrest and imprisonment, they had fled to london and had hidden themselves in its depths. surely, she concluded, with a desperate intensity, surely fair-minded people would not condemn them; surely all who knew what true love was would feel that they could not have acted otherwise? this confession, though it did not in the least diminish her landlady's regard for her, worked indirectly in a most disastrous way. whether driven by necessity, or emboldened by the belief that his lodgers were at his mercy, the clerk soon afterward approached knight for a small loan; and, obtaining it, repeated the request on several other occasions, until he had borrowed in all about twelve pounds. payment he postponed on one pretext and another, until the lender finally lost all patience and informed him roundly that he must settle or stand suit. then followed an interchange of words that in an instant terminated the pleasant connection of the preceding months. parsons was described as "an impudent scoundrel who would be taught what honesty meant." parsons described himself as "knowing what honesty meant full well, and needing no lessons from a fugitive from justice." white with rage, knight bundled his belongings together, called a hackney coach, and within the hour had shaken the dust of cock lane from his feet, finding new lodgings in clerkenwell and at once haling his whilom landlord to the debtors' court. a little time, and all else was forgotten in the serious illness of his beloved fanny. at first the physician declared that the malady would prove slight; but she herself seemed to feel that she was doomed. "send for a lawyer," she urged; "i want to make my will. it is little enough i have, god knows; but i wish to be sure you will get it all, dear husband." to humor her, the will was drawn, and now it developed that the disease which had attacked her was smallpox in its worst form. no need to dwell on the fearful hours that followed, the fond farewells, the lapsing into a merciful unconsciousness, the death. they buried her in the vaults of st. john's clerkenwell, and from her tomb her husband came forth to give battle to the relatives who, shunning her while alive, did not disdain to seek possession of the small legacy she had left him. in this they failed, but scarcely had the smoke of the legal canonading cleared away, before he was called upon to meet a new issue so unexpected and so mysterious that history affords no stranger sequel to tale of love. the first intimation of its coming and of its nature was revealed to him, as to the public generally, by a brief paragraph printed in a mid january, , issue of _the london ledger_: "for some time past a great knocking having been heard in the night, at the officiating parish clerk's of st. sepulchre's, in cock lane near smithfield, to the great terror of the family, and all means used to discover the meaning of it, four gentlemen sat up there last friday night, among whom was a clergyman standing withinside the door, who asked various questions. on his asking whether any one had been murdered, no answer was made; but on his asking whether any one had been poisoned, it knocked one and thirty times. the report current in the neighborhood is that a woman was some time ago poisoned, and buried at st. john's clerkenwell, by her brother-in-law." instantly the city was agog, and for the next fortnight _the ledger_, _the chronicle_, and other newspapers gave much of their space to details of the pretended revelations, though they were careful to refer to names by blanks or initials only.[h] these accounts informed their readers that the knocking had first been heard in the life time of the deceased when, during the absence of her supposed husband, she had shared her bed with clerk parsons's oldest daughter; that she had then pronounced it an omen of her early death; that it did not occur again until after she had died; that, if the soi-disant spirit could be believed, the earlier knocking had been due to the agency of her dead sister; and that, in her own turn, she had come back to bring to justice the villain who had murdered her for the little she possessed. in commenting on this amazing story, the papers were prompt to point out that the knocking was heard only in the presence of the afore-mentioned daughter, now a girl of twelve; and while one or two, like _the ledger_, inclined to credence, the majority followed _the chronicle_ in denouncing the affair as an "imposture." the outraged husband, as may be imagined, lost not a moment in demanding admission to the séances which were proceeding merrily under the direction of a servant in the parsons family and a clergyman of the neighborhood. he found that the method practised was to put the girl to bed, wait until the knocking should begin, and then question the alleged spirit; when answers were received according to a code of one knock for an affirmative and two knocks for a negative. it was in his presence, then, though not at a single sitting, that the following dialogue was in this way carried on: "are you miss fanny?"--"yes." "did you die naturally?"--"no." "did you die by poison?"--"yes." "do you know what kind of poison it was?"--"yes." "was it arsenic?"--"yes." "was it given to you by any person other than mr. knight?"--"no." "do you wish that he be hanged?"--"yes." "was it given to you in gruel?"--"no." "in beer?"--"yes." here a spectator interrupted with the remark that the deceased was never known to drink beer, but had been fond of purl, and the question was hastily put: "was it not in purl?"--"yes." "how long did you live after taking it?"--three knocks, held to mean three hours. "did carrots" (her maid) "know of your being poisoned?"--"yes." "did you tell her?"--"yes." "how long was it after you took it before you told her?" one knock, for one hour. here was something tangible, and knight went to work with a will to refute the terrible charge brought by the invisible accuser. as reported in _the daily gazetteer_, which had promised that "the reader may expect to be enlightened from time to time to the utmost of our power in this intricate and dark affair," the maid carrots was found, and from her was procured a sworn statement that mrs. knight had said not a word to her about being poisoned; that, indeed, she had become unconscious twelve hours before her death and remained unconscious to the end. the physician and apothecary who had attended her made affidavit to the same effect, and described the fatal nature of her illness. it was further shown that her death at most benefited knight by not more than a hundred pounds, of which he had no need, as he was of independent means. altogether, he would seem to have cleared himself effectually. still the knocking continued, and night after night the accusation was repeated. he now resorted, therefore, to a radical step to convince the public that he was the victim of a monstrous fraud. asserting that little miss parsons herself produced the mysterious sounds, and that she did so at the instigation of her father, he secured an order for her removal to the house of a friend of his, a clerkenwell clergyman. here a decisive failure was recorded against the ghost. it had promised that it would knock on the coffin containing mrs. knight's remains; and about one o'clock in the morning, after hours of silent watching, during which the spirit gave not a sign of its presence, the entire company adjourned to the church. only one member was found of sufficient boldness to plunge with knight into the gloomy depths where the dead lay entombed; and that one bore out his statement that never a knock had been heard. the girl was urged to confess, but persisted in her assertions that the ghost was in nowise of her making. afterward, when the knocking had been resumed under more favorable auspices, word came from the unseen world that the fiasco in the church was ascribable to the very good reason that knight had caused his wife's coffin to be secretly removed. "i will show them!" cried the desperate man. with clergyman, sexton, and undertaker, he visited the vaults once more and not only identified but opened the coffin. meanwhile all london was flocking to cock lane as to a raree-show, on foot, on horseback, in vehicles of every description. some, like the celebrated dr. johnson who took part in the coffin opening episode in clerkenwell, were animated by scientific zeal; but idle curiosity inspired the great majority. the gossiping walpole, in a letter to his friend montagu, has left a graphic picture of the stir created by the newspaper reports. "i went to hear it," he writes; "for it is not an apparition but an audition. we set out from the opera, changed our clothes at northumberland house, the duke of york, lady northumberland, lady mary coke, lord hertford, and i, all in one hackney coach, and drove to the spot; it rained in torrents; yet the lane was full of mob, and the house so full we could not get in; at last they discovered it was the duke of york, and the company squeezed themselves into one another's pockets to make room for us. the house, which is borrowed, and to which the ghost has adjourned, is wretchedly small and miserable; when we opened the chamber, in which were fifty people with no light but one tallow candle at the end, we tumbled over the bed of the child to whom the ghost comes, and whom they are murdering by inches in such insufferable heat and stench. at the top of the room are clothes to dry. i asked if we were to have rope dancing between the acts. we heard nothing; they told us (as they would at a puppet show) that it would not come that night till seven in the morning, that is, when there are only prentices and old women. we stayed, however, till half an hour after one." the skepticism patent in this letter was shared by all thinking men. letter after letter of criticism, even of abuse, was poured into the newspapers. no less a personage than oliver goldsmith wrote, under the title of "the mystery revealed," a long pamphlet which was intended both to explain away the disturbances and to defend the luckless knight. the actor garrick dragged into a prologue a riming and sneering reference to the mystery; the artist hogarth invoked his genius to deride it. yet there were believers in plenty, and there even seem to have been some who thought of preying on the credulous by opening up a business in "knocking ghosts." "on tuesday last," one reads in _the chronicle_, "it was given out that a new knocking ghost was to perform that evening at a house in broad court near bow street, covent garden; information of which being given to a certain magistrate in the neighborhood, he sent his compliments with an intimation that it should not meet with that lenity the cock lane ghost did, but that it should knock hemp in bridewell. on which the ghost very discreetly omitted the intended exhibition." whether or no he took a hint from this publication, it is certain that, finding all other means failing, knight now resolved to try to lay by legal process the ghost that had rendered him the most unhappy and the most talked of man in london. going before a magistrate, he brought a charge of criminal conspiracy against clerk parsons, mrs. parsons, the parsons servant, the clergyman who had aided the servant in eliciting the murder story from the talkative ghost, and a cock lane tradesman. all of these, he alleged, had banded themselves together to ruin him, their malice arising from the quarrel which had led him to remove to clerkenwell and enter a lawsuit against parsons. the girl herself he did not desire punished, because she was too young to understand the evil that she wrought. warrants were forthwith issued, and, protesting their innocence frantically, the accused were dragged to prison. their conviction soon followed, after a trial of which the only obtainable evidence is that it was held at the guildhall before a special jury and was presided over by lord mansfield. then, "the court desiring that mr. k----, who had been so much injured on this occasion, should receive some reparation,"[i] sentence was deferred for several months. this enabled the clergyman and the tradesman "to purchase their pardon" by the payment of some five hundred or six hundred pounds to knight. but the clerk either would not or could not pay a farthing, and on him and his, sentence was now passed. "the father," to quote once more from the meager account in _the annual register_, "was ordered to be set in the pillory three times in one month, once at the end of cock lane, and after that to be imprisoned two years; elizabeth his wife, one year; and mary frazer, six months to bridewell, and to be kept there to hard labor." thus, in wig and gown, did the law solemnly and severely place the seal of disbelief on the cock lane ghost; which, it is worth observing, seems to have vanished forever the moment the arrests were made. * * * * * but, looking back at the case from the vantage point of chronological distance and of recent research into kindred affairs, it is difficult to accept as final the verdict reached by the "special jury" and concurred in by the public opinion of the day. it is preposterous to suppose that for so slight a cause as a dispute over twelve pounds clerk parsons and his associates would conspire to ruin a man's reputation and if possible to take his life; and still more preposterous to imagine that they would adopt such a means to attain this end. of course, they may have had stronger reasons for being hostile to knight than appears from the published facts. yet it is significant that when the clerk was placed in the pillory he seemed to "be out of his mind," and so evident was his misery that the assembled mob "instead of using him ill, made a handsome collection for him." the more likely, nay the only defensible solution of the problem, is that he, his fellow sufferers, and knight himself were one and all the victims of the uncontrollable impulses of a hysterical child. the case bears too strong a resemblance to the tedworth and epworth disturbances to admit of any other hypothesis. not that the parsons girl is to be placed on exactly the same footing as the mompesson children and hetty wesley, and held to some extent responsible for the mischievous phenomena she produced. on the contrary, the more one studies the evidence the stronger grows the conviction that in her we have a striking and singular instance of "dissociation." she was, it is very evident, strongly attached to the unfortunate mrs. knight, doubtless felt keenly the separation from her, and, whether consciously or subconsciously, would cherish a grudge against knight as the cause of that separation. the news of mrs. knight's death would come as a great shock, and might easily act, so to speak, as the fulcrum of the lever of mental disintegration. then, dimly enough at first but soon with portentous rapidity, her disordered consciousness would conceive the idea that her friend had been murdered and that it was her duty to bring the slayer to justice. from this it would be an easy step to the development, in the neurotic child, of a full fledged secondary personality, akin to that found in the spiritistic mediums of later times. now, for the first time, her faculties would seem to her astonished parents to be in the keeping and under the control of an extraneous being, a departed, discarnate spirit; and in this error she and they would be confirmed by the suggestions and foolish questions of those who came to marvel. it needed another great shock--there being in those days no janet or prince or sidis to take charge of the case--the shock of the arrest and imprisonment of her parents, to effect at least partial reintegration and the consequent disappearance of the secondary self, the much debated, malevolent cock lane ghost. footnotes: [h] it is proper to observe that the name knight given to the leading actor in this singular drama rests on inference merely. doubtless from a fear of libel suits, the contemporary newspapers and magazines speak of him only as mr. ----, or mr. k----, there being, so far as the present writer has been able to discover, only one publication (_the gentleman's magazine_) so bold as to refer to him as mr. k----t. nowhere is his identity made clear. judging from the prominence of those who rushed to his defense, he would seem to have been a person of considerable importance. [i] _the annual register_ for . vi the ghost seen by lord brougham it is comparatively easy, when seated before a roaring fire in a well-lighted room, to sneer ghosts out of existence, and roundly affirm that they are without exception the fanciful products of a heated imagination. but the matter takes on a very different complexion, when in that same room and without so much as the opening of a door, one is unexpectedly confronted by the figure of an absent friend, who, it subsequently appears, is about that time breathing his last in another part of the world. especially would it seem impossible to remain skeptical if there existed between oneself and the friend in question a compact, drawn up years before in an access of youthful enthusiasm, binding whichever should die first to appear to the other at the moment of death. this, as all students of ghostology are aware, has frequently been the case; and it was precisely the case with the ghost seen by the famous lord brougham, the brilliant and versatile scotchman, whose astonishingly long and successful career in england as statesman, judge, lawyer, man of science, philanthropist, orator, and author won him a place among the immortals both of the georgian and of the victorian era. at the time he saw the ghost he was still a young man, thinking far less of what the future might hold than of the pleasures of the present. in fact, it is difficult to imagine a more unlikely subject for a ghostly experience. from his earliest youth, his father, a most matter of fact person, sedulously endeavored to impress him with the belief that the only spirits deserving of the name were those which came in oddly labeled bottles; and in support of this view the elder brougham frequently related the adventures of sundry persons of his acquaintance who had engaged in the mischievous pastime of ghost hunting. added to the natural effect of such tales as these was the inherent exuberance of brougham's disposition and the bent of his mind to mathematics and kindred exact sciences. it was at the edinburgh high school that he first met his future ghost, who at the time was a youngster like himself, and became and long remained his most intimate friend. the two lads were graduated together from the high school, and together matriculated into the university, where, in the intervals brougham could spare from his favorite studies and recreations, and from the company of the daredevil students with whom he soon began to associate, they continued their old time walks and talks. on one of these walks, the conversation happened to turn to the perennial problem of life beyond the grave and the possibility of the dead communicating with the living. brougham, mindful of the views maintained by his father, doubtless treated the subject lightly, if not scoffingly; but one word led to another, until finally, in what he afterward described as a moment of folly, he covenanted with his friend that whichever of them should happen to pass from earth first would, if it were at all possible, show himself in spirit to the other, and thus prove beyond peradventure that the soul of man survived the death of the body. so far as brougham was concerned, this undertaking was speedily forgotten in the pressure of the many activities into which he plunged with all the ardor of his impetuous nature. his days were given wholly to the pursuit of knowledge; his nights to the pursuit of pleasure, as pleasure was then counted by the roystering young scotchmen, whose favorite resort was the tavern, and whose most popular pastime was filching signs, bell handles, and knockers, and stirring the city guard to unwonted energy. under such conditions neither the death pact nor the solemn minded youth with whom he had made it could remain long in his memory; and it is not surprising to find that with the end of college life and the removal of his boyhood's friend to india, where he entered the civil service, they soon became as strangers to each other. brougham himself remained in edinburgh to read for the law, and incidentally to develop with the aid of an amateur debating society the oratorical talents that were in time to make him the logical successor of pitt, fox, and burke in the house of commons. he continued none the less a lover of pleasure, some of which, however, he now took in the healthy form of long walking trips through the highlands. in this way he acquired a desire for travel, and when, in the autumn of , an opportunity came for an extended tour of denmark, sweden, and norway, he grasped it eagerly. together with the future diplomat, lord stuart of rothsay, then plain charles stuart and the boon companion of many a pedestrian excursion, he sailed for copenhagen late in september, and by leisurely stages made his way thence to stockholm, alive to all the varied interests of the novel scenes in which he found himself; but encountering little that was exciting or adventurous, until, after a prolonged sojourn in the swedish capital and a brief visit to göteborg, he started for norway. by this time the weather had turned so cold that the travelers resolved to bring their tour to a sudden end, and to press on as rapidly as the bad roads would permit to some norwegian port, where they hoped to find a ship that would carry them back to scotland. accordingly, leaving göteborg early in the morning of december , they journeyed steadily until after midnight, when they came to an inn that seemed to promise comfortable sleeping accommodations. stuart lost no time in going to bed; but brougham decided to wait until a hot bath could be prepared for him. plunging into it, and forgetful of everything save the warmth that was doubly welcome after the cold of the long drive, he suddenly became aware that he was not alone in the room. no door had opened, not a footstep had been heard; but in the light of the flickering candles he plainly saw the figure of a man seated in the chair on which he had carelessly thrown his clothes. and this figure he instantly recognized as that of his early playmate, the forgotten chum who, as he well knew, had years before gone from the land of the heather to the land of the blazing sun. yet here he sat, in the quaintly furnished sleeping chamber of a swedish roadside inn, gazing composedly at his astounded friend. at once there flashed into brougham's mind remembrance of the death pact, and he leaped from the bath, only to lose all consciousness and fall headlong to the floor. when he revived, the apparition had disappeared. there was little sleep for the hard headed scotchman that night. the vision had been too definite, the shock too intense. but, dressing, he sat down and strove to debate the matter in the light of cold reason. he must, he argued, have dozed off in the bath and experienced a strange dream. to be sure, he had not been thinking of his old comrade, and for years had had no communication with him. nor had anything taken place during the tour to bring to memory either him or any member of his family, or to turn brougham's mind to thoughts of india. still, he found it impossible to believe that he had seen a ghost. at most, he reiterated to himself, it could have been nothing more than an exceptionally clear cut dream. and to this opinion he stubbornly adhered, notwithstanding the receipt, soon after his return to edinburgh, of a letter from india announcing the death of the friend who had been so mysteriously recalled to his recollection, and giving december as the date of death. more than sixty years later we find him, in his autobiography commenting on the experience anew, granting that it was a strange coincidence but refusing to admit that it was anything more than the coincidence of a dream. it was in his autobiography, by the way, that he first referred to the confirmatory letter. this fact, taken in connection with his reputation for holding the truth in light esteem and with several vague and puzzling statements contained in the detailed account of the experience itself as set forth in his journal of the scandinavian tour, has led some critics to make the suggestion that his narrative partakes of the nature of fiction rather than of a sober recital of facts. against this, however, must be set brougham's complete and invincible repugnance to accept at face value anything bordering on the supernatural. he took no pleasure in the thought that he had possibly been the recipient of a visit from a departed spirit. on the contrary, it annoyed him, and he sought earnestly to find a natural explanation for an occurrence which remained unique throughout his long life. no one would have been readier to point out the futility of the apparition if the absent friend had really continued hale and hearty after december . and it is therefore reasonable to assume that had he wished to falsify at all, he would have given an altogether different sequel to the story of his vision or dream, as he preferred to call it, though the evidence which he himself furnishes shows that he was not asleep. the question still remains, of course, whether he was justified in dismissing it as a sheer chance coincidence. if it stood by itself, it would obviously be permissible to accept this explanation as all sufficient. but the fact is that it is only one of many similar instances. this was strikingly brought out only a few years ago through a far reaching inquiry, a "census of hallucinations," instituted by a special committee of the society for psychical research. enlisting the services of some four hundred "collectors," the committee instructed each of these to address to twenty-five adults, selected at random, the query, "have you ever, when believing yourself to be completely awake, had a vivid impression of seeing or being touched by a living being or inanimate object, or of hearing a voice; which impression, so far as you could discover, was not due to any external physical cause?" in all, seventeen thousand people were thus questioned, and almost ten per cent. of the answers received proved to be in the affirmative. more than this, it appeared that out of a total of three hundred and fifty recognized apparitions of living persons, no fewer than sixty-five were "death coincidences," in which the hallucinatory experience occurred within from one hour to twelve hours after the death of the person seen. sifting these death coincidences carefully, the committee for various reasons rejected more than half, and at the same time raised the total of recognized apparitions of living persons from three hundred and fifty to thirteen hundred. this was done in order to make generous allowance for the number of such apparitions forgotten by those to whom the question had been put, investigation showing that the great majority of hallucinations reported were given as of comparatively recent occurrence, and that there was a rapid decrease as the years of occurrence became more remote. as a final result, therefore, the committee found about thirty death coincidences out of thirteen hundred cases, or a proportion of one in forty-three. computing from the average annual death-rate for england and wales, it was calculated that the probability that any one person would die on a given day was about one in nineteen thousand; in other words, out of every nineteen thousand apparitions of living persons, there should occur, by chance alone, one death coincidence. the actual proportion, however, as established by the inquiry, was equivalent to about four hundred and forty in nineteen thousand, or four hundred and forty times the most probable number, and this when the apparitions reported were considered merely collectively as having been seen at any time within twelve hours after death. not a few, as a matter of fact, were reported as having been seen within one hour after death, and for these the improbability of occurrence by chance alone was manifestly twelve times four hundred and forty. in view of these considerations the committee felt warranted in declaring that "between deaths and apparitions of dying persons a connection exists which is not due to chance."[j] had lord brougham lived to study the statistics of this remarkable census of hallucinations, he might have formed a higher opinion of his ghost; but he would also have been in a better position to deny its supernatural attributes. for, if the society for psychical research has made it impossible to doubt the existence of such ghosts as that which he beheld during his travels in sweden, it has likewise made discoveries which afford a really substantial reason for asserting that they no more hail from the world beyond than do ghosts that are unmistakably the creations of fancy or fraud. this results from the society's investigations of thought transference or telepathy, to use the term now commonly employed. at an early stage of the experiments undertaken to determine the possibility of transmitting thought from mind to mind without the intervention of any known means of communication, it was found that when success attended the efforts of the experimenters the telepathic message was frequently received not in the form of pure thought but as a hallucinatory image; and what is still more important in the present connection, it was further found possible so to produce not merely images of cards, flowers, books, and other inanimate objects, but also images of living persons. thus, as chronicled with corroborative evidence in the society's "proceedings," an english clergyman named godfrey telepathically caused a distant friend to see an apparition of him one night; the same result was achieved by a mr. sinclair of new jersey, who, during a visit to new york, succeeded in projecting a phantasm of himself which was clearly seen by his wife in lakewood; and similarly a mr. kirk, while seated in his london office, paid a telepathic visit to the home of a young woman, who saw him as distinctly as though he had gone there in the flesh. in all of these, as in other cases recorded by the society, the persons to whom the apparitions were vouchsafed had no idea that any experiment of the kind was being attempted. indeed, there is on record an apparently well authenticated instance of the experimental production of an apparition not of the living but of the dead. this occurred in germany many years ago, when a certain herr wesermann undertook to "will" a military friend into dreaming of a woman who had long been dead. the sequel may be related in herr wesermann's own words: "a lady, who had been dead five years, was to appear to lieutenant n. in a dream at . p.m., and incite him to good deeds. at half-past ten, contrary to expectation, herr n. had not gone to bed but was discussing the french campaign with his friend lieutenant s. in the ante-room. suddenly the door of the room opened, the lady entered dressed in white, with a black kerchief and uncovered head, greeted s. with her hand three times in a friendly manner; then turned to n., nodded to him, and returned again through the doorway. "as this story, related to me by lieutenant n., seemed to be too remarkable from a psychological point of view for the truth of it not to be duly established, i wrote to lieutenant s., who was living six miles away, and asked him to give me his account of it. he sent me the following reply: "'on the thirteenth of march, , herr n. came to pay me a visit at my lodgings about a league from a----. he stayed the night with me. after supper, and when we were both undressed, i was sitting on my bed and herr n. was standing by the door of the next room on the point also of going to bed. this was about half-past ten. we were speaking partly about indifferent subjects and partly about the events of the french campaign. suddenly the door of the kitchen opened without a sound, and a lady entered, very pale, taller than herr n., about five feet four inches in height, strong and broad of figure, dressed in white, but with a large black kerchief which reached to below the waist. "'she entered with bare head, greeted me with the hand three times in complimentary fashion, turned round to the left toward herr n., and waved her hand to him three times; after which the figure quietly, and again without any creaking of the door, went out. we followed at once in order to discover whether there were any deception, but found nothing. the strangest thing was this, that our night-watch of two men whom i had shortly found on the watch were now asleep, though at my first call they were on the alert; and that the door of the room, which always opens with a good deal of noise, did not make the slightest sound when opened by the figure.'"[k] it is also significant that, as was made evident by the census of hallucinations, by far the larger number of apparitions reported are those of persons still alive and well. in these cases, nobody being dead, it is absurd[l] to raise the cry of spirits, and the only tenable hypothesis is that, through one of the several causes which seem to quicken telepathic action, a spontaneous telepathic hallucination has been produced. now, the experiments conducted by the society and by independent investigators have shown that telepathic messages often lie dormant for hours beneath the threshold of the receiver's consciousness, being consciously apprehended only when certain favoring conditions arise; as, for example, when the receiver has fallen asleep, or into a state of reverie, or when, tired out after a long day's work, he has utterly relaxed mentally. this is technically known as "deferred percipience," and, considered in conjunction with the discoveries mentioned, it is amply sufficient to dislodge from the realm of the supernatural the ghost seen by lord brougham, and every ghost that is not a mere imposter. in the brougham case the exciting cause of the hallucination seems to have been the death pact. as he lay dying in india, the mind of the whilom schoolboy would, consciously or unconsciously, revert to that agreement with the friend of his youth, and thence would arise the desire to let him know that the plighted word had not been forgotten. across the vast intervening space, by what mechanism we as yet do not know, the message would flash instantaneously, to remain unapprehended, perhaps for hours after the death of the sender, until, in the quiet of the swedish inn and resting from the fatigues of the journey, brougham's mental faculties passed momentarily into the condition necessary for its objective realization. then, precisely as in experimental telepathy the receiver sees a hallucinatory image of the trinket or the book; with a suddenness and vividness that could not fail to shock him, the message would find expression by the creation before brougham's startled eyes of a hallucinatory image of the friend who, as he was to learn later, had died that same day thousands of miles from sweden. knowing nothing of the possibilities of the human mind, as revealed, if only faintly, by the labors of a later generation, it was inevitable he should believe he had no alternative between dismissing the experience as a peculiar dream or admitting that in very truth he had looked upon a ghost. footnotes: [j] the committee's report will be found in the tenth volume of the "proceedings of the society for psychical research." [k] translation from the "journal of the society for psychical research," vol. iv. p. . [l] i had originally written "impossible," but a critic of my "riddle of personality," in which this point was taken up, has convinced me that "absurd" is the better word. the critic in question writes: "what evidence has the author that an apparition of the living is not a spirit? why may not the spirit of the living person have left his body and appeared to his friend? such is the view of many people, and it coincides with certain phenomena in dreams." but, to raise only one objection: if the apparition appear at a moment when the person seen is actively engaged elsewhere--it may be in writing a book, or preaching a sermon--what is it that is seen, and what is it that is writing or preaching? is the "spirit" present in both places at the same time--in the shadowy apparition, and in the living, breathing, busily-occupied human entity? assuredly, if it be not "impossible" to raise the cry of spirits in such a case, it would at all events seem "absurd" to do so. vii the seeress of prevorst modern spiritism, as every student of that fascinating if elusive subject is aware, dates from the closing years of the first half of the nineteenth century. but the celebrated fox sisters, whose revelations at that time served to crystallize into an organized religious system the idea of the possibility of communication between this world and the world beyond, were by no means the first of spiritistic mediums. long before their day there were those who professed to have cognizance of things unseen and to act as intermediaries between the living and the dead; and although lost to sight amid the throng of latter-day claimants to similar powers, the achievements of some of these early adventurers into the unknown have not been surpassed by the best performances of the fox girls and their long line of successors. especially is this true of the mediumship of a young german woman, frederica hauffe, who in the course of her short, pitiful, and tragic career is credited with having displayed more varied and picturesque supernatural gifts than the most renowned wonder-worker of to-day. like many modern mediums she was of humble origin, her birthplace being a forester's hut in the würtemberg mountain village of prevorst; and here, among wood-cutters and charcoal-burners, she passed the first years of her life. even while still a child she seems to have attracted wide-spread attention on account of certain peculiarities of temperament and conduct. it was noticed that though naturally gay and playful she occasionally assumed a strangely intent and serious manner; that in her happiest moments she was subject to unaccountable fits of shuddering and shivering; and that she seemed keenly alive not merely to the sights and sounds of every-day life but to influences unfelt by those about her. this last trait received a sudden and unexpected development when, at the age of twelve or thirteen, she was sent to the neighboring town of löwenstein to be educated under the care of her grand-parents, a worthy couple named schmidgall. grandfather schmidgall was an exceedingly superstitious old man, with a singular fondness for visiting solitary and gloomy places, particularly churchyards; and he soon began to take the little girl with him on such strolls. but he discovered, much to his amazement, that though she listened with avidity to the tales he told her of the romantic and mysterious events that had occurred within the somber ruins with which the countryside was liberally endowed, she was reluctant to explore those ruins or wander among the graves where he delighted to resort. at first he was inclined to ascribe her reluctance to weak and sentimental timidity, but he speedily found reason to adopt an altogether different view. he noticed that whenever he took her to graveyards or to churches in which there were graves, her frail form became greatly agitated, and at times she seemed rooted to the ground; and that there were certain places, especially an old kitchen in a nearby castle, which he could not persuade her to enter, and the mere sight of which caused her to quake and tremble. "the child," he told his wife, "feels the presence of the dead, and, mark you, she will end by seeing the dead." he was, therefore, more alarmed than surprised when one midnight, long after he had fancied her in bed and asleep, she ran to his room and informed him that she had just beheld in the hall a tall, dark figure which, sighing heavily, passed her and disappeared in the vestibule. with awe, not unmixed with satisfaction, schmidgall remembered that he had once seen the self-same apparition; but he prudently endeavored to convince her that she had been dreaming and sent her back to her room, which, thenceforward, he never allowed her to leave at night. in this way frederica hauffe's mediumship began. but several years were to pass before she saw another ghost or gave evidence of possessing supernormal powers other than by occasional dreams of a prophetic and revelatory nature. in the meanwhile she rejoined her parents and moved with them from prevorst to oberstenfeld, where, in her nineteenth year, she was married. it was distinctly a marriage of convenience, arranged without regard to her wishes, and the moment the engagement was announced she secluded herself from her friends and passed her days and nights in weeping. for weeks together she went without sleep, ate scarcely anything, and became thin, pale, and feeble. it was rumored that she had set her affections in another quarter: but her relatives angrily denied this and asserted that once married she would soon become herself again. they were mistaken. from her wedding day, which she celebrated by attending the funeral of a venerable clergyman to whom she had been warmly attached, her health broke rapidly. one morning she awoke in a high fever that lasted a fortnight and was followed by convulsive spasms, during which she beheld at the bedside the image of her grandmother schmidgall, who, it subsequently developed, was at that moment dying in distant löwenstein. the spasms continuing, despite the application of the customary rude remedies of the time, it was decided to send for a physician with some knowledge of mesmerism, which was then becoming popular in germany. to the astonishment of those who thronged the sick room, the first touch of his hand on her forehead brought relief. the convulsions ceased, she became calm, and presently she fell asleep. but on awaking she was attacked as before, and try as he might the physician could not effect a permanent cure. to all his "passes" she responded with gratifying promptitude, only to suffer a relapse the moment she was released from the mesmeric influence. at this juncture aid was received from a most extraordinary source, according to the story frederica told her wondering friends. with benign visage and extended hand, the spirit of her grandmother appeared to her for seven successive nights, mesmerized her, and taught her how to mesmerize herself. the results of this visitation, if not altogether fortunate, were at least to some extent curative. there were periods when she was able not merely to leave her bed but to attend to household duties and indulge in long walks and drives. but it was painfully apparent that she was still in a precarious condition. from her infancy she had always been powerfully affected by the touch of different metals, and now this phenomenon was intensified a thousand-fold. the placing of a magnet on her forehead caused her features to be contorted as though by a stroke of paralysis; contact with glass and sand made her cataleptic. once she was found seated on a sandstone bench, unable to move hand or foot. about this time also she acquired the faculty of crystal-gazing; that is to say, by looking into a bowl of water she could correctly describe scenes transpiring at a distance. more than this, she now declared that behind the persons in whose company she was she perceived ghostly forms, some of which she recognized as dead acquaintances. unlike her grandmother, these new visitants from the unknown world did not provide her with the means of regaining her lost health. on the contrary, from the time they first put in their appearance she grew far worse, suffering not so much from convulsive attacks as from an increasing lassitude. she complained that eating was a great tax on her strength, and that rising and walking were out of the question. unable to comprehend this new turn of affairs, her attendants lost all patience, declared that if she had made up her mind to die she might as well do so as at once, and tried to force her to leave her bed. finally her parents intervened, and at their request she was brought back to oberstenfeld. here she found an altogether congenial environment, and for a while showed marked improvement. here too, and in a most sensational way, her mediumship blossomed into full fruition. she had been home for only a short time when the family began to be disturbed by mysterious noises for which they could find no cause. a sound like the ringing of glasses was frequently heard, as were footsteps and knockings on the walls. her father, in particular, asserted that sometimes he felt a strange pressure on his shoulder or his foot. the impression grew that the house, which was part of the ancient, picturesque, and none too well preserved cathedral of oberstenfeld, was haunted by the spirits of its former occupants. one night, shortly after retiring to the room which they shared in common, frederica, her sister, and a maid servant saw a lighted candle, apparently of its own volition, move up and down the table on which it was burning. the sister and the servant saw nothing more; but frederica the next instant beheld a thin, grayish cloud, which presently resolved into the form of a man, about fifty years old, attired in the costume of a medieval knight. approaching, this strange apparition gazed steadfastly at her, and in a low but clear tone urged her to rise and follow it, saying that she alone could loosen its bonds. overcome with terror, she cried out that she would not follow, then ran across the room and hid herself in the bed where her sister and the servant lay panic-stricken. that night she saw no more of the apparition: but the maid, whom they sent to sleep in the bed she had so hurriedly vacated, declared that the coverings were forcibly drawn off her by an unseen hand. the next night the apparition appeared to frederica again, and to her alone. this time it seemed not sorrowful but angry, and threatened that if she did not rise and follow she would be hurled out of the window. at her bold retort, "in the name of jesus, do it!" the apparition vanished, to return a few nights later, and after that to show itself to her by day as well as by night. it now informed her that it was the ghost of a nobleman named weiler, who had slain his brother and for that crime was condemned to wander ceaselessly until it recovered a certain piece of paper hidden in a vault under the cathedral. on hearing this, she solemnly assured it that by prayer alone could its sins be forgiven and pardon obtained, and thereupon she set herself to teach it to pray. ultimately, with a most joyous countenance, the ghost told her that she had indeed led it to its redeemer and won its release; and at the same time seven tiny spirits--the spirits of the children it had had on earth--appeared in a circle about it and sang melodiously. nor did they leave her until the protecting apparition of her grandmother interrupted their thanksgivings and bade them be gone. whether or no the happy ghost notified others in kindred plight of the success that had attended her efforts, it is certain that, if the contemporary records are to be accepted, the few short years of life remaining to her were largely occupied in ministering to the wants of distressed spirits. phantom monks, nobles, peasants, pressed upon her with terrible tales of misdeeds unatoned, and begged her to instruct them in the prayers which were essential to salvation. there was one specially importunate group, the apparitions of a young man, a young woman, and a new-born child wrapped in ghostly rags, which gave her no peace for months. the child, they said, was theirs and had been murdered by them, and the young woman in her turn had been murdered by the young man. naturally, they were in an unhappy frame of mind, and until she was able to send them on their way rejoicing their conduct and language were so extravagant that they appalled her more than did any other of the numerous seekers for grace and rest. the dead were not the only ones to whom she ministered. side by side with the gift of ghost-seeing and ghost-conversing, and with the no less remarkable gift of speaking in an unknown tongue and of setting forth the mysteries of the hereafter, she developed the peculiar faculty of peering into the innermost being of spirits still in the flesh, detecting the obscure causes of disease, and prescribing remedies. strange to say, her own health remained poor, and gradually she became so feeble that from day to day her death seemed imminent. but her parents were resolved to do all they could for her, and at last bethought themselves of placing her in the hands of the much talked of physician, justinus kerner, who lived in the pleasant valley town of weinsberg and was said to be an adept in every branch of the healing art, notably in the mesmerism which alone appeared to benefit her. to kerner, therefore, she was sent; and it is not difficult to imagine the delight with which she exchanged the gloomy mountain forests for the verdant meadows and fragrant vineyards of weinsberg. kerner, who is better known to the present generation as mystic and poet than as physician, was justly accounted one of the celebrities of the day. eccentric and visionary, he was yet a man of solid learning and an intense patriot. it was owing to him, as his biographers fondly recall, that weinsberg's most glorious monument, the well named weibertrube, was not suffered to fall into utter neglect, but was instead restored to remind all germans of that distant day, in the long gone twelfth century, when the women of weinsberg, securing from the conqueror the promise that their lives would be spared, and that they might take with them from the doomed city their most precious belongings, staggered forth under the burden not of jewels and treasure but of their husbands, whom they carried in their arms or on their backs. thus was a massacre averted, and thus did the name of "woman's faithfulness" attach itself to the castle in the shadow of which kerner spent his days. but at the time of which we write neither the castle nor poetry held first place in his thoughts; instead, he was absorbed in the practice of his profession. and so, with the ardor of the enthusiast and the sympathy of the true physician, he welcomed to weinsberg the sufferer of whom he had heard much and of whom he was to become both doctor and biographer.[m] it was in november, , that he first met her. she was then twenty-five, and thus had been for six years in a state of almost constant ill health. her very appearance moved him profoundly. her fragile body, he relates in the graphic word picture he drew, enveloped her spirit but as a gauzy veil. she was extremely small, with oriental features and dark-lashed eyes that were at once penetrating and "prophetic." when she spoke his conviction deepened that he was looking on one who belonged more to the world of the dead than to the world of the living; and he speedily became persuaded that she actually did, as she claimed, commune with the dead. less than a month after her arrival at weinsberg, and being in the trance condition that was now frequent with her, she announced to him that she had been visited by a ghost, which insisted on showing her a sheet of paper covered with figures and begged her to give it to his wife, who was still alive and would understand its significance and the duty devolving upon her of making restitution to the man he had wronged in life. kerner was thunderstruck at recognizing from her description a weinsberg lawyer who had been dead for some years and was thought to have defrauded a client out of a large sum of money. eagerly he plied frederica with questions, among other things asking her to endeavor to locate the paper of which the ghost spoke. "i see it," said she, dreamily. "it lies in a building which is sixty paces from my bed. in this i see a large and a smaller room. in the latter sits a tall gentleman, who is working at a table. now he goes out, and now he returns. beyond these rooms there is one still larger, in which are some chests and a long table. on the table is a wooden thing--i cannot name it--and on this lie three heaps of paper; and in the center one, about the middle of the heap, lies the sheet which so torments him." knowing that this was an exact account of the office of the local bailiff, kerner hastened to that functionary with the astonishing news, and was still more astonished when the bailiff told him that he had been occupied precisely as she said. together they searched among the papers on the table; but could find none in the lawyer's handwriting. frederica, however, was insistent, adding that one corner of the paper in question was turned down and that it was enclosed in a stout brown envelope. a second search proved that she was right, and on opening the paper it was found to contain not only figures but an explicit reference to a private account book of which the lawyer's widow had denied all knowledge. still more striking was the fact, according to kerner's narrative, that when the bailiff, as a test, placed the paper in a certain position on his desk and went to frederica, pretending that he had it with him, she correctly informed him where it was and read it off to him word by word. although the sequel was rather unsatisfactory, inasmuch as the widow persisted in asserting that she knew nothing of a private account book and refused to yield a penny to the injured client, kerner was so impressed by this exhibition of supernatural power that, in order to study his patient more closely, he had her removed from her lodgings to his own house. thither also, as soon as he learned that their presence seemed to increase her susceptibility to the occult influences by which she was surrounded, he brought her sister and the maid servant of the dancing candle episode. then ensued greater marvels than had ever bewitched the family at oberstenfeld. invisible hands threw articles of furniture at the enthusiastic doctor and his friends; ghostly fingers sprinkled lime and gravel on the flooring of his halls and rooms; spirit knuckles beat lively tattoos on walls, tables, chairs, and bedsteads. and all the while ghosts with criminal pasts flocked in and out, seeking consolation and advice. only once or twice, however, did the physician himself see anything even remotely resembling a ghost. on one occasion a cloudy shape floated past his window; and on another he saw at frederica's bedside a pillar of vapor, which she afterward told him was the specter of a tall old man who had visited her twice before. but if he neither saw the ghosts nor heard them speak, it was sufficiently demonstrated to him that they were really in evidence. the knocking, furniture throwing, and gravel sprinkling were the least of the wonders of which it was permitted him to be a witness. once, when frederica was taking an afternoon nap, a spirit that was evidently solicitous for her comfort drew off her boots, and in his presence carried them across the room to where her sister was standing by a window. again at midnight, after a preliminary knocking on the walls, he observed another spirit, or possibly the same, open a book she had been reading which was lying on her bed. most marvelous of all, when her father died she herself enacted the rôle of ghost, the news of his death being conveyed to her supernaturally and her cry of anguish being supernaturally conveyed back to the room where his corpse lay, in oberstenfeld, and where it was distinctly heard by the physician who had attended him in his last moments. after this crowning piece of testimony the good kerner felt that no doubt of her unheard of powers could remain in the most skeptical mind. judge, then, of his dismay and grief when he saw her visibly fading away, daily growing more ethereal of form and feature, more weak in body and spirit. it was his belief that the ghosts were robbing her of her vitality, and earnestly but vainly he strove to banish them. she herself declared, with a tone of indescribable relief, that she knew the end was near, and that she welcomed it, as she longed to attain the quiet of the grave with her father and grandfather and grandmother schmidgall. when kerner sought to cheer her by the assurance that she yet had many years to live, she silenced him with the tale of a gruesome vision. three times, she said, there had appeared to her at dead of night a female figure, wrapped in black and standing beside an open and empty coffin, to which it beckoned her. but before she died she wished to see again the mountains of her childhood; and to the mountains kerner carried her. there, on august , , peacefully and happily, to the singing of hymns and the sobbing utterance of prayers, her soul took its flight. but, unlike kerner, who hastened back to weinsberg to write the biography of this "delicate flower who lived upon sunbeams," we must shake off the spell of her strange personality and ask seriously what manner of mortal she was. this inquiry is the more imperative since the doings of the tambourine players and automatic writers, of whom so much is made in certain quarters to-day, pale into insignificance beside the story of her remarkable career. now, in point of fact, the evidence bearing out the claim that she saw and talked with the dead is practically confined to the account written by the mourning kerner, whom no one would for a moment call an unprejudiced witness. already deeply immersed in the study of the marvelous, his mind absorbed in the weird phenomena of the recently discovered science of animal magnetism, she came to him both as a patient and as a living embodiment of the mysteries that held for him a boundless fascination, and once he found reason to believe in her alleged supernormal powers, there was nothing too fantastic or extravagant to which he would not give ready credence and assent. his lengthy record of "facts" includes not only what he himself saw or thought he saw, but every tale and anecdote related to him by the seeress and her friends, and also includes so many incidents of supernaturalism on the part of others that it would well seem that half the peasant population of würtemberg were ghost seers. besides this, detailed as his narrative is, it is lacking in precisely those details which would give it evidential value; so lacking, indeed, that even such a spiritistic advocate as the late f. w. h. myers pronounced it "quite inadequate" for citation in support of the spiritistic theory. nevertheless, taking his extraordinary document for what it is worth, careful consideration of it leads to the conclusion that it contains the story not so much of a great fraud as of a great tragedy. it is obvious that there was frequent and barefaced trickery, particularly on the part of frederica's sister and the ubiquitous servant girl; but it is equally certain that frederica herself was a wholly abnormal creature, firmly self-deluded, one might say self-hypnotized, into the belief that the dead consorted with her. and it is hardly less certain that in her singular state of body and mind she gave evidence not indeed of supernatural but of telepathic and clairvoyant powers on which she and those about her, in that unenlightened age, could not but put a supernatural interpretation. it is not difficult to trace the origin of the nervous and mental disease from which she suffered. kerner's account of her childhood shows plainly that she was born temperamentally imaginative and unstable and that she was raised in an environment well calculated to exaggerate her imaginativeness and instability. ghosts and goblins were favorite topics of conversation among the peasantry of prevorst, while the children with whom she played were many of them unstable like herself, neurotic, hysterical, and the victims of st. vitus's dance. the weird and uneasy ideas and feelings which thus early took possession of her were given firmer lodgment by her unfortunate sojourn with grave-haunting grandfather schmidgall. after this, it seems, she suffered for a year from some eye trouble, and every physician knows how close the connection is between optical disease and hallucinations. then came a brief period of seeming normality, the lull before the storm which burst in full force with her marriage to a man she did not love. from that time, the helpless victim of hysteria in its most deep-seated and obstinate form, she gave herself unreservedly to the delusions which both arose from and intensified her physical ills--ills which after all had a purely mental basis. "if i doubted the reality of these apparitions," she once told kerner, "i should be in danger of insanity; for it would make me doubt the reality of everything i saw." it does not affect this view of the case that she unquestionably coöperated with her conscienceless sister and the servant girl in the production of the fraudulent phenomena to which kerner testifies. their cheating was probably done for the sole purpose of making sure of the comfortable berth in which the physician's credulity had placed them. hers, on the other hand, was the deceit of an irresponsible mind, of one living in such an atmosphere of unreality that she could readily persuade herself that the knockings, candle dancings, book openings, and similar acts were the work not of her own hands but of the ghosts which tormented her. indeed, researches of recent years in the field of abnormal psychology show it is quite possible that she was absolutely ignorant of any personal participation in the movements and sounds which caused such wide-spread mystification. sympathy and pity, therefore, should take the place of condemnation when we follow the course of her eventful and unhappy life. footnotes: [m] kerner's account of frederica hauffe is found in his "die seherin von prevorst," accessible in an english translation by mrs. catharine crowe. students of the supernatural, it may be added, will find a great deal of interesting material in mrs. crowe's "the night side of nature." viii the mysterious mr. home "so you've brought the devil to my house, have you?" "no, no, aunty, no! it's not my fault." with an angry gesture the woman, tall, large boned, harsh visaged, pushed back her chair and advanced threateningly toward the pale, anemic looking youth of seventeen, who sat cowering at the far end of the breakfast table. "you know this is your doing. stop it at once!" the other gazed helplessly about him, while from every side of the room came a volley of raps and knocks. "it is not my doing," he muttered. "i cannot help it." "begone then! out of my sight!" left to herself and to silence,--for with her nephew's departure the noise instantly ceased,--she fell into gloomy meditation. she was an exceedingly ignorant, but a profoundly religious woman. she had heard much of the celebrated fox sisters, with tales of whose strange actions in the neighboring state of new york the countryside was then ringing, and she recognized, or imagined she recognized, a striking similarity between their performances and the tumult of the last few minutes. it was her firm belief that the fox girls were victims of demoniac influence, and no less surely did she deem it impossible to attribute the recent disturbance to human agency. her nephew was not given to practical jokes; there had been nothing unusual in his manner; he had greeted her cheerily as usual, and quietly taken his seat. but with his advent, and she shuddered at the remembrance, the knockings had begun. there could be only one explanation--the boy, however unwittingly, had placed himself in the power of the devil. what to do, however, she knew not, and fumed and fretted the entire morning, until upon his reappearance at noon the knockings broke out again. then her mind was quickly made up. "look you!" said she to him. "we must rid you of the evil that is in you. i will have the ministers reason with you and pray for you, and that at once." true to her word, she despatched a messenger to the three clergymen of the little connecticut village in which she made her home, and all three promptly responded to her request. but their visits and their prayers proved fruitless. indeed, the more they prayed the louder the knocks became; and presently, to their astonishment and dismay, the very furniture appeared bewitched, dancing and leaping as though alive. "verily," said one to his irate aunt, "the boy is possessed of the devil." to make matters worse, the neighbors, hearing of the weird occurrences, besieged the house day and night, their curiosity whetted by a report that, exactly as in the case of the fox sisters, communications from the dead were being received through the knockings. incredible as it seemed, this report found speedy confirmation. before the week was out the lad told his aunt: "last night there came raps to me spelling words, and they brought me a message from the spirit of my mother." "and what, pray, was the message?" "my mother's spirit said to me, 'daniel, fear not, my child. god is with you, and who shall be against you? seek to do good. be truthful and truth loving, and you will prosper, my child. yours is a glorious mission--you will convince the infidel, cure the sick, and console the weeping.'" "a glorious mission," mocked the aunt, her patience utterly exhausted,--"a glorious mission to bedevil and deceive, to plague and torment! away, away, and darken my doors no more!" "do you mean this, aunty?" "mean it, daniel? never shall it be said of me that i gave aid and comfort to satan or child of satan's. pack, and be off!" in this way was daniel dunglas home launched on a career that was to prove one of the most marvelous, if not the most marvelous, in the annals of mystification. but at the time there was no reason to anticipate the remarkable achievements which the future held in store for him. he was fitted for no calling. ever since his aunt had adopted him in far-away scotland, where he was born of obscure parentage in , he had led a life of complete dependence, not altogether cheerless but deadening to initiative and handicapping him terribly for the task of making his way in the world. his health was broken, his pockets were empty, he was without friends. cast upon his own resources under such conditions, it seemed but too probable that failure and an early death would be his portion. two things only were in his favor. the first was his native determination and optimism; the second, the interest aroused by published reports of the phenomena that had led to his expulsion from his aunt's house. already, although only a few days had elapsed since the knockings were first heard, the newspapers had given the story great publicity, and their accounts were greedily devoured by an ever-widening circle of readers, quite willing to regard such happenings as evidence of the intervention of the dead in the affairs of the living. it was, it must be remembered, an era of wide-spread enthusiasm and credulity, the heyday period of spiritism. so soon, therefore, as it became known that young home was at liberty to go where he would, invitations were showered on him. among these was one from the nearby town of willimantic, and thither home journeyed in the early spring of . it was determined that an attempt should be made to demonstrate his mediumship by the table tilting process then coming into vogue among spiritists, and the result exceeded all expectations. the table, according to an eye-witness of the first séance, not only moved without physical contact, but on request turned itself upside down, and overcame a spectator's efforts to prevent its motion. true, when this spectator "grasped its leg and held it with all his strength" the table "did not move so freely as before." still, it moved, and home's fame mounted apace. from town to town he traveled, holding séances at which, if contemporary accounts are to be believed, he gave exhibitions of supernatural power far and away ahead of all other of the numerous mediums who were by this time springing up throughout the eastern states. on one occasion, we are told, the spirits communicated through him the whereabouts of missing title deeds to a tract of land then in litigation; on another, they enabled him to prescribe successfully for an invalid for whom no hope was entertained; and time after time they conveyed to those in his séance room messages of more or less vital import, besides vouchsafing to them "physical" phenomena of the greatest variety. what was most remarkable was the fact that the young medium steadfastly refused to accept payment for his services. "my gift," he would solemnly say, "is free to all, without money and without price. i have a mission to fulfil, and to its fulfilment i will cheerfully give my life." naturally this attitude of itself made for converts to the spiritistic beliefs of which he was such a successful exponent, and its influence was powerfully reinforced by the result of an investigation conducted in the spring of by a committee headed by the poet, william cullen bryant, and the harvard professor, david g. wells. briefly, these declared in their report that they had attended a séance with home in a well lighted room, had seen a table move in every direction and with great force, "when we could not perceive any cause of motion," and even "rise clear of the floor and float in the atmosphere for several seconds"; had in vain tried to inhibit its action by sitting on it; had occasionally been made "conscious of the occurrence of a powerful shock, which produced a vibratory motion of the floor of the apartment in which we were seated"; and finally were absolutely certain that they had not been "imposed upon or deceived." the report, to be sure, did not specify what, if any, means had been taken to guard against fraud, its only reference in this connection being a statement that "mr. d. d. home frequently urged us to hold his hands and feet." but it none the less created a tremendous sensation, public attention being focused on the fact that an awkward, callow, country lad had successfully sustained the scrutiny of men of learning, intelligence, and high repute. no longer, it would seem, could there be doubt of the validity of his claims, and greater demands than ever were made on him. as before, he willingly responded, adding to his repertoire, if the term be permissible, new feats of the most startling character. thus, at a séance in new york a table on which a pencil, two candles, a tumbler, and some papers had been placed, tipped over at an angle of thirty degrees without disturbing in the slightest the position of the movable objects on its surface. then at the medium's bidding the pencil was dislodged, rolling to the floor, while the rest remained motionless; and afterward the tumbler. a little later occurred the first of home's levitations when at the house of a mr. cheney in south manchester, connecticut, he is said to have been lifted without visible means of support to the ceiling of the séance room. to quote from an eye-witness's narrative: "suddenly, and without any expectation on the part of the company, mr. home was taken up in the air. i had hold of his feet at the time, and i and others felt his feet--they were lifted a foot from the floor.... again and again he was taken from the floor, and the third time he was carried to the lofty ceiling of the apartment, with which his hand and head came in gentle contact." a far cry, this, from the simple raps and knocks that had ushered in his mediumship. now, however, an event occurred that threatened to cut short alike his "mission" and his life. never of robust health, he fell seriously ill of an affection that developed into tuberculosis. the medical men whom he consulted unanimously declared that his only hope lay in a change of climate, and, taking alarm, his spiritistic friends generously subscribed a large sum to enable him to visit europe. incidentally, no doubt, they expected him to serve as a missionary of the new faith, and it may be said at once that in this expectation they were not deceived. no one ever labored more earnestly and successfully in behalf of spiritism than did daniel dunglas home from the moment he set foot on the shores of england in april, ; and no one in all the history of spiritism achieved such individual renown, not in england alone but in almost every country of the continent. it is from this point that the mystery of his career really becomes conspicuous. hitherto, with the exception of the bryant-wells investigation, which could hardly be called scientific, his pretensions had not been seriously tested, and operating as he did among avowed spiritists he had enjoyed unlimited opportunities for the perpetration of fraud. but henceforth, skeptics as well as believers having ready access to him, he found himself not infrequently in a thoroughly hostile environment, and subjected to the sharpest criticism and most unrestrained abuse. nevertheless, he was able not simply to maintain but to augment the fame of his youth, and after a mediumship of more than thirty years, could claim the unique distinction of not once having had a charge of trickery proved against him. besides this, overcoming with astounding ease the handicaps of his humble birth and lack of education, his life was one continued round of social triumphs of the highest order; for he speedily won and retained to the day of his death the confidence and friendship of leaders of society in every european capital. with them, in castle, château, and mansion, he made his home, always welcome and always trusted; and in his days of greatest stress, days of ill health, vilification, and legal entanglements, they rallied unfailingly to his aid. add again that kings and queens vied with one another in entertaining and rewarding him, and it is possible to gain some idea of the heights scaled by this erstwhile connecticut country boy. he began modestly enough by taking rooms at a quiet london hotel, where, his fame having spread through the city, he soon had the pleasure of giving a séance to two such distinguished personages as lord brougham and sir david brewster. both retired thoroughly mystified, though the latter some months later asserted that while he "could not account for all" he had witnessed, he had seen enough to satisfy himself "that they could all be produced by hands and feet,"--a statement which, by the way, was at variance from one he had made at the time, and involved him in a most unpleasant controversy. after brougham and brewster came a long succession of other notables, including the novelist sir bulwer lytton, to whom a most edifying experience was granted. rapping away as usual, the table suddenly indicated that it had a message for him, and the alphabet being called over in the customary spiritistic style, it spelled out: "i am the spirit who influenced you to write zanoni." "indeed!" quoth lytton, with a skeptical smile. "suppose you give me a tangible proof of your presence?" "put your hand under the table." no sooner done, than the invisible being gave him a hearty handshake, and proceeded: "we wish you to believe in the--" it stopped. "in what? in the medium?" "no." at that moment there came a gentle tapping on his knee, and looking down he found on it a small cardboard cross that had been lying on another table. lytton, the story goes, begged permission to keep the cross as a souvenir, and promised that he would remember the spirit's injunction. for home, of course, the incident was a splendid advertisement, as were the extravagant reports spread broadcast by other visitors. consequently, when he visited italy in the autumn as the guest of one of his english patrons, he gained instant recognition and was enabled to embark with phenomenal ease on his continental crusade. in order to reach the most striking manifestations of his peculiar ability, we must pass hurriedly over the events of the next few years, although they are perhaps the most picturesque of his career, including as they do séances with the third napoleon and his empress, with the king of prussia, and with the emperor of russia. in russia he was married to the daughter of a noble russian family, and for groomsmen at his wedding had count alexis tolstoi, the famous poet, and count bobrinski, one of the emperor's chamberlains. this was in , and shortly afterward he returned to england to repeat his spiritistic triumphs of , and increase the already large group of influential and titled friends whose doors were ever open to him. had it not been for their generosity, it is difficult, indeed, to see how he could have lived, for his time was almost altogether devoted to the practice of spiritism, and he was never known to accept a fee for a séance. as it was, he lived very well, now the guest of one, now of another, and the frequent recipient of costly presents. from england he fared back to the continent, again traversing it by leisurely stages. thus nearly a decade passed before the occurrence of the first of the several phenomena that have won home an enduring place among the greatest lights of spiritism. at that time his english patrons included the viscount adare and the master of lindsay, who have since become respectively the earl of dunraven and the earl of crawford. they were sitting one evening (december , ) in an upper room of a house in london with home and a captain wynne, when home suddenly left the room and entered the adjoining chamber. the opening of a window was then heard, and the next moment, to the amazement of all three, they perceived home's form floating in the dim moonlight outside the window of the room in which they were seated. for an instant it hovered there, at a height of fully seventy feet above the pavement, and then, smiling and debonnair, home was with them again. another marvel immediately followed. at home's request lord dunraven closed the window out of which the medium was supposed to have been carried by the spirits, and on returning observed that the window had not been raised a foot, and he did not see how a man could have squeezed through it. "come," said home, "i will show you." together they went into the next room. "he told me," lord dunraven reported, "to open the window as it was before. i did so. he told me to stand a little distance off; he then went through the open space, head first, quite rapidly, his body being nearly horizontal and apparently rigid. he came in again feet foremost, and we returned to the other room. it was so dark i could not see clearly how he was supported outside. he did not appear to grasp, or rest upon the balustrade, but rather to be swung out and in." to lord dunraven and lord crawford again was given the boon of witnessing another of home's most sensational performances, and on more than one occasion. this may best be described in lord crawford's own words, as related in his testimony to the london dialectical society's committee which in undertook an inquiry into the claims of spiritism. "i saw mr. home," declared lord crawford, "in a trance elongated eleven inches. i measured him standing up against the wall, and marked the place; not being satisfied with that, i put him in the middle of the room and placed a candle in front of him, so as to throw a shadow on the wall, which i also marked. when he awoke i measured him again in his natural size, both directly and by the shadow, and the results were equal. i can swear that he was not off the ground or standing on tiptoe, as i had full view of his feet, and, moreover, a gentleman present had one of his feet placed over home's insteps.... i once saw him elongated horizontally on the ground. lord adare was present. home seemed to grow at both ends, and pushed myself and adare away." the publication of this evidence and of the details of the mid-air excursion provoked, as may be imagined, a heated discussion, and doubtless had considerable influence in inducing the famous scientist, sir william crookes, to engage in the series of experiments which he carried out with home two years later. this was at once the most searching investigation to which home was ever subjected, and the most signal triumph of his career. sir william's proposal was hailed with the greatest satisfaction by the critics of spiritism in general and of home in particular. here, it was said, was a man fully qualified to expose the archimpostor who had been so justly pilloried in browning's "mr. sludge the medium"; here was a scientist, trained to exact knowledge and close observation, who would not be deceived by the artful tricks of a conjurer. it was pleasant too to learn that in order to circumvent any attempts at sleight of hand, sir william intended using instruments specially designed for test purposes, and which he was confident could not be operated fraudulently. but home, or the spirits proved too strong for even sir william crookes and his instruments. in sir william's presence, in fact, there was a multiplication of mysteries. the instruments registered results which seemed inexplicable by any natural law; a lath, cast carelessly on a table, rose in the air, nodded gravely to the astonished scientist, and proceeded to tap out messages alleged to come from the world beyond; chairs moved in ghostly fashion up and down the room; invisible beings lifted home himself from the floor; spirit hands were seen and felt; an accordeon, held by sir william, played tunes apparently of its own volition, and afterward floated about the room, still playing. and all this, according to the learned investigator, "in a private room that almost up to the commencement of the séance has been occupied as a living room, and surrounded by private friends of my own, who not only will not countenance the slightest deception, but who are watching narrowly everything that takes place." in the end, so far from announcing that he had convicted home of fraud, sir william published an elaborate account of his séances, and gave it as his solemn belief that with home's assistance he had succeeded in demonstrating the existence of a hitherto unknown force. this was scarcely what had been expected by the scientific world, which had eagerly awaited his verdict, and loud was the tumult that followed. but sir william stood manfully by his guns, and home--bland, inscrutable, mysterious home--figuratively shrugging his shoulders at denunciations to which he had by this time become perfectly accustomed, added another leaf to his spiritistic crown of laurels, and betook himself anew to his friends on the continent, where, despite increasing ill health, he continued to prosecute his "mission" for many prosperous years. as a matter of fact, throughout the period of his mediumship, that is to say, from to , the year of his death, he experienced only one serious reverse, and this did not involve any exposure of the falsity of his claims. but it was serious enough, in all conscience, and calls for mention both because it emphasizes the contrast between his earlier and his later life, and because it throws a luminous sidelight on the methods by which he achieved his unparalleled success. when he was in london in he made the acquaintance of an elderly, impressionable english-woman named lyon, who immediately conceived a warm attachment for him and stated her intention of adopting him as her son. carrying out this plan, she settled on him the snug little fortune of one hundred and twenty thousand dollars, which she subsequently increased until it amounted to no less than three hundred thousand dollars. home at the time was a widower, and it was his belief, as he afterward stated in court, that the woman desired him to marry her. in any event her affection cooled as rapidly as it had begun, and the next thing he knew he was being sued for the recovery of the three hundred thousand dollars. the trial was a celebrated case in english law. lord dunraven, lord crawford, and other of home's titled and influential friends hurried to his assistance, and many were the affidavits forthcoming to combat the contentions of mrs. lyon, who swore that she had been influenced to adopt home by communications alleged to come through him from her dead husband. home himself denied that there were any manifestations whatever relating to mrs. lyon, whose story, in fact, was so discredited on cross-examination that the presiding judge, the vice-chancellor, caustically declared that her testimony was quite unworthy of belief. notwithstanding which, he did not hesitate to give judgment in her favor, on the ground that, however worthless her evidence, it had not been satisfactorily shown that her gifts to home were "acts of pure volition," the presumption being that no reasonable man or woman would have pursued the course she did unless under the pressure of undue influence by the party to be benefited. * * * * * if for "undue influence" we read "hypnotism," we shall have a sufficient, and what seems to me the only satisfactory, explanation of the lyon episode and of the most baffling of home's feats, his levitations, elongations, and the like. for the rest, bearing in mind the fate of other dealers in turning tables and dancing chairs, he may fairly be regarded in the light browning regarded him, that is to say as an exceptionally able conjurer who enjoyed the singular good fortune of never being found out.[n] it must be remembered that not once was there applied to him the test which is now recognized as absolutely indispensable in the investigation of mediums who, like home, are specialists in the production of "physical" phenomena. this test is the demand that the phenomena in question be produced under conditions doing away with the necessity for constant observation of the medium himself. even sir william crookes, who appreciated to the full the extreme fallibility of the human eye and the ease with which the most careful observer may be deceived by a clever prestidigitator, failed to apply this test to home; and by so failing laid himself open on the one hand to deception and on the other to the flood of criticism let loose by his scientific colleagues. thus, the apparatus used in the experiment on which he seems to have laid greatest stress, is described as follows: "in another part of the room an apparatus was fitted up for experimenting on the alterations in the weight of a body. it consisted of a mahogany board thirty-six inches long by nine and one-half inches wide and one inch thick. at each end a strip of mahogany one and one-half inches wide was screwed on, forming feet. one end of the board rested on a firm table, whilst the other end was supported by a spring balance hanging from a substantial tripod stand. the balance was fitted with a self-registering index, in such a manner that it would record the maximum weight indicated by the pointer. the apparatus was adjusted so that the mahogany board was horizontal, its foot resting flat on the support. in this position its weight was three pounds, as marked by the pointer of the balance. before mr. home entered the room the apparatus had been arranged in position, and he had not seen the object of some parts explained before sitting down." now, to give this "test" evidential value, the disembodied spirit supposed to be acting through home should have caused the registering index to record a change in weight without necessitating, on the spectators' part, constant scrutiny of the medium's movements. but, in point of fact, a change in weight was recorded only when home placed his fingers on the mahogany board. it is true, that he placed them on the end furthest from the balance, and the evidence seems sufficient that he did not cause the pointer to move by exerting a downward pressure. but as one critic, mr. frank podmore, has suggested there is no proof that he did not find opportunity to tamper with the pointer itself or with some other part of the apparatus by attaching thereto a looped thread or hair. to quote mr. podmore: "it is by the use of such a thread, i venture to suggest, that the watchful observation of mr. crookes and his colleagues was evaded. given a subdued light and opportunity to move about the room--and from detailed notes of later séances it seems probable that home could do as he liked in both respects--the loop could be attached without much risk of detection to some part of the apparatus, preferably the hook from which the distal end of the board was suspended, the ends [of the thread] being fastened to some part of home's dress, _e.g._, the knees of his trousers, if his feet and hands were under effectual observation."[o] moreover, it must not be forgotten that, barring the crookes investigation, home's manifestations for the most part occurred in the presence of men and women who, if not spiritists themselves, had implicit confidence in his good faith and could by no stretch of the imagination be called trained investigators. indeed, it seems safe to say that had present day methods of inquiry been employed, as they are employed by the experts of the society for psychical research, home, so far at any rate as concerned the great bulk of his phenomena, would quickly have been placed in the same gallery as madam blavatsky, eusapia paladino, and those other wonder workers whom the society has discredited. in the matter of the levitations and elongations, however, it is not so easy to raise the cry of sheer fraud. here the only rational explanation, short of supposing that home availed himself if not of the aid of "spirits" at least of the aid of some unknown physical force, seems to be, as was said, the exercise of hypnotic power. the accounts given by lord dunraven, lord crawford, and sir william crookes show that he had ample scope for the employment of suggestion as a means of inducing those about him to imagine they had seen things which they actually had not seen. in this connection, it seems to me, considerable significance attaches to the following bit of evidence contributed by lord crawford with regard to the london levitation: "i saw the levitations in victoria street when home floated out of the window. he first went into a trance and walked about uneasily; he then went into the hall. while he was away i heard a voice whisper in my ear 'he will go out of one window and in at another.' i was alarmed and shocked at the idea of so dangerous an experiment. i told the company what i had heard and we then waited for home's return." after it is stated that lord crawford, not long before, had fancied he beheld an apparition of a man seated in a chair, it is easy to imagine the attitude of credulous expectancy with which he, at all events, would "wait for home's return" via the open window. and the others were doubtless in the same expectant frame of mind. "expectancy" and "suggestibility" will, indeed, work marvels. i shall never forget how the truth of this was borne home to me some years ago. a friend of mine--now a physician in maryland, but at that time a medical student in toronto--occasionally amused himself by giving table-tipping séances, in which he enacted the rôle of medium. there was no suspicion on his sitters' part that he was a "fraud." one evening he invoked the "spirit" of a little child, who had been dead a couple of years, and proceeded to "spell out" some highly edifying messages. suddenly the séance was interrupted by a shriek and a lady present, not a relative of the dead child, fell to the floor in a faint. when revived, she declared that while the messages were being delivered she had seen the head of a child appear through the top of the table. with such an instance before us, it can hardly be deemed surprising that home should be able to play on the imagination of sitters so sympathetic and receptive as lords dunraven and crawford unquestionably were. to tell the truth, home's whole career, with its scintillating, melodramatic, and uniformly successful phases is altogether inexplicable unless it be assumed that he possessed the hypnotist's qualities in a superlative degree. it may well be, however, that in the last analysis he not only deceived others but also deceived himself--that his charlatanry was the work of a man constitutionally incapable of distinguishing between reality and fiction in so far as related to the performance of feats contributing to the success of his "mission." in other words, that he was, like other historic personages whom we have already encountered, a victim of dissociation. there is no gainsaying the fact that he was of a distinctly nervous temperament; and it is equally certain that he chose a vocation, and placed himself in an environment, which would tend to make a dissociated state habitual with him. but this is bringing us to the consideration of a psychological problem which would itself require a volume for adequate discussion. enough to add that, when all is said, and viewed from whatever angle, daniel dunglas home, was, and remains, a fascinating human riddle. footnotes: [n] but a "conjurer" who in all probability should not be held to strict account for his deceptions. on this point, see below. [o] "modern spiritualism," vol. ii, p. . ix the watseka wonder when the biography of the late richard hodgson is written one of its most interesting chapters will be the story of his investigation into the strange case of lurancy vennum. archinquisitor of the society for psychical research, the sherlock holmes of professional detectives of the supernatural, in this instance hodgson was forced to confess himself beaten and to acknowledge that in his belief the only satisfactory solution of the problem before him was to be had through recourse to the hypothesis that the dead can and do communicate with the living. as is well known, subsequent inquiries, and notably his experiences with the famous mrs. piper, led him to the enthusiastic indorsement of this hypothesis; but at the time of the vennum affair, with the recollection of his triumphs in europe and asia fresh in his mind, he was still a thoroughgoing if open minded skeptic; and to lurancy vennum must accordingly be given the credit of having brought him, so to speak, to the turning of the ways. oddly enough too, scarce an effort has been made to assemble evidence in disproof of his findings in that case and to develop a purely naturalistic explanation of a mystery which his verdict went far to establish in the minds of many as a classic illustration of supernatural action. yet, while it must be admitted that until recently such a task would have been extremely difficult, it may safely be declared that the phenomena manifested through lurancy vennum were not a whit more other-worldly than the phenomena produced by the tricksters whom hodgson himself so skilfully and mercilessly exposed. to refresh the reader's memory with regard to the facts in the case, it will be recalled that lurancy vennum was a young girl, between thirteen and fourteen years old, the daughter of respectable parents living at watseka, illinois, a town about eighty-five miles south of chicago and boasting at the time a population of perhaps fifteen hundred. on the afternoon of july , , while sitting sewing with her mother, she suddenly complained of feeling ill, and immediately afterward fell to the floor unconscious, in which state she remained for five hours. the next day the same thing happened; but now, while still apparently insensible to all about her, she began to talk, affirming that she was in heaven and in the company of numerous spirits, whom she described, naming among others the spirit of her brother who had died when she was only three years old. her parents, deeply religious people of an orthodox denomination, feared that she had become insane, and their fears were increased when, with the passage of time, her "fits," as they called her trances, became more frequent and of longer duration, lasting from one to eight hours and occurring from three to twelve times a day. physicians could do nothing for her, and by january, , it was decided that she was beyond all hope of cure and that the proper place for her was an insane asylum. at this juncture her father was visited by mr. asa b. roff, also a resident of watseka, but having no more than a casual acquaintanceship with the vennums. he had become interested in the case, he explained, through hearing reports of the intercourse lurancy claimed to have with the world of the dead, the possibility of which, being a devout spiritist, he did not in the slightest doubt. moreover, he himself had had a daughter, mary, long dead, who had been subject to conditions exactly like lurancy's and had given incontrovertible evidence of possessing supernatural powers of a clairvoyant nature. in her time she too had been deemed insane, but mr. roff was confident that she had really been of entirely sound mind, and equally confident that the present victim of "spirit infestation," to use the singular term employed by a later spiritistic eulogist of lurancy, was also of sound mind. he therefore begged mr. vennum not to immure his daughter in an asylum; and mrs. roff adding her entreaties, it was finally resolved as a last resort to call in a physician from janesville, wisconsin, who was himself a spiritist and would, the roffs felt sure, be able to treat the case with great success. this physician, dr. e. winchester stevens, paid his first visit to lurancy in mr. roff's company on the afternoon of january . he found the girl, as he afterward related, sitting "near a stove, in a common chair, her elbows on her knees, her hands under her chin, feet curled up on the chair, eyes staring, looking every way like an old hag." she was evidently in an ugly mood, for she refused even to shake hands, called her father "old black dick" and her mother "old granny," and at first kept an obstinate silence. but presently, brightening up, she announced that she had discovered that dr. stevens was a "spiritual" doctor and could help her, and that she was ready to answer any questions he might put. now followed a strange dialogue. in reply to his queries she said that her name was not lurancy vennum but katrina hogan, that she was sixty-three years old, and had come from germany "through the air" three days before. changing her manner quickly, she confessed that she had lied and was in reality a boy, willie canning, who had died and "now is here because he wants to be." more than an hour passed in this "insane talk," as her weeping parents accounted it, and then, flinging up her hands, she fell headlong in a state of cataleptic rigidity. dr. stevens promptly renewed his questioning, at the same time taking both her hands in his and endeavoring to "magnetize" her, to quote his own expression. it soon developed, according to the replies she made, that she was no longer on earth but in heaven and surrounded by spirits of a far more beneficent character than the so-called katrina and willie. with all the earnestness of an ardent spiritist, the doctor immediately suggested that she allow herself to be controlled by a spirit who would prevent those that were evil and insane from returning to trouble her and her family, and would assist her to regain health. to which she answered that she would gladly do so, and that among the spirits around her was one that the angels strongly recommended for this very purpose. it was, she said, the spirit of a young girl who on earth had been named mary roff. "why," cried mr. roff, "that is my daughter, who has been in heaven these twelve years. yes, let her come. we'll be glad to have her come." come she did, as the greatly bewildered mr. vennum testified next morning during a hasty visit to mr. roff's office. "my girl," said he, "had a sound night's sleep after you and dr. stevens left us; but to-day she asserts that she is mary roff, refuses to recognize her mother or myself, and demands to be taken to your house." at this amazing information, mrs. roff and her surviving daughter minerva, who since mary's death had married a mr. alter, promptly went to see lurancy. from a seat at the window she beheld them approaching down the street, and with an exultant cry exclaimed, "here comes my ma, and 'nervie'!" the name by which mary roff had been accustomed to call her sister in girlhood. running to the door and throwing her arms about them as they entered, she hugged and kissed them with expressions of endearment and with whispering allusions to past events of which she as lurancy could in their opinion have had absolutely no knowledge. mr. roff who came afterward, she greeted in the same affectionate way, while treating the members of her own family as though they were entire strangers. to her father and mother it seemed that this must be only a new phase of her insanity, but to the roffs there remained no doubt that in her they beheld an actual reincarnation of the girl whom they had buried twelve years before--that is to say, when lurancy herself was a puny, wailing infant. eagerly they seconded her entreaties to be allowed to return with them; and, mrs. vennum being completely prostrated by this unexpected development, it was soon decided that the little girl should for the time being take up her residence under the roff roof. she removed there february , and on the way an event occurred that vastly strengthened belief in the reality of her claims. the vennums and the roffs lived at opposite ends of watseka; but the latter family, at the time of mary's death in , had been occupying a dwelling in a central section of the town. arrived at this house, lurancy unhesitatingly turned to enter it, and seemed much astonished when told that her home was elsewhere. "why," said she, in a positive tone, "i know that i live here." it was indeed with some difficulty that she was persuaded to continue her journey; but once at its end all signs of disappointment vanished and she passed gaily from room to room, identifying objects which she had never seen before but which had been well-known to mary roff. her pseudo-parents were in ecstacies of joy. "truly," they said to each other, "our daughter who was dead has been restored to us," and anxiously they inquired of her how long they might hope to have her with them. "the angels," was her response, "will let me stay till some time in may--and oh how happy i am!" happy and contented she proved herself and, which was remarked by all who saw her, entirely free from the maladies that had so sorely beset both the living lurancy and the dead mary. for her life as lurancy she appeared to have no remembrance; but she readily and unfailingly recollected everything connected with the career of mary. she was well aware also that she was masquerading, as it were, in a borrowed body. "do you remember," dr. stevens asked her one day, "the time that you cut your arm?" "yes, indeed. and," slipping up her sleeve, "i can show you the scar. it was--" she paused, and quickly added, "oh, this is not the arm; that one is in the ground," and proceeded to describe the spot where mary had been buried and the circumstances attending her funeral. old acquaintances of mary's were greeted as though they had been seen only the day before, although in one or two cases there was lack of recognition, due, it was inferred, to physical changes in the visitor's appearance since mary had known her on earth. tests, suggested and carried out by dr. stevens and mr. roff, only reinforced the view that they were really dealing with a visitant from the unseen world. for instance, while the little girl was playing outdoors one afternoon, mr. roff suggested to his wife that she bring down-stairs a velvet hat that their daughter had worn the last year of her life, place it on the hat stand, and see if lurancy would recognize it. this was done, and the recognition was instant. with a smile of delight lurancy picked up the hat, mentioned an incident connected with it, and asked, "have you my box of letters also?" the box was found, and rummaging through it the child presently cried, "oh, ma, here is a collar i tatted! ma, why did you not show me my letters and things before?" one by one she picked out and identified relics dating back to mary's girlhood, long before lurancy vennum had come into the world. she displayed, too, not a little of the clairvoyant ability ascribed to mary. the story is told that on one occasion she affirmed that her supposed brother, frank roff, would be taken seriously ill during the night; and when, about two o'clock in the morning, he was actually stricken with what is vaguely said to have been "something like a spasm and congestive chill," she directed mr. roff to hurry next door where he would find dr. stevens. "but," protested mr. roff, "dr. stevens is in quite another part of the city to-night." "no," she calmly said, "he has come back, and you will find him where i say." quite incredulous, mr. roff gave his neighbor's door-bell a lusty pull, and the next moment was talking to the doctor, who, unknown to the roffs, was spending the night there. with his aid, it is perhaps worth adding, brother frank was soon relieved of the "spasm and congestive chill." in this way, continually surprising but constantly delighting the happy roffs, lurancy vennum remained with them for more than three months, professing complete ignorance of her identity and enacting with the greatest fidelity the rôle of the spirit who was supposed to have taken possession of her. early in may, however, she called mrs. roff to one side and informed her in a voice broken by sobs that lurancy was "coming back" and that they would soon have to take another farewell of their mary. this said, a change became apparent in her. she glared wildly around, and in an agitated tone demanded, "where am i? i was never here before. i want to go home." mrs. roff, heartbroken, explained that she had been under the control of mary's spirit for the purpose of "curing her body," and told her that her parents would be sent for. but within five minutes she had again lost all knowledge of her true identity, and seemingly was mary roff once more, overjoyed that she had been permitted to return. for some days she continued in this state, with only occasional lapses into her original self; then, on the morning of may , she announced that the time for definite leave-taking had at last arrived, and with evident grief went about among the neighbors bidding them good-by. it was arranged that "sister nervie" should take her to mr. roff's office, and that mr. roff should thence escort her home. en route there were sharp interchanges of personality, with the spirit control dominant; but when the office was reached it became evident that she had fully come into her own again. the night before she had wept bitterly at the thought of leaving her "father." now she addressed him calmly as "mr. roff," called herself lurancy, and said that her one wish was to see her parents as soon as possible. nor, as the vennums were quickly to discover, did she return to torment and alarm them by the weird actions of the preceding months. on the contrary, they found her healthy and normal in mind and body, completely cured, as a result, the roffs emphatically declared, of the intervention of the spirit of their beloved daughter. needless to say, the people of watseka and the surrounding country had watched with breathless interest the progress of this curious affair; but it was not until three months after the "possession" had ended that the public at large obtained any knowledge of it. the first intimation, outside of unnoticed reports in local newspapers, came through the medium of two articles contributed by dr. stevens to the august and , , issues of _the religio-philosophical journal_, one of the leading spiritist organs of the united states. traversing the case in the fullest detail, and emphasizing the fact that up to the moment of writing the principal actor had had no return of the ills from which she had previously suffered, dr. stevens gave it as his unqualified conviction that the spirit of mary roff had actually revisited earth in the person of lurancy vennum, and had been the instrument of her cure. this view naturally commended itself to spiritists, but by the unbelieving it was vigorously combatted, not a few insinuating or openly alleging that dr. stevens's narrative was a work of fiction. the veracity of the roffs was also attacked. "can the truthfulness of the narrative," one skeptical inquirer wrote mr. roff, "be substantiated outside of yourself and those immediately interested? can it be shown that there was no collusion between the parties?" and another asked him, "is it a fact, or is it a story made up to see how cunning a tale one can tell?" waxing indignant, mr. roff wrote a long letter to _the religio-philosophical journal_ denouncing the imputation of fraud, giving the names of a number of men who would vouch for his integrity, and concluding with the statement: "i am now sixty years old; have resided in iroquois county thirty years; and would not now sacrifice what reputation i may have by being party to the publication of such a narrative, if it was not perfectly true." following this there appeared in _the religio-philosophical journal_ several letters from well-known illinois professional men warmly indorsing mr. roff's character, and an announcement to the effect that the editor, colonel j. c. bundy, himself of undoubted honesty, "has entire confidence in the truthfulness of the narrative and believes from his knowledge of the witnesses that the account is unimpeachable in every particular." as for dr. stevens, colonel bundy declared that he had been personally acquainted with the physician for years, and had "implicit confidence in his veracity." after all this, accusations of perjury and deception were obviously futile, and, no adequate non-spiritistic interpretation being forthcoming, there was an increasing tendency to accept the view advanced by those who had participated in the affair. such was the situation at the time of richard hodgson's advent. primarily, as will be remembered by all who have followed the work of the society for psychical research, dr. hodgson had come to this country to investigate the trance mediumship of mrs. leonora piper. but his attention having been called to the vennum mystery, he visited watseka in april, , and instituted a rigorous cross-examination of the surviving witnesses. dr. stevens was dead, and lurancy herself had married and moved with her husband to kansas, but dr. hodgson was able to interview mr. and mrs. roff, mrs. alter, and half a dozen neighbors who had personal knowledge of the "possession." all answered his questions freely and fully, reiterating the facts as given in dr. stevens's narrative, and adding some interesting information hitherto not made public. in the main this bore on the question of identity and tended to vindicate the reincarnation theory. it also developed that while lurancy had grown to be a strong, healthy woman, she had had occasional returns of mary's spirit in the years immediately following the chief visitation; but that these had ceased with her marriage to a man who, roff regretfully observed, had never made himself acquainted with spiritism and therefore "furnished poor conditions for further development in that direction." appreciating the fact that mr. roff and his family would furnish the best possible conditions for such development, and that he must be on his guard against unconscious exaggeration and misstatement, dr. hodgson nevertheless deemed the evidence presented to him too strong to be explained away on naturalistic grounds. contributing to _the religio-philosophical journal_ an account of his inquiry and of the additional data it had brought to light, he described the case as "unique among the records of supernormal occurrences," and frankly admitted that he could not "find any satisfactory interpretation of it except the spiritistic." * * * * * yet, as was said at the outset, it may now be affirmed that another interpretation is possible, and one far more satisfactory than the spiritistic; this, too, without impeaching in any way the truthfulness of the testimony given by dr. stevens, the roffs, and the numerous other witnesses. to begin: apart from the supernatural implications forced into it by the appearance of the so-called spirit control, it is clear that the affair bears a striking resemblance to the instances of "secondary" or "multiple" personality which recent research has discovered in such numbers, and which are due to perfectly natural, if often obscure, causes. in these, it has already been pointed out, as the result of an illness, a blow, a shock, or some other unusual stimulus, there is a partial or complete effacement of the original personality of the victim and its replacement by a new personality, sometimes of radically different characteristics from the normal self. a sufficient example is the case of the rev. thomas c. hanna, for knowledge of which the scientific world is indebted to dr. boris sidis.[p] following a fall from his carriage, mr. hanna, a connecticut clergyman, lost all consciousness of his identity, had no memory for the events of his life prior to the accident, recognized none of his friends, could not read or write, nor so much as walk or talk,--was, in fact, like a child new born. on the other hand, as soon as the rudiments of education were acquired by him once more, he showed himself the possessor of a vigorous, independent, self-reliant personality, lacking all knowledge of the original personality, but still able to adapt himself readily to his environment and make headway in the world. ultimately, through methods which are distinctively modern, dr. sidis was able to recall the vanished self, and, fusing the secondary self with it, restore the clergyman to his former sphere of usefulness. this, of course, is an extreme example. the usual procedure is for the secondary personality to retain some of the characteristics of the original self--as the ability to read, write, etc.--and give itself a name. in this way ansel bourne, the rhode island itinerant preacher, became metamorphosed into a. j. brown, and, without any recollection of his former career or relationships, drifted to pennsylvania and began an entirely new existence as a shopkeeper in a small country town. similarly with dr. r. osgood mason's patient, alma z., in whom the secondary personality assumed the odd name of "twoey," spoke, as dr. mason phrased it, "in a peculiar child-like and indianlike dialect," and announced that her mission was to cure the broken down physical organism of the original self, which remained completely in abeyance so long as "twoey" was in evidence. here, as is apparent, we have a case almost identical with that of lurancy vennum, the sole difference being that "twoey"--who, by the way, is credited with having exercised seemingly supernormal powers--did not pose as a returned visitant from the world of spirits. thus far, then, depending on the argument from analogy, the presumption is strong that lurancy's case belongs to the same category as the cases just mentioned. in the one, as in the others, we have loss of the original self, development of a new self, and the enactment by the latter of a rôle conspicuously alien from that played by the former. the one difficulty in the way of unreserved acceptance of this view is the character of the secondary personality which replaced lurancy's original personality. here the positive claim was made that the secondary personality was in reality the personality of a girl long dead, and by way of proof vivid knowledge of the life, circumstances, and conduct of that girl was offered. but on this point considerable light is shed by the discovery that in a number of instances of secondary personality in which no supernatural pretensions are advanced there is a notable sharpening of the faculties, knowledge being obtained telepathically or clairvoyantly; and by the further discovery that it is quite possible to create experimentally secondary selves assuming the characteristics of real persons who have died. in this the creative force is nothing more or less than suggestion. there is on record, indeed, an instance of mediumship in which the medium, an amateur investigator of the phenomena of spiritism, clearly recognized that his various impersonations were suggested to him by the spectators. this gentleman, mr. charles h. tout, of vancouver, records that after attending a few séances with some friends he felt a strong impulse to turn medium himself, and assume a foreign personality. yielding to the impulse, he discovered, much to his amazement, that without losing complete control of his consciousness, he could develop a secondary self that would impose on the beholders as a discarnate spirit. on one occasion he thus acted in a semi-conscious way the part of a dead woman, the mother of a friend present, and the impersonation was accepted as a genuine case of spirit control. on another, having given several successful impersonations, he suddenly felt weak and ill, and almost fell to the floor. at this point, he stated, one of the sitters "made the remark, which i remember to have overheard, 'it is father controlling him,' and i then seemed to realize who i was and whom i was seeking. i began to be distressed in my lungs, and should have fallen if they had not held me by the hands and let me back gently upon the floor.... i was in a measure still conscious of my actions, though not of my surroundings, and i have a clear memory of seeing myself in the character of my dying father lying in the bed and in the room in which he died. it was a most curious sensation. i saw his shrunken hands and face, and lived again through his dying moments; only now i was both myself, in an indistinct sort of way, and my father, with his feelings and appearance." all of this tout explained correctly as "the dramatic working out, by some half conscious stratum of his personality, of suggestions made at the time by other members of the circle, or received in prior experiences of the kind." in most instances, however, the original self is completely effaced, and no consciousness is retained of the performances of the secondary self; but that an avenue of sense is still open is sufficiently demonstrated by the readiness with which, in hypnotic experiments, seemingly insensible subjects respond to the suggestions of the operator. here, therefore, we find our clue to the solution of the mystery of lurancy vennum. a victim of a psychic catastrophe, the cause of which must be left to conjecture in the absence of knowledge of her previous history, she was placed in precisely the position of the adventurous mr. tout and of the inert subjects of the hypnotist's art. that is to say, having lost momentarily all knowledge and control of her own personality, the character her new personality would assume depended on the suggestions received from those about her. yet not altogether. dr. stevens's detailed record contains a reference which indicates strongly that the spiritistic tendency manifest from the onset of her trouble was to some extent predetermined. a few days before the first attack she informed the family that "there were persons in my room last night, and they called 'rancy, rancy!' and i felt their breath on my face"; and the next night, repeating the same story, she sought refuge in her mother's bed. these fanciful notions, symptomatic of the coming trouble and possibly provocative of it, would act in the way of a powerful autosuggestion, and would of themselves explain why there resulted an inchoate, tentative, vague personality, instead of the robust, definite personality that assumes control in most cases. at first, the reader will remember, she sought vainly and wildly and wholly subconsciously--it cannot be made too clear that she was no longer consciously responsible for her acts--for a satisfactory self of ghostly origin. the aged katrina, the masculine willie, and other imaginary beings were tried and rejected; principally, no doubt, because her thirteen-year-old imagination was unequal to the task of investing them with satisfactory attributes. from her relatives she obtained no assistance in the strange quest. they, disbelieving in "spirits," persisted in calling her insane--a comfortless and far from beneficial suggestion. but with the intervention of the roffs and dr. stevens everything changed. not questioning the truth of her assertions, they confirmed her in them, and offered her into the bargain a ready-made personality. here at last was something tangible, a starting-point, a foundation-stone. mary roff had had a real existence, had had thoughts, feelings, desires, a life of flesh and blood. and mary, they assured the poor, perturbed, disintegrated self, could help her regain all that she had lost. very well, let mary come, and the sooner she came the better. for knowledge of mary, of her characteristics, her relationships, her friends, her earthly career, it was necessary only to tap telepathically the reservoir of information possessed by mary's family; and there would be available besides a wealth of data in chance remarks, unconscious hints, unnoticed promptings. she had been too long in search of a personality not to grasp at the opening now afforded. focused thus by suggestion,--that subtle, all-pervasive influence which man is only now beginning to appreciate,--the basic delusional idea promptly took root, blossomed, and burst into an amazing fruition. banished were the spurious katrinas and willies. in their stead reigned mary, no less spurious in point of fact, but so cunningly counterfeiting the true mary that the deception was not once detected. mark too how suggestion sufficed not only to create the mary personality but to expel it and restore the hapless lurancy to perfect health. if the responsibility for the creation rests on dr. stevens and the roffs, to them likewise belongs the credit for the cure. their insistence on the fact that mary's spirit could and would be of assistance, was itself as powerful a suggestion as could be hit upon by the most expert of modern practitioners of psychotherapeutics; and in unconsciously persuading the spirit to set a limit to its time of "possession" they made another suggestion of rare curative value. to the suggestionally inspired fixed idea that she was not lurancy vennum but mary roff was thus added the fixed idea, derived from the same source, that in may she would become lurancy vennum again, and a perfectly well lurancy. it was as though the roffs had actually hypnotized her and given her commands that were to be obeyed with the fidelity characteristic of the obedience hypnotized subjects render to the operator. when the time came the transformation was duly effected, though, as has been seen, not without a struggle, a period of alternating personality, with mary at one moment supreme and lurancy at another. but this is a phenomenon that need give us no concern. exactly the same thing happened in the last stages of the hanna case. nor do the fugitive recurrences of the mary personality signify aught than that lurancy was still unduly suggestionable. note that these recurrences, according to the available evidence, developed only when the roffs paid her visits; and that they ceased entirely upon her marriage to a man not interested in spiritism, and her removal to a distant part of the country.[q] footnotes: [p] in his "multiple personality." [q] it is proper to add that since the recent publication of this paper as a contribution to _the associated sunday magazine_, the charge of fraud has been revived in connection with the "watseka wonder." it is asserted by a resident of watseka that although lurancy vennum unquestionably was a sufferer from "nervous trouble," she consciously impersonated the "spirit" of mary roff, her motive being a desire to be near one of the roff boys, with whom she imagined herself in love. x a medieval ghost hunter the name of dr. john dee is scarcely known to-day, yet dr. dee has some exceedingly well-defined claims to remembrance. he was one of the foremost scientists of the tudor period in english history. he was famed as a mathematician, astronomer, and philosopher not only in his native land but in every european center of learning. before he was twenty he penned a remarkable treatise on logic, and he left behind him at his death a total of nearly a hundred works on all manner of recondite subjects. he was the means of introducing into england a number of astronomical instruments hitherto unused, and even unknown, in that country. his lectures on geometry were the delight of all who heard them. in elizabeth's reign he was frequently consulted by the highest ministers of the crown with regard to affairs of state, and was the confidant of the queen herself, who more than once employed him on secret missions. he was interested in everyday affairs as well as in questions of theoretical importance. the reformation of the calendar long engaged his attention. he charted for elizabeth her distant colonial dominions. he preached the doctrine of sea-power, and, like hakluyt, advocated the upbuilding of a strong navy. he was, in some sort, a participant in sir humphrey gilbert's scheme for new world colonization. in a word, dr. john dee was a phenomenally many-sided man in an age that was peculiarly productive of many-sided men. even yet, the catalogue of his interests and accomplishments is by no means exhausted. indeed, his chief claim to fame--and, paradoxically enough, the great reason why his reputation practically died with him--lies in the fact that he was one of the earliest of psychical researchers. at a time when all men unhesitatingly entertained a belief in the overshadowing presence of spirits and their constant intervention in human affairs, dr. dee resolved to prove, if possible, the actual existence of these mysterious and unseen beings. to encourage him in his ghost-hunting zeal was the hope that the spirits, if actually located by him, might reward his enterprise by unfolding a secret that had long been the despair of all medieval scientists--the secret of the philosopher's stone, of the precious formula whereby the baser metals could be transmuted into shining gold. with the heartiest enthusiasm, therefore, dr. dee went to work, and although the spirits with whom he ultimately came into constant communication brought him no gold but many tribulations, he remained an ardent psychical researcher to the day of his death. just when he began his explorations of the invisible world it is impossible to say. but it must have been at a very early age, for he was barely twenty-five when a rumor spread that he was dabbling in the black arts. two years later, in , he was definitely accused of trying to take the life of queen mary by enchantments, and on this charge was thrown into prison. for cellmate he had barthlet green, who parted from him only to meet an agonizing death in the flames, as an arch-heretic. dee himself was threatened with the stake, and was actually placed on trial for his life before the dread court of the star chamber. but he seems to have had, throughout his entire career, a singularly plausible manner, and a magnetic, winning personality. he succeeded in convincing his judges both of his innocence of traitorous designs and his religious orthodoxy, and was allowed to go scot free. elizabeth, on her accession to the throne, naturally looked on him with favor, as one who had been persecuted by her sister; and with the more favor since it was widely reported that he was on the eve of making the grand discovery for which other alchemists had ever labored in vain. a man who might some day make gold at will was certainly not to be despised; rather, he should be cultivated. nor was her esteem for dee lessened by the success with which, by astrological calculations, he named a favorable day for her coronation; and, a little later, by solemn disenchantment warded off the ill effects of the lincoln's inn fields incident, when a puppet of wax, representing elizabeth, was found lying on the ground with a huge pin stuck through its breast. as a matter of fact, however, dee was making headway neither in his quest for the philosopher's stone nor in his efforts to prove the existence of a spiritual world. in vain he pored over every work of occultism upon which he could lay his hands, and tried all known means of incantation. year after year passed without result, until at last he hit on the expedient of crystal-gazing. as every student of things psychical is aware, if one takes a crystal, or glass of water, or other body with a reflecting surface, and gaze at it steadily, he may possibly perceive, after a greater or less length of time, shadowy images of persons or scenes in the substance that fixes his attention. it was so with dr. dee, and not having any understanding of the laws of subconscious mental action he soon came to the conclusion that the shadowy figures he saw in the crystal were veritable spirits. from this it was an easy step to imagine that they really talked to him and sought to convey to him a knowledge of the great secrets of this world and the next. the only difficulty was that he could not understand what they said--or, rather, what he fancied they said. the obvious thing to do was to find a crystal-gazer with the gift of the spirit language, and induce him to interpret for dr. dee's benefit the revelations of the images in the glass. such a crystal-gazer was ready at hand in the person of a young man named edward kelley. among the common people, as dee well knew, kelley had the reputation of being a bold and wicked wizard. he had been born in worcester, and trained in the apothecary's business, but, tempted by the prospect of securing great wealth at a minimum of trouble, he had turned alchemist and magician. it was rumored that on at least one occasion he had disinterred a freshly buried corpse, and by his incantations had compelled the spirit of the dead man to speak to him. there was more truth in the report that the reason he always wore a close-fitting skull-cap was to conceal the loss of his ears, which had been forfeited to the government of england on his conviction for forgery. of this last unpleasant incident dr. dee seems to have known nothing. at any rate, with child-like confidence, he sent for kelley, told him of the properties of his magic crystal--which the now thoroughly infatuated doctor represented as having been bestowed on him by the angel uriel--and asked kelley if he would interpret for him the wonderful words of the spirits. kelley, as shrewd and unscrupulous a man as any in the annals of imposture, readily consented, but on pretty hard terms. he was to be taken in as a member of dr. dee's family, retained on a contract, and paid an annual stipend of fifty pounds, quite a large sum in those times. on this understanding he went to work, and day after day, for years, regaled the credulous dee with monologues purporting to be delivered by the spirits in the crystal. everything kelley told him, dr. dee faithfully noted down, and many years later, long after both dee and kelley had been carried to their graves, these manuscript notes of the séances were published. the volume containing them--a massive, closely printed folio entitled "a true and faithful relation of what passed for many years between dr. john dee and some spirits"--is one of the great curiosities of literature. a copy of the original edition is before me as i write, and i will quote from it just enough to show the character of the "revelations" vouchsafed to dee through the mediumship of the cunning kelley. "wednesday, junii, i made a prayer to god and there appeared one, having two garments in his hands, who answered, 'a good praise, with a wavering mind.' "god made my mind stable, and to be seasoned with the intellectual leaven, free of all sensible mutability. "e. k. [said] 'one of these two garments is pure white: the other is speckled of divers colors; he layeth them down before him, he layeth also a speckled cap down before him at his feet; he hath no cap on his head: his hair is long and yellow, but his face cannot be seen.... now he putteth on his pied coat and his pied cap, he casteth one side of his gown over his shoulder and he danceth, and saith, "there is a god, let us be merry!"' "e. k. 'he danceth still.' "'there is a heaven, let us be merry.' "'doth this doctrine teach you to know god, or to be skilful in the heavens?' "'note it.' "e. k. 'now he putteth off his clothes again: now he kneeleth down, and washeth his head and his neck and his face, and shaketh his clothes, and plucketh off the uttermost sole of his shoes, and falleth prostrate on the ground, and saith, "vouchsafe, oh god, to take away the weariness of my body and to cleanse the filthiness of this dust, that i may be apt for this pureness."' "e. k. 'now he taketh the white garment, and putteth it on him.... now he sitteth down on the desk-top and looketh toward me.... he seemeth now to be turned to a woman, and the very same which we call galvah.'" side by side with the esoteric and transcendental utterances which kelley credited to the spirits, he cleverly introduced sufficient in the way of references to the elixir of life and the transmutation of metals, to keep alive in dee's breast the hope of ultimately solving the crucial problems of medieval science. all the money dee could procure was spent on ingredients for magical formulas, and to such lengths did his enthusiasm carry him that before long he was reduced to poverty. he became so poor, in fact, that when, in the summer of , the earl of leicester announced his intention of bringing a notable foreign visitor, count albert lasky of bohemia, to dine with dee, the unhappy doctor was compelled to send word that he could not provide a proper dinner. leicester, moved to pity, reported his plight to the queen, who at once belied her reputation for niggardliness by bestowing a liberal gift on the sage of mortlake, as dee was now styled at the court. the dinner accordingly took place, and was a tremendous success in more ways than one. lasky turned out to be an exceedingly excitable and impressionable man, and his curiosity was so aroused by the occult discourse of his host that he begged to be admitted to the séances. always alert to the main chance, kelley, after a few preliminary sittings of unusual picturesqueness, inspired the spirits to predict that lasky would one day be elected king of poland. it needed nothing more to induce the happy and hopeful count to invite both dee and kelley to return with him to bohemia. he would, he promised, protect and provide for them; they should live with him in his many turreted castle, and want for nothing. here, indeed, was a pleasant way out of their present poverty, and dee and kelley readily gave consent. nor did they leave england a moment too soon. scarcely had they taken ship before a mob, roused to fury by superstitious fears, broke into the philosopher's house at mortlake and destroyed almost everything that they did not steal--furniture, books, manuscripts, and costly scientific apparatus. of this, though, dee for the moment happily knew nothing. nor, for all his long intercourse with the spirits, was he able to foresee that he was now embarking on a career of tragic adventure that falls to the lot of few scientists. at first, however, all went well enough. lasky entertained his learned guests in lavish fashion, and, assuming their garb of long, flowing gown, joined heartily with them in the ceremonies of the séance room. but as time passed and their incantations redounded in no way to his advantage, he gradually lost patience, and broadly hinted that they might better transfer their services to another patron. whereupon, closely followed by the irrepressible kelley, dee removed to the court of the emperor, rudolph ii, at prague. he had dedicated one of his scientific treatises to the emperor's father, and in his simplicity firmly believed that this would insure him a warm and lasting welcome. but rudolph, from the outset, showed himself far from well-disposed to dee, kelley, and their attendant retinue of invisible spirits. when dee grandiloquently introduced himself, in a latin oration, as a messenger from the unseen world, the emperor curtly checked him with the remark that he did not understand latin. and the next day a hint was given him that, at the request of the papal nuncio, he and kelley were to be arrested and sent to rome for trial as necromancers. before night-fall they were in full flight, to remain homeless wanderers until another bohemian count, hearing of their presence in his dominions, took them under his protection on the proviso that they were to replenish his exchequer by converting humble pewter into silver and gold. in this, of course, they signally failed, and the next few years of their lives were years of the greatest misery. this, at any rate, so far as dee was concerned. kelley, with pitiless insistence, drew his pay regularly, and when funds were not forthcoming, refused to act as crystal-gazer and spirit interpreter. on one of these occasions dee tried to replace him by training his son, arthur dee, as a crystal-gazer; but, try as he might, the boy said he could see in the crystal nothing but meaningless clouds and specks. had dee not been thoroughly infatuated this might have disillusioned him, and convinced him that kelley had simply been preying on his credulity. but the old man--he was now well advanced in years--saw in his son's failure only proof of kelley's superior gifts, and by dint of great sacrifices contrived to find the money necessary to persuade him to return to his post. at last a day came when money could no longer be found, and then kelley definitely determined to break the partnership. according to one account, he informed dee that, for the sake of his immortal soul, he could no longer have dealings with the spirits; that they were spirits not of good but of evil, and mephistopheles was their master; and that, did he continue to traffic with them, mephistopheles would soon have him, body and soul. another version--given by the astrologer, william lilly, who is said to have been consulted by the friends of king charles i. as to the best time for that unhappy monarch to attempt to escape from prison--says that one fine morning kelley took french leave of dee, running away with an alchemically inclined friar who had promised him a good income. whatever the facts of his final rupture with his long-suffering master, it is certain that, after a romantic career, in which he gained a german baronetcy, kelley was clapped into prison on a charge of fraud, and broke his neck while trying to escape. dr. dee, in the meantime, a sadder if not a really wiser man, had found his way back to england, where he essayed the difficult task of retrieving his ruined fortunes. elizabeth smiled on him as graciously as ever, and at christmas time sent to him a royal gift of two hundred angels in gold. but he needed more than an occasional bounty; he needed the assurance of a steady income, and the chance to pursue again his scientific studies undisturbed by the phantoms of gnawing want. so, in a memorial, "written with tears of blood," as he himself put it, dee begged the queen to appoint a commission to investigate his case and review the evidence he would produce to prove that his services to the nation warranted a reward. promptly the commission was appointed, and as promptly began its labors. this led to what isaac disraeli, perhaps dee's best biographer, has described as a "literary scene of singular novelty." let me depict it in disraeli's little known words: "dee, sitting in his library," says disraeli, "received the royal commissioners. two tables were arranged; on one lay all the books he had published, with his unfinished manuscripts; the most extraordinary one was an elaborate narrative of the transactions of his whole life. this manuscript his secretary read, and, as it proceeded, from the other table dee presented the commissioners with every testimonial. these vouchers consisted of royal letters from the queen, and from princes, ambassadors, and the most illustrious persons of england and of europe; passports which traced his routes, and journals which noted his arrivals and departures; grants and appointments and other remarkable evidences; and when these were wanting, he appealed to living witnesses. "among the employments which he had filled, he particularly alluded to a 'painful journey in the winter season, of more than fifteen hundred miles, to confer with learned physicians on the continent, about her majesty's health.' he showed the offers of many princes to the english philosopher, to retire to their courts, and the princely establishment at moscow proffered by the czar; but he had never faltered in his devotion to his sovereign.... he complained that his house at mortlake was too public for his studies, and incommodious for receiving the numerous foreign literati who resorted to him. of all the promised preferments, he would have chosen the mastership of st. cross for its seclusion. here is a great man making great demands, but reposing with dignity on his claims; his wants were urgent, but the penury was not in his spirit. the commissioners, as they listened to his autobiography, must often have raised their eyes in wonder, on the venerable and dignified author before them." their report was terse, direct, and wholly favorable, inspiring the queen to declare that dee should have the mastership of st. cross, and that immediately. but days passed into months, and months into years, and elizabeth's "immediately" still belonged to the future. for some reason she soon lost all interest in the returned sage of mortlake. again and again he memorialized her, once with a letter vindicating himself from the accusation of practising sorcery. her sole reply was to grant him finally the uncongenial post of warden of manchester college, from which he retired after some mortifying experiences with the minor officials. nor did he fare better at the hands of elizabeth's successor. steadily he sank lower in the scale of society, until at last he was forced to sell his books, one by one, to buy bread. and still, for all his poverty, he pressed constantly forward in his adventurings into the invisible world. if his friends deserted him, he would at least have the companionship of "angels." as his hallucinations grew, his youthful buoyancy returned. he would leave england, would fare across to the continent, and there seek out men of a mind like unto his own. joyfully, he made ready for the journey; but, even while he packed and planned, the call came for another and a longer voyage. in the eighty-first year of his age, , the aged dreamer became in very fact a dweller in the spirit world. of his place in the history of mankind, it is not easy to write with any degree of finality. there can be no doubt that he was utterly swept off his feet by the domination of a fixed idea. and it is not possible to point to any specific contributions which he made to the advancement of learning, worldly or otherwise. still, it is equally certain that he was anything but a negative quantity in an age resplendent for its positive men. he played his part, however mistakenly, in the intellectual awakening that has shed such luster on the times of elizabeth; and, if only for his overpowering curiosity, and his intense and unfailing ardor to get at the truth of all things, natural or supernatural, he merits respect as a forerunner of the scientific spirit which in his day was but feebly striving to loose itself from the bondage of bigotry and intolerance. xi ghost hunters of yesterday and to-day psychical research, of which so much mention has been made in the preceding pages, may be roughly yet sufficiently described as an effort to determine by strictly scientific methods the nature and significance of apparitions, hauntings, spiritistic phenomena, and those other weird occurrences that would seem to confirm the idea that the spirits of the dead can and do communicate with the living. it is something comparatively new--and like all scientific endeavor is the outgrowth of many minds. but so far as its origin may be attributed to any one man, credit must chiefly be given to a cambridge university professor named henry sidgwick. at the time, sidgwick was merely a lecturer in the university, a post given him as a reward for his brilliant career as an undergraduate. he was a born student and investigator, a restless seeker after knowledge. philosophy, sociology, ethics, economics, mathematics, the classics,--he made almost the whole wide field of thought his sphere of inquiry. and after awhile, as is so often the case, his learning became too profound for his peace of mind. he had been born and brought up in the faith of the english church, and had unhesitatingly made the religious declaration required of all members of the university faculty. but little by little he felt himself drifting from the moorings of his youth, and doubting the truth of the ancient doctrines and traditions. honestly skeptical, but still unwilling to lose his hold on religion, he turned feverishly to the study of oriental languages, of ancient philosophies, of history, of science, in the hope of finding evidence that would remove his doubts. but the more he read the greater grew his uncertainty, especially with respect to the vital question of the existence of a spiritual world and its relation to mankind. while he was still laboring in this valley of indecision, sidgwick was visited by a young man, frederic w. h. myers, who had studied under him a few years earlier and for whom he had formed a warm friendship. myers, it seemed, was tormented by the same scruples that were harassing him. it was his belief, he told sidgwick, that if the teachings of the bible were true--if there existed a spiritual world which in days of old had been manifest to mankind--then such a world should be manifest now. and one beautiful, starlit evening, when they were strolling together through the university grounds, he put to his old master the pointed question: "do you think that, although tradition, intuition, metaphysics, have failed to solve the riddle of the universe, there is still a chance of solving it by drawing from actual observable phenomena--ghosts, spirits, whatsoever it may be--valid knowledge as to a world unseen?" gazing gravely into the eager face of his companion, and weighing his words with the caution that was characteristic of him, sidgwick replied that he had indeed entertained this thought; that, although not over hopeful of the result, he believed such an inquiry should be undertaken, notwithstanding the unpleasant notoriety it would entail on those embarking in it. would he, then, make the quest, and would he permit myers to pursue it by his side? long and earnestly the two friends talked together, and when their walk ended, that december night in , psychical research had at last come definitely into being. in the beginning, however, progress was painfully slow and uncertain. "our methods," as myers afterward explained, "were all to make. in those early days we were more devoid of precedents, of guidance, even of criticism that went beyond mere expressions of contempt, than is now readily conceived." it was realized that no mere analysis of alleged experiences in the past would do; that what was needed was a rigid scrutiny of present-day manifestations of a seemingly supernormal character, and the collection of a mass of well authenticated evidence sufficient to justify inferences and conclusions. earnestly and bravely the friends went to work, and before long had the satisfaction of finding an invaluable assistant in the person of edmund gurney, another cambridge man and an enthusiast in all matters metaphysical. at first, to be sure, gurney entered into psychical research in a half-hearted, quizzical way, expecting to be amused rather than instructed. and he derived little encouragement from the investigations carried on by sidgwick, myers, and himself in the field of spiritistic mediumship. fraud seemed always to be at the bottom of the phenomena produced in the séance room. but his interest was suddenly and permanently awakened by the discovery, following several years spent in patiently collecting evidence, of facts pointing to the possibility of thought being communicated from mind to mind by some agency other than the recognized organs of sense. at once he made it his special business to accumulate data bearing on this point, his labors ultimately leading him into an exhaustive examination of hypnotism, as he found that the hypnotic trance seemed peculiarly favorable to "thought transference," or "telepathy." meantime, the example of this little cambridge group had been followed by other investigators; and in , before no less dignified and conservative a body than the british association for the advancement of science, the proposal was made that a special committee be appointed for the systematic examination of spiritistic and kindred phenomena. the idea was broached by dr. w. f. barrett, professor of physics at the royal college of science, dublin, and was warmly seconded by dr. alfred russel wallace and sir william crookes, two distinguished scientists who had already made adventures in psychical research and were destined to wide renown as ghost hunters. for some reason nothing was done at the time; but five years later professor barrett renewed his suggestion, asking myers and gurney if they would join him in the formation of such a society. that, they replied, they would gladly do, provided sidgwick could be induced to accept its presidency. having long before realized that the field was too extensive for thorough exploration by any individual, however gifted, sidgwick willingly gave his consent. and accordingly, in january, , the now celebrated society for psychical research was formally organized, its first council including, besides sidgwick, myers, gurney, and barrett, such men as arthur j. balfour, afterward prime minister of great britain; the brilliant richard hutton; prof. balfour stewart; and frank podmore, than whom no more merciless executioner of bogus ghosts is wielding the ax to-day. unfortunately, the first council also numbered several avowed spiritists, notably the medium stainton moses; and the society's birthplace was in the rooms of the british national association of spiritualists. these two facts created a wide-spread suspicion that the society was actually nothing more than an adjunct to the spiritistic movement. nor was confidence wholly restored by the hasty withdrawal of the spiritistic representatives as soon as they learned that strictly scientific methods of inquiry were to prevail; or by the accession, as honorary members, of national figures like w. e. gladstone, john ruskin, lord tennyson, a. r. wallace, sir william crookes, and g. f. watts. to the scientific as well as the popular consciousness, the society was little better than an assemblage of cranks, with strangely fantastic notions, and only too likely to lose its mental balance and help ignorant and superstitious people to lose theirs. conscious, however, of the really serious and important nature of their enterprise, and cheered by gladstone's comforting assurance that no investigation of greater moment to mankind could be made,[r] the members of the society applied themselves zealously to the business that had brought them together. sensibly enough, they adopted the principle of specialization and division of labor. while one group carried on experiments designed to prove or disprove the telepathic hypothesis, another engaged in a systematic examination of the alleged facts of clairvoyance. a third, in its turn, under the skilful guidance of gurney, investigated the phenomena of the hypnotic trance, with results unexpectedly beneficial to medical science. a special committee was also appointed to collect and sift evidence as to the reality of apparitions and hauntings, making whenever possible personal examinations of the seers of the visions and the places of their occurrence. finally, there were various subcommittees of inquiry into the physical phenomena of spiritism,--the knockings, table turnings, production of spirit forms, and similar marvels of the dunglas home type of "medium." from the outset, these subcommittees demonstrated the value of psychical research, as a protection to the interests of society, by exposing, one after another, the fraudulent character of the pretended intermediaries between the seen and the unseen world. in this region of inquiry no one was more successful than a recruit from distant australia, by name richard hodgson. hodgson, unlike sidgwick and myers and many others of his associates, had not engaged in psychical research from the hope that the truths of the bible might thereby be demonstrated. his motive was that of the detective eager to unravel mysteries. from his boyhood he had had a singular fondness for solving tricks and puzzles of all sorts; and when, in , he came to england to complete his education at cambridge, he naturally gravitated into the company of sidgwick, myers, and gurney, as men busied in an undertaking that appealed to his detective instinct. he was radically different from them in temperament and point of view--not at all mystical, full of animal spirits, fond of all manner of sports, and interested in occult subjects only so far as they furnished working material for his nimble and inquiring mind. the cambridge trio, however, took kindly to him, invited him to join the society for psychical research, and two years after its formation were instrumental in sending him to india to investigate the methods of madam blavatsky, the high priestess of the theosophic movement which was then winning adherents throughout the civilized world. from this inquiry he returned to england with an international reputation as a detective of the supernatural. with the aid of two disgruntled confederates of the theosophist leader, he had demonstrated the falsity of the foundations on which her claims rested, and had shown that downright swindling constituted a large part of her stock in trade. with redoubled ardor he now plunged into the task of exposing the spiritistic mediums plying their vocation in england, and for this purpose enlisted the assistance of a professional conjurer, s. j. davey, who was also a member of the society for psychical research. davey, after a little practice, succeeded in duplicating by mere sleight of hand many of the most impressive feats of the mediums; doing this, indeed, so well that some spiritists alleged that he was in reality a medium himself. hodgson, for his part, by clever analysis of the davey performances and of the feats of davey's mediumistic competitors, brought home to his colleagues in the society for psychical research a lively sense of the folly of depending on the human eye as a detector of fraudulent spiritistic phenomena. his crowning triumph came with his exposure of eusapia paladino, the italian medium who is still enjoying an undeserved popularity on the european continent. but in time even hodgson met his waterloo. sent to the united states to investigate the trance phenomena of mrs. leonora piper, he was forced to confess that in her case the theory of fraud fell to the ground, and as is well known he ended by developing into an out and out spiritist. a few days before christmas, , he suddenly died in boston; and, if reports from the spirit world may be accepted, the once-renowned ghost hunter has himself become a ghost, visiting in especial two of his american colleagues, prof. william james and prof. james h. hyslop.[s] to return, however, to the early days of the society for psychical research. valuable as were the results obtained by hodgson and his associates on what may be called the anti-swindle committees, they had a distinctly negative bearing on the supreme object of inquiry--proof of the existence of a spiritual world in which human personality exists after the death of the body. some enthusiasts did not hesitate to proclaim at an early date that such proof had actually been secured, basing this assertion on the seemingly supernatural facts brought to light by the committees on telepathy, clairvoyance, and apparitions. but the society, under the leadership of the cautious sidgwick, who was its president for many years, steadily refused to countenance this view, and insisted that before any definite conclusions could be reached far more evidence would have to be assembled. thus the first ten years of the society's existence were marked by few positive results,--the most important being the statement of the case for telepathy and of its possible relationships to apparitions and hauntings, as well as to the purely psychical phenomena of spiritualism. indeed, the society formally expressed its acquiescence in the telepathic hypothesis as early as , in the words, "our society claims to have proved the reality of thought transference--of the transmission of thoughts, feelings, and images from one mind to another by no recognized channel of sense." but to no other dictum did it commit itself until ten years more had passed when, following the so-called census of hallucinations, it gave voice to its belief that between deaths and apparitions of the dying person a connection existed that was not due to chance. and since then the society has contented itself with steadily accumulating evidence designed to throw light on the causal connection between deaths and ghosts, and to illumine the central problem of demonstrating scientifically the existence of an unseen world and the immortality of the soul. individuals, of course, have been free to express their views, and from the pens of several have come striking and suggestive analyses of the evidence assembled in the course of the society's twenty-five years. in this respect, beyond any question, primacy must be given the writings of myers. even before the organization of the society, his personal researches had led him to suspect that, whatever the truth about the life beyond the grave, there was reason for radical changes of belief regarding the nature of human personality itself. in the light of the phenomena of the hypnotic trance, clairvoyance, hallucinations, and even of natural sleep, it seemed to him that, instead of being a stable, indivisible unity, human personality was essentially unstable and divisible. and as the years passed and he was enabled to coördinate the results of the investigations carried on by the different committees, he gradually became convinced that over and beyond the self of which man is normally conscious there existed in every man a secondary self endowed with faculties transcending those of the normal wake-a-day self. to this he gave the name of the "subliminal self," and, in the words of professor james, "endowed psychology with a new problem,--the exploration of the subliminal region being destined to figure thereafter in that branch of learning as myers's problem." not content with this, he gave himself, with all the earnestness that had originally drawn him into activity with sidgwick, to the formulation of a cosmic philosophy based on the hypothesis of the subliminal self and its operations in that unseen world of whose existence he no longer doubted. here he laid himself open to the charge of extravagance and transcendentalism, and undoubtedly exceeded the logical limit. but for all of that his labors--cut short by death six years ago, and only a few months after the death of his beloved master, sidgwick--have been little short of epoch marking, and amply suffice to vindicate the existence of the once despised, and still by no means venerated, society for psychical research. sir william crookes, sir oliver lodge, and mr. frank podmore are other members of the society who have granted the outside world informative glimpses of its workings and discoveries. sir william crookes, of course, is best known as a great chemist, discoverer of the element thallium, and inventor of numerous scientific instruments; while sir oliver lodge's most striking work has been in electricity, and more particularly in the direction of improving wireless telegraphy. but both have long been actively interested in psychical research, and perhaps most of all in those phases of it bearing on the telepathic hypothesis, their great aim being to discover just what the technique of telepathic communication from mind to mind may be. mr. podmore, on the other hand, like richard hodgson, has chiefly concerned himself with psychical research from the detective, or critical, standpoint. he began his labors late in the ' 's, associating himself with the cambridge group, and has consistently maintained the attitude of a skeptical, though open minded, investigator. to-day, to a certain extent, he may be said to occupy the place so long filled by henry sidgwick as a sane, restraining influence on the less judicial members of the society, who would unhesitatingly brush aside all objections and embrace the spiritistic hypothesis with all its supernatural implications.[t] of course, psychical research has by no means been confined to the english organization. all over the world investigators are now probing into the mysteries of the seemingly supernormal. but, as a general thing, their methods scarcely reach the strict standards set by the organized inquirers of england, and as a natural consequence they are more easily deceived by tricksters. this is particularly true of the european ghost hunters, whose laxity of procedure, not to say gullibility, was clearly shown by the ease with which hodgson exposed the pretensions of eusapia paladino after continental savants had pronounced her feats genuine. and it is even more strikingly exhibited by the pathetic fidelity with which they still trust in her, notwithstanding the hodgson exposure, and the fact that they themselves have on more than one occasion caught her committing fraud. in the united states, however, psychical research worthy of the name took root early, owing to the establishment of an american branch of the english society under the capable direction of dr. hodgson. a year or so ago, after his death, this branch was abandoned. but in its place, and organized along similar lines, there has arisen the american institute for scientific research, the creation of prof. james h. hyslop. until a few years ago occupant of the chair of logic at columbia university, professor hyslop is unquestionably one of the most conspicuous figures in psychical research in this or any other country. like professor sidgwick, he first became interested in the subject through religious doubt, and forthwith attacked its problems with the zeal of a man whose principal characteristics are intense enthusiasm, resourcefulness of wit, and intellectual fearlessness. as everybody knows, his experiences with mrs. piper led him to unite with hodgson and myers in regarding the spiritistic hypothesis as the only one capable of explaining all the phenomena encountered. but he is none the less able and eager to expose fraud wherever found, and if only from the police view-point his society will undoubtedly do good work. associated with him are many of the american investigators formerly identified with the english society; some of whom, notably prof. william james of harvard, the dean of psychical research in the united states, also keep up their connection with the parent organization. summing up the results of the really scientific ghost hunting of the last twenty-five years, it may be safely said that if the hunters have not accomplished their main object of definitely proving the existence of a spiritual world, their labors have nevertheless been of high value in several important directions. they have exposed the fraudulent pretensions of innumerable charlatans, and have thus acted as a protection for the credulous. they have shown that, making all possible allowance for error of whatever kind, there still remains in the phenomena of apparitions, clairvoyance, etc., a residuum not explainable on the hypothesis of fraud or chance coincidence. they have aided in giving validity to the idea of the influence of suggestion as a factor both in the cause and the cure of disease. they have given a needed stimulus to the study of abnormal mental conditions. and, finally, by the discovery of the impressive facts that led myers to formulate his hypothesis of the subliminal self, they have opened the door to far-reaching reforms in the whole sociological domain,--in education, in the treatment of vice and crime, in all else that makes for the uplifting of the human race. footnotes: [r] gladstone's words were--"psychical research is the most important work which is being done in the world--by far the most important." [s] for details of the hodgson "manifestations" the reader may consult professor hyslop's recently published book "psychical research and the resurrection"--particularly chaps. v-vii. [t] a new work by mr. podmore is announced for immediate publication, with the characteristic title of "the naturalization of the supernatural." it is said to contain a detailed analysis of the work of various well-known mediums. _up-to-date books on great subjects_ science and immortality by sir oliver lodge, f.r.s. in this able and intensely modern work, the distinguished author sums up the states of science, faith and theology in their bearing, separately and collectively, upon religion and immortality; and it constitutes, therefore, an extremely valuable contribution to the literature of the present important crisis in modern thought. vo. $ . net. postpaid $ . *** religion and medicine by drs. worcester, mccomb and coriat this is the celebrated official book of the celebrated emmanuel movement. its effect upon the thought and the religion of its age is already probably greater than that of any book published for many years. it is a clear, non-technical statement of the principles it stands for. it is unquestionably the most widely discussed book in america. mo. $ . net. postpaid $ . *** the living word by elwood worcester, d.d., ph.d. "for the past generation," says dr. worcester in his preface, "men have been groping for a theology which should approach the old mysteries, god, evil, the soul and immortality from the point of view of modern scientific and philosophic thought. the old static aspect of the universe has been supplemented by the dynamic. the old transcendent conception of god has yielded to the immanent. the thought of god as mere ruler and judge is no longer sufficient for men's religious needs. science has discovered god at work, and religion also craves a spiritual and an active deity who works through laws and through us." mo. $ . net. postpaid $ . *** moffat, yard & company, new york "_the latest voice of modern scientific investigation._"--chicago daily news. *** the riddle of personality by h. addington bruce author of "historic ghosts and ghost hunters" *** contents chapters i. early phases of the problem ii. the subliminal self iii. "pioneers of france in the new world" iv. american explorers of the subconscious v. the evidence for survival vi. the nemesis of spiritism appendices i. d. d. home and eusapia paladino ii. the census of hallucinations iii. hypnotism and the drink habit iv. hypnoidization v. spiritism vs telepathy vi. hints for further reading "a singularly well balanced judgment is needed to succeed in the task set for himself by mr. h. addington bruce in his discussion of men's latent powers. but he has distinctly proved that he is possessed of that rare gift.... the book is one of great value and written in a style that will bring enlightenment to many readers."--_the outlook._ "a volume of genuine value and one that will be read with profit by those who are interested in and have followed the arguments and experiments of curious delvers into the mysteries of the human mind. it is a clear, logical and impartial presentation of the whole subject from a scientific point of view, in which is set forth all that can be absolutely classed as fact regarding the latent faculties of man, revealed by study, accident, personal observation and experiment."--_boston evening transcript._ vo. $ . net. postpaid $ . *** moffat, yard & company, new york ---------------------------------------------------------------------- transcriber's note: puctuation errors (e.g. commas used instead of periods, incorrect quotation marks) have been corrected without note. unusual spellings (e.g. accordeon, breesquely, roystering) have been retained. the following corrections were made: *p. : litttle to little (clergymen of the little connecticut village) *p. : oustide to outside (how he was supported outside) *p. : ignoance to ignorance (professing complete ignorance) ---------------------------------------------------------------------- [transcriber's note: the author uses lines of spaced periods to mark the passing of time, this has been preserved in this edition.] the alleged haunting of b---- house [illustration: attics] [illustration: second floor] [illustration: ground floor l. lift. a. iron gate in area.] [illustration: basement] the alleged haunting of b---- house including a journal kept during the tenancy of colonel lemesurier taylor edited by a. goodrich-freer (miss x) and john, marquess of bute, k.t. london george redway "i visited b---- representing that society [s.p.r.], ... and decided that there was no such evidence as could justify us in giving the results of the inquiry a place in our _proceedings_."--_the times_, june , . frederic w.h. myers, _hon. sec. of the society for psychical research_. _compare pages et seq._ * * * * * the alleged haunting of b---- house it was in that lord bute first heard of the matter. it was not, as stated by _the times_ correspondent in that journal for june , , in or from london, but at falkland, in fifeshire, and in the following manner:-- there is no public chapel at falkland, and the private chapel in the house is attended by a variety of priests, who usually come only from saturday to monday. lord bute's diary for the second week in august contains the following entries:-- "_saturday, august th._--father h----, s.j., came. "_sunday, august th._--in afternoon with father h---- and john [lord dumfries] to palace, and then with him to the gruoch's den. he gives us a long account of the psychical disturbances at b----; noises between his bed and the ceiling, like continuous explosion of petards, so that he could not hear himself speak, &c. &c. "[mr. huggins afterwards recommended the use of a phonograph for these noises, in order to ascertain absolutely whether they are objective or subjective, and i wrote so to s---- of b----.] "_monday, august th._--father h---- went away. "_tuesday, august th._--mr. huggins [now sir william huggins], outgoing president of the british association, and mrs. huggins came. "_saturday, august th._--father h---- came. "_sunday, august th._--in afternoon with the children, &c., to the palace, leaving mr. huggins as much as possible alone with father h---- (both being with us), in order to interrogate him about the psychical noises he heard recently at b----, when there, to give a retreat to some nuns. "_monday, august th._--father h---- went away after luncheon." lord bute recalls that father h---- told him that he had been at b---- for the purpose of giving a retreat [a series of sermons and meditations] to some nuns, who were charitably allowed by mr. s---- to take a sort of holiday, at a house called b---- cottage, which had been originally built and occupied by the late major s----, when he first took up his residence at b----, which at the time was let. father h---- told lord bute that in consequence of the disturbance his room had been several times changed, and he expressed surprise that the sounds did not appear to be heard by anybody except himself. he also said that he had spoken of the matter to mr. s----, who expressed an idea that the disturbances might be caused by his uncle, the late major s----, who was trying to attract attention in order that prayers might be offered for the repose of his soul. the sounds occurred during full daylight, and in a clear open space between his bed and the ceiling. he did not know to what to compare them, but as he said they were explosive in sound, lord bute suggested that they might be compared to the sounds made by petards, which are commonly used in italy for firing _feux de joie_. father h---- answered, "yes perhaps, if they were continuous enough." he said that the sound which alarmed him more than any other was as of a large animal throwing itself violently against the bottom of his door, outside. a third noise which he had heard was of ordinary raps, of the kind called "spirit-raps." he mentioned a fourth sound, the nature of which lord bute does not remember with the same certainty as the others, but believes it was a shriek or scream. such a sound is described by other witnesses during the subsequent occupation of the house by the h---- family. the fact that the sounds appear to have been inaudible to every one except father h---- is a strong argument in favour of their subjective, or hallucinatory, character. it will be found that this was very often the case with the peculiar sounds recorded at b----, and even when they were heard by several persons at the same time, there does not appear to be any ground for refusing to recognise them as collective hallucinations. lord bute's diary and recollections have been here quoted, not as differing from, but only as being antecedent to, the following account, which has been furnished by father h---- himself:-- "i went to b---- on thursday, july th, , and i left it on saturday, july rd. so i slept at b---- for nine nights, or rather one night, because i was disturbed by very queer and extraordinary noises every night except the last, which i spent in mr. s----'s dressing-room. at first i occupied the room to the extreme right of the landing [no. ],[a] then my things were removed to another room [no. ] (it seems to me at this distance of time that _this_ room faced the principal staircase, or was a little to the left of it). in both these rooms i heard the loud and inexplicable noises every night, but on two or three nights, in addition to these, another noise affrighted me--a sound of somebody or something falling against the door outside. it seemed, at the time, as if a calf or big dog would make such a noise. why those particular animals came into my head i cannot tell. but in attempting to describe these indescribable phenomena, i notice now i always do say it was like a calf or big dog falling against the door. why did i not hear the noises on the ninth night? were there none where i was? these are questions the answers to which are not apparent. it may be there _were_ noises, but i slept too soundly to hear them. one of the oddest things in my case, in connection with the house, is that it appeared to me somehow that ( ) somebody was relieved by my departure; ( ) that nothing could induce me to pass another night there, at all events alone, and in other respects i do not think i am a coward." for the benefit of those who are not aware of the fact, it may be as well to state that the class of people known as spiritualists, hold that when raps are heard, it is the best thing for the hearer to say aloud, "if you are intelligent, will you please to rap three times?" and if this is done, to ask the intelligence to rap three times for _yes_, once for _no_, and twice for _doubtful_. it is obvious that considerable conversation can be carried on by such a code, and where it is inadequate, as, for instance, in obtaining proper names, it is usual to propose to repeat the alphabet slowly, asking the intelligence to rap once when the proper letter is reached. this simple method was entirely unknown to father h----. he had done nothing but throw holy water about his rooms, and repeat the prayer _visita quæsumus_, which invokes the divine protection of a house and its inhabitants against all the snares of the enemy, and which, therefore, in no way concerned any person or thing which is not associated with the powers of darkness. it was natural that no result should be produced. sir w. huggins told lord bute, as the result of his examination of father h----, that he felt absolutely certain that what the latter had experienced was not the outcome of morbid hallucination, but that it was possible that the sounds themselves might be hallucinatory or subjective. to ascertain whether this were so, or whether they had any physical cause, he suggested the use of a phonograph, as this would at least show whether the sounds were accompanied by atmospheric waves. lord bute happened to know mr. s---- slightly, having met him accidentally while travelling abroad. he accordingly wrote to him, and communicated sir william huggins's suggestion. mr. s----, after a delay of some days, refused absolutely to allow any scientific investigation to be made, a refusal remarkably coincident with the recent refusal of his son, the present proprietor, to allow any similar investigation with seismographical instruments. it would seem a legitimate conclusion that neither father nor son doubted that the sounds are of a psychical character. as regards the present proprietor, such a conclusion renders it obvious that we must understand in some peculiar sense the letter published in _the times_, dated june , , in which he says, "as to the stories contained in the article [_i.e._ of the anonymous _times_ correspondent], they are without foundation." these words must, however, be, in any case, accepted in a special sense, considering the part taken by members of his own family, as well as by tenants and agents, in attesting the stories in question. lord bute states that father h---- did not, upon the occasion of his visit to falkland, say anything as to having seen the brown wooden crucifix (see pp. , , ), but after this apparition had been seen by two other persons separately, lord bute wrote to father h---- to inquire whether he could remember anything of the sort. his reply was as follows:-- "when you mention the brown wooden crucifix, you awaken a new memory in me. i now seem to live some of those hours over again, and i recollect that between waking and sleeping there appeared before my eyes--somewhere on the wall--a crucifix, some eighteen inches, i should say, long, and, _i think_, of _brown_ wood. "my own crucifix is of black metal, and just the length of this page (seven inches); and though i usually have it with me in my bag, i cannot for certain say that it was in my bag at b----." the following further communication from father h---- carries the record further back:-- "in august it was that i met, quite by accident, a person who knew something about b---- house and its strange noises. "though, on my leaving his house, mr. s---- begged me not 'to give the house a bad name,' i did not understand by this that, as a point of honour, i should refrain from ever mentioning the subject. i respected his request to the extent of not alluding indiscriminately to the noises that disturbed my nights there. but i did speak to several people about them, and they had so impatiently and incredulously heard my statements, that i at last refused to repeat them, even when pressingly requested to do so. it was, therefore, quite a surprise to find myself talking about b---- house, or rather, listening with rapt attention to another talking about the place. "miss y----, i think her name was, kept house for a priest at----. one evening, while on a visit there, i found her knitting as i passed the kitchen door, and bidding her the time of day, i discovered from a remark she made that she had in former days filled more important posts. she soon settled down when she found me an attentive listener to a somewhat detailed account of by no means a short life. "'had she been in scotland?' 'yes, sir; and in a very beautiful part of scotland, in p----shire.' 'indeed!' in short she told me that she had been, twelve years ago, governess in the s---- family at b---- house. (i need not say that i was now intensely interested.) 'why did she leave?' 'well, sir, so many people complained of queer noises in the house, that i got alarmed and left.' i asked her had she seen anything? she said no, and the noises were only heard in certain rooms, and the servants inhabited quite a different part of the house. when i closely questioned her she located the queer noises precisely in the two rooms i had successively occupied. she did not learn from me that i had ever been there. pressed for a concrete case of fright and abrupt leavetaking (i _think_), she told me two military officers had 'left next morning.' "in conclusion, as against all the above, my own, and this good woman's account, i must set it down that, before i left the house, two young ladies, relatives of the family, occupied the rooms in question, and certainly, to my surprise, did not seem at breakfast as if they had spent an unquiet night." inquiry shows that miss y----'s residence at b---- must have been about the years - . the earliest witnesses in chronological sequence would be the s---- family themselves; but though much information has been contributed by them to various persons interested in b---- house during the tenancy both of mr. h---- and colonel taylor, the present editors are unwilling to make use of it without permission. a statement in _the times_ article, of the character of which the reader can here judge for himself, elicited the following letter from mrs. s----, which is to be found in the issue of that journal for june , :-- "may i ask of your courtesy to insert this in the next issue of your paper. seeing myself dragged into publicity in _the times_ of june , as 'having made admissions under pressure of cross-examination,' i beg to state that i as well as the rest of my family had not the remotest idea that our home was let to other than ordinary tenants. in my intercourse with them i spoke as one lady to another, never imagining that my private conversations were going to be used for purposes carefully concealed from me--a deceit which i deeply resent." it will be observed that mrs. s---- here leaves no doubt as to the nature of the information with which she was so good as to favour miss freer, but, notwithstanding this fact, and the language which mrs. s---- has considered it right to use--or, at least, to sign--with regard to miss freer, miss freer prefers to continue to treat mrs. s----'s statements as confidential, and blanks will accordingly be found in the journal under the dates on which such conversations occurred. miss freer extends the same regard for a privacy, which the s---- family have themselves violated, to communications made by other members. there have, however, been several witnesses unconnected with them, some of whom are referred to in the journal. not only the villagers and persons in the immediate neighbourhood, but many accidentally met with in visits to show-places and in excursions for twenty miles round b----, were ready to pour out traditions and experiences which are not here quoted, as, though often suggestive, not always evidential. the rev. p. h----, already referred to, quotes a witness who testifies to processions of monks or nuns having been seen by mr. s---- from a window, and of a married couple who, "relating the events of the night, declared they could not hear each other's voices for the noise overhead between them and the ceiling," which was especially interesting to him, as corroborative of his own experience. a former servant at b---- has voluntarily related, at great length, the story of the alleged hauntings, which shows that they have occurred at intervals during the past twenty years. he is of opinion that as the earlier hauntings were ascribed to the late major s----, so their revival may be referred to the late proprietor; but his reasons, as well as his narrative, are of a nature which might cause annoyance to the s---- family, and are therefore withheld. dr. menzies, a correspondent of _the times_, june th, who speaks of himself as an old friend of major s----, refers to a still earlier haunting--a tradition current at the time of the major's succession in . * * * * * in august , b---- house, with the shooting attached, was let by captain s----, the present proprietor, for a year to a wealthy family of spanish origin. their experience was of such a nature that they abandoned the house at the end of seven weeks, thus forfeiting the greater part of their rent, which had been paid in advance. the evidence of mr. h---- himself, of his butler, and of several guests, will be found in due chronological sequence. * * * * * when colonel taylor, one of the fundamental members of the london spiritualist alliance, a distinguished member of the s.p.r., whose name is associated both in this country and in america with the investigation of haunted houses, offered to take a lease of b---- house, after the lease had been resigned by mr. h----, the proprietor made no objection whatever. indeed, the only allusion made to the haunting was the expression of a hope on the part of captain s----'s agents in edinburgh, that colonel taylor would not make it a subject of complaint, as had been done by mr. h----, in reply to which they were informed that colonel taylor was thoroughly well aware of what had happened during mr. h----'s tenancy, and would undertake to make no complaint on the subject. captain s---- having thus thrown the house into the open market, and let it to the well-known expert, with no reference whatever to the subject of haunting, except that it should not be made a ground of complaint, it is obvious that he deprived himself of any right to complain as to observations upon the subject of local hallucination, any more than of observation upon the habits of squirrels or other local features. nor had he any more right to complain upon this ground, as vendor of the lease, than any other vendor of articles exposed for public sale, such as a hatter, who after selling a hat to lord salisbury, might complain that he had been induced to provide headgear for a conservative. at the same time, both colonel taylor and his friends were well aware, from a vexatious experience, that phenomena of the kind found at b---- are very often associated with private matters, which the members of a family concerned might object to see published, just as they might object to the publication of the results of an examination of some object--say, old medicine-bottles--found in the house let by them to a strange tenant. acting upon this knowledge, it has been the general rule of the society for psychical research to publish the cases investigated by it under avowedly false names, as private cases are published in medical and other scientific journals. out of a courteous anxiety that nothing should occur which could in any way annoy any member of the s---- family, no one was admitted to the house for the purpose of observing the phenomena, except on the definite understanding that they were to regard everything as confidential, and it was always intended that any publication on the subject was to be made with all names and geographical indications avowedly fictitious. as certain points of gaelic orthography were found to be involved, it was decided to mention the house as standing in a bi-lingual district upon the borders of wales, and lord bute arranged with sir william lewis to have these linguistic points represented by welsh instead of gaelic. the affairs of the inquiry, and of any phenomena which might occur, were thus protected, it was believed, by a confidence even more absolute than that usually observed in such affairs of a household as to which honour dictates that a guest should be silent. the appreciation with which the s---- family responded to this courteous and careful consideration for their possible feelings, was made manifest to the world by the tone which they adopted when, immediately on the appearance of the anonymous article in _the times_, they rushed into the newspapers, and published everything concerning themselves, their family property, predecessors, and tenants, with all the proper names at full length. after that outburst it has, of course, been rendered impossible to keep the identity of the place and people any longer secret. out of deference to other members of the family who did not take part in this, the matter in the present volume remains in as private a form as the newspaper correspondence now leaves possible. the names given in full are those mostly very indirectly concerned; other names, including that of the house, are given under the real initials, with the exception of a few of the less prominent, when the real initials would create confusion; and in these latter cases they are taken from letters of the alphabet not already used, and are placed in inverted commas; _e.g._ the real initial of a mr. s---- is changed, in order to avoid confusion with the name of the s---- family themselves, the proprietors of b----. the contents of the book are, except in one respect, arranged upon the simple chronological system. they commence with a short sketch of the history of the s---- family, based in its earlier part upon douglas's "baronage of scotland"; and all information which the writers possess as to the phenomena which have occurred since the death of major s---- in , except that supplied by the s---- family, is set forth in succession. the family of s---- date from the earlier part of the middle of the fifteenth century, and were settled upon the river t---- within that century, while they have possessed b---- at least since the earlier half of the century following. a stone, carved with their arms, belonging to the old mansion-house, is built into the wall, and dated . the present house is modern, and does not even occupy the site of the older one. the particular proprietor whose arms are so represented, patrick s----, married elizabeth b----, who survived him and married a second time. james s----, his son, in , married mary c----, and after her death, in , elizabeth r----. robert s----, his son by his first marriage, married margaret c----. john s----, son of robert, was killed by the cromwellians, leaving no issue, and was succeeded by his brother, patrick s----, who married elizabeth l----. it is not obvious when they adopted the principles of the reformation, but it is to be remarked that this patrick stood high in the favour of james ii. (and vii.). charles s----, son of the foregoing, married anne d----, and was succeeded by his third son, another charles, who married grizell m----, and died in . robert s----, his son, married isabel h----. charles s----, his eldest son, died unmarried in . h---- s----, second son of r---- s----, married louisa m----, died in , and had issue--robert, two other sons, and six daughters. robert s----, born january , in entered the military service of the east india company, from which he retired with the rank of major in , _i.e._ sixteen years after succeeding to the property. he died in april . his two brothers both died unmarried, and of his six sisters, three married, and a fourth, isabella, entered a nunnery. she there professed under the name of "frances helen" in , the year of her brother's return from india, and died february , , aged sixty-six. major s----, by his will dated june , , bequeathed b---- to the representatives of his married sister mary, and on his death was accordingly succeeded by her second (but eldest surviving) son, john, who on succeeding assumed the name of s----. major s---- was a protestant, but this john was a roman catholic, like his aunt isabella. his eldest brother died without issue in , but he had a younger brother, married, with issue, and two sisters, louisa and mary, whom major s----, by a codicil of december , , carefully excluded from all benefit under his will. the register of the parish of l----, in which b---- house is situated, mentions under the date july , , the death of sarah n----, housekeeper of b---- house (single), aged twenty-seven years, daughter of john n----, farmer, and helen r----. (in scottish legal documents married women are described by their maiden name.) it is said that her last illness was very short, lasting only three days. mrs. s---- had the great charity to attend her on her deathbed. it is mentioned in the register, that the official intimation of sarah n----'s death was given, not by her parents nor by major s----, but by her uncle, neil n----. major s---- seems to have been somewhat eccentric, and was very fond of dogs, of which he kept a considerable number. he had very strong views upon psychical subjects. he was a believer in spirit-return, and many witnesses have attested that he frequently spoke of his own return after death. among these psychic beliefs were two relating to animals; and as they are of a kind not very commonly discussed even among spiritualists, and enter, to some extent, into the following narrative, it is convenient here to state them at length. it is very commonly held that the soul or living personality of man, which will survive the change called by us "death," is capable of entering living bodies and making use of their organs. the form in which this belief is most commonly met with, is that of the alleged inspiration of trance mediums by the souls of the dead. such a case is that of mrs. piper, said to have been animated by the soul of dr. phinuit and other personalities now disincarnated. it has naturally been argued that if it is possible for the disembodied spirit to occupy and animate the body of a human being, it would, _a fortiori_, be easy for it to do the same with the body of a beast, where the resistance of will would presumably be less. this idea, coupled with the belief that the soul can be separated from the body during life, so producing a kind of temporary death, while leaving the body in such a state that it is capable of being again inhabited and animated, lies at the bottom of the numerous statements as to sorcerers and sorceresses changing themselves into hares, wolves, or cats, which are to be found in the records of witch trials. that this was possible, at least after death, was evidently a strong belief upon the part of major s----. we are informed that he frequently intimated his intention of entering the body of a particular black spaniel which he possessed, and so strong a belief was attached to his words, that after his death all his dogs, including the spaniel in question, were shot, apparently in order to render impossible any such action upon his part. the policy of the measure adopted was short-sighted. if the major had thoroughly succeeded in animating the body of the living spaniel, the physical resources at his disposal would have been too limited to have enabled him to give much trouble. as it is, a series of witnesses attest apparitions of this spaniel, and of at least one other dog, which may naturally be regarded as much more disturbing. the second point is possibly the same as the last, but it appears to be more probably based upon the belief held by major s----, in common with a large number of those who have made a serious study of apparitions--and certainly a large number of the members of the s.p.r.--that such apparitions are really hallucinations or false impressions upon the senses, created, so far as originated by any external cause, by other minds either in the body or out of the body, which are themselves invisible in the ordinary and physical sense of the term, and really acting through some means at present very imperfectly known. such an opinion of course reserves the question of the possible action of unseen forces upon what is commonly called matter involved in 'spirit'-photography, materialisation, levitation, the passage of matter through matter, and other forms of _apport_, although such a distinction, if logically carried out, becomes somewhat tenuous in face of the generally accepted fact that all mental processes are accompanied by physical processes in the brain. in the following pages will be found instances of the phenomenon of the apparent removal of bed-clothing, which raise a question as to the propriety of regarding as exhaustive an explanation based solely upon the hypothesis of subjective hallucination which otherwise would appear to be generally applicable. it would stand to reason that if such an intelligence can produce an hallucination of the appearance of the human figure, it would be at least equally easy for it to produce an hallucination of the appearance of a beast. a belief to this effect seems to be the explanation of the fact mentioned in a letter to _the times_ of june , , by dr. menzies, who refers to major s---- as "an old and dear friend." he writes, "i have no doubt that he created much scandal by saying to his gardener that he had better take care to keep up the garden properly, for when he was gone his soul would go into a mole and haunt the garden and him too." this theory of the possibility of producing by mental force the hallucination audible or visual of a beast, may also be the explanation, not only of the apparition of the large dog which has been seen, as well as that of a spaniel, but also of the phenomenon, attested by several witnesses, of their having heard the sound as of a large dog throwing itself from the outside against the lower part of their doors. major s---- died, as already stated, in , and was buried beside sarah n---- and, it is said, an old indian manservant. the grave is in the middle of the parish churchyard. no monument marks their resting-place, but a high enclosure, which surrounds it, is a prominent object. the whole of his dogs, fourteen in number, including the spaniel already mentioned, were killed after his death. * * * * * the s.p.r. some years ago published a census of hallucinations based upon the interrogation of seventeen thousand persons, who were not only taken casually, but from whom those were excluded whose replies were foreseen. from the analysis of these statistics, it appears that the great majority of these phantasms are figures of people who were living and continue to live, although research seems to point to the fact that their bodies are either always, or very often, in a state of apparent unconsciousness at the moment of the phenomenon. among the minority, _i.e._ of apparitions of the dead, the frequency seems to be in inverse proportion to the time which has elapsed since death. those which appear at the moment of death are very frequent, whereas, on the other hand, those of persons who have been very long dead are almost unknown; _e.g._ the apparition seen by lady galway a few years ago at rufford abbey, where the form represented a person who must have been dead for about three hundred years, belongs to a class of which examples are very few. a haunted house (or any other locality) is merely a place where experience shows that hallucinations are more or less localised, and the only especially interesting question about it is, why the hallucinations should be localised at a particular place, and what causes them there. such phantasms of the living have been discussed in the monumental work of mr. myers and the late mr. e. gurney. they need be no further remarked upon here, than to observe that the following pages contain at least one example, viz. that of the apparition of the rev. p. h----. (see p. .) it is very difficult to judge of the forces which may act in the conditions of what we are accustomed to call "another world," but a plausible explanation might be found in the divine word, "where your treasure is, there will your heart be also." the thoughts and affections appear to dwell for a time where they have been already fixed during life, but changes here, including the gradual reunion on the other side, of all those who are loved with those who love them, the advancing dissociation of the mind with things here, and, no doubt, the evolution of a different life under different conditions, seem gradually to efface the ties of earthly memory, connecting the feelings with particular spots on earth. such thoughts not infrequently include repentance, a desire for the remedy of acts of injustice, and an eagerness for the compassion and sympathetic prayers of those whom we call the living. it is natural, therefore, to suppose that haunting, such as that met with at b----, would be connected with persons who had died within some such period as a century at the outside. now the number of the members of the s---- family and others, whose thoughts, memories, feelings, and affections may presumably have dwelt largely at b----, and who have died within the last hundred years, is very considerable; but--saving the tradition referred to by dr. menzies (see p. ), only to be dismissed--there seems to have been no idea of the place being haunted before the deaths of sarah n---- and of major s----, whereas since that time the peculiar phenomena have been constantly attested. john s----, his successor, was, as stated, the second son of major s----'s sister mary, and assumed the name of s---- upon succeeding to the property. he was a roman catholic; he was married, and had several children, of whom the eldest son is the present proprietor. one of the younger sons is a jesuit, but not yet a priest. in january mr. s---- went to london on family business, and was there killed by being run over by a cab in the street. it was stated on the authority of three persons, not counting members of his own family, that on the morning on which he left b---- for the last time, while he was talking to the agent in his business-room, there were raps so violent as to interfere with conversation. the earliest written notice of this circumstance, so far as can be discovered, is the following entry in lord bute's journal for january , :-- "i hear that the morning the late s---- of b---- left home for the last time, spirits came and rapped to him in his room--doubtless to warn him--so that his death was really owing to the cruel superstition which had prevented him allowing them to be communicated with." lord bute's informant appears to have been the rev. sir david hunter blair, as the journal mentions his arrival at falkland on that day, and none of the other guests in the house were people who were likely to have heard anything about it. mr. s---- was succeeded by his eldest son, captain s----, who showed no hesitation in throwing the house into the public market, with its acres of shooting. the alleged haunting was not mentioned beforehand to the first tenant, as it afterwards was to colonel taylor. this tenant was mr. j.r. h---- of k---- court, c----, in g----shire, and the following is the account of experiences during his visit, as given by his butler:-- on the trail of a ghost _to the editor of "the times"_ "sir,--in your issue of the th, under the above heading, 'a correspondent' tries at some length to describe what he calls a most impudent imposture. i having lived at b---- for three months in the autumn of last year as butler to the house, i thought perhaps my experience of the ghost of b---- might be of interest to many of your readers, and as the story has now become public property, i shall not be doing any one an injury by telling what i know of the mystery. "on july , , i was sent by mr. h----, with two maidservants, to take charge of b---- from mr. s----'s agents. i was there three days before the arrival of any one of the family, and during that time i heard nothing to disturb me in any way; but on the morning after the arrival of two of the family, master and miss h----, they came down with long faces, giving accounts of ghostly noises they had heard during the night, but i tried to dissuade them from such nonsense, as i then considered it to be; but on the following two or three nights the same kind of noises were heard by them, and also by the maidservants, who slept in the rooms above, and they all became positively frightened. i heard nothing whatever, though the noises, as they described them, would have been enough to wake any one much farther away than where i slept, for the noises they heard were made immediately over my room. i suggested the hot-water pipes or the twigs of ivy knocking against the windows, but no--nothing would persuade them but that the house was haunted; but as the noises continued to be heard nightly, i suggested that i should sit up alone, and without a light, outside their bedroom doors, where the footsteps and other rustling noises were heard. i think one other member of the family, or two young gentlemen, had arrived at this time, and they had also heard the noises. i told them of my intention to sit up alone, for as one of them had a revolver i did not want to run the risk of being shot for a ghost. however, i took my post on the landing at . and kept watch, i am certain, until half-past one; then i must have fallen asleep, for about two o'clock master h----, hearing the knocking as usual, came out of his room to hear if i had seen or heard anything, but found me fast asleep on the floor, which gave him a greater fright than the knocking, for he supposed for the moment that i had been slain by the ghost. "this kind of thing went on nightly, and for three weeks i heard nothing, although nearly every one in the house heard these noises except myself; but my turn had yet to come, although i firmly held the opinion during that time that it was the hot-water pipes, and i only laughed at the others for their absurd nonsense, as i then considered it to be; but my first experience was that of being awakened three successive nights, or rather mornings, at about . . i heard nothing, but seemed to be wide awake in an instant, as though some one had touched me. i would stay awake for some little time and then go to sleep again; but on the fourth night, on being awakened as before, and lying awake for perhaps two minutes, i heard tremendous thumping just outside my door. i jumped out of bed quickly, and opened my door, and called out in a loud voice, 'who is there?' but got no answer. i ascended the stairs and listened for a few minutes, but heard no further knocking. i then went back to my room, but did not sleep again that morning. "i may mention that my room was the one described by 'a correspondent' as the butler's room under no. , the room where most noises were heard, and the staircase was the service one, and as there is a door at the top, if any one had come there to make the noise i should certainly have heard them beating a retreat. "the same thing happened with variations almost nightly for the succeeding two months that i was there, and every visitor that came to the house was disturbed in the same manner. one gentleman (a colonel) told me he was awakened on several occasions with the feeling that some one was pulling the bedclothes off him; sometimes heavy footsteps were heard, at others like the rustling of a lady's dress; and sometimes groans were heard, but nearly always accompanied with heavy knocking; sometimes the whole house would be aroused. one night i remember five gentlemen meeting at the top of the stairs in their night-suits, some with sticks or pokers, one had a revolver, vowing vengeance on the disturbers of their sleep. during the two months after i first heard the noises i kept watch altogether about twelve times in various parts of the house, mostly unknown to others (at the time), and have heard the noises in the wing as well as other parts. "when watching i always experienced a peculiar sensation a few minutes before hearing any noise. i can only describe it as like suddenly entering an ice-house, and a feeling that some one was present and about to speak to me. on three different nights i was awakened by my bedclothes being pulled off my feet. but the worst night i had at b---- was one night about the second week in september, and i shall never forget it as long as i live. i had been keeping watch with two gentlemen--one a visitor, the other one of the house. we were sitting in room no. , and heard the noises that i have described about half-past two. both gentlemen were very much alarmed; but we searched everywhere, but could not find any trace of the ghost or cause of the noises, although they came this time from an unoccupied room. (i may mention that the noises were never heard in the daytime, as stated by 'a correspondent,' but always between twelve, midnight, and four in the morning, generally between two and four o'clock.) after a thorough search the two gentlemen went to bed sadder, but not wiser men, for we had discovered nothing. i then went to my room, but not to bed, for i was not satisfied, and decided to continue the watch alone. so i seated myself on the service stairs, close to where the water-pipes passed up the wall, so as to decide once and for all if the sounds came in any way from the water-pipes. "i had not long to wait (about twenty minutes) when the knocking recommenced from the same direction as before, but much louder than before, followed, after a very short interval, by two distinct groans, which certainly made me feel very uncomfortable, for it sounded like some one being stabbed and then falling to the floor. that was enough for me. i went and asked the two gentlemen who had just gone to bed if they had heard anything. one said he had heard five knocks and two groans, the same as i had; while the other (whose room was much nearer to where the sounds came from) said he had heard nothing. i then retired to my bed, but not to sleep, for i had not been in bed three minutes before i experienced the sensation as before, but instead of being followed by knocking, my bedclothes were lifted up and let fall again--first at the foot of my bed, but gradually coming towards my head. i held the clothes around my neck with my hands, but they were gently lifted in spite of my efforts to hold them. i then reached around me with my hand, but could feel nothing. this was immediately followed by my being fanned as though some bird was flying around my head, and i could distinctly hear and feel something breathing on me. i then tried to reach some matches that were on a chair by my bedside, but my hand was held back as if by some invisible power. then the thing seemed to retire to the foot of my bed. then i suddenly found the foot of my bed lifted up and carried around towards the window for about three or four feet, then replaced to its former position. all this did not take, i should think, more than two or three minutes, although at the time it seemed hours to me. just then the clock struck four, and, being tired out with my long night's watching, i fell asleep. this, mr. editor, is some of my experiences while at b----. "as to 'a correspondent's' interviews with local people:-- "as to the old caretaker, she is an old woman, very deaf, and she always occupied a room on the ground floor, where, during the three months that i was there, nothing whatever was heard, as my two footmen slept there, and they did not hear any noises. as to the intelligent gardener, if it is the same one that was there when i was there, he, surely, has not forgotten the night he spent with me in my room; he was nearly frightened out of his wits, and declared he would not spend another night in my room for any money--a fact that the factor or steward and others well know. "there are many other incidents in my experience with the mystery of b----, but i hope this is sufficient for the purpose i intend it--namely, for the truth to be known, for i have no other motive in writing this letter; for i have left the service of the house some months now. but as to your correspondent's statement that some of the house were doing it, it is simply absurd; for in turn they were all away from b---- for a week or fortnight, and still these noises were heard. another thing; is it possible for any one to keep up a joke like that for three months? or, if any one had been doing it, i should certainly have caught them; and i can assure you that the house were very much annoyed with it, not only for themselves, but for their visitors, for i have sat up all night with some of them, who were afraid to go to their beds: and i think that if 'a correspondent' had stayed as long in b---- as i did, and had had some of my experiences, he would have a very different tale to tell, although up to my going to b---- i would laugh at any one who told me there were such things as ghosts; and even now i am not quite convinced; but of one thing i am certain--that is, that there is something supernatural in the noises and things that i heard and experienced at b----. thanking you, dear sir, in anticipation of your inserting this letter, i remain your obedient servant, "harold sanders. "chidcock, near bridport, dorset." the passage in _the times_ article is as follows:-- "an intelligent gardener whom i questioned told me that he had kept watch in the house on two separate occasions, abstaining from sleep until daylight appeared at seven o'clock, but without hearing a sound. a caretaker, who had spent months in the house, and who had to keep a stove alight all night, never heard a sound, probably because there was no one to make any." the gardener's evidence on this point will be found on p. . without admitting, for one moment, the theory that a servant's evidence may not be of equal value with that of the so-called educated classes, it was thought desirable, before admitting that of sanders, to make some inquiries as to his character, intelligence, and capacity for observation. his employer spoke well of him, and colonel taylor had the advantage of a personal interview with him, which he thus describes:-- "_july th, ._--i went to coventry yesterday, and saw sanders the butler. he is a slight, dark young man, and, as far as i could judge, quite honest and serious over the b---- affair. he assured me that he had written the letter to _the times_ without any advice or assistance, and that all he wrote was absolutely true. i gathered from him, indirectly, that before his b---- experience he knew nothing of ghosts, spiritualism, or any occult matter, and does not now. he was much astonished when i told him that the feeling which he describes as like walking into an ice-house was a common one under the circumstances. he said he omitted in his letter many small personal matters, such as the following:-- during the manifestation in his room, when his bed was shifted, and when he felt as if some one was making 'passes' over him, and breathing in his face, he made the sign of the cross, on which the 'influence' receded from him, but approached again almost at once. after repeating this a few times with the same result, he crossed his arms over his chest, and holding the bedclothes close up to his chin, went to sleep. he was at no time afraid. he said things were more active during the stay of father 'i.' than at any other time, and that one of the young h----s had seen a veiled lady pass through his room." the following paragraph in the letter of _the times_ correspondent called forth the subjoined letter from mr. h---- himself, the tenant of b----:-- "the only mystery in the matter seems to be the mode in which a prosaic and ordinary dwelling was endowed with so evil a reputation. i was assured in london that it had had this reputation for twenty or thirty years. the family lawyer in p---- asserted most positively that there had never been a whisper of such a thing until the house was let for last year's shooting season to a family, whom i may call the h----s. i was told the same thing in equally positive terms by the minister of the parish, a level-headed man from b----shire, who has lived in the place for twenty years. he told me that some of the younger members of the h---- family had indulged in practical jokes, and boasted of them. one of their pranks was to drop or throw a weight upon the floor, and to draw it back by means of a string. another seems to have been to thump on bedroom doors with a boot-heel, the unmistakable marks of which remain to this day, and were pointed out to me by our hostess. if there are really any noises not referable to ordinary domestic causes, it is not improbable that these practical jokers made a confidant of some one about the estate, who amuses himself by occasionally--it is only occasionally that the more remarkable noises are said to be heard--repeating their tricks. the steward or factor on the estate concurs with the lawyer and the minister in denying that the house had any reputation for being haunted before the advent of the h---- family. yet he is a highlander, and not without superstition; for he gave it as his opinion that _if_ there was anything in these noises, they must be due to black art. asked what black art might be, he said he could not tell, but he had often heard about it, and had been told that when once set going it would go on without the assistance of its authors. he was quite clear, however that if there is black art, it came in with the h---- family." mr. h----'s rejoinder, which appeared in _the times_, was dated june th:-- _to the editor of "the times"_ "sir,--i must ask you to be good enough to publish, on behalf of the tenant of b----, a few remarks on the article that appeared in your paper of the th inst. with the heading 'on the trail of a ghost.' the writer of that article finds a very easy solution to the mystery by attacking a private family who happened to be tenants of b---- for a short time, and making them a 'scapegoat' for his argument. i do not quite understand if your correspondent pretends to assert that the place had not the reputation of being haunted previous to my tenancy for three months last year; probably he does not charge me with originating such reports, as he mentions a story of the visit of a catholic archbishop to the house to exorcise the ghost. this must have happened some time ago, and proves that the house was then supposed to be haunted. what your correspondent does state as a fact is, that the younger members of my family played practical jokes, which have given rise to lord bute's investigations. my object in writing to you is to deny most emphatically this statement. the principal proof that is brought forward to corroborate this slander is, that the doors are marked by the blows struck to produce the noises heard. surely no one could be frightened after the cause and reason of the noises were once ascertained by the boot-marks! but there were no such marks on the doors when we left b----. some of our guests were with us until very shortly before my family left, and can testify to this, for the good reason that in the endeavour to localise the extraordinary noises, all doors and other parts of the house were constantly examined up to the very last. when i went to b---- at the beginning of august, my family had already been there a few days, and at once they told me they had found out the house was supposed to be haunted, and that they had heard most unaccountable noises. i had the greatest difficulty to persuade all my people to stay in the place, and after all, we left scotland about the end of september, two months earlier than usual. i personally did not give any importance to the rumours that b---- house is haunted, and attributed the very remarkable noises heard to the hot-water pipes and the peculiar way in which the house is built. in fact, i have to confess i cannot believe in ghosts, and, consequently, i did my best to persuade everybody that b---- was not haunted, but i am afraid i was not always successful. i hope you will forgive me for taking up so much valuable space in your paper, but i had to do so in self-defence against a false accusation.--yours faithfully, h----." it is believed that, in consequence of this letter, mr. h---- was threatened with legal proceedings, which, however, have not yet been initiated. the following is the account given of the same period by miss "b.," a lady of some position in the literary world:-- "... we arrived there on wednesday the th august, the house being then tenanted by mr. j.r. h---- of k---- court, c----, g----shire. the household consisted of mr. and mrs. h----, three sons, miss h----, my sister and i, and two other guests, colonel a---- and major b----. "we had rooms in the wing on the ground floor of the house, opening off the main hall, divided from the rest of the house by a long passage, and shut off by a swing-door. our rooms opened off each other, and the inner room opened off a little sitting-room, which had a door with glass panels leading into the passage. the only other person who slept in that wing of the house was mr. willie h----, whose room was exactly opposite the door of our room. "we heard a great deal of discussion about the 'ghost' when we arrived, and so that night my sister made me sleep in the inner room with her. we heard nothing that night. the next night i slept in the outer room, and neither of us heard anything. the third night, my sister being still a little nervous, i slept in the inner room with her. the door of the outer room was locked, the door between the rooms was locked, and there was a wardrobe placed against the door leading into the sitting-room. we both, having taken these precautions, fell sound asleep. "i wakened suddenly in the middle of the night, and noticed how quiet the house was. then i heard the clock strike two, and a few minutes later there came a crashing, _vibrating_ batter against the door of the outer room. my sister was sleeping very soundly, but she started up in a moment at the noise, wide awake. "'some one must have done that,' she said; 'such a noise could never have been made by a ghost!' "but neither of us had the courage to go out into the passage! the noise lasted, i should say, for only two or three _seconds_, and ceased as suddenly as it had begun. we lay awake till the light came in, but the house was quite quiet. i may mention, as against the 'supernatural' origin of the sound, that it came against the outer door, did not pass in to the inner one, and avoided the glass-panelled door of the sitting-room, which would certainly have been shivered by the application of force sufficient to produce such noise. another very curious thing was, that on the nights when it came to our door (_we_ only heard it once, but other visitors heard it often) willie h---- heard nothing; whereas on the nights when he was disturbed, we heard nothing, yet the rooms were close together. "the following night my sister and miss h---- and two of her brothers sat up all night in the morning-room, which opened off the main hall. we sat with the door open and in the dark, but neither heard or saw anything; the house was absolutely still. "the next night my sister and i stayed in miss h----'s room, watching with her. it was on the third storey of the house, and on a line with the specially haunted room, then occupied by colonel a----. two of the men sat up downstairs. "after . mr. eustace h---- came and told his sister we need not sit up later, as everything was so quiet, and the noises seldom came after that hour. he went to his room then, but his door was scarcely closed when we all heard a loud knocking at colonel a----'s door. we ran out, without waiting a moment, into the passage, where the lamps were still burning brightly, but it was absolutely empty and quiet. we heard it several times that night in distant parts of the house, and once we heard a scream, which seemed to come from overhead. we stayed six days in the house after this, but heard nothing more ourselves, though every one else in the house was disturbed nightly." the major b---- mentioned in the above statement has been good enough to furnish the following note as to his personal impressions:-- "on nd august i arrived at b----, and remained there until the nd september. during this period i slept in the room on the first floor, which is at the end of a short corridor running from the top of the back stairs to my room [no. ]. "colonel a---- occupied the room next to me [no. ]. it was a double room, connected by a door, and was situated just at the top of the back stair. "august th, about . a.m., i heard very loud knocking, apparently on colonel a----'s door, about nine raps in all--three raps quickly, one after the other, then three more the same, and three more the same. it was as if some one was hitting the door with his fist as hard as he could hit. i left my room at once, but could find nothing to account for the noise. it was broad daylight at the time. i heard the same noises on the th and th august at about the same hour, viz. between and a.m." the following, which adds somewhat to the above, was contained in a private letter written in january from major b---- to the hon. e---- f----:-- "between two and four in the morning there used to be noises on the door (of colonel a----'s room), as if a very strong man were hitting the panels as hard as ever he could hit, three times in quick succession--a pause, and then three times again in quick succession, and perhaps another go. it was so loud that i thought it was on the door of his dressing-room, but he said he thought it was on his bedroom door. one theory is, that it was the hot water in the pipes getting cold, which, i am told, would make a loud throbbing noise. i tripped out pretty quick the first time i heard it, but could see nothing. of course it is broad daylight in scotland then. "the same banging was, i believe, heard on one of the bedroom doors down the passage, in the wing on the ground floor, and on investigation i found there were hot-water pipes just outside that door as well. there were yarns innumerable while i was there about shrieks and footsteps heard, and bedclothes torn off. but i did not experience these.... i don't think the noises were done by a practical joker, as there were too many people on the alert...." the hon. e---- f---- wrote to miss freer on march th:-- "... [major] b---- is now in london, and i have seen him twice. he says ( ) the hot-water pipe theory is not his own, but was suggested by an engineer friend. he should not himself have thought that hot-water pipes could make so big a noise. besides, colonel a---- described the noise as a banging either against the door itself, or against the door of the wardrobe inside the room.... ( ) he, b----, heard the noise himself several times and bolted out into the passage at once, but saw nothing. the noise sounded like a very loud banging at a----'s door.... ( ) he confirms the story about a---- being unable to sleep, and says he used to go to sleep on the moor in consequence." during colonel taylor's tenancy similar noises were heard, both when the water was totally cut off and when, from some defect in the apparatus, it never reached a high temperature. the colonel a---- referred to, corroborates this account, as follows, in a letter to major b----: "my dear b----, you write asking me about b---- house and its spook. well, i never _saw_ anything, and what i heard was what you heard, a terrific banging at one's bedroom door, generally about from to a.m., about two nights out of three. of course there were other yarns of things heard, &c., but i personally never heard or experienced anything else than this banging at the door, which i never could account for...." before passing from the subject of colonel a----, it is as well to mention that after leaving b---- he went to stay at another country house, and the butler there spoke to him of the haunting of b----, where he himself was a servant some years before. this butler was asked for further information, but sent only the following reply:-- "your note to hand regarding b----. i am afraid what i saw or heard would be of little value to your book, therefore i would rather say nothing." it will be observed that, so far from denying the facts, he admits that he saw and heard certain things, which he refuses to describe; but as this evidence is circumstantial rather than direct, it is inserted here rather than in the place to which, chronologically, it would, if fuller, properly have belonged. mr. and mrs. "g." were also guests at b---- during the occupation of the h----s. mrs. "g." published an account of her experiences in a magazine article, of course with fictitious names; but she affirms that she has in no sense "written up" the story, which, indeed, is entirely corroborated by other evidence:-- "_october th, ._--some friends of mine took the place this year for the shooting, and, relying on the glowing description they had received, took it on trust, and in july last took possession of it without having previously seen it. for a few days all went well; the family established themselves in the old part of the house, leaving a new wing for their guests. the haunted room (for so i may justly call it) was inhabited by two or three persons in succession, who were so alarmed and disturbed by the violent knockings, shrieks, and groans which they heard every night, and which were also heard by many others along the same corridor, that they refused to sleep there after the first few nights. those who serve under her majesty's colours are proverbially brave; they will gladly die for their country, with sword in hand and face to the foe. for this reason a distinguished officer [colonel a----, above quoted] was the next occupant of the haunted chamber, and was told nothing of its antecedents. the morning after his arrival he came down refreshed, and keen for the day's sport. i may here mention, no one is ever disturbed the first night of their stay. during the succeeding nights, however, he was continually roused from his slumbers by the most terrific noises, and want of sleep would cause him to become drowsy when out shooting on the moor, and would tempt him to make a bed of the purple heather and fragrant myrtle. "a friend of mine, a man of great nerve and courage, next inhabited the room, and went through the same experiences. he took every possible means to discover the cause of the sounds, and failed in accounting for them in any way. he said the blows on the door were so violent he often looked, expecting to see it shattered to atoms. since he left no one has been put into this room, but the noises continue, and are heard throughout the house. even the dogs cannot be coaxed into this room, and if forced into it, they crouch with marked signs of fear. "the disturbances take place between and . , and never at any other time. a young lady, of by no means timid disposition, and possessed of great presence of mind, has often heard the swing-door pushed open and footsteps coming along the corridor, pausing at the door. she has frequently looked out and seen nothing. the footsteps she has also heard in her room, and going round her bed. many persons have had the same experiences, and many have heard the wild unearthly shriek which has rung through the house in the stillness of the night. "i will now give my own experience. i arrived with my husband and daughter on september , having been duly warned by my friends of the nocturnal disturbances. we were put in rooms adjoining, at the end of the new wing. i kept a light in my room, but the first night all was still. next night, about a.m., a succession of thundering knocks came from the end of our passage, re-echoing through the house, where it was heard by many others. about half-an-hour afterwards my husband heard a piercing shriek; then all was still, save for the hooting of the owls in the neighbouring trees. when the grey dawn stole in it was welcome; so was the cheery sound of the bagpipes, as the kilted piper took his daily round in the early morning. the next night and succeeding ones we heard loud single knocks at different doors along our passage. the last night but one before we left i was roused from sleep by hearing the clock strike one, and immediately it had ceased six violent blows shook our own door on its hinges, and came with frightful rapidity, followed by deep groans. after this sleep was impossible. the next night, our last in scotland, my husband and others watched in our passage all night, and though the sounds were again heard in different directions, nothing was to be seen. as i write, at the commencement of october, the house on the lonely hillside is deserted; the tenants have gone southwards; an old caretaker (too deaf to hear the weird sounds which nightly awaken the echoes) is the sole occupant. even she closes up all before dusk, and retires into her quarters below; though she hears not, her sight is unimpaired, and she perhaps dreads to meet the hunchback figure which is said to glide up the stairs, or the shadowy form of a grey lady who paces with noiseless footfall the lonely corridor, and has been seen to pass through the door of one of the rooms. within the last two months a man with bronzed complexion and bent figure has been seen by two gentlemen, friends of mine. they both describe him as having come through the door and passed through the room in which they were about three in the morning. i have tried to give a faithful and accurate account of these strange events. i leave it to each and all to form their own opinion on the matter." some passages in private letters to miss freer and lord bute written by mrs. "g.," should be quoted as bearing upon some points in the above:-- "_february th._--i am going to ask you if you do go there [b---- house] if you would let me know if you see or hear anything. i am immensely interested in it, as we stayed there in the autumn with some friends who took it, and anything more horribly haunted could not be. i never should have believed it if i had not been there." after the appearance of _the times_ correspondent's accusation against the h---- family, mrs. "g." wrote as follows to lord bute:-- "_june th._--if the noises complained of by nearly all who have stayed at b---- were the result of practical jokes perpetrated by the h----s, how is it that not only were they heard by guests who stayed there years ago, but are admitted by members of the s---- family to have been heard by themselves? miss freer also has told me, that the same noises were heard at all hours day and night by herself and her guests for months after the h---- family and their servants had left scotland. this so completely exonerates them from the absurd charge, that i should hardly have mentioned it, had not miss freer seemed quite under the impression that practical jokes had been played during the tenancy of the h----s; and as a proof of this, she told me that the doors, especially of two of the rooms, were marked with nailed boots, and the panels even split through, and this damage was attributed by her to the younger members of the h---- family. i am happy to say i was able to disabuse her mind of this idea, as we were staying at b---- within a few days of their leaving scotland, and i had most carefully examined the doors especially of the two rooms specified, one of which was our own room. there was not a scratch, nor the smallest mark or indentation; others can also vouch for this fact. the h----s had all left b---- for good at that time, except the eldest son, and miss freer agreed with me that whatever damage was done to the doors, must therefore have been done after the h----s left, and before her party came in.... the hot-water pipe theory revived by the writer of the article in _the times_ is disproved by miss freer, who told me that the hot-water apparatus was not used for some time, and that the disturbances continued just the same.... the stories told in connection with b---- were not circulated or started by the h---- family. they were told _to_ them by persons living around b----." in a letter to miss freer, dated june th, mrs. "g." writes, in reference to the charge of practical joking:-- "they are the most unlikely family to do such a thing; and besides, if further proof were wanted, the young men of the family were away from b---- when we stayed there ten days, and there was only one night when we did not hear the noises." miss freer of course entirely accepts mrs. "g.'s" statement, and that of mr. h---- as published in _the times_. she had been led to her earlier conclusions as to the marks of a boot-heel on the upper panels of the doors by the statements of interested persons. a suggestive point in this connection is the fact, to which miss "g." has herself testified, that while mr. and mrs. "g." were disturbed to the utmost degree, their daughter, who slept in a room communicating with that of her mother, heard nothing whatever; from which it would appear that the noises heard by them were subjective, and that the alleged evidence of the boot-heel, even were it credible, would be, in fact, irrelevant. the mention of the hallucinatory nature of such phenomena suggests attention to the intellectual acumen displayed by _the times_ correspondent in saying that "lord bute ought to have employed a couple of intelligent detectives" for the purpose of catching subjective hallucinations. on the same principle, he ought to offer to his learned friend, sir james crichton-browne, well known as an alienist, some advice as to the best mode of securing morbid hallucinations in strait-waistcoats. is he prepared to propose to take photographs of a dream, to put thoughts under lock and key, or to advocate the supply of hot and cold water on every floor of a castle in the air? one of the guests at b---- during colonel taylor's tenancy wrote after his return to london to miss freer as follows:-- "_march th._--i went to call the other day on the 'g.'s' who chanced to be still in town.... i begin chronologically, and give you what i was told in all seriousness.... the h----s knew nothing about any stories of haunting when they took the place, and miss h---- and one of the sons went up, most innocently, to prepare for the arrival of the others. as soon as they entered it the son said to his sister that he couldn't explain why, but he had a conviction that the house was haunted. that night, however, nothing happened. but the second night the bangings began. an old spanish nurse was in the haunted room, and was greatly disturbed by the noise upon her door, which seemed as if it were going to be burst open. she didn't seem to be alarmed in the least however, and later took steps to secure its remaining shut by stuffing a towel under the chink (why this should secure it i rather fail to see, still that was her view). apparently the ghost resented this, and one night did actually burst the door open, with such violence that the towel was precipitated into the middle of the room. the longer they stayed in the house, the worse things got. the noises were all over the house more or less, and were by no means confined to bangings. miss h---- slept in room no. , where the ghost limped round her bed. she was so alarmed that she fetched her brother in, and he slept on the sofa. the limping began again, and she asked him if he heard anything, and he at once agreed that somebody was walking round the bed. in his own room--i forget which--he twice _saw_ the ghost, once in the shape of an indeterminate mist, once in the shape of a man, who came in by the door and vanished in the wall. mrs. 'g.'[b] now appears on the scene, and slept in no. (i _think_). she heard only the bangings, which she declares were indescribably loud. they were mostly at the door of the haunted room. traps were laid to catch unwary jesters; the door, or the surrounding floor, i forget which, was covered with flour, and wires were stretched across the door; and if i had the proper mind of a ghost-story narrator, i should say that the bangings were as bad as ever, and the flour and the wires were found undisturbed. "but as a matter of fact she didn't say that, though doubtless she intended to, but jumped on to something else. mr. "g.," who was there some weeks after his wife, was put down in the wing--i don't know which room--and had visitations. he heard steps approach down the passage, followed by a heavy body flinging itself against his door. he also heard screams, which seemed to him to recede as though the screamer was passing through the walls. (i couldn't quite understand this effect, but that was how he described it.) their chaplain, who was put into the haunted room, was also greatly worried, and both he and the spanish nurse and colonel a---- all had the sensation that their bedclothes were being pulled off, and they had to hold on to them to prevent their departure. the most interesting part of the story is that mrs. s---- later admitted to mrs. "g." that it was quite true the house was supposed to be haunted, that she had lived there for twenty years, and at various times there had been outbreaks of this kind of thing of greater or less duration, but that the outbreaks had not been often enough for them to think it worth while mentioning the fact to incoming tenants. it appears also that the story of the bangings on the table in the daylight on the occasion of the last interview between the late mr. s---- and the land-steward, came from one of the young s----s. it was also said that one of the young s----s used to sleep in the dressing-room between no. and the haunted room, and used to complain that somebody kept pulling his bedclothes off. "i may add that it is quite clear that the people about the place--some of whom, on my leaving, i vainly tried to draw--have been threatened not to talk about the ghost. there was no mystery about it whatever last year, the station officials being exceedingly loquacious and full of information...." the above are the circumstances which _the times_ correspondent thus describes:-- "lord bute's confidence has been grossly abused by some one. it was represented to him by some one that he was taking the 'most haunted house in scotland,' a house with an old and established reputation for mysterious if not supernatural disturbances. what he has got is a house with no reputation whatever of that kind, with no history, with nothing germane to his purpose beyond a cloud of baseless rumours produced during the last twelve-month. who is responsible for the imposture it is not my business to know or to inquire, but that it is an imposture of the most shallow and impudent kind there can be no manner of doubt. i interviewed in p---- a man who has the district at his finger-tips, and was ready to enumerate in order all the shooting properties in the valley. he had never heard until the moment i spoke to him of b---- possessing any reputation, ancient or modern, for being haunted, although he is familiar with the estate, and has slept in the house. it has no local reputation of the kind even now beyond the parish it stands in. the whole thing has been fudged up in london upon the basis of some distorted account of the practical jokes of the h----s." as the writer in question obtained his admission to the house as a guest by sir james crichton-browne's solicitation through sir william huggins and lord bute, it might naturally have been supposed that the real facts were known to him, at least so far as they were concerned. it appears, however, that he cherished a voluntary ignorance upon the subject, to judge from the phrase, "it is not my business to know or to inquire." of such a writer, and of such statements, the reader will now form his own opinion; but that the correspondent in question should continue to cling to his journalistic anonymity, is little to be wondered at. colonel taylor served in the bedfordshire regiment. he was afterwards professor of tactics at sandhurst, and retired in . possessed of means, leisure, and intelligence, he chose to make the study of psychic subjects his particular occupation. he is one of the seven fundamental members who, in , signed the articles of association of the london spiritualist alliance, holds office in the society for psychical research, and has rendered very valuable services in investigation of various kinds. having made the investigation of houses alleged to be haunted his special province, he may be fairly considered to be somewhat of an expert in this matter. it may, or may not, be regarded as a drawback to his usefulness in this direction, that he is so peculiarly insensitive to subjective impressions, that a man who is colour-blind would be almost as useful a witness as to shades of colour as colonel taylor upon hallucinations, local or otherwise; but, as will be seen, he is fertile in expedients, experienced in research, and careful and observant of the phenomena experienced by others. lord bute, who takes some interest in scientific matters, has been accustomed not infrequently to defray the cost of scientific work which he is unable to undertake himself, and he offered to meet the expense of the lease of b---- if colonel taylor would take the house, a proposal which he accepted. this is what _the times_ correspondent of june , , thought proper to describe in the words, "for reasons which are differently stated in london and in perth, where the agent for the proprietor is to be found, lord bute did not take the house in his own name, but in that of colonel taylor." it would have been equally true to say of the coptic texts, published at lord bute's expense by mr. budge of the british museum, that lord bute wrote and published these books under the name of budge. had colonel taylor been prevented by circumstances from becoming tenant of b---- house, sir william crookes, the present president of the british association and of the society for psychical research, or mr. arthur smith, treasurer of the s.p.r., was willing to take the lease. having thus agreed to lord bute's proposal, colonel taylor at once proceeded to make himself acquainted with the history of b---- house. he naturally placed himself in communication with the late tenant, assuming that that gentleman would be willing to assist in investigating the phenomena by which his family and guests had been annoyed. but the only information which mr. h---- seemed disposed to give was an admission that some members of his family had heard noises, and that the house was locally reported to be haunted. however, other sources of information as to the experiences of the h---- establishment were fortunately available. captain s----'s agents made no scruple about letting the house to the well-known expert. the edinburgh agents, messrs. speedy, indeed mentioned the haunting, and expressed the hope that colonel taylor would not make it the subject of complaint, as had been done by the h---- family, and they received the assurance that this was not a score upon which he would give trouble. in regard to the letters of messrs. r.h. moncrieff & co., dated june , , which appeared in _the times_, it can only be said that the impression which they were likely to convey was, that colonel taylor was an imaginary being like john doe or richard roe. their scepticism must have been of recent origin, since none was manifested on receiving his rent. their position is in any case unfortunate, since, even if unclouded by doubt as to the colonel's personality, they appear to wish the public to believe that they seriously thought that one well known as a spiritualist in england and america, a retired professor of military tactics, with a comfortable house at cheltenham, a member of the junior united service club in london, a man who neither shoots nor fishes, had been suddenly seized in his mature years with a desire to hire an isolated country house in perthshire, in the depths of winter, for the purpose of trying his 'prentice hand upon rabbit-shooting on a small scale. colonel taylor, who is a widower without a daughter, was at this time much occupied by the illness and death of a near relative, and was unable for the moment to take up residence at b---- house. lord bute accordingly expressed a hope that miss freer would undertake to conduct the investigation. mr. myers also wrote urgently to her, saying, "if you don't get phenomena, probably no one will." she was abroad at the time, but at considerable personal inconvenience consented to return, and on december th she wrote to lord bute, stating that she could reach ballechin on february nd, and adding-- "i have been reflecting further on the question of the personality of investigators. i think the names you suggest, and some others which occur to me, divide naturally into three classes (assuming, and i think you agree with me, that it does not follow that every one can discover a ghost because it is there, nor that their failure to discover it is any proof that it is not there). ( ) those who have personal experience of phenomena, and may be expected to be susceptible to psychic influences; ( ) those who have no personal powers in that line, but are open-minded and sympathetic; and ( ) those who are passively open to conviction. a fourth class, those who come to look for evidence against the phenomena, but will accept none for it, should, i think, be left until we have some demonstrable evidence to show.... mr. myers proposes himself for april - .... i should suggest the keeping of a diary, in which every one willing to do so should make entries, negative or affirmative." the _times_ correspondent further criticised the method of inquiry employed at b----. "lord bute's original idea was a good one, but it was never properly carried out. observing that the s.p.r. had made many investigations in a perfunctory and absurd manner by sending somebody to a haunted house for a couple of nights and then writing an utterly worthless report, he desired in this case a continuous investigation extending over a considerable period. he ought, therefore, to have employed a couple of intelligent detectives for the whole term, and thus secured real continuity. as things are, the only continuity is to be found in the presence--itself not entirely continuous--of the lady just mentioned. but simply because she is a lady, and because she had her duties as hostess to attend to, she is unfit to carry out the actual work of investigating the phenomena in question. some of her assistants sat up all night, with loaded guns, in a condition of abject fright; others, there is reason to suspect, manufactured phenomena for themselves; and nearly all seem to have begun by assuming supernatural interference, instead of leaving it for the final explanation of whatever might be clearly proved to be otherwise inexplicable." it is hardly necessary to repudiate such a condition of mind on the part of the guests at b----, but it may be well to remark that the writer of this sapient paragraph seems to be under the impression that every result of certain forces at present imperfectly understood is supernatural. the assertion that any one who was in the house during colonel taylor's tenancy believed in the possibility of the existence of anything supernatural is, so far as the present editors are aware, a pure fabrication, having no foundation whatever. in their own belief all things which exist, or can exist, are, _ipso facto_, natural, although their nature may not belong to the plane of being in which we are normally accustomed to move. in this connection may be usefully quoted the following passages from miss freer's article in _the nineteenth century_, august :-- "some of my friends asked me how i proposed to organise a haunted house research, to which i could only reply that i didn't propose to do anything of the sort. it seemed to me that among several things to be avoided was self-consciousness of any kind, that the natural thing to do was to settle down to a country-house life, make it as pleasant as possible, and await events.... the subject of the 'haunting' was never accentuated, and we always tried to prevent talking it over with new-comers.... as to the guests, for the most part they came on no special principle of selection.... several of our visitors had more or less special interest in the inquiry, but others merely came for a country-house visit or for sport, and some knew nothing whatever till after their arrival of any special interest alleged to attach to the house.... analysing our list of guests, i find that there were eleven ladies, twenty-one gentlemen, and _the times_ correspondent. of the gentlemen, three were soldiers, three lawyers, two were men of letters, one an artist, two were in business, four were clergy, one a physician, ... and five, men of leisure." it would be unnecessary to quote all the preliminary correspondence; but the following passages from lord bute's letters to miss freer help to explain the situation, and the relation of those concerned:-- "_december th.--_ ... i am afraid i shall encroach even further upon your kindness. myers has all the papers, but i fancy you would rather know as little as possible, so as not to be influenced by expectation. it is no case of roughing it. b---- house is, i believe, a luxurious country house, ample, though not too large, in a beautiful neighbourhood...." a letter of december nd refers to a suggestion that the phenomena were produced by trickery, a fact which is mentioned to show that the possibility was kept in view from the first. on january rd, "not a day should be lost in beginning the observation, which ought to be continuous. such a chance has never occurred before, and may never occur again. orders have been given to get the house ready for immediate occupation." miss freer, accompanied by her friend miss constance moore (a daughter of the late rev. daniel moore, prebendary of st. paul's and chaplain, to the queen), arrived at b---- house on february , . footnotes: [a] here and in all references to rooms by their numbers, see frontispiece. [b] see her own account, p. . the account here given, as will be seen, is not quite accurate as to the precise rooms. mrs. "g." slept in the wing. journal kept during a visit to b---- house journal kept during a visit to b---- house _february rd, wednesday._--constance moore and i arrived from edinburgh, with mac., the maid, a little after p.m., having sent on beforehand the following servants:--robinson and mrs. robinson, butler and cook; carter and hannah, two housemaids. i had engaged them on behalf of colonel taylor in edinburgh last evening. they had all good characters, and were well recommended. we told them nothing, of course, of the reputation of the house, and were careful to choose persons of mature age, and not excitable girls. i had seen no plans nor photographs of the house, and merely desired that any rooms should be prepared for us that were near together--_i.e._ bedroom, dressing-room, and maid's room. mr. c---- [who met us in edinburgh, and is a lawyer, mentioned hereafter], who had seen plans, asked what orders we had given, and remarked that, as far as he knew, we should secure one quiet night, as the "haunted" part contained, apparently, no dressing-rooms. the house looked very gloomy. it was not cold out of doors, though thick snow lay on the ground. inside it felt like a vault, having been empty for months. none of the stores ordered had arrived. we had no linen, knives, plate, wine, food, and very little fuel or oil. candles and bread and milk and a tin of meat had been got for us in the village. we ate and went to bed. the room was so cold that we had to cover our faces, and we had no bed-linen. we had been very busy all day in edinburgh, and soon fell asleep. _february th, thursday._--i awoke suddenly, just before a.m. miss moore, who had been lying awake over two hours, said, "i want you to stay awake and listen." almost immediately i was startled by a loud clanging sound, which seemed to resound through the house. the mental image it brought to my mind was as of a long metal bar, such as i have seen near iron-foundries, being struck at intervals with a wooden mallet. the noise was distinctly as of metal struck with wood; it seemed to come diagonally across the house. it sounded so loud, though distant, that the idea that any inmate of the house should not hear it seems ludicrous. it was repeated with varying degrees of intensity at frequent intervals during the next two hours, sometimes in single blows, sometimes double, sometimes treble, latterly continuous. we did not get up, though not alarmed. we had been very seriously cautioned as to the possibilities of practical joking; and as we were alone on that floor in a large house, of which we did not even know the geography, we thought it wiser to await developments. we knew the servants' staircase was distant, though not exactly where. about . we heard voices, apparently in the maid's room, undoubtedly on the same floor. we had for some time heard the housemaids overhead coughing, occasionally speaking, and we thought they had got up and had come down to her room. after five o'clock the noises seemed to have ceased, and miss moore fell asleep. about . i heard them again, apparently more distant. i continued awake, but heard no more. about a.m. the maid brought us some tea. she said she had slept very badly, had worried over our apparent restlessness, as she had heard voices and footsteps and the sound of things dragged about, but that the maids had not been downstairs. we had never risen, and had spoken seldom, and in low tones, and an empty room (the dressing-room) intervened between mac.'s room and ours. in order, as we supposed, to follow up the noises we, later, in the day moved our rooms to the other side of the house, especially choosing those from which the sounds seemed to proceed--nos. and --leaving mac., the maid, in no. . the whole day has been occupied with exploring the house, sending for food and supplies, trying to thaw the rooms, moving furniture to make things homelike, and trying to arrive at a little comfort. the house will soon be very pleasant, and only needs living in, but it feels like a vault. it is very roomy and very light. nothing less like the conventional "haunted" house could be conceived. the main body of the house was built in , the wing about , with the apparent object of providing the children of the family with rooms outside the "haunted" area. it is cheerful, sunny, convenient, healthy, and built on a very simple plan, which admits of no dark corners or mysteries of any kind. a pleasanter house to live in i would not desire, but it is constructed for summer rather than for winter use. it has been added to at least twice, and there is much waste space. the original mansion, which was, i understand, upon a different site, was dated ; the new wing was built about fourteen years ago, and consists of four rooms and offices, adapted for schoolroom or nursery use. but the older walls are of great thickness. after dusk we sat down to rest, and for the first time read the papers relating to the house,[c] breaking open the envelope in which mr. myers had given them to me. i had done this for my own satisfaction, as i wanted, if only for a few hours, to have as unprejudiced a presentation of the place as was possible under the circumstances. miss moore had heard some of the rumours about the house in edinburgh from mr. macp---- and mr. c----, but i had avoided all information as far as i could. we now learnt, to our chagrin, that we had done the wrong thing, and had left rooms alleged to be haunted, and taken two apparently innocent. we, however, consoled ourselves by the reflection that we can offer the others to our guests, and that we are at all events _next_ to no. , which has an evil reputation. it is the room in which sarah n---- died, and in which miss h---- heard the limping footsteps walking round her bed. as we had been told that the avenue is shunned by the whole neighbourhood after dark, we went out for a stroll up and down about six o'clock. we saw nothing, but our dog scamp growled at the fir plantation beside the road. mr. l. f---- [eminent as an electrical engineer], arrived about p.m. we thought it polite to give him a quiet night after so long a journey, and he is sleeping in no. . _february th, friday._--miss moore and i slept well. we were both desperately tired. mr. l. f---- awoke suddenly at . . no phenomena. he has an excellent little apparatus, an electric flashlight, which he is able to keep under his pillow and turn on at a second's notice, very convenient for "ghost" hunting--no delay, and no possibility of blowing it out. the maids tell mine that they heard the sounds below them of continuous speaking or reading, and "supposed the young ladies were reading to one another." this is the first occasion on which there has been mention of the sound of continuous reading aloud, which afterwards became extremely familiar. the sound was always that well known to roman catholics as that of a priest "saying his office." it may be as well to remind the reader that clerks in holy orders of that church are, like those of the anglican, strictly bound to read through the whole of the daily service every day, and it is not permitted to do this merely by the eye, the lips must utter the words. in practice some are accustomed to move the lips with hardly any sound, and such, we have ascertained, is the custom of the rev. p---- h----; others read it absolutely aloud, and will retire to their own rooms or other places, where they may be alone for the purpose. this, we heard, was the invariable practice of the rev. mr. "i.," the chaplain of mr. and mrs. "g." as a matter of fact, we were sleeping on the other side of the house, and the rooms under the maids' rooms were empty.... in the evening, about six o'clock, we strolled down the avenue again, and scamp, who never does bark except under strong excitement, again barked and growled at the copse. the hon. e. f----, a fellow-member of an s.p.r. committee, arrives to-night. hospitality constrains us to put him in no. , which is "not haunted." i asked after the success of the new kitchenmaid, a local importation, who arrived yesterday. i was told she had already gone. the cook told me "she talked all sorts of nonsense about the house, and the things that had happened in it, and had been seen in it, all day; and then at night refused to sleep here, and the butler had to walk home with her at eleven o'clock." the factor [_anglicé_: bailiff] came this morning, and i fancied a special intention in his manner. he was much annoyed about the kitchenmaid, said such talk was "all havers" [_anglicé_: "drivel"], begged me not to employ her again, and undertook to get another, lending me a girl in his own service meanwhile. i went with him into the wing to get him to see to things there. we have been too busy in getting the rest of the house into order to look after it yet; but i find the pipes are out of order, the cisterns frozen, and the "set-basins" in the three bedrooms and bath-room out of working order. he promised attention, but discouraged the use of the wing. "had we not room enough without?" and so on. i suggested that, any way, for the sake of the rest of the house it must be aired and thawed, and he insisted that the kitchen fire below did that sufficiently. i cannot help remembering that this is the scene of the phenomena recorded by miss "b----," as duncan r----, the factor, is well aware. also, he was persistent about "keeping out the natives," and their chatter, if i wanted to keep the servants, but did not specify the nature of the chatter, and i asked no questions. _february th, saturday._--no phenomena last night. the house perfectly still. during colonel taylor's tenancy a good many experiments of different kinds were made in hypnotism, crystal gazing, and automatic writing. these, however, belong to a class of matter quite different from that of spontaneous phenomena, and are therefore not referred to, with the exception of a single instance of crystal gazing, which, though relating to b----, was made elsewhere, and one or two occasions of automatic writing. this latter method of inquiry displayed all the weakness to which it is usually, and apparently, inherently liable, and is only mentioned here as explaining other matters. its chief interest was that it supplied a name marked by a certain peculiarity which afterwards became familiar, and that it led to a hypothesis as to at least one of the personalities by whom certain phenomena were professedly caused. in the afternoon an experiment was made with the apparatus known as a _ouija_ board, and this, as is very often the case, resolved itself, after a time, into automatic writing. there is in the library a portrait of a very handsome woman, to which no name is attached, but which shows the costume of the last century. her name was asked, and the word _ishbel_ was given several times. it is not certain whether this word was meant as an answer to the question, or whether, as often happens in such cases, it was intended merely as an announcement of the name of the informant supposed to communicate. the word, as given, possesses the following peculiarity. in the gaelic language the vowels _e_ and _i_ have the effect of aspirating an _s_ immediately preceding them, in the same way in which they effect the _c_ in italian, or the _g_ in spanish, so that, as in italian _ce_ and _ci_ are pronounced _chay_ and _chee_, so in gaelic _se_ and _si_ are pronounced _shay_ and _shee_. the name isabel is written in gaelic _iseabal_, but the _e_ is absorbed in its effect upon the _s_ (like the _i_ in the italian _cìo_) and the first _a_ is so slurred as to be almost inaudible, so that the word is pronounced "ish-bel." it was obvious, therefore, that the intelligence from which the writing proceeded (if such existed) could write in english, and was familiar with the colloquial gaelic pronunciation of the name, but was unacquainted with the gaelic orthography. on this occasion also the name "margaret" was given in its gaelic form of marghearad (somewhat similarly misspelt as _marget_), without any special connection either with the questions asked, or, so far as could be discovered, with anything in the mind of any present, none of whom had interested themselves at that time in the s---- ancestry. in reply to questions as to what could be done that was of use or interest, the writers were told to go at dusk, and in silence, to the glen in the avenue, and this, rightly or wrongly, some of those present identified with what had been called scamp's copse. they were, however, perplexed by being told to go "up by the burn," for though miss freer and miss moore had twice explored the spot, they had not observed the presence of water. the journal continues-- we decided to walk in the avenue, and to explore "scamp's copse" before dinner, in spite of the fact that we were expecting mr. macp---- [a barrister], mr. c---- [a solicitor], and mr. w---- [an accountant] just about the time that we should be absent. miss moore took the dog off in the opposite direction, and we walked in silence to the plantation, mr. l. f----, mr. f----, and i. it was quite dark, but the snow gleamed so white, that we could see our way to the plantation. we went up among the trees, young firs; the snow was deep and untrodden; and when we got well off the road, we found that a burn comes down the brae side. it is frozen hard, and we found it out only by the shining of the ice. we walked on in silence to the left of the burn, up the little valley, along a small opening between the trees and the railing which encloses them, mr. l. f---- first, then i, then mr. f----. in a few minutes i saw what made me stop. the men stopped too, and we all stood leaning over the railings, and looking in silence across the burn to the steep bank opposite. this was white with snow, except to the left, where the boughs of a large oak-tree had protected the ground. against the snow i saw a slight black figure, a woman, moving slowly up the glen. she stopped, and turned and looked at me. she was dressed as a nun. her face looked pale. i saw her hand in the folds of her habit. then she moved on, as it seemed, on a slope too steep for walking. when she came under the tree she disappeared--perhaps because there was no snow to show her outline. beyond the tree she reappeared for a moment, where there was again a white background, close by the burn. then i saw no more. i waited, and then, still in silence, we returned to the avenue. i described what i had seen. the others saw nothing. (this did not surprise me, for though both have been for many years concerned in psychical investigation, and have had unusual opportunities, neither has ever had any "experience," so that one may conclude that they are not by temperament likely to experience either subjective phenomena or even thought-transference.) it was proposed that we should ascend the glen in her track on the other side of the burn. it was very difficult walking, the snow very deep, and after two or three efforts to descend the side of the bank we gave it up, and followed to nearly her point of disappearance, keeping above the tree, not below as she had done. we saw no more, and returned to the house, agreeing not to describe what had occurred, merely to say that as the factor (who looks about eighteen stone) is said not to like the avenue at dark, we had been setting him and others a good example. in a letter to lord bute under date february th, miss freer describes this figure with some detail:-- "as you know, these figures do not appear before . at earliest, therefore there is little light upon their surface. like other phantasms seen at dark, they show 'by their own light,' _i.e._ they appear to be outlined by a thread of light. it is therefore only when the face appears in profile that one can describe the features, and this is somewhat prevented by the nun's veil. 'ishbel' appears to me to be slight, and of fair height. i am unable, of course, to see the colour of her hair, but i should describe her as dark. there is an intensity in her gaze which is rare in light-coloured eyes. the face, as i see it, is in mental pain, so that it is perhaps hardly fair to say that it seems lacking in that repose and gentleness that one looks for in the religious life. her dress presents no peculiarities. the habit is black, with the usual white about the face, and i have thought that when walking she showed a lighter under-dress. she speaks upon rather a high note, with a quality of youth in her voice. her weeping seemed to me passionate and unrestrained." the appearance of a nun was entirely unexpected, as the name "ishbel" had been associated rather with the portrait of the beautiful woman in an eighteenth-century dress in the library, and it was she whom the witnesses, had they expected anything at all, would have expected to see. miss freer, moreover, the first witness, had regarded the statements of "ouija" with her habitual scepticism as to induced phenomena, more particularly those of automatic writing, in which, as in dreams, it is almost always difficult to disentangle the operations of the normal from those of the subconscious personality. if the name "ishbel" were really intended to apply to the nun, it becomes a very curious question who is the person meant. a robert s---- of b---- married, as has been already mentioned, isabella h----, who died in , but we know of no reason for supposing that she ever became a nun. the portrait may possibly have represented her, but it shows a much older woman than the phantom so often seen; on the other hand, the dates are not inconsistent, and a considerable distance of time is suggested by certain phrases which occurred in the automatic writing. the person to whom the mind more naturally reverts is miss isabella s----, the sister, and apparently the favourite sister, of major s----. as already mentioned, she professed as a nun under the name of frances helen in , and died in , aged sixty-six. she did not, therefore, enter her convent till the age of thirty-five, an age much greater than that shown by the phantom. it is, moreover, interesting to note that this lady's name was isabella _margaret_, so that both names, as given automatically, may have really referred to her. in the seventh edition of "burke's landed gentry," , there appears for the first time this entry-- "_iv. isabella margaret, a nun, regular canoness of the order of the holy sepulchre, d. feb. ._" the editors have obtained from the nunnery, where she lived and died, a photograph, representing the dress of the community, and a description of herself, which is as follows:-- "she died rd february , quickly, of an attack of pneumonia or acute bronchitis. she died a most edifying death, in perfect consciousness, assisted by the confessor ... and the community around her, and having received the last sacraments only a few hours before she expired. as to her appearance, she was short, rather fair, not at all stout, but not extraordinarily thin. "she entered the community in april , was clothed in may , and professed may . we do not know whether she could speak gaelic. she was very fond of scotland, and very particular about the pronunciation of scotch names. she was a most entertaining companion, being full of natural wit." the dress, which is dignified, is very peculiar and striking, and not the least like the very ordinary nun's attire in which the phantom appeared, while it would be difficult to imagine a greater contrast than that between the merry old lady of the description and the weeping girl so often seen. there was, however, at least one very peculiar reason, which will be noticed presently, for supposing that this phantom was really intended to represent the late rev. mother frances helen, and that its inaccuracy was owing to the stupid, and rather melodramatic misconception in the mind which originally imagined it and transferred it to the witnesses at b----. this is our arrangement for to-night:-- room (where we heard noises). mr. f----. " . dressing-room communicating with nos. and ; doors opened between. " . mr. l. f---- (specially "haunted"). " . mr. macp----. " . mr. w----. " . dressing-room, miss moore. " . myself. " . mr. c----. (sounds alleged, see evidence.) _n.b._--nothing is alleged against and . _february th, sunday._--miss moore was awakened this morning soon after one o'clock by a loud reverberating bang, which seemed close to her bed. she lay awake for a long time afterwards, but the sound was not repeated. the men heard nothing. they report that they went to bed soon after eleven, and very quietly. my maid, who has had to give up her room, slept downstairs last night. she was kept awake nearly all night by noises and footsteps. the wing is not yet fit for use, as all the pipes are frozen, and the only downstairs bedroom was insufficiently aired; so i told her to use that for dressing, and make herself up a bed on one of the sitting-room sofas, and she slept (or rather, lay awake) in the drawing-room. she was not frightened, as she thought all the noises were made by the gentlemen; but they declare they made no noise. i asked her as to the other servants. she says the maids are still very nervous. i spoke to them for the first time about the noises to-day. the butler's wife has heard sounds, but her husband only scoffs. the upper housemaid thinks ghosts the proper thing, and tolerates them along with the high families to which she is accustomed. the under housemaid is very shy, is highland, and knows little english, and won't talk, but owns to discomfort, and is scoffed at by the other servants, who think it all part of her having been only a "general" till she came here. the kitchenmaid goes home to sleep, but i believe some one fetches her. i have had a girl out of the village to make up the linen, and she, we notice, is careful to go home before dark. this morning we all went to churches of various sorts. when the men came in to tea they reported that they had had a conversation with an outdoor servant, who proved to have been in the service of [mr. f----'s father] lord d----, and was consequently the more communicative. i know him, and have found him extremely intelligent. he says that having heard from the h----s' butler (who slept on the dining-room floor, in the room my maid is to occupy to-night) that it was impossible to sleep in a room so noisy, he induced him to allow him to share his room, that they heard much, but they dared not show a light for fear of his admission being discovered (the h----s being much on the alert), and they saw nothing [_cf._ p. for evidence of the h----s' butler]. we did not like to send for him on a sunday, but decided to have him in on monday, and test him as to the intensity of the noise. in the evening, while we were all chatting in the drawing-room, miss moore came out into the hall, where she had been looking after the dog. in spite of the noise we were all making, she distinctly heard the clang noise upstairs. she had said the same thing, though with less certainty, once before, and we agreed that one night some one must sit up in the hall. (this was afterwards done without result.) _february th, monday._--last night my maid heard footsteps and the sound of hands fumbling on her door; this she told us when she came in with our early tea. miss moore in the early morning, between one and two, heard again the sharp, reverberating bang as before. we speculated at breakfast as to whether the sound could have been made by the men after we had gone upstairs, though they were all sure of having been quite still before midnight. we made them rehearse every sound they had in fact made, but nothing was in the least like it, either in quality or quantity. i had been disturbed about . a.m. by the sound (which we had not heard hitherto) described by former witnesses as "explosive." i know of nothing quite like it. i have heard the portsmouth guns when at a place eight miles away; the sound was like that, but did not convey the same impression of distance. i heard it, at intervals, during half-an-hour. miss moore is a very light sleeper, but she did not awake. at six i got up and went through my room to the dressing-room door (no. ), after a sound that seemed especially near. it was so near, that though i thought it quite unlikely under the circumstances, i wanted to satisfy myself that no one was playing jokes on mr. c----, whose room was close by. the house was deadly still. i could hear the clocks ticking on the stairs. as i stood, the sound came again. it might have been caused by a very heavy fall of snow from a high roof--not sliding, but percussive. miss moore had wakened up and heard it too. (_n.b._--we afterwards found that, as the roof is flat, the snow is cleared away daily.) mr. w----, an utter sceptic, he declares, left early; then we all went for a walk. we spent the whole afternoon making experiments. miss moore or my maid or i, as having heard the noises, shut ourselves up in the room whence they were heard, or stood in the right places on hall or staircase. the experimental noises made were as follows:-- . banging with poker or shovel as hard as possible on every part of the big iron stove in the hall; kicking it, hitting it with sticks (as miss moore and i persisted that the first noise was as of metal on wood, or _vice versâ_). . trampling and banging in every part of the house, obvious and obscure, in cupboards and cistern holes. . (on the hypothesis of tricks from outside.) beating on outside doors with shovels and pokers and wooden things, on the walls and windows accessible; banging and clattering in outside coal-cellars and in the sunk area round the house. (_n.b._--beating on the front door handle with a wooden racket, was right in kind, but not nearly enough in degree.) miss moore, who was familiar with the noise, did it rather well by going into a coal-cellar (always locked at night, however) outside and throwing big lumps of coal, from a distance, into a big pail, but _it wasn't nearly loud enough_. . finally the men climbed on to the roof, outside, while miss moore and i shut ourselves into the proper places. they clattered and walked and stamped and kicked and struck the slates, but _they couldn't make noise enough_. then we had in the gardener they saw yesterday, and put him in the butler's room, and the four men made hideous rows as before. he was grateful and respectful, but contemptuous. _they couldn't make noise enough._ we went out at dusk, having sent mr. macp---- and mr. c---- to pay a visit (as they had not been told of the brook scene), intending that the same trio as before should go to the copse. mr. l---- f---- couldn't come, and as mr. f---- and i went on alone, we met mr. macp---- and mr. c---- returning before they were expected. on the spur of the moment i asked mr. c---- to come with me, leaving mr. f---- and mr. macp---- in the avenue. the snow had gone, and i saw less distinctly; but i saw the nun again, and an older woman in grey, who talked earnestly with her, she answering at intervals. i could hear no words; the ice was giving, and the burn had begun to murmur. (i tried to persuade myself that the murmur accounted for the voices, but the sounds were entirely distinct, and different in quality and amount.) this older woman in grey afterwards became familiar. the name "marget" was given to her at first half in fun and simply because this was one of the two names given by ouija (_cf._ p. ). she is apparently the grey woman referred to in the paper published by mrs. g---- (_cf._ p. ). the fact of voices being heard by two persons, while one alone saw the figures, seems a clear proof that the figures were hallucinatory. it seems probable that the sounds also were hallucinatory, but were what is called in the vocabulary of the s.p.r. the "collective" hallucination of two persons. this seems to render it highly probable that in the case of each the hallucination had a cause external to both, although common to both; moreover, hallucinations are often contagious. _the times_ correspondent states, that "the lady admitted that the apparition was purely subjective, but in regard to other matters was not willing to suppose that she might be the victim of hallucinations of hearing as well as of sight." on the contrary, as all readers of miss freer's published works are aware, she is entirely of opinion that such sights and sounds are pure sense-hallucinations, whatever may be their ultimate origin. we rejoined the others in silence. then mr. macp---- said to mr. c----, "did you see anything?" "nothing; i only heard voices." "what sort of voices?" "two women. the older voice talked most, almost continuously. i heard a younger voice, a higher one, now and then." _note by mr. macp----._ "i knew previously, though mr. c---- did not, that miss freer had seen something up the burn; and when waiting for her and mr. c----, mr. f---- told me the whole story." _february th, tuesday._--last night we--miss moore and i--heard the "explosive" noises about . p.m., and speculated as to the possibility of their being caused by the wind in the chimney. there was a little wind last night--very little. it is worth mentioning, that ever since we have been here the air has been phenomenally still. one can go outside, as we do frequently, to feed the birds and squirrels without hats and not feel a hair stirred. even when the snow was on the ground we never felt the cold, owing to the absence of wind, and the thaw has been imperceptible. snow is still on the hills. i have several times thrown open my bedroom window about dawn for an hour to familiarise myself with the outside noises. there is nothing human within a quarter of a mile. (_n.b._--the others, who are much more likely to be accurate as to distance than i, say the lodges are farther off.) the servants' houses are in a group of buildings on the hill above the house, but are, i believe, all empty. we found, and adopted, a deserted cat, whose condition certainly testified to the nakedness of the land. there are two inhabited lodges far out of hearing. a gardener comes round to the houses about or . p.m., but we have watched him, and know exactly what sounds he creates. _february th, wednesday._--mrs. w---- arrived this morning from london; also miss langton, who is "sensitive," but wholly inexperienced. in the evening, at p.m., colonel taylor arrived. he is in no. . miss moore and i moved back into no. , and moved mr. f---- into no. , the room reported (by the h----s) as specially haunted, where colonel a---- and major b---- had slept, and in our time mr. l---- f----, who left last night. the wing is now ready for habitation, except that the pipes are out of order, and the "set-basins" useless, also the bath. (_n.b._--the fact that the pipes are all out of working order, and not a drop of hot water is to be had except in the kitchen, does away with a theory, which has been rather emphatically put forward, that "it is all the hot-water pipes.") we are anxious to test the wing. only one story, miss "b----'s," is connected with it, and if there has been any practical joking anywhere, i personally incline to think that was the occasion. the wing is new, built, they say, in , and the "ghost" showed human intelligence in selection of doors and victims. (after my return to london i had a conversation with mrs. g----, which convinced me that i was mistaken in supposing that tricks had been played upon miss "b----." see p. .) an old woman in the village asked miss moore to-day with interest, "hoo'll ye be liking b----?" she spoke of the hauntings, and her husband insisted (the highlander always begins that way) that there were not any, and so on, and the old woman explained that it was just the young gentlemen last year that was having a lark. later she admitted, "there's nae ghaists at b----, but the old major" (who died about twenty years ago); "he'd just be saying to gracie if she didn't do as she was told, that he'd be coming back and belay the decks" (_cf._ p. ). _p.s._--_monday th._--in the kirkyard to-day at l---- we were shown the major's grave. it is one of three, inclosed by a rough stone wall. they have no headstones, and seem quite uncared for. one is, we are informed, that of his housekeeper, sarah n----. the other is said to be that of a black man-servant. last night we slept as follows:-- room and . myself and miss moore. " . mr. f----. " . miss langton. " . mrs. w----. " and . empty. " . colonel taylor. miss moore lay awake nearly the whole night. she heard, though in less degree, the old noises; and in the early morning (compare our first night) heard the sound of women's voices talking. when i awoke, about a.m., she told me she had been disturbed, and said she feared that the others had also, as she had heard mrs. w---- talking in miss langton's room. at breakfast mrs. w---- reported that she had been awakened by knockings, but had never moved. miss langton had heard nothing. the colonel reported that about, or just before, six he had heard footsteps over his head. there is no room over no. , which is mostly a built-out bow, and the servants had not moved before . . (if they moved then, it was contrary to their habits!) we heard later that hannah had gone, about . , "in her stocking-feet, only without her stockings," to ask the time at the cook's door. the colonel (before our inquiries) had imitated the noise by stamping heavily with striding steps across the library. _february th, thursday._--the colonel moved down into "miss b----'s room" in the wing, and mr. f---- into the room next to him. _february th, friday._--no phenomena. the great business to-day, which we had specially reserved for the colonel's arrival, was the making of sketches and measurements for the plan of the house. we found no mysteries. the walls are immensely thick, but all the space is accounted for. _february th, saturday._--miss moore slept very badly again last night. she heard the noises at intervals between three and five; she was awake before and after. they were loudest and most frequent after four. at . i was awakened by a loud crash as of something falling very heavily on the floor above. the maids sleep there, but can give no account of any fall. miss moore, of course, heard it as, and when, i did. mrs. w---- reports having heard loud raps. she thinks the noise may have wakened her, but after she was awake enough to get a light and look at her watch ( . ) she heard what she describes as "a double knock." _february th, sunday._--our first wet day. the weather so far has been perfect. we all got very wet coming from church. in the evening we did various experiments--thought-transference, crystal gazing, &c.--but nothing came of it in regard to the house. _february th, monday._--mr. f---- left early. we all walked to the parish church, and had some talk with the sexton, and i had to listen to long yarns about the major (see under date february th). i was tired, and could not go to the copse. in the evening we played games, and were very lively. miss langton came into my room for a few minutes, and was certainly not in any nervous condition, nor did we speak of the hauntings. but this morning (tuesday) at breakfast she reported having heard a loud crash almost directly after getting to her room. we considered possible causes, but could not discover that any one was moving in the house. the servants had gone to bed some time earlier, and we had put out the lights ourselves in the hall and on the stairs. _february th, tuesday._--i had an experience this morning which may have been purely subjective, but which should be recorded. about a.m. i was writing in the library, face to light, back to fire. mrs. w---- was in the room, and addressed me once or twice; but i was aware of not being responsive, as i was much occupied. i wrote on, and presently felt a distinct, but gentle, push against my chair. i thought it was the dog and looked down, but he was not there. i went on writing, and in a few minutes felt a push, firm and decided, against myself which moved me on my chair. i thought it was mrs. w----, who, having spoken and obtained no answer, was reminding me of her presence. i looked backward with an exclamation--the room was empty. she came in directly, and called my attention to the dog, who was gazing intently from the hearthrug at the place where i had expected (before) to see him. as the day began with the above, and i had had a quiet rest, i went to the copse at dusk. the moon was bright, and the twilight lingered. we waited about in the avenue to let it get darker, but it was still far from dark when we made our way up the glen--miss moore, miss langton, and myself. i saw "ishbel" and "marget" in the old spot across the burn. "ishbel" was on her knees in the attitude of weeping, "marget" apparently reasoning with her in a low voice, to which "ishbel" replied very occasionally. i could not hear what was said for the noise of the burn. we waited for perhaps ten or fifteen minutes. they had appeared when i had been there perhaps three or four. when we regained the avenue (in silence) miss moore asked miss langton, "what did you see?" (she had been told nothing, except that the colonel, who did not know details then, had said in her presence something about "a couple of nuns".) she said, "i saw nothing, but i heard a low talking." questioned further, she said it seemed close behind. the glen is so narrow, that this might be quite consistent with what i saw and heard. miss moore heard a murmuring voice, and is quite certain it was not the burn. she is less suggestible than almost any one i know. the dog ran up while we were there, pointed, and ran straight for the two women. he afterwards left us, and we found him barking in the glen. he is a dog who hardly ever barks. we went up among the trees where he was, and could find no cause. miss moore and i moved into no. (dressing-room no. ). it is a "suspect" room, which i had not tried, and miss moore had scarcely slept all the week in no. , and was looking so worn out, that i decided to move. _february th, wednesday._--a most glorious day, still, bright, and sunny. nothing happened till evening. the colonel, mrs. w----, miss langton, miss moore, and i were in the drawing-room after dinner. some of us, certainly the last four, heard footsteps overhead in no. , which is just now disused. i was lying on the sofa, and could not get up quickly: but mrs. w---- and miss langton ran up at once, and found it empty and dark, and no one about. later, about . , we all five heard the clang noise with which some of us are so familiar. the servants had gone to bed--or so we presumed, as all lights were out, except on the upper floor. it occurred four times. it is of course conceivable they may have made it, but we do not hear it when we know them to be about, and we do hear it when we know them not to be about. the following quotation is from miss langton's private diary:-- "on the night of wednesday, february th, i had a curious dream or vision. i seemed to be standing outside the door of no. , looking up the corridor to no. , when suddenly i saw a figure with his back to the door of no. , and quite close to the door which leads to no. . his face was quite distinct, and what struck me most was the curious way in which his hair grew on his temples. his eyes were very dark, keen, and deep-set; his face was pale, and with a drawn, haggard expression. he looked about thirty-nine years of age. his hair was dark and thick, and waved back from his forehead, where it was slightly grey. it was a most interesting and clever face, and one that would always, i should think, attract attention. he was dressed in a long black gown like a cassock, only with a short cape, barely reaching to the elbows." a further reference to this vision, which at the time seemed irrelevant, will be found on page . _february th, thursday._--this morning's phenomenon is the most incomprehensible i have yet known. i heard the banging sounds after we were in bed last night. early this morning, about . , i was awakened by them. they continued for nearly an hour. then another sound began _in_ the room. it might have been made by a very lively kitten jumping and pouncing, or even by a very large bird; there was a fluttering noise too. it was close, exactly opposite the bed. miss moore woke up, and we heard it going on till nearly eight o'clock. i drew up the blinds and opened the window wide. i sought all over the room, looking into cupboards and under furniture. we cannot guess at any possible explanation. further experience of these curious hallucinatory sounds, combined with visual hallucination in the same room, taking also into consideration the interest which our own dogs always displayed in these phenomena, led us to the conclusion that our first deductions had been wrong, and that the sounds were those of a dog gambolling. (the rev.) mr. "q." (an english vicar), arrived. in the evening, at . , miss langton and i took him down to the glen. it was a very light evening. i saw the figure of ishbel, not very distinctly, in conversation with the second figure, which was barely defined. we remained in perfect silence as usual. on regaining the avenue miss l---- said she had heard voices, and thought she had seen what might be the white parts of the nun's dress. mr. "q." said he had seen a light under the big tree. the figures were nearer the tree than usual. miss langton went up a second time with the colonel, and again heard voices. it is worth remarking that mr. "q." has, doubtless from some idiosyncrasy, since developed a faculty of seeing lights where other people see phantasms. _february th, friday._--no phenomena last night. we have spent the day in a----, the neighbouring town, where i had a fall and hurt my foot, so that i was obliged to drive home, and could not go to the glen. miss langton and mr. "q." went down about seven o'clock. mr. "q." saw the outline of a figure of which he has written the description. miss langton heard the usual voices on the other side of the burn; they seemed to her to be interrupted by a third voice, in deeper tones; and she also heard the footsteps of a man passing behind her, a heavy tread, "not like a gentleman." the following, the account referred to, was contained in a private letter from mr. "q." to lord bute. the description of ishbel in the journal of february th, was, it will be observed, of later date, although before miss freer had seen the following:-- "_february th and th, ._--i had heard only that miss freer had seen two figures by the burn, one of which was that of a nun, the other a woman, before whom, on one occasion, the nun appeared to be kneeling. i had always pictured the nun as standing or kneeling with her back to the spectator. "on february th, at about . p.m., i visited the burn with miss langton (_and not miss freer_). after looking a little i saw (_a_); the white was very plain, and the head clearly outlined, but the vision was for the fraction of a second. i was conscious of it indistinctly for a few minutes, and there seemed a good deal of movement. suddenly i was again conscious of the figure as shown in (_b_), full-face, as though gazing at me; again the white part was very distinct, but i could distinguish no features." [illustration: a] [illustration: b] _february th, saturday._--this morning we went down to ---- and had a little talk with the old servant who told us stories the other day about the major, and she repeated the story of his threatened return. the same story was repeated independently this afternoon by [a local tradesman], who opened conversation by inquiring whether we had "seen the major yet." miss moore and i again this morning heard noises in no. , more especially those of the pattering footsteps, just after daylight, and a violent jump and scramble, which we thought was our dog, until we found that he was sleeping peacefully as usual on his rug at our feet. in a letter to lord bute, dated february , , mr "q." gives the following account:-- "on february th, at about . p.m., i visited the burn with miss freer and miss langton. i was very briefly conscious of the figure (_a_) on the bank of the burn, but saw no more till miss freer pointed to the hollow of a large tree, when i again saw (_b_). on each occasion of seeing (_b_) a curious sensation was noticeable, and i felt i was being looked at. on speaking afterwards to miss freer, i found her vision of the nun _under the tree_ to be the same as mine at (_b_), _i.e._ full face, as indeed miss freer had seen it on previous occasions. this is the second sketch i have drawn of the full face (_b_). the first i showed to miss freer, remarking to her, 'i have made the figure _too broad_' (being unaccustomed to drawing). 'yes,' said miss freer, 'for the nun is very slight.'" it was seen at the same moment also by miss freer and miss langton. _february st, sunday._--again this morning we heard noises of pattering in no. , and scamp got up and sat apparently watching something invisible to us, turning his head slowly as if following the movements of some person or thing across the room from west to east. during the night miss moore had heard footsteps crossing the room, as of an old or invalid man shuffling in slippers. we both heard a bang at the side of the room about . , some time before any sounds of moving were heard from the servants above. the noise was muffled in quality, and had no resonance, and seemed to come from behind a small wardrobe on the east wall. the room (no. ) on that side was unoccupied. [this bang was heard at other times in the same spot. experiment showed that no noise made in no. was audible in no. , not even hammering with a poker on the wall, which is curved at this point.] this morning, on coming out of church, i received a letter from mr. f----, in which was the following passage:-- "... miss h----, who slept, i believe, in the room occupied by you when i left, heard sounds of footsteps going round her room, footsteps with the most unmistakable limp in them. shortly after she heard stories connected with the former owner, who used to go by the name of b----, an aged man [the major]. she asked if he could be described. 'no,' said her informant; 'the only thing he could remember about him was that he had a most peculiar limp,' and he forthwith gave an exhibition, which tallied exactly with the limp around the bed." in discussing this, miss moore and i agreed that, had miss h---- slept in no. instead of in no. , as mr. f---- supposed, we should have considered these limping sounds as probably identical with those we ourselves had heard. after i had closed my reply to mr. f----, miss moore discovered miss "b----'s" plan of the house (in the packet of evidence of the h----s' tenancy, see p. ), which showed that in fact no. _was_ the room referred to. hence it appears that the room in which miss h---- heard the footsteps was the same as that in which _we_ heard them. we had been misled by mr. f---- speaking of "the room you occupied when i left," a mistake on his part, as, though the change had been spoken of, we had not left no. . this afternoon miss langton experimented with ouija at mr. "q.'s" request. lord bute had suggested various test-questions in relation to the phantasm of the nun, to be asked the next time the ouija board was in operation, and answers to these were attempted at various times, with the usual result of showing the influence, conscious or sub-conscious, of the sitters, almost all statements as to matters not actually known to them being worthless. on this occasion, however, in reply to the question, "how old was ishbel when she died?" answers were spelt out to the effect that she was still living, and that her age was fifty-nine. this may perhaps be taken as throwing light upon the intended personality of ishbel, and supplying a possible clue to the identity of the mind of which she seems to be an imaginary creation. fifty-nine was the age of the late rev. mother frances helen in the year , when sarah n---- died. they are not people who are at all likely to have met each other upon "the other side" any more than upon this. it is a generally recognised fact that the conditions which we call "time and space" exist on in the world beyond in a form so very different from those in which they are conceived of by us, that from our point of view they can hardly be said to exist at all. it is natural, therefore, to seek the utterer of this remarkable statement in some person connected with b---- who did not know the late mother frances helen (supposing her to be the person for whom ishbel was intended), but had heard of her. _february nd, monday._--mr. "z----" _came_. the whole matter of the inquiry had been made known to mr. "z----," the proprietor of a prominent scottish newspaper, of course in the strictest confidence, which was carefully made a condition of the admission of any one to the house, a confidence which he most honourably observed. it was arranged that if anything occurred within the observation of himself or his son, the scientific value of which rendered it, in their judgment, desirable to publish a notice of it in _the ----_, the notice should be published under avowedly false names and geographical indications. mr. "z----" was unable to come himself, but his son arrived this day. mr. "endell" (a member of the s.p.r.) arrived while we were out, and made a tour of inspection alone of the outside of the house and the ground-floor rooms. he intuitively fixed on the window of no. as that of a "haunted" room, and has since, equally by intuition, diagnosed the drawing-room and library as "creepy," and the dining-room as definitely cheerful. (this coincides with our experience.) my own experiences to-day were confined to ejection from a high waggonette, while waiting at the station for mr. "z----," the horse having bolted at the appearance of the train. no phenomena. we are putting mr. "z----", at his own request, in no. , the "ghost-room." _february rd, tuesday._--pouring wet. no phenomena. visit to glen impossible. mr. and mrs. r---- (local residents) came to lunch. though in great pain i was able to see them for a few minutes, and both inquired whether we had had any experience of the reported hauntings, of which, however, they could give us no details. _february th, wednesday._--mr. "z----" left early. (_n.b._--no phenomena reported by any one during his visit; he himself slept soundly in the "haunted" room, but does it the justice to acknowledge that he "could sleep through an earthquake.") miss "n." (the daughter of a landowner of the district) arrived. mr. garford (an old friend and excellent observer) came from london. we sleep to-night as follows:-- in the wing, in the two rooms alleged by guests of the h----s to be haunted, the colonel and mr. "endell." no. . mr. garford. " . mr. "q." ("ghost-room"; he has just asked to be removed from his former room in the wing). " . miss langton. " . mrs. w----. " . miss "n." " . miss moore, myself, and dog. _february th, thursday._--mr. "endell" reported this morning having heard a sound he could in no way account for, which seems to us to correspond with the "clanging" noise. we asked how he would imitate it as to volume and quality, and he said that a large iron kettle, about the size of the dinner-table (we are dining eight), boiling violently, so that the lid was constantly "wobbling," might produce it. (_n.b._--mr. "endell's" opinion later is that a pavior's crowbar heavily dropped, so as to produce a prolonged reverberation, is a better illustration.) mr. garford, who was not told that any sounds might be expected in no. , says he was awakened by a violent banging at the door of communication between nos. and (no. is empty). mr. "endell," mr. "q.," and miss moore went up later in the day to experiment on the door, and found that it would _open_ with the slightest push. mr. garford had closed it on going to bed, and found it closed in the morning. he had not been alarmed, and had almost called out to his supposed visitors, before he remembered supernormal possibilities. he described the sound as a muffled bang, and in order to reproduce it to his satisfaction one of the party held a thick rug on the inner side while another hammered on the panels without. mr. "q.'s" experiences in no. will be reported by himself. the groans which he heard coming from no. some of our party suggested might have been made in sleep by the occupant of no. , but on trying experiments it was found that no sounds of the kind which he could make in his room were audible in no. . mr. "q." left. miss langton went up the glen with mr. garford, and was perplexed by seeing the grey figure when looking for the nun; she saw it but dimly, but later in the evening recovered it in the crystal, more clearly and in greater detail. the following is mr. "q.'s" account of his experience, written on february th and march th, in private letters to lord bute, but, in order to avoid the possibility of suggestion to others, not contributed at the time to this journal. the editors have been permitted also to read another account written by mr. "q." of this and of his subsequent experience, written immediately after the occasion, which agrees with his letters to lord bute in every particular. "_february th, ._--i slept in room no. . i knew it had a 'bad' reputation, also i had heard through ouija of probable appearances and noises at a.m. and . a.m. i noted the time of retiring in passing the clock on the staircase, _i.e._ . . "before going to bed i sat in a chair with my back to a small mahogany cupboard, placed against the wall of the dressing-room, into which my room (no. ) opens. about a.m. i was much startled at hearing behind me very distinctly a loud groan, coming, apparently, from the dressing-room, in the direction of the mahogany cupboard. the sound was very distinct, and but for the fact of there being no one visible, i should have estimated its origin as _in_ the room, its distinctness being such that, coming from the next room, with the door closed, it would have sounded slightly muffled. so distinct was it that i heard what i can only describe as the throat vibration in the tone. "i tried to ascribe it to the bubbling of the hot-water pipe of a washing basin fixed in the dressing-room, as i supposed, against the wall of the bedroom, but saw next day that the basin in question was fixed against the opposite wall of the dressing-room. [illustration: a, cupboard. b, chair. c, washing-stand (fixed).] "the sound was a greatly magnified and humanised edition of what i have several times heard in the drawing-room below the dressing-room, and which has been heard by several of the party together." and in a letter dated march .--"i went upstairs at . . on shutting the door of my room i experienced a curiously cold sensation. i stood by the fire, which was burning brightly, and shivered to an extent that was quite phenomenal; the fire did not in the least remove the cold shudderings which ran from head to feet. "i threw the feeling off as best i could, but not entirely. i read a little and then prayed. i read the office of compline and my private prayers, and praying according to my custom for all faithful departed, and especially for those who had previously lived in the house or been connected with it. after this i looked at my watch; it was just upon one o'clock, and i sat for a few minutes in the chair by the fire, when i heard the noise described, behind me. "i changed my position and placed the chair with its back to a table and facing the door, the candle on the table, and took a book and read; my shuddering sensations had been worse than ever. suddenly i looked up, and above the bed, _apparently_ on the wall, i got just a glimpse (like a flash) of a brown wood crucifix: the wall was quite bare, not a picture, nothing to make it explainable by imperfect light or reflection. from that time the sensation of cold and shuddering went away: i don't say immediately, but i was quite conscious of being reassured. "about half-an-hour afterwards all feeling of distress of any sort had gone. i went to bed and to sleep. my own idea now is, that the sound i heard was an inarticulate cry for help, probably by means of prayer. the influence i feel was _bad_, but something overcame it." it is desirable to add, as a question of evidence, for comparison of the dates of this and miss freer's subsequent account of the same phenomenon, that a letter from mr. "q." in lord bute's possession, dated march th, begins, "i have no objection to miss freer seeing my letter on the subject of the crucifix...." mr. "q." also states that his delay in writing to lord bute about the crucifix was, that he thought it might be a mental reproduction of one which he sometimes sees in his own home, but that he found on examining the latter that it has a white figure, whereas that of the apparition has the figure of the same brown wood as the cross. in the private account above referred to mr. "q" writes, "i found that the crucifix at home _in no way_ resembles what i saw at b----". it will be remarked that this peculiar apparition was seen in the same room by the rev. p. h---- in august (see p. ), and it was again seen on march th by miss freer, who had not heard at all of his experiences, and only a bare mention, without detail or description, of that of mr. "q." a fourth vision in this connection--that of miss langton, who had heard of none of the other three, is described under date march . _february th, friday._--nothing happened till i was in the drawing-room in the evening, when i was, as usual since my accident, taking my meal alone. a screen stood between my sofa and the door, so that it was impossible to see who entered. i saw the shadow of a woman on the wall, and supposed it to be a maid come to see after the fire. next, the figure of an old woman emerged from behind the screen; she was of average height, and stout; she wore a woollen cap, and her dress was that of a superior servant indoors. supposing her to be some servant's visitor come to have a look at the drawing-room while the party were at dinner, i moved to attract her attention, with no result. she walked a few steps towards the middle of the room, then disappeared. her countenance was not pleasing, but expressed no personal malevolence; her face may have been coarsely handsome. her dress was dark, and made in the fashion which was worn in my childhood. when the dog came in later he seemed to sight something from behind the screen and followed it across the room, when he lay down under my couch, instead of on the hearth as usual. he had done the same thing yesterday morning, looking much frightened, and had then taken refuge under miss langton's chair. in connection with this it will be seen elsewhere that footsteps were constantly heard in the drawing-room, both at night and in daylight. mr. garford, in no. , heard last night what seemed like the detonating noise, which he describes as like a wheelbarrow on a hard road, "a sharp, rapidly repeated knocking," at a distance. _february th, saturday._--colonel c---- and mr. macp---- arrived. to-night we sleep as follows:-- no. . mr. garford. no. . miss langton. no. . colonel c---- (i had planned for him to go in the wing, but the butler, an old soldier with two medals, seemed to think it due to such a distinguished officer to put him in the haunted room). no. . mr. macp----. nos. , , and as before. the colonel and mr. "endell" unchanged. the glen was visited by colonel c---- and mr. macp----, escorted by miss langton. _february th, sunday._--all slept well. i assisted miss langton with some ouija experiments in the presence of, first, mr. "endell," then mr. macp----, then of colonel c---- and miss "n." _march st, monday._--mr. macp---- reported at breakfast that he had awakened at . , and almost immediately heard a loud clanging sound in the north-west corner of his room; he was fully awake, struck a light, saw nothing, and looked at his watch. we tried later to reproduce this noise, which he described as resembling a loud blow upon a washhand basin. i shut myself into no. , and found this a fair, but too faint, imitation of the sounds miss moore and i had heard there. colonel c---- and mr. macp---- left. miss m---- and the colonel have to-day had some talk with ---- [who had an intimate knowledge of the s---- family. see under dates feb. th and th]. she repeated her former story of the major's promised "return," especially a statement made to an old woman who worked in the garden, who had told him that at least "he'd no get in there, she'd keep the gate locked," that he "would come in below the deck" (_cf._ p. ). he was described as a short, broad man, with white hair and beard, "a'ful fond o' dogs (of which he had many), and so noisy with them in the morning, that when he and his housekeeper-body let them out, his voice could be heard on the hill." she also said that on major s----'s return from india to assume the property he found a tenant in possession, and had built himself a small house beyond the grounds, which he afterwards let with the shooting. in the late mr. s----'s time this house was used as a retreat during the summer for nuns (a statement which interests us greatly, as affording a possible clue to the apparition). the major was greatly attached to the place, and had a great dislike to the presence of strangers in it, or to its going out of the old name. the estate, we hear, was much encumbered when he succeeded to it, but he cleared off all debts in a few years, and appears to have lived a somewhat eccentric and recluse life, in the society of his dogs and dependants. this is the first mention of the fact that nuns had ever lived at b----. miss freer had not been aware that the object of the rev. p. h----'s visit in had been to give what is called a spiritual retreat to those who had been occupying the cottage. it is only fair to suggest that the phantasmal nun, to whom the name ishbel had been given, may really have been the phantasm of one of these visitors, and that the dress of at least some of them was identical with or closely resembled hers, while it was totally unlike that worn by the community to which the late mother frances helen belonged. at the same time, ishbel's dress was of a kind so very common among nuns, that it would have been that with which she would, most naturally, have been clothed by the imagination of any one unacquainted with the very rare order to which mother frances helen belonged. to make further investigation into the history of all the sisters who ever stayed at b---- through the kindness of the late mr. s---- would have been a task impossible for its vastness, and almost certainly futile through the natural reticence of their communities with regard to any matters likely to occasion haunting. _march st (continued), monday._--i went up the burn for the first time since my accident on saturday, february th. we had had a promise from ouija on sunday that if mr. "endell" were to visit the copse with me after . he would be touched on the left shoulder. he was told to go to the farther side of the burn, and to stand under the sapling, which is at some little distance from the spot where the phantasm usually appears. this we accordingly did. i was barely able in the dusk to distinguish the figure from my post on the west bank, but the phantasm appeared very near him, as i could distinguish the white pocket-handkerchief in his breast pocket. i saw her hand approach this, but could not positively say that it touched him. mr. "endell" saw nothing, and could not positively say that he felt a touch, though conscious of a sense of sudden chill, and agreed with me that had he certainly felt one, he would probably have considered it the effect of expectation. we stood there for perhaps ten minutes, and he was for a short time conscious of the subjective sensations which he commonly feels in the presence of phenomena. we returned simultaneously to the avenue, where we discussed the occurrence and the possibilities of making it evidential. the only thing we could think of was to send for miss langton, and without telling her anything of what we had seen or expected, ascertain whether she saw the phantasm in its usual position (high up on the bank), or a good deal farther to the left, and nearer the burn, as i had done. by the time she arrived it was much darker, but she saw the figure under the tree by the brook, and described it as "kneeling." she has better sight than i, and believed it to be behind mr. "endell." i should have judged her to be crouching or stooping in front of him, but judging from comparison of our normal sight, she is much more likely to be accurate than i. mr. "endell's" separately recorded account, dated march , exactly agrees with this, but adds some additional touches to the latter part. "at miss freer's suggestion, i fetched miss langton, telling her nothing of what had occurred, but merely that we were trying an experiment, and she was to report what she saw. "i stood again under the sapling. this time i began to shudder almost immediately. it was so dark they told me that they could only see my collar though i was only ten yards from them. "miss langton said that thirty seconds after i had taken up my position, the figure appeared behind me a little to my left, and seemed to raise its arm. miss freer said it was waiting for me, and touched me as before. "i felt no touch throughout, only shiverings that seemed to coincide with appearances." to-night miss "n." wishes to sleep in no. , and miss langton will remain in no. ; the door of communication can be opened between them. _march nd, tuesday._--this morning i was reading in bed by candlelight from . to o'clock, and again heard the pattering sound which has become familiar to us in no. . miss moore was asleep, but happened to awake while the sound was specially distinct, and without speaking signified that she was giving it her attention. shortly after six we heard the sound of a violent fall about the middle of the west wall, between the fireplace and window. our first thought was that one of the maids upstairs must have fallen, till we remembered that there was no room above us. we have since inquired, and find that none of them moved till nearly seven o'clock, nor was anything heard either by them or by mr. garford, whose room (no. ) joins our west wall.[d] miss "n." passed a very disturbed night. she went to bed about twelve o'clock; she is habitually an exceptionally good sleeper, and, moreover, has slept in many rooms alleged to be haunted without the slightest inconvenience, and has never had an "experience" of any sort. she lay awake in discomfort till a.m., and then sought refuge with miss langton. miss "n." left. the following is the record of her impressions:-- "_march th._--you ask me to write exactly what i felt in no. when i slept there on march st. well, it is rather difficult to describe! i never felt frightened out of my wits at nothing before, if it _was_ nothing. i certainly saw no shadows or figures, and the only noise i heard was the thud twice, which sounded as if it came from the storey below. if i shut my eyes for a minute i felt as if i was struggling with something invisible (not indigestion, as i never have it!). i was so paralysed that i _dare_ not call out to miss langton, and lay awake from twelve to three without moving! in the morning, of course, i felt i had been a fool to be so silly, and i would go and sleep there again to-night if i had the chance." mrs. b. c---- came. she is an associate s.p.r., is a highlander, has been all her life interested in psychical matters, but has had no "experience." mr. "endell," miss moore, and i sat up in no. till about . in the dark, except for the firelight, and in silence, except when any one wished to draw the attention of the rest to sounds or sensations. there were no sounds for which, on reflection, we found it impossible to account. mr. "endell" suffered, as on previous occasions, from the sensation known as "cold-air," and very visibly shivered, though clearly not in the least nervous. he is keenly interested in psychical inquiry, but has never had any "experience" other than subjective sympathy with the psychic impressions of others, or a consciousness, such as he described on his arrival here, of an atmosphere other than normal. (this last has been of frequent occurrence, and seems to have been always veridical.) the sole experience of any kind on this occasion was my own. mr. "endell," by way of reproducing the conditions of former occupants of the room, threw himself on the bed about twenty minutes to a.m. soon after he was seized by audible and visible shivers. we did not speak till he uttered some forcible ejaculation of complaint, when, looking towards him, i saw a hand holding a brown (probably wooden) crucifix, as by a person standing at the foot of the bed. he immediately said, "now i'm better," or words to that effect. we persisted in silence till perhaps . , when we agreed to separate, and while we were having some refreshment over the fire, i told miss moore and mr. "endell" what i had seen. (_cf._ under date february , p. .) _march rd, wednesday._--mrs. w---- left. this afternoon we had a call from mrs. s---- and her daughter. the colonel, miss moore, and i were in the room. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _march th, thursday._--mr. "endell" left. heavy snowstorm. _march th, friday._--last night i was in bed and asleep before miss moore came in from her dressing-room. she did not light the candle for fear of waking me, but, while sitting by the fire reading, she heard the pattering noise just behind her, in the same place where we have heard it and the fall before, though never till then at night. it only lasted a few minutes, but there was apparently nothing to account for it, though of course she took every possible means to discover its cause. mrs. b. c---- left to-day. miss moore happened to mention at breakfast that the upper housemaid had told her that the maids had twice again on the last two nights heard the sound of monotonous reading, once as late as a.m. the theoretical hour for mattins is midnight, which, however, is only observed in practice in certain very rigid monasteries; in others it begins at two. but it is easily conceivable that a priest, if wakeful at that time, would select it in preference to another. mrs. b. c---- at once said that she also had heard precisely that sound each night, and had spoken of it to her maid, and, like the servants, had concluded that miss moore was reading to me, although it was as late as twelve o'clock. she had also heard a bang on a door close to her own, but had supposed it was a late comer, possibly one of the gentlemen from the smoking-room, and had not been disturbed. she had been sleeping in no. , her maid in no. , and none of the gentlemen are on the same floor. mr. garford, who is now in the wing, remarked that he too had heard voices as of speaking or reading several times when sleeping in no. , but had assumed that they were normal. as a matter of fact, miss moore goes straight to her dressing-room on going upstairs, and i am always too tired to read or speak. no two persons sleep in any other room. we tested this by getting colonel taylor to shut himself into no. while i, in no. , read aloud at the top of my voice, miss langton remaining in the room with me. the colonel could hear no sound less than direct banging on the wall with a poker. the cook has been talking to-day of the various noises heard at night; she is not nervous, nor are the maids, but all speak of voices and bangs for which they cannot account; except the butler, who has heard nothing, but is obviously impressed with his wife's experience last night. her story is that, not feeling well, she went up to bed early, before the servants' supper, the rest of the household being as usual in the drawing-room. while in bed, before ten o'clock, she distinctly heard the sound of voices talking, apparently below, but not far distant (her room is over no. , at present empty). she "wondered if it could be the servants in the servants' hall at supper"--an obvious impossibility, as their room is _not_ underneath, is two storeys away, and has no connection with the upper part of the house. she also heard bangs on the wall, behind her bed and to the side; there was no furniture there to crack, and it was mostly on the _outside_ wall, so she finally became uncomfortable, and buried her head in the clothes to deaden the sound. she "doesn't believe in ghosts," but thinks the house "very queer," and says that far and wide in the country round it is spoken of as "haunted," though no one seems to know of any story, as to the cause, except that, very improbable, about the murder of a priest by the wife of a former proprietor. it appears that a maid engaged in the village refused to sleep in the house, because when in service here once before she had been frightened by bangs at the door of her bedroom (in a room over no. ); she had also heard the sounds of a rustling silk dress on the back-stairs, and had seen the bedroom door pushed open and a lady come in.... a maid, who came after this one had left, told the cook that she believed there was a story of a "priest murdered somewhere at the reformation"; she had once been told it by mrs. s---- in explanation of the noises, but had not heard whether the said murder was in the house or the grounds, and thought mrs. s---- particularly did not wish the spot known. this maid has only been an occasional help in the house, but has lived for years in the district, and knows the place well by reputation. to-day as we passed through the churchyard, [a resident in the neighbourhood] pointed out the desolate grave of the major, with the remark that one could hardly be surprised at a man being said to "walk" who was expected to rest in such a place as that. he said that there had been a great deal of talk all over the neighbourhood as to the excitement during the h----s' stay at b----, and seemed to believe that practical joking might account in part for what had occurred. he did not, however, deny that stories had been told long before their coming to the place. this resident is the one as to whom the _times_ correspondent dogmatically stated, that having lived in the place for twenty years he asserted that there had never been a whisper of the haunting of b---- until the tenancy of the h----s. _march th, saturday_.--mr. garford left. the colonel is to sleep to-night in no. , which has not been occupied since miss "n." left. mr. c---- arrived. he sleeps, by his own choice, in no. . he has had a conversation with the butler, whom he had been instrumental in engaging for us, which began by his asking how he liked his situation? he expressed himself satisfied with everything, but added, "but there's something very queer about the house," and then proceeded to tell his wife's experience. _march th, sunday_.--mr. c---- has written an account of his experiences last night. robinson has this morning told him of his first experience! he was awakened by the noise of a heavy body falling in the middle of the room; he awoke his wife, struck a match, and looked at his watch--it was . ; no one else had been disturbed. mr. c----'s account follows:-- "_march th, ._--it was arranged that colonel taylor should occupy no. , and that i should sleep in no. . i went to bed about twelve, but did not go to sleep at once. "i awoke suddenly with the distinct impression that there was some one in the room. i lay still, and tried to realise what was in the room, but could not do so. there was no idea of movement in my mind, but still i felt convinced that some one was there. the impression seemed gradually to fade out of my mind after about seven or ten minutes, and then i got up and looked at my watch--the time was . a.m. "i then went back to bed, but did not go to sleep. i heard the clock in the hall strike five. "shortly after i thought i heard some one moving about in no. , which i knew to be unoccupied. i listened, and it seemed to me that some one was moving round three sides of the room and then coming back. the movement went on for about three or four minutes and then stopped, but after a pause of some minutes it began again. i tried to make out footsteps, but could not do so. the movement was that of a heavy body going round the room, and the floor seemed to shake slightly, after the way of old flooring when a heavy man moves about. after going on for some time the movement stopped, and again, after a pause, began again. the movement, whatever it was, occurred four times, with three pauses in between. the durations of the movement and pauses were irregular. after the noise ceased i got up and lit the candle. the time was . , and i read for twenty-five minutes, when i felt sleepy and blew out the candle. i did not, however, go to sleep, and i heard six strike. the day was dawning. the rooks i first heard about . , when i was reading. "about ten minutes after the clock struck six i heard a noise like a light-footed person running downstairs, which seemed to adjoin no. , where the colonel was sleeping, and almost immediately after i heard a loud rapping at the door of no. . after a short pause this occurred again, and i jumped out of bed. as i opened the door of my room leading into the passage the rapping sounds occurred again, but less loudly. there was no one in the passage, and i went back to bed, not having quite shut my door. no sooner had i done so than there was a knock at my door, which i thought must be the colonel coming to speak to me about the rapping at no. . i called out 'come in,' but there was no answer, and i accordingly again went to the door, only to find no one. "i heard the servants begin to move about at . above me, and as seven struck i heard them going through the house. "the colonel did not hear anything. "there are no stairs coming down to the bedroom storey where i thought i heard footsteps. "the rapping was not in any way an alarming noise. "on saturday night 'ouija' had said that i was not to be disturbed that night, so i was 'not expecting.' it also stated that nos. and were the rooms that 'the major' occupied." * * * * * _march th, monday._--mr. c---- left early. he has promised to write of any experience last night, as he was gone before we were up. colonel taylor is still in no. ; he has heard nothing, but this is perhaps the less evidential, that, although a frequent visitor to haunted houses, he has never had any experience. we are still in no. , in which we have had a sufficient number of experiences to make us anxious to distribute responsibility by handing it over to another sensitive at the earliest possibility. miss langton has hitherto slept in no. , in which she was put on her first arrival, except for the three nights she was in no. , with companionship in the adjacent rooms. there seems to be no object in the colonel remaining in no. , as he is unlikely to see or hear anything, and as soon as that side of the house is quite emptied she proposes to go into no. , as we are anxious to discover whether her experience will corroborate that of miss moore, myself, mrs. b. c----, mr. garford, and the maids, as to the sound of voices. _march th, tuesday._--mr. c---- writes this morning in regard to sunday night: "_march th._--... last night i was not so much disturbed, but i awoke at . , and did not sleep after that. i had exactly the same sensation as on the previous night, that whenever i was going to sleep something woke me. at . i heard three noises very close together, but they were very distant, and sounded from the direction of your room" (no. ). _march th, wednesday._--i awoke about . , and lay awake reading. i had drawn the blinds up, but kept the candle in as long as it was required. at intervals between twenty minutes to six o'clock and ten minutes past i heard the sounds characteristic of no. ., viz., footsteps of a man, and pattering of a dog. miss moore awoke, and heard the later sounds. about . we both heard the thud, which seems to occur generally beyond the wardrobe nearer the door. in the afternoon miss moore and i called on mrs. s----. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _march th, thursday._--very wet day, no phenomena. _march th, friday._--another wet day. i had had a headache all day, and was unable to join the others in a walk when the rain cleared off, but i went out, alone, about . to the copse. standing in my usual place, i saw the nun coming over the hill towards the burn; she stood nearly opposite to me, looking down to the water for a few minutes, and then moved away towards the avenue. i followed as quickly as possible, but when i got to the drive she was still a few yards ahead of me, and i failed to catch her up, though i pursued her down to the lodge, about two hundred yards; she then, passing through the gates, turned to the left, and i lost her in the obscurity of the road, which is there darkened by heavy trees. when i returned to the house i was still in so much pain that i took a sedative draught and went to bed, and to sleep at once. with regard to the above it may be remarked that the way she came led from b---- cottage, where by the kindness of mr. s---- some nuns had formerly spent their annual holiday, and the road on which she disappeared was a way which would have led back to it. _march th, saturday._--at ten o'clock last night miss moore woke me to take some food. i was still under the influence of the opiate, and did not really rouse, even when she came to bed half-an-hour later. we did not speak till i was aroused by a loud banging noise, when, in answer to my startled exclamation, miss moore suggested that it was probably the servants shutting up downstairs, as we were early, and they had very likely not yet gone to bed. i was much annoyed, as i knew they had been cautioned to keep quiet, and even the maid had not been allowed to enter my room. this morning, when miss moore went to see the housekeeper, the butler came in and asked if we had heard any noises last night, about a quarter to eleven o'clock, he thought, after every one had gone up to bed; adding, "it was two bangs like a fist on a door, and i said, 'if that isn't miss moore or miss langton, i'll believe in the noises they all talk about,'--it's just like what the gentlemen told me." his wife had also heard the bangs, but had waited for him to speak to her of them, and the maids on the other side of the house had been roused to come to their door and listen. the footman, who sleeps in the basement, and the colonel, who was in the smoking-room in the wing till . , heard nothing; but miss langton, in no. , to whom miss moore mentioned the servants' story, had heard noises "between . and . ," but had not been disturbed, thinking, as we had done, that they were probably made by the servants. on inquiry we found that the cook had gone to bed directly after the servants' supper, the two under maids were up by ten o'clock (miss moore heard their voices when she came to my room at ten o'clock), and the upper housemaid had gone up a few minutes after the hall clock struck, following miss moore up the stairs. the butler had come up directly after, only waiting to put out the hall lamp, and all were in bed before . . we ourselves noticed the striking of the hall clock _after_ we heard the noise--it had gone wrong, and only struck nine instead of eleven o'clock--so there seems little doubt that we all heard the same sound, and all describe it as coming from below. in discussing the occurrence with the butler and his wife, miss moore learned that they had lately heard a story [from a local resident] which was new to us. a maid of mrs. s----, who, though married to the butler, still lived in the house, and performed her duties as usual, was one night coming up the back-stairs with a tray for mrs. s----, when, on reaching the top, by the door of no. , she met the figure of a nun, which so frightened her that she dropped the tray and broke all the plates on it. mrs. s---- explained it away by saying it was "only ----" (they could not remember her name) "come to pray with her." it was sunday night, but they knew there was no one there who could in the least account for the appearance. the only explanation offered by the narrator of the story was that "there had been a miss s----, a nun, who had died." _march th, sunday._--i called on mrs. s----, and had a long talk with her. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _march th, monday._--miss moore and i, both awake at the time, heard a loud, vibrating noise about a quarter to six. miss langton in no. heard it also. the colonel, who sleeps downstairs, heard it as from the hall, and said he also felt the vibration. except for about three nights he has always slept in the wing, where, during our tenancy, there have been no phenomena. _march th, tuesday._--miss moore, miss langton, the colonel, and i, left b----. miss moore, miss langton, and i returning on march th. after leaving b---- colonel taylor wrote as follows to lord bute:-- _march th, ._--"i arrived in london yesterday, after having spent five weeks at b---- very pleasantly. i feel sure that there _is_ a ghostly influence pervading the house, but i am a little disappointed at the way in which it manifests itself, for, up to the time i left, the nature of the manifestations was such that, though it is satisfactory to me, it would not be so, i think, to those who do not look at such things from so favourable a position as i do. "i hope a change may yet come, and things take place which one might think would justify people in evacuating and forfeiting their money as the h----s did; certainly nothing of this sort happened while i was there. "it is very interesting to note miss freer's experiences, but in regard to those of others who have something to relate, it is perhaps difficult to determine how much these statements should be discounted for error of observation and self-suggestion. i heard many noises in the night during my stay at b----, but they were of much the same sort i have been accustomed to hear at a similar time in other houses. i think that some of our witnesses may have given them undue prominence, under the influence of their own expectancy. the clairvoyant visions of 'ishbel' in the grounds are not of great evidential value for the scientific world in general, and i think that any amount of 'voices' could be read into the noises of the running stream, near where she is seen, by those who 'wished to hear.' still, there are some objective noises which cannot be easily accounted for in an ordinary way, and the three almost independent visions of the brown cross are important. "i hope things will improve; in any case, you will have added considerably to psychical research when all has been recorded...." it is difficult perhaps to see why colonel taylor should regard the independent visions of the crucifix as of more value than the equally independent and far more numerous hallucinations, audible and visual, of "ishbel." we have the statements of the failure of several persons who "wished to hear" voices in the sounds of the burn, which was, moreover, frozen and silent when the voices were heard by the first two non-expectant and quite independent witnesses. _march th._--a passage in miss langton's private journal under this date is as follows:-- "_st. andrews, march th._--i looked into a water-bottle to-night to see if i could see anything of what was happening at b----. i distinctly saw room no. , and gradually a figure came into view between the two doors (_i.e._ near the foot of the bed), the figure of a tall woman, dressed in a long clinging robe of grey, and who seemed to be holding something in her hand, against the wall at the foot of the bed. this became more distinct, and i saw that it was a cross of dark brown wood, some inches long (i should say). the figure did not appear to move. i seemed to be standing at the door of no. , which opens on to the landing" (_cf._ pp. , , ). for the information of those not accustomed to the phenomena of crystal-gazing, it may be as well to remark that it is quite possible that the image had been subconsciously seen by miss langton when sleeping in no. , as deferred impressions are often externalised for the first time in the crystal. she may equally have received the impression by thought-transference from others. certainly she had not been informed of earlier experiences. _march th, saturday._--miss langton, miss moore, and i returned to b---- house. four guests arrived in time for dinner. rooms for to-night:-- . miss moore and i. . miss langton. . miss "duff," a lady whose name is familiar to readers of recent records of crystal-gazing and other students of the literature of the psychical research society. . mr. macp----. . mr. w----. . colonel c----. _march st, sunday._--last night, about . , after miss moore and i were in bed in no. , we heard a loud sound from the left-hand side of the fireplace (south-west corner). it might be imitated by the "giving" of a large tin box (_cf._ pp. , ). there was nothing but a footstool and a draped dressing-table there. we called out to miss langton, whom we could hear still moving about. she said she had heard the noise, but had made none herself. her account is as follows:-- "last night (sunday, march st) we retired to bed early, as miss moore was leaving by an early train next morning, and i was going to get up in order to see her off. it was certainly not later than . , when i went to my room, having gone to no. to say good-night to miss freer and miss moore, who were sleeping that night in that room. miss 'duff' was in no. , and i was occupying no. . i am not at all nervous, and certainly i was not expecting to see anything, as no. is always supposed to be a 'quiet' room. i was some time getting to bed, but i put out my candle at twelve o'clock, and, after noticing that the moon was shining brightly, i got into bed. contrary to my usual custom i did not fall asleep for some time, and i felt that the room was, in some inexplicable way, not as usual. at last i fell asleep, but not comfortably. i kept waking, and for some time after each awakening i could not get to sleep again. i put this down, however, to the fact that i wanted to waken early the next morning, and was restless in consequence. at last i really fell asleep, but at . i suddenly awakened with the feeling that i was not alone in the room. i looked round; the room was quite dark; the moon was not shining, but between the bed and the wardrobe there was a figure standing. at first it was very indistinct and misty, but gradually it formed itself into the figure of a woman--a slight, tall woman, with a pale face. she was dressed in long robes, but the upper part was the only part i could see clearly. round her face and head was a white band, like that worn by a nun, and over her head was what might have been a black hood or small shawl, but in the darkness it was very difficult to distinguish. i could not see what her features were like, but she looked as if she were in trouble, and entreating some one to help her. she stood for some few moments at the foot of my bed looking towards me, and then she made a movement towards the door, but before she reached it she had vanished. i was not at all frightened, as there was nothing at all alarming in her appearance. i cannot write a better description of her, as the vision was so short. the figure was the same as that i had seen at the burn, only very much clearer." miss "duff" writes under this date march st:--"on my arrival yesterday i was shown to my room (no. ), which i had selected, with miss freer's permission, as one said to have an evil reputation. perhaps it was natural that a feeling 'as if i were not alone' should come over me, and needless to say there was no _apparent_ cause for this! "as a rule i am a very sound sleeper, nothing ever disturbs me; but last night i was suddenly wide awake, as if roused by something unusual. i sat up quickly in bed, but suddenly remembering where i was, i waited expectantly. nothing occurred, although i did not get to sleep again for about two hours." _march nd, monday._--mr. macp---- was awakened between four and five by heavy footsteps overhead. we made many experiments to account for it, and of course made inquiries among the servants, but could find no cause. we are the more interested that hitherto nothing has been heard by our party in his room, no. , though there is a tradition of earlier disturbances there. mr. macp---- has furnished the following account of his experience:-- "as usual i went to bed about p.m. i had no desire to be disturbed, and so my room was still no. , which i had originally selected as being reputed innocuous, and which, save in one slight instance, i had hitherto found to deserve its reputation. my repeated visits had eliminated any expectancy which may at first have, perhaps, existed. "my bed was alongside the south wall of my room, and parallel to the corridor or passage, my head towards no. , and my feet towards no. . "as often happened at b----, i awoke from a sound slumber, not by degrees, but in a moment. there was no transition--no half-awakening, but full and complete consciousness all at once. i struck a light, looked at my watch, found it was . , and went to sleep again immediately. i then wakened slowly and gradually, hearing more and more clearly a noise which appeared to me to be the cause of my awakening. the noise was the kind of sound which is produced by a person walking rapidly with one foot longer than the other--_i.e._, it was a succession of beats in rapid sequence, each alternate beat being louder than the one immediately before it. "it appeared to me ( ) to be produced outside my room; ( ) to be on a higher level; and ( ) to be moving in the direction of my bed--_i.e._, going as from no. past no. , in which i was, towards no. . i at once jumped out of bed, opened my door and looked out. i saw nothing, and the noise stopped. i then struck a light, and found that it was only . . i lay awake till i heard the servants obviously moving about, and then went to sleep again. at breakfast i asked, 'has anybody ever heard this kind of noise?' reproducing it as well as i could by a series of thumps on the table. 'oh yes,' was the answer, 'that is what we call the 'limping' or 'scuttering' noise. of course i had heard the phrases used, but thought they referred to two separate noises. i had also formed quite distinct ideas as to the kind of noises these epithets were intended to describe--both entirely different from the kind of noise i had heard--and i showed what i meant. 'oh no,' said miss freer, 'what you heard is what we have been calling indiscriminately the _limping_ or _scuttering_ noise, and we have not heard the kinds of noise these words suggested to you.' i emphasise this as showing clearly that i cannot have been expecting to hear the particular noise in question. "the next thing was to account for the noise, if possible, and we spent some time experimenting. first of all the servants were interrogated as to whether any of them had been moving about at . . answer, 'no.' next we asked who got up first. this was a maid who slept in x, and went into y to call the kitchenmaid, who slept there. to do so she had, of course, to go through the narrow room which was over part of my bedroom. "this, she said, was a good bit later than . . but we thought it well to make her go from x to y while i lay down on my bed and listened. we made her walk backwards and forwards, both with her slippers on and also in her stocking soles. i and some of the others who came into my room heard her quite distinctly. but ( ) the noise of her steps was in a different place--near my window, and exactly in the line of her progress; ( ) it was an entirely different kind of noise. she walked now fast, and now slowly, but both footsteps seemed always of the same weight; and ( ), and this, to my mind, was most important, we heard her quite distinctly going from x to y, and back again from y to x and could tell in which direction she was moving. now, the noise which i had heard only went in the one direction, _i.e._, parallel to the maid's outward progress. i did not hear anything going in the other direction. i was entirely wakened by the noise which i had heard, and, as i have said, i continued to listen intently for some considerable time, and yet i heard nothing. "in short, alike from its apparent _locus_, from its quality, and from the direction of its movements, i am convinced that the noise which i heard was not caused by any of the servants moving about upstairs. "anybody who knows the house will understand that where the noise seemed to me to be was in the neighbourhood of the dome. for all i know, the dome, as somebody suggested, may be a regular sounding-board; but even so, that does not help much towards an explanation. wherever the noise may have been produced, the question still remains, 'what produced it?' and that we have entirely failed to answer." * * * * * the gist of this account was communicated by mr. macp---- to the hon. e---- f----, who replied as follows on april , : "do you appreciate the fact that your ghost, with the footsteps of alternate lowness and softness, is absolutely correct, and corresponds with miss h----'s ghost, as i heard it from mrs. g---- lately in town. miss h---- slept, i _think_, in no. [this is wrong; _cf._ p. ], and was wakened by the sound of walking round her bed with a peculiar limp. much alarmed, she went and called her brother, who came and slept on the sofa (is there a sofa in no. ?), and shortly afterwards they both heard the same noise again." mr. macp----, as already mentioned, did not know that this noise had been heard by any one. miss "duff" thus describes her next night: "having heard nothing unusual all day, i went to bed quite disappointed. however, i was to be again awakened, and this time by a loud _crash_ at my door, which resounded for some time. i lit a candle, but nothing had fallen in my room to account for the sound. "i began to think i might be mistaken as to the direction of the noise, and that it might have been caused by a large piece of coal falling in the fender. i went to look, but there was no coal at all, only the dying embers in the fire. i soon fell asleep again, only to be again awakened by a similar crash (although not so loud), and this time between the washstand and the window. i kept awake till morning, and heard nothing more." [we had carefully concealed from miss "duff" the nature of the usual phenomena of this room.] _march rd, tuesday._--mr. l---- and his friend captain b---- arrived. the proof of this portion of the journal was submitted to mr. l----, who returned it with, _inter alia_, the following note:-- "i do not wish to suppress the fact of my visit to b----, but object to the publication of any details about me or any of my writings." in deference to mr. l----'s wish, therefore, his contributions to the journal have been withdrawn, and all further references to him deleted. captain b---- had no experiences, and by his desire some interesting suggestions made by him as to possible normal causes have been omitted. we are now sleeping as follows:-- . captain b----. . miss langton. . miss "duff." . mr. macp----. . myself. . mr. l----. . colonel c----. miss "duff" writes under this date:-- "last night i sat late by my fire _expecting_, but as nothing seemed to be going to happen i went to bed, and soon to sleep. however, i was to have my most startling experience! i was awakened as if by some one violently shaking my bed (i must mention there was a great wind blowing outside), and at the same time i felt something press heavily upon me. _i struck out!_ rather frightened, but remembering again where i was, refrained from striking a light, in order to see the next development of this weird experience. to my disappointment nothing happened, although sleep was successfully banished till daylight." * * * * * [on march th miss "duff" wrote to me: "mr. ---- suggested that i should describe to you more accurately the shaking of my bed, as it was not at all such a vibration as might be caused by a high wind or any ordinary movement occurring in other parts of the house. "the bed seemed to heave in the centre, as if there were some force under it, which raised it in the centre and rocked it violently for a moment and then let it sink again. i should also have added, that on other nights quite as windy this phenomenon did not occur; in fact, no movement i have ever felt has given me quite the same sensation. the highest point on the 'switchback' is the nearest to it in my experience. i was wide awake at the time, so it was no nightmare."] * * * * * miss "duff" thus continues her account of tuesday, march rd:-- "this morning, as i sat in the drawing-room, i heard the low, monotonous voice of some one reading aloud. knowing that miss freer and miss langton were writing in the next room, i concluded that miss freer must be dictating while miss langton wrote for her, although i must say i did not recognise miss freer's voice. this went on for about an hour. soon after miss langton came into the drawing-room, and i said, 'well, you _have_ been busy; i suppose miss freer has been dictating to you?' she looked surprised and said, 'no, indeed she hasn't; we have both been writing, and if miss freer spoke at all, it was only a few words now and again.'" this low monotonous sound of a human voice i afterwards heard once or twice in room . _march th, wednesday._--last night i heard a crash as of something falling from the dome into the hall, about twenty minutes to twelve. at breakfast colonel c---- said he had heard a loud thump on his door at an early hour--before six, when wide awake. mr. w---- also had had an experience. he heard sounds outside his room, and went to investigate. on returning he found the kitten in his room, but, sceptic as he is, he acknowledged freely that the kitten, a wee thing, could not have produced the sounds he heard. _copy of letter from_ mr. w---- _to_ mr. macp----. "_march th, ._-- ... in case it may interest miss freer to know what i thought of the noises i heard in no. prior to the kitten incident, the following states my recollections shortly: the first noise was about half-past four, and resembled two small explosions, such as a fire sometimes makes. they followed one another closely, and came from the direction of the fireplace or the south-west corner of the room. i got up and looked at the fire, and it was all but out; but i would not like to swear that the noises did not come from it. "as to the other noise, it occurred about a quarter to six, and was quite loud. it sounded as if one of the large, deer heads on the staircase wall had fallen down and rolled a step or two. i cannot understand how some of the others did not hear the noise, but i heard and saw nothing when i went out of my room to see what it was. "i should add, that in this case, as well as in the former one, i was awake when the noise occurred. if i had heard these noises in any other house i would not have thought of noticing them, but it might be curious to see if they are the same that have been heard in that room already." after breakfast i heard of a great excitement among the servants, and taking miss langton with me, to serve as witness and to take notes, i interviewed separately the three concerned, as well as the cook, to whom they had told the story also. it is worth while to mention that i have several times heard the kitchenmaid complained of as lacking in respect for her betters--in scoffing at their reports of phenomena. only yesterday mrs. robinson told me she had not mentioned several things (bell-ringing, a knock at her door, &c.) because it upset her authority in the kitchen to exhibit interest in such things. all the stories were consistent, and no cross-questioning upset the evidence. they were distinctly in earnest. the three maids and a temporary servant, m----, belonging to the district, went up to their rooms about . . the two housemaids sleep together [in z], lizzie, the kitchenmaid, separately, in a room adjoining [in y]. directly after getting into bed all heard knockings, and they called out between the rooms to each other. lizzie stayed awake, and looking up towards the ceiling had what sounds like a hypna-gogic hallucination, of a cloud which changed rapidly in colour, shape, and size, and alarmed her greatly. then she felt her clothes pulled off, but thought this might be accidental, and tucked them in. then she was sure they were pulled off again, and screamed to the other maids. neither dared go to her, her screams were so terrifying; but they finally opened the door of communication between the rooms, and carter went to fetch the temporary assistant from the other end of the corridor, "because she was such a good-living girl" (particular about fasting in lent, i gather). the three then returned for the kitchenmaid, and all spent the night in the housemaid's room. the upper housemaid went to miss langton's room this morning, i hear, much upset and crying, and there can be no doubt of the conviction of all the maids. for the future they wish to occupy one room. the cook, sleeping on the ground floor below no. , heard footsteps and knockings, and awoke her husband, but he heard nothing. she diagnosed it as being "about the door of miss 'duff's' room (no. above). she thought it was outside of her door, but was not sure. it was just after midnight. miss "duff" writes on the same day:-- "last night i had just got into bed, when i heard footsteps, so, always on the alert for phenomena, i listened and was relieved (? disappointed would be better!) to hear mr. ---- cough, so i settled down to sleep. a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes later (about twelve o'clock) i again heard steps, but this time they came from the back-stair and shuffled past my room, and then i heard a loud fall against what seemed to me the door of room no. , which is practically next door to mine.[e] "i went to listen, but not a sound was to be heard, and i saw no one. it could not have been the gentleman who was occupying that room [mr. w----], as i heard him (with others) come up a quarter of an hour later and go into his room. although the fall seemed _against_ the door of no. , i must add that the depth and quality of the noise was as if a large body had fallen far away, of which we only, as it were, heard the echo, but that _quite distinctly on_ the door of no. ." [miss langton testifies to being disturbed by the same sounds in no. , the dressing-room between miss "duff's" room and mr. w----'s.] miss "duff" continues:-- "_march th._--last night i felt my bed shake, as if some one had taken it in both hands, but as there was a high wind, i did not take much notice of this. i have had my bed shaken violently in that room once before, however, when there was no wind at all." mr. macp---- and captain b---- left. the only phenomenon to be noted under this date is the following record by miss langton:-- "i heard a loud thump at the door of communication between nos. and when dressing for dinner, but on going into no. found it quite empty. a curious point about these noises is that the knocks on the door between nos. and have been audible in this room, no. (in my experience) only when no. is empty, and in no. only when no. is empty." _march th, friday._ . . . . . . . . miss "duff" writes on the same day:-- "as i was talking to miss langton at the door of her room (no. ) on my way to dress for dinner, a double bang on the door came from the inside of room no. , which was the one captain b---- had occupied, and where he had heard nothing. at the same moment miss langton called out that there had been a bang on the door between her room and no. . for a moment i hesitated to go in, but a housemaid came down the corridor at that moment to see what the noise was she had heard, and we investigated together, but to no purpose." miss langton writes further under this date:-- "i heard three distinct bangs at the lower part of the door of my room leading into the corridor. i described it to myself as a person coming along the corridor towards no. , walking in an unsteady way, and as if he could not see where he was going, and then walking straight against the door of my room and banging his foot against it. miss 'duff' this morning acted at our request as i have just described, and the noise she made was an exact reproduction of what i heard last night. the bang occurred at three intervals--at . , . , and . ." _march th, saturday._--mr. ---- and miss "duff" left. miss langton and i are now alone. miss "duff" was undisturbed last night. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . there was very little wind last night, as i happen to know in the following connection. carter twice over, about . and again after midnight, heard the sounds of reading, which she imitated to me this morning--like the monotoning of a psalm. she called out to two other maids to listen, and all three heard it. she felt sure it was not the wind or the pipes. both the gardener and the gamekeeper say it was a very quiet night. _march th, sunday._--as it had been suggested that practical joking or malicious mischief were in question, we were a good deal on the _qui vive_ to-night, being alone. i watched from behind the curtain at an open window from . p.m. till after midnight, and again from . a.m. to a.m. the night was windy and there was a good deal of noise, but very different in kind from any of our usual phenomena. we found that there were people moving about till after midnight, but we did not attach much importance to this, as the gardeners may have been to the stoves (the night was frosty), and there is a right-of-way through the grounds. no phenomena. the servants, we find, are alive to the fact that some one prowls about at night. the footman, who sleeps downstairs, says they have tried to frighten him, and things have been thrown at the kitchen windows. i found it out by the fact that i was seized by the butler and footman when i went out "prowling" on sunday night, fancying i had heard footsteps. they were on the same errand, and caught me in the dark! _march th, monday._--to-day miss langton and i have been very busy writing in the library, both silent and occupied. again and again have we heard footsteps overhead in no. , at intervals between ten a.m. and one, and again in the evening between six and seven. no rooms are in use on that side of the house-- , , and are all empty. the rooms below are locked up and shuttered. at . we both heard some one moving about outside on the gravel, but it was too dark a night to see any one. [_friday, april nd_--an unpleasant light has (possibly) been thrown on these movements. we find to-day that some one has killed a sheep in the garden, in a retired spot, taking away the skin and the meat.] _march th, tuesday._--no phenomena, except the sound of steps overhead above the library. for this reason, miss langton is going to sleep in no. , where the steps occur. mr. and mrs. m---- came. [we were particularly glad to welcome mrs. m---- for other reasons than the pleasure of her society. she is of spanish origin, and a roman catholic, and according to previous evidence, so were other persons upon whom specially interesting phenomena had been bestowed.] mr. b. s---- and miss v. s----, brother and sister of the owner, dined with us. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _march st, wednesday._--mr. and mrs m---- were put into no. . both complain of a very sleepless night. miss langton in no. heard sounds after daylight--footsteps shuffling round the bed, and a knock near the wardrobe. no one is overhead nor in no. , the next room. mrs. m---- spent two hours alone in the drawing-room. she asked me just before lunch what guns those were she had heard. i suggested "the keeper?" and she said, "no, it is like the gun you hear at edinburgh at one o'clock _a long way off_," which is a good description of the familiar detonating sound (_cf._ under date, february ). her own account of the day is as follows:-- "b---- house. "i arrived here last evening, tuesday, th of march, about six o'clock. it was a nice bright evening, but cold. i was received by miss freer, who gave me some tea, and then i was taken to my bedroom by miss langton, of whom i asked if my room was haunted. she said it had 'a reputation', but somehow or another it did not seem to impress me much. that night miss s---- and her brother dined here; they were very pleasant, and talked away hard, and we played card games, such as 'old maid' and 'muggins.' we went to bed feeling quite happy, saying we had never been in such an unghostly house before. the bed was quite comfortable, and we lay talking quite happily, but could not sleep, and were not in the least bit restless. about two o'clock we dozed off, and a few minutes to four a.m. we were both suddenly awoke by a terrific noise, which sounded to me like the lid of the coal-scuttle having caught in a woman's gown. we then lay awake until about . , and in that interval we heard a few noises, what i cannot exactly describe, as they were very ordinary sounds one might hear in any not very solidly built house. we came down to breakfast feeling we had passed a sleepless night, but otherwise quite happy. after breakfast i went into the smoking-room in the new wing, where my husband was writing letters. i sat there a good time, and he was in and out of the room. all the time i heard tramping up above as if the housemaid was doing the room. not knowing the geography of the house i took it for no. . and thought what very noisy servants these were. i then went into the drawing-room to write my own letters, and miss freer came and spoke to me there. while she was with me there, i heard a distant cannon, exactly like the one o'clock gun in edinburgh, and the whole morning a ceaseless chatter, which i put down to miss freer and miss langton in the room next door (_cf._ under date, march rd). _april st, thursday._--this is mrs. m----'s account of last night. "last evening we were late for dinner, as mr. m---- and i had been out to see the nun by the burn, but had seen nothing. the whole evening i had a sort of half consciously disagreeable feeling, and when i went to my room it was some time before i could make up my mind to get into bed. the servants very much annoyed me; they were making such a needless amount of noise in running about the room overhead. [the room overhead was empty. since their adventure of march rd, the servants had slept on the other side of the house.] at last i got into bed, and i may say i hardly slept a wink the whole night. i simply lay in terror, of what i cannot say, but i had the feeling of some very disagreeable sensation in the air, but we did not hear a sound all night from the time we got into bed until we got up next morning at . . "i spent the whole of the morning in the drawing-room writing letters and reading, and from time to time i went up to no. to get books and different things, and each time was a little surprised to find the room empty, as there had been a ceaseless noise of housemaids, and very noisy ones too. i also heard what i had described before as the cannon. after luncheon miss freer and miss langton and i went out walking, and just as we were coming in to tea we all three heard the cannon, and then i said that is the noise i heard every morning, and sometimes in the evening, in the drawing-room." this afternoon we were having tea in the drawing-room at . , mrs. m----, miss langton, and myself. we heard some one walking overhead in no. , a sound we have heard often before, when we knew the room to be empty above. mrs. m---- remarked that it was just the sound she had heard, again and again, when sitting alone in the drawing-room. it was so exactly the heavy, heelless steps we had heard before, that miss l---- ran upstairs softly to see if any one was there, but found no one about. next we heard a loud bang--not of a door--in the hall, and she went out again to ascertain the cause, and met the butler on the same errand. we could find nothing to account for it. it was like the noise before described, of something dropped heavily into the hall from the gallery above. there had been so much trouble of ascertaining whether the noises were caused by doors banging, that since the warmer weather set in, ever since our return on march th, in fact, we have had every passage-door opening into the hall and into the gallery upstairs fixed open with wedges. we had scarcely settled to our tea again before we again heard the footsteps overhead, and again miss langton went up and found the room empty. she walked across the room, and we heard her do so, but the sound was quite different. she did it noisily on purpose, but though she is very big and tall, she didn't sound heavy enough. mrs. m---- remarks, on hearing this read over, that the sound was different in character as well as in volume--that the footsteps she (and we) heard were "between a run and a walk." my phrase was, and has always been, "as of the quick, heavy steps of a person whose foot-gear didn't match." we called it, when we first heard it in no. , a "shuffling step." after she came down the servants' tea-bell rang, and we at once said, "now we shall know where they all are." the hall is under the wing, at the other end of the house, and we knew that the room underneath us was empty, and the shutters up, and that all who were in the house were either in the drawing-room or the servants' hall. in a few minutes we again heard the pacing footsteps, up and down, up and down; we heard them at intervals during half-an-hour. we also heard voices as of a man and woman talking. i went to the foot of the stairs, just below the door of no. , and heard them plain. mrs. m---- is not quick of hearing, but she heard them distinctly several times. at . we heard the maids go up the stone staircase, coming away from their tea, and though we listened till after six, the other sounds did not occur again. _april nd, friday._ [mr. m---- left early, mrs. m---- remaining till a later train.] at . miss langton and i were in the library at two different tables writing. the room was silent. suddenly we heard a heavy blow struck on a third table, ten feet at least away from either of us. i instantly fetched mrs. m----, and in her hearing miss langton imitated the sound on the same table, by hitting with her fist as heavily as possible. there is a drawer in the table, empty, which added to the vibration, and also pendent brass handles. i tried, but could not make noise enough. we kept watch in the room till lunch, mrs. m---- keeping guard when we were obliged to leave, but nothing happened till, when we were sitting at luncheon (there is only a single door and a curtain between the two rooms), we heard it again as above described. one of the informants, who described the scene which occurred the day the late mr. s---- left this house for the last time, said "a very heavy blow like a man's fist came on the table between them." this is the same room. the same sound occurred again while we were at lunch in the dining-room just now. the first time miss langton rushed to the library and found a housemaid there at the stove, so we agreed it should not count. it occurred again in about five minutes, and again she went into the room (which is next the dining-room) and found it empty and no one in the hall. mrs. m----, whom i asked to locate the sound, pointed to just that part of the wall by the table upon which the knock had struck. signed (as correct) by mrs. m---- and miss langton. (i have since asked the housemaid if she heard anything, and she says no, she was making too much noise herself. we all heard it distinctly, above the clatter of the fire-irons.) on april th mr. m---- sent me the following account of his impressions:-- "... you ask me to describe the noises i heard while staying with you at b----. i should say, in the first place, that i am a good, but light, sleeper; i seldom lie awake, am generally asleep five minutes after going to bed, but wake easily, and awake at once to full consciousness. i am not the least nervous, and have often slept in so-called 'haunted' rooms [mr. m---- has had very exceptional opportunities in this direction]; and while i certainly cannot say that i altogether disbelieve in what are commonly called 'ghosts,' i do believe that in nine cases out of ten, noises, and even appearances, may, if investigated, be traced to perfectly normal causes. "we spent three nights at b----: march th and st, and april st. the first two nights room no. was our bedroom, and the third night room no. . room no. was my dressing-room. "when talking to you and miss langton at the top of the stairs, just before going to bed, we all of us heard noises--rappings--coming apparently from no. . the noises were very undoubted, but as we were talking at the time i cannot define them more accurately. "when first going to bed, both nights in no. , we heard footsteps and voices apparently in conversation above us. the sounds seemed to come from a room which was over the bed, but did not extend as far as the fireplace in no. , and also from the room which would be above the room next to ours behind the bed." the rooms overhead were empty. _cf._ under date april st. "these noises i attributed at the time, and still attribute, to the maids going to bed. i am bound to say, however, that they were heard both by mrs. m---- and her maid, who was in no. with her, during the daytime, at an hour when it was said no servants were upstairs. these voices and footsteps did not go on for long into the night. for (i should say) some hours during the night of the th, i frequently heard a sound which seemed to come from near the fireplace, and which i can best describe as a gentle tap on a drum--like some one tuning the kettle-drum in an orchestra. i do not think mrs. m---- heard this noise, for though she slept very badly, she was dozing a good deal during the first half of the night. at . a.m. i was in a state of semi-consciousness, when both i and mrs. m---- were fully roused by a noise so loud that i wonder it did not wake people sleeping in other parts of the house. it seemed to come either from the door between no. and , or from between that door and the fireplace. to me it sounded like a kind of treble rap on a hollow panel, but far louder than any one could rap with their knuckles. my wife described it as the sound of some one whose gown had caught the lid of a heavy coal-scuttle and let it fall. this noise was not repeated, and by a treble rap i mean the sound was like an arpeggio chord. i feel certain it was not against the false window outside, indeed it had the sound of being in the room. the kettle-drum sounds might easily have been a trick of the wind, though the night was still, but the only natural explanation of this noise that i can give is practical joking, as the noise _might_ have come from my dressing-room. the coal-scuttle was standing between the fireplace and door-post, just where the sound seemed to come from. the second night i moved the scuttle right away to between the head of the bed and the window, and the noise was not repeated. the second night the talking and footsteps were both heard when first we went up; and once, shortly after all was still, early in the night. nevertheless we again both of us slept very badly indeed--i may say that except from about to a.m. i slept very little either night. i should say that all through both nights i frequently heard the owls hooting--both the tawny owl and another, which i think was the little owl; the former on one occasion was very close to the window, and any one with a vivid imagination or unacquainted with the cry of the owl (and, strange as it may seem, a country-bred girl, staying at l---- the other day, did _not_ know the owls' cry when she heard it), might well take it for shrieks." _n.b._--no one ever heard shrieks during colonel taylor's tenancy at b----. "the third night, as i have said, we were in no. , and both of us slept like tops, and heard or saw nothing. "one morning, in the smoking-room in the east wing, i heard voices which _seemed_ to come from above, but which i am convinced were from the kitchen beneath. "as you know, 'ishbel' was not kind enough to show herself to me.... "_p.s._--i wrote the above without reading over my wife's account. i have only to add that i had none of the uncomfortable sensations she talks of. bodily and mentally i was comfortable all night. nor was i in the least restless--only wakeful. but for the noises, b---- certainly strikes one as a very unghostly house." _april rd, saturday._--miss langton and i heard footsteps walking up and down overhead at dinner-time last night, in no. , a room which is not in use. we looked at each other, but did not at first say anything, on account of the presence of the servants. after it had gone on for at least ten minutes, i asked the butler if he had heard them. he at once said, "yes, and might he go and see if any one were about?" we heard him go upstairs and open the door of the room, and walk across it, but his step was quite different from the sound we had heard. he came back saying, "the housemaid had been in to draw the blind down since we had been at dinner." i have questioned her since, and she says she simply went in and out again--was not there half a minute. about four o'clock this afternoon, miss langton ran in from the garden where we were gathering fir-cones, to fetch a basket out of the library, and heard so much noise going on in the drawing-room that she went in to investigate. it was empty and silent. the noise was a violent hammering on the door between the two rooms on the drawing-room side. the two rooms below the library and drawing-room were empty, and shuttered (the smoking-room and billiard-room), no. was disused (over the drawing-room), and miss langton found no one in no. (over the library). she came back and told me at once. i have now had the following rooms locked up and the keys taken away by the butler:-- ground floor: all the wing and drawing-room. above: , , , , and . (i am sleeping in no. , miss langton in no. .) basement: smoking and billiard rooms. mr. t---- arrived in the afternoon. we were all out till dinner-time. while at dinner, we all three, as well as the butler, heard steps walking overhead in no. , as we did last night. _april th, sunday._--i was wakened early this morning by the sound of a crash. as it was mixed with my dreams i did not think it worth while to get up and investigate, but looked at my watch. it was twenty minutes to six. five minutes later i heard another crash under the dome--of the kind so often described--and looked out, but the house was perfectly still. i heard the servants come down about seven o'clock. miss langton, sleeping in no. , describes the same sounds at the same moment. mr. b. s---- and miss s----, brother and sister of the proprietor, called. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . mr. t---- writes under this date:-- "_april th, sunday._--i heard footsteps overhead last evening while at dinner. sleeping in no. . to bed about p.m. to sleep in about half-an-hour. meanwhile i heard sounds as of reading aloud in no. . woke at . . heard voices in no. again." _april th, monday._--mr. t---- said at breakfast that he had heard sounds as of some one reading in miss langton's room, no. , between . and . p.m., and again the sound of voices from the same room in the morning. miss langton was alone, nor, as we have proved--(see under date march nd)--could any sound of reading or speaking have been heard, had any really existed. _april th, tuesday._--mr. t---- writes under this date:-- "to my room last night about p.m. loud thuds on the floor above me, and a heavy thud against the door dividing my room (no. ) from the dressing-room beyond (no. ). i went out and listened at the servants' staircase. they were talking, but not moving about. [i learnt on inquiry that they were all in bed by . .--a.g.f.] i went to sleep immediately after i got to bed, but woke up later with a violent start, as if by a loud noise, though i heard nothing. i waited a few minutes and then looked at my watch. it was . . i heard voices talking pretty loud. i was awake over three-quarters of an hour, then slept till . ." mr. b. s---- was out fishing with mr. t---- in the morning, and came in to lunch and again to dinner. in the evening i had a good deal of talk with him. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . this afternoon mrs. ----, a lady well acquainted with the neighbourhood, came to tea. she asked me about the hauntings, and said they were matter of common talk in the district. she also told me that in the late mr. s----'s time it had been alleged that the disturbances were intentional annoyances, though she agreed it was rather a sustained effort. i also called to say "good-bye" to mrs. s.----, to whom i remarked that, though i could not doubt the existence of phenomena at b----, we had been most comfortable, and had greatly liked the place. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . early this morning (i am still sleeping in no. ) i heard the familiar crash under the dome. it was about . . mr. t---- said at breakfast that he had heard it too. _wednesday th._--mr. t---- writes under this date:-- "to bed about eleven. to sleep at once. awakened at . by a terrific crash, and the sound of voices. a little later i heard light raps at the foot of my door, as if a dog had wagged his tail against it. looked out, saw nothing; very disturbed night." _april th, thursday._--mr. t---- writes, "woke last night at . . heard nothing, but slept very badly. i may mention that i am, as a rule, a very sound sleeper, and as i had taken a lot of exercise every day--fishing, shooting, cycling, and walking, from breakfast-time to dark--there was no reason why i should not sleep." mr. t---- had been out the whole of this day with the keepers--heather burning--and was obviously "dead tired" when he went to bed. it is curious that even when not disturbed, he should have slept so badly, but sleepless and nameless discomfort has assailed most persons in no. , though the room is large and airy. _april th, thursday._--we had planned to leave yesterday, but it was borne in upon me that to-day being the anniversary of the major's death, it would be a pity--on the hypothesis of there being anything supernormal in these phenomena--that the house should not be under observation to-night. in the morning the land-steward called, having heard from mrs. s---- that we had heard footsteps about the house at night, and that i had several times observed a disreputable-looking man about the place, whom i knew not to be one of the farm-servants. the admissions hitherto made by him, and by ---- and ----, as to some of the phenomena, carry the evidence back for over twenty years. i don't know whether we have been specially on the _qui vive_ to-day, but we seem to have heard bangs and crashes and footsteps overhead all day, though all the rooms, except nos. , , and are locked up--mr. t---- occupies no. , miss langton no. , i no. . acting upon the hints given us by ---- and ----, i thought the downstairs smoking-room ought to be specially under observation to-day. i was suffering from acute headache, and was obliged to lie down in my own room from lunch-time to dinner, and this smoking-room, which is known as "the major's room," was the only sitting-room in use. a few minutes before dinner, i went down and busied myself in putting my camera to rights. it was a delicate piece of work, and when i saw a black dog, which i supposed for the moment to be "spooks" (my pomeranian), run across the room towards my left, i stopped, fearing that she would shake the little table on which the camera stood. i immediately saw another dog, really spooks this time, run towards it from my right, with her ears pricked. miss langton also observed this, and said, "what is spooks after?" or something of that sort. a piece of furniture prevented my seeing their meeting, and spooks came back directly, wagging her tail. the other dog was larger than spooks, though it also had long black hair, and might have been a small spaniel. [it was not till after we had left b---- that we learned that the major's favourite dog was a black spaniel.] after dinner we returned to this room. i had intended to try ouija and the crystal, but was in too much pain to make this possible, and miss langton felt she could not do it alone; it was as much as i could do to sit up at all, but, by a strong effort of will, i was able to remain downstairs till after midnight. [i was still occasionally suffering from the results of my accident.] we sat in front of the fire, playing a round game. about nine we all three heard footsteps coming from the south-west corner and going towards the door; i held up my hand for silence, but i could see, from the direction of their eyes, that they heard the sounds as i did--even the dog looked up and watched. the steps were those of a rather heavy person in heelless shoes, who walked to the door, and came back again, passed close behind mr. t----'s chair, crossed the hearth-rug just in front of me, and stopped at or about the north-east corner, but--it seemed--remained in the room, behind miss langton's chair. we heard them again about . ; we also heard sounds several times during the evening of the talking of a man and woman. three times over miss langton and mr. t---- went out to listen, but the house was perfectly quiet, and though we were on the same floor with the servants, there had been, the whole time, three closed doors between us and their quarters in the wing, which also was in the direction opposite that from which the sounds came (the present billiard-room). about . , miss langton and i went up to the dining-room in search of refreshment; everything upstairs seemed perfectly still, and the servants had long before gone to bed. mr. t---- followed us up, and as we went back to the smoking-room, the voices seemed to be in high argument just inside. we could distinguish no words, though the _timbre_ of the voices is perfectly clear in my memory. about . we went to bed. i had intended to sit up in no. , but found i was not equal to it, and miss langton would not accept my offer of sleeping there with her. she was therefore there alone, i in no. , and mr. t---- in no. . i had not been many minutes in my room when i heard the familiar loud crash as of something falling into the hall, under the dome, and rushed out immediately--the house was perfectly still. we had left a small lamp burning in the corridor. mr. t---- said, next morning, that he had also came out at the sound, but must have been later than i, as he was just in time to see my door shut. about twenty minutes after, i heard the shuffling footsteps come up the stairs, and pause near my door; i opened it, and saw nothing, but was so definitely conscious of the presence of a personality, that i addressed it in terms which need not be set down here, but of which i may say that they were intended to be of the utmost seriousness, while helpful and encouraging. i may add, that i knew from experience of the acoustic qualities of the house, that i should not be audible to those in nos. or . absolutely, while i was speaking, the voices we had heard downstairs became audible again, this time it seemed to me outside the door of no. ; they were certainly the same voices, but seemed to be consciously lowered. (miss langton's account will show that she heard voices and footsteps outside her door at about this time.) i was asleep before the clock struck two, but was awakened again about . , and was kept awake for more than an hour by various sounds in the house. roughly speaking, these were of two kinds: one, those of distant clangs and crashes which we have heard many times in varying intensity, loudest of all on our first night and on this. the other (more human in association), knocks at the door, thuds on the lower panels within, say, two feet of the ground; footsteps, not as before, but rapid and as of many feet, and again the same voices. the night was perfectly still, and i could clearly differentiate the cries of the owl (of two kinds, i think), the kestrel hawk, and even of the rabbits on the lawn. i went to the windows and looked out, but the night was quite dark, and the dawn was grey and misty. about . i fell asleep, and did not wake till my tea came up at . , when i asked the maid if she had been disturbed, and she replied that the servants had been extra busy the day before, had gone to bed early, and had slept soundly. miss langton and mr. t---- attest the above as a correct account of our experience, so far as they were concerned. the following is from miss langton's private diary:-- "miss freer, mr. t----, and i all agreed that, as it was the anniversary of the old major's death, we would sit to-night in his own sitting-room, which we always call 'the downstairs smoking-room.' just before dinner, miss freer, who was sitting between the writing-table and fireplace, suddenly called out, 'what is spooks running after?' and then she said that there were _two_ black dogs in the room, and that the other dog was larger than spooks she said, 'like a spaniel.' "after dinner we three sat round the fire and played games; suddenly one of us called out, 'listen to those footsteps,' and then we _distinctly_ heard a heavy man walking round the room, coming apparently from the direction of the safe, in the wall adjoining the billiard room, and then walking towards the door, passing between us and the fireplace in front of which we were sitting. it was a very curious sensation, for the steps came so very close, and yet we saw nothing. footsteps died away, and we resumed our game. three times over we distinctly heard outside the door the voices of a man and woman, apparently in anger, for their voices were loud and rough. each time we jumped up at once and opened the door quietly--there was nothing to be seen; the passage was in total darkness, all the servants having gone to bed (the last time was nearly eleven o'clock). we certified this fact by making an expedition into the kitchen regions. we then returned to the smoking-room, and not long after the footsteps again began in exactly the same direction. this time they lasted a longer time. "i slept in no. , and was so tired i slept pretty well, but before going to sleep, just before one o'clock, i heard the sound of a heavy man in slippers come down the corridor and stop near my door, and then the sound as of a long argument in subdued voices, a man and a woman." on april th miss freer and miss langton left b---- in order to pass easter elsewhere, and mr. t---- left with them. during miss freer's absence the house was occupied for some days by the eminent classical scholar mr. f.w.h. myers, late fellow of trinity college, cambridge, one of her majesty's inspectors of schools, and hon. sec. to the s.p.r. it is well known that the s.p.r. is very greatly indebted to mr. myers for his most valuable services for many years as hon. sec., and for his many important contributions to its literature. he has, however, of late years somewhat alienated the sympathies of many of its members, by the extent to which he has introduced into its _proceedings_ the reports of spiritualist phenomena, and the lucubrations of mediums. the original rules of the society would appear to exclude the employment of hired mediums, and it is difficult to distinguish mrs. piper, and certain other subjects of experiment, from this class. the differences, however, between mr. myers and some of the members do not stop at this point, for his preference for the experiences of female mediums, whether hired or gratuitous, would appear to amount to an indifference to spontaneous phenomena, an indifference that is distinctly and rapidly progressive. mr. myers, however, appeared to take considerable interest in the phenomena of b----, and on march , , after reading the journal for the first five weeks, the only part of the evidence which has been submitted to him, or indeed to any member of the council of the s.p.r., he wrote to miss freer:-- "it is plain that the b---- case is of _great_ interest. i hope we may have a discussion of it at s.p.r. general meeting, may th, . , and perhaps july nd, p.m., also. till then, i would suggest, we will not put forth our experiences to the public, unless you have any other view.... "i should particularly like to get mr. ['q.'] to go again in easter week [_i.e._ during the myers' tenancy]. i saw him last night, and heard his account, and next to yourself he seems the most sensitive of the group. i am very glad that you secured him.... i will send back the two note-books after showing them to the sidgwicks. i am so very glad that you and others have been so well repaid for your trouble.... you seem to have worked natural causes well." on april th mr. myers arrived at b----, and remained until the nd. he was preceded a day or two earlier by dr. oliver lodge, professor of physics at victoria college, liverpool, mrs. lodge, and a mr. campbell of trinity college, cambridge. the party also included a "medium," the only person to whom this term could be applied, in the ordinary sense, who visited b---- during col. taylor's tenancy. this person was a miss c----, but in order to avoid confusion with other persons, she is here called miss "k." miss "k." is not a professional medium, in the same sense in which a gentleman rider is not a jockey. she is the proprietress of a small nursing establishment in london, and at the time of her visit to b---- was described as in weak health and partially paralysed. she was accompanied by an attendant who was a roman catholic, a circumstance which is interesting in view of the strongly sectarian character of the ensuing revelations. mr. myers recorded regularly, and transmitted to lord bute, the account of the phenomena which occurred during his visit, and which were testified to by four members of his party. he declines, however, to allow any use to be made of his notes of what occurred during this episode. the regret with which his wish is deferred to is the less, because the chief value of the notes in question seems to be that of a warning against the methods employed; a fact of which mr. myers seems later to have himself become aware, as in regard to his journal letters to lord bute he wrote on march , , _a year later_, "i am afraid that i must ask that my b---- letters be in no way used. i greatly doubt whether there was anything supernormal." however, while actually staying at b----, mr. myers wrote to miss freer on april th, in much the same terms as on march th:-- "what is your idea (i am asking lord bute also) _re_ speaking about b---- at s.p.r? if this is _not_ desirable on may th, should you have second-sight material ready then? if it is desirable, could we meet sometime, ... and discuss what is to be said? as many witnesses as possible. noises have gone on. i am writing bulletins to lord bute, which i dare say he will send on to you.... i am moving into no. to be nearer to the noise. i have heard nothing. lodge hears mainly knocks." on april st he wrote again to miss freer:-- "if you come to s.p.r. meeting, we could talk in a quiet corner after it. i dine with s.p.r. council at seven o'clock, so there would scarcely be time [_i.e._ to call on you] between, but i would call at---- at . saturday morning, if that were more convenient to you than going to the meeting." the interview took place, and july nd was finally arranged as the date upon which the evidence was to be presented at a general meeting of the s.p.r. in the meantime, however, the article of the anonymous _times_ correspondent appeared in that journal on june th--an article which was practically an attack on certain methods of the s.p.r., after which mr. myers published the following letter:-- on the trail of a ghost. _to the editor of "the times."_ "sir,--a letter entitled 'on the trail of a ghost,' which you publish to-day, appears to suggest throughout that some statement has been made on behalf of the society for psychical research with regard to the house which your correspondent visited. this, however, is not the case; and as a misleading impression may be created, i must ask you to allow me space to state that i visited b----, representing that society, before your correspondent's visit, and decided that there was no such evidence as could justify us in giving the results of the inquiry a place in our _proceedings_. i had already communicated this judgment to lord bute, to the council of the society, and to professor sidgwick, the editor of our _proceedings_, and it had been agreed to act upon it.--i am, sir, your obedient servant, "frederick w.h. myers, _hon. sec. of the society for psychical research._ "leckhampton house, cambridge, _june _." one may gather from a comparison of this letter with the foregoing records that the standard of evidence is a somewhat variable quantity in the society for psychical research. in attempting to explain the matter, mr. myers wrote to lord bute, june , :-- "as to haunted houses recorded at length in _proceedings_, there have been several minor ones, and one especially, 'records of a haunted house,' where i was instrumental in getting the account written. the great point there was the amount of coincidence of visions seen independently.... in the b---- case there is _some_ coincidence of vision, but so far as i know, not nearly so much as in the records of a haunted house, which did appear in _proceedings_. we want to keep our level approximately the same throughout." another point of view in relation to the same matter, is that taken by miss freer in an article in the _nineteenth century_, august :-- "that the s.p.r. recognised that haunted houses were among the alleged facts of general interest, was proved by their early appointment of a committee of inquiry, on the management of which it is too late to reflect. at the end of a few months only, they practically dismissed a subject which, if considered at all, required years of patient research. they had come across the surprising number of twenty-eight cases which they considered worth inquiry; but these were presented to the public on the evidence of only forty witnesses--that is to say, an average of less than one and a half to each! the appearance of figures is recorded in twenty-four of these stories, whilst four record noises only. ten years later the _proceedings_ take up the subject again, and give us at some length an elaborate story on the evidence of two or three ladies, two servants, a charwoman, and a little boy. ['records of a haunted house.'] no proper journal was kept, and the society for psychical research came upon the scene when all was practically over." in relation to the period of the visit of the myers party to b---- house, lord bute received several journal letters from professor lodge, as well as from mr. myers, which, as he has made no request to the contrary, might be quoted here _in extenso_, were it not that they relate in considerable part to the proceedings of the medium, as to which the present editors agree with mr. myers, that "they greatly doubt if there was anything supernormal." professor lodge was from the first much interested in the b---- inquiry, and wrote to lord bute on april th, two days after arrival: "i have not found anything here as yet at all suitable for physical experiments. i have heard a noise or two, and intelligent raps. nothing whatever can be normally seen so far." and on april th: "the noises and disturbances have been much quieter of late, in fact have almost ceased _pro tem_.... we have not heard the loud bang as yet. knocks on the wall, a sawing noise, and a droning and a wailing are all we have heard. the droning and the wailing, some whistling, and apparent attempts at a whisper, all up in the attic, may have been due either to the wind or birds. they were not distinct enough to be evidential, though they were just audible to all of us. the sawing noise was more distinct. i think i will go to the attic about a.m. to-night to see if anything more can be heard. most of the noises occur then, or else at a.m. mr. campbell has heard a dragging along the floor in his bedroom, no. . i have heard, like many others, the knocking on the wall, but for the last two nights things have been quiet. "_april th._--there has been nothing here for me to do as a physicist, and i return home tomorrow, but nevertheless the phenomena, taken as a whole, have been most interesting.... i know that you are hearing from mr. myers the details of our sittings.... there is certainly an interregnum of noises, the last three nights having been undisturbed. [after describing recent séances with miss 'k----.'] i write just as if what we have been told were true.[f] the cessation of the noises may of course be merely a temporary lull as before, and they may break out again...." on april nd, he wrote to miss freer "the sounds are not very strong, and latterly there has been one of your interregna in the noises, but still we heard some of them; only knocks, however, except once a low droning, a sawing noise, and a whistling whisper. some of the raps seemed intelligent, but there was nothing to investigate on the physical side...." and in another note, undated:-- "there has been nothing capable of being photographed. the sounds are objective though not impressive.... i have seen nothing to suggest electricity or magnetism, or any of the ordinary physical agents in connection with the disturbances; but the noises are so momentary and infrequent, that they give no real scope for continued examination." professor lodge left on april st, and mr. myers on april nd; but miss "k----," with mr. campbell, remained alone till the morning of monday th, and on the afternoon of the same day lord and lady bute arrived, and stayed till wednesday th. mr. macp----, who came with them, was obliged by previous engagements to leave next morning. they slept in the wing, and nothing occurred during their visit so far as they were concerned. lord bute records, however, that he twice read aloud the whole of the office for the dead in its five sections (vespers, nocturns, and lauds) in different places, but neither he nor any one with him saw or heard anything, unless it were a sound of women talking and laughing while he was reading the office about . p.m. in no. , and this he supposed was simply the maids going to bed, though in fact the room overhead was unoccupied. he had, however, a most disagreeable impression, not in the places where he expected it, which were the glen, no. , and no. , but in no. . the sensation was that of persons being present, and on the second occasion that of violent hatred and hostility. he recorded "went to no. a third time, and again experienced the sensation of persons being present, but on this last occasion as though they were only morosely unfriendly." it is remarkable that this sensation of unseen presences is one which many other persons experienced in this room, and in this room only; but it is also remarkable that this was the first indication of the hostile or irreligious tone which was thenceforth apparent. until the sojourn of the party of members of the s.p.r. the tone had been plaintive and religious. mr. macp----, who is a presbyterian, made a remark which struck lord bute as interesting, to the effect that the whole of the office for the dead, with the frequent occurrence of the words _requiam eternam_, &c., might be as irritating to intelligences which desired to communicate, as would be the effect of saying merely "keep still," or "be quiet," to persons who wished to set forth their wrongs. but this curious hypothesis would be insufficient to account for a sensation of absolute enmity. a private letter, written by lord bute on april th to a distinguished ecclesiastic, repeats these statements, and adds one or two additional touches which it is desirable to quote:-- "we returned yesterday after spending forty-eight hours at b----, where we heard and saw nothing, but as my proceedings were mainly ecclesiastical, your grace may like to know what happened. "on the way i was shown the inclosure in the churchyard wherein lie, in unmarked graves, the late major s----, his 'housekeeper,' and his old indian servant. i would have gone and prayed there, but the place seemed to me too public.... b---- is a remarkably beautiful place, and the day was splendid; were it not for the grandeur of the scenery, i should have called the landscape laughing, or at least smiling. the house is remarkably bright and cheerful, and indeed luxurious. there is a really nice set of family pictures from about the time of charles ii.... the place is a perfect aviary, and the sight of the innumerable birds, evidently encouraged by long kindness, building their nests was very pleasant, and has some psychological interest, since animals sometimes see these things when we do not, and there was evidently nothing to scare the birds, rabbits, or squirrels.... as her ladyship and i did not wish to be troubled at night, we took rooms in the wing, which the late mr. s---- is said to have built in order to save his children from the haunting, and which has been but little troubled; and we slept there quite comfortably. soon after p.m. i went to the place near the burn where apparitions have so often appeared, and which was, i think, first indicated by ouija. i read aloud the vespers for the dead, but no phenomenon appeared, nor had i any sensation. about . i went to a room which i will call a [no. ] ... and read aloud the first nocturn of the dirge; there was nothing to be seen or heard, but i felt some physical inconvenience in beginning, like an impediment in speech, and i had a very strong sensation that there were persons listening....[g] soon after p.m. i went and read aloud the two next nocturns in room b [ ]. as i finished the second, mr. macp---- and i heard two women speaking merrily outside the door, and i doubt not they were the maids going to bed. during the night, although we slept well, my servant [who slept in no. , next to mr. macp---- in no. ], like other people in haunted rooms, could not sleep after five, and he tells me one of the maids saw the bust of a woman with short hair, as though sitting at the foot of her bed. "in the morning i said lauds in room c [library]. no phenomena or sensation. soon after p.m. said _placebo_ again in room b [ ]. nothing. then visited the haunted burn again for some time. nothing. about . read the first two nocturns again in room d [no. ]. nothing. soon after ten read the third nocturn in a [ ]. made slips of pronunciation, and felt the presence of others very strongly, and that it was hostile or evil, as though they were kept at arm's-length; a disagreeable sensation continued until i threw some holy water on my bed before getting into it, when it suddenly disappeared. next morning i said lauds in a [ ]. i had no difficulty in utterance; the sense of other presences was not strong, and i had no feeling of hostility [on their part], but rather of their having to put up with a slight nuisance which would soon be over. these subjective feelings are in no way evidential, nor would i mention them were they not confined to one place out of five, and occurred whenever i went there, at three most varying hours.... my servant, the second night, could not sleep between . and ." * * * * * miss freer returned alone to b---- on april th. the journal is now resumed. _april th._--i returned to b----, arriving at p.m. slept in no. . quiet night. this morning i inquired of the servants as to what occurred in my absence. they have very definite views as to the nature and causes of the phenomena during the visit of mr. myers's party ... including much table-tilting at meals, and so on. when questioned as to any experiences of their own, all answered to the same effect, that they shouldn't have taken notice of anything that happened at that time, but that something had occurred after the last two members of the party had left on the day of his lordship's arrival, "and that," said the cook, "was quite another matter." the experience was carter's, the upper housemaid, and she told it in a manner that it would be difficult to distrust. she was not anxious to talk about it, and seemed annoyed that it had been mentioned at all. i wrote down her story verbatim. "it was about four o'clock, or may be a little later, but it was just getting light; there is no blind to the skylight in my room, and i woke up suddenly and i thought some one had come into the room, and i called out, 'is that you, mrs. robinson?' and when she didn't answer i called out 'hannah,' but no one spoke, and then i looked up, and at the foot of my bed there was a woman. she was rather old, and dressed in something dark, and she had a little shawl on, and her hair short. it was hanging, but it didn't reach nearly to her shoulders. i was awful frightened, and put my head down again. i couldn't look any more." i asked about the height of the woman, wondering if it were like the figure seen in the drawing-room, and carter said, "i didn't notice, only the top part of her." i said, "do you mean she had no legs?" and she said, "i didn't take notice of any." she was genuinely concerned and alarmed. this is probably the incident thus described by _the times_ correspondent. "one of the maidservants described a sort of dull knocking which, according to her, goes on between two and six in the morning, in the lath and plaster partition by the side of her bed, which shuts off the angular space just inside the eaves of the house. she likened it to the noise of gardeners nailing up ivy outside. she seemed honest, but as she had seen the ghost of half a woman sitting on her fellow-servant's bed, one takes her evidence with a grain or two of salt. any noises she has really heard may be due to the cooling of the hot-water pipes which pass along behind the partition just mentioned to the cistern." the hot-water pipe theory has been already discussed. before proceeding, it had better be again mentioned that, owing to the fact that several of the persons interested in b---- were roman catholics, and the rev. p---- h---- having been one of the principal witnesses, as well as having himself appeared phantasmally in the house, it was considered desirable to obtain the assistance of some clergy of that communion. miss freer accordingly secured the services of three members of a famous society; one of those was the rev. p---- h---- himself, one a well-known oxford man who takes much interest in such questions, and the third a man of great experience at a place where miracles are said to be frequent. however, their superior refused to allow them to come, and she then applied to a well-known monastery, but was again refused help. lastly, she turned to the secular clergy, and obtained the assistance of two priests and a bishop. the priests are here designated macd---- and macl----. all three were previously well known to her, and she had especial reason to consider them not only worthy of her esteem and confidence, but, moreover, as taking an instructed and intelligent interest in the subject. _april th, friday._--rooms for to-night:-- no. . rev. a. macd----. " . rev. a. macl----. " . myself. the priests arrived late in the evening. i put them in no. and , though i like to give no. to new-comers. however, i had promised that to madame boisseaux, whom we are expecting from paris, with the dressing-room for her maid. _april th._--the priests both look very weary. they were not frightened, but the sounds have kept them awake all night. young s---- called to-day; he is going to help me to get up a dance for the servants. his mother is away at s----. _may st._--i shall have to move the priests. they persist that they are not frightened, but they are both looking shockingly ill and worn, and the rev. macd---- is not in a state of health to take liberties with. the rev. macl---- seems in the same mental state as was mr. p----. he sees nothing, but is supernormally sensitive, and without any hint from me, declared that he felt the drawing-room, wing, and no. to be "innocent." poor little "spooks" is the chief sufferer. she sleeps on my bed now, but even so, wakes in the night growling and shivering, and she refuses her food, and is in a dreadfully nervous state. perhaps i ought not to keep her in no. , where we have so often heard the patterings of dogs' feet, and where miss moore was once pushed as by a dog, in broad daylight. _may nd._--nothing occurred. we perhaps all slept the sounder last night, having been kept up till two o'clock waiting for madame boisseaux, who never turned up. she and the m----s and mrs. "f." arrived to-day. madame boisseaux arrived, and was put into no. . her maid " " . father macd---- " " . father macl---- " " . mrs. "f." " " . mr. and mrs. m---- " " and . myself " " . _may rd._--the general tone of things is disquieting, and new in our experience. hitherto, in our first occupation, the phenomena affected one as melancholy, depressing, and perplexing, but now all, quite independently, say the same thing, that the influence is evil and horrible--even poor little spooks, who was never terrified before, as she has been since our return here. the worn faces at breakfast were really a dismal sight. in spite of her long journey, madame boisseaux could not sleep. she was so tired, she dropped to sleep at once on going to bed, but was awoke by the sound of a droning voice as if from no. , and, at intervals, more distant voices in high argument. she said she dared not go to sleep; she felt as if some evil-disposed persons were in the room, and it would not be safe to lose consciousness. but she saw nothing. she looks so ill that her maid, a very faithful old servant, has been to beg me, "_pour l'amour de dieu_," to give madame another room. so to-night i will put her in no. . mrs. "f." who was in no. , was disturbed by knocks at her door (_cf._ mrs. w----'s experience in the same room), and to-night is to sleep in my room, no. , which last night was also somewhat noisy, but she will not be alone. the rev. macd---- looks so ill from two nights' sleeplessness that the priests are to go into the wing to-night. they were unwilling to move, and made no complaints, and now do not say they have seen anything, merely that the evil influence about them was painful and disturbing. mrs. m----, who, it will be remembered, was much disturbed during her last visit, begged that she might be quiet, and we gave her no. . she is the only person who has had a really good night, except mr. m----, who had a fancy to sleep in the smoking-room, in the hope of a visit from the major, but nothing happened. as he had been mountaineering all day, he probably would have slept well under any conditions. _may th._--i am thankful to say the priests slept well in the wing. madame boisseaux, in no. , was disturbed by knocks at her door, but as she wisely remarked, they had the advantage of being outside. mr. m---- had moved into no. , and slept fairly well, but said he felt as before, "not alone," but as he _had_ felt that before, expectation may count for something. mrs. "f" slept with me; i was awoke early by my dog crying, and i saw two black paws resting on the table beside the bed. it gave me a sickening sensation, and i longed to wake mrs. "f" to see if she would see them, but i remembered her bad night of yesterday, and left her in peace. the priests spend much time in devotions, and are very decided in their views as to the malignity of the influence. the bishop comes to-day, and we hope he will have mass said in the house. we shall then have ten roman catholics in the household--two visitors, three clergy, two visitors' maids, and three of our own servants. that should have an effect upon the major! miss moore and scamp arrived. _may th._--the bishop is in no. . he arrived to lunch to-day. last night all was quiet after bedtime, but sitting in the drawing-room about five o'clock, having just come in from a drive, five of us heard the detonating noise, as it were in the empty room overhead. madame b----, mrs. "f," mrs. m----, the rev. macl----, and myself. mrs. "f" left this morning. the priests went with me to the copse. they saw nothing, but were in too anxious a state to be receptive. i saw ishbel for one moment. she looked _agonised_, as never before. mr. b. s---- dined with us, and the servants, indoor and out, danced in the hall in the evening. we had pipers, and some supper for them in the billiard-room. the gardener and the butler and cook say there was a great crash in the room just when the parish minister was saying grace, and that many of the people from outside noticed it, and "they just looked at each other." i was myself in the room, but as we had just had a very physical and commonplace disturbance--the arrival of an uninvited and intoxicated guest, of which the other people did not know as i did--i was preoccupied at the moment. mass this morning in the drawing-room. _may th._--madame boisseaux has had to go suddenly; there has been terrible news for her of this paris fire. she came into my room very early with her telegram (arrived too late for delivery last night). i did not like to worry her with questions, overwhelmed as she was, but she said her room "resounded with knocks." there was mass said in the ground-floor sitting-room this morning, and as i knelt facing the window i saw ishbel with the grey woman, nearer the house than ever before. she looked pensive, but, as compared with last time, much relieved. this is the last time the figures were seen. the following details are quoted from a letter written by miss freer to lord bute on this day: "mass was said this morning in the downstairs room, the altar arranged in front of the window, so that, as we knelt, we faced the garden. poor madame boisseaux was dressed for travelling, and in much agitation. as the carriage which was to take her to the station was expected at any moment, i suggested that she and i should remain upstairs, but she said she should like to be there, if only for a few minutes, the more that the 'intention' was to be partly for those who had suffered in the fire, and for their sorrowing friends. she and i, therefore, knelt close to the door, keeping it slightly ajar, so as to be able to obey a summons at any moment. "suddenly she touched my arm, and directed my attention to the window. there i saw a figure standing outside, which--so slow-sighted am i--i took for the moment for madame's maid, and thought she had come to call our attention through the window--a long 'french' one, opening out on to the lawn--as less likely to disturb the service. i was starting up when i perceived that the figure was 'ishbel'--the black gown, like that worn by the maid, had misled me for the moment. 'marget' seemed to hover in the background, but she was much less distinct than the other. a minute later we were called away. "the room had been selected by the priests themselves, but it is the one i should myself, for obvious reasons, have chosen for the purpose." when the bustle of madame's hasty departure was over, and we had breakfasted, the bishop blessed the house from top to bottom, and especially visited rooms nos. , , and , and also the library. he sprinkled the rooms with holy water, and especially the doorway leading to the drawing-room, where noises have so often been heard. he and the priests had hardly gone when there was a loud bang upon a little table that stands there. it is an old work-table, a box on tall, slender legs, and the sound could easily be imitated by lifting the lid and letting it fall smartly, but i saw no movement--not that i was watching it at the moment. the bishop and priests returned, and the ceremony was repeated, after which the bang again occurred, but much more faintly. the three clergy left this afternoon. miss moore and i are now alone. this bang was the last phenomenon of an abnormal kind during this tenancy. miss moore and miss freer stayed in the house another week without anything further occurring either to themselves, their guests, or the servants. during that time, they received six more guests: miss c----, miss "etienne," with her brother, a lawyer, and three other visitors, with whom miss freer had no previous acquaintance, but who received an invitation under the following special conditions, not being, as were other guests, personal friends, or, in one or two instances, accompanying personal friends by whom they were introduced, and at whose request they were invited. sir william huggins had some time before written to lord bute to beg him to obtain admission to the house for sir james crichton browne, who is, of course, well known as a physician of great eminence, and in especial as an expert in psychology, and whom sir william stated to be deeply interested in phenomena such as those observed at b----. lord bute accordingly wrote to miss freer, who wrote to sir james. he did not immediately reply, which surprised her, after so earnest a request, and because admission to the house for the purpose of such observations was a mark of confidence, which as a hostess she was very chary of giving, and which would never have been extended to him, notwithstanding his scientific eminence, had it not been for the intercession of sir william huggins and lord bute, through whom he had sought it. he wrote to her after some time, apologising for the delay on the score of illness, begging to know if it were still possible for him to be admitted, and whether he might bring with him a scientific friend. miss freer consented, and he then wrote announcing his arrival and that of a nephew, a student at oxford, interested in science. he then asked, by telegram, whether a third guest could be admitted, to which she also consented, and his two friends, one of whom is believed to have been the anonymous _times_ correspondent, accordingly came, four days after the phenomena had, as has been stated, apparently ceased. the way in which this hospitality was repaid is a matter of common knowledge. their hostess knew of no intention to make copy of their visit, with full names, geographical indications, and repetition of private conversations, until the publication of the _times'_ article of june th. they remained from saturday evening till monday morning, and, like others, saw and heard nothing; and much time was spent in repeating the already often repeated experiments as to possible sources of the sights and sounds observed at b----. their observations appeared to be able to penetrate no further than the mark of the shoe which miss freer pointed out on the door in the wing, made subsequently to the flight of the h---- family, a passage under the roof, with which the household had long been as familiar as with the hall-door, and the suggestion that a certain stream might run under the house, the which stream runs nowhere near the house at all, as miss freer was already well aware, a fact which she demonstrated for their benefit on a map of the estate. this is perhaps a suitable point at which to add a letter from the head-gardener who has been referred to more than once, more especially as an important witness to the phenomena of the h----s' tenancy. he writes to miss freer in reference to a statement by _the times_ correspondent:-- "_july th, ' ._-- ... i might also mention to you, while writing, that 'the intelligent gardener' that was made mention of in _the times_ was a journeyman, and not myself, as many have supposed. i thought it proper to tell you, madam, because i told you and several others that i was in the house and had heard something." _the times_ correspondent's statement is as follows:-- "an intelligent gardener whom i questioned told me that he had kept watch in the house on two separate occasions, abstaining from sleep until daylight appeared at seven o'clock, but without hearing a sound." the under gardener's experience of two nights is as exhaustive of the subject as that of _the times_ correspondent and his friends, who also remained two nights, but do not allege that they "abstained from sleep." mr. "etienne" was the last guest at b----, and arrived the evening before the house was vacated. he afterwards told lord bute that he had brought, without the knowledge of any one in the house, two seismic instruments, but that they recorded nothing, and that during the night he heard a sound as of a gun being fired outside the house. this he attributed to some poacher unknown, an explanation which seems hardly probable, as at this time of year there is nothing to shoot except rabbits. one never hears of a poacher shooting rabbits, and in any case, he would hardly do so in the immediate neighbourhood of an inhabited house, and discharging his gun once only. mr. "etienne's" experiments are the more interesting because that among many suggestions made by sir j. crichton browne, the only one which had not been already considered, was the use of seismic instruments. this--the house being within the seismic area--seemed so reasonable, that miss freer at once entered into correspondence with the well-known professor milne, with a view to experiment in this direction. the following is from his reply:-- "_may th, ._--i was much interested in your note of the th, and fancy that the sounds with which you have to deal may be of seismic origin. such sounds i have often heard, and the air waves, if not the earth waves, can be mechanically recorded. what you require to make the records is a seismograph with large but exceeding light indices, or a perry tromometer.... the reason i think that the sounds are seismic is, first, on account of their character, and secondly, because you are in one of the most unstable parts of great britain, where between and , shocks (many with sounds) were recorded. lady moncrieff, when living at comrie house in , often heard rumblings and moanings, and such sounds, possibly akin to the 'barisal guns'[h] of eastern england, often occur without a shake. the mechanism of this production may be due to slight movements on a fault face, and they may be heard, especially in rocky districts, in very many countries...." miss freer's reply was an urgent request that machinery and an operator might be at once sent up to b----. professor milne replied that delicate instruments, such as he himself employed, could only be used by one other person, but suggested that she should hire from a well-known london firm what are known as "ewing's-type" seismometers, adding, "i doubt whether these will record anything but movements to which you are sensible." miss freer's designs, however, were frustrated, for on applying for an extension of tenancy for this purpose, captain s----, the proprietor, peremptorily forbade the continuance of scientific observation--a remarkable parallel to his father's refusal to permit the use of the phonograph when suggested by sir william huggins. in relation to his experiments at b---- mr. "etienne" writes:-- "lord bute has asked me to describe a seismographic instrument which i used during my short visit to b----. the instrument consisted of a light wooden frame or platform which rested on three billiard-balls. the balls in their turn rested on a horizontal plate of plate-glass. through two wire rings in the centre of the platform already mentioned a needle stood perpendicularly, resting on its point on the plate of glass. the centre of the plate of glass (and the area round it and within in the triangle describable with the balls at its angles) was smoked. you will see that the parts of such an instrument are held together by gravitation, and a very little friction, and that a tremor communicated to the plate will not simultaneously affect the platform. the needle-point describes on the smoked surface which it moves across the converse of any movement of the plate which is not simultaneously a movement of the platform, and the error between this and the description of the tremor drawn by an absolutely fixed point--say the earth itself--has been calculated on a replica of this instrument as equal to the error of a pendulum thirty feet long." it will be noticed that the phenomena began, so far as miss freer was concerned, upon the night of her arrival in the house, february rd, and ceased (if we except the sound heard by mr. etienne), after the service performed by the bishop on the morning of may th. this period comprises ninety-two days, but from these must be subtracted the seventeen days between miss freer's leaving b---- on the morning of april th, and that of the departure of mr. myers's medium, miss "k.," on the morning of april th. of the remaining seventy-five days, miss freer was absent from the house for four days, from march th to march th, and for two nights after miss "k.'s" leaving; during this latter interval, however, lord bute was himself on the spot. on the other hand, she remained in the house for eight days after the service performed by the bishop, during which time no phenomena occurred. of the sixty-nine days of which a record is kept in the journal, viz., from february rd to may th, exclusive of twenty-three days for the reasons already indicated, daytime phenomena occurred upon eighteen days, and night phenomena upon thirty-five nights. to these must be added the night of april th, the occasion of the vision seen by carter the housemaid during lord bute's visit. thirty-four nights, or almost exactly half the period, were entirely without record of any phenomena whatever. this is without counting the seven nights of the last week, during which there were observers for longer or shorter periods in the house, none of whom recorded any sight or sound of a supernormal kind, unless it were the percussive or detonating noise heard by mr. "etienne." the term "night" is here understood to cover the period between the hour of going to rest at night, to that of leaving one's room next morning, even if the phenomena occurred in the daylight hours of the early morning. the term "day" is used to cover the hours of active, waking life, from breakfast to bedtime. to sum up the character of the phenomena, it may be well to begin with those that are _visual_. . the phantasm of the rev. p. h----. this was seen once only, and by miss langton, on the night of february th. of the identity no doubt can be felt, since miss moore and miss freer afterwards recognised the accuracy of the description on meeting the rev. p. h---- for the first time, in a crowded railway station on may th. this is the only one of the apparitions which is undoubtedly that of a living person, and like many such apparitions, it occurred at an hour when it is probable that he was asleep. b---- is a place to which father h----'s thoughts were naturally and disagreeably drawn, and to which his attention had been called anew. on awaking, he would probably have no recollection of the circumstances, or at the utmost would have an impression of having dreamt that he was there. . the woman once seen by miss freer in the drawing-room. she was older than sarah n----, who died at the age of twenty-seven, but of whose haunting of b---- there is some tradition, but assisted by the parish register of marriages and births it is not difficult to form a guess at the identity of the phantasm. as there is some uncertainty as to whether the person in question is still living, though it is probable that she is dead, the vision is mentioned here before those as to which there is no reason to doubt that they represent the dead. there is reason to believe that the same apparition has been seen by former occupants of the house, and it is alleged to be that of a member of the s---- family. . the phantasm seen by carter the housemaid, on the night of april th, who was described as "rather old," may possibly have been identical with the above. . the nun to whom was given the name of "ishbel." this subject has been already discussed, and the suggestion thrown out that the phantasm was an erroneous mental picture of the late rev. mother frances helen, evolved from the imagination of a half-educated person who had never seen the lady in question, and knew little about her. this figure was seen many times by miss freer and miss langton, twice by the rev. mr. "q.," and probably by madame boisseaux, who unhappily died suddenly before the editors had an opportunity of asking her for exact information. there were also earlier witnesses. she was never seen elsewhere than in the glen, except once by miss langton, and on the one occasion when a bishop was saying mass in the house, and miss freer saw her outside the window just after the elevation of the chalice. it was stated, however, by two separate witnesses, that a figure, probably the same, had been seen inside the house on at least one occasion, when, some years before colonel taylor's tenancy, mrs. s---- was keeping her room, and a maid who was bringing up a tray met the figure on the stairs, and experienced such a start that she dropped the tray. . the lay-woman dressed in grey to whom was given the name of "marget," and who was sometimes seen in the company of "ishbel," usually as though upbraiding or reproving her. she was seen by miss freer and miss langton, and her voice in conversation with "ishbel" was heard not only by them, but by mr. c---- and miss moore, mr. "q." and miss "duff" (_cf._ mrs. g.'s evidence, p. ). . the appearance of the wooden crucifix seen in no. . it was about eighteen inches long, and the figure was of the same wood as the cross. its earliest appearance is to the rev. p. h----. it afterwards appeared to the rev. mr. "q.," and lastly to miss freer, none of the witnesses knowing anything in detail of the experience of the others. it was also seen in the crystal by miss langton--possibly by thought transference from others. when the rev. p. h---- saw it he was always drowsy, but when it appeared to mr. "q." its appearance was immediately preceded by a sensation of acute chill on his part, and its appearance to miss freer by a similar sensation on the part of "endell." it is perhaps worth while to remark, that we are told that among spiritualists the sensation of cold is supposed to be an unfavourable indication as to the character of the spirits who are present, and that in the cases of both mr. "q." and mr. "endell" the appearance of the crucifix seemed to put an end to the chill. . the dogs. these were much more often heard than seen, the sounds being those of their pattering footsteps, sometimes as of their bounding about in play, and sometimes of their throwing themselves against the lower part of doors. it seemed, however, that they were visible to miss freer's living dog at times when they were not visible to her, and indeed the abject terror which the pomeranian displayed in no. was so distressing, that she changed her room from no. to no. in consequence. a dog was, moreover, seen by miss freer and miss langton in the smoking-room on april th; miss freer and miss moore have described more than one occasion when they felt themselves pushed as by a dog; and on the night of may th, miss freer saw the two forepaws only, of another and larger black dog resting on the edge of a table in no. . other apparitions seen in the house by former occupants were described to members of colonel taylor's party as well as to earlier tenants, but here, as elsewhere, we have refrained from all quotation from the relatives of the present proprietor. it is interesting to remark that one apparition which was constantly expected during colonel taylor's tenancy was expected in vain. this was that of the little old gentleman with stooping form and limping gait mentioned by earlier witnesses. his peculiar step was heard very frequently, and by a great number and variety of witnesses, alone and collectively; and his appearance, naturally enough, was constantly looked for, but it never occurred. in the same way there was one expected sound which never occurred, though frequent in the experience of earlier witnesses--that of the rustling of a silk dress, suggesting to the mind of the hearer the idea of some one who, either in fact or in thought, had worn such a garment. _tactile._ the most important of these were the experiences of miss "n." on the night of march rd, and of miss "duff" on the night of march nd, both in no. ; and of a maid, lizzie, on the night of march rd, in the room above no. , on the attic storey, who all testified to the sensation of the moving of the bed, or the handling of the bed-clothes. these were the only occasions during colonel taylor's tenancy, but the phenomenon is one often testified to by earlier witnesses, both during the h----s' tenancy and that of the family of the late mr. s----. it presents a peculiar difficulty in the way of the theory that all the phenomena at b---- were subjective hallucinations, and this is especially the case with regard to the evidence of a witness who has not been brought forward in the preceding pages, but whose account of a similar experience is reported by two first-hand witnesses. on one occasion he had the whole of the upper bed-clothes lifted from off him and thrown upon the floor, while a pile of wearing apparel, which was laid on a chair beside the bed, was thrown in his face. it is of course conceivable that the whole of these experiences, including the last, were the result of an hallucination; but on the other hand, it would be very unwise, in the present state of our ignorance on the subject, to dogmatise as to the possible action of unseen forces upon what is commonly called matter. it is interesting to note that this senseless and childish trick coincides with what was said by miss a---- as to the presence of mischievous elementals, and also what she says as to _apports_.[i] . the sensation of the movement of the bed itself, whether as being rocked, as in the experience of miss "duff" on march nd, and of miss langton on several occasions, and by guests of the h---- family, or of being lifted up, as in that of the maid lizzie, is a phenomenon by no means uncommon, and if objective is of the nature of levitation; but we have unfortunately no evidence from a second person observing the phenomenon from outside. whether it were actually moved it is impossible to say, but the sensation seems to have been more than subjective. . the sensation of struggling with something unseen, described by miss "duff," march nd, and of the sensation of an incumbent weight, as described by miss "duff" (same date) and miss "n." on march nd. this coincides with the arrest of his hand experienced by harold sanders. these phenomena adapt themselves to the theory of subjectivity more easily than the foregoing, because they more closely resemble those of nightmare (familiar to most persons), although they occurred while the witnesses were awake. . the sensation of being pushed by a dog was experienced in two different rooms by miss freer and miss moore respectively. if mr. "endell" were touched by ishbel on the evening of march st, as appeared to miss freer to be the case, he had no independent consciousness of the fact that might not have been referred to expectation, so that this cannot be regarded as evidential. for lack of other classification, we mention under this heading of "tactile" the sensation of chill experienced by mr. "endell" and mr. q---- in no. , and which appears to be the same as that described by harold sanders as the sensation of "entering an ice-house." the _audile_ phenomena were so frequent and so various, that a conspectus of them is given in an appendix. some of them appeared to be human in origin, such as voices, reading or speaking, footsteps, and, according to earlier witnesses, screams and moans. others might have been caused by dogs, such as pattering footsteps, jumping and pouncing as in play, the wagging of a dog's tail against the door, and the sound as of a dog throwing itself against the lower panels. other sounds have been differentiated, as the _detonating_ or explosive noise; the _clang_ sound, as of the striking of metal upon wood; the _thud_ or heavy fall without resonance; and the _crash_, which was never better described than as if one of the beasts' heads on the staircase wall had fallen into the hall below. it very often, or almost always, seemed to occur under the glass dome which lighted the body of the house, and the falling object seemed to strike others in its descent, so that it was not ineffectively imitated by rolling a bowl along the stone floor of the hall, and allowing it to strike against the doors or pillars, when the peculiar echoing quality was fairly reproduced by the hollow domed roof and surrounding galleries. the editors offer no conclusions. this volume has been put together, as the house at b---- was taken, not for the establishment of theories, but for the record of facts. footnotes: [c] they consisted of a small part of the evidence already quoted. [d] we have since ascertained by experiment that no sound short of beating with a hammer on the wall itself is audible between the two rooms; also, that the upsetting of a metal candlestick on the bare boards in the nearer servants' room (over no. ) cannot be heard in no. . [e] _cf._ mrs. robinson's account _ante_. [f] these remarkable disclosures included, among other details, the murder of a roman catholic family chaplain, at a period when the s----s were and had long been presbyterian, the suicide of one of the family who is still living, and the throwing, by persons in mediæval costume, of the corpse of an infant, over a bridge, which is quite new, into a stream which until lately ran underground. professor lodge had not had the same opportunity of acquiring a critical standpoint as to such statements, as those whose knowledge of the place was more intimate. [g] the words, in uttering which lord bute was thus affected, were, "regem cui omnia vivunt venite adoremus," an invitation in which he meant to include all intelligent beings. miss freer, miss langton, and a third guest, chatting one night about . in this room, were startled by one of the familiar crashes outside. miss freer treated the matter lightly, fearing lest the lady in question, by no means a nervous person, however, should be alarmed; and receiving no reply turned to look at her, and observed that her lower jaw was convulsed, and that she was painfully struggling to recover speech. [h] see appendix ii. [i] see appendix i. appendix appendix i a lady, known to readers of _proceedings s.p.r._ as miss a----, who is an habitual automatic writer, but whose social position removes her from the temptations and tendencies of the ordinary so-called medium, was good enough on march , , to contribute the following automatic script in reply to a request from lord bute:-- "i do not much care for the influence of this house; it is most decidedly haunted, but not by any particularly good spirits, the haunting being carried on by mischievous elementals, and as far as i can make out there is some one who lives there through all the changes, who supplies a great deal of force, and who is not aware of the power. i think that a great deal more is added to what really takes place, as the hauntings appear to me to consist of disturbing noises, with now and then a case of apport, for the elementary forces are not sufficient to produce forms unless a great deal of outside force is given. "the forms that would appear would always be different, as each mediumistic person would supply his own surroundings. the only one i am not sure about is the shadowy figure of an old man whom i have twice seen in rather a dark passage, and from his surrounding light i should say he may often be there. "i think the noises would stop of themselves, at least the more disturbing part, if a less attentive attitude were taken towards them." these statements present certain interesting points as coming from one who had never seen the house, and knew nothing of its phenomena. "the shadowy figure of an old man in a dark passage" seems to point to the figure, possibly, of the major, seen by earlier witnesses in the dark lobby--the only dark corner in the house--outside the door of the downstairs smoking-room, and whose voice was heard there by miss freer, miss langton, and mr. t---- during the tenancy of colonel taylor. an occasion upon which the phenomena might be described as those of "mischievous elementals," and also of _apports_, is referred to in the summing up of tactile phenomena, though it did not occur during the tenancy of colonel taylor. on the other hand, the phenomena were often more active when least looked for, and some of those most expected never occurred. as there was not even a servant, nor even a dumb animal, common to the occupation of the s---- family and the tenancy of the h----s or colonel taylor, we are at a loss to know who the person can be who lives at b---- through all the changes, and supplies force during the past twenty years. appendix ii barisal guns. (_see page ._) readers not acquainted with this phenomenon may be referred to an interesting correspondence in the pages of _nature_ (oct. , and _seq._), opened by professor g.h. darwin-- "in the delta of the ganges," he says, "dull sounds, more or less resembling distant artillery, are often heard. these are called barisal guns, but i do not know the meaning of the term." the same sounds have been recorded by m. rutot of the geological survey along the belgian coast, and are alleged to be pretty common in the north of france. m. van der broeck, conservator of the museum of natural history of belgium, says-- "i have constantly noticed these sounds in the plain of limburg since ;--more than ten of my personal acquaintances have observed the fact. the detonations are dull and distant, and are repeated a dozen times or more at irregular intervals. they are usually heard in the daytime, when the sky is clear, and especially towards evening after a very hot day. the noise does not at all resemble artillery, blasting in mines, or the growling of distant thunder." m. van der broeck elsewhere refers to "similar noises heard on dartmoor, and in some parts of scotland." readers of blackmore's story of "lorna doone" will remember, among other valuable observations of out-door life, his accounts of "the hollow moaning sound" during the intense cold of the winter, of which he gives so graphic an account. it was "ever present in the air, morning, noon, and night time, and especially at night, whether any wind was stirring or whether it were a perfect calm" (chap. xlvi.). another correspondent in _nature_ refers to remarkable noises among the hills of cheshire: "when the wind is easterly, and nearly calm on the flats, a hollow moaning sound is heard, popularly termed the soughing of the wind, which sir walter scott, in his glossary to 'guy mannering,' interprets as a hollow blast or whisper." another writer quotes experiences in east anglia, tending to show that such sounds may be reports arising from the process of "faulting" going on, on a small scale, at a great depth, and not of sufficient intensity to produce a perceptible vibration at the earth's surface. it would seem that in districts such as comrie in perthshire, east hadden in connecticut, pignerol in piedmont, meleda in the adriatic, &c., sounds without shocks are common during intervals, which may last for several years. remarkable sounds, not apparently accounted for, are reported to proceed from lough neagh in ireland. see _nature_, oct. , and following numbers; articles by m. van der broeck in _ciel et terre_ (belgium), dec. , , and following numbers, also _geol. mag._, vol. ix. , pp. - . conspectus of audile phenomena at b---- house recorded in journal ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ recorded |heard in room.| witness. | description of sound. | under | | | | date. | | | | ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ feb. | no. i. |{ miss freer |{ loud clanging sound, as of | | |{ miss moore |{ metal struck with wood | | | |{ voices in conversation | | | | | | no. iii. | "mac," the maid |{ voices, footsteps, things | | | |{ dragged about | | | | | " | attics | two housemaids | continuous reading | | | | | " | no. vii. | miss moore |{ reverberating bang close to | | | |{ bed | | | | | |drawing-room | mac | noises and footsteps | | | | | | hall | miss moore | clanging sound upstairs | | | | | " | "butler's | | | | room" | mac | footsteps and sounds on door | | | | | | no. vii. | miss moore | reverberating bang | | | miss moore }| noises percussive | | | miss freer }| or explosive | | | | | | the glen |{ miss freer }| | | |{ mr. c---- }| voices in conversation | | | | | " | no. vii. |{ miss moore }| noises percussive | | |{ miss freer }| or explosive | | | | | " | no. i. | miss moore |{ clangs. voices in | | | |{ conversation | | | | | | no. v. | mr. w---- | knockings. | | | | | | no. viii. | colonel taylor | footsteps overhead | | | | | " | no. i. | miss moore | clanging noise | | | miss moore }| | | | miss freer }| crash | | | | | | no. v. | mrs. w---- | knockings | | | | | " | no. iv. | miss langton | a loud crash | | | | | | |{ miss langton }| | " | the glen |{ miss freer }| | | |{ miss moore }| voices in conversation | | | | | | |{ mrs. w---- }| | | |{ miss langton }| | " | drawing-room |{ miss moore }| footsteps overhead in disused | | |{ miss freer }| room | | | | | | |{ col. taylor }| | | drawing-room |{ mrs. w---- }| clanging noise, four times | | |{ miss langton }| repeated | | |{ miss moore }| | | |{ miss freer }| | | | | | " | no. viii. | miss freer | banging sounds | ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ recorded |heard in room.| witness. | description of sound. | under | | | | date. | | | | ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ | | |{ sounds as of an animal's | feb. | no. viii. |{ miss moore |{ movements in the room in | | |{ miss freer |{ daylight | | | | | | the glen |{ miss langton }| voices in conversation | | |{ miss freer }| | | | | | | the glen |{ miss langton }| voices in conversation | | |{ (later) }| | | | | | " | the glen | miss langton |{ voices in conversation and | | | |{ footsteps | | | | | " | no. viii. |{ miss moore }| sounds of active movement of | | |{ miss freer }| an animal in the room | | | | | " | no. viii. | miss moore |{ footsteps of an old man | | | | shuffling in slippers | | | | | | | miss moore }| | | | miss freer }| movements of animal | | | dog }| | | | | | | | miss moore }| | | | miss freer }| bang on wall near no vii. | | | | | " | wing | mr. "endell" |{ clang noise "like a pavior's | | | |{ hammer dropped" | | | | | | no. i. | mr. garford |{ violent banging on door of | | | | nos. i. and ii. | | | | | | | |{ groans; "a greatly magnified | | no. iii. | mr. "q." |{ edition of sounds i have | | | |{ several times heard in the | | | |{ drawing-room" | | | | | | | |{ detonating or percussive | " | no. i. | mr. garford |{ noise like "a wheel-barrow | | | |{ on a hard road" | | | | | march | no. iv. | mr. macp---- |{ loud clanging sound in the | | | | room | | | | | " | no. viii. |{ miss freer }|{ movements of animal in the | | |{ miss moore }|{ room | | | | | | | miss freer }| heavy fall | | | miss moore }| | | | | | | no. iii. | miss "n." | thud, sounding from below | | | | | " | no. viii. | miss moore |{ movements of animal in the | | | |{ room | | | | | | attics | two maids | monotonous reading | | | | | | | |{ monotonous reading (also | | no. i. | mrs. b.c. |{ mentioned by mr. garford as | | | |{ occurring in no. i.) | | | | | | | mrs. b.c. | bang on door of room | | | | | | attics |{ mrs. robinson |{ voices in conversation | | |{ (cook) |{ bangs on the wall of room | | | | | " | attics | robinson |{ heavy body falling in the | | | (butler) | room | | | | | | | |{ movements of heavy body in | | | |{ the room | | no. ii. | mr. c---- |{ footsteps as if descending | | | |{ stairs | | | |{ loud rapping on doors of | | | |{ nos. i. and ii. | ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ recorded |heard in room.| witness. | description of sound. | under | | | | date. | | | | ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ march | no. ii. | mr. c---- | noises in no. i. (empty room) | | | | | " | no. viii. |{ miss moore | animal moving in the room | | |{ miss freer | heavy fall | | | | | " | no. viii. |{ miss moore }| loud bangs | | |{ miss freer }| | | | | | | |{ robinson, }| | | attics |{ and mrs. }| loud bangs | | |{ robinson }| | | | | | | no. iv. | miss langton | loud bangs | | | | | " | no. viii. |{ miss moore }| vibrating bang | | |{ miss freer }| | | | | | | no. iv. | miss langton | vibrating bang | | | | | | wing | colonel taylor | vibrating bang | | | | | [miss freer was absent for four nights, and no journal was kept.] | | | | | | |{ miss moore |{ metallic sound in room "like | " | no. i. |{ miss freer | the 'giving' of a large | | |{ miss langton | tin box" | | | | | " | no. iv. | mr. macp---- | heavy footsteps overhead | | | | | | no. iii. | miss "duff" |{ resounding crash at door | | | |{ resounding crash in room | | | | | | | |{ monotonous reading (also | " | drawing-room | miss "duff" |{ mentioned as occurring in | | | |{ no. iii.) | | | | | " | no. v. | miss freer |{ crash of something falling | | | |{ under dome | | | | | | no. viii. | colonel c---- | loud thump on door of room | | | | | | | |{ explosive noises | | no. i. | mr. w---- |{ crash of something falling | | | |{ under dome | | | | | | |{ two housemaids}| | | attics |{ and }| loud knockings | | |{ kitchen-maid }| | | | | | | butler's room|} mrs. robinson |{ footsteps and knocking on | | on ground |} |{ door of no. iii. | | floor |} | | | | | | | no. iii. | miss "duff" |{ shuffling foot steps | | | |{ outside room | | | | | | no. ii. |{ miss "duff" }| fall against door of no. i. | | |{ miss langton }| | | | | | " | no. ii. | miss langton |{ loud thump on door between | | | |{ i. and ii. | | | | | | |{ carter }| | | |{ (housemaid) }| | " | attics |{ under- }| monotonous reading | | |{ housemaid }| | | |{ kitchen-maid }| | | | | | " | library |{ miss freer }|{ footsteps in locked-up | | |{ miss langton }|{ room overhead | | | | | " | library |{ miss freer }|{ footsteps in locked-up | | |{ miss langton }|{ room overhead | | | | | | |{ mr. and mrs. }| | | corridor |{ m---- }| rappings in no. ii. (empty). | | |{ miss langton }| (see mr. m----'s account) | | |{ miss freer }| | ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ recorded |heard in room.| witness. | description of sound. | under | | | | date. | | | | ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ march | no. viii. | miss langton |{ shuffling footsteps in the | | | |{ room | | | |{ knock near the wardrobe | | | | | | | |{ metallic clangs in the room | | | |{ like "tuning a kettle-drum";| | |{ mrs. m---- |{ later, "terrific noise," | | no. i. |{ mr. m---- |{ "like treble rap on a | | | |{ hollow panel,"--like "the | | | |{ lid of a heavy coal-scuttle | | | |{ let fall" | | | | | | | |{ voices in library | | drawing-room | mrs. m---- |{ detonating noise (like a | | | |{ distant cannon) | | | | | april | no. viii. |{ mr. m---- }| voices and footsteps in | | |{ mrs. m---- }| room overhead (empty) | | | | | | drawing-room | mrs. m---- | voices and footsteps | | | | overhead | | | | | | |{ mrs. m---- }| | | in the garden|{ miss freer }| detonating noise | | |{ miss langton }| | | | | | | |{ mrs. m---- }| limping footsteps overhead | | drawing-room |{ miss freer }| voices of a man and woman | | |{ miss langton }| | | | | | " | library |{ miss freer }| heavy blow on table | | |{ miss langton }| | | | | | | | mrs. m---- | heavy blow on table (heard | | | miss freer | in dining-room) | | | miss langton | | | | | | | |{ miss freer }| footsteps overhead in | | dining-room |{ miss langton }| empty room | | |{ robinson }| | | |{ (butler) }| | | | | | " | library | miss langton |{ violent hammering on door | | | |{ in daylight | | | | | | |{ miss freer }| footsteps overhead in | | |{ miss langton }| empty room | | dining-room |{ mr. t---- }| | | |{ robinson }| | | |{ (butler) }| | | | | | " | no. v. |{ miss freer }| crash under dome | | |{ miss langton }| | | | | | " | no. i. | mr. t---- | monotonous reading | | | | | " | no. i. | mr. t---- |{ thuds on floor above, and | | | |{ on door of room | | | |{ voices in conversation | | | | | " | no. v. | miss freer | crash under dome | | | | | | no. i. | mr. t---- |{ crash under dome | | | |{ voices in conversation | | | |{ raps at foot of door | | | | | " | various parts| household |{ crashes and bangs and | | of the house| generally |{ footsteps heard during | | | |{ the day | | | | | | smoking-room |{ miss freer }| shuffling footsteps in the | | |{ miss langton }| room | | |{ mr. t---- }| voices outside door | | |{ dog }| | ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ recorded |heard in room.| witness. | description of sound. | under | | | | date. | | | | ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ april | no. iv. | miss freer | crash under dome | | | | | | no. viii. | miss langton | shuffling footsteps | | | | | | no. i. | mr. t---- | voices | | | | | | | |{ thuds on lowest panels of | | | |{ door | | no. iv. | miss freer |{ footsteps of many persons | | | | | [no journal kept between april and april . during this period | professor lodge's notes testify to "knocks on the wall, a sawing noise, | a droning and a wailing, ... some whistling, and apparent attempts at a | whisper, all up in the attic.] | | | | | | | |{ monotonous voice from | may | no. i. | mme. boisseaux |{ no. iii. | | | |{ voices in argument | | | | | | no. v. | mrs. "f." | knocks at door | | | | | " | no. v. | mme. boisseaux | knocks at door | | | | | | |{ mme. | | | | boisseaux }| | | |{ mrs. "f." }|{ detonating noise in empty | " | drawing-room |{ mrs. m---- }|{ room overhead (no. i.) in | | |{ miss freer }|{ daylight | | |{ rev. macl---- }| | | | | | | billiard-room| gardener, }| | | | butler, cook} | crash in the room | | | and others } | | | | | | " | no. v. | mme. boisseaux |{ "room resounded with | | | |{ knocks" | | | | | | library |{ miss freer }| bangs on table | | |{ miss moore }| | | | | | " | no. i. | mr. "etienne" | [?] detonating noise | ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ notes [compare plan of house.] . the rooms spoken of in the text as "the library," and the "upstairs," or "wing" smoking-room, are those marked in the plan as the "morning-room," and the bedroom to the extreme east in the wing. . most of the maid-servants slept in rooms y and z, over and , until the alarm of march , when they moved to the rooms on the other side the house (x and w), thus leaving those over nos. and empty. . robinson and mrs. robinson (butler and cook) occupied room w till march , when both moved into the butler's room off the hall, which during the first month had been occupied by mac the maid, who became ill and returned south. . opinions regarding the noises, and experiments as to their origin, will be found on the under-mentioned pages of the journal. _opinions_, pp. , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . _experiments_, pp. , , , , , , , . printed by ballantyne, hanson & co. edinburgh & london greek and roman ghost stories by lacy collison-morley formerly scholar of st. john's college, oxford author of "giuseppe baretti and his friends," "modern italian literature" oxford b. h. blackwell, broad street london simpkin, marshall & co., limited mcmxii this collection was originally begun at the suggestion of mr. marion crawford, whose wide and continual reading of the classics supplied more than one of the stories. they were put together during a number of years of casual browsing among the classics, and will perhaps interest others who indulge in similar amusements. contents page i. the power of the dead to return to earth ii. the belief in ghosts in greece and rome iii. stories of haunting iv. necromancy v. visions of the dead in sleep vi. apparitions of the dead vii. warning apparitions i the power of the dead to return to earth though there is no period at which the ancients do not seem to have believed in a future life, continual confusion prevails when they come to picture the existence led by man in the other world, as we see from the sixth book of the _Æneid_. combined with the elaborate mythology of greece, we are confronted with the primitive belief of italy, and doubtless of greece too--a belief supported by all the religious rites in connection with the dead--that the spirits of the departed lived on in the tomb with the body. as cremation gradually superseded burial, the idea took shape that the soul might have an existence of its own, altogether independent of the body, and a place of abode was assigned to it in a hole in the centre of the earth, where it lived on in eternity with other souls. this latter view seems to have become the official theory, at least in italy, in classical days. in the gloomy, horrible etruscan religion, the shades were supposed to be in charge of the conductor of the dead--a repulsive figure, always represented with wings and long, matted hair and a hammer, whose appearance was afterwards imitated in the dress of the man who removed the dead from the arena. surely something may be said for gaston boissier's suggestion that dante's tuscan blood may account to some extent for the gruesome imagery of the _inferno_. cicero[ ] tells us that it was generally believed that the dead lived on beneath the earth, and special provision was made for them in every latin town in the "mundus," a deep trench which was dug before the "pomerium" was traced, and regarded as the particular entrance to the lower world for the dead of the town in question. the trench was vaulted over, so that it might correspond more or less with the sky, a gap being left in the vault which was closed with the stone of the departed--the "lapis manalis." corn was thrown into the trench, which was filled up with earth, and an altar erected over it. on three solemn days in the year--august , october , and november --the trench was opened and the stone removed, the dead thus once more having free access to the world above, where the usual offerings were made to them.[ ] these provisions clearly show an official belief that death did not create an impassable barrier between the dead and the living. the spirits of the departed still belonged to the city of their birth, and took an interest in their old home. they could even return to it on the days when "the trench of the gods of gloom lies open and the very jaws of hell yawn wide."[ ] their rights must be respected, if evil was to be averted from the state. in fact, the dead were gods with altars of their own,[ ] and cornelia, the mother of the gracchi, could write to her sons, "you will make offerings to me and invoke your parent as a god."[ ] their cult was closely connected with that of the lares--the gods of the hearth, which symbolized a fixed abode in contrast with the early nomad life. indeed, there is practically no distinction between the lares and the manes, the souls of the good dead. but the dead had their own festival, the "dies parentales," held from the th to the st of february, in rome;[ ] and in greece the "genesia," celebrated on the th of boedromion, towards the end of september, about which we know very little.[ ] there is nothing more characteristic of paganism than the passionate longing of the average man to perpetuate his memory after death in the world round which all his hopes and aspirations clung. cicero uses it as an argument for immortality.[ ] many men left large sums to found colleges to celebrate their memories and feast at their tombs on stated occasions.[ ] lucian laughs at this custom when he represents the soul of the ordinary man in the next world as a mere bodiless shade that vanishes at a touch like smoke. it subsists on the libations and offerings it receives from the living, and those who have no friends or relatives on earth are starving and famished.[ ] violators of tombs were threatened with the curse of dying the last of their race--a curse which macaulay, with his intense family affection, considered the most awful that could be devised by man; and the fact that the tombs were built by the high road, so that the dead might be cheered by the greeting of the passer-by, lends an additional touch of sadness to a walk among the crumbling ruins that line the latin or the appian way outside rome to-day. no one of the moderns has caught the pagan feeling towards death better than giosuè carducci, a true spiritual descendant of the great romans of old, if ever there was one. he tells how, one glorious june day, he was sitting in school, listening to the priest outraging the verb "amo," when his eyes wandered to the window and lighted on a cherry-tree, red with fruit, and then strayed away to the hills and the sky and the distant curve of the sea-shore. all nature was teeming with life, and he felt an answering thrill, when suddenly, as if from the very fountains of being within him, there welled up a consciousness of death, and with it the formless nothing, and a vision of himself lying cold, motionless, dumb in the black earth, while above him the birds sang, the trees rustled in the wind, the rivers ran on in their course, and the living revelled in the warm sun, bathed in its divine light. this first vision of death often haunted him in later years;[ ] and one realizes that such must often have been the feelings of the romans, and still more often of the greeks, for the joy of the greek in life was far greater than that of the roman. peace was the only boon that death could bring to a pagan, and "pax tecum æterna" is among the commonest of the inscriptions. the life beyond the grave was at best an unreal and joyless copy of an earthly existence, and achilles told odysseus that he would rather be the serf of a poor man upon earth than achilles among the shades. when we come to inquire into the appearance of ghosts revisiting the glimpses of the moon, we find, as we should expect, that they are a vague, unsubstantial copy of their former selves on earth. in homer[ ] the shade of patroclus, which visited achilles in a vision as he slept by the sea-shore, looks exactly as patroclus had looked on earth, even down to the clothes. hadrian's famous "animula vagula blandula" gives the same idea, and it would be difficult to imagine a disembodied spirit which retains its personality and returns to earth again except as a kind of immaterial likeness of its earthly self. we often hear of the extreme pallor of ghosts, which was doubtless due to their being bloodless and to the pallor of death itself. propertius conceived of them as skeletons;[ ] but the unsubstantial, shadowy aspect is by far the commonest, and best harmonizes with the life they were supposed to lead. hitherto we have been dealing with the spirits of the dead who have been duly buried and are at rest, making their appearance among men only at stated intervals, regulated by the religion of the state. the lot of the dead who have not been vouchsafed the trifling boon of a handful of earth cast upon their bones was very different. they had not yet been admitted to the world below, and were forced to wander for a hundred years before they might enter charon's boat. Æneas beheld them on the banks of the styx, stretching out their hands "ripæ ulterioris amore." the shade of patroclus describes its hapless state to achilles, as does that of elpenor to odysseus, when they meet in the lower world. it is not surprising that the ancients attached the highest importance to the duty of burying the dead, and that pausanias blames lysander for not burying the bodies of philocles and the four thousand slain at Ægospotami, seeing that the athenians even buried the persian dead after marathon.[ ] the spirits of the unburied were usually held to be bound, more or less, to the spot where their bodies lay, and to be able to enter into communication with the living with comparative ease, even if they did not actually haunt them. they were, in fact, evil spirits which had to be propitiated and honoured in special rites. their appearances among the living were not regulated by religion. they wandered at will over the earth, belonging neither to this world nor to the next, restless and malignant, unable to escape from the trammels of mortal life, in the joys of which they had no part. thus, in the _phædo_[ ] we read of souls "prowling about tombs and sepulchres, near which, as they tell us, are seen certain ghostly apparitions of souls which have not departed pure ... these must be the souls, not of the good, but of the evil, which are compelled to wander about such places in payment of the penalty of their former evil way of life." apuleius[ ] classifies the spirits of the departed for us. the manes are the good people, not to be feared so long as their rites are duly performed, as we have already seen; lemures are disembodied spirits; while larvæ are the ghosts that haunt houses. apuleius, however, is wholly uncritical, and the distinction between larvæ and lemures is certainly not borne out by facts. the larvæ had distinct attributes, and were thought to cause epilepsy or madness. they were generally treated more or less as a joke,[ ] and are spoken of much as we speak of a bogey. they appear to have been entrusted with the torturing of the dead, as we see from the saying, "only the larvæ war with the dead."[ ] in seneca's _apocolocyntosis_,[ ] when the question of the deification of the late emperor claudius is laid before a meeting of the gods, father janus gives it as his opinion that no more mortals should be treated in this way, and that "anyone who, contrary to this decree, shall hereafter be made, addressed, or painted as a god, should be delivered over to the larvæ" and flogged at the next games. larva also means a skeleton, and trimalchio, following the egyptian custom, has one brought in and placed on the table during his famous feast. it is, as one would expect, of silver, and the millionaire freedman points the usual moral--"let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die."[ ] the larvæ were regular characters in the atellane farces at rome, where they performed various "danses macabres." can these possibly be the prototypes of the dances of death so popular in the middle ages? we find something very similar on the well-known silver cups discovered at bosco reale, though death itself does not seem to have been represented in this way. some of the designs in the medieval series would certainly have appealed to the average bourgeois roman of the trimalchio type--e.g., "les trois vifs et les trois morts," the three men riding gaily out hunting and meeting their own skeletons. such crude contrasts are just what one would expect to find at pompeii. lemures and larvæ are often confused, but lemures is the regular word for the dead not at rest--the "lemuri," or spirits of the churchyard, of some parts of modern italy. they were evil spirits, propitiated in early days with blood. hence the first gladiatorial games were given in connection with funerals. both in greece and in rome there were special festivals for appeasing these restless spirits. originally they were of a public character, for murder was common in primitive times, and such spirits would be numerous, as is proved by the festival lasting three days. in athens the nemesia were held during anthesterion (february-march). as in rome, the days were unlucky. temples were closed and business was suspended, for the dead were abroad. in the morning the doors were smeared with pitch, and those in the house chewed whitethorn to keep off the evil spirits. on the last day of the festival offerings were made to hermes, and the dead were formally bidden to depart.[ ] ovid describes the lemuria or lemuralia.[ ] they took place in may, which was consequently regarded as an unlucky month for marriages, and is still so regarded almost as universally in england to-day as it was in rome during the principate of augustus. the name of the festival ovid derives from remus, as the ghost of his murdered brother was said to have appeared to romulus in his sleep and to have demanded burial. hence the institution of the lemuria. the head of the family walked through the house with bare feet at dead of night, making the mystic sign with his first and fourth fingers extended, the other fingers being turned inwards and the thumb crossed over them, in case he might run against an unsubstantial spirit as he moved noiselessly along. this is the sign of "le corna," held to be infallible against the evil eye in modern italy. after solemnly washing his hands, he places black beans in his mouth, and throws others over his shoulders, saying, "with these beans do i redeem me and mine." he repeats this ceremony nine times without looking round, and the spirits are thought to follow unseen and pick up the beans. then he purifies himself once more and clashes brass, and bids the demons leave his house. when he has repeated nine times "manes exite paterni," he looks round, and the ceremony is over, and the restless ghosts have been duly laid for a year. lamiæ haunted rooms, which had to be fumigated with sulphur, while some mystic rites were performed with eggs before they could be expelled. the dead not yet at rest were divided into three classes--those who had died before their time, the [greek: aôroi], who had to wander till the span of their natural life was completed;[ ] those who had met with violent deaths, the [greek: biaiothanatoi]; and the unburied, the [greek: ataphoi]. in the hymn to hecate, to whom they were especially attached, they are represented as following in her train and taking part in her nightly revels in human shape. the lot of the murdered is no better, and executed criminals belong to the same class. spirits of this kind were supposed to haunt the place where their bodies lay. hence they were regarded as demons, and were frequently entrusted with the carrying out of the strange curses, which have been found in their tombs, or in wells where a man had been drowned, or even in the sea, written on leaden tablets, often from right to left, or in queer characters, so as to be illegible, with another tablet fastened over them by means of a nail, symbolizing the binding effect it was hoped they would have--the "defixiones," to give them their latin name, which are very numerous among the inscriptions. so real was the belief in these curses that the elder pliny says that everyone is afraid of being placed under evil spells;[ ] and they are frequently referred to in antiquity. footnotes: [footnote : _tusc. disp._, i. .] [footnote : ov., _fast._, iv. ; fowler, _roman festivals_, p. .] [footnote : macrob., _sat._, i. .] [footnote : cic., _de leg._, ii. .] [footnote : "deum parentem" (corn. nep., _fragm._, ).] [footnote : cp. fowler, _rom._ _fest._] [footnote : rohde, _psyche_, p. . cp. herod., iv. .] [footnote : _tusc._ _disp._, i. , .] [footnote : dill, _roman society from nero to marcus aurelius_, p. _ff._] [footnote : _de luctu_, .] [footnote : carducci, "rimembranze di scuola," in _rime nuove_.] [footnote : _il._, . .] [footnote : "turpia ossa," . . .] [footnote : paus., . .] [footnote : d.] [footnote : _de genio socratis_, .] [footnote : cp. plautus, _cas._, iii. . ; _amphitr._, ii. . ; _rudens_, v. . , etc.; and the use of the word "larvatus."] [footnote : pliny, _n.h._, , proef. : "cum mortuis non nisi larvas luctari."] [footnote : seneca, _apocol._, . at the risk of irrelevance, i cannot refrain from pointing out the enduring nature of proverbs as exemplified in this section. hercules grows more and more anxious at the turn the debate is taking, and hastens from one god to another, saying: "don't grudge me this favour; the case concerns me closely. i shan't forget you when the time comes. one good turn deserves another" (manus manum lavat). this is exactly the neapolitan proverb, "one hand washes the other, and both together wash the face." "una mano lava l'altra e tutt'e due si lavano la faccia," is more or less the modern version. in chapter vii. we have also "gallum in suo sterquilino plurimum posse," which corresponds to our own, "every cock crows best on its own dunghill."] [footnote : petr., _sat._, .] [footnote : [greek: thhyraze, kêres, oukhet anthestêria.] cp. rohde, _psyche_, .] [footnote : _fast._, v. _ff._] [footnote : tertull., _de an._, .] [footnote : _n.h._, . . .] ii the belief in ghosts in greece and rome ghost stories play a very subordinate part in classical literature, as is only to be expected. the religion of the hard-headed, practical roman was essentially formal, and consisted largely in the exact performance of an elaborate ritual. his relations with the dead were regulated with a care that might satisfy the most litigious of ghosts, and once a man had carried out his part of the bargain, he did not trouble his head further about his deceased ancestors, so long as he felt that they, in their turn, were not neglecting his interests. yet the average man in rome was glad to free himself from burdensome and expensive duties towards the dead that had come down to him from past generations, and the ingenuity of the lawyers soon devised a system of sham sales by which this could be successfully and honourably accomplished.[ ] greek religion, it is true, found expression to a large extent in mythology; but the sanity of the greek genius in its best days kept it free from excessive superstition. not till the invasion of the west by the cults of the east do we find ghosts and spirits at all common in literature. the belief in apparitions existed, however, at all times, even among educated people. the younger pliny, for instance, writes to ask his friend sura for his opinion as to whether ghosts have a real existence, with a form of their own, and are of divine origin, or whether they are merely empty air, owing their definite shape to our superstitious fears. we must not forget that suetonius, whose superstition has become proverbial, was a friend of pliny, and wrote to him on one occasion, begging him to procure the postponement of a case in which he was engaged, as he had been frightened by a dream. though pliny certainly did not possess his friend's amazing credulity, he takes the request with becoming seriousness, and promises to do his best; but he adds that the real question is whether suetonius's dreams are usually true or not. he then relates how he himself once had a vision of his mother-in-law, of all people, appearing to him and begging him to abandon a case he had undertaken. in spite of this awful warning he persevered, however, and it was well that he did so, for the case proved the beginning of his successful career at the bar.[ ] his uncle, the elder pliny, seems to have placed more faith in his dreams, and wrote his account of the german wars entirely because he dreamt that drusus appeared to him and implored him to preserve his name from oblivion.[ ] the plinies were undoubtedly two of the ablest and most enlightened men of their time; and the belief in the value of dreams is certainly not extinct among us yet. if we possess artemidorus's book on the subject for the ancient world, we have also the "smorfia" of to-day, so dear to the heart of the lotto-playing neapolitan, which assigns a special number to every conceivable subject that can possibly occur in a dream--not excluding "u murtu che parl'" (the dead man that speaks)--for the guidance of the believing gambler in selecting the numbers he is to play for the week. plutarch placed great faith in ghosts and visions. in his life of dion[ ] he notes the singular fact that both dion and brutus were warned of their approaching deaths by a frightful spectre. "it has been maintained," he adds, "that no man in his senses ever saw a ghost: that these are the delusive visions of women and children, or of men whose intellects are impaired by some physical infirmity, and who believe that their diseased imaginations are of divine origin. but if dion and brutus, men of strong and philosophic minds, whose understandings were not affected by any constitutional infirmity--if such men could place so much faith in the appearance of spectres as to give an account of them to their friends, i see no reason why we should depart from the opinion of the ancients that men had their evil genii, who disturbed them with fears and distressed their virtues ..." in the opening of the _philopseudus_, lucian asks what it is that makes men so fond of a lie, and comments on their delight in romancing themselves, which is only equalled by the earnest attention with which they receive other people's efforts in the same direction. tychiades goes on to describe his visit to eucrates, a distinguished philosopher, who was ill in bed. with him were a stoic, a peripatetic, a pythagorean, a platonist, and a doctor, who began to tell stories so absurd and abounding in such monstrous superstition that he ended by leaving them in disgust. none of us have, of course, ever been present at similar gatherings, where, after starting with the inevitable glamis mystery, everybody in the room has set to work to outdo his neighbour in marvellous yarns, drawing on his imagination for additional material, and, like eucrates, being ready to stake the lives of his children on his veracity. another scoffer was democritus of abdera, who was so firmly convinced of the non-existence of ghosts that he took up his abode in a tomb and lived there night and day for a long time. classical ghosts seem to have affected black rather than white as their favourite colour. among the features of the gruesome entertainments with which domitian loved to terrify his senators were handsome boys, who appeared naked with their bodies painted black, like ghosts, and performed a wild dance.[ ] on the following day one of them was generally sent as a present to each senator. some boys in the neighbourhood wished to shake democritus's unbelief, so they dressed themselves in black with masks like skulls upon their heads and danced round the tomb where he lived. but, to their annoyance, he only put his head out and told them to go away and stop playing the fool. the greek and roman stories hardly come up to the standards required by the society for psychical research. they are purely popular, and the ghost is regarded as the deceased person, permitted or condemned by the powers of the lower world to hold communication with survivors on earth. naturally, they were never submitted to critical inquiry, and there is no foreshadowing of any of the modern theories, that the phenomenon, if caused by the deceased, is not necessarily the deceased, though it may be an indication that "some kind of force is being exercised after death which is in some way connected with a person previously known on earth," or that the apparitions may be purely local, or due entirely to subjective hallucination on the part of the person beholding them. strangely enough, we rarely find any of those interesting cases, everywhere so well attested, of people appearing just about the time of their death to friends or relatives to whom they are particularly attached, or with whom they have made a compact that they will appear, should they die first, if it is possible. the classical instance of this is the well-known story of lord brougham who, while taking a warm bath in sweden, saw a school friend whom he had not met for many years, but with whom he had long ago "committed the folly of drawing up an agreement written with our blood, to the effect that whichever of us died first should appear to the other, and thus solve any doubts we had entertained of the life after death." there are, however, a number of stories of the passing of souls, which are curiously like some of those collected by the society for psychical research, in the fourth book of gregory the great's dialogues. another noticeable difference is that apparitions in most well-authenticated modern ghost stories are of a comforting character, whereas those in the ancient world are nearly all the reverse. this difference we may attribute to the entire change in the aspect of the future life which we owe to modern christianity. as we have seen, there was little that was comforting in the life after death as conceived by the old pagan religions, while in medieval times the horrors of hell were painted in the most lurid colours, and were emphasized more than the joys of heaven. footnotes: [footnote : cic., _murena_, .] [footnote : _ep._, i. .] [footnote : _ibid._, . . .] [footnote : chap. ii] [footnote : dio cass., _domitian_, .] iii stories of haunting in a letter to sura[ ] the younger pliny gives us what may be taken as a prototype of all later haunted-house stories. at one time in athens there was a roomy old house where nobody could be induced to live. in the dead of night the sound of clanking chains would be heard, distant at first, proceeding doubtless from the garden behind or the inner court of the house, then gradually drawing nearer and nearer, till at last there appeared the figure of an old man with a long beard, thin and emaciated, with chains on his hands and feet. the house was finally abandoned, and advertised to be let or sold at an absurdly low price. the philosopher athenodorus read the notice on his arrival in athens, but the smallness of the sum asked aroused his suspicions. however, as soon as he heard the story he took the house. he had his bed placed in the front court, close to the main door, dismissed his slaves, and prepared to pass the night there, reading and writing, in order to prevent his thoughts from wandering to the ghost. he worked on for some time without anything happening; but at last the clanking of chains was heard in the distance. athenodorus did not raise his eyes or stop his work, but kept his attention fixed and listened. the sounds gradually drew nearer, and finally entered the room where he was sitting. then he turned round and saw the apparition. it beckoned him to follow, but he signed to it to wait and went on with his work. not till it came and clanked its chains over his very head would he take up a lamp and follow it. the figure moved slowly forward, seemingly weighed down with its heavy chains, until it reached an open space in the courtyard. there it vanished. athenodorus marked the spot with leaves and grass, and on the next day the ground was dug up in the presence of a magistrate, when the skeleton of a man with some rusty chains was discovered. the remains were buried with all ceremony, and the apparition was no more seen. lucian tells the same story in the _philopseudus_, with some ridiculous additions, thoroughly in keeping with the surroundings. an almost exactly similar story has been preserved by robert wodrow, the indefatigable collector, in a notebook which he appears to have intended to be the foundation of a scientific collection of marvellous tales. wodrow died early in the eighteenth century. gilbert rule, the founder and first principal of edinburgh university, once reached a desolate inn in a lonely spot on the grampians. the inn was full, and they were obliged to make him up a bed in a house near-by that had been vacant for thirty years. "he walked some time in the room," says wodrow,[ ] "and committed himself to god's protection, and went to bed. there were two candles left on the table, and these he put out. there was a large bright fire remaining. he had not been long in bed till the room door is opened and an apparition in shape of a country tradesman came in, and opened the curtains without speaking a word. mr. rule was resolved to do nothing till it should speak or attack him, but lay still with full composure, committing himself to the divine protection and conduct. the apparition went to the table, lighted the two candles, brought them to the bedside, and made some steps toward the door, looking still to the bed, as if he would have mr. rule rising and following. mr. rule still lay still, till he should see his way further cleared. then the apparition, who the whole time spoke none, took an effectual way to raise the doctor. he carried back the candles to the table and went to the fire, and with the tongs took down the kindled coals, and laid them on the deal chamber floor. the doctor then thought it time to rise and put on his clothes, in the time of which the spectre laid up the coals again in the chimney, and, going to the table, lifted the candles and went to the door, opened it, still looking to the principal, as he would have him following the candles, which he now, thinking there was something extraordinary in the case, after looking to god for direction, inclined to do. the apparition went down some steps with the candles, and carried them into a long trance, at the end of which there was a stair which carried down to a low room. this the spectre went down, and stooped, and set down the lights on the lowest step of the stair, and straight disappears." "the learned principal," continues burton, "whose courage and coolness deserve the highest commendation, lighted himself back to bed with the candles, and took the remainder of his rest undisturbed. being a man of great sagacity, on ruminating over his adventure, he informed the sheriff of the county 'that he was much of the mind there was murder in the case.' the stone whereon the candles were placed was raised, and there 'the plain remains of a human body were found, and bones, to the conviction of all.' it was supposed to be an old affair, however, and no traces could be got of the murderer. rule undertook the functions of the detective, and pressed into the service the influence of his own profession. he preached a great sermon on the occasion, to which all the neighbouring people were summoned; and behold in the time of his sermon, an old man near eighty years was awakened, and fell a-weeping, and before the whole company acknowledged that at the building of that house, he was the murderer." the main features of the story have changed very little in the course of ages, except in the important point of the conviction of the murderer, which would have been effected in a very different way in a greek story. doubtless a similar tale could be found in the folk-lore of almost any nation. plutarch[ ] relates how, in his native city of chæronæa, a certain damon had been murdered in some baths. ghosts continued to haunt the spot ever afterwards, and mysterious groans were heard, so that at last the doors were walled up. "and to this very day," he continues, "those who live in the neighbourhood imagine that they see strange sights and are terrified with cries of sorrow." it is quite clear from plautus that ghost stories, even if not taken very seriously, aroused a wide-spread interest in the average roman of his day, just as they do in the average briton of our own. they were doubtless discussed in a half-joking way. the apparitions were generally believed to frighten people, just as they are at present, though the well-authenticated stories of such occurrences would seem to show that genuine ghosts, or whatever one likes to call them, have the power of paralyzing fear. in the _mostellaria_,[ ] plautus uses a ghost as a recognized piece of supernatural machinery. the regulation father of roman comedy has gone away on a journey, and in the meantime the son has, as usual, almost reached the end of his father's fortune. the father comes back unexpectedly, and the son turns in despair to his faithful slave, tranio, for help. tranio is equal to the occasion, and undertakes to frighten the inconvenient parent away again. he gives an account of an apparition that has been seen, and has announced that it is the ghost of a stranger from over-seas, who has been dead for six years. "here must i dwell," it had declared, "for the gods of the lower world will not receive me, seeing that i died before my time. my host murdered me, his guest, villain that he was, for the gold that i carried, and secretly buried me, without funeral rites, in this house. be gone hence, therefore, for it is accursed and unholy ground." this story is enough for the father. he takes the advice, and does not return till tranio and his dutiful son are quite ready for him. great battlefields are everywhere believed to be haunted. tacitus[ ] relates how, when titus was besieging jerusalem, armies were seen fighting in the sky; and at a much later date, after a great battle against attila and the huns, under the walls of rome, the ghosts of the dead fought for three days and three nights, and the clash of their arms was distinctly heard.[ ] marathon is no exception to the rule. pausanias[ ] says that any night you may hear horses neighing and men fighting there. to go on purpose to see the sight never brought good to any man; but with him who unwittingly lights upon it the spirits are not angry. he adds that the people of marathon worship the men who fell in the battle as heroes; and who could be more worthy of such honour than they? the battle itself was not without its marvellous side. epizelus, the athenian, used to relate how a huge hoplite, whose beard over-shadowed all his shield, stood over against him in the thick of the fight. the apparition passed him by and killed the man next him, but epizelus came out of the battle blind, and remained so for the rest of his life.[ ] plutarch[ ] also relates of a place in boeotia where a battle had been fought, that there is a stream running by, and that people imagine that they hear panting horses in the roaring waters. but the strangest account of the habitual haunting of great battlefields is to be found in philostratus's _heroica_, which represents the spirits of the homeric heroes as still closely connected with troy and its neighbourhood. how far the stories are based on local tradition it is impossible to say; they are told by a vine-dresser, who declares that he lives under the protection of protesilaus. at one time he was in danger of being violently ousted from all his property, when the ghost of protesilaus appeared to the would-be despoiler in a vision, and struck him blind. the great man was so terrified at this event that he carried his depredations no further; and the vine-dresser has since continued to cultivate what remained of his property under the protection of the hero, with whom he lives on most intimate terms. protesilaus often appears to him while he is at work and has long talks with him, and he keeps off wild beasts and disease from the land. not only protesilaus, but also his men, and, in fact, virtually all of the "giants of the mighty bone and bold emprise" who fought round troy, can be seen on the plain at night, clad like warriors, with nodding plumes. the inhabitants are keenly interested in these apparitions, and well they may be, as so much depends upon them. if the heroes are covered with dust, a drought is impending; if with sweat, they foreshadow rain. blood upon their arms means a plague; but if they show themselves without any distinguishing mark, all will be well. though the heroes are dead, they cannot be insulted with impunity. ajax was popularly believed, owing to the form taken by his madness, to be especially responsible for any misfortune that might befall flocks and herds. on one occasion some shepherds, who had had bad luck with their cattle, surrounded his tomb and abused him, bringing up all the weak points in his earthly career recorded by homer. at last they went too far for his patience, and a terrible voice was heard in the tomb and the clash of armour. the offenders fled in terror, but came to no harm. on another occasion some strangers were playing at draughts near his shrine, when ajax appeared and begged them to stop, as the game reminded him of palamedes. hector was a far more dangerous person. maximus of tyre[ ] says that the people of ilium often see him bounding over the plain at dead of night in flashing armour--a truly homeric picture. maximus cannot, indeed, boast of having seen hector, though he also has had his visions vouchsafed him. he had seen castor and pollux, like twin stars, above his ship, steering it through a storm. Æsculapius also he has seen--not in a dream, by hercules, but with his waking eyes. but to return to hector. philostratus says that one day an unfortunate boy insulted him in the same way in which the shepherds had treated ajax. homer, however, did not satisfy this boy, and as a parting shaft he declared that the statue in ilium did not really represent hector, but achilles. nothing happened immediately, but not long afterwards, while the boy was driving a team of ponies, hector appeared in the form of a warrior in a brook which was, as a rule, so small as not even to have a name. he was heard shouting in a foreign tongue as he pursued the boy in the stream, finally overtaking and drowning him with his ponies. the bodies were never afterwards recovered. philostratus gives us a quantity of details about the homeric heroes, which the vine-dresser has picked up in his talks with protesilaus. most of the heroes can be easily recognized. achilles, for instance, enters into conversation with various people, and goes out hunting. he can be recognized by his height and his beauty and his bright armour; and as he rushes past he is usually accompanied by a whirlwind--[greek: podarkês, dios], even after death. then we hear the story of the white isle. helen and achilles fell in love with one another, though they had never met--the one hidden in egypt, the other fighting before troy. there was no place near troy suited for their eternal life together, so thetis appealed to poseidon to give them an island home of their own. poseidon consented, and the white isle rose up in the black sea, near the mouth of the danube. there achilles and helen, the manliest of men and the most feminine of women, first met and first embraced; and poseidon himself, and amphitrite, and all the nereids, and as many river gods and spirits as dwell near the euxine and mæotis, came to the wedding. the island is thickly covered with white trees and with elms, which grow in regular order round the shrine; and on it there dwell certain white birds, fragrant of the salt sea, which achilles is said to have tamed to his will, so that they keep the glades cool, fanning them with their wings and scattering spray as they fly along the ground, scarce rising above it. to men sailing over the broad bosom of the sea the island is holy when they disembark, for it lies like a hospitable home to their ships. but neither those who sail thither, nor the greeks and barbarians living round the black sea, may build a house upon it; and all who anchor and sacrifice there must go on board at sunset. no man may pass the night upon the isle, and no woman may even land there. if the wind is favourable, ships must sail away; if not, they must put out and anchor in the bay and sleep on board. for at night men say that achilles and helen drink together, and sing of each other's love, and of the war, and of homer. now that his battles are over, achilles cultivates the gift of song he had received from calliope. their voices ring out clear and godlike over the water, and the sailors sit trembling with emotion as they listen. those who had anchored there declared that they had heard the neighing of horses, and the clash of arms, and shouts such as are raised in battle. maximus of tyre[ ] also describes the island, and tells how sailors have often seen a fair-haired youth dancing a war-dance in golden armour upon it; and how once, when one of them unwittingly slept there, achilles woke him, and took him to his tent and entertained him. patroclus poured the wine and achilles played the lyre, while thetis herself is said to have been present with a choir of other deities. if they anchor to the north or the south of the island, and a breeze springs up that makes the harbours dangerous, achilles warns them, and bids them change their anchorage and avoid the wind. sailors relate how, "when they first behold the island, they embrace each other and burst into tears of joy. then they put in and kiss the land, and go to the temple to pray and to sacrifice to achilles." victims stand ready of their own accord at the altar, according to the size of the ship and the number of those on board. pausanias also mentions the white isle.[ ] on one occasion, leonymus, while leading the people of croton against the italian locrians, attacked the spot where he was informed that ajax oïleus, on whom the people of locris had called for help, was posted in the van. according to conon,[ ] who, by the way, calls the hero autoleon, when the people of croton went to war, they also left a vacant space for ajax in the forefront of their line. however this may be, leonymus was wounded in the breast, and as the wound refused to heal and weakened him considerably, he applied to delphi for advice. the god told him to sail to the white isle, where ajax would heal him of his wound. thither, therefore, he went, and was duly healed. on his return he described what he had seen--how that achilles was now married to helen; and it was leonymus who told stesichorus that his blindness was due to helen's wrath, and thus induced him to write the _palinode_. achilles himself is once said to have appeared to a trader who frequently visited the island. they talked of troy, and then the hero gave him wine, and bade him sail away and fetch him a certain trojan maiden who was the slave of a citizen of ilium. the trader was surprised at the request, and ventured to ask why he wanted a trojan slave. achilles replied that it was because she was of the same race as hector and his ancestors, and of the blood of the sons of priam and dardanus. the trader thought that achilles was in love with the girl, whom he duly brought with him on his next visit to the island. achilles thanked him, and bade him keep her on board the ship, doubtless because women were not allowed to land. in the evening he was entertained by achilles and helen, and his host gave him a large sum of money, promising to make him his guest-friend and to bring luck to his ship and his business. at daybreak achilles dismissed him, telling him to leave the girl on the shore. when they had gone about a furlong from the island, a horrible cry from the maiden reached their ears, and they saw achilles tearing her to pieces, rending her limb from limb. in this brutal savage it is impossible to recognize homer's chivalrous hero, who sacrificed the success of a ten years' war, fought originally for the recovery of one woman, to his grief at the loss of another, and has thus made it possible to describe the _iliad_ as the greatest love-poem ever written. one cannot help feeling that pindar's isle of the blest, whither he was brought by thetis, whose mother's prayer had moved the heart of zeus, to dwell with cadmus and peleus, is achilles' true home; or the isle of the heroes of all time, described by carducci, where king lear sits telling oedipus of his sufferings, and cordelia calls to antigone, "come, my greek sister! we will sing of peace to our fathers." helen and iseult, silent and thoughtful, roam under the shade of the myrtles, while the setting sun kisses their golden hair with its reddening rays. helen gazes across the sea, but king mark opens his arms to iseult, and the fair head sinks on the mighty beard. clytemnestra stands by the shore with the queen of scots. they bathe their white arms in the waves, but the waves recoil swollen with red blood, while the wailing of the hapless women echoes along the rocky strand. among these heroic souls shelley alone of modern poets--that titan spirit in a maiden's form--may find a place, according to carducci, caught up by sophocles from the living embrace of thetis.[ ] footnotes: [footnote : _ep._, vii. .] [footnote : burton's _the book-hunter: robert wodrow_.] [footnote : _cimon_, i.] [footnote : ii. . .] [footnote : _hist._, v. .] [footnote : damascius, _vita isidori_, .] [footnote : i. . .] [footnote : herod., vi. .] [footnote : _parallel_, .] [footnote : _dissert._, . .] [footnote : _dissert._, . .] [footnote : . . .] [footnote : _narr._, .] [footnote : g. carducci, "presso l'urna di p.b. shelley," in the _odi barbare_.] iv necromancy the belief that it was possible to call up the souls of the dead by means of spells was almost universal in antiquity. we know that even saul, who had himself cut off those that had familiar spirits and the wizards out of the land, disguised himself and went with two others to consult the witch of en-dor; that she called up the spirit of samuel at his request; that samuel asked saul, "why hast thou disquieted me, to bring me up?" and then prophesied his ruin and death at the hands of the philistines at mount gilboa. we find frequent references to the practice in classical literature. the elder pliny[ ] gives us the interesting information that spirits refuse to obey people afflicted with freckles. there were always certain spots hallowed by tradition as particularly favourable to intercourse with the dead, or even as being actual entrances to the lower world. for instance, at heraclea in pontus there was a famous [greek: psychomanteion], or place where the souls of the dead could be conjured up and consulted, as hercules was believed to have dragged cerberus up to earth here. other places supposed to be connected with this myth had a similar legend attached to them, as also did all places where pluto was thought to have carried off persephone. thus we hear of entrances to hades at eleusis,[ ] at colonus,[ ] at enna in sicily,[ ] and finally at the lovely pool of cyane, up the anapus river, near syracuse, one of the few streams in which the papyrus still flourishes.[ ] lakes and seas also were frequently believed to be entrances to hades.[ ] the existence of sulphurous fumes easily gave rise to a belief that certain places were in direct communication with the lower world. this was the case at cumæ where Æneas consulted the sybil, and at colonus; while at hierapolis in phrygia there was a famous "plutonium," which could only be safely approached by the priests of cybele.[ ] it was situated under a temple of apollo, a real entrance to hades; and it is doubtless to this that cicero refers when he speaks of the deadly "plutonia" he had seen in asia.[ ] these "plutonia" or "charonia" are, in fact, places where mephitic vapours exist, like the grotto del cane and other spots in the neighbourhood of naples and pozzuoli. the priests must either have become used to the fumes, or have learnt some means of counteracting them; otherwise their lives can hardly have been more pleasant than that of the unfortunate dog which used to be exhibited in the naples grotto, though the control of these very realistic entrances to the kingdom of pluto must have been a very profitable business, well worth a little personal inconvenience. others are mentioned by strabo at magnesia and myus,[ ] and there was one at cyllene, in arcadia. in addition to these there were numerous special temples or places where the souls of the dead, which were universally thought to possess a knowledge of the future, could be called up and consulted--e.g., the temple at phigalia, in arcadia, used by pausanias, the spartan commander;[ ] or the [greek: nekyomanteion], the oracle of the dead, by the river acheron, in threspotia, to which periander, the famous tyrant of corinth, had recourse;[ ] and it was here, according to pausanias, that orpheus went down to the lower world in search of eurydice. lucian[ ] tells us that it was only with pluto's permission that the dead could return to life, and they were invariably accompanied by mercury. consequently, both these gods were regularly invoked in the prayers and spells used on such occasions. only the souls of those recently dead were, as a rule, called up, for it was naturally held that they would feel greater interest in the world they had just left, and in the friends and relations still alive, to whom they were really attached. not that it was impossible to evoke the ghosts of those long dead, if it was desired. even orpheus and cecrops were not beyond reach of call, and apollonius of tyana claimed to have raised the shade of achilles.[ ] all oracles were originally sacred to persephone and pluto, and relied largely on necromancy, a snake being the emblem of prophetic power. hence, when apollo, the god of light, claimed possession of the oracles as the conqueror of darkness, the snake was twined round his tripod as an emblem, and his priestess was called pythia. when alexander set up his famous oracle, as described by lucian, the first step taken in establishing its reputation was the finding of a live snake in an egg in a lake. the find had, of course, been previously arranged by alexander and his confederates. we still possess accounts of the working of these oracles of the dead, especially of the one connected with the lake of avernus, near naples. cicero[ ] describes how, from this lake, "shades, the spirits of the dead, are summoned in the dense gloom of the mouth of acheron with salt blood"; and strabo quotes the early greek historian ephorus as relating how, even in his day, "the priests that raise the dead from avernus live in underground dwellings, communicating with each other by subterranean passages, through which they led those who wished to consult the oracle hidden in the bowels of the earth." "not far from the lake of avernus," says maximus of tyre, "was an oracular cave, which took its name from the calling up of the dead. those who came to consult the oracle, after repeating the sacred formula and offering libations and slaying victims, called upon the spirit of the friend or relation they wished to consult. then it appeared, an unsubstantial shade, difficult both to see and to recognize, yet endowed with a human voice and skilled in prophecy. when it had answered the questions put to it, it vanished." one is at once struck with the similarity of this account to those of the spiritualistic séances of the famous eusapia in the same part of the world, not so very long ago. in most cases those consulting the oracle would probably be satisfied with hearing the voice of the dead man, or with a vision of him in sleep, so that some knowledge of ventriloquism or power of hypnotism or suggestion would often be ample stock-in-trade for those in charge. this consulting of the dead must have been very common in antiquity. both plato[ ] and euripides[ ] mention it; and the belief that the dead have a knowledge of the future, which seems to be ingrained in human nature, gave these oracles great power. thus, cicero tells[ ] us that appius often consulted "soul-oracles" (psychomantia), and also mentions a man having recourse to one when his son was seriously ill.[ ] the poets have, of course, made free use of this supposed prophetic power of the dead. the shade of polydorus, for instance, speaks the prologue of the hecuba, while the appearance of the dead creusa in the _Æneid_ is known to everyone. in the _persæ_, Æschylus makes the shade of darius ignorant of all that has happened since his death, and is thus able to introduce his famous description of the battle of salamis; but darius, nevertheless, possesses a knowledge of the future, and can therefore give us an equally vivid account of the battle of platæa, which had not yet taken place. the shade of clytemnestra in the _eumenides_, however, does not prophesy. pliny mentions the belief that the dead had prophetic powers, but declares that they could not always be relied on, as the following instance proves.[ ] during the sicilian war, gabienus, the bravest man in cæsar's fleet, was captured by sextus pompeius, and beheaded by his orders. for a whole day the corpse lay upon the shore, the head almost severed from the body. then, towards evening, a large crowd assembled, attracted by his groans and prayers; and he begged sextus pompeius either to come to him himself or to send some of his friends; for he had returned from the dead, and had something to tell him. pompeius sent friends, and gabienus informed them that pompeius's cause found favour with the gods below, and was the right cause, and that he was bidden to announce that all would end as he wished. to prove the truth of what he said, he announced that he would die immediately, as he actually did. this knowledge of the future by the dead is to be found in more than one well-authenticated modern ghost story, where the apparition would seem to have manifested itself for the express purpose of warning those whom it has loved on earth of approaching danger. we may take, for instance, the story[ ] where a wife, who is lying in bed with her husband, suddenly sees a gentleman dressed in full naval uniform sitting on the bed. she was too astonished for fear, and waked her husband, who "for a second or two lay looking in intense astonishment at the intruder; then, lifting himself a little, he shouted: 'what on earth are you doing here, sir?' meanwhile the form, slowly drawing himself into an upright position, now said in a commanding, yet reproachful voice, 'willie! willie!' and then vanished." her husband got up, unlocked the door, and searched the house, but found nothing. on his return he informed his wife that the form was that of his father, whom she had never seen. he had left the navy before this son was born, and the son had, therefore, only seen his father in uniform a very few times. it afterwards came out that her husband was about to engage in some speculations which, had he done so, would have proved his ruin; but, fortunately, this vision of his father made such an impression on him that he abandoned the idea altogether. lucan[ ] describes how sextus pompeius went to consult erichtho, one of the famous thessalian witches, as to the prospects of his father's success against cæsar, during the campaign that ended in the disastrous defeat at pharsalia. it is decided that a dead man must be called back to life, and erichtho goes out to where a recent skirmish has taken place, and chooses the body of a man whose throat had been cut, which was lying there unburied. she drags it back to her cave, and fills its breast with warm blood. she has chosen a man recently dead, because his words are more likely to be clear and distinct, which might not be the case with one long accustomed to the world below. she then washes it, uses various magic herbs and potions, and prays to the gods of the lower world. at last she sees the shade of the man, whose lifeless body lies stretched before her, standing close by and gazing upon the limbs it had left and the hated bonds of its former prison. furious at the delay and the slow working of her spells, she seizes a live serpent and lashes the corpse with it. even the last boon of death, the power of dying, is denied the poor wretch. slowly the life returns to the body, and erichtho promises that if the man speaks the truth she will bury him so effectually that no spells will ever be able to call him back to life again. he is weak and faint, like a dying man, but finally tells her all she wishes to know, and dies once again. she fulfills her promise and burns the body, using every kind of magic spell to make it impossible for anyone to trouble the shade again. indeed, it seems to have been unusual to summon a shade from the lower world more than once, except in the case of very famous persons. this kind of magic was nearly always carried on at night. statius[ ] has also given us a long and characteristically elaborate account of the calling up of the shade of laius by eteocles and tiresias. apuleius,[ ] in his truly astounding account of thessaly in his day, gives a detailed description of the process of calling back a corpse to life. "the prophet then took a certain herb and laid it thrice upon the mouth of the dead man, placing another upon the breast. then, turning himself to the east with a silent prayer for the help of the holy sun, he drew the attention of the audience to the great miracle he was performing. gradually the breast of the corpse began to swell in the act of breathing, the arteries to pulsate, and the body to be filled with life. finally the dead man sat up and asked why he had been brought back to life and not left in peace." one is reminded of the dead man being carried out to burial who meets dionysus in hades, in aristophanes' _frogs_, and expresses the wish that he may be struck alive again if he does what is requested of him. if ghosts are often represented as "all loath to leave the body that they love," they are generally quite as loath to return to it, when once they have left it, though whether it is the process of returning or the continuance of a life which they have left that is distasteful to them is not very clear. the painfulness of the process of restoration to life after drowning seems to favour the former explanation. these cases of resurrection are, of course, quite different from ordinary necromancy--the summoning of the shade of a dead man from the world below, in order to ask its advice with the help of a professional diviner. as religious faith decayed and the superstitions of the east and the belief in magic gained ground, necromancy became more and more common. even cicero charges vatinius[ ] with evoking the souls of the dead, and with being in the habit of sacrificing the entrails of boys to the manes. tacitus mentions a young man trying to raise the dead by means of incantations,[ ] while pliny[ ] speaks of necromancy as a recognized branch of magic, and origen classes it among the crimes of the magicians in his own day. after murdering his mother, nero often declared that he was troubled by her spirit and by the lashes and blazing torches of the furies.[ ] one would imagine that the similarity of his crime and his punishment to those of orestes would have been singularly gratifying to a man of nero's theatrical temperament; yet we are informed that he often tried to call up her ghost and lay it with the help of magic rites. nero, however, took particular pleasure in raising the spirits of the dead, according to the elder pliny,[ ] who adds that not even the charms of his own singing and acting had greater attractions for him. caracalla, besides his bodily illnesses, was obviously insane and often troubled with delusions, imagining that he was being driven out by his father and also by his brother geta, whom he had murdered in his mother's arms, and that they pursued him with drawn swords in their hands. at last, as a desperate resource, he endeavoured to find a cure by means of necromancy, and called up, among others, the shade of his father, septimius severus, as well as that of commodus. but they all refused to speak to him, with the exception of commodus; and it was even rumoured that the shade of severus was accompanied by that of the murdered geta, though it had not been evoked by caracalla. nor had commodus any comfort for him. he only terrified the suffering emperor the more by his ominous words.[ ] philostratus[ ] has described for us a famous interview which apollonius of tyana maintained that he had had with the shade of achilles. the philosopher related that it was not by digging a trench nor by shedding the blood of rams, like odysseus, that he raised the ghost of achilles; but by prayers such as the indians are said to make to their heroes. in his prayer to achilles he said that, unlike most men, he did not believe that the great warrior was dead, any more than his master pythagoras had done; and he begged him to show himself. then there was a slight earthquake shock, and a beautiful youth stood before him, nine feet in height, wearing a thessalian cloak. he did not look like a boaster, as some men had thought him, and his expression, if grim, was not unpleasant. no words could describe his beauty, which surpassed anything imaginable. meanwhile he had grown to be twenty feet high, and his beauty increased in proportion. his hair he had never cut. apollonius was allowed to ask him five questions, and accordingly asked for information on five of the most knotty points in the history of the trojan war--whether helen was really in troy, why homer never mentions palamedes, etc. achilles answered him fully and correctly in each instance. then suddenly the cock crew, and, like hamlet's father, he vanished from apollonius's sight. footnotes: [footnote : _n.h._, . . .] [footnote : _hymn. orph._, . .] [footnote : soph., _o.c._, .] [footnote : cic., _verr._, iv. .] [footnote : diodor., v. . .] [footnote : cp. gruppe, _griechische mythologie und religionsgeschichte_, p. , where the whole question is discussed in great detail.] [footnote : strabo, . , ; pliny, _n.h._, . .] [footnote : _de div._, i. .] [footnote : strabo, , ; , .] [footnote : paus., . , .] [footnote : herod., v. .] [footnote : _dial. deor._, . .] [footnote : philostr., _apoll. tyan._, . .] [footnote : _tusc. disp._, . .] [footnote : _leg._, x. b.] [footnote : _alc._, .] [footnote : _de div._, . .] [footnote : _tusc._, . .] [footnote : pliny, _n.h._, . , .] [footnote : myers, _human personality_, ii. , .] [footnote : _pharsal._, vi. _ad fin._] [footnote : _theb._, . _ff._] [footnote : _met._, ii. .] [footnote : _in vat._, .] [footnote : _an._, ii. .] [footnote : _n.h._, . .] [footnote : suet., _nero_, .] [footnote : _n.h._, . ] [footnote : dio cassius, . .] [footnote : _apollon. tyan._, . .] v visions of the dead in sleep in most of the greek and roman stories that survive, the wraiths of the dead are represented as revisiting their friends on earth in sleep. these instances i have not, as a rule, troubled to collect, for they cannot strictly be classed as ghost stories; but since the influence of the dead was generally considered to be exercised in this way, i shall give a few stories which seem particularly striking. that it was widely believed that the dead could return at night to those whom they loved is proved by the touching inscription in which a wife begs that her husband may sometimes be allowed to revisit her in sleep, and that she may soon join him. the most interesting passage that has come down to us, dealing with the whole question of the power of the dead to appear to those whom they love in dreams, is undoubtedly quintilian's tenth declamation. the fact that the greatest teacher of rhetoric of his day actually chose it as a subject for one of his model speeches shows how important a part it must have played in the feelings of educated romans of the time. the story is as follows. a mother was plunged in grief at the loss of her favourite son, when, on the night of the funeral, which had been long delayed at her earnest request, the boy appeared to her in a vision, and remained with her all night, kissing her and fondling her as if he were alive. he did not leave her till daybreak. "all that survives of a son," says quintilian, "will remain in close communion with his mother when he dies." in her unselfishness, she begs her son not to withhold the comfort which he has brought to her from his father. but the father, when he hears the story, does not at all relish the idea of a visit from his son's ghost, and is, in fact, terrified at the prospect. he says nothing to the mother, who had moved the gods of the world above no less than those of the world below by the violence of her grief and the importunity of her prayers, but at once sends for a sorcerer. as soon as he arrives, the sorcerer is taken to the family tomb, which has its place in the city of the dead that stretches along the highway from the town gate. the magic spell is wound about the grave, and the urn is finally sealed with the dread words, until at last the hapless boy has become, in very truth, a lifeless shade. finally, we are told, the sorcerer threw himself upon the urn itself and breathed his spells into the very bones and ashes. this at least he admitted, as he looked up: "the spirit resists. spells are not enough. we must close the grave completely and bind the stones together with iron." his suggestions are carried out, and at last he declares that all has been accomplished successfully. "now he is really dead. he cannot appear or come out. this night will prove the truth of my words." the boy never afterwards appeared, either to his mother or to anyone else. the mother is beside herself with grief. her son's spirit, which had successfully baffled the gods of the lower world in its desire to visit her, is now, thanks to these foreign spells, dashing itself against the top of the grave, unable to understand the weight that has been placed upon it to keep it from escaping. not only do the spells shut the boy in--he might possibly have broken through these--but the iron bands and solid fastenings have once again brought him face to face with death. this very realistic, if rather material, picture of a human soul mewed up for ever in the grave gives us a clear idea of the popular belief in rome about the future life, and enables us to realize the full meaning of the inscription, "sit tibi terra levis" (may the earth press lightly upon thee), which is so common upon roman tombs as often to be abbreviated to "s.t.t.l." the speech is supposed to be delivered in an action for cruelty[ ] brought by the wife against her husband, and in the course of it the father is spoken of as a parricide for what he has done. he defends himself by saying that he took the steps which are the cause of the action for his wife's peace of mind. to this plea it is answered that the ghost of a son could never frighten a mother, though other spirits, if unknown to her, might conceivably do so. in the course of the speech we are told that the spirit, when freed from the body, bathes itself in fire and makes for its home among the stars, where other fates await it. then it remembers the body in which it once dwelt. hence the dead return to visit those who once were dear to them on earth, and become oracles, and give us timely warnings, and are conscious of the victims we offer them, and welcome the honours paid them at their tombs. the declamation ends, like most roman speeches, with an appeal: in this case to the sorcerer and the husband to remove the spells; especially to the sorcerer, who has power to torture the gods above and the spirits of the dead; who, by the terror of his midnight cries, can move the deepest caves, can shake the very foundations of the earth. "you are able both to call up the spirits that serve you and to act as their cruel and ruthless gaoler. listen for once to a mother's prayers, and let them soften your heart." then we have the story of thrasyllus, as told by apuleius,[ ] which is thoroughly modern in its romantic tone. he was in love with the wife of his friend, tlepolemus, whom he treacherously murdered while out hunting. his crime is not discovered, and he begins to press his suit for her hand to her parents almost immediately. the widow's grief is heart-rending. she refuses food and altogether neglects herself, hoping that the gods will hear her prayer and allow her to rejoin her husband. at last, however, she is persuaded by her parents, at thrasyllus's instance, to give ordinary care to her own health. but she passes her days before the likeness of the deceased, which she has had made in the image of that of the god liber, paying it divine honours and finding her one comfort in thus fomenting her own sufferings. when she hears of thrasyllus's suit, she rejects it with scorn and horror; and then at night her dead husband appears to her and describes exactly what happened, and begs her to avenge him. she requires no urging, and almost immediately decides on the course that her vengeance shall take. she has thrasyllus informed that she cannot come to any definite decision till her year of mourning is over. meanwhile, however, she consents to receive his visits at night, and promises to arrange for her old nurse to let him in. overjoyed at his success, thrasyllus comes at the hour appointed, and is duly admitted by the old nurse. the house is in complete darkness, but he is given a cup of wine and left to himself. the wine has been drugged, however, and he sinks into a deep slumber. then tlepolemus's widow comes and triumphs over her enemy, who has fallen so easily into her hands. she will not kill him as he killed her husband. "neither the peace of death nor the joy of life shall be yours," she exclaims. "you shall wander like a restless shade between orcus and the light of day.... the blood of your eyes i shall offer up at the tomb of my beloved tlepolemus, and with them i shall propitiate his blessed spirit." at these words she takes a pin from her hair and blinds him. then she rushes through the streets, with a sword in her hand to frighten anyone who might try to stop her, to her husband's tomb, where, after telling all her story, she slays herself. thither thrasyllus followed her, declaring that he dedicated himself to the manes of his own free-will. he carefully shut the tomb upon himself, and starved himself to death. this is by far the best of the stories in which we find a vision of the dead in sleep playing an important part; but there is also the well-known tale of the byzantine maiden cleonice.[ ] she was of high birth, but had the misfortune to attract the attention of the spartan pausanias, who was in command of the united greek fleet at the hellespont after the battle of platæa. like many spartans, when first brought into contact with real luxury after his frugal upbringing at home, he completely lost his mental balance, and grew intoxicated with the splendour of his position, endeavouring to imitate the persians in their manners, and even aspiring, it is said, to become tyrant of the whole of greece. cleonice was brutally torn from her parents and brought to his room at night. he was asleep at the time, and being awakened by the noise, he imagined that someone had broken into his room with the object of murdering him, and snatched up a sword and killed her. after this her ghost appeared to him every night, bidding him "go to the fate which pride and lust prepare." he is said to have visited a temple at heraclea, where he had her spirit called up and implored her pardon. she duly appeared, and told him that "he would soon be delivered from all his troubles after his return to sparta"--an ambiguous way of prophesying his death, which occurred soon afterwards. she was certainly avenged in the manner of it. before leaving these stories of visions of the dead, we must not omit to mention that charming poem of virgil's younger days, the _culex_ (the gnat). just as the first sketch of macaulay's famous character of william iii. is said to be contained in a cambridge prize essay on the subject, so the _culex_ contains the first draft of some of the greatest passages in virgil's later works--the beautiful description of the charms of country life in the _georgics_, for instance, and the account of tartarus in the sixth book of the _Æneid_. the story is slight, as was usually the case in these little epics, where the purple patches are more important than the plot. a shepherd falls asleep in the shade by a cool fountain, just as he would do in southern italy to-day, for his rest after the midday meal. suddenly a snake, the horrors of which are described with a vividness that is truly virgilian, appears upon the scene and prepares to strike the shepherd. a passing gnat, the hero of the poem, sees the danger, and wakes the shepherd by stinging him in the eye. he springs up angrily, brushes it off with his hand, and dashes it lifeless to the ground. then, to his horror, he sees the snake, and promptly kills it with the branch of a tree. while he lies asleep that night, the ghost of the gnat appears to him in a dream, and bitterly reproaches him for the cruel death with which it has been rewarded for its heroic services. charon has now claimed it for his own. it goes on to give a lurid description of the horrors of tartarus, and contrasts its hard lot with that of the shepherd. when he wakes, the shepherd is filled with remorse for his conduct and is also, perhaps, afraid of being continually haunted by the ghost of his tiny benefactor. he therefore sets to work to raise a mound in honour of the gnat, facing it with marble. round it he plants all kinds of flowers, especially violets and roses, the flowers usually offered to the dead, and cuts on a marble slab the following inscription: "little gnat, the shepherd dedicates to thee thy meed of a tomb in return for the life thou gavest him."[ ] there is also an interesting story of pindar, told by pausanias.[ ] in his old age the great poet dreamt that persephone appeared to him and told him that she alone of all the goddesses had not been celebrated in song by him, but that he should pay the debt when he came to her. shortly after this he died. there was, however, a relation of his, a woman then far advanced in years, who had practised the singing of most of his hymns. to her pindar appeared in a dream and sang the hymn to proserpine, which she wrote down from memory when she awoke. i have included one or two stories of apparitions in dreams among those in the next section, as they seemed to be more in place there. footnotes: [footnote : malæ tractationis.] [footnote : _met._, viii. .] [footnote : plutarch, _cimon_, chap. vi.] [footnote : "parve culex, pecudum custos tibi tale merenti funeris officium vitæ pro munere reddit."] [footnote : . . .] vi apparitions of the dead among the tall stories in lucian's _philopseudus_[ ] is an amusing account of a man whose wife, whom he loved dearly, appeared to him after she had been dead for twenty days. he had given her a splendid funeral, and had burnt everything she possessed with her. one day, as he was sitting quietly reading the phædo, she suddenly appeared to him, to the terror of his son. as soon as he saw her he embraced her tearfully, a fact which seems to show that she was of a more substantial build than the large majority of ghosts of the ancient world; but she strictly forbade him to make any sound whatever. she then explained that she had come to upbraid the unfortunate man for having neglected to burn one of her golden slippers with her at the funeral. it had fallen behind the chest, she explained, and had been forgotten and not placed upon the pyre with the other. while they were talking, a confounded little maltese puppy suddenly began to bark from under the bed, when she vanished. but the slipper was found exactly where she had described, and was duly burnt on the following day. the story is refreshingly human. this question of dress seems to have been a not infrequent source of anxiety to deceased ladies in the ancient world. periander,[ ] the tyrant of corinth, on one occasion wished to consult his wife's spirit upon a very important matter; but she replied, as she had doubtless often done when alive, that she would not answer his questions till she had some decent clothes to wear. periander waited for a great festival, when he knew that all the women of corinth would be assembled in their best, and then gave orders that they should one and all strip themselves. he burnt the clothes on a huge pyre in his wife's honour; and one can imagine his satisfaction at feeling that he had at last settled the question for ever. he applied to his wife once more with a clear conscience, when she gave him an unmistakable sign that she was speaking the truth, and answered his questions as he desired. that small household matters may weigh heavily upon a woman's conscience, even nowadays, is shown by the following interesting story, which may well be compared with the foregoing.[ ] in july, , a catholic priest, who had gone to perth to take charge of a mission, was called upon by a presbyterian woman. for many weeks past, she explained, she had been anxious to see a priest. a woman, lately dead, whom she knew very slightly, had appeared to her during the night for several nights, urging her to go to a priest and ask him to pay three shillings and tenpence to a person not specified. the priest made inquiries, and learnt that the deceased had acted as washerwoman and followed the regiment. at last, after careful search, he found a grocer with whom she had dealt, and, on being asked whether a female of the name owed him anything, the grocer turned up his books and informed him that she owed him three shillings and tenpence. he paid the sum. subsequently the presbyterian woman came to him, saying that she was no more troubled. the spirits of the worst of the roman emperors were, as we should expect, especially restless. pliny[ ] tells us how fannius, who was engaged upon a life of nero, was warned by him of his approaching death. he was lying on his couch at dead of night with a writing-desk in front of him, when nero came and sat down by his side, took up the first book he had written on his evil deeds, and read it through to the end; and so on with the second and the third. then he vanished. fannius was terrified, for he thought the vision implied that he would never get beyond the third book of his work, and this actually proved to be the case. nero, in fact, had a romantic charm about him, in spite of, or perhaps because of, the wild recklessness of his life; and he possessed the redeeming feature of artistic taste. like francis i. of france, or our own charles ii., he was irresistible with the ladies, and must have been the darling of all the housemaids of rome. people long refused to believe in his death, and for many years it was confidently affirmed that he would appear again. his ghost was long believed to walk in rome, and the church of santa maria del popolo is said to have been built as late as by pope paschalis ii. on the site of the tombs of the domitii, where nero was buried, near the modern porta del popolo, where the via flaminia entered the city, in order to lay his restless shade. caligula also appeared shortly after his death, and frequently disturbed the keepers of the lamian gardens, for his body had been hastily buried there without due ceremony. not till his sisters, who really loved him, in spite of his many faults, had returned from exile were the funeral rites properly performed, after which his ghost gave no more trouble.[ ] on the night of the day of galba's murder, the emperor otho was heard groaning in his room by his attendants. they rushed in, and found him lying in front of his bed, endeavouring to propitiate galba's ghost, by whom he declared that he saw himself being driven out and expelled.[ ] otho was a strange mixture of superstition and scepticism, for when he started on his last fatal expedition he treated the unfavourable omens with contempt. by this time, however, he may have become desperate. moreover, irreligious people are notoriously superstitious, and at this period it would be very difficult to say just where religion ended and superstition began. we have one or two ghost stories connected with early greek mythology. cillas, the charioteer of pelops, though troezenius gives his name as sphærus, died on the way to pisa, and appeared to pelops by night, begging that he might be duly buried. pelops took pity on him and burnt[ ] his body with all ceremony, raised a huge mound in his honour, and built a chapel to the cillean apollo near it. he also named a town after him. strabo even says that there was a mound in cillas' honour at crisa in the troad. this dutiful attention did not go unrewarded. cillas appeared to pelops again, and thanked him for all he had done, and to cillas also he is said to have owed the information by which he was able to overthrow oenomaus in the famous chariot race which won him the hand of hippodamia. pelops' shameless ingratitude to oenomaus's charioteer, myrtilus, who had removed the pin of his master's chariot, and thus caused his defeat and death in order to help pelops, on the promise of the half of the kingdom, is hardly in accordance with his treatment of cillas, though it is thoroughly greek. however, on the theory that a man who betrays one master will probably betray another, especially if he is to be rewarded for his treachery with as much as half a kingdom, pelops was right in considering that myrtilus was best out of the way; and he can hardly have foreseen the curse that was to fall upon his family in consequence. with this story we may compare the well-known tale of the poet simonides, who found an unknown corpse on the shore, and honoured it with burial.[ ] soon afterwards he happened to be on the point of starting on a voyage, when the man whom he had buried appeared to him in a dream, and warned him on no account to go by the ship he had chosen, as it would undoubtedly be wrecked. impressed by the vision, the poet remained behind, and the ship went down soon afterwards, with all on board. simonides expressed his gratitude in a poem describing the event, and in several epigrams. libanius even goes so far as to place the scene of the event at tarentum, where he was preparing to take ship for sicily. the tale is probably mythical. it belongs to a group of stories of the grateful dead, which have been the subject of an interesting book recently published by the folk-lore society.[ ] mr. gerould doubts whether it really belongs to the cycle, as it is nearly two centuries earlier, even in cicero's version, than any other yet discovered; but it certainly inspired chaucer in his nun's priest's tale, and it may well have influenced other later versions. the jewish version is closer to the simonides story than any of the others, and i will quote it in mr. gerould's words.[ ] "the son of a rich merchant of jerusalem sets off after his father's death to see the world. at stamboul he finds hanging in chains the body of a jew, which the sultan has commanded to be left there till his co-religionists shall have repaid the sum that the man is suspected of having stolen from his royal master. the hero pays this sum, and has the corpse buried. later, during a storm at sea he is saved by a stone, on which he is brought to land, whence he is carried by an eagle back to jerusalem. there a white-clad man appears to him, explaining that he is the ghost of the dead, and that he has already appeared as stone and eagle. the spirit further promises the hero a reward for his good deed in the present and in the future life." this is one of the simplest forms in which the story appears. it is generally found compounded with some other similar tale; but the main facts are that a man buries a corpse found on the sea-shore from philanthropic motives. "later he is met by the ghost of the dead man, who in many cases promises him help on condition of receiving, in return, half of whatever he gets. the hero obtains a wife (or some other reward), and, when called upon, is ready to fulfil his bargain as to sharing his possessions,"[ ] not excepting the wife. some of the characteristics of the tale are to be found in the story of pelops and cillas, related above, which mr. gerould does not mention. pausanias[ ] has a story of one of ulysses' crew. ulysses' ship was driven about by the winds from one city to another in sicily and italy, and in the course of these wanderings it touched at tecmessa. here one of the sailors got drunk and ravished a maiden, and was stoned to death in consequence by the indignant people of the town. ulysses did not trouble about what had occurred, and sailed away. soon, however, the ghost of the murdered man became a source of serious annoyance to the people of the place, killing the inhabitants of the town, regardless of age and sex. finally, matters came to such a pass that the town was abandoned. but the pythian priestess bade the people return to tecmessa and appease the hero by building him a temple and precinct of his own, and giving him every year the fairest maiden of the town to wife. they took this advice, and there was no more trouble from the ghost. it chanced, however, that euthymus came to tecmessa just when the people were paying the dead sailor the annual honours. learning how matters stood, he asked to be allowed to go into the temple and see the maiden. at their meeting he was first touched with pity, and then immediately fell desperately in love with her. the girl swore to be his, if he would save her. euthymus put on his armour and awaited the attack of the monster. he had the best of the fight, and the ghost, driven from its home, plunged into the sea. the wedding was, of course, celebrated with great splendour, and nothing more was heard of the spirit of the drunken sailor. the story is obviously to be classed with that of ariadne. the god-fearing Ælian seeks to show that providence watches over a good man and brings his murderers to justice by a story taken from chrysippus.[ ] a traveller put up at an inn in megara, wearing a belt full of gold. the innkeeper discovered that he had the money about him, and murdered him at night, having arranged to carry his body outside the gates in a dung-cart. but meanwhile the murdered man appeared to a citizen of the town and told him what had happened. the man was impressed by the vision. investigations were made, and the murderer was caught exactly where the ghost had indicated, and was duly punished. this is one of the very few stories in which the apparition is seen at or near the moment of death, as is the case in the vast majority of the well-authenticated cases collected during recent years. aristeas of proconesus, a man of high birth, died quite suddenly in a fulling establishment in his native town.[ ] the owner locked the building and went to inform his relatives, when a man from cyzicus, hearing the news, denied it, saying that aristeas had met him on the way thither and talked to him; and when the relatives came, prepared to remove the body, they found no aristeas, either alive or dead. altogether, he seems to have been a remarkable person. he disappeared for seven years, and then appeared in proconesus and wrote an epic poem called _arimispea_, which was well known in herodotus's day. two hundred and forty years later he was seen again, this time at metapontum, and bade the citizens build a shrine to apollo, and near it erect a statue to himself, as apollo would come to them alone of the italian greeks, and he would be seen following in the form of a raven. the townsmen were troubled at the apparition, and consulted the delphic oracle, which confirmed all that aristeas had said; and apollo received his temple and aristeas his statue in the market-place. apollonius[ ] tells virtually the same story, except that in his version aristeas was seen giving a lesson in literature by a number of persons in sicily at the very hour he died in proconesus. he says that aristeas appeared at intervals for a number of years after his death. the elder pliny[ ] also speaks of aristeas, saying that at proconesus his soul was seen to leave his body in the form of a raven, though he regards the tale as in all probability a fabrication. the doctor in lucian's _philopseudus_ (_c._ ) declares that he knew a man who rose from the dead twenty days after he was buried, and that he attended him after his resurrection. but when asked how it was the body did not decompose or the man die of hunger, he has no answer to give. dio cassius[ ] describes how, when nero wished to cut a canal through the isthmus of corinth, blood spurted up in front of those who first touched the earth, groans and cries were heard, and a number of ghosts appeared. not till nero took a pickaxe and began to work himself, to encourage the men, was any real progress made. pliny[ ] quotes an interesting account, from hermotimus of clazomenæ, of a man whose soul was in the habit of leaving his body and wandering abroad, as was proved by the fact that he would often describe events which had happened at a distance, and could only be known to an actual eyewitness. his body meanwhile lay like that of a man in a trance or half dead. one day, however, some enemies of his took the body while in this state and burnt it, thus, to use pliny's phrase, leaving the soul no sheath[ ] to which it could return. no one can help being struck by the bald and meagre character of these stories as a whole. they possess few of the qualities we expect to find in a good modern ghost story. none of them can equal in pathetic beauty many of those to be found in myers's _human personality_. take, for example, the story of the lady[ ] who was waked in the night by the sound of moaning and sobbing, as of someone in great distress of mind. finding nothing in her room, she went and looked out of the landing window, "and there, on the grass, was a very beautiful young girl in a kneeling posture before a soldier, in a general's uniform, clasping her hands together and entreating for pardon; but, alas! he only waived her away from him." the story proved to be true. the youngest daughter of the old and distinguished family to which the house had belonged had had an illegitimate child. her parents and relations refused to have anything more to do with her, and she died broken-hearted. the lady who relates the story saw the features so clearly on this occasion that she afterwards recognized the soldier's portrait some six months later, when calling at a friend's house, and exclaimed: "why, look! there is the general!" as soon as she noticed it. one really beautiful ghost story has, however, come down to us.[ ] phlegon of tralles was a freedman of the emperor hadrian. his work is not of great merit. the following is a favourable specimen of his stories. a monstrous child was born in Ætolia, after the death of its father, polycrates. at a public meeting, where it was proposed to do away with it, the father suddenly appeared, and begged that the child might be given him. an attempt was made to seize the father, but he snatched up the child, tore it to pieces, and devoured all but the head. when it was proposed to consult the delphic oracle on the matter, the head prophesied to the crowd from where it lay on the ground. then comes the following story. the early part is missing, but erwin rohde, in an interesting article,[ ] has cleared up all the essential details. proclus's treatises on plato's republic are complete only in the vatican manuscripts. of these mai only published fragments,[ ] but an english theologian, alexander morus, took notes from the manuscript when it was in florence, and quoted from it in a commentary on the epistle to the hebrews.[ ] one of the treatises is called [greek: pôs dei noein eisienai kai exienai psuchên apo sômatos]. the ending in phlegon[ ] proves that the story was given in the form of a letter, and we learn that the scene was laid at amphipolis, on the strymon, and that the account was sent by hipparchus in a letter to arrhidæus, half-brother of alexander the great, the events occurring during the reign of philip ii. of macedon. proclus says that his information is derived from letters, "some written by hipparchus, others by arrhidæus." philinnion was the daughter of demostratus and charito. she had been married to craterus, alexander's famous general, but had died six months after her marriage. as we learn that she was desperately in love with machates, a foreign friend from pella who had come to see demostratus, the misery of her position may possibly have caused her death. but her love conquered death itself, and she returned to life again six months after she had died, and lived with machates, visiting him for several nights. "one day an old nurse went to the guest-chamber, and as the lamp was burning, she saw a woman sitting by machates. scarcely able to contain herself at this extraordinary occurrence, she ran to the girl's mother, calling: 'charito! demostratus!' and bade them get up and go with her to their daughter, for by the grace of the gods she had appeared alive, and was with the stranger in the guest-chamber. "on hearing this extraordinary story, charito was at first overcome by it and by the nurse's excitement; but she soon recovered herself, and burst into tears at the mention of her daughter, telling the old woman she was out of her senses, and ordering her out of the room. the nurse was indignant at this treatment, and boldly declared that she was not out of her senses, but that charito was unwilling to see her daughter because she was afraid. at last charito consented to go to the door of the guest-chamber, but as it was now quite two hours since she had heard the news, she arrived too late, and found them both asleep. the mother bent over the woman's figure, and thought she recognized her daughter's features and clothes. not feeling sure, as it was dark, she decided to keep quiet for the present, meaning to get up early and catch the woman. if she failed, she would ask machates for a full explanation, as he would never tell her a lie in a case so important. so she left the room without saying anything. "but early on the following morning, either because the gods so willed it or because she was moved by some divine impulse, the woman went away without being observed. when she came to him, charito was angry with the young man in consequence, and clung to his knees, and conjured him to speak the truth and hide nothing from her. at first he was greatly distressed, and could hardly be brought to admit that the girl's name was philinnion. then he described her first coming and the violence of her passion, and told how she had said that she was there without her parents' knowledge. the better to establish the truth of his story, he opened a coffer and took out the things she had left behind her--a ring of gold which she had given him, and a belt which she had left on the previous night. when charito beheld all these convincing proofs, she uttered a piercing cry, and rent her clothes and her cloak, and tore her coif from her head, and began to mourn for her daughter afresh in the midst of her friends. machates was deeply distressed on seeing what had happened, and how they were all mourning, as if for her second funeral. he begged them to be comforted, and promised them that they should see her if she appeared. charito yielded, but bade him be careful how he fulfilled his promise. "when night fell and the hour drew near at which philinnion usually appeared, they were on the watch for her. she came, as was her custom, and sat down upon the bed. machates made no pretence, for he was genuinely anxious to sift the matter to the bottom, and secretly sent some slaves to call her parents. he himself could hardly believe that the woman who came to him so regularly at the same hour was really dead, and when she ate and drank with him, he began to suspect what had been suggested to him--namely, that some grave-robbers had violated the tomb and sold the clothes and the gold ornaments to her father. "demostratus and charito hastened to come at once, and when they saw her, they were at first speechless with amazement. then, with cries of joy, they threw themselves upon their daughter. but philinnion remained cold. 'father and mother,' she said, 'cruel indeed have ye been in that ye grudged my living with the stranger for three days in my father's house, for it brought harm to no one. but ye shall pay for your meddling with sorrow. i must return to the place appointed for me, though i came not hither without the will of heaven.' with these words she fell down dead, and her body lay stretched upon the bed. her parents threw themselves upon her, and the house was filled with confusion and sorrow, for the blow was heavy indeed; but the event was strange, and soon became known throughout the town, and finally reached my ears. "during the night i kept back the crowds that gathered round the house, taking care that there should be no disturbance as the news spread. at early dawn the theatre was full. after a long discussion it was decided that we should go and open the tomb, to see whether the body was still on the bier, or whether we should find the place empty, for the woman had hardly been dead six months. when we opened the vault where all her family was buried, the bodies were seen lying on the other biers; but on the one where philinnion had been placed, we found only the iron ring which had belonged to her lover and the gilt drinking-cup machates had given her on the first day. in utter amazement, we went straight to demostratus's house to see whether the body was still there. we beheld it lying on the ground, and then went in a large crowd to the place of assembly, for the whole event was of great importance and absolutely past belief. great was the confusion, and no one could tell what to do, when hyllus, who is not only considered the best diviner among us, but is also a great authority on the interpretation of the flight of birds, and is generally well versed in his art, got up and said that the woman must be buried outside the boundaries of the city, for it was unlawful that she should be laid to rest within them; and that hermes chthonius and the eumenides should be propitiated, and that all pollution would thus be removed. he ordered the temples to be re-consecrated and the usual rites to be performed in honour of the gods below. as for the king, in this affair, he privately told me to sacrifice to hermes, and to zeus xenius, and to ares, and to perform these duties with the utmost care. we have done as he suggested. "the stranger machates, who was visited by the ghost, has committed suicide in despair. "now, if you think it right that i should give the king an account of all this, let me know, and i will send some of those who gave me the various details." the story is particularly interesting, as the source of goethe's _braut von korinth_. in goethe's poem the girl is a christian, while her lover is a pagan. their parents are friends, and they have been betrothed in their youth. he comes to stay with her parents, knowing nothing of her death, when she appears to him. as in the greek story, her body is material, though cold and bloodless, and he thinks her still alive. he takes her in his arms and kisses her back to life and love, breathing his own passion into her. then the mother surprises them, and the daughter upbraids her for her cruelty, but begs that she and her lover may be buried together, as he must pay for the life he has given her with his own. footnotes: [footnote : _philops._, .] [footnote : herod., v. .] [footnote : _human personality_, ii. .] [footnote : _ep._, v. .] [footnote : suet., _gaius_, .] [footnote : suet., _otho_, .] [footnote : if that is the meaning of [greek: exerruparou] in the homeric scholia of theopompus.] [footnote : cic., _de div._, i. , . cp. val. max., i. ; libanius, iv. .] [footnote : _the grateful dead_, by g.h. gerould.] [footnote : _the grateful dead_, p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, p. .] [footnote : . . .] [footnote : Ælian, _fragm._, .] [footnote : herod., iv. , .] [footnote : _hist. mir._, .] [footnote : _n.h._, . . .] [footnote : . .] [footnote : _n.h._, . . .] [footnote : vagina.] [footnote : _human personality_, ii. .] [footnote : phlegon of tralles, _de rebus mirabilibus_, _ad fin._] [footnote : _rhein. mus._, vol. xxxii., p. .] [footnote : mai, _script. vet. nov. coll._, ii. .] [footnote : london, .] [footnote : [greek: errhô]] vii warning apparitions as we should expect, there are a number of instances of warning apparitions in antiquity; and it is interesting to note that the majority of these are gigantic women endowed with a gift of prophecy. thus the younger pliny[ ] tells us how quintus curtius rufus, who was on the staff of the governor of africa, was walking one day in a colonnade after sunset, when a gigantic woman appeared before him. she announced that she was africa, and was able to predict the future, and told him that he would go to rome, hold office there, return to the province with the highest authority, and there die. her prophecy was fulfilled to the letter, and as he landed in africa for the last time the same figure is reported to have met him. so, again, at the time of the conspiracy of callippus, dion was meditating one evening before the porch of his house, when he turned round and saw a gigantic female figure, in the form of a fury, at the end of the corridor, sweeping the floor with a broom. the vision terrified him, and soon afterwards his only son committed suicide and he himself was murdered by the conspirators.[ ] a similar dramatic story is related of drusus during his german campaigns.[ ] while engaged in operations against the alemanni, he was preparing to cross the elbe, when a gigantic woman barred the way, exclaiming, "insatiate drusus, whither wilt thou go? thou art not fated to see all things. depart hence, for the end of thy life and of thy deeds is at hand." drusus was much troubled by this warning, and instantly obeyed the words of the apparition; but he died before reaching the rhine. we meet with the same phenomenon again in dio cassius, among the prodigies preceding the death of macrinus, when "a dreadful gigantic woman, seen of several, declared that all that had happened was as nothing compared with what they were soon to endure"--a prophecy which was amply fulfilled by the reign of heliogabalus. but the most gigantic of all these gigantic women was, as we should only expect from his marvellous power of seeing ghosts, the one who appeared to eucrates in the _philopseudus_.[ ] eucrates has seen over a thousand ghosts in his time, and is now quite used to them, though at first he found them rather upsetting; but he had been given a ring and a charm by an arab, which enabled him to deal with anything supernatural that came in his way. the ring was made from the iron of a cross on which a criminal had been executed, and doubtless had the same value in eucrates' eyes that a piece of the rope with which a man has been hung possesses in the eyes of a gambler to-day. on this particular occasion he had left his men at work in the vineyard, and was resting quietly at midday, when his dog began to bark. at first he thought it was only a favourite boy of his indulging in a little hunting with some friends; but on looking up he saw in front of him a woman at least three hundred feet high, with a sword thirty feet long. her lower extremities were like those of a dragon, and snakes were coiling round her neck and shoulders. eucrates was not in the least alarmed, but turned the seal of his ring, when a vast chasm opened in the earth, into which she disappeared. this seems rather to have astonished eucrates; but he plucked up courage, caught hold of a tree that stood near the edge, and looked over, when he saw all the lower world lying spread before him, including the mead of asphodel, where the shades of the blessed were reclining at ease with their friends and relations, arranged according to clans and tribes. among these he recognized his own father, dressed in the clothes in which he was buried; and it must have been comforting to the son to have such good evidence that his parent was safely installed in the elysian fields. in a few moments the chasm closed. dio cassius[ ] relates how trajan was saved in the great earthquake that destroyed nearly the whole of antioch by a phantom, which appeared to him suddenly, and warned him to leave his house by the window. a similar story is told of the poet simonides, who was warned by a spectre that his house was going to fall, and thus enabled to make his escape in time. i will include here a couple of stories which, if they cannot exactly be classed as stories of warning apparitions, are interesting in themselves, and may at least be considered as ghost stories. pliny the younger[ ] tells us how a slave of his, named marcus, imagined that he saw someone cutting his hair during the night. when he awoke, the vision proved to have been a true one, for his hair lay all round him. soon afterwards the same thing happened again. his brother, who slept with him, saw nothing; but marcus declared that two people came in by the windows, dressed in white, and, after cutting his hair, disappeared. "nothing astonishing happened," adds pliny, "except that i was not prosecuted, as i undoubtedly should have been, had domitian lived; for this happened during his principate. perhaps the cutting of my slave's hair was a sign of my approaching doom, for accused people cut their hair," as a sign of mourning. one may be allowed to wonder whether, after all, a fondness for practical joking is not even older than the age of the younger pliny. this story, like nearly every other that we have come across, has a parallel in the _philopseudus_. indeed, lucian seems to have covered almost the whole field of the marvellous, as understood at that time, in his determination to turn it into ridicule in that amusing dialogue. in this case we are told of a little statue of Æsculapius, which stood in the house of the narrator of the story, and at the feet of which a number of pence had been placed as offerings, while other coins, some of them silver, were fastened to the thighs with wax. there were also silver plates which had been vowed or offered by those who had been cured of fever by the god. the offerings and tablets are just such as might be found in a catholic church in the south of europe to-day; but the coins, in our more practical modern world, would have found their way into the coffers of the church. one would like to know what was the ultimate destination of these particular coins--whether they were to be sent as contributions to one of the temples of Æsculapius, which were the centre of the medical world at this period, and had elaborate hospitals attached to them, about which we learn so much from aristides. in this case they were merely a source of temptation to an unfortunate libyan groom, who stole them one night, intending to make his escape. but he had not studied the habits of the statue, which, we are told, habitually got down from its pedestal every night; and in this case such was the power of the god that he kept the man wandering about all night, unable to leave the court, where he was found with the money in the morning, and soundly flogged. the god, however, considered that he had been let off much too easily; and he was mysteriously flogged every night, as the weals upon him showed, till he ultimately died of the punishment. Ælian[ ] has a charming story of philemon, the comic poet. he was still, apparently, in the full vigour of his powers when he had a vision of nine maidens leaving his house in the piræus and bidding him farewell. when he awoke, he told his slave the story, and set to work to finish a play with which he was then busy. after completing it to his satisfaction, he wrapped himself in his cloak and lay down upon his bed. his slave came in, and, thinking he was asleep, went to wake him, when he found that he was dead. Ælian challenges the unbelieving epicureans to deny that the nine maidens were the nine muses, leaving a house which was so soon to be polluted by death. many stories naturally gather round the great struggle for the final mastery of the roman world which ended in the overthrow of the republic. shakespeare has made us familiar with the fate of the poet cinna, who was actually mistaken for one of the conspirators against cæsar and murdered by the crowd. he dreamt, on the night before he met his death, that cæsar invited him to supper, and when he refused the invitation, took him by the hand and forced him down into a deep, dark abyss, which he entered with the utmost horror. but there is a story connected with the crossing of the rubicon by cæsar that certainly deserves to be better known than it is.[ ] it is only fitting that an event fraught with such momentous consequences should have a supernatural setting of some kind; and suetonius relates that while cæsar was still hesitating whether he should declare himself an enemy of his country by crossing the little river that bounded his province at the head of an army, a man of heroic size and beauty suddenly appeared, playing upon a reed-pipe. some of the troops, several trumpeters among them, ran up to listen, when the man seized a trumpet, blew a loud blast upon it, and began to cross the rubicon. cæsar at once decided to advance, and the men followed him with redoubled enthusiasm after what they had just seen. it is to plutarch that we owe the famous story of the apparition that visited brutus in his tent the night before the battle of philippi, and again during the battle. shakespeare represents it to be cæsar's ghost, but has otherwise strictly followed plutarch. it would be absurd to give the scene in any other words than shakespeare's.[ ] brutus. how ill this taper burns! ha! who comes here? i think it is the weakness of mine eyes that shapes this monstrous apparition. it comes upon me. art thou any thing? art thou some god, some angel, or some devil, that mak'st my blood cold, and my hair to stare? speak to me what thou art! ghost. thy evil spirit, brutus. brutus. why com'st thou? ghost. to tell thee thou shalt see me at philippi. brutus. well; then i shall see thee again? ghost. ay, at philippi. brutus. why, i will see thee at philippi, then. now i have taken heart, thou vanishest: ill spirit, i would hold more talk with thee. but it had already disappeared, only to meet brutus again on the fatal day that followed. footnotes: [footnote : _ep._, vii. .] [footnote : plutarch, _dion_, ii. .] [footnote : dio cassius, . . cp. suet., _claud._, i.] [footnote : lucian, _philops._, .] [footnote : . .] [footnote : _ep._, vii. . .] [footnote : _fragm._, .] [footnote : suet., _julius_, .] [footnote : _julius cæsar_, iv. .] the end billing and sons, ltd., printers, guildford the haunted hour _an anthology_ compiled by margaret widdemer new york harcourt, brace and howe copyright, , by harcourt, brace and howe, inc. the quinn & boden company rahway, n.j. copyright notice for the use of the copyrighted material included in this volume permission has been secured either from the author or his authorized publishers. all rights in these poems are reserved by the holders of the copyright, or the authorized publishers, as named below: to george h. doran co. for the poems of joyce kilmer and may byron. to doubleday, page & co. and rudyard kipling for mr. kipling's "the looking-glass." to e.p. dutton & co. for helen gray cone's "blockhouse on the hill," from her _a chant of love for england_. to harper & bros. for the poems of arthur guiterman, don marquis, and don c. seitz. to henry holt and co. for the poems of francis carlin, walter de la mare, louis untermeyer, and margaret widdemer. to houghton mifflin co. for anna hempstead branch's "such are the souls in purgatory" from _heart of the road_, the poems of henry w. longfellow, nathan haskell dole's "russian fantasy," amy lowell's "haunted" from _pictures of the floating world_, may kendall's "a legend." to mitchell kennerley for the poems of theodosia garrison, dora sigerson shorter, and edna st. vincent millay. to john lane co. for the poems of rosamund marriott watson, winifred letts, a.e. housman's "true lover," nora hopper's "far away country," marjorie pickthall's "mary shepherdess." to the macmillan co. for w.b. yeats' "folk o' the air," and john masefield's "cape horn gospel." to thomas bird mosher for edith m. thomas's "the passer-by" from _flower from the ashes_. to frederick a. stokes co. for "the highwayman," by alfred noyes. to charles scribner's sons for josephine daskam bacon's "little dead child." to rose de vaux royer for madison cawein's "ghosts." to the _saturday evening post_ for grantland rice's "ghosts of the argonne." i have to thank the following authors for express personal permission: josephine daskam bacon, anna hempstead branch, francis carlin, helen gray cone, nathan haskell dole, theodosia garrison, arthur guiterman, minna irving, aline kilmer, katherine tynan hinkson, winifred letts, amy lowell, don marquis, edna st. vincent millay, ruth comfort mitchell, marjorie l.c. pickthall, lizette woodworth reese, grantland rice, edwin arlington robinson, robert haven schauffler, don c. seitz, clement shorter (for dora sigerson shorter), edith m. thomas, louis untermeyer, and william butler yeats. preface this does not attempt to be an inclusive anthology. the ghostly poetry of the late war alone would have made a book as large as this; and an inclusive scheme would have ended as a six-volume encyclopedia of ghostly verse. i hope that this may be called for some day. the present book has been held to the conventional limits of the type of small anthology which may be read without weariness (i hope) by the exclusion not only of many long and dreary ghost-poems, but many others which it was very hard to leave out. i have not considered as ghost-poems anything but poems which related to the return of spirits to earth. thus "the blessed damozel," a poem of spirits in heaven, "la belle dame sans merci," whose heroine may be a fairy or witch, and whose ghosts are presented in dream only, do not belong in this classification; nor do such poems as mathilde blind's lovely sonnet, "the dead are ever with us," class as ghost-poems; for in these the dead are living in ourselves in a half-metaphorical sense. if a poem would be a ghost-story, in short, i have considered it a ghost-poem, not otherwise. in this connection i wish to thank mabel cleland ludlum for her unwearied and intelligent assistance with the selection and compilation of the book; and aline kilmer for help in its revision and arrangement. margaret widdemer. contents page the far away country _nora hopper chesson_ xiv "the nicht atween the sancts an' souls" all-souls _katherine tynan_ all-saints' eve _lizette woodworth reese_ a dream _william allingham_ the neighbors _theodosia garrison_ a ballad of hallowe'en _theodosia garrison_ the forgotten soul _margaret widdemer_ all-souls' night _dora sigerson shorter_ janet's tryst _george macdonald_ hallows' e'en _winifred m. letts_ on kingston bridge _ellen m.h. cortissoz_ all-souls' night _louisa humphreys_ "all the little sighing souls" mary shepherdess _marjorie l.c. pickthall_ the little ghost _katherine tynan_ two brothers _theodosia garrison_ the little dead child _josephine daskam bacon_ the child alone _rosamund marriott watson_ the child _theodosia garrison_ such are the souls in purgatory _anna hempstead branch_ the open door _rosamund marriott watson_ my laddie's hounds _marguerite elizabeth easter_ the old house _katherine tynan_ shadowy heroes ballad of the buried sword _ernest rhys_ the looking-glass _rudyard kipling_ drake's drum _henry newbolt_ the grey ghost _francis carlin_ ballad of douglas bridge _francis carlin_ the indian burying ground _philip freneau_ "rank on rank of ghostly soldiers" the song of soldiers _walter de la mare_ by the blockhouse on the hill _helen gray cone_ night at gettysburg _don c. seitz_ the riders _katherine tynan_ the white comrade _robert haven schauffler_ ghosts of the argonne _grantland rice_ november eleventh _ruth comfort mitchell_ sea ghosts the flying dutchman _charles godfrey leland_ the phantom ship _henry wadsworth longfellow_ the phantom light of the baie des chaleurs _arthur wentworth hamilton eaton_ the sands of dee _charles kingsley_ the lake of the dismal swamp _thomas moore_ the flying dutchman of the tappan zee _arthur guiterman_ the white ships and the red _joyce kilmer_ featherstone's doom _robert stephen hawker_ sea-ghosts _may byron_ fog wraiths _mildred howells_ cheerful spirits cape horn gospel _john masefield_ legend of hamilton tighe _richard harris barham_ the supper superstition _thomas hood_ the ingoldsby penance _richard harris barham_ pompey's ghost _thomas hood_ the ghost _thomas hood_ mary's ghost _thomas hood_ the superstitious ghost _arthur guiterman_ dave lilly _joyce kilmer_ martin _joyce kilmer_ haunted places the listeners _walter de la mare_ haunted houses _henry wadsworth longfellow_ the beleaguered city _henry wadsworth longfellow_ a newport romance _bret harte_ a legend _may kendall_ a midnight visitor _elizabeth akers allen_ haunted _amy lowell_ the little green orchard _walter de la mare_ fireflies _louise driscoll_ the little ghost _edna st. vincent millay_ haunted _louis untermeyer_ ghosts _madison cawein_ the three ghosts _theodosia garrison_ "you know the old, while i know the new" after death _christina rossetti_ the passer-by _edith m. thomas_ at home _christina rossetti_ the return _minna irving_ the room's width _elizabeth stuart phelps ward_ haunted _don marquis_ "my love that was so true" one out-of-doors _sarah piatt_ sailing beyond seas _jean ingelow_ betrayal _aline kilmer_ the true lover _a.e. housman_ haunted _g.b. stuart_ the white moth _sir arthur quiller-couch_ the ghost _walter de la mare_ luke havergal _edwin arlington robinson_ the highwayman _alfred noyes_ the blue closet _william morris_ the ghost's petition _christina georgina rossetti_ he and she _sir edwin arnold_ shapes of doom the dead coach _katherine tynan_ deid folks' ferry _rosamund marriott watson_ keith of ravelston _sydney dobell_ the fetch _dora sigerson shorter_ the banshee _dora sigerson shorter_ the seven whistlers _alice e. gillington_ the victor _theodosia garrison_ mawgan of melhuach _robert stephen hawker_ the mother's ghost _henry wadsworth longfellow_ the dead mother _robert buchanan_ legends and ballads of the dead the folk of the air _william butler yeats_ the reconciliation _a. margaret ramsay_ the priest's brother _dora sigerson shorter_ the ballad of judas iscariot _robert buchanan_ the eve of st. john _walter scott_ fair margaret's misfortunes _anon._ sweet william's ghost _anon._ clerk saunders _anon._ the wife of usher's well _anon._ a lyke-wake dirge _anon._ the haunted hour the far away country nora hopper chesson _far away's the country where i desire to go,_ _far away's the country where the blue roses grow,_ _far away's the country and very far away,_ _and who would travel thither must go 'twixt night and day._ _far away's the country, and the seas are wild_ _that you must voyage over, grown man or chrisom child,_ _o'er leagues of land and water a weary way you'll go_ _before you'll find the country where the blue roses grow._ _but o, and o, the roses are very strange and fair,_ _you'd travel far to see them, and one might die to wear,_ _yet, far away's the country, and perilous the sea,_ _and some may think far fairer the red rose on her tree._ _far away's the country, and strange the way to fare,_ _far away's the country--o would that i were there!_ _it's on and on past whinny muir and over brig o' dread._ _and you shall pluck blue roses the day that you are dead._ "the nicht atween the sancts an' souls" all-souls: katherine tynan the door of heaven is on the latch to-night, and many a one is fain to go home for one night's watch with his love again. oh, where the father and mother sit there's a drift of dead leaves at the door like pitter-patter of little feet that come no more. their thoughts are in the night and cold, their tears are heavier than the clay, but who is this at the threshold so young and gay? they are come from the land o' the young, they have forgotten how to weep; words of comfort on the tongue, and a kiss to keep. they sit down and they stay awhile, kisses and comfort none shall lack; at morn they steal forth with a smile and a long look back. all-saints' eve: lizette woodworth reese oh, when the ghosts go by, under the empty trees, here in my house i sit and cry, my head upon my knees! innumerable, white, like mist they fill the square; the bolt is drawn, the latch made tight, the shutter barréd there. there walks one small and glad, new to the churchyard clod; my little lad, my little lad, a single year with god! i sit and hide my head until they all are past, under the empty trees the dead that go full soft and fast. up to my chamber dim, back to my bed i plod; oh, would i were a ghost with him, and faring back to god! a dream: william allingham i heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night; i went to the window to see the sight; all the dead that ever i knew going one by one and two by two. on they pass'd and on they pass'd; townsfellows all, from first to last; born in the moonlight of the lane, quench'd in the heavy shadow again. schoolmates, marching as when they play'd at soldiers once--but now more staid; those were the strangest sight to me who were drown'd, i knew, in the open sea. straight and handsome folk, bent and weak, too; some that i loved, and gasp'd to speak to; some but a day in their churchyard bed; some that i had not known were dead. a long long crowd--where each seem'd lonely, yet of them all there was one, one only, raised a head or looked my way; she linger'd a moment--she might not stay. how long since i saw that fair pale face! ah! mother dear! might i only place my head on thy breast, a moment to rest, while thy hand on my tearful cheek were press'd! on, on, a moving bridge they made across the moon-stream, from shade to shade, young and old, women and men; many long-forgot, but remember'd then, and first there came a bitter laughter; a sound of tears a moment after, and then a music so lofty and gay, that every morning, day by day, i strive to recall it if i may. the neighbors: theodosia garrison _at first cock-crow_ _the ghosts must go_ _back to their quiet graves below._ against the distant striking of the clock i heard the crowing cock, and i arose and threw the window wide; long, long before the setting of the moon, and yet i knew they must be passing soon-- my neighbors who had died-- back to their narrow green-roofed homes that wait beyond the churchyard gate. i leaned far out and waited--all the world was like a thing impearled, mysterious and beautiful and still: the crooked road seemed one the moon might lay, our little village slept in quaker gray, and gray and tall the poplars on the hill; and then far off i heard the cock--and then my neighbors passed again. at first it seemed a white cloud, nothing more, slow drifting by my door, or gardened lilies swaying in the wind; then suddenly each separate face i knew, the tender lovers drifting two and two, old, peaceful folk long since passed out of mind, and little children--one whose hand held still an earth-grown daffodil. and here i saw one pausing for a space to lift a wistful face up to a certain window where there dreamed a little brood left motherless; and there one turned to where the unploughed fields lay bare; and others lingering passed--but one there seemed so over glad to haste, she scarce could wait to reach the churchyard gate! the farrier's little maid who loved too well and died--i may not tell how glad she seemed. my neighbors, young and old, with backward glances lingered as they went; only upon one face was all content, a sorrow comforted--a peace untold. i watched them through the swinging gate--the dawn stayed till the last had gone. a ballad of hallowe'en: theodosia garrison _all night the wild wind on the heath_ _whistled its song of vague alarms;_ _all night in some mad dance of death_ _the poplars tossed their naked arms._ mignon isa hath left her bed and bared her shoulders to the blast; the long procession of the dead stared at her as it passed. "oh, there, methinks, my mother smiled, and there my father walks forlorn, and there the little nameless child that was the parish scorn. "and there my olden comrades move, and there my sister smiles apart, but nowhere is the fair, false love that bent and broke my heart. "oh, false in life, oh, false in death, wherever thy mad spirit be, could it not come this night," she saith, "and keep tryst with me?" mignon isa has turned alone, bitter the pain and long the years; the moonlight on the old gravestone was warmer than her tears. _all night the wild wind on the heath_ _whistled its song of vague alarms;_ _all night in some mad dance of death_ _the poplars tossed their naked arms._ the forgotten soul: margaret widdemer 'twas i that cried against the pane on all souls' night (o pulse of my heart's life, how could you never hear?) you filled the room i knew with yellow candlelight and cheered the lass beside you when she cried in fear. 'twas i that went beside you in the gray wood-mist (o core of my heart's heart, how could you never know?) you only frowned and shuddered as you bent and kissed the lass hard by you, handfast, as i used to go. 'twas i that stood to greet you on the churchyard pave (o fire of my heart's grief, how could you never see?) you smiled in careless dreaming as you crossed my grave and hummed a little love-song where they buried me! all-souls' night: dora sigerson o mother, mother, i swept the hearth, i set his chair and the white board spread, i prayed for his coming to our kind lady when death's doors would let out the dead; a strange wind rattled the window-pane, and down the lane a dog howled on, i called his name and the candle flame burnt dim, pressed a hand the door-latch upon. deelish! deelish! my woe forever that i could not sever coward flesh from fear. i called his name and the pale ghost came; but i was afraid to meet my dear. o mother, mother, in tears i checked the sad hours past of the year that's o'er, till by god's grace i might see his face and hear the sound of his voice once more; the chair i set from the cold and wet, he took when he came from unknown skies of the land of the dead, on my bent brown head i felt the reproach of his saddened eyes; i closed my lids on my heart's desire, crouched by the fire, my voice was dumb. at my clean-swept hearth he had no mirth, and at my table he broke no crumb. deelish! deelish! my woe forever that i could not sever coward flesh from fear. his chair put aside when the young cock cried, and i was afraid to meet my dear. janet's tryst: george macdonald "sweep up the flure, janet, put on anither peat. it's a lown and starry nicht, janet, and neither cold nor weet. and it's open hoose we keep the nicht for ony that may be oot; it's the nicht atween the sancts an' souls whan the bodiless gang aboot. set the chairs back to the wall, janet, mak' ready for quaiet fowk, hae a' thing as clean as a windin'-sheet-- they comena ilka ook. there's a spale upo' the flure, janet, and there's a rowan berry. sweep them into the fire, janet,-- they'll be welcomer than merry. syne set open the door, janet,-- wide open for wha kens wha: as ye come to your bed, janet, set it open to the wa'." she set the chairs back to the wa', but ane made of the birk, she swept the flure, but left ane spale, a long spale o' the aik. the nicht was lown, and the stars sat still a-glintin' doon the sky: and the sauls crept oot o' their mooly graves, a' dank wi' lyin' by. when midnight came the mither rase-- she wad gae see an' hear. back she cam' wi' a glowrin' face, an' sloomin' wi' verra fear. "there's ane o' them sittin' afore the fire! janet, gae na to see; ye left a chair afore the fire, whaur i tauld ye nae chair sud be." janet she smiled in her mither's face: she had brunt the roddin reid: and she left aneath the birken chair the spale frae a coffin lid. she rase and she gaed but the hoose, aye steekin' door and door, three hours gaed by ere her mother heard her fit upo' the flure. but whan the grey cock crew she heard the soun' o' shoeless feet, whan the red cock crew she heard the door an' a sough o' wind an' weet. an' janet cam' back wi' a wan face, but never a word said she; no man ever heard her voice lood oot-- it cam' like frae ower the sea. and no man ever heard her lauch, nor yet say alas nor wae; but a smile aye glimmert on her wan face like the moonlicht on the sea. and ilka nicht 'twixt the sancts an' souls wide open she set the door; and she mendit the fire, and she left ae chair and that spale upo' the flure. and at midnicht she gaed but the hoose, aye steekin' door and door. whan the red cock crew she cam' ben the hoose, aye wanner than before. wanner her face and sweeter her smile, till the seventh all-souls eve her mither she heard the shoeless feet, says "she's comin', i believe." but she camna ben, an' her mither lay; for fear she cudna stan', but up she rase an' ben she gaed whan the gowden cock hed crawn. and janet sat upo' the chair, white as the day did daw, her smile was as sunlight left on the sea whan the sun has gane awa. hallows' e'en: winifred m. letts the girls are laughing with the boys, and gaming by the fire, they're wishful, every one of them, to see her heart's desire, twas thesie cut the barnbrack and found the ring inside, before next hallows' e'en has dawned herself will be a bride. but little mollie stands alone outside the cabin door, and breaks her heart for one the waves threw dead upon the shore. twas katie's nut lepped from the hearth, and left poor pat's alone but ellen's stayed by christy byrne's upon the wide hearthstone. an' all the while the childher bobbed for apples set afloat, the old men smoked their pipes and talked about the foundered boat, but mollie walked upon the cliff, and never feared the rain; she called the name of one she loved and bid him come again. young peter pulled the cabbage-stump to win a wealthy wife, rosanna threw the apple-peel to know who'd share her life; and lizzie had a looking-glass she'd hid in some dark place to try if there, foreninst her own, she'd see her comrade's face. but mollie walked along the quay where terry's feet had trod, and sobbed her grief out in the night, with no one near but god. she heard the laughter from the house, she heard the fiddle played; she called her dead love to her side--why should she be afraid? she took his cold hands in her own, she had no thought of dread, and not a star looked out to watch the living kiss the dead. the lads are gaming with the girls, and laughing by the fire. but mollie in the cold, dark night, has found her heart's desire. on kingston bridge: ellen m.h. cortissoz (on all souls' night the dead walk on kingston bridge.--_old legend._) on kingston bridge the starlight shone through hurrying mists in shrouded glow; the boding night-wind made its moan, the mighty river crept below. 'twas all souls' night, and to and fro the quick and dead together walked, the quick and dead together talked, on kingston bridge. two met who had not met for years; once was their hate too deep for fears: one drew his rapier as he came, upleapt his anger like a flame. with clash of mail he faced his foe, and bade him stand and meet him so. he felt a graveyard wind go by cold, cold as was his enemy. a stony horror held him fast. the dead looked with a ghastly stare, and sighed "i know thee not," and passed like to the mist, and left him there on kingston bridge. 'twas all souls' night, and to and fro the quick and dead together walked, the quick and dead together talked, on kingston bridge. two met who had not met for years: with grief that was too deep for tears they parted last. he clasped her hand, and in her eyes he sought love's rapturous surprise. "oh, sweet!" he cried, "hast thou come back to say thou lov'st thy lover still?" --into the starlight, pale and cold, she gazed afar--her hand was chill: "dost thou remember how we kept our ardent vigils?--how we kissed?-- take thou these kisses as of old!" an icy wind about him swept; "i know thee not," she sighed, and passed into the dim and shrouding mist on kingston bridge. 'twas all souls' night, and to and fro the quick and dead together walked, the quick and dead together talked, on kingston bridge. all souls' night: louisa humphreys canice the priest went out on the night of souls; "stay, oh stay," said the woman who served his board "stay, for the path is strait with pits and holes, and the night is dark and the way is lone abroad; stay within because it is lone, at least." "nay, it will not be lone," said canice the priest. dim without, and a dim, low-sweeping sky; a scent of earth in the night, of opened mould; a listening pause in the night--and a breath passed by-- and its touch was cold, was cold as the graves are cold canice went on to the waste where no men be; "nay, i will not be lone to-night," said he. shades that flit, besides the shades of the night; rustling sobs besides the sobs of the wind; steps of feet that pace with his on the right, steps that pace on the left, and steps behind. "nay, no fear that i shall be lone, at least! lo, there are throngs abroad," said canice the priest. deathly hands that pluck at his cassock's hem; sighings of earthly breath that smite his cheek; canice the priest swings on, atune with them, hears the throbbings of pain, and hears them speak; hears the word they utter, and answers "yea! yea, poor souls, for i heed; i pray, i pray." lo, a gleam of gray, and the dark is done; hark, a bird that trills a song of the light. canice hies him home by the shine of the sun. what to-day of those pallid wraiths of the night? what of the woeful notes that had wailed and fled? "maria, ora pro illis!" canice said. "all the little sighing souls" mary shepherdess: marjorie l.c. pickthall when the heron's in the high wood and the last long furrow's sown with the herded cloud before her and her sea-sweet raiment blown comes mary, mary shepherdess, a-seeking for her own. saint james he calls the righteous folk, saint john he calls the kind, saint peter seeks the valiant men all to loose or bind, but mary seeks the little souls that are so hard to find. all the little sighing souls born of dust's despair, they who fed on bitter bread when the world was bare, frighted of the glory gates and the starry stair. all about the windy down, housing in the ling, underneath the alder-bough linnet-light they cling, frighted of the shining house where the martyrs sing. crying in the ivy-bloom, fingering at the pane, grieving in the hollow dark, lone along the lane, mary, mary shepherdess gathers them again. and o the wandering women know, in workhouse and in shed, they dream on mary shepherdess with doves about her head, and pleasant posies in her hand, and sorrow comforted. saying: there's my little lass, faring fine and free, there's the little lad i laid by the holly tree, dreaming: there's my nameless bairn laughing at her knee. when the bracken-harvest's gathered and the frost is on the loam when the dream goes out in silence and the ebb runs out in foam, mary, mary shepherdess, she leads the lost lambs home. if i had a little maid to turn my tears away, if i had a little lad to lead me when i'm gray, all to mary shepherdess they'd fold their hands and pray. the little ghost: katherine tynan the stars began to peep gone was the bitter day, she heard the milky ewes bleat to their lambs astray. her heart cried for her lamb lapped cold in the churchyard sod, she could not think on the happy children at play with the lamb of god. she heard the calling ewes and the lambs answer alas! she heard her heart's blood drip in the night, as the ewes' milk on the grass. her tears that burnt like fire so bitter and slow ran down she could not think on the new-washed children playing by mary's gown. oh, who is this comes in over her threshold stone? and why is the old dog wild with joy who all day long made moan? this fair little radiant ghost, her one little son of seven, new 'scaped from the band of merry children in the nurseries of heaven. he was all clad in white without a speck or stain; his curls had a ring of light, that rose and fell again. "now come with me, my own mother, and you shall have great ease, for you shall see the lost children gathered at mary's knees." oh, lightly sprang she up nor waked her sleeping man, and hand in hand with the little ghost through the dark night she ran. she is gone swift as a fawn, as a bird homes to its nest, she has seen them lie, the sleepy children, 'twixt mary's arm and breast. at morning she came back; her eyes were strange to see. she will not fear the long journey, however long it be. as she goes in and out she sings unto hersel'; for she has seen the mother's children and knows that it is well. two brothers: theodosia garrison the dead son's mother sat and wept and her live son plucked at her gown, "oh, mother, long is the watch we've kept!" but she beat the small hands down. the little live son he clung to her knee-- and frightened his eyes and dim-- "have ye never, my mother, a word for me?" but she turned her face from him, saying, "oh and alack, mine own dead son, could i know but the path aright, how fast and how fast my feet would run through the way o' death to-night!" saying, "oh and alack, for thy empty place and the ache in my heart to hide!" the little live son has touched her face, but she thrust his hands aside. the mother hath laid her down and wept in the midnight's chill and gloom; in the hour ere dawn while the mother slept the ghost came in the room. and the little live son hath called his name or ever he passed the door, "oh, brother, brother, 'tis well ye came, for our mother's grief is sore! "oh, brother, brother, she weeps for thee as a rain that beats all day, but me she pushes from off her knee and turneth her eyes away." and the little dead son he spake again, "my brother, the dead have grace though they lay them low from the sight of men with a white cloth on their face. "oh, brother, the dead have gifts of love, though lonely and low they lie, by my mother's love do i speak and move and may not wholly die." the little live son he sighed apart, "oh, brother, ye live," quoth he, "in my mother's grief and my mother's heart and my mother's memory. "and vain for thee is my mother's cry," the little live son hath said, "for ye are loved and ye may not die-- it is only i who am dead!" the little dead child: josephine daskam bacon when all but her were sleeping fast, and the night was nearly fled, the little dead child came up the stair and stood by his mother's bed. "ah, god!" she cried, "the nights are three, and yet i have not slept!" the little dead child he sat him down, and sank his head and wept. "and is it thou, my little dead child, come in from out the storm? ah, lie thou back against my heart, and i will keep thee warm!" _that is long ago, mother,_ _long and long ago!_ _shall i grow warm who lay three nights_ _beneath the winter snow?_ * * * * * "hast thou not heard the old nurse weep? she sings to us no more; and thy brothers leave the broken toys and whisper in the door." _that is far away, mother,_ _far and far away!_ _above my head the stone is white._ _my hands forget to play._ * * * * * "what wilt thou then, my little dead child, since here thou may'st not lie? ah, me! that snow should be thy sheet, and winds thy lullaby!" _down within my grave, mother,_ _i heard, i know not how,_ _"go up to god, thou little child,_ _go up and meet him now!"_ _that is far to fare, mother,_ _far and far to fare!_ _i come for thee to carry me_ _the way from here to there._ "oh, hold thy peace, my little dead child. my heart will break in me! thy way to god thou must go alone, i may not carry thee!" * * * * * the cock crew out the early dawn ere she could stay her moan; she heard the cry of a little child, upon his way alone. the child alone: rosamund marriott watson they say the night has fallen chill-- but i know naught of mist or rain, only of two small hands that still beat on the darkness all in vain. they say the wind blows high and wild down the long valleys to the sea; but i can only hear the child, who weeps in darkness, wanting me. beyond the footfalls in the street, above the voices of the bay, i hear the sound of little feet, two little stumbling feet astray. oh, loud the autumn wind makes moan, the desolate wind about my door, and a little child goes all alone who never was alone before. the child: theodosia garrison i heard her crying in the night,-- so long, so long i lay awake, watching the moonlight ebb and break against the sill like waves of light. i tried to close my eyes nor heed and lie quite still--but oh, again the little voice of fright and pain sobbed in the darkness of her need. strange shadows led me down the stair; creaked as i went the hollow floor; i drew the bolt and flung the door wide, wide, and softly called her there. _ah me, as happy mothers call_ _through the tender twilights to the gay,_ _glad truant making holiday_ _too long before the evenfall._ the garden odors drifted through, the scent of earth and box and rose, and then, as silently as those, a little wistful child i knew. so small, so frightened and so cold, ah, close, so close i gathered her within my arms, she might not stir, and crooned and kissed her in their hold. _as might a happy mother, when,_ _aghast for some quaint, trifling thing,_ _one runs to her for comforting,_ _and smiles within her arms again._ all night upon my heart she lay, all night i held her warm and close, until the morning wind arose and called across the world for day. the garden odors drifted through the open door; as still as they she passed into the awful day, a little, wistful child i knew. think you for this god's smile may dim (his are so many, many dead) seeing that i but comforted a child--and sent her back to him! such are the souls in purgatory: anna hempstead branch three days she wandered forth from me, then sought me as of old. "i did not know how dark 'twould be," she sobbed, "nor yet how cold. "and it is chill for me to fare who have not long been dead. if thou wouldst give away thy cloak i might go comforted." i would have soothed her on my breast but that she needs must go. the dead must journey without rest whether they will or no. but i had kept for love of her the cloak she wore, the shoes, and every day i touched the things she had been wont to use. all night the dead must hurry on, they may not ever sleep. and so i gave away her cloak that i was fain to keep. the second time she sought me out her eyes were full of need. "if thou wouldst give away my shoes perchance i would not bleed." i cried to her aloud, "my child, they are all i have to keep, to lay my hand upon and touch at night before i sleep. "the earth shall keep the body i bore, and heaven thy soul. i may not choose. let be--i ask a little thing, that i should keep thy shoes. "but i will give away my own. lord, lord, wilt thou not see? let thou her road to paradise this way be eased by me." all night alone by brier and stone i ran that road unshod, so i might know instead of her the pains that lead to god. when next she came for a brief space she tarried at my side, so happy was she in that place, so glad that she had died. "the last night that i roamed," she said, "some one had gone before. i followed where those feet had led, and found it rough no more. "and then i came to a good place, so kind, so dear are they i may not come again," and so she smiled and went away. dear christ, who died to save us all, who trod the ways so cold and wild, the love of mary in thy heart did let me ease my child. she may not leave the place of bliss, i may not touch her hands and hair, but every night i touch and kiss the shoes she used to wear. the open door: rosamund marriott watson o listen for her step when the fire burns hollow when the low fire whispers and the white ash sinks, when all about the chamber shadows troop and follow as drowsier yet the hearth's red watchlight blinks. while bare black night through empty casements staring waits to storm the wainscot till the fire lies dead, fast along the snowbound waste little feet are faring-- hush and listen--listen--but never turn your head. leave the door upon the latch--she could never reach it-- you would hear her crying, crying there till break of day, out on the cold moor 'mid the snows that bleach it, weeping as once in the long years past away. lean deeper in the settle-corner lest she find you-- find and grow fearsome, too afraid to stay: do you hear the hinge of the oaken press behind you? there all her toys were kept, there she used to play. do you hear the light, light foot, the faint sweet laughter happy stir and murmur of a child that plays: slowly the darkness creeps up from floor to rafter, slowly the fallen snow covers all the ways. falls as it once fell on a tide past over, golden the hearth glowed then, bright the windows shone; and still, she comes through the sullen drifts above her home to the cold hearth though all the lights are gone. far or near no one knew--none would now remember where she wandered no one knew--none will ever know; somewhere spring must give her flowers, somewhere white december calls her from the moorland to her playthings through the snow. my laddie's hounds: marguerite elizabeth easter they are my laddie's hounds that rin the wood at brak o' day. wha is it taks them hence? can ony say wha is it taks my laddie's hounds at brak o' day? they cleek aff thegither, and then fa' back, wi' room atween for ane to walk; sae aften, i hae seen the baith cleek aff thegither wi' ane atween! and when toward the pines up yonder lane they loup alang i see ae laddie brent and strang, i see ae laddie loup alang toward the pines. i follow them in mind ilk time; right weel i ken the way,-- they thrid the wood, an' speel the staney brae an' skir the field; i follow them, i ken the way. they daddle at the creek, whaur down fra aff the reachin'-logs i stoup, wi' my dear laddie, and the dogs, an' drink o' springs that spait the creek maist to the logs. he's but a bairn, atho' he hunts the mountain's lonely bree, his doggies' ears abune their brows wi' glee he ties; he's but a bairn, atho' he hunts the bree. fu' length they a' stretch out upon ae bink that green trees hap in shade. he whusslits saft; the beagles nap wi' een half shut, a stretchin' out whaur green trees hap. and noo he fades awa' frae 'tween the twa--into the blue. my sight gats blind; gude lord, it isna true that he has gane for aye awa into the blue! they are my laddie's hounds that mak the hill at fa' o' day wi' dowie heads hung laigh; can ony say _wha is it hunts my laddie's hounds_ _till fa' o day?_ the old house: katherine tynan the boys who used to come and go in the grey kindly house are flown. they have taken the way the young feet know; not alone, not alone! thronged is the road the young feet go. yet in the quiet evening hour what comes, oh, lighter than a bird? touches her cheek, soft as a flower. what moved, what stirred? what was the joyous whisper heard? what flitted in the corridor like a boy's shape so dear and slight? what was the laughter ran before? delicate, light, like harps the wind plays out of sight. the boys who used to go and come in the grey house are come again; of the grey house and firelit room they are fain, they are fain: they have come home from the night and rain. shadowy heroes ballad of the buried sword: ernest rhys in a winter's dream, on gamellyn moor, i found the lost grave of lord glyndwr. i followed three shadows against the moon, that marched while the thin reed whistled the tune, three swordsmen they were out of harry's wars, that made a welsh song of their norman scars, but they sang no longer of agincourt, when they came to a grave, for there lay glyndwr. said the one, "my sword, th'art rust, my dear, i but brought thee home to break thee here." and the second, "ay, here is the narrow home, to which our tired hearts are come!" and the third, "we are all that are left, glyndwr, to guard thee now on gamellyn moor." straightway i saw the dead forth-stand, his good sword bright in his right hand, and the marsh-reeds with a whistling sound, to a thousand gray swordsmen were turned around. the moon did shake in the south to see, the dead man stand with his soldiery. but the brighter his sword, the grave before, turn'd its gate of death to a radiant door. therein the thousand, before their lord, marched at the summons of his bright sword. then the night grew strange, the blood left my brain, and i stood alone by the grave again. but brightly his sword still before me shone, across the dark moor as i passed alone. and still it shines, a silver flame, across the dark night of the cymraec shame. the looking-glass: rudyard kipling the queen was in her chamber, and she was middling old, her petticoat was of satin, and her stomacher was gold. backwards and forwards and sideways did she pass, making up her mind to face the cruel looking-glass. the cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass as comely or as kindly or as young as what she was! the queen was in her chamber, a-combing of her hair. there came queen mary's spirit and it stood behind her chair, singing, "backwards and forwards and sideways may you pass, but i will stand beside you till you face the looking-glass. the cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass as lovely or unlucky or as lonely as i was." the queen was in her chamber, a-weeping very sore, there came lord leicester's spirit and it scratched upon the door, singing, "backwards and forwards and sideways may you pass, but i will walk beside you till you face the looking-glass. the cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass, as hard and unforgiving and as wicked as you was!" the queen was in her chamber, her sins were on her head. she looked the spirits up and down and statelily she said:-- "backwards and forwards and sideways though i've been, yet i am harry's daughter and i am england's queen!" and she faced the looking-glass (and whatever else there was) and she saw her day was over and she saw her beauty pass in the cruel looking-glass, that can always hurt a lass more hard than any ghost there is or any man there was! drake's drum: henry newbolt drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand miles away, (capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) slung atween the round shot in nombre dios bay, an' dreamin' arl the time o' plymouth hoe. yarnder lumes the island, yarnder lie the ships, wi' sailor lads a dancin' heel-an'-toe, an' the shore light flashin' an' the night-tide dashin' he sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago. drake he was a devon man, an' ruled the devon seas, (capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) rovin' tho' his death fell, he went with wi' heart of ease an' dreamin' arl the time o' plymouth hoe. "take my drum to england, hang et by the shore, strike et when your powder's runnin' low; if the dons sight devon, i'll quit the port o' heaven, an' drum them up the channel as we drummed them long ago." drake he's in his hammock till the great armadas come, (capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum, an' dreamin' all the time of plymouth hoe. call him on the deep sea, call him up the sound, call him when ye sail to meet the foe where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin' they shall find him ware and wakin', as they found him long ago! the grey ghost: francis carlin from year to year there walks a ghost in grey, through misty connemara in the west; and those who seek the cause of his unrest, need go but to the death-dumb in the clay, to those that fell defiant in the fray, among the boggy wilds of ireland, blest by cromwell, when his puritanic jest left hell and connaught open on their way. as i have heard so may the stranger hear! that he who drove the natives from the lawn, must wander o'er the marsh and foggy fen until the irish gather with a cheer in dublin of the parliaments at dawn. god rest the ghost of cromwell's dust, amen! ballad of douglas bridge: francis carlin on douglas bridge i met a man who lived adjacent to straban, before the english hung him high for riding with o'hanlon. the eyes of him were just as fresh as when they burned within the flesh; and his boot-legs widely walked apart from riding with o'hanlon. "god save you, sir!" i said with fear, "you seem to be a stranger here." "not i," said he, "nor any man who rides with count o'hanlon." "i know each glenn from north tyrone to monaghan, and i've been known by every clan and parish, since i rode with count o'hanlon." "before that time," said he with pride, "my fathers rode where now they ride as rapperees, before the time of trouble and o'hanlon." "good night to you, and god be with the tellers of the tale and myth, for they are of the spirit-stuff that rides with count o'hanlon." "good night to you," said i, "and god be with the chargers, fairy-shod, that bear the ulster's heroes forth to ride with count o'hanlon." on douglas bridge we parted, but the gap o' dreams is never shut, to one whose saddled soul to-night rides out with count o'hanlon. the indian burying ground: philip freneau in spite of all the learned have said, i still my old opinion keep; the posture that we give the dead points out the soul's eternal sleep. not so the ancients of these lands;-- the indian, when from life released, again is seated with his friends, and shares again the joyous feast. his imaged birds and painted bowl, and venison, for a journey dressed, bespeak the nature of the soul, activity, that wants no rest. his bow for action ready bent, and arrows with a head of stone, can only mean that life is spent, and not the old ideas gone. thou, stranger that shalt come this way, no fraud upon the dead commit,-- observe the swelling turf and say, they do not lie, but here they sit. here still a lofty rock remains, on which the curious eye may trace, (now wasted half by wearing rains,) the fancies of a ruder race. here still an aged elm aspires, beneath whose far projecting shade, (and which the shepherd still admires,) the children of the forest played. there oft a restless indian queen, (pale shebah with her braided hair,) and many a barbarous form is seen to chide the man that lingers there. by midnight moons, o'er misting dews, in habit of the chase arrayed, the hunter still the deer pursues, the hunter and the deer--a shade! and long shall timorous fancy see the painted chief and pointed spear, the reason's self shall bow the knee to shadows and delusions here. "rank on rank of ghostly soldiers" the song of soldiers: walter de la mare as i sat musing by the frozen dyke, there was one man marching with a bright steel pike, marching in the daylight, like a ghost came he, and behind me was the moaning and the murmur of the sea. as i sat musing, 'twas not one but ten-- rank on rank of ghostly soldiers marching o'er the fen, marching in the misty air they showed in dreams to me, and behind me was the shouting and the shattering of the sea. as i sat musing, 'twas a host in dark array, with their horses and their cannon wheeling onward to the fray, moving like a shadow to the fate the brave must dree, and behind me roared the drums, rang the trumpets of the sea. by the blockhouse on the hill: helen gray cone _a ballad of ninety-eight_ the soul of the fair young man sprang up from the earth where his body lay, and he was aware of a grim dark soul companioning his way. "who are you, brother?" the fair soul said, "we wing together still!" and the soul replied that was swart and red, "the spirit of him who shot you dead by the blockhouse on the hill. "your men and you on the crest were first, and the last foe left was i, in the crackle of rifles i dropped and cursed, lightning-struck as the cheer outburst and the hot charge panted nigh. "you saw me writhe at the side of the trench; you bade--i know not what; with one last gnash, with one last wrench, i sped my last, sure shot. "the thing that lies on the sodden ground like a wrack of the whirlwind's track, your men have made of the body of me, but they could not call you back! "in that black game i won, i won! but had you worked your will, speak now the shame that you would have done in the blockhouse under the hill!" "god judge my men!" said the fair young soul, "he knows you tried them sore. had he given me power to bide an hour i had wrought that they forebore. "i bade them, ere your bullet brought this swift, this sweet release, to bear your body out of the fire that you might rest in peace." said the grim dark soul, "farewell, farewell, farewell 'twixt you and me till they set red judas free from hell to kneel at the lord christ's knee!" "not so, not so," said the fair young soul, "but reach me out your hand: we two will kneel at the lord christ's knee, and he that was hanged on the cruel tree will remember and understand. "we two will pray at the lord christ's knee that never on earth again the breath of the hot brute guns shall cloud the sight in the eyes of men!" the clean stars came into the sky, the perfect night was still; yet rose to heaven the old blood-cry from the blockhouse under the hill. night at gettysburg: don c. seitz by day golgotha sleeps, but when night comes the army rallies to the beating drums; columns are formed and banners wave o'er armies summoned from the grave. the wheat field waves with reddened grain and the wounded wail and writhe in pain. the hard-held bloody angle drips anew and pickett charges with a ghostly crew, while where the road to the village turns stands the tall shadow of old john burns! the riders: katherine tynan rheims is down in fire and smoke, the hour of god is at the stroke, round and round the ruined place,-- jesus, mary, give us grace! there are two riders clad in mail silver as the moon is pale. one is tall as a knight's spear, the younger one is lowlier. small and slim and like a maid-- steeds and riders cast no shade. who are then these cavaliers? there was a sound as heaven dropt tears. who are those who ride so light, soundless in the flaming light, where rheims burns, that was given by france to mary, queen of heaven? oh, our rheims, our rheims is down, naught is left of her renown. hist! what sound is in the breeze like the sighing of forest trees? or the great wind, or an army, or the waves of the wild sea? the tall knight rides fierce and fast to the sound of a trumpet-blast. the little knight in fire and flame, slender and soft as a dame, rides and is not far behind: his long hair floats on the wind, and ever the tramp of chivalry comes like the sound of the sea. this is michael rides abroad, prince of the army of god, and this like a lily arrayed is joan, the blesséd maid. rheims is down in fire and smoke and the hour of god's at the stroke. the white comrade: robert haven schauffler under our curtain of fire, over the clotted clods, we charged, to be withered, to reel and despairingly wheel when the signal bade us retire from the terrible odds. as we ebbed with the battle-tide, fingers of red-hot steel suddenly closed on my side. i fell, and began to pray. i crawled on my hands and lay where a shallow crater yawned wide; then,--i swooned.... when i woke, it was yet day. fierce was the pain of my wound, but i saw it was death to stir, for fifty paces away their trenches were. in torture i prayed for the dark and the stealthy step of my friend who, stanch to the very end, would creep to the danger zone and offer his life as a mark to save my own. night fell. i heard his tread, not stealthy, but firm and serene, as if my comrade's head were lifted far from that scene of passion and pain and dread; as if my comrade's heart in carnage took no part; as if my comrade's feet were set on some radiant street such as no darkness might haunt; as if my comrade's eyes no deluge of flame could surprise, no death and destruction daunt, no red-beaked bird dismay, nor sight of decay. then in the bursting shells' dim light i saw he was clad in white. for a moment i thought that i saw the smock of a shepherd in search of his flock. alert were the enemy, too, and their bullets flew straight at a mark no bullet could fail; for the seeker was tall and his robe was bright; but he did not flee nor quail. instead, with unhurrying stride he came, and gathering my tall frame, like a child, in his arms.... again i slept, and awoke from a blissful dream in a cave by a stream. my silent comrade had bound my side. no pain now was mine, but a wish that i spoke,-- a mastering wish to serve this man who had ventured through hell my doom to revoke, as only the truest of comrades can. i begged him to tell me how best i might aid him, and urgently prayed him never to leave me, whatever betide;-- when i saw he was hurt-- shot through the hands that were clasped in prayer! then as the dark drops gathered there and fell in the dirt, the wounds of my friend seemed to me such as no man might bear. those bullet-holes in the patient hands seemed to transcend all horrors that ever these war-drenched lands had known or would know till the mad world's end. then suddenly i was aware that his feet had been wounded too; and, dimming the white of his side, a dull stain grew. "you are hurt, white comrade!" i cried. his words i already foreknew: "_these are old wounds_," said he, "_but of late they have troubled me._" ghosts of the argonne: grantland rice you can hear them at night when the moon is hidden; they sound like the rustle of winter leaves, or lone lost winds that arise, unbidden, or rain that drips from the forest eaves, as they glide again from their silent crosses to meet and talk of their final fight, where over the group some stark tree tosses its eerie shadow across the night. if you'll take some night with its moonless weather, i know you will reason beyond a doubt that the rain and the wind and the leaves together are making the sounds you will hear about: the wintry rustle of dead leaves falling, the whispering wind through the matted glen; but i can swear it's a sergeant calling the ghostly roll of his squad again. they talk of war and its crimson glory, and laugh at the trick which fate has played; and over and over they tell the story of their final charge through the argonne glade; but gathering in by hill and hollow with their ghostly tramp on the rain-soaked loam, there is one set rule which the clan must follow: they never speak of returning home. they whisper still of the rifles' clatter, the riveting racket machine guns gave, until dawn comes and the clan must scatter as each one glides to his waiting grave; but here at the end of their last endeavor however their stark dreams leap the foam there is one set rule they will keep forever: "death to the phantom who speaks of home!" november eleventh: ruth comfort mitchell it was three slim young wraiths that met in the heart of a great play-ground, and two of them watched the shining sports in the fields that ringed them round, but one of them bent an earthward ear to follow a far-off sound. "listen," he cried, "they _know_, down there! oh! don't you hear the bells?" "not i," said one, with a wise young smile, "i used to hear the shells. not now; oh, not for ages now! i came from the dardanelles." "i from the marne," the third one sighed, "but these are only names. eh bien, mon vieux, one must forget those little strifes and fames! here is a host of golden lads, that play at golden games." but the new boy ran to the turf's green rim and bent with an anxious frown,-- "it's the curfew bell! i hear them cheer! it's my little own home town! i hear my dad! i can almost _see_--" and his eager gaze plunged down. "soon, mon ami," soothed the dark-eyed wraith, "these teasing dreams will cease! one plays all day, one leaps the stars, one seeks the golden fleece!" still the new boy turned his white young face from the land of the great release.-- "_but i was killed two hours ago, while they signed the terms of peace._" sea ghosts the flying dutchman: charles godfrey leland we met the _flying dutchman_, by midnight he came, his hull was all of hell fire, his sails were all aflame; fire on the main-top, fire on the bow, fire on the gun-deck, fire down below. four-and-twenty dead men, those were the crew, the devil on the bowsprit, fiddled as she flew, we gave her the broadside, right in the dip, just like a candle, went out the ship. the phantom ship: henry w. longfellow in mather's magnalia christi, of the old colonial time, may be found in prose the legend that is here set down in rhyme. a ship sailed from new haven, and the keen and the frosty airs, that filled her sails at parting, were heavy with good men's prayers. "o lord, if it be thy pleasure"-- thus prayed the old divine-- "to bury our friends in the ocean, take them, for they are thine." but master lamberton muttered, and under his breath said he, "this ship is so crank and walty, i fear our grave she will be!" and the ships that came from england, when the winter months were gone, brought no tidings of this vessel nor of master lamberton. this put the people to praying that the lord would let them hear what in his greater wisdom he had done with their friends so dear. and at last their prayers were answered: it was in the month of june, an hour before the sunset of a windy afternoon. when steadily steering landward, a ship was seen below, and they knew it was lamberton, master, who sailed so long ago. on she came with a cloud of canvas, right against the wind that blew, until the eye could distinguish the faces of the crew. then fell her straining topmasts, hanging tangled in the shrouds. and her sails were loosened and lifted, and blown away like clouds. and the masts, with all their rigging, fell slowly, one by one, and the hulk dilated and vanished, as a sea-mist in the sun! and the people who saw this marvel each said unto his friend, that this was the mould of the vessel, and thus her tragic end. and the pastor of the village gave thanks to god in prayer, that, to quiet their troubled spirits, he had sent this ship of air. the phantom light of the baie des chaleurs: arthur wentworth hamilton eaton 'tis the laughter of pines that swing and sway where the breeze from the land meets the breeze from the bay, 'tis the silvery foam of the silver tide in ripples that reach to the forest side; 'tis the fisherman's boat, in the track of sheen, plying through tangled seaweed green, o'er the baie des chaleurs. who has not heard of the phantom light that over the moaning waves at night dances and drifts in endless play, close to the shore, then far away, fierce as the flame in sunset skies, cold as the winter light that lies on the baie des chaleurs. they tell us that many a year ago, from lands where the palm and olive grow, where vines with their purple clusters creep over the hillsides gray and steep, a knight in his doublet, slashed with gold, famed in that chivalrous time of old, for valorous deeds and courage rare, sailed with a princess wondrous fair to the baie des chaleurs. that a pirate crew from some isle of the sea, a murderous band as e'er could be, with a shadowy sail, and a flag of night, that flaunted and flew in heaven's sight, swept in the wake of the lovers there, and sank the ship and its freight so fair in the baie des chaleurs. strange is the tale that the fishermen tell,-- they say that a ball of fire fell straight from the sky, with crash and roar, lighting the bay from shore to shore; that the ship with a shudder and a groan, sank through the waves to the caverns lone of the baie des chaleurs. that was the last of the pirate crew, but many a night a black flag flew from the mast of a spectre vessel, sailed by a spectre band that wept and wailed, for the wreck they had wrought on the sea and the land, for the innocent blood they had spilt on the sand, of the baie des chaleurs. this is the tale of the phantom light, that fills the mariner's heart at night, with dread as it gleams o'er his path on the bay, now by the shore, then far away, fierce as the flame in sunset skies, cold as the winter moon that lies on the baie des chaleurs. the sands of dee: charles kingsley "o mary, go and call the cattle home, and call the cattle home, and call the cattle home, across the sands of dee!" the western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, and all alone went she. the western tide crept up along the sand, and o'er and o'er the sand, and round and round the sand, as far as eye could see. the rolling mist came down and hid the land-- and never home came she. "oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- a tress of golden hair, a drownéd maiden's hair above the nets at sea? was never salmon yet that shone so fair, among the stakes of dee." they rowed her in across the rolling foam, the cruel, crawling foam, the cruel, hungry foam, to her grave beside the sea, but still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, across the sands of dee! the lake of the dismal swamp: thomas moore "they made her a grave too cold and damp for a soul so warm and true; and she's gone to the lake of the dismal swamp, where all night long, by a firefly lamp, she paddles her white canoe. and her firefly lamp i soon shall see, and her paddle i soon shall hear; long and loving our life shall be, and i'll hide the maid in a cypress-tree, when the footstep of death is near!" away to the dismal swamp he speeds,-- his path was rugged and sore, through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, through many a fen where the serpent feeds, and man never trod before! and when on the earth he sunk to sleep, if slumber his eyelids knew, he lay where the deadly vine doth weep its venomous tear, and nightly steep the flesh with blistering dew! and near him the she-wolf stirred the brake, and the copper-snake breathed in his ear, till he starting cried, from his dream awake, "oh, when shall i see the dusky lake, and the white canoe of my dear?" he saw the lake, and a meteor bright quick over its surface played,-- "welcome," he said, "my dear one's light!" and the dim shore echoed for many a night, the name of the death-cold maid! he hollowed a boat of the birchen bark, which carried him off from shore; far he followed the meteor spark, the wind was high and the clouds were dark, and the boat returned no more. but oft from the indian hunter's camp, this lover and maid so true, are seen at the hour of midnight damp, to cross the lake by a firefly lamp, and paddle their white canoe! the flying dutchman of the tappan zee: arthur guiterman on tappan zee a shroud of gray is heavy, dank, and low. and dimly gleams the beacon-ray of white pocantico. no skipper braves old hudson now where nyack's headlands frown, and safely moored is every prow of drowsy tarrytown; yet, clear as word of human lip, the river sends its shores the rhythmic rullock-clank and drip of even-rolling oars. what rower plies a reckless oar with mist on flood and strand? that oarsman toils forevermore and ne'er shall reach the land. * * * * * roystering, rollicking ram van dam, fond of a frolic and fond of a dram, fonder--yea, fonder, proclaims renown,-- of tryntje bogardus of tarrytown, leaves spuyten duyvil to roar his song! pull! for the current is sly and strong; nestles the robin and flies the bat. ho! for the frolic at kakiat! merry, the sport at the quilting bee held at the farm on the tappan zee! jovial labor with quips and flings, dances with wonderful pigeon wings, twitter of maidens and clack of dames, honest flirtations and rousing games; platters of savory beef and brawn, buckets of treacle and good suppawn, oceans of cider, and beer in lakes, mountains of crullers and honey-cakes-- such entertainment could never pall! rambout van dam took his fill of all; laughed with the wittiest, worked with a zest, danced with the prettiest, drank with the best. oh! that enjoyment should breed annoy! tryntje grew fickle or cold or coy; rambout, possessed of a jealous sprite, scowled like the sky on a stormy night, snarled a good-bye from his sullen throat, blustered away to his tugging boat. after him hastened jacobus horn: "stay with us, rambout, till monday morn. soon in the east will the dawn be gray, rest from thy oars on the sabbath day." angrily rambout van dam ripped back: "dunder en blitzen! du schobbejak! preach to thy children! and let them know spite of the duyvil and thee, i'll row thousands of sundays, if need there be, home o'er this ewig-vervlekte zee!" muttering curses, he headed south. jacob, astounded, with open mouth watched him receding, when--crash on crash volleyed the thunder! a hissing flash smote on the river! he looked again. rambout was gone from the sight of men! * * * * * old dunderberg with grumbling roar hath warned the fog to flee, but still that never-wearied oar is heard on tappan zee. a moon is closed on hudson's breast and lanterns gem the town; the phantom craft that may not rest plies ever, up and down, 'neath skies of blue and skies of gray, in spite of wind or tide, until the trump of judgment day-- a sound--and naught beside. the white ships and the red: joyce kilmer with drooping sail and pennant that never a wind may reach, they float in sunless waters beside a sunless beach. their misty masts and funnels are white as driven snow, and with a pallid radiance their ghostly bulwarks glow. here is a spanish galleon that once with gold was gay, here is a roman trireme whose hues outshone the day. but tyrian dyes have faded, and prows that once were bright with rainbow stains wear only death's livid, dreadful white. white as the ice that clove her that unforgotten day, among her pallid sisters the grim _titanic_ lay. and through the leagues above her she looked aghast and said: "what is this living ship that comes where every ship is dead?" the ghostly vessels trembled from ruined stern to prow; what was this thing of terror that broke their vigil now? down through the startled ocean a mighty vessel came, not white, as all dead ships must be, but red, like living flame! the pale green waves above her were swiftly, strangely dyed, by the great scarlet stream that flowed from out her wounded side. and all her decks were scarlet and all her shattered crew. she sank among the white ghost ships and stained them through and through. the grim _titanic_ greeted her. "and who art thou?" she said; "why dost thou join our ghostly fleet arrayed in living red? we are the ships of sorrow who spend the weary night, until the dawn of judgment day, obscure and still and white." "nay," said the scarlet visitor, "though i sink through the sea, a ruined thing that was a ship, i sink not as did ye. for ye met with your destiny by storm or rock or fight, so through the lagging centuries ye wear your robes of white. "but never crashing iceberg nor honest shot of foe, nor hidden reef has sent me the way that i must go. my wounds that stain the waters, my blood that is like flame, bear witness to a loathly deed, a deed without a name. "i went not forth to battle, i carried friendly men, the children played about my decks, the women sang--and then-- and then--the sun blushed scarlet and heaven hid its face, the world that god created became a shameful place! "my wrongs cry out for vengeance, the blow that sent me here was aimed in hell. my dying scream has reached jehovah's ear. not all the seven oceans shall wash away that stain; upon the brow that wears a crown i am the brand of cain." when god's great voice assembles the fleet on judgment day, the ghosts of ruined ships will rise in sea and strait and bay. though they have lain for ages beneath the changeless flood, they shall be white as silver, but one--shall be like blood. featherstone's doom: robert stephen hawker twist thou and twine! in light and gloom a spell is on thy hand; the wind shall be thy changeful loom, thy web the twisting sand. twine from this hour, in ceaseless toil, on blackrock's sullen shore: till cordage of the sand shall coil where crested surges roar. 'tis for that hour, when from the wave near voices wildly cried; when thy stern hand no succour gave, the cable at thy side. twist thou and twine! in light and gloom the spell is on thine hand; the wind shall be thy changeful loom, thy web the shifting sand. sea-ghosts: may byron o' stormy nights, be they summer or winter, hurricane nights like these, when spar and topsail are rag and splinter hurled o'er the sluicing seas, to the jagged edge where the cliffs lean over, climb as you best may climb; lie there and listen where mysteries hover, haunting the tides of time. * * * * * the crumbling surf on the shingle rattles, the great waves topple and pour, full of the fury of ancient battles, clamant with cries of war. the gale has summoned, the night has beckoned-- lo, from the east and west, stately shadows arise unreckoned out of their deeps of rest! wild on the wind are voices ringing, echoes that throng the air, valiant voices, of victory singing, or dark with sublime despair. to the distant drums with their rumbling hollow, the answering trumpets blow: war-horn and fife and cymbals follow, from galleys of long ago. the crested breaker on reef and boulder that swirls in cavernous black, carries a challenge from decks that moulder to ships that never came back. the gale that swoops and the sea that wrestles are one in their wrath and might with the crash and clashing of arméd vessels, grinding across the night. out of the dark the broadsides thunder, clattering to and fro: the old sea-fighters, the old world's wonder, are manning their wrecks below. you shall smell the smoke, you shall hear the crackle, shall mark on the surly blast rush and tear of the rending tackle, thud of the falling mast. with the foam that flies and the spray that spatters, scourging the strand again, a terrible outcry leaps and shatters-- tumult of drowning men. the steep gray cliff is alive and trembles-- was never such fear as this! a fleet, a fleet at its foot assembles out of the sea's abyss. it quails and quivers, its grassy verges vibrant with uttermost dread: it knows the groan of the laden surges, the shout of the deathless dead. in a rolling march of reverberations, marching with wind and tide, heroes of unremembered nations vaunt their immortal pride. briton, spaniard, phoenician, roman, gallant implacable hosts-- locked in fight with phantom foeman, gather the grim sea-ghosts. fog wraiths: mildred howells in from the ocean the white fog creeps, blotting out ship, and rock, and tree, while wrapped in its shroud, from the soundless deeps, back to the land come the lost at sea. over the weeping grass they drift by well-known paths to their homes again, to finger the latch they may not lift and peer through the glistering window-pane. then in the churchyard each seeks the stone to its memory raised among the rest, and they watch by their empty graves alone till the fog rolls back to the ocean's breast. cheerful spirits cape horn gospel: john masefield "i was in a hooker once," said karlssen, "and bill, as was a seaman, died, so we lashed him in an old tarpaulin and tumbled him across the side; and the fun of it was that all his gear was divided up among the crew before that blushing human error our crawling little captain, knew. "on the passage home one morning (as certain as i prays for grace) there was old bill's shadder a-hauling at the mizzen weather topsail brace. he was all grown green with seaweed he was all lashed up and shored; so i says to him, i says, 'why, billy! what's a-bringin' of you back aboard?' "'i'm a-weary of them there mermaids,' says old bill's ghost to me; 'it ain't no place for a christian below there--under sea. for it's all blown sand and shipwrecks and old bones eaten bare, and them cold fishy females with long green weeds for hair. "'and there ain't no dances shuffled, and no old yarns is spun, and there ain't no stars but starfish, and never any moon or sun. i heard your keel a-passing and the running rattle of the brace, and i says, "stand by,"' says william, '"for a shift towards a better place."' "well, he sogered about decks till sunrise, when a rooster in the hen-coop crowed, and as so much smoke he faded, and as so much smoke he goed; and i've often wondered since, jan, how his old ghost stands to fare long o' them cold fishy females with long green weeds for hair." legend of hamilton tighe: richard harris barham the captain is walking his quarter-deck, with a troubled brow and a bended neck; one eye is down through the hatchway cast, the other turns up to the truck on the mast; yet none of the crew may venture to hint "our skipper hath gotten a sinister squint!" the captain again the letter hath read which the bum-boat woman brought out to spithead-- still, since the good ship sail'd away, he reads that letter three times a-day; yet the writing is broad and fair to see as a skipper may read in his degree, and the seal is as black, and as broad, and as flat, as his own cockade in his own cock'd hat: he reads, and he says, as he walks to and fro, "curse the old woman--she bothers me so!" he pauses now, for the topmen hail-- "on the larboard quarter a sail! a sail!" that grim old captain he turns him quick, and bawls through his trumpet for hairy-faced dick. "the breeze is blowing--huzza! huzza! the breeze is blowing--away! away! the breeze is blowing--a race! a race! the breeze is blowing--we near the chase! blood will flow, and bullets will fly,-- oh, where will be then young hamilton tighe?" --"on the foeman's deck, where a man should be, with his sword in his hand, and his foe at his knee. cockswain, or boatswain, or reefer may try, but the first man on board will be hamilton tighe!" * * * * * hairy-faced dick hath a swarthy hue, between a gingerbread-nut and a jew, and his pigtail is long, and bushy, and thick, like a pump-handle stuck on the end of a stick. hairy-faced dick understands his trade; he stand by the breech of a long carronade, the linstock glows in his bony hand, waiting that grim old skipper's command. "the bullets are flying--huzza! huzza! the bullets are flying--away! away!"-- the brawny boarders mount by the chains, and are over their buckles in blood and in brains. on the foeman's deck, where a man should be, young hamilton tighe waves his cutlass high, and capitaine crapaud bends low at his knee. hairy-faced dick, linstock in hand, is waiting that grim-looking skipper's command:-- a wink comes sly from that sinister eye-- hairy-faced dick at once lets fly, and knocks off the head of young hamilton tighe! there's a lady sits lonely in bower and hall, her pages and handmaidens come at her call: "now look ye, my handmaidens, haste now and see how he sits there and glow'rs with his head on his knee! the maidens smile, and, her thought to destroy, they bring her a little, pale, mealy-faced boy; and the mealy-faced boy says, "mother, dear, now hamilton's dead, i've ten thousand a-year!" the lady has donned her mantle and hood, she is bound for shrift at st. mary's rood:-- "oh! the taper shall burn, and the bell shall toll, and the mass shall be said for my step-son's soul, and the tablet fair shall be hung on high, orate pro anima hamilton tighe!" her coach and four draws up to the door with her groom, and her footman, and a half score more the lady steps into her coach alone, and they hear her sigh, and they hear her groan; they close the door, and they turn the pin, but there's one rides with her that never stept in! all the way there, and all the way back, the harness strains, and the coach-springs crack, the horses snort, and plunge, and kick, till the coachman thinks he is driving old nick; and the grooms and the footmen wonder, and say, "what makes the old coach so heavy to-day?" but the mealy-faced boy peeps in, and sees a man sitting there with his head on his knees! 'tis ever the same--in hall or in bower, wherever the place, whatever the hour, that lady mutters, and talks to the air, and her eye is fix'd on an empty chair; but the mealy-faced boy still whispers with dread, "she talks to a man with never a head!" * * * * * there's an old yellow admiral living at bath, as grey as a badger, as thin as a lath; and his very queer eyes have such very queer leers, they seem to be trying to peep at his ears; that old yellow admiral goes to the rooms, and he plays long whist, but he frets and he fumes, for all his knaves stand upside down, and the jack of clubs does nothing but frown; and the kings and the aces, and all the best trumps get into the hands of the other old frumps; while, close to his partner, a man he sees counting the tricks with his head on his knees. in ratcliffe highway there's an old marine store, and a great black doll hangs out of the door; there are rusty locks, and dusty bags, and musty phials, and fusty rags, and a lusty old woman, call'd thirsty nan, and her crusty old husband's a hairy-faced man! that hairy-faced man is sallow and wan, and his great thick pigtail is wither'd and gone; and he cries, "take away that lubberly chap that sits there and grins with his head in his lap!" and the neighbors say, as they see him look sick, "what a rum old covey is hairy-faced dick!" that admiral, lady, and hairy-faced man may say what they please, and may do what they can; but one things seems remarkably clear,-- they may die to-morrow, or live till next year,-- but wherever they live, or whenever they die, they'll never get quit of young hamilton tighe! the supper superstition: thomas hood _a pathetic ballad_ "oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!"--_mercutio._ 'twas twelve o'clock by the chelsea chimes, when all in a hungry trim, good mr. jupp sat down to sup with wife, and kate and jim. said he, "upon this dainty cod how bravely i shall sup"-- when, whiter than the tablecloth, a ghost came rising up! "o father dear, o mother dear, dear kate, and brother jim-- you know when some one went to sea-- don't cry--but i am him! "you hope some day with fond embrace to greet your lonesome jack, but oh, i am come here to say i'm never coming back! "from alexandria we set sail, with corn, and oil, and figs, but steering 'too much sow,' we struck upon the sow and pigs! "the ship we pumped till we could see old england from the tops; when down she went with all our hands, right in the channel's chops. "just give a look in norey's chart, the very place it tells: i think it says twelve fathom deep, clay bottom, mixed with shells. "well, there we are till 'hands aloft,' we have at last a call, the pug i had for brother jim, kate's parrot, too, and all." "but oh, my spirit cannot rest in davy jones's sod, till i've appeared to you and said, 'don't sup on that there cod! "you live on land, and little think what passes in the sea; last sunday week, at p.m., that cod was picking me! "those oysters, too, that look so plump, and seem so nicely done, they put my corpse in many shells, instead of only one. "oh, do not eat those oysters, then, and do not touch the shrimps; when i was in my briny grave they sucked my blood like imps! "don't eat what brutes would never eat, the brutes i used to pat, they'll know the smell they used to smell, just try the dog and cat!" the spirit fled, they wept his fate, and cried alas, alack! at last up started brother jim-- "let's try if jack, was jack!" they called the dog, they called the cat, the little kitten, too, and down they put the cod and sauce to see what brutes would do. old tray licked all the oysters up, puss never stood at crimps, but munched the cod--and little kit quite feasted on the shrimps! the thing was odd, and minus cod and sauce, they stood like posts; oh, prudent folks, for fear of hoax, put no belief in ghosts! the ingoldsby penance: richard harris barham _a legend of palestine and west kent_ out and spake sir ingoldsby bray, a stalwart knight, i ween, was he, "come east, come west, come lance in rest, come falchion in hand, i'll tickle the best of the soldan's chivalrie!" oh, they came west, and they came east, twenty-four emirs and sheiks at the least, and they hammer'd away at sir ingoldsby bray, fall back, fall edge, cut, thrust, and point,-- but he topp'd off head, and he lopp'd off joint; twenty and three, of high degree, lay stark and stiff on the crimson'd lea, all--all save one--and he ran up a tree! "now count them, my squire, now count them and see!" "twenty and three! twenty and three!-- all of them nobles of high degree: there they be lying on ascalon lea!" out and spake sir ingoldsby bray, "what news? what news? come tell to me! what news? what news, thou little foot-page?-- i've been whacking the foe till it seems an age since i was in ingoldsby hall so free! what news? what news from ingoldsby hall? come tell me now, thou page so small!" "o, hawk and hound are safe and sound, beast in byre and steed in stall; and the watch-dog's bark, as soon as it's dark bays wakeful guard around ingoldsby hall!" --"i care not a pound for hawk or for hound for steed in stall or for watch-dog's bay. fain would i hear of my dainty dear; how fares dame alice, my lady gay?"-- sir ingoldsby bray, he said in his rage, "what news? what news? thou naughty foot-page." the little foot-page full low crouch'd he, and he doff'd his cap, and he bended his knee, "now lithe and listen, sir bray, to me: lady alice sits lonely in bower and hall, her sighs they rise, and her tears they fall. she sits alone, and she makes her moan; dance and song, she considers quite wrong; feast and revel mere snares of the devil; she mendeth her hose, and she crieth 'alack! when will sir ingoldsby bray come back?'" "thou liest! thou liest! thou naughty foot-page, full loud doth thou lie, false page, to me! there in thy breast, 'neath thy silken vest, what scroll is that, false page, i see?" sir ingoldsby bray in his rage drew near, that little foot-page, he blanch'd with fear; "now where may the prior of abingdon lie? king richard's confessor, i ween, is he, and tidings rare to him do i bear, and news of price from his rich ab-bee!" "now nay, now nay, thou naughty page! no learned clerk i trow am i, but well i ween may there be seen dame alice's hand with half an eye; now nay, now nay, thou naughty page, from abingdon abbey comes not thy news; although no clerk, well may i mark the particular turn of her p's and q's!" sir ingoldsby bray in his fury and rage, by the back of the neck takes that little foot-page; the scroll he seizes, the page he squeezes, and buffets--and pinches his nose till he sneezes;-- then he cuts with his dagger the silken threads which they used in those days 'stead of little queen's heads. when the contents of the scroll met his view, sir ingoldsby bray in a passion grew, backward he drew his mailéd shoe, and he kicked that naughty foot-page, that he flew like a cloth-yard shaft from a bended yew, i may not say whither--i never knew. "now count the slain upon ascalon plain-- go count them, my squire, go count them again!" "twenty and three! there they be, stiff and stark on that crimson'd lea!-- twenty and three?--stay--let me see! stretched in his gore there lieth one more! by the pope's triple crown there are twenty and _four_! twenty-four trunks i ween are there but their heads and their limbs are no-body knows where! ay, twenty-four corpses, i rede there be, though one got away, and ran up a tree!" "look nigher, look nigher, my trusty squire!" "one is the corse of a bare-footed friar!" out and spake sir ingoldsby bray, "a boon, a boon, king richard," quoth he, "now heav'n thee save, a boon i crave, a boon, sir king, on my bended knee; a year and a day have i been away, king richard, from ingoldsby hall so free; dame alice she sits there in lonely guise, and she makes her moan, and she sobs and she sighs, and tears like rain-drops fall from her eyes, and she darneth her hose, and she crieth 'alack! oh, when will sir ingoldsby bray come back?' a boon, a boon, my liege," quoth he, "fair ingoldsby hall i fain would see!" "rise up, rise up, sir ingoldsby bray," king richard said right graciously, "of all in my host that i love the most, i love none better, sir bray, than thee! rise up, rise up, thou hast my boon; but mind you make haste, and come back again soon!" fytte ii pope gregory sits in st. peter's chair, pontiff proud, i ween, is he, and a belted knight, in armour dight, is begging a boon on his bended knee, with sighs of grief and sounds of woe, featly he kisseth his holiness' toe. "now pardon, holy father, i crave, o holy father, pardon and grace! in my fury and rage a little foot-page i have left, i fear me, in evil case: a scroll of shame from a faithless dame did that naughty foot-page to a paramour bear: i gave him a 'lick' with a stick, and a kick, that sent him--i can't tell your holiness where! had he as many necks as hairs, he had broken them all down those perilous stairs!" "rise up, rise up, sir ingoldsby bray, rise up, rise up, i say to thee; a soldier, i trow, of the cross art thou; rise up, rise up, from thy bended knee! ill it seems that soldier true of holy church should vainly sue:-- --foot-pages they are by no means rare, a thriftless crew, i ween, be they; well mote we spare a page--or a pair, for the matter of that--sir ingoldsby bray, but stout and true soldiers like you, grow scarcer and scarcer every day!-- be prayers for the dead duly read, let a mass be sung, and a _pater_ be said: so may your qualms of conscience cease, and the little foot-page shall rest in peace!" "now pardon, holy father, i crave. o holy father, pardon and grace! dame alice, my wife, the bane of my life, i have left, i fear me, in evil case! a scroll of shame in my rage i tore, which that caitiff page to a paramour bore; 'twere bootless to tell how i storm'd and swore; alack! and alack! too surely i knew the turn of each p, and the tail of each q, and away to ingoldsby hall i flew! dame alice i found,--she sank on the ground,-- i twisted her neck till i twisted it round! with jibe and jeer and mock and scoff, i twisted it on--till i twisted it off!-- all the king's doctors and all the king's men can't put fair alice's head on agen!" "well-a-day! well-a-day! sir ingoldsby bray, why really--i hardly know what to say:-- foul sin, i trow, a fair ladye to slay, because she's perhaps been a little too gay.-- --monk must chaunt and nun must pray; for each mass they sing, and each pray'r they say, for a year and a day, sir ingoldsby bray a fair rose-noble must duly pay! so may his qualms of conscience cease, and the soul of dame alice may rest in peace!" "now pardon, holy father, i crave, o holy father, pardon and grace! no power could save that paramour knave; i left him, i wot, in evil case! there midst the slain upon ascalon plain, unburied, i trow, doth his body remain his legs lie here and his arms lie there, and his head lies--i can't tell your holiness where!" "now out and alas! sir ingoldsby bray, foul sin it were, thou doughty knight, to hack and to hew a champion true of holy church in such pitiful plight! foul sin her warriors so to slay, when they're scarcer and scarcer every day!-- a chauntry fair, and of monks a pair, to pray for his soul for ever and aye, thou must duly endow, sir ingoldsby bray, and fourteen marks by the year thou must pay for plenty of lights to burn there o' nights-- none of your rascally '_dips_'--but sound, round, ten-penny moulds of four to the pound;-- and a shirt of the roughest and coarsest hair for a year and a day, sir ingoldsby, wear!-- so may your qualms of conscience cease, and the soul of the soldier shall rest in peace!" "now, nay, holy father; now nay, now nay! less penance may serve!" quoth sir ingoldsby bray. "no champion free of the cross was he; no belted baron of high degree; no knight nor squire did there expire; he was, i trow, a bare-footed friar! and the abbot of abingdon long may wait, with his monks around him, and early and late, may look from loop-hole, and turret, and gate, he hath lost his prior--his prior his pate!" "now thunder and turf!" pope gregory said, and his hair raised his triple crown right off his head-- "now thunder and turf! and out and alas! a horrible thing has come to pass! what! cut off the head of the reverend prior, and say he was '_only_ (!!!) a bare-footed friar!'-- 'what baron or squire, or knight of the shire is half so good as a holy friar?' _o, turpissime! vir nequissime!_ _sceleratissime!--quissime!--issime!_ never, i trow, have the _servi servorum_ had before 'em such a breach of decorum, such a gross violation of _morum bonorum_, and won't have again _sæcula sæculorum_!-- come hither to me, my cardinals three, my bishops in _partibus_, masters in _artibus_, hither to me, a.b. and d.d., doctors and proctors of every degree! go fetch me a book, go fetch me a bell as big as a dustman's!--and a candle as well-- i'll send him where--good manners won't let me tell!" --"pardon and grace!--now pardon and grace!" --sir ingoldsby bray fell flat on his face-- "_mea culpa!_--in sooth i'm in pitiful case. peccavi! peccavi!--i've done every wrong! but my heart it is stout and my arm it is strong, and i'll fight for holy church all the day long; and the ingoldsby lands are broad and fair, and they're here and they're there and i can't tell you where, and the holy church shall come in for her share!" pope gregory paused and he sat himself down, and he somewhat relaxed his terrible frown, and his cardinals three they picked up his crown. "now if it be so that you own you've been wrong, and your heart is so stout and your arm is so strong, and you really will fight like a trump all day long;-- if the ingoldsby lands do lie here and there, and holy church shall come in for her share,-- why, my cardinals three, you'll agree with me, that it gives a new turn to the whole affair, and i think that the penitent need not despair! --if it be so, as you seem to say, rise up, rise up, sir ingoldsby bray! an abbey so fair sir bray shall found, whose innermost wall's encircling bound shall take in a couple of acres of ground; and there in that abbey, all the year round, a full choir of monks and a full choir of nuns, and sir ingoldsby bray, without delay, shall hie him again to ascalon plain, and gather the bones of the foully slain; and shall place said bones, with all possible care, in an elegant shrine in his abbey so fair; and plenty of lights shall be there o' nights-- none of your rascally 'dips,' but sound, best superfine wax-wicks, four to the pound; and monk and nun shall pray, each one, for the soul of the prior of abingdon! and sir ingoldsby bray, so bold and so brave, never shall wash himself, comb or shave, nor adorn his body, nor drink gin-toddy, nor indulge in a pipe-- but shall dine upon tripe and blackberries gathered before they are ripe, and forever abhor, renounce and abjure rum, hollands, and brandy, wine, punch and _liqueur_!" (sir ingoldsby bray here gave way to a feeling which prompted a word profane, but he swallowed it down, by an effort, again, and his holiness luckily fancied his gulp a mere repetition of _o meâ culpâ_!) "thrice three times on candlemas-day, between vespers and compline, sir ingoldsby bray shall run round the abbey, as best he may, subjecting his back to thump and to thwack, well and truly laid on by a bare-footed friar, with a stout cat o' ninetails of whip-cord and wire, and not he nor his heir shall take, use or bear, any more from this day, the surname of bray, as being dishonour'd, but all issue male he has shall, with himself, go henceforth by an _alias_! so his qualms of conscience at length shall cease, and page, dame and prior shall rest in peace!" sir ingoldsby (now no longer bray) is off like a shot away and away, over the brine to far palestine, to rummage and hunt over ascalon plain for the unburied bones of his victim slain. "look out, my squire, look nigher and nigher, look out for the corpse of a bare-footed friar! and pick up the arms and the legs of the dead, and pick up his body and pick up his head!" fytte iii ingoldsby abbey is fair to see, it hath manors a dozen, and royalties three, with right of free-warren (whatever that be); rich pastures in front, and green woods in the rear, all in full leaf at the right time of year; about christmas or so, they fall into the sear, and the prospect, of course, becomes rather more drear; but it's really delightful in spring-time,--and near the great gate father thames rolls sun-bright and clear. cobham woods to the right,--on the opposite shore landon hill in the distance, ten miles off or more; then you've milton and gravesend behind--and before you can see almost all the way down to the nore.-- so charming a spot, it's rarely one's lot to see, and when seen it's as rarely forgot. yes, ingoldsby abbey is fair to see, and its monks and its nuns are fifty and three, and there they all stand each in their degree, drawn up in the front of their sacred abode, two by two in their regular mode, while a funeral comes down the rochester road, palmers twelve, from a foreign strand, cockle in hat and staff in hand, come marching in pairs, a holy band! little boys twelve, dressed all in white, each with his brazen censer bright, and singing away with all his might, follow the palmers--a goodly sight; next high in air twelve yeomen bear on their sturdy backs, with a good deal of care, a patent sarcophagus firmly rear'd of spanish mahogany (not veneer'd), and behind walks a knight with a very long beard. close by his side is a friar, supplied with a stout cat o' ninetails of tough cow-hide, while all sorts of queer men bring up the rear--men-at-arms, nigger captives, and bow-men and spear-men. it boots not to tell what you'll guess very well, how some sang the _requiem_, some toll'd the bell; suffice it to say, 'twas on candlemas-day the procession i speak of reached the _sacellum_: and in lieu of a supper the knight on his crupper received the first taste of the father's _flagellum_;-- that, as chronicles tell, he continued to dwell all the rest of his days in the abbey he'd founded, by the pious of both sexes ever surrounded, and, partaking the fare of the monks and the nuns, ate the cabbage alone without touching the buns; --that year after year, having run round the _quad_ with his back, as enjoin'd him, exposed to the rod, having not only kissed it, but bless'd it and thank'd it, he died, as all thought in the odour of sanctity, when,--strange to relate! and you'll hardly believe what i'm going to tell you,--next candlemas eve the monks and the nuns in the dead of the night tumble, all of them, out of their bed in affright, alarm'd by the bawls, and the calls and the squalls of some one who seemed running all round the walls! looking out, soon by the light of the moon there appears most distinctly to ev'ry one's view, and making, as seems to them, all this ado, the form of a knight with a beard like a jew, as black as if steep'd in that "matchless" of hunt's, and so bushy, it would not disgrace mr. muntz; a bare-footed friar stands behind him, and shakes a _flagellum_, whose lashes appear to be snakes; while, more terrible still, the astounded beholders perceive the friar has no head on his shoulders, but is holding his pate, in his left hand, out straight as if by a closer inspection to find where to get the best cut at his victim behind, with the aid of a small "bull-eye lantern,"--as placed by our own new police,--in a belt round his waist. all gaze with surprise, scarce believing their eyes, when the knight makes a start like a race-horse and flies from his headless tormentor, repeating his cries,-- in vain,--for the friar to his skirts closely sticks, "running after him," so said the abbot,--"like bricks!" thrice three times did the phantom knight course round the abbey as best he might be-thwack'd and be-smack'd by the headless sprite, while his shrieks so piercing made all hearts thrill,-- then a whoop and a halloo,--and all was still! ingoldsby abbey has passed away, and at this time of day one can hardly survey any traces or track, save a few ruins, grey with age, and fast mouldering into decay, of the structure once built by sir ingoldsby bray; but still there are many folks living who say that on every candlemas eve, the knight, accoutred, and dight in his armour bright, with his thick black beard,--and the clerical sprite, with his head in his hand, and his lantern alight, run round the spot where the old abbey stood, and are seen in the neighboring glebe-land and wood; more especially still, if it's stormy and windy, you may hear them for miles kicking up their wild shindy; and that once in a gale of wind, sleet and hail they frighten'd the horses and upset the mail. what 'tis breaks the rest of those souls unblest would now be a thing rather hard to be guessed, though some say the squire, on his death-bed, confess'd that on ascalon plain, when the bones of the slain were collected that day, and packed up in a chest, caulk'd and made water-tight, by command of the knight, though the legs and the arms they'd got all pretty right, and the body itself in a decentish plight, yet the friar's _pericranium_ was nowhere in sight; so, to save themselves trouble, they pick'd up instead, and popp'd on the shoulders a saracen's head! thus the knight in the terms of his penance had fail'd, and the pope's absolution, of course, naught avail'd. now, though this might be, it don't seem to agree with one thing which, i own, is a poser to me,-- i mean, as the miracle, wrought at the shrine containing the bones brought from far palestine were so great and notorious, 'tis hard to combine this _fact_ with the reason these people assign, or suppose that the head of the murder'd divine could be aught but what yankees would call "genu-_ine_." 'tis a very nice question--but be't as it may, the ghost of sir ingoldsby (_ci-devant_ bray), it is boldly affirm'd by the folks great and small about milton and chaulk, and round cobham hall, still on candlemas-day haunts the old ruin'd wall and that many have seen him, and more heard him squall. so i think, when the facts of the case you recall, my inference, reader, you'll fairly forestall, viz: that, spite of the hope held out by the pope, sir ingoldsby bray was d----d after all! moral foot-pages, and servants of ev'ry degree, in livery or out of it, listen to me! see what comes of lying!--don't join in the league to humbug your master or aid an intrigue! ladies! married and single, from this understand how foolish it is to send letters by hand! don't stand for the sake of a penny,--but when you 've a billet to send to a lover or friend, put it into the post, and don't cheat the revenue! reverend gentlemen! you who are given to roam, don't keep up a soft correspondence at home! but while you're abroad lead respectable lives; love your neighbours, and welcome,--but don't love their wives! and, as bricklayers cry from the tiles and the leads when they're shovelling the snow off, "take care of your heads"! knights!--whose hearts are so stout, and whose arms are so strong, learn,--to twist a wife's neck is decidedly wrong! if your servants offend you, or give themselves airs, rebuke them--but mildly--don't kick them downstairs! to "poor richard's" homely old proverb attend, "if you want matters well managed, go!--if not, send!" a servant's too often a negligent elf! --if it's business of consequence, do it yourself! the state of society seldom requires people now to bring home with them unburied friars, but they sometimes do bring home an inmate for life; now--don't do that by proxy!--but choose your own wife! for think how annoying 'twould be, when you're wed, to find in your bed, on the pillow, instead of the sweet face you look for--a saracen's head! pompey's ghost: thomas hood 'twas twelve o'clock, not twelve at night, but twelve o'clock at noon; because the sun was shining bright and not the silver moon. a proper time for friends to call, or pots, or penny-post; when lo! as phoebe sat at work, she saw her pompey's ghost! now when a female has a call from people that are dead, like paris ladies, she receives her visitors in bed. but pompey's spirit would not come like spirits that are white, because he was a blackamoor, and wouldn't show at night! but of all unexpected things that happen to us here, the most unpleasant is a rise in what is very dear. so phoebe screamed an awful scream to prove the seaman's text, that after black appearances, white squalls will follow next. "o phoebe dear! oh, phoebe dear! don't go and scream or faint; you think because i'm black, i am the devil, but i ain't! behind the heels of lady lambe i walked while i had breath, but that is past, and i am now a-walking after death! "no murder, though, i come to tell, by base and bloody crime; so, phoebe dear, put off your fits to some more fitting time. no coroner, like a boatswain's mate, my body need attack, with his round dozen to find out why i have died so black. "one sunday, shortly after tea, my skin began to burn, as if i had in my inside a heater like a urn. delirious in the night i grew, and as i lay in bed, they say i gathered all the wool you see upon my head. "his lordship for his doctor sent, my treatment to begin; i wish that he had called him out before he called him in! for though to physic he was bred, and passed at surgeons' hall, to make his post a sinecure, he never cured at all! "the doctor looked about my breast and then about my back, and then he shook his head and said, 'your case looks very black.' at first he sent me hot cayenne, and then gamboge to swallow. but still my fever would not turn to scarlet or to yellow! "with madder and with turmeric, he made his next attack; but neither he nor all his drugs could stop my dying black. at last i got so sick of life, and sick of being dosed, one monday morning i gave up my physic and the ghost! "oh, phoebe dear, what pain it was to sever every tie! you know black beetles feel as much as giants when they die. and if there is a bridal bed, or bride of little worth, it's lying in a bed of mould, along with mother earth. "alas! some happy, happy day, in church i hoped to stand, and like a muff of sable skin receive your lily hand. but sternly with that piebald match, my fate untimely clashes; for now, like pompey-double-i, i'm sleeping in my ashes! "and now farewell! a last farewell! i'm wanted down below, and have but time enough to add one word before i go-- in mourning crêpe and bombazine ne'er spend your precious pelf; don't go in black for me--for i can do it for myself. "henceforth within my grave i rest, but death, who there inherits, allowed my spirit leave to come, you seemed so near your spirits: but do not sigh, and do not cry, by grief too much engrossed, nor for a ghost of color turn the color of a ghost! "again, farewell, my phoebe dear! once more a last adieu! for i must make myself as scarce as swans of sable hue." from black to gray, from gray to nought the shape began to fade-- and like an egg, though not so white, the ghost was newly laid!" the ghost: thomas hood _a very serious ballad_ in middle row, some years ago, there lived one mr. brown; and many folks considered him the stoutest man in town. but brown and stout will both wear out-- one friday he died hard, and left a widow'd wife to mourn at twenty pence a yard. now widow b. in two short months thought mourning quite a tax; and wished, like mr. wilberforce, to _manumit_ her blacks. with mr. street she soon was sweet; the thing came thus about: she asked him in at home, and then at church, he asked her out! assurance such as this the man in ashes could not stand; so like a phoenix he rose up against the hand in hand! one dreary night the angry sprite appeared before her view; it came a little after one, but she was after two! "oh, mrs. b., o mrs. b., are these your sorrow's deeds, already getting up a flame to burn your widows' weeds? "it's not so long since i have left for aye the mortal scene; my memory--like rogers's-- should still be bound in green! "yet if my face you still retrace i almost have a doubt-- i'm like an old forget-me-not with all the leaves torn out! "to think that on that finger-joint another pledge should cling; o bess! upon my very soul it struck like 'knock and ring.' "a ton of marble on my breast can't hinder my return; your conduct, ma'am, has set my blood a-boiling in its urn! "remember, oh, remember how the marriage rite did run,-- if ever we one flesh should be 'tis now--when i have none! "and you, sir--once a bosom friend-- of perjured faith convict, as ghostly toe can give no blow, consider yourself kicked. "a hollow voice is all i have, but this i tell you plain, marry come up! you marry, ma'am, and i'll come up again." more he had said, but chanticleer the spritely shade did shock with sudden crow--and off he went like fowling piece at cock! mary's ghost: thomas hood _a pathetic ballad_ 'twas in the middle of the night, to sleep young william tried, when mary's ghost came stealing in, and stood at his bedside. "o william dear! o william dear! my rest eternal ceases; alas! my everlasting peace is broken into pieces. "i thought the last of all my cares would end with my last minute; but though i went to my long home i didn't stay long in it. "the body-snatchers they have come and made a snatch at me; it's very hard them kind of men won't let a body be! "you thought that i was buried deep, quite decent-like and chary, but from her grave, in mary-bone, they've come and boned your mary. "the arm that used to take your arm is took to doctor vyse; and both my legs are gone to walk the hospital at guy's. "i vowed that you should have my hand, but fate gives us denial; you'll find it there, at doctor bell's, in spirits and a phial. "as for my feet, the little feet you used to find so pretty, there's one, i know, in bedford row, the t'other's in the city. "i can't tell where my head is gone, but doctor carpue can; as for my trunk, it's all packed up to go by pickford's van. "i wish you'd go to mr. p., and save me such a ride; i don't half like the outside place they've took for my inside. "the cock it crows--i must be gone! my william, we must part! but i'll be yours in death, altho' sir astley has my heart. "don't go to weep upon my grave, and think that there i be; they haven't left an atom there of my anatomie." the superstitious ghost: arthur guiterman i'm such a quiet little ghost, demure and inoffensive, the other spirits say i'm most absurdly apprehensive. through all the merry hours of night i'm uniformly cheerful; i love the dark; but in the light, i own i'm rather fearful. each dawn i cower down in bed, in every brightness seeing that weird uncanny form of dread-- an awful human being! of course i'm told they can't exist, that nature would not let them: but willy spook, the humanist, declares that he has met them! he says they do not glide like us, but walk in eerie paces; they're solid, not diaphanous, with arms! and legs!! and faces!!! and some are beggars, some are kings, some have and some are wanting, they squander time in doing things, instead of simply haunting. they talk of "art," the horrid crew, and things they call "ambitions."-- oh, yes, i know as well as you they're only superstitions. but should the dreadful day arrive when, starting up, i see one, i'm sure 'twill scare me quite alive; and then--oh, then i'll be one! dave lilly: joyce kilmer there's a brook on the side of greylock that used to be full of trout, but there's nothing there now but minnows; they say it is all fished out. i fished there many a summer day some twenty years ago, and i never quit without getting a mess of a dozen or so. there was a man, dave lilly, who lived on the north adams road, and he spent all his time fishing, while his neighbors reaped and sowed. he was the luckiest fisherman in the berkshire hills, i think. and when he didn't go fishing he'd sit in the tavern and drink. well, dave is dead and buried and nobody cares very much; they have no use in greylock for drunkards and loafers and such, but i always liked dave lilly, he was pleasant as you could wish, he was shiftless and good-for-nothing, but he certainly could fish. the other night i was walking up the hill from williamstown and i came to the brook i mentioned, and i stopped on the bridge and sat down. i looked at the blackened water with its little flecks of white, and i heard it ripple and whisper in the still of the summer night. and after i'd been there a minute it seemed to me i could feel the presence of someone near me, and i heard the hum of a reel. and the water was churned and broken, and something was brought to land by a twist and a flirt of a shadowy rod in a deft and shadowy hand. i scrambled down to the brookside and hunted all about; there wasn't a sign of a fisherman; there wasn't a sign of a trout. but i heard somebody chuckle behind the hollow oak and i got a whiff of tobacco like lilly used to smoke. it's fifteen years, they tell me, since anyone fished that brook; and there's nothing in it but minnows that nibble the bait off your hook. but before the sun has risen and after the moon has set i know that it's full of ghostly trout for lilly's ghost to get. i guess i'll go to the tavern and get a bottle of rye and leave it down by the hollow oak, where lilly's ghost went by. i meant to go up on the hillside and try to find his grave and put some flowers on it--but this will be better for dave. martin: joyce kilmer when i am tired of earnest men, intense and keen and sharp and clever, pursuing fame with brush or pen, or counting metal disks forever, then from the halls of shadowland, beyond the trackless purple sea, old martin's ghost comes back to stand beside my desk and talk to me. still on his delicate pale face a quizzical thin smile is showing, his cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace, his kind blue eyes are gay and glowing. he wears a brilliant-hued cravat, a suit to match his soft grey hair, a rakish stick, a knowing hat, a manner blithe and debonair. how good that he who always knew that being lovely was a duty, should have gold halls to wander through and should himself inhabit beauty. how like his old unselfish way to leave those halls of splendid mirth and comfort those condemned to stay upon the dull and sombre earth. some people ask: "what cruel chance made martin's life so sad a story?" martin? why, he exhaled romance, and wore an overcoat of glory. a fleck of sunlight in the street, a horse, a book, a girl who smiled, such visions made each moment sweet for this receptive ancient child. because it was old martin's lot to be, not make, a decoration, shall we then scorn him, having not his genius of appreciation? rich joy and love he got and gave; his heart was merry as his dress; pile laurel wreaths upon his grave who did not gain, but was, success! haunted places the listeners: walter de la mare "is anybody there?" said the traveller, knocking on the moonlit door; and his horse in the silence champed the grasses of the forest's ferny floor: and a bird flew up out of the turret, above the traveller's head: and he smote upon the door again the second time; "is there anybody there?" he said. but no one descended to the traveller; no head from the leaf-fringed sill leaned over and looked into his gray eyes, where he stood perplexed and still. but only the host of phantom listeners that dwelt in the lone house then stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight to that voice from the world of men: stood thronging the moonbeams on the dark stair, that goes down to the empty hall, hearkening in an air stirred and shaken by the lonely traveller's call: and he felt in his heart their strangeness, their stillness answering his cry, while his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, 'neath the starred and leafy sky. for he suddenly smote upon the door, even louder, and lifted his head:-- "tell them i came and no one answered, that i kept my word," he said. never the least stir made the listeners, though every word he spake fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house from the one man left awake: aye, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, and the sound of iron on stone, and how the silence surged softly backward, when the plunging hoofs were gone. haunted houses: henry w. longfellow all houses wherein men have lived and died are haunted houses. through the open doors the harmless phantoms on their errands glide, with feet that make no sound upon the floors. we meet them at the doorway, on the stair, along the passages they come and go, impalpable impressions on the air, a sense of something moving to and fro. there are more guests at table than the hosts invited; the illuminated hall is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts, as silent as the pictures on the wall. the stranger at my fireside cannot see the forms i see, or hear the sounds i hear; he but perceives what is; while unto me all that has been is visible and clear. we have no title-deeds to house or lands; owners and occupants of earlier dates from graves forgotten stretch their hands, and hold in mortmain still their old estates. the spirit-world around this world of sense floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere wafts through these earthly mists and vapors dense a vital breath of more ethereal air. our little lives are kept in equipoise by opposite attractions and desires: the struggle of the instinct that enjoys, and the more noble instinct that aspires. these perturbations, this perpetual jar of earthly wants and aspirations high, come from the influence of an unseen star, an undiscovered planet in our sky. and as the moon from some dark gate of cloud throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light, across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd into the realm of mystery and night-- so from the world of spirits there descends, a bridge of light, connecting it with this, o'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends, wander our thoughts above the dark abyss. the beleaguered city: henry wadsworth longfellow i have read in some old marvellous tale, some legend strange and vague, that a midnight host of spectres pale beleaguered the walls of prague. beside the moldau's rushing stream, with the wan moon overhead, there stood, as in an awful dream, the army of the dead. white as a sea-fog, landward bound, the spectral band was seen, and with a sorrowful deep sound, the river flowed between. no other voice nor sound was there, no drum nor sentry's pace, the mist-like banners clasped the air as clouds with clouds embrace. and when the old cathedral bell proclaimed the morning prayer, the white pavilions rose and fell on the alarméd air. down the broad valley fast and far the troubled army fled: up rose the glorious morning star, the ghastly host was dead. i have read in the marvellous heart of man, that strange and mystic scroll, that an army of phantoms vast and wan beleaguer the human soul. encamped beside life's rushing stream, in fancy's misty light, gigantic shapes and shadows gleam portentous through the night. upon its midnight battle-ground the spectral camp is seen, and, with a sorrowful, deep sound, flows the river of life between. no other voice nor sound is there, in the army of the grave; no other challenge breaks the air, but the rushing of life's wave. and then the solemn and deep church-bell entreats the soul to pray, the midnight phantoms feel the spell, the shadows sweep away. down the broad vale of tears afar the spectral camp is fled; faith shineth as a morning star, our ghastly fears are dead. a newport romance: bret harte they say that she died of a broken heart (i tell the tale as 'twas told to me); but her spirit lives, and her soul is part of this sad old house by the sea. her lover was fickle and fine and french; it was more than a hundred years ago when he sailed away from her arms,--poor wench!-- with the admiral rochambeau. i marvel much what periwigged phrase won the heart of this sentimental quaker, at what gold-laced speech of those modish days she listened,--the mischief take her! but she kept the posies of mignonette that he gave; and ever as their bloom failed and faded (though with her tears still wet) her youth with their own exhaled. till one night when the sea fog wrapped a shroud round spar and spire and tarn and tree, her soul went up on that lifted cloud from this sad old house by the sea. and ever since then, when the clock strikes two, she walks unbidden from room to room, and the air is filled as she passes through with a subtle, sad perfume. the delicate odor of mignonette, the ghost of a dead-and-gone bouquet, is all that tells of her story; yet could she think of a sweeter way? * * * * * i sit in the sad old house to-night-- myself a ghost from a farther sea; and i trust that this quaker woman might, in courtesy, visit me. for the laugh is fled from the porch and lawn, and the bugle died from the fort on the hill, and the twitter of girls on the stairs is gone, and the grand piano is still. somewhere in the darkness a clock strikes two; and there is no sound in the sad old house, but the long veranda dripping with dew, and in the wainscot a mouse. the light of my study-lamp streams out from the library door, but has gone astray in the depths of the darkened hall; small doubt but the quakeress knows the way. was it the trick of a sense o'erwrought with outward watching and inward fret? but i swear that the air just now was fraught with the odor of mignonette! i open the window and seem almost-- so still lies the ocean--to hear the beat of its great gulf artery off the coast, and to bask in its tropic heat. in my neighbor's windows the gas lights flare as the dancers swing in a waltz from strauss; and i wonder now could i fit that air to the song of this sad old house. and no odor of mignonette there is, but the breath of morn on the dewy lawn; and maybe from causes as slight as this the quaint old legend was born. but the soul of that subtle sad perfume, as the spiced embalmings, they say, outlast the mummy laid in his rocky tomb, awakens my buried past. and i think of the passion that shook my youth, of its aimless loves and its idle pains, and am thankful now for the certain truth that only the sweet remains. and i hear no rustle of stiff brocade, and i see no face at my library door; for now that the ghosts of my heart are laid, she is viewless forevermore. but whether she came as a faint perfume, or whether a spirit in stole of white, i feel, as i pass from the darkened room, she has been with my soul to-night. a legend: may kendall ay, an old story, yet it might have truth in it--who knows? of the heroine's breaking down one night just ere the curtain rose. and suddenly, when fear and doubt had shaken every heart, there stepped an unknown actress out, to take the heroine's part. but oh, the magic of her face, and oh the songs she sung, and oh the rapture of the place, and oh the flowers they flung! but she never stooped: they lay all night, as when she turned away, and left them--and the saddest light shone in her eyes of grey. she gave a smile in glancing round, and sighed, one fancied, then-- but never they knew where she was bound, or saw her face again, but the old prompter, grey and frail, they heard him murmur low, "it only could be meg coverdale, died thirty years ago, "in that old part, who took the town; and she was fair, as fair as when they shut the coffin down on the gleam of her golden hair; "and it wasn't hard to understand how a lass as fair as she could never rest in the promised land, where none but angels be." a midnight visitor: elizabeth akers allen after all the house is dark, and the last soft step is still, and the elm-bough's clear-cut shadow flickers on the window sill-- when the village lights are out, and the watch-dogs all asleep, and the misty silver radiance makes the shade look black and deep-- when, so silent is the night, not a dead leaf dares to fall, and i only hear the death-watch ticking, ticking in the wall-- when no hidden mouse dares gnaw at the silence dead and dumb, and the very air seems waiting for a something that should come-- suddenly, there stands my guest, whence he came i cannot see; not a door has swung before him, not a hand touched latch or key, not a rustle stirred the air; yet he stands there, brave and mute, in his eyes a look of greeting, in his hand an old-time flute. then, with all the courtly grace of the old colonial school, from the curtain-shadowed corner forth he draws a three-legged stool-- (ah, it was not there before! search as closely as i may, i can never, never find it when i look for it by day!) places it beside my bed, and while silently i gaze spell-bound by his mystic presence, seats himself thereon and plays. gracious, stately, grave and tall, always dressed from crown to toe in the quaint elaborate fashion of a hundred years ago. doublet, small-clothes, silk-clocked hose; wears my midnight melodist, snowy ruffles in his bosom, snowy ruffles at his wrist. silver buckle at his knee, silver buckle on his shoe; powdered hair smoothed back and plaited in a stiff old-fashioned queue. if i stir he vanishes; if i speak he flits away; if i lie in utter silence, he will sit for hours and play; play old wailing minor airs, melancholy, wild and slow, such, mayhap, as pleased the maidens of a hundred years ago. all in vain i wait to hear ghostly histories of wrong unconfessed and unforgiven, unavenged and suffered long; not a story does he tell, not a single word he says-- only sits and gazes at me steadily, and plays and plays. who is he, my midnight guest? wherefore does he haunt me so; coming from the misty shadows of a hundred years ago? haunted: amy lowell see! he trails his toes through the long streaks of moonlight, and the nails of his fingers glitter; they claw and flash among the tree-tops. his lips suck at my open window, and his breath creeps about my body and lies in pools under my knees. i can see his mouth sway and wobble, sticking itself against the window-jambs, but the moonlight is bright on the floor, without a shadow. hark! a hare is strangling in the forest, and the wind tears a shutter from the wall. the little green orchard: walter de la mare some one is always sitting there, in the little green orchard; even when the sun is high in noon's unclouded sky, and faintly droning goes the bee from rose to rose, some one in shadow is sitting there, in the little green orchard. yes, and when twilight's falling softly on the little green orchard; when the gray dew distils and every flower cup fills; when the last blackbird says, "what--what!" and goes her way--ssh! i have heard voices calling softly in the little green orchard. not that i am afraid of being there, in the little green orchard; why, when the moon's been bright, shedding her lonesome light, and moths like ghosties come, and the horned snail leaves home: i've stayed there, whispering and listening there, in the little green orchard. only it's strange to be feeling there, in the little green orchard; whether you paint or draw, dig, hammer, chop or saw, when you are most alone, all but the silence gone ... some one is waiting and watching there, in the little green orchard. fireflies: louise driscoll what are you, fireflies, that come as daylight dies? are you the old, old dead, creeping through the long grass, to see the green leaves move and feel the light wind pass? the larkspur in my garden is a sea of rose and blue, the white moth is a ghost ship drifting through. the shadows fall like lilacs raining from a garden sky, pollen laden bees go home, bird songs die. the honeysuckle breaks a flask, and a breeze, on pleasure bent, catches in her little hands the sharp scent. in the darkness and the dew come the little, flying flames, are they the forgotten dead, without names? did they love the leaves and wind, grass and gardens long ago with a love that draws them home where things grow? for an hour with green leaves, love immortal leaped to flame, from the earth into the night old hearts came. what are you, fireflies, that come as daylight dies? the little ghost: edna st. vincent millay i knew her for a little ghost that in my garden walked; the wall is high--higher than most-- and the green gate was locked. and yet i did not think of that till after she was gone-- i knew her by the broad white hat, all ruffled, she had on. by the dear ruffles round her feet, by her small hands that hung in their lace mitts, austere and sweet, her gown's white folds among. i watched to see if she would stay, what she would do--and oh! she looked as if she liked the way i let my garden grow! she bent above my favorite mint with conscious garden grace, she smiled and smiled--there was no hint of sadness in her face. she held her gown on either side to let her slippers show, and up the walk she went with pride, the way great ladies go. and where the wall is built in new and is of ivy bare she paused--then opened and passed through a gate that once was there. haunted: louis untermeyer between the moss and stone the lonely lilies rise; wasted and overgrown the tangled garden lies. weeds climb about the stoop and clutch the crumbling walls; the drowsy grasses droop-- the night wind falls. the place is like a wood; no sign is there to tell where rose and iris stood that once she loved so well. where phlox and asters grew, a leafless thornbush stands, and shrubs that never knew her tender hands.... over the broken fence the moonbeams trail their shrouds; their tattered cerements cling to the gauzy clouds, in ribbons frayed and thin-- and startled by the light silence shrinks deeper in the depths of night. useless lie spades and rakes; rust's on the garden-tools. yet, where the moonlight makes nebulous silver pools a ghostly shape is cast-- something unseen has stirred.... was it a breeze that passed? was it a bird? dead roses lift their heads out of a grassy tomb; from ruined pansy-beds a thousand pansies bloom. the gate is opened wide-- the garden that has been now blossoms like a bride.... _who entered in?_ ghosts: madison cawein low, weed-climbed cliffs, o'er which at noon the sea-mists swoon: wind-twisted pines, through which the crow goes winging slow: dim fields the sower never sows, or reaps or mows: and near the sea a ghostly house of stone where all is old and lone. a garden, falling in decay, where statues gray peer, broken, out of tangled weed and thorny seed; satyr and nymph, that once made love by walk and grove: and, near a fountain, shattered, green with mould, a sundial, lichen-old. like some sad life bereft, to musing left, the house stands: love and youth both gone, in sooth: but still it sits and dreams: and round it seems some memory of the past, still young and fair, haunting each crumbling stair. and suddenly one dimly sees, come through the trees, a woman, like a wild moss-rose: a man, who goes softly: and by the dial they kiss a while: then drowsily the mists blow round them, wan, and they like ghosts are gone. the three ghosts: theodosia garrison the three ghosts on the lonely road, spake each to one another, "whence came that stain upon your mouth no lifted hand can cover?" "from eating of forbidden fruit, brother, my brother." the three ghosts on the sunless road, spake each to one another, "whence came that red burn on your foot no dust or ash may cover?" "i stamped a neighbor's hearth-flame out, brother, my brother." the three ghosts on the windless road, spake each to one another, "whence came that blood upon thy hand no other hand may cover?" "from breaking of a woman's heart, brother, my brother." "yet on the earth, clean men we walked, glutton and thief and lover, white flesh and fair, it hid our stains, that no man might discover," naked the soul goes up to god, brother, my brother. "you know the old, while i know the new" after death: christina rossetti the curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept and strewn with rushes; rosemary and may lay thick upon the bed on which i lay, where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept. he leaned above me, thinking that i slept and could not hear him; but i heard him say, "poor child, poor child": and as he turned away came a deep silence, and i knew he wept. he did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold that hid my face, or take my hand in his, or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head: he did not love me living; but once dead he pitied me; and very sweet it is to know he still is warm though i am cold. the passer-by: edith m. thomas step lightly across the floor, and somewhat more tender be. there were many that passed my door, many that sought after me. i gave them the passing word-- ah, why did i give thee more? i gave thee what could not be heard, what had not been given before; the beat of my heart i gave.... and i give thee this flower on my grave. my face in the flower thou mayst see. step lightly across the floor. at home: christina rossetti when i was dead, my spirit turned to seek the much-frequented house. i passed the door, and saw my friends feasting beneath green orange-boughs; from hand to hand they pushed the wine, they sucked the pulp of plum and peach; they sang, they jested, and they laughed, for each was loved of each. i listened to their honest chat. said one, "to-morrow we shall be plod-plod along the featureless sands, and coasting miles and miles of sea." said one, "before the turn of tide we will achieve the eyrie-seat." said one, "to-morrow shall be like to-day, but much more sweet." "to-morrow," said they, strong with hope, and dwelt upon the pleasant way: "to-morrow," cried they one and all, while no one spoke of yesterday. their life stood full at blessed noon; i, only i had passed away: "to-morrow and to-day," they cried; i was of yesterday. i shivered comfortless, but cast no chill across the tablecloth; i, all-forgotten, shivered, sad to stay and yet to part how loth: i passed from the familiar room, i whom from love had passed away, like the remembrance of a guest that tarrieth but a day. the return: minna irving i pushed the tangled grass away and lifted up the stone, and flitted down the churchyard path with grasses overgrown. i halted at my mother's door and shook the rusty catch-- "the wind is rising fast," she said, "it rattles at the latch." i crossed the street and paused again before my husband's house, my baby sat upon his knee as quiet as a mouse. i pulled the muslin curtain by, he rose the blinds to draw-- "i feel a draught upon my back, the night is cold and raw." i met a man who loved me well in days ere i was wed, he did not hear, he did not see, so silently i fled. but when i found my poor old dog, though blind and deaf was he, and feeble with his many years, he turned and followed me. the room's width: elizabeth stuart phelps ward i think if i should cross the room, far as fear, should stand beside you like a thought-- touch you, dear, like a fancy--to your sad heart it would seem that my vision passed and prayed you, or my dream. then you would look with lonely eyes-- lift your head-- and you would stir and sigh, and say, "she is dead." baffled by death and love, i lean through the gloom. o lord of life! am i forbid to cross the room? haunted: don marquis a ghost is a freak of a sick man's brain? then why do you start and shiver so? that's the sob and drip of a leaky drain? but it sounds like another noise we know! the heavy drops drummed red and slow, the drops ran down as slow as fate-- do ye hear them still?--it was long ago!-- but here in the shadows i wait, and wait! spirits there be that pass in peace; mine passed in a whirl of wrath and dole; and the hour that your choking breath shall cease i will get my grip on your naked soul-- nor pity may stay nor prayer cajole-- i would drag ye whining from hell's own gate: to me, to me, ye must pay the toll! and here in the shadows i wait, i wait! the dead they are dead, they are out of the way? and the ghost is a whim of an ailing mind? then why did ye whiten with fear to-day when ye heard a voice in the calling wind? why did ye falter and look behind? at the creeping mists when the hour grew late? ye would see my face were ye stricken blind! and here in the shadows i wait, i wait! drink and forget, make merry and boast, but the boast rings false and the jest is thin-- in the hour that i meet you ghost to ghost, stripped of the flesh that you skulk within, stripped to the coward soul 'ware of its sin, ye shall learn, ye shall learn, whether dead men hate! ah, a weary time has the waiting been, but here in the shadows i wait, i wait! "my love that was so true" one out-of-doors: sarah piatt a ghost--is he afraid to be a ghost? a ghost? it breaks my heart to think of it. something that wavers in the moon, at most; something that wanders: something that must flit from morning, from the bird's breath and the dew. ah, if i knew,--ah, if i only knew! something so weirdly wan, so weirdly still! o yearning lips that our warm blood can flush, follow it with your kisses, if you will; o beating heart, think of its helpless hush. oh, bitterest of all, to feel we fear something that was so near, that was so dear! no--no, he is no ghost; he could not be; something that hides, forlorn, in frost and brier; something shut outside in the dark, while we laugh and forget by the familiar fire; something whose moan we call the wind, whose tears sound but as rain-drops in our human ears. sailing beyond seas: jean ingelow methought the stars were blinking bright, and the old brig's sail unfurl'd; i said, "i will sail to my love this night at the other side of the world." i stepp'd abroad,--we sail'd so fast,-- the sun shot up from the bourn; but a dove that perch'd upon the mast did mourn and mourn and mourn. o fair dove! o fond dove! and dove with the white, white breast, let me alone, the dream is my own, and my heart is full of rest. my true love fares on this great hill, feeding his sheep for aye; i look'd in his hut, but all was still, my love was gone away. i went to gaze in the forest creek, and the dove mourn'd on apace; no flame did flash, nor fair blue reek rose up to show me his place. o last love! o first love! my love with the true, true heart, to think i have come to this your home, and yet--we are apart! my love! he stood at my right hand, his eyes were grave and sweet. methought he said, "in this far land, o, is it thus we meet? ah, maid most dear, i am not here; i have no place,--no part,-- no dwelling more by sea or shore, but only in thy heart." o fair dove! o fond dove! till night rose over the bourn, the dove on the mast, as we sail'd fast, did mourn and mourn and mourn. betrayal: aline kilmer four hundred times the glass had run and seven times the moon had died since my lover rode in his silver mail away from his new-made bride. a ghost-light gleamed in the field beyond and a wet, wet wind blew in from the sea when out of the mist my own true love came up and stood by me. my heart leapt up that had been still, my voice rang out that had been sad, till my sister left her busy wheel to see what made me glad. she saw my arms about his neck, she saw my head upon his breast. oh, why did my sister hate me so that she would not let me rest? loud then laughed my cruel sister, false and fair of face was she, "o that is never your own true love, for he lies dead in a far countrie!" i loosed the clasp of my clinging arms and his shining face grew still and white; my tears ran down like bitter rain as i watched him fade from sight. may the salt sea bury me in its waves, may the mountains fall and cover my head, since i had not faith in my only love when he came back from the dead. the true lover: a.e. housman the lad came to the door at night, when lovers crown their vows, and whistled soft and out of sight in shadow of the boughs. "i shall not vex you with my face henceforth, my love, for aye; so take me in your arms a space before the east is gray. "when i from hence away am past i shall not find a bride, and you shall be the first and last i ever lay beside." she heard and went and knew not why; her heart to his she laid; light was the air beneath the sky but dark under the shade. "oh, do you breathe, lad, that your breast seems not to rise and fall, and here upon my bosom prest there beats no heart at all?" "oh, loud, my girl, it once would knock, you should have felt it then; but since for you i stopped the clock it never goes again." "oh, lad, what is it, lad, that drops wet from your neck on mine? what is it falling on my lips, my lad, that tastes like brine?" "oh like enough 'tis blood, my dear, for when the knife has slit the throat across from ear to ear 'twill bleed because of it." under the stars the air was light but dark below the boughs, the still air of the speechless night, when lovers crown their vows. haunted: g.b. stuart when candle-flames burn blue, between the night and morning, i know that it is you, my love, that was so true, and that i killed with scorning. the watch-dogs howl and bay; i pale, and leave off smiling. only the other day i held your heart in play intent upon beguiling. a little while ago i wrung your soul with sighing, or brought a sudden glow into your cheek by low soft answers, in replying. my life was all disguise, a mask of feints and fancies; i used to lift my eyes, and take you by surprise with smiles and upward glances. and now, where'er i go, your sad ghost follows after; and blue the flame burns low, and doors creak to and fro, and silent grows the laughter. the white moth: sir arthur quiller-couch if a leaf rustled she would start: and yet she died, a year ago. how had so frail a thing the heart to journey where she trembled so? and do they turn and turn in fright, those little feet, in so much night? the light above the poet's head streamed on the page and on the cloth, and twice and thrice there buffeted on the black pane a white-winged moth: 'twas annie's soul that beat outside, and, "open, open, open!" cried. "i could not find the way to god; there were too many flaming suns for signposts, and the fearful road led over wastes where millions of flaming comets hissed and burned-- i was bewildered and i turned. "o, it was easy then! i knew your window, and no star beside. look up and take me back to you!" he rose and thrust the window wide. 'twas but because his brain was hot with rhyming; for he saw her not. but poets polishing a phrase show anger over trivial things: and as she blundered in the blaze towards him, on ecstatic wings, he raised a hand and smote her dead; then wrote, "that i had died instead!" the ghost: walter de la mare "who knocks?" "i, who was beautiful, beyond all dreams to restore, i, from the roots of the dark thorn am hither, and knock on the door." "who speaks?" "i,--once was my speech sweet as the bird's on the air. when echo lurks by the waters to heed; 'tis i speak thee fair." "dark is the hour!" "aye, and cold." "lone is my house." "ah, but mine?" "sight, touch, lips, eyes yearn in vain." "long dead these to thine...." silence. still faint on the porch brake the flames of the stars. in gloom groped a hope-wearied hand over keys, bolts and bars. a face peered. all the grey night in chaos of vacancy shone; nought but vast sorrow was there-- the sweet cheat gone. luke havergal: edwin arlington robinson go to the western gate, luke havergal,-- there where the vines cling crimson on the wall,-- and in the twilight wait for what will come. the wind will moan, the leaves will whisper some,-- whisper of her, and strike you as they fall; but go, and if you trust her she will call. go to the western gate, luke havergal-- luke havergal. no, there is not a dawn in eastern skies to rift the fiery night that's in your eyes; but there where western glooms are gathering, the dark will end the dark, if anything: god slays himself with every leaf that flies, and hell is more than half of paradise. no, there is not a dawn in eastern skies-- in eastern skies. out of the grave i come to tell you this,-- out of the grave i come to quench the kiss that flames upon your forehead with a glow that blinds you to the way that you must go. yes, there is yet one way to where she is,-- bitter, but one that faith can never miss. out of the grave i come to tell you this, to tell you this. there is the western gate, luke havergal, there are the crimson leaves upon the wall. go,--for the winds are tearing them away,-- nor think to riddle the dead words that they say, nor any more to feel them as they fall; but go! and if you trust her she will call. there is the western gate, luke havergal-- luke havergal. the highwayman: alfred noyes the wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, the moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, the road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, and the highwayman came riding-- riding--riding-- the highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door. he'd a french cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin; they fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh! and he rode with a jewelled twinkle, his pistol butts a-twinkle, his rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky. over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard, and he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred; he whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there but the landlord's black-eyed daughter, bess, the landlord's daughter, plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair. and dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked where tim, the ostler, listened; his face was white and peaked; his eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay, but he loved the landlord's daughter; the landlord's red-lipped daughter, dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say-- "one kiss, my bonny sweetheart, i'm after a prize tonight, but i shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, then look for me by moonlight, watch for me by moonlight, i'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way." he rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand, but she loosened her hair i' the casement! his face burnt like a brand as the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; and he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight,) then he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west. part two he did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon; and out of the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon, when the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, a red-coat troop came marching-- marching--marching-- king george's men came marching, up to the old inn-door. they said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, but they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed; two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! there was death at every window; and hell at one dark window; for bess could see, through her casement, the road that _he_ would ride. they had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest; they had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast! "now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. she heard the dead man say-- _look for me by moonlight;_ _watch for me by moonlight;_ _i'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!_ she twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! she writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! they stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, till, now, on the stroke of midnight, cold, on the stroke of midnight, the tip of one finger touched it! the trigger at least was hers! the tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest! up, she stood to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast, she would not risk their hearing: she would not strive again; for the road lay bare in the moonlight; blank and bare in the moonlight; and the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain. _tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot!_ had they heard it? the horse-hoofs ringing clear-- _tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot_ in the distance? were they deaf that they did not hear? down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, the highwayman came riding, riding, riding! the red-coats looked to their priming! she stood up straight and still! _tlot-tlot_, in the frosty silence! _tlot-tlot_ in the echoing night! nearer he came and nearer! her face was like a light! her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, then her finger moved in the moonlight, her musket shattered the moonlight, shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death. he turned; he spurred him westward; he did not know who stood bowed with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood! not till the dawn he heard it, and slowly blanched to hear how bess, the landlord's daughter, the landlord's black-eyed daughter, had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there. back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, with the white road smoking behind him, and his rapier brandished high! blood-red were his spurs i' the golden moon; wine-red was his velvet coat; when they shot him down on the highway, down like a dog on the highway, and he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat. * * * * * _and still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,_ _when the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,_ _when the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,_ _a highwayman comes riding--_ _riding--riding--_ _a highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door._ _over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;_ _and he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;_ _he whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there_ _but the landlord's black-eyed daughter,_ _bess, the landlord's daughter,_ _plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair._ the blue closet: william morris the damozels lady alice, lady louise, between the wash of the tumbling seas we are ready to sing, if so you please; so lay your long hands on the keys; sing "_laudate pueri._" _and ever the great bell overhead_ _boom'd in the wind a knell for the dead,_ _though no one toll'd it, a knell for the dead._ lady louise sister, let the measure swell not too loud; for you sing not well if you drown the faint boom of the bell; he is weary, so am i. _and ever the chevron overhead_ _flapp'd on the banner of the dead;_ (_was he asleep, or was he dead?_) lady alice alice the queen, and louise the queen, two damozels wearing purple and green, four lone ladies dwelling here from day to day and year to year; and there is none to let us go; to break the locks of the doors below, or shovel away the heap'd-up snow; and when we die no man will know that we are dead; but they give us leave, once every year on christmas-eve, to sing in the closet blue one song: and we should be so long, so long, if we dared, in singing; for, dream on dream, they float on in a happy stream; they float from the gold strings, float, from the keys, float from the open'd lips of louise: but, alas! the sea-salt oozes through the chinks of the tiles of the closet blue; _and ever the great bell overhead_ _booms in the wind a knell for the dead,_ _the wind plays on it a knell for the dead._ (they sing all together) how long ago was it, how long ago, he came to this tower with hands full of snow? "kneel down, o love louise, kneel down," he said, and sprinkled the dusty snow over my head. he watch'd the snow melting, it ran through my hair, ran over my shoulders, white shoulders and bare. "i cannot weep for thee, poor love louise, for my tears are all hidden deep under the seas; "in a gold and blue casket she keeps all my tears, but my eyes are no longer blue, as in old years; "yea, they grow gray with time, grow small and dry, i am so feeble now, would i might die." _and in truth the great bell overhead_ _left off pealing for the dead,_ _perchance because the wind was--dead._ will he come back again or is he dead? or is he sleeping, my scarf round his head? or did they strangle him as he lay there, with the long scarlet scarf i used to wear? only i pray thee, lord, let him come here; both his soul and his body to me are most dear. dear lord, that loves me, i wait to receive either body or spirit this wild christmas-eve. _through the floor shot up a lily red,_ _with a patch of earth from the land of the dead,_ _for he was strong in the land of the dead._ what matter that his cheeks were pale, his kind kiss'd lips all gray? "o love louise, have you waited long?" "o my lord arthur, yea." what if his hair that brush'd her cheek was stiff with frozen rime? his eyes were grown quite blue again. as in the happy time. "o, love louise, this is the key of the happy golden land! o, sisters, cross the bridge with me, my eyes are full of sand, what matter that i cannot see, if ye take me by the hand?" _and ever the great bell overhead,_ _and the tumbling sea mourned for the dead;_ _for their song ceased, and they were dead._ the ghost's petition: christina georgina rossetti "there's a footstep coming; look out and see."-- "the leaves are falling, the wind is calling; no one cometh across the lea."-- "there's a footstep coming; o sister, look."-- "the ripple flashes, the white foam dashes; no one cometh across the brook."-- "but he promised that he would come: to-night, to-morrow, in joy or sorrow, he must keep his word, and must come home. "for he promised that he would come; his word was given; from earth to heaven, he must keep his word, and must come home. "go to sleep, my sweet sister jane; you can slumber, who need not number hour after hour, in doubt and pain. "i shall sit here awhile and watch; listening, hoping for one hand groping, in deep shadow, to find the latch." after the dark and before the light, one lay sleeping, and one sat weeping, who had watched and wept the weary night. after the night and before the day, one lay sleeping; and one sat weeping-- watching, weeping for one away. there came a footstep climbing the stair, some one standing out on the landing shook the door like a puff of air.-- shook the door and in he passed. did he enter? in the room center stood her husband; the door shut fast. "o robin, but you are cold-- chilled with the night-dew; so lily white you look like a stray lamb from our fold. "o robin, but you are late: come and sit near me--sit here and cheer me."-- (blue the flame burnt in the grate.) "lay not down your head on my breast: i cannot hold you, kind wife, nor fold you in the shelter that you love best. "feel not after my clasping hand: i am but a shadow, come from the meadow, where many lie, but no tree can stand. "we are trees that have shed their leaves: our heads lie low there, but no tears flow there; only i grieve for my wife who grieves. "i could rest if you would not moan hour after hour; i have no power to shut my ears as i lie alone. "i could rest if you would not cry, but there's no sleeping while you sit weeping-- watching, weeping so bitterly."-- "woe's me! woe's me! for this i have heard. oh night of sorrow--oh, black to-morrow! is it thus that you keep your word? "oh, you who used so to shelter me, warm from the least wind--why, now the east wind is warmer than you, whom i quake to see. "oh, my husband of flesh and blood, for whom my mother i left, and brother, and all i had, accounting it good, "what do you do there, under the ground, in the dark hollow? i'm fain to follow. what do you do there? what have you found?"-- "what i do there i must not tell, but i have plenty--kind wife, content ye: it is well with us: it is well. "tender hand hath made our nest; our fear is ended; our hope is blended with present pleasure, and we have rest." "oh, but robin, i'm fain to come, if your present days are so pleasant, for my days are so wearisome. "yet i'll dry my tears for your sake: why should i tease you, who cannot please you any more with the pains i take?" he and she: sir edwin arnold "she is dead!" they said to him; "come away; kiss her and leave her,--thy love is clay!" they smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair; on her forehead of stone they laid it fair. over her eyes that gazed too much they drew the lids with a gentle touch; with a tender touch they closed up well the sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell; above her brows and beautiful face they tied her veil and her marriage lace, and drew on her white feet her white-silk shoes which were the whitest no eye could choose,-- and over her bosom they crossed her hands. "come away," they said, "god understands." and there was silence, and nothing there but silence and scents of eglantere, and jasmine, and roses and rosemary, and they said: "as a lady should lie, lies she." and they held their breath till they left the room, with a shudder, a glance at its stillness and gloom. but he who loved her too well to dread the sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead, he lit his lamp, and he took the key and turned it--alone again, he and she. he and she; but she would not speak, though he kissed, in the old place, the quiet cheek. he and she; yet she would not smile, though he called her the name she loved erewhile. he and she; still she did not move to any passionate whisper of love. then he said, "cold lips and breast without breath, is there no voice or language of death, "dumb to the ear and still to the sense, but to heart and soul distinct, intense? "see now; i will listen with soul, not ear: what is the secret of dying, dear? "was it the infinite wonder of all that you ever could let life's flower fall? "or was it a greater marvel to feel the perfect calm o'er the agony steal? "was the miracle greater to find how deep beyond all dreams sank downward that sleep? "did life roll back its record, dear, and show, as they say it does, past things clear? "and was it the innermost heart of the bliss to find out so, what a wisdom love is? "o perfect dead! o dead most dear! i hold the breath of my soul to hear. "i listen as deep as to terrible hell, as high as to heaven, and you do not tell. "there must be pleasure in dying, sweet, to make you so placid, from head to feet! "i would tell you, darling, if i were dead, and 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed,-- "i would say, though the angel of death had laid his sword on my lips to keep it unsaid,-- "you should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes, which of all deaths was the chiefest surprise, "the very strangest and suddenest thing of all the surprises that dying must bring." ah, foolish world! o most kind dead! though he told me, who will believe it was said? who will believe that he heard her say, with the old sweet voice, in the dear old way, "the utmost wonder is this--i hear and see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear; "and am your angel, who was your bride. and know, that though dead, i have never died." shapes of doom the dead coach: katherine tynan at night when sick folk wakeful lie, i heard the dead coach passing by, heard it passing wild and fleet, and knew my time had come not yet. click-clack, click-clack, the hoofs went past, who takes the dead coach travels fast, on and away through the wild night, the dead must rest ere morning light. if one might follow on its track, the coach and horses midnight black, within should sit a shape of doom that beckons one and all to come. god pity them to-night who wait to hear the dead coach at their gate, and him who hears, though sense be dim, the mournful dead coach stop for him. he shall go down with a still face, and mount the steps and take his place, the door be shut, the order said, how fast the pace is with the dead! click-clack, click-clack, the hour is chill, the dead coach climbs the distant hill. now, god, the father of us all, wipe thou the widow's tears that fall! deid folk's ferry: rosamund marriott watson 'tis they, of a veritie-- they are calling thin an' shrill; we maun rise an' put to sea, we maun gi'e the deid their will, we maun ferry them owre the faem, for they draw us as they list; we maun bear the deid folk hame through the mirk an' the saft sea-mist. "but how can i gang the nicht, when i'm new come hame frae sea? when my heart is sair for the sicht o' my lass that langs for me?" "o your lassie lies asleep, an' sae do your bairnes twa; the cliff-path's stey and steep, an' the deid folk cry an' ca'." o sae hooly steppit we, for the nicht was mirk an' lown, wi' never a sign to see, but the voices all aroun'. we laid to the saut sea-shore, an' the boat dipped low i' th' tide, as she micht hae dipped wi' a score, an' our ain three sel's beside. o the boat she settled low, till her gunwale kissed the faem, an' she didna loup nor row as she bare the deid folk hame; but she aye gaed swift an' licht, an' we naething saw nor wist, wha sailed i' th' boat that nicht through the mirk an' the saft sea-mist. there was never a sign to see, but a misty shore an' low; never a word spak' we, but the boat she lichtened slow, an' a cauld sigh stirred my hair, an' a cauld hand touched my wrist, an' my heart sank cauld and sair i' the mirk an' the saft sea-mist. then the wind raise up wi' a maen, ('twas a waefu' wind, an' weet). like a deid saul wud wi' pain, like a bairnie wild wi' freit; but the boat rade swift an' licht, sae we wan the land fu' sune, an' the shore showed wan an' white by a glint o' the waning mune. we steppit oot owre the sand where an unco' tide had been, an' black donald caught my hand an' coverit up his een: for there, in the wind an' weet, or ever i saw nor wist, my jean an' her weans lay cauld at my feet, in the mirk an' the saft sea-mist. an' it's o for my bonny jean! an' it's o for my bairnies twa, it's o an' o for the watchet een an' the steps that are gane awa'-- awa' to the silent place, or ever i saw nor wist, though i wot we twa went face to face through the mirk an' the saft sea-mist. keith of ravelston: sydney dobell the murmur of the mourning ghost that keeps the shadowy kine, "oh, keith of ravelston, the sorrows of thy line!" ravelston, ravelston, the stile beneath the tree, the maid that kept her mother's kine, the song that sang she! she sang her song, she kept her kine, she sat beneath the thorn when andrew keith of ravelston rode through the monday morn; his henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring, his belted jewels shine! oh, keith of ravelston, the sorrows of thy line! year after year, where andrew came, comes evening down the glade, and still there sits a moonshine ghost where sat the sunshine maid. her misty hair is faint and fair, she keeps the shadowy kine; oh, keith of ravelston, the sorrows of thy line! i lay my hands upon the stile, the stile is lone and cold. the burnie that goes babbling by says naught that can be told. yet, stranger! here from year to year, she keeps her shadowy kine; oh, keith of ravelston, the sorrows of thy line! step out three steps where andrew stood,-- why blanch thy cheeks for fear? the ancient stile is not alone, 'tis not the burn i hear! she makes her immemorial moan, she keeps her shadowy kine, oh, keith of ravelston, the sorrows of thy line! the fetch: dora sigerson shorter "what makes you so late at the tryst, what caused you so long to be? i have waited a weary time for the hour you promised me." "oh, glad were i here by your side, full many an hour ago, but for what there passed on the road all so mournfully and so slow." "and what have you met on the road that kept you so long and so late?" "o full many an hour has gone since i left my father's gate. "as i hastened on in the gloom, by the road to you tonight, i passed the corpse of a young maid all clad in a shroud of white." "and was she some friend once cherished, or was she a sister dead, that you left your own true lover till the trysting hour had sped?" "i could not see who it might be, her face was hidden away, but i had to turn and follow wherever her resting lay." "and did it go up by the town, or went it down by the lake? i know there are but two church yards where a corpse its rest may take." "they did not go by the town, nor by the lake stayed their feet, but buried the corpse all silently where the four cross roads meet." "and was it so strange a sight that you should go like a child thus to leave me to wait, forgotten, by a passing sight beguiled?" "oh, i heard them whisper my name, each mourner that passed by me; and i had to follow their path, though their faces i could not see." "and right well i would like to know who this fair young maid might be, so take my hand, my own true love, and hasten along with me." he did not go down by the lake he did not go by the town, but carried her to the four cross roads, and there he did set her down. "now i see no track of a foot, i see no mark of a spade, and i know well in this white road there never a grave was made." he took her hand in his right hand, and he led her to town away, and there he questioned the old priest, did he bury a maid that day. he took her hand in his right hand, down to the church by the lake, and there he questioned a young priest, if a maiden her life did take. but there was no tale of death in all the parish round, and neither had heard of a maid thus put in unholy ground. he loosed her hand from his hand, and turned on his heel away. "i know you are false," he said, "from the lie you told today." and she said, "oh, what evil things did tonight my senses take?" she knelt down by the water side and wept as her heart would break. and she said, "oh, what fairy sight was it thus my grief to see! i'll sleep well 'neath the still water, since my love has turned on me." * * * * * and her love he went to the north, and far to the south went he, but still he heard her distant voice call, weeping so bitterly. he could not rest in the daytime, he could not sleep in the night, hastened back to the old road, with the trysting-place in sight. what first he heard was his love's name, and keening both loud and long; what first he saw was his love's face at the head of a mourning throng. and white she was as the dead are, and never a move made she, but passed him by on her black pall, still sleeping so peacefully. and cold she was as the dead are, and never a word she spake, when they said, "unholy is her grave, since she her life did take." silent she was, as the dead are, and never a cry she made when there came, more sad than the keening, the ring of a digging spade. no rest they gave in the town church, no grave by the lake so sweet, but buried her in unholy ground, where the four cross roads do meet. the banshee: dora sigerson shorter god be between us and all harm, for i to-night have seen a banshee in the shadow pass along the dark boreen. and as she went she keened and cried, and combed her long white hair, she stopped at molly reilly's door, and sobbed till midnight there. and is it for himself she moans, who is so far away? or is it molly reilly's death she cries until the day? now molly thinks her man has gone a sailor lad to be; she puts a candle at her door each night for him to see. but he is off to galway town, (and who dare tell her this?) enchanted by a woman's eyes, half-maddened by her kiss. so as we go by molly's door we look towards the sea, and say, "may god bring home your lad wherever he may be." i pray it may be molly's self the banshee keens and cries, for who dare breathe the tale to her, be it her man who dies? but there is sorrow on the way, for i tonight have seen a banshee in the shadow pass along the dark boreen. the seven whistlers: alice e. gillington whistling strangely, whistling sadly, whistling sweet and clear, the seven whistlers have passed thy house, pentruan of porthmeor; it was not in the morning, nor the noonday's golden grace, it was in the dead waste midnight, when the tide yelped loud in the race: the tide swings round in the race, and they're plaining whisht and low, and they come from the gray sea-marshes, where the gray sea-lavenders grow, and the cotton-grass sways to and fro; and the gore-sprent sundews thrive with oozy hands alive. canst hear the curlews' whistle through thy dreamings dark and drear, how they're crying, crying, crying, pentruan of porthmeor? shall thy hatchment, mouldering grimly in yon church amid the sands, stay trouble from thy household? or the carven cherub-hands which hold thy shield to the font? or the gauntlets on the wall keep evil from its onward course as the great tides rise and fall? the great tides rise and fall, and the cave sucks in the breath of the wave when it runs with tossing spray, and the ground-sea rattles of death; "i rise in the shallows," 'a saith, "where the mermaid's kettle sings, and the black shag flaps his wings!" ay, the green sea-mountain leaping may lead horror in its rear, when thy drenched sail leans to its yawning trough, pentruan of porthmeor! yet the stoup waits at thy doorway for its load of glittering ore, and thy ships lie in the tideway, and thy flocks along the moore; and thine arishes gleam softly when the october moonbeams wane, when in the bay all shining the fishers set the seine; the fishers cast the seine, and 'tis "heva!" in the town, and from the watch-rock on the hill the huers are shouting down; and ye hoist the mainsail brown, as over the deep-sea roll the lurker follows the shoal; to follow and to follow, in the moonshine silver-clear, when the halyards creek to thy dipping sail, pentruan of porthmeor! and wailing, and complaining, and whistling whisht and clear, the seven whistlers have passed thy house, pentruan of porthmeor! it was not in the morning, nor the noonday's golden grace,-- it was in the fearsome midnight, when the tide-dogs yelped in the race: the tide swings round in the race, and they're whistling whisht and low, and they come from the lonely heather, where the fur-edged fox-gloves blow, and the moor-grass sways to and fro, where the yellow moor-birds sigh, and the sea-cooled wind sweeps by. canst hear the curlew's whistle through the darkness wild and drear,-- how they're calling, calling, calling, pentruan of porthmeor? the victor: theodosia garrison _the live man victorious_ _rode spurring from the fight;_ _in a glad voice and glorious_ _he sang of his delight,_ _and dead men three, foot-loose and free,_ _came after in the night._ and one laid hand on his bridle-rein-- swift as the steed he sped-- "o, ride you fast, yet at the last, hate faster rides," he said. "my sons shall know their father's foe one day when blades are red." and one laid hand on his stirrup-bar like touch o' driven mist, "for joy you slew ere joy i knew, for one girl's mouth unkissed, at your board's head, at mass, at bed, my pale ghost shall persist." and one laid hands on his own two hands, "o brother o' mine," quoth he, "what can i give to you who live like gift you gave to me? since from grief and strife and ache o' life your sword-stroke set me free." _the live man victorious_ _rode spurring from the fight;_ _in a glad voice and glorious_ _he sang of his delight,_ _and dead men three, foot-loose and free,_ _came after in the night._ mawgan of melhuach: robert stephen hawker 'twas a fierce night when old mawgan died: men shuddered to hear the rolling tide: the wreckers fled fast from the awful shore, they had heard strange voices amid the roar. "out with the boat there," someone cried,-- "will he never come? we shall lose the tide: his berth is trim and his cabin stored, he's a weary long time coming aboard." the old man struggled upon the bed: he knew the words that the voices said; wildly he shrieked as his eyes grew dim, "he was dead! he was dead when i buried him." hark yet again to the devilish roar! "he was nimbler once with a ship on shore; come, come, old man, 'tis a vain delay, we must make the offing by break of day." hard was the struggle, but at the last with a stormy pang old mawgan passed, and away, away, beneath their sight, gleamed the red sail at pitch of night. the mother's ghost: henry wadsworth longfellow svend dyring he rideth adown the glade; _i myself was young._ there he has wooed him so winsome a maid; _fair words gladden so many a heart._ together were they for seven years, and together children six were theirs; then came death abroad through the land, and blighted the beautiful lily-wand. svend dyring he rideth adown the glade, and again hath he wooed him another maid. he hath wooed him a maid and brought home a bride, but she was bitter and full of pride. when she came driving into the yard, there stood the six children weeping so hard. there stood the small children with sorrowful heart; from before her feet she thrust them apart. she gave to them neither ale nor bread; "ye shall suffer hunger and hate," she said. she took from them their quilts of blue, and said, "ye shall lie on the straw we strew." she took from them the great wax light, "now ye shall lie in the dark at night." in the evning late they cried with cold, the mother heard it under the mould. the woman heard it in the earth below: "to my little children i must go." she standeth before the lord of all: "and may i go to my children small?" she prayed him so long and would not cease, until he bade her depart in peace. "at cock-crow thou shalt return again; longer thou shalt not there remain!" she girded up her sorrowful bones, and rifted the walls and the marble stones. as through the village she flitted by, the watch-dogs howled aloud to the sky. when she came to the castle gate, there stood her eldest daughter in wait. "why standest thou here, dear daughter mine? how fares it with brothers and sisters thine?" "never art thou mother of mine, for my mother was both fair and fine. "my mother was white, with cheeks of red, but thou art pale and like to the dead." "how should i be fair and fine? i have been dead; pale cheeks are mine. "how should i be white and red, so long, so long have i been dead?" when she came in at the chamber door, there stood the small children weeping sore. one she braided and one she brushed, the third she lifted, the fourth she hushed. the fifth she took on her lap and pressed, as if she would suckle it at her breast. then to her eldest daughter said she, "do thou bid svend dyring come hither to me." into the chamber when he came she spake to him in anger and shame. "i left behind me both ale and bread; my children hunger and are not fed. "i left behind me the quilts of blue; my children lie on the straw ye strew. "i left behind me the great wax light; my children lie in the dark at night. "if i come again into your hall, as cruel a fate shall you befall! "now crows the cock with feathers red, back to the earth must all the dead. "now crows the cock with feathers swart; the gates of heaven fly wide apart. "now crows the cock with feathers white; i can abide no longer to-night." whenever they heard the watch-dogs wail, they gave the children bread and ale. whenever they heard the watch-dogs bay, they feared lest the dead were on their way. whenever they heard the watch-dogs bark, _i myself was young._ they feared the dead out there in the dark. _fair words gladden so many a heart._ the dead mother: robert buchanan as i lay asleep, as i lay asleep, under the grass as i lay so deep, as i lay asleep in my cotton serk under the shade of our lady's kirk, i waken'd up in the dead of night, i waken'd up in my death-serk white, and i heard a cry from far away, and i knew the voice of my daughter may: "mother, mother, come hither to me! mother, mother, come hither and see! mother, mother, mother dear, another mother is sitting here: my body is bruised and in pain i cry, on straw in the dark afraid i lie, i thirst and hunger for drink and meat, and mother, mother, to sleep were sweet!" i heard the cry, though my grave was deep, and awoke from sleep, and awoke from sleep. i awoke from sleep, i awoke from sleep, up i rose from my grave so deep! the earth was black, but overhead the stars were yellow, the moon was red; and i walk'd along all white and thin, and lifted the latch and enter'd in, and reached the chamber as dark as night, and though it was dark, my face was white: "mother, mother, i look on thee! mother, mother, you frighten me! for your cheeks are thin and your hair is gray!" but i smiled and kissed her fears away, i smooth'd her hair and i sang a song, and on my knee i rocked her long: "o mother, mother, sing low to me-- i am sleepy now, and i cannot see!" i kissed her, but i could not weep, and she went to sleep, and she went to sleep. as we lay asleep, as we lay asleep, my may and i, in our grave so deep, as we lay asleep in the midnight mirk, under the shade of our lady's kirk, i waken'd up in the dead of night, though may my daughter lay warm and white, for i heard the cry of a little one, and i knew 'twas the voice of hugh my son: "mother, mother, come hither to me; mother, mother, come hither and see! mother, mother, mother dear, another mother is sitting here: my body is bruised and my heart is sad, but i speak my mind and call them bad; i thirst and hunger night and day, and were i strong i would fly away!" i heard the cry, though my grave was deep, and awoke from sleep, and awoke from sleep! i awoke from sleep, i awoke from sleep, up i rose from my grave so deep, the earth was black, but overhead the stars were yellow, the moon was red; and i walk'd along all white and thin, and lifted the latch and enter'd in. "mother, mother, and art thou here? i know your face and i feel no fear; raise me, mother, and kiss my cheek, for oh i am weary and sore and weak." i smoothed his hair with a mother's joy, and he laugh'd aloud, my own brave boy: i raised and held him on my breast, sang him a song, and bade him rest. "mother, mother, sing low to me-- i am sleepy now and i cannot see!" i kissed him and i could not weep, as he went to sleep, as he went to sleep. as i lay asleep, as i lay asleep, with my girl and boy in my grave so deep, as i lay asleep, i awoke in fear, awoke, but awoke not my children dear, and i heard a cry so low and weak from a tiny voice that could not speak; i heard the cry of a little one, my bairn that could neither talk nor run, my little, little one, uncaress'd, starving for lack of the milk of the breast; and i rose from sleep and enter'd in, and found my little one, pinch'd and thin, and croon'd a song, and hush'd its moan, and put its lips to my white breast-bone; and the red, red moon that lit the place went white to look at the little face, and i kiss'd and kiss'd and i could not weep, as it went to sleep, as it went to sleep. as it lay asleep, as it lay asleep, i set it down in the darkness deep, smooth'd its limbs and laid it out, and drew the curtains round about; then into the dark, dark room i hied where he lay awake at the woman's side, and though the chamber was black as night, he saw my face, for it was so white; i gazed in his eyes, and he shrieked in pain, and i knew he would never sleep again, and back to my grave went silently, and soon my baby was brought to me; my son and daughter beside me rest, my little baby is on my breast; our bed is warm and our grave is deep, but he cannot sleep, he cannot sleep! legends and ballads of the dead the folk of the air: wm. butler yeats o'driscoll drove with a song, the wild duck and the drake from the tall and the tufted weeds of the drear heart lake. and he saw how the weeds grew dark at the coming of night tide, and he dreamed of the long dark hair of bridget his bride. he heard while he sang and dreamed a piper passing away, and never was piping so sad, and never was piping so gay. and he saw young men and young girls who danced on a level place, and bridget his bride among them, with a sad and a gay face. the dancers crowded about him, and many a sweet thing said, and a young man brought him red wine, and a young girl white bread. but bridget drew him by the sleeve, away from the merry bands, to old men playing at cards with a twinkling of ancient hands. the bread and the wine had a doom, for these were the folk of the air; he sat and played in a dream of her long dim hair. he played with the merry old men, and thought not of evil chance, until one bore bridget his bride away from the merry dance. he bore her away in his arms, the handsomest young man there, and his neck and his breast and his arms were drowned in her long dim hair. o'driscoll got up from the grass and scattered the cards with a cry; but the old men and the dancers were gone as a cloud faded into the sky. he knew now the folk of the air, and his heart was blackened by dread, and he ran to the door of his house; old women were keening the dead. and he heard high up in the air a piper piping away; and never was piping so sad and never was piping so gay. the reconciliation: a. margaret ramsay "the snow has ceased, the wind has hushed, the moon shines fair and clear, the night is drawing on apace, yet evan is not here. "the deer is couched among the fern, the bird sleeps on the tree; o what can keep my only son, he bides so long from me?" "o mother, come and take your rest, since evan stays so late; if we leave the door unbarred for him, what need to sit and wait?" "now hold your peace, my daughter, be still and let me be, i will not seek my bed this night until my son i see." and she has left the door unbarred, and by the fire sat still; she drew her mantle her about as the winter night grew chill. the moon had set beyond the moor, and half the night had gone, when standing silent by her side she saw evan her son. "i did not hear your step, evan, nor hear you lift the pin." "i would not wake my sister, mother, so softly i came in." "now sit ye down and rest, evan, and i will give you meat." "i have been with my cousin john, mother, and he gave me to eat." "then have ye laid the quarrel by that was 'twixt him and you, and given each other pledge of faith ye will be friends anew?" "we have laid the quarrel by, mother, forevermore to sleep, and he has given me his knife, as pledge of faith to keep." "o is it blood or is it rust that makes the knife so red, or is it but the red firelight that's shining on the blade?" "no rust is on the blade, mother, nor the firelight's ruddy hue; the bright blood ran upon the knife to seal our compact true." "o is it with the pale gray gleam that comes before the dawn, or are ye weary with the road that ye look so ghastly wan?" "a long and weary road, mother, i fared to reach my home, and i must get me to my bed that waits for me to come." "the night is bitter cold, evan, see that your bed be warm, and take your plaid to cover you, lest the cold should do you harm." "yes, cold, cold is the night, mother, yet soundly do i rest, with the bleak north wind to cover me, and the snow white on my breast." the priest's brother: dora sigerson shorter thrice in the night the priest arose from broken sleep to kneel and pray. "hush, poor ghost, till the red cock crows, and i a mass for your soul may say." thrice he went to the chamber cold where, stiff and still uncoffinéd his brother lay, his beads he told, and "rest, poor spirit, rest," he said. thrice lay the old priest down to sleep before the morning bell should toll; but still he heard--and woke to weep-- the crying of his brother's soul. all through the dark, till dawn was pale, the priest tossed in his misery, with muffled ears to hide the wail the voice of that ghost's agony. at last the red cock flaps his wings, to trumpet of a day new born. the lark, awaking, soaring, sings into the bosom of the morn. the priest before the altar stands he hears the spirit call for peace; he beats his breast with shaking hands. "oh, father, grant this soul's release. most just and merciful, set free from purgatory's awful night this sinner's soul, to fly to thee and rest forever in thy sight." the mass is over--still the clerk kneels pallid in the morning glow. he said, "from evils of the dark oh, bless me, father, ere you go. "benediction, that i may rest, for all night did the banshee weep." the priest raised up his hands and blest-- "go now, my child, and you will sleep." the priest went down the vestry stair, he laid his vestments in their place, and turned--a pale ghost met him there with beads of pain upon his face. "brother," he said, "you have gained me peace, but why so long did you know my tears, and say no mass for my soul's release to save the torture of those years?" "god rest you, brother," the good priest said, "no years have passed--but a single night." he showed the body uncoffinéd and the six wax candles still alight. the living flowers on the dead man's breast blew out a perfume sweet and strong. the spirit paused ere he passed to rest-- "god save your soul from a night so long." the ballad of judas iscariot: robert buchanan 'twas the body of judas iscariot lay in the field of blood; 'twas the soul of judas iscariot beside the body stood. black was the earth by night, and black was the sky: black, black were the broken clouds, though the red moon went by. 'twas the body of judas iscariot strangled and dead lay there; 'twas the soul of judas iscariot looked on in its despair. the breath of the world came and went like a sick man's in rest; drop by drop on the world's eyes the dews fell cool and blest. then the soul of judas iscariot did make a gentle moan-- "i will bury underneath the ground my flesh and blood and bone. "i will bury it deep beneath the soil, lest mortals look thereon, and when the wolf and raven come my body will be gone! "the stones of the field are sharp as steel, and hard and cold, god wot; and i must bear my body hence until i find a spot!" 'twas the soul of judas iscariot so grim, and gaunt and grey, raised the body of judas iscariot and carried it away. and as he bare it from the field its touch was cold as ice, and the ivory teeth within the jaw rattled aloud, like dice. as the soul of judas iscariot carried its load with pain, the eye of heaven, like a lantern's eye, opened and shut again. half he walked, and half he seemed lifted on the cold wind; he did not turn, for chilly hands were pushing from behind. the first place that he came unto it was the open wold, and underneath were prickly whins, and a wind that blew so cold. the next place that he came unto it was a stagnant pool, and when he threw the body in it floated, light as wool. he drew the body on his back and it was dripping chill, and the next place that he came unto was a cross upon a hill. a cross upon the windy hill, and a cross on either side, three skeletons that swung thereon, who had been crucified. and on the middle cross-bar sat a white dove slumbering; dim it sat in the dim light, with its head beneath its wing. and underneath the middle cross a grave yawned wide and vast, but the soul of judas iscariot shivered and glided past. the fourth place that he came unto it was the brig of dread, and the great torrents rushing down were deep and swift and red. he dared not fling the body in for fear of faces dim, and arms were waved in the wild water to thrust it back to him. 'twas the soul of judas iscariot turned from the brig of dread, and the dreadful foam of the wild water had splashed the body red. for days and nights he wandered on, upon an open plain, and the days went by like blinding mist, and the nights like rushing rain. for days and nights he wandered on all through the wood of woe; and the nights went by like the moaning wind and the days like drifting snow. 'twas the soul of judas iscariot came with a weary face-- alone, alone, and all alone, alone in a lonely place! he wandered east and he wandered west, and heard no human sound; for months and years in grief and tears, he wandered round and round. for months and years, in grief and tears, he walked the silent night, then the soul of judas iscariot perceived a far-off light. a far-off light across the waste, as dim as dim might be, that came and went like a lighthouse gleam, on a black night at sea. 'twas the soul of judas iscariot, crawled to the distant gleam, and the rain came down, and the rain was blown against him with a scream. for days and nights he wandered on, pushed on by hands unseen, and the days went by like black, black rain, and the nights like rushing rain. 'twas the soul of judas iscariot, strange and sad and tall, stood all alone at the dead of night, before a lighted hall. and all the wold was white with snow, and his foot-marks black and damp, and the ghost of the silver moon arose, holding her yellow lamp. and the icicles were on the eaves, and the walls were deep with white, and the shadows of the guests within passed on the window-light. and the shadows of the wedding guests did strangely come and go, and the body of judas iscariot lay stretched along the snow. the body of judas iscariot lay stretched along the snow, 'twas the soul of judas iscariot ran swiftly to and fro. to and fro, and up and down, he ran so swiftly there, as round and round the frozen pole glideth the lean white bear. 'twas the bridegroom sat at the table-head, and the lights burned bright and clear-- "oh, who is there?" the bridegroom said, "whose weary feet i hear?" 'twas one looked up from the lighted hall, and answered soft and low, "it is a wolf runs up and down, with a black track in the snow." the bridegroom in his robe of white, sat at the table-head-- "oh, who is that who moans without?" the blessed bridegroom said. 'twas one looked from the lighted hall, and answered fierce and low, "'twas the soul of judas iscariot gliding to and fro." 'twas the soul of judas iscariot did hush itself and stand, and saw the bridegroom at the door with a light in his hand. the bridegroom stood in the open door, and he was clad in white, and far within the lord's supper was spread so long and bright. the bridegroom shaded his eyes and looked and his face was bright to see-- "what dost thou here at the lord's supper with thy body's sins?" said he. 'twas the soul of judas iscariot stood black, and sad, and bare-- "i have wandered many nights and days; there is no light elsewhere." 'twas the wedding guests cried out within, and their eyes were fierce and bright-- "scourge the soul of judas iscariot away into the night!" the bridegroom stood in the open door, and he waved hands still and slow, and the third time that he waved his hands the air was full of snow. and of every flake of falling snow, before it touched the ground, there came a dove, and a thousand doves made sweet sound. 'twas the body of judas iscariot floated away full fleet, and the wings of the doves that bare it off were like its winding sheet. 'twas the bridegroom stood at the open door, and beckoned, smiling sweet; 'twas the soul of judas iscariot stole in and fell at his feet. "the holy supper is spread within, and the many candles shine, and i have waited long for thee before i poured the wine!" the supper wine is poured at last, and the lights burn bright and fair, iscariot washes the bridegroom's feet, and dries them with his hair. the eve of st. john: walter scott the baron of smaylho'me rose with the day, he spurr'd his courser on, without stop or stay down the rocky way, that leads to brotherstone. he went not with the bold buccleuch, his banner broad to rear; he went not 'gainst the english yew, to lift the scottish spear. yet his plate-jack was braced, and his helmet was laced, and his vaunt-brace of proof he wore: at his saddle-girth was a good steel sperthe, full ten pound weight and more. the baron return'd in three days' space, and his looks were sad and sour, and weary was his courser's pace, as he reach'd his rocky tower. he came not from where ancram moor ran red with english blood; where the douglas true and the bold buccleuch, 'gainst keen lord evers stood. yet was his helmet hack'd and hew'd, his acton pierced and tore, his axe and his dagger with blood imbrued,-- but it was not english gore. he lighted at the chapellage, he held him close and still; and he whistled thrice for his little foot-page; his name was english will. "come thou hither, my little foot-page, come hither to my knee; though thou art young and tender of age, i think thou art true to me. "come tell me all that thou hast seen, and look thou tell me true! since i from smaylho'me tower have been, what did my ladye do?"-- "my lady each night, sought the lonely light, that burns on the wild watchfold; for from height to height, the beacons bright of the english foemen told. "the bittern clamor'd from the moss, the wind blew loud and shrill; yet the craggy pathway she did cross to the eiry beacon hill. "i watch'd her steps, and silent came where she sat her on a stone;-- no watchman stood by the dreary flame, it burned all alone. "the second night i kept her in sight, till to the fire she came, and, by mary's might! an arméd knight stood by the lonely flame. "and many a word that warlike lord did speak to my lady there; but the rain fell fast and loud blew the blast, and i heard not what they were. "the third night there, the night was fair, and the mountain-blast was still, as again i watch'd the secret pair, on the lonesome beacon hill. "and i heard her name the midnight hour, and name this holy eve; and say 'come this night to thy lady's bower, ask no bold baron's leave. "'he lifts his spear with the bold buccleuch; his lady is all alone; the door she'll undo, to her knight so true on the eve of the good st. john.'-- "'i cannot come, i must not come: i dare not come to thee; on the eve of st. john i must wander alone, in thy bower i may not be.'-- "'now, out on thee, faint-hearted knight! thou shouldst not say me nay; for the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet, is worth the whole summer's day. "'and i'll chain the blood-hound, and the warder shall not sound, and rushes shall be strew'd on the stair: so by the black-rood stone, and by holy st. john, i conjure thee, my love, to be there!' "'though the blood-hound be mute and the rush beneath my foot, and the warder his bugle should not blow, yet there sleepeth a priest in a chamber to the east, and my foot-step he would know.'-- "'o fear not the priest, who sleepeth to the east, for to dryburgh the way he has ta'en, and there to say mass, till three days do pass, for the soul of a knight that is slayne.' "he turn'd him around and grimly he frown'd; then he laugh'd right scornfully-- 'he who says the mass-rite for the soul of that knight, may as well say mass for me! "'at the lone midnight hour, when bad spirits have power, in thy chamber will i be'-- with that he was gone and my lady left alone, and no more did i see." then changed, i trow, was that bold baron's brow, from the dark to the blood-red high; "now tell me the mien of the knight thou hast seen, for, by mary, he shall die!"-- "his arms shone full bright, in the beacon's red light, his plume, it was scarlet and blue, on his shield was a hound, in a silver leash bound, and his crest was a branch of the yew." "thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot-page, loud dost thou lie to me! for that knight is cold and laid in the mould, all under the eildon-tree."-- "yet hear but my word, my noble lord! for i heard her name his name; and that lady bright she called the knight sir richard of coldinghame!" the bold baron's brow then changed, i trow, from the high blood-red to pale-- "the grave is deep and dark--and the corpse is stiff and stark-- so i may not trust thy tale. "where fair tweed flows round holy melrose, and eildon slopes to the plain. full three nights ago, by some secret foe, that gay gallant was slain. "the varying light deceived thy sight, and the wild winds drown'd the name; for the dryburgh bells ring, and the white monks do sing, for sir richard of coldinghame!" he pass'd the court-gate, and he oped the tower-gate, and he mounted the narrow stair, to the bartizan-seat, where, with maids that on her wait, he found his lady fair. that lady sat in mournful mood; look'd o'er hill and vale; over tweed's fair flood, and mertoun's wood, and all down teviotdale. "now hail, now hail, thou lady bright!"-- "now hail, thou baron, true! what news, what news from ancram fight? what news from the bold buccleuch?" "the ancram moor is red with gore, for many a southron fell; and buccleuch has charged us, evermore, to watch our beacons well."-- the lady blush'd red, but nothing she said: nor added the baron a word, then she stepp'd down the stair to her chamber fair, and so did her moody lord. in sleep the lady mourn'd and the baron toss'd and turn'd, and oft to himself he said:-- "the worms round him creep, and his bloody grave is deep. it cannot give up the dead!" it was near the ringing of matin-bell, the night was well-nigh done, when a heavy sleep on that baron fell, on the eve of good st. john. the lady look'd through the chamber fair, by the light of the dying flame; and she was aware of a knight stood there-- sir richard of coldinghame! "alas! away! away!" she cried, "for the holy virgin's sake!"-- "lady, i know who sleeps by thy side, but, lady, he will not wake. "by eildon-tree, for long nights three, in bloody grave have i lain; the mass and the death-prayer are said for me, but, lady, they are said in vain. "by the baron's brand, near tweed's fair strand, most foully slain i fell; and my restless sprite on the beacon's height, for a space is doom'd to dwell. "at our trysting place, for a certain space, i must wander to and fro, but i had not had power to come to thy bower, hadst thou not conjured me so." love master'd fear--her brow she cross'd; "how, richard, hast thou sped? and art thou saved or art thou lost?"-- the vision shook his head! "who spilleth life, shall forfeit life; so bid thy lord believe: that lawless love is guilt above, this awful sign receive." he laid his left hand on an oaken beam, his right upon her hand, the lady shrunk, and fainting sunk, for it scorched like a fiery brand. the sable score, of fingers four, remains on that board impress'd, and forever more that lady wore a covering on her wrist. there is a nun in dryburgh bower, ne'er looks upon the sun, there is a monk in melrose tower, he speaketh word to none. that nun, who ne'er beholds the day, that monk that speaks to none,-- that nun was smaylho'me's lady gay, that monk the bold baron. fair margaret's misfortunes "i am no love for you, margaret, you are no love for me. before to-morrow at eight of the clock, a rich wedding you shall see." fair margaret sat in her bower-window combing her yellow hair; there she espied sweet william and his bride, as they were a-riding near. down she laid her ivory comb, and up she bound her hair; she went away out of her bower, and never returnéd there. when day was gone and night was come, and all men fast asleep, there came the spirit of fair marg'ret, and stood at william's feet. "are you awake, sweet william?" she said, "or, william, are you asleep? god give you joy of your gay bride-bed, and me of my winding sheet." when day was come and night was gone, and all men waked in from sleep, sweet william to his ladye said,-- "alas i have cause to weep. "i dreamt a dream, my dear ladye,-- such dreams are never good,-- i dreamt my bower was full of red swine, and the walls ran down with blood." he called up his merrymen all, by one, by two, and by three; saying, "i'll away to fair margaret's bower, by the leave of my ladye." and when he came to fair margaret's bower, he knocked at the ring; and who so ready as her seven brethren, to let sweet william in. he turned down the covering-sheet, to see the face of the dead; "methinks she looks all pale and wan; she hath lost her cherry red. "i would do more for thee, margaret, than would any of thy kin. and i will kiss thy pale cold lips, though a smile i cannot win." with that bespake the seven brethren, making most piteous moan, "you may go and kiss your jolly brown bride, and let our sister alone!" "if i do kiss my jolly brown bride, i do but what is right; i ne'er made a vow to yonder poor corpse, by day, nor yet by night." "deal on, deal on, ye merrymen all, deal on your cake and wine. whatever is dealt at her funeral to-day, shall be dealt to-morrow at mine!" fair margaret died as it might be to-day, sweet william he died the morrow, fair margaret died for pure true love, sweet william he died for sorrow. margaret was buried in the lower chancel, and william in the higher; and out of her breast there sprang a rose tree, and out of his a brier. they grew till they grew unto the church-top, and when they could grow no higher; and there they tied a true lover's knot, which made all the people admire. at last the clerk of the parish came, as the truth doth well appear, and by misfortune he cut them down, or else they had now been here. sweet william's ghost there came a ghost to marjorie's door, wi' many a grievous moan, and aye he tirled at the pin, but answer made she none. "oh, say, is that my father? or is't my brother john? or is it my true love willy, from scotland new come home?" "'tis not thy father, marjorie, nor not thy brother john; but 'tis thy true love willy from scotland new come home. "oh marjorie sweet! oh marjorie dear! for faith and charitie, will ye gie me back my faith and troth that i gave once to thee?" "thy faith and troth thou gavest to me, and again thou'lt never win, until thou come within my bower and kiss me cheek and chin." "my lips they are sae bitter," he says, "my breath it is sae strang, if ye get ae kiss from me to-night, your days will not be lang. "the cocks are crawing, marjorie,-- the cocks are crawing again: the dead wi' the quick they mustna stay, and i must needs be gone." she followed him high, she followed him low, till she came to yon church-yard green, and there the deep grave opened up, and young william he lay down. "what three things are these, sweet william, that stand beside your head?" "o it's three maidens, marjorie, that once i promised to wed." "what three things are these, sweet william, that stand close at your side?" "o it's three babes," he says, "marjorie, that these three maidens had." "what three things are these, sweet william, that lie close at thy feet?" "o it's three hell-hounds, marjorie, that's waiting my soul to keep." and she took up her white, white hand, and struck him on the breast; saying, "have here again thy faith and troth, and i wish your soul good rest." clerk saunders clerk saunders and may margaret walked ower yon garden green; and deep and heavy was the love that fell thir twa between. "a bed, a bed," clerk saunders said, "a bed for you and me!" "fye na, fye na," said may margaret, "till anes we married be!" "then i'll take the sword frae my scabbard and slowly lift the pin; and you may swear, and save your aith, ye ne'er let clerk saunders in. "take your napkin in your hand, tie up your bonnie een, and you may swear and save your aith, ye saw me na since yestreen." it was about the midnight hour, when they asleep were laid, when in and came her seven brothers, wi' torches burning red: when in and came her seven brothers, wi' torches burning bright: they said, "we hae but one sister, and behold her lying with a knight!" then out and spake the first o' them, "we will awa' and let them be." and out and spake the second o' them, "his father has nae mair but he." and out and spake the third o' them, "i wot that they are lovers dear." and out and spake the fourth o' them, "they hae been in love this mony a year." then out and spake the fifth o' them, "it were great sin true love to twain," and out and spake the sixth o' them, "it were shame to slay a sleeping man." then up and gat the seventh o' them, and never a word spake he; but he has striped his bright brown brand out through clerk saunders' fair bodye. clerk saunders he started, and margaret she turned, into his arms as asleep she lay; and sad and silent was the night that was atween thir twae. and they lay still and sleepit sound until the day began to daw; and kindly she to him did say, "it is time, true love, you were awa'." but he lay still and sleepit sound, albeit the sun began to sheen; she looked between her and the wa', and dull and drowsie were his een. then in and came her father dear; said, "let a' your mourning be; i'll carry the dead corpse to the clay, and i'll come back and comfort thee." "comfort weel your seven sons, for comforted i will never be: i trow 'twas neither knave nor loon was in the bower last night wi' me." the clinking bell gaed through the town, and carried the dead corpse to the clay. young saunders stood at may margaret's window, i wot, an hour before the day. "are ye sleeping, margaret?" he says, "or are you waking presentlie? give me my faith and troth again, true love, as i gied them to thee." "your faith and troth ye sall never get, nor our true love sall never twin, until ye come within my bower, and kiss me cheek and chin." "my mouth it is full cold, margaret, it has the smell now of the ground; and if i may kiss thy comely mouth, thy days will soon be at an end. "o, cocks are crowing a merry midnight; i wot the wild fowls are boding day. give me my faith and troth again, and let me fare me on my way." "thy faith and troth thou sall na get, and our true love sall never twin, until ye tell wha' comes o' women, wot ye, who die in strong traivelling?" "their beds are made in the heavens high, down at the foot of our good lord's knee, weel set about wi' gillyflowers; i wot, sweet company for to see. "o, cocks are crowing a merry midnight; i wot the wild fowls are boding day; the psalms of heaven will soon be sung, and i, ere now, will be missed away." then she has taken a crissom wand, and she has stroken her troth thereon; she has given it him out at the shot-window, wi' mony a sad sigh and heavy groan. "i thank ye, marg'ret; i thank ye, marg'ret; ever i thank ye heartilie; but gin i were living, as i am dead, i'd keep my faith and troth with thee." it's hosen and shoon, and gown alone, she climbed the wall, and followed him, until she came to the green forest, and there she lost the sight o' him. "is there ony room at your head, saunders? is there ony room at your feet? is there ony room at your side, saunders? where fain, fain, i wad sleep?" "there's nae room at my head, marg'ret, there's nae room at my feet; my bed it is fu' lowly now, amang the hungry worms i sleep. "cauld mould is my covering now, but and my winding-sheet; the dew it fall nae sooner down then my resting place is weet." then up and crew the red, red cock, then up and crew the gray; "'tis time, 'tis time, my dear marg'ret, that you were going away. "and fair marg'ret, and rare marg'ret, and marg'ret, o' veritie, gin e'er ye love another man, ne'er love him as ye did me." the wife of usher's well there lived a wife at usher's well, and a wealthy wife was she; she had three stout and stalwart sons, and sent them o'er the sea. they hadna been a week from her, a week but barely ane, when word cam' to the carline wife that her three sons were gane. they hadna been a week from her, a week but barely three, when word cam' to the carline wife that her sons she'd never see. "i wish the wind may never cease, nor fish be in the flood, till my three sons come hame to me, in earthly flesh and blood!" it fell about the martinmas, when nights are lang and mirk, the carline wife's three sons cam' hame, and their hats were o' the birk. if neither grew in shye nor ditch nor yet in any small shugh; but at the gates o' paradise that birk grew fair eneugh. "blow up the fire, my maidens! bring water from the well! for a' my house shall feast this night, since my three sons are well." and she has made to them a bed, she's made it large and wide; and she's ta'en her mantle round about, sat down at the bedside. up then crew the red, red cock, and up and crew the gray; the eldest to the youngest said, "'tis time we were away. "the cock doth craw, the day doth daw, the channerin' worm doth chide; gin we be miss'd out o' our place, a sair pain we maun bide." "lie still, lie still but a little wee while, lie still but if we may; gin my mother should miss us when she wakes, she'll go mad ere it be the day. "our mother has nae mair but us; see where she leans asleep; the mantle that was on herself, she has happ'd it round our feet." o it's they have ta'en up their mother's mantle, and they've hung it on a pin; "o lang may ye hing, my mother's mantle, ere ye hap us again! "fare ye weel, my mother dear! fareweel to barn and byre! and fare ye weel, the bonny lass that kindles my mother's fire!" a lyke-wake dirge this ae nighte, this ae nighte, --_every nighte and alle,_ fire and sleet and candle-lighte, _and christe receive thy saule._ when thou from hence away art passed, --_every nighte and alle,_ to whinny-muir thou com'st at last; _and christe receive thy saule._ if ever thou gavest hosen and shoon, --_every nighte and alle,_ sit thee down and put them on; _and christe receive thy saule._ if hosen and shoon thou ne'er gav'st nane, --_every nighte and alle,_ the whins sall prick thee to the bare bane; _and christe receive thy saule._ from whinny-muir when thou mayst pass, --_every nighte and alle,_ to brig o' dread thou com'st at last; _and christe receive thy saule._ from brig o' dread when thou may'st pass, --_every nighte and alle,_ to purgatory fire thou com'st at last; _and christe receive thy saule._ if ever thou gavest meat or drink, --_every nighte and alle,_ the fire sall never make thee shrink; _and christe receive thy saule._ if meat or drink thou never gav'st nane, --_every nighte and alle,_ the fire will burn thee to the bare bane; _and christe receive thy saule._ this ae nighte, this ae nighte, --_every nighte and alle,_ fire and sleet and candle-lighte, _and christe receive thy saule._ the end index after death, all-saints' eve, all-souls, all-souls' night, all-souls' night, allen, elizabeth akers, allingham, william, arnold, sir edwin, at home, bacon, josephine daskam, ballad of douglas bridge, ballad of hallowe'en, ballad of judas iscariot, the, ballad of the buried sword, banshee, the, barham, richard harris, , beleaguered city, the, betrayal, blockhouse on the hill, the, blue closet, the, branch, anna hempstead, buchanan, robert, , byron, may, cape horn gospel, carlin, francis, , cawein, madison, chesson, nora hopper, xiv child, the, child alone, the, clerk saunders, cone, helen gray, cortissoz, ellen m.h., dave lilly, dead coach, the, dead mother, deid folks' ferry, de la mare, walter, , , , dobell, sydney, drake's drum, dream, a, driscoll, louise, easter, marguerite elizabeth, eaton, arthur wentworth hamilton, eve of st. john, the, far-away country, the, xiv fair margaret's misfortunes, featherstone's doom, fetch, the, fireflies, flying dutchman, the, flying dutchman of tappan zee, fog wraiths, folk of the air, the, forgotten soul, the, freneau, philip, garrison, theodosia, , , , , , ghost, the, ghost, the, ghosts, ghosts of the argonne, ghost's petition, the, gillington, alice e., grey ghost, the, guiterman, arthur, , hallows' e'en, harte, bret, haunted, haunted, haunted, haunted, haunted houses, hawker, robert stephen, , he and she, highwayman, the, hood, thomas, , , , housman, a.e., howells, mildred, humphreys, louisa, indian burying ground, the, ingelow, jean, ingoldsby penance, irving, minna, janet's tryst, keith of ravelston, kendall, may, kilmer, aline, kilmer, joyce, , , kingsley, charles, kipling, rudyard, lake of the dismal swamp, the, legend, a, legend of hamilton tighe, leland, charles godfrey, letts, winifred m., listeners, little dead child, the, little ghost, the, little ghost, the, little green orchard, the, longfellow, henry wadsworth, , , , looking-glass, the, lowell, amy, luke havergal, lyke-wake dirge, a, macdonald, george, marquis, don, martin, mary shepherdess, mary's ghost, masefield, john, mawgan of melhuach, midnight visitor, a, millay, edna st. vincent, mitchell, ruth comfort, moore, thomas, morris, william, mother's ghost, the, my laddie's hounds, neighbors, the, newbolt, henry, newport romance, a, night at gettysburg, november eleventh, noyes, alfred, old house, the, on kingston bridge, one out-of-doors, open door, the, passer-by, phantom light of the baie des chaleurs, the, phantom ship, the, piatt, sarah, pickthall, marjorie l.c., pompey's ghost, priest's brother, the, quiller-couch, arthur t., ramsay, a. margaret, reconciliation, the, reese, lizette woodworth, return, the, rhys, ernest, rice, grantland, riders, the, robinson, edwin arlington, room's width, rossetti, christina, , , sailing beyond seas, sands of dee, the, schauffler, robert haven, scott, sir walter, sea ghosts, seitz, don c., seven whistlers, shorter, dora sigerson, , , , song of soldiers, the, stuart, g.b., such are the souls in purgatory, superstitious ghost, the, supper superstition, sweet william's ghost, thomas, edith m., three ghosts, the, true lover, the, two brothers, tynan, katherine, , , , , untermeyer, louis, victor, the, ward, elizabeth stuart phelps, watson, rosamund marriott, , , white comrade, the, white ships and the red, white moth, the, widdemer, margaret, wife of usher's well, the, yeats, william butler, transcriber's notes: page : changed sine to since. page : changed thy to they. the unusual spacing in "the ingoldsby penance" has been preserved from the original. none byways of ghost-land byways of ghost-land by elliott o'donnell author of "some haunted houses of england and wales," "haunted houses of london," "ghostly phenomena," "dreams and their meanings," "scottish ghost tales," "true ghost tales," etc., etc. william rider and son, limited aldersgate st., london, e.c. contents chap. page . the unknown brain . the occult in shadows . obsession, possession . occult hooligans . sylvan horrors . complex hauntings and occult bestialities . vampires, were-wolves, fox-women, etc. . death-warnings and family ghosts . superstitions and fortunes . the hand of glory; the bloody hand of ulster; the seventh son; birth-marks; nature's devil signals; pre-existence; the future; projection; telepathy; etc. . occult inhabitants of the sea and rivers . buddhas and boggle chairs index byways of ghost-land chapter i the unknown brain whether all that constitutes man's spiritual nature, that is to say, all his mind, is inseparably amalgamated with the whitish mass of soft matter enclosed in his cranium and called his brain, is a question that must, one supposes, be ever open to debate. one knows that this whitish substance is the centre of the nervous system and the seat of consciousness and volition, and, from the constant study of character by type or by phrenology, one may even go on to deduce with reason that in this protoplasmic substance--in each of the numerous cells into which it is divided and subdivided--are located the human faculties. hence, it would seem that one may rationally conclude, that all man's vital force, all that comprises his mind--_i.e._ the power in him that conceives, remembers, reasons, wills--is so wrapped up in the actual matter of his cerebrum as to be incapable of existing apart from it; and that as a natural sequence thereto, on the dissolution of the brain, the mind and everything pertaining to the mind dies with it--there is no future life because there is nothing left to survive. such a condition, if complete annihilation can be so named, is the one and only conclusion to the doctrine that mind--crude, undiagnosed mind--is dependent on matter, a doctrine confirmed by the apparent facts that injury to the cranium is accompanied by unconsciousness and protracted loss of memory, and that the sanity of the individual is entirely contingent upon the state of his cerebral matter--a clot of blood in one of the cerebral veins, or the unhealthy condition of a cell, being in itself sufficient to bring about a complete mental metamorphose, and, in common parlance, to produce madness. in the deepest of sleeps, too, when there is less blood in the cerebral veins, and the muscles are generally relaxed, and the pulse is slower, and the respiratory movements are fewer in number, consciousness departs, and man apparently lapses into a state of absolute nothingness which materialists, not unreasonably, presume must be akin to death. it would appear, then, that our mental faculties are entirely regulated by, and consequently, entirely dependent on, the material within our brain cells, and that, granted certain conditions of that material, we have consciousness, and that, without those conditions, we have no consciousness--in other words, "our minds cease to exist." hence, there is no such thing as separate spiritual existence; mind is merely an eventuality of matter, and, when the latter perishes, the former perishes too. there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that can exist apart from the physical. this is an assertion--unquestionably dogmatic--that exponents of materialism hold to be logically unassailable. to disprove it may not be an easy task at present; but i am, nevertheless, convinced there is a world apart from matter--a superphysical plane with which part of us, at least, is in some way connected, and i discredit the materialist's dogma, partly because something in my nature compels me to an opposite conclusion, and partly because certain phenomena i have experienced, cannot, i am certain, have been produced by any physical agency. in support of my theory that we are not solely material, but partly physical and partly superphysical, i maintain that consciousness is never wholly lost; that even in swoons and dreams, when all sensations would seem to be swallowed up in the blackness of darkness, there is some consciousness left--the consciousness of existence, of impression. we recover from a faint, or awake from the most profound of slumbers, and remember not that we have dreamed. yet, if we think with sufficient concentration, our memory suddenly returns to us, and we recollect that, during the swoon or sleep, all thought was not obliterated, but, that we were conscious of being somewhere and of experiencing something. it is only in our lighter sleeps, when the spirit traverses superphysical planes more closely connected with the material, that we remember all that occurred. most of us will agree that there are two distinct forms of mental existence--the one in which we are conscious of the purely superphysical, and the one wherein we are only cognisant of the physical. in the first-named of these two mental existences-- _i.e._ in swoons, sleep, and even death, consciousness is never entirely lost; we still think--we think with our spiritual or unknown brain; and when in the last-named state, _i.e._ in our physical wakefulness and life, we think with our material or known brain. unknown brains exist on all sides of us. many of them are the earth-bound spirits of those whose spiritual or unknown brains, when on the earth, were starved to feed their material or known brains; or, in other words, the earth-bound spirits of those whose cravings, when in carnal form, were entirely animal. it is they, together with a variety of elementary forms of superphysical life (_i.e._ phantasms that have never inhabited any kind of earthly body), that constantly surround us, and, with their occult brains, suggest to our known brains every kind of base and impure thought. something, it is difficult to say what, usually warns me of the presence of these occult brains, and at certain times (and in certain places) i can feel, with my superphysical mind, their subtle hypnotic influences. it is the unknown brain that produces those manifestations usually attributed to ghosts, and it is, more often than not, the possessors of the unknown brain in constant activity, _i.e._ the denizens of the superphysical world, who convey to our organs of hearing, either by suggestion or actual presentation, the sensations of uncanny knocks, crashes, shrieks, etc.; and to our organs of sight, all kinds of uncanny, visual phenomena. all the phenomena we see are not objective; but the agents who "will" that we should see them are objective--they are the unknown brains. it is a mistake to think that these unknown brains can only exert their influence on a few of us. we are all subject to them, though we do not all see their manifestations. were it not for the lower order of spirit brains, there would be comparatively few drunkards, gamblers, adulterers, fornicators, murderers, and suicides. it is they who excite man's animal senses, by conjuring up alluring pictures of drink, and gold, and sexual happiness. by the aid of the higher type of spirit brains (who, contending for ever with the lower forms of spirit brains, are indeed our "guardian angels") i have been enabled to perceive the atmosphere surrounding drinking-dens and brothels full of all kinds of bestial influences, from elementals, who allure men by presenting to their minds all kinds of attractive tableaux, to the earth-bound spirits of drunkards and libertines, transformed into horrors of the sub-human, sub-animal order of phantasms--things with bloated, nude bodies and pigs' faces, shaggy bears with fulsome, watery eyes; mangy dogs, etc. i have watched these things that still possess--and possess in a far greater degree--all the passions of their life incarnate, sniffing the foul and vitiated atmosphere of the public-houses and brothels, and chafing in the most hideous manner at their inability to gratify their lustful cravings in a more substantial way. a man advances along the road at a swinging pace, with no thought, as yet, of deviating from his course and entering a public-house. he comes within the radius of the sinister influences, which i can see and feel hanging around the saloon. their shadowy, silent brain power at once comes into play and gains ascendancy over his weaker will. he halts because he is "willed" to do so. a tempting tableau of drink rises before him and he at once imagines he is thirsty. soft and fascinating elemental hands close over his and draw him gently aside. a look of beastly satisfaction suffuses his eyes. he smacks his lips, hastens his steps, the bar-room door closes behind him, and, for the remaining hours of the day, he wallows in drink. but the unknown brain does not confine itself to the neighbourhood of a public-house--it may be anywhere. i have, intuitively, felt its presence on the deserted moors of cornwall, between st ives and the land's end; in the grey cornish churches and chapels (very much in the latter); around the cold and dismal mouths of disused mine-shafts; all along the rocky north cornish coast; on the sea; at various spots on different railway lines, both in the united kingdom and abroad; and, of course, in multitudinous places in london. a year or so ago, i called on mrs de b----, a well-known society lady, at that time residing in cadogan gardens. the moment i entered her drawing-room, i became aware of an occult presence that seemed to be hovering around her. wherever she moved, it moved with her, and i felt that its strange, fathomless, enigmatical eyes were fixed on her, noting and guiding her innermost thoughts and her every action with inexorable persistence. some six months later, i met lady d----, a friend in common, and in answer to my inquiries concerning mrs de b----, was informed that she had just been divorced. "dorothy" (_i.e._ mrs de b----), lady d---- went on to explain, "had been all right till she took up spiritualism, but directly she began to attend séances everything seemed to go wrong with her. at last she quarrelled with her husband, the climax being reached when she became violently infatuated with an officer in the guards. the result was a decree _nisi_ with heavy costs." i exhibited, perhaps, more surprise than i felt. but the fact of mrs de b---- having attended séances explained everything. she was obviously a woman with a naturally weak will, and had fallen under the influence of one of the lowest, and most dangerous types of earth-bound spirits, the type that so often attends séances. this occult brain had attached itself to her, and, accompanying her home, had deliberately wrecked her domestic happiness. it would doubtless remain with her now _ad infinitum_. indeed, it is next to impossible to shake off these superphysical cerebrums. they cling to one with such leech-like tenacity, and can rarely be made to depart till they have accomplished their purposes. burial-grounds appear to have great attractions for this class of spirit. a man, whom i once met at boulogne, told me a remarkable story, the veracity of which i have no reason to doubt. "i have," he began, "undergone an experience which, though, unfortunately, by no means unique, is one that is rarer nowadays than formerly. i was once all but buried alive. it happened at a little village, a most charming spot, near maestel in the valley of the rhone. i had been stopping at the only inn the place possessed, and, cycling out one morning, met with an accident--my machine skidded violently as i was descending a steep hill, with the result that i was pitched head first against a brick wall. the latter being considerably harder than my skull, concussion followed. some villagers picked me up insensible, i was taken to the inn, and the nearest doctor--an uncertificated wretch--was summoned. he knew little of trepanning; besides, i was a foreigner, a german, and it did not matter. he bled me, it is true, and performed other of the ordinary means of relief; but these producing no apparent effect, he pronounced me dead, and preparations were at once made for my burial. as strangers kept coming to the inn and the accommodation was strictly limited, the landlord was considerably incensed at having to waste a room on a corpse. accordingly, he had me screwed down in my coffin without delay, and placed in the cemetery among the tombs, till the public gravedigger could conveniently spare a few minutes to inter me. the shaking i received during my transit (for the yokels were exceedingly rough and clumsy), together with the cold night air which, luckily for me, found an easy means of access through the innumerable chinks and cracks in the ill-fitting coffin-lid, acting like a restorative tonic, i gradually revived, and the horror i felt in realising my position is better, perhaps, imagined than described. when consciousness first began to reassert itself, i simply fancied i was awakening from a particularly deep sleep. i then struggled hard to remember where i was and what had taken place. at first nothing came back to me, all was blank and void; but as i continued to persevere, gradually, very gradually, a recollection of my accident and of the subsequent events returned to me. i remembered with the utmost distinctness striking my head against the wall, and of seeing myself carried, head first, by two rustics--the one with a shock head of red hair, the other swarthy as a dago--to the inn. i recollected seeing the almost humorous look of horror in the chambermaid's face, as she rushed to inform the landlord, and the consternation of one and all during the discussion as to what ought to be done. the landlady suggested one thing, her husband another, the chambermaid another; and they all united in ransacking my pockets--much to my dismay--to see if they could discover a card-case or letter that might give them a clue as to my home address. i saw them do all this; and it seemed as if i were standing beside by own body, looking down at it, and that on all sides of me, and apparently invisible to the rest of the company, were strange, inscrutable pale eyes, set in the midst of grey, shapeless, shadowy substances. "then the doctor--a little slim, narrow-chested man, with a pointed beard and big ears--came and held a mirror to my mouth, and opened one of my veins, and talked a great deal of gibberish, whilst he made countless covert sheep's eyes at the pretty chambermaid, who had taken advantage of his arrival to overhaul my knapsack and help herself from my purse. i distinctly heard the arrangements made for my funeral, and the voice of the landlord saying: 'yes, of course, doctor, that is only fair; you have taken no end of trouble with him. i will keep his watch' (the watch was of solid gold, and cost me £ ) 'and clothes to defray the expenses of the funeral and pay for his recent board' (i had only settled my account with him that morning). and the shrill voice of the landlady echoed: 'yes, that is only fair, only right!' then they all left the room, and i remained alone with my body. what followed was more or less blurred. the innumerable and ever-watchful grey eyes impressed me most. i recollected, however, the advent of the men--the same two who had brought me to the inn--to take me away in my coffin, and i had vivid recollections of tramping along the dark and silent road beside them, and wishing i could liberate my body. then we halted at the iron gate leading into the cemetery, the coffin was dropped on the ground with a bang, and--the rest was a blank. nothing, nothing came back to me. at first i was inclined to attribute my memory to a dream. 'absurd!' i said to myself. 'such things cannot have occurred. i am in bed; i know i am!' then i endeavoured to move my arms to feel the counterpane; i could not; my arms were bound, tightly bound to my side. a cold sweat burst out all over me. good god! was it true? i tried again; and the same thing happened--i could not stir. again and again i tried, straining and tugging at my sides till the muscles on my arms were on the verge of bursting, and i had to desist through utter exhaustion. i lay still and listened to the beating of my heart. then, i clenched my toes and tried to kick. i could not; my feet were ruthlessly fastened together. "death garments! a winding-sheet! i could feel it clinging to me all over. it compressed the air in my lungs, it retarded the circulation, and gave me the most excruciating cramp, and pins and needles. my sufferings were so acute that i groaned, and, on attempting to stretch my jaws, found that they were encased in tight, clammy bandages. by prodigious efforts i eventually managed to gain a certain amount of liberty for my head, and this gave me the consolation that if i could do nothing else i could at least howl--howl! how utterly futile, for who, in god's name, would hear me? the thought of all there was above me, of all the piles of earth and grass--for the idea that i was not actually buried never entered my mind--filled me with the most abject sorrow and despair. the utter helplessness of my position came home to me with damning force. rescue was absolutely out of the question, because the only persons, who knew where i was, believed me dead. to my friends and relations, my fate would ever remain a mystery. the knowledge that they would, at once, have come to my assistance, had i only been able to communicate with them, was cruel in the extreme; and tears of mortification poured down my cheeks when i realised how blissfully unconscious they were of my fate. the most vivid and alluring visions of home, of my parents, and brothers, and sisters, flitted tantalisingly before me. i saw them all sitting on their accustomary seats, in the parlour, my father smoking his meerschaum, my mother knitting, my eldest sister describing an opera she had been to that afternoon, my youngest sister listening to her with mouth half open and absorbing interest in her blue eyes, my brother examining the works of a clockwork engine which he had just taken to pieces; whilst from the room overhead, inhabited by a count, a veteran who had won distinction in the campaigns of ' and ' , came strains of 'the watch on the rhine.' every now and then my mother would lean back in her chair and close her eyes, and i knew intuitively she was thinking of me. mein gott! if she had only known the truth. these tableaux faded away, and the gruesome awfulness of my surroundings thrust themselves upon me. a damp, foetid smell, suggestive of the rottenness of decay, assailed my nostrils and made me sneeze. i choked; the saliva streamed in torrents down my chin and throat! my recumbent position and ligaments made it difficult for me to recover my breath; i grew black in the face; i imagined i was dying. i abruptly, miraculously recovered, and all was silent as before. silent! good heavens! there is no silence compared with that of the grave. "i longed for a sound, for any sound, the creaking of a board, the snapping of a twig, the ticking of an insect--there was none--the silence was the silence of stone. i thought of worms; i imagined countless legions of them making their way to me from the surrounding mouldering coffins. every now and then i uttered a shriek as something cold and slimy touched my skin, and my stomach heaved within me as a whiff of something particularly offensive fanned my face. "suddenly i saw eyes--the same grey, inscrutable eyes that i had seen before--immediately above my own. i tried to fathom them, to discover some trace of expression. i could not--they were insoluble. i instinctively felt there was a subtle brain behind them, a brain that was stealthily analysing me, and i tried to assure myself its intentions were not hostile. above, and on either side of the eyes, i saw the shadow of something white, soft, and spongy, in which i fancied i could detect a distinct likeness to a human brain, only on a large scale. there were the cerebral lobes, or largest part of the forebrain, enormously developed and overhanging the cerebellum, or great lobe of the hindbrain, and completely covering the lobes of the midbrain. on the cerebrum i even thought i could detect--for i have a smattering of anatomy--the usual convolutions, and the grooves dividing the cerebrum into two hemispheres. but there was something i had never seen before, and which i could not account for--two things like antennæ, one on either side of the cerebrum. as i gazed at them, they lengthened and shortened in such quick succession that i grew giddy and had to remove my eyes. what they were i cannot think; but then, of course the brain, being occult, doubtless possessed properties of a nature wholly unsuspected by me. the moment i averted my glance, i experienced--this time on my forehead--the same cold, slimy sensation i had felt before, and i at once associated it with the cerebral tentacles. soon after this i was touched in a similar manner on my right thigh, then on my left, and simultaneously on both legs; then in a half a dozen places at the same time. i looked out of the corner of my eyes, first on one side of me and then the other, and encountered the shadowy semblance to brains in each direction. i was therefore forced to conclude that the atmosphere in the coffin was literally impregnated with psychic cerebrums, and that every internal organ i possessed was being subjected to the most minute inspection. my mind rapidly became filled with every vile and lustful desire, and i cried aloud to be permitted five minutes' freedom to put into operation the basest and filthiest of actions. my thoughts were thus occupied when, to my amazement, i suddenly heard the sound of voices--human voices. at first i listened with incredulity, thinking that it must be merely a trick of my imagination or some further ingenious, devilish device, on the part of the ghostly brains, to torture me. but the voices continued, and drew nearer and nearer, until i could at length distinguish what they were saying. the speakers were two men, françois and jacques, and they were discussing the task that brought them thither--the task of burying me. burying me! so, then, i was not yet under the earth! the revulsion of my feelings on discovering that there was still a spark of hope is indescribable; the blood surged through my veins in waves of fire, my eyes danced, my heart thumped, and--i laughed! laughed! there was no stopping me--peal followed peal, louder and louder, until cobblestones and tombstones reverberated and thundered back the sound. "the effect on françois and jacques was the reverse of what i wished. when first they heard me, they became suddenly and deathly silent. then their pent-up feelings of horror could stand it no longer, and with the wildest of yells they dropped their pick and shovel, and fled. my laughter ceased, and, half drowned in tears of anguish, i listened to their sabots pounding along the gravel walk and on to the hard highroad, till the noises ceased and there was, once again, universal and awe-inspiring silence. again the eyes and tentacles, again the yearnings for base and shameful deeds, and again--oh, blissful interruption! the sound of human voices--françois and jacques returning with a crowd of people, all greatly excited, all talking at once. "'i call god as my witness i heard it, and jacques too. isn't that so, jacques?' a voice, which i identified as that of françois, shrieked. and jacques, doubtless as eager to be heard--for it was not once in a lifetime anyone in his position had such an opportunity for notoriety--as he was to come to his companion's rescue, bawled out; 'ay! there was no mistaking the sounds. may i never live to eat my supper again if it was not laughter. listen!' and everyone, at once, grew quiet. "now was my opportunity--my only opportunity. a single sound, however slight, however trivial, and i should be saved! a cry rose in my throat; another instant and it would have escaped my lips, when a dozen tentacles shot forward and i was silent. despair, such as no soul experienced more acutely, even when on the threshold of hell, now seized me, and bid me make my last, convulsive effort. collecting, nay, even dragging together every atom of will-power that still remained within my enfeebled frame, i swelled my lungs to their utmost. a kind of rusty, vibratory movement ran through my parched tongue; my jaws creaked, creaked and strained on their hinges, my lips puffed and assumed the dimensions of bladders and--that was all. no sound came. a weight, soft, sticky, pungent, and overwhelming, cloaked my brain, and spreading weed-like, with numbing coldness, stifled the cry ere it left the precincts of my larynx. hope died within me--i was irretrievably lost. a babel of voices now arose together. françois, jacques, the village curé, gendarme, doctor, chambermaid, mine host and hostess, and others, whose tones i did not recognise, clamoured to be heard. some, foremost amongst whom were françois, jacques, and a boy, were in favour of the coffin being opened; whilst others, notably the doctor and chambermaid (who pertly declared she had seen quite enough of my ugly face), ridiculed the notion and said the sooner i was buried the better it would be. the weather had been more than usually hot that day, and the corpse, which was very much swollen--for, like all gourmands, i had had chronic disease of the liver--had, in their opinion, already become insanitary. the boy then burst out crying. it had always been the height of his ambition, he said, to see someone dead, and he thought it a dastardly shame on the part of the doctor and chambermaid to wish to deny him this opportunity. "the gendarme thinking, no doubt, he ought to have a say in the matter, muttered something to the effect that children were a great deal too forward nowadays, and that it would be time enough for the boy to see a corpse when he broke his mother's heart--which, following the precedence of all spoilt boys, he was certain to do sooner or later; and this opinion found ready endorsement. the boy suppressed, my case began to look hopeless, and the poignancy of my suspense became such that i thought i should have gone mad. françois was already persuaded into setting to work with his pick, and, i should most certainly have been speedily interred, had it not been for the timely arrival of a village wag, who, planking himself unobserved behind a tombstone close to my coffin, burst out laughing in the most sepulchral fashion. the effect on the company was electrical; the majority, including the women, fled precipitately, and the rest, overcoming the feeble protests of the doctor, wrenched off the lid of the coffin. the spell, cast over me by the occult brains, was now by a merciful providence broken, and i was able to explain my condition to the flabbergasted faces around me. "i need only say, in conclusion, that the discomfiture of the doctor was complete, and that i took good care to express my opinion of him everywhere i went. doubtless, many poor wretches have been less fortunate than i, and, being pronounced dead by unskilled physicians, have been prematurely interred. apart from all the agony consequent to asphyxiation, they must have suffered hellish tortures through the agency of spirit brains." this is the anecdote as related to me, and it serves as an illustration of my theory that the unknown brain is objective, and that it can, under given circumstances--_i.e._ when physical life is, so to speak, in abeyance--be both seen and felt by the known brain. at birth, and more particularly at death, the presence of the unknown brain is most marked. and here it may not be inappropriate to remark that, in my experience at least, the hour of midnight is by no means the time most favourable to occult phenomena. i have seen far more manifestations at twilight, and between two and four a.m., than at any other period of the day--times, i think, according with those when human vitality is at its lowest and death most frequently takes place. it is, doubtless, the ebb of human vitality and the possibility of death that attracts the earth-bound brains and other varying types of elemental harpies. they scent death with ten times the acuteness of sharks and vultures, and hie with all haste to the spot, so as to be there in good time to get their final suck, vampire fashion, at the spiritual brain of the dying; substituting in the place of what they extract, substance--in the shape of foul and lustful thoughts--for the material or known brain to feed upon. the food they have stolen, these vampires vainly imagine will enable them to rise to a higher spiritual plane. in connection with this subject of the two brains, the question arises: what forms the connecting link between the material or known brain, and the spiritual or unknown brain? if the unknown brain has a separate existence, and can detach itself at times (as in "projection"), why must it wait for death to set it entirely free? my answer to that question is: that the connecting link consists of a magnetic force, at present indefinable, the scope, or pale, of which varies according to the relative dimensions of the two brains. in a case, for example, where the physical or known brain is far more developed than the spiritual or unknown brain, the radius of attraction would be limited and the connecting link strong; on the other hand, in a case where the spiritual or unknown brain is more developed than the physical or known brain, the magnetic pale is proportionately wide, and the connecting link would be weak. thus, in the swoon or profound sleep of a person possessing a greater preponderance of physical than spiritual brain, the conscious self would still be concerned with purely material matters, such as eating and drinking, petty disputes, money, sexual desires, etc., though, owing to the lack of concentration, which is a marked feature of those who possess the grossly material brain, little or nothing of this conscious self would be remembered. but in the swoon, or deep sleep of a person possessing the spiritual brain in excess, the unknown brain is partially freed from the known brain, and the conscious self is consequently far away from the material body, on the confines of an entirely spiritual plane. of course, the experiences of this conscious self may or may not be remembered, but there is, in its case, always the possibility, owing to the capacity for concentration which is invariably the property of all who have developed their spiritual or unknown brain, of subsequent recollection. at death, and at death only, the magnetic link is actually broken. the unknown brain is then entirely freed from the known brain, and the latter, together with the rest of the material body, perishes from natural decay; whilst the former, no longer restricted within the limits of its earthly pale, is at liberty to soar _ad infinitum_. chapter ii the occult in shadows many of the shadows, i have seen, have not had material counterparts. they have invariably proved themselves to be superphysical danger signals, the sure indicators of the presence of those grey, inscrutable, inhuman cerebrums to which i have alluded; of phantasms of the dead and of elementals of all kinds. there is an indescribable something about them, that at once distinguishes them from ordinary shadows, and puts me on my guard. i have seen them in houses that to all appearances are the least likely to be haunted--houses full of sunshine and the gladness of human voices. in the midst of merriment, they have darkened the wall opposite me like the mystic writing in nebuchadnezzar's palace. they have suddenly appeared by my side, as i have been standing on rich, new carpeting or sun-kissed swards. they have floated into my presence with both sunbeams and moonbeams, through windows, doors, and curtains, and their advent has invariably been followed by some form or other of occult demonstration. i spent some weeks this summer at worthing, and, walking one afternoon to the downs, selected a bright and secluded spot for a comfortable snooze. i revel in snatching naps in the open sunshine, and this was a place that struck me as being perfectly ideal for that purpose. it was on the brow of a diminutive hillock covered with fresh, lovely grass of a particularly vivid green. in the rear and on either side of it, the ground rose and fell in pleasing alternation for an almost interminable distance, whilst in front of it there was a gentle declivity (up which i had clambered) terminating in the broad, level road leading to worthing. here, on this broad expanse of the downs, was a fairyland of soft sea air, sunshine and rest--rest from mankind, from the shrill, unmusical voices of the crude and rude product of the county council schools. i sat down; i never for one moment thought of phantasms; i fell asleep. i awoke; the hot floodgates of the cloudless heaven were still open, the air translucent over and around me, when straight in front of me, on a gloriously gilded patch of grass, there fell a shadow--a shadow from no apparent substance, for both air and ground were void of obstacles, and, apart from myself, there was no living object in the near landscape. yet it was a shadow; a shadow that i could not diagnose; a waving, fluctuating shadow, unpleasantly suggestive of something subtle and horrid. it was, i instinctively knew, the shadow of the occult; a few moments more, and a development would, in all probability, take place. the blue sky, the golden sea, the tiny trails of smoke creeping up lazily from the myriads of chimney-pots, the white house-tops, the red house-tops, the church spire, the railway line, the puffing, humming, shuffling goods-train, the glistening white roads, the breathing, busy figures, and the bright and smiling mile upon mile of emerald turf rose in rebellion against the likelihood of ghosts--yet, there was the shadow. i looked away from it, and, as i did so, an icy touch fell on my shoulder. i dared not turn; i sat motionless, petrified, frozen. the touch passed to my forehead and from thence to my chin, my head swung round forcibly, and i saw--nothing--only the shadow; but how different, for out of the chaotic blotches there now appeared a well--a remarkably well--defined outline, the outline of a head and hand, the head of a fantastic beast, a repulsive beast, and the hand of a man. a flock of swallows swirled overhead, a grasshopper chirped, a linnet sang, and, with this sudden awakening of nature, the touch and shadow vanished simultaneously. but the hillock had lost its attractions for me, and, rising hastily, i dashed down the decline and hurried homewards. i discovered no reason other than solitude, and the possible burial-place of prehistoric man, for the presence of the occult; but the next time i visited the spot, the same thing happened. i have been there twice since, and the same, always the same thing--first the shadow, then the touch, then the shadow, then the arrival of some form or other of joyous animal life, and the abrupt disappearance of the unknown. i was once practising bowls on the lawn of a very old house, the other inhabitants of which were all occupied indoors. i had taken up a bowl, and was in the act of throwing it, when, suddenly, on the empty space in front of me i saw a shadow, a nodding, waving, impenetrable, undecipherable shadow. i looked around, but there was nothing visible that could in any way account for it. i threw down the bowl and turned to go indoors. as i did so, something touched me lightly in the face. i threw out my hand and touched a cold, clammy substance strangely suggestive of the leafy branch of a tree. yet nothing was to be seen. i felt again, and my fingers wandered to a broader expanse of something gnarled and uneven. i kept on exploring, and my grasp closed over something painfully prickly. i drew my hand smartly back, and, as i did so, distinctly heard the loud and angry rustling of leaves. just then one of my friends called out to me from a window. i veered round to reply, and the shadow had vanished. i never saw it again, though i often had the curious sensation that it was there. i did not mention my experience to my friends, as they were pronounced disbelievers in the superphysical, but tactful inquiry led to my gleaning the information that on the identical spot, where i had felt the phenomena, had once stood a horse-chestnut tree, which had been cut down owing to the strong aversion the family had taken to it, partly on account of a strange growth on the trunk, unpleasantly suggestive of cancer, and partly because a tramp had hanged himself on one of the branches. all sorts of extraordinary shadows have come to me in the parks, the twopenny tube, and along the thames embankment. at ten o'clock, on the morning of st april , i entered hyde park by one of the side gates of the marble arch, and crossing to the island, sat down on an empty bench. the sky was grey, the weather ominous, and occasional heavy drops of rain made me rejoice in the possession of an umbrella. on such a day, the park does not appear at its best. the arch exhibited a dull, dirty, yellowish-grey exterior; every seat was bespattered with mud; whilst, to render the general aspect still more unprepossessing, the trees had not yet donned their mantles of green, but stood dejectedly drooping their leafless branches as if overcome with embarrassment at their nakedness. on the benches around me sat, or lay, london's homeless--wretched-looking men in long, tattered overcoats, baggy, buttonless trousers, cracked and laceless boots, and shapeless bowlers, too weak from want of food and rest even to think of work, almost incapable, indeed, of thought at all--breathing corpses, nothing more, with premature signs of decomposition in their filthy smell. and the women--the women were, if possible, ranker--feebly pulsating, feebly throbbing, foully stinking, rotten, living deaths. no amount of soap, food, or warmth could reclaim them now. nature's implacable law--the survival of the fittest, the weakest to the wall--was here exhibited in all its brutal force, and, as i gazed at the weakest, my heart turned sick within me. time advanced; one by one the army of tatterdemalions crawled away, god alone knew how, god alone knew where. in all probability god did not care. why should he? he created nature and nature's laws. a different type of humanity replaced this garbage: neat and dapper girls on their way to business; black-bowlered, spotless-leathered, a-guinea-a-week clerks, casting longing glances at the pale grass and countless trees (their only reminiscence of the country), as they hastened their pace, lest they should be a minute late for their hateful servitude; a policeman with the characteristic stride and swinging arms; a brisk and short-stepped postman; an apoplectic-looking, second-hand-clothes-man; an emaciated widow; a typical charwoman; two mechanics; the usual brutal-faced labourer; one of the idle rich in shiny hat, high collar, cutaway coat, prancing past on a coal-black horse; and a bevy of nursemaids. to show my mind was not centred on the occult,--bootlaces, collar-studs, the two buttons on the back of ladies' coats, dyed hair, servants' feet, and a dozen and one other subjects, quite other than the superphysical, successively occupied my thoughts. imagine, then, my surprise and the shock i received, when, on glancing at the gravel in front of me, i saw two shadows--two enigmatical shadows. a dog came shambling along the path, showed its teeth, snarled, sprang on one side, and, with bristling hair, fled for its life. i examined the plot of ground behind me; there was nothing that could in any way account for the shadows, nothing like them. something rubbed against my leg. i involuntarily put down my hand; it was a foot--a clammy lump of ice, but, unmistakably, a foot. yet of what? i saw nothing, only the shadows. i did not want to discover more; my very soul shrank within me at the bare idea of what there might be, what there was. but, as is always the case, the superphysical gave me no choice; my hand, moving involuntarily forward, rested on something flat, round, grotesque, horrid, something i took for a face, but a face which i knew could not be human. then i understood the shadows. uniting, they formed the outline of something lithe and tall, the outline of a monstrosity with a growth even as i had felt it--flat, round, grotesque, and horrid. was it the phantasm of one of those poor waifs and strays, having all their bestialities and diseases magnified; or was it the spirit of a tree of some unusually noxious nature? i could not divine, and so i came away unsatisfied. but i believe the shadow is still there, for i saw it only the last time i was in the park. chapter iii obsession, possession _clocks, chests and mummies_ as i have already remarked, spirit or unknown brains are frequently present at births. the brains of infants are very susceptible to impressions, and, in them, the thought-germs of the occult brains find snug billets. as time goes on, these germs develop and become generally known as "tastes," "cranks," and "manias." it is an error to think that men of genius are especially prone to manias. on the contrary, the occult brains have the greatest difficulty in selecting thought-germs sufficiently subtle to lodge in the brain-cells of a child of genius. practically, any germ of carnal thought will be sure of reception in the protoplasmic brain-cells of a child, who is destined to become a doctor, solicitor, soldier, shopkeeper, labourer, or worker in any ordinary occupation; but the thought-germ that will find entrance to the brain-cells of a future painter, writer, actor, or musician, must represent some propensity of a more or less extraordinary nature. we all harbour these occult missiles, we are all to a certain extent mad: the proud mamma who puts her only son into the church or makes a lawyer of him, and placidly watches him develop a scarlet face, double chin, and prodigious paunch, would flounce out a hundred and one indignant denials if anyone suggested he had a mania, but it would be true; gluttony would be his mania, and one every whit as prohibitive to his chances of reaching the spiritual plane, as drink, or sexual passion. love of eating is, indeed, quite the commonest form of obsession, and one that develops soonest. nine out of ten children--particularly present-day children, whose doting parents encourage their every desire--are fonder of cramming their bellies than of playing cricket or skipping; games soon weary them, but buns and chocolates never. the truth is, buns and chocolate have obsessed them. they think of them all day, and dream of them all night. it is buns and chocolates! wherever and whenever they turn or look--buns and chocolates! this greed soon develops, as the occult brain intended it should; enforced physical labour, or athletics, or even sedentary work may dwarf its growth for a time, but at middle and old age it comes on again, and the buns and chocolates are become so many coursed luncheons and dinners. their world is one of menus, nothing but menus; their only mental exertion the study of menus, and i have no doubt that "tuck" shops and restaurants are besieged by the ever-hungry spirit of the earth-bound glutton. though the drink-germ is usually developed later (and its later growth is invariably accelerated with seas of alcohol), it not infrequently feeds its initial growth with copious streams of ginger beer and lemon kali. manual labourers--_i.e._ navvies, coal-heavers, miners, etc.--are naturally more or less brutal. their brain-cells at birth offered so little resistance to the evil occult influences that they received, in full, all the lower germs of thought inoculated by the occult brains. drink, gluttony, cruelty, all came to their infant cerebrums cotemporaneously. the cruelty germ develops first, and cats, dogs, donkeys, smaller brothers, and even babies are made to feel the superior physical strength of the early wearer of hobnails. he is obsessed with a mania for hurting something, and with his strongly innate instinct of self-preservation, invariably chooses something that cannot harm him. daily he looks around for fresh victims, and finally decides that the weedy offspring of the hated superior classes are the easiest prey. in company with others of his species, he annihilates the boy in etons on his way to and from school, and the after recollections of the weakling's bloody nose and teardrops are as nectar to him. the cruelty germ develops apace. the bloody noses of the well-dressed classes are his mania now. he sees them at every turn and even dreams of them. he grows to manhood, and either digs in the road or plies the pick and shovel underground. the mechanical, monotonous exercise and the sordidness of his home surroundings foster the germ, and his leisure moments are occupied with the memory of those glorious times when he was hitting out at someone, and he feels he would give anything just to have one more blow. curse the police! if it were not for them he could indulge his hobby to the utmost. but the stalwart, officious man in blue is ever on the scene, and the thrashing of a puny cleric or sawbones is scarcely compensation for a month's hard labour. yet his mania must be satisfied somehow--it worries him to pieces. he must either smash someone's nose or go mad; there is no alternative, and he chooses the former. the society for the prevention of cruelty to animals prevents him skinning a cat; the national society for the prevention of cruelty to children will be down on him at once if he strikes a child, and so he has no other resource left but his wife--he can knock out all her teeth, bash in her ribs, and jump on her head to his heart's content. she will never dare prosecute him, and, if she does, some humanitarian society will be sure to see that he is not legally punished. he thus finds safe scope for the indulgence of his crank, and when there is nothing left of his own wife, he turns his unattractive and pusillanimous attentions to someone else's. but occult thought-germs of this elementary type only thrive where the infant's spiritual or unknown brain is wholly undeveloped. where the spiritual or unknown brain of an infant is partially developed, the germ-thought to be lodged in it (especially if it be a germ-thought of cruelty) must be of a more subtle and refined nature. i have traced the growth of cruelty obsession in children one would not suspect of any great tendency to animalism. a refined love of making others suffer has led them to vent inquisitionary tortures on insects, and the mania for pulling off the legs of flies and roasting beetles under spyglasses has been gradually extended to drowning mice in cages and seeing pigs killed. time develops the germ; the cruel boy becomes the callous doctor or "sharp-practising" attorney, and the cruel girl becomes the cruel mother and often the frail divorcée. drink and cards are an obsession with some; cruelty is just as much a matter of obsession with others. but the ingenuity of the occult brain rises to higher things; it rises to the subtlest form of invention when dealing with the artistic and literary temperament. i have been intimately acquainted with authors--well-known in the popular sense of the word--who have been obsessed in the oddest and often most painful ways. the constant going back to turn door-handles, the sitting in grotesque and untoward positions, the fondness for fingering any smooth and shiny objects, such as mother-of-pearl, develop into manias for change--change of scenery, of occupation, of affections, of people--change that inevitably necessitates misery; for breaking--breaking promises, contracts, family ties, furniture--but breaking, always breaking; for sensuality--sensuality sometimes venial, but often of the most gross and unpardonable nature. i knew a musician who was obsessed in a peculiarly loathsome manner. few knew of his misfortune, and none abominated it more than himself. he sang divinely, had the most charming personality, was all that could be desired as a husband and father, and yet was, in secret, a monomaniac of the most degrading and unusual order. in the daytime, when all was bright and cheerful, his mania was forgotten; but the moment twilight came, and he saw the shadows of night stealing stealthily towards him, his craze returned, and, if alone, he would steal surreptitiously out of the house and, with the utmost perseverance, seek an opportunity of carrying into effect his bestial practices. i have known him tie himself to the table, surround himself with bibles, and resort to every imaginable device to divert his mind from his passion, but all to no purpose; the knowledge that outside all was darkness and shadows proved irresistible. with a beating heart he put on his coat and hat, and, furtively opening the door, slunk out to gratify his hateful lust. heaven knows! he went through hell. i once watched a woman obsessed with an unnatural and wholly monstrous mania for her dog. she took it with her wherever she went, to the theatre, the shops, church, in railway carriages, on board ship. she dressed it in the richest silks and furs, decorated it with bangles, presented it with a watch, hugged, kissed, and fondled it, took it to bed with her, dreamed of it. when it died, she went into heavy mourning for it, and in an incredibly short space of time pined away. i saw her a few days before her death, and i was shocked; her gestures, mannerisms, and expression had become absolutely canine, and when she smiled--smiled in a forced and unnatural manner--i could have sworn i saw launcelot, her pet! there was also a man, a brilliant writer, who from a boy had been obsessed with a craze for all sorts of glossy things, more especially buttons. the mania grew; he spent all his time running after girls who were manicured, or who wore shining buttons, and, when he married, he besought his wife to sew buttons on every article of her apparel. in the end, he is said to have swallowed a button, merely to enjoy the sensation of its smooth surface on the coats of his stomach. this somewhat exaggerated instance of obsession serves to show that, no matter how extraordinary the thought-germ, it may enter one's mind and finally become a passion. that the majority of people are obsessed, though in a varying degree, is a generally accepted fact; but that furniture can be possessed by occult brains, though not a generally accepted fact, is, i believe, equally true. in a former work, entitled _some haunted houses of england and wales_, published by mr eveleigh nash, i described how a bog-oak grandfather's clock was possessed by a peculiar type of elemental, which i subsequently classified as a vagrarian, or kind of grotesque spirit that inhabits wild and lonely places, and, not infrequently, spots where there are the remains of prehistoric (and even latter-day) man and beast. in another volume called _the haunted houses of london_, i narrated the haunting of a house in portman square by a grandfather's clock, the spirit in possession causing it to foretell death by striking certain times; and i have since heard of hauntings by phenomena of a more or less similar nature. the following is an example. a very dear friend of mine was taken ill shortly before christmas. no one at the time suspected there was anything serious the matter with her, although her health of late had been far from good. i happened to be staying in the house just then, and found, that for some reason or other, i could not sleep. i do not often suffer from insomnia, so that the occurrence struck me as somewhat extraordinary. my bedroom opened on to a large, dark landing. in one corner of it stood a very old grandfather's clock, the ticking of which i could distinctly hear when the house was quiet. for the first two or three nights of my visit the clock was as usual, but, the night before my friend was taken ill, its ticking became strangely irregular. at one moment it sounded faint, at the next moment, the reverse; now it was slow, now quick; until at length, in a paroxysm of curiosity and fear, i cautiously opened my door and peeped out. it was a light night, and the glass face of the clock flashed back the moonbeams with startling brilliancy. a grim and subdued hush hung over the staircases and landings. the ticking was now low; but as i listened intently, it gradually grew louder and louder, until, to my horror, the colossal frame swayed violently backwards and forwards. unable to stand the sight of it any longer, and fearful of what i might see next, i retreated into my room, and, carefully locking the door, lit the gas, and got into bed. at three o'clock the ticking once again became normal. the following night the same thing occurred, and i discovered that certain other members of the household had also heard it. my friend rapidly grew worse, and the irregularities of the clock became more and more pronounced, more and more disturbing. then there came a morning, when, between two and three o'clock, unable to lie in bed and listen to the ticking any longer, i got up. an irresistible attraction dragged me to the door. i peeped out, and there, with the moonlight concentrated on its face as before, swayed the clock, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, slowly and solemnly; and with each movement there issued from within it a hollow, agonised voice, the counterpart of that of my sick friend, exclaiming, "oh dear! oh dear! it is coming! it is coming!" i was so fascinated, so frightened, that i could not remove my gaze, but was constrained to stand still and stare at it; and all the while there was a dull, mechanical repetition of the words: "oh dear! oh dear! it is coming, it is coming!" half an hour passed in this manner, and the hands indicated five minutes to three, when a creak on the staircase made me look round. my heart turned to ice--there, half-way down the stairs, was a tall, black figure, its polished ebony skin shining in the moonbeams. i saw only its body at first, for i was far too surprised even to glance at its face. as it glided noiselessly towards me, however, obeying an uncontrollable impulse, i looked. there was no face at all, only two eyes--two long, oblique, half-open eyes--grey and sinister, inexpressibly, hellishly sinister--and, as they met my gaze, they smiled gleefully. they passed on, the door of the clock swung open, and the figure stepped inside and vanished! i was now able to move, and re-entering my room, i locked myself in, turned on the gas, and buried myself under the bedclothes. i left the house next day, and shortly afterwards received the melancholy tidings of the death of my dear friend. for the time being, at least, the clock had been possessed by an elemental spirit of death. i know an instance, too, in which a long, protracted whine, like the whine of a dog, proceeded from a grandfather's clock, prior to any catastrophe in a certain family; another instance, in which loud thumps were heard in a grandfather's clock before a death; and still another instance in which a hooded face used occasionally to be seen in lieu of the clock's face. in all these cases, the clocks were undoubtedly temporarily possessed by the same type of spirit--the type i have classified "clanogrian" or family ghost--occult phenomena that, having attached themselves in bygone ages to certain families, sometimes cling to furniture (often not inappropriately to clocks) that belonged to those families; and, still clinging, in its various removals, to the piece they have "possessed," continue to perform their original grizzly function of foretelling death. of course, these charnel prophets are not the only phantasms that "possess" furniture. for example, i once heard of a case of "possession" by a non-prophetic phantasm in connection with a chest--an antique oak chest which, i believe, claimed to be a native of limerick. after experiencing many vicissitudes in its career, the chest fell into the hands of a mrs macneill, who bought it at a rather exorbitant price from a second-hand dealer in cork. the chest, placed in the dining-room of its new home, was the recipient of much premature adulation. the awakening came one afternoon soon after its arrival, when mrs macneill was alone in the dining-room at twilight. she had spent a very tiring morning shopping in tralee, her nearest market-town, and consequently fell asleep in an arm-chair in front of the fire, directly after luncheon. she awoke with a sensation of extreme chilliness, and thinking the window could not have been shut properly, she got up to close it, when her attention was attracted by something white protruding from under the lid of the chest. she went up to inspect it, but she recoiled in horror. it was a long finger, with a very protuberant knuckle-bone, but no sign of a nail. she was so shocked that for some seconds she could only stand staring at it, mute and helpless; but the sound of approaching carriage-wheels breaking the spell, she rushed to the fireplace and pulled the bell vigorously. as she did so, there came a loud chuckle from the chest, and all the walls of the room seemed to shake with laughter. of course everyone laughed when mrs macneill related what had happened. the chest was minutely examined, and as it was found to contain nothing but some mats that had been stored away in it the previous day, the finger was forthwith declared to have been an optical illusion, and mrs macneill was, for the time being, ridiculed into believing it was so herself. for the next two or three days nothing occurred; nothing, in fact, until one night when mrs macneill and her daughters heard the queerest of noises downstairs, proceeding apparently from the dining-room--heavy, flopping footsteps, bumps as if a body was being dragged backwards and forwards across the floor, crashes as if all the crockery in the house had been piled in a mass on the floor, loud peals of malevolent laughter, and then--silence. the following night, the disturbances being repeated, mrs macneill summoned up courage to go downstairs and peep into the room. the noises were still going on when she arrived at the door, but, the moment she opened it, they ceased and there was nothing to be seen. a day or two afterwards, when she was again alone in the dining-room and the evening shadows were beginning to make their appearance, she glanced anxiously at the chest, and--there was the finger. losing her self-possession at once, and yielding to a paroxysm of the wildest, the most ungovernable terror, she opened her mouth to shriek. not a sound came; the cry that had been generated in her lungs died away ere it reached her larynx, and she relapsed into a kind of cataleptic condition, in which all her faculties were acutely alert but her limbs and organs of speech palsied. she expected every instant that the chest-lid would fly open and that the baleful thing lurking within would spring upon her. the torture she suffered from such anticipations was little short of hell, and was rendered all the more maddening by occasional quiverings of the lid, which brought all her expectations to a climax. now, now at any rate, she assured herself, the moment had come when the acme of horrordom would be bounced upon her and she would either die or go mad. but no; her agonies were again and again borne anew, and her prognostications unfulfilled. at last the creakings abruptly ceased--nothing was to be heard save the shaking of the trees, the distant yelping of a dog, and the far-away footfall of one of the servants. having somewhat recovered from the shock, mrs macneill was busy speculating as to the appearance of the hidden horror, when she heard a breathing, the subtle, stealthy breathing of the secreted pouncer. again she was spellbound. the evening advanced, and from every nook and cranny of the room, from behind chairs, sofa, sideboard, and table, from window-sill and curtains, stole the shadows, all sorts of curious shadows, that brought with them an atmosphere of the barren, wind-swept cliffs and dark, deserted mountains, an atmosphere that added fresh terrors to mrs macneill's already more than distraught mind. the room was now full of occult possibilities, drawn from all quarters, and doubtless attracted thither by the chest, which acted as a physical magnet. it grew late; still no one came to her rescue; and still more shadows, and more, and more, and more, until the room was full of them. she actually saw them gliding towards the house, in shoals, across the moon-kissed lawn and carriage-drive. shadows of all sorts--some, unmistakable phantasms of the dead, with skinless faces and glassy eyes, their bodies either wrapped in shrouds covered with the black slime of bogs or dripping with water; some, whole and lank and bony; some with an arm or leg missing; some with no limbs or body, only heads--shrunken, bloodless heads with wide-open, staring eyes--yellow, ichorous eyes--gleaming, devilish eyes. elementals of all sorts--some, tall and thin, with rotund heads and meaningless features; some, with rectangular, fleshy heads; some, with animal heads. on they came in countless legions, on, on, and on, one after another, each vying with the other in ghastly horridness. the series of terrific shocks mrs macneill experienced during the advance of this long and seemingly interminable procession of every conceivable ghoulish abortion, at length wore her out. the pulsations of her naturally strong heart temporarily failed, and, as her pent-up feelings found vent in one gasping scream for help, she fell insensible to the ground. that very night the chest was ruthlessly cremated, and mrs macneill's dining-room ceased to be a meeting-place for spooks. whenever i see an old chest now, i always view it with suspicion--especially if it should happen to be a bog-oak chest. the fact is, the latter is more likely than not to be "possessed" by elementals, which need scarcely be a matter of surprise when one remembers that bogs--particularly irish bogs--have been haunted, from time immemorial, by the most uncouth and fantastic type of spirits. but mummies, mummies even more often than clocks and chests, are "possessed" by denizens of the occult world. of course, everyone has heard of the "unlucky" mummy, the painted case of which, only, is in the oriental department of the british museum, and the story connected with it is so well known that it would be superfluous to expatiate on it here. i will therefore pass on to instances of other mummies "possessed" in a more or less similar manner. during one of my sojourns in paris, i met a frenchman who, he informed me, had just returned from the east. i asked him if he had brought back any curios, such as vases, funeral urns, weapons, or amulets. "yes, lots," he replied, "two cases full. but no mummies! mon dieu! no mummies! you ask me why? ah! therein hangs a tale. if you will have patience, i will tell it you." the following is the gist of his narrative:-- "some seasons ago i travelled up the nile as far as assiut, and when there, managed to pay a brief visit to the grand ruins of thebes. among the various treasures i brought away with me, of no great archæological value, was a mummy. i found it lying in an enormous lidless sarcophagus, close to a mutilated statue of anubis. on my return to assiut, i had the mummy placed in my tent, and thought no more of it till something awoke me with a startling suddenness in the night. then, obeying a peculiar impulse, i turned over on my side and looked in the direction of my treasure. "the nights in the soudan at this time of year are brilliant; one can even see to read, and every object in the desert is almost as clearly visible as by day. but i was quite startled by the whiteness of the glow that rested on the mummy, the face of which was immediately opposite mine. the remains--those of met-om-karema, lady of the college of the god amen-ra--were swathed in bandages, some of which had worn away in parts or become loose; and the figure, plainly discernible, was that of a shapely woman with elegant bust, well-formed limbs, rounded arms and small hands. the thumbs were slender, and the fingers, each of which were separately bandaged, long and tapering. the neck was full, the cranium rather long, the nose aquiline, the chin firm. imitation eyes, brows, and lips were painted on the wrappings, and the effect thus produced, and in the phosphorescent glare of the moonbeams, was very weird. i was quite alone in the tent, the only other european, who had accompanied me to assiut, having stayed in the town by preference, and my servants being encamped at some hundred or so yards from me on the ground. "sound travels far in the desert, but the silence now was absolute, and although i listened attentively, i could not detect the slightest noise--man, beast, and insect were abnormally still. there was something in the air, too, that struck me as unusual; an odd, clammy coldness that reminded me at once of the catacombs in paris. i had hardly, however, conceived the resemblance, when a sob--low, gentle, but very distinct--sent a thrill of terror through me. it was ridiculous, absurd! it could not be, and i fought against the idea as to whence the sound had proceeded, as something too utterly fantastic, too utterly impossible! i tried to occupy my mind with other thoughts--the frivolities of cairo, the casinos of nice; but all to no purpose; and soon on my eager, throbbing ear there again fell that sound, that low and gentle sob. my hair stood on end; this time there was no doubt, no possible manner of doubt--the mummy lived! i looked at it aghast. i strained my vision to detect any movement in its limbs, but none was perceptible. yet the noise had come from it, it had breathed--breathed-- and even as i hissed the word unconsciously through my clenched lips, the bosom of the mummy rose and fell. "a frightful terror seized me. i tried to shriek to my servants; i could not ejaculate a syllable. i tried to close my eyelids, but they were held open as in a vice. again there came a sob that was immediately succeeded by a sigh; and a tremor ran through the figure from head to foot. one of its hands then began to move, the fingers clutched the air convulsively, then grew rigid, then curled slowly into the palms, then suddenly straightened. the bandages concealing them from view then fell off, and to my agonised sight were disclosed objects that struck me as strangely familiar. there is something about fingers, a marked individuality, i never forget. no two persons' hands are alike. and in these fingers, in their excessive whiteness, round knuckles, and blue veins, in their tapering formation and perfect filbert nails, i read a likeness whose prototype, struggle how i would, i could not recall. gradually the hand moved upwards, and, reaching the throat, the fingers set to work, at once, to remove the wrappings. my terror was now sublime! i dare not imagine, i dare not for one instant think, what i should see! and there was no getting away from it; i could not stir an inch, not the fraction of an inch, and the ghastly revelation would take place within a yard of my face. "one by one the bandages came off. a glimmer of skin, pallid as marble; the beginning of the nose, the whole nose; the upper lip, exquisitely, delicately cut; the teeth, white and even on the whole, but here and there a shining gold filling; the under-lip, soft and gentle; a mouth i knew, but--god!--where? in my dreams, in the wild fantasies that had oft-times visited my pillow at night--in delirium, in reality, where? mon dieu! where? "the uncasing continued. the chin came next, a chin that was purely feminine, purely classical; then the upper part of the head--the hair long, black, luxuriant--the forehead low and white--the brows black, finely pencilled; and, last of all, the eyes!--and as they met my frenzied gaze and smiled, smiled right down into the depths of my livid soul, i recognised them--they were the eyes of my mother, my mother who had died in my boyhood! seized with a madness that knew no bounds, i sprang to my feet. the figure rose and confronted me. i flung open my arms to embrace her, the woman of all women in the world i loved best, the only woman i had loved. shrinking from my touch, she cowered against the side of the tent. i fell on my knees before her and kissed--what? not the feet of my mother, but that of the long unburied dead. sick with repulsion and fear i looked up, and there, bending over and peering into my eyes was the face, the fleshless, mouldering face of a foul and barely recognisable corpse! with a shriek of horror i rolled backwards, and, springing to my feet, prepared to fly. i glanced at the mummy. it was lying on the ground, stiff and still, every bandage in its place; whilst standing over it, a look of fiendish glee in its light, doglike eyes, was the figure of anubis, lurid and menacing. "the voices of my servants, assuring me they were coming, broke the silence, and in an instant the apparition vanished. "i had had enough of the tent, however, at least for that night, and, seeking refuge in the town, i whiled away the hours till morning with a fragrant cigar and novel. directly i had breakfasted, i took the mummy back to thebes and left it there. no, thank you, mr o'donnell, i collect many kinds of curios, but--no more mummies!" chapter iv occult hooligans deducing from my own and other people's experiences, there exists a distinct type of occult phenomenon whose sole occupation is in boisterous orgies and in making manifestations purely for the sake of causing annoyance. to this phantasm the germans have given the name poltergeist, whilst in former of my works i have classified it as a vagrarian order of elemental. it is this form of the superphysical, perhaps, that up to the present time has gained the greatest credence--it has been known in all ages and in all countries. who, for example, has not heard of the famous stockwell ghost that caused such a sensation in , and of which mrs crowe gives a detailed account in her _night side of nature_; or again, of "the black lion lane, bayswater ghost," referred to many years ago in _the morning post_; or, of the "epworth ghost," that so unceasingly tormented the wesley family; or, of the "demon of tedworth" that gave john mompesson and his family no peace, and of countless other well-authenticated and recorded instances of this same type of occult phenomenon? the poltergeists in the above-mentioned cases were never seen, only felt and heard; but in what a disagreeable and often painful manner! the demon of tedworth, for example, awoke everyone at night by thumping on doors and imitating the beatings of a drum. it rattled bedsteads, scratched on the floor and wall as if possessing iron talons, groaned, and uttered loud cries of "a witch! a witch!" nor was it content with these auditory demonstrations, for it resorted to far more energetic methods of physical violence. furniture was moved out of its place and upset; the children's shoes were taken off their feet and thrown over their heads; their hair was tweaked and their clothes pulled; one little boy was even hit on a sore place on his heel; the servants were lifted bodily out of their beds and let fall; whilst several members of the household were stripped of all they had on, forcibly held down, and pelted with shoes. nor were the proceedings at stockwell, black lion lane, and epworth, though rather more bizarre, any less violent. to quote another instance of this kind of haunting, professor schuppart at gressen, in upper hesse, was for six years persecuted by a poltergeist in the most unpleasant manner; stones were sent whizzing through closed rooms in all directions, breaking windows but hurting no one; his books were torn to pieces; the lamp by which he was reading was removed to a distant corner of the room, and his cheeks were slapped, and slapped so incessantly that he could get no sleep. according to mrs crowe, there was a case of a similar nature at mr chave's, in devonshire, in , where affidavits were made before the magistrate attesting the facts, and large rewards offered for discovery; but in vain, the phenomena continued, and the spiritual agent was frequently seen in the form of some strange animal. there seems to be little limit, short of grievous bodily injury--and even that limit has occasionally been overstepped--to poltergeist hooliganism. last summer the rev. henry hacon, m.a., of searly vicarage, north kelsey moor, very kindly sent me an original manuscript dealing with poltergeist disturbances of a very peculiar nature, at the old syderstone parsonage near fakenham. i published the account _ad verbum_ in a work of mine that appeared the ensuing autumn, entitled _ghostly phenomena_, and the interest it created encourages me to refer to other cases dealing with the same kind of phenomena. there is a parsonage in the south of england where not only noises have been heard, but articles have been mysteriously whisked away and not returned. a lady assures me that when a gentleman, with whom she was intimately acquainted, was alone in one of the reception rooms one day, he placed some coins to the value, i believe, of fifteen shillings, on the table beside him, and chancing to have his attention directed to the fire, which had burned low, was surprised on looking again to discover the coins had gone; nor did he ever recover them. other things, too, for the most part trivial, were also taken in the same incomprehensible manner, and apparently by the same mischievous unseen agency. it is true that one of the former inhabitants of the house had, during the latter portion of his life, been heavily in debt, and that his borrowing propensities may have accompanied him to the occult world; but though such an explanation is quite feasible, i am rather inclined to attribute the disappearances to the pranks of some mischievous vagrarian. i have myself over and over again experienced a similar kind of thing. for example, in a certain house in norwood, i remember losing in rapid succession two stylograph pens, a knife, and a sash. i remembered, in each case, laying the article on a table, then having my attention called away by some rather unusual sound in a far corner of the room, and then, on returning to the table, finding the article had vanished. there was no one else in the house, so that ordinary theft was out of the question. yet where did these articles go, and of what use would they be to a poltergeist? on one occasion, only, i caught a glimpse of the miscreant. it was about eight o'clock on a warm evening in june, and i was sitting reading in my study. the room is slightly below the level of the road, and in summer, the trees outside, whilst acting as an effective screen against the sun's rays, cast their shadows somewhat too thickly on the floor and walls, burying the angles in heavy gloom. in the daytime one rather welcomes this darkness; but in the afternoon it becomes a trifle oppressive, and at twilight one sometimes wishes it was not there. it is at twilight that the nature of the shadows usually undergoes a change, and there amalgamates, with them, that something, that peculiar, indefinable something that i can only associate with the superphysical. here, in my library, i often watch it creep in with the fading of the sunlight, or, postponing its advent till later--steal in through the window with the moonbeams, and i feel its presence just as assuredly and instinctively as i can feel and detect the presence of hostility in an audience or individual. i cannot describe how; i can only say i do, and that my discernment is seldom misleading. on the evening in question i was alone in the house. i had noticed, amid the shadows that lay in clusters on the floor and walls, this enigmatical something. it was there most markedly; but i did not associate it with anything particularly terrifying or antagonistic. perhaps that was because the book i was reading interested me most profoundly--it was a translation from heine, and i am devoted to heine. let me quote an extract. it is from _florentine nights_, and runs: "but is it not folly to wish to sound the inner meaning of any phenomenon outside us, when we cannot even solve the enigma of our own souls? we hardly know even whether outside phenomena really exist! we are often unable to distinguish reality from mere dream-faces. was it a shape of my fancy, or was it horrible reality that i heard and saw on that night? i know not. i only remember that, as the wildest thoughts were flowing through my heart, a singular sound came to my ear." i had got so far, absorbingly, spiritually interested, when i heard a laugh, a long, low chuckle, that seemed to come from the darkest and most remote corner of the room. a cold paroxysm froze my body, the book slid from my hands, and i sat upright in my chair, every faculty within me acutely alert and active. the laugh was repeated, this time from behind a writing-table in quite another part of the room. something which sounded like a shower of tintacks then fell into the grate; after which there was a long pause, and then a terrific bump, as if some heavy body had fallen from a great height on to the floor immediately in front of me. i even heard the hissing and whizzing the body made in its descent as it cut its passage through the air. again there came an interval of tranquillity broken only by the sounds of people in the road, the hurrying footsteps of a girl, the clattering of a man in hobnails, the quick, sharp tread of the lamplighter, and the scampering patter of a bevy of children. then there came a series of knockings on the ceiling, and then the sound of something falling into a gaping abyss which i intuitively felt had surreptitiously opened at my feet. for many seconds i listened to the reverberations of the object as it dashed against the sides of the unknown chasm; at length there was a splash, succeeded by hollow echoes. shaking in every limb, i shrank back as far as i possibly could in my chair and clutched the arms. a draught, cold and dank, as if coming from an almost interminable distance, blew upwards and fanned my nostrils. then there came the most appalling, the most blood-curdling chuckle, and i saw a hand--a lurid grey hand with long, knotted fingers and black, curved nails--feeling its way towards me, through the subtle darkness, like some enormous, unsavoury insect. nearer, nearer, and nearer it drew, its fingers waving in the air, antennæ fashion. for a moment it paused, and then, with lightning rapidity, snatched the book from my knees and disappeared. directly afterwards i heard the sound of a latchkey inserted in the front door, whilst the voice of my wife inquiring why the house was in darkness broke the superphysical spell. obeying her summons, i ascended the staircase, and the first object that greeted my vision in the hall was the volume of heine that had been so unceremoniously taken from me! assuredly this was the doings of a poltergeist! a poltergeist that up to the present had confined its attentions to me, no one else in the house having either heard or seen it. in my study there is a deep recess concealed in the winter-time by heavy curtains drawn across it; and often when i am writing something makes me look up, and a cold horror falls upon me as i perceive the curtains rustle, rustle as though they were laughing, laughing in conjunction with some hidden occult monstrosity; some grey--the bulk of the phantasms that come to me are grey--and glittering monstrosity who was enjoying a rich jest at my expense. occasionally, to emphasise its presence, this poltergeist has scratched the wall, or thumped, or thrown an invisible missile over my head, or sighed, or groaned, or gurgled, and i have been frightened, horribly, ghastly frightened. then something has happened--my wife has called out, or someone has rung a bell, or the postman has given one of his whole-hearted smashes with the knocker, and the poltergeist has "cleared off," and i have not been disturbed by it again for the remainder of the evening. i am not the only person whom poltergeists visit. judging from my correspondence and the accounts i see in the letters of various psychical research magazines, they patronise many people. their _modus operandi_, covering a wide range, is always boisterous. undoubtedly they have been badly brought up--their home influence and their educational training must have been sadly lacking in discipline. or is it the reverse? are their crude devices and mad, tomboyish pranks merely reactionary, and the only means they have of finding vent for their naturally high spirits? if so, i devoutly wish they would choose some locality other than my study for their playground. yet they interest me, and although i quake horribly when they are present, i derive endless amusement at other times, in speculating on their _raison d'être_, and curious--perhaps complex--constitutions. i do not believe they have ever inhabited any earthly body, either human or animal. i think it likely that they may be survivals of early experiments in animal and vegetable life in this planet, prior to the selection of any definite types; spirits that have never been anything else but spirits, and which have, no doubt, often envied man his carnal body and the possibilities that have been permitted him of eventually reaching a higher spiritual plane. it is envy, perhaps, that has made them mischievous, and generated in them an insatiable thirst to torment and frighten man. another probable explanation of them is, that they may be inhabitants of one of the other planets that have the power granted, under certain conditions at present unknown to us, of making themselves seen and heard by certain dwellers on the earth; and it is, of course, possible that they are but one of many types of spirits inhabiting a superphysical sphere that encloses or infringes on our own. they may be only another form of life, a form that is neither carnal nor immortal, but which has to depend for its existence on a superphysical food. they may be born in a fashion that, apart from its peculiarity and extravagance, bears some resemblance to the generation of physical animal life; and they may die, too, as man dies, and their death may be but the passing from one stage to another, or it may be for eternity. but enough of possibilities, of probable and improbable theories. for the present not only poltergeists but all other phantoms are seen as through a glass darkly, and, pending the discovery of some definite data, we do but flounder in a sea of wide, limitless, and infinite speculation. chapter v sylvan horrors i believe trees have spirits; i believe everything that grows has a spirit, and that such spirits never die, but passing into another state, a state of film and shadow, live on for ever. the phantasms of vegetable life are everywhere, though discernible only to the few of us. often as i ramble through thoroughfares, crowded with pedestrians and vehicles, and impregnated with steam and smoke and all the impurities arising from over-congested humanity, i have suddenly smelt a different atmosphere, the cold atmosphere of superphysical forest land. i have come to a halt, and leaning in some doorway, gazed in awestruck wonder at the nodding foliage of a leviathan lepidodendron, the phantasm of one of those mammoth lycopods that flourished in the carboniferous period. i have watched it swaying its shadowy arms backwards and forwards as if keeping time to some ghostly music, and the breeze it has thus created has rustled through my hair, while the sweet scent of its resin has pleasantly tickled my nostrils. i have seen, too, suddenly open before me, dark, gloomy aisles, lined with stupendous pines and carpeted with long, luxuriant grass, gigantic ferns, and other monstrous primeval flora, of a nomenclature wholly unknown to me; i have watched in chilled fascination the black trunks twist and bend and contort, as if under the influence of an uncontrollable fit of laughter, or at the bidding of some psychic cyclone. i have at times stayed my steps when in the throes of the city-pavements; shops and people have been obliterated, and their places taken by occult foliage; immense fungi have blocked out the sun's rays, and under the shelter of their slimy, glistening heads, i have been thrilled to see the wriggling, gliding forms of countless smaller saprophytes. i have felt the cold touch of loathsome toadstools and sniffed the hot, dry dust of the full, ripe puff-ball. on the thames embankment, up chelsea way, i have at twilight beheld wonderful metamorphoses. in company with the shadows of natural objects of the landscape, have silently sprung up giant reeds and bullrushes. i have felt their icy coldness as, blowing hither and thither in the delirium of their free, untrammelled existence, they have swished across my face. visions, truly visions, the exquisite fantasies of a vivid imagination. so says the sage. i do not think so; i dispute him _in toto_. these objects i have seen have not been illusions; else, why have i not imagined other things; why, for example, have i not seen rocks walking about and tables coming in at my door? if these phantasms were but tricks of the imagination, then imagination would stop at nothing. but they are not imagination, neither are they the idle fancies of an over-active brain. they are objective--just as much objective as are the smells of recognised physical objects, that those, with keenly sensitive olfactory organs, can detect, and those, with a less sensitive sense of smell, cannot detect; those, with acute hearing, can hear, and those with less acute hearing cannot hear. and yet, people are slow to believe that the seeing of the occult is as much a faculty as is the scenting of smells or the hearing of noises. i have heard it said that, deep down in coal mines, certain of the workers have seen wondrous sights; that when they have been alone in a drift, they have heard the blowing of the wind and the rustling of leaves, and suddenly found themselves penned in on all sides by the naked trunks of enormous primitive trees, lepidodendrons, sigillarias, ferns, and other plants, that have shone out with phosphorescent grandeur amid the inky blackness of the subterranean ether. around the feet of the spellbound watchers have sprung up rank blades of brobdingnagian grass and creepers, out of which have crept, with lurid eyes, prodigious millipedes, cockroaches, white ants, myriapods and scorpions, whilst added to the moaning and sighing of the trees has been the humming of stone-flies, dragon-flies, and locusts. galleries and shafts have echoed and re-echoed with these noises of the old world, which yet lives, and will continue to live, maybe, to the end of time. but are the physical trees, the trees that we can all see budding and sprouting in our gardens to-day--are they ever cognisant of the presence of the occult? can they, like certain--not all--dogs and horses and other animals, detect the proximity of the unknown? do they tremble and shake with fear at the sight of some psychic vegetation, or are they utterly devoid of any such faculty? can they see, hear, or smell? have they any senses at all? and, if they have one sense, have they not others? aye, there is food for reflection. personally, i believe trees have senses--not, of course, in such a high state of development as those of animal life; but, nevertheless, senses. consequently, i think it quite possible that certain of them, like certain animals, feel the presence of the superphysical. i often stroll in woods. i do not love solitude; i love the trees, and i do not think there is anything in nature, apart from man, i love much more. the oak, the ash, the elm, the poplar, the willow, to me are more than mere names; they are friends, the friends of my boyhood and manhood; companions in my lonely rambles and voluntary banishments; guardians of my siestas; comforters of my tribulations. the gentle fanning of their branches has eased my pain-racked brow and given me much-needed sleep, whilst the chlorophyll of their leaves has acted like balm to my eyelids, inflamed after long hours of study. i have leaned my head against their trunks, and heard, or fancied i have heard, the fantastic murmurings of their peaceful minds. this is what happens in the daytime, when the hot summer sun has turned the meadow-grass a golden brown. but with the twilight comes the change. phantom-land awakes, and mingled with the shadows of the trees and bushes that lazily unroll themselves from trunk and branches are the darkest of shades, that impart to the forest an atmosphere of dreary coldness. usually i hie away with haste at sunset, but there are occasions when i have dallied longer than i have intended, and only realised my error when it has been too late. i have then, controlled by the irresistible fascination of the woods, waited and watched. i well recollect, for example, being caught in this way in a hampshire spinney, at that time one of my most frequented haunts. the day had been unusually close and stifling, and the heat, in conjunction with a hard morning's work--for i had written, god only knows how long, without ceasing,--made me frightfully sleepy, and on arriving at my favourite spot beneath a lofty pine, i had slept till, for very shame, my eyelids could keep closed no longer. it was then nine o'clock, and the metamorphosis of sunset had commenced in solemn earnest. the evening was charming, ideal of the heart of summer; the air soft, sweetly scented; the sky unspotted blue. a peaceful hush, broken only by the chiming of some distant church bells, and the faint, the very faint barking of dogs, enveloped everything and instilled in me a false sensation of security. facing me was a diminutive glade padded with downy grass, transformed into a pale yellow by the lustrous rays of the now encrimsoned sun. fainter and fainter grew the ruddy glow, until there was nought of it left but a pale pink streak, whose delicate marginal lines still separated the blue of the sky from the quickly superseding grey. a barely perceptible mist gradually cloaked the grass, whilst the gloom amid the foliage on the opposite side of the glade intensified. there was now no sound of bells, no barking of dogs; and silence, a silence tinged with the sadness so characteristic of summer evenings, was everywhere paramount. a sudden rush of icy air made my teeth chatter. i made an effort to stir, to escape ere the grotesque and intangible horrors of the wood could catch me. i ignominiously failed; the soles of my feet froze to the ground. then i felt the slender, graceful body of the pine against which i leaned my back, shake and quiver, and my hand--the hand that rested on its bark--grew damp and sticky. i endeavoured to avert my eyes from the open space confronting them. i failed; and as i gazed, filled with the anticipations of the damned, there suddenly burst into view, with all the frightful vividness associated only with the occult, a tall form--armless, legless--fashioned like the gnarled trunk of a tree--white, startlingly white in places where the bark had worn away, but on the whole a bright, a luridly bright, yellow and black. at first i successfully resisted a powerful impulse to raise my eyes to its face; but as i only too well knew would be the case, i was obliged to look at last, and, as i anticipated, i underwent a most violent shock. in lieu of a face i saw a raw and shining polyp, a mass of waving, tossing, pulpy radicles from whose centre shone two long, obliquely set, pale eyes, ablaze with devilry and malice. the thing, after the nature of all terrifying phantasms, was endowed with hypnotic properties, and directly its eyes rested on me i became numb; my muscles slept while my faculties remained awake, acutely awake. inch by inch the thing approached me; its stealthy, gliding motion reminding me of a tiger subtly and relentlessly stalking its prey. it came up to me, and the catalepsy which had held me rigidly upright departed. i fell on the ground for protection, and, as the great unknown curved its ghastly figure over me and touched my throat and forehead with its fulsome tentacles, i was overcome with nervous tremors; a deadly pain griped my entrails, and, convulsed with agony, i rolled over on my face, furiously clawing the bracken. in this condition i continued for probably one or even two minutes, though to me it seemed very much longer. my sufferings terminated with the loud report of firearms, and slowly picking myself up, i found that the apparition had vanished, and that standing some twenty or so paces from me was a boy with a gun. i recognised him at once as the son of my neighbour, the village schoolmaster; but not wishing to tarry there any longer, i hurriedly wished him good night, and leaving the copse a great deal more quickly than i had entered it, i hastened home. what had i seen? a phantasm of some dead tree? some peculiar species of spirit (i have elsewhere termed a vagrarian), attracted thither by the loneliness of the locality? some vicious, evil phantasm? or a vice-elemental, whose presence there would be due to some particularly wicked crime or series of crimes perpetrated on or near the spot? i cannot say. it might well have been either one of them, or something quite different. i am quite sure, however, that most woods are haunted, and that he who sees spirit phenomena can be pretty certain of seeing them there. again and again, as i have been passing after nightfall, through tree-girt glen, forest, or avenue, i have seen all sorts of curious forms and shapes move noiselessly from tree to tree. hooded figures, with death's-heads, have glided surreptitiously through moon-kissed spaces; icy hands have touched me on the shoulders; whilst, pacing alongside me, i have oft-times heard footsteps, light and heavy, though i have seen nothing. miss frances sinclair tells me that, once, when walking along a country lane, she espied some odd-looking object lying on the ground at the foot of a tree. she approached it, and found to her horror it was a human finger swimming in a pool of blood. she turned round to attract the attention of her friends, and when she looked again the finger had vanished. on this very spot, she was subsequently informed, the murder of a child had taken place. trees are, i believe, frequently haunted by spirits that suggest crime. i have no doubt that numbers of people have hanged themselves on the same tree in just the same way as countless people have committed suicide by jumping over certain bridges. why? for the very simple reason that hovering about these bridges are influences antagonistic to the human race, spirits whose chief and fiendish delight is to breathe thoughts of self-destruction into the brains of passers-by. i once heard of a man, medically pronounced sane, who frequently complained that he was tormented by a voice whispering in his ear, "shoot yourself! shoot yourself!"--advice which he eventually found himself bound to follow. and of a man, likewise stated to be sane, who journeyed a considerable distance to jump over a notorious bridge because he was for ever being haunted by the phantasm of a weirdly beautiful woman who told him to do so. if bridges have their attendant sinister spirits, so undoubtedly have trees--spirits ever anxious to entice within the magnetic circle of their baleful influence anyone of the human race. many tales of trees being haunted in this way have come to me from india and the east. i quoted one in my _ghostly phenomena_, and the following was told me by a lady whom i met recently, when on a visit to my wife's relations in the midlands. "i was riding with my husband along a very lonely mountain road in assam," my informant began, "when i suddenly discovered i had lost my silk scarf, which happened to be a rather costly one. i had a pretty shrewd idea whereabouts i might have dropped it, and, on mentioning the fact to my husband, he at once turned and rode back to look for it. being armed, i did not feel at all nervous at being left alone, especially as there had been no cases, for many years, of assault on a european in our district; but, seeing a big mango tree standing quite by itself a few yards from the road, i turned my horse's head with the intention of riding up to it and picking some of its fruit. to my great annoyance, however, the beast refused to go; moreover, although at all times most docile, it now reared, and kicked, and showed unmistakable signs of fright. "i speedily came to the conclusion that my horse was aware of the presence of something--probably a wild beast--i could not see myself, and i at once dismounted, and tethering the shivering animal to a boulder, advanced cautiously, revolver in hand, to the tree. at every step i took, i expected the spring of a panther or some other beast of prey; but, being afraid of nothing but a tiger--and there were none, thank god! in that immediate neighbourhood--i went boldly on. on nearing the tree, i noticed that the soil under the branches was singularly dark, as if scorched and blackened by a fire, and that the atmosphere around it had suddenly grown very cold and dreary. to my disappointment there was no fruit, and i was coming away in disgust, when i caught sight of a queer-looking thing just over my head and half-hidden by the foliage. i parted the leaves asunder with my whip and looked up at it. my blood froze. "the thing was nothing human. it had a long, grey, nude body, shaped like that of a man, only with abnormally long arms and legs, and very long and crooked fingers. its head was flat and rectangular, without any features saving a pair of long and heavy lidded, light eyes, that were fixed on mine with an expression of hellish glee. for some seconds i was too appalled even to think, and then the most mad desire to kill myself surged through me. i raised my revolver, and was in the act of placing it to my forehead, when a loud shout from behind startled me. it was my husband. he had found my scarf, and, hurrying back, had arrived just in time to see me raise the revolver--strange to relate--at him! in a few words i explained to him what had happened, and we examined the tree together. but there were no signs of the terrifying phenomenon--it had completely vanished. though my husband declared that i must have been dreaming, i noticed he looked singularly grave, and, on our return home, he begged me never to go near the tree again. i asked him if he had had any idea it was haunted, and he said: 'no! but i know there are such trees. ask dingan.' dingan was one of our native servants--the one we respected most, as he had been with my husband for nearly twelve years--ever since, in fact, he had settled in assam. 'the mango tree, mem-sahib!' dingan exclaimed, when i approached him on the subject, 'the mango tree on the yuka road, just before you get to the bridge over the river? i know it well. we call it "the devil tree," mem-sahib. no other tree will grow near it. there is a spirit peculiar to certain trees that lives in its branches, and persuades anyone who ventures within a few feet of it, either to kill themselves, or to kill other people. i have seen three men from this village alone, hanging to its accursed branches; they were left there till the ropes rotted and the jackals bore them off to the jungles. three suicides have i seen, and three murders--two were women, strangers in these parts, and they were both lying within the shadow of the mango's trunk, with the backs of their heads broken in like eggs! it is a thrice-accursed tree, mem-sahib.' needless to say, i agreed with dingan, and in future gave the mango a wide berth." vagrarians, tree devils (a type of vice elemental), and phantasms of dead trees are some of the occult horrors that haunt woods, and, in fact, the whole country-side! added to these, there are the fauns and satyrs, those queer creatures, undoubtedly vagrarians, half-man and half-goat, that are accredited by the ancients with much merry-making, and grievous to add, much lasciviousness. of these spirits there is mention in scripture, namely, isaiah xiii. , where we read: "and their houses shall be full of doleful creatures, and owls shall dwell there, and satyrs shall dance there"; and in baddeley's _historical meditations_, published about the beginning of the seventeenth century, there is a description by plutarch, of a satyr captured by sulla, when the latter was on his way from dyrrachium to brundisium. the creature, which appears to have been very material, was found asleep in a park near apollonia. on being led into the presence of sulla, it commenced speaking in a harsh voice that was an odd mixture of the neighing of a horse and the crying of a goat. as neither sulla nor any of his followers could understand in the slightest degree what the monstrosity meant, they let it go, nor is there any further reference to it. now, granted that this account is not "faked," and that such a beast actually did exist, it would naturally suggest to one that vagrarians, pixies, and other grotesque forms of phantasms are, after all, only the spirits of similar types of material life, and that, in all probability, the earth, contemporary with prehistoric, and even later-day man, fairly swarmed with such creatures. however, this, like everything else connected with these early times, is merely a matter of speculation. another explanatory theory is, that possibly superphysical phenomena were much more common formerly than now, and that the various types of sub-human and sub-animal apparitions (which were then constantly seen by the many, but which are now only visible to the few) have been handed down to us in the likeness of satyrs and fauns. anyhow, i think they may be rightly classified in the category of vagrarians. the association of spirits with trees is pretty nearly universal. in the fairy tales of youth we have frequent allusions to them. in the caucasus, where the population is not of slavonic origin, we have innumerable stories of sacred trees, and in each of these stones the main idea is the same--namely, that a human life is dependent on the existence of a tree. in slavonic mythology, plants as well as trees are magnets for spirits, and in the sweet-scented pinewoods, in the dark, lonely pinewoods, dwell "psipolnitza," or female goblins, who plague the harvesters; and "lieshi," or forest male demons, closely allied to satyrs. in iceland there was a pretty superstition to the effect that, when an innocent person was put to death, a sorb or mountain ash would spring over their grave. in teutonic mythology the sorb is supposed to take the form of a lily or white rose, and, on the chairs of those about to die, one or other of these flowers is placed by unseen hands. white lilies, too, are emblematic of innocence, and have a knack of mysteriously shooting up on the graves of those who have been unjustly executed. surely this would be the work of a spirit, as, also, would be the action of the eglantine, which is so charmingly illustrated in the touching story of tristram and yseult. tradition says that from the grave of tristram there sprang an eglantine which twined about the statue of the lovely yseult, and, despite the fact of its being thrice cut down, grew again, ever embracing the same fair image. among the north american indians there was, and maybe still is, a general belief that the spirits of those who died, naturally reverted to trees--to the great pines of the mountain forests--where they dwelt for ever amid the branches. the indians believed also that the spirits of certain trees walked at night in the guise of beautiful women. lucky indians! would that my experience of the forest phantasms had been half so entrancing. the modern greeks, australian bushmen, and natives of the east indies, like myself, only see the ugly side of the superphysical, for the spirits that haunt their vegetation are irredeemably ugly, horribly terrifying, and fiendishly vindictive. the idea that the dead often passed into trees is well illustrated in the classics. for example, Æneas, in his wanderings, strikes a tree, and is half-frightened out of his wits by a great spurt of blood. a hollow voice, typical of phantasms and apparently proceeding from somewhere within the trunk, then begs him to desist, going on to explain that the tree is not an ordinary tree but the metamorphosed soul of an unlucky wight called polydorus, (he must have been unlucky, if only to have had such a name). needless to say, Æneas, who was strictly a gentleman in spite of his aristocratic pretensions, at once dropped his axe and showed his sympathy for the poor tree-bound spirit in an abundant flow of tears, which must have satisfied, even, polydorus. there is a very similar story in swedish folk-lore. a voice in a tree addressed a man, who was about to cut it down, with these words, "friend, hew me not!" but the man on this occasion was not a gentleman, and, instead of complying with the modest request, only plied his axe the more heartily. to his horror--a just punishment for his barbarity--there was a most frightful groan of agony, and out from the hole he had made in the trunk, rushed a fountain of blood, real human blood. what happened then i cannot say, but i imagine that the woodcutter, stricken with remorse, whipped up his bandana from the ground, and did all that lay in his power--though he had not had the advantages of lessons in first aid--to stop the bleeding. one cannot help being amused at these marvellous stories, but, after all, they are not very much more wonderful than many of one's own ghostly experiences. at any rate, they serve to illustrate how widespread and venerable is the belief that trees--trees, perhaps, in particular--are closely associated with the occult. pixies! what are pixies? that they are not the dear, delightful, quaint little people shakespeare so inimitably portrays in the _midsummer night's dream_, is, i fear, only too readily acknowledged. i am told that they may be seen even now, and i know those who say that they have seen them, but that they are the mere shadows of those dainty creatures that used to gambol in the moonshine and help the poor and weary in their household work. the present-day pixies, whom i am loath to imagine are the descendants of the old-world pixies--though, of course, on the other hand, they may be merely degenerates, a much more pleasant alternative--are i think still to be occasionally encountered in lonely, isolated districts; such, for instance, as the mountains in the west of ireland, the hebrides, and other more or less desolate islands, and on one or two of the cornish hills and moors. like most phantasms, the modern pixies are silent and elusive. they appear and disappear with equal abruptness, contenting themselves with merely gliding along noiselessly from rock to rock, or from bush to bush. dainty they are not, pretty they are not, and in stature only do they resemble the pixie of fairy tales; otherwise they are true vagrarians, grotesque and often harrowing. in my _ghostly phenomena_ i have given one or two accounts of their appearance in the west of england, but the nearest approach to pixies that i have myself seen, were phantasms that appeared to me, in , on the wicklow hills, near bray. i was out for a walk on the afternoon of thursday, may ; the weather was oppressive, and the grey, lowering sky threatened rain, a fact which accounted for the paucity of pedestrians. leaving my temporary headquarters, at bray, at half-past one, i arrived at a pretty village close to the foot of the hills and immediately began the ascent. selecting a deviating path that wound its way up gradually, i, at length, reached the summit of the ridge. on and on i strolled, careless of time and distance, until a sudden dryness in my throat reminded me it must be about the hour at which i generally took tea. i turned round and began to retrace my steps homeward. the place was absolutely deserted; not a sign of a human being or animal anywhere, and the deepest silence. i had come to the brink of a slight elevation when, to my astonishment, i saw in the tiny plateau beneath, three extraordinary shapes. standing not more than two feet from the ground, they had the most perfectly proportioned bodies of human beings, but monstrous heads; their faces had a leadish blue hue, like that of corpses; their eyes were wide open and glassy. they glided along slowly and solemnly in indian file, their grey, straggling hair and loose white clothes rustling in the breeze; and on arriving at a slight depression in the ground, they sank and sank, until they entirely disappeared from view. i then descended from my perch, and made a thorough examination of the spot where they had vanished. it was firm, hard, caked soil, without hole or cover, or anything in which they could possibly have hidden. i was somewhat shocked, as indeed i always am after an encounter with the superphysical, but not so much shocked as i should have been had the phantasms been bigger. i visited the same spot subsequently, but did not see another manifestation. to revert to trees--fascinating, haunting trees. much credulity was at one time attached to the tradition that the tree on which jesus christ was crucified was an aspen, and that, thenceforth, all aspens were afflicted with a peculiar shivering. botanists, scientists, and matter-of-fact people of all sorts pooh-pooh this legend, as, indeed, many people nowadays pooh-pooh the very existence of christ. but something--you may call it intuition--i prefer to call it my guardian spirit--bids me believe both; and i do believe as much in the tradition of the aspen as in the existence of christ. moreover, this intuition or influence--the work of my guardian spirit--whether dealing with things psychical, psychological, or physical has never yet failed me. if it warns me of the presence of a phantasm, i subsequently experience some kind or other of spiritual phenomenon; if it bids me beware of a person, i am invariably brought to discover later on that that person's intentions have been antagonistic to me; and if it causes me to deter from travelling by a certain route, or on a certain day, i always discover afterwards that it was a very fortunate thing for me that i abided by its warning. that is why i attach great importance to the voice of my guardian spirit; and that is why, when it tells me that, despite the many obvious discrepancies and absurdities in the scriptures, despite the character of the old testament god--who repels rather than attracts me--despite all this, there was a jesus christ who actually was a great and benevolent spirit, temporarily incarnate, and who really did suffer on the cross in the manner described in subsequent mss.,--i believe it all implicitly. i back the still, small voice of my guardian spirit against all the arguments scepticism can produce. very good, then. i believe in the existence and spirituality of jesus christ because of the biddings of my guardian spirit, and, for the very same reason, i attach credence to the tradition of the quivering of the aspen. the sceptic accounts for the shaking of this tree by showing that it is due to a peculiar formation in the structure of the aspen's foliage. this may be so, but that peculiarity of structure was created immediately after christ's crucifixion, and was created as a memento, for all time, of one of the most unpardonable murders on record. there is something especially weird, too, in the ash; something that suggests to my mind that it is particularly susceptible to superphysical influences. i have often sat and listened to its groaning, and more than once, at twilight, perceived the filmy outline of some fantastic figure writhed around its slender trunk. john timbs, f.s.a., in his book of _popular errors_, published by crosby, lockwood & co. in , quotes from a letter, dated th july , thus: "it is stated that at brampton, near gainsborough, in lincolnshire, 'an ash tree shaketh in body and boughs thereof, sighing and groaning like a man troubled in his sleep, as if it felt some sensible torment. many have climbed to the top of it, who heard the groans more easily than they could below. but one among the rest, being on the top thereof, spake to the tree; but presently came down much aghast, and lay grovelling on the earth, three hours speechless. in the end reviving, he said: "brampton, brampton, thou art much bound to pray!"' the earl of lincoln caused one of the arms of the ash to be lopped off and a hole bored through the body, and then was the sound, or hollow voice, heard more audibly than before, but in a kind of speech which they could not comprehend. this is the second wonderful ash produced by past ages in this district--according to tradition, ethelreda's budding staff having shot out into the first." so says the letter, and from my own experience of the ash, i am quite ready to accredit it with special psychic properties, though i cannot state i have ever heard it speak. i believe it attracts phantasms in just the same way as do certain people, myself included, and certain kinds of furniture. its groanings at night have constantly attracted, startled, and terrified me; they have been quite different to the sounds i have heard it make in the daytime; and often i could have sworn that, when i listened to its groanings, i was listening to the groanings of some dying person, and, what is more harrowing still, to some person i knew. i have heard it said, too, that the most ghastly screams and gurgles have been heard proceeding from the ash trees planted in or near the site of murders or suicides, and as i sit here writing, a scene opens before me, and i can see a plain with one solitary tree--an ash--standing by a pool of water, on the margin of which are three clusters of reeds. dark clouds scud across the sky, and the moon only shows itself at intervals. it is an intensely wild and lonely spot, and the cold, dank air blowing across the barren wastes renders it all the more inhospitable. no one, no living thing, no object is visible save the ash. suddenly it moves its livid trunk, sways violently, unnaturally, backwards and forwards--once, twice, thrice; and there comes from it a cry, a most piercing, agonising cry, half human, half animal, that dies away in a wail and imparts to the atmosphere a sensation of ice. i can hear the cry as i sit here writing; my memory rehearses it; it was one of the most frightful, blood-curdling, hellish sounds i ever endured; and the scene was on the wicklow hills in ireland. the narcotic plant, the mandrake, is also credited with groaning, though i cannot say i have ever heard it. though there is nothing particularly psychic about the witch-hazel, in the hands of certain people who are mediumistic, it will indicate the exact spot where water lies under the ground. the people who possess this faculty of discovering the locality of water by means of the hazel, are named dowsers, and my only wonder is that their undeniably useful faculty is not more cultivated and developed. to my mind, there is no limit to the possibilities suggested by this faculty; for surely, if one species of tree possesses attraction for a certain object in nature, there can be no reason why other species of trees should not possess a similar attraction for other objects in nature. and if they possess this attraction for the physical, why not for the superphysical--why, indeed, should not "ghosts" come within the radius of their magnetism? the palm and sycamore trees have invariably been associated with the spiritual, and made use of symbolically, as the tree of life. an illustration, on a stele in the berlin museum, depicts a palm tree from the stem of which proceeds two arms, one administering to a figure, kneeling below, the fruit or bread of life; the other, pouring from a vase the water of life. on another, a later egyptian stele, the tree of life is the sycamore. there is no doubt that the egyptians and assyrians regarded these two trees as susceptible only to good psychic influences, they figure so frequently in illustrations of the benevolent deities. nor were the jews and christians behind in their recognition of the extraordinary properties of these two trees, especially the palm. we find it symbolically introduced in the decoration of solomon's temple--on the walls, furniture, and vessels; whilst in christian mosaics it figures as the tree of life in paradise (_vide_ rev. xxii. , , and in the apsis of s. giovanni laterans). it is even regarded as synonymous with jesus christ, as may be seen in the illuminated frontispiece to an _evangelium_ in the library of the british museum, where the symbols of the four evangelists, placed over corresponding columns of lessons from their gospels, are portrayed looking up to a palm tree, rising from the earth, on the summit of which is a cross, with the symbolical letters alpha and omega suspended from its arms. i am, of course, only speaking from my own experience, but this much i can vouch for, that i have never heard of a palm tree being haunted by an evil spirit, whereas i have heard of several cases in which palm leaves or crosses cut from palms have been used, and apparently with effect, as preventives of injuries caused by malevolent occult demonstrations; and were i forced to spend a night in some lonely forest, i think i should prefer, viewing the situation entirely from the standpoint of psychical possibilities, that that forest should be composed partly or wholly of palms. before concluding this chapter, i must make a brief allusion to another type of spirit--the barrowvian--that resembles the vagrarian and pixie, inasmuch as it delights in lonely places. whenever i see a barrow, tumulus or druidical, circle, i scent the probability of phantasms--phantasms of a peculiar sort. most ancient burial-places are haunted, and haunted by two species of the same genus: the one, the spirits of whatever prehistoric forms of animal life lie buried there; and the other, grotesque phantasms, often very similar to vagrarians in appearance, but with distinct ghoulish propensities and an inveterate hatred to living human beings. in my _ghostly phenomena_ i have referred to the haunting of a druidical circle in the north of england, and also to the haunting of a house i once rented in cornwall, near castle on dinas, by barrowvians; i have heard, too, of many cases of a like nature. i have, of course, often watched all night, near barrows or cromlechs, without any manifestations taking place; sometimes, even, without feeling the presence of the unknown, though these occasions have been rare. at about two o'clock one morning, when i was keeping my vigil beside a barrow in the south of england, i saw a phenomenon in the shape of a hand--only a hand, a big, misty, luminous blue hand, with long crooked fingers. i could, of course, only speculate as to the owner of the hand, and i must confess that i postponed that speculation till i was safe and sound, and bathed in sunshine, within the doors of my own domicile. hauntings of this type generally occur where excavations have been made, a barrow broken into, or a dolmen removed; the manifestations generally taking the form of phantasms of the dead, the prehistoric dead. but phenomena that are seen there are, more often than not, things that bear little or no resemblance to human beings; abnormally tall, thin things with small, bizarre heads, round, rectangular, or cone-shaped, sometimes semi- or wholly animal, and always expressive of the utmost malignity. occasionally, in fact i might say often, the phenomena are entirely bestial--such, for example, as huge, blue, or spotted dogs, shaggy bears, and monstrous horses. houses, built on or near the site of such burial-places, are not infrequently disturbed by strange noises, and the manifestations, when materialised, usually take one or other of these forms. in cases of this kind i have found that exorcism has little or no effect; or, if any, it is that the phenomena become even more emphatic. chapter vi complex hauntings and occult bestialities what are occult bestialities? are they the spirits of human beings who, when inhabiting material bodies, led thoroughly criminal lives; are they the phantasms of dead beasts--cats and dogs, etc.; or are they things that were never carnate? i think they may be either one or the other--that any one of these alternatives is admissible. there is a house, for example, in a london square, haunted by the apparition of a nude woman with long, yellow, curly hair and a pig's face. there is no mistaking the resemblance--eyes, snout, mouth, jaw, jowls, all are piggish, and the appearance of the thing is hideously suggestive of all that is bestial. what, then, is it? from the fact that in all probability a very sensuous, animal-minded woman once lived in the house, i am led to suppose that this may be her phantasm--or--one only of her many phantasms. and in this latter supposition lies much food for reflection. the physical brain, as we know, consists of multitudinous cells which we may reasonably take to be the homes of our respective faculties. now, as each material cell has its representative immaterial inhabitant, so each immaterial inhabitant has its representative phantasm. thus each representative phantasm, on the dissolution of the material brain, would be either earth-bound or promoted to the higher spiritual plane. hence, one human being may be represented by a score of phantasms, and it is quite possible for a house to be haunted by many totally different phenomena of the same person. i know, for instance, of a house being subjected to the hauntings of a dog, a sensual-looking priest, the bloated shape of an indescribable something, and a ferocious-visaged sailor. it had had, prior to my investigation, only one tenant, a notorious rake and glutton; no priest or sailor had ever been known to enter the house; and so i concluded the many apparitions were but phantasms of the same person--phantasms of his several, separate, and distinct personalities. he had brutal tendencies, sacerdotal (not spiritual) tendencies, gluttonous, and nautical tendencies, and his whole character being dominated by carnal cravings, on the dissolution of his material body each separate tendency would remain earth-bound, represented by the phantasm most closely resembling it. i believe this theory may explain many dual hauntings, and it holds good with regard to the case i have quoted, the case of the apparition with the pig's head. the ghost need not necessarily have been the spirit of a dead woman _in toto_, but merely the phantasm of one of her grosser personalities; her more spiritual personalities, represented by other phantasms, having migrated to the higher plane. let me take, as another example, the case which i personally investigated, and which interested me deeply. the house was then haunted (and, as far as i know to the contrary, is still haunted) by a blurred figure, suggestive of something hardly human and extremely nasty, that bounded up the stairs two steps at a time; by a big, malignant eye--only an eye--that appeared in one of the top rooms; and by a phantasm resembling a lady in distinctly modern costume. the house is old, and as, according to tradition, some crime was committed within its walls many years ago, the case may really be an instance of separate hauntings--the bounding figure and the eye (the latter either belonging to the figure or to another phantasm) being the phantasms of the principal, or principals, in the ancient tragedy; the lady, either the phantasm of someone who died there comparatively recently, or of someone still alive, who consciously, or unconsciously, projects her superphysical ego to that spot. on the other hand, the three different phenomena might be three different phantasms of one person, that person being either alive or dead--for one can unquestionably, at times, project phantasms of one's various personalities before physical dissolution. the question of occult phenomena, one may thus see, is far more complex than it would appear to be at first sight, and naturally so,--the whole of nature being complex from start to finish. just as minerals are not composed of one atom but of countless atoms, so the human brain is not constituted of one cell but of many; and as with the material cerebrum, so with the immaterial--hence the complexity. with regard to the phenomena of superphysical bestialities such as dogs, bears, etc., it is almost impossible to say whether the phantasm would be that of a dead person, or rather that representing one of some dead person's several personalities--the phantasm of a genuine animal, of a vagrarian, or of some other type of elemental. one can only surmise the identity of such phantasms, after becoming acquainted with the history of the locality in which such manifestations appear. the case to which i referred in my previous works, _some haunted houses of england and wales_, and _ghostly phenomena_, namely, that of the apparition of a nude man being seen outside an unused burial-ground in guilsborough, northamptonshire, furnishes a good example of alternatives. near to the spot, at least within two or three hundred yards of it, was a barrow, close to which a sacrificial stone had been unearthed; consequently the phantasm may have been a barrowvian; and again, as the locality is much wooded and but thinly populated, it may have been a vagrarian; and again, the burial-ground being in such close proximity, the apparition may well have been the phantasm of one of the various personalities of a human being interred there. one night, as i was sitting reading alone in an isolated cottage on the wicklow hills, i was half-startled out of my senses by hearing a loud, menacing cry, half-human and half-animal, and apparently in mid-air, directly over my head. i looked up, and to my horror saw suspended, a few feet above me, the face of a dalmatian dog--of a long since dead dalmatian dog, with glassy, expressionless eyes, and yellow, gaping jaws. the phenomenon did not last more than half a minute, and with its abrupt disappearance came a repetition of the cry. what was it? i questioned the owner of the cottage, and she informed me she had always had the sensation something uncanny walked the place at night, but had never seen anything. "one of my children did, though," she added; "mike--he was drowned at sea twelve months ago. before he became a sailor he lived with me here, and often used to see a dog--a big, spotted cratur, like what we called a plum-pudding dog. it was a nasty, unwholesome-looking thing, he used to tell me, and would run round and round his room--the room where you sleep--at night. though a bold enough lad as a rule, the thing always scared him; and he used to come and tell me about it, with a face as white as linen--'mother!' he would say, 'i saw the spotted cratur again in the night, and i couldn't get as much as a wink of sleep.' he would sometimes throw a boot at it, and always with the same result--the boot would go right through it." she then told me that a former tenant of the house, who had borne an evil reputation in the village--the peasants unanimously declaring she was a witch--had died, so it was said, in my room. "but, of course," she added, "it wasn't her ghost that mike saw." here i disagreed with her. however, if she could not come to any conclusion, neither could i; for though, of course, the dog may have been the earth-bound spirit of some particularly carnal-minded occupant of the cottage--or, in other words, a phantasm representing one of that carnal-minded person's several personalities,--it may have been the phantasm of a vagrarian, of a barrowvian, or, of some other kind of elemental, attracted to the spot by its extreme loneliness, and the presence there, unsuspected by man, of some ancient remains, either human or animal. occult dogs are very often of a luminous, semi-transparent bluish-grey--a bluish-grey that is common to many other kinds of superphysical phenomena, but which i have never seen in the physical world. i have heard of several houses in westmoreland and devon, always in the vicinity of ancient burial-places, being haunted by blue dogs, and sometimes by blue dogs without heads. indeed, headless apparitions of all sorts are by no means uncommon. a lady, who is well known to me, had a very unpleasant experience in a house in norfolk, where she was awakened one night by a scratching on her window-pane, which was some distance from the ground, and, on getting out of bed to see what was there, perceived the huge form of a shaggy dog, without a head, pressed against the glass. fortunately for my informant, the manifestation was brief. the height of the window from the ground quite precluded the possibility of the apparition being any natural dog, and my friend was subsequently informed that what she had seen was one of the many headless phantasms that haunted the house. of course, it does not follow that because one does not actually see a head, a head is not objectively there--it may be very much there, only not materialised. a story of one of these seemingly headless apparitions was once told me by a mrs forbes du barry whom i met at lady d.'s house in eaton square. i remember the at-home to which i refer, particularly well, as the entertainment on that occasion was entirely entrusted to miss lilian north, who as a reciter and raconteur is, in my opinion, as far superior to any other reciter and raconteur as the stars are superior to the earth. those who have not heard her stories, have not listened to her eloquent voice--that appeals not merely to the heart, but to the soul--are to be pitied. but there--i am digressing. let me proceed. it was, i repeat, on the soul-inspiring occasion above mentioned that i was introduced to mrs forbes du barry, who must be held responsible for the following story. "i was reading one of your books the other day, mr o'donnell," she began, "and some of your experiences remind me of one of my own--one that occurred to me many years ago, when i was living in worthing, in the old part of the town, not far from where the public library now stands. directly after we had taken the house, my husband was ordered to india. however, he did not expect to be away for long, so, as i was not in very good health just then, i did not go with him, but remained with my little boy, philip, in worthing. besides philip and myself, my household only consisted of a nursery-governess, cook, housemaid, and kitchen-maid. the hauntings began before we had been in our new quarters many days. we all heard strange noises, scratchings, and whinings, and the servants complained that often, when they were at meals, something they could not see, but which they could swear was a dog, came sniffing round them, jumping up and placing its invisible paws on their lap. often, too, when they were in bed the same thing entered their room, they said, and jumped on the top of them. they were all very much frightened, and declared that if the hauntings continued they would not be able to stay in the house. of course, i endeavoured to laugh away their fears, but the latter were far too deeply rooted, and i myself, apart from the noises i had heard, could not help feeling that there was some strangely unpleasant influence in the house. the climax was brought about by philip. one afternoon, hearing him cry very loudly in the nursery, i ran upstairs to see what was the matter. on the landing outside the nursery i narrowly avoided a collision with the governess, who came tearing out of the room, her eyes half out of her head with terror, and her cheeks white as a sheet. she said nothing--and indeed her silence was far more impressive than words--but, rushing past me, flung herself downstairs, half a dozen steps at a time, and ran into the garden. in an agony of fear--for i dreaded to think what had happened--i burst into the nursery, and found philip standing on the bed, frantically beating the air with his hands. 'take it away--oh, take it away!' he cried; 'it is a horrid dog; it has no head!' then, seeing me, he sprang down and, racing up to me, leaped into my open arms. as he did so, something darted past and disappeared through the open doorway. it was a huge greyhound without a head! i left the house the next day--i was fortunately able to sublet it--and went to bournemouth. but, do you know, mr o'donnell, that dog followed us! wherever we went it went too, nor did it ever leave philip till his death, which took place in egypt on his twenty-first birthday. now, what do you think of that?" "i think," i replied, "that the phantasm was very probably that of a real dog, and that it became genuinely attached to your son. i do not think it was headless, but that, for some reason unknown for the present, its head never materialised. what was the history of the house?" "it had no history as far as i could gather," mrs forbes du barry said. "a lady once lived there who was devoted to dogs, but no one thinks she ever had a greyhound." "then," i replied thoughtfully, "it is just possible that the headless dog was the phantasm of the lady herself, or, at least, of one of her personalities!" mrs du barry appeared somewhat shocked, and i adroitly changed the conversation. however, i should not be at all surprised if this were the case. the improbability of any ancient remains being interred under or near the house, precludes the idea of barrowvians, whilst the thickly populated nature of the neighbourhood and the entire absence of loneliness, renders the possibility of vagrarians equally unlikely. that being so, one only has to consider the possibility of its being a vice elemental attracted to the house by the vicious lives and thoughts of some former occupant, and i am, after all, inclined to favour the theory that the phantasm was the phantasm of the old dog-loving lady herself, attaching itself in true canine fashion to the child philip. the most popular animal form amongst spirits--the form assumed by them more often than any other--is undoubtedly the dog. i hear of the occult dog more often than of any other occult beast, and in many places there is yet a firm belief that the souls of the wicked are chained to this earth in the shape of monstrous dogs. according to mr dyer, in his _ghost world_, a man who hanged himself at broomfield, near salisbury, manifested himself in the guise of a huge black dog; whilst the lady howard of james i.'s reign, for her many misdeeds, not the least of which was getting rid of her husbands, was, on her death, transformed into a hound and compelled to run every night, between midnight and cock-crow, from the gateway of fitzford, her former residence, to oakhampton park, and bring back to the place, from whence she started, a blade of grass in her mouth; and this penance she is doomed to continue till every blade of grass is removed from the park, which feat she will not be able to effect till the end of the world. mr dyer also goes on to say that in the hamlet of dean combe, devon, there once lived a weaver of great fame and skill, who the day after his death was seen sitting working away at the loom as usual. a parson was promptly fetched, and the following conversation took place. "knowles!" the parson commanded (not without, i shrewdly suspect, some fear), "come down! this is no place for thee!" "i will!" said the weaver, "as soon as i have worked out my quill." "nay," said the vicar, "thou hast been long enough at thy work; come down at once." the spirit then descended, and, on being pelted with earth and thrown on the ground by the parson, was converted into a black hound, which apparently was its ultimate shape. some years ago, mr dyer says, there was an accident in a cornish mine whereby several men lost their lives, and, rather than that their relatives should be shocked at the sight of their mangled remains, some bystander, with all the best intentions in the world, threw the bodies into a fire, with the result that the mine has ever since been haunted by a troop of little black dogs. according to the _book of days_, ii. p. , there is a widespread belief in most parts of england in a spectral dog, "large, shaggy, and black," but not confined to any one particular species. this phantasm is believed to haunt localities that have witnessed crimes, and also to foretell catastrophes. the lancashire people, according to harland and wilkinson in their _lancashire folk-lore_, call it the "stuker" and "trash": the latter name being given it on account of its heavy, slopping walk; and the former appellation from its curious screech, which is a sure indication of some approaching death or calamity. to the peasantry of norfolk and cambridgeshire it is known as "the shuck," an apparition that haunts churchyards and other lonely places. in the isle of man a similar kind of phantasm, called "the mauthe dog," was said to walk peel castle; whilst many of the welsh lanes--particularly that leading from mowsiad to lisworney crossways--are, according to wirt sikes' _british goblins_, haunted by the gwyllgi, a big black dog of the most terrifying aspect. cases of hauntings by packs of spectral hounds have from time to time been reported from all parts of the united kingdom; but mostly from northumberland, yorkshire, lancashire, cumberland, wales, devon, and cornwall. in the northern districts they are designated "gabriel's hounds"; in devon, "the wisk, yesk, or heath hounds"; in wales, "the cwn annwn or cwn y wybr" (see dyer's _ghost world_); and in cornwall, "the devil and his dandy dogs." my own experiences fully coincide with the traditional belief that the dog is a very common form of spirit phenomena; but i can only repeat (the same remark applying to other animal manifestations), that it is impossible to decide with any degree of certainty to what category of phantasms, in addition to the general order of occult bestialities, the dog belongs. it seems quite permissible to think that the spirits of ladies, with an absorbing mania for canine pets, should be eventually earth-bound in the form of dogs--a fate which many of the fair sex have assured me would be "absolutely divine," and far preferable to the orthodox heaven. i cannot see why the shape of a dog should be appropriated by the less desirable denizens of the occult world. but, that it is so, there is no room to doubt, as the following illustration shows. as soon as the trial of the infamous slaughterer x---- was over, and the verdict of death generally known, a deep sigh of relief was heaved by the whole of civilisation--saving, of course, those pseudo-humanitarians who always pity murderers and women-beaters, and who, if the law was at all sensible and just, should be hanged with their bestial _protégés_. from all classes of men, i repeat, with the exception of those pernicious cranks, were heard the ejaculations: "well! he's settled. what a good thing! i am glad! the world will be well rid of him!" then i smiled. the world well rid of him! would it be rid of him? not if i knew anything about occult phenomena. indeed, the career on earth for such an epicure in murder as x---- had only just begun; in fact, it could hardly be said to begin till physical dissolution. the last drop--that six feet or so plunge between grim scaffolding--might in the case of some criminals, mere tyros at the trade, terminate for good their connection with this material plane; but not, decidedly not, in the case of this bosom comrade of vice elementals. from both a psychological and superphysical point of view the case had interested me from the first. i had been anxious to see the man, for i felt sure, even if he did not display any of the ordinary physiognomical danger signals observable in many bestial criminals, there would nevertheless be a something about or around him, that would immediately warn as keen a student of the occult as myself of his close association with the lowest order of phantasms. i was not, however, permitted an interview, and so had to base my deductions upon the descriptions of him given me, first hand, by two experts in psychology, and upon photographs. in the latter i recognised--though not with the readiness i should have done in the photo's living prototype--the presence of the unknown brain, the grey, silent, stealthy, ever-watchful, ever-lurking occult brain. as i gazed at his picture, as in a crystal, it faded away, and i saw the material man sitting alone in his study before a glowing fire. from out of him there crept a shadow, the shadow of something big, bloated, and crawling. i could distinguish nothing further. on reaching the door it paused, and i felt it was eyeing him--or rather his material body--anxiously. perhaps it feared lest some other shadow, equally baleful, equally sly and subtle, would usurp its home. its hesitation was, however, but momentary, and, passing through the door, it glided across the dimly lighted hall and out into the freedom of the open air. picture succeeding picture with great rapidity, i followed it as it curled and fawned over the tombstones in more than one churchyard; moved with a peculiar waddling motion through foul alleys, halting wherever the garbage lay thickest, rubbed itself caressingly on the gory floors of slaughter-houses, and finally entered a dark, empty house in a road that, if not the euston road, was a road in every way resembling it. the atmosphere of the place was so suggestive of murder that my soul sickened within me; and so much so, in fact, that when i saw several grisly forms gliding down the gloomy staircases and along the sombre, narrow passages, where x----'s immaterial personality was halting, apparently to greet it, i could look no longer, but shut my eyes. for some seconds i kept them closed, and, on re-opening them, found the tableau had changed--the material body before the fire was re-animated, and in the depths of the bleared, protruding eyes i saw the creeping, crawling, waddling, enigmatical shadow vibrating with murder. again the scene changed, and i saw the physical man standing in the middle of a bedroom, listening--listening with blanched face and slightly open mouth, a steely glimmer of the superphysical, of the malignant, devilish superphysical, in his dilated pupils. what he is anticipating i cannot say, i dare not think--unless--unless the repetition of a scream; and it comes--i cannot hear it, but i can feel it, feel the reverberation through the crime-kissed walls and vicious, tainted atmosphere. something is at the door--it presses against it; i can catch a glimpse of its head, its face; my blood freezes--it is horrible. it enters the room, grey and silent--it lays one hand on the man's sleeve and drags him forward. he ascends to the room above, and, with all the brutality of those accustomed to the dead and dying, drags the---- but i will not go on. the grey unknown, the occult something, sternly issues its directions, and the merely physical obeys them. it is all over; the plot of the vice elementals has triumphed, and as they gleefully step away, one by one, patting their material comrade on the shoulder, the darkness, the hellish darkness of that infamous night lightens, and in through the windows steal the cold grey beams of early morning. i am assured; i have had enough; i pitch the photograph into the grate. the evening comes--the evening after the execution. a feeling of the greatest, the most unenviable curiosity urges me to go, to see if what i surmise, will actually happen. i leave gipsy hill by an early afternoon train, i spend a few hours at a literary club, i dine at a quiet--an eminently quiet--restaurant in oxford street, and at eleven o'clock i am standing near a spot which i believe--i have no positive proof--i merely believe, was frequented by x----. it is more than twelve hours since he was executed; will anything--will the shape, the personality, i anticipate--come? the night air grows colder; i shrink deeper and deeper into the folds of my overcoat, and wish--devoutly wish--myself back again by my fireside. the minutes glide by slowly. the streets are very silent now. with the exception of an occasional toot-toot from a taxi and the shrill whistle of a goods train, no other sounds are to be heard. it is the hour when nearly all material london sleeps and the streets are monopolised by shadows, interspersed with something rather more substantial--namely, policemen. a few yards away from me there slips by a man in a blue serge suit; and then, tip-toeing surreptitiously behind him, with one hand in his trousers-pocket and the other carrying a suspicious-looking black bag, comes a white-faced young man, dressed in shabby imitation of a west end swell; an ill-fitting frock-coat, which, even in the uncertain flicker of the gas-lamps, pronounces itself to be ready made, and the typical shopwalker's silk hat worn slightly on one side. whether this night bird goes through life on tiptoe, as many people do, or whether he only adopts that fashion on this particular occasion, is a conundrum, not without interest to students of character to whom a man's walk denotes much. for a long time the street is deserted, and then a bedraggled figure in a shawl, with a big paper parcel under her arm, shuffles noiselessly by and disappears down an adjacent turning. then there is another long interval, interrupted by a pretentious clock sonorously sounding two. a feeling of drowsiness creeps over me; my eyelids droop. i begin to lose cognisance of my surroundings and to imagine myself in some far-away place, when i am recalled sharply to myself by an intensely cold current of air. intuitively i recognise the superphysical; it is the same species of cold which invariably heralds its approach. i have been right in my surmises after all; this spot is destined to be haunted. my eyes are wide enough open now, and every nerve in my body tingles with the keenest expectation. something is coming, and, if that something is not the phantasm of him whom i believe is earthbound, whose phantasm is it? there is a slight noise of scratching from somewhere close beside me. it might have been the wind rustling the leaves against the masonry, or it might have been--i look round and see nothing. the sound is repeated and with the same result--nothing! a third time i heard it, and then from the dark road on one side of me there waddles--i recognise the waddling at once--a shadow that, gradually becoming a little more distinct, develops into the rather blurry form of a dog--a gaunt, hungry-looking mongrel. in a few seconds it stops short and looks at me with big swollen eyes that glitter with a something that is not actually bestial or savage, something strange yet not altogether strange, something enigmatic yet not entirely enigmatic. i am nonplussed; it was, and yet it was not, what i expected. with restless, ambling steps it slinks past me, disappearing through the closed gate by my side. then satisfied, yet vaguely puzzled, i come away, wondering, wondering--wondering why on earth dogs should thus be desecrated. contrary to what one would imagine to be the case from the close association of cats with witches and magic, phantasms in a feline form are comparatively rare, and their appearance is seldom, if ever, as repulsive as that of the occult dog. i have seen phantasm cats several times, but, though they have been abnormally large and alarming, only once--and i am anxious to forget that time--were they anything like as offensive as many of the ghostly dogs that have manifested themselves to me. in my _haunted houses of england and wales_ i have given an instance of dual haunting, in which one of the phenomena was a big black cat with a fiendish expression in its eyes, but otherwise normal; and, _à propos_ of cats, there now comes back to me a story i was once told in the far west--the golden state of california. i was on my way back to england, after a short but somewhat bitter absence, and i was staying for the night at a small hotel in san francisco. the man who related the anecdote was an australian, born and bred, on his way home to his native land after many years' sojourn in texas. i was sitting on the sofa in the smoke-room reading, when he threw himself down in a chair opposite me and we gradually got into conversation. it was late when we began talking, and the other visitors, one by one, yawned, rose, and withdrew to their bedrooms, until we found ourselves alone--absolutely alone. the night was unusually dark and silent. leaning over the little tile-covered table at which we sat, the stranger suddenly said: "do you see anything by me? look hard." much surprised at his request, for i confess that up to then i had taken him for a very ordinary kind of person, i looked, and, to my infinite astonishment and awe, saw, floating in mid-air, about two yards from him, and on a level with his chair, the shadowy outlines of what looked like an enormous cat--a cat with very little hair and unpleasant eyes--decidedly unpleasant eyes. my flesh crawled! "well?" said the stranger--who, by-the-by, had called himself gallaher,--in very anxious tones, "well--you don't seem in a hurry, nor yet particularly pleased--what is it?" "a cat!" i gasped. "a cat--and a cat in mid-air!" the stranger swore. "d---- it!" he cried, dashing his fist on the table with such force that the match-box flew a dozen or so feet up the room--"cuss! the infernal thing! i guessed it was near me, i could feel its icy breath!" he glanced sharply round as he spoke, and hurled his tobacco pouch at the shape. it passed right through it and fell with a soft squash on the ground. gallaher picked it up with an oath. "i will tell you the history of that cat," he went on, as he resumed his seat, "and a d----d queer history it is." pouring himself out a bumper of whisky and refilling his pipe, he cleared his throat and began: "as a boy i always hated cats--god knows why--but the sight of a cat made me sick. i could not stand their soft, sleek fur; nor their silly, senseless faces; nor their smell--the smell of their skins, which most people don't seem able to detect. i could, however; i could recognise that d----d scent a mile off, and could always tell, without seeing it, when there was a cat in the house. if any of the boys at school wanted to play me a trick they let loose half a dozen mangy tabbies in our yard, or sent me a hideous 'tom' trussed up like a fowl in a hamper, or made cats' noises in the dead of night under my window. everyone in the village, from the baker to the bone-setter, knew of my hatred of cats, and, consequently, i had many enemies--chiefly amongst the old ladies. i must tell you, however, much as i loathed and abominated cats, i never killed one. i threw stones and sticks at them; i emptied jugs, and cans, and many pails of water on them; i pelted them with turnips; i hurled cushions, bolsters, pillows, anything i could first lay my hands on, at them; and"--here he cast a furtive look at the shadow--"i have pinched and trodden on their tails; but i have never killed one. when i grew up, my attitude towards them remained the same, and wherever i went i won the reputation for being the inveterate, the most poignantly inveterate, enemy of cats. "when i was about twenty-five, i settled in a part of texas where there were no cats. it was on a ranch in the upper valley of the colorado. i was cattle ranching, and having had a pretty shrewd knowledge of the business before i left home, i soon made headway, and--between ourselves, mate, for there are mighty 'tough uns' in these town hotels--a good pile of dollars. i never had any of the adventures that befall most men out west, never but once, and i am coming to that right away. "i had been selling some hundred head of cattle and about the same number of hogs, at a town some twenty or so miles from my ranch, and feeling i would like a bit of excitement, after so many months of monotony--the monotony of the desert life--i turned into the theatre--a wooden shanty--where a company of touring players, mostly yankees, were performing. sitting next to me was a fellow who speedily got into conversation with me and assured me he was an australian. i did not believe him, for he had not the cut of an australian,--until he mentioned one or two of the streets i knew in adelaide, and that settled me. we drank to each other's health straight away, and he invited me to supper at his hotel. i accepted; and as soon as the performance was over, and we had exchanged greetings with some half-dozen of the performers, in whisky, he slipped his arm through mine and we strolled off together. of course it was very foolish of me, seeing that i had a belt full of money; but then i had not had an outing for a long time, and i thirsted for adventure as i thirsted for whisky, and god alone knows how much of that i had already drunk. we arrived at the hotel. it was a poor-looking place in a sinister neighbourhood, abounding with evil-eyed dagos and cut-throats of all kinds. still i was young and strong, and well armed, for i never left home in those days without a six-shooter. my companion escorted me into a low room in the rear of the premises, smelling villainously of foul tobacco and equally foul alcohol. some half-cooked slices of bacon and suspicious-looking fried eggs were placed before us, which, with huge hunks of bread and a bottle of very much belabelled--too much belabelled--highland whisky, completed the repast. but it was too unsavoury even for my companion, whose hungry eyes and lantern jaws proclaimed he had a ravenous appetite. however, he ate the bacon and i the bread; the eggs we emptied into a flower-pot. the supper--the supper of which he had led me to think so much--over, we filled our glasses, or at least he poured out for both, for his hands were steadier--even in my condition of semi-intoxication i noticed they were steadier--than mine. then he brought me a cigar and took me to his bedroom, a bare, grimy apartment overhead. there was no furniture, saving a bed showing unmistakable signs that someone had been lying on it in dirty boots, a small rectangular deal table, and one chair. "in a stupefied condition i was hesitating which of the alternatives to choose--the chair or the table, for, oddly enough, i never thought of the bed, when my host settled the question by leading me forcibly forward and flinging me down on the mattress. he then took a wooden wedge out of his pocket, and, going to the door, thrust it in the crack, giving the handle a violent tug to see whether the door stood the test. 'there now, mate,' he said with a grin--a grin that seemed to suggest something my tipsy brain could not grasp, 'i have just shut us in snug and secure so that we can chat away without fear of interruption. let us drink to a comfortable night's sleep. you will sleep sound enough here, i can tell you!' he handed me a glass as he spoke. 'drink!' he said with a leer. 'you are not half an australian if you cannot hold that! see!' and pouring himself out a tumbler of spirits and water he was about to gulp it down, when i uttered an ejaculation of horror. the light from the single gas jet over his head, falling on his face as he lifted it up to drink the whisky, revealed in his wide open, protruding pupils, the reflection of a cat--i can swear it was a cat. instantly my intoxication evaporated and i scented danger. how was it i had not noticed before that the man was a typical ruffian--a regular street-corner loiterer, waiting, hawklike, to pounce upon and fleece the first well-to-do looking stranger he saw. of course i saw it all now like a flash of lightning: he had seen me about the town during the earlier part of the day, had found out i was there on business, that i was an australian, and one or two other things--it is surprising how soon one's affairs get mooted in a small town,--and guessing i had the receipts of my sales on my person, had decided to rob me. accordingly, with this end in view, he had followed me into the theatre, and, securing the seat next me, had broken the ice by pretending he was an australian. he had then plied me with drink and brought me, already more than half drunk, to this cut-throat den. and i owed the discovery to a cat! my first thought was to feel for my revolver. i did, and found it was--gone. my hopes sank to zero; for though i might have been more than a match for the wiry framed stranger had we both been unarmed, i had not the slightest chance with him were he armed, as he undoubtedly was, with my revolver as well as his own. though it takes some time to explain this, it all passed through my mind in a few seconds--before he had finished drinking. 'now, mate!' he said, putting down his glass, the first whole glass even of whisky and water he had taken that night, 'that's my share, now for yours.' "'wait a bit!' i stammered, pretending to hiccough, 'wait a bit. i don't feel that i can drink any more just yet! maybe i will in a few minutes.' we sat down, and i saw protruding from his hip pocket the butt end of a revolver. if only i could get it! determined to try, i edged slightly towards him. he immediately drew away, a curious, furtive, bestial smile lurking in the corner of his lips. i casually repeated the manoeuvre, and he just as casually repeated his. then i glanced at the window--the door i knew was hopeless,--and it was iron barred. i gazed again at the man, and his eyes grinned evilly as they met mine. without a doubt he meant to murder me. the ghastliness of my position stunned me. even if i shrieked for help, who would hear me save desperadoes, in all probability every whit as ready as my companion to kill me. "a hideous stupor now began to assert itself, and as i strained to keep my lids from closing, i watched with a thrill of terror a fiendish look of expectancy creep into the white, gleaming face of the stranger. i realised, only too acutely, that he was waiting for me to fall asleep so as the more conveniently to rob and murder me. the man was a murderer by instinct--his whole air suggested it--his very breath was impregnated with the sickly desire to kill. physically, he was the ideal assassin. it was strange that i had not observed it before; but in this light, this yellow, piercing glare, all the criminality of his features was revealed with damning clearness: the high cheek-bones, the light, protruding eyes, the abnormally developed forehead and temporal regions, the small, weak chin, the grossly irregular teeth, the poisonous breath, the club-shaped finger-tips and thick palms. where could one find a greater combination of typically criminal characteristics? the man was made for destroying his fellow creatures. when would he begin his job and how? "i am not narrow minded, i can recognise merit even in my enemies; and though i was so soon to be his victim, i could not but admire the thoroughly professional manner, indicative of past mastership, with which he set about his business. so far all his plans, generated with meteor-like quickness, had been successful; he was now showing how devoted he was to his vocation, and how richly he appreciated the situation, by abandoning himself to a short period of greedy, voluptuous anticipation, fully expressed in his staring eyes and thinly lipped mouth, before experiencing the delicious sensation of slitting my windpipe and dismembering me. my drowsiness, which i verily believe was in a great measure due to the peculiar fascination he had for me, steadily increased, and it was only with the most desperate efforts, egged on by the knowledge that my very existence depended on it, that i could keep my eyelids from actually coming together and sticking fast. at last they closed so nearly as to deceive my companion, who, rising stealthily to his feet, showed his teeth in a broad grin of satisfaction, and whipping from his coat pocket a glittering, horn-handled knife, ran his dirty, spatulate thumb over the blade to see if it was sharp. grinning still more, he now tiptoed to the window, pulled the blind as far down as it would go, and, after placing his ear against the panel of the door to make sure no one was about, gaily spat on his palms, and, with a soft, sardonic chuckle, crept slowly towards me. had he advanced with a war-whoop it would have made little or no difference--the man and his atmosphere paralysed me--i was held in the chair by iron bonds that swathed themselves round hands, and feet, and tongue. i could neither stir nor utter a sound,--only look, look with all the pent-up agonies of my soul through my burning, quivering eye-lashes. a yard, a foot, an inch, and the perspiring fingers of his left hand dexterously loosened the gaudy coloured scarf that hid my throat. a second later and i felt them smartly transferred to my long, curly hair. they tightened, and my neck was on the very verge of being jerked back, when between my quivering eyelids i saw on the sheeny surface of his bulging eye-balls,--the cat--the damnable, hated cat. the effect was magical. a wave of the most terrific, the most ungovernable fury surged through me. i struck out blindly, and one of my fists alighting on the would-be murderer's face made him stagger back and drop the knife. in an instant the weapon was mine, and ere he could draw his six-shooter--for the suddenness of the encounter and my blow had considerably dazed him--i had hurled myself upon him, and brought him to the ground. "the force with which i had thrown him, together with my blow, had stunned him, and i would have left him in that condition had it not been for the cat--the accursed cat--that, peeping up at me from every particle of his prostrate body, egged me on to kill him. my intense admiration for his genius now manifested itself in the way in which i imitated all his movements, from the visit to the door and window, to the spitting on his palms; and with a grin--the nearest counterpart that i could get, after prodigious efforts, to the one that so fascinated me--i approached his recumbent figure, and, bending over it, removed his neckerchief. i sat and admired the gently throbbing whiteness of his throat for some seconds, and then, with a volley of execrations at the cat, commenced my novel and by no means uninteresting work. i am afraid i bungled it sadly, for i was disturbed when in the midst of it, by the sound of scratching, the violent and frantic scratching, of some animal on the upper panels of the door. the sound flustered me, and, my hand shaking in consequence, i did not make such a neat job of it as i should have liked. however, i did my best, and at all events i killed him; and i enjoyed the supreme satisfaction of knowing that i had killed him--killed the cat. but my joy was of short duration, and i now bitterly regret my rash deed. wherever i go in the daytime, the shadowy figure of the cat accompanies me, and at night, crouching on my bedclothes, it watches--watches me with the expression in its eyes and mouth of my would-be murderer on that memorable night." as he concluded, for an instant, only for an instant, the shadow by his side grew clearer, and i saw the cat, saw it watching him with murder, ghastly murder lurking in its eyes. i struck a match, and, as i had anticipated, the phenomenon vanished. "it will return," the australian said gloomily; "it always does. i shall never get rid of it!" and as i fully concurred with this statement, and had no suggestions to offer, i thanked him for his story, and wished him good night. but i did not leave him alone. he still had his cat. i saw it return to him as i passed through the doorway. of course, i had no means of verifying his story; it might have been true, or it might not. but there was the cat!--thoroughly objective and as perfect a specimen of a feline, occult bestiality as i have ever seen or wish to see again. that a spirit should appear in the form of a pig need not seem remarkable when we remember that those who live foul lives, _i.e._ the sensual and greedy, must, after death, assume the shape that is most appropriate to them; indeed, in these circumstances, one might rather be surprised that a phantasm in the shape of a hog is not a more frequent occurrence. there are numerous instances of hauntings by phenomena of this kind, in some cases the phantasms being wholly animal, and in other cases semi-animal. what i have said with regard to the phantasms of dogs--namely, the difficulty, practically the impossibility, of deciding whether the manifestation is due to an elemental or to a spirit of the dead--holds good in the case of "pig" as well as every other kind of bestial phenomenon. the phantasm in the shape of a horse i am inclined to attribute to the once actually material horse and not to elementals. with regard to phantom birds--and there are innumerable cases of occult bird phenomena--i fancy it is otherwise, and that the majority of bird hauntings are caused either by the spirits of dead people, or by vicious forms of elementals. though one hears of few cases of occult bestialities in the shape of tigers, lions, or any other wild animal--saving bears and wolves, phantasms of which appear to be common--i nevertheless believe, from hearsay evidence, that they are to be met with in certain of the jungles and deserts in the east, and that for the most part they are the phantasms of the dead animals themselves, still hankering to be cruel--still hankering to kill. chapter vii vampires, were-wolves, fox-women, etc. _vampires_ according to a work by jos. ennemoser, entitled _the phantom world_, hungary was at one time full of vampires. between the river theiss and transylvania, were (and still are, i believe) a people called heyducs, who were much pestered with this particularly noxious kind of phantasm. about , a heyduc called arnauld paul was crushed to death by a waggon. thirty days after his burial a great number of people began to die, and it was then remembered that paul had said he was tormented by a vampire. a consultation was held and it was decided to exhume him. on digging up his body, it was found to be red all over and literally bursting with blood, some of which had forced a passage out and wetted his winding sheet. moreover, his hair, nails, and beard had grown considerably. these being sure signs that the corpse was possessed by a vampire, the local bailie was fetched and the usual proceedings for the expulsion of the undesirable phantasm began. a stake, sharply pointed at one end, was handed to the bailie, who, raising it above his head, drove it with all his might into the heart of the corpse. there then issued from the body the most fearful screams, whereupon it was at once thrown into a fire that had been specially prepared for it, and burned to ashes. but, though this was the end of that particular vampire, it was by no means the end of the hauntings; for the deaths, far from decreasing in number, continued in rapid succession, and no less than seventeen people in the village died within a period of three months. the question now arose as to which of the other bodies in the cemetery were "possessed," it being very evident that more than one vampire lay buried there. whilst the matter was at the height of discussion, the solution to the problem was brought about thus. a girl, of the name of stanoska, awoke in the middle of the night, uttering the most heartrending screams, and declaring that the son of a man called millo (who had been dead nine weeks) had nearly strangled her. a rush was at once made to the cemetery, and a general disinterment taking place, seventeen out of the forty corpses (including that of the son of millo) showed unmistakable signs of vampirism. they were all treated according to the mode described, and their ashes cast into the adjacent river. a committee of inquiry concluded that the spread of vampirism had been due to the eating of certain cattle, of which paul had been the first to partake. the disturbances ceased with the death of the girl and the destruction of her body, and the full account of the hauntings, attested to by officers of the local garrison, the chief surgeons, and most influential of the inhabitants of the district, was sent to the imperial council of war at venice, which caused a strict inquiry to be made into the matter, and were subsequently, according to ennemoser, satisfied that all was _bona fide_. in another work, _a history of magic_, ennemoser also refers to a case in the village of kisilova, in hungary, where the body of an old man, three days after his death, appeared to his son on two consecutive nights, demanding something to eat, and, being given some meat, ate it ravenously. the third night the son died, and the succeeding day witnessed the deaths of some five or six others. the matter was reported to the tribunal of belgrade, which promptly sent two officers to inquire into the case. on their arrival the old man's grave was opened, and his body found to be full of blood and natural respiration. a stake was then driven through its heart, and the hauntings ceased. though far fewer in number than they were, and more than ever confined to certain localities, i am quite sure that vampires are by no means extinct. their modes and habits--they are no longer gregarious--have changed with the modes and habits of their victims, but they are none the less vampires. have i seen them? no! but my not having been thus fortunate, or rather unfortunate, does not make me so discourteous as to disbelieve those who tell me that they have seen a vampire--that peculiar, indefinably peculiar shape that, wriggling along the ground from one tombstone to another, crawls up and over the churchyard wall, and making for the nearest house, disappears through one of its upper windows. indeed, i have no doubt that had i watched that house some few days afterwards, i should have seen a pale, anæmic looking creature, with projecting teeth and a thoroughly imbecile expression, come out of it. i believe a large percentage of idiots and imbecile epileptics owe their pitiable plight to vampires which, in their infancy, they had the misfortune to attract. i do not think that, as of old, the vampires come to their prey installed in stolen bodies, but that they visit people wholly in spirit form, and, with their superphysical mouths, suck the brain cells dry of intellect. the baby, who is thus the victim of a vampire, grows up into something on a far lower scale of intelligence than dumb animals, more bestial than monkeys, and more dangerous (far more dangerous, if the public only realised it) than tigers; for, whereas the tiger is content with one square meal a day, the hunger of vampirism is never satisfied, and the half-starved, mal-shaped brain cells, the prey of vampirism, are in a constant state of suction, ever trying to draw in mental sustenance from the healthy brain cells around them. idiots and epileptics are the cephalopoda of the land--only, if anything, fouler, more voracious, and more insatiable than their aquatic prototypes. they never ought to be at large. if not destroyed in their early infancy (which one cannot help thinking would be the most merciful plan both for the idiot and the community in general), those polyp brains ought to be kept in some isolated place where they would have only each other to feed upon. when i see an idiot walking in the streets, i always take very good care to give him a wide berth, as i have no desire that the vampire buried in his withered brain cells should derive any nutrition at my expense. from the fact that some towns which are close to cromlechs, ancient burial-grounds, woods, or moors are full of idiots, leads me to suppose that vampires often frequent the same spots as barrowvians, vagrarians and other types of elementals. whilst, on the other hand, since many densely crowded centres have fully their share of idiots, i am led to believe that vampires are equally attracted by populous districts, and that, in short, unlike barrowvians and vagrarians, they can be met with pretty nearly everywhere. and now for examples. a man i know, who spends most of his time in germany, once had a strange experience when staying in the neighbourhood of the hartz mountains. one sultry evening in august he was walking in the country, and noticed a perambulator with a white figure, which he took to be that of a remarkably tall nursemaid, bending over it. as he drew nearer, however, he found that he had been mistaken. the figure was nothing human; it had no limbs; it was cylindrical. a faint, sickly sound of sucking caused my friend to start forward with an exclamation of horror, and as he did so, the phantasm glided away from the perambulator and disappeared among the trees. the baby, my friend assured me, was a mere bag of bones, with a ghastly, grinning anæmic face. again, when touring in hungary, he had a similar experience. he was walking down a back street in a large, thickly populated town, when he beheld a baby lying on the hot and sticky pavement with a queer-looking object stooping over it. wondering what on earth the thing was, he advanced rapidly, and saw, to his unmitigated horror, that it was a phantasm with a limbless, cylindrical body, a huge flat, pulpy head, and protruding, luminous lips, which were tightly glued to the infant's ears; and again my friend heard a faint, sickly sound of sucking, and a sound more hideously nauseating, he informed me, could not be imagined. he was too dumbfounded to act; he could only stare; and the phantasm, after continuing its loathsome occupation for some seconds, leisurely arose, and moving away with a gliding motion, vanished in the yard of an adjacent house. the child did not appear to be human, but a concoction of half a dozen diminutive bestialities, and as my friend gazed at it, too fascinated for the moment to tear himself away, it smiled up at him with the hungry, leering smile of vampirism and idiocy. so much for vampires in the country and in crowded cities, but, as i have already remarked, they are ubiquitous. as an illustration, there is said to be a maritime town in a remote part of england, which, besides being full of quaintness (of a kind not invariably pleasant) and of foul smells, is also full of more than half-savage fishermen and idiots; idiots that often come out at dusk, and greatly alarm strangers by running after them. some years ago, one of these idiots went into a stranger's house, took a noisy baby out of its cot, and after tubbing it well (which i think showed that the idiot possessed certain powers of observation), cut off its head, throwing the offending member into the fire. the parents were naturally indignant, and so were some of the inhabitants; but the affair was speedily forgotten, and although the murderer was confined to a lunatic asylum, nothing was done to rid the town of other idiots who were, collectively, doing mischief of a nature far more serious than that of the recently perpetrated murder. the wild and rugged coast upon which the town is situated was formerly the hunting-ground of wreckers, and i fear the present breed of fishermen, in spite of their hypocritical pretensions to religion, prove only too plainly by their abominable cruelty to birds and inhospitable treatment of strangers, that they are in reality no better than their forbears. this inherited strain of cruelty in the fishermen would alone account for the presence of vampires and every other kind of vicious elemental; but the town has still another attraction--namely, a prehistoric burial-ground, on a wide expanse of thinly populated moorland--in its rear. _À propos_ of vampires, my friend mrs south writes to me as follows (i quote her letter _ad verbum_): "the other night, i was dining with a very old friend of mine whom i had not seen for years, and, during a pause in the conversation, he suddenly said, 'do you believe in vampires?' i wondered for a moment if he had gone mad, and i think, in my matter-of-fact way, i blurted out something of the sort; but i saw in a moment, from the expression in his eyes, that he had something to tell me, and that he was not at all in the mood to be laughed at or misunderstood, 'tell me,' i said, 'i am listening.' 'well,' he replied, 'i had an extraordinary experience a few months ago, and not a word of it have i breathed to any living soul. but sometimes the horror of it so overpowers me that i feel i must share my secret with someone; and you--well, you and i have always been such pals.' i answered nothing, but gently pressed his hand. "after lighting a cigarette, he commenced his story, which i will give you as nearly as possible in his own words:-- "'it is about six months ago since i returned from my travels. up to that time i had been away from england for nearly three years, as you know. about a couple of nights after my return, i was dining at my club, when someone tapped me on the shoulder, and turning round, i saw my old friend s----. "'as i had no idea he was in london, you may imagine my delight. he joined me at dinner and we went over old times together. he asked me if i had heard anything of our mutual friend g----, to whom we were both very much attached. i said i had had a few lines from him about six months previously, announcing his marriage, but that i had never heard from him nor seen him since. he had settled, i believe, in the heart of the country. s---- then told me that he had not seen g---- since his engagement, neither had he heard from him; in fact he had written to him once or twice, but his letters had received no answer. there were whispered rumours that he was looking ill and unhappy. hearing this, i got g----'s address from s----, and made up my mind i would run down and see him as soon as i could get away from town. "'about a week afterwards i found myself, after driving an interminable distance, so it seemed to me, through devonshire lanes, stopping outside a beautiful house which appeared to be entirely isolated from any other dwelling. "'a few more minutes and i was standing before a blazing log fire in a fine old hall, eagerly awaiting the welcome i knew my old friend would give me. i did not anticipate long; in less time than it takes to tell g---- appeared, and with slow, painfully slow steps, crossed the hall to greet me. he was wasted to a shadow, and i felt a lump rise in my throat as i thought of the splendid, athletic boy i used to know. he made no excuse for his wife, who did not accompany him; and though i was naturally anxious to see her, i was glad that jack and i were alone. we chatted together utterly regardless of the time, and it was not until the first gong had sounded that i thought of dressing for dinner. after performing a somewhat hurried toilette, i was hastening downstairs, when i suddenly became conscious that i was being watched. i looked all round and could see no one. i then heard a low, musical laugh just above my head, and looking up, i saw a figure leaning over the banisters. the beauty of the face dazzled me for a moment, and the loveliness of the eyes, which looked into mine and seemed to shine a red gold, held me spellbound. presently a voice, every whit as lovely as the face, said: "so you are jack's chum?" the most beautiful woman i have ever seen then came slowly down the stairs, and slipping her arm through mine, led me to the dining-room. as her hand rested on my coat-sleeve, i remember noticing that the fingers were long, and thin, and pointed, and the nails so polished that they almost shone red. indeed, i could not help feeling somewhat puzzled by the fact that everything about her shone red with the exception of her skin, which, with an equal brilliancy, shone white. at dinner she was lively, but she ate and drank very sparingly, and as though food was loathsome to her. "'soon after dinner i felt so exceedingly tired and sleepy, a most unusual thing for me, that i found it absolutely impossible to keep awake, and consequently asked my host and hostess to excuse me. i woke next morning feeling languid and giddy, and, while shaving, i noticed a curious red mark at the base of my neck. i imagined i must have cut myself shaving hurriedly the evening before, and thought nothing more about it. "'the following night, after dinner, i experienced the same sensation of sleepiness, and felt almost as if i had been drugged. it was impossible for me to keep awake, so i again asked to be excused! on this occasion, after i had retired, a curious thing happened. i dreamed--or at least i suppose i dreamed--that i saw my door slowly open, and the figure of a woman carrying a candle in one hand, and with the other carefully shading the flame, glide noiselessly into my room. she was clad in a loose red gown, and a great rope of hair hung over one shoulder. again those red-gold eyes looked into mine; again i heard that low musical laugh; and this time i felt powerless either to speak or to move. she leaned down, nearer and nearer to me; her eyes gradually assumed a fiendish and terrible expression; and with a sucking noise, which was horrible to hear, she fastened her crimson lips to the little wound in my neck. i remembered nothing more until the morning. the place on my neck, i thought, looked more inflamed, and as i looked at it, my dream came vividly back to me and i began to wonder if after all it was only a dream. i felt frightfully rotten, so rotten that i decided to return to town that day; and yet i yielded to some strange fascination, and determined, after all, to stay another night. at dinner i drank sparingly; and, making the same excuse as on the previous nights, i retired to bed at an early hour. i lay awake until midnight, waiting for i know not what; and was just thinking what a mad fool i was, when suddenly the door gently opened and again i saw jack's wife. slowly she came towards me, gliding as stealthily and noiselessly as a snake. i waited until she leaned over me, until i felt her breath on my cheek, and then--then flung my arms round her. i had just time to see the mad terror in her eyes as she realised i was awake, and the next instant, like an eel, she had slipped from my grasp, and was gone. i never saw her again. i left early the next morning, and i shall never forget dear old jack's face when i said good-bye to him. it is only a few days since i heard of his death.'" _were-wolves_ closely allied to the vampire is the were-wolf, which, however, instead of devouring the intellect of human beings, feeds only on their flesh. like the vampire, the were-wolf belongs to the order of elementals; but, unlike the vampire, it is confined to a very limited sphere--the wilds of norway, sweden, and russia, and only appears in two guises, that of a human being in the daytime and a wolf at night. i have closely questioned many people who have travelled in those regions, but very few of them--one or two at the most--have actually come in contact with those to whom the existence of the were-wolf is not a fable but a fact. one of these travellers, a mere acquaintance whom i met in an hotel in the latin quarter of paris, assured me that the authenticity of a story he would tell me, relating to the were-wolf, was, in the neighbourhood through which he travelled, never for a single moment doubted. my informant, a highly cultured russian, spoke english, french, german, and italian with as great fluency as i spoke my native tongue, and i believed him to be perfectly genuine. the incident he told me, to which unanimous belief was accredited, happened to two young men (whom i will call hans and carl), who were travelling to nijni novgorod, a city in the province of tobolsk. the route they took was off the beaten track, and led them through a singularly wild and desolate tract of country. one evening, when they were trotting mechanically along, their horses suddenly came to a standstill and appeared to be very much frightened. they inquired of the driver the reason of such strange behaviour, and he pointed with his whip to a spot on the ice--they were then crossing a frozen lake--a few feet ahead of them. they got out of the sleigh, and, approaching the spot indicated, found the body of a peasant lying on his back, his throat gnawed away and all his entrails gone. "a wolf without a doubt," they said, and getting back into the sleigh, they drove on, taking good care to see that their rifles were ready for instant action. they had barely gone a mile when the horses again halted, and a second corpse was discovered, the corpse of a child with its face and thighs entirely eaten away. again they drove on, and had progressed a few more miles when the horses stopped so abruptly that the driver was pitched bodily out; and before carl and hans could dismount, the brutes started off at a wild gallop. they were eventually got under control, but it was with the greatest difficulty that they were forced to turn round and go back, in order to pick up the unfortunate driver. the farther they went, the more restless they became, and when, at length, they approached the place where the driver had been thrown, they came to a sudden and resolute standstill. as no amount of whipping would now make them go on, hans got out, and advancing a few steps, espied something lying across the track some little distance ahead of them. gun in hand, he advanced a few more steps, when he suddenly stopped. to his utter amazement he saw, bending over a body, which he at once identified as that of their driver, the figure of a woman. she started as he approached, and, hastily springing up, turned towards him. the strange beauty of her face, her long, lithe limbs (she stood fully six feet high) and slender body,--the beauty of the latter enhanced by the white woollen costume in which she was clad,--had an extraordinary effect upon hans. her shining masses of golden hair, that curled in thick clusters over her forehead and about her ears; the perfect regularity of her features, and the lustrous blue of her eyes, enraptured him; whilst the expression both in her face and figure--in her sparkling eyes and firmly modelled mouth; in her red lips, and even in her pearly teeth, repulsed and almost frightened him. he gazed steadily at her, and, as he did so, the hold on his rifle involuntarily tightened. he then glanced from her face to her hands, and noticed with a spasm of horror that the tips of her long and beautifully shaped nails were dripping with blood, and that there was blood, too, on her knees and feet, blood all over her. he then looked at the driver and saw the wretched man's clothes had been partially stripped off, and that there were great gory holes in his throat and abdomen. "oh, i am so glad you have come!" the woman cried, addressing him in a strangely peculiar voice, that thrilled him to the marrow of his bones. "it is the wolves. do come and see what they have done. i saw them, from a distance, attack this poor man, and leaving my sleigh, for my horses came to a dead halt, and nothing i could do would induce them to move, i ran to his assistance. but, alas! i was too late!" then, looking at her dress, from which hans could scarcely remove his eyes, she cried out: "ugh! how disgusting--blood! my hands and clothes are covered with it. i tried to stop the bleeding, but it was no use"; and she proceeded to wipe her fingers on the snow. "but why did you venture here alone?" hans inquired, "and why unarmed? how foolhardy! the wolves would have made short work of you had you encountered them!" "then you cannot have heard the report of my gun!" the woman cried, in well-feigned astonishment. "how strange! i fired at the wolves from over there"; and she pointed with one of her slender, milky-white fingers to a spot on the ice some fifty yards away. "fortunately, they all made off," she continued, "and i hastened hither, dropping my gun that i might run the faster." "i can see no gun," hans exclaimed, shading his eyes with his hand and staring hard. the woman laughed. "what a disbelieving jew it is!" she said. "the gun is there; i can see it plainly. you must be short-sighted." and then, straining her eyes on the far distance, she shrieked: "great heavens! my sleigh has gone! oh! what shall i do? what shall i do?" giving way to every gesture of despair, she looked so forlorn and beautiful that hans would have been full of pity for her, had not certain vague suspicions, which he could neither account for nor overcome, entered his heart. sorely perplexed, he did not know what to do, and stood looking at her in critical silence. "won't you come with me?" she said, clasping her hands beseechingly. "come with me to look for it. the horses may only have strayed a short distance, and we might overtake them without much difficulty." as she spoke thus, her piercing, earnest gaze thrilled him to the very soul, and his heart rose in rebellion against his reason. he had seen many fair women, but assuredly none as fair as this one. what eyes! what hair! what a complexion! what limbs! it seemed to him that she was not like ordinary women, that she was not of the same flesh and blood as any of the women he had ever met, and that she was in reality something far superior; something generated by the primitive glamour of the starry night, of the great, sparkling, ice-covered lake, and the lone, snow-capped peaks beyond. and all the while he was thinking thus, and unconsciously coming under the spell of her weird beauty, the woman continued to gaze entreatingly at him from under the long lashes which swept her cheeks. at last he could refuse her no longer--he would have gone to hell with her had she asked it--and shouting to carl to remain where he was, he bade her lead the way. setting off with long, quick strides that made hans wonder anew, she soon put a considerable distance between herself and companion, and carl. hans now perceived a change; the sky grew dark, the clouds heavy, and the farther they went, the more perceptible this change became. the brightness and sense of joy in the air vanished, and, with its dissipation, came a chill and melancholy wind that rose from the bosom of the lake and swept all around them, moaning and sighing like a legion of lost souls. but hans, who came of a military stock, feared little, and, with his beautiful guide beside him, would cheerfully have faced a thousand devils. he had no eyes for anything save her, no thought of anything but her, and when she sidled up to him, playfully fingering his gun, he allowed her to take it from him and do what she liked with it. indeed, he was so absorbed in the contemplation of her marvellous beauty, that he did not perceive her deftly unload his rifle and throw it from her on the ice; nor did he take any other notice than to think it a very pretty, playful trick when she laughingly caught his two hands, and bound them securely together behind his back. he was still drinking in the wondrous beauty of her eyes, when she suddenly slipped one of her pretty, shapely feet between his, and with a quick, subtle movement, tripped him and threw him to the ground. there was a dull crash, and, amid the hundred and one sounds that echoed and re-echoed through his head as it came in contact with the ice, he seemed to hear the far-off patter of horses' hoofs. then something deliciously soft and cool touched his throat, and opening his eyes, he found his beautiful companion bending over him and undoing the folds of his woollen neckerchief with her shapely fingers. for such an experience he would fall and faint till further orders. he sought her eyes, and all but fainted again--the expression in them appalled him. they were no longer those of a woman but a devil, a horrible, sordid devil that hungered not merely for his soul, but for his flesh and blood. then, in a second, he understood it all--she was a were-wolf, one of those ghastly creatures he had hitherto scoffingly attributed to the idle superstitions of the peasants. it was she who had mutilated the bodies they had passed on the road; it was she who had killed and half-eaten their driver; it was she--but he could think no more, it was all too horrible, and the revulsion of his feelings towards her clogged his brain. he longed to grapple with her, strangle her, and he could do nothing. the bare touch of those fingers--those cool, white, tapering fingers, with their long, shining filbert nails, all ready and eager to tear and rend his flesh to pieces--had taken all the life from his limbs, and he could only gaze feebly at her and damn her from the very bottom of his soul. one by one, more swiftly now, she unfastened the buttons of his coat and vest and then, baring her cruel teeth with a soft gurgle of excitement, and a smack of her red glistening lips, she prepared to eat him. strangely enough, he experienced no pain as her nails sank into the flesh of his throat and chest and clawed it asunder. he was numb, numb with the numbness produced by hypnotism or paralysis--only some of his faculties were awake, vividly, startlingly awake. he was abruptly roused from this state by the dull crack of a rifle, and an agonising, blood-curdling scream, after which he knew no more till he found himself sitting upright on the ice, gulping down brandy, his throat a mass of bandages, and carl kneeling beside him. "where is she?" he asked, and carl pointed to an object on the ice. it was the body of a huge white wolf, with half its head blown away. "an explosive bullet," carl said grimly. "i thought i would make certain of the beast, even at the risk of hurting you; and, mein gott! it was a near shave! you have lost some of your hair, but nothing more. when i saw you go away with the woman, i guessed something was up. i did not like the look of her at all; she was a giantess, taller than any woman i have ever seen; and the way she had you in tow made me decidedly uncomfortable. consequently, i followed you at a distance, and when i saw her trip you, i lashed up our horses and came to your rescue as fast as i could. unfortunately, i had to dismount when i was still some distance off, as no amount of lashing would induce the horses to approach you nearer, and after arriving within range, it took me some seconds to get my rifle ready and select the best position for a shot. but, thank god! i was just in time, and, beyond a few scratches, you are all right. shall we leave the beast here or take it with us?" "we will do neither," hans said, with a shudder, whilst a new and sad expression stole into his eyes. "i cannot forget it was once a woman! and, my god! what a woman! we will bury her here in the ice." the story here terminated, and from the fact that i have heard other stories of a similar nature, i am led to believe that there is in this one some substratum of truth. were-wolves are not, of course, always prepossessing; they vary considerably. moreover, they are not restricted to one sex, but are just as likely to be met with in the guise of boys and men as of girls and women. _fox-women_ very different from this were-wolf, though also belonging to the great family of elementals, are the fox-women of japan and china, about which much has been written, but about which, apparently, very little is known. in china the fox was (and in remote parts still is) believed to attain the age of eight hundred or a thousand years. at fifty it can assume the form of a woman, and at one hundred that of a young and lovely girl, called kao-sai, or "our lady." on reaching the thousand years' limit, it goes to paradise without physical dissolution. i have questioned many chinese concerning these fox-women, but have never been able to get any very definite information. one chinaman, however, assured me that his brother had actually seen the transmigration from fox to woman take place. the man's name i have forgotten, but i will call him ching kang. well, ching kang was one day threading his way through a lovely valley of the tapa-ling mountains, when he came upon a silver (_i.e._ white) fox crouching on the bank of a stream in such a peculiar attitude that ching kang's attention was at once arrested. thinking that the animal was ill, and delighted at the prospect of lending it aid, for silver foxes are regarded as of good omen in china, ching kang approached it, and was about to examine it carefully, when to his astonishment he found he could not move--he was hypnotised. but although his limbs were paralysed, his faculties were wonderfully active, and his heart almost ceased beating when he saw the fox slowly begin to get bigger and bigger, until at last its head was on a level with his own. there was then a loud crash, its skin burst asunder, and there stepped out of it the form of a girl of such entrancing beauty that ching kang thought he must be in heaven. she was fairer than most chinese women; her eyes were blue instead of brown, and her shapely hands and feet were of milky whiteness. she was gaily dressed in blue silk, with earrings and bracelets of blue stone, and carried in one of her hands a blue fan. with a wave of her slender palms she released ching kang from his spell, and, bidding him follow her, plunged into a thick clump of bushes. madly infatuated, ching kang needed no second bidding, but, keeping close to her heels, stolidly pushed his way through barricades of brambles that, whilst yielding to her touch, closed on him and beat him on the face and body so unmercifully that in a very short time he was barely recognisable, being literally bathed in blood. however, despite his wounds increasing and multiplying with every step he took, and naturally causing him the most excruciating agony, ching kang never, for one instant, thought of turning back; he always kept within touching distance of the blue form in front of him. but at last human nature could stand it no longer; his strength gave way, and as with a mad shriek of despair he implored her to stop, his senses left him and he fell in a heap to the ground. when he recovered he was lying alone, quite alone in the middle of the road, exactly opposite the spot where he had first seen the fox, and by his side was a fan, a blue fan. picking it up sadly, he placed it near his heart (where it remained to the very day of his death), and with one last lingering look at the bank of the stream, he continued his solitary journey. this was ching kang's story. his brother did not think he ever met the fox-woman again. he believed ching kang was still searching for her when he died. chapter viii death warnings and family ghosts candles are very subject to psychic influences. many years ago, when i was a boy, i was sitting in a room with some very dear friends of mine, when one of them, suddenly turning livid, pointed at the candle, and with eyes starting out of their sockets, screamed, "a winding-sheet! a winding-sheet! see! it is pointing at me!" we were all so frightened by the suddenness of her action, that for some seconds no one spoke, but all sat transfixed with horror, gaping at the candle. "it must be my brother tom," she continued, "or jack. can't you see it?" then, one after another, we all examined the candle and discovered that what she said was quite true--there was an unmistakable winding-sheet in the wax, and it emphatically pointed in her direction. nor were her surmisings in vain, for the next morning she received a telegram to say her brother tom had died suddenly. i am sceptical with regard to some manifestations, but i certainly do believe in this one, and i often regard my candle anxiously, fearing that i may see a winding-sheet in it. to have three candles lighted at the same time is also an omen of death, and as i have known it to be fulfilled in several cases within my own experience, i cannot help regarding it as one of the most certain. i am sometimes informed of the advent of the occult in a very startling manner--my candle burns blue. it has done this when i have been sitting alone in my study, at night, writing. i have been busily engaged penning descriptions of the ghosts i and others have seen, when i have been startled by the fact that my paper, originally white, has suddenly become the colour of the sky, and on looking hastily up to discover a reason, have been in no small measure shocked to see my candle burning a bright blue. an occult manifestation of sorts has invariably followed. i am often warned of the near advent of the occult in this same manner when i am investigating in a haunted house--the flame of the candle burns blue before the appearance of the ghost. it is, by the way, an error to think that different types of phantasms can only appear in certain colours--colours that are peculiar to them. i have seen the same phenomenon manifest itself in half a dozen different colours, and blue is as often adopted by the higher types of spirits as by the lower, and is, in fact, common to both. i have little patience with occultists who draw hard and fast lines, and, ignoring everybody else's experiences, presume to diagnose within the narrow limits of their own. no one can as yet say anything for certain with regard to the superphysical, and the statements of the most humble psychic investigator, provided he has had actual experience, and is genuine, are just as worthy of attention as those of the most eminent exponents of theosophy or spiritualism, or of any learned member of the psychical research societies. the occult does not reveal itself to the rich in preference to the poor, and, for manifestation, is not more partial to the professor of physics and law than to the professor of nothing--other than keen interest and common sense. _corpse-candles_ in wales there are corpse-candles. according to the account of the rev. mr davis in a work by t. charley entitled _the invisible world_, corpse-candles are so called because their light resembles a material candle-light, and might be mistaken for the same, saving that when anyone approaches them they vanish, and presently reappear. if the corpse-candle be small, pale, or bluish, it denotes the death of an infant; if it be big, the death of an adult is foretold; and if there are two, three, or more candle-lights, varying in size, then the deaths are predicted of a corresponding number of infants and adults. "of late," the rev. mr davis goes on to say (i quote him _ad verbum_), "my sexton's wife, an aged, understanding woman, saw from her bed a little bluish candle upon her table: within two or three days after comes a fellow in, inquiring for her husband, and, taking something from under his cloak, clapt it down directly upon the table end where she had seen the candle; and what was it but a dead-born child? another time, the same woman saw such another candle upon the other end of the same table: within a few days later, a weak child, by myself newly christened, was brought into the sexton's house, where presently he died; and when the sexton's wife, who was then abroad, came home, she found the women shrouding the child on that other end of the table where she had seen the candle. on a time, myself and a huntsman coming from our school in england, and being three or four hours benighted ere we could reach home, saw such a light, which, coming from a house we well knew, held its course (but not directly) in the highway to church: shortly after, the eldest son in that house died, and steered the same course.... about thirty-four or thirty-five years since, one jane wyatt, my wife's sister, being nurse to baronet rud's three eldest children, and (the lady being deceased) the lady of the house going late into a chamber where the maid-servants lay, saw there no less than five of these lights together. it happened awhile after, the chamber being newly plastered, and a great grate of coal-fire therein kindled to hasten the drying up of the plastering, that five of the maid-servants went there to bed as they were wont; but in the morning they were all dead, being suffocated in their sleep with the steam of the newly tempered lime and coal. this was at llangathen in carmarthen." so wrote the rev. mr davis, and in an old number of _frazer's journal_ i came across the following account of death-tokens, which, although not exactly corpse-candles, might certainly be classed in the same category. it ran thus: "in a wild and retired district in north wales, the following occurrence took place, to the great astonishment of the mountaineers. we can vouch for the truth of the statement, as many of our own teutu, or clan, were witnesses of the facts. on a dark evening a few weeks ago, some persons, with whom we are well acquainted, were returning to barmouth on the south or opposite side of the river. as they approached the ferry house at penthryn, which is directly opposite barmouth, they observed a light near the house, which they conjectured to be produced by a bonfire, and greatly puzzled they were to discover the reason why it should have been lighted. as they came nearer, however, it vanished; and when they inquired at the house respecting it, they were surprised to learn that not only had the people there displayed no light, but they had not even seen one; nor could they perceive any signs of it on the sands. on reaching barmouth, the circumstance was mentioned, and the fact corroborated by some of the people there, who had also plainly and distinctly seen the light. it was settled, therefore, by some of the old fishermen that this was a death-token; and, sure enough, the man who kept the ferry at that time was drowned at high water a few nights afterwards, on the very spot where the light was seen. he was landing from the boat, when he fell into the water, and so perished. the same winter the barmouth people, as well as the inhabitants of the opposite bank, were struck by the appearance of a number of small lights, which were seen dancing in the air at a place called borthwyn, about half a mile from the town. a great number of people came out to see these lights; and after awhile they all but one disappeared, and this one proceeded slowly towards the water's edge to a little bay where some boats were moored. the men in a sloop which was anchored near the spot saw the light advancing, they saw it also hover for a few seconds over one particular boat, and then totally disappear. two or three days afterwards, the man to whom that particular boat belonged was drowned in the river, while he was sailing about barmouth harbour in that very boat." as the corpse-candle is obviously a phantasm whose invariable custom is to foretell death, it must, i think, be classified with that species of elementals which i have named--for want of a more appropriate title--clanogrian. clanogrians embrace every kind of national and family ghost, such as the white owl of the arundels, the drummer of the airlies, and the banshee of the o'neills and o'donnells. with regard to the origin of corpse-candles, as of all other clanogrians, one can only speculate. the powers that govern the superphysical world have much in their close keeping that they absolutely refuse to disclose to mortal man. presuming, however, that corpse-candles and all sorts of family ghosts are analogous, i should say that the former are spirits which have attached themselves to certain localities, either owing to some great crime or crimes having been committed there in the past, or because at some still more remote period the inhabitants of those parts--the milesians and nemedhians, the early ancestors of the irish, dabbled in sorcery. _fire-coffins_ who has not seen all manner of pictures in the fire? who has not seen, or fancied he has seen, a fire-coffin? a fire-coffin is a bit of red-hot coal that pops mysteriously out of the grate in the rude shape of a coffin, and is prophetic of death, not necessarily the death of the beholder, but of someone known to him. _the death-watch_ though this omen in a room is undoubtedly due to the presence in the woodwork of the wall of a minute beetle of the timber-boring genus anobium, it is a strange fact that its ticking should only be heard before the death of someone, who, if not living in the house, is connected with someone who does live in it. from this fact, one is led to suppose that this minute beetle has an intuitive knowledge of impending death, as is the case with certain people and also certain animals. the noise is said to be produced by the beetle raising itself upon its hind legs (see _popular errors explained_, by john timbs), with the body somewhat inclined, and beating its head with great force and agility upon the plane of position; and its strokes are so powerful as to be heard from some little distance. it usually taps from six to twelve times in succession, then pauses, and then recommences. it is an error to suppose it only ticks in the spring, for i know those who have heard its ticking at other, and indeed, at all times in the year. _owls_ owls have always been deemed psychic, and they figure ominously in the folk-lore of many countries. i myself can testify to the fact that they are often the harbinger of death, as i have on several occasions been present when the screeching of an owl, just outside the window, has occurred almost coincident with the death of someone, nearly related either to myself or to one of my companions. that owls have the faculty of "scenting the approach of death" is to my mind no mere idle superstition, for we constantly read about them hovering around gibbets, and they have not infrequently been known to consummate heaven's wrath by plucking out the eyes of the still living murderers and feeding on their brains. that they also have tastes in common with the least desirable of the occult world may be gathered from the fact that they show a distinct preference for the haunts of vagrarians, barrowvians, and other kinds of elementals; and even the worthy isaiah goes so far as to couple them with satyrs. occasionally, too, as in the case of the arundels of wardour, where a white owl is seen before the death of one of the family, they perform the function of clanogrians. _ravens_ a close rival of the owl in psychic significance is the raven, the subtle, cunning, ghostly raven that taps on window-panes and croaks dismally before a death or illness. i love ravens--they have the greatest fascination for me. years ago i had a raven, but, alas! only for a time, a very short time. it came to me one gloomy night, when the wind was blowing and the rain falling in cataracts. i was at the time--and as usual--writing ghost tales. thought i to myself, this raven is just what i want; i will make a great friend of it, it shall sit at my table while i write and inspire me with its eyes--its esoteric eyes and mystic voice. i let it in, gave it food and shelter, and we settled down together, the raven and i, both revellers in the occult, both lovers of solitude. but it proved to be a worthless bird, a shallow, empty-minded, shameless bird, and all i gleaned from it was--idleness. it made me listless and restless; it filled me with cravings, not for work, but for nature, for the dark open air of night-time, for the vast loneliness of mountains, the deep secluded valleys, the rushing, foaming flow of streams, and for woods--ah! how i love the woods!--woods full of stalwart oaks and silvery beeches, full of silent, moon-kissed glades, nymphs, sirens, and pixies. ah! how i longed for all these, and more besides--for anything and everything that appertained neither to man nor his works. then i said good-bye to the raven, and, taking it with me to the top of a high hill, let it go. croaking, croaking, croaking it flew away, without giving me as much as one farewell glance. _mermaids_ who would not, if they could, believe in mermaids? surely all save those who have no sense of the beautiful--of poetry, flowers, painting, music, romance; all save those who have never built fairy castles in the air nor seen fairy palaces in the fire; all save those whose minds, steeped in money-making, are both sordid and stunted. that mermaids did exist, and more or less in legendary form, i think quite probable, for i feel sure there was a time in the earth's history when man was in much closer touch with the superphysical than he is at present. they may, i think, be classified with pixies, nymphs, and sylphs, and other pleasant types of elementals that ceased to fraternise with man when he became more plentiful and forsook the simple mode of living for the artificial. pixies, nymphs, sylphs, and other similar kinds of fairies are all harmless and benevolent elementals, and i believe they were all fond of visiting this earth, but that they seldom visit it now, only appearing at rare intervals to a highly favoured few. _the wandering jew_ no story fascinated me more when i was a boy than that of ahasuerus, the wandering jew. how vividly i saw him--in my mental vision--with his hooked nose, and wild, dark eyes, gleaming with hatred, cruelty, and terror, spit out his curses at christ and frantically bid him begone! and christ! how plainly i saw him, too, bathed in the sweat of agony, stumbling, staggering, reeling, and tottering beneath the cross he had to carry! and then the climax--the calm, biting, damning climax. "tarry thou till i come!" how distinctly i heard christ utter those words, and with what relief i watched the pallor of sickly fear and superstition steal into the jew's eyes and overspread his cheeks! and he is said to be living now! periodically he turns up in some portion or other of the globe, causing a great sensation. and many are the people who claim to have met him--the man whom no prison can detain, no fetters hold; who can reel off the history of the last nineteen hundred odd years with the most minute fluency, and with an intimate knowledge of men and things long since dead and forgotten. ahasuerus, still, always, ever ahasuerus--no matter whether we call him joseph, cartaphilus, or salathiel, his fine name and guilty life stick to him--he can get rid of neither. for all time he is, and must be, ahasuerus, the wandering jew--the jew christ damned. _attendant spirits_ i believe that, from the moment of our birth, most, if not all of us, have our attendant spirits, namely, a spirit sent by the higher occult powers that are in favour of man's spiritual progress, whose function it is to guide us in the path of virtue and guard us from physical danger, and a spirit sent by the higher occult powers that are antagonistic to man's spiritual progress, whose function it is to lead us into all sorts of mental, moral, and spiritual evil, and also to bring about our path some bodily harm. the former is a benevolent elemental, well known to the many, and termed by them "our guardian angel"; the latter is a vice elemental, equally well known perhaps, to the many, and termed by them "our evil genie." the benevolent creative powers and the evil creative powers (in whose service respectively our attendant spirits are employed) are for ever contending for man's superphysical body, and it is, perhaps, only in the proportion of our response to the influences of these attendant spirits, that we either evolve to a higher spiritual plane, or remain earth-bound. i, myself, having been through many vicissitudes, feel that i owe both my moral and physical preservation from danger entirely to the vigilance of my guardian attendant spirit. i was once travelling in the united states at the time of a great railway strike. the strikers held up my train at crown point, a few miles outside chicago; and as i was forced to take to flight, and leave my baggage (which unfortunately contained all my ready money), i arrived in chicago late at night without a cent on me. beyond the clothes i had on, i had nothing; consequently, on my presenting myself at a hotel with the request for a night's lodging, i was curtly refused. one hotel after another, one house after another, i tried, but always with the same result; having no luggage, and being unable to pay a deposit, no one would take me. the night advanced; the streets became rougher and rougher, for chicago just then was teeming with the scum of the earth, ruffians of every description, who would cheerfully have cut any man's throat simply for the sake of his clothes. all around me was a sea of swarthy faces with insolent, sinister eyes that flashed and glittered in the gaslight. i was pushed, jostled, and cursed, and the bare thought of having to spend a whole night amid such a foul, cut-throat horde filled me with dismay. yet what could i do? clearly nothing, until the morning, when i should be able to explain my position to the british consul. the knowledge that in all the crises through which i had hitherto passed, my guardian spirit had never deserted me, gave me hope, and i prayed devoutly that it would now come to my assistance and help me to get to some place of shelter. time passed, and as my prayers were not answered, i repeated them with increased vigour. then, quite suddenly, a man stepped out from the dark entrance to a by-street, and, touching me lightly on the arm, said, "is there anything amiss? i have been looking at you for some time, and a feeling has come over me that you need assistance. what is the matter?" i regarded the speaker earnestly, and, convinced that he was honest, told him my story, whereupon to my delight he at once said, "i think i can help you, for a friend of mine runs a small but thoroughly respectable hotel close to here, and, if you like to trust yourself to my guidance, i will take you there and explain your penniless condition." i accepted his offer; what he said proved to be correct; the hotel-keeper believed my story, and i passed the night in decency and comfort. in the morning the proprietor lent me the requisite amount of money for a cablegram to europe. my bank in england cabled to a bank in chicago, and the hotel-keeper generously made himself responsible for my identity; the draft was cashed, and i was once again able to proceed on my journey. but what caused the man in the street to notice me? what prompted him to lend me his aid? surely my guardian spirit. again, when in denver, in the denver of old times, before it had grown into anything like the city it is now, i was seized with a severe attack of dysentery, and the owner of the hotel in which i was staying, believing it to be cholera, turned me, weak and faint as i was, into the street. i tried everywhere to get shelter; the ghastly pallor and emaciation of my countenance went against me--no one, not even by dint of bribing, for i was then well off, would take me in. at last, completely overcome by exhaustion, i sank down in the street, where, in all probability, i should have remained all night, had not a negro suddenly come up to me, and, with a sympathetic expression in his face, asked if he could help me. "i passed you some time ago," he said, "and noticed how ill you looked, but i did not like to speak to you for fear you might resent it, but i had not got far before i felt compelled to turn back. i tried to resist this impulse, but it was no good. what ails you?" i told him. for a moment or so he was silent, and then, his face brightening up, he exclaimed, "i think i can help you. come along with me," and, helping me gently to my feet, he conducted me to his own house, not a very grand one, it is true, but scrupulously clean and well conducted, and i remained there until i was thoroughly sound and fit. the negro is not as a rule a creature of impulse, and here again i felt that i owed my preservation to the kindly interference of my guardian spirit. thrice i have been nearly drowned, and on both occasions saved as by a miracle, or, in other words, by my attendant guardian spirit. once, when i was bathing alone in a scotch loch and had swum out some considerable distance, i suddenly became exhausted, and realised with terror that it was quite impossible for me to regain the shore. i was making a last futile effort to strike out, when something came bobbing up against me. it was an oar! whence it had come heaven alone knew, for heaven alone could have sent it. leaning my chin lightly on it and propelling myself gently with my limbs, i had no difficulty in keeping afloat, and eventually reached the land in safety. the scene of my next miraculous rescue from drowning was a river. in diving into the water off a boat, i got my legs entangled in a thick undergrowth of weeds. frantically struggling to get free and realising only too acutely the seriousness of my position, for my lungs were on the verge of bursting, i fervently solicited the succour of my guardian spirit, and had no sooner done so, than i fancied i felt soft hands press against my flesh, and the next moment my body had risen to the surface. no living person was within sight, so that my rescuer could only have been--as usual--my guardian spirit. several times i fancy i have seen her, white, luminous, and shadowy, but for all that suggestive of great beauty. once, too, in the wilder moments of my youth, when i contemplated rash deeds, i heard her sigh, and the sigh, sinking down into the furthermost recesses of my soul, drowned all my thoughts of rash deeds in a thousand reverberating echoes. i have been invariably warned by strangers against taking a false step that would unquestionably have led to the direst misfortune. i meet a stranger, and without the slightest hint from me, he touches upon the very matter uppermost in my mind, and, in a few earnest and never-to-be-forgotten words of admonition, deters me from my scheme. whence come these strangers, to all appearance of flesh and blood like myself? were they my guardian spirit in temporary material guise, or were they human beings that, like the hotel proprietor's friend in chicago, and the negro, have been impelled by my guardian spirit to converse with me and by their friendly assistance save me? many of the faces we see around us every day are, i believe, attendant spirits, and phantasms of every species, that have adopted physical form for some specific purpose. _banshees_ it has been suggested that banshees are guardian spirits and evil genii; but i do not think so, for whereas one or other of the two latter phantasms (sometimes both) are in constant attendance on man, banshees only visit certain families before a catastrophe about to happen in those families, or before the death of a member of those families. as to their origin, little can be said, for little is at present known. some say their attachment to a family is due to some crime perpetrated by a member of that family in the far dim past, whilst others attribute it to the fact that certain classes and races in bygone times dabbled in sorcery, thus attracting the elementals, which have haunted them ever since. others, again, claim that banshees are mere thought materialisations handed down from one generation to another. but although no one knows the origin and nature of a banshee, the statements of those who have actually experienced these hauntings should surely carry far more weight and command more attention than the statements of those who only speak from hearsay; for it is, after all, only the sensation of actual experience that can guide us in the study of this subject; and, perhaps, through our "sensations" alone, the key to it will one day be found. a phantasm produces an effect on us totally unlike any that can be produced by physical agency--at least such is my experience--hence, for those who have never come in contact with the unknown to pronounce any verdict on it, is to my mind both futile and absurd. of one thing, at least, i am sure, namely, that banshees are no more thought materialisations than they are cats--neither are they in any way traceable to telepathy or suggestion; they are entirely due to objective spirit forms. i do not base this assertion on a knowledge gained from other people's experiences--and surely the information thus gained cannot properly be termed knowledge--but from the sensations i myself, as a member of an old irish clan, have experienced from the hauntings of the banshee--the banshee that down through the long links of my celtic ancestry, through all vicissitudes, through all changes of fortune, has followed us, and will follow us, to the end of time. because it is customary to speak of an irish family ghost by its generic title, the banshee, it must not be supposed that every irish family possessing a ghost is haunted by the same phantasm--the same banshee. in ireland, as in other countries, family ghosts are varied and distinct, and consequently there are many and varying forms of the banshee. to a member of our clan, a single wail signifies the advent of the banshee, which, when materialised, is not beautiful to look upon. the banshee does not necessarily signify its advent by one wail--that of a clan allied to us wails three times. another banshee does not wail at all, but moans, and yet another heralds its approach with music. when materialised, to quote only a few instances, one banshee is in the form of a beautiful girl, another is in the form of a hideous prehistoric hag, and another in the form of a head--only a head with rough matted hair and malevolent, bestial eyes. _scottish ghosts_ when it is remembered that the ancestors of the highlanders, _i.e._, the picts and scots, originally came from ireland and are of formosian and milesian descent, it will be readily understood that their proud old clans--and rightly proud, for who but a grovelling money grubber would not sooner be descended from a warrior, elected chief, on account of his all-round prowess, than from some measly hireling whose instincts were all mercenary?--possess ghosts that are nearly allied to the banshee. the airlie family, whose headquarters are at cortachy castle, is haunted by the phantasm of a drummer that beats a tattoo before the death of one of the members of the clan. there is no question as to the genuineness of this haunting, its actuality is beyond dispute. all sorts of theories as to the origin of this ghostly drummer have been advanced by a prying, inquisitive public, but it is extremely doubtful if any of them approach the truth. other families have pipers that pipe a dismal dirge, and skaters that are seen skating even when there is no ice, and always before a death or great calamity. _english family ghosts_ there are a few old english families, too, families who, in all probability, can point to celtic blood at some distant period in their history, that possess family ghosts. i have, for example, stayed in one house where, prior to a death, a boat is seen gliding noiselessly along a stream that flows through the grounds. the rower is invariably the person doomed to die. a friend of mine, who was very sceptical in such matters, was fishing in this stream late one evening when he suddenly saw a boat shoot round the bend. much astonished--for he knew it could be no one from the house--he threw down his rod and watched. nearer and nearer it came, but not a sound; the oars stirred and splashed the rippling, foaming water in absolute silence. convinced now that what he beheld was nothing physical, my friend was greatly frightened, and, as the boat shot past him, he perceived in the rower his host's youngest son, who was then fighting in south africa. he did not mention the incident to his friends, but he was scarcely surprised when, in the course of the next few days, a cablegram was received with the tidings that the material counterpart of his vision had been killed in action. a white dove is the harbinger of death to the arundels of wardour; a white hare to an equally well-known family in cornwall. corby castle in cumberland has its "radiant boy"; whilst mrs e. m. ward has stated, in her reminiscences, that a certain room at knebworth was once haunted by the phantasm of a boy with long yellow hair, called "the yellow boy," who never appeared to anyone in it, unless they were to die a violent death, the manner of which death he indicated by a series of ghastly pantomimics. other families, i am told, lay claim to phantom coaches, clocks, beds, ladies in white, and a variety of ghostly phenomena whose manifestations are always a sinister omen. _welsh ghosts_ in addition to corpse-candles and blue lights, the welsh, according to mr wirt sykes, in his work, _british goblins_, pp. - , possess a species of ill-omened ghost that is not, however, restricted to any one family, but which visits promiscuously any house or village prior to a death. sometimes it flaps its leathern wings against the window of the room containing the sick person, and in a broken, howling tone calls upon the latter to give up his life; whilst, at other times, according to mr dyer in his _ghost world_, it actually materialises and appears in the form of an old crone with streaming hair and a coat of blue, when it is called the "ellyllon," and, like the banshee, presages death with a scream. again, when it is called the "cyhyraeth," and is never seen, it foretells the death of the insane, or those who have for a long time been ill, by moaning, groaning, and rattling shutters in the immediate vicinity of the doomed person. chapter ix "superstitions and fortunes" _thirteen at table_ there is no doubt that there have been many occasions upon which thirteen people have sat down to dinner, all of which people at the end of a year have been alive and well; there is no doubt also that there have been many occasions upon which thirteen have sat down to dine, and the first of them to rise has died within twelve months. therefore, i prefer not to take the risk, and to sit down to dinner in any number but thirteen. a curious story is told in connection with this superstition. a lady was present at a dinner party given by the count d---- in buda-pesth, when it was discovered that the company about to sit down numbered thirteen. immediately there was a loud protest, and the poor count was at his wits' end to know how to get out of the difficulty, when a servant hurriedly entered and whispered something in his ear. instantly the count's face lighted up. "how very fortunate!" he exclaimed, addressing his guests. "a very old friend of mine, who, to tell the truth, i had thought to be dead, has just turned up. we may, therefore, sit down in peace, for we shall now be fourteen." a wave of relief swept through the party, and, in the midst of their congratulations, in walked the opportune guest, a tall, heavily bearded young man, with a strangely set expression in his eyes and mouth, and not a vestige of colour in his cheeks. it was noticed that after replying to the count's salutations in remarkably hollow tones that made those nearest him shiver, he took no part in the conversation, and partook of nothing beyond a glass of wine and some fruit. the evening passed in the usual manner; the guests, with the exception of the stranger, went, and, eventually, the count found himself alone with the friend of his boyhood, the friend whom he had not seen for years, and whom he had believed to be dead. wondering at the unusual reticence of his old chum, but attributing it to shyness, the count, seeing that he now had an opportunity for a chat, and, anxious to hear what his friend had been doing in the long interval since they had last met, sat down beside him on the couch, and thus began: "how very odd that you should have turned up to-night! if you hadn't come just when you did, i don't know what would have happened!" "but i do!" was the quiet reply. "you would have been the first to rise from the table, and, consequently, you would have died within the year. that is why i came." at this the count burst out laughing. "come, come, max!" he cried. "you always were a bit of a wag, and i see you haven't improved. but be serious now, i beg you, and tell me what made you come to-night and what you have been doing all these years? why, it must be sixteen years, if a day, since last i saw you!" max leaned back in his seat, and, regarding the count earnestly with his dark, penetrating eyes, said, "i have already told you why i came here to-night, and you don't believe me, but wait! now, as to what has happened to me since we parted. can i expect you to believe that? hardly! anyhow, i will put you to the test. when we parted, if you remember rightly, i had just passed my final, and having been elected junior house surgeon at my hospital, st christopher's, at brunn, had taken up my abode there. i remained at st christopher's for two years, just long enough to earn distinction in the operating theatre, when i received a more lucrative appointment in cracow. there i soon had a private practice of my own and was on the high road to fame and fortune, when i was unlucky enough to fall in love." "unlucky!" laughed the count. "pray what was the matter with her? had she no dowry, or was she an heiress with an ogre of a father, or was she already married?" "married," max responded, "married to a regular martinet who, whilst treating her in the same austere manner he treated his soldiers--he was colonel of a line regiment--was jealous to the verge of insanity. it was when i was attending him for a slight ailment of the throat that i met her, and we fell in love with each other at first sight." "how romantic!" sighed the count. "how very romantic! another glass of moselle?" "for some time," max continued, not noticing the interruption, "all went smoothly. we met clandestinely and spent many an hour together, unknown to the invalid. we tried to keep him in bed as long as we could, but his constitution, which was that of an ox, was against us, and his recovery was astonishingly rapid. an indiscreet observation on the part of one of the household first led him to suspect, and, watching his wife like a cat does a mouse, he caught her one evening in the act of holding out her hand for me to kiss. with a yell of fury he rushed upon us, and in the scuffle that followed----" "you killed him," said the count. "well! i forgive you! we all forgive you! by the love of heaven! you had some excuse." "you are mistaken!" max went on, still in the same cold, unmoved accents, "it was i who was killed!" he looked at the count, and the count's blood turned to ice as he suddenly realised he was, indeed, gazing at a corpse. for some seconds the count and the corpse sat facing one another in absolute silence, and then the latter, rising solemnly from the chair, mounted the window-sill, and, with an expressive wave of farewell, disappeared in the absorbing darkness without. now, as max was never seen again, and it was ascertained without any difficulty that he had actually perished in the manner he had described, there is surely every reason to believe that a _bona fide_ danger had threatened the count, and that the spirit of max in his earthly guise had, in very deed, turned up at the dinner party with the sole object of saving his friend. _spilling salt_ everyone knows that to avoid bad luck from spilling salt, it is only necessary to throw some of it over the left shoulder; but no one knows why such an act is a deterrent to misfortune, any more than why misfortune, if not then averted, should accrue from the spilling. that the superstition originated in a tradition that judas iscariot overturned a salt-cellar is ridiculous, for there is but little doubt it was in vogue long before the advent of christ, and is certainly current to-day among tribes and races that have never heard of the "last supper." in all probability the superstition is derived from the fact that salt, from its usage in ancient sacrificial rites, was once regarded as sacred. hence to spill any carelessly was looked upon as sacrilegious and an offence to the gods, to appease whom the device of throwing it over the left, the more psychic shoulder, was instituted. _looking-glasses_ the breaking of a looking-glass is said to be an ill omen, and i have certainly known many cases in which one misfortune after another has occurred to the person who has had the misfortune to break a looking-glass. some think that because looking-glasses were once used in sorcery, they possess certain psychic properties, and that by reason of their psychic properties any injury done to a mirror must be fraught with danger to the doer of that injury, but whether this is so or not is a matter of conjecture. _psychic days_ "friday's child is full of woe." of all days friday is universally regarded as the most unlucky. according to soames in his work, _the anglo-saxon church_, adam and eve ate the forbidden fruit on a friday and died on a friday. and since jesus christ was crucified on a friday, it is naturally of small wonder that friday is accursed. to travel on friday is generally deemed to be courting accident; to be married on friday, courting divorce or death. few sailors care to embark on friday; few theatrical managers to produce a new play on friday. in livonia most of the inhabitants are so prejudiced against friday, that they never settle any important business, or conclude a bargain on that day; in some places they do not even dress their children. for my part, i so far believe in this superstition that i never set out for a journey, or commence any new work on friday, if i have the option of any other day. thursday has always been an unlucky day for me. most of my accidents, disappointments, illnesses have happened on thursdays. wednesday has been my luckiest day. monday, thursday, friday, and saturday the days when i have mostly experienced occult phenomena. on all-hallows e'en the spirits of the dead are supposed to walk. i remember when a child hearing from the lips of a relative how in her girlhood she had screwed up the courage to shut herself in a dark room on all-hallows e'en and had eaten an apple in front of the mirror; and that instead of seeing the face of her future husband peering over her shoulder, she had seen a quantity of earth falling. she was informed that this was a prognostication of death, and, surely enough, within the year her father died. i have heard, too, of a girl who, on all-hallows e'en, walked down a gloomy garden path scattering hempseed for her future lover to pick up, and on hearing someone tiptoeing behind her, and fancying it was a practical joker, turned sharply round, to confront a skeleton dressed exactly similar to herself. she died before the year was out from the result of an accident on the ice. i have often poured boiling lead into water on all-hallows e'en and it has assumed strange shapes, once--a boot, once--a coffin, once--a ship; and i have placed all the letters of the alphabet cut out of pasteboard by my bedside, and on one occasion (my door was locked, by the way, and i fully satisfied myself no one was in hiding) found, on awakening in the morning, the following word spelt out of them--"merivale." it was not until some days afterwards that i remembered associations with this word, and then it all came back to me in a trice--it was the name of a man who had once wanted me to join him in an enterprise in british west africa. on new year's eve a certain family, with whom i am very intimately acquainted, frequently see ghosts of the future, as well as phantasms of the dead, and, when i stay with them, which i often do at christmas, i am always glad when this night is over. on one occasion, one of them saw a lady come up the garden path and vanish on the front doorsteps. she saw the lady's face distinctly; every feature in it, together with the clothes she was wearing, stood out with startling perspicuity. some six months later, she was introduced to the material counterpart of the phantasm, who was destined to play a most important part in her life. on another new year's eve she saw the phantasm of a dog, to which she had been deeply attached, enter her bedroom and jump on her bed, just as it had done during its lifetime. not in the least frightened, she put down her hand to stroke it, when it vanished. i have given several other instances of this kind in my _haunted houses of london_ and _ghostly phenomena_--they all, i think, tend to prove a future existence for dumb animals. the th of december, childermass day, or the feast of the holy innocents, the day on which king herod slaughtered so many infants (if they were no better mannered than the bulk of the county council children of to-day, one can hardly blame him), is held to be unpropitious for the commencement of any new undertaking by those of tender years. the fishermen who dwell on the baltic seldom use their nets between all saints and st martin's day, or on st blaise's day; if they did, they believe they would not take any fish for a whole year. on ash wednesday the women in those parts neither sew nor knit for fear of bringing misfortune upon their cattle, whilst they do not use fire on st lawrence's day, in order to secure themselves against fire for the rest of the year. in moravia the peasants used not to hunt on st mark's or st catherine's day, for fear they should be unlucky all the rest of the year. in yorkshire it was once customary to watch for the dead on st mark's (april ) and midsummer eve. on both those nights (so says mr timbs in his _mysteries of life and futurity_) persons would sit and watch in the church porch from eleven o'clock at night till one in the morning. in the third year (for it must be done thrice), the watchers were said to see the spectres of all those who were to die the next year pass into the church. i am quite sure there is much truth in this, for i have heard of sceptics putting it to the test, and of "singing to quite a different tune" when the phantasms of those they knew quite well suddenly shot up from the ground, and, gliding past them, vanished at the threshold of the church. occasionally, too, i have been informed of cases where the watchers have seen themselves in the ghastly procession and have died shortly afterwards. _fortune-telling_ before ridiculing the possibility of telling fortunes by cards, it would be just as well for sceptics to inquire into the history of cards, and the reason of their being designated the devil's pasteboards. their origin may be traced to the days when man was undoubtedly in close touch with the occult, and each card, _i.e._ of the original design, has a psychic meaning. hence the telling of fortunes by certain people--those who have had actual experience with occult phenomena--deserves to be taken seriously; and i am convinced many of the fortunes thus told come true. _palmistry_ that there is much truth in palmistry--the palmistry of those who have made a thorough study of the subject--should by this time, i think, be an established fact. i can honestly say i have had my hand told with absolute accuracy, and in such a manner as utterly precludes the possibility of coincidence or chance. many of the events, and out-of-the-way events, of my life have been read in my lines with perfect veracity, my character has been delineated with equal fidelity, and the future portrayed exactly in the manner it has come about--and all by a stranger, one who had never seen or heard of me before he "told my hand." to attempt to negative the positive is the height of folly, but fools will deny anything and everything save their own wit. it does not follow that because one palmist has been at fault, all palmists are at fault. i believe in palmistry, because i have seen it verified in a hundred and one instances. apart from the lines, however, there is a wealth of character in hands: i am never tired of studying them. to me the most beautiful and interesting hands are the pure psychic and the dramatic--the former with its thin, narrow palm, slender, tapering fingers and filbert nails; the latter a model of symmetry and grace, with conical finger-tips and filbert nails--indeed, filbert nails are more or less confined to these two types; one seldom sees them in other hands. then there are the literary and artistic hands, with their mixed types of fingers, some conical and some square-tipped, but always with some redeeming feature of refinement and elegance in them; and the musical hand, sometimes a modified edition of the psychic, and sometimes quite different, with short, supple fingers and square tips. and yet again--would that it did not exist!--the business hand, far more common in england, where the bulk of the people have commercial minds, than elsewhere. it has no redeeming feature, but is short, and square, and fat, with stumpy fingers and hideous, spatulate nails, the very sight of which makes me shudder. indeed, i have heard it said abroad, and not without some reason, that, apart from other little peculiarities, such as projecting teeth and big feet, the english have two sets of toes! when i look at english children's fingers, and see how universal is the custom of biting the nails, i feel quite sure the day will come when there will be no nails left to bite--that the day, in fact, is not far distant, when nails, rather than teeth, will become extinct. the irish, french, italians, spanish, and danes, being far more dramatic and psychic than the english, have far nicer hands, and for one set of filbert nails in london, we may count a dozen in paris or madrid. murderers' hands are often noticeable for their knotted knuckles and club-shaped finger-tips; suicides--for the slenderness of the thumbs and strong inclination of the index to the second finger; thieves--for the pointedness of the finger-tips, and the length and suppleness of the fingers. dominating, coarse-minded people, and people who exert undue influence over others, generally have broad, flat thumbs. the hands of soldiers and sailors are usually broad, with short, thick, square-tipped fingers; the hands of clergy are also more often broad and coarse than slender and conical, which may be accounted for by the fact that so many of them enter the church with other than spiritual motives. the really spiritual hand is the counterpart of the psychical, and rarely seen in england. doctors, doctors with a genuine love of their profession, in other words, "born" doctors, have broad but slender palms, with long, supple fingers and moderately square tips. this type of hand is typical, also, of the hospital nurse. it is, of course, a gross error to think that birth has everything to do with the shape of the hand; for the latter is entirely dependent on temperament; but it is also a mistake to say that as many beautiful-shaped hands are to be found among the lower as among the upper classes in england. it is a mistake, because the psychic and dramatic temperaments (and the psychic and dramatic type of hand is unquestionably the most beautiful) are rarely to be found in the middle and lower classes in england--they are almost entirely confined to the upper classes. _pyromancy_ predicting the future by fire is one of the oldest methods of fortune-telling, and has been practised from time immemorial. i have often had my fortune told in the fire, but i cannot say it has ever proved to be very correct; only once a prognostication came true,--a sudden death occurred in a family very nearly connected with me, after a very fanciful churchyard had been pointed out to me amid the glowing embers. _hydromancy_ there are many ways of telling the fortune by means of water. one of the most usual methods is to float some object on the water's surface, predicting the future in accordance with the course that object takes; but i believe future events are just as often foretold by means of the water only. many people believe that especially successful results in fortune-telling may be obtained by means of water only, on all-hallows e'en or new year's eve. on the former night, the method of divining the future is as follows:--place a bowl of clear spring water on your lap at midnight, and gaze into it. if you are to be married, you will see the face of your future husband (or bride) reflected in the water; if you are to remain single all your life, you will see nothing; and if you are to die within the year, the water will become muddy. on new year's eve a tumbler of water should be placed at midnight before the looking-glass, when any person, or persons, destined to play a very important rôle in your life within the coming year, will suddenly appear and sip the water. should you be doomed to die within that period, the tumbler will be thrown on the ground and dashed to pieces. the conditions during the trial of both these methods are that you should be alone in the room, with only one candle burning. _the crystal_ i often practise crystal-gazing, and the results are strangely inconsistent. i see with startling vividness events that actually come to pass, and sometimes with equal perspicuity events that, as far as i know, are never fulfilled. and this i feel sure must be the case with all crystal-gazers, if they would but admit it. my method is very simple. as i cannot concentrate unless i have absolute quiet, i wait till the house is very still, and i then sit alone in my room with my back to the light, in such a position that the light pours over my shoulders on to the crystal, which i have set on the table before me. sometimes i sit for a long time before i see anything, and sometimes, after a lengthy sitting, i see nothing at all; but when a tableau does come, it is always with the most startling vividness. when i want to be initiated into what is happening to certain of my friends, i concentrate my whole mind on those friends--i think of nothing but them--their faces, forms, mannerisms, and surroundings--and then, suddenly, i see them in the crystal! visions are sometimes of the future, sometimes of the present, sometimes of the past, and sometimes of neither, but of what never actually transpires--and there is the strange inconsistency. i do not know what methods other people adopt, i daresay some of them differ from mine, but i feel quite sure that, look at the crystal how they will, it will invariably lie to them at times. a day or so before the death of lafayette, when i was concentrating my whole mind on forthcoming events, i distinctly saw, in the crystal, a stage with a man standing before the footlights, either speaking or singing. in the midst of his performance, a black curtain suddenly fell, and i intuitively realised the theatre was on fire. the picture then faded away and was replaced by something of a totally different character. again, just before the great thunder-storm at the end of may, when holy trinity church, marylebone, was struck, i saw, in the crystal, a black sky, vivid flashes of lightning, a road rushing with brown water, and a church spire with an enormous crack in it. of course, it is very easy to say these visions might have been mere coincidences; but if they were only coincidences, they were surpassingly uncommon ones. _talismans and amulets_ amulets, though now practically confined to the east, were once very much in vogue throughout europe. count daniel o'donnell, brigadier-general in the irish brigade of louis xiv., never went into battle without carrying with him an amulet in the shape of the jewelled casket "cathach of columbcille," containing a latin psalter said to have been written by st columba. it has quite recently been lent to the royal irish academy (where it is now) by my kinsman, the late sir richard o'donnell, bart. count o'donnell used to say that so long as he had this talisman with him, he would never be wounded, and it is a fact that though he led his regiment in the thick of the fight at borgoforte, nago, arco, vercelli, ivrea, verrua, chivasso, cassano, and other battles in the italian campaign of - , and at oudenarde, malplaquet, arleux, denain, douai, bouchain, and fuesnoy, in the netherlands, he always came through scathless. hence, like him, i am inclined to attribute his escapes to the psychic properties of the talisman. the great family of lyons were in possession of a talisman in the form of a "lion-cup," the original of scott's "blessed bear of bradwardine," which always brought them good luck till they went to glamis, and after that they experienced centuries of misfortune. another famous talisman is the "luck of edenhall," in the possession of sir richard musgrave of edenhall, in cumberland; and many other ancient families still retain their amulets. _"the evil eye"_ i was recently speaking to an italian lady who informed me that belief in "the evil eye" is still very prevalent in many parts of italy. "i myself believe in it," she said, "and whenever i pass a person whom i think possesses it, i make a sign with my fingers"--and she held up two of her fingers as she spoke. i certainly have observed that people with a peculiar and undefinable "something" in their eyes are particularly unlucky and invariably bring misfortune on those with whom they are in any degree intimate. these people, i have no doubt, possess "the evil eye," though it would not be discernible except to the extremely psychic, and there is no doubt that the irish and italians are both far more psychic than the english. people are of opinion that the eye is not a particularly safe indicator of true character, but i beg to differ. to me the eye tells everything, and i have never yet looked directly into a person's eyes without being able to satisfy myself as to their disposition. cruelty, vanity, deceit, temper, sensuality, and all the other vices display themselves at once; and so with vulgarity--the glitter of the vulgar, of the ignorant, petty, mean, sordid mind, the mind that estimates all things and all people by money and clothes, cannot be hidden; "vulgarity" will out, and in no way more effectually than through the eyes. no matter how "smart" the _parvenu_ dresses, no matter how perfect his "style," the glitter of the eye tells me what manner of man he is, and when i see that strange anomaly, "nature's gentleman," in the service of such a man, i do not say to myself "jack is as good"--i say, "jack is better than his master." but to me "the evil eye," no less than the vulgar eye, manifests itself. i was at an "at home" one afternoon several seasons ago, when an old friend of mine suddenly whispered: "you see that lady in black, over there? i must tell you about her. she has just lost her husband, and he committed suicide under rather extraordinary circumstances in sicily. he was not only very unlucky himself, but he invariably brought misfortune on those to whom he took a liking--even his dogs. his mother died from the effects of a railway accident; his favourite brother was drowned; the girl to whom he was first engaged went into rapid consumption; and no sooner had he married the lady you see, than she indirectly experienced misfortune through the heavy monetary losses of her father. at last he became convinced that he must be labouring under the influence of a curse, and, filled with a curious desire to see if he had 'the evil eye,'--people of course said he was mad--he went to sicily. arriving there, he had no sooner shown himself among the superstitious peasants, than they made a sign with their fingers to ward off evil, and in every possible way shunned him. convinced then that what he had suspected was true, namely, that he was genuinely accursed, he went into a wood and shot himself." this, i daresay, is only one of many suicides in similar circumstances, and not a few of the suicides we attribute, with such obvious inconsistency (thinking thereby to cover our ignorance), to "temporary insanity," may be traceable to the influence of "the evil eye." _witches_ though witches no longer wear conical hats and red cloaks and fly through the air on broomsticks, and though their _modus operandi_ has changed with their change of attire, i believe there are just as many witches in the world to-day, perhaps even more, than in days gone by. all women are witches who exert baleful influence over others--who wreck the happiness of families by setting husbands against wives (or, what is even more common, wives against husbands), parents against children, and brothers against sisters; and, who steal whole fortunes by inveigling into love, silly, weak-minded old men, or by captivating equally silly and weak-willed women. indeed, the latter is far from rare, and there are instances of women having filled other women with the blindest infatuation for them--an infatuation surpassing that of the most doting lovers, and, without doubt, generated by undue influence, or, in other words, by witchcraft. indeed, i am inclined to believe that the orthodox witch of the past was harmless compared with her present-day representative. there is, however, one thing we may be thankful for, and that is--that in the majority of cases the modern witch, despite her disregard of the former properties of her calling, cannot hide her danger signals. her manners are soft and insinuating, but her eyes are hard--hard with the steely hardness, which, granted certain conditions, would not hesitate at murder. her hands, too, are coarse--an exaggeration of the business type of hand--the fingers short and club-shaped, the thumbs broad and flat, the nails hideous; they are the antipodes of the psychic or dramatic type of hands: a type that, needless to say, witches have never been known to possess. once the invocation of the dead was one of the practices of ancient witchcraft: one might, perhaps, not inappropriately apply the term witch to the modern spiritualist. if we credit the scriptures with any degree of truth, then witches most certainly had the power of calling up the dead in biblical days, for at endor the feat--rare even in those times--was accomplished of invoking in material form the phantasms of the good as well as the evil. though i am of the opinion that no amount of invocation will bring back a phantasm from the higher spiritual planes to-day, unless that invocation be made in very exceptional circumstances, with a specific purpose, i am quite sure that _bona fide_ spirits of the earth-bound do occasionally materialise in answer to the summons of the spiritualist. i do not base this statement on any experience i have ever had, for it is a rather singular fact that, although i have seen many spontaneous phenomena in haunted houses, i have never seen anything resembling, in the slightest degree, a genuine spirit form, at a séance. therefore, i repeat, i do not base my statement, as to the occasional materialisation of _bona fide_ earth-bound spirits, on any of my experiences, but on those of "sitters" with whom i am intimately acquainted. what benefit can be derived from getting into close touch with earth-bound spirits, _i.e._ with vice and impersonating elementals and the phantasms of dead idiots, lunatics, murderers, suicides, rakes, drunkards, immoral women and silly people of all sorts, is, i think, difficult to say; for my own part, i am only too content to steer clear of them, and confine my attentions to trying to be of service to those apparitions that are, obviously, for some reason, made to appear by the higher occult powers. thus, what is popularly known as spiritualism is, from my point of view, a mischievous and often very dangerous form of witchcraft. a frenchman to whom i was recently introduced at a house in maida vale, told me the following case, which he assured me actually happened in the middle of the eighteenth century, and was attested to by judicial documents. a french nobleman, whom i will designate the vicomte davergny, whilst on a visit to some friends near toulouse, on hearing that a miller in the neighbourhood was in the habit of holding sabbats, was seized with a burning desire to attend one. consequently, in opposition to the advice of his friends, he saw the miller, and, by dint of prodigious bribing, finally persuaded the latter to permit him to attend one of the orgies. but the miller made one stipulation--the vicomte was on no account to carry firearms; and to this the latter readily agreed. when, however, the eventful night arrived, the vicomte, becoming convinced that it would be the height of folly to go to a notoriously lonely spot, in the dark, and unarmed, concealed a brace of pistols under his clothes. on reaching the place of assignation, he found the miller already there, and on the latter enveloping him in a heavy cloak, the vicomte felt himself lifted bodily from the ground and whirled through the air. this sensation continued for several moments, when he was suddenly set down on the earth again and the cloak taken off him. at first he could scarcely make out anything owing to a blaze of light, but as soon as his eyes grew accustomed to the illumination, he perceived that he was standing near a huge faggot fire, around which squatted a score or so of the most hideous hags he had ever conceived even in his wildest imagination. after going through a number of strange incantations, which were more or less greek to the vicomte, there was a most impressive lull, that was abruptly broken by the appearance of an extraordinary and alarming-looking individual in the midst of the flames. all the witches at once uttered piercing shrieks and prostrated themselves, and the vicomte then realised that the remarkable being who had caused the commotion was none other than the devil. yielding to an irresistible impulse, but without really knowing what he was doing, the vicomte whipped out a pistol, and, pointing at mephistopheles, fired. in an instant, fire and witches vanished, and all was darkness and silence. terrified out of his wits, the count sank on the ground, where he remained till daylight, when he received another shock, on discovering, stretched close to him, the body of the miller with a bullet wound in his forehead. flying from the spot, he wandered on and on, until he came to a cottage, at which he inquired his way home. and here another surprise awaited him. for the cottagers, in answer to his inquiries, informed him that the nearest town was not toulouse but bordeaux, and if he went on walking in such and such a direction, he would speedily come to it. arriving at bordeaux, as the peasant had directed, the vicomte rested a short time, and then set out for toulouse, which city he at length reached after a few days' journeying. but he had not been back long before he was arrested for the murder of the miller, it being deposed that he had been seen near bordeaux, in the immediate neighbourhood of the tragedy, directly after its enaction. however, as it was obviously impossible that the vicomte could have taken less than a few days to travel from toulouse to a spot near bordeaux, where the murder had taken place, a distance of several hundreds of miles, on the evidence of his friends, who declared that he had been with them till within a few hours of the time when it was presumed the crime was committed, the charge was withdrawn, and the vicomte was fully acquitted. chapter x the hand of glory; the bloody hand of ulster; the seventh son; birthmarks; nature's devil signals; pre-existence; the future; projection; telepathy, etc. _the hand of glory_ belief in the power of the hand of glory still, i believe, exists in certain parts of european and asiatic russia. once it was prevalent everywhere. the hand of glory was a hand cut off from the body of a robber and murderer who had expiated his crimes on the gallows. to endow it with the properties of a talisman, the blood was first of all extracted; it was then given a thorough soaking in saltpetre and pepper, and hung out in the sun. when perfectly dry, it was used as a candlestick for a candle made of white wax, sesame seed, and fat from the corpse of the criminal. prepared thus, the hand of glory was deemed to have the power of aiding and protecting the robbers in their nefarious work by sending to sleep their intended victims. hence no robber ever visited a house without having such a talisman with him. _the bloody hand of ulster_ the red right hand of ulster is the badge of the o'neills, and according to tradition it originated thus:--on the approach of an ancient expedition to ulster, the leader declared that whoever first touched the shore should possess the land in the immediate vicinity. an ancestor of the o'neills, anxious to obtain the reward, at once cut off his right hand and threw it on the coast, which henceforth became his territory. since then the o'neills have always claimed the red right hand of ulster as their badge, and it figured only the other day on the banner which, for the first time since the days of shane the proud, was flown from the battlements of their ancient stronghold, ardglass castle, now in the possession of mr f. j. bigger. a very similar story to that of the o'neill is told of an o'donnell, who, with a similar motive, namely, to acquire territory, on arriving within sight of spain, cut off his hand and hurled it on the shore, and, like the o'neills, the o'donnells from that time have adopted the hand as their badge. _the seventh son_ it was formerly believed that a seventh son could cure diseases, and that a seventh son of a seventh son, with no female born in between, could cure the king's evil. indeed, seven was universally regarded as a psychic number, and according to astrologers the greatest events in a person's life, and his nearest approach to death without actually incurring it, would be every seven years. the grand climacterics are sixty-three and eighty-four, and the most critical periods of a person's life occur when they are sixty-three and eighty-four years of age. _birthmarks_ some families have a heritage of peculiar markings on the skin. the only birthmark of this description which i am acquainted with is "the historic baldearg," or red spot that has periodically appeared on the skins of members of the o'donnell clan. its origin is dubious, but i imagine it must go back pretty nearly to the time of the great niall. in the days when ireland was in a chronic state of rebellion, it was said that it would never shake off the yoke of its cruel english oppressors till its forces united under the leadership of an o'donnell with the baldearg. an o'donnell with the baldearg turned up in , in the person of hugh baldearg o'donnell, son of john o'donnell, an officer in the spanish army, and descendant of the calvagh o'donnell of tyrconnell, who had been created earl of wexford by queen elizabeth. but the irish, as has ever been the case, would not unite, and despite the aid given him by talbot (who had succeeded the o'donnells in the earldom of tyrconnell), he met with but little success, and returning to spain, died there with the rank of major-general in . references to the baldearg may be seen in various of the memoirs of the o'donnells in the libraries of the british museum, madrid, dublin, and elsewhere. _nature's devil signals_ i have already alluded to the fingers typical of murderers; i will now refer in brief to a form of nature's other danger signals. the feet of murderers are, as a rule, very short and broad, the toes flat and square-tipped. as a rule, too, they either have very receding chins, as in the case of mapleton lefroy, or very massive, prominent chins, as in the case of gotfried. in many instances the ears of murderers are set very far back and low down on their heads, and the outer rims are very much crumpled; also they have very high and prominent cheek-bones, whilst one side of the face is different from the other. the backs of many murderers' heads are nearly perpendicular, or, if anything, rather inclined to recede than otherwise--they seldom project--whilst the forehead is unusually prominent. it is a noteworthy fact that a large percentage of modern murderers have had rather prominent light, steely blue eyes--rarely grey or brown. their voices--and there is another key to the character--are either hollow and metallic, or suggestive of the sounds made by certain animals. many of these characteristics are to be found in criminal lunatics. _pre-existence and the future_ to talk of a former life as if it were an established fact is, of course, an absurdity; to dogmatise at all on such a question, with regard to which one man's opinion is just as speculative as another's, is, perhaps, equally ridiculous. granted, then, the equal value of the varying opinions of sane men on this subject, it is clear that no one can be considered an authority; my opinion, no less than other people's, is, as i have said, merely speculation. that i had a former life is, i think, extremely likely, and that i misconducted myself in that former life, more than likely, since it is only by supposing a previous existence in which i misbehaved, that i can see the shadow of a justification for all the apparently unmerited misfortunes i have suffered in my present existence. i do not, however, see any specific reason why my former existence should have been here; on the contrary, i think it far more probable that i was once in some other sphere--perhaps one of the planets--where my misdeeds led to my banishment and my subsequent appearance in this world. with regard to a future life, eternal punishment, and its converse, everlasting bliss, i fear i never had any orthodox views, or, if i had, my orthodoxy exploded as soon as my common sense began to grow. hell, the hell hurled at my head from the pulpit, only excited my indignation--it was so unjust--nor did the god of the old testament fill me with aught save indignation and disgust. lost in a quagmire of doubts and perplexities, i inquired of my preceptors as to the authorship of the book that held up for adoration a being so stern, relentless, and unjust as god; and in answer to my inquiries was told that i was very wicked to talk in such a way about the bible; that it was god's own book--divinely inspired--in fact, written by god himself. then i inquired if the original manuscript in god's handwriting was still in existence; and was told i was very wicked and must hold my tongue. yet i had no idea of being in any way irreverent or blasphemous; i was merely perplexed, and longed to have my difficulties settled. failing this, they grew, and i began to question whether the terms "merciful" and "almighty" were terms that could be applied with any degree of consistency to the scriptural one and only creator. would that god, if he were almighty, have permitted the existence of such an enemy (or indeed an enemy at all) as the devil? and if he were merciful, would he, for the one disobedient act of one human being, have condemned to the most ghastly and diabolical sufferings, millions of human beings, and not only human beings, but animals? ah! that's where the rub comes in, for though there may be some sense, if not justice, in causing men and women, who have sinned--to suffer, there is surely neither reason nor justice in making animals, who have not sinned--to suffer. and yet, for man's one act of disobedience, both man and beast have suffered thousands of years of untold agonies. could anyone save the blindest and most fanatical of biblical bigots call the ordainer of such a punishment merciful? how often have i asked myself who created the laws and principles of nature! they are certainly more suggestive of a fiendish than a benevolent author. it is ridiculous to say man owes disease to his own acts--such an argument--if argument at all--would not deceive an infant. are the insects, the trees, the fish responsible for the diseases with which they are inflicted? no, nature, or rather the creator of nature, is alone responsible. but, granted we have lived before, there may be grounds for the suffering both of man and beast. the story of the fall may be but a contortion of something that has happened to man in a former existence, in another sphere, possibly, in another planet; and its description based on nothing more substantial than memory, vague and fleeting as a dream. anyhow, i am inclined to think that incarnation here might be traced to something of more--infinitely more--importance than an apple; possibly, to some cause of which we have not, at the present, even the remotest conception. people, who do not believe in the former existence, attempt to justify the ills of man here, by assuming that a state of perfect happiness cannot be attained by man, except he has suffered a certain amount of pain; so that, in order to attain to perfect happiness, man must of necessity experience suffering--a theory founded on the much misunderstood axiom, that nothing can exist save by contrast. but supposing, for the sake of argument, that this axiom, according to its everyday interpretation, is an axiom, _i.e._ a true saying, then god, the creator of all things, must have created evil--evil that good may exist, and good that evil may exist. this deduction, however, is obviously at variance with the theory that god is all goodness, since if nothing can exist save by contrast, goodness must of necessity presuppose badness, and we are thus led to the conclusion that god is at the same time both good and bad, a conclusion which is undoubtedly a _reductio ad absurdum_. seeing, then, that a god all good cannot have created evil, surely we should be more rational, if less scriptural, were we to suppose a plurality of gods. in any case i cannot see how pain, if god is indeed all mighty and all good, can be the inevitable corollary of pleasure. nor can i see the necessity for man to suffer here, in order to enjoy absolute happiness in the hereafter. no, i think if there is any justification for the suffering of mankind on this earth, it is to be found, not in the theory of "contrast," but in a former existence, and in an existence in some other sphere or plane. vague recollections of such an existence arise and perplex many of us; but they are so elusive, the moment we attempt to grapple with them, they fade away. the frequent and vivid dreams i have, of visiting a region that is peopled with beings that have nothing at all in common with mankind, and who welcome me as effusively as if i had been long acquainted with them, makes me wonder if i have actually dwelt amongst them in a previous life. i cannot get rid of the idea that in everything i see (in these dreams)--in the appearance, mannerisms, and expressions of my queer companions, in the scenery, in the atmosphere--i do but recall the actual experience of long ago--the actual experience of a previous existence. nor is this identical dreamland confined to me; and the fact that others whom i have met, have dreamed of a land, corresponding in every detail to my dreamland, proves, to my mind, the possibility that both they and i have lived a former life, and in that former life inhabited the same sphere. _projection_ i have, as i have previously stated in my work, _the haunted houses of london_, succeeded, on one occasion, in separating at will, my immaterial from my material body. i was walking alone along a very quiet, country lane, at p.m., and concentrating with all my mind, on being at home. i kept repeating to myself, "i will be there." suddenly a vivid picture of the exterior of the house rose before me, and, the next instant, i found myself, in the most natural manner possible, walking down some steps and across the side garden leading to the conservatory. i entered the house, and found all my possessions--books, papers, shoes, etc.--just as i had left them some hours previously. with the intention of showing myself to my wife, in order that she might be a witness to my appearance, i hastened to the room, where i thought it most likely i should find her, and was about to turn the handle of the door, when, for the fraction of a second, i saw nothing. immediately afterwards there came a blank, and i was once again on the lonely moorland road, toiling along, fishing rod in hand, a couple of miles, at least, away from home. when i did arrive home, my wife met me in the hall, eager to tell me that at four o'clock both she and the girls had distinctly heard me come down the steps and through the conservatory into the house. "you actually came," my wife continued, "to the door of the room in which i was sitting. i called out to you to come in, but, receiving no reply, i got up and opened the door, and found, to my utter amazement, no one there. i searched for you everywhere, and should much like to know why you have behaved in this very extraordinary manner." much excited in my turn, i hastened to explain to her that i had been practising projection, and had actually succeeded in separating my material from my immaterial body, for a brief space of time, just about four o'clock. the footsteps she had heard were indeed my own footsteps--and upon this point she was even more positive than i--the footsteps of my immaterial self. i have made my presence felt, though i have never "appeared," on several other occasions. in my sleep, i believe, i am often separated from my physical body, as my dreams are so intensely real and vivid. they are so real that i am frequently able to remember, almost _verbatim_, long conversations i have had in them, and i awake repeating broken-off sentences. often, after i have taken active exercise, such as running, or done manual labour, such as digging or lifting heavy weights in the land of my dreams, my muscles have ached all the following day. with regard to the projections of other people, i have often seen phantasms of the living, and an account of one appearing to me, when in the company of three other persons, all of whom saw it, may be read in the psychical research society's magazine for october . i have referred to it as well as to other of my similar experiences in _ghostly phenomena_ and _haunted houses of london_. _doubles_, _i.e._ people who are more or less the exact counterpart of other people, may easily be taken for projections by those who have but little acquaintance with the occult. i, myself, have seen many doubles, but though they be as like as the proverbial two peas, i can tell at a glance whether they be the material or immaterial likeness of those they so exactly resemble. i think there is no doubt that, in a good many instances, doubles have been mistaken for projections, and, of course, _vice versâ_. _telepathy and suggestion_ though telepathy between two very wakeful minds is an established fact, i do not think it is generally known that it can also take place between two minds when asleep, or between one person awake and another asleep, and yet i have proved this to be the case. my wife and i continually dream of the same thing at the same time, and if i lie down in the afternoon and fall asleep alone, she often thinks of precisely what i am dreaming about. though telepathy and suggestion may possibly account for hauntings when the phenomenon is only experienced individually, i cannot see how it can do so when the manifestations are witnessed by numbers, _i.e._ collectively. i am quite sure that neither telepathy nor suggestion are in any degree responsible for the phenomena i have experienced, and that the latter hail only from one quarter--the objective and genuine occult world. _the psychic faculty and second sight_ whereas some people seem fated to experience occult phenomena and others not, there is this inconsistency: the person with the supposed psychic faculty does not always witness the phenomena when they appear. by way of illustration: i have been present on one occasion in a haunted room when all present have seen the ghost with the exception of myself; whilst on other occasions, either i have been the only one who has seen it, or some or all of us have seen it. it would thus seem that the psychic faculty does not ensure one's seeing a ghost, whenever a ghost is to be seen. i think, as a matter of fact, that apparitions can, whilst manifesting themselves to some, remain invisible to others, and that they themselves determine to whom they will appear. some types of phantasms apparently prefer manifesting themselves to the spiritual or psychic-minded person, whilst other types do not discriminate, but appear to the spiritual and carnal-minded alike. there is just as much variety in the tastes and habits of phantasms as in the tastes and habits of human beings, and in the behaviour of both phantasm and human being, i regret to say, there is an equal and predominant amount of inconsistency. _intuition_ i do not think it can be doubted that psychic people have the faculty of intuition far more highly developed than is the case with the more material-minded. "second sight" is but another name for the psychic faculty, and it is generally acknowledged to be far more common among the celts than the anglo-saxons. that this is so need not be wondered at, since the irish and the highlanders of scotland (originally the same race) are far more spiritual-minded than the english (in whom commerciality and worldliness are innate), and consequently have, on the whole, a far greater attraction for spirits who would naturally prefer to reveal themselves to those in whom they would be the more likely to find something in common. there is still a belief in certain parts of the hebrides that second sight was once obtained there through a practice called "the taigheirm." this rite, which is said to have been last performed about the middle of the seventeenth century, consisted in roasting on a spit, before a slow fire, a number of black cats. as soon as one was dead another took its place, and the sacrifice was continued until the screeches of the tortured animals summoned from the occult world an enormous black cat, that promised to bestow as a perpetual heritage on the sacrificer and his family, the faculty of second sight, if he would desist from any further slaughter. the sacrificer joyfully closed with the bargain, and the ceremony concluded with much feasting and merriment, in which, however, it is highly improbable that the phantasms of the poor roasted "toms" took part. _clairvoyance_ clairvoyance is a branch of occultism in which i have had little experience, and can, therefore, only refer to in brief. when i was the principal of a preparatory school, i once had on my staff a frenchman of the name of deslys. on recommencing school after the christmas vacation, m. deslys surprised me very much by suddenly observing: "mr o'donnell, did you not stay during the holidays at no. ... the crescent, bath?" "yes," i replied; "but how on earth do you know?" i had only been there two days, and had certainly never mentioned my visit either to him or to anyone acquainted with him. "well!" he said, "i'll tell you how i came to know. hearing from my friends that mme. leprès, a well-known clairvoyante, had just come to paris, i went to see her. it is just a week ago to-day. after she had described, with wonderful accuracy, several houses and scenes with which i was familiar, and given me several pieces of information about my friends, which i subsequently found to be correct, i asked her to tell me where you were and what you were doing. for some moments she was silent, and then she said very slowly: 'he is staying with a friend at no. ... the crescent, bath. i can see him (it was then three o'clock in the afternoon) sitting by the bedside of his friend, who has his head tied up in bandages. mr o'donnell is telling him a very droll story about lady b----, to whom he has been lately introduced.' she then stopped, made a futile effort to go on, and after a protracted pause exclaimed: 'i can see no more--something has happened.' that was all i found out about you." "and enough, too, m. deslys," i responded, "for what she told you was absolutely true. a week ago to-day i was staying at no. ... the crescent, bath, and at three o'clock in the afternoon i was sitting at the bedside of my friend, who had injured his head in a fall, and had it tied up in bandages; and amongst other bits of gossip, i narrated to him a very amusing anecdote concerning lady b----, whom i have only just met, for the first time, in london." now m. deslys could not possibly have known, excepting through psychical agency, where i had been staying a week before that time, or what i had been doing at three o'clock on that identical afternoon. _automatic writing_ i have frequently experimented in automatic writing. who that is interested in the occult has not! but i cannot say i have ever had any astonishing results. however, though my own experiences are not worth recording, i have heard of many extraordinary results obtained by others--results from automatic messages that one can not help believing could only be due to superphysical agency. _table-turning_ i do not think there is anything superphysical in merely turning the table, or making it move across the room, or causing it to fall over on to the ground, and to get up again. i am of the opinion that all this is due to animal magnetism, and to the unconscious efforts of the audience, who are ever anxious for the ghost to come and something startling to happen. the ladies, in particular, i would point out, press a little hard with their dainty but determined hands, or with their self-willed knees resort to a few sly pushes. when this does not happen, i think it is quite possible that an elemental or some other equally undesirable type of phantasm does actually attend the séance, and, emphasising its arrival by sundry noises, is responsible for many, if not all the phenomena. on the other hand, i certainly think that ninety per cent. of the rappings and the manifestations of musical enthusiasts is due to trickery on the part of the medium, or, if there be no professional medium present, to an over-zealous sitter. but since ghosts can and do show themselves spontaneously in haunted houses, why the necessity of musical instruments, professional medium, and sitting round a table with fingers linked? surely, when one comes to think of it, the _modus operandi_ of the séance, besides being extremely undignified, is somewhat superfluous. tin trumpets, twopenny tambourines, and concertinas are all very well in their way, but, try how i will, i cannot associate them with ghosts. what phantasm of any standing at all would be attracted by such baubles? surely only the phantasms of the very silliest of servant girls, of incurable idiots, and of advanced imbeciles. but even they, i think, might be "above it," in which case the musical instruments, tin trumpets, tambourines, and concertinas, disdained by the immaterial, must be manipulated by the material! and this rule with regard to table-turning, the manipulation of musical instruments, etc., equally applies to materialisation. i have no doubt that genuine phantasms of the earth-bound or elementals do occasionally show themselves, but i am quite sure in nine cases out of ten the manifestations are manifestations of living flesh and blood. _charms and checks against ghosts_ "when i feel the approach of the superphysical, i always cross myself," an old lady once remarked to me; and this is what many people do; indeed, the sign of the cross is the most common mode of warding off evil. whether it is really efficacious is doubtful. i, for my part, make use of the sign, involuntarily rather than otherwise, because the custom is innate in me, and is, perhaps, with various other customs, the heritage of all my race from ages past; but i cannot say it always or even often answers, for ghosts frequently manifest themselves to me in spite of it. then there is the magic circle which is described differently by divers writers. according to mr dyer, in his _ghost world_, pp. - , the circle was prepared thus: "a piece of ground was usually chosen, nine feet square, at the full extent of which parallel lines were drawn, one within the other, having sundry crosses and triangles described between them, close to which was formed the first or outer circle; then about half a foot within the same, a second circle was described, and within that another square corresponding to the first, the centre of which was the spot where the master and associate were to be placed. the vacancies formed by the various lines and angles of the figure were filled up by the holy names of god, having crosses and triangles described between them.... the reason assigned for the use of the circles was, that so much ground being blessed and consecrated by such holy words and ceremonies as they made use of in forming it, had a secret force to expel all evil spirits from the bounds thereof, and, being sprinkled with pure sanctified water, the ground was purified from all uncleanliness; besides, the holy names of god being written over every part of it, its forces became so powerful that no evil spirits had ability to break through it, or to get at the magician and his companion, by reason of the antipathy in nature they bore to these sacred names. and the reason given for the triangles was, that if the spirits were not easily brought to speak the truth, they might by the exorcist be conjured to enter the same, where, by virtue of the names of the essence and divinity of god, they could speak nothing but what was true and right." again according to mr dyer, when a spot was haunted by the spirit of a murderer or suicide who lay buried there, a magic circle was made just over the grave, and he who was daring enough to venture there, at midnight, preferably when the elements were at their worst, would conjure the ghost to appear and give its reason for haunting the spot. in answer to the summons there was generally a long, unnatural silence, which was succeeded by a tremendous crash, when the phantasm would appear, and, in ghastly, hollow tones answer all the questions put to it. never once would it encroach on the circle, and on its interrogator promising to carry out its wishes, it would suddenly vanish and never again walk abroad. if the hauntings were in a house, the investigator entered the haunted room at midnight with a candle, and compass, and a crucifix or bible. after carefully shutting the door, and describing a circle on the floor, in which he drew a cross, he placed within it a chair, and table, and on the latter, put the crucifix, a bible, and a lighted candle. he then sat down on the chair and awaited the advent of the apparition, which either entered noiselessly or with a terrific crash. on the promise that its wishes would be fulfilled, the ghost withdrew, and there were no more disturbances. sometimes the investigator, if he were a priest, would sprinkle the phantasm with holy water and sometimes make passes over it with the crucifix, but the results were always the same; it responded to all the questions that were put to it and never troubled the house again. how different from what happens in reality! though i have seen and interrogated many ghosts, i have never had a reply, or anything in the shape of a reply, nor perceived any alteration in their expression that would in any way lead me to suppose they had understood me; and as to exorcism--well, i know of innumerable cases where it has been tried, and tried by the most pious of clergy--clergy of all denominations--and singularly failed. it is true i have never experimented with a magic circle, but, somehow, i have not much faith in it. in china the method of expelling ghosts from haunted houses has been described as follows:--an altar containing tapers and incense sticks is erected in the spot where the manifestations are most frequent. a taoist priest is then summoned, and enters the house dressed in a red robe, with blue stockings and a black cap. he has with him a sword, made of the wood of the peach or date tree, the hilt and guard of which are covered with red cloth. written in ink on the blade of the sword is a charm against ghosts. advancing to the altar, the priest deposits his sword on it. he then prepares a mystic scroll, which he burns, collecting and emptying the ashes into a cup of spring water. next, he takes the sword in his right hand and the cup in his left, and, after taking seven paces to the left and eight to the right, he says: "gods of heaven and earth, invest me with the heavy seal, in order that i may eject from this dwelling-house all kinds of evil spirits. should any disobey me, give me power to deliver them for safe custody to rulers of such demons." then, addressing the ghost in a loud voice, he says: "as quick as lightning depart from this house." this done, he takes a bunch of willow, dips it in the cup, and sprinkles it in the east, west, north, and south corners of the house, and, laying it down, picks up his sword and cup, and, going to the east corner of the building, calls out: "i have the authority, tai-shaong-loo-kivan." he then fills his mouth with water from the cup, and spits it out on the wall, exclaiming: "kill the green evil spirits which come from unlucky stars, or let them be driven away." this ceremony he repeats at the south, west, and north corners respectively, substituting, in turn, red, white, and yellow in the place of green. the attendants then beat gongs, drums, and tom-toms, and the exorcist cries out: "evil spirits from the east, i send back to the east; evil spirits from the south, i send back to the south," and so on. finally, he goes to the door of the house, and, after making some mystical signs in the air, manoeuvres with his sword, congratulates the owner of the establishment on the expulsion of the ghosts, and demands his fee. in china the sword is generally deemed to have psychic properties, and is often to be seen suspended over a bed to scare away ghosts. sometimes a horse's tail--a horse being also considered extremely psychic--or a rag dipped in the blood from a criminal's head, are used for the same purpose. but no matter how many, or how varied, the precautions we take, ghosts will come, and nothing will drive them away. the only protection i have ever found to be of any practical value in preventing them from materialising is a powerful light. as a rule they cannot stand _that_, and whenever i have turned a pocket flashlight on them, they have at once dematerialised; often, however, materialising again immediately the light has been turned off. the cock was, at one time, (and still is in some parts of the world) regarded as a psychic bird; it being thought that phantasms invariably took their departure as soon as it began to crow. this, however, is a fallacy. as ghosts appear at all hours of the day and night, in season and out of season, i fear it is only too obvious that their manifestations cannot be restricted within the limits of any particular time, and that their coming and going, far from being subject to the crowing of a cock, however vociferous, depend entirely on themselves. chapter xi occult inhabitants of the sea and rivers _phantom ships_ from time to time, one still hears of a phantom ship being seen, in various parts of the world. sometimes it is in the straits of magellan, vainly trying to weather the horn; sometimes in the frozen latitudes of the north, steering its way in miraculous fashion past monster icebergs; sometimes in the pacific, sometimes in the atlantic, and only the other day i heard of its being seen off cornwall. the night was dark and stormy, and lights being suddenly seen out at sea as of a vessel in distress, the lifeboat was launched. on approaching the lights, it was discovered that they proceeded from a vessel that mysteriously vanished as soon as the would-be rescuers were within hailing. much puzzled, the lifeboat men were about to return, when they saw the lights suddenly reappear to leeward. on drawing near to them, they again disappeared, and were once more seen right out to sea. utterly nonplussed, and feeling certain that the elusive bark must be the notorious phantom ship, the lifeboat men abandoned the pursuit, and returned home. a fisherman of the same town--the town to which the lifeboat that had gone to the rescue of the phantom ship belonged--told me, when i was out with him one evening in his boat, that one of the oldest inhabitants of the place had on one occasion, when the phantom ship visited the bay, actually got his hands on her gunwales before she melted away, and he narrowly escaped pitching headlong into the sea. though the weather was then still and warm, the yards of the ship, which were coated with ice, flapped violently to and fro, as if under the influence of some mighty wind. the appearance of the phenomenon was followed, as usual, by a catastrophe to one of the local boats. i very often sound sailors as to whether they have ever come across this ominous vessel, and sometimes hear very enthralling accounts of it. an old sea captain whom i met on the pier at southampton, in reply to my inquiry, said: "yes! i have seen the phantom ship, or at any rate a phantom ship, once--but only once. it was one night in the fifties, and we were becalmed in the south pacific about three hundred miles due west of callao. it had been terrifically hot all day, and, only too thankful that it was now a little cooler, i was lolling over the bulwarks to get a few mouthfuls of fresh air before turning into my berth, when one of the crew touched me on the shoulder, and ejaculating, 'for god's sake----' abruptly left off. following the direction of his glaring eyes, i saw to my amazement a large black brig bearing directly down on us. she was about a mile off, and, despite the intense calmness of the sea, was pitching and tossing as if in the roughest water. as she drew nearer i was able to make her out better, and from her build--she carried two masts and was square-rigged forward and schooner-rigged aft--as well as from her tawdry gilt figurehead, concluded she was a hermaphrodite brig of, very possibly, dutch nationality. she had evidently seen a great deal of rough weather, for her foretopmast and part of her starboard bulwarks were gone, and what added to my astonishment and filled me with fears and doubts was, that in spite of the pace at which she was approaching us and the dead calmness of the air, she had no other sails than her foresail and mainsail, and flying-jib. "by this time all of our crew were on deck, and the skipper and the second mate took up their positions one on either side of me, the man who had first called my attention to the strange ship, joining some other seamen near the forecastle. no one spoke, but, from the expression in their eyes and ghastly pallor of their cheeks, it was very easy to see that one and all were dominated by the same feelings of terror and suspicion. nearer and nearer drew the brig, until she was at last so close that we could perceive her crew--all of whom, save the helmsman, were leaning over the bulwarks--grinning at us. never shall i forget the horror of those grins. they were hideous, meaningless, hellish grins, the grins of corpses in the last stage of putrefaction. and that is just what they were--all of them--corpses, but corpses possessed by spirits of the most devilish sort, for as we stared, too petrified with fear to remove our gaze, they nodded their ulcerated heads and gesticulated vehemently. the brig then gave a sudden yaw, and with that motion there was wafted a stink--a stink too damnably foul and rotten to originate from anywhere, save from some cesspool in hell. choking, retching, and all but fainting, i buried my face in the skipper's coat, and did not venture to raise it, till the far-away sounds of plunging and tossing assured me the cursed ship had passed. i then looked up, and was just in time to catch a final glimpse of the brig, a few hundred yards to leeward, (she had passed close under our stern) before her lofty stern rose out of the water, and, bows foremost, she plunged into the stilly depths and we saw her no more. there was no need for the skipper to tell us that she was the phantom ship, nor did she belie her sinister reputation, for within a week of seeing her, yellow fever broke out on board, and when we arrived at port, there were only three of us left." _the sargasso sea_ of all the seas in the world, none bear a greater reputation for being haunted than the sargasso. within this impenetrable waste of rank, stinking seaweed, in places many feet deep, are collected wreckages of all ages and all climes, grim and permanent records of the world's maritime history, unsinkable and undestroyable. it has ever been my ambition to explore the margins of this unsightly yet fascinating marine wilderness, but, so far, i have been unable to extend my peregrinations further south than the thirty-fifth degree of latitude. among the many stories i have heard in connection with this sea, the following will, i think, bear repeating:-- "a brig with twelve hands aboard, bound from boston to the cape verde islands, was caught in a storm, and, being blown out of her course, drifted on to the northern extremities of the sargasso. the wind then sinking, and an absolute calm taking its place, there seemed every prospect that the brig would remain where it was for an indefinite period. a most horrible fate now stared the crew in the face, for although they had food enough to last them for many weeks, they only had a very limited supply of water, and the intense heat and terrific stench from the weeds made them abnormally thirsty. "after a long and earnest consultation, in which the skipper acted as chairman, it was decided that on the consumption of the last drop of water they should all commit suicide, anything rather than to perish of thirst, and it would be far less harrowing to die in a body and face the awful possibilities of the next world in company than alone. "as there was only one firearm on board, and the idea of throat-cutting was disapproved of by several of the more timid, rat poison, of which there was just enough to go all round, was chosen. meanwhile, in consideration of the short time left to them on earth, the crew insisted that they should be allowed to enjoy themselves to the utmost. to this the captain, knowing only too well what that would mean, reluctantly gave his consent. a general pandemonium at once ensued, one of the men producing a mouth accordion and another a concertina, whilst the rest, selecting partners with much mock gallantry, danced to the air of a popular vaudeville song till they could dance no longer. "the next item on the programme was dinner. the best of everything on board was served up, and they all ate and drank till they could hold no more. they were then so sleepy that they tumbled off their seats, and, lying on the floor, soon snored like hogs. the cool of the evening restoring them, they played pitch and toss, and poker, till tea-time, and then fooled away the remainder of the evening in more cards and more drink. in this manner the best part of a week was beguiled. then the skipper announced the fact that the last drop of liquor on board had gone, and that, according to the compact, the hour had arrived to commit suicide. had a bombshell fallen in their midst, it could not have caused a greater consternation than this announcement. the men had, by this time, become so enamoured with their easy and irresponsible mode of living, that the idea of quitting it in so abrupt a manner was by no means to their liking, and they evinced their displeasure in the roughest and most forcible of language. 'the skipper could d----d well put an end to himself if he had a mind to, but they would see themselves somewhere else before they did any such thing--it would be time enough to talk of dying when the victuals were all eaten up.' then they thoroughly overhauled the ship, and on discovering half a dozen bottles of rum and a small cask of water stowed away in the skipper's cabin, they threw him overboard and pelted him with empty bottles till he sank; after which they cleared the deck and danced till sunset. "two nights later, when they were all lying on the deck near the companion way, licking their parched lips and commiserating with themselves on the prospect of their gradually approaching end--for they had abandoned all idea of the rat poison--they suddenly saw a hideous, seaweedy object rise up over the bulwarks on the leeward side of the ship. in breathless expectation they all sat up and watched. inch by inch it rose, until they saw before them a tall form enveloped from head to foot in green slime, and horribly suggestive of the well-known figure of the murdered captain. gliding noiselessly over the deck, it shook its hands menacingly at each of the sailors, until it came to the cabin-boy--the only one among them who had not participated in the skipper's death--when it touched him gently on the forehead, and, stooping down, appeared to whisper something in his ears. it then recrossed the deck, and, mounting the bulwarks, leaped into the sea. "for some seconds no one stirred; and then, as if under the influence of some hypnotic spell, one by one, each of the crew, with the exception of the cabin-boy, got up, and, marching in indian file to the spot where the apparition had vanished, flung themselves overboard. the last of the procession had barely disappeared from view, when the cabin-boy, whose agony of mind during this infernal tragedy cannot be described, fell into a heavy stupor, from which he did not awake till morning. in the meanwhile the brig, owing to a stiff breeze that had arisen in the night, was freed from its environment, and was drifting away from the seaweed. it went on and on, day after day, and day after day, till it was eventually sighted by a steamer and taken in tow. the cabin-boy, by this time barely alive, was nursed with the tenderest care, and, owing to the assiduous attention bestowed on him, he completely recovered." i think this story, though naturally ridiculed and discredited by some, may be unreservedly accepted by those whose knowledge and experience of the occult warrant their belief in it. along the coast of brittany are many haunted spots, none more so than the "bay of the departed," where, in the dead of night, wails and cries, presumably uttered by the phantasms of drowned sailors, are distinctly heard by the terrified peasantry on shore. i can the more readily believe this, because i myself have heard similar sounds off the irish, scottish, and cornish coasts, where shrieks, and wails, and groans as of the drowning have been borne to me from the inky blackness of the foaming and tossing sea. according to mr hunt in his _romances of the west of england_, the sands of porth towan were haunted, a fisherman declaring that one night when he was walking on them alone, he suddenly heard a voice from the sea cry out, "the hour is come, but not the man." this was repeated three times, when a black figure, like that of a man, appeared on the crest of an adjacent hill, and, dashing down the steep side, rushed over the sands and vanished in the waves. in other parts of england, as well as in brittany and spain, a voice from the sea is always said to be heard prior to a storm and loss of life. in the bermudas, i have heard that before a wreck a huge white fish is often seen; whilst in the cape verde islands maritime disasters are similarly presaged by flocks of peculiarly marked gulls. on no more reliable authority than hearsay evidence, i understand that off the coast of finland a whirlpool suddenly appears close beside a vessel that is doomed to be wrecked, and that a like calamity is foretold off the coast of peru by the phantasm of a sailor who, in eighteenth-century costume, swarms up the side of the doomed ship, enters the captain's cabin, and, touching him on the shoulder, points solemnly at the porthole and vanishes. _river ghosts_ in china there is a strong belief that spots in rivers, creeks, and ponds where people have been drowned are haunted by devils that, concealing themselves either in the water itself or on the banks, spring out upon the unwary and drown them. to warn people against these dangerous elementals, a stone or pillar called "the fat-pee," on which the name of the future buddha or pam-mo-o-mee-to-foo is inscribed, is set up near the place where they are supposed to lurk, and when the hauntings become very frequent the evil spirit is exorcised. the ceremony of exorcism consists in the decapitation of a white horse by a specially selected executioner, on the site of the hauntings. the head of the slaughtered animal is placed in an earthenware jar, and buried in the exact spot where it was killed, which place is then carefully marked by the erection of a stone tablet with the words "o-me-o-to-fat" transcribed on it. the performance concludes with the cutting up and selling of the horse's body for food. amongst the numerous other creeks that have witnessed this practice in recent years are those adjoining the villages of tsze-tow (near whampoa) and gna-zew (near canton). various of the lakes, particularly the crater lakes of america, were once thought to be haunted by spirits or devils of a fiery red who raised storms and upset canoes. _sirens_ but by far the most fascinating of all the phantasms of the water are the sirens that haunted (and still occasionally haunt) rivers and waterfalls, particularly those of germany and austria. not so very long ago on my travels i came across an aged hungarian who declared that he had once seen a siren. i append the story he told me, as nearly as possible in his own words. "my brother hans and i were wandering, early one morning, along the banks of a tributary of the drave, in search of birds' eggs. the shores on either side the river were thickly wooded, and so rough and uneven in places that we had to exercise the greatest care to avoid getting hurt. few people visited the neighbourhood, save in the warmest and brightest time of the day, and, with the exception of a woodcutter, we had met no one. much, then, to our astonishment, on arriving at an open space on the bank, we heard the sound of singing and music. 'whoever can it be?' we asked ourselves, and then, advancing close to the water's edge, we strained our heads, and saw, perched high on a rock in midstream a few feet to our left, a girl with long yellow hair and a face of the most exquisite beauty. though i was too young then to trouble my head about girls, i could not help being struck with this one, whilst hans, who was several years older than i, was simply spellbound. 'my god! how lovely!' he cried out, 'and what a voice--how exquisite! isn't she divine? she is altogether too beautiful for a human being; she must be an angel,' and he fell on his knees and extended his hands towards her, as if in the act of worship. never having seen hans behave in such a queer way before, i touched him on the shoulder, and said: 'get up! if you go on like this the lady will think you mad. besides, it is getting late, we ought to be going on!' but hans did not heed me. he still continued to exclaim aloud, expressing his admiration in the most extravagant phrases; and then the girl ceased singing, and, looking at hans with her large blue eyes, smiled and beckoned him to approach. i caught hold of him, and begged and implored him to do nothing so foolish, but he wrenched himself free, and, striking me savagely on the chest, leaped into the water and swam towards the rock. "with what eagerness i counted his strokes and watched the dreaded distance diminish! on and on he swam, till at length he was close to the rock, and the lady, bending down, was holding out her lily hands to him. hans clutched at them, and they were, i thought, already in his fevered grasp, when she coyly snatched them away and struck him playfully on the head. the cruel, hungry waters then surged over him. i saw him sink down, down, down: i saw him no more. when i raised my agonised eyes to the rocks, all was silent and desolate: the lady had vanished." chapter xii buddhas and boggle chairs it was in paris, at the hotel mandeville, that i met the baroness paoli, an almost solitary survivor of the famous corsican family. i was introduced to her by john heroncourt, a friend in common, and the introduction was typical of his characteristic unorthodoxy. "mr elliott o'donnell, the baroness paoli. mr elliott o'donnell is a writer on the superphysical. he is unlike the majority of psychical researchers, inasmuch as he has not based his knowledge on hearsay, but has actually seen, heard, and felt occult phenomena, both collectively and individually." the baroness smiled. "then i am delighted to meet mr o'donnell, for i, too, have had experience with the superphysical." she extended her hand; the introduction was over. a man in my line of life has to work hard. my motto is promptness. i have no time to waste on superfluity of any kind. i come to the point at once. consequently, my first remark to the baroness was direct from the shoulder: "your experiences. please tell them--they will be both interesting and useful." the baroness gently clasped her hands--truly psychic hands, with slender fingers and long shapely nails--and, looking at me fixedly, said: "if you write about it, promise that you will not mention names." "they shall at all events be unrecognisable," i said. "please begin." and without further delay the baroness commenced her story. "you must know," she said, "that in my family, as in most historical families--particularly corsican--there have been many tragedies. in some cases merely orthodox tragedies--a smile, a blow, a groan; in other cases peculiar tragedies--peculiar even in that country and in the grimness of the mediæval age. "since the headquarters of my branch of the paolis has been at sartoris, once the strongest fortified castle in corsica, but now, alas! almost past repair, in fact little better than a heap of crumbling ruins. as you know, mr o'donnell, it takes a vast fortune to keep such a place merely habitable. "i lived there with my mother until my marriage two years ago, and neither she nor i had ever seen or heard any superphysical manifestations. from time to time some of the servants complained of odd noises, and there was one room which none of them would pass alone even in daylight; but we laughed at their fears, merely attributing them to the superstition which is so common among the corsican peasants. "the year after my marriage, my husband, a mr vercoe, who was a great friend of ours, and i, accepted my mother's invitation to spend christmas with her, and we all three travelled together to sartoris. "it was an ideal season, and the snow--an exceptional sight in my native town--lay thick in the castle grounds. "but to get on with my story--for i see i must not try your patience with unnecessary detail--i must give you a brief description of the bedroom in which my husband and i slept. like all the rooms in the castle, it was oak panelled throughout. floor, ceiling, and walls, all were of oak, and the bed, also of oak, and certainly of no later date than the fourteenth century, was superbly carved, and had been recently valued at £ , . "there were two entrances, the one leading into a passage, and the other into a large reception room, formerly a chapel, at the furthest extremity of which was a huge barred and bolted door that had not been opened for more than a hundred years. this door led down a flight of stone steps to a series of ancient dungeons that occupied the space underneath our bedroom and the reception room. "on christmas eve we retired to rest somewhat earlier than usual, and, being tired after a long day's motoring, speedily fell into a deep sleep. we awoke simultaneously, both querying the time and agreeing that it must be about five o'clock. "whilst we were talking, we suddenly heard, to our utter astonishment, the sound of footsteps--heavy footsteps--accompanied by a curious clanging sound, immediately beneath us; and, as if by mutual consent, we both held our breath and listened. "the footsteps moved on, and we presently heard them begin to ascend the stone steps leading to the adjoining room. up, up, up, they came, until, having reached the summit, they paused. then we heard the huge, heavy bolts of the fast-closed door shoot back with a sonorous clash. so far i had been rather more puzzled than frightened, and the idea of ghosts had not entered my mind, but when i heard the door--the door which i knew to be so securely fastened from the inside--thus opened, a great fear swept over me, and i prayed heaven to save us from what might ensue. "several people, talking rapidly in gruff voices, now entered the room, and we distinctly heard the jingling of spurs and the rattling of sword scabbards coming to us distinctly through the cracks of the door. "i was so paralysed with fear that i could do nothing. i could neither speak nor move, and my very soul was concentrated in one great, sickly dread, one awful anticipation that the intruders would burst into our room, and, before our very eyes, perform unthinkable horrors. "to my immeasurable relief, however, this did not happen. the footsteps, as far as i could judge, advanced into the middle of the room--there was a ghastly suggestion of a scuffle, of a smothered cry, a gurgle; and the mailed feet then retired whence they had come, dragging with them some heavy load which bumped, bumped, bumped down the stairs and into the cellar. then a brief silence followed, abruptly broken by the sound of a girlish voice, which, though beautifully tintinnabulous, was unearthly, and full of suggestions so sinister and blood-curdling, that the fetters which had hitherto held me tongue-tied snapped asunder, and i was able to give vent to my terror in words. the instant i did so the singing ceased, all was still, and not another sound disturbed us till morning. "we got up as soon as we dared and found the door at the head of the dungeon steps barred and bolted as usual, while the heavy and antique furniture in the apartment showed no sign of having been disturbed. "on the following night my husband sat up in the room adjoining our bedroom, to see if there would be a repetition of what had taken place the night before, but nothing occurred, and we never heard the noises again. "that is one experience. the other, though not our own, was almost coincidental, and happened to our engineer friend, mr vercoe. when we told him about the noises we had heard, he roared with laughter. "'well,' he said, 'i always understood you corsicans were superstitious, but this beats everything. the regulation stereotype ghost in armour and clanking chains, eh! do you know what the sounds were, baroness? rats!' and he smiled odiously. "then a sudden idea flashed across me. 'look here, mr vercoe,' i exclaimed, 'there is one room in our castle i defy even you--sceptic as you are--to sleep in. it is the barceleri chamber, called after my ancestor, barceleri paoli. he visited china in the fifteenth century, bringing back with him a number of chinese curiosities, and a buddha which i shrewdly suspect he had stolen from a canton temple. the room is much the same as when my ancestor occupied it, for no one has slept in it since. moreover, the servants declare that the noises they so frequently hear come from it. but, of course, you won't mind spending a night in it?' "mr vercoe laughed. 'he, he, he! only too delighted. give me a bottle of your most excellent vintage, and i defy any ghost that was ever created!' "he was as good as his word, mr o'donnell, and though he had advised the contrary, we--that is to say, my mother, my husband, our two old servants and i--sat up in one of the rooms close at hand. "eleven, twelve, one, two, and three o'clock struck, and we were beginning to wish we had taken his advice and gone to bed, when we heard the most appalling, agonising, soul-rending screams for help. we rushed out, and, as we did so, the door of mr vercoe's room flew open and something--something white and glistening--bounded into the candle-light. "we were so shocked, so absolutely petrified with terror, that it was a second or so before we realised that it was mr vercoe--not the mr vercoe we knew, but an entirely different mr vercoe--a mr vercoe without a stitch of clothing, and with a face metamorphosed into a lurid, solid block of horror, overspreading which was a suspicion of something--something too dreadful to name, but which we could have sworn was utterly at variance with his nature. close at his heels was the blurred outline of something small and unquestionably horrid. i cannot define it. i dare not attempt to diagnose the sensations it produced. apart from a deadly, nauseating fear, they were mercifully novel. "dashing past us, mr vercoe literally hurled himself along the corridor, and with almost superhuman strides, disappeared downstairs. a moment later, and the clashing of the hall door told us he was in the open air. a breathless silence fell on us, and for some seconds we were all too frightened to move. my husband was the first to pull himself together. "'come along!' he cried, gripping one of the trembling servants by the arm. 'come along instantly! we must keep him in sight at all costs,' and, bidding me remain where i was, he raced downstairs. "after a long search he eventually discovered mr vercoe lying at full length on the grass--insensible. "for some weeks our friend's condition was critical--on the top of a violent shock to the system, sufficient in itself to endanger life, he had taken a severe chill, which resulted in double pneumonia. however, thanks to a bull-dog constitution, typically english, he recovered, and we then begged him to give us an account of all that had happened. "'i cannot!' he said. 'my one desire is to forget everything that happened on that awful night.' "he was obdurate, and our curiosity was, therefore, doomed to remain unsatisfied. both my husband and i, however, felt quite sure that the image of buddha was at the bottom of the mischief, and, as there chanced just then to be an english doctor staying at a neighbouring chateau, who was on his way to china, we entrusted the image to him, on the understanding that he would place it in a buddhist temple. he deceived us, and, returning almost immediately to england, took the image with him. we subsequently learned that within three months this man was divorced, that he murdered a woman in clapham rise, and, in order to escape arrest, poisoned himself. "the image then found its way to a pawnbroker's establishment in houndsditch, which shortly afterwards was burned to the ground. where it is now, i cannot definitely say, but i have been told that an image of buddha is the sole occupant of an empty house in the shepherd's bush road--a house that is now deemed haunted. these are the experiences i wanted to tell you, mr o'donnell. what do you think of them?" "i think," i said, "they are of absorbing interest. can you see any association in the two hauntings--any possible connection between what you heard and what mr vercoe saw?" a look of perplexity crossed the baroness's face. "i hardly know," she said. "what is your opinion on that point?" "that they are distinct--absolutely distinct. the phenomena you heard are periodical re-enactions, (either by the earth-bound spirits of the actual victim and perpetrators, or by impersonating phantoms), of a crime once committed within the castle walls. a girl was obviously murdered in the chapel and her coffin dragged into the dungeons, where, no doubt, her remains are to be found. i presume it was her spirit you heard tintinnabulating. very possibly, if her skeleton were unearthed and re-interred in an orthodox fashion, the hauntings would cease. "now, with regard to your friend's experience. the blurred figure you saw pursuing the engineer was not the image of buddha--it was one of mr vercoe's many personalities, extracted from him by the image of buddha. we are all, as you are aware, complex creatures, all composed of diverse selves, each self possessing a specific shape and individuality. the more animal of these separate selves, the higher spiritual forces attaching themselves to certain localities and symbols have the power of drawing out of us, and eventually destroying. the higher spiritual forces, however, do not associate themselves with all crucifixes and buddhas, but only with those moulded by true believers. for instance, a buddha fashioned for mere gain, and by a person who was not a genuine follower of the prophet, would have no power of attraction. "i have proved all this, experimentally, times without number. "mr vercoe must have had--as indeed many of us have--vices, in all probability, little suspected. the close proximity of the buddha acted on them, and they began to leave his body and form a shape of their own. had he allowed them to do so, all might have gone well; they would have been effectually overcome by the higher spiritual forces attached to the buddha. but as soon as he saw a figure beginning to form--and no doubt it was very dreadful--he lost his head. his shrieks interrupted the work, the power of the buddha was, _pro tempus_, at an end, and the extracted personality commenced at once to re-enter vercoe. rushing at him with that end in view, it so terrified him that he fled from the room, and it was at that stage that you appeared upon the scene. what followed is, of course, pure conjecture on my part, but i fear, i greatly fear, that by the time mr vercoe became unconscious the mischief was done, and the latter's evil personality had once again united with his other personalities." "and what would be the after-effect, mr o'donnell?" the baroness inquired anxiously. "i fear a serious one," i replied evasively. "in the case of the doctor you mentioned, who committed murder, an evil ego had doubtless been expelled, and, receiving a rebuff, had reunited, for after a reunion the evil personality usually receives a new impetus and grows with amazing rapidity. have you heard from mr vercoe lately?" the baroness shook her head. "not for several months." "you will let me know when you do?" she nodded. a week later she wrote to me from rome. "isn't it terrible?" she began, "mr vercoe committed suicide on wednesday--the birmingham papers--he was a birmingham man--are full of it!" _the barrowvian_ the description of an adventure mr trobas, a friend of mine, had with a barrowvian in brittany (and which i omitted to relate when referring to barrowvians), i now append as nearly as possible in his own words:-- "night! a sky partially concealed from view by dark, fantastically shaped clouds, that, crawling along with a slow, stealthy motion, periodically obscure the moon. the crest of a hill covered with short-clipped grass, much worn away in places, and in the centre a druidical circle broken and incomplete; a few of the stones are erect, the rest either lie at full length on the sward, close to the mystic ring, or at some considerable distance from it. here and there are distinct evidences of recent digging, and at the base of one of the horizontal stones is an excavation of no little depth. "a sudden, but only temporary clearance of the sky reveals the surrounding landscape; the rugged mountain side, flecked with gleaming granite boulders and bordered with sturdy hedges (a mixture of mud and bracken), and beyond them the meadows, traversed by sinuous streams whose scintillating surfaces sparkle like diamonds in the silvery moonlight. at rare intervals the scene is variegated, and nature interrupted, by a mill or a cottage,--toy-like when viewed from such an altitude,--and then the sweep of meadowland continues, undulating gently till it finds repose at the foot of some distant ridge of cone-shaped mountains. over everything there is a hush, awe-inspiring in its intensity. not the cry of a bird, not the howl of a dog, not the rustle of a leaf; there is nothing, nothing but the silence of the most profound sleep. in these remote rural districts man retires to rest early, the physical world accompanying him; and all nature dreams simultaneously. "it was shortly after the commencement of this period of universal slumber, one night in april, that i toiled laboriously to the summit of the hill in question, and, spreading a rug on one of the fallen stones, converted it into a seat. naturally i had not climbed this steep ascent without a purpose. the reason was this--at eight-thirty that morning i received a telegram from a friend at armennes, near carnac, which ran thus: 'am in great difficulty--ghosts--come.--krantz.' "of course krantz is not the real name of my friend, but it is one that answers the purpose admirably in telegrams and on post-cards; and of course he well knew what he was about when he said 'come.' not only i but everyone has confidence in krantz, and i was absolutely certain that when he demanded my presence, the money i should spend on the journey would not be spent in vain. "apart from psychical investigation, i study every phase of human nature, and am at present, among other things, engaged on a work of criminology based on impressions derived from face-to-face communication with notorious criminals. "the morning i received krantz's summons was the morning i had set aside for a special study of s---- m----, whose case has recently commanded so much public attention; but the moment i read the wire, i changed my plans, without either hesitation or compunction. krantz was krantz, and his dictum could not be disobeyed. "tearing down la rue saint denis, and narrowly avoiding collision with a lady who lives in la rue saint françois, and will persist in wearing hats and heels that outrage alike every sense of decency and good form, i hustled into the station, and, rushing down the steps, just succeeded in catching the carnac train. after a journey which, for slowness, most assuredly holds the record, i arrived, boiling over with indignation, at armennes, where krantz met me. after luncheon he led the way to his study, and, as soon as the servant who handed us coffee had left the room, began his explanation of the telegram. "'as you know, trobas,' he observed, 'it's not all bliss to be a landlord. up to the present i have been singularly fortunate, inasmuch as i have never experienced any difficulty in getting tenants for my houses. now, however, there has been a sudden and most alarming change, and i have just received no less than a dozen notices from tenants desirous of giving up their habitations at once. here they are!' and he handed me a bundle of letters, for the most part written in the scrawling hand of the illiterate. 'if you look,' he went on, 'you will see that none of them give any reason for leaving. it is merely--"we cannot possibly stay here any longer," or "we must give up possession immediately," which they have done, and in every instance before the quarter was up. being naturally greatly astonished and perturbed, i made careful inquiries, and, at length--for the north country rustic is most reticent and difficult to "draw"--succeeded in extracting from three of them the reason for the general exodus. the houses are all haunted! there was nothing amiss with them, they informed me, till about three weeks ago, when they all heard all sorts of alarming noises--crashes as if every atom of crockery they possessed was being broken; bangs on the panels of doors; hideous groans; diabolical laughs; and blood-curdling screams. nor was that all; some of them vowed they had seen things--horrible hairy hands, with claw-like nails and knotted joints, that came out of dark corners and grabbed at them; naked feet with enormous filthy toes; and faces--horrible faces that peeped at them over the banisters or through the windows; and sooner than stand any more of it--sooner than have their wives and bairns frightened out of their senses, they would sacrifice a quarter's rent and go. "we are sorry, mr krantz," they said in conclusion, "for you have been a most considerate landlord, but stay we cannot."' here my friend paused. "'and have you no explanation of these hauntings?' i asked. "krantz shook his head. 'no!' he said, 'the whole thing is a most profound mystery to me. at first i attributed it to practical jokers, people dressed up; but a couple of nights' vigil in the haunted district soon dissipated that theory.' "'you say district,' i remarked. 'are the houses close together--in the same road or valley?' "'in a valley,' krantz responded--'the valley of dolmen. it is ten miles from here.' "'dolmen!' i murmured, 'why dolmen?' "'because,' krantz explained, 'in the centre of the valley is a hill, on the top of which is a druids' circle.' "'how far are the houses off the hill?' i queried. "'various distances,' krantz replied; 'one or two very close to the base of it, and others further away.' "'but within a radius of a few miles?' "krantz nodded. 'oh yes,' he answered. 'the valley itself is small. i intend taking you there to-night. i thought we would watch outside one of the houses.' "'if you don't mind,' i said, 'i would rather not. anyway not to-night. tell me how to get there and i will go alone.' "krantz smiled. 'you are a strange creature, trobas,' he said, 'the strangest in the world. i sometimes wonder if you are an elemental. at all events, you occupy a category all to yourself. of course go alone, if you would rather. i shall be far happier here, and if you can find a satisfactory solution to the mystery and put an end to the hauntings, i shall be eternally grateful. when will you start, and what will you take with you?' "'if that clock of yours is right, krantz,' i exclaimed, pointing to a gun-metal timepiece on the mantelshelf, 'in half an hour. as the night promises to be cold, let me have some strong brandy-and-water, a dozen oatmeal biscuits, a thick rug, and a lantern. nothing else!' "krantz carried out my instructions to the letter. his motor took me to dolmen valley, and at eight o'clock i began the ascent of the hill. on reaching the summit, i uttered an exclamation. 'someone has been excavating, and quite recently!' "it was precisely what i had anticipated. some weeks previously, a member of the lyons literary club, to which i belong, had informed me that a party of geologist friends of his had been visiting the cromlechs of brittany, and had committed the most barbarous depredations there. hence, the moment krantz mentioned the 'druidical circle,' i associated the spot with the visit of the geologists; and knowing only too well that disturbances of ancient burial grounds almost always lead to occult manifestations, i decided to view the place at once. "that i had not erred in my associations was now only too apparent. abominable depredations had been committed,--doubtless, by the people to whom i have alluded--and, unless i was grossly mistaken, herein lay the clue to the hauntings. "the air being icy, i had to wrap both my rug and my overcoat tightly round me to prevent myself from freezing, and every now and then i got up and stamped my feet violently on the hard ground to restore the circulation. "so far there had been nothing in the atmosphere to warn me of the presence of the superphysical, but, precisely at eleven o'clock, i detected the sudden amalgamation, with the ether, of that enigmatical, indefinable something, to which i have so frequently alluded in my past adventures. and now began that period of suspense which 'takes it out of me' even more than the encounter with the phenomenon itself. over and over again i asked myself the hackneyed, but none the less thrilling question, 'what form will it take? will it be simply a phantasm of a dead celt, or some peculiarly grotesque and awful elemental[ ] attracted to the spot by human remains?' [ ] either a barrowvian or vagrarian. vide _haunted houses of london_ (published by eveleigh nash) and _ghostly phenomena_ (published by werner laurie). "minute after minute passed, and nothing happened. it is curious, how at night, especially when the moon is visible, the landscape seems to undergo a complete metamorphosis. objects not merely increase in size, but vary in shape, and become possessed of an animation suggestive of all sorts of lurking, secretive possibilities. it was so now. the boulders in front and around me, presented the appearance of grotesque beasts, whose hidden eyes i could feel following my every movement with sly interest. the one solitary fir adorning the plateau was a tree no longer but an ogre, _pro tempus_, concealing the grim terrors of its spectral body beneath its tightly folded limbs. the stones of the circle opposite were ghoulish, hump-backed things that crouched and squatted in all kinds of fantastic attitudes and tried to read my thoughts. the shadows, too, that, swarming from the silent tarns and meadows, ascended with noiseless footsteps the rugged sides of the hill, and, taking cover of even the smallest obstacles, stalked me with unremitting persistency, were no mere common shadows, but intangible, pulpy things that breathed the spirit of the great unknown. yet nothing specified came to frighten me. the stillness was so emphatic that each time i moved, the creaking of my clothes and limbs created echoes. i yawned, and from on all sides of me came a dozen other yawns. i sighed, and the very earth beneath me swayed with exaggerated sympathy. "the silence irritated me. i grew angry; i coughed, laughed, whistled; and from afar off, from the distant lees, and streams, and spinneys, came a repetition of the noises. "then the blackest of clouds creeping slowly over the moor crushed the sheen out of the valley and smothered everything in sable darkness. the silence of death supervened, and my anger turned to fear. around me there was now--nothing--only a void. black ether and space! space! a sanctuary from fear, and yet composed of fear itself. it was the space, the nameless, bottomless something spreading limitless all around me, that, filling me with vague apprehensions, confused me with its terrors. what was it? whence came it? i threw out my arms and something, something which i intuitively knew to be there, but which i cannot explain, receded. i drew them in again, and the same something instantly oppressed me with its close--its very close proximity. "i gasped for breath and tried to move my arms again--i could not. a sudden rigor held me spellbound, and fixed my eyes on the darkness directly ahead of me. then, from somewhere in my rear, came a laugh--hoarse, malignant, and bestial, and i was conscious that the something had materialised and was creeping stealthily towards me. nearer, nearer and nearer it came, and all the time i wondered what, what in the name of god it was like! my anticipations became unbearable, the pulsations of my heart and the feverish throbbing of my temples warning me that, if the climax were postponed much longer, i should either die where i sat, or go mad. that i did neither, was due to a divine inspiration which made me suddenly think of a device that i had once seen on a druidical stone in brittany--the sun, a hand with the index and little fingers pointing downwards, and a sprig of mistletoe. the instant i saw them in my mind's eye, the cords that held me paralytic slackened. "i sprang up, and there, within a yard of where i had sat, was a figure--the luminous nude figure of a creature, half man and half ape. standing some six feet high, it had a clumsy, thick-set body, covered in places with coarse, bristly hair, arms of abnormal length and girth, legs swelling with huge muscles and much bowed, and a very large and long dark head. the face was dreadful!--it was the face of something long since dead; and out of the mass of peeling, yellow skin and mouldering tissues gleamed two lurid and wholly malevolent eyes. our glances met, and, as they did so, a smile of hellish glee suffused its countenance. then, crouching down in cat-like fashion on its disgusting hands, it made ready to spring. again the device of the sun and mistletoe arose before me. my fingers instinctively closed on my pocket flashlight. i pressed the button and, as the brilliant, white ray shot forth, the satanical object before me vanished. then i turned tail, and never ceased running till i had arrived at the spot on the high-road where krantz's motor awaited me. * * * * * "after breakfast next morning, krantz listened to my account of the midnight adventure in respectful silence. "'then!' he said, when i had finished, 'you attribute the hauntings in the valley to the excavations of the geologist leblanc and his party, at the cromlech six weeks ago?' "'entirely,' i replied. "'and you think, if leblanc and cie were persuaded to restore and re-inter the remains they found and carted away, that the disturbances would cease?' "'i am sure of it!' i said. "'then,' krantz exclaimed, banging his clenched fist on the table, 'i will approach them on the subject at once!' "he did so, and, after much correspondence, eventually received per goods train, a tate's sugar cube-box, containing a number of bones of the missing link pattern, which he at once had taken to the druids' circle. as soon as they were buried and the marks of the recent excavations obliterated, the hauntings in the houses ceased." _boggle chairs_ "killington grange," near northampton, was once haunted, so my friend mr pope informs me, by a chair, and the following is mr pope's own experience of the hauntings, as nearly as possible as he related it to me:-- "some years ago, shortly before christmas, i received an invitation from my old friend, william achrow. "'killington grange, 'northampton. "'dear pope' (he wrote)--'my wife and i are entertaining a few guests here this christmas, and are most anxious to include you among them. "'when i tell you that sir charles and lady kirlby are coming, and that we can offer you something startling in the way of a ghost, you will, i know, need no further inducement to join our party.--yours, etc., "'w. achrow.' "achrow was a cunning fellow; he knew i would go a thousand miles to meet the kirlbys, who had been my greatest friends in ireland, and that ghosts invariably drew me like magnets. at that time i was a bachelor; i had no one to think about but myself, and as i felt pretty sure of a fresh theatrical engagement in the early spring, i was happily careless with regard to expenditure--and to people of limited incomes like myself, staying in country houses means expenditure, a great deal more expenditure than a week or so at an ordinary hotel. "however, as i have observed, i felt pretty secure just then; i could afford a couple of 'fivers,' and would gladly get rid of them to see once more my dear old friends, sir charles and lady k----. accordingly, i accepted achrow's invitation, and the afternoon of december rd saw me snugly ensconced in a first-class compartment _en route_ for castle street, northampton. now, although i am, not unnaturally, perhaps, prejudiced in favour of ireland and everything that is irish, i must say i do not think the emerald isle shows her best in winter, when the banks of fair killarney are shorn of their vivid colouring, and the whole country from north to south, and east to west, is carpeted with mud. no, the palm of wintry beauty must assuredly be given to the english midlands--the midlands with their stolid and richly variegated woodlands, and their pretty undulating meadows, clad in fleecy garments of the purest, softest, and most glittering snow. it was a typical midland christmas when i got to northampton and took my place in the luxurious closed carriage achrow had sent to meet me. "killington grange lies at the extremity of the village. it stands in its own grounds of some hundred or so acres, and is approached by a long avenue that winds its way from the lodge gates through endless rows of giant oaks and elms, and slender, silver birches. on either side, to the rear of the trees, lay broad stretches of undulating pasture land, that in one place terminated in the banks of a large lake, now glittering with ice and wrapped in the silence of death. "the crunching of the carriage wheels on gravel, the termination of the trees, and a great blaze of light announced the close proximity of the house, and in a few seconds i was standing on the threshold of an imposing entrance. "a footman took my valise, and before i had crossed the spacious hall, i was met by my host and kind old friends, whose combined and hearty greetings were a happy forecast of what was to come. indeed, at a merrier dinner party i have never sat down, though in god's truth i have dined in all kinds of places, and with all sorts of people: with princesses of the royal blood, aflame with all the hauteur of their race; with earls and counts; with blood-thirsty anarchists; with bishops and salvationists, miners and policemen, dagos and indians (red and brown); with japs, russians, and poles; and, in short, with the _élite_ and the rag-tag and bobtail of all climes. but, as i have already said, i had seldom if ever enjoyed a dinner as i enjoyed this one. "possibly the reason was not far to find--there was little or no formality; we were all old friends; we had one cause in common--love of ireland; we hadn't met for years, and we knew not if we should ever meet again, for our paths in life were not likely to converge. "but christmas is no season for prigs and dullards, and, possibly, this rare enjoyment was, in no small measure, due to the delightful snugness and, at the same time, artistic nature of our surroundings, and to the excellence, the surpassing excellence of the vintage, which made our hearts mellow and our tongues loose. "long did our host, sir charles, and i sit over the dessert table, after the ladies had left us, filling and refilling our glasses; and it was close on ten before we repaired to the drawing-room. "'lady kirlby,' i said, seating myself next her on a divan, 'i want to hear about the ghost. up to the present i confess i have been so taken up with more material and, may i add'--casting a well-measured glance of admiration at her beautifully moulded features and lovely eyes--lovely, in spite of the cruel hand of time which had streaked her chestnut hair with grey--'infinitely more pleasing subjects, that i have not even thought about the superphysical. william, however, informs me that there is a ghost here--he has, of course, told you.' "but at this very psychological moment mrs achrow interrupted: 'now, no secrets, you two,' she said laughingly, leaning over the back of the divan and tapping lady kirlby playfully on the arm. 'there must be no mention of ghosts till it is close on bedtime, and the lights are low.' "lady kirlby gave me a pitying look, but it was of no avail; the word of our hostess was paramount, and i did not learn what was in store for me until it was too late to retreat. at half-past eleven william achrow turned out the gas, and when we were all seated round the fire, he suggested we should each relate in turn, the most thrilling ghost tale we had ever heard. the idea, being approved of generally, was carried out, and when we had been thrilled, as assuredly we had never been thrilled before, william coolly proclaimed that he had put me in the haunted room. "'i am sure,' he said, amid a roar of the most unfeeling laughter, in which all but the tender-hearted lady kirlby joined, 'that your nerves are now in the most suitable state for psychical investigation, and that it won't be your fault if you don't see the ghost. and a very horrible one it is, at least so i am told, though i cannot say i have ever seen it myself. no! i won't tell you anything about it now--i want to hear your version of it first.' "with a few more delicate insinuations, made, as he candidly confessed, in the fervent hope of frightening me still more, on the stroke of midnight my friend conducted me to my quarters. 'you will have it all to yourself,' he said, as we traversed a tremendously long and gloomy corridor that connected the two wings of the house, 'for all the rooms on this side are at present unoccupied, and those immediately next to yours haven't been slept in for years--there is something about them that doesn't appeal to my guests. what it is i can't say--i leave that to you. here we are!' and, as he spoke, he threw open a door. a current of icy cold air slammed it to and blew out my light, and as i groped for the door-handle, i heard my host's footsteps retreating hurriedly down the corridor, whilst he wished me a rather nervous good-night. "relighting my candle and shutting the window--achrow is one of those open-air fiends who never had a bronchial cold in his life, and expects everyone else to be equally immune--i found myself in a room that was well calculated to strike even the most hardened ghost-hunter with awe. "it was coffin-shaped, large, narrow, and lofty; and floor, panelling, and furniture were of the blackest oak. "the bedstead, a four-poster of the most funereal type, stood near the fireplace, from which a couple of thick pine logs sent out a ruddy glare; and directly opposite the foot of the bed, with its back to the wall, stood an ebony chair, which, although in a position that should have necessitated its receiving a generous share of the fire's rays, was nevertheless shrouded in such darkness that i could only discern its front legs--a phenomenon that did not strike me as being peculiar till afterwards. "between the chair and the ingle, was a bay window overlooking one angle of the lawn, a side path connecting the back premises of the house with the drive, and a dense growth of evergreens, poplars, limes, and copper beeches, the branches of which were now weighed down beneath layer upon layer of snow. "the room, as i have stated, was long, but i did not realise how long until i was in the act of getting into bed, when my eyes struggled in vain to reach the remote corners of the chamber and the recesses of the vaulted and fretted ceiling, which were fast presenting the startling appearance of being overhung with an impenetrable pall, such a pall as forms the gloomy coverlet of a hearse; the similarity being increased by waving plume-like shadows that suddenly appeared--from god knows where!--on the floor and wall. "that the room was genuinely haunted i had not now the slightest doubt, for the atmosphere was charged to the very utmost with superphysical impressions--the impressions of a monstrous hearse, with all the sickly paraphernalia of black flowing drapery and scented pine wood. "i was annoyed with william achrow. i had wanted to see him; i had wanted to meet the kirlbys; but a ghost--no! honestly, candidly--no! i had not slept well for nights, and after the good things i had eaten at dinner and that excellent vintage, i had been looking forward to a sound, an unusually sound sleep. now, however, my hopes were dashed on the head--the room was haunted--haunted by something gloomily, damnably evil, evil with an evilness that could only have originated in hell. such were my impressions when i got into bed. contrary to my expectations, i soon fell asleep. i was awakened by a creak, the loud but unmistakable creak of a chair. now, the creaking of furniture is no uncommon thing. there are few of us who have not at some time or other heard an empty chair creak, and attributed that creaking either to expansion of the wood through heat, or to some other equally physical cause. but are we always right? may not that creaking be sometimes due to an invisible presence in the chair? why not? the laws that govern the superphysical are not known to us at present. we only know from our own experiences and from the compiled testimony of various reputable research societies that there is a superphysical, and that the superphysical is a fact which is acknowledged by several of the greatest scientists of the day. "but to continue. the creaking of a chair roused me from my sleep. i sat up in bed, and as my eyes wandered involuntarily to the ebony chair to which i have already alluded, i again heard the creaking. "my sense of hearing now became painfully acute, and, impelled by a fascination i could not resist, i held my breath and listened. as i did so, i distinctly heard the sound of stealthy respiration. either the chair or something in it was breathing, breathing with a subtle gentleness. "the fire had now burned low; only a glimmer, the very faintest perceptible glimmer, came from the logs; hence i had to depend for my vision on the soft white glow that stole in through the trellised window-panes. "the chair creaked again, and at the back of it, and at a distance of about four feet from the ground, i encountered the steady glare of two long, pale, and wholly evil eyes, that regarded me with a malevolency that held me spellbound; my terror being augmented by my failure to detect any other features saving the eyes, and only a vague something which i took for a body. "i remained in a sitting posture for many minutes without being able to remove my gaze, and when i did look away, i instinctively felt that the eyes were still regarding me, and that the something, of which the eyes were a part, was waiting for an opportunity to creep from its hiding-place and pounce upon me. "this is, i think, what would have happened had it not been for the very opportune arrival of the killington waits, who, bursting out with a terrific and discordant version of 'the mistletoe bough,' which, by the way, is somewhat inexplicably regarded as appropriate to the festive season, effectually broke the superphysical spell, and when i looked again at the chair, the eyes had gone. "feeling quite secure now, i lay down, and, in spite of the many interruptions, managed to secure a tolerably good night's sleep. "at breakfast everyone was most anxious to know if i had seen the ghost, but i held my tongue. the spirit of adventure had been rekindled in me, my sporting instinct had returned, and i was ready and eager to see the phenomena again; but until i had done so, and had put it to one or two tests, i decided to say nothing about it. "the day passed pleasantly--how could it be otherwise in william achrow's admirably appointed household?--and the night found me once again alone in my sepulchral bed-chamber. "this time i did not get into bed, but took my seat in an easy-chair by the fire (which i took care was well replenished with fuel), my face turned in the direction of the spot where the eyes had appeared. the weather was inclined to be boisterous, and frequent gusts of wind, rumbling and moaning through the long and gloomy aisle of the avenue, plundered the trees of the loose-hanging snow and hurled it in fleecy clouds against the walls and windows. "i had been sitting there about an hour when i suddenly felt i was no longer alone; a peculiarly cold tremor, that was not, i feel sure, due to any actual fall in the temperature of the room, ran through me, and my teeth chattered. as on the previous occasion, however, my senses were abnormally alive, and as i watched--instinct guiding my eyes to the ebony chair--i heard a creak, and the sound of something breathing. the antagonistic presence was once again there. i essayed to speak, to repeat the form of address i had constantly rehearsed, to say and do something that would tempt the unknown into some form of communication. i could do nothing. i was lip-bound, powerless to move; and then from out of the superphysical darkness there gleamed the eyes, lidless, lurid, bestial. a shape was there, too: a shape which, although still vague, dreadfully so, was nevertheless more pronounced than on the former occasion, and i felt that it only needed time, time and an enforced, an involuntary amount of scrutiny on my part, to see that shape materialise into something satanical and definite. "i waited--i was obliged to wait--when, even as before--heaven be praised!--the arrival of the gallant waits, (i say, gallant, for the night had fast become a white inferno) loosened my fetters, and as i sprang towards the chair, the eyes vanished. "i then got into bed and slept heavily till the morning. "to their great disappointment, the clamorous breakfasters learned nothing--i kept the adventure rigidly to myself, and that night, christmas night, found me, for the third time, listening for the sounds from the mysterious, the hideously, hellishly mysterious, high-backed, ebony chair. "there had been a severe storm during the day, and the wind had howled with cyclonic force around the house; but there was silence now, an almost preternatural silence; and the lawn, lavishly bestrewn with huge heaps of driven snow, and broken, twisted branches, presented the appearance of a titanic battlefield. in marked contrast to the disturbed condition of the ground, the sky was singularly serene, and broad beams of phosphorescent light poured in through the diamond window-panes on to the bed, in which i was sitting, bolt upright. "one o'clock struck, and ere the hollow-sounding vibrations had ceased, the vague form once again appeared behind the chair, and the malignant, evil eyes met mine in a diabolical stare; whilst, as before, on trying to speak or move, i found myself tongue-tied and paralysed. as the moments slowly glided away, the shape of the thing became more and more distinct; a dark and sexless face appeared, surmounted with a straggling mass of black hair, the ends of which melted away into mist. i saw no trunk, but i descried two long and bony arms, ebony as the chair, with crooked, spidery, misty fingers. as i watched its development with increasing horror, hoping and praying for the arrival of the never-again-to-be-despised waits, i suddenly realised with a fresh grip of terror that the chair had moved out of the corner, and that the thing behind it was slowly creeping towards me. "as it approached, the outlines of its face and limbs became clearer. i knew that it was something repulsively, diabolically grotesque, but whether the phantasm of man, or woman, or hellish elemental, i couldn't for the life of me say; and this uncertainty, making my fear all the more poignant, added to my already sublime sufferings, those of the damned. "it passed the chair on which my dress-shirt flashed whiter than the snow in the moonlight; it passed the tomb-like structure constituting the foot-board of the bed; and as in my frantic madness i strained and strained at the cruel cords that held me paralytic, it crept on to the counterpane and wriggled noiselessly towards me. "even then, though its long, pale eyes were close to mine, and the ends of its tangled hair curled around me, and its icy corpse-tainted breath scoured my cheeks, even then--i could not see its body nor give it a name. "clawing at my throat with its sable fingers, it thrust me backwards, and i sank gasping, retching, choking on to the pillow, where i underwent all the excruciating torments of strangulation; strangulation by something tangible, yet intangible, something that could create sensation without being itself sensitive; something detestably, abominably wicked and wholly hostile, madly hostile in its attitude towards mankind. "what i suffered is indescribable, and it was to me interminable. days, months, years, seemed to pass, and i was still being suffocated, still feeling the inexorable crunch of those fingers, still peering into the livid depths of those gloating, fiendish eyes. and then--then, as i was on the eve of abandoning all hope, a thousand and one tumultuous noises buzzed in my ears, my eyes swam blood, and i lost consciousness. when i recovered, the dawn was breaking and all evidences of the superphysical had disappeared. "i did not tell achrow what i had experienced, but expressed, instead, the greatest astonishment that anyone should have thought the room was haunted. 'haunted indeed!' i said. 'nonsense! if anything haunts it, it is the ghost of some philanthropist, for i never slept sounder in my life. i am, as you know, william, extremely sensitive to the superphysical, but in this instance, i can assure you, i was disappointed, greatly disappointed, so much so that i am going home at once; it would be mere waste of my valuable time to stay any longer in the vain hope of investigating, when there is nothing to investigate. how came you to get hold of such a crazy idea?' "'well,' william replied, a puzzled expression on his face, 'you noticed an ebony chair in the room?' "i nodded. "'i bought it in bruges, and there are two stories current in connection with it. the one is to the effect that a very wicked monk, named gaboni, died in it (and, indeed, the man who sold me the chair was actually afraid to keep it any longer in his house, as he assured me gaboni's spirit had amalgamated with the wood); and the other story, which i learned from a different source, namely, from someone who, on finding out where i bought the chair, told me he knew the whole history of it, is to the effect that it was of comparatively modern make, and had been designed by w----, the famous nineteenth-century belgian painter, who specialised, as you may know, in the most weird and fantastic subjects. w---- kept the chair in his studio, and my informant half laughingly, half seriously remarked that no doubt the chair was thoroughly saturated with the wave-thoughts from w----'s luridly fertile brain. of course, i do not know which story is true, or if, indeed, either story is true, but the fact remains that, up to now, everyone who has slept in the room with that chair has complained of having had the most unpleasant sensations. i own that after all that was told me, i was afraid to experiment with it myself, but after your experience, or rather lack of experience, i shall not hesitate to have it in my own bedroom. both my wife and i have always admired it--it is such a uniquely beautiful piece of furniture.' "of course i agreed with my friend, and, after congratulating him most effusively on his good luck in having been able to secure so unique a treasure, i again thanked him for his hospitality and bade him good-bye." index adventure in chicago, - . of hans and carl with a were-wolf, - . with pixies near bray, . Æneas, story of, - . all-hallows e'en, - . _anglo-saxon church, the_, . arundels, white owl of the, , , . ash trees, - . aspens, . assam, haunted tree in, - . assiut, . attendant spirits, - . automatic writing, . baldearg, the, . banshee, the, , - . barrowvians, , - . bay of the departed, . bears, phantasms of, . birthmarks, . bloody hand of ulster, . blue hand, phantasm of a, . boggle chairs, - . _book of days_, . brampton, haunted ash tree of, . _british goblins_, book of, , . buddhas, - . candles, warnings by, . castle on dinas, . cats, phantasms of, - . charley, t., . charms and checks against ghosts, - . childermass day, . ching kang and the fox-woman, story of, - . clairvoyance, . clanogrians, , . complex hauntings and occult bestialities, . complex hauntings by phantasms of one person, . corpse-candles, - . count daniel o'donnell, . crystal-gazing, - . d., lady, . dalmatian dog, phantasm of, . davis, rev. mr, . de b., mrs, . dean combe ghost, . death warnings, - . death-watch, . demon of stockwell, . of tedworth, . dogs, spirits of, , , - . dowsers, . drummer of the airlies, - . dyer's _ghost world_, . earl of lincoln and the ash tree, . elementals, . ellyllon, the, . english family ghosts, . ennemoser, works by jos., . epworth, hauntings at, . evil eye, the, - . exorcism, - . eye, phantasm of, . fire-coffins, . forbes du barry, mrs, . fortune-telling, . fox-women, - . _frazer's journal_, . gabriel's hounds, . ghost of black lion lane, . gluttony, . grandfather clocks, hauntings by, . gwyllgi, the, . hacon, rev. henry, . hand of glory, . hands, - . hartz mountains, vampirism in the, - . haunted trees, - . in caucasus, . in slavonic mythology, . seas, - . hauntings on wicklow nets, - . headless dogs, , - . history of magic, . horses, phantasms of, , . howard, phantasm of lady, . hunt, works of mr, - . hydromancy, . idiots and vampirism, - . intuition, - . land's end, . looking-glasses, . luck of edenhall, . lyons family, . mandrake, the, . manias, - . for buttons, . of manual workers, . of women for dogs, . mauthe dog, the, . mermaids, . midsummer eve, . mines, hauntings of, . monomaniac musician, . mummy of met-om-karema, haunted, - . nature's devil signals, . new year's eve, , . _news from the invisible world_, . north, recitations of miss lilian, . numbers, climacteric, . oak chests, haunted, . obsession and possession, . occult hooligans, - . occult in shadows, . owls, . palm tree, . palmistry, . paul, vampirism of arnauld, . phantasms of living, - . of pigs, . of sailors, . of wild animals, . phantom rowers, . ships, - . white hares, . world, . pixies, . plutarch's account of satyrs, . poltergeists, - . and professor schuppart, - . in norwood, . polydorus, story of, . poor in hyde park, . pre-existence, - . premature burial, - . primitive trees, visions of, - . projection, - . psychic days, . faculty, . pyromancy, . "radiant boy of corby," the, . ravens, . river ghosts, - . romances of west of england, - . st blaise's day, . st catherine's day, . st lawrence's day, . st mark's day, . st martin's day, . sargasso sea, - . satyrs and fawns, . scottish ghosts, - . séances, - . second sight, . seventh son, the, . shadow on the downs, the, - . in hyde park, . of a tree, . shuck, the, . sinclair, miss, . sirens, - . soames, work of mr, . south's tale of a vampire, mrs, - . spells, - . spilling salt, . stuker, the, . suggestion, . superstitions and fortunes, . sycamore, the, . sylvan horrors, - . table-turning, - . talismans and amulets, . telepathy, . thirteen at table, - . timbs, john, , , . "trash," . tree of life, the, . trees, haunted, - . tristam and yseult, legend of, . "unknown depths," the, . vampires, - . wandering jew, the, - . welsh ghosts, . were-wolves, - . wirt sikes, work by, , . witches, - . worthing, , - . x., phantasm of murderer, - . "yellow boy," the, . [transcriber's note: the following corrections were made: p. : extra comma removed (after "time" in "but the next time i visited the spot") p. : sensualty to sensuality (sensuality sometimes venial) p. : thought germ to thought-germ to match other instances (how extraordinary the thought-germ) p. : later-day to latter-day (even latter-day) p. : extra comma removed (after "degree" in "in the slightest degree what the monstrosity meant") p. : du to du to match other instances (mrs du barry) p. : haviland to harland (harland and wilkinson) p. : wyhr to wybr (cwn y wybr), to match cited source p. : missing period added (jos. ennemoser) pp. , , and (index): ennemoses to ennemoser p. : pretentions to pretensions (hypocritical pretensions) p. : thanking to thinking (thinking that the animal was ill) p. : syrens to sirens (nymphs, sirens, and pixies) p. : ont he to on the (on the couch) p. : he to the (badge of the o'neills) p. : added missing single close quote (here they are!') p. : double close quote to single close quote (one of the houses.') p. : had to has ('someone has been excavating, and quite recently!') p. : missing periods added after several index entries (gluttony, .; haunted trees ... in caucasus, .) on page , the author refers to jos. ennemoser as the author of _the phantom world_. in fact, the cited passage comes from a work by augustine calmet, which was translated into english by william howitt as _the phantom world_; ennemoser quotes from it in his book _the history of magic_. this error has not been corrected. irregularities in hyphenation and capitalization have not been corrected. antiquated or misspelled place names have been left as in the original. for the plain text version, oe ligatures have been changed to oe.] produced from scanned images of public domain material from the google print project.) apparitions; or, the mystery of ghosts, hobgoblins, and haunted houses, _developed_. *** "animum rege." "this collection of stories is well chosen, and affords a fund of amusement that is cheap at the price of five shillings. by putting such a book as this into the hands of children, parents will more effectually guard their minds against weak credulity, than by grave philosophic admonition." _monthly review, october ._ printed by macdonald and son, cloth fair, smithfield [illustration: h corbould _delint_ c knight _sculpt_ _the haunted beach._] apparitions; or, the mystery of ghosts, _hobgoblins_, _and haunted houses_, developed. being a collection of entertaining stories, _founded on fact_, and selected for the purpose of eradicating those fears, which the ignorant, the weak, and the superstitious, are but too apt to encourage, for want of properly examining into the causes of such absurd impositions. *** by joseph taylor. [illustration] _second edition, enlarged._ *** london: printed for lackington, allen, and co. finsbury square. *** . introduction. the subsequent little work owes its rise and progress to very trifling circumstances. in the early part of my life, having read many books in favour of ghosts and spectral appearances, the recollection remained so strong in my mind, that, for _years_ after, the dread of phantoms bore irresistible sway. this dread continued till about my twenty-third year, when the following simple affair fully convinced me, how necessary it was _thoroughly_ to investigate _every thing_ that tended to supernatural agency, lest idle fear should gain a total ascendancy over my mind. about this period, i had apartments in a large old-fashioned country mansion. from my bed-chamber was a secret door leading to a private staircase, which communicated with some of the lower rooms. this door was fastened both within and without; consequently all fear of intrusion from that quarter was entirely removed. however, at times, i could not help ruminating on the malpractices that _might_ have been committed by evil-disposed persons, through this communication; and "busy meddling fancy" was fertile in conjuring up imaginary horrors. every thing, however, was quiet, and agreeable to my wishes, for some months after my arrival. one moonlight night, in the month of june, i retired to my bed, full of thought, but slept soundly till about one o'clock; when i awoke, and discovered, by the help of the moon which shone full in my room, a tall figure in white, with arms extended, at the foot of my bed. fear and astonishment overpowered me for a few seconds; i gazed on it with terror, and was afraid to move. at length i had courage to take a _second_ peep at this disturber of my rest, and still continued much alarmed, and irresolute how to act. i hesitated whether to speak to the figure, or arouse the family. the first idea i considered as a dangerous act of heroism; the latter, as a risk of being laughed at, should the subject of my story not prove supernatural. therefore, after taking a _third_ view of the phantom, i mustered up all my resolution, jumped out of bed, and boldly went up to the figure, grasped it round and round, and found it incorporeal. i then looked at it again, and felt it again; when, reader, judge of my astonishment--this ghostly spectre proved to be nothing more than a large new flannel dressing-gown which had been sent home to me in the course of the day, and which had been hung on some pegs against the wainscot at the foot of my bed. one arm accidentally crossed two or three of the adjoining pegs, and the other was nearly parallel by coming in contact with some article of furniture which stood near. now the mystery was developed: this dreadful hobgoblin, which a few minutes before i began to think was an aërial being, or sprite, and which must have gained admission either through the key-hole, or under the door, turned out to be my own garment. i smiled at my groundless fears, was pleased with any resolution, returned light-hearted to my bed, and moralized nearly the whole of the night on the simplicity of a great part of mankind in being so credulous as to believe every idle tale, or conceive every noise to be a spectre, without first duly examining into causes. this very trifling accident was of great service to me as i travelled onward through life. similar circumstances transpired. screams, and shades, i encountered; which always, upon due investigation, ended in "trifles light as air." nor did the good end here. my story circulated, and put other young men upon the alert, to guard against similar delusions. they likewise imparted to me their ghostly encounters, and those i thought deserving of record i always committed to writing; and, as many of them are well authenticated facts, and both instructive and amusing, they form a part of the volume now presented to the public. the other stories are selected from history, and respectable publications; forming in the whole, i hope, an antidote against a too credulous belief in every village tale, or old gossip's story. though i candidly acknowledge to have received great pleasure in forming this collection, i would by no means wish it to be imagined, that i am sceptical in my opinions, or entirely disbelieve and set my face against all apparitional record. no; i do believe that, for certain purposes, and on certain and all-wise occasions, such things _are_, and _have been_ permitted by the almighty; but by no means do i believe they are suffered to appear half so frequently as our modern ghost-mongers manufacture them. among the various idle tales in circulation, nothing is more common than the prevalent opinion concerning what is generally called a _death-watch_, and which is vulgarly believed to foretel the death of some one in the family. "this is," observes a writer in the philosophical transactions, "a ridiculous fancy crept into vulgar heads, and employed to terrify and affright weak people as a monitor of approaching death." therefore, to prevent such causeless fears, i shall take this opportunity to undeceive the world, by shewing what it is, and that no such thing is intended by it. it has obtained the name of death-watch, by making a little clinking noise like a watch; which having given some disturbance to a gentleman in his chamber, who was not to be affrighted with such vulgar errors, it tempted him to a diligent search after the true cause of this noise, which i shall relate in his own words. "i have been, some time since, accompanied with this little noise. one evening, i sat down by a table from whence the noise proceeded, and laid my watch upon the same, and perceived, to my admiration, that the sound made by this invisible automaton was louder than that of the artificial machine. its vibrations would fall as regular, but much quicker. upon a strict examination, it was found to be nothing but a little beetle, or spider, in the wood of a box." sometimes they are found in the plastering of a wall, and at other times in a rotten post, or in some old chest or trunk; and the noise is made by beating its head on the subject that it finds fit for sound. "the little animal that i found," says the gentleman, "was about two lines and a half long, calling a line the eighth part of an inch. the colour was a dark brown, with spots somewhat lighter, and irregularly placed, which could not easily be rubbed off." it was sent to the publisher of the philosophical transactions of the royal society. some people, influenced by common report, have fancied this little animal a spirit sent to admonish them of their deaths; and, to uphold the fancy, tell you of other strange monitors altogether as ridiculous. though, as i before observed, i do not deny but the almighty may employ unusual methods to warn us at times of our approaching ends, yet in general, such common and unaccountable tales are mere nonsense, originating from want of a proper investigation, and kept alive by an infatuated delight in telling strange stories, rendered more ridiculous by recapitulation. how charmingly does our poet thomson touch upon this subject-- "meantime the village rouses up the fire; while, well attested, and as well believ'd, heard solemn, goes the goblin story round; till superstitious horror creeps o'er all." how cautious then ought parents and guardians to be over their children, and the young people committed to their charge. for, says an elegant writer, the superstitious impressions made upon their minds, by the tales of weak and ignorant people in their infancy; a time when the tender mind is most apt to receive the impressions of error and vice, as well as those of truth and virtue, and, having once received either the one or the other, is likely to retain them as long as it subsists in the body. all these deplorable follies proceed from wrong and unworthy apprehensions of god's providence, in his care of man, and government of the world. surely no reasonable creature can ever imagine, that the all-wise god should inspire owls and ravens to hoot out the elegies of dying men; that he should have ordained a fatality in numbers, inflict punishment without an offence; and that being one amongst the fatal number at a table, should be a crime (though contrary to no command) not to be expiated but by death! thus folly, like gunpowder, runs in a train from one generation to another, preserved and conveyed by the perpetual tradition of tattling gossips. i now conclude this introduction; and, in the following pages, shall present my readers with some admirable essays on the subject by eminent writers: and a collection of stories will follow, which, i trust, will not only entertain, but likewise convince the _thinking_ part of mankind of the absurdity in believing every silly tale without first tracing the promulgation to its original source; for "whatever warms the heart, or fills the head, as the mind opens, and its functions spread, imagination plies her dangerous art, and pours it all upon the peccant part." j. taylor. _london, march , ._ an essay on ghosts and apparitions. there is no folly more predominant, in the country at least, than a ridiculous and superstitious fear of ghosts and apparitions. servants, nurses, old women, and others of the same standard of wisdom, to pass away the tediousness of a winter's evening, please and terrify themselves, and the children who compose their audience, with strange relations of these things, till they are even afraid of removing their eyes from one another, for fear of seeing a _pale spectre_ entering the room. frightful ideas raised in the minds of children take so strong a possession of the faculties, that they often remain for ever fixed, and all the arguments of reason are unable to remove them. hence it is, that so many grown-up people still keep the ridiculous fears of their infancy. i know a lady, of very good sense in other things, who, if she is left by herself after ten o'clock at night, will faint away at the terror of thinking some horrid spectre, with eyes sunk, meagre countenance, and threatening aspect, is standing at her elbow. and an officer in the guards, of my acquaintance, who has often, abroad, shewn no concern in marching up to the mouth of a cannon, has not courage enough to be in the dark without company. as i take the fear of ghosts, like all other prejudices, to be imbibed in our infancy, i would recommend this advice to parents--to use the utmost care, that the minds of their children are not vitiated by their servants' tales of ghosts, hobgoblins, and bugbears; which, though told to please, or frighten them into good, seldom fail of producing the very worst effects. there are some who are ghost-mad, and terrify themselves, because the scripture has mentioned the appearance of ghosts. i shall not dispute, but, by the power of god, an incorporeal being may be visible to human eyes; but then, an all-wise power would not have recourse to a preternatural effect but on some important occasion. therefore, my intention is only to laugh a ridiculous fear out of the world, by shewing on what absurd and improbable foundations the common nature of ghosts and apparitions are built. in the country, there are generally allowed to be two sorts of ghosts;--the vulgar ghost, and the ghost of dignity. the latter is always the spirit of some lord of the manor, or justice of the peace, who, still desirous to see how affairs go on in his parish, rattles through it in a coach and six, much about midnight. this ghost is, in every respect, the very same man that the person whom he represents was in his life-time. nay, the spirit, though incorporeal, has on its body all the marks which the squire had on his; the scar on the cheek, the dimple on the chin, and twenty other demonstrative signs, which are visible to any old woman in the parish, that can _see clearly in a dark night_! the ghost keeps up to the character of a good old grave gentleman, who is heartily sorry to think his son will not live upon his estate, but rambles up to london, and runs it out, perhaps, in extravagance. he therefore does nothing inconsistent with the gravity of his character; but, still retaining the generous heart of a true briton, keeps up his equipage, and loves good living and hospitality; for, a little time after the coach and six has, with a solemn rumble, passed through the village into his own court-yard, there is a great noise heard in the house, of servants running up and down stairs, the jacks going, and a great clattering of plates and dishes. thus he spends an hour or two every midnight, in living well, after he has been some years dead; but is complaisant enough to leave every thing, at his departure, in the same position that he found them. there is scarcely a little town in all england, but has an old female spirit appertaining to it, who, in her high-crown hat, nicely clean linen, and red petticoat, has been viewed by half the parish. this article of dress is of mighty concern among some ghosts; wherefore a skilful and learned apparition writer, in the preface of drelincourt on death, makes a very pious ghost talk to a lady upon the important subject of scouring a mantua. before i leave my ghost of dignity, i must take notice of some who delight to seem as formidable as possible, and who are not content with appearing without heads themselves, but their coachmen and horses must be without their's too, and the coach itself frequently all on fire. these spirits, i know not for what reason, are universally allowed to have been people of first quality, and courtiers. as for the vulgar ghost, it seldom appears in its own bodily likeness, unless it be with a throat cut from ear to ear, or a winding-sheet; but humbly contents itself with the body of a white horse, that gallops over the meadows without legs, and grazes without a head. on other occasions, it takes the appearance of a black shock dog, which, with great goggle, glaring eyes, stares you full in the face, but never hurts you more than unmannerly pushing you from the wall. sometimes a friendly ghost surprises you with a hand as cold as clay; at other times, that same ghostly hand gives three solemn raps, with several particularities, according to the different dispositions of the ghost. the chief reason which calls them back again to visit the world by night, is their fondness for some old broad pieces, or a pot of money, they buried in their life-time; and they cannot rest to have it lie useless, therefore the gold raises them before the resurrection. mr. addison's charming essay, in the _spectator_, is so applicable and prefatory to a work of this nature, that we cannot resist inserting that inimitable production in his own words. "going to dine," says he, "with an old acquaintance, i had the misfortune to find his whole family very much dejected. upon asking him the occasion of it, he told me that his wife had dreamt a strange dream the night before, which they were afraid portended some misfortune to themselves or to their children. at her coming into the room, i observed a settled melancholy in her countenance, which i should have been troubled for, had i not heard from whence it proceeded. we were no sooner sat down, but, after having looked upon me a little while, 'my dear,' says she, turning to her husband, 'you may now see the stranger that was in the candle last night.' soon after this, as they began to talk of family affairs, a little boy at the lower end of the table told her, that he was to go into join-hand on thursday. 'thursday!' says she; 'no, child; if it please god, you shall not begin upon childermas-day; tell your writing-master, that friday will be soon enough.' i was reflecting with myself on the oddness of her fancy, and wondering that any body would establish it as a rule to lose a day in every week. in the midst of these my musings, she desired me to reach her a little salt upon the point of my knife, which i did in such a trepidation and hurry of obedience, that i let it drop by the way; at which she immediately startled, and said it fell towards her. upon this i looked very blank; and, observing the concern of the whole table, began to consider myself, with some confusion, as a person that had brought a disaster upon the family. the lady, however, recovering herself after a little space, said to her husband, with a sigh, 'my dear, misfortunes never come single.' my friend, i found, acted but an under part at his table; and, being a man of more good-nature than understanding, thinks himself obliged to fall in with all the passions and humours of his yoke-fellow. 'do not you remember, child,' said she, 'that the pigeon-house fell the very afternoon that our careless wench spilt the salt upon the table?' 'yes,' says he, 'my dear; and the next post brought us an account of the battle of almanza.' the reader may guess at the figure i made, after having done all this mischief. i dispatched my dinner as soon as i could, with my usual taciturnity; when, to my utter confusion, the lady seeing me quitting my knife and fork, and laying them across one another upon the plate, desired me that i would humour her so far as to take them out of that figure, and place them side by side. what the absurdity was which i had committed, i did not know, but i suppose there was some traditionary superstition in it; and therefore, in obedience to the lady of the house, i disposed of my knife and fork in two parallel lines, which is the figure i shall always lay them in for the future, though i do not know any reason for it. "it is not difficult for a man to see that a person has conceived an aversion to him. for my own part, i quickly found, by the lady's looks, that she regarded me as a very odd kind of fellow, with an unfortunate aspect. for which reason i took my leave immediately after dinner, and withdrew to my own lodgings. upon my return home, i fell into a profound contemplation on the evils that attend these superstitious follies of mankind; how they subject us to imaginary afflictions and additional sorrows, that do not properly come within our lot. as if the natural calamities of life were not sufficient for it, we turn the most indifferent circumstances into misfortunes, and suffer as much from trifling accidents as from real evils. i have known the shooting of a star spoil a night's rest; and have seen a man in love grow pale, and lose his appetite, upon the plucking of a merry-thought. a screech-owl at midnight has alarmed a family more than a band of robbers; nay, the voice of a cricket hath struck more terror than the roaring of a lion. there is nothing so inconsiderable, which may not appear dreadful to an imagination that is filled with omens and prognostics. a rusty nail, or a crooked pin, shoot up into prodigies. "i remember, i was once in a mixed assembly, that was full of noise and mirth, when on a sudden an old woman unluckily observed there were thirteen of us in company. this remark struck a panic terror into several who were present, insomuch that one or two of the ladies were going to leave the room: but a friend of mine, taking notice that one of our female companions was big with child, affirmed there were fourteen in the room; and that, instead of portending one of the company should die, it plainly foretold one of them should be born. had not my friend found out this expedient to break the omen, i question not but half the women in the company would have fallen sick that very night. "an old maid, that is troubled with the vapours, produces infinite disturbances of this kind among her friends and neighbours. i once knew a maiden aunt, of a great family, who is one of these antiquated sybils, that forebodes and prophesies from one end of the year to the other. she is always seeing apparitions, and hearing death-watches; and was the other day almost frightened out of her wits by the great house-dog, that howled in the stable at a time when she lay ill of the tooth-ach. such an extravagant cast of mind engages multitudes of people not only in impertinent terrors, but in supernumerary duties of life; and arises from that fear and ignorance which are natural to the soul of man. the horror with which we entertain the thoughts of death or indeed of any future evil, and the uncertainty of its approach, fill a melancholy mind with innumerable apprehensions and suspicions, and consequently dispose it to the observation of such groundless prodigies and predictions. for, as it is the chief concern of wise men to retrench the evils of life by the reasonings of philosophy, it is the employment of fools to multiply them by the sentiments of superstition. "for my own part, i should be very much troubled, were i endowed with this divining quality, though it should inform me truly of every thing that can befal me. i would not anticipate the relish of any happiness, nor feel the weight of any misery, before it actually arrives. "i know but one way of fortifying my soul against these gloomy presages and terrors of mind; and that is, by securing to myself the friendship and protection of that being who disposes of events, and governs futurity. he sees at one view the whole thread of my existence; not only that part of it which i have already passed through, but that which runs forward into all the depths of eternity. when i lay me down to sleep, i recommend myself to his care; when i awake, i give myself up to his direction. amidst all the evils that threaten me, i will look up to him for help and question not but he will either avert them, or turn them to my advantage. though i know neither the time nor the manner of the death i am to die, i am not at all solicitous about it; because i am sure that he knows them both, and that he will not fail to comfort and support me under them." in another paper, the same gentleman thus expresses himself on the same subject:-- "i remember, last winter, there were several young girls of the neighbourhood sitting about the fire with my landlady's daughters, and telling stories of spirits and apparitions. upon my opening the door, the young women broke off their discourse; but my landlady's daughters telling them it was nobody but the gentleman (for that is the name which i go by in the neighbourhood as well as in the family), they went on without minding me. i seated myself by the candle that stood on a table at one end of the room; and, pretending to read a book that i took out of my pocket, heard several dreadful stories of ghosts as pale as ashes, that stood at the feet of a bed, or walked over a church-yard by moonlight; and of others that had been conjured into the red sea, for disturbing people's rest, and drawing their curtains at midnight; with many other old women's fables of the like nature. as one spirit raised another, i observed that at the end of every story the whole company closed their ranks, and crowded about the fire. i took notice in particular of a little boy, who was so attentive to every story, that i am mistaken if he ventures to go to bed by himself this twelvemonth. indeed, they talked so long, that the imaginations of the whole assembly were manifestly crazed, and, i am sure, will be the worse for it as long as they live. i heard one of the girls, that had looked upon me over her shoulder, asking the company how long i had been in the room, and whether i did not look paler than i used to do. this put me under some apprehensions that i should be forced to explain myself, if i did not retire; for which reason i took the candle in my hand, and went up into my chamber, not without wondering at this unaccountable weakness in reasonable creatures, that they should love to astonish and terrify one another. were i a father, i should take particular care to preserve my children from those little horrors of imagination, which they are apt to contract when they are young, and are not able to shake off when they are in years. i have known a soldier, that has entered a breach, affrighted at his own shadow, and look pale upon a little scratching at his door, who the day before had marched up against a battery of cannon. there are instances of persons who have been terrified, even to distraction, at the figure of a tree, or the shaking of a bulrush. the truth of it is, i look upon a sound imagination as the greatest blessing of life, next to a clear judgment and a good conscience. in the mean time, since there are very few whose minds are not more or less subject to these dreadful thoughts and apprehensions, we ought to arm ourselves against them by the dictates of reason and religion, to _pull the old woman out of our hearts_ (as persius expresses it), and extinguish those impertinent notions which we imbibed at a time that we were not able to judge of their absurdity. or, if we believe, as many wise and good men have done, that there are such phantoms and apparitions as those i have been speaking of, let us endeavour to establish to ourselves an interest in him who holds the reins of the whole creation in his hand, and moderates them after such a manner, that it is impossible for one being to break loose upon another without his knowledge and permission. "for my own part, i am apt to join in opinion with those who believe that all the regions of nature swarm with spirits; and that we have multitudes of spectators on all our actions, when we think ourselves most alone. but, instead of terrifying myself with such a notion, i am wonderfully pleased to think that i am always engaged with such an innumerable society, in searching out the wonders of the creation, and joining in the same concert of praise and adoration. "milton has finely described this mixed communion of men and spirits in paradise; and had, doubtless, his eye upon a verse in old hesiod, which is almost, word for word, the same with his third line in the following passage:-- '----nor think, though men were none, that heav'n would want spectators, god want praise: millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep; all these with ceaseless praise his works behold, both day and night. how often from the steep of echoing hill or thicket have we heard celestial voices to the midnight air, sole, or responsive each to other's note, singing their great creator? oft in bands, while they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk, with heav'nly touch of instrumental sounds, in full harmonic number join'd, their songs divide the night, and lift our thoughts to heav'n.'--" another celebrated writer says--"some are over credulous in these stories, others sceptical and distrustful, and a third sort perfectly infidel. "mr. locke assures us, we have as clear an idea of spirit as of body. but, if it be asked, how a spirit, that never was embodied, can form to itself a body, and come up into a world where it has no right of residence, and have all its organs perfected at once; or how a spirit, once embodied, but now in a separate state, can take up its carcase out of the grave, sufficiently repaired, and make many resurrections before the last; or how the dead can counterfeit their own bodies, and make to themselves an image of themselves; by what ways and means, since miracles ceased, this transformation can be effected; by whose leave and permission, or by what power and authority, or with what wise design, and for what great ends and purposes, all this is done, we cannot easily imagine; and the divine and philosopher together will find it very difficult to resolve such questions. "before the christian æra, some messages from the other world might be of use, if not necessary, in some cases, and on some extraordinary occasions; but since that time we want no new, nor can we have any surer, informations. "conscience, indeed, is a frightful apparition itself; and i make no question but it oftentimes haunts an oppressing criminal into restitution, and is a ghost to him sleeping or waking: nor is it the least testimony of an invisible world, that there is such a drummer as that in the soul, that can beat an alarm when he pleases, and so loud, as no other noise can drown it, no music quiet it, no power silence it, no mirth allay it, and no bribe corrupt it." inexhaustible are the opinions on this subject: therefore we shall conclude this essay, and proceed to the more illustrative part of our work, without any further quotations; for various are the methods proposed by the learned for the laying of ghosts and apparitions. artificial ones are easily quieted, if we only take them for real and substantial beings, and proceed accordingly. thus, when a friar, personating an apparition, haunted the apartment of the late emperor joseph, king augustus, then at the imperial court, flung him out of the window, and laid him upon the pavement so effectually, that he never rose or appeared again in this world. the dominican friar. _an extraordinary event that happened lately at aix-la-chapelle._ as the following story, which is averred to be authentic, and to have happened very lately, may serve to shew, that the stories of this kind, with which the public are, from time to time, every now and then alarmed, are nothing more than artful impostures, it is presumed, it will be useful as well as entertaining to our readers to give it a place. a person who kept a lodging-house near the springs at aix-la-chapelle, having lost his wife, committed the management of his family to his daughter, a sprightly, well-made, handsome girl, about twenty. there were, at that time, in the house, two ladies and their waiting-woman, two dutch officers, and a dominican friar. it happened, that, as the young woman of the house was asleep one night in her bed, she was awakened by something that attempted to draw the clothes off the bed. she was at first frightened; but thinking, upon recollection, that it might be the house-dog, she called him by his name. the clothes, however, were still pulled from her; and she still imagining it was by the dog, took up a brush that lay in her reach, and attempted to strike him. at that moment she saw a flash of sudden light, that filled the whole room; upon which she shrieked out; all was again dark and silent, and the clothes were no longer drawn from her. in the morning, when she related this story, every one treated it as a dream; and the girl herself at last took it for granted, that it was no more than an illusion. the night following, she was again awakened by something that jogged her, and she thought she felt a hand in the bed; upon endeavouring to repress it, another flash of lightning threw her into a fit of terror: she shut her eyes, and crossed herself. when she ventured to open her eyes again, the light was vanished; but, in a short time, she felt what she supposed to be a hand again in the bed: she again endeavoured to repress it, and, looking towards the foot of the bed, saw a large luminous cross, on which was written distinctly, as with light, the words, "_be silent!_" she was now so terrified, that she had not power to break the injunction, but shrunk down into the bed, and covered herself over with the clothes. in this situation she continued a considerable time; but, being again molested, she ventured once more to peep out, when, to her unspeakable astonishment, she saw a phantasm stand by the side of her bed, almost as high as the ceiling: a kind of glory encircled its head, and the whole was in the form of a crucifix, except that it seemed to have several hands, one of which again approached the bed. supposing the phenomenon to be some celestial vision, she exerted all her fortitude, and, leaping out of bed, threw herself upon her knees before it; but she instantly found herself assaulted in a manner which convinced her she was mistaken: she had not strength to disengage herself from something that embraced her, and therefore screamed out as loud as she could, to alarm the house, and bring somebody to her assistance. her shrieks awakened the ladies who lay in an adjacent chamber, and they sent their woman to see what was the matter. the woman, upon opening the room, saw a luminous phantasm, which greatly terrified her, and heard, in a deep threatening tone, the words--"_at thy peril be gone!_" the woman instantly screamed out, and withdrew: the ladies rose in the utmost consternation and terror, but nobody came to their assistance: the old man, the father of the girl, was asleep in a remote part of the house; the friar also rested in a room at the end of a long gallery in another story; and the two dutch officers were absent on a visit, at a neighbouring village. no other violence, however, was offered to the girl that night. as soon as the morning dawned, she got up, ran down to her father, and told all that had happened: the two ladies were not long absent; they did not say much, but quitted the house. the friar asked the girl several questions, and declared that he had heard other instances of the like nature, but said, the girl would do well to obey the commands of the vision, and that no harm would come of it. he said, he would remain to see the issue; and, in the mean time, ordered proper prayers and masses to be said at a neighbouring convent of his order, to which he most devoutly joined his own. the girl was comforted with this spiritual assistance; but, notwithstanding, took one of the maids to be her bedfellow the next night. in the dead of the night, the flaming cross was again visible, but no attempt was made on either of the women. they were, however, greatly terrified; and the servant said, she would rather leave her place, than lie in the room again. the friar, the next morning, took the merit of the spirit's peaceable behaviour to himself. the prayers and masses were renewed, and application was made to the convents at liege for auxiliary assistance. the good friar, in the mean time, was by no means idle at home: he performed his devotions with great ardour, and towards evening bestowed a plentiful libation of holy water on the chamber and the bed. the girl not being able to persuade the servant to sleep with her again in the haunted room, and being encouraged by the friar to abide the issue, having also great confidence herself in the prayers, masses, and sprinklings, that had been used on the occasion, she ventured once more to sleep in the same room by herself. in the night, after hearing some slight noises, she saw the room all in a blaze, and a great number of luminous crosses, with scraps of writing here and there very legible, among which the precept _to be silent_ was most conspicuous. in the middle of the room she saw something of a human appearance, which seemed covered only with a linen garment, like a shirt: it appeared to diffuse a radiance round it; and, at length, by a slow and silent pace, approached the bed. when it came up to the bed-side, it drew the curtain more open, and, lifting up the bed-clothes, was about to come in. the girl, now more terrified than ever, screamed out with all her power. as every body in the house was upon the watch, she was heard by them all; but the father only had courage to go to her assistance, and his bravery was probably owing to a considerable quantity of reliques, which he had procured from the convent, and which he brought in his hand. when he came, however, nothing was to be seen but some of the little crosses and inscriptions, several of which were now luminous only in part. being himself greatly terrified at these appearances, he ran to the friar's apartment, and with some difficulty prevailed upon him to go with him to the haunted room. the friar at first excused himself upon account of the young woman's being there in bed. as soon as he entered, and saw the crosses, he prostrated himself on the ground, and uttered many prayers and incantations, to which the honest landlord most heartily said _amen_. the poor girl, in the mean time, lay in a kind of trance; and her father, when the prayers were over, ran down stairs for some wine, a cordial being necessary to recover her: the friar, at the same time, ordered him to light and bring with him a consecrated taper; for hitherto they had no light but that of the vision, which was still strong enough to discover every thing in the room. in a short time the old man entered with a taper in his hand; and in a moment all the luminous appearances vanished. the girl, soon after, recovered, and gave a very sensible account of all that had happened; and the landlord and the friar spent the rest of the night together. the friar, however, to shew the power of the dæmon, and the holy virtue of the taper, removed it several times from the chamber, before the day broke, and the crosses and inscriptions were again visible, and remained so till the taper was brought back, and then vanished as at first. when the sun arose, the friar took his leave to go to matins, and did not return till noon. in the mean time the two dutch officers came home, and soon learnt what had happened, though the landlord took all the pains he could to conceal it. the reports they heard were confirmed by the pale and terrified appearance of the girl; their curiosity was greatly excited, and they asked her innumerable questions. her answers, instead of extinguishing, increased it. they assured the landlord, they would not leave his house, but, on the contrary, would afford him all the assistance in their power. as they were young gentlemen of a military profession, and protestants, they were at once bold and incredulous. they pretended, however, to adopt the opinion of the landlord, that the appearances were supernatural; but it happened that, upon going into the room, they found the remainder of the taper, on the virtues of which the landlord had so largely expatiated, and immediately perceived that it was only a common candle of a large size, which he had brought by mistake in his fright. this discovery convinced them that there was a fraud, and that appearances that vanished at the approach of unconsecrated light must be produced by mere human artifice. they therefore consulted together, and at length agreed, that the masses should be continued; that the landlord should not say one word of the candle, or the suspicions it had produced; that his daughter, the next night, should sleep in the apartment which had been quitted by the ladies; and that one of the officers should lie in the girl's bed, while the other, with the landlord, should wait in the kitchen, to see the issue. this plan was accordingly, with great secrecy, carried into execution. for two hours after the officer had been in bed, all was silent and quiet, and he began to suspect that the girl had either been fanciful, or that their secret had transpired: when, all on a sudden, he heard the latch of the door gently raised; and, perceiving something approach the bed and attempt to take up the clothes, he resisted with sufficient strength to frustrate the attempt, and immediately the room appeared to be all in a flame; he saw many crosses, and inscriptions enjoining silence and a passive acquiescence in whatever should happen; he saw also, in the middle of the room, something of a human appearance, very tall, and very luminous. the officer was at first struck with terror, and the vision made a second approach to the bed-side; but the gentleman, recovering his fortitude with the first moment of reflection, dexterously threw a slip knot, which he had fastened to one of the bed-posts, over the phantom's neck: he instantly drew it close, which brought him to the ground, and then threw himself upon him. the fall and the struggle made so much noise, that the other officer and the landlord ran up with lights and weapons; and the goblin was found to be no other than the good friar, who, having conceived something more than a spiritual affection for his landlord's pretty daughter, had played this infernal farce, to gratify his passion. being now secured and detected, beyond hope of subterfuge or escape, he made a full confession of his guilt, and begged earnestly for mercy. it appeared that this fellow, who was near six feet high, had made himself appear still taller, by putting upon his head a kind of _tiara_ of embossed paper, and had also thrust a stick through the sleeves of his habit, which formed the appearance of a cross, and still left his hands at liberty; and that he had rendered himself and his apparatus visible in the dark by _phosphorus_. the landlord contented himself with giving his reverence a hearty drubbing, and then turning him out of doors, with a strict injunction to quit the territory of liege for ever, upon pain of being much more severely treated. when it is considered, that it is but a few years ago, that a poor woman, within twenty miles of london, lost her life upon supposition that she was a witch; and that it is not many years since the cock-lane ghost found advocates, even in the heart of london itself, among those who, before, were never accounted fools; it cannot but be useful to put down on record every imposition of this kind. the superstitious couple. in the letters from a gentleman on his travels in italy to his friend in england, is the following curious account of an experiment tried with the bolognian stone, of which phosphorus is made. there was an english maid-servant in the house where we lodged, (observes this gentleman), and her bed-chamber was immediately over the one occupied by myself and friend. my companion having found his way into it, or, at least, supposing he had done so, wrote with some paste made merely with flour and water, the terrible words--"remember death!" in great capitals, on the inside of the bed-curtains. over the wet letters he strewed some of the crust prepared from this stone, which he had powdered for that purpose in a mortar; and, when he had so done, called me up, to see the words in letters of fire. we sat up for the discovery; but something very different from what we had expected, happened. the italians are bigots, and consequently superstitious. it happened that the room, into which my friend had found his way, was not, as he imagined, that of the maid-servant, but of a couple of devout people, who accidentally slept in the house. we heard them undress; and followed our scheme, by getting on the upper stairs near the door of the room: we heard two voices, and we saw the candle on a table near the bed-side. the lady was first in bed; and the good man no sooner followed, than the candle was put out. on the instant of its extinction, appeared the terrible words. the lady screamed her prayers; the husband trembled over his ave-marias. the letters were absolutely fire, and the bed was not injured. the language was unintelligible to those who saw the words; and, perhaps, it was in that respect more terrifying, than if the admonition had been understood. the _mene tekel_ of the prophet came into both their minds at once. they jumped out of bed, and alarmed the whole house. we were first in the room. my friend took occasion, in their confusion, to scrape off the whole matter very cleanly with his pocket knife. the company brought candles--there was nothing to be seen. both husband and wife pointed to the place where the writing had appeared; but nothing but some smeared dirt was visible there. my friend kept his counsel, and the miracle was blazed all over bologna the next day; and we left a legion of wondering priests in the house at our departure! the haunted bed-room. a young gentleman, going down from london to the west of england, to the house of a very worthy gentleman, to whom he had the honour to be related; it happened, that the gentleman's house was at that time full, by season of a kinswoman's wedding, that had lately been kept there. he therefore told the young gentleman, that he was very glad to see him, and that he was very welcome to him: "but," said he, "i know not how i shall do for a lodging for you; for my cousin's marriage has not left a room free, save one, and that is haunted; but if you will lie there, you shall have a very good bed, and all other accommodations." "sir," replied the young gentleman, "you will very much oblige me by letting me lie there; for i have often coveted to be in a place that was haunted." the gentleman, very glad that his kinsman was so well pleased with his accommodations, ordered the chamber to be got ready, and a good fire to be made in it, it being winter-time. when bed-time came, the young gentleman was conducted up into his chamber, which, besides a good fire, was furnished with all suitable accommodations; and, having recommended himself to the divine protection, went to bed. lying some time awake, and finding no disturbance, he fell asleep; out of which, however, he was awaked about three o'clock in the morning, by the opening of the chamber-door, and the entrance of somebody in the appearance of a young woman, having a night-dress on her head, and only her shift on: but he had no perfect view of her, for his candle was burnt out; and though there was a fire in the room, yet it gave not light enough to see her distinctly. but this unknown visitant going to the chimney, took the poker, and stirred up the fire; by the flaming light whereof, he could discern the appearance of a young gentlewoman more distinctly; but whether it was flesh and blood, or an airy phantom, he knew not. this appearance having stood some time before the fire, as if to warm itself, at last walked two or three times about the room, and then came to the bed-side; where having stood a little while, she took up the bed-clothes, and went into bed, pulling the bed-clothes upon her again, and lying very quietly. the young gentleman was a little startled at this unknown bed-fellow; and, upon her approach, lay on the further side of the bed, not knowing whether he had best rise or not. at last, lying very still, he perceived his bed-fellow to breathe; by which guessing her to be flesh and blood, he drew nearer to her, and taking her by the hand, found it warm, and that it was no airy phantom, but substantial flesh and blood; and finding she had a ring on her finger, he took it off unperceived. the gentlewoman being all this while asleep, he let her lie without disturbing her, and patiently waited the result of this singular situation. he had not long remained in suspense, when his fair companion hastily flung off the bed-clothes again, and getting up, walked three or four times about the room; as she had done before; and then, standing awhile before the door, opened it, went out, and shut it after her. the young gentleman, perceiving by this in what manner the room was haunted, rose up, and locked the door on the inside; and then lay down again, and slept till morning; at which time the master of the house came to him, to know how he did, and whether he had seen any thing, or not? he told him, that an apparition had appeared to him, but begged the favour of him that he would not urge him to say any thing further, till the whole family were all together. the gentleman complied with his request, telling his young friend, that, having found him well, he was perfectly satisfied. the desire the whole family had to know the issue of this affair, made them dress with more expedition than usual, so that there was a general assembly of the gentlemen and ladies before eleven o'clock, not one of them being willing to appear in dishabille. when they were all got together in the great hall, the young gentleman told them, he had one favour to desire of the ladies before he would say any thing, and that was, to know whether either of them had lost a ring? the young gentlewoman, from whose finger it was taken, having missed it all the morning, and not knowing how she lost it, was glad to hear of it again, and readily owned she wanted a ring. the young gentleman asked her if that was it, giving it into her hand, which she acknowledging to be her's, and thanking him, he turned to his kinsman, the master of the house--"now sir," said he, "i can assure you," (taking the gentlewoman by the hand) "this is the lovely spirit by which your chamber is haunted."--and thereupon repeated what is related. i want words to express the confusion the young gentlewoman seemed to be in at this relation, who declared herself perfectly ignorant of all that he said; but believed it might be so, because of the ring, which she perfectly well remembered she had on when she went to bed, and knew not how she had lost it. this relation gave the whole company a great deal of diversion; for, after all, the father declared, that since his daughter had already gone to bed to his kinsman, it should be his fault if he did not go to bed to his daughter, he being willing to bestow her upon him, and give her a good portion. this generous offer was so advantageous to the young gentleman, that he could by no means refuse it; and his late bed-fellow, hearing what her father had said, was easily prevailed upon to accept him for her husband. remarkable instance of the power of imagination. it has been remarked, that when the royal vault is opened for the interment of any of the royal family, westminster abbey is a place of great resort: some flock thither out of curiosity, others to indulge their solemn meditations. by the former of these motives it was, when the royal vault was opened for the interment of her illustrious majesty queen caroline, that five or six gentlemen who had dined together at a tavern were drawn to visit that famous repository of the titled dead. as they descended down the steep descent, one cried--"it's hellish dark;" another stopped his nostrils, and exclaimed against the nauseous vapour that ascended from it; all had their different sayings. but, as it is natural for such spectacles to excite some moral reflections, even with the most gay and giddy, they all returned with countenances more serious than those they had entered with. having agreed to pass the evening together, they all went back to the place where they dined; and the conversation turned on a future state, apparitions, and some such topics. one among them was an infidel in those matters, especially as to spirits becoming visible, and took upon him to rally the others, who seemed rather inclinable to the contrary way of thinking. as it is easier to deny than to prove, especially where those that maintain the negative will not admit any testimonies which can be brought against their own opinion, he singly held out against all they had to alledge. to end the contest, they proposed to him a wager of twenty guineas, that, as great a hero as he pretended, or really imagined himself, he had not courage enough to go alone at midnight into the vault they had seen that day. this he readily accepted, and was very merry with the thoughts of getting so much money with such ease. the money on both sides was deposited in the hands of the master of the house; and one of the vergers was sent for, whom they engaged, for a piece of gold, to attend the adventurer to the gate of the cathedral, then shut him in, and wait his return. every thing being thus settled, the clock no sooner struck twelve, than they all set out together; they who laid the wager being resolved not to be imposed on by his tampering with the verger. as they passed along, a scruple arose, which was, that though they saw him enter the church, how they should be convinced he went as far as the vault; but he instantly removed their doubts, by pulling out a pen-knife he had in his pocket, and saying, "this will i stick into the earth, and leave it there; and if you do not find it in the inside of the vault, i will own the wager lost." these words left them nothing to suspect; and they agreed to wait at the door his coming out, believing he had no less stock of resolution than he had pretended: it is possible, the opinion they had of him was no more than justice. but, whatever stock of courage he had, on his entrance into that antique and reverend pile, he no sooner found himself shut alone in it, than, as he afterwards confessed, he found a kind of shuddering all over him, which, he was sensible, proceeded from something more than the coldness of the night. every step he took was echoed by the hollow ground; and, though it was not altogether dark, the verger having left a lamp burning just before the door that led to the chapel (otherwise it would have been impossible for him to have found the place), yet did the glimmering it gave, rather add to, than diminish, the solemn horror of every thing around. he passed on, however; but protested, had not the shame of being laughed at, prevented him, he would have forfeited more than twice the sum he had staked to have been safe out again. at length he reached the entrance of the vault: his inward terror increased; yet, determined not to be overpowered by fear, he descended; and being come to the last stair, stooped forwards, and struck the pen-knife with his whole force into the earth. but, as he was rising in order to quit so dreadful a place, he felt something pluck him forward; the apprehension he before was in, made an easy way for surprise and terror to seize on all his faculties: he lost in one instant every thing that could support him, and fell into a swoon, with his head in the vault, and part of his body on the stairs. till after one o'clock his friends waited with some degree of patience, though they thought he paid the titled dead a much longer visit than a living man could choose. but, finding he did not come, they began to fear some accident: the verger, they found, though accustomed to the place, did not choose to go alone; they therefore went with him, preceded by a torch, which a footman belonging to one of the company had with him. they all went into the abbey, calling, as they went, as loud as they could: no answer being made, they moved on till they came to the vault; where, looking down, they soon perceived what posture he was in. they immediately used every means they could devise for his recovery, which they soon effected. after they got him out of the abbey to the fresh air, he fetched two or three deep groans; and, in the greatest agitation, cried, "heaven help me! lord have mercy upon me!" these exclamations very much surprised them; but, imagining he was not yet come perfectly to his senses, they forbore farther questions, till they had got him into the tavern, where, having placed him in a chair, they began to ask how he did, and how he came to be so indisposed. he gave them a faithful detail, and said, he should have come back with the same sentiments he went with, had not an unseen hand convinced him of the injustice of his unbelief. while he was making his narrative, one of the company saw the pen-knife sticking through the fore-lappet of his coat. he immediately conjectured the mistake; and, pulling out the pen-knife before them all, cried out, "here is the mystery discovered: for, in the attitude of stooping to stick the knife in the ground, it happened, as you see, to go through the coat; and, on your attempting to rise, the terror you was in magnified this little obstruction into an imaginary impossibility of withdrawing yourself, and had an effect on your senses before reason had time to operate." this, which was evidently the case, set every one, except the gentleman who had suffered so much by it, into a roar of laughter. but it was not easy to draw a single smile from him: he ruminated on the affair, while his companions rallied and ridiculed this change in him: he well remembered the agitations he had been in. "well," replied he; when he had sufficiently recovered, "there is certainly something after death, or these strange impulses could never be. what is there in a church more than in any other building? what in darkness more than light, which in themselves should have power to raise such ideas as i have now experienced? yes," continued he, "i am convinced that i have been too presumptuous: and, whether spirits be or be not permitted to appear, that they exist, i ever shall believe." the westminster scholars. a few years since, some westminster scholars received great insult from a hackney-coachman, who treated them with the greatest scurrility, because they would not comply with an overcharge in his fare. this behaviour the youths did not forget, and were resolved to punish him without danger of prosecution; upon which one of them devised the following whimsical turn of revenge. four of these gentlemen, one dark evening, about nine o'clock, (having previously learned where his coach would be) called him from off the stand, and desired the coachman to drive over westminster bridge to newington. they had not long been seated, when one of them, with a sportive tone of voice, said, "come, boys, let us begin." they then instantly dressed themselves in black clothes, and every necessary befitting mourners at a funeral, (which articles they brought with them in small parcels.) and the night was particularly favourable for carrying their scheme into execution: for it was uncommonly dark, and _very still_. 'twas such a night that apollonius rhodius thus describes-- "night on the earth pour'd darkness; on the sea, the wakesome sailor to orion's star and helice turn'd heedful. sunk to rest, the traveller forgot his toil; his charge, the centinel; her death-devoted babe, the mother's painless breast. the village dog had ceas'd his troublous bay: each busy tumult was hush'd at this dread hour; and darkness slept, lock'd in the arms of silence." to terrify him the more, they wore linen hat-bands and scarfs, instead of crape. and when they had got into the loneliest part of st. george's fields (for at that time they were not built over as at present), they called to him, and desired him to stop, as they wanted to get out. they marked the side the coachman came to open the door of; and he that sat next the other door, opened it at the same instant. what the coachman felt on seeing the first mourner move out with the greatest solemnity, can be better conceived than expressed: but what were his terrors when the second approached him, a majestic spare figure about six feet perpendicular, who passed him (as did the first) without speaking a word. as fast as one youth got out, he went round to the other side of the coach, stepped in, and came out a second time at the opposite door. in this manner they continued, till the coachman, if he had the power of counting, might have told forty. when they had thus passed out seemingly to the number of twenty, the poor devil of a coachman, frightened almost to death, fell upon his knees, and begged for mercy's sake the king of terrors would not suffer any more of his apparitions to appear; for, though he had a multitude of sins to account for, he had a wife and a large family of children, who depended upon his earnings for support. the tallest of these young gentlemen then asked him, in a hoarse tone of voice, what was his heaviest sin? he replied, committing his lodger, a poor carver and gilder, to the marshalsea, for rent due to him, which the badness of the times, and his business in particular, would not enable him to pay. he said, he would not have confined him so long, but in revenge for a severe beating he gave him one day when they fell to loggerheads and boxed. he further told them, the poor man had been six months in captivity; and that he understood from a friend of his, the other day, that he made out but a miserable living by making brewers' pegs, bungs for their barrels, and watchmakers' skewers. the young gentleman then told him, that if he did not instantly sign his discharge, which he would write, he might rest assured of no mitigation of the dreadful punishment he would go through in a few minutes; for those he had seen come out of his coach were his harpies in disguise, and were now in readiness to bear him to the infernal regions. the trembling villain, without the least hesitation, complied. one of the scholars fortunately having a pen and ink, the king of terrors wrote the discharge in a fair leaf of his pocket-book, as well as he could in the dark, and then made the coachman sign it. having so done, the scholars told him he might go for the present, and that he would find his coach in less than an hour in piccadilly or oxford street. one of the youths then mounted the box, while the others got within, and away they drove to the marshalsea, but in the way they stopped till they had taken off their disguise. the youth who had the discharge, after making a collection among the others, went into the prison, and gave the poor fellow what set him at liberty the next morning. the scholars then drove on to oxford street, congratulating themselves on the success of their adventure, and all happy to a degree of rapture at being instrumental in obtaining the captive's liberty. about a quarter of an hour after they quitted the coach, they observed the coachman arrive; who mounted the box, and drove home, muttering the bitterest execrations, and damning his father confessor for bilking him of half a guinea which he gave him that morning for an absolution, that was to have rubbed out the entire score of his transgressions. the ideot's funeral. the following extraordinary affair happened about ten years since, at a village in the north of england. about midnight, the minister of the parish was not a little alarmed at hearing the church bell tolling. he immediately dispatched one of his servants for the beadle, to inquire into the cause of this wonderful event; who, when he came, appeared to be under more dreadful apprehensions than the clergyman himself. however, the result of their deliberations was, that, in order to be certainly informed of the truth and ground of the matter, they should go forward to the church: but, on their way, what served considerably to increase their fears, was their seeing a light within the church. the great bell gave over tolling, and was succeeded, in its turn, by the little, or handbell (commonly used in that country at funerals), which, in a short time, also became silent. on their near approach to the church, they discovered, by the help of the light within, the _mort-cloth_ moving up and down the area thereof. though this last part of the dreadful scene might have been sufficient to intimidate persons possessed of no ordinary degree of courage; yet such was the bravery and resolution of the reverend doctor, that he even ventured to accost the nocturnal disturber of their repose: when, on lifting up the _mort-cloth_, to his inexpressible surprise, he discovered the terrible apparition to be only an unhappy young man belonging to the parish, who had for some time past been disordered in his senses, and who had got into the church by some secret means or other, and, as the good doctor readily conjectured, was amusing himself in this manner, by the representation of a funeral: a case not at all unlikely, as ideots in general are remarkably fond of any thing relative to a funeral procession. the ventriloquist. the following anecdote is related by adrianus turnibis, the greatest critic of the sixteenth century, and who was admired and respected by all the learned in europe. "there was a crafty fellow," says he, "called petrus brabantius, who, as often as he pleased, would speak from his stomach, with his mouth indeed open, but his lips unmoved, of which i have been repeatedly an eye and ear witness. in this manner he put divers cheats on several persons: amongst others, the following was well known. "there was a merchant of lyons, lately dead, who had acquired a great estate by unjust dealings. brabantius happening to be at lyons, and hearing of this, comes one day to cornutus, the son and heir of this merchant, as he walked in a portico behind the church-yard, and tells him that he was sent to inform him of what was to be done by him; and that it was more requisite to think about the soul and reputation of his father, than thus wander about the church-yard, lamenting his death. in an instant, while they were thus discoursing, a voice was heard, as if it was that of the father, though, in reality, it proceeded from his own stomach. brabantius seemed terribly affrighted. the voice informed the son the state his father was in by reason of his injustice, what tortures he endured in purgatory, both on his own, and his son's account, whom he had left heir of his ill-gotten goods: that no freedom was to be expected by him, till just expiation was made by giving alms to such as stood most in need, and that these were the christians who were taken by the turks: that he should put entire confidence in the man who was by special providence now come to him, and give him money, to be employed by religious persons for the ransom of so many as were captives at constantinople. cornutus, who was a good sort of a man, yet loth to part with his money, told brabantius that he would advise upon it; and desired he would meet him in the same place the next day. in the mean time, he began to suspect there might be some fraud in the place, as it was shady, dark, and fit for echoes or other delusions. the next day, therefore, he takes him to an open plain, where there was neither bush nor briar; but there, notwithstanding all his precaution, he hears the same story, with this addition, that he should forthwith deliver brabantius six thousand franks, and purchase three masses daily to be said for him, or else the miserable soul of his father could not be freed. cornutus, though thus bound by conscience, duty, and religion, yet with reluctance delivered him the money, without taking any receipt, or having any witness to the payment of it. having thus dismissed him, and hearing no more of his father, he became somewhat more pleasant than he had been since his father's death. one day this change in him was observed by some friends, who were at dinner at his house; upon which he told them what had befallen him: when his friends so derided him, one and all, for his credulity, in being so simply cheated of his money, that, for mere grief and vexation, within a few days after, he died." the female fanatic, and _heavenly visitor_. the following curious affair happened a few years since at paris, and is well attested by a gentleman of the greatest respectability. a widow-lady, aged about sixty-two, who lodged in a two-pair-of-stairs floor, in the _rue de la ferronnerie_, with only a maid-servant, was accustomed to spend several hours every day at her devotions, before the altar dedicated to st. paul, in a neighbouring church. some villains observing her extreme bigotry, resolved (as she was known to be very rich) to share her wealth. therefore one of them took the opportunity to conceal himself behind the carved work of the altar; and when no person but the old lady was in the church, in the dusk of the evening, he contrived to throw a letter just before her. she took it up, and not perceiving any one near her, supposed it came by a miracle; which she was the more confirmed in, when she saw it was signed, _paul the apostle_, and purported, "the satisfaction he received by her addressing her prayers to him, at a time when so many new-canonized saints engrossed the devotion of the world, and robbed the primitive saints of great part of their wonted adoration; and, to shew his regard for his devotee, said, he would come from heaven, with the angel gabriel, to sup with her, at eight in the evening." it is scarcely credible to think any one could be deceived by so gross a fraud: but to what length of credulity, will not superstition carry the weak mind! the infatuated lady believed it all; and rose from her knees in a transport, to prepare the entertainment for the heavenly guests she expected. when the supper was bespoke, and the sideboard set out to the best advantage, she thought that her own plate (which was worth near four hundred pounds sterling) did not make so elegant a shew as she desired; therefore sent to her brother (who was a counsellor of the parliament of paris) to borrow all his plate; charging her maid not to tell the occasion, but only, that she had company to supper, and should be obliged to him if he would lend her his plate for that evening. the counsellor was surprised at this message, as he knew the frugality of his sister's way of life; and suspected that she was enamoured with some fortune-hunter, who might marry her for her fortune, and thereby deprive the family of what he expected at his sister's death: therefore he absolutely refused to send the plate, unless the maid would tell him what guests she expected. the girl, alarmed for her mistress's honour, replied, that her pious lady had no thoughts of a husband; but that, as st. paul had sent her a letter from heaven, saying, that he and the _angel gabriel_ would come to supper with her, her mistress wanted to make the entertainment as elegant as possible. the counsellor, who knew the turn of his sister's mind, immediately suspected some villains had imposed on her; and sent the maid directly with the plate, while he went to the commissary of the quarter, and gave him this information. the magistrate accompanied him to a house adjoining, from whence they saw, just before eight o'clock, a tall man, dressed in long vestments, with a white beard, and a young man in white, with large wings at his shoulders, alight from a hackney-coach, and go up to the widow's apartment. the commissary immediately ordered twelve of the foot _guet_ (the guards of paris) to post themselves on the stairs, while he himself knocked at the door, and desired admittance. the old lady replied, that she had company, and could speak to no one. but the commissary answered, that he must come in: for that he was st. peter, and had come to ask st. paul and the angel, how they came out of heaven without his knowledge. the divine visitors were astonished at this, not expecting any more saints to join them: but the lady, overjoyed at having so great an apostle with her, ran eagerly to the door; when the commissary, her brother, and the _guet_, rushing in, presented their musquets, and seized her guests, whom they immediately carried to the chatelot. on searching the criminals, two cords, a razor, and a pistol, were found in st. paul's pocket; and a gag in that of the feigned angel. three days after, their trial came on: when, in their defence, they pleaded, that the one was a soldier of the french foot-guards, and the other a barber's apprentice; and that they had no other evil design, but to procure a good supper for themselves at the expence of the widow's folly; that, it being carnival time, they had borrowed the above dresses; that the soldier had found the two cords, and put them into his pocket; the razor was what he used to shave himself with; and the pistol was to defend himself from any insults so strange a habit might expose him to, in going home. the barber's apprentice said, his design also was only diversion; and that, as his master was a tooth-drawer, the gag was what they sometimes used in their business. these excuses, frivolous as they were, were of some avail to them; and, as they had not manifested any evil design by an overt act, they were acquitted. but the counsellor, who had foreseen what would happen, through the insufficiency of evidence, had provided another stroke for them. no sooner were they discharged from the civil power, but the apparitor of the archbishop of paris seized them, and conveyed them to the ecclesiastical prison; and, in three days more, they were tried and convicted of a scandalous profanation, by assuming to themselves the names, characters, and appearances, of an holy apostle and a blessed angel, with an intent to deceive a pious and well-meaning woman, and to the scandal of religion. on this they were condemned to be publicly whipped, burnt on the shoulder by a hot iron, with the letters g.a.l. and sent to the galleys for fourteen years. the sentence was executed on them the next day, on a scaffold in the _place de greve_, amidst an innumerable crowd of spectators: many of whom condemned the superstition of the lady, when perhaps they would have shewn the same on a like occasion; since, it may be supposed, that if many of _their_ stories of apparitions, of saints, and angels, had been judiciously examined, they would have been found, like the above, to be either a gross fraud, or the dreams of an over-heated, enthusiastic imagination. i shall make no reflections on the above fact; but leave it to the impartial consideration of the reader. the female sprites. in september , the following extraordinary incident happened in the family of a clergyman then living in bartholomew close. the gentleman and his wife returning home about eleven o'clock from a friend's house, where they had been to spend the evening, desired the maid to get them warm water to mix with some wine. there being no fire in the parlour, they went into the kitchen; and while the water was heating, the gentleman ordered the maid to get a pan of coals, and warm the bed. the servant had not long been gone up stairs, when the gentleman and his wife heard an uncommon noise over their heads, like persons walking without shoes: and, presently after, a woman enters the kitchen, without any other clothes on than her shift and cap. their astonishment at such a sight so greatly frightened them, that they had neither of them power to speak a word: and while they were thus absorbed in amazement, another woman entered the room in like manner. just at this time the maid came down from warming the bed; and, though greatly surprised at so unexpected an appearance, had the courage to ask them who they were? and what they wanted? to which they replied, that they were servants at their next-door neighbour's, and, being awakened out of their sleep by their master's calling out, fire and thieves! ran up stairs, and entering the garret window, came down, to preserve themselves from danger, and procure assistance. upon this, inquiry being made, the gentleman's daughter at the adjoining house was found in violent fits, which occasioned his calling the maids hastily to her assistance; and this caused an alarm that had nearly proved fatal to the clergyman's wife, who was, at that time, far gone with child. the prussian domino, or _fatal effects of jealousy_. an officer of rank in the service of the late king of prussia, having lost an amiable wife whom he tenderly loved, became quite inconsolable. deeply wounded with his affliction, his mind was so absorbed in melancholy, that the transient pleasures of life were no longer a delight to him; he retired from the court and the field, and at once secluded himself from all society. among the numerous friends who lamented his excessive sorrow, his monarch was not the least, who endeavoured to soothe his distracted mind with sympathetic tenderness. indeed, his majesty considered him not only an agreeable companion, but a valuable friend; and was so much interested in his behalf, that he was determined, if possible, to divert his immoderate grief. but neither the promises of promotion, or the threats of disgrace, could draw him from his retirement. at length, after many zealous efforts had proved ineffectual, a plan was suggested by the king himself, which promised success. his majesty resolved to give a masquerade, to which, by inviting lindorf (for that was the officer's name), an opportunity might be again taken to entice him within that circle of gaiety, of which he was once the admiration. the invitation being accompanied with an affectionate and earnest solicitation from the king, lindorf could not refuse accepting the offer; and, on the evening appointed, he was once more seen in the rooms of splendour and festivity. on his entrance he met the king, who, after greeting him with great kindness, began to rally him upon his late weakness. lindorf thanked his majesty for the honour he did him, and, after a short reply, they for some time walked up and down the saloon together; when at length it was agreed to part, that each might amuse himself according to his own liking, with the different characters exhibited that evening. but the king's intention was solely to watch the movements of lindorf; for with heartfelt regret he beheld, as they parted, the fixed melancholy that still brooded on his countenance: and, when he beheld him pass, with downcast eyes, the saloon, where the dance and music reigned with such irresistible sway, all hope of reclaiming the unhappy widower disappeared. for some time he was witness of his melancholy deportment, and was much affected to find that, where every face beamed a smile, the countenance of lindorf alone was sad and dejected. the king, despairing of his project being successful, was about to quit the rooms, when he beheld lindorf suddenly stop and speak to a lady in a black domino. rejoiced at this circumstance, hope again revived, and he stayed his departure, to watch the event. lindorf, when he quitted the king, continued to walk up and down the rooms, nothing attracting his attention but the lady in the black domino, who, wherever he turned, always appeared before him. at first he imagined the character intended merely to amuse him, and that her strange deportment was instigated by his friends; but the unusual solemnity attending her appearance, after he had in vain desired her to desist, struck him with astonishment. he suddenly stopped, and demanded who she was? "i dare not tell you," answered the domino, in a deep and plaintive tone of voice. lindorf startled--his blood ran cold; it was exactly the voice of his deceased wife. "who are you? for heaven's sake, tell me, or i die!" exclaimed lindorf. "you will be more wretched than you are, if i tell you," replied the mysterious unknown, in accents that doubly excited his curiosity. "tell me," said he, "i conjure you; for i cannot be more wretched than i now am. tell me all, and do not leave me in this state of inquietude." "know then," answered the domino, "i am your wife." lindorf started--every nerve was wrung with anguish. "impossible," said he in a fright, "it cannot be; yet the voice appears the same." here his tongue faltering, he ceased to speak. when he had somewhat recovered his recollection, he ejaculated, "in the name of god, do tell me who you are? is it a trick, or do i dream?" "neither," replied the unknown; and continued, in the same tone of voice, to describe several particulars relative to his family, and in what manner many things were placed in the drawers belonging to his deceased wife, which none but himself and the departed knew of. at length he was convinced the figure before him must be the apparition of his wife; and, in the voice of anguish and despair, requested she would unmask and let him see her face. that the figure refused to do, saying, that would be a sight he could not bear. "i can bear any thing," he replied, "but the pain your denial creates. i entreat you, let me see your face; do not refuse me!" again she denied him; till at last, by repeated entreaties, and his promises not to be alarmed, she consented to unmask, and desired him to follow her into an anti-room, solemnly charging him not to give way to his feelings. they then proceeded to the adjoining room. the king, who was an eye-witness of the deep conversation they were engaged in, beheld, with rapture, their entrance into the anti-chamber, and saw the door closed. "he is certainly restored," said the monarch to his confidential attendant; "lindorf is most assuredly saved; he has made an appointment with some pretty woman, and has just retired to enjoy a private conversation. in her endearments he will, i hope, forget his sorrows. so we may now partake of the festivities of the evening." saying which, he immediately joined the motley group with great cheerfulness. lindorf felt his blood chill, as the door of the anti-chamber closed; but, the warmth of affection returning, he no sooner entered, than he claimed the dreadful promise. again, in the most solemn manner, she advised him not to urge that which might tend to his misery, as she was certain he had not sufficient fortitude to endure a sight of her. with horror he heard the remonstrance; and the solemnity of her deportment only inspired his eager curiosity the more. at length, after many strict injunctions, she lifted up the mask; when the astonished lindorf beheld the most horrid spectacle of a skeleton head. "oh, god!" he exclaimed, and, groaning, fell senseless on the floor. in vain the mysterious domino attempted to recover him. sorrow had for a long time preyed upon his existence, and terror had now for ever quieted the unhappy lindorf. he breathed no more; he was a lifeless corpse. instantly the domino quitted the room, and retired from the masquerade. the king had just returned to his post of observation, and saw the domino depart. in vain he waited for lindorf to follow; an hour expired, and no lindorf appeared. this raised the curiosity of the monarch. the door was left partly open, and he resolved to enter; when, to his great surprise and sorrow, he beheld lindorf stretched on the floor, a corpse. he instantly alarmed the company; but the mystery of his death in vain they attempted to develope. no marks of violence appeared on his body, which was the more astonishing; and, to add to the mystery, the masqued lady was not to be found in any of the rooms. messengers were then dispatched, and advertisements distributed, all over the city of berlin, offering large rewards for her apprehension; but no further information could be gained, than that deposed by two chairmen, who affirmed, they brought the domino to the rooms, which from their account only added to the mystery. their declaration was as follows--"having received a letter, enjoining secrecy, and desiring them to attend in the dusk of the evening, at a certain church porch, to carry a lady to the masquerade; they, thinking it was some person who intended to play the character of a hobgoblin, or sprite, did not hesitate, and made no farther inquiry, but proceeded, at the hour appointed, to the place mentioned; where they found a person waiting in a black domino, just as the advertisement described. on their arrival, without speaking a word, the domino placed the money for hire in their hands, and instantly entered the chair, which they immediately conveyed to the masquerade. on their arrival, without uttering a word, she darted from them into the crowd, and they saw no more of her until twelve o'clock, when, on passing the door, they discovered the domino again seated in the chair. they were much surprised at such strange conduct; but, without reflecting on the event, they conveyed her back again, as was agreed, to the same church porch, when they received a further gratuity, and departed." such was the deposition of the two chairmen, at once mysterious and incomprehensible. this intelligence still more astonished the king, who in vain used every method to make further discovery in this extraordinary and unhappy affair. several years elapsed, without any thing occurring that could lead to a developement of this dreadful catastrophe. all search after the lady was now given up, and nothing but the remembrance of the unhappy affair remained. at length the hour arrived, when this dreadful mystery was explained, which displayed one of the most diabolical and desperate transactions ever known. the particulars are as follow. a lady, then at the point of death, requested to see some confidential friend of the king's; which request was immediately complied with: to whom she made the following confession. in accents scarcely audible, she told them, she was the person who appeared in the black domino, in so mysterious a manner, to lindorf, and which unhappily caused his death. that revenge for neglected love instigated her to play the part she did; but that she had no idea the consequence would have been so fatal: her intention being merely to assume the appearance of his deceased wife, in order that she might upbraid him, and gratify her revenge for having broke his vow in marrying her sister instead of herself; and also that she might effectually persuade him to desist from his melancholy intentions of remaining a widower, and prevail on him to marry her--for although he refused her request personally, yet she imagined the scheme must be successful, when played off under the appearance of a spirit of his deceased wife; and, to deceive his imagination, she had endeavoured to personify her; for which purpose she had procured the head of a skeleton, and assumed that character which had proved the death of the man she so ardently loved, and the source of endless misery to herself. she then related the conversation that had passed between them on that fatal evening, and fully described the whole particulars of that mysterious affair. she likewise acknowledged she endeavoured to imitate the voice of his deceased wife; and declared her intention for having the chair brought to the church porch was to render the proceeding the more mysterious and incomprehensible in case of a scrutiny. on concluding this melancholy tale, she fetched a deep sigh, and instantly expired. the dead man and _anatomical professor_. many, who were personally acquainted with mr. junker, have frequently heard him relate the following anecdote. being professor of anatomy, he once procured, for dissection, the bodies of two criminals who had been hanged. the key of the dissecting room not being immediately at hand, when they were carried home to him, he ordered them to be laid down in a closet which opened into his own apartment. the evening came; and junker, according to custom, proceeded to resume his literary labour before he retired to rest. it was now near midnight, and all his family were fast asleep, when he heard a rumbling noise in his closet. thinking that, by some mistake, the cat had been shut up with the dead bodies, he arose, and, taking the candle, went to see what had happened. but what must have been his astonishment, or rather his panic, on perceiving that the sack which contained the two bodies was rent through the middle. he approached, and found that one of them was gone. the doors and windows were well secured, and he thought it impossible the bodies could have been stolen. he tremblingly looked round the closet, and observed the dead man seated in a corner. junker stood for a moment motionless: the dead man seemed to look towards him; he moved both to the right and left, but the dead man still kept his eyes upon him. the professor then retired, step by step, with his eyes still fixed upon the object of his alarm, and holding the candle in his hand, until he reached the door. the dead man instantly started up, and followed him. a figure of so hideous an appearance, naked, and in motion--the lateness of the hour--the deep silence which prevailed--every thing concurred to overwhelm him with confusion. he let fall the only candle which he had burning, and all was darkness. he made his escape to his bed-chamber, and threw himself on the bed: thither, however, he was pursued; and he soon felt the dead man embracing his legs, and loudly sobbing. repeated cries of "leave me! leave me!" released junker from the grasp of the dead man; who now exclaimed, "ah! good executioner! good executioner! have mercy upon me." junker soon perceived the cause of what had happened, and resumed his fortitude. he informed the re-animated sufferer who he really was, and made a motion, in order to call up some of the family. "you wish then to destroy me," exclaimed the criminal. "if you call any one, my adventure will become public, and i shall be taken and executed a second time. in the name of humanity, i implore you to save my life." the physician struck a light, decorated his guest with an old night-gown, and, having made him take off a cordial, requested to know what had brought him to the gibbet. it would have been a truly singular exhibition, observed junker, to have seen me, at that late hour, engaged in a _tête-à-tête_ with a dead man decked out in a night-gown. the poor wretch informed him, that he had enlisted as a soldier, but that, having no great attachment to the profession, he had determined to desert; that he had unfortunately entrusted his secret to a kind of crimp, a fellow of no principle, who recommended him to a woman, in whose house he was to remain concealed: that this woman had discovered his retreat to the officers of police, &c. junker was extremely perplexed how to save the poor man. it was impossible to retain him in his own house, and keep the affair a secret; and to turn him out of doors, was to expose him to certain destruction. he therefore resolved to conduct him out of the city, in order that he might get into a foreign jurisdiction; but it was necessary to pass the gates of the city, which were strictly guarded. to accomplish this point, he dressed the man in some of his old clothes, covered him with a cloak, and, at an early hour, set out for the country, with his _protegé_ behind him. on arriving at the city gate, where he was well known, he said in a hurried tone, that he had been sent for to visit a sick person who was dying in the suburbs. he was permitted to pass. having both got into the open fields, the deserter threw himself at the feet of his deliverer, to whom he vowed eternal gratitude; and, after receiving some pecuniary assistance, departed, offering up prayers for his happiness. twelve years after, junker, having occasion to go to amsterdam, was accosted on the exchange by a man well-dressed and of the best appearance, who, he had been informed, was one of the most respectable merchants in that city. the merchant, in a polite manner, inquired whether he was not professor junker of halle; and, on being answered in the affirmative, he requested, in an earnest manner, his company to dinner. the professor consented. having reached the merchant's house, he was shewn into an elegant apartment, where he found a beautiful wife, and two fine healthy children: but he could scarcely suppress his astonishment at meeting with so cordial a reception from a family with whom, he thought he was entirely unacquainted. after dinner, the merchant, taking him into his counting-room, said, "you do not recollect me?"--"not at all."--"but i well recollect you; and never shall your features be effaced from my remembrance. you are my benefactor. i am the person who came to life in your closet, and to whom you paid so much attention. on parting from you, i took the road to holland. i wrote a good hand, was tolerably expert at accounts; my figure was somewhat interesting; and i soon obtained employment as a merchant's clerk. my good conduct, and my zeal for the interests of my patron, procured me his confidence, and his daughter's love. on his retiring from business, i succeeded him, and became his son-in-law. but for you, however, i should not have lived to experience all these enjoyments. henceforth, look upon my house, my fortune, and myself, as at your disposal." those who possess the smallest portion of sensibility can easily represent to themselves the feelings of junker. the drunken bucks, and _chimney-sweep_. on march the th, , four bucks assembled at an inn in grantham, to drink a glass, and play a game of cards. the glass circulating very briskly, before midnight they became so intoxicated, that not one of them was able to determine how the game stood; and several disputes, interspersed with a considerable number of oaths, ensued, till they agreed to let the cards lie, and endeavour to drink themselves sober. shortly after they resumed the game; and each man imagining himself capable of directing the rest, they soon came again to very high words; when the waiter, fearful that some bad consequences might ensue, let them know it was near three o'clock, and, if any gentleman pleased, he would wait on him home. instead of complying with his request, the geniuses looked upon it as an indignity offered them, and declared, with the most horrid imprecations, that not one of them would depart till day-light. but, in the height of their anger, an uncommon noise in the chimney engaged their attention; when, on looking towards the fire-place, a black spectre made its appearance, and crying out in a hollow menacing tone--"_my father has sent me for you, infamous reprobates!_" they all, in the greatest fright, flew out of the room, without staying to take their hats, in broken accents confessing their sins, and begging for mercy. it appears, that the master of the inn, finding he could not get rid of his troublesome guests, and having a chimney-sweeper in his house sweeping other chimneys, he gave the boy directions to descend into the room as above related, whilst he stood at a distance, and enjoyed the droll scene of the bucks' flight. the cripplegate ghost. the following story, well authenticated in the neighbourhood of cripplegate, will convince the reader, that vicious intentions are sometimes productive of much good to the parties they intended to injure. a gentlewoman in that parish, having lain for some days in a trance, was at length laid out and buried for dead, with a gold ring on her finger. the sexton knowing thereof, he and his wife, with a lanthorn and candle, went privately the next night, and dug up the coffin, opened it, untied the winding sheet, and was going to cut off her finger for the sake of the valuable ring buried with her, they not being otherwise able to remove it; when, suddenly, the lady raised herself up (being just then supposed miraculously to come out of her trance). the sexton and his wife ran away in a horrible fright, leaving their lanthorn behind them; which the lady took up, and made haste home to her house. when knocking hard at the door, the maid-servant asked who was there? "'tis i, your mistress," replied the lady; "and do, for god's sake, let me in immediately, as i am very cold." the maid, being much surprised and terrified at this reply, neglected to open the door, ran away to her master, and acquainted him with the circumstance; who would scarcely believe her tale, till he went himself to the door, and heard his wife relate the dreadful particulars. he immediately let her in, put her into a warm bed; and, by being well looked after, she soon perfectly recovered, and lived to have three children afterwards. this extraordinary resuscitation is conjectured, by the faculty, to have been occasioned by the sudden circulation of the blood on the villain's attempting to cut off the finger. a monument, with a curious inscription of this affair, is still to be seen in cripplegate church. the ventriloquist. the following anecdotes are related by the abbé de la chapelle, of the french academy. this gentleman, having heard many surprising circumstances related concerning one monsieur st. gille, a grocer, at st. germain-en-laye, near paris, whose astonishing powers as a ventriloquist had given occasion to many singular and diverting scenes, formed the resolution to see him. struck by the many marvellous anecdotes related concerning him, the abbé judged it necessary first to ascertain the truth by the testimony of his own senses, and then to inquire into the cause and manner in which the phenomena were produced. after some preparatory and necessary steps (for monsieur st. gille had been told he did not chuse to gratify the curiosity of every one), the abbé waited upon him, informed him of his design, and was very cordially received. he was taken into a parlour on the ground floor; when monsieur st. gille and himself sat on the opposite sides of a small fire, with only a table between them, the abbé keeping his eyes constantly fixed on monsieur st. gille all the time. half an hour had passed, during which that gentleman diverted the abbé with a relation of many comic scenes which he had given occasion to by this talent of his; when, all on a sudden, the abbé heard himself called by his name and title, in a voice that seemed to come from the roof of a house at a distance. he was almost petrified with astonishment: on recollecting himself, however, he asked monsieur st. gille whether he had not just then given him a specimen of his art? he was answered only by a smile. but while the abbé was pointing to the house from which the voice had appeared to him to proceed, his surprise was augmented on hearing himself answered, "it was not from that quarter," apparently in the same kind of voice as before, but which now seemed to issue from under the earth, at one of the corners of the room. in short, this factitious voice played, as it were, every where about him, and seemed to proceed from any quarter or distance from which the operator chose to transmit it to him. the illusion was so very strong, that, prepared as the abbé was for this kind of conversation, his mere senses were absolutely incapable of undeceiving him. though conscious that the voice proceeded from the mouth of monsieur st. gille, that gentleman appeared absolutely mute while he was exercising this talent; nor could the author perceive any change whatever in his countenance. he observed, however, at this first visit, that monsieur st. gille contrived, but without any affectation, to present only the profile of his face to him, while he was speaking as a ventriloquist. the next experiment made was no less curious than the former, and is related as follows-- monsieur st. gille, returning home from a place where his business had carried him, sought for shelter from an approaching thunder-storm, in a neighbouring convent. finding the whole community in mourning, he inquires the cause, and is told, that one of their body had lately died, who was the ornament and delight of the whole society. to pass away the time, he walks into the church, attended by some of the religious, who shew him the tomb of their deceased brother, and speak feelingly of the scanty honours they had bestowed on his memory. suddenly, a voice is heard, apparently proceeding from the roof of the choir, lamenting the situation of the deceased in purgatory, and reproaching the brotherhood with their lukewarmness and want of zeal on his account. the friars, as soon as their astonishment gave them power to speak, consult together, and agree to acquaint the rest of the community with this singular event, so interesting to the whole society. monsieur st. gille, who wished to carry on the deception still farther, dissuaded them from taking this step; telling them, that they will be treated by their absent brethren as a set of fools and visionaries. he recommended to them, however, the immediately calling the whole community into the church, when the ghost of their departed brother may, probably, reiterate his complaints. accordingly, all the friars, novices, lay-brothers, and even the domestics of the convent, are immediately summoned and collected together. in a short time, the voice from the roof renewed its lamentations and reproaches; and the whole convent fell on their faces, and vowed a solemn reparation. as a first step, they chaunted a _de profundis_ in full choir; during the intervals of which, the ghost occasionally expressed the comfort he received from their pious exercises and ejaculations on his behalf. when all was over, the prior entered into a serious conversation with monsieur st. gille; and, on the strength of what had just passed, sagaciously inveighed against the absurd incredulity of our modern sceptics, and pretended philosophers, as to the existence of ghosts or apparitions. monsieur st. gille thought it now high time to undeceive the good fathers. this purpose, however, he found extremely difficult to effect, till he had prevailed upon them to return with him into the church, and there be witnesses of the manner in which he had conducted this ludicrous deception. in consequence of these memoirs, presented by the author to the royal academy of sciences at paris, in which he communicated to them the observations that he had collected on the subject of ventriloquism in general, and those he had made on monsieur st. gille in particular; that learned body deputed two of its members, m. de fouchy and le roi, to accompany him to st. germain-en-laye, in order to verify the facts, and to make their observations on the nature and causes of this extraordinary faculty. in the course of this inquiry, a very singular plan was laid and executed, to put monsieur st. gille's powers of deception to the trial, by engaging him to exert them in the presence of a large party, consisting of the commissaries of the academy, and some persons of the highest quality, who were to dine in the open forest near st. germain-en-laye on a particular day. all the members of this party were in the secret, except a certain lady, here designated by the title of the countess de b. who was pitched upon as a proper person for monsieur st. gille's delusive powers, as she knew nothing either of him or of ventriloquism; and possibly for another reason, which the abbé, through politeness, suppresses. she had been told in general, that this party had been formed in consequence of a report, that an aërial spirit had lately established itself in the forest of st. germain-en-laye; and that a grand deputation from the academy of sciences was to pass the day there, to inquire into the reality of the fact. monsieur st. gille was one of the first of this select party; and, previous to his joining the company in the forest, he completely deceived one of the commissaries of the academy, who was then walking apart from the rest, and whom he accidentally met. just as he was abreast of him, prepared and guarded as the academician was against a deception of this kind, he verily believed that he heard his associate m. de fouchy, who was then with the company at above an hundred yards distance, calling after him to return as expeditiously as possible. his valet, too, after repeating to his master the purport of m. de fouchy's supposed acclamation, turned about towards the company, and, with the greatest simplicity imaginable, bawled out as loud as he could, in answer to him, "yes, sir." after this promising beginning, the party sat down to dinner; and the aërial spirit, who had been previously furnished with proper anecdotes respecting the company, soon began to address the countess of b. particularly, in a voice that seemed to be in the air over their heads. sometimes he spoke to her from the tops of the trees around them, or from the surface of the ground, but at a great distance; and at other times seemed to speak from a considerable depth under her feet. during the dinner, the spirit appeared to be absolutely inexhaustible in the gallantries he addressed to her; though he sometimes said civil things to the rest of the company. this kind of conversation lasted above two hours; and, in fine, the countess was firmly persuaded, as the rest of the company affected to be, that this was the voice of an aërial spirit: nor would she, as the author affirms, have been undeceived, had not the rest of the company, by their unguarded behaviour, at length excited in her some suspicions. the little plot against her was then owned; and she acknowledged herself to be mortified only in being awakened from such a pleasing delusion. several other instances of monsieur st. gille's talents are related. he is not, however, the only ventriloquist now in being. the author, in the course of his inquiries on this subject, was informed that the baron de mengin, a german nobleman, possessed this art in a very high degree. the baron has also constructed a little puppet, or doll, (the lower jaw of which he moves by a particular contrivance), with which he holds a spirited kind of dialogue. in the course of it, the little virago is so impertinent, that at last he thrusts her into his pocket; from whence she seems, to those present, to grumble, and complain of her hard treatment. some time ago, the baron, who was then at the court of bareith, being in company with the prince de deux ponts, and other noblemen, amused them with this scene. an irish officer, who was then present, was so firmly persuaded that the baron's doll was a real living animal, previously taught by him to repeat these responses, that he watched his opportunity at the close of the dialogue, and suddenly made an attempt to snatch it from his pocket. the little doll, as if in danger of being suffocated, during the struggle occasioned by this attempt, called out for help, and screamed incessantly from the pocket till the officer desisted. she then became silent; and the baron was obliged to take her out from thence, to convince him, by handling her, that she was a mere piece of wood. it should have been observed, at the beginning of the abbé's anecdotes, that ventriloquism is the art of vocal deception. it is an art, or quality, possessed by certain persons, by means of which they are enabled to speak inwardly, having the power of forming speech by drawing the air into the lungs, and to modify the voice in such a manner as to make it seem to proceed from any distance, or in any direction whatever. there is no doubt but many of these deceptions have been magnified by weak people into those dreadful stories of apparitions and hobgoblins, which the credulous and enthusiastic are too apt implicitly to believe. the school-boy apparition. a few years since, the inhabitants of dorking, in surrey, entertained a notion, that a ghost walked in a certain place in that neighbourhood; and that she (for it was an ancient lady, lately dead) was seen hovering about the mansion-house, which was left uninhabited for some time; that she would be up and down in the house very often in the day-time, making a rumbling and a clattering noise; and in the night-time she walked in the neighbouring fields, with a candle in her hand, and though the wind blew ever so hard, it would not blow the candle out; that sometimes she would appear in the open fields, sometimes up in the trees; and, in particular, there was a little heath near dorking, called cotman dean, where, it was said, she was frequently seen. there was a boarding-school of boys in that town, some of whom were particularly roguish, and contrived all this walking, from the beginning to the end. first, they got a small rope; and, tying one end of it to an old chair which stood in an upper room of the house (for they had found the means to get in and out of the house at pleasure), they brought the other end of the rope down on the other side of the house, in a private place, where it could not easily be seen; and by this they pulled the old chair up, and then let it fall down again: this made a great noise in the house, and was heard distinctly by many of the neighbours. then other boys of the same gang took care to call out the old women in the next houses, that now they might hear the old lady playing her pranks; and, accordingly, they would all assemble in the court-yard, where they could plainly hear the noises, but not one of them would venture to go up stairs. if any one offered to go a little way up, then all was quiet; but, as soon as ever they retired, the rumbling would begin again. this was the day's deception. in the night, one of these unlucky boys got a dark lanthorn, which was a thing, at that time, the country-people did not understand; and with this he walked about the orchard, and two or three closes near the house, shewing the light in different directions. his comrades would then call all the old women about them to see it. then, on a sudden, the light would seem to go out, as the boy closed up the lanthorn. then he would run swiftly across the whole field, and shew his light again on the other side. now he would be up in a tree, then in the road, then upon the middle of the heath; so that the country-people made no more question, but that the old lady walked with a candle in her hand, and that they saw the light of it; in a word, it passed for an apparition, and was generally conceived as such by the neighbourhood, till the knavery was discovered, the boys punished, and the towns-people laughed at for their credulity. the credulous peasants. no longer ago than the year , when the husbandmen of paris suffered so severely by the devastation on the th of july in that year, many of the farmers were positively so superstitious at their own created fears, that, notwithstanding considerable sums were offered to indemnify them for their losses, and to encourage them to carry on with spirit the cultivation of their lands, with new seeds, new implements, &c. they peremptorily refused, on account of a foolish report that was then prevalent in some parts of the country where the storm happened. they said, that two giants were seen peeping out of the clouds, and threatening, with terrible countenances, gigantic frowns, and high-sounding words, that they would return next year on the same thirteenth day of july, with a greater scourge than they then felt. terrified either at the imagined report, or at the fancied sight of the giants (which terror and a weak brain will often produce), many of the unhappy sufferers abandoned their houses, and commenced beggars, rather than return to the labours of the field: so great was their affright, in consequence of that tremendous storm. this story, though hardly credible, may be depended on as a fact, and may be seen in many of the public prints of that time. the nocturnal disturbers. the following authentic story is related by dr. plot, in his natural history of oxfordshire. soon after the murder of king charles the first, a commission was appointed to survey the king's house at woodstock, with the manor, park, woods, and other demesnes thereunto belonging; and one collins, under a feigned name, hired himself as secretary to the commissioners: who, upon the thirteenth of october , met, and took up their residence in the king's own rooms. his majesty's bed-chamber they made their kitchen; the council-hall, their pantry; and the presence-chamber was the place where they sat for the dispatch of business. his majesty's dining room they made their wood-yard, and stored it with the wood of the famous royal oak, from the high park; which, that nothing might be left with the name of the king about it, they had dug up by the roots, and split, and bundled up into faggots for their firing. things being thus prepared, they sat on the th of the same month for the dispatch of business; and in the midst of their first debate, there entered a large black dog, as they thought, which made a dreadful howling, overturned two or three of their chairs, and then crept under a bed, and vanished. this gave them the greater surprise, as the doors were kept constantly locked, so that no real dog could get in or out. the next day, their surprise was increased; when, sitting at dinner in a lower room, they heard plainly the noise of persons walking over their heads, though they well knew the doors were all locked, and there could be nobody there. presently after, they heard also all the wood of the king's oak brought by parcels from the dining-room, and thrown with great violence into the chamber; as also the chairs, stools, tables, and other furniture, forcibly hurled about the room; their own papers of the minutes of their transactions torn; and the ink-glass broken. when this noise had some time ceased, giles sharp, their secretary, proposed to enter first into these rooms; and, in presence of the commissioners, of whom he received the key, he opened the doors, and found the wood spread about the room, the chairs tossed about, and broken, the papers torn, and the ink-glass broken (as has been said); but not the least track of any human creature, nor the least reason to suspect one, as the doors were all fast, and the keys in the custody of the commissioners. it was therefore unanimously agreed, that the power who did this mischief must have entered the room at the key-hole. the night following, sharp, the secretary, with two of the commissioners' servants, as they were in bed in the same room (which room was contiguous to that where the commissioners lay), had their beds' feet lifted so much higher than their heads, that they expected to have their necks broken; and then they were let fall at once with so much violence, as shook the whole house, and more than ever terrified the commissioners. on the night of the nineteenth, as all were in bed in the same room for greater safety, and lights burning by them, the candles in an instant went out with a sulphurous smell: and, that moment, many trenchers of wood were hurled about the room; which, next morning, were found to be the same their honours had eaten off the day before, which were all removed from the pantry, though not a lock was found opened in the whole house. the next night, they fared still worse: the candles went out as before; the curtains of their honours' beds were rattled to and fro with great violence; their honours received many cruel blows and bruises by eight great pewter dishes, and a number of wooden trenchers, being thrown on their beds, which being heaved off were heard rolling about the room, though in the morning none of them were to be seen. the following night, likewise, they were alarmed with the tumbling down of oaken billets about their beds, and other frightful noises: but all was clear in the morning, as if no such thing had happened. the next night, the keeper of the king's house and his dog lay in the commissioners' room; and then they had no disturbance. but, on the night of the twenty-second, though the dog lay in the room as before, yet the candles went out, a number of brickbats fell from the chimney into the room, the dog howled piteously, their bed-clothes were all stripped off, and their terror increased. on the twenty-fourth night, they thought all the wood of the king's oak was violently thrown down by their bed-sides; they counted sixty-four billets that fell, and some hit and shook the beds in which they lay: but in the morning none were found there, nor had the door been opened where the billet-wood was kept. the next night, the candles were put out, the curtains rattled, and a dreadful crack like thunder was heard; and one of the servants, running to see if his master was not killed, found three dozen of trenchers laid smoothly under the quilt by him. but all this was nothing to what succeeded afterwards. the twenty-ninth, about midnight, the candles went out; something walked majestically through the room, and opened and shut the windows; great stones were thrown violently into the room, some of which fell on the beds, others on the floor; and, about a quarter after one, a noise was heard, as of forty cannon discharged together, and again repeated at about eight minutes distance. this alarmed and raised all the neighbourhood; who, coming into their honours' rooms, gathered up the great stones, fourscore in number, and laid them in the corner of a field, where, in dr. plot's time, who reported this story, they were to be seen. this noise, like the discharge of cannon, was heard through all the country for sixteen miles round. during these noises, which were heard in both rooms together, the commissioners and their servants gave one another over for lost, and cried out for help; and giles sharp, snatching up a sword, had well nigh killed one of their honours, mistaking him for the spirit, as he came in his shirt, from his own room to their's. while they were together, the noise was continued, and part of the tiling of the house was stripped off, and all the windows of an upper room were taken away with it. on the thirtieth at midnight, something walked into the chamber, treading like a bear; it walked many times about, then threw a warming-pan violently on the floor: at the same time a large quantity of broken glass, accompanied with great stones and horses' bones, came pouring into the room, with uncommon force; these were all found in the morning, to the astonishment and terror of the commissioners, who were yet determined to go on with their business. but, on the first of november, the most dreadful scene of all ensued. candles in every part of the house were lighted up, and a great fire made. at midnight, the candles all yet burning, a noise, like the burst of a cannon, was heard in the room, and the burning billets were tossed about by it even into their honours' beds, who called giles and his companions to their relief, otherwise the house had been burned to the ground. about an hour after, the candles went out as usual; the crack of as many cannon was heard; and many pailfuls of green stinking water were thrown upon their honours' beds; great stones were thrown in, as before; the bed-curtains and bedsteads torn and broken; the windows shattered; and the whole neighbourhood alarmed with the most dreadful noises; nay, the very rabbit-stealers that were abroad that night in the warren, were so terrified, that they fled for fear, and left their ferrets behind them. one of their honours, this night, spoke; and, in the name of god, asked what it was? and why it disturbed them so? no answer was given to this, but the noise ceased for a while; when the spirit came again, and, as they all agreed, brought with it seven devils worse than itself. one of the servants now lighted a large candle, and placed himself in the doorway between the two chambers, to see what passed; and, as he watched, he plainly saw a hoof striking the candle and candlestick into the middle of the room, and afterwards making three scrapes over the snuff, scraped it out. upon this the same person was so bold as to draw a sword; but he had scarce got it out, when he felt an invisible hand had hold of it too, and pulled with him for it, and, at length prevailing, struck him so violently on the head with the hilt, that he fell down for dead with the blow. at this instant was heard another burst, like the discharge of the broadside of a ship of war; and, at about a minute or two's distance each, no less than nineteen more such. these shook the house so violently, that they expected every moment it would fall upon their heads. the neighbours, on this, as has been said, being all alarmed, flocked to the house in great numbers, and all joined in prayer and psalm-singing; during which the noise still continued in the other rooms, and the report of cannon was heard, as from without, though no visible agent was seen to discharge them. but what was the most alarming of all, and put an end to their proceedings effectually, happened the next day, as they were all at dinner; when a paper, in which they had signed a mutual agreement to reserve a part of the premises out of the general survey, and afterwards to share it equally amongst them, (which paper they had hid, for the present, under the earth, in a pot in one corner of the room, in which an orange-tree grew), was consumed in a wonderful manner, by the earth's taking fire, with which the pot was filled, and burning violently with a blue flame, and an intolerable stench, so that they were all driven out of the house, to which they could never again be prevailed upon to return. this wonderful contrivance was all the invention of the memorable joseph collins, of oxford, otherwise called _funny joe_; who, having hired himself for their secretary, under the name of giles sharp, by knowing the private traps belonging to the house, and the help of _pulvis fulminans_ and other chemical preparations, and letting his fellow-servants into the scheme, carried on the deceit, without discovery, to the very last, so dextrously, that the late dr. plot, in his natural history, relates the whole for fact, in the gravest manner. mareschal saxe, and _the haunted castle_. the following very remarkable adventure, which befel the mareschal de saxe, whilst returning to his country-seat, near dresden, in saxony, has often been related by him to his friends and acquaintance; and, as the mareschal was not less famed for his love of truth, than for his heroic courage as a warrior, none of them ever doubted the truth of his relation. "returning," says the mareschal, "from the fatigues of a very active campaign to my country-seat, in order to seek, in retirement, some relaxation during the remainder of the winter, i arrived on the third day at a small village, on the verge of an extensive forest. at about half a league from this village, stood an ancient castle, in which some of the country-people were usually wont to take up their abode, and from which they had of late been driven, according to their account, by the nightly appearance of a most terrific spectre, whose visit was announced by the most hideous groans. on conversing with some of the villagers," observes the mareschal, "i found that an universal terror pervaded the whole neighbourhood; many of them declaring they had actually seen the dreadful ghost; whilst others, taking their declaration for granted, promulgated the story, according as their imaginations were more or less affected by their fears. "willing, if possible, to comfort these poor people, and to convince them that their senses were deceived, i told them they were wrong to suffer their fears to get the better of their reason; and that, if any of them had the courage to examine more closely into the affair, they would find the whole was nothing more than some imposture, or the effusion of a superstitious brain, or, at most, a trick played upon them by some wicked people on purpose to amuse themselves by sporting with their feelings. but i was much disappointed to find that my arguments had but little effect. i therefore determined, if possible, to trace the affair to the bottom before i departed, in order to dispel their fears, and do away the unfavourable impression they had so generally entertained of the castle being haunted. "i now told them, i would pass a night in one of the apartments of the castle, provided i were furnished with a bed, and other necessaries requisite for such an undertaking. 'moreover,' said i, 'if this ghostly personage should honour me with a visit, i shall not fail to propose articles of accommodation between you.' to this they readily assented, and seemed much pleased with my proposition. "in the evening, my bed, fire, and other requisites, being ready, i was conducted to my new abode; on entering which, i proposed to some of my conductors to pass the night with me, which they, one and all, declined, under various pretences. 'well then, my good people,' said i, rallying their want of courage, 'the day is now closing apace, i would have you return immediately, lest this nightly intruder should intercept you in your retreat.' whereupon my companions took leave, and hastened with all speed from the castle. "being now alone, i thought it prudent to examine the castle with the most minute circumspection. after various researches to discover all the private avenues of the place, i returned to the apartment i proposed sleeping in, at the further end of which i perceived a door that till now i had not discovered. i essayed to open it, but in vain, as it was fastened on the other side. this naturally excited my suspicion. i again made the attempt, and again was unsuccessful. i then prepared to guard myself against a surprise; i therefore charged my pistols, and laid them together with my sword in a convenient place to seize them on the least alarm. i then took a slight repast, of such provisions as had been prepared for me; after which i amused myself, until my usual hour of going to rest, with examining the gothic decorations of my apartment, and then laid me down on the bed, and, being rather overcome with the fatigue of the day, i soon sunk into a profound sleep. how long i continued in this state, i cannot exactly say; but i conjectured it to be about midnight, when i was alarmed with the most unaccountable noise i had ever heard. i listened a few seconds, to ascertain from whence the sound came, and soon found it proceeded from without the door i had fruitlessly attempted to open. i instantly jumped from the bed, seized my arms, and was in the act of advancing towards it, determined to find out the cause of this disturbance, let what would be the consequence; when, suddenly the door flew open, with the most tremendous crash. a hollow groan issued from the vaults below; and a tall figure of gigantic appearance, clad in complete armour, rose to my view. the figure's appearance was so sudden and terrific, that i could not in a moment collect myself sufficiently to call out and speak to it; but, a moment after, my courage returned, and, calling to mind, that i could only find safety in my own courageous efforts, and not doubting but the intruder was a mortal like myself, i instantly levelled one of my pistols, and fired. the ball struck the breast-plate of the figure, glided quickly off, and lodged in the wall. i levelled again, fired, and with the same effect. i then drew my sword, at the same time exclaiming, 'know that i am the mareschal de saxe; that i am a stranger to fear, and that this sword shall quickly prove whether thou art mortal or not!' 'be thou the mareschal de saxe, or the devil,' replied the figure; 'thy courage here can avail thee nought. i have the means to destroy thee, or an hundred such, in an instant. but, follow me; thy obedience only can insure thy safety.' i now saw that resistance would be vain, as several figures clad in armour like the first, and well armed, appeared at each door. 'well then,' said i, 'since it is so, lead the way; but remember, that the first who dares touch me dies, if my own life is the immediate forfeiture.' "we then quitted the apartment, by the secret door already mentioned; and, descending by a circuitous flight of stairs, soon arrived at another door, which flew open on our approach. no sooner were we entered, than my guide gave a signal to those who followed, and the door was instantly shut. a number of vulcan-like creatures now appeared, bearing lighted torches, and leading the way through a winding subterraneous passage. we soon came to a spacious arched vault, in which i beheld upwards of fifty persons very actively engaged in the various processes of coining. the whole mystery was now developed; and i discovered that, for the first time in my life, i had fallen into the hands of a most desperate gang of coiners. escape was now utterly impossible; nor could i entertain the most distant hope of succour from without the castle, as my sudden disappearance would rather operate to confirm the terror of the villagers, than stimulate them to search after me. "the man in armour now turned to me, and addressed me in nearly the following words--'you now see for what purpose we are here arrived. i am the chief of this band; and it is principally to me you may attribute your preservation. we have but recently taken up our abode in this castle; and the plan we have fallen upon to terrify the villagers and country round, and thereby keep them from pursuing us, has hitherto succeeded beyond our most sanguine expectations; nor was it likely we should have been disturbed for years to come, had you not visited these parts. of your resolute intention to sleep in the haunted apartment we were informed by our friends without; your name also was made known to us; upon which an universal consternation ensued. many wished to fly, in order to avoid, what they conceived, inevitable destruction: others were of opinion, it would be better to suffer you to enter the castle quietly; and as, most likely you would be attended with but few persons, to dispatch you all in the night, and hide your bodies among the ruins in one of the vaults. this last proposition had the majority; as it was considered, that our own safety would not only be secured for the present by this act, but it would in all probability prevent others from making the like attempt hereafter. but this proceeding was happily over-ruled by me and a few others--i say, happily; for though we are considered, in the eye of the law, as co-brothers with assassins and midnight robbers, yet god forbid that we should add to our crimes by staining our hands with the blood of the innocent. to be brief, i promised that, with the aid of a few of my companions, i would drive you from the castle by the same stratagem i have before made use of to others, or, if that did not succeed, to secure and conduct you by force. thus have i explained the cause of your present detention. the regaining your liberty must entirely depend on your acquiescence with our proposals; and there is a way i can point out, by which you may secure both your own safety and our's.' 'name it not then,' said i, interrupting him, 'if it be dishonourable; for i had rather perish here by your hands, than owe my liberty to any connivance at your iniquities, or be the instrument of your future security!' 'use your own pleasure,' continued he, in a determined tone of voice; 'but you certainly must not depart this place until you have bound yourself by your _honour_ not to divulge a secret, on which depend the lives of so many persons. that word, once pledged by the mareschal de saxe, will be a sufficient guarantee of our future safety. i could have wished our request had been more congenial to your feelings; but our situation is desperate, and consequently impels us to enforce, what we would, under all other circumstances, have solicited as the least of favours--your word of honour. "i paused for several minutes: a confused murmur now run throughout the whole place, and an universal disapprobation at the chief's forbearance began now to manifest itself. add to which, i saw the utter impracticability of escape without complying with their demand; and i knew that their prepossession in my favour was but partial, and of course might soon give way to their former plan of assassinating me for their safety. if i continued inflexible, i perceived my death was inevitable. therefore, as the majority were favourably inclined, i made a virtue of necessity, and gave them my word to keep the secret of the whole affair locked within my own breast. 'you are now at liberty,' said the chief, 'to return to your apartment, where you may rely on being perfectly safe until break of day, when you had better depart.' whereupon the doors flew open, and i was conducted back to my old lodging, where i sat ruminating on the strangeness of the adventure. "day now appearing, i quitted the castle, and hied me to the village, where i found most of the inhabitants already in waiting, eager to hear how i made out with the ghost. numberless were their interrogatories, which i only answered by telling them i was not at liberty to disclose what i had seen and heard. their old opinions were now more fully confirmed than ever; and, i believe, from that moment none have had courage to venture near the castle after dark; and it is probable that, to this day, the whole mystery has never been truly explained to their satisfaction. shortly after, i set out on my journey, and soon arrived in safety at my own domain. "about four years after this, a person rode up to my gate, leading a couple of beautiful chargers, which he delivered, with a letter addressed to me, into the hands of my domestics; and, having so done, he clapped spurs to his horse, and disappeared in an instant. on opening the letter, i found it contained nearly the following words-- '_from the pretended ghost of the haunted castle, to the mareschal de saxe._ 'brave mareschal--you are now at liberty to divulge the secret of our affair in the haunted castle. our fortunes are now made; and, ere you receive this, we shall be far from hence. but remember, that whatever the world may say as to the propriety of keeping your word with men like us, know, that the honour of a prince[a], once pledged, should be kept inviolate, even though given in a bad cause. my companions desired me to beg your acceptance of the horses you will receive herewith, as a mark of their most grateful acknowledgments. adieu! may you live long, and be happy.'--" footnotes: [a] the mareschal was the son of a king. remarkable resuscitation. in the first volume of the _causes célèbres_, a popular french work, is the following extraordinary story, which occasioned a serious law-suit. two men in trade, who lived in the street st. honoré in paris, nearly equal in circumstances, both following the same profession, and united in the closest friendship, had each of them a child, much about the same age. these children were brought up together, and conceived a mutual attachment, which, ripening with years into a stronger and more lively sentiment, was approved by the parents on both sides. this young couple was upon the point of being made happy, by a more solemn union, when a rich financier, conceiving a passion for the young maiden, unfortunately crossed their inclinations by demanding her in marriage. the allurements of a more brilliant fortune seduced her father and mother, notwithstanding their daughter's repugnance, to consent to the change. to their entreaties, however, she was obliged to yield, and sacrificed her affections by becoming the wife of the financier. like a woman of virtue, she forbade her earlier lover the house. a fit of melancholy, the consequence of this violence done to her inclinations by entering into an engagement of interest, brought on her a malady, which so far benumbed her faculties, that at length she was given over by the faculty, apparently died, and was accordingly laid out for burial. her former lover, who had once before beheld her in a similar situation, flattered himself that he might possibly again find her in a trance. this idea not only suspended his grief, but prompted him to bribe the grave-digger, by whose aid he dug up the body in the night-time, and conveyed it home. he then used every means in his power for recalling her to life, and was overjoyed on discovering that his endeavours were not ineffectual. it is not easy to conceive the surprise of the young woman on her resuscitation, when she found herself in a strange house, and, as it were, in the arms of her lover, who soon informed her of what had taken place on her account. she then comprehended the extent of her obligation to her deliverer; and love, more pathetic than all his persuasions to unite their destinies, determined her, on her recovery, to escape with him into england. this was effected; and they lived for some years in the closest union. at the end of ten years, they conceived the natural wish of revisiting their own country, and at length returned to paris, where they took no precaution whatever of concealing themselves, being persuaded that no suspicion would attach to their arrival. it happened however, by chance, that the financier met his wife in one of the public walks. the sight of her made so strong an impression on him, that for some time he imagined it must be her apparition; and, being fully persuaded of her death, he could not for a long time efface that idea. however, he so contrived it as to join her; and, notwithstanding the language she made use of to impose upon him, he left her with the conviction that he was not deceived at finding her a living substance. the singularity of this event gave more charms to the woman in the eyes of her former husband than she before possessed. he therefore acted with such address, that he discovered her abode, notwithstanding all her precautions, and reclaimed her with all the regular formalities of justice. it was in vain that the lover maintained the right which his cares for his mistress gave him to the possession of her; that he represented her inevitable death but for him; that his adversary divested himself of all his own rights, by causing her to be buried; that he ought even to be accused of homicide, for want of having taken proper precautions to assure himself of her death; and a thousand other ingenious reasons, which love suggested to him. but, finding that the judicial ear was unfavourable, and not thinking it expedient to wait the result of a definitive judgment, he fled with his mistress into a foreign country; where they passed the remainder of their days without further molestation. the credulous bishop. a few years since, a memorable conference took place between dr. fowler (then bishop of gloucester) and a mr. justice powell: the former, a zealous defender of ghosts; and the latter, somewhat sceptical about them. they had several altercations upon the subject; and once, when the bishop made a visit to the justice, the latter, contracting the muscles of his face into an air of more than usual severity, assured the bishop, that, since their last disputation, besides his lordship's strong reasons, he had met with no less proof than ocular demonstration, to convince him of the real existence of ghosts. "how!" says the bishop, "ocular demonstration! well, i have preached, i have printed, upon the subject; but nothing will convince you sceptics but ocular demonstration. i am glad, mr. justice, you are become a convert. but pray, sir, how went this affair? i beseech you, let me know the whole story." "my lord," answered the justice, "as i lay one night in my bed, and had gone through the better half of my first sleep, it being about twelve o'clock, on a sudden i was awakened by a very strange and uncommon noise, and heard something coming up stairs, and stalking directly towards my room. i had the courage to raise myself upon my pillow, and to draw the curtain, just as i heard my chamber-door open, and saw a glimmering light enter my chamber." "of a blue colour, no doubt," says the bishop. "of a pale blue," answers the justice. "but, permit me, my good lord, to proceed. the light was followed by a tall, meagre, and stern personage, who seemed to be of the age of seventy, in a long dangling rug gown, bound round his loins with a broad leathern girdle; his beard was thick and grizzly; he had a large fur cap on his head, and a long staff in his hand; his face was full of wrinkles, and seemed to be of a dark and sable hue. i was struck with the appearance of so surprising a figure, and felt some shocks which i had never before been acquainted with. soon after the spectre had entered my room, with a hasty, but somewhat stately pace, it drew near my bed, and stared me full in the face." "and did you not speak to it?" interrupted the bishop, with a good deal of emotion. "with submission, my lord," says the justice, "please only to indulge me in a few words more." "but, mr. justice, mr. justice," replies the bishop still more hastily, "you should have spoken to it; there was money hid, or a murder committed; and give me leave to observe that murder is a matter cognizable by law, and this came regularly into judgment before you." "well, my lord, you will have your way; but, in short, i did speak to it." "and what answer, mr. justice, i pray you--what answer did it make you?" "my lord, the answer was, not without a thump with the staff, and a shake of the lanthorn, that he was the watch-man of the night, and came to give me notice, that he had found the street-door open, and that, unless i arose and shut it, i might chance to be robbed before break of day." the moment these words were out of the good justice's mouth, the bishop vanished with much more haste than did the supposed ghost, and in as great a surprise at the justice's scepticism, as the justice was at the bishop's credulity. the ghostly adventurer. about thirty years ago, some labouring mechanics met one saturday evening, after receiving their wages, at a public-house, near rippon, in yorkshire, for the purpose of enjoying themselves convivially, after the cares and fatigues of the week. the glass circulated freely: every man told his story, or sung a song; and various were the subjects of conversation. at length that of courage was introduced; every man now considered himself a hero, as is generally the case when liquor begins to operate. one boasted his skill as a pugilist, and related how many battles he had fought, and came off victorious; another related a dreadful encounter he had lately had with a mad dog, whom he overpowered and left dead on the field; a third told a story of his sleeping in a haunted house, and his conversation with a dreadful ghost. in short, various and extravagant were the different tales they told; until one, who had hitherto remained silent, arose, and told them that, notwithstanding their boasted courage, he would wager a bet of five guineas, that not one of the company had resolution sufficient to go to the bone-house, in the parish church-yard (which was about a mile distant), and bring a skull from thence with him, and place it on the table before the guests. this wager was soon accepted by one of the party, who immediately set off on his expedition to the church-yard. the wag who had proposed the bet, and who knew a nearer by-way to the bone-house than his opponent had taken, requested of the landlady to lend him a white sheet, and that he would soon cool this heroic man's courage. the landlady, who enjoyed the joke, complied with his request, lent him the sheet, and off set our wag with the utmost speed. he arrived at the bone-house first, threw the sheet over him, and placed himself in one corner, waiting the arrival of his comrade. presently after enters the first man, with slow deliberate pace; and observing a figure in white, he felt himself greatly alarmed (as he afterwards acknowledged). however, he resumed his courage, advanced, stooped down, and picked up a skull. immediately the phantom exclaimed, in a deep and hollow tone, "_that's my father's skull!_" "well then," replied the adventurer, "if it be thy father's skull, take it." so down he laid it, and took up another; when the figure replied, in the same hollow tone, "_that's my mother's skull!_" "well then," the other again replied, "if it be thy mother's skull, take it." so down he laid it, and took up a third. the apparition now, in a tremendously awful manner, cried out, "_that's my skull!_" "if it be the devil's skull, i'll have it!" answered the hero; and off he ran with it in his hand, greatly terrified, and the spectre after him. in his flight through the church-yard, he stumbled over a tomb-stone, and fell; which occasioned the ghost likewise to fall upon him, which increased not a little his fright. however, he soon extricated himself, and again bent his flight towards the inn, which he soon reached; and, bolting suddenly into the room, exclaimed, with terrific countenance, his hair standing on end, "here is the skull you sent me for: but, by george, the right owner's coming for it!" saying which, down went the skull, and instantly appeared the figure with the white sheet on. this unexpected intrusion so much frightened all the company, that they ran out of the house as fast as possible, really believing it was an apparition from the tombs come to punish them for their sacrilegious theft. such power has fear over the strongest mind when taken by surprise! the undaunted adventurer, however, won his wager; which was spent at the same house the saturday following, when the joke was universally allowed to be a very good one. the heroic midshipman; or _church-yard encounter_. at a respectable inn, in a market-town, in the west of england, some few years since, a regular set of the inhabitants met every evening to smoke their pipes, and pass a convivial hour. the conversation, as is usual at those places, was generally desultory. one evening, the subject introduced was concerning ghosts and apparitions; and many were the dreadful stories then told. a young midshipman, having accidentally dropped in, sat a silent and an attentive hearer; and, among other tales, heard a dreadful one of a sprite or hobgoblin dressed in white, which every night was seen hovering over the graves, in a church-yard at no great distance from the inn, and through which was a foot-path to one of the principal streets in the town. our young gentleman felt himself stimulated with an ardour of quixotism at this relation; and was determined in his own mind, whatever might be the consequence, to encounter this nightly spectre, which so much disturbed the courageous inhabitants of the place. his pride was, to perform this mighty achievement alone. therefore, between eleven and twelve o'clock at night, out he sallies, without making his intentions known to any one, and entered the church-yard. but, i should observe, that he had his hanger by his side. having reached about the middle of the church-yard, he observed, sure enough, something in white moving backwards and forwards; but the haziness of the night prevented his strict discernment of the figure's shape. as it appeared advancing towards him, a momentary trepidation seized him. he retreated a few steps; but, soon recovering himself, he resolutely cried out, "_who comes here?_" no answer being made, he again cried out, "_who comes here?_" still no reply was made. he then groped about for a stone or brick-bat, which having found, he threw with great violence at the figure; upon which it appeared to move much quicker than before. he again spoke to the figure; and, receiving no answer, drew his hanger, and made a desperate stroke at this dreadful spectre, which moving with still greater agility, now alarmed our adventurer, and caused him to run away greatly terrified, believing he had encountered some supernatural appearance, which had resisted all his blows. it was not long ere he reached home, and went to bed; but his fright was so great, that sleep could not gain any ascendancy over him. he therefore lay ruminating on this extraordinary affair the whole night. in the morning, while at breakfast, the bellman, or crier, came nearly under his window, and began his usual introductory address of "_o-yez! o-yez!_" these words immediately arrested the ears of our adventurer; and, to his very great astonishment, he heard him thus proceed--"this is to give notice, that whereas some evil-disposed person, or persons, did wantonly cut and maim the parson's white mare, which was grazing in the church-yard last night, a reward of ten guineas will be given to any person who will discover the offender, or offenders, so that they may be brought to justice! _god save the king!_" our champion now thought it prudent to decamp without beat of drum. thus ended this ghostly adventure; the particulars of which the inhabitants were informed of by letter, the moment the young gentleman had got safe on board his ship. the cock-lane ghost. about the middle of january , a gentleman was sent for to the house of one parsons, the officiating parish clerk of st. sepulchre's, in cock lane, near west smithfield, to be witness to the noises, and other extraordinary circumstances, attending the supposed presence of a spirit, that, for two years preceding, had been heard in the night, to the great terror of the family. this knocking and scratching was always heard under the bed where the children lay; the eldest was about twelve years of age. to find out the cause, mr. parsons, the parish-clerk, ordered the wainscot to be taken down; which was accordingly done: but the noise, instead of ceasing, as he hoped, became more violent than ever. the children were afterwards removed into the two-pair of stairs room, where the same noise followed, and was frequently heard all night. from these circumstances it was apprehended that the house was haunted; and the other child declared, that she, some time ago, had seen the apparition of a woman, surrounded, as it were, with a blazing light. about two years prior to which, a publican in the neighbourhood, bringing a pot of beer into the house, about eleven o'clock at night, was so frightened that he let the beer fall, upon seeing on the stairs, as he was looking up, a bright shining figure of a woman, by which he saw through a window into the charity-school, and saw the dial in the school. the figure passed by him, and beckoned him to follow; but he was too much terrified to obey its directions: he ran home, and was very sick. soon after, mr. parsons himself, having occasion to go into another room, saw the same appearance. both these happened within the space of an hour. to throw some light upon this very mysterious affair, we shall begin with the narrative of mr. brown, of amen corner, published january d, ; the substance of which is as follows-- that in , one mr. k---- employed an agent to carry a letter to a young gentlewoman of a reputable family in norfolk, and to bring her up to london in a post-chaise, if she would be willing to come. that she did come; but mr. k----being at greenwich, she followed him there directly, and was received by him, after a journey of one hundred miles performed in one day, with much tenderness. after some short stay at greenwich, where it was thought necessary that she should make a will in his favour, she was removed to a lodging near the mansion-house; from thence to lodgings, behind st. sepulchre's church; and, lastly, to a house in bartlett court, in the parish of clerkenwell. here, in , she was taken ill of the small-pox; and, on or about the st of january, her sister, who lived reputably in pall-mall, was first made acquainted with her illness, and place of residence. being greatly concerned thus to hear of her, she went immediately, and found her in a fair way of doing well; next day she sent, and received a favourable account of her; but, on the morning following, word was brought that her sister was dead. she died february d, ; and was buried, in two or three days after, at the church of st. john, clerkenwell. her sister, attending her funeral, was surprised at not seeing a plate upon the coffin, and expressed that surprise to mr. brown after the funeral was over; lamenting, at the same time, she had not been permitted to see her sister's corpse, the coffin being screwed down before she came. she added, that k---- had married one of her sisters, and had ruined the other, who was buried by the name of ----, as appears by the parish register. by the will already mentioned, k---- availed himself of her fortune, to the prejudice of her brother and sisters, who all lived in perfect harmony until this unhappy affair happened. such is the account given by mr. brown, of amen corner. a worthy clergyman, however, who attended her several times, and who administered to her the last comforts of his function, declares, that the small-pox with which she was seized, was of the confluent sort; and that the gentleman of the faculty, who attended her, had pronounced her irrecoverable some days before her death. it was, however, the ghost of this person, that parsons declared had taken possession of his girl, a child about twelve years old, who lay with the deceased in the absence of her supposed husband, when he was in the country at a wedding; and then it was, that the knocking was first heard, to the great terror of this child, she frequently crying out that she might not be taken away. soon after, this woman died, whose apparition was now supposed to appear to this same child; and, in answer to the question put to her, what was the occasion of the first knocking, &c. before she died? answered, that it was the spirit of her sister, the first wife of mr. k----, who was husband to them both. having now sufficiently prepared the reader, we shall proceed in our narrative. the gentleman already said to have been sent for, attended, and found the child in bed; and, the spirit being at hand, several questions were put to it by the father, which, to avoid repetition, we shall relate hereafter. the gentleman not caring to pronounce too hastily upon what appeared to him extraordinary, got some friends together, among whom were two or three clergymen, about twenty other persons, and two negroes, who sat up another night. they first thoroughly examined the bed, bed-clothes, &c.; and, being satisfied that there was no visible appearance of deceit, the child with its sister was put into bed, which was found to shake extremely by the gentleman who had placed himself at the foot of it. among others, the following questions were asked-- whether her disturbance was occasioned by any ill-treatment from mr. k----?--yes. whether she was brought to an untimely end by poison?--yes. in what was the poison administered, beer or purl?--purl. how long before her death?--three hours. is the person called carrots, able to give information about the poison?--yes. whether she was k----'s wife's sister?--yes. whether she was married to k----?--no. whether any other person than k---- was concerned in the poisoning?--no. whether she could visibly appear to any one?--yes. whether she would do so?--yes. whether she could go out of that house?--yes. whether she would follow the child everywhere?--yes. whether she was pleased at being asked questions?--yes. whether it eased her mind?--yes. (here a mysterious noise, compared to the fluttering of wings round the room, was heard.) how long before her death had she told carrots (her servant) that she was poisoned?--one hour. (here carrots, who was admitted to be one of the company on tuesday night, asserted that the deceased had not told her so, she being at that time speechless.) how long did carrots live with her?--three or four days. (carrots attested the truth of this.) whether, if the accused should be taken up, he would confess?--yes. whether she should be at ease in her mind, if the man was hanged?--yes. how long it would be before he would be executed?--three years. how many clergymen were in the room?--three. how many negroes?--two. whether she could distinguish the person of any one in the room?--yes. whether the colour of a watch held up by one of the clergymen was white, yellow, blue, or black?--black. (the watch was in a black shagreen case.) at what time she would depart in the morning?--at four o'clock. accordingly, at this hour the noise removed to the wheat-sheaf, a public-house at the distance of a few doors, in the bed-chamber of the landlord and landlady, to the great affright and terror of them both. such was the manner of interrogating the spirit: the answer was given by knocking or scratching. an affirmative was one knock; a negative, two. displeasure was expressed by scratching. nothing more occurred till the following morning, when the knocking began about seven o'clock. but, notwithstanding some extraordinary answers to the several questions proposed, it was still a matter of doubt whether the whole was not a piece of imposition; and it was resolved to remove the child elsewhere. accordingly, instead of its being carried home, it was conveyed to a house in crown-and-cushion court, at the upper end of cow lane, near smithfield, where two clergymen, several gentlemen, and some ladies, assembled in the evening. about eleven o'clock the knocking began; when a gentleman in the room, speaking angrily to the girl, and hinting that he suspected it was some trick of her's, the child was uneasy, and cried: on which the knocking was heard louder, and much faster than before; but no answer could be obtained to any question while that gentleman staid in the room. after he was gone, the noise ceased: and nothing was heard till a little after twelve o'clock, when the child was seized with a trembling and shivering; in which manner she had always been affected, on the departure as well as the approach of the ghost. upon this, one of the company asked, whether it would return again, and at what time? answer was made in the usual manner by knocks, that it would return again before seven in the morning; and then a noise, like the fluttering of wings, was heard; after which all was quiet till between six and seven on friday morning, when the knocking began again. a little before seven, two clergymen came, when the fluttering noise was repeated, which in this strange affair was considered as a mark of the spirit's being pleased. then several questions, particularly one, by a gentlewoman who was an acquaintance of the deceased, who came out of mere curiosity, and had been to see her some time before she died: the question was, how many days it was before her death, that this gentlewoman came to see her? the answer given was three knocks, signifying three days; which was exactly right. another question was, whether some of the then company had not a relation that had been buried in the same vault where she lay? to which it replied by one knock, yes. they asked, severally, if it was their relation? to all of which, except the last, she answered by two knocks, meaning no; but to the last person she gave one knock, which was right. these two circumstances greatly alarmed all the company. near twenty persons sat up in the room: but it was not till about six o'clock in the morning that the first alarm was given, which coming spontaneously, as well as suddenly, a good deal struck the imagination of the auditors. the scratches were compared to that of a cat upon a cane chair. the child now appeared to be in a sound sleep, and nothing further could be obtained. it had been observed, in conversation, by a person who expressed himself pretty warmly on the subject, that the whole was an imposture, and more to the same purpose; which gave rise to some sharp altercation among the company--some believing, and others disbelieving the reality of the apparition. this dispute was no sooner begun, than the spirit was gone; and no more knocking and scratching was to be heard. about seven o'clock the girl seemed to awake in a violent fit of crying and tears. upon being asked the occasion, and assured that nothing of harm should happen to her, she declared that her tears were the effect of her imagination at what would become of her daddy, who must needs be ruined and undone, if this matter should be supposed to be an imposture. she was told, that the company had looked upon her as in a sound sleep when the above dispute happened. to which she replied, "aye, but not so sound but that i could hear all you said." on the sunday night following, the girl lay at a house opposite the school-house in cock lane; at which place a person of distinction, two clergymen, and several other persons, were present. between ten and eleven o'clock the knocking began: the principal questions and answers were the same as those already mentioned; but among some new ones of little consequence, was the following?--will you attend the girl at any place whither she may be appointed to be carried, by authority? answered in the affirmative. at eleven o'clock, eleven distinct knocks were heard; and at twelve, when being asked if it was going away, and when it would return again, seven knocks were given. accordingly, when st. sepulchre's clock struck seven, on monday morning, this invisible agent knocked the same number of times. some few questions were asked at this meeting, much to the same purport as those above inserted, and answered in the same manner. every person was put out of the room, who could be supposed to have the least connexion with the girl: her hands were laid over the bed-clothes, and the bed narrowly looked under, &c. but no discovery was made. on the night of the st of february, many gentlemen, eminent for their rank and character, were, by the invitation of the reverend mr. aldrich, of clerkenwell, assembled at his house, for the examination of the noises supposed to be made by a departed spirit for the detection of some enormous crime. about ten at night, the gentlemen met in the chamber, in which the girl supposed to be disturbed by a spirit had, with proper caution, been put to bed by several ladies. they sat with her rather more than an hour; and, hearing nothing, went down stairs, when they interrogated the father of the girl, who denied, in the strongest terms, any knowledge or belief of fraud. the supposed spirit had before publicly promised, by an affirmative knock, that it would attend one of the gentlemen into the vault under the church of st. john, clerkenwell, where the body was deposited; and give a token of her presence there, by a knock upon her coffin: it was, therefore, determined to make this trial of the existence or veracity of the supposed spirit. while they were inquiring and deliberating, they were summoned into the girl's chamber by the ladies who remained near her bed, and who heard knocks and scratches. when the gentlemen entered, the girl declared that she felt the spirit like a mouse upon her back, and was required to hold her hands out of bed. from that time, though the spirit was very solemnly required to manifest its existence, by appearance, by impression on the hand or body of any person present, by scratches, knocks, or any other agency, no evidence of any preternatural power was exhibited. the spirit was then very seriously advertised, that the person to whom the promise was made, of striking the coffin, was then about to visit the vault, and that the performance of the promise was then claimed. the company, at one o'clock, went into the church; and that gentleman, to whom the promise was made, went, with one more, into the vault. the spirit was very solemnly required to perform its promise, but nothing more than silence ensued: the person supposed to be accused by the spirit then went down, with several others, but no effect was perceived. upon their return, they examined the girl, but could draw no confession from her. between two and three, she desired, and was permitted, to go home with her father. no doubt now remained of the fallacy of this spirit. it was supposed that the girl was practised in the art of ventriloquism, an art better known now than formerly; but it was soon after discovered that there was not so much ingenuity in the fraud. a bed was slung like a hammock, in the middle of a room, at a gentleman's house, where the girl was sent. the servants were ordered to watch her narrowly; and, about a quarter of an hour before bed-time, she was observed to conceal something under her clothes. information of this being given to the gentlemen attending, they were of opinion, that a connivance at the beginning of the scene would be the most likely means of leading them to a full discovery of the fact. in the morning, about six o'clock, the knockings came, and answered to questions as usual, but in so different a sound, that it was very apparent this method of operating was a fresh contrivance. when the knockings, which continued for near half an hour, were over, she was several times asked, if she had any wood or other thing in the bed, against which she could strike? which she obstinately denied. two maid-servants being then ordered to take her out of bed, a piece of board was found in it, which, as was observed, she had conveyed there the night before. soon after, a trial came on before lord mansfield, in the court of king's bench, guildhall, by a special jury, on an indictment against richard parsons, and elizabeth his wife, mary fraser, a clergyman, and a reputable tradesman, for a conspiracy in the cock-lane ghost affair, to injure the character, &c. of mr. william kent; when they were all found guilty. the trial lasted about twelve hours. the hypochondriac gentleman and _the jack-ass_. a sober gentleman of very great respectability, who was low-spirited and hypochondriac to a degree, was at times so fanciful, that almost every rustling noise he heard was taken for an apparition or hobgoblin. it happened that he was abroad at a friend's house later than ordinary one night; but, it being moon-light, and having a servant with him, he seemed to be easy, and was observed to be cheerful, and even merry, with a great deal more of good-humour than had been observed in him for some time before. he knew his way perfectly well, for it was within three miles of the town where he lived, and he was very well mounted: but, though the moon was up, an accident, which a little disordered him, was, that a very thick black cloud appeared to him to come suddenly over his head, which made it very dark; and, to add to his discomfort, it began to rain violently. upon this he resolved to ride for it, having not above two miles to the town; so, clapping spurs to his horse, he galloped away. his man (whose name was jervais), not being so well mounted, was a considerable way behind. the darkness of the night, and the rain together, put him a little out of humour, and made him ride rather harder than his usual pace. in his way home, there was a small river for him to pass; but there was a good bridge over it, well walled on both sides, so that there was no more danger than in any other place. the gentleman kept on at a good pace, and was rather more than half over the bridge, when his horse stopped all on a sudden, and would not go on. he saw nothing at first, and was therefore not much discomposed at it, but spurred his horse to go forward. the horse then went two or three steps; then stopped again, snorted, and started; then attempted to turn short back. the gentleman, in endeavouring to see what frightened the horse, saw two broad staring eyes looking him full in the face. he was now most heartily frightened; but, by this time, he heard his man jervais coming up. when he came near, the first thing he heard his master say, was, "bless me, it is the devil!" at which exclamation the man was almost as much frightened as his master. however, the gentleman, a little encouraged to hear his man so near him, pressed his horse once more to go forward, and called aloud to his servant to follow; but jervais, being much frightened, made no haste. at length, with great difficulty, he got over the bridge, and passed by the creature with the broad staring eyes, which he positively affirmed was the devil. though jervais was near enough, yet fearing his master would order him to go before, he kept as far off as he possibly could. when his master called, he answered, but proceeded very slowly, till he observed his master had gone past; when, being obliged to follow, he went on very softly till he came to the bridge, where he plainly saw what it was his master's horse snorted at, which the reader will be made acquainted with presently. the gentleman, having now past the difficulty, galloped home as fast as possible, and got into the house long before jervais could get up with him. as soon as he alighted, he swooned away, such an effect the fright had on him; and with much difficulty they brought him to himself. when he recovered, he told the family a formal story, that at such a bridge he met with the devil, who was standing at the left-hand corner of the wall, and stared him full in the face; and he so fully expatiated on this subject, that all believed, at least, he had met with an apparition. jervais soon after came home, and went directly to the stable to take care of the horses; where he told _his story_ in the following manner to his fellow-servants: "finding," says he, "that my master was in danger of being thrown over the bridge, i fearlessly rode near him; when, to my very great surprise, i found that my master's horse (which was young and skittish) was frightened at an ass, which stood grazing near the corner of the wall." "are you sure it was an ass, jervais?" asked the servants, staring one at another, half frightened themselves. "are you quite sure of it?" "yes," replied the man; "for, as soon as my master had got by, i rode up to it; and, on discovering the cause of our fear, i thrashed it with my stick, on which it fell a braying; and i rode home after my master." "why, jervais," said the servants, "your master believes it was the devil." "i am sorry," said the man, "my master should have been so much deceived; but, really, it was nothing more nor less than an ass." the story now got vent; and the first part of it flew all over the town, that mr. ---- (mentioning his name) had seen the devil, and was almost frightened to death. shortly after, the man's tale was circulated, that mr. ----'s strange and wonderful apparition of the devil was nothing more than an ass; which raised the laugh sufficiently against the master. however, poor jervais lost his place for gossiping; and his master insists upon it to this day, that it was the devil, and that he knew him by his broad eyes and cloven feet. such is the power of imagination over the weak and credulous! the castle apparition. _translated by the rev. weeden butler, jun. from a monkish manuscript._ in the vicinity of chamberry, a town in savoy, stood the ancient mansion of the albertini: round it were several little buildings, in which were deposited the cattle, poultry, &c. &c. belonging to the family. a young gentleman, by name barbarosse, came to the chateau on a visit for a few days; he was cordially received, being of a pleasing lively disposition; and an elegant room in the east wing was prepared for his accommodation. the family, and their young guests, spent the day very agreeably; and, after supper, they sat round a comfortable large fire, and diverted themselves with songs and stories: the former, as is generally the case, were some of the sprightly, some of the tender and pathetic kind; but the latter were, for the most part, of the melancholy cast, particularly those which related to preternatural occurrences. the social party separated at half past twelve o'clock; and barbarosse retired to his chamber. it was a handsome room on the first floor, having three doors; two of these belonged to two little closets, one on the right that overlooked a farm-yard, and another more to the left that presented a view through the window of a large romantic wood; the third door was that by which he entered his room, after traversing a long passage. our youth had visited this room in the morning, and looked out of the window to enjoy the prospect for a great while. as he entered this apartment, with his mind full of the diversion just left, he set his candle down upon the table, and looked about him. there was an excellent fire in the chimney, with an iron grating before it, to prevent accidents; a large elbow-chair stood near it; and, not being at all sleepy, he sat down reflecting on the amusements of the day, and endeavoured to remember the tales he had heard. in some he thought he perceived strong traits of truth; and in others he discovered palpable fiction and absurdity. whilst he was deliberating on the various incidents, the heavy watch-bell tolled two; but barbarosse did not attend to it, being deeply engaged in his contemplations. he was suddenly awakened from his reveries by an uncommon rustling sound issuing from the closet on the right hand; and, listening attentively, he heard distinct taps upon the floor at short intervals. alarmed at the circumstance, he walked slowly to his bed-side, and drew forth his pocket-pistols from under the pillow; these he carefully placed upon the table, and resumed the elbow-chair. all was again still as death; and nought but the winds, which whistled round the watch-tower and the adjacent buildings, could be heard. barbarosse looked towards the door of the closet, which he then, and not till then, perceived was not shut, but found that it hung upon the jar; immediately a furious blast forced it wide open; the taper burnt blue, and the fire seemed almost extinct. barbarosse arose, put forth a silent hasty ejaculation of prayer, and sat down again; again he heard the noise! he started up, seized the pistols, and stood motionless; whilst large cold drops of dew hung upon his face. still his heart continued firm, and he grew more composed, when the rustling taps were renewed! barbarosse desperately invoked the protection of heaven, cocked one of the pistols, and was about to rush into the portentous apartment, when the noise increased and drew nearer: a loud peal of thunder, that seemed to rend the firmament, shook violently the solid battlements of the watch-tower; the deep-toned bell tolled three, and its hollow sound long vibrated on the ear of barbarosse with fainter and fainter murmurs; when a tremendous cry thrilled him with terror and dismay; and, lo! the long-dreaded spectre stalked into the middle of the room: and barbarosse, overcome with surprise and astonishment at the _unexpected_ apparition, sunk down _convulsed_[b] in his chair. the phantom was armed _de cap en pied_, and clad in a black garment. on his crest a black plume waved majestically; and, instead of a glove or any other sort of lady's favour, he wore a blood-red token. he bore no weapon of offence in his hand; but a gloomy shield, made of the feathers of some kind of bird, was cast over each shoulder. he was booted and spurred; and, looking upon barbarosse with ardent eyes, raised his feathery arms, and struck them vehemently against his sides, making at the same time the most vociferous noise! then it was, that barbarosse found he had not shut down the window in the morning; from which neglect it happened, that a _black game-cock_ had flown into the closet, and created all this inexpressible confusion. footnotes: [b] lest any of the faculty should wish, ineffectually, to be informed what species of convulsions affected barbarosse, i think it proper (observes the translator) to satisfy their truly laudable curiosity by anticipation, and to assure them, _fois d'homme d'honneur_, that this disorder was a _convulsion of laughter_. the twins, or _ghost of the field_. ye who delight in old traditions, and love to talk of apparitions, whose chairs around are closely join'd, while no one dares to look behind, thinking there's some hobgoblin near, ready to whisper in his ear; oh! listen, while i lay before ye my well-authenticated story. two twins, of understanding good, together liv'd, as brothers should: this was named thomas, that was john; but all things else they had as one. at length, by industry in trade, they had a pretty fortune made, and had, like others in the city, a country cottage very pretty; where they amused their leisure hours, in innocence, with plants and flowers, till fate had cut tom's thread across, and left poor john to wail his loss. john left alone, when now some weeks had wip'd the tears from off his cheeks, to muse within himself began on what should be his future plan: "ye woods, ye fields, my sweet domain, when shall i see your face again? when shall i pass the vacant hours, rejoicing in my woodbine bowers; to smoke my pipe, and sing my song; regardless how they pass along? when take my fill of pastime there, in sweet forgetfulness of care?" he said; and, on his purpose bent, soon to his country cottage went, swill'd home-brew'd ale and gooseberry fool: john never ate or drank by rule. his arms were folded now to rest, the night-mare sat upon his breast; from right to left, and left to right, he turn'd and toss'd, throughout the night: a thousand fears disturb'd his head, and phantoms danced around his bed; his lab'ring stomach, though he slept, the fancy wide awake had kept: his brother's ghost approach'd his side, and thus in feeble accents cried-- "be not alarm'd, my brother dear, to see your buried partner here; i come to tell you where to find a treasure, which i left behind: i had not time to let you know it, but follow me, and now i'll shew it." john trembled at the awful sight, but hopes of gain suppress'd his fright; oft will the parching thirst of gold, make even errant cowards bold. john, rising up without delay, went where the spectre led the way; which, after many turnings past, stopp'd in an open field at last, where late the hind had sow'd his grain, and made the whole a level plain. the spectre pointed to the spot, where he had hid the golden pot: "deep in the earth," says he, "'tis laid." but john, alas! had got no spade; and, as the night was pretty dark, he felt around him for a mark, that he might know again the place, soon as aurora shew'd her face. in vain he stoop'd and felt around, no stick or stone was to be found; but nature now, before oppress'd, by change of posture sore distress'd, gave an alarming crack; a hint of what, as sure as stick or flint, to-morrow morn the place would tell, if he had either sight or smell. this done, he rose to go to bed; he wak'd, how chang'd! the night-mare fled; the ghost was vanish'd from his sight, and john himself in piteous plight. the double mistake, or _college ghost_. mr. samuel foote, the celebrated comedian, played the following trick upon doctor gower, who was then provost of his college, a man of considerable learning, but rather of a grave pedantic turn of mind. the church belonging to the college fronted the side of a lane, where cattle were sometimes turned out to graze during the night; and from the steeple hung the bell-rope, very low in the middle of the outside porch. foote saw in this an object likely to produce some fun, and immediately set about to accomplish his purpose. he accordingly, one night, slily tied a wisp of hay to the rope, as a bait for the cows in their peregrination to the grazing ground. the scheme succeeded to his wish. one of the cows soon after, smelling the hay as she passed by the church-door, instantly seized on it, and, by tugging at the rope, made the bell ring, to the astonishment of the sexton and the whole parish. this happened several nights successively; and the incident gave rise to various reports--such as, not only that the church was haunted by evil spirits, but that several spectres were seen walking about the church-yard, in all those hideous and frightful shapes, which fear, ignorance, and fancy, usually suggest on such occasions. an event of this kind, however, was to be explored, for the honour of philosophy, as well as for the quiet of the parish. accordingly, the doctor and the sexton agreed to sit up one night, and, on the first alarm, to run out, and drag the culprit to condign punishment. their plan being arranged, they waited with the utmost impatience for the appointed signal: at last, the bell began to sound its usual alarm, and they both sallied out in the dark, determined on making a discovery. the sexton was the first in the attack: he seized the cow by the tail, and cried out it was a gentleman commoner, as he had him by the tail of his gown; while the doctor, who had caught the cow by the horns at the same time, immediately replied, "no, no, you blockhead, 'tis the postman; and here i have hold of the rascal by his blowing-horn." lights however were immediately brought, when the character of the real offender was discovered, and the laugh of the whole town was turned upon the doctor. the haunted castle. the castle of ardivillers, near breteuil, was reported to be haunted by evil spirits. dreadful noises were heard; and flames were seen, by night, to issue from various apertures. the farmer who was entrusted with the care of the house, in the absence of its owner, the president d'ardivillers, could alone live there. the spirit seemed to respect him; but any person who ventured to take up a night's lodging in the castle was sure to bear the marks of his audacity. superstition is catching. the peasants in the neighbourhood at length began to see strange sights. sometimes a dozen of ghosts would appear in the air above the castle dancing. at other times, a number of presidents and counsellors, in red robes, appeared in the adjacent meadow. there they sat in judgment on a gentleman of the country, who had been beheaded for some crime an hundred years before. in short, many had seen, and all had heard, the wonders of the castle of ardivillers. this affair had continued four or five years, to the great loss of the president, who had been obliged to let the estate to the farmer at a very low rent. at length, suspecting some artifice, he resolved to visit and inspect the castle himself. taking with him two gentlemen, his friends, they determined to pass the night in the same apartment; and if any noise or apparition disturbed them, to discharge their pistols at either ghost or sound. as spirits know all things, they were probably aware of these preparations, and not one appeared. but, in the chamber just above, a dreadful rattling of chains was heard; and the wife and children of the farmer ran to assist their lord. they threw themselves on their knees, begging that he would not visit that terrible room. "my lord," said they, "what can human force effect against people of t'other world? monsieur de ficancout attempted the same enterprise years ago, and he returned with a dislocated arm. m. d'urselles tried too; he was overwhelmed with bundles of hay, and was ill for a long time after." in short, so many attempts were mentioned, that the president's friends advised _him_ to abandon the design. but still _they_ determined to encounter the danger. proceeding up stairs to an extensive room, each having a candle in one hand, and a pistol in the other, they found it full of thick smoke, which increased more and more from some flames that were visible. soon after, the ghost or spirit faintly appeared in the middle: he seemed quite black, and was amusing himself with cutting capers; but another eruption of flame and smoke hid him from their view. he had horns and a long tail; and was, in truth, a dreadful object. one of the gentlemen found his courage rather fail. "this is certainly supernatural," said he; "let us retire." the other, endued with more boldness, asserted that the smoke was that of gunpowder, which is no supernatural composition; "and if this same spirit," added he, "knew his own nature and trade, he should have extinguished our candles." with these words, he jumped amidst the smoke and flames, and pursued the spectre. he soon discharged the pistol at his back, and hit him exactly in the middle; but was himself seized with fear, when the spirit, far from falling, turned round and rushed upon him. soon recovering himself, he resolved to grasp the ghost, to discover if it were indeed aërial and impassable. mr. spectre, disordered by this new manoeuvre, rushed to the tower, and descended a small staircase. the gentleman ran after, and, never losing sight of him, passed several courts and gardens, still turning as the spirit winded, till at length they entered into an open barn. here the pursuer, certain, as he thought, of his prey, shut the door, but when he turned round, what was his amazement, to see the spirit totally disappear. in great confusion, he called to the servants for more lights. on examining the spot of the spirit's disappearance, he found a trap-door; upon raising which, several mattresses appeared, to break the fall of any headlong adventurer. therefore, descending, he found the spirit to be no other than the _farmer_ himself. his dress, of a complete bull's hide, had secured him from the pistol-shot; and the horns and tail were not diabolic, but mere natural appendages of the original. the rogue confessed his tricks, and was pardoned, on paying the arrears due for five years, at the old rent of the land. the hammersmith ghost. in the year , the inhabitants of hammersmith were much alarmed by a nocturnal appearance; which, for a considerable time, eluded detection or discovery. in the course of this unfortunate affair, two innocent persons met with an untimely death; and as this transaction engaged the attention of the public in a high degree, we shall fully relate the particulars of it. an unknown person made it his diversion to alarm the inhabitants, in january , by assuming the figure of a spectre. this sham ghost has certainly much to answer for. one poor woman, who was far advanced in her pregnancy of a second child, was so much shocked, that she took to her bed, and survived only two days. she had been crossing near the church-yard about ten o'clock at night, when she beheld something, as she described, rise from the tomb-stones. the figure was very tall, and very white! she attempted to run, but the supposed ghost soon overtook her, and, pressing her in his arms, she fainted; in which situation she remained some hours, till discovered by the neighbours, who kindly led her home, when she took to her bed, from which, alas! she never rose. a waggoner belonging to mr. russell was also so alarmed, while driving a team of eight horses, which had sixteen passengers at the time, that he took to his heels, and left the waggon, horses, and passengers, in the greatest danger. neither man, woman, or child, would pass that way for some time; and the report was, that it was the apparition of a man who had cut his throat in that neighbourhood above a year before. several lay in wait different nights for the ghost; but there were so many bye-lanes, and paths leading to hammersmith, that he was always sure of being in that which was unguarded, and every night played off his tricks, to the terror of the passengers. one francis smith, doubtless incensed at the unknown person who was in the habit of assuming the supernatural character, and thus frightening the superstitious inhabitants of the village, rashly determined on watching for, and shooting the ghost; when, unfortunately, in black-lion lane, he shot a poor innocent man, thomas millwood, a bricklayer, who was in a white dress, the usual habiliment of his occupation. this rash act, having been judged wilful murder by the coroner's inquest, smith was accordingly committed to gaol, and took his trial at the ensuing sessions at the old bailey, january th, . the jury at first found him guilty of manslaughter; but the crime being deemed murder in the eye of the law, the judge could only receive a verdict of guilty, or acquittal. he was then found guilty, and received sentence of death, but was afterwards pardoned on condition of being imprisoned one year. the frightened carrier. in october , a little before midnight, as one of the carriers between nottingham and loughborough, was passing near the village of rempstone, he was extremely surprised at meeting what he thought was a funeral procession, marching in a most solemn and steady order in the centre of the road. the carrier, with a becoming propriety and decorum, drew his cart to the side of the road, that the mournful cavalcade might pass without any interruption. very active inquiry was immediately afterwards made in the neighbourhood, but not the least knowledge could be obtained as to where this solemn group had come from, or whither it was going; it was therefore concluded, that some ghostly apparition or other had thought proper to be then exercising its nocturnal avocation. some days afterwards it was found out, that a person, who lived in the neighbouring village, had been endeavouring to construct a carriage upon such a principle as to go without horses; and, wishing to make his experiment as secret as possible, had chosen that dead hour of the night, for trying his apparatus on the turnpike road; but unluckily meeting with the carrier, he became alarmed for fear of an exposure, and therefore threw a large sheet over the machinery, and passed the cart as silently as possible, to avoid being detected. the club-room ghost. at a town in the west of england, was held a club of twenty-four persons, which assembled once a week, to drink punch, smoke tobacco, and talk politics. like rubens's academy at antwerp, each member had his peculiar chair, and the president's was more exalted than the rest. one of the members had been in a dying state for some time; of course, his chair, while he was absent, remained vacant. the club being met on their usual night, inquiries were naturally made after their associate. as he lived in the adjoining house, a particular friend went himself to inquire for him, and returned with the dismal tidings, that he could not possibly survive the night. this threw a gloom on the company, and all efforts to turn the conversation from the sad subject before them were ineffectual. about midnight (the time, by long prescription, appropriated for the walking of spectres), the door opened; and the form, in white, of the dying, or rather of the dead man, walked into the room, and took his seat in the accustomed chair: there he remained in silence, and in silence was he gazed at. the apparition continued a sufficient time in the chair to convince all present of the reality of the vision: at length, he arose, and stalked towards the door, which he opened as if living--went out, and then shut the door after him. after a long pause, some one, at last, had the resolution to say, "if only one of us had seen this, he would not have been believed; but it is impossible that so many persons can be deceived." the company, by degrees, recovered their speech; and the whole conversation, as may be imagined, was upon the dreadful object which had engaged their attention. they broke up, and went home. in the morning, inquiry was made after their sick friend; it was answered by an account of his death, which happened nearly at the time of his appearing in the club. there could be little doubt before, but now nothing could be more certain, than the reality of the apparition, which had been seen by so many persons together. it is needless to say, that such a story spread over the country, and found credit, even from infidels; for, in this case, all reasoning became superfluous, when opposed to a plain fact, attested by three-and-twenty witnesses. to assert the doctrine of the fixed laws of nature, was ridiculous, when there were so many people of credit to prove that they might be unfixed. years rolled on; the story ceased to engage attention, and it was forgotten, unless when occasionally produced to silence an unbeliever. one of the club was an apothecary. in the course of his practice, he was called to an old woman, whose profession was attending on sick persons. she told him, that she could leave the world with a quiet conscience, but for one thing which lay on her mind. "do not you remember mr. ----, whose ghost has been so much talked of? i was his nurse. the night he died, i left the room for something that was wanted. i am sure i had not been absent long; but, at my return, i found the bed without my patient. he was delirious; and i feared that he had thrown himself out of the window. i was so frightened that i had no power to stir; but, after some time, to my great astonishment, he entered the room shivering, and his teeth chattering--laid down on the bed, and died. considering myself as the cause of his death, i kept this a secret, for fear of what might be done to me. though i could contradict all the story of the ghost, i dared not do it. i knew, by what had happened, that it was he himself who had been in the club-room (perhaps recollecting, in his delirium, that it was the night of meeting): but i hope god and the poor gentleman's friends will forgive me, and then i shall die contented." the lunatic apparition. the celebrated historian de thou had a very singular adventure at saumer, in the year . one night, having retired to rest, very much fatigued, while he was enjoying a sound sleep, he felt a very extraordinary weight upon his feet, which, having made him turn suddenly, fell down and awakened him. at first he imagined that it had been only a dream: but, hearing soon after some noise in the chamber, he drew aside the curtains, and saw, by the help of the moon (which at that time shone very bright), a large white figure walking up and down; and, at the same time, observed upon a chair some rags, which he thought belonged to thieves who had come to rob him. the figure then approaching his bed, he had the courage to ask it what it was. "i am," said it, "the _queen of heaven_." had such a figure appeared to any credulous ignorant man in the dead of night, and made such a speech, would he not have trembled with fear, and have frightened the whole neighbourhood with a marvellous description of it? but de thou had too much understanding to be so imposed upon. upon hearing the words which dropped from the figure, he immediately concluded that it was some mad woman, got up, called his servants, and ordered them to turn her out of doors; after which he returned to bed, and fell asleep. next morning he found that he had not been deceived in his conjecture; and that, having forgot to shut his door, this female figure had escaped from her keepers, and entered his apartment. the brave schomberg, to whom de thou related this adventure, some days after, confessed, that in such a case he should not have shewn so much courage. the king also, who was informed of it by schomberg, made the same acknowledgment. supposed supernatural appearance. some few years since, before ghosts and spectres were commonly introduced among us by means of the pantomimes and novels of the day, a gentleman of a philosophical turn of mind, who was hardy enough to deny the existence of any thing supernatural, happened to pay a visit at an old house in gloucestershire, whose unfortunate owner had just become a bankrupt, with a view to offer such assistance and consolation as he could bestow: when, in one rainy dull evening in the month of march, the family being seated by the kitchen fire-side, the conversation turned on supernatural appearances. the philosopher was endeavouring to convince his auditors of the folly and absurdity of such opinions, with rather an unbecoming levity, when the wife left the party and went up stairs; but had hardly quitted the kitchen three minutes, before a dreadful noise was heard, mingled with horrid screams. the poor maid changed countenance, and her red hair stood erect, in every direction; the husband trembled in his chair; and the philosopher began to look serious. at last, the husband rose from his seat, and ascended the stairs in search of his wife, when a second dreadful scream was heard: the maid mustered resolution to follow her master, and a third scream ensued. the philosopher, who was not quite at ease, now thought it high time for him to set out in search of a _cause_: when, arriving at the landing-place, he found the maid in a fit; the master lying flat, with his face upon the floor, which was stained with blood; and, on advancing a little farther, the mistress in nearly the same condition. to the latter the philosopher paid immediate attention; and, finding she had only swooned away, brought her in his arms down stairs, and placed her on the floor of the kitchen. the pump was at hand, and he had the presence of mind to run to it to get some water in a glass; but what was his astonishment, when he found that he pumped only copious streams of blood! which extraordinary appearance, joined to the other circumstances, made the unbeliever tremble in every limb: a sudden perspiration overspread the surface of his skin; and the supernatural possessed his imagination in all its true colours of dread and horror. again and again he repeated his efforts; and, again and again, threw away the loathsome contents of the glass. had the story stopped here, what would not superstition have made of it? but the philosopher, who was still pumping, now found the water grew paler; and, at last, pure water filled the vessel. overjoyed at this observation, he threw the limpid stream in the face of the mistress, whose recovery was assisted by the appearance of her husband and betty. the mystery, when explained, turned out to be simply this--the good housewife, when she knew that a docket had been struck against her husband, had taken care to conceal some of her choice cherry brandy, from the rapacious gripe of the messenger to the commissioners of bankrupts, on some shelves in a closet up stairs, which also contained, agreeably to the ancient architecture of the building, the trunk of the pump below; and, in trying to move the jars, to get at a drop for the party at the kitchen fire, the shelf gave way with a tremendous crash; the jars were broken into an hundred pieces; the rich juice descended in torrents down the trunk of the pump, and filled, with its ruby current, the sucker beneath; and this was the self-same fluid which the philosopher, in his fright, had so madly thrown away. the wife had swooned at the accident; the husband, in his haste, had fallen on his nose, which ran with blood; and the maid's legs, in her hurry, coming in contact with her fallen master's ribs, she, like "vaulting ambition," overleaped herself, and fell on the other side. often has this story been told, by one who knew the philosopher, with great effect, till the last act, or _denouement_; when disappointment was mostly visible in the looks of his auditors, at finding there was actually nothing supernatural in the affair, and no ghost. the apparition investigated. in a village in one of the midland counties of scotland, lived a widow, distinguished among her neighbours for decency of manners, integrity, and respect for religion. she affirmed that, for several nights together, she had heard a supernatural voice exclaiming aloud, _murder! murder!_ this was immediately reported through the neighbourhood: all were alarmed, and looked around them with solicitude for the detection of the murder which they supposed to have been committed; and it was not long till a discovery seemed actually to be made. it was reported, that a gentleman, who had relations at no great distance, and had been residing in the west indies, had lately arrived with a considerable fortune; that he had lodged at an inn about three miles off; and that he had afterwards been seen entering a house in the village where the widow lived, from which he had never returned. it was next affirmed, that a tradesman, passing the church-yard about twelve at midnight, had seen four men carry a dead corpse into that cemetery. these three facts being joined together, seemed perfectly to agree, and to confirm one another; and all believed some horrible murder had been committed. the relations of the gentleman thought they were called upon to make inquiry into the truth of these allegations: they accordingly came first to the church-yard, where, in company with the sexton, they examined all the graves with great care, in order to discover whether any of them had lately been dug, or had the appearance of containing more than one coffin. but this search was to no purpose, for no alteration had been made upon the graves. it was next reported, that the murdered man had been buried in a plantation about a mile distant from the village. as the alarm was now very general, a number of the inhabitants proposed, of their own accord, to explore it. they accordingly spread themselves over the wood, and searched it with care; but no grave, or new-dug earth, was found. the matter did not rest here. the person who was said to have seen four men carry a dead corpse into the church-yard at midnight, was summoned to appear before a meeting of the justices of the peace. upon examination, he denied any knowledge of the affair; but referred the court to another person, from whom he had received his information. this person was examined, and the result was the same as the former. in short, one person had heard it from another, who had received it from a third, who had heard it from a fourth; but it had received a little embellishment from every person who repeated it: it turned out to be the same with smollett's story of the three black crows, which somebody was said to have vomited. upon inquiry at the inn, where it was said the west-india gentleman had lodged, no such gentleman had been seen there; and it was found afterwards, he had never left the west indies. still, however, the veracity of the widow was not disputed; and some dark and secret transaction was suspected. but the whole affair was at length explained, by discovering that she was somewhat deranged by melancholy; and the cries which she at first imagined she had heard, were afterwards imitated by some roguish person, who was highly amused with spreading terror among the credulous. the benighted traveller, and _haunted room_. a gentleman was benighted, while travelling alone, in a remote part of the highlands of scotland, and was compelled to ask shelter for the evening at a small lonely hut. when he was conducted to his bed-room, the landlady observed, with mysterious reluctance, that he would find the window very insecure. on examination, part of the wall appeared to have been broken down, to enlarge the opening. after some inquiry, he was told, that a pedlar, who had lodged in the room a short time before, had committed suicide, and was found hanging behind the door in the morning. according to the superstition of the country, it was deemed improper to remove the body through the door of the house; and to convey it through the window was impossible, without removing part of the wall. some hints were dropped, that the room had been subsequently haunted by the poor man's spirit. the gentleman laid his arms, properly prepared against intrusion of any kind, by the bed-side, and retired to rest, not without some degree of apprehension. he was visited, in a dream, by a frightful apparition; and, awaking in agony, found himself sitting up in bed, with a pistol grasped in his right hand. on casting a fearful glance round the room, he discovered, by the moonlight, a corpse, dressed in a shroud, reared erect against the wall, close by the window. with much difficulty, he summoned up resolution to approach the dismal object, the features of which, and the minutest parts of its funereal apparel, he perceived distinctly: he passed one hand over it, felt nothing, and staggered back to the bed. after a long interval, and much reasoning with himself, he renewed his investigation, and at length discovered that the object of his terror was produced by the moonbeams forming a long bright image through the broken window, on which his fancy, impressed by his dream, had pictured, with mischievous accuracy, the lineaments of a body prepared for interment. powerful associations of terror, in this instance, had excited the recollected images with uncommon force and effect. the haunted beach, or _power of conscience on a murderer_. by mrs. robinson. upon a lonely desert beach, where the white foam was scatter'd, a little shed uprear'd its head, though lofty barks were shatter'd. the sea-weeds gath'ring near the door, a sombre path display'd; and, all around, the deaf'ning roar re-echo'd on the chalky shore, by the green billows made. above, a jutting cliff was seen, where sea-birds hover'd craving; and, all around, the craggs were bound with weeds--for ever waving. and, here and there, a cavern wide its shad'wy jaws display'd; and near the sands, at ebb of tide, a shiver'd mast was seen to ride, where the green billows stray'd. and often, while the moaning wind stole o'er the summer ocean, the moonlight scene was all serene, the waters scarce in motion; then, while the smoothly slanting sand the tall cliff wrapp'd in shade, the fisherman beheld a band of spectres, gliding hand in hand, where the green billows play'd. and pale their faces were as snow, and sullenly they wandered; and to the skies, with hollow eyes, they look'd, as though they ponder'd. and sometimes, from their hammock shroud, they dismal howlings made, and while the blast blew strong and loud the clear moon marked the ghastly crowd, where the green billows play'd! and then, above the haunted hut, the curlews screaming hover'd; and the low door, with furious roar, the frothy breakers cover'd. for in the fisherman's lone shed, _a murder'd man_ was laid, with ten wide gashes in his head; and deep was made his sandy bed, where the green billows play'd. a shipwreck'd mariner was he, doom'd from his home to sever, who swore to be, thro' wind and sea, firm and undaunted ever; and when the waves resistless roll'd, about his arm he made a packet rich of spanish gold, and, like a british sailor bold, plung'd where the billows play'd! the spectre band, his messmates brave, sunk in the yawning ocean, while to the mast he lash'd him fast, and brav'd the storm's commotion: the winter moon upon the sand a silv'ry carpet made, and mark'd the sailor reach the land, and mark'd his murd'rer wash his hand, where the green billows play'd. and, since that hour, the fisherman has toil'd and toil'd in vain; for all the night the moony light gleams on the spectred main! and when the skies are veil'd in gloom, the murd'rer's liquid way bounds o'er the deeply yawning tomb, and flashing fires the sands illume, where the green billows play! full thirty years his task has been, day after day, more weary; for heav'n design'd his guilty mind should dwell on prospects dreary. bound by a strong and mystic chain, he has not pow'r to stray; but, destin'd mis'ry to sustain, he wastes, in solitude and pain, a loathsome life away. the subterranean traveller; or _ghost and no ghost_. the following record is copied verbatim from an old newspaper--_the weekly journal, or british gazetteer._ "_bedlam, january , ._ "it is not long since one of the female inhabitants of these frantic territories gave the following occasion for a very pleasing entertainment. some bricklayers happened to be at work here, to repair and clean the passage leading to the common sewer; who going to dinner, and leaving the ladder which descended to it, standing, the said unfortunate inhabitant had a sort of an odd notion, that the workmen had been prying into the secrets of the lower world, and therefore (nobody seeing her) she went down the ladder which led into the common sewer; and, in that subterraneous cavern, finding none to control or stop her passage, she travelled, with great pleasure and curiosity, till she came to _tokenhouse yard_, which is near half a mile. there it happened that a couple of young females, coming to the vault, heard a noise below, crying, '_who the plague are ye? what d'ye make that noise for? what, is the devil in ye?_' upon which, away flew the women, not staying to look behind them; and coming half-frightened into the house, said, the devil was in the vault. accordingly, more company going, they still heard the same noise. upon which they called out, and asked, '_who's there? what are ye?_' '_the devil_,' replied the traveller below. '_how came you there?_' said they. '_nay, how the devil know i?_' answered the mad-woman. '_why don't you bring me a candle, that i may find my way?_' finding it certain to be a human voice, they feared somebody might accidentally have fallen in, and therefore they immediately went to work, to deliver the poor wretch from her suffocating thraldom, and found her a lamentable spectacle; so that they began to question her how she came there, and where she lived. she answered _that she was going to hell, but had lost her way; that there were several in her company, who had got thither, and the gate was shut upon them; that she had lost her way, but should overtake them by and by_. these wild expressions made some of them fancy she was a mad-woman; and, after some consideration, they resolved to bring her hither; when she was presently owned, and the people that brought her let us into the story: but her head still runs on her journey, and she talks of little else." the milkman and _church-yard ghost_. a man much addicted to the heinous sin of drunkenness, in coming home late one winter's night, had to cross stepney church-yard; where, close to the foot path, a deep grave had been opened the day before. he, being very drunk, staggered into the grave; it was a great mercy he did not break his neck, or any of his limbs; but, as it rained hard all night, and the grave was so deep that he could not got out, he had but an uncomfortable bed. for some hours nobody passed by; till, shortly after the clock had struck four, a milkman, who had been to the cow-house for his milk, came by, and said to himself, "i wonder what o'clock it is." the man in the grave hallooed out, "just gone four." the milkman seeing nobody, immediately conceived a ghost from one of the graves had answered him, and took to his heels with such rapidity, that when he reached an ale-house he was ready to faint; and, what added to his trouble, in running, he so jumbled his pails as to spill great part of his milk. the people who heard his relation, believed it must have been a ghost that had answered him. the tale went round, and would have been credited, perhaps, till now, had not the drunkard, sitting one day in the very alehouse the milkman had stopped at, on hearing the story repeated, with a hearty laugh acknowledged himself to be the ghost, and that he had much enjoyed the jumbling of the man's pails, as he ran away, and the loss which it occasioned him. the fakenham ghost. the lawns were dry in euston park; (here truth inspires my tale) the lonely footpath, still and dark, led over hill and dale. benighted was an ancient dame, and fearful haste she made to gain the vale of fakenham, and hail its willow shade. her footsteps knew no idle stops, but follow'd faster still; and echo'd to the darksome copse that whisper'd on the hill. where clam'rous rooks, yet scarcely hush'd, bespoke a peopled shade; and many a wing the foliage brush'd, and hov'ring circuits made. the dappled herd of grazing deer, that sought the shades by day, now started from her path with fear, and gave the stranger way. darker it grew; and darker fears came o'er her troubled mind; when, now, a short quick step she hears come patting close behind. she turn'd; it stopt!--nought could she see upon the gloomy plain! but, as she strove the sprite to flee, she heard the same again. now terror seiz'd her quaking frame: for, where the path was bare, the trotting ghost kept on the same! she mutter'd many a pray'r. yet once again, amidst her fright she tried what sight could do; when through the cheating glooms of night, a monster stood in view. regardless of whate'er she felt, it follow'd down the plain! she own'd her sins, and down she knelt, and said her pray'rs again. then on she sped; and hope grew strong, the white park-gate in view, which, pushing hard, so long it swung, that ghost and all past through. loud fell the gate against the post, her heart-strings like to crack, for much she fear'd the grisly ghost would leap upon her back. still on, pat, pat, the goblin went, as it had done before; her strength and resolution spent, she fainted at the door. out came her husband, much surpris'd, out came her daughter dear; good-natur'd souls, all unadvis'd of what they had to fear. the candle's gleam pierc'd through the night, some short space o'er the green; and there the little trotting sprite distinctly might be seen. an _ass's foal_ had lost its dam within the spacious park, and, simple as the playful lamb, had follow'd in the dark. no goblin he, nor imp of sin, no crimes he'd ever known. they took the shaggy stranger in, and rear'd him as their own. his little hoofs would rattle round upon the cottage floor; the matron learn'd to love the sound, that frighten'd her before. a favourite the ghost became, and 'twas his fate to thrive; and long he liv'd, and spread his fame, and kept the joke alive. for many a laugh went through the vale, and some conviction too; each thought some other goblin tale perhaps was just as true. the unfortunate priest, and _dead body_. in a province of prussia, a man being dead, was carried, as is customary, into the church, the evening previous to the day of his interment. it is usual to place the corpse in an open coffin; and a priest, attended only by a boy of the choir, remains all night praying by the side of the dead body, and on the following day the friends of the deceased come to close up the coffin, and inter the corpse. on this occasion, after the evening service had been performed, every one retired from the church: and the priest, with the young chorister, withdrew to supper; but soon returned, and the former commenced the usual prayers. what was his astonishment, when he beheld the dead body rise from the coffin, and advance towards him. terrified in the extreme, the priest flew to the font; and, conjuring the corpse to return to its proper station, showered holy water on him in abundance. but the obstinate and evil-minded spirit, disregarding the power of holy water, seized the unfortunate priest, threw him to the ground, and soon, by repeated blows, left him extended, without life, on the pavement. having committed this act of barbarity, he appeared to return quietly to his coffin. on the following morning, the persons who came to prepare for the funeral, found the priest murdered, and the corpse, as before, in the coffin. nothing could throw any light on this extraordinary event but the testimony of the boy, who had concealed himself on the first movement of the dead body, and who persisted in declaring, that he saw from his hiding-place the priest killed by the corpse. conjecture, and endeavours to discover the truth, were alike vain, tormenting, and fruitless. many resources were tried; for it was not every one that submitted themselves to the belief of a dead body rising to kill a priest, and then quietly resigning itself to the place of its consignment. many years afterwards, a malefactor, condemned to death for various crimes, and brought to the torture, confessed, that having (for some unknown reason) conceived an implacable hatred against the priest in question, he had formed the design of thus avenging himself. having found means to remain in the church, he seized the moment of the priest's retiring to supper, withdrew the dead body from the coffin, and placed himself in its stead, in the shroud and other appurtenances. after executing the murder of the priest, he returned the corpse to its place, and got unperceived out of the church, when the friends of the deceased came in the morning to attend the funeral. the vigil of saint mark, or _fatal superstition_. rebecca was the fairest maid that on the danube's borders play'd; and many a handsome nobleman for her in tilt and tourney ran: while she, in secret, wished to see what youth her husband was to be. rebecca heard the gossips say, "alone, from dusk till midnight, stay within the church-porch drear and dark, upon the vigil of st. mark; and, lovely maiden, you shall see what youth your husband is to be." rebecca, when the night grew dark, upon the vigil of st. mark, observ'd by paul, a roguish scout, who guess'd the task she went about, stepp'd to st. stephen's church to see what youth her husband was to be. rebecca heard the screech-owl cry, and saw the black-bat round her fly; she sat till, wild with fear at last, her blood grew cold, her pulse beat fast; and yet, rash maid, she stopp'd to see what youth her husband was to be. rebecca heard the midnight chime ring out the yawning peal of time, when shrouded paul, unlucky knave! rose, like a spectre from the grave, and cried--"_fair maiden, come with me, for i your bridegroom am to be._" rebecca turned her head aside, sent forth a horrid shriek--and died; while paul confess'd himself in vain rebecca never spoke again. ah! little, hapless girl, did she think _death_ her bridegroom was to be. rebecca, may thy story long instruct the giddy and the young! fright not, fond youths, the timid fair: and you, too, gentle maids, beware; nor seek, by dreadful arts, to see what youths your husbands are to be. the floating wonder, or _female spectre_. the bridge over the river usk, near caerleon, in wales, is formed of wood, and very curiously constructed, the tide rising occasionally to the almost incredible height of fifty or sixty feet. the boards which compose the flooring of this bridge being designedly loose, in order to float with the tide, when it exceeds a certain height, are prevented from escaping only by little pegs at the end of them; which mode of fastening does not afford a very safe footing for the traveller, and some awkward accidents have been known to arise from this cause. the following singular adventure occurred about twenty years since to a female of the neighbourhood, as she was passing it at night. the heroine in question was a mrs. williams, who had been to spend a cheerful evening at a neighbour's house on the eastern side of the river, and was returning home at a decent hour. the night being extremely dark, she had provided herself with a lanthorn and candle, by the assistance of which she found her way to the bridge, and had already passed part of the dangerous structure, when she unfortunately trod on a plank that had by some accident lost the tenons originally fixed to the ends of it, and had slipped from its proper situation; the faithless board yielded to the weight of the good lady, who was rather corpulent, and carried her through the flooring, with her candle and lanthorn, into the river. fortunately, at the moment of falling, she was standing in such a position, as gave her a seat on the plank similar to that of a horseman on his nag. it may be easily imagined, that mrs. williams must have been dreadfully alarmed at this change of situation, as well as the difference of element. blessed, however, with great presence of mind, and a patient endurance of evil, the good lady was not overwhelmed by her fall, but steadily maintained her seat on the board; taking care, at the same time, to preserve her candle lighted, rightly supposing it would serve as a guide to any one who might be able or willing to assist her. thus bestriding the plank, our heroine was hurried down the river towards newport, the bridge of which, she trusted, would stop her progress, or that she might alarm the inhabitants with her cries. in both her hopes, however, she was disappointed: the rapidity of a spring tide sent her through the arch with the velocity of an arrow discharged from a bow, and the good people of the town had long been wrapped in slumber. thus situated, her prospect became each moment more desperate; her candle was nearly extinguished! and every limb so benumbed with cold, that she had the greatest difficulty in _keeping her saddle_. already she had reached the mouth of the usk, and was on the point of encountering the turbulent waves of the british channel, when the master of a fishing-boat, who was returning from his nightly toils, discovered the gleaming of her taper, and bearing her calls for assistance, though he at first thought her a witch, yet ventured to approach this floating wonder, and happily succeeded in rescuing mrs. williams from a watery grave, and bringing her in safety to the shore in his boat. thus was the life of a fellow-creature preserved by a poor fisherman's courage, in not being daunted by what he at first conceived a mysterious light proceeding from some sprite or hobgoblin; but, from duly examining into causes, proved himself both a hero and friend. poor mary, _the maid of the inn_. who is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly fix'd eyes seem a heart overcharg'd to express? she weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs; she never complains, but her silence implies the composure of settled distress. no aid, no compassion, the maniac will seek; cold and hunger awake not her care: through her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak on her poor wither'd bosom, half bare; and her cheek has the deathly pale hue of despair. yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day, poor mary the maniac has been! the trav'ller remembers, who journey'd this way, no damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay, as mary the maid of the inn. her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight, as she welcom'd them in with a smile: her heart was a stranger to childish affright, and mary would walk by the abbey at night, when the wind whistled down the dark aisle. she lov'd; and young richard had settled the day, and she hoped to be happy for life: but richard was idle and worthless; and they who knew him would pity poor mary, and say, that she was too good for his wife. 'twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night, and fast were the windows and door; two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright, and, smoking in silence with tranquil delight, they listen'd to hear the wind roar. "'tis pleasant," cried one, "seated by the fire-side, to hear the wind whistle without." "a fine night for the abbey!" his comrade replied, "methinks, a man's courage would now be well tried, who should wander the ruins about. "i myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear the hoarse ivy shake over my head; and could fancy i saw, half-persuaded by fear, some ugly old abbot's white spirit appear, for this wind might awaken the dead!" "i'll wager a dinner," the other one cried, "that mary would venture there now." "then wager and lose!" with a sneer, he replied, "i'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side, and faint if she saw a white cow." "will mary this charge on her courage allow?" his companion exclaim'd with a smile; "i shall win, for i know she will venture there now, and earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough from the elder that glows in the aisle." with fearless good humour did mary comply, and her way to the abbey she bent; the night it was dark, and the wind it was high, and as hollowly howling it swept through the sky, she shiver'd with cold as she went. o'er the path so well known still proceeded the maid, where the abbey rose dim on the sight. through the gate-way she entered, she felt not afraid, yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night. all around her was silent, save when the rude blast howl'd dismally round the old pile; over weed-cover'd fragments still fearless she past, and arriv'd in the innermost ruin at last, where the elder-tree grew in the aisle. well pleas'd did she reach it, and quickly drew near, and hastily gather'd the bough; when the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear-- she paus'd, and she listen'd all eager to hear, and her heart panted fearfully now. the wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head, she listen'd--nought else could she hear; the wind ceas'd; her heart sunk in her bosom with dread, for she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread of footsteps approaching her near. behind a white column, half breathless with fear, she crept to conceal herself there: that instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear, and she saw in the moon-light two ruffians appear, and between them a corpse did they bear. then mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold! again the rough wind hurried by-- it blew off the hat of the one,[c] and, behold, even close to the foot of poor mary it roll'd-- she felt, and expected to die. "curse the hat!" he exclaims. "nay, come on, and first hide the dead body," his comrade replies. she beheld them in safety pass on by her side, she seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied, and fast through the abbey she flies. she ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the door, she gaz'd horribly eager around: then her limbs could support their faint burden no more, and exhausted and breathless she sunk on the floor, unable to utter a sound. ere yet her cold lips could the story impart, for a moment the hat met her view--[d] her eyes from that object convulsively start, for, oh! god! what cold horror then thrill'd through her heart, when the name of her richard she knew. where the old abbey stands on the common hard by, his gibbet is now to be seen: not far from the road it engages the eye, the trav'ller beholds it, and thinks, with a sigh, of poor mary, the maid of the inn. southey's poems. footnotes: [c] the hat of one of the ruffians. [d] she knew it to be richard's hat. giles the shepherd, _and spectre_. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * giles, ere he sleeps, his little flock must tell. from the fire-side with many a shrug he hies, glad if the full-orb'd moon salute his eyes. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * and down a narrow lane, well known by day, with all his speed pursues his sounding way, in thought still half absorb'd, and chill'd with cold, when, lo! an object frightful to behold, a grisly _spectre_, cloth'd in silver grey, around whose feet the waving shadows play, stands in his path! he stops, and not a breath heaves from his heart, that sinks almost to death. loud the owl hallooes o'er his head unseen; all else is silence, dismally serene: some prompt ejaculation, whisper'd low, yet bears him up against the threat'ning foe; and thus poor giles, though half inclin'd to fly, mutters his doubts, and strains his stedfast eye. "'tis not my crimes thou com'st here to reprove; no murders stain my soul, no perjur'd love: if thou'rt indeed what here thou seem'st to be, thy dreadful mission cannot reach to me. by parents taught still to mistrust mine eyes, still to approach each object of surprise, lest fancy's formful vision should deceive in moonlight paths, or glooms of falling eve, 'tis then's the moment when my mind should try to scan the motionless deformity; but oh, the fearful task!--yet well i know an aged ash, with many a spreading bough, (beneath whose leaves i've found a summer's bow'r, beneath whose trunk i've weather'd many a show'r) stands singly down this solitary way, but far beyond where now my footsteps stay. 'tis true, thus far i've come with heedless haste; no reck'ning kept, no passing objects trac'd: and can i then have reach'd that very tree? or is its rev'rend form assum'd by thee?" the happy thought alleviates his pain; he creeps another step; then stops again; till slowly as his noiseless feet drew near, its perfect lineaments at once appear; its crown of shiv'ring ivy whispering peace, and its white bark that fronts the moon's pale face. now, while his blood mounts upward, now he knows the solid gain that from conviction flows; and strengthen'd confidence shall hence fulfil (with conscious innocence, more valued still) the dreariest task that winter nights can bring, by church-yard dark, or grove, or fairy ring; still buoying up the timid mind of youth, till loit'ring reason hoists the scale of truth. with those blest guardians, giles his course pursues, till numbering his heavy-sided ewes, surrounding stilness tranquillize his breast, and shape the dreams that wait his hours of rest. bloomfield's _farmer's boy_. a man with his head on fire, and covered with blood. the following singular adventure is related by a military captain. "i was coming home one night on horseback, from a visit i had been making to a number of the neighbouring villages, where i had quartered my recruits. it happened there had fallen a deal of rain that day, since noon, and during all the evening, which had broken up the roads, and it was raining still with equal violence; but, being forced to join my company next morning, i set out, provided with a lanthorn, having to pass a strait defile between two mountains. i had cleared it, when a gust of wind took off my hat, and carried it so far, that i despaired of getting it again, and therefore gave the matter up. by great good fortune, i had with me my red cloak. i covered my head and shoulders with it, leaving nothing but a little hole to see my way, and breathe through; and, for fear the wind should take a fancy to my cloak, as well as my hat, i passed my right arm round my body to secure it: so that, riding on in this position, you may easily conceive my lanthorn, which i held in my right hand, was under my left shoulder. at the entrance of a village on a hill, i met three travellers, who no sooner saw me than they ran away as fast as possible. for my part, i went on upon the gallop; and when i came into the town, alighted at an inn, where i designed to rest myself a little. soon after, who should enter, but my three poltroons, as pale as death itself. they told the landlord and his people, trembling as they spoke, that in the road they had encountered a great figure of a man all over blood, whose head was like a flame of fire, and to increase the wonder, placed beneath his shoulder. he was mounted on a dreadful horse, said they, quite black behind, and grey before; which, notwithstanding it was lame, he spurred and whipped right up the mountain with extraordinary swiftness. here they ended their relation. they had taken care to spread the alarm as they were flying from this wondrous apparition, and the people had come with them to the inn in such a drove, that upwards of an hundred were all squeezed together, opening both their mouths and ears at this tremendous story. to make up in some sort for my dismal journey, i resolved to laugh a little, and be merry at their cost, intending to cure them of such fright, by shewing them their folly in the present instance. with this view, i got upon my horse again, behind the inn, and went round about till i had rode the distance of a mile or thereabouts; when, turning, i disposed of my accoutrements, that is to say, my cloak and lanthorn, as before, and on i came upon a gallop towards the inn. you should have seen the frighted mob of peasants, how they hid their faces at the sight, and got into the passage. there was no one but the host had courage to remain, and keep his eye upon me. i was now before the door, on which i shifted the position of my lanthorn, let my cloak drop down upon my shoulders, and appeared the figure he had seen me by his kitchen fire. it was not without real difficulty, we could bring the simple people who had crowded in for safety from their terror: the three travellers, in particular, as the first impression was still strong within them, they could not credit what they saw. we finished by a hearty laugh at their expence, and by drinking to the man whose head was like a flame of fire, and placed beneath his shoulder." the innocent devil, or _agreeable disappointment_. the following story is extracted from a letter i received, some time since, from a friend, on the subject of apparitions. "returning, one evening in the summer, to my apartments, at a short distance from town, i was invited by my landlady, a brisk young widow, to partake of _un petit souper_, as she termed it. the invitation, of course, i accepted; and, after a pleasant repast, the cloth being removed, various conversation ensued, and the terminating subject was ghosts and hobgoblins. after my attention had been greatly excited by many dreadful recitals, i thought i perceived something black glide swiftly by my feet. my back at that time being towards the door, i instantly turned round; and, perceiving the same to be shut, i fancied my fear to be only a chimæra arising from the subject we had been conversing on. i therefore replenished my glass; and the subject of spectres was again renewed. in the midst of the discourse, when i was all attention to some dreadful tale, i felt something gently brush the bottom of my chair; when, on looking down, i beheld the most hideous black figure imagination can conceive. it was a monster on all fours, with cloven feet, horns on its head, and a long tail trailing after it as it moved along. my terror, i will acknowledge, was so great, that i instantly jumped up as high as the table, and loudly vociferated, 'lord have mercy upon me! what is it?' my friendly hostess now begged me to sit down and be a little calm, and she would explain to me the cause of my alarm. the figure having again disappeared, the lady of the ceremonies thus addressed me--'i beg your pardon, sir, for the fright i have thus occasioned you. it is only a little joke i have been playing off, merely to see whether you were proof against supernatural appearances. a friend of mine having been to a masqued ball in a domino, i prepared the stratagem, by making a head-piece to the dress, with horns, false legs, cloven feet, and a tail. i then instructed my servant, who was by agreement to be in the adjoining room, on hearing a certain part of my story, to open the door as softly as possible, and to make her _entré_, in this habiliment. this she attempted before the plot was sufficiently ripe, when you turned round towards the door, and she retreated. the second attempt too effectually succeeded; for which i again ask your pardon, and am extremely sorry, though luckily it has had no bad effect. but i will never, while i live, again be induced to act so foolishly.'--" the spectre of the broken. the following observations on that singular phenomenon called the spectre of the broken, in germany, is related by monsieur j. l. jordan, in the following words. "in the course of my repeated tours through the harz (mountains in germany), i ascended the broken twelve times: but i had the good fortune only twice (both times about whitsuntide) to see that atmospheric phenomenon called the spectre of the broken, which appears to me so worthy of particular attention, as it must, no doubt, be observed on other high mountains, which have a situation favourable for producing it. the first time i was deceived by this extraordinary phenomenon, i had clambered up to the summit of the broken very early in the morning, in order to wait for the inexpressibly beautiful view of the sun rising in the east. the heavens were already streaked with red; the sun was just appearing above the horizon in full majesty; and the most perfect serenity prevailed throughout the surrounding country; when the other harz mountains in the south-west, towards the worm mountains, &c. lying under the broken, began to be covered by thick clouds. ascending at that moment the granite rocks called the tempelskanzel, there appeared before me, though at a great distance, towards the worm mountains and the auchtermanshohe, the gigantic figure of a man, as if standing on a large pedestal. but scarcely had i discovered it, when it began to disappear; the clouds sunk down speedily, and expanded; and i saw the phenomenon no more. the second time, however, i saw this spectre somewhat more distinctly, a little below the summit of the broken, and near the heinnichshohe, as i was looking at the sun-rising, about four o'clock in the morning. the weather was rather tempestuous; the sky towards the level country was pretty clear; but the harz mountains had attracted several thick clouds which had been hovering round them, and which, beginning on the broken, confined the prospect. in these clouds, soon after the rising of the sun, i saw my own shadow, of a monstrous size, move itself, for a couple of seconds, in the clouds; and the phenomenon disappeared. it is impossible to see this phenomenon, except when the sun is at such an altitude as to throw his rays upon the body in an horizontal direction; for if he is higher, the shadow is thrown rather under the body than before it. "in the month of september, last year, as i was making a tour through the harz with a very agreeable party, and ascended the broken, i found an excellent account and explanation of this phenomenon, as seen by m. haue on the d of may , in his diary of an excursion to that mountain; i shall therefore take the liberty of transcribing it. "'after having been here for the thirtieth time,' says m. haue; 'and, besides other objects of my attention, having procured information respecting the above-mentioned atmospheric phenomenon, i was at length so fortunate as to have the pleasure of seeing it; and, perhaps, my description may afford satisfaction to others who visit the broken through curiosity. the sun rose about four o'clock; and, the atmosphere being quite serene towards the east, his rays could pass without any obstruction over the heinnichshohe. in the south-west, however, towards the auchtermaunshohe, a brisk west wind carried before it their transparent vapours, which were not yet condensed into thick heavy clouds. about a quarter past four i went towards the inn, and looked round to see whether the atmosphere would permit me to have a free prospect to the south-west; when i observed, at a very great distance, towards the auchtermaunshohe, a human figure, of a monstrous size. a violent gust of wind having almost carried away my hat, i clapped my hand to it by moving my arm towards my head, and the colossal figure did the same. the pleasure which i felt on this discovery can hardly be described; for i had already walked many a weary step in the hope of seeing this shadowy image, without being able to satisfy my curiosity. i immediately made another movement by bending my body, and the colossal figure before me repeated it. i was desirous of doing the same thing once more; but my colossus had vanished. i remained in the same position, waiting to see whether it would return; and, in a few minutes, it again made its appearance in the auchtermaunshohe. i paid my respects to it a second time, and it did the same to me. i then called the landlord of the broken; and, having both taken the same position which i had taken alone, we looked towards the auchtermaunshohe, but saw nothing. we had not, however, stood long, when two such colossal figures were formed over the above eminence, which repeated our compliment, by bending their bodies as we did; after which they vanished. we retained our position, kept our eyes fixed upon the same spot; and, in a little time, the two figures again stood before us, and were joined by a third. every movement that we made by bending our bodies, these figures imitated; but with this difference, that the phenomenon was sometimes weak and faint, sometimes strong and well-defined. having thus had an opportunity of discovering the whole secret of this phenomenon, i can give the following information to such of my readers as may be desirous of seeing it themselves. when the rising sun (and, according to analogy, the case will be the same at the setting sun) throws his rays over the broken upon the body of a man standing opposite to fine light clouds floating around or hovering past him, he needs only fix his eye stedfastly upon them, and in all probability he will see the singular spectacle of his own shadow extending to the length of five or six hundred feet, at the distance of about two miles from him. this is one of the most agreeable phenomena i have ever had an opportunity of remarking on the great observations of germany.'--" sir hugh ackland. the following remarkable fact shews the necessity of minutely examining people after death, prior to interment, and of not giving way to ridiculous fears about supernatural appearances. the late sir hugh ackland, of devonshire, apparently died of a fever, and was laid out as dead. the nurse, with two of the footmen, sat up with the corpse; and lady ackland sent them a bottle of brandy to drink in the night. one of the servants, being an arch rogue, told the other, that his master dearly loved brandy when he was alive; "and," says he, "i am resolved he shall drink one glass with us now he is dead." the fellow, accordingly, poured out a bumper of brandy, and forced it down his throat. a gurgling immediately ensued, and a violent motion of the neck and upper part of the breast. the other footman and the nurse were so terrified, that they ran down stairs; and the brandy genius, hastening away with rather too much speed, tumbled down stairs head foremost. the noise of the fall, and his cries, alarmed a young gentleman who slept in the house that night; who got up, and went to the room where the corpse lay, and, to his great surprise, saw sir hugh sitting upright. he called the servants; sir hugh was put into a warm bed, and the physician and apothecary sent for. these gentlemen, in a few weeks, perfectly restored their patient to health, and he lived several years afterwards. the above story is well known to the devonshire people; as in most companies sir hugh used to tell this strange circumstance, and talk of his resurrection by his brandy footman, to whom (when he really died) he left a handsome annuity. an agreeable explanation. a gentleman of undoubted veracity relates the following story. "when i was a young man, i took up my residence at a lodging-house, which was occupied by several families. on taking possession of my apartments, i agreed with the old lady of the house, who had two children, to accommodate me with a key to the street-door, to prevent unnecessary trouble to the servant or family, as i should very frequently stay out late in the evening. this was agreed to; and, by way of making things more agreeable, i had always a light left burning for me on the staircase, which was opposite to the outer door. this arrangement being made, things continued very comfortable for some months; till, one night, or rather morning, returning and opening the door as usual, i thought i heard a faint scream--i paused for a few seconds. the cry of 'murder!' now feebly succeeded. i hesitated how to act, when the cry of 'murder!' was again more loudly vociferated. this very much alarmed me; and, instead of going forward, i instantly re-opened the street-door, and was in the act of calling the watch, when a tall spare figure, at least six feet high, in a complete white dress, and pointed cap, with a candle in its hand, appeared before me. this unexpected encounter completed my astonishment, and i was about to speak, when the phantom (which proved to be my good old landlady) thus addressed me--'i hope, sir, i have not alarmed you; but, just before you came to the door, i had a most frightful dream. i thought robbers had broken into my house, and, not content with plunder, had murdered my children, and were about to destroy me; when the noise you made on opening the door increased my agony of mind; and, before i was sufficiently sensible, i screamed out _murder!_ as you must have heard.' this explanation having taken place, the poor woman retired, and was for several days after extremely ill; and i was not a little pleased myself at finding what i at first supposed a supernatural encounter thus terminate, without having recourse to a divine exorcist." the somersetshire demoniac. on the th of june , george lukins, of yatton, in somersetshire, was exorcised in the temple church at bristol, and delivered from the possession of seven devils by the efforts of seven clergymen. lukins was first attacked by a kind of epileptic fit, when he was going about acting christmas plays, or mummeries: this he ascribed to a blow given by an invisible hand. he was afterwards seized by fits; during which he declared with a roaring voice that he was the devil, and sung different songs in a variety of keys. the fits always began and ended with a strong agitation of the right hand; he frequently uttered dreadful execrations during the fits: and the whole duration of this disorder was eighteen years. at length, _viz._ in june , he declared, that he was possessed by seven devils, and could only be freed by the prayers, _in faith_, of seven clergymen. accordingly, the requisite number was summoned, and the patient sung, swore, laughed, barked, and treated the company with a ludicrous parody on the _te deum_. these astonishing symptoms resisted both hymns and prayers, till a _small, faint voice_ admonished the ministers to adjure. the spirits, after some murmuring, yielded to the adjuration; and the happy patient returned thanks for his wonderful cure. it is remarkable, that, during this solemn mockery, the fiend swore, by his infernal den, that he would not quit his patient; an oath, i believe, no where to be found but in the pilgrim's progress, from whence lukins probably got it. very soon after, the first relation of this story was published, a person well acquainted with lukins, took the trouble of undeceiving the public, with regard to his pretended disorder, in a plain, sensible, narrative of his conduct. he asserts, that lukins's first seizure was nothing else than a fit of drunkenness; that he always foretold his fits, and remained sensible during their continuance. that he frequently saw lukins in his fits; in every one of which, except in singing, he performed not more than most active young people can easily do. that he was detected in an imposture with respect to the clenching of his hands. that after money had been collected for him, he got very suddenly well. that he never had any fits while he was at st. george's hospital, in london; nor when visitors were excluded from his lodgings by desire of the author of the narrative: and that he was particularly careful never to hurt himself by his exertions during the paroxysm. is it for the credit of this philosophical age, that so bungling an imposture should deceive seven clergymen into a public act of exorcism? this would not have passed even on the authors of the _malleus maleficarum_; for they required signs of supernatural agency, such as the suspension of the possessed in the air without any visible support, or the use of different languages, unknown to the demoniac in his natural state. the maniac, or _fatal effects of wanton mischief_. some years ago, a very intelligent, handsome, and promising youth, whose names is henry pargeter lewis, the son of a respectable attorney, in the town of dudley, was placed for a probationary time, previously to an intended apprenticeship, with a surgeon and apothecary of the name of powell, in the immediate neighbourhood of one of our great public schools. he had not been there long, before one of the scholars, who lodged at the surgeon's, in league with the servant-boy of the house, devised the following stratagem to frighten him. one night, during an absence of the master, the servant-boy concealed himself under the bed of henry, before the latter retired to rest, and remained there till the hour of midnight; when, on a preconcerted signal of three raps at the chamber door, it suddenly opened, and in stalked the school-boy, habited in a white sheet, with his face horribly disguised, and bearing a lighted candle in his hand; the servant-boy, at the same moment, heaving up the bed under henry with his back. how long this was acted is not known: it was done long enough, however, completely to dethrone the reason of the unfortunate youth; who, it is supposed, immediately covered himself with the bed-clothes, and so continued till the morning. on his not rising at the usual time, some one of the family went to call him; and, not answering, except by incoherent cries, was discovered in the state just described. the melancholy tidings of his situation were conveyed to his friends, on his removal to them; the facts having been disclosed, partly by the confession of the servant-boy, and partly by the unfortunate youth himself, during the few lucid intervals which occurred in the course of the first year after his misfortune. his father and mother were then living, but they are now both dead: and the little property they left to support him is now nearly exhausted, together with a small subscription which was also raised to furnish him with necessaries, and to remunerate a person to take care of him. he is perfectly harmless and gentle, being rather in a state of idiotcy than insanity; seldom betraying any symptoms of violent emotion, except occasionally about midnight (the time of his unhappy disaster), when, full of indescribable terror, he exclaims, "_oh! they are coming! they are coming!_" all hope of recovery is at an end; more than twenty years having elapsed since the catastrophe happened. it is sincerely hoped that this pitiable case may prove a warning to inconsiderate youth; by showing them what dreadful effects may follow such wanton acts of mischief. extraordinary double dream, _without any corresponding event_. the late reverend mr. joseph wilkins, a dissenting clergyman, at weymouth, in dorsetshire, had the following remarkable dream, which is copied verbatim from a short account of his life. "one night, soon after i was in bed, i fell asleep, and dreamed i was going to london. i thought it would not be much out of my way to go through gloucestershire, and call upon my friends there. accordingly, i set out; but remember nothing that happened by the way, till i came to my father's house, when i went to the fore door and tried to open it, but found it fast; then i went to our back door, which i opened and went in: but finding all the family were in bed, i went across the rooms only, and walked up stairs, entered the room where my father and mother were in bed, and as i passed by the side of the bed in which my father lay, i found him asleep, or thought he was so; then i went to the other side, and as i just turned the foot of the bed, i found my mother awake, to whom i said these words, 'mother, i am going a long journey, and am come to bid you good-bye;' upon which she answered me in a fright--'_o! dear son, thee art dead!_' with which i awoke, and took no notice of it more than a common dream, only it appeared to me very perfect, as sometimes dreams will. but, in a few days after, as soon as a letter could reach me, i received one by the post from my father; upon the receipt of which i was a little surprised, and concluded something extraordinary must have happened, as it was but a little before i had had a letter from my friends, and all were well: but, upon opening it, i was still more surprised; for my father addressed me as though i was dead, desiring me, if alive, or whose ever hands the letter might fall into, to write immediately. but, if the letter found me living, they concluded i should not live long, and gave this as a reason for their fears--that on such a night (naming it), after they were in bed, my father asleep and my mother awake, she heard somebody try to open the fore door, but finding it fast, he went to the back door, which he opened, and came in, and went directly through the room up stairs, and she perfectly knew it to be my step, come to her bed-side, and spoke to her these words, 'mother, i am going a long journey, and am come to bid you good-bye,' upon which she answered in a fright, '_o! dear son, thee art dead!_' (which were the very circumstances and words of _my_ dream); but she heard nothing more, she saw nothing (neither did i in my dream, as it was all dark). upon this she awoke my father, and told him what had passed, but he endeavoured to appease her, persuading her it was only a dream; but she insisted on it, it was no dream, for that she was as perfectly awake as ever, and had not had the least inclination to sleep since she had been in bed (from which i am apt to think it was at the _very same instant_ with my dream, though the distance between us was about one hundred miles, but of this i cannot speak positively). this affair happened whilst i was at the academy at ottery, in the county of devon, and i believe in the year ; and at this distance every circumstance is very fresh in my mind. i have since had frequent opportunities of talking over the affair with my mother, and the whole circumstance was as fresh upon her mind as it was upon mine. i have often thought that her sensation as to this matter was stronger than mine; and, what some may think strange, i cannot remember any thing remarkable happened thereon; and that this is only a plain simple narrative of matter of fact." the above relation must convince credulous people how necessary it is, not to place implicit confidence in dreams, or suffer them to make too great an impression on the mind, as they are most frequently merely the result of our waking thoughts. remarkable instances of the power of vision. a shepherd upon one of the mountains in cumberland, was suddenly enveloped with a thick fog or mist, through which every object appeared so greatly increased in magnitude, that he no longer knew where he was. in this state of confusion he wandered in search of some unknown object, from which he might direct his future steps. chance, at last, brought this lost shepherd within sight of what he supposed to be a very large mansion, which he did not remember ever to have seen before; but, on his entering this visionary castle, to inquire his way home, he found it inhabited by his own family. it was nothing more than his own cottage. but his organs of sight had so far misled his mental faculties, that some little time elapsed before he could be convinced that he saw real objects. instances of the same kind of illusion, though not to the same degree, are not unfrequent in those mountainous regions. from these effects of vision, it is evident that the pupil and the picture of an object within the eye, increase at the same time. * * * * * the writer of the above account was passing the frith of forth, at queensferry, near edinburgh, one morning when it was extremely foggy. though the water is only two miles broad, the boat did not get within sight of the southern shore till it approached very near it. he then saw, to his great surprise, a large perpendicular rock, where he knew the shore was low and almost flat. as the boat advanced a little nearer, the rock seemed to split perpendicularly into portions, which separated at a little distance from one another. he next saw these perpendicular divisions move; and, upon approaching a little nearer, found it was a number of people, standing on the beach, waiting the arrival of the ferry-boat. * * * * * the following extract of a letter, from a gentleman of undoubted veracity, is another curious instance of the property of vision:-- "when i was a young man, i was, like others, fond of sporting, and seldom liked to miss a day, if i could any way go out. from my own house i set out on foot, and pursued my diversion on a foggy day; and, after i had been out some time, the fog or mist increased to so great a degree, that, however familiar the hedges, trees, &c. were to me, i lost myself, insomuch that i did not know whether i was going to or from home. in a field where i then was, i suddenly discovered what i imagined was a well known hedge-row, interspersed with pollard trees, &c. under which i purposed to proceed homewards; but, to my great surprise, upon approaching this appearance, i discovered a row of the plants known by the name of _rag_, and by the vulgar, _canker weed_, growing on a mere balk, dividing ploughed fields: the whole height of both could not exceed three feet, or three feet and a half. it struck me so forcibly that i shall never forget it; this too in a field which i knew as well as any man, could know a field." the philosopher gassendi, and the _haunted bed-room_. in one of the letters of this celebrated philosopher, he says, that he was consulted by his friend and patron the count d'alais, governor of provence, on a phenomenon that haunted his bed-chamber while he was at marseilles on some business relative to his office. the count tells gassendi, that, for several successive nights, as soon as the candle was taken away, he and his countess saw a luminous spectre, sometimes of an oval, and sometimes of a triangular form; that it always disappeared when light came into the room; that he had often struck at it, but could discover nothing solid. gassendi, as a natural philosopher, endeavoured to account for it; sometimes attributing it to some defect of vision, or to some dampness of the room, insinuating that perhaps it might be sent from heaven to him, to give him a warning in due time of something that should happen. the spectre still continued its visits all the time that he staid at marseilles; and some years afterwards, on their return to aix, the countess d'alais confessed to her husband, that she played him this trick, by means of one of her women placed under the bed with a phial of phosphorus, with an intention to frighten him away from marseilles, a place in which she very much disliked to live. the ghost on ship-board. a gentleman of high respectability in the navy relates the following story. "when on a voyage to new york, we had not been four days at sea, before an occurrence of a very singular nature broke in upon our quiet. _it was a ghost!_ one night, when all was still and dark, and the ship rolling at sea before the wind, a man sprung suddenly upon deck in his shirt, his hair erect, his eyes starting from their sockets, and loudly vociferating he had seen a ghost. after his horror had a little subsided, we asked him what he had seen?--he said, the figure of a woman dressed in white, with eyes of flaming fire; that she came to his hammock, and stared him in the face. this we treated as an idle dream, and sent the frantic fellow to his bed. the story became the subject of every one; and the succeeding night produced half a dozen more terrified men to corroborate what had happened the first, and all agreed in the same story, that it was a woman. this rumour daily increasing, at length came to the ears of the captain and officers, who were all equally solicitous to discover the true cause of this terrific report. i placed myself night by night beneath the hammocks to watch its appearance, but all in vain; yet still the appearance was nightly, as usual, and the horrors and fears of the people rather daily increased than diminished. a phantom of this sort rather amused than perplexed my mind; and when i had given over every idea of discovering the cause of this strange circumstance, and the thing began to wear away, i was surprised, one very dark night, as seated under the boats, with a stately figure in white stalking along the deck! the singularity of the event struck my mind that this must be the very identical ghost which had of late so much disturbed the ship's company. i therefore instantly dropped down from the place i was in, to the deck on which it appeared, when it passed me immediately very quickly, turned round, and marched directly forwards. i followed it closely, through the gallery, and out at the head-doors, when the figure instantly disappeared, which very much astonished me. i then leaped upon the forecastle, and asked of the people who were walking there, if such a figure had passed them? they replied, no, with some emotion and pleasure, as i had ever ridiculed all their reports on this subject. however, this night-scene between me and the ghost became the theme of the ensuing day. nothing particular transpired till twelve o'clock, when, as the people were pricking at the tub for their beef, it was discovered jack sutton was missing. the ship's company was directly mustered, and jack was no where to be found. i then inquired of his messmates the character of the man; and, after a number of interrogatories, one of them said, that poor sutton used to tell him a number of comical jokes about his walking in his sleep. now the mystery was unravelled; and this terrific ghost, which had so much alarmed all the sailors, now proved to be the poor unfortunate jack sutton, who had walked overboard in his dream." the first fellow who spread this report, and who shewed such signs of horror, was found on inquiry to be a most flagitious villain, who had murdered a woman, who he believed always haunted him, and the appearance of this sleepwalker confirmed in his mind the ghost of the murdered fair one; for, in such cases, conscience is a busy monitor, and ever active to its own pain and disturbance. a remarkable story of a ghost, _thrice called for, as an evidence, in a court of justice_. a farmer, on his return from the market at southam, in the county of warwick, was murdered. a man went the next morning to his house, and inquired of the mistress, if her husband came home the evening before; she replied, no, and that she was under the utmost anxiety and terror on that account. "your terror," added he, "cannot equal mine; for, last night, as i lay in bed quite awake, the apparition of your husband appeared to me, shewed me several ghastly stabs in his body; told me that he had been murdered by such a person (naming the man), and his body thrown into such a marl-pit, which he then particularly described. the alarm was given, the pit searched, the body found, and the wounds answered the description given of them. the man whom the ghost had accused was apprehended, and committed, on a violent suspicion of murder. his trial came on at warwick, before the lord chief justice raymond; when the jury would have convicted, as rashly as the magistrate had committed him, had not the judge checked them. he addressed himself to them in words to this purpose--"i think, gentlemen, you seem inclined to lay more stress on the evidence of an apparition than it will bear. i cannot say that i give much credit to these kind of stories: but, be that as it will, we have no right to follow our own private opinions here. we are now in a court of law, and must determine according to it; and i know of no law now in being, which will admit of the testimony of an apparition: not yet, if it did, doth the ghost appear to give evidence. crier," said he, "call the ghost." which was _thrice_ done, to no manner of purpose: it appeared not. "gentlemen of the jury," continued the judge, "the prisoner at the bar, as you have heard by undeniable witnesses, is a man of the most unblemished character; nor has it appeared in the course of the examination, that there was any manner of quarrel or grudge between him and the party deceased. i do believe him to be perfectly innocent; and, as there is no evidence against him, either positive or circumstantial, he must be acquitted. but, from many circumstances which have arisen during the trial, i do strongly suspect that the gentleman who saw the apparition was himself the murderer: in which case he might easily ascertain the pit, the wounds, &c. without any supernatural assistance; and on suspicion, i shall think myself justified in committing him to close custody, till the matter can be fairly inquired into. this was immediately done, and a warrant granted for searching his house; when such strong proofs of guilt appeared against him, that he confessed the murder: for which he was executed. the lady of the black tower. by mrs. robinson. "watch no more the twinkling stars; watch no more the chalky bourne; lady, from the holy wars never will thy love return! cease to watch, and cease to mourn; thy lover never will return! "watch no more the yellow moon, peering o'er the mountain's head; rosy day, returning soon, will see thy lover pale and dead! cease to weep, and cease to mourn: thy lover will no more return. "lady, in the holy wars, fighting for the cross, he died; low he lies, and many scars mark his cold and mangled side; in his winding-sheet he lies. lady, check those rending sighs. "hark! the hollow-sounding gale seems to sweep in murmurs by, sinking slowly down the vale; wherefore, gentle lady, sigh? wherefore moan, and wherefore sigh? lady, all that live must die. "now the stars are fading fast, swift their brilliant course are run: soon shall dreary night be past, soon shall rise the cheering sun! the sun will rise to gladden thee; lady, lady, cheerful be." so spake a voice; while, sad and lone, upon a lofty tow'r reclin'd, a lady sat: the pale moon shone, and sweetly blew the summer wind; yet still, disconsolate in mind, the lovely lady sat reclin'd. the lofty tow'r was ivy-clad; and round a dreary forest rose; the midnight bell was tolling sad, 'twas tolling for a soul's repose. the lady heard the gates unclose, and from her seat in terror rose. the summer moon shone bright and clear; she saw the castle gates unclose; and now she saw four monks appear, loud chanting for a soul's repose. forbear, o lady! look no more: they pass'd--a livid corpse they bore. they pass'd, and all was silent now; the breeze upon the forest slept; the moon stole o'er the mountain's brow; again the lady sigh'd and wept. she watch'd the holy fathers go along the forest path below. and now the dawn was bright; the dew upon the yellow heath was seen; the clouds were of a rosy hue, the sunny lustre shone between: the lady to the chapel ran, while the slow matin pray'r began. and then, once more, the fathers grey she mark'd, employ'd in holy pray'r; her heart was full, she could not pray, for love and fear were masters there! ah, lady! thou wilt pray, ere long, to sleep those lonely aisles among! and now the matin pray'rs were o'er; the barefoot monks, of order grey, were thronging to the chapel door: when there the lady stopp'd the way; "tell me," she cried, "whose corpse so pale last night ye bore along the vale?" "o lady! question us no more: no corpse did we bear down the dale." the lady sunk upon the floor, her quiv'ring lip was deathly pale! the barefoot monks now whisper'd, sad, "god grant our lady be not mad!" the monks departing, one by one, the chapel gates in silence close, when from the altar steps of stone the trembling lady feebly goes; while morning sheds a ruby light, the painted windows glowing bright. and now she heard a hollow sound; it seem'd to come from graves below; and now again she look'd around, a voice came murm'ring sad and slow and now she heard it feebly cry, "lady, all that live must die! "watch no more from yonder tow'r, watch no more the star of day! watch no more the dawning hour, that chases sullen night away! cease to watch, and cease to mourn; thy lover will no more return!" she look'd around, and now she view'd, clad in a doublet gold and green, a youthful knight: he frowning stood, and noble was his mournful mien; and now he said, with heaving sigh, "lady, all that live must die." she rose to quit the altar's stone, she cast a look to heav'n, and sigh'd: when, lo! the youthful knight was gone; and, scowling by the lady's side, with sightless skull and bony hand, she saw a giant spectre stand! his flowing robe was long and clear, his ribs were white as drifted snow. the lady's heart was chill'd with fear; she rose, but scarce had power to go: the spectre grinn'd a dreadful smile, and walk'd beside her down the aisle. and now he wav'd his ratt'ling hand; and now they reach'd the chapel door, and there the spectre took his stand; while, rising from the marble floor, a hollow voice was heard to cry, "lady, all that live must die. "watch no more the evening star! watch no more the glimpse of morn! never from the holy war, lady, will thy love return! see this bloody cross; and, see, his bloody scarf he sends to thee!" and now again the youthful knight stood smiling by the lady's side! his helmet shone with crimson light, his sword with drops of blood was dy'd: and now a soft and mournful song stole the chapel aisles among. now from the spectre's paley cheek the flesh began to waste away; the vaulted doors were heard to creak, and dark became the summer day! the spectre's eyes were sunk, but he seem'd with their sockets still to see; the second bell is heard to ring: four barefoot monks, of orders grey, again their holy service sing, and round their chapel altar pray: the lady counted o'er and o'er, and shudder'd while she counted _four_! "oh! fathers, who was he, so gay, that stood beside the chapel door? oh! tell me, fathers, tell me, pray," the monks replied, "we fathers four: lady, _no other_ have we seen, since in this holy place we've been!" _part second._ now the merry bugle-horn through the forest sounded far; when on the lofty tow'r, forlorn, the lady watch'd the evening star; the evening star that seemed to be rising from the dark'ned sea. the summer sea was dark and still, the sky was streak'd with lines of gold, the mist rose grey above the hill, and low the clouds of amber roll'd: the lady on the lofty tow'r watch'd the calm and silent hour. and while she watch'd, she saw advance a ship, with painted streamers gay: she saw it on the green wave dance, and plunge amid the silver spray; while from the forest's haunts forlorn, again she heard the bugle horn. the sails were full; the breezes rose; the billows curl'd along the shore; and now the day began to close-- the bugle horn was heard no more. but, rising from the wat'ry way an airy voice was heard to say-- "watch no more the evening star; watch no more the billowy sea; lady, from the holy war, thy lover hastes to comfort thee: lady, lady, cease to mourn; soon thy lover will return." now she hastens to the bay; now the rising storm she hears: now the sailors smiling say, "lady, lady, check your fears: trust us, lady; we will be your pilots o'er the stormy sea." now the little bark she view'd, moor'd beside the flinty steep; and now, upon the foamy flood, the tranquil breezes seemed to sleep. the moon arose; her silver ray seem'd on the silent deep to play. now music stole across the main: it was a sweet but mournful tone; it came a slow and dulcet strain; it came from where the pale moon shone: and while it pass'd across the sea, more soft and soft it seem'd to be. now on the deck the lady stands. the vessel steers across the main; it steers towards the holy land, never to return again: still the sailors cry, "we'll be your pilots o'er the stormy sea." now she hears a low voice say, "deeper, deeper, deeper still; hark! the black'ning billows play; hark! the waves the vessel fill: lower, lower, down we go; all is dark and still below." now a flash of vivid light on the rolling deep was seen! and now the lady saw the knight, with doublet rich, of gold and green: from the sockets of his eyes, a pale and streaming light she spies. and now his form transparent stood, smiling with a ghastly mien: and now the calm and boundless flood was like the emerald, bright and green; and now 'twas of a troubled hue, while "deeper, deeper," sang the crew. slow advanced the morning light, slow they plough'd the wavy tide; when, on a cliff of dreadful height, a castle's lofty tow'r they spied: the lady heard the sailor-band cry, "lady, this is holy land. "watch no more the glitt'ring spray; watch no more the weedy sand; watch no more the star of day; lady, this is holy land: this castle's lord shall welcome thee; then, lady, lady, cheerful be!" now the castle-gates they pass; now across the spacious square, cover'd high with dewy grass, trembling steals the lady fair: and now _the castle's lord_ was seen, clad in a doublet gold and green. he led her through the gothic hall, with bones and skulls encircled round; "oh, let not this thy soul appal!" he cried, "for this is holy ground." he led her through the chambers lone, 'mid many a shriek and many a groan. now to the banquet-room they came: around a table of black stone, she mark'd a faint and vapoury flame; upon the horrid feast it shone-- and there, to close the madd'ning sight, unnumber'd spectres met the light. their teeth were like the brilliant, bright; their eyes were blue as sapphire clear; their bones were of a polish'd white; gigantic did their ribs appear! and now the knight the lady led, and placed her at the table's head! just now the lady _woke_:--for she had slept upon the lofty tow'r, and dreams of dreadful phantasie had fill'd the lonely moonlight hour: her pillow was the turret stone, and on her breast the pale moon shone. but now _a real_ voice she hears: it was her lover's voice; for he, to calm her bosom's rending fears, that night had cross'd the stormy sea: "i come," said he, "from palestine, to prove myself, _sweet lady, thine_." index. ackland, sir hugh, his extraordinary resuscitation, page agreeable explanation, aix-la-chapelle, extraordinary event at, anatomical professor, and the dead man, apparitions, essay on, apparition, the castle, apparition investigated, b. bed-room, the haunted, benighted traveller, and haunted room, bishop, the credulous, c. carrier, the frightened, castle apparition, castle, haunted, chimney-sweep, and drunken bucks, church-yard encounter, or heroic midshipman, church-yard ghost, and milkman, club-room ghost, cock-lane ghost, college ghost, or double mistake, couple, the superstitious, credulous bishop, credulous peasants, cripplegate ghost, d. dead body, and unfortunate priest, dead man, and anatomical professor, dominican friar, double mistake, or college ghost, drunken bucks, and chimney sweep, e. essay on apparitions, &c., extraordinary double dream, f. fakenham ghost, fatal superstition, fatal effects of wanton mischief, female fanatic, and heavenly visitor, female sprites, floating wonder, or female spectre, friar, the dominican, frightened carrier, funeral, the ideot's, g. gassendi, the philosopher, and haunted bed-room, giles the shepherd, and spectre, ghost of the field, or the twins, ghost, and no ghost, ghost on ship-board, ghostly adventurer, ghost, thrice called for, as an evidence in a court of justice, h. hammersmith ghost, haunted beach, or power of conscience on a murderer, haunted bed-room, haunted bed-room, and benighted traveller, haunted castle, haunted castle, and mareschal saxe, heavenly visitor, and female fanatic, heroic midshipman, or church-yard encounter, hypochondriac gentleman, and jack ass, i. ideot's funeral, imagination, remarkable instance of the power of, innocent devil, or agreeable disappointment, j. jealousy, fatal effects of, or the prussian domino, l. lady of the black tower, lunatic apparition, m. maniac; or, fatal effects of wanton mischief, man with his head on fire, and covered with blood, mareschal saxe, and the haunted castle, mary (poor), the maid of the inn, midshipman, heroic, and church-yard encounter, milkman, and church-yard ghost, n. nocturnal disturber, p. peasants, the credulous, poor mary, the maid of the inn, power of conscience on a murderer, priest, the unfortunate, and dead body, prussian domino, or fatal effects of jealousy, r. resuscitation, remarkable, remarkable effects of the power of vision, s. school-boy apparition, sir hugh ackland, somersetshire demoniac, sprites, the female, spectre of the broken, superstitious couple, subterranean traveller, or ghost and no ghost, supposed supernatural appearance, sweep, and drunken bucks, t. twin brothers, or ghost of the field, v. ventriloquist, , vigil of st. mark, or fatal superstition, vision, remarkable effects of the power of, w. westminster scholars, and hackney coachman, finis. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ transcriber's note: the following errors have been corrected: p. xi: pecant to peccant (upon the peccant part) p. : ramble to rumble (solemn rumble) p. : adyantage to advantage (turn them to my advantage) p. : cieling to ceiling (as high as the ceiling) p. : missing "been" added (had been in bed) p. : instanly to instantly (they then instantly dressed) p. : mercy to mercy's (for mercy's sake) p. : ferronerie to ferronnerie (rue de la ferronnerie) p. : bartholemew to bartholomew (bartholomew close) p. : plantive to plaintive (plaintive tone of voice) p. : faultering to faltering (his tongue faltering) p. : announed to announced (whose visit was announced) p. : colon to period (their feelings. but i was) p. : célébres to célèbres (causes célèbres) p. : missing closing bracket added (was heard.)) p. : remnstone to rempstone (the village of rempstone) p. : accended to ascended (ascended the stairs) p. : missing open quote added ('_who's there? what are ye?_') p. : missing close quote added ('_how came you there?_') p. : extra "in" removed (caerleon, in wales) p. : comma to period (they listen'd to hear the wind roar.) p. : missing open quote added ("'after having been here for) p. : missing close quote added (thee art dead!_') p. : missing close quote added (in his dream.") p. : missing open quote added ("deeper, deeper, deeper still;) p. : line indented to match others (her pillow was the turret stone,) archaic and inconsistent spelling and hyphenation have not been corrected. inconsistencies between the index and the rest of the text have also been left as in the original. as in the original, there are two different stories called "the ventriloquist." omitted lines of poetry on p. are represented with a line of asterisks in the plain text versions, as in the original. short lines used as thought breaks on pp. and are represented with a line of asterisks. in the plain text versions, two superscript t's with a dot below them in the caption of the frontispiece are represented as plain letter t's, and oe-ligatures have been changed to oe. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ proofreading team. true irish ghost stories compiled by st john d. seymour, b.d. author of "irish witchcraft and demonology" etc. and harry l. neligan, d.i.r.i.c. to three lively poltergeists w----, j----, and g----, this book is dedicated by the compilers foreword this book had its origin on this wise. in my _irish witchcraft and demonology_, published in october , i inserted a couple of famous th century ghost stories which described how lawsuits were set on foot at the instigation of most importunate spirits. it then occurred to me that as far as i knew there was no such thing in existence as a book of irish ghost stories. books on irish fairy and folk-lore there were in abundance--some of which could easily be spared--but there was no book of ghosts. and so i determined to supply this sad omission. in accordance with the immortal recipe for making hare-soup i had first to obtain my ghost stories. where was i to get them from? for myself i knew none worth publishing, nor had i ever had any strange experiences, while i feared that my friends and acquaintances were in much the same predicament. suddenly a brilliant thought struck me. i wrote out a letter, stating exactly what i wanted, and what i did _not_ want, and requesting the readers of it either to forward me ghost stories, or else to put me in the way of getting them: this letter was sent to the principal irish newspapers on october , and published on october , and following days. i confess i was a little doubtful as to the result of my experiment, and wondered what response the people of ireland would make to a letter which might place a considerable amount of trouble on their shoulders. my mind was speedily set at rest. on october , the first answers reached me. within a fortnight i had sufficient material to make a book; within a month i had so much material that i could pick and choose--and more was promised. further on in this preface i give a list of those persons whose contributions i have made use of, but here i should like to take the opportunity of thanking all those ladies and gentlemen throughout the length and breadth of ireland, the majority of whom were utter strangers to me, who went to the trouble of sitting down and writing out page after page of stories. i cannot forget their kindness, and i am only sorry that i could not make use of more of the matter that was sent to me. as one would expect, this material varied in value and extent. some persons contributed incidents, of little use by themselves, but which worked in as helpful illustrations, while others forwarded budgets of stories, long and short. to sift the mass of matter, and bring the various portions of it into proper sequence, would have been a lengthy and difficult piece of work had i not been ably assisted by mr. harry l. neligan, d.i.; but i leave it as a pleasant task to the higher critic to discover what portions of the book were done by him, and what should be attributed to me. some of the replies that reached me were sufficiently amusing. one gentleman, who carefully signed himself "esquire," informed me that he was "after" reading a great book of ghost stories, but several letters of mine failed to elicit any subsequent information. another person offered to _sell_ me ghost stories, while several proffered tales that had been worked up comically. one lady addressed a card to me as follows: "the revd. ---- (name and address lost of the clergyman whose letter appeared lately in _irish times, re_ "apparitions") cappawhite." as the number of clergy in the above village who deal in ghost stories is strictly limited, the post office succeeded in delivering it safely. i wrote at once in reply, and got a story. in a letter bearing the dublin postmark a correspondent, veiled in anonymity, sent me a religious tract with the curt note, "_re_ ghost stories, will you please read this." i did so, but still fail to see the sender's point of view. another person in a neighbouring parish declared that if i were their rector they would forthwith leave my church, and attend service elsewhere. there are many, i fear, who adopt this attitude; but it will soon become out of date. some of my readers may cavil at the expression, "_true_ ghost stories." for myself i cannot guarantee the genuineness of a single incident in this book--how could i, as none of them are my own personal experience? this at least i _can_ vouch for, that the majority of the stories were sent to me as first or second-hand experiences by ladies and gentlemen whose statement on an ordinary matter of fact would be accepted without question. and further, in order to prove the _bona fides_ of this book, i make the following offer. the original letters and documents are in my custody at donohil rectory, and i am perfectly willing to allow any responsible person to examine them, subject to certain restrictions, these latter obviously being that names of people and places must not be divulged, for i regret to say that in very many instances my correspondents have laid this burden upon me. this is to be the more regretted, because the use of blanks, or fictitious initials, makes a story appear much less convincing than if real names had been employed. just one word. i can imagine some of my readers (to be numbered by the thousand, i hope) saying to themselves: "oh! mr. seymour has left out some of the best stories. did he never hear of such-and-such a haunted house, or place?" or, "i could relate an experience better than anything he has got." if such there be, may i beg of them to send me on their stories with all imagined speed, as they may be turned to account at some future date. i beg to return thanks to the following for permission to make use of matter in their publications: messrs. sealy, bryers, and walker, proprietors of the _new ireland review_; the editor of the _review of reviews_; the editor of the _proceedings_ of the society for psychical research; the editor of the _journal_ of the american s.p.r.; the editor of the _occult review_, and mr. elliott o'donnell; messrs. longmans, green and co., and mrs. andrew lang; the editor of the _wide world magazine_; the representatives of the late rev. dr. craig. in accordance with the promise made in my letter, i have now much pleasure in giving the names of the ladies and gentlemen who have contributed to, or assisted in, the compilation of this book, and as well to assure them that mr. neligan and i are deeply grateful to them for their kindness. mrs. s. acheson, drumsna, co. roscommon; mrs. m. archibald, cliftonville road, belfast; j.j. burke, esq., u.d.c., rahoon, galway; capt. r. beamish, passage west, co. cork; mrs. a. bayly, woodenbridge, co. wicklow; r. blair, esq., south shields; jas. byrne, esq., castletownroche, co. cork; mrs. kearney brooks, killarney; h. buchanan, esq., inishannon, co. cork; j.a. barlow, esq., bray, co. wicklow; j. carton, esq., king's inns library, dublin; miss a. cooke, cappagh house, co. limerick; j.p.v. campbell, esq. _solicitor_, dublin; rev. e.g.s. crosthwait, m.a., littleton, thurles; j. crowley, esq., munster and leinster bank, cashel; miss c.m. doyle, ashfield road, dublin; j. ralph dagg, esq., baltinglass; gerald a. dillon, esq., wicklow; matthias and miss nan fitzgerald, cappagh house, co. limerick; lord walter fitzgerald, kilkea castle; miss finch, rushbrook, co. cork; rev. h.r.b. gillespie, m.a., aghacon rectory, roscrea; miss grene, grene park, co. tipperary; l.h. grubb, esq. j.p., d.l., ardmayle, co. tipperary; h. keble gelston, esq., letterkenny; ven. j.a. haydn, ll.d., archdeacon of limerick; miss dorothy hamilton, portarlington; richard hogan, esq., bowman st., limerick; mrs. g. kelly, rathgar, dublin; miss keefe, carnahallia, doon; rev. d.b. knox, whitehead, belfast; rev. j.d. kidd, m.a., castlewellan; e.b. de lacy, esq., marlboro' road, dublin; miss k. lloyd, shinrone, king's co.; canon lett, m.a., aghaderg rectory; t. macfadden, esq., carrigart, co. donegal; wm. mackey, esq., strabane; canon courtenay moore, m.a., mitchelstown, co. cork; j. mccrossan, esq., _journalist_, strabane; g.h. miller, esq., j.p., edgeworthstown; mrs. p.c.f. magee, dublin; rev. r.d. paterson, b.a., ardmore rectory; e.a. phelps, esq., trinity college library; mrs. pratt, munster and leinster bank, rathkeale; miss pim, monkstown, co. dublin; miss b. parker, passage west, co. cork; henry reay, esq., harold's cross, dublin; m.j. ryan, esq., taghmon, co. wexford; p. ryan, esq., nicker, pallasgrean; canon ross-lewin, kilmurry, limerick; miss a. russell, elgin road, dublin; lt.-col. the hon. f. shore, thomastown, co. kilkenny; mrs. seymour, donohil rectory; mrs. e.l. stritch, north great georges st., dublin; m.c.r. stritch, esq., belturbet; very rev. the dean of st. patrick's. d.d.; mrs. spratt, thurles; w.s. thompson, esq., inishannon, co. cork; mrs, thomas, sandycove, dublin; mrs. walker, glenbeigh, co. kerry; miss wolfe, skibbereen, co. cork; mrs. e. welsh, nenagh; t.j. westropp, esq., m.a., m.r.i.a., sandymount, dublin; mrs. m.a. wilkins, rathgar, dublin; john ward, esq., ballymote; mrs. wrench, ballybrack, co. dublin; miss k.e. younge, upper oldtown, rathdowney. st. john d. seymour. donohil rectory, cappawhite, tipperary, _february _, . contents chap. i. haunted houses in or near dublin ii. haunted houses in conn's half iii. haunted houses in mogh's half iv. poltergeists v. haunted places vi. apparitions at or after death vii. banshees, and other death-warnings viii. miscellaneous supernormal experiences ix. legendary and ancestral ghosts x. mistaken identity--conclusion true irish ghost stories chapter i haunted houses in or near dublin of all species of ghostly phenomena, that commonly known as "haunted houses" appeals most to the ordinary person. there is something very eerie in being shut up within the four walls of a house with a ghost. the poor human being is placed at such a disadvantage. if we know that a gateway, or road, or field has the reputation of being haunted, we can in nearly every case make a detour, and so avoid the unpleasant locality. but the presence of a ghost in a house creates a very different state of affairs. it appears and disappears at its own sweet will, with a total disregard for our feelings: it seems to be as much part and parcel of the domicile as the staircase or the hall door, and, consequently, nothing short of leaving the house or of pulling it down (both of these solutions are not always practicable) will free us absolutely from the unwelcome presence. there is also something so natural, and at the same time so unnatural, in seeing a door open when we know that no human hand rests on the knob, or in hearing the sound of footsteps, light or heavy, and feeling that it cannot be attributed to the feet of mortal man or woman. or perhaps a form appears in a room, standing, sitting, or walking--in fact, situated in its three dimensions apparently as an ordinary being of flesh and blood, until it proves its unearthly nature by vanishing before our astonished eyes. or perhaps we are asleep in bed. the room is shrouded in darkness, and our recumbent attitude, together with the weight of bed-clothes, hampers our movements and probably makes us more cowardly. a man will meet pain or danger boldly if he be standing upright--occupying that erect position which is his as lord of creation; but his courage does not well so high if he be supine. we are awakened suddenly by the feel that some superhuman presence is in the room. we are transfixed with terror, we cannot find either the bell-rope or the matches, while we _dare_ not leap out of bed and make a rush for the door lest we should encounter we know not what. in an agony of fear, we feel it moving towards us; it approaches closer, and yet closer, to the bed, and--for what may or may not then happen we must refer our readers to the pages of this book. but the sceptical reader will say: "this is all very well, but--there are _no_ haunted houses. all these alleged strange happenings are due to a vivid imagination, or else to rats and mice." (the question of deliberate and conscious fraud may be rejected in almost every instance.) this simple solution has been put forward so often that it should infallibly have solved the problem long ago. but will such a reader explain how it is that the noise made by rats and mice can resemble slow, heavy footsteps, or else take the form of a human being seen by several persons; or how our imagination can cause doors to open and shut, or else create a conglomeration of noises which, physically, would be beyond the power of ordinary individuals to reproduce? whatever may be the ultimate explanation, we feel that there is a great deal in the words quoted by professor barrett: "in spite of all reasonable scepticism, it is difficult to avoid accepting, at least provisionally, the conclusion that there are, in a certain sense, haunted houses, _i.e._ that there are houses in which similar quasi-human apparitions have occurred at different times to different inhabitants, under circumstances which exclude the hypothesis of suggestion or expectation." we must now turn to the subject of this chapter. mrs. g. kelly, a lady well known in musical circles in dublin, sends as her own personal experience the following tale of a most quiet haunting, in which the spectral charwoman (!) does not seem to have entirely laid aside all her mundane habits. "my first encounter with a ghost occurred about twenty years ago. on that occasion i was standing in the kitchen of my house in ---- square, when a woman, whom i was afterwards to see many times, walked down the stairs into the room. having heard the footsteps outside, i was not in the least perturbed, but turned to look who it was, and found myself looking at a tall, stout, elderly woman, wearing a bonnet and old-fashioned mantle. she had grey hair, and a benign and amiable expression. we stood gazing at each other while one could count twenty. at first i was not at all frightened, but gradually as i stood looking at her an uncomfortable feeling, increasing to terror, came over me. this caused me to retreat farther and farther back, until i had my back against the wall, and then the apparition slowly faded. "this feeling of terror, due perhaps to the unexpectedness of her appearance, always overcame me on the subsequent occasions on which i saw her. these occasions numbered twelve or fifteen, and i have seen her in every room in the house, and at every hour of the day, during a period of about ten years. the last time she appeared was ten years ago. my husband and i had just returned from a concert at which he had been singing, and we sat for some time over supper, talking about the events of the evening. when at last i rose to leave the room, and opened the dining-room door, i found my old lady standing on the mat outside with her head bent towards the door in the attitude of listening. i called out loudly, and my husband rushed to my side. that was the last time i have seen her." "one peculiarity of this spectral visitant was a strong objection to disorder or untidyness of any kind, or even to an alteration in the general routine of the house. for instance, she showed her disapproval of any stranger coming to sleep by turning the chairs face downwards on the floor in the room they were to occupy. i well remember one of our guests, having gone to his room one evening for something he had forgotten, remarking on coming downstairs again, 'well, you people have an extraordinary manner of arranging your furniture! i have nearly broken my bones over one of the bedroom chairs which was turned down on the floor.' as my husband and i had restored that chair twice already to its proper position during the day, we were not much surprised at his remarks, although we did not enlighten him. the whole family have been disturbed by a peculiar knocking which occurred in various rooms in the house, frequently on the door or wall, but sometimes on the furniture, quite close to where we had been sitting. this was evidently loud enough to be heard in the next house, for our next-door neighbour once asked my husband why he selected such curious hours for hanging his pictures. another strange and fairly frequent occurrence was the following. i had got a set of skunk furs which i fancied had an unpleasant odour, as this fur sometimes has; and at night i used to take it from my wardrobe and lay it on a chair in the drawing-room, which was next my bedroom. the first time that i did this, on going to the drawing-room i found, to my surprise, my muff in one corner and my stole in another. not for a moment suspecting a supernatural agent, i asked my servant about it, and she assured me that she had not been in the room that morning. whereupon i determined to test the matter, which i did by putting in the furs late at night, and taking care that i was the first to enter the room in the morning. i invariably found that they had been disturbed." the following strange and pathetic incident occurred in a well-known square in the north side of the city. in or about a hundred years ago a young officer was ordered to dublin, and took a house there for himself and his family. he sent on his wife and two children, intending to join them in the course of a few days. when the latter and the nurse arrived, they found only the old charwoman in the house, and she left shortly after their arrival. finding that something was needed, the nurse went out to purchase it. on her return she asked the mother were the children all right, as she had seen two ghostly forms flit past her on the door-step! the mother answered that she believed they were, but on going up to the nursery they found both the children with their throats cut. the murderer was never brought to justice, and no motive was ever discovered for the crime. the unfortunate mother went mad, and it is said that an eerie feeling still clings to the house, while two little heads are sometimes seen at the window of the room where the deed was committed. a most weird experience fell to the lot of major macgregor, and was contributed by him to _real ghost stories_, the celebrated christmas number of the _review of reviews_. he says: "in the end of i went over to ireland to visit a relative living in a square in the north side of dublin. in january the husband of my relative fell ill. i sat up with him for several nights, and at last, as he seemed better, i went to bed, and directed the footman to call me if anything went wrong. i soon fell asleep, but some time after was awakened by a push on the left shoulder. i started up, and said, 'is there anything wrong?' i got no answer, but immediately received another push. i got annoyed, and said 'can you not speak, man! and tell me if there is anything wrong.' still no answer, and i had a feeling i was going to get another push when i suddenly turned round and caught a human hand, warm, plump, and soft. i said, 'who are you?' but i got no answer. i then tried to pull the person towards me, but could not do so. i then said, 'i _will_ know who you are!' and having the hand tight in my right hand, with my left i felt the wrist and arm, enclosed, as it seemed to me, in a tight-fitting sleeve of some winter material with a linen cuff, but when i got to the elbow all trace of an arm ceased. i was so astounded that i let the hand go, and just then the clock struck two. including the mistress of the house, there were five females in the establishment, and i can assert that the hand belonged to none of them. when i reported the adventure, the servants exclaimed, 'oh, it must have been the master's old aunt betty, who lived for many years in the upper part of that house, and had died over fifty years before at a great age.' i afterwards heard that the room in which i felt the hand had been considered haunted, and very curious noises and peculiar incidents occurred, such as the bed-clothes torn off, &c. one lady got a slap in the face from some invisible hand, and when she lit her candle she saw as if something opaque fell or jumped off the bed. a general officer, a brother of the lady, slept there two nights, but preferred going to a hotel to remaining the third night. he never would say what he heard or saw, but always said the room was uncanny. i slept for months in the room afterwards, and was never in the least disturbed." a truly terrifying sight was witnessed by a clergyman in a school-house a good many years ago. this cleric was curate of a dublin parish, but resided with his parents some distance out of town in the direction of malahide. it not infrequently happened that he had to hold meetings in the evenings, and on such occasions, as his home was so far away, and as the modern convenience of tramcars was not then known, he used to sleep in the schoolroom, a large bare room, where the meetings were held. he had made a sleeping-apartment for himself by placing a pole across one end of the room, on which he had rigged up two curtains which, when drawn together, met in the middle. one night he had been holding some meeting, and when everybody had left he locked up the empty schoolhouse, and went to bed. it was a bright moonlight night, and every object could be seen perfectly clearly. scarcely had he got into bed when he became conscious of some invisible presence. then he saw the curtains agitated at one end, as if hands were grasping them on the outside. in an agony of terror he watched these hands groping along outside the curtains till they reached the middle. the curtains were then drawn a little apart, and a face peered in--an awful, evil face, with an expression of wickedness and hate upon it which no words could describe. it looked at him for a few moments, then drew back again, and the curtains closed. the clergyman had sufficient courage left to leap out of bed and make a thorough examination of the room, but, as he expected, he found no one. he dressed himself as quickly as possible, walked home, and never again slept a night in that schoolroom. the following tale, sent by mr. e. b. de lacy, contains a most extraordinary and unsatisfactory element of mystery. he says: "when i was a boy i lived in the suburbs, and used to come in every morning to school in the city. my way lay through a certain street in which stood a very dismal semi-detached house, which, i might say, was closed up regularly about every six months. i would see new tenants coming into it, and then in a few months it would be 'to let' again. this went on for eight or nine years, and i often wondered what was the reason. on inquiring one day from a friend, i was told that it had the reputation of being haunted. "a few years later i entered business in a certain office, and one day it fell to my lot to have to call on the lady who at that particular period was the tenant of the haunted house. when we had transacted our business she informed me that she was about to leave. knowing the reputation of the house, and being desirous of investigating a ghost-story, i asked her if she would give me the history of the house as far as she knew it, which she very kindly did as follows: "about forty years ago the house was left by will to a gentleman named ----. he lived in it for a short time, when he suddenly went mad, and had to be put in an asylum. upon this his agents let the house to a lady. apparently nothing unusual happened for some time, but a few months later, as she went down one morning to a room behind the kitchen, she found the cook hanging by a rope attached to a hook in the ceiling. after the inquest the lady gave up the house. "it was then closed up for some time, but was again advertised 'to let,' and a caretaker, a woman, was put into it. one night about one o'clock, a constable going his rounds heard some one calling for help from the house, and found the caretaker on the sill of one of the windows holding on as best she could. he told her to go in and open the hall door and let him in, but she refused to enter the room again. he forced open the door and succeeded in dragging the woman back into the room, only to find she had gone mad. "again the house was shut up, and again it was let, this time to a lady, on a five-years' lease. however, after a few months' residence, she locked it up, and went away. on her friends asking her why she did so, she replied that she would rather pay the whole five years' rent than live in it herself, or allow anyone else to do so, but would give no other reason. "'i believe i was the next person to take this house,' said the lady who narrated the story to me (_i.e._ mr. de lacy). 'i took it about eighteen months ago on a three years' lease in the hopes of making money by taking in boarders, but i am now giving it up because none of them will stay more than a week or two. they do not give any definite reason as to why they are leaving; they are careful to state that it is not because they have any fault to find with me or my domestic arrangements, but they merely say _they do not like the rooms_! the rooms themselves, as you can see, are good, spacious, and well lighted. i have had all classes of professional men; one of the last was a barrister, and he said that he had no fault to find except that _he did not like the rooms_! i myself do not believe in ghosts, and i have never seen anything strange here or elsewhere; and if i had known the house had the reputation of being haunted, i would never have rented it." marsh's library, that quaint, old-world repository of ponderous tomes, is reputed to be haunted by the ghost of its founder, primate narcissus marsh. he is said to frequent the inner gallery, which contains what was formerly his own private library: he moves in and out among the cases, taking down books from the shelves, and occasionally throwing them down on the reader's desk as if in anger. however, he always leaves things in perfect order. the late mr. ----, who for some years lived in the librarian's rooms underneath, was a firm believer in this ghost, and said he frequently heard noises which could only be accounted for by the presence of a nocturnal visitor; the present tenant is more sceptical. the story goes that marsh's niece eloped from the palace, and was married in a tavern to the curate of chapelizod. she is reported to have written a note consenting to the elopement, and to have then placed it in one of her uncle's books to which her lover had access, and where he found it. as a punishment for his lack of vigilance, the archbishop is said to be condemned to hunt for the note until he find it--hence the ghost. the ghost of a deceased canon was seen in one of the dublin cathedrals by several independent witnesses, one of whom, a lady, gives her own experience as follows: "canon ---- was a personal friend of mine, and we had many times discussed ghosts and spiritualism, in which he was a profound believer, having had many supernatural experiences himself. it was during the sunday morning service in the cathedral that i saw my friend, who had been dead for two years, sitting inside the communion-rails. i was so much astonished at the flesh-and blood appearance of the figure that i took off my glasses and wiped them with my handkerchief, at the same time looking away from him down the church. on looking back again he was still there, and continued to sit there for about ten or twelve minutes, after which he faded away. i remarked a change in his personal appearance, which was, that his beard was longer and whiter than when i had known him--in fact, such a change as would have occurred _in life_ in the space of two years. having told my husband of the occurrence on our way home, he remembered having heard some talk of an appearance of this clergyman in the cathedral since his death. he hurried back to the afternoon service, and asked the robestress if anybody had seen canon ----'s ghost. she informed him that _she_ had, and that he had also been seen by one of the sextons in the cathedral. i mention this because in describing his personal appearance she had remarked the same change as i had with regard to the beard." some years ago a family had very uncanny experiences in a house in rathgar, and subsequently in another in rathmines. these were communicated by one of the young ladies to mrs. m. a. wilkins, who published them in the _journal_ of the american s.p.r.,[ ] from which they are here taken. the rathgar house had a basement passage leading to a door into the yard, and along this passage her mother and the children used to hear dragging, limping steps, and the latch of the door rattling, but no one could ever be found when search was made. the house-bells were old and all in a row, and on one occasion they all rang, apparently of their own accord. the lady narrator used to sleep in the back drawing room, and always when the light was put out she heard strange noises, as if some one was going round the room rubbing paper along the wall, while she often had the feeling that a person was standing beside her bed. a cousin, who was a nurse, once slept with her, and also noticed these strange noises. on one occasion this room was given up to a very matter-of-fact young man to sleep in, and next morning he said that the room was very strange, with queer noises in it. [footnote : for september .] her mother also had an extraordinary experience in the same house. one evening she had just put the baby to bed, when she heard a voice calling "mother." she left the bedroom, and called to her daughter, who was in a lower room, "what do you want?" but the girl replied that she had _not_ called her; and then, in her turn, asked her mother if _she_ had been in the front room, for she had just heard a noise as if some one was trying to fasten the inside bars of the shutters across. but her mother had been upstairs, and no one was in the front room. the experiences in the rathmines house were of a similar auditory nature, _i.e._ the young ladies heard their names called, though it was found that no one in the house had done so. occasionally it happens that ghosts inspire a law-suit. in the seventeenth century they were to be found actively urging the adoption of legal proceedings, but in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries they play a more passive part. a case about a haunted house took place in dublin in the year , in which the ghost may be said to have won. a mr. waldron, a solicitor's clerk, sued his next-door neighbour, one mr. kiernan, a mate in the merchant service, to recover £ for damages done to his house. kiernan altogether denied the charges, but asserted that waldron's house was notoriously haunted. witnesses proved that every night, from august to january , stones were thrown at the windows and doors, and extraordinary and inexplicable occurrences constantly took place. mrs. waldron, wife of the plaintiff, swore that one night she saw one of the panes of glass of a certain window cut through with a diamond, and a white hand inserted through the hole. she at once caught up a bill-hook and aimed a blow at the hand, cutting off one of the fingers. this finger could not be found, nor were any traces of blood seen. a servant of hers was sorely persecuted by noises and the sound of footsteps. mr. waldron, with the aid of detectives and policemen, endeavoured to find out the cause, but with no success. the witnesses in the case were closely cross-examined, but without shaking their testimony. the facts appeared to be proved, so the jury found for kiernan, the defendant. at least twenty persons had testified on oath to the fact that the house had been known to have been haunted.[ ] [footnote : see _sights and shadows_, p. ff.] before leaving the city and its immediate surroundings, we must relate the story of an extraordinary ghost, somewhat lacking in good manners, yet not without a certain distorted sense of humour. absolutely incredible though the tale may seem, yet it comes on very good authority. it was related to our informant, mr. d., by a mrs. c., whose daughter he had employed as governess. mrs. c., who is described as "a woman of respectable position and good education," heard it in her turn from her father and mother. in the story the relationship of the different persons seems a little involved, but it would appear that the initial a belongs to the surname both of mrs. c.'s father and grandfather. this ghost was commonly called "corney" by the family, and he answered to this though it was not his proper name. he disclosed this latter to mr. c.'s mother, who forgot it. corney made his presence manifest to the a---- family shortly after they had gone to reside in ---- street in the following manner. mr. a---- had sprained his knee badly, and had to use a crutch, which at night was left at the head of his bed. one night his wife heard some one walking on the lobby, thump, thump, thump, as if imitating mr. a----. she struck a match to see if the crutch had been removed from the head of the bed, but it was still there. from that on corney commenced to talk, and he spoke every day from his usual habitat, the coal-cellar off the kitchen. his voice sounded as if it came out of an empty barrel. he was very troublesome, and continually played practical jokes on the servants, who, as might be expected, were in terror of their lives of him; so much so that mrs. a---- could hardly induce them to stay with her. they used to sleep in a press-bed in the kitchen, and in order to get away from corney, they asked for a room at the top of the house, which was given to them. accordingly the press-bed was moved up there. the first night they went to retire to bed after the change, the doors of the press were flung open, and corney's voice said, "ha! ha! you devils, i am here before you! i am not confined to any particular part of this house." corney was continually tampering with the doors, and straining locks and keys. he only manifested himself in material form to two persons; to ----, who died with the fright, and to mr. a---- (mrs. c.'s father) when he was about seven years old. the latter described him to his mother as a naked man, with a curl on his forehead, and a skin like a clothes-horse(!). one day a servant was preparing fish for dinner. she laid it on the kitchen table while she went elsewhere for something she wanted. when she returned the fish had disappeared. she thereupon began to cry, fearing she would be accused of making away with it. the next thing she heard was the voice of corney from the coal-cellar saying, "there, you blubbering fool, is your fish for you!" and, suiting the action to the word, the fish was thrown out on the kitchen floor. relatives from the country used to bring presents of vegetables, and these were often hung up by corney like christmas decorations round the kitchen. there was one particular press in the kitchen he would not allow anything into. he would throw it out again. a crock with meat in pickle was put into it, and a fish placed on the cover of the crock. he threw the fish out. silver teaspoons were missing, and no account of them could be got until mrs. a---- asked corney to confess if he had done anything with them. he said, "they are under the ticking in the servants' bed." he had, so he said, a daughter in ---- street, and sometimes announced that he was going to see her, and would not be here to-night. on one occasion he announced that he was going to have "company" that evening, and if they wanted any water out of the soft-water tank, to take it before going to bed, as he and his friends would be using it. subsequently that night five or six distinct voices were heard, and next morning the water in the tank was as black as ink, and not alone that, but the bread and butter in the pantry were streaked with the marks of sooty fingers. a clergyman in the locality, having heard of the doings of corney, called to investigate the matter. he was advised by mrs. a---- to keep quiet, and not to reveal his identity, as being the best chance of hearing corney speak. he waited a long time, and as the capricious corney remained silent, he left at length. the servants asked, "corney, why did you not speak?" and he replied, "i could not speak while that good man was in the house." the servants sometimes used to ask him where he was. he would reply, "the great god would not permit me to tell you. i was a bad man, and i died the death." he named the room in the house in which he died. corney constantly joined in any conversation carried on by the people of the house. one could never tell when a voice from the coal-cellar would erupt into the dialogue. he had his likes and dislikes: he appeared to dislike anyone that was not afraid of him, and would not talk to them. mrs. c.'s mother, however, used to get good of him by coaxing. an uncle, having failed to get him to speak one night, took the kitchen poker, and hammered at the door of the coal-cellar, saying, "i'll make you speak"; but corney wouldn't. next morning the poker was found broken in two. this uncle used to wear spectacles, and corney used to call him derisively, "four-eyes." an uncle named richard came to sleep one night, and complained in the morning that the clothes were pulled off him. corney told the servants in great glee, "i slept on master richard's feet all night." finally mr. a---- made several attempts to dispose of his lease, but with no success, for when intending purchasers were being shown over the house and arrived at corney's domain, the spirit would begin to speak and the would-be purchaser would fly. they asked him if they changed house would he trouble them. he replied, "no! but if they throw down this house, i will trouble the stones." at last mrs. a---- appealed to him to keep quiet, and not to injure people who had never injured him. he promised that he would do so, and then said, "mrs. a----, you will be all right now, for i see a lady in black coming up the street to this house, and she will buy it." within half an hour a widow called and purchased the house. possibly corney is still there, for our informant looked up the directory as he was writing, and found the house marked "vacant." near blanchardstown, co. dublin, is a house, occupied at present, or up to very recently, by a private family; it was formerly a monastery, and there are said to be secret passages in it. once a servant ironing in the kitchen saw the figure of a nun approach the kitchen window and look in. our informant was also told by a friend (now dead), who had it from the lady of the house, that once night falls, no doors can be kept closed. if anyone shuts them, almost immediately they are flung open again with the greatest violence and apparent anger. if left open there is no trouble or noise, but light footsteps are heard, and there is a vague feeling of people passing to and fro. the persons inhabiting the house are matter-of-fact, unimaginative people, who speak of this as if it were an everyday affair. "so long as we leave the doors unclosed they don't harm us: why should we be afraid of them?" mrs. ---- said. truly a most philosophical attitude to adopt! a haunted house in kingstown, co. dublin, was investigated by professor w. barrett and professor henry sidgwick. the story is singularly well attested (as one might expect from its being inserted in the pages of the _proceedings s.p.r._[ ]), as the apparition was seen on three distinct occasions, and by three separate persons who were all personally known to the above gentlemen. the house in which the following occurrences took place is described as being a very old one, with unusually thick walls. the lady saw her strange visitant in her bedroom. she says: "disliking cross-lights, i had got into the habit of having the blind of the back window drawn and the shutters closed at night, and of leaving the blind raised and the shutters opened towards the front, liking to see the trees and sky when i awakened. opening my eyes now one morning, i saw right before me (this occurred in july ) the figure of a woman, stooping down and apparently looking at me. her head and shoulders were wrapped in a common woollen shawl; her arms were folded, and they were also wrapped, as if for warmth, in the shawl. i looked at her in my horror, and dared not cry out lest i might move the awful thing to speech or action. behind her head i saw the window and the growing dawn, the looking-glass upon the toilet-table, and the furniture in that part of the room. after what may have been only seconds--of the duration of this vision i cannot judge--she raised herself and went backwards towards the window, stood at the toilet-table, and gradually vanished. i mean she grew by degrees transparent, and that through the shawl and the grey dress she wore i saw the white muslin of the table-cover again, and at last saw that only in the place where she had stood." the lady lay motionless with terror until the servant came to call her. the only other occupants of the house at the time were her brother and the servant, to neither of whom did she make any mention of the circumstance, fearing that the former would laugh at her, and the latter give notice. [footnote : july , p. .] exactly a fortnight later, when sitting at breakfast, she noticed that her brother seemed out of sorts, and did not eat. on asking him if anything were the matter, he answered, "i have had a horrid nightmare--indeed it was no nightmare: i saw it early this morning, just as distinctly as i see you." "what?" she asked. "a villainous-looking hag," he replied, "with her head and arms wrapped in a cloak, stooping over me, and looking like this--" he got up, folded his arms, and put himself in the exact posture of the vision. whereupon she informed him of what she herself had seen a fortnight previously. about four years later, in the same month, the lady's married sister and two children were alone in the house. the eldest child, a boy of about four or five years, asked for a drink, and his mother went to fetch it, desiring him to remain in the dining-room until her return. coming back she met the boy pale and trembling, and on asking him why he left the room, he replied, "who is that woman--who is that woman?" "where?" she asked. "that old woman who went upstairs," he replied. so agitated was he, that she took him by the hand and went upstairs to search, but no one was to be found, though he still maintained that a woman went upstairs. a friend of the family subsequently told them that a woman had been killed in the house many years previously, and that it was reported to be haunted. chapter ii haunted houses in conn's half from a very early period a division of ireland into two "halves" existed. this was traditionally believed to have been made by conn the hundred-fighter and mogh nuadat, in a.d. . the north was in consequence known as conn's half, the south as mogh's half, the line of division being a series of gravel hills extending from dublin to galway. this division we have followed, except that we have included the whole of the counties of west meath and galway in the northern portion. we had hoped originally to have had _four_ chapters on haunted houses, one for each of the four provinces, but, for lack of material from connaught, we have been forced to adopt the plan on which chapters i-iii are arranged. mrs. acheson, of co. roscommon, sends the following: "emo house, co. westmeath, a very old mansion since pulled down, was purchased by my grandfather for his son, my father. the latter had only been living in it for a few days when knocking commenced at the hall door. naturally he thought it was someone playing tricks, or endeavouring to frighten him away. one night he had the lobby window open directly over the door. the knocking commenced, and he looked out: it was a very bright night, and as there was no porch he could see the door distinctly; the knocking continued, but he did not see the knocker move. another night he sat up expecting his brother, but as the latter did not come he went to bed. finally the knocking became so loud and insistent that he felt sure his brother must have arrived. he went downstairs and opened the door, but no one was there. still convinced that his brother was there and had gone round to the yard to put up his horse, he went out; but scarcely had he gone twenty yards from the door when the knocking recommenced behind his back. on turning round he could see no one." "after this the knocking got very bad, so much so that he could not rest. all this time he did not mention the strange occurrence to anyone. one morning he went up through the fields between four and five o'clock. to his surprise he found the herd out feeding the cattle. my father asked him why he was up so early. he replied that he could not sleep. 'why?' asked my father. 'you know why yourself, sir--the knocking.' he then found that this man had heard it all the time, though he slept at the end of a long house. my father was advised to take no notice of it, for it would go as it came, though at this time it was continuous and very loud; and so it did. the country people said it was the late resident who could not rest." "we had another curious and most eerie experience in this house. a former rector was staying the night with us, and as the evening wore on we commenced to tell ghost-stories. he related some remarkable experiences, and as we were talking the drawing-room door suddenly opened as wide as possible, and then slowly closed again. it was a calm night, and at any rate it was a heavy double door which never flies open however strong the wind may be blowing. everyone in the house was in bed, as it was after o'clock, except the three persons who witnessed this, viz. myself, my daughter, and the rector. the effect on the latter was most marked. he was a big, strong, jovial man and a good athlete, but when he saw the door open he quivered like an aspen leaf." a strange story of a haunting, in which nothing was seen, but in which the same noises were heard by different people, is sent by one of the percipients, who does not wish to have her name disclosed. she says: "when staying for a time in a country house in the north of ireland some years ago i was awakened on several nights by hearing the tramp, tramp, of horses' hoofs. sometimes it sounded as if they were walking on paving-stones, while at other times i had the impression that they were going round a large space, and as if someone was using a whip on them. i heard neighing, and champing of bits, and so formed the impression that they were carriage horses. i did not mind it much at first, as i thought the stables must be near that part of the house. after hearing these noises several times i began to get curious, so one morning i made a tour of the place. i found that the side of the house i occupied overlooked a neglected garden, which was mostly used for drying clothes. i also discovered that the stables were right at the back of the house, and so it would be impossible for me to hear any noises in that quarter; at any rate there was only one farm horse left, and this was securely fastened up every night. also there were no cobble-stones round the yard. i mentioned what i had heard to the people of the house, but as they would give me no satisfactory reply i passed it over. i did not hear these noises every night." "one night i was startled out of my sleep by hearing a dreadful disturbance in the kitchen. it sounded as if the dish-covers were being taken off the wall and dashed violently on the flagged floor. at length i got up and opened the door of my bedroom, and just as i did so an appalling crash resounded through the house. i waited to see if there was any light to be seen, or footstep to be heard, but nobody was stirring. there was only one servant in the house, the other persons being my host, his wife, and a baby, who had all retired early. next morning i described the noises in the kitchen to the servant, and she said she had often heard them. i then told her about the tramping of horses: she replied that she herself had never heard it, but that other persons who had occupied my room had had experiences similar to mine. i asked her was there any explanation; she said no, except that a story was told of a gentleman who had lived there some years ago, and was very much addicted to racing and gambling, and that he was shot one night in that house. for the remainder of my visit i was removed to another part of the house, and i heard no more noises." a house in the north of ireland, near that locality which is eternally famous as having furnished the material for the last trial for witchcraft in the country, is said to be haunted, the reason being that it is built on the site of a disused and very ancient graveyard. it is said that when some repairs were being carried out nine human skulls were unearthed. it would be interesting to ascertain how many houses in ireland are traditionally said to be built on such unpleasant sites, and if they all bear the reputation of being haunted. the present writer knows of one, in the south, which is so situated (and this is supported, to a certain extent, by documentary evidence from the thirteenth century down) and which in consequence has an uncanny reputation. but concerning the above house it has been found almost impossible to get any information. it is said that strange noises were frequently heard there, which sometimes seemed as if cartloads of stones were being run down one of the gables. on one occasion an inmate of the house lay dying upstairs. a friend went up to see the sick person, and on proceeding to pass through the bedroom door was pressed and jostled as if by some unseen person hurriedly leaving the room. on entering, it was found that the sick person had just passed away. an account of a most unpleasant haunting is contributed by mr. w. s. thompson, who vouches for the substantial accuracy of it, and also furnishes the names of two men, still living, who attended the "station." we give it as it stands, with the comment that some of the details seem to have been grossly exaggerated by local raconteurs. in the year a ghost made its presence manifest in the house of a mr. m---- in co. cavan. in the daytime it resided in the chimney, but at night it left its quarters and subjected the family to considerable annoyance. during the day they could cook nothing, as showers of soot would be sent down the chimney on top of every pot and pan that was placed on the fire. at night the various members of the family would be dragged out of bed by the hair, and pulled around the house. when anyone ventured to light a lamp it would immediately be put out, while chairs and tables would be sent dancing round the room. at last matters reached such a pitch that the family found it impossible to remain any longer in the house. the night before they left mrs. m---- was severely handled, and her boots left facing the door as a gentle hint for her to be off. before they departed some of the neighbours went to the house, saw the ghost, and even described to mr. thompson what they had seen. according to one man it appeared in the shape of a human being with a pig's head with long tusks. another described it as a horse with an elephant's head, and a headless man seated on its back. finally a "station" was held at the house by seven priests, at which all the neighbours attended. the station commenced after sunset, and everything in the house had to be uncovered, lest the evil spirit should find any resting-place. a free passage was left out of the door into the street, where many people were kneeling. about five minutes after the station opened a rumbling noise was heard, and a black barrel rolled out with an unearthly din, though to some coming up the street it appeared in the shape of a black horse with a bull's head, and a headless man seated thereon. from this time the ghost gave no further trouble. the same gentleman also sends an account of a haunted shop in which members of his family had some very unpleasant experiences. "in october my father, william thompson, took over the grocery and spirit business from a dr. s---- to whom it had been left by will. my sister was put in charge of the business, and she slept on the premises at night, but she was not there by herself very long until she found things amiss. the third night matters were made so unpleasant for her that she had to get up out of bed more dead than alive, and go across the street to mrs. m----, the servant at the r.i.c. barrack, with whom she remained until the morning. she stated that as she lay in bed, half awake and half asleep, she saw a man enter the room, who immediately seized her by the throat and well-nigh choked her. she had only sufficient strength left to gasp 'lord, save me!' when instantly the man vanished. she also said that she heard noises as if every bottle and glass in the shop was smashed to atoms, yet in the morning everything would be found intact. my brother was in charge of the shop one day, as my sister had to go to belturbet to do some christmas shopping. he expected her to return to the shop that night, but as she did not do so he was preparing to go to bed about a.m., when suddenly a terrible noise was heard. the light was extinguished, and the tables and chairs commenced to dance about the floor, and some of them struck him on the shins. upon this he left the house, declaring that he had seen the devil!" possibly this ghost had been a rabid teetotaller in the flesh, and continued to have a dislike to the publican's trade after he had become discarnate. at any rate the present occupants, who follow a different avocation, do not appear to be troubled. ghosts are no respecters of persons or places, and take up their quarters where they are least expected. one can hardly imagine them entering a r.i.c. barrack, and annoying the stalwart inmates thereof. yet more than one tale of a haunted police-barrack has been sent to us--nay, in its proper place we shall relate the appearance of a deceased member of the "force," uniform and all! the following personal experiences are contributed by an ex-r.i.c. constable, who requested that all names should be suppressed. "the barrack of which i am about to speak has now disappeared, owing to the construction of a new railway line. it was a three-storey house, with large airy apartments and splendid accommodation. this particular night i was on guard. after the constables had retired to their quarters i took my palliasse downstairs to the day-room, and laid it on two forms alongside two six-foot tables which were placed end to end in the centre of the room." "as i expected a patrol in at midnight, and as another had to be sent out when it arrived, i didn't promise myself a very restful night, so i threw myself on the bed, intending to read a bit, as there was a large lamp on the table. scarcely had i commenced to read when i felt as if i was being pushed off the bed. at first i thought i must have fallen asleep, so to make sure, i got up, took a few turns around the room, and then deliberately lay down again and took up my book. scarcely had i done so, when the same thing happened, and, though i resisted with all my strength, i was finally landed on the floor. my bed was close to the table, and the pushing came from that side, so that if anyone was playing a trick on me they could not do so without being under the table: i looked, but there was no visible presence there. i felt shaky, but changed my couch to another part of the room, and had no further unpleasant experience. many times after i was 'guard' in the same room, but i always took care not to place my couch in that particular spot." "one night, long afterwards, we were all asleep in the dormitory, when we were awakened in the small hours of the morning by the guard rushing upstairs, dashing through the room, and jumping into a bed in the farthest corner behind its occupant. there he lay gasping, unable to speak for several minutes, and even then we couldn't get a coherent account of what befel him. it appears he fell asleep, and suddenly awoke to find himself on the floor, and a body rolling over him. several men volunteered to go downstairs with him, but he absolutely refused to leave the dormitory, and stayed there till morning. nor would he even remain downstairs at night without having a comrade with him. it ended in his applying for an exchange of stations." "another time i returned off duty at midnight, and after my comrade, a married sergeant, had gone outside to his quarters i went to the kitchen to change my boots. there was a good fire on, and it looked so comfortable that i remained toasting my toes on the hob, and enjoying my pipe. the lock-up was a lean-to one-storey building off the kitchen, and was divided into two cells, one opening into the kitchen, the other into that cell. i was smoking away quietly when i suddenly heard inside the lock-up a dull, heavy thud, just like the noise a drunken man would make by crashing down on all-fours. i wondered who the prisoner could be, as i didn't see anyone that night who seemed a likely candidate for free lodgings. however as i heard no other sound i decided i would tell the guard in order that he might look after him. as i took my candle from the table i happened to glance at the lock-up, and, to my surprise, i saw that the outer door was open. my curiosity being roused, i looked inside, to find the inner door also open. there was nothing in either cell, except the two empty plank-beds, and these were immovable as they were firmly fixed to the walls. i betook myself to my bedroom much quicker than i was in the habit of doing." "i mentioned that this barrack was demolished owing to the construction of a new railway line. it was the last obstacle removed, and in the meantime workmen came from all points of the compass. one day a powerful navvy was brought into the barrack a total collapse from drink, and absolutely helpless. after his neckwear was loosened he was carried to the lock-up and laid on the plank-bed, the guard being instructed to visit him periodically, lest he should smother. he was scarcely half an hour there--this was in the early evening--when the most unmerciful screaming brought all hands to the lock-up, to find the erstwhile helpless man standing on the plank-bed, and grappling with a, to us, invisible foe. we took him out, and he maintained that a man had tried to choke him, and was still there when we came to his relief. the strange thing was, that he was shivering with fright, and perfectly sober, though in the ordinary course of events he would not be in that condition for at least seven or eight hours. the story spread like wildfire through the town, but the inhabitants were not in the least surprised, and one old man told us that many strange things happened in that house long before it became a police-barrack." a lady, who requests that her name be suppressed, relates a strange sight seen by her sister in galway. the latter's husband was stationed in that town about seventeen years ago. one afternoon he was out, and she was lying on a sofa in the drawing-room, when suddenly from behind a screen (where there was no door) came a little old woman, with a small shawl over her head and shoulders, such as the country women used to wear. she had a most diabolical expression on her face. she seized the lady by the hand, and said: "i will drag you down to hell, where i am!" the lady sprang up in terror and shook her off, when the horrible creature again disappeared behind the screen. the house was an old one, and many stories were rife amongst the people about it, the one most to the point being that the apparition of an old woman, who was supposed to have poisoned someone, used to be seen therein. needless to say, the lady in question never again sat by herself in the drawing-room. two stories are told about haunted houses at drogheda, the one by a.g. bradley in _notes on some irish superstitions_ (drogheda, ), the other by f.g. lee in _sights and shadows_ (p. ). as both appear to be placed at the same date, _i.e._ , it is quite possible that they refer to one and the same haunting, and we have so treated them accordingly. the reader, if he wishes, can test the matter for himself. this house, which was reputed to be haunted, was let to a tailor and his wife by the owner at an annual rent of £ . they took possession in due course, but after a very few days they became aware of the presence of a most unpleasant supernatural lodger. one night, as the tailor and his wife were preparing to retire, they were terrified at seeing the foot of some invisible person kick the candlestick off the table, and so quench the candle. although it was a very dark night, and the shutters were closed, the man and his wife could see everything in the room just as well as if it were the middle of the day. all at once a woman entered the room, dressed in white, carrying something in her hand, which she threw at the tailor's wife, striking her with some violence, and then vanished. while this was taking place on the first floor, a most frightful noise was going on overhead in the room where the children and their nurse were sleeping. the father immediately rushed upstairs, and found to his horror the floor all torn up, the furniture broken, and, worst of all, the children lying senseless and naked on the bed, and having the appearance of having been severely beaten. as he was leaving the room with the children in his arms he suddenly remembered that he had not seen the nurse, so he turned back with the intention of bringing her downstairs, but could find her nowhere. the girl, half-dead with fright, and very much bruised, had fled to her mother's house, where she died in a few days in agony. because of these occurrences they were legally advised to refuse to pay any rent. the landlady, however, declining to release them from their bargain, at once claimed a quarter's rent; and when this remained for some time unpaid, sued them for it before judge kisby. a drogheda solicitor appeared for the tenants, who, having given evidence of the facts concerning the ghost in question, asked leave to support their sworn testimony by that of several other people. this, however, was disallowed by the judge. it was admitted by the landlady that nothing on one side or the other had been said regarding the haunting when the house was let. a judgment was consequently entered for the landlady, although it had been shown indirectly that unquestionably the house had had the reputation of being haunted, and that previous tenants had been much inconvenienced. this chapter may be concluded with two stories dealing with haunted rectories. the first, and mildest, of these is contributed by the present dean of st. patrick's; it is not his own personal experience, but was related to him by a rector in co. monaghan, where he used to preach on special occasions. the rector and his daughters told the dean that they had often seen in that house the apparition of an old woman dressed in a drab cape, while they frequently heard noises. on one evening the rector was in the kitchen together with the cook and the coachman. all three heard noises in the pantry as if vessels were being moved. presently they saw the old woman in the drab cape come out of the pantry and move up the stairs. the rector attempted to follow her, but the two servants held him tightly by the arms, and besought him not to do so. but hearing the children, who were in bed, screaming, he broke from the grip of the servants and rushed upstairs. the children said that they had been frightened by seeing a strange old woman coming into the room, but she was now gone. the house had a single roof, and there was no way to or from the nursery except by the stairs. the rector stated that he took to praying that the old woman might have rest, and that it was now many years since she had been seen. a very old parishioner told him that when she was young she remembered having seen an old woman answering to the rector's description, who had lived in the house, which at that time was not a rectory. the second of these, which is decidedly more complex and mystifying, refers to a rectory in co. donegal. it is sent as the personal experience of one of the percipients, who does not wish to have his name disclosed. he says: "my wife, children, and myself will have lived here four years next january ( ). from the first night that we came into the house most extraordinary noises have been heard. sometimes they were inside the house, and seemed as if the furniture was being disturbed, and the fireirons knocked about, or at other times as if a dog was running up and down stairs. sometimes they were external, and resembled tin buckets being dashed about the yard, or as if a herd of cattle was galloping up the drive before the windows. these things would go on for six months, and then everything would be quiet for three months or so, when the noises would commence again. my dogs--a fox-terrier, a boar-hound, and a spaniel--would make a terrible din, and would bark at something in the hall we could not see, backing away from it all the time. "the only thing that was ever _seen_ was as follows: one night my daughter went down to the kitchen about ten o'clock for some hot water. she saw a tall man, with one arm, carrying a lamp, who walked out of the pantry into the kitchen, and then through the kitchen wall. another daughter saw the same man walk down one evening from the loft, and go into the harness-room. she told me, and i went out immediately, but could see nobody. shortly after that my wife, who is very brave, heard a knock at the hall door in the dusk. naturally thinking it was some friend, she opened the door, and there saw standing outside the self-same man. he simply looked at her, and walked through the wall into the house. she got such a shock that she could not speak for several hours, and was ill for some days. that is eighteen months ago, and he has not been seen since, and it is six months since we heard any noises." our correspondent's letter was written on th november . "an old man nearly ninety died last year. he lived all his life within four hundred yards of this house, and used to tell me that seventy years ago the parsons came with bell, book, and candle to drive the ghosts out of the house." evidently they were unsuccessful. in english ghost-stories it is the parson who performs the exorcism successfully, while in ireland such work is generally performed by the priest. indeed a tale was sent to us in which a ghost quite ignored the parson's efforts, but succumbed to the priest. chapter iii haunted houses in mogh's half the northern half of ireland has not proved as prolific in stories of haunted houses as the southern portion: the possible explanation of this is, not that the men of the north are less prone to hold, or talk about, such beliefs, but that, as regards the south half, we have had the good fortune to happen upon some diligent collectors of these and kindred tales, whose eagerness in collecting is only equalled by their kindness in imparting information to the compilers of this book. on a large farm near portarlington there once lived a mrs. ----, a strong-minded, capable woman, who managed all her affairs for herself, giving her orders, and taking none from anybody. in due time she died, and the property passed to the next-of-kin. as soon, however, as the funeral was over, the house was nightly disturbed by strange noises: people downstairs would hear rushings about in the upper rooms, banging of doors, and the sound of heavy footsteps. the cups and saucers used to fall off the dresser, and all the pots and pans would rattle. this went on for some time, till the people could stand it no longer, so they left the house and put in a herd and his family. the latter was driven away after he had been in the house a few weeks. this happened to several people, until at length a man named mr. b---- took the house. the noises went on as before until some one suggested getting the priest in. accordingly the priest came, and held a service in the late mrs. ----'s bedroom. when this was over, the door of the room was locked. after that the noises were not heard till one evening mr. b---- came home from a fair, fortified, no doubt, with a little "dutch courage," and declared that even if the devil were in it he would go into the locked room. in spite of all his family could say or do, he burst open the door, and entered the room, but apparently saw nothing. that night pandemonium reigned in the house, the chairs were hurled about, the china was broken, and the most weird and uncanny sounds were heard. next day the priest was sent for, the room again shut up, and nothing has happened from that day to this. another strange story comes from the same town. "when i was on a visit to a friend in portarlington," writes a lady in the _journal_ of the american s.p.r.[ ] "a rather unpleasant incident occurred to me. at about two o'clock in the morning i woke up suddenly, for apparently no reason whatever; however, i quite distinctly heard snoring coming from under or in the bed in which i was lying. it continued for about ten minutes, during which time i was absolutely limp with fright. the door opened, and my friend entered the bedroom, saying, 'i thought you might want me, so i came in.' needless to say, i hailed the happy inspiration that sent her to me. i then told her what i had heard; she listened to me, and then to comfort (!) me said, 'oh, never mind; _it is only grandfather_! he died in this room, and a snoring is heard every night at two o'clock, the hour at which he passed away.' some time previously a german gentleman was staying with this family. they asked him in the morning how he had slept, and he replied that he was disturbed by a snoring in the room, but he supposed it was the cat." [footnote : for september, .] a lady, formerly resident in queen's co., but who now lives near dublin, sends the following clear and concise account of her own personal experiences in a haunted house: "some years ago, my father, mother, sister, and myself went to live in a nice but rather small house close to the town of ---- in queen's co. we liked the house, as it was conveniently and pleasantly situated, and we certainly never had a thought of ghosts or haunted houses, nor would my father allow any talk about such things in his presence. but we were not long settled there when we were disturbed by the opening of the parlour door every night regularly at the hour of eleven o'clock. my father and mother used to retire to their room about ten o'clock, while my sister and i used to sit up reading. we always declared that we would retire before the door opened, but we generally got so interested in our books that we would forget until we would hear the handle of the door turn, and see the door flung open. we tried in every way to account for this, but we could find no explanation, and there was no possibility of any human agent being at work. "some time after, light was thrown on the subject. we had visitors staying with us, and in order to make room for them, my sister was asked to sleep in the parlour. she consented without a thought of ghosts, and went to sleep quite happily; but during the night she was awakened by some one opening the door, walking across the room, and disturbing the fireirons. she, supposing it to be the servant, called her by name, but got no answer: then the person seemed to come away from the fireplace, and walk out of the room. there was a fire in the grate, but though she heard the footsteps, she could see no one. "the next thing was, that i was coming downstairs, and as i glanced towards the hall door i saw standing by it a man in a grey suit. i went to my father and told him. he asked in surprise who let him in, as the servant was out, and he himself had already locked, bolted, and chained the door an hour previously. none of us had let him in, and when my father went out to the hall the man had disappeared, and the door was as he had left it. "some little time after, i had a visit from a lady who knew the place well, and in the course of conversation she said: "'this is the house poor mr. ---- used to live in.' "'who is mr. ----?' i asked. "'did you never hear of him?' she replied. 'he was a minister who used to live in this house quite alone, and was murdered in this very parlour. his landlord used to visit him sometimes, and one night he was seen coming in about eleven o'clock, and was seen again leaving about five o'clock in the morning. when mr. ---- did not come out as usual, the door was forced open, and he was found lying dead in this room by the fender, with his head battered in with the poker.' "we left the house soon after," adds our informant. the following weird incidents occurred, apparently in the co. kilkenny, to a miss k. b., during two visits paid by her to ireland in and . the house in which she experienced the following was really an old barrack, long disused, very old-fashioned, and surrounded with a high wall: it was said that it had been built during the time of cromwell as a stronghold for his men. the only inhabitants of this were captain c---- (a retired officer in charge of the place), mrs. c----, three daughters, and two servants. they occupied the central part of the building, the mess-room being their drawing-room. miss k. b.'s bedroom was very lofty, and adjoined two others which were occupied by the three daughters, e., g., and l. "the first recollection i have of anything strange," writes miss b., "was that each night i was awakened about three o'clock by a tremendous noise, apparently in the next suite of rooms, which was empty, and it sounded as if some huge iron boxes and other heavy things were being thrown about with great force. this continued for about half an hour, when in the room underneath (the kitchen) i heard the fire being violently poked and raked for several minutes, and this was immediately followed by a most terrible and distressing cough of a man, very loud and violent. it seemed as if the exertion had brought on a paroxysm which he could not stop. in large houses in co. kilkenny the fires are not lighted every day, owing to the slow-burning property of the coal, and it is only necessary to rake it up every night about eleven o'clock, and in the morning it is still bright and clear. consequently i wondered why it was necessary for captain c---- to get up in the middle of the night to stir it so violently." a few days later miss b. said to e. c.: "i hear such strange noises every night--are there any people in the adjoining part of the building?" she turned very pale, and looking earnestly at miss b., said, "oh k., i am so sorry you heard. i hoped no one but myself had heard it. i could have given worlds to have spoken to you last night, but dared not move or speak." k. b. laughed at her for being so superstitious, but e. declared that the place was haunted, and told her of a number of weird things that had been seen and heard. in the following year, , miss k. b. paid another visit to the barrack. this time there were two other visitors there--a colonel and his wife. they occupied miss b.'s former room, while to her was allotted a huge bedroom on the top of the house, with a long corridor leading to it; opposite to this was another large room, which was occupied by the girls. her strange experiences commenced again. "one morning, about four o'clock, i was awakened by a very noisy martial footstep ascending the stairs, and then marching quickly up and down the corridor outside my room. then suddenly the most violent coughing took place that i ever heard, which continued for some time, while the quick, heavy step continued its march. at last the footsteps faded away in the distance, and i then recalled to mind the same coughing after exertion last year." in the morning, at breakfast, she asked both captain c---- and the colonel had they been walking about, but both denied, and also said they had no cough. the family looked very uncomfortable, and afterwards e. came up with tears in her eyes, and said, "oh k., please don't say anything more about that dreadful coughing; we all hear it often, especially when anything terrible is about to happen." some nights later the c----s gave a dance. when the guests had departed, miss b. went to her bedroom. "the moon was shining so beautifully that i was able to read my bible by its light, and had left the bible open on the window-sill, which was a very high one, and on which i sat to read, having had to climb the washstand to reach it. i went to bed, and fell asleep, but was not long so when i was suddenly awakened by the strange feeling that some one was in the room. i opened my eyes, and turned around, and saw on the window-sill in the moonlight a long, very thin, very dark figure bending over the bible, and apparently earnestly scanning the page. as if my movement disturbed the figure, it suddenly darted up, jumped off the window-ledge on to the washstand, then to the ground, and flitted quietly across the room to the table where my jewellery was." that was the last she saw of it. she thought it was some one trying to steal her jewellery, so waited till morning, but nothing was missing. in the morning she described to one of the daughters, g., what she had seen, and the latter told her that something always happened when that appeared. miss k. b. adds that nothing did happen. later on she was told that a colonel had cut his throat in that very room. another military station, charles fort, near kinsale, has long had the reputation of being haunted. an account of this was sent to the _wide world magazine_ (jan. ), by major h. l. ruck keene, d.s.o.; he states that he took it from a manuscript written by a captain marvell hull about the year . further information on the subject of the haunting is to be found in dr. craig's _real pictures of clerical life in ireland_. charles fort was erected in by the duke of ormonde. it is said to be haunted by a ghost known as the "white lady," and the traditional account of the reason for this haunting is briefly as follows: shortly after the erection of the fort, a colonel warrender, a severe disciplinarian, was appointed its governor. he had a daughter, who bore the quaint christian name of "wilful"; she became engaged to a sir trevor ashurst, and subsequently married him. on the evening of their wedding-day the bride and bridegroom were walking on the battlements, when she espied some flowers growing on the rocks beneath. she expressed a wish for them, and a sentry posted close by volunteered to climb down for them, provided sir trevor took his place during his absence. he assented, and took the soldier's coat and musket while he went in search of a rope. having obtained one, he commenced his descent; but the task proving longer than he expected, sir trevor fell asleep. meantime the governor visited the sentries, as was his custom, and in the course of his rounds came to where sir trevor was asleep. he challenged him, and on receiving no answer perceived that he was asleep, whereupon he drew a pistol and shot him through the heart. the body was brought in, and it was only then the governor realised what had happened. the bride, who appears to have gone indoors before the tragedy occurred, then learned the fate that befell her husband, and in her distraction, rushed from the house and flung herself over the battlements. in despair at the double tragedy, her father shot himself during the night. the above is from dr. craig's book already alluded to. in the _wide world magazine_ the legend differs slightly in details. according to this the governor's name was browne, and it was his own son, not his son-in-law, that he shot; while the incident is said to have occurred about a hundred and fifty years ago. the "white lady" is the ghost of the young bride. let us see what accounts there are of her appearance. a good many years ago fort-major black, who had served in the peninsular war, gave his own personal experience to dr. craig. he stated that he had gone to the hall door one summer evening, and saw a lady entering the door and going up the stairs. at first he thought she was an officer's wife, but as he looked, he observed she was dressed in white, and in a very old-fashioned style. impelled by curiosity, he hastened upstairs after her, and followed her closely into one of the rooms, but on entering it he could not find the slightest trace of anyone there. on another occasion he stated that two sergeants were packing some cast stores. one of them had his little daughter with him, and the child suddenly exclaimed, "who is that white lady who is bending over the banisters, and looking down at us?" the two men looked up, but could see nothing, but the child insisted that she had seen a lady in white looking down and smiling at her. on another occasion a staff officer, a married man, was residing in the "governor's house." one night as the nurse lay awake--she and the children were in a room which opened into what was known as the white lady's apartment--she suddenly saw a lady clothed in white glide to the bedside of the youngest child, and after a little place her hand upon its wrist. at this the child started in its sleep, and cried out, "oh! take that cold hand from my wrist!" the next moment the lady disappeared. one night, about the year , captain marvell hull and lieutenant hartland were going to the rooms occupied by the former officer. as they reached a small landing they saw distinctly in front of them a woman in a white dress. as they stood there in awestruck silence she turned and looked towards them, showing a face beautiful enough, but colourless as a corpse, and then passed on through a locked door. but it appears that this presence did not always manifest itself in as harmless a manner. some years ago surgeon l---- was quartered at the fort. one day he had been out snipe-shooting, and as he entered the fort the mess-bugle rang out. he hastened to his rooms to dress, but as he failed to put in an appearance at mess, one of the officers went in search of him, and found him lying senseless on the floor. when he recovered consciousness he related his experience. he said he had stooped down for the key of his door, which he had placed for safety under the mat; when in this position he felt himself violently dragged across the hall, and flung down a flight of steps. with this agrees somewhat the experience of a captain jarves, as related by him to captain marvell hull. attracted by a strange rattling noise in his bedroom, he endeavoured to open the door of it, but found it seemingly locked. suspecting a hoax, he called out, whereupon a gust of wind passed him, and some unseen power flung him down the stairs, and laid him senseless at the bottom. near a seaside town in the south of ireland a group of small cottages was built by an old lady, in one of which she lived, while she let the others to her relatives. in process of time all the occupants died, the cottages fell into ruin, and were all pulled down (except the one in which the old lady had lived), the materials being used by a farmer to build a large house which he hoped to let to summer visitors. it was shortly afterwards taken for three years by a gentleman for his family. it should be noted that the house had very bare surroundings; there were no trees near, or outhouses where people could be concealed. soon after the family came to the house they began to hear raps all over it, on doors, windows, and walls; these raps varied in nature, sometimes being like a sledgehammer, loud and dying away, and sometimes quick and sharp, two or three or five in succession; and all heard them. one morning about a.m., the mother heard very loud knocking on the bedroom door; thinking it was the servant wanting to go to early mass, she said, "come in," but the knocking continued till the father was awakened by it; he got up, searched the house, but could find no one. the servant's door was slightly open, and he saw that she was sound asleep. that morning a telegram came announcing the death of a beloved uncle just about the hour of the knocking. some time previous to this the mother was in the kitchen, when a loud explosion took place beside her, startling her very much, but no cause for it could be found, nor were any traces left. this coincided with the death of an aunt, wife to the uncle who died later. one night the mother went to her bedroom. the blind was drawn, and the shutters closed, when suddenly a great crash came, as if a branch was thrown at the window, and there was a sound of broken glass. she opened the shutters with the expectation of finding the window smashed, but there was not even a crack in it. she entered the room next day at one o'clock, and the same crash took place, being heard by all in the house: she went in at a.m. on another day, and the same thing happened, after which she refused to enter that room again. another night, after p.m., the servant was washing up in the kitchen, when heavy footsteps were heard by the father and mother going upstairs, and across a lobby to the servant's room; the father searched the house, but could find no one. after that footsteps used to be heard regularly at that hour, though no one could ever be seen walking about. the two elder sisters slept together, and used to see flames shooting up all over the floor, though there was no smell or heat; this used to be seen two or three nights at a time, chiefly in the one room. the first time the girls saw this one of them got up and went to her father in alarm, naturally thinking the room underneath must be on fire. the two boys were moved to the haunted room [which one?], where they slept in one large bed with its head near the chimneypiece. the elder boy, aged about thirteen, put his watch on the mantelpiece, awoke about a.m., and wishing to ascertain the time, put his hand up for his watch; he then felt a deathly cold hand laid on his. for the rest of that night the two boys were terrified by noises, apparently caused by two people rushing about the room fighting and knocking against the bed. about a.m. they went to their father, almost in hysterics from terror, and refused to sleep there again. the eldest sister, not being nervous, was then given that room; she was, however, so disturbed by these noises that she begged her father to let her leave it, but having no other room to give her, he persuaded her to stay there, and at length she got accustomed to the noise, and could sleep in spite of it. finally the family left the house before their time was up.[ ] [footnote : _journal of american s.p.r._ for september .] mr. t.j. westropp, to whom we are indebted for so much material, sends a tale which used to be related by a relative of his, the rev. thomas westropp, concerning experiences in a house not very far from the city of limerick. when the latter was appointed to a certain parish he had some difficulty in finding a suitable house, but finally fixed on one which had been untenanted for many years, but had nevertheless been kept aired and in good repair, as a caretaker who lived close by used to come and look after it every day. the first night that the family settled there, as the clergyman was going upstairs he heard a footstep and the rustle of a dress, and as he stood aside a lady passed him, entered a door facing the stairs, and closed it after her. it was only then he realised that her dress was very old-fashioned, and that he had not been able to enter that particular room. next day he got assistance from a carpenter, who, with another man, forced open the door. a mat of cobwebs fell as they did so, and the floor and windows were thick with dust. the men went across the room, and as the clergyman followed them he saw a small white bird flying round the ceiling; at his exclamation the men looked back and also saw it. it swooped, flew out of the door, and they did not see it again. after that the family were alarmed by hearing noises under the floor of that room every night. at length the clergyman had the boards taken up, and the skeleton of a child was found underneath. so old did the remains appear that the coroner did not deem it necessary to hold an inquest on them, so the rector buried them in the churchyard. strange noises continued, as if some one were trying to force up the boards from underneath. also a heavy ball was heard rolling down the stairs and striking against the study door. one night the two girls woke up screaming, and on the nurse running up to them, the elder said she had seen a great black dog with fiery eyes resting its paws on her bed. her father ordered the servants to sit constantly with them in the evenings, but, notwithstanding the presence of two women in the nursery, the same thing occurred. the younger daughter was so scared that she never quite recovered. the family left the house immediately. the same correspondent says: "an old ruined house in the hills of east co. clare enjoyed the reputation of being 'desperately haunted' from, at any rate, down to its dismantling. i will merely give the experiences of my own relations, as told by them to me. my mother told how one night she and my father heard creaking and grating, as if a door were being forced open. the sound came from a passage in which was a door nailed up and clamped with iron bands. a heavy footstep came down the passage, and stopped at the bedroom door for a moment; no sound was heard, and then the 'thing' came through the room to the foot of the bed. it moved round the bed, they not daring to stir. the horrible unseen visitant stopped, and they _felt_ it watching them. at last it moved away, they heard it going up the passage, the door crashed, and all was silence. lighting a candle, my father examined the room, and found the door locked; he then went along the passage, but not a sound was to be heard anywhere. "strange noises like footsteps, sobbing, whispering, grim laughter, and shrieks were often heard about the house. on one occasion my eldest sister and a girl cousin drove over to see the family and stayed the night. they and my two younger sisters were all crowded into a huge, old-fashioned bed, and carefully drew and tucked in the curtains all round. my eldest sister awoke feeling a cold wind blowing on her face, and putting out her hand found the curtains drawn back and, as they subsequently discovered, wedged between the bed and the wall. she reached for the match-box, and was about to light the candle when a horrible mocking laugh rang out close to the bed, which awakened the other girls. being always a plucky woman, though then badly scared, she struck a match, and searched the room, but nothing was to be seen. the closed room was said to have been deserted after a murder, and its floor was supposed to be stained with blood which no human power could wash out." another house in co. clare, nearer the estuary of the shannon, which was formerly the residence of the d---- family, but is now pulled down, had some extraordinary tales told about it in which facts (if we may use the word) were well supplemented by legend. to commence with the former. a lady writes: "my father and old mr. d---- were first cousins. richard d---- asked my father would he come and sit up with him one night, in order to see what might be seen. both were particularly sober men. the annoyances in the house were becoming unbearable. mrs. d----'s work-box used to be thrown down, the table-cloth would be whisked off the table, the fender and fireirons would be hurled about the room, and other similar things would happen. mr. d---- and my father went up to one of the bedrooms, where a big fire was made up. they searched every part of the room carefully, but nothing uncanny was to be seen or found. they then placed two candles and a brace of pistols on a small table between them, and waited. nothing happened for some time, till all of a sudden a large black dog walked out from under the bed. both men fired, and the dog disappeared. that is all! the family had to leave the house." now to the blending of fact with fiction, of which we have already spoken: the intelligent reader can decide in his own mind which is which. it was said that black magic had been practised in this house at one time, and that in consequence terrible and weird occurrences were quite the order of the day there. when being cooked, the hens used to scream and the mutton used to bleat in the pot. black dogs were seen frequently. the beds used to be lifted up, and the occupants thereof used to be beaten black and blue, by invisible hands. one particularly ghoulish tale was told. it was said that a monk (!) was in love with one of the daughters of the house, who was an exceedingly fat girl. she died unmarried, and was buried in the family vault. some time later the vault was again opened for an interment, and those who entered it found that miss d----'s coffin had been disturbed, and the lid loosened. they then saw that all the fat around her heart had been scooped away. apropos of ineradicable blood on a floor, which is a not infrequent item in stories of haunted houses, it is said that a manifestation of this nature forms the haunting in a farmhouse in co. limerick. according to our informants, a light must be kept burning in this house all night; if by any chance it is forgotten, or becomes quenched, in the morning the floor is covered with blood. the story is evidently much older than the house, but no traditional explanation is given. two stories of haunted schools have been sent to us, both on very good authority; these establishments lie within the geographical limits of this chapter, but for obvious reasons, we cannot indicate their locality more precisely, though the names of both are known to us. the first of these was told to our correspondent by the boy brown, who was in the room, but did _not_ see the ghost. when brown was about fifteen he was sent to ---- school. his brother told him not to be frightened at anything he might see or hear, as the boys were sure to play tricks on all new-comers. he was put to sleep in a room with another new arrival, a boy named smith, from england. in the middle of the night brown was roused from his sleep by smith crying out in great alarm, and asking who was in the room. brown, who was very angry at being waked up, told him not to be a fool--that there was no one there. the second night smith roused him again, this time in greater alarm than the first night. he said he saw a man in cap and gown come into the room with a lamp, and then pass right through the wall. smith got out of his bed, and fell on his knees beside brown, beseeching him not to go to sleep. at first brown thought it was all done to frighten him, but he then saw that smith was in a state of abject terror. next morning they spoke of the occurrence, and the report reached the ears of the head master, who sent for the two boys. smith refused to spend another night in the room. brown said he had seen or heard nothing, and was quite willing to sleep there if another fellow would sleep with him, but he would not care to remain there alone. the head master then asked for volunteers from the class of elder boys, but not one of them would sleep in the room. it had always been looked upon as "haunted," but the master thought that by putting in new boys who had not heard the story they would sleep there all right. some years after, brown revisited the place, and found that another attempt had been made to occupy the room. a new head master who did not know its history, thought it a pity to have the room idle, and put a teacher, also new to the school, in possession. when this teacher came down the first morning, he asked who had come into his room during the night. he stated that a man in cap and gown, having books under his arm and a lamp in his hand, came in, sat down at a table, and began to read. he knew that he was not one of the masters, and did not recognise him as one of the boys. the room had to be abandoned. the tradition is that many years ago a master was murdered in that room by one of the students. the few boys who ever had the courage to persist in sleeping in the room said if they stayed more than two or three nights that the furniture was moved, and they heard violent noises. the second story was sent to us by the percipient herself, and is therefore a firsthand experience. considering that she was only a schoolgirl at the time, it must be admitted that she made a most plucky attempt to run the ghost to earth. "a good many years ago, when i first went to school, i did not believe in ghosts, but i then had an experience which caused me to alter my opinion. i was ordered with two other girls to sleep in a small top room at the back of the house which overlooked a garden which contained ancient apple-trees. "suddenly in the dead of night i was awakened out of my sleep by the sound of heavy footsteps, as of a man wearing big boots unlaced, pacing ceaselessly up and down a long corridor which i knew was plainly visible from the landing outside my door, as there was a large window at the farther end of it, and there was sufficient moonlight to enable one to see its full length. after listening for about twenty minutes, my curiosity was aroused, so i got up and stood on the landing. the footsteps still continued, but i could see nothing, although the sounds actually reached the foot of the flight of stairs which led from the corridor to the landing on which i was standing. suddenly the footfall ceased, pausing at my end of the corridor, and i then considered it was high time for me to retire, which i accordingly did, carefully closing the door behind me. "to my horror the footsteps ascended the stairs, and the bedroom door was violently dashed back against a washing-stand, beside which was a bed; the contents of the ewer were spilled over the occupant, and the steps advanced a few paces into the room in my direction. a cold perspiration broke out all over me; i cannot describe the sensation. it was not actual fear--it was more than that--i felt i had come into contact with the unknown. "what was about to happen? all i could do was to speak; i cried out, "who are you? what do you want?" suddenly the footsteps ceased; i felt relieved, and lay awake till morning, but no further sound reached my ears. how or when my ghostly visitant disappeared i never knew; suffice it to say, my story was no nightmare, but an actual fact, of which there was found sufficient proof in the morning; the floor was still saturated with water, the door, which we always carefully closed at night, was wide open, and last, but not least, the occupant of the wet bed had heard all that had happened, but feared to speak, and lay awake till morning. "naturally, we related our weird experience to our schoolmates, and it was only then i learned from one of the elder girls that this ghost had manifested itself for many years in a similar fashion to the inhabitants of that room. it was supposed to be the spirit of a man who, long years before, had occupied this apartment (the house was then a private residence), and had committed suicide by hanging himself from an old apple tree opposite the window. needless to say, the story was hushed up, and we were sharply spoken to, and warned not to mention the occurrence again. "some years afterwards a friend, who happened at the time to be a boarder at this very school, came to spend a week-end with me. she related an exactly similar incident which occurred a few nights previous to her visit. my experience was quite unknown to her." the following account of strange happenings at his glebe-house has been sent by the rector of a parish in the diocese of cashel: "shortly after my wife and i came to live here, some ten years ago, the servants complained of hearing strange noises in the top storey of the rectory where they sleep. one girl ran away the day after she arrived, declaring that the house was haunted, and that nothing would induce her to sleep another night in it. so often had my wife to change servants on this account that at last i had to speak to the parish priest, as i suspected that the idea of 'ghosts' might have been suggested to the maids by neighbours who might have some interest in getting rid of them. i understand that my friend the parish priest spoke very forcibly from the altar on the subject of spirits, saying that the only spirits he believed ever did any harm to anyone were ----, mentioning a well-known brand of the wine of the country. whether this priestly admonition was the cause or not, for some time we heard no more tales of ghostly manifestations. "after a while, however, my wife and i began to hear a noise which, while in no sense alarming, has proved to be both remarkable and inexplicable. if we happen to be sitting in the dining-room after dinner, sometimes we hear what sounds like the noise of a heavy coach rumbling up to the hall door. we have both heard this noise hundreds of times between eight p.m. and midnight. sometimes we hear it several times the same night, and then perhaps we won't hear it again for several months. we hear it best on calm nights, and as we are nearly a quarter of a mile from the high road, it is difficult to account for, especially as the noise appears to be quite close to us--i mean not farther away than the hall-door. i may mention that an englishman was staying with us a few years ago. as we were sitting in the dining-room one night after dinner he said, 'a carriage has just driven up to the door'; but we knew it was only the 'phantom coach,' for we also heard it. only once do i remember hearing it while sitting in the drawing-room. so much for the 'sound' of the 'phantom coach,' but now i must tell you what i _saw_ with my own eyes as clearly as i now see the paper on which i am writing. some years ago in the middle of the summer, on a scorching hot day, i was out cutting some hay opposite the hall door just by the tennis court. it was between twelve and one o'clock. i remember the time distinctly, as my man had gone to his dinner shortly before. the spot on which i was commanded a view of the avenue from the entrance gate for about four hundred yards. i happened to look up from my occupation--for scything is no easy work--and i saw what i took to be a somewhat high dogcart, in which two people were seated, turning in at the avenue gate. as i had my coat and waistcoat off, and was not in a state to receive visitors, i got behind a newly-made hay-cock and watched the vehicle until it came to a bend in the avenue where there is a clump of trees which obscured it from my view. as it did not, however, reappear, i concluded that the occupants had either stopped for some reason or had taken by mistake a cart-way leading to the back gate into the garden. hastily putting on my coat, i went down to the bend in the avenue, but to my surprise there was nothing to be seen. "returning to the rectory, i met my housekeeper, who has been with me for nearly twenty years, and i told her what i had seen. she then told me that about a month before, while i was away from home, my man had one day gone with the trap to the station. she saw, just as i did, a trap coming up the avenue until it was lost to sight owing to the intervention of the clump of trees. as it did not come on, she went down to the bend, but there was no trap to be seen. when the man came in some half-hour after, my housekeeper asked him if he had come half-way up the avenue and turned back, but he said he had only that minute come straight from the station. my housekeeper said she did not like to tell me about it before, as she thought i 'would have laughed at her.' whether the 'spectral gig' which i saw and the 'phantom coach' which my wife and i have often heard are one and the same i know not, but i do know that what i saw in the full blaze of the summer sun was not inspired by a dose of the spirits referred to by my friend the parish priest. "some time during the winter of , i was in the motor-house one dark evening at about p.m. i was working at the engine, and as the car was 'nose in' first, i was, of course, at the farthest point from the door. i had sent my man down to the village with a message. he was gone about ten minutes when i heard heavy footsteps enter the yard and come over to the motor-house. i 'felt' that there was some one in the house quite close to me, and i said, 'hullo, ----, what brought you back so soon,' as i knew he could not have been to the village and back. as i got no reply, i took up my electric lamp and went to the back of the motor to see who was there, but there was no one to be seen, and although i searched the yard with my lamp, i could discover no one. about a week later i heard the footsteps again under almost identical conditions, but i searched with the same futile result. "before i stop, i must tell you about a curious 'presentiment' which happened with regard to a man i got from the queen's county. he arrived on a saturday evening, and on the following monday morning i put him to sweep the avenue. he was at his work when i went out in the motor car at about : a.m. shortly after i left he left his wheel-barrow and tools on the avenue (just at the point where i saw the 'spectral gig' disappear) and, coming up to the rectory, he told my housekeeper in a great state of agitation that he was quite sure that his brother, with whom he had always lived, was dead. he said he must return home at once. my housekeeper advised him to wait until i returned, but he changed his clothes and packed his box, saying he must catch the next train. just before i returned home at o'clock, a telegram came saying his brother had died suddenly that morning, and that he was to return at once. on my return i found him almost in a state of collapse. he left by the next train, and i never heard of him again." k---- castle is a handsome blending of ancient castle and modern dwelling-house, picturesquely situated among trees, while the steep glen mentioned below runs close beside it. it has the reputation of being haunted, but, as usual, it is difficult to get information. one gentleman, to whom we wrote, stated that he never saw or heard anything worse than a bat. on the other hand, a lady who resided there a good many years ago, gives the following account of her extraordinary experiences therein: dear mr. seymour, i enclose some account of our experiences in k---- castle. it would be better not to mention names, as the people occupying it have told me they are afraid of their servants hearing anything, and consequently giving notice. they themselves hear voices often, but, like me, they do not mind. when first we went there we heard people talking, but on looking everywhere we could find no one. then on some nights we heard fighting in the glen beside the house. we could hear voices raised in anger, and the clash of steel: no person would venture there after dusk. one night i was sitting talking with my governess, i got up, said good-night, and opened the door, which was on the top of the back staircase. as i did so, i _heard_ some one (a woman) come slowly upstairs, walk past us to a window at the end of the landing, and then with a shriek fall heavily. as she passed it was bitterly cold, and i drew back into the room, but did not say anything, as it might frighten the governess. she asked me what was the matter, as i looked so white. without answering, i pushed her into her room, and then searched the house, but with no results. another night i was sleeping with my little girl. i awoke, and saw a girl with long, fair hair standing at the fireplace, one hand at her side, the other on the chimney-piece. thinking at first it was my little girl, i felt on the pillow to see if she were gone, but she was fast asleep. there was no fire or light of any kind in the room. some time afterwards a friend was sleeping there, and she told me that she was pushed out of bed the whole night. two gentlemen to whom i had mentioned this came over, thinking they would find out the cause. in the morning when they came down they asked for the carriage to take them to the next train, but would not tell what they had heard or seen. another person who came to visit her sister, who was looking after the house before we went in, slept in this room, and in the morning said she must go back that day. she also would give no information. on walking down the corridor, i have heard a door open, a footstep cross before me, and go into another room, _both_ doors being closed at the time. an old cook i had told me that when she went into the hall in the morning, a gentleman would come down the front stairs, take a plumed hat off the stand, and vanish _through_ the hall door. this she saw nearly every morning. she also said that a girl often came into her bedroom, and put her hand on her (the cook's) face; and when she would push her away she would hear a girl's voice say, "oh don't!" three times. i have often heard voices in the drawing-room, which decidedly sounded as if an old gentleman and a girl were talking. noises like furniture being moved were frequently heard at night, and strangers staying with us have often asked why the servants turned out the rooms underneath them at such an unusual hour. the front-door bell sometimes rang, and i have gone down, but found no one. yours very sincerely, f.t. "kilman" castle, in the heart of ireland--the name is obviously a pseudonym--has been described as perhaps the worst haunted mansion in the british isles. that it deserves this doubtful recommendation, we cannot say; but at all events the ordinary reader will be prepared to admit that it contains sufficient "ghosts" to satisfy the most greedy ghost-hunter. a couple of months ago the present writer paid a visit to this castle, and was shown all over it one morning by the mistress of the house, who, under the _nom de plume_ of "andrew merry" has published novels dealing with irish life, and has also contributed articles on the ghostly phenomena of her house to the _occult review_ (dec. and jan. ). the place itself is a grim, grey, bare building. the central portion, in which is the entrance-hall, is a square castle of the usual type; it is built on a rock, and a slight batter from base to summit gives an added appearance of strength and solidity. on either side of the castle are more modern wings, one of which terminates in what is known as the "priest's house." now to the ghosts. the top storey of the central tower is a large, well-lighted apartment, called the "chapel," having evidently served that purpose in times past. at one end is what is said to be an _oubliette_, now almost filled up. occasionally in the evenings, people walking along the roads or in the fields see the windows of this chapel lighted up for a few seconds as if many lamps were suddenly brought into it. this is certainly _not_ due to servants; from our experience we can testify that it is the last place on earth that a domestic would enter after dark. it is also said that a treasure is buried somewhere in or around the castle. the legend runs that an ancestor was about to be taken to dublin on a charge of rebellion, and, fearing he would never return, made the best of the time left to him by burying somewhere a crock full of gold and jewels. contrary to expectation, he _did_ return; but his long confinement had turned his brain, and he could never remember the spot where he had deposited his treasure years before. some time ago a lady, a miss b., who was decidedly psychic, was invited to kilman castle in the hope that she would be able to locate the whereabouts of this treasure. in this respect she failed, unfortunately, but gave, nevertheless, a curious example of her power. as she walked through the hall with her hostess, she suddenly laid her hand upon the bare stone wall, and remarked, "there is something uncanny here, but i don't know what it is." in that very spot, some time previously, two skeletons had been discovered walled up. the sequel to this is curious. some time after, miss b. was either trying automatic writing, or else was at a séance (we forget which), when a message came to her from the unseen, stating that the treasure at kilman castle was concealed in the chapel under the tessellated pavement near the altar. but this spirit was either a "lying spirit," or else a most impish one, for there is no trace of an altar, and it is impossible to say, from the style of the room, where it stood; while the tessellated pavement (if it exists) is so covered with the debris of the former roof that it would be almost impossible to have it thoroughly cleared. there is as well a miscellaneous assortment of ghosts. a monk with tonsure and cowl walks in at one window of the priest's house, and out at another. there is also a little old man, dressed in the antique garb of a green cut-away coat, knee breeches, and buckled shoes: he is sometimes accompanied by an old lady in similar old-fashioned costume. another ghost has a penchant for lying on the bed beside its lawful and earthly occupant; nothing is seen, but a great weight is felt, and a consequent deep impression made on the bedclothes. the lady of the house states that she has a number of letters from friends, in which they relate the supernatural experiences they had while staying at the castle. in one of these the writer, a gentleman, was awakened one night by an extraordinary feeling of intense cold at his heart. he then saw in front of him a tall female figure, clothed from head to foot in red, and with its right hand raised menacingly in the air: the light which illuminated the figure was from within. he lit a match, and sprang out of bed, but the room was empty. he went back to bed, and saw nothing more that night, except that several times the same cold feeling gripped his heart, though to the touch the flesh was quite warm. but of all the ghosts in that well-haunted house the most unpleasant is that inexplicable thing that is usually called "it." the lady of the house described to the present writer her personal experience of this phantom. high up round one side of the hall runs a gallery which connects with some of the bedrooms. one evening she was in this gallery leaning on the balustrade, and looking down into the hall. suddenly she felt two hands laid on her shoulders; she turned round sharply, and saw "it" standing close beside her. she described it as being human in shape, and about four feet high; the eyes were like two black holes in the face, and the whole figure seemed as if it were made of grey cotton-wool, while it was accompanied by a most appalling stench, such as would come from a decaying human body. the lady got a shock from which she did not recover for a long time. chapter iv poltergeists poltergeist is the term assigned to those apparently meaningless noises and movements of objects of which we from time to time hear accounts. the word is, of course, german, and may be translated "boisterous ghost." a poltergeist is seldom or never seen, but contents itself by moving furniture and other objects about in an extraordinary manner, often contrary to the laws of gravitation; sometimes footsteps are heard, but nothing is visible, while at other times vigorous rappings will be heard either on the walls or floor of a room, and in the manner in which the raps are given a poltergeist has often showed itself as having a close connection with the physical phenomena of spiritualism, for cases have occurred in which a poltergeist has given the exact number of raps mentally asked for by some person present. another point that is worthy of note is the fact that the hauntings of a poltergeist are generally attached to a certain individual in a certain spot, and thus differ from the operations of an ordinary ghost. the two following incidents related in this chapter are taken from a paper read by professor barrett, f.r.s., before the society for psychical research.[ ] in the case of the first anecdote he made every possible inquiry into the facts set forth, short of actually being an eye-witness of the phenomena. in the case of the second he made personal investigation, and himself saw the whole of the incidents related. there is therefore very little room to doubt the genuineness of either story. [footnote : _proceedings_, august , pp. - .] in the year , in a certain house in court street, enniscorthy, there lived a labouring man named redmond. his wife took in boarders to supplement her husband's wages, and at the time to which we refer there were three men boarding with her, who slept in one room above the kitchen. the house consisted of five rooms--two on the ground-floor, of which one was a shop and the other the kitchen. the two other rooms upstairs were occupied by the redmonds and their servant respectively. the bedroom in which the boarders slept was large, and contained two beds, one at each end of the room, two men sleeping in one of them; john randall and george sinnott were the names of two, but the name of the third lodger is not known--he seems to have left the redmonds very shortly after the disturbances commenced. it was on july , , that john randall, who is a carpenter by trade, went to live at enniscorthy, and took rooms with the redmonds. in a signed statement, now in possession of professor barrett, he tells a graphic tale of what occurred each night during the three weeks he lodged in the house, and as a result of the poltergeist's attentions he lost three-quarters of a stone in weight. it was on the night of thursday, july , that the first incident occurred, when the bedclothes were gently pulled off his bed. of course he naturally thought it was a joke, and shouted to his companions to stop. as no one could explain what was happening, a match was struck, and the bedclothes were found to be at the window, from which the other bed (a large piece of furniture which ordinarily took two people to move) had been rolled just when the clothes had been taken off randall's bed. things were put straight and the light blown out, "but," randall's account goes on to say, "it wasn't long until we heard some hammering in the room--tap-tap-tap-like. this lasted for a few minutes, getting quicker and quicker. when it got very quick, their bed started to move out across the room.... we then struck a match and got the lamp. we searched the room thoroughly, and could find nobody. nobody had come in the door. we called the man of the house (redmond); he came into the room, saw the bed, and told us to push it back and get into bed (he thought all the time one of us was playing the trick on the other). i said i wouldn't stay in the other bed by myself, so i got in with the others; we put out the light again, and it had only been a couple of minutes out when the bed ran out on the floor with the three of us. richard struck a match again, and this time we all got up and put on our clothes; we had got a terrible fright and couldn't stick it any longer. we told the man of the house we would sit up in the room till daylight. during the time we were sitting in the room we could hear footsteps leaving the kitchen and coming up the stairs; it would stop on the landing outside the door, and wouldn't come into the room. the footsteps and noises continued through the house until daybreak." the next night the footsteps and noises were continued, but the unfortunate men did not experience any other annoyance. on the following day the men went home, and it is to be hoped they were able to make up for all the sleep they had lost on the two previous nights. they returned on the sunday, and from that night till they finally left the house the men were disturbed practically every night. on monday, th july the bed was continually running out from the wall with its three occupants. they kept the lamp alight, and a chair was seen to dance gaily out into the middle of the floor. on the following thursday we read of the same happenings, with the addition that one of the boarders was lifted out of the bed, though he felt no hand near him. it seems strange that they should have gone through such a bad night exactly a week from the night the poltergeist started its operations. so the account goes on; every night that they slept in the room the hauntings continued, some nights being worse than others. on friday, th july, "the bed turned up on one side and threw us out on the floor, and before we were thrown out, the pillow was taken from under my head three times. when the bed rose up, it fell back without making any noise. this bed was so heavy, it took both the woman and the girl to pull it out from the wall without anybody in it, and there were only three castors on it." the poltergeist must have been an insistent fellow, for when the unfortunate men took refuge in the other bed, they had not been long in it before it began to rise, but could not get out of the recess it was in unless it was taken to pieces. "it kept very bad," we read, "for the next few nights. so mr. murphy, from the _guardian_ office, and another man named devereux, came and stopped in the room one night." the experiences of murphy and devereux on this night are contained in a further statement, signed by murphy and corroborated by devereux. they seem to have gone to work in a business-like manner, as before taking their positions for the night they made a complete investigation of the bedroom and house, so as to eliminate all chance of trickery or fraud. by this time, it should be noted, one of mrs. redmond's lodgers had evidently suffered enough from the poltergeist, as only two men are mentioned in murphy's statement, one sleeping in each bed. the two investigators took up their position against the wall midway between the two beds, so that they had a full view of the room and the occupants of the beds. "the night," says murphy, "was a clear, starlight night. no blind obstructed the view from outside, and one could see the outlines of the beds and their occupants clearly. at about . a tapping was heard close at the foot of randall's bed. my companion remarked that it appeared to be like the noise of a rat eating at timber. "sinnott replied, 'you'll soon see the rat it is.' the tapping went on slowly at first ... then the speed gradually increased to about a hundred or a hundred and twenty per minute, the noise growing louder. this continued for about five minutes, when it stopped suddenly. randall then spoke. he said: 'the clothes are slipping off my bed: look at them sliding off. good god, they are going off me.' mr. devereux immediately struck a match, which he had ready in his hand. the bedclothes had partly left the boy's bed, having gone diagonally towards the foot, going out at the left corner, and not alone did they seem to be drawn off the bed, but they appeared to be actually going back under the bed, much in the same position one would expect bedclothes to be if a strong breeze were blowing through the room at the time. but then everything was perfectly calm." a search was then made for wires or strings, but nothing of the sort could be found. the bedclothes were put back and the light extinguished. for ten minutes silence reigned, only to be broken by more rapping which was followed by shouts from randall. he was told to hold on to the clothes, which were sliding off again. but this was of little use, for he was heard to cry, "i'm going, i'm going, i'm gone," and when a light was struck he was seen to slide from the bed and all the bedclothes with him. randall, who, with sinnott, had shown considerable strength of mind by staying in the house under such trying circumstances, had evidently had enough of ghostly hauntings, for as he lay on the floor, trembling in every limb and bathed in perspiration, he exclaimed: "oh, isn't this dreadful? i can't stand it; i can't stay here any longer." he was eventually persuaded to get back to bed. later on more rapping occurred in a different part of the room, but it soon stopped, and the rest of the night passed away in peace. randall and sinnott went to their homes the next day, and mr. murphy spent from eleven till long past midnight in their vacated room, but heard and saw nothing unusual. he states in conclusion that "randall could not reach that part of the floor from which the rapping came on any occasion without attracting my attention and that of my comrade." the next case related by professor barrett occurred in county fermanagh, at a spot eleven miles from enniskillen and about two miles from the hamlet of derrygonelly, where there dwelt a farmer and his family of four girls and a boy, of whom the eldest was a girl of about twenty years of age named maggie. his cottage consisted of three rooms, the kitchen, or dwelling-room, being in the centre, with a room on each side used as bedrooms. in one of these two rooms maggie slept with her sisters, and it was here that the disturbances occurred, generally after they had all gone to bed, when rappings and scratchings were heard which often lasted all night. rats were first blamed, but when things were moved by some unseen agent, and boots and candles thrown out of the house, it was seen that something more than the ordinary rat was at work. the old farmer, who was a methodist, sought advice from his class leader, and by his directions laid an open bible on the bed in the haunted room, placing a big stone on the book. but the stone was lifted off by an unseen hand, the bible moved out of the room, and seventeen pages torn out of it. they could not keep a lamp or candle in the house, so they went to their neighbours for help, and, to quote the old farmer's words to professor barrett, "jack flanigan came and lent us a lamp, saying the devil himself would not steal it, as he had got the priest to sprinkle it with holy water." "but that," the old man said, "did us no good either, for the next day it took away that lamp also." professor barrett, at the invitation of mr. thomas plunkett of enniskillen, went to investigate. he got a full account from the farmer of the freakish tricks which were continually being played in the house, and gives a graphic account of what he himself observed: "after the children, except the boy, had gone to bed, maggie lay down on the bed without undressing, so that her hands and feet could be observed. the rest of us sat round the kitchen fire, when faint raps, rapidly increasing in loudness, were heard coming apparently from the walls, the ceiling, and various parts of the inner room, the door of which was open. on entering the bedroom with a light the noises at first ceased, but recommenced when i put the light on the window-sill in the kitchen. i had the boy and his father by my side, and asked mr. plunkett to look round the house outside. standing in the doorway leading to the bedroom, the noises recommenced, the light was gradually brought nearer, and after much patience i was able to bring the light into the bedroom whilst the disturbances were still loudly going on. at last i was able to go up to the side of the bed, with the lighted candle in my hand, and closely observed each of the occupants lying on the bed. the younger children were apparently asleep, and maggie was motionless; nevertheless, knocks were going on everywhere around; on the chairs, the bedstead, the walls and ceiling. the closest scrutiny failed to detect any movement on the part of those present that could account for the noises, which were accompanied by a scratching or tearing sound. suddenly a large pebble fell in my presence on to the bed; no one had moved to dislodge it, even if it had been placed for the purpose. when i replaced the candle on the window-sill in the kitchen, the knocks became still louder, like those made by a heavy carpenter's hammer driving nails into flooring." a couple of days afterwards, the rev. maxwell close, m.a., a well-known member of the s.p.r., joined professor barrett and mr. plunkett, and together the party of three paid visits on two consecutive nights to the haunted farm-house, and the noises were repeated. complete search was made, both inside and outside of the house, but no cause could be found. when the party were leaving, the old farmer was much perturbed that they had not "laid the ghost." when questioned he said he thought it was fairies. he was asked if it had answered to questions by raps and he said he had; "but it tells lies as often as truth, and oftener, i think. we tried it, and it only knocked at l m n when we said the alphabet over." professor barrett then tested it by asking mentally for a certain number of raps, and immediately the actual number was heard. he repeated this four times with a different number each time, and with the same result. perhaps the most interesting part of this particular case is at the end of professor barrett's account, when, at the request of the old farmer, mr. maxwell close read some passages from scripture, followed by the lord's prayer, to an accompaniment of knockings and scratches, which were at first so loud that the solemn words could hardly be heard, but which gradually ceased as they all knelt in prayer. and since that night no further disturbance occurred. another similar story comes from the north of ireland. in the year (as recorded in the _larne reporter_ of march in that year), two families residing at upper ballygowan, near larne, suffered a series of annoyances from having stones thrown into their houses both by night and by day. their neighbours came in great numbers to sympathise with them in their affliction, and on one occasion, after a volley of stones had been poured into the house through the window, a young man who was present fired a musket in the direction of the mysterious assailants. the reply was a loud peal of satanic laughter, followed by a volley of stones and turf. on another occasion a heap of potatoes, which was in an inner apartment of one of the houses, was seen to be in commotion, and shortly afterwards its contents were hurled into the kitchen, where the inmates of the house, with some of their neighbours, were assembled. the explanation given by some people of this mysterious affair was as mysterious as the affair itself. it was said that many years before the occurrences which we have now related took place, the farmer who then occupied the premises in which they happened was greatly annoyed by mischievous tricks which were played upon him by a company of fairies who had a habit of holding their rendezvous in his house. the consequence was that this man had to leave the house, which for a long time stood a roofless ruin. after the lapse of many years, and when the story about the dilapidated fabric having been haunted had probably been forgotten, the people who then occupied the adjoining lands unfortunately took some of the stones of the old deserted mansion to repair their own buildings. at this the fairies, or "good people," were much incensed; and they vented their displeasure on the offender in the way we have described. a correspondent from county wexford, who desires to have his name suppressed, writes as follows: "less than ten miles from the town of ----, co. wexford, lives a small farmer named m----, who by dint of thrift and industry has reared a large family decently and comfortably. "some twenty years ago mr. m----, through the death of a relative, fell in for a legacy of about a hundred pounds. as he was already in rather prosperous circumstances, and as his old thatched dwelling-house was not large enough to accommodate his increasing family, he resolved to spend the money in building a new one. "not long afterwards building operations commenced, and in about a year he had a fine slated cottage, or small farm-house, erected and ready for occupation: so far very well; but it is little our friend m---- anticipated the troubles which were still ahead of him. he purchased some new furniture at the nearest town, and on a certain day he removed all the furniture which the old house contained into the new one; and in the evening the family found themselves installed in the latter for good, as they thought. they all retired to rest at their usual hour; scarcely were they snugly settled in bed when they heard peculiar noises inside the house. as time passed the din became terrible--there was shuffling of feet, slamming of doors, pulling about of furniture, and so forth. the man of the house got up to explore, but could see nothing, neither was anything disturbed. the door was securely locked as he had left it. after a thorough investigation, in which his wife assisted, he had to own he could find no clue to the cause of the disturbance. the couple went to bed again, and almost immediately the racket recommenced, and continued more or less till dawn. "the inmates were puzzled and frightened, but determined to try whether the noise would be repeated the next night before telling their neighbours what had happened. but the pandemonium experienced the first night of their occupation was as nothing compared with what they had to endure the second night and for several succeeding nights. sleep was impossible, and finally mr. m---- and family in terror abandoned their new home, and retook possession of their old one. "that is the state of things to this day. the old house has been repaired and is tenanted. the new house, a few perches off, facing the public road, is used as a storehouse. the writer has seen it scores of times, and its story is well known all over the country-side. mr. m---- is disinclined to discuss the matter or to answer questions; but it is said he made several subsequent attempts to occupy the house, but always failed to stand his ground when night came with its usual rowdy disturbances. "it is said that when building operations were about to begin, a little man of bizarre appearance accosted mr. m---- and exhorted him to build on a different site; otherwise the consequences would be unpleasant for him and his; while the local peasantry allege that the house was built across a fairy pathway between two _raths_, and that this was the cause of the trouble. it is quite true that there are two large _raths_ in the vicinity, and the haunted house is directly in a bee-line between them. for myself i offer no explanation; but i guarantee the substantial accuracy of what i have stated above." professor barrett, in the paper to which we have already referred, draws certain conclusions from his study of this subject; one of the chief of these is that "the widespread belief in fairies, pixies, gnomes, brownies, etc., probably rests on the varied manifestations of poltergeists." the popular explanation of the above story bears out this conclusion, and it is further emphasized by the following, which comes from portarlington: a man near that town had saved five hundred pounds, and determined to build a house with the money. he fixed on a certain spot, and began to build, very much against the advice of his friends, who said it was on a fairy path, and would bring him ill-luck. soon the house was finished, and the owner moved in; but the very first night his troubles began, for some unseen hand threw the furniture about and broke it, while the man himself was injured. being unwilling to lose the value of his money, he tried to make the best of things. but night after night the disturbances continued, and life in the house was impossible; the owner chose the better part of valour and left. no tenant has been found since, and the house stands empty, a silent testimony to the power of the poltergeist. poltergeistic phenomena from their very nature lend themselves to spurious reproduction and imitation, as witness the famous case of cock lane and many other similar stories. at least one well-known case occurred in ireland, and is interesting as showing that where fraud is at work, close investigation will discover it. it is related that an old royal irish constabulary pensioner, who obtained a post as emergency man during the land troubles, and who in was in charge of an evicted farm in the passage east district, was being continually disturbed by furniture and crockery being thrown about in a mysterious manner. reports were brought to the police, and they investigated the matter; but nothing was heard or seen beyond knocking on an inside wall of a bedroom in which one of the sons was sleeping; this knocking ceased when the police were in the bedroom, and no search was made in the boy's bed to see if he had a stick. the police therefore could find no explanation, the noises continued night after night, and eventually the family left and went to live in waterford. a great furore was raised when it was learnt that the hauntings had followed them, and again investigation was made, but it seems to have been more careful this time: an eye was kept on the movements of the young son, and at least two independent witnesses saw him throwing things about--fireirons and jam-pots--when he thought his father was not looking. it seems to have been a plot between the mother and son owing to the former's dislike to her husband's occupation, which entailed great unpopularity and considerable personal risk. fearing for her own and her family's safety, the wife conceived of this plan to force her husband to give up his post. her efforts were successful, as the man soon resigned his position and went to live elsewhere.[ ] [footnote : _proceedings_, s.p.r.] chapter v haunted places that houses are haunted and apparitions frequently seen therein are pretty well established facts. the preceding chapters have dealt with this aspect of the subject, and, in view of the weight of evidence to prove the truth of the stories told in them, it would be hard for anyone to doubt that there is such a thing as a haunted house, whatever explanation maybe given of "haunting." we now turn to another division of the subject--the outdoor ghost who haunts the roadways, country lanes, and other places. sceptics on ghostly phenomena are generally pretty full of explanations when they are told of a ghost having been seen in a particular spot, and the teller may be put down as hyper-imaginative, or as having been deluded by moonlight playing through the trees; while cases are not wanting where a reputation for temperance has been lost by a man telling his experiences of a ghost he happens to have met along some country lane; and the fact that there are cases where an imaginative and nervous person has mistaken for a ghost a white goat or a sheet hanging on a bush only strengthens the sceptic's disbelief and makes him blind to the very large weight of evidence that can be arrayed against him. some day, no doubt, psychologists and scientists will be able to give us a complete and satisfactory explanation of these abnormal apparitions, but at present we are very much in the dark, and any explanation that may be put forward is necessarily of a tentative nature. the following story is sent us by mr. j. j. crowley, of the munster and leinster bank, who writes as follows: "the scene is outside clonmel, on the main road leading up to a nice old residence on the side of the mountains called ---- lodge. i happened to be visiting my friends, two other bank men. it was night, about eight o'clock, moonless, and tolerably dark, and when within a quarter of a mile or perhaps less of a bridge over a small stream near the house i saw a girl, dressed in white, wearing a black sash and long flowing hair, walk in the direction from me up the culvert of the bridge and disappear down the other side. at the time i saw it i thought it most peculiar that i could distinguish a figure so far away, and thought a light of some sort must be falling on the girl, or that there were some people about and that some of them had struck a match. when i got to the place i looked about, but could find no person there. "i related this story to my friends some time after arriving, and was then told that one of them had wakened up in his sleep a few nights previously, and had seen an identical figure standing at the foot of his bed, and rushed in fright from his room, taking refuge for the night with the other lodger. they told the story to their landlady, and learned from her that this apparition had frequently been seen about the place, and was the spirit of one of her daughters who had died years previously rather young, and who, previous to her death, had gone about just as we described the figure we had seen. i had heard nothing of this story until after i had seen the ghost, and consequently it could not be put down to hallucination or over-imagination on my part." the experiences of two constables of the royal irish constabulary while on despatch duty one winter's night in the early eighties has been sent us by one of the men concerned, and provides interesting reading. it was a fine moonlight night, with a touch of frost in the air, when these two men set out to march the five miles to the next barrack. brisk walking soon brought them near their destination. the barrack which they were approaching was on the left side of the road, and facing it on the other side was a whitethorn hedge. the road at this point was wide, and as the two constables got within fifty yards of the barrack, they saw a policeman step out from this hedge and move across the road, looking towards the two men as he did so. he was plainly visible to them both. "he was bare-headed" (runs the account), "with his tunic opened down the front, a stout-built man, black-haired, pale, full face, and short mutton-chop whiskers." they thought he was a newly-joined constable who was doing "guard" and had come out to get some fresh air while waiting for a patrol to return. as the two men approached, he disappeared into the shadow of the barrack, and apparently went in by the door; to their amazement, when they came up they found the door closed and bolted, and it was only after loud knocking that they got a sleepy "all right" from some one inside, and after the usual challenging were admitted. there was no sign of the strange policeman when they got in, and on inquiry they learnt that no new constable had joined the station. the two men realised then that they had seen a ghost, but refrained from saying anything about it to the men at the station--a very sensible precaution, considering the loneliness of the average policeman's life in this country. some years afterwards the narrator of the above story learnt that a policeman had been lost in a snow-drift near this particular barrack. whether this be the explanation we leave to others: the facts as stated are well vouched for. there is no evidence to support the theory of hallucination, for the apparition was so vivid that the idea of its being other than normal never entered the constables' heads _till they had got into the barrack_. when they found the door shut and bolted, their amazement was caused by indignation against an apparently unsociable or thoughtless comrade, and it was only afterwards, while discussing the whole thing on their homeward journey, that it occurred to them that it would have been impossible for any ordinary mortal to shut, bolt, and bar a door without making a sound. in the winter of - , in the days when snow and ice and all their attendant pleasures were more often in evidence than in these degenerate days, a skating party was enjoying itself on the pond in the grounds of the castle near rathfarnham, co. dublin. among the skaters was a man who had with him a very fine curly-coated retriever dog. the pond was thronged with people enjoying themselves, when suddenly the ice gave way beneath him, and the man fell into the water; the dog went to his rescue, and both were drowned. a monument was erected to perpetuate the memory of the dog's heroic self-sacrifice, but only the pedestal now remains. the ghost of the dog is said to haunt the grounds and the public road between the castle gate and the dodder bridge. many people have seen the phantom dog, and the story is well known locally. the ghost of a boy who was murdered by a romany is said to haunt one of the lodge gates of the castle demesne, and the lodge-keeper states that he saw it only a short time ago. the castle, however, is now in possession of jesuit fathers, and the superior assures us that there has been no sign of a ghost for a long time, his explanation being that the place is so crowded out with new buildings "that even a ghost would have some difficulty in finding a comfortable corner." it is a fairly general belief amongst students of supernatural phenomena that animals have the psychic faculty developed to a greater extent than we have. there are numerous stories which tell of animals being scared and frightened by something that is invisible to a human being, and the explanation given is that the animal has seen a ghost which we cannot see. a story that is told of a certain spot near the village of g----, in co. kilkenny, supports this theory. the account was sent us by the eye-witness of what occurred, and runs as follows: "i was out for a walk one evening near the town of g---- about . p.m., and was crossing the bridge that leads into the s. carlow district with a small wire-haired terrier dog. when we were about three-quarters of a mile out, the dog began to bark and yelp in a most vicious manner at 'nothing' on the left-hand side of the roadway and near to a straggling hedge. i felt a bit creepy and that something was wrong. the dog kept on barking, but i could at first see nothing, but on looking closely for a few seconds i believe i saw a small grey-white object vanish gradually and noiselessly into the hedge. no sooner had it vanished than the dog ceased barking, wagged his tail, and seemed pleased with his successful efforts." the narrator goes on to say that he made inquiries when he got home, and found that this spot on the road had a very bad reputation, as people had frequently seen a ghost there, while horses had often to be beaten, coaxed, or led past the place. the explanation locally current is that a suicide was buried at the cross-roads near at hand, or that it may be the ghost of a man who is known to have been killed at the spot. the following story has been sent us by the rev. h.r.b. gillespie, to whom it was told by one of the witnesses of the incidents described therein. one bright moonlight night some time ago a party consisting of a man, his two daughters, and a friend were driving along a country road in county leitrim. they came to a steep hill, and all except the driver got down to walk. one of the two sisters walked on in front, and after her came the other two, followed closely by the trap. they had not gone far, when those in rear saw a shabbily-dressed man walking beside the girl who was leading. but she did not seem to be taking any notice of him, and, wondering what he could be, they hastened to overtake her. but just when they were catching her up the figure suddenly dashed into the shadow of a disused forge, which stood by the side of the road, and as it did so the horse, which up to this had been perfectly quiet, reared up and became unmanageable. the girl beside whom the figure had walked had seen and heard nothing. the road was not bordered by trees or a high hedge, so that it could not have been some trick of the moonlight. one of the girls described the appearance of the figure to a local workman, who said, "it is very like a tinker who was found dead in that forge about six months ago." here is another story of a haunted spot on a road, where a "ghost" was seen, not at the witching hour of night, not when evening shadows lengthen, but in broad daylight. it is sent to us by the percipient, a lady, who does not desire to have her name mentioned. she was walking along a country road in the vicinity of cork one afternoon, and passed various people. she then saw coming towards her a country-woman dressed in an old-fashioned style. this figure approached her, and when it drew near, suddenly staggered, as if under the influence of drink, and disappeared! she hastened to the spot, but searched in vain for any clue to the mystery; the road was bounded by high walls, and there was no gateway or gap through which the figure might slip. much mystified, she continued on her way, and arrived at her destination. she there mentioned what had occurred, and was then informed by an old resident in the neighbourhood that that woman had constantly been seen up to twenty years before, but not since that date. by the country-people the road was believed to be haunted, but the percipient did not know this at the time. the following is sent us by mr. t. j. westropp, and has points of its own which are interesting; he states: "on the road from bray to windgates, at the deerpark of kilruddy, is a spot which, whatever be the explanation, is distinguished by weird sounds and (some say) sights. i on one occasion was walking with a friend to catch the train at bray about eleven o'clock one evening some twenty-five years ago, when we both heard heavy steps and rustling of bracken in the deerpark; apparently some one got over the gate, crossed the road with heavy steps and fell from the wall next bray head, rustling and slightly groaning. the night was lightsome, though without actual moonlight, and we could see nothing over the wall where we had heard the noise. "for several years after i dismissed the matter as a delusion; but when i told the story to some cousins, they said that another relative (now a fellow of trinity college, dublin) had heard it too, and that there was a local belief that it was the ghost of a poacher mortally wounded by gamekeepers, who escaped across the road and died beyond it." mr. westropp afterwards got the relative mentioned above to tell his experience, and it corresponded with his own, except that the ghost was visible. "the clergyman who was rector of greystones at that time used to say that he had heard exactly similar noises though he had seen nothing." the following story of an occurrence near dublin is sent us by a lady who is a very firm believer in ghosts. on a fine night some years ago two sisters were returning home from the theatre. they were walking along a very lonely part of the kimmage road about two miles beyond the tram terminus, and were chatting gaily as they went, when suddenly they heard the "clink, clink" of a chain coming towards them. at first they thought it was a goat or a donkey which had got loose, and was dragging its chain along the ground. but they could see nothing, and could hear no noise but the clink of the chain, although the road was clear and straight. nearer and nearer came the noise, gradually getting louder, and as it passed them closely they distinctly felt a blast or whiff of air. they were paralysed with an indefinable fear, and were scarcely able to drag themselves along the remaining quarter of a mile to their house. the elder of the two was in very bad health, and the other had almost to carry her. immediately she entered the house she collapsed, and had to be revived with brandy. an old woman, it seems, had been murdered for her savings by a tramp near the spot where this strange occurrence took place, and it is thought that there is a connection between the crime and the haunting of this part of the kimmage road. whatever the explanation may be, the whole story bears every evidence of truth, and it would be hard for anyone to disprove it. churchyards are generally considered to be the hunting-ground of all sorts and conditions of ghosts. people who would on all other occasions, when the necessity arises, prove themselves to be possessed of at any rate a normal amount of courage, turn pale and shiver at the thought of having to pass through a churchyard at dead of night. it may be some encouragement to such to state that out of a fairly large collection of accounts of haunted places, only one relates to a churchyard. the story is told by mr. g. h. millar of edgeworthstown: "during the winter of ," he writes, "i attended a soiree about five miles from here. i was riding, and on my way home about . p.m. i had to pass by the old ruins and burial-ground of abbeyshrule. the road led round by two sides of the churchyard. it was a bright moonlight night, and as my girth broke i was walking the horse quite slowly. as i passed the ruin, i saw what i took to be a policeman in a long overcoat; he was walking from the centre of the churchyard towards the corner, and, as far as i could see, would be at the corner by the time i would reach it, and we would meet. quite suddenly, however, he disappeared, and i could see no trace of him. soon after i overtook a man who had left the meeting long before me. i expressed wonder that he had not been farther on, and he explained that he went a 'round-about' way to avoid passing the old abbey, as he did not want to see 'the monk.' on questioning him, he told me that a monk was often seen in the churchyard." a story told of a ghost which haunts a certain spot on an estate near the city of waterford, bears a certain resemblance to the last story for the reason that it was only after the encounter had taken place in both cases that it was known that anything out of the ordinary had been seen. in the early eighties of last century ---- court, near waterford, was occupied by mr. and mrs. s---- and their family of two young boys and a girl of twenty-one years of age. below the house is a marshy glen with a big open drain cut through it. late one evening the daughter was out shooting rabbits near this drain and saw, as she thought, her half-brother standing by the drain in a sailor suit, which like other small boys he wore. she called to him once or twice, and to her surprise got no reply. she went towards him, and when she got close he suddenly disappeared. the next day she asked an old dependent, who had lived many years in the place, if there was anything curious about the glen. he replied at once: "oh! you mean the little sailor man. sure, he won't do you any harm." this was the first she had heard of anything of the sort, but it was then found that none of the country-people would go through the glen after dusk. some time afterwards two sons of the clergyman of the parish in which ---- court stands were out one evening fishing in the drain, when one of them suddenly said, "what's that sailor doing there?" the other saw nothing, and presently the figure vanished. at the time of the appearance neither had heard of miss s----'s experience, and no one has been able to explain it, as there is apparently no tradition of any "little sailor man" having been there in the flesh. mr. joseph m'crossan, a journalist on the staff of the _strabane chronicle_, has sent us a cutting from that paper describing a ghost which appeared to men working in an engine-house at strabane railway station on two successive nights in october . the article depicts very graphically the antics of the ghost and the fear of the men who saw it. mr. m'crossan interviewed one of these men (pinkerton by name), and the story as told in his words is as follows: "michael madden, fred oliphant, and i were engaged inside a shed cleaning engines, when, at half-past twelve (midnight), a knocking came to all the doors, and continued without interruption, accompanied by unearthly yells. the three of us went to one of the doors, and saw--i could swear to it without doubt--the form of a man of heavy build. i thought i was about to faint. my hair stood high on my head. we all squealed for help, when the watchman and signalman came fast to our aid. armed with a crowbar, the signalman made a dash at the 'spirit,' but was unable to strike down the ghost, which hovered about our shed till half-past two. it was moonlight, and we saw it plainly. there was no imagination on our part. we three cleaners climbed up the engine, and hid on the roof of the engine, lying there till morning at our wit's end. the next night it came at half-past one. oliphant approached the spirit within two yards, but he then collapsed, the ghost uttering terrible yells. i commenced work, but the spirit 'gazed' into my face, and i fell forward against the engine. seven of us saw the ghost this time. our clothes and everything in the shed were tossed and thrown about." the other engine-cleaners were interviewed and corroborated pinkerton's account. one of them stated that he saw the ghost run up and down a ladder leading to a water tank and disappear into it, while the signalman described how he struck at the ghost with a crowbar, but the weapon seemed to go through it. the spirit finally took his departure through the window. the details of this affair are very much on the lines of the good old-fashioned ghost yarns. but it is hard to see how so many men could labour under the same delusion. the suggestion that the whole thing was a practical joke may also be dismissed, for if the apparition had flesh and bones the crowbar would have soon proved it. the story goes that a man was murdered near the spot some time ago; whether there is any connection between this crime and the apparition it would be hard to say. however, we are not concerned with explanations (for who, as yet, can explain the supernatural?); the facts as stated have all the appearance of truth. mr. patrick ryan, of p----, co. limerick, gives us two stories as he heard them related by mr. michael o'dwyer of the same place. the former is evidently a very strong believer in supernatural phenomena, but he realises how strong is the unbelief of many, and in support of his stories he gives names of several persons who will vouch for the truth of them. with a few alterations, we give the story in his own words: "mr. o'dwyer has related how one night, after he had carried the mails to the train, he went with some fodder for a heifer in a field close to the railway station near to which was a creamery. he discovered the animal grazing near the creamery although how she came to be there was a mystery, as a broad trench separated it from the rest of the field, which is only spanned by a plank used by pedestrians when crossing the field. 'perhaps,' he said in explanation, 'it was that he _should_ go there to hear.' it was about a quarter to twelve (midnight), and, having searched the field in vain, he was returning home, when, as he crossed the plank, he espied the heifer browsing peacefully in the aforementioned part of the field which was near the creamery. he gave her the fodder and--heavens! was he suffering from delusions? surely his ears were not deceiving him--from the creamery funnel there arose a dense volume of smoke mingled with the sharp hissing of steam and the rattling of cans, all as if the creamery were working, and it were broad daylight. his heifer became startled and bellowed frantically. o'dwyer, himself a man of nerves, yet possessing all the superstitions of the celt, was startled and ran without ceasing to his home near by, where he went quickly to bed. "o'dwyer is not the only one who has seen this, as i have been told by several of my friends how they heard it. who knows the mystery surrounding this affair!" the second story relates to a certain railway station in the south of ireland; again we use mr. ryan's own words: "a near relative of mine" (he writes) "once had occasion to go to the mail train to meet a friend. while sitting talking to o'dwyer, whom he met on the platform, he heard talking going on in the waiting-room. o'dwyer heard it also, and they went to the door, but saw nothing save for the light of a waning moon which filtered in through the window. uncertain, they struck matches, but saw nothing. again they sat outside, and again they heard the talking, and this time they did not go to look, for they knew about it. in the memory of the writer a certain unfortunate person committed suicide on the railway, and was carried to the waiting-room pending an inquest. he lay all night there till the inquest was held next day. 'let us not look further into the matter,' said o'dwyer, and my relative having acquiesced, he breathed a shuddering prayer for the repose of the dead." the following story, which has been sent as a personal experience by mr. william mackey of strabane, is similar in many ways to an extraordinary case of retro-cognitive vision which occurred some years ago to two english ladies who were paying a visit to versailles; and who published their experiences in a book entitled, _an adventure_ (london, ). mr. mackey writes: "it was during the severe winter of the crimean war, when indulging in my favourite sport of wild-fowl shooting, that i witnessed the following strange scene. it was a bitterly cold night towards the end of november or beginning of december; the silvery moon had sunk in the west shortly before midnight; the sport had been all that could be desired, when i began to realise that the blood was frozen in my veins, and i was on the point of starting for home, when my attention was drawn to the barking of a dog close by, which was followed in a few seconds by the loud report of a musket, the echo of which had scarcely died away in the silent night, when several musket-shots went off in quick succession; this seemed to be the signal for a regular fusillade of musketry, and it was quite evident from the nature of the firing that there was attack and defence. "for the life of me i could not understand what it all meant; not being superstitious i did not for a moment imagine it was supernatural, notwithstanding that my courageous dog was crouching in abject terror between my legs; beads of perspiration began to trickle down from my forehead, when suddenly there arose a flame as if a house were on fire, but i knew from the position of the blaze (which was only a few hundred yards from where i stood), that there was no house there, or any combustible that would burn, and what perplexed me most was to see pieces of burning thatch and timber sparks fall hissing into the water at my feet. when the fire seemed at its height the firing appeared to weaken, and when the clear sound of a bugle floated out on the midnight air, it suddenly ceased, and i could hear distinctly the sound of cavalry coming at a canter, their accoutrements jingling quite plainly on the frosty air; in a very short time they arrived at the scene of the fight. i thought it an eternity until they took their departure, which they did at the walk. "it is needless to say that, although the scene of this tumult was on my nearest way home, i did not venture that way, as, although there are many people who would say that i never knew what fear was, i must confess on this occasion i was thoroughly frightened. "at breakfast i got a good sound rating from my father for staying out so late. my excuse was that i fell asleep and had a horrible dream, which i related. when i finished i was told i had been dreaming with my eyes open!--that i was not the first person who had witnessed this strange sight. he then told me the following narrative: 'it was towards the end of the seventeenth century that a widow named sally mackey and her three sons lived on the outskirts of the little settlement of the mackeys. a warrant was issued by the government against the three sons for high treason, the warrant being delivered for execution to the officer in command of the infantry regiment stationed at lifford. a company was told off for the purpose of effecting the arrest, and the troops set out from lifford at p.m. "'the cottage home of the mackeys was approached by a bridle-path, leading from the main road to derry, which only permitted the military to approach in single file; they arrived there at midnight, and the first intimation the inmates had of danger was the barking, and then the shooting, of the collie dog. possessing as they did several stand of arms, they opened fire on the soldiers as they came in view and killed and wounded several; it was the mother, sally mackey, who did the shooting, the sons loading the muskets. whether the cottage went on fire by accident or design was never known; it was only when the firing from the cottage ceased and the door was forced open that the officer in command rushed in and brought out the prostrate form of the lady, who was severely wounded and burned. all the sons perished, but the soldiers suffered severely, a good many being killed and wounded. "'the firing was heard by the sentries at lifford, and a troop of cavalry was despatched to the scene of conflict, but only arrived in time to see the heroine dragged from the burning cottage. she had not, however, been fatally wounded, and lived for many years afterwards with a kinsmen. my father remembered conversing with old men, when he was a boy, who remembered her well. she seemed to take a delight in narrating incidents of the fight to those who came to visit her, and would always finish up by making them feel the pellets between the skin and her ribs.'" chapter vi apparitions at or after death it has been said by a very eminent literary man that the accounts of the appearance of people at or shortly after the moment of death make very dull reading as a general rule. this may be; they are certainly not so lengthy, or full of detail, as the accounts of haunted houses--nor could such be expected. in our humble opinion, however, they are full of interest, and open up problems of telepathy and thought-transference to which the solutions may not be found for years to come. that people have seen the image of a friend or relative at the moment of dissolution, sometimes in the ordinary garb of life, sometimes with symbolical accompaniments, or that they have been made acquainted in some abnormal manner with the fact that such a one has passed away, seems to be demonstrated beyond all reasonable doubt. but we would hasten to add that such appearances are not a proof of existence after death, nor can they be regarded in the light of special interventions of a merciful providence. were they either they would surely occur far oftener. the question is, why do they occur at all? as it is, the majority of them seem to happen for no particular reason, and are often seen by persons who have little or no connection with the deceased, not by their nearest and dearest, as one might expect. it is supposed they are _veridical_ hallucinations, _i.e._ ones which correspond with objective events at a distance, and are caused by a telepathic impact conveyed from the mind of an absent agent to the mind of the percipient. from their nature they fall under different heads. the majority of them occur at what may most conveniently be described as the time of death, though how closely they approximate in reality to the instant of the great change it is impossible to say. so we have divided this chapter into three groups: ( ) appearances at the time of death (as explained above). ( ) appearances clearly _after_ the time of death. ( ) in this third group we hope to give three curious tales of appearances some time _before_ death. group i we commence this group with stories in which the phenomena connected with the respective deaths were not perceived as representations of the human form. in the first only sounds were heard. it is sent as a personal experience by the archdeacon of limerick, very rev. j. a. haydn, ll.d. "in the year there lived in the picturesque village of adare, at a distance of about eight or nine miles from my residence, a district inspector named ----, with whom i enjoyed a friendship of the most intimate and fraternal kind. at the time i write of, mrs. ---- was expecting the arrival of their third child. she was a particularly tiny and fragile woman, and much anxiety was felt as to the result of the impending event. he and she had very frequently spent pleasant days at my house, with all the apartments of which they were thoroughly acquainted--a fact of importance in this narrative. "on wednesday, october , , i had a very jubilant letter from my friend, announcing that the expected event had successfully happened on the previous day, and that all was progressing satisfactorily. on the night of the following wednesday, october , i retired to bed at about ten o'clock. my wife, the children, and two maid-servants were all sleeping upstairs, and i had a small bed in my study, which was on the ground floor. the house was shrouded in darkness, and the only sound that broke the silence was the ticking of the hall-clock. "i was quietly preparing to go to sleep, when i was much surprised at hearing, with the most unquestionable distinctness, the sound of light, hurried footsteps, exactly suggestive of those of an active, restless young female, coming in from the hall door and traversing the hall. they then, apparently with some hesitation, followed the passage leading to the study door, on arriving at which they stopped. i then heard the sound of a light, agitated hand apparently searching for the handle of the door. by this time, being quite sure that my wife had come down and wanted to speak to me, i sat up in bed, and called to her by name, asking what was the matter. as there was no reply, and the sounds had ceased, i struck a match, lighted a candle, and opened the door. no one was visible or audible. i went upstairs, found all the doors shut and everyone asleep. greatly puzzled, i returned to the study and went to bed, leaving the candle alight. immediately the whole performance was circumstantially repeated, but _this_ time the handle of the door was grasped by the invisible hand, and _partly_ turned, then relinquished. i started out of bed and renewed my previous search, with equally futile results. the clock struck eleven, and from that time all disturbances ceased. "on friday morning i received a letter stating that mrs. ---- had died at about midnight on the previous wednesday. i hastened off to adare and had an interview with my bereaved friend. with one item of our conversation i will close. he told me that his wife sank rapidly on wednesday, until when night came on she became delirious. she spoke incoherently, as if revisiting scenes and places once familiar. 'she thought she was in _your_ house,' he said, 'and was apparently holding a conversation with _you_, as she used to keep silence at intervals as if listening to your replies.' i asked him if he could possibly remember the hour at which the imaginary conversation took place. he replied that, curiously enough, he could tell it accurately, as he had looked at his watch, and found the time between half-past ten and eleven o'clock--the exact time of the mysterious manifestations heard by me." a lady sends the following personal experience: "i had a cousin in the country who was not very strong, and on one occasion she desired me to go to her, and accompany her to k----. i consented to do so, and arranged a day to go and meet her: this was in the month of february. the evening before i was to go, i was sitting by the fire in my small parlour about p.m. there was no light in the room except what proceeded from the fire. beside the fireplace was an armchair, where my cousin usually sat when she was with me. suddenly that chair was illuminated by a light so intensely bright that it actually seemed to _heave_ under it, though the remainder of the room remained in semi-darkness. i called out in amazement, 'what has happened to the chair?' in a moment the light vanished, and the chair was as before. in the morning i heard that my cousin had died about the same time that i saw the light." we now come to the ordinary type, _i.e._ where a figure appears. the following tale illustrates a point we have already alluded to, namely, that the apparition is sometimes seen by a disinterested person, and _not_ by those whom one would naturally expect should see it. a lady writes as follows: "at island magee is the knowehead lonan, a long, hilly, narrow road, bordered on either side by high thorn-hedges and fields. twenty years ago, when i was a young girl, i used to go to the post-office at the knowehead on sunday mornings down the lonan, taking the dogs for the run. one sunday as i had got to the top of the hill on my return journey, i looked back, and saw a man walking rapidly after me, but still a good way off. i hastened my steps, for the day was muddy, and i did not want him to see me in a bedraggled state. but he seemed to come on so fast as to be soon close behind me, and i wondered he did not pass me, so on we went, i never turning to look back. about a quarter of a mile farther on i met a. b. on 'dick's brae,' on her way to church or sunday school, and stopped to speak to her. i wanted to ask who the man was, but he seemed to be so close that i did not like to do so, and expected he had passed. when i moved on, i was surprised to find he was still following me, while my dogs were lagging behind with downcast heads and drooping tails. "i then passed a cottage where c. d. was out feeding her fowls. i spoke to her, and then feeling that there was no longer anyone behind, looked back, and saw the man standing with her. i would not have paid any attention to the matter had not a. b. been down at our house that afternoon, and i casually asked her: "'who was the man who was just behind me when i met you on dick's brae?' "'what man?' said she; and noting my look of utter astonishment, added, 'i give you my word i never met a soul but yourself from the time i left home till i went down to knowehead lonan.' "next day c. d. came to work for us, and i asked her who was the man who was standing beside her after i passed her on sunday. "'naebody!' she replied,' i saw naebody but yoursel'.' "it all seemed very strange, and so they thought too. about three weeks later news came that c. d.'s only brother, a sailor, was washed overboard that sunday morning." the following story is not a first-hand experience, but is sent by the gentleman to whom it was related by the percipient. the latter said to him: "i was sitting in this same chair i am in at present one evening, when i heard a knock at the front door. i went myself to see who was there, and on opening the door saw my old friend p. q. standing outside with his gun in his hand. i was surprised at seeing him, but asked him to come in and have something. he came inside the porch into the lamplight, and stood there for a few moments; then he muttered something about being sorry he had disturbed me, and that he was on his way to see his brother, colonel q., who lived about a mile farther on. without any further explanation he walked away towards the gate into the dusk. "i was greatly surprised and perplexed, but as he had gone i sat down again by the fire. about an hour later another knock came to the door, and i again went out to see who was there. on opening it i found p. q.'s groom holding a horse, and he asked me where he was, as he had missed his way in the dark, and did not know the locality. i told him, and then asked him where he was going, and why, and he replied that his master was dead (at his own house about nine miles away), and that he had been sent to announce the news to colonel q." miss grene, of grene park, co. tipperary, relates a story which was told her by the late miss ----, sister of a former dean of cashel. the latter, an old lady, stated that one time she was staying with a friend in a house in the suburbs of dublin. in front of the house was the usual grass plot, divided into two by a short gravel path which led down to a gate which opened on to the street. she and her friend were one day engaged in needlework in one of the front rooms, when they heard the gate opening, and on looking out the window they saw an elderly gentleman of their acquaintance coming up the path. as he approached the door both exclaimed: "oh, how good of him to come and see us!" as he was not shown into the sitting-room, one of them rang the bell, and said to the maid when she appeared, "you have not let mr. so-and-so in; he is at the door for some little time." the maid went to the hall door, and returned to say that there was no one there. next day they learnt that he had died just at the hour that they had seen him coming up the path. the following tale contains a curious point. a good many years ago the rev. henry morton, now dead, held a curacy in ireland. he had to pass through the graveyard when leaving his house to visit the parishioners. one beautiful moonlight night he was sent for to visit a sick person, and was accompanied by his brother, a medical man, who was staying with him. after performing the religious duty they returned through the churchyard, and were chatting about various matters when to their astonishment a figure passed them, both seeing it. this figure left the path, and went in among the gravestones, and then disappeared. they could not understand this at all, so they went to the spot where the disappearance took place, but, needless to say, could find nobody after the most careful search. next morning they heard that the person visited had died just after their departure, while the most marvellous thing of all was that the burial took place at the very spot where they had seen the phantom disappear. the rev. d. b. knox communicates the following: in a girls' boarding-school several years ago two of the boarders were sleeping in a large double-bedded room with two doors. about two o'clock in the morning the girls were awakened by the entrance of a tall figure in clerical attire, the face of which they did not see. they screamed in fright, but the figure moved in a slow and stately manner past their beds, and out the other door. it also appeared to one or two of the other boarders, and seemed to be looking for some one. at length it reached the bed of one who was evidently known to it. the girl woke up and recognised her father. he did not speak, but gazed for a few moments at his daughter, and then vanished. next morning a telegram was handed to her which communicated the sad news that her father had died on the previous evening at the hour when he appeared to her. here is a story of a very old type. it occurred a good many years ago. a gentleman named miller resided in co. wexford, while his friend and former schoolfellow lived in the north of ireland. this long friendship led them to visit at each other's houses from time to time, but for mr. miller there was a deep shadow of sorrow over these otherwise happy moments, for, while he enjoyed the most enlightened religious opinions, his friend was an unbeliever. the last time they were together mr. scott said, "my dear friend, let us solemnly promise that whichever of us shall die first shall appear to the other after death, if it be possible." "let it be so, if god will," replied mr. miller. one morning some time after, about three o'clock, the latter was awakened by a brilliant light in his bedroom; he imagined that the house must be on fire, when he felt what seemed to be a hand laid on him, and heard his friend's voice say distinctly, "there is a god, just but terrible in his judgments," and all again was dark. mr. miller at once wrote down this remarkable experience. two days later he received a letter announcing mr. scott's death on the night, and at the hour, that he had seen the light in his room. the above leads us on to the famous "beresford ghost," which is generally regarded as holding the same position relative to irish ghosts that dame alice kyteler used to hold with respect to irish witches and wizards. the story is so well known, and has been published so often, that only a brief allusion is necessary, with the added information that the best version is to be found in andrew lang's _dreams and ghosts_, chapter viii. (silver library edition). lord tyrone appeared after death one night to lady beresford at gill hall, in accordance with a promise (as in the last story) made in early life. he assured her that the religion as revealed by jesus christ was the only true one (both he and lady beresford had been brought up deists), told her that she was _enceinte_ and would bear a son, and also foretold her second marriage, and the time of her death. in proof whereof he drew the bed-hangings through an iron hook, wrote his name in her pocket-book, and finally placed a hand cold as marble on her wrist, at which the sinews shrunk up. to the day of her death lady beresford wore a black ribbon round her wrist; this was taken off before her burial, and it was found the nerves were withered, and the sinews shrunken, as she had previously described to her children. group ii we now come to some stories of apparitions seen some time after the hour of death. canon ross-lewin, of limerick, furnishes the following incident in his own family. "my uncle, john dillon ross-lewin, lieutenant in the th regiment, was mortally wounded at inkerman on november , , and died on the morning of the th. he appeared that night to his mother, who was then on a visit in co. limerick, intimating his death, and indicating where the wound was. the strangest part of the occurrence is, that when news came later on of the casualties at inkerman, the first account as to the wound did _not_ correspond with what the apparition indicated to his mother, but the final account did. mrs. ross-lewin was devoted to her son, and he was equally attached to her; she, as the widow of a field officer who fought at waterloo, would be able to comprehend the battle scene, and her mind at the time was centred on the events of the crimean war." a clergyman, who desires that all names be suppressed, sends the following: "in my wife's father's house a number of female servants were kept, of whom my wife, before she was married, was in charge. on one occasion the cook took ill with appendicitis, and was operated on in the infirmary, where i attended her as hospital chaplain. she died, however, and was buried by her friends. some days after the funeral my wife was standing at a table in the kitchen which was so placed that any person standing at it could see into the passage outside the kitchen, if the door happened to be open. [the narrator enclosed a rough plan which made the whole story perfectly clear.] she was standing one day by herself at the table, and the door was open. this was in broad daylight, about eleven o'clock in the morning in the end of february or beginning of march. she was icing a cake, and therefore was hardly thinking of ghosts. suddenly she looked up from her work, and glanced through the open kitchen door into the passage leading past the servants' parlour into the dairy. she saw quite distinctly the figure of the deceased cook pass towards the dairy; she was dressed in the ordinary costume she used to wear in the mornings, and seemed in every respect quite normal. my wife was not, at the moment, in the least shocked or surprised, but on the contrary she followed, and searched in the dairy, into which she was just in time to see her skirts disappearing. needless to say, nothing was visible." canon courtenay moore, m.a., rector of mitchelstown, contributes a personal experience. "it was about eighteen years ago--i cannot fix the exact date--that samuel penrose returned to this parish from the argentine. he was getting on so well abroad that he would have remained there, but his wife fell ill, and for her sake he returned to ireland. he was a carpenter by trade, and his former employer was glad to take him into his service again. sam was a very respectable man of sincere religious feelings. soon after his return he met with one or two rather severe accidents, and had a strong impression that a fatal one would happen him before long; and so it came to pass. a scaffolding gave way one day, and precipitated him on to a flagged stone floor. he did not die immediately, but his injuries proved fatal. he died in a cork hospital soon after his admission: i went to cork to officiate at his funeral. about noon the next day i was standing at my hall door, and the form of poor sam, the upper half of it, seemed to pass before me. he looked peaceful and happy--it was a momentary vision, but perfectly distinct. the truncated appearance puzzled me very much, until some time after i read a large book by f.w.h. myers, in which he made a scientific analysis and induction of such phenomena, and said that they were almost universally seen in this half-length form. i do not profess to explain what i saw: its message, if it had a message, seemed to be that poor sam was at last at rest and in peace." a story somewhat similar to the above was related to us, in which the apparition seems certainly to have been sent with a definite purpose. two maiden ladies, whom we shall call miss a. x. and miss b. y., lived together for a good many years. as one would naturally expect, they were close friends, and had the most intimate relations with each other, both being extremely religious women. in process of time miss b. y. died, and after death miss a. x. formed the impression, for some unknown reason, that all was not well with her friend--that, in fact, her soul was not at rest. this thought caused her great uneasiness and trouble of mind. one day she was sitting in her armchair thinking over this, and crying bitterly. suddenly she saw in front of her a brilliant light, in the midst of which was her friend's face, easily recognisable, but transfigured, and wearing a most beatific expression. she rushed towards it with her arms outstretched, crying, "oh! b., why have you come?" at this the apparition faded away, but ever after miss a. n. was perfectly tranquil in mind with respect to her friend's salvation. this group may be brought to a conclusion by a story sent by mr. t. macfadden. it is not a personal experience, but happened to his father, and in an accompanying letter he states that he often heard the latter describe the incidents related therein, and that he certainly saw the ghost. "the island of inishinny, which is the scene of this story, is one of the most picturesque islands on the donegal coast. with the islands of gola and inismaan it forms a perfectly natural harbour and safe anchorage for ships during storms. about christmas some forty or fifty years ago a small sailing-ship put into gola roads (as this anchorage is called) during a prolonged storm, and the captain and two men had to obtain provisions from bunbeg, as, owing to their being detained so long, their supply was almost exhausted. they had previously visited the island on several occasions, and made themselves at home with the people from the mainland who were temporarily resident upon it. "the old bar at its best was never very safe for navigation, and this evening it was in its element, as with every storm it presented one boiling, seething mass of foam. the inhabitants of the island saw the frail small boat from the ship securely inside the bar, and prophesied some dire calamity should the captain and the two sailors venture to return to the ship that night. but the captain and his companions, having secured sufficient provisions, decided (as far as i can remember the story), even in spite of the entreaties of those on shore, to return to the ship. the storm was increasing, and what with their scanty knowledge of the intricacies of the channel, and the darkness of the night, certain it was the next morning their craft was found washed ashore on the island, and the body of the captain was discovered by the first man who made the round of the shore looking for logs of timber, or other useful articles washed ashore from wrecks. the bodies of the two sailors were never recovered, and word was sent immediately to the captain's wife in derry, who came in a few days and gave directions for the disposal of her husband's corpse. "the island was only temporarily inhabited by a few people who had cattle and horses grazing there for some weeks in the year, and after this catastrophe they felt peculiarly lonely, and sought refuge from their thoughts by all spending the evening together in one house. this particular evening they were all seated round the fire having a chat, when they heard steps approaching the door. though the approach was fine, soft sand, yet the steps were audible as if coming on hard ground. they knew there was no one on the island save the few who were sitting quietly round the fire, and so in eager expectation they faced round to the door. what was their _amazement_ when the door opened, and a tall, broad-shouldered man appeared and filled the whole doorway--and that man the captain who had been buried several days previously. he wore the identical suit in which he had often visited the island and even the "cheese-cutter" cap, so common a feature of sea-faring men's apparel, was not wanting. all were struck dumb with terror, and a woman who sat in a corner opposite the door, exclaimed in irish in a low voice to my father: "'o god! patrick, there's the captain.' "my father, recovering from the first shock, when he saw feminine courage finding expression in words, said in irish to the apparition: "'come in!' "they were so certain of the appearance that they addressed him in his own language, as they invariably talked irish in the district in those days. but no sooner had he uttered the invitation than the figure, without the least word or sign, moved back, and disappeared from their view. they rushed out, but could discover no sign of any living person within the confines of the island. such is the true account of an accident, by which three men lost their lives, and the ghostly sequel, in which one of them appeared to the eyes of four people, two of whom are yet alive, and can vouch for the accuracy of this narrative." group iii we now come to the third group of this chapter, in which we shall relate two first-hand experiences of tragedies being actually witnessed some time before they happened, as well as a reliable second-hand story of an apparition being seen two days before the death occurred. the first of these is sent by a lady, the percipient, who desires that her name be suppressed; with it was enclosed a letter from a gentleman who stated that he could testify to the truth of the following facts: "the morning of may , , was one of the worst that ever dawned in killarney. all through the day a fierce nor'-wester raged, and huge white-crested waves, known locally as 'the o'donoghue's white horses,' beat on the shores of lough leane. then followed hail-showers such as i have never seen before or since. hailstones quite as large as small marbles fell with such rapidity, and seemed so hard that the glass in the windows of the room in which i stood appeared to be about to break into fragments every moment. i remained at the window, gazing out on the turbulent waters of the lake. sometimes a regular fog appeared, caused by the terrible downpour of rain and the fury of the gale. "during an occasional lull i could see the islands plainly looming in the distance. in one of these clear intervals, the time being about . p.m., five friends of mine were reading in the room in which i stood. 'quick! quick!' i cried. 'is that a boat turned over?' my friends all ran to the windows, but could see nothing. i persisted, however, and said, 'it is on its side, with the keel turned towards us, and it is empty.' still none of my friends could see anything. i then ran out, and got one of the men-servants to go down to a gate, about one hundred yards nearer the lake than where i stood. he had a powerful telescope, and remained with great difficulty in the teeth of the storm with his glass for several minutes, but could see nothing. when he returned another man took his place, but he also failed to see anything. "i seemed so distressed that those around me kept going backwards and forwards to the windows, and then asked me what was the size of the boat i had seen. i gave them the exact size, measuring by landmarks. they then assured me that i must be absolutely wrong, as it was on rare occasions that a 'party' boat, such as the one i described, could venture on the lakes on such a day. therefore there were seven persons who thought i was wrong in what i had seen. i still contended that i saw the boat, the length of which i described, as plainly as possible. "the day wore on, and evening came. the incident was apparently more or less forgotten by all but me, until at a.m. on the following morning, when the maid brought up tea, her first words were, 'ah, miss, is it not terrible about the accident!' naturally i said, 'what accident, mary?' she replied, 'there were thirteen people drowned yesterday evening out of a four-oared boat.' that proved that the boat i had seen at . p.m. was a vision foreshadowing the wreck of the boat off darby's garden at . p.m. the position, shape, and size of the boat seen by me were identical with the one that was lost on the evening of may , ." the second story relates how a lady witnessed a vision (shall we call it) of a suicide a week before the terrible deed was committed. this incident surely makes it clear that such cannot be looked upon as special interventions of providence, for if the lady had recognised the man, she might have prevented his rash act. mrs. macalpine says: "in june , i drove to castleblaney, in co. monaghan, to meet my sister: i expected her at three o'clock, but as she did not come by that train, i put up the horse and went for a walk in the demesne. at length becoming tired, i sat down on a rock by the edge of a lake. my attention was quite taken up with the beauty of the scene before me, as it was a glorious summer's day. presently i felt a cold chill creep through me, and a curious stiffness came over my limbs, as if i could not move, though wishing to do so. i felt frightened, yet chained to the spot, and as if impelled to stare at the water straight before me. gradually a black cloud seemed to rise, and in the midst of it i saw a tall man, in a tweed suit, jump into the water, and sink. in a moment the darkness was gone, and i again became sensible of the heat and sunshine, but i was awed, and felt eerie. this happened about june , and on july a mr.----, a bank clerk, committed suicide by drowning himself in the lake.[ ]" [footnote : _proceedings s.p.r._, x. .] the following incident occurred in the united states, but, as it is closely connected with this country, it will not seem out of place to insert it here. it is sent by mr. richard hogan as the personal experience of his sister, mrs. mary murnane, and is given in her own words. "on the th of august , at . o'clock in the morning, i left my own house, montrose st., philadelphia, to do some shopping. i had not proceeded more than fifty yards when on turning the corner of the street i observed my aunt approaching me within five or six yards. i was greatly astonished, for the last letter i had from home (limerick) stated that she was dying of consumption, but the thought occurred to me that she might have recovered somewhat, and come out to philadelphia. this opinion was quickly changed as we approached each other, for our eyes met, and she had the colour of one who had risen from the grave. i seemed to feel my hair stand on end, for just as we were about to pass each other she turned her face towards me, and i gasped, 'my god, she is dead, and is going to speak to me!' but no word was spoken, and she passed on. after proceeding a short distance i looked back, and she continued on to washington avenue, where she disappeared from me. there was no other person near at the time, and being so close, i was well able to note what she wore. she held a sunshade over her head, and the clothes, hat, etc., were those i knew so well before i left ireland. i wrote home telling what i had seen, and asking if she was dead. i received a reply saying she was not dead at the date i saw her, but had been asking if a letter had come from me for some days before her death. it was just two days before she actually died that i had seen her." chapter vii banshees, and other death-warnings of all irish ghosts, fairies, or bogles, the banshee (sometimes called locally the "boh[-e][-e]ntha" or "bank[-e][-e]ntha") is the best known to the general public: indeed, cross-channel visitors would class her with pigs, potatoes, and other fauna and flora of ireland, and would expect her to make manifest her presence to them as being one of the sights of the country. she is a spirit with a lengthy pedigree--how lengthy no man can say, as its roots go back into the dim, mysterious past. the most famous banshee of ancient times was that attached to the kingly house of o'brien, aibhill, who haunted the rock of craglea above killaloe, near the old palace of kincora. in a.d. was fought the battle of clontarf, from which the aged king, brian boru, knew that he would never come away alive, for the previous night aibhill had appeared to him to tell him of his impending fate. the banshee's method of foretelling death in olden times differed from that adopted by her at the present day: now she wails and wrings her hands, as a general rule, but in the old irish tales she is to be found washing human heads and limbs, or bloodstained clothes, till the water is all dyed with human blood--this would take place before a battle. so it would seem that in the course of centuries her attributes and characteristics have changed somewhat. very different descriptions are given of her personal appearance. sometimes she is young and beautiful, sometimes old and of a fearsome appearance. one writer describes her as "a tall, thin woman with uncovered head, and long hair that floated round her shoulders, attired in something which seemed either a loose white cloak, or a sheet thrown hastily around her, uttering piercing cries." another person, a coachman, saw her one evening sitting on a stile in the yard; she seemed to be a very small woman, with blue eyes, long light hair, and wearing a red cloak. other descriptions will be found in this chapter. by the way, it does not seem to be true that the banshee exclusively follows families of irish descent, for the last incident had reference to the death of a member of a co. galway family english by name and origin. one of the oldest and best-known banshee stories is that related in the _memoirs_ of lady fanshaw.[ ] in her husband, sir richard, and she chanced to visit a friend, the head of an irish sept, who resided in his ancient baronial castle, surrounded with a moat. at midnight she was awakened by a ghastly and supernatural scream, and looking out of bed, beheld in the moonlight a female face and part of the form hovering at the window. the distance from the ground, as well as the circumstance of the moat, excluded the possibility that what she beheld was of this world. the face was that of a young and rather handsome woman, but pale, and the hair, which was reddish, was loose and dishevelled. the dress, which lady fanshaw's terror did not prevent her remarking accurately, was that of the ancient irish. this apparition continued to exhibit itself for some time, and then vanished with two shrieks similar to that which had first excited lady fanshaw's attention. in the morning, with infinite terror, she communicated to her host what she had witnessed, and found him prepared not only to credit, but to account for the superstition. "a near relation of my family," said he, "expired last night in this castle. we disguised our certain expectation of the event from you, lest it should throw a cloud over the cheerful reception which was your due. now, before such an event happens in this family or castle, the female spectre whom you have seen is always visible. she is believed to be the spirit of a woman of inferior rank, whom one of my ancestors degraded himself by marrying, and whom afterwards, to expiate the dishonour done to his family, he caused to be drowned in the moat." in strictness this woman could hardly be termed a banshee. the motive for the haunting is akin to that in the tale of the scotch "drummer of cortachy," where the spirit of the murdered man haunts the family out of revenge, and appears before a death. [footnote : scott's _lady of the lake_, notes to canto iii (edition of ).] mr. t.j. westropp, m.a., has furnished the following story: "my maternal grandmother heard the following tradition from her mother, one of the miss ross-lewins, who witnessed the occurrence. their father, mr. harrison ross-lewin, was away in dublin on law business, and in his absence the young people went off to spend the evening with a friend who lived some miles away. the night was fine and lightsome as they were returning, save at one point where the road ran between trees or high hedges not far to the west of the old church of kilchrist. the latter, like many similar ruins, was a simple oblong building, with long side-walls and high gables, and at that time it and its graveyard were unenclosed, and lay in the open fields. as the party passed down the long dark lane they suddenly heard in the distance loud keening and clapping of hands, as the country-people were accustomed to do when lamenting the dead. the ross-lewins hurried on, and came in sight of the church, on the side wall of which a little gray-haired old woman, clad in a dark cloak, was running to and fro, chanting and wailing, and throwing up her arms. the girls were very frightened, but the young men ran forward and surrounded the ruin, and two of them went into the church, the apparition vanishing from the wall as they did so. they searched every nook, and found no one, nor did anyone pass out. all were now well scared, and got home as fast as possible. on reaching their home their mother opened the door, and at once told them that she was in terror about their father, for, as she sat looking out the window in the moonlight, a huge raven with fiery eyes lit on the sill, and tapped three times on the glass. they told her their story, which only added to their anxiety, and as they stood talking, taps came to the nearest window, and they saw the bird again. a few days later news reached them that mr. ross-lewin had died suddenly in dublin. this occurred about ." mr. westropp also writes that the sister of a former roman catholic bishop told his sisters that when she was a little girl she went out one evening with some other children for a walk. going down the road, they passed the gate of the principal demesne near the town. there was a rock, or large stone, beside the road, on which they saw something. going nearer, they perceived it to be a little dark, old woman, who began crying and clapping her hands. some of them attempted to speak to her, but got frightened, and all finally ran home as quickly as they could. next day the news came that the gentleman, near whose gate the banshee had cried, was dead, and it was found on inquiry that he had died at the very hour at which the children had seen the spectre. a lady who is a relation of one of the compilers, and a member of a co. cork family of english descent, sends the two following experiences of a banshee in her family. "my mother, when a young girl, was standing looking out of the window in their house at blackrock, near cork. she suddenly saw a white figure standing on a bridge which was easily visible from the house. the figure waved her arms towards the house, and my mother heard the bitter wailing of the banshee. it lasted some seconds, and then the figure disappeared. next morning my grandfather was walking as usual into the city of cork. he accidentally fell, hit his head against the curbstone, and never recovered consciousness. "in march , my mother was very ill, and one evening the nurse and i were with her arranging her bed. we suddenly heard the most extraordinary wailing, which seemed to come in waves round and under her bed. we naturally looked everywhere to try and find the cause, but in vain. the nurse and i looked at one another, but made no remark, as my mother did not seem to hear it. my sister was downstairs sitting with my father. she heard it, and thought some terrible thing had happened to her little boy, who was in bed upstairs. she rushed up, and found him sleeping quietly. my father did not hear it. in the house next door they heard it, and ran downstairs, thinking something had happened to the servant; but the latter at once said to them, 'did you hear the banshee? mrs. p---- must be dying.'" a few years ago (_i.e._ before ) a curious incident occurred in a public school in connection with the belief in the banshee. one of the boys, happening to become ill, was at once placed in a room by himself, where he used to sit all day. on one occasion, as he was being visited by the doctor, he suddenly started up from his seat, and affirmed that he heard somebody crying. the doctor, of course, who could hear or see nothing, came to the conclusion that the illness had slightly affected his brain. however, the boy, who appeared quite sensible, still persisted that he heard someone crying, and furthermore said, "it is the banshee, as i have heard it before." the following morning the head-master received a telegram saying that the boy's brother had been accidentally shot dead.[ ] [footnote : a.g. bradley, _notes on some irish superstitions_, p. .] that the banshee is not confined within the geographical limits of ireland, but that she can follow the fortunes of a family abroad, and there foretell their death, is clearly shewn by the following story. a party of visitors were gathered together on the deck of a private yacht on one of the italian lakes, and during a lull in the conversation one of them, a colonel, said to the owner, "count, who's that queer-looking woman you have on board?" the count replied that there was nobody except the ladies present, and the stewardess, but the speaker protested that he was correct, and suddenly, with a scream of horror, he placed his hands before his eyes, and exclaimed, "oh, my god, what a face!" for some time he was overcome with terror, and at length reluctantly looked up, and cried: "thank heavens, it's gone!" "what was it?" asked the count. "nothing human," replied the colonel--"nothing belonging to this world. it was a woman of no earthly type, with a queer-shaped, gleaming face, a mass of red hair, and eyes that would have been beautiful but for their expression, which was hellish. she had on a green hood, after the fashion of an irish peasant." an american lady present suggested that the description tallied with that of the banshee, upon which the count said: "i am an o'neill--at least i am descended from one. my family name is, as you know, neilsini, which, little more than a century ago, was o'neill. my great-grandfather served in the irish brigade, and on its dissolution at the time of the french revolution had the good fortune to escape the general massacre of officers, and in company with an o'brien and a maguire fled across the frontier and settled in italy. on his death his son, who had been born in italy, and was far more italian than irish, changed his name to neilsini, by which name the family has been known ever since. but for all that we are irish." "the banshee was yours, then!" ejaculated the colonel. "what exactly does it mean?" "it means," the count replied solemnly, "the death of some one very nearly associated with me. pray heaven it is not my wife or daughter." on that score, however, his anxiety was speedily removed, for within two hours he was seized with a violent attack of angina pectoris, and died before morning.[ ] [footnote : _occult review_ for september, .] mr. elliott o'donnell, to whose article on "banshees" we are indebted for the above, adds: "the banshee never manifests itself to the person whose death it is prognosticating. other people may see or hear it, but the fated one never, so that when everyone present is aware of it but one, the fate of that one may be regarded as pretty well certain." we must now pass on from the subject of banshees to the kindred one of "headless coaches," the belief in which is widespread through the country. apparently these dread vehicles must be distinguished from the phantom coaches, of which numerous circumstantial tales are also told. the first are harbingers of death, and in this connection are very often attached to certain families; the latter appear to be spectral phenomena pure and simple, whose appearance does not necessarily portend evil or death. "at a house in co. limerick," writes mr. t.j. westropp, "occurred the remarkably-attested apparition of the headless coach in june , when mr. ralph westropp, my great-grandfather, lay dying. the story was told by his sons, john, william, and ralph, to their respective children, who told it to me. they had sent for the doctor, and were awaiting his arrival in the dusk. as they sat on the steps they suddenly heard a heavy rumbling, and saw a huge dark coach drive into the paved court before the door. one of them went down to meet the doctor, but the coach swept past him, and drove down the avenue, which went straight between the fences and hedges to a gate. two of the young men ran after the coach, which they could hear rumbling before them, and suddenly came full tilt against the avenue gate. the noise had stopped, and they were surprised at not finding the carriage. the gate proved to be locked, and when they at last awoke the lodge-keeper, he showed them the keys under his pillow; the doctor arrived a little later, but could do nothing, and the sick man died a few hours afterwards." two other good stories come from co. clare. one night in april , two servants were sitting up to receive a son of the family, cornelius o'callaghan, who had travelled in vain for his health, and was returning home. one of them, halloran, said that the heavy rumble of a coach roused them. the other servant, burke, stood on the top of the long flight of steps with a lamp, and sent halloran down to open the carriage door. he reached out his hand to do so, saw a skeleton looking out, gave one yell, and fell in a heap. when the badly-scared burke picked himself up there was no sign or sound of any coach. a little later the invalid arrived, so exhausted that he died suddenly in the early morning. on the night of december , , a servant of the macnamaras was going his rounds at ennistymon, a beautiful spot in a wooded glen, with a broad stream falling in a series of cascades. in the dark he heard the rumbling of wheels on the back avenue, and, knowing from the hour and place that no mortal vehicle could be coming, concluded that it was the death coach, and ran on, opening the gates before it. he had just time to open the third gate, and throw himself on his face beside it, when he heard a coach go clanking past. on the following day admiral sir burton macnamara died in london. mr. westropp informs us that at sight or sound of this coach all gates should be thrown open, and then it will not stop at the house to call for a member of the family, but will only foretell the death of some relative at a distance. we hope our readers will carefully bear in mind this simple method of averting fate. we may conclude this chapter with some account of strange and varied death-warnings, which are attached to certain families and foretell the coming of the king of terrors. in a co. wicklow family a death is preceded by the appearance of a spectre; the doors of the sitting-room open and a lady dressed in white satin walks across the room and hall. before any member of a certain queen's co. family died a looking-glass was broken; while in a branch of that family the portent was the opening and shutting of the avenue gate. in another queen's co. family approaching death was heralded by the cry of the cuckoo, no matter at what season of the year it might occur. a mrs. f---- and her son lived near clonaslee. one day, in mid-winter, their servant heard a cuckoo; they went out for a drive, the trap jolted over a stone, throwing mrs. f---- out, and breaking her neck. the ringing of all the house-bells is another portent which seems to be attached to several families. in another the aeolian harp is heard at or before death; an account of this was given to the present writer by a clergyman, who declares that he heard it in the middle of the night when one of his relatives passed away. a death-warning in the shape of a white owl follows the westropp family. this last appeared, it is said, before a death in , but, as mr. t. j. westropp remarks, it would be more convincing if it appeared at places where the white owl does _not_ nest and fly out every night. no doubt this list might be drawn out to much greater length. a lady correspondent states that her cousin, a sir patrick dun's nurse, was attending a case in the town of wicklow. her patient was a middle-aged woman, the wife of a well-to-do shopkeeper. one evening the nurse was at her tea in the dining-room beneath the sick-room, when suddenly she heard a tremendous crash overhead. fearing her patient had fallen out of bed, she hurried upstairs, to find her dozing quietly, and there was not the least sign of any disturbance. a member of the family, to whom she related this, told her calmly that that noise was always heard in their house before the death of any of them, and that it was a sure sign that the invalid would not recover. contrary to the nurse's expectations, she died the following day. knocking on the door is another species of death-warning. the rev. d. b. knox writes: "on the evening before the wife of a clerical friend of mine died, the knocker of the hall-door was loudly rapped. all in the room heard it. the door was opened, but there was no one there. again the knocker was heard, but no one was to be seen when the door was again opened. a young man, brother of the dying woman, went into the drawing-room, and looked through one of the drawing-room windows. the full light of the moon fell on the door, and as he looked the knocker was again lifted and loudly rapped." the following portent occurs in a co. cork family. at one time the lady of the house lay ill, and her two daughters were aroused one night by screams proceeding from their mother's room. they rushed in, and found her sitting up in bed, staring at some object unseen to them, but which, from the motion of her eyes, appeared to be moving across the floor. when she became calm she told them, what they had not known before, that members of the family were sometimes warned of the death, or approaching death, of some other member by the appearance of a ball of fire, which would pass slowly through the room; this phenomenon she had just witnessed. a day or two afterwards the mother heard of the death of her brother, who lived in the colonies. a strange appearance, known as the "scanlan lights," is connected with the family of scanlan of ballyknockane, co. limerick, and is seen frequently at the death of a member. the traditional origin of the lights is connected with a well-known irish legend, which we give here briefly. scanlan mor (died a.d. ), king of ossory, from whom the family claim descent, was suspected of disaffection by aedh mac ainmire, ard-righ of ireland, who cast him into prison, and loaded him with fetters. when st. columcille attended the synod of drom ceat, he besought aedh to free his captive, but the ard-righ churlishly refused; whereupon columcille declared that he should be freed, and that that very night he should unloose his (the saint's) brogues. columcille went away, and that night a bright pillar of fire appeared in the air, and hung over the house where scanlan was imprisoned. a beam of light darted into the room where he lay, and a voice called to him, bidding him rise, and shake off his fetters. in amazement he did so, and was led out past his guards by an angel. he made his way to columcille, with whom he was to continue that night, and as the saint stooped down to unloose his brogues scanlan anticipated him, as he had prophesied.[ ] [footnote : canon carrigan, in his _history of the diocese of ossory_ (i. intro.), shows that this legend should rather be connected with scanlan son of ceannfaeladh.] such appears to be the traditional origin of the "scanlan lights." our correspondent adds: "these are always seen at the demise of a member of the family. we have ascertained that by the present head of the family (scanlan of ballyknockane) they were seen, first, as a pillar of fire with radiated crown at the top; and secondly, inside the house, by the room being lighted up brightly in the night. by other members of the family now living these lights have been seen in the shape of balls of fire of various sizes." the above was copied from a private manuscript written some few years ago. our correspondent further states: "i also have met with four persons in this county [limerick] who have seen the lights on knockfierna near ballyknockane before the death of a scanlan, one of the four being the late head of the family and owner, william scanlan, j.p., who saw the flames on the hill-side on the day of his aunt's death some years ago. the last occasion was as late as , on the eve of the death of a scanlan related to the present owner of ballyknockane." in front of the residence of the g---- family in co. galway there is, or formerly was, a round ring of grass surrounded by a low evergreen hedge. the lady who related this story to our informant stated that one evening dinner was kept waiting for mr. g----, who was absent in town on some business. she went out on the hall-door steps in order to see if the familiar trot of the carriage horses could be heard coming down the road. it was a bright moonlight night, and as she stood there she heard a child crying with a peculiar whining cry, and distinctly saw a small childlike figure running round and round the grass ring inside the evergreen hedge, and casting a shadow in the moonlight. going into the house she casually mentioned this as a peculiar circumstance to mrs. g----, upon which, to her great surprise, that lady nearly fainted, and got into a terrible state of nervousness. recovering a little, she told her that this crying and figure were always heard and seen whenever any member met with an accident, or before a death. a messenger was immediately sent to meet mr. g----, who was found lying senseless on the road, as the horses had taken fright and bolted, flinging him out, and breaking the carriage-pole. but of all the death-warnings in connection with irish families surely the strangest is the gormanstown foxes. the crest of that noble family is a running fox, while the same animal also forms one of the supporters of the coat-of-arms. the story is, that when the head of the house is dying the foxes--not spectral foxes, but creatures of flesh and blood--leave the coverts and congregate at gormanstown castle. let us see what proof there is of this. when jenico, the th viscount, was dying in , foxes were seen about the house and moving towards the house for some days previously. just before his death three foxes were playing about and making a noise close to the house, and just in front of the "cloisters," which are yew-trees planted and trained in that shape. the hon. mrs. farrell states as regards the same that the foxes came in pairs into the demesne, and sat under the viscount's bedroom window, and barked and howled all night. next morning they were to be found crouching about in the grass in front and around the house. they walked through the poultry and never touched them. after the funeral they disappeared. at the death of edward, the th viscount, in , the foxes were also there. he had been rather better one day, but the foxes appeared, barking under the window, and he died that night contrary to expectation. on october , , jenico, the th viscount, died in dublin. about o'clock that night the coachman and gardener saw two foxes near the chapel (close to the house), five or six more round the front of the house, and several crying in the "cloisters." two days later the hon. richard preston, r.f.a., was watching by his father's body in the above chapel. about a.m. he became conscious of a slight noise, which seemed to be that of a number of people walking stealthily around the chapel on the gravel walk. he went to the side door, listened, and heard outside a continuous and insistent snuffling or sniffing noise, accompanied by whimperings and scratchings at the door. on opening it he saw a full-grown fox sitting on the path within four feet of him. just in the shadow was another, while he could hear several more moving close by in the darkness. he then went to the end door, opposite the altar, and on opening it saw two more foxes, one so close that he could have touched it with his foot. on shutting the door the noise continued till a.m., when it suddenly ceased.[ ] [footnote : _new ireland review_ for april , by permission of the publishers, messrs sealy bryers, & walker.] chapter viii miscellaneous supernormal experiences the matter in this chapter does not seem, strictly speaking, to come under the head of any of the preceding ones: it contains no account of houses or places permanently haunted, or of warnings of impending death. rather we have gathered up in it a number of tales relative to the appearance of the "wraiths" of living men, or accounts of visions, strange apparitions, or extraordinary experiences; some few of these have a purpose, while the majority are strangely aimless and purposeless--something is seen or heard, that is all, and no results, good or bad, follow. we commence with one which, however, certainly indicates a purpose which was fulfilled. it is the experience of mrs. seymour, wife to one of the compilers. when she was a little girl she resided in dublin; amongst the members of the family was her paternal grandmother. this old lady was not as kind as she might have been to her grand-daughter, and consequently the latter was somewhat afraid of her. in process of time the grandmother died. mrs. seymour, who was then about eight years of age, had to pass the door of the room where the death occurred in order to reach her own bedroom, which was a flight higher up. past this door the child used to fly in terror with all possible speed. on one occasion, however, as she was preparing to make the usual rush past, she distinctly felt a hand placed on her shoulder, and became conscious of a voice saying, "don't be afraid, mary!" from that day on the child never had the least feeling of fear, and always walked quietly past the door. the rev. d. b. knox sends a curious personal experience, which was shared by him with three other people. he writes as follows: "not very long ago my wife and i were preparing to retire for the night. a niece, who was in the house, was in her bedroom and the door was open. the maid had just gone to her room. all four of us distinctly heard the heavy step of a man walking along the corridor, apparently in the direction of the bathroom. we searched the whole house immediately, but no one was discovered. nothing untoward happened except the death of the maid's mother about a fortnight later. it was a detached house, so that the noise could not have been made by the neighbours." in the following tale the "double" or "wraith" of a living man was seen by three different people, one of whom, our correspondent, saw it through a telescope. she writes: "in may the parish of a---- was vacant, so mr. d----, the diocesan curate, used to come out to take service on sundays. one day there were two funerals to be taken, the one at a graveyard some distance off, the other at a---- churchyard. my brother was at both, the far-off one being taken the first. the house we then lived in looked down towards a---- churchyard, which was about a quarter of a mile away. from an upper window my sister and i saw _two_ surpliced figures going out to meet the coffin, and said, 'why, there are two clergy!' having supposed that there would be only mr. d----. i, being short-sighted, used a telescope, and saw the two surplices showing between the people. but when my brother returned he said, 'a strange thing has happened. mr. d---- and mr. w----(curate of a neighbouring parish) took the far-off funeral. i saw them both again at a----, but when i went into the vestry i only saw mr. w----. i asked where mr. d---- was, and he replied that he had left immediately after the first funeral, as he had to go to kilkenny, and that he (mr. w----) had come on _alone_ to take the funeral at a----.'" here is a curious tale from the city of limerick of a lady's "double" being seen, with no consequent results. it is sent by mr. richard hogan as the personal experience of his sister, mrs. mary murnane. on saturday, october , , at half-past four o'clock in the afternoon, mr. hogan left the house in order to purchase some cigarettes. a quarter of an hour afterwards mrs. murnane went down the town to do some business. as she was walking down george street she saw a group of four persons standing on the pavement engaged in conversation. they were: her brother, a mr. o's----, and two ladies, a miss p. o'd----, and her sister, miss m. o'd----. she recognised the latter, as her face was partly turned towards her, and noted that she was dressed in a knitted coat, and light blue hat, while in her left hand she held a bag or purse; the other lady's back was turned towards her. as mrs. murnane was in a hurry to get her business done she determined to pass them by without being noticed, but a number of people coming in the opposite direction blocked the way, and compelled her to walk quite close to the group of four; but they were so intent on listening to what one lady was saying that they took no notice of her. the speaker appeared to be miss m. o'd----, and, though mrs. murnane did not actually hear her _speak_ as she passed her, yet from their attitudes the other three seemed to be listening to what she was saying, and she heard her _laugh_ when right behind her--not the laugh of her sister p.--and the laugh was repeated after she had left the group a little behind. so far there is nothing out of the common. when mrs. murnane returned to her house about an hour later she found her brother richard there before her. she casually mentioned to him how she had passed him and his three companions on the pavement. to which he replied that she was quite correct except in one point, namely that there were only _three_ in the group, as m. o'd---- _was not present_ as she had not come to limerick at all that day. she then described to him the exact position each one of the four occupied, and the clothes worn by them; to all of which facts he assented, except as to the presence of miss m. o'd----. mrs. murnane adds, "that is all i can say in the matter, but most certainly the fourth person was in the group, as i both saw and heard her. she wore the same clothes i had seen on her previously, with the exception of the hat; but the following saturday she had on the same coloured hat i had seen on her the previous saturday. when i told her about it she was as much mystified as i was and am. my brother stated that there was no laugh from any of the three present." mrs. g. kelly sends an experience of a "wraith," which seems in some mysterious way to have been conjured up in her mind by the description she had heard, and then externalised. she writes: "about four years ago a musical friend of ours was staying in the house. he and my husband were playing and singing dvorak's _spectre's bride_, a work which he had studied with the composer himself. this music appealed very much to both, and they were excited and enthusiastic over it. our friend was giving many personal reminiscences of dvorak, and his method of explaining the way he wanted his work done. i was sitting by, an interested listener, for some time. on getting up at last, and going into the drawing-room, i was startled and somewhat frightened to find a man standing there in a shadowy part of the room. i saw him distinctly, and could describe his appearance accurately. i called out, and the two men ran in, but as the apparition only lasted for a second, they were too late. i described the man whom i had seen, whereupon our friend exclaimed, 'why, that was dvorak himself!' at that time i had never seen a picture of dvorak, but when our friend returned to london he sent me one which i recognised as the likeness of the man whom i had seen in our drawing-room." a curious vision, a case of second sight, in which a quite unimportant event, previously unknown, was revealed, is sent by the percipient, who is a lady well known to both the compilers, and a life-long friend of one of them. she says: "last summer i sent a cow to the fair of limerick, a distance of about thirteen miles, and the men who took her there the day before the fair left her in a paddock for the night close to limerick city. i awoke up very early next morning, and was fully awake when i saw (not with my ordinary eyesight, but apparently _inside_ my head) a light, an intensely brilliant light, and in it i saw the back gate being opened by a red-haired woman and the cow i had supposed in the fair walking through the gate. i then knew that the cow must be home, and going to the yard later on i was met by the wife of the man who was in charge in a great state of excitement. 'oh law! miss,' she exclaimed, 'you'll be mad! didn't julia [a red-haired woman] find the cow outside the lodge gate as she was going out at o'clock to the milking!' that's my tale--perfectly true, and i would give a good deal to be able to control that light, and see more if i could." another curious vision was seen by a lady who is also a friend of both the compilers. one night she was kneeling at her bedside saying her prayers (hers was the only bed in the room), when suddenly she felt a distinct touch on her shoulder. she turned round in the direction of the touch and saw at the end of the room a bed, with a pale, indistinguishable figure laid therein, and what appeared to be a clergyman standing over it. about a week later she fell into a long and dangerous illness. an account of a dream which implied an extraordinary coincidence, if coincidence it be and nothing more, was sent as follows by a correspondent, who requested that no names be published. "that which i am about to relate has a peculiar interest for me, inasmuch as the central figure in it was my own grand-aunt, and moreover the principal witness (if i may use such a term) was my father. at the period during which this strange incident occurred my father was living with his aunt and some other relatives. "one morning at the breakfast-table, my grand-aunt announced that she had had a most peculiar dream during the previous night. my father, who was always very interested in that kind of thing, took down in his notebook all the particulars concerning it. they were as follows. "my grand-aunt dreamt that she was in a cemetery, which she recognised as glasnevin, and as she gazed at the memorials of the dead which lay so thick around, one stood out most conspicuously, and caught her eye, for she saw clearly cut on the cold white stone _an inscription bearing her own name:_ clare s.d-- died th of march, dearly loved and ever mourned. r.i.p. while, to add to the peculiarity of it, the date on the stone as given above was, from the day of her dream, exactly a year in advance. "my grand-aunt was not very nervous, and soon the dream faded from her mind. months rolled by, and one morning at breakfast it was noticed that my grand-aunt had not appeared, but as she was a very religious woman it was thought that she had gone out to church. however, as she did not appear my father sent someone to her room to see if she were there, and as no answer was given to repeated knocking the door was opened, and my grand-aunt was found kneeling at her bedside, dead. the day of her death was march , , corresponding exactly with the date seen in her dream a twelvemonth before. my grand-aunt was buried in glasnevin, and on her tombstone (a white marble slab) was placed the inscription which she had read in her dream." our correspondent sent us a photograph of the stone and its inscription. the present archdeacon of limerick, ven. j. a. haydn, ll.d., sends the following experience: "in the year i was rector of the little rural parish of chapel russell. one autumn day the rain fell with a quiet, steady, and hopeless persistence from morning to night. wearied at length from the gloom, and tired of reading and writing, i determined to walk to the church about half a mile away, and pass a half-hour playing the harmonium, returning for the lamp-light and tea. "i wrapped up, put the key of the church in my pocket, and started. arriving at the church, i walked up the straight avenue, bordered with graves and tombs on either side, while the soft, steady rain quietly pattered on the trees. when i reached the church door, before putting the key in the lock, moved by some indefinable impulse, i stood on the doorstep, turned round, and looked back upon the path i had just trodden. my amazement may be imagined when i saw, seated on a low, tabular tombstone close to the avenue, a lady with her back towards me. she was wearing a black velvet jacket or short cape, with a narrow border of vivid white: her head, and luxuriant jet-black hair, were surmounted by a hat of the shape and make that i think used to be called at that time a "turban"; it was also of black velvet, with a snow-white wing or feather at the right-hand side of it. it may be seen how deliberately and minutely i observed the appearance, when i can thus recall it after more than forty years. "actuated by a desire to attract the attention of the lady, and induce her to look towards me, i noisily inserted the key in the door, and suddenly opened it with a rusty crack. turning round to see the effect of my policy--the lady was gone!--vanished! not yet daunted, i hurried to the place, which was not ten paces away, and closely searched the stone and the space all round it, but utterly in vain; there were absolutely no traces of the late presence of a human being! i may add that nothing particular or remarkable followed the singular apparition, and that i never heard anything calculated to throw any light on the mystery." here is a story of a ghost who knew what it wanted--and got it! "in the part of co. wicklow from which my people come," writes a miss d----, "there was a family who were not exactly related, but of course of the clan. many years ago a young daughter, aged about twenty, died. before her death she had directed her parents to bury her in a certain graveyard. but for some reason they did not do so, and from that hour she gave them no peace. she appeared to them at all hours, especially when they went to the well for water. so distracted were they, that at length they got permission to exhume the remains and have them reinterred in the desired graveyard. this they did by torchlight--a weird scene truly! i can vouch for the truth of this latter portion, at all events, as some of my own relatives were present." mr. t. j. westropp contributes a tale of a ghost of an unusual type, _i.e._ one which actually did communicate matters of importance to his family. "a lady who related many ghost stories to me, also told me how, after her father's death, the family could not find some papers or receipts of value. one night she awoke, and heard a sound which she at once recognised as the footsteps of her father, who was lame. the door creaked, and she prayed that she might be able to see him. her prayer was granted: she saw him distinctly holding a yellow parchment book tied with tape. 'f----, child,' said he, 'this is the book your mother is looking for. it is in the third drawer of the cabinet near the cross-door; tell your mother to be more careful in future about business papers.' incontinent he vanished, and she at once awoke her mother, in whose room she was sleeping, who was very angry and ridiculed the story, but the girl's earnestness at length impressed her. she got up, went to the old cabinet, and at once found the missing book in the third drawer." here is another tale of an equally useful and obliging ghost. "a gentleman, a relative of my own," writes a lady, "often received warnings from his dead father of things that were about to happen. besides the farm on which he lived, he had another some miles away which adjoined a large demesne. once in a great storm a fir-tree was blown down in the demesne, and fell into his field. the woodranger came to him and told him he might as well cut up the tree, and take it away. accordingly one day he set out for this purpose, taking with him two men and a cart. he got into the fields by a stile, while his men went on to a gate. as he approached a gap between two fields he saw, standing in it, his father as plainly as he ever saw him in life, and beckoning him back warningly. unable to understand this, he still advanced, whereupon his father looked very angry, and his gestures became imperious. this induced him to turn away, so he sent his men home, and left the tree uncut. he subsequently discovered that a plot had been laid by the woodranger, who coveted his farm, and who hoped to have him dispossessed by accusing him of stealing the tree." a clergyman in the diocese of clogher gave a personal experience of table-turning to the present dean of st. patrick's, who kindly sent the same to the writer. he said: "when i was a young man, i met some friends one evening, and we decided to amuse ourselves with table-turning. the local dispensary was vacant at the time, so we said that if the table would work we should ask who would be appointed as medical officer. as we sat round it touching it with our hands it began to knock. we said: "'who are you?' "the table spelt out the name of a bishop of the church of ireland. we asked, thinking that the answer was absurd, as we knew him to be alive and well: "'are you dead?' "the table answered 'yes.' "we laughed at this and asked: "'who will be appointed to the dispensary?' "the table spelt out the name of a stranger, who was not one of the candidates, whereupon we left off, thinking that the whole thing was nonsense. "the next morning i saw in the papers that the bishop in question had died that afternoon about two hours before our meeting, and a few days afterwards i saw the name of the stranger as the new dispensary doctor. i got such a shock that i determined never to have anything to do with table-turning again." the following extraordinary personal experience is sent by a lady, well known to the present writer, but who requests that all names be omitted. whatever explanation we may give of it, the good faith of the tale is beyond doubt. "two or three months after my father-in-law's death my husband, myself, and three small sons lived in the west of ireland. as my husband was a young barrister, he had to be absent from home a good deal. my three boys slept in my bedroom, the eldest being about four, the youngest some months. a fire was kept up every night, and with a young child to look after, i was naturally awake more than once during the night. for many nights i believed i distinctly saw my father-in-law sitting by the fireside. this happened, not once or twice, but many times. he was passionately fond of his eldest grandson, who lay sleeping calmly in his cot. being so much alone probably made me restless and uneasy, though i never felt _afraid_. i mentioned this strange thing to a friend who had known and liked my father-in-law, and she advised me to 'have his soul laid,' as she termed it. though i was a protestant and she was a roman catholic (as had also been my father-in-law), yet i fell in with her suggestion. she told me to give a coin to the next beggar that came to the house, telling him (or her) to pray for the rest of mr. so-and-so's soul. a few days later a beggar-woman and her children came to the door, to whom i gave a coin and stated my desire. to my great surprise i learned from her manner that such requests were not unusual. well, she went down on her knees on the steps, and prayed with apparent earnestness and devotion that his soul might find repose. once again he appeared, and seemed to say to me, 'why did you do that, e----? to come and sit here was the only comfort i had.' never again did he appear, and strange to say, after a lapse of more than thirty years i have felt regret at my selfishness in interfering. "after his death, as he lay in the house awaiting burial, and i was in a house some ten miles away, i thought that he came and told me that i would have a hard life, which turned out only too truly. i was then young, and full of life, with every hope of a prosperous future." of all the strange beliefs to be found in ireland that in the black dog is the most widespread. there is hardly a parish in the country but could contribute some tale relative to this spectre, though the majority of these are short, and devoid of interest. there is said to be such a dog just outside the avenue gate of donohill rectory, but neither of the compilers have had the good luck to see it. it may be, as some hold, that this animal was originally a cloud or nature-myth; at all events, it has now descended to the level of an ordinary haunting. the most circumstantial story that we have met with relative to the black dog is that related as follows by a clergyman of the church of ireland, who requests us to refrain from publishing his name. "in my childhood i lived in the country. my father, in addition to his professional duties, sometimes did a little farming in an amateurish sort of way. he did not keep a regular staff of labourers, and consequently when anything extra had to be done, such as hay-cutting or harvesting, he used to employ day-labourers to help with the work. at such times i used to enjoy being in the fields with the men, listening to their conversation. on one occasion i heard a labourer remark that he had once seen the devil! of course i was interested and asked him to give me his experience. he said he was walking along a certain road, and when he came to a point where there was an entrance to a private place (the spot was well known to me), he saw a black dog sitting on the roadside. at the time he paid no attention to it, thinking it was an ordinary retriever, but after he had passed on about two or three hundred yards he found the dog was beside him, and then he noticed that its eyes were blood-red. he stooped down, and picked up some stones in order to frighten it away, but though he threw the stones at it they did not injure it, nor indeed did they seem to have any effect. suddenly, after a few moments, the dog vanished from his sight. "such was the labourer's tale. after some years, during which time i had forgotten altogether about the man's story, some friends of my own bought the place at the entrance to which the apparition had been seen. when my friends went to reside there i was a constant visitor at their house. soon after their arrival they began to be troubled by the appearance of a black dog. though i never saw it myself, it appeared to many members of the family. the avenue leading to the house was a long one, and it was customary for the dog to appear and accompany people for the greater portion of the way. such an effect had this on my friends that they soon gave up the house, and went to live elsewhere. this was a curious corroboration of the labourer's tale." as we have already stated in chapter vii, a distinction must be drawn between the so-called _headless_ coach, which portends death, and the _phantom_ coach, which appears to be a harmless sort of vehicle. with regard to the latter we give two tales below, the first of which was sent by a lady whose father was a clergyman, and a gold medallist of trinity college, dublin. "some years ago my family lived in co. down. our house was some way out of a fair-sized manufacturing town, and had a short avenue which ended in a gravel sweep in front of the hall door. one winter's evening, when my father was returning from a sick call, a carriage going at a sharp pace passed him on the avenue. he hurried on, thinking it was some particular friends, but when he reached the door no carriage was to be seen, so he concluded it must have gone round to the stables. the servant who answered his ring said that no visitors had been there, and he, feeling certain that the girl had made some mistake, or that some one else had answered the door, came into the drawing-room to make further inquiries. no visitors had come, however, though those sitting in the drawing-room had also heard the carriage drive up. "my father was most positive as to what he had seen, viz. a closed carriage with lamps lit; and let me say at once that he was a clergyman who was known throughout the whole of the north of ireland as a most level-headed man, and yet to the day of his death he would insist that he met that carriage on our avenue. "one day in july one of our servants was given leave to go home for the day, but was told she must return by a certain train. for some reason she did not come by it, but by a much later one, and rushed into the kitchen in a most penitent frame of mind. 'i am so sorry to be late,' she told the cook, 'especially as there were visitors. i suppose they stayed to supper, as they were so late going away, for i met the carriage on the avenue.' the cook thereupon told her that no one had been at the house, and hinted that she must have seen the ghost-carriage, a statement that alarmed her very much, as the story was well known in the town, and car-drivers used to whip up their horses as they passed our gate, while pedestrians refused to go at all except in numbers. we have often _heard_ the carriage, but these are the only two occasions on which i can positively assert that it was _seen_." the following personal experience of the phantom coach was given to the present writer by mr. matthias fitzgerald, coachman to miss cooke, of cappagh house, co. limerick. he stated that one moonlight night he was driving along the road from askeaton to limerick when he heard coming up behind him the roll of wheels, the clatter of horses' hoofs, and the jingling of the bits. he drew over to his own side to let this carriage pass, but nothing passed. he then looked back, but could see nothing, the road was perfectly bare and empty, though the sounds were perfectly audible. this continued for about a quarter of an hour or so, until he came to a cross-road, down one arm of which he had to turn. as he turned off he heard the phantom carriage dash by rapidly along the straight road. he stated that other persons had had similar experiences on the same road. chapter ix legendary and ancestral ghosts whatever explanations may be given of the various stories told in our previous chapters, the facts as stated therein are in almost every case vouched for on reliable authority. we now turn to stories of a different kind, most of which have no evidence of any value in support of the _facts_, but which have been handed down from generation to generation, and deserve our respect, if only for their antiquity. we make no apology for giving them here, for, in addition to the interesting reading they provide, they also serve a useful purpose as a contrast to authenticated ghost stories. the student of folklore will find parallels to some of them in the tales of other nations. lord walter fitzgerald sends us the following: "garrett oge" (or gerald the younger) "fitzgerald, th earl of kildare, died in london on the th november ; his body was brought back to ireland and interred in st. brigid's cathedral, in kildare. he was known as 'the wizard earl' on account of his practising the black art, whereby he was enabled to transform himself into other shapes, either bird or beast according to his choice; so notorious was his supernatural power that he became the terror of the countryside. "his wife, the countess, had long wished to see some proof of his skill, and had frequently begged him to transform himself before her, but he had steadily refused to do so, as he said if he did and she became afraid, he would be taken from her, and she would never see him again. still she persisted, and at last he said he would do as she wished on condition that she should first of all undergo three trials to test her courage; to this she willingly agreed. in the first trial the river greese, which flows past the castle walls, at a sign from the earl overflowed its banks and flooded the banqueting hall in which the earl and countess were sitting. she showed no sign of fear, and at the earl's command the river receded to its normal course. at the second trial a huge eel-like monster appeared, which entered by one of the windows, crawled about among the furniture of the banqueting hall, and finally coiled itself round the body of the countess. still she showed no fear, and at a nod from the earl the animal uncoiled itself and disappeared. in the third test an intimate friend of the countess, long since dead, entered the room, and passing slowly by her went out at the other end. she showed not the slightest sign of fear, and the earl felt satisfied that he could place his fate in her keeping, but he again warned her of his danger if she lost her presence of mind while he was in another shape. he then turned himself into a black bird, flew about the room, and perching on the countess's shoulder commenced to sing. suddenly a black cat appeared from under a chest, and made a spring at the bird; in an agony of fear for its safety the countess threw up her arms to protect it and swooned away. when she came to she was alone, the bird and the cat had disappeared, and she never saw the earl again." it is said that he and his knights lie in an enchanted sleep, with their horses beside them, in a cave under the rath on the hill of mullaghmast, which stands, as the crow flies, five miles to the north of kilkea castle. once in seven years they are allowed to issue forth; they gallop round the curragh, thence across country to kilkea castle, where they re-enter the haunted wing, and then return to the rath of mullaghmast. the earl is easily recognised as he is mounted on a white charger shod with silver shoes; when these shoes are worn out the enchantment will be broken, and he will issue forth, drive the foes of ireland from the land, and reign for a seven times seven number of years over the vast estates of his ancestors. shortly before ' he was seen on the curragh by a blacksmith who was crossing it in an ass-cart from athgarvan to kildare. a fairy blast overtook him, and he had just time to say, "god speed ye gentlemen" to the invisible "good people," when he heard horses galloping up behind him; pulling to one side of the road he looked back and was terrified at seeing a troop of knights, fully armed, led by one on a white horse. the leader halted his men, and riding up to the blacksmith asked him to examine his shoes. almost helpless from fear he stumbled out of the ass-cart and looked at each shoe, which was of silver, and then informed the knight that all the nails were sound. the knight thanked him, rejoined his troop, and galloped off. the blacksmith in a half-dazed state hastened on to kildare, where he entered a public-house, ordered a noggin of whisky, and drank it neat. when he had thoroughly come to himself he told the men that were present what had happened to him on the curragh; one old man who had listened to him said: "by the mortial! man, ye are after seeing 'gerod earla.'" this fully explained the mystery. gerod earla, or earl gerald, is the name by which the wizard earl is known by the peasantry. one other legend is told in connection with the wizard earl of a considerably later date. it is said that a farmer was returning from a fair in athy late one evening in the direction of ballintore, and when passing within view of the rath of mullaghmast he was astonished to see a bright light apparently issuing from it. dismounting from his car he went to investigate. on approaching the rath he noticed that the light was proceeding from a cave in which were sleeping several men in armour, with their horses beside them. he cautiously crept up to the entrance, and seeing that neither man nor beast stirred he grew bolder and entered the chamber; he then examined the saddlery on the horses, and the armour of the men, and plucking up courage began slowly to draw a sword from its sheath; as he did so the owner's head began to rise, and he heard a voice in irish say, "is the time yet come?" in terror the farmer, as he shoved the sword back, replied, "it is not, your honour," and then fled from the place. it is said that if the farmer had only completely unsheathed the sword the enchantment would have been broken, and the earl would have come to his own again. in wallstown castle, the seat of the wall family, in county cork, was burnt down by the cromwellian troops, and colonel wall, the head of the family, was captured and imprisoned in cork jail, where he died. one of the defenders during the siege was a man named henry bennett, who was killed while fighting. his ghost was often seen about the place for years after his death. his dress was of a light colour, and he wore a white hat, while in his hand he carried a pole, which he used to place across the road near the castle to stop travellers; on a polite request to remove the pole he would withdraw it, and laugh heartily. a caretaker in the place named philip coughlan used frequently to be visited by this apparition. he came generally about supper time, and while coughlan and his wife were seated at table he would shove the pole through the window; coughlan would beg him to go away and not interfere with a poor hard-worked man; the pole would then be withdrawn, with a hearty laugh from the ghost. in the parish church of ardtrea, near cookstown, is a marble monument and inscription in memory of thomas meredith, d.d., who had been a fellow of trinity college, dublin, and for six years rector of the parish. he died, according to the words of the inscription, on nd may , as a result of "a sudden and awful visitation." a local legend explains this "visitation," by stating that a ghost haunted the rectory, the visits of which had caused his family and servants to leave the house. the rector had tried to shoot it but failed; then he was told to use a silver bullet; he did so, and next morning was found dead at his hall-door while a hideous object like a devil made horrid noises out of any window the servant man approached. this man was advised by some roman catholic neighbours to get the priest, who would "lay" the thing. the priest arrived, and with the help of a jar of whisky the ghost became quite civil, till the last glass in the jar, which the priest was about to empty out for himself, whereupon the ghost or devil made himself as thin and long as a lough neagh eel, and slipped himself into the jar to get the last drops. but the priest put the cork into its place and hammered it in, and, making the sign of the cross on it, he had the evil thing secured. it was buried in the cellar of the rectory, where on some nights it can still be heard calling to be let out. a story of a phantom rat, which comes from limerick, is only one of many which show the popular irish belief in hauntings by various animals. many years ago, the legend runs, a young man was making frantic and unacceptable love to a girl. at last, one day when he was following her in the street, she turned on him and, pointing to a rat which some boys had just killed, said, "i'd as soon marry that rat as you." he took her cruel words so much to heart that he pined away and died. after his death the girl was haunted at night by a rat, and in spite of the constant watch of her mother and sisters she was more than once bitten. the priest was called in and could do nothing, so she determined to emigrate. a coasting vessel was about to start for queenstown, and her friends, collecting what money they could, managed to get her on board. the ship had just cast off from the quay, when shouts and screams were heard up the street. the crowd scattered, and a huge rat with fiery eyes galloped down to the quay. it sat upon the edge screaming hate, sprang off, and did not reappear. after that, we are told, the girl was never again haunted. a legend of the tirawley family relates how a former lord tirawley, who was a very wild and reckless man, was taken from this world. one evening, it is said, just as the nobleman was preparing for a night's carouse, a carriage drove up to his door, a stranger asked to see him and, after a long private conversation, drove away as mysteriously as he had come. whatever words had passed they had a wonderful effect on the gay lord, for his ways were immediately changed, and he lived the life of a reformed man. as time went on the effect of whatever awful warning the mysterious visitor had given him wore off, and he began to live a life even more wild and reckless than before. on the anniversary of the visit he was anxious and gloomy, but he tried to make light of it. the day passed, and at night there was high revelry in the banqueting hall. outside it was wet and stormy, when just before midnight the sound of wheels was heard in the courtyard. all the riot stopped; the servants opened the door in fear and trembling: outside stood a huge dark coach with four black horses. the "fearful guest" entered and beckoned to lord tirawley, who followed him to a room off the hall. the friends, sobered by fear, saw through the door the stranger drawing a ship on the wall; the piece of wall then detached itself and the ship grew solid, the stranger climbed into it, and lord tirawley followed without a struggle. the vessel then sailed away into the night, and neither it nor its occupants were ever seen again. the above tale is a good example of how a legend will rise superior to the ordinary humdrum facts of life, for it strikes us at once that the gloomy spectre went to unnecessary trouble in constructing a ship, even though the task proved so simple to his gifted hands. but the coach was at the door, and surely it would have been less troublesome to have used it. a strange legend is told of a house in the boyne valley. it is said that the occupant of the guest chamber was always wakened on the first night of his visit, then he would see a pale light and the shadow of a skeleton "climbing the wall like a huge spider." it used to crawl out on to the ceiling, and when it reached the middle would materialise into apparent bones, holding on by its hands and feet; it would break in pieces, and first the skull and then the other bones would fall on the floor. one person had the courage to get up and try to seize a bone, but his hand passed through to the carpet though the heap was visible for a few seconds. the following story can hardly be called _legendary_, though it may certainly be termed ancestral. the writer's name is not given, but he is described as a rector and rural dean in the late established church of ireland, and a justice of the peace for two counties. it has this added interest that it was told to queen victoria by the marchioness of ely. "loftus hall, in county wexford, was built on the site of a stronghold erected by raymond, one of strongbow's followers. his descendants forfeited it in , and the property subsequently fell into the hands of the loftus family, one of whom built the house and other buildings. about the middle of the eighteenth century, there lived at loftus hall charles tottenham, a member of the irish parliament, known to fame as 'tottenham and his boots,' owing to his historic ride to the irish capital in order to give the casting vote in a motion which saved £ , to the irish treasury. "the second son, charles tottenham, had two daughters, elizabeth and anne, to the latter of whom our story relates. he came to live at loftus hall, the old baronial residence of the family, with his second wife and the two above-mentioned daughters of his first wife. loftus hall was an old rambling mansion, with no pretence to beauty: passages that led nowhere, large dreary rooms, small closets, various unnecessary nooks and corners, panelled or wainscotted walls, and a _tapestry chamber_. here resided at the time my story commences charles tottenham, his second wife and his daughter anne: elizabeth, his second daughter, having been married. the father was a cold austere man; the stepmother such as that unamiable relation is generally represented to be. what and how great the state of lonely solitude and depression of mind of poor anne must have been in such a place, without neighbours or any home sympathy, may easily be imagined. "one wet and stormy night, as they sat in the large drawing-room, they were startled by a loud knocking at the outer gate, a most surprising and unusual occurrence. presently the servant announced that a young gentleman on horseback was there requesting lodging and shelter. he had lost his way, his horse was knocked up, and he had been guided by the only light which he had seen. the stranger was admitted and refreshed, and proved himself to be an agreeable companion and a finished gentleman--far too agreeable for the lone scion of the house of tottenham, for a sad and mournful tale follows, and one whose strange results continued almost to the present day. "much mystery has involved the story at the present point, and in truth the matter was left in such silence and obscurity, that, but for the acts of her who was the chief sufferer in it through several generations, nothing would now be known. the fact, i believe, was--which was not unnatural under the circumstances--that this lonely girl formed a strong attachment to this gallant youth chance had brought to her door, which was warmly returned. the father, as was his stern nature, was obdurate, and the wife no solace to her as she was a step-mother. it is only an instance of the refrain of the old ballad, 'he loved, and he rode away'; he had youth and friends, and stirring scenes, and soon forgot his passing attachment. poor anne's reason gave way. "the fact is but too true, she became a confirmed maniac, and had to be confined for the rest of her life in the tapestried chamber before mentioned, and in which she died. a strange legend was at once invented to account for this calamity: it tells how the horseman proved such an agreeable acquisition that he was invited to remain some days, and made himself quite at home, and as they were now four in number whist was proposed in the evenings. the stranger, however, with anne as his partner, invariably won every point; the old couple never had the smallest success. one night, when poor anne was in great delight at winning so constantly, she dropped a ring on the floor, and, suddenly diving under the table to recover it, was terrified to see that her agreeable partner had an unmistakably cloven foot. her screams made him aware of her discovery, and he at once vanished in a thunder-clap leaving a brimstone smell behind him. the poor girl never recovered from the shock, lapsed from one fit into another, and was carried to the tapestry room from which she never came forth alive. "this story of his satanic majesty got abroad, and many tales are told of how he continued to visit and disturb the house. the noises, the apparitions, and disturbances were innumerable, and greatly distressed old charles tottenham, his wife, and servants. it is said that they finally determined to call in the services of their parish priest, a father broders, who, armed with all the exorcisms of the church, succeeded in confining the operations of the evil spirit to one room--the tapestry room. "here, then, we have traced from the date of the unhappy girl's misfortune that the house was disturbed by something supernatural, and that the family sought the aid of the parish priest to abate it, and further that the tapestry room was the scene of this visitation. "but the matter was kept dark, all reference to poor anne was avoided, and the belief was allowed to go abroad that it was satan himself who disturbed the peace of the family. her parents were ready to turn aside the keen edge of observation from her fate, preferring rather that it should be believed that they were haunted by the devil, so that the story of her wrongs should sink into oblivion, and be classed as an old wives' tale of horns and hoofs. the harsh father and stepmother have long gone to the place appointed for all living. the loftus branch of the family are in possession of the hall. yet poor anne has kept her tapestried chamber by nearly the same means which compelled her parents to call in the aid of the parish priest so long ago. "but to my tale: about the end of the last century my father was invited by mrs. tottenham to meet a large party at the hall. he rode, as was then the custom in ireland, with his pistols in his holsters. on arriving he found the house full, and mrs. tottenham apologised to him for being obliged to assign to him the tapestry chamber for the night, which, however, he gladly accepted, never having heard any of the stories connected with it. "however, he had scarcely covered himself in the bed when suddenly something heavy leaped upon it, growling like a dog. the curtains were torn back, and the clothes stripped from the bed. supposing that some of his companions were playing tricks, he called out that he would shoot them, and seizing a pistol he fired up the chimney, lest he should wound one of them. he then struck a light and searched the room diligently, but found no sign or mark of anyone, and the door locked as he had left it on retiring to rest. next day he informed his hosts how he had been annoyed, but they could only say that they would not have put him in that room if they had had any other to offer him. "years passed on, when the marquis of ely went to the hall to spend some time there. his valet was put to sleep in the tapestry chamber. in the middle of the night the whole family was aroused by his dreadful roars and screams, and he was found lying in another room in mortal terror. after some time he told them that, soon after he had lain himself down in bed, he was startled by the rattling of the curtains as they were torn back, and looking up he saw a tall lady by the bedside dressed in stiff brocaded silk; whereupon he rushed out of the room screaming with terror. "years afterwards i was brought by my father with the rest of the family to the hall for the summer bathing. attracted by the quaint look of the tapestry room, i at once chose it for my bedroom, being utterly ignorant of the stories connected with it. for some little time nothing out of the way happened. one night, however, i sat up much later than usual to finish an article in a magazine i was reading. the full moon was shining clearly in through two large windows, making all as clear as day. i was just about to get into bed, and, happening to glance towards the door, to my great surprise i saw it open quickly and noiselessly, and as quickly and noiselessly shut again, while the tall figure of a lady in a stiff dress passed slowly through the room to one of the curious closets already mentioned, which was in the opposite corner. i rubbed my eyes. every possible explanation but the true one occurred to my mind, for the idea of a ghost did not for a moment enter my head. i quickly reasoned myself into a sound sleep and forgot the matter. "the next night i again sat up late in my bedroom, preparing a gun and ammunition to go and shoot sea-birds early next morning, when the door again opened and shut in the same noiseless manner, and the same tall lady proceeded to cross the room quietly and deliberately as before towards the closet. i instantly rushed at her, and threw my right arm around her, exclaiming 'ha! i have you now!' to my utter astonishment my arm passed through her and came with a thud against the bedpost, at which spot she then was. the figure quickened its pace, and as it passed the skirt of its dress lapped against the curtain and i marked distinctly the pattern of her gown--a stiff brocaded silk. "the ghostly solution of the problem did not yet enter my mind. however, i told the story at breakfast next morning. my father, who had himself suffered from the lady's visit so long before, never said a word, and it passed as some folly of mine. so slight was the impression it made on me at the time that, though i slept many a night after in the room, i never thought of watching or looking out for anything. "years later i was again a guest at the hall. the marquis of ely and his family, with a large retinue of servants, filled the house to overflowing. as i passed the housekeeper's room i heard the valet say: 'what! i to sleep in the tapestry chamber? never! i will leave my lord's service before i sleep there!' at once my former experience in that room flashed upon my mind. i had never thought of it during the interval, and was still utterly ignorant of anne tottenham: so when the housekeeper was gone i spoke to the valet and said, 'tell me why you will not sleep in the tapestry room, as i have a particular reason for asking.' he said, 'is it possible that you do not know that miss tottenham passes through that room every night, and, dressed in a stiff flowered silk dress, enters the closet in the corner?' i replied that i had never heard a word of her till now, but that i had, a few years before, twice seen a figure exactly like what he had described, and passed my arm through her body. 'yes,' said he, 'that was miss tottenham, and, as is well known, she was confined--mad--in that room, and died there, and, they say, was buried in that closet.' "time wore on and another generation arose, another owner possessed the property--the grandson of my friend. in the year --, he being then a child came with his mother, the marchioness of ely, and his tutor, the rev. charles dale, to the hall for the bathing season. mr. dale was no imaginative person--a solid, steady, highly educated english clergyman, who had never even heard the name of miss tottenham. the tapestry room was his bed-chamber. one day in the late autumn of that year i received a letter from the uncle of the marquis, saying, 'do tell me what it was you saw long ago in the tapestry chamber, for something strange must have happened to the rev. charles dale, as he came to breakfast quite mystified. something very strange must have occurred, but he will not tell us, seems quite nervous, and, in short, is determined to give up his tutorship and return to england. every year something mysterious has happened to any person who slept in that room, but they always kept it close. mr. d----, a wexford gentleman, slept there a short while ago. he had a splendid dressing-case, fitted with gold and silver articles, which he left carefully locked on his table at night; in the morning he found the whole of its contents scattered about the room.' "upon hearing this i determined to write to the rev. charles dale, then incumbent of a parish near dover, telling him what had occurred to myself in the room, and that the evidence of supernatural appearances there were so strong and continued for several generations, that i was anxious to put them together, and i would consider it a great favour if he would tell me if anything had happened to him in the room, and of what nature. he then for the first time mentioned the matter, and from his letter now before me i make the following extracts: "'for three weeks i experienced no inconvenience from the lady, but one night, just before we were about to leave, i had sat up very late. it was just one o'clock when i retired to my bedroom, a very beautiful moonlight night. i locked my door, and saw that the shutters were properly fastened, as i did every night. i had not lain myself down more than about five minutes before something jumped on the bed making a growling noise; the bed-clothes were pulled off though i strongly resisted the pull. i immediately sprang out of bed, lighted my candle, looked into the closet and under the bed, but saw nothing.' "mr. dale goes on to say that he endeavoured to account for it in some such way as i had formerly done, having never up to that time heard one word of the lady and her doings in that room. he adds, 'i did not see the lady or hear any noise but the growling.' "here then is the written testimony of a beneficed english clergyman, occupying the responsible position of tutor to the young marquis of ely, a most sober-minded and unimpressionable man. he repeats in almost the very words of my father when detailing his experience in that room in --a man of whose existence he had never been cognisant, and therefore utterly ignorant of miss tottenham's doings in that room nearly eighty years before. "in the autumn of i was again in the locality, at dunmore, on the opposite side of the waterford estuary. i went across to see the old place and what alterations miss tottenham had forced the proprietors to make in the tapestry chamber. i found that the closet into which the poor lady had always vanished was taken away, the room enlarged, and two additional windows put in: the old tapestry had gone and a billiard-table occupied the site of poor anne's bed. i took the old housekeeper aside, and asked her to tell me how miss tottenham bore these changes in her apartment. she looked quite frightened and most anxious to avoid the question, but at length hurriedly replied, 'oh, master george! don't talk about her: last night she made a horrid noise knocking the billiard-balls about!' "i have thus traced with strict accuracy this most real and true tale, from the days of 'tottenham and his boots' to those of his great-great-grandson. loftus hall has since been wholly rebuilt, but i have not heard whether poor anne tottenham has condescended to visit it, or is wholly banished at last." chapter x mistaken identity--conclusion we have given various instances of ghostly phenomena wherein the witnesses have failed at first to realise that what they saw partook in any way of the abnormal. there are also many cases where a so-called ghost has turned out to be something very ordinary. though more often than not such incidents are of a very trivial or self-explanatory nature (_e.g._ where a sheep in a churchyard almost paralysed a midnight wayfarer till he summoned up courage to investigate), there are many which have an interest of their own and which often throw into prominence the extraordinary superstitions and beliefs which exist in a country. our first story, which is sent us by mr. de lacy of dublin, deals with an incident that occurred in the early part of last century. an epidemic which was then rife in the city was each day taking its toll of the unhappy citizens. the wife of a man living in merrion square was stricken down and hastily buried in a churchyard in donnybrook which is now closed. on the night after the funeral one of the city police, or "charlies" as they were then called, passed through the churchyard on his rounds. when nearing the centre he was alarmed to hear a sound coming from a grave close at hand, and turning, saw a white apparition sit up and address him. this was all he waited for; with a shriek he dropped his lantern and staff and made off as fast as his legs would carry him. the apparition thereupon took up the lamp and staff, and walked to merrion square to the house of mourning, was admitted by the servants, and to the joy of the whole household was found to be the object of their grief returned, alcestis-like, from the grave. it seems that the epidemic was so bad that the bodies of the victims were interred hastily and without much care: the unfortunate lady had really been in a state of coma or trance, and as the grave was lightly covered, when she came to she was able to force her way up, and seeing the "charlie" passing, she called for assistance. an occurrence which at first had all the appearance of partaking of the supernormal, and which was afterwards found to have a curious explanation, is related by dean ovenden of st. patrick's cathedral, dublin. "at dunluce rectory, co. antrim," he writes, "i had a strange experience. there was a force-pump attached to the back wall of the house, and many people drew water from it, as it was better than any obtained at that time in bushmills. we used to notice, when going to bed, the sound of someone working the pump. all the servants denied that they ever used the pump between p.m. and midnight. i often looked out of the back window when i heard the pump going, but could not see anyone. i tied threads to the handle, but although they were found unbroken in the morning the pumping continued, sometimes only for three or four moves of the handle. on many nights no pumping was heard. the man-servant sat up with a gun and the dog, but he neither saw nor heard anything. we gave it up as a bad job, and still the pumping went on. after about two years of this experience, i was one night alone in the house. it was a calm and frosty night and i went to bed about . p.m. and lay awake; suddenly the pump began to work with great clearness, and mechanically i counted the strokes: they were exactly twelve. i exclaimed, 'the dining-room clock!' i sprang from bed and went down, and found that the clock was fast, as it showed two minutes past twelve o'clock. i set back the hands to . and lay in bed again, and soon the pumper began as usual. the explanation was that the vibration of the rising and falling hammer was carried up to the bedroom by the wall, but the sound of the bell was never heard. i found afterwards that the nights when there was no pumping were always windy." a man was walking along a country lane at night and as he was coming round a bend he saw a coffin on the road in front of him. at first he thought it was a warning to him that he was soon to leave this world; but after some hesitation, he finally summoned up courage to give the thing a poke with his stick, when he found that the coffin was merely an outline of sea-weed which some passer-by had made. whereupon he went on his way much relieved. the unbeliever will state that rats or mice are more often than not the cause of so-called ghostly noises in a house. that, at any rate, instances have happened where one or other of these rodents has given rise to fear and trepidation in the inmates of a house or bedroom is proved by the following story from a dublin lady. she tells how she was awakened by a most mysterious noise for which she could give no explanation. overcome by fear, she was quite unable to get out of bed, and lay awake the rest of the night. when light came she got up: there was a big bath in the room, and in it she found a mouse which had been drowned in its efforts to get out. so her haunting was caused by what we may perhaps call a ghost in the making. the devil is very real to the average countryman in ireland. he has given his name to many spots which for some reason or other have gained some ill-repute--the devil's elbow, a very nasty bit of road down in kerry, is an instance in point. the following story shows how prevalent the idea is that the devil is an active agent in the affairs of this world. a family living at ardee, co. louth, were one night sitting reading in the parlour. the two maids were amusing themselves at some card game in the kitchen. suddenly there was a great commotion and the two girls--both from the country--burst into the sitting-room, pale with fright, and almost speechless. when they had recovered a certain amount, they were asked what was the matter; the cook immediately exclaimed, "oh, sir! the devil, the devil, he knocked three times at the window and frightened us dreadfully, and we had just time to throw the cards into the fire and run in here before he got us." one of the family, on hearing this, immediately went out to see what had caused all this trepidation, and found a swallow with a broken neck lying on the kitchen window-sill. the poor bird had evidently seen the light in the room, and in its efforts to get near it had broken its neck against the glass of the window. an amusing account of a pseudo-haunting comes from county tipperary, and shows how extraordinarily strong is the countryman's belief in supernatural phenomena. the incidents related occurred only a very short time ago. a farmer in the vicinity of thurles died leaving behind him a young widow. the latter lived alone after her husband's death, and about three months after the funeral she was startled one night by loud knocking at the door. on opening the door she was shocked at seeing the outline of a man dressed in a shroud. in a solemn voice he asked her did she know who he was: on receiving a reply in the negative, he said that he was her late husband and that he wanted £ to get into heaven. the terrified woman said she had not got the money, but promised to have it ready if he would call again the next night. the "apparition" agreed, then withdrew, and the distracted woman went to bed wondering how she was to raise the money. when morning came she did not take long in telling her friends of her experience, in the hope that they would be able to help her. their advice, however, was that she should tell the police, and she did so. that night the "apparition" returned at the promised hour, and asked for his money. the amount was handed to him, and in a low sepulchral voice he said, "now i leave this earth and go to heaven." unfortunately, as he was leaving, a sergeant and a constable of the r.i. constabulary stopped him, questioned him, and hauled him off to the barracks to spend the remainder of the night in the cell, where no doubt he decided that the haunting game has its trials.[ ] [footnote : _evening telegraph_ for dec. , .] an occurrence of very much the same description took place in county clare about three years ago. again the departed husband returns to his sorrowing wife, sits by the fire with her, chatting no doubt of old times, and before he leaves for the other world is regaled with pig's head and plenty of whisky. the visit is repeated the next night, and a request made for money to play cards with down below: the wife willingly gives him the money. again he comes, and again he borrows on the plea that he had lost the night before, but hoped to get better luck next time. on the woman telling a neighbour a watch was kept for the dead man's return, but he never came near the place again. an account of a police-court trial which appeared in the _irish times_ of st december emphasizes in a very marked degree the extraordinary grip that superstition has over some of the country people. a young woman was on her trial for stealing £ from the brother of her employer, patrick mcfaul of armagh. district inspector lowndes, in opening the case for the crown, told the bench that the money had been taken out of the bank by mcfaul to buy a holding, for the purchase of which negotiations were going on. the money was carelessly thrown into a drawer in a bedroom, and left there till it would be wanted. a short time afterwards a fire broke out in the room, and a heap of ashes was all that was found in the drawer, though little else in the room besides a few clothes was injured. "the mcfauls appeared to accept their loss with a complacency, which could only be accounted for by the idea they entertained that the money was destroyed through spiritual intervention--that there were ghosts in the question, and that the destruction of the money was to be taken as a warning directed against a matrimonial arrangement, into which michael mcfaul was about to enter." the accused girl was servant to the mcfauls, who discharged her a few days after the fire: but before this she had been into derry and spent a night there; during her stay she tried to change three £ notes with the help of a friend. but change was refused, and she had to abandon the attempt. "if some of the money was burned, some of it was certainly in existence three days later, to the amount of £ . one thing was manifest, and that was that an incredible amount of superstition appeared to prevail amongst families in that neighbourhood when the loss of such a sum as this could be attributed to anything but larceny, and it could for a moment be suggested that it was due to spiritual intervention to indicate that a certain course should be abandoned." conclusion the foregoing tales have been inserted, not in order that they may throw ridicule on the rest of the book, but that they may act as a wholesome corrective. if _all_ ghost stories could be subjected to such rigid examination it is probable that the mystery in many of them would be capable of equally simple solution--yet a remnant would be left. and here, though it may seem somewhat belated, we must offer an apology for the use of the terms "ghost" and "ghost story." the book includes such different items as hauntings, death-warnings, visions, and hallucinations, some of which obviously can no more be attributed to discarnate spirits than can the present writer's power of guiding his pen along the lines of a page; whether others of these must be laid to the credit of such unseen influences is just the question. but in truth there was no other expression than "ghost stories" which we could have used, or which could have conveyed to our readers, within reasonable verbal limits, as they glanced at its cover, or at an advertisement of it, a general idea of the contents of this book. the day will certainly come when, before the steady advance of scientific investigation, and the consequent influencing of public opinion, the word "ghost" will be relegated to limbo, and its place taken by a number of expressions corresponding to the results obtained from the analysis of phenomena hitherto grouped under this collective title. that day is approaching. and so, though we have used the term throughout the pages of this book, it must not therefore be assumed that we necessarily believe in "ghosts," or that we are bound to the theory that all, or any, of the unusual happenings therein recorded are due to the action of visitants from the otherworld. we may now anticipate one or two possible points of criticism. it might be alleged that the publication of such a book as this would tend to show that the irish nation was enslaved in superstition. without stopping to review the question as to what should, or should not, be classed as "superstition," we would rejoin by gleefully pointing to a leading article in the _irish times_ of jan. , , which gives a short account of a lecture by mr. lovett on the folklore of london. folklore in london! in the metropolis of the stolid englishman! the fact is that the irish people are not one whit more superstitious than their cross-channel neighbours, while they are surely on a far higher level in this respect than many of the continental nations. they _seem_ to be more superstitious because (we speak without wishing to give any offence) the _popular_ religion of the majority has incorporated certain elements which may be traced back to pre-christian times; but that they _are_ actually more superstitious we beg leave to doubt. another and more important series of objections is stated by one of our correspondents as follows. "i must confess that i can never reconcile with my conception of an all-wise creator the type of 'ghost' you are at present interested in; it seems to me incredible that the spirits of the departed should be permitted to return and indulge in the ghostly repertoire of jangling chains, gurgling, etc., apparently for the sole purpose of scaring housemaids and other timid or hysterical people." the first and most obvious remark on this is, that our correspondent has never read or heard a ghost story, save of the christmas magazine type, else he would be aware that the above theatrical display is _not_ an integral part of the "ghostly repertoire"; and also that persons, who are _not_ housemaids, and who can _not_ be classed as timid or hysterical, but who, on the other hand, are exceedingly sober-minded, courageous, and level-headed, have had experiences (and been frightened by them too!) which cannot be explained on ordinary grounds. but on the main point our correspondent is begging the question, or at least assuming as fully proved a conclusion which is very far from being so. is he quite sure that the only explanation of these strange sights and weird noises is that they are brought about by the action of departed spirits (we naturally exclude cases of deliberate fraud, which in reality are very unusual)? and if so, what meaning would he put upon the word "spirits"? and even if it be granted that the phenomena are caused by the inhabitants of another world, why should it be impossible to accept such a theory, because of its _apparent_ incompatibility with any conception of an all-wise creator, of whose workings we are so profoundly ignorant? are there not many things in the material world which _to the limited human mind_ of our correspondent must seem puzzling, meaningless, useless, and even harmful? he does not therefore condemn these offhand; he is content to suspend judgment, is he not? why cannot he adopt the same attitude with respect to psychic phenomena? our correspondent might here make the obvious retort that it is _we_ who are begging the question, not he, because such happenings as are described in this book have no existence apart from the imaginative or inventive faculties of certain persons. this would be equivalent to saying bluntly that a considerable number of people in ireland are either liars or fools, or both. this point we shall deal with later on. our correspondent belongs to a type which knows nothing at all about psychical research, and is not aware that some of the cleverest scientists and deepest thinkers of the day have interested themselves in such problems. they have not found the answer to many of them--goodness knows if they ever will this side of the grave--but at least they have helped to broaden and deepen our knowledge of ourselves, our surroundings, and our god. they have revealed to us profundities in human personality hitherto unsuspected, they have suggested means of communication between mind and mind almost incredible, and (in the writer's opinion at least) these points have a very important bearing on our conceptions of the final state of mankind in the world to come, and so they are preparing the way for that finer and more ethical conception of god and his creation which will be the heritage of generations yet unborn. the materialist's day is far spent, and its sun nears the horizon. another objection to the study of the subjects dealt with in this book is that we are designedly left in ignorance of the unseen world by a wise creator, and therefore that it is grossly presumptuous, not to say impious, on the part of man to make any attempt to probe into questions which he has not been intended to study. which is equivalent to saying that it is impious to ride a bicycle, because man was obviously created a pedestrian. this might be true if we were confined within a self-contained world which had, and could have, no connection with anything external to itself. but the very essence of our existence here is that the material and spiritual worlds interpenetrate, or rather that our little planet forms part of a boundless universe teeming with life and intelligence, yet lying in the hollow of god's hand. he alone is "supernatural," and therefore transcendent and unknowable; all things in the universe are "natural," though very often they are beyond our normal experience, and as such are legitimate objects for man's research. surely the potential energy in the human intellect will not allow it to remain at its present stage, but will continually urge it onwards and upwards. what limits god in his providence has seen fit to put upon us we cannot tell, for every moment the horizon is receding, and our outlook becoming larger, though some still find it difficult to bring their eyesight to the focus consequently required. the marvellous of to-day is the commonplace of to-morrow: "our notion of what is natural grows with our greater knowledge." throughout the pages of this book we have, in general, avoided offering explanations of, or theories to account for, the different stories. here something may be said on this point. as we have already pointed out, the expression "ghost stories" covers a multitude of different phenomena. many of these may be explained as "hallucinations," which does not imply that they are simply the effect of imagination and nothing more. "the mind receives the hallucination as if it came through the channels of sense, and accordingly externalises the impression, seeking its source in the world outside itself, whereas in all hallucinations the source is within the mind, and is not derived from an impression received through the recognised organ of sense.[ ]" [footnote : prof. sir w. barren, _psychical research_, p. .] many of these hallucinations are termed "_veridical_", or truth-telling, because they coincide with real events occurring to another person. illustrations of this will be found in chapter vi, from which it would appear that a dying person (though the power is not necessarily confined to such) occasionally has the faculty of telepathically communicating with another; the latter receives the impression, and externalises it, and so "sees a ghost," to use the popular expression. some hallucinations are _auditory i.e._ sounds are heard which apparently do not correspond to any objective reality. incomprehensible though it may appear, it may be possible for sounds, and very loud ones too, to be heard by one or more persons, the said sounds being purely hallucinatory, and not causing any disturbance in the atmosphere. some of the incidents may be explained as due to telepathy, that mysterious power by which mind can communicate with mind, though what telepathy is, or through what medium it is propagated, no one can tell as yet. belief in this force is increasing, because, as professor sir w. barrett remarks: "hostility to a new idea arises largely from its being unrelated to existing knowledge," and, as telepathy seems to the ordinary person to be analogous to wireless telegraphy, it is therefore accepted, or at least not laughed at, though how far the analogy really holds good is not at all certain. again there is the question of haunted houses and places, to accounts of which the first five chapters of this book are devoted. the actual evidence for many of these may not come up to the rigorous standard set by the s.p.r., but it is beyond all doubt that persons who are neither fools, liars, nor drunkards firmly believe that they have seen and heard the things related in these chapters (not to speak of chapters vi-viii), or that they have been told such by those in whose statements they place implicit confidence; while so certain are they that they are telling the truth that they have not only written down the stories for the compilers, but have given their names and addresses as well, though not always for publication. can we contemptuously fling aside such a weight of evidence as unworthy of even a cursory examination? this would hardly be a rational attitude to adopt. various theories to account for these strange hauntings have been formulated, which may be found on pp. - of sir william barrett's _psychical research_, and so need not be given here. yet, when all is said and done, the very formulating of theories, so far from solving problems, only raises further and more complex ones, perhaps the greatest of which is, have the spirits of the departed anything to do with the matter? as we have shown, we hope with success, in the preceding paragraphs, many "ghosts" have no necessary connection with the denizens of the unseen world, but may be explained as being due to laws of nature which at present are very obscure. does this hold good of all "ghosts," or are some of them to be placed to the credit of those who have passed beyond the veil, or perhaps to spirits, good or evil, which have never been incarnate? that is the problem for the future, for in the present state of our knowledge it would be premature to give a direct answer, either positive or negative. this book was written with a twofold purpose: first, that of entertaining our readers, in which we trust we have been successful; secondly, to stimulate thought. for, strange though it may seem, authenticated "ghost stories" have a certain educative value. taking them at their lowest they suggest inquiry into the strange workings of the human mind: at their highest how many strange lines of inquiry do they not suggest? for it is obvious that we have now arrived at one of those interesting periods in the history of human thought which might be described as the return of the pendulum. we are in the process of emerging from a very materialistic age, when men either refused to believe anything that was contrary to their normal experience, or else leavened their spiritual doctrines and beliefs with the leaven of materialism. the pendulum has swung to its highest point in this respect, and is now commencing to return, so perhaps the intellectual danger of the future will be that men, instead of believing too little, will believe too much. now is the time for laying a careful foundation. psychical research, spiritualism, and the like, are not ends in themselves, they are only means to an end. at the present state of thought, the transition from the old to the new, from the lower to the higher, it is inevitable that there must be confusion and doubt, and the earnest thinker must be prepared to suspend judgment on many points; but at a later stage, when all absurdity, error, and fraud, now so closely connected with psychical research in its various branches, will have been swept away, truth will emerge and lift the human race to a purer and loftier conception of god and his universe. proofreading team. inferences from haunted houses and haunted men by the honble. john harris inferences from haunted houses and haunted men the lack of interest in so-called psychical matters is somewhat surprising. there is, however, more hope of the clearing up of the scientific aspects of these phenomena than ever before. sir william crookes, late president of the british association, has no doubt that thoughts and images may be transferred from one mind to another without the agency of the recognised organs of sense, and that knowledge may enter the human mind without being communicated in any hitherto known or recognised ways! the word recognised is important; perhaps "not by the recognised action of the organs of sense," would be a better expression. in the "alleged haunting of b---- house," p. , miss freer says: "apparitions are really hallucinations or false impressions upon the senses, created so far as originated by any external cause, by other minds either in the body or out of the body, which are themselves invisible in the ordinary and physical sense of the term, and really acting through some means at present very imperfectly known." this would include hypnotism at a distance, but also perhaps spirits. dr. gowers has recently (reported in the _lancet_), in a speech at university college, pointed out the close connection of the optic and auditory nerves with regard to cases of deafness. the young lady who, when an attempt at transferring the sight of a candle to her was made, heard the word candle or something like it, the first letter doubtful, shows that thought transfer is to the ear as well as to the eye, or at least goes over from one to the other; she says, "you know i as often hear the name of the object as see the thing itself." this may have been from a mental effort to receive distinctly an inefficiently acute impression of her friend's. she saw a jug seen by her friend, and heard the train she heard. the colour of the jug differed a little. the distance fourteen miles. audible speech might thus be helped by despatching a picture of the idea from a distance. other people must be like miss campbell.[ ] there must be material force in this, since a thought heightens the temperature of the brain. but this force has its limits of distance, &c. [footnote : podmores "studies," p. .] to connect apparitions with hypnotism. in their case, and in so-called spiritual experiences (spiritistic is the better word), there is generally a preceding feeling like entering an icehouse.[ ] this is described as occurring to the butler of the haunted house at b----, harold sanders, in ; to mr. "endell," and to others. this chill is surely identical with, or very closely related to, the chill of hypnotism mentioned by binet and féré.[ ] the balance of the circulation has been interfered with. they state that this is the only symptom by which any one can tell he has been hypnotised, and that this is not always present. [footnote : "alleged haunting," &c., pp. , .] [footnote : "animal magnetism," chap. xiv.] in continuous slight hypnotism, chills on part of the scalp, part of the shoulder, part of the face, or the ribs, etc., may be experienced; they are possibly signs of slackening hypnotic power. there is another symptom, hyperaesthesia of the eye, which binet and féré omit; this is extremely rare among men, and with women results from local affection. the symptom probably appears in hypnotic cases from the cutaneous lesser sciatic nerve, which is connected with the nerves of the sexual system, being affected. the chill and the hyperaesthesia of the eyes can be so severe that a doctor or an oculist would be consulted. the feeling of gravel in the eye is probably produced by light falling through chinks on the eye when hyperaesthetic during sleep--the lids may be slightly tightened, as it were; this is perhaps a nearer approach to a profounder hypnotism. "during actual hypnosis," says mr. harry vincent, "frequently the contraction of the muscles is so obvious that the subject appears to be indulging in a grim smile."[ ] [footnote : "elements of hypnotism," p. .] i venture to call attention to the grim smile worn by charles kingsley in the portrait which prefaces the large edition of his life and letters. charles kingsley suffered from frequent fits of exhaustion; these are often the results of excessive hypnotism after the limit (at the fifth or sixth effort) of the hypnotist's power has been reached. his brother henry, we learn from mr. kegan paul's "memoirs," was excessively hypnotisable. his character was weaker perhaps than charles's, but the geniality of his writings bears testimony to his remarkable ability. he was only rescued from a condition little better than a tramp's by a kind friend. charles's life was perhaps shortened by hypnotism. one of kingsley's neighbours at eversley was the late sir w. cope. the elder son of this gentleman, when secretary of legation at stockholm, came to a tragic end. he suddenly, when out walking with a friend, although his health had been apparently perfect, began to shout and wave his umbrella. he was put under the care of attendants, as he was considered to be temporarily insane. he jumped out of a window and was killed. voices insulting or threatening him, and with such scoundrels speech would be of something dreadful, would provoke or frighten the unhappy man. about two years later a distinguished priest, well known in london, also suddenly waved an umbrella and behaved as if he were angry. but he showed hardly any sign of insanity, and on applying to the proper court for release from supervision, was declared sane by a jury. strength of mind and religious feeling doubtless saved him from the fate of mr. cope. a brave man can resist such an attack under favourable circumstances. it is well known to those who have read the biography of lawrence oliphant, and that of dr. anna kingsford by professor maitland, that lawrence oliphant, who became a shaker (a member of a sect who employ hypnotism, as mr. h. vincent describes, to bind their neophytes to them),[ ] wrote commonplace vulgar verse on religious subjects, although himself a highly cultivated literary man. [footnote : "elements of hypnotism," appendix, _note_ , p. .] hypnotism doubtless led to this; the verse thought out in some vulgar shaker's mind was transferred to oliphant. not only was oliphant induced to become a shaker, but his wife became one also, and both sacrificed much money to the society and agreed to live in celibacy. let us continue again from the known to the unknown. mrs. lawrence oliphant's brother, the late captain lestrange, r.n., left his ship without leave, to avoid his wife. he had married an undesirable person, who has also been dead some years. he was a most intelligent officer, and commanded the despatch vessel of the admiral in command of the mediterranean fleet. it is most probable that he was weakened by hypnotism, otherwise he would not have entered into this marriage, or allowed himself to be broken down by disgust at its consequences. an exceedingly manly, robust character, and devoted to his profession, he could not without being hypnotised have deserted his ship. the only reason he had for leaving it was that his wife threatened to come to the mediterranean to malta. there was a gang of criminal hypnotists on the mediterranean coast then. captain lestrange fled to copenhagen, a place connected with most of the attacks of criminal hypnotists, mentioned before and hereafter. he had visited it on duty two or three times, and been in contact with others who suffered. he died two or three years afterwards, probably of a broken heart. here, for the second time, a connection between two victims is traceable. in the former case, the two were simply neighbours; the probability that in each pair of cases one gang was concerned is very great. one gang, if not both, were connected with copenhagen; indeed, they may have been the same gang. if striking haunted house stories are rare, the reason is that, on obvious grounds, gangs of hypnotists are rare also. the writer believes that lord howe's and his sister's courage prompted the attack on them by a gang of hypnotists years ago.[ ] poltergeist disturbances are caused by a single person generally; it is not impossible that in rare cases there is a confederate. [footnote : a. lang's "ghost stories."] these victims of hypnotists were thus four--two very eminent literary men, distinguished also in other ways; a very rising naval officer; and a diplomatist, a member of the foremost of the services of the crown. father b. was attacked in - in london. in june , father h. visited the haunted house at b----. he first brought the haunting to the notice of lord bute in august , and in met a lady who had been governess at b---- about twelve years before, and who reported that the house was haunted then. a noise like the continual explosion of petards, another like the falling of a large animal against his bedroom door, another noise like spirit raps, and shrieks were heard by father h.; no one else then heard them. father h. heard them for eight nights, and not on the ninth. as a priest, he was probably a good deal alone, and had to walk over to a cottage behind a belt of wood to the eastward, where the retreat of the nuns he attended to was held. according to the average experience of miss freer's party, he would only have been attacked on about two days. the last day his tormentor left--doubtless to avoid a journey with father h. and subsequent recognition. how these sounds are produced is easily understood. if the doctrine of a very light stream of electricity be admitted, the pressure on the ear readily causes raps--there is a slight buzzing sound if the pressure on the ear be relaxed at a distance at first, later there is pain; the flap is from an intermitted pressure. it is a thud if the pressure be more acute, and the pattering, which is almost identical to the effect produced by a drop of water rolling on the inside of a sensitive ear, occurs when there is a double or treble intermission. in some cases where the victim is strong, the consonants can be worked off to his hearing. add to this a slight effect on the eye, and miss campbell's doubtfully pronounced word "candle" becomes clear enough. an initial starts a word there is some reason to believe. mr. osgood mason dwells upon community of sensation, and it is doubtless this that renders the direction of aim so exact; but when the subject of tickled faces is considered, we shall see that it does not insure complete accuracy, any more than that exists in volley firing, which with inferior shots is more telling than independent firing, and yet is not perfect. the reason why more audile phenomena are perceived at night is that the percipient is tolerably still. father h. and other people heard these sounds more when in bed after daylight. if loud clangs, &c., were heard by night by the garrison under miss freer's command, it was that the attacking hypnotists did not have the chances they had with father h. of hypnotising their victims; and here again, where action on the ear and eye is concerned, talking with a friend, or indeed any one, is a great safeguard. the tympanum is stirred, the eye moves--the mere irregularity of the breath is an aid. another reason will be given later. miss campbell, whose case--one of experimental thought transference--has been twice referred to, was an intimate friend of miss despard, who effected the transfers. her case differs from his; he expected nothing (at least consciously), and perceived nothing except ugly sounds, until he got a feeling that some one was glad that he left, and that he himself would not like to pass another night there. perhaps this last feeling was a deceptive transfer; they did not like the stout priest bluffing them. later he was willing to go to the house at b---- again. miss campbell got a word, imperfect perhaps, but a better-developed effort developed better results. it is worth remarking that in another experimental transfer of thought, where the percipient was not warned, when mr. godfrey's apparition was seen by a lady friend, she heard a curious sound like birds in the ivy. it is by no means unlikely that this was the result of his first trying to attract her attention.[ ] [footnote : podmore's "studies," p. .] the eye impression moving to the ear in a new and strange way, there is perhaps a stirring and dragging of the cartilages. that mr. godfrey's friend appeared in response and spoke to him, and referred back to some joint conversation, is curious. it must be said here that the speech coming from within is extremely indicative of a real transferred or hypnotic speech, and its coming from within facilitates surprise where it is used fraudulently or criminally. a certain amount of collateral trickery would enhance this. it is easily confounded with the victim's own thoughts. the appearance of a person to another does not seem to be as difficult as the causing another person to appear to a third person. in this case the second person should apparently be hypnotised, and willed to appear to the third. the third person must know the second person.[ ] [footnote : osgood mason, "telepathy," &c., chap. x.] the apparition to miss ducane is interesting, and it is a pity it could not be recognised.[ ] it was seen in the mirror by her sisters, with one exception; but she (miss ducane) and the other young ladies all felt the cold air. [footnote : podmore's "studies," p. .] miss freer, who saw the shadows of a figure on the wall first, and then the figure itself, must have been more scientifically operated on, but an apparition to several young ladies is harder to bring about. the original of miss freer's visions should be carefully traced--the one in the drawing-room especially. how many persons would be needed to produce the rather inchoate phenomena observed by miss freer's garrison is doubtful; three distinct voices, if not four, were heard,[ ] and it seems probable that at least four persons would be necessary to produce very startling phenomenon--notably conversation.[ ] [footnote : "alleged haunting of b---- house," p. .] [footnote : "haunting of b---- house," p. .] all the ears and eyes (notably one eye, the right) are affected. this number would be easily got from a body like the shakers, but it is probably harder to collect an efficient gang elsewhere. indeed there is, the writer believes, evidence that only one such gang exists, and its members are possibly all british subjects of various colours. it is strange there have been no informers. the failure of the minor gang at b---- to fairly beat miss freer's party as they had beaten the family who lived in the house the year before, made them furious, and their attacks on the weak secular priests and on a french lady of high courage but weak health, were particularly desperate. how far the latter's health was undermined, and her death brought about by them, is uncertain. she had the shock of the fire at the paris charity bazaar to break her down. she lost relations there. miss freer sometimes writes as if ghosts and spirits were possible. in her essays, on page , she says "naughty girls or spirits"--the collation is perhaps sufficient to condemn the latter alternative. but her remark about a lady medium whom she compares to a gentleman jockey, and who had a maid of the catholic faith, and that this fact had an effect on the later proceedings, reads as if she were not wanting in scepticism. probably miss freer, subject to thought transference, and yet a thought transferrer, as she is, was interested in the effect on miss "k." of the catholic maid-servant. nothing more interesting than the transfer of thought by miss freer to a friend, who therefore saw candles lighted on a lunch table, could be found, but here again the experience seems simply hypnotic. the chapters in her essays on visualising,[ ] on "how it once came into my head," are very valuable. those on hauntings are grave and gay, comments on realities and errors and superstitious, sometimes charming, beliefs. miss freer says of the visions which she sees of persons in the crystal, or otherwise, that they are ( ) visions of the living--clairvoyant or telepathic; ( ) visions of the departed, having no obvious relation to time and space; ( ) visions which are more or less of the nature of pictures, from memory or imagination: they are like no. , but not of a person. [footnote : a. goodrich freer's "essays," p. .] her most remarkable stories are certainly almost magical. one refers to her seeing the doings of relations, another to her seeing a friend's doings.[ ] "the figures do not appear" (she says, referring to the b---- apparitions) "before . at the earliest; there is little light on their surfaces--they show by their own light--_i.e._ outlined by a thread of light."[ ] [footnote : "haunting of b----house," p. .] [footnote : _ibid._, p. .] she does not see things in a flash. thus when she saw a brown wood crucifix, she saw a hand holding it, whilst a clergyman who saw the same crucifix (father h. also saw it) got just a glimpse of it. it was also seen by miss langton.[ ] [footnote : _ibid._, p. .] to turn to another characteristic of the disturbers of the peace at b----, and to illustrate it by comparison. in mr. podmore's book on psychical research,[ ] in the chapter describing phenomena of the poltergeist order--the poltergeist in one case was a girl of about twelve, alice. she, mrs. b. and miss b., and miss k. were seated at a table; it moved sharply and struck miss k. on the arm. miss k. was an inmate of the house, and no doubt alice preferred hitting her to hitting her mother and sister. [footnote : "studies," p. .] similarly the disturbers at b---- house showed great respect for the press. when a leading edinburgh editor's son was there all was quiet; and although they flew at their pet prey the priests, yet a bishop was too imposing for them; and after he had blessed the house from top to bottom, they left it quiet for the remaining week of miss freer's stay.[ ] [footnote : "alleged haunting," p. .] this might be sufficient to lull any further zeal the catholic regular clergy might find for the matter. again the strange fact may be noted that, a gardener coming every night to look after the stoves between and . , no noises were noted at that time, with one exception. the gardener therefore kept the ghosts away. but the one exception was when a servants' ball was being given, and the gardener was in the house, in the billiard-room, where the supper was served. to obtain re-hypnotism it was necessary for the disturbers to approach the house. their object would easily be affected with people already hypnotised in the railway station or train. these would suffer from fatigue and nervousness, but would put it down to the journey. the approach to the house with rights of way close by would be very easy. the brave garrison who were so well commanded by miss freer, and who, with three or four exceptions, support her account, were generally affected (if well known, and not as mr. z., the editor's son, too dangerous) on the first night of their arrival at b----. miss freer and miss moore, her comrade who shared her bedroom during the greater part of the b---- siege, were thus attacked. mr. l.f. was disturbed, and also colonel taylor (in whose name the house was taken, and who was almost impervious to influences), on their first night at b----. why the honourable e.f. did not suffer at all is not clear. perhaps he was left alone on account of his scientific capacities. three gentlemen who arrived together were not affected; there is strength in numbers; and whilst people talking to each other are harder to influence for two or three reasons, they further unconsciously watch over each other. mr. w. stayed two days and heard nothing; his scepticism was convinced later. mr. macp. experienced nothing in four nights, but on a later visit heard sounds. mr. c., an edinburgh solicitor, heard voices in the glen, on the second occasion of a vision being seen there by miss freer, which was during his first visit. perhaps it may be guessed that the three gentlemen travelled with no heavy luggage, and their identity and destination was not detected. the vision seen most was that of a nun in the black dress commonest among nuns. it was seen moving about on a very steep bank, a bank apparently too steep for walking, and was only visible against the snow. miss freer did not look on the bank for tracks. it may be noted that on the two previous days in the neighbourhood of this glen a terrier, who never barked except under strong excitement, had barked at the same hour, but no vision was seen; on the th of february the dog had been taken off in another direction. after seeing the vision in the glen, miss freer almost always heard strange sounds at night. the inference is that in the glen, where there was plenty of cover, and where, judging by the dog's barking, suspicious persons lurked, miss freer was hypnotised, made to see an apparition, and left susceptible to a further operation that night. later on it says, "the dog ran up, pointed, and ran straight for the two women." this was on the second occasion of a grey woman appearing, and the third occasion of the black nun being seen. he was found barking in the glen; no cause could be found; a lurking stranger is a possible explanation. it may be noted, that the pointing attitude in a dog of the smaller breeds means reflection, and that something puzzled it, perhaps its mistress's attitude; but its going on barking would indicate the steady retreat of some one who frightened it. at least three voices were heard--perhaps more. phenomena were scarce; the gang's powers were still limited, though the horror they inflicted showed that they reached the bounds of some of the victims' strength. miss freer not only heard sounds in the house, where she was less exposed than in the glen, but saw apparitions on four occasions. the visions that can be inflicted telepathically, _i.e._ hypnotically, seem to be at first limited to two kinds--first, the vision of the person himself: this hallucination has often been effected by honest experimentalists; secondly, and this is rather matter of inference, a rascal who has hypnotised a person may be unable to get rid of the image of his victim, and transfers the ghost that haunts him to another subject. the portrait of a so-called nathan early, at the beginning of osgood mason's book, has the eyebrows, eyes, and mouth of a much mesmerised man. the mouth has not become stiffened into a laugh, as he was of a gentle firm disposition, and the hypnotism probably was from a distance. the possessed hypnotist transferred it to his victim, mrs. juliette burton. the qualification, "at first," is important; visions are perhaps not easily transferred to a new subject, but the question of what is good policy for the rascals may have to be considered. this may limit the experience of those who have been more seriously victimised than miss freer and her garrison were. the experiments reported in mr. podmore's excellent book, though invaluable, are probably not exhaustive. colonel meysey thompson's reminiscences relate a wonderful occurrence connected with his father, but it is believed that more striking matters occurred even than this. to return to the haunted house. the cottage to the east of the glen--ballechin cottage--(there is no reason for not using the name except that b---- is shorter than ballechin; indeed the public and the perthshire police should combine to clear the neighbourhood of the gang who have troubled a charming country house)--was once a place for retreat for nuns. the fact was not known to miss freer and her friends until several visions of nuns had been seen in the glen.[ ] [footnote : "haunting of b---- house," p. .] the poor religious women, like the priests, must have been a favourite prey of the hypnotists. the writer believes that the late cardinal manning approved of religious ladies residing with their families and carrying on works of charity, a less wretched life than the usual nun's life often unavoidably must be. english catholics have not been subjected to the terrors of a _casa de exercitios_ such as broke the courage of mrs. grahame's spinster friend.[ ] it must have been extremely repulsive to the feelings of a man like bishop guerrero, and doubtless did not continue to exist long even in remote chile. [footnote : grahame's "chile."] but subdued in spirit as they are, the attacks of hypnotists would be terribly felt by most nuns. father h.'s apparition was seen by miss langton in a dream or vision. she recognised him when she met him three months later; he may have been shadowed by some of the hypnotists for purposes of information; and the idea that he should be begged to aid in blessing the house and banning the haunters, may have been a thought transferred by a hypnotist to miss freer, who is liable to thought transfer, and is a good transferrer herself. why should not a nun's apparition be transferred as was father h.'s (to miss langton)? it appears that valiant resistance can inflict this possession upon hypnotists as well as the horrors of a hard and disgusting victory do. perhaps the scin-laeca of bulwer's "harold," the apparition of cerdic, haunted the imaginations of generations of magicians. these were possibly celts; only one witch-rune on a saxon sword was found; that was in the isle of wight. it was, professor stephens said, a solitary instance, as the brave germans thought magic the art of a coward. the hypnotism from which all the garrison suffered was a slight hypnotism; the eyes remained open and people went about behaving almost normally. father b. lost his self-control for an instant. some people would have to be tricked in a complicated way. thought transfer--audible to the person affected alone, or even inaudible but perceptible like a thought--accounts for the whole of mrs. piper's operations; she might have accomplices who would never be seen speaking to her, and who would dictate actions, say, to one of the pelham or howard family. these dictated actions, or inchoate plans, would then be reported by mrs. piper writing as george pelham. what mrs. piper saw or felt or heard would be--at least at stated times--seen or felt or heard by her fellow conspirators. as in conjuring everything found was placed beforehand in the desired position. thus facts recounted had been induced. the blackguard who spoke to her as phinuit was less educated than the one who dictated george pelham's communications. mrs. piper's education was rather suited to receive the vulgar phinuit's, than the more refined pseudo pelham's communications. but the progress from the one stage so revolting to miss freer, to the other so delightful, a sign of increased refinement to mr. myers, was hardly more a change than the turning on a hot tap after a cold water tap into a basin. the receptacle was the same. but as a strong hypnotist herself, mrs. piper could bring off the sutton matter; she could easily give mrs. sutton visual hallucinations. the startling position taken up by mr. myers in his article in the _national review_, is easily explicable. he and dr. hodgson were magnetised by mrs. piper, and were like wax in her hands. eusapia palladius has the same power. it is a sad declension in an eminent classic, that he, whose reference to the primitive heathen ulysses torturing the shade of his own mother is rather revolting than elevating, should be full of wonder and delight at it. after all ulysses was the worthy ancestor of many a pirate hanged at malta, more ferocious enemies of man than the red indian. some somnambulists should be perhaps protected from exploitation. mrs. piper's trance is presumably feigned, as trances can easily be. to return to haunted houses. in a haunted house case, a story suggested by some chronological connection, or the nature of the apparition, is attached to the phenomena. no doubt, in these days where the individuals who perceive the phenomena have a wider experience, such a variety of persons appear that the ghostly appearance loses its individuality if not its authenticity. mr. podmore discusses such cases.[ ] in mr. podmore's book when poltergeists, cock-lore ghost affairs, are discussed, it appears that genuine hallucinations may be associated with fraudulent physical phenomena. [footnote : "studies," pp. - ; chap. x. haunted houses.] these are, it may be positively stated, hypnotic hallucinations. the two together in some cases, as in the one already mentioned[ ] of "alice," amount to a very good ghost story, the blood on the floor alone excepted. alice's home was a terrace house in a town. the house at b---- was very large and somewhat lonely. [footnote : "podmore," p. .] it is, however, less than yards from a road along the tay, that river running parallel to its front to the southward of it. rights of way from the north-west pass north of the house, and there were some empty lodges there; these might afford shelter to the persons of strong hypnotic power who chose to play the ghost. the continuity of the noises at night would be thus facilitated. the house belonged to the grand-nephew of a retired indian major. it is apparently suggested that the major's relations with a young housekeeper were suspicious. the two and a native indian servant are buried in the kirkyard at l----; presumably logierait. the haunted house is, as was said, at ballechin in perthshire; and it may be noted that to perthshire esdaile, the famous calcutta hypnotist and physician, retired; but that he was unable to effect with the perthshire people the marvellous cures he had brought about in india. perhaps the indian servant may have attracted the attention of some base imitator of the honourable esdaile. it may be noted that an officer of rank, whose family were friends and not very distant neighbours in the south of england of the late rev. lord sydney godolphin osborne, experienced some singular phenomena. lord sydney was a great hypnotist, and cured, or believed he cured, many cases of epilepsy. the officer in question suffered at times from a tickling in his face, which annoyed him very much; it seemed to be more on the cheeks than in the corners behind the nostrils. the connection with hypnotism is seen in the next case. a much younger man, a captain in the indian army, who had attended many spiritist seances, suffered much the same sort of tickling annoyance. both were perfectly sane, and were doubtless persecuted. they were intelligent, capable people. a friend informs the writer that when some years ago he visited a fortune-teller of the mrs. piper class in london, he had a cold trickling up his feet, doubtless from hypnotism, to help thought reading. the tickling of the face is the result of a more or less vain attempt to reach the ear or eye. it will be felt by people driving whose ear and eye would otherwise be affected. people sleeping in an exposed place may suffer more, as the fixed recumbent position makes them obnoxious to attack, as was previously remarked. the hyperaesthesia spreads in a slight degree round the eye. the nature of the eye is hardly understood yet; it is quite possible that subconscious pictures pass before us like a cinematograph, enforcing or enforced by our thoughts. it has been remarked that thought is a species of self-hypnotism. hypnotism may only make these pictures more distinct and modify them by degrees. in the attempt to inflict a picture on the eye, only the dark image of it may be seen. the writer believes that this means failure to affect the mind. binet and féré mention the dark after-shadow. the extremest direct effect of hypnotism upon the eye, mechanically speaking, is doubtless scarcely more than the shock of thistledown wafted against it by a gentle breeze. it appears to affect the corners of the eye; the electric film is perhaps divided by the approach over the skin to another and damper tissue. but hyperaesthesia sometimes spreads to the upper cheek. madame de maceine saw rubinstein's hallucinatory picture with the corner of her eye.[ ] a shock even as slight as a bit of thistledown blown against the cornea might be ill--timed at a street-crossing. mr. s. of b---- was run over in the streets of london and killed. he had been previously hypnotically affected, for he heard quantities of raps; these were no friendly signs of spirits, but the affection of his early hypnotists practising against him. [footnote : _vide_ a leading article, _daily news_, july .] a double image is seen, the eye being curiously affected, when for instance the knobs of a chest of drawers appeared through the apparition. the vision is in the veil or mist of ibn khaldoon. does not this cast a light upon the conceptive and receptive powers of the eye. the conceptive power is shown, as binet and féré remark, by the fact that our imagination has done away with the end of a nerve which should be seen at every instant of our lives. light images may be given by feeble hypnotists of which but the dark reaction can be detected only once in a way. compare binet and féré. they are perhaps noted when hypnotic speech does not come off and is not heard. the small vision in one eye only is separate from the landscape, and practically does not much influence the mind of the person on whom it is inflicted, who continues aware that it is a mere delusion, causing scarcely anything but trifling interruption. this is perhaps only the case with the few, more numerous however amongst the strong nations than amongst the weaker ones, who are impervious to ordinary hypnotism, or could only be hypnotised if extraordinarily fatigued. the development of intelligence and perhaps endurance increases the number of these. i imagine the students in germany, whom heidenhain found so superior to our british students, were not only better educated, as is usual, but were also fighting club men, hardened to pain, and very superior to the bulk of their british contemporaries in courage and endurance. the word skin-deep hypnotism might well be applied to the cases just mentioned. to show instances of its criminal use. hypnotism has been used, there is reason to believe, against an austrian ambassador in petersburg, who found his papers in disorder, and saw a pale young man in his study. ordering the gates to be closed, he was told by the porter that no one had entered, but that the ghost of the son of a former ambassador--a lad the writer knew who died at the embassy--haunted the house. the ghost was therefore a hallucination inflicted on the ambassador. stepniak's death at a level-crossing on a railway, might be brought about as mr. stewart's was in the street. prince alexander of battenburg's mental prostration might be brought about by the same means when he was kidnapped. at the time of the dispute between england and russia, caused by penjdeh, a greek naval officer showed a slightly indiscreet attachment for england. shortly afterwards he was removed for a time from the post he held, as he was considered not quite sane; he had been at copenhagen, he was, however, restored to the navy, as it was considered rather good for his health than otherwise that he should go to sea. he and an english diplomatist at copenhagen had been at fiume together on duty, and the former was undoubtedly tricked by hypnotists, pretending to be acting for freemasonry, a trick played since on another person, and before in england on a third. it has also been played in italy long ago. the voices would be taken for ventriloquists, whilst scenes heard would be considered to be perceived in catalepsy by a person in good health, and in full possession of his faculties, if not a doctor. at fiume is the whitehead torpedo manufactory, but as the hammering and other noises connected with it would prevent the chief persons in charge of the factory from being got at, the hypnotists were doubtless foiled there. of course they may have got some information indirectly, but nothing of high value. the alarm produced at b---- house was brought about less by the phenomena than by the pressure on the vagus nerve or heart. whether fatal syncope can be produced by modifying the heart beats, as mr. vincent suggests it can, is of course a question for a doctor. he seems to think such cases not uncommon. a gentleman attacked by hypnotists twice suffered from syncope. he was previously suffering from exhaustion brought on by rowing a party for their lives in a squall, and took strychnine at a doctor's orders; that medicament, as is known, makes the nerves more sensitive. further rascally attempts were a failure in better-situated houses. the terror of hearing a voice suddenly is in those circumstances very great; against one in good health it is less, no doubt. the trouble given at b---- was particularly great in the case of miss moore,[ ] who scarcely slept for a week; she was miss freer's comrade in no. , the s.w. corner room of the house at b----, and the most exposed room where voices were chiefly heard; and that, too, by almost every one who slept there, miss n., the rev. mr. q., father macl., and madame boisseaux. the road ran nearest to it there. the writer believes that the remarkable fact that no. , the s.w. room, no. , the w. room, no. , the n.w. room, showed a far higher average of phenomena than the other five--_i.e._ the three eastern and the north and south centre rooms--is accounted for by the following circumstances. [footnote : "alleged haunting of b---- house," p. .] no. , the south room, was much exposed, but unlike no. , it had no door in a line with another door and a window. upon no. an almost direct attack could be made from northward or southward; for the partition walls of the house, as well as the outer walls, were very thick.[ ] [footnote : "alleged haunting of b---- house," p. ; _ibid._, p. , _note_.] in the new part of the house these were less so, but people in them were less affected than had been the case when the h. family stayed there. rooms nos. , , and could be raked from north or south. nearly all the persons in the house were affected, and leaving out one or two men who objected to being reported, it appears that the ladies, who spent in the aggregate nights in the house, had sixty-two nocturnal experiences, whilst men spending nights had twenty experiences (between bedtime and breakfast was considered night-time). but three of the eleven ladies were very sensitive; only one man out of fourteen was so. therefore, on a fair estimate, men and women were about equally sensitive; and this is the case with hypnotism generally. a further proof of the nature of the attack. with regard to rooms nos. and , the following curious fact is noted by miss langton. "the knocks on the door between nos. and have been audible in this room; no. in my experience only when no. is empty; and in no. only when no. is empty."[ ] this looks as if attacks were made from the opposite side of the house to make detection less easy, especially by daylight. the maid-servants in the attics were often more impressed than the people in the rooms below. this seems due to the construction of the house; the attics are more approachable than the rooms from the staircase. the electricity follows the track of a person far better on a stair than on a ladder, it may be remarked. thick walls, high window-sills, a commanding position, and a murmuring brook, are great securities against hypnotism, and these would be found in older scotch castles. another element of safety, the purling brook, is here mentioned; all noise is a good antidote; it is perhaps the case that with hypnotism from a distance the hypnotic state is continually waxing and waning, one link, generally a weaker one, succeeding another in the chain of impressions on the temperament. the diminution being continual, the force is renewed by people getting near enough to get a strong hold again, otherwise it dies out. [footnote : "alleged haunting of b---- house," p. .] these approaches were doubtless most dangerous on railway journeys; hypnotism acts better in a small room than in a large one, and therefore a person in a railway carriage is more affected. here discomfort and oppression helps hypnotism, but the hypnotist if in the train is in a favourable position, as the distance is preserved very closely and need not be very great. carriages are of the same size, and this is doubtless a help to the operator. the frequency of phenomena being observed on the night of arrival has been noticed. miss n., who drove over, was not affected. the average recurrence of phenomena to each person was every fourth night; other people besides those previously mentioned as suffering on first nights, were on the second visit miss langton and miss duff. the latter was only very restless. this resembles the experimental result obtained by mr. rose; he attempted to impress two ladies in the same house: the elder saw his apparition, the younger was only restless.[ ] [footnote : "podmore," p. .] it may be noted that in intercourse with other people, some effort is commonly made to secure their attention; this no doubt is connected with the greater facility for causing one's own apparition to be presented. thus to resume the question of place of hypnotism, on the second sojourn four people suffered in the night of first arrival. was the gang larger, or were the assailants operators who had been afraid of the cold before? possibly miss langton had been followed to st. andrews, where she had spent easter, and had a vision of the phantom nun. in other cases where the absence had been longer only two people were attacked. several other persons felt a restlessness like miss duff's--woke without any cause, &c.--mrs. m., mr. t., mr. l.f., and others. if any doubt be felt about the appearances and noises being from hypnotism, the experimental cases should remove it, the resemblance of the feelings of the "garrison" to those hypnotized should be dwelt on, the times of recurrence, and finally later mentioned the peculiarity of the apparition's nature--corresponding to those produced by hypnotism. the argument that féré and binet are fond of, that hypnotism much resembles what can be seen every day, is no doubt true. mrs. anna kingsford appears to have been often hypnotised by some unknown rascal, but her gentle admirable character seems to have suffered but little, though her life was possibly shortened. but when professor maitland talks of building walls round her, he emphasises the advantage that society gives against witchcraft. of four people whose lives have been destroyed or grievously injured by hypnotism, whose circumstances are known to the writer, three were childless married men (two were unhappily married), and the fourth case was a bachelor's, a poor young man's. it may be noted that in the north of europe, at least half a small class of men were attacked, and the others were more or less connected with these. the most were diplomatists and consuls. the advantage of society must be referred to a great extent to the stream of thought-transfer from hypnotists being checked and broken up; for the effect of this stream being made indirect or semi-direct, its dominating power is thereby greatly diminished. on the other hand, in three cases where attacks were defeated, the subjects were happily married men, and in two, if not in the three (the third case the writer gathered at second hand and fortunately remembered later), they had children. on the third visit of miss freer to b---- that lady notes that "the influence is evil and horrible. the worn features at breakfast were really a dismal sight."[ ] [footnote : "haunting of b----house," p. .] on this occasion it looks as if more than three persons (miss langton on the th of february had noted three voices) were engaged in the attack. the writer has no doubt, from personal and observed experience, that sometimes transfer is used, but is doubtful to what extent. boxes on the ear, slaps on the back, nay a flip as with a towel on the bare back, are felt, the last even by a clothed person. in poltergeist cases, as in alice's, a slap on the back was felt; perhaps she hypnotised miss k. and slapped her on the back and transferred the slap to her (alice's) mother. this would be like the two engineer students' case, where the hypnotised one appeared to a friend. in poltergeist cases, one person perhaps does the mischief; in inferior haunted house cases two would be enough. the poltergeist raisers are often subject to fits; the people who are vicious attackers, like the assailants of the occupants of b----, must be semi-maniacs. the terror is sometimes brought about by two people operating; one producing a terrifying effect, the other intensifying the terror. in attempting to weaken a person to whom speech has been made intelligible at a distance, a sensation would be transferred after the speech, so that he might believe it affected him, and cease jeering at and despising the operator. a man with some knowledge of mesmerism, and living a life with good interests in it, could defy them: such a case has happened. for nearly fifty years a gentleman was tormented at times, and died and lived sane. the attack has perhaps been more developed in the last twenty or thirty years, the influence of above-board hypnotism acted upon that practised by criminal scoundrels. a combination possible is, for instance, one rascal showing a faint image of a fiend, and another transmitting a sound like a scratching at a window; this was a failure, the percipient believing that the devil acted under the authority of the almighty, and had no business with innocent people. it was given to a person in a semi-sleeping condition. pain combined was efficient. the pain is partly by affection of cutaneous nerves--partly by affection of the ear; but no one on the watch would be driven into lunatic acts by it. of course after exhaustion (and pain makes this easier) the victim may be in a stupefied condition and obey: this is the post-hypnotic state, which will not come off with people who have been instructed against this villainous game. miss freer's admirable nerve was doubtless due to the habit of studying phenomena. the worn features at breakfast, mentioned before, included those of two secular priests. miss freer had failed to get permission for three well--known priests belonging to societies (perhaps jesuits) to come. the gentleman already mentioned who had first told lord bute of the haunting of b---- was among these. an interesting light on the effect of prayer would probably be brought out by struggles against witchcraft, struggles doubtless very common amongst early christians. indeed, the devils who were cast out must sometimes have been baffled hypnotists confronted by one who was stronger than they; the departing into the swine is much more intelligible on this hypothesis than on dean farrar's, of the swine's terror, which suppresses the "devils'" request. a story is told of titus by the rabbis: he heard a gnawing sound at his brain; it caused him great pain. he heard a blacksmith hammering at his anvil, and the gnawing ceased. the blacksmith was paid to go on hammering in titus' neighbourhood. at the end of a few days the "animal" that gnawed at his brain got indifferent to the hammering, went on gnawing, and titus died. his brain was opened, and an animal as big as a sparrow with a beak of iron was found in it. the truth of this story would be, that some magicians, not especially adroit hypnotists, hammered at titus' tympanum. his nerves, tried by climatic fever--a great facilitator of hypnotism--and by debauchery, gave way, and jerusalem was avenged. the writer once approached a very eminent catholic cleric on the subject, hoping that some freemason who had been victimised by tricks played by hypnotists in italy might have relieved his conscience to the priests; the writer had been given one clue in the following way. two english freemasons in the writer's presence had briefly mentioned mesmerism in italian lodges. one asking a question as to this being true, the other, who objected to his son becoming a freemason early, turned the question off; it is possible that he suspected it was the case, but preferred holding his tongue. now as these scoundrel hypnotists have, unseen but heard, approached three or four people to the writer's knowledge, under the pretence of being connected with freemasonry, it is very possible that they may have induced some of their victims to enter a lodge, and then or before tricked them in different ways. indeed, one of the people attacked unsuccessfully had, to the writer's knowledge, an absurd idea of the exclusiveness of freemasonry, since he objected to the prince of wales making over a poor freemason's brief (if that be the proper word to use) for inquiry as to his circumstances to gentlemen who were not freemasons. the brief of course contained only the man's name, and a few ornamental figures: the man was dead and his widow wanted help. it is to be wished that some scientific freemason would study the matter; he would see that the secrecy of freemasonry, however harmless and venial, affords cover for blackguard hypnotists of this particular and doubtless rare kind. this secrecy is of course entirely conventional, and could doubtless be altered. as elsewhere, the people who take an interest in it are not always people with broad and scientific minds, and at the close of the eighteenth century cagliostro misused it, it is said, for his own purposes. the writer regrets that a want of scientific study of the subject (it must be remembered that books on hypnotism were rare, and research backward eleven years ago) prevented him from introducing the subject properly to the wise and good lord carnarvon. it must be borne in mind that for audible thought-transfers to lead not only to apparent intercourse--the answers being put into the recipient's mouth, as in mrs. godfrey's case--a pretence of something like freemasonry is needed. in "piccadilly" oliphant describes a cross appearing to the hero, and the words "live the life" being whispered to him. he then abandons the young woman he loves to his friend. such a course of conduct would certainly be suggested by hypnotists to make a capable man their plaything and tool as was the case with oliphant. obviously a man could live a more beneficial life with a marriage of mutual affection, whilst a poor young woman would, if she married otherwise, be sure to be a sufferer. perhaps this fragment was historical. it would have made the oliphants' disaster easier. a word, a vision, and the mischief is done. perhaps poor captain lestrange was forced into his unhappy marriage by a similar trick. the love of power and of bullying is so great, perhaps especially with british and germans, that this tyranny is not wonderful; were there not an efficient police the mohawks would soon revive; the infamous cruelty of some brutes is only known to a few doctors. envy, malice, hatred, and all uncharitableness are shown in these attacks upon people, whose lives were useful and whose characters were high. possibly the hope of profit may be sometimes present;--when this is past and the scoundrels have had their triumph, their persecution is continued, unprofitable though it be; partly to render pursuit more difficult, partly maybe for practice, partly because they have acquired a horrible habit which they cannot get rid of. du potet's feeling of pride becomes in the bosom of a blackguard wholly evil. much interest has been given to home's feats: to his floating outside his window and other extraordinary performances. his first feat, be it remembered, was to make a rapping stool leap up when it had a bible on it, and leap all the harder. was not this mere tricking action on the observer's eye and ear? this was closely paralleled by the rascals about b----, who made a "work-table, a box on long slender legs," emit a loud bang. home might have done this alone to his aunt, but it possibly was done by a combination of people at b----. the fact that home, at least on one occasion, could not do anything when houdin was near, seems to show that home relied on an accomplice whom he was unable to conceal from houdin, and who doubtless was a hypnotist also. it is a fortunate thing that "spiritualism" and its wonders have invited scientific study. the tendency to become spiritists is, of course, furthered in many by an uncomfortable belief that without spiritualism a future life is not insured; only the coming again to them of the spirits of the dead assures them that they rise again. of course all the heathen ideas of a resurrection were founded on the keen recollection of themselves the defunct have inspired. our belief in the christian revelations is founded on its ethical system, part of which, however, is of course for missionary effort only, but which is the more remarkably connected with previous revelations, not so distinctly reported, to the jews, and with the history of the world at large. of course spiritual impressions are of no more value than the stigmata on hysterical girls, in whom the emotional element was over developed, and the religious understanding too little developed. the reversion to ancestor worship in spiritism seems more clear, and dinners at kensal green with five shillings tomb money, after the system of some low-caste indian tribes, should be instituted by the spiritists. but the chinaman also conciliates other spirits--those of friends or patrons or the great men of past generations; why do not the spiritualists sacrifice gold leaf and roast pork like the inhabitants of the far east? the catholic church has exorcised spirits and put them in their place as improper and disturbing elements. it thereby told its members that spirits were conjurable: of course really the minds of the members were strengthened, but the toleration of the idea of spirits, whether lazy and trifling, pernicious or beneficial, is of course wrong. however, as they were considered the servants of sorcerers, the idea was in some respects sufficiently accurate. the lutheran church in denmark, in the last century, had many famous exercisers who banned ghosts into schleswig-holstein. one hypnotiser against another, the battle-field a stupid peasant. m. flammarion's book, just published (july ), contains an instance or two of french peasants bewitching one another. the cure for this witchcraft is found in science, the criminal law, and the mutual kindness that, derived from christianity, though often promoted by men whom we can only call god-fearing unbelievers, has grown so much in this century, and more elsewhere even than in britain. thousands of poor people perished in the days of old, guiltless victims, whilst some scoundrelly hypnotists went free. in modern times some poor people, bothered by hypnotists, have been sent to lunatic asylums and have fallen victims of the greed, cruelty, and neglect that so often prevail there. one must give dr. savage his due, that he describes a case in his book on insanity where a lady hearing voices (cheating hypnotic voices, perhaps), and believing herself insulted, left one lodging after another perfectly quietly, and he admits that this case was not suitable for a lunatic asylum. the "spirits" of spiritists are, of course, not impressive, if their somewhat startling amount of information be excepted. the language used by george pelham is pure twaddle. one member of the society seems to have been hypnotised, and the rest studied by the piper gang through him. if all a man feels, sees, and hears be noted, the information gathered, coming from a stranger, will be startling to people who belong to his circle of friends. this information was imparted to mrs. piper, where it had not been collected by her. all she saw was seen by her accomplices, who advised her accordingly. they were doubtless too busy to study the eminent statesman whom she told that he had money transactions with a person called george.[ ] [footnote : miss goodrich freer's "essays," p. .] study and inquiry should eradicate the superstition and the fraud called spiritism, and people should be protected against a most dangerous and cowardly form of crime--criminal hypnotism. it enfeebles the mind; and murder is hardly more serious to a man than a marriage that embitters his life, or the loss of a career that is the moral stay of his existence. the knowledge that such a thing exists would, if it induced one per cent, more care, save many lives. apparitions of beneficent spirits can be easily accounted for. they are cases of automatic visualisation. thus the children mentioned in the late mr. spurgeon's life, who went down an underground passage and saw a vision of their dead mother, who stopped them from falling into a well, felt as other children would feel, that they must think of the one person who is always ready to preserve her little children from terror and pain; and thinking of her, they visualised her. energy and intelligence are the worst enemies of criminal hypnotism, as they are of burglary, but social organisation alone can combat crime. to note some particulars of the haunting of b---- besides those already mentioned. the butler, sanders, lived with the h. family at b---- the year before miss freer garrisoned the house. not one of the people who were at b---- in were there with miss freer. this bars one type of fraud being alleged. sanders, besides hearing thumping, groans, and the rustling of a lady's dress, had his bedclothes lifted up and let fall again--"first at the foot of my bed, but gradually coming towards the head." he held the clothes round his neck with his hands, but they were "gently lifted in spite of my efforts to hold them." this simply means that he had cramps, resulting from the effect of hypnotism on the muscles of his legs. the writer believes that the force always acts from the feet, or rather one foot, upwards; obviously a man sitting or standing up must be approached that way, and habit causes the electric stream to flow in that direction. but this cramp is not felt so keenly as is the case when cramp arises from a constrained position. the consequence is that the kicks given to relieve it are not so violent and decisive. they are repeated automatically, until the bedclothes fly up finally near the head, as is described. the intervals between the flights of the clothes seem shorter than they are; this is again due to hypnotic influence, as in spiritistic performances and in conjuring, where, as m. binet has recently remarked, a little hypnotism always comes in. thus in mr. austin podmore's account of mr. davey's seance, his attention was called away for two or three minutes without his noting it. we may take it for granted that the kickings up of the bedclothes during which sanders became weak and faint, lasted ten minutes or more. "being fanned as though some bird were flying round my head," arose from his own breath after his efforts; he felt it the more as he had got warm.[ ] the sound of breathing may have been of his own, but is not unlikely to have been the transferred sound of the breathing of one of two people hypnotising him. the feeling of the bed being carried round (or moved) towards the window is a feeling of reaction: a man sticks his back against the bed to resist the material and mental pressure, and the relief felt as the effort ceases gives him the impression that the bed has been swung towards the window, towards which he naturally looks, since the slight draught refreshes him and diverts the attack. that he actually felt some one making passes over him is not an error; he had two antagonists; one of whom, like the young engineer cleave,[ ] was hypnotised by the other, both willing the hypnotism of sanders. [footnote : "alleged haunting," p. .] [footnote : "osgood mason," p. .] he felt the passes the stronger antagonist was making over the other. if one of the two people can obtain return messages like mr. godfrey, intimate knowledge of his victim's doings might soon be obtained. a ghost appeared to young h. in the shape of a veiled lady; perhaps the mist round her was taken for a veil. but to return to the action of two hypnotists on one person, it may be noted that the sound like the giving of a tin box heard by miss moore, miss freer, and miss langton,[ ] and afterwards like the lid of a coalscuttle caught by a dress by mrs. m.,[ ] was the sound of a gong doubtless used to stimulate the hypnotised partner in the blackguard couple. such a sound done with a little spring gong, or with a larger one, has been heard by a victim. [footnote : "haunting of b---- house," p. .] [footnote : "haunting of b---- house," p. .] by such experience, too, the monotonous reading can be explained; it was the commencement by less powerful hypnotists of a supporting attack: the words would become audible, distinguishable, and noticeable later. this might ensue after the victim was more deeply hypnotised. probably the very words which were to be used later were used then, a sort of sub-conscious memory being created. apparitions of a misty nature are described by podmore in his chapter on "haunted houses."[ ] miss langton saw a misty phantom, and _lizzie_ the housemaid saw a cloud and afterwards got a cramp, less persistent than the butler's, as she began to scream.[ ] the upper housemaid saw a woman whose legs she did not notice,[ ] as was the case with mr. godfrey's friend to whom he appeared hypnotically. [footnote : "studies," pp. , .] [footnote : "haunting of b---- house," p. .] [footnote : _ibid_., pp. , .] the fact that the dog that appeared to miss freer was a spaniel like major s.'s, shows familiarity with the house on the part of the gang. that they moved about early near the house is shown by mr. c. hearing the caw of the rooks at . on march ; they would not start cawing so early unless disturbed. there is thus abundant evidence ( ) that rascals were at work; ( ) accounting for certain of the phenomena observed; ( ) pointing out their resemblance to cases of experimental hallucinations or thought transfer; ( ) that such hypnotic operations could be traced by due vigilance. no. is based in part on the writer's experience. if the roads and neighbourhood had been patrolled, and exposure to possible hypnotists avoided, the phenomena would have ceased. the gentleman who wrote to the _times_ made a point or two that were too petty to notice, and was probably disagreeable to miss freer, but detective work would have been useful. the gentleman's connection with a class of men, the mad doctors whom the late sir william gull so rightly despised, and whose observations have been so unscientific, may perhaps have unduly prejudiced miss freer against him. yet people have listened to a maudsley against an esher, and gone to the other extreme. perhaps miss freer will reconsider her opinion, that hypnotism is for doctors only to study. to wind up with a statement of what the writer believes to have been the object of the rascals about b----; ordinary thought-transfer probably precedes audible speech by hypnotic influence. the many people who hear their names called, and find that no death or other striking occurrence coincides in time with this, are perhaps being experimented on by hypnotists, who somehow or other, perhaps by community of feeling, have hit upon the precise moment of a state of subconscious expectation that makes transfer of an actual word easier. of course people, friends or others, about the victim are an antidote to influences. the inevitable tendency of pious natures, sensitive people who are indispensable to society, is to self-blame. in misfortune they would always blame themselves as sinners who deserved punishment, probably from having paid previously an undeserved attention to the censorious. their frame of mind is very contrary to the gospel teaching, and to science; but the division of labour is moral as well as material; one man takes the kicks undeservedly, another the halfpence undeservedly. these gentle people can thus be driven into apparently insane acts, if they have fools about them. the fact of the name ishbel being transferred to the inquirers assembled at ballechin, may indicate whose was the spirit that should profess to preach to victims. women are often said to be worse, if evil, than men, and they play this ugly role better. that rain interrupted the phenomena is another point against the partisans of the supernatural. when after rain the nun was surprised and chased by miss freer, it would seem that she intended mischief to some other member of the garrison at b----, or she would have been _en rapport_ with miss freer, and aware that she was nearing her. the pronunciation of the names ishbel and margaret only indicate a non-highlander being implicated, but it seems possible that the latter name, for which there was no particular cause, may have been a punning appellation. mar-garret, as the grey woman, attacked the servants in the attics. such a joke is characteristic of such villains, and shows that they are tolerably educated people. their avoiding mr. z. may indicate that they may have been brought in contact with him, in the fifty different ways that an editor may have seen people--their contributing to the press is not impossible. they must have some money too. the writer believes that physiology and many other branches of science, notably social, will be benefited by studying this case. lord bute, miss freer, colonel taylor, and other members of the "garrison," deserve the gratitude of society. may inquirers never rest until the subject, not too difficult a one in the age of electricians and physiologists, has been fairly cleared up. there are one or two points in the study of the advanced combined hypnotism--it is probably always criminal--which are worthy of notice. one is that the operators generally, or always--(observation is difficult)--repeat a phrase or its most important words. the first saying of the word is barely noticeable. the repetition forces the word to the subject's attention. secondly, speech is addressed to the right ear; the sufferer of course declines attention to it, but this slight, almost automatic effort, yet distracts attention from the left ear, and a communication to that ear is unheard, but perceived as a thought. to detect speech a very trifling pressure on the ear has to be watched for. in a law court or in society the interest of what is going on knocks the operators out. a facility for receiving thought transferred makes a person perhaps more susceptible to depression by dull or inferior people, but principle partly cures this. the art of dismissing obtrusive thoughts and persisting in one's own has to be cultivated by people with the readiest perceptions. natural caution and a habit of studying probabilities are great helps against such attackers; but, on the other hand, the man who drinks a glass of wine when he feels low will beat the hypnotist, who will doubtless harm him by causing degeneration. a glass of port wine at eleven in the morning, and tea or breakfast early, are a great help. early rising deprives the operators of the time when they pin their victim best. a dog's bark, a peahen's cry, above all a bird's song, is a great interruption to hypnotism--silent or by voices. a nightingale will foil the worst attack. the scoundrels may try and substitute an ugly sound for the song of birds; they cannot affect the sharp, short, and sudden cry of the swallow. walking up and down hill is much better than walking on the flat. the air is forced harder through the lungs. windy weather is a help, and rain, for two reasons: it is an advantage to the victim, and keeps rascals away. the writer believes that the cartilages are influenced, or at least felt to be influenced, rather than the nerves, glands, or even the muscles. he believes that the hearing of the voices of hypnotists is partly brought about by a change in the cartilages of the ear, which (it is stated in grey's anatomy) are to a certain extent disintegrated by electricity. the ears thus become rather telephonic, and no longer dependent so entirely on the will; emotion, however, either checks this facility of sound or the weakness that permits attention. if to this be added the repetition by various voices of the same word, the first occasion probably when the subject's eye is seen to pass over the printed passage where it occurs in a paper, words will be brought to the victim's ear hypnotically. but perhaps the first system mentioned is used where the difficulties of approach are greater, the rascals must have great patience. when the victim begins a letter the date is called to him, and then he can be tested by calling, say, july to him in september. his name may be called when in reverie, perhaps in the country, his mind goes back to his boyhood. thought reading is very easy if a person is visible, and rascals begin from a distance, and finally operate between hypnotics out of sight. they seem in this first to catch a person when he passes a window. this shows that they are susceptible to the amount of light, as well as that a thick wall is a greater obstacle than a pane of glass. they thus too may partly distinguish environment, though this is perhaps learned by practice. ear and eye and muscular feeling are all weighed. a strong man much hypnotised in this way, will notice that a diminished light will relieve him, although previously he paid little attention to any glare, even up to the age of forty. residence changed from a ground floor to a lofty room would often cause unusual relief. on a church tower this would be felt even more. the noise of london, and the fact that people hanging about are watched, are checks to the early operations of criminal hypnotists. music is probably an excellent antidote. a feeling of stupidity, given even for a second, would probably give a boy a wrong idea of himself, and even repeated successes would not quite efface this. the japanese system of wrestling lately introduced shows how powerful a touch on a nerve may be in weakening a man. such a touch transferred or propelled, may for a long time aid hypnotisers from a distance, though it would be in time disregarded or little regarded. calculative work is better suited than imaginative work to free the brain. i would urge inquirers to ask themselves, whether mrs. piper's doings could be accounted for in any other way than that suggested. clairvoyance is seemingly mere guess-work, the imagination being heightened temporarily rather than depressed by the hypnotic pressure. mr. vincent's analysis of mental reactions is invaluable. a hypnotised person does not go on to the analogies, which may be quite obvious from a suggestive word. this resembles the habit of some religious persons who build on one text of the bible, completely neglecting the modifying and explanatory text that immediately follows. the subject is grossly credulous, and is deprived of much fruitful time for thinking. the hypnotised person will refuse to do many actions, and religion is of course a mainstay, though irrational accretions, fasting, and superstitious views of the communion will weaken it. miss freer repeatedly asked herself the question, "how did this come into my head?" it would seem from the story of the red figure, afterwards recognised on a seal, that she had been hypnotised not by her companion but by some travelling rascal who had seen the letter in the post-office, and thus brought off a piece of prevision. intelligent watchfulness is a great protection. note from electronic text creator: i have compiled a word list with definitions of most of the scottish words and phrases found in this work at the end of the book. this list does not belong to the original work, but is designed to help with the conversations in broad scots found in this work. a further explanation of this list can be found towards the end of this document, preceding the word list. any notes that i have made in the text (e.g. relating to greek words in the text) have been enclosed in {} brackets. donal grant by george macdonald, ll.d. edition contents i. foot-faring. ii. a spiritual foot-pad. iii. the moor. iv. the town. v. the cobbler. vi. doory. vii. a sunday. viii. the gate. ix. the morven arms. x. the parish clergyman. xi. the earl. xii. the castle. xiii. a sound. xiv. the schoolroom. xv. horse and man. xvi. colloquies. xvii. lady arctura. xviii. a clash. xix. the factor. xx. the old garden. xxi. a first meeting. xxii. a talk about ghosts. xxiii. a tradition of the castle. xxiv. stephen kennedy. xxv. evasion. xxvi. confrontment. xxvii. the soul of the old garden. xxviii. a presence yet not a presence. xxix. eppy again. xxx. lord morven. xxxi. bewilderment. xxxii. the second dinner with the earl. xxxiii. the housekeeper's room. xxxiv. cobbler and castle. xxxv. the earl's bedchamber. xxxvi. a night-watch. xxxvii. lord forgue and lady arctura. xxxviii. arctura and sophia. xxxix. the castle-roof. xl. a religion-lesson. xli. the music-nest. xlii. communism. xliii. eppy and kennedy. xliv. high and low. xlv. a last encounter. xlvi. a horrible story. xlvii. morven house xlviii. paternal revenge. xlix. filial response. l. a south-easterly wind. li. a dream. lii. investigation. liii. mistress brookes upon the earl. liv. lady arctura's room. lv. her bed-chamber. lvi. the lost room. lvii. the housekeeper's room. lviii. a soul diseased. lix. dust to dust. lx. a lesson about death. lxi. the bureau. lxii. the crypt. lxiii. the closet. lxiv. the garland-room. lxv. the wall. lxvi. progress and change. lxvii. the breakfast-room. lxviii. larkie. lxix. the sick-chamber. lxx. a plot. lxxi. glashgar. lxxii. sent, not called. lxxiii. in the night. lxxiv. a moral fungus. lxxv. the porch of hades. lxxvi. the angel of the lord. lxxvii. the angel of the devil. lxxviii. restoration. lxxix. a slow transition. lxxx. away-faring. lxxxi. a will and a wedding. lxxxii. the will. lxxxiii. insight. lxxxiv. morven house. chapter i. foot-faring. it was a lovely morning in the first of summer. donal grant was descending a path on a hillside to the valley below--a sheep-track of which he knew every winding as well as any boy his half-mile to and from school. but he had never before gone down the hill with the feeling that he was not about to go up again. he was on his way to pastures very new, and in the distance only negatively inviting. but his heart was too full to be troubled--nor was his a heart to harbour a care, the next thing to an evil spirit, though not quite so bad; for one care may drive out another, while one devil is sure to bring in another. a great billowy waste of mountains lay beyond him, amongst which played the shadow at their games of hide and seek--graciously merry in the eyes of the happy man, but sadly solemn in the eyes of him in whose heart the dreary thoughts of the past are at a like game. behind donal lay a world of dreams into which he dared not turn and look, yet from which he could scarce avert his eyes. he was nearing the foot of the hill when he stumbled and almost fell, but recovered himself with the agility of a mountaineer, and the unpleasant knowledge that the sole of one of his shoes was all but off. never had he left home for college that his father had not made personal inspection of his shoes to see that they were fit for the journey, but on this departure they had been forgotten. he sat down and took off the failing equipment. it was too far gone to do anything temporary with it; and of discomforts a loose sole to one's shoe in walking is of the worst. the only thing was to take off the other shoe and both stockings and go barefoot. he tied all together with a piece of string, made them fast to his deerskin knapsack, and resumed his walk. the thing did not trouble him much. to have what we want is riches, but to be able to do without is power. to have shoes is a good thing; to be able to walk without them is a better. but it was long since donal had walked barefoot, and he found his feet like his shoe, weaker in the sole than was pleasant. "it's time," he said to himself, when he found he was stepping gingerly, "i ga'e my feet a turn at the auld accomplishment. it's a pity to grow nae so fit for onything suner nor ye need. i wad like to lie doon at last wi' hard soles!" in every stream he came to he bathed his feet, and often on the way rested them, when otherwise able enough to go on. he had no certain goal, though he knew his direction, and was in no haste. he had confidence in god and in his own powers as the gift of god, and knew that wherever he went he needed not be hungry long, even should the little money in his pocket be spent. it is better to trust in work than in money: god never buys anything, and is for ever at work; but if any one trust in work, he has to learn that he must trust in nothing but strength--the self-existent, original strength only; and donal grant had long begun to learn that. the man has begun to be strong who knows that, separated from life essential, he is weakness itself, that, one with his origin, he will be of strength inexhaustible. donal was now descending the heights of youth to walk along the king's highroad of manhood: happy he who, as his sun is going down behind the western, is himself ascending the eastern hill, returning through old age to the second and better childhood which shall not be taken from him! he who turns his back on the setting sun goes to meet the rising sun; he who loses his life shall find it. donal had lost his past--but not so as to be ashamed. there are many ways of losing! his past had but crept, like the dead, back to god who gave it; in better shape it would be his by and by! already he had begun to foreshadow this truth: god would keep it for him. he had set out before the sun was up, for he would not be met by friends or acquaintances. avoiding the well-known farmhouses and occasional village, he took his way up the river, and about noon came to a hamlet where no one knew him--a cluster of straw-roofed cottages, low and white, with two little windows each. he walked straight through it not meaning to stop; but, spying in front of the last cottage a rough stone seat under a low, widespreading elder tree, was tempted to sit down and rest a little. the day was now hot, and the shadow of the tree inviting. he had but seated himself when a woman came to the door of the cottage, looked at him for a moment, and probably thinking him, from his bare feet, poorer than he was, said-- "wad ye like a drink?" "ay, wad i," answered donal, "--a drink o' watter, gien ye please." "what for no milk?" asked the woman. "'cause i'm able to pey for 't," answered donal. "i want nae peyment," she rejoined, perceiving his drift as little as probably my reader. "an' i want nae milk," returned donal. "weel, ye may pey for 't gien ye like," she rejoined. "but i dinna like," replied donal. "weel, ye're a some queer customer!" she remarked. "i thank ye, but i'm nae customer, 'cep' for a drink o' watter," he persisted, looking in her face with a smile; "an' watter has aye been grâtis sin' the days o' adam--'cep' maybe i' toons i' the het pairts o' the warl'." the woman turned into the cottage, and came out again presently with a delft basin, holding about a pint, full of milk, yellow and rich. "there!" she said; "drink an' be thankfu'." "i'll be thankfu' ohn drunken," said donal. "i thank ye wi' a' my heart. but i canna bide to tak for naething what i can pey for, an' i dinna like to lay oot my siller upon a luxury i can weel eneuch du wantin', for i haena muckle. i wadna be shabby nor yet greedy." "drink for the love o' god," said the woman. donal took the bowl from her hand, and drank till all was gone. "wull ye hae a drap mair?" she asked. "na, no a drap," answered donal. "i'll gang i' the stren'th o' that ye hae gi'en me--maybe no jist forty days, gudewife, but mair nor forty minutes, an' that's a gude pairt o' a day. i thank ye hertily. yon was the milk o' human kin'ness, gien ever was ony." as he spoke he rose, and stood up refreshed for his journey. "i hae a sodger laddie awa' i' the het pairts ye spak o'," said the woman: "gien ye hadna ta'en the milk, ye wad hae gi'en me a sair hert." "eh, gudewife, it wad hae gi'en me ane to think i had!" returned donal. "the lord gie ye back yer sodger laddie safe an' soon'! maybe i'll hae to gang efter 'im, sodger mysel'." "na, na, that wadna do. ye're a scholar--that's easy to see, for a' ye're sae plain spoken. it dis a body's hert guid to hear a man 'at un'erstan's things say them plain oot i' the tongue his mither taucht him. sic a ane 'ill gang straucht till's makker, an' fin' a'thing there hame-like. lord, i wuss minnisters wad speyk like ither fowk!" "ye wad sair please my mither sayin' that," remarked donal. "ye maun be jist sic anither as her!" "weel, come in, an' sit ye doon oot o' the sin, an' hae something to ait." "na, i'll tak nae mair frae ye the day, an' i thank ye," replied donal; "i canna weel bide." "what for no?" "it's no sae muckle 'at i'm in a hurry as 'at i maun be duin'." "whaur are ye b'un' for, gien a body may speir?" "i'm gaein' to seek--no my fortin, but my daily breid. gien i spak as a richt man, i wad say i was gaein' to luik for the wark set me. i'm feart to say that straucht oot; i haena won sae far as that yet. i winna du naething though 'at he wadna hae me du. i daur to say that--sae be i un'erstan'. my mither says the day 'ill come whan i'll care for naething but his wull." "yer mither 'ill be janet grant, i'm thinkin'! there canna be twa sic in ae country-side!" "ye're i' the richt," answered donal. "ken ye my mither?" "i hae seen her; an' to see her 's to ken her." "ay, gien wha sees her be sic like 's hersel'." "i canna preten' to that; but she's weel kent throu' a' the country for a god-fearin' wuman.--an' whaur 'll ye be for the noo?" "i'm jist upo' the tramp, luikin' for wark." "an' what may ye be pleast to ca' wark?" "ow, jist the communication o' what i hae the un'erstan'in' o'." "aweel, gien ye'll condescen' to advice frae an auld wife, i'll gie ye a bit wi' ye: tak na ilka lass ye see for a born angel. misdoobt her a wee to begin wi'. hing up yer jeedgment o' her a wee. luik to the moo' an' the e'en o' her." "i thank ye," said donal, with a smile, in which the woman spied the sadness; "i'm no like to need the advice." she looked at him pitifully, and paused. "gien ye come this gait again," she said, "ye'll no gang by my door?" "i wull no," replied donal, and wishing her good-bye with a grateful heart, betook himself to his journey. he had not gone far when he found himself on a wide moor. he sat down on a big stone, and began to turn things over in his mind. this is how his thoughts went: "i can never be the man i was! the thoucht o' my heart 's ta'en frae me! i canna think aboot things as i used. there's naething sae bonny as afore. whan the life slips frae him, hoo can a man gang on livin'! yet i'm no deid--that's what maks the diffeeclety o' the situation! gien i war deid--weel, i kenna what than! i doobt there wad be trible still, though some things micht be lichter. but that's neither here nor there; i maun live; i hae nae ch'ice; i didna mak mysel', an' i'm no gaein' to meddle wi' mysel'! i think mair o' mysel' nor daur that! "but there's ae question i maun sattle afore i gang farther--an' that's this: am i to be less or mair nor i was afore? it's agreed i canna be the same: if i canna be the same, i maun aither be less or greater than i was afore: whilk o' them is't to be? i winna hae that queston to speir mair nor ance! i'll be mair nor i was. to sink to less wad be to lowse grip o' my past as weel's o' my futur! an' hoo wad i ever luik her i' the face gien i grew less because o' her! a chiel' like me lat a bonny lassie think hersel' to blame for what i grew til! an' there's a greater nor the lass to be considert! 'cause he seesna fit to gie me her i wad hae, is he no to hae his wull o' me? it's a gran' thing to ken a lassie like yon, an' a gran'er thing yet to be allooed to lo'e her: to sit down an' greit 'cause i'm no to merry her, wad be most oongratefu'! what for sud i threip 'at i oucht to hae her? what for sudna i be disapp'intit as weel as anither? i hae as guid a richt to ony guid 'at's to come o' that, i fancy! gien it be a man's pairt to cairry a sair hert, it canna be his pairt to sit doon wi' 't upo' the ro'd-side, an' lay't upo' his lap, an' greit ower't, like a bairn wi' a cuttit finger: he maun haud on his ro'd. wha am i to differ frae the lave o' my fowk! i s' be like the lave, an' gien i greit i winna girn. the lord himsel' had to be croont wi' pain. eh, my bonnie doo! but ye lo'e a better man, an' that's a sair comfort! gien it had been itherwise, i div not think i could hae borne the pain at my hert. but as it's guid an' no ill 'at's come to ye, i haena you an' mysel' tu to greit for, an' that's a sair comfort! lord, i'll clim' to thee, an' gaither o' the healin' 'at grows for the nations i' thy gairden. "i see the thing as plain's thing can be: the cure o' a' ill 's jist mair life! that's it! life abune an' ayont the life 'at took the stroke! an' gien throu' this hert-brak i come by mair life, it'll be jist ane o' the throes o' my h'avenly birth--i' the whilk the bairn has as mony o' the pains as the mither: that's maybe a differ 'atween the twa--the earthly an' the h'avenly! "sae noo i hae to begin fresh, an' lat the thing 'at's past an' gane slip efter ither dreams. eh, but it's a bonny dream yet! it lies close 'ahin' me, no to be forgotten, no to be luikit at--like ane o' thae dreams o' watter an' munelicht 'at has nae wark i' them: a body wadna lie a' nicht an' a' day tu in a dream o' the sowl's gloamin'! na, lord; mak o' me a strong man, an' syne gie me as muckle o' the bonny as may please thee. wha am i to lippen til, gien no to thee, my ain father an' mither an' gran'father an' a' body in ane, for thoo giedst me them a'! "noo i'm to begin again--a fresh life frae this minute! i'm to set oot frae this verra p'int, like ane o' the youngest sons i' the fairy tales, to seek my portion, an' see what's comin' to meet me as i gang to meet hit. the warl' afore me's my story-buik. i canna see ower the leaf till i come to the en' o' 't. whan i was a bairn, jist able, wi' sair endeevour, to win at the hert o' print, i never wad luik on afore! the ae time i did it, i thoucht i had dune a shamefu' thing, like luikin' in at a keyhole--as i did jist ance tu, whan i thank god my mither gae me sic a blessed lickin' 'at i kent it maun be something dreidfu' i had dune. sae here's for what's comin'! i ken whaur it maun come frae, an' i s' make it welcome. my mither says the main mischeef i' the warl' is, 'at fowk winna lat the lord hae his ain w'y, an' sae he has jist to tak it, whilk maks it a sair thing for them." therewith he rose to encounter that which was on its way to meet him. he is a fool who stands and lets life move past him like a panorama. he also is a fool who would lay hands on its motion, and change its pictures. he can but distort and injure, if he does not ruin them, and come upon awful shadows behind them. and lo! as he glanced around him, already something of the old mysterious loveliness, now for so long vanished from the face of the visible world, had returned to it--not yet as it was before, but with dawning promise of a new creation, a fresh beauty, in welcoming which he was not turning from the old, but receiving the new that god sent him. he might yet be many a time sad, but to lament would be to act as if he were wronged--would be at best weak and foolish! he would look the new life in the face, and be what it should please god to make him. the scents the wind brought him from field and garden and moor, seemed sweeter than ever wind-borne scents before: they were seeking to comfort him! he sighed--but turned from the sigh to god, and found fresh gladness and welcome. the wind hovered about him as if it would fain have something to do in the matter; the river rippled and shone as if it knew something worth knowing as yet unrevealed. the delight of creation is verily in secrets, but in secrets as truths on the way. all secrets are embryo revelations. on the far horizon heaven and earth met as old friends, who, though never parted, were ever renewing their friendship. the world, like the angels, was rejoicing--if not over a sinner that had repented, yet over a man that had passed from a lower to a higher condition of life--out of its earth into its air: he was going to live above, and look down on the inferior world! ere the shades of evening fell that day around donal grant, he was in the new childhood of a new world. i do not mean such thoughts had never been present to him before; but to think a thing is only to look at it in a glass; to know it as god would have us know it, and as we must know it to live, is to see it as we see love in a friend's eyes--to have it as the love the friend sees in ours. to make things real to us, is the end and the battle-cause of life. we often think we believe what we are only presenting to our imaginations. the least thing can overthrow that kind of faith. the imagination is an endless help towards faith, but it is no more faith than a dream of food will make us strong for the next day's work. to know god as the beginning and end, the root and cause, the giver, the enabler, the love and joy and perfect good, the present one existence in all things and degrees and conditions, is life; and faith, in its simplest, truest, mightiest form is--to do his will. donal was making his way towards the eastern coast, in the certain hope of finding work of one kind or another. he could have been well content to pass his life as a shepherd like his father but for two things: he knew what it would be well for others to know; and he had a hunger after the society of books. a man must be able to do without whatever is denied him, but when his heart is hungry for an honest thing, he may use honest endeavour to obtain it. donal desired to be useful and live for his generation, also to be with books. to be where was a good library would suit him better than buying books, for without a place in which to keep them, they are among the impedimenta of life. and donal knew that in regard to books he was in danger of loving after the fashion of this world: books he had a strong inclination to accumulate and hoard; therefore the use of a library was better than the means of buying them. books as possessions are also of the things that pass and perish--as surely as any other form of earthly having; they are of the playthings god lets men have that they may learn to distinguish between apparent and real possession: if having will not teach them, loss may. but who would have thought, meeting the youth as he walked the road with shoeless feet, that he sought the harbour of a great library in some old house, so as day after day to feast on the thoughts of men who had gone before him! for his was no antiquarian soul; it was a soul hungry after life, not after the mummy cloths enwrapping the dead. chapter ii. a spiritual foot-pad. he was now walking southward, but would soon, when the mountains were well behind him, turn toward the east. he carried a small wallet, filled chiefly with oatcake and hard skim-milk cheese: about two o'clock he sat down on a stone, and proceeded to make a meal. a brook from the hills ran near: for that he had chosen the spot, his fare being dry. he seldom took any other drink than water: he had learned that strong drink at best but discounted to him his own at a high rate. he drew from his pocket a small thick volume he had brought as the companion of his journey, and read as he ate. his seat was on the last slope of a grassy hill, where many huge stones rose out of the grass. a few yards beneath was a country road, and on the other side of the road a small stream, in which the brook that ran swiftly past, almost within reach of his hand, eagerly lost itself. on the further bank of the stream, perfuming the air, grew many bushes of meadow-sweet, or queen-of-the-meadow, as it is called in scotland; and beyond lay a lovely stretch of nearly level pasture. farther eastward all was a plain, full of farms. behind him rose the hill, shutting out his past; before him lay the plain, open to his eyes and feet. god had walled up his past, and was disclosing his future. when he had eaten his dinner, its dryness forgotten in the condiment his book supplied, he rose, and taking his cap from his head, filled it from the stream, and drank heartily; then emptied it, shook the last drops from it, and put it again upon his head. "ho, ho, young man!" cried a voice. donal looked, and saw a man in the garb of a clergyman regarding him from the road, and wiping his face with his sleeve. "you should mind," he continued, "how you scatter your favours." "i beg your pardon, sir," said donal, taking off his cap again; "i hadna a notion there was leevin' cratur near me." "it's a fine day!" said the minister. "it is that, sir!" answered donal. "which way are you going?" asked the minister, adding, as if in apology for his seeming curiosity, "--you're a scholar, i see!"--with a glance towards the book he had left open on his stone. "nae sae muckle as i wad fain be, sir," answered donal--then called to mind a resolve he had made to speak english for the future. "a modest youth, i see!" returned the clergyman; but donal hardly liked the tone in which he said it. "that depends on what you mean by a scholar," he said. "oh!" answered the minister, not thinking much about his reply, but in a bantering humour willing to draw the lad out, "the learned man modestly calls himself a scholar." "then there was no modesty in saying i was not so much of a scholar as i should like to be; every scholar would say the same." "a very good answer!" said the clergyman patronizingly, "you'll be a learned man some day!" and he smiled as he said it. "when would you call a man learned?" asked donal. "that is hard to determine, seeing those that claim to be contradict each other so." "what good then can there be in wanting to be learned?" "you get the mental discipline of study." "it seems to me," said donal, "a pity to get a body's discipline on what may be worthless. it's just as good discipline to my teeth to dine on bread and cheese, as it would be to exercise them on sheep's grass." "i've got hold of a humorist!" said the clergyman to himself. donal picked up his wallet and his book, and came down to the road. then first the clergyman saw that he was barefooted. in his childhood he had himself often gone without shoes and stockings, yet the youth's lack of them prejudiced him against him. "it must be the fellow's own fault!" he said to himself. "he shan't catch me with his chaff!" donal would rather have forded the river, and gone to inquire his way at the nearest farm-house, but he thought it polite to walk a little way with the clergyman. "how far are you going?" asked the minister at length. "as far as i can," replied donal. "where do you mean to pass the night?" "in some barn perhaps, or on some hill-side." "i am sorry to hear you can do no better." "you don't think, sir, what a decent bed costs; and a barn is generally, a hill-side always clean. in fact the hill-side 's the best. many's the time i have slept on one. it's a strange notion some people have, that it's more respectable to sleep under man's roof than god's." "to have no settled abode," said the clergyman, and paused. "like abraham?" suggested donal with a smile. "an abiding city seems hardly necessary to pilgrims and strangers! i fell asleep once on the top of glashgar: when i woke the sun was looking over the edge of the horizon. i rose and gazed about me as if i were but that moment created. if god had called me, i should hardly have been astonished." "or frightened?" asked the minister. "no, sir; why should a man fear the presence of his saviour?" "you said god!" answered the minister. "god is my saviour! into his presence it is my desire to come." "under shelter of the atonement," supplemented the minister. "gien ye mean by that, sir," cried donal, forgetting his english, "onything to come 'atween my god an' me, i'll ha'e nane o' 't. i'll hae naething hide me frae him wha made me! i wadna hide a thoucht frae him. the waur it is, the mair need he see't." "what book is that you are reading?" asked the minister sharply. "it's not your bible, i'll be bound! you never got such notions from it!" he was angry with the presumptuous youth--and no wonder; for the gospel the minister preached was a gospel but to the slavish and unfilial. "it's shelley," answered donal, recovering himself. the minister had never read a word of shelley, but had a very decided opinion of him. he gave a loud rude whistle. "so! that's where you go for your theology! i was puzzled to understand you, but now all is plain! young man, you are on the brink of perdition. that book will poison your very vitals!" "indeed, sir, it will never go deep enough for that! but it came near touching them as i sat eating my bread and cheese." "he's an infidel!" said the minister fiercely. "a kind of one," returned donal, "but not of the worst sort. it's the people who call themselves believers that drive the like of poor shelley to the mouth of the pit." "he hated the truth," said the minister. "he was always seeking after it," said donal, "though to be sure he didn't get to the end of the search. just listen to this, sir, and say whether it be very far from christian." donal opened his little volume, and sought his passage. the minister but for curiosity and the dread of seeming absurd would have stopped his ears and refused to listen. he was a man of not merely dry or stale, but of deadly doctrines. he would have a man love christ for protecting him from god, not for leading him to god in whom alone is bliss, out of whom all is darkness and misery. he had not a glimmer of the truth that eternal life is to know god. he imagined justice and love dwelling in eternal opposition in the bosom of eternal unity. he knew next to nothing about god, and misrepresented him hideously. if god were such as he showed him, it would be the worst possible misfortune to have been created. donal had found the passage. it was in the mask of anarchy. he read the following stanzas:-- let a vast assembly be, and with great solemnity declare with measured words that ye are, as god has made ye, free. be your strong and simple words keen to wound as sharpened swords, and wide as targes let them be, with their shade to cover ye. and if then the tyrants dare, let them ride among you there, slash, and stab, and maim, and hew-- what they like, that let them do. with folded arms and steady eyes, and little fear, and less surprise, look upon them as they slay, till their rage has died away. and that slaughter to the nation shall steam up like inspiration, eloquent, oracular-- a volcano heard afar. ending, the reader turned to the listener. but the listener had understood little of the meaning, and less of the spirit. he hated opposition to the powers on the part of any below himself, yet scorned the idea of submitting to persecution. "what think you of that, sir?" asked donal. "sheer nonsense!" answered the minister. "where would scotland be now but for resistance?" "there's more than one way of resisting, though," returned donal. "enduring evil was the lord's way. i don't know about scotland, but i fancy there would be more christians, and of a better stamp, in the world, if that had been the mode of resistance always adopted by those that called themselves such. anyhow it was his way." "shelley's, you mean!" "i don't mean shelley's, i mean christ's. in spirit shelley was far nearer the truth than those who made him despise the very name of christianity without knowing what it really was. but god will give every man fair play." "young man!" said the minister, with an assumption of great solemnity and no less authority, "i am bound to warn you that you are in a state of rebellion against god, and he will not be mocked. good morning!" donal sat down on the roadside--he would let the minister have a good start of him--took again his shabby little volume, held more talk with the book-embodied spirit of shelley, and saw more and more clearly how he was misled in his every notion of christianity, and how different those who gave him his notions must have been from the evangelists and apostles. he saw in the poet a boyish nature striving after liberty, with scarce a notion of what liberty really was: he knew nothing of the law of liberty--oneness with the will of our existence, which would have us free with its own freedom. when the clergyman was long out of sight he rose and went on, and soon came to a bridge by which he crossed the river. then on he went through the cultivated plain, his spirits never flagging. he was a pilgrim on his way to his divine fate! chapter iii. the moor. the night began to descend and he to be weary, and look about him for a place of repose. but there was a long twilight before him, and it was warm. for some time the road had been ascending, and by and by he found himself on a bare moor, among heather not yet in bloom, and a forest of bracken. here was a great, beautiful chamber for him! and what better bed than god's heather! what better canopy than god's high, star-studded night, with its airy curtains of dusky darkness! was it not in this very chamber that jacob had his vision of the mighty stair leading up to the gate of heaven! was it not under such a roof jesus spent his last nights on the earth! for comfort and protection he sought no human shelter, but went out into his father's house--out under his father's heaven! the small and narrow were not to him the safe, but the wide and open. thick walls cover men from the enemies they fear; the lord sought space. there the angels come and go more freely than where roofs gather distrust. if ever we hear a far-off rumour of angel-visit, it is not from some solitary plain with lonely children? donal walked along the high table-land till he was weary, and rest looked blissful. then he turned aside from the rough track into the heather and bracken. when he came to a little dry hollow, with a yet thicker growth of heather, its tops almost close as those of his bed at his father's cottage, he sought no further. taking his knife, he cut a quantity of heather and ferns, and heaped it on the top of the thickest bush; then creeping in between the cut and the growing, he cleared the former from his face that he might see the worlds over him, and putting his knapsack under his head, fell fast asleep. when he woke not even the shadow of a dream lingered to let him know what he had been dreaming. he woke with such a clear mind, such an immediate uplifting of the soul, that it seemed to him no less than to jacob that he must have slept at the foot of the heavenly stair. the wind came round him like the stuff of thought unshaped, and every breath he drew seemed like god breathing afresh into his nostrils the breath of life. who knows what the thing we call air is? we know about it, but it we do not know. the sun shone as if smiling at the self-importance of the sulky darkness he had driven away, and the world seemed content with a heavenly content. so fresh was donal's sense that he felt as if his sleep within and the wind without had been washing him all the night. so peaceful, so blissful was his heart that it longed to share its bliss; but there was no one within sight, and he set out again on his journey. he had not gone far when he came to a dip in the moorland--a round hollow, with a cottage of turf in the middle of it, from whose chimney came a little smoke: there too the day was begun! he was glad he had not seen it before, for then he might have missed the repose of the open night. at the door stood a little girl in a blue frock. she saw him, and ran in. he went down and drew near to the door. it stood wide open, and he could not help seeing in. a man sat at the table in the middle of the floor, his forehead on his hand. donal did not see his face. he seemed waiting, like his father for the book, while his mother got it from the top of the wall. he stepped over the threshold, and in the simplicity of his heart, said:-- "ye'll be gaein' to hae worship!" "na, na!" returned the man, raising his head, and taking a brief, hard stare at his visitor; "we dinna set up for prayin' fowk i' this hoose. we ley that to them 'at kens what they hae to be thankfu' for." "i made a mistak," said donal. "i thoucht ye micht hae been gaein' to say gude mornin' to yer makker, an' wad hae likit to j'in wi' ye; for i kenna what i haena to be thankfu' for. guid day to ye." "ye can bide an' tak yer parritch gien ye like." "ow, na, i thank ye. ye micht think i cam for the parritch, an' no for the prayers. i like as ill to be coontit a hypocrite as gien i war ane." "ye can bide an' hae worship wi' 's, gien ye tak the buik yersel'." "i canna lead whaur 's nane to follow. na; i'll du better on the muir my lane." but the gudewife was a religions woman after her fashion--who can be after any one else's? she came with a bible in her hand, and silently laid it on the table. donal had never yet prayed aloud except in a murmur by himself on the hill, but, thus invited, could not refuse. he read a psalm of trouble, breaking into hope at the close, then spoke as follows:-- "freens, i'm but yoong, as ye see, an' never afore daured open my moo i' sic fashion, but it comes to me to speyk, an' wi' yer leave speyk i wull. i canna help thinkin' the gudeman 's i' some trible--siclike, maybe, as king dawvid whan he made the psalm i hae been readin' i' yer hearin'. ye observt hoo it began like a stormy mornin', but ye h'ard hoo it changed or a' was dune. the sun comes oot bonny i' the en', an' ye hear the birds beginnin' to sing, tellin' natur' to gie ower her greitin'. an' what brings the guid man til's senses, div ye think? what but jist the thoucht o' him 'at made him, him 'at cares aboot him, him 'at maun come to ill himsel' 'afore he lat onything he made come to ill. sir, lat's gang doon upo' oor knees, an' commit the keepin' o' oor sowls to him as til a faithfu' creator, wha winna miss his pairt 'atween him an' hiz." they went down on their knees, and donal said, "o lord, oor ain father an' saviour, the day ye hae sent 's has arrived bonny an' gran', an' we bless ye for sen'in' 't; but eh, oor father, we need mair the licht that shines i' the darker place. we need the dawn o' a spiritual day inside 's, or the bonny day ootside winna gang for muckle. lord, oor micht, speyk a word o' peacefu' recall to ony dog o' thine 'at may be worryin' at the hert o' ony sheep o' thine 'at's run awa; but dinna ca' him back sae as to lea' the puir sheep 'ahint him; fess back dog an' lamb thegither, o lord. haud 's a' frae ill, an' guide 's a' to guid, an' oor mornin' prayer 's ower. amen." they rose from their knees, and sat silent for a moment. then the guidwife put the pot on the fire with the water for the porridge. but donal rose, and walked out of the cottage, half wondering at himself that he had dared as he had, yet feeling he had done but the most natural thing in the world. "hoo a body 's to win throuw the day wantin' the lord o' the day an' the hoor an' the minute, 's 'ayont me!" he said to himself, and hastened away. ere noon the blue line of the far ocean rose on the horizon. chapter iv. the town. donal was queer, some of my readers will think, and i admit it; for the man who regards the affairs of life from any other point than his own greedy self, must be queer indeed in the eyes of all who are slaves to their imagined necessities and undisputed desires. it was evening when he drew nigh the place whither he had directed his steps--a little country town, not far from a famous seat of learning: there he would make inquiry before going further. the minister of his parish knew the minister of auchars, and had given him a letter of introduction. the country around had not a few dwellings of distinction, and at one or another of these might be children in want of a tutor. the sun was setting over the hills behind him as he entered the little town. at first it looked but a village, for on the outskirts, through which the king's highway led, were chiefly thatched cottages, with here and there a slated house of one story and an attic; but presently began to appear houses of larger size--few of them, however, of more than two stories. most of them looked as if they had a long and not very happy history. all at once he found himself in a street, partly of quaint gables with corbel steps; they called them here corbie-steps, in allusion, perhaps, to the raven sent out by noah, for which lazy bird the children regarded these as places to rest. there were two or three curious gateways in it with some attempt at decoration, and one house with the pepperpot turrets which scotish architecture has borrowed from the french chateau. the heart of the town was a yet narrower, close-built street, with several short closes and wynds opening out of it--all of which had ancient looking houses. there were shops not a few, but their windows were those of dwellings, as the upper parts of their buildings mostly were. in those shops was as good a supply of the necessities of life as in a great town, and cheaper. you could not get a coat so well cut, nor a pair of shoes to fit you so tight without hurting, but you could get first-rate work. the streets were unevenly paved with round, water-worn stones: donal was not sorry that he had not to walk far upon them. the setting sun sent his shadow before him as he entered the place. he kept the middle of the street, looking on this side and that for the hostelry whither he had despatched his chest before leaving home. a gloomy building, apparently uninhabited, drew his attention, and sent a strange thrill through him as his eyes fell upon it. it was of three low stories, the windows defended by iron stanchions, the door studded with great knobs of iron. a little way beyond he caught sight of the sign he was in search of. it swung in front of an old-fashioned, dingy building, with much of the old-world look that pervaded the town. the last red rays of the sun were upon it, lighting up a sorely faded coat of arms. the supporters, two red horses on their hind legs, were all of it he could make out. the crest above suggested a skate, but could hardly have been intended for one. a greedy-eyed man stood in the doorway, his hands in his trouser-pockets. he looked with contemptuous scrutiny at the bare-footed lad approaching him. he had black hair and black eyes; his nose looked as if a heavy finger had settled upon its point, and pressed it downwards: its nostrils swelled wide beyond their base; underneath was a big mouth with a good set of teeth, and a strong upturning chin--an ambitious and greedy face. but ambition is a form of greed. "a fine day, landlord!" said donal. "ay," answered the man, without changing the posture of one taking his ease against his own door-post, or removing his hands from his pockets, but looking donal up and down with conscious superiority, then resting his eyes on the bare feet and upturned trousers. "this'll be the morven arms, i'm thinkin'?" said donal. "it taksna muckle thoucht to think that," returned the inn-keeper, "whan there they hing!" "ay," rejoined donal, glancing up; "there is something there--an' it's airms i doobtna; but it's no a'body has the preevilege o' a knowledge o' heraldry like yersel', lan'lord! i'm b'un' to confess, for what i ken they micht be the airms o' ony ane o' ten score scots faimilies." there was one weapon with which john glumm was assailable, and that was ridicule: with all his self-sufficiency he stood in terror of it--and the more covert the ridicule, so long as he suspected it, the more he resented as well as dreaded it. he stepped into the street, and taking a hand from a pocket, pointed up to the sign. "see til't!" he said. "dinna ye see the twa reid horse?" "ay," answered donal; "i see them weel eneuch, but i'm nane the wiser nor gien they war twa reid whauls.--man," he went on, turning sharp round upon the fellow, "ye're no cawpable o' conceivin' the extent o' my ignorance! it's as rampant as the reid horse upo' your sign! i'll yield to naebody i' the amoont o' things i dinna ken!" the man stared at him for a moment. "i s' warran'," he said, "ye ken mair nor ye care to lat on!" "an' what may that be ower the heid o' them?--a crest, ca' ye 't?" said donal. "it's a base pearl-beset," answered the landlord. he had not a notion of what a base meant, or pearl-beset, yet prided himself on his knowledge of the words. "eh," returned donal, "i took it for a skate!" "a skate!" repeated the landlord with offended sneer, and turned towards the house. "i was thinkin' to put up wi' ye the nicht, gien ye could accommodate me at a rizzonable rate," said donal. "i dinna ken," replied glumm, hesitating, with his back to him, between unwillingness to lose a penny, and resentment at the supposed badinage, which was indeed nothing but humour; "what wad ye ca' rizzonable?" "i wadna grudge a saxpence for my bed; a shillin' i wad," answered donal. "weel, ninepence than--for ye seemna owercome wi' siller." "na," answered donal, "i'm no that. whatever my burden, yon's no hit. the loss o' what i hae wad hardly mak me lichter for my race." "ye're a queer customer!" said the man. "i'm no sae queer but i hae a kist comin' by the carrier," rejoined donal, "direckit to the morven airms. it'll be here in time doobtless." "we'll see whan it comes," remarked the landlord, implying the chest was easier invented than believed in. "the warst o' 't is," continued donal, "i canna weel shaw mysel' wantin' shune. i hae a pair i' my kist, an' anither upo' my back,--but nane for my feet." "there's sutors enew," said the innkeeper. "weel we'll see as we gang. i want a word wi' the minister. wad ye direc' me to the manse?" "he's frae hame. but it's o' sma' consequence; he disna care aboot tramps, honest man! he winna waur muckle upo' the likes o' you." the landlord was recovering himself--therefore his insolence. donal gave a laugh. those who are content with what they are, have the less concern about what they seem. the ambitious like to be taken for more than they are, and may well be annoyed when they are taken for less. "i'm thinkin' ye wadna waur muckle on a tramp aither!" he said. "i wad not," answered glumm. "it's the pairt o' the honest to discoontenance lawlessness." "ye wadna hang the puir craturs, wad ye?" asked donal. "i wad hang a wheen mair o' them." "for no haein' a hoose ower their heads? that's some hard! what gien ye was ae day to be in want o' ane yersel'!" "we'll bide till the day comes.--but what are ye stan'in' there for? are ye comin' in, or are ye no?" "it's a some cauld welcome!" said donal. "i s' jist tak a luik aboot afore i mak up my min'. a tramp, ye ken, needsna stan' upo' ceremony." he turned away and walked further along the street. chapter v. the cobbler. at the end of the street he came to a low-arched gateway in the middle of a poor-looking house. within it sat a little bowed man, cobbling diligently at a boot. the sun had left behind him in the west a heap of golden refuse, and cuttings of rose and purple, which shone right in at the archway, and let him see to work. here was the very man for donal! a respectable shoemaker would have disdained to patch up the shoes he carried--especially as the owner was in so much need of them. "it's a bonny nicht," he said. "ye may weel mak the remark, sir!" replied the cobbler without looking up, for a critical stitch occupied him. "it's a balmy nicht." "that's raither a bonny word to put til't!" returned donal. "there's a kin' o' an air aboot the place i wad hardly hae thoucht balmy! but troth it's no the fau't o' the nicht!" "ye're richt there also," returned the cobbler--his use of the conjunction impressing donal. "still, the weather has to du wi' the smell--wi' the mair or less o' 't, that is. it comes frae a tanneree nearby. it's no an ill smell to them 'at's used til't; and ye wad hardly believe me, sir, but i smell the clover throuw 't. maybe i'm preejudized, seein' but for the tan-pits i couldna weel drive my trade; but sittin' here frae mornin' to nicht, i get a kin' o' a habit o' luikin' oot for my blessin's. to recognize an auld blessin' 's 'maist better nor to get a new ane. a pair o' shune weel cobblet 's whiles full better nor a new pair." "they are that," said donal; "but i dinna jist see hoo yer seemile applies." "isna gettin' on a pair o' auld weel-kent an' weel men'it shune, 'at winna nip yer feet nor yet shochle, like waukin' up til a blessin' ye hae been haein' for years, only ye didna ken 't for ane?" as he spoke, the cobbler lifted a little wizened face and a pair of twinkling eyes to those of the student, revealing a soul as original as his own. he was one of the inwardly inseparable, outwardly far divided company of christian philosophers, among whom individuality as well as patience is free to work its perfect work. in that glance donal saw a ripe soul looking out of its tent door, ready to rush into the sunshine of the new life. he stood for a moment lost in eternal regard of the man. he seemed to have known him for ages. the cobbler looked up again. "ye'll be wantin' a han' frae me i' my ain line, i'm thinkin'!" he said, with a kindly nod towards donal's shoeless feet. "sma' doobt!" returned donal. "i had scarce startit, but was ower far to gang back, whan the sole o' ae shue cam aff, an' i had to tramp it wi' baith my ain." "an' ye thankit the lord for the auld blessin' o' bein' born an' broucht up wi' soles o' yer ain!" "to tell the trowth," answered donal, "i hae sae mony things to be thankfu' for, it's but sma' won'er i forget mony ane o' them. but noo, an' i thank ye for the exhortation, the lord's name be praist 'at he gae me feet fit for gangin' upo'!" he took his shoes from his back, and untying the string that bound them, presented the ailing one to the cobbler. "that's what we may ca' deith!" remarked the cobbler, slowly turning the invalided shoe. "ay, deith it is," answered donal; "it's a sair divorce o' sole an' body." "it's a some auld-farrand joke," said the cobbler, "but the fun intil a thing doesna weir oot ony mair nor the poetry or the trowth intil't." "who will say there was no providence in the loss of my shoe-sole!" remarked donal to himself. "here i am with a friend already!" the cobbler was submitting the shoes, first the sickly one, now the sound one, to a thorough scrutiny. "ye dinna think them worth men'in', i doobt!" said donal, with a touch of anxiety in his tone. "i never thoucht that whaur the leather wad haud the steik," replied the cobbler. "but whiles, i confess, i'm jist a wheen tribled to ken hoo to chairge for my wark. it's no barely to consider the time it'll tak me to cloot a pair, but what the weirer 's like to git oot o' them. i canna tak mair nor the job 'ill be worth to the weirer. an' yet the waur the shune, an' the less to be made o' them, the mair time they tak to mak them worth onything ava'!" "surely ye oucht to be paid in proportion to your labour." "i' that case i wad whiles hae to say til a puir body 'at hadna anither pair i' the warl', 'at her ae pair o' shune wasna worth men'in'; an' that wad be a hertbrak, an' sair feet forby, to sic as couldna, like yersel', sir, gang upo' the lord's ain shune." "but hoo mak ye a livin' that w'y?" suggested donal. "hoots, the maister o' the trade sees to my wauges!" "an' wha may he be?" asked donal, well foreseeing the answer. "he was never cobbler himsel', but he was ance carpenter; an' noo he's liftit up to be heid o' a' the trades. an' there's ae thing he canna bide, an' that's close parin'." he stopped. but donal held his peace, waiting; and he went on. "to them 'at maks little, for reasons good, by their neebour, he gies the better wauges whan they gang hame. to them 'at maks a' 'at they can, he says, 'ye helpit yersel'; help awa'; ye hae yer reward. only comena near me, for i canna bide ye'.--but aboot thae shune o' yours, i dinna weel ken! they're weel eneuch worth duin' the best i can for them; but the morn's sunday, an' what hae ye to put on?" "naething--till my kist comes; an' that, i doobt, winna be afore monday, or maybe the day efter." "an' ye winna be able to gang to the kirk!" "i'm no partic'lar aboot gaein' to the kirk; but gien i wantit to gang, or gien i thoucht i was b'un' to gang, think ye i wad bide at hame 'cause i hadna shune to gang in! wad i fancy the lord affrontit wi' the bare feet he made himsel'!" the cobbler caught up the worst shoe and began upon it at once. "ye s' hae't, sir," he said, "gien i sit a' nicht at it! the ane 'll du till monday. ye s' hae't afore kirk-time, but ye maun come intil the hoose to get it, for the fowk wud be scunnert to see me workin' upo' the sabbath-day. they dinna un'erstan' 'at the maister works sunday an' setterday--an' his father as weel!" "ye dinna think, than, there's onything wrang in men'in' a pair o' shune on the sabbath-day?" "wrang!--in obeyin' my maister, whase is the day, as weel's a' the days? they wad fain tak it frae the son o' man, wha's the lord o' 't, but they canna!" he looked up over the old shoe with eyes that flashed. "but then--excuse me," said donal, "--why shouldna ye haud yer face til 't, an' work openly, i' the name o' god?" "we're telt naither to du oor gude warks afore men to be seen o' them, nor yet to cast oor pearls afore swine. i coont cobblin' your shoes, sir, a far better wark nor gaein' to the kirk, an' i wadna hae't seen o' men. gien i war warkin' for poverty, it wad be anither thing." this last donal did not understand, but learned afterwards what the cobbler meant: the day being for rest, the next duty to helping another was to rest himself. to work for fear of starving would be to distrust the father, and act as if man lived by bread alone. "whan i think o' 't," he resumed after a pause, "bein' sunday, i'll tak them hame to ye. whaur wull ye be?" "that's what i wad fain hae ye tell me," answered donal. "i had thoucht to put up at the morven airms, but there's something i dinna like aboot the lan'lord. ken ye ony dacent, clean place, whaur they wad gie me a room to mysel', an' no seek mair nor i could pey them?" "we hae a bit roomie oorsel's," said the cobbler, "at the service o' ony dacent wayfarin' man that can stan' the smell, an' put up wi' oor w'ys. for peyment, ye can pey what ye think it's worth. we're never varra partic'lar." "i tak yer offer wi' thankfu'ness," answered donal. "weel, gang ye in at that door jist 'afore ye, an' ye'll see the guidwife--there's nane ither til see. i wad gang wi' ye mysel', but i canna, wi' this shue o' yours to turn intil a sunday ane!" donal went to the door indicated. it stood wide open; for while the cobbler sat outside at his work, his wife would never shut the door. he knocked, but there came no answer. "she's some dull o' hearin'," said the cobbler, and called her by his own name for her. "doory! doory!" he said. "she canna be that deif gien she hears ye!" said donal; for he spoke hardly louder than usual. "whan god gies you a wife, may she be ane to hear yer lichtest word!" answered the cobbler. sure enough, he had scarcely finished the sentence, when doory appeared at the door. "did ye cry, guidman?" she said. "na, doory: i canna say i cried; but i spak, an' ye, as is yer custom, hearkent til my word!--here's a believin' lad--i'm thinkin' he maun be a gentleman, but i'm no sure; it's hard for a cobbler to ken a gentleman 'at comes til him wantin' shune; but he may be a gentleman for a' that, an' there's nae hurry to ken. he's welcome to me, gien he be welcome to you. can ye gie him a nicht's lodgin'?" "weel that! an' wi' a' my hert!" said doory. "he's welcome to what we hae." turning, she led the way into the house. chapter vi. doory. she was a very small, spare woman, in a blue print with little white spots--straight, not bowed like her husband. otherwise she seemed at first exactly like him. but ere the evening was over, donal saw there was no featural resemblance between the two faces, and was puzzled to understand how the two expressions came to be so like: as they sat it seemed in the silence as if they were the same person thinking in two shapes and two places. following the old woman, donal ascended a steep and narrow stair, which soon brought him to a landing where was light, coming mainly through green leaves, for the window in the little passage was filled with plants. his guide led him into what seemed to him an enchanting room--homely enough it was, but luxurious compared to what he had been accustomed to. he saw white walls and a brown-hued but clean-swept wooden floor, on which shone a keen-eyed little fire from a low grate. two easy chairs, covered with some party-coloured striped stuff, stood one on each side of the fire. a kettle was singing on the hob. the white deal-table was set for tea--with a fat brown teapot, and cups of a gorgeous pattern in bronze, that shone in the firelight like red gold. in one of the walls was a box-bed. "i'll lat ye see what accommodation we hae at yer service, sir," said doory, "an' gien that'll shuit ye, ye s' be welcome." so saying, she opened what looked like the door of a cupboard at the side of the fireplace. it disclosed a neat little parlour, with a sweet air in it. the floor was sanded, and so much the cleaner than if it had been carpeted. a small mahogany table, black with age, stood in the middle. on a side-table covered with a cloth of faded green, lay a large family bible; behind it were a few books and a tea-caddy. in the side of the wall opposite the window, was again a box-bed. to the eyes of the shepherd-born lad, it looked the most desirable shelter he had ever seen. he turned to his hostess and said, "i'm feart it's ower guid for me. what could ye lat me hae't for by the week? i wad fain bide wi' ye, but whaur an' whan i may get wark i canna tell; sae i maunna tak it ony gait for mair nor a week." "mak yersel' at ease till the morn be by," said the old woman. "ye canna du naething till that be ower. upo' the mononday mornin' we s' haud a cooncil thegither--you an' me an' my man: i can du naething wantin' my man; we aye pu' thegither or no at a'." well content, and with hearty thanks, donal committed his present fate into the hands of the humble pair, his heaven-sent helpers; and after much washing and brushing, all that was possible to him in the way of dressing, reappeared in the kitchen. their tea was ready, and the cobbler seated in the window with a book in his hand, leaving for donal his easy chair. "i canna tak yer ain cheir frae ye," said donal. "hoots!" returned the cobbler, "what's onything oors for but to gie the neeper 'at stan's i' need o' 't." "but ye hae had a sair day's wark!" "an' you a sair day's traivel!" "but i'm yoong!" "an' i'm auld, an' my labour the nearer ower." "but i'm strong!" "there's nane the less need ye sud be hauden sae. sit ye doon, an' wastena yer backbane. my business is to luik to the bodies o' men, an' specially to their puir feet 'at has to bide the weicht, an' get sair pressed therein. life 's as hard upo' the feet o' a man as upo' ony pairt o' 'm! whan they gang wrang, there isna muckle to be dune till they be set richt again. i'm sair honourt, i say to mysel' whiles, to be set ower the feet o' men. it's a fine ministration!--full better than bein' a door-keeper i' the hoose o' the lord! for the feet 'at gang oot an' in at it 's mair nor the door!" "the lord be praist!" said donal to himself; "there's mair i' the warl' like my father an' mither!" he took the seat appointed him. "come to the table, anerew," said the old woman, "gien sae be ye can pairt wi' that buik o' yours, an' lat yer sowl gie place to yer boady's richts.--i doobt, sir, gien he wad ait or drink gien i wasna at his elbuck." "doory," returned her husband, "ye canna deny i gie ye a bit noo an' than, specially whan i come upo' onything by ord'nar' tasty!" "that ye du, anerew, or i dinna ken what wud come o' my sowl ony mair nor o' your boady! sae ye see, sir, we're like john sprat an' his wife:--ye'll ken the bairns' say aboot them?" "ay, fine that," replied donal. "ye couldna weel be better fittit." "god grant it!" she said. "but we wad fit better yet gien i had but a wheen mair brains." "the lord kenned what brains ye had whan he broucht ye thegither," said donal. "ye never uttert a truer word," replied the cobbler. "gien the lord be content wi' the brains he's gien ye, an' i be content wi' the brains ye gie me, what richt hae ye to be discontentit wi' the brains ye hae, doory?--answer me that. but i s' come to the table.--wud ye alloo me to speir efter yer name, sir?" "my name 's donal grant," replied donal. "i thank ye, sir, an' i'll haud it in respec'," returned the cobbler. "maister grant, wull ye ask a blessin'?" "i wad raither j'in i' your askin'," replied donal. the cobbler said a little prayer, and then they began to eat--first of oat-cakes, baked by the old woman, then of loaf-breid, as they called it. "i'm sorry i hae nae jeally or jam to set afore ye, sir," said doory, "we're but semple fowk, ye see--content to haud oor earthly taibernacles in a haibitable condition till we hae notice to quit." "it's a fine thing to ken," said the cobbler, with a queer look, "'at whan ye lea' 't, yer hoose fa's doon, an' ye haena to think o' ony damages to pey--forby 'at gien it laistit ony time efter ye was oot o' 't, there micht be a wheen deevils takin' up their abode intil 't." "hoot, anerew!" interposed his wife, "there's naething like that i' scriptur'!" "hoot, doory!" returned andrew, "what ken ye aboot what's no i' scriptur'? ye ken a heap, i alloo, aboot what's in scriptur', but ye ken little aboot what's no intil 't!" "weel, isna 't best to ken what's intil 't?" "'ayont a doobt." "weel!" she returned in playful triumph. donal saw that he had got hold of a pair of originals: it was a joy to his heart: he was himself an original--one, namely, that lived close to the simplicities of existence! andrew comin, before offering him house-room, would never have asked anyone what he was; but he would have thought it an equal lapse in breeding not to show interest in the history as well as the person of a guest. after a little more talk, so far from commonplace that the common would have found it mirth-provoking, the cobbler said: "an' what office may ye haud yersel', sir, i' the ministry o' the temple?" "i think i un'erstan' ye," replied donal; "my mother says curious things like you." "curious things is whiles no that curious," remarked andrew. a pause following, he resumed: "gien onything gie ye reason to prefar waitin' till ye ken doory an' me a bit better, sir," he said, "coont my ill-mainnert queston no speirt." "there's naething," answered donal. "i'll tell ye onything or a'thing aboot mysel'." "tell what ye wull, sir, an' keep what ye wull," said the cobbler. "i was broucht up a herd-laddie," proceeded donal, "an' whiles a shepherd ane. for mony a year i kent mair aboot the hill-side nor the ingle-neuk. but it's the same god an' father upo' the hill-side an' i' the king's pailace." "an' ye'll ken a' aboot the win', an' the cloods, an' the w'ys o' god ootside the hoose! i ken something hoo he hauds things gaein' inside the hoose--in a body's hert, i mean--in mine an' doory's there, but i ken little aboot the w'y he gars things work 'at he's no sae far ben in." "ye dinna surely think god fillsna a'thing?" exclaimed donal. "na, na; i ken better nor that," answered the cobbler; "but ye maun alloo a tod's hole 's no sae deep as the thro't o' a burnin' m'untain! god himsel' canna win sae far ben in a shallow place as in a deep place; he canna be sae far ben i' the win's, though he gars them du as he likes, as he is, or sud be, i' your hert an' mine, sir!" "i see!" responded donal. "could that hae been hoo the lord had to rebuke the win's an' the wawves, as gien they had been gaein' at their ain free wull, i'stead o' the wull o' him 'at made them an' set them gaein'?" "maybe; but i wud hae to think aboot it 'afore i answert," replied the cobbler. a silence intervened. then said andrew, thoughtfully, "i thoucht, when i saw ye first, ye was maybe a lad frae a shop i' the muckle toon--or a clerk, as they ca' them, 'at sits makin' up accoonts." "na, i'm no that, i thank god," said donal. "what for thank ye god for that?" asked andrew. "a' place is his. i wudna hae ye thank god ye're no a cobbler like me! ye micht, though, for it's little ye can ken o' the guid o' the callin'!" "i'll tell ye what for," answered donal. "i ken weel toon-fowk think it a heap better to hae to du wi' figures nor wi' sheep, but i'm no o' their min'; an' for ae thing, the sheep's alive. i could weel fancy an angel a shepherd--an' he wad coont my father guid company! troth, he wad want wings an' airms an' feet an' a' to luik efter the lambs whiles! but gien sic a ane was a clerk in a coontin' hoose, he wad hae to stow awa the wings; i cannot see what use he wad hae for them there. he micht be an angel a' the time, an' that no a fallen ane, but he bude to lay aside something to fit the place." "but ye're no a shepherd the noo?" said the cobbler. "na," replied donal, "--'cep' it be i'm set to luik efter anither grade o' lamb. a freen'--ye may 'a' h'ard his name--sir gilbert galbraith--made the beginnin' o' a scholar o' me, an' noo i hae my degree frae the auld university o' inverdaur." "didna i think as muckle!" cried mistress comin triumphant. "i hadna time to say 't to ye, anerew, but i was sure he was frae the college, an' that was hoo his feet war sae muckle waur furnisht nor his heid." "i hae a pair o' shune i' my kist, though--whan that comes!" said donal, laughing. "i only houp it winna be ower muckle to win up oor stair!" "i dinna think it. but we'll lea' 't i' the street afore it s' come 'atween 's!" said donal. "gien ye'll hae me, sae lang's i'm i' the toon, i s' gang nae ither gait." "an' ye'll doobtless read the greek like yer mither-tongue?" said the cobbler, with a longing admiration in his tone. "na, no like that; but weel eneuch to get guid o' 't." "weel, that's jist the ae thing i grutch ye--na, no grutch--i'm glaid ye hae't--but the ae thing i wud fain be a scholar for mysel'! to think i kenna a cheep o' the word spoken by the word himsel'!" "but the letter o' the word he made little o' comparet wi' the speerit!" said donal. "ay, that's true! an' yet it's whaur a man may weel be greedy an' want to hae a'thing: wha has the speerit wad fain hae the letter tu! but it disna maitter; i s' set to learnin' 't the first thing whan i gang up the stair--that is, gien it be the lord's wull." "hoots!" said his wife, "what wad ye du wi' greek up there! i s' warran' the fowk there, ay, an' the maister himsel', speyks plain scotch! what for no! what wad they du there wi' greek, 'at a body wad hae to warstle wi' frae mornin' to nicht, an' no mak oot the third pairt o' 't!" her husband laughed merrily, but donal said, "'deed maybe ye're na sae far wrang, guidwife! i'm thinkin' there maun be a gran' mither-tongue there, 'at 'll soop up a' the lave, an' be better to un'erstan' nor a body's ain--for it'll be yet mair his ain." "hear til him!" cried the cobbler, with hearty approbation. "ye ken," donal went on, "a' the languages o' the earth cam, or luik as gien they had come, frae ane, though we're no jist dogsure o' that. there's my mither's ain gaelic, for enstance: it's as auld, maybe aulder nor the greek; onygait, it has mair greek nor laitin words intil 't, an' ye ken the greek 's an aulder tongue nor the laitin. weel, gien we could work oor w'y back to the auldest grit-gran'mither-tongue o' a', i'm thinkin' it wad come a kin o' sae easy til 's, 'at, wi' the impruvt faculties o' oor h'avenly condition, we micht be able in a feow days to haud communication wi' ane anither i' that same, ohn stammert or hummt an' hawt." "but there's been sic a heap o' things f'un' oot sin' syne, i' the min' o' man, as weel 's i' the warl' ootside," said andrew, "that sic a language wad be mair like a bairn's tongue nor a mither's, i'm thinkin', whan set against a' 'at wad be to speyk aboot!" "ye're verra richt there, i dinna doobt. but hoo easy wad it be for ilk ane to bring in the new word he wantit, haein' eneuch common afore to explain 't wi'! afore lang the language wad hae intil 't ilka word 'at was worth haein' in ony language 'at ever was spoken sin' the toor o' babel." "eh, sirs, but it's dreidfu' to think o' haein' to learn sae muckle!" said the old woman. "i'm ower auld an' dottlet!" her husband laughed again. "i dinna see what ye hae to lauch at!" she said, laughing too. "ye'll be dottlet yersel' gien ye live lang eneuch!" "i'm thinkin'," said andrew, "but i dinna ken--'at it maun be a man's ain wyte gien age maks him dottlet. gien he's aye been haudin' by the trowth, i dinna think he'll fin' the trowth, hasna hauden by him.--but what i was lauchin' at was the thoucht o' onybody bein' auld up there. we'll a' be yoong there, lass!" "it sall be as the lord wulls," returned his wife. "it sall. we want nae mair; an' eh, we want nae less!" responded her husband. so the evening wore away. the talk was to the very mind of donal, who never loved wisdom so much as when she appeared in peasant-garb. in that garb he had first known her, and in the form of his mother. "i won'er," said doory at length, "'at yoong eppy 's no puttin' in her appearance! i was sure o' her the nicht: she hasna been near 's a' the week!" the cobbler turned to donal to explain. he would not talk of things their guest did not understand; that would be like shutting him out after taking him in! "yoong eppy 's a gran'child, sir--the only ane we hae. she's a weel behavet lass, though ta'en up wi' the things o' this warl' mair nor her grannie an' me could wuss. she's in a place no far frae here--no an easy ane, maybe, to gie satisfaction in, but she's duin' no that ill." "hoot, anerew! she's duin' jist as well as ony lassie o' her years could in justice be expeckit," interposed the grandmother. "it's seldom the lord 'at sets auld heid upo' yoong shoothers." the words were hardly spoken when a light foot was heard coming up the stair. "--but here she comes to answer for hersel'!" she added cheerily. the door of the room opened, and a good-looking girl of about eighteen came in. "weel, yoong eppy, hoo 's a' wi' ye?" said the old man. the grandmother's name was elspeth, the grand-daughter's had therefore always the prefix. "brawly, thank ye, gran'father," she answered. "hoo 's a' wi' yersel'?" "ow, weel cobblet!" he replied. "sit ye doon," said the grandmother, "by the spark o' fire; the nicht 's some airy like." "na, grannie, i want nae fire," said the girl. "i hae run a' the ro'd to get a glimp' o' ye 'afore the week was oot." "hoo 's things gaein' up at the castel?" "ow, sic-like 's usual--only the hoosekeeper 's some dowy, an' that puts mair upo' the lave o' 's: whan she's weel, she's no ane to spare hersel'--or ither fowk aither!--i wadna care, gien she wud but lippen til a body!" concluded young eppy, with a toss of her head. "we maunna speyk evil o' dignities, yoong eppy!" said the cobbler, with a twinkle in his eye. "ca' ye mistress brookes a dignity, gran'father!" said the girl, with a laugh that was nowise rude. "i do," he answered. "isna she ower ye? haena ye to du as she tells ye? 'atween her an' you that's eneuch: she's ane o' the dignities spoken o'." "i winna dispute it. but, eh, it's queer wark yon'er!" "tak ye care, yoong eppy! we maun haud oor tongues aboot things committit til oor trust. ane peyt to serve in a hoose maunna tre't the affairs o' that hoose as gien they war her ain." "it wad be weel gien a'body about the hoose was as partic'lar as ye wad hae me, gran'father!" "hoo's my lord, lass?" "ow, muckle the same--aye up the stair an' doon the stair the forepairt o' the nicht, an' maist inveesible a' day." the girl cast a shy glance now and then at donal, as if she claimed him on her side, though the older people must be humoured. donal was not too simple to understand her: he gave her look no reception. bethinking himself that they might have matters to talk about, he rose, and turning to his hostess, said, "wi' yer leave, gudewife, i wad gang to my bed. i hae traivelt a maitter o' thirty mile the day upo' my bare feet." "eh, sir!" she answered, "i oucht to hae considert that!--come, yoong eppy, we maun get the gentleman's bed made up for him." with a toss of her pretty head, eppy followed her grandmother to the next room, casting a glance behind her that seemed to ask what she meant by calling a lad without shoes or stockings a gentleman. not the less readily or actively, however, did she assist her grandmother in preparing the tired wayfarer's couch. in a few minutes they returned, and telling him the room was quite ready for him, doory added a hope that he would sleep as sound as if his own mother had made the bed. he heard them talking for a while after the door was closed, but the girl soon took her leave. he was just falling asleep in the luxury of conscious repose, when the sound of the cobbler's hammer for a moment roused him, and he knew the old man was again at work on his behalf. a moment more and he was too fast asleep for any cyclops' hammer to wake him. chapter vii. a sunday. notwithstanding his weariness donal woke early, for he had slept thoroughly. he rose and dressed himself, drew aside the little curtain that shrouded the window, and looked out. it was a lovely morning. his prospect was the curious old main street of the town. the sun that had shone into it was now shining from the other side, but not a shadow of living creature fell upon the rough stones! yes--there was a cat shooting across them like the culprit he probably was! if there was a garden to the house, he would go and read in the fresh morning air! he stole softly through the outer room, and down the stair; found the back-door and a water-butt; then a garden consisting of two or three plots of flowers well cared for; and ended his discoveries with a seat surrounded and almost canopied with honeysuckle, where doubtless the cobbler sometimes smoked his pipe! "why does he not work here rather than in the archway?" thought donal. but, dearly as he loved flowers and light and the free air of the garden, the old cobbler loved the faces of his kind better. his prayer for forty years had been to be made like his master; and if that prayer was not answered, how was it that, every year he lived, he found himself loving the faces of his fellows more and more? ever as they passed, instead of interfering with his contemplations, they gave him more and more to think: were these faces, he asked, the symbols of a celestial language in which god talked to him? donal sat down, and took his greek testament from his pocket. but all at once, brilliant as was the sun, the light of his life went out, and the vision rose of the gray quarry, and the girl turning from him in the wan moonlight. then swift as thought followed the vision of the women weeping about the forsaken tomb; and with his risen lord he rose also--into a region far "above the smoke and stir of this dim spot," a region where life is good even with its sorrow. the man who sees his disappointment beneath him, is more blessed than he who rejoices in fruition. then prayer awoke, and in the light of that morning of peace he drew nigh the living one, and knew him as the source of his being. weary with blessedness he leaned against the shadowing honeysuckle, gave a great sigh of content, smiled, wiped his eyes, and was ready for the day and what it should bring. but the bliss went not yet; he sat for a while in the joy of conscious loss in the higher life. with his meditations and feelings mingled now and then a few muffled blows of the cobbler's hammer: he was once more at work on his disabled shoe. "here is a true man!" he thought, "--a godlike helper of his fellow!" when the hammer ceased, the cobbler was stitching; when donal ceased thinking, he went on feeling. again and again came a little roll of the cobbler's drum, giving glory to god by doing his will: the sweetest and most acceptable music is that which rises from work a doing; its incense ascends as from the river in its flowing, from the wind in its blowing, from the grass in its growing. all at once he heard the voices of two women in the next garden, close behind him, talking together. "eh," said one, "there's that godless cratur, an'rew comin, at his wark again upo' the sawbath mornin'!" "ay, lass," answered the other, "i hear him! eh, but it 'll be an ill day for him whan he has to appear afore the jeedge o' a'! he winna hae his comman'ments broken that gait!" "troth, na!" returned the former; "it'll be a sair sattlin day for him!" donal rose, and looking about him, saw two decent, elderly women on the other side of the low stone wall. he was approaching them with the request on his lips to know which of the lord's commandments they supposed the cobbler to be breaking, when, seeing that he must have overheard them, they turned their backs and walked away. and now his hostess, having discovered he was in the garden, came to call him to breakfast--the simplest of meals--porridge, with a cup of tea after it because it was sunday, and there was danger of sleepiness at the kirk. "yer shune 's waitin' ye, sir," said the cobbler. "ye'll fin' them a better job nor ye expeckit. they're a better job, onygait, nor i expeckit!" donal made haste to put them on, and felt dressed for the sunday. "are ye gaein' to the kirk the day, anerew?" asked the old woman, adding, as she turned to their guest, "my man's raither pecooliar aboot gaein' to the kirk! some days he'll gang three times, an' some days he winna gang ance!--he kens himsel' what for!" she added with a smile, whose sweetness confessed that, whatever was the reason, it was to her the best in the world. "ay, i'm gaein' the day: i want to gang wi' oor new freen'," he answered. "i'll tak him gien ye dinna care to gang," rejoined his wife. "ow, i'll gang!" he persisted. "it'll gie's something to talk aboot, an' sae ken ane anither better, an' maybe come a bit nearer ane anither, an' sae a bit nearer the maister. that's what we're here for--comin' an' gaein'." "as ye please, anerew! what's richt to you's aye richt to me. o' my ain sel' i wad be doobtfu' o' sic a rizzon for gaein' to the kirk--to get something to speyk aboot." "it's a gude rizzon whaur ye haena a better," he answered. "it's aften i get at the kirk naething but what angers me--lees an' lees agen my lord an' my god. but whan there's ane to talk it ower wi', ane 'at has some care for god as weel's for himsel', there's some guid sure to come oot o' 't--some revelation o' the real richteousness--no what fowk 'at gangs by the ministers ca's richteousness.--is yer shune comfortable to yer feet, sir?" "ay, that they are! an' i thank ye: they're full better nor new." "weel, we winna hae worship this mornin'; whan ye gang to the kirk it's like aitin' mair nor's guid for ye." "hoots, anerew! ye dinna think a body can hae ower muckle o' the word!" said his wife, anxious as to the impression he might make on donal. "ow na, gien a body tak it in, an' disgeist it! but it's no a bonny thing to hae the word stickin' about yer moo', an' baggin' oot yer pooches, no to say lyin' cauld upo' yer stamack, an' it for the life o' men. the less ye tak abune what ye put in practice the better; an' gien the thing said hae naething to du wi' practice, the less ye heed it the better.--gien ye hae dune yer brakfast, sir, we'll gang--no 'at it's freely kirk-time yet, but the sabbath 's 'maist the only day i get a bit o' a walk, an' gien ye hae nae objection til a turn aboot the lord's muckle hoose afore we gang intil his little ane--we ca' 't his, but i doobt it--i'll be ready in a meenute." donal willingly agreed, and the cobbler, already clothed in part of his sunday best, a pair of corduroy trousers of a mouse colour, having indued an ancient tail-coat of blue with gilt buttons, they set out together; and for their conversation, it was just the same as it would have been any other day: where every day is not the lord's, the sunday is his least of all. they left the town, and were soon walking in meadows through which ran a clear river, shining and speedy in the morning sun. its banks were largely used for bleaching, and the long lines of white in the lovely green of the natural grass were pleasant both to eye and mind. all about, the rooks were feeding in peace, knowing their freedom that day from the persecution to which, like all other doers of good, they are in general exposed. beyond the stream lay a level plain stretching towards the sea, divided into numberless fields, and dotted with farmhouses and hamlets. on the side where the friends were walking, the ground was more broken, rising in places into small hills, many of them wooded. half a mile away was one of a conical shape, on whose top towered a castle. old and gray and sullen, it lifted itself from the foliage around it like a great rock from a summer sea, and stood out against the clear blue sky of the june morning. the hill was covered with wood, mostly rather young, but at the bottom were some ancient firs and beeches. at the top, round the base of the castle, the trees were chiefly delicate birches with moonlight skin, and feathery larches not thriving over well. "what ca' they yon castel?" questioned donal. "it maun be a place o' some importance!" "they maistly ca' 't jist the castel," answered the cobbler. "its auld name 's graham's grip. it's lord morven's place, an' they ca' 't castel graham: the faimily-name 's graham, ye ken. they ca, themsel's graeme-graham--jist twa w'ys o' spellin' the name putten thegither. the last lord, no upo' the main brainch, they tell me, spelled his name wi' the diphthong, an' wasna willin' to gie't up a'thegither--sae tuik the twa o' them. you 's whaur yoong eppy 's at service.--an' that min's me, sir, ye haena tellt me yet what kin' o' a place ye wad hae yersel.' it's no 'at a puir body like me can help, but it's aye weel to lat fowk ken what ye're efter. a word gangs speirin' lang efter it's oot o' sicht--an' the answer may come frae far. the lord whiles brings aboot things i' the maist oonlikly fashion." "i'm ready for onything i'm fit to do," said donal; "but i hae had what's ca'd a good education--though i hae learned mair frae my ain needs than frae a' my buiks; sae i wad raither till the human than the earthly soil, takin' mair interest i' the schoolmaister's craps than i' the fairmer's." "wad ye objec' to maister ane by himsel'--or maybe twa?" "na, surely--gien i saw mysel' fit." "eppy mentiont last nicht 'at there was word aboot the castel o' a tutor for the yoongest. hae ye ony w'y o' approachin' the place?" "not till the minister comes home," answered donal. "i have a letter to him." "he'll be back by the middle o' the week, i hear them say." "can you tell me anything about the people at the castle?" asked donal. "i could," answered andrew; "but some things is better f'un' oot nor kenned 'afore han'. ilka place has its ain shape, an' maist things has to hae some parin' to gar them fit. that's what i tell yoong eppy--mony 's the time!" here came a pause, and when andrew spoke again, it seemed on a new line. "did it ever occur to ye, sir," he said, "'at maybe deith micht be the first waukin' to some fowk?" "it has occurrt to me," answered donal; "but mony things come intil a body's heid 'at he's no able to think oot! they maun lie an' bide their time." "lat nane o' the lovers o' law an' letter perswaud ye the lord wadna hae ye think--though nane but him 'at obeys can think wi' safety. we maun do first the thing 'at we ken, an' syne we may think aboot the thing 'at we dinna ken. i fancy 'at whiles the lord wadna say a thing jist no to stop fowk thinkin' aboot it. he was aye at gettin' them to mak use o' the can'le o' the lord. it's my belief the main obstacles to the growth o' the kingdom are first the oonbelief o' believers, an' syne the w'y 'at they lay doon the law. 'afore they hae learnt the rudimen's o' the trowth themsel's, they begin to lay the grievous burden o' their dullness an' ill-conceived notions o' holy things upo' the min's an' consciences o' their neebours, fain, ye wad think, to haud them frae growin' ony mair nor themsel's. eh, man, but the lord 's won'erfu'! ye may daur an' daur, an' no come i' sicht o' 'im!" the church stood a little way out of the town, in a churchyard overgrown with grass, which the wind blew like a field of corn. many of the stones were out of sight in it. the church, a relic of old catholic days, rose out of it like one that had taken to growing and so got the better of his ills. they walked into the musty, dingy, brown-atmosphered house. the cobbler led the way to a humble place behind a pillar; there doory was seated waiting them. the service was not so dreary to donal as usual; the sermon had some thought in it; and his heart was drawn to a man who would say he did not understand. "yon was a fine discoorse," remarked the cobbler as they went homeward. donal saw nothing fine in it, but his experience was not so wide as the cobbler's: to him the discourse had hinted many things which had not occurred to donal. some people demand from the householder none but new things, others none but old; whereas we need in truth of all the sorts in his treasury. "i haena a doobt it was a' richt an' as ye say, anerew," said his wife; "but for mysel' i could mak naither heid nor tail o' 't." "i saidna, doory, it was a' richt," returned her husband; "that would be to say a heap for onything human! but it was a guid honest sermon." "what was yon 'at he said aboot the mirracles no bein' teeps?" asked his wife. "it was god's trowth 'at," he said. "gie me a share o' the same i beg o' ye, anerew comin." "what the man said was this--'at the sea 'at peter gaed oot upo' wasna first an' foremost to be luikit upon as a teep o' the inward an' spiritual troubles o' the believer, still less o' the troubles o' the church o' christ. the lord deals wi' fac's nane the less 'at they canna help bein' teeps. here was terrible fac's to peter. here was angry watter an' roarin' win'; here was danger an' fear: the man had to trust or gang doon. gien the hoose be on fire we maun trust; gien the watter gang ower oor heids we maun trust; gien the horse rin awa', we maun trust. him 'at canna trust in siclike conditions, i wadna gie a plack for ony ither kin' o' faith he may hae. god 's nae a mere thoucht i' the warl' o' thoucht, but a leevin' pooer in a' warl's alike. him 'at gangs to god wi' a sair heid 'ill the suner gang til 'im wi' a sair hert; an' them 'at thinksna he cares for the pains o' their bodies 'ill ill believe he cares for the doobts an' perplexities o' their inquirin' speerits. to my min' he spak the best o' sense!" "i didna hear him say onything like that!" said donal. "did ye no? weel, i thoucht it cam frae him to me!" "maybe i wasna giein' the best heed," said donal. "but what ye say is as true as the sun. it stan's to rizzon." the day passed in pleasure and quiet. donal had found another father and mother. chapter viii. the gate. the next day, after breakfast, donal said to his host-- "noo i maun pey ye for my shune, for gien i dinna pey at ance, i canna tell hoo muckle to ca' my ain, an' what i hae to gang by till i get mair." "na, na," returned the cobbler. "there's jist ae preejudice i hae left concernin' the sawbath-day; i firmly believe it a preejudice, for siller 's the lord's tu, but i canna win ower 't: i canna bring mysel' to tak siller for ony wark dune upo' 't! sae ye maun jist be content to lat that flee stick to the lord's wa'. ye'll du as muckle for me some day!" "there's naething left me but to thank ye," said donal. "there's the ludgin' an' the boord, though!--i maun ken aboot them 'afore we gang farther." "they're nane o' my business," replied andrew. "i lea' a' that to the gudewife, an' i coonsel ye to du the same. she's a capital manager, an' winna chairge ye ower muckle." donal could but yield, and presently went out for a stroll. he wandered along the bank of the river till he came to the foot of the hill on which stood the castle. seeing a gate, he approached it, and finding it open went in. a slow-ascending drive went through the trees, round and round the hill. he followed it a little way. an aromatic air now blew and now paused as he went. the trees seemed climbing up to attack the fortress above, which he could not see. when he had gone a few yards out of sight of the gate, he threw himself down among them, and fell into a reverie. the ancient time arose before him, when, without a tree to cover the approach of an enemy, the castle rose defiant and bare in its strength, like an athlete stripped for the fight, and the little town huddled close under its protection. what wars had there blustered, what rumours blown, what fears whispered, what sorrows moaned! but were there not now just as many evils as then? let the world improve as it may, the deeper ill only breaks out afresh in new forms. time itself, the staring, vacant, unlovely time, is to many the one dread foe. others have a house empty and garnished, in which neither love nor hope dwells. a self, with no god to protect from it, a self unrulable, insatiable, makes of existence to some the hell called madness. godless man is a horror of the unfinished--a hopeless necessity for the unattainable! the most discontented are those who have all the truthless heart desires. thoughts like these were coming and going in donal's brain, when he heard a slight sound somewhere near him--the lightest of sounds indeed--the turning of the leaf of a book. he raised his head and looked, but could see no one. at last, up through the tree-boles on the slope of the hill, he caught the shine of something white: it was the hand that held an open book. he took it for the hand of a lady. the trunk of a large tree hid the reclining form. he would go back! there was the lovely cloth-striped meadow to lie in! he rose quietly, but not quietly enough to steal away. from behind the tree, a young man, rather tall and slender, rose and came towards him. donal stood to receive him. "i presume you are unaware that these grounds are not open to the public!" he said, not without a touch of haughtiness. "i beg your pardon, sir," said donal. "i found the gate open, and the shade of the trees was enticing." "it is of no consequence," returned the youth, now with some condescension; "only my father is apt to be annoyed if he sees any one--" he was interrupted by a cry from farther up the hill-- "oh, there you are, percy!" "and there you are, davie!" returned the youth kindly. a boy of about ten came towards them precipitately, jumping stumps, and darting between stems. "take care, take care, davie!" cried the other: "you may slip on a root and fall!" "oh, i know better than that!--but you are engaged!" "not in the least. come along." donal lingered: the youth had not finish his speech! "i went to arkie," said the boy, "but she couldn't help me. i can't make sense of this! i wouldn't care if it wasn't a story." he had an old folio under one arm, with a finger of the other hand in its leaves. "it is a curious taste for a child!" said the youth, turning to donal, in whom he had recognized the peasant-scholar: "this little brother of mine reads all the dull old romances he can lay his hands on." "perhaps," suggested donal, "they are the only fictions within his reach! could you not turn him loose upon sir walter scott?" "a good suggestion!" he answered, casting a keen glance at donal. "will you let me look at the passage?" said donal to the boy, holding out his hand. the boy opened the book, and gave it him. on the top of the page donal read, "the countess of pembroke's arcadia." he had read of the book, but had never seen it. "that's a grand book!" he said. "horribly dreary," remarked the elder brother. the younger reached up, and laid his finger on the page next him. "there, sir!" he said; "that is the place: do tell me what it means." "i will try," answered donal; "i may not be able." he began to read at the top of the page. "that's not the place, sir!" said the boy. "it is there." "i must know something of what goes before it first," returned donal. "oh, yes, sir; i see!" he answered, and stood silent. he was a fair-haired boy, with ruddy cheeks and a healthy look--sweet-tempered evidently. donal presently saw both what the sentence meant and the cause of his difficulty. he explained the thing to him. "thank you! thank you! now i shall get on!" he cried, and ran up the hill. "you seem to understand boys!" said the brother. "i have always had a sort of ambition to understand ignorance." "understand ignorance?" "you know what queer shapes the shadows of the plainest things take: i never seem to understand any thing till i understand its shadow." the youth glanced keenly at donal. "i wish i had had a tutor like you!" he said. "why?" asked donal. "i should done better.--where do you live?" donal told him he was lodging with andrew comin, the cobbler. a silence followed. "good morning!" said the youth. "good morning, sir!" returned donal, and went away. chapter ix. the morven arms. on wednesday evening donal went to the morven arms to inquire for the third time if his box was come. the landlord said, if a great heavy tool-chest was the thing he expected, it had come. "donal grant wad be the name upo' 't," said donal. "'deed, i didna luik," said the landlord. "its i' the back yard." as donal went through the house to the yard, he passed the door of a room where some of the townsfolk sat, and heard the earl mentioned. he had not asked andrew anything about the young man he had spoken with; for he understood that his host held himself not at liberty to talk about the family in which his granddaughter was a servant. but what was said in public he surely might hear! he requested the landlord to let him have a bottle of ale, and went into the room and sat down. it was a decent parlour with a sanded floor. those assembled were a mixed company from town and country, having a tumbler of whisky-toddy together after the market. one of them was a stranger who had been receiving from the others various pieces of information concerning the town and its neighbourhood. "i min' the auld man weel," a wrinkled gray-haired man was saying as donal entered, "--a varra different man frae this present. he wud sit doon as ready as no--that wud he--wi' ony puir body like mysel', an' gie him his cracks, an' hear his news, an' drink his glaiss, an' mak naething o' 't. but this man, haith! wha ever saw him cheenge word wi' brither man?" "i never h'ard hoo he came to the teetle: they say he was but some far awa' cousin!" remarked a farmer-looking man, florid and stout. "hoots! he was ain brither to the last yerl, wi' richt to the teetle, though nane to the property. that he's but takin' care o' till his niece come o' age. he was a heap aboot the place afore his brither dee'd, an' they war freen's as weel 's brithers. they say 'at the lady arctoora--h'ard ye ever sic a hathenish name for a lass!--is b'un' to merry the yoong lord. there 's a sicht o' clapper-clash aboot the place, an' the fowk, an' their strange w'ys. they tell me nane can be said to ken the yerl but his ain man. for mysel' i never cam i' their coonsel--no' even to the buyin' or sellin' o' a lamb." "weel," said a fair-haired, pale-faced man, "we ken frae scriptur 'at the sins o' the fathers is veesitit upo' the children to the third an' fourth generation--an' wha can tell?" "wha can tell," rejoined another, who had a judicial look about him, in spite of an unshaven beard, and a certain general disregard to appearances, "wha can tell but the sins o' oor faithers may be lyin' upo' some o' oorsel's at this varra moment?" "in oor case, i canna see the thing wad be fair," said a fifth: "we dinna even ken what they did!" "we're no to interfere wi' the wull o' the almichty," rejoined the former. "it gangs its ain gait, an' mortal canna tell what that gait is. his justice winna be contert." donal felt that to be silent now would be to decline witnessing. he feared argument, lest he should fail and wrong the right, but he must not therefore hang back. he drew his chair towards the table. "wad ye lat a stranger put in a word, freen's?" he said. "ow ay, an' welcome! we setna up for the men o' gotham." "weel, i wad spier a question gien i may." "speir awa'. answer i winna insure," said the man unshaven. "weel, wad ye please tell me what ye ca' the justice o' god?" "onybody could tell ye that: it consists i' the punishment o' sin. he gies ilka sinner what his sin deserves." "that seems to me an unco ae-sidit definition o' justice." "weel, what wad ye mak o' 't?" "i wad say justice means fair play; an' the justice o' god lies i' this, 'at he gies ilka man, beast, an' deevil, fair play." "i'm doobtfu' aboot that!" said a drover-looking fellow. "we maun gang by the word; an' the word says he veesits the ineequities o' the fathers upo' the children to the third an' fourth generation: i never could see the fair play o' that!" "dinna ye meddle wi' things, john, 'at ye dinna un'erstan'; ye may wauk i' the wrang box!" said the old man. "i want to un'erstan'," returned john. "i'm no sayin' he disna du richt; i'm only sayin' i canna see the fair play o' 't." "it may weel be richt an' you no see 't!" "ay' weel that! but what for sud i no say i dinna see 't? isna the blin' man to say he's blin'?" this was unanswerable, and donal again spoke. "it seems to me," he said, "we need first to un'erstan' what's conteened i' the veesitin' o' the sins o' the fathers upo' the children, afore we daur ony jeedgment concernin' 't." "ay, that 's sense eneuch!" confessed a responsive murmur. "i haena seen muckle o' this warl' yet, compared wi' you, sirs," donal went on, "but i hae been a heap my lane wi' nowt an' sheep, whan a heap o' things gaed throuw my heid; an' i hae seen something as weel, though no that muckle. i hae seen a man, a' his life 'afore a douce honest man, come til a heap o' siller, an' gang to the dogs!" a second murmur seemed to indicate corroboration. "he gaed a' to the dogs, as i say," continued donal; "an' the bairns he left 'ahint him whan he dee'd o' drink, cam upo' the perris, or wad hae hungert but for some 'at kenned him whan he was yet in honour an' poverty. noo, wad ye no say this was a veesitin' o' the sins o' the father upo' the children?" "ay, doobtless!" "weel, whan i h'ard last aboot them, they were a' like eneuch to turn oot honest lads an' lasses." "ow, i daursay!" "an' what micht ye think the probability gien they had come intil a lot o' siller whan their father dee'd?" "maybe they micht hae gane the same gait he gaed!" "was there injustice than, or was there favour i' that veesitation o' the sins o' their father upo' them?" there was no answer. the toddy went down their throats and the smoke came out of their mouths, but no one dared acknowledge it might be a good thing to be born poor instead of rich. so entirely was the subject dropped that donal feared he had failed to make himself understood. he did not know the general objection to talking of things on eternal principles. we set up for judges of right while our very selves are wrong! he saw that he had cast a wet blanket over the company, and judged it better to take his leave. borrowing a wheelbarrow, he trundled his chest home, and unpacking it in the archway, carried his books and clothes to his room. chapter x the parish clergyman. the next day, donal put on his best coat, and went to call on the minister. shown into the study, he saw seated there the man he had met on his first day's journey, the same who had parted from him in such displeasure. he presented his letter. mr. carmichael gave him a keen glance, but uttered no word until he had read it. "well, young man," he said, looking up at him with concentrated severity, "what would you have me do?" "tell me of any situation you may happen to know or hear of, sir," said donal. "that is all i could expect." "all!" repeated the clergyman, with something very like a sneer; "--but what if i think that all a very great deal? what if i imagine myself set in charge over young minds and hearts? what if i know you better than the good man whose friendship for your parents gives him a kind interest in you? you little thought how you were undermining your prospects last friday! my old friend would scarcely have me welcome to my parish one he may be glad to see out of his own! you can go to the kitchen and have your dinner--i have no desire to render evil for evil--but i will not bid you god-speed. and the sooner you take yourself out of this, young man, the better!" "good morning, sir!" said donal, and left the room. on the doorstep he met a youth he had known by sight at the university: it was the minister's son--the worst-behaved of all the students. was this a case of the sins of the father being visited on the child? does god never visit the virtues of the father on the child? a little ruffled, and not a little disappointed, donal walked away. almost unconsciously he took the road to the castle, and coming to the gate, leaned on the top bar, and stood thinking. suddenly, down through the trees came davie bounding, pushed his hand through between the bars, and shook hands with him. "i have been looking for you all day," he said. "why?" asked donal. "forgue sent you a letter." "i have had no letter." "eppy took it this morning." "ah, that explains! i have not been home since breakfast." "it was to say my father would like to see you." "i will go and get it: then i shall know what to do." "why do you live there? the cobbler is a dirty little man! your clothes will smell of leather!" "he is not dirty," said donal. "his hands do get dirty--very dirty with his work--and his face too; and i daresay soap and water can't get them quite clean. but he will have a nice earth-bath one day, and that will take all the dirt off. and if you could see his soul--that is as clean as clean can be--so clean it is quite shining!" "have you seen it?" said the boy, looking up at donal, unsure whether he was making game of him, or meaning something very serious. "i have had a glimpse or two of it. i never saw a cleaner.--you know, my dear boy, there's a cleanness much deeper than the skin!" "i know!" said davie, but stared as if he wondered he would speak of such things. donal returned his gaze. out of the fullness of his heart his eyes shone. davie was reassured. "can you ride?" he asked. "yes, a little." "who taught you?" "an old mare i was fond of." "ah, you are making game of me! i do not like to be made game of," said davie, and turned away. "no indeed," replied donal. "i never make game of anybody.--but now i will go and find the letter." "i would go with you," said the boy, "but my father will not let me beyond the grounds. i don't know why." donal hastened home, and found himself eagerly expected, for the letter young eppy had brought was from the earl. it informed donal that it would give his lordship pleasure to see him, if he would favour him with a call. in a few minutes he was again on the road to the castle. chapter xi. the earl. he met no one on his way from the gate up through the wood. he ascended the hill with its dark ascending firs, to its crown of silvery birches, above which, as often as the slowly circling road brought him to the other side, he saw rise like a helmet the gray mass of the fortress. turret and tower, pinnacle and battlement, appeared and disappeared as he climbed. not until at last he stood almost on the top, and from an open space beheld nearly the whole front, could he tell what it was like. it was a grand pile, but looked a gloomy one to live in. he stood on a broad grassy platform, from which rose a gravelled terrace, and from the terrace the castle. he ran his eye along the front seeking a door but saw none. ascending the terrace by a broad flight of steps, he approached a deep recess in the front, where two portions of the house of differing date nearly met. inside this recess he found a rather small door, flush with the wall, thickly studded and plated with iron, surmounted by the morven horses carved in gray stone, and surrounded with several mouldings. looking for some means of announcing his presence, he saw a handle at the end of a rod of iron, and pulled, but heard nothing: the sound of the bell was smothered in a wilderness of stone walls. by and by, however, appeared an old servant, bowed and slow, with plentiful hair white as wool, and a mingled look of childishness and caution in his wrinkled countenance. "the earl wants to see me," said donal. "what name?" said the man. "donal grant; but his lordship will be nothing the wiser, i suspect; i don't think he knows my name. tell him--the young man he sent for to andrew comin's." the man left him, and donal began to look about him. the place where he stood was a mere entry, a cell in huge walls, with a second, a low, round-headed door, like the entrance to a prison, by which the butler had disappeared. there was nothing but bare stone around him, with again the morven arms cut deep into it on one side. the ceiling was neither vaulted nor groined nor flat, but seemed determined by the accidental concurrence of ends of stone stairs and corners of floors on different levels. it was full ten minutes before the man returned and requested him to follow him. immediately donal found himself in a larger and less irregular stone-case, adorned with heads and horns and skins of animals. crossing this, the man opened a door covered with red cloth, which looked strange in the midst of the cold hard stone, and donal entered an octagonal space, its doors of dark shining oak, with carved stone lintels and doorposts, and its walls adorned with arms and armour almost to the domed ceiling. into it, as if it descended suddenly out of some far height, but dropping at last like a gently alighting bird, came the end of a turnpike-stair, of slow sweep and enormous diameter--such a stair as in wildest gothic tale he had never imagined. like the revolving centre of a huge shell, it went up out of sight, with plain promise of endless convolutions beyond. it was of ancient stone, but not worn as would have been a narrow stair. a great rope of silk, a modern addition, ran up along the wall for a hand-rail; and with slow-moving withered hand upon it, up the glorious ascent climbed the serving man, suggesting to donal's eye the crawling of an insect, to his heart the redemption of the sons of god. with the stair yet ascending above them as if it would never stop, the man paused upon a step no broader than the rest, and opening a door in the round of the well, said, "mr. grant, my lord," and stood aside for donal to enter. he found himself in the presence of a tall, bowed man, with a large-featured white face, thin and worn, and a deep-sunken eye that gleamed with an unhealthy life. his hair was thin, but covered his head, and was only streaked with gray. his hands were long and thin and white; his feet in large shoes, looking the larger that they came out from narrow trousers, which were of shepherd-tartan. his coat was of light-blue, with a high collar of velvet, and much too wide for him. a black silk neckerchief tied carelessly about his throat, and a waistcoat of pineapple shawl-stuff, completed his dress. on one long little finger shone a stone which donal took for an emerald. he motioned his visitor to a seat, and went on writing, with a rudeness more like that of a successful contractor than a nobleman. but it gave donal the advantage of becoming a little accustomed to his surroundings. the room was not large, was wainscoted, and had a good many things on the walls: donal noted two or three riding whips, a fishing rod, several pairs of spurs, a sword with golden hilt, a strange looking dagger like a flame of fire, one or two old engravings, and what seemed a plan of the estate. at the one window, small, with a stone mullion, the summer sun was streaming in. the earl sat in its flood, and in the heart of it seemed cold and bloodless. he looked about sixty years of age, and as if he rarely or never smiled. donal tried to imagine what a smile would do for his face, but failed. he was not in the least awed by the presence of the great man. what is rank to the man who honours everything human, has no desire to look what he is not, has nothing to conceal and nothing to compass, is fearful of no to-morrow, and does not respect riches! toward such ends of being the tide of donal's life was at least setting. so he sat neither fidgeting nor staring, but quietly taking things in. the earl raised himself, pushed his writing from him, turned towards him, and said with courtesy, "excuse me, mr. grant; i wished to talk to you with the ease of duty done." more polite his address could not have been, but there was a something between him and donal that was not to be passed a--nameless gulf of the negative. "my time is at your lordship's service," replied donal, with the ease that comes of simplicity. "you have probably guessed why i sent for you?" "i have hoped, my lord." there was something of old-world breeding about the lad that commended him to the earl. such breeding is not rare among celt-born peasants. "my sons told me that they had met a young man in the grounds--" "for which i beg your lordship's pardon," said donal. "i did not know the place was forbidden." "i hope you will soon be familiar with it. i am glad of your mistake. from what they said, i supposed you might be a student in want of a situation, and i had been looking out for a young man to take charge of the boy: it seemed possible you might serve my purpose. i do not question you can show yourself fit for such an office: i presume it would suit you. do you believe yourself one to be so trusted?" donal had not a glimmer of false modesty; he answered immediately, "i do, my lord." "tell me something of your history: where were you born? what were your parents?" donal told him all he thought it of any consequence he should know. his lordship did not once interrupt him with question or remark. when he had ended-- "well," he said, "i like all you tell me. you have testimonials?" "i have from the professors, my lord, and one from the minister of the parish, who knew me before i went to college. i could get one from mr. sclater too, whose church i attended while there." "show me what you have," said his lordship. donal took the papers from the pocket-book his mother had made him, and handed them to him. the earl read them with some attention, returning each to him without remark as he finished it, only saying with the last, "quite satisfactory." "but," said donal, "there is one thing i should be more at ease if i told your lordship: mr. carmichael, the minister of this parish, would tell you i was an atheist, or something very like it--therefore an altogether unsafe person. but he knows nothing of me." "on what grounds then would he say so?" asked the earl--showing not the least discomposure. "i thought you were a stranger to this place!" donal told him how they had met, what had passed between them, and how the minister had behaved in consequence. his lordship heard him gravely, was silent for a moment, and then said, "should mr. carmichael address me on the subject, which i do not think likely, he will find me already too much prejudiced in your favour. but i can imagine his mistaking your freedom of speech: you are scarcely prudent enough. why say all you think?" "i fear nothing, my lord." the earl was silent; his gray face seemed to grow grayer, but it might be that just then the sun went under a cloud, and he was suddenly folded in shadow. after a moment he spoke again. "i am quite satisfied with you so far, mr. grant; and as i should not like to employ you in direct opposition to mr. carmichel--not that i belong to his church--we will arrange matters before he can hear of the affair. what salary do you want?" donal replied he would prefer leaving the salary to his lordship's judgment upon trial. "i am not a wealthy man," returned his lordship, "and would prefer an understanding." "try me then for three months, my lord; give me my board and lodging, the use of your library, and at the end of the quarter a ten-pound-note: by that time you will be able to tell whether i suit you." the earl nodded agreement, and donal rose at once. with a heart full of thankfulness and hope he walked back to his friends. he had before him pleasant work; plenty of time and book-help; an abode full of interest; and something for his labour! "'surely the wrath of man shall praise thee!'" said the cobbler, rejoicing against the minister; "'the remainder of wrath shalt thou restrain.'" in the afternoon donal went into the town to get some trifles he wanted before going to the castle. as he turned to the door of a draper's shop, he saw at the counter the minister talking to him. he would rather have gone elsewhere but for unwillingness to turn his back on anything: he went in. beside the minister stood a young lady, who, having completed her purchases, was listening to their conversation. the draper looked up as he entered. a glance passed between him and the minister. he came to donal, and having heard what he wanted, left him, went back to the minister, and took no more notice of him. donal found it awkward, and left the shop. "high an' michty!" said the draper, annoyed at losing the customer to whose dispraise he had been listening. "far beyond dissent, john!" said the minister, pursuing a remark. "doobtless, sir, it is that!" answered the draper. "i'm thankfu' to say i never harboured a doobt mysel', but aye took what i was tauld, ohn argle-barglet. what hae we sic as yersel' set ower's for, gien it binna to haud's i' the straicht path o' what we're to believe an' no to believe? it's a fine thing no to be accoontable!" the minister was an honest man so far as he knew himself and honesty, and did not relish this form of submission. but he did not ask himself where was the difference between accepting the word of man and accepting man's explanation of the word of god! he took a huge pinch from his black snuffbox and held his peace. in the evening donal would settle his account with mistress comin: he found her demand so much less than he had expected, that he expostulated. she was firm, however, and assured him she had gained, not lost. as he was putting up his things, "lea' a buik or twa, sir," she said, "'at whan ye luik in, the place may luik hame-like. we s' ca' the room yours. come as aften as ye can. it does my anerew's hert guid to hae a crack wi' ane 'at kens something o' what the maister wad be at. mony ane 'll ca' him lord, but feow 'ill tak the trible to ken what he wad hae o' them. but there's my anerew--he'll sit yon'er at his wark, thinkin' by the hoor thegither ower something the maister said 'at he canna win at the richts o'. 'depen' upo' 't,' he says whiles, 'depen' upo' 't, lass, whaur onything he says disna luik richt to hiz, it maun be 'at we haena won at it!'" as she ended, her husband came in, and took up what he fancied the thread of the dialogue. "an' what are we to think o' the man," he said, "at's content no to un'erstan' what he was at the trible to say? wad he say things 'at he didna mean fowk to un'erstan' whan he said them?" "weel, anerew," said his wife, "there's mony a thing he said 'at i can not un'erstan'; naither am i muckle the better for your explainin' o' the same; i maun jist lat it sit." andrew laughed his quiet pleased laugh. "weel, lass," he said, "the duin' o' ae thing 's better nor the un'erstan'in' o' twenty. nor wull ye be lang ohn un'erstan't muckle 'at's dark to ye noo; for the maister likes nane but the duer o' the word, an' her he likes weel. be blythe, lass; ye s' hae yer fill o' un'erstan'in' yet!" "i'm fain to believe ye speyk the trowth, anerew!" "it 's great trowth," said donal. chapter xii. the castle. the next morning came a cart from the castle to fetch his box; and after breakfast he set out for his new abode. he took the path by the river-side. the morning was glorious. the sun and the river and the birds were jubilant, and the wind gave life to everything. it rippled the stream, and fluttered the long webs bleaching in the sun: they rose and fell like white waves on the bright green lake; and women, homely nereids of the grassy sea, were besprinkling them with spray. there were dull sounds of wooden machinery near, but they made no discord with the sweetness of the hour, speaking only of activity, not labour. from the long bleaching meadows by the river-side rose the wooded base of the castle. donal's bosom swelled with delight; then came a sting: was he already forgetting his inextinguishable grief? "but," he answered himself, "god is more to me than any woman! when he puts joy in my heart, shall i not be glad? when he calls my name shall i not answer?" he stepped out joyfully, and was soon climbing the hill. he was again admitted by the old butler. "i will show you at once," he said, "how to go and come at your own will." he led him through doors and along passages to a postern opening on a little walled garden at the east end of the castle. "this door," he said, "is, you observe, at the foot of baliol's tower, and in that tower is your room; i will show it you." he led the way up a spiral stair that might almost have gone inside the newel of the great staircase. up and up they went, until donal began to wonder, and still they went up. "you're young, sir," said the butler, "and sound of wind and limb; so you'll soon think nothing of it." "i never was up so high before, except on a hill-side," returned donal. "the college-tower is nothing to this!" "in a day or two you'll be shooting up and down it like a bird. i used to do so myself. i got into the way of keeping a shoulder foremost, and screwing up as if i was a blob of air! old age does make fools of us!" "you don't like it then?" "no, i do not: who does?" "it's only that you get spent as you go up. the fresh air at the top of the stair will soon revive you," said donal. but his conductor did not understand him. "that's all very well so long as you're young; but when it has got you, you'll pant and grumble like the rest of us." in the distance donal saw age coming slowly after him, to claw him in his clutch, as the old song says. "please god," he thought, "by the time he comes up, i'll be ready to try a fall with him! o thou eternally young, the years have no hold on thee; let them have none on thy child. i too shall have life eternal." ere they reached the top of the stair, the man halted and opened a door. donal entering saw a small room, nearly round, a portion of the circle taken off by the stair. on the opposite side was a window projecting from the wall, whence he could look in three different directions. the wide country lay at his feet. he saw the winding road by which he had ascended, the gate by which he had entered, the meadow with its white stripes through which he had come, and the river flowing down. he followed it with his eyes:--lo, there was the sea, shining in the sun like a diamond shield! it was but the little german ocean, yet one with the great world-ocean. he turned to his conductor. "yes," said the old man, answering his look, "it's a glorious sight! when first i looked out there i thought i was in eternity." the walls were bare even of plaster; he could have counted the stones in them; but they were dry as a bone. "you are wondering," said the old man, "how you are to keep warm in the winter! look here: you shut this door over the window! see how thick and strong it is! there is your fireplace; and for fuel, there's plenty below! it is a labour to carry it up, i grant; but if i was you, i would set to o' nights when nobody was about, and carry till i had a stock laid in!" "but," said donal, "i should fill up my room. i like to be able to move about a little!" "ah," replied the old man, "you don't know what a space you have up here all to yourself! come this way." two turns more up the stair, and they came to another door. it opened into wide space: from it donal stepped on a ledge or bartizan, without any parapet, that ran round the tower, passing above the window of his room. it was well he had a steady brain, for he found the height affect him more than that of a precipice on glashgar: doubtless he would get used to it, for the old man had stepped out without the smallest hesitation! round the tower he followed him. on the other side a few steps rose to a watch-tower--a sort of ornate sentry-box in stone, where one might sit and regard with wide vision the whole country. avoiding this, another step or two led them to the roof of the castle--of great stone slabs. a broad passage ran between the rise of the roof and a battlemented parapet. by this time they came to a flat roof, on to which they descended by a few steps. here stood two rough sheds, with nothing in them. "there's stowage!" said the old man. "yes, indeed!" answered donal, to whom the idea of his aerie was growing more and more agreeable. "but would there be no objection to my using the place for such a purpose?" "what objection?" returned his guide. "i doubt if a single person but myself knows it." "and shall i be allowed to carry up as much as i please?" "i allow you," said the butler, with importance. "of course you will not waste--i am dead against waste! but as to what is needful, use your freedom.--dinner will be ready for you in the schoolroom at seven." at the door of his room the old man left him, and after listening for a moment to his descending steps, donal re-entered his chamber. why they put him so apart, donal never asked himself; that he should have such command of his leisure as this isolation promised him was a consequence very satisfactory. he proceeded at once to settle himself in his new quarters. finding some shelves in a recess of the wall, he arranged his books upon them, and laid his few clothes in the chest of drawers beneath. he then got out his writing material, and sat down. though his window was so high, the warm pure air came in full of the aromatic odours rising in the hot sunshine from the young pine trees far below, and from a lark far above descended news of heaven-gate. the scent came up and the song came down all the time he was writing to his mother--a long letter. when he had closed and addressed it, he fell into a reverie. apparently he was to have his meals by himself: he was glad of it: he would be able to read all the time! but how was he to find the schoolroom! some one would surely fetch him! they would remember he did not know his way about the place! it wanted yet an hour to dinner-time when, finding himself drowsy, he threw himself on his bed, where presently he fell fast asleep. the night descended, and when he came to himself, its silences were deep around him. it was not dark: there was no moon, but the twilight was clear. he could read the face of his watch: it was twelve o'clock! no one had missed him! he was very hungry! but he had been hungrier before and survived it! in his wallet were still some remnants of oat-cake! he took it in his hand, and stepping out on the bartizan, crept with careful steps round to the watch-tower. there he seated himself in the stone chair, and ate his dry morsels in the starry presences. sleep had refreshed him, and he was wide awake, yet there was on him the sense of a strange existence. never before had he so known himself! often had he passed the night in the open air, but never before had his night-consciousness been such! never had he felt the same way alone. he was parted from the whole earth, like the ship-boy on the giddy mast! nothing was below but a dimness; the earth and all that was in it was massed into a vague shadow. it was as if he had died and gone where existence was independent of solidity and sense. above him was domed the vast of the starry heavens; he could neither flee from it nor ascend to it! for a moment he felt it the symbol of life, yet an unattainable hopeless thing. he hung suspended between heaven and earth, an outcast of both, a denizen of neither! the true life seemed ever to retreat, never to await his grasp. nothing but the beholding of the face of the son of man could set him at rest as to its reality; nothing less than the assurance from his own mouth could satisfy him that all was true, all well: life was a thing so essentially divine, that he could not know it in itself till his own essence was pure! but alas, how dream-like was the old story! was god indeed to be reached by the prayers, affected by the needs of men? how was he to feel sure of it? once more, as often heretofore, he found himself crying into the great world to know whether there was an ear to hear. what if there should come to him no answer? how frightful then would be his loneliness! but to seem not to be heard might be part of the discipline of his darkness! it might be for the perfecting of his faith that he must not yet know how near god was to him! "lord," he cried, "eternal life is to know thee and thy father; i do not know thee and thy father; i have not eternal life; i have but life enough to hunger for more: show me plainly of the father whom thou alone knowest." and as he prayed, something like a touch of god seemed to begin and grow in him till it was more than his heart could hold, and the universe about him was not large enough to hold in its hollow the heart that swelled with it. "god is enough," he said, and sat in peace. chapter xiii. a sound. all at once came to his ear through the night a strange something. whence or what it was he could not even conjecture. was it a moan of the river from below? was it a lost music-tone that had wandered from afar and grown faint? was it one of those mysterious sounds he had read of as born in the air itself, and not yet explained of science? was it the fluttered skirt of some angelic song of lamentation?--for if the angels rejoice, they surely must lament! or was it a stilled human moaning? was any wrong being done far down in the white-gleaming meadows below, by the banks of the river whose platinum-glimmer he could descry through the molten amethystine darkness of the starry night? presently came a long-drawn musical moan: it must be the sound of some muffled instrument! verily night was the time for strange things! could sounds be begotten in the fir trees by the rays of the hot sun, and born in the stillness of the following dark, as the light which the diamond receives in the day glows out in the gloom? there are parents and their progeny that never exist together! again the sound--hardly to be called sound! it resembled a vibration of organ-pipe too slow and deep to affect the hearing; only this rather seemed too high, as if only his soul heard it. he would steal softly down the dumb stone-stair! some creature might be in trouble and needing help! he crept back along the bartizan. the stair was dark as the very heart of the night. he groped his way down. the spiral stair is the safest of all: you cannot tumble far ere brought up by the inclosing cylinder. arrived at the bottom, and feeling about, he could not find the door to the outer air which the butler had shown him; it was wall wherever his hands fell. he could not find again the stair he had left; he could not tell in what direction it lay. he had got into a long windowless passage connecting two wings of the house, and in this he was feeling his way, fearful of falling down some stair or trap. he came at last to a door--low-browed like almost all in the house. opening it--was it a thinner darkness or the faintest gleam of light he saw? and was that again the sound he had followed, fainter and farther off than before--a downy wind-wafted plume from the skirt of some stray harmony? at such a time of the night surely it was strange! it must come from one who could not sleep, and was solacing himself with sweet sounds, breathing a soul into the uncompanionable silence! if so it was, he had no right to search farther! but how was he to return? he dared hardly move, lest he should be found wandering over the house in the dead of night like a thief, or one searching after its secrets. he must sit down and wait for the morning: its earliest light would perhaps enable him to find his way to his quarters! feeling about him a little, his foot struck against the step of a stair. examining it with his hands, he believed it the same he had ascended in the morning: even in a great castle, could there be two such royal stairs? he sat down upon it, and leaning his head on his hands, composed himself to a patient waiting for the light. waiting pure is perhaps the hardest thing for flesh and blood to do well. the relations of time to mind are very strange. some of their phenomena seem to prove that time is only of the mind--belonging to the intellect as good and evil belong to the spirit. anyhow, if it were not for the clocks of the universe, one man would live a year, a century, where another would live but a day. but the mere motion of time, not to say the consciousness of empty time, is fearful. it is this empty time that the fool is always trying to kill: his effort should be to fill it. yet nothing but the living god can fill it--though it be but the shape our existence takes to us. only where he is, emptiness is not. eternity will be but an intense present to the child with whom is the father. such thoughts alighted, flitted, and passed, for the first few moments, through the mind of donal, as he sat half consciously waiting for the dawn. it was thousands of miles away, over the great round of the sunward-turning earth! his imagination woke, and began to picture the great hunt of the shadows, fleeing before the arrows of the sun, over the broad face of the mighty world--its mountains, seas, and plains in turn confessing the light, and submitting to him who slays for them the haunting demons of their dark. then again the moments were the small cogs on the wheels of time, whereby the dark castle in which he sat was rushing ever towards the light: the cogs were caught and the wheels turned swiftly, and the time and the darkness sped. he forgot the labour of waiting. if now and then he fancied a tone through the darkness, it was to his mind the music-march of the morning to his rescue from the dungeon of the night. but that was no musical tone which made the darkness shudder around him! he sprang to his feet. it was a human groan--a groan as of one in dire pain, the pain of a soul's agony. it seemed to have descended the stair to him. the next instant donal was feeling his way up--cautiously, as if on each succeeding step he might come against the man who had groaned. tales of haunted houses rushed into his memory. what if he were but pursuing the groan of an actor in the past--a creature the slave of his own conscious memory--a mere haunter of the present which he could not influence--one without physical relation to the embodied, save in the groans he could yet utter! but it was more in awe than in fear that he went. up and up he felt his way, all about him as still as darkness and the night could make it. a ghostly cold crept through his skin; it was drawn together as by a gently freezing process; and there was a pulling at the muscles of his chest, as if his mouth were being dragged open by a martingale. as he felt his way along the wall, sweeping its great endless circle round and round in spiral ascent, all at once his hand seemed to go through it; he started and stopped. it was the door of the room into which he had been shown to meet the earl! it stood wide open. a faint glimmer came through the window from the star-filled sky. he stepped just within the doorway. was not that another glimmer on the floor--from the back of the room--through a door he did not remember having seen yesterday? there again was the groan, and nigh at hand! someone must be in sore need! he approached the door and looked through. a lamp, nearly spent, hung from the ceiling of a small room which might be an office or study, or a place where papers were kept. it had the look of an antechamber, but that it could not be, for there was but the one door!--in the dim light he descried a vague form leaning up against one of the walls, as if listening to something through it! as he gazed it grew plainer to him, and he saw a face, its eyes staring wide, which yet seemed not to see him. it was the face of the earl. donal felt as if in the presence of the disembodied; he stood fascinated, nor made attempt to retire or conceal himself. the figure turned its face to the wall, put the palms of its hands against it, and moved them up and down, and this way and that; then looked at them, and began to rub them against each other. donal came to himself. he concluded it was a case of sleepwalking. he had read that it was dangerous to wake the sleeper, but that he seldom came to mischief when left alone, and was about to slip away as he had come, when the faint sound of a far-off chord crept through the silence. the earl again laid his ear to the wall. but there was only silence. he went through the same dumb show as before, then turned as if to leave the place. donal turned also, and hurriedly felt his way to the stair. then first he was in danger of terror; for in stealing through the darkness from one who could find his way without his eyes, he seemed pursued by a creature not of this world. on the stair he went down a step or two, then lingered, and heard the earl come on it also. he crept close to the newel, leaving the great width of the stair free, but the steps of the earl went upward. donal descended, sat down again at the bottom of the stair, and began again to wait. no sound came to him through the rest of the night. the slow hours rolled away, and the slow light drew nearer. now and then he was on the point of falling into a doze, but would suddenly start wide awake, listening through a silence that seemed to fill the whole universe and deepen around the castle. at length he was aware that the darkness had, unobserved of him, grown weaker--that the approach of the light was sickening it: the dayspring was about to take hold of the ends of the earth that the wicked might be shaken out of its lap. he sought the long passage by which he had come, and felt his way to the other end: it would be safer to wait there if he could get no farther. but somehow he came to the foot of his own stair, and sped up as if it were the ladder of heaven. he threw himself on his bed, fell fast asleep, and did not wake till the sun was high. chapter xiv. the schoolroom. old simmons, the butler, woke him. "i was afraid something was the matter, sir. they tell me you did not come down last night; and breakfast has been waiting you two hours." "i should not have known where to find it," said donal. "the knowledge of an old castle is not intuitive." "how long will you take to dress?" asked simmons. "ten minutes, if there is any hurry," answered donal. "i will come again in twenty; or, if you are willing to save an old man's bones, i will be at the bottom of the stair at that time to take charge of you. i would have looked after you yesterday, but his lordship was poorly, and i had to be in attendance on him till after midnight." donal thought it impossible he should of himself have found his way to the schoolroom. with all he could do to remember the turnings, he found the endeavour hopeless, and gave it up with a not unpleasing despair. through strange passages, through doors in all directions, up stairs and down they went, and at last came to a long, low room, barely furnished, with a pleasant outlook, and immediate access to the open air. the windows were upon a small grassy court, with a sundial in the centre; a door opened on a paved court. at one end of the room a table was laid with ten times as many things as he could desire to eat, though he came to it with a good appetite. the butler himself waited upon him. he was a good-natured old fellow, with a nose somewhat too red for the ordinary wear of one in his responsible position. "i hope the earl is better this morning," said donal. "well, i can't say. he's but a delicate man is the earl, and has been, so long as i have known him. he was with the army in india, and the sun, they say, give him a stroke, and ever since he have headaches that bad! but in between he seems pretty well, and nothing displeases him more than ask after his health, or how he slep the night. but he's a good master, and i hope to end my days with him. i'm not one as likes new faces and new places! one good place is enough for me, says i--so long as it is a good one.--take some of this game pie, sir." donal made haste with his breakfast, and to simmons's astonishment had ended when he thought him just well begun. "how shall i find master davie?" he asked. "he is wild to see you, sir. when i've cleared away, just have the goodness to ring this bell out of that window, and he'll be with you as fast as he can lay his feet to the ground." donal rang the handbell. a shout mingled with the clang of it. then came the running of swift feet over the stones of the court, and davie burst into the room. "oh, sir," he cried, "i am glad! it is good of you to come!" "well, you see, davie," returned donal, "everybody has got to do something to carry the world on a bit: my work is to help make a man of you. only i can't do much except you help me; and if i find i am not making a good job of you, i shan't stop many hours after the discovery. if you want to keep me, you must mind what i say, and so help me to make a man of you." "it will be long before i am a man!" said davie rather disconsolately. "it depends on yourself. the boy that is longest in becoming a man, is the boy that thinks himself a man before he is a bit like one." "come then, let us do something!" said davie. "come away," rejoined donal. "what shall we do first?" "i don't know: you must tell me, sir." "what would you like best to do--i mean if you might do what you pleased?" davie thought a little, then said: "i should like to write a book." "what kind of a book?" "a beautiful story." "isn't it just as well to read such a book? why should you want to write one?" "because then i should have it go just as i wanted it! i am always--almost always--disappointed with the thing that comes next. but if i wrote it myself, then i shouldn't get tired of it; it would be what pleased me, and not what pleased somebody else." "well," said donal, after thinking for a moment, "suppose you begin to write a book!" "oh, that will be fun!--much better than learning verbs and nouns!" "but the verbs and nouns are just the things that go to make a story--with not a few adjectives and adverbs, and a host of conjunctions; and, if it be a very moving story, a good many interjections! these all you have got to put together with good choice, or the story will not be one you would care to read.--perhaps you had better not begin till i see whether you know enough about those verbs and nouns to do the thing decently. show me your school-books." "there they all are--on that shelf! i haven't opened one of them since percy came home. he laughed at them all, and so arkie--that's lady arctura, told him he might teach me himself. and he wouldn't; and she wouldn't--with him to laugh at her. and i've had such a jolly time ever since--reading books out of the library! have you seen the library, mr. grant?" "no; i've seen nothing yet. suppose we begin with a holiday, and you begin by teaching me!" "teaching you, sir! i'm not able to teach you!" "why, didn't you as much as offer to teach me the library? can't you teach me this great old castle? and aren't you going to teach yourself to me?" "that would be a funny lesson, sir!" "the least funny, the most serious lesson you could teach me! you are a book god has begun, and he has sent me to help him go on with it; so i must learn what he has written already before i try to do anything." "but you know what a boy is, sir! why should you want to learn me?" "you might as well say that, because i have read one or two books, i must know every book. to understand one boy helps to understand another, but every boy is a new boy, different from every other boy, and every one has to be understood." "yes--for sometimes arkie won't hear me out, and i feel so cross with her i should like to give her a good box on the ear. what king was it, sir, that made the law that no lady, however disagreeable, was to have her ears boxed? do you think it a good law, sir?" "it is good for you and me anyhow." "and when percy says, 'oh, go away! don't bother,' i feel as if i could hit him hard! yet, if i happen to hurt him, i am so sorry! and why then should i want to hurt him?" "there's something in this little fellow!" said donal to himself. "ah, why indeed?" he answered. "you see you don't understand yourself yet!" "no indeed!" "then how could you think i should understand you all at once?--and a boy must be understood, else what's to become of him! fancy a poor boy living all day, and sleeping all night, and nobody understanding him!" "that would be dreadful! but you will understand me?" "only a little: i'm not wise enough to understand any boy." "then--but isn't that what you said you came for?--i thought--" "yes," answered donal, "that is what i came for; but if i fancied i quite understood any boy, that would be a sure sign i did not understand him.--there is one who understands every boy as well as if there were no other boy in the whole world." "then why doesn't every boy go to him when he can't get fair play?" "ah, why? that is just what i want you to do. he can do better than give you fair play even: he can make you give other people fair play, and delight in it." "tell me where he is." "that is what i have to teach you: mere telling is not much use. telling is what makes people think they know when they do not, and makes them foolish." "what is his name?" "i will not tell you that just yet; for then you would think you knew him, when you knew next to nothing about him. look here; look at this book," he went on, pulling a copy of boethius from his pocket; "look at the name on the back of it: it is the name of the man that wrote the book." davie spelled it out. "now you know all about the book, don't you?" "no, sir; i don't know anything about it." "well then, my father's name is robert grant: you know now what a good man he is!" "no, i don't. i should like to see him though!" "you would love him if you did! but you see now that knowing the name of a person does not make you know the person." "but you said, sir, that if you told me the name of that person, i should fancy i knew all about him: i don't fancy i know all about your father now you have told me his name!" "you have me there!" answered donal. "i did not say quite what i ought to have said. i should have said that when we know a little about a person, and are used to hearing his name, then we are ready to think we know all about him. i heard a man the other day--a man who had never spoken to your father--talk as if he knew all about him." "i think i understand," said davie. to confess ignorance is to lose respect with the ignorant who would appear to know. but there is a worse thing than to lose the respect even of the wise--to deserve to lose it; and that he does who would gain a respect that does not belong to him. but a confession of ignorance is a ground of respect with a well-bred child, and even with many ordinary boys will raise a man's influence: they recognize his loyalty to the truth. act-truth is infinitely more than fact-truth; the love of the truth infinitely beyond the knowledge of it. they went out together, and when they had gone the round of the place outside, davie would have taken him over the house; but donal said they would leave something for another time, and made him lie down for ten minutes. this the boy thought a great hardship, but donal saw that he needed to be taught to rest. ten times in those ten minutes he was on the point of jumping up, but donal found a word sufficient to restrain him. when the ten minutes were over, he set him an addition sum. the boy protested he knew all the rules of arithmetic. "but," said donal, "i must know that you know them; that is my business. do this one, however easy it is." the boy obeyed, and brought him the sum--incorrect. "now, davie," said donal, "you said you knew all about addition, but you have not done this sum correctly." "i have only made a blunder, sir." "but a rule is no rule if it is not carried out. everything goes on the supposition of its being itself, and not something else. people that talk about good things without doing them are left out. you are not master of addition until your addition is to be depended upon." the boy found it hard to fix his attention: to fix it on something he did not yet understand, would be too hard! he must learn to do so in the pursuit of accuracy where he already understood! then he would not have to fight two difficulties at once--that of understanding, and that of fixing his attention. but for a long time he never kept him more than a quarter of an hour at work on the same thing. when he had done the sum correctly, and a second without need of correction, he told him to lay his slate aside, and he would tell him a fairy-story. therein he succeeded tolerably--in the opinion of davie, wonderfully: what a tutor was this, who let fairies into the school-room! the tale was of no very original construction--the youngest brother gaining in the path of righteousness what the elder brothers lose through masterful selfishness. a man must do a thing because it is right, even if he die for it; but truth were poor indeed if it did not bring at last all things subject to it! as beauty and truth are one, so are truth and strength one. must god be ever on the cross, that we poor worshippers may pay him our highest honour? is it not enough to know that if the devil were the greater, yet would not god do him homage, but would hang for ever on his cross? truth is joy and victory. the true hero is adjudged to bliss, nor can in the nature of things, that is, of god, escape it. he who holds by life and resists death, must be victorious; his very life is a slaying of death. a man may die for his opinion, and may only be living to himself: a man who dies for the truth, dies to himself and to all that is not true. "what a beautiful story!" cried davie when it ceased. "where did you get it, mr. grant?" "where all stories come from." "where is that?" "the think-book." "what a funny name! i never heard it! will it be in the library?" "no; it is in no library. it is the book god is always writing at one end, and blotting out at the other. it is made of thoughts, not words. it is the think-book." "now i understand! you got the story out of your own head!" "yes, perhaps. but how did it get in to my head?" "i can't tell that. nobody can tell that!" "nobody can that never goes up above his own head--that never shuts the think-book, and stands upon it. when one does, then the think-book swells to a great mountain and lifts him up above all the world: then he sees where the stories come from, and how they get into his head.--are you to have a ride to-day?" "i ride or not just as i like." "well, we will now do just as we both like, i hope, and it will be two likes instead of one--that is, if we are true friends." "we shall be true friends--that we shall!" "how can that be--between a little boy like you, and a grown man like me?" "by me being good." "by both of us being good--no other way. if one of us only was good, we could never be true friends. i must be good as well as you, else we shall never understand each other!" "how kind you are, mr. grant! you treat me just like another one!" said davie. "but we must not forget that i am the big one and you the little one, and that we can't be the other one to each other except the little one does what the big one tells him! that's the way to fit into each other." "oh, of course!" answered davie, as if there could not be two minds about that. chapter xv. horse and man. during the first day and the next, donal did not even come in sight of any other of the family; but on the third day, after their short early school--for he seldom let davie work till he was tired, and never after--going with him through the stable-yard, they came upon lord forgue as he mounted his horse--a nervous, fiery, thin-skinned thoroughbred. the moment his master was on him, he began to back and rear. forgue gave him a cut with his whip. he went wild, plunging and dancing and kicking. the young lord was a horseman in the sense of having a good seat; but he knew little about horses; they were to him creatures to be compelled, not friends with whom to hold sweet concert. he had not learned that to rule ill is worse than to obey ill. kings may be worse than it is in the power of any subject to be. as he was raising his arm for a second useless, cruel, and dangerous blow, donal darted to the horse's head. "you mustn't do that, my lord!" he said. "you'll drive him mad." but the worst part of forgue's nature was uppermost, in his rage all the vices of his family rushed to the top. he looked down on donal with a fury checked only by contempt. "keep off," he said, "or it will be the worse for you. what do you know about horses?" "enough to know that you are not fair to him. i will not let you strike the poor animal. just look at this water-chain!" "hold your tongue, and stand away, or, by--" "ye winna fricht me, sir," said donal, whose english would, for years, upon any excitement, turn cowardly and run away, leaving his mother-tongue to bear the brunt, "--i'm no timorsome." forgue brought down his whip with a great stinging blow upon donal's shoulder and back. the fierce blood of the highland celt rushed to his brain, and had not the man in him held by god and trampled on the devil, there might then have been miserable work. but though he clenched his teeth, he fettered his hands, and ruled his tongue, and the master of men was master still. "my lord," he said, after one instant's thunderous silence, "there's that i' me wad think as little o' throttlin' ye as ye du o' ill-usin' yer puir beast. but i'm no gaein' to drop his quarrel, an' tak up my ain: that wad be cooardly." here he patted the creature's neck, and recovering his composure and his english, went on. "i tell you, my lord, the curb-chain is too tight! the animal is suffering as you can have no conception of, or you would pity him." "let him go," cried forgue, "or i will make you." he raised his whip again, the more enraged that the groom stood looking on with his mouth open. "i tell your lordship," said donal, "it is my turn to strike; and if you hit the animal again before that chain is slackened, i will pitch you out of the saddle." for answer forgue struck the horse over the head. the same moment he was on the ground; donal had taken him by the leg and thrown him off. he was not horseman enough to keep his hold of the reins, and donal led the horse a little way off, and left him to get up in safety. the poor animal was pouring with sweat, shivering and trembling, yet throwing his head back every moment. donal could scarcely undo the chain; it was twisted--his lordship had fastened it himself--and sharp edges pressed his jaw at the least touch of the rein. he had not yet rehooked it, when forgue was upon him with a second blow of his whip. the horse was scared afresh at the sound, and it was all he could do to hold him, but he succeeded at length in calming him. when he looked about him, forgue was gone. he led the horse into the stable, put him in his stall, and proceeded to unsaddle him. then first he was re-aware of the presence of davie. the boy was stamping--with fierce eyes and white face--choking with silent rage. "davie, my child!" said donal, and davie recovered his power of speech. "i'll go and tell my father!" he said, and made for the stable door. "which of us are you going to tell upon?" asked donal with a smile. "percy, of course!" he replied, almost with a scream. "you are a good man, mr. grant, and he is a bad fellow. my father will give it him well. he doesn't often--but oh, can't he just! to dare to strike you! i'll go to him at once, whether he's in bed or not!" "no, you won't, my boy! listen to me. some people think it's a disgrace to be struck: i think it a disgrace to strike. i have a right over your brother by that blow, and i mean to keep it--for his good. you didn't think i was afraid of him?" "no, no; anybody could see you weren't a bit afraid of him. i would have struck him again if he had killed me for it!" "i don't doubt you would. but when you understand, you will not be so ready to strike. i could have killed your brother more easily than held his horse. you don't know how strong i am, or what a blow of my fist would be to a delicate fellow like that. i hope his fall has not hurt him." "i hope it has--a little, i mean, only a little," said the boy, looking in the face of his tutor. "but tell me why you did not strike him. it would be good for him to be well beaten." "it will, i hope, be better for him to be well forgiven: he will be ashamed of himself the sooner, i think. but why i did not strike him was, that i am not my own master." "but my father, i am sure, would not have been angry with you. he would have said you had a right to do it." "perhaps; but the earl is not the master i mean." "who is, then?" "jesus christ." "o--oh!" "he says i must not return evil for evil, a blow for a blow. i don't mind what people say about it: he would not have me disgrace myself! he never even threatened those that struck him." "but he wasn't a man, you know!" "not a man! what was he then?" "he was god, you know." "and isn't god a man--and ever so much more than a man?" the boy made no answer, and donal went on. "do you think god would have his child do anything disgraceful? why, davie, you don't know your own father! what god wants of us is to be down-right honest, and do what he tells us without fear." davie was silent. his conscience reproved him, as the conscience of a true-hearted boy will reprove him at the very mention of the name of god, until he sets himself consciously to do his will. donal said no more, and they went for their walk. chapter xvi. colloquies. in the evening donal went to see andrew comin. "weel, hoo are ye gettin' on wi' the yerl?" asked the cobbler. "you set me a good example of saying nothing about him," answered donal; "and i will follow it--at least till i know more: i have scarce seen him yet." "that's right!" returned the cobbler with satisfaction. "i'm thinkin' ye'll be ane o' the feow 'at can rule their ane hoose--that is, haud their ain tongues till the hoor for speech be come. stick ye to that, my dear sir, an' mair i'll be weel nor in general is weel." "i'm come to ye for a bit o' help though; i want licht upon a queston 'at 's lang triblet me.--what think ye?--hoo far does the comman' laid upo' 's, as to warfare 'atween man an' man, reach? are we never ta raise the han' to human bein', think ye?" "weel, i hae thoucht a heap aboot it, an' i daurna say 'at i'm jist absolute clear upo' the maitter. but there may be pairt clear whaur a' 's no clear; an' by what we un'erstan' we come the nearer to what we dinna un'erstan'. there's ae thing unco plain--'at we're on no accoont to return evil for evil: onybody 'at ca's himsel' a christian maun un'erstan' that muckle. we're to gie no place to revenge, inside or oot. therefore we're no to gie blow for blow. gien a man hit ye, ye're to take it i' god's name. but whether things mayna come to a p'int whaurat ye're bu'n', still i' god's name, to defen' the life god has gien ye, i canna say--i haena the licht to justifee me in denyin' 't. there maun surely, i hae said to mysel', be a time whan a man may hae to du what god dis sae aften--mak use o' the strong han'! but it's clear he maunna do 't in rage--that's ower near hate--an' hate 's the deevil's ain. a man may, gien he live varra near the lord, be whiles angry ohn sinned: but the wrath o' man worketh not the richteousness o' god; an' the wrath that rises i' the mids o' encoonter, is no like to be o' the natur o' divine wrath. to win at it, gien 't be possible, lat's consider the lord--hoo he did. there's no word o' him ever liftin' han' to protec' himsel'. the only thing like it was for ithers. to gar them lat his disciples alane--maybe till they war like eneuch til himsel' no to rin, he pat oot mair nor his han' upo' them 'at cam to tak him: he strak them sair wi' the pooer itsel' 'at muvs a' airms. but no varra sair naither--he but knockit them doon!--jist to lat them ken they war to du as he bade them, an' lat his fowk be;--an' maybe to lat them ken 'at gien he loot them tak him, it was no 'at he couldna hin'er them gien he likit. i canna help thinkin' we may stan' up for ither fowk. an' i'm no sayin' 'at we arena to defen' oorsels frae a set attack wi' design.--but there's something o' mair importance yet nor kennin' the richt o' ony queston." "what can that be? what can be o' mair importance nor doin' richt i' the sicht o' god?" said donal. "bein' richt wi' the varra thoucht o' god, sae 'at we canna mistak, but maun ken jist what he wad hae dune. that's the big richt, the mother o' a' the lave o' the richts. that's to be as the maister was. onygait, whatever we du, it maun be sic as to be dune, an' it maun be dune i' the name o' god; whan we du naething we maun du that naething i' the name o' god. a body may weel say, 'o lord, thoo hasna latten me see what i oucht to du, sae i'll du naething!' gien a man ought to defen' himsel', but disna du 't, 'cause he thinks god wadna hae him du 't, wull god lea' him oondefent for that? or gien a body stan's up i' the name o' god, an' fronts an airmy o' enemies, div ye think god 'ill forsake him 'cause he 's made a mistak? whatever's dune wantin' faith maun be sin--it canna help it; whatever's dune in faith canna be sin, though it may be a mistak. only latna a man tak presumption for faith! that's a fearsome mistak, for it's jist the opposite." "i thank ye," said donal. "i'll consider wi' my best endeevour what ye hae said." "but o' a' things," resumed the cobbler, "luik 'at ye lo'e fairplay. fairplay 's a won'erfu' word--a gran' thing constantly lost sicht o'. man, i hae been tryin' to win at the duin' o' the richt this mony a year, but i daurna yet lat mysel' ac' upo' the spur o' the moment whaur my ain enterest 's concernt: my ain side micht yet blin' me to the ither man's side o' the business. onybody can un'erstan' his ain richt, but it taks trible an' thoucht to un'erstan' what anither coonts his richt. twa richts canna weel clash. it's a wrang an' a richt, or pairt wrang an' a pairt richt 'at clashes." "gien a'body did that, i doobt there wad be feow fortins made!" said donal. "aboot that i canna say, no kennin'; i daurna discover a law whaur i haena knowledge! but this same fairplay lies, alang wi' love, at the varra rute and f'undation o' the universe. the theologians had a glimmer o' the fac' whan they made sae muckle o' justice, only their justice is sic a meeserable sma' bit plaister eemage o' justice, 'at it maist gars an honest body lauch. they seem to me like shepherds 'at rive doon the door-posts, an' syne block up the door wi' them." donal told him of the quarrel he had had with lord forgue, and asked him whether he thought he had done right. "weel," answered the cobbler, "i'm as far frae blamin' you as i am frae justifeein' the yoong lord." "he seems to me a fine kin' o' a lad," said donal, "though some owerbeirin'." "the likes o' him are mair to be excused for that nor ither fowk, for they hae great disadvantages i' the position an' the upbringin'. it's no easy for him 'at's broucht up a lord to believe he's jist ane wi' the lave." donal went for a stroll through the town, and met the minister, but he took no notice of him. he was greatly annoyed at the march which he said the fellow had stolen upon him, and regarded him as one who had taken an unfair advantage of him. but he had little influence at the castle. the earl never by any chance went to church. his niece, lady arctura, did, however, and held the minister for an authority at things spiritual--one of whom living water was to be had without money and without price. but what she counted spiritual things were very common earthly stuff, and for the water, it was but stagnant water from the ditches of a sham theology. only what was a poor girl to do who did not know how to feed herself, but apply to one who pretended to be able to feed others? how was she to know that he could not even feed himself? out of many a difficulty she thought he helped her--only the difficulty would presently clasp her again, and she must deal with it as she best could, until a new one made her forget it, and go to the minister, or rather to his daughter, again. she was one of those who feel the need of some help to live--some upholding that is not of themselves, but who, through the stupidity of teachers unconsciously false,--men so unfit that they do not know they are unfit, direct their efforts, first towards having correct notions, then to work up the feelings that belong to those notions. she was an honest girl so far as she had been taught--perhaps not so far as she might have been without having been taught. how was she to think aright with scarce a glimmer of god's truth? how was she to please god, as she called it, who thought of him in a way repulsive to every loving soul? how was she to be accepted of god, who did not accept her own neighbour, but looked down, without knowing it, upon so many of her fellow-creatures? how should such a one either enjoy or recommend her religion? it would have been the worse for her if she had enjoyed it--the worse for others if she had recommended it! religion is simply the way home to the father. there was little of the path in her religion except the difficulty of it. the true way is difficult enough because of our unchildlikeness--uphill, steep, and difficult, but there is fresh life on every surmounted height, a purer air gained, ever more life for more climbing. but the path that is not the true one is not therefore easy. up hill is hard walking, but through a bog is worse. those who seek god with their faces not even turned towards him, who, instead of beholding the father in the son, take the stupidest opinions concerning him and his ways from other men--what should they do but go wandering on dark mountains, spending their strength in avoiding precipices and getting out of bogs, mourning and sighing over their sins instead of leaving them behind and fleeing to the father, whom to know is eternal life. did they but set themselves to find out what christ knew and meant and commanded, and then to do it, they would soon forget their false teachers. but alas! they go on bowing before long-faced, big-worded authority--the more fatally when it is embodied in a good man who, himself a victim to faith in men, sees the son of god only through the theories of others, and not with the sight of his own spiritual eyes. donal had not yet seen the lady. he neither ate, sat, nor held intercourse with the family. away from davie, he spent his time in his tower chamber, or out of doors. all the grounds were open to him except a walled garden on the south-eastern slope, looking towards the sea, which the earl kept for himself, though he rarely walked in it. on the side of the hill away from the town, was a large park reaching down to the river, and stretching a long way up its bank--with fine trees, and glorious outlooks to the sea in one direction, and to the mountains in the other. here donal would often wander, now with a book, now with davie. the boy's presence was rarely an interruption to his thoughts when he wanted to think. sometimes he would thrown himself on the grass and read aloud; then davie would throw himself beside him, and let the words he could not understand flow over him in a spiritual cataract. on the river was a boat, and though at first he was awkward enough in the use of the oars, he was soon able to enjoy thoroughly a row up or down the stream, especially in the twilight. he was alone with his book under a beech-tree on a steep slope to the river, the day after his affair with lord forgue: reading aloud, he did not hear the approach of his lordship. "mr. grant," he said, "if you will say you are sorry you threw me from my horse, i will say i am sorry i struck you." "i am very sorry," said donal, rising, "that it was necessary to throw you from your horse; and perhaps your lordship may remember that you struck me before i did so." "that has nothing to do with it. i propose an accommodation, or compromise, or what you choose to call it: if you will do the one, i will do the other." "what i think i ought to do, my lord, i do without bargaining. i am not sorry i threw you from your horse, and to say so would be to lie." "of course everybody thinks himself in the right!" said his lordship with a small sneer. "it does not follow that no one is ever in the right!" returned donal. "does your lordship think you were in the right--either towards me or the poor animal who could not obey you because he was in torture?" "i don't say i do." "then everybody does not think himself in the right! i take your lordship's admission as an apology." "by no means: when i make an apology, i will do it; i will not sneak out of it." he was evidently at strife with himself: he knew he was wrong, but could not yet bring himself to say so. it is one of the poorest of human weaknesses that a man should be ashamed of saying he has done wrong, instead of so ashamed of having done wrong that he cannot rest till he has said so; for the shame cleaves fast until the confession removes it. forgue walked away a step or two, and stood with his back to donal, poking the point of his stick into the grass. all at once he turned and said: "i will apologize if you will tell me one thing." "i will tell you whether you apologize or not," said donal. "i have never asked you to apologize." "tell me then why you did not return either of my blows yesterday." "i should like to know why you ask--but i will answer you: simply because to do so would have been to disobey my master." "that's a sort of thing i don't understand. but i only wanted to know it was not cowardice; i could not make an apology to a coward." "if i were a coward, you would owe me an apology all the same, and he is a poor creature who will not pay his debts. but i hope it is not necessary i should either thrash or insult your lordship to convince you i fear you no more than that blackbird there!" forgue gave a little laugh. a moment's pause followed. then he held out his hand, but in a half-hesitating, almost sheepish way: "well, well! shake hands," he said. "no, my lord," returned donal. "i bear your lordship not the slightest ill-will, but i will shake hands with no one in a half-hearted way, and no other way is possible while you are uncertain whether i am a coward or not." so saying, he threw himself again upon the grass, and lord forgue walked away, offended afresh. the next morning he came into the school-room where donal sat at lessons with davie. he had a book in his hand. "mr. grant," he said, "will you help me with this passage in xenophon?" "with all my heart," answered donal, and in a few moments had him out of his difficulty. but instead of going, his lordship sat down a little way off, and went on with his reading--sat until master and pupil went out, and left him sitting there. the next morning he came with a fresh request, and donal found occasion to approve warmly of a translation he proposed. from that time he came almost every morning. he was no great scholar, but with the prospect of an english university before him, thought it better to read a little. the housekeeper at the castle was a good woman, and very kind to donal, feeling perhaps that he fell to her care the more that he was by birth of her own class; for it was said in the castle, "the tutor makes no pretence to being a gentleman." whether he was the more or the less of one on that account, i leave my reader to judge according to his capability. sometimes when his dinner was served, mistress brookes would herself appear, to ensure proper attention to him, and would sit down and talk to him while he ate, ready to rise and serve him if necessary. their early days had had something in common, though she came from the southern highlands of green hills and more sheep. she gave him some rather needful information about the family; and he soon perceived that there would have been less peace in the house but for her good temper and good sense. lady arctura was the daughter of the last lord morven, and left sole heir to the property; forgue and his brother davie were the sons of the present earl. the present lord was the brother of the last, and had lived with him for some years before he succeeded. he was a man of peculiar and studious habits; nobody ever seemed to take to him; and since his wife's death, his health had been precarious. though a strange man, he was a just if not generous master. his brother had left him guardian to lady arctura, and he had lived in the castle as before. his wife was a very lovely, but delicate woman, and latterly all but confined to her room. since her death a great change had passed upon her husband. certainly his behaviour was sometimes hard to understand. "he never gangs to the kirk--no ance in a twalmonth!" said mrs. brookes. "fowk sud be dacent, an' wha ever h'ard o' dacent fowk 'at didna gang to the kirk ance o' the sabbath! i dinna haud wi' gaein' twise mysel': ye hae na time to read yer ain chapters gien ye do that. but the man's a weel behavet man, sae far as ye see, naither sayin' nor doin' the thing he shouldna: what he may think, wha's to say! the mair ten'er conscience coonts itsel' the waur sinner; an' i'm no gaein' to think what i canna ken! there's some 'at says he led a gey lowse kin' o' a life afore he cam to bide wi' the auld yerl; he was wi' the airmy i' furreign pairts, they say; but aboot that i ken naething. the auld yerl was something o' a sanct himsel', rist the banes o' 'im! we're no the jeedges o' the leevin' ony mair nor o' the deid! but i maun awa' to luik efter things; a minute's an hoor lost wi' thae fule lasses. ye're a freen' o' an'rew comin's, they tell me, sir: i dinna ken what to do wi' 's lass, she's that upsettin'! ye wad think she was ane o' the faimily whiles; an' ither whiles she 's that silly!" "i'm sorry to hear it!" said donal. "her grandfather and grandmother are the best of good people." "i daursay! but there's jist what i hae seen: them 'at 's broucht up their ain weel eneuch, their son's bairn they'll jist lat gang. aither they're tired o' the thing, or they think they're safe. they hae lippent til yoong eppy a heap ower muckle. but i'm naither a prophet nor the son o' a prophet, as the minister said last sunday--an' said well, honest man! for it's the plain trowth: he's no ane o' the major nor yet the minor anes! but haud him oot o' the pu'pit an' he dis no that ill. his dochter 's no an ill lass aither, an' a great freen' o' my leddy's. but i'm clean ashamed o' mysel' to gang on this gait. hae ye dune wi' yer denner, mr. grant?--weel, i'll jist sen' to clear awa', an' lat ye til yer lessons." chapter xvii. lady arctura. it was now almost three weeks since donal had become an inmate of the castle, and he had scarcely set his eyes on the lady of the house. once he had seen her back, and more than once had caught a glimpse of her profile, but he had never really seen her face, and they had never spoken to each other. one afternoon he was sauntering along under the overhanging boughs of an avenue of beeches, formerly the approach to a house in which the family had once lived, but which had now another entrance. he had in his hand a copy of the apocrypha, which he had never seen till he found this in the library. in his usual fashion he had begun to read it through, and was now in the book called the wisdom of solomon, at the th chapter, narrating the discomfiture of certain magicians. taken with the beauty of the passage, he sat down on an old stone-roller, and read aloud. parts of the passage were these--they will enrich my page:-- "for they, that promised to drive away terrors and troubles from a sick soul, were sick themselves of fear, worthy to be laughed at. "...for wickedness, condemned by her own witness, is very timorous, and being pressed with conscience, always forecasteth grievous things. "...but they sleeping the same sleep that night, which was indeed intolerable, and which came upon them out of the bottoms of inevitable hell, "were partly vexed with monstrous apparitions, and partly fainted, their heart failing them: for a sudden fear, and not looked for, came upon them. "so then whosoever there fell down was straitly kept, shut up in a prison without iron bars. "for whether he were husbandman, or shepherd, or a labourer in the field, he was overtaken, and endured that necessity, which could not be avoided: for they were all bound with one chain of darkness. "whether it were a whistling wind, or a melodious noise of birds among the spreading branches, or a pleasing fall of water running violently, "or a terrible sound of stones cast down, or a running that could not be seen of skipping beasts, or a roaring voice of most savage wild beasts, or a rebounding echo from the hollow mountains; these things made them to swoon for fear. "for the whole world shined with clear light, and none were hindered in their labour: "over them only was spread an heavy night, an image of that darkness which should afterward receive them: but yet were they unto themselves more grievous than the darkness." he had read so much, and stopped to think a little; for through the incongruity of it, which he did not doubt arose from poverty of imagination in the translator, rendering him unable to see what the poet meant, ran yet an indubitable vein of awful truth, whether fully intended by the writer or not mattered little to such a reader as donal--when, lifting his eyes, he saw lady arctura standing before him with a strange listening look. a spell seemed upon her; her face was white, her lips white and a little parted. attracted, as she was about to pass him, by the sound of what was none the less like the bible from the solemn crooning way in which donal read it to the congregation of his listening thoughts, yet was certainly not the bible, she was presently fascinated by the vague terror of what she heard, and stood absorbed: without much originative power, she had an imagination prompt and delicate and strong in response. donal had but a glance of her; his eyes returned again at once to his book, and he sat silent and motionless, though not seeing a word. for one instant she stood still; then he heard the soft sound of her dress as, with noiseless foot, she stole back, and took another way. i must give my reader a shadow of her. she was rather tall, slender, and fair. but her hair was dark, and so crinkly that, when merely parted, it did all the rest itself. her forehead was rather low. her eyes were softly dark, and her features very regular--her nose perhaps hardly large enough, or her chin. her mouth was rather thin-lipped, but would have been sweet except for a seemingly habitual expression of pain. a pair of dark brows overhung her sweet eyes, and gave a look of doubtful temper, yet restored something of the strength lacking a little in nose and chin. it was an interesting--not a quite harmonious face, and in happiness might, donal thought, be beautiful even. her figure was eminently graceful--as donal saw when he raised his eyes at the sound of her retreat. he thought she needed not have run away as from something dangerous: why did she not pass him like any other servant of the house? but what seemed to him like contempt did not hurt him. he was too full of realities to be much affected by opinion however shown. besides, he had had his sorrow and had learned his lesson. he was a poet--but one of the few without any weak longing after listening ears. the poet whose poetry needs an audience, can be but little of a poet; neither can the poetry that is of no good to the man himself, be of much good to anybody else. there are the song-poets and the life-poets, or rather the god-poems. sympathy is lovely and dear--chiefly when it comes unsought; but the fame after which so many would-be, yea, so many real poets sigh, is poorest froth. donal could sing his songs like the birds, content with the blue heaven or the sheep for an audience--or any passing angel that cared to listen. on the hill-sides he would sing them aloud, but it was of the merest natural necessity. a look of estrangement on the face of a friend, a look of suffering on that of any animal, would at once and sorely affect him, but not a disparaging expression on the face of a comparative stranger, were she the loveliest woman he had ever seen. he was little troubled about the world, because little troubled about himself. lady arctura and lord forgue lived together like brother and sister, apparently without much in common, and still less of misunderstanding. there would have been more chance of their taking a fancy to each other if they had not been brought up together; they were now little together, and never alone together. very few visitors came to the castle, and then only to call. lord morven seldom saw any one, his excuse being his health. but lady arctura was on terms of intimacy with sophia carmichael, the minister's daughter--to whom her father had communicated his dissatisfaction with the character of donal, and poured out his indignation at his conduct. he ought to have left the parish at once! whereas he had instead secured for himself the best, the only situation in it, without giving him a chance of warning his lordship! the more injustice her father spoke against him, the more miss carmichael condemned him; for she was a good daughter, and looked up to her father as the wisest and best man in the parish. very naturally therefore she repeated his words to lady arctura. she in her turn conveyed them to her uncle. he would not, however, pay much attention to them. the thing was done, he said. he had himself seen and talked with donal, and liked him! the young man had himself told him of the clergyman's disapprobation! he would request him to avoid all reference to religious subjects! therewith he dismissed the matter, and forgot all about it. anything requiring an effort of the will, an arrangement of ideas, or thought as to mode, his lordship would not encounter. nor was anything to him of such moment that he must do it at once. lady arctura did not again refer to the matter: her uncle was not one to take liberties with--least of all to press to action. but she continued painfully doubtful whether she was not neglecting her duty, trying to persuade herself that she was waiting only till she should have something definite to say of her own knowledge against him. and now what was she to conclude from his reading the apocrypha? the fact was not to be interpreted to his advantage: was he not reading what was not the bible as if it were the bible, and when he might have been reading the bible itself? besides, the apocrypha came so near the bible when it was not the bible! it must be at least rather wicked! at the same time she could not drive from her mind the impressiveness both of the matter she had heard, and his manner of reading it: the strong sound of judgment and condemnation in it came home to her--she could not have told how or why, except generally because of her sins. she was one of those--not very few i think--who from conjunction of a lovely conscience with an ill-instructed mind, are doomed for a season to much suffering. she was largely different from her friend: the religious opinions of the latter--they were in reality rather metaphysical than religious, and bad either way--though she clung to them with all the tenacity of a creature with claws, occasioned her not an atom of mental discomposure: perhaps that was in part why she clung to them! they were as she would have them! she did not trouble herself about what god required of her, beyond holding the doctrine the holding of which guaranteed, as she thought, her future welfare. conscience toward god had very little to do with her opinions, and her heart still less. her head on the contrary, perhaps rather her memory, was considerably occupied with the matter; nothing she held had ever been by her regarded on its own merits--that is, on its individual claim to truth; if it had been handed down by her church, that was enough; to support it she would search out text after text, and press it into the service. any meaning but that which the church of her fathers gave to a passage must be of the devil, and every man opposed to the truth who saw in that meaning anything but truth! it was indeed impossible miss carmichael should see any meaning but that, even if she had looked for it; she was nowise qualified for discovering truth, not being herself true. what she saw and loved in the doctrines of her church was not the truth, but the assertion; and whoever questioned, not to say the doctrine, but even the proving of it by any particular passage, was a dangerous person, and unsound. all the time her acceptance and defence of any doctrine made not the slightest difference to her life--as indeed how should it? such was the only friend lady arctura had. but the conscience and heart of the younger woman were alive to a degree that boded ill either for the doctrine that stinted their growth, or the nature unable to cast it off. miss carmichael was a woman about six-and-twenty--and had been a woman, like too many scotch girls, long before she was out of her teens--a human flower cut and dried--an unpleasant specimen, and by no means valuable from its scarcity. self-sufficient, assured, with scarce shyness enough for modesty, handsome and hard, she was essentially a self-glorious philistine; nor would she be anything better till something was sent to humble her, though what spiritual engine might be equal to the task was not for man to imagine. she was clever, but her cleverness made nobody happier; she had great confidence, but her confidence gave courage to no one, and took it from many; she had little fancy, and less imagination than any other i ever knew. the divine wonder was, that she had not yet driven the delicate, truth-loving arctura mad. from her childhood she had had the ordering of all her opinions: whatever sophy carmichael said, lady arctura never thought of questioning. a lie is indeed a thing in its nature unbelievable, but there is a false belief always ready to receive the false truth, and there is no end to the mischief the two can work. the awful punishment of untruth in the inward parts is that the man is given over to believe a lie. lady arctura was in herself a gentle creature who shrank from either giving or receiving a rough touch; but she had an inherited pride, by herself unrecognized as such, which made her capable of hurting as well as being hurt. next to the doctrines of the scottish church, she respected her own family: it had in truth no other claim to respect than that its little good and much evil had been done before the eyes of a large part of many generations--whence she was born to think herself distinguished, and to imagine a claim for the acknowledgment of distinction upon all except those of greatly higher rank than her own. this inborn arrogance was in some degree modified by respect for the writers of certain books--not one of whom was of any regard in the eyes of the thinkers of the age. of any writers of power, beyond those of the bible, either in this country or another, she knew nothing. yet she had a real instinct for what was good in literature; and of the writers to whom i have referred she not only liked the worthiest best, but liked best their best things. i need hardly say they were all religious writers; for the keen conscience and obedient heart of the girl had made her very early turn herself towards the quarter where the sun ought to rise, the quarter where all night long gleams the auroral hope; but unhappily she had not gone direct to the heavenly well in earthly ground--the words of the master himself. how could she? from very childhood her mind had been filled with traditionary utterances concerning the divine character and the divine plans--the merest inventions of men far more desirous of understanding what they were not required to understand, than of doing what they were required to do--whence their crude and false utterances concerning a god of their own fancy--in whom it was a good man's duty, in the name of any possible god, to disbelieve; and just because she was true, authority had immense power over her. the very sweetness of their nature forbids such to doubt the fitness of others. she had besides had a governess of the orthodox type, a large proportion of whose teaching was of the worst heresy, for it was lies against him who is light, and in whom is no darkness at all; her doctrines were so many smoked glasses held up between the mind of her pupil and the glory of the living god; nor had she once directed her gaze to the very likeness of god, the face of jesus christ. had arctura set herself to understand him the knowledge of whom is eternal life, she would have believed none of these false reports of him, but she had not yet met with any one to help her to cast aside the doctrines of men, and go face to face with the son of man, the visible god. first lie of all, she had been taught that she must believe so and so before god would let her come near him or listen to her. the old cobbler could have taught her differently; but she would have thought it improper to hold conversation with such a man, even if she had known him for the best man in auchars. she was in sore and sad earnest to believe as she was told she must believe; therefore instead of beginning to do what jesus christ said, she tried hard to imagine herself one of the chosen, tried hard to believe herself the chief of sinners. there was no one to tell her that it is only the man who sees something of the glory of god, the height and depth and breadth and length of his love and unselfishness, not a child dabbling in stupid doctrines, that can feel like st. paul. she tried to feel that she deserved to be burned in hell for ever and ever, and that it was boundlessly good of god--who made her so that she could not help being a sinner--to give her the least chance of escaping it. she tried to feel that, though she could not be saved without something which the god of perfect love could give her if he pleased, but might not please to give her, yet if she was not saved it would be all her own fault: and so ever the round of a great miserable treadmill of contradictions! for a moment she would be able to say this or that she thought she ought to say; the next the feeling would be gone, and she as miserable as before. her friend made no attempt to imbue her with her own calm indifference, nor could she have succeeded had she attempted it. but though she had never been troubled herself, and that because she had never been in earnest, she did not find it the less easy to take upon her the rôle of a spiritual adviser, and gave no end of counsel for the attainment of assurance. she told her truly enough that all her trouble came of want of faith; but she showed her no one fit to believe in. chapter xviii. a clash. all this time, donal had never again seen the earl, neither had the latter shown any interest in davie's progress. but lady arctura was full of serious anxiety concerning him. heavily prejudiced against the tutor, she dreaded his influence on the mind of her little cousin. there was a small recess in the schoolroom--it had been a bay window, but from an architectural necessity arising from decay, it had, all except a narrow eastern light, been built up--and in this recess donal was one day sitting with a book, while davie was busy writing at the table in the middle of the room: it was past school-hours, but the weather did not invite them out of doors, and donal had given davie a poem to copy. lady arctura came into the room--she had never entered it before since donal came--and thinking he was alone, began to talk to the boy. she spoke in so gentle a tone that donal, busy with his book, did not for some time distinguish a word she said. he never suspected she was unaware of his presence. by degrees her voice grew a little louder, and by and by these words reached him: "you know, davie dear, every sin, whatever it is, deserves god's wrath and curse, both in this life and that which is to come; and if it had not been that jesus christ gave himself to turn away his anger and satisfy his justice by bearing the punishment for us, god would send us all to the place of misery for ever and ever. it is for his sake, not for ours, that he pardons us." she had not yet ceased when donal rose in the wrath of love, and came out into the room. "lady arctura," he said, "i dare not sit still and hear such false things uttered against the blessed god!" lady arctura started in dire dismay, but in virtue of her breed and her pride recovered herself immediately, drew herself up, and said-- "mr. grant, you forget yourself!" "i'm very willing to do that, my lady," answered donal, "but i must not forget the honour of my god. if you were a heathen woman i might think whether the hour was come for enlightening you further, but to hear one who has had the bible in her hands from her childhood say such things about the god who made her and sent his son to save her, without answering a word for him, would be cowardly!" "what do you know about such things? what gives you a right to speak?" said lady arctura. her pride-strength was already beginning to desert her. "i had a christian mother," answered donal, "--have her yet, thank god!--who taught me to love nothing but the truth; i have studied the bible from my childhood, often whole days together, when i was out with the cattle or the sheep; and i have tried to do what the lords tells me, from nearly the earliest time i can remember. therefore i am able to set to my seal that god is true--that he is light, and there is no darkness of unfairness or selfishness in him. i love god with my whole heart and soul, my lady." arctura tried to say she too loved him so, but her conscience interfered, and she could not. "i don't say you don't love him," donal went on; "but how you can love him and believe such things of him, i don't understand. whoever taught them first was a terrible liar against god, who is lovelier than all the imaginations of all his creatures can think." lady arctura swept from the room--though she was trembling from head to foot. at the door she turned and called davie. the boy looked up in his tutor's face, mutely asking if he should obey her. "go," said donal. in less than a minute he came back, his eyes full of tears. "arkie says she is going to tell papa. is it true, mr. grant, that you are a dangerous man? i do not believe it--though you do carry such a big knife." donal laughed. "it is my grandfather's skean dhu," he said: "i mend my pens with it, you know! but it is strange, davie, that, when a body knows something other people don't, they should be angry with him! they will even think he wants to make them bad when he wants to help them to be good!" "but arkie is good, mr. grant!" "i am sure she is. but she does not know so much about god as i do, or she would never say such things of him: we must talk about him more after this!" "no, no, please, mr. grant! we won't say a word about him, for arkie says except you promise never to speak of god, she will tell papa, and he will send you away." "davie," said donal with solemnity, "i would not give such a promise for the castle and all it contains--no, not to save your life and the life of everybody in it! for jesus says, 'whosoever denieth me before men, him will i deny before my father in heaven;' and rather than that, i would jump from the top of the castle. why, davie! would a man deny his own father or mother?" "i don't know," answered davie; "i don't remember my mother." "i'll tell you what," said donal, with sudden inspiration: "i will promise not to speak about god at any other time, if she will promise to sit by when i do speak of him--say once a week.--perhaps we shall do what he tells us all the better that we don't talk so much about him!" "oh, thank you, mr. grant!--i will tell her," cried davie, jumping up relieved. "oh, thank you, mr. grant!" he repeated; "i could not bear you to go away. i should never stop crying if you did. and you won't say any wicked things, will you? for arkie reads her bible every day." "so do i, davie." "do you?" returned davie, "i'll tell her that too, and then she will see she must have been mistaken." he hurried to his cousin with donal's suggestion. it threw her into no small perplexity--first from doubt as to the propriety of the thing proposed, next because of the awkwardness of it, then from a sudden fear lest his specious tongue should lead herself into the bypaths of doubt, and to the castle of giant despair--at which, indeed, it was a gracious wonder she had not arrived ere now. what if she should be persuaded of things which it was impossible to believe and be saved! she did not see that such belief as she desired to have was in itself essential damnation. for what can there be in heaven or earth for a soul that believes in an unjust god? to rejoice in such a belief would be to be a devil, and to believe what cannot be rejoiced in, is misery. no doubt a man may not see the true nature of the things he thinks she believes, but that cannot save him from the loss of not knowing god, whom to know is alone eternal life; for who can know him that believes evil things of him? that many a good man does believe such things, only argues his heart not yet one towards him. to make his belief possible he must dwell on the good things he has learned about god, and not think about the bad things. and what would sophia say? lady arctura would have sped to her friend for counsel before giving any answer to the audacious proposal, but she was just then from home for a fortnight, and she must resolve without her! she reflected also that she had not yet anything sufficiently definite to say to her uncle about the young man's false doctrine; and, for herself, concluded that, as she was well grounded for argument, knowing thoroughly the shorter catechism with the proofs from scripture of every doctrine it contained, it was foolish to fear anything from one who went in the strength of his own ignorant and presumptuous will, regardless of the opinions of the fathers of the church, and accepting only such things as were pleasing to his unregenerate nature. but she hesitated; and after waiting for a week without receiving any answer to his proposal, donal said to davie, "we shall have a lesson in the new testament to-morrow: you had better mention it to your cousin." the next morning he asked him if he had mentioned it. the boy said he had. "what did she say, davie?" "nothing--only looked strange," answered davie. when the hour of noon was past, and lady arctura did not appear, donal said, "davie, we'll have our new testament lesson out of doors: that is the best place for it!" "it is the best place!" responded davie, jumping up. "but you're not taking your book, mr. grant!" "never mind; i will give you a lesson or two without book first." just as they were leaving the room, appeared lady arctura with miss carmichael. "i understood," said the former, with not a little haughtiness, "that you--" she hesitated, and miss carmichael took up the word. "we wish to form our own judgment," she said, "on the nature of the religious instruction you give your pupil." "i invited lady arctura to be present when i taught him about god," said donal. "then are you not now going to do so?" said arctura. "as your ladyship made no answer to my proposal, and school hours were over, i concluded you were not coming." "and you would not give the lesson without her ladyship!" said miss carmichael. "very right!" "excuse me," returned donal; "we were going to have it out of doors." "but you had agreed not to give him any so-called religious instruction but in the presence of lady arctura!" "by no means. i only offered to give it in her presence if she chose. there was no question of the lessons being given." miss carmichael looked at lady arctura as much as to say--"is he speaking the truth?" and if she replied, it was in the same fashion. donal looked at miss carmichael. he did not at all relish her interference. he had never said he would give his lesson before any who chose to be present! but he did not see how to meet the intrusion. neither could he turn back into the schoolroom, sit down, and begin. he put his hand on davie's shoulder, and walked slowly towards the lawn. the ladies followed in silence. he sought to forget their presence, and be conscious only of his pupil's and his master's. on the lawn he stopped suddenly. "davie," he said, "where do you fancy the first lesson in the new testament ought to begin?" "at the beginning," replied davie. "when a thing is perfect, davie, it is difficult to say what is the beginning of it: show me one of your marbles." the boy produced from his pocket a pure white one--a real marble. "that is a good one for the purpose," remarked donal, "--very smooth and white, with just one red streak in it! now where is the beginning of this marble?" "nowhere," answered davie. "if i should say everywhere?" suggested donal. "ah, yes!" said the boy. "but i agree with you that it begins nowhere." "it can't do both!" "oh, yes, it can! it begins nowhere for itself, but everywhere for us. only all its beginnings are endings, and all its endings are beginnings. look here: suppose we begin at this red streak, it is just there we should end again. that is because it is a perfect thing.--well, there was one who said, 'i am alpha and omega,'--the first greek letter and the last, you know--'the beginning and the end, the first and the last.' all the new testament is about him. he is perfect, and i may begin about him where i best can. listen then as if you had never heard anything about him before.--many years ago--about fifty or sixty grandfathers off--there appeared in the world a few men who said that a certain man had been their companion for some time and had just left them; that he was killed by cruel men, and buried by his friends; but that, as he had told them he would, he lay in the grave only three days, and left it on the third alive and well; and that, after forty days, during which they saw him several times, he went up into the sky, and disappeared.--it wasn't a very likely story, was it?" "no," replied davie. the ladies exchanged looks of horror. neither spoke, but each leaned eagerly forward, in fascinated expectation of worse to follow. "but, davie," donal went on, "however unlikely it must have seemed to those who heard it, i believe every word of it." a ripple of contempt passed over miss carmichael's face. "for," continued donal, "the man said he was the son of god, come down from his father to see his brothers, his father's children, and take home with him to his father those who would go." "excuse me," interrupted miss carmichael, with a pungent smile: "what he said was, that if any man believed in him, he should be saved." "run along, davie," said donal. "i will tell you more of what he said next lesson. don't forget what i've told you now." "no, sir," answered davie, and ran off. donal lifted his hat, and would have gone towards the river. but miss carmichael, stepping forward, said, "mr. grant, i cannot let you go till you answer me one question: do you believe in the atonement?" "i do," answered donal. "favour me then with your views upon it," she said. "are you troubled in your mind on the subject?" asked donal. "not in the least," she replied, with a slight curl of her lip. "then i see no occasion for giving you my views." "but i insist." donald smiled. "of what consequence can my opinions be to you, ma'am? why should you compel a confession of my faith?" "as the friend of this family, and the daughter of the clergyman of this parish, i have a right to ask what your opinions are: you have a most important charge committed to you--a child for whose soul you have to account!" "for that i am accountable, but, pardon me, not to you." "you are accountable to lord morven for what you teach his child." "i am not." "what! he will turn you away at a moment's notice if you say so to him." "i should be quite ready to go. if i were accountable to him for what i taught, i should of course teach only what he pleased. but do you suppose i would take any situation on such a condition?" "it is nothing to me, or his lordship either, i presume, what you would or would not do." "then i see no reason why you should detain me.--lady arctura, i did not offer to give my lesson in the presence of any other than yourself: i will not do so again. you will be welcome, for you have a right to know what i am teaching him. if you bring another, except it be my lord morven, i will take david to my own room." with these words he left them. lady arctura was sorely bewildered. she could not but feel that her friend had not shown to the better advantage, and that the behaviour of donal had been dignified. but surely he was very wrong! what he said to davie sounded so very different from what was said at church, and by her helper, miss carmichael! it was a pity they had heard so little! he would have gone on if only sophy had had patience and held her peace! perhaps he might have spoken better things if she had not interfered! it would hardly be fair to condemn him upon so little! he had said that he believed every word of the new testament--or something very like it! "i have heard enough!" said miss carmichael: "i will speak to my father at once." the next day donal received a note to the following effect:-- "sir, in consequence of what i felt bound to report to my father of the conversation we had yesterday, he desires that you will call upon him at your earliest convenience he is generally at home from three to five. yours truly, sophia agnes carmichael." to this donal immediately replied:-- "madam, notwithstanding the introduction i brought him from another clergyman, your father declined my acquaintance, passing me afterwards as one unknown to him. from this fact, and from the nature of the report which your behaviour to me yesterday justifies me in supposing you must have carried to him, i can hardly mistake his object in wishing to see me. i will attend the call of no man to defend my opinions; your father's i have heard almost every sunday since i came to the castle, and have been from childhood familiar with them. yours truly, donal grant." not a word more came to him from either of them. when they happened to meet, miss carmichael took no more notice of him than her father. but she impressed it upon the mind of her friend that, if unable to procure his dismission, she ought at least to do what she could to protect her cousin from the awful consequences of such false teaching: if she was present, he would not say such things as he would in her absence, for it was plain he was under restraint with her! she might even have some influence with him if she would but take courage to show him where he was wrong! or she might find things such that her uncle must see the necessity of turning him away; as the place belonged to her, he would never go dead against her! she did not see that that was just the thing to fetter the action of a delicate-minded girl. continually haunted, however, with the feeling that she ought to do something, lady arctura felt as if she dared not absent herself from the lesson, however disagreeable it might prove: that much she could do! upon the next occasion, therefore, she appeared in the schoolroom at the hour appointed, and with a cold bow took the chair donal placed for her. "now, davie," said donal, "what have you done since our last lesson?" davie stared. "you didn't tell me to do anything, mr. grant!" "no; but what then did i give you the lesson for? where is the good of such a lesson if it makes no difference to you! what was it i told you?" davie, who had never thought about it since, the lesson having been broken off before donal could bring it to its natural fruit, considered, and said, "that jesus christ rose from the dead." "well--where is the good of knowing that?" davie was silent; he knew no good of knowing it, neither could imagine any. the catechism, of which he had learned about half, suggested nothing. "come, davie, i will help you: is jesus dead, or is he alive?" davie considered. "alive," he answered. "what does he do?" davie did not know. "what did he die for?" here davie had an answer--a cut and dried one: "to take away our sins," he said. "then what does he live for?" davie was once more silent. "do you think if a man died for a thing, he would be likely to forget it the minute he rose again?" "no, sir." "do you not think he would just go on doing the same thing as before?" "i do, sir." "then, as he died to take away our sins, he lives to take them away!" "yes, sir." "what are sins, davie?" "bad things, sir." "yes; the bad things we think, and the bad things we feel, and the bad things we do. have you any sins, davie?" "yes; i am very wicked." "oh! are you? how do you know it?" "arkie told me." "what is being wicked?" "doing bad things." "what bad things do you do?" "i don't know, sir." "then you don't know that you are wicked; you only know that arkie told you so!" lady arctura drew herself up; but donal was too intent to perceive the offence he had given. "i will tell you," donal went on, "something you did wicked to-day." davie grew rosy red. "when we find out one wicked thing we do, it is a beginning to finding out all the wicked things we do. some people would rather not find them out, but have them hidden from themselves and from god too. but let us find them out, everyone of them, that we may ask jesus to take them away, and help jesus to take them away, by fighting them with all our strength.--this morning you pulled the little pup's ears till he screamed." davie hung his head. "you stopped a while, and then did it again! so i knew it wasn't that you didn't know. is that a thing jesus would have done when he was a little boy?" "no, sir." "why?" "because it would have been wrong." "i suspect, rather, it is because he would have loved the little pup. he didn't have to think about its being wrong. he loves every kind of living thing. he wants to take away your sin because he loves you. he doesn't merely want to make you not cruel to the little pup, but to take away the wrong think that doesn't love him. he wants to make you love every living creature. davie, jesus came out of the grave to make us good." tears were flowing down davie's checks. "the lesson 's done, davie," said donal, and rose and went, leaving him with lady arctura. but ere he reached the door, he turned with sudden impulse, and said:-- "davie, i love jesus christ and his father more than i can tell you--more than i can put in words--more than i can think; and if you love me you will mind what jesus tells you." "what a good man you must be, mr. grant!--mustn't he, arkie?" sobbed davie. donal laughed. "what, davie!" he exclaimed. "you think me very good for loving the only good person in the whole world! that is very odd! why, davie, i should be the most contemptible creature, knowing him as i do, not to love him with all my heart--yes, with all the big heart i shall have one day when he has done making me." "is he making you still, mr. grant? i thought you were grown up!" "well, i don't think he will make me any taller," answered donal. "but the live part of me--the thing i love you with, the thing i think about god with, the thing i love poetry with, the thing i read the bible with--that thing god keeps on making bigger and bigger. i do not know where it will stop, i only know where it will not stop. that thing is me, and god will keep on making it bigger to all eternity, though he has not even got it into the right shape yet." "why is he so long about it?" "i don't think he is long about it; but he could do it quicker if i were as good as by this time i ought to be, with the father and mother i have, and all my long hours on the hillsides with my new testament and the sheep. i prayed to god on the hill and in the fields, and he heard me, davie, and made me see the foolishness of many things, and the grandeur and beauty of other things. davie, god wants to give you the whole world, and everything in it. when you have begun to do the things jesus tells you, then you will be my brother, and we shall both be his little brothers, and the sons of his father god, and so the heirs of all things." with that he turned again and went. the tears were rolling down arctura's face without her being aware of it. "he is a well-meaning man," she said to herself, "but dreadfully mistaken: the bible says believe, not do!" the poor girl, though she read her bible regularly, was so blinded by the dust and ashes of her teaching, that she knew very little of what was actually in it. the most significant things slipped from her as if they were merest words without shadow of meaning or intent: they did not support the doctrines she had been taught, and therefore said nothing to her. the story of christ and the appeals of those who had handled the word of life had another end in view than making people understand how god arranged matters to save them. god would have us live: if we live we cannot but know; all the knowledge in the universe could not make us live. obedience is the road to all things--the only way in which to grow able to trust him. love and faith and obedience are sides of the same prism. regularly after that, lady arctura came to the lesson--always intending to object as soon as it was over. but always before the end came, donal had said something that went so to the heart of the honest girl that she could say nothing. as if she too had been a pupil, as indeed she was, far more than either knew, she would rise when davie rose, and go away with him. but it was to go alone into the garden, or to her room, not seldom finding herself wishing things true which yet she counted terribly dangerous: listening to them might not she as well as davie fail miserably of escape from the wrath to come? chapter xix. the factor. the old avenue of beeches, leading immediately nowhither any more, but closed at one end by a built-up gate, and at the other by a high wall, between which two points it stretched quite a mile, was a favourite resort of donal's, partly for its beauty, partly for its solitude. the arms of the great trees crossing made of it a long aisle--its roof a broken vault of leaves, upheld by irregular pointed arches--which affected one's imagination like an ever shifting dream of architectural suggestion. having ceased to be a way, it was now all but entirely deserted, and there was eeriness in the vanishing vista that showed nothing beyond. when the wind of the twilight sighed in gusts through its moanful crowd of fluttered leaves; or when the wind of the winter was tormenting the ancient haggard boughs, and the trees looked as if they were weary of the world, and longing after the garden of god; yet more when the snow lay heavy upon their branches, sorely trying their aged strength to support its oppression, and giving the onlooker a vague sense of what the world would be if god were gone from it--then the old avenue was a place from which one with more imagination than courage would be ready to haste away, and seek instead the abodes of men. but donal, though he dearly loved his neighbour, and that in the fullest concrete sense, was capable of loving the loneliest spots, for in such he was never alone. it was altogether a neglected place. long grass grew over its floor from end to end--cut now and then for hay, or to feed such animals as had grass in their stalls. along one border, outside the trees, went a footpath--so little used that, though not quite conquered by the turf, the long grass often met over the top of it. finding it so lonely, donal grew more and more fond of it. it was his outdoor study, his proseuche {compilers note: pi, rho, omicron, sigma, epsilon upsilon, chi, eta with stress--[outdoor] place of prayer}--a little aisle of the great temple! seldom indeed was his reading or meditation there interrupted by sight of human being. about a month after he had taken up his abode at the castle, he was lying one day in the grass with a book-companion, under the shade of one of the largest of its beeches, when he felt through the ground ere he heard through the air the feet of an approaching horse. as they came near, he raised his head to see. his unexpected appearance startled the horse, his rider nearly lost his seat, and did lose his temper. recovering the former, and holding the excited animal, which would have been off at full speed, he urged him towards donal, whom he took for a tramp. he was rising--deliberately, that he might not do more mischief, and was yet hardly on his feet, when the horse, yielding to the spur, came straight at him, its rider with his whip lifted. donal took off his bonnet, stepped a little aside, and stood. his bearing and countenance calmed the horseman's rage; there was something in them to which no gentleman could fail of response. the rider was plainly one who had more to do with affairs bucolic than with those of cities or courts, but withal a man of conscious dignity, socially afloat, and able to hold his own. "what the devil--," he cried--for nothing is so irritating to a horseman as to come near losing his seat, except perhaps to lose it altogether, and indignation against the cause of an untoward accident is generally a mortal's first consciousness thereupon: however foolishly, he feels himself injured. but there, having better taken in donal's look, he checked himself. "i beg your pardon, sir," said donal. "it was foolish of me to show myself so suddenly; i might have thought it would startle most horses. i was too absorbed to have my wits about me." the gentleman lifted his hat. "i beg your pardon in return," he said with a smile which cleared every cloud from his face. "i took you for some one who had no business here; but i imagine you are the tutor at the castle, with as good a right as i have myself." "you guess well, sir." "pardon me that i forget your name." "my name is donal grant," returned donal, with an accent on the my intending a wish to know in return that of the speaker. "i am a graeme," answered the other, "one of the clan, and factor to the earl. come and see where i live. my sister will be glad to make your acquaintance. we lead rather a lonely life here, and don't see too many agreeable people." "you call this lonely, do you!" said donal thoughtfully. "--it is a grand place, anyhow!" "you are right--as you see it now. but wait till winter! then perhaps you will change your impression a little." "pardon me if i doubt whether you know what winter can be so well as i do. this east coast is by all accounts a bitter place, but i fancy it is only upon a great hill-side you can know the heart and soul of a snow-blast." "i yield that," returned mr. graeme. "--it is bitter enough here though, and a mercy we can keep warm in-doors." "which is often more than we shepherd-folk can do," said donal. mr. graeme used to say afterwards he was never so immediately taken with a man. it was one of the charms of donal's habit of being, that he never spoke as if he belonged to any other than the class in which he had been born and brought up. this came partly of pride in his father and mother, partly of inborn dignity, and partly of religion. to him the story of our lord was the reality it is, and he rejoiced to know himself so nearly on the same social level of birth as the master of his life and aspiration. it was donal's one ambition--to give the high passion a low name--to be free with the freedom which was his natural inheritance, and which is to be gained only by obedience to the words of the master. from the face of this aspiration fled every kind of pretence as from the light flies the darkness. hence he was entirely and thoroughly a gentleman. what if his clothes were not even of the next to the newest cut! what if he had not been used to what is called society! he was far above such things. if he might but attain to the manners of the "high countries," manners which appear because they exist--because they are all through the man! he did not think what he might seem in the eyes of men. courteous, helpful, considerate, always seeking first how far he could honestly agree with any speaker, opposing never save sweetly and apologetically--except indeed some utterance flagrantly unjust were in his ears--there was no man of true breeding, in or out of society, who would not have granted that donal was fit company for any man or woman. mr. graeme's eye glanced down over the tall square-shouldered form, a little stooping from lack of drill and much meditation, but instantly straightening itself upon any inward stir, and he said to himself, "this is no common man!" they were moving slowly along the avenue, donal by the rider's near knee, talking away like men not unlikely soon to know each other better. "you don't make much use of this avenue!" said donal. "no; its use is an old story. the castle was for a time deserted, and the family, then passing through a phase of comparative poverty, lived in the house we are in now--to my mind much the more comfortable." "what a fine old place it must be, if such trees are a fit approach to it!" "they were never planted for that; they are older far. either there was a wood here, and the rest were cut down and these left, or there was once a house much older than the present. the look of the garden, and some of the offices, favour the latter idea." "i have never seen the house," said donal. "you have not then been much about yet?" said mr. graeme. "i have been so occupied with my pupil, and so delighted with all that lay immediately around me, that i have gone nowhere--except, indeed, to see andrew comin, the cobbler." "ah, you know him! i have heard of him as a remarkable man. there was a clergyman here from glasgow--i forget his name--so struck with him he seemed actually to take him for a prophet. he said he was a survival of the old mystics. for my part i have no turn for extravagance." "but," said donal, in the tone of one merely suggesting a possibility, "a thing that from the outside may seem an extravagance, may look quite different when you get inside it." "the more reason for keeping out of it! if acquaintance must make you in love with it, the more air between you and it the better!" "would not such precaution as that keep you from gaining a true knowledge of many things? nothing almost can be known from what people say." "true; but there are things so plainly nonsense!" "yes; but there are things that seem to be nonsense, because the man thinks he knows what they are when he does not. who would know the shape of a chair who took his idea of it from its shadow on the floor? what idea can a man have of religion who knows nothing of it except from what he hears at church?" mr. graeme was not fond of going to church yet went: he was the less displeased with the remark. but he made no reply, and the subject dropped. chapter xx. the old garden. the avenue seemed to donal about to stop dead against a high wall, but ere they quite reached the end, they turned at right angles, skirted the wall for some distance, then turned again with it. it was a somewhat dreary wall--of gray stone, with mortar as gray--not like the rich-coloured walls of old red brick one meets in england. but its roof-like coping was crowned with tufts of wall-plants, and a few lichens did something to relieve the grayness. it guided them to a farm-yard. mr. graeme left his horse at the stable, and led the way to the house. they entered it by a back door whose porch was covered with ivy, and going through several low passages, came to the other side of the house. there mr. graeme showed donal into a large, low-ceiled, old-fashioned drawing-room, smelling of ancient rose-leaves, their odour of sad hearts rather than of withered flowers--and leaving him went to find his sister. glancing about him donal saw a window open to the ground, and went to it. beyond lay a more fairy-like garden than he had ever dreamed of. but he had read of, though never looked on such, and seemed to know it from times of old. it was laid out in straight lines, with soft walks of old turf, and in it grew all kinds of straight aspiring things: their ambition seemed--to get up, not to spread abroad. he stepped out of the window, drawn as by the enchantment of one of childhood's dreams, and went wandering down a broad walk, his foot sinking deep in the velvety grass, and the loveliness of the dream did not fade. hollyhocks, gloriously impatient, whose flowers could not wait to reach the top ere they burst into the flame of life, making splendid blots of colour along their ascending stalks, received him like stately dames of faerie, and enticed him, gently eager for more, down the long walks between rows of them--deep red and creamy white, primrose and yellow: sure they were leading him to some wonderful spot, some nest of lovely dreams and more lovely visions! the walk did lead to a bower of roses--a bed surrounded with a trellis, on which they climbed and made a huge bonfire--altar of incense rather, glowing with red and white flame. it seemed more glorious than his brain could receive. seeing was hardly believing, but believing was more than seeing: though nothing is too good to be true, many things are too good to be grasped. "poor misbelieving birds of god," he said to himself, "we hover about a whole wood of the trees of life, venturing only here and there a peck, as if their fruit might be poison, and the design of our creation was our ruin! we shake our wise, owl-feathered heads, and declare they cannot be the trees of life: that were too good to be true! ten times more consistent are they who deny there is a god at all, than they who believe in a middling kind of god--except indeed that they place in him a fitting faith!" the thoughts rose gently in his full heart, as the flowers, one after the other, stole in at his eyes, looking up from the dark earth like the spirits of its hidden jewels, which themselves could not reach the sun, exhaled in longing. over grass which fondled his feet like the lap of an old nurse, he walked slowly round the bed of the roses, turning again towards the house. but there, half-way between him and it, was the lady of the garden descending to meet him!--not ancient like the garden, but young like its flowers, light-footed, and full of life. prepared by her brother to be friendly, she met him with a pleasant smile, and he saw that the light which shone in her dark eyes had in it rays of laughter. she had a dark, yet clear complexion, a good forehead, a nose after no recognized generation of noses, yet an attractive one, a mouth larger than to human judgment might have seemed necessary, yet a right pleasing mouth, with two rows of lovely teeth. all this donal saw approach without dismay. he was no more shy with women than with men; while none the less his feeling towards them partook largely of the reverence of the ideal knight errant. he would not indeed have been shy in the presence of an angel of god; for his only courage came of truth, and clothed in the dignity of his reverence, he could look in the face of the lovely without perturbation. he would not have sought to hide from him whose voice was in the garden, but would have made haste to cast himself at his feet. bonnet in hand he advanced to meet kate graeme. she held out to him a well-shaped, good-sized hand, not ignorant of work--capable indeed of milking a cow to the cow's satisfaction. then he saw that her chin was strong, and her dark hair not too tidy; that she was rather tall, and slenderly conceived though plumply carried out. her light approach pleased him. he liked the way her foot pressed the grass. if donal loved anything in the green world, it was neither roses nor hollyhocks, nor even sweet peas, but the grass that is trodden under foot, that springs in all waste places, and has so often to be glad of the dews of heaven to heal the hot cut of the scythe. he had long abjured the notion of anything in the vegetable kingdom being without some sense of life, without pleasure and pain also, in mild form and degree. chapter xxi. a first meeting. he took her hand, and felt it an honest one--a safe, comfortable hand. "my brother told me he had brought you," she said. "i am glad to see you." "you are very kind," said donal. "how did either of you know of my existence? a few minutes back, i was not aware of yours." was it a rude utterance? he was silent a moment with the silence that promises speech, then added-- "has it ever struck you how many born friends there are in the world who never meet--persons to love each other at first sight, but who never in this world have that sight?" "no," returned miss graeme, with a merrier laugh than quite responded to the remark, "i certainly never had such a thought. i take the people that come, and never think of those who do not. but of course it must be so." "to be in the world is to have a great many brothers and sisters you do not know!" said donal. "my mother told me," she rejoined, "of a man who had had so many wives and children that his son, whom she had met, positively did not know all his brothers and sisters." "i suspect," said donal, "we have to know our brothers and sisters." "i do not understand." "we have even got to feel a man is our brother the moment we see him," pursued donal, enhancing his former remark. "that sounds alarming!" said miss graeme, with another laugh. "my little heart feels not large enough to receive so many." "the worst of it is," continued donal, who once started was not ready to draw rein, "that those who chiefly advocate this extension of the family bonds, begin by loving their own immediate relations less than anybody else. extension with them means slackening--as if any one could learn to love more by loving less, or go on to do better without doing well! he who loves his own little will not love others much." "but how can we love those who are nothing to us?" objected miss graeme. "that would be impossible. the family relations are for the sake of developing a love rooted in a far deeper though less recognized relation.--but i beg your pardon, miss graeme. little davie alone is my pupil, and i forget myself." "i am very glad to listen to you," returned miss graeme. "i cannot say i am prepared to agree with you. but it is something, in this out-of-the-way corner, to hear talk from which it is even worth while to differ." "ah, you can have that here if you will!" "indeed!" "i mean talk from which you would probably differ. there is an old man in the town who can talk better than ever i heard man before. but he is a poor man, with a despised handicraft, and none heed him. no community recognizes its great men till they are gone." "where is the use then of being great?" said miss graeme. "to be great," answered donal, "--to which the desire to be known of men is altogether destructive. to be great is to seem little in the eyes of men." miss graeme did not answer. she was not accustomed to consider things seriously. a good girl in a certain true sense, she had never yet seen that she had to be better, or indeed to be anything. but she was able to feel, though she was far from understanding him, that donal was in earnest, and that was much. to recognize that a man means something, is a great step towards understanding him. "what a lovely garden this is!" remarked donal after the sequent pause. "i have never seen anything like it." "it is very old-fashioned," she returned. "do you not find it very stiff and formal?" "stately and precise, i should rather say." "i do not mean i can help liking it--in a way." "who could help liking it that took his feeling from the garden itself, not from what people said about it!" "you cannot say it is like nature!" "yes; it is very like human nature. man ought to learn of nature, but not to imitate nature. his work is, through the forms that nature gives him, to express the idea or feeling that is in him. that is far more likely to produce things in harmony with nature, than the attempt to imitate nature upon the small human scale." "you are too much of a philosopher for me!" said miss graeme. "i daresay you are quite right, but i have never read anything about art, and cannot follow you." "you have probably read as much as i have. i am only talking out of what necessity, the necessity for understanding things, has made me think. one must get things brought together in one's thoughts, if only to be able to go on thinking." this too was beyond miss graeme. the silence again fell, and donal let it lie, waiting for her to break it this time. chapter xxii. a talk about ghosts. but again he was the first. they had turned and gone a good way down the long garden, and had again turned towards the house. "this place makes me feel as i never felt before," he said. "there is such a wonderful sense of vanished life about it. the whole garden seems dreaming about things of long ago--when troops of ladies, now banished into pictures, wandered about the place, each full of her own thoughts and fancies of life, each looking at everything with ways of thinking as old-fashioned as her garments. i could not be here after nightfall without feeling as if every walk were answering to unseen feet, as if every tree might be hiding some lovely form, returned to dream over old memories." "where is the good of fancying what is not true? i can't care for what i know to be nonsense!" she was glad to find a spot where she could put down the foot of contradiction, for she came of a family known for what the neighbours called common sense, and in the habit of casting contempt upon everything characterized as superstition: she had now something to say for herself! "how do you know it is nonsense?" asked donald, looking round in her face with a bright smile. "not nonsense to keep imagining what nobody can see?" "i can only imagine what i do not see." "nobody ever saw such creatures as you suppose in any garden! then why fancy the dead so uncomfortable, or so ill looked after, that they come back to plague us!" "plainly they have never plagued you much!" rejoined donal laughing. "but how often have you gone up and down these walks at dead of night?" "never once," answered miss graeme, not without a spark of indignation. "i never was so absurd!" "then there may be a whole night-world that you know nothing about. you cannot tell that the place is not then thronged with ghosts: you have never given them a chance of appearing to you. i don't say it is so, for i know nothing, or at least little, about such things. i have had no experience of the sort any more than you--and i have been out whole nights on the mountains when i was a shepherd." "why then should you trouble your fancy about them?" "perhaps just for that reason." "i do not understand you." "i mean, because i can come into no communication with such a world as may be about me, i therefore imagine it. if, as often as i walked abroad at night, i met and held converse with the disembodied, i should use my imagination little, but make many notes of facts. when what may be makes no show, what more natural than to imagine about it? what is the imagination here for?" "i do not know. the less one has to do with it the better." "then the thing, whatever it be, should not be called a faculty, but a weakness!" "yes." "but the history of the world shows it could never have made progress without suggestions upon which to ground experiments: whence may these suggestions come if not from the weakness or impediment called the imagination?" again there was silence. miss graeme began to doubt whether it was possible to hold rational converse with a man who, the moment they began upon anything, went straight aloft into some high-flying region of which she knew and for which she cared nothing. but donal's unconscious desire was in reality to meet her upon some common plane of thought. he always wanted to meet his fellow, and hence that abundance of speech, which, however poetic the things he said, not a few called prosiness. "i should think," resumed miss graeme, "if you want to work your imagination, you will find more scope for it at the castle than here! this is a poor modern place compared to that." "it is a poor imagination," returned donal, "that requires age or any mere accessory to rouse it. the very absence of everything external, the bareness of the mere humanity involved, may in itself be an excitement greater than any accompaniment of the antique or the picturesque. but in this old-fashioned garden, in the midst of these old-fashioned flowers, with all the gentlenesses of old-fashioned life suggested by them, it is easier to imagine the people themselves than where all is so cold, hard, severe--so much on the defensive, as in that huge, sullen pile on the hilltop." "i am afraid you find it dull up there!" said miss graeme. "not at all," replied donal; "i have there a most interesting pupil. but indeed one who has been used to spend day after day alone, clouds and heather and sheep and dogs his companions, does not depend much for pastime. give me a chair and a table, fire enough to keep me from shivering, the few books i like best and writing materials, and i am absolutely content. but beyond these things i have at the castle a fine library--useless no doubt for most purposes of modern study, but full of precious old books. there i can at any moment be in the best of company! there is more of the marvellous in an old library than ever any magic could work!" "i do not quite understand you," said the lady. but she would have spoken nearer the truth if she had said she had not a glimmer of what he meant. "let me explain!" said donal: "what could necromancy, which is one of the branches of magic, do for one at the best?" "well!" exclaimed miss graeme; "--but i suppose if you believe in ghosts, you may as well believe in raising them!" "i did not mean to start any question about belief; i only wanted to suppose necromancy for the moment a fact, and put it at its best: suppose the magician could do for you all he professed, what would it amount to?--only this--to bring before your eyes a shadowy resemblance of the form of flesh and blood, itself but a passing shadow, in which the man moved on the earth, and was known to his fellow-men? at best the necromancer might succeed in drawing from him some obscure utterance concerning your future, far more likely to destroy your courage than enable you to face what was before you; so that you would depart from your peep into the unknown, merely less able to encounter the duties of life." "whoever has a desire for such information must be made very different from me!" said miss graeme. "are you sure of that? did you never make yourself unhappy about what might be on its way to you, and wish you could know beforehand something to guide you how to meet it?" "i should have to think before answering that question." "now tell me--what can the art of writing, and its expansion, or perhaps its development rather, in printing, do in the same direction as necromancy? may not a man well long after personal communication with this or that one of the greatest who have lived before him? i grant that in respect of some it can do nothing; but in respect of others, instead of mocking you with an airy semblance of their bodily forms, and the murmur of a few doubtful words from their lips, it places in your hands a key to their inmost thoughts. some would say this is not personal communication; but it is far more personal than the other. a man's personality does not consist in the clothes he wears; it only appears in them; no more does it consist in his body, but in him who wears it." as he spoke, miss graeme kept looking him gravely in the face, manifesting, however, more respect than interest. she had been accustomed to a very different tone in young men. she had found their main ambition to amuse; to talk sense about other matters than the immediate uses of this world, was an out-of-the-way thing! i do not say miss graeme, even on the subject last in hand, appreciated the matter of donal's talk. she perceived he was in earnest, and happily was able to know a deep pond from a shallow one, but her best thought concerning him was--what a strange new specimen of humanity was here! the appearance of her brother coming down the walk, put a stop to the conversation. chapter xxiii. a tradition of the castle. "well," he said as he drew near, "i am glad to see you two getting on so well!" "how do you know we are?" asked his sister, with something of the antagonistic tone which both in jest and earnest is too common between near relations. "because you have been talking incessantly ever since you met." "we have been only contradicting each other." "i could tell that too by the sound of your voices; but i took it for a good sign." "i fear you heard mine almost only!" said donal. "i talk too much, and i fear i have gathered the fault in a way that makes it difficult to cure." "how was it?" asked mr. graeme. "by having nobody to talk to. i learned it on the hill-side with the sheep, and in the meadows with the cattle. at college i thought i was nearly cured of it; but now, in my comparative solitude at the castle, it seems to have returned." "come here," said mr. graeme, "when you find it getting too much for you: my sister is quite equal to the task of re-curing you." "she has not begun to use her power yet!" remarked donal, as miss graeme, in hoydenish yet not ungraceful fashion, made an attempt to box the ear of her slanderous brother--a proceeding he had anticipated, and so was able to frustrate. "when she knows you better," he said, "you will find my sister kate more than your match." "if i were a talker," she answered, "mr. grant would be too much for me: he quite bewilders me! what do you think! he has been actually trying to persuade me--" "i beg your pardon, miss graeme; i have been trying to persuade you of nothing." "what! not to believe in ghosts and necromancy and witchcraft and the evil eye and ghouls and vampyres, and i don't know what all out of nursery stories and old annuals?" "i give you my word, mr. graeme," returned donal, laughing, "i have not been persuading your sister of any of these things! i am certain she could be persuaded of nothing of which she did not first see the common sense. what i did dwell upon, without a doubt she would accept it, was the evident fact that writing and printing have done more to bring us into personal relations with the great dead, than necromancy, granting the magician the power he claimed, could ever do. for do we not come into contact with the being of a man when we hear him pour forth his thoughts of the things he likes best to think about, into the ear of the universe? in such a position does the book of a great man place us!--that was what i meant to convey to your sister." "and," said mr. graeme, "she was not such a goose as to fail of understanding you, however she may have chosen to put on the garb of stupidity." "i am sure," persisted kate, "mr. grant talked so as to make me think he believed in necromancy and all that sort of thing!" "that may be," said donal; "but i did not try to persuade you to believe." "oh, if you hold me to the letter!" cried miss graeme, colouring a little.--"it would be impossible to get on with such a man," she thought, "for he not only preached when you had no pulpit to protect you from him, but stuck so to his text that there was no amusement to be got out of the business!" she did not know that if she could have met him, breaking the ocean-tide of his thoughts with fitting opposition, his answers would have come short and sharp as the flashes of waves on rocks. "if mr. grant believes in such things," said mr. graeme, "he must find himself at home in the castle, every room of which way well be the haunt of some weary ghost!" "i do not believe," said donal, "that any work of man's hands, however awful with crime done in it, can have nearly such an influence for belief in the marvellous, as the still presence of live nature. i never saw an old castle before--at least not to make any close acquaintance with it, but there is not an aspect of the grim old survival up there, interesting as every corner of it is, that moves me like the mere thought of a hill-side with the veil of the twilight coming down over it, making of it the last step of a stair for the descending foot of the lord." "surely, mr. grant, you do not expect such a personal advent!" said miss graeme. "i should not like to say what i do or don't expect," answered donal--and held his peace, for he saw he was but casting stumbling-blocks. the silence grew awkward; and mr. graeme's good breeding called on him to say something; he supposed donal felt himself snubbed by his sister. "if you are fond of the marvellous, though, mr. grant," he said, "there are some old stories about the castle would interest you. one of them was brought to my mind the other day in the town. it is strange how superstition seems to have its ebbs and flows! a story or legend will go to sleep, and after a time revive with fresh interest, no one knows why." "probably," said donal, "it is when the tale comes to ears fitted for its reception. they are now in many counties trying to get together and store the remnants of such tales: possibly the wind of some such inquiry may have set old people recollecting, and young people inventing. that would account for a good deal--would it not?" "yes, but not for all, i think. there has been no such inquiry made anywhere near us, so far as i am aware. i went to the morven arms last night to meet a tenant, and found the tradesmen were talking, over their toddy, of various events at the castle, and especially of one, the most frightful of all. it should have been forgotten by this time, for the ratio of forgetting, increases." "i should like much to hear it!" said donal. "do tell him, hector," said miss graeme, "and i will watch his hair." "it is the hair of those who mock at such things you should watch," returned donal. "their imagination is so rarely excited that, when it is, it affects their nerves more than the belief of others affects theirs." "now i have you!" cried miss graeme. "there you confess yourself a believer!" "i fear you have come to too general a conclusion. because i believe the bible, do i believe everything that comes from the pulpit? some tales i should reject with a contempt that would satisfy even miss graeme; of others i should say--'these seem as if they might be true;' and of still others, 'these ought to be true, i think.'--but do tell me the story." "it is not," replied mr. graeme, "a very peculiar one--certainly not peculiar to our castle, though unique in some of its details; a similar legend belongs to several houses in scotland, and is to be found, i fancy, in other countries as well. there is one not far from here, around whose dark basements--or hoary battlements--who shall say which?--floats a similar tale. it is of a hidden room, whose position or entrance nobody knows. whether it belongs to our castle by right i cannot tell." "a species of report," said donal, "very likely to arise by a kind of cryptogamic generation! the common people, accustomed to the narrowest dwellings, gazing on the huge proportions of the place, and upon occasion admitted, and walking through a succession of rooms and passages, to them as intricate and confused as a rabbit-warren, must be very ready, i should think, to imagine the existence within such a pile, of places unknown even to the inhabitants of it themselves!--but i beg your pardon: do tell us the story." "mr. grant," said kate, "you perplex me! i begin to doubt if you have any principles. one moment you take one side and the next the other!" "no, no; i but love my own side too well to let any traitors into its ranks: i would have nothing to do with lies." "they are all lies together!" "then i want to hear this one," said donal. "i daresay you have heard it before!" remarked mr. graeme, and began. "it was in the earldom of a certain recklessly wicked wretch, who not only robbed his poor neighbours, and even killed them when they opposed him, but went so far as to behave as wickedly on the sabbath as on any other day of the week. late one saturday night, a company were seated in the castle, playing cards, and drinking; and all the time sunday was drawing nearer and nearer, and nobody heeding. at length one of them, seeing the hands of the clock at a quarter to twelve, made the remark that it was time to stop. he did not mention the sacred day, but all knew what he meant. the earl laughed, and said, if he was afraid of the kirk-session, he might go, and another would take his hand. but the man sat still, and said no more till the clock gave the warning. then he spoke again, and said the day was almost out, and they ought not to go on playing into the sabbath. and as he uttered the word, his mouth was pulled all on one side. but the earl struck his fist on the table, and swore a great oath that if any man rose he would run him through. 'what care i for the sabbath!' he said. 'i gave you your chance to go,' he added, turning to the man who had spoken, who was dressed in black like a minister, 'and you would not take it: now you shall sit where you are.' he glared fiercely at him, and the man returned him an equally fiery stare. and now first they began to discover what, through the fumes of the whisky and the smoke of the pine-torches, they had not observed, namely, that none of them knew the man, or had ever seen him before. they looked at him, and could not turn their eyes from him, and a cold terror began to creep through their vitals. he kept his fierce scornful look fixed on the earl for a moment, and then spoke. 'and i gave you your chance,' he said, 'and you would not take it: now you shall sit still where you are, and no sabbath shall you ever see.' the clock began to strike, and the man's mouth came straight again. but when the hammer had struck eleven times, it struck no more, and the clock stopped. 'this day twelvemonth,' said the man, 'you shall see me again; and so every year till your time is up. i hope you will enjoy your game!' the earl would have sprung to his feet, but could not stir, and the man was nowhere to be seen. he was gone, taking with him both door and windows of the room--not as samson carried off the gates of gaza, however, for he left not the least sign of where they had been. from that day to this no one has been able to find the room. there the wicked earl and his companions still sit, playing with the same pack of cards, and waiting their doom. it has been said that, on that same day of the year--only, unfortunately, testimony differs as to the day--shouts of drunken laughter may be heard issuing from somewhere in the castle; but as to the direction whence they come, none can ever agree. that is the story." "a very good one!" said donal. "i wonder what the ground of it is! it must have had its beginning!" "then you don't believe it?" said miss graeme. "not quite," he replied. "but i have myself had a strange experience up there." "what! you have seen something?" cried miss graeme, her eyes growing bigger. "no; i have seen nothing," answered donal, "--only heard something.--one night, the first i was there indeed, i heard the sound of a far-off musical instrument, faint and sweet." the brother and sister exchanged looks. donal went on. "i got up and felt my way down the winding stair--i sleep at the top of baliol's tower--but at the bottom lost myself, and had to sit down and wait for the light. then i heard it again, but seemed no nearer to it than before. i have never heard it since, and have never mentioned the thing. i presume, however, that speaking of it to you can do no harm. you at least will not raise any fresh rumours to injure the respectability of the castle! do you think there is any instrument in it from which such a sound might have proceeded? lady arctura is a musician, i am told, but surely was not likely to be at her piano 'in the dead waste and middle of the night'!" "it is impossible to say how far a sound may travel in the stillness of the night, when there are no other sound-waves to cross and break it." "that is all very well, hector," said his sister; "but you know mr. grant is neither the first nor the second that has heard that sound!" "one thing is pretty clear," said her brother, "it can have nothing to do with the revellers at their cards! the sound reported is very different from any attributed to them!" "are you sure," suggested donal, "that there was not a violin shut up with them? even if none of them could play, there has been time enough to learn. the sound i heard might have been that of a ghostly violin. though like that of a stringed instrument, it was different from anything i had ever heard before--except perhaps certain equally inexplicable sounds occasionally heard among the hills." they went on talking about the thing for a while, pacing up and down the garden, the sun hot above their heads, the grass cool under their feet. "it is enough," said miss graeme, with a rather forced laugh, "to make one glad the castle does not go with the title." "why so?" asked donal. "because," she answered, "were anything to happen to the boys up there, hector would come in for the title." "i'm not of my sister's mind!" said mr. graeme, laughing more genuinely. "a title with nothing to keep it up is a simple misfortune. i certainly should not take out the patent. no wise man would lay claim to a title without the means to make it respected." "have we come to that!" exclaimed donal. "must even the old titles of the country be buttressed into respectability with money? away in quiet places, reading old history books, we peasants are accustomed to think differently. if some millionaire money-lender were to buy the old keep of arundel castle, you would respect him just as much as the present earl!" "i would not," said mr. graeme. "i confess you have the better of me.--but is there not a fallacy in your argument?" he added, thinkingly. "i believe not. if the title is worth nothing without the money, the money must be more than the title!--if i were lazarus," donal went on, "and the inheritor of a title, i would use it, if only for a lesson to dives up stairs. i scorn to think that honour should wait on the heels of wealth. you may think it is because i am and always shall be a poor man; but if i know myself it is not therefore. at the same time a title is but a trifle; and if you had given any other reason for not using it than homage to mammon, i should have said nothing." "for my part," said miss graeme, "i have no quarrel with riches except that they do not come my way. i should know how to use and not abuse them!" donal made no other reply than to turn a look of divinely stupid surprise and pity upon the young woman. it was of no use to say anything! were argument absolutely triumphant, mammon would sit just where he was before! he had marked the great indifference of the lord to the convincing of the understanding: when men knew the thing itself, then and not before would they understand its relations and reasons! if truth belongs to the human soul, then the soul is able to see it and know it: if it do the truth, it takes therein the first possible, and almost the last necessary step towards understanding it. miss graeme caught his look, and must have perceived its expression, for her face flushed a more than rosy red, and the conversation grew crumbly. it was a half-holiday, and he stayed to tea, and after it went over the arm-buildings with mr. graeme, revealing such a practical knowledge of all that was going on, that his entertainer soon saw his opinion must be worth something whether his fancies were or not. chapter xxiv. stephen kennedy. the great comforts of donal's life, next to those of the world in which his soul lived--the eternal world, whose doors are ever open to him who prays--were the society of his favourite books, the fashioning of his thoughts into sweetly ordered sounds in the lofty solitude of his chamber, and not infrequent communion with the cobbler and his wife. to these he had as yet said nothing of what went on at the castle: he had learned the lesson the cobbler himself gave him. but many a lesson of greater value did he learn from the philosopher of the lapstone. he who understands because he endeavours, is a freed man of the realm of human effort. he who has no experience of his own, to him the experience of others is a sealed book. the convictions that in donal rose vaporous were rapidly condensed and shaped when he found his new friend thought likewise. by degrees he made more and more of a companion of davie, and such was the sweet relation between them that he would sometimes have him in his room even when he was writing. when it was time to lay in his winter-fuel, he said to him-- "up here, davie, we must have a good fire when the nights are long; the darkness will be like solid cold. simmons tells me i may have as much coal and wood as i like: will you help me to get them up?" davie sprang to his feet: he was ready that very minute. "i shall never learn my lessons if i am cold," added donal, who could not bear a low temperature so well as when he was always in the open air. "do you learn lessons, mr. grant?" "yes indeed i do," replied donal. "one great help to the understanding of things is to brood over them as a hen broods over her eggs: words are thought-eggs, and their chickens are truths; and in order to brood i sometimes learn by heart. i have set myself to learn, before the winter is over if i can, the gospel of john in the greek." "what a big lesson!" exclaimed davie. "ah, but how rich it will make me!" said donal, and that set davie pondering. they began to carry up the fuel, donal taking the coals, and davie the wood. but donal got weary of the time it took, and set himself to find a quicker way. so next saturday afternoon, the rudimentary remnant of the jewish sabbath, and the schoolboy's weekly carnival before lent, he directed his walk to a certain fishing village, the nearest on the coast, about three miles off, and there succeeded in hiring a spare boat-spar with a block and tackle. the spar he ran out, through a notch of the battlement, near the sheds, and having stayed it well back, rove the rope through the block at the peak of it, and lowered it with a hook at the end. a moment of davie's help below, and a bucket filled with coals was on its way up: this part of the roof was over a yard belonging to the household offices, and davie filled the bucket from a heap they had there made. "stand back, davie," donal would cry, and up would go the bucket, to the ever renewed delight of the boy. when it reached the block, donal, by means of a guy, swung the spar on its but-end, and the bucket came to the roof through the next notch of the battlement. there he would empty it, and in a moment it would be down again to be re-filled. when he thought he had enough of coal, he turned to the wood; and thus they spent an hour of a good many of the cool evenings of autumn. davie enjoyed it immensely; and it was no small thing for a boy delicately nurtured to be helped out of the feeling that he must have every thing done for him. when after a time he saw the heap on the roof, he was greatly impressed with the amount that could be done by little and little. in return donal told him that if he worked well through the week, he should every saturday evening spend an hour with him by the fire he had thus helped to provide, and they would then do something together. after his first visit donal went again and again to the village: he had made acquaintance with some of the people, and liked them. there was one man, however, who, although, attracted by his look despite its apparent sullenness, he had tried to draw him into conversation, seemed to avoid, almost to resent his advances. but one day as he was walking home, stephen kennedy overtook him, and saying he was going in his direction, walked alongside of him--to the pleasure of donal, who loved all humanity, and especially the portion of it acquainted with hard work. he was a middle-sized young fellow, with a slouching walk, but a well shaped and well set head, and a not uncomely countenance. he was brown as sun and salt sea-winds could make him, and had very blue eyes and dark hair, telling of norwegian ancestry. he lounged along with his hands in his pockets, as if he did not care to walk, yet got over the ground as fast as donal, who, with yet some remnant of the peasant's stride, covered the ground as if he meant walking. after their greeting a great and enduring silence fell, which lasted till the journey was half-way over; then all at once the fisherman spoke. "there's a lass at the castel, sir," he said, "they ca' eppy comin." "there is," answered donal. "do ye ken the lass, sir--to speak til her, i mean?" "surely," replied donal. "i know her grandfather and grandmother well." "dacent fowk!" said stephen. "they are that!" responded donal, "--as good people as i know!" "wud ye du them a guid turn?" asked the fisherman. "indeed i would!" "weel, it's this, sir: i hae grit doobts gien a' be gaein' verra weel wi' the lass at the castel." as he said the words he turned his head aside, and spoke so low and in such a muffled way that donal could but just make out what he said. "you must be a little plainer if you would have me do anything," he returned. "i'll be richt plain wi' ye, sir," answered stephen, and then fell silent as if he would never speak again. donal waited, nor uttered a sound. at last he spoke once more. "ye maun ken, sir," he said "i hae had a fancy to the lass this mony a day; for ye'll alloo she's baith bonny an' winsome!" donal did not reply, for although he was ready to grant her bonny, he had never felt her winsome. "weel," he went on, "her an' me 's been coortin' this twa year; an' guid freen's we aye was till this last spring, whan a' at ance she turnt highty-tighty like, nor, du what i micht, could i get her to say what it was 'at cheengt her: sae far as i kenned i had dune naething, nor wad she say i had gi'en her ony cause o' complaint. but though she couldna say i had ever gi'en mair nor a ceevil word to ony lass but hersel', she appeart unco wullin' to fix me wi' this ane an' that ane or ony ane! i couldna think what had come ower her! but at last--an' a sair last it is!--i hae come to the un'erstan'in o' 't: she wud fain hae a pretence for br'akin' wi' me! she wad hae 't 'at i was duin' as she was duin' hersel'--haudin' company wi' anither!" "are you quite sure of what you say?" asked donal. "ower sure, sir, though i'm no at leeberty to tell ye hoo i cam to be.--dinna think, sir, 'at i'm ane to haud a lass til her word whan her hert disna back it; i wud hae said naething aboot it, but jist borne the hert-brak wi' the becomin' silence, for greitin' nor ragin' men' no nets, nor tak the life o' nae dogfish. but it's god's trowth, sir, i'm terrible feart for the lassie hersel'. she's that ta'en up wi' him, they tell me, 'at she can think o' naething but him; an' he's a yoong lord, no a puir lad like me--an' that's what fears me!" a great dread and a great compassion together laid hold of donal, but he did not speak. "gien it cam to that," resumed stephen, "i doobt the fisher-lad wud win her better breid nor my lord; for gien a' tales be true, he wud hae to work for his ain breid; the castel 's no his, nor canna be 'cep' he merry the leddy o' 't. but it's no merryin' eppy he'll be efter, or ony the likes o' 'im!" "you don't surely hint," said donal, "that there's anything between her and lord forgue? she must be an idle girl to take such a thing into her head!" "i wuss weel she hae ta'en 't intil her heid! she'll get it the easier oot o' her hert? but 'deed, sir, i'm sair feart! i speakna o' 't for my ain sake; for gien there be trowth intil't, there can never be mair 'atween her and me! but, eh, sir, the peety o' 't wi' sic a bonny lass!--for he canna mean fair by her! thae gran' fowk does fearsome things! it's sma' won'er 'at whiles the puir fowk rises wi' a roar, an' tears doon a', as they did i' france!" "all you say is quite true; but the charge is such a serious one!" "it is that, sir! but though it be true, i'm no gaein' to mak it 'afore the warl'." "you are right there: it could do no good." "i fear it may du as little whaur i am gaein' to mak it! i'm upo' my ro'd to gar my lord gie an accoont o' himsel'. faith, gien it bena a guid ane, i'll thraw the neck o' 'im! it's better me to hang, nor her to gang disgraced, puir thing! she can be naething mair to me, as i say; but i wud like weel the wringin' o' a lord's neck! it wud be like killin' a shark!" "why do you tell me this?" asked donal. "'cause i look to you to get me to word o' the man." "that you may wring his neck?--you should not have told me that: i should be art and part in his murder!" "wud ye hae me lat the lassie tak her chance ohn dune onything?" said the fisherman with scorn. "by no means. i would do something myself whoever the girl was--and she is the granddaughter of my best friends." "sir, ye winna surely fail me!" "i will help you somehow, but i will not do what you want me. i will turn the thing over in my mind. i promise you i will do something--what, i cannot say offhand. you had better go home again, and i will come to you to-morrow." "na, na, that winna do!" said the man, half doggedly, half fiercely. "the hert ill be oot o' my body gien i dinna du something! this verra nicht it maun be dune! i canna bide in hell ony langer. the thoucht o' the rascal slaverin' his lees ower my eppy 's killin' me! my brain 's like a fire: i see the verra billows o' the ocean as reid 's blude." "if you come near the castle to-night, i will have you taken up. i am too much your friend to see you hanged! but if you go home and leave the matter to me, i will do my best, and let you know. she shall be saved if i can compass it. what, man! you would not have god against you?" "he'll be upo' the side o' the richt, i'm thinkin'!" "doubtless; but he has said, 'vengeance is mine!' he can't trust us with that. he won't have us interfering. it's more his concern than yours yet that the lassie have fair play. i will do my part." they walked on in gloomy silence for some time. suddenly the fisherman put out his hand, seized donal's with a convulsive grasp, was possibly reassured by the strength with which donal's responded, turned, and without a word went back. donal had to think. here was a most untoward affair! what could he do? what ought he to attempt? from what he had seen of the young lord, he could not believe he intended wrong to the girl; but he might he selfishly amusing himself, and was hardly one to reflect that the least idle familiarity with her was a wrong! the thing, if there was the least truth in it, must be put a stop to at once! but it might be all a fancy of the justly jealous lover, to whom the girl had not of late been behaving as she ought! or might there not be somebody else? at the same time there was nothing absurd in the idea that a youth, fresh from college and suddenly discompanioned at home, without society, possessed by no love of literature, and with almost no amusements, should, if only for very ennui, be attracted by the pretty face and figure of eppy, and then enthralled by her coquetries of instinctive response. there was danger to the girl both in silence and in speech: if there was no ground for the apprehension, the very supposition was an injury--might even suggest the thing it was intended to frustrate! still something must be risked! he had just been reading in sir philip sidney, that "whosoever in great things will think to prevent all objections, must lie still and do nothing." but what was he to do? the readiest and simplest thing was to go to the youth, tell him what he had heard, and ask him if there was any ground for it. but they must find the girl another situation! in either case distance must be put between them! he would tell her grandparents; but he feared, if there was any truth in it, they would have no great influence with her. if on the other hand, the thing was groundless, they might make it up between her and her fisherman, and have them married! she might only have been teasing him!--he would certainly speak to the young lord! yet again, what if he should actually put the mischief into his thoughts! if there should be ever so slight a leaning in the direction, might he not so give a sudden and fatal impulse? he would take the housekeeper into his counsel! she must understand the girl! things would at once show themselves to her on the one side or the other, which might reveal the path he ought to take. but did he know mistress brookes well enough? would she be prudent, or spoil everything by precipitation? she might ruin the girl if she acted without sympathy, caring only to get the appearance of evil out of the house! the way the legally righteous act the policeman in the moral world would be amusing were it not so sad. they are always making the evil "move on," driving it to do its mischiefs to other people instead of them; dispersing nests of the degraded to crowd them the more, and with worse results, in other parts: why should such be shocked at the idea of sending out of the world those to whom they will not give a place in it to lay their heads? they treat them in this world as, according to the old theology, their god treats them in the next, keeping them alive for sin and suffering. some with the bright lamp of their intellect, others with the smoky lamp of their life, cast a shadow of god on the wall of the universe, and then believe or disbelieve in the shadow. donal was still in meditation when he reached home, and still undecided what he should do. crossing a small court on his way to his aerie, he saw the housekeeper making signs to him from the window of her room. he turned and went to her. it was of eppy she wanted to speak to him! how often is the discovery of a planet, of a truth, of a scientific fact, made at once in different places far apart! she asked him to sit down, and got him a glass of milk, which was his favourite refreshment, little imagining the expression she attributed to fatigue arose from the very thing occupying her own thoughts. "it's a queer thing," she began, "for an auld wife like me to come til a yoong gentleman like yersel', sir, wi' sic a tale; but, as the sayin' is, 'needs maun whan the deil drives'; an' here's like to be an unco stramash aboot the place, gien we comena thegither upo' some gait oot o' 't. dinna luik sae scaret like, sir; we may be in time yet er' the warst come to the warst, though it's some ill to say what may be the warst in sic an ill coopered kin' o' affair! there's thae twa fules o' bairns--troth, they're nae better; an' the tane 's jist as muckle to blame as the tither--only the lass is waur to blame nor the lad, bein' made sharper, an' kennin' better nor him what comes o' sic!--eh, but she is a gowk!" here mrs. brookes paused, lost in contemplation of the gowkedness of eppy. she was a florid, plump, good-looking woman, over forty, with thick auburn hair, brushed smooth--one of those women comely in soul as well as body, who are always to the discomfiture of wrong and the healing of strife. left a young widow, she had refused many offers: once was all that was required of her in the way of marriage! she had found her husband good enough not to be followed by another, and marriage hard enough to favour the same result. when she sat down, smoothing her apron on her lap, and looking him in the face with clear blue eyes, he must have been either a suspicious or an unfortunate man who would not trust her. she was a general softener of shocks, foiler of encounters, and soother of angers. she was not one of those housekeepers always in black silk and lace, but was mostly to be seen in a cotton gown--very clean, but by no means imposing. she would put her hands to anything--show a young servant how a thing ought to be done, or relieve cook or housemaid who was ill or had a holiday. donal had taken to her, as like does to like. he did not hurry her, but waited. "i may as weel gie ye the haill story, sir!" she recommenced. "syne ye'll be whaur i am mysel'. "i was oot i' the yard to luik efter my hens--i never lat onybody but mysel' meddle wi' them, for they're jist as easy sp'ilt as ither fowk's bairns; an' the twa doors o' the barn stan'in open, i took the straucht ro'd throuw the same to win the easier at my feathert fowk, as my auld minnie used to ca' them. i'm but a saft kin' o' a bein', as my faither used to tell me, an' mak but little din whaur i gang, sae they couldna hae h'ard my fut as i gaed; but what sud i hear--but i maun tell ye it was i' the gloamin' last nicht, an' i wad hae tellt ye the same this mornin', sir, seekin' yer fair coonsel, but ye was awa' 'afore i kenned, an' i was resolvt no to lat anither gloamin' come ohn ta'en precautions--what sud i hear, i say, as i was sayin', but a laich tshe--tshe--tshe, somewhaur, i couldna tell whaur, as gien some had mair to say nor wud be spoken oot! weel, ye see, bein' ane accoontable tae ithers for them 'at's accoontable to me, i stude still an' hearkent: gien a' was richt, nane wad be the waur for me; an' gien a' wasna richt, a' sud be wrang gien i could make it sae! weel, as i say, i hearkent--but eh, sir! jist gie a keek oot at that door, an' see gein there bena somebody there hearkin', for that eppy--i wudna lippen til her ae hair! she's as sly as an edder! naebody there? weel, steek ye the door, sir, an' i s' gang on wi' my tale. i stude an' hearkent, as i was sayin', an' what sud i hear but a twasome toot-moot, as my auld auntie frae ebberdeen wud hae ca'd it--ae v'ice that o' a man, an' the ither that o' a wuman, for it's strange the differ even whan baith speyks their laichest! i was aye gleg i' the hearin', an' hae reason for the same to be thankfu,' but i couldna, for a' my sharpness, mak oot what they war sayin'. so, whan i saw 'at i wasna to hear, i jist set aboot seein', an' as quaietly as my saft fit--it's safter nor it's licht--wud carry me, i gaed aboot the barnflure, luikin' whaur onybody could be hidden awa'. "there was a great heap o' strae in ae corner, no hard again' the wa'; an' 'atween the wa' an' that heap o' thrashen strae, sat the twa. up gat my lord wi' a spang, as gien he had been ta'en stealin'. eppy wud hae bidden, an' creepit oot like a moose ahint my back, but i was ower sharp for her: 'come oot o' that, my lass,' says i. 'oh, mistress brookes!' says my lord, unco ceevil, 'for my sake don't be hard upon her.' noo that angert me! for though i say the lass is mair to blame nor the lad, it's no for the lad, be he lord or labourer, to lea' himsel' oot whan the blame comes. an' says i, 'my lord,' says i, 'ye oucht to ken better! i s' say nae mair i' the noo, for i'm ower angry. gang yer ways--but na! no thegither, my lord! i s' luik weel to that!--gang up til yer ain room, eppy!' i said, 'an' gien i dinna see ye there whan i come in, it's awa' to your grannie i gang this varra nicht!' "eppy she gaed; an' my lord he stude there, wi' a face 'at glowert white throuw the gloamin'. i turned upon him like a wild beast, an' says i, 'i winna speir what ye 're up til, my lord, but ye ken weel eneuch what it luiks like! an' i wud never hae expeckit it o' ye!' he began an' he stammert, an' he beggit me to believe there was naething 'atween them, an' he wudna harm the lassie to save his life, an' a' the lave o' 't, 'at i couldna i' my hert but pity them baith--twa sic bairns, doobtless drawn thegither wi' nae thoucht o' ill, ilk ane by the bonny face o' the ither, as is but nait'ral, though it canna be allooed! he beseekit me sae sair 'at i foolishly promised no to tell his faither gien he on his side wud promise no to hae mair to du wi' eppy. an' that he did. noo i never had reason to doobt my yoong lord's word, but in a case o' this kin' it's aye better no to lippen. ony gait, the thing canna be left this wise, for gien ill cam o' 't, whaur wud we a' be! i didna promise no to tell onybody; i'm free to tell yersel,' maister grant; an' ye maun contrive what's to be dune." "i will speak to him," said donal, "and see what humour he is in. that will help to clear the thing up. we will try to do right, and trust to be kept from doing wrong." donal left her to go to his room, but had not reached the top of the stair when he saw clearly that he must speak to lord forgue at once: he turned and went down to a room that was called his. when he reached it, only davie was there, turning over the leaves of a folio worn by fingers that had been dust for centuries. he said percy went out, and would not let him go with him. knowing mistress brookes was looking after eppy, donal put off seeking farther for forgue till the morrow. chapter xxv. evasion. the next day he could find him nowhere, and in the evening went to see the comins. it was pretty dark, but the moon would be up by and by. when he reached the cobbler's house, he found him working as usual, only in-doors now that the weather was colder, and the light sooner gone. he looked innocent, bright, and contented as usual. "if god be at peace," he would say to himself, "why should not i?" once he said this aloud, almost unconsciously, and was overheard: it strengthened the regard with which worldly church-goers regarded him: he was to them an irreverent yea, blasphemous man! they did not know god enough to understand the cobbler's words, and all the interpretation they could give them was after their kind. their long sunday faces indicated their reward; the cobbler's cheery, expectant look indicated his. the two were just wondering a little when he entered, that young eppy had not made her appearance; but then, as her grandmother said, she had often, especially during the last few weeks, been later still! as she spoke, however, they heard her light, hurried foot on the stair. "here she comes at last!" said her grandmother, and she entered. she said she could not get away so easily now. donal feared she had begun to lie. after sitting a quarter of an hour, she rose suddenly, and said she must go, for she was wanted at home. donal rose also and said, as the night was dark, and the moon not yet up, it would be better to go together. her face flushed: she had to go into the town first, she said, to get something she wanted! donal replied he was in no hurry, and would go with her. she cast an inquiring, almost suspicious look on her grandparents, but made no further objection, and they went out together. they walked to the high street, and to the shop where donal had encountered the parson. he waited in the street till she came out. then they walked back the way they had come, little thinking, either of them, that their every step was dogged. kennedy, the fisherman, firm in his promise not to go near the castle, could not therefore remain quietly at home: he knew it was eppy's day for visiting her folk, went to the town, and had been lingering about in the hope of seeing her. not naturally suspicious, justifiable jealousy had rendered him such; and when he saw the two together he began to ask whether donal's anxiety to keep him from encountering lord forgue might not be due to other grounds than those given or implied. so he followed, careful they should not see him. they came to a baker's shop, and, stopping at the door, eppy, in a voice that in vain sought to be steady, asked donal if he would be so good as wait for her a moment, while she went in to speak to the baker's daughter. donal made no difficulty, and she entered, leaving the door open as she found it. lowrie leper's shop was lighted with only one dip, too dim almost to show the sugar biscuits and peppermint drops in the window, that drew all day the hungry eyes of the children. a pleasant smell of bread came from it, and did what it could to entertain him in the all but deserted street. while he stood no one entered or issued. "she's having a long talk!" he said to himself, but for a long time was not impatient. he began at length, however, to fear she must have been taken ill, or have found something wrong in the house. when more than half an hour was gone, he thought it time to make inquiry. he entered therefore, shutting the door and opening it again, to ring the spring-bell, then mechanically closing it behind him. straightway mrs. leper appeared from somewhere to answer the squall of the shrill-tongued summoner. donal asked if eppy was ready to go. the woman stared at him a moment in silence. "eppy wha, said ye?" she asked at length. "eppy comin," he answered. "i ken naething aboot her.--lucy!" a good-looking girl, with a stocking she was darning drawn over one hand and arm, followed her mother into the shop. "whaur's eppy comin, gien ye please?" asked donal. "i ken naething aboot her. i haena seen her sin' this day week," answered the girl in a very straight-forward manner. donal saw he had been tricked, but judging it better to seek no elucidation, turned with apology to go. as he opened the door, there came through the house from behind a blast of cold wind: there was an open outer door in that direction! the girl must have slipped through the house, and out by that door, leaving her squire to cool himself, vainly expectant, in the street! if she had found another admirer, as probably she imagined, his polite attentions were at the moment inconvenient! but she had tried the trick too often, for she had once served her fisherman in like fashion. seeing her go into the baker's, kennedy had conjectured her purpose, and hurrying toward the issue from the other exit, saw her come out of the court, and was again following her. donal hastened homeward. the moon rose. it was a lovely night. dull-gleaming glimpses of the river came through the light fog that hovered over it in the rising moon like a spirit-river continually ascending from the earthly one and resting upon it, but flowing in heavenly places. the white webs shone very white in the moon, and the green grass looked gray. a few minutes more, and the whole country was covered with a low-lying fog, on whose upper surface the moon shone, making it appear to donal's wondering eyes a wide-spread inundation, from which rose half-submerged houses and stacks and trees. one who had never seen the thing before, and who did not know the country, would not have doubted he looked on a veritable expanse of water. absorbed in the beauty of the sight he trudged on. suddenly he stopped: were those the sounds of a scuffle he heard on the road before him? he ran. at the next turn, in the loneliest part of the way, he saw something dark, like the form of a man, lying in the middle of the road. he hastened to it. the moon gleamed on a pool beside it. a death-like face looked heavenward: it was that of lord forgue--without breath or motion. there was a cut in his head: from that the pool had flowed. he examined it as well as he could with anxious eyes. it had almost stopped bleeding. what was he to do? what could be done? there was but one thing! he drew the helpless form to the side of the way, and leaning it up against the earth-dyke, sat down on the road before it, and so managed to get it upon his back, and rise with it. if he could but get him home unseen, much scandal might be forestalled! on the level road he did very well; but, strong as he was, he did not find it an easy task to climb with such a burden the steep approach to the castle. he had little breath left when at last he reached the platform from which rose the towering bulk. he carried him straight to the housekeeper's room. it was not yet more than half-past ten; and though the servants were mostly in bed, mistress brookes was still moving about. he laid his burden on her sofa, and hastened to find her. like a sensible woman she kept her horror and dismay to herself. she got some brandy, and between them they managed to make him swallow a little. he began to recover. they bathed his wound, and did for it what they could with scissors and plaster, then carried him to his own room, and got him to bed. donal sat down by him, and staid. his patient was restless and wandering all the night, but towards morning fell into a sound sleep, and was still asleep when the housekeeper came to relieve him. as soon as mrs. brookes left donal with lord forgue, she went to eppy's room, and found her in bed, pretending to be asleep. she left her undisturbed, thinking to come easier at the truth if she took her unprepared to lie. it came out afterwards that she was not so heartless as she seemed. she found lord forgue waiting her upon the road, and almost immediately kennedy came up to them. forgue told her to run home at once: he would soon settle matters with the fellow. she went off like a hare, and till she was out of sight the men stood looking at each other. kennedy was a powerful man, and forgue but a stripling; the latter trusted, however, to his skill, and did not fear his adversary. he did not know what he was. he seemed now in no danger, and his attendants agreed to be silent till he recovered. it was given out that he was keeping his room for a few days, but that nothing very serious was the matter with him. in the afternoon, donal went to find kennedy, loitered a while about the village, and made several inquiries after him; but no one had seen him. forgue recovered as rapidly as could have been expected. davie was troubled that he might not go and see him, but he would have been full of question, remark, and speculation! for what he had himself to do in the matter, donal was but waiting till he should be strong enough to be taken to task. chapter xxvi. confrontment. at length one evening donal knocked at the door of forgue's room, and went in. he was seated in an easy chair before a blazing fire, looking comfortable, and showing in his pale face no sign of a disturbed conscience. "my lord," said donal, "you will hardly be surprised to find i have something to talk to you about!" his lordship was so much surprised that he made him no answer--only looked in his face. donal went on:-- "i want to speak to you about eppy comin," he said. forgue's face flamed up. the devil of pride, and the devil of fear, and the devil of shame, all rushed to the outworks to defend the worthless self. but his temper did not at once break bounds. "allow me to remind you, mr. grant," he said, "that, although i have availed myself of your help, i am not your pupil, and you have no authority over me." "the reminder is unnecessary, my lord," answered donal. "i am not your tutor, but i am the friend of the comins, and therefore of eppy." his lordship drew himself up yet more erect in his chair, and a sneer came over his handsome countenance. but donal did not wait for him to speak. "don't imagine me, my lord," he said, "presuming on the fact that i had the good fortune to carry you home: that i should have done for the stable-boy in similar plight. but as i interfered for you then, i have to interfere for eppie now." "damn your insolence! do you think because you are going to be a parson, you may make a congregation of me!" "i have not the slightest intention of being a parson," returned donal quietly, "but i do hope to be an honest man, and your lordship is in great danger of ceasing to be one!" "get out of my room," cried forgue. donal took a seat opposite him. "if you do not, i will!" said the young lord, and rose. but ere he reached the door, donal was standing with his back against it. he locked it, and took out the key. the youth glared at him, unable to speak for fury, then turned, caught up a chair, and rushed at him. one twist of donal's ploughman-hand wrenched it from him. he threw it over his head upon the bed, and stood motionless and silent, waiting till his rage should subside. in a few moments his eye began to quail, and he went back to his seat. "now, my lord," said donal, following his example and sitting down, "will you hear me?" "i'll be damned if i do!" he answered, flaring up again at the first sound of donal's voice. "i'm afraid you'll be damned if you don't," returned donal. his lordship took the undignified expedient of thrusting his fingers in his ears. donal sat quiet until he removed them. but the moment he began to speak he thrust them in again. donal rose, and seizing one of his hands by the wrist, said, "be careful, my lord; if you drive me to extremity, i will speak so that the house shall hear me; if that will not do, i go straight to your father." "you are a spy and a sneak!" "a man who behaves like you, should have no terms held with him." the youth broke out in a fresh passion. donal sat waiting till the futile outburst should be over. it was presently exhausted, the rage seeming to go out for want of fuel. nor did he again stop his ears against the truth he saw he was doomed to hear. "i am come," said donal, "to ask your lordship whether the course you are pursuing is not a dishonourable one." "i know what i am about." "so much the worse--but i doubt it. for your mother's sake, if for no other, you should scorn to behave to a woman as you are doing now." "what do you please to imagine i am doing now?" "there is no imagination in this--that you are behaving to eppy as no man ought except he meant to marry her." "how do you know i do not mean to marry her?" "do you mean to marry her, my lord?" "what right have you to ask?" "at least i live under the same roof with you both." "what if she knows i do not intend to marry her?" "my duty is equally plain: i am the friend of her only relatives. if i did not do my best for the poor girl, i dared not look my master in the face!--where is your honour, my lord?" "i never told her i would marry her." "i never supposed you had." "well, what then?" "i repeat, such attentions as yours must naturally be supposed by any innocent girl to mean marriage." "bah! she is not such a fool!" "i fear she is fool enough not to know to what they must then point!" "they point to nothing." "then you take advantage of her innocence to amuse yourself with her." "what if she be not quite so innocent as you would have her." "my lord, you are a scoundrel." for one moment forgue seemed to wrestle with an all but uncontrollable fury; the next he laughed--but it was not a nice laugh. "come now," he said, "i'm glad i've put you in a rage! i've got over mine. i'll tell you the whole truth: there is nothing between me and the girl--nothing whatever, i give you my word, except an innocent flirtation. ask herself." "my lord," said donal, "i believe what you mean me to understand. i thought nothing worse of it myself." "then why the devil kick up such an infernal shindy about it?" "for these reasons, my lord:--" "oh, come! don't be long-winded." "you must hear me." "go on." "i will suppose she does not imagine you mean to marry her." "she can't!" "why not?" "she's not a fool, and she can't imagine me such an idiot!" "but may she not suppose you love her?" he tried to laugh. "you have never told her so?--never said or done anything to make her think so?" "oh, well! she may think so--after a sort of a fashion!" "would she speak to you again if she heard you talking so of the love you give her?" "you know as well as i do the word has many meanings?" "and which is she likely to take? that which is confessedly false and worth nothing?" "she may take which she pleases, and drop it when she pleases." "but now, does she not take your words of love for more than they are worth?" "she says i will soon forget her." "will any saying keep her from being so in love with you as to reap misery? you don't know what the consequences may be! her love wakened by yours, may be infinitely stronger than yours!" "oh, women don't now-a-days die for love!" said his lordship, feeling a little flattered. "it would be well for some of them if they did! they never get over it. she mayn't die, true! but she may live to hate the man that led her to think he loved her, and taught her to believe in nobody. her whole life may be darkened because you would amuse yourself." "she has her share of the amusement, and i have my share, by jove, of the danger! she's a very pretty, clever, engaging girl--though she is but a housemaid!" said forgue, as if uttering a sentiment of quite communistic liberality. "what you say shows the more danger to her! if you admire her so much you must have behaved to her so much the more like a genuine lover? but any suffering the affair may have caused you, will hardly, i fear, persuade you to the only honourable escape!" "by jupiter!" cried forgue. "would you have me marry the girl? that's coming it rather strong with your friendship for the cobbler!" "no, my lord; if things are as you represent, i have no such desire. what i want is to put a stop to the whole affair. every man has to be his brother's keeper; and if our western notions concerning women be true, a man is yet more bound to be his sister's keeper. he who does not recognize this, be he earl or prince, is viler than the murderous prowler after a battle. for a man to say 'she can take care of herself,' is to speak out of essential hell. the beauty of love is, that it does not take care of itself, but of the person loved. to approach a girl in any other fashion is a mean scoundrelly thing. i am glad it has already brought on you some of the chastisement it deserves." his lordship started to his feet in a fresh access of rage. "you dare say that to my face!" "assuredly, my lord. the fact stands just so." "i gave the fellow as good as he gave me!" "that is nothing to the point--though from the state i found you in, it is hard to imagine. pardon me, i do not believe you behaved like what you call a coward." lord forgue was almost crying with rage. "i have not done with him yet!" he stammered. "if i only knew who the rascal is! if i don't pay him out, may--" "stop, stop, my lord. all that is mere waste! i know who the man is, but i will not tell you. he gave you no more than you deserved, and i will do nothing to get him punished for it." "you are art and part with him!" "i neither knew of his intent, saw him do it, nor have any proof against him." "you will not tell me his name?" "no." "i will find it out, and kill him." "he threatens to kill you. i will do what i can to prevent either." "i will kill him," repeated forgue through his clenched teeth. "and i will do my best to have you hanged for it," said donal. "leave the room, you insolent bumpkin." "when you have given me your word that you will never again speak to eppy comin." "i'll be damned first." "she will be sent away." "where i shall see her the easier." his lordship said this more from perversity than intent, for he had begun to wish himself clear of the affair--only how was he to give in to this unbearable clown! "i will give you till to-morrow to think of it," said donal, and opened the door. his lordship made him no reply, but cast after him a look of uncertain anger. donal, turning his head as he shut the door, saw it: "i trust," he said, "you will one day be glad i spoke to you plainly." "oh, go along with your preaching!" cried forgue, more testily than wrathfully; and donal went. in the meantime eppy had been soundly taken to task by mrs. brookes, and told that if once again she spoke a word to lord forgue, she should that very day have her dismissal. the housekeeper thought she had at least succeeded in impressing upon her that she was in danger of losing her situation in a way that must seriously affect her character. she assured donal that she would not let the foolish girl out of her sight; and thereupon donal thought it better to give lord forgue a day to make up his mind. on the second morning he came to the schoolroom when lessons were over, and said frankly, "i've made a fool of myself, mr. grant! make what excuse for me you can. i am sorry. believe me, i meant no harm. i have made up my mind that all shall be over between us." "promise me you will not once speak to her again." "i don't like to do that: it might happen to be awkward. but i promise to do my best to avoid her." donald was not quite satisfied, but thought it best to leave the thing so. the youth seemed entirely in earnest. for a time he remained in doubt whether he should mention the thing to eppy's grandparents. he reflected that their influence with her did not seem very great, and if she were vexed by anything they said, it might destroy what little they had. then it would make them unhappy, and he could not bear to think of it. he made up his mind that he would not mention it, but, in the hope she would now change her way, leave the past to be forgotten. he had no sooner thus resolved, however, than he grew uncomfortable, and was unsatisfied with the decision. all would not be right between his friend and him! andrew comin would have something against him! he could no longer meet him as before, for he would be hiding something from him, and he would have a right to reproach him! then his inward eyes grew clear. he said to himself, "what a man has a right to know, another has no right to conceal from him. if sorrow belong to him, i have as little right to keep that from him as joy. his sorrows and his joys are part of a man's inheritance. my wisdom to take care of this man!--his own is immeasurably before mine! the whole matter concerns him: i will let him know at once!" the same night he went to see him. his wife was out, and donal was glad of it. he told him all that had taken place. he listened in silence, his eyes fixed on him, his work on his lap, his hand with the awl hanging by his side. when he heard how eppy had tricked donal that night, leaving him to watch in vain, tears gathered in his old eyes. he wiped them away with the backs of his horny hands, and there came no more. donal told him he had first thought he would say nothing to him about it all, he was so loath to trouble them, but neither his heart nor his conscience would let him be silent. "ye did richt to tell me," said andrew, after a pause. "it's true we haena that muckle weicht wi' her, for it seems a law o' natur 'at the yoong 's no to be hauden doon by the experrience o' the auld--which can be experrience only to themsel's; but whan we pray to god, it puts it mair in his pooer to mak use o' 's for the carryin' oot o' the thing we pray for. it's no aye by words he gies us to say; wi' some fowk words gang for unco little; it may be whiles by a luik o' whilk ye ken naething, or it may be by a motion o' yer han', or a turn o' yer heid. wha kens but ye may haud a divine pooer ower the hert ye hae 'maist gi'en up the houp o' ever winnin' at! ye hae h'ard o' the convic' broucht to sorrow by seein' a bit o' the same mattin' he had been used to see i' the aisle o' the kirk his mither tuik him til! that was a stroke o' god's magic! there's nae kennin' what god can do, nor yet what best o' rizzons he has for no doin' 't sooner! whan we think he's lattin' the time gang, an' doin' naething, he may be jist doin' a' thing! no 'at i ever think like that noo; lat him do 'at he likes, what he does i'm sure o'. i'm o' his min' whether i ken his min' or no.--eh, my lassie! my lassie! i could better win ower a hantle nor her giein' you the slip that gait, sir. it was sae dooble o' her! it's naething wrang in itsel' 'at a yoong lass sud be taen wi' the attentions o' a bonny lad like lord forgue! that's na agen the natur 'at god made! but to preten' an' tak in!--to be cunnin' an' sly! that's evil. an' syne for the ither lad--eh, i doobt that's warst o' 'a! only i kenna hoo far she had committit hersel' wi' him, for she was never open-hertit. eh, sir! it's a fine thing to hae nae sacrets but sic as lie 'atween yersel' an' yer macker! i can but pray the father o' a' to haud his e'e upon her, an' his airms aboot her, an' keep aff the hardenin' o' the hert 'at despises coonsel! i'm sair doobtin' we canna do muckle mair for her! she maun tak her ain gait, for we canna put a collar roon' her neck, an' lead her aboot whaurever we gang. she maun win her ain breid; an' gien she didna that, she wad be but the mair ta'en up wi' sic nonsense as the likes o' lord forgue 's aye ready to say til ony bonny lass. an' i varily believe she's safer there wi' you an' the hoosekeeper nor whaur he could win at her easier, an' whaur they wud be readier to tak her character fra her upo' less offence, an' sen' her aboot her business. fowk 's unco' jealous about their hoose 'at wad trouble themsel's little aboot a lass! sae lang as it's no upo' their premises, she may do as she likes for them! doory an' me, we'll jist lay oor cares i' the fine sicht an' 'afore the compassionate hert o' the maister, an' see what he can do for 's! sic things aiven we can lea' to him! i houp there'll be nae mair bludeshed! he's a fine lad, steenie kennedy--come o' a fine stock! his father was a god-fearin' man--some dour by natur, but wi' an unco clearin' up throuw grace. i wud wullin'ly hae seen oor eppy his wife; he's an honest lad! i'm sorry he gied place to wrath, but he may hae repentit by the noo, an' troth, i canna blame him muckle at his time o' life! it's no as gien you or me did it, ye ken, sir!" the chosen agonize after the light; stretch out their hands to god; stir up themselves to lay hold upon god! these are they who gather grace, as the mountain-tops the snow, to send down rivers of water to their fellows. the rest are the many called, of whom not a few have to be compelled. alas for the one cast out! as he was going home in the dark of a clouded moonlight, just as he reached the place where he found lord forgue, donal caught sight of the vague figure of a man apparently on the watch, and put himself a little on his guard as he went on. it was kennedy. he came up to him in a hesitating way. "stephen," said donal, for he seemed to wait for him to speak first, "you may thank god you are not now in hiding." "i wad never hide, sir. gien i had killed the man, i wad hae hauden my face til't. but it was a foolish thing to do, for it'll only gar the lass think the mair o' him: they aye side wi' the ane they tak to be ill-used!" "i thought you said you would in any case have no more to do with her!" said donal. kennedy was silent for a moment. "a body may tear at their hert," he muttered, "but gien it winna come, what's the guid o' sweirin' oot it maun!" "well," returned donal, "it may be some comfort to you to know that, for the present at least, and i hope for altogether, the thing is put a stop to. the housekeeper at the castle knows all about it, and she and i will do our best. her grandparents know too. eppie herself and lord forgue have both of them promised there shall be no more of it. and i do believe, kennedy, there has been nothing more than great silliness on either side. i hope you will not forget yourself again. you gave me a promise and broke it!" "no i' the letter, sir--only i' the speerit!" rejoined kennedy: "i gaedna near the castel!" "'only in the spirit!' did you say, stephen? what matters the word but for the spirit? the bible itself lets the word go any time for the spirit! would it have been a breach of your promise if you had gone to the castle on some service to the man you almost murdered? if ever you lay your hand on the lad again, i'll do my best to give you over to justice. but keep quiet, and i'll do all i can for you." kennedy promised to govern himself, and they parted friends. chapter xxvii. the soul of the old garden. the days went on and on, and still donal saw nothing, or next to nothing of the earl. thrice he met him on the way to the walled garden in which he was wont to take his unfrequent exercise; on one of these occasions his lordship spoke to him courteously, the next scarcely noticed him, the third passed him without recognition. donal, who with equal mind took everything as it came, troubled himself not at all about the matter. he was doing his work as well as he knew how, and that was enough. now also he saw scarcely anything of lord forgue either; he no longer sought his superior scholarship. lady arctura he saw generally once a week at the religion-lesson; of miss carmichael happily nothing at all. but as he grew more familiar with the countenance of lady arctura, it pained him more and more to see it so sad, so far from peaceful. what might be the cause of it? most well-meaning young women are in general tolerably happy--partly perhaps because they have few or no aspirations, not troubling themselves about what alone is the end of thought--and partly perhaps because they despise the sadness ever ready to assail them, as something unworthy. but if condemned to the round of a tormenting theological mill, and at the same time consumed with strenuous endeavour to order thoughts and feelings according to supposed requirements of the gospel, with little to employ them and no companions to make them forget themselves, such would be at once more sad and more worthy. the narrow ways trodden of men are miserable; they have high walls on each side, and but an occasional glimpse of the sky above; and in such paths lady arctura was trying to walk. the true way, though narrow, is not unlovely: most footpaths are lovelier than high roads. it may be full of toil, but it cannot be miserable. it has not walls, but fields and forests and gardens around it, and limitless sky overhead. it has its sorrows, but many of them lie only on its borders, and they that leave the path gather them. lady arctura was devouring her soul in silence, with such effectual help thereto as the self-sufficient friend, who had never encountered a real difficulty in her life, plenteously gave her. miss carmichael dealt with her honestly according to her wisdom, but that wisdom was foolishness; she said what she thought right, but was wrong in what she counted right; nay, she did what she thought right--but no amount of doing wrong right can set the soul on the high table-land of freedom, or endow it with liberating help. the autumn passed, and the winter was at hand--a terrible time to the old and ailing even in tracts nearer the sun--to the young and healthy a merry time even in the snows and bitter frosts of eastern scotland. davie looked chiefly to the skating, and in particular to the pleasure he was going to have in teaching mr. grant, who had never done any sliding except on the soles of his nailed shoes: when the time came, he acquired the art the more rapidly that he never minded what blunders he made in learning a thing. the dread of blundering is a great bar to success. he visited the comins often, and found continual comfort and help in their friendship. the letters he received from home, especially those of his friend sir gibbie, who not unfrequently wrote also for donal's father and mother, were a great nourishment to him. as the cold and the nights grew, the water-level rose in donal's well, and the poetry began to flow. when we have no summer without, we must supply it from within. those must have comfort in themselves who are sent to help others. up in his aerie, like an eagle above the low affairs of the earth, he led a keener life, breathed the breath of a more genuine existence than the rest of the house. no doubt the old cobbler, seated at his last over a mouldy shoe, breathed a yet higher air than donal weaving his verse, or reading grand old greek, in his tower; but donal was on the same path, the only path with an infinite end--the divine destiny. he had often thought of trying the old man with some of the best poetry he knew, desirous of knowing what receptivity he might have for it; but always when with him had hitherto forgot his proposed inquiry, and thought of it again only after he had left him: the original flow of the cobbler's life put the thought of testing it out of his mind. one afternoon, when the last of the leaves had fallen, and the country was bare as the heart of an old man who has lived to himself, donal, seated before a great fire of coal and boat-logs, fell a thinking of the old garden, vanished with the summer, but living in the memory of its delight. all that was left of it at the foot of the hill was its corpse, but its soul was in the heaven of donal's spirit, and there this night gathered to itself a new form. it grew and grew in him, till it filled with its thoughts the mind of the poet. he turned to his table, and began to write: with many emendations afterwards, the result was this:-- the old garden. i. i stood in an ancient garden with high red walls around; over them gray and green lichens in shadowy arabesque wound. the topmost climbing blossoms on fields kine-haunted looked out; but within were shelter and shadow, and daintiest odours about. there were alleys and lurking arbours-- deep glooms into which to dive; the lawns were as soft as fleeces-- of daisies i counted but five. the sun-dial was so aged it had gathered a thoughtful grace; and the round-about of the shadow seemed to have furrowed its face. the flowers were all of the oldest that ever in garden sprung; red, and blood-red, and dark purple, the rose-lamps flaming hung. along the borders fringéd with broad thick edges of box, stood fox-gloves and gorgeous poppies, and great-eyed hollyhocks. there were junipers trimmed into castles, and ash-trees bowed into tents; for the garden, though ancient and pensive, still wore quaint ornaments. it was all so stately fantastic, its old wind hardly would stir: young spring, when she merrily entered, must feel it no place for her! ii. i stood in the summer morning under a cavernous yew; the sun was gently climbing, and the scents rose after the dew. i saw the wise old mansion, like a cow in the noonday-heat, stand in a pool of shadows that rippled about its feet. its windows were oriel and latticed, lowly and wide and fair; and its chimneys like clustered pillars stood up in the thin blue air. white doves, like the thoughts of a lady, haunted it in and out; with a train of green and blue comets, the peacock went marching about. the birds in the trees were singing a song as old as the world, of love and green leaves and sunshine, and winter folded and furled. they sang that never was sadness but it melted and passed away; they sang that never was darkness but in came the conquering day. and i knew that a maiden somewhere, in a sober sunlit gloom, in a nimbus of shining garments, an aureole of white-browed bloom, looked out on the garden dreamy, and knew not that it was old; looked past the gray and the sombre, and saw but the green and the gold. iii. i stood in the gathering twilight, in a gently blowing wind; and the house looked half uneasy, like one that was left behind. the roses had lost their redness, and cold the grass had grown; at roost were the pigeons and peacock, and the dial was dead gray stone. the world by the gathering twilight in a gauzy dusk was clad; it went in through my eyes to my spirit, and made me a little sad. grew and gathered the twilight, and filled my heart and brain; the sadness grew more than sadness, and turned to a gentle pain. browned and brooded the twilight, and sank down through the calm, till it seemed for some human sorrows there could not be any balm. iv. then i knew that, up a staircase, which untrod will yet creak and shake, deep in a distant chamber, a ghost was coming awake. in the growing darkness growing-- growing till her eyes appear, like spots of a deeper twilight, but more transparent clear-- thin as hot air up-trembling, thin as a sun-molten crape, the deepening shadow of something taketh a certain shape; a shape whose hands are uplifted to throw back her blinding hair; a shape whose bosom is heaving, but draws not in the air. and i know, by what time the moonlight on her nest of shadows will sit, out on the dim lawn gliding that shadow of shadows will flit. v. the moon is dreaming upward from a sea of cloud and gleam; she looks as if she had seen us never but in a dream. down that stair i know she is coming, bare-footed, lifting her train; it creaks not--she hears it creaking, for the sound is in her brain. out at the side-door she's coming, with a timid glance right and left! her look is hopeless yet eager, the look of a heart bereft. across the lawn she is flitting, her eddying robe in the wind! are her fair feet bending the grasses? her hair is half lifted behind! vi. shall i stay to look on her nearer? would she start and vanish away? no, no; she will never see me, if i stand as near as i may! it is not this wind she is feeling, not this cool grass below; 'tis the wind and the grass of an evening a hundred years ago. she sees no roses darkling, no stately hollyhocks dim; she is only thinking and dreaming of the garden, the night, and him; of the unlit windows behind her, of the timeless dial-stone, of the trees, and the moon, and the shadows, a hundred years agone. 'tis a night for all ghostly lovers to haunt the best-loved spot: is he come in his dreams to this garden? i gaze, but i see him not. vii. i will not look on her nearer-- my heart would be torn in twain; from mine eyes the garden would vanish in the falling of their rain! i will not look on a sorrow that darkens into despair; on the surge of a heart that cannot-- yet cannot cease to bear! my soul to hers would be calling-- she would hear no word it said; if i cried aloud in the stillness, she would never turn her head! she is dreaming the sky above her, she is dreaming the earth below:-- this night she lost her lover, a hundred years ago. chapter xxviii. a presence yet not a presence. the twilight had fallen while he wrote, and the wind had risen. it was now blowing a gale. when he could no longer see, he rose to light his lamp, and looked out of the window. all was dusk around him. above and below was nothing to be distinguished from the mass; nothing and something seemed in it to share an equal uncertainty. he heard the wind, but could not see the clouds that swept before it, for all was cloud overhead, and no change of light or feature showed the shifting of the measureless bulk. gray stormy space was the whole idea of the creation. he was gazing into a void--was it not rather a condition of things inappreciable by his senses? a strange feeling came over him as of looking from a window in the wall of the visible into the region unknown, to man shapeless quite, therefore terrible, wherein wander the things all that have not yet found or form or sensible embodiment, so as to manifest themselves to eyes or ears or hands of mortals. as he gazed, the huge shapeless hulks of the ships of chaos, dimly awful suggestions of animals uncreate, yet vaguer motions of what was not, came heaving up, to vanish, even from the fancy, as they approached his window. earth lay far below, invisible; only through the night came the moaning of the sea, as the wind drove it, in still enlarging waves, upon the flat shore, a level of doubtful grass and sand, three miles away. it seemed to his heart as if the moaning were the voice of the darkness, lamenting, like a repentant satan or judas, that it was not the light, could not hold the light, might not become as the light, but must that moment cease when the light began to enter it. darkness and moaning was all that the earth contained! would the souls of the mariners shipwrecked this night go forth into the ceaseless turmoil? or would they, leaving behind them the sense for storms, as for all things soft and sweet as well, enter only a vast silence, where was nothing to be aware of but each solitary self? thoughts and theories many passed through donal's mind as he sought to land the conceivable from the wandering bosom of the limitless; and he was just arriving at the conclusion, that, as all things seen must be after the fashion of the unseen whence they come, as the very genius of embodiment is likeness, therefore the soul of man must of course have natural relations with matter; but, on the other hand, as the spirit must be the home and origin of all this moulding, assimilating, modelling energy, and the spirit only that is in harmonious oneness with its origin can fully exercise the deputed creative power, it can be only in proportion to the eternal life in them, that spirits are able to draw to themselves matter and clothe themselves in it, so entering into full relation with the world of storms and sunsets;--he was, i say, just arriving at this hazarded conclusion, when he started out of his reverie, and was suddenly all ear to listen.--again!--yes! it was the same sound that had sent him that first night wandering through the house in fruitless quest! it came in two or three fitful chords that melted into each other like the colours in the lining of a shell, then ceased. he went to the door, opened it, and listened. a cold wind came rushing up the stair. he heard nothing. he stepped out on the stair, shut his door, and listened. it came again--a strange unearthly musical cry! if ever disembodied sound went wandering in the wind, just such a sound must it be! knowing little of music save in the forms of tone and vowel-change and rhythm and rime, he felt as if he could have listened for ever to the wild wandering sweetness of its lamentation. almost immediately it ceased--then once more came again, apparently from far off, dying away on the distant tops of the billowy air, out of whose wandering bosom it had first issued. it was as the wailing of a summer-wind caught and swept along in a tempest from the frozen north. the moment he ceased to expect it any more, he began to think whether it must not have come from the house. he stole down the stair--to do what, he did not know. he could not go following an airy nothing all over the castle: of a great part of it he as yet knew nothing! his constructive mind had yearned after a complete idea of the building, for it was almost a passion with him to fit the outsides and insides of things together; but there were suites of rooms into which, except the earl and lady arctura were to leave home, he could not hope to enter. it was little more than mechanically therefore that he went vaguely after the sound; and ere he was half-way down the stair, he recognized the hopelessness of the pursuit. he went on, however, to the schoolroom, where tea was waiting him. he had returned to his room, and was sitting again at work, now reading and meditating, when, in one of the lulls of the storm, he became aware of another sound--one most unusual to his ears, for he never required any attendance in his room--that of steps coming up the stair--heavy steps, not as of one on some ordinary errand. he waited listening. the steps came nearer and nearer, and stopped at his door. a hand fumbled about upon it, found the latch, lifted it, and entered. to donal's wonder--and dismay as well, it was the earl. his dismay arose from his appearance: he was deadly pale, and his eyes more like those of a corpse than a man among his living fellows. donal started to his feet. the apparition turned its head towards him; but in its look was no atom of recognition, no acknowledgment or even perception of his presence; the sound of his rising had had merely a half-mechanical influence upon its brain. it turned away immediately, and went on to the window. there it stood, much as donal had stood a little while before--looking out, but with the attitude of one listening rather than one trying to see. there was indeed nothing but the blackness to be seen--and nothing to be heard but the roaring of the wind, with the roaring of the great billows rolled along in it. as it stood, the time to donal seemed long: it was but about five minutes. was the man out of his mind, or only a sleep-walker? how could he be asleep so early in the night? as donal stood doubting and wondering, once more came the musical cry out of the darkness--and immediately from the earl a response--a soft, low murmur, by degrees becoming audible, in the tone of one meditating aloud, but in a restrained ecstacy. from his words he seemed still to be hearkening the sounds aerial, though to donal at least they came no more. "yet once again," he murmured, "once again ere i forsake the flesh, are my ears blest with that voice! it is the song of the eternal woman! for me she sings!--sing on, siren; my soul is a listening universe, and therein nought but thy voice!" he paused, and began afresh:-- "it is the wind in the tree of life! its leaves rustle in words of love. under its shadow i shall lie, with her i loved--and killed! ere that day come, she will have forgiven and forgotten, and all will be well! "hark the notes! clear as a flute! full and stringent as a violin! they are colours! they are flowers! they are alive! i can see them as they grow, as they blow! those are primroses! those are pimpernels! those high, intense, burning tones--so soft, yet so certain--what are they? jasmine?--no, that flower is not a note! it is a chord!--and what a chord! i mean, what a flower! i never saw that flower before--never on this earth! it must be a flower of the paradise whence comes the music! it is! it is! do i not remember the night when i sailed in the great ship over the ocean of the stars, and scented the airs of heaven, and saw the pearly gates gleaming across myriads of wavering miles!--saw, plain as i see them now, the flowers on the fields within! ah, me! the dragon that guards the golden apples! see his crest--his crest and his emerald eyes! he comes floating up through the murky lake! it is geryon!--come to bear me to the gyre below!" he turned, and with a somewhat quickened step left the room, hastily shutting the door behind him, as if to keep back the creature of his vision. strong-hearted and strong-brained, donal had yet stood absorbed as if he too were out of the body, and knew nothing more of this earth. there is something more terrible in a presence that is not a presence than in a vision of the bodiless; that is, a present ghost is not so terrible as an absent one, a present but deserted body. he stood a moment helpless, then pulled himself together and tried to think. what should he do? what could he do? what was required of him? was anything required of him? had he any right to do anything? could anything be done that would not both be and cause a wrong? his first impulse was to follow: a man in such a condition was surely not to be left to go whither he would among the heights and depths of the castle, where he might break his neck any moment! interference no doubt was dangerous, but he would follow him at least a little way! he heard the steps going down the stair, and made haste after them. but ere they could have reached the bottom, the sound of them ceased; and donal knew the earl must have left the stair at a point from which he could not follow him. chapter xxix. eppy again. he would gladly have told his friend the cobbler all about the strange occurrence; but he did not feel sure it would be right to carry a report of the house where he held a position of trust; and what made him doubtful was, that first he doubted whether the cobbler would consider it right. but he went to see him the next day, in the desire to be near the only man to whom it was possible he might tell what he had seen. the moment he entered the room, where the cobbler as usual sat at work by his wife, he saw that something was the matter. but they welcomed him with their usual cordiality, nor was it many minutes before mistress comin made him acquainted with the cause of their anxiety. "we're jist a wee triblet, sir," she said, "aboot eppy!" "i am very sorry," said donal, with a pang: he had thought things were going right with her. "what is the matter?" "it's no sae easy to say!" returned the grandmother. "it may weel be only a fancy o' the auld fowk, but it seems to baith o' 's she has a w'y wi' her 'at disna come o' the richt. she'll be that meek as gien she thoucht naething at a' o' hersel', an' the next moment be angert at a word. she canna bide a syllable said 'at 's no correc' to the verra hair. it's as gien she dreidit waur 'ahint it, an' wud mairch straucht to the defence. i'm no makin' my meanin' that clear, i doobt; but ye'll ken 't for a' that!" "i think i do," said donal. "--i see nothing of her." "i wudna mak a won'er o' that, sir! she may weel haud oot o' your gait, feelin' rebukit 'afore ane 'at kens a' aboot her gaein's on wi' my lord!" "i don't know how i should see her, though!" returned donal. "didna she sweep oot the schoolroom first whan ye gaed, sir?" "when i think of it--yes." "does she still that same?" "i do not know. understanding at what hour in the morning the room will be ready for me, i do not go to it sooner." "it's but the luik, an' the general cairriage o' the lassie!" said the old woman. "gien we had onything to tak a haud o', we wad maybe think the less. true, she was aye some--what ye micht ca' a bit cheengeable in her w'ys; but she was aye, whan she had the chance, unco' willin' to gie her faither there or mysel' a spark o' glaidness like. it pleased her to be pleasin' i' the eyes o' the auld fowk, though they war but her ain. but noo we maunna say a word til her. we hae nae business to luik til her for naething! no 'at she's aye like that; but it comes sae aft 'at at last we daur hardly open oor moo's for the fear o' hoo she'll tak it. only a' the time it's mair as gien she was flingin' something frae her, something she didna like an' wud fain be rid o', than 'at she cared sae verra muckle aboot onything we said no til her min'. she taks a haud o' the words, no doobt! but i canna help thinkin' 'at 'maist whatever we said, it wud be the same. something to compleen o' 's never wantin' whan ye're ill-pleast a'ready!" "it's no the duin' o' the richt, ye see," said the cobbler, "--i mean, that's no itsel' the en', but the richt humour o' the sowl towards a' things thoucht or felt or dune! that's richteousness, an' oot o' that comes, o' the verra necessity o' natur', a' richt deeds o' whatever kin'. whaur they comena furth, it's whaur the sowl, the thoucht o' the man 's no richt. oor puir lassie shaws a' mainner o' sma' infirmities jist 'cause the humour o' her sowl 's no hermonious wi' the trowth, no hermonious in itsel', no at ane wi' the true thing--wi' the true man--wi' the true god. it may even be said it's a sma' thing 'at a man sud du wrang, sae lang as he's capable o' duin' wrang, an' lovesna the richt wi' hert an' sowl. but eh, it's no a sma' thing 'at he sud be capable!" "surely, anerew," interposed his wife, holding up her hands in mild deprecation, "ye wudna lat the lassie du wrang gien ye could haud her richt?" "no, i wudna," replied her husband, "--supposin' the haudin' o' her richt to fa' in wi' ony degree o' perception o' the richt on her pairt. but supposin' it was only the haudin' o' her frae ill by ootward constraint, leavin' her ready upo' the first opportunity to turn aside; whereas, gien she had dune wrang, she wud repent o' 't, an' see what a foul thing it was to gang again' the holy wull o' him 'at made an' dee'd for her--i lea' ye to jeedge for yersel' what ony man 'at luved god an' luved the lass an' luved the richt, wud chuise. we maun haud baith een open upo' the trowth, an' no blink sidewise upo' the warl' an' its richteousness wi' ane o' them. wha wadna be zacchay wi' the lord in his hoose, an' the richteousness o' god himsel' growin' in his hert, raither nor the prood pharisee wha kent nae ill he was duin', an' thoucht it a shame to speak to sic a man as zacchay!" the grandmother held her peace, thinking probably that so long as one kept respectable, there remained the more likelihood of a spiritual change. "is there anything you think i could do?" asked donal. "i confess i'm afraid of meddling." "i wudna hae you appear, sir," said andrew, "in onything, concernin' her. ye're a yoong man yersel', an' fowk's herts as well as fowk's tongues are no to be lippent til. i hae seen fowk, 'cause they couldna believe a body duin' a thing frae a sma' modicum o' gude wull, set themsel's to invent what they ca'd a motive til accoont for't--something, that is, that wud hae prevailt wi' themsel's to gar them du't. sic fowk canna un'erstan' a body duin' onything jist 'cause it was worth duin' in itsel'!" "but maybe," said the old woman, returning to the practical, "as ye hae been pleased to say ye're on freen'ly terms wi' mistress brookes, ye micht jist see gien she 's observed ony ten'ency to resumption o' the auld affair!" donal promised, and as soon as he reached the castle sought an interview with the house keeper. she told him she had been particularly pleased of late with eppy's attention to her work, and readiness to make herself useful. if she did look sometimes a little out of heart, they must remember, she said, that they had been young themselves once, and that it was not so easy to forget as to give up. but she would keep her eyes open! chapter xxx. lord morven. the winter came at last in good earnest--first black frost, then white snow, then sleet and wind and rain; then snow again, which fell steady and calm, and lay thick. after that came hard frost, and brought plenty of skating, and to davie the delight of teaching his master. donal had many falls, but was soon, partly in virtue of those same falls, a very decent skater. davie claimed all the merit of his successful training; and when his master did anything particularly well, would remark with pride, that he had taught him. but the good thing in it for davie was, that he noted the immediate faith with which donal did or tried to do what he told him: this reacted in opening his mind to the beauty and dignity of obedience, and went a long way towards revealing the low moral condition of the man who seeks freedom through refusal to act at the will of another. he who does so will come by degrees to have no will of his own, and act only from impulse--which may be the will of a devil. so donal and davie grew together into one heart of friendship. donal never longed for his hours with davie to pass, and davie was never so happy as when with donal. the one was gently leading the other into the paths of liberty. nothing but the teaching of him who made the human soul can make that soul free, but it is in great measure through those who have already learned that he teaches; and davie was an apt pupil, promising to need less of the discipline of failure and pain that he was strong to believe, and ready to obey. but donal was not all the day with davie, and latterly had begun to feel a little anxious about the time the boy spent away from him--partly with his brother, partly with the people about the stable, and partly with his father, who evidently found the presence of his younger son less irksome to him than that of any other person, and saw more of him than of forgue: the amount of loneliness the earl could endure was amazing. but after what he had seen and heard, donal was most anxious concerning his time with his father, only he felt it a delicate thing to ask him about it. at length, however, davie himself opened up the matter. "mr. grant," he said one day, "i wish you could hear the grand fairy-stories my papa tells!" "i wish i might!" answered donal. "i will ask him to let you come and hear. i have told him you can make fairy-tales too; only he has quite another way of doing it;--and i must confess," added davie a little pompously, "i do not follow him so easily as you.--besides," he added, "i never can find anything in what you call the cupboard behind the curtain of the story. i wonder sometimes if his stories have any cupboard!--i will ask him to-day to let you come." "i think that would hardly do," said donal. "your father likes to tell his boy fairy-tales, but he might not care to tell them to a man. you must remember, too, that though i have been in the house what you think a long time, your father has seen very little of me, and might feel me in the way: invalids do not generally enjoy the company of strangers. you had better not ask him." "but i have often told him how good you are, mr. grant, and how you can't bear anything that is not right, and i am sure he must like you--i don't mean so well as i do, because you haven't to teach him anything, and nobody can love anybody so well as the one he teaches to be good." "still i think you had better leave it alone lest he should not like your asking him. i should be sorry to have you disappointed." "i do not mind that so much as i used. if you do not tell me i am not to do it, i think i will venture." donal said no more. he did not feel at liberty, from his own feeling merely, to check the boy. the thing was not wrong, and something might be intended to come out of it! he shrank from the least ruling of events, believing man's only call to action is duty. so he left davie to do as he pleased. "does your father often tell you a fairy-tale?" he asked. "not every day, sir." "what time does he tell them?" "generally when i go to him after tea." "do you go any time you like?" "yes; but he does not always let me stay. sometimes he talks about mamma, i think; but only coming into the fairy-tale.--he has told me one in the middle of the day! i think he would if i woke him up in the night! but that would not do, for he has terrible headaches. perhaps that is what sometimes makes his stories so terrible i have to beg him to stop!" "and does he stop?" "well--no--i don't think he ever does.--when a story is once begun, i suppose it ought to be finished!" so the matter rested for the time. but about a week after, donal received one morning through the butler an invitation to dine with the earl, and concluded it was due to davie, whom he therefore expected to find with his father. he put on his best clothes, and followed simmons up the grand staircase. the great rooms of the castle were on the first floor, but he passed the entrance to them, following his guide up and up to the second floor, where the earl had his own apartment. here he was shown into a small room, richly furnished after a sombrely ornate fashion, the drapery and coverings much faded, worn even to shabbiness. it had been for a century or so the private sitting-room of the lady of the castle, but was now used by the earl, perhaps in memory of his wife. here he received his sons, and now donal, but never any whom business or politeness compelled him to see. there was no one in the room when donal entered, but after about ten minutes a door opened at the further end, and lord morven appearing from his bedroom, shook hands with him with some faint show of kindness. almost the same moment the butler entered from a third door, and said dinner waited. the earl walked on, and donal followed. this room also was a small one. the meal was laid on a little round table. there were but two covers, and simmons alone was in waiting. while they ate and drank, which his lordship did sparingly, not a word was spoken. donal would have found it embarrassing had he not been prepared for the peculiar. his lordship took no notice of his guest, leaving him to the care of the butler. he looked very white and worn--donal thought a good deal worse than when he saw him first. his cheeks were more sunken, his hair more gray, and his eyes more weary--with a consuming fire in them that had no longer much fuel and was burning remnants. he stooped over his plate as if to hide the operation of eating, and drank his wine with a trembling hand. every movement indicated indifference to both his food and his drink. at length the more solid part of the meal was removed, and they were left alone, fruit upon the table, and two wine-decanters. from one of them the earl helped himself, then passed it to donal, saying, "you are very good to my little davie, mr. grant! he is full of your kindness to him. there is nobody like you!" "a little goes a long way with davie, my lord," answered donal. "then much must go a longer way!" said the earl. there was nothing remarkable in the words, yet he spoke them with the difficulty a man accustomed to speak, and to weigh his words, might find in clothing a new thought to his satisfaction. the effort seemed to have tried him, and he took a sip of wine. this, however, he did after every briefest sentence he uttered: a sip only he took, nothing like a mouthful. donal told him that davie, of all the boys he had known, was far the quickest, and that just because he was morally the most teachable. "you greatly gratify me, mr. grant," said the earl. "i have long wished such a man as you for davie. if only i had known you when forgue was preparing for college!" "i must have been at that time only at college myself, my lord!" "true! true!" "but for davie, it is a privilege to teach him!" "if only it might last a while!" returned the earl. "but of course you have the church in your eye!" "my lord, i have not." "what!" cried his lordship almost eagerly; "you intend giving your life to teaching?" "my lord," returned donal, "i never trouble myself about my life. why should we burden the mule of the present with the camel-load of the future. i take what comes--what is sent me, that is." "you are right, mr. grant! if i were in your position, i should think just as you do. but, alas, i have never had any choice!" "perhaps your lordship has not chosen to choose!" donal was on the point of saying, but bethought himself in time not to hazard the remark. "if i were a rich man, mr. grant," the earl continued, "i would secure your services for a time indefinite; but, as every one knows, not an acre of the property belongs to me, or goes with the title. davie, dear boy, will have nothing but a thousand or two. the marriage i have in view for lord forgue will arrange a future for him." "i hope there will be some love in the marriage!" said donal uneasily, with a vague thought of eppy. "i had no intention," returned his lordship with cold politeness, "of troubling you concerning lord forgue!" "i beg your pardon, my lord," said donal. "--davie, poor boy--he is my anxiety!" resumed the earl, in his former condescendingly friendly, half sleepy tone. "what to do with him, i have not yet succeeded in determining. if the church of scotland were episcopal now, we might put him into that: he would be an honour to it! but as it has no dignities to confer, it is not the place for one of his birth and social position. a few shabby hundreds a year, and the associations he would necessarily be thrown into!--however honourable the profession in itself!" he added, with a bow to donal, apparently unable to get it out of his head that he had an embryo-clergyman before him. "davie is not quite a man yet," said donal; "and by the time he begins to think of a profession, he will, i trust, be fit to make a choice: the boy has a great deal of common sense. if your lordship will pardon me, i cannot help thinking there is no need to trouble about him." "it is very well for one in your position to think in that way, mr. grant! men like you are free to choose; you may make your bread as you please. but men in our position are greatly limited in their choice; the paths open to them are few. tradition oppresses us. we are slaves to the dead and buried. i could well wish i had been born in your humbler but in truth less contracted sphere. certain rôles are not open to you, to be sure; but your life in the open air, following your sheep, and dreaming all things beautiful and grand in the world beyond you, is entrancing. it is the life to make a poet!" "or a king!" thought donal. "but the earl would have made a discontented shepherd!" the man who is not content where he is, would never have been content somewhere else, though he might have complained less. "take another glass of wine, mr. grant," said his lordship, filling his own from the other decanter. "try this; i believe you will like it better." "in truth, my lord," answered donal, "i have drunk so little wine that i do not know one sort from another." "you know whisky better, i daresay! would you like some now? touch the bell behind you." "no, thank you, my lord; i know as little about whisky: my mother would never let us even taste it, and i have never tasted it." "a new taste is a gain to the being." "i suspect, however, a new appetite can only be a loss." as he said this, donal, half mechanically, filled a glass from the decanter his host had pushed towards him. "i should like you, though," resumed his lordship, after a short pause, "to keep your eyes open to the fact that davie must do something for himself. you would then be able to let me know by and by what you think him fit for!" "i will with pleasure, my lord. tastes may not be infallible guides to what is fit for us, but they may lead us to the knowledge of what we are fit for." "extremely well said!" returned the earl. i do not think he understood in the least what donal meant. "shall i try how he takes to trigonometry? he might care to learn land-surveying! gentlemen now, not unfrequently, take charge of the properties of their more favoured relatives. there is mr. graeme, your own factor, my lord--a relative, i understand!" "a distant one," answered his lordship with marked coldness, "--the degree of relationship hardly to be counted." "in the lowlands, my lord, you do not care to count kin as we do in the highlands! my heart warms to the word kinsman." "you have not found kinship so awkward as i, possibly!" said his lordship, with a watery smile. "the man in humble position may allow the claim of kin to any extent: he has nothing, therefore nothing can be taken from him! but the man who has would be the poorest of the clan if he gave to every needy relation." "i never knew the man so poor," answered donal, "that he had nothing to give. but the things of the poor are hardly to the purpose of the predatory relative." "'predatory relative!'--a good phrase!" said his lordship, with a sleepy laugh, though his eyes were wide open. his lips did not seem to care to move, yet he looked pleased. "to tell you the truth," he began again, "at one period of my history i gave and gave till i was tired of giving! ingratitude was the sole return. at one period i had large possessions--larger than i like to think of now: if i had the tenth part of what i have given away, i should not be uneasy concerning davie." "there is no fear of davie, my lord, so long as he is brought up with the idea that he must work for his bread." his lordship made no answer, and his look reminded donal of that he wore when he came to his chamber. a moment, and he rose and began to pace the room. an indescribable suggestion of an invisible yet luminous cloud hovered about his forehead and eyes--which latter, if not fixed on very vacancy, seemed to have got somewhere near it. at the fourth or fifth turn he opened the door by which he had entered, continuing a remark he had begun to donal--of which, although he heard every word and seemed on the point of understanding something, he had not caught the sense when his lordship disappeared, still talking. donal thought it therefore his part to follow him, and found himself in his lordship's bedroom. but out of this his lordship had already gone, through an opposite door, and donal still following entered an old picture-gallery, of which he had heard davie speak, but which the earl kept private for his exercise indoors. it was a long, narrow place, hardly more than a wide corridor, and appeared nowhere to afford distance enough for seeing a picture. but donal could ill judge, for the sole light in the place came from the fires and candles in the rooms whose doors they had left open behind them, with just a faint glimmer from the vapour-buried moon, sufficing to show the outline of window after window, and revealing something of the great length of the gallery. by the time donal overtook the earl, he was some distance down, holding straight on into the long dusk, and still talking. "this is my favourite promenade," he said, as if brought to himself by the sound of donal's overtaking steps. "after dinner always, mr. grant, wet weather or dry, still or stormy, i walk here. what do i care for the weather! it will be time when i am old to consult the barometer!" donal wondered a little: there seemed no great hardihood in the worst of weather to go pacing a picture-gallery, where the fiercest storm that ever blew could send in only little threads of air through the chinks of windows and doors! "yes," his lordship went on, "i taught myself hardship in my boyhood, and i reap the fruits of it in my prime!--come up here: i will show you a prospect unequalled." he stopped in front of a large picture, and began to talk as if expatiating on the points of a landscape outspread before him. his remarks belonged to something magnificent; but whether they were applicable to the picture donal could not tell; there was light enough only to give a faint gleam to its gilded frame. "reach beyond reach!" said his lordship; "endless! infinite! how would not poor maldon, with his ever fresh ambition after the unattainable, have gloated on such a scene! in nature alone you front success! she does what she means! she alone does what she means!" "if," said donal, more for the sake of confirming the earl's impression that he had a listener, than from any idea that he would listen--"if you mean the object of nature is to present us with perfection, i cannot allow she does what she intends: you rarely see her produce anything she would herself call perfect. but if her object be to make us behold perfection with the inner eye, this object she certainly does gain, and that just by stopping short of--" he did not finish the sentence. a sudden change was upon him, absorbing him so that he did not even try to account for it: something seemed to give way in his head--as if a bubble burst in his brain; and from that moment whatever the earl said, and whatever arose in his own mind, seemed to have outward existence as well. he heard and knew the voice of his host, but seemed also in some inexplicable way, which at the time occasioned him no surprise, to see the things which had their origin in the brain of the earl. whether he went in very deed out with him into the night, he did not know--he felt as if he had gone, and thought he had not--but when he woke the next morning in his bed at the top of the tower, which he had no recollection of climbing, he was as weary as if he had been walking the night through. chapter xxxi. bewilderment. his first thought was of a long and delightful journey he had made on horseback with the earl--through scenes of entrancing interest and variety,--with the present result of a strange weariness, almost misery. what had befallen him? was the thing a fact or a fancy? if a fancy, how was he so weary? if a fact, how could it have been? had he in any way been the earl's companion through such a long night as it seemed? could they have visited all the places whose remembrance lingered in his brain? he was so confused, so bewildered, so haunted with a shadowy uneasiness almost like remorse, that he even dreaded the discovery of the cause of it all. might a man so lose hold of himself as to be no more certain he had ever possessed or could ever possess himself again? he bethought himself at last that he might perhaps have taken more wine than his head could stand. yet he remembered leaving his glass unemptied to follow the earl; and it was some time after that before the change came! could it have been drunkenness? had it been slowly coming without his knowing it? he could hardly believe it? but whatever it was, it had left him unhappy, almost ashamed. what would the earl think of him? he must have concluded him unfit any longer to keep charge of his son! for his own part he did not feel he was to blame, but rather that an accident had befallen him. whence then this sense of something akin to shame? why should he be ashamed of anything coming upon him from without? of that shame he had to be ashamed, as of a lack of faith in god! would god leave his creature who trusted in him at the mercy of a chance--of a glass of wine taken in ignorance? there was a thing to be ashamed of, and with good cause! he got up, found to his dismay that it was almost ten o'clock--his hour for rising in winter being six--dressed in haste, and went down, wondering that davie had not come to see after him. in the schoolroom he found him waiting for him. the boy sprang up, and darted to meet him. "i hope you are better, mr. grant!" he said. "i am so glad you are able to be down!" "i am quite well," answered donal. "i can't think what made me sleep so long? why didn't you come and wake me, davie, my boy?" "because simmons told me you were ill, and i must not disturb you if you were ever so late in coming down." "i hardly deserve any breakfast!" said donal, turning to the table; "but if you will stand by me, and read while i take my coffee, we shall save a little time so." "yes, sir.--but your coffee must be quite cold! i will ring." "no, no; i must not waste any more time. a man who cannot drink cold coffee ought to come down while it is hot." "forgue won't drink cold coffee!" said davie: "i don't see why you should!" "because i prefer to do with my coffee as i please; i will not have hot coffee for my master. i won't have it anything to me what humour the coffee may be in. i will be donal grant, whether the coffee be cold or hot. a bit of practical philosophy for you, davie!" "i think i understand you, sir: you would not have a man make a fuss about a trifle." "not about a real trifle. the co-relative of a trifle, davie, is a smile. but i would take heed whether the thing that is called a trifle be really a trifle. besides, there may be a point in a trifle that is the egg of an ought. it is a trifle whether this or that is nice; it is a point that i should not care. with us highlanders it is a point of breeding not to mind what sort of dinner we have, but to eat as heartily of bread and cheese as of roast beef. at least so my father and mother used to teach me, though i fear that refinement of good manners is going out of fashion even with highlanders." "it is good manners!" rejoined davie with decision, "--and more than good manners! i should count it grand not to care what kind of dinner i had. but i am afraid it is more than i shall ever come to!" "you will never come to it by trying because you think it grand. only mind, i did not say we were not to enjoy our roast beef more than our bread and cheese; that would be not to discriminate, where there is a difference. if bread and cheese were just as good to us as roast beef, there would be no victory in our contentment." "i see!" said davie.--"wouldn't it be well," he asked, after a moment's pause, "to put one's self in training, mr. grant, to do without things--or at least to be able to do without them?" "it is much better to do the lessons set you by one who knows how to teach, than to pick lessons for yourself out of your books. davie, i have not that confidence in myself to think i should be a good teacher of myself." "but you are a good teacher of me, sir!" "i try--but then i'm set to teach you, and i am not set to teach myself: i am only set to make myself do what i am taught. when you are my teacher, davie, i try--don't i--to do everything you tell me?" "yes, indeed, sir!" "but i am not set to obey myself!" "no, nor anyone else, sir! you do not need to obey anyone, or have anyone teach you, sir!" "oh, don't i, davie! on the contrary, i could not get on for one solitary moment without somebody to teach me. look you here, davie: i have so many lessons given me, that i have no time or need to add to them any of my own. if you were to ask the cook to let you have a cold dinner, you would perhaps eat it with pride, and take credit for what your hunger yet made quite agreeable to you. but the boy who does not grumble when he is told not to go out because it is raining and he has a cold, will not perhaps grumble either should he happen to find his dinner not at all nice." davie hung his head. it had been a very small grumble, but there are no sins for which there is less reason or less excuse than small ones: in no sense are they worth committing. and we grown people commit many more such than little children, and have our reward in childishness instead of childlikeness. "it is so easy," continued donal, "to do the thing we ordain ourselves, for in holding to it we make ourselves out fine fellows!--and that is such a mean kind of thing! then when another who has the right, lays a thing upon us, we grumble--though it be the truest and kindest thing, and the most reasonable and needful for us--even for our dignity--for our being worth anything! depend upon it, davie, to do what we are told is a far grander thing than to lay the severest rules upon ourselves--ay, and to stick to them, too!" "but might there not be something good for us to do that we were not told of?" "whoever does the thing he is told to do--the thing, that is, that has a plain ought in it, will become satisfied that there is one who will not forget to tell him what must be done as soon as he is fit to do it." the conversation lasted only while donal ate his breakfast, with the little fellow standing beside him; it was soon over, but not soon to be forgotten. for the readiness of the boy to do what his master told him, was beautiful--and a great help and comfort, sometimes a rousing rebuke to his master, whose thoughts would yet occasionally tumble into one of the pitfalls of sorrow. "what!" he would say to himself, "am i so believed in by this child, that he goes at once to do my words, and shall i for a moment doubt the heart of the father, or his power or will to set right whatever may have seemed to go wrong with his child!--go on, davie! you are a good boy; i will be a better man!" but naturally, as soon as lessons were over, he fell again to thinking what could have befallen him the night before. at what point did the aberration begin? the earl must have taken notice of it, for surely simmons had not given davie those injunctions of himself--except indeed he had exposed his condition even to him! if the earl had spoken to simmons, kindness seemed intended him; but it might have been merely care over the boy! anyhow, what was to be done? he did not ponder the matter long. with that directness which was one of the most marked features of his nature, he resolved at once to request an interview with the earl, and make his apologies. he sought simmons, therefore, and found him in the pantry rubbing up the forks and spoons. "ah, mr. grant," he said, before donal could speak, "i was just coming to you with a message from his lordship! he wants to see you." "and i came to you," replied donal, "to say i wanted to see his lordship!" "that's well fitted, then, sir!" returned simmons. "i will go and see when. his lordship is not up, nor likely to be for some hours yet; he is in one of his low fits this morning. he told me you were not quite yourself last night." as he spoke his red nose seemed to examine donal's face with a kindly, but not altogether sympathetic scrutiny. "the fact is, simmons," answered donal, "not being used to wine, i fear i drank more of his lordship's than was good for me." "his lordship's wine," murmured simmons, and there checked himself. "--how much did you drink, sir--if i may make so bold?" "i had one glass during dinner, and more than one, but not nearly two, after." "pooh! pooh, sir! that could never hurt a strong man like you! you ought to know better than that! look at me!" but he did not go on with his illustration. "tut!" he resumed, "that make you sleep till ten o'clock!--if you will kindly wait in the hall, or in the schoolroom, i will bring you his lordship's orders." so saying while he washed his hands and took off his white apron, simmons departed on his errand to his master. donal went to the foot of the grand staircase, and there waited. as he stood he heard a light step above him, and involuntarily glancing up, saw the light shape of lady arctura come round the curve of the spiral stair, descending rather slowly and very softly, as if her feet were thinking. she checked herself for an infinitesimal moment, then moved on again. donal stood with bended head as she passed. if she acknowledged his obeisance it was with the slightest return, but she lifted her eyes to his face with a look that seemed to have in it a strange wistful trouble--not very marked, yet notable. she passed on and vanished, leaving that look a lingering presence in donal's thought. what was it? was it anything? what could it mean? had he really seen it? was it there, or had he only imagined it? simmons kept him waiting a good while. he had found his lordship getting up, and had had to stay to help him dress. at length he came, excusing himself that his lordship's temper at such times--that was, in his dumpy fits--was not of the evenest, and required a gentle hand. but his lordship would see him--and could mr. grant find the way himself, for his old bones ached with running up and down those endless stone steps? donal answered he knew the way, and sprang up the stair. but his mind was more occupied with the coming interview than with the way to it, which caused him to take a wrong turn after leaving the stair: he had a good gift in space-relations, but instinct was here not so keen as on a hill-side. the consequence was that he found himself in the picture-gallery. a strange feeling of pain, as at the presence of a condition he did not wish to encourage, awoke in him at the discovery. he walked along, however, thus taking, he thought, the readiest way to his lordship's apartment: either he would find him in his bedroom, or could go through that to his sitting-room! he glanced at the pictures he passed, and seemed, strange to say, though, so far as he knew, he had never been in the place except in the dark, to recognize some of them as belonging to the stuff of the dream in which he had been wandering through the night--only that was a glowing and gorgeous dream, whereas the pictures were even commonplace! here was something to be meditated upon--but for the present postponed! his lordship was expecting him! arrived, as he thought, at the door of the earl's bedroom, he knocked, and receiving no answer, opened it, and found himself in a narrow passage. nearly opposite was another door, partly open, and hearing a movement within, he ventured to knock there. a voice he knew at once to be lady arctura's, invited him to enter. it was an old, lovely, gloomy little room, in which sat the lady writing. it had but one low lattice-window, to the west, but a fire blazed cheerfully in the old-fashioned grate. she looked up, nor showed more surprise than if he had been a servant she had rung for. "i beg your pardon, my lady," he said: "my lord wished to see me, but i have lost my way." "i will show it you," she answered, and rising came to him. she led him along the winding narrow passage, pointed out to him the door of his lordship's sitting-room, and turned away--again, donal could not help thinking, with a look as of some anxiety about him. he knocked, and the voice of the earl bade him enter. his lordship was in his dressing-gown, on a couch of faded satin of a gold colour, against which his pale yellow face looked cadaverous. "good morning, mr. grant," he said. "i am glad to see you better!" "i thank you, my lord," returned donal. "i have to make an apology. i cannot understand how it was, except, perhaps, that, being so little accustomed to strong drink,--" "there is not the smallest occasion to say a word," interrupted his lordship. "you did not once forget yourself, or cease to behave like a gentleman!" "your lordship is very kind. still i cannot help being sorry. i shall take good care in the future." "it might be as well," conceded the earl, "to set yourself a limit--necessarily in your case a narrow one.--some constitutions are so immediately responsive!" he added in a murmur. "the least exhibition of--!--but a man like you, mr. grant," he went on aloud, "will always know to take care of himself!" "sometimes, apparently, when it is too late!" rejoined donal. "but i must not annoy your lordship with any further expression of my regret!" "will you dine with me to-night?" said the earl. "i am lonely now. sometimes, for months together, i feel no need of a companion: my books and pictures content me. all at once a longing for society will seize me, and that longing my health will not permit me to indulge. i am not by nature unsociable--much the contrary. you may wonder i do not admit my own family more freely; but my wretched health makes me shrink from loud voices and abrupt motions." "but lady arctura!" thought donal. "your lordship will find me a poor substitute, i fear," he said, "for the society you would like. but i am at your lordship's service." he could not help turning with a moment's longing and regret to his tower-nest and the company of his books and thoughts; but he did not feel that he had a choice. chapter xxxii. the second dinner with the earl. he went as before, conducted by the butler, and formally announced. to his surprise, with the earl was lady arctura. his lordship made him give her his arm, and followed. this was to donal a very different dinner from that of the evening before. whether the presence of his niece made the earl rouse himself to be agreeable, or he had grown better since the morning and his spirits had risen, certainly he was not like the same man. he talked in a rather forced-playful way, but told two or three good stories; described with vivacity some of the adventures of his youth; spoke of several great men he had met; and in short was all that could be desired in a host. donal took no wine during dinner, the earl as before took very little, and lady arctura none. she listened respectfully to her uncle's talk, and was attentive when donal spoke; he thought she looked even sympathetic two or three times; and once he caught the expression as of anxiety he had seen on her face that same day twice before. it was strange, too, he thought, that, not seeing her sometimes for a week together, he should thus meet her three times in one day. when the last of the dinner was removed and the wine placed on the table, donal thought his lordship looked as if he expected his niece to go; but she kept her place. he asked her which wine she would have, but she declined any. he filled his glass, and pushed the decanter to donal. he too filled his glass, and drank slowly. the talk revived. but donal could not help fancying that the eyes of the lady now and then sought his with a sort of question in them--almost as if she feared something was going to happen to him. he attributed this to her having heard that he took too much wine the night before. the situation was unpleasant. he must, however, brave it out! when he refused a second glass, which the earl by no means pressed, he thought he saw her look relieved; but more than once thereafter he saw, or fancied he saw her glance at him with that expression of slight anxiety. in its course the talk fell upon sheep, and donal was relating some of his experiences with them and their dogs, greatly interested in the subject; when all at once, just as before, something seemed to burst in his head, and immediately, although he knew he was sitting at table with the earl and lady arctura, he was uncertain whether he was not at the same time upon the side of a lonely hill, closed in a magic night of high summer, his woolly and hairy friends lying all about him, and a light glimmering faintly on the heather a little way off, which he knew for the flame that marks for a moment the footstep of an angel, when he touches ever so lightly the solid earth. he seemed to be reading the thoughts of his sheep around him, yet all the time went on talking, and knew he was talking, with the earl and the lady. after a while, everything was changed. he was no longer either with his sheep or his company. he was alone, and walking swiftly through and beyond the park, in a fierce wind from the north-east, battling with it, and ruling it like a fiery horse. by and by came a hoarse, terrible music, which he knew for the thunderous beat of the waves on the low shore, yet imagined issuing from an indescribable instrument, gigantic and grotesque. he felt it first--through his feet, as one feels without hearing the tones of an organ for which the building is too small to allow scope to their vibration: the waves made the ground beat against the soles of his feet as he walked; but soon he heard it like the infinitely prolonged roaring of a sky-built organ. it was drawing him to the sea, whether in the body or out of the body he knew not: he was but conscious of forms of existence: whether those forms had relation to things outside him, or whether they belonged only to the world within him, he was unaware. the roaring of the great water-organ grew louder and louder. he knew every step of the way to the shore--across the fields and over fences and stiles. he turned this way and that, to avoid here a ditch, there a deep sandy patch. and still the music grew louder and louder--and at length came in his face the driving spray: it was the flying touch of the wings on which the tones went hurrying past into the depths of awful distance! his feet were now wading through the bent-tufted sand, with the hard, bare, wave-beaten sand in front of him. through the dark he could see the white fierceness of the hurrying waves as they rushed to the shore, then leaning, toppling, curling, self-undermined, hurled forth at once all the sound that was in them in a falling roar of defeat. every wave was a complex chord, with winnowed tones feathering it round. he paced up and down the sand--it seemed for ages. why he paced there he did not know--why always he turned and went back instead of going on. suddenly he thought he saw something dark in the hollow of a wave that swept to its fall. the moon came out as it broke, and the something was rolled in the surf up the shore. donal stood watching it. why should he move? what was it to him? the next wave would reclaim it for the ocean! it looked like the body of a man, but what did it matter! many such were tossed in the hollows of that music! but something came back to him out of the ancient years: in the ages gone by men did what they could! there was a word they used then: they said men ought to do this or that! this body might not be dead--or dead, some one might like to have it! he rushed into the water, and caught it--ere the next wave broke, though hours of cogitation, ratiocination, recollection, seemed to have intervened. the breaking wave drenched him from head to foot: he clung to his prize and dragged it out. a moment's bewilderment, and he came to himself lying on the sand, his arms round a great lump of net, lost from some fishing boat. his illusions were gone. he was sitting in a cold wind, wet to the skin, on the border of a wild sea. a poor, shivering, altogether ordinary and uncomfortable mortal, he sat on the shore of the german ocean, from which he had rescued a tangled mass of net and seaweed! he dragged it beyond the reach of the waves, and set out for home. by the time he reached the castle he was quite warm. his door at the foot of the tower was open, he crept up, and was soon fast asleep. chapter xxxiii. the housekeeper's room. he was not so late the next morning. ere he had finished his breakfast he had made up his mind that he must beware of the earl. he was satisfied that the experiences of the past night could not be the consequence of one glass of wine. if he asked him again, he would go to dinner with him, but would drink nothing but water. school was just over when simmons came from his lordship, to inquire after him, and invite him to dine with him that evening. donald immediately consented. this time lady arctura was not with the earl. after as during dinner donal declined to drink. his lordship cast on him a keen, searching glance, but it was only a glance, and took no farther notice of his refusal. the conversation, however, which had not been brilliant from the first, now sank and sank till it was not; and after a cup of coffee, his lordship, remarking that he was not feeling himself, begged donal to excuse him, and proceeded to retire. donal rose, and with a hope that his lordship would have a good night and feel better in the morning, left the room. the passage outside was lighted only by a rather dim lamp, and in the distance donal saw what he could but distinguish as the form of a woman, standing by the door which opened upon the great staircase. he supposed it at first to be one of the maids; but the servants were so few compared with the size of the castle that one was seldom to be met on stair or in passage; and besides, the form stood as if waiting for some one! as he drew nearer, he saw it was lady arctura, and would have passed with an obeisance. but ere he could lay his hand on the lock, hers was there to prevent him. he then saw that she was agitated, and that she had stopped him thus because her voice had at the moment failed her. the next moment, however, she recovered it, and her self-possession as well. "mr. grant," she said, in a low voice, "i wish to speak to you--if you will allow me." "i am at your service, my lady," answered donal. "but we cannot here! my uncle--" "shall we go into the picture-gallery?" suggested donal; "there is moonlight there." "no; that would be still nearer my uncle. his hearing is sometimes preternaturally keen; and besides, as you know, he often walks there after his evening meal. but--excuse me, mr. grant--you will understand me presently--are you--are you quite--?" "you mean, my lady--am i quite myself this evening!" said donal, wishing to help her with the embarrassing question: "--i have drunk nothing but water to-night." with that she opened the door, and descended the stair, he following; but as soon as the curve of the staircase hid the door they had left, she stopped, and turning to him said, "i would not have you mistake me, mr. grant! i should be ashamed to speak to you if--" "indeed i am very sorry!" said donal, "--though hardly so much to blame as i fear you think me." "you mistake me at once! you suppose i imagine you took too much wine last night! it would be absurd. i saw what you took! but we must not talk here. come." she turned again, and going down, led the way to the housekeeper's room. they found her at work with her needle. "mistress brookes," said lady arctura, "i want to have a little talk with mr. grant, and there is no fire in the library: may we sit here?" "by all means! sit doon, my lady! why, bairn! you look as cold as if you had been on the roof! there! sit close to the fire; you're all trem'lin'!" lady arctura obeyed like the child mrs. brookes called her, and sat down in the chair she gave up to her. "i've something to see efter i' the still-room," said the housekeeper. "you sit here and hae yer crack. sit doon, mr. grant. i'm glad to see you an' my lady come to word o' mooth at last. i began to think it wud never be!" had donal been in the way of looking to faces for the interpretation of words and thoughts, he would have seen a shadow sweep over lady arctura's, followed by a flush, which he would have attributed to displeasure at this utterance of the housekeeper. but, with all his experience of the world within, and all his unusually developed power of entering into the feelings of others, he had never come to pry into those feelings, or to study their phenomena for the sake of possessing himself of them. man was by no means an open book to him--"no, nor woman neither," but he would have scorned to supplement by such investigation what a lady chose to tell him. he sat looking into the fire, with an occasional upward glance, waiting for what was to come, and saw neither shadow nor flush. lady arctura sat also gazing into the fire, and seemed in no haste to begin. "you are so good to davie!" she said at length, and stopped. "no better than i have to be," returned donal. "not to be good to davie would be to be a wretch." "you know, mr. grant, i cannot agree with you!" "there is no immediate necessity, my lady." "but i suppose one may be fair to another!" she went on, doubtingly, "--and it is only fair to confess that he is much more manageable since you came. only that is no good if it does not come from the right source." "grapes do not come from thorns, my lady. we must not allow in evil a power of good." she did not reply. "he minds everything i say to him now," she resumed. "what is it makes him so good?--i wish i had had such a tutor!" she stopped again: she had spoken out of the simplicity of her thought, but the words when said looked to her as if they ought not to have been said. "something is working in her!" thought donal. "she is so different! her voice is different!" "but that is not what i wanted to speak to you about, mr. grant," she re-commenced, "--though i did want you to know i was aware of the improvement in davie. i wished to say something about my uncle." here followed another pause. "you may have remarked," she said at length, "that, though we live together, and he is my guardian, and the head of the house, there is not much communication between us." "i have gathered as much: i ask no questions, but i cannot tell davie not to talk to me!" "of course not.--lord morven is a strange man. i do not understand him, and i do not want to judge him, or make you judge him. but i must speak of a fact, concerning yourself, which i have no right to keep from you." once more a pause followed. there was nothing now of the grand dame about arctura. "has nothing occurred to wake a doubt in you?" she said at last, abruptly. "have you not suspected him of--of using you in any way?" "i have had an undefined ghost of a suspicion," answered donal. "please tell me what you know." "i should know nothing--although, my room being near his, i should have been the more perplexed about some things--had he not made an experiment upon myself a year ago." "is it possible?" "i sometimes fancy i have not been so well since. it was a great shock to me when i came to myself:--you see i am trusting you, mr. grant!" "i thank you heartily, my lady," said donal. "i believe," continued lady arctura, gathering courage, "that my uncle is in the habit of taking some horrible drug for the sake of its effect on his brain. there are people who do so! what it is i don't know, and i would rather not know. it is just as bad, surely, as taking too much wine! i have heard himself remark to mr. carmichael that opium was worse than wine, for it destroyed the moral sense more. mind i don't say it is opium he takes!" "there are other things," said donal, "even worse!--but surely you do not mean he dared try anything of the sort on you!" "i am sure he gave me something! for, once that i dined with him,--but i cannot describe the effect it had upon me! i think he wanted to see its operation on one who did not even know she had taken anything. the influence of such things is a pleasant one, they say, at first, but i would not go through such agonies as i had for the world!" she ceased, evidently troubled by the harassing remembrance. donal hastened to speak. "it was because of such a suspicion, my lady, that this evening i would not even taste his wine. i am safe to-night, i trust, from the insanity--i can call it nothing else--that possessed me the last two nights." "was it very dreadful?" asked lady arctura. "on the contrary, i had a sense of life and power such as i could never of myself have imagined!" "oh, mr. grant, do take care! do not be tempted to take it again. i don't know where it might not have led me if i had found it as pleasant as it was horrible; for i am sorely tried with painful thoughts, and feel sometimes as if i would do almost anything to get rid of them." "there must be a good way of getting rid of them! think it of god's mercy," said donal, "that you cannot get rid of them the other way." "i do; i do!" "the shield of his presence was over you." "how glad i should be to think so! but we have no right to think he cares for us till we believe in christ--and--and--i don't know that i do believe in him!" "wherever you learned that, it is a terrible lie," said donal. "is not christ the same always, and is he not of one mind with god? was it not while we were yet sinners that he poured out his soul for us? it is a fearful thing to say of the perfect love, that he is not doing all he can, with all the power of a maker over the creature he has made, to help and deliver him!" "i know he makes his sun to shine and his rain to fall upon the evil and the good; but those good things are only of this world!" "are those the good things then that the lord says the father will give to those that ask him? how can you worship a god who gives you all the little things he does not care much about, but will not do his best for you?" "but are there not things he cannot do for us till we believe in christ?" "certainly there are. but what i want you to see is that he does all that can be done. he finds it very hard to teach us, but he is never tired of trying. anyone who is willing to be taught of god, will by him be taught, and thoroughly taught." "i am afraid i am doing wrong in listening to you, mr. grant--and the more that i cannot help wishing what you say might be true! but are you not in danger--you will pardon me for saying it--of presumption?--how can all the good people be wrong?" "because the greater part of their teachers have set themselves to explain god rather than to obey and enforce his will. the gospel is given to convince, not our understandings, but our hearts; that done, and never till then, our understandings will be free. our lord said he had many things to tell his disciples, but they were not able to hear them. if the things be true which i have heard from sunday to sunday since i came here, the lord has brought us no salvation at all, but only a change of shape to our miseries. they have not redeemed you, lady arctura, and never will. nothing but christ himself, your lord and friend and brother, not all the doctrines about him, even if every one of them were true, can save you. poor orphan children, we cannot find our god, and they would have us take instead a shocking caricature of him!" "but how should sinners know what is or is not like the true god?" "if a man desires god, he cannot help knowing enough of him to be capable of learning more--else how should he desire him? made in the image of god, his idea of him cannot be all wrong. that does not make him fit to teach others--only fit to go on learning for himself. but in jesus christ i see the very god i want. i want a father like him. he reproaches some of those about him for not knowing him--for, if they had known god, they would have known him: they were to blame for not knowing god. no other than the god exactly like christ can be the true god. it is a doctrine of devils that jesus died to save us from our father. there is no safety, no good, no gladness, no purity, but with the father, his father and our father, his god and our god." "but god hates sin and punishes it!" "it would be terrible if he did not. all hatred of sin is love to the sinner. do you think jesus came to deliver us from the punishment of our sins? he would not have moved a step for that. the horrible thing is being bad, and all punishment is help to deliver us from that, nor will punishment cease till we have ceased to be bad. god will have us good, and jesus works out the will of his father. where is the refuge of the child who fears his father? is it in the farthest corner of the room? is it down in the dungeon of the castle, my lady?" "no, no!" cried lady arctura, "--in his father's arms!" "there!" said donal, and was silent. "i hold by jesus!" he added after a pause, and rose as he said it, but stood where he rose. lady arctura sat motionless, divided between reverence for distorted and false forms of truth taught her from her earliest years, and desire after a god whose very being is the bliss of his creatures. some time passed in silence, and then she too rose to depart. she held out her hand to donal with a kind of irresolute motion, but withdrawing it, smiled almost beseechingly, and said, "i wish i might ask you something. i know it is a rude question, but if you could see all, you would answer me and let the offence go." "i will answer you anything you choose to ask." "that makes it the more difficult; but i will--i cannot bear to remain longer in doubt: did you really write that poem you gave to kate graeme--compose it, i mean, your own self?" "i made no secret of that when i gave it her," said donal, not perceiving her drift. "then you did really write it?" donal looked at her in perplexity. her face grew very red, and tears began to come in her eyes. "you must pardon me!" she said: "i am so ignorant! and we live in such an out-of-the-way place that--that it seems very unlikely a real poet--! and then i have been told there are people who have a passion for appearing to do the thing they are not able to do, and i was anxious to be quite sure! my mind would keep brooding over it, and wondering, and longing to know for certain!--so i resolved at last that i would be rid of the doubt, even at the risk of offending you. i know i have been rude--unpardonably rude, but--" "but," supplemented donal, with a most sympathetic smile, for he understood her as his own thought, "you do not feel quite sure yet! what a priori reason do you see why i should not be able to write verses? there is no rule as to where poetry grows: one place is as good as another for that!" "i hope you will forgive me! i hope i have not offended you very much!" "nobody in such a world as this ought to be offended at being asked for proof. if there are in it rogues that look like honest men, how is any one, without a special gift of insight, to be always sure of the honest man? even the man whom a woman loves best will sometimes tear her heart to pieces! i will give you all the proof you can desire.--and lest the tempter should say i made up the proof itself between now and to-morrow morning, i will fetch it at once." "oh, mr. grant, spare me! i am not, indeed i am not so bad as that!" "who can tell when or whence the doubt may wake again, or what may wake it!" "at least let me explain a little before you go," she said. "certainly," he answered, reseating himself, in compliance with her example. "miss graeme told me that you had never seen a garden like theirs before!" "i never did. there are none such, i fancy, in our part of the country." "nor in our neighbourhood either." "then what is surprising in it?" "nothing in that. but is there not something in your being able to write a poem like that about a garden such as you had never seen? one would say you must have been familiar with it from childhood to be able so to enter into the spirit of the place!" "perhaps if i had been familiar with it from childhood, that might have disabled me from feeling the spirit of it, for then might it not have looked to me as it looked to those in whose time such gardens were the fashion? two things are necessary--first, that there should be a spirit in a place, and next that the place should be seen by one whose spirit is capable of giving house-room to its spirit.--by the way, does the ghost-lady feel the place all right?" "i am not sure that i know what you mean; but i felt the grass with her feet as i read, and the wind lifting my hair. i seemed to know exactly how she felt!" "now tell me, were you ever a ghost?" "no," she answered, looking in his face like a child--without even a smile. "did you ever see a ghost?" "no, never." "then how should you know how a ghost would feel?" "i see! i cannot answer you." donal rose. "i am indeed ashamed!" said lady arctura. "ashamed of giving me the chance of proving myself a true man?" "that, at least, is no longer necessary!" "but i want my revenge. as a punishment for doubting one whom you had so little ground for believing, you shall be compelled to see the proof--that is, if you will do me the favour to wait here till i come back. i shall not be long, though it is some distance to the top of baliol's tower." "davie told me your room was there: do you not find it cold? it must be very lonely! i wonder why mistress brookes put you there!" donal assured her he could not have had a place more to his mind, and before she could well think he had reached the foot of his stair, was back with a roll of papers, which he laid on the table. "there!" he said, opening it out; "if you will take the trouble to go over these, you may read the growth of the poem. here first you see it blocked out rather roughly, and much blotted with erasures and substitutions. here next you see the result copied--clean to begin with, but afterwards scored and scored. you see the words i chose instead of the first, and afterwards in their turn rejected, until in the proofs i reached those which i have as yet let stand. i do not fancy miss graeme has any doubt the verses are mine, for it was plain she thought them rubbish. from your pains to know who wrote them, i believe you do not think so badly of them!" she thought he was satirical, and gave a slight sigh as of pain. it went to his heart. "i did not mean the smallest reflection, my lady, on your desire for satisfaction," he said; "rather, indeed, it flatters me. but is it not strange the heart should be less ready to believe what seems worth believing? something must be true: why not the worthy--oftener at least than the unworthy? why should it be easier to believe hard things of god, for instance, than lovely things?--or that one man copied from another, than that he should have made the thing himself? some would yet say i contrived all this semblance of composition in order to lay the surer claim to that to which i had none--nor would take the trouble to follow the thing through its development! but it will be easy for you, my lady, and no bad exercise in logic and analysis, to determine whether the genuine growth of the poem be before you in these papers or not." "i shall find it most interesting," said lady arctura: "so much i can tell already! i never saw anything of the kind before, and had no idea how poetry was made. does it always take so much labour?" "some verses take much more; some none at all. the labour is in getting the husks of expression cleared off, so that the thought may show itself plainly." at this point mrs. brookes, thinking probably the young people had had long enough conference, entered, and after a little talk with her, lady arctura kissed her and bade her good night. donal retired to his aerial chamber, wondering whether the lady of the house had indeed changed as much as she seemed to have changed. from that time, whether it was that lady arctura had previously avoided meeting him and now did not, or from other causes, donal and she met much oftener as they went about the place, nor did they ever pass without a mutual smile and greeting. the next day but one, she brought him his papers to the schoolroom. she had read every erasure and correction, she told him, and could no longer have had a doubt that the writer of the papers was the maker of the verses, even had she not previously learned thorough confidence in the man himself. "they would possibly fail to convince a jury though!" he said, as he rose and went to throw them in the fire. divining his intent, arctura darted after him, and caught them just in time. "let me keep them," she pleaded, "--for my humiliation!" "do with them what you like, my lady," said donal. "they are of no value to me--except that you care for them." chapter xxxiv. cobbler and castle. in the bosom of the family in which the elements seem most kindly mixed, there may yet lie some root of discord and disruption, upon which the foreign influence necessary to its appearance above ground, has not yet come to operate. that things are quiet is no proof, only a hopeful sign of harmony. in a family of such poor accord as that at the castle, the peace might well at any moment be broken. lord forgue had been for some time on a visit to edinburgh, had doubtless there been made much of, and had returned with a considerable development of haughtiness, and of that freedom which means subjugation to self, and freedom from the law of liberty. it is often when a man is least satisfied--not with himself but with his immediate doings--that he is most ready to assert his superiority to the restraints he might formerly have grumbled against, but had not dared to dispute--and to claim from others such consideration as accords with a false idea of his personal standing. but for a while donal and he barely saw each other; donal had no occasion to regard him; and lord forgue kept so much to himself that davie made lamentation: percy was not half so jolly as he used to be! for a fortnight eppy had not been to see her grand-parents; and as the last week something had prevented donal also from paying them his customary visit, the old people had naturally become uneasy; and one frosty twilight, when the last of the sunlight had turned to cold green in the west, andrew comin appeared in the castle kitchen, asking to see mistress brookes. he was kindly received by the servants, among whom eppy was not present; and mrs. brookes, who had a genuine respect for the cobbler, soon came to greet him. she told him she knew no reason why eppy had not gone to inquire after them as usual: she would send for her, she said, and left the kitchen. eppy was not at the moment to be found, but donal, whom mistress brookes had gone herself to seek, went at once to the kitchen. "will you come out a bit, andrew," he said, "--if you're not tired? it's a fine night, and it's easy to talk in the gloamin'!" andrew consented with alacrity. on the side of the castle away from the town, the descent was at first by a succession of terraces with steps from the one to the other, the terraces themselves being little flower-gardens. at the bottom of the last of these terraces and parallel with them, was a double row of trees, forming a long narrow avenue between two little doors in two walls at opposite ends of the castle. one of these led to some of the offices; the other admitted to a fruit garden which turned the western shoulder of the hill, and found for the greater part a nearly southern exposure. at this time of the year it was a lonely enough place, and at this time of the day more than likely to be altogether deserted: thither donal would lead his friend. going out therefore by the kitchen-door, they went first into a stable-yard, from which descended steps to the castle-well, on the level of the second terrace. thence they arrived, by more steps, at the mews where in old times the hawks were kept, now rather ruinous though not quite neglected. here the one wall-door opened on the avenue which led to the other. it was one of the pleasantest walks in immediate proximity to the castle. the first of the steely stars were shining through the naked rafters of leafless boughs overhead, as donal and the cobbler stepped, gently talking, into the aisle of trees. the old man looked up, gazed for a moment in silence, and said:-- "'the heavens declare the glory o' god, an' the firmament showeth his handy-work.' i used, whan i was a lad, to study astronomy a wee, i' the houp o' better hearin' what the h'avens declared aboot the glory o' god: i wud fain un'erstan' the speech ae day cried across the nicht to the ither. but i was sair disapp'intit. the things the astronomer tellt semple fowk war verra won'erfu', but i couldna fin' i' my hert 'at they made me think ony mair o' god nor i did afore. i dinna mean to say they michtna be competent to work that in anither, but it wasna my experrience o' them. my hert was some sair at this, for ye see i was set upo' winnin' intil the presence o' him i couldna bide frae, an' at that time i hadna learnt to gang straucht to him wha's the express image o' 's person, but, aye soucht him throuw the philosophy--eh, but it was bairnly philosophy!--o' the guid buiks 'at dwall upo' the natur' o' god an' a' that, an' his hatred o' sin an' a' that--pairt an' pairt true, nae doobt! but i wantit god great an' near, an' they made him oot sma', sma', an' unco' far awa'. ae nicht i was oot by mysel' upo' the shore, jist as the stars war teetin' oot. an' it wasna as gien they war feart o' the sun, an' pleast 'at he was gane, but as gien they war a' teetin' oot to see what had come o' their father o' lichts. a' at ance i cam to mysel', like oot o' some blin' delusion. up i cuist my e'en aboon--an' eh, there was the h'aven as god made it--awfu'!--big an' deep, ay faddomless deep, an' fu' o' the wan'erin' yet steady lichts 'at naething can blaw oot, but the breath o' his mooth! awa' up an' up it gaed, an' deeper an' deeper! an' my e'en gaed traivellin' awa' an' awa', till it seemed as though they never could win back to me. a' at ance they drappit frae the lift like a laverock, an' lichtit upo' the horizon, whaur the sea an' the sky met like richteousness an' peace kissin' ane anither, as the psalm says. noo i canna tell what it was, but jist there whaur the earth an' the sky cam thegither, was the meetin' o' my earthly sowl wi' god's h'avenly sowl! there was bonny colours, an' bonny lichts, an' a bonny grit star hingin' ower 't a', but it was nane o' a' thae things; it was something deeper nor a', an' heicher nor a'! frae that moment i saw--no hoo the h'avens declare the glory o' god, but i saw them declarin' 't, an' i wantit nae mair. astronomy for me micht sit an' wait for a better warl', whaur fowk didna weir oot their shune, an' ither fowk hadna to men' them. for what is the great glory o' god but that, though no man can comprehen' him, he comes doon, an' lays his cheek til his man's, an' says til him, 'eh, my cratur!'" while the cobbler was thus talking, they had gone the length of the avenue, and were within less than two trees of the door of the fruit-garden, when it opened, and was hurriedly shut again--not, however, before donal had caught sight, as he believed, of the form of eppy. he called her by name, and ran to the door, followed by andrew: the same suspicion had struck both of them at once! donal lifted the latch, and would have opened the door, but some one held it against him, and he heard the noise of an attempt to push the rusty bolt into the staple. he set his strength to it, and forced the door open. lord forgue was on the other side of it, and a little way off stood eppy trembling. donal turned away from his lordship, and said to the girl, "eppy, here's your grandfather come to see you!" the cobbler, however, went up to lord forgue. "you're a young man, my lord," he said, "an' may regard it as folly in an auld man to interfere between you an' your wull; but i warn ye, my lord, excep' you cease to carry yourself thus towards my granddaughter, his lordship, your father, shall be informed of the matter. eppy, you come home with me." "i will not," said eppy, her voice trembling with passion, though which passion it were hard to say; "i am a free woman. i make my own living. i will not be treated like a child!" "i will speak to mistress brookes," said the old man, with sad dignity. "and make her turn me away!" said eppy. she seemed quite changed--bold and determined--was probably relieved that she could no more play a false part. his lordship stood and said nothing. "but don't you think, grandfather," continued eppy, "that whatever mistress brookes says or does, i'll go home with you! i've saved money, and, as i can't get another place here when you've taken away my character, i'll leave the country." his lordship advanced, and with strained composure said, "i confess, mr. comin, things do look against us. it is awkward you should have found us together, but you know"--and here he attempted a laugh--"we are told not to judge by appearances!" "we may be forced to act by them, though, my lord!" said andrew. "i should be sorry to judge aither of you by them. eppy must come home with me, or it will be more awkward yet for both of you!" "oh, if you threaten us," said forgue contemptuously, "then of course we are very frightened! but you had better beware! you will only make it the more difficult for me to do your granddaughter the justice i always intended." "what your lordship's notion o' justice may be, i wull not trouble you to explain," said the old man. "all i desire for the present is, that she come home with me." "let us leave the matter to mistress brookes!" said forgue. "i shall easily satisfy her that there is no occasion for any hurry. believe me, you will only bring trouble on the innocent!" "then it canna be on you, my lord! for in this thing you have not behaved as a gentleman ought!" said the cobbler. "you dare tell me so!" cried forgue, striding up to the little old man, as if he would sweep him away with the very wind of his approach. "yes; for else how should i say it to another, an' that may soon be necessar'!" answered the cobbler. "didna yer lordship promise an en' to the haill meeserable affair?" "i remember nothing of the sort." "you did to me!" said donal. "do hold your tongue, grant, and don't make things worse. to you i can easily explain it. besides, you have nothing to do with it now this good fellow has taken it up. it is quite possible, besides, to break one's word to the ear and yet keep it to the sense." "the only thing to justify that suggestion," said donal, "would be that you had married eppy, or were about to marry her!" eppy would have spoken; but she only gave a little cry, for forgue put his hand over her mouth. "you hold your tongue!" he said; "you will only complicate matters!" "and there's another point, my lord," resumed donal: "you say i have nothing to do now with the affair: if not for my friend's sake, i have for my own." "what do you mean?" "that i am in the house a paid servant, and must not allow anything mischievous to go on in it without acquainting my master." "you acknowledge, mr. grant, that you are neither more nor less than a paid servant, but you mistake your duty as such: i shall be happy to explain it to you.--you have nothing whatever to do with what goes on in the house; you have but to mind your work. i told you before, you are my brother's tutor, not mine! to interfere with what i do, is nothing less than a piece of damned impertinence!" "that impertinence, however, i intend to be guilty of the moment i can get audience of your father." "you will not, if i give you such explanation as satisfies you i have done the girl no harm, and mean honestly by her!" said forgue in a confident, yet somewhat conciliatory tone. "in any case," returned donal, "you having once promised, and then broken your promise, i shall without fail tell your father all i know." "and ruin her, and perhaps me too, for life?" "the truth will ruin only those that ought to be ruined!" said donal. forgue sprang upon him, and struck him a heavy blow between the eyes. he had been having lessons in boxing while in edinburgh, and had confidence in himself. it was a well-planted blow, and donal unprepared for it. he staggered against the wall, and for a moment could neither see nor think: all he knew was that there was something or other he had to attend to. his lordship, excusing himself perhaps on the ground of necessity, there being a girl in the case, would have struck him again; but andrew threw himself between, and received the blow for him. as donal came to himself, he heard a groan from the ground, and looking, saw andrew at his feet, and understood. "dear old man!" he said; "he dared to strike you!" "he didna mean 't," returned andrew feebly. "are ye winnin' ower 't, sir? he gae ye a terrible ane! ye micht hae h'ard it across the street!" "i shall be all right in a minute!" answered donal, wiping the blood out of his eyes. "i've a good hard head, thank god!--but what has become of them?" "ye didna think he wud be waitin' to see 's come to oorsel's!" said the cobbler. with donal's help, and great difficulty, he rose, and they stood looking at each other through the starlight, bewildered and uncertain. the cobbler was the first to recover his wits. "it's o' no mainner of use," he said, "to rouse the castel wi' hue an' cry! what hae we to say but 'at we faund the twa i' the gairden thegither! it wud but raise a clash--the which, fable or fac', wud do naething for naebody! his lordship maun be loot ken, as ye say; but wull his lordship believe ye, sir? i'm some i' the min' the yoong man 's awa' til's faither a'ready, to prejudeese him again' onything ye may say." "that makes it the more necessary," said donal, "that i should go at once to his lordship. he will fall out upon me for not having told him at once; but i must not mind that: if i were not to tell him now, he would have a good case against me." they were already walking towards the house, the old man giving a groan now and then. he could not go in, he said; he would walk gently on, and donal would overtake him. it was an hour and a half before andrew got home, and donal had not overtaken him. chapter xxxv. the earl's bedchamber. having washed the blood from his face, donal sought simmons. "his lordship can't see you now, i am sure, sir," answered the butler; "lord forgue is with him." donal turned and went straight up to lord morven's apartment. as he passed the door of his bedroom opening on the corridor, he heard voices in debate. he entered the sitting-room. there was no one there. it was not a time for ceremony. he knocked at the door of the bedroom. the voices within were loud, and no answer came. he knocked again, and received an angry permission to enter. he entered, closed the door behind him, and stood in sight of his lordship, waiting what should follow. lord morven was sitting up in bed, his face so pale and distorted that donal thought elsewhere he should hardly have recognized it. the bed was a large four-post bed; its curtains were drawn close to the posts, admitting as much air as possible. at the foot of it stood lord forgue, his handsome, shallow face flushed with anger, his right arm straight down by his side, and the hand of it clenched hard. he turned when donal entered. a fiercer flush overspread his face, but almost immediately the look of rage yielded to one of determined insult. possibly even the appearance of donal was a relief to being alone with his father. "mr. grant," stammered his lordship, speaking with pain, "you are well come!--just in time to hear a father curse his son!" "even such a threat shall not make me play a dishonourable part!" said forgue, looking however anything but honourable, for the heart, not the brain, moulds the expression. "mr. grant," resumed the father, "i have found you a man of sense and refinement! if you had been tutor to this degenerate boy, the worst trouble of my life would not have overtaken me!" forgue's lip curled, but he did not speak, and his father went on. "here is this fellow come to tell me to my face that he intends the ruin and disgrace of the family by a low marriage!" "it will not be the first time it has been so disgraced!" retorted the son, "--if fresh peasant-blood be indeed a disgrace to any family!" "bah! the hussey is not even a wholesome peasant-girl!" cried the father. "who do you think she is, mr. grant?" "i do not need to guess, my lord," replied donal. "i came now to inform your lordship of what i had myself seen." "she must leave the house this instant!" "then i too leave it, my lord!" said forgue. "where's your money?" returned the earl contemptuously. forgue shifted to an attack upon donal. "your lordship hardly places confidence in me," he said; "but it is not the less my duty to warn you against this man: months ago he knew what was going on, and comes to tell you now because this evening i chastised him for his rude interference." in cooler blood lord forgue would not have shown such meanness; but passion brings to the front the thing that lurks. "and it is no doubt to the necessity for forestalling his disclosure that i owe the present ingenuous confession!" said lord morven. "--but explain, mr. grant." "my lord," said donal calmly, "i became aware that there was something between lord forgue and the girl, and was alarmed for the girl: she is the child of friends to whom i am much beholden. but on the promise of both that the thing should end, i concluded it better not to trouble your lordship. i may have blundered in this, but i did what seemed best. this night, however, i discovered that things were going as before, and it became imperative on my position in your house that i should make your lordship acquainted with the fact. he assevered there was nothing dishonest between them, but, having deceived me once, how was i to trust him again!" "how indeed! the young blackguard!" said his lordship, casting a fierce glance at his son. "allow me to remark," said forgue, with comparative coolness, "that i deceived no one. what i promised was, that the affair should not go on: it did not; from that moment it assumed a different and serious aspect. i now intend to marry the girl." "i tell you, forgue, if you do i will disown you." forgue smiled an impertinent smile and held his peace: the threat had for him no terror. "i shall be the better able," continued his lordship, "to provide suitably for davie; he is what a son ought to be! but hear me, forgue: you must be aware that, if i left you all i had, it would be beggary for one handicapped with a title. you may think my anger unreasonable, but it comes solely of anxiety on your account. nothing but a suitable marriage--the most suitable of all is within your arm's length--can save you from the life of a moneyless peer--the most pitiable object on the face of the earth. were it possible to ignore your rank, you have no profession, no trade even, in these trade-loving times, to fall back upon. except you marry as i please, you will have nothing from me but the contempt of a title without a farthing to keep it decent. you threaten to leave the house--can you pay for a railway-ticket?" forgue was silent for a moment. "my lord," he said, "i have given my word to the girl: would you have me disgrace your name by breaking it?" "tut! tut! there are words and words! what obligation can there be in the rash promises of an unworthy love! still less are they binding where the man is not his own master! you are under a bond to your family, under a bond to society, under a bond to your country. marry this girl, and you will be an outcast; marry as i would have you, and no one will think the worse of you for a foolish vow in your boyhood. bah! the merest rumour of it will never rise into the serene air of your position." "and let the girl go and break her heart!" said forgue, with look black as death. "you need fear no such catastrophe! you are no such marvel among men that a kitchen-wench will break her heart for you. she will be sorry for herself, no doubt; but it will be nothing more than she expected, and will only confirm her opinion of you: she knows well enough the risk she runs!" while he spoke, donal, waiting his turn, stood as on hot iron. such sayings were in his ears the foul talk of hell. the moment the earl ceased, he turned to forgue, and said:-- "my lord, you have removed my harder thoughts of you! you have indeed broken your word, but in a way infinitely nobler than i believed you capable of!" lord morven stared dumbfounded. "your comments are out of place, mr. grant!" said forgue, with something like dignity. "the matter is between my father and myself. if you wanted to beg my pardon, you should have waited a fitting opportunity!" donal held his peace. he had felt bound to show sympathy with his enemy where he was right. the earl was perplexed: his one poor ally had gone over to the enemy! he took a glass from the table beside him, and drank: then, after a moment's silence, apparently of exhaustion and suffering, said, "mr. grant, i desire a word with you.--leave the room, forgue." "my lord," returned forgue, "you order me from the room to confer with one whose presence with you is an insult to me!" "he seems to me," answered his father bitterly, "to be after your own mind in the affair!--how indeed should it be otherwise! but so far i have found mr. grant a man of honour, and i desire to have some private conversation with him. i therefore request you will leave us alone together." this was said so politely, yet with such latent command, that the youth dared not refuse compliance. the moment he closed the door behind him, "i am glad he yielded," said the earl, "for i should have had to ask you to put him out, and i hate rows. would you have done it?" "i would have tried." "thank you. yet a moment ago you took his part against me!" "on the girl's part--and for his honesty too, my lord!" "come now, mr. grant! i understand your prejudices, i cannot expect you to look on the affair as i do. i am glad to have a man of such sound general principles to form the character of my younger son; but it is plain as a mountain that what would be the duty of a young man in your rank of life toward a young woman in the same rank, would be simple ruin to one in lord forgue's position. a capable man like you can make a living a hundred different ways; to one born with the burden of a title, and without the means of supporting it, marriage with such a girl means poverty, gambling, hunger, squabbling, dirt--suicide!" "my lord," answered donal, "the moment a man speaks of love to a woman, be she as lowly and ignorant as mother eve, that moment rank and privilege vanish, and distinction is annihilated." the earl gave a small sharp smile. "you would make a good pleader, mr. grant! but if you had seen the consequences of such marriage half as often as i, you would modify your ideas. mark what i say: this marriage shall not take place--by god! what! should i for a moment talk of it with coolness were there the smallest actual danger of its occurrence--did i not know that it never could, never shall take place! the boy is a fool, and he shall know it! i have him in my power--neck and heels in my power! he does not know it, and never could guess how; but it is true: one word from me, and the rascal is paralysed! oblige me by telling him what i have just said. the absurd marriage shall not take place, i repeat. invalid as i am, i am not yet reduced to the condition of an obedient father." he took up a small bottle, poured a little from it, added water, and drank--then resumed. "now for the girl: who knows about it?" "so far as i am aware, no one but her grandfather. he had come to the castle to inquire after her, and was with me when we came upon them in the fruit garden." "then let no further notice be taken of it. tell no one--not even mrs. brookes. let the young fools do as they please." "i cannot consent to that, my lord." "why, what the devil have you to do with it?" "i am the friend of her people." "pooh! pooh! don't talk rubbish. what is it to them! i'll see to them. it will all come right. the affair will settle itself. by jove, i'm sorry you interfered! the thing would have been much better left alone." "my lord," said donal, "i can listen to nothing in this strain." "all i ask is--promise not to interfere." "i will not." "thank you." "my lord, you mistake. i will not promise. nay, i will interfere. what to do, i do not now know; but i will save the girl if i can." "and ruin an ancient family! you think nothing of that!" "its honour, my lord, will be best preserved in that of the girl." "damn you? will you preach to me?" notwithstanding his fierce words, donal could not help seeing or imagining an almost suppliant look in his eye. "you must do as i tell you in my house," he went on, "or you will soon see the outside of it. come: marry the girl yourself--she is deuced pretty--and i will give you five hundred pounds for your wedding journey.--poor davie!" "your lordship insults me." "then, damn you! be off to your lessons, and take your insolent face out of my sight." "if i remain in your house, my lord, it is for davie's sake." "go away," said the earl; and donal went. he had hardly closed the door behind him, when he heard a bell ring violently; and ere he reached the bottom of the stair, he met the butler panting up as fast as his short legs and red nose would permit. he would have stopped to question donal, who hastened past him, and in the refuge of his own room, sat down to think. had his conventional dignity been with him a matter of importance, he would have left the castle the moment he got his things together; but he thought much more of davie, and much more of eppy. he had hardly seated himself when he jumped up again: he must see andrew comin! chapter xxxvi. a night-watch. when he reached the bottom of the hill, there at the gate was forgue, walking up and down, apparently waiting for him. he would have passed him, but forgue stepped in front of him. "grant," he said, "it is well we should understand each other!" "i think, my lord, if you do not yet understand me, it can scarcely be my fault." "what did my father say?" "i would deliver to your lordship a message he gave me for you but for two reasons--one, that i believe he changed his mind though he did not precisely say so, and the other, that i will not serve him or you in the matter." "then you intend neither to meddle nor make?" "that is my affair, my lord. i will not take your lordship into my confidence." "don't be unreasonable, now! do get off your high horse. can't you understand a fellow? everybody can't keep his temper as you do! i mean the girl no harm." "i will not talk with you about her. and whatever you insist on saying to me, i will use against you without scruple, should occasion offer." as he spoke he caught a look on forgue's face which revealed somehow that it was not for him he had been waiting, but for eppy. he turned and went back towards the castle: he might meet her! forgue called after him, but he paid no heed. as he hastened up the hill, not so much as the rustle of bird or mouse did he hear. he lingered about the top of the road for half an hour, then turned and went to the cobbler's. he found doory in great distress; for she was not merely sore troubled about her son's child, but andrew was in bed and suffering great pain. the moment donal saw him he went for the doctor. he said a rib was broken, bound him up, and gave him some medicine. all done that could be done, donal sat down to watch beside him. he lay still, with closed eyes and white face. so patient was he that his very pain found utterance in a sort of blind smile. donal did not know much about pain: he could read in andrew's look his devotion to the will of him whose being was his peace, but he did not know above what suffering his faith lifted him, and held him hovering yet safe. his faith made him one with life, the eternal life--and that is salvation. in closest contact with the divine, the original relation restored, the source once more holding its issue, the divine love pouring itself into the deepest vessel of the man's being, itself but a vessel for the holding of the diviner and divinest, who can wonder if keenest pain should not be able to quench the smile of the prostrate! few indeed have reached the point of health to laugh at disease, but are there none? let not a man say because he cannot that no one can. the old woman was very calm, only every now and then she would lift her hands and shake her head, and look as if the universe were going to pieces, because her husband lay there by the stroke of the ungodly. and if he had lain there forgotten, then indeed the universe would have been going to pieces! when he coughed, every pang seemed to go through her body to her heart. love is as lovely in the old as in the young--lovelier when in them, as often, it is more sympathetic and unselfish--that is, more true. donal wrote to mrs. brookes that he would not be home that night; and having found a messenger at the inn, settled himself to watch by his friend. the hours glided quietly over. andrew slept a good deal, and seemed to have pleasant visions. he was finding yet more saving. now and then his lips would move as if he were holding talk with some friendly soul. once donal heard the murmured words, "lord, i'm a' yer ain;" and noted that his sleep grew deeper thereafter. he did not wake till the day began to dawn. then he asked for some water. seeing donal, and divining that he had been by his bedside all the night, he thanked him with a smile and a little nod--which somehow brought to his memory certain words andrew had spoken on another occasion: "there's ane, an' there's a'; an' the a' 's ane, an' the ane 's a'." when donal reached the castle, he found his breakfast and mrs. brookes waiting for him. she told him that eppy, meeting her in the passage the night before, had burst into tears, but she could get nothing out of her, and had sent her to her room; this morning she had not come down at the proper time, and when she sent after her, did not come: she went up herself, and found her determined to leave the castle that very day; she was now packing her things to go, nor did she see any good in trying to prevent her. donal said if she would go home, there was plenty for her to do there; old people's bones were not easy to mend, and it would be some time before her grandfather was well again! mrs. brookes said she would not keep her now if she begged to stay; she was afraid she would come to grief, and would rather she went home; she would take her home herself. "the lass is no an ill ane," she added: "but she disna ken what she wud be at. she wants some o' the lord's ain discipleen, i'm thinkin!" "an' that ye may be sure she'll get, mistress brookes!" said donal. eppy was quite ready to go home and help nurse her grandfather. she thought her conduct must by this time be the talk of the castle, and was in mortal terror of lord morven. all the domestics feared him--it would be hard to say precisely why; it came in part of seeing him so seldom that he had almost come to represent the ghost some said lived in the invisible room and haunted the castle. it was the easier for eppy to go home that her grandmother needed her, and that her grandfather would not be able to say much to her. she was an affectionate girl, and yet her grandfather's condition roused in her no indignation; for the love of being loved is such a blinding thing, that the greatest injustice from the dearest to the next dearest will by some natures be readily tolerated. god help us! we are a mean set--and meanest the man who is ablest to justify himself! mrs. brookes, having prepared a heavy basket of good things for eppy to carry home to her grandmother, and made it the heavier for the sake of punishing her with the weight of it, set out with her, saying to herself, "the jaud wants a wheen harder wark nor i hae hauden till her han', an' doobtless it's preparin' for her!" she was kindly received, without a word of reproach, by her grandmother; the sufferer, forgetful of, or forgiving her words of rejection in the garden, smiled when she came near his bedside; and she turned away to conceal the tears she could not repress. she loved her grand-parents, and she loved the young lord, and she could not get the two loves to dwell together peaceably in her mind--a common difficulty with our weak, easily divided, hardly united natures--frangible, friable, readily distorted! it needs no less than god himself, not only to unite us to one another, but to make a whole of the ill-fitting, roughly disjointed portions of our individual beings. tearfully but diligently she set about her duties; and not only the heart, but the limbs and joints of her grandmother were relieved by her presence; while doubtless she herself found some refuge from anxious thought in the service she rendered. what she saw as her probable future, i cannot say; one hour her confidence in her lover's faithfulness would be complete, the next it would be dashed with huge blots of uncertainty; but her grandmother rejoiced over her as out of harm's way. chapter xxxvii. lord forgue and lady arctura. at the castle things fell into their old routine. nothing had been arranged between lord forgue and eppy, and he seemed content that it should be so. mrs. brookes told him that she had gone home: he made neither remark nor inquiry, manifesting no interest. it would be well his father should not see it necessary to push things farther! he did not want to turn out of the castle! without means, what was he to do? the marriage could not be to-day or to-morrow! and in the meantime he could see eppy, perhaps more easily than at the castle! he would contrive! he was sorry he had hurt the old fellow, but he could not help it! he would get in the way! things would have been much worse if he had not got first to his father! he would wait a bit, and see what would turn up! for the tutor-fellow, he must not quarrel with him downright! no good would come of that! in the end he would have his way! and that in spite of them all! but what he really wanted he did not know. he only knew, or imagined, that he was over head and ears in love with the girl: what was to come of it was all in the clouds. he had said he meant to marry her; but to that statement he had been driven, more than he knew, by the desire to escape the contempt of the tutor he scorned; and he rejoiced that he had at least discomfited him. he knew that if he did marry eppy, or any one else of whom his father did not approve, he had nothing to look for but absolute poverty, for he knew no way to earn money; he was therefore unprepared to defy him immediately--whatever he might do by and by. he said to himself sometimes that he was as willing as any man to work for his wife if only he knew how; but when he said so, had he always a clear vision of eppy as the wife in prospect? alas, it would take years to make him able to earn even a woman's wages! it would be a fine thing for a lord to labour like a common man for the support of a child of the people for whom he had sacrificed everything; but where was the possibility? when thoughts like these grew too many for him, forgue wished he had never seen the girl. his heart would immediately reproach him; immediately he would comfort his conscience with the reflection that to wish he had never seen her was a very different thing from wishing to act as if he had. he loafed about in her neighbourhood as much as he dared, haunted the house itself in the twilight, and at night even ventured sometimes to creep up the stair, but for some time he never even saw her: for days eppy never went out of doors except into the garden. though she had not spoken of it, arctura had had more than a suspicion that something was going on between her cousin and the pretty maid; for the little window of her sitting room partially overlooked a certain retired spot favoured of the lovers; and after eppy left the house, davie, though he did not associate the facts, noted that she was more cheerful than before. but there was no enlargement of intercourse between her and forgue. they knew it was the wish of the head of the house that they should marry, but the earl had been wise enough to say nothing openly to either of them: he believed the thing would have a better chance on its own merits; and as yet they had shown no sign of drawing to each other. it might, perhaps, have been otherwise on his part had not the young lord been taken with the pretty housemaid, though at first he had thought of nothing more than a little passing flirtation, reckoning his advantage with her by the height on which he stood in his own regard; but it was from no jealousy that arctura was relieved by the departure of eppy. she had never seen anything attractive in her cousin, and her religious impressions would have been enough to protect her from any drawing to him: had they not poisoned in her even the virtue of common house-friendliness toward a very different man? the sense of relief she had when eppy went, lay in being delivered from the presence of something clandestine, with which she could not interfere so far as to confess knowledge of it. it had rendered her uneasy; she had felt shy and uncomfortable. once or twice she had been on the point of saying to mrs. brookes that she thought her cousin and eppy very oddly familiar, but had failed of courage. it was no wonder therefore that she should be more cheerful. chapter xxxviii. arctura and sophia. about this time her friend, miss carmichael, returned from a rather lengthened visit. but after the atonement that had taken place between her and donal, it was with some anxiety that lady arctura looked forward to seeing her. she shrank from telling her what had come about through the wonderful poem, as she thought it, which had so bewitched her. she shrank too from showing her the verses: they were not of a kind, she was sure, to meet with recognition from her. she knew she would make game of them, and that not good-humouredly like kate, who yet confessed to some beauty in them. for herself, the poem and the study of its growth had ministered so much nourishment to certain healthy poetic seeds lying hard and dry in her bosom, that they had begun to sprout, indeed to shoot rapidly up. donal's poem could not fail therefore to be to her thenceforward something sacred. a related result also was that it had made her aware of something very defective in her friend's constitution: she did not know whether in her constitution mental, moral, or spiritual: probably it was in all three. doubtless, thought arctura, she knew most things better than she, and certainly had a great deal more common sense; but, on the other hand, was she not satisfied with far less than she could be satisfied with? to believe as her friend believed would not save her from insanity! she must be made on a smaller scale of necessities than herself! how was she able to love the god she said she believed in? god should at least be as beautiful as his creature could imagine him! but miss carmichael would say her poor earthly imagination was not to occupy itself with such a high subject! oh, why would not god tell her something about himself--something direct--straight from himself? why should she only hear of him at second hand--always and always? alas, poor girl! second hand? five hundredth hand rather? and she might have been all the time communing with the very god himself, manifest in his own shape, which is ours also!--all the time learning that her imagination could never--not to say originate, but, when presented, receive into it the unspeakable excess of his loveliness, of his absolute devotion and tenderness to the creatures, the children of his father! in the absence of miss carmichael she had thought with less oppression of many things that in her presence appeared ghastly-hopeless; now in the prospect of her reappearance she began to feel wicked in daring a thought of her own concerning the god that was nearer to her than her thoughts! such an unhealthy mastery had she gained over her! what if they met donal, and she saw her smile to him as she always did now! one thing she was determined upon--and herein lay the pledge of her coming freedom!--that she would not behave to him in the least otherwise than her wont. if she would be worthy, she must be straightforward! donal and she had never had any further talk, much as she would have liked it, upon things poetic. as a matter of supposed duty--where she had got the idea i do not know--certainly not from miss carmichael, seeing she approved of little poetry but that of young, cowper, pollok, and james montgomery--she had been reading the paradise lost, and wished much to speak of it to donal, but had not the courage. when miss carmichael came, she at once perceived a difference in her, and it set her thinking. she was not one to do or say anything without thinking over it first. she had such a thorough confidence in her judgment, and such a pleasure in exercising it, that she almost always rejected an impulse. judgment was on the throne; feeling under the footstool. there was something in arctura's carriage which reminded her of the only time when she had stood upon her rank with her. this was once she made a remark disparaging a favourite dog: for the animals arctura could brave even her spiritual nightmare: they were not under the wrath and curse like men and women, therefore might be defended! she had on that occasion shown so much offence that miss carmichael saw, if she was to keep her influence over her, she must avoid rousing the phantom of rank in defence of prejudice. she was now therefore careful--said next to nothing, but watched her keenly, and not the less slyly that she looked her straight in the face. there is an effort to see into the soul of others that is essentially treacherous; wherever, friendship being the ostensible bond, inquiry outruns regard, it is treachery--an endeavour to grasp more than the friend would knowingly give. they went for a little walk in the grounds; as they returned they met donal going out with davie. arctura and donal passed with a bow and a friendly smile; davie stopped and spoke to the ladies, then bounded after his friend. "have you attended the scripture-lesson regularly?" asked miss carmichael. "yes; i have been absent only once, i think, since you left," replied arctura. "good, my dear! you have not been leaving your lamb to the wolf!" "i begin to doubt if he be a wolf." "ah! does he wear his sheepskin so well? are you sure he is not plotting to devour sheep and shepherd together?" said miss carmichael, with an open glance of search. "don't you think," suggested arctura, "when you are not able to say anything, it would be better not to be present? your silence looks like agreement." "but you can always protest! you can assert he is all wrong. you can say you do not in the least agree with him!" "but what if you are not sure that you do not agree with him?" "i thought as much!" said miss carmichael to herself. "i might have foreseen this!"--here she spoke.--"if you are not sure you do agree, you can say, 'i can't say i agree with you!' it is always safer to admit little than much." "i do not quite follow you. but speaking of little and much, i am sure i want a great deal more than i know yet to save me. i have never yet heard what seems enough." "is that to say god has not done his part?" "no; it is only to say that i hope he has done more than i have yet heard." "more than send his son to die for your sins?" "more than you say that means." "you have but to believe christ did so." "i don't know that he died for my sins." "he died for the sins of the whole world." "then i must be saved!" "yes, if you believe that he made atonement for your sins." "then i cannot be saved except i believe that i shall be saved. and i cannot believe i shall be saved until i know i shall be saved!" "you are cavilling, arctura! ah, this is what you have been learning of mr. grant! i ought not to have gone away!" "nothing of the sort!" said arctura, drawing herself up a little. "i am sorry if i have said anything wrong; but really i can get hold of nothing! i feel sometimes as if i should go out of my mind." "arctura, i have done my best for you! if you think you have found a better teacher, no warning, i fear, will any longer avail!" "if i did think i had found a better teacher, no warning certainly would; i am only afraid i have not. but of one thing i am sure--that the things mr. grant teaches are much more to be desired than--" "by the unsanctified heart, no doubt!" said sophia. "the unsanctified heart," rejoined arctura, astonished at her own boldness, and the sense of power and freedom growing in her as she spoke, "surely needs god as much as the sanctified! but can the heart be altogether unsanctified that desires to find god so beautiful and good that it can worship him with its whole power of love and adoration? or is god less beautiful and good than that?" "we ought to worship god whatever he is." "but could we love him with all our hearts if he were not altogether lovable?" "he might not be the less to be worshipped though he seemed so to us. we must worship his justice as much as his love, his power as much as his justice." arctura returned no answer; the words had fallen on her heart like an ice-berg. she was not, however, so utterly overwhelmed by them as she would have been some time before; she thought with herself, "i will ask mr. grant! i am sure he does not think like that! worship power as much as love! i begin to think she does not understand what she is talking about! if i were to make a creature needing all my love to make life endurable to him, and then not be kind enough to him, should i not be cruel? would i not be to blame? can god be god and do anything conceivably to blame--anything that is not altogether beautiful? she tells me we cannot judge what it would be right for god to do by what it would be right for us to do: if what seems right to me is not right to god, i must wrong my conscience and be a sinner in order to serve him! then my conscience is not the voice of god in me! how then am i made in his image? what does it mean? ah, but that image has been defaced by the fall! so i cannot tell a bit what god is like? then how am i to love him? i never can love him! i am very miserable! i am not god's child! thus, long after miss carmichael had taken a coldly sorrowful farewell of her, arctura went round and round the old mill-horse rack of her self-questioning: god was not to be trusted in until she had done something she could not do, upon which he would take her into his favour, and then she could trust him! what a god to give all her heart to, to long for, to dream of being at home with! then she compared miss carmichael and donal grant, and thought whether donal might not be as likely to be right as she. oh, where was assurance, where was certainty about anything! how was she ever to know? what if the thing she came to know for certain should be--a god she could not love! the next day was sunday. davie and his tutor overtook her going home from church. it came as of itself to her lips, and she said, "mr. grant, how are we to know what god is like?" "'philip saith unto him, lord, show us the father and it sufficeth us. jesus saith unto him, have i been so long time with you, and yet hast thou not known me, philip? he that hath seen me hath seen the father, and how sayest thou then, show us the father?'" thus answered donal, without a word of his own, and though the three walked side by side, it was ten minutes before another was spoken. then at last said arctura, "if i could but see christ!" "it is not necessary to see him to know what he is like. you can read what those who knew him said he was like; that is the first step to understanding him, which is the true seeing; the second is, doing what he tells you: when you understand him--there is your god!" from that day arctura's search took a new departure. it is strange how often one may hear a thing, yet never have really heard it! the heart can hear only what it is capable of hearing; therefore "the times of this ignorance god winked at;" but alas for him who will not hear what he is capable of hearing! his failure to get word or even sight of eppy, together with some uneasiness at the condition in which her grandfather continued, induced lord forgue to accept the invitation--which his father had taken pains to have sent him--to spend three weeks or a month with a relative in the north of england. he would gladly have sent a message to eppy before he went, but had no one he could trust with it: davie was too much under the influence of his tutor! so he departed without sign, and eppy soon imagined he had deserted her. for a time her tears flowed yet more freely, but by and by she began to feel something of relief in having the matter settled, for she could not see how they were ever to be married. she would have been content to love him always, she said to herself, were there no prospect of marriage, or even were there no marriage in question; but would he continue to care for her love? she did not think she could expect that. so with many tears she gave him up--or thought she did. he had loved her, and that was a grand thing! there was much that was good, and something that was wise in the girl, notwithstanding her folly in allowing such a lover. the temptation was great: even if his attentions were in their nature but transient, they were sweet while they passed. i doubt if her love was of the deepest she had to give; but who can tell? a woman will love where a man can see nothing lovely. so long as she is able still to love, she is never quite to be pitied; but when the reaction comes--? so the dull days went by. but for lady arctura a great hope had begun to dawn--the hope, namely, that the world was in the hand, yea in the heart of one whom she herself might one day see, in her inmost soul, and with clearest eyes, to be love itself--not a love she could not care for, but the very heart, generating centre, embracing circumference, and crown of all loves. donal prayed to god for lady arctura, and waited. her hour was not yet come, but was coming! everyone that is ready the father brings to jesus: the disciple is not greater than his master, and must not think to hasten the hour, or lead one who is not yet taught of god; he must not be miserable about another as if god had forgotten him. strange helpers of god we shall be, if, thinking to do his work, we act as if he were neglecting it! to wait for god, believing it his one design to redeem his creatures, ready to put the hand to, the moment his hour strikes, is the faith fit for a fellow-worker with him! chapter xxxix. the castle-roof. one stormy friday night in the month of march, when a bitter east wind was blowing, donal, seated at the plain deal-table he had got mrs. brookes to find him that he might use it regardless of ink, was drawing upon it a diagram, in quest of a simplification for davie, when a sudden sense of cold made him cast a glance at his fire. he had been aware that it was sinking, but, as there was no fuel in the room, had forgotten it again: it was very low, and he must at once fetch both wood and coal! in certain directions and degrees of wind this was rather a ticklish task; but he had taken the precaution of putting up here and there a bit of rope. closing the door behind him to keep in what warmth he might, and ascending the stairs a few feet higher, he stepped out on the bartizan, and so round the tower to the roof. there he stood for a moment to look about him. it was a moonlit night, so far as the clouds, blown in huge and almost continuous masses over the heavens, would permit the light of the moon to emerge. the roaring of the sea came like a low rolling mist across the flats. the air gloomed and darkened and lightened again around him, as the folds of the cloud-blanket overhead were torn, or dropped trailing, or gathered again in the arms of the hurrying wind. as he stood, it seemed suddenly to change, and take a touch of south in its blowing. the same instant came to his ear a loud wail: it was the ghost-music! there was in it the cry of a discord, mingling with a wild rolling change of harmonies. he stood "like one forbid," and listened with all his power. it came again, and again, and was more continuous than he had ever heard it before. here was now a chance indeed of tracing it home! as a gaze-hound with his eyes, as a sleuth-hound with his nose, he stood ready to start hunting with his listing listening ear. the seeming approach and recession of the sounds might be occasioned by changes in their strength, not by any change of position! "it must come from somewhere on the roof!" he said, and setting down the pail he had brought, he got on his hands and knees, first to escape the wind in his ears, and next to diminish its hold on his person. over roof after roof he crept like a cat, stopping to listen every time a new gush of the sound came, then starting afresh in the search for its source. upon a great gathering of roofs like these, erected at various times on various levels, and with all kinds of architectural accommodations of one part to another, sound would be variously deflected, and as difficult to trace as inside the house! careless of cold or danger, he persisted, creeping up, creeping down, over flat leads, over sloping slates, over great roofing stones, along low parapets, and round ticklish corners--following the sound ever, as a cat a flitting unconscious bird: when it ceased, he would keep slowly on in the direction last chosen. sometimes, when the moon was more profoundly obscured, he would have to stop altogether, unable to get a peep of his way. on one such occasion, when it was nearly pitch-dark, and the sound had for some time ceased, he was crouching upon a high-pitched roof of great slabs, his fingers clutched around the edges of one of them, and his mountaineering habits standing him in good stead, protected a little from the force of the blast by a huge stack of chimneys that rose to windward: while he clung thus waiting--louder than he had yet heard it, almost in his very ear, arose the musical ghost-cry--this time like that of a soul in torture. the moon came out, as at the cry, to see, but donal could spy nothing to suggest its origin. as if disappointed, the moon instantly withdrew, the darkness again fell, and the wind rushed upon him full of keen slanting rain, as if with fierce intent of protecting the secret: there was little chance of success that night! he must break off the hunt till daylight! if there was any material factor in the sound, he would be better able to discover it then! by the great chimney-stack he could identify the spot where he had been nearest to it! there remained for the present but the task of finding his way back to his tower. a difficult task it was--more difficult than he anticipated. he had not an idea in what direction his tower lay--had not an idea of the track, if track it could be called, by which he had come. one thing only was clear--it was somewhere else than where he was. he set out therefore, like any honest pilgrim who knows only he must go somewhere else, and began his wanderings. he found himself far more obstructed than in coming. again and again he could go no farther in the direction he was trying, again and again had to turn and try another. it was half-an-hour at least before he came to a spot he knew, and by that time, with the rain the wind had fallen a little. against a break in the clouds he saw the outline of one of his store-sheds, and his way was thenceforward plain. he caught up his pail, filled it with coal and wood, and hastened to his nest as quickly as cramped joints would carry him, hopeless almost of finding his fire still alive. but when he reached the stair, and had gone down a few steps, he saw a strange sight: below him, at his door, with a small wax-taper in her hand, stood the form of a woman, in the posture of one who had just knocked, and was hearkening for an answer. so intent was she, and so loud was the wind among the roofs, that she had not heard his step, and he stood a moment afraid to speak lest he should startle her. presently she knocked again. he made an attempt at ventriloquy, saying in a voice to sound farther off than it was, "come in." a hand rose to the latch, and opened the door. by the hand he knew it was lady arctura. "welcome to the stormy sky, my lady!" he said, as he entered the room after her--a pleasant object after his crawling excursion! she started a little at his voice behind her, and turning was more startled still. donal was more like a chimney-sweep than a tutor in a lord's castle. he was begrimed and blackened from head to foot, and carried a pailful of coals and wood. reading readily her look, he made haste to explain. "i have been on the roof for the last hour," he said. "what were you doing there," she asked, with a strange mingling of expressions, "in such a night?" "i heard the music, my lady--the ghost-music, you know, that haunts the castle, and--" "i heard it too," she murmured, with a look almost of terror. "i have often heard it before, but never so loud as to-night. have you any notion about it, mr. grant?" "none whatever--except that i am nearly sure it comes from somewhere about the roof." "if you could clear up the mystery!" "i have some hope of it.--you are not frightened, my lady?" she had caught hold of the back of a chair. "do sit down. i will get you some water." "no, no; i shall be right in a moment!" she answered. "your stair has taken my breath away. but my uncle is in such a strange condition that i could not help coming to you." "i have seen him myself, more than once, very strange." "will you come with me?" "anywhere." "come then." she left the room, and led the way, by the light of her dim taper, down the stair. about the middle of it, she stopped at a door, and turning said, with a smile like that of a child, and the first untroubled look donal had yet seen upon her face-- "how delightful it is to be taken out of fear! i am not the least afraid now!" "i am very glad," said donal. "i should like to kill fear; it is the shadow that follows at the heels of wrong.--do you think the music has anything to do with your uncle's condition?" "i do not know." she turned again hastily, and passing through the door, entered a part of the house with which donal had no acquaintance. with many bewildering turns, she led him to the great staircase, down which she continued her course. the house was very still: it must surely be later than he had thought--only there were so few servants in it for its extent! his guide went very fast, with a step light as a bird's: at one moment he had all but lost sight of her in the great curve. at the room in which donal first saw the earl, she stopped. the door was open, but there was no light within. she led him across to the door of the little chamber behind. a murmur, but no light, came from it. in a moment it was gone, and the deepest silence filled the world. arctura entered. one step within the door she stood still, and held high her taper. donal looked in sideways. a small box was on the floor against the foot of the farthest wall, and on the box, in a long dressing gown of rich faded stuff, the silk and gold in which shone feebly in the dim light, stood the tall meagre form of the earl, with his back to the door, his face to the wall, close to it, and his arms and hands stretched out against it, like one upon a cross. he stood without moving a muscle or uttering a sound. what could it mean? donal gazed in a blank dismay. not a minute had passed, though it was to him a long and painful time, when the murmuring came again. he listened as to a voice from another world--a thing terrible to those whose fear dwells in another world. but to donal it was terrible as a voice from no other world could have been; it came from an unseen world of sin and suffering--a world almost a negation of the eternal, a world of darkness and the shadow of death. but surely there was hope for that world yet!--for whose were the words in which its indwelling despair grew audible? "and we indeed justly; for we receive the due reward of our deeds; but this man hath done nothing amiss!" again the silence fell, but the form did not move, and still they stood regarding him. from far away came the sound of the ghost-music. the head against the wall began to move as if waking from sleep. the hands sank along the wall and fell by the sides. the earl gave a deep sigh, but still stood leaning his forehead against the wall. arctura turned, and they left the room. she went down the stair, and on to the library. its dark oak cases and old bindings reflected hardly a ray of the poor taper she carried; but the fire was not yet quite out. she set down the light, and looked at donal in silence. "what does it all mean?" he asked in a hoarse whisper. "god knows!" she returned solemnly. "are we safe?" he asked. "may he not come here?" "i do not think he will. i have seen him in many parts of the house, but never here." even as she spoke the door swung noiselessly open, and the earl entered. his face was ghastly pale; his eyes were wide open; he came straight towards them. but he did not see them; or if he did, he saw them but as phantoms of the dream in which he was walking--phantoms which had not yet become active in the dream. he drew a chair to the embers, in his fancy doubtless a great fire, sat for a moment or two gazing into them, rose, went the whole length of the room, took down a book, returned with it to the fire, drew towards him arctura's tiny taper, opened the book, and began to read in an audible murmur. donal, trying afterwards to recall and set down what he had heard, wrote nothing better than this:-- in the heart of the earth-cave lay the king. through chancel and choir and nave the bells ring. said the worm at his side, sweet fool, turn to thy bride; is the night so cool? wouldst thou lie like a stone till the aching morn out of the dark be born? heavily pressed the night enorm, but he heard the voice of the worm, like the sound of a muttered thunder low, in the realms where no feet go. and he said, i will rise, i will will myself glad; i will open my eyes, and no more sleep sad. for who is a god but the man who can spring up from the sod, and be his own king? i will model my gladness, dig my despair-- and let goodness or badness be folly's own care! i will be content, and the world shall spin round till its force be outspent. it shall drop like a top spun by a boy, while i sit in my tent, in a featureless joy-- sit without sound, and toss up my world, till it burst and be drowned in the blackness upcurled from the deep hell-ground. the dreams of a god are the worlds of his slaves: i will be my own god, and rule my own knaves! he went on in this way for some minutes; then the rimes grew less perfect, and the utterance sank into measured prose. the tone of the speaker showed that he took the stuff for glowing verse, and regarded it as embodying his own present consciousness. one might have thought the worm would have a word to say in rejoinder; but no; the worm had vanished, and the buried dreamer had made himself a god--his own god! donal stole up softly behind him, and peeped at the open book: it was the novum organum! they glided out of the room, and left the dreamer to his dreams. "do you think," said donal, "i ought to tell simmons?" "it would be better. do you know where to find him?" "i do not." "i will show you a bell that rings in his room. he will think his lordship has rung it." they went and rang the bell. in a minute or two they heard the steps of the faithful servant seeking his master, and bade each other good-night. chapter xl. a religion-lesson. in the morning donal learned from simmons that his master was very ill--could not raise his head. "the way he do moan and cry!" said simmons. "you would think sure he was either out of his mind, or had something heavy upon it! all the years i known him, he been like that every now an' then, and back to his old self again, little the worse! only the fits do come oftener." towards the close of school, as donal was beginning to give his lesson in religion, lady arctura entered, and sat down beside davie. "what would you think of me, davie," donal was saying, "if i were angry with you because you did not know something i had never taught you?" davie only laughed. it was to him a grotesque, an impossible supposition. "if," donal resumed, "i were to show you a proposition of euclid which you had never seen before, and say to you, 'now, davie, this is one of the most beautiful of all euclid's propositions, and you must immediately admire it, and admire euclid for constructing it!'--what would you say?" davie thought, and looked puzzled. "but you wouldn't do it, sir!" he said. "--i know you wouldn't do it!" he added, after a moment. "why should i not?" "it isn't your way, sir." "but suppose i were to take that way?" "you would not then be like yourself, sir!" "tell me how i should be unlike myself. think." "you would not be reasonable." "what would you say to me?" "i should say, 'please, sir, let me learn the proposition first, and then i shall be able to admire it. i don't know it yet!'" "very good!--now again, suppose, when you tried to learn it, you were not able to do so, and therefore could see no beauty in it--should i blame you?" "no, sir; i am sure you would not--because i should not be to blame, and it would not be fair; and you never do what is not fair!" "i am glad you think so: i try to be fair.--that looks as if you believed in me, davie!" "of course i do, sir!" "why?" "just because you are fair." "suppose, davie, i said to you, 'here is a very beautiful thing i should like you to learn,' and you, after you had partly learned it, were to say 'i don't see anything beautiful in this: i am afraid i never shall!'--would that be to believe in me?" "no, surely, sir! for you know best what i am able for." "suppose you said, 'i daresay it is all as good as you say, but i don't care to take so much trouble about it,'--what would that be?" "not to believe in you, sir. you would not want me to learn a thing that was not worth my trouble, or a thing i should not be glad of knowing when i did know it." "suppose you said, 'sir, i don't doubt what you say, but i am so tired, i don't mean to do anything more you tell me,'--would you then be believing in me?" "no. that might be to believe your word, but it would not be to trust you. it would be to think my thinks better than your thinks, and that would be no faith at all." davie had at times an oddly childish way of putting things. "suppose you were to say nothing, but go away and do nothing of what i told you--what would that be?" "worse and worse; it would be sneaking." "one question more: what is faith--the big faith i mean--not the little faith between equals--the big faith we put in one above us?" "it is to go at once and do the thing he tells us to do." "if we don't, then we haven't faith in him?" "no; certainly not." "but might not that be his fault?" "yes--if he was not good--and so i could not trust him. if he said i was to do one kind of thing, and he did another kind of thing himself, then of course i could not have faith in him." "and yet you might feel you must do what he told you!" "yes." "would that be faith in him?" "no." "would you always do what he told you?" "not if he told me to do what it would be wrong to do." "now tell me, davie, what is the biggest faith of all--the faith to put in the one only altogether good person." "you mean god, mr. grant?" "whom else could i mean?" "you might mean jesus." "they are one; they mean always the same thing, do always the same thing, always agree. there is only one thing they don't do the same in--they do not love the same person." "what do you mean, mr. grant?" interrupted arctura. she had been listening intently: was the cloven foot of mr. grant's heresy now at last about to appear plainly? "i mean this," answered donal, with a smile that seemed to arctura such a light as she had never seen on human face, "--that god loves jesus, not god; and jesus loves god, not jesus. we love one another, not ourselves--don't we, davie?" "you do, mr. grant," answered davie modestly. "now tell me, davie, what is the great big faith of all--that which we have to put in the father of us, who is as good not only as thought can think, but as good as heart can wish--infinitely better than anybody but jesus christ can think--what is the faith to put in him?" "oh, it is everything!" answered davie. "but what first?" asked donal. "first, it is to do what he tells us." "yes, davie: it is to learn his problems by going and doing his will; not trying to understand things first, but trying first to do things. we must spread out our arms to him as a child does to his mother when he wants her to take him; then when he sets us down, saying, 'go and do this or that,' we must make all the haste in us to go and do it. and when we get hungry to see him, we must look at his picture." "where is that, sir?" "ah, davie, davie! don't you know that yet? don't you know that, besides being himself, and just because he is himself, jesus is the living picture of god?" "i know, sir! we have to go and read about him in the book." "may i ask you a question, mr. grant?" said arctura. "with perfect freedom," answered donal. "i only hope i may be able to answer it." "when we read about jesus, we have to draw for ourselves his likeness from words, and you know what kind of a likeness the best artist would make that way, who had never seen with his own eyes the person whose portrait he had to paint!" "i understand you quite," returned donal. "some go to other men to draw it for them; and some go to others to hear from them what they must draw--thus getting all their blunders in addition to those they must make for themselves. but the nearest likeness you can see of him, is the one drawn by yourself while doing what he tells you. he has promised to come into those who keep his word. he will then be much nearer to them than in bodily presence; and such may well be able to draw for themselves the likeness of god.--but first of all, and before everything else, mind, davie, obedience!" "yes, mr. grant; i know," said davie. "then off with you! only think sometimes it is god who gave you your game." "i'm going to fly my kite, mr. grant." "do. god likes to see you fly your kite, and it is all in his march wind it flies. it could not go up a foot but for that." davie went. "you have heard that my uncle is very ill to-day!" said arctura. "i have. poor man!" replied donal. "he must be in a very peculiar condition." "of body and mind both. he greatly perplexes me." "you would be quite as much perplexed if you had known him as long as i have! never since my father's death, which seems a century ago, have i felt safe; never in my uncle's presence at ease. i get no nearer to him. it seems to me, mr. grant, that the cause of discomfort and strife is never that we are too near others, but that we are not near enough." this was a remark after donal's own heart. "i understand you," he said, "and entirely agree with you." "i never feel that my uncle cares for me except as one of the family, and the holder of its chief property. he would have liked me better, perhaps, if i had been dependent on him." "how long will he be your guardian?" asked donal. "he is no longer my guardian legally. the time set by my father's will ended last year. i am three and twenty, and my own mistress. but of course it is much better to have the head of the house with me. i wish he were a little more like other people!--but tell me about the ghost-music: we had not time to talk of it last night!" "i got pretty near the place it came from. but the wind blew so, and it was so dark, that i could do nothing more then." "you will try again?" "i shall indeed." "i am afraid, if you find a natural cause for it, i shall be a little sorry." "how can there be any other than a natural cause, my lady? god and nature are one. god is the causing nature.--tell me, is not the music heard only in stormy nights, or at least nights with a good deal of wind?" "i have heard it in the daytime!" "on a still day?" "i think not. i think too i never heard it on a still summer night." "do you think it comes in all storms?" "i think not." "then perhaps it has something to do not merely with the wind, but with the direction of the wind!" "perhaps. i cannot say." "that might account for the uncertainty of its visits! the instrument may be accessible, yet its converse with the operating power so rare that it has not yet been discovered. it is a case in which experiment is not permitted us: we cannot make a wind blow, neither can we vary the direction of the wind blowing; observation alone is left us, and that can be only at such times when the sound is heard." "then you can do nothing till the music comes again?" "i think i can do something now; for, last night i seemed so near the place whence the sounds were coming, that the eye may now be able to supplement the ear, and find the music-bird silent on her nest. if the wind fall, as i think it will in the afternoon, i shall go again and see whether i can find anything. i noticed last night that simultaneously with the sound came a change in the wind--towards the south, i think.--what a night it was after i left you!" "i think," said arctura, "the wind has something to do with my uncle's fits. was there anything very strange about it last night? when the wind blows so angrily, i always think of that passage about the prince of the power of the air being the spirit that works in the children of disobedience. tell me what it means." "i do not know what it means," answered donal; "but i suppose the epithet involves a symbol of the difference between the wind of god that inspires the spiritual true self of man, and the wind of the world that works by thousands of impulses and influences in the lower, the selfish self of children that will not obey. i will look at the passage and see what i can make out of it. only the spiritual and the natural blend so that we may one day be astonished!--would you like to join the music-hunt, my lady?" "do you mean, go on the roof? should i be able?" "i would not have you go in the night, and the wind blowing," said donal with a laugh; "but you can come and see, and judge for yourself. the bartizan is the only anxious place, but as i mean to take davie with me, you may think i do not count it very dangerous!" "will it be safe for davie?" "i can venture more with davie than with another: he obeys in a moment." "i will obey too if you will take me," said arctura. "then, please, come to the schoolroom at four o'clock. but we shall not go except the wind be fallen." when davie heard what his tutor proposed, he was filled with the restlessness of anticipation. often while helping donal with his fuel, he had gazed up at him on the roof with longing eyes, but donal had never let him go upon it. chapter xli. the music-nest. the hour came, and with the very stroke of the clock, lady arctura and davie were in the schoolroom. a moment more, and they set out to climb the spiral of baliol's tower. but what a different lady was arctura this afternoon! she was cheerful, even merry--with davie, almost jolly. her soul had many alternating lights and glooms, but it was seldom or never now so clouded as when first donal saw her. in the solitude of her chamber, where most the simple soul should be conscious of life as a blessedness, she was yet often haunted by ghastly shapes of fear; but there also other forms had begun to draw nigh to her; sweetest rays of hope would ever and anon break through the clouds, and mock the darkness from her presence. perhaps god might mean as thoroughly well by her as even her imagination could wish! does a dull reader remark that hers was a diseased state of mind?--i answer, the more she needed to be saved from it with the only real deliverance from any ill! but her misery, however diseased, was infinitely more reasonable than the healthy joy of such as trouble themselves about nothing. some sicknesses are better than any but the true health. "i never thought you were like this, arkie!" said davie. "you are just as if you had come to school to mr. grant! you would soon know how much happier it is to have somebody you must mind!" "if having me, davie," said donal, "doesn't help you to be happy without me, there will not have been much good done. what i want most to teach you is, to leave the door always on the latch, for some one--you know whom i mean--to come in." "race me up the stair, arkie," said davie, when they came to the foot of the spiral. "very well," assented his cousin. "which side will you have--the broad or the narrow?" "the broad." "well then--one, two, three, and away we go!" davie mounted like a clever goat, his hand and arm on the newel, and slipping lightly round it. arctura's ascent was easier but slower: she found her garments in her way, therefore yielded the race, and waited for donal. davie, thinking he heard her footsteps behind him all the time, flew up shrieking with the sweet terror of love's pursuit. "what a darling the boy has grown!" said arctura when donal overtook her. "yes," answered donal; "one would think such a child might run straight into the kingdom of heaven; but i suppose he must have his temptations and trials first: out of the storm alone comes the true peace." "will peace come out of all storms?" "i trust so. every pain and every fear, every doubt is a cry after god. what mother refuses to go to her child because he is only crying--not calling her by name!" "oh, if i could but believe so about god! for if it be all right with god--i mean if god be such a god as to be loved with the heart and soul of loving, then all is well. is it not, mr. grant?" "indeed it is!--and you are not far from the kingdom of heaven," he was on the point of saying, but did not--because she was in it already, only unable yet to verify the things around her, like the man who had but half-way received his sight. when they reached the top, he took them past his door, and higher up the stair to the next, opening on the bartizan. here he said lady arctura must come with him first, and davie must wait till he came back for him. when he had them both safe on the roof, he told davie to keep close to his cousin or himself all the time. he showed them first his stores of fuel--his ammunition, he said, for fighting the winter. next he pointed out where he stood when first he heard the music the night before, and set down his bucket to follow it; and where he found the bucket, blown thither by the wind, when he came back to feel for it in the dark. then he began to lead them, as nearly as he could, the way he had then gone, but with some, for arctura's sake, desirable detours: over one steep-sloping roof they had to cross, he found a little stair up the middle, and down the other side. they came to a part where he was not quite sure about the way. as he stopped to bethink himself, they turned and looked eastward. the sea was shining in the sun, and the flat wet country between was so bright that they could not tell where the land ended and the sea began. but as they gazed a great cloud came over the sun, the sea turned cold and gray as death--a true march sea, and the land lay low and desolate between. the spring was gone and the winter was there. a gust of wind, full of keen hail, drove sharp in their faces. "ah, that settles the question!" said donal. "the music-bird must wait. we will call upon her another day.--it is funny, isn't it, davie, to go a bird's-nesting after music on the roof of a house?" "hark!" said arctura; "i think i heard the music-bird!--she wants us to find her nest! i really don't think we ought to go back for a little blast of wind, and a few pellets of hail! what do you think, davie?" "oh, for me, i wouldn't turn for ever so big a storm!" said davie; "but you know, arkie, it's not you or me, arkie! mr. grant is the captain of this expedition, and we must do as he bids us." "oh, surely, davie! i never meant to dispute that. only mr. grant is not a tyrant; he will let a lady say what she thinks!" "oh, yes, or a boy either! he likes me to say what i think! he says we can't get at each other without. and do you know--he obeys me sometimes!" arctura glanced a keen question at the boy. "it is quite true!" said davie, while donal listened smiling. "last winter, for days together--not all day, you know: i had to obey him most of the time! but at certain times, i was as sure of mr. grant doing as i told him, as he is now of me doing as he tells me." "what times were those?" asked arctura, thinking to hear of some odd pedagogic device. "when i was teaching him to skate!" answered davie, in a triumph of remembrance. "he said i knew better than he there, and so he would obey me. you wouldn't believe how splendidly he did it, arkie--out and out!" concluded davie, in a tone almost of awe. "oh, yes, i would believe it--perfectly!" said arctura. donal suddenly threw an arm round each of them, and pulled them down sitting. the same instant a fierce blast burst upon the roof. he had seen the squall whitening the sea, and looking nearer home saw the tops of the trees between streaming level towards the castle. but seated they were in no danger. "hark!" said arctura again; "there it is!" they all heard the wailing cry of the ghost-music. but while the blast continued they dared not pursue their hunt. it kept on in fits and gusts till the squall ceased--as suddenly almost as it had burst. the sky cleared, and the sun shone as a march sun can. but the blundering blasts and the swan-shot of the flying hail were all about still. "when the storm is upon us," remarked donal, as they rose from their crouching position, "it seems as if there never could be sunshine more; but our hopelessness does not keep back the sun when his hour to shine is come." "i understand!" said arctura: "when one is miserable, misery seems the law of being; and in the midst of it dwells some thought which nothing can ever set right! all at once it is gone, broken up and gone, like that hail-cloud. it just looks its own foolishness and vanishes." "do you know why things so often come right?" said donal. "--i would say always come right, but that is matter of faith, not sight." arctura did not answer at once. "i think i know what you are thinking," she said, "but i want to hear you answer your own question." "why do things come right so often, do you think, davie?" repeated donal. "is it," returned davie, "because they were made right to begin with?" "there is much in that, davie; but there is a better reason than that. it is because things are alive, and the life at the heart of them, that which keeps them going, is the great, beautiful god. so the sun for ever returns after the clouds. a doubting man, like him who wrote the book of ecclesiasties, puts the evil last, and says 'the clouds return after the rain;' but the christian knows that one has mastery who makes the joy the last in every song." "you speak like one who has suffered!" said arctura, with a kind look in his face. "who has not that lives?" "it is how you are able to help others!" "am i able to help others? i am very glad to hear it. my ambition would be to help, if i had any ambition. but if i am able, it is because i have been helped myself, not because i have suffered." "will you tell me what you mean by saying you have no ambition?" "where your work is laid out for you, there is no room for ambition: you have got your work to do!--but give me your hand, my lady; put your other hand on my shoulder. you stop there, davie, and don't move till i come to you. now, my lady--a little jump! that's it! now you are safe!--you were not afraid, were you?" "not in the least. but did you come here in the dark?" "yes. there is this advantage in the dark: you do not see how dangerous the way is. we take the darkness about us for the source of our difficulties: it is a great mistake. christian would hardly have dared go through the valley of the shadow of death, had he not had the shield of the darkness all about him." "can the darkness be a shield? is it not the evil thing?" "yes, the dark that is within us--the dark of distrust and unwillingness, but not the outside dark of mere human ignorance. where we do not see, we are protected. where we are most ignorant and most in danger, is in those things that affect the life of god in us: there the father is every moment watching his child. if he were not constantly pardoning and punishing our sins, what would become of us! we must learn to trust him about our faults as much as about everything else!" in the earnestness of his talk he had stopped, but now turned and went on. "there is my land-, or roof-mark rather!" he said, "--that chimney-stack! close by it i heard the music very near me indeed--when all at once the darkness and the wind came together so thick that i could do nothing more. we shall do better now in the daylight--and three of us instead of one!" "what a huge block of chimneys!" said arctura. "is it not!" returned donal. "it indicates the hugeness of the building below us, of which we can see so little. like the volcanoes of the world, it tells us how much fire is necessary to keep our dwelling warm." "i thought it was the sun that kept the earth warm," said davie. "so it is, but not the sun alone. the earth is like a man: the great glowing fire is god in the heart of the earth, and the great sun is god in the sky, keeping it warm on the other side. our gladness and pleasure, our trouble when we do wrong, our love for all about us, that is god inside us; and the beautiful things and lovable people, and all the lessons of life in history and poetry, in the bible, and in whatever comes to us, is god outside of us. every life is between two great fires of the love of god. so long as we do not give ourselves up heartily to him, we fear his fire will burn us. and burn us it does when we go against its flames and not with them, refusing to burn with the fire with which god is always burning. when we try to put it out, or oppose it, or get away from it, then indeed it burns!" "i think i know," said davie. arctura held her peace. "but now," said donal, "i must go round and have a peep at the other side of the chimney-stack." he disappeared, and arctura and davie stood waiting his return. they looked each in the other's face with the delight of consciously sharing a great adventure. beyond their feet lay the wide country and the great sea; over them the sky with the sun in it going down towards the mountains; under their feet the mighty old pile that was their home; and under that the earth with its molten heart of fire. but davie's look soon changed to one of triumph in his tutor. "is is not grand," it said, "to be all day with a man like that--talking to you and teaching you?" that at least was how arctura interpreted it, reading in it almost an assertion of superiority, in as much as this man was his tutor and not hers. she replied to the look in words:-- "i am his pupil, too, davie," she said, "though mr. grant does not know it." "how can that be," answered davie, "when you are afraid of him? i am not a bit afraid of him!" "how do you know i am afraid of him?" she asked. "oh, anybody could see that!" she was afraid she had spoken foolishly, and davie might repeat her words: she did not desire to hasten further intimacy with donal; things were going in that direction fast enough! her eyes, avoiding davie's, kept reconnoitring the stack of chimneys. "aren't you glad to have such a castle all for your own--to do what you like with, arkie? you know you could pull it all to pieces if you liked!" "would it be less mine," said arctura, "if i was not at liberty to pull it all to pieces? and would it be more mine when i had pulled it to pieces, davie?" donal was coming round the side of the stack, and heard what she said. it pleased him, for it was not a little in his own style. "what makes a thing your own, do you think, davie?" she went on. "to be able to do with it what you like," replied davie. "whether that be good or bad?" "yes, i think so," answered davie, doubtfully. "then i think you are quite wrong," she rejoined. "the moment you begin to use a thing wrong, that moment you make it less yours. i can't quite explain it, but that is how it looks to me." she ceased, and after a moment donal took up the question. "lady arctura is quite right, davie," he said. "the nature, that is the good of a thing, is that only by which it can be possessed. any other possession is like slave-owning; it is not a righteous having. the right and the power to use it to its true purpose, and the using it so, are the conditions that make a thing ours. to have the right and the power, and not use it so, would be to make the thing less ours than anybody's.--suppose you had a very beautiful picture, but from some defect in your sight you could never see that picture as it really was, while a servant in your house not only saw it as it was meant to be seen, but had such delight in gazing on it, that even in his dreams it came to him, and made him think of things he would not have thought of but for it:--which of you, you or the servant in your house, would have the more real possession of that picture? you could sell it away from yourself, and never know anything about it more; but you could not by all the power of a tyrant take it from your servant." "ah, now i understand!" said davie, with a look at lady arctura which seemed to say, "you see how mr. grant can make me understand!" "i wonder," said lady arctura, "what that curious opening in the side of the chimney-stack means! it can't be for smoke to come out at!" "no," said donal; "there is not a mark of smoke about it. if it had been meant for that, it would hardly have been put half-way from the top! i can't make it out! a hole like that in any chimney must surely interfere with the draught! i must get a ladder!" "let me climb on your shoulders, mr. grant," said davie. "come then; up you go!" said donal. and up went davie, and peeped into the horizontal slit. "it looks very like a chimney," he said, turning his head and thrusting it in sideways. "it goes right down to somewhere," he added, bringing his head out again, "but there is something across it a little way down--to prevent the jackdaws from tumbling in, i suppose." "what is it?" asked donal. "something like a grating," answered davie; "--no, not a grating exactly; it is what you might call a grating, but it seems made of wires. i don't think it would keep a strong bird out if he wanted to get in." "aha!" said donal to himself; "what if those wires be tuned! did you ever see an aeolian harp, my lady?" he asked: "i never did." "yes," answered lady arctura, "--once, when i was a little girl. and now you suggest it, i think the sounds we hear are not unlike those of an aeolian harp! the strings are all the same length, if i remember. but i do not understand the principle. they seem all to play together, and make the strangest, wildest harmonies, when the wind blows across them in a particular way." "i fancy then we have found the nest of our music-bird!" said donal. "the wires davie speaks of may be the strings of an aeolian harp! i wonder if there could be a draught across them! i must get up and see! i must go and get a ladder!" "but how could there be an aeolian harp up here?" said arctura. "it will be time enough to answer that question," replied donal, "when it changes to, 'how did an aeolian harp get up here?' something is here that wants accounting for: it may be an aeolian harp!" "but in a chimney! the soot would spoil the strings!" "then perhaps it is not a chimney: is there any sign of soot about, davie?" "no, sir; there is nothing but clean stone and lime." "you see, my lady! we do not even know that it is a chimney!" "what else can it be, standing with the rest?" "it may have been built for one; but if it had ever been used for one, the marks of smoke would remain, had it been disused ever so long. but to-morrow i will bring up a ladder." "could you not do it now?" said arctura, almost coaxingly. "i should so like to have the thing settled!" "as you please, my lady! i will go at once. there is one leaning against the garden-wall, not far from the bottom of the tower." "if you do not mind the trouble!" "i will come and help," said davie. "you mustn't leave lady arctura. i am not sure if i can get it up the stair; i am afraid it is too long. if i cannot, we will haul it up as we did the coal." he went, and the cousins sat down to wait his return. it was a cold evening, but arctura was well wrapt up, and davie was hardy. they sat at the foot of the chimney-stack, and began to talk. "it is such a long time since you told me anything, arkie!" said the boy. "you do not need me now to tell you anything: you have mr. grant! you like him much better than ever you did me!" "you see," said davie, thoughtfully, and making no defence against her half-reproach, "he began by making me afraid of him--not that he meant to do it, i think! he only meant that i should do what he told me: i was never afraid of you, arkie!" "i was much crosser to you than mr. grant, i am sure!" "mr. grant is never cross to me; and if ever you were, i've forgotten it, arkie. i only remember that i was not good to you. i am sorry for it now when i lie awake in bed; but i say to myself you forgive me, and go to sleep." "what makes you think i forgive you, davie?" "because i love you." this was not very logical, and set arctura thinking. she did not forgive the boy because he loved her; but the boy's love to her might make him sure she forgave him! love is its own justification, and sees itself in all its objects: forgiveness is an essential belonging of love, and must be seen where love is seen. "are you fond of my brother?" asked davie, after a pause. "why do you ask me?" "because they say you and he are going to be married some day, yet you don't seem to care much to be together." "it is all nonsense!" replied arctura, reddening. "i wish people would not talk foolishness!" "well, i do think he's not so fond of you as of eppy!" "hush! hush! you must not speak of such thing." "i saw him once kiss eppy, and i never saw him kiss you!" "no, indeed!" "is it right of forgue, if he's going to marry you, to kiss eppy?--that's what i want to know!" "he is not going to marry me." "he would, if you told him you wished it. papa wishes it." "how do you know that?" "from many thing. once i heard him say, 'afterwards, when the house is our own,' and i asked him what he meant, and he said, 'when forgue marries arctura, then the castle will be forgue's. that is how it ought to be, you know! property and title ought never to be parted.'" the hot blood rose to arctura's temples: was she a mere wrappage to her property--the paper of the parcel! but she called to mind how strange her uncle was: but for that could he have been so imprudent as to talk in such a way to a boy whose simplicity rendered the confidence dangerous? "you would not like having to give away your castle--would you, arkie?" he went on. "not to any one i did not love." "if i were you, i would not marry, but keep my castle to myself. i don't see why forgue should have your castle!" "you think i should make my castle my husband?" "he would be a good big husband anyhow, and a strong--one to defend you from your enemies, and not talk to you when you wanted to be quiet." "that is all true; but one might get weary of a stupid husband, however big and strong he was." "there's another thing, though!--he wouldn't be a cruel husband! i've heard papa often speak about some cruel husband! i fancied sometimes he meant himself; but that could not be, you know." arctura made no reply. all but vanished memories of things she had heard, hints and signs here and there that all was not right between her uncle and aunt, vaguely returned: could it be that he now repented of harshness to his wife, that the thought of it was preying upon him, that it drove him to his drugs for forgetfulness?--but in the presence of the boy she could not go on thinking in such a direction about his father. she felt relieved by the return of donal. he had found it rather difficult to get the ladder round the sharp curves of the stair; but at last they saw him with it on his shoulder coming over a distant roof. "now we shall see!" he said, as he leaned it up against the chimney, and stood panting. "you have tired yourself!" said lady arctura. "where's the harm, my lady? a man must get tired a few times before he lies down!" rejoined donald lightly. said davie, "must a woman, mr. grant, marry a man she does not love?" "no, certainly, davie." "mr. grant," said arctura, in dread of what davie might say next, "what do you take to be the duty of one inheriting a property? ought a woman to get rid of it, or attend to it herself?" donal thought a little. "we must first settle the main duty of property," he said; "and that i am hardly prepared to do." "is there not a duty owing to your family?" "there are a thousand duties owing to your family." "i don't mean those you are living with merely, but those also who transmitted the property to you. this property belongs to my family rather than to me, and if i had had a brother it would have gone to him: should i not do better for the family by giving it up to the next heir? i am not disinterested in starting the question; possession and power are of no great importance in my eyes; they are hindrances to me." "it seems to me," said donal, "that the fact that you would not have succeeded had there been a son, points to the fact of a disposer of events: you were sent into the world to take the property. if so, god expects you to perform the duties of it; they are not to be got rid of by throwing the thing aside, or giving them to another to do for you. if your family and not god were the real giver of the property, the question you put might arise; but i should hardly take interest enough in it to be capable of discussing it. i understand my duty to my sheep or cattle, to my master, to my father or mother, to my brother or sister, to my pupil davie here; i owe my ancestors love and honour, and the keeping of their name unspotted, though that duty is forestalled by a higher; but as to the property they leave behind them, over which they have no more power, and which now i trust they never think about, i do not see what obligation i can be under to them with regard to it, other than is comprised in the duties of the property itself." "but a family is not merely those that are gone before; there are those that will come after!" "the best thing for those to come after, is to receive the property with its duties performed, with the light of righteousness radiating from it." "but what then do you call the duties of property?" "in what does the property consist?" "in land, to begin with." "if the land were of no value, would the possession of it involve duties?" "i suppose not." "in what does the value of the land consist?" lady arctura did not attempt an answer to the question, and donal, after a little pause, resumed. "if you valued things as the world values them, i should not care to put the question; but i fear you may have some lingering notion that, though god's way is the true way, the world's way must not be disregarded. one thing, however, is certain--that nothing that is against god's way can be true. the value of property consists only in its being means, ground, or material to work his will withal. there is no success in the universe but in his will being done." arctura was silent. she had inherited prejudices which, while she hated selfishness, were yet thoroughly selfish. such are of the evils in us hardest to get rid of. they are even cherished for a lifetime by some of the otherwise loveliest of souls. knowing that herein much thought would be necessary for her, and that she would think, donal went no farther: a house must have its foundation settled before it is built upon; argument where the grounds of it are at all in dispute is worse than useless. he turned to his ladder, set it right, mounted, and peered into the opening. at the length of his arm he could reach the wires davie had described: they were taut, and free of rust--were therefore not iron or steel. he saw also that a little down the shaft a faint light came in from the opposite side: there was another opening somewhere! next he saw that each following string--for strings he already counted them--was placed a little lower than that before it, so that their succession was inclined to the other side of the shaft--apparently in a plane between the two openings, that a draught might pass along their plane: this must surely be the instrument whence the music flowed! he descended. "do you know, my lady," he asked arctura, "how the aeolian harp is placed for the wind to wake it?" "the only one i have seen," she answered, "was made to fit into a window; the lower sash was opened just wide enough to let it in, so that the wind entering must pass across the strings." then donal was all but certain. "of course," he said, after describing what he had seen, "we cannot be absolutely sure without having been here with the music, and having experimented by covering and uncovering the opening; and for that we must wait a south-easterly wind." chapter xlii. communism. but donal did not feel that even then would he have exhausted the likelihood of discovery. that the source of the music that had so long haunted the house was an aeolian harp in a chimney that had never or scarcely been used, might be enough to satisfy some, but he wanted to know as well why, if this was a chimney, it neither had been nor was used, and to what room it was a chimney. for the question had come to him--might not the music hold some relation with the legend of the lost room? inquiry after legendary lore had drawn nearer and nearer, and the talk about such as belonged to the castle had naturally increased. in this talk was not seldom mentioned a ghost, as yet seen at times about the place. this donal attributed to glimpses of the earl in his restless night-walks; but by the domestics, both such as had seen something and such as had not, the apparition was naturally associated with the lost chamber, as the place whence the spectre issued, and whither he returned. donal's spare hours were now much given to his friend andrew comin. the good man had so far recovered as to think himself able to work again; but he soon found it was little he could do. his strength was gone, and the exertion necessary to the lightest labour caused him pain. it was sad to watch him on his stool, now putting in a stitch, now stopping because of the cough which so sorely haunted his thin, wind-blown tent. his face had grown white and thin, and he had nearly lost his merriment, though not his cheerfulness; he never looked other than content. he had made up his mind he was not going to get better, but to go home through a lingering illness. he was ready to go and ready to linger, as god pleased. there was nothing wonderful in this; but to some good people even it did appear wonderful that he showed no uneasiness as to how doory would fare when he was gone. the house was indeed their own, but there was no money in it--not even enough to pay the taxes; and if she sold it, the price would not be enough to live upon. the neighbours were severe on andrew's imagined indifference to his wife's future, and it was in their eyes a shame to be so cheerful on the brink of the grave. not one of them had done more than peep into the world of faith in which andrew lived. not one of them could have understood that for andrew to allow the least danger of evil to his doory, would have been to behold the universe rocking on the slippery shoulders of chance. a little moan escaping her as she looked one evening into her money-teapot, made donal ask her a question or two. she confessed that she had but sixpence left. now donal had spent next to nothing since he came, and had therefore a few pounds in hand. his father and mother had sent back what he sent them, as being in need of nothing: sir gibbie was such a good son to them that they were living in what they counted luxury: robert doubted whether he was not ministering to the flesh in allowing janet to provide beef-brose for him twice in the week! so donal was free to spend for his next neighbours--just what his people, who were grand about money, would have had him do. never in their cottage had a penny been wasted; never one refused where was need. "an'rew," he said--and found the mother-tongue here fittest--"i'm thinkin' ye maun be growin' some short o' siller i' this time o' warklessness!" "'deed, i wadna won'er!" answered andrew. "doory says naething aboot sic triffles!" "weel," rejoined donal, "i thank god i hae some i' the ill pickle o' no bein' wantit, an' sae in danger o' cankerin'; an' atween brithers there sudna be twa purses!" "ye hae yer ain fowk to luik efter, sir!" said andrew. "they're weel luikit efter--better nor ever they war i' their lives; they're as weel aff as i am mysel' up i' yon gran' castel. they hae a freen' wha but for them wad ill hae lived to be the great man he is the noo; an' there's naething ower muckle for him to du for them; sae my siller 's my ain, an' yours. an'rew, an' doory's!" the old man put him through a catechism as to his ways and means and prospects, and finding that donal believed as firmly as himself in the care of the master, and was convinced there was nothing that master would rather see him do with his money than help those who needed it, especially those who trusted in him, he yielded. "it's no, ye see," said donal, "that i hae ony doobt o' the lord providin' gien i had failt, but he hauds the thing to my han', jist as muckle as gien he said, 'there's for you, donal!' the fowk o' this warl' michtna appruv, but you an' me kens better, an'rew. we ken there's nae guid in siller but do the wull o' the lord wi' 't--an' help to ane anither is his dear wull. it's no 'at he's short o' siller himsel', but he likes to gie anither a turn!" "i'll tak it," said the old man. "there's what i hae," returned donal. "na, na; nane o' that!" said andrew. "ye're treatin' me like a muckle, reivin', sornin' beggar--offerin' me a' that at ance! whaur syne wad be the prolonged sweetness o' haein' 't i' portions frae yer han', as frae the neb o' an angel-corbie sent frae verra hame wi' yer denner!"--here a glimmer of the old merriment shone through the worn look and pale eyes.--"na, na, sir," he went on; "jist talk the thing ower wi' doory, an' lat her hae what she wants an' nae mair. she wudna like it. wha kens what may came i' the meantime--deith himsel', maybe! or see--gie doory a five shillins, an' whan that's dune she can lat ye ken!" donal was forced to leave it thus, but he did his utmost to impress upon doory that all he had was at her disposal. "i had new clothes," he said, "before i came; i have all i want to eat and drink; and for books, there's a whole ancient library at my service!--what possibly could i wish for more? it's a mere luxury to hand the money over to you, doory! i'm thinkin', doory," for he had by this time got to address her by her husband's name for her, "there's naebody i' this warl', 'cep' the oonseen lord himsel', lo'es yer man sae weel as you an' me; an' weel ken i you an' him wad share yer last wi' me; sae i'm only giein' ye o' yer ain gude wull; an' i'll doobt that gien ye takna sae lang as i hae." thus adjured, and satisfied that her husband was content, the old woman made no difficulty. chapter xliii. eppy and kennedy. when stephen kennedy heard that eppy had gone back to her grandparents, a faint hope revived in his bosom; he knew nothing of the late passage between the two parties. he but knew that she was looking sad: she might perhaps allow him to be of some service to her! separation had fostered more and more gentle thoughts of her in his heart; he was ready to forgive her everything, and believe nothing serious against her, if only she would let him love her again. modesty had hitherto kept him from throwing himself in her way, but he now haunted the house in the hope of catching a glimpse of her, and when she began to go again into the town, saw her repeatedly, following her to be near her, but taking care she should not see him: partly from her self-absorption he had succeeded in escaping her notice. at length, however, one night, he tried to summon up courage to accost her. it was a lovely, moonlit night, half the street black with quaint shadows, the other half shining like sand in the yellow light. on the moony side people standing at their doors could recognize each other two houses away, but on the other, friends might pass without greeting. eppy had gone into the baker's; kennedy had seen her go in, and stood in the shadow, waiting, all but determined to speak to her. she staid a good while, but one accustomed to wait for fish learns patience. at length she appeared. by this time, however, though not his patience, kennedy's courage had nearly evaporated; and when he saw her he stepped under an archway, let her pass, and followed afresh. all at once resolve, which yet was no resolve, awoke in him. it was as if some one took him and set him before her. she started when he stepped in front, and gave a little cry. "dinna be feart, eppy," he said; "i wudna hurt a hair o' yer heid. i wud raither be skinned mysel'!" "gang awa," said eppy. "ye hae no richt to stan' i' my gait!" "nane but the richt o' lo'ein' ye better nor ever!" said kennedy, "--gien sae be as ye'll lat me ony gait shaw 't!" the words softened her; she had dreaded reproach, if not indignant remonstrance. she began to cry. "gien onything i' my pooer wud mak the grief lichter upo' ye, eppy," he said, "ye hae but to name 't! i'm no gauin' to ask ye to merry me, for that i ken ye dinna care aboot; but gien i micht be luikit upon as a freen', if no to you, yet to yours--alloot onyw'y to help i' yer trible, i mean, i'm ready to lay me i' the dirt afore ye. i hae nae care for mysel' ony mair, an' maun do something for somebody--an' wha sae soon as yersel', eppy!" for sole answer, eppy went on crying. she was far from happy. she had nearly persuaded herself that all was over between her and lord forgue, and almost she could, but for shame, have allowed kennedy to comfort her as an old friend. everything in her mind was so confused, and everything around her so miserable, that she could but cry. she continued crying, and as they were in a walled lane into which no windows looked, kennedy, in the simplicity of his heart, and the desire to comfort her who little from him deserved comfort, came up to her, and putting his arm round her, said again, "dinna be feart of me, eppy. i'm a man ower sair-hertit to do ye ony hurt. it's no as thinkin' ye my ain, eppy, i wud preshume to du onything for ye, but as an auld freen', fain to tak the dog aff o' ye. are ye in want o' onything? ye maun hae a heap o' trible, i weel ken, wi' yer gran'father's mischance, an' it's easy to un'erstan' 'at things may well be turnin' scarce aboot ye; but be sure o' this, that as lang's my mither has onything, she'll be blyth to share the same wi' you an' yours." he said his mother, but she had nothing save what he provided her with. "i thank ye, stephen," said eppy, touched with his goodness; "but there's nae necessity; we hae plenty." she moved on, her apron still to her eyes. kennedy followed her. "gien the yoong lord hae wranged ye ony gait," he said from behind her, "an' gien there be ony amen's ye wad hae o' him,--" she turned with a quickness that was fierce, and in the dim light kennedy saw her eyes blazing. "i want naething frae your han', stephen kennedy," she said. "my lord's naething to you--nor yet muckle to me!" she added, with sudden reaction and an outburst of self-pity, and again fell a weeping--and sobbing now. with the timidity of a strong man before the girl he loves and therefore fears, kennedy once more tried to comfort her, wiping her eyes with her apron. while he did so, a man, turning a corner quickly, came almost upon them. he started back, then came nearer, looked hard at them, and spoke. it was lord forgue. "eppy!" he exclaimed, in a tone in which indignation blended with surprise. eppy gave a cry, and ran to him. he pushed her away. "my lord," said kennedy, "the lass will nane o' me or mine. i sair doobt there's nane but yersel' can please her. but i sweir by god, my lord, gien ye du her ony wrang, i'll no rest, nicht nor day, till i hae made ye repent it." "go to the devil!" said forgue; "there's an old crow, i suspect, yet to pluck between us! for me you may take her, though. i don't go halves." eppy laid her hand timidly on his arm, but again he pushed her away. "oh, my lord!" she sobbed, and could say no more for weeping. "how is it i find you here with this man?" he asked. "i don't want to be unfair to you, but it looks rather bad!" "my lord," said kennedy. "hold your tongue; let her speak for herself." "i had no tryst wi' him, my lord! i never said come nigh me," sobbed eppy. "--ye see what ye hae dune!" she cried, turning in anger on kennedy, and her tears suddenly ceasing. "never but ill hae ye brocht me! what business had ye to come efter me this gait, makin' mischief 'atween my lord an' me? can a body no set fut ayont the door-sill, but they maun be followt o' them they wud see far eneuch!" kennedy turned and went, and eppy with a fresh burst of tears turned to go also. but she had satisfied forgue that there was nothing between them, and he was soon more successful than kennedy in consoling her. while absent he had been able enough to get on without her, but no sooner was he home than, in the weary lack of interest, the feelings which, half lamenting, half rejoicing, he had imagined extinct, began to revive, and he went to the town vaguely hoping to get a sight of eppy. coming upon her tête à tête with her old lover, first a sense of unpardonable injury possessed him, and next the conviction that he was as madly in love with her as ever. the tide of old tenderness came throbbing and streaming back over the ghastly sands of jealousy, and ere they parted he had made with her an appointment to meet the next night in a more suitable spot. donal was seated by andrew's bedside reading: he had now the opportunity of bringing many things before him such as the old man did not know to exist. those last days of sickness and weakness were among the most blessed of his life; much that could not be done for many a good man with ten times his education, could be done for a man like andrew comin. eppy had done her best to remove all traces of emotion ere she re-entered the house; but she could not help the shining of her eyes: the joy-lamp relighted in her bosom shone through them: and andrew looking up when she entered, donal, seated with his back to her, at once knew her secret: her grandfather read it from her face, and donal read it from his. "she has seen forgue!" he said to himself. "i hope the old man will die soon." chapter xliv. high and low. when lord morven heard of his son's return, he sent for donal, received him in a friendly way, gave him to understand that, however he might fail to fall in with his views, he depended thoroughly on his honesty, and begged he would keep him informed of his son's proceedings. donal replied that, while he fully acknowledged his lordship's right to know what his son was doing, he could not take the office of a spy. "but i will warn lord forgue," he concluded, "that i may see it right to let his father know what he is about. i fancy, however, he understands as much already." "pooh! that would be only to teach him cunning," said the earl. "i can do nothing underhand," replied donal. "i will help no man to keep an unrighteous secret, but neither will i secretly disclose it." meeting him a few days after, forgue would have passed him without recognition, but donal stopped him, and said-- "i believe, my lord, you have seen eppy since your return." "what the deuce is that to you?" "i wish your lordship to understand that whatever comes to my knowledge concerning your proceedings in regard to her, i will report to your father if i see fit." "the warning is unnecessary. few informers, however, would have given me the advantage, and i thank you: so far i am indebted to you. none the less the shame of the informer remains!" "your lordship's judgment of me is no more to me than that of yon rook up there." "you doubt my honour?" said forgue with a sneer. "i do. i doubt you. you do not know yourself. time will show. for god's sake, my lord, look to yourself! you are in terrible danger." "i would rather do wrong for love than right for fear. i scorn such threats." "threats, my lord!" echoed donal. "is it a threat to warn you that your very consciousness may become a curse to you? that to know yourself may be your hell? that you may come to make it your first care to forget what you are? do you know what shakspere says of tarquin-- besides, his soul's fair temple is defaced; to whose weak ruins muster troops of cares, to ask the spotted princess how she fares--?" "oh, hang your preaching!" cried forgue, and turned away. "my lord," said donal, "if you will not hear me, there are preachers you must." "they will not be quite so long-winded then!" forgue answered. "you are right," said donal; "they will not." all forgue's thoughts were now occupied with the question how with least danger eppy and he were to meet. he did not contemplate treachery. at this time of his life he could not have respected himself, little as was required for that, had he been consciously treacherous; but no man who in love yet loves himself more, is safe from becoming a traitor: potentially he is one already. treachery to him who is guilty of it seems only natural self-preservation; the man who can do a vile thing is incapable of seeing it as it is; and that ought to make us doubtful of our judgments of ourselves, especially defensive judgments. forgue did not suspect himself--not although he knew that his passion had but just regained a lost energy, revived at the idea of another man having the girl! it did not shame him that he had begun to forget her, or that he had been so roused to fresh desire. if he had stayed away six months, he would practically have forgotten her altogether. some may think that, if he had devotion enough to surmount the vulgarities of her position and manners and ways of thought, his love could hardly be such as to yield so soon; but eppy was not in herself vulgar. many of even humbler education than she are far less really vulgar than some in the forefront of society. no doubt the conventionalities of a man like forgue must have been sometimes shocked in familiar intercourse with one like eppy; but while he was merely flirting with her, the very things that shocked would also amuse him--for i need hardly say he was not genuinely refined; and by and by the growing passion obscured them. there is no doubt that, had she been confronted as his wife with the common people of society, he would have become aware of many things as vulgarities which were only simplicities; but in the meantime she was no more vulgar to him than a lamb or a baby is vulgar, however unfit either for a belgravian drawing-room. vulgar, at the same time, he would have thought and felt her, but for the love that made him do her justice. love is the opener as well as closer of eyes. but men who, having seen, become blind again, think they have had their eyes finally opened. for some time there was no change in eppy's behaviour but that she was not tearful as before. she continued diligent, never grumbled at the hardest work, and seemed desirous of making up for remissness in the past, when in truth she was trying to make up for something else in the present: she would atone for what she would not tell, by doing immediate duty with the greater devotion. but by and by she began occasionally to show, both in manner and countenance, a little of the old pertness, mingled with uneasiness. the phenomenon, however, was so intermittent and unpronounced, as to be manifest only to eyes familiar with her looks and ways: to donal it was clear that the relation between her and forgue was resumed. yet she never went out in the evening except sent by her grandmother, and then she always came home even with haste--anxious, it might have seemed, to avoid suspicion. it was the custom with donal and davie to go often into the fields and woods in the fine weather--they called this their observation class--to learn what they might of the multitudinous goings on in this or that of nature's workshops: there each for himself and the other exercised his individual powers of seeing and noting and putting together. donal knew little of woodland matters, having been chiefly accustomed to meadows and bare hill-sides; yet in the woods he was the keener of the two to observe, and could the better teach that he was but a better learner. one day, as they were walking together under the thin shade of a fir-thicket, davie said, with a sudden change of subject-- "i wonder if we shall meet forgue to-day! he gets up early now, and goes out. it is neither to fish nor shoot, for he doesn't take his rod or gun; he must be watching or looking for something!--shouldn't you say so, mr. grant?" this set donal thinking. eppy was never out at night, or only for a few minutes; and forgue went out early in the morning! but if eppy would meet him, how could he or anyone help it? chapter xlv. a last encounter. now for a while, donal seldom saw lady arctura, and when he did, received from her no encouragement to address her. the troubled look had reappeared on her face. in her smile, as they passed in hall or corridor, glimmered an expression almost pathetic--something like an appeal, as if she stood in sore need of his help, but dared not ask for it. she was again much in the company of miss carmichael, and donal had good cause to fear that the pharisaism of her would-be directress was coming down upon her spirit, not like rain on the mown grass, but like frost on the spring flowers. the impossibility of piercing the christian pharisee holding the traditions of the elders, in any vital part--so pachydermatous is he to any spiritual argument--is a sore trial to the old adam still unslain in lovers of the truth. at the same time nothing gives patience better opportunity for her perfect work. and it is well they cannot be reached by argument and so persuaded; they would but enter the circles of the faithful to work fresh schisms and breed fresh imposthumes. but donal had begun to think that he had been too forbearing towards the hideous doctrines advocated by miss carmichael. it is one thing where evil doctrines are quietly held, and the truth associated with them assimilated by good people doing their best with what has been taught them, and quite another thing where they are forced upon some shrinking nature, weak to resist through the very reverence which is its excellence. the finer nature, from inability to think another of less pure intent than itself, is often at a great disadvantage in the hands of the coarser. he made up his mind that, risk as it was to enter into disputations with a worshipper of the letter, inasmuch as for argument the letter is immeasurably more available than the spirit--for while the spirit lies in the letter unperceived, it has no force, and the letter-worshipper is incapable of seeing that god could not possibly mean what he makes of it--notwithstanding the risk, he resolved to hold himself ready, and if anything was given him, to cry it out and not spare. nor had he long resolved ere the opportunity came. it had come to be known that donal frequented the old avenue, and it was with intent, in the pride of her acquaintance with scripture, and her power to use it, that miss carmichael one afternoon led her unwilling, rather recusant, and very unhappy disciple thither: she sought an encounter with him: his insolence towards the old-established faith must be confounded, his obnoxious influence on arctura frustrated! it was a bright autumnal day. the trees were sorely bereaved, but some foliage yet hung in thin yellow clouds upon their patient boughs. there was plenty of what davie called scushlin, that is the noise of walking with scarce lifted feet amongst the thick-lying withered leaves. but less foliage means more sunlight. donal was sauntering along, his book in his hand, now and then reading a little, now and then looking up to the half-bared branches, now and then, like davie, sweeping a cloud of the fallen multitude before him. he was in this childish act when, looking up, he saw the two ladies approaching; he did not see the peculiar glance miss carmichael threw her companion: "behold your prophet!" it said. he would have passed with lifted bonnet, but miss carmichael stopped, smiling: her smile was bright because it showed her good teeth, but was not pleasant because it showed nothing else. "glorying over the fallen, mr. grant?" she said. donal in his turn smiled. "that is not mr. grant's way," said arctura, "--so far at least as i have known him!" "how careless the trees are of their poor children!" said miss carmichael, affecting sympathy for the leaves. "pardon me," said donal, "if i grudge them your pity: there is nothing more of children in those leaves than there is in the hair that falls on the barber's floor." "it is not very gracious to pull a lady up so sharply!" returned miss carmichael, still smiling: "i spoke poetically." "there is no poetry in what is not true," rejoined donal. "those are not the children of the tree." "of course," said miss carmichael, a little surprised to find their foils crossed already, "a tree has no children! but--" "a tree no children!" exclaimed donal. "what then are all those beech-nuts under the leaves? are they not the children of the tree?" "yes; and lost like the leaves!" sighed miss carmichael. "why do you say they are lost? they must fulfil the end for which they were made, and if so, they cannot be lost." "for what end were they made?" "i do not know. if they all grew up, they would be a good deal in the way." "then you say there are more seeds than are required?" "how could i, when i do not know what they are required for? how can i tell that it is not necessary for the life of the tree that it should produce them all, and necessary too for the ground to receive so much life-rent from the tree!" "but you must admit that some things are lost!" "yes, surely!" answered donal. "why else should he come and look till he find?" no such answer had the theologian expected; she was not immediate with her rejoinder. "but some of them are lost after all!" she said. "doubtless; there are sheep that will keep running away. but he goes after them again." "he will not do that for ever!" "he will." "i do not believe it." "then you do not believe that god is infinite!" "i do." "how can you? is he not the lord god merciful and gracious?" "i am glad you know that." "but if his mercy and his graciousness are not infinite, then he is not infinite!" "there are other attributes in which he is infinite." "but he is not infinite in all his attributes? he is partly infinite, and partly finite!--infinite in knowledge and power, but in love, in forgiveness, in all those things which are the most beautiful, the most divine, the most christ-like, he is finite, measurable, bounded, small!" "i care nothing for such finite reasoning. i take the word of inspiration, and go by that!" "let me hear then," said donal, with an uplifting of his heart in prayer; for it seemed no light thing for arctura which of them should show the better reason. now it had so fallen that the ladies were talking about the doctrine called adoption when first they saw donal; whence this doctrine was the first to occur to the champion of orthodoxy as a weapon wherewith to foil the enemy. "the most precious doctrine, if one may say so, in the whole bible, is that of adoption. god by the mouth of his apostle paul tells us that god adopts some for his children, and leaves the rest. if because of this you say he is not infinite in mercy, when the bible says he is, you are guilty of blasphemy." in a tone calm to solemnity, donal answered-- "god's mercy is infinite; and the doctrine of adoption is one of the falsest of false doctrines. in bitter lack of the spirit whereby we cry abba, father, the so-called church invented it; and it remains, a hideous mask wherewith false and ignorant teachers scare god's children from their father's arms." "i hate sentiment--most of all in religion!" said miss carmichael with contempt. "you shall have none," returned donal. "tell me what is meant by adoption." "the taking of children," answered miss carmichael, already spying a rock ahead, "and treating them as your own." "whose children?" asked donal. "anyone's." "whose," insisted donal, "are the children whom god adopts?" she was on the rock, and a little staggered. but she pulled up courage and said-- "the children of satan." "then how are they to be blamed for doing the deeds of their father?" "you know very well what i mean! satan did not make them. god made them, but they sinned and fell." "then did god repudiate them?" "yes." "and they became the children of another?" "yes, of satan." "then god disowns his children, and when they are the children of another, adopts them? miss carmichael, it is too foolish! would that be like a father? because his children do not please him, he repudiates them altogether; and then he wants them again--not as his own, but as the children of a stranger, whom he will adopt! the original relationship is no longer of any force--has no weight even with their very own father! what ground could such a parent have to complain of his children?" "you dare not say the wicked are the children of god the same as the good." "that be far from me! those who do the will of god are infinitely more his children than those who do not; they are born of the innermost heart of god; they are then of the nature of jesus christ, whose glory is obedience. but if they were not in the first place, and in the most profound fact, the children of god, they could never become his children in that higher, that highest sense, by any fiction of adoption. do you think if the devil could create, his children could ever become the children of god? but you and i, and every pharisee, publican, and sinner in the world, are equally the children of god to begin with. that is the root of all the misery and all the hope. because we are his children, we must become his children in heart and soul, or be for ever wretched. if we ceased to be his, if the relation between us were destroyed, which is impossible, no redemption would be possible, there would be nothing left to redeem." "you may talk as you see fit, mr. grant, but while paul teaches the doctrine, i will hold it; he may perhaps know a little better than you." "paul teaches no such doctrine. he teaches just what i have been saying. the word translated adoption, he uses for the raising of one who is a son to the true position of a son." "the presumption in you to say what the apostle did or did not mean!" "why, miss carmichael, do you think the gospel comes to us as a set of fools? is there any way of truly or worthily receiving a message without understanding it? a message is sent for the very sake of being in some measure at least understood. without that it would be no message at all. i am bound by the will and express command of the master to understand the things he says to me. he commands me to see their rectitude, because they being true, i ought to be able to see them true. in the hope of seeing as he would have me see, i read my greek testament every day. but it is not necessary to know greek to see what paul means by the so-translated adoption. you have only to consider his words with intent to find out his meaning, and without intent to find in them the teaching of this or that doctor of divinity. in the epistle to the galatians, whose child does he speak of as adopted? it is the father's own child, his heir, who differs nothing from a slave until he enters upon his true relation to his father--the full status of a son. so also, in another passage, by the same word he means the redemption of the body--its passing into the higher condition of outward things, into a condition in itself, and a home around it, fit for the sons and daughters of god--that we be no more like strangers, but like what we are, the children of the house. to use any word of paul's to make human being feel as if he were not by birth, making, origin, or whatever word of closer import can be found, the child of god, or as if anything he had done or could do could annul that relationship, is of the devil, the father of evil, not either of paul or of christ.--why, my lady," continued donal, turning to arctura, "all the evil lies in this--that he is our father and we are not his children. to fulfil the poorest necessities of our being, we must be his children in brain and heart, in body and soul and spirit, in obedience and hope and gladness and love--his out and out, beyond all that tongue can say, mind think, or heart desire. then only is our creation finished--then only are we what we were made to be. this is that for the sake of which we are troubled on all sides." he ceased. miss carmichael was intellectually cowed, but her heart was nowise touched. she had never had that longing after closest relation with god which sends us feeling after the father. but now, taking courage under the overshadowing wing of the divine, arctura spoke. "i do hope what you say is true, mr. grant!" she said with a longing sigh. "oh yes, hope! we all hope! but it is the word we have to do with!" said miss carmichael. "i have given you the truth of this word!" said donal. but as if she heard neither of them, arctura went on, "if it were but true!" she moaned. "it would set right everything on the face of the earth!" "you mean far more than that, my lady!" said donal. "you mean everything in the human heart, which will to all eternity keep moaning and crying out for the father of it, until it is one with its one relation!" he lifted his bonnet, and would have passed on. "one word, mr. grant," said miss carmichael. "--no man holding such doctrines could with honesty become a clergyman of the church of scotland." "very likely," replied donal, "good afternoon." "thank you, mr. grant!" said arctura. "i hope you are right." when he was gone, the ladies resumed their walk in silence. at length miss carmichael spoke. "well, i must say, of all the conceited young men i have had the misfortune to meet, your mr. grant bears the palm! such self-assurance! such presumption! such forwardness!" "are you certain, sophia," rejoined arctura, "that it is self-assurance, and not conviction that gives him his courage?" "he is a teacher of lies! he goes dead against all that good men say and believe! the thing is as clear as daylight: he is altogether wrong!" "what if god be sending fresh light into the minds of his people?" "the old light is good enough for me!" "but it may not be good enough for god! what if mr. grant should be his messenger to you and me!" "a likely thing! a raw student from the hills of daurside!" "i cherish a profound hope that he may be in the right. much good, you know, did come out of galilee! every place and every person is despised by somebody!" "arctura! he has infected you with his frightful irreverence!" "if he be a messenger of jesus christ," said arctura, quietly, "he has had from you the reception he would expect, for the disciple must be as his master." miss carmichael stood still abruptly. her face was in a flame, but her words came cold and hard. "i am sorry," she said, "our friendship should come to so harsh a conclusion, lady arctura; but it is time it should end when you speak so to one who has been doing her best for so long to enlighten you! if this be the first result of your new gospel--well! remember who said, 'if an angel from heaven preach any other gospel to you than i have preached, let him be accursed!" she turned back. "oh, sophia, do not leave me so!" cried arctura. but she was already yards away, her skirt making a small whirlwind that went after her through the withered leaves. arctura burst into tears, and sat down at the foot of one of the great beeches. miss carmichael never looked behind her. she met donal again, for he too had turned: he uncovered, but she took no heed. she had done with him! her poor arctura. donal was walking gently on, thinking, with closed book, when the wind bore to his ear a low sob from arctura. he looked up, and saw her: she sat weeping like one rejected. he could not pass or turn and leave her thus! she heard his steps in the withered leaves, glanced up, dropped her head for a moment, then rose with a feeble attempt at a smile. donal understood the smile: she would not have him troubled because of what had taken place! "mr. grant," she said, coming towards him, "st. paul laid a curse upon even an angel from heaven if he preached any other gospel than his! it is terrible!" "it is terrible, and i say amen to it with all my heart," returned donal. "but the gospel you have received is not the gospel of paul; it is one substituted for it--and that by no angel from heaven, but by men with hide-bound souls, who, in order to get them into their own intellectual pockets, melted down the ingots of the kingdom, and re-cast them in moulds of wretched legalism, borrowed of the romans who crucified their master. grand, childlike, heavenly things they must explain, forsooth, after vulgar worldly notions of law and right! but they meant well, seeking to justify the ways of god to men, therefore the curse of the apostle does not fall, i think, upon them. they sought a way out of their difficulties, and thought they had found one, when in reality it was their faith in god himself that alone got them out of the prison of their theories. but gladly would i see discomfited such as, receiving those inventions at the hundredth hand, and moved by none of the fervour with which they were first promulgated, lay, as the word and will of god, lumps of iron and heaps of dust upon live, beating, longing hearts that cry out after their god!" "oh, i do hope what you say is true!" panted arctura. "i think i shall die if i find it is not!" "if you find what i tell you untrue, it will only be that it is not grand and free and bounteous enough. to think anything too good to be true, is to deny god--to say the untrue may be better than the true--that there might be a greater god than he. remember, christ is in the world still, and within our call." "i will think of what you tell me," said arctura, holding out her hand. "if anything in particular troubles you," said donal, "i shall be most glad to help you if i can; but it is better there should not be much talking. the thing lies between you and your father." with these words he left her. arctura followed slowly to the house, and went straight to her room, her mind filling as she went with slow-reviving strength and a great hope. no doubt some of her relief came from the departure of her incubus friend; but that must soon have vanished in fresh sorrow, save for the hope and strength to which this departure yielded the room. she trusted that by the time she saw her again she would be more firmly grounded concerning many things, and able to set them forth aright. she was not yet free of the notion that you must be able to defend your convictions; she scarce felt at liberty to say she believed a thing, so long as she knew an argument against it which she could not show to be false. alas for our beliefs if they go no farther than the poor horizon of our experience or our logic, or any possible wording of the beliefs themselves! alas for ourselves if our beliefs are not what we shape our lives, our actions, our aspirations, our hopes, our repentances by! donal was glad indeed to hope that now at length an open door stood before the poor girl. he had been growing much interested in her, as one on whom life lay heavy, one who seemed ripe for the kingdom of heaven, yet in whose way stood one who would neither enter herself, nor allow her to enter that would. she was indeed fit for nothing but the kingdom of heaven, so much was she already the child of him whom, longing after him, she had not yet dared to call her father. his regard for her was that of the gentle strong towards the weak he would help; and now that she seemed fairly started on the path of life, the path, namely, to the knowledge of him who is the life, his care over her grew the more tender. it is the part of the strong to serve the weak, to minister that whereby they too may grow strong. but he rather than otherwise avoided meeting her, and for a good many days they did not so much as see each other. chapter xlvi. a horrible story. the health of the earl remained fluctuating. its condition depended much on the special indulgence. there was hardly any sort of narcotic with which he did not at least make experiment, if he did not indulge in it. he made no pretence even to himself of seeking therein the furtherance of knowledge; he wanted solely to find how this or that, thus or thus modified or combined, would contribute to his living a life such as he would have it, and other quite than that ordered for him by a power which least of all powers he chose to acknowledge. the power of certain drugs he was eager to understand: the living source of him and them and their correlations, he scarcely recognized. this came of no hostility to religion other than the worst hostility of all--that of a life irresponsive to its claims. he believed neither like saint nor devil; he believed and did not obey, he believed and did not yet tremble. the one day he was better, the other worse, according, as i say, to the character and degree of his indulgence. at one time it much affected his temper, taking from him all mastery of himself; at another made him so dull and stupid, that he resented nothing except any attempt to rouse him from his hebetude. of these differences he took unfailing note; but the worst influence of all was a constant one, and of it he made no account: however the drugs might vary in their operations upon him, to one thing they all tended--the destruction of his moral nature. urged more or less all his life by a sort of innate rebellion against social law, he had done great wrongs--whether also committed what are called crimes, i cannot tell: no repentance had followed the remorse their consequences had sometimes occasioned. and now the possibility of remorse even was gradually forsaking him. such a man belongs rather to the kind demoniacal than the kind human; yet so long as nothing occurs giving to his possible an occasion to embody itself in the actual, he may live honoured, and die respected. there is always, not the less, the danger of his real nature, or rather unnature, breaking out in this way or that diabolical. although he went so little out of the house, and apparently never beyond the grounds, he yet learned a good deal at times of things going on in the neighbourhood: davie brought him news; so did simmons; and now and then he would have an interview with his half acknowledged relative, the factor. one morning before he was up, he sent for donal, and requested him to give davie a half-holiday, and do something for him instead. "you know, or perhaps you don't know, that i have a house in the town," he said, "--the only house, indeed, now belonging to the earldom--a not very attractive house which you must have seen--on the main street, a little before you come to the morven arms." "i believe i know the house, my lord," answered donal, "with strong iron stanchions to the lower windows, and--?" "yes, that is the house; and i daresay you have heard the story of it--i mean how it fell into its present disgrace! the thing happened more than a hundred years ago. but i have spent some nights in it myself notwithstanding." "i should like to hear it, my lord," said donal. "you may as well have it from myself as from another! it does not touch any of us, for the family was not then represented by the same branch as now; i might else be thin-skinned about it. no mere legend, mind you, but a very dreadful fact, which resulted in the abandonment of the house! i think it time, for my part, that it should be forgotten and the house let. it was before the castle and the title parted company: that is a tale worth telling too! there was little fair play in either! but i will not trouble you with it now. "into the generation then above ground," the earl began, assuming a book-tone the instant he began to narrate, "by one of those freaks of nature specially strange and more inexplicable than the rest, had been born an original savage. you know that the old type, after so many modifications have been wrought upon it, will sometimes reappear in its ancient crudity amidst the latest development of the race, animal and vegetable too, i suppose!--well, so it was now: i use no figure of speech when i say that the apparition, the phenomenon, was a savage. i do not mean that he was an exceptionally rough man for his position, but for any position in the scotland of that age. no doubt he was regarded as a madman, and used as a madman; but my opinion is the more philosophical--that, by an arrest of development, into the middle of the ladies and gentlemen of the family came a veritable savage, and one out of no darkest age of history, but from beyond all record--out of the awful prehistoric times." his lordship visibly and involuntarily shuddered, as at the memory of something he had seen: into that region he had probably wandered in his visions. "he was a fierce and furious savage--worse than anything you can imagine. the only sign of any influence of civilization upon him was that he was cowed by the eye of his keeper. never, except by rarest chance, was he left alone and awake: no one could tell what he might not do! "he was of gigantic size, with coarse black hair--the brawniest fellow and the ugliest, they say--for you may suppose my description is but legendary: there is no portrait of him on our walls!--with a huge, shapeless, cruel, greedy mouth,"-- as his lordship said the words, donal, with involuntary insight, saw both cruelty and greed in the mouth that spoke, though it was neither huge nor shapeless. --"lips hideously red and large, with the whitest teeth inside them.--i give you the description," said his lordship, who evidently lingered not without pleasure on the details of his recital, "just as i used to hear it from my old nurse, who had been all her life in the family, and had it from her mother who was in it at the time.--his great passion, his keenest delight, was animal food. he ate enormously--more, it was said, than three hearty men. an hour after he had gorged himself, he was ready to gorge again. roast meat was his main delight, but he was fond of broth also.--he must have been more like mrs. shelley's creation in frankenstein than any other. all the time i read that story, i had the vision of my far-off cousin constantly before me, as i saw him in my mind's eye when my nurse described him; and often i wondered whether mrs. shelley could have heard of him.--in an earlier age and more practical, they would have got rid of him by readier and more thorough means, if only for shame of having brought such a being into the world, but they sent him with his keeper, a little man with a powerful eye, to that same house down in the town there: in an altogether solitary place they could persuade no man to live with him. at night he was always secured to his bed, otherwise his keeper would not have had courage to sleep, for he was as cunning as he was hideous. when he slept during the day, which he did frequently after a meal, his attendant contented himself with locking his door, and keeping his ears awake. at such times only did he venture to look on the world: he would step just outside the street-door, but would neither leave it, nor shut it behind him, lest the savage should perhaps escape from his room, bar it, and set the house on fire. "one beautiful sunday morning, the brute, after a good breakfast, had fallen asleep on his bed, and the keeper had gone down stairs, and was standing in the street with the door open behind him. all the people were at church, and the street was empty as a desert. he stood there for some time, enjoying the sweet air and the scent of the flowers, went in and got a light to his pipe, put coals on the fire, saw that the hugh cauldron of broth which the cook had left in his charge when he went to church--it was to serve for dinner and supper both--was boiling beautifully, went back, and again took his station in front of the open door. presently came a neighbour woman from her house, leading by the hand a little girl too young to go to church. she stood talking with him for some time. "suddenly she cried, 'good lord! what's come o' the bairn?' the same instant came one piercing shriek--from some distance it seemed. the mother darted down the neighbouring close. but the keeper saw that the door behind him was shut, and was filled with horrible dismay. he darted to an entrance in the close, of which he always kept the key about him, and went straight to the kitchen. there by the fire stood the savage, gazing with a fixed fishy eye of rapture at the cauldron, which the steam, issuing in little sharp jets from under the lid, showed to be boiling furiously, with grand prophecy of broth. ghastly horror in his very bones, the keeper lifted the lid--and there, beside the beef, with the broth bubbling in waves over her, lay the child! the demon had torn off her frock, and thrust her into the boiling liquid! "there rose such an outcry that they were compelled to put him in chains and carry him no one knew whither; but nurse said he lived to old age. ever since, the house has been uninhabited, with, of course, the reputation of being haunted. if you happen to be in its neighbourhood when it begins to grow dark, you may see the children hurry past it in silence, now and then glancing back in dread, lest something should have opened the never-opened door, and be stealing after them. they call that something the red etin,--only this ogre was black, i am sorry to say; red was the proper colour for him." "it is a horrible story!" said donal. "i want you to go to the house for me: you do not mind going, do you?" "not in the least," answered donal. "i want you to search a certain bureau there for some papers.--by the way, have you any news to give me about forgue?" "no, my lord," answered donal. "i do not even know whether or not they meet, but i am afraid." "oh, i daresay," rejoined his lordship, "the whim is wearing off! one pellet drives out another. behind the love in the popgun came the conviction that it would be simple ruin! but we graemes are stiff-necked both to god and man, and i don't trust him much." "he gave you no promise, if you remember, my lord." "i remember very well; why the deuce should i not remember? i am not in the way of forgetting things! no, by god! nor forgiving them either! where there's anything to forgive there's no fear of my forgetting!" he followed the utterance with a laugh, as if he would have it pass for a joke, but there was no ring in the laugh. he then gave donal detailed instructions as to where the bureau stood, how he was to open it with a curious key which he told him where to find in the room, how also to open the secret part of the bureau in which the papers lay. "forget!" he echoed, turning and sweeping back on his trail; "i have not been in that house for twenty years: you can judge whether i forget!--no!" he added with an oath, "if i found myself forgetting i should think it time to look out; but there is no sign of that yet, thank god! there! take the keys, and be off! simmons will give you the key of the house. you had better take that of the door in the close: it is easier to open." donal went away wondering at the pleasure his frightful tale afforded the earl: he had seemed positively to gloat over the details of it! these were much worse than i have recorded: he showed special delight in narrating how the mother took the body of her child out of the pot! he sought simmons and asked him for the key. the butler went to find it, but returned saying he could not lay his hands upon it; there was, however, the key of the front door: it might prove stiff! donal took it, and having oiled it well, set out for morven house. but on his way he turned aside to see the comins. andrew looked worse, and he thought he must be sinking. the moment he saw donal he requested they might be left alone for a few minutes. "my yoong freen'," he said, "the lord has fauvoured me greatly in grantin' my last days the licht o' your coontenance. i hae learnt a heap frae ye 'at i kenna hoo i could hae come at wantin' ye." "eh, an'rew!" interrupted donal, "i dinna weel ken hoo that can be, for it aye seemt to me ye had a' the knowledge 'at was gaein'!" "the man can ill taich wha's no gaein' on learnin'; an' maybe whiles he learns mair frae his scholar nor the scholar learns frae him. but it's a' frae the lord; the lord is that speerit--an' first o' a' the speerit o' obeddience, wi'oot which there's no learnin'. still, my son, it may comfort ye a wee i' the time to come, to think the auld cobbler anerew comin gaed intil the new warl' fitter company for the help ye gied him afore he gaed. may the lord mak a sicht o' use o' ye! fowk say a heap aboot savin' sowls, but ower aften, i doobt, they help to tak frae them the sense o' hoo sair they're in want o' savin'. surely a man sud ken in himsel' mair an' mair the need o' bein' saved, till he cries oot an' shoots, 'i am saved, for there's nane in h'aven but thee, an' there's nane upo' the earth i desire besides thee! man, wuman, child, an' live cratur, is but a portion o' thee, whauron to lat the love o' thee rin ower!' whan a man can say that, he's saved; an' no till than, though for lang years he may hae been aye comin' nearer to that goal o' a' houp, the hert o' the father o' me, an' you, an' doory, an' eppy, an' a' the nations o' the earth!" he stopped weary, but his eyes, fixed on donal, went on where his voice had ended, and for a time donal seemed to hear what his soul was saying, and to hearken with content. but suddenly their light went out, the old man gave a sigh, and said:-- "it's ower for this warl', my freen'. it's comin'--the hoor o' darkness. but the thing 'at's true whan the licht shines, is as true i' the dark: ye canna work, that's a'. god 'ill gie me grace to lie still. it's a' ane. i wud lie jist as i used to sit, i' the days whan i men'it fowk's shune, an' doory happent to tak awa' the licht for a moment;--i wud sit aye luikin' doon throuw the mirk at my wark, though i couldna see a stime o' 't, the alison (awl) i' my han' ready to put in the neist steek the moment the licht fell upo' the spot whaur it was to gang. that's hoo i wud lie whan i'm deein', jist waitin' for the licht, no for the dark, an' makin' an incense-offerin' o' my patience whan i hae naething ither to offer, naither thoucht nor glaidness nor sorrow, naething but patience burnin' in pain. he'll accep' that; for, my son, the maister's jist as easy to please as he's ill to saitisfee. ye hae seen a mither ower her wee lassie's sampler? she'll praise an' praise 't, an' be richt pleast wi' 't; but wow gien she was to be content wi' the thing in her han'! the lassie's man, whan she cam to hae ane, wud hae an ill time o' 't wi' his hose an' his sarks! but noo i hae a fauvour to beg o' ye--no for my sake but for hers: gien ye hae the warnin', ye'll be wi' me whan i gang? it may be a comfort to mysel'--i dinna ken--nane can tell 'at hasna dee'd afore--nor even than, for deiths are sae different!--doobtless lazarus's twa deiths war far frae alike!--but it'll be a great comfort to doory--i'm clear upo' that. she winna fin' hersel' sae lanesome like, losin' sicht o' her auld man, gien the freen' o' his hert be aside her whan he gangs." "please god, i'll be at yer comman'," said donal. "noo cry upo' doory, for i wudna see less o' her nor i may. it may be years 'afore i get a sicht o' her lo'in' face again! but the same lord 's in her an' i' me, an' we canna far be sun'ert, hooever lang the time 'afore we meet again." donal called doory, and took his leave. chapter xlvii. morven house opposite morven house was a building which had at one time been the stables to it, but was now part of a brewery; a high wall shut it off from the street; it was dinner-time with the humbler people of the town, and there was not a soul visible, when donal put the key in the lock of the front door, opened it, and went in: he had timed his entrance so, desiring to avoid idle curiosity, and bring no gathering feet about the house. almost on tiptoe he entered the lofty hall, high above the first story. the dust lay thick on a large marble table--but what was that?--a streak across it, brushed sharply through the middle of the dust! it was strange! but he would not wait to speculate on the agent! the room to which the earl had directed him was on the first floor, and he ascended to it at once--by the great oak staircase which went up the sides of the hall. the house had not been dismantled, although things had at different times been taken from it, and when donal opened a leaf of shutter, he saw tables and chairs and cabinets inlaid with silver and ivory. the room looked stately, but everything was deep in dust; carpets and curtains were thick with the deserted sepulchres of moths; and the air somehow suggested a tomb: donal thought of the tombs of the kings of egypt before ravaging conquerors broke into them, when they were yet full of all such gorgeous furniture as great kings desired, against the time when the souls should return to reanimate the bodies so carefully spiced and stored to welcome them, and the great kings would be themselves again, with the added wisdom of the dead and judged. conscious of a curious timidity, feeling a kind of awesomeness about every form in the room, he stepped softly to the bureau, applied its key, and following carefully the directions the earl had given him, for the lock was italian, with more than one quip and crank and wanton wile about it, succeeded in opening it. he had no difficulty in finding its secret place, nor the packet concealed in it; but just as he laid his hands on it, he was aware of a swift passage along the floor without, past the door of the room, and apparently up the next stair. there was nothing he could distinguish as footsteps, or as the rustle of a dress; it seemed as if he had heard but a disembodied motion! he darted to the door, which he had by habit closed behind him, and opened it noiselessly. the stairs above as below were covered with thick carpet: any light human foot might pass without a sound; only haste would murmur the secret to the troubled air. he turned, replaced the packet, and closed the bureau. if there was any one in the house, he must know it, and who could tell what might follow! it was the merest ghost of a sound he had heard, but he must go after it! some intruder might be using the earl's house for his own purposes! going softly up, he paused at the top of the second stair, and looked around him. an iron-clenched door stood nearly opposite the head of it; and at the farther end of a long passage, on whose sides were several closed doors, was one partly open. from that direction came the sound of a little movement, and then of low voices--one surely that of a woman! it flashed upon him that this must be the trysting-place of eppy and forgue. fearing discovery before he should have gathered his wits, he stepped quietly across the passage to the door opposite, opened it, not without a little noise, and went in. it was a strange-looking chamber he had entered--that, doubtless, once occupied by the ogre--the reid etin. even in the bewilderment of the moment, the tale he had just heard was so present to him that he cast his eyes around, and noted several things to confirm the conclusion. but the next instant came from below what sounded like a thundering knock at the street door--a single knock, loud and fierce--possibly a mere runaway's knock. the start it gave donal set his heart shaking in his bosom. almost with it came a little cry, and the sound of a door pulled open. then he heard a hurried, yet carefully soft step, which went down the stair. "now is my time!" said donal to himself. "she is alone!" he came out, and went along the passage. the door at the end of it was open, and eppy stood in it. she saw him coming, and gazed with widespread eyes of terror, as if it were the reid etin himself--waked, and coming to devour her. as he came, her blue eyes opened wider, and seemed to fix in their orbits; just as her name was on his lips, she dropped with a sharp moan. he caught her up, and hurried with her down the stair. as he reached the first floor, he heard the sound of swift ascending steps, and the next moment was face to face with forgue. the youth started back, and for a moment stood staring. his enemy had found him! but rage restored to him his self-possession. "put her down, you scoundrel!" he said. "she can't stand," donal answered. "you've killed her, you damned spy!" "then i have been more kind than you!" "what are you going to do with her?" "take her home to her dying grandfather." "you've hurt her, you devil! i know you have!" "she is only frightened. she is coming to herself. i feel her waking!" "you shall feel me presently!" cried forgue. "put her down, i say." neither of them spoke loud, for dread of neighbours. eppy began to writhe in donal's arms. forgue laid hold of her, and donal was compelled to put her down. she threw herself into the arms of her lover, and was on the point of fainting again. "get out of the house!" said forgue to donal. "i am here on your father's business!" returned donal. "a spy and informer!" "he sent me to fetch him some papers." "it is a lie!" said forgue; "i see it in your face!" "so long as i speak the truth," rejoined donal, "it matters little that you should think me a liar. but, my lord, you must allow me to take eppy home." "a likely thing!" answered forgue, drawing eppy closer, and looking at him with contempt. "give up the girl," said donal sternly, "or i will raise the town, and have a crowd about the house in three minutes." "you are the devil!" cried forgue. "there! take her--with the consequences! if you had let us alone, i would have done my part.--leave us now, and i'll promise to marry her. if you don't, you will have the blame of what may happen--not i." "but you will, dearest?" said eppy in a tone terrified and beseeching. gladly she would have had donal hear him say he would. forgue pushed her from him. she burst into tears. he took her in his arms again, and soothed her like a child, assuring her he meant nothing by what he had said. "you are my own!" he went on; "you know you are, whatever our enemies may drive us to! nothing can part us. go with him, my darling, for the present. the time will come when we shall laugh at them all. if it were not for your sake, and the scandal of the thing, i would send the rascal to the bottom of the stair. but it is better to be patient." sobbing bitterly, eppy went with donal. forgue stood shaking with impotent rage. when they reached the street, donal turned to lock the door. eppy darted from him, and ran down the close, thinking to go in again by the side door. but it was locked, and donal was with her in a moment. "you go home alone, eppy," he said; "it will be just as well i should not go with you. i must see lord forgue out of the house." "eh, ye winna hurt him!" pleaded eppy. "not if i can help it. i don't want to hurt him. you go home. it will be better for him as well as you." she went slowly away, weeping, but trying to keep what show of calm she could. donal waited a minute or two, went back to the front door, entered, and hastening to the side door took the key from the lock. then returning to the hall, he cried from the bottom of the stair, "my lord, i have both the keys; the side door is locked; i am about to lock the front door, and i do not want to shut you in. pray, come down." forgue came leaping down the stair, and threw himself upon donal in a fierce attempt after the key in his hand. the sudden assault staggered him, and he fell on the floor with forgue above him, who sought to wrest the key from him. but donal was much the stronger; he threw his assailant off him; and for a moment was tempted to give him a good thrashing. from this the thought of eppy helped to restrain him, and he contented himself with holding him down till he yielded. when at last he lay quiet, "will you promise to walk out if i let you up?" said donal. "if you will not, i will drag you into the street by the legs." "i will," said forgue; and getting up, he walked out and away without a word. donal locked the door, forgetting all about the papers, and went back to andrew's. there was eppy, safe for the moment! she was busy in the outer room, and kept her back to him. with a word or two to the grandmother, he left them, and went home, revolving all the way what he ought to do. should he tell the earl, or should he not? had he been a man of rectitude, he would not have hesitated a moment; but knowing he did not care what became of eppy, so long as his son did not marry her, he felt under no obligation to carry him the evil report. the father might have a right to know, but had he a right to know from him? a noble nature finds it almost impossible to deal with questions on other than the highest grounds: where those grounds are unrecognized, the relations of responsibility may be difficult indeed to determine. all donal was able to conclude on his way home, and he did not hurry, was, that, if he were asked any questions, he would speak out what he knew--be absolutely open. if that should put a weapon in the hand of the enemy, a weapon was not the victory. chapter xlviii. paternal revenge. no sooner had he entered the castle, where his return had been watched for, than simmons came to him with the message that his lordship wanted to see him. then first donal remembered that he had not brought the papers! had he not been sent for, he would have gone back at once to fetch them. as it was, he must see the earl first. he found him in a worse condition than usual. his last drug or combination of drugs had not agreed with him; or he had taken too much, with correspondent reaction: he was in a vile temper. donal told him he had been to the house, and had found the papers, but had not brought them--had, in fact, forgotten them. "a pretty fellow you are!" cried the earl. "what, you left those papers lying about where any rascal may find them and play the deuce with them!" donal assured him they were perfectly safe, under the same locks and keys as before. "you are always going about the bush!" cried the earl. "you never come to the point! how the devil was it you locked them up again?--to go prying all over the house, i suppose!" donal told him as much of the story as he would hear. almost immediately he saw whither it tended, he began to abuse him for meddling with things he had nothing to do with. what right had he to interfere with lord forgue's pleasures! things of the sort were to be regarded as non-existent! the linen had to be washed, but it was not done in the great court! lord forgue was a youth of position: why should he be balked of his fancy! it might be at the expense of society! donal took advantage of the first pause to ask whether he should not go back and bring the papers: he would run all the way, he said. "no, damn you!" answered the earl. "give me the keys--all the keys--house-keys and all. i should be a fool myself to trust such a fool again!" as donal was laying the last key on the table by his lordship's bedside, simmons appeared, saying lord forgue desired to know if his father would see him. "oh, yes! send him up!" cried the earl in a fury. "all the devils in hell at once!" his lordship's rages came up from abysses of misery no man knew but himself. "you go into the next room, grant," he said, "and wait there till i call you." donal obeyed, took a book from the table, and tried to read. he heard the door to the passage open and close again, and then the sounds of voices. by degrees they grew louder, and at length the earl roared out, so that donal could not help hearing: "i'll be damned soul and body in hell, but i'll put a stop to this! why, you son of a snake! i have but to speak the word, and you are--well, what--. yes, i will hold my tongue, but not if he crosses me!--by god! i have held it too long already!--letting you grow up the damnablest ungrateful dog that ever snuffed carrion!--and your poor father periling his soul for you, by god, you rascal!" "thank heaven, you cannot take the title from me, my lord!" said forgue coolly. "the rest you are welcome to give to davie! it won't be too much, by all accounts!" "damn you and your title! a pretty title, ha, ha, ha!--why, you infernal fool, you have no more right to the title than the beggarly kitchen-maid you would marry! if you but knew yourself, you would crow in another fashion! ha, ha, ha!" at this donal opened the door. "i must warn your lordship," he said, "that if you speak so loud, i shall hear every word." "hear and be damned to you!--that fellow there--you see him standing there--the mushroom that he is! good god! how i loved his mother! and this is the way he serves me! but there was a providence in the whole affair! never will i disbelieve in a providence again! it all comes out right, perfectly right! small occasion had i to be breaking heart and conscience over it ever since she left me! hang the pinchbeck rascal! he's no more forgue than you are, grant, and never will be morven if he live a hundred years! he's not a short straw better than any bastard in the street! his mother was the loveliest woman ever breathed!--and loved me--ah, god! it is something after all to have been loved so--and by such a woman!--a woman, by god! ready and willing and happy to give up everything for me! everything, do you hear, you damned rascal! i never married her! do you hear, grant? i take you to witness; mark my words: we, that fellow's mother and i, were never married--by no law, scotch, or french, or dutch, or what you will! he's a damned bastard, and may go about his business when he pleases. oh, yes! pray do! marry your scullion when you please! you are your own master--entirely your own master!--free as the wind that blows to go where you will and do what you please! i wash my hands of you. you'll do as you please--will you? then do, and please me: i desire no better revenge! i only tell you once for all, the moment i know for certain you've married the wench, that moment i publish to the world--that is, i acquaint certain gossips with the fact, that the next lord morven will have to be hunted for like a truffle--ha! ha! ha!" he burst into a fiendish fit of laughter, and fell back on his pillow, dark with rage and the unutterable fury that made of his being a volcano. the two men had been standing dumb before him, donal pained for the man on whom this phial of devilish wrath had been emptied, he white and trembling with dismay--an abject creature, crushed by a cruel parent. when his father ceased, he still stood, still said nothing: power was gone from him. he grew ghastly, uttered a groan, and wavered. donal supported him to a chair; he dropped into it, and leaned back, with streaming face. it was miserable to think that one capable of such emotion concerning the world's regard, should be so indifferent to what alone can affect a man--the nature of his actions--so indifferent to the agony of another as to please himself at all risk to her, although he believed he loved her, and perhaps did love her better than any one else in the world. for donal did not at all trust him regarding eppy--less now than ever. but these thoughts went on in him almost without his thinking them; his attention was engrossed with the passionate creatures before him. the father too seemed to have lost the power of motion, and lay with his eyes closed, breathing heavily. but by and by he made what donal took for a sign to ring the bell. he did so, and simmons came. the moment he entered, and saw the state his master was in, he hastened to a cupboard, took thence a bottle, poured from it something colourless, and gave it to him in water. it brought him to himself. he sat up again, and in a voice hoarse and terrible said:-- "think of what i have told you, forgue. do as i would have you, and the truth is safe; take your way without me, and i will take mine without you. go." donal went. forgue did not move. what was donal to do or think now? perplexities gathered upon him. happily there was time for thought, and for prayer, which is the highest thinking. here was a secret affecting the youth his enemy, and the boy his friend! affecting society itself--that society which, largely capable and largely guilty of like sins, yet visits with such unmercy the sins of the fathers upon the children, the sins of the offender upon the offended! but there is another who visits them, and in another fashion! what was he to do? was he to hold his tongue and leave the thing as not his, or to speak out as he would have done had the case been his own? ought the chance to be allowed the nameless youth of marrying his cousin? ought the next heir to the lordship to go without his title? had they not both a claim upon donal for the truth? donal thought little of such things himself, but did that affect his duty in the matter? he might think little of money, but would he therefore look on while a pocket was picked? on reflection he saw, however, that there was no certainty the earl was speaking the truth; for anything he knew of him, he might be inventing the statement in order to have his way with his son! for in either case he was a double-dyed villian; and if he spoke the truth was none the less capable of lying. chapter xlix. filial response. one thing then was clear to donal, that for the present he had nothing to do with the affair. supposing the earl's assertion true, there was at present no question as to the succession; before such question could arise, forgue might be dead; before that, his father might himself have disclosed the secret; while, the longer donal thought about it, the greater was his doubt whether he had spoken the truth. the man who could so make such a statement to his son concerning his mother, must indeed have been capable of the wickedness assumed! but also the man who could make such a statement was surely vile enough to lie! the thing remained uncertain, and he was assuredly not called upon to act! but how would forgue carry himself? his behaviour now would decide or at least determine his character. if he were indeed as honourable as he wished to be thought, he would tell eppy what had occurred, and set himself at once to find some way of earning his and her bread, or at least to become capable of earning it. he did not seem to cherish any doubt of the truth of what had fallen in rage from his father's lips, for, to judge by his appearance, to the few and brief glances donal had of him during the next week or so, the iron had sunk into his soul: he looked more wretched than donal could have believed it possible for man to be--abject quite. it manifested very plainly what a miserable thing, how weak and weakening, is the pride of this world. one who could be so cast down, was hardly one, alas, of whom to expect any greatness of action! he was not likely to have honesty or courage enough to decline a succession that was not his--even though it would leave his way clear to marry eppy. whether any of forgue's misery arose from the fact that donal had been present at the exposure of his position, donal could not tell; but he could hardly fail to regard him as a dangerous holder of his secret--one who would be more than ready to take hostile action in the matter! at the same time, such had seemed the paralysing influence of the shock upon him, that donal doubted if he had been, at any time during the interview, so much aware of his presence as not to have forgotten it entirely before he came to himself. had he remembered the fact, would he not have come to him to attempt securing his complicity? if he meant to do right, why did he hesitate?--there was but one way, and that plain before him! but presently donal began to see many things an equivocating demon might urge: the claims of his mother; the fact that there was no near heir--he did not even know who would come in his place; that he would do as well with the property as another; that he had been already grievously wronged; that his mother's memory would be yet more grievously wronged; that the marriage had been a marriage in the sight of god, and as such he surely of all men was in heaven's right to regard it! and his mother had been the truest of wives to his father! these things and more donal saw he might plead with himself; and if he was the man he had given him no small ground to think, he would in all probability listen to them. he would recall or assume the existence of many precedents in the history of noble families; he would say that, knowing the general character of their heads, no one would believe a single noble family without at least one unrecorded, undiscovered, or well concealed irregularity in its descent; and he would judge it the cruellest thing to have let him know the blighting fact, seeing that in ignorance he might have succeeded with a good conscience. but what kind of a father was this, thought donal, who would thus defile his son's conscience! he had not done it in mere revenge, but to gain his son's submission as well! whether the poor fellow leaned to the noble or ignoble, it was no marvel he should wander about looking scarce worthy the name of man! if he would but come to him that he might help him! he could at least encourage him to refuse the evil and choose the good! but even if he would receive such help, the foregone passages between them rendered it sorely improbable it would ever fall to him to afford it! that his visits to eppy were intermitted, donal judged from her countenance and bearing; and if he hesitated to sacrifice his own pride to the truth, it could not be without contemplating as possible the sacrifice of her happiness to a lie. in such delay he could hardly be praying "lead me not into temptation:" if not actively tempting himself, he was submitting to be tempted; he was lingering on the evil shore. andrew comin staid yet a week--slowly, gently fading out into life--darkening into eternal day--forgetting into knowledge itself. donal was by his side when he went, but little was done or said; he crept into the open air in his sleep, to wake from the dreams of life and the dreams of death and the dreams of sleep all at once, and see them mingling together behind him like a broken wave--blending into one vanishing dream of a troubled, yet, oh, how precious night past and gone! once, about an hour before he went, donal heard him murmur, "when i wake i am still with thee!" doory was perfectly calm. when he gave his last sigh, she sighed too, said, "i winna be lang, anerew!" and said no more. eppy wept bitterly. donal went every day to see them till the funeral was over. it was surprising how many of the town's folk attended it. most of them had regarded the cobbler as a poor talkative enthusiast with far more tongue than brains! because they were so far behind and beneath him, they saw him very small! one cannot help reflecting what an indifferent trifle the funeral, whether plain to bareness, as in scotland, or lovely with meaning as often in england, is to the spirit who has but dropt his hurting shoes on the weary road, dropt all the dust and heat, dropt the road itself, yea the world of his pilgrimage--which never was, never could be, never was meant to be his country, only the place of his sojourning--in which the stateliest house of marble can be but a tent--cannot be a house, yet less a home. man could never be made at home here, save by a mutilation, a depression, a lessening of his being; those who fancy it their home, will come, by growth, one day to feel that it is no more their home than its mother's egg is the home of the lark. for some time donal's savings continued to support the old woman and her grand-daughter. but ere long doory got so much to do in the way of knitting stockings and other things, and was set to so many light jobs by kindly people who respected her more than her husband because they saw her less extraordinary, that she seldom troubled him. miss carmichael offered to do what she could to get eppy a place, if she answered certain questions to her satisfaction. how she liked her catechizing i do not know, but she so far satisfied her interrogator that she did find her a place in edinburgh. she wept sore at leaving auchars, but there was no help: rumour had been more cruel than untrue, and besides there was no peace for her near the castle. not once had lord forgue sought her since he gave her up to donal, and she thought he had then given her up altogether. notwithstanding his kindness to her house, she all but hated donal--perhaps the more nearly that her conscience told he had done nothing but what was right. things returned into the old grooves at the castle, but the happy thought of his friend the cobbler, hammering and stitching in the town below, was gone from donal. true, the craftsman was a nobleman now, but such he had always been! forgue mooned about, doing nothing, and recognizing no possible help save in what was utter defeat. if he had had any faith in donal, he might have had help fit to make a man of him, which he would have found something more than an earl. donal would have taught him to look things in the face, and call them by their own names. it would have been the redemption of his being. to let things be as they truly are, and act with truth in respect of them, is to be a man. but forgue showed little sign of manhood, present or to come. he was much on horseback, now riding furiously over everything, as if driven by the very fiend, now dawdling along with the reins on the neck of his weary animal. donal once met him thus in a narrow lane. the moment forgue saw him, he pulled up his horse's head, spurred him hard, and came on as if he did not see him. donal shoved himself into the hedge, and escaped with a little mud. chapter l. a south-easterly wind. one morning, donal in the schoolroom with davie, a knock came to the door, and lady arctura entered. "the wind is blowing from the south-east," she said. "listen then, my lady, whether you can hear anything," said donal. "i fancy it is a very precise wind that is wanted." "i will listen," she answered, and went. the day passed, and he heard nothing more. he was at work in his room in the warm evening twilight, when davie came running to his door, and said arkie was coming up after him. he rose and stood at the top of the stair to receive her. she had heard the music, she said--very soft: would he go on the roof? "where were you, my lady," asked donal, "when you heard it? i have heard nothing up here!" "in my own little parlour," she replied. "it was very faint, but i could not mistake it." they went upon the roof. the wind was soft and low, an excellent thing in winds. they knew the paths of the roof better now, and had plenty of light, although the moon, rising large and round, gave them little of hers yet, and were soon at the foot of the great chimney-stack, which grew like a tree out of the house. there they sat down to wait and hearken. "i am almost sorry to have made this discovery!" said donal. "why?" asked lady arctura. "should not the truth be found, whatever it may be? you at least think so!" "most certainly," answered donal. "and if this be the truth, as i fully expect it will prove, then it is well it should be found to be. but i should have liked better it had been something we could not explain." "i doubt if i understand you." "things that cannot be explained so widen the horizon around us! open to us fresh regions for question and answer, for possibility and delight! they are so many kernels of knowledge closed in the hard nuts of seeming contradiction.--you know, my lady, there are stories of certain houses being haunted by a mysterious music presaging evil to the family?" "i have heard of such music. but what can be the use of it?" "i do not know. i see not the smallest use in it. if it were of use it would surely be more common! if it were of use, why should those who have it be of the class less favoured, so to speak, of the lord of the universe, and the families of his poor never have it?" "perhaps for the same reason that they have their other good things in this life!" said arctura. "i am answered," confessed donal, "and have no more to say. these tales, if they require of us a belief in any special care over such houses, as if they were more precious in the eyes of god than the poorest cottage in the land, i cast them from me." "but," said arctura, in a deprecating tone, "are not those houses which have more influence more important than the others?" "surely--those which have more good influence. but such are rarely the great houses of a country. our lord was not an asmonaean prince, but the son of a humble maiden, his reputed father a working man." "i do not see--i should like to understand how that has to do with it." "you may be sure the lord took the position in life in which it was most possible to do the highest good; and without driving the argument--for every work has its own specialty--it seems probable that the true ends of his coming will still be better furthered from the standpoint of humble circumstances, than from that of rank and position." "you always speak," said arctura, "as if there were only the things jesus christ came for to be cared about:--is there nothing but salvation worthy a human being's regard?" "if you give a true and large enough meaning to the word salvation, i answer you at once, nothing. only in proportion as a man is saved, will he do the work of the world aright--the whole design of which is to rear a beautiful blessed family. the world is god's nursery for his upper rooms. oneness with god is the end of the order of things. when that is attained, we shall do greater things than the lord himself did on the earth!--but was not that Æolus?--listen!" there came a low prolonged wail. the ladder was in readiness; donal set it up in haste, climbed to the cleft, and with a sheet of brown paper in his hands, waited the next cry of the prisoned chords. he was beginning to get tired of his position, when suddenly came a stronger puff, and he heard the music distinctly in the shaft beside him. it swelled and grew. he spread the sheet of paper over the opening, the wind blew it flat against the chimney, and the sound instantly ceased. he removed it, and again came the sound. the wind continued, and grew stronger, so that they were able to make the simple experiment until no shadow of a doubt was left: they had discovered the source of the music! by certain dispositions of the paper they were even able to modify it. donal descended, and said to davie, "i wish you not to say a word about this to any one, davie, before lady arctura or i give you leave. you have a secret with us now. the castle belongs to lady arctura, and she has a right to ask you not to speak of it to any one without her permission.--i have a reason, my lady," he went on, turning to arctura: "will you, please, desire davie to attend to what i say. i will immediately explain to you, but i do not want davie to know my reason until you do. you can on the instant withdraw your prohibition, should you not think my reason a good one." "davie," said arctura, "i too have faith in mr. grant: i beg you will keep all this a secret for the present." "oh surely, cousin arkie!" said davie. "--but, mr. grant, why should you make arkie speak to me too?" "because the thing is her business, not mine. run down and wait for me in my room. go steadily over the bartizan, mind." donal turned again to arctura. "you know they say there is a hidden room in the castle, my lady?" "do you believe it?" she returned. "i think there may be such a place." "surely if there had been, it would have been found long ago." "they might have said that on the first report of the discovery of america!" "that was far off, and across a great ocean!" "and here are thick walls, and hearts careless an timid!--has any one ever set in earnest about finding it?" "not that i know of." "then your objection falls to the ground. if you could have told me that one had tried to find the place, but without success, i would have admitted some force in it, though it would not have satisfied me without knowing the plans he had taken, and how they were carried out. on the other hand it may have been known to many who held their peace about it.--would you not like to know the truth concerning that too?" "i should indeed. but would not you be sorry to lose another mystery?" "on the contrary, there is only the rumour of a mystery now, and we do not quite believe it. we are not at liberty, in the name of good sense, to believe it yet. but if we find the room, or the space even where it may be, we shall probably find also a mystery--something never in this world to be accounted for, but suggesting a hundred unsatisfactory explanations. but, pardon me, i do not in the least presume to press it." lady arctura smiled. "you may do what you please," she said. "if i seemed for a moment to hesitate, it was only that i wondered what my uncle would say to it. i should not like to vex him." "certainly not; but would he not be pleased?" "i will speak to him, and find out. he hates what he calls superstition, and i fancy has curiosity enough not to object to a search. i do not think he would consent to pulling down, but short of that, i don't think he will mind. i should not wonder if he even joined in the search." donal thought with himself it was strange then he had never undertaken one. something told him the earl would not like the proposal. "but tell me, mr. grant--how would you set about it?" said arctura, as they went towards the tower. "if the question were merely whether or not there was such a room, and not the finding of it,--" "excuse me--but how could you tell whether there was or was not such a room except by searching for it?" "by determining whether there was or was not some space in the castle unaccounted for." "i do not see." "would you mind coming to my room? it will be a lesson for davie too!" she assented, and donal gave them a lesson in cubic measure and content. he showed them how to reckon the space that must lie within given boundaries: if then within those boundaries they could not find so much, part of it must be hidden. if they measured the walls of the castle, allowing of course for their thickness and every irregularity, and from that calculated the space they must hold; then measured all the rooms and open places within the walls, allowing for all partitions; and having again calculated, found the space fall short of what they had from the outside measurements to expect; they must conclude either that they had measured or calculated wrong, or that there was space in the castle to which they had no access. "but," continued donal, when they had in a degree mastered the idea, "if the thing was, to discover the room itself, i should set about it in a different way; i should not care about the measuring. i would begin and go all over the castle, first getting the outside shape right in my head, and then fitting everything inside it into that shape of it in my brain. if i came to a part i could not so fit at once, i would examine that according to the rules i have given you, take exact measurements of the angles and sides of the different rooms and passages, and find whether these enclosed more space than i could at once discover inside them.--but i need not follow the process farther: pulling down might be the next thing, and we must not talk of that!" "but the thing is worth doing, is it not, even if we do not go so far as to pull down?" "i think so." "and i think my uncle will not object.--say nothing about it though, davie, till we give you leave." that we was pleasant in donal's ears. lady arctura rose, and they all went down together. when they reached the hall, davie ran to get his kite. "but you have not told me why you would not have him speak of the music," said arctura, stopping at the foot of the great stair. "partly because, if we were to go on to make search for the room, it ought to be kept as quiet as possible, and the talk about the one would draw notice to the other; and partly because i have a hope that the one may even guide us to the other." "you will tell me about that afterwards," said arctura, and went up the stair. that night the earl had another of his wandering fits; also all night the wind blew from the south-east. in the morning arctura went to him with her proposal. the instant he understood what she wished, his countenance grew black as thunder. "what!" he cried, "you would go pulling the grand old bulk to pieces for the sake of a foolish tale about the devil and a set of cardplayers! by my soul, i'll be damned if you do!--not while i'm above ground at least! that's what comes of putting such a place in the power of a woman! it's sacrilege! by heaven, i'll throw my brother's will into chancery rather!" his rage was such as to compel her to think there must be more in it than appeared. the wilderness of the temper she had roused made her tremble, but it also woke the spirit of her race, and she repented of the courtesy she had shown him: she had the right to make what investigations she pleased! her father would not have left her the property without good reasons for doing so; and of those reasons some might well have lain in the character of the man before her! through all this rage the earl read something of what had sent the blood of the graemes to her cheek and brow. "i beg your pardon, my love," he said, "but if he was your father, he was my brother!" "he is my father!" said arctura coldly. "dead and gone and all but forgotten!" "no, my lord; not for one day forgotten! not for one moment unloved!" "ah, well, as you please! but because you love his memory must i regard him as a solon? 't is surely no great treason to reflect upon the wisdom of a dead man!" "i wish you good day, my lord!" said arctura, very angry, and left him. but when presently she found that she could not lift up her heart to her father in heaven, gladly would she have sent her anger from her. was it not plainly other than good, when it came thus between her and the living god! all day at intervals she had to struggle and pray against it; a great part of the night she lay awake because of it; but at length she pitied her uncle too much to be very angry with him any more, and so fell asleep. in the morning she found that all sense of his having authority over her had vanished, and with it her anger. she saw also that it was quite time she took upon herself the duties of a landowner. what could mr. grant think of her--doing nothing for her people! but she could do little while her uncle received the rents and gave orders to mr. graeme! she would take the thing into her own hands! in the meantime, mr. grant should, if he pleased, go on quietly with his examination of the house. but she could not get her interview with her uncle out of her head, and was haunted with vague suspicions of some dreadful secret about the house belonging to the present as well as the past. her uncle seemed to have receded to a distance incalculable, and to have grown awful as he receded. she was of a nature almost too delicately impressionable; she not only felt things keenly, but retained the sting of them after the things were nearly forgotten. but then the swift and rare response of her faculties arose in no small measure from this impressionableness. at the same time, but for instincts and impulses derived from her race, her sensitiveness might have degenerated into weakness. chapter li. a dream. one evening, as donal was walking in the little avenue below the terraces, davie, who was now advanced to doing a little work without his master's immediate supervision, came running to him to say that arkie was in the schoolroom and wanted to see him. he hastened to her. "a word with you, please, mr. grant," she said. donal sent the boy away. "i have debated with myself all day whether i should tell you," she began--and her voice trembled not a little; "but i think i shall not be so much afraid to go to bed if i do tell you what i dreamt last night." her face was very pale, and there was a quiver about her mouth: she seemed ready to burst into tears. "do tell me," said donal sympathetically. "do you think it very silly to mind one's dreams?" she asked. "silly or not," answered donal, "as regards the general run of dreams, it is plain you have had one that must be minded. what we must mind, it cannot be silly to mind." "i am in no mood, i fear, for philosophy," she rejoined, trying to smile. "it has taken such a hold of me that i cannot get rid of it, and there is no one i could tell it to but you; any one else would laugh at me; but you never laugh at anybody! "i went to bed as well as usual, only a little troubled about my uncle's strangeness, and soon fell asleep, to find myself presently in a most miserable place. it was like a brick-field--but a deserted brick-field. heaps of broken and half-burnt bricks were all about. for miles and miles they stretched around me. i walked fast to get out of it. nobody was near or in sight; there was not a sign of human habitation from horizon to horizon. "all at once i saw before me a dreary church. it was old, tumble-down, and dirty--not in the least venerable--very ugly--a huge building without shape, like most of our churches. i shrank from the look of it: it was more horrible to me than i could account for; i feared it. but i must go in--why, i did not know, but i must: the dream itself compelled me. "i went in. it looked as if nobody had crossed its threshold for a hundred years. the pews were mouldering away; the canopy over the pulpit had half fallen, and rested its edge on the book-board; the great galleries had in parts tumbled into the body of the church, in other parts they hung sloping from the walls. the centre of the floor had fallen in, and there was a great, descending slope of earth, soft-looking, mixed with bits of broken and decayed wood, from the pews above and the coffins below. i stood gazing down in horror unutterable. how far the gulf went i could not see. i was fascinated by its slow depth, and the thought of its possible contents--when suddenly i knew rather than perceived that something was moving in its darkness: it was something dead--something yellow-white. it came nearer; it was slowly climbing; like one dead and stiff it was labouring up the slope. i could neither cry out nor move. it was about three yards below me, when it raised its head: it was my uncle, dead, and dressed for the grave. he beckoned me--and i knew i must go; i had to go, nor once thought of resisting. my heart became like lead, but immediately i began the descent. my feet sank in the mould of the ancient dead, soft as if thousands of graveyard moles were for ever burrowing in it, as down and down i went, settling and sliding with the black plane. then i began to see the sides and ends of coffins in the walls of the gulf; and the walls came closer and closer as i descended, until they scarcely left me room to get through. i comforted myself with the thought that those in these coffins had long been dead, and must by this time be at rest, nor was there any danger of seeing mouldy hands come out to seize me. at last i saw that my uncle had stopped, and i stood still, a few yards above him, more composed than i can understand." "the wonder is we are so believing, yet not more terrified, in our dreams," said donal. "he began to heave and pull at a coffin that seemed to stop the way. just as he got it dragged on one side, i saw on the bright silver handle of it the morven crest. the same instant the lid rose, and my father came out of the coffin, looking alive and bright; my uncle stood beside him like a corpse beside a soul. 'what do you want with my child?' he said; and my uncle cowered before him. he took my hand and said, 'come with me, my child.' and i went with him--oh, so gladly! my fear was gone, and so was my uncle. he led me up the way we had come down, but when we came out of the hole, instead of finding myself in the horrible church, i was in my own room. i looked round--no one was near! i was sorry my father was gone, but glad to be in my own room. then i woke--and here was the terrible thing--not in my bed--but standing in the middle of the floor, just where my dream had left me! i cannot get rid of the thought that i really went somewhere. i have been haunted with it the whole day. it is a terror to me--for if i did, where is my help against going again!" "in god our saviour," said donal. "--but had your uncle given you anything?" "i wish i could think so; but i do not see how he could." "you must change your room, and get mistress brookes to sleep near you." "i will." gladly would donal have offered to sleep, like one of his colleys, outside her door, but mrs. brookes was the only one to help her. he began at once to make observations towards determining the existence or non-existence of a hidden room, but in the quietest way, so as to attract no attention, and had soon satisfied himself concerning some parts that it could not be there. without free scope and some one to help him, the thing was difficult. to gauge a building which had grown through centuries, to fit the varying tastes and changing needs of the generations, was in itself not easy, and he judged it all but impossible without drawing observation and rousing speculation. great was the chaotic element in the congeries of erections and additions, brought together by various contrivances, and with daringly enforced communication. open spaces within the walls, different heights in the stories of contiguous buildings, breaks in the continuity of floors, and various other irregularities, he found confusingly obstructive. chapter lii. investigation. the autumn brought terrible storms. many fishing boats came to grief. of some, the crews lost everything: of others, the loss of their lives delivered their crews from smaller losses. there were many bereaved in the village, and donal went about among them, doing what he could, and getting help for them where his own ability would not reach their necessity. lady arctura wanted no persuasion to go with him in some of his visits; and the intercourse she thus gained with humanity in its simpler forms, of which she had not had enough for the health of her own nature, was of high service to her. perhaps nothing helps so much to believe in the father, as the active practical love of the brother. if he who loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, can ill love god whom he hath not seen, then he who loves his brother must surely find it the easier to love god! arctura found that to visit the widow and the fatherless in their afflictions; to look on and know them as her kind; to enter into their sorrows, and share the elevating influence of grief genuine and simple, the same in every human soul, was to draw near to god. she met him in his children. for to honour, love, and be just to our neighbour, is religion; and he who does these things will soon find that he cannot live without the higher part of religion, the love of god. if that do not follow, the other will sooner or later die away, leaving the man the worse for having had it. she found her way to god easier through the crowd of her fellows; while their troubles took her off her own, set them at a little distance from her, and so put it in her power to understand them better. one day after the fishing boats had gone out, rose a terrible storm. some of them made for the harbour again--such as it was; others kept out to sea; stephen kennedy's boat came ashore bottom upward. his body was cast on the sands close to the spot where donal dragged the net from the waves. there was sorrow afresh through the village: kennedy was a favourite; and his mother was left childless. no son would any more come sauntering in with his long slouch in the gloamin'; and whether she would ever see him again--to know him--who could tell! for the common belief does not go much farther than paganism in yielding comfort to those whose living loves have disappeared--the fault not of christianity, but of christians. the effect of the news upon forgue i have some around for conjecturing: i believe it made him care a little less about marrying the girl, now that he knew no rival ready to take her; and feel also that he had one enemy the less, one danger the less, in the path he would like to take. within a week after, he left the castle, and if his father knew where he went, he was the only one who did. he had been pressing him to show some appearance of interest in his cousin; forgue had professed himself unequal to the task at present: if he might go away for a while, he said, he would doubtless find it easier when he returned. the storms were over, the edges and hidden roots had begun to dream of spring, and arctura had returned to her own room to sleep, when one afternoon she came to the schoolroom and told donal she had had the terrible dream again. "this time," she said, "i came out, in my dream, on the great stair, and went up to my room, and into bed, before i waked. but i dare not ask mistress brookes whether she saw me--" "you do not imagine you were out of the room?" said donal. "i cannot tell. i hope not. if i were to find i had been, it would drive me out of my senses! i was thinking all day about the lost room: i fancy it had something to do with that." "we must find the room, and have done with it!" said donal. "are you so sure we can?" she asked, her face brightening. "if there be one, and you will help me, i think we can," he answered. "i will help you." "then first we will try the shaft of the music-chimney. that it has never smoked, at least since those wires were put there, makes it something to question--though the draught across it might doubtless have prevented it from being used. it may be the chimney to the very room. but we will first try to find out whether it belongs to any room we know. i will get a weight and a cord: the wires will be a plague, but i think we can pass them. then we shall see how far the weight goes down, and shall know on what floor it is arrested. that will be something gained: the plane of inquiry will be determined. only there may be a turn in the chimney, preventing the weight from going to the bottom." "when shall we set about it?" said arctura, almost eagerly. "at once," replied donal. she went to get a shawl. donal went to the gardener's tool-house, and found a suitable cord. there was a seven-pound weight, but that would not pass the wires! he remembered an old eight-day clock on a back stair, which was never going. he got out its heavier weight, and carried it, with the cord and the ladder, to his own stair--at the foot of which was lady arctura--waiting for him. there was that in being thus associated with the lovely lady; in knowing that peace had began to visit her through him, that she trusted him implicitly, looking to him for help and even protection; in knowing that nothing but wrong to her could be looked for from uncle or cousin, and that he held what might be a means of protecting her, should undue influence be brought to bear upon her--there was that in all this, i say, that stirred to its depth the devotion of donal's nature. with the help of god he would foil her enemies, and leave her a free woman--a thing well worth a man's life! many an angel has been sent on a smaller errand! such were his thoughts as he followed arctura up the stair, she carrying the weight and the cord, he the ladder, which it was not easy to get round the screw of the stair. arctura trembled with excitement as she ascended, grew frightened as often as she found she had outstripped him, waited till the end of the ladder came poking round, and started again before the bearer appeared. her dreams had disquieted her more than she had yet confessed: had she been taking a way of her own, and choosing a guide instead of receiving instruction in the way of understanding? were these things sent for her warning, to show her into what an abyss of death her conduct was leading her?--but the moment she found herself in the open air of donal's company, her doubts and fears vanished for the time. such a one as he must surely know better than those others the way of the spirit! was he not more childlike, more straightforward, more simple, and, she could not but think, more obedient than those? mr. carmichael was older, and might be more experienced; but did his light shine clearer than donal's? he might be a priest in the temple; but was there not a samuel in the temple as well as an eli? it the young, strong, ruddy shepherd, the defender of his flock, who was sent by god to kill the giant! he was too little to wear saul's armour; but he could kill a man too big to wear it! thus meditated arctura as she climbed the stair, and her hope and courage grew. a delicate conscience, sensitive feelings, and keen faculties, subjected to the rough rasping of coarse, self-satisfied, unspiritual natures, had almost lost their equilibrium. as to natural condition no one was sounder than she; yet even now when she had more than begun to see its falsehood, a headache would suffice to bring her afresh under the influence of the hideous system she had been taught, and wake in her all kinds of deranging doubts and consciousnesses. subjugated so long to the untrue, she required to be for a time, until her spiritual being should be somewhat individualized, under the genial influences of one who was not afraid to believe, one who knew the master. nor was there danger to either so long as he sought no end of his own, so long as he desired only his will, so long as he could say, "whom is there in heaven but thee! and there is none upon earth that i desire besides thee!" by the time she reached the top she was radiantly joyous in the prospect of a quiet hour with him whose presence and words always gave her strength, who made the world look less mournful, and the will of god altogether beautiful; who taught her that the glory of the father's love lay in the inexorability of its demands, that it is of his deep mercy that no one can get out until he has paid the uttermost farthing. they stepped upon the roof and into the gorgeous afterglow of an autumn sunset. the whole country, like another sea, was flowing from that that well of colour, in tidal waves of an ever advancing creation. its more etherial part, rushing on above, broke on the old roofs and chimneys and splashed its many tinted foam all over them; while through it and folded in it came a cold thin wind that told of coming death. arctura breathed a deep breath, and her joy grew. it is wonderful how small a physical elevation, lifting us into a slightly thinner air, serves to raise the human spirits! we are like barometers, only work the other way; the higher we go, the higher goes our mercury. they stood for a moment in deep enjoyment, then simultaneously turned to each other. "my lady," said donal, "with such a sky as that out there, it hardly seems as if there could be such a thing as our search to-night! hollow places, hidden away for evil cause, do not go with it at all! there is the story of gracious invention and glorious gift; here the story of greedy gathering and self-seeking, which all concealment involves!" "but there may be nothing, you know, mr. grant!" said arctura, troubled for the house. "there may be nothing. but if there is such a room, you may be sure it has some relation with terrible wrong--what, we may never find out, or even the traces of it." "i shall not be afraid," she said, as if speaking with herself. "it is the terrible dreaming that makes me weak. in the morning i tremble as if i had been in the hands of some evil power." donal turned his eyes upon her. how thin she looked in the last of the sunlight! a pang went through him at the thought that one day he might be alone with davie in the huge castle, untended by the consciousness that a living light and loveliness flitted somewhere about its gloomy and ungenial walls. but he would not think the thought! how that dismal miss carmichael must have worried her! when the very hope of the creature in his creator is attacked in the name of religion; when his longing after a living god is met with the offer of a paltry escape from hell, how is the creature to live! it is god we want, not heaven; his righteousness, not an imputed one, for our own possession; remission, not letting off; love, not endurance for the sake of another, even if that other be the one loveliest of all. they turned from the sunset and made their way to the chimney-stack. there once more donal set up his ladder. he tied the clock-weight to the end of his cord, dropped it in, and with a little management got it through the wires. it went down and down, gently lowered, till the cord was all out, and still it would go. "do run and get some more," said arctura. "you do not mind being left alone?" "no--if you will not be long." "i will run," he said--and run he did, for she had scarcely begun to feel the loneliness when he returned panting. he took the end she had been holding, tied on the fresh cord he had brought, and again lowered away. as he was beginning to fear that after all he had not brought enough, the weight stopped, resting, and drew no more. "if only we had eyes in that weight," said arctura, "like the snails at the end of their horns!" "we might have greased the bottom of the weight," said donal, "as they do the lead when they want to know what kind of bottom there is to the sea: it might have brought up ashes. if it will not go any farther, i will mark the string at the mouth, and draw it up." he moved the weight up and down a little; it rested still, and he drew it up. "now we must mark off it the height of the chimney above the parapet wall," he said; "and then i will lower the weight towards the court below, until this last knot comes to the wall: the weight will then show us on the outside how far down the house it went inside.--ah, i thought so!" he went on, looking over after the weight; "--only to the first floor, or thereabouts!--no, i think it is lower!--but anyhow, my lady, as you can see, the place with which the chimney, if chimney it be, communicates, must be somewhere about the middle of the house, and perhaps is on the first floor; we can't judge very well looking down from here, and against a spot where are no windows. can you imagine what place it might be?" "i cannot," answered arctura; "but i could go into every room on that floor without anyone seeing me." "then i will let the weight down the chimney again, and leave it for you to see, if you can, below. if you find it, we must do something else." it was done, and they descended together. donal went back to the schoolroom, not expecting to see her again till the next day. but in half an hour she came to him, saying she had been into every room on that floor, both where she thought it might be, and where she knew it could not be, and had not seen the weight. "the probability then is," replied donal, "that thereabout somewhere--there, or farther down in that neighbourhood--lies the secret; but we cannot be sure, for the weight may not have reached the bottom of the shaft. let us think what we shall do next. he placed a chair for her by the fire. they had the room to themselves. chapter liii. mistress brookes upon the earl. they were hardly seated when simmons appeared, saying he had been looking everywhere for her ladyship, for his lordship was taken as he had never seen him before: he had fainted right out in the half-way room, and he could not get him to. having given orders to send at once to auchars for the doctor, lady arctura hastened with donal to the room on the stair. the earl was stretched motionless and pale on the floor. but for a slight twitching in one muscle of the face, they might have concluded him dead. they tried to get something down his throat, but without success. the men carried him up to his chamber. he began to come to himself, and lady arctura left him, telling simmons to come to the library when he could, and let them know how he was. in about an hour he came: the doctor had been, and his master was better. "do you know any cause for the attack?" asked her ladyship. "i'll tell you all about it, my lady, so far as i know," answered the butler. "--i was there in that room with him--i had taken him some accounts, and was answering some questions about them, when all at once there came a curious noise in the wall. i can't think what it was--an inward rumbling it was, that seemed to go up and down the wall with a sort of groaning, then stopped a while, and came again. it sounded nothing very dreadful to me; perhaps if it had been in the middle of the night, i mightn't have liked it. his lordship started at the first sound of it, turned pale and gasped, then cried out, laid his hand on his heart, and rolled off his chair. i did what i could for him, but it wasn't like one of his ordinary attacks, and so i came to your ladyship. he's such a ticklish subject, you see, my lady! it's quite alarming to be left alone with him. it's his heart; and you know, my lady--i should be sorry to frighten you, but you know, mr. grant, a gentleman with that complaint may go off any moment. i must go back to him now, my lady, if you please." arctura turned and looked at donal. "we must be careful," he said. "we must," she answered. "just thereabout is one of the few places in the house where you hear the music." "and thereabout the music-chimney goes down! that is settled! but why should my lord be frightened so?" "i cannot tell. he is not like other people, you know." "where else is the music heard? you and your uncle seem to hear it oftener than anyone else." "in my own room. but we will talk to-morrow. good night." "i will remain here the rest of the evening," said donal, "in case simmons might want me to help with his lordship." it was well into the night, and he still sat reading in the library, when mrs. brookes came to him. she had had to get his lordship "what he ca'd a cat--something or ither, but was naething but mustard to the soles o' 's feet to draw awa' the bluid." "he's better the noo," she said. "he's taen a doze o' ane o' thae drogues he's aye potterin' wi'--fain to learn the trade o' livin' for ever, i reckon! but that's a thing the lord has keepit in 's ain han's. the tree o' life was never aten o', an' never wull be noo i' this warl'; it's lang transplantit. but eh, as to livin' for ever, or i wud be his lordship, i wud gie up the ghost at ance!" "what makes you say that, mistress brookes?" asked donal. "it's no ilk ane i wud answer sic a queston til," she replied; "but i'm weel assured ye hae sense an' hert eneuch baith, no to hurt a cratur'; an' i'll jist gang sae far as say to yersel', an' 'atween the twa o' 's, 'at i hae h'ard frae them 'at's awa'--them 'at weel kent, bein' aboot the place an' trustit--that whan the fit was upon him, he was fell cruel to the bonnie wife he merriet abro'd an' broucht hame wi' him--til a cauld-hertit country, puir thing, she maun hae thoucht it!" "how could he have been cruel to her in the house of his brother? even if he was the wretch to be guilty of it, his brother would never have connived at the ill-treatment of any woman under his roof!" "hoo ken ye the auld yerl sae weel?" asked mrs. brookes, with a sly glance. "i ken," answered donal, direct as was his wont, but finding somehow a little shelter in the dialect, "'at sic a dauchter could ill hae been born to ony but a man 'at--weel, 'at wad at least behave til a wuman like a man." "ye're i' the richt! he was the ten'erest-heartit man! but he was far frae stoot, an' was a heap by himsel', nearhan' as mickle as his lordship the present yerl. an' the lady was that prood, an' that dewotit to the man she ca'd her ain, that never a word o' what gaed on cam to the ears o' his brither, i daur to say, or i s' warran' ye there wud hae been a fine steer! it cam, she said--my auld auntie said--o' some kin' o' madness they haena a name for yet. i think mysel' there's a madness o' the hert as weel 's o' the heid; an' i' that madness men tak their women for a property o' their ain, to be han'led ony gait the deevil puts intil them. cries i' the deid o' the nicht, an' never a shaw i' the mornin' but white cheeks an' reid een, tells its ain tale. i' the en', the puir leddy dee'd, 'at micht hae lived but for him; an' her bairnie dee'd afore her; an' the wrangs o' bairns an' women stick lang to the wa's o' the universe! it was said she cam efter him again;--i kenna; but i hae seen an' h'ard i' this hoose what--i s' haud my tongue aboot!--sure i am he wasna a guid man to the puir wuman!--whan it comes to that, maister grant, it's no my leddy an' mem, but we're a' women thegither! she dee'dna i' this hoose, i un'erstan'; but i' the hoose doon i' the toon--though that's neither here nor there. i wadna won'er but the conscience micht be waukin' up intil him! some day it maun wauk up. he'll be sorry, maybe, whan he kens himsel' upo' the border whaur respec' o' persons is ower, an' a woman s' a guid 's a man--maybe a wheen better! the lord 'll set a' thing richt, or han' 't ower til anither!" chapter liv. lady arctura's room. the next day, when he saw lady arctura, donal was glad to learn that, for all the excitement of the day before, she had passed a good night, and never dreamed at all. "i've been thinking it all over, my lady," he said, "and it seems to me that, if your uncle heard the noise of our plummet so near, the chimney can hardly rise from the floor you searched; for that room, you know, is half-way between the ground-floor and first floor. still, sound does travel so! we must betake ourselves to measurement, i fear.--but another thing came into my head last night which may serve to give us a sort of parallax. you said you heard the music in your own room: would you let me look about in it a little? something might suggest itself!--is it the room i saw you in once?" "not that," answered arctura, "but the bedroom beyond it. i hear it sometimes in either room, but louder in the bedroom. you can examine it when you please.--if only you could find my bad dream, and drive it out!--will you come now?" "it is near the earl's room: is there no danger of his hearing anything?" "not the least. the room is not far from his, it is true, but it is not in the same block; there are thick walls between. besides he is too ill to be up." she led the way, and donal followed her up the main staircase to the second floor, and into the small, curious, ancient room, evidently one of the oldest in the castle, which she had chosen for her sitting-room. perhaps if she had lived less in the shadow, she might have chosen a less gloomy one: the sky was visible only through a little lane of walls and gables and battlements. but it was very charming, with its odd nooks and corners, recesses and projections. it looked an afterthought, the utilization of a space accidentally defined by rejection, as if every one of its sides were the wall of a distinct building. "i do wish, my lady," said donal, "you would not sit so much where is so little sunlight! outer and inner things are in their origin one; the light of the sun is the natural world-clothing of the truth, and whoever sits much in the physical dark misses a great help to understanding the things of the light. if i were your director," he went on, "i would counsel you to change this room for one with a broad, fair outlook; so that, when gloomy thoughts hid god from you, they might have his eternal contradiction in the face of his heaven and earth." "it is but fair to tell you," replied arctura, "that sophia would have had me do so; but while i felt about god as she taught me, what could the fairest sunlight be to me?" "yes, what indeed!" returned donal. "do you know," he added presently, his eyes straying about the room, "i feel almost as if i were trying to understand a human creature. a house is so like a human mind, which gradually disentangles and explains itself as you go on to know it! it is no accidental resemblance, for, as an unavoidable necessity, every house must be like those that built it." "but in a very old house," said arctura, "so many hands of so many generations have been employed in the building, and so many fancied as well as real necessities have been at work, that it must be a conflict of many natures." "but where the house continues in the same family, the builders have more or less transmitted their nature, as well as their house, to those who come after them." "do you think then," said arctura, almost with a shudder, "that i inherit a nature like the house left me--that the house is an outside to me--fits my very self as the shell fits the snail?" "the relation of outer and inner is there, but there is given with it an infinite power to modify. everyone is born nearer to god than to any ancestor, and it rests with him to cultivate either the godness or the selfness in him, his original or his mere ancestral nature. the fight between the natural and the spiritual man is the history of the world. the man who sets his faults inherited, makes atonement for the sins of those who went before him; he is baptized for the dead, not with water but with fire." "that seems to me strange doctrine," said arctura, with tremulous objection. "if you do not like it, do not believe it. we inherit from our ancestors vices no more than virtues, but tendencies to both. vice in my great-great-grandfather may in me be an impulse." "how horrible!" cried arctura. "to say that we inherit sin from adam, horrifies nobody: the source is so far back from us, that we let the stream fill our cisterns unheeded; but to say we inherit it from this or that nearer ancestor, causes the fact to assume its definite and individual reality, and make a correspondent impression." "then you allow that it is horrible to think oneself under the influence of the vices of certain wicked people, through whom we come where we are?" "i would allow it, were it not that god is nearer to us than any vices, even were they our own; he is between us and those vices. but in us they are not vices--only possibilities, which become vices when they are yielded to. then there are at the same time all sorts of counteracting and redeeming influences. it may be that wherein a certain ancestor was most wicked, his wife was especially lovely. he may have been cruel, and she tender as the hen that gathers her chickens under her wing. the main danger is perhaps, of being caught in some sudden gust of unsuspected impulse, and carried away of the one tendency before the other has time to assert and the will to rouse itself. but those who doubt themselves and try to do right may hope for warning. such will not, i think, be allowed to go far out of the way for want of that. self-confidence is the worst traitor." "you comfort me a little." "and then you must remember," continued donal, "that nothing in its immediate root is evil; that from best human roots worst things spring. no one, for instance, will be so full of indignation, of fierceness, of revenge, as the selfish man born with a strong sense of justice.--but you say this is not the room in which you hear the music best?" "no, it is here." chapter lv. her bed-chamber. lady arctura opened the door of her bedroom. donal glanced round it. it was as old-fashioned as the other. "what is behind that press there--wardrobe, i think you call it?" he asked. "only a recess," answered lady arctura. "the press, i am sorry to say, is too high to get into it." possibly had the press stood in the recess, the latter would have suggested nothing; but having caught sight of the opening behind the press, donal was attracted by it. it was in the same wall with the fireplace, but did not seem formed by the projection of the chimney, for it did not go to the ceiling. "would you mind if i moved the wardrobe a little on one side?" he asked. "do what you like," she answered. donal moved it, and found the recess rather deep for its size. the walls of the room were wainscotted to the height of four feet or so, but the recess was bare. there were signs of hinges on one, and of a bolt on the other of the front edges: it had seemingly been once a closet, whose door continued the wainscot. there were no signs of shelves in it; the plaster was smooth. but donal was not satisfied. he took a big knife from his pocket, and began tapping all round. the moment he came to the right-hand side, there was a change in the sound. "you don't mind if i make a little dust, my lady?" he said. "do anything you please," answered arctura. he sought in several places to drive the point of his knife into the plaster; it would nowhere enter it more than a quarter of an inch: here was no built wall, he believed, but one smooth stone. he found nothing like a joint till he came near the edge of the recess: there was a limit of the stone, and he began at once to clear it. it gave him a straight line from the bottom to the top of the recess, where it met another at right angles. "there does seem, my lady," he said, "to be some kind of closing up here, though it may of course turn out of no interest to us! shall i go on, and see what it is?" "by all means," she answered, but turned pale as she spoke. donal looked at her anxiously. she understood his look. "you must not mind my feeling a little silly," she said. "i am not silly enough to give way to it." he went on again with his knife, and had presently cleared the outlines of a stone that filled nearly all the side of the recess. he paused. "go on! go on!" said arctura. "i must first get a better tool or two," answered donal. "will you mind being left?" "i can bear it. but do not be long. a few minutes may evaporate my courage." donal hurried away to get a hammer and chisel, and a pail to put the broken plaster in. lady arctura stood and waited. the silence closed in upon her. she began to feel eerie. she felt as if she had but to will and see through the wall to what lay beyond it. to keep herself from so willing, she had all but reduced herself to mental inaction, when she started to her feet with a smothered cry: a knock not over gentle sounded on the door of the outer room. she darted to the bedroom-door and flung it to--next to the press, and with one push had it nearly in its place. then she opened again the door, thinking to wait for a second knock on the other before she answered. but as she opened the inner, the outer door also opened--slowly--and a face looked in. she would rather have had a visitor from behind the press! it was her uncle; his face cadaverous; his eyes dull, but with a kind of glitter in them; his look like that of a housebreaker. in terror of himself, in terror lest he should discover what they had been about, in terror lest donal should appear, wishing to warn the latter, and certain that, early as it was, her uncle was not himself, with intuitive impulse, the moment she saw him, she cried out, "uncle! what is that behind you?" she felt afterwards, and was very sorry, that it was both a deceitful and cruel thing to do; but she did it, as i have said, by a swift, unreflecting instinct--which she concluded, in thinking about it, came from the ready craft of some ancestor, and illustrated what donal had been saying. the earl turned like one struck on the back, imagined something of which arctura knew nothing, cowered to two-thirds of his height, and crept away. though herself trembling from head to foot, arctura was seized with such a pity, that she followed him to his room; but she dared not go in. she stood a moment in the passage within sight of his door, and thought she heard his bell ring. now simmons might meet donal! in a moment or two, however, she was relieved. donal came round a turn, carrying his implements. she signed to him to make haste, and he was just safe inside her room when simmons came along on his way to his master's. she drew the door to, as if she had been just coming out, and said, "knock at my door as you return, and tell me how your master is: i heard his bell." she then begged donal to go on with his work, but stop it the moment she made a noise with the handle of the door, and resumed her place outside till simmons should re-appear. full ten minutes she stood waiting: it seemed an hour. though she heard donal at work within, and knew simmons must soon come, though the room behind her was her own, and familiar to her from childhood, the long empty passage in front of her appeared frightful. what might not come pacing along towards her! at last she heard her uncle's door--steps--and the butler approached. she shook the handle of the door, and donal's blows ceased. "i can't make him out, my lady!" said simmons. "it is nothing very bad, i think, this time; but he gets worse and worse--always taking more and more o' them horrid drugs. it's no use trying to hide it: he'll drop off sudden one o' these days! i've heard say laudanum don't shorten life; but it's not one nor two, nor half a dozen sorts o' laudanums he keeps mixing in that poor inside o' his! the end must come, and what will it be? it's better you should be prepared for it when it do come, my lady. i've just been a giving of him some into his skin--with a little sharp-pointed thing, a syringe, you know, my lady: he says it's the only way to take some medicines. he's just a slave to his medicines, my lady!" as soon as he was gone, arctura returned to donal. he had knocked the plaster away, and uncovered a slab, very like one of the great stones on some of the roofs. the next thing was to prize it from the mortar, and that was not difficult. the instant he drew the stone away, a dank chill assailed them, accompanied by a humid smell, as from a long-closed cellar. they stood and looked, now at each other, now at the opening in the wall, where was nothing but darkness. the room grew cold and colder. donal was anxious as to how arctura might stand what discovery lay before them, and she was anxious to read his sensations. for her sake he tried to hide all expression of the awe that was creeping over him, and it gave him enough to do. "we are not far from something, my lady!" he said. "it makes one think of what he said who carries the light everywhere--that there is nothing covered that shall not be revealed, neither hid that shall not be known. shall we leave it for the present?" "anything but that!" said arctura with a shiver; "--anything but an unknown terrible something!" "but what can you do with it?" "let the daylight in upon it." her colour returned as she spoke, and a look of determination came into her eyes. "you will not be afraid to be left then when i go down?" "i am cowardly enough to be afraid, but not cowardly enough to let you go alone. i will share with you. i shall not be afraid--not much--not too much, i mean--if i am with you." donal hesitated. "see!" she went on, "i am going to light a candle, and ask you to come down with me--if down it be: it may be up!" "i am ready, my lady," said donal. she lighted the candle. "had we not better lock the door, my lady?" "that might set them wondering," she answered. "we should have to lock both the doors of this room, or else both the passage-doors! the better way will be to pull the press after us when we are behind it." "you are right, my lady. please take some matches with you." "to be sure." "you will carry the candle, please. i must have my hands free. try to let the light shine past me as much as you can, that i may see where i am going. but i shall depend most on my hands and feet." chapter lvi. the lost room. donal then took the light from her hand, and looked in. the opening went into the further wall and turned immediately to the left. he gave her back the candle, and went in. arctura followed close. there was a stair in the thickness of the wall, going down steep and straight. it was not wide enough to let them go abreast. "put your hand on my shoulder, my lady," said donal. "that will keep us together. if i fall, you must stand stock-still." she put her hand on his shoulder, and they began their descent. the steps were narrow and high, therefore the stair was steep they had gone down from thirty to thirty-five steps, when they came to a level passage, turning again at right angles to the left. it was twice the width of the stair. its sides, like those of the stair, were of roughly dressed stones, and unplastered. it led them straight to a strong door. it was locked, and in the rusty lock they could see the key from within. to the right was another door, a smaller one, which stood wide open. they went through, and by a short passage entered an opener space. here on one side there seemed to be no wall, and they stood for a moment afraid to move lest they should tumble into darkness. but sending the light about, and feeling with hands and feet, they soon came to an idea of the place they were in. it was a little gallery, with arches on one side opening into a larger place, the character of which they could only conjecture, for nearly all they could determine was, that it went below and rose above where they stood. on the other side was a plain wall, such as they had had on both sides of them. they had been speaking in awe-filled whispers, and were now in silence endeavouring to send their sight through the darkness beyond the arches. "listen, my lady," said donal. >from above their heads came a chord of the aerial music, soft and faint and wild! a strange effect it had! it was like news of the still airy night and the keen stars, come down through secret ways into the dark places of the earth, from spaces so wide that they seem the most awful of prisons! it sweetly fostered arctura's courage. "that must be how the songs of angels sounded, with news of high heaven, to the people of old!" she said. donal was not in so high a mood. he was occupied at the moment with the material side of things. "we can't be far," he said, "from the place where our plummet came down! but let us try a little further." the next moment they came against a cord, and at their feet was the weight of the clock. at the other end of the little gallery they came again to a door and again to a stair, turning to the right; and again they went down. arctura kept up bravely. the air was not so bad as might have been feared, though it was cold and damp. this time they descended but a little way, and came to a landing place, on the right of which was a door. donal raised a rusty latch and pushed; the door swung open against the wall, dropping from one hinge with the slight shock. two steps more they descended, and stood on a stone floor. donal thought at first they must be in one of the dungeons, but soon bethought himself that they had not descended far enough for that. a halo of damp surrounded their candle; its weak light seemed scarcely to spread beyond it; for some moments they took in nothing of what was around them. the floor first began to reveal itself to donal's eye: in the circle of the light he saw, covered with dust as it was, its squares of black and white marble. then came to him a gleam of white from the wall; it was a tablet; and at the other end was something like an altar, or a tomb. "we are in the old chapel of the castle!" he said. "--but what is that?" he added instantly with an involuntary change of voice, and a shudder through his whole nervous being. arctura turned; her hand sought his and clasped it convulsively. they stood close to something which the light itself had concealed from them. ere they were conscious of an idea concerning it, each felt the muscles of neck and face drawn, as if another power than their own invaded their persons. but they were live wills, and would not be overcome. they forced their gaze; perception cleared itself; and slowly they saw and understood. with strangest dream-like incongruity and unfitness, the thing beside them was a dark bedstead, with carved posts and low wooden tester, richly carved!--this in the middle of a chapel!--but there was no speculation in them; they could only see, not think. donal took the candle. from the tester hung large pieces of stuff that had once made heavy curtains, but seemed hardly now to have as much cohesion as the dust on a cobweb; it held together only in virtue of the lightness to which decay had reduced it. on the bed lay a dark mass, like bed clothes and bedding not quite turned to dust--they could yet see something like embroidery in one or two places--dark like burnt paper or half-burnt flaky rags, horrid as a dream of dead love! heavens! what was that shape in the middle?--what was that on the black pillow?--what was that thick line stretching towards one of the head-posts? they stared speechless. arctura pressed close to donal. his arm went round her to protect her from what threatened almost to overwhelm himself--the inroad of an unearthly horror. plain to the eyes of both, the form in the middle of the bed was that of a human body, slowly crumbling where it lay. bed and blankets and quilt, sheets and pillows had crumbled with it through the long wasting years, but something of its old shape yet lingered with the dust: that was a head that lay on the pillow; that was the line of a long arm that pointed across the pillow to the post.--what was that hanging from the bedpost and meeting the arm? god in heaven! there was a staple in the post, and from the staple came a chain!--and there at its other end a ring, lying on the pillow!--and through it--yes through it, the dust-arm passed!--this was no mere death-bed; it was a torture bed--most likely a murder-bed; and on it yet lay the body that died on it--had lain for hundreds of years, unlifted for kindly burial: the place of its decease had been made its tomb--closed up and hidden away! a bed in a chapel, and one dead thereon!--how could it be? had the woman--for donal imagined the form yet showed it the body of a woman--been carried thither of her own desire, to die in a holy place? that could not be: there was the chain! had she sought refuge there from some persecutor? if so, he has found her! she was a captive--mad perhaps, more likely hated and the victim of a terrible revenge; left, probably enough, to die of hunger, or disease--neglected or tended, who could tell? one thing, only was clear--that there she died, and there she was buried! arctura was trembling. donal drew her closer, and would have taken her away. but she said in his ear, as if in dread of disturbing the dust, "i am not frightened--not very. it is only the cold, i think." they went softly to the other end of the chapel, almost clinging together as they went. they saw three narrow lancet windows on their right, but no glimmer came through them. they came to what had seemed an altar, and such it still seemed. but on its marble-top lay the dust plainly of an infant--sight sad as fearful, and full of agonizing suggestion! they turned away, nor either looked at the other. the awful silence of the place seemed settling on them like a weight. donal made haste, nor did arctura seem less anxious to leave it. when they reached the stair, he made her go first: he must be between her and the terror! as they passed the door on the other side of the little gallery--down whose spiracle had come no second breath--donal said to himself he must question that door, but to arctura he said nothing: she had had enough of inquiry for the moment! slowly they ascended to arctura's chamber. donal replaced the slab, and propped it in its position; gathered the plaster into the pail; replaced the press, and put a screw through the bottom of it into the floor. arctura stood and watched him all the time. "you must leave your room again, my lady!" said donal. "i will. i shall speak to mistress brookes at once." "will you tell her all about it?" "we must talk about that!" "how will she bear it," thought donal; "how after such an experience, can she spend the rest of the day alone? there is all the long afternoon and evening to be met!" he gave the last turn to the screw in the floor, and rose. then first he saw that arctura had turned very white. "do sit down, my lady!" he said. "i would run for mistress brookes, but i dare not leave you." "no, no; we will go down together! give me that bottle of eau de cologne, please." donal did not know either eau de cologne or its bottle, but he darted to the dressing-table and guessed correctly. it revived her, and she began to take deep breaths. then with a strong effort she rose to go down. the time for speech concerning what they had seen, was not come! "would you not like, my lady," said donal, "to come to the schoolroom this afternoon? you could sit beside while i give davie his lessons!" "yes," she answered at once; "i should like it much!--is there not something you could give me to do?--will you not teach me something?" "i should like to begin you with greek, and teach you a little mathematics--geometry first of all." "you frighten me!" "your fright wouldn't outlast the beginning," said donal. "anyhow, you will have davie and me for company! you must be lonely sometimes! you see little of miss carmichael now, i fancy." "she has not been near me since that day in the avenue! we salute now and then coming out of church. she will not come again except i ask her; and i shall be in no haste: she would only assume i was sorry, and could not do without her!" "i should let her wait, my lady!" said donal. "she sorely wants humbling!" "you do not know her, mr. grant, if you think anything i could do would have that effect on her." "pardon me, my lady; i did not imagine it your task to humble her! but you need not let her ride over you as she used to do; she knows nothing really, and a great many things unreally. unreal knowledge is worse than ignorance.--would not miss graeme be a better friend?" "she is much more lovable; but she does not trouble her head about the things i care for.--i mean religion," she added hesitatingly. "so much the better,--" "mr. grant!" "you did not let me finish, my lady!--so much the better, i was going to say, till she begins to trouble her heart about it--or rather to untrouble her heart with it! the pharisee troubled his head, and no doubt his conscience too, and did not go away justified; but the poor publican, as we with our stupid pity would call him, troubled his heart about it; and that trouble once set a going, there is no fear. head and all must soon follow.--but how am i to get rid of this plaster without being seen?" "i will show you the way to your own stair without going down--the way we came once, you may remember. you can take it to the top of the house till it is dark.--but i do not feel comfortable about my uncle's visit. can it be that he suspects something? perhaps he knows all about the chapel--and that stair too!" "he is a man to enjoy having a secret!--but our discovery bears out what we were saying as to the likeness of house and man--does it not?" "you don't mean there is anything like that in me?" rejoined arctura, looking frightened. "you!" he exclaimed. "--but i mean no individual application," he added, "except as reflected from the general truth. this house is like every human soul, and so, like me and you and all of us. we have found the chapel of the house, the place they used to pray to god in, built up, lost, forgotten, filled with dust and damp--and the mouldering dead lying there before the lord, waiting to be made live again and praise him!" "i said you meant me!" murmured arctura, with a faint, sad smile. "no; the time is past for that. it is long since first you were aware of the dead self in the lost chapel; a hungry soul soon misses both, and knows, without being sure of it, that they are somewhere. you have kept searching for them in spite of all persuasion that the quest was foolish." arctura's eyes shone in her pale face; but they shone with gathering tears. donal turned away, and took up the pail. she rose, and guided him to his tower-stair, where he went up and she went down. chapter lvii. the housekeeper's room. as the clock upon the schoolroom chimney-piece struck the hour, arctura entered, and at once took her seat at the table with davie--much to the boy's wonder and pleasure. donal gave her a euclid, and set her a task: she began at once to learn it--and after a while so brief that davie stared incredulous, said, "if you please, mr. grant, i think i could be questioned upon it now." less than a minute sufficed to show donal that she thoroughly understood what she had been learning, and he set her then a little more. by the time their work was over he had not a doubt left that suchlike intellectual occupation would greatly subserve all phases of her health. with entireness she gave herself to the thing she had to do; and donal thought how strong must be her nature, to work so calmly, and think so clearly, after what she had gone through that morning. school over, and davie gone to his rabbits. "mistress brookes invites us to supper with her," said lady arctura. "i asked her to ask us. i don't want to go to bed till i am quite sleepy. you don't mind, do you?" "i am very glad, my lady," responded donal. "don't you think we had better tell her all about it?" "as you think fit. the secret is in no sense mine; it is only yours; and the sooner it ceases to be a secret the better for all of us!" "i have but one reason for keeping it," she returned. "your uncle?" "yes; i know he will be annoyed. but there may be other reasons why i should reveal the thing." "there may indeed!" said donal. "still, i should be sorry to offend him more than i cannot help. if he were a man like my father, i should never dream of going against him; i should in fact leave everything to him he cared to attend to. but seeing he is the man he is, it would be absurd. i dare not let him manage my affairs for me much longer. i must understand for myself how things are going." "you will not, i hope, arrange anything without the presence of a lawyer! i fear i have less confidence in your uncle than you have!" arctura made no reply, and donal was afraid he had hurt her; but the next moment she looked up with a sad smile, and said, "well, poor man! we will not compare our opinions of him: he is my father's brother, and i shall be glad not to offend him. but my father would have reason to be dissatisfied if i left everything to my uncle as if he had not left everything to me. if he had been another sort of man, my father would surely have left the estate to him!" at nine o'clock they met in the housekeeper's room--low-ceiled, large, lined almost round with oak presses, which were mistress brookes's delight. she welcomed them as to her own house, and made an excellent hostess. but donal would not mix the tumbler of toddy she would have had him take. for one thing he did not like his higher to be operated upon from his lower: it made him feel as if possessed by a not altogether real self. but the root of his objection lay in the teaching of his mother. the things he had learned of his parents were to him his patent of nobility, vouchers that he was honourably descended: of his birth he was as proud as any man. and hence this night he was led to talk of his father and mother, and the things of his childhood. he told arctura all about the life he had led; how at one time he kept cattle in the fields, at another sheep on the mountains; how it came that he was sent to college, and all the story of sir gibbie. the night wore on. arctura listened--did nothing but listen; she was enchanted. and it surprised donal himself to find how calmly he could now look back upon what had seemed to threaten an everlasting winter of the soul. it was indeed the better thing that ginevra should be gibbie's wife! a pause had come, and he had fallen into a brooding memory of things gone by, when a sudden succession of quick knocks fell on his ear. he started--strangely affected. neither of his companions took notice of it, though it was now past one o'clock. it was like a knocking with knuckles against the other side of the wall of the room. "what can that be?" he said, listening for more. "h'ard ye never that 'afore, maister grant?" said the housekeeper. "i hae grown sae used til't my ears hardly tak notice o' 't!" "what is it?" asked donal. "ay, what is't? tell ye me that gien ye can!" she returned "it's jist a chappin', an' god's trowth it's a' i ken aboot the same! it comes, i believe i'm safe to say, ilka nicht; but i couldna tak my aith upo' 't, i hae sae entirely drappit peyin' ony attention til't. there's things aboot mony an auld hoose, maister grant, 'at'll tak the day o' judgment to explain them. but sae lang as they keep to their ain side o' the wa', i dinna see i need trible my heid aboot them. efter the experrience i had as a yoong lass, awa' doon in englan' yon'er, at a place my auntie got me intil--for she kenned a heap o' gran' fowk throuw bein' hersel' sae near conneckit wi' them as hoosekeeper i' the castel here--efter that, i'm sayin,' i wadna need to be that easy scaret?" "what was it?" said lady arctura. "i don't think you ever told me." "no, my dear lady; i wud never hae thocht o' tellin' ye ony sic story sae lang as ye was ower yoong no to be frichtit at it; for 'deed i think they're muckle to blame 'at tells bairns the varra things they're no fit to hear, an' fix the dreid 'afore the sense. but i s' tell ye the noo, gien ye care to hear. it's a some awsome story, but there's something unco fulish-like intil't as weel. i canna say i think muckle 'o craturs 'at trible their heids aboot their heids!--but that's tellin' 'aforehan'!" here the good woman paused thoughtful. "i am longing to hear your story, mistress brookes," said donal, supposing she needed encouragement. "i'm but thinkin' hoo to begin," she returned, "sae as to gie ye a richt haud o' the thing.--i'm thinkin' i canna do better nor jist tell 't as it cam to mysel'!--weel, ye see, i was but a yoong lass, aboot--weel, i micht be twenty, mair or less, whan i gaed til the place i speak o'. it was awa' upo' the borders o' wales, like as gien folk ower there i' perth war doobtfu' whether sic or sic a place was i' the hielan's or the lowlan's. the maister o' the hoose was a yoong man awa' upo' 's traivels, i kenna whaur--somewhaur upo' the continent, but that's a mickle word; an' as he had the intention o' bein' awa' for some time to come, no carin' to settle doon aff han' an' luik efter his ain, there was but ane gey auld wuman to hoosekeep, an' me to help her, an' a man or twa aboot the place to luik efter the gairden--an' that was a'. hoose an' gairden was to let, an' was intil the han's o' ane o' thae agents, as they ca' them, for that same purpose--to let, that is, for a term o' years. weel, ae day there cam a gentleman to luik at the place, an' he was sae weel pleased wi' 't--as weel he micht, for eh, it was a bonny place!--aye lauchin' like, whaur this place is aye i' the sulks!--na, no aye! i dinna mean that, my lady, forgettin' at it's yours!--but ye maun own it taks a heap o' sun to gar this auld hoose here luik onything but some dour--an' i beg yer pardon, my lady!" "you are quite right, mistress brookes!" said arctura with a smile. "if it were not for you it would be dour dour.--you do not know, mr. grant--mistress brookes herself does not know how much i owe her! i should have gone out of my mind for very dreariness a hundred times but for her." "the short an' the lang o' 't was," resumed mistress brookes, "that the place was let an' the place was ta'en, mickle to the satisfaction o' a' pairties concernt. the auld hoosekeeper, she bein' a fixtur like, was to bide, an' i was to bide as weel, under the hoosekeeper, an' haein' nothing to do wi' the stranger servan's. "they cam. there was a gentleman o' a middle age, an' his leddy some yoonger nor himsel', han'some but no bonnie--but that has naething to do wi' my tale 'at i should tak up yer time wi' 't, an' it growin' some late." "never mind the time, mistress brookes," said arctura; we can do just as we please about that! one time is as good as another--isn't it, mr. grant?" "i sometimes sit up half the night myself," said donal. "i like to know god's night. only it won't do often, lest we make the brain, which is god's too, like a watch that won't go." "it's sair upsettin' to the wark!" said the housekeeper. "what would the house be like if i was to do that!" "do go on, please, mistress brookes," said arctura. "please do," echoed donal. "sir, an' my lady, i'm ready to sit till the cock's be dune crawin', an' the day dune dawin', to pleasur the ane or the twa o' ye!--an' sae for my true tale!--they war varra dacent, weel-behavet fowk, wi' a fine faimly, some grown an' some growin'. it was jist a fawvour to see sic a halesome clan--frae auchteen or thereawa' doon tu the wee toddlin' lassie was the varra aipple o' the e'e to a' the e'en aboot the place! but that's naither here nor yet there! a' gaed on as a' should gang on whaur the servan's are no ower gran' for their ain wark, nor ower meddlesome wi' the wark o' their neebours; naething was negleckit, nor onything girned aboot; but a' was peace an' hermony, as quo' the auld sang about out bonny kilmeny--that is, till ae nicht.--you see i'm tellin' ye as it cam' to mysel' an' no til anither! "as i lay i' my bed that nicht--an' ye may be sure at my age i lay nae langer nor jist to turn me ower ance, an' in general no that ance--jist as i was fa'in' asleep, up gat sic a romage i' the servan' ha', straucht 'aneth whaur i was lyin', that i thoucht to mysel', what upo' earth's come to the place!--'gien it bena the day o' judgment, troth it's no the day o' sma' things!' i said. it was as gien a' the cheirs an' tables thegither war bein' routit oot o' their places, an' syne set back again, an' the tables turnt heels ower heid, an' a' the glaiss an' a' the plate for the denner knockit aboot as gien they had been sae mony hailstanes that warna wantit ony mair, but micht jist lie whaur they fell. i couldna for the life o' me think what it micht betoken, save an' excep' a general frenzy had seized upo' man an' wuman i' the hoose! i got up in a hurry: whatever was gaein' on, i wudna wullin'ly gang wantin' my share o' the sicht! an' jist as i opened my door, wha should i hear but the maister cryin' at the heid o' the stair,--'what, i' the name o' a' that's holy,' says he, 'is the meanin' o' this?' an' i ran til him, oot o' the passage, an' through the swing-door, into the great corridor; an' says i,--''deed, sir, i was won'erin'! an' wi' yer leave, sir, i'll gang an' see,' i said, gaitherin' my shawl aboot me as weel as i could to hide what was 'aneth it, or raither what wasna 'aneth it, for i hadna that mickle on. but says he, 'no, no, you must not go; who knows what it may be? i'll go myself. they may be robbers, and the men fighting them. you stop where you are.' sayin' that, he was half-ways doon the stair. i stood whaur i was, lookin' doon an' hearkenin', an' the noise still goin' on. but he could but hae won the len'th o' the hall, whan it stoppit a' at ance an' a'thegither. ye may think what a din it maun hae been, whan i tell ye the quaiet that cam upo' the heels o' 't jist seemed to sting my twa lugs. the same moment i h'ard the maister cryin' til me to come doon. i ran, an' whan i reached the servan's ha', whaur he stood jist inside the door, i stood aside him an' glowered. for, wad ye believe me! the place was as dacent an' still as ony kirkyard i' the munelicht! there wasna a thing oot o' it's place, nor an air o' dist, nor the sma'est disorder to be seen! a' the things luikit as gien they had sattlet themsel's to sleep as usual, an' had sleepit till we cam an' waukit them. the maister glowert at me, an' i glowert at the maister. but a' he said was,--'a false alarm, ye see, rose!' what he thoucht i canna tell, but withoot anither word we turnt, an' gaed up the stair again thegither. "at the tap o' the stair, the lang corridor ran awa' intil the dark afore 's, for the can'le the maister carried flangna licht half to the en' o' 't; an' frae oot o' the mirk on a suddent cam to meet 's a rampaugin' an' a rattlin' like o' a score o' nowt rinnin' awa' wi' their iron tethers aboot their necks--sic a rattlin' o' iron chains as ye never h'ard! an' a groanin' an' a gruntin' jist fearsome. again we stood an' luikit at ane anither; an' my word! but the maister's face was eneuch to fricht a body o' 'tsel', lat alane the thing we h'ard an' saw naething til accoont for! 'gang awa' back to yer bed, rose,' he said; 'this'll never do!' 'an' hoo are ye to help it, sir?' said i. 'that i cannot tell,' answered he; but i wouldn't for the world your mistress heard it! i left her fast asleep, and i hope she'll sleep through it.--did you ever hear anything strange about the house before we came?' 'never, sir,' said i, 'as sure as i stan' here shiverin'!'--for the nicht was i' the simmer, an' warm to that degree! an' yet i was shiverin' as i' the cauld fit o' a fivver; an' my moo' wud hardly consent to mak the words i soucht to frame! "we stood like mice 'afore the cat for a minute or twa, but there cam naething mair; an' by degrees we grew a kin' o' ashamet, like as gien we had been doobtfu' as to whether we had h'ard onything; an' whan again he said to me gang to my bed, i gaed to my bed, an' wasna lang upo' the ro'd, for fear i wud hear onything mair--an' intil my bed, an' my heid 'aneth the claes, an' lay trim'lin'. but there was nane mair o' 't that nicht, an' i wasna ower sair owercome to fa' asleep. "i' the mornin' i tellt the hoosekeeper a' aboot it; but she held her tongue in a mainner that was, to say the least o' 't, varra strange. she didna lauch, nor she didna grue nor yet glower, nor yet she didna say the thing was nonsense, but she jist h'ard an' h'ard an' saidna a word. i thoucht wi' mysel', is't possible she disna believe me? but i couldna mak that oot aither. sae as she heild her tongue, i jist pu'd the bridle o' mine, an' vooed there should be never anither word said by me till ance she spak hersel'. an' i wud sune hae had eneuch o' haudin' my tongue, but i hadna to haud it to onybody but her; an' i cam to the conclusion that she was feart o' bein' speirt questons by them 'at had a richt to speir them, for that she had h'ard o' something 'afore, an' kenned mair nor she was at leeberty to speak aboot. "but that was only the beginnin', an' little to what followed! for frae that nicht there was na ae nicht passed but some ane or twa disturbit, an' whiles it was past a' bidin.' the noises, an' the rum'lin's, an' abune a' the clankin' o' chains, that gaed on i' that hoose, an' the groans, an' the cries, an' whiles the whustlin', an' what was 'maist waur nor a', the lauchin', was something dreidfu', an' 'ayont believin' to ony but them 'at was intil't. i sometimes think maybe the terror o' 't maks it luik waur i' the recollection nor it was; but i canna keep my senses an' no believe there was something a'thegither by ord'nar i' the affair. an' whan, or lang, it cam to the knowledge o' the lady, an' she was waukit up at nicht, an' h'ard the thing, whatever it was, an' syne whan the bairns war waukit up, an' aye the romage, noo i' this room, noo i' that, sae that the leevin' wud be cryin' as lood as the deid, though they could ill mak sic a din, it was beyond a' beirin', an' the maister made up his min' to flit at ance, come o' 't what micht! "for, as i oucht to hae tellt ye, he had written to the owner o' the hoose, that was my ain maister--for it wasna a hair o' use sayin' onything further to the agent; he only leuch, an' declaret it maun be some o' his ain folk was playin' tricks upon him--which it angert him to hear, bein' as impossible as it was fause; sae straucht awa' to his lan'lord he wrote, as i say; but as he was travellin' aboot on the continent, he supposed either the letter had not reached him, an' never wud reach him or he was shelterin' himsel' under the idea they wud think he had never had it, no wantin' to move in the matter. but the varra day he had made up his min' that nothing should make him spend another week in the house, for monday nights were always the worst, there cam a letter from the gentleman, sayin' that only that same hoor that he was writin' had he received the maister's letter; an' he was sorry he had not had it before, but prayed him to put up with things till he got to him, and he would start at the farthest in two days more, and would set the thing right in less time than it would take to tell him what was amiss.--a strange enough letter to be sure! mr. harper, that was their butler, told me he had read every word of it! and so, as, not to mention the terrors of the nicht, the want of rest was like to ruin us altogether, we were all on the outlook for the appearance of oor promised deliverer, sae cock-sure o' settin' things straucht again! "weel, at last, an' that was in a varra feow days, though they luikit lang to some i' that hoose, he appearit--a nice luikin' gentleman, wi' sae sweet a smile it wasna hard to believe whate'er he tellt ye. an' he had a licht airy w'y wi' him, that was to us oppresst craturs strangely comfortin', ill as it was to believe he could ken what had been goin' on, an' treat it i' that fashion! hooever,--an' noo, my lady, an' mr. grant, i hae to tell ye what the butler told me, for i wasna present to hear for mysel'. maybe he wouldn't have told me, but that he wasn't an old man, though twice my age, an' seemt to have taken a likin' to me, though it never came to anything; an' as i was always ceevil to any person that was ceevil to me, an' never went farther than was becomin', he made me the return o' talkin' to me at times, an' tellin' me what he knew. "the young gentleman was to stop an' lunch with the master, an' i' the meantime would have a glass o' wine an' a biscuit; an' pullin' a bunch o' keys from his pocket, he desired mr. harper to take a certain one and go to the door that was locked inside the wine-cellar, and bring a bottle from a certain bin. harper took the key, an' was just goin' from the room, when he h'ard the visitor--though in truth he was more at hame there than any of us--h'ard him say, 'i'll tell you what you've been doing, sir, and you'll tell me whether i'm not right!' hearin' that, the butler drew the door to, but not that close, and made no haste to leave it, and so h'ard what followed. "'i'll tell you what you've been doin',' says he. 'didn't you find a man's head--a skull, i mean, upon the premises?' 'well, yes, i believe we did, when i think of it!' says the master; 'for my butler'--an' there was the butler outside a listenin' to the whole tale!--'my butler came to me one mornin', sayin', "look here, sir! that is what i found in a little box, close by the door of the wine-cellar! it's a skull!" "oh," said i '--it was the master that was speakin'--'"it'll be some medical student has brought it home to the house!" so he asked me what he had better do with it.' 'and you told him,' interrupted the gentleman, 'to bury it!' 'i did; it seemed the proper thing to do.' 'i hadn't a doubt of it!' said the gentleman: 'that is the cause of all the disturbance.' 'that?' says the master. 'that, and nothing else!' answers the gentleman. and with that, as harper confessed when he told me, there cam ower him such a horror, that he daured nae longer stan' at the door; but for goin' doon to the cellar to fetch the bottle o' wine, that was merely beyond his human faculty. as it happed, i met him on the stair, as white as a sheet, an' ready to drop. 'what's the matter, mr. harper?' said i; and he told me all about it. 'come along,' i said; 'we'll go to the cellar together! it's broad daylight, an' there's nothing to hurt us!' so he went down. "'there, that's the box the thing was lyin' in!' said he, as we cam oot o' the wine-cellar. an' wi' that cam a groan oot o' the varra ground at oor feet! we both h'ard it, an' stood shakin' an' dumb, grippin' ane anither. 'i'm sure i don't know what in the name o' heaven it can all mean!' said he--but that was when we were on the way up again. 'did ye show 't ony disrespec'?' said i. 'no,' said he; 'i but buried it, as i would anything else that had to be putten out o' sight,' an' as we wur talkin' together--that was at the top o' the cellar-stair--there cam a great ringin' at the bell, an' said he, 'they're won'erin' what's come o' me an' their wine, an' weel they may! i maun rin.' as soon as he entered the room--an' this again, ye may see, my leddy an' maister grant, he tellt me efterwards--'whaur did ye bury the heid ye tuik frae the cellar?' said his master til him, an' speiredna a word as to hoo he had been sae lang gane for the wine. 'i buried it i' the garden,' answered he. 'i hope you know the spot!' said the strange gentleman. 'yes, sir, i do,' said harper. 'then come and show me,' said he. "so the three of them went oot thegither, an' got a spade; an' luckily the butler was able to show them at once the varra spot. an' the gentleman he howkit up the skull wi' his ain han's, carefu' not to touch it with the spade, an' broucht it back in his han' to the hoose, knockin' the earth aff it with his rouch traivellin' gluves. but whan harper lookit to be told to take it back to the place where he found it, an' trembled at the thoucht, wonderin' hoo he was to get haud o' me an' naebody the wiser, for he didna want to show fricht i' the day-time, to his grit surprise an' no sma' pleesur, the gentleman set the skull on the chimley-piece. an' as lunch had been laid i' the meantime, for mr. heywood--i hae jist gotten a grup o' his name--had to be awa' again direckly, he h'ard the whole story as he waitit upo' them. i suppose they thoucht it better he should hear an' tell the rest, the sooner to gar them forget the terrors we had come throuw. "said the gentleman, 'now you'll have no more trouble. if you do, write to me, to the care o'--so an' so--an' i'll release you from your agreement. but please to remember that you brought it on yourself by interfering, i can't exackly say with my property, but with the property of one who knows how to defend it without calling in the aid of the law--which indeed would probably give him little satisfaction.--it was the burying of that skull that brought on you all the annoyance.' 'i always thought,' said the master, 'the dead preferred having their bones buried. their ghosts indeed, according to cocker, either wouldna or couldna lie quiet until their bodies were properly buried: where then could be our offence?' 'you may say what you will,' answered mr. heywood, 'and i cannot answer you, or preten' to explain the thing; i only know that when that head is buried, these same disagreeables always begin.' 'then is the head in the way of being buried and dug up again?' asked the master. 'i will tell you the whole story, if you like,' answered his landlord. 'i would gladly hear it,' says he, 'for i would fain see daylight on the affair!' 'that i cannot promise you,' he said; 'but the story, as it is handed down in the family, you shall hear.' "you may be sure, my leddy, harper was wide awake to hearken, an' the more that he might tell it again in the hall! "'somewhere about a hundred and fifty years ago,' mr. heywood began, 'on a cold, stormy night, there came to the hall-door a poor pedlar,'--a travelling merchant, you know, my leddy--'with his pack on his back, and would fain have parted with some of his goods to the folk of the hall. the butler, who must have been a rough sort of man--they were rough times those--told him they wanted nothing he could give them, and to go about his business. but the man, who was something obstinate, i dare say, and, it may weel be, anxious to get shelter, as much for the nicht bein' gurly as to sell his goods, keepit on beggin' an' implorin' to lat the women-folk at the least luik at what he had broucht. at last the butler, oot o' a' patience wi' the man, ga'e him a great shove awa' frae the door, sae that the poor man fell doon the steps, an' bangt the door to, nor ever lookit to see whether the man gat up again or no. "'i' the mornin' the pedlar they faund him lyin' deid in a little wud or shaw, no far frae the hoose. an' wi' that up got the cry, an' what said they but that the butler had murdert him! sae up he was ta'en an' put upo' 's trial for't. an' whether the man was not likit i' the country-side, i cannot tell,' said the gentleman, 'but the cry was against him, and things went the wrong way for him--and that though no one aboot the hoose believed he had done the deed, more than he micht hae caused his death by pushin' him doon the steps. an' even that he could hardly have intendit, but only to get quit o' him; an' likely enough the man was weak, perhaps ill, an' the weicht o' his pack on his back pulled him as he pushed.' still, efter an' a'--an' its mysel' 'at's sayin' this, no the gentleman, my lady--in a pairt o' the country like that, gey an' lanely, it was not the nicht to turn a fallow cratur oot in! 'the butler was, at the same time, an old and trusty servan',' said mr. heywood, 'an' his master was greatly concernt aboot the thing. it is impossible at this time o' day,' he said, 'to un'erstan' hoo such a thing could be--i' the total absence o' direc' evidence, but the short an' the weary lang o' 't was, that the man was hangt, an' hung in irons for the deed. "'an' noo ye may be thinkin' the ghaist o' the puir pedlar began to haunt the hoose; but naething o' the kin'! there was nae disturbance o' that, or ony ither sort. the man was deid an' buried, whaever did or didna kill him, an' the body o' him that was said to hae killed him, hung danglin' i' the win', an' naither o' them said a word for or again the thing. "'but the hert o' the man's maister was sair. he couldna help aye thinkin' that maybe he was to blame, an' micht hae done something mair nor he thoucht o' at the time to get the puir man aff; for he was absolutely certain that, hooever rouch he micht hae been; an' hooever he micht hae been the cause o' deith to the troublesome pedlar, he hadna meant to kill him; it was, in pairt at least, an accident, an' he thoucht the hangin' o' 'im for 't was hard lines. the maister was an auld man, nearhan' auchty, an' tuik things the mair seriously, i daursay, that he wasna that far frae the grave they had sent the puir butler til afore his time--gien that could be said o' ane whause grave was wi' the weather-cock! an' aye he tuik himsel' to task as to whether he ouchtna to hae dune something mair--gane to the king maybe--for he couldna bide the thoucht o' the puir man that had waitit upon him sae lang an' faithfu', hingin' an' swingin' up there, an' the flesh drappin' aff the banes o' 'im, an' still the banes hingin' there, an' swingin' an' creakin' an' cryin'! the thoucht, i say, was sair upo' the auld man. but the time passed, an' i kenna hoo lang or hoo short it may tak for a body in sic a position to come asun'er, but at last the banes began to drap, an' as they drappit, there they lay--at the fut o' the gallows, for naebody caret to meddle wi' them. an' whan that cam to the knowledge o' the auld gentleman, he sent his fowk to gether them up an' bury them oot o' sicht. an' what was left o' the body, the upper pairt, hauden thegither wi' the irons, maybe--i kenna weel hoo, hung an' swung there still, in ilk win' that blew. but at the last, oot o' sorrow, an' respec' for the deid, hooever he dee'd, his auld maister sent quaietly ae mirk nicht, an' had the lave o' the banes taen doon an' laid i' the earth. "'but frae that moment, think ye there was ony peace i' the hoose? a clankin' o' chains got up, an' a howlin', an' a compleenin' an' a creakin' like i' the win'--sic a stramash a'thegither, that the hoose was no fit to be leevit in whiles, though it was sometimes waur nor ither times, an' some thoucht it had to do wi' the airt the win' blew: aboot that i ken naething. but it gaed on like that for months, maybe years,'--mr. harper wasna sure hoo lang the gentleman said--'till the auld man 'maist wished himsel' in o' the grave an' oot o' the trouble. "'at last ae day cam an auld man to see him--no sae auld as himsel', but ane he had kenned whan they wur at the college thegither. an' this was a man that had travelled greatly, an' was weel learnt in a heap o' things ordinar' fowk, that gies themsel's to the lan', an' the growin' o' corn, an' beasts, ir no likely to ken mickle aboot. he saw his auld freen' was in trouble, an' didna carry his age calm-like as was nat'ral, an' sae speirt him what was the matter. an' he told him the whole story, frae the hangin' to the bangin'. "weel," said the learnit man, whan he had h'ard a', "gien ye'll tak my advice, ye'll jist sen' an' howk up the heid, an' tak it intil the hoose wi' ye, an' lat it bide there whaur it was used sae lang to be;--do that, an' it's my opinion ye'll hear nae mair o' sic unruly gangin's on." the auld gentleman tuik the advice, kennin' no better. but it was the richt advice, for frae that moment the romour was ower, they had nae mair o' 't. they laid the heid in a decent bit box i' the cellar, an' there it remaint, weel content there to abide the day o' that jeedgment that'll set mony anither jeedgment to the richt-aboot; though what pleesur could be intil that cellar mair nor intil a hole i' the earth, is a thing no for me to say! so wi' that generation there was nae mair trouble. "'but i' the coorse o' time cam first ane an' syne anither, wha forgot, maybe leuch at, the haill affair, an' didna believe a word o' the same. but they're but fules that gang again the experrience o' their forbeirs!--what wud ye hae but they wud beery the heid! an' what wud come o' that but an auld dismay het up again! up gat the din, the rampaugin', the clankin', an' a', jist the same as 'afore! but the minute that, frichtit at the consequences o' their folly, they acknowledged the property o' the ghaist in his ain heid, an' tuik it oot o' the earth an' intil the hoose again, a' was quaiet direc'ly--quaiet as hert could desire.' "sae that was the story! "an' whan the lunch was ower, an' mr. harper was thinkin' the moment come whan they would order him to tak the heid, an' him trimlin' at the thoucht o' touchin' 't, an' lay't whaur it was--an' whaur it had sae aften been whan it had a sowl intil 't, the gentleman got up, an' says he til him, 'be so good,' says he, 'as fetch me my hat-box from the hall.' harper went an' got it as desired, an' the gentleman took an' unlockit it, an' roon' he turnt whaur he stood, an' up he tuik the skull frae the chimley-piece, neither as gien he lo'ed it nor feared it--as what reason had he to do either?--an' han'let it neither rouchly, nor wi' ony show o' mickle care, but intil the hat-box it gaed, willy, nilly, an' the lid shutten doon upo' 't, an' the key turnt i' the lock o' 't; an' as gien he wad mak the thing richt sure o' no bein' putten again whaur it had sic an objection to gang, up he tuik in his han' the hat-box, an' the contrairy heid i' the inside o' 't, an' awa' wi' him on his traivels, here awa' an' there awa' ower the face o' the globe: he was on his w'y to spain, he said, at the moment; an' we saw nae mair o' him nor the heid, nor h'ard ever a soon' mair o' clankin', nor girnin', nor ony ither oonholy din. "an' that's the trowth, mak o' 't what ye like, my leddy an' maister grant!" mistress brookes was silent, and for some time not a syllable was uttered by either listener. at last donal spoke. "it is a strange story, mistress brookes," he said; "and the stranger that it would show some of the inhabitants of the other world apparently as silly after a hundred and fifty years as when first they arrived there." "i can say naething anent that, sir," answered mistress brookes; "i'm no accoontable for ony inference 'at's to be drawn frae my ower true tale; an' doobtless, sir, ye ken far better nor me;--but whaur ye see sae mony folk draw oot the threid o' a lang life, an' never ae sensible thing, that they could help, done or said, what for should ye won'er gien noo an' than ane i' the ither warl' shaw himsel' siclike. whan ye consider the heap o' folk that dees, an' hoo there maun be sae mony mair i' the ither warl' nor i' this, i confess for my pairt i won'er mair 'at we're left at peace at a', an' that they comena swarmin' aboot 's i' the nicht, like black doos. ye'll maybe say they canna, an' ye'll maybe say they come; but sae lang as they plague me nae waur nor oor freen' upo' the tither side o' the wa', i canna say i care that mickle. but i think whiles hoo thae ghaists maun lauch at them that lauchs as gien there was nae sic craturs i' the warl'! for my pairt i naither fear them nor seek til them: i'll be ane wi' them mysel' afore lang!--only i wad sair wuss an' houp to gang in amo' better behavet anes nor them 'at gangs aboot plaguin' folk." "you speak the best of sense, mistress brookes," said donal; "but i should like to understand why the poor hanged fellow should have such an objection to having his skull laid in the ground! why had he such a fancy for his old bones? could he be so closely associated with them that he could not get on without the plenty of fresh air they got him used to when they hung on the gallows? and why did it content him to have only his head above ground? it is bewildering! we couldn't believe our bones rise again, even if paul hadn't as good as told us they don't! why should the dead haunt their bones as if to make sure of having their own again?" "but," said mistress brookes, "beggin' yer pardon, sir, what ken ye as to what they think? ye may ken better, but maybe they dinna; for haena ye jist allooed that sic conduc' as i hae describit is no fit, whaever be guilty o' the same, whether rowdy laddies i' the streets, or craturs ye canna see i' the hoose? they may think they'll want their banes by an' by though ye ken better; an' whatever you wise folk may think the noo, ye ken it's no that lang sin' a' body, ay, the best o' folk, thoucht the same; an' there's no a doobt they a' did at the time that man was hangt. an' ye maun min' 'at i' the hoose the heid o' 'im wudna waste as it wud i' the yerd!" "but why bother about his heid more than the rest of his bones?" "weel, sir, i'm thinking a ghaist, ghaist though he be, canna surely be i' twa places at ance. he could never think to plague til ilk bane o' finger an' tae was gethert i' the cellar! that wud be houpless! an' thinkin' onything o' his banes, he micht weel think maist o' 's heid, an' keep an e'e upo' that. nae mony ghaists hae the chance o' seein' sae muckle o' their banes as this ane, or sayin' to themsel's, 'yon's mine, whaur it swings!' some ghaists hae a cat-like natur for places, an' what for no for banes? mony's the story that hoosekeeper, honest wuman, telled me: whan what had come was gane, it set her openin' oot her pack! i could haud ye there a' nicht tellin' ye ane efter anither o' them. but it's time to gang to oor beds." "it is our turn to tell you something," said lady arctura; "--only you must not mention it just yet: mr. grant has found the lost room!" for a moment mrs. brookes said nothing, but neither paled nor looked incredulous; her face was only fixed and still, as if she were finding explanation in the discovery. "i was aye o' the min' it was," she said, "an' mony's the time i thoucht i wud luik for't to please mysel'! it's sma' won'er--the soon's, an' the raps, an' siclike!" "you will not change your mind when you hear all," said arctura. "i asked you to give us our supper because i was afraid to go to bed." "you shouldn't have told her, sir!" "i've seen it with my own eyes!" "you've been into it, my lady?--what--what--?" "it is a chapel--the old castle-chapel--mentioned, i know, somewhere in the history of the place, though no one, i suppose, ever dreamed the missing room could be that!--and in the chapel," continued arctura, hardly able to bring out the words, for a kind of cramping of the muscles of speech, "there was a bed! and in the bed the crumbling dust of a woman! and on the altar what was hardly more than the dusty shadow of a baby?" "the lord be aboot us!" cried the housekeeper, her well-seasoned composure giving way; "ye saw that wi' yer ain e'en, my lady!--mr. grant! hoo could ye lat her leddyship luik upo' sic things!" "i am her ladyship's servant," answered donal. "that's varra true! but eh, my bonny bairn, sic sichts is no for you!" "i ought to know what is in the house!" said arctura, with a shudder. "but already i feel more comfortable that you know too. mr. grant would like to have your advice as to what--.--you'll come and see them, won't you?" "when you please, my lady.--to-night?" "no, no! not to-night.--was that the knocking again?--some ghosts want their bodies to be buried, though your butler--" "i wouldna wonder!" responded mistress brookes, thoughtfully. "where shall we bury them?" asked donal. "in englan'," said the housekeeper, "i used to hear a heap aboot consecrated ground; but to my min' it was the bodies o' god's handiwark, no the bishop, that consecrated the ground. whaur the lord lays doon what he has done wi', wad aye be a sacred place to me. i daursay moses, whan he cam upo' 't again i' the desert, luikit upo' the ground whaur stood the buss that had burned, as a sacred place though the fire was lang oot!--thinkna ye, mr. grant?" "i do," answered donal. "but i do not believe the lord jesus thought one spot on the face of the earth more holy than another: every dust of it was his father's, neither more nor less, existing only by the thought of that father! and i think that is what we must come to.--but where shall we bury them?--where they lie, or in the garden?" "some wud doobtless hae dist laid to dist i' the kirkyard; but i wudna wullin'ly raise a clash i' the country-side. them that did it was yer ain forbeirs, my leddy; an' sic things are weel forgotten. an' syne what wud the earl say? it micht upset him mair nor a bit! i'll consider o' 't." donal accompanied them to the door of the chamber which again they shared, and then betook himself to his own high nest. there more than once in what remained of the night, he woke, fancying he heard the ghost-music sounding its coronach over the dead below. chapter lviii. a soul diseased. "papa is very ill to-day, simmons tells me," said davie, as donal entered the schoolroom. "he says he has never seen him so ill. oh, mr. grant, i hope he is not going to die!" "i hope not," returned donal--not very sure, he saw when he thought about it, what he meant; for if there was so little hope of his becoming a true man on this side of some awful doom, why should he hope for his life here? "i wish you would talk to him as you do to me, mr. grant!" resumed davie, who thought what had been good for himself must be good for everybody. of late the boy had been more than usual with his father, and he may have dropped some word that turned his father's thoughts toward donal and his ways of thinking: however weak the earl's will, and however dull his conscience, his mind was far from being inactive. in the afternoon the butler brought a message that his lordship would be glad to see mr. grant when school was over. donal found the earl very weak, but more like a live man, he thought, than he had yet seen him. he pointed to a seat, and began to talk in a way that considerably astonished the tutor. "mr. grant," he began, with not a little formality, "i have known you long enough to believe i know you really. now i find myself, partly from the peculiarity of my constitution, partly from the state of my health, partly from the fact that my views do not coincide with those of the church of scotland, and there is no episcopal clergyman within reach of the castle--i find myself, i say, for these reasons, desirous of some conversation with you, more for the sake of identifying my own opinions, than in the hope of receiving from you what it would be unreasonable to expect from one of your years." donal held his peace; the very power of speech seemed taken from him: he had no confidence in the man, and nothing so quenches speech as lack of faith. but the earl had no idea of this distrust, never a doubt of his listener's readiness to take any position he required him to take. experience had taught him as little about donal as about his own real self. "i have long been troubled," continued his lordship after a momentary pause, "with a question of which one might think the world must by this time be weary--which yet has, and always will have, extraordinary fascination for minds of a certain sort--of which my own is one: it is the question of the freedom of the will:--how far is the will free? or how far can it be called free, consistently with the notion of a god over all?" he paused, and donal sat silent--so long that his lordship opened the eyes which, the better to enjoy the process of sentence-making, he had kept shut, and half turned his head towards him: he had begun to doubt whether he was really by his bedside, or but one of his many visions undistinguishable by him from realities. re-assured by the glance, he resumed. "i cannot, of course, expect from you such an exhaustive and formed opinion as from an older man who had made metaphysics his business, and acquainted himself with all that had been said upon the subject; at the same time you must have expended a considerable amount of thought on these matters!" he talked in a quiet, level manner, almost without inflection, and with his eyes again closed--very much as if he were reading a book inside him. "i have had a good deal," he went on, "to shake my belief in the common ideas on such points.--do you believe there is such a thing as free will?" he ceased, awaiting the answer which donal felt far from prepared to give him. "my lord," he said at length, "what i believe, i do not feel capable, at a moment's notice, of setting forth; neither do i think, however unavoidable such discussions may be in the forum of one's own thoughts, that they are profitable between men. i think such questions, if they are to be treated at all between man and man, and not between god and man only, had better be discussed in print, where what is said is in some measure fixed, and can with a glance be considered afresh. but not so either do i think they can be discussed to any profit." "what do you mean? surely this question is of the first importance to humanity!" "i grant it, my lord, if by humanity you mean the human individual. but my meaning is, that there are many questions, and this one, that can be tested better than argued." "you seem fond of paradox!" "i will speak as directly as i can: such questions are to be answered only by the moral nature, which first and almost only they concern; and the moral nature operates in action, not discussion." "do i not then," said his lordship, the faintest shadow of indignation in his tone, "bring my moral nature to bear on a question which i consider from the ground of duty?" "no, my lord," answered donal, with decision; "you bring nothing but your intellectual nature to bear on it so; the moral nature, i repeat, operates only in action. to come to the point in hand: the sole way for a man to know he has freedom is to do something he ought to do, which he would rather not do. he may strive to acquaint himself with the facts concerning will, and spend himself imagining its mode of working, yet all the time not know whether he has any will." "but how am i to put a force in operation, while i do not know whether i possess it or not?" "by putting it in operation--that alone; by being alive; by doing the next thing you ought to do, or abstaining from the next thing you are tempted to, knowing you ought not to do it. it sounds childish; and most people set action aside as what will do any time, and try first to settle questions which never can be settled but in just this divinely childish way. for not merely is it the only way in which a man can know whether he has a free will, but the man has in fact no will at all unless it comes into being in such action." "suppose he found he had no will, for he could not do what he wished?" "what he ought, i said, my lord." "well, what he ought," yielded the earl almost angrily. "he could not find it proved that he had no faculty for generating a free will. he might indeed doubt it the more; but the positive only, not the negative, can be proved." "where would be the satisfaction if he could only prove the one thing and not the other." "the truth alone can be proved, my lord; how should a lie be proved? the man that wanted to prove he had no freedom of will, would find no satisfaction from his test--and the less the more honest he was; but the man anxious about the dignity of the nature given him, would find every needful satisfaction in the progress of his obedience." "how can there be free will where the first thing demanded for its existence or knowledge of itself is obedience?" "there is no free will save in resisting what one would like, and doing what the truth would have him do. it is true the man's liking and the truth may coincide, but therein he will not learn his freedom, though in such coincidence he will always thereafter find it, and in such coincidence alone, for freedom is harmony with the originating law of one's existence." "that's dreary doctrine." "my lord, i have spent no little time and thought on the subject, and the result is some sort of practical clearness to myself; but, were it possible, i should not care to make it clear to another save by persuading him to arrive at the same conviction by the same path--that, namely, of doing the thing required of him." "required of him by what?" "by any one, any thing, any thought, with which can go the word required by--anything that carries right in its demand. if a man does not do the thing which the very notion of a free will requires, what in earth, heaven, or hell, would be the use of his knowing all about the will? but it is impossible he should know anything." "you are a bold preacher!" said the earl. "--suppose now a man was unconscious of any ability to do the thing required of him?" "i should say there was the more need he should do the thing." "that is nonsense." "if it be nonsense, the nonsense lies in the supposition that a man can be conscious of not possessing a power; he can only be not conscious of possessing it, and that is a very different thing. how is a power to be known but by being a power, and how is it to be a power but in its own exercise of itself? there is more in man than he can at any given moment be conscious of; there is life, the power of the eternal behind his consciousness, which only in action can he make his own; of which, therefore, only in action, that is obedience, can he become conscious, for then only is it his." "you are splitting a hair!" "if the only way to life lay through a hair, what must you do but split it? the fact, however, is, that he who takes the live sphere of truth for a flat intellectual disc, may well take the disc's edge for a hair." "come, come! how does all this apply to me--a man who would really like to make up his mind about the thing, and is not at the moment aware of any very pressing duty that he is neglecting to do?" "is your lordship not aware of some not very pressing duty that you are neglecting to do? some duties need but to be acknowledged by the smallest amount of action, to become paramount in their demands upon us." "that is the worst of it!" murmured the earl. "i refuse, i avoid such acknowledgment! who knows whither it might carry me, or what it might not go on to demand of me!" he spoke like one unaware that he spoke. "yes, my lord," said donal, "that is how most men treat the greatest things! the devil blinds us that he may guide us!" "the devil!--bah!" cried his lordship, glad to turn at right angles from the path of the conversation; "you don't surely believe in that legendary personage?" "he who does what the devil would have him do, is the man who believes in him, not he who does not care whether he is or not, so long as he avoids doing his works. if there be such a one, his last thought must be to persuade men of his existence! he is a subject i do not care to discuss; he is not very interesting to me. but if your lordship now would but overcome the habit of depending on medicine, you would soon find out that you had a free will." his lordship scowled like a thunder-cloud. "i am certain, my lord," added donal, "that the least question asked by the will itself, will bring an answer; a thousand asked by the intellect, will bring nothing." "i did not send for you to act the part of father confessor, mr. grant," said his lordship, in a tone which rather perplexed donal; "but as you have taken upon you the office, i may as well allow you keep it; the matter to which you refer, that of my medical treatment of myself, is precisely what has brought me into my present difficulty. it would be too long a story to tell you how, like poor coleridge, i was first decoyed, then enticed from one stage to another; the desire to escape from pain is a natural instinct; and that, and the necessity also for escaping my past self, especially in its relations to certain others, have brought me by degrees into far too great a dependence on the use of drugs. and now that, from certain symptoms, i have ground to fear a change of some kind not so far off--i do not of course mean to-morrow, or next year, but somewhere nearer than it was this time, i won't say last year, but say ten years ago--why, then, one begins to think about things one has been too ready to forget. i suppose, however, if the will be a natural possession of the human being, and if a man should, through actions on the tissue of his brain, have ceased to be conscious of any will, it must return to him the moment he is free from the body, that is from the dilapidated brain!" "my lord, i would not have you count too much upon that. we know very little about these things; but what if the brain give the opportunity for the action which is to result in freedom? what if there should, without the brain, be no means of working our liberty? what if we are here like birds in a cage, with wings, able to fly but not flying about the cage; and what if, when we are dead, we shall indeed be out of the cage, but without wings, having never made use of such as we had while we had them? think for a moment what we should be without the senses!" "we shall be able at least to see and hear, else where were the use of believing in another world?" "i suspect, my lord, the other world does not need our believing in it to make a fact of it. but if a man were never to teach his soul to see, if he were obstinately to close his eyes upon this world, and look at nothing all the time he was in it, i should be very doubtful whether the mere fact of going a little more dead, would make him see. the soul never having learned to see, its sense of seeing, correspondent to and higher than that of the body, never having been developed, how should it expand and impower itself by mere deliverance from the one best schoolmaster to whom it would give no heed? the senses are, i suspect, only the husks under which are ripening the deeper, keener, better senses belonging to the next stage of our life; and so, my lord, i cannot think that, if the will has not been developed through the means and occasions given in, the mere passing into another condition will set it free. for freedom is the unclosing of the idea which lies at our root, and is the vital power of our existence. the rose is the freedom of the rose tree. i should think, having lost his brain, and got nothing instead, a man would find himself a mere centre of unanswerable questions." "you go too far for me," said his lordship, looking a little uncomfortable, "but i think it is time to try and break myself a little of the habit--or almost time. by degrees one might, you know,--eh?" "i have little faith in doing things by degrees, my lord--except such indeed as by their very nature cannot be done at once. it is true a bad habit can only be contracted by degrees; and i will not say, because i do not know, whether anyone has ever cured himself of one by degrees; but it cannot be the best way. what is bad ought to be got rid of at once." "ah, but, don't you know? that might cost you your life!" "what of that, my lord! life, the life you mean, is not the first thing." "not the first thing! why, the bible says, 'all that a man hath will he give for his life'!" "that is in the bible; but whether the bible says it, is another thing." "i do not understand silly distinctions." "why, my lord, who said that?" "what does it matter who said it?" "much always; everything sometimes." "who said it then?" "the devil." "the devil he did! and who ought to know better, i should like to ask!" "every man ought to know better. and besides, it is not what a man will or will not do, but what a man ought or ought not to do!" "ah, there you have me, i suppose! but there are some things so damned difficult, that a man must be very sure of his danger before he can bring himself to do them!" "that may be, my lord: in the present case, however, you must be aware that the danger is not to the bodily health alone; these drugs undermine the moral nature as well!" "i know it: i cannot be counted guilty of many things; they were done under the influence of hellish concoctions. it was not i, but these things working in me--on my brain, making me see things in a false light! this will be taken into account when i come to be judged--if there be such a thing as a day of judgment." "one thing i am sure of," said donal, "that your lordship will have fair play. at first, not quite knowing what you were about, you may not have been much to blame; but afterwards, when you knew that you were putting yourself in danger of doing you did not know what, you were as much to blame as if you made a frankenstein-demon, and turned him loose on the earth, knowing yourself utterly unable to control him." "and is not that what the god you believe in does every day?" "my lord, the god i believe in has not lost his control over either of us." "then let him set the thing right! why should we draw his plough?" "he will set it right, my lord,--but probably in a way your lordship will not like. he is compelled to do terrible things sometimes." "compelled!--what should compel him?" "the love that is in him, the love that he is. he cannot let us have our own way to the ruin of everything in us he cares for!" then the spirit awoke in donal--or came upon him--and he spoke. "my lord," he said, "if you would ever again be able to thank god; if there be one in the other world to whom you would go; if you would make up for any wrong you have ever done; if you would ever feel in your soul once more the innocence of a child; if you care to call god your father; if you would fall asleep in peace and wake to a new life; i conjure you to resist the devil, to give up the evil habit that is dragging you lower and lower every hour. it will be very hard, i know! anything i can do, watching with you night and day, giving myself to help you, i am ready for. i will do all that lies in me to deliver you from the weariness and sickness of the endeavour. i will give my life to strengthen yours, and count it well spent and myself honoured: i shall then have lived a life worth living! resolve, my lord--in god's name resolve at once to be free. then you shall know you have a free will, for your will will have made itself free by doing the will of god against all disinclination of your own. it will be a glorious victory, and will set you high on the hill whose peak is the throne of god." "i will begin to-morrow," said the earl feebly, and with a strange look in his eyes. "--but now you must leave me. i need solitude to strengthen my resolve. come to me again to-morrow. i am weary, and must rest awhile. send simmons." donal was nowise misled by the easy, postponed consent, but he could not prolong the interview. he rose and went. in the act of shutting the door behind him, something, he did not know what, made him turn his head: the earl was leaning over the little table by his bedside, and pouring something from a bottle into a glass. donal stood transfixed. the earl turned and saw him, cast on him a look of almost demoniacal hate, put the glass to his lips and drank off its contents, then threw himself back on his pillows. donal shut the door--not so softly as he intended, for he was agitated; a loud curse at the noise came after him. he went down the stair not only with a sense of failure, but with an exhaustion such as he had never before felt. there are men of natures so inactive that they cannot even enjoy the sight of activity around them: men with schemes and desires are in their presence intrusive. their existence is a sleepy lake, which would not be troubled even with the wind of far-off labour. such lord morven was not by nature; up to manhood he had led even a stormy life. but when his passions began to yield, his self-indulgence began to take the form of laziness; and it was not many years before he lay with never a struggle in the chains of the evil power which had now reduced him to moral poltroonery. the tyranny of this last wickedness grew worse after the death of his wife. the one object of his life, if life it could be called, was only and ever to make it a life of his own, not the life which god had meant it to be, and had made possible to him. on first acquaintance with the moral phenomenon, it had seemed to donal an inhuman and strangely exceptional one; but reflecting, he came presently to see that it was only a more pronounced form of the universal human disease--a disease so deep-seated that he who has it worst, least knows or can believe that he has any disease, attributing all his discomfort to the condition of things outside him; whereas his refusal to accept them as they are, is one most prominent symptom of the disease. whether by stimulants or narcotics, whether by company or ambition, whether by grasping or study, whether by self-indulgence, by art, by books, by religion, by love, by benevolence, we endeavour after another life than that which god means for us--a life of truth, namely, of obedience, humility, and self-forgetfulness, we walk equally in a vain show. for god alone is, and without him we are not. this is not the mere clang of a tinkling metaphysical cymbal; he that endeavours to live apart from god must at length find--not merely that he has been walking in a vain show, but that he has been himself but the phantom of a dream. but for the life of the living god, making him be, and keeping him being, he must fade even out of the limbo of vanities! he more and more seldom went out of the house, more and more seldom left his apartment. at times he would read a great deal, then for days would not open a book, but seem absorbed in meditation--a meditation which had nothing in it worthy of the name. in his communications with donal, he did not seem in the least aware that he had made him the holder of a secret by which he could frustrate his plans for his family. these plans he clung to, partly from paternity, partly from contempt for society, and partly in the fancy of repairing the wrong he had done his children's mother. the morally diseased will atone for wrong by fresh wrong--in its turn to demand like reparation! he would do anything now to secure his sons in the position of which in law he had deprived them by the wrong he had done the woman whom all had believed his wife. through the marriage of the eldest with the heiress, he would make him the head of the house in power as in dignity, and this was now almost the only tie that bound him to the reality of things. he cared little enough about forgue, but his conscience was haunted with his cruelties to the youth's mother. these were often such as i dare not put on record: they came all of the pride of self-love and self-worship--as evil demons as ever raged in the fiercest fire of moloch. in the madness with which they possessed him, he had inflicted upon her not only sorest humiliations, but bodily tortures: he would see, he said, what she would bear for his sake! in the horrible presentments of his drug-procured dreams they returned upon him in terrible forms of righteous retaliation. and now, though to himself he was constantly denying a life beyond, the conviction had begun to visit and overwhelm him that he must one day meet her again: fain then would he be armed with something which for her sake he had done for her children! one of the horrible laws of the false existence he led was that, for the deadening of the mind to any evil, there was no necessity it should be done and done again; it had but to be presented in the form of a thing done, or a thing going to be done, to seem a thing reasonable and doable. in his being, a world of false appearances had taken the place of reality; a creation of his own had displaced the creation of the essential life, by whose power alone he himself falsely created; and in this world he was the dupe of his own home-born phantoms. out of this conspiracy of marsh and mirage, what vile things might not issue! over such a chaos the devil has power all but creative. he cannot in truth create, but he can with the degenerate created work moral horrors too hideous to be analogized by any of the horrors of the unperfected animal world. such are being constantly produced in human society; many of them die in the darkness in which they are generated; now and then one issues, blasting the public day with its hideous glare. because they are seldom seen, many deny they exist, or need be spoken of if they do. but to terrify a man at the possibilities of his neglected nature, is to do something towards the redemption of that nature. school-hours were over, but davie was seated where he had left him, still working. at sight of him donal, feeling as if he had just come from the presence of the damned, almost burst into tears. a moment more and arctura entered: it was as if the roof of hell gave way, and the blue sky of the eternal came pouring in heavenly deluge through the ruined vault. "i have been to call upon sophia," she said. "i am glad to hear it," answered donal: any news from an outer world of yet salvable humanity was welcome as summer to a land of ice. "yes," she said; "i am able to go and see her now, because i am no longer afraid of her--partly, i think, because i no longer care what she thinks of me. her power over me is gone." "and will never return," said donal, "while you keep close to the master. with him you need no human being to set you right, and will allow no human being to set you wrong; you will need neither friend nor minister nor church, though all will help you. i am very glad, for something seems to tell me i shall not be long here." arctura dropped on a chair--pale as rosy before. "has anything fresh happened?" she asked, in a low voice that did not sound like hers. "surely you will not leave me while--.--i thought--i thought--.--what is it?" "it is only a feeling i have," he answered. "i believe i am out of spirits." "i never saw you so before!" said arctura. "i hope you are not going to be ill." "oh, no; it is not that! i will tell you some day, but i cannot now. all is in god's hands!" she looked anxiously at him, but did not ask him any question more. she proposed they should take a turn in the park, and his gloom wore gradually off. chapter lix. dust to dust. the next night, as if by a common understanding, for it was without word spoken, the three met again in the housekeeper's room, where she had supper waiting. of business nothing was said until that was over. mistress brookes told them two or three of the stories of which she had so many, and donal recounted one or two of those that floated about his country-side. "i've been thinkin'," said mistress brookes at length, "seein' it's a bonny starry nicht, we couldna do better than lift an' lay doon this varra nicht. the hoose is asleep." "what do you say to that place in the park where was once a mausoleum?" said donal. "it's the varra place!--an' the sooner the better--dinna ye think, my lady?" arctura with a look referred the question to donal. "surely," he answered. "but will there not be some preparations to make?" "there's no need o' mony!" returned the housekeeper. "i'll get a fine auld sheet, an' intil 't we'll put the remains, an' row them up, an' carry them to their hame. i'll go an' get it, my lady.--but wouldna 't be better for you and me, sir, to get a' that dune by oorsel's? my leddy could j'in us whan we cam up." "she wouldn't like to be left here alone. there is nothing to be called fearsome!" "nothing at all," said arctura. "the forces of nature," said donal, "are constantly at work to destroy the dreadful, and restore the wholesome. it is but a few handfuls of clean dust." the housekeeper went to one of her presses, and brought out a sheet. donal put a plaid round lady arctura. they went up to her room, and so down to the chapel. half-way down the narrow descent mistress brookes murmured, "eh, sirs!" and said no more. each carried a light, and the two could see the chapel better. a stately little place it was: when the windows were unmasked, it would be beautiful! they stood for some moments by the side of the bed, regarding in silence. seldom sure had bed borne one who slept so long!--one who, never waking might lie there still! when they spoke it was in whispers. "how are we to manage it, mistress brookes?" said donal. "lay the sheet handy, alang the side o' the bed, maister grant, an' i s' lay in the dist, han'fu' by han'fu'. i hae that respec' for the deid, i hae no difficlety aboot han'lin' onything belongin' to them." "gien it hadna been that he tuik it again," said donal, "the lord's ain body wad hae come to this." as he spoke he laid the sheet on the bed, and began to lay in it the dry dust and air-wasted bones, handling them as reverently as if the spirit had but just departed. mistress brookes would have prevented arctura, but she insisted on having her share in the burying of her own: who they were god knew, but they should be hers anyhow, and one day she would know! for to fancy we go into the other world a set of spiritual moles burrowing in the dark of a new and unknown existence, is worthy only of such as have a lifeless law to their sire. we shall enter it as children with a history, as children going home to a long line of living ancestors, to develop closest relations with them. she would yet talk, live face to face, with those whose dust she was now lifting in her two hands to restore it to its dust. then they carried the sheet to the altar, and thence swept into it every little particle, back to its mother dust. that done, donal knotted the sheet together, and they began to look around them. desirous of discovering where the main entrance to the chapel had been, donal spied under the windows a second door, and opened it with difficulty. it disclosed a passage below the stair, three steps lower than the floor of the chapel, parallel with the wall, and turning, at right angles under the gallery. here he saw signs of an obliterated door in the outer wall, but could examine no farther for the present. in the meantime his companions had made another sort of discovery: near the foot of the bed was a little table, on which were two drinking vessels, apparently of pewter, and a mouldering pack of cards! card-playing and the hidden room did hold some relation with each other! the cards and the devil were real! donal took up the sheet--a light burden, and arctura led the way. arrived at her room, they went softly across to the door opening on donal's stair--not without fear of the earl, whom indeed they might meet anywhere--and by that descending, reached the open air, and took their way down the terraces and through the park to the place of burial. it was a frosty night, with the waning sickle of a moon low in the heaven, and many brilliant stars above it. followed by faint ethereal shadows, they passed over the grass, through the ghostly luminous dusk--of funereal processions one of the strangest that ever sought a tomb. the ruin was in a hollow, surrounded by trees. donal removed a number of fallen stones and dug a grave. they lowered into it the knotted sheet, threw in the earth again, heaped the stones above, and left the dust with its dust. then silent they went back, straight along the green, moon-regarded rather than moon-lit grass: if any one had seen them through the pale starry night, he would surely have taken them for a procession of the dead themselves! no dream of death sought arctura that night, but in the morning she woke suddenly from one of disembodied delight. chapter lx. a lesson about death. whatever lady arctura might decide concerning the restoration of the chapel to the light of day, donal thought it would not be amiss to find, without troubling her, what he could of its relation to the rest of the house: and it favoured his wish that arctura was prevailed upon by the housekeeper to remain in bed the next day. her strong will, good courage, and trusting heart, had made severe demands upon an organization as delicate as responsive. it was now saturday: he resolved to go alone in the afternoon to explore--and first of all would try the door beside the little gallery. as soon as he was free, he got the tools he judged necessary, and went down. the door was of strong sound oak, with ornate iron hinges right across it. he was on the better side for opening it, that is, the inside, but though the ends of the hinges were exposed, the door was so well within the frame that it was useless to think of heaving them off the bearing-pins. the huge lock and its bolt were likewise before him, but the key was in the lock from the other side, so that it could not be picked; while the nails that fastened it to the door were probably riveted through a plate. but there was the socket into which the bolt shot! that was merely an iron staple! he might either force it out with a lever, or file it through! having removed the roughest of the rust with which it was caked, and so reduced its thickness considerably, he set himself to the task of filing it through, first at the top then at the bottom. it was a slow but a sure process, and would make no great noise. although it was broad daylight outside, so like midnight was it here and the season that belongs to the dead, that he was haunted with the idea of a presence behind him. but not once did he turn his head to see, for he knew that if he yielded to the inclination, it would but return the stronger. old experience had taught him that the way to meet the horrors of the fancy is to refuse them a single hair's-breadth of obedience. and as he worked the conviction grew that the only protection against the terrors of alien presence is the consciousness of the home presence of the eternal: if a man felt that presence, how could he fear any other? but for those who are not one with the source of being, every manifestation of that being in a life other than their own, must be more or less a terror to them; it is alien, antipathous, other,--it may be unappeasable, implacable. the time must even come when to such their own being will be a horror of repugnant consciousness; for god not self is ours--his being, not our own, is our home; he is our kind. the work was slow--the impression on the hard iron of the worn file so weak that he was often on the point of giving up the attempt. fatigue at length began to invade him, and therewith the sense of his situation grew more keen: great weariness overcomes terror; the beginnings of weariness enhance it. every now and then he would stop, thinking he heard the cry of a child, only to recognize it as the noise of his file. he resolved at last to stop for the night, and after tea go to the town to buy a new and fitter file. the next day was sunday, and in the afternoon donal and davie were walking in the old avenue together. they had been to church, and had heard a dull sermon on the most stirring fact next to the resurrection of the lord himself--his raising of lazarus. the whole aspect of the thing, as presented by the preaching man, was so dull and unreal, that not a word on the subject had passed between them on the way home. "mr. grant, how could anybody make a dead man live again?" said davie suddenly. "i don't know, davie," answered donal. "if i could know how, i should probably be able to do it myself." "it is very hard to believe." "yes, very hard--that is, if you do not know anything about the person said to have done it, to account for his being able to do it though another could not. but just think of this: if one had never seen or heard about death, it would be as hard, perhaps harder, to believe that anything could bring about that change. the one seems to us easy to understand, because we are familiar with it; if we had seen the other take place a few times, we should see in it nothing too strange, nothing indeed but what was to be expected in certain circumstances." "but that is not enough to prove it ever did take place." "assuredly not. it cannot even make it look in the least probable." "tell me, please, anything that would make it look probable." "i will not answer your question directly, but i will answer it. listen, davie. "in all ages men have longed to see god--some men in a grand way. at last, according to the story of the gospel, the time came when it was fit that the father of men should show himself to them in his son, the one perfect man, who was his very image. so jesus came to them. but many would not believe he was the son of god, for they knew god so little that they did not see how like he was to his father. others, who were more like god themselves, and so knew god better, did think him the son of god, though they were not pleased that he did not make more show. his object was, not to rule over them, but to make them know, and trust, and obey his father, who was everything to him. now when anyone died, his friends were so miserable over him that they hardly thought about god, and took no comfort from him. they said the dead man would rise again at the last day, but that was so far off, the dead was gone to such a distance, that they did not care for that. jesus wanted to make them know and feel that the dead were alive all the time, and could not be far away, seeing they were all with god in whom we live; that they had not lost them though they could not see them, for they were quite within his reach--as much so as ever; that they were just as safe with, and as well looked after by his father and their father, as they had ever been in all their lives. it was no doubt a dreadful-looking thing to have them put in a hole, and waste away to dust, but they were not therefore gone out--they were only gone in! to teach them all this he did not say much, but just called one or two of them back for a while. of course lazarus was going to die again, but can you think his two sisters either loved him less, or wept as much over him the next time he died?" "no; it would have been foolish." "well, if you think about it, you will see that no one who believes that story, and weeps as they did the first time, can escape reproof. where jesus called lazarus from, there are his friends, and there are they waiting for him! now, i ask you, davie, was it worth while for jesus to do this for us? is not the great misery of our life, that those dear to us die? was it, i say, a thing worth doing, to let us see that they are alive with god all the time, and can be produced any moment he pleases?" "surely it was, sir! it ought to take away all the misery!" "then it was a natural thing to do; and it is a reasonable thing to think that it was done. it was natural that god should want to let his children see him; and natural he should let them know that he still saw and cared for those they had lost sight of. the whole thing seems to me reasonable; i can believe it. it implies indeed a world of things of which we know nothing; but that is for, not against it, seeing such a world we need; and if anyone insists on believing nothing but what he has seen something like, i leave him to his misery and the mercy of god." if the world had been so made that men could easily believe in the maker of it, it would not have been a world worth any man's living in, neither would the god that made such a world, and so revealed himself to such people, be worth believing in. god alone knows what life is enough for us to live--what life is worth his and our while; we may be sure he is labouring to make it ours. he would have it as full, as lovely, as grand, as the sparing of nothing, not even his own son, can render it. if we would only let him have his own way with us! if we do not trust him, will not work with him, are always thwarting his endeavours to make us alive, then we must be miserable; there is no help for it. as to death, we know next to nothing about it. "do we not!" say the faithless. "do we not know the darkness, the emptiness, the tears, the sinkings of heart, the desolation!" yes, you know those; but those are your things, not death's. about death you know nothing. god has told us only that the dead are alive to him, and that one day they will be alive again to us. the world beyond the gates of death is, i suspect, a far more homelike place to those that enter it, than this world is to us. "i don't like death," said davie, after a silence. "i don't want you to like, what you call death, for that is not the thing itself--it is only your fancy about it. you need not think about it at all. the way to get ready for it is to live, that is, to do what you have to do." "but i do not want to get ready for it. i don't want to go to it; and to prepare for it is like going straight into it!" "you have to go to it whether you prepare for it or not. you cannot help going to it. but it must be like this world, seeing the only way to prepare for it is to do the thing god gives us to do." "aren't you afraid of death, mr. grant?" "no, i am not. why should i fear the best thing that, in its time, can come to me? neither will you be afraid when it comes. it is not the dreadful thing it looks." "why should it look dreadful if it is not dreadful?" "that is a very proper question. it looks dreadful, and must look dreadful, to everyone who cannot see in it that which alone makes life not dreadful. if you saw a great dark cloak coming along the road as if it were round somebody, but nobody inside it, you would be frightened--would you not?" "indeed i should. it would be awful!" "it would. but if you spied inside the cloak, and making it come towards you, the most beautiful loving face you ever saw--of a man carrying in his arms a little child--and saw the child clinging to him, and looking in his face with a blessed smile, would you be frightened at the black cloak?" "no; that would be silly." "you have your answer! the thing that makes death look so fearful is that we do not see inside it. those who see only the black cloak, and think it is moving along of itself, may well be frightened; but those who see the face inside the cloak, would be fools indeed to be frightened! before jesus came, people lived in great misery about death; but after he rose again, those who believed in him always talked of dying as falling asleep; and i daresay the story of lazarus, though it was not such a great thing after the rising of the lord himself, had a large share in enabling them to think that way about it." when they went home, davie, running up to lady arctura's room, recounted to her as well as he could the conversation he had just had with mr. grant. "oh, arkie!" he said, "to hear him talk, you would think death hadn't a leg to stand upon!" arctura smiled; but it was a smile through a cloud of unshed tears. lovely as death might be, she would like to get the good of this world before going to the next!--as if god would deny us any good!--at one time she had been willing to go, she thought, but she was not now!--the world had of late grown very beautiful to her! chapter lxi. the bureau. on the monday night donal again went down into the hidden parts of the castle. arctura had come to the schoolroom, but seemed ill able for her work, and he did not tell her what he was doing farther. they were rather the ghosts of fears than fears themselves that had assailed him, and this time they hardly came near him as he wrought. with his new file he made better work than before, and soon finished cutting through the top of the staple. trying it then with a poker as a lever, he broke the bottom part across; so there was nothing to hold the bolt, and with a creaking noise of rusty hinges the door slowly opened to his steady pull. nothing appeared but a wall of plank! he gave it a push; it yielded: another door, close-fitting, and without any fastening, flew open, revealing a small closet or press, and on the opposite side of it a third door. this he could not at once open. it was secured, however, with a common lock, which cost him scarcely any trouble. it opened on a little room, of about nine feet by seven. he went in. it contained nothing but an old-fashioned secretary or bureau, and a seat like a low music-stool. "it may have been a vestry for the priest!" thought donal; "but it must have been used later than the chapel, for this desk is not older than the one at the mains, which mistress jean said was made for her grandmother!" then how did it get into the place? there was no other door! above the bureau was a small window, or what seemed a window doubtful with dirt; but door there was not! it was not too large to enter by the oak door, but it could not have got to it along any of the passages he had come through! it followed that there must, and that not so very long ago, have been another entrance to the place in which he stood! he turned to look at the way he had himself come: it was through a common press of painted deal, filling the end of the little room, there narrowed to about five feet. when the door in the back of it was shut, it looked merely a part of the back of the press. he turned again to the bureau, with a strange feeling at his heart. the cover was down, and on it lay some sheets of paper, discoloured with dust and age. a pen lay with them, and beside was an ink-bottle of the commonest type, the ink in powder and flakes. he took up one of the sheets. it had a great stain on it. the bottle must have been overturned! but was it ink? no; it stood too thick on the paper. with a gruesome shiver donal wetted his finger and tried the surface of it: a little came off, a tinge of suspicious brown. there was writing on the paper! what was it? he held the faded lines close to the candle. they were not difficult to decipher. he sat down on the stool, and read thus--his reading broken by the stain: there was no date:-- "my husband for such i will--blot--are in the sight of god--blot--men why are you so cruel what--blot--deserve these terrors--blot--in thought have i--blot--hard upon me to think of another." here the writing came below the blot, and went on unbroken. "my little one is gone and i am left lonely oh so lonely. i cannot but think that if you had loved me as you once did i should yet be clasping my little one to my bosom and you would have a daughter to comfort you after i am gone. i feel sure i cannot long survive this--ah there my hand has burst out bleeding again, but do not think i mind it, i know it was only an accident, you never meant to do it, though you teased me by refusing to say so--besides it is nothing. you might draw ever drop of blood from my body and i would not care if only you would not make my heart bleed so. oh, it is gone all over my paper and you will think i have done it to let you see how it bleeds--but i cannot write it all over again it is too great a labour and too painful to write, so you must see it just as it is. i dare not think where my baby is, for if i should be doomed never to see her because of the love i have borne to you and consented to be as you wished if i am cast out from god because i loved you more than him i shall never see you again--for to be where i could see you would never be punishment enough for my sins." here the writing stopped: the bleeding of the hand had probably brought it to a close. the letter had never been folded, but lying there, had lain there. he looked if he could find a date; there was none. he held the sheet up to the light, and saw a paper mark; while close by lay another sheet with merely a date--in the same hand, as if the writer had been about to commence another in lieu of the letter spoiled. "strange!" thought donal with himself; "an old withered grief looks almost as pitiful as an old withered joy!--but who is to say either is withered? those who look upon death as an evil, yet regard it as the healer of sorrows! is it such? no one can tell how long a grief may last unwithered! surely till the life heals it! he is a coward who would be cured of his sorrow by mere lapse of time, by the mere forgetting of a brain that grows musty with age. it is god alone who can heal--the god of the dead and of the living! and the dead must find him, or be miserable for evermore!" he had not a doubt that the letter he had read was in the writing of the mother of the present earl's children. what was he to do? he had thought he was looking into matters much older--things over which the permission of lady arctura extended; and in truth what he had discovered, or seen corroborated, was a thing she had a right to know! but whether he ought to tell her at once he did not yet see. he took up his candle, and with a feeling of helpless dismay, withdrew to his chamber. but when he reached the door of it, yielding to a sudden impulse, he turned away, and went farther up the stair, and out upon the bartizan. it was a frosty night, and the stars were brilliant. he looked up and said, "oh saviour of men, thy house is vaulted with light; thy secret places are secret from excess of light; in thee is no darkness at all; thou hast no terrible crypts and built-up places; thy light is the terror of those who love the darkness! fill my heart with thy light; let me never hunger or thirst after anything but thy will--that i may walk in the light, and light not darkness may go forth from me." as he turned to go in, came a faint chord from the aeolian harp. "it sings, brooding over the very nest of evil deeds!" he thought. "the light eternal, with keen arrows of radiant victory, will yet at last rout from the souls of his creatures the demons that haunt them! "but if there be creatures of god that have turned to demons, may not human souls themselves turn to demons? would they then be victorious over god, too strong for him to overcome--beyond the reach of repentance? "how would they live? by their own power? then were they gods!--but they did not make themselves, and could not live of themselves. if not, then they must live by god's power. how then should they be beyond his reach? "if the demons can never be brought back, then the life of god, the all-pure, goes out to keep alive, in and for evil, that which is essentially bad; for that which is irredeemable is essentially bad." thus reasoned donal with himself, and his reasoning, instead of troubling his faith, caused him to cling the more to the only one, the sole hope and saviour of the hearts of his men and women, without whom the whole universe were but a charnel house in which the ghosts of the dead went about crying, not over the life that was gone from them, but its sorrows. he stood and gazed out over the cold sea. and as he gazed, a shivering surge of doubt, a chill wave of negation, came rolling over him. he knew that in a moment he would strike out with the energy of a strong swimmer, and rise to the top of it; but now it was tumbling him about at its evil will. he stood and gazed--with a dull sense that he was waiting for his will. suddenly came the consciousness that he and his will were one; that he had not to wait for his will, but had to wake--to will, that is, and do, and so be. and therewith he said to himself:-- "it is neither time, nor eternity, nor human consolation, nor everlasting sleep, nor the satisfied judgment, nor attained ambition, even in love itself, that is the cure for things; it is the heart, the will, the being of the father. while that remains, the irremediable, the irredeemable cannot be. if there arose a grief in the heart of one of his creatures not otherwise to be destroyed, he would take it into himself, there consume it in his own creative fire--himself bearing the grief, carrying the sorrow. christ died--and would die again rather than leave one heart-ache in the realms of his love--that is, of his creation. 'blessed are they who have not seen and yet have believed!'" over his head the sky was full of shining worlds--mansions in the father's house, built or building. "we are not at the end of things," he thought, "but in the beginnings and on the threshold of creation! the father is as young as when first the stars of the morning sang--the ancient of days who can never grow old! he who has ever filled the dull unbelieving nations with food and gladness, has a splendour of delight for the souls that believe, ever as by their obedience they become capable of receiving it." chapter lxii. the crypt. "when are you going down again to the chapel, mr. grant?" said lady arctura: she was better now, and able to work. "i was down last night, and want to go again this evening by myself--if you don't mind, my lady," he answered. "i am sure it will be better for you not to go down till you are ready to give your orders to have everything cleared away for the light and air to enter. the damp and closeness of the place are too much for you." "i think it was rather the want of sleep that made me ill," she answered; "but you can do just as you please." "i thank you for your confidence, my lady," returned donal. "i do not think you will repent it." "i know i shall not." having some things to do first, it was late before donal went down--intent on learning the former main entrance, and verifying the position of the chapel in the castle. he betook himself to the end of the passage under the little gallery, and there examined the signs he had observed: those must be the outer ends of two of the steps of the great staircase! they came through, resting on the wall. that end of the chapel, then, adjoined the main stair. evidently, too, a door had been built up in the process of constructing the stair. the chapel then had not been entered from that level since the building of the stair. originally there had, most likely, been an outside stair to this door, in an open court. after a little more examination, partial of necessity, from lack of light, he was on his way out, and already near the top of the mural stair, thinking of the fresh observations he would take outside in the morning, when behind, overtaking him from the regions he had left, came a blast of air, and blew out his candle. he shivered--not with the cold of it, though it did breathe of underground damps and doubtful growths, but from a feeling of its having been sent after him to make him go down again--for did it not indicate some opening to the outer air? he relighted his candle and descended, carefully guarding it with one hand. the cold sigh seemed to linger about him as he went--gruesome as from a closed depth, the secret bosom of the castle, into which the light never entered. but, wherever it came from last, however earthy and fearful, it came first from the open regions of life, and had but passed through a gloom that life itself must pass! could it have been a draught down the pipe of the music-chords? no, for they would have loosed some light-winged messenger with it! he must search till he found its entrance below! he crossed the little gallery, descended, and went again into the chapel: it lay as still as the tomb which it was no more. he seemed to miss the presence of the dead, and feel the place deserted. all round its walls, as far as he could reach or see, he searched carefully, but could perceive no sign of possible entrance for the messenger blast. it came again!--plainly through the open door under the windows. he went again into the passage outside the wall, and the moment he turned into it, the draught seemed to come from beneath, blowing upwards. he stooped to examine; his candle was again extinguished. once more he relighted it. searching then along the floor and the foot of the walls, he presently found, in the wall of the chapel itself, close to the ground, a narrow horizontal opening: it must pass under the floor of the chapel! all he saw was a mere slit, but the opening might be larger, and partially covered by the flooring-slab, which went all the length of the slit! he would try to raise it! that would want a crowbar! but having got so far, he would not rest till he knew more! it must be very late and the domestics all in bed; but what hour it was he could not tell, for he had left his watch in his room. it might be midnight and he burrowing like a mole about the roots of the old house, or like an evil thing in the heart of a man! no matter! he would follow up his search--after what, he did not know. he crept up, and out of the castle by his own stair, so to the tool-house. it was locked. but lying near was a half-worn shovel: that might do! he would have a try with it! like one in a dream of ancient ruins, creeping through mouldy and low-browed places, he went down once more into the entrails of the house. inserting the sharp edge of the worn shovel in the gap between the stone and that next it, he raised it more readily than he had hoped, and saw below it a small window, whose sill sloped steeply inward. how deep the place might be, and whether it would be possible to get out of it again, he must discover before entering. he took a letter from his pocket, lighted it, and threw it in. it revealed a descent of about seven feet, into what looked like a cellar. he blew his candle out, put it in his pocket, got into the window, slid down the slope, and reached his new level with ease. he then lighted his candle, and looked about him. his eye first fell on a large flat stone in the floor, like a gravestone, but without any ornament or inscription. it was a roughly vaulted place, unpaved, its floor of damp hard-beaten earth. in the wall to the right of that through which he had entered, was another opening, low down, like the crown of an arch the rest of which was beneath the floor. as near as he could judge, it was right under the built-up door in the passage above. he crept through it, and found himself under the spiral of the great stair, in the small space at the bottom of its well. on the floor lay a dust-pan and a house-maid's-brush--and there was the tiny door at which they were shoved in, after their morning's use upon the stair! it was open--inwards; he crept through it: he was in the great hall of the house--and there was one of its windows wide open! afraid of being by any chance discovered, he put out his light, and proceeded up the stair in the dark. he had gone but a few steps when he heard the sound of descending feet. he stopped and listened: they turned into the half-way room. when he reached it, he heard sounds which showed that the earl was in the closet behind it. things rushed together in his mind. he hurried up to lady arctura's room, thence descended, for the third time that night--but no farther than the oak door, passed through it, entered the little chamber, and hastening to the farther end of it, laid his ear against the wall. plainly enough he heard the sounds he had expected--those of the dream-walking rather than sleep-walking earl, moaning, and calling in a low voice of entreaty after some one whose name did not grow audible to the listener. "ah!" thought donal, "who would find it hard to believe in roaming and haunting ghosts, that had once seen this poor man roaming his own house, and haunting that chamber! how easily i could punish him now, with a lightning blast of terror!" it was but a thought; it did not amount to a temptation; donal knew he had no right. vengeance belongs to the lord, for he alone knows how to use it. i do not believe that mere punishment exists anywhere in the economy of the highest; i think mere punishment a human idea, not a divine one. but the consuming fire is more terrible than any punishment invented by riotous and cruel imagination. punishment indeed it is--not mere punishment; a power of god for his creature. love is god's being; love is his creative energy; they are one: god's punishments are for the casting out of the sin that uncreates, for the recreating of the things his love made and sin has unmade. he heard the lean hands of the earl go slowly sweeping, at the ends of his long arms, over the wall: he had seen the thing, else he could hardly have interpreted the sounds; and he heard him muttering on and on, though much too low for his words to be distinguishable. had they been, donal by this time was so convinced that he had to do with an evil and dangerous man, that he would have had little scruple in listening. it is only righteousness that has a right to secrecy, and does not want it; evil has no right to secrecy, alone intensely desires it, and rages at being foiled of it; for when its deeds come to the light, even evil has righteousness enough left to be ashamed of them. but he could remain no longer; his very soul felt sick within him. he turned hastily away to leave the place. but carrying his light too much in front, and forgetting the stool, he came against it and knocked it over, not without noise. a loud cry from the other side of the wall revealed the dismay he had caused. it was followed by a stillness, and then a moaning. he made haste to find simmons, and send him to his master. he heard nothing afterwards of the affair. chapter lxiii. the closet. tender over lady arctura, donal would ask a question or two of the housekeeper before disclosing what further he had found. he sought her room, therefore, while arctura and davie, much together now, were reading in the library. "did you ever hear anything about that little room on the stair, mistress brookes?" he asked. "i canna say," she answered--but thoughtfully, "--bide a wee: auld auntie did mention something ance aboot--bide a wee--i hae a wullin' memory--maybe i'll min' upo' 't i' the noo!--it was something aboot biggin' up an' takin' doon--something he was to do, an' something he never did!--i'm sure i canna tell! but gie me time, an' i'll min' upo' 't! ance is aye wi' me--only i maun hae time!" donal waited, and said not a word. "i min' this much," she said at length, "--that they used to be thegither i' that room. i min' too that there was something aboot buildin' up ae wa', an' pu'in' doon anither.--it's comin'--it's comin' back to me!" she paused again awhile, and then said: "all i can recollec', mr. grant, is this: that efter her death, he biggit up something no far frae that room!--what was't noo?--an' there was something aboot makin' o' the room bigger! hoo that could be by buildin' up, i canna think! yet i feel sure that was what he did!" "would you mind coming to the place?" said donal. "to see it might help you to remember." "i wull, sir. come ye here aboot half efter ten, an' we s' gang thegither." as soon as the house was quiet, they went. but mistress brookes could recall nothing, and donal gazed about him to no purpose. "what's that?" he said at last, pointing to the wall on the other side of which was the little chamber. two arches, in chalk, as it seemed, had attracted his gaze. light surely was about to draw nigh through the darkness! chaos surely was settling a little towards order! the one arch was drawn opposite the hidden chamber; the other against the earl's closet, as it had come to be called in the house--most of the domestics thinking he there said his prayers. it looked as if there had been an intention of piercing the wall with such arches, to throw the two small rooms on the other side as recesses into the larger. but if that had been the intent, what could the building of a wall, vaguely recollected by mistress brookes, have been for? that a wall had been built he did not doubt, for he believed he knew the wall, but why? "what's that?" said donal. "what?" returned mrs. brookes. "those two arches." the housekeeper looked at them thoughtfully for a few moments. "i canna help fancyin'," she said slowly, "--yes, i'm sure that's the varra thing my aunt told me aboot! that's the twa places whaur he was goin' to tak the wall doon, to mak the room lairger. but i'm sure she said something aboot buildin' a wall as weel!" "look here," said donal; "i will measure the distance from the door to the other side of this first arch.--now come into the closet behind. look here! this same measurement takes us right up to the end of the place! so you see if we were to open the other arch, it would be into something behind this wall." "then this may be the varra wa' he biggit?" "i don't doubt it; but what could he have had it built for, if he was going to open the other wall? i must think it all over!--it was after his wife's death, you say?" "yes, i believe so." "one might have thought he would not care about enlarging the room after she was gone!" "but, sir, he wasna jist sic a pattren o' a guidman;" said the housekeeper. "an' what for mak this room less?" "may it not have been for the sake of shutting out, or hiding something?" suggested donal. "i do remember a certain thing!--curious!--but what then as to the openin' o' 't efter?" "he has never done it!" said donal significantly. "the thing takes shape to me in this way:--that he wanted to build something out of sight--to annihilate it; but in order to prevent speculation, he professed the intention of casting the one room into the other; then built the wall across, on the pretence that it was necessary for support when the other was broken through--or perhaps that two recesses with arches would look better; but when he had got the wall built, he put off opening the arches on one pretext or another, till the thing should be forgotten altogether--as you see it is already, almost entirely!--i have been at the back of that wall, and heard the earl moaning and crying on this side of it!" "god bless me!" cried the good woman. "i'm no easy scaret, but that's fearfu' to think o'!" "you would not care to come there with me?" "no the nicht, sir. come to my room again, an' i s' mak ye a cup o' coffee, an' tell ye the story--it's a' come back to me noo--the thing 'at made my aunt tell me aboot the buildin' o' this wa'. 'deed, sir, i hae hardly a doobt the thing was jist as ye say!" they went to her room: there was lady arctura sitting by the fire! "my lady!" cried the housekeeper. "i thoucht i left ye soon' asleep!" "so i was, i daresay," answered arctura; "but i woke again, and finding you had not come up, i thought i would go down to you. i was certain you and mr. grant would be somewhere together! have you been discovering anything more?" mrs. brookes gave donal a look: he left her to tell as much or as little as she pleased. "we hae been prowlin' aboot the hoose, but no doon yon'er, my lady. i think you an' me wad do weel to lea' that to mr. grant!" "when your ladyship is quite ready to have everything set to rights," said donal, "and to have a resurrection of the chapel, then i shall be glad to go with you again. but i would rather not even talk more about it just at present." "as you please, mr. grant," replied lady arctura. "we will say nothing more till i have made up my mind. i don't want to vex my uncle, and i find the question rather a difficult one--and the more difficult that he is worse than usual.--will you not come to bed now, mistress brookes?" chapter lxiv. the garland-room. all through the terrible time, the sense of help and comfort and protection in the presence of the young tutor, went on growing in the mind of arctura. it was nothing to her--what could it be?--that he was the son of a very humble pair; that he had been a shepherd, and a cow-herd, and a farm labourer--less than nothing. she never thought of the facts of his life except sympathetically, seeking to enter into the feelings of his memorial childhood and youth; she would never have known anything of those facts but for their lovely intimacies of all sorts with nature--nature divine, human, animal, cosmical. by sharing with her his emotional history, donal had made its facts precious to her; through them he had gathered his best--by home and by prayer, by mother and father, by sheep and mountains and wind and sky. and now he was to her a tower of strength, a refuge, a strong city, the shadow of a great rock in a weary land. she trusted him the more that he never invited her trust--never put himself before her; for always before her he set life, the perfect heart-origin of her and his yet unperfected humanity, teaching her to hunger and thirst after being righteous like god, with the assurance of being filled. she had once trusted in miss carmichael, not with her higher being, only with her judgment, and both her judgment and her friend had misled her. donal had taught her that obedience, not to man but to god, was the only guide to holy liberty, and so had helped her to break the bonds of those traditions which, in the shape of authoritative utterances of this or that church, lay burdens grievous to be borne upon the souls of men. for christ, against all the churches, seemed to her to express donal's mission. an air of peace, an atmosphere of summer twilight after the going down of the sun, seemed to her to precede him and announce his approach with a radiation felt as rest. she questioned herself nowise about him. falling in love was a thing unsuggested to her; if she was in what is called danger, it was of a better thing. the next day she did not appear: mistress brookes had persuaded her to keep her bed again for a day or two. there was nothing really the matter with her, she said herself, but she was so tired she did not care to lift her head from the pillow. she had slept well, and was troubled about nothing. she sent to beg mr. grant to let davie go and read to her, and to give him something to read, good for him as well as for her. donal did not see davie again till the next morning. "oh, mr. grant!" he said, "you never saw anything so pretty as arkie is in bed! she is so white, and so sweet! and she speaks with a voice so gentle and low! she was so kind to me for going to read to her! i never saw anybody like her! she looks as if she had just said her prayers, and god had told her she should have everything she wanted." donal wondered a little, but hoped more. surely she must be finding rest in the consciousness of god! but why was she so white? was she going to die? a pang shot to his heart: if she were to go from the castle, it would be hard to stay in it, even for the sake of davie! donal, no more than arctura, imagined himself fallen in love: he had loved once, and his heart had not yet done aching--though more with the memory than the presence of pain! he was utterly satisfied with what the father of the children had decreed, and would never love again! but he did not seek to hide from himself that the friendship of lady arctura, and the help she sought and he gave, had added a fresh and strong interest to his life. at the first dawn of power in his heart, when he began to make songs in the fields and on the hills, he had felt that to brighten with true light the clouded lives of despondent brothers and sisters was the one thing worthest living for: it was what the lord came into the world for; neither had his trouble made him forget it--for more than one week or so: while the pain was yet gnawing grievously, he woke to it again with self-accusation--almost self-contempt. to have helped this lovely creature, whose life had seemed lapt in an ever closer-clasping shroud of perplexity, was a thing to be glad of--not to the day of his death, but to the never-ending end of his life! was an honour conferred upon him by the father, to last for evermore! for he had helped to open a human door for the lord to enter! she within heard him knock, but, trying, was unable to open! to be god's helper with our fellows is the one high calling; the presence of god in the house the one high condition. at the end of a week arctura was better, and able to see donal. she had had mistress brookes's bed moved into the same room with her own, and had made the dressing-room into a sitting-room. it was sunny and pleasant--the very place, donal thought, he would have chosen for her. the bedroom too, which the housekeeper had persuaded her to take when she left her own, was one of the largest in the castle--the garland-room--old-fashioned, of course, but as cheerful as stateliness would permit, with gorgeous hangings and great pictures--far from homely, but with sun in it half the day. donal congratulated her on the change. she had been prevented from making one sooner, she said, by the dread of owing any comfort to circumstance: it might deceive her as to her real condition! "it could not deceive god, though," answered donal, "who fills with righteousness those who hunger after it. it is pride to refuse anything that might help us to know him; and of all things his sun-lit world speaks of the father of lights! if that makes us happier, it makes us fitter to understand him, and he can easily send what cloud may be needful to temper it. we must not make our own world, inflict our own punishments, or order our own instruction; we must simply obey the voice in our hearts, and take lovingly what he sends." the next day she told him she had had a beautiful night, full of the loveliest dreams. one of them was, that a child came out of a grassy hillock by the wayside, called her mamma, and said she was much obliged to her for taking her off the cold stone, and making her a butterfly; and with that the child spread out gorgeous and great wings and soared up to a white cloud, and there sat laughing merrily to her. every afternoon davie read to her, and thence donal gained a duty--that of finding suitable pabulum for the two. he was not widely read in light literature, and it made necessary not a little exploration in the region of it. chapter lxv. the wall. on the day after the last triad in the housekeeper's parlour, as donal sat in the schoolroom with davie--about noon it was--he became aware that for some time he had been hearing laborious blows apparently at a great distance: now that he attended, they seemed to be in the castle itself, deadened by mass, not distance. with a fear gradually becoming more definite, he sat listening for a few moments. "davie," he said, "run and see what is going on." the boy came rushing back in great excitement. "oh, mr. grant, what do you think!" he cried. "i do believe my father is after the lost room! they are breaking down a wall!" "where?" asked donal, half starting from his seat. "in the little room behind the half-way room--on the stair, you know!" donal was silent: what might not be the consequences! "you may go and see them at work, davie," he said. "we shall have no more lessons this morning.--was your papa with them?" "no, sir--at least, i did not see him. simmons told me he sent for the masons this morning, and set them to take the wall down. oh, thank you, mr. grant! it is such fun! i do wonder what is behind it! it may be a place you know quite well, or a place you never saw before!" davie ran off, and donal instantly sped to a corner where he had hidden some tools, thence to lady arctura's deserted room, and so to the oak door. he remembered seeing another staple in the same post, a little lower down: if he could get that out, he would drive it in beside the remains of the other, so as to hold the bolt of the lock: if the earl knew the way in, as doubtless he did, he must not learn that another had found it--not yet at least! as he went down, every blow of the masons pounding at the wall, seemed in his very ears. he peeped through the press-door: they had not yet got through the wall: no light was visible! he made haste to restore things--only a stool and a few papers--to their exact positions when first he entered. close to him on the other side of the partition, shaking the place, the huge blows were falling like those of a ram on the wall of a besieged city, of which he was the whole garrison. he stepped into the press and drew the door after him: with his last glance behind him he saw, in the faint gleam of light that came with it, a stone fall: he must make haste: the demolition would go on much faster now; but before they had the opening large enough to pass, he would have done what he wanted! with a strong piece of iron for a lever, he drew the staple from the post, then drove it in astride of the bolt, careful to time his blows to those of the masons. that done, he ran down to the chapel, gathered what dust he could sweep up from behind the altar and laid it on its top, restored on the bed, with its own dust, a little of the outline of what had lain there, dropped the slab to its place in the floor of the passage, closed the door of the chapel with some difficulty because of its broken hinge, and ascended. the sounds of battering had ceased, and as he passed the oak door he laid his ear to it: some one was in the place! the lid of the bureau shut with a loud bang, and he heard a lock turned. the wall could not be half down yet: the earl must have entered the moment he could get through! donal hastened up, and out of the dreadful place, put the slab in the opening, secured it with a strut against the opposite side of the recess, and closed the shutters and drew the curtains of the room; if the earl came up the stair in the wall, found the stone immovable, and saw no light through any chink about its edges, he would not suspect it had been displaced! he went then to lady arctura. "i have a great deal to tell you," he said, "but at this moment i cannot: i am afraid of the earl finding me with you!" "why should you mind that?" said arctura. "because i think he is suspicious about the lost room. he has had a wall taken down this morning. please do not let him see you know anything about it. davie thinks he is set on finding the lost room: i think he knew all about it long ago. you can ask him what he has been doing: you must have heard the masons!" "i hope i shall not stumble into anything like a story, for if i do i must out with everything!" in the afternoon, davie was full of the curious little place his father had discovered behind the wall; but, if that was the lost room, he said, it was not at all worth making such a fuss about: it was nothing but a big closet, with an old desk-kind of thing in it! in the afternoon also, the earl went to see his niece. it was the first time they met after his rude behaviour on her proposal to search for the lost room. "what were you doing this morning, uncle?" she said. "there was such a thumping and banging somewhere in the castle! davie said you were determined, he thought, to find the lost room." "nothing of the kind, my love," answered the earl. "--i do hope they will not spoil the stair carrying the stones and mortar down!" "what was it then, uncle?" "simply this, my dear: my late wife, your aunt, and i, had a plan for taking that closet behind my room on the stair into the room itself. in preparation, i had a wall built across the middle of the closet, so as to divide it and make two recesses of it, and act also as a buttress to the weakened wall. then your aunt died, and i hadn't the heart to open the recesses or do anything more in the matter. so one half of the closet was cut off, and remained inaccessible. but there had been left in it an old bureau, containing papers of some consequence, for it was heavy, and intended to occupy the same position after the arches were opened. now, as it happens, i want one of those papers, so the wall has had to come down again." "but, uncle, what a pity!" said arctura. "why did you not open the arches? the recesses would have been so pretty in that room!" "i am sorry i did not think of asking you what you would like done about it, my child! the fact is i never thought of your taking any interest in the matter; i had naturally lost all mine. you will please to observe, however, i have only restored what i had myself disarranged--not meddled with anything belonging to the castle!" "but now you have the masons here, why not go on, and make a little search for the lost room?" said arctura, venturing once more. "we might pull down the castle and be none the wiser! bah! the building up of half the closet may have given rise to the whole story!" "surely, uncle, the legend is older than that!" "it may be; you cannot be sure. once a going, it would immediately cry back to a remote age. prove that any one ever spoke of it before the building of that foolish wall." "surely some remember hearing it long before that!" "nothing is more treacherous than a memory confronted with a general belief," said the earl, and took his leave. the next morning arctura went to see the alteration. she opened the door of the little room: it was twice its former size, and two bureaus were standing against the wall! she peeped into the cupboard at the end of it, but saw nothing there. that same morning she made up her mind that she would go no farther at present in regard to the chapel: it would be to break with her uncle! in the evening, she acquainted donal with her resolve, and he could not say she was wrong. there was no necessity for opposing her uncle--there might soon come one! he told her how he had entered the closet from behind, and of the noise he had made the night before, which had perhaps led to the opening of the place; but he did not tell her of what he had found on the bureau. the time might come when he must do so, but now he dared not render her relations with her uncle yet more uncomfortable; neither was it likely such a woman would consent to marry such a man as her cousin had shown himself; when that danger appeared, it would be time to interpose; for the mere succession to an empty title, he was not sure that he was bound to speak. the branch which could produce such scions, might well be itself a false graft on the true stem of the family!--if not, what was the family worth? he must at all events be sure it was his business before he moved in the matter! chapter lxvi. progress and change. things went on very quietly for a time. arctura grew better, resumed her studies, and made excellent progress. she would have worked harder, but donal would not let her. he hated forcing--even with the good will of the plant itself. he believed in a holy, unhasting growth. god's ways want god's time. long after, people would sometimes say to him-- "that is very well in the abstract; but in these days of hurry a young fellow would that way be left ages behind!" "with god," would donal say. "tut, tut! the thing would never work!" "for your ends," donal would answer, "it certainly would never work; but your ends are not those of the universe!" "i do not pretend they are; but they are the success of the boy." "that is one of the ends of the universe; and your reward will be to thwart it for a season. i decline to make one in a conspiracy against the design of our creator: i would fain die loyal!" he was of course laughed at, and not a little despised, as an extravagant enthusiast. but those who laughed found it hard to say for what he was enthusiastic. it seemed hardly for education, when he would even do what he could sometimes to keep a pupil back! he did not care to make the best of any one! the truth was, donal's best was so many miles a-head of theirs, that it was below their horizon altogether. if there be any relation between time and the human mind, every forcing of human process, whether in spirit or intellect, is hurtful, a retarding of god's plan. lady arctura's old troubles were gradually fading into the limbo of vanities. at times, however, mostly when unwell, they would come in upon her like a flood: what if, after all, god were the self-loving being theology presented--a being from whom no loving human heart could but recoil with a holy dislike! what if it was because of a nature specially evil that she could not accept the god in whom the priests and elders of her people believed! but again and again, in the midst of profoundest wretchedness from such doubt, had a sudden flush of the world's beauty--that beauty which jesus has told us to consider and the modern pharisee to avoid, broken like gentlest mightiest sunrise through the hellish fog, and she had felt a power upon her as from the heart of a very god--a god such as she would give her life to believe in--one before whom she would cast herself in speechless adoration--not of his greatness--of that she felt little, but of his lovingkindness, the gentleness that was making her great. then would she care utterly for god and his christ, nothing for what men said about them: the lord never meant his lambs to be under the tyranny of any, least of all the tyranny of his own most imperfect church! its work is to teach; where it cannot teach, it must not rule! then would god appear to her not only true, but real--the heart of the human, to which she could cling, and so rest. the corruption of all religion comes of leaving the human, and god as the causing human, for something imagined holier. men who do not see the loveliness of the truth, search till they find a lie they can call lovely. what but a human reality could the heart of man ever love! what else are we offered in jesus but the absolutely human? that jesus has two natures is of the most mischievous fictions of theology. the divine and the human are not two. suddenly, after an absence of months, reappeared lord forgue--cheerful, manly, on the best terms with his father, and plainly willing to be on still better terms with his cousin! he had left the place a mooning youth; he came back a man of the world--easy in carriage, courteous in manners, serene in temper, abounding in what seemed the results of observation, attentive but not too attentive, jolly with davie, distant with donal, polite to all. donal could hardly receive the evidence of his senses: he would have wondered more had he known every factor in the change. all about him seemed to say it should not be his fault if the follies of his youth remained unforgotten; and his airy carriage sat well upon him. none the less donal felt there was no restoration of the charm which had at first attracted him; that was utterly vanished. he felt certain he had been going down hill, and was now, instead of negatively, consciously and positively untrue. with gradations undefined, but not unmarked of donal, as if the man found himself under influences of which the youth had been unaware, he began to show himself not indifferent to the attractions of his cousin. he expressed concern that her health was not what it had been; sought her in her room when she did not appear; professed an interest in knowing what books she was reading, and what were her studies with donal; behaved like a good brother-cousin, who would not be sorry to be something more. and now the earl, to the astonishment of the household, began to appear at table; and, apparently as a consequence of this, donal was requested rather than invited to take his meals with the family--not altogether to his satisfaction, seeing he could not only read while he ate alone, but could get through more quickly, and have the time thus saved, for things of greater consequence. his presence made it easier for lord forgue to act his part, and the manners he brought to the front left little to be desired. he bowed to the judgment of arctura, and seemed to welcome that of his father, to whom he was now as respectful as moralist could desire. yet he sometimes faced a card he did not mean to show: who that is not absolutely true can escape the mishap!--there was condescension in his politeness to donal! and this, had there been nothing else, would have been enough to revolt arctura. but in truth he impressed her altogether as a man of outsides; she felt that she did not see the man he was, but the nearest approach he could make to the man he would be taken for. he was gracious, dignified, responsive, kind, amusing, accurate, ready--everything but true. he would make of his outer man all but what it was meant for--a revelation of the inner. it was that notwithstanding. he was a man dressed in a man, and his dress was a revelation of much that he was, while he intended it only to show much that he was not. no man can help unveiling himself, however long he may escape even his own detection. there is nothing covered that shall not be revealed. things were meant to come out, and be read, and understood, in the face of the universe. the soul of every man is as a secret book, whose content is yet written on its cover for the reading of the wise. how differently is it read by the fool, whose very understanding is a misunderstanding! he takes a man for a god when on the point of being eaten up of worms! he buys for thirty pieces of silver him whom the sepulchre cannot hold! well for those in the world of revelation, who give their sins no quarter in this! forgue had been in edinburgh a part of the time, in england another part. he had many things to tell of the people he had seen, and the sports he had shared in. he had developed and enlarged a vein of gentlemanly satire, which he kept supplied by the observation and analysis of the peculiarities, generally weaknesses, of others. these, as a matter of course, he judged merely by the poor standard of society: questioned concerning any upon the larger human scale, he could give no account of them. to donal's eyes, the man was a shallow pool whose surface brightness concealed the muddy bottom. chapter lxvii. the breakfast-room. two years before, lady arctura had been in the habit of riding a good deal, but after an accident to a favourite horse for which she blamed herself, she had scarcely ridden at all. it was quite as much, however, from the influence of miss carmichael upon her spirits, that she had forsaken the exercise. partly because her uncle was neither much respected nor much liked, she had visited very little; and after mental trouble assailed her, growing under the false prescriptions of the soul-doctor she had called in, she withdrew more and more, avoiding even company she would have enjoyed, and which would before now have led her to resume it. for a time she persisted in refusing to ride with forgue. in vain he offered his horse, assuring her that davie's pony was quite able to carry him; she had no inclination to ride, she said. but at last one day, lest she should be guilty of unkindness, she consented, and so enjoyed the ride--felt, indeed, so much the better for it, that she did not thereafter so positively as before decline to allow her cousin to look out for a horse fit to carry her; and forgue, taking her consent for granted, succeeded, with the help of the factor, in finding for her a beautiful creature, just of the sort to please her. almost at sight of him she agreed to his purchase. this put forgue in great spirits, and much contentment with himself. he did not doubt that, gaining thus opportunity so excellent, he would quickly succeed in withdrawing her from the absurd influence which, to his dismay, he discovered his enemy had in his absence gained over her. he ought not to have been such a fool, he said to himself, as to leave the poor child to the temptations naturally arising in such a dreary solitude! he noted with satisfaction, however, that the parson's daughter seemed to have forsaken the house. and now at last, having got rid of the folly that a while possessed him, he was prepared to do his duty by the family, and, to that end, would make unfaltering use of the fascinations experience had taught him he was, in a most exceptional degree, gifted with! he would at once take arctura's education in his own hands, and give his full energy to it! she should speedily learn the difference between the assistance of a gentleman and that of a clotpoll! he had in england improved in his riding as well as his manners, and knew at least how a gentleman, if not how a man, ought to behave to the beast that carried him. also, having ridden a good deal with ladies, he was now able to give arctura not a few hints to the improvement of her seat, her hand, her courage; nor was there any nearer road, he judged from what he knew of his cousin, to her confidence and gratitude, than showing her a better way in a thing. but thinking that in teaching her to ride he could make her forget the man who had been teaching her to live, he was not a little mistaken in the woman he desired to captivate. he did not yet love her even in the way he called loving, else he might have been less confident; but he found her very pleasing. invigorated by the bright frosty air, the life of the animal under her, and the exultation of rapid motion, she seemed better in health, more merry and full of life, than he had ever seen her: he put all down to his success with her. he was incapable of suspecting how little of it was owing to him; incapable of believing how much to the fact that she now turned to the father of spirits without fear, almost without doubt; thought of him as the root of every delight of the world--at the heart of the horse she rode, in the wind that blew joy into hers as she swept through its yielding bosom; knew him as altogether loving and true, the father of jesus christ, as like him as like could be like--more like him than any one else in the universe could be like another--like him as only eternal son can be like eternal father. it was no wonder that with such a well of living water in her heart she should be glad--merry even, and ready for anything her horse could do! flying across a field in the very wildness of pleasure, her hair streaming behind her, and her pale face glowing, she would now and then take a jump forgue declared he could not face in cold blood: he did not know how far from cold her blood was! he began to wonder he had been such a fool as neglect her for--well, never mind!--and to feel something that was like love, and was indeed admiration. but for the searing brand of his past, he might have loved her truly--as a man may, without being the most exalted of mortals; for in love we are beyond our ordinary selves; the deep thing in us peers up into the human air, and is of god--therefore cannot live long in the mephitic air of a selfish and low nature, but sinks again out of sight. he was not at his ease with arctura; he was afraid of her. when a man is conscious of wrong, knows in his history what would draw a hideous smudge over the portrait he would present to the eyes of her he would please, he may well be afraid of her. he makes liberal allowance for himself, but is not sure she will! and before forgue lay a social gulf which he could pass only on the narrow plank of her favour! the more he was with her, the more he admired her, the more he desired to marry her; the more satisfied he grew with his own improvement, the more determined he became that for no poor, unjust scruples would he forgo his happiness. there was but one trifle to be kept from the world; it might know everything else about him! and once in possession of the property, who would dispute the title? then again he was not certain that his father had not merely invented a threat! surely if the fact were such, he would, even in rage diabolic, have kept it to himself! impetuous, and accustomed to what he counted success, he soon began to make plainer advance toward the end on which his self-love and cupidity at least were set. but, knowing in a vague manner how he had carried himself before he went, arctura, uninfluenced by the ways of the world, her judgment unwarped, her perception undimmed, her instincts nice, her personal delicacy exacting, had never imagined he could approach her on any ground but that of cousinship and a childhood of shared sports. she had seen that donal was far from pleased with him, and believed forgue knew that she knew he had been behaving badly. her behaviour to him was indeed largely based on the fact that he was in disgrace: she was sorry for him. by and by, however, she perceived that she had been allowing too much freedom where she was not prepared to allow more, and so one day declined to go with him. they had not had a ride for a fortnight, the weather having been unfavourable; and now when a morning broke into the season like a smile from an estranged friend, she would not go! he was annoyed--then alarmed, fearing adverse influence. they were alone in the breakfast-room. "why will you not, arctura?" he asked reproachfully: "do you not feel well?" "i am quite well," she answered. "it is such a lovely day!" he pleaded. "i am not in the mood. there are other things in the world besides riding, and i have been wasting my time--riding too much. i have learnt next to nothing since larkie came." "oh, bother! what have you to do with learning! health is the first thing." "i don't think so--and learning is good for the health. besides, i would not be a mere animal for perfect health!" "let me help you then with your studies." "thank you," she answered, laughing a little, "but i have a good master already! we, that is davie and i, are reading greek and mathematics with mr. grant." forgue's face flushed. "i ought to know as much of both as he does!" he said. "ought perhaps! but you know you do not." "i know enough to be your tutor." "yes, but i know enough not to be your pupil!" "what do you mean?" "that you can't teach." "how do you know that?" "because you do not love either greek or mathematics, and no one who does not love can teach." "that is nonsense! if i don't love greek enough to teach it, i love you enough to teach you," said forgue. "you are my riding-master," said arctura; "mr. grant is my master in greek." forgue strangled an imprecation on mr. grant, and tried to laugh, but there was not a laugh inside him. "then you won't ride to-day?" he said. "i think not," replied arctura. she ought to have said she would not. it is a pity to let doubt alight on decision. her reply re-opened the whole question. "i cannot see what should induce you to allow that fellow the honour of reading with you!" said forgue. "he's a long-winded, pedantic, ill-bred lout!" "mr. grant is my friend!" said arctura, and raising her head looked him in the eyes. "take my word for it, you are mistaken in him," he said. "i neither value nor ask your opinion of him," returned arctura. "i merely acquaint you with the fact that he is my friend." "here's the devil and all to pay!" thought forgue. "i beg your pardon," he said: "you do not know him as i do!" "not?--and with so much better opportunity of judging!" "he has never played the dominie with you!" said forgue foolishly. "indeed he has!" "he has! confound his insolence! how?" "he won't let me study as i want.--how has he interfered with you?" "we won't quarrel about him," rejoined forgue, attempting a tone of gaiety, but instantly growing serious. "we who ought to be so much to each other--" something told him he had already gone too far. "i do not know what you mean--or rather, i am not willing to think i know what you mean," said arctura. "after what took place--" in her turn she ceased: he had said nothing! "jealous!" concluded forgue; "--a good sign!" "i see he has been talking against me!" he said. "if you mean mr. grant, you mistake. he never, so far as i remember, once mentioned you to me." "i know better!" "you are rude. he never spoke of it; but i have seen enough with my own eyes--" "if you mean that silly fancy--why, arctura!--you know it was but a boyish folly!" "and since then you have grown a man!--how many months has it taken?" "i assure you, on the word of a gentleman, there is nothing in it now. it is all over, and i am heartily ashamed of it." a pause of a few seconds followed: it seemed as many minutes, and unbearable. "you will come out with me?" said forgue: she might be relenting, though she did not look like it! "no," she said; "i will not." "well," he returned, with simulated coolness, "this is rather cavalier treatment, i must say!--to throw a man over who has loved you so long--and for the sake of a lesson in greek!" "how long, pray, have you loved me?" said arctura, growing angry. "i was willing to be friendly with you, so much so that i am sorry it is no longer possible!" "you punish me pretty sharply, my lady, for a trifle of which i told you i was ashamed!" said forgue, biting his lip. "it was the merest--" "i do not wish to hear anything about it!" said arctura sternly. then, afraid she had been unkind, she added in altered tone: "you had better go and have a gallop. you may have larkie if you like." he turned and left the room. she only meant to pique him, he said to himself. she had been cherishing her displeasure, and now she had had her revenge would feel better and be sorry next! it was a very good morning's work after all! it was absurd to think she preferred a greek lesson from a clown to a ride with lord forgue! was not she too a graeme! partly to make reconciliation the easier, partly because the horse was superior to his own, he would ride larkie! but his reasoning was not so satisfactory to him as to put him in a good temper, and poor larkie had to suffer for his ill-humour. his least movement that displeased him put him in a rage, and he rode him so foolishly as well as tyrannically that he brought him home quite lame, thus putting an end for a time to all hope of riding again with arctura. instead of going and telling her what he had done, he sent for the farrier, and gave orders that the mishap should not be mentioned. a week passed, and then another; and as he could say nothing about riding, he was in a measure self-banished from arctura's company. a furious jealousy began to master him. he scorned to give place to it because of the insult to himself if he allowed a true ground for it. but it gradually gained power. this country bumpkin, this cow-herd, this man of spelling-books and grammars, to come between his cousin and him! of course he was not so silly as imagine for a moment she cared for him!--that she would disgrace herself by falling in love with a fellow just loosed from the plough-tail! she was a graeme, and could never be a traitor to her blood! if only he had not been such an infernal fool! a vulgar little thing without an idea in her head! so unpleasant--so disgusting at last with her love-making! nothing pleased her but hugging and kissing!--that was how he spoke to himself of the girl he had been in love with! damn that schoolmaster! she would never fall in love with him, but he might prevent her from falling in love with another! no attractions could make way against certain prepossessions! the girl had a fancy for being a saint, and the lout burned incense to her! so much he gathered from davie. his father must get rid of the fellow! if he thought he was doing so well with davie, why not send the two away together till things were settled? but the earl thought it would be better to win donal. he counselled him that every grant was lord seafield's cousin, and every highlander an implacable enemy where his pride was hurt. his lordship did not reflect that, if what he said were true of donal, he must have left the castle long ago. there was but one thing would have made it impossible for donal to remain--interference, namely, between him and his pupil. forgue did not argue with his father. he had given that up. at the same time, if he had told all that had passed between him and donal, the earl would have confessed he had advised an impossibility. forgue took a step in a very different direction: he began to draw to himself the good graces of miss carmichael: he did not know how little she could serve him. without being consciously insincere, she flattered him, and speedily gained his confidence. well descended on the mother-side, she had grown up fit, her father said, to adorn any society: with a keen appreciation of the claims and dignities of the aristocracy, she was well able to flatter the prejudices she honoured and shared in. careful not to say a word against his cousin, she made him feel more and more that his chief danger lay in the influence of donal. she fanned thus his hatred of the man who first came between him and his wrath; next, between him and his "love;" and last, between him and his fortunes. if only davie would fall ill, and require change of air! but davie was always in splendid health! now that he saw himself in such danger of failing, he fancied himself far more in love with arctura than he was. and as he got familiarized with the idea of his illegitimacy, although he would not assent to it, he made less and less of it--which would have been a proof to any other than himself that he believed it. in further sign of the same, he made no inquiry into the matter--did not once even question his father about it. if it was true, he did not want to know it: he would treat his lack of proof as ignorance, and act as with the innocence of ignorance! a fellow must take for granted what was commonly believed! at last, and the last was not long in arriving, he almost ceased to trouble himself about it. his father laughed at his fear of failure with arctura, but at times contemplated the thing as an awful possibility--not that he loved forgue much. the only way fathers in sight of the grave can fancy themselves holding on to the things they must leave, is in their children; but lord morven had a stronger and better reason for his unrighteousness: in a troubled, self-reproachful way, he loved the memory of their mother, and through her cared even for forgue more than he knew. they were also his own as much as if he had been legally married to her! for the relation in which they stood to society, he cared little so long as it continued undiscovered. he enjoyed the idea of stealing a march on society, and seeing the sons he had left at such a disadvantage behind him, ruffling it, in spite of absurd law, with the foolish best. from the grave he would so have his foot on the neck of his enemy law!--he was one of the many who can rejoice in even a stolen victory. nor would he ever have been the fool to let the truth fly, except under the reaction of evil drugs, and the rush of fierce wrath at the threatened ruin of his cherished scheme. arctura thenceforth avoided her cousin as much as she could--only remembering that the house was hers, and she must not make him feel he was not welcome to use it. they met at meals, and she tried to behave as if nothing unpleasant had happened and things were as before he went away. "you are very cruel, arctura," he said one morning he met her in the terrace avenue. "cruel?" returned arctura coldly; "i am not cruel. i would not willingly hurt anyone." "you hurt me much; you give me not a morsel, not a crumb of your society!" "percy," said arctura, "if you will be content to be my cousin, we shall get on well enough; but if you are set on what cannot be--once for all, believe me, it is of no use. you care for none of the things i live for! i feel as if we belonged to different worlds, so little have we in common. you may think me hard, but it is better we should understand each other. if you imagine that, because i have the property, you have a claim on me, be sure i will never acknowledge it. i would a thousand times rather you had the property and i were in my grave!" "i will be anything, do anything, learn anything you please!" cried forgue, his heart aching with disappointment. "i know what such submission is worth!" said arctura. "i should be everything till we were married, and then nothing! you dissemble, you hide even from yourself, but you are not hard to read." perhaps she would not have spoken just so severely, had she not been that morning unusually annoyed with his behaviour to donal, and at the same time specially pleased with the calm, unconsciously dignified way in which donal took it, casting it from him as the rock throws aside the sea-wave: it did not concern him! the dull world has got the wrong phrase: it is he who resents an affront who pockets it! he who takes no notice, lets it lie in the dirt. chapter lxviii. larkie. it was a lovely day in spring. "please, mr. grant," said davie, "may i have a holiday?" donal looked at him with a little wonder: the boy had never before made such a request! but he answered him at once. "yes, certainly, davie. but i should like to know what you want it for." "arkie wants very much to have a ride to-day. she says larkie--i gave him his name, to rime with arkie--she says larkie will forget her, and she does not wish to go out with forgue, so she wants me to go with her on my pony." "you will take good care of her, davie?" "i will take care of her, but you need not be anxious about us, mr. grant. arkie is a splendid rider, and much pluckier than she used to be!" donal did, however--he could not have said why--feel a little anxiety. he repressed it as unfaithfulness, but it kept returning. he could not go with them--there was no horse for him, and to go on foot, would, he feared, spoil their ride. he was so much afraid also of presuming on lady arctura's regard for him, that he would have shrunk from offering had it been more feasible. he got a book, and strolled into the park, not even going to see them off: forgue might be about the stable, and make things unpleasant! had forgue been about the stable, he would, i think, have somehow managed to prevent the ride, for larkie, though much better, was not yet cured of his lameness. arctura did not know he had been lame, or that he had therefore been very little exercised, and was now rather wild, with a pastern-joint far from equal to his spirit. there was but a boy about the stable, who either did not understand, or was afraid to speak: she rode in a danger of which she knew nothing. the consequence was that, jumping the merest little ditch in a field outside the park, they had a fall. the horse got up and trotted limping to the stable; his mistress lay where she fell. davie, wild with misery, galloped home. from the height of the park donal saw him tearing along, and knew something was amiss. he ran, got over the wall, found the pony's track, and following it, came where arctura lay. there was a little clear water in the ditch: he wet his handkerchief, and bathed her face. she came to herself, opened her eyes with a faint smile, and tried to raise herself, but fell back helpless, and closed her eyes again. "i believe i am hurt!" she murmured. "i think larkie must have fallen!" donal would have carried her, but she moaned so, that he gave up the idea at once. davie was gone for help; it would be better to wait! he pulled off his coat and laid it over her, then kneeling, raised her head a little from the damp ground upon his arm. she let him do as he pleased, but did not open her eyes. they had not long to wait. several came running, among them lord forgue. he fell beside his cousin on his knees, and took her hand in his. she neither moved nor spoke. as instead of doing anything he merely persisted in claiming her attention, donal saw it was for him to give orders. "my lady is much hurt," he said: "one of you go at once for the doctor; the others bring a hand-barrow--i know there is one about the place. lay the squab of a sofa on it, and make haste. let mistress brookes know." "mind your own business," said forgue. "do as mr. grant tells you," said lady arctura, without opening her eyes. the men departed running. forgue rose from his knees, and walked slowly to a little distance, where he stood gnawing his lip. "my lord," said donal, "please run and fetch a little brandy for her ladyship. she has fainted." what could forgue do but obey! he started at once, and with tolerable speed. then arctura opened her eyes, and smiled. "are you suffering much, my lady?" asked donal. "a good deal," she answered, "but i don't mind it.--thank you for not leaving me.--it is no more than i can bear, only bad when i try to move." "they will not be long now," he said. again she closed her eyes, and was silent. donal watched the sweet face, which a cloud of suffering would every now and then cross, and lifted up his heart to the saviour of men. he saw them coming with the extemporized litter, behind them mistress brookes, with forgue and one of the maids. when she came up, she addressed herself in silence to donal. he told her he feared her ladyship's spine was hurt, after his direction she put her hands under her and the maid took her feet, while he, placing his other arm under her shoulders, and gently rising, raised her body. being all strong and gentle, they managed the moving well, and laid her slowly on the litter. except a moan or two, and a gathering of the brows, she gave no sign of suffering; nothing to be called a cry escaped her. donal at the head and a groom at the foot, lifted the litter, and with ordered step, started for the house. once or twice she opened her eyes and looked up at donal, then, as if satisfied, closed them again. before they reach the house the doctor met them, for they had to walk slowly. forgue came behind in a devilish humour. he knew that first his ill usage of larkie, and then his preventing anything being said about it, must have been the cause of the accident; but he felt with some satisfaction--for self simply makes devils of us--that if she had not refused to go out with him, it would not have happened; he would not have allowed her to mount larkie. "served her right!" he caught himself saying once, and was ashamed--but presently said it again. self is as full of worms as it can hold; god deliver us from it! chapter lxix. the sick-chamber. she was carried to her room and laid on her bed. the doctor requested mrs. brookes and donal to remain, and dismissed the rest, then proceeded to examine her. there were no bones broken, he said, but she must be kept very quiet. the windows must be darkened, and she must if possible sleep. she gave donal a faint smile, and a pitiful glance, but did not speak. as he was following the doctor from the room, she made a sign to mrs. brookes with her eyes that she wanted to speak to him. he came, and bent over to hear, for she spoke very feebly. "you will come and see me, mr. grant?" "i will, indeed, my lady." "every day?" "yes, most certainly," he replied. she smiled, and so dismissed him. he went with his heart full. a little way from the door stood forgue, waiting for him to come out. he had sent the doctor to his father. donal passed him with a bend of the head. he followed him to the schoolroom. "it is time this farce was over, grant!" he said. "farce, my lord!" repeated donal indignantly. "these attentions to my lady." "i have paid her no more attention than i would your lordship, had you required it," answered donal sternly. "that would have been convenient doubtless! but there has been enough of humbug, and now for an end to it! ever since you came here, you have been at work on the mind of that inexperienced girl--with your damned religion!--for what end you know best! and now you've half killed her by persuading her to go out with you instead of me! the brute was lame and not fit to ride! any fool might have seen that!" "i had nothing to do with her going, my lord. she asked davie to go with her, and he had a holiday on purpose." "all very fine, but--" "my lord, i have told you the truth, but not to justify myself: you must be aware your opinion is of no value in my eyes! but tell me one thing, my lord: if my lady's horse was lame, how was it she did not know? you did!" forgue thought donal knew more than he did, and was taken aback. "it is time the place was clear of you!" he said. "i am your father's servant, not yours," answered donal, "and do not trouble myself as to your pleasure concerning me. but i think it is only fair to warn you that, though you cannot hurt me, nothing but honesty can take you out of my power." forgue turned on his heel, went to his father, and told him he knew now that donal was prejudicing the mind of lady arctura against him; but not until it came in the course of the conversation, did he mention the accident she had had. the earl professed himself greatly shocked, got up with something almost like alacrity from his sofa, and went down to inquire after his niece. he would have compelled mrs. brookes to admit him, but she was determined her lady should not be waked from a sleep invaluable to her, for the sake of receiving his condolements, and he had to return to his room without gaining anything. if she were to go, the property would be his, and he could will it as he pleased--that was, if she left no will. he sent for his son and cautioned him over and over to do nothing to offend her, but wait: what might come, who could tell! it might prove a serious affair! forgue tried to feel shocked at the coolness of his father's speculation, but allowed that, if she was determined not to receive him as her husband, the next best thing, in the exigence of affairs, would certainly be that she should leave a world for whose uses she was ill fitted, and go where she would be happier. the things she would then have no farther need of, would be welcome to those to whom by right they belonged more really than to her! she was a pleasant thing to look upon, and if she had loved him he would rather have had the property with than without her; but there was this advantage, he would be left free to choose! lady arctura lay suffering, feverish, and restless. mrs. brookes would let no one sit up with her but herself. the earl would have sent for "a suitable nurse!" a friend of his in london would find one! but she would not hear of it. and before the night was over she had greater reason still for refusing to yield her post: it was evident her young mistress was more occupied with donal grant than with the pain she was suffering! in her delirium she was constantly desiring his presence. "i know he can help me," she would say; "he is a shepherd, like the lord himself!" and mistress brookes, though by no means devoid of the prejudices of the rank with which her life had been so much associated, could not but allow that a nobler life must be possible with one like donal grant than with one like lord forgue. in the middle of the night arctura became so unquiet, that her nurse, calling the maid she had in a room near, flew like a bird to donal, and asked him to come down. he had but partially undressed, thinking his help might be wanted, and was down almost as soon as she. ere he came, however, she had dismissed the maid. donal went to the bedside. arctura was moaning and starting, sometimes opening her eyes, but distinguishing nothing. her hand lay on the counterpane: he laid his upon it. she gave a sigh as of one relieved; a smile came flickering over her face, and she lay still for some time. donal sat down beside her, and watched. the moment he saw her begin to be restless or look distressed, he laid his hand upon hers; she was immediately quiet, and lay for a time as if she knew herself safe. when she seemed about to wake, he withdrew. so things went on for many nights. donal slept instead of working when his duties with davie were over, and lay at night in the corridor, wrapt in his plaid. for even after arctura began to recover, her nights were sorely troubled, and her restoration would have been much retarded, had not donal been near to make her feel she was not abandoned to the terrors she passed through. one night the earl, wandering about in the anomalous condition of neither ghost nor genuine mortal, came suddenly upon what he took for a huge animal in wait to devour. he was not terrified, for he was accustomed to such things, and thought at first it was not of this world: he had no doubt of the reality of his visions, even when he knew they were invisible to others, and even in his waking moments had begun to believe in them as much as in the things then evident to him--or rather, perhaps, to disbelieve equally in both. he approached to see what it was, and stood staring down upon the mass. gently it rose and confronted him--if confronting that may be called where the face remained so undefined--for donal took care to keep his plaid over his head: he had hope in the probable condition of the earl! he turned from him and walked away. chapter lxx. a plot. but his lordship had his suspicions, and took measures to confirm or set them at rest--with the result that he concluded donal madly in love with his niece, and unable, while she was ill, to rest anywhere but, with the devotion of a savage, outside her door: if he did not take precautions, the lout would oust the lord! ever since donal spoke so plainly against his self-indulgence, he had not merely hated but feared the country lad. he recognized that donal feared nothing, had no respect of persons, would speak out before the world. he was doubtful also whether he had not allowed him to know more than it was well he should know. it was time to get rid of him--only it must be done cautiously, with the appearance of a good understanding! if he had him out of the house before she was able to see him again, that would do! and if in the meantime she should die, all would be well! his distrust, once roused, went farther than that of his son. he had not the same confidence in blue blood; he knew a few things more than forgue--believed it quite possible that the daughter of a long descent of lords and ladies should fall in love with a shepherd-lad. and as no one could tell what might have to be done if the legal owner of the property persisted in refusing her hand to the rightful owner of it, the fellow might be seriously in the way! arctura slowly recovered. she had not yet left her room, but had been a few hours on the couch every day for a fortnight, and the doctor, now sanguine of her final recovery, began to talk of carrying her to the library. the earl, who never suspected that mrs. brookes, having hitherto kept himself from her room, would admit the tutor, the moment he learned that the library was in view for her, decided that there must be no more delay. he had by this time contrived a neat little plan. he sent for donal. he had been thinking, the earl said, that he must want a holiday: he had not seen his parents since he came to the castle! and he had been thinking besides, how desirable it was that davie should see some other phases of life than those to which he had hitherto been accustomed. there was great danger of boys brought up in his position getting narrow, and careless of the lives and feelings of their fellowmen! he would take it as a great kindness if donal, who had a regard to the real education of his pupil, would take him to his home, and let him understand the ways of life among the humbler classes of the nation--so that, if ever he went into parliament, he might have the advantage of knowing the heart of the people for whom he would have to legislate. donal listened, and could not but agree with the remarks of his lordship. in himself he had not the least faith--wondered indeed which of them thought the other the greater fool to imagine that after all that had passed donal would place any confidence in what the earl said; but he listened. what lord morven really had in his mind, he could not surmise; but not the less to take davie to his father and mother was a delightful idea. the boy was growing fast, and had revealed a faculty quite rare in one so young, for looking to the heart of things, and seeing the relation of man to man; therefore such a lesson as the earl proposed would indeed be invaluable to him! then again, this faculty had been opened in him through a willing perception of those eternal truths, in a still higher relation of persons, which are open only to the childlike nature; whence he would be especially fitted for such company as that of his father and mother, who could now easily receive the boy as well as himself, since their house and their general worldly condition had been so much bettered by their friend, sir gibbie! with them davie would see genuine life, simplicity, dignity, and unselfishness--the very embodiment of the things he held constantly before him! there might be some other reason behind the earl's request which it would be well for him to know; but he would sooner discover that by a free consent than by hanging back: anything bad it could hardly be! he shrank indeed from leaving lady arctura while she was yet so far from well, but she was getting well much faster now: for a fortnight there had been no necessity for his presence to soothe her while she slept. neither did she yet know, so far, at least, as he or mistress brookes was aware, that he had ever been near her in the night! it was well also because of the position of things between him and lord forgue, that he should be away for a while: it would give a chance for that foolish soul to settle down, and let common sense assume the reins, while yet the better coachman was not allowed to mount the box! he had, of course, heard nothing of the strained relations between him and lady arctura; he might otherwise have been a little more anxious. for the earl, davie, he thought, would be a kind of pledge or hostage--in regard of what, he could not specify; but, though he little suspected what such a man was capable of sacrificing to gain a cherished end, some security for him, some hold over him, seemed to donal not undesirable. when davie heard the proposal, he was wild with joy. actually to see the mountains, and the sheep, and the colleys, of which donal had told him such wonderful things! to be out all night, perhaps, with donal and the dogs and the stars and the winds! perhaps a storm would come, and he would lie in donal's plaid under some great rock, and hear the wind roaring around them, but not able to get at them! and the sheep would come and huddle close up to them, and keep them warm with their woolly sides! and he would stroke their heads and love them! davie was no longer a mere child--far from it; but what is loveliest in the child's heart was only the stronger in him; and the prospect of going with donal was a thing to be dreamed of day and night till it came! nor were the days many before their departure was definitely settled. the earl would have mr. grant treat his pupil precisely as one of his own standing: he might take him on foot if he pleased! the suggestion was eagerly accepted by both. they got their boxes ready for the carrier, packed their wallets, and one lovely morning late in spring, just as summer was showing her womanly face through its smiles and tears, they set out together. it was with no small dismay that arctura heard of the proposal. she said nothing, however--only when donal came to take his leave she broke down a little. "we shall often wish, davie and i, that you were with us, my lady," he said. "why?" she asked, unable to say more. "because we shall often feel happy, and what then can we do but wish you shared our happiness!" she burst into tears, and presently was able to speak. "don't think me silly," she said. "i know god is with me, and as soon as you are gone i will go to him to comfort me. but i cannot help feeling as if you were leaving me like a lamb among wolves. i can give no reason for it; i only feel as if some danger were near me. but i have you yet, mistress brookes: god and you will take care of me!--indeed, if i hadn't you," she added, laughing through her tears, "i should run away with mr. grant and davie!" "if i had known you felt like that," said donal, "i would not have gone. yet i hardly see how i could have avoided it, being davie's tutor, and bound to do as his father wishes with him. only, dear lady arctura, there is no chance in this or in anything! we will not forget you, and in three weeks or a month we shall be back." "that is a long time," said arctura, ready to weep again. is it necessary to say she was not a weak woman? it is not betrayal of feeling, but avoidance of duty, that constitutes weakness. after an illness he has borne like a hero, a strong man may be ready to weep like a child. what the common people of society think about strength and weakness, is poor stuff, like the rest of their wisdom. she speedily recovered her composure, and with the gentlest smile bade donal good-bye. she was in her sitting-room next the state-chamber where she now slept; the sun was shining in at the open window, and with it came the song of a little bird, clear and sweet. "you hear him," said donal. "--how he trusts god without knowing it! we are made able to trust him knowing in whom we believe! ah, dear lady arctura! no heart even yet can tell what things god has in store for them who will just let him have his way with them. good-bye. write to me if anything comes to you that i can help you in. and be sure i will make haste to you the moment you let me know you want me." "thank you, mr. grant: i know you mean every word you say! if i need you, i will not hesitate to send for you--only if you come, it will be as my friend, and not--" "it will be as your servant, not lord morven's," said donal. "i quite understand. good bye. the father of jesus christ, who was so sure of him, will take care of you: do not be afraid." he turned and went; he could no longer bear the look of her eyes. chapter lxxi. glashgar. out of arctura's sight donal had his turn of so-called weakness! the day was a glorious one, and davie, full of spirits, could not understand why he seemed so unlike himself. "arkie would scold you, mr. grant!" he said. donal avoided the town, and walked a long way round to get into the road beyond it, his head bent as if he were pondering a pain. at moments he felt as if he must return at once, and refuse to leave the castle for any reason. but he could not see that it was the will of god he should do so. a presentiment is not a command. a prophecy may fail of the least indication of duty. hamlet defying augury is the consistent religious man shakspere takes pains to show him. a presentiment may be true, may be from god himself, yet involve no reason why a man should change his way, should turn a step aside from the path before him. st. paul received warning after warning on his road to jerusalem that bonds and imprisonment awaited him, and these warnings he knew came from the spirit of prophecy, but he heeded them only to set his face like a flint. he knew better than imagine duty determined by consequences, or take foresight for direction. there is a higher guide, and he followed that. so did donal now. moved to go back, he did not go back--neither afterwards repented that he did not. i will not describe the journey. suffice it to say that, after a few days of such walking as befitted an unaccustomed boy, they climbed the last hill, crossed the threshold of robert grant's cottage, and were both clasped in the embrace of janet. for davie rushed into the arms of donal's mother, and she took him to the same heart to which she had taken wee sir gibbie: the bosom of the peasant woman was indeed one to fee to. then followed delights which more than equalled the expectations of davie. one of them was seeing how donal was loved. another was a new sense of freedom: he had never imagined such liberty as he now enjoyed. it was as if god were giving it to him, fresh out of his sky, his mountains, his winds. then there was the twilight on the hill-side, with the sheep growing dusky around him; when donal would talk about the shepherd of the human sheep; and hearing him davie felt not only that there was once, but that there is now a man altogether lovely--the heart of all beauty everywhere--a man who gave himself up to his perfect father and his father's most imperfect children, that he might bring his brothers and sisters home to their father; for all his delight is in his father and his father's children. he showed him how the heart of jesus was, all through, the heart of a son, a son that adored his perfect father; and how if he had not had his perfect son to help him, god could not have made any of us, could never have got us to be his little sons and daughters, loving him with all our might. then davie's heart would glow, and he would feel ready to do whatever that son might want him to do; and donal hoped, and had good ground for hoping, that, when the hour of trial came, the youth would be able to hold, not merely by the unseen, but by the seemingly unpresent and unfelt, in the name of the eternally true. donal's youth began to seem far behind him. all bitterness was gone out of his memories of lady galbraith. he loved her tenderly, but was pleased she should be gibbie's. how much of this happy change was owing to his interest in lady arctura he did not inquire: greatly interested in her--more in very important ways than he had ever been in lady galbraith--he was so jealous of his heart, shrank so much from the danger of folly, knew so well how small an amount of yielding might unfit him for the manly and fresh performance of his duties--among which came first a due regard for her well-being lest he should himself fail or mislead her--that he often turned his thoughts into another channel, lest in that they should run too swiftly, deepen it too fast, and go far to imprison themselves in another agony. to lady galbraith he confided his uneasiness about lady arctura--not that he could explain--he could only confess himself infected with her uneasiness, and the rather that he knew better than she the nature of those with whom she might have to cope. if mrs. brookes had not been there, he dared not have come away, he said, leaving her with such a dread upon her. sir gibbie listened open-mouthed to the tale of the finding of the lost chapel, hidden away because it held the dust of the dead, and perhaps sometimes their wandering ghosts. they assured him that, if he would bring lady arctura to them, they would take care of her: had she not better give up the weary property, they said, and come and live with them, and be free as the lark? but donal said, that, if god had given her a property, he would not have her forsake her post, but wait for him to relieve her. she must administer her own kingdom ere she could have an abundant entrance into his! only he wished he were near her again to help her! chapter lxxii. sent, not called. he had been at home about ten days, during which not a word had come to davie or himself from the castle, and was beginning to grow, not perhaps anxious, but hungry for news of lady arctura, when from a sound sleep he started suddenly awake one midnight to find his mother by his bedside: she had roused him with difficulty. "laddie," she said, "i'm thinkin ye're wantit." "whaur am i wantit, mother?" he asked, rubbing his eyes, but with anxiety already throbbing at his heart. "at the castle," she replied. "hoo ken ye that?" he asked. "it wad be ill tellin' ye," she answered. "but gien i was you, donal, i wad be aff afore the day brak, to see what they're duin' wi' yon puir leddy at the muckle place ye left. my hert's that sair aboot her, i canna rest a moment till i hae ye awa' upo' the ro'd til her!" long before his mother had ended, donal was out of bed, and hurrying on his clothes. he had the profoundest faith in whatever his mother said. was it a vision she had had? he had never been told she had the second sight! it might have been only a dream, or an impression so deep she must heed it! one thing was plain: there was no time to ask questions! it was enough that his mother said "go;" more than enough that it was for lady arctura! how quickest could he go? there were horses at sir gibbie's: he would make free with one! he put a crust of bread in his pocket, and set out running. there was a little moonlight, enough for one who knew every foot of the way; and in half an hour of swift descent, he was at the stable door of glashruach. finding himself unable to rouse anyone, he crept through a way he knew, opened the door, without a moment's hesitation saddled and bridled sir gibbie's favourite mare, led her out, and mounted her. safe in the saddle, with four legs busy under him, he had time to think, and began to turn over in his mind what he must do. but he soon saw there was no planning anything till he knew what was the matter--of which he had dreadful forebodings. his imagination started and spurred by fear, he thought of many dread possibilities concerning which he wondered that he had never thought of them before: if he had he could not have left the castle! what might not a man in the mental and moral condition of the earl, unrestrained by law or conscience, risk to secure the property for his son? might he not poison her, smother her, kill her somehow, anyhow that was safest? then rushed into his mind what the housekeeper had told him of his cruelty to his wife: a man like that, no longer feeling, however knowing the difference between right and wrong, hardly knowing the difference between dreaming a thing and doing the thing, was no fitter member of a family than any devil in or out of hell! he would have blamed himself bitterly had he not been sure he was not following his own will in going away. if there were a better way it had not been intended he should take it, else it would have been shown him! but now he would be restrained by no delicacy towards the earl: whatever his hand found to do he would do, regardless of appearances! if he could not reach lady arctura, he would seek the help of the law, tell what he knew, and get a warrant of search. he dared not think what he dreaded, but he would trust nothing but seeing her with his own eyes, and hearing from her own mouth that all was well--which could not be, else why should his mother have sent him to her? doubtless the way would unfold before him as he went on; but if everything should seem to go against him, he would yet say with sir philip sidney that, "since a man is bound no farther to himself than to do wisely, chance is only to trouble them that stand upon chance." if his plans or attempts should one after the other fail, "there's a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will"! so he rode on, careful over his mare, lest much haste should be little speed. the animal was strong and in good condition, and by the time donal had seen the sun rise, ascend the heavens, and go half-way down their western slope, and had stopped three times to refresh the mare, he found himself, after much climbing and descent, on a good level road that promised by nightfall to bring him to the place of his desire. but the mare was now getting tired, and no wonder, for she had had more than a hard day's work. donal dismounted every now and then to relieve her, that he might go the faster when he mounted again, comforting himself that in the true path the delays are as important as the speed; for the hour is the point, not the swiftness: an hour too soon may even be more disastrous than an hour too late! he would arrive at the right time for him whose ways are not as our ways inasmuch as they are greatly better! the sun went down and the stars came out, and the long twilight began. but before he was a mile farther he became aware that the sky had clouded over, the stars had vanished, and rain was at hand. the day had been sultry, and relief was come. lightning flamed out, and darkness full of thunder followed. the storm was drawing nearer, but his mare, though young and high-spirited, was too weary to be frightened; the rain refreshed both, and they made a little more speed. but it was dark night, with now grumbling now raging storm, before they came where, had it been light, donal would have looked to see the castle. chapter lxxiii. in the night. when he reached the town, he rode into the yard of the morven arms, and having found a sleepy ostler, gave up his mare: he would be better without her at the castle!--whither he was setting out to walk when the landlord appeared. "we didna luik to see you, sir, at this time!" he said. "why not?" returned donal. "we thoucht ye was awa' for the simmer, seein' ye tuik the yoong gentleman wi' ye, an' the yerl himsel' followt!" "where is he gone?" asked donal. "oh! dinna ye ken, sir? hae na ye h'ard?" "not a word." "that's verra strange, sir!--there's a clean clearance at the castel. first gaed my lord forgue, an' syne my lord himsel' an' my lady, an' syne gaed the hoosekeeper--her mither was deein', they said. i'm thinkin' there maun be a weddin' to the fore. there was some word o' fittin' up the auld hoose i' the toon, 'cause lord forgue didna care aboot bein' at the castel ony langer. it's strange ye haena h'ard, sir!" donal stood absorbed in awful hearing. surely some letter must have miscarried! the sure and firm-set earth seemed giving way under his feet. "i will run up to the castle, and hear all about it," he said. "look after my mare, will you?" "but i'm tellin' ye, sir, ye'll fin' naebody there!" said the man. "they're a' gane frae the hoose ony gait. there's no a sowl aboot that but deif betty lobban, wha wadna hear the angel wi' the last trump. mair by token, she's that feart for robbers she gangs til her bed the minute it begins to grow dark, an' sticks her heid 'aneth the bed-claes--no 'at that maks her ony deifer!" "then you think there is no use in going up?" "not the smallest," answered the inn-keeper. "get me some supper then. i will take a look at my mare." he went and saw that she was attended to--then set off for the castle as fast as his legs would carry him. there was foul play beyond a doubt!--of what sort he could not tell! if the man's report was correct, he would go straight to the police! then first he remembered, in addition to the other reported absences, that before he left with davie, the factor and his sister had gone together for a holiday: had this been contrived? he mounted the hill and drew near the castle. a terrible gloom fell upon him: there was not a light in the sullen pile! it was darksome even to terror! he went to the main entrance, and rang the great bell as loud as he could ring it, but there was no answer to the summons, which echoed and yelled horribly, as if the house were actually empty. he rang again, and again came the horrible yelling echo, but no more answer than if it had been a mausoleum. he had been told what to expect, yet his heart sank within him. once more he rang and waited; but there was no sound of hearing. the place grew terrible to him. but his mother had sent him there, and into it he must go! he must at least learn whether it was indeed abandoned! there was false play! he kept repeating to himself; but what was it? where and how was it to be met? as to getting into the house there was no difficulty. he had but to climb two walls to get to the door of baliol's tower, and the key of that he always carried. if he had not had it, he would yet soon have got in; he knew the place better than any one else about it. happily he had left the door locked when he went away, else probably they would have secured it otherwise. he entered softly, and, with a strange feeling of dread, went winding up the stair to his room--slowly, because he did not yet know at all what he was to do. if there were no false play, surely at least mrs. brookes would have written to tell him they were going! if only he could learn where she was! before he reached the top he found himself very weary. he staggered in, and fell on his bed in the dark. but he could not rest. the air seemed stifling. the storm had lulled, but the atmosphere was full of thunder. he got up and opened the window. a little breath came in and revived him; then came a little wind, and in the wind the moan of its harp. it woke many memories. there again was the lightning! the thunder broke with a great bellowing roar among the roofs and chimneys. it was to his mind! he went out on the roof, and mechanically took his way toward the nest of the music. at the base of the chimneys he sat down, and stared into the darkness. the lightning came; he saw the sea lie watching like a perfect peace to take up drift souls, and the land bordering it like a waste of dread; then the darkness swallowed both; and the thunder came so loud that it not only deafened but seemed to blind him beyond the darkness, that his brain turned to a lump of clay. then came a silence, and the silence was like a deeper deafness. but from the deafness burst and trickled a faint doubtful stream: could it be a voice, calling, calling, from a great distance? was he the fool of weariness and excitement, or did he actually hear his own name? whose voice could it be but lady arctura's, calling to him from the spirit world! they had killed her, and she was calling to let him know she was in the land of liberty! with that came another flash and another roar of thunder--and there was the voice again: "mr. grant! mr. grant! come, come! you promised!" did he actually hear the words? they sounded so far away that it seemed as if he ought not to hear them. but could the voice be from the spirit-land? would she claim his promise thence, tempting him thither? she would not! and she knew he would not go before his hour, if all the spirits on the other side were calling him. but he had heard of voices from far away, while those who called were yet in the body! if she would but say whither, he would follow her that moment! once more it came, but very faint; he could not tell what it said. a wail of the ghost-music followed close.--god in heaven! could she be down in the chapel? he sprang to his feet. with superhuman energy he leapt up and caught the edge of the cleft, drew himself up till his mouth reached it, and cried aloud, "lady arctura!" there came no answer. "i am stupid as death!" he said to himself: "i have let her call me in vain!" "i am coming!" he cried again, revived with sudden joy. he dropped on the roof, and sped down the stair to the door that opened on the second floor. all was dark as underground, but he knew the way so well he needed but a little guidance from his hands. he hurried to lady arctura's chamber, and the spot where the press stood, ready with one shove to send it yards out of his way. there was no press there!--nothing but a smooth, cold, damp wall! his heart sank within him. was he in a terrible dream? no, no! he had but made a mistake--had trusted too much to his knowledge of the house, and was not where he thought he was! he struck a light. alas! alas! he was where he had intended! it was her room! there was the wardrobe, but nearer the door! where it had stood was no recess!--nothing but a great patch of fresh plaster! it was no dream, but a true horror! instinctively clutching his skene dhu, he darted to the great stair. it must have been the voice of arctura he had heard! she was walled up in the chapel! down the stair, with swift noiseless foot he sped, and stopped at the door of the half-way room. it was locked! there was but one way left! to the foot of the stair he shot. good heavens! if that way also should have been known to the earl! he crept through the little door underneath the stair, feeling with his hands ere his body was through: the arch was open! in an instant he was in the crypt. but now to get up through the opening into the passage above--stopped with a heavy slab! he sprang at the steep slope of the window-sill, but there was no hold, and as often as he sprang he slipped down again. he tried and tried until he was worn out and almost in despair. she might be dying! he was close to her! he could not reach her! he stood still for a moment to think. to his mind came the word, "he that believeth shall not make haste." he thought with himself, "god cannot help men with wisdom when their minds are in too great a tumult to hear what he says!" he tried to lift up his heart and make a silence in his soul. as he stood he seemed to see, through the dark, the gloomy place as it first appeared when he threw in the lighted letter. all at once he started from his quiescence, dropped on his hands and knees, and crawled until he found the flat stone like a gravestone. out came his knife, and he dug away the earth at one end, until he could get both hands under it. then he heaved it from the floor, and shifting it along, got it under the opening in the wall. chapter lxxiv. a moral fungus. spiritual insanity, cupidity, cruelty, and possibly immediate demoniacal temptation had long been working in and on a mind that had now ceased almost to distinguish between the real and the unreal. every man who bends the energies of an immortal spirit to further the ends and objects of his lower being, fails so to distinguish; but with the earl the blindness had wrought outward as well as inwardly, so that he was even unable, during considerable portions of his life, to tell whether things took place outside or inside him. nor did this trouble him--he was past caring. he would argue that what equally affected him had an equal right to be by him regarded as existent. he paid no heed to the different natures of the two kinds of existence, their different laws, and the different demands they made upon the two consciousnesses; he had in fact, by a long course of disobedience growing to utter disuse of conscience, arrived nearly at non-individuality. in regard to what was outside him he was but a mirror, in regard to what was inside him a mere vessel of imperfectly interacting forces. and now his capacities and incapacities together had culminated in a hideous plot, in which it would be hard to say whether the folly, the crime, or the cunning predominated: he had made up his mind that, if the daughter of his brother refused to wed her cousin, and so carry out what he asserted to have been the declared wish of her father, she should go after her father, and leave her property to the next heir, so that if not in one way then in another the law of nature might be fulfilled, and title and property united without the intervention of a marriage. as to any evil that therein might be imagined to befall his niece, he quoted the words of hamlet--"since no man has ought of what he leaves, what is't to leave betimes?"--she would be no worse than she must have been when the few years of her natural pilgrimage were of necessity over: the difference to her was not worth thinking of beside the difference to the family! at the same time perhaps a scare might serve, and she would consent to marry forgue to escape a frightful end! the moment donal was gone, he sent forgue to london, and set himself to overcome the distrust of him which he could not but see had for some time been growing in her. with the sweet prejudices of a loving nature to assist him, he soon prevailed so far that, without much entreaty, she consented to accompany him to london--for a month or so, he said, while davie was gone. the proposal had charms for her: she had been there with her father when a mere child, and never since. she wrote to donal to let him know: how it was that her letter never reached him, it is hardly needful to inquire. the earl, in order, he said, to show his recognition of her sweet compliance, made arrangements for posting it all the way. he would take her by the road he used to travel himself when he was a young man: she should judge whether more had not been lost than gained by rapidity! whatever shortened any natural process, he said, simply shortened life itself. simmons should go before, and find a suitable place for them! they were hardly gone when mrs. brookes received a letter pretendedly from the clergyman of the parish, in a remote part of the south, where her mother, now a very old woman, lived, saying she was at the point of death, and could not die in peace without seeing her daughter. she went at once. the scheme was a madman's, excellently contrived for the instant object, but with no outlook for immediately resulting perils. after the first night on the road, he turned across country, and a little towards home; after the next night, he drove straight back, but as it was by a different road, arctura suspected nothing. when they came within a few hours of the castle, they stopped at a little inn for tea; there he contrived to give her a certain dose. at the next place where they stopped, he represented her as his daughter taken suddenly ill: he must go straight home with her, however late they might be. giving an imaginary name to their destination, and keeping on the last post-boy who knew nothing of the country, he directed him so as completely to bewilder him, with the result that he set them down at the castle supposing it a different place, and in a different part of the country. the thing was after the earl's own heart; he delighted in making a fool of a fellow-mortal. he sent him away so as not to enter the town: it was of importance his return should not be known. it is a marvel he could effect what followed; but he had the remnants of great strength, and when under influences he knew too well how to manage, was for the time almost as powerful as ever: he got his victim to his room on the stair, and thence through the oak door. chapter lxxv. the porch of hades. when arctura woke from her unnatural sleep, she lay a while without thought, then began to localize herself. the last place she recalled was the inn where they had tea: she must have been there taken ill, she thought, and was now in a room of the same. it was quite dark: they might have left a light by her! she lay comfortably enough, but had a suspicion that the place was not over clean, and was glad to find herself not undrest. she turned on her side: something pulled her by the wrist. she must have a bracelet on, and it was entangled in the coverlet! she tried to unclasp it, but could not: which of her bracelets could it be? there was something attached to it!--a chain--a thick chain! how odd! what could it mean? she lay quiet, slowly waking to fuller consciousness.--was there not a strange air, a dull odour in the room? undefined as it was, she had smelt it before, and not long since!--it was the smell of the lost chapel!--but that was at home in the castle! she had left it two days before! was she going out of her mind? the dew of agony burst from her forehead. she would have started up, but was pulled hard by the wrist! she cried on god.--yes, she was lying on the very spot where that heap of woman-dust had lain! she was manacled with the same ring from which that woman's arm had wasted--the decay of centuries her slow redeemer! her being recoiled so wildly from the horror, that for a moment she seemed on the edge of madness. but madness is not the sole refuge from terror! where the door of the spirit has once been opened wide to god, there is he, the present help in time of trouble! with him in the house, it is not only that we need fear nothing, but that is there which in its own being and nature casts out fear. god and fear cannot be together. it is a god far off that causes fear. "in thy presence is fulness of joy." such a sense of absolute helplessness overwhelmed arctura that she felt awake in her an endless claim upon the protection of her original, the source of her being. and what sooner would any father have of his children than action on such claim! god is always calling us as his children, and when we call him as our father, then, and not till then, does he begin to be satisfied. and with that there fell upon arctura a kind of sleep, which yet was not sleep; it was a repose such as perhaps is the sleep of a spirit. again the external began to intrude. she pictured to herself what the darkness was hiding. her feelings when first she came down into the place returned on her memory. the tide of terror began again to rise. it rose and rose, and threatened to become monstrous. she reasoned with herself: had she not been brought in safety through its first and most dangerous inroad?--but reason could not outface terror. it was fear, the most terrible of all terrors, that she feared. then again woke her faith: if the night hideth not from him, neither does the darkness of fear! it began to thunder, first with a low distant muttering roll, then with a loud and near bellowing. was it god coming to her? some are strangely terrified at thunder; arctura had the child's feeling that it was god that thundered: it comforted her as with the assurance that god was near. as she lay and heard the great organ of the heavens, its voice seemed to grow articulate; god was calling to her, and saying, "here i am, my child! be not afraid!" then she began to reason with herself that the worst that could happen to her was to lie there till she died of hunger, and that could not be so very bad! and therewith across the muttering thunder came a wail of the ghost-music. she started: had she not heard it a hundred times before, as she lay there in the dark alone? was she only now for the first time waking up to it--she, the lady they had shut up there to die--where she had lain for ages, with every now and then that sound of the angels singing, far above her in the blue sky? she was beginning to wander. she reasoned with herself, and dismissed the fancy; but it came and came again, mingled with real memories, mostly of the roof, and donal. by and by she fell asleep, and woke in a terror which seemed to have been growing in her sleep. she sat up, and stared into the dark. >from where stood the altar, seemed to rise and approach her a form of deeper darkness. she heard nothing, saw nothing, but something was there. it came nearer. it was but a fancy; she knew it; but the fancy assumed to be: the moment she gave way, and acknowledged it, that moment it would have the reality it had been waiting for, and clasp her in its skeleton-arms! she cried aloud, but it only came nearer; it was about to seize her! a sudden, divine change!--her fear was gone, and in its place a sense of absolute safety: there was nothing in all the universe to be afraid of! it was a night of june, with roses, roses everywhere! glory be to the father! but how was it? had he sent her mother to think her full of roses? why her mother? god himself is the heart of every rose that ever bloomed! she would have sung aloud for joy, but no voice came; she could not utter a sound. what a thing this would be to tell donal grant! this poor woman cried, and god heard her, and saved her out of all her distresses! the father had come to his child! the cry had gone from her heart into his! if she died there, would donal come one day and find her? no! no! she would speak to him in a dream, and beg him not to go near the place! she would not have him see her lie like that he and she standing together had there looked upon! with that came donal's voice, floated and rolled in music and thunder. it came from far away; she did not know whether she fancied or really heard it. she would have responded with a great cry, but her voice vanished in her throat. her joy was such that she remembered nothing more. chapter lxxvi. the angel of the lord. standing upon the edge of the stone leaned against the wall, donal seized the edge of the slab which crossed the opening near the top, and drew himself up into the sloping window-sill. pressing with all his might against the sides of the window, he succeeded at last in pushing up the slab so far as to get a hold with one hand on the next to it. then slowly turning himself on his side, while the whole weight of the stone rested on his fingers, he got the other hand also through the crack. this effected, he hauled and pushed himself up with his whole force, careless of what might happen to his head. the top of it came bang against the stone, and lifted it so far that he got head and neck through. the thing was done! with one more herculean lift of his body and the stone together, like a man rising from the dead, he rose from the crypt into the passage. but the door of the chapel would not yield to a gentle push. "my lady," he cried, "don't be afraid. i must make a noise. it's only donal grant! i'm going to drive the door open." she heard the words! they woke her from her swoon of joy. "only donal grant!" what less of an only could there be in the world for her! was he not the messenger who raised the dead! she tried to speak, but not a word would come. donal drew back a pace, and sent such a shoulder against the door that it flew to the wall, then fell with a great crash on the floor. "where are you, my lady?" he cried. but still she could not speak. he began feeling about. "not on that terrible bed!" she heard him murmur. fear lest in the darkness he should not find her, gave her back her voice. "i don't mind it now!" she said feebly. "thank god!" cried donal; "i've found you at last!" worn out, he sank on his knees, with his head on the bed, and fell a sobbing like a child. she would have put out her hand through the darkness to find him, but the chain checked it. he heard the rattle of it, and understood. "chained too, my dove!" he said, but in gaelic. his weakness was over. he thanked god, and took courage. new life rushed through every vein. he rose to his feet in conscious strength. "can you strike a light, and let me see you, donal?" said arctura. then first she called him by his christian name: it had been so often in her heart if not on her lips that night! the dim light wasted the darkness of the long buried place, and for a moment they looked at each other. she was not so changed as donal had feared to find her--hardly so change to him as he was to her. terrible as had been her trial, it had not lasted long, and had been succeeded by a heavenly joy. she was paler than usual, yet there was a rosy flush over her beautiful face. her hand was stretched towards him, its wrist clasped by the rusty ring, and tightening the chain that held it to the post. "how pale and tired you look!" she said. "i am a little tired," he answered. "i came almost without stopping. my mother sent me. she said i must come, but she did not tell me why." "it was god sent you," said arctura. then she briefly told him what she knew of her own story. "how did he get the ring on to your wrist?" said donal. he looked closer and saw that her hand was swollen, and the skin abraded. "he forced it on!" he said. "how it must hurt you!" "it does hurt now you speak of it," she replied. "i did not notice it before.--do you suppose he left me here to die?" "who can tell!" returned donal. "i suspect he is more of a madman than we knew. i wonder if a soul can be mad.--yes; the devil must be mad with self-worship! hell is the great madhouse of creation!" "take me away," she said. "i must first get you free," answered donal. she heard him rise. "you are not going to leave me?" she said. "only to get a tool or two." "and after that?" she said. "not until you wish me," he answered. "i am your servant now--his no more." chapter lxxvii. the angel of the devil. there came a great burst of thunder. it was the last of the storm. it bellowed and shuddered, went, and came rolling up again. it died away at last in the great distance, with a low continuous rumbling as if it would never cease. the silence that followed was like the egyptian darkness; it might be felt. out of the tense heart of the silence came a faint sound. it came again and again, at regular intervals. "that is my uncle's step!" said arctura in a scared whisper through the dark. it was plainly a slow step--far off, but approaching. "i wonder if he has a light!" she added hurriedly. "he often goes in the dark without one. if he has you must get behind the altar." "do not speak a word," said donal; "let him think you are asleep. if he has no light, i will stand so that he cannot come near the bed without coming against me. do not be afraid; he shall not touch you." the steps were coming nearer all the time. a door opened and shut. then they were loud--they were coming along the gallery! they ceased. he was standing up there in the thick darkness! "arctura," said a deep, awful voice. it was that of the earl. arctura made no answer. "dead of fright!" muttered the voice. "all goes well. i will go down and see. she might have proved as obstinate as the boys' mother!" again the steps began. they were coming down the stair. the door at the foot of it opened. the earl entered a step or two, then stopped. through the darkness donal seemed to know exactly where he stood. he knew also that he was fumbling for a match, and watched intently for the first spark. there came a sputter and a gleam, and the match failed. ere he could try another, donal made a swift blow at his arm. it knocked the box from his hand. "ha!" he cried, and there was terror in the cry, "she strikes at me through the dark!" donal kept very still. arctura kept as still as he. the earl turned and went away. "i will bring a candle!" he muttered. "now, my lady, we must make haste," said donal. "do you mind being left while i fetch my tools?" "no--but make haste," she answered. "i shall be back before him," he returned. "be careful you do not meet him," said arctura. there was no difficulty now, either in going or returning. he sped, and in a space that even to arctura seemed short, was back. there was no time to use the file: he attacked the staple, and drew it from the bed-post, then wound the chain about her arm, and tied it there. he had already made up his mind what to do with her. he had been inclined to carry her away from the house: doory would take care of her! but he saw that to leave the enemy in possession would be to yield him an advantage. awkward things might result from it! the tongues of inventive ignorance and stupidity would wag wildly! he would take her to her room, and there watch her as he would the pearl of price! "there! you are free, my lady," he said. "now come." he took her hands, and she raised herself wearily. "the air is so stifling!" she said. "we shall soon have better!" answered donal. "shall we go on the roof?" she said, like one talking in her sleep. "i will take you to your own room," replied donal. "--but i will not leave you," he added quickly, seeing a look of anxiety cloud her face, "--so long as your uncle is in the house." "take me where you will," rejoined arctura. there was no way but through the crypt: she followed him without hesitation. they crept through the little closet under the stair, and were in the hall of the castle. as they went softly up the stair, donal had an idea. "he is not back yet!" he said: "we will take the key from the oak door; he will think he has mislaid it, and will not find out that you are gone. i wonder what he will do!" cautiously listening to be sure the earl was not there, he ran to the oak door, locked it, and brought away the key. then they went to the room arctura had last occupied. the door was ajar; there was a light in the room. they went softly, and peeped in. the earl was there, turning over the contents of her writing-desk. "he will find nothing," she whispered with a smile. donal led her away. "we will go to your old room," he said. "the whole recess is built up with stone and lime: he cannot come near you that way!" she made no objection. donal secured the doors, lighted a fire, and went to look for food. they had agreed upon a certain knock, without which she was to open to none. while she was yet changing the garments in which she had lain on the terrible bed, she heard the earl go by, and the door of his room close. apparently he had concluded to let her pass the night without another visit: he had himself had a bad fright, and had probably not got over it. a little longer and she heard donal's gentle signal at the door of the sitting-room. he had brought some biscuits and a little wine in the bottom of a decanter from the housekeeper's room: there was literally nothing in the larder, he said. they sat down and ate the biscuits. donal told his adventures. they agreed that she must write to the factor to come home at once, and bring his sister. then donal set to with his file upon the ring: her hand was much too swollen to admit of its being removed as it had been put on. it was not easy to cut it, partly from the constant danger of hurting her swollen hand, partly that the rust filled and blunted the file. "there!" he said at last, "you are free! and now, my lady, you must take some rest. the door to the passage is secure. lock this one inside, and i will draw the sofa across it outside: if he come wandering in the night, and get into this room, he will not reach your door." weary as he was, donal could not sleep much. in the middle of the night he heard the earl's door open, and watched and followed him. he went to the oak door, and tried in vain to open it. "she has taken it!" he muttered, in what seemed to donal an awe-struck voice. all night long he roamed the house a spirit grievously tormented. in the gray of the morning, having perhaps persuaded himself that the whole affair was a trick of his imagination, he went back to his room. in the morning donal left the house, having first called to arctura and warned her to lock the door of the sitting-room the moment he was gone. he ran all the way down to the inn, paid his bill, bought some things in the town for their breakfast, and taking the mare, rode up to the castle, and rang the bell. no notice was taken. he went and put up his animal, then let himself into the house by baliol's tower, and began to sing. so singing he went up the great stair, and into and along the corridor where the earl lay. the singing roused him, and brought him to his door in a rage. but the moment he saw donal his countenance fell. "what the devil are you doing here?" he said. "they told me in the town you were in england, my lord!" "i wrote to you," said the earl, "that we were gone to london, and that you need be in no haste to return. i trust you have not brought davie with you?" "i have not, my lord." "then make what haste back to him you can. he must not be alone with bumpkins! you may stay there with him till i send for you--only mind you go on with your studies. now be off. i am at home but for a few hours on business, and leave again by the afternoon coach!" "i do not go, my lord, until i have seen my mistress." "your mistress! who, pray, is your mistress!" "i am no longer in your service, my lord." "then what, in the name of god, have you done with my son?" "in good time, my lord, when you have told me where my mistress is! i am in this house as lady arctura's servant; and i desire to know where i shall find her." "in london." "what address, please your lordship? i will wait her orders here." "you will leave this house at once," said the earl. "i will not have you here in both her ladyship's absence and my own." "my lord, i am not ignorant how things stand: i am in lady arctura's house; and here i remain till i receive her commands." "very well! by all means!" "i ask you again for her address, my lord." "find it for yourself. you will not obey my orders: am i to obey yours?" he turned on his heel, and flung to his door. donal went to lady arctura. she was in the sitting-room, anxiously waiting his return. she had heard their voices, but nothing that passed. he told her what he had done; then produced his provisions, and together they prepared their breakfast. by and by they heard the earl come from his room, go here and there through the still house, and return to his apartment. in the afternoon he left the house. they watched him away--ill able, apparently, even to crawl along. he went down the hill, nor once lifted his head. they turned and looked at each other. profound pity for the wretched old man was the feeling of both. it was followed by one of intense relief and liberty. "you would like to be rid of me now, my lady," said donal; "but i don't see how i can leave you. shall i go and fetch miss carmichael?" "no, certainly," answered arctura. "i cannot apply to her." "it would be a pity to lose the advantage of your uncle's not knowing what has become of you." "i wonder what he will do next! if i were to die now, the property would be his, and then forgue's!" "you can will it away, i suppose, my lady!" answered donal. arctura stood thoughtful. "is forgue a bad man, mr. grant?" "i dare not trust him," answered donal. "do you think he had any knowledge of this plot of his father's?" "i cannot tell. i do not believe he would have left you to die in the chapel." chapter lxxviii. restoration. the same afternoon, while donal was reading to arctura in the library, there came a loud ringing of the door-bell. donal ran to see, and to his great delight, there was mistress brookes, half wild with anxious terror. "is my leddy safe?" she cried--then clasped donal in her arms and embraced him as if he had been her son. >from the moment she discovered herself fooled, she had been imagining all manner of terrible things--yet none so terrible as the truth. there was no end to her objurgations, exclamations, anathemas, and interjections. "now i can leave you in peace, my lady!" said donal, who had not resumed his seat. "noo ye can bide whaur ye are, an' be thankfu'!" said mistress brookes. "wha daur meddle wi' ye, an' me i' the hoose! an' wha kens what the mad yerl, for mad i s' uphaud him, an' fit only to be lockit up--wha kens what he may do neist! maister grant, i cannot lat ye oot o' the hoose." "i was only going as far as mistress comin's," replied donal. "weel, ye can gang; but min' ye're hame i' gude time!" "i thought of putting up there, but i will do as my lady pleases." "come home," said arctura. donal went, and the first person he saw when he entered the house was eppy. she turned instantly away, and left the room: he could not help seeing why. the old woman welcomed him with her usual cordiality, but not her usual cheerfulness: he had scarcely noted since her husband's death any change on her manner till now: she looked weary of the world. she sat down, smoothed her apron on her knees, gave him one glance in the face, then looked down at her hands, and said nothing. "i ken what ails ye, doory," said donal; "but i' the name o' him 'at's awa', hearken til me.--the lass is no lost, naither is the lord asleep. yer lamb 's been sair misguidit, sair pluckit o' her bonny woo', but gien for that she haud the closer by the lord's flock, she'll ken it wasna for want o' his care the tod got a grup o' her. it's a terrible pity for the bonny cratur, disgracin' them 'at aucht her! what for winna yoong fowk believe them 'at speyks true, but wull believe them 'at tells them little but lees! still, it's no as gien she had been stealin'! she's wrangt her puir sel', an' she's wrangt us a', an' she's wrangt the lord; but for a' that ye canna luik doon upon her as upo' the man 'at's grown rich at the cost o' his neebours. there's mony a gran' prood leddy 'ill hae to stan' aside to lat eppy pass up, whan we're 'afore the richteous judge." "eh, but ye speyk like my anerew!" cried the poor woman, wiping her old eyes with her rough apron. "i s' do what i can for her; but there's no hidin' o' 't!" "hidin' o' 't!" cried donal. "the lord forbid! sic things are no to be hidden! sae lang 's she 's i' the warl', the thing has to be kenned o' a' 'at come nigh her. she maun beir her burden, puir lass! the lord he'll lichten 't til her, but he'll hae naething smugglet up. that's no the w'y o' his kingdom!--i suppose there's nae doobt wha?" "nane. the lord forbid!" two days after, mr. graeme and his sister returned, and at lady arctura's request took up their abode at the castle. she told them that of late she had become convinced her uncle was no longer capable of attending to her affairs; that he was gone to london; that she had gone away with him, and was supposed to be with him still, though she had returned, and he did not know where she was. she did not wish him to know, but desired for the present to remain concealed. she had her reasons; and requested therefore as a personal favour that they would not once or to any one allude to her being at the castle. mr. graeme would in the meantime be so good as make himself acquainted, so far as possible, with the state of affairs between her and her uncle. in the course of the investigations thereupon following, it became clear that a large portion of the moneys of the estate received by his lordship were nowise accounted for. lady arctura directed that further inquiry should in the meantime be stayed, but that no more money should be handed over to him. for some time the factor heard nothing from his lordship. at length came instructions as to the forwarding of money, forgue writing and his father signing. mr. graeme replied, excusing himself as he could, but sending no money. they wrote again. again he excused himself. the earl threatened. mr. graeme took no heed. his lordship continued to demand and threaten, but neither he nor his son appeared. the factor at length wrote that he would pay no money but to lady arctura. the earl himself wrote in reply, saying--had he been out of the country that he did not know she was dead and six weeks in her grave? again the factor did not reply. donal rode back to glashgar, and brought davie home. lessons were resumed, and arctura took her full share in them. soon all about the castle was bustle and labour--masons and carpenters busy from morning to night. the wall that masked the windows of the chapel was pulled down; the windows, of stained glass, with never a crack, were cleaned; the passage under them was opened to the great stair; lady arctura had a small sweet-toned organ built in the little gallery, and the mural stair from her own room opened again, that she might go down when she pleased to play on it--sometimes, in south-easterly winds, to listen to the aeolian harp dreaming out the music of the spheres. in the process of removing the bed, much of it crumbled to dust. the carved tester and back were set up, the one over the great chimney-piece in the hall, the other over that in arctura's room. the altar was replaced where the bed had been. the story of the finding of the lost chapel was written by donal, and placed by arctura among the records of the family. but it soon became evident that what she had passed through had exercised a hurtful influence on lady arctura's health. she was almost always happy, but her strength at times would suddenly desert her. both donal and mistress brookes regarded her with some anxiety. her organ, to which she gave more labour than she was quite equal to, was now one of her main delights. often would its chords be heard creeping through the long ducts and passages of the castle: either for a small instrument its tone was peculiarly penetrating, or the chapel was the centre of the system of the house. on the roof would donal often sit listening to the sounds that rose through the shaft--airs and harmonies freed by her worshipping fingers--rejoicing to think how her spirit was following the sounds, guided by them in lovely search after her native country. one day she went on playing till she forgot everything but her music, and almost unconsciously began to sing "the lord is mindful of his own." she was unaware that she had two listeners--one on the roof above, one in the chapel below. when twelve months were come and gone since his departure, the earl one bright morning approached the door of the castle, half doubting, half believing it his own: he was determined on dismissing the factor after rigorous examination of his accounts; and he wanted to see davie. he had driven to the stables, and thence walked out on the uppermost terrace, passing the chapel without observing its unmasked windows. the great door was standing open: he went in, and up the stair, haunted by sounds of music he had been hearing ever since he stepped on the terrace. but on the stair was a door he had never seen! who dared make changes in his house? the thing was bewildering! but he was accustomed to be bewildered. he opened the door--plainly a new one--and entered a gloomy little passage, lighted from a small aperture unfit to be called a window. the under side of the bare steps of a narrow stone stair were above his head. had he or had he not ever seen the place before? on the right was a door. he went to it, opened it, and the hitherto muffled music burst loud on his ear. he started back in dismal apprehension:--there was the chapel, wide open to the eye of day!--clear and clean!--gone the hideous bed! gone the damp and the dust! while the fresh air trembled with the organ-breath rushing and rippling through it, and setting it in sweetest turmoil! he had never had such a peculiar experience! he had often doubted whether things were or were not projections from his own brain; he moved and acted in a world of subdued fact and enhanced fiction; he knew that sometimes he could not tell the one from the other; but never had he had the apparently real and the actually unreal brought so much face to face with each other! everything was as clear to his eyes as in their prime of vision, and yet there could be no reality in what he saw! ever since he left the castle he had been greatly uncertain whether the things that seemed to have taken place there, had really taken place. he got himself in doubt about them the moment he failed to find the key of the oak door. when he asked himself what then could have become of his niece, he would reply that doubtless she was all right: she did not want to marry forgue, and had slipped out of the way: she had never cared about the property! to have their own will was all women cared about! would his factor otherwise have dared such liberties with him, the lady's guardian? he had not yet rendered his accounts, or yielded his stewardship. when she died the property would be his! if she was dead, it was his! she would never have dreamed of willing it away from him! she did not know she could: how should she? girls never thought about such things! besides she would not have the heart: he had loved her as his own flesh and blood! at intervals, nevertheless, he was assailed, at times overwhelmed, by the partial conviction that he had starved her to death in the chapel. then he was tormented as with all the furies of hell. in his night visions he would see her lie wasting, hear her moaning, and crying in vain for help: the hardest heart is yet at the mercy of a roused imagination. he saw her body in its progressive stages of decay as the weeks passed, and longed for the process to be over, that he might go back, and pretending to have just found the lost room, carry it away, and have it honourably buried! should he take it for granted that it had lain there for centuries, or suggest it must be lady arctura--that she had got shut up there, like the bride in the chest? if he could but find an old spring lock to put on the door! but people were so plaguy sharp nowadays! they found out everything!--he could not afford to have everything found out!--god himself must not be allowed to know everything! he stood staring. as he stood and stared, his mind began to change: perhaps, after all, what he saw, might be! the whole thing it had displaced must then be a fancy--a creation of the dreaming brain! god in heaven! if it could but be proven that he had never done it! all the other wicked things he was--or supposed himself guilty of--some of them so heavy that it had never seemed of the smallest use to repent of them--all the rest might be forgiven him!--but what difference would that make to the fact that he had done them? he could never take his place as a gentleman where all was known! they made such a fuss about a sin or two, that a man went and did worse out of pure despair! but if he had never murdered anybody! in that case he could almost consent there should be a god! he could almost even thank him!--for what! that he was not to be damned for the thing he had not done--a thing he had had the misfortune to dream he had done--god never interfering to protect him from the horrible fancy? what was the good of a god that would not do that much for you--that left his creatures to make fools of themselves, and only laughed at them!--bah! there was life in the old dog yet! if only he knew the thing for a fancy! the music ceased, and the silence was a shock to him. again he began to stare about him. he looked up. before him in the air hovered the pale face of the girl he had--or had not murdered! it was one of his visions--but not therefore more unreal than any other appearance: she came from the world of his imagination--so real to him that in expectant moods it was the world into which he was to step the moment he left the body. she looked sweetly at him! she was come to forgive his sins! was it then true? was there no sin of murder on his soul? was she there to assure him that he might yet hope for the world to come? he stretched out his arms to her. she turned away. he thought she had vanished. the next moment she was in the chapel, but he did not hear her, and stood gazing up. she threw her arms around him. the contact of the material startled him with such a revulsion, that he uttered a cry, staggered back, and stood looking at her in worse perplexity still. he had done the awful thing, yet had not done it! he stood as one bound to know the thing that could not be. "don't be frightened, uncle," said arctura. "i am not dead. the sepulchre is the only resurrection-house! uncle, uncle! thank god with me." the earl stood motionless. strange thoughts passed through him at their will. had her presence dispelled darkness and death, and restored the lost chapel to the light of day? had she haunted it ever since, dead yet alive, watching for his return to pardon him? would his wife so receive him at the last with forgiveness and endearment? his eyes were fixed upon her. his lips moved tremulously once or twice, but no word came. he turned from her, glanced round the place, and said, "it is a great improvement!" i wonder how it would be with souls if they waked up and found all their sins but hideous dreams! how many would loathe the sin? how many would remain capable of doing all again? but few, perhaps no burdened souls can have any idea of the power that lies in god's forgiveness to relieve their consciousness of defilement. those who say, "even god cannot destroy the fact!" care more about their own cursed shame than their father's blessed truth! such will rather excuse than confess. when a man heartily confesses, leaving excuse to god, the truth makes him free, he knows that the evil has gone from him, as a man knows that he is cured of his plague. "i did the thing," he says, "but i could not do it now. i am the same, yet not the same. i confess, i would not hide it, but i loathe it--ten times the more that the evil thing was mine." had the earl been able to say thus, he would have felt his soul a cleansed chapel, new-opened to the light and air;--nay, better--a fresh-watered garden, in which the fruits of the spirit had begun to grow! god's forgiveness is as the burst of a spring morning into the heart of winter. his autumn is the paying of the uttermost farthing. to let us go without that would be the pardon of a demon, not the forgiveness of the eternally loving god. but--not yet, alas, not yet! has to be said over so many souls! arctura was struck dumb. she turned and walked out upon the great stair, her uncle following her. all the way up to the second floor she felt as if he were about to stab her in the back, but she would not look behind her. she went straight to her room, and heard her uncle go on to his. she rang her bell, sent for donal, and told him what had passed. "i will go to him," said donal. arctura said nothing more, thus leaving the matter entirely in his hands. donal found him lying on the couch. "my lord," he said, "you must be aware of the reasons why you should not present yourself here!" the earl started up in one of his ready rages:--they were real enough! with epithets of contemptuous hatred, he ordered donal from the room and the house. donal answered nothing till the rush of his wrath had abated. "my lord," he said, "there is nothing i would not do to serve your lordship. but i have no choice but tell you that if you do not walk out, you shall be expelled!" "expelled, you dog!" "expelled, my lord. the would-be murderer of his hostess must at least be put out of the house." "good heavens!" cried the earl, changing his tone with an attempted laugh, "has the poor, hysterical girl succeeded in persuading a man of your sense to believe her childish fancies?" "i believe every word my lady says, my lord. i know that you had nearly murdered her." the earl caught up the poker and struck at his head. donal avoided the blow. it fell on the marble chimney-piece. while his arm was yet jarred by the impact, donal wrenched the poker from him. "my lord," he said, "with my own hands i drew the staple of the chain that fastened her to the bed on which you left her to die! you were yet in the house when i did so." "you damned rascal, you stole the key. if it had not been for that i should have gone to her again. i only wanted to bring her to reason!" "but as you had lost the key, rather than expose your cruelty, you went away, and left her to perish! you wanted her to die unless you could compel her to marry your son, that the title and property might go together; and that when with my own ears i heard your lordship tell that son that he had no right to any title!" "what a man may say in a rage goes for nothing," answered the earl, sulkily rather than fiercely. "but not what a woman writes in sorrow!" rejoined donal. "i know the truth from the testimony of her you called your wife, as well as from your own mouth!" "the testimony of the dead, and at second hand, will hardly be received in court!" returned the earl. "if after your lordship's death, the man now called lord forgue dares assume the title of morven, i will publish what i know. in view of that, your lordship had better furnish him with the vouchers of his mother's marriage. my lord, i again beg you to leave the house." the earl cast his eyes round the walls as if looking for a weapon. donal took him by the arm. "there is no farther room for ceremony," he said. "i am sorry to be rough with your lordship, but you compel me. please remember i am the younger and the stronger man." as he spoke he let the earl feel the ploughman's grasp: it was useless to struggle. his lordship threw himself on the couch. "i will not leave the house. i am come home to die," he yelled. "i'm dying now, i tell you. i cannot leave the house! i have no money. forgue has taken all." "you owe a large sum to the estate!" said donal. "it is lost--all lost, i tell you! i have nowhere to go to! i am dying!" he looked so utterly wretched that donal's heart smote him. he stood back a little, and gave himself time. "you would wish then to retire, my lord, i presume?" he said. "immediately--to be rid of you!" the earl answered. "i fear, my lord, if you stay, you will not soon be rid of me! have you brought simmons with you?" "no, damn him! he is like all the rest of you: he has left me!" "i will help you to bed, my lord." "go about your business. i will get myself to bed." "i will not leave you except in bed," rejoined donal with decision; and ringing the bell, he desired the servant to ask mistress brookes to come to him. she came instantly. before the earl had time even to look at her, donal asked her to get his lordship's bed ready:--if she would not mind doing it herself, he said, he would help her: he must see his lordship to bed. she looked a whole book at him, but said nothing. donal returned her gaze with one of quiet confidence, and she understood it. what it said was, "i know what i am doing, mistress brookes. my lady must not turn him out. i will take care of him." "what are you two whispering at there?" cried the earl. "here am i at the point of death, and you will not even let me go to bed!" "your room will be ready in a few minutes, my lord," said mrs. brookes; and she and donal went to work in earnest, but with the door open between the rooms. when it was ready, "now, my lord," said donal, "will you come?" "when you are gone. i will have none of your cursed help!" "my lord, i am not going to leave you." with much grumbling, and a very ill grace, his lordship submitted, and donal got him to bed. "now put that cabinet by me on the table," he said. the cabinet was that in which he kept his drugs, and had not been touched since he left it. donal opened the window, took up the cabinet, and threw it out. with a bellow like that of a bull, the earl sprang out of bed, and just as the crash came from below, ran at donal where he stood shutting the window, as if he would have sent him after the cabinet. donal caught him and held him fast. "my lord," he said, "i will nurse you, serve you, do anything, everything for you; but for the devil i'll be damned if i move hand or foot! not one drop of hellish stuff shall pass your lips while i am with you!" "but i am dying! i shall die of the horrors!" shrieked the earl, struggling to get to the window, as if he might yet do something to save his precious extracts, tinctures, essences, and compounds. "we will send for the doctor," said donal. "a very clever young fellow has come to the town since you left: perhaps he can help you. i will do what i can to make you give your life fair play." "come, come! none of that damned rubbish! my life is of no end of value to me! besides, it's too late. if i were young now, with a constitution like yours, and the world before me, there might be some good in a paring or two of self-denial; but you wouldn't stab your murderer for fear of the clasp knife closing on your hand! you would not fire your pistol at him for fear of its bursting and blowing your brains out!" "i have no desire to keep you alive, my lord; but i would give my life to let you get some of the good of this world before you pass to the next. to lengthen your life infinitely, i would not give you a single drop of any one of those cursed drugs!" he rang the bell again. "you're a friendly fellow!" grunted his lordship, and went back to his bed to ponder how to gain the solace of his passion. mrs. brookes came. "will you please send to mr. avory, the new surgeon," said donal, "and ask him, in my name, to come to the castle." the earl was so ill, however, as to be doubtful, much as he desired them, whether, while rendering him for the moment less sensible to them, any of his drugs would do no other than increase his sufferings. he lay with closed eyes, a strange expression of pain mingled with something like fear every now and then passing over his face. i doubt if his conscience troubled him. it is in general those, i think, who through comparatively small sins have come to see the true nature of them, whose consciences trouble them greatly. those who have gone from bad to worse through many years of moral decay, are seldom troubled as other men, or have any bands in their death. his lordship, it is true, suffered terribly at times because of the things he had done; but it was through the medium of a roused imagination rather than a roused conscience: the former deals with consequences; the latter with the deeds themselves. he declared he would see no doctor but his old attendant dowster, yet all the time was longing for the young man to appear: he might--who could tell?--save him from the dreaded jaws of death! he came. donal went to him. he had summoned him, he said, without his lordship's consent, but believed he would see him; the earl had been long in the habit of using narcotics and stimulants, though not alcohol, he thought; he trusted mr. avory would give his sanction to the entire disuse of them, for they were killing him, body and soul. "to give them up at once and entirely would cost him considerable suffering," said the doctor. "he knows that, and does not in the least desire to give them up. it is absolutely necessary he should be delivered from the passion." "if i am to undertake the case, it must be after my own judgment," said the doctor. "you must undertake two things, or give up the case," persisted donal. "i may as well hear what they are." "one is, that you make his final deliverance from the habit your object; the other, that you will give no medicine into his own hands." "i agree to both; but all will depend on his nurse." "i will be his nurse." the doctor went to see his patient. the earl gave one glance at him, recognized firmness, and said not a word. but when he would have applied to his wrist an instrument recording in curves the motions of the pulse, he would not consent. he would have no liberties taken with him, he said. "my lord, it is but to inquire into the action of your heart," said mr. avory. "i'll have no spying into my heart! it acts just like other people's!" the doctor put his instrument aside, and laid his finger on the pulse instead: his business was to help, not to conquer, he said to himself: if he might not do what he would, he would do what he could. while he was with the earl, donal found lady arctura, and told her all he had done. she thanked him for understanding her. chapter lxxix. a slow transition. a dreary time followed. sometimes the patient would lie awake half the night, howling with misery, and accusing donal of heartless cruelty. he knew as well as he what would ease his pain and give him sleep, but not a finger would he move to save him! he was taking the meanest of revenges! what did it matter to him what became of his soul! surely it was worse to hate as he made him hate than to swallow any amount of narcotics! "i tell you, grant," he said once, "i was never so cruel to those i treated worst. there's nothing in the persian hells, which beat all the rest, to come up to what i go through for want of my comfort. promise to give it me, and i will tell you where to find some." as often as donal refused he would break out in a torrent of curses, then lie still for a space. "how do you think you will do without it," donal once rejoined, "when you find yourself bodiless in the other world?" "i'm not there yet! when that comes, it will be under new conditions, if not unconditioned altogether. we'll take the world we have. so, my dear boy, just go and get me what i want. there are the keys!" "i dare not." "you wish to kill me!" "i wouldn't keep you alive to eat opium. i have other work than that. not a finger would i move to save a life for such a life. but i would willingly risk my own to make you able to do without it. there would be some good in that!" "oh, damn your preaching!" but the force of the habit abated a little. now and then it seemed to return as strong as ever, but the fit went off again. his sufferings plainly decreased. the doctor, having little yet of a practice, was able to be with him several hours every day, so that donal could lie down. as he grew better, davie, or mistress brookes, or lady arctura would sit with him. but donal was never farther off than the next room. the earl's madness was the worst of any, a moral madness: it could not fail to affect the brain, but had not yet put him beyond his own control. repeatedly had donal been on the verge of using force to restrain him, but had not yet found himself absolutely compelled to do so: fearless of him, he postponed it always to the very last, and the last had not yet arrived. the gentle ministrations of his niece by and by seemed to touch him. he was growing to love her a little, he would smile when she came into the room, and ask her how she did. once he sat looking at her for some time--then said, "i hope i did not hurt you much." "when?" she asked. "then," he answered. "oh, no; you did not hurt me--much!" "another time, i was very cruel to your aunt: do you think she will forgive me!" "yes, i do." "then you have forgiven me?" "of course i have." "then of course god will forgive me too!" "he will--if you leave off, you know, uncle." "that's more than i can promise." "if you try, he will help you." "how can he? it is a second nature now!" "he is your first nature. he can help you too by taking away the body and its nature together." "you're a fine comforter! god will help me to be good by taking away my life! a nice encouragement to try! hadn't i better kill myself and save him the trouble!" "it's not the dying, uncle! no amount of dying would ever make one good. it might only make it less difficult to be good." "but i might after all refuse to be good! i feel sure i should! he had better let me alone!" "god can do more than that to compel us to be good--a great deal more than that! indeed, uncle, we must repent." he said no more for some minutes; then suddenly spoke again. "i suppose you mean to marry that rascal of a tutor!" he said. she started up, and called donal. but to her relief he did not answer: he was fast asleep. "he would not thank you for the suggestion, i fear," she said, sitting down again. "he is far above me!" "is there no chance for forgue then?" "not the smallest. i would rather have died where you left me than--" "if you love me, don't mention that!" he cried. "i was not myself--indeed i was not! i don't know now--that is, i can't believe sometimes i ever did it." "uncle, have you asked god to forgive you!" "i have--a thousand times." "then i will never speak of it again." in general, however, he was sullen, cantankerous, abusive. they were all compassionate to him, treating him like a spoiled, but not the less in reality a sickly child. arctura thought her grandmother could not have brought him up well; more might surely have been made of him. but arctura had him after a lifetime fertile in cause of self-reproach, had him in the net of sore sickness, at the mercy of the spirit of god. he was a bad old child--this much only the wiser for being old, that he had found the ways of transgressors hard. one night donal, hearing him restless, got up from the chair where he watched by him most nights, and saw him staring, but not seeing: his eyes showed that they regarded nothing material. after a moment he gave a great sigh, and his jaw fell. donal thought he was dead. but presently he came to himself like one escaping from torture: a terrible dream was behind him, pulling at the skirts of his consciousness. "i've seen her!" he said. "she's waiting for me to take me--but where i do not know. she did not look angry, but then she seldom looked angry when i was worst to her!--grant, i beg of you, don't lose sight of davie. make a man of him, and his mother will thank you. she was a good woman, his mother, though i did what i could to spoil her! it was no use! i never could!--and that was how she kept her hold of me. if i had succeeded, there would have been an end of her power, and a genuine heir to the earldom! what a damned fool i was to let it out! who would have been the worse!" "he's a heartless, unnatural rascal, though," he resumed, "and has made of me the fool i deserved to be made! his mother must see it was not my fault! i would have set things right if i could! but it was too late! and you tell me she has had a hand in letting the truth out--leaving her letters about!--that's some comfort! she was always fair, and will be the less hard on me. if i could see a chance of god being half as good to me as my poor wife. she was my wife! i will say it in spite of all the priests in the stupid universe! she was my wife, and deserved to be my wife; and if i had her now, i would marry her, because she would be foolish enough to like it, though i would not do it all the time she was alive, let her beg ever so! where was the use of giving in, when i kept her in hand so easily that way? that was it! it was not that i wanted to do her any wrong. but you should keep the lead. a man mustn't play out his last trump and lose the lead. but then you never know about dying! if i had known my poor wife was going to die, i would have done whatever she wanted. we had merry times together! it was those cursed drugs that wiled the soul out of me, and then the devil went in and took its place!--there was curara in that last medicine, i'll swear!--look you here now, grant:--if there were any way of persuading god to give me a fresh lease of life! you say he hears prayer: why shouldn't you ask him? i would make you any promise you pleased--give you any security you wanted, hereafter to live a godly, righteous, and sober life." "but," said donal, "suppose god, reading your heart, saw that you would go on as bad as ever, and that to leave you any longer would only be to make it the more difficult for him to do anything with you afterwards?" "he might give me a chance! it is hard to expect a poor fellow to be as good as he is himself!" "the poor fellow was made in his image!" suggested donal. "very poorly made then!" said the earl with a sneer. "we might as well have been made in some other body's image!" donal thought with himself. "did you ever know a good woman, my lord?" he asked. "know a good woman?--hundreds of them!--the other sort was more to my taste! but there was my own mother! she was rather hard on my father now and then, but she was a good woman." "suppose you had been in her image, what then?" "you would have had some respect for me!" "then she was nearer the image of god than you?" "thousands of miles!" "did you ever know a bad woman?" "know a bad woman? hundreds that would take your heart's blood as you slept to make a philtre with!" "then you saw a difference between such a woman and your mother?" "the one was of heaven, the other of hell--that was all the little difference!" "did you ever know a bad woman grow better?" "no, never.--stop! let me see. i did once know a woman--she was a married woman too--that made it all the worse--all the better i mean: she took poison--in good earnest, and died--died, sir--died, i say--when she came to herself, and knew what she had done! that was the only woman i ever knew that grew better. how long she might have gone on better if she hadn't taken the poison, i can't tell. that fixed her good, you see!" "if she had gone on, she might have got as good as your mother?" "oh, hang it! no; i did not say that!" "i mean, with god teaching her all the time--for ten thousand years, say--and she always doing what he told her!" "oh, well! i don't know anything about that. i don't know what god had to do with my mother being so good! she was none of your canting sort!" "there is an old story," said donal, "of a man who was the very image of god, and ever so much better than the best of women." "he couldn't have been much of a man then!" "were you ever afraid, my lord?" "yes, several times--many a time." "that man never knew what fear was." "by jove!" "his mother was good, and he was better: your mother was good, and you are worse! whose fault is that?" "my own; i'm not ashamed to confess it!" "would to god you were!" said donal: "you shame your mother in being worse than she was. you were made in the image of god, but you don't look like him now any more than you look like your mother. i have a father and mother, my lord, as like god as they can look!" "of course! of course! in their position there are no such temptations as in ours!" "i am sure of one thing, my lord--that you will never be at any peace until you begin to show the image in which you were made. by that time you will care for nothing so much as that he should have his way with you and the whole world." "it will be long before i come to that!" "probably; but you will never have a moment's peace till you begin. it is no use talking though. god has not made you miserable enough yet." "i am more miserable than you can think." "why don't you cry to him to deliver you?" "i would kill myself if it weren't for one thing." "it is from yourself he would deliver you." "i would, but that i want to put off seeing my wife as long as i can." "i thought you wanted to see her!" "i long for her sometimes more than tongue can tell." "and you don't want to see her?" "not yet; not just yet. i should like to be a little better--to do something or other--i don't know what--first. i doubt if she would touch me now--with that small, firm hand she would catch hold of me with when i hurt her. by jove, if she had been a man, she would have made her mark in the world! she had a will and a way with her! if it hadn't been that she loved me--me, do you hear, you dog!--though there's nobody left to care a worm-eaten nut about me, it makes me proud as lucifer merely to think of it! i don't care if there's never another to love me to all eternity! i have been loved as never man was loved! all for my own sake, mind you! in the way of money i was no great catch; and for the rank, she never got any good of that, nor would if she had lived till i was earl; she had a conscience--which i never had--and would never have consented to be called countess. 'it will be no worse than passing for my wife now,' i would say. 'what's either but an appearance? what's any thing of all the damned humbug but appearance? one appearance is as good as another appearance!' she would only smile--smile fit to make a mule sad! and then when her baby was dying, and she wanted me to take her for a minute, and i wouldn't! she laid her down, and got what she wanted herself, and when she went to take the child again, the absurd little thing was--was--gone--dead, i mean gone dead, never to cry any more! there it lay motionless, like a lump of white clay. she looked at me--and never--in this world--smiled again!--nor cried either--all i could do to make her!" the wretched man burst into tears, and the heart of donal gave a leap for joy. common as tears are, fall as they may for the foolishest things, they may yet be such as to cause joy in paradise. the man himself may not know why he weeps, and his tears yet indicate his turning on his road. the earl was as far from a good man as man well could be; there were millions of spiritual miles betwixt him and the image of god; he had wept it was hard to say at what--not at his own cruelty, not at his wife's suffering, not in pity of the little soul that went away at last out of no human embrace; himself least of all could have told why he wept; yet was that weeping some sign of contact between his human soul and the great human soul of god; it was the beginning of a possible communion with the father of all! surely god saw this, and knew the heart he had made--saw the flax smoking yet! he who will not let us out until we have paid the uttermost farthing, rejoices over the offer of the first golden grain. donal dropped on his knees and prayed:-- "o father of us all!" he said, "in whose hands are these unruly hearts of ours, we cannot manage ourselves; we ruin our own selves; but in thee is our help found!" prayer went from him; he rose from his knees. "go on; go on; don't stop!" cried the earl. "he may hear you--who can tell!" donal went down on his knees again. "o god!" he said, "thou knowest us, whether we speak to thee or not; take from this man his hardness of heart. make him love thee." there he stopped again. he could say no more. "i can't pray, my lord," he said, rising. "i don't know why. it seems as if nothing i said meant anything. i will pray for you when i am alone." "are there so many devils about me that an honest fellow can't pray in my company?" cried the earl. "i will pray myself, in spite of the whole swarm of them, big and little!--o god, save me! i don't want to be damned. i will be good if thou wilt make me. i don't care about it myself, but thou canst do as thou pleasest. it would be a fine thing if a rascal like me were to escape the devil through thy goodness after all. i'm worth nothing, but there's my wife! pray, pray, lord god, let me one day see my wife again!--for christ's sake--ain't that the way, grant?--amen." donal had dropped on his knees once more when the earl began to pray. he uttered a hearty amen. the earl turned sharply towards him, and saw he was weeping. he put out his hand to him, and said, "you'll stand my friend, grant?" chapter lxxx. away-faring. suddenly what strength lady arctura had, gave way, and she began to sink. but it was spring with the summer at hand; they hoped she would recover sufficiently to be removed to a fitter climate. she did not herself think so. she had hardly a doubt that her time was come. she was calm, often cheerful, but her spirits were variable. donal's heart was sorer than he had thought it could be again. one day, having been reading a little to her, he sat looking at her. he did not know how sad was the expression of his countenance. she looked up, smiled, and said, "you think i am unhappy!--you could not look at me like that if you did not think so! i am only tired; i am not unhappy. i hardly know now what unhappiness is! if ever i look as if i were unhappy, it is only that i am waiting for more life. it is on the way; i feel it is, because i am so content with everything; i would have nothing other than it is. it is very hard for god that his children will not trust him to do with them what he pleases! i am sure, mr. grant, the world is all wrong, and on the way to be all wondrously right. it will cost god much labour yet: we will cost him as little as we can--won't we?--oh, mr. grant, if it hadn't been for you, god would have been far away still! for a god i should have had something half an idol, half a commonplace tyrant! i should never have dreamed of the glory of god!" "no, my lady!" returned donal; "if god had not sent me, he would have sent somebody else; you were ready!" "i am very glad he sent you! i should never have loved any other so much!" donal's eyes filled with tears. he was simple as a child. no male vanity, no self-exultation that a woman should love him, and tell him she loved him, sprang up in his heart. he knew she loved him; he loved her; all was so natural it could not be otherwise: he never presumed to imagine her once thinking of him as he had thought of ginevra. he was her servant, willing and loving as any angel of god: that was all--and enough! "you are not vexed with your pupil--are you?" she resumed, again looking up in his face, this time with a rosy flush on her own. "why?" said donal, with wonder. "for speaking so to my master." "angry because you love me?" "no, of course!" she responded, at once satisfied. "you knew that must be! how could i but love you--better than any one else in the world! you have given me life! i was dead.--you have been like another father to me!" she added, with a smile of heavenly tenderness. "but i could not have spoken to you like this, if i had not known i was dying." the word shot a sting as of fire through donal's heart. "you are always a child, mr. grant," she went on; "death is making a child of me; it makes us all children: as if we were two little children together, i tell you i love you.--don't look like that," she continued; "you must not forget what you have been teaching me all this time--that the will of god, the perfect god, is all in all! he is not a god far off: to know that is enough to have lived for! you have taught me that, and i love you with a true heart fervently." donal could not speak. he knew she was dying. "mr. grant," she began again, "my soul is open to his eyes, and is not ashamed. i know i am going to do what would by the world be counted unwomanly; but you and i stand before our father, not before the world. i ask you in plain words, knowing that if you cannot do as i ask you willingly, you will not do it. and be sure i shall plainly be dying before i claim the fulfilment of your promise if you give it. i do not want your answer all at once: you must think about it." here she paused a while, then said, "i want you to marry me, if you will, before i go." donal could not yet speak. his soul was in a tumult of emotion. "i am tired," she said. "please go and think it over. if you say no, i shall only say, 'he knows best what is best!' i shall not be ashamed. only you must not once think what the world would say: of all people we have nothing to do with the world! we have nothing to do but with god and love! if he be pleased with us, we can afford to smile at what his silly children think of us: they mind only what their vulgar nurses say, not what their perfect father says: we need not mind them--need we?--i wonder at myself," she went on, for donal did not utter a word, "for being able to speak like this; but then i have been thinking of it for a long time--chiefly as i lie awake. i am never afraid now--not though i lie awake all night: 'perfect love casteth out fear,' you know. i have god to love, and jesus to love, and you to love, and my own father to love! when you know him, you will see how good a man can be without having been brought up like you!--oh, donal, do say something, or i shall cry, and crying kills me!" she was sitting on a low chair, with the sunlight across her lap--for she was again in the sunny garland-room--and the firelight on her face. donal knelt gently down, and laid his hands in the sunlight on her lap, just as if he were going to say his prayers at his mother's knee. she laid both her hands on his. "i have something to tell you," he said; "and then you must speak again." "tell me," said arctura, with a little gasp. "when i came here," said donal, "i thought my heart so broken that it would never love--that way, i mean--any more. but i loved god better than ever: and as one i would fain help, i loved you from the very first. but i should have scorned myself had i once fancied you loved me more than just to do anything for me i needed done. when i saw you troubled, i longed to take you up in my arms, and carry you like a lovely bird that had fallen from one of god's nests; but never once, my lady, did i think of your caring for my love: it was yours as a matter of course. i once asked a lady to kiss me--just once, for a good-bye: she would not--and she was quite right; but after that i never spoke to a lady but she seemed to stand far away on the top of a hill against a sky." he stopped. her hands on his fluttered a little, as if they would fly. "is she still--is she--alive?" she asked. "oh yes, my lady." "then she may--change--" said arctura, and stopped, for there was a stone in her heart. donal laughed. it was an odd laugh, but it did arctura good. "no danger of that, my lady! she has the best husband in the world--a much better than i should have made, much as i loved her." "that can't be!" "why, my lady, her husband's sir gibbie! she's lady galbraith! i would never have wished her mine if i had known she loved gibbie. i love her next to him." "then--then--" "what, my lady?" "then--then--oh, do say something!" "what should i say? what god wills is fast as the roots of the universe, and lovely as its blossom." arctura burst into tears. "then you do not--care for me!" donal began to understand. in some things he went on so fast that he could not hear the cry behind him. she had spoken, and had been listening in vain for response! she thought herself unloved: he had shown her no sign that he loved her! his heart was so full of love and the joy of love, that they had made him very still: now the delight of love awoke. he took her in his arms like a child, rose, and went walking about the room with her, petting and soothing her. he held her close to his heart; her head was on his shoulder, and his face was turned to hers. "i love you," he said, "and love you to all eternity! i have love enough now to live upon, if you should die to-night, and i should tarry till he come. o god, thou art too good to me! it is more than my heart can bear! to make men and women, and give them to each other, and not be one moment jealous of the love wherewith they love one another, is to be a god indeed!" so said donal--and spoke the high truth. but alas for the love wherewith men and women love each other! there were small room for god to be jealous of that! it is the little love with which they love each other, the great love with which they love themselves, that hurts the heart of their father. arctura signed at length a prayer for release, and he set her gently down in her chair again. then he saw her face more beautiful than ever before; and the rose that bloomed there was the rose of a health deeper than sickness. these children of god were of the blessed few who love the more that they know him present, whose souls are naked before him, and not ashamed. let him that hears understand! if he understand not, let him hold his peace, and it will be his wisdom! he who has no place for this love in his religion, who thinks to be more holy without it, is not of god's mind when he said, "let us make man!" he may be a saint, but he cannot be a man after god's own heart. the finished man is the saved man. the saint may have to be saved from more than sin. "when shall we be married?" asked donal. "soon, soon," answered arctura. "to-morrow then?" "no, not to-morrow: there is no such haste--now that we understand each other," she added with a rosy smile. "i want to be married to you before i die, that is all--not just to-morrow, or the next day." "when you please, my love," said donal. she laid her head on his bosom. "we are as good as married now," she said: "we know that each loves the other! how i shall wait for you! you will be mine, you know--a little bit mine--won't you?--even if you should marry some beautiful lady after i am gone?--i shall love her when she comes." "arctura!" said donal. chapter lxxxi. a will and a wedding. but the opening of the windows of heaven, and the unspeakable rush of life through channels too narrow and banks too weak to hold its tide, caused a terrible inundation: the red flood broke its banks, and weakened all the land. arctura sent for mr. graeme, and commissioned him to fetch the family lawyer from edinburgh. alone with him she gave instructions concerning her will. the man of business shrugged his shoulders, laden with so many petty weights, bowed down with so many falsest opinions, and would have expostulated with her. "sir!" she said. "you have a cousin who inherits the title!" he suggested. "mr. fortune," she returned, "it may be i know as much of my family as you. i did not send for you to consult you, but to tell you how i would have my will drawn up!" "i beg your pardon, my lady," rejoined the lawyer, "but there are things which may make it one's duty to speak out." "speak then; i will listen--that you may ease your mind." he began a long, common-sense, worldly talk on the matter, nor once repeated himself. when he stopped,-- "now have you eased your mind?" she asked. "i have, my lady." "then listen to me. there is no necessity you should hurt either your feelings or your prejudices. if it goes against your conscience to do as i wish, i will not trouble you." mr. fortune bowed, took his instructions, and rose. "when will you bring it me?" she asked. "in the course of a week or two, my lady." "if it is not in my hands by the day after to-morrow, i will send for a gentleman from the town to prepare it." "you shall have it, my lady," said mr. fortune. she did have it, and it was signed and witnessed. then she sank more rapidly. donal said no word about the marriage: it should be as she pleased! he was much by her bedside, reading to her when she was able to listen, talking to her or sitting silent when she was not. arctura had at once told mistress brookes the relation in which she and donal stood to each other. it cost the good woman many tears, for she thought such a love one of the saddest things in a sad world. neither arctura nor donal thought so. the earl at this time was a little better, though without prospect of even temporary recovery. he had grown much gentler, and sadness had partially displaced his sullenness. he seemed to have become in a measure aware of the bruteness of the life he had hitherto led: he must have had a glimpse of something better. it is wonderful what the sickness which human stupidity regards as the one evil thing, can do towards redemption! he showed concern at his niece's illness, and had himself carried down every other day to see her for a few minutes. she received him always with the greatest gentleness, and he showed something that seemed like genuine affection for her. it was a morning in the month of may-- the naked twigs were shivering all for cold-- when donal, who had been with arctura the greater part of the night, and now lay on the couch in a neighbouring room, heard mrs. brookes call him. "my lady wants you, sir," she said. he started up, and went to her. "send for the minister," she whispered, "--not mr. carmichael; he does not know you. send for mr. graeme too: he and mistress brookes will be witnesses. i must call you husband once before i die!" "i hope you will many a time after!" he returned. she smiled on him with a look of love unutterable. "mind," she said, holding out her arms feebly, but drawing him fast to her bosom, "that this is how i love you! when you see me dull and stupid, and i hardly look at you--for though death makes bright, dying makes stupid--then say to yourself, 'this is not how she loves me; it is only how she is dying! she loves me and knows it--and by and by will be able to show it!'" they were precious words both then and afterwards! with some careful questioning, to satisfy himself that, so evidently at the gate of death she yet knew perfectly her own mind,--and not without some shakes of the head revealing disapprobation, the minister did as he was requested, and wrote a certificate of the fact, which was duly signed and witnessed. and if he showed his disapproval yet more in the prayer with which he concluded the ceremony, none but mistress brookes showed responsive indignation. the bridegroom gave his bride one gentle kiss, and withdrew with the clergyman. "pardon me if i characterize this as a strange proceeding!" said the latter. "not so strange perhaps as it looks, sir!" said donal. "on the very brink of the other world!" "the other world and its brink too are his who ordained marriage!" "for this world only," said the minister. "the gifts of god are without repentance," said donal. "i have heard of you!" returned the clergyman. "you are one, they tell me, given to misusing scripture." he had conceived a painful doubt that he had been drawn into some plot! "sir!" said donal sternly, "if you saw any impropriety in the ceremony, why did you perform it? i beg you will now reserve your remarks. you ought to have made them before or not at all. if you be silent, the thing will probably never be heard of, and i should greatly dislike having it the town-talk." "except i see reason--that is, if nothing follow to render disclosure necessary, i shall be silent," said the minister. he would have declined the fee offered by donal; but he was poor, and its amount prevailed: he accepted it, and took his leave with a stiffness he intended for dignity: he had a high sense, if not of the dignity of his office, at least of the dignity his office conferred on him. donal had next a brief interview with mr. graeme. the factor was in a state of utter bewilderment, and readily yielded donal a promise of silence: the mere whim of a dying girl, it had better be ignored and forgotten! as to grant's part in it he did not know what to think. it could not affect the property, he thought: it could hardly be a marriage! and then there was the will--of the contents of which he knew nothing! if it were a complete marriage, the will was worth nothing, being made before it! i will not linger over the quiet, sad time that followed. donal was to arctura, she said, father, brother, husband, in one. through him she had reaped the harvest of the world, in spite of falsehood, murder, fear, and distrust! she lay victorious on the battlefield! in the heart of her bridegroom reigned a peace the world could not give or take away. he loved with a love that cast the love of former days into the shadow of a sweet but undesired remembrance. a long twilight life lay before him, but he would have plenty to do! and such was the love between him and arctura, that every doing of the will of god was as the tying of a fresh bond between him and her: she was his because they were the father's, whose will was the life and bond of the universe. "i think," said donal, that same night by her bed, "when my mother dies, she will go near you: i will, if i can, send you a message by her. but it will not matter; it can only tell you what you will know well enough--that i love you, and am waiting to come to you." the stupidity of calling oneself a christian, and doubting if we shall know our friends hereafter! in those who do not believe such a doubt is more than natural, but in those who profess to believe, it shows what a ragged scarecrow is the thing they call their faith--not worth that of many an old jew, or that of here and there a pagan! "i shall not be far from you, dear, i think--sometimes at least," she said, speaking very low. "if you dream anything nice about me, think i am thinking of you. if you should dream anything not nice, think something is lying to you about me. i do not know if i shall be allowed to come near you, but if i am--and i think i shall be--sometimes, i shall laugh to myself to think how near i am, and you fancying me a long way off! but any way all will be well, for the great life, our god, our father, is, and in him we cannot but be together." after that she fell into a deep sleep, and slept for hours. then suddenly she sat up. donal put his arm behind and supported her. she looked a little wild, shuddered, murmured something he could not understand, then threw herself back into his arms. her expression changed to a look of divinest, loveliest content, and she was gone. chapter lxxxii. the will. when her will was read, it was found that, except some legacies, and an annuity to mrs. brookes, she had left everything to donal. mr. graeme, rising the moment the lawyer looked up, congratulated donal--politely, not cordially, and took his leave. "if you are walking towards home," said donal, "i will walk with you." "i shall be happy," said mr. graeme--feeling it not a little hard that one who would soon be heir presumptive to the title should have to tend the family property in the service of a stranger and a peasant. "lord morven cannot live long," said donal as they went. "it is not to be wished he should." mr. graeme returned no answer. donal resumed. "i think i ought to let you know at once that you are heir to the title." "i think you owe the knowledge to myself!" said the factor, not without a touch of contempt. "by no means," rejoined donal: "on presumption, after lord forgue, you told me;--after lord morven, i tell you." "i am at a loss to imagine on what you found such a statement," said graeme, beginning to suspect insanity. "naturally; no one knows it but myself. lord morven knows that his son cannot succeed, but he does not know that you can. i am prepared, if not to prove, at least to convince you that he and his son's mother were not married." mr. graeme was for a moment silent. then he laughed a little laugh--not a pleasant one. "another of time's clownish tricks!" he said to himself: "the earl the factor on the family-estate!" donal did not like the way he took it, but saw how natural it was. "i hope you have known me long enough," he said, "to believe i have contrived nothing?" "excuse me, mr. grant: the whole business looks suspicious. the girl was dying! you knew it!" "i do not understand you." "what did you marry her for?" "to make her my wife." "pray what could be the good of that except--?" "does it need any explanation but that we loved each other?" "you will find it difficult to convince the world that such was your sole motive." "having no care for the opinion of the world, i shall be satisfied if i convince you. the world needs never hear of the thing. would you, mr. graeme, have had me not marry her, because the world, including not a few honest men like yourself, would say my object was the property?" "don't put the question to me; i am not the proper person to answer it. there is not a man in a hundred millions who with the chance would not have done the same, or whom all the rest would not blame for doing it. it would have been better for you, however, that there had been no will." "how?" "it makes it look the more like a scheme:--the will might have been disputed." "why do you say--might have been?" "because it is not worth disputing now. if the marriage stands, it annuls the will." "i did not know; and i suppose she did not know either. or perhaps she wanted to make the thing sure: if the marriage was not enough, the will would be--she may have thought. but i knew nothing of it." "you did not?" "of course i did not." mr. graeme held his peace. for the first time he doubted donal's word. "but i wanted to have a little talk with you," resumed donal. "i want to know whether you think your duty all to the owner of the land, or in any measure to the tenants also." "that is easy to answer: one employed by the landlord can owe the tenant nothing." it was not just the answer he would have given to another questioner. "do you not owe him justice?" asked donal. "every legal advantage i ought to take for my employer." "even to the grinding of the faces of the poor?" "i have nothing to do, as his employé, with my own ideas as to what may be equitable." he drew the line thus hard in pure opposition to donal. "what then would you say if the land were your own? would you say you had it solely for your own and your family's good, or for that of the tenants as well?" "i should very likely reason that what was good for them would in the long run be good for me too.--but if you want to know how i have treated the tenants, there are intelligent men amongst them, not at all prejudiced in favour of the factor!" "i wish you would be open with me," said donal. "i prefer keeping my own place," rejoined mr. graeme. "you speak as one who found a change in me," returned donal. "there is none." so saying he shook hands with him, bade him good morning, and turned with the depression of failure. "i did not lead up to the point properly!" he said to himself. chapter lxxxiii. insight. mr. graeme was a good sort of man, and a gentleman; but he was not capable of meeting donal on the ground on which he approached him: on that level he had never set foot. there is nothing more disappointing to the generous man than the way in which his absolute frankness is met by the man of the world--always looking out for motives, and imagining them after what is in himself. there was great confidence between the brother and sister, and as he walked homeward, mr. graeme was not so well pleased with himself as to think with satisfaction on the report of the interview he could give kate. he did not accuse himself with regard to anything he had said, but he felt his behaviour influenced by jealousy of the low-born youth who had supplanted him. for, if percy could not succeed to the title, neither could he have succeeded to the property; and but for the will or the marriage, perhaps but for the two together, he would himself have come in for that also! the will was worth nothing except the marriage was disputed: annul the marriage, and the will was of force! he told his sister, as nearly as he could, all that had passed between them. "if he wanted me to talk to him," he said, "why did he tell me that about forgue? it was infernally stupid of him! but what's bred in the bone--! a gentleman 's not made in a day!" "nor in a thousand years, hector!" rejoined his sister. "donal grant is a gentleman in the best sense of the word! that you say he is not, lets me see you are vexed with yourself. he is a little awkward sometimes, i confess; but only when he is looking at a thing from some other point of view, and does not like to say you ought to have been looking at it from the same. and you can't say he shuffles, for he never stops till he has done his best to make you!--what have you been saying to him, hector?" "nothing but what i have told you; it's rather what i have not been saying!" answered her brother. "he would have had me open out to him, and i wouldn't. how could i! whatever i said that pleased him, would have looked as if i wanted to secure my situation! hang it all! i have a good mind to throw it up. how is a graeme to serve under a bumpkin?" "the man is not a bumpkin; he is a scholar and a poet!" said the lady. "pooh! pooh! what's a poet?" "one that may or may not be as good a man of business as yourself when it is required of him." "come, come! don't you turn against me, kate! it's hard enough to bear as it is!" miss graeme made no reply. she was meditating all she knew of donal, to guide her to the something to which she was sure her brother had not let him come; and presently she made him recount again all they had said to each other. "i tell you, hector," she exclaimed, "you never made such a fool of yourself in your life! if i know human nature, that man is different from any other you have had to do with. it will take a woman, a better woman than your sister, i confess, to understand him; but i see a little farther into him than you do. he is a man who, never having had money enough to learn the bad uses of it, and never having formed habits it takes money to supply, having no ambition, living in books not in places, and for pleasure having more at his command in himself than the richest--he is a man who, i say, would find money an impediment to his happiness, for he must have a sense of duty with regard to it which would interfere with everything he liked best. besides, though he does not care a straw for the judgment of the world where it differs from him, he would be sorry to seem to go against that judgment where he agrees with it: scorning to marry any woman for her money, he would not have the world think he had done so." "ah, katey, there i have you! the world would entirely approve of his doing that!" "i will take a better position then:--he would not willingly seem to have done a thing he himself despises. the man believes himself sent into the world to teach it something: he would not have it thrown in his teeth that, after all, he looks to the main chance as keenly as another! he would starve before he would have men say so--yes, even say so falsely. i am as sure he did not marry lady arctura for her money, as i am sure lord forgue, or you, hector, would have done it if you had had a chance.--there!--my conviction is that the bumpkin sought a fit opening to tell you that the will was to go for nothing, and that no word need be said about the marriage. you know he made you promise not to mention it--only i wormed it out of you!" "that's just like you women! the man you take a fancy to is always head and shoulders above other men!" "as you take it so, i will tell you more: that man will never marry again!" "wait a bit. admiration is sometimes mutual: who knows but he may ask you next!" "if he did ask me, i might take him, but i should never think so much of him!" "heroic kate!" "if you had been a little more heroic, hector, you would have responded to him--and found it considerably to your advantage." "you don't imagine i would be indebted--" "hush! hush! don't pledge yourself in a hurry--even to me!" said kate. "leave as wide a sea-margin about your boat as you may. you don't know what you would or would not. mr. grant knows, but you do not." "mr. grant again!--well!" "well!--we shall see!" and they soon did. for that same evening donal called, and asked to see miss graeme. "i am sorry my brother is gone down to the town," she said. "it was you i wanted to see," he answered. "i wish to speak openly to you, for i imagine you will understand me better than your brother. perhaps i ought rather to say--i shall be better able to explain myself to you." there was that in his countenance which seemed to seize and hold her--a calm exaltation, as of a man who had outlived weakness and was facing the eternal. the spirit of a smile hovered about his mouth and eyes, embodying itself now and then in a grave, sweet, satisfied smile: the man seemed full of content, not with himself, but with something he would gladly share. "i have been talking with your brother," he said, after a brief pause. "i know," she answered. "i am afraid he did not meet you as he ought. he is a good and honourable man; but like most men he needs a moment to pull himself together. few men, mr. grant, when suddenly called upon, answer from the best that is in them." "the fact is simply this," resumed donal: "i do not want the morven property. i thank god for lady arctura: what was hers i do not desire." "but may it not be your duty to take it, mr. grant?--pardon me for suggesting duty to one who always acts from it." "i have reflected, and do not think god wants me to take it. because she is mine, ought i of necessity to be enslaved to all her accidents? must i, because i love her, hoard her gowns and shoes?" then first miss graeme noted that he never spoke of his wife as in the past. "but there are others to be considered," she replied. "you have made me think about many things, mr. grant! my brother and i have had many talks as to what we would do if the land were ours." "and yours it shall be," said donal, "if you will take it as a trust for the good of all whom it supports. i have other work to do." "i will tell my brother what you say," answered miss graeme, with victory in her heart--for was it not as she had divined? "it is better," continued donal, "to help make good men than happy tenants. besides, i know how to do the one, and i do not know how to do the other. there would always be a prejudice against me too, as not to the manner born. but if your brother should accept my offer, i hope he will not think me interfering if i talk sometimes of the principles of the relation. things go wrong, generally, because men have such absurd and impossible notions about possession. they call things their own which it is impossible, from their very nature, ever to possess or make their own. power was never given to man over men for his own sake, and the nearer he that so uses it comes to success, the more utter will prove his discomfiture. talk to your brother about it, miss graeme. tell him that, as heir to the title, and as head of the family, he can do more than any other with the property, and i will gladly make it over to him without reserve. i would not be even partially turned aside from my own calling." "i will tell him what you say. i told him he had misunderstood you. i saw into your generous thought." "it is not generous at all. my dear miss graeme, you do not know how little of a temptation such things are to me! there are some who only care to inherit straight from the first father. you may say the earth is the lord's, and therefore a part of that first inheritance: i admit it; but such possession as this in question would not satisfy me in the least. i must inherit the earth in a far deeper, grander, truer way than calling the land mine, before i shall count myself to have come into my own. i want to have all things just as the maker of me wants me to have them.--i will call on you again to-morrow; i must now go back to the earl. poor man, he is sinking fast! but i believe he is more at peace than he has ever been before!" donal took his leave, and miss graeme had plenty to think of till her brother's return: if she felt a little triumphant, it may be pardoned her. he was ashamed, and not a little humbled by what she told him. he did not wait for donal to come to him, but went to the castle early the next morning. nor was he mistaken in trusting donal to believe that it was not from eagerness to retrace in his own interest the false step he had taken, but from desire to show his shame of having behaved so ungenerously: donal received him so as to make it plain he did not misunderstand him, and they had a long talk. graeme was all the readier for his blunder to hear what donal had to say, and donal's unquestionable disinterestedness was endlessly potent with graeme. their interview resulted in donal's thinking still better of him than before, and being satisfied that, up to his light, the man was honest--which is saying much--and thence open to conviction, and both sides of a question. but ere it was naturally over, donal was summoned to the earl. after his niece's death, no one would do for him but donal; nobody could please him but donal. his mind as well as his body was much weaker. but the intellect, great thing though it be, is yet but the soil out of which, or rather in which, higher things must grow, and it is well when that soil is not too strong, so to speak, for the most gracious and lovely of plants to root themselves in it. when the said soil is proud and unwilling to serve, it must be thinned and pulverized with sickness, failure, poverty, fear--that the good seeds of god's garden may be able to root themselves in it; when they get up a little, they will use all the riches and all the strength of the stiffest soil. "who will have the property now?" he asked one day. "is the factor anywhere in the running?" "title and property both will be his," answered donal. "and my poor davie?" said the earl, with wistful question in the eyes that gazed up in donal's face. "forgue, the rascal, has all my money in his power already." "i will see to davie," replied donal. "when you and i meet, my lord--by and by, i shall not be ashamed." the poor man was satisfied. he sent for davie, and told him he was always to do as mr. grant wished, that he left him in his charge, and that he must behave to him like a son. davie was fast making acquaintance with death--but it was not to him dreadful as to most children, for he saw it through the face and words of the man whom he most honoured. chapter lxxxiv. morven house. in the evening donal went again to the home-farm. finding himself alone in the drawing-room, he walked out into the old garden. "thank god," he said to himself, "if my wife should come here some sad, sweet night, with a low moon-crescent, and a gently thinking wind, and wander about the garden, it will not be to know herself forgotten!" he went up and down the grassy paths. once again, all as long ago--for it seemed long now--he was joined by miss graeme. "i couldn't help fancying," she said as she came up to him, "that i saw lady arctura walking by your side.--god forgive me! how could i be so heartless as mention her!" "her name will always be pleasant in my ears," returned donal. "i was thinking of her--that was how you felt as if you saw her! you did not really see anything, did you?" "oh, no!" "she is nearer me than that," said donal. "she will be with me wherever i am; i shall never be sad. god is with me, and i do not weep that i cannot see him: i wait; i wait." miss graeme was in tears. "mr. grant," she said, "she is gone a happy angel to heaven instead of a pining woman! that is your doing! god bless you!--you will let me think of you as a friend?" "always; always: you loved her." "i did not at first; i thought of her only as a poor troubled creature! now i know there was more life in her trouble than in my content. i came not only to love her, but to look up to her as a saint: if ever there was one, it was she, mr. grant. she often came here after i showed her that poem. she used to walk here alone in the twilight. that horrid miss carmichael! she was the plague of her life!" "she was god's messenger--to buffet her, and make her know her need of him. be sure, miss graeme, not a soul can do without him." here mr. graeme joined them. "i do not think the earl will last many days," said donal. "it would be well, it seems to me, at once upon his death to take possession of the house in the town. it is the only property that goes with the title. and of course you would at once take up your abode in the castle! you will find in the earl's papers many proofs, i imagine, that his son has no claim. i would have a deed of gift drawn up, but would rather you seemed to come in by natural succession. we are not bound to tell the world everything; we are only bound to be able without shame to tell it everything. and then i shall have a favour to ask: morven house, down in the town, is of no great use to you: let me rent it of you. i should like to live there and have a school, with davie for my first pupil. when we get another, we will try to make a man of him too. we will not care so much about making a great scholar, or a great anything of him, but a true man. we will try to help the whole man of him into the likeness of the one man." here mr. graeme broke in. "you will never make a living that way!" he said. donal opened his eyes and looked at him. like one convicted and ashamed, the eyes of the man of business fell before those of the man of god. "ah," said donal, "you have not an idea, mr. graeme, on how little i could live!--here, you had better take the will," he added, pulling it from his pocket. mr. graeme hesitated. "if you would rather not, i will keep it. i would throw it in the fire, but either you or i must keep it for a time as against all chances." mr. graeme took it. that night the earl died. donal wrote to percy that his father was dead. two days after, he appeared. the new earl met him in the hall. "mr. graeme," said percy,-- "i am lord morven, mr. graeme," returned his lordship. the fellow said an evil word, turned on his heel, and left them to bury his father without him. the funeral over, the earl turned to donal and looked him in the face: they walked back to the castle arm in arm, and from that moment were as brothers. earl hector did nothing of importance without consulting donal, and donal had the more influence both with landlord and tenants that he had no interest in the property. the same week he left the castle, and took possession of morven house. the people said mr. grant had played his cards well: had they known what he had really done, they would have called him a born idiot. davie, to whom no calamity could be overwhelming so long as he had mr. grant, accompanied him gladly, more than content to live with him till he went to college, whither the earl wished to send him. donal hindered rather than sped the day. when it came, the earl would have had him go too, but donal would not. "i have done what i can," he said. "it is time he should walk alone." it was soon evident that the boy would not disgrace him. there is no certainty as to how deep any teaching may have gone--as to whether it has reached the issues of life or not, until a youth is left by himself, and has to choose and refuse companions: the most promising youths are often but promisers. with the full concurrence of miss graeme, donal had persuaded mistress brookes--easy persuasion where the suggestion was enough!--to keep house for him. they went together, and together unlocked the door of morven house. mistress brookes said the place was in an awful state. there was not much, to be sure, for the mason to do, but for the carpenter! it had not been touched for generations! he must go away, and stay away till she summoned him! donal gladly went home to his hills, and took davie with him. he told his father and mother, sir gibbie and his lady, the things that had befallen him, and every one approved heartily of what he had done. his mother took his renunciation of the property as a matter of course. all agreed it should not be spoken of. when they returned to auchars, sir gibbie and lady galbraith went with them, and staid for some weeks. the townsfolk said he was but a poor baronet that could not speak mortal word. lord morven and miss graeme had done their best to make the house what they thought donal would like. but in the castle they kept for him the rooms lady arctura had called her own. there he gathered the books, and a few other of the more immediately personal possessions of his wife--her piano for one--upon which he taught himself to play a little; and thither he betook himself often on holidays, and always on sunday evenings. what went on then i leave to the imagination of the reader who knows that alone one may meet many, sitting still may travel far, and silent make the universe hear. lord morven kept larkie for davie. the last i heard of davie was that he was in india, an officer in the army, beloved of his men, and exercising a most beneficial influence on his regiment. the things he had learned he had so learned that they went out from him, finding new ground in which to root and grow. in his day and generation he helped the coming of the kingdom of truth and righteousness, and so fulfilled his high calling. it was some time before donal had any pupils, and he never had many, for he was regarded as a most peculiar man, with ideas about education odd in the extreme. it was granted, however, that, if a boy stayed, or rather if he allowed him to stay with him long enough, he was sure to turn out a gentleman: that which was deeper and was the life of the gentleman, people seldom saw--would seldom have valued if they had seen. most parents would like their children to be ladies and gentlemen; that they should be sons and daughters of god, they do not care! the few wise souls in the neighbourhood know donal as the heart of the place--the man to go to in any difficulty, in any trouble or apprehension. miss carmichael grew by degrees less talkative, and less obtrusive of her opinions. after some years she condescended to marry a farmer on lord morven's estate. their only child, a thoughtful boy, and a true reader, sought the company of the grave man with the sweet smile, going often to his house to ask him about this or that. he reminded him of davie, and grew very dear to him. the mother discovering that, as often as he stole away, it was to go to the master--everybody called him the maister--scolded and forbade. but the prohibition brought such a time of tears and gloom and loss of appetite, and her husband so little shared her prejudices against the master, that she was compelled to recall it, and the boy went and went as before. when he was taken ill, and on his deathbed, nobody could make him happy but the master; he almost nursed him through the last few days of his short earthly life. but the mother seemed not to like him any the better--rather to regard him as having deprived her of some of her rights in the love of her boy. donal is still a present power of heat and light in the town of auchars. he wears the same solemn look, the same hovering smile. they say to those who can read them, "i know in whom i have believed." it is the god who is the father of the lord that he believes in. his life is hid with christ in god, and he has no anxiety about anything. the wheels of the coming chariot, moving fast or slow to fetch him, are always moving; and whether it arrive at night, or at cock-crowing, or in the blaze of noon, is one to him. he is ready for the life his arctura knows. "god is," he says, "and all is well." he never disputes, rarely seeks to convince. "i will let what light i have shine; but disputation is smoke. it is to no profit!--and i do like," he says, "to give and to get the good of things!" the end. note from john bechard, creator of this electronic text. the following is a list of scottish words which are found in george macdonald's "donal grant". i have compiled this list myself and worked out the definitions from context with the help of margaret west, from leven in fife, scotland, and also by referring to a word list found in a collection of poems by robert burns, "chamber's scots dialect dictionary from the th century to the present" c. and "scots-english english-scots dictionary" lomond books c. . i have tried to be as thorough as possible given the limited resources and welcome any feedback on this list which may be wrong (my e-mail address is jabbechard@aol.com). this was never meant to be a comprehensive list of the national scottish language, but rather an aid to understanding some of the conversations and references in this text in the broad scots. i do apologise for any mistakes or omissions. i aimed for my list to be very comprehensive, and it often repeats the same word in a plural or diminutive form. as well, it includes words that are quite obvious to native english speakers, only spelled in such a way to demonstrate the regional pronunciation. this list is a compressed form that consists of three columns for 'word', 'definition', and 'additional notes'. it is set up with a comma between each item and a hard return at the end of each definition. this means that this section could easily be cut and pasted into its own text file and imported into a database or spreadsheet as a comma separated variable file (.csv file). failing that, you could do a search and replace for commas in this section (i have not used any commas in my words, definitions or notes) and replace the commas with spaces or tabs. word, definition, notes a', all; every, also have 'a', have, a' body, everyone; everybody, a' place, all places; everywhere, a' thing, everything; anything, a'body, everyone; everybody, aboon, above; up; over, aboot, about, abro'd, abroad, abune, above; up; over, ac', act, accep', accept, accoont, account, accoontable, accountable, accoonts, accounts, ae, one, ae-sidit, one-sided, aff, off; away; past; beyond, affrontit, affronted; disgraced, also ashamed; shamed afore, before; in front of, 'afore, before; in front of, 'afore han', beforehand, 'aforehan', beforehand, aft, often, aften, often, again, against; opposed to, also again again', against, agen, against, 'ahin', behind; after; at the back of, ahint, behind; after; at the back of, 'ahint, behind; after; at the back of, ain, own, also one aipple, apple, airms, arms, also coat of arms; crest airmy, army, airt, quarter; direction; compass point, also art airy, chilly, ait, eat, aith, oath, aither, either, aitin', eating, aiven, even, alane, alone, alang, along, alison, awl, alloo, allow, allooed, allowed, alloot, allowed, almichty, almighty; god, amen's, amends, amo', among, amoont, amount, an', and, ance, once, ane, one, also a single person or thing anent, opposite to; in front of, also concerning anerew, andrew, anes, ones, 'aneth, beneath; under, angers, angers; makes angry, also grieves angert, angered; angry, also grieved angle-corbie, raven (sent from heaven), reference to kings : anither, another, an'rew, andrew, answert, answered, appearit, appeared, appeart, appeared, approachin', approaching, appruv, approve, a'ready, already, arena, are not, argle-barglet, bandied words; disputed; haggled, art and part, aiding and abetting, ashamet, ashamed, aside, beside, also aside askin', asking, asun'er, asunder, 'at, that, aten, eaten, a'thegither, all together, a'thing, everything; anything, 'at'll, that will, 'at's, that is, atween, between, 'atween, between, aucht, eight; eighth, also ought; own; possess auchteen, eighteen, auchty, eighty, auld, old, aulder, older, auldest, oldest, auld-farrand, old-fashioned, also droll; witty; quaint ava', at all; of all, exclamation of banter; ridicule awa, away; distant, awa', away; distant, aweel, ah well; well then; well, awfu', awful, ay, yes; indeed, exclamation of surprise; wonder aye, yes; indeed, ayont, beyond; after, 'ayont, beyond; after, backbane, backbone, baggin', swelling; bulging, bairn, child, bairnie, little child, diminutive bairnly, childish, bairns, children, baith, both, banes, bones, bangin', banging, bangt, banged, barnflure, barn floor, becomin', becoming, bed-claes, bedclothes, beery, bury, beggin', begging, beggit, begged, beginnin', beginning, behavet, behaved, bein', being, beir, bear, beirin', bearing; allowing, believin', believing, belongin', belonging, ben, in; inside; into; within; inwards, also inner room bena, be not; is not, beseekit, beseeched, bethinking (oneself), stopping to think; reflecting, bidden, abided; stayed, bide, endure; bear; remain; live, also desire; wish bidin', enduring; bearing; remaining; living, also desiring; wishing biggin', building, biggit, built, binna, be not, bit, but; bit, also small; little--diminutive blamin', blaming, blaw, blow, blessin', blessing, blessin's, blessings, blin', blind, blink, take a hasty glance; ogle, also shine; gleam; twinkle blude, blood, bludeshed, bloodshed, bluid, blood, boady, body, body, person; fellow, also body bonnie, good; beautiful; pretty; handsome, bonny, good; beautiful; pretty; handsome, boord, board (i.e. room and board), brainch, branch, brak, break, brakfast, breakfast, br'akin', breaking, brawly, admirably; very; very much; well, breid, bread, brither, brother, brither man, fellowman; brother, brithers, brothers; fellows, brocht, brought, broucht, brought, bude, would prefer to, buik, book, also bible buiks, books, buildin', building, b'un', bound, burnin', burning, buss, bush; shrub; thicket, buyin', buying, by ord'nar, out of the ordinary; supernatural, also unusual; exceptional by ord'nar', out of the ordinary; supernatural, also unusual; exceptional ca', call; name, ca'd, called, cairriage, carriage, cairry, carry, callin', calling, cam, came, cam', came, cankerin', souring; festering, also fretting can'le, candle, canna, cannot, carefu', careful, caret, cared, carin', caring, carryin', carrying, ca's, calls, castel, castle, cat, ointment, lit. soft clay or mud cauld, cold, cauld-hertit, cold-hearted, 'cause, because, cawpable, capable, ceevil, civil, 'cep', except; but, chairge, charge, chappin', knocking; hammering; striking, cheenge, change, cheengeable, changeable, cheengt, changed, cheep, chirp; creak; hint; word, cheir, chair, cheirs, chairs, ch'ice, choice, chiel', child; young person; fellow, term of fondness or intimacy chimley-piece, chimney piece; mantle, chuise, choose, claes, clothes; dress, clan, group; class; coterie, clankin', clanking, clapper-clash, gossip, clash, blow; slap; mess, also gossip; tittle-tattle; tale-bearing clean, altogether; entirely, also comely; shapely; empty; clean clearin', clearing, clim', climb, cloods, clouds, cloot, clout; box (ear); beat; slap, also patch; mend close parin', give a short measure, cobblet, cobbled, cobblin', cobbling; shoemaking, comena, do not come, comfortin', comforting, comin', coming, comman', command, comman'ments, commandments, committit, committed, comparet, compared, compleen, complain, compleenin', complaining, comprehen', comprehend, conceivin', conceiving, concernin', concerning, concernt, concerned, condescen', condescend, conduc', conduct, conneckit, connected, considert, considered, conteened, contained, contert, contradicted; thwarted, contrairy, contrary, contrive, design, convic', convict, cooardly, cowardly, cooncil, council, coonsel, counsel, coont, count, coontenance, countenance, coontin', counting, coontit, counted, coonts, counts, coopered, tinkered up, coorse, coarse, also course coortin', courting, corbie, crow; raven, corbie-steps, corbel steps, projections on a gable resembling a step correc', correct, couldna, could not, crack, news; story; chat; gossip, cracks, news; stories; chats; gossip, craps, crops; produce of the field, cratur, creature, cratur', creature, craturs, creatures, crawin', crowing, creakin', creaking, creepit, crept; crawled, cried, called; summoned, croont, crowned, cry, call; summon, cryin', calling; summoning, cuist, cast, cunnin', cunning, cuttit, cut; harvested, dacent, decent, danglin', dangling, dauchter, daughter, daur, dare; challenge, daured, dared; challenged, daurna, dare not; do not dare, daursay, dare say, dawin', dawning, dawvid, david, declaret, declared, declarin', declaring, 'deed, indeed, dee'd, died, dee'dna, did not die, deein', doing, also dying dees, dies, deevil, devil, deevils, devils, defen', defend, deid, dead, deif, deaf, deifer, deafer, deil, devil, deith, death, deiths, deaths, denner, dinner, denyin', denying, depen', depend, describit, described, dewotit, devoted, didna, did not, diffeeclety, difficulty, differ, difference; dissent, also differ difficlety, difficulty, dignities, dignitaries, dignity, dignitary, din, sound; din; report; fame, dinna, do not, direc', direct, direckit, directed, direckly, directly; immediately, direc'ly, directly; immediately, dis, does, disapp'intit, disappointed, discipleen, discipline, discontentit, discontented, discoontenance, discountenance; refuse to approve of, discoorse, discourse, disgeist, digest, disgracin', disgracing, disna, does not, disrespec', disrespect, dist, dust, disturbit, disturbed, div, do, dochter, daughter, doesna, does not, dogsure, quite certain, doin', doing, doo, dove, darling--term of endearment dooble, double; duplicate, also double dealing; devious doobt, suspect; know; doubt, have an unpleasant conviction doobtfu', doubtful, doobtin', suspecting; knowing, also doubting doobtless, doubtless, doobtna, do not suspect; do not know, also does not doubt doobts, suspects; knows, also doubts doon, down, door-sill, threshold, doos, doves, dottlet, crazy; in dotage, douce, gentle; sensible; sober; prudent, dour, hard; stern; stiff; sullen, dowy, sad; lonely; depressing; dismal, also ailing doze, dose, drap, drop; small quantity of, drappin', dropping, drappit, dropped, dreid, dread, dreidfu', dreadful; dreadfully, dreidit, dreaded, drogues, drugs, drunken, drunken, du, do, duer, doer, duin', doing, dull, deaf; hard of hearing, dune, done, du't, do it, dwall, dwell, dyke, wall of stone or turf, earth-dyke, wall of earth, ebberdeen, aberdeen, edder, adder, e'e, eye, eemage, image, een, eyes, e'en, even; just; simply, also eyes; evening efter, after; afterwards, efterwards, afterwards, elbuck, elbow, en', end, encoonter, encounter, endeevour, endeavour, eneuch, enough, enew, enough, englan', england, enstance, instance, enterest, interest, er', ere; before, etin, giant, also ogre exackly, exactly, excep', except, expeckit, expected, experrience, experience, explainin', explaining, fa', fall; befall, fac', fact, fac's, facts; truths; realities, factor, manager of property, lets farms; collects rents; pays wages faddomless, fathomless, failt, failed, faimilies, families, faimily, family, faimily-name, family name; surname, fain, eager; anxious; fond, also fondly; gladly fa'in', falling, fairmer, farmer, faith!, indeed!; truly!, exclamation faither, father, faithers, fathers, faithfu', faithful, fallow, fellow; chap, fancyin', fancying, fa's, falls, faund, found, fause, false, fau't, fault; blame, fauvour, favour, fauvoured, favoured, fawvour, favour, fearfu', fearful; easily frightened, fears, makes afraid; frightens; scares, fearsome, terrifying; fearful; awful, feart, afraid; frightened; scared, feathert, feathered, feelin', feeling, fell, very; potent; keen; harsh; sharp, intensifies; also turf feow, few, fess, fetch, fillsna, does not fill, fin', find; feel, fit, foot; base, also fit; capable; able fittin', fitting, fittit, fitted, fivver, fever, fixtur, fixture, flangna, did not kick; did not throw, flee, fly (insect), flingin', kicking; throwing, flit, shift; remove; depart, followt, followed, forbeirs, ancestors; forefathers, forby, as well; as well as; besides, also over and above forepairt, front part, also early part (e.g. of the night) forgettin', forgetting, for't, for it, fortin, fortune, fortins, fortunes, fowk, folk, fra, from, frae, from, frae hame, away; not at home, freely, quite; very; thoroughly, freen', friend; relation, freen'ly, friendly, freens, friends; relations, freen's, friends; relations, fricht, frighten; scare away, also fright frichtit, frightened; scared away, fu', full; very; much, fule, fool, fules, fools, fulish, foolish, full, fully, also full f'un', found, f'undation, foundation, furnisht, furnished, furreign, foreign, furth, forth, fut, foot, futur, future, gae, gave, ga'e, gave, gaed, went, gaedna, did not go, gaein', going, gaein's, goings, gairden, garden, gait, way; fashion, also route; street gaither, gather, gaitherin', gathering, gane, gone, gang, go; goes; depart; walk, gangin', going; walking, gangin's, goings, gangs, goes; walks, gar, cause; make; compel, gars, makes; causes; compels, gat, got, gauin', going, gein, if; as if; then; whether, also given german ocean, , old reference to the english channel & north sea gether, gather, gethert, gathered, gettin', getting, gey, fairly; considerable, ghaist, ghost; soul; spirit, ghaists, ghosts; spirits; souls, gie, give, gied, gave, giedst, gave; gaveth (king james style), giein', giving, gien, if; as if; then; whether, also given gi'en, given, gies, gives, gie's, gives; give us; give his, gie't, give it, girn, grimace; snarl; twist the features, girned, grimaced; snarled; twisted features, also found fault girnin', grimacing; snarling, git, get; acquire, glaid, glad, glaidness, gladness, glaiss, glass, gleg, quick; lively; smart; quick-witted, glimp, glimpse; glance, also the least degree gloamin', twilight; dusk, glower, stare; gaze; scowl, glowered, stared; gazed; scowled, glowert, stared; gazed; scowled, gluves, gloves, god-fearin', god-fearing, goin', going, gowk, cuckoo; fool; blockhead, gran', grand; capital; first-rate, gran'child, grandchild, gran'er, grander, gran'father, grandfather, grantin', granting, grâtis, free; gratuitous, greit, cry; weep, greitin', crying; weeping, grip, grasp; understand, grippin', gripping, grit, great, grit-gran'mother-tongue, great grandmother-tongue, groanin', groaning, growin', growing, grue, feeling of horror; tremor, also tremble gruntin', grunting, grup, grip; grasp, grutch, grudge, gude, good, also god gudeman, master; husband; head of household, also farmer gudewife, mistress of the house; wife, also farmer's wife guid, good, also god guidman, master; husband; head of household, also farmer guidwife, mistress of the house; wife, also farmer's wife gurly, threatening to be stormy, also growling; boisterous ha', have, also hall; house hadna, had not, hae, have; has, ha'e, have, haein', having, haena, have not, hae't, have it, haibitable, habitable, haill, whole, hailstanes, hailstones, haith!, faith!, exclamation of surprise halesome, wholesome; pure, half-ways, half; partly, hame, home, hame-like, like home, han', hand, handiwark, handiwork, handy, near by; close at hand, han'fu', handful, hangin', hanging, hangt, hanged, han'led, handled; treated, han'let, handled, han'lin', handling, han's, hands, han'some, handsome, hantle, much; large quantity; far, happed, happened, happent, happened, h'ard, heard, hardenin', hardening, hasna, does not have, hathenish, heathenish, haud, hold; keep, hauden, held; kept, haudin', holding; keeping, hauds, holds; keeps, haud's, hold us; keep us, also hold his; keep his h'aven, heaven, h'avenly, heavenly, h'avens, heavens, hawt, hawked; cleared the throat, also hesitated healin', healing, heap, very much, also heap hearin', hearing, hearken, hearken; hear; listen, hearkenin', hearkening; listening, hearkent, hearkened; heard; listened, hearkin', hearkening; listening, heels ower heid, topsy-turvy, heicher, higher, heid, head; heading, heids, heads; headings, heild, held, helpit, helped, herd, herd-boy; cow-boy, also herd herd-laddie, herd-boy; cow-boy, hermonious, harmonious, hermony, harmony, hersel', herself, hert, heart, hertbrak, heartbreak, hert-brak, heartbreak, hertily, heartily, herts, hearts, het, hot; burning, hidin', hiding, hielan's, highlands, himsel', himself, hin'er, hinder, hing, hang, hingin', hanging, hit, it, emphatic hiz, us, emphatic honourt, honoured, hoo, how, hooever, however, hoor, hour, hoose, house, hoosekeep, keep house, hoosekeeper, housekeeper, hoot, pshaw, exclamation of doubt or contempt hoots, pshaw, exclamation of doubt or contempt hose, stocking, houp, hope, houpless, hopeless, howk, dig; excavate, howkit, dug; excavated, howlin', howling, hoydenish, inelegantly, hue, look; appearance, hummt, stammered; spoke hesitatingly, also murmured hungert, starved, i', in; into, i doobt, i know; i suspect, ilk, every; each, also common; ordinary ilka, every; each, also common; ordinary ill, bad; evil; hard; harsh; badly, also misfortune; harm 'ill, will, ill-mainnert, ill-mannered, ill-pleast, not pleased; unhappy, ill-used, used wrongly, ill-usin', using wrongly, 'im, him, implorin', imploring, impruvt, improved, in the sulks, sullen, ineequities, iniquities, ingle-neuk, chimney-corner or recess; fireside, inquirin', inquiring, intendit, intended, intil, into; in; within, intil't, into it, inveesible, invisible, ir, are, isna, is not, is't, is it, i'stead, instead, ither, other; another; further, ithers, others, itherwise, otherwise, it'll, it will, itsel', itself, jaud, lass; girl; worthless woman, old worn-out horse jeally, jelly, jeedge, judge, jeedges, judges, jeedgment, judgement, j'in, join, jist, just, justifee, justify, justifeein', justifying, keek, look; peep; spy, keepin', keeping, keepit, kept, ken, know; be acquainted with; recognise, kenna, do not know, kenned, known; knew, kennin', knowing, kens, knows, kent, known; knew, killin', killing, kin, kind; nature; sort; agreeable, also somewhat; in some degree; kin kin', kind; nature; sort; agreeable, also somewhat; in some degree kin'ness, kindness, kirk, church, kirk-session, lowest presbyterian church court, oversees congregation kirk-time, time to go to church, kirkyard, churchyard, kissin', kissing, kist, chest; coffer; box; chest of drawers, knockin', knocking, knockit, knocked, lad, boy, term of commendation or reverence laddie, boy, term of affection laddies, boys, term of affection lads, boys, term of commendation or reverence laich, low; inferior, laichest, lowest, lairger, larger, laistit, lasted, laitin, latin, lan', land; country; ground, lane, lone; alone; lonely; solitary, lanely, lonely, lanesome, lonesome, lang, long; big; large; many, also slow; tedious langer, longer, lang's, long as, lan'lord, landlord, lass, girl; young woman, term of address lasses, girls; young women, lassie, girl, term of endearment lat, let; allow, latna, let not; do not let, lat's, let's; let us; let his, latten, let; allowed, lattin', letting; allowing, lauch, laugh, lauchin', laughing, lauchs, laughs, lave, rest; remainder; others, also leave laverock, lark (type of bird), lay't, lay it, lea', leave, learnin', learning, also teaching learnit, learned, learnt, learned, also taught leavin', leaving, leddy, lady, also boy; lad; laddy leddyship, ladyship, leeberty, liberty, lees, lies, leevin', living; living being, leevit, lived, len'th, length, leuch, laughed, ley, leave, licht, light, lichten, lighten, lichter, lighter, lichtest, lightest, lichtit, lighted, lichts, lights, lickin', thrashing; punishment, lift, load; boost; lift; helping hand, also sky; heavens liftin', lifting, liftit, lifted, like, like; likely to; looking as if to, also as it were; as if likin', liking, likit, liked, lines, any written or printed authorities, lippen, trust; depend on, also look after lippent, trusted; depended on, also looked after listenin', listening, livin', living, 'll, will, loaf-breid, wheaten loaf (of bread), lockit, locked, lodgin', lodging, lo'e, love, lo'ed, loved, lo'ein', loving, lo'es, loves, lo'in', loving, lood, loud, lookin', looking, lookit, looked, loot, let; allowed; permitted, losin', losing, lovesna, does not love, lowlan's, lowlands, lowse, loose; free, also dishonest; immoral ludgin', lodging, lugs, ears, luik, look, luikin', looking, luikit, looked, luiks, looks, luved, loved, lyin', lying, macker, maker; god, mainner, manner, mair, more; greater, mairch, march, maist, most; almost, 'maist, almost, maister, master; mister, maistly, mostly; most of all, maitter, matter, mak, make; do, makin', making; doing, makker, maker; god, maks, makes; does, manse, scottish minister's official residence, mattin', matting, maun, must; have to, maunna, must not; may not, mayna, may not, meanin', meaning, meenute, minute, meeserable, miserable, meetin', meeting, mem, ma'am; miss; madam, men', mend, men of gotham, wise men who play the fools, refers to an english fable men'in', mending; healing, men'it, mended; healed, mentiont, mentioned, merriet, married, merry, marry, also merry merryin', marrying, micht, might, michtna, might not, michty, mighty; god, mickle, great; big; much; abundant; very, also important; proud mids, midst; middle, min', mind; recollection, also recollect; remember minnie, mother; mommy, pet name minnisters, ministers, min's, minds; reminds; recollects, mirk, darkness; gloom; night, mirracle, miracle, mischance, misfortune; bad luck, mischeef, mischief; injury; harm, misdoobt, doubt; disbelieve; suspect, misguidit, wasted; mismanaged; ill-used, mistak, mistake, mither, mother, mither-tongue, mother-tongue, mononday, monday, mony, many, moo, mouth, moo', mouth, moo's, mouths, moose, mouse, mooth, mouth, mornin', morning, mouldy, dirty; soiled, muckle, huge; enormous; big; great; much, muir, moor; heath, munelicht, moonlight, m'untain, mountain, murdert, murdered, muvs, moves; affects, my lane, on my own, mysel', myself, na, not; by no means, nae, no; none; not, naebody, nobody; no one, naething, nothing, naither, neither, nait'ral, natural, nane, none, nat'ral, natural, natur, nature, natur', nature, nearhan', nearly; almost; near by, neb, tip; point; nib; beak, necessar', necessary, neebour, neighbour, neebours, neighbours, needsna, does not need to, neeper, neighbour, negleckit, neglected, neist, next; nearest, news, talk; gossip, nicht, night; evening, nigh, near; nearly, nip, smart; squeeze; bite; pinch, also cheat; steal no, not, no', not, noo, now, nor, than; although; if, also nor nowt, cattle; oxen, o', of; on, obeddience, obedience, obeyin', obeying, objec', object, observt, observed, occurrt, occurred, offerin', offering, ohn, without; un-, uses past participle not present progressive on a suddent, suddenly; all of a sudden, ony, any, onybody, anybody; anyone, onygait, anyway, onything, anything, onyw'y, anyway, oonbelief, unbelief, oondefent, undefended, oongratefu', ungrateful, oonholy, unholy, oonlikly, unlikely, oonseen, unseen, oor, our, oors, ours, oorsels, ourselves, oorsel's, ourselves, oot, out, ootside, outside, ootward, outward, open-hertit, open-hearted, openin', opening, oppresst, oppressed, or, before; ere; until; by, also or ordinar', ordinary; usual; natural, also custom; habit ord'nar, ordinary; usual; natural, also custom; habit ord'nar', ordinary; usual; natural, also custom; habit oucht, anything; all, also ought ouchtna, ought not, ow, oh, exclamation of surprise ower, over; upon; too, owerbeirin', overbearing, owercome, overcome; recover, ower's, over us; over his, ower't, over it, pack, property; belongings, pailace, palace, pairt, part, pairties, parties, pairts, parts, parin', paring; cutting off the surface, parritch, oatmeal porridge, partic'lar, particular, pat, put; made, pattren, pattern, peacefu', peaceful, pecooliar, peculiar, peety, pity, perris, parish, perswaud, persuade, pey, pay, peyin', paying, peyment, payment, peyt, paid, p'int, point, plack, the smallest coin, worth / of a penny plaguin', plaguing, plaister, plaster, playin', playing, pleasin', pleasing, pleast, pleased, pleasur, pleasure, pleesur, pleasure, pluckit, plucked, pooches, pockets, pooer, power, potterin', pottering, praist, praised, prayin', praying, preejudice, prejudice, preejudized, prejudiced, preevilege, privilege, prefar, prefer, prejudeese, prejudice, preparin', preparing, preshume, presume, press, wall-cupboard with shelves, presses, wall-cupboards with shelves, preten', pretend, prevailt, prevailed, prood, proud, protec', protect, providin', providing, prowlin', prowling, pu', pull, pu'd, pulled, pu'in', pulling, puir, poor, pullin', pulling, pu'pit, pulpit, pushin', pushing, putten, put, puttin', putting, quaiet, quiet, quaietly, quietly, queston, question, quo', swore; said; quoth, ragin', raging, raither, rather, rampaugin', rampaging, rattlin', rattling, readin', reading, rebukit, rebuked, recollec', recollect, reid, red, reivin', plundering; robbing, also roaming; straying remaint, remained, repentit, repented, resolvt, resolved, respec', respect, richt, right; correct, also mend richteous, righteous, richteousness, righteousness, richts, rights, rin, run, ringin', ringing, rinnin', running, rist, rest, rive, rent; tear; tug; wrench, rizzon, reason, rizzonable, reasonable, rizzons, reasons, roarin', roaring, ro'd, road; course; way, ro'd-side, roadside, romage, disturbance, romour, rumour, roomie, little room, diminutive roon', around; round, rouch, rough, rouchly, roughly, routit, bellowed; made a loud noise, also poked about; cleared out row, roll; wrap up; wind, rudimen's, rudiments, rum'lin's, rumblings, rute, root, 's, us; his; as; is, also has s', shall, sacrets, secrets, sae, so; as, saft, muddy; soft; silly; foolish, safter, muddier; softer; sillier, saidna, did not say, sair, sore; sorely; sad; hard; very; greatly, also serve sair-hertit, sad of heart, saitisfee, satisfy, sall, shall, sanct, saint, sarks, shirts, sattle, settle, sattlet, settled, sattlin, settling; deciding, savin', saving, also except sawbath, sabbath; sunday, sawbath-day, sabbath day; sunday, saxpence, sixpence, say, speech; saying; proverb, sayin', saying, scaret, scared, school-maister, schoolmaster, scriptur, scripture, scriptur', scripture, scunnert, disgusted; loathed, scushlin, slide; shuffle in walking, seein', seeing, seekin', seeking, seemile, simile, seemna, do not seem, seemt, seemed, seesna, does not see, see't, see it, sel', self, sellin', selling, semple, simple; of low birth, sen', send, sen'in', sending, servan', servant, servan's, servants, setna, do not set, setterday, saturday, settin', setting, shakin', shaking, shamefu', modest; shy; bashful, sharper, sharper; rougher; coarser, also more clever shaw, show; reveal, also grove shaws, shows, shelterin', sheltering, shillin', shilling, shillins, shillings, shiverin', shivering, shochle, shake about; joggle; stagger, shoothers, shoulders, shoots, shouts, shouldna, should not, shue, shoe, shuit, suit, shune, shoes, shutten, shut, sic, such; so; similar, sicht, sight, sichts, sights, siclike, suchlike; likewise, like such a person or thing sic-like, suchlike; likewise, like such a person or thing sidewise, sideways, siller, silver; money; wealth, simmer, summer, sin, since; ago; since then, also sin; sun sin', since; ago; since then, sittin', sitting, skean dhu, knife; dirk; short-sword, slaverin', slobbering; talking fast; flattering, sleepit, slept, sma', small; little; slight; narrow; young, sma'est, smallest; littlest; slightest; narrowest, smugglet, concealed; hid, sodger, soldier, some, somewhat; rather; quite; very, also some somewhaur, somewhere, soon', sound, soon's, sounds, soop, sweep; brush, sornin', taking food or lodging; sponging, taking by force of threat soucht, sought, sowl, soul, sowls, souls, spak, spoke, spang, leap; bound; spring; span, spark, speck; spot; blemish; atom, speakin', speaking, speakna, speak not; do not speak, speerit, spirit, speerits, spirits, speir, ask about; enquire; question, speiredna, did not ask about or enquire, speirin', asking about; enquiring; questioning, speirt, asked about; enquired; questioned, spellin', spelling, speyk, speak, speyks, speaks, spier, ask about; enquire; question, sp'ilt, spoiled, stair, stairs; staircase, stamack, stomach, stammert, staggered; stumbled; faltered, stan', stand; stop, stan'in, standing, stan'in', standing, stan's, stands, startit, started, stealin', stealing, steek, shut; close; clench, also stitch (as in clothing) steer, stir; disturbance; commotion; fuss, steik, shut; close; push, also stitch (as in clothing) stick, stick; gore; butt with horns, stickin', sticking; goring, stiles, gates; passages over a wall, stime, glimpse; glance; least particle, faintest form of an object stoot, stout; healthy; strong; plucky, stoppit, stopped, story-buik, storybook, strae, straw, straicht, straight, strak, struck, stramash, uproar; tumult; fuss; brawl, straucht, straighten; straight, stren'th, strength, stude, stood, sud, should, suddent, sudden; suddenly, sudna, should not, sune, soon; early, suner, sooner, sun'ert, sundered, supposin', supposing, sutors, shoemakers; cobblers, swarmin', swarming, sweir, swear, sweirin', swearing, swingin', swinging, syne, ago; since; then; at that time, also in (good) time 't, it, ta, to, tae, toe; also tea, also the one; to taen, taken; seized, ta'en, taken; seized, taibernacles, tabernacles, taich, teach, tak, take; seize, takin', taking, takna, do not take, taks, takes; seizes, taksna, does not take, talkin', talking, tane, the one, tanneree, tannery, tap, top; tip; head, taucht, taught, tauld, told, teep, type, teeps, types, teetin', peeping; stealing a glance, teetle, title, telled, told, tellin', telling, tellt, told, telt, told, ten'ency, tendency, ten'er, tender, ten'erest-hertit, most tender-hearted, thae, those; these, than, then, also than thankfu', thankful, thankfu'ness, thankfulness, thankit, thanked, the day, today, the morn, tomorrow, the morn's, tomorrow is, the nicht, tonight, the noo, just now; now, thegither, together, themsel's, themselves, thereawa', thereabouts; in that quarter, thinkin', thinking, thinkna, do not think, thinksna, does not think, this day week, in a week's time; a week from now, also a week ago this mony a day, for some time, thocht, thought, thoo, thou; you (god), thoucht, thought, thrashen, threshed, thraw, throw; turn; twist, threid, thread, threip, argue obstinately, also maintain by dint of assertion thro't, throat, throttlin', throttling, throu', through, throuw, through, til, to; till; until; about; at; before, till's, to his; to us, til's, to his; to us, til't, to it; at it, timorsome, timorous; fearful; nervous, tither, the other, tod, fox, toddlin', toddling; walking unsteadily, toon, town; village, toon-fowk, town folk; city folk, toons, towns; villages, toor, tower, toot-moot, low muttering conversation, touchin', touching, traivel, travel, traivellin', travelling, traivels, travels, traivelt, travelled, tramp, trudge, also tramp transplantit, transplanted, travellin', travelling, treatin', treating, trem'lin', trembling, tre't, treat, trible, trouble, tribled, troubled, triblet, troubled, trimlin', trembling, trim'lin', trembling, troth, truth; indeed, also used as an exclamation trowth, truth; indeed, also used as an exclamation trustit, trusted, tryin', trying, 'tsel', itself, tu, too; also, tuik, took, turnin', turning, turnpike-stair, narrow spiral staircase, turnt, turned, twa, two; a few, twalmonth, twelvemonth; year, twasome, couple; pair, twise, twice, unco, unknown; odd; strange; uncouth, also very great unco', unknown; odd; strange; uncouth, also very great un'erstan', understand, un'erstan'in, understanding, un'erstan'in', understanding, un'erstan's, understands, un'erstan't, understood, unlockit, unlocked, up the stair, upstairs, also to heaven upbringin', upbringing, uphaud, uphold; maintain; support, upo', upon; on to; at, upsettin', forward; ambitious; stuck-up; proud, uttert, uttered, varily, verily; truly, varra, very, veesitation, visitation, veesitin', visiting, veesitit, visited, veesits, visits, verra, very; true; real, v'ice, voice, vooed, vowed, wa', wall, also way; away wad, would, wadna, would not, waitin', waiting, waitit, waited, wan'erin', wandering, wantin', wanting; lacking; without; in want of, wantit, wanted, war, were, wark, work; labour, warkin', working, warklessness, inability to work, warks, works, warl', world; worldly goods, also a large number warl's, worlds, warna, were not, warnin', warning, warran', warrant; guarantee, warst, worst, warstle, wrestle, wa's, walls, also ways wasna, was not, was't, was it, wastena, do not waste, watter, water, wauges, wages, wauk, wake, waukin', waking, waukit, woke, waur, worse, also spend money wawves, waves, wayfarin', wayfaring, weather-cock, place where criminals were kept, refers to churchsteeple weddin', wedding, wee, small; little; bit, also short time; while weel, well; fine, weel-behavet, well-behaved, weel-kent, well-known; familiar, weel's, well as, weicht, weight, weir, wear, also hedge; fence; enclosure weirer, wearer, wha, who, whaever, whoever, whan, when, wha's, who is, also whose whase, whose, what for no?, why not?, what for?, why?, whate'er, whatever, whauls, whales, whaur, where, whaurat, wherefore, whaurever, wherever, whauron, whereon, whause, whose, wheen, little; few; number; quantity, whiles, sometimes; at times; now and then, whilk, which, whustlin', whistling, wi', with, willin', willing, win, reach; gain; get; go; come, win', wind, winna, will not, winnin', reaching; gaining; getting, win's, winds, winsome, large; comely; merry, wi'oot, without, withoot, without, won, reached; gained; got, wonderin', wondering, won'er, wonder; marvel, won'erfu', wonderful; great; large, won'erin', wondering, woo', wool, workin', working, worryin', worrying, wouldna, would not, wow, woe, exclamation of wonder or grief or satisfaction wrang, wrong; injured, wranged, wronged, wrangs, wrongs, wrangt, wronged, wringin', wringing, writin', writing, wud, wood; forest, adj.-enraged; angry; also would wudna, would not; will not, wull, will; wish; desire, also astray; stray; wild wullin', willing; wanting, wullin'ly, willingly, wulls, wills; wishes; desires, wuman, woman, wur, lay out, also were wuss, wish, w'y, way, wynds, narrow lanes or streets; alleys, w'ys, ways, wyte, blame; reproach; fault, ye, you; yourself, year, years, also year ye'll, you will, yer, your, yerd, yard; garden, ye're, you are, yerl, earl, yersel', yourself, yon, that; those; that there; these, yon'er, yonder; over there; in that place, yon's, that is; that (thing) there is, yoong, young, yoonger, younger, yoongest, youngest, zacchay, zaccheus, see luke in the closed room by frances hodgson burnett author of little lord fauntleroy and the little princess illustrations by jessie willcox smith list of illustrations the playing today was even a lovelier, happier thing than it had ever been before . . . . frontispiece she often sat curving her small long fingers backward they gazed as if they had known each other for ages of years "come and play with me" she must go and stand at the door and press her cheek against the wood and wait--and listen she began to mount the stairs which led to the upper floors the ledge of the window was so low that a mere step took her outside "i'm going up to play with the little girl, mother . . . you don't mind, do you?" part one in the fierce airless heat of the small square room the child judith panted as she lay on her bed. her father and mother slept near her, drowned in the heavy slumber of workers after their day's labour. some people in the next flat were quarrelling, irritated probably by the appalling heat and their miserable helplessness against it. all the hot emanations of the sun-baked city streets seemed to combine with their clamour and unrest, and rise to the flat in which the child lay gazing at the darkness. it was situated but a few feet from the track of the elevated railroad and existence seemed to pulsate to the rush and roar of the demon which swept past the windows every few minutes. no one knew that judith held the thing in horror, but it was a truth that she did. she was only seven years old, and at that age it is not easy to explain one's self so that older people can understand. she could only have said, "i hate it. it comes so fast. it is always coming. it makes a sound as if thunder was quite close. i can never get away from it." the children in the other flats rather liked it. they hung out of the window perilously to watch it thunder past and to see the people who crowded it pressed close together in the seats, standing in the aisles, hanging on to the straps. sometimes in the evening there were people in it who were going to the theatre, and the women and girls were dressed in light colours and wore hats covered with white feathers and flowers. at such times the children were delighted, and judith used to hear the three in the next flat calling out to each other, "that's my lady! that's my lady! that one's mine!" judith was not like the children in the other flats. she was a frail, curious creature, with silent ways and a soft voice and eyes. she liked to play by herself in a corner of the room and to talk to herself as she played. no one knew what she talked about, and in fact no one inquired. her mother was always too busy. when she was not making men's coats by the score at the whizzing sewing machine, she was hurriedly preparing a meal which was always in danger of being late. there was the breakfast, which might not be ready in time for her husband to reach his "shop" when the whistle blew; there was the supper, which might not be in time to be in waiting for him when he returned in the evening. the midday meal was a trifling matter, needing no special preparation. one ate anything one could find left from supper or breakfast. judith's relation to her father and mother was not a very intimate one. they were too hard worked to have time for domestic intimacies, and a feature of their acquaintance was that though neither of them was sufficiently articulate to have found expression for the fact--the young man and woman felt the child vaguely remote. their affection for her was tinged with something indefinitely like reverence. she had been a lovely baby with a peculiar magnolia whiteness of skin and very large, sweetly smiling eyes of dark blue, fringed with quite black lashes. she had exquisite pointed fingers and slender feet, and though mr. and mrs. foster were--perhaps fortunately--unaware of it, she had been not at all the baby one would have expected to come to life in a corner of the hive of a workman's flat a few feet from the elevated railroad. "seems sometimes as if somehow she couldn't be mine," mrs. foster said at times. "she ain't like me, an' she ain't like jem foster, lord knows. she ain't like none of either of our families i've ever heard of--'ceptin' it might be her aunt hester--but she died long before i was born. i've only heard mother tell about her. she was a awful pretty girl. mother said she had that kind of lily-white complexion and long slender fingers that was so supple she could curl 'em back like they was double-jointed. her eyes was big and had eyelashes that stood out round 'em, but they was brown. mother said she wasn't like any other kind of girl, and she thinks judith may turn out like her. she wasn't but fifteen when she died. she never was ill in her life--but one morning she didn't come down to breakfast, and when they went up to call her, there she was sittin' at her window restin' her chin on her hand, with her face turned up smilin' as if she was talkin' to some one. the doctor said it had happened hours before, when she had come to the window to look at the stars. easy way to go, wasn't it?" judith had heard of her aunt hester, but she only knew that she herself had hands like her and that her life had ended when she was quite young. mrs. foster was too much occupied by the strenuousness of life to dwell upon the passing of souls. to her the girl hester seemed too remote to appear quite real. the legends of her beauty and unlikeness to other girls seemed rather like a sort of romance. as she was not aware that judith hated the elevated railroad, so she was not aware that she was fond of the far away aunt hester with the long-pointed fingers which could curl backwards. she did not know that when she was playing in her corner of the room, where it was her way to sit on her little chair with her face turned towards the wall, she often sat curving her small long fingers backward and talking to herself about aunt hester. but this--as well as many other things--was true. it was not secretiveness which caused the child to refrain from speaking of certain things. she herself could not have explained the reasons for her silence; also it had never occurred to her that explanation and reasons were necessary. her mental attitude was that of a child who, knowing a certain language, does not speak it to those who have never heard and are wholly ignorant of it. she knew her aunt hester as her mother did not. she had seen her often in her dreams and had a secret fancy that she could dream of her when she wished to do so. she was very fond of dreaming of her. the places where she came upon aunt hester were strange and lovely places where the air one breathed smelled like flowers and everything was lovely in a new way, and when one moved one felt so light that movement was delightful, and when one wakened one had not quite got over the lightness and for a few moments felt as if one would float out of bed. the healthy, vigourous young couple who were the child's parents were in a healthy, earthly way very fond of each other. they had made a genuine love match and had found it satisfactory. the young mechanic jem foster had met the young shop-girl jane hardy, at coney island one summer night and had become at once enamoured of her shop-girl good looks and high spirits. they had married as soon as jem had had the "raise" he was anticipating and had from that time lived with much harmony in the flat building by which the elevated train rushed and roared every few minutes through the day and a greater part of the night. they themselves did not object to the "elevated"; jem was habituated to uproar in the machine shop, in which he spent his days, and jane was too much absorbed in the making of men's coats by the dozens to observe anything else. the pair had healthy appetites and slept well after their day's work, hearty supper, long cheerful talk, and loud laughter over simple common joking. "she's a queer little fish, judy," jane said to her husband as they sat by the open window one night, jem's arm curved comfortably around the young woman's waist as he smoked his pipe. "what do you think she says to me to-night after i put her to bed?" "search me!" said jem oracularly. jane laughed. "'why,' she says, 'i wish the elevated train would stop.' "'why?' says i. "'i want to go to sleep,' says she. 'i'm going to dream of aunt hester.'" "what does she know about her aunt hester," said jem. "who's been talkin' to her?" "not me," jane said. "she don't know nothing but what she's picked up by chance. i don't believe in talkin' to young ones about dead folks. 'tain't healthy." "that's right," said jem. "children that's got to hustle about among live folks for a livin' best keep their minds out of cemeteries. but, hully gee, what a queer thing for a young one to say." "and that ain't all," jane went on, her giggle half amused, half nervous. "'but i don't fall asleep when i see aunt hester,' says she. 'i fall awake. it's more awake there than here.' "'where?' says i, laughing a bit, though it did make me feel queer. "'i don't know' she says in that soft little quiet way of hers. 'there.' and not another thing could i get out of her." on the hot night through whose first hours judith lay panting in her corner of the room, tormented and kept awake by the constant roar and rush and flash of lights, she was trying to go to sleep in the hope of leaving all the heat and noise and discomfort behind, and reaching aunt hester. if she could fall awake she would feel and hear none of it. it would all be unreal and she would know that only the lightness and the air like flowers and the lovely brightness were true. once, as she tossed on her cot-bed, she broke into a low little laugh to think how untrue things really were and how strange it was that people did not understand--that even she felt as she lay in the darkness that she could not get away. and she could not get away unless the train would stop just long enough to let her fall asleep. if she could fall asleep between the trains, she would not awaken. but they came so quickly one after the other. her hair was damp as she pushed it from her forehead, the bed felt hot against her skin, the people in the next flat quarreled more angrily, judith heard a loud slap, and then the woman began to cry. she was a young married woman, scarcely more than a girl. her marriage had not been as successful as that of judith's parents. both husband and wife had irritable tempers. through the thin wall judith could hear the girl sobbing angrily as the man flung himself out of bed, put on his clothes and went out, banging the door after him. "she doesn't know," the child whispered eerily, "that it isn't real at all." there was in her strange little soul a secret no one knew the existence of. it was a vague belief that she herself was not quite real--or that she did not belong to the life she had been born into. her mother and father loved her and she loved them, but sometimes she was on the brink of telling them that she could not stay long--that some mistake had been made. what mistake--or where was she to go to if she went, she did not know. she used to catch her breath and stop herself and feel frightened when she had been near speaking of this fantastic thing. but the building full of workmen's flats, the hot room, the elevated railroad, the quarrelling people, were all a mistake. just once or twice in her life she had seen places and things which did not seem so foreign. once, when she had been taken to the park in the spring, she had wandered away from her mother to a sequestered place among shrubs and trees, all waving tender, new pale green, with the leaves a few early hot days had caused to rush out and tremble unfurled. there had been a stillness there and scents and colours she knew. a bird had come and swung upon a twig quite near her and, looking at her with bright soft full eyes, had sung gently to her, as if he were speaking. a squirrel had crept up onto her lap and had not moved when she stroked it. its eyes had been full and soft also, and she knew it understood that she could not hurt it. there was no mistake in her being among the new fair greenness, and the woodland things who spoke to her. they did not use words, but no words were needed. she knew what they were saying. when she had pushed her way through the greenness of the shrubbery to the driveway she had found herself quite near to an open carriage, which had stopped because the lady who sat in it was speaking to a friend on the path. she was a young woman, dressed in delicate spring colours, and the little girl at her side was dressed in white cloth, and it was at the little girl judith found herself gazing. under her large white hat and feathers her little face seemed like a white flower. she had a deep dimple near her mouth. her hair was a rich coppery red and hung heavy and long about her cheeks and shoulders. she lifted her head a little when the child in the common hat and frock pressed through the greenness of the bushes and she looked at judith just as the bird and the squirrel had looked at her. they gazed as if they had known each other for ages of years and were separated by nothing. each of them was quite happy at being near the other, and there was not in the mind of either any question of their not being near each other again. the question did not rise in judith's mind even when in a very few minutes the carriage moved away and was lost in the crowd of equipages rolling by. at the hottest hours of the hot night judith recalled to herself the cool of that day. she brought back the fresh pale greenness of the nook among the bushes into which she had forced her way, the scent of the leaves and grass which she had drawn in as she breathed, the nearness in the eyes of the bird, the squirrel, and the child. she smiled as she thought of these things, and as she continued to remember yet other things, bit by bit, she felt less hot--she gradually forgot to listen for the roar of the train--she smiled still more--she lay quite still--she was cool--a tiny fresh breeze fluttered through the window and played about her forehead. she was smiling in soft delight as her eyelids drooped and closed. "i am falling awake," she was murmuring as her lashes touched her cheek. perhaps when her eyes closed the sultriness of the night had changed to the momentary freshness of the turning dawn, and the next hour or so was really cooler. she knew no more heat but slept softly, deeply, long--or it seemed to her afterwards that she had slept long--as if she had drifted far away in dreamless peace. she remembered no dream, saw nothing, felt nothing until, as it seemed to her, in the early morning, she opened her eyes. all was quite still and clear--the air of the room was pure and sweet. there was no sound anywhere and, curiously enough, she was not surprised by this, nor did she expect to hear anything disturbing. she did not look round the room. her eyes remained resting upon what she first saw--and she was not surprised by this either. a little girl about her own age was standing smiling at her. she had large eyes, a deep dimple near her mouth, and coppery red hair which fell about her cheeks and shoulders. judith knew her and smiled back at her. she lifted her hand--and it was a pure white little hand with long tapering fingers. "come and play with me," she said--though judith heard no voice while she knew what she was saying. "come and play with me." then she was gone, and in a few seconds judith was awake, the air of the room had changed, the noise and clatter of the streets came in at the window, and the elevated train went thundering by. judith did not ask herself how the child had gone or how she had come. she lay still, feeling undisturbed by everything and smiling as she had smiled in her sleep. while she sat at the breakfast table she saw her mother looking at her curiously. "you look as if you'd slept cool instead of hot last night," she said. "you look better than you did yesterday. you're pretty well, ain't you, judy?" judith's smile meant that she was quite well, but she said nothing about her sleeping. the heat did not disturb her through the day, though the hours grew hotter and hotter as they passed. jane foster, sweltering at her machine, was obliged to stop every few minutes to wipe the beads from her face and neck. sometimes she could not remain seated, but got up panting to drink water and fan herself with a newspaper. "i can't stand much more of this," she kept saying. "if there don't come a thunderstorm to cool things off i don't know what i'll do. this room's about five hundred." but the heat grew greater and the elevated trains went thundering by. when jem came home from his work his supper was not ready. jane was sitting helplessly by the window, almost livid in her pallor. the table was but half spread. "hullo," said jem; "it's done you up, ain't it?" "well, i guess it has," good-naturedly, certain of his sympathy. "but i'll get over it presently, and then i can get you a cold bite. i can't stand over the stove and cook." "hully gee, a cold bite's all a man wants on a night like this. hot chops'd give him the jim-jams. but i've got good news for you--it's cheered me up myself." jane lifted her head from the chair back. "what is it?" "well, it came through my boss. he's always been friendly to me. he asks a question or so every now and then and seems to take an interest. to-day he was asking me if it wasn't pretty hot and noisy down here, and after i told him how we stood it, he said he believed he could get us a better place to stay in through the summer. some one he knows has had illness and trouble in his family and he's obliged to close his house and take his wife away into the mountains. they've got a beautiful big house in one of them far up streets by the park and he wants to get caretakers in that can come well recommended. the boss said he could recommend us fast enough. and there's a big light basement that'll be as cool as the woods. and we can move in to-morrow. and all we've got to do is to see that things are safe and live happy." "oh, jem!" jane ejaculated. "it sounds too good to be true! up by the park! a big cool place to live!" "we've none of us ever been in a house the size of it. you know what they look like outside, and they say they're bigger than they look. it's your business to go over the rooms every day or so to see nothing's going wrong in them--moths or dirt, i suppose. it's all left open but just one room they've left locked and don't want interfered with. i told the boss i thought the basement would seem like the waldorf-astoria to us. i tell you i was so glad i scarcely knew what to say." jane drew a long breath. "a big house up there," she said. "and only one closed room in it. it's too good to be true!" "well, whether it's true or not we'll move out there to-morrow," jem answered cheerfully. "to-morrow morning bright and early. the boss said the sooner the better." a large house left deserted by those who have filled its rooms with emotions and life, expresses a silence, a quality all its own. a house unfurnished and empty seems less impressively silent. the fact of its devoidness of sound is upon the whole more natural. but carpets accustomed to the pressure of constantly passing feet, chairs and sofas which have held human warmth, draperies used to the touch of hands drawing them aside to let in daylight, pictures which have smiled back at thinking eyes, mirrors which have reflected faces passing hourly in changing moods, elate or dark or longing, walls which have echoed back voices--all these things when left alone seem to be held in strange arrest, as if by some spell intensifying the effect of the pause in their existence. the child judith felt this deeply throughout the entirety of her young being. "how still it is," she said to her mother the first time they went over the place together. "well, it seems still up here--and kind of dead," jane foster replied with her habitual sociable half-laugh. "but seems to me it always feels that way in a house people's left. it's cheerful enough down in that big basement with all the windows open. we can sit in that room they've had fixed to play billiards in. we shan't hurt nothing. we can keep the table and things covered up. tell you, judy, this'll be different from last summer. the park ain't but a few steps away an' we can go and sit there too when we feel like it. talk about the country--i don't want no more country than this is. you'll be made over the months we stay here." judith felt as if this must veritably be a truth. the houses on either side of the street were closed for the summer. their occupants had gone to the seaside or the mountains and the windows and doors were boarded up. the street was a quiet one at any time, and wore now the aspect of a street in a city of the dead. the green trees of the park were to be seen either gently stirring or motionless in the sun at the side of the avenue crossing the end of it. the only token of the existence of the elevated railroad was a remote occasional hum suggestive of the flying past of a giant bee. the thing seemed no longer a roaring demon, and judith scarcely recognized that it was still the centre of the city's rushing, heated life. the owners of the house had evidently deserted it suddenly. the windows had not been boarded up and the rooms had been left in their ordinary condition. the furniture was not covered or the hangings swathed. jem foster had been told that his wife must put things in order. the house was beautiful and spacious, its decorations and appointments were not mere testimonies to freedom of expenditure, but expressions of a dignified and cultivated thought. judith followed her mother from room to room in one of her singular moods. the loftiness of the walls, the breadth and space about her made her, at intervals, draw in her breath with pleasure. the pictures, the colours, the rich and beautiful textures she saw brought to her the free--and at the same time soothed--feeling she remembered as the chief feature of the dreams in which she "fell awake." but beyond all other things she rejoiced in the height and space, the sweep of view through one large room into another. she continually paused and stood with her face lifted looking up at the pictured things floating on a ceiling above her. once, when she had stood doing this long enough to forget herself, she was startled by her mother's laugh, which broke in upon the silence about them with a curiously earthly sound which was almost a shock. "wake up, judy; have you gone off in a dream? you look all the time as if you was walking in your sleep." "it's so high," said judy. "those clouds make it look like the sky." "i've got to set these chairs straight," said jane. "looks like they'd been havin' a concert here. all these chairs together an' that part of the room clear." she began to move the chairs and rearrange them, bustling about cheerfully and talking the while. presently she stooped to pick something up. "what's this," she said, and then uttered a startled exclamation. "mercy! they felt so kind of clammy they made me jump. they have had a party. here's some of the flowers left fallen on the carpet." she held up a cluster of wax-white hyacinths and large heavy rosebuds, faded to discoloration. "this has dropped out of some set piece. it felt like cold flesh when i first touched it. i don't like a lot of white things together. they look too kind of mournful. just go and get the wastepaper basket in the library, judy. we'll carry it around to drop things into. take that with you." judith carried the flowers into the library and bent to pick up the basket as she dropped them into it. as she raised her head she found her eyes looking directly into other eyes which gazed at her from the wall. they were smiling from the face of a child in a picture. as soon as she saw them judith drew in her breath and stood still, smiling, too, in response. the picture was that of a little girl in a floating white frock. she had a deep dimple at one corner of her mouth, her hanging hair was like burnished copper, she held up a slender hand with pointed fingers and judith knew her. oh! she knew her quite well. she had never felt so near any one else throughout her life. "judy, judy!" jane foster called out. "come here with your basket; what you staying for?" judith returned to her. "we've got to get a move on," said jane, "or we shan't get nothin' done before supper time. what was you lookin' at?" "there's a picture in there of a little girl i know," judith said. "i don't know her name, but i saw her in the park once and--and i dreamed about her." "dreamed about her? if that ain't queer. well, we've got to hurry up. here's some more of them dropped flowers. give me the basket." they went through the whole house together, from room to room, up the many stairs, from floor to floor, and everywhere judith felt the curious stillness and silence. it can not be doubted that jane foster felt it also. "it is the stillest house i was ever in," she said. "i'm glad i've got you with me, judy. if i was sole alone i believe it 'ud give me the creeps. these big places ought to have big families in them." it was on the fourth floor that they came upon the closed room. jane had found some of the doors shut and some open, but a turn of the handle gave entrance through all the unopened ones until they reached this one at the back on the fourth floor. "this one won't open," jane said, when she tried the handle. then she shook it once or twice. "no, it's locked," she decided after an effort or two. "there, i've just remembered. there's one kept locked. folks always has things they want locked up. i'll make sure, though." she shook it, turned the handle, shook again, pressed her knee against the panel. the lock resisted all effort. "yes, this is the closed one," she made up her mind. "it's locked hard and fast. it's the closed one." it was logically proved to be the closed one by the fact that she found no other one locked as she finished her round of the chambers. judith was a little tired before they had done their work. but her wandering pilgrimage through the large, silent, deserted house had been a revelation of new emotions to her. she was always a silent child. her mind was so full of strange thoughts that it seemed unnecessary to say many words. the things she thought as she followed her from room to room, from floor to floor, until they reached the locked door, would have amazed and puzzled jane foster if she had known of their existence. most of all, perhaps, she would have been puzzled by the effect the closed door had upon the child. it puzzled and bewildered judith herself and made her feel a little weary. she wanted so much to go into the room. without in the least understanding the feeling, she was quite shaken by it. it seemed as if the closing of all the other rooms would have been a small matter in comparison with the closing of this one. there was something inside which she wanted to see--there was something--somehow there was something which wanted to see her. what a pity that the door was locked! why had it been done? she sighed unconsciously several times during the evening, and jane foster thought she was tired. "but you'll sleep cool enough to-night, judy," she said. "and get a good rest. them little breezes that comes rustling through the trees in the park comes right along the street to us." she and jem foster slept well. they spent the evening in the highest spirits and--as it seemed to them--the most luxurious comfort. the space afforded them by the big basement, with its kitchen and laundry and pantry, and, above all, the specially large room which had been used for billiard playing, supplied actual vistas. for the sake of convenience and coolness they used the billiard room as a dormitory, sleeping on light cots, and they slept with all their windows open, the little breezes wandering from among the trees of the park to fan them. how they laughed and enjoyed themselves over their supper, and how they stretched themselves out with sighs of joy in the darkness as they sank into the cool, untroubled waters of deep sleep. "this is about the top notch," jem murmured as he lost his hold on the world of waking life and work. but though she was cool, though she was undisturbed, though her body rested in absolute repose, judith did not sleep for a long time. she lay and listened to the quietness. there was mystery in it. the footstep of a belated passer-by in the street woke strange echoes; a voice heard in the distance in a riotous shout suggested weird things. and as she lay and listened, it was as if she were not only listening but waiting for something. she did not know at all what she was waiting for, but waiting she was. she lay upon her cot with her arms flung out and her eyes wide open. what was it that she wanted--that which was in the closed room? why had they locked the door? if they had locked the doors of the big parlours it would not have mattered. if they had locked the door of the library--her mind paused--as if for a moment, something held it still. then she remembered that to have locked the doors of the library would have been to lock in the picture of the child with the greeting look in her eyes and the fine little uplifted hand. she was glad the room had been left open. but the room up-stairs--the one on the fourth floor--that was the one that mattered most of all. she knew that to-morrow she must go and stand at the door and press her cheek against the wood and wait--and listen. thinking this and knowing that it must be so, she fell--at last--asleep. part two judith climbed the basement stairs rather slowly. her mother was busy rearranging the disorder the hastily departing servants had left. their departure had indeed been made in sufficient haste to have left behind the air of its having been flight. there was a great deal to be done, and jane foster, moving about with broom and pail and scrubbing brushes, did not dislike the excitement of the work before her. judith's certainty that she would not be missed made all clear before her. if her absence was observed her mother would realize that the whole house lay open to her and that she was an undisturbing element wheresoever she was led either by her fancy or by circumstance. if she went into the parlours she would probably sit and talk to herself or play quietly with her shabby doll. in any case she would be finding pleasure of her own and would touch nothing which could be harmed. when the child found herself in the entrance hall she stopped a few moments to look about her. the stillness seemed to hold her and she paused to hear and feel it. in leaving the basement behind, she had left the movement of living behind also. no one was alive upon this floor--nor upon the next--nor the next. it was as if one had entered a new world--a world in which something existed which did not express itself in sound or in things which one could see. chairs held out their arms to emptiness--cushions were not pressed by living things--only the people in the pictures were looking at something, but one could not tell what they were looking at. but on the fourth floor was the closed room, which she must go to--because she must go to it--that was all she knew. she began to mount the stairs which led to the upper floors. her shabby doll was held against her hip by one arm, her right hand touched the wall as she went, she felt the height of the wall as she looked upward. it was such a large house and so empty. where had the people gone and why had they left it all at once as if they were afraid? her father had only heard vaguely that they had gone because they had had trouble. she passed the second floor, the third, and climbed towards the fourth. she could see the door of the closed room as she went up step by step, and she found herself moving more quickly. yes, she must get to it--she must put her hand on it--her chest began to rise and fall with a quickening of her breath, and her breath quickened because her heart fluttered--as if with her haste. she began to be glad, and if any one could have seen her they would have been struck by a curious expectant smile in her eyes. she reached the landing and crossed it, running the last few steps lightly. she did not wait or stand still a moment. with the strange expectant smile on her lips as well as in her eyes, she put her hand upon the door--not upon the handle, but upon the panel. without any sound it swung quietly open. and without any sound she stepped quietly inside. the room was rather large and the light in it was dim. there were no shutters, but the blinds were drawn down. judith went to one of the windows and drew its blind up so that the look of the place might be clear to her. there were two windows and they opened upon the flat roof of an extension, which suggested somehow that it had been used as a place to walk about in. this, at least, was what judith thought of at once--that some one who had used the room had been in the habit of going out upon the roof and staying there as if it had been a sort of garden. there were rows of flower pots with dead flowers in them--there were green tubs containing large shrubs, which were dead also--against the low parapet certain of them held climbing plants which had been trained upon it. two had been climbing roses, two were clematis, but judith did not know them by name. the ledge of the window was so low that a mere step took her outside. so taking it, she stood among the dried, withered things and looked in tender regret at them. "i wish they were not dead," she said softly to the silence. "it would be like a garden if they were not dead." the sun was hot, but a cool, little breeze seemed straying up from among the trees of the park. it even made the dried leaves of the flowers tremble and rustle a little. involuntarily she lifted her face to the blue sky and floating white clouds. they seemed so near that she felt almost as if she could touch them with her hand. the street seemed so far--so far below--the whole world seemed far below. if one stepped off the parapet it would surely take one a long time to reach the earth. she knew now why she had come up here. it was so that she might feel like this--as if she was upheld far away from things--as if she had left everything behind--almost as if she had fallen awake again. there was no perfume in the air, but all was still and sweet and clear. suddenly she turned and went into the room again, realizing that she had scarcely seen it at all and that she must see and know it. it was not like any other room she had seen. it looked more simple, though it was a pretty place. the walls were covered with roses, there were bright pictures, and shelves full of books. there was also a little writing desk and there were two or three low chairs, and a low table. a closet in a corner had its door ajar and judith could see that inside toys were piled together. in another corner a large doll's house stood, looking as if some one had just stopped playing with it. some toy furniture had been taken out and left near it upon the carpet. "it was a little girl's room," judith said. "why did they close it?" her eye was caught by something lying on a sofa--something covered with a cloth. it looked almost like a child lying there asleep--so fast asleep that it did not stir at all. judith moved across to the sofa and drew the cloth aside. with its head upon a cushion was lying there a very large doll, beautifully dressed in white lace, its eyes closed, and a little wreath of dead flowers in its hair. "it looks almost as if it had died too," said judith. she did not ask herself why she said "as if it had died too"--perhaps it was because the place was so still--and everything so far away--that the flowers had died in the strange, little deserted garden on the roof. she did not hear any footsteps--in fact, no ghost of a sound stirred the silence as she stood looking at the doll's sleep--but quite quickly she ceased to bend forward, and turned round to look at something which she knew was near her. there she was--and it was quite natural she should be there--the little girl with the face like a white flower, with the quantity of burnished coppery hair and the smile which deepened the already deep dimple near her mouth. "you have come to play with me," she said. "yes," answered judith. "i wanted to come all night. i could not stay down-stairs." "no," said the child; "you can't stay down-stairs. lift up the doll." they began to play as if they had spent their lives together. neither asked the other any questions. judith had not played with other children, but with this one she played in absolute and lovely delight. the little girl knew where all the toys were, and there were a great many beautiful ones. she told judith where to find them and how to arrange them for their games. she invented wonderful things to do--things which were so unlike anything judith had ever seen or heard or thought of that it was not strange that she realized afterwards that all her past life and its belongings had been so forgotten as to be wholly blotted out while she was in the closed room. she did not know her playmate's name, she did not remember that there were such things as names. every moment was happiness. every moment the little girl seemed to grow more beautiful in the flower whiteness of her face and hands and the strange lightness and freedom of her movements. there was an ecstasy in looking at her--in feeling her near. not long before judith went down-stairs she found herself standing with her outside the window in among the withered flowers. "it was my garden," the little girl said. "it has been so hot and no one has been near to water them, so they could not live." she went lightly to one of the brown rose-bushes and put her pointed-fingered little hand quite near it. she did not touch it, but held her hand near--and the leaves began to stir and uncurl and become fresh and tender again, and roses were nodding, blooming on the stems. and she went in the same manner to each flower and plant in turn until all the before dreary little garden was bright and full of leaves and flowers. "it's life," she said to judith. judith nodded and smiled back at her, understanding quite well just as she had understood the eyes of the bird who had swung on the twig so near her cheek the day she had hidden among the bushes in the park. "now, you must go," the little girl said at last. and judith went out of the room at once--without waiting or looking back, though she knew the white figure did not stir till she was out of sight. it was not until she had reached the second floor that the change came upon her. it was a great change and a curious one. the closed room became as far away as all other places and things had seemed when she had stood upon the roof feeling the nearness of the blueness and the white clouds--as when she had looked round and found herself face to face with the child in the closed room. she suddenly realized things she had not known before. she knew that she had heard no voice when the little girl spoke to her--she knew that it had happened, that it was she only who had lifted the doll--who had taken out the toys--who had arranged the low table for their feast, putting all the small service upon it--and though they had played with such rapturous enjoyment and had laughed and feasted--what had they feasted on? that she could not recall--and not once had she touched or been touched by the light hand or white dress--and though they seemed to express their thoughts and intentions freely she had heard no voice at all. she was suddenly bewildered and stood rubbing her hand over her forehead and her eyes--but she was happy--as happy as when she had fallen awake in her sleep--and was no more troubled or really curious than she would have been if she had had the same experience every day of her life. "well, you must have been having a good time playing up-stairs," jane foster said when she entered the big kitchen. "this is going to do you good, judy. looks like she'd had a day in the country, don't she, jem?" through the weeks that followed her habit of "playing up-stairs" was accepted as a perfectly natural thing. no questions were asked and she knew it was not necessary to enter into any explanations. every day she went to the door of the closed room and, finding it closed, at a touch of her hand upon the panel it swung softly open. there she waited--sometimes for a longer sometimes for a shorter time--and the child with the coppery hair came to her. the world below was gone as soon as she entered the room, and through the hours they played together joyously as happy children play. but in their playing it was always judith who touched the toys--who held the doll---who set the little table for their feast. once as she went down-stairs she remembered that when she had that day made a wreath of roses from the roof and had gone to put it on her playmate's head, she had drawn back with deepened dimple and, holding up her hand, had said, laughing: "no. do not touch me." but there was no mystery in it after all. judith knew she should presently understand. she was so happy that her happiness lived in her face in a sort of delicate brilliance. jane foster observed the change in her with exceeding comfort, her view being that spacious quarters, fresh air, and sounder sleep had done great things for her. "them big eyes of hers ain't like no other child's eyes i've ever seen," she said to her husband with cheerful self-gratulation. "an' her skin's that fine an' thin an' fair you can jest see through it. she always looks to me as if she was made out of different stuff from me an' you, jem. i've always said it." "she's going to make a corking handsome girl," responded jem with a chuckle. they had been in the house two months, when one afternoon, as she was slicing potatoes for supper, jane looked round to see the child standing at the kitchen doorway, looking with a puzzled expression at some wilted flowers she held in her hand. jane's impression was that she had been coming into the room and had stopped suddenly to look at what she held. "what've you got there, judy?" she asked. "they're flowers," said judith, her eyes still more puzzled. "where'd you get 'em from? i didn't know you'd been out. i thought you was up-stairs." "i was," said judith quite simply. "in the closed room." jane foster's knife dropped into her pan with a splash. "well," she gasped. judith looked at her with quiet eyes. "the closed room!" jane cried out. "what are you saying? you couldn't get in?" "yes, i can." jane was conscious of experiencing a shock. she said afterwards that suddenly something gave her the creeps. "you couldn't open the door," she persisted. "i tried it again yesterday as i passed by--turned the handle and gave it a regular shove and it wouldn't give an inch." "yes," the child answered; "i heard you. we were inside then." a few days later, when jane weepingly related the incident to awe-stricken and sympathizing friends, she described as graphically as her limited vocabulary would allow her to do so, the look in judith's face as she came nearer to her. "don't tell me there was nothing happening then," she said. "she just came up to me with them dead flowers in her hand an' a kind of look in her eyes as if she was half sorry for me an' didn't know quite why. "'the door opens for me,' she says. 'that's where i play every day. there's a little girl comes and plays with me. she comes in at the window, i think. she is like the picture in the room where the books are. her hair hangs down and she has a dimple near her mouth.' "i couldn't never tell any one what i felt like. it was as if i'd got a queer fright that i didn't understand. "'she must have come over the roof from the next house,' i says. 'they've got an extension too--but i thought the people were gone away.' "'there are flowers on our roof,' she said. 'i got these there.' and that puzzled look came into her eyes again. 'they were beautiful when i got them--but as i came down-stairs they died.' "'well, of all the queer things,' i said. she put out her hand and touched my arm sort of lovin' an' timid. "'i wanted to tell you to-day, mother,' she said. 'i had to tell you to-day. you don't mind if i go play with her, do you? you don't mind?' "perhaps it was because she touched me that queer little loving way--or was it the way she looked--it seemed like something came over me an' i just grabbed her an' hugged her up. "'no,' i says. 'so as you come back. so as you come back.' "and to think!" and jane rocked herself sobbing. a point she dwelt on with many tears was that the child seemed in a wistful mood and remained near her side--bringing her little chair and sitting by her as she worked, and rising to follow her from place to place as she moved from one room to the other. "she wasn't never one as kissed you much or hung about like some children do--i always used to say she was the least bother of any child i ever knew. seemed as if she had company of her own when she sat in her little chair in the corner whispering to herself or just setting quiet." this was a thing jane always added during all the years in which she told the story. "that was what made me notice. she kept by me and she kept looking at me different from any way i'd seen her look before--not pitiful exactly--but something like it. and once she came up and kissed me and once or twice she just kind of touched my dress or my hand--as i stood by her. she knew. no one need tell me she didn't." but this was an error. the child was conscious only of a tender, wistful feeling, which caused her to look at the affectionate healthy young woman who had always been good to her and whom she belonged to, though she remotely wondered why--the same tenderness impelled her to touch her arm, hand and simple dress, and folding her arms round her neck to kiss her softly. it was an expression of gratitude for all the rough casual affection of the past. all her life had been spent at her side--all her life on earth had sprung from her. when she went up-stairs to the closed room the next day she told her mother she was going before she left the kitchen. "i'm going up to play with the little girl, mother," she said. "you don't mind, do you?" jane had had an evening of comfortable domestic gossip and joking with jem, had slept, slept soundly and eaten a hearty breakfast. life had reassumed its wholly normal aspect. the sun was shining hot and bright and she was preparing to scrub the kitchen floor. she believed that the child was mistaken as to the room she had been in. "that's all right," she said, turning the hot water spigot over the sink so that the boiling water poured forth at full flow into her pail, with clouds of steam. "but when i've done my scrubbing i'm comin' up to see if it is the closed room you play in. if it is, i guess you'd better play somewhere else--and i want to find out how you get that door open. run along if you like." judith came back to her from the door. "yes," she said, "come and see. but if she is there," putting her hand on jane's hip gently, "you mustn't touch her." jane turned off the hot water and stared. "her!" "the little girl who plays. _i_ never touch her. she says i must not." jane lifted her pail from the sink, laughing outright. "well, that sounds as if she was a pretty airy young one," she said. "i guess you're a queer little pair. run on. i must get at this floor." judith ran up the three flights of stairs lightly. she was glad she had told her mother, though she wondered vaguely why it had never seemed right to tell her until last night, and last night it had seemed not so much necessary as imperative. something had obliged her to tell her. the time had come when she must know. the closed room door had always shut itself gently after judith had passed through it, and yesterday, when her mother passing by chance, had tried the handle so vigorously, the two children inside the room had stood still gazing at each other, but neither had spoken and judith had not thought of speaking. she was out of the realm of speech, and without any sense of amazement was aware that she was out of it. people with voices and words were in that faraway world below. the playing to-day was even a lovelier, happier thing than it had ever been before. it seemed to become each minute a thing farther and farther away from the world in the streets where the elevated railroad went humming past like a monster bee. and with the sense of greater distance came a sense of greater lightness and freedom. judith found that she was moving about the room and the little roof garden almost exactly as she had moved in the waking dreams where she saw aunt hester--almost as if she was floating and every movement was ecstasy. once as she thought this she looked at her playmate, and the child smiled and answered her as she always did before she spoke. "yes," she said; "i know her. she will come. she sent me." she had this day a special plan with regard to the arranging of the closed room. she wanted all the things in it--the doll--the chairs--the toys--the little table and its service to be placed in certain positions. she told judith what to do. various toys were put here or there--the little table was set with certain dishes in a particular part of the room. a book was left lying upon the sofa cushion, the large doll was put into a chair near the sofa, with a smaller doll in its arms, on the small writing desk a letter, which judith found in a drawer--a half-written letter--was laid, the pen was left in the ink. it was a strange game to play, but somehow judith felt it was very pretty. when it was all done--and there were many curious things to do--the closed room looked quite different from the cold, dim, orderly place the door had first opened upon. then it had looked as if everything had been swept up and set away and covered and done with forever--as if the life in it had ended and would never begin again. now it looked as if some child who had lived in it and loved and played with each of its belongings, had just stepped out from her play--to some other room quite near--quite near. the big doll in its chair seemed waiting--even listening to her voice as it came from the room she had run into. the child with the burnished hair stood and looked at it with her delicious smile. "that is how it looked," she said. "they came and hid and covered everything--as if i had gone--as if i was nowhere. i want her to know i come here. i couldn't do it myself. you could do it for me. go and bring some roses." the little garden was a wonder of strange beauty with its masses of flowers. judith brought some roses from the bush her playmate pointed out. she put them into a light bowl which was like a bubble of thin, clear glass and stood on the desk near the letter. "if they would look like that," the little girl said, "she would see. but no one sees them like that--when the life goes away with me." after that the game was finished and they went out on the roof garden and stood and looked up into the blue above their heads. how blue--how blue--how clear--how near and real! and how far and unreal the streets and sounds below. the two children stood and looked up and laughed at the sweetness of it. then judith felt a little tired. "i will go and lie down on the sofa," she said. "yes," the little girl answered. "it's time for you to go to sleep." they went into the closed room and judith lay down. as she did so, she saw that the door was standing open and remembered that her mother was coming up to see her and her playmate. the little girl sat down by her. she put out her pretty fine hand and touched judith for the first time. she laid her little pointed fingers on her forehead and judith fell asleep. it seemed only a few minutes before she wakened again. the little girl was standing by her. "come," she said. they went out together onto the roof among the flowers, but a strange--a beautiful thing had happened. the garden did not end at the parapet and the streets and houses were not below. the little garden ended in a broad green pathway--green with thick, soft grass and moss covered with trembling white and blue bell-like flowers. trees--fresh leaved as if spring had just awakened them--shaded it and made it look smiling fair. great white blossoms tossed on their branches and judith felt that the scent in the air came from them. she forgot the city was below, because it was millions and millions of miles away, and this was where it was right to be. there was no mistake. this was real. all the rest was unreal--and millions and millions of miles away. they held each other's slim-pointed hands and stepped out upon the broad, fresh green pathway. there was no boundary or end to its beauty, and it was only another real thing that coming towards them from under the white, flowering trees was aunt hester. in the basement jane foster was absorbed in her labours, which were things whose accustomedness provided her with pleasure. she was fond of her scrubbing, she enjoyed the washing of her dishes, she definitely entertained herself with the splash and soapy foam of her washtubs and the hearty smack and swing of her ironing. in the days when she had served at the ribbon counter in a department store, she had not found life as agreeable as she had found it since the hours which were not spent at her own private sewing machine were given to hearty domestic duties providing cleanliness, savoury meals, and comfort for jem. she was so busy this particular afternoon that it was inevitable that she should forget all else but the work which kept her on her knees scrubbing floors or on a chair polishing windows, and afterwards hanging before them bits of clean, spotted muslin. she was doing this last when her attention being attracted by wheels in the street stopping before the door, she looked out to see a carriage door open and a young woman, dressed in exceptionally deep mourning garb, step onto the pavement, cross it, and ascend the front steps. "who's she?" jane exclaimed disturbedly. "does she think the house is to let because it's shut?" a ring at the front door bell called her down from her chair. among the duties of a caretaker is naturally included that of answering the questions of visitors. she turned down her sleeves, put on a fresh apron, and ran up-stairs to the entrance hall. when she opened the door, the tall, young woman in black stepped inside as if there were no reason for her remaining even for a moment on the threshold. "i am mrs. haldon," she said. "i suppose you are the caretaker?" haldon was the name of the people to whom the house belonged. jem foster had heard only the vaguest things of them, but jane remembered that the name was haldon, and remembering that they had gone away because they had had trouble, she recognized at a glance what sort of trouble it had been. mrs. haldon was tall and young, and to jane foster's mind, expressed from head to foot the perfection of all that spoke for wealth and fashion. her garments were heavy and rich with crape, the long black veil, which she had thrown back, swept over her shoulder and hung behind her, serving to set forth, as it were, more pitifully the white wornness of her pretty face, and a sort of haunting eagerness in her haggard eyes. she had been a smart, lovely, laughing and lovable thing, full of pleasure in the world, and now she was so stricken and devastated that she seemed set apart in an awful lonely world of her own. she had no sooner crossed the threshold than she looked about her with a quick, smitten glance and began to tremble. jane saw her look shudder away from the open door of the front room, where the chairs had seemed left as if set for some gathering, and the wax-white flowers had been scattered on the floor. she fell into one of the carved hall seats and dropped her face into her hands, her elbows resting on her knees. "oh! no! no!" she cried. "i can't believe it. i can't believe it!" jane foster's eyes filled with good-natured ready tears of sympathy. "won't you come up-stairs, ma'am?" she said. "wouldn't you like to set in your own room perhaps?" "no! no!" was the answer. "she was always there! she used to come into my bed in the morning. she used to watch me dress to go out. no! no!" "i'll open the shutters in the library," said jane. "oh! no! no! no! she would be sitting on the big sofa with her fairy story-book. she's everywhere--everywhere! how could i come! why did i! but i couldn't keep away! i tried to stay in the mountains. but i couldn't. something dragged me day and night. nobody knows i am here!" she got up and looked about her again. "i have never been in here since i went out with her," she said. "they would not let me come back. they said it would kill me. and now i have come--and everything is here--all the things we lived with--and she is millions and millions--and millions of miles away!" "who--who--was it?" jane asked timidly in a low voice. "it was my little girl," the poor young beauty said. "it was my little andrea. her portrait is in the library." jane began to tremble somewhat herself. "that--?" she began--and ended: "she is dead?" mrs. haldon had dragged herself almost as if unconsciously to the stairs. she leaned against the newel post and her face dropped upon her hand. "oh! i don't know!" she cried. "i cannot believe it. how could it be? she was playing in her nursery--laughing and playing--and she ran into the next room to show me a flower--and as she looked up at me--laughing, i tell you--laughing--she sank slowly down on her knees--and the flower fell out of her hand quietly--and everything went out of her face--everything was gone away from her, and there was never anything more--never!" jane foster's hand had crept up to her throat. she did not know what made her cold. "my little girl--" she began, "her name is judith--" "where is she?" said mrs. haldon in a breathless way. "she is up-stairs," jane answered slowly. "she goes--into that back room--on the fourth floor--" mrs. haldon turned upon her with wide eyes. "it is locked!" she said. "they put everything away. i have the key." "the door opens for her," said jane. "she goes to play with a little girl--who comes to her. i think she comes over the roof from the next house." "there is no child there!" mrs. haldon shuddered. but it was not with horror. there was actually a wild dawning bliss in her face. "what is she like?" "she is like the picture." jane scarcely knew her own monotonous voice. the world of real things was being withdrawn from her and she was standing without its pale--alone with this woman and her wild eyes. she began to shiver because her warm blood was growing cold. "she is a child with red hair--and there is a deep dimple near her mouth. judith told me. you must not touch her." she heard a wild gasp--a flash of something at once anguish and rapture blazed across the haggard, young face--and with a swerving as if her slight body had been swept round by a sudden great wind, mrs. haldon turned and fled up the stairs. jane foster followed. the great wind swept her upward too. she remembered no single intake or outlet of breath until she was upon the fourth floor. the door of the closed room stood wide open and mrs. haldon was swept within. jane foster saw her stand in the middle of the room a second, a tall, swaying figure. she whirled to look about her and flung up her arms with an unearthly rapturous, whispered cry: "it is all as she left it when she ran to me and fell. she has been here--to show me it is not so far!" she sank slowly upon her knees, wild happiness in her face--wild tears pouring down it. "she has seen her!" and she stretched forth yearning arms towards the little figure of judith, who lay quiet upon the sofa in the corner. "your little girl has seen her--and i dare not waken her. she is asleep." jane stood by the sofa--looking down. when she bent and touched the child the stillness of the room seemed to have got into her blood. "no," she said, quivering, but with a strange simplicity. "no! not asleep! it was this way with her aunt hester." the end transcribed by david price, email ccx @coventry.ac.uk cock lane and common-sense to james payn, esq. dear payn, spirits much more rare and valuable than those spoken of in this book are yours. whatever 'mediums' may be able to do, you can 'transfer' high spirits to your readers; one of whom does not hope to convert you, and will be fortunate enough if, by this work, he can occasionally bring a smile to the lips of his favourite novelist. with more affection and admiration than can be publicly expressed, believe me, yours ever, andrew lang. preface. since the first publication of cock lane and common-sense in , nothing has occurred to alter greatly the author's opinions. he has tried to make the folklore society see that such things as modern reports of wraiths, ghosts, 'fire-walking,' 'corpse-lights,' 'crystal-gazing,' and so on, are within their province, and within the province of anthropology. in this attempt he has not quite succeeded. as he understands the situation, folklorists and anthropologists will hear gladly about wraiths, ghosts, corpse- candles, hauntings, crystal-gazing, and walking unharmed through fire, as long as these things are part of vague rural tradition, or of savage belief. but, as soon as there is first-hand evidence of honourable men and women for the apparent existence of any of the phenomena enumerated, then folklore officially refuses to have anything to do with the subject. folklore will register and compare vague savage or popular beliefs; but when educated living persons vouch for phenomena which (if truly stated) account in part for the origin of these popular or savage beliefs, then folklore turns a deaf ear. the logic of this attitude does not commend itself to the author of cock lane and common-sense. on the other side, the society for psychical research, while anxiously examining all the modern instances which folklore rejects, has hitherto neglected, on the whole, that evidence from history, tradition, savage superstition, saintly legend, and so forth, which folklore deigns to regard with interest. the neglect is not universal, and the historical aspect of these beliefs has been dealt with by mr. gurney (on witchcraft), by mr. myers (on the classical oracles), and by miss x. (on crystal-gazing). still, the savage and traditional evidence is nearly as much eschewed by psychical research, as the living and contemporary evidence is by folklore. the truth is that anthropology and folklore have a ready-made theory as to the savage and illusory origin of all belief in the spiritual, from ghosts to god. the reported occurrence, therefore, of phenomena which suggest the possible existence of causes of belief _not_ accepted by anthropology, is a distasteful thing, and is avoided. on the other hand, psychical research averts its gaze, as a rule, from tradition, because the testimony of tradition is not 'evidential,' not at first hand. in cock lane and common-sense an attempt is made to reconcile these rather hostile sisters in science. anthropology ought to think humani nihil a se alienum. now the abnormal and more or less inexplicable experiences vouched for by countless living persons of honour and sanity, are, at all events, _human_. as they usually coincide in character with the testimony of the lower races all over the world; with historical evidence from the past, and with rural folklore now and always, it really seems hard to understand how anthropology can turn her back on this large human province. for example, the famous affair of the disturbances at mr. samuel wesley's parsonage at epworth, in , is reported on evidence undeniably honest, and absolutely contemporary. dr. salmon, the learned and acute provost of trinity college, dublin, has twice tried to explain the phenomena as the results of deliberate imposture by hetty wesley, alone, and unaided. { a} the present writer examined dr. salmon's arguments (in the contemporary review, august, ), and was able, he thinks, to demonstrate that scarcely one of them was based on an accurate reading of the evidence. the writer later came across the diary of mr. proctor of wellington, near newcastle (about ), and found to his surprise that mr. proctor registered on occasion, day by day, for many years, precisely the same phenomena as those which had vexed the wesleys. { b} various contradictory and mutually exclusive theories of these affairs have been advanced. not one hypothesis satisfies the friends of the others: not one bears examination. the present writer has no theory, except the theory that these experiences (or these modern myths, if any one pleases), are part of the province of anthropology and folklore. he would add one obvious yet neglected truth. if a 'ghost-story' be found to contain some slight discrepancy between the narratives of two witnesses, it is at once rejected, both by science and common- sense, as obviously and necessarily and essentially false. yet no story of the most normal incident in daily life, can well be told without _some_ discrepancies in the relations of witnesses. none the less such stories are accepted even by juries and judges. we cannot expect human testimony suddenly to become impeccable and infallible in all details, just because a 'ghost' is concerned. nor is it logical to demand here a degree of congruity in testimony, which daily experience of human evidence proves to be impossible, even in ordinary matters. a collection of recent reports of 'fire-walking' by unscorched ministrants, in the south seas, in sarawak, in bulgaria, and among the klings, appeals to the present writer in a similar way. anthropology, he thinks, should compare these reports of living witnesses, with the older reports of similar phenomena, in virgil, in many books of travel, in saintly legends, in trials by ordeal, and in iamblichus. { c} anthropology has treasured the accounts of trials by the ordeal of fire, and has not neglected the tales of old travellers, such as pallas, and gmelin. why she should stand aloof from analogous descriptions by mr. basil thomson, and other living witnesses, the present writer is unable to imagine. the better, the more closely contemporary the evidence, the more a witness of the abnormal is ready to submit to cross-examination, the more his testimony is apt to be neglected by folklorists. of course, the writer is not maintaining that there is anything 'psychical' in fire-walking, or in fire-handling. put it down as a trick. then as a trick it is so old, so world-wide, that we should ascertain the modus of it. mr. clodd, following sir b. w. richardson, suggests the use of diluted sulphuric acid, or of alum. but i am not aware that he has tried the experiment on his own person, nor has he produced an example in which it was successfully tried. science demands actual experiment. the very same remarks apply to 'crystal-gazing'. folklore welcomes it in legend or in classical or savage divination. when it is asserted that a percentage of living and educated and honourable people are actually hallucinated by gazing into crystals, the president of the folklore society (mr. clodd) has attributed the fact to a deranged liver. { d} this is a theory like another, and, like another, can be tested. but, if it holds water, then we have discovered the origin of the world-wide practice of crystal-gazing. it arises from an equally world-wide form of hepatic malady. in answer to all that has been urged here, anthropologists are wont to ejaculate that blessed word 'survival'. our savage, and mediaeval, and puritan ancestors were ignorant and superstitious; and we, or some of us, inherit their beliefs, as we may inherit their complexions. they have bequeathed to us a tendency to see the viewless things, and hear the airy tongues which they saw and heard; and they have left us the legacy of their animistic or spiritualistic explanation of these subjective experiences. well, be it so; what does anthropology study with so much zest as survivals? when, then, we find plenty of sane and honest people ready with tales of their own 'abnormal' experiences, anthropologists ought to feel fortunate. here, in the persons of witnesses, say, to 'death-bed wraiths,' are 'survivals' of the liveliest and most interesting kind. here are parsons, solicitors, soldiers, actors, men of letters, peers, honourable women not a few, all (as far as wraiths go), in exactly the mental condition of a maori. anthropology then will seek out these witnesses, these contemporary survivals, these examples of the truth of its own hypothesis, and listen to them as lovingly as it listens to a garrulous old village wife, or to an untutored mincopi. this is what we expect; but anthropology, never glancing at our 'survivals,' never interrogating them, goes to the aquarium to study a friendly zulu. the consistency of this method laisse a desirer! one says to anthropologists: 'if all educated men who have had, or believe they have had "psychical experiences" are mere "survivals," why don't you friends of "survivals" examine them and cross examine them? their psychology ought to be a most interesting proof of the correctness of your theory. but, far from studying the cases of these gentlemen, some of you actually denounce, for doing so, the society for psychical research.' the real explanation of these singular scientific inconsistencies is probably this. many men of science have, consciously or unconsciously, adopted the belief that the whole subject of the 'abnormal,' or, let us say, the 'psychical,' is closed. every phenomenon admits of an already ascertained physical explanation. therefore, when a man (however apparently free from superstitious prejudice) investigates a reported abnormal phenomenon, he is instantly accused of _wanting to believe_ in a 'supernatural explanation'. wanting (ex hypothesi) to believe, he is unfit to investigate, all his conclusions will be affirmative, and all will be worthless. this scientific argument is exactly the old argument of the pulpit against the atheist who 'does not believe because he does not want to believe'. the writer is only too well aware that even scientific minds, when bent on these topics, are apt to lose balance and sanity. but this tendency, like any other mental bad habit, is to be overcome, and may be vanquished. manifestly it is as fair for a psychical researcher to say to mr. clodd, 'you won't examine my haunted house because you are afraid of being obliged to believe in spirits,' as it is fair for mr. clodd to say to a psychical researcher, 'you only examine a haunted house because you want to believe in spirits; and, therefore, if you _do_ see a spook, it does not count'. we have recently seen an instructive example. many continental savants, some of them bred in the straitest sect of materialists, examined, and were puzzled by an italian female 'medium'. effects apparently abnormal were attested. in the autumn of this woman was brought to england by the society for psychical research. they, of course, as they, ex hypothesi, 'wish to believe,' should, ex hypothesi, have gone on believing. but, in fact, they detected the medium in the act of cheating, and publicly denounced her as an impostor. the argument, therefore, that investigation implies credulity, and that credulity implies inevitable and final deception, scarcely holds water. one or two slight corrections may be offered here. the author understands that mr. howitt does not regard the australian conjurers described on p. , as being actually _bound_ by the bark cords 'wound about their heads, bodies, and limbs'. of course, mr. howitt's is the best evidence possible. to the cases of savage table-turning (p. ), add dr. codrington's curious examples in the melanesians, p. (oxford, clarendon press, ). to stories of fire-handling, or of walking-uninjured through fire (p. ), add examples in the journal of the polynesian society, vol. ii., no. , june, , pp. - . see also 'at the sign of the ship,' longman's magazine, august, , and the quarterly review, august, , article on 'the evil eye'. mr. j. w. maskelyne, the eminent expert in conjuring, has remarked to the author that the old historical reports of 'physical phenomena,' such as those which were said to accompany d. d. home, do not impress him at all. for, as mr. maskelyne justly remarks, their antiquity and world-wide diffusion (see essays on 'comparative psychical research,' and on 'savage and classical spiritualism') may be accounted for with ease. like other myths, equally uniform and widely diffused, they represent the natural play of human fancy. inanimate objects are stationary, therefore let us say that they move about. men do not float in the air. let us say that they do. then we have the 'physical phenomena' of spiritualism. this objection had already occurred to, and been stated by, the author. but the difficulty of accounting for the large body of respectable evidence as to the real occurrence of the alleged phenomena remains. consequently the author has little doubt that there is a genuine substratum of fact, probably fact of conjuring, and of more or less hallucinatory experience. if so, the great antiquity and uniformity of the tricks, make them proper subjects of anthropological inquiry, like other matters of human tradition. where conditions of darkness and so on are imposed, he does not think that it is worth while to waste time in examination. finally, the author has often been asked: 'but what do you believe yourself?' he believes that all these matters are legitimate subjects of anthropological inquiry. london, th october, . introduction. nature of the subject. persistent survival of certain animistic beliefs. examples of the lady onkhari, lucian, general campbell. the anthropological aspect of the study. difference between this animistic belief, and other widely diffused ideas and institutions. scientific admission of certain phenomena, and rejection of others. connection between the rejected and accepted phenomena. the attitude of science. difficulties of investigation illustrated. dr. carpenter's theory of unconscious cerebration. illustration of this theory. the failure of the inquiry by the dialectical society. professor huxley, mr. g. h. lewes. absurdity and charlatanism of 'spiritualism'. historical aspect of the subject. universality of animistic beliefs, in every stage of culture. not peculiar to savagery, ignorance, the dark ages, or periods of religious crisis. nature of the evidence. it is not without hesitation that this book is offered to the reader. very many people, for very various reasons, would taboo the subjects here discoursed of altogether. these subjects are a certain set of ancient beliefs, for example the belief in clairvoyance, in 'hauntings,' in events transcending ordinary natural laws. the peculiarity of these beliefs is, that they have survived the wreck of faith in such elements of witchcraft as metamorphosis, and power to cause tempest or drought. to study such themes is 'impious,' or 'superstitious,' or 'useless'. yet to a pathologist, or anthropologist, the survivals of beliefs must always be curious and attractive illustrations of human nature. ages, empires, civilisations pass, and leave some members even of educated mankind still, in certain points, on the level of the savage who propitiates with gifts, or addresses with prayers, the spirits of the dead. an example of this endurance, this secular survival of belief, may be more instructive and is certainly more entertaining than a world of assertions. in his etudes egyptiennes (tome i. fascic. ) m. maspero publishes the text and translation of a papyrus fragment. this papyrus was discovered still attached to a statuette in wood, representing 'the singer of ammen, kena,' in ceremonial dress. the document is a letter written by an ancient egyptian scribe, 'to the instructed khou of the dame onkhari,' his own dead wife, the khou, or khu, being the spirit of that lady. the scribe has been 'haunted' since her decease, his home has been disturbed, he asks onkhari what he has done to deserve such treatment: 'what wrong have i been guilty of that i should be in this state of trouble? what have i done that thou should'st help to assail me? no crime has been wrought against thee. from the hour of my marriage till this day, what have i wrought against thee that i need conceal?' he vows that, when they meet at the tribunal of osiris, he will have right on his side. this letter to the dead is deposited in the tomb of the dead, and we may trust that the scribe was no longer annoyed by a khou, which being instructed, should have known better. to take another ancient instance, in his philopseudes lucian introduces a kind of club of superstitious men, telling ghost stories. one of them assures his friend that the spectre of his late wife has visited and vexed him, because he had accidentally neglected to burn one of a pair of gilt shoes, to which she was attached. she indicated the place where the shoe was lying hidden, and she was pacified. lucian, of course, treats this narrative in a spirit of unfeeling mirth, but, if such tales were not current in his time, there would have been no point in his banter. thus the belief in the haunting of a husband by the spirit of his wife, the belief which drives a native australian servant from the station where his gin is buried, survived old egypt, and descended to greece. we now take a modern instance, closely corresponding to that of the instructed khou of the dame onkhari. in the proceedings of the psychical society (part xiv. p. ) the late general campbell sends, from gwalior house, southgate, n., april , , a tale of personal experiences and actions, which exactly reproduces the story of the egyptian scribe. the narrative is long and not interesting, except as an illustration of survival,-- in all senses of the word. general campbell says that his wife died in july, . he describes himself as of advanced age, and cautious in forming opinions. in he had never given any consideration to 'the subject of ultra-mundane indications'. yet he recounts examples of 'about thirty inexplicable sounds, as if inviting my attention specially, and two apparitions or visions, apparently of a carefully calculated nature, seen by a child visitor, a blood relation of my late wife, whom this child had never seen, nor yet any likeness of her'. the general then describes his house, a new one, and his unsuccessful endeavours to detect the cause of the knocks, raps, crashes, and other disturbances. unable to discover any ordinary cause, he read some books on 'spiritualism,' and, finally, addressed a note, as the egyptian scribe directed a letter, to the 'agent': { } _give three raps if from my deceased wife_! he was rewarded by three crashing sounds, and by other peculiar phenomena. all these, unlike the scribe, he regarded as sent 'for my particular conviction and comfort'. these instances prove that, from the australian blacks in the bush, who hear raps when the spirits come, to ancient egypt, and thence to greece, and last, in our own time, and in a london suburb, similar experiences, real or imaginary, are explained by the same hypothesis. no 'survival' can be more odd and striking, none more illustrative of the permanence, in human nature, of certain elements. to examine these psychological curiosities may, or may not, be 'useful,' but, at lowest, the study may rank as a branch of mythology, or of folklore. it is in the spirit of these sciences, themselves parts of a general historical inquiry into the past and present of our race, that we would glance at the anecdotes, legends, and superstitions which are here collected. the writer has been chiefly interested in the question of the evidence, its nature and motives, rather than in the question of fact. it is desirable to know why independent witnesses, practically everywhere and always, tell the same tales. to examine the origin of these tales is not more 'superstitious' than to examine the origin of the religious and heroic mythologies of the world. it is, of course, easy to give both mythology, and 'the science of spectres,' the go by. but antiquaries will be inquiring, and these pursuits are more than mere 'antiquarian old womanries'. we follow the stream of fable, as we track a burn to its head, and it leads us into shy, and strange scenes of human life, haunted by very fearful wild-fowl, and rarely visited save by the credulous. there may be entertainment here, and, to the student of his species, there may be instruction. on every side we find, as we try to show, in all ages, climates, races, and stages of civilisation, consentient testimony to a set of extraordinary phenomena. equally diffused we find fraudulent imitations of these occurrences, and, on one side, a credulity which has accepted everything, on the other hand, a scepticism which denies and laughs at all the reports. but it is a question whether human folly would, everywhere and always, suffer from the same delusions, undergo the same hallucinations, and elaborate the same frauds. the problem is one which, in other matter, always haunts the student of man's development: he is accustomed to find similar myths, rites, customs, fairy tales, all over the world; of some he can trace the origin to early human imagination and reason, working on limited knowledge; about others, he asks whether they have been independently evolved in several places, or whether they have been diffused from a single centre. in the present case, the problem is more complicated. taboos, totemism, myths explanatory of natural phenomena, customs like what, with dr. murray's permission, we call the couvade, are either peculiar to barbarous races, or, among the old civilised races, existed as survivals, protected by conservative religion. but such things as 'clairvoyance,' 'levitation,' 'veridical apparitions,' 'movements of objects without physical contact,' 'rappings,' 'hauntings,' persist as matters of belief, in full modern civilisation, and are attested by many otherwise sane, credible, and even scientifically trained modern witnesses. in this persistence, and in these testimonies, the alleged abnormal phenomena differ from such matters as nature-myths, customs like suttee, taboo, couvade, and totemism, the change of men into beasts, the raising of storms by art-magic. these things our civilisation has dropped, the belief in other wild phenomena many persons in our civilisation retain. the tendency of the anthropologist is to explain this fact by survival and revival. given the savage beliefs in magic, spirit rapping, clairvoyance, and so forth, these, like marchen, or nursery tales, will survive obscurely among peasants and the illiterate generally. in an age of fatigued scepticism and rigid physical science, the imaginative longings of men will fall back on the savage or peasant necromancy, which will be revived perhaps in some obscure american village, and be run after by the credulous and half-witted. then the wished-for phenomena will be supplied by the dexterity of charlatans. as it is easy to demonstrate the quackery of paid 'mediums,' as _that_, at all events, is a vera causa, the theory of survival and revival seems adequate. yet there are two circumstances which suggest that all is not such plain sailing. the first is the constantly alleged occurrence of 'spontaneous' and sporadic abnormal phenomena, whether clairvoyance in or out of hypnotic trance, of effects on the mind and the senses apparently produced by some action of a distant mind, of hallucinations coincident with remote events, of physical prodigies that contradict the law of gravitation, or of inexplicable sounds, lights, and other occurrences in certain localities. these are just the things which medicine men, mediums and classical diviners have always pretended to provoke and produce by certain arts or rites. secondly, whether they do or do not occasionally succeed, apart from fraud, in these performances, the 'spontaneous' phenomena are attested by a mass and quality of evidence, ancient, mediaeval and modern, which would compel attention in any other matter. living, sane, and scientifically trained men now,--not to speak of ingenious, and intelligent, if superstitious observers in the past,--and catholic gleaners of contemporary evidence for saintly miracle, and witnesses, judges, and juries in trials for witchcraft, are undeniably all 'in the same tale'. now we can easily devise an explanation of the stories told by savages, by fanatics, by peasants, by persons under ecclesiastical influence, by witches, and victims of witches. that is simple, but why are sane, scientific, modern observers, and even disgusted modern sceptics, in a tale, and that just the old savage tale? what makes them repeat the stories they do repeat? we do not so much ask: 'are these stories true?' as, '_why are these stories told_?' professor ray lankester puts the question thus, and we are still at a loss for an answer. meanwhile modern science has actually accepted as real, some strange psychological phenomena which both science and common-sense rejected, between and , roughly speaking. the accepted phenomena are always reported, historically, as attendant on the still more strange, and still rejected occurrences. we are thus face to face with a curious question of evidence: to what extent are some educated modern observers under the same illusions as red men, kaffirs, eskimo, samoyeds, australians, and maoris? to what extent does the coincidence of their testimony with that of races so differently situated and trained, justify curiosity, interest, and perhaps suspense of judgment? the question of the value of the facts is one to be determined by physiologists, physicians, physicists, and psychologists. it is clear that the alleged phenomena, both those now accepted and those still rejected, attend, or are said to attend, persons of singular physical constitution. it is not for nothing that iamblichus, describing the constitution of his diviner, or seer, and the phenomena which he displays, should exactly delineate such a man as st. joseph of cupertino, with his miracles as recounted in the acta sanctorum { } ( - ). now certain scientific, and (as a layman might suppose), qualified persons, aver that they have seen and even tested, in modern instances, the phenomena insisted on by iamblichus, by the bollandists, and by a great company of ordinary witnesses in all climes, ages, and degrees of culture. but these few scientific observers are scouted in this matter, by the vast majority of physicists and psychologists. it is with this majority, if they choose to find time, and can muster inclination for the task of prolonged and patient experiment, that the ultimate decision as to the portee and significance of the facts must rest. the problem cannot be solved and settled by amateurs, nor by 'common-sense,' that delivers brawling judgments all day long, on all things, unashamed. ignorance, however respectable, and however contemptuous, is certainly no infallible oracle on any subject. meanwhile most representatives of physical science, perhaps all official representatives, hold aloof,--not merely from such performances or pretences as can only be criticised by professional conjurers,--but from the whole mass of reported abnormal events. as the occurrences are admitted, even by believers, to depend on fluctuating and unascertained personal conditions, the reluctance of physicists to examine them is very natural and intelligible. whether the determination to taboo research into them, and to denounce their examination as of perilous moral consequence, is scientific, or is obscurantist, every one may decide for himself. the quest for truth is usually supposed to be regardless of consequences, meanwhile, till science utters an opinion, till roma locuta est, and does not, after a scrambling and hasty inquiry, or no inquiry at all, assert a prejudice; mere literary and historical students cannot be expected to pronounce a verdict. spiritualists, and even less convinced persons, have frequently denounced official men of science for not making more careful and prolonged investigations in this dusky region. it is not enough, they say, to unmask one imposture, or to sit in the dark four or five times with a 'medium'. this affair demands the close scrutiny of years, and the most patient and persevering experiment. this sounds very plausible, but the few official men of science, whose names the public has heard,--and it is astonishing how famous among his peers a scientific character may be, while the public has never heard of him--can very easily answer their accusers: 'what,' they may cry, 'are we to investigate? it is absurd to ask us to leave our special studies, and sit for many hours, through many years, probably in the dark, with an epileptic person, and a few hysterical believers. we are not conjurers or judges of conjuring.' again, is a man like professor huxley, or lord kelvin, to run about the country, examining every cottage where there are rumours of curious noises, and where stones and other missiles are thrown about, by undetected hands? that is the business of the police, and if the police are baffled, as in a cock lane affair at port glasgow, in , and in paris, in , we cannot expect men of science to act as amateur detectives. { } again, it is hardly to be expected that our chosen modern leaders of opinion will give themselves up to cross-examining ladies and gentlemen who tell ghost stories. barristers and solicitors would be more useful for that purpose. thus hardly anything is left which physical science can investigate, except the conduct and utterances of the hysterical, the epileptic, the hypnotised and other subjects who are occasionally said to display an abnormal extension of the perceptive faculties, for example, by way of clairvoyance. to the unscientific intelligence it seems conceivable that if home, for example, could have been kept in some such establishment as the salpetriere for a year, and could have been scrutinised and made the subject of experiment, like the other hysterical patients, his pretensions might have been decided on once for all. but he merely performed a few speciosa miracula under tests established by one or two english men of science, and believers and disbelievers are still left to wrangle over him: they usually introduce a question of moral character. now a few men of science in england like dr. gregory about , and like dr. carpenter, and a larger number on the continent, have examined and are examining these peculiarities. their reports are often sufficiently astonishing to the lay mind. no doubt when, if ever, a very large and imposing body of these reports is presented by a cloud of scientific witnesses of esteemed reputation, then official science will give more time and study to the topic than it is at present inclined to bestow. mr. wallace has asserted that, 'whenever the scientific men of any age have denied, on a priori grounds, the facts of investigation, they have _always been wrong_'. { } he adds that galileo, harvey, jenner, franklin, young, and arago, when he 'wanted even to discuss the subject of the electric telegraph,' were 'vehemently opposed by their scientific contemporaries,' 'laughed at as dreamers,' 'ridiculed,' and so on, like the early observers of palaeolithic axes, and similar prehistoric remains. this is true, of course, but, because some correct ideas were laughed at, it does not follow that whatever is laughed at is correct. the squarers of the circle, the discoverers of perpetual motion, the inquirers into the origin of language, have all been ridiculed, and ruled out of court, the two former classes, at least, justly enough. now official science apparently regards all the long and universally rumoured abnormal occurrences as in the same category with keely's motor, and perpetual motion, not as in the same category with the undulatory theory of light, or the theory of the circulation of the blood. clairvoyance, or ghosts, or suspensions of the law of gravitation, are things so widely contradictory of general experience and of ascertained laws, that they are pronounced to be impossible; like perpetual motion they are not admitted to a hearing. as for the undeniable phenomenon that, in every land, age, and condition of culture, and in every stage of belief or disbelief, some observers have persistently asserted their experience of these occurrences; as for the phenomenon that the testimonies of australian blacks, of samoyeds, of hurons, of greeks, of european peasants, of the catholic and the covenanting clergy, and of some scientifically trained modern physicians and chemists, are all coincident, official physical science leaves these things to anthropology and folklore. yet the coincidence of such strange testimony is a singular fact in human nature. even people of open mind can, at present, say no more than that there is a great deal of smoke, a puzzling quantity, if there be no fire, and that either human nature is very easily deluded by simple conjuring tricks, or that, in all stages of culture, minds are subject to identical hallucinations. the whole hocus-pocus of 'spirit-writing' on slates and in pellets of paper, has been satisfactorily exposed and explained, as a rather simple kind of leger-de-main. but this was a purely modern sort of trickery; the old universal class of useless miracles, said to occur spontaneously, still presents problems of undeniable psychological interest. for example, if it be granted, as apparently it was by dr. carpenter, that, in certain circumstances, certain persons, wide awake, can perform, in various ways, intelligent actions, and produce intelligent expressions automatically, without being conscious of what they are doing, then that fact is nearly as interesting and useful as the fact that we are descended from protozoa. thus dr. carpenter says that, in 'table-talking,' 'cases have occasionally occurred in the experience of persons above suspicion of intentional deception, in which the answers given by the movements of tables were not only unknown to the questioners, but were even contrary to their belief at the time, and yet afterwards proved to be true. such cases afford typical examples of the doctrine of unconscious cerebration, for in several of them it was capable of being distinctly shown that the answers, although contrary to the belief of the questioners at the time, were true to facts of which they had been formerly cognisant, but which had vanished from their recollection; the residua of these forgotten impressions giving rise to cerebral changes which prompted the responses without any consciousness on the part of the agents of the latent springs of their actions.' it is, apparently, to be understood that, as the existence of latent unconscious knowledge was traced in 'several' cases, therefore the explanation held good in all cases, even where it could not be established as a fact. let us see how this theory works out in practice. smith, jones, brown and robinson are sitting with their hands on a table. all, ex hypothesi, are honourable men, 'above suspicion of intentional deception'. they ask the table where green is. smith, jones and robinson have no idea, brown firmly believes that green is in rome. the table begins to move, kicks and answers, by aid of an alphabet and knocks, that green is at machrihanish, where, on investigation, he is proved to be. later, brown is able to show (let us hope by documentary evidence), that he _had_ heard green was going to machrihanish, instead of to rome as he had intended, but this remarkable change of plans on green's part had entirely faded from brown's memory. now we are to take it, ex hypothesi, that brown is the soul of honour, and, like mr. facey rumford, 'wouldn't tell a lie if it was ever so'. the practical result is that, while brown's consciousness informs him, trumpet-tongued, that green is at rome, 'the residue of a forgotten impression' makes him (without his knowing it) wag the table, which he does not intend to do, and forces him to say through the tilts of the table, that green is at machrihanish, while he believes that green is at rome. the table-turners were laughed at, and many, if not all of them, deserved ridicule. but see how even this trivial superstition illuminates our knowledge of the human mind! a mere residuum of a forgotten impression, a lost memory which brown would have sworn, in a court of justice, had never been in his mind at all, can work his muscles, while he supposes that they are _not_ working, can make a table move at which three other honourable men are sitting, and can tell all of them what none of them knows. clearly the expedient of table-turning in court might be tried by conscientious witnesses, who have forgotten the circumstances on which they are asked to give evidence. as dr. carpenter remarks, quoting mr. lecky, 'our doctrine of unconscious cerebration inculcates toleration for differences not merely of belief, but of the moral standard'. and why not toleration for 'immoral' actions? if brown's residuum of an impression can make brown's muscles move a table to give responses of which he is ignorant, why should not the residuum of a forgotten impression that it would be a pleasant thing to shoot mr. gladstone or lord salisbury, make brown unconsciously commit that solecism? it is a question of degree. at all events, if the unconscious self can do as much as dr. carpenter believed, we cannot tell how many other marvels it may perform; we cannot know till we investigate further. if this be so, it is, perhaps, hardly wise or scientific to taboo all investigation. if a mere trivial drawing-room amusement, associated by some with an absurd 'animistic hypothesis,' can, when explained by dr. carpenter, throw such unexpectedly blinding light on human nature, who knows how much light may be obtained from a research into more serious and widely diffused superstitious practices? the research is, undeniably, beset with the most thorny of difficulties. yet whosoever agrees with dr. carpenter must admit that, after one discovery so singular as 'unconscious cerebration,' in its effect on tables, some one is bound to go further in the same field, and try for more. we are assuming, for the sake of argument, the accuracy of dr. carpenter's facts. { a} more than twenty years ago an attempt was made by a body called the 'dialectical society,' to investigate the phenomena styled spiritualistic. this well-meant essay had most unsatisfactory results. { b} first a committee of inquiry was formed, on the motion of dr. edmunds. the committee was heterogeneous. many of the names now suggest little to the reader. mr. bradlaugh we remember, but he chiefly attended a committee which sat with d. d. home, and it is admitted that nothing of interest there occurred. then we find the rev. maurice davies, who was wont to write books of little distinction on semi-religious topics. mr. h. g. atkinson was a person interested in mesmerism. kisch, moss, and quelch, with dyte and isaac meyers, bergheim and geary, hannah, hillier, reed (their names go naturally in blank verse), were, doubtless, all most estimable men, but scarcely boast of scientific fame. serjeant cox, a believer in the phenomena, if not in their spiritual cause, was of the company, as was mr. jencken, who married one of the miss foxes, the first authors of modern thaumaturgy. professor huxley and mr. g. h. lewes were asked to join, but declined to march to sarras, the spiritual city, with the committee. this was neither surprising nor reprehensible, but professor huxley's letter of refusal appears to indicate that matters of interest, and, perhaps, logic, are differently understood by men of science and men of letters. { } he gave two reasons for refusing, and others may readily be imagined by the sympathetic observer. the first was that he had no time for an inquiry involving much trouble, and (as he justly foresaw) much annoyance. next, he had no interest in the subject. he had once examined a case of 'spiritualism,' and detected an imposture. 'but, supposing the phenomena to be genuine, they do not interest me. if anybody would endow me with the faculty of listening to the chatter of old women and curates in the nearest cathedral town, i should decline the privilege, having better things to do.' thus it would not interest professor huxley if some new kind of telephone should enable him to hear all the conversation of persons in a town (if a cathedral town) more or less distant. he would not be interested by the 'genuine' fact of this extension of his faculties, because he would not expect to be amused or instructed by the contents of what he heard. of course he was not invited to listen to a chatter, which, on one hypothesis, was that of the dead, but to help to ascertain whether or not there were any genuine facts of an unusual nature, which some persons explained by the animistic hypothesis. to mere 'bellettristic triflers' the existence of genuine abnormal and unexplained facts seems to have been the object of inquiry, and we must penitently admit that if genuine communications could really be opened with the dead, we would regard the circumstance with some degree of curious zest, even if the dead were on the intellectual level of curates and old women. besides, all old women are not imbeciles, history records cases of a different kind, and even some curates are as intelligent as the apes, whose anatomy and customs, about that time, much occupied professor huxley. in balaam's conversation with his ass, it was not so much the fact that mon ane parle bien which interested the prophet, as the circumstance that mon ane parle. science has obviously soared very high, when she cannot be interested by the fact (if a fact) that the dead are communicating with us, apart from the value of what they choose to say. however, professor huxley lost nothing by not joining the committee of the dialectical society. mr. g. h. lewes, for his part, hoped that with mr. alfred russel wallace to aid (for he joined the committee) and with mr. crookes (who apparently did not) 'we have a right to expect some definite result'. any expectation of that kind was doomed to disappointment. in mr. lewes's own experience, which was large, 'the means have always been proved to be either deliberate imposture . . . or the well-known effects of expectant attention'. that is, when lord adare, the master of lindsay, and a cloud of other witnesses, thought they saw heavy bodies moving about of their own free will, either somebody cheated, or the spectators beheld what they did behold, because they expected to do so, even when, like m. alphonse karr, and mr. hamilton aide, they expected nothing of the kind. this would be mr. lewes's natural explanation of the circumstances, suggested by his own large experience. the results of the dialectical society's inquiry were somewhat comic. the committee reported that marvels were alleged, by the experimental subcommittees, to have occurred. sub-committee no. averred that 'motion may be produced in solid bodies without material contact, by some hitherto unrecognised force'. sub- committees and had many communications with mysterious intelligences to vouch for, and much erratic behaviour on the part of tables to record. no. had nothing to report at all, and no. which sat four times with home had mere trifles of raps. home was ill, and the seances were given up. so far, many curious phenomena were alleged to have occurred, but now dr. edmunds, who started the whole inquiry, sent in a separate report. he complained that convinced spiritualists had 'captured' the editing sub-committee, as people say, and had issued a report practically spiritualistic. he himself had met nothing more remarkable than impudent frauds or total failure. 'raps, noises, and movements of various kinds,' he had indeed witnessed, and he heard wondrous tales from truthful people, 'but i have never been able to see anything worthy of consideration, as not being accounted for by unconscious action, delusion, or imposture'. then the editors of the report contradicted dr. edmunds on points of fact, and mr. a. r. wallace disabled his logic, { } and mr. geary dissented from the report, and the editors said that his statements were incorrect, and that he was a rare attendant at seances, and serjeant cox vouched for more miracles, and a great many statements of the most astounding description were made by mr. varley, an electrician, by d. d. home, by the master of lindsay (lord crawford) and by other witnesses who had seen home grow eight inches longer and also shorter than his average height; fly in the air; handle burning coals unharmed, cause fragrance of various sweet scents to fill a room, and, in short, rival st. joseph of cupertino in all his most characteristic performances. unluckily mr. home, not being in the vein, did not one of these feats in presence of mr. bradlaugh and sub-committee no. . these results are clearly not of a convincing and harmonious description, and thus ended the attempt of the dialectical society. nobody can do otherwise than congratulate professor huxley and mr. lewes, on their discreet reserve. the inquiry of the dialectical society was a failure; the members of the committees remained at variance; and it is natural to side with the sceptics rather than with those who believed from the first, or were converted (as many are said to have been) during the experiments. perhaps all such inquiries may end in no more than diversity of opinion. these practical researches ought not to be attempted by the majority of people, if by any. on many nervous systems, the mere sitting idly round a table, and calling the process a seance, produces evil effects. as to the idea of purposely evoking the dead, it is at least as impious, as absurd, as odious to taste and sentiment, as it is insane in the eyes of reason. this protest the writer feels obliged to make, for while he regards the traditional, historical and anthropological curiosities here collected as matters of some interest, in various aspects, he has nothing but abhorrence and contempt for modern efforts to converse with the manes, and for all the profane impostures of 'spiritualism'. on the question of the real existence of the reported phenomena hereafter chronicled, and on the question of the portee of the facts, if genuine, the writer has been unable to reach any conclusion, negative or affirmative. even the testimony of his senses, if they ever bore witness to any of the speciosa miracula, would fail to convince him on the affirmative side. there seems to be no good reason why one observer should set so much store by his own impressions of sense, while he regards those of all other witnesses as fallible. on the other hand, the writer feels unable to set wholly aside the concurrent testimony of the most diverse people, in times, lands and conditions of opinion the most various. the reported phenomena fall into regular groups, like the symptoms of a disease. is it a disease of observation? if so, the topic is one of undeniable psychological interest. to urge this truth, to produce such examples as his reading affords, is the purpose of the author. the topic has an historical aspect. in what sorts of periods, in what conditions of general thought and belief, are the alleged abnormal phenomena most current? every one will answer: in ages and lands of ignorance and superstitions; or, again: in periods of religious, or, so to say, of irreligious crisis. as mr. lecky insists, belief in all such matters, from fairies to the miracles of the gospel, declines as rationalism or enlightenment advances. yet it is not as mr. lecky says, before reason that they vanish, not before learned argument and examination, but just before a kind of sentiment, or instinct, or feeling, that events contradictory of normal experience seem ridiculous, and incredible. now, if we set aside, for the present, ecclesiastical miracles, and judicial witchcraft, and fix our attention on such minor and useless marvels as clairvoyance, 'ghosts,' unexplained noises, unexplained movements of objects, one doubts whether the general opinion as to the ratio of marvels and ignorance is correct. the truth is that we have often very scanty evidence. if we take athens in her lustre, we are, undeniably, in an age of enlightenment, of the aufklarung. no rationalistic, philosophical, cool-headed contemporary of middleton, of hume, of voltaire, could speak more contemptuously about ghosts, and about the immortality of the soul, than some of the athenian gentlemen who converse with socrates in the dialogues. yet we find that socrates and plato, men as well educated, as familiar with the refined enlightenment of athens as the others, take to some extent the side of the old wives with their fables, and believe in earth-bound spirits of the dead. again, the clear-headed socrates, one of the pioneers of logic, credits himself with 'premonitions,' apparently with clairvoyance, and assuredly with warnings which, in the then existing state of psychology, he could only regard as 'spiritual'. hence we must infer that belief, or disbelief, does not depend on education, enlightenment, pure reason, but on personal character and genius. the same proportionate distribution of these is likely to recur in any age. once more, rome in the late republic, the rome of cicero, was 'enlightened,' as was the greece of lucian; that is the educated classes were enlightened. yet lucretius, writing only for the educated classes, feels obliged to combat the belief in ghosts and the kind of calvinism which, but for his poem, we should not know to have been widely prevalent. lucian, too, mocks frequently at educated belief in just such minor and useless miracles as we are considering, but then lucian lived in an age of cataclysm in religion. looking back on history we find that most of historical time has either been covered with dark ignorance, among savages, among the populace, or in all classes; or, on the other hand, has been marked by enlightenment, which has produced, or accompanied, religious or irreligious crises. now religious and irreligious crises both tend to beget belief in abnormal occurrences. religion welcomes them as miracles divine or diabolical. scepticism produces a reaction, and 'where no gods are spectres walk'. thus men cannot, or, so far, men have not been able to escape from the conditions in which marvels flourish. if we are savages, then vuis and brewin beset the forest paths and knock in the lacustrine dwelling perched like a nest on reeds above the water; tornaks rout in the eskimo hut, in the open wood, in the gunyeh, in the medicine lodge. if we are european peasants, we hear the brownie at work, and see the fairies dance in their grassy ring. if we are devoutly catholic we behold saints floating in mid-air, or we lay down our maladies and leave our crutches at lourdes. if we are personally religious, and pass days in prayer, we hear voices like bunyan; see visions like the brave colonel gardiner or like pascal; walk environed by an atmosphere of light, like the seers in iamblichus, and like a very savoury covenanting christian. we are attended by a virtuous sprite who raps and moves tables as was a pious man mentioned by bodin and a minister cited by wodrow. we work miracles and prophesy, like mr. blair of st. andrews ( - ); we are clairvoyant, like mr. cameron, minister of lochend, or loch-head, in kintyre ( ). if we are dissolute, and irreligious like lord lyttelton, or like middleton, that enemy of covenanters, we see ghosts, as they did, and have premonitions. if we live in a time of witty scepticism, we take to the magnetism of mesmer. if we exist in a period of learned and scientific scepticism, and are ourselves trained observers, we may still watch the beliefs of mr. wallace and the experiments witnessed by mr. crookes and dr. huggins. say we are protestants, and sceptical, like reginald scot ( ), or whigs, like de foe, we then exclaim with scot, in his discovery of witchcraft ( ), that minor miracles, moving tables, have gone out with benighted popery, as de foe also boasts in his history of the devil. alas, of the table we must admit eppur si muove; it moves, or is believed by foreign savants to move, for a peasant medium, eusapia paladino. mr. lecky declares ( ) that church miracles have followed hop o' my thumb; they are lost, with no track of white pebbles, in the forest of rationalism. { a} and then lourdes comes to contradict his expectation, and church miracles are as common as blackberries. enfin, mankind, in the whole course of its history, has never got quit of experiences which, whatever their cause, drive it back on the belief in the marvellous. { b} it is a noteworthy circumstance that (setting apart church miracles, and the epidemic of witchcraft which broke out simultaneously with the new learning of the renaissance, and was fostered by the enlightened protestantism of the reformers, the puritans, and the covenanters, in england, scotland and america) the minor miracles, the hauntings and knockings, are not more common in one age than in another. our evidence, it is true, does not quite permit us to judge of their frequency at certain periods. the reason is obvious. we have no newspapers, no miscellanies of daily life, from greece, rome, and the middle ages. we have from greece and rome but few literary examples of 'psychical research,' few collections of books on 'bogles' as scott called them. we possess palaephatus, the life of apollonius of tyana, jests in lucian, argument and exposition from pliny, porphyry, iamblichus, plutarch, hints from plato, plautus, lucretius, from st. augustine and other fathers. suetonius chronicles noises and hauntings after the death of caligula, but, naturally, the historian does not record similar disturbances in the pauperum tabernaae. classical evidence on these matters, as about greek and roman folklore in general, we have to sift painfully from the works of literary authors who were concerned with other topics. still, in the region of the ghostly, as in folklore at large, we have relics enough to prove that the ancient practices and beliefs were on the ordinary level of today and of all days: and to show that the ordinary numbers of abnormal phenomena were supposed to be present in the ancient civilisations. in the middle ages--the 'dark ages'-- modern opinion would expect to find an inordinate quantity of ghostly material. but modern opinion would be disappointed. setting aside saintly miracles, and accusations of witchcraft, the minor phenomena are very sparsely recorded. in the darkest of all 'dark ages,' when, on the current hypothesis, such tales as we examine ought to be most plentiful, even witch-trials are infrequent. mr. lecky attributes to these benighted centuries 'extreme superstition, with little terrorism, and, consequently, little sorcery'. the world was capable of believing anything, but it believed in the antidote as well as in the bane, in the efficacy of holy water as much as in the evil eye. when, with the dawn of enlightenment in the twelfth century, superstition became cruel, and burned witch and heretic, the charges against witches do not, as a rule, include the phenomena which we are studying. witches are accused of raising storms, destroying crops, causing deaths and blighting marriages, by sympathetic magic; of assuming the shapes of beasts, of having intercourse with satan, of attending the sabbat. all these fables, except the last, are survivals from savage beliefs, but none of these occurrences are attested by modern witnesses of all sorts, like the 'knockings,' 'movements,' 'ghosts,' 'wraiths,' 'second sight,' and clairvoyance. the more part of mediaeval witchcraft, therefore, is not quod semper, quod ubique, quod ab omnibus. the facts were facts: people really died or were sterile, flocks suffered, ships were wrecked, fields were ruined; the mistake lay in attributing these things to witchcraft. on the other hand, the facts of rappings, ghosts, clairvoyance, in spite of the universally consentient evidence, are very doubtful facts after all. their existence has to be established before we look about for their cause. now, of records about _these_ phenomena the middle ages produce but a very scanty supply. the miracles which were so common were seldom of this kind; they were imposing visions of devils, or of angels, or of saints; processions of happy or unhappy souls; views of heaven, hell, or purgatory. the reason is not far to seek: ecclesiastical chroniclers, like classical men of letters, recorded events which interested themselves; a wraith, or common ghost ('matter of daily experience,' says lavaterus, and, later, contradicts himself), or knocking sprite, was beneath their notice. in mediaeval sermons we meet a few edifying wraiths and ghosts, returning in obedience to a compact made while in the body. here and there a chronicle, as of rudolf of fulda ( ), vouches for communication with a rapping bogle. grimm has collected several cases under the head of 'house- sprites,' including this ancient one at capmunti, near bingen. { } gervase of tilbury, marie de france, john major, froissart, mention an occasional follet, brownie, or knocking sprite. the prayers of the church contain a petition against the spiritus percutiens, or spirit who produces 'percussive noises'. the norsemen of the viking age were given to second sight, and glam 'riding the roofs,' made disturbances worthy of a spectre peculiarly able-bodied. but, not counting the evidence of the icelandic sagas, mediaeval literature, like classical literature, needs to be carefully sifted before it yields a few grains of such facts as sane and educated witnesses even now aver to be matter of their personal experience. no doubt the beliefs were prevalent, the latin prayer proves that, but examples were seldom recorded. thus the dark ages do _not_, as might have been expected, provide us with most of this material. the last forty enlightened years give us more bogles than all the ages between st. augustine and the restoration. when the dark ages were over, when learning revived, the learned turned their minds to 'psychical research,' and wier, bodin, le loyer, georgius pictorius, petrus thyraeus, james vi., collected many instances of the phenomena still said to survive. then, for want of better materials, the unhappy, tortured witches dragged into their confessions all the folklore which they knew. second sight, the fairy world, ghosts, 'wraiths,' 'astral bodies' of witches whose bodies of flesh are elsewhere, volatile chairs and tables, all were spoken of by witches under torture, and by sworn witnesses. { } resisting the scepticism of the restoration, glanvil, more, boyle, and the rest, fought the sadducee with the usual ghost stories. wodrow, later ( - ), compiled the marvels of his analecta. in spite of the cold common-sense of the eighteenth century, sporadic outbreaks of rappings and feats of impulsive pots, pans, beds and chairs insisted on making themselves notorious. the wesley case would never have been celebrated if the sons of samuel wesley had not become prominent. john wesley and the methodists revelled in such narratives, and so the catena of testimonies was lengthened till mesmer came, and, with mesmer, the hypothesis of a 'fluidic force' which in various shapes has endured, and is not, even now, wholly extinct. finally modern spiritualism arrived, and was, for the most part, an organised and fraudulent copy of the old popular phenomena, with a few cheap and vulgar variations on the theme. in the face of these facts, it does not seem easy to aver that one kind of age, one sort of 'culture' is more favourable to the occurrence of, or belief in, these phenomena than another. accidental circumstances, an increase, or a decrease of knowledge and education, an access of religion, or of irreligion, a fashion in intellectual temperament, may bring these experiences more into notice at one moment than at another, but they are always said to recur, at uncertain intervals, and are always essentially the same. to prove this by examples is our present business. in a thoroughly scientific treatise, the foundation of the whole would, of course, be laid in a discussion of psychology, physiology, and the phenomena of hypnotism. but on these matters an amateur opinion is of less than no value. the various schools of psychologists, neurologists, 'alienists,' and employers of hypnotism for curative or experimental purposes, appear to differ very widely among themselves, and the layman may read but he cannot criticise their works. the essays which follow are historical, anthropological, antiquarian. savage spiritualism. 'shadow' or magic of the dene hareskins: its four categories. these are characteristic of all savage spiritualism. the subject somewhat neglected by anthropologists. uniformity of phenomena. mr. tylor's theory of the origin of 'animism'. question whether there are any phenomena not explained by mr. tylor's theory. examples of uniformity. the savage hypnotic trance. hareskin examples. cases from british guiana. australian rapping spirits. maori oracles. a maori 'seance'. the north american indian magic lodge. modern and old jesuit descriptions. movements of the lodge. insensibility of red indian medium to fire. similar case of d. d. home. flying table in thibet. other instances. montezuma's 'astral body'. miracles. question of diffusion by borrowing, or of independent evolution. philosophers among the dene hareskins in the extreme north of america recognise four classes of 'shadow' or magic. their categories apply sufficiently closely to all savage sorcery (excluding sympathetic magic), as far as it has been observed. we have, among the hareskins:-- . beneficent magic, used for the healing of the sick. . malevolent magic: the black art of witchcraft . conjuring, or the working of merely sportive miracles. . magic for ascertaining the truth about the future or the distant present--clairvoyance. this is called 'the young man bound and bounding,' from the widely-spread habit of tying-up the limbs of the medium, and from his customary convulsions. to all of these forms of magic, or spiritualism, the presence and aid of 'spirits' is believed to be necessary, with, perhaps, the exception of the sportive or conjuring class. a spirit helps to cure and helps to kill. the free spirit of the clairvoyant in bondage meets other spirits in its wanderings. anthropologists, taking it for granted that 'spirits' are a mere 'animistic hypothesis'--their appearances being counterfeited by imposture-- have paid little attention to the practical magic of savages, as far as it is not merely sympathetic, and based on the doctrine that 'like cures like'. thus mr. sproat, in his excellent work, scenes and studies of savage life, frankly admits that in vancouver island the trickery and hocus-pocus of aht sorcery were so repugnant to him that he could not occupy himself with the topic. some other travellers have been more inquisitive; unlettered sojourners among the wilder peoples have shared their superstitions, and consulted their oracles, while one or two of the old jesuit missionaries were close and puzzled observers of their 'mediumship'. thus enough is known to show that savage spiritualism wonderfully resembles, even in minute details, that of modern mediums and seances, while both have the most striking parallels in the old classical thaumaturgy. this uniformity, to a certain extent, is not surprising, for savage, classical, and modern spiritualism all repose on the primaeval animistic hypothesis as their metaphysical foundation. the origin of this hypothesis--namely, that disembodied intelligences exist and are active--is explained by anthropologists as the result of early reasonings on life, death, sleep, dreams, trances, shadows, the phenomena of epilepsy, and the illusions of starvation. this scientific theory is, in itself, unimpeachable; normal phenomena, psychological and physical, might suggest most of the animistic beliefs. { } at the same time 'veridical hallucinations,' if there are any, and clairvoyance, if there is such a thing, would do much to originate and confirm the animistic opinions. meanwhile, the extraordinary similarity of savage and classical spiritualistic rites, with the corresponding similarity of alleged modern phenomena, raises problems which it is more easy to state than to solve. for example, such occurrences as 'rappings,' as the movement of untouched objects, as the lights of the seance room, are all easily feigned. but that ignorant modern knaves should feign precisely the same raps, lights, and movements as the most remote and unsophisticated barbarians, and as the educated platonists of the fourth century after christ, and that many of the other phenomena should be identical in each case, is certainly noteworthy. this kind of folklore is the most persistent, the most apt to revive, and the most uniform. we have to decide between the theories of independent invention; of transmission, borrowing, and secular tradition; and of a substratum of actual fact. thus, either the rite of binding the sorcerer was invented, for no obvious reason, in a given place, and thence reached the australian blacks, the eskimo, the dene hareskins, the davenport brothers, and the neoplatonists; or it was independently evolved in each of several remote regions; or it was found to have some actual effect-- what we cannot guess--on persons entranced. we are hampered by not knowing, in our comparatively rational state of development, what strange things it is natural for a savage to invent. that spirits should knock and rap seems to us about as improbable an idea as could well occur to the fancy. were we inventing a form for a spirit's manifestations to take, we never should invent _that_. but what a savage might think an appropriate invention we do not know. meanwhile we have the mediaeval and later tales of rapping, some of which, to be frank, have never been satisfactorily accounted for on any theory. but, on the other hand, each of us might readily invent another common 'manifestation'--the _wind_ which is said to accompany the spirit. the very word spiritus suggests air in motion, and the very idea of abnormal power suggests the trembling and shaking of the place wherein it is present. yet, on the other side, the 'cold non- natural wind' of seances, of swedenborg, and of a hundred stories, old or new, is undeniably felt by some sceptical observers, even on occasions where no professional charlatan is engaged. as to the trembling and shaking of the house or hut, where the spirit is alleged to be, we shall examine some curious evidence, ancient and modern, savage and civilised. so of the other phenomena. some seem to be of easy natural invention, others not so; and, in the latter case, independent evolution of an idea not obvious is a difficult hypothesis, while transmission from the pole to australia, though conceivable, is apt to give rise to doubt. meanwhile, one phenomenon, which is usually said to accompany others much more startling, may now be held to have won acceptance from science. this is what the dene hareskins call the sleep of the shadow, that is, the magical sleep, the hypnotic trance. savages are well acquainted with this abnormal condition, and with means of producing it, and it is at the bottom of all their more mysterious non-sympathetic magic. before mesmer, and even till within the last thirty years, this phenomenon, too, would have been scouted; now it is a commonplace of physiology. for such physical symptoms as introverted eyes in seers we need look no further than martin's account of the second-sighted men, in his book on the hebrides. the phenomenon of anaesthesia, insensibility to pain, in trance, is not unfamiliar to science, but that red-hot coals should not burn a seer or medium is, perhaps, less easily accepted; while science, naturally, does not recognise the clairvoyance, and still less the 'spiritual' attendants of the seer in the sleep of the shadow. nevertheless, classical, modern, and savage spiritualists are agreed in reporting these last and most startling phenomena of the magic slumber in certain cases. beginning with what may be admitted as possible, we find that the dene hareskins practise a form of healing under hypnotic or mesmeric treatment. { } the physician (who is to be pitied) begins by a three days' fast. then a 'magic lodge,' afterwards to be described, is built for him in the forest. here he falls into the sleep of the shadow; the patient is then brought before him. in the lodge, the patient confesses his sins to his doctor, and when that ghostly friend has heard all, he sings and plays the tambour, invoking the spirit to descend on the sick man. the singing of barbarous songs was part of classical spiritualism; the norse witch, in the saga of eric the red, insisted on the song of warlocks being chanted, which secured the attendance of 'many powerful spirits'; and modern spiritualists enliven their dark and dismal programme by songs. presently the hareskin physician blows on the patient, and bids the malady quit him. he also makes 'passes' over the invalid till he produces trance; the spirit is supposed to assist. then the spirit extracts the _sin_ which caused the suffering, and the illness is cured, after the patient has been awakened by a loud cry. in all this affair of confession one is inclined to surmise a mixture of catholic practice, imitated from the missionaries. it is also not, perhaps, impossible that hypnotic treatment may occasionally have been of some real service. turning to british guiana, where, as elsewhere, hysterical and epileptic people make the best mediums, or 'peay-men,' we are fortunate in finding an educated observer who submitted to be peaied. mr. im thurn, in the interests of science, endured a savage form of cure for headache. the remedy was much worse than the disease. in a hammock in the dark, attended by a peay-man armed with several bunches of green boughs, mr. im thurn lay, under a vow not to touch whatever might touch him. the peay-men kept howling questions to the kenaimas, or spirits, who answered. 'it was a clever piece of ventriloquism and acting.' 'every now and then, through the mad din, there was a sound, at first low and indistinct, and then gathering in volume, as if some big, winged thing came from far towards the house, passed through the roof, and then settled heavily on the floor; and again, after an interval, as if the same winged thing rose and passed away as it had come,' while the air was sensibly stirred. a noise of lapping up some tobacco-water set out for the kenaimas was also audible. the rustling of wings, and the thud, 'were imitated, as i afterwards found, by skilfully shaking the leafy boughs, and then dashing them suddenly against the ground'. mr. im thurn bit one of the boughs which came close to his face, and caught leaves in his teeth. as a rule he lay in a condition scarcely conscious: 'it seems to me that my spirit was as nearly separated from my body as is possible in any circumstances short of death. thus it appears that the efforts of the peay-man were directed partly to the separation of his own spirit from his body, and partly to the separation of the spirit from the body of his patient, and that in this way spirit holds communion with spirit.' but mr. im thurn's headache was not alleviated! the whirring noise occurs in the case of the cock lane ghost ( ), in iamblichus, in some 'haunted houses,' and is reported by a modern lady spiritualist in a book which provokes sceptical comments. now, had the peay tradition reached cock lane, or was the peay-man counterfeiting, very cleverly, some real phenomenon? { } we may next examine cases in which, the savage medium being entranced, spirits come to him and answer questions. australia is so remote, and it is so unlikely that european or american spiritualists suggested their ideas to the older blacks (for mediumship seems to be nearly extinct since the settling of the country), that any transmission of such notions to the black fellows must be very ancient. our authorities are mr. brough smyth, in aborigines of victoria (i. ), and messrs. fison and howitt, in kamilaroi and kurnai, who tell just the same tale. the spirits in victoria are called mrarts, and are understood to be the souls of black fellows dead and gone, not demons unattached. the mediums, now very scarce, are birraarks. they were consulted as to things present and future. the birraark leaves the camp, the fire is kept low, and some one 'cooees' at intervals. 'then a noise is heard. the narrator here struck a book against the table several times to describe it.' this, of course, is 'spirit-rapping'. the knocks have a home among the least cultivated savages, as well as in mediaeval and modern europe. then whistles are heard, a phenomenon lavishly illustrated in certain seances held at rio de janeiro { a} where children were mediums. the spiritual whistle is familiar to glanvil and to homer. mr. wesley, at epworth ( ), noted it among all the other phenomena. the mrarts are next heard 'jumping down,' like the kenaimas. questions are put to them, and they answer. they decline, very naturally, to approach a bright fire. the medium (birraark) is found entranced, either on the ground where the mrarts have been talking, or at the top of a tree, very difficult to climb, 'and up which there are no marks of any one having climbed'. the blacks, of course, are peculiarly skilled in detecting such marks. in maleficent magic, as among the dene hareskins, the australian sorcerer has 'his head, body, and limbs wound round with stringy bark cords'. { b} the enchantment is believed to drag the victim, in a trance, towards the sorcerer. this binding is customary among the eskimo, and, as mr. myers has noted, was used in the rites described by the oracles in 'trance utterances,' which porphyry collected in the fourth century. whether the binding was thought to restrain the convulsions of the mediums, or whether it was, originally, a 'test condition,' to prevent the medium from cheating (as in modern experiments), we cannot discover. it does not appear to be in use among the maoris, whose speciality is 'trance utterance'. a very picturesque description of a maori seance is given in old new zealand. { } the story loses greatly by being condensed. a popular and accomplished young chief had died in battle, and his friends asked the tohunga, or medium, to call him back. the chief was able to read and write; he had kept a journal of remarkable events, and that journal, though 'unceasingly searched for,' had disappeared. this was exactly a case for a test, and that which was given would have been good enough for spiritualists, though not for more reasonable human beings. in the village hall, in flickering firelight, the friends, with the english observer, the 'pakeha maori,' were collected. the medium, by way of a 'cabinet,' selected the darkest corner. the fire burned down to a red glow. suddenly the spirit spoke, 'salutation to my tribe,' and the chief's sister, a beautiful girl, rushed, with open arms, into the darkness; she was seized and held by her friends. the gloom, the tears, the sorrow, nearly overcame the incredulity of the englishman, as the voice came, 'a strange, melancholy sound, like the sound of a wind blowing into a hollow vessel'. 'it is well with me,' it said; 'my place is a good place.' they asked of their dead friends; the hollow answers replied, and the englishman 'felt a strange swelling of the chest'. the voice spoke again: 'give my large pig to the priest,' and the sceptic was disenchanted. he now thought of the test. '"we cannot find your book," i said; "where have you concealed it?" the answer immediately came: "between the tahuhu of my house and the thatch, straight over you as you go into the door".' here the brother rushed out. 'in five minutes he came back, _with the book in his hand_.' after one or two more remarks the voice came, '"farewell!" _from deep beneath the ground_. "farewell!" again _from high in air_. "farewell!" once more came moaning through the distant darkness of the night. the deception was perfect. "a ventriloquist," said i, "or--or, _perhaps_ the devil."' the seance had an ill end: the chief's sister shot herself. this was decidedly a well-got-up affair for a colonial place. the maori oracles are precisely like those of delphi. in one case a chief was absent, was inquired for, and the voice came, 'he will return, yet not return'. six months later the chiefs friends went to implore him to come home. they brought him back a corpse; they had found him dying, and carried away the body. in another case, when the maori oracle was consulted as to the issue of a proposed war, it said: 'a desolate country, a desolate country, a desolate country!' the chiefs, of course, thought the _other_ country was meant, but they were deceived, as croesus was by delphi, when he was told that he 'would ruin a great empire'. in yet another case, the maoris were anxious for the spirits to bring back a european ship, on which a girl had fled with the captain. the pakeha maori was present at this seance, and heard the 'hollow, mysterious whistling voice, "the ship's nose i will batter out on the great sea"'. even the priest was puzzled, this, he said, was clearly a deceitful spirit, or atua, like those of which porphyry complains, like most of them in fact. but, ten days later, the ship came back to port; she had met a gale, and sprung a leak in the bow, called, in maori, 'the nose' (ihu). it is hardly surprising that some europeans used to consult the oracle. possibly some spiritualists may take comfort in these anecdotes, and allege that the maori mediums were 'very powerful'. this is said to have been the view taken by some american believers, in a very curious case, reported by kohl, but the tale, as he tells it, cannot possibly be accurate. however, it illustrates and strangely coincides with some stories related by the jesuit, pere lejeune, in the canadian mission, about . the instances bear both on clairvoyance and on the force which is said to shake houses as well as to lift tables, in the legends of the modern thaumaturgists. we shall take kohl's tale before those of the old jesuit. kohl first describes the 'medicine lodge,' already alluded to in the account of dene hareskin magic. the 'lodge' answers to what spiritualists call 'the cabinet,' usually a place curtained off in modern practice. behind this the medium now gets up his 'materialisations,' and other cheap mysteries. the classical performers of the fourth century also knew the advantage of a close place, { a} 'where the power would not be scattered'. this idea is very natural, granting the 'power'. the modern ojibway 'close place,' or lodge, like those seen by old jesuit fathers, 'is composed of stout posts, connected with basket- work, and covered with birch bark. it is tall and narrow, and resembles a chimney. it is very firmly built, and two men, even if exerting their utmost strength, would be unable to move, shake, or bend it.' { b} on this topic kohl received information from a gentleman who 'knew the indians well, and was even related to them through his wife'. he, and many other white people thirty years before, saw a jossakeed, or medium, crawl into such a lodge as kohl describes, beating his tambour. 'the entire case began gradually trembling, shaking, and oscillating slowly amidst great noise. . . . it bent back and forwards, up and down, like the mast of a vessel in a storm. i could not understand how those movements could be produced by a man inside, as we could not have caused them from the exterior.' two voices, 'both entirely different,' were then heard within. 'some spiritualists' (here is the weakest part of the story) 'who were present explained it through modern spiritualism.' now this was not before , when kohl's book appeared in english, and modern spiritualism, as a sect of philosophy, was not born till , so that, thirty years before , in , there were no modern spiritualists. this, then, is absurd. however, the tale goes on, and kohl's informant says that he knew the jossakeed, or medium, who had become a christian. on his deathbed the white man asked him how it was done: 'now is the time to confess all truthfully'. the converted one admitted the premisses--he was dying, a christian man--but, 'believe me, i did not deceive you at that time. i did not move the lodge. it was shaken by the power of the spirits. i could see a great distance round me, and believed i could recognise the most distant objects.' this 'with an expression of simple truth'. it is interesting, but the interval of thirty years is a naked impossibility. in there were queer doings in america. joe smith's mormons 'spoke with tongues,' like irving's congregation at the same time, but there were no modern spiritualists. kohl's informant should have said 'ten years ago,' if he wanted his anecdote to be credited, and it is curious that kohl did not notice this circumstance. we now come to the certainly honest evidence of the pere lejeune, the jesuit missionary. in the relations de la nouvelle france ( ), lejeune discusses the sorcerers, who, as rival priests, gave him great trouble. he describes the medicine lodge just as kohl does. the fire is put out, of course, the sorcerer enters, the lodge shakes, voices are heard in montagnais and algonkin, and the father thought it all a clumsy imposture. the sorcerer, in a very sportsmanlike way, asked him to go in himself and try what he could make of it. 'you'll find that your body remains below and your soul mounts aloft.' the cautious father, reflecting that there were no white witnesses, declined to make the experiment. this lodge was larger than those which kohl saw, and would have held half a dozen men. this was in ; by pere lejeune began to doubt whether his theory that the lodge was shaken by the juggler would hold water. two indians--one of them a sorcerer, pigarouich, 'me descouvrant avec grande sincerite toutes ses malices'--'making a clean breast of his tricks'--vowed that they did not shake the lodge--that a great wind entered fort promptement et rudement, and they added that the 'tabernacle' (as lejeune very injudiciously calls the medicine lodge), 'is sometimes so strong that a single man can hardly stir it.' the sorcerer was a small weak man. lejeune himself noted the strength of the structure, and saw it move with a violence which he did not think a man could have communicated to it, especially not for such a length of time. he was assured by many (indian) witnesses that the tabernacle was sometimes laid level with the ground, and again that the sorcerer's arm and legs might be seen projecting outside, while the lodge staggered about--nay, more, the lodge would rock and sway after the juggler had left it. as usual, there was a savage, auiskuouaskousit, who had seen a juggler rise in air out of the structure, while others, looking in, saw that he was absent. st. theresa had done equal marvels, but this does not occur to the good father. the savage with the long name was a christian catechumen, and yet he stood to it that he had seen a sorcerer disappear before his very eyes, like the second-sighted highlander in kirk's secret commonwealth ( ). 'his neibours often perceaved this man to disappear at a certane place, and about one hour after to become visible.' it would be more satisfactory if the father had seen these things himself, like mrs. newton crosland, who informs the world that, when with robert chambers and other persons of sanity, she felt a whole house violently shaken, trembling, and thrilling in the presence of a medium--not a professional, but a young lady amateur. here, of course, we greatly desire the evidence of robert chambers. spirits came to swedenborg with a wind, but it was only strong enough to flutter papers; 'the cause of which,' as he remarks with naivete, 'i do not yet understand'. if swedenborg had gone into a medicine lodge, no doubt, in that 'close place,' the phenomena would have been very much more remarkable. in pere arnaud visited the nasquapees, and describes a seance. 'the conjurers shut themselves up in a little lodge, and remain for a few minutes in a pensive attitude, cross-legged. soon the lodge begins to move like a table turning, and replies by bounds and jumps to the questions which are put to the conjurer.' { } the experiment might be tried with a modern medium. father lejeune, in , gives a case which reminds us of home. according to home, and to mrs. s. c. hall, and other witnesses, when 'in power' he could not only handle live coals without being burned, but he actually placed a large glowing coal, about the size of a cricket-ball, on the pate of mr. s. c. hall, where it shone redly through mr. hall's white locks, but did him no manner of harm. now father pijart was present, tesmoin oculaire, when a huron medicine- man heated a stone red hot, put it in his mouth, and ran round the cabin with it, without receiving any harm. father brebeuf, afterwards a most heroic martyr, sent the stone to father lejeune; it bore the marks of the medicine-man's teeth, though father pijart, examining the man, found that lips and tongue had no trace of burn or blister. he reasonably concluded that these things could not be done 'sans l'operation de quelque demon'. that an excited patient should not feel fire is, perhaps, admissible, but that it should not scorch either mr. hall, or home, or the huron, is a large demand on our credulity. still, the evidence in this case (that of mr. crookes and lord crawford) is much better than usual. it would be strange if practices analogous to modern 'table-turning' did not exist among savage and barbaric races. thus mr. tylor, in primitive culture (ii. ), quotes a kutuchtu lama who mounted a bench, and rode it, as it were, to a tent where the stolen goods were concealed. the bench was believed, by the credulous mongols, to carry the lama! among the manyanja of africa thefts are detected by young men holding sticks in their hands. after a sufficient amount of incantation, dancing, and convulsions, the sticks became possessed, the men 'can hardly hold them,' and are dragged after them in the required directions. { a} these examples are analogous to the use of the divining rod, which is probably moved unconsciously by honest 'dowsers'; 'sometimes they believe that they can hardly hold it'. these are cases of movement of objects in contact with human muscles, and are therefore not at all mysterious in origin. a regular case of movement _without_ contact was reported from thibet, by m. tscherepanoff, in . the modern epidemic of table-turning had set in, when m. tscherepanoff wrote thus to the abeille russe: { b} 'the lama can find stolen objects by following a table which flies before him'. but the lama, after being asked to trace an object, requires an interval of some days, before he sets about finding it. when he is ready he sits on the ground, reading a thibetan book, in front of a small square table, on which he rests his hands. at the end of half an hour he rises and lifts his hands from the surface of the table: presently the table also rises from the ground, and follows the direction of his hand. the lama elevates his hand above his head, the table reaches the level of his eyes: the lama walks, the table rushes before him in the air, so rapidly that he can scarcely keep up with its flight. the table then spins round, and falls on the earth, the direction in which it falls, indicates that in which the stolen object is to be sought. m. tscherepanoff says that he saw the table fly about forty feet, and fall. the stolen object was not immediately discovered, but a russian peasant, seeing the line which the table took, committed suicide, and the object was found in his hut. the date was . m. tscherepanoff could not believe his eyes, and searched in vain for an iron wire, or other mechanism, but could find nothing of the sort. this anecdote, if it does not prove a miracle, illustrates a custom. { } as to clairvoyance among savages, the subject is comparatively familiar. montezuma's priests predicted the arrival of the spaniards long before the event. on this point, in itself well vouched for, acosta tells a story which illustrates the identity of the 'astral body,' or double, with the ordinary body. in the witch stories of increase mather and others, where the possessed sees the phantasm of the witch, and strikes it, the actual witch proves to be injured. story leads to story, and mr. thomas hardy somewhere tells one to this effect. a farmer's wife, a woman of some education, fell asleep in the afternoon, and dreamed that a neighbour of hers, a woman, was sitting on her chest. she caught at the figure's arm in her dream, and woke. later in the day she met her neighbour, who complained of a pain in the arm, just where the farmer's wife seized it in her dream. the place mortified and the poor lady died. to return to montezuma. an honest labourer was brought before him, who made this very tough statement. he had been carried by an eagle into a cave, where he saw a man in splendid dress sleeping heavily. beside him stood a burning stick of incense such as the aztecs used. a voice announced that this sleeper was montezuma, prophesied his doom, and bade the labourer burn the slumberer's face with the flaming incense stick. the labourer reluctantly applied the flame to the royal nose, 'but he moved not, nor showed any feeling'. on this anecdote being related to montezuma, he looked on his own face in a mirror, and 'found that he was burned, the which he had not felt till then'. { } on the coppermine river the medicine-man, according to hearne, prophesies of travellers, like the highland second-sighted man, ere they appear. the finns and lapps boast of similar powers. scheffer is copious on the clairvoyant feats of lapps in trance. the eskimo angakut, when bound with their heads between their legs, cause luminous apparitions, just as was done by mr. stainton moses, and by the mediums known to porphyry and iamblichus; the angakut also send their souls on voyages, and behold distant lands. one of the oddest angekok stories in rink's tales and traditions of the eskimo (p. ) tells how some children played at magic, making 'a dark cabinet,' by hanging jackets over the door, to exclude the light. 'the slabs of the floor were lifted and rushed after them:' a case of 'movement of objects without physical contact'. this phenomenon in future attended the young medium's possessions, even when he was away from home. this particular kind of manifestation, so very common in trials for witchcraft, and in modern spiritualistic literature, does not appear to prevail much among savages. persons otherwise credible and sane tell the authorities of the psychical society that, with only three amateurs present, things are thrown about, and objects are brought from places many miles distant, and tossed on the table. these are technically termed apports. the writer knows a case in which this was attested by a witness of the most unimpeachable character. but savages hardly go so far. bishop callaway has an instance in which 'spirits' tossed objects into the midst of a zulu circle, but such things are not usual. savages also set out food for the dead, but they scarcely attain to the credulity, or are granted the experience, of a writer in the medium. { } this astonishing person knew a familiar spirit. at dinner, one day, an empty chair began to move, 'and in answer to the question whether it would have some dinner, said "yes"'. it chose croquets de pomme de terre, which were placed on the chair in a spoon, lest the spirit, whose manners were rustic, should break a plate. 'in a few seconds i was told that it was eaten, and looking, found the half of it gone, with the marks showing the teeth.' perhaps few savages would have told such a tale to a journal which ought to have a large circulation--among believers. the examples of savage spiritualism which have been adduced might probably receive many additions; those are but gleanings from a large field carelessly harvested. the phenomena have been but casually studied; the civilised mind is apt to see, in savage seances, nothing but noisy buffoonery. we have shown that there is a more serious belief involved, and we have adduced cases in which white men were not unconscious of the barbarian spell. it also appears that the now recognised phenomena of hypnotism are the basis of the more serious savage magic. the production of hypnotic trances, perhaps of hypnotic hallucinations, is a piece of knowledge which savages possessed (as they were acquainted with quinine), while european physicians and philosophers ignored or laughed at it. tobacco and quinine were more acceptable gifts from the barbarian. his magic has now and then been examined by a competent anthropologist, like mr. im thurn, and castren closely observed the proceedings of the bound and bounding shamans among the samoyeds. but we need the evidence both of anthropologists and of adepts in conjuring. they might detect some of the tricks, though mr. kellar, a professional conjurer and exposer of spiritualistic imposture, has been fairly baffled (he says) by zulus and hindus, while educated americans are puzzled by the pawnees. mr. kellar's plan of displaying a few of his own tricks was excellent: the dusky professionals were stimulated to show theirs, which, as described, were miracles. the pakeha maori, already quoted, saw a maori tohunga perform 'a very good miracle as times go,' but he does not give any particulars. the late mr. davey, who started as a spiritualist catechumen, managed, by conjuring, to produce answers to questions on a locked slate, which is as near a miracle as anything. but mr. davey is dead, though we know his secret, while it is improbable that mr. maskelyne will enrich his repertoire by travelling among zulus, hindus, and pawnees. as savages cease to be savages, our opportunities of learning their mystic lore must decrease. to one point in this research the notice of students in folklore may be specially directed. in the attempt to account for the diffusion of popular tales, such as cinderella, we are told to observe that the countries most closely adjacent to each other have the most closely similar variants of the story. this is true, as a rule, but it is also true that, while scandinavian regions have a form of cinderella with certain peculiarities not shared by southern europe, those crop up sporadically, far away, among kaffirs and the indian 'aboriginal' tribe of santhals. the same phenomenon of diffusion occurs when we find savage mediums tied up in their trances, all over the north, among canadian hareskins, among samoyed and eskimo, while the practice ceases at a given point in labrador, and gives place to medicine lodges. the binding then reappears if not in australia, certainly in the ancient greek ceremonial. the writer is not acquainted with 'the bound and bounding young man' in the intervening regions and it would be very interesting to find connecting cases, stepping-stones, as it were, by which the rite passed from the levant to the frozen north. ancient spiritualism. m. littre on 'demoniac affections,' a subject, in his opinion, worthy of closer study. outbreak of modern spiritualism. its relations to greek and egyptian spiritualism recognised. popular and literary sources of modern spiritualism. neoplatonic thaumaturgy not among these. porphyry and iamblichus. the discerning of spirits. the ancient attempts to prove 'spirit identity'. the test of 'spirit lights' in the ancient world. perplexities of porphyry. dreams. the assynt murder. eusebius on ancient spiritualism. the evidence of texts from the papyri. evocations. lights, levitation, airy music, anaesthesia of mediums, ancient and modern. alternative hypotheses: conjuring, 'suggestion' and collective hallucination, actual fact. strange case of the rev. stainton moses. tabular statement showing historical continuity of alleged phenomena. in the revue des deux mondes, for , tome i., m. littre published an article on table-turning and 'rapping spirits'. m. littre was a savant whom nobody accused of superstition, and france possessed no clearer intellect. yet his attitude towards the popular marvels of the day, an attitude at once singular and natural, shows how easily the greatest minds can pay themselves with words. a curious reader, in that period of excitement about 'spiritualism,' would turn to the revue, attracted by m. littre's name. he would ask: 'does m. littre accept the alleged facts; if so, how does he explain them?' and he would find that this guide of human thought did not, at least, _reject_ the facts; that he did not (as he well might have done) offer imposture as the general explanation; that he regarded the topic as very obscure, and eminently worthy of study,--and that he pooh-poohed the whole affair! this is not very consistent or helpful counsel. like the rest of us, who are so far beneath m. littre in grasp and in weight of authority, he was subject to the idola fori, the illusions of the market-place. it would never do for a great scientific sceptic to say, 'here are strange and important facts of human nature, let us examine them as we do all other natural phenomena,' it would never do for such a man to say that without qualification. so he concluded his essay in the pooh-pooh tone of voice. he first gives a sketch of abnormalities in mortal experience, as in the case of mental epidemics, of witchcraft, of the so-called prophets in the cevennes, of the jansenist marvels. he mentions a nunnery where, 'in the sixteenth century,' there occurred, among other phenomena, movements of inanimate objects, pottery specially distinguishing itself, as in the famous 'stockwell mystery'. unluckily he supplies no references for these adventures.' { } the revue, being written for men and women of the world, may discuss such topics, but need not offer exact citations. m. littre, on the strength of his historical sketch, decides, most correctly, that there is rien de nouveau, nothing new, in the spirit-rapping epidemic. 'these maladies never desert our race.' but this fact hardly explains _why_ 'vessels were dragged from the hands' of his nuns in the sixteenth century. in search of a cause, he turns to hallucinations. in certain or uncertain physical conditions, the mind can project and objectify, its own creations. thus gleditch saw the dead maupertuis, with perfect distinctness, in the salle of the academy at berlin. had he not known that maupertuis was dead, he could have sworn to his presence (p. ). yes: but how does that explain volatile pots and pans? well, there are _collective_ hallucinations, as when the persecuted in the cevennes, like the covenanters, heard non-existent psalmody. and all witches told much the same tale; apparently because they were collectively hallucinated. then were the spectators of the agile crockery collectively hallucinated? m. littre does not say so explicitly, though this is a conceivable theory. he alleges after all his scientific statements about sensory troubles, that 'the whole chapter, a chapter most deserving of study, which contains the series of demoniac affections (affections demoniaques), has hardly been sketched out'. among accounts of 'demoniac affections,' descriptions of objects moved without contact are of frequent occurrence. as m. littre says, it is always the same old story. but why is it always the same old story? there were two theories before the world in . first there was the 'animistic-hypothesis,' 'spirits' move the objects, spirits raise the medium in the air, spirits are the performers of the airy music. then there was the hypothesis of a force or fluid, or faculty, inherent in mankind, and notable in some rare examples of humanity. this force, fluid, agency, or what you will, counteracts the laws of gravitation, and compels tables, or pots, to move untouched. to the spiritualists m. littre says, 'bah!' to the partisans of a force or fluid, he says, 'pooh!' 'if your spirits are spirits, why do they let the world wag on in its old way, why do they confine themselves to trivial effects?' the spiritualist would probably answer that he did not understand the nature and limits of spiritual powers. to the friends of a force or faculty in our nature, m. littre remarks, in effect, 'why don't you _use_ your force? why don't you supply a new motor for locomotives? _pooh_!' the answer would be that it was not the volume and market value of the force, but the _existence_ of the force, which interested the inquirer. when amber, being rubbed, attracted straws, the force was as much a force, as worthy of scientific study, as when electricity is employed to bring bad news more rapidly from the ends of the earth. these answers are obvious: m. littre's satire was not the weapon of science, but the familiar test of the bourgeois and the philistine. still, he admitted, nay, asserted strongly, that the whole series of 'demoniac affections' was 'most worthy of investigation,' and was 'hardly sketched out'. in a similar manner, brierre de boismont, in his work on hallucinations, explains a number of 'clairvoyant' dreams, by ordinary causes. but, coming to a vision which he knew at first hand, he breaks down: 'we must confess that these explanations do not satisfy us, and that these events seem rather to belong to some of the deepest mysteries of our being'. { } there is a point at which the explanations of common-sense arouse scepticism. much has been done, since , towards producing a finished picture, in place of an ebauche. the accepted belief in the phenomena of hypnotism, and of unconscious mental and bodily actions--'automatisms'--has expelled the old belief in spirits from many a dusty nook. but we still ask: '_do_ objects move untouched? _why_ do they move, or if they move not at all (as is most probable) _why_ is it always the same story, from the arctic circle to the tales of witches, and of mediums?' there is little said about this particular phenomena (though something is said), but there is much about other marvels, equally widely rumoured of, in the brief and dim greek records of thaumaturgy. to examine these historically is to put a touch or two on the picture of 'demoniac affections,' which m. littre desired to see executed. the greek mystics, at least, believed that the airy music, the movements of untouched objects, the triumph over gravitation, and other natural laws, for which they vouch, were caused by 'demons,' were 'demoniac affections'. to compare the statements of eusebius and iamblichus with those of modern men of science and other modern witnesses, can, therefore, only be called superfluous and superstitious by those who think m. littre superstitious, and his desired investigation 'superfluous'. when the epidemic of 'spiritualism' broke out in the united states ( - ) students of classical literature perceived that spiritualism was no new thing, but a recrudescence of practices familiar to the ancient world. even readers who had confined their attention to the central masterpieces of greek literature recognised some of the revived 'phenomena'. the 'trance medium,' the 'inspirational speaker' was a reproduction of the maiden with a spirit of divination, of the delphic pythia. in the old belief, the god dominated her, and spoke from her lips, just as the 'control,' or directing spirit, dominates the medium. but there were still more striking resemblances between ancient and modern thaumaturgy, which were only to be recognised by readers of the late neoplatonists, such as porphyry, and of the christian fathers, such as eusebius, who argued against the apologists of heathenism. the central classical writers, from homer to tacitus, are not superstitious; they accept the orthodox state magic of omens, of augurs, of prodigies, of oracles, but anything like private necromancy is alien and distasteful to them. we need not doubt that sorcery and the consultation of the dead were being practised all through the classical period, indeed we know that it was so. plato legislates against sorcery in a practical manner; whether it does harm or not, men are persuaded that it does harm; it is vain to argue with them, therefore the wizard and witch are to be punished for their bad intentions. { } there were regular, and, so to speak, orthodox oracles of the dead. they might be consulted by such as chose to sleep on tombs, or to visit the cavern of trophonius, or other chasms which were thought to communicate with the under world. but the idea of bringing a shade, or a hero, a demon, or a god into a private room, as in modern spiritualism, meets us late in such works as the letter of porphyry, and the reply of iamblichus, written in the fourth century of our era. if we may judge by the usual fortune of folklore, these private spiritualistic rites, without temple, or state-supported priestly order, were no new things in the early centuries of christianity, but they had not till then occupied the attention of philosophers and men of letters. the dawn of our faith was the late twilight of the ancient creeds, the classic gods were departing, belief was waning, ghosts were walking, even philosophers were seeking for a sign. the mysteries of the east had invaded hellas. the egyptian theory and practice were of special importance. by certain sacramental formulas, often found written on papyrus, the gods could be constrained, and made, like mediaeval devils, the slaves of the magician. examples will occur later. this idea was alien to the greek mind, at least to the philosophic greek mind. the egyptians, like michael scott, had books of dread, and an old egyptian romance turns on the evils which arose, as to william of deloraine, from the possession of such a volume. { } half- understood strings of hebrew, syriac, and other 'barbarous' words and incantations occur in greek spells of the early christian age. again, old hellenic magic rose from the lower strata of folklore into that of speculation. the people, the folk, is the unconscious self, as it were, of the educated and literary classes, who, in a twilight of creeds, are wont to listen to its promptings, and return to the old ancestral superstitions long forgotten. the epoch of the rise of modern spiritualism was analogous to that when the classical and oriental spiritualism rose into the sphere of the educated consciousness in both periods the marvellous 'phenomena' were practically the same, and so were the perplexities, the doubts, the explanatory hypotheses of philosophical observers. this aspect of the modern spiritualistic epidemic did not escape attention. dr. leonard marsh, of the university of vermont, published, in , a treatise called the apocatastasis, or progress backwards. he proved that the marvels of the foxes, of home, and the other mediums, were the old marvels of neoplatonism. but he draws no conclusion except that spiritualism is retrogressive. his book is wonderfully ill-printed, and, though he had some curious reading, his style was cumbrous, jocular, and verbose. it may, therefore, be worth while, in the light of anthropological research, to show how very closely human nature has repeated its past performances. the new marvels were certainly not stimulated by literary knowledge of the ancient thaumaturgy. modern spiritualism is an effort to organise and 'exploit' the traditional and popular phenomena of rapping spirits, and of ghosts. belief in these had always lived an underground life in rural legend, quite unharmed by enlightenment and education. so far, it resembled the ordinary creeds of folklore. it is probable that, in addition to oral legend, there was another and more literary source of modern thaumaturgy. books like glanvil's, baxter's, those of the mathers and of sinclair, were thumbed by the people after the literary class had forgotten them. moreover, the foxes, who started spiritualism, were methodists, and may well have been familiar with 'old jeffrey,' who haunted the wesleys' house, and with some of the stories of apparitions in wesley's arminian magazine. if there were literary as well as legendary sources of nascent spiritualism, the sources were these. porphyry, iamblichus, eusebius, and the life of apollonius of tyana, cannot have influenced the illiterate parents of the new thaumaturgy. this fact makes the repetition, in modern spiritualism, of neoplatonic theories and neoplatonic marvels all the more interesting and curious. the shortest cut to knowledge of ancient spiritualism is through the letter of porphyry to anebo, and the reply attributed to iamblichus. porphyry, the disciple of plotinus, was a seeker for truth in divine things. prejudice, literary sentiment, and other considerations, prevented him from acquiescing in the christian verity. the ordinary paganism shocked him, both by its obscene and undignified myths, and by many features of its ritual. he devised non-natural interpretations of its sacred legends, he looked for a visible or tangible 'sign,' and he did not shrink from investigating the thaumaturgy of his age. his letter of inquiry is preserved in fragments by eusebius, and st. augustine: gale edited it, and, as he says, offers us an absyrtus (the brother of medea, who scattered his mutilated remains) rather than a porphyry. { a} not all of porphyry's questions interest us for our present purpose. he asks, among other things: how can gods, as in the evocations of gods, be made subject to necessity, and _compelled_ to manifest themselves? { b} how do you discriminate between demons, and gods, that are manifest, or not manifest? how does a demon differ from a hero, or from a mere soul of a dead man? by what sign can we be sure that the manifesting agency present is that of a god, an angel, an archon, or a soul? for to boast, and to display phantasms, is common to all these varieties. { c} in these perplexities, porphyry resembles the anxious spiritualistic inquirer. a 'materialised spirit' alleges himself to be washington, or franklin, or the lost wife, or friend, or child of him who seeks the mediums. how is the inquirer, how was porphyry to know that the assertion is correct, that it is not the mere 'boasting' of some vulgar spirit? in the same way, when messages are given through a medium's mouth, or by raps, or movements of a table, or a planchette, or by automatic writing, how (even discounting imposture) is the source to be verified? how is the identity of the spirit to be established? this question of discerning spirits, of identifying them, of not taking an angel for a devil, or vice versa, was most important in the middle ages. on this turned the fate of joan of arc: were her voices and visions of god or of satan? they came, as in the cases mentioned by iamblichus, with a light, a hallucination of brilliance. when jean brehal, grand inquisitor of france, in - , held the process for rehabilitating joan, condemned as a witch in , he entered learnedly into the tests of 'spirit-identity'. { a} st. theresa was bidden to try to exorcise her visions, by the sign of the cross. saint or sorcerer? it was always a delicate inquiry. iamblichus, in his reply to porphyry's doubts, first enters into theology pretty deeply, but, in book ii. chap. iii. he comes, as it were, to business. the nature of the spiritual agency present on any occasion may be ascertained from his manifestations or epiphanies. all these agencies show _in a light_, we are reminded inevitably of the light which accompanied the visions of colonel gardiner and of pascal. joan of arc, too, in reply to her judges, averred that a light (claritas) usually accompanied the voices which came to her. { b} these things, if we call them hallucinations, were, at least, hallucinations of the good and great, and must be regarded not without reverence. but modern spiritualistic and ghostly literature is full of lights which accompany 'manifestations,' or attend the nocturnal invasions of apparitions. examples are so common that they can readily be found by any one who studies mrs. crowe's night side of nature, or home's life, or phantasms of the living, or the proceedings of the psychical society. meantime homer, and theocritus in familiar passages, attest this belief in light attendant on the coming of the divine, while the norse sagas, and the well-known tale of sir charles lee's daughter and the ghost of her mother ( ), speak for the same belief in the pre-christian north, and in the society of the restoration. { a} a light always comes among the eskimo, when the tornak, or familiar spirit, visits the angekok or sorcerer. here, then, is harmony enough in the psychical beliefs of all time, as when we learn that lights were flashed by the spirits who beset the late rev. stainton moses. { b} unluckily, while we have this cloud of witnesses to the belief in a spiritual light, we are still uncertain as to whether the seeing of such a light is a physical symptom of hallucination. this is the opinion of m. lelut, as given in his amulette de pascal (p. ): 'this globe of fire . . . is a common constituent of hallucinations of sight, and may be regarded at once as their most elementary form, and their highest degree of intensity'. m. lelut knew the phenomenon among mystics whom he had observed in his practice as an 'alienist'. he also quotes a story told of himself by benvenuto cellini. if we can admit that this hallucination of brilliant light may be produced in the conditions of a seance, whether modern, savage, or classical, we obtain a partial solution of the problem presented by the world-wide diffusion of this belief. of course, once accepted as an element in spiritualism, a little phosphorus supplies the modern medium with a requisite of his trade. { a} returning to iamblichus, he classifies his phantasmogenetic agencies by the _kind_ of light they show; greater or less, more or less divided, more or less pure, steady or agitated (ii. ). the arrival of demons is attended by disturbances. { b} heroes are usually very noisy in their manifestations: a hero is a polter-geist, 'sounds echo around' (ii. ). there are also subjective moods diversely generated by diverse apparitions; souls of the dead, for example, prompt to lust (ii. ). on the whole, a great deal of experience is needed by the thaumaturgist, if he is to distinguish between one kind of manifestation and another. even inquisitors have differed in opinion. iamblichus next tackles the difficult question of imposition and personation by spirits. thus a soul, or a spirit, may give itself out for a god, and exhibit the appropriate phantasmagoria: may boast and deceive (ii. ). this is the result of some error or blunder in the ceremony of evocation. { } a bad or low spirit may thus enter, disguised as a demon or god, and may utter deceitful words. but all arts, says our guide, are liable to errors, and the 'sacred art' must not be judged by its occasional imperfections. we know the same kind of excuses in modern times. porphyry went on to ask questions about divination and clairvoyance. we often ascertain the future, he says, in dreams, when our bodies are lying still and peaceful: when we are in no convulsive ecstasy such as diviners use. many persons prophesy 'in enthusiastic and divinely seized moments, awake, in a sense, yet not in their habitual state of consciousness'. music of certain kinds, the water of certain holy wells, the vapours of branchidae, produce such ecstatic effects. some 'take darkness for an ally' (dark seances), some see visions in water, others on a wall, others in sun or moon. as an example of ancient visions in water, we may take one from the life of isidorus, by damascius. isidorus, and his biographer, were acquainted with women who beheld in pure water in a glass vessel the phantasms of future events. { a} this form of divination is still practised, though crystal balls are more commonly used than decanters of water. ancient and modern superstition as in the familiar case of dr. dee, attributes the phantasms to spiritual agency is a divine being _compelled_, porphyry asks, to aid in these efforts, or is it only the soul of the seer, as some believe, which hallucinates itself, by the aid of points de repere? { b} or is there a blending of the soul's operations with the divine inspiration? or are demons in some way evolved out of something abstracted from living bodies? he seems to hint at some such theory of 'exuvious fumes' from the 'circle,' as more recent inquirers have imagined. the young appear to be peculiarly sensitive to vapours, invocations, and other magical methods, which affect the human constitution, and the young are usually engaged as seers. hence visions are probably subjective. ecstasy, madness, fasts and vigils seem particularly favourable to divination. or are there certain mystic correspondences in the nature of things, which may be detected? thus stones and herbs are used in evocations; 'sacred bonds' are tied (as in the eskimo hypnotism and in australia); closed doors are opened, the heavenly bodies are observed. some suppose that there is a race of false and counterfeiting spirits, which, indeed, iamblichus admits. these act the parts of gods, demons, and souls of the dead. again, the conjurer plays on our expectant attention. omitting some remarks no longer appropriate, porphyry asks what use there is in chanting barbarous and meaningless words. he is inclined to think that the demon, or guardian spirit of each man is only part of his soul,--in fact his 'subliminal self'. and generally, he suspects that the whole affair is 'a mere imaginative deceit, played off on itself by the soul'. replying as to divination, iamblichus says that the right kind of dreams are between sleeping and waking when we hear a voice giving directions. a modern example occurred in the trial of the assynt murderer in . one kenneth fraser, called 'the dreamer,' said in the trial: 'i was at home when i had the dream. it was said to me in my sleep by a voice like a man's voice, that the pack (of the murdered pedlar) was lying in sight of the place. i got a sight of the place just as if i had been awake. i never saw the place before, but the voice said in gaelic, "the pack of the merchant is lying in a cairn of stones, in a hollow near to their house". the voice did not name macleod's house.' the pack was, however, not found there, but in a place hard by, which kenneth had _not_ seen in his dream. oddly enough, the murderer had originally hidden the pack, or some of its contents, in a cairn of stones, but later removed it. in the 'willing game,' as played by mr. stuart cumberland, the seeker usually goes first to the place where the hider had thought of concealing the object, though later he changed his mind. macleod was hanged, he confessed his guilt. { } iamblichus believed in dreams of this kind, and in voices heard by men wide awake, as in the case of joan of arc. when an invisible spirit is present, he makes a whirring noise, like the cock lane ghost! { } lights also are exhibited; the medium then by some mystic sense knows what the spirit means. the soul has two lives, one animal, one intellectual; in sleep the latter is more free, and more clairvoyant. in trance, or somnambulism, many cannot feel pain even if they are burned, the god within does not let fire harm them (iii. ). this, of course, suggests home's experiments in handling live coals, as mr. crookes and lord crawford describe them. compare the berserk 'coal-biters' in the saga of egil, and the huron coal- biter in the preceding essay. 'they do not then live an animal life.' sword points do not hurt them. their actions are no longer human. 'inaccessible places are accessible to them, when thus borne by the gods; and they tread on fire unharmed; they walk across rivers. . . . they are not themselves, they live a diviner life, with which they are inspired, and by which they are possessed.' some are convulsed in one way, some in another, some are still. harmonies are heard (as in home's case and that of mr. stainton moses). their bodies are elongated (like home's), or broadened, or float in mid-air, as in a hundred tales of mediums and saints. sometimes the medium sees a light when the spirit takes possession of him, sometimes all present see it (iii. ). thus wodrow says (as we have already shown), that mrs. carlyle's ancestor, mr. welsh, shone in a light as he meditated; and patrick walker tells the same tale about two of the fanatics called 'sweet singers'. from all this it follows, iamblichus holds, that spiritual possession is a genuine objective fact and that the mediums act under real spiritual control. omitting local oracles, and practices apparently analogous to the use of planchette, iamblichus regards the heavenly _light_ as the great source of and evidence for the _external_ and spiritual character and cause of divination (iii. ). iamblichus entirely rejects all porphyry's psychological theories of hallucinations, of the demon or 'genius' as 'subliminal self,' and asserts the actual, objective, sensible action of spirits, divine or daemonic. what effect iamblichus produced on the inquiring porphyry is uncertain. in his de abstinentia (ii. ) he gives in to the notion of deceitful spirits. in addition to the evidence of porphyry, iamblichus, eusebius and other authors of the fourth century, some recently published papyri of the same period throw a little light on the late greek thaumaturgy. { } thus papyrus cxxv. verso (about the fifth century) 'contains elaborate instructions for a magical process, the effect of which is to evoke a goddess, to transform her into the appearance of an old woman, and to bind to her the service of the person using the spell. . . .' obviously we would much prefer a spell for turning an old woman into a goddess. the document is headed, [greek], 'the old serving woman of apollonius of tyana,' and it ends, [grrek], 'it is proved by practice'. you take the head of an ibis, and write certain characters on it in the blood of a black ram, and go to a cross-road, or the sea-shore, or a river-bank at midnight: there you recite gibberish and then see a pretty lady riding a donkey, and she will put off her beauty like a mask and assume the appearance of old age, and will promise to obey you: and so forth. here is a 'constraint put on a god' as porphyry complains. reginald scot, in his discovery of witchcraft ( ), has a very similar spell for alluring an airy sylph, and making her serve and be the mistress of the wizard! there is another papyrus (xlvi.), of the fourth century, with directions for divination by aid of a boy looking into a bowl, says the editor (p. ). there is a long invocation full of 'barbarous words,' like the mediaeval nonsense rhymes used in magic. there is a dubious reading, [grrek] or [greek]; it is suggested that the boy is put into a pit, as it seems was occasionally done. { } it is clear that a spirit is supposed to show the boy his visions. a spell follows for summoning a visible deity. then we have a recipe for making a ring which will enable the owner to know the thoughts of men. the god is threatened if he does not serve the magicians. all manner of fumigations, plants, and stones are used in these idiotic ceremonies, and to these porphyry refers. the papyri do not illustrate the phenomena described by iamblichus, such as the 'light,' levitation, music of unknown origin, the resistance of the medium to fire and sword points, and all the rest of his list of prodigies. iamblichus probably looked down on the believers in these spells written on papyri with extreme disdain. they are only interesting as folklore, like the rhymes of incantation preserved in reginald scot's discovery of witchcraft. there were other analogies between modern, ancient, and savage spiritualism. the medium was swathed, or tied up, like the davenport brothers, like eskimo and australian conjurers, like the highland seer in the bull's hide. { a} the medium was understood to be a mere instrument like a flute, through which the 'control,' the god or spirit, spoke. { b} this is still the spiritualistic explanation of automatic speech. eusebius goes so far as to believe that 'earthbound spirits' do speak through the medium, but a much simpler theory is obvious. { c} indeed where automatic performances of any sort--by writing, by the kind of 'ouija' or table pointing to letters, as described by ammianus marcellinus (xxix. )--or by speaking, are concerned, we have the aid of psychology, and the theory of 'unconscious cerebration' to help us. but when we are told the old tales of whirring noises, of 'bilocation,' of 'levitation,' of a mystic light, we are in contact with more difficult questions. in brief, the problem of spiritualism in general presents itself to us thus: in ancient, modern, and savage thaumaturgy there are certain automatic phenomena. the conjurer, priest, or medium acts, or pretends to act, in various ways beyond his normal consciousness. savages, ancient mystics, and spiritualists ascribe his automatic behaviour to the control of spirits, gods or demons. no such hypothesis is needed. on the other side, however, are phenomena not automatic, 'spiritual' lights, and sounds; interferences with natural laws, as when bodies are lifted in the air, or are elongated, when fire does not fasten on them, and so on. these phenomena, in ancient times, followed on the performance of certain mystic rites. they are now said to occur without the aid of any such rites. gods and spirits are said to cause them, but they are only attained in the presence of certain exceptional persons, mediums, saints, priests, conjurers. clearly then, not the rites, but the peculiar constitution of these individuals is the cause (setting imposture aside) of the phenomena, of the hallucinations, of the impressions, or whatever they are to be styled. that is to say, witnesses, in other matters credible, aver that they receive these peculiar impressions in the society of certain persons and not in that of people in general. now these impressions are, everywhere, in every age and stage of civilisation, essentially identical. is it stretching probability almost beyond what it will bear, to allege that all the phenomena, in the arctic circle as in australia, in ancient alexandria as in modern london, are, always, the result of an imposture modelled on savage ideas of the supernatural? if so we are reduced to the choice between actual objective facts of unknown origin (frequently counterfeited of course), and the theory,--which really comes to much the same thing,--of identical and collective hallucinations in given conditions. on either hypothesis the topic is certainly not without interest for the student of human nature. even if we could, at most, establish the fact that people like iamblichus, mr. crookes, lord crawford, jesuits in canada, professional conjurers in zululand, spaniards in early peru, australian blacks, maoris, eskimo, cardinals, ambassadors, are similarly hallucinated, as they declare, in the presence of priests, diviners, home, zulu magicians, biraarks, jossakeeds, angakut, tohungas, and saints, and mr. stainton moses, still the identity of the false impressions is a topic for psychological study. or, if we disbelieve this cloud of witnesses, if they voluntarily fabled, we ask, why do they all fable in exactly the same fashion? even setting aside the animistic hypothesis, the subject is full of curious neglected problems. once more, if we admit the theory of intentional imposture by saints, angakut, zulu medicine-men, mediums, and the rest, we must grant that a trick which takes in a professional conjurer, like mr. kellar, is a trick well worthy of examination. how did his zulu learn the method of home, of the egyptian diviners, of st. joseph of cupertino? { a} each solution has its difficulties, while practical investigation is rarely possible. we have no home with us, at present, and the opportunity of studying his effects carefully was neglected. it was equally desirable to study them whether he caused collective hallucinations, or whether his effects were merely those of ordinary, though skilful, conjuring. for home, whatever his moral character may have been, was a remarkable survival of a class of men familiar to the mystic iamblichus, to the savage races of the past and present, and (as far as his marvels went) to the biographers of the saints. 'i am one of those,' says the zulu medicine-man, in mr. rider haggard's allan's wife, 'who can make men see what they do not see.' the class of persons who are said to have possessed this power appear, now and then, in all human history, and have at least bequeathed to us a puzzle in anthropology. this problem has recently been presented, in what may be called an acute form, by the publication of the 'experiences of mr. stainton moses'. { b} mr. moses was a clergyman and schoolmaster; in both capacities he appears to have been industrious, conscientious, and honourable. he was not devoid of literature, and had contributed, it is said, to periodicals as remote from mysticism as punch, and the saturday review. he was a sportsman, at least he was a disciple of our father, izaak walton. 'most anglers are quiet men, and followers of peace, so simply wise as not to sell their consciences to buy riches, and with them vexation, and a fear to die,' says izaak. in early middle age, about , mr. moses began to read such books as dale owen's, and to sit 'attentive of his trembling' table, by way of experiment. he soon found that tables bounded in his presence, untouched. then he developed into a regular 'medium'. inanimate objects came to him through stone walls. scent of all sorts, and, as in the case of st. joseph of cupertino, of an unknown sort, was scattered on people in his company. he floated in the air. he wrote 'automatically'. knocks resounded in his neighbourhood, in the open air. 'lights' of all varieties hovered in his vicinity. he spoke 'automatically,' being the mouth-piece of a 'spirit,' and very dull were the spirit's sermons. after a struggle he believed in 'spirits,' who twanged musical notes out in his presence. he became editor of a journal named light; he joined the psychical society, but left it when the society pushed materialism so far as to demonstrate that certain professional mediums were convicted swindlers. the evidence for his marvels is the testimony of a family, perfectly respectable, named speer, and of a few other witnesses whom nobody can suspect of conscious inaccuracy. there remain, as documents, his books, his ms. notes, and other corroborative notes kept by his friend dr. speer, a sceptic, and other observers. it is admitted that mr. moses was not a cautious logician, his inferences are problematic, his generalisations hasty. as to the facts, it is equally difficult to believe in them, and to believe that mr. moses was a conscious impostor, and his friends easy dupes. he cannot have been an impostor _unconsciously_ in a hypnotic state, in a 'trance,' because his effects could not have been improvised. if they were done by jugglery, they required elaborate preparations of all sorts, which must have been made in full ordinary consciousness. if we fall back on collective hallucination, then that hallucination is something of world-wide diffusion, ancient and continuous, for the effects are those attributed by iamblichus to his mystics, by the church to her saints, by witnesses to the 'possessed,' by savages to medicine-men, and by mr. crookes and lord crawford to d. d. home. of course we may be told that all lookers- on, from eskimo to neoplatonists and men of science, know what to expect, and are hallucinated by their own expectant attention. but, when they expect nothing, and are disappointed by having to witness prodigies, the same old prodigies, what is the explanation? the following tabular statement, altered from that given by mr. myers in his publication of mr. moses and dr. speer's ms. notes, will show the historical identity of the phenomena. mr. moses was the agent in all; those exhibited by other ancient and modern agents are marked with a cross. rev. d. d. iamblichus st. eskimo australian 'spontaneous stainton home joseph of (glanvil, moses cupertino bovet, telfair, kirk) . x x ? x . x x x x x . x x x x x x x . x x . x . x x . x x . x x x x . x x x . x x x x x . x x . x x x . 'intelligent raps.' . 'movement of objects untouched.' . 'levitation' (floating in air of seer). . disappearance and reappearance of objects. the 'object' being the medium in some cases. . passage of matter through matter. . direct writing. that is, not by any detected human agency. . sounds made on instruments supernormally. . direct sounds. that is, by no detected human agency. . scents. . lights. . objects 'materialised.' . hands materialised, touched or seen. there are here twelve miracles! home and iamblichus add to mr. moses's repertoire the alteration of the medium's height or bulk. this feat still leaves mr. moses 'one up,' as regards home, in whose presence objects did not disappear, nor did they pass through stone walls. the questions are, to account for the continuity of collective hallucinations, if we accept that hypothesis, and to explain the procedure of mr. moses, if he were an impostor. he did not exhibit before more than seven or eight private friends, and he gained neither money nor dazzling social success by his performances. this page in the chapter of 'demoniac affections' is thus still in the state of ebauche. mr. moses believed his experiences to be 'demoniac affections,' in the neoplatonic sense. could his phenomena have been investigated by the archbishop of canterbury, dr. parker, messrs. maskelyne and cook, and professor huxley, the public mind might have arrived at some conclusion on the subject. but mr. moses's chief spirit, known in society as 'imperator,' declined to let strangers look on. he testified his indignation in a manner so bruyant, he so banged on tables, that mr. moses and his friends thought it wiser to avoid an altercation. this exclusiveness of 'imperator' certainly donne furieusement a penser. if spirits are spirits they may just as well take it for understood that performances 'done in a corner' are of no scientific value. but we are still at a loss for a 'round' and satisfactory hypothesis which will colligate all the alleged facts, and explain their historical continuity. we merely state that continuity as a historical fact. marvels of savages, neoplatonists, saints of church or covenant, 'spontaneous' phenomena, mediumistic phenomena, all hang together in some ways. of this the church has her own explanation. comparative psychical research a party at ragley castle. the miraculous conformist. the restoration and scepticism. experimental proof of spiritual existence. glanvill. boyle. more. the gentleman's butler. 'levitation.' witchcraft. movements of objects. the drummer of tedworth. haunted houses. rerrick. glenluce. ghosts. 'spectral evidence.' continuity and uniformity of stories. st. joseph of cupertino, his flights. modern instances. theory of induced hallucination. ibn batuta. animated furniture. from china to peru. rapping spirit at lyons. the imposture at orleans. the stockwell mystery. the demon of spraiton. modern instances. the wesleys. theory of imposture. conclusion. in the month of february, , there was assembled at ragley castle as curious a party as ever met in an english country-house. the hostess was the lady conway, a woman of remarkable talent and character, but wholly devoted to mystical speculations. in the end, unrestrained by the arguments of her clerical allies, she joined the society of friends, by the world called quakers. lady conway at the time when her guests gathered at ragley, as through all her later life, was suffering from violent chronic headache. the party at ragley was invited to meet her latest medical attendant, an unlicensed practitioner, mr. valentine greatrakes, or greatorex; his name is spelled in a variety of ways. mr. greatrakes was called 'the irish stroker' and 'the miraculous conformist' by his admirers, for, while it was admitted that dissenters might frequently possess, or might claim, powers of miracle, the gift, or the pretension, was rare among members of the established church. the person of mr. greatrakes, if we may believe dr. henry stubbe, physician at stratford-on-avon, diffused a pleasing fragrance as of violets. lord herbert of cherbury, it will be remembered, tells the same story about himself in his memoirs. mr. greatrakes 'is a man of graceful personage and presence, and if my phantasy betrayed not my judgement,' says dr. stubbe, 'i observed in his eyes and meene a vivacitie and spritelinesse that is nothing common'. this miraculous conformist was the younger son of an irish squire, and a person of some property. after the restoration--_and not before_--greatrakes felt 'a strong and powerful impulse in him to essay' the art of healing by touching, or stroking. he resisted the impulse, till one of his hands having become 'dead' or numb, he healed it by the strokes of the other hand. from that moment greatrakes practised, and became celebrated; he cured some diseased persons, failed wholly with others, and had partial and temporary success with a third class. the descriptions given by stubbe, in his letter to the celebrated robert boyle, and by foxcroft, fellow of king's college, cambridge, leave little doubt that 'the irish stroker' was most successful with hypochondriacal and hysterical patients. he used to chase the disease up and down their bodies, if it did not 'fly out through the interstices of his fingers,' and if he could drive it into an outlying part, and then forth into the wide world, the patient recovered. so dr. stubbe reports the method of greatrakes. { } he was brought over from ireland, at a charge of about pounds, to cure lady conway's headaches. in this it is confessed that he entirely failed; though he wrought a few miracles of healing among rural invalids. to meet this fragrant and miraculous conformist, lady conway invited men worthy of the privilege, such as the rev. joseph glanvill, f.r.s., the author of sadducismus triumphatus, his friend dr. henry more, the cambridge platonist, and other persons interested in mystical studies. thus at ragley there was convened the nucleus of an unofficial but active society for psychical research, as that study existed in the seventeenth century. the object of this chapter is to compare the motives, methods, and results of lady conway's circle, with those of the modern society for psychical research. both have investigated the reports of abnormal phenomena. both have collected and published narratives of eye-witnesses. the moderns, however, are much more strict on points of evidence than their predecessors. they are not content to watch, but they introduce 'tests,' generally with the most disenchanting results. the old researchers were animated by the desire to establish the tottering faith of the restoration, which was endangered by the reaction against puritanism. among the fruits of puritanism, and of that frenzied state of mind which accompanied the civil war, was a furious persecution of 'witches'. in a rare little book, select cases of conscience, touching witches and witchcraft, by john gaule, 'preacher of the word at great staughton in the county of huntington' (london, ), we find the author not denying the existence of witchcraft, but pleading for calm, learned and judicial investigation. to do this was to take his life in his hand, for matthew hopkins, a fanatical miscreant, was ruling in a reign of terror through the country. the clergy of the church of england, as hutchinson proves in his treatise of witchcraft (second edition, london, ), had been comparatively cautious in their treatment of the subject. their record is far from clean, but they had exposed some impostures, chiefly, it is fair to say, where nonconformists, or catholics, had detected the witch. with the restoration the general laxity went so far as to scoff at witchcraft, to deny its existence, and even, in the works of wagstaff and webster, to minimise the leading case of the witch of endor. against the 'drollery of sadducism,' the psychical researchers within the english church, like glanvill and henry more, or beyond its pale, like richard baxter and many scotch divines, defended witchcraft and apparitions as outworks of faith in general. the modern psychical society, whatever the predisposition of some of its members may be, explores abnormal phenomena, not in the interests of faith, but of knowledge. again, the old inquirers were dominated by a belief in the devil. they saw witchcraft and demoniacal possession, where the moderns see hysterics and hypnotic conditions. for us the topic is rather akin to mythology, and 'folk-psychology,' as the germans call it. we are interested, as will be shown, in a most curious question of evidence, and the value of evidence. it will again appear that the phenomena reported by glanvill, more, sinclair, kirk, telfair, bovet, are identical with those examined by messrs. gurney, myers, kellar (the american professional conjurer), and many others. the differences, though interesting, are rather temporary and accidental than essential. a few moments of attention to the table talk of the party assembled at ragley will enable us to understand the aims, the methods, and the ideas of the old informal society. by a lucky accident, fragments of the conversation may be collected from glanvill's sadducismus triumphatus, { a} and from the correspondence of glanvill, henry more, and robert boyle. mr. boyle, among more tangible researches, devoted himself to collecting anecdotes, about the second sight. these manuscripts are not published in the six huge quarto volumes of boyle's works; on the other hand, we possess lord tarbet's answer to his questions. { b} boyle, as his letters show, was a rather chary believer in witchcraft and possession. he referred glanvill to his kinsman, lord orrery, who had enjoyed an experience not very familiar; he had seen a gentleman's butler float in the air! now, by a great piece of good fortune, mr. greatrakes the fragrant and miraculous, had also been an eye-witness of this miracle, and was able to give lady conway and her guests the fullest information. as commonly happened in the seventeenth century, though not in ours, the marvel of the butler was mixed up with ordinary folklore. in the records and researches of the existing society for psychical research, folklore and fairies hold no place. the conformist, however, had this tale to tell: the butler of a gentleman unnamed, who lived near lord orrery's seat in ireland, fell in, one day, with the good people, or fairies, sitting at a feast. the fairies, therefore, endeavoured to spirit him away, as later they carried off mr. kirk, minister of aberfoyle, in . lord orrery, most kindly, gave the butler the security of his castle, where the poor man was kept, 'under police protection,' and watched, in a large room. among the spectators were mr, greatrakes himself, and two bishops, one of whom may have been jeremy taylor, an active member of the society. late in the afternoon, the butler was 'perceived to rise from the ground, whereupon mr. greatrix and another lusty man clapt their hands over his shoulders, one of them before, and the other behind, and weighed him down with all their strength, but he was forcibly taken up from them; for a considerable time he was carried in the air to and fro, over their heads, several of the company still running under him, to prevent him receiving hurt if he should fall;' so says glanvill. faithorne illustrates this pleasing circumstance by a picture of the company standing out, ready to 'field the butler, whose features display great concern.' { a} now we know that mr. greatrakes told this anecdote, at ragley, first to mrs. foxcroft, and then to the company at dinner. mr. alfred wallace, f.r.s., adduces lord orrery and mr. greatrakes as witnesses of this event in private life. mr. wallace, however, forgets to tell the world that the fairies, or good people, were, or were believed to be, the agents. { b} fairies still cause levitation in the highlands. campbell of islay knew a doctor, one of whose patients had in vain tried to hold down a friend who was seized and carried to a distance of two miles by the sluagh, the fairy folk. { c} glanvill admits that lord orrery assured lady roydon, one of the party at ragley, that the irish tale was true: henry more had it direct from mr. greatrakes. here is a palpably absurd legend, but the reader is requested to observe that the phenomenon is said to have occurred in all ages and countries. we can adduce the testimony of modern australian blacks, of greek philosophers, of peruvians just after the conquest by pizarro, of the authors of lives of the saints, of learned new england divines, of living observers in england, india, and america. the phenomenon is technically styled 'levitation,' and in england was regarded as a proof either of witchcraft or of 'possession'; in italy was a note of sanctity; in modern times is a peculiarity of 'mediumship'; in australia is a token of magical power; in zululand of skill in the black art; and, in ireland and the west highlands, was attributed to the guile of the fairies. here are four or five distinct hypotheses. part of our business, therefore, is to examine and compare the forms of a fable current in many lands, and reported to the circle at ragley by the miraculous conformist. mr. greatrakes did not entertain lady conway and her friends with this marvel alone. he had been present at a trial for witchcraft, in cork, on september , . in this affair evidence was led to prove a story as common as that of 'levitation'--namely, the mysterious throwing or falling of stones in a haunted house, or around the person of a patient bewitched. cardan is expansive about this manifestation. the patient was mary longdon, the witch was florence newton of youghal. glanvill prints the trial from a document which he regards as official, but he did not take the trouble to trace mr. aston, the recorder or clerk (as glanvill surmises), who signed every page of the manuscript. mr. alfred wallace quotes the tale, without citing his authority. the witnesses for the falling of stones round the bewitched girl were the maid herself, and her master, john pyne, who deposed that she was 'much troubled with little stones that were thrown at her wherever she went, and that, after they had hit her, would fall on the ground, and then vanish, so that none of them could be found'. this peculiarity beset mr. stainton moses, when he was fishing, and must have 'put down' the trout. objects in the maid's presence, such as bibles, would 'fly from her,' and she was bewitched, and carried off into odd places, like the butler at lord orrery's. nicholas pyne gave identical evidence. at ragley, mr. greatrakes declared that he was present at the trial, and that an awl would not penetrate the stool on which the unlucky enchantress was made to stand: a clear proof of guilt. here, then, we have the second phenomenon which interested the circle at ragley; the flying about of stones, of bibles, and other movements of bodies. though the whole affair may be called hysterical imposture by mary longdon (who vomited pins, and so forth, as was customary), we shall presently trace the reports of similar events, among people of widely remote ages and countries, 'from china to peru'. among the guests at ragley, as we said, was dr. joseph glanvill, who could also tell strange tales at first hand, and from his own experience. he had investigated the case of the disturbances in mr. mompesson's house at tedworth, which began in march, . these events, so famous among our ancestors, were precisely identical with what is reported by modern newspapers, when there is a 'medium' in a family. the troubles began with rappings on the walls of the house, and on a drum taken by mr. mompesson from a vagrant musician. this man seems to have been as much vexed as parolles by the loss of his drum, and the psychical society at ragley believed him to be a magician, who had bewitched the house of his oppressor. while mrs. mompesson was adding an infant to her family the noise ceased, or nearly ceased, just as, at epworth, in the house of the rev. samuel wesley, it never vexed mrs. wesley at her devotions. later, at tedworth, 'it followed and vexed the younger children, beating their bedsteads with that violence, that all present expected when they would fall in pieces'. . . . it would lift the children up in their beds. objects were moved: lights flitted around, and the rev. joseph glanvill could assure lady conway that he had been a witness of some of these occurrences. he saw the 'little modest girls in the bed, between seven and eight years old, as i guessed'. he saw their hands outside the bed-clothes, and heard the scratchings above their heads, and felt 'the room and windows shake very sensibly'. when he tapped or scratched a certain number of times, the noise answered, and stopped at the same number. many more things of this kind glanvill tells. he denies the truth of a report that an imposture was discovered, but admits that when charles ii. sent gentlemen to stay in the house, nothing unusual occurred. but these researchers stayed only for a single night. he denied that any normal cause of the trouble was ever discovered. glanvill told similar tales about a house at welton, near daventry, in . stones were thrown, and all the furniture joined in an irregular corroboree. too late for lady conway's party was the similar disturbance at gast's house of little burton june, . here the careful student will note that 'they saw a hand holding a hammer, which kept on knocking'. this _hand_ is as familiar to the research of the seventeenth as to that of the nineteenth century. we find it again in the celebrated scotch cases of rerrick ( ), and of glenluce, while 'the rev. james sharp' (later archbishop of st. andrews), vouched for it, in , in a tale told by him to lauderdale, and by lauderdale to the rev. richard baxter. { } glanvill also contributes a narrative of the very same description about the haunting of mr. paschal's house in soper lane, london: the evidence is that of mr. andrew paschal, fellow of queen's college, cambridge. in this case the trouble began with the arrival and coincided with the stay of a gentlewoman, unnamed, 'who seemed to be principally concerned'. as a rule, in these legends, it is easy to find out who the 'medium' was. the phenomena here were accompanied by 'a cold blast or puff of wind,' which blew on the hand of the fellow of queen's college, just as it has often blown, in similar circumstances, on the hands of mr. crookes, and of other modern amateurs. it would be tedious to analyse all glanvill's tales of rappings, and of volatile furniture. we shall see that, before his time, as after it, precisely similar narratives attracted the notice of the curious. glanvill generally tries to get his stories at first hand and signed by eye-witnesses. lady conway was not behind her guests in personal experiences. her ladyship was concerned with a good old-fashioned ghost. we say 'old-fashioned' of set purpose, because while modern tales of 'levitation' and flighty furniture, of flying stones, of rappings, of spectral hands, of cold psychical winds, are exactly like the tales of old, a change, an observed change, has come over the ghost of the nineteenth century. readers of the proceedings of the psychical society will see that the modern ghost is a purposeless creature. he appears nobody knows why; he has no message to deliver, no secret crime to reveal, no appointment to keep, no treasure to disclose, no commissions to be executed, and, as an almost invariable rule, he does not speak, even if you speak to him. the recent inquirers, notably mr. myers, remark with some severity on this vague and meaningless conduct of apparitions, and draw speculative conclusions to the effect that the ghost, as the scotch say, 'is not all there'. but the ghosts of the seventeenth century were positively garrulous. one remarkable specimen indeed behaved, at valogne, more like a ghost of our time than of his own. { } but, as a common rule, the ghosts in whom lady conway's friends were interested had a purpose: some revealed the spot where a skeleton lay; some urged the payment of a debt, or the performance of a neglected duty. one modern spectre, reported by mr. myers, wandered disconsolate till a debt of three shillings and tenpence was defrayed. { } this is, perhaps, the lowest figure cited as a pretext for appearing. the ghost vouched for by lady conway was disturbed about a larger sum, twenty-eight shillings. she, an elderly woman, persecuted by her visits david hunter, 'neat-herd at the house of the bishop of down and connor, at portmore, in '. mr. hunter did not even know the ghost when she was alive; but she made herself so much at home in his dwelling that 'his little dog would follow her as well as his master'. the ghost, however, was invisible to mrs. hunter. when hunter had at last executed her commission, she asked him to lift her up in his arms. she was not substantial like fair katie king, when embraced by mr. crookes, but 'felt just like a bag of feathers; so she vanished, and he heard most delicate music as she went off over his head'. lady conway cross-examined hunter on the spot, and expressed her belief in his narrative in a letter, dated lisburn, april , . it is true that contemporary sceptics attributed the phenomena to potheen, but, as lady conway asks, how could potheen tell hunter about the ghost's debt, and reveal that the money to discharge it was hidden under her hearthstone? the scope of the ragley inquiries may now be understood. it must not be forgotten that witchcraft was a topic of deep interest to these students. they solemnly quote the records of trials in which it is perfectly evident that girls and boys, either in a spirit of wicked mischief, or suffering from hysterical illusions, make grotesque charges against poor old women. the witches always prick, pinch, and torment their victims, being present to them, though invisible to the bystanders. this was called 'spectral evidence'; and the mathers, during the fanatical outbreaks at salem, admit that this 'spectral evidence,' unsupported, is of no legal value. indeed, taken literally, cotton mather's cautions on the subject of evidence may almost be called sane and sensible. but the protestant inquisitors always discovered evidence confirmatory. for example, a girl is screaming out against an invisible witch; a man, to please her, makes a snatch at the empty air where she points, and finds in his hand a fragment of stuff, which again is proved to be torn from the witch's dress. it is easy to see how this trick could be played. again, a possessed girl cries that a witch is tormenting her with an iron spindle, grasps at the spindle (visible only to her), and, lo, it is in her hand, and is the property of the witch. here is proof positive! again, a girl at stoke trister, in somerset, is bewitched by elizabeth style, of bayford, widow. the rector of the parish, the rev. william parsons, deposes that the girl, in a fit, pointed to different parts of her body, 'and where she pointed, he perceived a red spot to arise, with a small black in the midst of it, like a small thorn'; and other evidence was given to the same effect. the phenomenon is akin to many which, according to medical and scientific testimony, occur to patients in the hypnotic state. the so-called stigmata of louise lateau, and of the shepherd boy put up by the archbishop of reims as a substitute for joan of arc, are cases in point. but glanvill, who quotes the record of the trial (january, ), holds that witchcraft is proved by the coincidence of the witch's confession that she, the devil, and others made an image of the girl and pierced it with thorns! the confession is a piece of pure folklore: poor old elizabeth style merely copies the statements of french and scotch witches. the devil appeared as a handsome man, and as a black dog! glanvill denies that she was tortured, or 'watched'--that is, kept awake till her brain reeled. but his own account makes it plain that she was 'watched' after her confession at least, when the devil, under the form of a butterfly, appeared in her cell. this rampant and mischievous nonsense was dear to the psychical inquirers of the restoration; it was circulated by glanvill, a fellow of the royal society; by henry more; by sinclair, a professor in the university of glasgow; by richard baxter, that glory of nonconformity, who revels in the burning of an 'old reading parson'-- that is, a clergyman who read the homilies, under the commonwealth. this unlucky old parson was tortured into confession by being 'walked' and 'watched'--that is, kept from sleep till he was delirious. archbishop spottiswoode treated father ogilvie, s. j., in the same abominable manner, till delirium supervened. church, kirk, and dissent have no right to throw the first stone at each other. taking levitation, haunting, disturbances and apparitions, and leaving 'telepathy' or second sight out of the list for the present, he who compares psychical research in the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries finds himself confronted by the problem which everywhere meets the student of institutions and of mythology. the anthropologist knows that, if he takes up a new book of travels in the remotest lands, he will find mention of strange customs perfectly familiar to him in other parts of the ancient and modern world. the mythologist would be surprised if he encountered in papua or central africa, or sakhalin, a perfectly _new_ myth. these uniformities of myth and custom are explained by the identical workings of the uncivilised intelligence on the same materials, and, in some cases, by borrowing, transmission, imitation. now, some features in witchcraft admit of this explanation. highland crofters, even now, perforate the image of an enemy with pins; broken bottle-ends or sharp stones are put, in russia and in australia, in the footprints of a foe, for the purpose of laming him; and there are dozens of such practices, all founded on the theory of sympathy. like affects like. what harms the effigy hurts the person whose effigy is burned or pricked. all this is perfectly intelligible. but, when we find savage 'birraarks' in australia, fakirs in india, saints in mediaeval europe, a gentleman's butler in ireland, boys in somerset and midlothian, a young warrior in zululand, miss nancy wesley at epworth in , and mr. daniel home in london in - , all triumphing over the law of gravitation, all floating in the air, how are we to explain the uniformity of stories palpably ridiculous? the evidence, it must be observed, is not merely that of savages, or of persons as uneducated and as superstitious as savages. the australian birraark, who flies away up the tree, we may leave out of account. the saints, st. francis and st. theresa, are more puzzling, but miracles were expected from saints. { a} the levitated boy was attested to in a court of justice, and is designed by faithorne in an illustration of glanvill's book. he flew over a garden! but witnesses in such trials were fanciful people. lord orrery and mr. greatrakes may have seen the butler float in the air-- after dinner. the exploits of the indian fakirs almost, or quite, overcome the scepticism of mr. max muller, in his gifford lectures on psychological religion. living and honourable white men aver that they have seen the feat, examined the performers, and found no explanation; no wires, no trace of imposture. (the writer is acquainted with a well vouched for case, the witness an english officer.) mr. kellar, an american professional conjurer, and exposer of spiritualistic pretensions, bears witness, in the north american review, to a zulu case of 'levitation,' which actually surpasses the tale of the gentleman's butler in strangeness. cieza de leon, in his travels, translated by mr. markham for the hakluyt society, brings a similar anecdote from early peru, in . { b} miss nancy wesley's case is vouched for (she and the bed she sat on both rose from the floor) by a letter from one of her family to her brother samuel, printed in southey's life of wesley. finally, lord lindsay and lord adare published a statement that they saw home float out of one window and in at another, in ashley place, s.w., on december , . captain wynne, who was also there, 'wrote to the medium, to say i was present as a witness'. { } we need not heap up more examples, drawn from classic greece, as in the instances of abaris and iamblichus. we merely stand speechless in the presence of the wildest of all fables, when it meets us, as identical myths and customs do--not among savages alone, but everywhere, practically speaking, and in connection with barbarous sorcery, with english witchcraft, with the saintliest of mediaeval devotees, with african warriors, with hindoo fakirs, with a little english girl in a quiet old country parsonage, and with an enigmatic american gentleman. many living witnesses, of good authority, sign statements about home's levitation. in one case, a large table, on which stood a man of twelve stone weight rose from the floor, and an eye-witness, a doctor, felt under the castors with his hands. of all persons subject to 'levitation,' saint joseph of cupertino ( - ) was the most notable. the evidence is partly derived from testimonies collected with a view to his canonisation, within two years after his death. there is a full account of his life and adventures in acta sanctorum. { } st. joseph died, as we saw, in , but the earliest biography of him, in italian, was not published till fifteen years later, in . unluckily the compiler of his legend in the acta sanctorum was unable to procure this work, by nutius, which might contain a comparatively slight accretion of myths. the next life is of , and the author made use of the facts collected for joseph's beatification. there is another life by pastrovicchi, in . he was canonised in that year, when all the facts were remote by about a century. joseph's parents were pauperes sed honesti; his father was a carpenter, his mother a woman of almost virulent virtue, who kept her son in great order. from the age of eight he was subject to cataleptic or epileptic fits and convulsions. after his novitiate he suffered from severe attacks of melancholia. his 'miracles' attracting attention, he was brought before the inquisition at naples, as an impostor. he was sent to an obscure and remote monastery, and thence to assisi, where he was harshly treated, and fell into bunyan's slough of despond, having much conflict with apollyon. he was next called to rome, where cardinals testify that, on hearing sacred names, he would give a yell, and fall into ecstasy. returning to assisi he was held in high honour, and converted a hanoverian prince. he healed many sick people, and, having fallen into a river, came out quite dry. he could scarcely read, but was inspired with wonderful theological acuteness. he always yelled before falling into an ecstasy, afterwards, he was so much under the dominion of anaesthesia that hot coals, if applied to his body, produced no effect. then he soared in air, now higher, now lower (a cardinal vouches for six inches), and in aere pendulus haerebat, like the gentleman's butler at lord orrery's. seventy separate flights, in-doors and out of doors, are recorded. in fact it was well to abstain from good words in conversation with st. joseph of cupertino, for he would give a shout, on hearing a pious observation, and fly up, after which social intercourse was out of the question. he was, indeed, prevented by his superiors from appearing at certain sacred functions, because his flights disturbed the proceedings, indeed everything was done by the church to discourage him, but in vain. he explained his preliminary shout by saying that 'guns also make a noise when they go off,' so the cardinal de laurea heard him remark. he was even more fragrant than the miraculous conformist, or the late mr. stainton moses, to whose seances scent was marvellously borne by 'spirits'. it must be remembered that contemporary witnesses attest these singular circumstances in the evidence taken two years after his death, for the beatification of joseph. from assisi he was sent to various obscure convents, where his miracles were as remarkable as ever. one christmas eve, hearing sacred music, he flew up like a bird, from the middle of the church to the high altar, where he floated for a quarter of an hour, yet upset none of the candles. an insane nobleman was brought to him to be healed. seizing the afflicted prince by the hair of the head, he uttered a shout, and soared up with the patient, who finally came down cured! once he flew over a pulpit, and once more than eighty yards to a crucifix. this is probably 'a record'. when some men were elevating a cross for a calvary, and were oppressed by the weight, joseph uttered a shriek, flew to them, and lightly erected the cross with his own hand. the flight was of about eighty yards. he flew up into a tree once, and perched on a bough, which quivered no more than if he had been a bird. a rather commonplace pious remark uttered in his presence was the cause of this exhibition. once in church, he flew from his knees, caught a priest, lifted him up, and gyrated, laetissimo raptu, in mid air. in the presence of the spanish ambassador and many others, he once flew over the heads of the congregation. once he asked a priest whether the holy elements were kept in a particular place. 'who knows?' said the priest, whereon joseph soared over his head, remained kneeling in mid air, and came down only at the request of his ecclesiastical superior. joseph was clairvoyant, and beheld apparitions, but on the whole (apart from his moral excellence) his flights were his most notable accomplishment. on one occasion he 'casual remarked to a friend,' 'what an infernal smell' (infernails odor), and then nosed out a number of witches and warlocks who were compounding drugs: 'standing at some considerable distance, standing, in fact, in quite another street'. iamblichus, in the letter to porphyry, describes such persons as st. joseph of cupertino. 'they have been known to be lifted up into the air. . . . the subject of the afflatus has not felt the application of fire. . . . the more ignorant and mentally imbecile a youth may be, the more freely will the divine power be made manifest.' joseph was ignorant, and 'enfeebled by vigil and fasts,' so joseph was 'insensible of the application of fire,' and 'was lifted up into the air'. yet the cardinals, surgeons, and other witnesses were not thinking of the pagan iamblichus when they attested the accomplishments of the saint. whence, then, comes the uniformity of evidence? the sceptical calef did not believe in these things, because they are 'miracles,' that is, contrary to experience. but here is experience enough to which they are not contrary. there are dozens of such depositions, and here it is that the student of testimony and of belief finds himself at a deadlock. believe the evidence we cannot, yet we cannot doubt the good faith, the veracity of the attesting witnesses. had we only savage, or ancient and uneducated testimony, we might say that the uniformity of myths of levitation is easily explained. the fancy wants a marvel, it readily provides one by positing the infraction of the most universally obvious law, that of gravitation. men don't fly; let us say that a man flew, like abaris on his arrow! this is rudimentary, but then witnesses whose combined testimony would prove almost anything else, declare that they saw the feat performed. till we can find some explanation of these coincidences of testimony, it is plain that a province in psychology, in the relations between facts as presented to and as represented by mankind, remains to be investigated. of all persons who have been levitated since st. joseph, a medium named eglinton was most subject to this infirmity. in a work, named there is no death, by florence marryat, the author assures us that she has frequently observed the phenomenon. but mr. eglinton, after being 'investigated' by the psychical society, 'retired,' as mr. myers says, 'into private life'. the tales told about him by spiritualists are of the kind usually imparted to a gallant, but proverbially confiding, arm of her majesty's service. as for lord orrery's butler, and the others, there are the hypotheses that a cloud of honourable and sane witnesses lied; that they were uniformly hallucinated, or hypnotised, by a glamour as extraordinary as the actual miracle would be; or again, that conjuring of an unexampled character could be done, not only by home, or eglinton, in a room which may have been prepared, but by home, by a zulu, by st. joseph of cupertino, and by naked fakirs, in the open air. of all these theories that of glamour, of hypnotic illusion, is the most specious. thus, when ibn batuta, the old arabian traveller, tells us that he saw the famous rope-trick performed in india--men climbing a rope thrown into the air, and cutting each other up, while the bodies revive and reunite-- he very candidly adds that his companion, standing by, saw nothing out of the way, and declared that nothing occurred. { a} this clearly implies that ibn batuta was hypnotised, and that his companion was not. but dr. carpenter's attempt to prove that one witness saw nothing, while lord lindsay and lord adare saw home float out of one window, and in by another, turns out to be erroneous. the third witness, captain wynne, confirmed the statement of the other gentlemen. we now approach the second class of marvels which regaled the circle at ragley, namely, 'alleged movements of objects without contact, occurring _not_ in the presence of a paid medium,' and with these we shall examine rappings and mysterious noises. the topic began to attract modern attention when table-turning was fashionable. but in common table-turning there _was_ contact, and faraday easily demonstrated that there was conscious or unconscious pushing and muscular exertion. in mr. crookes made laboratory experiments with home, using mechanical tests. { b} he demonstrated, to his own satisfaction, that in the presence of home, even when he was not in physical contact with the object, the object moved: e pur si muove. he published a reply to dr. carpenter's criticism, and the common-sense of ordinary readers, at least, sees no flaw in mr. crookes's method and none in his argument. the experiments of the modern psychical society, with paid mediums, produced results, in mr. myers's opinion, 'not wholly unsatisfactory,' but far from leading to an affirmative conclusion, if by 'satisfactory' mr. myers means 'affirmative'. { a} the investigations of mrs. sidgwick were made under the mediumship of miss kate fox (mrs. jencken). this lady began the modern 'spiritualism' when scarcely older than mr. mompesson's 'two modest little girls,' and was accompanied by phenomena like those of tedworth. but, in mrs. sidgwick's presence the phenomena were of the most meagre; and the reasoning faculties of the mind decline to accept them as other than perfectly normal. the society tried mr. eglinton, who once was 'levitated' in the presence of mr. kellar, the american conjurer, who has publicly described feats like those of the gentleman's butler. { b} but, after his dealings with the society, mr. eglinton has left the scene. { c} the late mr. davey also produced results like mr. eglinton's by confessed conjuring. mr. myers concludes that 'it does not seem worth while, as a rule, to examine the testimony to physical marvels occurring in the presence of professional mediums'. he therefore collects evidence in the article quoted, for physical marvels occurring where there is no paid medium. here, as in the business of levitation, the interest of the anthropologist and mythologist lies in the uniformity and identity of narratives from all countries, climates, and ages. among the earliest rappings with which we chance to be familiar are those reported by froissart in the case of the spirit orthon, in the fourteenth century. the tale had become almost a fabliau, but any one who reads the amusing chapter will see that it is based on a belief in disturbances like those familiar to glanvill and the misses fox. cieza de leon ( ) in the passage already quoted, where he describes the levitated cacique of pirza in popyan, adds that 'the christians saw stones falling from the air' (as in the greatrakes tale of the youghal witch), and declares that, 'when the chief was sitting with a glass of liquor before him, the christians saw the glass raised up in the air and put down empty, and a short time afterwards the wine was again poured into the cup from the air'. mr. home once equalled this marvel, { a} and ibn batuta reports similar occurrences, earlier, at the court of the king of delhi. there is another case in histoire prodigieuse d'une jeune fille agitee d'un esprit fantastique et invisible. { b} a bourgeois of bonneval was beset by a rapping rattle of a sprite. 'at dinner, when he would lay his hand on a trencher, it was carried off elsewhere, and the wineglass, when he was about drinking, was snatched from his hand.' so mr. wesley's trencher was set spinning on the table, when nobody touched it! in such affairs we may have the origin of the story of the harpies at the court of phineus. in china, mr. dennys tells how 'food placed on the table vanished mysteriously, and many of the curious phenomena attributed to ghostly interference took place,' so that the householder was driven from house to house, and finally into a temple, in , and all this after the death of a favourite but aggrieved monkey! { a} 'throwing down crockery, trampling on the floor, etc.--such pranks as have attracted attention at home, are not unknown. . . . i must confess that in china, as elsewhere, these occurrences leave a bona fide impression of the marvellous which can neither be explained nor rejected'. { b} we have now noted these alleged phenomena, literally 'from china to peru'. let us next take an old french case of a noisy sprite in the nunnery of st. pierre de lyon. the account is by adrien de montalembert, almoner to francis i. { c} the bibliography of this very rare tract is curious and deserves attention. when lenglet dufresnoy was compiling, in , his dissertations sur les apparitions he reprinted the tract from the paris quarto of , in black letter. this example had been in the tellier collection, and dufresnoy seems to have borrowed it from the royal convent of st. genevieve. knowing that cardinal tencin had some acquaintance with the subject, dufresnoy wrote to him, and publishes (vol. i. cxli.) his answer, dated october , , lyons. the cardinal replied that, besides the paris edition of , there was a rouen reprint, of , by rolin gautier, with engravings. brunet says, that there are engravings in the paris edition of , perhaps these were absent from the tellier example. that of rouen, which cardinal tencin collated, was in the abbey of st. peter, in lyons. some leaves had been thumbed out of existence, and their place was supplied in manuscript. the only difference was in chapter xxviii. where the printed rouen text may have varied. in the ms. at all events, it is stated that on march , the spirit of sister alix de telieux struck thirty-three great strokes on the refectory of her convent, 'mighty and marvellous,' implying that her thirty-three years of purgatory were commuted into thirty-three days. a bright light, scarcely endurable, then appeared, and remained for some eight minutes. the nuns then went into chapel and sang a te deum. at the end of the volume, a later hand added, in manuscript, that the truth of the contemporary record was confirmed by the tradition of the oldest sisters who had received it from eye-witnesses of the earlier generation. the writer says that she had great difficulty in finding the printed copy, but that when young, in , she received the tale from a nun, then aged ninety-four. this nun would be born in , ten years after these events. she got the story from her aunt, a nun, gabrielle de beaudeduit, qui etoit de ce tems- la. there is no doubt that the sisters firmly and piously believed in the story, which has the contemporary evidence of adrien de montalembert. dufresnoy learned that a manuscript copy of the tract was in the library of the jesuits of lyons. he was unaware of an edition in mo of , cited by brunet. to come to the story, one of our earliest examples of a 'medium,' and of communications by raps. the nunnery was reformed in . a pretty sister, alix de telieux, fled with some of the jewels, lived a 'gay' life, and died wretchedly in . she it was, as is believed, who haunted a sister named anthoinette de grolee, a girl of eighteen. the disturbance began with a confused half-dream. the girl fancied that the sign of the cross was made on her brow, and a kiss impressed on her lips, as she wakened one night. she thought this was mere illusion, but presently, when she got up, she heard, 'comme soubs ses pieds frapper aucuns petis coups,' 'rappings,' as if at the depth of four inches underground. this was exactly what occurred to miss hetty wesley, at epworth, in , and at rio de janeiro to a child named 'c.' in professor alexander's narrative. { } montalembert says, in , 'i have heard these rappings many a time, and, in reply to my questions, so many strokes as i asked for were given'. montalembert received information (by way of raps) from the 'spirit,' about matters of importance, qui ne pourroient estre cogneus de mortelle creature. 'certainly,' as he adds, 'people have the best right to believe these things who have seen and heard them.' the rites of the church were conferred in the most handsome manner on the body of sister alix, which was disinterred and buried in her convent. exorcisms and interrogations of the spirit were practised. it merely answered questions by rapping 'yes,' or 'no'. on one occasion sister anthoinette was 'levitated'. finally, the spirit appeared bodily to her, said farewell, and disappeared after making an extraordinary fracas at matins. montalembert conducted the religious ceremonies. one case of hysteria was developed; the sufferer was a novice. of course it was attributed to diabolical possession the whole story in its pleasant old french, has an agreeable air of good faith but what interests us is the remarkable analogy between the lyons rappings and those at epworth, tedworth, and countless other cases, old or of yesterday. we can now establish a catena of rappings and pour prendre date, can say that communications were established, through raps, with a so-called 'spirit,' more than three hundred years before the 'rochester knockings' in america. very probably wider research would discover instances prior to that of lyons; indeed, wierus, in de praestigiis daemonum, writes as if the custom was common. it is usual to explain the raps by a theory that the 'medium' produces them through cracking his, or her, knee-joints. it may thus be argued that sister anthoinette discovered this trick, or was taught the trick, and that the tradition of her performance, being widely circulated in montalembert's quarto, and by oral report, inspired later rappers, such as miss kate fox, miss 'c.' davis, miss hetty wesley, the gentlewoman at mr. paschal's, mr. mompesson's 'modest little girls,' daniel home, and miss margaret wilson of galashiels. miss wilson's uncle came one day to mr. wilkie, the minister, and told him the devil was at his house, for, said he, 'there is an odd knocking about the bed where my niece lies'. whereupon the minister went with him, and found it so. 'she, rising from her bed, sat down to supper, and from below there was such a knocking up as bred fear to all that were present. this knocking was just under her chair, where it was not possible for any mortal to knock up.' when miss wilson went to bed, and was in a deep sleep, 'her body was so lifted up that many strong men were not able to keep it down'. { a} the explanation about cracking the knee- joints hardly covers the levitations, or accounts for the tremendous noise which surrounded sister anthoinette at matins, or for the bright light, a common spiritualistic phenomenon. margaret wilson was about twelve years of age. if it be alleged that little girls have a traditional method of imposture, even that is a curious and interesting fact in human nature. as regards imposture, there exists a singular record of a legal process in paris, . { b} it may have been observed that the lyons affair was useful to the church, as against 'the damnable sect of lutherans,' because sister alix attested the existence of purgatory. no imposture was detected, and no reader of montalembert can doubt his good faith, nor the sincerity of his kindness and piety. but such a set of circumstances might provoke imitation. of fraudulent imitation the franciscans of orleans were accused, and for this crime they were severely punished. we have the arrest des commissaires du conseil d'etat du roi, from ms. , a. of the bibliotheque du roi. { } we have also allusions in the franciscanus, a satire in latin hexameter by george buchanan. finally, we have versions in lavaterus, and in wierus, de curat. laes. maleficio (amsterdam, , p. ). wierus, born , heard the story when with sleidan at orleans, some years after the events. he gives the version of sleidan, a notably protestant version. wierus is famous for his spirited and valuable defence of the poor women then so frequently burned as witches. he either does, or pretends to believe in devils, diabolical possession, and exorcism, but the exorcist, to be respectable, must be protestant. probably wierus was not so credulous as he assumes to be, and a point of irony frequently peeps out. the story as told by sleidan differs from that in the official record. in this document adam fumee counsellor of the king, announces that the franciscans of orleans have informed the king that they are vexed by a spirit, which gives itself out by signs (rappings), as the wife of francois de st. mesmin, provost of orleans. they ask the king to take cognisance of the matter. on the other side, st. mesmin declares that the franciscans have counterfeited the affair in hope of 'black-mailing' him. the king, therefore, appoints fumee to inquire into the case. thirteen friars are lying in prison in paris, where they have long been 'in great wretchedness and poverty, and perishing of hunger,' a pretty example of the law's delay. a commission is to try the case (november, ). the trouble had begun on february , (old style), when father pierre d'arras at five a.m. was called into the dormitory of 'les enfans,'--novices,--with holy water and everything proper. knocking was going on, and by a system of knocks, the spirit said it wanted its body to be taken out of holy ground, said it was madame st mesmin, and was damned for lutheranism and extravagance! the experiment was repeated before churchmen and laymen, but the lay observers rushed up to the place whence the knocks came where they found nothing. they hid some one there, after which there was no knocking. on a later day, the noises as in cock lane and elsewhere, began by scratching. "m. l'official," the bishop's vicar, 'ouit gratter, qui etoit le commencement de ladite accoutummee tumulte dudit esprit'. but no replies were given to questions, which the franciscans attributed to the disturbance of the day before, and the breaking into various places by the people. one alicourt seems to have been regarded as the 'medium,' and the sounds were heard as in cock lane and at tedworth when he was in bed. later experiments gave no results, and the friars were severely punished, and obliged to recant their charges against madame de mesmin. the case, scratches, raps, false accusations and all, is parallel to that of the mendacious 'scratching fanny,' examined by dr. johnson and douglas, bishop of salisbury. in that affair the child was driven by threats to make counterfeit noises, but, as to the method of imposture at orleans, nothing is said in the contemporary legal document. we now turn to the account by sleidan, in wierus. the provost's wife had left directions for a cheap funeral in the franciscan church. this economy irritated the fathers, who only got six pieces of gold, 'having expected much greater plunder'. 'colimannus' (colimant), an exorcist named in the process, was the ringleader. they stationed a lad in the roof of the church, who rapped with a piece of wood, and made a great noise 'when they mumbled their prayers at night'. st. mesmin appealed to the king, the fathers were imprisoned, and the youth was kept in fumee's house, and plied with questions. he confessed the trick, and the friars were punished. of all this confession, and of the mode of imposture, nothing is said in the legal process. from the whole affair came a popular saying, c'est l'esprit d'orleans, when any fable was told. buchanan talks of cauta parum pietas in fraude paranda. the evidence, it may be seen, is not very coherent, and the franciscans may have been the deceived, not the deceivers. { } wierus himself admits that he often heard a brownie in his father's house, which frightened him not a little, and georgius pictorius avers that a noisy spirit haunted his uncle's house for thirty years, a very protracted practical joke, if it was a practical joke. { } this was a stone-throwing demon. a large book might easily be filled with old stories of mysterious flights of stones, and volatile chairs and tables. the ancient mystics of the levant were acquainted with the phenomena, as iamblichus shows. the eskimo knew them well. glanvill is rich in examples, the objects flying about in presence of a solitary spectator, who has called at a 'haunted house,' and sometimes the events accompany the presence of a single individual, who may, or may not be a convulsionary or epileptic. sometimes they befall where no individual is suspected of constitutional electricity or of imposture. we may select a laughable example from a rare tract. 'an authentic, candid, and circumstantial narrative of the astonishing transactions at stockwell, in the county of surrey, on monday and tuesday, the th and th of january, . published with the consent and approbation of the family and other parties concerned, to authenticate which, the original copy is signed by them. london, , printed for j. marks, bookseller, in st. martin's lane.' the dramatis personae are old mrs. golding, of stockwell parish, 'a gentlewoman of unblemished honour and character'; mrs. pain, her niece, a farmer's wife, 'respected in the parish'; mary martin, her servant, previously with mrs. golding; richard fowler, a labourer, living opposite mrs. pain; sarah fowler his wife--all these sign the document,--and ann robinson, mrs. golding's maid, just entered on her service. ann does _not_ sign. the trouble began at ten a.m. on january , when mrs. golding heard a great smash of crockery, an event 'most incident to maids'. the lady went into the kitchen, when plates began to fall from the dresser 'while she was there and nobody near them'. then a clock tumbled down, so did a lantern, a pan of salt beef cracked, and a carpenter, rowlidge, suggested that a recent addition of a room above had shaken the foundation of the house. mrs. golding rushed into the house of mr. gresham, her next neighbour, and fainted. meanwhile ann robinson was 'mistress of herself, though china fall,' and seemed in no hurry to leave the threatened dwelling. the niece of mrs. golding, mrs. pain, was sent for to mr. gresham's, mrs. golding was bled, when, lo, 'the blood sprang out of the basin upon the floor, and the basin broke to pieces!' a bottle of rum, of sympathetic character, also burst. many of mrs. golding's more fragile effects had been carried into mr. gresham's: the glasses and china first danced, and then fell off the side-board and broke. mrs. golding, 'her mind one confused chaos,' next sought refuge at mr. mayling's for three-quarters of an hour. here nothing unusual occurred, but, at mr. gresham's (where ann robinson was packing the remains of her mistress's portable property) a 'mahogany waiter,' a quadrille box, a jar of pickles and a pot of raspberry jam shared the common doom. 'their end was pieces.' mrs. pain now hospitably conveyed her aunt to her house at rush common, 'hoping all was over'. this was about two in the afternoon. at eight in the evening, the whole row of pewter dishes, bar one, fell from a shelf, rolled about a little, and 'as soon as they were quiet, turned upside down; they were then put upon the dresser, and went through the same a second time'. then of two eggs, one 'flew off, crossed the kitchen, struck a cat on the head, and then burst in pieces'. a pestle and a mortar presently 'jumped six feet from the floor'. the glass and crockery were now put on the floor, 'he that is down need fear no fall,' but the objects began to dance, and tumble about, and then broke to pieces. a china bowl jumped eight feet but was not broken. however it tried again, and succeeded. candlesticks, tea-kettles, a tumbler of rum and water, two hams, and a flitch of bacon joined in the corroboree. 'most of the genteel families around were continually sending to inquire after them, and whether all was over or not.' all this while, ann was 'walking backwards and forwards', nor could they get her to sit down, except for half an hour, at prayers, 'then all was quiet'. she remarked, with stoicism, 'these things could not be helped'. fowler came in at ten, but fled in a fright at one in the morning. by five, mrs. golding summoned mrs. pain, who had gone to bed, 'all the tables, chairs, drawers, etc., were tumbling about'. they rushed across to fowler's where, as soon as ann arrived, the old game went on. fowler, therefore, like the landlord in the poem, 'did plainly say as how he wished they'd go away,' at the same time asking mrs. golding 'whether or not, she had been guilty of some atrocious crime, for which providence was determined to pursue her on this side the grave,' and to break crockery till death put an end to the stupendous nemesis. 'having hitherto been esteemed a most deserving person,' mrs. golding replied, with some natural warmth, that 'her conscience was quite clear, and she could as well wait the will of providence in her own house as in any other place,' she and the maid went to her abode, and there everything that had previously escaped was broken. 'a nine-gallon cask of beer that was in the cellar, the door being open and nobody near it, turned upside down'; 'a pail of water boiled like a pot'. so mrs. golding discharged miss ann robinson and that is all. at mrs. golding's they took up three, and at mrs. pain's two pails of the fragments that were left. the signatures follow, appended on january . the tale has a sequel. in an old mr. braidley, who loved his joke, told hone that he knew ann, and that she confessed to having done the tricks by aid of horse-hairs, wires and other simple appliances. we have not mr. braidley's attested statement, but ann's character as a medium is under a cloud. have all other mediums secret wires? (every-day book, i. .) ann robinson, we have seen, was a tranquil and philosophical maiden. not so was another person who was equally active, ninety years earlier. bovet, in his pandaemonium ( ), gives an account of the demon of spraiton, in . his authorities were 'j. g., esquire,' a near neighbour to the place, the rector of barnstaple, and other witnesses. the 'medium' was a young servant man, appropriately named francis fey, and employed in the household of sir philip furze. now, this young man was subject to 'a kind of trance, or extatick fit,' and 'part of his body was, occasionally, somewhat benumbed and seemingly deader than the other'. the nature of fey's case, physically, is clear. he was a convulsionary, and his head would be found wedged into tight places whence it could hardly be extracted. from such a person the long and highly laughable tale of ghosts (a male ghost and a jealous female ghost) which he told does not much win our acceptance. true, mrs. thomasin gidley, anne langdon, and a little child also saw the ghost in various forms. but this was probably mere fancy, or the hallucinations of fey were infectious. but objects flew about in the young man's presence. 'one of his shoe-strings was observed (without the assistance of any hand) to come of its own accord out of his shoe and fling itself to the other side of the room; the other was crawling after it (!) but a maid espying that, with her hand drew it out, and it clasp'd and curl'd about her hand like a living eel or serpent. a barrel of salt of considerable quantity hath been observed to march from room to room without any human assistance,' and so forth. { } it is hardly necessary to add more modern instances. the 'electric girl' angelique cottin, who was a rival of ann robinson, had her powers well enough attested to arouse the curiosity of arago. but, when brought from the country to paris, her power, or her artifice, failed. it is rather curious that tales of volatile furniture are by no means very common in trials for witchcraft. the popular belief was, and probably still is, that a witch or warlock could throw a spell over an enemy so that his pots, and pans, tables and chairs, would skip around. the disturbances of this variety, in the presbytery at cideville, in seine inferieure ( ), came under the eye of the law, because a certain shepherd injudiciously boasted that he had caused them by his magic art. { a} the cure, who was the victim, took him at his word, and the shepherd swain lost his situation. he then brought an action for defamation of character, but was non- suited, as it was proved that he had been the fanfaron of his own vices. in froissart's amusing story of orthon, that noisy sprite was hounded on by a priest. at tedworth, the owner of the drum was 'wanted' on a charge of sorcery as the cause of the phenomena. the wesleys suspected that their house was bewitched. but examples in witch trials are not usual. mr. graham dalyell, however, gives one case, 'the firlote rynning about with the stuff popling,' on the floor of a barn, and one where 'the sive and the wecht dancit throw the hous'. { b} a clasped knife opened in the pocket of christina shaw, and her glove falling, it was lifted by a hand invisible to several persons present. one is reminded of the nursery rhyme,--'the dish it ran after the spoon'. in the presence of home, even a bookcase is said to have forgotten itself, and committed the most deplorable excesses. in the article of mr. myers, already cited, we find a table which jumps by the bedside of a dying man. { } a handbag of miss power's flies from an arm-chair, and hides under a table; raps are heard; all this when miss power is alone. mr. h. w. gore graham sees a table move about. a heavy table of mr. g. a. armstrong's rises high in the air. a tea-table 'runs after' professor alexander, and 'attempts to hem me in,' this was at rio de janeiro, in the davis family, where raps 'ranged from hardly perceptible ticks up to resounding blows, such as might be struck by a wooden mallet'. a mr. h. falls into convulsions, during which all sorts of things fly about. all these stories closely correspond to the tales in increase mather's remarkable providences in new england, in which the phenomena sometimes occur in the presence of an epileptic and convulsed boy, about . to take one classic french case, segrais declares that a m. patris was lodged in the chateau d'egmont. at dinner-time, he went into the room of a friend, whom he found lost in the utmost astonishment. a huge book, cardan's de subtilitate, had flown at him across the room, and the leaves had turned, under invisible fingers! there are plenty of bogles in that book. m. patris laughed at this tale, and went into the gallery, when a large chair, so heavy that two men could scarcely lift it, shook itself and came at him. he remonstrated, and the chair returned to its usual position. 'this made a deep impression on m. patris, and contributed in no slight degree to make him a converted character'-- a le faire devenir devot. { a} tales like this, with that odd uniformity of tone and detail which makes them curious, might be collected from old literature to any extent. thus, among the sounds usually called 'rappings,' mr. crookes mentions, as matter within his own experience, 'a cracking like that heard when a frictional machine is at work'. now, as may be read in southey's life of wesley and in clarke's memoirs of the wesleys, this was the very noise which usually heralded the arrival of 'jeffrey,' as they called the epworth 'spirit'. { b} it has been alleged that the charming and ill-fated hetty wesley caused the disturbances. if so (and dr. salmon, who supports this thesis, does not even hazard a guess as to the modus operandi), hetty must have been familiar with almost the whole extent of psychical literature, for she scarcely left a single phenomenon unrepresented. it does not appear that she supplied visible 'hands'. we have seen glanvill lay stress on the apparition of a hand. in the case of the devil of glenluce, 'there appeared a naked hand, and an arm from the elbow down, beating upon the floor till the house did shake again'. { a} at rerrick, in , 'it knocked upon the chests and boards, as people do at a door'. 'and as i was at prayer,' says the rev. alexander telfair, 'leaning on the side of a bed, i felt something thrusting my arm up, and casting my eyes thitherward, perceived a little white hand, and an arm from the elbow down, but it vanished presently.' { b} the hands viewed, grasped, and examined by home's clientele, hands which melted away in their clutch, are innumerable, and the phenomenon, with the 'cold breeze,' is among the most common in modern narratives. our only conclusion is that the psychological conditions which begat the ancient narratives produce the new legends. these surprise us by the apparent good faith in marvel and myth of many otherwise credible narrators, and by the coincidence, accidental or designed, with old stories not generally familiar to the modern public. do impostors and credulous persons deliberately 'get up' the subject in rare old books? is there a method of imposture handed down by one generation of bad little girls to another? is there such a thing as persistent identity of hallucination among the sane? this was coleridge's theory, but it is not without difficulties. these questions are the present results of comparative psychological research. haunted houses reginald scot on protestant expulsion of ghosts. his boast premature. savage hauntings. red indian example. classical cases. petrus thyraeus on haunted houses. his examples from patristic literature. three species of haunting spirits. demons in disguises. hallucinations, visual, auditory, and tactile. are the sounds in haunted houses real or hallucinatory? all present do not always hear them. interments in houses to stop hauntings. modern example. the restoration and scepticism. exceptional position of dr. johnson. frequency of haunted houses in modern folklore. researches of the s. p. r. failure of the society to see ghosts. uncertain behaviour of ghosts. the society need a 'seer' or 'sensitive' comrade. the 'type' or normal kind of haunted houses. some natural explanations. historical continuity of type. case of sir walter scott. a haunted curacy. modern instances. miss morton's case: a dumb ghost. ghost, as is believed, of a man of letters. mr. harry's ghost raises his mosquito curtains. columns of light. mr. podmore's theory. hallucinations begotten by natural causes are 'telepathically' transferred, with variations, to strangers at a distance. example of this process. incredulity of mr. myers. the spontaneous phenomena reproduced at 'seances'. a ghost who followed a young lady. singular experience of the writer in haunted houses. experience negative. theory of 'dreams of the dead'. difficulties of this theory; physical force exerted in dreams. theory of mr. james sully. his unscientific method and carelessness as to evidence. reflections. reginald scot, the humane author who tried, in his discovery of witchcraft, (xv. ), to laugh witch trials away, has a triumphant passage on the decline of superstition. 'where are the soules that swarmed in time past? where are the spirits? who heareth their noises? who seeth their visions?' he decides that the spirits who haunt places and houses, may have gone to italy, because masses are dear in england. scot, as an ardent protestant, conceived that haunted houses were 'a lewd invention,' encouraged, if not originated, by the priests, in support of the doctrine of purgatory. as a matter of fact the belief in 'haunting,' dates from times of savagery, when we may say that every bush has its bogle. the church had nothing to do with the rise of the belief, though, early in the reformation, some 'psychical phenomena' were claimed as experimental proofs of the existence of purgatory. reginald scot decidedly made his protestant boast too soon. after years of 'the trewth,' as knox called it, the haunted houses are as much part of the popular creed as ever. houses stand empty, and are said to be 'haunted'. here not the fact of haunting, but only the existence of the superstition is attested. thus a house in berkeley square was long unoccupied, for reasons perfectly commonplace and intelligible. but the fact that it had no tenants needed to be explained, and was explained by a myth,--there were ghosts in the house! on the other hand, if reginald scot asked today, 'who heareth the noises, who seeth the visions?' we could answer, 'protestant clergymen, officers in the army, ladies, land-agents, solicitors, representatives of all classes, except the haunted house committee of the psychical society'. before examining the researches and the results of this learned body, we may glance at some earlier industry of investigators. the common savage beliefs are too well known to need recapitulation, and have been treated by mr. tylor in his chapter on 'animism,' { } and by mr. herbert spencer in principles of psychology. the points of difference between these authors need not detain us here. as a rule the spirits which haunt the bush, or the forest, are but vaguely conceived of by the australian blacks, or red men: they may be ghosts of the dead, or they may be casual spirits unattached. an example analogous to european superstition is given by john tanner in his narrative of a captivity among the red indians, . in this case one man had slain his brother, or, at least, a man of his own totem, and was himself put to death by the kindred. the spectres of both haunted a place which the indians shunned, but tanner (whose totem was the same as that of the dead) passed a night on the scene. his dreams, if not his waking moments, for his account is indistinct, were disturbed by the ghosts. it is impossible to ascertain how far this particular superstition was coloured by european influences. { } over classical tales we need not linger. pliny, plutarch, suetonius, st. augustine, lucian, plautus (in the mostellaria), describe, with more or less of seriousness, the apparitions and noises which haunted houses, public baths, and other places. occasionally a slain man's phantom was anxious that his body should be buried, and the reported phenomena were akin to those in modern popular legends. sometimes, in the middle ages, and later, the law took cognisance of haunted houses, when the tenant wished to break his lease. a collection of authorities is given elsewhere, in ghosts before the law. it is to be noticed that bouchel, in his bibliotheque du droit francais, chiefly cites classical, not modern, instances. among the most careful and exhaustive post-mediaeval writers on haunted houses we must cite petrus thyraeus of the society of jesus, doctor in theology. his work, published at cologne in , is a quarto of pages, entitled, 'loca infesta; that is, concerning places haunted by mischievous spirits of demons and of the dead. thereto is added a tract on nocturnal disturbances, which are wont to bode the deaths of men.' thyraeus begins, 'that certain places are haunted by spectres and spirits, is no matter of doubt,' wherein a modern reader cannot confidently follow him. when it comes to establishing his position thyraeus most provokingly says, 'we omit cases which are recent and of daily occurrence,' such as he heard narrated, during his travels, in 'a certain haunted castle'. a modern inquirer naturally prefers recent examples, which may be inquired into, but the old scholars reposed more confidence in what was written by respected authors, the more ancient the more authoritative. however thyraeus relies on the anthropological test of evidence, and thinks that his belief is confirmed by the coincident reports of hauntings, 'variis distinctissimisque locis et temporibus,' in the most various times and places. there is something to be said for this view, and the identity of the alleged phenomena, in all lands and ages, does raise a presumption in favour of some kind of abnormal occurrences, or of a common species of hallucinations. like most of the old authors thyraeus quotes augustine's tale of a haunted house, and an exorcism in de civitate dei (lib. xxii. ch. viii.). st. gregory has also a story of one paschasius, a deacon, who haunted some baths, and was seen by a bishop. { a} there is a ghost who rode horses, and frightened the religious in the life of gregory by joannes diaconus (iv. ). in the life of theodorus one georgius, a disciple of his, mentions a house haunted by stone-throwing sprites, a very common phenomenon in the books of glanvill, and increase mather, in witch trials, and in rural disturbances. omitting other examples cardan { b} is cited for a house at parma, in which during a hundred years the phantom of an old woman was seen before the death of members of the family. this is a rare case of an italian banshie. william of paris, in bodin (iii. ch. vi.) tells of a stone-throwing fiend, very active in . the bogey of bingen, a rapping ghost of , is duly chronicled; he also threw stones. the dormitory of some nuns was haunted by a spectre who moaned, tramped noisily around, dragged the sisters out of bed by the feet, and even tickled them nearly to death! this annoyance lasted for three years, so wierus says. { } wodrow chronicles a similar affair at mellantrae, in annandale. thyraeus distinguishes three kinds of haunting sprites, devils, damned souls, and souls in purgatory. some are mites, mild and sportive; some are truculenti ferocious. brownies, or fauni, may act in either character, as secutores et joculatores. they rather aim at teasing than at inflicting harm. they throw stones, lift beds, and make a hubbub and crash with the furniture. suicides, murderers, and spirits of murdered people, are all apt to haunt houses. the sprites occasionally appear in their proper form, but just as often in disguise: a demon, too, can appear in human shape if so disposed: demons being of their nature deceitful and fond of travesty, as porphyry teaches us and as law ( ) illustrates. whether the spirits of the dead quite know what they are about when they take to haunting, is, in the opinion of thyraeus, a difficult question. thomas aquinas, following st. augustine, inclines to hold that when there is an apparition of a dead man, the dead man is unconscious of the circumstance. a spirit of one kind or another may be acting in his semblance. thyraeus rather fancies that the dead man is aware of what is going on. hauntings may be visual, auditory, or confined to the sense of touch. auditory effects are produced by flutterings of air, noises are caused, steps are heard, laughter, and moaning. lares domestici (brownies) mostly make a noise. apparitions may be in tactile form of men or animals, or monsters. as for effects, some ghosts push the living and drive them along, as the bride of lammermoor, in law's memorialls, was 'harled through the house,' by spirits. the spirits of an amorous complexion seem no longer to be numerous, but are objects of interest to thyraeus as to increase mather. thyraeus now raises the difficult question: 'are the sounds heard in haunted houses real, or hallucinatory?' omnis qui a spiritibus fit, simulatus est, specie sui fallit. the spirits having no vocal organs, can only produce _noise_. in a spiritual hurly-burly, some of the mortals present _hear nothing_ (as we shall note in some modern examples), but may they not be prevented from hearing by the spirits? or again, the sounds may be hallucinatory and only some mortals may have the power of hearing them. if there are visual, there may also be auditory hallucinations. { } on the whole thyraeus thinks that the sounds may be real on some occasions, when all present hear them, hallucinatory on others. but the sounds need not be produced on the furniture, for example, when they seem to be so produced. 'often we think that the furniture has been all tossed about, when it really has not been stirred.' the classical instance of the disturbances which aroused scott at abbotsford, on the death of his agent bullock, is in point here. 'often a hammer is heard rapping, when there is no hammer in the house' (p. ). these are curious references to phenomena, however we explain them, which are still frequently reported. thyraeus thinks that the air is agitated when sounds are heard, but that is just the question to be solved. as for visual phantasms, these thyraeus regards as hallucinations produced by spirits on the human senses, not as external objective entities. he now asks why the sense of _touch_ is affected usually as if by a cold body. beyond assuming the influence of spirits over the air, and, apparently, their power of using dead bodies as vehicles for themselves, thyraeus comes to no distinct conclusion. he endeavours, at great length, to distinguish between haunters who are ghosts of the dead, and haunters who are demons, or spirits unattached. the former wail and moan, the latter are facetious. he decides that to bury dead bodies below the hearth does not prevent haunting, for 'the hearth has no such efficacy'. such bodies are not very unfrequently found in old english houses, the reason for this strange interment is not obvious, but perhaps it is explained by the superstition which thyraeus mentions. one might imagine that to bury people up and down a house would rather secure haunting than prevent it. and, indeed, at passenham rectory, where the rev. g. m. capell found seven skeletons in his dining-room, in , mrs. montague crackanthrope and her nurse were 'obsessed' by 'a feeling that some one was in the room,' when some one was _not_. { } perhaps seven burials were not sufficient to prevent haunting. the conclusion of the work of thyraeus is devoted to exorcisms, and orthodox methods of expelling spirits. the knockings which herald a death are attributed to the lares, a kind of petty mischievous demons unattached. such is the essence of the learned jesuit's work, and the strange thing is that, in an age of science, people are still discussing his problems, and, stranger still, that the reported phenomena remain the same. that the church in the case of thyraeus, and many others; that medical science, in the person of wierus (b. ); that law, in the book of bouchel, should have gravely canvassed the topic of haunted houses, was, of course, very natural in the dark ages before the restoration of the stuarts, and the founding of the royal society. common-sense, and 'drolling sadduceeism,' came to their own, in england, with the king, with charles ii. after may , , webster and wagstaffe mocked at bogles, if glanvill and more took them seriously. before the restoration it was distinctly dangerous to laugh at witchcraft, ghosts and hauntings. but the laughers came in with the merry monarch, and less by argument than by ridicule, by inveighing against the horror, too, of the hideous witch prosecutions, the laughers gradually brought hauntings and apparitions into contempt. few educated people dared to admit that their philosophy might not be wholly exhaustive. even ladies sneered at dr. johnson because he, having no dread of common-sense before his eyes, was inclined to hold that there might be some element of truth in a world-old and world-wide belief; and the romantic anna seward told, without accepting it, scott's tale of 'the tapestried chamber'. that a hundred years after the highday and triumph of common-sense, people of education should be found gravely investigating all that common- sense had exploded, is a comfortable thought to the believer in progress. the world does not stand still. a hundred years after the blue stockings looked on johnson as the last survivor, the last of the mohicans of superstition, the psychical society can collect some cases of haunted houses in england. ten years ago, in , the society sifted out nineteen stories as in 'the first class,' and based on good first-hand evidence. their analysis of the reports led them to think that there is a certain genuine _type_ of story, and, that when a tale 'differs widely from the type, it proves to be incorrect, or unattainable from an authentic source'. this is very much the conclusion to which the writer is brought by historical examination of stories about hauntings. with exceptions, to be indicated, these tales all approximate to a type, and that is not the type of the magazine story. it may be well, in the first place, to make some negative statements as to what the committee does _not_ discover. first, it has never yet hired haunted house in which the sights and sounds continued during the tenancy of the curious observers. { } the most obvious inference is that the earlier observers who saw and heard abnormal things were unscientific, convivial, nervous, hysterical, or addicted to practical joking. this, however, is not the only possible explanation. as a celebrated prophet, by his own avowal had been 'known to be steady for weeks at a time,' so, even in a regular haunted house, the ghost often takes a holiday. a case is well known to the writer in which a ghost began his manoeuvres soon after a family entered the house. it made loud noises, it opened doors, turning the handle as the lady of the house walked about, it pulled her hair when she was in bed, plucked her dress, produced lights, and finally appeared visibly, a hag dressed in grey, to several persons. then as if sated, the ghost struck work for years, when it suddenly began again, was as noisy as ever, and appeared to a person who had not seen it before, but who made a spirited if unsuccessful attempt to run it to earth. the truth is, that magazine stories and superstitious exaggerations have spoiled us for ghosts. when we hear of a haunted house, we imagine that the ghost is always on view, or that he has a benefit night, at certain fixed dates, when you know where to have him. these conceptions are erroneous, and a house _may_ be haunted, though nothing desirable occurs in presence of the committee. moreover the committee, as far as the writer is aware, have neglected to add a seer to their number. this mistake, if it has been made, is really wanton. it is acknowledged that not every one has 'a nose for a ghost,' as a character of george eliot's says, or eyes or ears for a ghost. it is thought very likely that, where several people see an apparition simultaneously, the spiritual or psychical or imaginative 'impact' is addressed to one, and by him, or her (usually her) handed on to the rest of the society. now, if the committee do not provide themselves with a good 'sensitive' comrade, what can they expect, but what they get, that is, nothing? a witch in an old scotch trial says, of her 'covin,' or 'circle,' 'we could do no great thing without our maiden'. the committee needs a maiden, as a covin needed one, and among the visionaries of the psychical society, there must be some young lady who should be on the house committee. yet one writer in the society's proceedings who has a very keen scent for an impostor, if not for a ghost, avers that, from the evidence, she believes that they are examining facts, and not the origin of fables. these facts, as was said, differ from the stories in 'christmas numbers'. the ghost in typical reports seldom or never _speaks_. it has no message to convey, or, if it has a message, it does not convey it. it does not unfold some tragedy of the past: in fact it is very seldom capable of being connected with any definite known dead person. the figure seen sometimes 'varies with the seer'. { } in other cases, however, different people attest having seen the same phantasm. finally a new house seems just as likely to be haunted as an old house, and the committee appears to have no special knowledge of very ancient family ghosts, such as pearlin jean, the luminous boy of corby, or the rather large company of spectres popularly supposed to make themselves at home at glamis castle. what then is the type, the typical haunted house, from which, if narratives vary much, they are apt to break down under cross- examination? the phenomena are usually phenomena of sight, or sound, or both. as a rule the sounds are footsteps, rustling of dresses, knocks, raps, heavy bangs, noises as of dragging heavy weights, and of disarranging heavy furniture. these sometimes occur freely, where nobody can testify to having _seen_ anything spectral. next we have phantasms, mostly of figures beheld for a moment with 'the tail of the eye' or in going along a passage, or in entering a room where nobody is found, or standing beside a bed, perhaps in a kind of self-luminous condition. sometimes these spectres are taken by visitors for real people, but the real people cannot be found; sometimes they are at once recognised as phantasms, because they are semi-transparent, or look very malignant, or because they glide and do not walk, or are luminous, or for some other excellent reason. the combination, in due proportions, of pretty frequent inexplicable noises, with occasional aimless apparitions, makes up the _type_ of orthodox modern haunted house story. the difficulty of getting evidence worth looking at (except for its uniformity) is obviously great. noises may be naturally caused in very many ways: by winds, by rats, by boughs of trees, by water pipes, by birds. the writer has known a very satisfactory series of footsteps in an historical scotch house, to be dispelled by a modification of the water pipes. again he has heard a person of distinction mimic the noises made by _his_ family ghosts (which he preserved from tests as carefully as don quixote did his helmet) and the performance was an admirable imitation of the wind in a spout. there are noises, however, which cannot be thus cheaply disposed of, and among them are thundering whacks on the walls of rooms, which continue in spite of all efforts to detect imposture. these phenomena, says kiesewetter, were known to the acadians of old, a circumstance for which he quotes no authority. { a} paracelsus calls the knocks pulsatio mortuorum, in his fragment on 'souls of the dead,' and thinks that the sounds predict misfortune, a very common belief. { b} lavaterus says, that such disturbances, in unfinished houses are a token of good luck! again there is the noise made apparently by violent movement of heavy furniture, which on immediate examination (as in scott's case at abbotsford) is found not to have been moved. the writer is acquainted with a dog, a collie, which was once shut up alone in a room where this disturbance occurred. the dog was much alarmed and howled fearfully, but it soon ceased to weigh on his spirits. when phantasms are occasionally seen by respectable witnesses, where these noises and movements occur, the haunted house is of a healthy, orthodox, modern type. but the phenomena are nothing less than modern, for mather, sinclair, paracelsus, wierus, glanvill, bovet, baxter and other old writers are full of precisely these combinations of sounds and sights, while many cases occur in old french literature, old latin literature, and among races of the lower barbaric and savage grades of culture. one or two curious circumstances have rather escaped the notice of philosophers though not of thyraeus. first, the loudest of the unexplained sounds are _occasionally_ not audible to all, so that (as when the noise seems to be caused by furniture dragged about) we may conjecture with thyraeus, that there is no real movement of the atmosphere, that the apparent crash is an auditory hallucination. the planks and heavy objects at abbotsford had _not_ been stirred, as the loud noises overhead indicated, when scott came to examine them. in a dreadfully noisy curacy vouched for by 'a well-known church dignitary,' who occupied the place, there was usually a frightful crash as of iron bars thrown down, at a.m. on a sunday morning. all the boxes and heavy material in a locked set of attics, seemed to be dancing about, but were never found to have been stirred. yet this clergyman discovered that 'the great sunday crash might manifest itself to some persons in the house without his wife or himself being conscious of it. knowing how overwhelming the sound always appeared to me when i did hear it, i cannot but consider this one of the most wonderful things in the whole business.' { } in this case, in a house standing hundreds of yards apart from any neighbour, and occupied only by a parson, his wife, and one servant, these phenomena lasted for a year, with great regularity. there were the usual footsteps, the ordinary rappings were angry when laughed at, and the clergyman when he left at the end of a year, was as far as ever from having detected any cause. indeed it is not easy to do so. a friend of the writer's, an accomplished man of law, was once actually consulted, in the interests of an enraged squire, as to how he could bring a suit against _somebody_ for a series of these inexplicable disturbances. but the law contained no instrument for his remedy. from the same report of the s. p. r. we take another typical case. a lady, in an old house, saw, in , a hideous hag watching her in bed; she kept the tale to herself, but, a fortnight later, her brother, a solicitor, was not a whit less alarmed by a similar and similarly situated phenomenon. in this house dresses were plucked at, heavy blows were struck, heavy footsteps went about, there were raps at doors, and nobody was ever any the wiser as to the cause. here it may be observed that a ghost's power of making a noise, and exerting what seems to be great physical energy, is often in inverse ratio to his power of making himself generally visible, or, at all events, to his inclination so to do. thus there is a long record of a haunted house, by the chief observer, miss morton, in p. s. p. r., pt. xxii. p. . a lady had died of habits too convivial, in . in april, , miss morton's family entered, but nobody saw the ghost till miss morton viewed it in june. the appearance was that of a tall lady in widow's weeds, hiding her face with a handkerchief. from to , miss morton saw the spectre six times, but did not name it to her family. her sister saw the appearance in , a maid saw it in , and two boys beheld it in the same year. miss morton used to follow the appearance downstairs and speak to it, but it merely gave a slight gasp, and seemed unable to converse. by way of testing the spectre, miss morton stretched threads at night from the railing of the stair to the wall, but the ghost descended without disturbing them. yet her footsteps sounded on the stairs. this is, in fact, a crucial difficulty about ghosts. they are material enough to make a noise as they walk, but _not_ material enough to brush away a thread! this ghost, whose visible form was so much en evidence, could, or did, make no noise at all, beyond light pushes at doors, and very light footsteps. in the curacy already described, noises were made enough to waken a parish, but no form was ever seen. briefly, for this ghost there is a cloud of witnesses, all solemnly signing their depositions. these two examples are at the opposite poles between which ghostly manifestations vary, in haunted houses. a brief precis of 'cases' may show how these elements of noise, on one side, and apparitions, on the other, are commonly blended. in a detached villa, just outside 'the town of c.,' mrs. w. remarks a figure of a tall dark-haired man peeping round the corner of a folding door. she does not mention the circumstance. two months later she sees the same sorrowful face in the drawing-room. this time she tells her husband. later in the same month, when playing cricket with her children, she sees the face 'peeping round from the kitchen door'. rather later she heard a deep voice say in a sorrowful tone, 'i can't find it'; something slaps her on the back. her step-daughter who had not heard of the phantasm, sees the same pale dark-moustached face, 'peeping round the folding doors'. she is then told mrs w.'s story. her little brother, later, sees the figure simultaneously with herself. she also hears the voice say, 'i can't find it,' at the same moment as mrs. w. hears it. a year later, she sees the figure at the porch, _in a tall hat_! neither lady had enjoyed any other hallucination. nothing is known of the melancholy spectre, probably the ghost of a literary person, searching, always searching, for a manuscript poem by some total stranger who had worried him into his grave, and not left him at peace even there. this is a very solemn and touching story, and appeals tenderly and sadly to all persons of letters who suffer from the unasked for manuscripts of the general public. . some ladies and servants in a house in hyde park place, see at intervals a phantom housemaid: she is also seen by a mr. bird. there is no story about a housemaid, and there are no noises. this is _not_ an interesting tale. . a hindoo native woman is seen to enter a locked bath-room, where she is not found on inquiry. a woman had been murdered there some years before. the percipient, general sir arthur becher, had seen other uncanny visions. a little boy, wakened out of sleep, said he saw an ayah. perhaps he did. . a mr. harry, in the south of europe, saw a white female figure glide through his library into his bedroom. later, his daughters beheld a similar phenomenon. mr. harry, a gentleman of sturdy common-sense, 'dared his daughters to talk of any such nonsense as ghosts, as they might be sure apparitions were only in the imagination of nervous people'. he himself saw the phantasm seven or eight times in his bedroom, and twice in the library. on one occasion it lifted up the mosquito curtains and stared at mr. harry. as in the case of meeting an avalanche, 'a weak-minded man would pray, sir, would pray; a strong-minded man would swear, sir, would swear'. mr. harry was a strong-minded man, and behaved 'in a concatenation accordingly,' although petrus thyraeus says that there is no use in swearing at ghosts. the phantasm seemed to be about thirty-five, her features were described as 'rather handsome,' and (unromantically) as 'oblong'. a hallucination, we need hardly say, would not raise the mosquito curtains, this ghost had more heart in it than most. . various people see 'a column of light vaguely shaped like a woman,' moving about in a room of a house in sussex. one servant, who slept in the room in hopes of a private view, saw 'a ball of light with a sort of halo round it'. again, in a very pretty story, the man who looked after an orphan asylum saw a column of light above the bed of one of the children. next morning the little boy declared that his mother had come to visit him, probably in a dream. on this matter of lights { } mr. podmore enters into argument with mr. frederick myers. mr. myers, on the whole, believes that the phenomena of haunted houses are caused by influences of some sort from the minds of the dead. mr. podmore, if we understand him holds that some living person has had some empty hallucination, in a house, and that this is 'telepathically' handed on, perhaps to the next tenant, who may know nothing about either the person or the vision. thus, a miss morris, much vexed by ghostly experiences, left a certain house in december, . nearly a year later, in november, , a mrs. g. came in. mrs. g. did not know miss morris, nor had she heard of the disturbances. however sobs, and moans, and heavy thumps, and noises of weighty objects thrown about, and white faces, presently drove mrs. g. to seek police protection. this only roused the ghost's ambition, and he 'came' as a man with freckles, also he walked about, shook beds, and exhibited lights. a figure in black, with a white face, now displayed itself: barristers and clergymen investigated, but to no purpose. they saw figures, heard crashes, and the divine did a little anglican exorcism. the only story about the house showed that a woman had hanged herself with a skipping rope in the 'top back bedroom,' in . here are plenty of phenomena, apparitions male and female. but miss morris, in addition to hearing noises, only saw a pale woman in black. mr. podmore's theory comes in thus: 'the later experiences may have been started by thought transference from miss morris, whose thoughts, no doubt, occasionally turned to the house in which she had suffered so much agitation and alarm'. moreover 'real noises' may have 'suggested' the visual hallucinations to miss morris. { } mr. podmore certainly cannot be accused of ordinary superstition. there is a house, and there is a tenant. she hears footsteps pounding up- and down-stairs, and all through her room, she says nothing and gets used to it. let it be granted that these noises are caused by rats. after conquering her dislike to the sounds, three weeks after her entry to the house, miss morris meets a total stranger, deadly pale, in deep black, who vanishes. this phantasm has gathered round the nucleus which the rats provided by stamping up- and down-stairs, and through miss morris's room. it is natural that a person who hears rats, or wind, or waterpipes, and makes up her mind not to mind it, should then see a phantasm of a pale woman in black; also should hear loud knocks at the door of her chamber. miss morris goes away, a year later comes mrs. g., and mrs. g., her children, her servants, a barrister and an exorcist, are all disturbed by noises. knocks. sobs. moans. thumps. dragging of heavy weights. one dreadful white face. one little woman. lights. one white skirt hanging from the ceiling. one footfall which played two notes on the piano (!). one figure in brown. one man with freckles. two human faces. one shadow. one 'part of the dress of a super-material being' (barrister). one form (exorcist). one small column of misty vapour. now all this catalogue of prodigies which drove mrs. g. into the cold, bleak world, was caused, 'by thought transference from miss morris,' who had been absent for a year, and whose own hallucinations were caused by noises which may have been produced by rats, or what not. this ingenious theory is too much for mr. myers's powers of belief: 'the very first effect of miss morris's ponderings was a heavy thump, followed by a deep sob and moan, and a cry of, "oh, do forgive me," all disturbing poor mrs. g. who had the ill luck to find herself in a bedroom about which miss morris was possibly thinking. . . . surely the peace of us all rests on a very uncertain tenure.' meanwhile mr. myers prefers to regard the whole trouble as more probably caused by the 'dreams of the dead' woman who hanged herself with a skipping rope, than by the reflections of miss morris. in any case the society seem to have occupied the house, and, with their usual bad luck, were influenced neither by the ponderings of miss morris, nor by the fredaines of the lady of the skipping rope. { } it may be worth noticing that the raps, knocks, lights, and so forth of haunted houses, the 'spontaneous' disturbances, have been punctually produced at savage, classical, and modern seances. if these, from the days of the witch of endor to our own, and from the polar regions to australia, have all been impostures, at least they all imitate the 'spontaneous' phenomena reported to occur in haunted houses. the lights are essential in the seances described by porphyry, eusebius, iamblichus: they were also familiar to the covenanting saints. the raps are known to australian black fellows. the phantasms of animals, as at the wesleys' house, may be beasts who play a part in the dead man's dream, or they may be incidental hallucinations, begotten of rats, and handed on by miss morris or any one else. there remains a ghost who illustrates the story, spread all over europe, of the farmer who was driven from his house by a bogle. as his carts went along the road, the bogle was heard exclaiming, 'we're flitting today,' and it faithfully stayed with the family. this tale, current in italy as well as in northern england, might be regarded as a mere piece of folklore, if the incident had not reproduced itself in west brompton. in the t.'s took a house here: now mark the artfulness of the ghost, it did nothing for eighteen months. in autumn, , miss t. saw a figure come out of the dining-room, and the figure was often seen, later, by five independent witnesses. it was tall, dressed in grey, and was chiefly fond of haunting miss t.'s own room. it did not walk, it glided, making no noise. mr. t. met it in the hall, once, when he came in at night, and from the street he saw it standing in the drawing-room window. it used to sigh and make a noise as of steps, when it was not visible, it knocked and moved furniture about, and dropped weights, but these sounds were sometimes audible only to one, or a few of the observers. in the t.'s left for another house, to which miss t. did not repair till . then the noises came back as badly as ever,--the bogle had flitted,--and, on christmas day, , miss t. saw her old friend the figure. several members of the family never saw it at all. one lady, in another case, miss nettie vatas-simpson, tried to flap a ghost away with a towel, { } but he was not thus to be exorcised. he presently went out through a locked door. such are the ordinary or typical phenomena of haunted houses. it is plainly of no use to take a haunted house for a month and then say it is not haunted because you see no ghosts. even where they have been seen there are breaks of years without any 'manifestations'. besides, the evidence shows that it is not every one who can see a ghost when he is there: miss morton's father could not see the lady in black, when she was visible to miss morton. it is difficult to write with perfect seriousness about haunted houses. the writer will frankly confess that, when living in haunted houses (as he has done at various times when suffering from illness and overwork), he takes a very solemn view of the matter about bed-time. if 'expectant attention' on a mind strained by the schools, and a body enfeebled by bronchitis, could have made a man, who was the only occupant of the haunted wing of an old scotch castle, see a ghost, the writer would have seen whatever there was to see. to be sure he could not rationally have regarded a spectre beheld in these conditions, as a well-authenticated ghost. { } as far as his experience of first-hand tales is concerned, the persons known to him who say they have seen ghosts in haunted houses, were neither unhealthy, nor, except in one solitary case, imaginative, nor were they _expecting_ a ghost. the apparition was 'a little pleasant surprise'. the usual seer is not an invalid, nor a literary person who can always be dismissed as 'imaginative,' though he is generally nothing of the kind. but it cannot be denied that ladies either see more ghosts than men or are less reluctant to impart information. the visionary lady who keeps up a regular telepathic correspondence with several friends is likely to see a ghost, and should certainly be entered at 'fixed local ghosts,' but there are slight objections to such evidence, as not free from suspicion of fancifulness. turning from the seers to the seen, it is difficult or impossible even to suggest an hypothesis which will seem to combine the facts. the most plausible fancy is that which likens the apparitions to figures in a feverish dream. could we imagine a more or less bad man or woman dead, and fitfully living over again, 'in that sleep of death,' old events among old scenes, could we go further and believe that these dreams were capable of being made objective and visible to the living, then we might find a kind of theory of the process. but even if it were possible to demonstrate the existence of such a process, we are as far as ever from accounting for the force which causes noises, or hallucinations of noises, a force of considerable vigour, according to observers. still less could we explain the rare cases in which a ghost produces a material effect on the inanimate or animate world, as by drawing curtains, or pulling people's hair and clothes,--all phenomena as well vouched for as the others. a picture projected by one mind on another, cannot conceivably produce these effects. they are such as ghosts have always produced, or been said to produce. since the days of ancient egypt, ghosts have learned, and have forgotten nothing. unless we adopt the scientific and popular system of merely saying 'fudge!' we find no end to the conundrums of the ghostly world. ghosts seem to know as little about themselves as we do, so that, if we are to discover anything, we must make haste, before we become ghosts ourselves. writers on psychology sometimes make a push at a theory of haunted houses. mr. james sully, for example, has done so in his book styled illusions. { } mr. sully appears well pleased with his hypothesis, and this, granting the accuracy of a tale for which he is indebted to a gentleman who need not be cited here, argues an easily contented disposition. here is the statement:-- 'a lady was staying at a country house. during the night and immediately on waking up she had (sic) an apparition of a strange- looking man in mediaeval costume, a figure by no means agreeable, and which seemed altogether unfamiliar to her. the next morning, on rising, she recognised the original of her hallucinatory image in a portrait hanging on the wall of her bedroom, which must have impressed itself on her brain before the occurrence of the apparition, though she had not attended to it. oddly enough, she now learned for the first time that the house at which she was staying had the reputation of being haunted, and by the very same somewhat repulsive-looking mediaeval personage that had troubled her inter-somnolent moments. the case seems to me to be typical with respect to the genesis of ghosts, and of the reputation of haunted houses.' this anecdote affords much joy to the superstitious souls who deal in psychical research, or ghost hunting. mr. sully's manner of narrating it clearly proves the difference between science and superstition. for a ghost hunter or psychical researcher would not venture to publish a modern ghost story (except for mere amusement), if he had it not at first hand, or at second hand with corroboration at first hand. science, however, can adduce a case without indicating the evidence on which it rests, as whether mr. sully's informant had the tale from the lady, or at third, fourth, fifth, or a hundredth hand. so much for the matter of evidence. next, mr. sully does not tell us whether the lady 'had an apparition,' when she supposed herself to be awake, or asleep, or 'betwixt and between'. from the phrase 'inter-somnolent,' he appears to prefer the intermediate condition. but he does not pretend to have interrogated the lady, the 'percipient'. again, the figure wore a 'mediaeval costume,' the portrait represented a 'mediaeval personage'. does mr. sully believe that the portrait was an original portrait of a real person? and how many portraits of mediaeval people does he suppose to exist in english country houses? taking the middle ages as lasting till the beginning of the reign of henry viii., say till holbein, we can assure mr. sully that they have left us very few portraits indeed. but perhaps it was a modern picture, a fanciful study of a man in mediaeval costume. in that event, mr. sully's case is greatly strengthened, but he does not tell us whether the work of art was, or was not, contemporary with the middle ages. neither does he tell us whether the lady was in the habit of seeing hallucinations. the weakest point in the whole anecdote and theory is in the statement, 'oddly enough, she now learned for the first time that the house at which she was staying had the reputation of being haunted' by the mediaeval personage. it certainly would be very odd if one picture in a house troubled 'the inter-somnolent moments' of a succession of people, who, perhaps, had never seen, or, like the lady, never attended to it. such 'troubles' are very rare: very few persons have seen a dream which, in mr. sully's words, 'left behind, for an appreciable interval after waking, a vivid after- impression, and in some cases, even the semblance of a sense perception'. mathematicians may calculate the chances against a single unnoticed portrait producing this very rare effect, in a series of cases, so as to give rise to a belief in haunting, by mere casual coincidence. in the records of the psychical society, one observer speaks of seeing a face and figure at night, which he recognises next morning in a miniature on his chimney-piece. but, in this case, there was no story of haunting, there had been no series of similar impressions on successive occupants of the room, _that_ is the circumstance which mr. sully finds 'odd enough,' a sentiment in which we may all agree with him. this is exactly the oddity which his explanation does not explain. while psychological science, in this example, seems to treat matters of evidence rather laxly, psychical conjecture, on the other hand, leaves much unexplained. thus mr. myers puts forward a theory which is, in origin, due to st. augustine. the saint had observed that any one of us may be seen in a dream by another person, while our intelligence is absolutely unconscious of any communication. apply this to ghosts in haunted houses. we may be affected by a hallucination of the presence of a dead man or woman, but he, or she (granting their continued existence after death), may know nothing of the matter. in the same way, there are stories of people who have consciously tried to make others, at a distance, think of them. the subjects of these experiments have, it is said, had a hallucination of the presence of the experimenter. but _he_ is unaware of his success, and has no control over the actions of what old writers, and some new theosophists, call his 'astral body'. suppose, then, that something conscious endures after death. suppose that some one thinks he sees the dead. it does not follow that the surviving consciousness (ex hypothesi) of the dead person who seems to be seen, is aware that he is 'manifesting' himself. as mr. myers puts it, 'ghosts must therefore, as a rule, represent--not conscious or central currents of intelligence--but mere automatic projections from consciousnesses which have their centres elsewhere,' [greek]: as homer makes achilles say, 'there is no heart in them.' { } all this is not inconceivable. but all this does not explain the facts, namely, the noises, often very loud, and the movements of objects, and the lights which are the common or infrequent accompaniments of apparitions in haunted houses. now we have (always on much the same level of evidence) accounts of similar noises, and movements of untouched objects, occurring where living persons of peculiar constitution are present, or in haunted houses. these things we discuss in an essay on 'the logic of table-turning'. by parity of reasoning, or at least by an obvious analogy, we are led to infer that more than 'an automatic projection from the consciousness' of a dead man is present where he is not only seen, but heard, making noises, and perhaps moving objects. if this be admitted then psychical conjecture is pushed back on something very like the old theory of haunted houses, namely, that a ghost, or spiritual entity, is present and active there. long ago, in a little tale called 'castle perilous' (published in a volume named the wrong paradise), the author made an affable sprite explain all these phenomena. 'we suffer, we ghosts,' he said in effect, 'from a malady akin to aphasia in the living. we know what we want to say, and how we wish to appear, but, just as a patient in aphasia uses the wrong word, we use the wrong manifestation.' this he illustrated by a series of apparitions on his own part, which, he declared, were involuntary and unconscious: when they were described to him by the percipient, he admitted that they were vulgar and distressing, though, as far as he was concerned, merely automatic. these remarks of the ghost, were, at least, explicit and intelligible. the theory which he stated with an honourable candour, and in language perfectly lucid, appears to have been adopted by mr. frederick myers, but he puts it in a different style. 'i argue that the phantasmogenetic agency at work--whatever that may be--may be able to produce effects of light more easily than definite figures. . . . a similar argument will hold good in the case of the vague hallucinatory noises which frequently accompany definite veridical phantasms, and frequently also occur apart from any definite phantasm in houses reputed haunted.' { a} now where mr. myers says 'phantasmogenetic agency,' we say 'ghost'. j'appelle un chat, un chat, et rollet un fripon. we urge that the ghost cannot, as it were, express himself as plainly as he would like to do, that he suffers from aphasia. now he shows as a black dog, now as a green lady, now as an old man, and often he can only rap and knock, or display a light, or tug the bed-clothes. thus the rev. f. g. lee tells us that a ghost first sat on his breast invisibly, then glided about his room like a man in grey, and, finally, took to thumping on the walls, the bed and in the chimney. dr. lee kindly recited certain psalms, and was greeted with applause, 'a very tornado of knocks . . . was the distinct and intelligible response'. { b} now, on our theory, the ghost, if he could, would have said, 'thank you very much,' or the like, but he could not, so his sentiments translated themselves into thumps. on another occasion, he might have merely shown a light, or he might have sat on dr. lee's chest, 'pressed unduly on my chest,' says the learned divine,-- or pulled his blankets off, as is not unusual. such are the peculiarities of spectral aphasia, or rather asemia. the ghost can make signs, but not the right signs. very fortunately for science, we have similar examples of imperfect expression in the living. thus dr. gibotteau, formerly interne at a hospital in paris, published, in annales des sciences, psychiques (oct. and dec, ), his experiments on a hospital nurse, and her experiments on him. she used to try to send him hallucinations. once at p.m. in summer as he stood on a balcony, he saw a curious reflet blanc, 'a shining shadow' like that in the strange story. it resembled the reflection of the sun from a window, 'but there was neither sun, nor moon, nor lighted lamps'. this white shadow was the partial failure of berthe, the nurse, 'to show herself to me on the balcony'. in precisely the same way, lights in haunted houses are partial failures of ghosts to appear in form as for the knocks, dr. binns, in his anatomy of sleep, mentions a gentleman who could push a door at a distance,--if he could push, he could knock. perhaps a rather larger collection of such instances is desirable, still, these cases illustrate our theory. that theory certainly does drive the cold calm psychical researcher back upon the primitive explanation: 'a ghaist's a ghaist for a' that!' we must come to this, we must relapse into savage and superstitious psychology, if once we admit a 'phantasmogenetic agency.' but science is in quest of truth, regardless of consequences. cock lane and common-sense cock lane ghost discredited. popular theory of imposture. dr. johnson. story of the ghost. the deceased wife's sister. beginning of the phenomena. death of fanny. recurrence of phenomena. scratchings. parallel cases. ignorance and malevolence of the ghost. possible literary sources. investigation. imitative scratchings: a failure. trial of the parsonses. professor barrett's irish parallel. cause undetected. the theories of common-sense. the st. maur affair. the amiens case. the sportive highland fox. the brightling case. if one phantom is more discredited than another, it is the cock lane ghost. the ghost has been a proverb for impudent trickery, and stern exposure, yet its history remains a puzzle, and is a good, if vulgar type, of all similar marvels. the very people who 'exposed' the ghost, were well aware that their explanation was worthless, and frankly admitted the fact. yet they, no more than we, were prepared to believe that the phenomena were produced by the spiritual part of miss fanny l.--known after her decease, as 'scratching fanny'. we still wander in cock lane, with a sense of amused antiquarian curiosity, and the same feeling accompanies us in all our explorations of this branch of mythology. it may be easy for some people of common-sense to believe that all london was turned upside down, that walpole, the duke of york, lady mary coke, and two other ladies were drawn to cock lane (five in a hackney coach), that dr. johnson gave up his leisure and incurred ridicule, merely because a naughty child was scratching on a little wooden board. the matter cannot have been so simple as that, but from the true solution of the problem we are as remote as ever. we can, indeed, study even the cock lane ghost in the light of the comparative, or anthropological method. we can ascertain that the occurrences which puzzled london in , were puzzling heathen philosophers and fathers of the church years earlier. we can trace a chain of 'scratching fannies' through the ages, and among races in every grade of civilisation. and then the veil drops, or we run our heads against a blank wall in a dark alley. chaldeans, egyptians, greeks, eskimo, red men, dyaks, fellows of the royal society, inquisitors, saints, have perlustrated cock lane, and have come away nothing the wiser. some, of course, have thought they had the secret, have recognised the work of god, 'daemons,' 'spirits,' 'ghosts,' 'devils,' 'fairies' and of ordinary impostors: others have made a push at a theory of disengaged nervous force, or animal magnetism. we prefer to leave theory alone, not even accepting with enthusiasm, the hypothesis of dr. johnson. 'he expressed great indignation at the imposture of the cock lane ghost, and related, with much satisfaction, how he had assisted in detecting the cheat, and had published an account of it in the newspapers. upon this subject i incautiously offended him, by pressing him with too many questions,' says boswell,--questions which the good doctor was obviously unable to answer. it is in january, , that the london newspapers begin to be full of a popular mystery, the cock lane ghost. reports, articles, letters, appeared, and the ghost made what is now called a 'sensation'. perhaps, the most clear, if the most prejudiced account, is that given in a pamphlet entitled the mystery revealed, published by bristow, in st. paul's churchyard ( ). comparing this treatise (which goldsmith is said to have written for three guineas) with the newspapers, the gentleman's magazine and the annual register, we get a more or less distinct view of the subject. but the various newspapers repeat each other's versions, with slight alterations; the gentleman's magazine, and annual register, follow suit, the narratives are 'synoptic,' while goldsmith's tract, if it be goldsmith's, is obviously written in defence of the unlucky mr. k., falsely accused of murder by the ghost. mr. k.'s version is the version given by goldsmith, and thus leads up to the 'phenomena' through a romance of middle-class life. in , this mr. k., a person of some means, married miss e. l. of l. in norfolk. in eleven months the young wife died, in childbed, and her sister, miss fanny, came to keep house for mr. k. the usual passionate desire to marry his deceased wife's sister assailed mr. k., and fanny shared his flame. according to goldsmith, the canon law would have permitted the nuptials, if the wife had not born a child which lived, though only for a few minutes. however this may be, mr. k. honourably fled from fanny, who, unhappily, pursued him with letters, and followed him to town. here they took lodgings together, but when mr. k. left the rooms, being unable to recover some money which he had lent his landlord, the pair looked out for new apartments. these they found in cock lane, in the house of mr. parsons, clerk of st. sepulchre's. it chanced (here we turn to the annual register for ) that mr. k. left fanny alone in cock lane while he went to a wedding in the country. she asked little elizabeth parsons, her landlord's daughter, to share her bed, and both of them were disturbed by strange scratchings and rappings. these were attributed by mrs. parsons to the industry of a neighbouring cobbler, but when they occurred on a sunday, this theory was abandoned. poor fanny, according to the newspapers, thought the noises were a warning of her own death. others, after the event, imagined that they were caused by the jealous or admonishing spirit of her dead sister. fanny and mr. k. (having sued mr. parsons for money lent) left his rooms in dudgeon, and went to bartlet court, clerkenwell. here fanny died on february , , of a disease which her physician and apothecary certified to be small-pox, and her coffin was laid in the vault of st. john's church. now the noises in cock lane had ceased for a year and a half after fanny left the house, but they returned in force in - . mr. parsons in vain took down the wainscotting, to see whether some mischievous neighbour produced the sounds. { } the raps and scratches seemed to come on the bed of little elizabeth parsons, just as in the case of the tedworth drummer, investigated by glanvill, a hundred years earlier; and in the case at orleans, years earlier. the orleans case is published, with full legal documents, from ms. , , , bibliotheque du roi, in recueil de dissertations anciennes et nouvelles sur les apparitions, ii. (a avignon, ). 'scratching' was usually the first manifestation in this affair, and the scratches were heard in the bedroom occupied by certain children. the cock lane child 'was always affected with tremblings and shiverings at the coming and going of the ghost'. it was stated that the child had seen a shrouded figure without hands; two other witnesses (one of them a publican) had seen a luminous apparition, _with_ hands. this brilliant being lit up the figures on the dial of a clock. 'the noises followed the child to other houses,' and multitudes of people, clergy, nobles, and princes, also followed the child. a certain mr. brown was an early investigator, and published his report. like adrien de montalembert, in , like the franciscans about , he asked the ghost to reply, affirmatively or negatively, to questions, by one knock for 'yes,' two for 'no'. this method was suggested, it seems, by a certain mary frazer, in attendance on the child. thus it was elicited that fanny had been poisoned by mr. k. with 'red arsenic,' in a draught of purl to which she was partial. she added that she wished to see mr. k. hanged. she would answer other questions, now right, and now wrong. she called her father john, while his real name was thomas. in fact she was what porphyry, the neoplatonist, would have called a 'deceitful demon'. her chief effects were raps, scratchings, and a sound as of whirring wings, which filled the room. this phenomenon occurs in a 'haunted house' mentioned in the journal of the psychical society. it is infinitely more curious to recall, that, when mr. im thurn, in british guiana, submitted to the doctoring of a peayman (see p. ), he heard a sound, 'at first low and indistinct, and then gathering in volume as if some big winged thing came from far toward the house, passed through the roof, and then settled heavily on the floor, and again, after an interval, as if the same winged thing rose and passed away as it had come'. mr. im thurn thinks the impression was caused by the waving of boughs. these cock lane occurrences were attributed to ventriloquism, but, after a surgeon had held his hand on the child's stomach and chest while the noises were being produced, this probable explanation was abandoned. 'the girl was said to be constantly attended by the usual noises, though bound and muffled hand and foot, and that without any motion of her lips, and when she appeared to be asleep.' { } this binding is practised by eskimo angakut, or sorcerers, as of old, by mediums ([greek]) in ancient greece and egypt, so we gather from iamblichus, and some lines quoted from porphyry by eusebius. { } a kind of 'cabinet,' as modern spiritualists call a curtain, seems to have been used. in fact the phenomena, luminous apparition, 'tumultuous sounds,' and all, were familiar to the ancients. nobody seems to have noted this, but one unusually sensible correspondent of a newspaper quoted cases of knockings from baxter's certainty of the worlds of spirits, and thought that baxter's popular book might have suggested the imposture. though the educated classes had buried superstition, it lived, of course, among the people, who probably thumbed baxter and glanvill. thus things went on, crowds gathering to amuse themselves with the ghost. on february , mr. aldrich, a clergyman of clerkenwell, assembled in his house a number of gentlemen and ladies, having persuaded parsons to let his child be carried thither and tested. dr. johnson was there, and dr. macaulay suggested the admission of a mrs. oakes. dr. johnson supplied the newspapers with an account of what happened. the child was put to bed by several ladies, about ten o'clock, and the company sat 'for rather more than an hour,' during which nothing occurred. the men then went down-stairs and talked to parsons, when they were interrupted by some of the ladies, who said that scratching and knocking had set in. the company returned, and made the child hold her hands outside the bedclothes. no phenomena followed. now the sprite had promised to rap on its own coffin in the vault of st. john's, so thither they adjourned (without the medium), but there was never a scratch! 'it is therefore the opinion of the whole assembly, that the child has some art of making or counterfeiting particular noises, and that there is no agency of any higher cause.' in precisely the same way the judges in the franciscan case of , visited the bed of the child where the spirit had been used to scratch and rap, heard nothing, and decided that the affair was a hoax. the nature of the fraud was not discovered, but the franciscans were severely punished. at lyons, the bishop and some other clerics could get no response from the rapping spirit which was so familiar with the king's chaplain, adrien de montalembert ( - ). thus 'the ghost in some measure remains undetected,' says goldsmith, and, indeed, walpole visited cock lane, but could not get in, apparently _after_ the detection. but, writing on february , he may speak of an earlier date. meanwhile matters were very uncomfortable for mr. k. accused by a ghost, he had no legal remedy. goldsmith, like most writers, assumes that parsons undertook the imposture, in revenge for having been sued for money lent by mr. k. he adds that mr. k. was engaged in a chancery suit by his relations, and seems to suspect their agency. meanwhile, elizabeth was being 'tested' in various ways. finally the unlucky child was swung up in a kind of hammock, 'her hands and feet extended wide,' and, for two nights, no noises were heard. next day she was told that, if there were no noises, she and her father would be committed to newgate. she accordingly concealed a little board, on which a kettle usually stood, a piece of wood six inches by four. she managed this with so little art that the maids saw her place the wood in her dress, and informed the investigators of the circumstances. scratches were now produced, but the child herself said that they were not like the former sounds, and 'the concurrent opinion of the whole assembly was that the child had been frightened by threats into this attempt. . . . the master of the house and his friend both declared that the noises the girl had made this morning _had not the least likeness to the former noises_.' in the same way the wesleys at epworth, in , found that they could not imitate the perplexing sounds produced in the parsonage. the end of the affair was that parsons, mary frazer, a clergyman, a tradesman, and others were tried at the guildhall and convicted of a conspiracy, on july , . parsons was pilloried, and 'a handsome collection' was made for him by the spectators. his later fortunes, or misfortunes, and those of the miserable little elizabeth, are unknown. one thing is certain, the noises did not begin in an attempt at imposture on parsons's part; he was on good terms with his lodgers, when fanny was first disturbed. again, the child could not counterfeit the sounds successfully when she was driven by threats to make the effort. the seance of rather more than an hour, in which johnson took part, was certainly inadequate. the phenomena were such as had been familiar to law and divinity, at least since , a.d. { a} the agencies always made accusations, usually false. the knocking spirit at kembden, near bingen, in charged a priest with a scandalous intrigue. the raps on the bed of the children examined by the franciscans, about , assailed the reputation of a dead lady. when the foxes, at rochester, in - , set up alphabetic communication with the knocks, they told a silly tale of a murder. the cock lane ghost lied in the same way. the fox girls started modern spiritualism on its wild and mischievous career, as elizabeth parsons might have done, in a more favourable environment. there was never anything new in all these cases. the lowest savages have their seances, levitations, bindings of the medium, trance-speakers; peruvians, indians, have their objects moved without contact. simon magus, or st. paul under that offensive pseudonym, was said to make the furniture move at will. { b} there is a curious recent cock lane case in ireland where 'the ghost' brought no accusations against anybody. the affair was investigated by mr. barrett, a professor in the royal college of science, dublin, who published the results in the dublin university magazine, for december, . the scene was a small lonely farm house at derrygonnelly, near enniskillen. the farmer's wife had died a few weeks before easter, , leaving him with four girls, and one boy, of various ages, the eldest, maggie, being twenty. the noises were chiefly heard in her neighbourhood. when the children had been put to bed, maggie lay down, without undressing, in the bedroom off the kitchen. a soft pattering noise was soon heard, then raps, from all parts of the room, then scratchings, as in cock lane. when mr. barrett, his friend, and the farmer entered with a candle, the sounds ceased, but began again 'as if growing accustomed to the presence of the light'. the hands and feet of the young people were watched, but nothing was detected, while the raps were going on everywhere around, on the chairs, on the quilt, and on the big four-post wooden bedsteads where they were lying. mr. barrett now played moro with the raps, that is, he extended so many fingers, keeping his hand in the pocket of a loose great-coat, and the sounds always responded the right number. four trials were made. then came a noise like the beating of a drum, 'with violent scratching and tearing sounds'. the trouble began three weeks after the wife's death. once a number of small stones were found on maggie's bed. all the family suffered from sleeplessness, and their candles, even when concealed, were constantly stolen. 'it took a boot from a locked drawer,' and the boot was found in a great chest of feathers in a loft. a bible was spirited about, and a methodist teacher (the family were methodists) made no impression on the agency. they tried to get some communication by an alphabet, but, said the farmer, 'it tells lies as often as truth, and oftener, i think'. mr. barrett, and a friend, on two occasions, could detect no method of imposture, and, as the farmer did not believe that his children, sorely distressed by the loss of their mother, would play such tricks, at such a time, even if they could, the mystery remains unsolved. the family found that the less attention they paid to the disturbances, the less they were vexed. mr. barrett, examining some other cases, found that dr. carpenter's and other theories did not account for them. but it is certain that the children, as methodists, had read wesley's account of the spirit at epworth, in . mr. barrett was aware of this circumstance, but was unable to discover how the thing was managed, on the hypothesis of fraudulent imitation. the irish household seems to have reaped no profit by the affair, but rather trouble, annoyance, and the expense of hospitality to strange visitors. the agency was mendacious, as usual, for porphyry complains that the 'spirits' were always as deceitful as the cock lane ghost, feigning to be gods, heroes, or the souls of the dead. it is very interesting to note how, in greece, as christianity waxed, and paganism waned, such inquiring minds as that of porphyry fell back on seances and spiritualism, or superstitions unmentioned by homer, and almost unheard of in the later classical literature. religion, which began in shamanism, in the trances of angakut and birraark, returned to these again, and everywhere found marvel, mystery, imposture, conscious, or unconscious. the phenomena have never ceased, imposture has always been detected or asserted, but that hypothesis rarely covers the whole field, and so, if we walk in cock lane at all, we wander darkling, in good and bad company, among diviners, philosophers, saints, witches, charlatans, hypnotists. many a heart has been broken, like that of mr. dale owen, by the late discovery of life-long delusion, for we meet in cock lane, as porphyry says, [greek]. yet this 'deceptive race' has had its stroke in the making of creeds, and has played its part in human history, while it contributes not a little to human amusement. meanwhile, of all wanderers in cock lane, none is more beguiled than sturdy common-sense, if an explanation is to be provided. when once we ask for more than 'all stuff and nonsense,' we speedily receive a very mixed theory in which rats, indigestion, dreams, and of late, hypnotism, are mingled much at random, for common-sense shows more valour than discretion, when she pronounces on matters (or spirits) which she has never studied. beautiful instances of common-sense explanations, occur in two stories of the last century, the st. maur affair ( ), and the haunted house of amiens, ( ). the author of 'ce qu'on doit penser de l'aventure arrivee a saint maur,' was m. poupart, canon of st. maur, near paris. the good canon, of course, admits biblical apparitions, which are miraculous, and admits hallucination caused by the state of the visual organs and by fever, while he believes in something like the lucretian idea, that bodies, dead bodies, at least, shell off a kind of peel, which may, on occasion, be visible. common ghosts he dismisses on grounds of common-sense; if spirits in purgatory _could_ appear, they would appear more frequently, and would not draw the curtains of beds, drag at coverlets, turn tables upside down, and make terrible noises, all of which feats are traditional among ghosts. m. poupart then comes to the adventure at st. maur. the percipient, m. de s., was a man of twenty-five: his mother seems to have been a visionary, and his constitution is described as 'melancholic'. he was living alone, however, and his mother has no part in the business. the trouble began with loud knocks at his door, and the servant, when she went to open it, found nobody there. the curtains of his bed were drawn, when he was alone in the room, and here, of course, we have only his evidence. one evening about eleven, he and his servants heard the papers on a table being turned over, and, though they suspected the cat, no cat could be found. when s. went to bed, the same noise persisted in his sitting-room, where the cat, no doubt, could easily conceal herself, for it is not easy to find a cat who has motives for not being found. s. again hunted for the animal, but only heard a great rap on the wall. no sooner had s. gone back to bed, than the bed gave a violent leap, and dashed itself against the wall: the jump covered four feet. he called his servants, who replaced the bed, but the curtains, in their sight, were drawn, and the bed made a wild rush at the fireplace. this happened again twice, though the servants held on gallantly to the bed. monsieur s. had no sleep, his bed continued to bound and run, and he sent on the following day, for a friend. in that gentleman's presence the leaps made by the bed ended in its breaking its left foot, on which the visitor observed that he had seen quite enough. he is said, later, to have expressed sorrow that he spoke, but he may have had various motives for this repentance. on the following night, s. slept well, and if his bed did rise and fall gently, the movement rather cradled him to repose. in the afternoon, the bolts of his parlour door closed of their own accord, and the door of a large armoire opened. a voice then bade s. do certain things, which he was to keep secret, go to a certain place, and find people who would give him further orders. s. then fainted, hurt himself, and with difficulty unbolted his door. a fortnight later, s., his mother, and a friend heard more rapping, and a heavy knock on the windows. m. poupart now gives the explanations of common-sense. the early noises might have had physical causes: master, servants, and neighbours all heard them, but that proves nothing. as to the papers, a wind, or a mouse may have interfered with _them_. the movements of the bed are more serious, as there are several witnesses. but 'suppose the bed was on castors'. the inquirer does not ask whether it really was on castors, or not, he supposes the case. then suppose s., that melancholy man, wants a lark (a envie de se rejouir), he therefore tosses about in bed, and the bed rushes, consequently, round the room. this experiment may be attempted by any philosopher. let him lie in a bed with castors, and try how far he can make it run, while he kicks about in it. this explanation, dear to common-sense, is based on a physical impossibility, as any one may ascertain for himself. then the servants tried in vain to hold back the excited couch, well, these servants may have lied, and, at most, could not examine 'les ressorts secrets qui causaient ce mouvement'. now, m. poupart deserts the theory that we can make a bed run about, by lying kicking on it, and he falls back on hidden machinery. the independent witness is said to have said that he was sorry he spoke, but this evidence proves nothing. what happened in the room when the door was bolted, is not evidence, of course, and we may imagine that s. himself made the noises on walls and windows, when his friend and mother were present. thus m. s. was both melancholy, and anxious se donner un divertissement, by frightening his servants, to which end he supplied his bed with machinery that made it jump, and drew the curtains. what kind of secret springs would perform these feats, m. poupart does not explain. it would have been wiser in him to say that he did not believe a word of it, than to give such silly reasons for a disbelief that made no exact inquiry into the circumstances. the frivolities of the bed are reported in the case of home and others, nor can we do much more than remark the conservatism of the phenomena; the knocks, and the animated furniture. the amiens case ( ) is reported and attested by father charles louis richard, professor in theology, a dominican friar. the haunted house was in the rue de l'aventure, parish of st. jacques. the tenant was a m. leleu, aged thirty-six. the troubles had lasted for fourteen years, and there was evidence for their occurrence earlier, before leleu occupied the house. the disturbances were of the usual kind, a sound of heavy planks being tossed about, as in the experience of scott at abbotsford, raps, the fastening of doors so that they could not be opened for long, and then suddenly gave way (this, also, is frequent in modern tales), a sound of sweeping the floor, as in the epworth case, in the wesleys' parsonage, heavy knocks and thumps, the dragging of heavy bodies, steps on the stairs, lights, the dancing of all the furniture in the room of mlle. marie de latre, rattling of crockery, a noise of whirring in the air, a jingling as of coins (familiar at epworth), and, briefly, all the usually reported tintamarre. twenty persons, priests, women, girls, men of all sorts, attest those phenomena which are simply the ordinary occurrences still alleged to be prevalent. the narrator believes in diabolical agency, but he gives the explanations of common-sense. . m. leleu is a visionary. but, as no one says that all the other witnesses are visionaries, this helps us little. . m. leleu makes all the noise himself. that is, he climbs to the roof with a heavy sack of grain on his shoulder, and lets it fall; he runs up and down the chimneys with his heavy sack on his shoulder, he frolics with weighty planks all over the house, thumps the walls, makes furniture dance, and how? what is his motive? his tenants leave him, he is called a fool, a devil, a possessed person: his business is threatened, they talk of putting him in jail, and that is all he has got by his partiality for making a racket. . the neighbours make the noises, and again the narrator asks 'how?' and 'why?' . some priests slept in the house once and heard nothing. but nobody pretends that there is always something to hear. the bishop of amiens licenses the publication 'with the more confidence, as we have ourselves received the depositions of ten witnesses, a number more than sufficient to attest a fact which nobody has any interest in feigning'. in a tale like this, which is only one out of a vast number, exactly analogous, common-sense is ill-advised in simply alleging imposture, so long maintained, so motiveless, and, on the whole, so very difficult to execute. m. leleu brought in the church, with its exorcisms, but our dominican authority does not say whether or not the noises ceased after the rites had been performed. dufresnoy, in whose dissertations { } these documents are republished, mentions that bouchel, in his bibliotheque du droit francois, d. v. 'louage,' treats of the legal aspect of haunted houses. thus the profession has not wholly disdained the inquiry. of all common sensible explanations, the most sporting and good- humoured is that given by the step-daughter of alexander dingwall, a tenant in inverinsh, in . poor dingwall in his cornyard 'heard very grievous lamentations, which continued, as he imagined, all the way to the seashore'. these he regarded as a warning of his end, but his stepdaughter sensibly suggested that, as the morning was cold, 'the voice must be that of a fox, to cause dogs run after him to give him heat'. dingwall took to bed and died, but the suggestion that the fox not only likes being hunted, but provokes it as a form of healthy exercise, is invaluable. the tale is in theophilus insulanus, on the second sight. there is no conclusion to be drawn from this mass of cock lane stories. occasionally an impostor is caught, as at brightling, in . mr. joseph bennet, a minister in that town, wrote an account of the affair, published in increase mather's remarkable providences. 'several things were thrown by an invisible hand,' including crabs! 'yet there was a seeming blur cast, though not on the whole, yet upon some part of it, for their servant girl was at last found throwing some things.' she averred that an old woman had bidden her do so, saying that 'her master and dame were bewitched, and that they should hear a great fluttering about their house for the space of two days'. this cock lane phenomenon, however, is not reported to have occurred. the most credulous will admit that the maid is enough to account for the brightling manifestations; some of the others are more puzzling and remain in the region of the unexplained. apparitions, ghosts, and hallucinations. apparitions appear. apparitions are not necessarily ghosts. superstition, common-sense, and science. hallucinations: their kinds, and causes. aristotle. mr. gurney's definition. various sources of hallucination, external and internal. the organ of sense. the sensory centre. the higher tracts of the brain. nature of evidence. dr. hibbert. claverhouse. lady lee. dr. donne. dr. hibbert's complaint of want of evidence. his neglect of contemporary cases. criticism of his tales. the question of coincidental hallucinations. the calculus of probabilities: m. richet, mm. binet et fere; their conclusions. a step beyond hibbert. examples of empty and unexciting wraiths. our ignorance of causes of solitary hallucinations. the theory of 'telepathy'. savage metaphysics of m. d'assier. breakdown of theory of telepathy, when hallucinatory figure causes changes in physical objects. animals as ghost-seers: difficult to explain this by telepathy. strange case of a cat. general propriety and lack of superstition in cats. the beresford ghost, well-meaning but probably mythical. mrs. henry sidgwick: her severity as regards conscientious ghosts. case of mr. harry. case of miss morton. a difficult case. examples in favour of old-fashioned theory of ghosts. contradictory cases. perplexities of the anxious inquirer. only one thing is certain about apparitions, namely this, that they do appear. they really are perceived. now, as popular language confuses apparitions with ghosts, this statement sounds like an expression of the belief that ghosts appear. it has, of course, no such meaning. when le loyer, in , boldly set out to found a 'science of spectres,' he carefully distinguished between his method, and the want of method observable in the telling of ghost stories. he began by drawing up long lists of apparitions which are _not_ spectres, or ghosts, but the results of madness, malady, drink, fanaticism, illusions and so forth. it is true that le loyer, with all his deductions, left plenty of genuine spectres for the amusement of his readers. like him we must be careful not to confound 'apparitions,' with 'ghosts'. when a fist, applied to the eye, makes us 'see stars'; when a liver not in good working order makes us see muscae volitantes, or 'spiders'; when alcohol produces 'the horrors,'--visions of threatening persons or animals,--when a lesion of the brain, or delirium, or a disease of the organs of sense causes visions, or when they occur to starved and enthusiastic ascetics, all these false perceptions are just as much 'apparitions,' as the view of a friend at a distance, beheld at the moment of his death, or as the unrecognised spectre seen in a haunted house. in popular phrase, however, the two last kinds of apparitions are called 'ghosts,' or 'wraiths,' and the popular tendency is to think of these, and of these alone, when 'apparitions' are mentioned. on the other hand the tendency of common-sense is to rank the two last sorts of apparition, the wraith and ghost, with all the other kinds, which are undeniably caused by accident, by malady, mental or bodily, or by mere confusion and misapprehension, as when one, seeing a post in the moonlight, takes it for a ghost. science, following a third path, would class all perceptions which 'have not the basis in fact that they seem to have' as 'hallucinations'. the stars seen after a blow on the eye are hallucinations,--there are no real stars in view,--and the friend, whose body seems to fill space before our sight when his body is really on a death-bed far away;-- and again, the appearance of the living friend whom we see in the drawing-room while he is really in the smoking-room or in timbuctoo,--are hallucinations also. the common-sense of the matter is stated by aristotle. 'the reason of the hallucinations is that appearances present themselves, not only when the _object of sense_ is itself in motion, but also when the _sense_ is stirred, as it would be by the presence of the object' (de insomn., ii. , b, - ). the ghost in a haunted house is taken for a figure, say, of a monk, or of a monthly nurse, or what not, but no monthly nurse or monk is in the establishment. the 'percept,' is a 'percept,' for those who perceive it; the apparition is an apparition, for _them_, but the perception is hallucinatory. so far, everybody is agreed: the differences begin when we ask what causes hallucinations, and what different classes of hallucinations exist? taking the second question first, we find hallucinations divided into those which the percipient (or percipients) believes, at the moment, and perhaps later, to be real; and those which his judgment pronounces to be _false_. famous cases of the latter class are the idola which beset nicolai, who studied them, and wrote an account of them. after a period of trouble and trial, and neglect of blood-letting, nicolai saw, first a dead man whom he had known, and, later, crowds of people, dead, living, known or unknown. the malady yielded to leeches. { } examples of the first sort of apparitions taken by the judgment to be _real_, are common in madness, in the intemperate, and in ghost stories. the maniac believes in his visionary attendant or enemy, the drunkard in his rats and snakes, the ghost-seer often supposes that he has actually seen an acquaintance (where no mistaken identity is possible) and only learns later that the person,--dead, or alive and well,--was at a distance. thus the writer is acquainted with the story of a gentleman who, when at work in his study at a distance from england, saw a colleague in his profession enter the room. 'just wait till i finish this business,' he said, but when he had hastily concluded his letter, or whatever he was engaged on, his friend had disappeared. that was the day of his friend's death, in england. here then the hallucination was taken for a reality; indeed, there was nothing to suggest that it was anything else. mr. gurney has defined a hallucination as 'a percept which lacks, but which can only by distinct reflection be recognised as lacking, the objective basis which it suggests'--and by 'objective basis,' he means 'the possibility of being shared by all persons with normal senses'. nobody but the 'percipient' was present on the occasion just described, so we cannot say whether other people would have seen the visitor, or not. but reflection could not recognise the unreality of this 'percept,' till it was found that, in fact, the visitor had vanished, and had never been in the neighbourhood at all. here then, are two classes of hallucinations, those which reflection shows us to be false (as if a sane man were to have the hallucination of a crocodile, or of a dead friend, entering the room), and those which reflection does not, at the moment, show to be false, as if a friend were to enter, who could be proved to have been absent. in either case, what causes the hallucination, or are there various possible sorts of causes? now defects in the eye, or in the optic nerve, to speak roughly, may cause hallucinations _from without_. an injured external organ conveys a false and distorted message to the brain and to the intelligence. a nascent malady of the ear may produce buzzings, and these may develop into hallucinatory voices. here be hallucinations _from without_. but when a patient begins with a hallucination of the intellect, as that inquisitors are plotting to catch him, or witches to enchant him, and when he later comes to _see_ inquisitors and witches, where there are none, we have, apparently, a hallucination _from within_. again, some persons, like blake the painter, _voluntarily_ start a hallucination. 'draw me edward i.,' a friend would say, blake would, _voluntarily_, establish a hallucination of the monarch on a chair, in a good light, and sketch him, if nobody came between his eye and the royal sitter. here, then, are examples of hallucinations begotten _from within_, either voluntarily, by a singular exercise of fancy, or involuntarily, as the suggestion of madness, of cerebral disease, or abnormal cerebral activity. again a certain amount of intensity of activity, at a 'sensory centre' in the brain, will start a 'percept'. activity of the necessary force at the right place, may be _normally_ caused by the organ of sense, say the eye, when fixed on a real object, say a candlestick. ( ) or the necessary activity at the sensory centre may be produced, _abnormally_, by irritation of the eye, or along the line of nerve from the eye to the 'sensory centre'. ( ) or thirdly, there may be a morbid, but spontaneous activity in the sensory centre itself. ( ) in case one, we have a natural sensation converted into a perception of a real object. in case two, we have an abnormal origin of a perception of something unreal, a hallucination, begotten _from without_, that is by a vice in an external organ, the eye. in case three, we have the origin of an abnormal perception of something _unreal_, a hallucination, begotten by a vicious activity _within_, in the sensory centre. but, while all these three sets of stimuli set the machinery in motion, it is the 'highest parts of the brain' that, in response to the stimuli, create the full perception, real or hallucinatory. but there remains a fourth way of setting the machinery in motion. the first way, in normal sensation and perception, was the natural action of the organ of sense, stimulated by a material object. the second way was by the stimulus of a vice in the organ of sense. the third way was a vicious activity in a sensory centre. all three stimuli reach the 'central terminus' of the brain, and are there created into perceptions, the first real and normal, the second a hallucination from an organ of sense, _from without_, the third a hallucination from a sensory centre, _from within_. the fourth way is illustrated when the machinery is set a-going from the 'central terminus' itself, 'from the higher parts of the brain, from the seats of ideation and memory'. now, as long as these parts only produce and retain ideas or memories in the usual way, we think, or we remember, but we have no hallucination. but when the activity starting from the central terminus 'escapes downwards,' in sufficient force, it reaches the 'lower centre' and the organ of sense, and then the idea, or memory, stands visibly before us as a hallucination. this, omitting many technical details, and much that is matter of more dispute than common, is a statement, rough, and as popular as possible, of the ideas expressed in mr. gurney's remarkable essay on hallucinations. { } here, then, we have a rude working notion of various ways in which hallucinations may be produced. but there are many degrees in being hallucinated, or enphantosme, as the old french has it. if we are interested in the most popular kind of hallucinations, ghosts and wraiths, we first discard like le loyer, the evidence of many kinds of witnesses, diversely but undeniably hallucinated. a man whose eyes are so vicious as habitually to give him false information is not accepted as a witness, nor a man whose brain is drugged with alcohol, nor a man whose 'central terminus' is abandoned to religious excitement, to remorse, to grief, to anxiety, to an apprehension of secret enemies, nor even to a habit of being hallucinated, though, like nicolai, he knows that his visionary friends are unreal. thus we would not listen credulously to a ghost story out of his own experience from a man whose eyes were untrustworthy, nor from a short-sighted man who had recognised a dead or dying friend on the street, nor from a drunkard. a tale of a vision of a religious character from pascal, or from a red indian boy during his medicine fast, or even from a colonel of dragoons who fell at prestonpans, might be interesting, but would not be evidence for our special purpose. the ghosts beheld by conscience-stricken murderers, by sorrowing widowers, by spiritualists in dark rooms, haunted by humbugs, or those seen by lunatics, or by children, or by timid people in lonely old houses, or by people who, though sane at the time, go mad twenty years later, or by sane people habitually visionary, these and many other ghosts, we must begin, like le loyer, by rejecting. these witnesses have too much cerebral activity at the wrong time and place. they start their hallucinations from the external terminus, the unhealthy organ of sense; from the morbid central terminus; or from some dilapidated cerebral station along the line. but, when we have, in a sane man's experience, say one hallucination whether that hallucination does, or does not coincide with a crisis in the life, or perhaps with the death of the person who seems to be seen, what are we to think? or again, when several witnesses simultaneously have the same hallucination,--not to be explained as a common misinterpretation of a real object,--what are we to think? this is the true question of ghosts and wraiths. that apparitions, so named by the world, do appear, is certain, just as it is certain that visionary rats appear to drunkards in delirium tremens. but, as we are only to take the evidence of sane and healthy witnesses, who were neither in anxiety, grief, or other excitement, when they perceived their one hallucination, there seems to be a difference between their hallucinations and those of alcoholism, fanaticism, sorrow, or anxiety. now the common mistakes in dealing with this topic have been to make too much, or to make too little, of the coincidences between the hallucinatory appearance of an absent person, and his death, or some other grave crisis affecting him. too little is made of such coincidences by dr. hibbert, in his philosophy of apparitions (p. ). he 'attempts a physical explanation of many ghost stories which may be considered most authentic'. so he says, but he only touches on three, the apparition of claverhouse, on the night of killiecrankie, to lord balcarres, in an edinburgh prison; the apparition of her dead mother to miss lee, in ; and the apparition of his wife, who had born a dead child on that day in england, to dr. donne in paris, early in the seventeenth century. dr. hibbert dedicated his book, in , to sir walter scott, of abbotsford, bart., president of the royal society of edinburgh. sir walter, at heart as great a ghost-hunter as ever lived, was conceived to have a scientific interest in the 'mental principles to which certain popular illusions may be referred'. thus dr. hibbert's business, if he would satisfy the president of the royal society of edinburgh, was to 'provide a physical explanation of many ghost stories which may be considered most authentic'. in our prosaic age, he would have begun with those most recent, such as the tall man in brown, viewed by sir walter on the moor near ashestiel, and other still remembered contemporary hallucinations. far from that, dr. hibbert deliberately goes back two centuries for all the three stories which represent the 'many' of his promise. the wynyard ghost was near him, mrs ricketts's haunted house was near him, plenty of other cases were lying ready to his hand. { } but he went back two centuries, and then,--complained of lack of evidence about 'interesting particulars'! dr. hibbert represents the science and common-sense of seventy years ago, and his criticism probably represents the contemporary ideas about evidence. the balcarres tale, as told by him, is that the earl was 'in prison, in edinburgh castle, on the suspicion of jacobitism'. 'suspicion' is good; he was the king's agent for civil, as dundee was for military affairs in scotland. he and dundee, and ailesbury, stood by the king in london, to the last. lord balcarres himself, in his memoirs, tells james ii. how he was confined, 'in close prison,' in edinburgh, till the castle was surrendered to the prince of orange. in dr. hibbert's tale, the spectre of dundee enters balcarres's room at night, 'draws his curtain,' looks at him for some time, and walks out of the room, lord balcarres believing it to be dundee himself. dr. hibbert never even asks for the authority on which this legend reposes, certainly balcarres does not tell the tale in his own report, or memoirs, for james ii. (bannatyne club, ). the doctor then grumbles that he does not know 'a syllable of the state of lord balcarres's health at the time'. the friend of bayle and of marlborough, an honourable politician, a man at once loyal and plain-spoken in dealings with his master, lord balcarres's word would go for much, if he gave it. { } but dr. hibbert asks for no authority, cites none. he only argues that, 'agreeably to the well- known doctrine of chances,' balcarres might as well have this hallucination at the time of dundee's death as at any other (p. ). now, that is a question which we cannot settle, without knowing whether lord balcarres was subject to hallucinations. if he was, cadit quaestio, if he was _not_, then the case is different. it is, manifestly, a problem in statistics, and only by statistics of wide scope, can it be solved. { } but dr. hibbert was content to produce his easy solution, without working out the problem. his second case is of , and was taken down, he says, by the bishop of gloucester, from the lips of the father of miss lee. this young lady, in bed, saw a light, then a hallucination which called itself her mother. the figure prophesied the daughter's death at noon next day and at noon next day the daughter died. a physician, when she announced her vision, attended her, bled her, and could find nothing wrong in her health. dr. hibbert conjectures that her medical attendant did not know his business. 'the coincidence was _a fortunate one_,' that is all his criticism. where there is no coincidence, the stories, he says, are forgotten. for that very reason, he should have collected contemporary stories, capable of being investigated, but that did not occur to dr. hibbert. his last case is the apparition of mrs. donne, with a dead child, to dr. donne, in paris, as recorded by walton. as donne was a poet, very fond of his wife, and very anxious about her health, this case is not evidential, and may be dismissed for 'a fortuitous coincidence' (p. ). certainly dr. hibbert could come to no conclusion, save his own, on the evidence he adduces. but it was by his own fault that he chose only evidence very remote, incapable of being cross-examined, and scanty, while we know that plenty of contemporary evidence was within his reach. possibly the possessors of these experiences would not have put them at his disposal, but, if he could get no materials, he was in no position to form a theory. all this would have been recognised in any other matter, but in this obscure branch of psychology, beset, as it is, by superstition, science was content to be casual. the error which lies at the opposite pole from dr. hibbert's mistake in not collecting instances, is the error of collecting only affirmative instances. we hear constantly about 'hallucinations of sight, sound, or touch, which suggest the presence of an absent person, and which occur simultaneously with some exceptional crisis in that person's life, or, most frequently of all, with his death'. { } now mr. gurney himself was much too fair a reasoner to avoid the collection of instantiae contradictoraes, examples in which the hallucination occurs, but does not coincide with any crisis whatever in the life of the absent person who seems to be present. of these cases, dr. hibbert could find only one on record, in the mercure gallant, january, . the writer tells us how he dreamed that a dead relation of his came to his bedside, and announced that he must die that day. unlike miss lee, he went on living. yet the dream impressed him so much that he noted it down in writing as soon as he awoke. dr. johnson also mentions an instantia contradictoria. a friend of boswell's, near kilmarnock, heard his brother's voice call him by name: now his brother was dead, or dying, in america. johnson capped this by his tale of having, when at oxford, heard his name pronounced by his mother. she was then at lichfield, but nothing ensued. in dr. hibbert's opinion, this proves that coincidences, when they do occur, are purely matters of chance. { a} there are many hallucinations, a death may correspond with one of them, that case is noted, the others are forgotten. yet the coincidences are so many, or so striking, that when a maori woman has a hallucination representing her absent husband, she may marry without giving him recognised ground for resentment, if he happens to be alive. this curious fact proves that the coincidence between death and hallucinatory presence has been marked enough to suggest a belief which can modify savage jealousy. { b} by comparing coincidental with non-coincidental hallucinations known to him, mr. gurney is said to have decided that the chances against a death coinciding with a hallucination, were forty to one,--long odds. { a} but it is clear that only a very large collection of facts would give us any materials for a decision. suppose that some , people answer such questions as:-- . have you ever had any hallucination? . was there any coincidence between the hallucination and facts at the time unknown to you? the majority of sane people will be able to answer the first question in the negative. of those who answer both questions in the affirmative, several things are to be said. first, we must allow for jokes, then for illusions of memory. corroborative contemporary evidence must be produced. again, of the , , many are likely to be selected instances. the inquirer is tempted to go to a person who, as he or she already knows, has a story to tell. again, the inquirers are likely to be persons who take an interest in the subject on the _affirmative_ side, and their acquaintances may have been partly chosen because they were of the same intellectual complexion. { b} all these drawbacks are acknowledged to exist, and are allowed for, and, as far as possible, provided against, by the very fair-minded people who have conducted this inquisition. thus mr. henry sidgwick, in , said, 'i do not think we can be satisfied with less than , answers'. { } but these , answers have not been received. when we reflect that, to our knowledge, out of twenty-five questions asked among our acquaintances in one place, _none_ would be answered in the affirmative: while, by selecting, we could get twenty-five affirmative replies, the delicacy and difficulty of the inquisition becomes painfully evident. mr. sidgwick, after making deductions on all sides of the most sportsmanlike character, still holds that the coincidences are more numerous by far than the calculus of probabilities admits. this is a question for the advanced mathematician. m. richet once made some experiments which illustrate the problem. one man in a room thought of a series of names which, ex hypothesi, he kept to himself. three persons sat at a table, which, as tables will do, 'tilted,' and each tilt rang an electric bell. two other persons, concealed from the view of the table tilters, ran through an alphabet with a pencil, marking each letter at which the bell rang. these letters were compared with the names secretly thought of by the person at neither table. he thought of the answers were . jean racine . igard . legros . neghn . esther . foqdem . henrietta . higiegmsd . cheuvreux . dievoreq . doremond . epjerod . chevalon . cheval . allouand . iko here the non-mathematical reader will exclaim: 'total failure, except in case !' and, about that case, he will have his private doubts. but, arguing mathematically, m. richet proves that the table was right, beyond the limits of mere chance, by fourteen to two. he concludes, on the whole of his experiments, that, probably, intellectual force in one brain may be echoed in another brain. but mm. binet and fere, who report this, decide that 'the calculation of chances is, for the most part, incapable of affording a peremptory proof; it produces uncertainty, disquietude, and doubt'. { } 'yet something is gained by substituting doubt for systematic denial. richet has obtained this important result, that henceforth the possibility of mental suggestion cannot be met with contemptuous rejection.' mental suggestion on this limited scale, is a phenomenon much less startling to belief than the reality, and causal nature, of coincidental hallucinations, of wraiths. but it is plain that, as far as general opinion goes, the doctrine of chances, applied to such statistics of hallucinations as have been collected, can at most, only 'produce uncertainty, disquietude, and doubt'. yet if even these are produced, a step has been made beyond the blank negation of hibbert. the general reader, even if credulously inclined, is more staggered by a few examples of non-coincidental hallucinations, than confirmed by a pile of coincidental examples. now it seems to be a defect in the method of the friends of wraiths, that they do not publish, with full and impressive details, as many examples of non-coincidental as of coincidental hallucinations. it is the _story_ that takes the public: if we are to be fair we must give the non-coincidental story in all its features, as is done in the matter of wraiths with a kind of message or meaning. let us set a good example, by adducing wraiths which, in slang phrase, were 'sells'. those which we have at first hand are marked '(a),' those at second-hand '(b)'. but the world will accept the story of a ghost that failed on very poor evidence indeed. . (a) a young lady, in the dubious state between awake and asleep, unable, in fact, to feel certain whether she was awake or asleep, beheld her late grandmother. the old lady wept as she sat by the bedside. 'why do you weep, grandmamma, are you not happy where you are?' asked the girl. 'yes, i am happy, but i am weeping for your mother.' 'is she going to die?' 'no, but she is going to lose you.' 'am _i_ going to die, grandmamma?' 'yes, my dear.' 'soon?' 'yes, my dear, very soon.' the young lady, with great courage, concealed her dream from her mother, but confided it to a brother. she did her best to be good while she was on earth, where she is still, after an interval of many years. except for the conclusion, and the absence of a mystic bright light in the bedroom, this case exactly answers to that of miss lee, in . dr. hibbert would have liked this example. . (b) a lady, staying with a friend, observed that one morning she was much depressed. the friend confided to her that, in the past night, she had seen her brother, dripping wet. he told her that he had been drowned by the upsetting of a boat, which was attached by a rope to a ship. at this time, he was on his way home from australia. the dream, or vision, was recorded in writing. when next the first lady met her friend, she was entertaining her brother at luncheon. he had never even been in a boat dragged behind a ship, and was perfectly safe. . (b) a lady, residing at a distance from oxford wrote to tell her son, who was at merton college, that he had just entered her room and vanished. was he well? yes, he was perfectly well, and bowling for the college eleven. . (b) a lady in bed saw her absent husband. he announced his death by cholera, and gave her his blessing, she, of course, was very anxious and miserable, but the vision was a lying vision. the husband was perfectly well. in all these four cases, anxiety was caused by the vision, and in three at least, action was taken, the vision was recorded orally, or in writing. in the following set, the visions were waking hallucinations of sane persons never in any other instance hallucinated. . (a) a person of distinction, walking in a certain cambridge quadrangle, met a very well-known clergyman. the former held out his hand, but there was before him only open space. no feeling of excitement or anxiety followed. . (a) the writer, standing before dinner, at a table in a large and brilliantly lit hall, saw the door of the drawing-room open, and a little girl, related to himself, come out, and run across the hall into another room. he spoke to her, but she did not answer. he instantly entered the drawing-room, where the child was sitting in a white evening-dress. when she ran across the hall, the moment before, she was dressed in dark blue serge. no explanation of the puzzle could be discovered, but it is fair to add that no anxiety was excited. . (a) a young lady had a cold, and was wearing a brown shawl. after lunch she went to her room. a few minutes later, her sister came out, saw her in the hall, and went upstairs after her, telling her an anecdote. at the top of the stairs, the brown-shawled sister vanished. the elder sister was in her room, in a white shawl. she was visible, when absent on another occasion, to another spectator. in two other cases (a) ladies, in their usual health, saw their husbands in their rooms, when, in fact, they were in the drawing- room or study. here then are eight cases of non-coincidental hallucination, some of people awake, some of people probably on the verge of sleep, which are wholly without 'coincidence,' wholly unveridical. none of the 'percipients' was addicted to seeing 'visions about.' { } on the other side, though the writer knows several people who have 'seen ghosts' in haunted houses, and other odd phenomena, he knows nobody, at first hand, who has seen a 'veridical hallucination,' or rather, knows only one, a very young one indeed. thus, between these personally collected statistics of spectral 'sells' on one part, and the world-wide diffusion of belief in 'coincidental' hallucination on the other, the human mind is left in a balance which mathematics, and the calculus of probabilities (especially if one does not understand it) fail to affect. meanwhile, we still do not know what causes these solitary hallucinations of the sane. they can hardly come from diseased organs of sense, for these would not confine themselves to a single mistaken message of great vivacity. and why should either the 'sensory centre' or the 'central terminus' just once in a lifetime develop this uncanny activity, and represent to us a person to whom we may be wholly indifferent? the explanation is less difficult when the person represented is a husband or child, but even then, why does the activity occur once, and only once, and _not_ in a moment of anxiety? the coincidental hallucinations are laid to the door of 'telepathy,' to 'a telepathic impact from the mind of an absent agent,' who is dying, or in some other state of rare or exciting experience, perhaps being married, as in col. meadows taylor's case. this is a theory as old as lavaterus, and was proclaimed by mayo in the middle of the century; while, substituting 'angels' for human agents, frazer of tiree used it, in , to explain second sight. nay, it is the norse theory of a 'sending' by a sorcerer, as we read in the icelandic sagas. but, admitting that telepathy may be a cause of hallucinations, we often find the effect where the cause is not alleged to exist. nobody, perhaps, will explain our nine empty hallucinations by 'telepathy,' yet, from the supposed effects of telepathy they were indistinguishable. are all such cases of casual hallucination in the sane to be explained by telepathy, by an impact of force from a distant brain on the central terminus of our own brains? at all events, a casual hallucination of the presence of an absent friend need obviously cause us very little anxiety. we need not adopt the hypothesis of the maoris. the telepathic theory has the advantage of cutting down the marvellous to the minimum. it also accounts for that old puzzle, the clothes worn by the ghosts. these are reproduced by the 'agent's' theory of himself, perhaps with some unconscious assistance from 'the percipient'. for lack of this light on the matter, m. d'assier, a positivist, who believed in spectres had to suggest that the ghosts wear the ghosts of garments! thus positivism, in this disciple, returned to the artless metaphysics of savages. telepathy saves the believer from such a humiliating relapse, and, perhaps, telepathy also may be made to explain 'collective' hallucinations, when several people see the same apparition. if a distant mind can thus demoralise the central terminus of one brain, it may do as much for two or more brains, or they may demoralise each other. all this is very promising, but telepathy breaks down when the apparition causes some change in the relations of material objects. if there be a physical effect which endures after the phantasm has vanished, then there was an actual agent, a real being, a 'ghost' on the scene. for instance, the lady in scott's ballad, 'the eve of st. john,' might see and might hear the ghost of her lover by a telepathic hallucination of two senses. but if the sable score, of fingers four, remained on the board impressed by the spectre, then there was no telepathic hallucination, but an actual being of an awful kind was in smailholm tower. again, the cases in which dogs and horses, as paracelsus avers, display terror when men and women behold a phantasm, are not easily accounted for by telepathy, especially when the beast is alarmed _before_ the man or woman suspects the presence of anything unusual. there is, of course, the notion that the horse shies, or the dog turns craven, in sympathy with its master's exhibition of fear. owners of dogs and horses may counterfeit horror and see whether their favourites do sympathise. cats don't. in one of three cases known to us where a cat showed consciousness of a spectral presence, the apparition _took the form of a cat_. the evidence is only that of richard bovet, in his pandemonium; or, the devil's cloyster ( ). in mr. j. g. wood's man and beast, a lady tells a story of being alone, in firelight, playing with a favourite cat, lady catherine. suddenly puss bristled all over, her back rose in an arch, and the lady, looking up, saw a hideously malignant female watching her. lady catherine now rushed wildly round the room, leaped at the upper panels of the door, and seemed to have gone mad. this new terror recalled the lady to herself. she shrieked, and the phantasm vanished. she saw it on a later day. in a third case, a cat merely kept a watchful eye on the ghost, and adopted a dignified attitude of calm expectancy. if beasts can be telepathically affected, then beasts have more of a 'psychical' element in their composition than they usually receive credit for; whereas if a ghost is actually in view, there is no reason why beasts should not see it. the best and most valid proof that an abnormal being is actually present was that devised by the ghost of sir richard of coldinghame in the ballad, and by the beresford ghost, who threw a heavy curtain over the bed-pole. unluckily, sir richard is a poetical figment, and the beresford ghost is a myth, like william tell: he may be traced back through various mediaeval authorities almost to the date of the norman conquest. we have examined the story in a little book of folklore, etudes traditionistes. always there is a compact to appear, always the ghost burns or injures the hand or wrist of the spectator. a version occurs in william of malmesbury. what we need, to prove a ghost, and disprove an _exclusively_ telepathic theory, is a ghost who is not only seen, heard, or even touched, but a ghost who produces some change in physical objects. most provokingly, there are agencies at every successful seance, and in every affair of the poltergeist, who do lift tables, chairs, beds, bookcases, candles, and so forth, while others play accordions. but then nobody or not everybody _sees_ these agencies at work, while the spontaneous phantasms which are _seen_ do not so much as lift a loo-table, generally speaking. in the spiritualistic cases, we have the effect, with no visible cause; in ghost stories, we have the visible presence, but he very seldom indeed causes any physical change in any object. no ghost who does not do this has any strict legal claim to be regarded as other than a telepathic hallucination at best, though, as we shall see, some presumptions exist in favour of some ghosts being real entities. these rare facts have not escaped a ghost-hunter so intelligent as mrs. henry sidgwick. this lady is almost too sportsmanlike, for a psychical researcher, in her habit of giving an apparition the benefit of every imaginable doubt which may absolve him from the charge of being a real genuine ghost. 'it is true,' she says, 'that ghosts are alleged sometimes to produce a physical effect on the external world;' but to admit this is 'to come into prima facie collision with the physical sciences' (an awful risk to run), so mrs. sidgwick, in a rather cavalier manner leaves ghosts who produce physical effects to be dealt with among the phenomena alleged to occur at seances. now this is hardly fair to the spontaneous apparition, who is doing his very best to demonstrate his existence in the only convincing way. the phenomena of seances are looked on with deserved distrust, and, generally, may be regarded as an outworn mode of swindling. yet it is to this society that mrs. sidgwick relegates the most meritorious and conscientious class of apparitions. let us examine a few instances of the ghost who visibly moves material objects. we take one (already cited) from mrs. sidgwick's own article. { } in this case a gentleman named john d. harry scolded his daughters for saying that _they_ had seen a ghost, with which he himself was perfectly familiar. 'the figure,' a fair woman draped in white, 'on seven or eight occasions appeared in my bedroom, and twice in the library, and on one occasion _it lifted up the mosquito-curtains_, and looked closely into my face'. now, could a hallucination lift a mosquito-curtain, or even produce the impression that it did so, while the curtain was really unmoved? clearly a hallucination, however artful, and well got up, could do no such thing. therefore a being--a ghost with very little maidenly reserve--haunted the bedroom of mr. harry, if he tells a true tale. again (p. ), a lady (on whose veracity i am ready to pledge my all) had doors opened for her frequently, 'as if a hand had turned the handle'. and once she not only saw the door open, but a grey woman came in. another witness, years afterwards, beheld the same figure and the same performance. once more, miss a. m.'s mother followed a ghost, who _opened a door_ and entered a room, where she could not be found when she was wanted (p. ). again, { } a lady saw a ghost which, 'with one hand, the left, _drew back the curtain_'. there are many other cases in which apparitions are seen in houses where mysterious thumps and raps occur, especially in general campbell's experience (p. ). if the apparition gave the thumps then he (or, in this instance, she) was material, and could produce effects on matter. indeed, this ghost was seen to take up and lay down some books, and to tuck in the bed-clothes. hallucinations (which are all in one's eye or sensory centre, or cerebral central terminus), cannot draw curtains, or open doors, or pick up books, or tuck in bed-clothes, or cause thumps--not real thumps, hallucinatory thumps are different. consequently, if the stories are true, _some apparitions are ghosts_, real objective entities, filling space. the senses of a hallucinated person may be deceived as to touch, and as to feeling the breath of a phantasm (a likely story), as well as in sight and hearing. but a visible ghost which produces changes in the visible world cannot be a hallucination. on the other hand dr. binns, in his anatomy of sleep tells us of 'a gentleman who, in a dream, pushed against a door in a distant house, so that those in the room were scarcely able to resist the pressure'. { a} now if this rather staggering anecdote be true, the spirit of a living man, being able to affect matter, is also, so to speak, material, and is an actual entity, an astral body. moreover, mrs. frederica hauffe, when in the magnetic sleep, 'could rap at a distance'. these arguments, then, make in favour of the old-fashioned theory of ghosts and wraiths, as things objectively existing, which is very comforting to a conservative philosopher. unluckily, just as many, or more, anecdotes look quite the other way. for instance, general barter sees, hears, and recognises the dead lieutenant b., wearing a beard which he had grown since the general saw him in life. he also sees the hill-pony ridden by mr. b., and killed by him--a steed with which, in its mortal days, the general had no acquaintance. this is all very well: a dead pony may have a ghost, like miss a. b.'s dog which was heard by one miss b., and seen by the other, some time after its decease. on mature reflection, as both ladies were well- known persons of letters, we suppress their names, which would carry the weight of excellent character and distinguished sense. but lieutenant b. was also accompanied by two grooms. now, it is too much to ask us to believe that he had killed two grooms, as he killed the pony. { b} consequently, they, at least, were hallucinations; so what was lieutenant b.? when mr. k., on board the racoon, saw his dead father lying in his coffin (p. ), there was no real coffin there, at all events; and hence, probably, no real dead father's ghost,--only a 'telepathic hallucination'. miss rose morton could never _touch_ the female ghost which she often chased about the house, nor did this ghost break or displace the threads stretched by miss morton across the stairs down which the apparition walked. yet its footsteps did make a noise, and the family often heard the ghost walking downstairs, followed by miss morton. thus this ghost was both material and immaterial, for surely, only matter can make a noise when in contact with matter. on the whole, if the evidence is worth anything, there are real objective ghosts, and there are also telepathic hallucinations: so that the scientific attitude is to believe in both, if in either. and this was the view of petrus thyraeus, s.j., in his loca infesta ( ). the alternative is to believe in neither. we have thus, according to the advice of socrates, permitted the argument to lead us whither it would. and whither has it led us? the old, savage, natural theory of ghosts and wraiths is that they are spirits, yet not so immaterial but that they can fill space, be seen, heard, touched, and affect material objects. mediaeval and other theologians preferred to regard them as angelic or diabolic manifestations, made out of compressed air, or by aid of bodies of the dead, or begotten by the action of angel or devil on the substance of the brain. modern science looks on them as hallucinations, sometimes morbid, as in madness or delirium, or in a vicious condition of the organ of sense; sometimes abnormal, but not necessarily a proof of chronic disease of any description. the psychical theory then explains a sifted remnant of apparitions; the coincidental, 'veridical' hallucinations of the sane, by telepathy. there is a wide chasm, however, to be bridged over between that hypothesis, and its general acceptance, either by science, or by reflective yet unscientific inquirers. the existence of thought- transference, especially among people wide awake, has to be demonstrated more unimpeachably, and then either the telepathic explanation must be shown to fit all the cases collected, or many interesting cases must be thrown overboard, or these must be referred to some other cause. that cause will be something very like the old-fashioned ghosts. perhaps, the most remarkable collective hallucination in history is that vouched for by patrick walker, the covenanter; in his biographia presbyteriana. { } in , says walker, about two miles below lanark, on the water of clyde 'many people gathered together for several afternoons, where there were showers of bonnets, hats, guns, and swords, which covered the trees and ground, companies of men in arms marching in order, upon the waterside, companies meeting companies. . . . and then all falling to the ground and disappearing, and other companies immediately appearing in the same way'. this occurred in june and july, in the afternoons. now the westland whigs were then, as usual, in a very excitable frame of mind, and filled with fears, inspired both by events, and by the prophecies of peden and other saints. patrick walker himself was a high-flying covenanter, he was present: 'i went there three afternoons together'--and he saw nothing unusual occur. about two-thirds of the crowd did see the phenomena he reckons, the others, like himself, saw nothing strange. 'there was a fright and trembling upon them that did see,' and, at least in one case, the hallucination was contagious. a gentleman standing next walker exclaimed: 'a pack of damned witches and warlocks, that have the second sight, the deil ha't do i see'. 'and immediately there was a discernable change in his countenance, with as much fear and trembling as any woman i saw there, who cried out: "o all ye that do not see, say nothing; for i perswade you it is matter of fact, and discernable to all that is not stone-blind".' those who did see minutely described 'what handles the swords had, whether small or three-barred, or highland guards, and the closing knots of the bonnets, black or blue. . . . i have been at a loss ever since what to make of this last,' says patrick walker, and who is not at a loss? the contagion of the hallucination, so to speak, did not affect him, fanatic as he was, and did affect a cursing and swearing cavalier, whose prejudices, whose 'dominant idea,' were all on the other side. the psychical society has published an account of a similar collective hallucination of crowds of people, 'appearing and disappearing,' shared by two young ladies and their maid, on a walk home from church. but this occurred in a fog, and no one was present who was not hallucinated. patrick walker's account is triumphantly honest, and is, perhaps, as odd a piece of psychology as any on record, thanks to his escape from the prevalent illusion, which, no doubt, he would gladly have shared. wodrow, it should be said, in his history of the sufferings of the kirk, mentions visions of bonnets, which, he thinks, indicated a future muster of militia! but he gives the date as . scrying or crystal-gazing revival of crystal-gazing. antiquity of the practice. its general harmlessness. superstitious explanations. crystal-gazing and 'illusions hypnagogiques'. visualisers. poetic vision. ancient and savage practices analogous to crystal-gazing. new zealand. north america. egypt. sir walter's interest in the subject. mr. kinglake. greek examples. dr. dee. miss x. another modern instance. successes and failures. revival of lost memories. possible thought-transference. inferences from antiquity and diffusion of practice. based on actual experience. anecdotes of dr. gregory. children as visionaries. not to be encouraged. the practice of 'scrying,' 'peeping,' or 'crystal-gazing,' has been revived in recent years, and is, perhaps, the only 'occult' diversion which may be free from psychological or physical risk, and which it is easy not to mix with superstition. the antiquity and world-wide diffusion of scrying, in one form or other, interests the student of human nature. meanwhile the comparatively few persons who can see pictures in a clear depth, may be as innocently employed while so doing, as if they were watching the clouds, or the embers. 'may be,' one must say, for crystal-seers are very apt to fall back on our old friend, the animistic hypothesis, and to explain what they see, or fancy they see, by the theory that 'spirits' are at the bottom of it all. in mrs. de morgan's work from matter to spirit, suggestions of this kind are not absent: 'as an explanation of crystal-seeing, a spiritual drawing was once made, representing a spirit directing on the crystal a stream of influence,' and so forth. mrs. de morgan herself seemed rather to hold that the act of staring at a crystal mesmerises the observer. the person who looks at it often becomes sleepy. 'sometimes the eyes close, at other times tears flow.' people who become sleepy, or cry, or get hypnotised, will probably consult their own health and comfort by leaving crystal balls alone. there are others, however, who are no more hypnotised by crystal- gazing than tea-drinking, or gardening, or reading a book, and who can still enjoy visions as beautiful as those of the opium eater, without any of the reaction. their condition remains perfectly normal, that is, they are wide awake to all that is going on. in some way their fancy is enlivened, and they can behold, in the glass, just such vivid pictures as many persons habitually see between sleeping and waking, illusions hypnagogiques. these 'hypnagogic illusions' pontus de tyard described in a pretty sonnet, more than three hundred years ago. maury, in his book on dreams has recorded, and analysed them. they represent faces, places, a page of print, a flame of fire, and so forth, and it is one of their peculiarities that the faces rapidly shift and alter, generally from beautiful to ugly. a crystal-seer seems to be a person who can see, in a glass, while awake and with open eyes, visions akin to those which perhaps the majority of people see with shut eyes, between sleeping and waking. { } it seems probable that people who, when they think, see a mental picture of the subject of their thoughts, people who are good 'visualisers,' are likely to succeed best with the crystal, some of them can 'visualise' purposely, in the crystal, while others cannot. many who are very bad 'visualisers,' like the writer, who think in words, not in pictures, see bright and distinct hypnagogic illusions, yet see nothing in the crystal, however long they stare at it. and there are crystal-seers who are not subject to hypnagogic illusions. these facts, like the analogous facts of the visualisation of arithmetical figures, analysed by mr. galton, show interesting varieties in the conduct of mental operations. thus we speak of 'vision' in a poet, or novelist, and it seems likely that men of genius 'see' their fictitious characters and landscapes, while people of critical temperament, if they attempt creative work, are conscious that they do not create, but construct. on the other hand many incompetent novelists are convinced that they have 'vision,' that they see and hear their characters, but they do not, as genius does, transfer the 'vision' to their readers. this is a digression from the topic of hallucinations caused by gazing into a clear depth. forms of crystal-gazing, it is well known, are found among savages. the new zealanders, according to taylor, gaze in a drop of blood, as the egyptians do in a drop of ink. in north america, the pere le jeune found that a kind of thought reading was practised thus: it was believed that a sick person had certain desires, if these could be gratified, he would recover. the sorcerers, therefore, gazed into water in a bowl expecting to see there visions of the desired objects. the egyptian process with the boy and the ink, is too familiar to need description. in scott's journal (ii. ) we read of the excitement which the reports of lord prudhoe { } and colonel felix, caused among the curious. a boy, selected by these english gentlemen, saw and described shakspeare, and colonel felix's brother, who had lost an arm. the ceremonies of fumigation, and the preliminary visions of flags, and a sultan, are not necessary in modern crystal-gazing. scott made inquiries at malta, and wished to visit alexandria. he was attracted, doubtless, by the resemblance to dr. dee's tales of his magic ball, and to the legends of his own aunt margaret's mirror. the quarterly review (no. , pp. - ) offers an explanation which explains nothing. the experiments of mr. lane were tolerably successful, those of mr. kinglake, in eothen, were amusingly the reverse. dr. keate, the flogging headmaster of eton, was described by the seer as a beautiful girl, with golden hair and blue eyes. the modern explanation of successes would apparently be that the boy does, occasionally, see the reflection of his interrogator's thoughts. in a paper in the proceedings of the society for psychical research (part xiv.), an anonymous writer gives the results of some historical investigation into the antiquities of crystal-gazing. the stories of cups, 'wherein my lord divines,' like joseph, need not necessarily indicate gazing into the deeps of the cup. there were other modes of using cups and drops of wine, not connected with visions. at patrae, in greece, pausanias describes the dropping of a mirror on to the surface of a well, the burning of incense, and the vision of the patient who consults the oracle in the deeps of the mirror. { a} a christian father asserts that, in some cases, a basin with a glass bottom was used, through which the gazer saw persons concealed in a room below, and took them for real visions. { b} in mirror-magic (catoptromancy), the child seer's eyes were bandaged, and he saw with the top of his head! the specularii continued the tradition through the middle ages, and, in the sixteenth century dr. dee ruined himself by his infatuation for 'show-stones,' in which kelly saw, or pretended to see, visions which dr. dee interpreted. dee kept voluminous diaries of his experiments, part of which is published in a folio by meric casaubon. the work is flighty, indeed crazy; dee thought that the hallucinations were spirits, and believed that his 'show-stones' were occasionally spirited away by the demons. kelly pretended to hear noises in the stones, and to receive messages. in our own time, while many can see pictures, few know what the pictures represent. some explain them by interpreting the accompanying 'raps,' or by 'automatic writing'. the intelligence thus conveyed is then found to exist in county histories, newspapers, and elsewhere, a circumstance which lends itself to interpretation of more sorts than one. without these very dubious modes of getting at the meaning of the crystal pictures, they remain, of course, mere picturesque hallucinations. the author of the paper referred to, is herself a crystal-seer, and (in borderland no. ) mentions one very interesting vision. she and a friend stared into one of dr. dee's 'show-stones,' at the stuart exhibition, and both beheld the same scene, not a scene they could have guessed at, which was going on at the seer's own house. as this writer, though versed in hallucinations, entirely rejects any 'spiritual' theory, and conceives that, she is dealing with purely psychological curiosities, her evidence is the better worth notice, and may be compared with that of a crystal-seer for whose evidence the present writer can vouch, as far as one mortal may vouch for that of another. miss x., the writer in the psychical proceedings, has been able to see pictures in crystals and other polished surfaces, or, indeed, independently of these, since childhood. she thinks that the visions are:-- . after-images, or recrudescent memories (often memories of things not consciously noted). . objectivations of ideas or images, consciously or unconsciously present to the mind. . visions, possibly telepathic or clairvoyant, implying acquirement of knowledge by supernormal means. the first class is much the most frequent in this lady's experience. she can occasionally refresh her memory by looking into the crystal. the other seer, known to the writer, cannot do this, and her pictures, as far as she knows, are purely fanciful. perhaps an 'automatic writer' might interpret them, in the rather dubious manner of that art. as far as the 'scryer' knows, however, her pictures of places and people are not revivals of memory. for example, she sees an ancient ship, with a bird's beak for prow, come into harbour, and behind it a man carrying a crown. this is a mere fancy picture. on one occasion she saw a man, like an oriental priest, with a white caftan, contemplating the rise and fall of a fountain of fire: suddenly, at the summit of the fire, appeared a human hand, pointing downwards, to which the old priest looked up. this was in august, . later in the month the author happened to take up, at loch sheil, lady burton's life of sir richard burton. on the back of the cover is a singular design in gold. a woman in widow's weeds is bowing beneath rays of light, over which appears a human hand, marked r. f. b. on the wrist. the author at once wrote asking his friend the crystal-gazer if she had seen this work of art, which might have unconsciously suggested the picture. the lady, however, was certain that she had not seen the life of sir richard burton, though her eye, of course, may have fallen on it in a bookseller's shop, while her mind did not consciously take it in. if this was a revival of a sub-conscious memory in the crystal, it was the only case of that process in her experience. on the other hand miss x. can trace many of her visions to memories, as maury could in his illusions hypnagogiques. thus, miss x. saw in the crystal, the printed announcement of a friend's death. she had not consciously read the times, but remembered that she had held it up before her face as a firescreen. this kind of revival, as she says, corresponds to the writing, with planchette, of scraps from the chanson de roland, by a person who had never _consciously_ read a line of it, and who did not even know what stratum of old french was represented by the fragments. miss x. seems not to know either; for she calls it 'provencal'. similar instances of memory revived are not very uncommon in dreams. miss x. can consciously put a group of fanciful characters into the crystal, while this is beyond the power of the seer known to the writer, who has attempted to perceive what a friend is doing at a distance, but with no success. thus she tried to discover what the writer might be about, and secured a view of two large sunny rooms, with a shadowy figure therein. now it is very probable that the writer was in just such a room, at --- castle, but the seer saw, on the library table, a singular mirror, which did not exist there, and a model of a castle, also non-existent. the knowledge that the person sought for was staying at a 'castle,' may have unconsciously suggested this model in the picture. a pretty case of revived memory is given by miss x. she wanted the date of ptolemy philadelphus. later, in the crystal, she saw a conventional old jew, writing in a book with massive clasps. using a magnifying glass, she found that he was writing greek, but the lines faded, and she only saw the roman numerals lxx. these suggested the seventy hebrews who wrote the septuagint, with the date, b.c., which served for ptolemy philadelphus. miss x. later remembered a memoria technica which she had once learned, with the clue, 'now jewish elders indite a greek copy'. it is obvious that these queer symbolical reawakenings of memory explain much of the (apparently) 'unknown' information given by 'ghosts,' and in dreams. a lady, who had long been in very bad health, was one evening seized by a violent recrudescence of memory, and for hours poured out the minutest details of the most trivial occurrences; the attack was followed by a cerebral malady from which she fortunately recovered. the same phenomenon of awakened memory has occasionally been reported by people who were with difficulty restored after being seven-eighths drowned. the crystal ball, in the proper hands, merely illustrates the possibility of artificially reviving memory, while the fanciful visions, akin to illusions hypnagogiques, have, in all ages, been interpreted by superstition as revelations of the distant or the future. of course, if there is such a thing as occasional transference of thought, so that the idea in the inquirer's mind is reflected in the crystal-gazer's vision, the hypothesis of the superstitious will fix on this as a miracle, still more will that hypothesis be strengthened, if future or distant events, not consciously known, are beheld. such things must occasionally occur, by chance, in the myriad confusions of dreams, and, to the same extent, in crystal visions. miss x.'s three cases of possible telepathy in her own experience are trivial, and do not seem to rise beyond the possibility of fortuitous coincidence: and her possible clairvoyant visions she leaves to the judgment of the reader, 'to interpret as clairvoyance, or coincidence, or prevision, or whatever else he will'. the crystal-gazer known to the author once managed to see the person (unknown to her) who was in the mind of the other party in the experiment. but she has made scarcely any experiments of this description. the inferences to be drawn from crystal-gazing are not unimportant. first, we note that the practice is very ancient and widely diffused, among civilised and uncivilised people. in this diffusion it answers to the other practices, the magical rites of australian blacks, greeks, eskimo; to the stories of 'death-bed wraiths,' of rappings, and so forth. now this uniformity, as far as regards the latter phenomena, may be explained by transmission of ideas, or by the uniformity of human nature, while the phenomena themselves may be mere inventions like other myths. in the case of crystal-gazing, however, we can scarcely push scepticism so far as to deny that the facts exist, that hallucinations are actually provoked. the inference is that a presumption is raised in favour of the actuality of the other phenomena universally reported. they, too, may conceivably be hallucinatory; the rappings and haunting noises may be auditory, as the crystal visions are ocular hallucinations. the sounds so widely attested may not cause vibrations in the air, just as the visions are not really _in_ the crystal ball. as the unconscious self suggests the pictures in the ball, so it may suggest the unexplained noises. but while, as a rule, only one gazer sees the visions, the sounds (usually but not invariably) are heard by all present. on the whole, the one case wherein we find facts, if only facts of hallucination, at the bottom of the belief in a world-wide and world-old practice, rather tends in the direction of belief in the other facts, not less universally alleged. we know too much about mythology to agree with dr. johnson, in holding that 'a belief, which prevails as far as human nature is diffused, could become universal only by its truth,' that 'those who never heard of one another would not have agreed in a tale which nothing but experience could make credible'. but, on the other hand, a belief is not necessarily untrue, because it is universally diffused. in the second place, crystal-gazing shows how a substratum of fact may be so overlaid with mystic mummeries, incantations, fumigations, pentacles: and so overwhelmed in superstitious interpretations, introducing fairies and spirits, that the facts run the risk of being swept away in the litter and dust of nonsense. science has hardly thought crystal-gazing worthy even of contempt, yet it appears to deserve the notice of psychologists. to persons who can 'scry,' and who do not see hideous illusions, or become hypnotised, or superstitious, or incur headaches, scrying is a harmless gateway into les paradis artificiels. 'and the rest, they may live and learn.' { } a very few experiments will show people whether they are scryers, or not. the phenomena, it seems, are usually preceded by a mistiness, or milkiness, of the glass: this clears off, and pictures appear. even the best scryers often fail to see anything in the crystal which maintains its natural 'diaphaneity,' as dr. dee says. thus the conditions under which the scryer can scry, are, as yet, unascertained. the phenomena of scrying were not unknown to dr. gregory, professor of chemistry in the university of edinburgh. dr. gregory believed in 'odylic fluid' on the evidence of reichenbach's experiments, which nobody seems to have repeated successfully under strict tests. clairvoyance also was part of dr. gregory's faith, and, to be fair, phenomena were exhibited at his house, in the presence of a learned and distinguished witness known to the writer, which could only be accounted for either by thought transference, or by an almost, or quite incredible combination of astuteness, and imposture on the side of dr. gregory himself. in presence of the _clairvoyants_ the nobleman of whom we speak thought not of his own house, but of a room in the house of a friend. it possessed a very singular feature which it is needless to describe here, but which was entirely out of the experience of the clairvoyante. she described it, however, expressing astonishment at what she 'saw'. this, unless dr. gregory guessed what was likely to be thought of, and was guilty of collusion, can only be explained by thought transference. in other cases the doctor was convinced that he had evidence of actual clairvoyance, and it is difficult to estimate the amount of evidence which will clear such a belief of the charge of credulity. as to 'scrying' the doctor thought it could be done in 'mesmerised water,' water bewitched. there is no reason to imagine that 'mesmerised' is different from ordinary water. { } he knew that folklore retained the belief in scrying in crystal balls, and added some superfluous magical incantations. the doctor himself was lucky enough to buy an old magical crystal in which some boys, after long staring, saw persons unknown to themselves, but known to the professor, and also persons known to neither. a little girl, casually picking up a crystal ball, cried, 'there's a ship in it, with its cloth all in rags. now it tumbles down, and a woman is working at it, and holds her head in her hand.' this is a very fair example of a crystal fancy picture. the child's mother, not having heard what the child said, saw the same vision (p. ). but this is a story at third hand. the doctor has a number of cases, and held that crystal possesses an 'odylic' quality. but a ball of glass serves just as well as a ball of crystal, and is much less expensive. children are naturally visionaries, and, as such, are good subjects for experiment. but it may be a cruel, and is a most injudicious thing, to set children a-scrying. superstition may be excited, or the half-conscious tendency to deceive may be put in motion. socrates and joan of arc were visionaries as children. had joan's ears been soundly boxed, as robert de baudricourt advised, france might now be an english province. but they were not boxed, happily for mankind. certainly much that is curious may be learned by any one who, having the confidence of a child, will listen to his, or her, accounts of spontaneous visions. the writer, as a boy, knew a child who used to lie prone on the grass watching fairies at play in the miniature forest of blades and leaves. this child had a favourite familiar whom he described freely, but as his remarks were received with good-humoured scepticism, no harm came to him. he would have made a splendid scryer, still, 'i speak of him but brotherly,' his revelations would have been taken with the largest allowances. if scrying, on examination, proves to be of real psychological interest, science will owe another debt to folklore, to the folk who kept alive a practice which common-sense would not deign even to examine. the second sight the gillie and the fire-raising. survival of belief in second sight. belief in ancient greece and elsewhere. examples in lapland. early evidence as to scotch second sight. witches burned for this gift. examples among the covenanting ministers. early investigations by english authors: pepys, aubrey, boyle, dicky steele, de foe, martin, kirk, frazer, dr. johnson. theory of visions as caused by fairies. modern example of miss h. theory of frazer of tiree ( ). 'revived impressions of sense.' examples. agency of angels. martin. modern cases. bodily condition of the seer. not epileptic. the second-sighted minister. the visionary beadle. transference of vision by touch. conclusion. some years ago, the author was fishing in a river of inverness- shire. he drove to the stream, picked up an old gillie named campbell, and then went on towards the spot where he meant to begin angling. a sheep that lay on the road jumped up suddenly, almost under the horse's feet, the horse shied, and knocked the dogcart against a wall. on the homeward way we observed a house burning, opposite the place where the horse shied, and found that a farmer had been evicted, and his cottage set on fire. this unhappy person, it seems, was in debt to all his tradesmen, not to his landlord only. the fire-raising, however, was an excessively barbaric method of getting him to leave the parish, and the view justified the indignation of the gillie. the old gillie, much excited, declared that the horse had foreseen this event in the morning, and had, consequently, shied. in a more sceptical spirit the author reminded campbell of the sheep which started up. 'that sheep was the devil,' campbell explained, nor could this rational belief of his be shaken. the affair led to a conversation on the second sight, and campbell said, 'he had it not,' 'but his sister (or sister-in-law) had it'. campbell was a very agreeable companion, interested in old events, and a sympathiser, as he said, in spite of his name, with the great montrose. his remarks led the author to infer that, contrary to what some inquirers wrote in the last, and graham dalyell in the present century, the belief in the second sight is still quite common in the highlands. as will be shown later, this inference was correct. we must not, from this survival only, draw the conclusion that the highlanders are more superstitious than many educated people south of the highland line. second sight is only a scotch name which covers many cases called telepathy and clairvoyance by psychical students, and casual or morbid hallucinations by other people. in second sight the percipient beholds events occurring at a distance, sees people whom he never saw with the bodily eye, and who afterwards arrive in his neighbourhood; or foresees events approaching but still remote in time. the chief peculiarity of second sight is, that the visions often, though not always, are of a _symbolical_ character. a shroud is observed around the living man who is doomed; boding animals, mostly black dogs, vex the seer; funerals are witnessed before they occur, and 'corpse-candles' (some sort of light) are watched flitting above the road whereby a burial procession is to take its way. { } though we most frequently hear the term 'second sight' applied as a phrase of scotch superstition, the belief in this kind of ominous illusion is obviously universal. theoclymenus, in the odyssey, a prophet by descent, and of the same clan as the soothsayer melampus, beholds the bodies and faces of the doomed wooers, 'shrouded in night'. the pythia at delphi announced a similar symbolic vision of blood-dripping walls to the athenians, during the persian war. again, symbolic visions, especially of blood-dripping walls, are so common in the icelandic sagas that the reader need only be referred to the prodigies before the burning of njal, in the saga of burnt njal. second sight was as popular a belief among the vikings as among the highlanders who retain a large share of their blood. it may be argued by students who believe in the borrowing rather than in the independent evolution of ideas, that the gaelic second sight is a direct inheritance from the northmen, who have left so many scandinavian local names in the isles and along the coasts. however this may be, the highland second sight is different, in many points, from the clairvoyance and magic of the lapps, those famous sorcerers. on this matter the history of lapland, by scheffer, professor of law in upsala, is generally cited (oxford, ). 'when the devil takes a liking to any person in his infancy,' says scheffer, 'he presently seizes on him by a disease, in which he haunts him with several apparitions.' this answers, in magical education, to smalls, or little go. some lapps advance to a kind of mystic moderations, and the great sorcerers attain to final schools, and are bachelors in black arts. 'they become so knowing that, _without_ the drum they can see things at the greatest distances; and are so possessed by the devil that they see things even against their will.' the 'drum' is a piece of hollow wood covered with a skin, on which rude pictures are drawn. an index is laid on the skin, the drum is tapped, and omens are taken from the picture on which the index happens to rest. but this practice has nothing to do with clairvoyance. in scheffer's account of lapp seers we recognise the usual hysterical or epileptic lads, who, in various societies become saints, mediums, warlocks, or conjurers. but scheffer shows that the lapp experts try, voluntarily, to see sights, whereas, except when wrapped in a bull's hide of old, or cowering in a boiler at the present day, the highland second-sighted man lets his visions come to him spontaneously and uninvoked. scheffer wished to take a magical drum from a lapp, who confessed with tears, that, drum or no drum, he would still see visions, as he proved by giving scheffer a minute relation 'of whatever particulars had happened to me in my journey to lapland. and he further complained, that he knew not how to make use of his eyes, since things altogether distant were presented to them.' when a wizard is consulted he dances round till he falls, lies on the ground as if dead, and, finally, rises and declares the result of his clairvoyance. his body is guarded by his friends, and no living thing is allowed to touch it. tornaeus was told many details of his journey by a lapp, 'which, although it was true, tornaeus dissembled to him, lest he might glory too much in his devilish practices'. olaus magnus gives a similar account. the whole performance, except that the seer is not bound, resembles the eskimo 'sleep of the shadow,' more than ordinary highland second sight. the soul of the seer is understood to be wandering away, released from his body. the belief in clairvoyance, in the power of seeing what is distant, and foreseeing what is in the future, obviously and undeniably occurs everywhere, in ancient israel, as in mexico before the spanish conquest, and among the red indian tribes as among the zulus. it is more probable that similar hallucinatory experiences, morbid, or feigned, or natural, have produced the same beliefs everywhere, than that the beliefs were evolved only by 'aryans,'-- greeks or scandinavians--and by them diffused all over the world, to zulus, lapps, indians of guiana, maoris. one of the earliest references to scotch second sight is quoted by graham dalyell from higden's polychronicon (i. lxiv.). { a} 'there oft by daye tyme, men of that islonde seen men that bey dede to fore honde, byheded' (like argyll, in ), 'or hole, and what dethe they deyde. alyens setten theyr feet upon feet of the men of that londe, for to see such syghtes as the men of that londe doon.' this method of communicating the hallucination by touch is described in the later books, such as kirk's secret commonwealth ( ), and mr. napier, in his folklore, mentions the practice as surviving in the present century. from some records of the orkneys, mr. dalyell produces a trial for witchcraft on oct. , . { b} this case included second sight. the husband of jonka dyneis being in a fishing-boat at walls, six miles from her residence at aith, and in peril, she was 'fund and sein standing at hir awin hous wall, in ane trans, that same hour he was in danger; and being trappit, she could not give answer, bot stude as bereft of hir senssis: and quhen she was speirit at quhy she wes so movit, she answerit, "gif our boit be not tynt, she is in great hazard,"--and wes tryit so to be'. elspeth reoch, in , was tried as a witch for a simple piece of clairvoyance, or of charlatanism, as we may choose to believe. the offence is styled 'secund sicht' in the official report. again, issobell sinclair, in , was accused, almost in modern spiritualistic phrase, of 'bein _controlled_ with the phairie, and that be thame, shoe hath the second sight'. { a} here, then, we find it officially recorded that the second-sighted person is entranced, and more or less unconscious of the outer world, at the moment of the vision. something like le petit mal, in epilepsy, seems to be intended, the patient 'stude as bereft of hir senssis'. { b} again, we have the official explanation of the second sight, and that is the spiritualistic explanation. the seer has a fairy 'control'. this mode of accounting for what 'gentle king jamie' calls 'a sooth dreame, since they see it walking,' inspires the whole theory of kirk ( ), but he sees no harm either in 'the phairie,' or in the persons whom the fairies control. in kirk's own time we shall find another minister, frazer of tiree, explaining the visions as 'revived impressions of sense' ( ), and rejecting various superstitious hypotheses. the detestable cruelty of the ministers who urged magistrates to burn second-sighted people, and the discomfort and horror of the hallucinations themselves, combined to make patients try to free themselves from the involuntary experience. as a correspondent of aubrey's says, towards the end of the sixteenth century: 'it is a thing very troublesome to them that have it, and would gladly be rid of it . . . they are seen to sweat and tremble, and shreek at the apparition'. { c} 'they are troubled for having it judging it a sin,' and they used to apply to the presbytery for public prayers and sermons. others protested that it was a harmless accident, tried to teach it, and endeavoured to communicate the visions by touch. as usual among the presbyterians a minister might have abnormal accomplishments, work miracles of healing, see and converse with the devil, shine in a refulgence of 'odic' light, or be second-sighted. but, if a layman encroached on these privileges, he was in danger of the tar-barrel, and was prosecuted. on the day of the battle of bothwell brig, mr. cameron, minister of lochend, in remote kintyre, had a clairvoyant view of the fight. 'i see them (the whigs) flying as clearly as i see the wall,' and, as near as could be calculated, the covenanters ran at that very moment. { a} how mr. cameron came to be thought a saint, while jonka dyneis was burned as a sinner, for precisely similar experiences, is a question hard to answer. but joan of arc, the saviour of france, was burned for hearing voices, while st. joseph of cupertino, in spite of his flights in the air, was canonised. minister or medium, saint or sorcerer, it was all a question of the point of view. as to cameron's and jonka's visions of distant contemporary events, they correspond to what is told of apollonius of tyana, that, at ephesus, he saw and applauded the murder of domitian at rome; that one cornelius, in padua, saw caesar triumph at pharsalia; that a maniac in gascony beheld coligny murdered in paris. { b} in the whole belief there is nothing peculiarly scotch or celtic, and wodrow gives examples among the dutch. second sight, in the days of james vi. had been a burning matter. after the restoration, a habit of jesting at everything of the kind came in, on one hand; on the other, a desire to investigate and probe the stories of scotch clairvoyance. many fellows of the royal society, and learned men, like robert boyle, henry more, glanvill, pepys, aubrey, and others, wrote eagerly to correspondents in the highlands, while sacheverell and waldron discussed the topic as regarded the isle of man. then came special writers on the theme, as aubrey, kirk, frazer, martin, de foe (who compiled a catch-penny treatise on duncan campbell, a highland fortune-teller in london), theophilus insulanus (who was urged to his task by sir richard steele), wodrow, a great ghost-hunter: and so we reach dr. johnson, who was 'willing to be convinced,' but was not under conviction. in answer to queries circulated for aubrey, he learned that 'the godly' have not the faculty, but 'the virtuous' may have it. but wodrow's saint who saw bothwell brig, and another very savoury christian who saw dundee slain at killiecrankie, may surely be counted among 'the godly'. there was difference of opinion as to the hereditary character of the complaint. a correspondent of aubrey's vouches for a second-sighted man who babbled too much 'about the phairie,' and 'was suddenly removed to the farther end of the house, and was there almost strangled'. { } this implies that spirits or 'phairies' lifted him, as they did to a seer spoken of by kirk, and do to the tribal medicine-men of the australians, and of course, to 'mediums'. contemporary with aubrey was the rev. robert kirk of aberfoyle, a celtic scholar who translated the bible into gaelic. in he finished his secret commonwealth of elves, faunes and fairies, whereof only a fragment has reached us. it has been maintained that the book was printed in , but no mortal eye has seen a copy. in sir walter scott printed a hundred copies from a manuscript in the advocates' library in edinburgh. he did not put his name on the book, but charles kirkpatrick sharpe, in a note on his own copy, affirms that sir walter was the editor. { } another edition was edited, for mr. nutt, by the present writer, in . in the year following the completion of his book mr. kirk died, or, as local tradition avers, was carried away to fairyland. mr. kirk has none of the presbyterian abhorrence of fairies and fauns, though, like the accusers of the orkney witches, he believes that 'phairie control' inspires the second-sighted men, who see them eat at funerals. the seers were wont to observe doubles of living people, and these doubles are explained as 'co-walkers' from the fairy world. this 'co-walker' 'wes also often seen of old to enter a hous, by which the people knew that the person of that liknes wes to visite them within a few days'. now this belief is probably founded on actual hallucinatory experience, of which we may give a modern example. in the early spring of , a lady, known to the author, saw the 'copy, echo, or living picture,' of a stranger, who intended (unknown to her) to visit her house, but who did not carry out his intention. the author can vouch for her perfect integrity, and freedom both from superstition, and from illusions, except in this case. miss h. lives in edinburgh, and takes in young men as boarders. at the time of this event, she had four such inmates. two, as she believed, were in their study on the second floor; two were in the drawing- room on the first floor, where she herself was sitting. the hour was seven o'clock in the evening, and the lamp on the stair was lit. miss h. left the drawing-room, and went into a cupboard on the landing, immediately above the lamp. she saw a young gentleman, of fair complexion, in a suit of dark blue, coming down the staircase from the second floor. supposing him to be a friend of her boarders whose study was on that floor, she came out of the cupboard, closed the door to let him pass, and made him a slight bow. she did not hear him go out, nor did the maid who was standing near the street door. she did not see her two friends of the upstairs study till nine o'clock: they had been at a lecture. when they met, she said: 'did you take your friend with you?' 'what friend?' 'the fair young man who left your rooms at seven.' 'we were out before seven, we don't know whom you mean.' the mystery of the young man, who could not have entered the house without ringing, was unsolved. next day a lady living exactly opposite miss h.'s house, asked that lady if she could give hospitality to a young man who was coming to edinburgh from the country. miss h. assented, and prepared a room, but the visitor, she was informed, went to stay with a relation of his own. two days later miss h. was looking out of her dining-room window after luncheon. 'why, there's my ghost!' she exclaimed, and her friends, running to the window, allowed that he answered to the description. the 'ghost' went into the house of miss h.'s friend on the other side of the street, and miss h., with natural curiosity, sallied out, and asked who he was. he was the young man for whom she had prepared a room. during his absence in the country, his 'co-walker' had visited the house at which he intended to stay! coincidences of this kind, then, gave rise to the belief in this branch of second sight. though fairies are the 'phantasmogenetic agencies' in second sight, a man may acquire the art by magic. a hair rope which has bound a corpse to a bier is wound about him, and then he looks backward 'through his legs' till he sees a funeral. the vision of a seer can be communicated to any one who puts his left foot under the wizard's right foot. this is still practised in some parts of the highlands, as we shall see, but, near inverness, the custom only survives in the memory of some old people. { } mr. kirk's wizards defended the lawfulness of their clairvoyance by the example of elisha seeing gehazi at a distance. { } the second sight was hereditary in some families: this is no longer thought to be the case. kirk gives some examples of clairvoyance, and prescience: he then quotes and criticises lord tarbatt's letters to robert boyle. second sight 'is a trouble to most of them, and they would be rid of it at any rate, if they could'. one of our own informants says that the modern seers are anxious when they feel the vision beginning: they do not, however, regard the power as unholy or disreputable. another informant mentions a belief that children born between midnight and one o'clock will be second-sighted. people attempt to hasten or delay the birth, so as to avoid the witching hour; clearly then they regard the second sight as an unenviable accomplishment. 'it is certane' says kirk, 'he sie more fatall and fearfull things, than he do gladsome.' for the physical condition of the seer, kirk describes it as 'a rapture, transport, and sort of death'. our contemporary informants deny that, in their experience, any kind of convulsion or fit accompanies the visions, as in scott's account of allan macaulay, in the legend of montrose. strangely unlike mr. kirk, in style and mode of thought, is his contemporary, the rev. mr. frazer of tiree and coll; dean of the isles. we cannot call a clergyman superstitious because, years ago, he believed in good and bad angels. save for this element in his creed, mr. frazer may be called strictly and unexpectedly scientific. he was born in mull in , being the son of the rev. farquhard frazer, a cadet of the house of lovat. the father was one of the first masters of arts who ever held the living of coll and tiree: in his time only three landed gentlemen of the mcleans could read and write. the son, john, was educated at glasgow university, and succeeded to his father's charge, converting the lairds and others 'to the true protestant faith' ( ). at the revolution, or later, being an episcopalian and jacobite, he was deprived of his stipend, but was not superseded and continued the exercise of his ministry till his death in . being in edinburgh in , he met andrew symson, a relation of his wife: they fell into discourse on the second sight, and he sent his little manuscript to symson who published it in . there is an edinburgh reprint, by webster, in . the work is dedicated to lord cromartie, the lord tarbatt of kirk's book, and the correspondent of pepys. symson adds a preface, apologising for mr. frazer's lack of books and learned society, and giving an example of transference of second sight: the seer placed his foot on that of the person interested, who then saw a ship labouring in a storm. the tale was not at first hand. mr. frazer, in his tractate, first deals with the question of fact, of the hallucinations called second sight: 'that such representations are made to the eyes of men and women, is to me out of all doubt, and that affects follow answerable thereto, as little questionable'. but many doubt as to the question of fact, 'wherefore so little has been written about it'. four or five instances, he thinks, will suffice, . a servant of his left a barn where he slept, 'because nightly he had seen a dead corps in his winding sheet, straighted beside him'. in about half a year a young man died _and was buried_ in the barn. . mr. frazer went to stay in mull with sir william sacheverell, who wrote on second sight in the isle of man, and was then engaged in trying to recover treasures from the vessel of the armada sunk in tobermory bay. the duke of argyll has a cannon taken from francis i. at pavia, which was raised from this vessel, and, lately, the fluke of a ship's anchor brought up a doubloon. but the treasure still lies in tobermory bay. mr. frazer's tale merely is that a woman told a sailor to bid him leave a certain boy behind. the sailor did not give the message, the boy died, and the woman said that she had seen the lad 'walking with me in his winding sheets, sewed up from top to toe,' that this portent never deceived her. . a funeral was seen by duncan campbell, in kintyre, he soon found himself at the real funeral. . john macdonald saw a sea-captain all wet, who was drowned, 'about a year thereafter'. the seer 'was none of the strictest life'. . a man in eigg foretold an invasion and calamities. the vision was fulfilled by a landing of english forces in , when mr. frazer himself was a prisoner of captain pottinger's, in eigg. he next mentions an old woman who, in a syncope or catalepsy, believed she had been in heaven. she had a charm of barbarous words, whereby she could see the answers to questions 'in live images before her eyes, or upon the wall, but the images were not tractable (tangible), which she found by putting to her hand, but could find nothing'. in place of burning this poor crone, mr. frazer reasoned with her, 'taught her the danger and vanity of her practice,' and saw her die peacefully in extreme old age. seeking for an explanation mr. frazer gives a thoroughly modern doctrine of visual and auditory hallucinations, as revived impressions of sense. the impressions, 'laid up in the brain, will be reversed back to the retiform coat and crystalline humour,' hence 'a lively seeing, as if, de novo, the object had been placed before the eye'. he illustrates this by experiments in after-images. he will not deny, however, that angels, good or bad, may intentionally cause the revival of impressions, and so, for their own purposes, produce the hallucinations from within. the coincidence of the hallucination with future events may arise from the fore-knowledge of the said angels, who, if evil, are deceptive, like ahab's false prophets. the angel then, who, through one channel or another, fore-knows, or anticipates an event, 'has no more to do than to reverse the species of these things from a man's brain to the organ of the eye'. substitute telepathy, the effect produced by a distant mind, for angels, and we have here the very theory of some modern inquirers. mr. frazer thinks it unlikely that _bad_ angels delude 'several men that i have known to be of considerable sense, and pious and good conversation'. he will not hear of angels making bodies of 'compressed air' (an old mystic idea), which they place before men's eyes. his own hypothesis is more economical of marvel. he has not observed second sight to be hereditary. if asked why it is confined to ignorant islanders, he denies the fact. it is as common elsewhere, but is concealed, for fear of ridicule and odium. he admits that credulity and ignorance give opportunities to evil spirits 'to juggle more frequently than otherwise they would have done'. so he 'humbly submits himself to the judgment of his betters'. setting aside the hypothesis of angels, mr. frazer makes only one mistake, he does not give instantiae contradictoriae, where the hallucination existed without the fulfilment. he shows a good deal of reading, and a liking for sir thomas browne. the difference between him and his contemporary, mr. kirk, is as great as that between herodotus and thucydides. contemporary with frazer is martin martin, whose description of the western isles ( , second edition ) was a favourite book of dr. johnson's, and the cause of his voyage to the hebrides. martin took his m.a. degree at edinburgh university in . he was a curious observer, political and social, and an antiquarian. he offers no theory of the second sight, and merely recounts the current beliefs in the islands. the habit is not, in his opinion, hereditary, nor does he think that the vision can be communicated by touch, except by one to another seer. where several seers are present, all do not necessarily see the vision. 'at the sight of a vision, the eyelids of the person are erected, and the eyes continue staring until the object vanish,' as martin knew by observing seers at the moment of the experience. sometimes it was necessary to draw down the eyelids with the fingers. sickness and swooning occasionally accompanied the hallucination. the visions were usually symbolical, shrouds, coffins, funerals. visitors were seen before their arrival. 'i have been seen thus myself by seers of both sexes at some miles distance; some that saw me in this manner had never seen me personally, and it happened according to their visions, without any previous design of mine to go to those places, my coming there being purely accidental.' children are subject to the vision, the horse of a seer, or the cow a second- sighted woman is milking, receives the infection, at the moment of a vision, sweats and trembles. horses are very nervous animals, cows not so much so. as to objections, the people are very temperate, and madness is unknown, hence they are not usually visionary. that the learned 'are not able to oblige the world with a satisfying account of those visions,' is no argument against the fact of their occurrence. the seers are not malevolent impostors, and there are cases of second- sighted folk of birth and education, 'nor can a reasonable man believe that children, horses, and cows could be pre-engaged in a combination to persuade the world of the reality of the second sight'. the gift is not confined to the western islands, and martin gives a dutch example, with others from the isle of man. his instances are of the usual sort, the fulfilment was sometimes long deferred. he mentions a case, but not that given by mr. frazer, in the isle of eigg. the natives had been at killiecrankie, and one of them murdered an english soldier in skye, hence the english invasion of , in which a pretty girl (as had been prophesied by a seer) was brutally ill-treated. the most interesting cases are those in which strangers are seen, and peculiarities in their dress observed before their arrival. in the pirate scott shows how norna of the fitful head managed to utter such predictions by aid of early information; and so, as cleveland said, 'prophesied on velvet'. there are a few cases of a brownie being seen, once by a second- sighted butler, who observed brownie directing a man's game at chess. martin's book was certainly not calculated to convince dr. johnson; his personal evidence only proves that a kind of hallucinatory trance existed, or was feigned. later than martin we have the long work of theophilus insulanus, which contains many 'cases,' of more or less interest or absurdity. but theophilus is of no service to the framer of philosophical or physiological theories of the second sight. the presbyterian clergy generally made war on the belief, but one of them, as mrs. grant reports in her essays, { } had an experience of his own. this good old pastor's 'daidling bit,' or lounge, was his churchyard. in an october twilight, he saw two small lights rise from a spot unmarked by any stone or memorial. these 'corpse-candles' crossed the river, stopped at a hamlet, and returned, attended by a larger light. all three sank into the earth on the spot whence the two lights had risen. the minister threw a few stones on the spot, and next day asked the sexton who lay there. the man remembered having buried there two children of a blacksmith who lived at the hamlet on the opposite side of the water. the blacksmith died next day! this did more for second sight, probably, than all the minister's sermons could do against the belief. as we began by stating, it is a popular superstition among the learned that the belief in second sight has died out among the highlanders. fifty years ago, dr. mcculloch, in his description of the western islands, wrote thus: 'second sight has undergone the fate of witchcraft; ceasing to be believed, it has ceased to exist'. { } now, as to whether second sight exists or not, we may think as we please, but the belief in second sight is still vivacious in the highlands, and has not altered in a single feature. a well- known highland minister has been kind enough to answer a few questions on the belief as it is in his parish he first met a second-sighted man in his own beadle, 'a most respectable person of entirely blameless life'. after citing a few examples of the beadle's successful hits, our informant says: 'he told me that he felt the thing coming on, and that it was always preceded by a sense of discomfort and anxiety. . . . there was no epilepsy, and no convulsion of any kind. he felt a sense of great relief when the vision had passed away, and he assured me repeatedly that the gift was an annoyance rather than a pleasure to him,' as the lapp also confessed to scheffer. 'others who had the same gift have told me the same thing.' out of seven or eight people liable to this malady, or whatever we are to call it, only one, we learn, was other than robust, healthy, and steady. in two instances the seers were examined by a physician of experience, and got clean bills of mental and bodily health. an instance is mentioned in which the beadle, alone in a boat with a friend, on a salt-water loch, at night, saw a vision of a man drowning in a certain pool of a certain river. a shepherd's plaid lay on the bank. the beadle told his companion what he saw, and set his foot on his friend's, who then shared his experience. this proves the continuity of the belief that the hallucination can be communicated by contact. { } as a matter of evidence, it would have been better if the beadle had not first told his friend what he saw. both men told our informant next day, and the vision was fulfilled 'scarcely a week afterwards'. this vision, granting the honesty of the seers, was a case of 'clairvoyance,' but 'symbolical hallucinations' frequently occur. in our informant's experience the gift is not hereditary. on the whole subject dr. stewart, of nether lochaber, wrote several articles in the inverness courier, during the autumn of . the highland clergy have, doubtless, some difficulty in dealing with the belief among their parishioners. but, as the possession of the accomplishment is no longer regarded as criminal, and as the old theories of diabolical possession, or fairy inspiration, are not entertained, at least by the educated, the seers are probably to be regarded as merely harmless visionaries. at most we may say, with the poet:-- lo, the sublime telepathist is here. the belief in witchcraft is also as lively in the highlands, as in devonshire, but, while the law takes no cognisance of it, no great harm is done. the witchcraft mainly relies on 'sympathetic magic,' on perforating a clay image of an enemy with needles and so forth. there is a very recent specimen in the pitt rivers collection, at the museum in oxford. it was presented, in a scientific spirit, by the victim, who was 'not a penny the worse,' unlike sir george maxwell of pollok, two centuries ago. though second sight is so firmly rooted in celtic opinion, the tourist or angler who 'has no gaelic' is not likely to hear much of it. but, when trout refuse to rise, and time hangs heavy in a boat on a loch, it is a good plan to tell the boatman some ghostly sassenach tales. then, perhaps, he will cap them from his own store, but point-blank questions from an inquiring southron are of very little use. nobody likes to be cross-examined on such matters. unluckily the evidence, for facts not for folklore, is worthless till it has stood the severest cross-examination. ghosts before the law sir walter scott on rarity of ghostly evidence. his pamphlet for the bannatyne club. his other examples. case of mirabel. the spectre, the treasure, the deposit repudiated. trials of auguier and mirabel. the case of clenche's murder. the murder of sergeant davies. acquittal of the prisoners. an example from aubrey. the murder of anne walker. the case of mr. booty. an example from maryland, the story of briggs and harris. the valogne phantasm. trials in the matter of haunted houses. cases from le loyer. modern instances of haunted houses before the law. unsatisfactory results of legal investigations. 'what i do not know is not knowledge,' sir walter scott might have said, with regard to bogles and bar-ghaists. his collection at abbotsford of such works as the ephesian converts burned, is extensive and peculiar, while his memory was rich in tradition and legend. but as his major bellenden sings, was never wight so starkly made, but time and years will overthrow. when sir walter in , wrote a brief essay on ghosts before the law, his memory was no longer the extraordinary engine, wax to receive, and marble to retain, that it had been. it is an example of his dauntless energy that, even in , he was not only toiling at novels, and histories, and reviews, to wipe out his debts, but that, as a pure labour of love, he edited, for the bannatyne club, 'the trial of duncan terig alias clerk, and alexander bane macdonald, for the murder of arthur davis, sergeant in general guise's regiment of foot, june, '. the trial, as sir walter says, in his dedication to the bannatyne club, 'involves a curious point of evidence,' a piece of 'spectral evidence' as cotton mather calls it. in another dedication (for there are two) scott addresses sir samuel shepherd, remarking that the tract deals with 'perhaps the only subject of legal inquiry which has escaped being investigated by his skill, and illustrated by his genius'. that point is the amount of credit due to the evidence of a ghost. in his preface sir walter cites the familiar objection of a learned judge that 'the ghost must be sworn in usual form, but in case he does not come forward, he cannot be heard, as now proposed, through the medium' (medium indeed!) 'of a third party'. it seems to be a rule of evidence that what a dead man said may be received, on the report of the person with whom he communicated. a ghost is a dead man, and yet he is deprived, according to the learned judge's ruling, of his privilege. scott does not cite the similar legend in hibernian tales, the chap book quoted by thackeray in his irish sketch-book. in that affair, when the judge asked the ghost to give his own evidence: 'instantly there came a dreadful rumbling noise into the court--"here am i that was murdered by the prisoner at the bar"'. the hibernian tales are of no legal authority, nor can we give chapter and verse for another well-known anecdote. a prisoner on a charge of murder was about to escape, when the court observed him looking suspiciously over his shoulder. 'is there no one present,' the learned judge asked in general, 'who can give better testimony?' 'my lord,' exclaimed the prisoner, 'that wound he shows in his chest is twice as big as the one i gave him.' in this anecdote, however, the prisoner was clearly suffering from a hallucination, as the judge detected, and we do not propose to consider cases in which phantasms bred of remorse drove a guilty man to make confession. to return to scott; he remarks that believers in ghosts must be surprised 'to find how seldom in _any_ country an allusion hath been made to such evidence in a court of justice'. scott himself has only 'detected one or two cases of such apparition evidence,' which he gives. now it is certain, as we shall see, that he must have been acquainted with several other examples, which did not recur to his memory: the memory of was no longer that of better years. again, there were instances of which he had probably never possessed any knowledge, while others have occurred since his death. we shall first consider the cases of spectral evidence (evidence that is of a dead man's ghost, not of a mere wraith) recorded by sir walter, and deal later with those beyond his memory or knowledge. { } sir walter's first instance is from causes celebres, (vol. xii., la haye, , amsterdam, , p. ). unluckily the narrator, in this collection, is an esprit fort, and is assiduous in attempts to display his wit. we have not a plain unvarnished tale, but something more like a facetious leading article based on a trial honore mirabel was a labouring lad, under age, near marseilles. his story was that, in may (year not given), about eleven at night, he was lying under an almond tree, near the farm of a lady named gay. in the moonlight he saw a man at an upper window of a building distant five or six paces, the house belonged to a madame placasse. mirabel asked the person what he was doing there; got no answer, entered, and could see nobody. rather alarmed he went to a well, drew some water, drank, and then heard a weak voice, bidding him dig there for treasure, and asking that masses might be said for the soul of the informant. a stone then fell on a certain spot; stone- throwing is a favourite exercise with ghosts everywhere. with another labourer, one bernard, mirabel dug, found a packet of dirty linen, and, fearing that it might hold the infection of plague, dipped it in wine, for lack of vinegar. the parcel contained more than a thousand portuguese gold coins. bernard and his mistress were present at the opening of the parcel, but mirabel managed to conceal from them the place where he hid it, not a very likely story. he was grateful enough to pay for the desired masses, and he had himself bled four times to relieve his agitation. mirabel now consulted a merchant in marseilles, one auguier, who advised him to keep his old coins a mystery, as to put them into circulation would lead to inquiry and inconvenience. he lent mirabel some ready money, and, finally, induced mirabel to entrust the portuguese hoard to his care. the money was in two bags, one fastened with gold-coloured ribbon, the other with linen thread. auguier gave a receipt, and now we get a date, marseilles, september , . later auguier (it seems) tried to murder mirabel, and refused to return the deposit. mirabel went to law with him: auguier admitted that mirabel had spoken to him about having found a treasure which he would entrust to auguier, but denied the rest. in his house was found a ribbon of a golden hue, such as mirabel used to tie up his bag, and a little basket which has no obvious connection with the matter. the case was allowed to come on, there were sixteen witnesses. a woman named caillot swore to mirabel's having told her about the ghost: she saw the treasure excavated, saw the bags, and recognised the ribbon. a man had seen mirabel on his way to give auguier his bags, and, indeed, saw him do so, and receive a piece of paper. he also found, next day, a gold coin on the scene of the interview. a third witness, a woman, was shown the treasure by mirabel. the narrator here makes the important reflection that providence could not allow a ghost to appear merely to enrich a foolish peasant. but, granting ghosts (as the narrator does), we can only say that, in ordinary life, providence permits a number of undesirable events to occur. why should the behaviour of ghosts be an exception? other witnesses swore to corroborating circumstances. auguier denied everything, experts admitted that the receipt was like his writing, but declared it to be forged; the ribbon was explained as part of his little daughter's dress. the judge decided--no one will guess what--_that auguier should be put to the torture_! auguier appealed: his advocate urged the absurdity of a ghost-story on a priori grounds: if there was no ghost, then there was no treasure: if there was a treasure, would not the other digger have secured his share? that digger, bernard, was not called. then auguier pled an alibi, he was eight leagues away when he was said to have received the treasure. why he did not urge this earlier does not appear. mirabel's advocate first defended from the bible and the fathers, the existence of ghosts. the faculty of theology, in paris, had vouched for them only two years before this case, in . the sorbonne had been as explicit, in . 'the parliament of paris _often_ permitted the tenant of a haunted house to break his contract.' { } ghosts or no ghosts, mirabel's counsel said, there _was_ a treasure. in his receipt auguier, to deceive a simple peasant, partially disguised his hand. auguier's alibi is worthless, he might easily have been at marseilles and at pertuis on the same day: the distance is eight leagues. bernard was now at last called in; he admitted that mirabel told him of the ghost, that they dug, and found some linen, but that he never saw any gold. he had carried the money from mirabel to pay for the masses due to the ghost. mirabel had shown him a document, for which he said he had paid a crown, and bernard (who probably could not read) believed it to be like auguier's receipt. bernard, of course, having been denied his share, was not a friendly witness. a legal document was put in, showing that madame placasse (on whose land the treasure lay) summoned mirabel to refund it to her. the document was a summons to him. but this document was forged, and mirabel, according to a barrister whom he had consulted about it, said it was handed to him by a man unknown. why the barrister should have betrayed his client is not clear. mirabel and marguerite caillot, his first witness, who had deposed to his telling her about the ghost, and to seeing the excavation of the packet, were now arrested, while auguier remained in prison. marguerite now denied her original deposition, she had only spoken to oblige mirabel. one etienne barthelemy was next arrested: he admitted that he had 'financed' mirabel during the trial, but denied that he had suborned any witnesses. two experts differed, as usual, about auguier's receipt; a third was called in, and then they unanimously decided that it was not in his hand. on february , , auguier was acquitted, mirabel was condemned to the torture, and to the galley, for life. marguerite caillot was fined ten francs. _under torture_ mirabel accused barthelemy of having made him bring his charge against auguier, supplying him with the forged receipt and with the sham document, the summons to restore the gold to madame placasse. oddly enough he still said that he had handed sacks of coin to auguier, and that one of them was tied up with the gold-coloured ribbon. two of his witnesses, _under torture_, stuck to their original statements. they were sentenced to be hung up by the armpits, and barthelemy was condemned to the galleys for life. it is a singular tale, and shows strange ideas of justice. once condemned to the galleys, mirabel might as well have made a clean breast of it; but this he did not do: he stuck to his bags and gold-coloured ribbon. manifestly mirabel would have had a better chance of being believed in court if he had dropped the ghost altogether. it is notable that sir walter probably gave his version of this affair from memory: he says that mirabel 'was non-suited upon the ground that, if his own story was true, the treasure, by the ancient laws of france, belonged to the crown'. scott's next case is very uninteresting, at least as far as it is given in howell's state trials, vol. xii. ( ), p. . a gentleman named harrison had been accused of beguiling a dr. clenche into a hackney coach, on pretence of taking him to see a patient. there were two men in the coach, besides the doctor. they sent the coachman on an errand, and when he came back he found the men fled and clenche murdered. he had been strangled with a handkerchief. on evidence which was chiefly circumstantial, harrison was found guilty, and died protesting his innocence. later a mrs. milward declared that her husband, before his death, confessed to her that he and a man named cole were the murderers of dr. clenche. the ghost of her husband persecuted her, she said, till cole was arrested. mr. justice dolben asked her in court for the story, but feared that the jury would laugh at her. she asserted the truth of her story, but, if she gave any details, they are not reported. cole was acquitted, and the motives of mrs. milward remain obscure. coming to the tract which he reprints, sir walter says that his notice was first drawn to it, in , by robert mcintosh, esq., one of the counsel in the case, which was heard in edinburgh, june , . grant of prestongrange, the lord advocate well known to readers of mr. stevenson's catriona, prosecuted duncan terig or clerk, and alexander bain macdonald, for the murder of sergeant arthur davies on september , . they shot him on christie hill, at the head of glenconie. there his body remained concealed for some time, and was later found with a hat marked with his initials, a. r. d. they are also charged with taking his watch, two gold rings, and a purse of gold, whereby clerk, previously penniless, was enabled to take and stock two farms. donald farquharson, in glendee, deposes that, in june, , alexander macpherson sent for him, and said that he was much troubled by the ghost of the serjeant, who insisted that he should bury his bones, and should consult farquharson. donald did not believe this quite, but trembled lest the ghost should vex him. he went with macpherson, who showed the body in a peat-moss. the body was much decayed, the dress all in tatters. donald asked macpherson whether the apparition denounced the murderers: he replied that the ghost said it would have done so, had macpherson not asked the question. they buried the body on the spot, donald attested that he had seen the serjeant's rings on the hand of clerk's wife. for three years the prisoners had been suspected by the country side. macpherson declared that he had seen an apparition of a man in blue, who said, 'i am serjeant davies,' that he at first took this man for a brother of donald farquharson's, that he followed the man, or phantasm, to the door, where the spectre repeated its assertions, and pointed out the spot where the bones lay. he found them, and then went, as already shown, to donald farquharson. between the first vision and the burying, the ghost came to him naked, and this led him to inter the remains. on the second appearance, the ghost denounced the prisoners. macpherson gave other evidence, not spectral, which implicated clerk. but, when asked what language the ghost spoke in, he answered, 'as good gaelic as he had ever heard in lochaber'. 'pretty well,' said his counsel, scott's informant, mcintosh, 'for the ghost of an english serjeant.' this was probably conclusive with the jury, for they acquitted the prisoners, in the face of the other incriminating evidence. this was illogical. modern students of ghosts, of course, would not have been staggered by the ghost's command of gaelic: they would explain it as a convenient hallucinatory impression made by the ghost on the mind of the 'percipient'. the old theologians would have declared that a good spirit took davies's form, and talked in the tongue best known to macpherson. scott's remark is, that mcintosh's was 'no sound jest, for there was nothing more ridiculous in a ghost speaking a language which he did not understand when in the body, than there was in his appearing at all'. but jurymen are not logicians. macpherson added that he told his tale to none of the people with him in the sheiling, but that isobel mchardie assured him she 'saw such a vision'. isobel, in whose service macpherson had been, deponed that, while she lay at one end of the sheiling and macpherson at the other, 'she saw something naked come in at the door, which frighted her so much that she drew the clothes over her head'. next day she asked macpherson what it was, and he replied 'she might be easy, for that it would not trouble them any more'. the rest of the evidence went very strongly against the accused, but the jury unanimously found them 'not guilty'. scott conjectures that macpherson knew of the murder (as indeed he had good reason, if his non-spectral evidence is true), but that he invented the ghost, whose commands must be obeyed, that he might escape the prejudice entertained by the celtic race against citizens who do their duty. davies, poor fellow, was a civil good-humoured man, and dealt leniently (as evidence showed) with highlanders who wore the tartan. their national costume was abolished, as we all know, by english law, after the plaid had liberally displayed itself, six miles south of derby, in . so far it is plain that 'what the ghost said is not evidence,' and may even ruin a very fair case, for there can be little doubt as to who killed serjeant davies. but examples which scott forgot, for of course he knew them, prove that, in earlier times, a ghost's testimony was not contemned by english law. cases are given, with extracts from documents, in a book so familiar to sir walter as aubrey's miscellanies. aubrey (b. , d. ) was a f.r.s., and, like several other contemporary fellows of the royal society, was a keen ghost hunter. he published { } 'a full and true relation of the examination and confession of william barwick, and edward mangall, of two horrid murders'. barwick killed his wife, who was about to bear a child, near cawood in yorkshire, on april , . barwick had intrigued with his wife before marriage, and perhaps was 'passing weary of her love'. on april , palm monday, he went to his brother-in-law, thomas lofthouse, near york, who had married mrs. barwick's sister. he informed lofthouse that he had taken mrs. barwick, for her confinement, to the house of his uncle, harrison, in selby. on september , at york assizes, lofthouse swore that on easter tuesday (eight days after palm monday, namely april ), he was watering a quickset hedge, at mid-day, when he saw 'the apparition in the shape of a woman walking before him'. she sat down opposite the pool whence he drew water, he passed her as he went, and, returning with his pail filled, saw her again. she was dandling on her lap some white object which he had not observed before. he emptied his pail, and, 'standing in his yard' looked for her again. she was no longer present. she wore a brown dress and a white hood, 'such as his wife's sister usually wore, and her face looked extream pale, her teeth in sight, no gums appearing, her visage being like his wife's sister'. it certainly seems as if this resemblance was an after-thought of lofthouse's, for he dismissed the matter from his mind till prayers, when it 'discomposed his devotions'. he then mentioned the affair to his wife, who inferred that her sister had met with foul play. on april , that is the day after the vision, he went to selby, where harrison denied all knowledge of mrs. barwick. on april , lofthouse made a deposition to this effect before the mayor of york, but, in his published statement of that date, he only avers that 'hearing nothing of the said barwick's wife, he imagined barwick had done her some mischief'. there is not a word hereof the phantasm sworn to by lofthouse at the assizes on september . nevertheless, on april , barwick confessed to the mayor of york, that 'on monday was seventh night' (there seems to be an error here) he 'found the conveniency of a pond' (as aubrey puts it) 'adjoining to a quickwood hedge,' and there drowned the woman, and buried her hard by. at the assizes, barwick withdrew his confession, and pleaded 'not guilty'. lofthouse, his wife, and a third person swore, however, that the dead woman was found buried in her clothes by the pond side, and on the prisoner's confession being read, he was found guilty, and hanged in chains. probably he was guilty, but aubrey's dates are confused, and we are not even sure whether there were two ponds, and two quickset hedges, or only one of each. lofthouse may have seen a stranger, dressed like his sister-in-law, this may have made him reflect on barwick's tale about taking her to selby; he visited that town, detected barwick's falsehood, and the terror of that discovery made barwick confess. surtees, in his history of durham, published another tale, which scott's memory did not retain. in , a girl named anne walker was about to have a child by a kinsman, also a walker, for whom she kept house. walker took her to dame care, in chester le street, whence he and mark sharp removed her one evening late in november. fourteen days afterwards, late at night, graime, a fuller, who lived six miles from walker's village, lumley, saw a woman, dishevelled, blood-stained, and with five wounds in her head, standing in a room in his mill. she said she was anne walker, that mark sharp had slain her with a collier's pick, and thrown her body into a coal- pit, hiding the pick under the bank. after several visitations, graime went with his legend to a magistrate, the body and pick-axe were discovered, walker and sharp were arrested, and tried at durham, in august, . sharp's boots, all bloody, were found where the ghost said he had concealed them 'in a stream'; how they remained bloody, if in water, is hard to explain. against walker there was no direct evidence. the prisoners, the judge summing up against them, were found guilty and hanged, protesting their innocence. it is suggested that graime himself was the murderer, else, how did he know so much about it? but walker and sharp were seen last with the woman, and the respectable walker was not without a motive, while, at this distance, we can conjecture no motive in the case of graime. { } cockburn's voyage up the mediterranean is the authority (ii. ) for a very odd trial in the court of king's bench, london. the logs of three ships, under captains barnaby, bristow and brown, were put in to prove that, on friday, th may, , these men, with many others, were shooting rabbits on stromboli: that when beaters and all were collected, about a quarter to four, they _all_ saw a man in grey, and a man in black run towards them, the one in grey leading, that barnaby exclaimed, 'the foremost is old booty, my next door neighbour,' that the figures vanished into the flames of the volcano. this occurrence, by barnaby's desire, they noted in their journals. they were all making merry, on october , , at gravesend, when mrs. barnaby remarked to her husband: 'my dear, old booty is dead!' the captain replied: 'we all saw him run into hell'. mrs. booty, hearing of this remark, sued barnaby for libel, putting her damages at pounds. the case came on, the clothes of old booty were shown in court: the date and hour of his death were stated, and corresponded, within two minutes, to the moment when the mariners beheld the apparition in stromboli, 'so the widow lost her cause'. a mediaeval legend has been revived in this example. all these curious legal cases were, no doubt, familiar to sir walter scott. he probably had no access to an american example which was reprinted four years after his death, by a member of the club which he founded, the bannatyne club, { } in . the evidence of the ghost-seer was republished by mrs. crowe, in her night side of nature. but mrs. crowe neither gives the facts of the trial correctly, nor indicates the sources of the narrative. the source was a periodical, the opera glass, february , , thirty years after the date of the trial. the document, however, had existed 'for many years,' in the possession of the anonymous contributor to the opera glass. he received it from one of the counsel in the case, mr. nicholson, afterwards a judge in maryland, who compiled it from attested notes made by himself in court. the suit was that of james, fanny, robert, and thomas harris, devisees of thomas harris, v. mary harris, relict and administratrix of james harris, brother of thomas, aforesaid ( - ). thomas harris had four illegitimate children. he held, as he supposed, a piece of land in fee, but, in fact, he was only seized in tail. thus he could not sell or devise it, and his brother james was heir in tail, the children being bastards. these legal facts were unknown both to james and thomas. thomas made a will, leaving james his executor, and directing that the land should be sold, and the money divided among his own children. james, when thomas died, sold the land, and, in drawing the conveyance, it was discovered that he had no right to do so for thomas, as it was held by thomas in tail. james then conveyed his right to the purchaser, and kept the money as legal heir. why james could sell, if thomas could not, the present writer is unable to explain. in two years, james died intestate, and the children of thomas brought a suit against james's widow. before james's death, the ghost of thomas had appeared frequently to one briggs, an old soldier in the colonial revolt, bidding james 'return the proceeds of the sale to the orphans' court, and when james heard of this from briggs he did go to the orphans' court, and returned himself to the estate of his brother, to the amount of the purchase money of the land'. now, before the jury were sworn, the counsel, wright and nicholson for the plaintiffs, scott and earle for the defendant, privately agreed that the money could not be recovered, for excellent legal reasons. but they kept this to themselves, and let the suit go on, merely for the pleasure of hearing briggs, 'a man of character, of firm, undaunted spirit,' swear to his ghost in a court of law. he had been intimate with thomas harris from boyhood. it may be said that he invented the ghost, in the interest of his friend's children. he certainly mentioned it, however, some time before he had any conversation with it. briggs's evidence may be condensed very much, as the learned mrs. crowe quotes it correctly in her night side of nature. in march, , about nine a.m., briggs was riding a horse that had belonged to harris. in a lane adjoining the field where harris was buried, the horse shied, looked into the field where the tomb was, and 'neighed very loud'. briggs now saw harris coming through the field, in his usual dress, a blue coat. harris vanished, and the horse went on. as briggs was ploughing, in june, harris walked by him for two hundred yards. a lad named bailey, who came up, made no remark, nor did harris tell him about the hallucination. in august, after dark, harris came and laid his arms on briggs's shoulder. briggs had already spoken to james harris, 'brither to the corp,' about these and other related phenomena, a groan, a smack on the nose from a viewless hand, and so forth. in october briggs saw harris, about twilight in the morning. later, at eight o'clock in the morning, he was busy in the field with bailey, aforesaid, when harris passed and vanished: bailey saw nothing. at half-past nine, the spectre returned, and leaned on a railing: briggs vainly tried to make bailey see him. briggs now crossed the fence, and walked some hundreds of yards with harris, telling him that his will was disputed. harris bade briggs go to his aforesaid brother james, and remind him of a conversation they had held, 'on the east side of the wheat-stacks,' on the day when harris's fatal illness began. james remembered the conversation, and said he would fulfil his brother's desire which he actually did. there was a later interview between briggs and harris, the matter then discussed briggs declined to impart to the court, and the court overruled the question. 'he had never related to any person the last conversation, and never would.' bailey was sworn, and deposed that briggs had called his attention to harris, whom _he_ could not see, had climbed the fence, and walked for some distance, 'apparently in deep conversation with some person. witness saw no one.' it is plain that the ghost never really understood the legal question at issue. the dates are difficult to reconcile. thomas harris died in . his ghost appeared in . why was there no trial of the case till 'about or '? perhaps research in the maryland records would elucidate these and other questions; we do but give the tale, with such authority as it possesses. possibly it is an elaborate hoax, played off by nicholson, the plaintiffs' counsel, on the correspondent of the opera glass, or by him on the editor of that periodical. the hallucinations of briggs, which were fortunate enough, it is said, to get into a court of justice, singularly resemble those of m. bezuel, in july and august, , though these were not matter of a sworn deposition. the evidence is in histoire d'une apparition arrivee a valogne. { } the narrator of , having heard much talk of the affair, was invited to meet bezuel, a priest, at dinner, january , . he told his one story 'with much simplicity'. in , when about fifteen, bezuel was a friend of a younger boy, one of two brothers, desfontaines. in , when desfontaines minor was going to study at caen, he worried bezuel into signing, in his blood, a covenant that the first who died should appear to the survivor. the lads corresponded frequently, every six weeks. on july , , at half-past two, bezuel, who was hay-making, had a fainting fit. on august , at the same hour, he felt faint on a road, and rested under a shady tree. on august , at half-past two, he fainted in a hay-loft, and vaguely remembered seeing a half-naked body. he came down the ladder, and seated himself on a block, in the place des capucins. here he lost sight of his companions, but did see desfontaines, who came up, took his left arm, and led him into an alley. the servant followed, and told bezuel's tutor that he was talking to himself. the tutor went to him, and heard him asking and answering questions. bezuel, for three-quarters of an hour, conversed, as he believed, with desfontaines, who said that he had been drowned, while bathing, at caen, about half-past two on july . the appearance was naked to the waist, his head bare, showing his beautiful yellow locks. he asked bezuel to learn a school task that had been set him as a penalty, the seven penitential psalms: he described a tree at caen, where he had cut some words; two years later bezuel visited it and them; he gave other pieces of information, which were verified, but not a word would he say of heaven, hell, or purgatory; 'he seemed not to hear my questions'. there were two or three later interviews, till bezuel carried out the wishes of the phantasm. when the spectral desfontaines went away, on the first occasion, bezuel told another boy that desfontaines was drowned. the lad ran to the parents of desfontaines, who had just received a letter to that effect. by some error, the boy thought that the _elder_ desfontaines had perished, and said so to bezuel, who denied it, and, on a second inquiry, bezuel was found to be right. the explanation that bezuel was ill (as he certainly was), that he had heard of the death of his friend just _before_ his hallucination, and had forgotten an impressive piece of news, which, however, caused the apparition, is given by the narrator of . the kind of illusion in which a man is seen and heard to converse with empty air, is common to the cases of bezuel and of briggs, and the writer is acquainted, at first hand, with a modern example. mrs. crowe cites, on the authority of the late mr. maurice lothian, solicitor for the plaintiff, a suit which arose out of 'hauntings,' and was heard in the sheriff's court, at edinburgh, in - . but we are unable to discover the official records, or extracts of evidence from them. this is to be regretted, but, by way of consolation, we have the pleadings on both sides in an ancient french case of a haunted house. these are preserved in his discours des spectres, a closely printed quarto of nearly pages, by pierre le loyer, conseiller du roy au siege presidial d'angers. { } le loyer says, 'de gayete de coeur semble m'estre voulu engager au combat contre ceux qui impugnent les spectres!' as le loyer observes, ghosts seldom come into court in civil cases, except when indicted as nuisances, namely, when they make a hired house uninhabitable by their frolics. then the tenant often wants to quit the house, and to have his contract annulled. the landlord resists, an action is brought, and is generally settled in accordance with the suggestion of alphenus, in his digests, book ii. alphenus says, in brief, that the fear must be a genuine fear, and that reason for no ordinary dread must be proved. hence arnault ferton, in his customal of burgundy, advises that 'legitimate dread of phantasms which trouble men's rest and make night hideous' is reason good for leaving a house, and declining to pay rent after the day of departure. covarruvias, a spanish legist, already quoted, agrees with arnault ferton. the parliament of grenada, in one or two cases, decided in favour of the tenant, and against the landlord of houses where spectres racketed. le loyer now reports the pleadings in a famous case, of which he does not give the date. incidentally, however, we learn that it can hardly have been earlier than . the cause was heard, on appeal, before the parlement de paris. pierre piquet, guardian of nicolas macquereau (a minor), let to giles bolacre a house in the suburbs of tours. poor bolacre was promptly disturbed by a noise and routing of _invisible_ spirits, which suffered neither himself nor his family to sleep o' nights. he then cited piquet, also daniel macquereau, who was concerned in the letting of the house, before the local seat of themis. the case was heard, and the judge at tours broke the lease, the hauntings being insupportable nuisances. but this he did without letters royal. the lessors then appealed, and the case came before the cour de parlement in paris. maitre chopin was for the lessors, nau appeared for the tenant. chopin first took the formal point, the tours judge was formally wrong in breaking a covenant without letters royal, a thing particularly bad in the case of a minor, nicolas macquereau. so much for the point of form; as to the matter, maitre chopin laughed at the bare idea of noisy spirits. this is notable because, in an age when witches were burned frequently, the idea of a haunted house could be treated by the learned counsel as a mere waggery. yet the belief in haunted houses has survived the legal prosecution of witches. 'the judge in tours has merely and mischievously encouraged superstition.' all ghosts, brownies, lutins, are mere bugbears of children; here maitre chopin quotes plato, and philo judaeus in the original, also empedocles, marcus aurelius, tertullian, quintilian, dioscorides. perhaps bolacre and his family suffer from nightmare. if so, a physician, not a solicitor, is their man. or again, granting that their house _is_ haunted, they should appeal to the clergy, not to the law. manifestly this is a point to be argued. do the expenses of exorcism fall on landlord or tenant? this, we think, can hardly be decided by a quotation from epictetus. alexis comnenus bids us seek a bishop in the case of psychical phenomena ([greek]). so maitre chopin argues, but he evades the point. is it not the business of the owner of the house to 'whustle on his ain parten,' to have his own bogie exorcised? of course piquet and macquereau may argue that the bogie is bolacre's bogie, that it flitted to the house with bolacre; but that is a question of fact and evidence. chopin concludes that a lease is only voidable in case of material defect, or nuisance, as of pestilential air, not in a case which, after all, is a mere vice d'esprit. here maitre chopin sits down, with a wink at the court, and nau pleads for the tenant. first, why abuse the judge at tours? the lessors argued the case before him, and cannot blame him for credulity. the romans, far from rejecting such ideas (as chopin had maintained), used a ritual service for ejecting spooks, so ovid testifies. greek and roman hauntings are cited from pliny, plutarch, suetonius; in the last case (ghost of caligula), the house had to be destroyed, like the house at wolflee where the ghost, resenting presbyterian exorcism, killed the rev. mr. thomson of southdean, father of the author of the castle of indolence. 'as to plato, cited by my learned brother, plato believed in hauntings, as we read in the phaedo,' nau has him here. in brief, 'the defendants have let a house as habitable, well knowing the same to be infested by spirits'. the fathers are then cited as witnesses for ghosts. the learned counsel's argument about a vice d'esprit is a pitiable pun. the decision of the court, unluckily, is not preserved by le loyer. the counsel for bolacre told le loyer that the case was adjourned on the formal point, but, that, having obtained letters royal for his client, he succeeded in getting the remainder of the lease declared void. comparing, however, bouchel, s. v. louage, in his bibliotheque du droit francois, one finds that the higher court reversed the decision of the judge at tours. in the edinburgh case, , the tenant, captain molesworth, did not try to have his lease quashed, but he did tear up floors, pull down wainscots, and bore a hole into the next house, that of his landlord, mr. webster, in search of the cause of the noises. mr. webster, therefore, brought an action to restrain him from these experiments. le loyer gives two cases of ghosts appearing to denounce murderers in criminal cases. he possessed the speech of the president brisson (at that time an advocate), in which he cited the testimony of the spectre of madame de colommiers, mysteriously murdered in full day, with her children and their nurse. her ghost appeared to her husband, when wide awake, and denounced her own cousins. as there was no other evidence, beyond the existence of motive, the accused were discharged. in another well-known case, before the parlement de bretagne, the ghost of a man who had mysteriously vanished, guided his brother to the spot where his wife and her paramour had buried him, after murdering him. le loyer does not give the date of this trial. the wife was strangled, and her body was burned. modern times have known dream-evidence in cases of murder, as in the assynt murder, and the famous red barns affair. but thomas harris's is probably the last ghost cited in a court of law. on the whole, the ghosts have gained little by these legally attested appearances, but the trials do throw a curious light on the juridical procedure of our ancestors. the famous action against the ghosts in the eyrbyggja saga was not before a christian court, and is too well known for quotation. { } a modern trial for witchcraft thorel v. tinel. action for libel in . mr. dale owen's incomplete version of this affair. the suit really a trial for witchcraft. spectral obsession. movements of objects. rappings. incidental folklore. old g. thorel and the cure. the wizard's revenge. the haunted parlour boarder. examples of magical tripping up, and provoked hallucinations. case of dr. gibotteau and berthe the hospital nurse. similar case in the salem affair, . evidence of witnesses to abnormal phenomena. mr. robert de saint victor. m. de mirville. thorel non-suited. other modern french examples of witchcraft. perhaps the last trial for witchcraft was the case of thorel v. tinel, heard before the juge de paix of yerville, on january , and february and , . the trial was, in form, the converse of those with which old jurisprudence was familiar. tinel, the cure of cideville, did not accuse the shepherd thorel of sorcery, but thorel accused tinel of defaming his character by the charge of being a warlock. just as when a man prosecutes another for saying that he cheated at cards, or when a woman prosecutes another for saying that the plaintiff stole diamonds, it is really the guilt or innocence of the plaintiff that is in question, so the issue before the court at yerville was: 'is thorel a warlock or not?' the court decided that he himself had been the chief agent in spreading the slander against himself, he was non-suited, and had to pay costs, but as to the real cause of the events which were attributed to the magic of thorel, the court was unable to pronounce an opinion. this curious case has often been cited, as by mr. robert dale owen, in his footfalls on the boundary of another world, { } but mr. owen, by accident or design, omitted almost all the essential particulars, everything which connects the affair with such transactions as the witch epidemic at salem, and the trials for sorcery before and during the restoration. yet, in the events at cideville, and the depositions of witnesses, we have all the characteristics of witchcraft. first we have men by habit and repute sorcerers. then we have cause of offence given to these. then we have their threats, malum minatum, then we have evil following the threats, damnum secutum. just as of old, that damnum, that damage, declares itself in the 'possession' of young people, who become, more or less, subject to trances and convulsions. one of them is haunted, as in the old witchcraft cases, by the phantasm of the sorcerer. the phantasm (as in cotton mather's examples) is wounded, a parallel wound is found on the suspected warlock. finally, the house where the obsessed victims live is disturbed by knocks, raps, flight of objects, and inexplicable movements of heavy furniture. thus all the notes of a bad affair of witchcraft are attested in a modern trial, under the third empire. finally, some curious folklore is laid bare, light is cast on rural life and superstition, and a singular corroboration of a singular statement, much more recent than the occurrences at cideville, is obtained. a more astonishing example of survival cannot be imagined, of survival, or of disconnected and spontaneous revival and recrudescence. { } there was at auzebosc, near famous yvetot, an old shepherd named g---: he was the recognised 'wise man,' or white witch of the district, and some less noted rural adepts gave themselves out as his pupils. in march, , m. tinel, cure of cideville, visited a sick peasant, and advised him to discard old g., the shepherd magical, and send for a physician. g. was present, though concealed, heard the cure's criticisms, and said: 'why does he meddle in my business, i shall meddle in his; he has pupils in his house, we'll see how long he keeps them.' in a few days, g. was arrested, as practising medicine unauthorised, was imprisoned for some months, and fancied that the cure had a share in this persecution. all this, of course, we must take as 'the clash of the country side,' intent, as there was certainly damnum secutum, on establishing malum minatum. on a farm near the cure's house in cideville was another shepherd, named thorel, a man of forty, described as dull, illiterate, and given to boasting about his powers as a disciple of the venerable g. popular opinion decided that g. employed thorel to procure his vengeance; it was necessary that a sorcerer should _touch_ his intended victim, and g. had not the same conveniency for doing so as thorel. in old witch trials we sometimes find the witch kissing her destined prey. { } thorel, so it was said, succeeded in touching, on nov. , , m. tinel's two pupils, in a crowd at a sale of wood. the lads, of fifteen and twelve, were named lemonier and bunel. for what had gone before, we have, so far, only public chatter, for what followed we have the sworn evidence in court of the cure's pupils, in january and february, . according to lemonier, on nov. , while studying, he heard light blows of a hammer, these recurred daily, about . p.m. when m. tinel, his tutor, said plus fort, the noises were louder. to condense evidence which becomes tedious by its eternal uniformity, popular airs were beaten on demand; the noise grew unbearable, tables moved untouched, a breviary, a knife, a spit, a shoe flew wildly about. lemonier was buffeted by a black hand, attached to nobody. 'a kind of human phantasm, clad in a blouse, haunted me for fifteen days wherever i went; none but myself could see it.' he was dragged by the leg by a mysterious force. on a certain day, when thorel found a pretext for visiting the house, m. tinel made him beg lemonier's pardon, clearly on the ground that the swain had bewitched the boy. 'as soon as i saw him i recognised the phantasm which had haunted me for a fortnight, and i said to m. tinel: "there is the man who follows me".' thorel knelt to the boy, asked his pardon, and pulled violently at his clothes. as defendant, perhaps, the cure could not be asked to corroborate these statements. the evidence of the other boy, bunel, was that, on nov. , he heard first a rush of wind, then tappings on the wall. he corroborated lemonier's testimony to the musical airs knocked out, the volatile furniture, and the recognition in thorel of the phantom. 'in the evening,' said bunel, 'lemonier en eut une crise de nerfs dans laquelle il avait perdu connaissance.' leaving the boys' sworn evidence, and returning to the narrative with its gossip, we learn that thorel boasted of his success, and said that, if he could but touch one of the lads again, the furniture would dance, and the windows would be broken. meanwhile, we are told, nails were driven into points in the floor where lemonier saw the spectral figure standing. one nail became red hot, and the wood round it smoked: lemonier said that this nail had hit 'the man in the blouse' on the cheek. now, when thorel was made to ask the boy's pardon, and was recognised by him as the phantom, after the experiment with the nail, thorel bore on his cheek the mark of the wound! this is in accordance with good precedents in witchcraft. a witch- hare is wounded, the witch, in her natural form, has the same wound. at the trial of bridget bishop, in the court of oyer and terminer, held at salem, june , , there was testimony brought in that a man striking once at the place where a bewitched person said the _shape_ of mrs. bishop stood, the bewitched cried out, _that he had tore her coat_, in the place then particularly specified, and bishop's coat was found to be torn in that very place. { a} next day, after thorel touched the boy, the windows broke, as he had prophesied. then followed a curious scene in which thorel tried, in presence of the maire, to touch the cure, who retreated to the end of the room, and struck the shepherd with his cane. thereupon thorel brought his action for libel and assault against the cure. forty-two witnesses were heard, it was proved that thorel had, in fact, frequently accused himself, and he was non-suited: his counsel spoke of appealing, but, unluckily, the case was not carried to a higher court. in a few weeks the boys were sent to their homes, when (according to the narrative) there were disturbances at the home of the younger lad. thus the cure lost his pupils. a curious piece of traditional folklore came out, but only as hearsay, in court. m. cheval, maire of cideville, deposed that a m. savoye told him that thorel had once been shepherd to a m. tricot. at that time thorel said to one of two persons in his company: 'every time i strike my cabin (a shelter on wheels used by shepherds) you will fall,' and, at each stroke, the victim felt something seize his throat, and fell! { b} this anecdote is curious, because in the proceedings of the society for psychical research is a long paper by dr. gibotteau, on his experiments with a hospital nurse called berthe. this woman, according to the doctor, had the power of making him see hallucinations, of a nature more or less horrible, from a distance. she had been taught some traditional feats of rural sorcery, among others that of making a man stumble, or fall, as he walked. the doctor does not make any allusion to the cideville affair, and it seems probable that this trick is part of the peasant's magical repertoire, or, rather, that the peasant warlocks boast of being able to perform the trick. but, if we can accept the physician's evidence, as 'true for him,' at least, then a person like berthe really might affect, from a distance, a boy like lemonier with a haunting hallucination. to do this is witchcraft, and for crimes of this kind, or on false charges of this kind, poor mrs. bishop was burned at salem in . at the lowest, we have all the notes of sorcery as our rude ancestors knew it, in this modern affair. two hundred years earlier, thorel would have been burned, and g., too, probably, for the maire of cideville swore that before the disturbances, and three weeks after g. was let out of prison, thorel had warned him of the trouble which g. would bring on the cure. meanwhile the evidence shows no conscious malignity on the part of the two boys. they at first took very little notice of the raps, attributing the noises to mice. not till the sounds increased, and showed intelligence, as by drumming tunes, did the lads concern themselves, much about the matter. at no time (it seems) did they ask to be sent home, and, of course, to be relieved from their lessons and sent home would be their motive, if they practised a fraud. we may admit that, from rural tradition, the boys might have learned what the customary phenomena are, knocks, raps, moving tables, heavy objects sailing tranquilly about a room. it would be less easy for them to produce these phenomena, nor did the people of all classes who flocked to cideville detect any imposture. a land surveyor swore that the raps went on when he had placed the boy in an attitude which made fraud (in his opinion) impossible. a gentleman m. de b. 'took all possible precautions' but, nevertheless, was entertained by 'a noise which performed the tunes demanded'. he could discover no cause of the noise. m. huet, touching a table with his finger, received responsive raps, which answered questions, 'at the very place where i struck, and beneath my finger. i cannot explain the fact, which, i am convinced, was not caused by the child, nor by any one in the house.' m. cheval saw things fly about, he slept in the boy's room, and his pillow flew from under his head. he lay down between the children, holding their hands, and placing his feet on theirs, when the coverlet of the bed arose, and floated away. the marquis de mirville had a number of answers by raps, which staggered him very much, but the force was quite feeble when he asked for portions of italian music. madame de st. victor felt herself pushed, and her clothes pulled in the cure's house, when no one was near her. she also saw furniture behave in a fantastic manner, and m. raoul robert de st. victor had many such experiences. m. paul de st. victor was not present. a desk sailed along: paused in air, and fell: 'i had never seen a movement of this kind, and i admit that i was alarmed'. le seigneur, a farmer, saw 'a variety of objects arise and sail about': he was certain that the boys did not throw them, and when in their company, in the open air, between cideville and anzooville, 'i saw stones come to us, without striking us, hurled by some invisible force'. there was other confirmatory evidence, from men of physic, and of the law. the juge de paix, as we have seen, pronounced that the clearest point in the case was 'the absence of known cause for the effects,' and he non-suited thorel, the plaintiff. the cause of the phenomena is, of course, as obscure for us as for the worthy magistrate. we can only say that, when precisely similar evidence was brought before judges and juries in england and new england, at a period when medicine, law, and religion all recognised the existence of witchcraft, magic, and diabolical possession, they had scarcely any choice but to condemn the accused. causa patet, they said: 'the devil is at the bottom of it all, and the witch is his minister'. the affair of cideville by no means stands alone in modern france. in , two doctors and other witnesses signed a deposition as to precisely similar phenomena attending adelaide francoise millet, a girl of twelve, at songhien, in champagne. the trouble, as at cock lane, began by a sound of scratching on the wood of her bed. the clerk of the juge de la paix, the master of the douane, two doctors, and others visited her, and tied her hands and feet. the noise continued. mysterious missiles pursued a girl in martinique, in . the house, which was stormed by showers of stone, in paris ( ), entirely baffled the police. { a} there is a more singular parallel to the cideville affair, the account was printed from the letter of a correspondent in the abeille of chartres, march , . { b} at gaubert, near guillonville, a man was imprisoned for thefts of hay, the property of a m. dolleans. two days after his arrest, namely, on december , , the servant of m. dolleans had things of all sorts thrown at her from all directions. she fell ill, and went into hospital for five days, _where she was untroubled_. on her return, in the middle of a conversation, ribbons and bits of string would fly at her, and twist themselves round her neck, as in the case of francis fey, of spraiton, given by aubrey and bovet. mademoiselle dolleans carefully watched the girl for a fortnight, and never let her out of her sight, but could not discover any fraud. after about a month the maid was sent home, where she was not molested. naturally we see in her the half-insane cunning of hysteria, but that explanation does not apply to little master dolleans, a baby of three months old. the curse fell on _him_: however closely his parents watched him, pots and pans showered into his cradle, the narrator himself saw a miscellaneous collection of household furniture mysteriously amassed there. the abeille of chartres held this letter over, till two of its reporters had visited the scene of action, and interviewed doctors, priests, and farmers, who all attested the facts. happily, in this case, an exorcism by a priest proved efficacious. at cideville, holy water and consecrated medals were laughed at by the sprite, who, by the way, answered to the name of robert. presbyterian ghost hunters. religious excitement and hallucination. st. anthony. zulu catechumens. haunted covenanters. strange case of thomas smeaton. law's 'memorialls'. a deceitful spirit. examples of insane and morbidly sensitive ghosts. 'le revenant qui s'accuse s'excuse.' raising the devil in irvine. mode of evocation. wodrow. his account of margaret lang, and miss shaw of bargarran. the unlucky shaws. lord torphichen's son. cases from wodrow. lord middleton's story. haunted house. wraiths. lord orrery's ghost no metaphysician. the bride of lammermoor. visions of the saints. their cautiousness. ghost appearing to a jacobite. ghost of a country tradesman. case of telepathy known to wodrow. avenging spectres. lack of evidence. tale of cotton mather. in spite of a very general opinion to the opposite effect, it is not really easy to determine in what kind of age, and in what conditions of thought and civilisation, ghosts will most frequently appear, and ghostly phenomena will chiefly abound. we are all ready to aver that 'ghaists and eldritch fantasies' will be most common 'in the dark ages,' in periods of ignorance or superstition. but research in mediaeval chronicles, and in lives of the saints makes it apparent that, while marvels on a large and imposing scale were frequent, simple ordinary apparitions and haunted houses occur comparatively seldom. perhaps they were too common to be thought worth noticing, yet they are noticed occasionally, and, even in these periods of superstition, were apparently regarded as not quite everyday phenomena. one thing in this matter is tolerably certain, namely, that intense religious excitement produces a tendency to believe in marvels of all sorts, and also begets a capacity for being hallucinated, for beholding spectres, strange lights, dubious miracles. thus every one has heard of the temptation of st. anthony, and of other early christian fathers. they were wont to be surrounded by threatening aspects of wild beasts, which had no real existence. in the same way the early zulu converts of bishop callaway, when they retired to lonely places to pray, were haunted by visionary lions, and phantasms of enemies with assegais. they, probably, had never heard of st. anthony's similar experiences, nor, again, of the diabolical attacks on the converts of catholic missionaries in cochin china, and in peru. probably the most recent period of general religious excitement in our country was that of the covenant in scotland. not a mere scattered congregation or two, as in the rise of irvingism, but a vast proportion of a whole people lived lives of prolonged ecstatic prayer, and often neglected food for days. consequently devout covenanters, retired in lonely places to pray, were apt to be infested by spectral animals, black dogs as a rule, and they doubted not at all that the black dog was the accuser of the brethren. we have catholic evidence, in father piatti's life of father elphinstone, s. j., to black dogs haunting thomas smeaton, the friend of andrew melville ( ). but father piatti thinks that the dogs were avenging devils, smeaton being an apostate (ms. life of elphinstone). again covenanters would see mysterious floods of light, as the heathen also used, but, like the heathen, they were not certain as to whether the light was produced by good or bad spirits. like poor bewildered porphyry, many centuries earlier, they found the spirits 'very deceitful'. you never can depend on them. this is well illustrated by the rev. mr. robert law, a covenanting minister, but _not_ a friend of fanaticism and sedition. in his memorialls, a work not published till long after his death, he gives this instance of the deceitfulness of sprites. the rev. mr. john shaw, in ireland, was much troubled by witches, and by 'cats coming into his chamber and bed'. he died, so did his wife, 'and, as was supposed, witched'. before mr. shaw's death his groom, in the stable, saw 'a great heap of hay rolling toward him, and then appeared' (the hay not the groom) 'in the shape and lykness of a bair. he charges it to appear in human shape, which it did.' the appearance made a tryst to meet the groom, but mr. shaw forbade this tampering with evil in the lykness of a bair. however a stone was thrown at the groom, which he took for a fresh invitation from the bair, so he went to the place appointed. 'the divill appears in human shape, with his heid running down with blood,' and explains that he is 'the spirit of a murdered man who lay under his bed, and buried in the ground, and who was murdered by such a man, naming him by name'. the groom, very naturally, dug in the spot pointed out by this versatile phantom, 'but finds nothing of bones or anything lyke a grave, and shortly after this man dyes,' having failed to discover that the person accused of murder had ever existed at all. many ghosts have a perfect craze for announcing that bodies or treasures, are buried where there is nothing of the sort. glanvill has a tale of a ghost who accused himself of a murder, and led a man to a place in a wood where the corpse of the slain was to be found. there was no corpse, the ghost was mad. the psychical society have published the narratives of a housemaid and a butler who saw a lady ghost. she, later, communicated through a table her intention to appear at eleven p.m. the butler and two ladies saw her, the gentlemen present did _not_. the ghost insisted that jewels were buried in the cellar; the butler dug, but found none. the writer is acquainted with another ghost, not published, who labours under morbid delusions. for reasons wholly unfounded on fact she gave a great deal of trouble to a positive stranger. now there was literally no sense in these proceedings. such is ghostly evidence, ever deceitful! 'it's not good,' says mr. law, 'to come in communing terms with satan, there is a snare in the end of it;' yet people have actually been hanged, in england, on the evidence of a ghost! on the evidence of the devil, some other persons were accused of theft, in . this is a remarkable instance; we often hear of raising the ghostly foe, but we are seldom told how it can be done. this is how it was done in february, , at the house of the hon. robert montgomery, in irvine. some objects of silver plate were stolen, a maid was suspected, she said 'she would raise the devil, but she would know who the thief was'. taking, therefore, a bible, she went into a cellar, where she drew a circle round her, and turned a sieve on end twice, from right to left. in her hand she held nine feathers from the tail of a black cock. she next read psalm li. forwards, and then backwards revelations ix. . 'he' then appeared, dressed as a sailor with a blue cap. at each question she threw three feathers at him: finally he showed as a black man with a long tail. meanwhile all the dogs in irvine were barking, as in greece when hecate stood by the cross-ways. the maid now came and told mrs. montgomery (on information received) that the stolen plate was in the box of a certain servant, where, of course, she had probably placed it herself. however the raiser of the devil was imprisoned for the spiritual offence. she had learned the rite 'at dr. colvin's house in ireland, who used to practise this'. the experiment may easily be repeated by the scientific. though mr. law is strong in witches and magic, he has very few ghost stories; indeed, according to his philosophy, even a common wraith of a living person is really the devil in that disguise. the learned mr. wodrow, too, for all his extreme pains, cannot be called a very successful amateur of spectres. a mighty ghost hunter was the rev. robert wodrow of eastwood, in renfrewshire, the learned historian of the sufferings of the kirk of scotland ( - ). mr. wodrow was an industrious antiquarian, a student of geology, as it was then beginning to exist, a correspondent for twenty years of cotton mather, and a good-hearted kind man, that would hurt nobody but a witch or a papist. he had no opportunity to injure members of either class, but it is plain, from his four large quarto volumes, called analecta, that he did not lack the will. in his analecta mr. wodrow noted down all the news that reached him, scandals about 'the pretender,' court gossip, heresies of ministers, remarkable providences, woful apparitions, and 'strange steps of providence'. ghosts, second sight, dreams, omens, premonitions, visions, did greatly delight him, but it is fair to note that he does not vouch for all his marvels, but merely jots them down, as matters of hearsay. thus his pages are valuable to the student of superstition, because they contain 'the clash of the country' for about forty years, and illustrate the rural or ecclesiastical aberglaube of our ancestors, at the moment when witchcraft was ceasing to be a recognised criminal offence. a diary of wodrow's exists, dating from april , , when he was but nineteen years of age. on june , , he announces the execution of some witches at paisley: seven were burned, among them one, margaret lang, who accused herself of horrible crimes. the victim of the witches burned in was a child of eleven, daughter of john shaw of bargarran. this family was unlucky in its spiritual accidents. the previous laird, as we learn from the contemporary law, in his memorialls, rode his horse into a river at night, and did not arrive at the opposite bank. every effort was made to find his body in the stream, which was searched as far as the sea. the corpse was at last discovered in a ditch, two miles away, shamefully mutilated. the money of the laird, and other objects of value, were still in his pockets. this was regarded as the work of fiends, but there is a more plausible explanation. nobody but his groom saw the laird ride into the river; the chances are that he was murdered in revenge,--certain circumstances point to this,--and that the servant was obliged to keep the secret, and invent the story about riding the ford. the daughter of bargarran's successor and heir was probably a hysterical child, who was led, by the prevailing superstition, to believe that witches caused her malady. how keen the apprehensions were among children, we learn from a document preserved by wodrow. an eminent christian of his acquaintance thought in boyhood that an old woman looked crossly at him, and he went in dread of being bewitched for a whole summer. the mere terror might have caused fits, he would then have denounced the old woman, and she would probably have been burned. charles kirkpatrick sharpe, in his preface to law's memorialls (p. xcii.), says that miss shaw was 'antient in wickedness,' and thus accounts for her 'pretending to be bewitched,' by way of revenging herself on one of the maid-servants. twenty people were finally implicated, several were executed, and one killed himself. the child, probably hysterical, and certainly subject to convulsions, was really less to blame than 'the absurd credulity of various otherwise worthy ministers, and some topping professors in and about glasgow,' as sharpe quotes the ms. 'treatise on witchcraft' of the rev. mr. bell. strangely enough the great thread manufactories of renfrewshire owed their origin to this miss shaw, aided by a friend who had acquired some technical secrets in holland. she married a minister in , and probably her share in an abominable crime lay light on her conscience. her fellow- sufferer from witchcraft, a young sandilands, son of lord torphichen ( ), became a naval officer of distinguished gallantry. wodrow does not appear to have witnessed the execution at paisley, one of the last in scotland, but he had no doubt that witches should be put to death. in , when the son of lord torphichen exhibited some curious phenomena, exaggerated by report into clairvoyance and flying in the air, nobody was punished. in spite of his superstition in regard to witches, wodrow (september , ) sensibly explains a death-wraith by the anxiety of the lady who beheld it. he also, still in the diary, records a case of second sight, but that occurred in argyleshire. it will be found, in fact, that all the second-sighted people except some ministers during the sufferings (and they reckoned as prophets) were highlanders. considering his avidity for ghost-stories, it is remarkable that he scarcely ever receives them at even second hand, and that most of them are remote in point of time. on the other side, he secures a few religious visions, as of shining lights comforting devout ladies, from the person concerned. his narratives fall into regular categories, haunted houses, ghosts, wraiths, second sight, consolatory divine visions. thus mr. stewart's uncle, harry, 'ane eminent christian, and very joviall,' at a drinking party saw himself in bed, and his coffin at his bed-foot. this may be explained as a case of 'the horrors,' a malady incident to the jovial. he died in a week, in vino veritas. lord middleton's ghost-story wodrow got from the son of a man who, as lauderdale's chaplain, heard middleton tell it at dinner. he had made a covenant with the laird of babigni that the first who died should appear to the survivor. babigni was slain in battle, middleton was put in the tower, where babigni appeared to him, sat with him for an hour by the clock, and predicted the restoration. 'his hand was hote and soft,' but middleton, brave in the field, was much alarmed. he had probably drunk a good deal in the tower. this anecdote was very widely rumoured. aubrey publishes a version of it in his miscellanies, and law gives another in his memorialls (p. ). he calls 'babigni'--'barbigno,' and 'balbegno'. according to law, it was not the laird's ghost that appeared, but 'the devil in his lykness'. law and aubrey make the spirit depart after uttering a couplet, which they quote variously. for a haunted house, wodrow provides us with that of johnstone of mellantae, in annandale ( ). the authority is mr. cowan, who had it from mr. murray, minister of st. mungo's, who got it from mellantae himself, the worthy gentleman weeping as he described his misfortunes. his daughter, miss johnstone, was milking a cow in the byre, by daylight, when she saw a tall man, almost naked, probably a tramp, who frightened her into a swoon. the house was then 'troubled and disturbed' by flights of stones, and disappearance of objects. young dornock, after a visit to mellantae, came back with a story that loud knockings were heard on the beds, and sounds of pewter vessels being thrown about, though, in the morning, all were found in their places. the ghost used also to pull the medium, miss johnstone, by the foot, and toss her bed-clothes about. next, at first hand from mr. short, we have a death-wraith beheld by him of his friend mr. scrimgeour. the hour was five a.m. on a summer morning, and mr. scrimgeour expired at that time in edinburgh. again, we have the affair of mr. blair, of st. andrews, the probationer, and the devil, who, in return for a written compact, presented the probationer with an excellent sermon. on the petition of mr. blair, the compact fell from the roof of the church. the tale is told by increase mather about a french protestant minister, and, as increase wrote twenty years before wodrow, we may regard wodrow's anecdote as a myth; for the incident is of an unusual character, and not likely to repeat itself. we may also set aside, though vouched for by lord tullibardine's butler, 'ane litle old man with a fearful ougly face,' who appeared to the rev. mr. lesly. being asked whence he came, he said, 'from hell,' and, being further interrogated as to _why_ he came, he observed: 'to warn the nation to repent'. this struck mr. lesly as improbable on the face of it; however, he was a good deal alarmed. lord orrery is well known in ghostly circles, as the evidence for a gentleman's butler being levitated, and floating about a room in his house. it may be less familiar that his lordship's own ghost appeared to his sister. she consulted robert boyle, f.r.s., who advised her, if orrery appeared again, to ask him some metaphysical questions. she did so, and 'i know these questions come from my brother,' said the appearance. 'he is too curious.' he admitted, however, that his body was 'an aerial body,' but declined to be explicit on other matters. this anecdote was told by mr. smith, who had it from mr. wallace, who had it from 'an english gentleman'. mr. menzies, minister of erskine, once beheld the wraith of a friend smoking a pipe, but the owner of the wraith did not die, or do anything remarkable. to see a friendly wraith smoking a pipe, even if he take the liberty of doing so in one's bedroom, is not very ill-boding. to be sure mr. menzies' own father died not long after, but the attempt to connect the wraith of a third person with that event is somewhat desperate. wodrow has a tame commonplace account of the bride of lammermoor's affair. on the other hand, he tells us concerning a daughter of lord stair, the countess of dumfries, that she 'was under a very odd kind of distemper, and did frequently fly from one end of the room to the other, and from the one side of the garden to the other. . . . the matter of fact is certain.' at a garden party this accomplishment would have been invaluable. we now, for a change, have a religious marvel. mrs. zuil, 'a very judiciouse christian,' had a friend of devout character. this lady, being in bed, and in 'a ravishing frame,' 'observed a pleasant light, and one of the pleasantest forms, like a young child, standing on her shoulder'. not being certain that she was not delirious, she bade her nurse draw her curtains, and bring her some posset. thrice the nurse came in with posset, and thrice drew back in dread. the appearance then vanished, and for the fourth time the nurse drew the curtains, but, on this occasion, she presented the invalid with the posset. being asked why she had always withdrawn before, she said she had seen 'like a boyn (halo?) above her mistress's head,' and added, 'it was her wraith, and a signe she would dye'. 'from this the lady was convinced that she was in no reverie.' a similar halo shone round pious mr. welsh, when in meditation, and also (according to patrick walker) round two of the sweet singers, followers of meikle john gibb, before they burned a bible! gibb, a raving fanatic, went to america, where he was greatly admired by the red indians, 'because of his much converse with the devil'. the pious of wodrow's date distrusted these luminous appearances, as they might be angelical, but might also be diabolical temptations to spiritual pride. thus the blasphemous followers of gibb were surrounded by a bright light, no less than pious mr. welsh, a very distinguished presbyterian minister. indeed, this was taken advantage of by mr. welsh's enemies, who, says his biographer kirkton, 'were so bold as to call him no less than a wizard'. when mr. shields and mr. john dickson were imprisoned on the bass rock, and mr. shields was singing psalms in his cell, mr. dickson peeping in, saw 'a figure all in white,' of whose presence mr. shields was unconscious. he had only felt 'in a heavenly and elevated frame'. a clairvoyant dream is recorded on the authority of 'dr. clerk at london, who writes on the trinity, and may be depended on in such accounts'. the doctor's father was mayor of norwich, 'or some other town,' and a lady came to him, bidding him arrest a tailor for murdering his wife. the mayor was not unnaturally annoyed by this appeal, but the lady persisted. she had dreamed twice: first she saw the beginning of the murder, then the end of it. as she was talking to the mayor, the tailor came in, demanding a warrant to arrest his wife's murderers! he was promptly arrested, tried, and acquitted, but later confessed, and 'he was execut for the fact'. this is a highly improbable story, and is capped by another from wodrow's mother-in-law. a man was poisoned: later his nephew slept in his room, and heard a voice cry, 'avenge the blood of your uncle'. this happened twice, and led to an inquiry, and the detection of the guilty. the nephew who received the warning was sir john clerk of penicuik, ancestor of sir walter scott's friend. we next have a mahatma-like tale about cotton mather, from mr. stirling, who had it from a person who had it from the doctor's own mouth. briefly, cotton lost his sermon as he was riding to a place where he had to preach. he prayed for better luck, and 'no sooner was his prayer over, but his papers wer conveyed to him, flying in the air upon him when riding, which was very surprizing'. it was, indeed! wodrow adds: 'mind to write to the doctor about this'. this letter, if he ever wrote it, is not in the three portly volumes of his correspondence. the occurrence is more remarkable than the mysterious dispensation which enabled another minister to compose a sermon in his sleep. mr. james guthrie, at stirling, 'had his house haunted by the devil, which was a great exercise to worthy mr. guthrie,' and, indeed, would have been a great exercise to almost any gentleman. details are wanting, and as mr. guthrie had now been hanged for sixty years ( ), the facts are 'remote'. mr. guthrie, it seems, was unpopular at stirling, and was once mobbed there. the devil may have been his political opponent in disguise. mr. john anderson is responsible for the story of a great light seen, and a melodious sound heard over the house of 'a most singular christian of the old sort,' at the moment of her death. her name, unluckily, is uncertain. a case of 'telepathy' we have, at first hand, from mrs. luke. when in bed 'a horror of darknes' came upon her about her daughter martha, who was in edinburgh. 'sometimes she began to think that her daughter was dead, or had run away with some person.' she remained in this anxiety till six in the morning, when the cloud lifted. it turned out that martha had been in some peril at sea, but got safe into leith roads at six in the morning. a clairvoyant dream was also vouchsafed to dr. pitcairn, though 'a jacobite, and a person of considerable sense,' as wodrow quaintly remarks about another individual. the doctor was at paris when a friend of his, 'david' (surname unknown), died in edinburgh. the doctor dreamed for several nights running that david came to him, and that they tried to enter several taverns, which were shut. david then went away in a ship. as the doctor was in the habit of frequenting taverns with david, the dreams do not appear to deserve our serious consideration. to be sure david 'said he was dead'. 'strange vouchsafments of providence to a person of the doctor's temper and sense,' moralises wodrow. curiously enough, a different version of dr. pitcairn's dream is in existence. several anecdotes about the doctor are prefixed, in manuscript, to a volume of his latin poems, which was shown to dr. hibbert by mr. david laing, the well-known historian and antiquarian. dr. hibbert says: 'the anecdotes are from some one obviously on terms of intimacy with pitcairn'. according to this note robert lindsay, a descendant of sir david lindsay of the mount, was at college with the doctor. they made the covenant that 'whoever dyed first should give account of his condition if possible'. this was in , in lindsay died, while pitcairn was in paris. on the night of lindsay's death, pitcairn dreamed that he was in edinburgh, where lindsay met him and said, 'archie, perhaps ye heard i'm dead?' 'no, roben.' the vision said he was to be buried in the grey friars, and offered to carry pitcairn to a happy spiritual country, 'in a well sailing small ship,' like odysseus.. pitcairn said he must first see his parents. lindsay promised to call again. 'since which time a. p. never slept a night without dreaming that lindsay told him he was alive. and, having a dangerous sickness, anno , he was told by roben that he was delayed for a time, and that it was properly his task to carry him off, but was discharged to tell when.' { } dr. hibbert thinks that pitcairn himself dictated this account, much more marvellous than the form in which wodrow received the story. leaving a solitary jacobite vision, for a true blue presbyterian 'experience,' we learn that wodrow's own wedded wife had a pious vision, 'a glorious, inexpressible brightness'. the thought which came presently was, 'this perhaps may be satan, transforming himself into an angel of light'. 'it mout or it moutn't.' in , wodrow heard of the ghost of the laird of coul, which used to ride one of his late tenants, transformed into a spectral horse. a chap-book containing coul's discourse with mr. ogilby, a minister, was very popular in the last century. mr. ogilby left an account in manuscript, on which the chap-book was said to be based. another ghost of a very moral turn appeared, and gave ministers information about a case of lawless love. this is said to be recorded in the registers of the presbytery of fordoun, but wodrow is vague about the whole affair. we next come to a very good ghost of the old and now rather unfashionable sort. the authority is mr. william brown, who had it from the rev. mr. mercer of aberdalgie, 'as what was generally belived as to dr. rule, principal at edinburgh'. such is wodrow's way, his ideas of evidence are quite rudimentary. give him a ghost, and he does not care for 'contemporary record,' or 'corroborative testimony'. to come to the story. dr. rule, finding no room at an inn near carnie mount, had a fire lit in a chamber of a large deserted house hard by. he went to bed, leaving a bright fire burning, when 'the room dore is opened, and an apparition, _in shape of a country tradsman_, came in, and opened the courtains without speaking a word'. the doctor determined not to begin a conversation, so the apparition lighted the candles, brought them to the bedside, and backed to the door. dr. rule, like old brer rabbit, 'kept on a-saying nothing'. 'then the apparition took an effectuall way to raise the doctor. he caryed back the candles to the table, and, _with the tongs_, took doun the kindled coals, and laid them on the deal chamber floor.' dr. rule now 'thought it was time to rise,' and followed the appearance, who carried the candles downstairs, set them on the lowest step, and vanished. dr. rule then lifted the candles, and went back to bed. next morning he went to the sheriff, and told him there 'was murder in it'. the sheriff said, 'it might be so,' but, even if so, the crime was not recent, as the house for thirty years had stood empty. the step was taken up, and a dead body was found, 'and bones, to the conviction of all'. the doctor then preached on these unusual events, and an old man of eighty fell a-weeping, confessing that, as a mason lad, he had killed a companion, and buried him in that spot, while the house was being built. consequently the house, though a new one, was haunted from the first, and was soon deserted. the narrator, mr. mercer, had himself seen two ghosts of murdered boys frequently in dundee. he did not speak, nor did they, and as the rooms were comfortable he did not leave them. to have talked about the incident would only have been injurious to his landlady. 'the longer i live, the more unexpected things i meet with, and even among my own relations,' says mr. wodrow with much simplicity. but he never met with a ghost, nor even with any one who had met with a ghost, except mr. mercer. in the same age, or earlier, increase mather represents apparitions as uncommonly scarce in new england, though diabolical possession and witchcraft were as familiar as influenza. it has been shown that, in nearly forty years of earnest collecting, mr. wodrow did not find a single supernatural occurrence which was worth investigating by the curious. every tale was old, or some simple natural cause was at the bottom of the mystery, or the narrative rested on vague gossip, or was a myth. today, at any dinner party, you may hear of bogles and wraiths at first or at second hand, in an abundance which would have rejoiced wodrow. charles kirkpatrick sharpe vainly brags, in law's memorialls, that 'good sense and widely diffused information have driven our ghosts to a few remote castles in the north of scotland' ( ). but, however we are to explain it, the ghosts have come forth again, and, like golf, have crossed the tweed. now this is a queer result of science, common- sense, cheap newspapers, popular education, and progress in general. we may all confess to a belief in ghosts, because we call them 'phantasmogenetic agencies,' and in as much of witchcraft as we style 'hypnotic suggestion'. so great, it seems, is the force of language! { } the logic of table-turning bias in belief. difficulty of examining problems in which unknown personal conditions are dominant. comte agenor de gasparin on table-turning. the rise of modern table-turning. rapping. french examples. a lady bitten by a spirit. flying objects. the 'via media' of m. de gasparin. tables are turned by recondite physical causes: not by muscular or spiritual actions. the author's own experiments. motion without contact. dr. carpenter's views. incredulity of m. de gasparin as to phenomena beyond his own experience. ancient greek phenomena. m. de gasparin rejects 'spirits'. dr. carpenter neglects m. de gasparin's evidence. survival and revival. delacourt's case. home's case. simon magus. early scientific training. its results. conclusion. while reason is fondly supposed to govern our conduct, and direct our conclusions, there is no doubt that our opinions are really regulated by custom, temperament, hope, and fear. we believe or disbelieve because other people do so, because our character is attracted to, or repelled by the unusual, the mysterious; because, from one motive or another, we wish things to be thus, or fear that they may be thus, or hope that they may be so, and cannot but dread that they are otherwise. again, the laws of nature which have been ascertained are enough for the conduct of life, and science constantly, and with excellent reason, resists to the last gasp every attempt to recognise the existence of a new law, which, after all, can apparently do little for the benefit of mankind, and may conceivably do something by no means beneficial. again, science is accustomed to deal with constant phenomena, which, given the conditions, will always result. the phenomena of the marvellous are not constant, or, rather, the conditions cannot be definitely ascertained. when mr. crookes made certain experiments on home's power of causing a balance to move without contact he succeeded; in the presence of some russian savants a similar experiment failed. granting that mr. crookes's tests were accurate (and the lay mind, at least, can see no flaw in them), we must suppose that the personal conditions, in the russian case, were not the same. now an electric current will inevitably do its work, if known and ascertained conditions are present; a personal current, so to speak, depends on personal conditions which are unascertainable. it is inevitable that science, accustomed to the invariable, should turn away from phenomena which, if they do occur, seem, so far, to have a will of their own. that they have a will of their own is precisely their attraction for another class of minds, which recognises in them the action of unknown intelligences. there are also people who so dislike our detention in the prison house of old unvarying laws, that their bias is in favour of anything which may tend to prove that science, in her contemporary mood, is not infallible. as the frenchman did not care what sort of scheme he invested money in, 'provided that it annoys the english,' so many persons do not care what they invest belief in, provided that it irritates men of science. just as rationally, some men of science denounce all investigation of the abnormal phenomena of which history and rumour are so full, because the research may bring back distasteful beliefs, and revive the 'ancestral tendency' to superstition. yet the question is not whether the results of research may be dangerous, but whether the phenomena occur. the speculations of copernicus, of galileo, of the geologists, of mr. darwin, were 'dangerous,' and it does not appear that they have added to the sum of human delight. but men of science are still happiest when denouncing the 'obscurantism' of those who opposed copernicus, mr. darwin, and the rest, in dread of the moral results. we owe the strugforlifeur of m. daudet to mr. darwin and mr. alfred wallace, and the strugforlifeur is as dangerous and disagreeable as the half- crazy spiritualist. science is only concerned with truth, not with the mischievous inferences which people may draw from truth. and yet certain friends of science, quite naturally and normally, fall back on the attitude of the opponents of copernicus: 'these things,' they say, 'should not even be examined'. such are the hostile and distracting influences, the contending currents, in the midst of which reason has to operate as well as she can. meanwhile every one of us probably supposes himself to be a model of pure reason, and if people would only listen to him, the measure of the universe. this happy and universal frame of mind is agreeably illustrated in a work by the late comte agenor de gasparin, les tables tournantes (deuxieme edition: levy, paris, ). the first edition is of , and was published at a time of general excitement about 'table-turning' and 'spirit-rapping,' an excitement which only old people remember, and which it is amazing to read about. modern spirit-rapping, of which table-turning is a branch, began, as we know, in - . a family of methodists named fox, entered, in , on the tenancy of a house in hydesville, in the state of new york. the previous occupants had been disturbed by 'knocking,' this continued in the fox regime, one of the little girls found that the raps would answer (a discovery often made before) a system of alphabetic communication was opened, and spiritualism was launched. { } in march, , a packet of american newspapers reached bremen, and, as dr. andree wrote to the gazette d'augsbourg (march , ), all bremen took to experiments in turning tables. the practice spread like a new disease, even men of science and academicians were puzzled, it is a fact that, at a breakfast party in macaulay's rooms in the albany, a long and heavy table became vivacious, to macaulay's disgust, when the usual experiment was tried. men of science were, in some cases, puzzled, in others believed that a new force must be recognised, in others talked of unconscious pushing or of imposture. m. babinet, a member of the institute, writing in the revue des deux mondes (may, ), explained the 'raps' or percussive noises, as the result of ventriloquism! a similar explanation was urged, and withdrawn, in the case of the cock lane ghost, and it does not appear that m. babinet produced a ventriloquist who could do the trick. raps may be counterfeited in many ways, but hardly by ventriloquism. the raps were, in europe, a later phenomenon than the table-turning, and aroused far more interest. the higher clergy investigated the matter, and the bishop of mans in a charge, set down the phenomena to the agency of some kind of spirits, with whom christian men should have no commerce. granting the facts, the bishop was undeniably right. there was published at that time a journal called la table parlante, which contained recitals of phenomena, correspondence, and so forth. among the narratives, that of a m. benezet was typical, and is curious. in recent years, about - , the rev. mr. stainton moses, a clergyman and scholar of the best moral reputation, believed himself to be the centre of extraordinary, and practically incredible, occurrences, a belief shared by observers among his friends. m. benezet's narrative is full of precisely parallel details. m. benezet lived at toulouse, in ; and his experiences had for their scene his own house, and that of his relations, m. and mme. l. the affair began in table-turning and table-tilting: the tilts indicated the presence of 'spirits,' which answered questions, right or wrong: under the hands of the l.'s the table became vivacious, and chased a butterfly. then the spirit said it could appear as an old lady, who was viewed by one of the children. the l.'s being alarmed, gave up making experiments, but one day, at dinner, thumps were struck on the table. m. benezet was called in, and heard the noises with awe. he went away, but the knocks sounded under the chair of mme. l., she threw some holy water under the chair, when _her thumb was bitten_, and marks of teeth were left on it. presently her shoulder was bitten, whether on a place which she could reach with her teeth or not, we are not informed. raps went on, the l.'s fled to m. benezet's house, which was instantly disturbed in the same fashion. objects were spirited away, and reappeared as oddly as they had vanished. packets of bonbons turned up unbeknown, sailed about the room, and suddenly fell on the table at dinner. the l.'s went back to their own house, where their hats and boots contracted a habit of floating dreamily about in the air. things were hurled at them, practical jokes were played, and in september these monstrous annoyances gradually ceased. the most obvious explanation is that mme. l. demoralised by turning tables, took, consciously or unconsciously, to imitating the tricks of which history and legend are full. her modus, operandi, in some phenomena, is difficult to conjecture. while opinion was agitated by these violent events, and contending hypotheses, while la table parlante took a catholic view, and science a negative view, m. agenor de gasparin, a protestant, chose a via media. m. de gasparin, the husband of the well-known author of the near and the heavenly horizons, was a table-turner, without being a spiritualist. his experiments were made in switzerland, in ; he published a book on them, as we said; m. figuier attacked it in les mysteres de la science, after m. de gasparin's death, and the widow of the author replied by republishing part of the original work. m. de gasparin, in the early empire, was a liberal, an anti-radical, an opponent of negro slavery, a christian, an energetic honest man, absolu et ardent, as he confesses. his purpose was to demonstrate that tables turn, that the phenomenon is purely physical, that it cannot be explained by the mechanical action of the muscles, nor by that of 'spirits'. his allies were his personal friends, and it is pretty clear that two ladies were the chief 'agents'. the process was conducted thus: a 'chain' of eight or ten people surrounded a table, lightly resting their fingers, all in contact, on its surface. it revolved, and, by request, would raise one of its legs, and tap the floor. all this, of course, can be explained either by cheating, or by the _unconscious_ pushes administered. if any one will place his hands on a light table, he will find that the mere come and go of pulse and breath have a tendency to agitate the object. it moves a little, accompanying it you unconsciously move it more. the experiment is curious because, on some days, the table will not budge, on others it instantly sets up a peculiar gliding movement, in which it almost seems to escape from the superimposed hands, while the most wakeful attention cannot detect any conscious action of the muscles. if you try the opposite experiment, namely conscious pushing of the most gradual kind, you find that the exertion is very distinctly sensible. the author has made the following simple experiment. two persons for whom the table would _not_ move laid their hands on it firmly and flatly. two others (for whom it danced) just touched the hands of the former pair. any pressure or push from the upper hands would be felt, of course, by the under hands. no such pressure was felt, yet the table began to rotate. in another experiment with another subject, the pressure _was_ felt (indeed the owner of the upper hands was conscious of pressing), yet the table did _not_ move. these experiments are, physiologically, curious, but, of course, they demonstrate nothing. muscles can move the table, muscles can apparently act without the consciousness of their owner, therefore the movement is caused, or may be irrefutably said to be caused, by unconscious muscular action. m. de gasparin, of course, was aware of all this; he therefore aimed at producing movement _without_ contact. in his early experiments the table was first set agoing by contact; all hands were then lifted at a signal, to half an inch above the table, and still the table revolved. of course it will not do this, if it is set agoing by conscious muscular action, as any one may prove by trying. as it was possible that some one might still be touching the table, and escaping in the crowd the notice of the observers outside the circle, two ladies tried alone. the observer, mr. thury, saw the daylight between their hands and the table, which revolved four or five times. to make assurance doubly sure, a thin coating of flour was scattered over the whole table, and still it moved, while the flour was unmarked. m. de gasparin was therefore convinced that the phenomena of movement without mechanical agency were real. his experiments got rid of mr. faraday's theory of unconscious pressure and pushing, because you cannot push with your muscles what you do not touch with any portion of your body, and de gasparin had assured himself that there was _no_ physical contact between his friends and this table. m. de gasparin now turned upon dr. carpenter, to whom an article in the quarterly review, dealing with the whole topic of abnormal occurrences, was attributed. dr. carpenter, at this time, had admitted the existence of the hypnotic state, and the amenability of the hypnotised person to the wildest suggestions. he had also begun to develop his doctrine of 'unconscious cerebration,' that is, the existence of mental processes beneath, or apart from our consciousness. { } an 'ideational change' may take place in the cerebrum. the sensorium is 'unreceptive,' so the idea does not reach consciousness. sometimes, however, the idea oozes out from the fingers, through muscular action, also unconscious. this moves the table to the appropriate tilts. these two ideas are capable, if we admit them, of explaining many singular psychological facts, but they certainly do not explain the movements of tables which nobody is touching. in face of m. de gasparin's evidence, which probably was not before him, dr. carpenter could only have denied the facts, or alleged that the witnesses, including observers outside the chaine, or circle, were all self-hypnotised, all under the influence of self-suggestion, and all honestly asserting the occurrence of events which did not occur. his essay touched but lightly on this particular marvel. he remarked that 'the turning of tables, and the supposed communications of spirits through their agency' are due 'to the mental state of the performers themselves'. now m. de gasparin, in his via media, repudiated 'spirits' energetically. dr. carpenter then explained witchcraft, and the vagaries of 'camp-meetings' by the 'dominant idea'. but m. de gasparin could reply that persons whose 'dominant idea' was incredulity attested many singular occurrences. at the end of his article, dr. carpenter decides that table-turners push unconsciously, as they assuredly do, but they cannot push when not in contact with the object. the doctor did not allege that table-turners are 'biologised' as he calls it, and under a glamour. but m. de gasparin averred that no single example of trance, rigidity, loss of ordinary consciousness, or other morbid symptoms, had ever occurred in his experiments. there is thus, as it were, no common ground on which he and dr. carpenter can meet and fight. he dissected the doctor's rather inconsequent argument with a good deal of acuteness and wit. m. de gasparin then exhibited some of the besetting sins of all who indulge in argument. he accepted all his own private phenomena, but none of those, such as 'raps' and so forth, for which other people were vouching. things must occur as he had seen them, and not otherwise. what he had seen was a chaine of people surrounding a table, all in contact with the table, and with each other. the table had moved, and had answered questions by knocking the floor with its foot. it had also moved, when the hands were held close to it, but not in contact with it. nothing beyond that was orthodox, as nothing beyond hypnotism and unconscious cerebration was orthodox with dr. carpenter. moreover m. de gasparin had his own physical explanation of the phenomena. there is, in man's constitution, a 'fluid' which can be concentrated by his will, and which then, given a table and a chaine, will produce m. de gasparin's phenomena: but no more. he knows that 'fluids' are going out of fashion in science, and he is ready to call the 'fluid' the 'force' or 'agency,' or 'condition of matter' or what you please. 'substances, forces, vibrations, let it be what you choose, as long as it is something.' the objection that the phenomena are 'of no use' was made, and is still very common, but, of course, is in no case scientifically valid. electricity was 'of no use' once, and the most useless phenomenon is none the less worthy of examination. m. de gasparin now examines another class of objections. first, the phenomena were denied; next, they were said to be as old as history, and familiar to the greeks. we elsewhere show that this is quite true, that the movement of objects without contact was as familiar to the greeks as to the peruvians, the thibetans, the eskimo, and in modern stories of haunted houses. but, as will presently appear, these wilder facts would by no means coalesce with the hypothesis of m. de gasparin. to his mind, tables turn, but they turn by virtue of the will of a 'circle,' consciously exerted, through the means of some physical force, fluid, or what not, produced by the imposition of hands. now these processes do not characterise the phenomena among greeks, thibetans, eskimo, peruvians, in haunted houses, or in presence of the late mr. home,--granting the facts as alleged. in these instances, nobody is 'circling' round a chair, a bed, or what not, yet the chair or bed moves, as in the story of monsieur s. at st. maur ( ), and in countless other examples. all this would not, as we shall see, be convenient for the theory of m. de gasparin. his line of argument is that the greek and latin texts are misunderstood, but that, if the greeks did turn tables, that is no proof that tables do not turn, but rather the reverse. a favourite text is taken from ammianus marcellinus, lib. xxix. ch. i. m. de gasparin does not appear to have read the passage carefully. about a.d. one hilarius was tortured on a charge of magical operations against the emperor valens. he confessed. a little table, made of delphic laurel, was produced in court. 'we made it,' he said, 'that confounded little table, under strange rites and imprecations, and we set it in movement, thus: it was placed in a room charged with perfumes, above a round plate fashioned of various metals. the edge of the plate was marked with the letters of the alphabet separated by certain spaces. a priest, linen clad, bowed himself over the table, balancing a ring tied to a thin thread. the ring, bounding from letter to letter, picks out letters forming hexameters, like those of delphi.' this is confusing. probably the movements of the table, communicated to the thread, caused the bounds of the ring, otherwise there was no use in the table moving. at all events the ring touched theo (which is not a word that could begin a hexameter) when they asked who was to succeed valens. some one called out 'theodore' and they pursued the experiment no farther. a number of theodores and theophiles were put to death, but when theodosius was joined with gratian in the empire, the believers held that the table had been well inspired. here there was no chaine, or circle, the table is not said to lever le pied legerement, as the song advises, therefore m. de gasparin rules the case out of court. the object, however, really was analogous to planchette, ouija, and other modern modes of automatic divination. the experiment of hilarius with the 'confounded little table' led to a massacre of neoplatonists, martyrs of psychical research! in hilarius's confession we omit a set of ritual invocations; as unessential as the mystic rites used by savages in making curari. the spiritus percutiens, 'rapping spirit' (?) conjured away by old catholic formulae at the benediction of churches, was brought forward by some of m. de gasparin's critics. as _his_ tables did not rap, he had nothing to do with the spiritus percutiens, who proves, however, that the church was acquainted with raps, and explained them by the spiritualistic hypothesis. { } a text in tertullian's apologetic was also cited. here tabulae and capae, 'tables and she-goats,' are said to divine. what have she- goats to do in the matter? de morgan wished to read tabulae et crepae, which he construes 'tables and raps,' but he only finds crepae in festus, who says, that goats are called crepae, quod cruribus crepent, 'because they rattle with their legs'. de morgan's guess is ingenious, but lacks confirmation. we are not, so far, aware of communication with spirits by raps before a.d. finally, m. de gasparin denies that his researches are 'superstitious'. will can move my limbs, if it also moves my table, what is there superstitious in that? it is a new fact, that is all. 'tout est si materiel, si physique dans les experiences des tables.' it was not so at toulouse! meanwhile m. de gasparin, firm in his 'trewth,'--the need of a chaine of persons, the physical origin of the phenomena, the entire absence of spirits,--was so unlucky, when he dealt with 'spirits,' as to drop into the very line of argument which he had been denouncing. 'spirits' are 'superstitious,'--well, his adversaries had found superstition in his own experiments and beliefs. to believe that spirits are engaged, is 'to reduce our relations with the invisible world to the grossest definition'. but why not, as we know nothing about our relations with the invisible world? the theology of the spirits is 'contrary to scripture'; very well, your tales of tables moved without contact are contrary to science. 'no spiritualistic story has ever been told which is not to be classed among the phenomena of animal magnetism. . . . ' this, of course, is a mere example of a statement made without examination, a sin alleged by m. de gasparin against his opponents. vast numbers of such stories, not explicable by the now rejected theory of 'animal magnetism,' have certainly been _told_. in another volume m. de gasparin demolished the tales, but he was only at the beginning of his subject. the historical and anthropological evidence for the movement of objects without contact, not under his conditions, is very vast in bulk. the modern experiments are sometimes more scientific than his own, and the evidence for the most startling events of all kinds is quite as good as that on which he relies for his prodigies, themselves sufficiently startling. his hypothesis, at all events, of will directing a force or fluid, by no means explains phenomena quite as well provided with evidence as his own. so m. de gasparin disposes of the rival miracles as the result of chance, imposture, or hallucination, the very weapons of his scientific adversaries. his own prodigies he has seen, and is satisfied. his opponents say: 'you cannot register your force sur l'inclinaison d'une aiguille'. he could not, but home could do so to the satisfaction of a scientific expert, and probably m. de gasparin would have believed it, if he had seen it. m. de gasparin is horrified at the idea of 'trespassing on the territory of acts beyond our power'. but, if it were possible to do the miracles of home, it would be possible because it is _not_ beyond our power. 'the spiritualistic opinion is opposed to the doctrine of the resurrection: it merely announces the immortality of the soul.' but that has nothing to do with the matter in hand. the theology of spirits, of course, is neither here nor there. a 'spirit' will say anything or everything. but mr. c. c. massey when he saw a chair move at a word (and even without one), in the presence of such a double-dyed impostor as slade, had as much right to believe his own eyes as m. de gasparin, and what he saw does not square with m. de gasparin's private 'trewth'. the chair in mr. massey's experience, was 'unattached' to a piece of string; it fell, and, at request, jumped up again, and approached mr. massey, 'just as if some one had picked it up in order to take a seat beside me'. { a} such were the idola specus, the private personal prepossessions of m. de gasparin, undeniably an honourable man. now, in , his old adversary, dr. carpenter, c.b., m.d., ll.d, f.r.s., f.g.s., v.p.l.s., corresponding member of the institute of france, tout ce qu'il y a de plus officiel, de plus decore, returned to the charge. he published a work on mesmerism, spiritualism, etc. { b} perhaps the unscientific reader supposes that dr. carpenter replied to the arguments of m. de gasparin? this would have been sportsmanlike, but no, dr. carpenter firmly ignored them! he devoted three pages to table-turning (pp. , , ). he exhibited mr. faraday's little machine for detecting muscular pressure, a machine which would also detect pressure which is _not_ muscular. he explained answers given by tilts, answers not consciously known to the operators, as the results of unconscious cerebration. people may thus get answers which they do expect, or answers which they do not expect, as may happen. but not one word did dr. carpenter say to a popular audience at the london institution about m. de gasparin's assertion, and the assertion of m. de gasparin's witnesses, that motion had been observed without any contact at all. he might, if he pleased, have alleged that m. de gasparin and the others fabled; or that they were self-hypnotised, or were cheated, but he absolutely ignored the evidence altogether. now this behaviour, if scientific, was hardly quite _sportsmanlike_, to use a simple british phrase which does credit to our language and national character. mr. alfred wallace stated a similar conclusion as to dr. carpenter's method of argument, in language of some strength. 'dr. carpenter,' he said, 'habitually gives only one side of the question, and completely ignores all facts which tell against his theory.' { } without going so far as mr. wallace, and alleging that what dr. carpenter did in the case of m. de gasparin, he did 'habitually,' we may briefly examine some portions of his book which, perhaps, leave something to be desired. it is written with much acuteness, with considerable fairness, and is certainly calculated to convince any reader who has not been perplexed by circumstances on which dr. carpenter throws little light. our own chief perplexity is the continuity and uniformity of the historical and anthropological evidence for certain marvels. we have already shown the difficulty of attributing this harmony of evidence, first to savage modes of thought, and then to their survival and revival. the evidence, in full civilisation, ancient and modern, of educated and even sceptical witnesses to phenomena, which are usually grotesque, but are always the same everywhere, in every age and land, and the constant attendance of these phenomena on persons of a peculiar temperament, are our stumbling-blocks on the path to absolute negation. epilepsy, convulsions, hysterical diseases are startling affairs, we admit. it was natural that savages and the ignorant should attribute them to diabolical possession, and then look out for, and invent, manifestations of the diabolical energy outside the body of the patient, say in movements of objects, knocks, and so forth. as in these maladies the patient may be subject to hallucinations, it was natural that savages or ignorant men, or polytheists, or ardent catholics, or excitable covenanters, should regard these hallucinations as 'lucid' or 'clairvoyant'. a few lucky coincidences would establish this opinion among such observers as we have indicated, while failures of lucidity would not be counted. the professional epileptic medicine- man, moreover, would strengthen his case by 'prophesying on velvet,' like norna of the fitful head, on private and early information. imposture would imitate the 'spiritual' feats of 'raps,' 'physical movements of objects,' and 'luminous forms'. all this would continue after savagery, after paganism, after 'popery' among the peasants who were for so long, and in superstition are even now, a conservative class. all that 'expectancy,' hysterics, 'the dominant idea' and rude hypnotism, 'the sleep of the shadow,' could do, would be done, as witch trials show. all these elements in folklore, magic and belief would endure, in the peasant class, under the veneer of civilisation. now and again these elements of superstition would break through the veneer, would come to the surface among the educated classes, and would 'carry silly women captive,' and silly men. they, too, though born in the educated class, would attest impossible occurrences. in all this, we might only see survival, wonderfully vivacious, and revival astonishingly close to the ancient savage lines. we are unable to state the case for survival and revival more strenuously, and the hypothesis is most attractive. this hypothesis appears to be dr. carpenter's, though he does not, in the limits of popular lectures, unfold it at any length. after stating (p. ) that a continuous belief in 'occult agencies' has existed, he adds:-- 'while this very continuity is maintained by some to be an evidence of the real existence of such [occult] agencies, it will be my purpose to show you that it proves nothing more than the wide-spread diffusion, alike amongst minds of the highest and lowest culture, of certain tendencies to thought, which have either created ideal marvels possessing no foundation whatever in fact, or have, by exaggeration and distortion, invested with a preternatural character occurrences which are perfectly capable of a natural explanation'. here dr. carpenter does not attempt to show cause why the 'manifestations' are always the same, for example, why spirits rap in the australian bush, among blacks not influenced by modern spiritualism: why tables moved, untouched, in thibet and india, long before 'table-turning' was heard of in modern europe. we have filled up the lacuna in the doctor's argument, by suggesting that the phenomena (which are not such as a civilised taste would desire) were invented by savages, and handed on in an unbroken catena, a chain of tradition. but, in following dr. carpenter, we are brought up short at one of our old obstacles, we trip on one of our old stumbling-blocks. granting that an epileptic patient made strange bounds and springs, we can conceive savages going farther in fancy, and averring that he flew, or was levitated, or miraculously transported through space. let this become matter of traditional belief, as a thing possible in epilepsy, i.e., in 'diabolical,' or 'angelical possession'. add the honest but hallucinatory persuasion of the patient that he was so levitated, and let him be a person of honour and of sanctity, say st. theresa, st. francis, or st. joseph of cupertino. granting the survival of a savage exaggeration, granting the hallucinated saint, we may, perhaps, explain the innumerable anecdotes about miraculous levitation of which a few are repeated in our paper on 'comparative psychical research.' the witnesses in witch trials, and in ecclesiastical inquiries, and lord orrery, and mr. greatrakes, and the cromwellian soldiery in scotland, the spanish in peru, cotton mather in new england, saw what they expected to see, what tradition taught them to look for, in the case of a convulsionary, or a saint, or a catechumen. the consensus in illusion was wonderful, but let us grant, for the sake of argument, that it was possible. let us add another example, from cochin china. the witness and narrator is delacourt, a french missionary. the source is a letter of his of november , , to winslow the anatomist, membre de l'academie des sciences a paris. it is printed in the institutiones theologicae of collet, who attests the probity of the missionary. { } in may or june, , delacourt was asked to view a young native christian, said by his friends to be 'possessed'. 'rather incredulous,' as he says, delacourt went to the lad, who had communicated, as he believed, unworthily, and was therefore a prey to religious excitement, which, as bishop callaway found among his zulu converts, and as wodrow attests among 'savoury christians,' begets precisely such hallucinations as annoyed the early hermits like st. anthony. delacourt addressed the youth in latin: he replied, ego nescio loqui latine, a tag which he might easily have picked up, let us say. delacourt led him into church, where the patient was violently convulsed. delacourt then (remembering the example set by the bishop of tilopolis) ordered the demon _in latin_, to carry the boy to the ceiling. 'his body became stiff, he was dragged from the middle of the church to a pillar, and there, his feet joined, his back fixed (colle) against the pillar, he was transported in the twinkling of an eye to the ceiling, like a weight rapidly drawn up, without any apparent action on his part. i kept him in the air for half an hour, and then bade him drop without hurting himself,' when he fell 'like a packet of dirty linen'. while he was up aloft, delacourt preached at him in latin, and he became, 'perhaps the best christian in cochin china'. dr. carpenter's explanation must either be that delacourt lied; or that a tradition, surviving from savagery, and enforced by the example of the bishop of tilopolis, made a missionary, un peu incredule, as he says, believe that he saw, and watched for half an hour, a phenomenon which he never saw at all. but then dr. carpenter also dismisses, with none but the general theory already quoted, the experience of 'a nobleman of high scientific attainments,' who 'seriously assures us' that he saw home 'sail in the air, by moonlight, out of one window and in at another, at the height of seventy feet from the ground.' { } here is the stumbling-block. a nobleman of high scientific attainment, in company with another nobleman, and a captain in the army, all vouched for this performance of home. now could the savage tradition, which attributes flight to convulsive and entranced persons, exercise such an influence on these three educated modern witnesses; could an old piece of folklore, in company with 'expectancy,' so wildly delude them? can 'high scientific attainments' leave their possessor with such humble powers of observation? but, to be sure, dr. carpenter does not tell his readers that there were _three_ witnesses. dr. carpenter says that, if we believe lord crawford (and his friends), we can 'have no reason for refusing credit to the historical evidence of the demoniacal elevation of simon magus'. let us point out that we have no contemporary evidence at all about simon's feat, while for home's, we have the evidence of three living and honourable men, whom dr. carpenter might have cross-examined. the doings of home and of simon were parallel, but nothing can be more different than the nature of the evidence for what they are said to have done. this, perhaps, might have been patent to a man like dr. carpenter of 'early scientific training'. but he illustrated his own doctrine of 'the dominant idea'; he did not see that he was guilty of a fallacy, because his 'idea' dominated him. stumbling into as deep a gulf, dr. carpenter put lord crawford's evidence (he omitted that of his friends) on a level with, or below, the depositions of witnesses as to 'the aerial transport of witches to attend their demoniacal festivities'. but who ever swore that he _saw_ witches so transported? the evidence was not to witnessed facts, but only to a current belief, backed by confessions under torture. no testimony could be less on a par with that of a living 'nobleman of high scientific attainments,' to his own experience. in three pages dr. carpenter has shown that 'early scientific training' in physiology and pathology, does not necessarily enable its possessor to state a case fully. nor does it prompt him to discriminate between rumours coming, a hundred and fifty years after the date of the alleged occurrences, from a remote, credulous, and unscientific age: and the statements of witnesses all living, all honourable, and, in one case, of 'high scientific attainments.' { } it is this solemn belief in his own infallibility as a judge of evidence combined with his almost incredible ignorance of what evidence is, that makes dr. carpenter such an amusing controversialist. if any piece of fact is to be proved, it is plain that the concurrent testimony of three living and honourable men is worth more than a bit of gossip, which, after filtering through a century or two, is reported by an early christian father. in matters wholly marvellous, like home's flight in the air, the evidence of three living and honourable men need not, of course, convince us of the fact. but this evidence is in itself a fact to be considered--'why do these gentlemen tell this tale?' we ask; but dr. carpenter puts the testimony on the level of patristic tattle many centuries old, written down, on no authority, long after the event. yet the worthy doctor calmly talks about 'want of scientific culture preventing people from appreciating the force of scientific reasoning,' and that after giving such examples of 'scientific reasoning' as we have examined. { } it is in this way that science makes herself disliked. by aid of ordinary intelligence, and of an ordinary classical education, every one (however uncultivated in 'science') can satisfy himself that dr. carpenter argued at random. yet we do not assert that 'early scientific training' _prevents_ people from understanding the nature of evidence. dr. carpenter had the training, but he was impetuous, and under a dominant idea, so he blundered along. dr. carpenter frequently invoked for the explanation of marvels, a cause which is vera causa, expectancy. 'the expectation of a certain result is often enough to produce it' (p. ). this he proves by cases of hypnotised patients who did, or suffered, what they expected to be ordered to suffer or do, though no such order was really given to them. again (p. ) he urges that imaginative people, who sit for a couple of hours, 'especially if in the dark,' believing or hoping to see a human body, or a table, rise in the air, probably 'pass into a state which is neither sleeping nor waking, but between the two, in which they see, hear, or feel by touch, anything they have been led to expect will present itself.' this is, indeed, highly probable. but we must suppose that _all_ present fall into this ambiguous state, described of old by porphyry. one waking spectator who sees nothing would make the statements of the others even more worthless than usual. and it is certain that it is not even pretended that all, always, see the same phenomena. 'one saw an arm, and one a hand, and one the waving of a gown,' in that seance at branxholme, where only william of deloraine beheld all, and knew, but how it mattered not, it was the wizard, michael scott. { } granting the ambiguous state, granting darkness, and expectancy, anything may seem to happen. but dr. carpenter wholly omits such cases as that of mr. hamilton aide, and of m. alphonse karr. both were absolutely sceptical. both disliked home very much, and thought him an underbred yankee quack and charlatan. both were in the 'expectancy' of seeing no marvels, were under 'the dominant idea' that nothing unusual would occur. both, in a brilliantly lighted room of a villa near nice, saw a chair make a rush from the wall into the middle of the room, and saw a very large and heavy table, untouched, rise majestically in the air. m. karr at once got under the table, and hunted, vainly, for mechanical appliances. then he and mr. aide went home, disconcerted, and in very bad humour. how do 'expectancy' and the 'dominant idea' explain this experience, which mr. aide has published in the nineteenth century? the expectancy and dominant ideas of these gentlemen should have made them see the table and chair sit tight, while believers observed them in active motion. again, how could mr. crookes's lack of 'a special training in the bodily and mental constitution, abnormal as well as normal,' of 'mediums,' affect his power of observing whether a plank of wood did, or did not, move to a certain extent untouched, or slightly touched, and whether the difference of position was, or was not, registered mechanically? (p. ). it was a pure matter of skilled and trained observation in mechanics. dr. huggins was also present at this experiment in a mode of motion. him dr. carpenter gracefully discredited as an 'amateur,' without 'a broad basis of _general_ scientific culture'. he had devoted himself 'to a branch of research which tasks the keenest powers of _observation_'. now it was precisely powers of _observation_ that were required. 'there are _moral_ sources of error,' of which a mere observer like dr. huggins would be unaware. and 'one of the most potent of these is a proclivity to believe in the reality of spiritual communications,' particularly dangerous in a case where 'spiritual communications,' were not in question! the question was, did an indicator move, or not, under a certain amount of pressure? indiscreetly enough, to be sure, the pressure was attributed to 'psychic force,' and perhaps that was what dr. carpenter had in his mind, when he warned dr. huggins against 'the proclivity to believe in the reality of spiritual communications'. about a wilderness of other phenomena, attested by scores of sane people, from lord crawford to mr. s. c. hall, dr. carpenter 'left himself no time to speak' (p. ). this was convenient, but the lack of time prevented dr. carpenter from removing our stumbling- block, the one obstacle which keeps us from adopting, with no shadow of doubt, the theory that explains all the marvels by the survival and revival of savage delusions. dr. carpenter's hypothesis of expectancy, of a dominant idea, acting on believers, in an ambiguous state, and in the dark, can do much, but it cannot account for the experience of wide-awake sceptics, under the opposite dominant idea, in a brilliant light. dr. carpenter exposed and exploded a quantity of mesmeric spiritualistic myths narrated by dr. gregory, by miss martineau, and by less respectable if equally gullible authorities. but, speaking merely as perplexed and unconvinced students of argument and evidence, we cannot say that he removed the difficulties which have been illustrated and described. table-turning, after what is called a 'boom' in - , is now an abandoned amusement. it is deserted, like croquet, and it is even less to be regretted. but its existence enabled disputants to illustrate the ordinary processes of reasoning; each making assertions up to the limit of his personal experience; each attacking, as 'superstitious,' all who had seen, or fancied they had seen, more than himself, and each fighting gallantly for his own explanatory hypothesis, which never did explain any phenomena beyond those attested by his own senses. the others were declared not to exist, or to be the result of imposture and mal-observation,--and perhaps they were. the truly diverting thing is that home did not believe in the other 'mediums,' nor in anything in the way of a marvel (such as matter passing through matter) which he had not seen with his own eyes. whether home's incredulity should be reckoned as a proof of his belief in his own powers, might be argued either way. the ghost theory of the origin of religion evolutionary theory of the origin of religion. facts misunderstood suggest ghosts, which develop into gods. this process lies behind history and experience. difficulties of the theory. the theory of lucretius. objections mr. tyler's theory. the question of abnormal facts not discussed by mr. tylor. possibility that such 'psychical' facts are real, and are elements in development of savage religion. the evidence for psychical phenomena compared with that which, in other matters, satisfies anthropologists. examples. conclusion. among the many hypotheses as to the origin of religion, that which we may call the evolutionary, or anthropological, is most congenial to modern habits of thought. the old belief in a sudden, miraculous revelation is commonly rejected, though, in one sense, religion was none the less 'revealed,' even if man was obliged to work his way to the conception of deity by degrees. to attain that conception was the necessary result of man's reflection on the sum of his relations to the universe. the attainment, however, of the monotheistic idea is not now generally regarded as immediate and instinctive. a slow advance, a prolonged evolution was required, whether we accept mr. max muller's theory of 'the sense of the infinite,' or whether we prefer the anthropological hypothesis. the latter scheme, with various modifications, is the scheme of epicurus, lucretius, hume, mr. tylor, and mr. herbert spencer. man half consciously transferred his implicit sense that he was a living and rational being to nature in general, and recognised that earth, sky, wind, clouds, trees, the lower animals, and so on, were persons like himself, persons perhaps more powerful and awful than himself. this transference of personality can scarcely be called the result of a conscious process of reasoning. man might recognise personality everywhere, without much more thought or argument than a kitten exerts when it takes a cork or a ball for a living playmate. but consciousness must have reached a more explicit stage, when man began to ask himself what a _person_ is, what life is, and when he arrived at the conclusion that life is a spirit. to advance from that conclusion; to explain all life as the manifestation of indwelling spirits; then to withdraw the conception of life and personality from inanimate things, to select from among spirits one more powerful than the rest, to recognise that one as disembodied, as superior, then as supreme, then as unique, and so to attain the monotheistic conception, has been, according to the evolutionary hypothesis, the tendency of human thought. unluckily we cannot study the process in its course of action. perhaps there is no savage race so lowly endowed, that it does not possess, in addition to a world of 'spirits,' something that answers to the conception of god. whether that is so, or not, is a question of evidence. we have often been told that this or the other people 'has no religious ideas at all'. but later we hear that they do possess a belief in spirits, and very often better information proves that, in one stage or other of advance or degradation, the theistic conception of a maker and judge of the world is also present. meanwhile even civilised and monotheistic peoples also admit the existence of a world of spirits of the dead, of 'demons' (as in platonism), of saints (as in catholicism), of devils, of angels, or of subordinate deities. thus the elements of religion are universally distributed in all degrees of culture, though one element is more conspicuous in one place or mood, another more conspicuous in another. in one mood the savage, or the civilised man, may be called monotheistic, in another mood atheistic, in a third, practically polytheistic. only a few men anywhere, and they only when consciously engaged in speculation, assume a really definite and exclusive mental attitude on the subject. the orthodox monotheistic mussulman has his afreets, and djinns; the jew, or the christian, has his angels, the catholic has his saints; the platonist has his demons; superstition has its ghosts. the question is whether all these spiritual beings are only ghosts raised to higher powers: or (in the case of deity), to the highest conceivable power, while, even when this last process has been accomplished, we ask whether other ghosts, on lower grades, continue to be recognised. meanwhile the whole anthropological hypothesis, whether valid or invalid, lies behind history, behind the experience of even the most backward races at present extant. if it be urged, as by hume, that the conception of a supreme deity is only a reflection of kingship in human society, we must observe that some monarchical races, like the aztecs, seem to have possessed no recognised monarchical zeus; while something very like the monotheistic conception is found among races so remote from the monarchical state of society as to have no obvious distinctions of rank, like the australian blacks. moreover the evidence, on such difficult points, is obscure, and fluctuating, and capable of various interpretation. even among the most backward peoples, the traceable shadow of a monotheistic idea often seems to bear marks of degradation and disuse, rather than of nascent development. there is a god, but he is neglected, and tribal spirits receive prayer and sacrifice. just as in art there is a point where we find it difficult to decide whether an object is decadent, or archaic, so it is in the study of religious conceptions. these are a few among the inevitable difficulties and obscurities which haunt the anthropological or evolutionary theory of the origin of religion. other difficulties meet us at the very beginning. the theory regards gods as merely ghosts or spirits, raised to a higher, or to the highest power. mankind, according to the system, was inevitably led, by the action of reason upon apparent facts, to endow all things, from humanity itself to earth, sky, rain, sea, fire, with conscious personality, life, spirit; and these attributes were as gradually withdrawn again, under stress of better knowledge, till only man was left with a soul, and only the universe was left with a god. the last scientific step, then, it may be inferred, is to deprive the universe of a god, and mankind of souls. this step may be naturally taken by those who conceive that the whole process of ghost and god-making is based on a mere set of natural and inevitable fallacies, and who decline to recognise that these progressive fallacies (if fallacies they are) may be steps on a divinely appointed road towards truth; that he led us by a way that we knew not, and a path we did not understand. yet, of course, it is plain that a conclusion may be correct, although it was reached by erroneous processes. all scientific verities have been attained in this manner, by a gradual modification and improvement of inadequate working hypotheses, by the slow substitution of correctness for error. thus monotheism and the doctrine of the soul may be in no worse case than the copernican theory, or the theory of the circulation of the blood, or the darwinian theory; itself the successor of innumerable savage guesses, conjectures of empedocles, ideas of cuvier, of the elder darwin, of lamarck, and of chambers. at present, of course, the theistic hypothesis, and the hypothesis of a soul, do not admit of scientific verification. the difficulty is to demonstrate that 'mind' may exist, and work, apart from 'matter'. but it may conceivably become verifiable that the relations of 'mind' and 'matter' are, at all events, less obviously and immediately interdependent, that will and judgment are less closely and exclusively attached to physical organisms than modern science has believed. now, according to the anthropological theory of the origin of religion, it was precisely from the opposite of the scientific belief,--it was from the belief that consciousness and will may be exerted apart from, at a distance from, the physical organism,--that the savage fallacies began, which ended, ex hypothesi, in monotheism, and in the doctrine of the soul. the savage, it is said, started from normal facts, which he misinterpreted. but suppose he started, not from normal facts alone, but also from abnormal facts,--from facts which science does not yet recognise at all,--then it is possible that the conclusions of the savage, though far too sweeping, and in parts undeniably erroneous, are yet, to a certain extent, not mistaken. he may have had 'a sane spot in his mind,' and a sane impulse may have led him into the right direction. man may have faculties which savages recognise, and which physical science does not recognise. man may be surrounded by agencies which savages exaggerate, and which science disregards altogether, and these faculties and agencies may point to an element of truth which is often cast aside as a survival of superstition, as the 'after-image' of an illusion. the lowest known stage, and, according to the evolutionary hypothesis, the earliest stage in religion, is the belief in the ghosts of the dead, and in no other spiritual entities. whether this belief anywhere exists alone, and untempered by higher creeds, is another question. these ghosts are fed, propitiated, receive worship, and, to put it briefly, the fittest ghosts survive, and become gods. meanwhile the conception of ghosts of the dead is more or less consciously extended, so that spirits who never were incarnate as men become credible beings. they may inform inanimate objects, trees, rivers, fire, clouds, earth, sky, the great natural departments, and thence polytheism results. there are political processes, the consolidation of a state, for example, which help to blend these gods of various different origins into a divine consistory. one of these gods, it may be of sky, or air becomes king, and reflection may gradually come to recognise him not only as supreme, but as, theoretically, unique, and thus zeus, from a very limited monarchy, may rise to solitary all-fatherhood. yet zeus may, originally, have been only the ghost of a dead medicine-man who was called 'sky,' or he may have been the departmental spirit who presided over the sky, or he may have been sky conceived of as a personality, or these different elements may have been mingled in zeus. but the whole conception of spirit, in any case, was derived, it is argued, from the conception of ghosts, and that conception may be traced to erroneous savage interpretations of natural and normal facts. if all this be valid, the idea of god is derived from a savage fallacy, though, of course, it does not follow that an idea is erroneous, _because_ it was attained by mistaken processes and from false premises. that, however, is the inference which many minds are inclined to draw from the evolutionary hypothesis. but if the facts on which the savage reasoned are, some of them, rare, abnormal, and not scientifically accepted; if, in short, they are facts demonstrative of unrecognised human faculties, if these faculties raise a presumption that will, mind, and organism are less closely interdependent than science supposes, then the savage reasoning may contain an important element of rejected truth. it may even seem, at least, conceivable that certain factors in the conception of 'spirit' were not necessarily evolved as the anthropological hypothesis conceives them to have been. science had scarcely begun her secular conflict with religion, when she discovered that the battle must be fought on haunted ground, on the field of the ghosts of the dead. 'there are no gods, or only dei otiosi, careless, indolent deities. there is nothing conscious that survives death, no soul that can exist apart from the fleshly body.' such were the doctrines of epicurus and lucretius, but to these human nature opposed 'facts'; we see, people said, men long dead in our dreams, or even when awake: the homeric achilles, beholding patroclus in a dream, instantly infers that there verily _is_ a shadow, an eidolon, a shadowy consciousness, shadowy presence, which outlasts the death of the body. to this epicurus and lucretius reply, that the belief is caused by fallacious inferences from facts, these facts, appearances beheld in sleep or vision, these spectral faces of the long dead, are caused by 'films peeled off from the surface of objects, which fly to and fro through the air, and do likewise frighten our minds when they present themselves to us _awake as well as in sleep_, what time we behold strange shapes, and "idols" of the light-bereaved,' lucretius expressly advances this doctrine of 'films' (an application of the democritean theory of perception), 'that we may not believe that souls break loose from acheron, or that shades fly about among the living, or that any part of us is left behind after death'. { a} believers in ghosts must have replied that they do _not_ see, in sleep or awake, 'films' representing a mouldering corpse, as they ought to do on the lucretian hypothesis, but the image, or idolon of a living face. plutarch says that if philosophers may laugh, these long enduring 'films,' from a body perhaps many ages deep in dust, are laughable. { b} however lucretius is so wedded to his 'films' that he explains a purely fanciful being, like a centaur, by a fortuitous combination of the film of a man with the film of a horse. a 'ghost' then, is, to the mind of lucretius, merely a casual persistent film of a dead man, composed of atoms very light which can fly at inconceivable speed, and are not arrested by material obstacles. by parity of reasoning no doubt, if pythagoras is seen at the same moment in thurii and metapontum, only a film of him is beheld at one of these two places. the democritean theory of ordinary perception thus becomes the lucretian theory of dreams and ghosts. not that lucretius denies the existence of a rational soul, in living men, { c} a portion of it may even leave the body during sleep, and only a spark may be left in the embers of the physical organism. if even that spark withdraws, death follows, and the soul, no longer warmly housed in the body, ceases to exist. for the 'film' (ghost) is not the soul, and the soul is not the film, whereas savage philosophy identifies the soul with the ghost. even lucretius retains the savage conception of the soul as a thing of rarer matter, a thing partly separable from the body, but that thing is resolved for ever into its elements on the death of the body. his imaginary 'film,' on the other hand, may apparently endure for ages. the lucretian theory had, for lucretius, the advantages of being physical, and of dealing a blow at the hated doctrine of a future life. for the public it had the disadvantages of being incapable of proof, of not explaining the facts, as conceived to exist, and of being highly ridiculous, as plutarch observed. much later philosophers explained all apparitions as impressions of sense, recorded on the brain, and so actively revived that they seemed to have an objective existence. one or two stock cases (nicolai's, and mrs. a.'s), in which people _in a morbid condition_, saw hallucinations which they knew to be hallucinations, did, and do, a great deal of duty. mr. sully has them, as hibbert and brewster have them, engaged as protagonists. collective hallucinations, and the hallucinations of the sane which coincide with the death, or other crisis in the experience of the person who seemed to be seen, were set down to imagination, 'expectant attention,' imposture, mistaken identity, and so forth. without dwelling on the causes, physical or psychological, which have been said by frazer of tiree ( ), ferrier, hibbert, scott, and others, to account for the hallucinations of the sane, for 'ghosts,' mr. tylor has ably erected his theory of animism, or the belief in spirits. thinking savages, he says, 'were deeply impressed by two groups of biological phenomena,' by the facts of living, dying, sleep, trance, waking and disease. they asked: 'what is the difference between a living body and a dead one?' they wanted to know the causes of sleep, trance and death. they were also concerned to explain the appearances of dead or absent human beings in dreams and waking visions. now it was plain that 'life' could go away, as it does in death, or seems to do in dreamless sleep. again, a phantasm of a living man can go away and appear to waking or sleeping people at a distance. the conclusion was reached by savages that the phantasm which thus appears is identical with the life which 'goes away' in sleep or trance. sometimes it returns, when the man wakes, or escapes from his trance. sometimes it stays away, he dies, his body corrupts, but the phantasm endures, and is occasionally seen in sleeping or waking vision. the general result of savage thought is that man's life must be conceived as a personal and rational entity, called his 'soul,' while it remains in his body, his 'wraith,' when it is beheld at a distance during his life, his 'ghost,' when it is observed after his death. many circumstances confirmed or illustrated this savage hypothesis breath remains with the body during life, deserts it at death. hence the words spiritus, 'spirit,' [greek], anima, and, when the separable nature of the shadow is noticed, hence come 'shade,' 'umbra,' [greek], with analogues in many languages. the hypothesis was also strengthened, by the great difficulty which savages feel in discriminating between what occurs in dreams, and what occurs to men awake. many civilised persons feel the same difficulty with regard to hallucinations beheld by them when in bed, asleep or awake they know not, on the dim border of existence. reflection on all these experiences ended in the belief in spirits, in souls of the living, in wraiths of the living, in ghosts of the dead, and, finally, in god. this theory is most cogently presented by mr. tylor, and is confirmed by examples chosen from his wide range of reading. but, among these normal and natural facts, as of sleep, dream, breath, life, dying, mr. tylor includes (not as facts, but as examples of applied animistic theory) cases of 'clairvoyance,' apparitions of the dying seen by the living at a distance, second sight, ghostly disturbances of knocking and rapping, movements of objects, and so forth. it is not a question for mr. tylor whether clairvoyance ever occurs: whether 'death-bed wraiths' have been seen to an extent not explicable by the laws of chance, whether disturbances and movements of objects not to be accounted for by human agency are matters of universal and often well-attested report. into the question of fact, mr. tylor explicitly declines to enter; these things only concern him because they have been commonly explained by the 'animistic hypothesis,' that is, by the fancied action of spirits. the animistic hypothesis, again, is the result, naturally fallacious, of savage man's reasonings on life, death, sleep, dreams, trance, breath, shadow and the other kindred biological phenomena. thus clairvoyance (on the animistic hypothesis) is the flight of the conscious 'spirit' of a living man across space or time; the 'deathbed wraith' is the visible apparition of the newly- emancipated 'spirit,' and 'spirits' cause the unexplained disturbances and movements of objects. in fact it is certain that the animistic hypothesis (though a mere fallacy) does colligate a great number of facts very neatly, and has persisted from times of low savagery to the present age of reason. so here is a case of the savage origin and persistent 'survival' of a hypothesis,--the most potent hypothesis in the history of humanity. from mr. tylor's point of view, his concern with the subject ceases here, it is not his business to ascertain whether the abnormal facts are facts or fancies. yet, to other students, this question is very important. first, if clairvoyance, wraiths, and the other alleged phenomena, really do occur, or have occurred, then savage man had much better grounds for the animistic hypothesis than if no such phenomena ever existed. for instance, if a medicine-man not only went into trances, but brought back from these expeditions knowledge otherwise inaccessible, then there were better grounds for believing in a consciousness exerted apart from the body than if there were no evidence but that of non-veridical dreams. if merely the dream- coincidences which the laws of chance permit were observed, the belief in the soul's dream-flight would win less favourable and general acceptance than it would if clairvoyance, 'the sleep of the shadow,' were a real if rare experience. the very name given by the eskimos to the hypnotic state, 'the sleep of the shadow,' proves that savages do make distinctions between normal and abnormal conditions of slumber. in the same way a few genuine wraiths, or ghosts, or 'veridical hallucinations,' would be enough to start the animistic hypothesis, or to confirm it notably, if it was already started. as to disturbances and movements of objects unexplained, these, in his own experience, suggested, even to de morgan, the hypothesis of a conscious, active, and purposeful will, _not_ that of any human being present. now such a will is hardly to be defined otherwise than as 'spiritual'. this order of phenomena, like those of clairvoyance and wraiths, might either give rise to the savage animistic hypothesis, or, at least, might confirm it greatly. in fact, if the sets of abnormal phenomena existed, or were held to exist, savage man scarcely needed the normal phenomena for the basis of his spiritual belief. the normal phenomena lent him such terms as 'spirit,' 'shadow,' but much of his theory might have been built on the foundation of the abnormal phenomena alone. a 'veridical hallucination,' of the dying would give him a 'wraith'; a recognised hallucination of the dead would give him a ghost: the often reported and unexplained movements and disturbances would give him a vui, 'house spirit,' 'brownie,' 'domovoy,' follet, lar, or lutin. or these occurrences might suggest to the thinking savage that some discontented influence survived from the recently dead. four thousand years have passed since houses were haunted in egypt, and have left some sane, educated, and methodical men to meet the same annoyances as the ancient egyptians did, by the same measures. we do not pretend to discover, without examination, the causes of the sounds and sights which baffle trained and not superstitious investigators. but we do say that similar occurrences, in a kraal or an eskimo hut, in a wigwam, in a cave, or under a gunyeh, would greatly confirm the animistic hypothesis of savages. the theory of imposture (in some cases) does undeniably break down, for the people who hold it cannot even suggest a modus operandi within the reach of the human beings concerned, as in the case of the wesleys. the theory of contagious hallucination of all the senses is the property of coleridge alone. the hypothesis of a nervous force which sets up centres of conscious action is confined to hartmann, and to certain highland philosophers, cavalierly dismissed by the rev. robert kirk as 'men illiterate'. instead of making these guesses, the savage thinkers merely applied the animistic hypothesis, which they had found to work very well already, and, as de morgan says, to colligate the phenomena better than any other theory. we cannot easily conceive men who know neither sleep nor dreams, but if the normal phenomena of sleep and dreams had not existed, the abnormal phenomena already described, if they occurred, as they are universally said to do, could have given rise, when speculated upon, to the belief in spirits. but, it may reasonably be urged, 'the natural familiar facts of life, death, sleep, waking, dreams, breath, and shadows, are all versae causae, do undeniably exist, and, without the aid of any of your abnormal facts, afford basis enough for the animistic hypothesis. moreover, after countless thousands of years, during which superstition has muttered about your abnormal facts, official science still declines to hear a word on the topic of clairvoyance or telepathy. you don't find the royal society investigating second sight, or attending to legends about tables which rebel against the law of gravitation.' these are cogent remarks. normal facts, perhaps, may have suggested the belief in spirits, the animistic hypothesis. but we do not find the hypothesis (among the backward races) where abnormal facts are not alleged to be matters of comparatively frequent experience. consequently we do not _know_ that the normal facts, alone, suggested the existence of spirits to early thinkers, we can only make the statement on a priori grounds. like george eliot's rural sage we 'think it sounds a deal likelier'. but that, after all, though a taking, is not a powerful and conclusive syllogism. again, we certainly do not expect to see the royal society inquiring into second sight, or clairvoyance, or thought transference. when the royal society was first founded several of its members, pepys, f.r.s.; mr. robert boyle, f.r.s.; the rev. joseph glanvill, f.r.s., went into these things a good deal. but, in spite of their title, they were only amateurs. they had no professional dignity to keep up. they were well aware that they, unlike the late mr. faraday, did not know, by inspiration or by common-sense, the limits of the possible. they tried all things, it was such a superstitious age. now men of science, or the majority of them, for there are some exceptions, know what is, and what is not possible. they know that germs of life may possibly come down on meteorites from somewhere else, and they produced an argument for the existence of a bathybius. but they also know that a man is not a bird to be in two places at once, like pythagoras, and that nobody can see through a stone wall. these, and similar allegations, they reckon impossible, and, if the facts happen, so much the worse for the facts. they can only be due to imposture or mal-observation, and there is an end of the matter. this is the view of official science. unluckily, not many years ago, official science was equally certain that the ordinary phenomena of hypnotism were based on imposture and on mal- observation. these phenomena, too, were tabooed. but so many people could testify to them, and they could be so easily explained by the suggestive force of suggestion, that they were reluctantly admitted within the sacred citadel. many people, sane, not superstitious, healthy, and even renowned as scientific specialists, attest the existence of the still rarer phenomena which are said, in certain cases, to accompany the now more familiar incidents of hypnotism. but these phenomena have never yet been explained by any theory which science recognises, as she does recognise that suggestion is suggestive. therefore these rarer phenomena manifestly do not exist, and cannot be the subject of legitimate inquiry. these are unanswerable observations, and it is only the antiquarian who can venture, in his humble way, to reply to them. his answer has a certain force ad hominem, that is, as addressed to anthropologists. they, too, have but recently been admitted within the scientific fold; time was when their facts were regarded as mere travellers' tales. mr. max muller is now, perhaps, almost alone in his very low estimate of anthropological evidence, and, possibly, even that sturdy champion is beginning to yield ground. defending the validity of the testimony on which anthropologists reason about the evolution of religion, custom, manners, mythology, law, mr. tylor writes:-- 'it is a matter worthy of consideration that the accounts of similar phenomena of culture, recurring in different parts of the world, actually supply incidental proof of their own authenticity. . . . the test of recurrence comes in. . . . the possibility of intentional or unintentional mystification is often barred by such a state of things as that a similar statement is made in two remote lands by two witnesses, of whom a lived a century before b, and b appears never to have heard of a.' if for 'similar phenomena of culture' here, we substitute 'similar abnormal phenomena' (such as clairvoyance, wraiths, unexplained disturbances), mr. tylor's argument in favour of his evidence for institutions applies equally well to our evidence for mysterious 'facts'. 'how distant are the countries,' he goes on, 'how wide apart are the dates, how different the creeds and characters in the catalogue of the facts of civilisation, needs no further showing'-- to the student of mr. tylor's erudite footnotes. in place of 'facts of civilisation' read 'psychical phenomena,' and mr. tylor's argument applies to the evidence for these rejected and scouted beliefs. the countries from which 'ghosts' and 'wraiths' and 'clairvoyance' are reported are 'distant'; the dates are 'wide apart'; the 'creeds and characters of the observers' 'are 'different'; yet the evidence is as uniform, and as recurrent, as it is in the case of institutions, manners, customs. indeed the evidence for the rejected and abnormal phenomena is even more 'recurrent' than the evidence for customs and institutions. polyandry, totemism, human sacrifice, the taboo, are only reported as existing in remote and semi-civilised countries. clairvoyance, wraiths, ghosts, mysterious disturbances and movements of objects are reported as existing, not only in distant ages, but today; not only among savages or barbarians, but in london, paris, milan. no ages can be more wide apart, few countries much more distant, than ancient egypt and modern england: no characters look more different than that of an old scribe under pharaoh, and that of a distinguished soldier under queen victoria. yet the scribe of khemi and general campbell suffer from the same inexplicable annoyance, attribute it to the same very abnormal agency, and attempt (not unsuccessfully) to communicate with that agency, in precisely the same way. this, though a striking, is an isolated and perhaps a casual example of recurrence and uniformity in evidence. mr. tylor's primitive culture is itself a store-house of other examples, to which more may easily be added. for example, there is the old and savage belief in a 'sending'. the medicine-man, or medium, or witch, can despatch a conscious, visible, and intelligent agent, non-normal, to do his bidding at a distance. this belief is often illustrated in the scandinavian sagas. rink testifies to it among the eskimo, grinnell among the pawnees: porphyry alleges that by some such 'telepathic impact' plotinus, from a distance, made a hostile magician named alexander 'double up like an empty bag,' and saw and reported this agreeable circumstance. { } hardly any abnormal phenomenon or faculty sounds less plausible, and the 'spectral evidence' for the presence of a witch's 'sending,' when the poor woman could establish an alibi for her visible self, appeared dubious even to cotton mather. but, in their phantasms of the living, messrs. gurney and myers give cases in which a visible 'sending' was intentionally emitted by baron schrenck notzing, by a stock-broker, by a young student of engineering, and by a french hospital nurse, to take no other instances. the person visited frequently by the 'sendings' in the last cases was a french physician engaged in the hospital, who reports and attests the facts. all the cases are given at first hand on the testimony of the senders and of the recipients of the sendings. bulwer lytton was familiar with the belief, and uses the 'shining shadow' in a strange story. now here is uniform recurrent evidence from widely severed ages, from distant countries, from the polar north, the american prairie, neoplatonic egypt and greece, england and new england of the seventeenth century, and england and germany of today. the 'creeds and characters of the observers' are as 'different' as neoplatonism, shamanism, christianity of divers sects, and probably agnosticism or indifference. all these conditions of unvarying testimony constitute good evidence for institutions and customs; anthropologists, who eagerly accept such testimony in their own studies, may decide as to whether they deserve total neglect when adduced in another field of anthropology. turning from 'sendings,' or 'telepathy' voluntarily brought to bear on one living person by another, we might examine 'death-bed wraiths,' or the telepathic impact--'if that hypothesis of theirs be sound'--produced by a dying on a living human being. a savage example, in which a fuegian native on board an english ship saw his father, who was expiring in tierra del fuego, has the respectable authority of mr. darwin's cruise of the beagle. instances, on the other hand, in which australian blacks, or fijians, see the phantasms of dead kinsmen warning them of their decease (which follows punctually) may be found in messrs. fison and howitt's kamilaroi and kurnai. from new zealand mr. tylor cites, with his authorities, the following example: { } 'a party of maoris (one of whom told the story) were seated round a fire in the open air, when there appeared, seen only by two of them, the figure of a relative left ill at home. they exclaimed, the figure vanished, and, on the return of the party, it appeared that the sick man had died about the time of the vision.' a traveller in new zealand illustrates the native belief in the death-wraith by an amusing anecdote. a rangatira, or native gentleman, had gone on the war-path. one day he walked into his wife's house, but after a few moments could not be found. the military expedition did not return, so the lady, taking it for granted that her husband, the owner of the wraith, was dead, married an admirer. the hallucination, however, was _not_ 'veridical'; the warrior came home, but he admitted that he had no remedy and no feud against his successor. the owner of a wraith which has been seen may be assumed to be dead. such is maori belief. the modern civilised examples of death-wraiths, attested and recorded in phantasms of the living, are numerous; but statistics prove that a lady who marries again on the strength of a wraith may commit an error of judgment, and become liable to the penalty of bigamy. the maoris, no statisticians, take a more liberal and tolerant view. these are comparatively scanty examples from savage life, but then they are corroborated by the wealth of recurrent and coincident evidence from civilised races, ancient and modern. on the point of clairvoyance, it is unnecessary to dwell. the second-sighted man, the seer of events remote in space or not yet accomplished in time, is familiar everywhere, from the hebrides to the coppermine river, from the samoyed and eskimo to the zulu, from the euphrates to the hague. the noises heard in 'haunted houses,' the knocking, routing, dragging of heavy bodies, is recorded, mr. tylor says, by dayaks, singhalese, siamese, and esths; dennys, in his folklore of china, notes the occurrences in the celestial empire; grimm, in his german mythology, gives examples, starting from the communicative knocks of a spirit near bingen, in the chronicle of rudolf ( ), and suetonius tells a similar tale from imperial rome. the physician of catherine de medicis, ambroise pare, describes every one of the noises heard by the wesleys, long after his day, as familiar, and as caused by devils. recurrence and conformity of evidence cannot be found in greater force. the anthropological test of evidence for faith in the rejected phenomena is thus amply satisfied. unless we say that these phenomena are 'impossible,' whereas totemism, the couvade, cannibalism, are possible, the testimony to belief in clairvoyance, and the other peculiar occurrences, is as good in its way as the evidence for the practice of wild customs and institutions. there remains a last and notable circumstance. all the abnormal phenomena, in the modern and mediaeval tales, occur most frequently in the presence of convulsionaries, like the so-called victims of witches, like the hon. master sandilands, lord torphichen's son ( ), like the grandson of william morse in new england ( ), and like bovet's case of the demon of spraiton. { } the 'mediums' of modern spiritualism, like francis fey, are, or pretend to be, subject to fits, anaesthesia, jerks, convulsive movements, and trance. as mr. tylor says about his savage jossakeeds, powwows, birraarks, peaimen, everywhere 'these people suffer from hysterical, convulsive, and epileptic affections'. thus the physical condition, all the world over, of persons who exhibit most freely the accepted phenomena, is identical. all the world over, too, the same persons are credited with the _rejected_ phenomena, clairvoyance, 'discerning of spirits,' powers of voluntary 'telepathic 'and 'telekinetic' impact. thus we find that uniform and recurrent evidence vouches for a mass of phenomena which science scouts. science has now accepted a portion of the mass, but still rejects the stranger occurrences. our argument is that their invariably alleged presence, in attendance on the minor occurrences, is, at least, a point worthy of examination. the undesigned coincidences of testimony represent a great deal of smoke, and proverbial wisdom suggests a presumption in favour of a few sparks of fire. now, if there are such sparks, the animistic hypothesis may not, of course, be valid,--'spirits' may not exist,--but the universal belief in their existence may have had its origin, not in normal facts only, but in abnormal facts. and these facts, at the lowest estimate, must suggest that man may have faculties, and be surrounded by agencies, which physical science does not take into account in its theory of the universe and of human nature. we have already argued that the doctrines of theism and of the soul need not to be false, even if they were arrived at slowly, after a succession of grosser opinions. but if the doctrines were reached by a process which started from real facts of human nature, observed by savages, but not yet recognised by physical science, then there may have been grains of truth even in the cruder and earlier ideas, and these grains of gold may have been disengaged, and fashioned, not without divine aid, into the sacred things of spiritual religion. the stories which we have been considering are often trivial, sometimes comic; but they are universally diffused, and as well established as universally coincident testimony can establish anything. now, if there be but one spark of real fire to all this smoke, then the purely materialistic theories of life and of the world must be reconsidered. they seem very well established, but so have many other theories seemed, that are long gone the way of all things human. footnotes: { a} fortnightly review, february , and in a lecture, . { b} this diary was edited for private circulation, by a son of mr. proctor's, who remembers the disturbances. { c} see essays here on classical and savage spiritualism. { d} this was merely a cheerful obiter dictum by the learned president. { } not the house agent. { } porphyry, epistola xxi. iamblichus, de myst., iii. . { } the port glasgow story is in report of the dialectical society, p. . the flooring was torn up; walls, ceilings, cellars, were examined by the police, and attempts were made to imitate the noises, without success. in this case, as at rerrick in the end of the seventeenth century, and elsewhere, 'the appearance of a hand moving up and down' was seen by the family, 'but we could not catch it: it quietly vanished, and we only felt cold air'. the house was occupied by a gardener, hugh mccardle. names of witnesses, a sergeant of police, and others, are appended. { } report of dialectical society, p. . { a} for ourselves, we have never seen or heard a table give any responses whatever, any more than we have seen the ghosts, heard the raps, or viewed the flights of men in the air which we chronicle in a later portion of this work. { b} report on spiritualism, longmans, london, . { } report, p. . { } mr. wallace may be credited with scoring a point in argument. dr. edmunds had maintained that no amount of evidence would make him believe in certain obvious absurdities, say the lions in trafalgar square drinking out of the fountains. mr. wallace replied: 'the asserted fact is either possible or not possible. if possible, such evidence as we have been considering would prove it; if not possible, such evidence could not exist.' no such evidence exists for the lions; for the phenomena of so-called spiritualism, we have consentient testimony in every land, period and stage of culture. that certainly makes a difference, whatever the weight and value of the difference may be. { a} this illustration is not mr. lecky's. { b} we have here thrown together a crowd of odd experiences. the savages' examples are dealt with in the next essay; the catholic marvels in the essay on 'comparative psychical research'. for pascal, consult l'amulette de pascal, by m. lelut; for iamblichus, see essay on 'ancient spiritualism'. as to welsh, the evidence for the light in which he shone is printed in dr. hill burton's scot abroad (i. ), from a wodrow ms. in glasgow university. mr. welsh was minister of ayr. he was meditating in his garden late at night. one of his friends 'chanced to open a window towards the place where he walked, and saw clearly a strange light surround him, and heard him speak strange words about his spiritual joy'. hill burton thinks that this verges on the popish superstition. the truth is that eminent ministers shared the privileges of mediums and of some saints. examples of miraculous cures by ministers, of clairvoyance on their part, of spirit-raps attendant on them, and of prophecy, are current on presbyterian hagiology. no ministers, to our knowledge, were 'levitated,' but some _nearly_ flew out of their pulpits. patrick walker, in his biographia presbyteriana, vol. ii. p. , mentions a supernatural light which floated round the sweet singers, meikle john gibb and his friends, before they burned a bible. mr. gibb afterwards excelled as a pow-wow, or medicine man, among the red indians. { } teutonic mythology, english translation, vol. ii. p. . he cites pertz, i. . { } a very early turning table, of , is quoted from giraldus cambrensis by dean stanley in his canterbury memorials, p. . the table threw off the weapons of becket's murderers. this was at south malling. see the original in wharton's anglia sacra, ii. . { } see mr. tylor's primitive culture, chap, xi., for the best statement of the theory. { } petitot, traditions indiennes du canada nord-ouest, p. . { } very possibly the whirring roar of the turndun, or [greek], in greek, zuni, yoruba, australian, maori and south african mysteries is connected with this belief in a whirring sound caused by spirits. see custom and myth. { a} proc. s. p. r., xix. . { b} brough smyth, i. . { } auckland, , ch. x. { a} [greek].--iamblichus. { b} kohl, kitchi-gami, p. . { } hind's explorations in labrador, ii. . { a} rowley, universities' mission to central africa, p. : cited by mr. tylor. { b} quoted in la table parlante, a french serial, no. i, p. . { } colonel a. b. ellis, in his work on the yorubas ( ), reports singular motions of a large wooden cylinder. it is used in ordeals. { } the natural and morall history of the east and west indies, p. , london, . { } february , . quoted by mr. tylor, in primitive culture, ii. , . { } revue des deux mondes, , tome i. p. . { } hallucinations, english translation, p. , london, . { } laws, xi. { } records of the past, iv. - . { a} the references are to parthey's edition, berlin, . { b} [greek], , . { c} all are, for porphyry, 'phantasmogenetic agencies'. { a} jean brehal, par p.p. belon et balme, paris, s.a., p. . { b} proces de condemnation, i. . { a} appended to beaumont's work on spirits, . { b} see mr. lillie's modern mystics, and, better, mr. myers, in proceedings s. p. r., jan., . { a} origen, or whoever wrote the philosophoumena, gives a recipe for producing a luminous figure on a wall. for moving lights, he suggests attaching lighted tow to a bird, and letting it loose. maury translates the passages in la magie, pp. - . spiritualists, of course, will allege that the world-wide theory of spectral lights is based on fact, and that the hallucinations are not begotten by subjective conditions, but by a genuine 'phantasmogenetic agency'. two men of science, baron schrenk- notzing, and dr. gibotteau, vouch for illusions of light accompanying attempts by _living_ agents to transfer a hallucinatory vision of themselves to persons at a distance (journal s. p. r., iii. ; proceedings, viii. ). it will be asserted by spiritualists that disembodied agencies produce the same effect in a higher degree. { b} [greek]. { } [greek]. { a} damascius, ap. photium. { b} [greek]. { } life of hugh macleod (noble, inverness). as an example of the growth of myth, see the version of these facts in fraser's magazine for . even in a sermon preached immediately after the event, it was said that the dreamer _found_ the pack by revelation of his dream! { } iii. . [greek]. { } greek papyri in the british museum; edited by f. g. kenyon, m.a., london, . { } see notice in classical review, february, . { a} see oracles in eusebius, praep. evang., v. . the medium was tied up in some way, he had to be unloosed and raised from the ground. the inspiring agency, in a hurry to be gone, gave directions for the unbinding. [greek]. the binding of the highland seer in a bull's hide is described by scott in the lady of the lake. a modern highland seer has ensconced himself in a boiler! the purpose is to concentrate the 'force'. { b} praep. evang., v. . { c} ibid., v. , . { a} dr. hodgson, in proceedings s. p. r., jan., , makes mr. kellar's evidence as to indian 'levitation' seem far from convincing! as a professional conjurer, and exposer of spiritualistic imposture, mr. kellar has made statements about his own experiences which are not easily to be harmonised. { b} proceedings s. p. r. jan., . { } the miraculous conformist. a letter to the honourable robert boyle, esq. oxford: university press, . { a} fourth edition, london, . { b} in kirk's secret commonwealth, . london: nutt, . { a} in the salem witch mania, a similar case of levitation was reported by the rev. cotton mather. he produced a cloud of witnesses, who could not hold the woman down. she would fly up. mr. mather sent the signed depositions to his opponent, mr. calef. but calef would not believe, for, said he, 'the age of miracles is past'. which was just the question at issue! see beaumont's treatise of spirits, p. , london, . { b} miracles and modern spiritualism, p. . london: burns, . { c} popular tales, iv. . { } the anecdote is published by charles kirkpatrick sharpe, in a letter of lauderdale's, affixed to sharpe's edition of law's memorialls. { } see ghosts before the law. { } proceedings s. p. r., xv. . { a} see many examples in li fiorette de misser santo francesco. { b} ch. cxviii. { } d. d. home; his life and mission, p. , london, . { } sept. , vol. v., . { a} see colonel yule's marco polo. { b} quarterly journal of science, july, . { a} proceedings s. p. r., xix. . { b} north american review, . { c} proceedings s. p. r., x. - ; xix. . { a} incidents in my life, i. . { b} a paris, chez la veuve du carroy, . { a} folklore of china, , p. . { b} op. cit., p. . { c} paris. quarto. black letter. . the original is extremely rare. we quote from a copy once in the tellier collection, reprinted in recueil de dissertations anciennes et nouvelles sur les apparitions. leloup: avignon, , vol. ii. pp. - . { } proceedings s. p. r., xix. . 'c.' is a miss davis, daughter of a gentleman occupying 'a responsible position as a telegraphist'. the date was . { a} satan's invisible world discovered. edinburgh: reid, . pp. - . { b} manuscript , a, de la bibliotheque du roi. dissertations, ut supra, vol. i. pp. - . { } dufresnoy, op. cit., i. - . { } compare bastian, mensch., ii. , cited by mr. tylor. { } de materia daemon. isagoge, p. . ap. corn. agripp., de occult. philosoph. lyons, . { } aubrey gives a variant in his miscellanies, on the authority of the vicar of barnstaple. he calls fey 'fry'. { a} the devonshire case, 'story of a something,' in miss o'neill's devonshire idylls, is attested by a surviving witness. { b} trials of isobell young, , and of jonet thomson, feb. , . darker superstitions of scotland, p. . { } witness rev. e. t. vaughan, king's langley. . { a} segraisiana, p. . { b} crookes's notes of an enquiry into the phenomena usually called spiritual. . london: burns (second edition). { a} satan's invisible world discovered, p. . { b} a new confutation of sadducism, p. , writ by mr. alexander telfair, london, . { } primitive culture, vol. i. ; ii. . { } the reader may also consult notes on the spirit basis of belief and custom, a rough draft printed for the indian government. while rich in curious facts, the draft contains very little about 'manifestations,' except in 'possession'. { a} gregory, dialogues, iv. . { b} de rerum varietate, xvi. cap. xciii. { } de praestigiis daemon. { } si fallere possunt, ut quis videre se credat, cum videat revera extra se nihil: non poterunt fallere, ut credat quis se audire sonos, quos revera non audit? (p. ). { } proceedings s. p. r., xv. . { } there is one possible exception to this rule. { } s. p. r., viii. . { a} geschichte des neueren occultismus, p. . { b} opera, . { } s. p. r., vi. . { } proc. s. p. r., viii. . { } proc. s. p. r., nov., , p. . { } this is rather overstated; there were knocks, and raps, and footsteps (proc. s. p. r., nov., , p. ). { } proc. s. p. r., april, , p. . { } to be frank, in a haunted house the writer did once see an appearance, which was certainly either the ghost or one of the maids; 'the deil or else an outler quey,' as burns says. { } london, , pp. - . { } s. p. r., xv. . { a} proceedings s. p. r., xvi. . { b} sights and shadows, p. . { } british chronicle, january , . { } annual register. { } praep. evang., v. ix. . { a} rudolfi fuldensis, annal., , in pertz, i. . see grimm's teutonic mythology, engl. transl., p. . { b} pseudo-clemens, homil., ii. , . in mr. myers's classical essays, p. . { } avignon, . { } compare the case of john beaumont, f.r.s., in his treatise of spirits ( ). { } proceedings s. p. r., viii. - . { } mrs. ricketts was a sister of lord st. vincent, who tried, in vain, to discover the cause of the disturbances. scott says (demonology and witchcraft, p. ): 'who has heard or seen an authentic account from lord st. vincent?' there is a full account in the journal of the s. p. r. it appeared much too late for sir walter scott also complains of lack of details for the wynyard story. they are now accessible. people were, in his time, afraid to make their experiences public. { } the story is told by charles kirkpatrick sharpe, in his introduction to law's memorialls, p. xci. sharpe cites no source of the tradition. { } we are not discussing dreams, which are many, but waking hallucinations, which are, relatively rare, and are remembered, unlike dreams, whether they are coincidental or not. { } gurney, op. cit., p. . { a} the writer knows a case in which a gentleman, who had gone to bed about eleven p.m., in scotland, was roused by hearing his own name loudly called. he searched his room in vain. his brother died suddenly, at the hour when he heard the voice, in canada. but the difference of time proves that the voice was heard several hours _before_ the death. here, then, is a chance coincidence, which looked very like a case of telepathy. another will be found in mr. dale owen's debatable land, p. . a gentleman died 'after breakfast' in rhenish prussia, and appeared, before noon, in new york. thus he appeared hours after he died. { b} polack, new zealand, i. . { a} proceedings s. p. r., xv. . { b} the writer has known a case in which a collector of these statistics, disdained non-coincidental hallucinations as 'of no use' { } proceedings s. p. r., xv. . { } animal magnetism, pp. - , . { } the psychical society has published the writer's encounter with professor conington, at oxford, in , when the professor was lying within one or two days of his death at boston, a circumstance wholly unknown to the percipient. but no jury would accept this as anything but a case of mistaken identity, natural in a short-sighted man's vague experiences. mr. conington was not a man easily to be mistaken for another, nor were many men likely to be mistaken for mr. conington. yet this is what must have occurred. there was no conceivable reason why the professor should 'telepathically' communicate with the percipient, who had never exchanged a word with him, except in an examination. { } proceedings of society for psychical research, viii. . { } proceedings of society for psychical research, xiv. . { a} modern spirit manifestations. by adin ballou. liverpool, . { b} proceedings of society for psychical research, xiv. . { } edinburgh, , vol. i. p. xxxii. { } in the author's case the hypnagogic phantasms seem to be created out of the floating spots of light which remain when the eyes are shut. some crystal-gazers find that similar points de repere in the glass, are the starting-points of pictures in the crystal. others cannot trace any such connection. { } compare blackwood, august, , in noctes ambrosianae. { a} paus., ii. , i. { b} bouche leclercq, i. . { } the accomplished scryer can see as well in a crystal ringstone, or in a glass of water, as in a big crystal ball. the latter may really be dangerous, if left on a cloth in the sun it may set the cloth on fire. { } animal magnetism, second edition, p. . { } thus an educated gentleman, a highlander, tells the author that he once saw a light of this kind 'not a meteor,' passing in air along a road where a funeral went soon afterwards. his companions could see nothing, but one of them said: 'it will be a death- candle'. it seems to have been hallucinatory, otherwise all would have shared the experience. { a} darker superstitions of scotland, p. , edinburgh, . { b} op. cit., p. . { a} op. cit., p. { b} it is, perhaps, needless to add that the unhappy patients were executed. { c} miscellanies, , p. . { a} wodrow, i. . { b} aulus gellius, xv. . dio cassius, lib. lxvii. crespet, de la hayne de diable, cited by dalyell. { } miscellanies, . { } a copy presented by scott to sir alexander boswell of auchinleck is in the author's possession; it bears scott's autograph. { } information from mr. mackay, craigmonie. { } kings, v. . { } i. . longmans, london, . { } tylor, primitive culture, i. . { } this belief is not confined to the highlands. mr. podmore quotes ghost in the psychical society's collections: 'the narrator's mother is said to have seen the figure of a man'. the father saw nothing till his wife laid her hand on his shoulder, when he exclaimed, 'i see him now' (s. p. r., nov., , p. ). { } 'spectral evidence' was common in witch trials. wierus (b. ) mentions a woman who confessed that she had been at a witch's covin, or 'sabbath,' when her body was in bed with her husband. if there was any confirmatory testimony, if any one chose to say that he saw her at the 'sabbath,' that was 'spectral evidence'. this kind of testimony made it vain for a witch to take mr. weller's advice, and plead 'a halibi,' but even cotton mather admits that 'spectral evidence' is inconclusive. { } papon. arrets., xx. , . charondas, lib. viii. resp. . covarruvias, iv. . mornac, s. v., habitations, ff., locat. and conduct. other doctors do not deny hauntings, but allege that a brave man should disregard them, and that they do not fulfil he legal condition, metus cadens in constantem virim. these doctors may never have seen a ghost, or may have been unusually courageous. they held that a man might get accustomed to the annoyances of bogles, s'apprivoiser avec cette frayeur, like the procter family at willington. { } miscellanies, p. , london, . { } hibbert, philosophy of apparitions, second edition, p. . hibbert finds graime guilty, but only because he knew where the body lay. { } notices relative to the bannatyne club, , p. . remarkable trial in maryland. { } paris, . reprinted by lenglet dufresnoy, in his dissertations sur les apparitions. avignon, , vol. iii. p. . { } second edition, buon, paris, . first edition, angers, . { } dr. lee, in sights and sounds (p. ), quotes an irish lawsuit in . the tenants were anxious not to pay rent, but were non-suited. no reference to authorities is given. there was also a case at dublin in . waldron's house was disturbed, 'stones were thrown at the windows and doors,' and waldron accused his neighbour, kiernan, of these assaults. he lost his case (evening standard, february , , is cited). { } p. , london, . { } the account followed here is that of the narrator in la table parlante, p. , who differs in some points from the marquis de mirville in his fragment d'un ouvrage inedit, paris, . { } for bewitching by touch see cotton mather's wonders of the invisible world, p. . 'library of old authors,' london, . { a} cotton mather, op. cit., p. . { b} table parlante, p. . a somewhat different version is given p. . the narrator seems to say that cheval himself deposed to having witnessed this experiment. { a} gazette des tribunaux, february , , quoted in table parlante, p. . { b} table parlante, p. . { } hibbert, apparitions, p. . { } mather's own account of the lost sermon (p. ) is in his life, by mr. barrett wendell, p. . it is by no means so romantic as wodrow's version. { } an account of the method by which the miss foxes rapped is given, by a cousin of theirs, in dr. carpenter's mesmerism (p. ). { } see dr. carpenter's brief and lucid statement about 'latent thought' and 'unconscious cerebration,' in the quarterly review, vol. cxxxi. pp. - . { } a learned priest has kindly looked for the alleged spiritus percutiens in dedicatory and other ecclesiastical formulae. he only finds it in benedictions of bridal chambers, and thinks it refers to the slaying spirit in the book of tobit. { a} s. p. r., x. . { b} london: longmans, green, & co., . { } quoted by dr. carpenter, op. cit., p. vii. { } tom. ii. pp. , , edition of . { } in the quarterly review, vol. cxxxi. pp. - , dr. carpenter criticises an account given by lord crawford of this performance. he asks for the evidence of the other witnesses. this was supplied. he detects a colloquial slovenliness in a phrase. this was cleared up. he complains that the light was moonlight. 'the moon was shining full into the room.' a minute philosopher has consulted the almanack and denies that there was any moon! { } lord crawford's evidence is in the report of the dialectical society, p. { } quarterly review, vol. cxxxi. p. . { } observe the caution of the mosstrooper, even in that agitating moment! how good it is, and how wonderfully sir walter forecasts a seance. { a} lucretius, iv. - , munro's translation. { b} def. orac., . { c} ibid., iv. . { } porphyry, vita plotini. { } primitive culture, i. . { } in the pandemonium, or devil's cloyster, of richard bovet, gent. ( ). transcribed by david price, email ccx @coventry.ac.uk the book of dreams and ghosts preface to the new impression since the first edition of this book appeared ( ) a considerable number of new and startling ghost stories, british, foreign and colonial, not yet published, have reached me. second sight abounds. crystal gazing has also advanced in popularity. for a singular series of such visions, in which distant persons and places, unknown to the gazer, were correctly described by her, i may refer to my book, the making of religion ( ). a memorial stone has been erected on the scene of the story called "the foul fords" (p. ), so that tale is likely to endure in tradition. july, . preface to the first edition the chief purpose of this book is, if fortune helps, to entertain people interested in the kind of narratives here collected. for the sake of orderly arrangement, the stories are classed in different grades, as they advance from the normal and familiar to the undeniably startling. at the same time an account of the current theories of apparitions is offered, in language as free from technicalities as possible. according to modern opinion every "ghost" is a "hallucination," a false perception, the perception of something which is not present. it has not been thought necessary to discuss the psychological and physiological processes involved in perception, real or false. every "hallucination" is a perception, "as good and true a sensation as if there were a real object there. the object happens _not_ to be there, that is all." { a} we are not here concerned with the visions of insanity, delirium, drugs, drink, remorse, or anxiety, but with "sporadic cases of hallucination, visiting people only once in a lifetime, which seems to be by far the most frequent type". "these," says mr. james, "are on any theory hard to understand in detail. they are often extraordinarily complete; and the fact that many of them are reported as _veridical_, that is, as coinciding with real events, such as accidents, deaths, etc., of the persons seen, is an additional complication of the phenomenon." { b} a ghost, if seen, is undeniably so far a "hallucination" that it gives the impression of the presence of a real person, in flesh, blood, and usually clothes. no such person in flesh, blood, and clothes, is actually there. so far, at least, every ghost is a hallucination, "_that_" in the language of captain cuttle, "you may lay to," without offending science, religion, or common-sense. and that, in brief, is the modern doctrine of ghosts. the old doctrine of "ghosts" regarded them as actual "spirits" of the living or the dead, freed from the flesh or from the grave. this view, whatever else may be said for it, represents the simple philosophy of the savage, which may be correct or erroneous. about the time of the reformation, writers, especially protestant writers, preferred to look on apparitions as the work of deceitful devils, who masqueraded in the aspect of the dead or living, or made up phantasms out of "compressed air". the common-sense of the eighteenth century dismissed all apparitions as "dreams" or hoaxes, or illusions caused by real objects misinterpreted, such as rats, cats, white posts, maniacs at large, sleep-walkers, thieves, and so forth. modern science, when it admits the possibility of occasional hallucinations in the sane and healthy, also admits, of course, the existence of apparitions. these, for our purposes, are hallucinatory appearances occurring in the experience of people healthy and sane. the difficulty begins when we ask whether these appearances ever have any provoking mental cause outside the minds of the people who experience them--any cause arising in the minds of others, alive or dead. this is a question which orthodox psychology does not approach, standing aside from any evidence which may be produced. this book does not pretend to be a convincing, but merely an illustrative collection of evidence. it may, or may not, suggest to some readers the desirableness of further inquiry; the author certainly does not hope to do more, if as much. it may be urged that many of the stories here narrated come from remote times, and, as the testimony for these cannot be rigidly studied, that the old unauthenticated stories clash with the analogous tales current on better authority in our own day. but these ancient legends are given, not as evidence, but for three reasons: first, because of their merit as mere stories; next, because several of them are now perhaps for the first time offered with a critical discussion of their historical sources; lastly, because the old legends seem to show how the fancy of periods less critical than ours dealt with such facts as are now reported in a dull undramatic manner. thus ( ) the icelandic ghost stories have peculiar literary merit as simple dramatic narratives. ( ) every one has heard of the wesley ghost, sir george villiers's spectre, lord lyttelton's ghost, the beresford ghost, mr. williams's dream of mr. perceval's murder, and so forth. but the original sources have not, as a rule, been examined in the ordinary spirit of calm historical criticism, by aid of a comparison of the earliest versions in print or manuscript. ( ) even ghost stories, as a rule, have some basis of fact, whether fact of hallucination, or illusion, or imposture. they are, at lowest, "human documents". now, granting such facts (of imposture, hallucination, or what you will), as our dull, modern narratives contain, we can regard these facts, or things like these, as the nuclei which our less critical ancestors elaborated into their extraordinary romances. in this way the belief in demoniacal possession (distinguished, as such, from madness and epilepsy) has its nucleus, some contend, in the phenomena of alternating personalities in certain patients. their characters, ideas, habits, and even voices change, and the most obvious solution of the problem, in the past, was to suppose that a new alien personality--a "devil"--had entered into the sufferer. again, the phenomena occurring in "haunted houses" (whether caused, or not, by imposture or hallucination, or both) were easily magnified into such legends as that of grettir and glam, and into the monstrosities of the witch trials. once more the simple hallucination of a dead person's appearance in his house demanded an explanation. this was easily given by evolving a legend that he was a spirit, escaped from purgatory or the grave, to fulfil a definite purpose. the rarity of such purposeful ghosts in an age like ours, so rich in ghost stories, must have a cause. that cause is, probably, a dwindling of the myth-making faculty. any one who takes these matters seriously, as facts in human nature, must have discovered the difficulty of getting evidence at first hand. this arises from several causes. first, the cock-sure common-sense of the years from to , or so, regarded every one who had experience of a hallucination as a dupe, a lunatic, or a liar. in this healthy state of opinion, eminent people like lord brougham kept their experience to themselves, or, at most, nervously protested that they "were sure it was only a dream". next, to tell the story was, often, to enter on a narrative of intimate, perhaps painful, domestic circumstances. thirdly, many persons now refuse information as a matter of "principle," or of "religious principle," though it is difficult to see where either principle or religion is concerned, if the witness is telling what he believes to be true. next, some devotees of science aver that these studies may bring back faith by a side wind, and, with faith, the fires of smithfield and the torturing of witches. these opponents are what professor huxley called "dreadful consequences argufiers," when similar reasons were urged against the doctrine of evolution. their position is strongest when they maintain that these topics have a tendency to befog the intellect. a desire to prove the existence of "new forces" may beget indifference to logic and to the laws of evidence. this is true, and we have several dreadful examples among men otherwise scientific. but all studies have their temptations. many a historian, to prove the guilt or innocence of queen mary, has put evidence, and logic, and common honesty far from him. yet this is no reason for abandoning the study of history. there is another class of difficulties. as anthropology becomes popular, every inquirer knows what customs he _ought_ to find among savages, so, of course, he finds them. in the same way, people may now know what customs it is orthodox to find among ghosts, and may pretend to find them, or may simulate them by imposture. the white sheet and clanking chains are forsaken for a more realistic rendering of the ghostly part. the desire of social notoriety may beget wanton fabrications. in short, all studies have their perils, and these are among the dangers which beset the path of the inquirer into things ghostly. he must adopt the stoical maxim: "be sober and do not believe"--in a hurry. if there be truth in even one case of "telepathy," it will follow that the human soul is a thing endowed with attributes not yet recognised by science. it cannot be denied that this is a serious consideration, and that very startling consequences might be deduced from it; such beliefs, indeed, as were generally entertained in the ages of christian darkness which preceded the present era of enlightenment. but our business in studies of any kind is, of course, with truth, as we are often told, not with the consequences, however ruinous to our most settled convictions, or however pernicious to society. the very opposite objection comes from the side of religion. these things we learn, are spiritual mysteries into which men must not inquire. this is only a relic of the ancient opinion that he was an impious character who first launched a boat, god having made man a terrestrial animal. assuredly god put us into a world of phenomena, and gave us inquiring minds. we have as much right to explore the phenomena of these minds as to explore the ocean. again, if it be said that our inquiries may lead to an undignified theory of the future life (so far they have not led to any theory at all), that, also, is the position of the dreadful consequences argufier. lastly, "the stories may frighten children". for children the book is not written, any more than if it were a treatise on comparative anatomy. the author has frequently been asked, both publicly and privately: "do you believe in ghosts?" one can only answer: "how do you define a ghost?" i do believe, with all students of human nature, in hallucinations of one, or of several, or even of all the senses. but as to whether such hallucinations, among the sane, are ever caused by psychical influences from the minds of others, alive or dead, not communicated through the ordinary channels of sense, my mind is in a balance of doubt. it is a question of evidence. in this collection many stories are given without the real names of the witnesses. in most of the cases the real names, and their owners, are well known to myself. in not publishing the names i only take the common privilege of writers on medicine and psychology. in other instances the names are known to the managers of the society for psychical research, who have kindly permitted me to borrow from their collections. while this book passed through the press, a long correspondence called "on the trail of a ghost" appeared in the times. it illustrated the copious fallacies which haunt the human intellect. thus it was maintained by some persons, and denied by others, that sounds of unknown origin were occasionally heard in a certain house. these, it was suggested, might (if really heard) be caused by slight seismic disturbances. now many people argue, "blunderstone house is not haunted, for i passed a night there, and nothing unusual occurred". apply this to a house where noises are actually caused by young earthquakes. would anybody say: "there are no seismic disturbances near blunderstone house, for i passed a night there, and none occurred"? why should a noisy ghost (if there is such a thing) or a hallucinatory sound (if there is such a thing), be expected to be more punctual and pertinacious than a seismic disturbance? again, the gentleman who opened the correspondence with a long statement on the negative side, cried out, like others, for scientific publicity, for names of people and places. but neither he nor his allies gave their own names. he did not precisely establish his claim to confidence by publishing his version of private conversations. yet he expected science and the public to believe his anonymous account of a conversation, with an unnamed person, at which he did not and could not pretend to have been present. he had a theory of sounds heard by himself which could have been proved, or disproved, in five minutes, by a simple experiment. but that experiment he does not say that he made. this kind of evidence is thought good enough on the negative side. it certainly would not be accepted by any sane person for the affirmative side. if what is called psychical research has no other results, at least it enables us to perceive the fallacies which can impose on the credulity of common-sense. in preparing this collection of tales, i owe much to mr. w. a. craigie, who translated the stories from the gaelic and the icelandic; to miss elspeth campbell, who gives a version of the curious argyll tradition of ticonderoga (rhymed by mr. robert louis stevenson, who put a cameron where a campbell should be); to miss violet simpson, who found the windham ms. about the duke of buckingham's story, and made other researches; and to miss goodrich freer, who pointed out the family version of "the tyrone ghost". chapter i arbuthnot on political lying. begin with "great swingeing falsehoods". the opposite method to be used in telling ghost stones. begin with the more familiar and credible. sleep. dreams. ghosts are identical with waking dreams. possibility of being asleep when we think we are awake. dreams shared by several people. story of the dog fanti. the swithinbank dream. common features of ghosts and dreams. mark twain's story. theory of common-sense. not logical. fulfilled dreams. the pig in the palace. the mignonette. dreams of reawakened memory. the lost cheque. the ducks' eggs. the lost key. drama in dreams. the lost securities. the portuguese gold-piece. st. augustine's story. the two curmas. knowledge acquired in dreams. the assyrian priest. the deja vu. "i have been here before." sir walter's experience. explanations. the knot in the shutter. transition to stranger dreams. arbuthnot, in his humorous work on political lying, commends the whigs for occasionally trying the people with "great swingeing falsehoods". when these are once got down by the populace, anything may follow without difficulty. excellently as this practice has worked in politics (compare the warming-pan lie of ), in the telling of ghost stories a different plan has its merits. beginning with the common-place and familiar, and therefore credible, with the thin end of the wedge, in fact, a wise narrator will advance to the rather unusual, the extremely rare, the undeniably startling, and so arrive at statements which, without this discreet and gradual initiation, a hasty reader might, justly or unjustly, dismiss as "great swingeing falsehoods". the nature of things and of men has fortunately made this method at once easy, obvious, and scientific. even in the rather fantastic realm of ghosts, the stories fall into regular groups, advancing in difficulty, like exercises in music or in a foreign language. we therefore start from the easiest exercises in belief, or even from those which present no difficulty at all. the defect of the method is that easy stories are dull reading. but the student can "skip". we begin with common every-night dreams. sleeping is as natural as waking; dreams are nearly as frequent as every-day sensations, thoughts, and emotions. but dreams, being familiar, are credible; it is admitted that people do dream; we reach the less credible as we advance to the less familiar. for, if we think for a moment, the alleged events of ghostdom--apparitions of all sorts--are precisely identical with the every-night phenomena of dreaming, except for the avowed element of sleep in dreams. in dreams, time and space are annihilated, and two severed lovers may be made happy. in dreams, amidst a grotesque confusion of things remembered and things forgot, we _see_ the events of the past (i have been at culloden fight and at the siege of troy); we are present in places remote; we behold the absent; we converse with the dead, and we may even (let us say by chance coincidence) forecast the future. all these things, except the last, are familiar to everybody who dreams. it is also certain that similar, but yet more vivid, false experiences may be produced, at the word of the hypnotiser, in persons under the hypnotic sleep. a hypnotised man will take water for wine, and get drunk on it. now, the ghostly is nothing but the experience, when men are awake, or _apparently_ awake, of the every-night phenomena of dreaming. the vision of the absent seen by a waking, or apparently waking, man is called "a wraith"; the waking, or apparently waking, vision of the dead is called "a ghost". yet, as st. augustine says, the absent man, or the dead man, may know no more of the vision, and may have no more to do with causing it, than have the absent or the dead whom we are perfectly accustomed to see in our dreams. moreover, the comparatively rare cases in which two or more waking people are alleged to have seen the same "ghost," simultaneously or in succession, have _their_ parallel in sleep, where two or more persons simultaneously dream the same dream. of this curious fact let us give one example: the names only are altered. the dog fanti mrs. ogilvie of drumquaigh had a poodle named fanti. her family, or at least those who lived with her, were her son, the laird, and three daughters. of these the two younger, at a certain recent date, were paying a short visit to a neighbouring country house. mrs. ogilvie was accustomed to breakfast in her bedroom, not being in the best of health. one morning miss ogilvie came down to breakfast and said to her brother, "i had an odd dream; i dreamed fanti went mad". "well, that _is_ odd," said her brother. "so did i. we had better not tell mother; it might make her nervous." miss ogilvie went up after breakfast to see the elder lady, who said, "do turn out fanti; i dreamed last night that he went mad and bit". in the afternoon the two younger sisters came home. "how did you enjoy yourselves?" one of the others asked. "we didn't sleep well. i was dreaming that fanti went mad when mary wakened me, and said she had dreamed fanti went mad, and turned into a cat, and we threw him into the fire." thus, as several people may see the same ghost at once, several people may dream the same dream at once. as a matter of fact, fanti lived, sane and harmless, "all the length of all his years". { } now, this anecdote is credible, certainly is credible by people who know the dreaming family. it is nothing more than a curiosity of coincidences; and, as fanti remained a sober, peaceful hound, in face of five dreamers, the absence of fulfilment increases the readiness of belief. but compare the case of the swithinbanks. mr. swithinbank, on th may, , signed for publication a statement to this effect:-- during the peninsular war his father and his two brothers were quartered at dover. their family were at bradford. the brothers slept in various quarters of dover camp. one morning they met after parade. "o william, i have had a queer dream," said mr. swithinbank's father. "so have i," replied the brother, when, to the astonishment of both, the other brother, john, said, "i have had a queer dream as well. i dreamt that mother was dead." "so did i," said each of the other brothers. and the mother had died on the night of this dreaming. mrs. hudson, daughter of one of the brothers, heard the story from all three. { a} the distribution of the fulfilled is less than that of the unfulfilled dream by three to five. it has the extra coincidence of the death. but as it is very common to dream of deaths, some such dreams must occasionally hit the target. other examples might be given of shared dreams: { b} they are only mentioned here to prove that all the _waking_ experiences of things ghostly, such as visions of the absent and of the dead, and of the non-existent, are familiar, and may even be common simultaneously to several persons, in _sleep_. that men may sleep without being aware of it, even while walking abroad; that we may drift, while we think ourselves awake, into a semi-somnolent state for a period of time perhaps almost imperceptible is certain enough. now, the peculiarity of sleep is to expand or contract time, as we may choose to put the case. alfred maury, the well-known writer on greek religion, dreamed a long, vivid dream of the reign of terror, of his own trial before a revolutionary tribunal, and of his execution, in the moment of time during which he was awakened by the accidental fall of a rod in the canopy of his bed, which touched him on the neck. thus even a prolonged interview with a ghost may _conceivably_ be, in real time, a less than momentary dream occupying an imperceptible tenth of a second of somnolence, the sleeper not realising that he has been asleep. mark twain, who is seriously interested in these subjects, has published an experience illustrative of such possibilities. he tells his tale at considerable length, but it amounts to this:-- mark twain's story mark was smoking his cigar outside the door of his house when he saw a man, a stranger, approaching him. suddenly he ceased to be visible! mark, who had long desired to see a ghost, rushed into his house to record the phenomenon. there, seated on a chair in the hall, was the very man, who had come on some business. as mark's negro footman acts, when the bell is rung, on the principle, "perhaps they won't persevere," his master is wholly unable to account for the disappearance of the visitor, whom he never saw passing him or waiting at his door--except on the theory of an unconscious nap. now, a disappearance is quite as mystical as an appearance, and much less common. this theory, that apparitions come in an infinitesimal moment of sleep, while a man is conscious of his surroundings and believes himself to be awake was the current explanation of ghosts in the eighteenth century. any educated man who "saw a ghost" or "had a hallucination" called it a "dream," as lord brougham and lord lyttelton did. but, if the death of the person seen coincided with his appearance to them, they illogically argued that, out of the innumerable multitude of dreams, some _must_ coincide, accidentally, with facts. they strove to forget that though dreams in sleep are universal and countless, "dreams" in waking hours are extremely rare-- unique, for instance, in lord brougham's own experience. therefore, the odds against chance coincidence are very great. dreams only form subjects of good dream-stories when the vision coincides with and adequately represents an _unknown_ event in the past, the present, or the future. we dream, however vividly, of the murder of rizzio. nobody is surprised at that, the incident being familiar to most people, in history and art. but, if we dreamed of being present at an unchronicled scene in queen mary's life, and if, _after_ the dream was recorded, a document proving its accuracy should be for the first time recovered, then there is matter for a good dream-story. { } again, we dream of an event not to be naturally guessed or known by us, and our dream (which should be recorded before tidings of the fact arrive) tallies with the news of the event when it comes. or, finally, we dream of an event (recording the dream), and that event occurs in the future. in all these cases the actual occurrence of the unknown event is the only addition to the dream's usual power of crumpling up time and space. as a rule such dreams are only mentioned _after_ the event, and so are not worth noticing. very often the dream is forgotten by the dreamer till he hears of or sees the event. he is then either reminded of his dream by association of ideas or _he has never dreamed at all_, and his belief that he has dreamed is only a form of false memory, of the common sensation of "having been here before," which he attributes to an awakened memory of a real dream. still more often the dream is unconsciously cooked by the narrator into harmony with facts. as a rule fulfilled dreams deal with the most trivial affairs, and such as, being usual, may readily occur by chance coincidence. indeed it is impossible to set limits to such coincidence, for it would indeed be extraordinary if extraordinary coincidences never occurred. to take examples:-- the pig in the dining-room mrs. atlay, wife of a late bishop of hereford, dreamed one night that there was a pig in the dining-room of the palace. she came downstairs, and in the hall told her governess and children of the dream, before family prayers. when these were over, nobody who was told the story having left the hall in the interval, she went into the dining-room and there was the pig. it was proved to have escaped from the sty after mrs. atlay got up. here the dream is of the common grotesque type; millions of such things are dreamed. the event, the pig in the palace, is unusual, and the coincidence of pig and dream is still more so. but unusual events must occur, and each has millions of dreams as targets to aim at, so to speak. it would be surprising if no such target were ever hit. here is another case--curious because the dream was forgotten till the corresponding event occurred, but there was a slight discrepancy between event and dream. the mignonette mrs. herbert returned with her husband from london to their country home on the border. they arrived rather late in the day, prepared to visit the garden, and decided to put off the visit till the morrow. at night mrs. herbert dreamed that they went into the garden, down a long walk to a mignonette bed near the vinery. the mignonette was black with innumerable bees, and wilburd, the gardener, came up and advised mr. and mrs. herbert not to go nearer. next morning the pair went to the garden. the air round the mignonette was dark with _wasps_. mrs. herbert now first remembered and told her dream, adding, "but in the dream they were _bees_". wilburd now came up and advised them not to go nearer, as a wasps' nest had been injured and the wasps were on the warpath. here accidental coincidence is probable enough. { } there is another class of dreams very useful, and apparently not so very uncommon, that are veracious and communicate correct information, which the dreamer did not know that he knew and was very anxious to know. these are rare enough to be rather difficult to believe. thus:-- the lost cheque mr. a., a barrister, sat up one night to write letters, and about half-past twelve went out to put them in the post. on undressing he missed a cheque for a large sum, which he had received during the day. he hunted everywhere in vain, went to bed, slept, and dreamed that he saw the cheque curled round an area railing not far from his own door. he woke, got up, dressed, walked down the street and found his cheque in the place he had dreamed of. in his opinion he had noticed it fall from his pocket as he walked to the letter-box, without consciously remarking it, and his deeper memory awoke in slumber. { a} the ducks' eggs a little girl of the author's family kept ducks and was anxious to sell the eggs to her mother. but the eggs could not be found by eager search. on going to bed she said, "perhaps i shall dream of them". next morning she exclaimed, "i _did_ dream of them, they are in a place between grey rock, broom, and mallow; that must be 'the poney's field'!" and there the eggs were found. { b} the lost key lady x., after walking in a wood near her house in ireland, found that she had lost an important key. she dreamed that it was lying at the root of a certain tree, where she found it next day, and her theory is the same as that of mr. a., the owner of the lost cheque. { c} as a rule dreams throw everything into a dramatic form. some one knocks at our door, and the dream bases a little drama on the noise; it constructs an explanatory myth, a myth to account for the noise, which is acted out in the theatre of the brain. to take an instance, a disappointing one:-- the lost securities a lady dreamed that she was sitting at a window, watching the end of an autumn sunset. there came a knock at the front door and a gentleman and lady were ushered in. the gentleman wore an old- fashioned snuff-coloured suit, of the beginning of the century; he was, in fact, an aged uncle, who, during the napoleonic wars, had been one of the english detenus in france. the lady was very beautiful and wore something like a black spanish mantilla. the pair carried with them a curiously wrought steel box. before conversation was begun, the maid (still in the dream) brought in the lady's chocolate and the figures vanished. when the maid withdrew, the figures reappeared standing by the table. the box was now open, and the old gentleman drew forth some yellow papers, written on in faded ink. these, he said, were lists of securities, which had been in his possession, when he went abroad in --, and in france became engaged to his beautiful companion. "the securities," he said, "are now in the strong box of messrs. ---;" another rap at the door, and the actual maid entered with real hot water. it was time to get up. the whole dream had its origin in the first rap, heard by the dreamer and dramatised into the arrival of visitors. probably it did not last for more than two or three seconds of real time. the maid's second knock just prevented the revelation of the name of "messrs. ---," who, like the lady in the mantilla, were probably non-existent people. { } thus dream dramatises on the impulse of some faint, hardly perceived real sensation. and thus either mere empty fancies (as in the case of the lost securities) or actual knowledge which we may have once possessed but have totally forgotten, or conclusions which have passed through our brains as unheeded guesses, may in a dream be, as it were, "revealed" through the lips of a character in the brain's theatre-- that character may, in fact, be alive, or dead, or merely fantastical. a very good case is given with this explanation (lost knowledge revived in a dramatic dream about a dead man) by sir walter scott in a note to the antiquary. familiar as the story is it may be offered here, for a reason which will presently be obvious. the arrears of teind "mr. rutherford, of bowland, a gentleman of landed property in the vale of gala, was prosecuted for a very considerable sum, the accumulated arrears of teind (or tithe) for which he was said to be indebted to a noble family, the titulars (lay impropriators of the tithes). mr. rutherford was strongly impressed with the belief that his father had, by a form of process peculiar to the law of scotland, purchased these teinds from the titular, and, therefore, that the present prosecution was groundless. but, after an industrious search among his father's papers, an investigation among the public records and a careful inquiry among all persons who had transacted law business for his father, no evidence could be recovered to support his defence. the period was now near at hand, when he conceived the loss of his law-suit to be inevitable; and he had formed the determination to ride to edinburgh next day and make the best bargain he could in the way of compromise. he went to bed with this resolution, and, with all the circumstances of the case floating upon his mind, had a dream to the following purpose. his father, who had been many years dead, appeared to him, he thought, and asked him why he was disturbed in his mind. in dreams men are not surprised at such apparitions. mr. rutherford thought that he informed his father of the cause of his distress, adding that the payment of a considerable sum of money was the more unpleasant to him because he had a strong consciousness that it was not due, though he was unable to recover any evidence in support of his belief. 'you are right, my son,' replied the paternal shade. 'i did acquire right to these teinds for payment of which you are now prosecuted. the papers relating to the transaction are in the hands of mr. ---, a writer (or attorney), who is now retired from professional business and resides at inveresk, near edinburgh. he was a person whom i employed on that occasion for a particular reason, but who never on any other occasion transacted business on my account. it is very possible,' pursued the vision, 'that mr. --- may have forgotten a matter which is now of a very old date; but you may call it to his recollection by this token, that when i came to pay his account there was difficulty in getting change for a portugal piece of gold and we were forced to drink out the balance at a tavern.' "mr. rutherford awoke in the morning with all the words of the vision imprinted on his mind, and thought it worth while to walk across the country to inveresk instead of going straight to edinburgh. when he came there he waited on the gentleman mentioned in the dream--a very old man. without saying anything of the vision he inquired whether he ever remembered having conducted such a matter for his deceased father. the old gentleman could not at first bring the circumstance to his recollection, but on mention of the portugal piece of gold the whole returned upon his memory. he made an immediate search for the papers and recovered them, so that mr. rutherford carried to edinburgh the documents necessary to gain the cause which he was on the verge of losing." the story is reproduced because it is clearly one of the tales which come round in cycles, either because events repeat themselves or because people will unconsciously localise old legends in new places and assign old occurrences or fables to new persons. thus every one has heard how lord westbury called a certain man in the herald's office "a foolish old fellow who did not even know his own foolish old business". lord westbury may very well have said this, but long before his time the remark was attributed to the famous lord chesterfield. lord westbury may have quoted it from chesterfield or hit on it by accident, or the old story may have been assigned to him. in the same way mr. rutherford may have had his dream or the following tale of st. augustine's (also cited by scott) may have been attributed to him, with the picturesque addition about the piece of portuguese gold. except for the piece of portuguese gold st. augustine practically tells the anecdote in his de cura pro mortuis habenda, adding the acute reflection which follows. { } "of a surety, when we were at milan, we heard tell of a certain person of whom was demanded payment of a debt, with production of his deceased father's acknowledgment, which debt, unknown to the son, the father had paid, whereupon the man began to be very sorrowful, and to marvel that his father while dying did not tell him what he owed when he also made his will. then in this exceeding anxiousness of his, his said father appeared to him in a dream, and made known to him where was the counter acknowledgment by which that acknowledgment was cancelled. which when the young man had found and showed, he not only rebutted the wrongful claim of a false debt, but also got back his father's note of hand, which the father had not got back when the money was paid. "here then the soul of a man is supposed to have had care for his son, and to have come to him in his sleep, that, teaching him what he did not know, he might relieve him of a great trouble. but about the very same time as we heard this, it chanced at carthage that the rhetorician eulogius, who had been my disciple in that art, being (as he himself, after our return to africa, told us the story) in course of lecturing to his disciples on cicero's rhetorical books, as he looked over the portion of reading which he was to deliver on the following day, fell upon a certain passage, and not being able to understand it, was scarce able to sleep for the trouble of his mind: in which night, as he dreamed, i expounded to him that which he did not understand; nay, not i, but my likeness, while i was unconscious of the thing and far away beyond sea, it might be doing, or it might be dreaming, some other thing, and not in the least caring for his cares. in what way these things come about i know not; but in what way soever they come, why do we not believe it comes in the same way for a person in a dream to see a dead man, as it comes that he sees a living man? both, no doubt, neither knowing nor caring who dreams of their images, or where or when. "like dreams, moreover, are some visions of persons awake, who have had their senses troubled, such as phrenetic persons, or those who are mad in any way, for they, too, talk to themselves just as though they were speaking to people verily present, and as well with absent men as with present, whose images they perceive whether persons living or dead. but just as they who live are unconscious that they are seen of them and talk with them (for indeed they are not really themselves present, or themselves make speeches, but through troubled senses these persons are wrought upon by such like imaginary visions), just so they also who have departed this life, to persons thus affected appear as present while they be absent, and are themselves utterly unconscious whether any man sees them in regard of their image." { } st. augustine adds a similar story of a trance. the two curmas a rustic named curma, of tullium, near hippo, augustine's town, fell into a catalepsy. on reviving he said: "run to the house of curma the smith and see what is going on". curma the smith was found to have died just when the other curma awoke. "i knew it," said the invalid, "for i heard it said in that place whence i have returned that not i, curma of the curia, but curma the smith, was wanted." but curma of the curia saw living as well as dead people, among others augustine, who, in his vision, baptised him at hippo. curma then, in the vision, went to paradise, where he was told to go and be baptised. he said it had been done already, and was answered, "go and be truly baptised, for _that_ thou didst but see in vision". so augustine christened him, and later, hearing of the trance, asked him about it, when he repeated the tale already familiar to his neighbours. augustine thinks it a mere dream, and apparently regards the death of curma the smith as a casual coincidence. un esprit fort, le saint augustin! "if the dead could come in dreams," he says, "my pious mother would no night fail to visit me. far be the thought that she should, by a happier life, have been made so cruel that, when aught vexes my heart, she should not even console in a dream the son whom she loved with an only love." not only things once probably known, yet forgotten, but knowledge never _consciously_ thought out, may be revealed in a dramatic dream, apparently through the lips of the dead or the never existent. the books of psychology are rich in examples of problems worked out, or music or poetry composed in sleep. the following is a more recent and very striking example:-- the assyrian priest herr h. v. hilprecht is professor of assyriology in the university of pennsylvania. that university had despatched an expedition to explore the ruins of babylon, and sketches of the objects discovered had been sent home. among these were drawings of two small fragments of agate, inscribed with characters. one saturday night in march, , professor hilprecht had wearied himself with puzzling over these two fragments, which were supposed to be broken pieces of finger-rings. he was inclined, from the nature of the characters, to date them about - b.c.; and as the first character of the third line of the first fragment seemed to read ku, he guessed that it might stand for kurigalzu, a king of that name. about midnight the professor went, weary and perplexed, to bed. "then i dreamed the following remarkable dream. a tall thin priest of the old pre-christian nippur, about forty years of age, and clad in a simple abba, led me to the treasure-chamber of the temple, on its south-east side. he went with me into a small low-ceiled room without windows, in which there was a large wooden chest, while scraps of agate and lapis lazuli lay scattered on the floor. here he addressed me as follows:-- "'the two fragments, which you have published separately upon pages and , _belong together_'" (this amazing assyrian priest spoke american!). { } "'they are not finger-rings, and their history is as follows:-- "'king kurigalzu (about b.c.) once sent to the temple of bel, among other articles of agate and lapis lazuli, an inscribed votive cylinder of agate. then the priests suddenly received the command to make for the statue of the god nibib a pair of ear-rings of agate. we were in great dismay, since there was no agate as raw material at hand. in order to execute the command there was nothing for us to do but cut the votive cylinder in three parts, thus making three rings, each of which contained a portion of the original inscription. the first two rings served as ear-rings for the statue of the god; the two fragments which have given you so much trouble are parts of them. if you will put the two together, you will have confirmation of my words. but the third ring you have not found yet, and you never will find it.'" the professor awoke, bounded out of bed, as mrs. hilprecht testifies, and was heard crying from his study, "it is so, it is so!" mrs. hilprecht followed her lord, "and satisfied myself in the midnight hour as to the outcome of his most interesting dream". the professor, however, says that he awoke, told his wife the dream, and verified it next day. both statements are correct. there were two sets of drawings, one in the study (used that night) one used next day in the university library. the inscription ran thus, the missing fragment being restored, "by analogy from many similar inscriptions":-- to the god nibib, child of the god bel, his lord kurigalzu, pontifex of the god bel has presented it. but, in the drawings, the fragments were of different colours, so that a student working on the drawings would not guess them to be parts of one cylinder. professor hilprecht, however, examined the two actual fragments in the imperial museum at constantinople. they lay in two distinct cases, but, when put together, fitted. when cut asunder of old, in babylon, the white vein of the stone showed on one fragment, the grey surface on the other. professor romaine newbold, who publishes this dream, explains that the professor had unconsciously reasoned out his facts, the difference of colour in the two pieces of agate disappearing in the dream. the professor had heard from dr. peters of the expedition, that a room had been discovered with fragments of a wooden box and chips of agate and lapis lazuli. the sleeping mind "combined its information," reasoned rightly from it, and threw its own conclusions into a dramatic form, receiving the information from the lips of a priest of nippur. probably we do a good deal of reasoning in sleep. professor hilprecht, in - , was working at a translation of an inscription wherein came nabu--kudurru--usur, rendered by professor delitzsch "nebo protect my mortar-board". professor hilprecht accepted this, but woke one morning with his mind full of the thought that the words should be rendered "nebo protect my boundary," which "sounds a deal likelier," and is now accepted. i myself, when working at the mss. of the exiled stuarts, was puzzled by the scorched appearance of the paper on which prince charlie's and the king's letters were often written and by the peculiarities of the ink. i woke one morning with a sudden flash of common-sense. sympathetic ink had been used, and the papers had been toasted or treated with acids. this i had probably reasoned out in sleep, and, had i dreamed, my mind might have dramatised the idea. old mr. edgar, the king's secretary, might have appeared and given me the explanation. maury publishes tales in which a forgotten fact was revealed to him in a dream from the lips of a dream-character (le sommeil et les reves, pp. - . the curious may also consult, on all these things, the philosophy of mysticism, by karl du prel, translated by mr. massey. the assyrian priest is in proceedings, s.p.r., vol. xii., p. ). on the same plane as the dreams which we have been examining is the waking sensation of the deja vu. "i have been here before, but when or how i cannot tell." most of us know this feeling, all the circumstances in which we find ourselves have already occurred, we have a prophecy of what will happen next "on the tip of our tongues" (like a half-remembered name), and then the impression vanishes. scott complains of suffering through a whole dinner-party from this sensation, but he had written "copy" for fifty printed pages on that day, and his brain was breaking down. of course psychology has explanations. the scene _may_ have really occurred before, or may be the result of a malady of perception, or one hemisphere of the brain not working in absolute simultaneousness with the other may produce a double impression, the first being followed by the second, so that we really have had two successive impressions, of which one seems much more remote in time than it really was. or we may have dreamed something like the scene and forgotten the dream, or we may actually, in some not understood manner, have had a "prevision" of what is now actual, as when shelley almost fainted on coming to a place near oxford which he had beheld in a dream. of course, if this "prevision" could be verified in detail, we should come very near to dreams of the future fulfilled. such a thing-- verification of a detail--led to the conversion of william hone, the free-thinker and radical of the early century, who consequently became a christian and a pessimistic, clear-sighted tory. this tale of the deja vu, therefore, leads up to the marvellous narratives of dreams simultaneous with, or prophetic of, events not capable of being guessed or inferred, or of events lost in the historical past, but, later, recovered from documents. of hone's affair there are two versions. both may be given, as they are short. if they illustrate the deja vu, they also illustrate the fond discrepancies of all such narratives. { } the knot in the shutter "it is said that a dream produced a powerful effect on hone's mind. he dreamt that he was introduced into a room where he was an entire stranger, and saw himself seated at a table, and on going towards the window his attention was somehow or other attracted to the window- shutter, and particularly to a knot in the wood, which was of singular appearance; and on waking the whole scene, and especially the knot in the shutter, left a most vivid impression on his mind. some time afterwards, on going, i think, into the country, he was at some house shown into a chamber where he had never been before, and which instantly struck him as being the identical chamber of his dream. he turned directly to the window, where the same knot in the shutter caught his eye. this incident, to his investigating spirit, induced a train of reflection which overthrew his cherished theories of materialism, and resulted in conviction that there were spiritual agencies as susceptible of proof as any facts of physical science; and this appears to have been one of the links in that mysterious chain of events by which, according to the inscrutable purposes of the divine will, man is sometimes compelled to bow to an unseen and divine power, and ultimately to believe and live." "another of the christian friends from whom, in his later years, william hone received so much kindness, has also furnished recollections of him. " . . . two or three anecdotes which he related are all i can contribute towards a piece of mental history which, if preserved, would have been highly interesting. the first in point of time as to his taste of mind, was a circumstance which shook his confidence in _materialism_, though it did not lead to his conversion. it was one of those mental phenomena which he saw to be _inexplicable_ by the doctrines he then held. "it was as follows: he was called in the course of business into a part of london quite new to him, and as he walked along the street he noticed to himself that he had never been there; but on being shown into a room in a house where he had to wait some time, he immediately fancied that it was all familiar, that he had seen it before, 'and if so,' said he to himself, 'there is a very peculiar knot in this shutter'. he opened the shutter and found the knot. 'now then,' thought he, 'here is something i cannot explain on my principles!'" indeed the occurrence is not very explicable on any principles, as a detail not visible without search was sought and verified, and that by a habitual mocker at anything out of the common way. for example, hone published a comic explanation, correct or not, of the famous stockwell mystery. supposing hone's story to be true, it naturally conducts us to yet more unfamiliar, and therefore less credible dreams, in which the unknown past, present, or future is correctly revealed. chapter ii veracious dreams. past, present and future unknown events "revealed". theory of "mental telegraphy" or "telepathy" fails to meet dreams of the unknowable future. dreams of unrecorded past, how alone they can be corroborated. queen mary's jewels. story from brierre de boismont. mr. williams's dream before mr. perceval's murder. discrepancies of evidence. curious story of bude kirk. mr. williams's version. dream of a rattlesnake. discrepancies. dream of the red lamp. "illusions hypnagogiques." the scar in the moustache. dream of the future. the coral sprigs. anglo-saxon indifference. a celtic dream. the satin slippers. waking dreams. the dead shopman. dreams in swoons. perhaps nothing, not even a ghost, is so staggering to the powers of belief as a well-authenticated dream which strikes the bull's eye of facts not known to the dreamer nor capable of being guessed by him. if the events beheld in the dream are far away in space, or are remote in time past, the puzzle is difficult enough. but if the events are still in the future, perhaps no kind of explanation except a mere "fluke" can even be suggested. say that i dream of an event occurring at a distance, and that i record or act on my dream before it is corroborated. suppose, too, that the event is not one which could be guessed, like the death of an invalid or the result of a race or of an election. this would be odd enough, but the facts of which i dreamed must have been present in the minds of living people. now, if there is such a thing as "mental telegraphy" or "telepathy," { } my mind, in dream, may have "tapped" the minds of the people who knew the facts. we may not believe in "mental telegraphy," but we can _imagine_ it as one of the unknown possibilities of nature. again, if i dream of an unchronicled event in the past, and if a letter of some historical person is later discovered which confirms the accuracy of my dream, we can at least _conceive_ (though we need not believe) that the intelligence was telegraphed to my dreaming mind from the mind of a _dead_ actor in, or witness of the historical scene, for the facts are unknown to living man. but even these wild guesses cannot cover a dream which correctly reveals events of the future; events necessarily not known to any finite mind of the living or of the dead, and too full of detail for an explanation by aid of chance coincidence. in face of these difficulties mankind has gone on believing in dreams of all three classes: dreams revealing the unknown present, the unknown past, and the unknown future. the judicious reasonably set them all aside as the results of fortuitous coincidence, or revived recollection, or of the illusions of a false memory, or of imposture, conscious or unconscious. however, the stories continue to be told, and our business is with the stories. taking, first, dreams of the unknown past, we find a large modern collection of these attributed to a lady named "miss a---". they were waking dreams representing obscure incidents of the past, and were later corroborated by records in books, newspapers and manuscripts. but as these books and papers existed, and were known to exist, before the occurrence of the visions, it is obvious that the matter of the visions _may_ have been derived from the books and so forth, or at least, a sceptic will vastly prefer this explanation. what we need is a dream or vision of the unknown past, corroborated by a document _not known to exist_ at the time when the vision took place and was recorded. probably there is no such instance, but the following tale, picturesque in itself, has a kind of shadow of the only satisfactory sort of corroboration. the author responsible for this yarn is dr. gregory, f.r.s., professor of chemistry in the university of edinburgh. after studying for many years the real or alleged phenomena of what has been called mesmerism, or electro-biology, or hypnotism, dr. gregory published in his letters to a candid inquirer on animal magnetism. though a f.r.s. and a professor of chemistry, the doctor had no more idea of what constitutes evidence than a baby. he actually mixed up the tyrone with the lyttelton ghost story! his legend of queen mary's jewels is derived from ( ) the note-book, _or_ ( ) a letter containing, or professing to contain, extracts from the note-book, of a major buckley, an anglo-indian officer. this gentleman used to "magnetise" or hypnotise people, some of whom became clairvoyant, as if possessed of eyes acting as "double-patent-million magnifiers," permeated by x rays. "what follows is transcribed," says the doctor, "from major buckley's note-book." we abridge the narrative. major buckley hypnotised a young officer, who, on november , , fell into "a deeper state" of trance. thence he awoke into a "clairvoyant" condition and said:-- queen mary's jewels "i have had a strange dream about your ring" (a "medallion" of anthony and cleopatra); "it is very valuable." major buckley said it was worth pounds, and put the ring into his friend's hand. "it belonged to royalty." "in what country?" "i see mary, queen of scots. it was given to her by a man, a foreigner, with other things from italy. it came from naples. it is not in the old setting. she wore it only once. the person who gave it to her was a musician." the seer then "saw" the donor's signature, "rizzio". but rizzio spelled his name riccio! the seer now copied on paper a writing which in his trance he saw on vellum. the design here engraved (p. ) is only from a rough copy of the seer's original drawing, which was made by major buckley. [picture of vellum as described in the text - images/rizzo.gif] "here" (pointing to the middle) "i see a diamond cross." the smallest stone was above the size of one of four carats. "it" (the cross) "was worn out of sight by mary. the vellum has been shown in the house of lords." { } " . . . the ring was taken off mary's finger by a man in anger and jealousy: he threw it into the water. when he took it off, she was being carried in a kind of bed with curtains" (a litter). just before rizzio's murder mary was enceinte, and might well be carried in a litter, though she usually rode. the seer then had a view of sizzle's murder, which he had probably read about. three weeks later, in another trance, the seer finished his design of the vellum. the words a m de la part probably stand for a marie, de la part de-- the thistle heads and leaves in gold at the corners were a usual decoration of the period; compare the ceiling of the room in edinburgh castle where james vi. was born, four months after rizzio's murder. they also occur in documents. dr. gregory conjectures that so valuable a present as a diamond cross may have been made not by rizzio, but through rizzio by the pope. it did not seem good to the doctor to consult mary's lists of jewels, nor, if he had done so, would he have been any the wiser. in , just before the birth of james vi., mary had an inventory drawn up, and added the names of the persons to whom she bequeathed her treasures in case she died in child-bed. but this inventory, hidden among a mass of law-papers in the record office, was not discovered till , nine years after the vision of , and three after its publication by dr. gregory in . not till was the inventory of , discovered in , published for the bannatyne club by dr. joseph robertson. turning to the inventory we read of a valuable present made by david rizzio to mary, a tortoise of rubies, which she kept till her death, for it appears in a list made after her execution at fotheringay. the murdered david rizzio left a brother joseph. him the queen made her secretary, and in her will of mentions him thus:-- "a josef, pour porter a celui qui je luy ay dit, une emeraude emaille de blanc. "a josef, pour porter a celui qui je luy ai dit, dont il ranvoir quittance. "une bague garnye de vingt cinq diamens tant grands que petis." now the diamond cross seen by the young officer in was set with diamonds great and small, and was, in his opinion, a gift from or through rizzio. "the queen wore it out of sight." here in the inventory we have a bague (which may be a cross) of diamonds small and great, connected with a secret only known to rizzio's brother and to the queen. it is "to be carried to one whose name the queen has spoken in her new secretary's ear" (joseph's), "but dare not trust herself to write". "it would be idle now to seek to pry into the mystery which was thus anxiously guarded," says dr. robertson, editor of the queen's inventories. the doctor knew nothing of the vision which, perhaps, so nearly pried into the mystery. there is nothing like proof here, but there is just a presumption that the diamonds connected with rizzio, and secretly worn by the queen, seen in the vision of , are possibly the diamonds which, had mary died in , were to be carried by joseph rizzio to a person whose name might not safely be written. { a} we now take a dream which apparently reveals a real fact occurring at a distance. it is translated from brierre de boismont's book, des hallucinations { b} (paris, ). "there are," says the learned author, "authentic dreams which have revealed an event occurring at the moment, or later." these he explains by accidental coincidence, and then gives the following anecdote, as within his own intimate knowledge:-- the deathbed miss c., a lady of excellent sense, religious but not bigoted, lived before her marriage in the house of her uncle d., a celebrated physician, and member of the institute. her mother at this time was seriously ill in the country. one night the girl dreamed that she saw her mother, pale and dying, and especially grieved at the absence of two of her children: one a cure in spain, the other--herself--in paris. next she heard her own christian name called, "charlotte!" and, in her dream, saw the people about her mother bring in her own little niece and god-child charlotte from the next room. the patient intimated by a sign that she did not want _this_ charlotte, but her daughter in paris. she displayed the deepest regret; her countenance changed, she fell back, and died. next day the melancholy of mademoiselle c. attracted the attention of her uncle. she told him her dream; he pressed her to his heart, and admitted that her mother was dead. some months later mademoiselle c., when her uncle was absent, arranged his papers, which he did not like any one to touch. among these was a letter containing the story of her mother's death, with all the details of her own dream, which d. had kept concealed lest they should impress her too painfully. boismont is staggered by this circumstance, and inclined to account for it by "still unknown relations in the moral and physical world". "mental telegraphy," of course, would explain all, and even chance coincidence is perfectly conceivable. the most commonly known of dreams prior to, or simultaneous with an historical occurrence represented in the vision, is mr. williams's dream of the murder of mr. perceval in the lobby of the house of commons, may , . mr. williams, of scorrier house, near redruth, in cornwall, lived till . he was interested in mines, and a man of substance. unluckily the versions of his dream are full of discrepancies. it was first published, apparently, in the times during the "silly season" of (august ). according to the times, whose account is very minute, mr. williams dreamed of the murder thrice before a.m. on the night of may . he told mrs. williams, and was so disturbed that he rose and dressed at two in the morning. he went to falmouth next day (may ), and told the tale to every one he knew. on the evening of the th he told it to mr. and mrs. tucker (his married daughter) of tremanton castle. mr. williams only knew that the _chancellor_ was shot; mr. tucker said it must be the chancellor of the exchequer. from the description he recognised mr. perceval, with whom he was at enmity. mr. williams had never been inside the house of commons. as they talked, mr. william's son galloped up from truro with news of the murder, got from a traveller by coach. six weeks later, mr. williams went to town, and in the house of commons walked up to and recognised the scene of the various incidents in the murder. so far the times, in . but two forms of a version of exist, one in a note to mr. walpole's life of perceval ( ), "an attested statement, drawn up and signed by mr. williams in the presence of the rev. thomas fisher and mr. charles prideaux brune". mr. brune gave it to mr. walpole. with only verbal differences this variant corresponds to another signed by mr. williams and given by him to his grandson, who gave it to mr. perceval's great-niece, by whom it was lent to the society for psychical research. these accounts differ toto coelo from that in the times of . the dream is _not_ of may , but "about" may or . mr. williams is _not_ a stranger to the house of commons; it is "a place well known to me". he is _not_ ignorant of the name of the victim, but "understood that it was mr. perceval". he thinks of going to town to give warning. we hear nothing of mr. tucker. mr. williams does _not_ verify his dream in the house, but from a drawing. a mr. c. r. fox, son of one to whom the dream was told _before_ the event, was then a boy of fourteen, and sixty-one years later was sure that he himself heard of mr. williams's dream _before_ the news of the murder arrived. after sixty years, however, the memory cannot be relied upon. one very curious circumstance in connection with the assassination of mr. perceval has never been noticed. a rumour or report of the deed reached bude kirk, a village near annan, on the night of sunday, may , a day before the crime was committed! this was stated in the dumfries and galloway courier, and copied in the times of may . on may , the perth courier quotes the dumfries paper, and adds that "the rev. mr. yorstoun, minister of hoddam (ob. ), has visited bude kirk and has obtained the most satisfactory proof of the rumour having existed" on may , but the rumour cannot be traced to its source. mr. yorstoun authorises the mention of his name. the times of june says that "the report is without foundation". if williams talked everywhere of his dream, on may , some garbled shape of it may conceivably have floated to bude kirk by may , and originated the rumour. whoever started it would keep quiet when the real news arrived for fear of being implicated in a conspiracy as accessory before the fact. no trace of mr. williams's dream occurs in the contemporary london papers. the best version of the dream to follow is probably that signed by mr. williams himself in . { a} it may, of course, be argued by people who accept mr. williams's dream as a revelation of the future that it reached his mind from the _purpose_ conceived in bellingham's mind, by way of "mental telegraphy". { b} dream of mr. perceval's murder "sundhill, december, . "[some account of a dream which occurred to john williams, esq., of scorrier house, in the county of cornwall, in the year . taken from his own mouth, and narrated by him at various times to several of his friends.] "being desired to write out the particulars of a remarkable dream which i had in the year , before i do so i think it may be proper for me to say that at that time my attention was fully occupied with affairs of my own--the superintendence of some very extensive mines in cornwall being entrusted to me. thus i had no leisure to pay any attention to political matters, and hardly knew at that time who formed the administration of the country. it was, therefore, scarcely possible that my own interest in the subject should have had any share in suggesting the circumstances which presented themselves to my imagination. it was, in truth, a subject which never occurred to my waking thoughts. "my dream was as follows:-- "about the second or third day of may, , i dreamed that i was in the lobby of the house of commons (a place well known to me). a small man, dressed in a blue coat and a white waistcoat, entered, and immediately i saw a person whom i had observed on my first entrance, dressed in a snuff-coloured coat with metal buttons, take a pistol from under his coat and present it at the little man above-mentioned. the pistol was discharged, and the ball entered under the left breast of the person at whom it was directed. i saw the blood issue from the place where the ball had struck him, his countenance instantly altered, and he fell to the ground. upon inquiry who the sufferer might be, i was informed that he was the chancellor. i understood him to be mr. perceval, who was chancellor of the exchequer. i further saw the murderer laid hold of by several of the gentlemen in the room. upon waking i told the particulars above related to my wife; she treated the matter lightly, and desired me to go to sleep, saying it was only a dream. i soon fell asleep again, and again the dream presented itself with precisely the same circumstances. after waking a second time and stating the matter again to my wife, she only repeated her request that i would compose myself and dismiss the subject from my mind. upon my falling asleep the third time, the same dream without any alteration was repeated, and i awoke, as on the former occasions, in great agitation. so much alarmed and impressed was i with the circumstances above related, that i felt much doubt whether it was not my duty to take a journey to london and communicate upon the subject with the party principally concerned. upon this point i consulted with some friends whom i met on business at the godolphin mine on the following day. after having stated to them the particulars of the dream itself and what were my own feelings in relation to it, they dissuaded me from my purpose, saying i might expose myself to contempt and vexation, or be taken up as a fanatic. upon this i said no more, but anxiously watched the newspapers every evening as the post arrived. "on the evening of the th of may (as far as i recollect) no account of mr. perceval's death was in the newspapers, but my second son, returning from truro, came in a hurried manner into the room where i was sitting and exclaimed: 'o father, your dream has come true! mr. perceval has been shot in the lobby of the house of commons; there is an account come from london to truro written after the newspapers were printed.' "the fact was mr. percival was assassinated on the evening of the th. "some business soon after called me to london, and in one of the print-shops i saw a drawing for sale, representing the place and the circumstances which attended mr. perceval's death. i purchased it, and upon a careful examination i found it to coincide in all respects with the scene which had passed through my imagination in the dream. the colours of the dresses, the buttons of the assassin's coat, the white waistcoat of mr. perceval, the spot of blood upon it, the countenances and attitudes of the parties present were exactly what i had dreamed. "the singularity of the case, when mentioned among my friends and acquaintances, naturally made it the subject of conversation in london, and in consequence my friend, the late mr. rennie, was requested by some of the commissioners of the navy that they might be permitted to hear the circumstances from myself. two of them accordingly met me at mr. rennie's house, and to them i detailed at the time the particulars, then fresh in my memory, which form the subject of the above statement. "i forbear to make any comment on the above narrative, further than to declare solemnly that it is a faithful account of facts as they actually occurred. (signed) "john williams." { } when we come to dreams of the future, great historical examples are scarce indeed, that is, dreams respectably authenticated. we have to put up with curious trivialities. one has an odd feature. the rattlesnake dr. kinsolving, of the church of the epiphany in philadelphia, dreamed that he "came across a rattlesnake," which "when killed had _two_ black-looking rattles and a peculiar projection of bone from the tail, while the skin was unusually light in colour". next day, while walking with his brother, dr. kinsolving nearly trod on a rattlesnake, "the same snake in every particular with the one i had had in my mind's eye". this would be very well, but dr. kinsolving's brother, who helped to kill the unlucky serpent, says "_he had a single rattle_". the letters of these gentlemen were written without communication to each other. if mr. kinsolving is right, the real snake with _one_ rattle was _not_ the dream snake with _two_ rattles. the brothers were in a snaky country, west virginia. { } the following is trivial, but good. it is written by mr. alfred cooper, and attested by the dreamer, the duchess of hamilton. the red lamp mr. cooper says: "a fortnight before the death of the late earl of l--- in , i called upon the duke of hamilton, in hill street, to see him professionally. after i had finished seeing him, we went into the drawing-room, where the duchess was, and the duke said, 'oh, cooper, how is the earl?' "the duchess said, 'what earl?' and on my answering 'lord l---,' she replied: 'that is very odd. i have had a most extraordinary vision. i went to bed, but after being in bed a short time, i was not exactly asleep, but thought i saw a scene as if from a play before me. the actors in it were lord l--- as if in a fit, with a man standing over him with a red beard. he was by the side of a bath, over which a red lamp was distinctly shown. "i then said: 'i am attending lord l--- at present; there is very little the matter with him; he is not going to die; he will be all right very soon'. "well he got better for a week and was nearly well, but at the end of six or seven days after this i was called to see him suddenly. he had inflammation of both lungs. "i called in sir william jenner, but in six days he was a dead man. there were two male nurses attending on him; one had been taken ill. but when i saw the other, the dream of the duchess was exactly represented. he was standing near a bath over the earl, and strange to say, his beard was red. there was the bath with the red lamp over it. it is rather rare to find a bath with a red lamp over it, and this brought the story to my mind. . . ." this account, written in , has been revised by the late duke of manchester, father of the duchess of hamilton, who heard the vision from his daughter on the morning after she had seen it. the duchess only knew the earl by sight, and had not heard that he was ill. she knew she was not asleep, for she opened her eyes to get rid of the vision, and, shutting them, saw the same thing again. { a} in fact, the "vision" was an illusion hypnagogique. probably most readers know the procession of visions which sometimes crowd on the closed eyes just before sleep. { b} they commonly represent with vivid clearness unknown faces or places, occasionally known faces. the writer has seen his own in this way and has occasionally "opened his eyes to get rid of" the appearances. in his opinion the pictures are unconsciously constructed by the half-sleeping mind out of blurs of light or dark seen with closed eyes. mr. cooper's story would be more complete if he had said whether or not the earl, when visited by him, was in a chair as in the vision. but beds are not commonly found in bathrooms. the scar in the moustache this story was told to the writer by his old head-master, the rev. dr. hodson, brother of hodson, of hodson's horse, a person whom i never heard make any other allusion to such topics. dr. hodson was staying with friends in switzerland during the holidays. one morning, as he lay awake, he seemed to see into a room as if the wall of his bedroom had been cut out. in the room were a lady well known to him and a man whom he did not know. the man's back was turned to the looker-on. the scene vanished, and grew again. now the man faced dr. hodson; the face was unfamiliar, and had a deep white scar seaming the moustache. dr. hodson mentioned the circumstance to his friends, and thought little of it. he returned home, and, one day, in perth station, met the lady at the book-stall. he went up to accost her, and was surprised by the uneasiness of her manner. a gentleman now joined them, with a deep white scar through his moustache. dr. hodson now recalled, what had slipped his memory, that the lady during his absence from scotland had eloped with an officer, the man of the vision and the railway station. he did not say, or perhaps know, whether the elopement was prior to the kind of dream in switzerland. here is a dream representing a future event, with details which could not be guessed beforehand. the coral sprigs mrs. weiss, of st. louis, was in new york in january, , attending a daughter, mrs. c., who was about to have a child. she writes:-- "on friday night (jan. ) i dreamed that my daughter's time came; that owing to some cause not clearly defined, we failed to get word to mr. c., who was to bring the doctor; that we sent for the nurse, who came; that as the hours passed and neither mr. c. nor the doctor came we both got frightened; that at last i heard mr. c. on the stairs, and cried to him: 'oh, chan, for heaven's sake get a doctor! ada may be confined at any moment'; that he rushed away, and i returned to the bedside of my daughter, who was in agony of mind and body; that suddenly i seemed to know what to do, . . . and that shortly after mr. c. came, bringing a tall young doctor, having brown eyes, dark hair, ruddy brun complexion, grey trousers and grey vest, and wearing a bright blue cravat, picked out with coral sprigs; the cravat attracted my attention particularly. the young doctor pronounced mrs. c. properly attended to, and left." mrs. weiss at breakfast told the dream to mr. c. and her daughter; none of them attached any importance to it. however, as a snowstorm broke the telegraph wires on saturday, the day after the dream, mrs. weiss was uneasy. on tuesday the state of mrs. c. demanded a doctor. mrs. weiss sent a telegram for mr. c.; he came at last, went out to bring a doctor, and was long absent. then mrs. weiss suddenly felt a calm certainty that _she_ (though inexperienced in such cares) could do what was needed. "i heard myself say in a peremptory fashion: 'ada, don't be afraid, i know just what to do; all will go well'." all did go well; meanwhile mr. c. ran to seven doctors' houses, and at last returned with a young man whom mrs. weiss vaguely recognised. mrs. c. whispered, "look at the doctor's cravat". it was blue and coral sprigged, and then first did mrs. weiss remember her dream of friday night. mrs. weiss's story is corroborated by mr. blanchard, who heard the story "a few days after the event". mrs. c. has read mrs. weiss's statement, "and in so far as i can remember it is quite correct". mr. c. remembers nothing about it; "he declares that he has no recollection of it, _or of any matters outside his business_, and knowing him as i do," says mrs. weiss, "i do not doubt the assertion". mr. c. must be an interesting companion. the nurse remembers that after the birth of the baby mrs. c. called mr. c.'s attention to "the doctor's necktie," and heard her say, "why, i know him by mamma's description as the doctor she saw in her dreams". { } the only thing even more extraordinary than the dream is mr. c.'s inability to remember anything whatever "outside of his business". another witness appears to decline to be called, "as it would be embarrassing to him in his business". this it is to be anglo-saxon! we now turn to a celtic dream, in which knowledge supposed to be only known to a dead man was conveyed to his living daughter. the satin slippers on st february, , michael conley, a farmer living near ionia, in chichasow county, iowa, went to dubuque, in iowa, to be medically treated. he left at home his son pat and his daughter elizabeth, a girl of twenty-eight, a catholic, in good health. on february michael was found dead in an outhouse near his inn. in his pocket were nine dollars, seventy-five cents, but his clothes, including his shirt, were thought so dirty and worthless that they were thrown away. the body was then dressed in a white shirt, black clothes and satin slippers of a new pattern. pat conley was telegraphed for, and arrived at dubuque on february , accompanied by mr. george brown, "an intelligent and reliable farmer". pat took the corpse home in a coffin, and on his arrival elizabeth fell into a swoon, which lasted for several hours. her own account of what followed on her recovery may be given in her own words:-- "when they told me that father was dead i felt very sick and bad; i did not know anything. then father came to me. he had on a white shirt" (his own was grey), "and black clothes and slippers. when i came to, i told pat i had seen father. i asked pat if he had brought back father's old clothes. he said 'no,' and asked me why i wanted them. i told him father said he had sewed a roll of bills inside of his grey shirt, in a pocket made of a piece of my old red dress. i went to sleep, and father came to me again. when i awoke i told pat he must go and get the clothes"--her father's old clothes. pat now telephoned to mr. hoffman, coroner of dubuque, who found the old clothes in the back yard of the local morgue. they were wrapped up in a bundle. receiving this news, pat went to dubuque on february , where mr. hoffman opened the bundle in pat's presence. inside the old grey shirt was found a pocket of red stuff, sewn with a man's long, uneven stitches, and in the pocket notes for thirty-five dollars. the girl did not see the body in the coffin, but asked about the _old_ clothes, because the figure of her father in her dream wore clothes which she did not recognise as his. to dream in a faint is nothing unusual. { } the dead shopman swooning, or slight mental mistiness, is not very unusual in ghost seers. the brother of a friend of my own, a man of letters and wide erudition, was, as a boy, employed in a shop in a town, say wexington. the overseer was a dark, rather hectic-looking man, who died. some months afterwards the boy was sent on an errand. he did his business, but, like a boy, returned by a longer and more interesting route. he stopped as a bookseller's shop to stare at the books and pictures, and while doing so felt a kind of mental vagueness. it was just before his dinner hour, and he may have been hungry. on resuming his way, he looked up and found the dead overseer beside him. he had no sense of surprise, and walked for some distance, conversing on ordinary topics with the appearance. he happened to notice such a minute detail as that the spectre's boots were laced in an unusual way. at a crossing, something in the street attracted his attention; he looked away from his companion, and, on turning to resume their talk, saw no more of him. he then walked to the shop, where he mentioned the occurrence to a friend. he has never during a number of years had any such experience again, or suffered the preceding sensation of vagueness. this, of course, is not a ghost story, but leads up to the old tale of the wraith of valogne. in this case, two boys had made a covenant, the first who died was to appear to the other. he _did_ appear before news of his death arrived, but after a swoon of his friend's, whose health (like that of elizabeth conley) suffered in consequence. note "perceval murder." times, th may, . "a dumfries paper states that on the night of sunday, the th instant, _twenty-four hours before the fatal deed was perpetrated_, a report was brought to bude kirk, two miles from annan, that _mr. perceval was shot on his way to the house of commons, at the door or in the lobby of that house_. this the whole inhabitants of the village are ready to attest, as the report quickly spread and became the topic of conversation. a clergyman investigated the rumour, with the view of tracing it to its source, but without success." the times of nd june says, "report without foundation". perth courier, th may, quoting from the dumfries and galloway courier, repeats above almost verbatim. " . . . the clergyman to whom we have alluded, and who allows me to make use of his name, is mr. yorstoun, minister of hoddam. this gentleman went to the spot and carefully investigated the rumour, but has not hitherto been successful, although he has obtained the most satisfactory proof of its having existed at the time we have mentioned. we forbear to make any comments on this wonderful circumstance, but should anything further transpire that may tend to throw light upon it, we shall not fail to give the public earliest information." the dumfries and galloway courier i cannot find! it is not in the british museum. chapter iii transition from dreams to waking hallucinations. popular scepticism about the existence of hallucinations in the sane. evidence of mr. francis galton, f.r.s. scientific disbelief in ordinary mental imagery. scientific men who do not see in "the mind's eye". ordinary people who do. frequency of waking hallucinations among mr. gallon's friends. kept private till asked for by science. causes of such hallucinations unknown. story of the diplomatist. voluntary or induced hallucinations. crystal gazing. its universality. experience of george sand. nature of such visions. examples. novelists. crystal visions only "ghostly" when veracious. modern examples. under the lamp. the cow with the bell historical example. prophetic crystal vision. st. simon the regent d'orleans. the deathbed of louis xiv. references for other cases of crystal visions. from dreams, in sleep or swoon, of a character difficult to believe in we pass by way of "hallucinations" to ghosts. everybody is ready to admit that dreams do really occur, because almost everybody has dreamed. but everybody is not so ready to admit that sane and sensible men and women can have hallucinations, just because everybody has not been hallucinated. on this point mr. francis galton, in his inquiries into human faculty ( ), is very instructive. mr. galton drew up a short catechism, asking people how clearly or how dimly they saw things "in their mind's eye". "think of your breakfast-table," he said; "is your mental picture of it as clearly illuminated and as complete as your actual view of the scene?" mr. galton began by questioning friends in the scientific world, f.r.s.'s and other savants. "the earliest results of my inquiry amazed me. . . . the great majority of the men of science to whom i first applied, protested that _mental imagery was unknown to them_, and they looked on me as fanciful and fantastic in supposing that the words 'mental imagery' really expressed what i believed everybody supposed them to mean." one gentleman wrote: "it is only by a figure of speech that i can describe my recollection of a scene as a 'mental image' which i can 'see' with 'my mind's eye'. i do not see it," so he seems to have supposed that nobody else did. when he made inquiries in general society, mr. galton found plenty of people who "saw" mental imagery with every degree of brilliance or dimness, from "quite comparable to the real object" to "i recollect the table, but do not see it"--my own position. mr. galton was next "greatly struck by the frequency of the replies in which my correspondents" (sane and healthy) "described themselves as subject to 'visions'". these varied in degree, "some were so vivid as actually to deceive the judgment". finally, "a notable proportion of sane persons have had not only visions, but actual hallucinations of sight at one or more periods of their life. i have a considerable packet of instances contributed by my personal friends." thus one "distinguished authoress" saw "the principal character of one of her novels glide through the door straight up to her. it was about the size of a large doll." another heard unreal music, and opened the door to hear it better. another was plagued by voices, which said "pray," and so forth. thus, on scientific evidence, sane and healthy people may, and "in a notable proportion _do_, experience hallucinations". that is to say, they see persons, or hear them, or believe they are touched by them, or all their senses are equally affected at once, when no such persons are really present. this kind of thing is always going on, but "when popular opinion is of a matter-of-fact kind, the seers of visions keep quiet; they do not like to be thought fanciful or mad, and they hide their experiences, which only come to light through inquiries such as those that i have been making". we may now proceed to the waking hallucinations of sane and healthy people, which mr. galton declares to be so far from uncommon. into the _causes_ of these hallucinations which may actually deceive the judgment, mr. galton does not enter. story of the diplomatist { a} for example, there is a living diplomatist who knows men and cities, and has, moreover, a fine sense of humour. "my lord," said a famous russian statesman to him, "you have all the qualities of a diplomatist, but you cannot control your smile." this gentleman, walking alone in a certain cloister at cambridge, met a casual acquaintance, a well-known london clergyman, and was just about shaking hands with him, when the clergyman vanished. nothing in particular happened to either of them; the clergyman was not in the seer's mind at the moment. this is a good example of a solitary hallucination in the experience of a very cool-headed observer. the _causes_ of such experiences are still a mystery to science. even people who believe in "mental telegraphy," say when a distant person, at death or in any other crisis, impresses himself as present on the senses of a friend, cannot account for an experience like that of the diplomatist, an experience not very uncommon, and little noticed except when it happens to coincide with some remarkable event. { b} nor are such hallucinations of an origin easily detected, like those of delirium, insanity, intoxication, grief, anxiety, or remorse. we can only suppose that a past impression of the aspect of a friend is recalled by some association of ideas so vividly that (though we are not _consciously_ thinking of him) we conceive the friend to be actually present in the body when he is absent. these hallucinations are casual and unsought. but between these and the dreams of sleep there is a kind of waking hallucinations which some people can purposely evoke. such are the visions of _crystal gazing_. among the superstitions of almost all ages and countries is the belief that "spirits" will show themselves, usually after magical ceremonies, to certain persons, commonly children, who stare into a crystal ball, a cup, a mirror, a blob of ink (in egypt and india), a drop of blood (among the maoris of new zealand), a bowl of water (red indian), a pond (roman and african), water in a glass bowl (in fez), or almost any polished surface. the magical ceremonies, which have probably nothing to do with the matter, have succeeded in making this old and nearly universal belief seem a mere fantastic superstition. but occasionally a person not superstitious has recorded this experience. thus george sand in her histoire de ma vie mentions that, as a little girl, she used to see wonderful moving landscapes in the polished back of a screen. these were so vivid that she thought they must be visible to others. recent experiments have proved that an unexpected number of people have this faculty. gazing into a ball of crystal or glass, a crystal or other smooth ring stone, such as a sapphire or ruby, or even into a common ink-pot, they will see visions very brilliant. these are often mere reminiscences of faces or places, occasionally of faces or places sunk deep below the ordinary memory. still more frequently they represent fantastic landscapes and romantic scenes, as in an historical novel, with people in odd costumes coming, going and acting. thus i have been present when a lady saw in a glass ball a man in white oriental costume kneeling beside a leaping fountain of fire. presently a hand appeared pointing downwards through the flame. the _first_ vision seen pretty often represents an invalid in bed. printed words are occasionally read in the glass, as also happens in the visions beheld with shut eyes before sleeping. all these kinds of things, in fact, are common in our visions between sleeping and waking (illusions hypnagogiques). the singularity is that they are seen by people wide awake in glass balls and so forth. usually the seer is a person whose ordinary "mental imagery" is particularly vivid. but every "visualiser" is not a crystal seer. a novelist of my acquaintance can "visualise" so well that, having forgotten an address and lost the letter on which it was written, he called up a mental picture of the letter, and so discovered the address. but this very popular writer can see no visions in a crystal ball. another very popular novelist can see them; little dramas are acted out in the ball for his edification. { } these things are as unfamiliar to men of science as mr. galton found ordinary mental imagery, pictures in memory, to be. psychology may or may not include them in her province; they may or may not come to be studied as ordinary dreams are studied. but, like dreams, these crystal visions enter the domain of the ghostly only when they are _veracious_, and contribute information previously unknown as to past, present or future. there are plenty of stories to this effect. to begin with an easy, or comparatively easy, exercise in belief. under the lamp i had given a glass ball to a young lady, who believed that she could play the "willing game" successfully without touching the person "willed," and when the person did not even know that "willing" was going on. this lady, miss baillie, had scarcely any success with the ball. she lent it to miss leslie, who saw a large, square, old- fashioned red sofa covered with muslin, which she found in the next country house she visited. miss baillie's brother, a young athlete (at short odds for the amateur golf championship), laughed at these experiments, took the ball into the study, and came back looking "gey gash". he admitted that he had seen a vision, somebody he knew "under a lamp". he would discover during the week whether he saw right or not. this was at . on a sunday afternoon. on tuesday, mr. baillie was at a dance in a town some forty miles from his home, and met a miss preston. "on sunday," he said, "about half-past five you were sitting under a standard lamp in a dress i never saw you wear, a blue blouse with lace over the shoulders, pouring out tea for a man in blue serge, whose back was towards me, so that i only saw the tip of his moustache." "why, the blinds must have been up," said miss preston. "i was at dulby," said mr. baillie, as he undeniably was. { a} this is not a difficult exercise in belief. miss preston was not unlikely to be at tea at tea-time. nor is the following very hard. the cow with the bell i had given a glass ball to the wife of a friend, whose visions proved so startling and on one occasion so unholy that she ceased to make experiments. one day my friend's secretary, a young student and golfer, took up the ball. "i see a field i know very well," he said, "but there is a cow in it that i never saw; brown, with white markings, and, this is odd in scotland, she has a bell hanging from her neck. i'll go and look at the field." he went and found the cow as described, bell and all. { b} in the spring of i gave a glass ball to a young lady, previously a stranger to me, who was entirely unacquainted with crystal gazing, even by report. she had, however, not infrequent experience of spontaneous visions, which were fulfilled, including a vision of the derby (persimmon's year), which enriched her friends. in using the ball she, time after time, succeeded in seeing and correctly describing persons and places familiar to people for whom she "scried," but totally strange to herself. in one case she added a detail quite unknown to the person who consulted her, but which was verified on inquiry. these experiments will probably be published elsewhere. four people, out of the very small number who tried on these occasions, saw fancy pictures in the ball: two were young ladies, one a man, and one a schoolboy. i must confess that, for the first time, i was impressed by the belief that the lady's veracious visions, however they are to be explained, could not possibly be accounted for by chance coincidence. they were too many (i was aware of five in a few days), too minute, and too remote from the range of ingenious guessing. but "thought transference," tapping the mental wires of another person, would have accounted for every case, with, perhaps, the exception of that in which an unknown detail was added. this confession will, undoubtedly, seem weakly credulous, but not to make it would be unfair and unsportsmanlike. my statement, of course, especially without the details, is not evidence for other people. the following case is a much harder exercise in belief. it is narrated by the duc de saint simon. { } the events were described to saint simon on the day after their occurrence by the duc d'orleans, then starting for italy, in may, . saint simon was very intimate with the duke, and they corresponded by private cypher without secretaries. owing to the death of the king's son and grandson (not seen in the vision), orleans became regent when louis xiv. died in . saint simon is a reluctant witness, and therefore all the better. the deathbed of louis xiv. "here is a strange story that the duc d'orleans told me one day in a tete-a-tete at marly, he having just run down from paris before he started for italy; and it may be observed that all the events predicted came to pass, though none of them could have been foreseen at the time. his interest in every kind of art and science was very great, and in spite of his keen intellect, he was all his life subject to a weakness which had been introduced (with other things) from italy by catherine de medici, and had reigned supreme over the courts of her children. he had exercised every known method of inducing the devil to appear to him in person, though, as he has himself told me, without the smallest success. he had spent much time in investigating matters that touched on the supernatural, and dealt with the future. "now la sery (his mistress) had in her house a little girl of eight or nine years of age, who had never resided elsewhere since her birth. she was to all appearance a very ordinary child, and from the way in which she had been brought up, was more than commonly ignorant and simple. one day, during the visit of m. d'orleans, la sery produced for his edification one of the charlatans with whom the duke had long been familiar, who pretended that by means of a glass of water he could see the answer to any question that might be put. for this purpose it was necessary to have as a go-between some one both young and innocent, to gaze into the water, and this little girl was at once sent for. they amused themselves by asking what was happening in certain distant places; and after the man had murmured some words over the water, the child looked in and always managed to see the vision required of her. "m. le duc d'orleans had so often been duped in matters of this kind that he determined to put the water-gazer to a severe test. he whispered to one of his attendants to go round to madame de nancre's, who lived close by, and ascertain who was there, what they were all doing, the position of the room and the way it was furnished, and then, without exchanging a word with any one, to return and let him know the result. this was done speedily and without the slightest suspicion on the part of any person, the child remaining in the room all the time. when m. le duc d'orleans had learned all he wanted to know, he bade the child look in the water and tell him who was at madame de nancre's and what they were all doing. she repeated word for word the story that had been told by the duke's messenger; described minutely the faces, dresses and positions of the assembled company, those that were playing cards at the various tables, those that were sitting, those that were standing, even the very furniture! but to leave nothing in doubt, the duke of orleans despatched nancre back to the house to verify a second time the child's account, and like the valet, he found she had been right in every particular. "as a rule he said very little to me about these subjects, as he knew i did not approve of them, and on this occasion i did not fail to scold him, and to point out the folly of being amused by such things, especially at a time when his attention should be occupied with more serious matters. 'oh, but i have only told you half,' he replied; 'that was just the beginning,' and then he went on to say that, encouraged by the exactitude of the little girl's description of madame de nancre's room, he resolved to put to her a more important question, namely, as to the scene that would occur at the death of the king. the child had never seen any one who was about the court, and had never even heard of versailles, but she described exactly and at great length the king's bedroom at versailles and all the furniture which was in fact there at the date of his death. she gave every detail as to the bed, and cried out on recognising, in the arms of madame de ventadour, a little child decorated with an order whom she had seen at the house of mademoiselle la sery; and again at the sight of m. le duc d'orleans. from her account, madame de maintenon, fagon with his odd face, madame la duchesse d'orleans, madame la duchesse, madame la princesse de conti, besides other princes and nobles, and even the valets and servants were all present at the king's deathbed. then she paused, and m. le duc d'orleans, surprised that she had never mentioned monseigneur, monsieur le duc de bourgogne, madame la duchesse de bourgogne, nor m. le duc de berri, inquired if she did not see such and such people answering to their description. she persisted that she did not, and went over the others for the second time. this astonished m. le duc d'orleans deeply, as well as myself, and we were at a loss to explain it, but the event proved that the child was perfectly right. this seance took place in . these four members of the royal family were then full of health and strength; and they all died before the king. it was the same thing with m. le prince, m. le duc, and m. le prince de conti, whom she likewise did not see, though she beheld the children of the two last named; m. du maine, his own (orleans), and m. le comte de toulouse. but of course this fact was unknown till eight years after." science may conceivably come to study crystal visions, but veracious crystal visions will be treated like veracious dreams. that is to say, they will be explained as the results of a chance coincidence between the unknown fact and the vision, or of imposture, conscious or unconscious, or of confusion of memory, or the fact of the crystal vision will be simply denied. thus a vast number of well- authenticated cases of veracious visions will be required before science could admit that it might be well to investigate hitherto unacknowledged faculties of the human mind. the evidence can never be other than the word of the seer, with whatever value may attach to the testimony of those for whom he "sees," and describes, persons and places unknown to himself. the evidence of individuals as to their own subjective experiences is accepted by psychologists in other departments of the study. { } chapter iv veracious waking hallucinations not recognised by science; or explained by coincidence, imposture, false memory. a veracious hallucination popularly called a wraith or ghost. example of unveracious hallucination. the family coach. ghosts' clothes and other properties and practices; how explained. case of veracious hallucination. riding home from mess. another case. the bright scar. the vision and the portrait. such stories not usually believed. cases of touch: the restraining hand. of hearing: the benedictine's voices; the voice in the bath-room. other "warnings". the maoris. the man at the lift. appearances coincident with death. others not coincident with anything. in "crystal-gazing" anybody can make experiments for himself and among such friends as he thinks he can trust. they are hallucinations consciously sought for, and as far as possible, provoked or induced by taking certain simple measures. unsought, spontaneous waking hallucinations, according to the result of mr. galton's researches, though not nearly so common as dreams, are as much facts of _sane_ mental experience. now every ghost or wraith is a hallucination. you see your wife in the dining-room when she really is in the drawing- room; you see your late great-great-grandfather anywhere. neither person is really present. the first appearance in popular language is a "wraith"; the second is a "ghost" in ordinary speech. both are hallucinations. so far mr. galton would go, but mark what follows! everybody allows the existence of dreams, but comparatively few believe in dream stories of _veracious_ dreams. so every scientific man believes in hallucinations, { } but few believe in _veracious_ hallucinations. a veracious hallucination is, for our purpose, one which communicates (as veracious dreams do) information not otherwise known, or, at least, not known to the knower to be known. the communication of the knowledge may be done by audible words, with or without an actual apparition, or with an apparition, by words or gestures. again, if a hallucination of jones's presence tallies with a great crisis in jones's life, or with his death, the hallucination is so far veracious in that, at least, it does not seem meaningless. or if jones's appearance has some unwonted feature not known to the seer, but afterwards proved to be correct in fact, that is veracious. next, if several persons successively in the same place, or simultaneously, have a similar hallucination not to be accounted for physically, that is, if not a veracious, a curious hallucination. once more, if a hallucinatory figure is afterwards recognised in a living person previously unknown, or a portrait previously unseen, that (if the recognition be genuine) is a veracious hallucination. the vulgar call it a wraith of the living, or a ghost of the dead. here follow two cases. the first, the family coach, { a} gave no verified intelligence, and would be styled a "subjective hallucination". the second contributed knowledge of facts not previously known to the witness, and so the vulgar would call it a ghost. both appearances were very rich and full of complicated detail. indeed, any ghost that wears clothes is a puzzle. nobody but savages thinks that clothes have ghosts, but tom sawyer conjectures that ghosts' clothes "are made of ghost stuff". as a rule, not very much is seen of a ghost; he is "something of a shadowy being". yet we very seldom hear of a ghost stark naked; that of sergeant davies, murdered in , is one of three or four examples in civilised life. { b} hence arises the old question, "how are we to account for the clothes of ghosts?" one obvious reply is that there is no ghost at all, only a hallucination. we do not see people naked, as a rule, in our dreams; and hallucinations, being waking dreams, conform to the same rule. if a ghost opens a door or lifts a curtain in our sight, that, too, is only part of the illusion. the door did not open; the curtain was not lifted. nay, if the wrist or hand of the seer is burned or withered, as in a crowd of stories, the ghost's hand did not produce the effect. it was produced in the same way as when a hypnotised patient is told that "his hand is burned," his fancy then begets real blisters, or so we are informed, truly or not. the stigmata of st. francis and others are explained in the same way. { } how ghosts pull bedclothes off and make objects fly about is another question: in any case the ghosts are not _seen_ in the act. thus the clothes of ghosts, their properties, and their actions affecting physical objects, are not more difficult to explain than a naked ghost would be, they are all the "stuff that dreams are made of". but occasionally things are carried to a great pitch, as when a ghost drives off in a ghostly dogcart, with a ghostly horse, whip and harness. of this complicated kind we give two examples; the first reckons as a "subjective," the second as a veracious hallucination. the old family coach a distinguished and accomplished country gentleman and politician, of scientific tastes, was riding in the new forest, some twelve miles from the place where he was residing. in a grassy glade he discovered that he did not very clearly know his way to a country town which he intended to visit. at this moment, on the other side of some bushes a carriage drove along, and then came into clear view where there was a gap in the bushes. mr. hyndford saw it perfectly distinctly; it was a slightly antiquated family carriage, the sides were in that imitation of wicker work on green panel which was once so common. the coachman was a respectable family servant, he drove two horses: two old ladies were in the carriage, one of them wore a hat, the other a bonnet. they passed, and then mr. hyndford, going through the gap in the bushes, rode after them to ask his way. there was no carriage in sight, the avenue ended in a cul-de-sac of tangled brake, and there were no traces of wheels on the grass. mr. hyndford rode back to his original point of view, and looked for any object which could suggest the illusion of one old-fashioned carriage, one coachman, two horses and two elderly ladies, one in a hat and one in a bonnet. he looked in vain--and that is all! nobody in his senses would call this appearance a ghostly one. the name, however, would be applied to the following tale of riding home from mess in , general barter, c.b., was a subaltern in the th regiment, and was doing duty at the hill station of murree in the punjaub. he lived in a house built recently by a lieutenant b., who died, as researches at the war office prove, at peshawur on nd january, . the house was on a spur of the hill, three or four hundred yards under the only road, with which it communicated by a "bridle path," never used by horsemen. that path ended in a precipice; a footpath led into the bridle path from mr. barter's house. one evening mr. barter had a visit from a mr. and mrs. deane, who stayed till near eleven o'clock. there was a full moon, and mr. barter walked to the bridle path with his friends, who climbed it to join the road. he loitered with two dogs, smoking a cigar, and just as he turned to go home, he heard a horse's hoofs coming down the bridle path. at a bend of the path a tall hat came into view, then round the corner, the wearer of the hat, who rode a pony and was attended by two native grooms. "at this time the two dogs came, and crouching at my side, gave low frightened whimpers. the moon was at the full, a tropical moon, so bright that you could see to read a newspaper by its light, and i saw the party above me advance as plainly as if it were noon-day; they were above me some eight or ten feet on the bridle road. . . . on the party came, . . . and now i had better describe them. the rider was in full dinner dress, with white waistcoat and a tall chimney-pot hat, and he sat on a powerful hill pony (dark-brown, with black mane and tail) in a listless sort of way, the reins hanging loosely from both hands." grooms led the pony and supported the rider. mr. barter, knowing that there was no place they could go to but his own house, cried "quon hai?" (who is it?), adding in english, "hullo, what the devil do you want here?" the group halted, the rider gathered up the reins with both hands, and turning, showed mr. barter the known features of the late lieutenant b. he was very pale, the face was a dead man's face, he was stouter than when mr. barter knew him and he wore _a dark newgate fringe_. mr. barter dashed up the bank, the earth thrown up in making the bridle path crumbled under him, he fell, scrambled on, reached the bridle path where the group had stopped, and found nobody. mr. barter ran up the path for a hundred yards, as nobody could go _down_ it except over a precipice, and neither heard nor saw anything. his dogs did not accompany him. next day mr. barter gently led his friend deane to talk of lieutenant b., who said that the lieutenant "grew very bloated before his death, and while on the sick list he allowed the fringe to grow in spite of all we could say to him, and i believe he was buried with it". mr. barter then asked where he got the pony, describing it minutely. "he bought him at peshawur, and killed him one day, riding in his reckless fashion down the hill to trete." mr. barter and his wife often heard the horse's hoofs later, though he doubts if any one but b. had ever ridden the bridle path. his hindoo bearer he found one day armed with a lattie, being determined to waylay the sound, which "passed him like a typhoon". { } here the appearance gave correct information unknown previously to general barter, namely, that lieutenant b. grew stout and wore a beard before his death, also that he had owned a brown pony, with black mane and tail. even granting that the ghosts of the pony and lieutenant were present (both being dead), we are not informed that the grooms were dead also. the hallucination, on the theory of "mental telegraphy," was telegraphed to general barter's mind from some one who had seen lieutenant b. ride home from mess not very sober, or from the mind of the defunct lieutenant, or, perhaps, from that of the deceased pony. the message also reached and alarmed general barter's dogs. something of the same kind may or may not explain mr. hyndford's view of the family coach, which gave no traceable information. the following story, in which an appearance of the dead conveyed information not known to the seer, and so deserving to be called veracious, is a little ghastly. the bright scar in , miss g., aged eighteen, died suddenly of cholera in st. louis. in a brother, f. g., who was much attached to her, had done a good day's business in st. joseph. he was sending in his orders to his employers (he is a commercial traveller) and was smoking a cigar, when he became conscious that some one was sitting on his left, with one arm on the table. it was his dead sister. he sprang up to embrace her (for even on meeting a stranger whom we take for a dead friend, we never realise the impossibility in the half moment of surprise) but she was gone. mr. g. stood there, the ink wet on his pen, the cigar lighted in his hand, the name of his sister on his lips. he had noted her expression, features, dress, the kindness of her eyes, the glow of the complexion, and what he had never seen before, _a bright red scratch on the right side of her face_. mr. g. took the next train home to st. louis, and told the story to his parents. his father was inclined to ridicule him, but his mother nearly fainted. when she could control herself, she said that, unknown to any one, she had accidentally scratched the face of the dead, apparently with the pin of her brooch, while arranging something about the corpse. she had obliterated the scratch with powder, and had kept the fact to herself. "she told me she _knew_ at least that i had seen my sister." a few weeks later mrs. g. died. { } here the information existed in one living mind, the mother's, and if there is any "mental telegraphy," may thence have been conveyed to mr. f. g. another kind of cases which may be called veracious, occurs when the ghost seer, after seeing the ghost, recognises it in a portrait not previously beheld. of course, allowance must be made for fancy, and for conscious or unconscious hoaxing. you see a spook in castle dangerous. you then recognise the portrait in the hall, or elsewhere. the temptation to recognise the spook rather more clearly than you really do, is considerable, just as one is tempted to recognise the features of the stuarts in the royal family, of the parents in a baby, or in any similar case. nothing is more common in literary ghost stories than for somebody to see a spectre and afterwards recognise him or her in a portrait not before seen. there is an early example in sir walter scott's tapestried chamber, which was told to him by miss anna seward. another such tale is by theophile gautier. in an essay on illusions by mr. james sully, a case is given. a lady (who corroborated the story to the present author) was vexed all night by a spectre in armour. next morning she saw, what she had not previously observed, a portrait of the spectre in the room. mr. sully explains that she had seen the portrait _unconsciously_, and dreamed of it. he adds the curious circumstance that other people have had the same experience in the same room, which his explanation does not cover. the following story is published by the society for psychical research, attested by the seer and her husband, whose real names are known, but not published. { } the vision and the portrait mrs. m. writes (december , ) that before her vision she had heard nothing about hauntings in the house occupied by herself and her husband, and nothing about the family sorrows of her predecessors there. "one night, on retiring to my bedroom about o'clock, i thought i heard a peculiar moaning sound, and some one sobbing as if in great distress of mind. i listened very attentively, and still it continued; so i raised the gas in my bedroom, and then went to the window on the landing, drew the blind aside, and there on the grass was a very beautiful young girl in a kneeling posture, before a soldier in a general's uniform, sobbing and clasping her hands together, entreating for pardon, but alas! he only waved her away from him. so much did i feel for the girl that i ran down the staircase to the door opening upon the lawn, and begged her to come in and tell me her sorrow. the figures then disappeared gradually, as in a dissolving view. not in the least nervous did i feel then; went again to my bedroom, took a sheet of writing-paper, and wrote down what i had seen." { } mrs. m., whose husband was absent, began to feel nervous, and went to another lady's room. she later heard of an old disgrace to the youngest daughter of the proud family, her predecessors in the house. the poor girl tried in vain to win forgiveness, especially from a near relative, a soldier, sir x. y. "so vivid was my remembrance of the features of the soldier, that some months after the occurrence [of the vision] when i called with my husband at a house where there was a portrait of him, i stepped before it and said, 'why, look! there is the general!' and sure enough it _was_." mrs. m. had not heard that the portrait was in the room where she saw it. mr. m. writes that he took her to the house where he knew it to be without telling her of its existence. mrs. m. turned pale when she saw it. mr. m. knew the sad old story, but had kept it to himself. the family in which the disgrace occurred, in or , were his relations. { } this vision was a veracious hallucination; it gave intelligence not otherwise known to mrs. m., and capable of confirmation, therefore the appearances would be called "ghosts". the majority of people do not believe in the truth of any such stories of veracious hallucinations, just as they do not believe in veracious dreams. mr. galton, out of all his packets of reports of hallucinations, does not even allude to a veracious example, whether he has records of such a thing or not. such reports, however, are ghost stories, "which we now proceed," or continue, "to narrate". the reader will do well to remember that while everything ghostly, and not to be explained by known physical facts, is in the view of science a hallucination, every hallucination is not a ghost for the purposes of story-telling. the hallucination must, for story-telling purposes, be _veracious_. following our usual method, we naturally begin with the anecdotes least trying to the judicial faculties, and most capable of an ordinary explanation. perhaps of all the senses, the sense of touch, though in some ways the surest, is in others the most easily deceived. some people who cannot call up a clear mental image of things seen, say a saltcellar, can readily call up a mental revival of the feeling of touching salt. again, a slight accidental throb, or leap of a sinew or vein, may feel so like a touch that we turn round to see who touched us. these familiar facts go far to make the following tale more or less conceivable. the restraining hand "about twenty years ago," writes mrs. elliot, "i received some letters by post, one of which contained pounds in bank notes. after reading the letters i went into the kitchen with them in my hands. i was alone at the time. . . . having done with the letters, i made an effort to throw them into the fire, when i distinctly felt my hand arrested in the act. it was as though another hand were gently laid upon my own, pressing it back. much surprised, i looked at my hand and then saw it contained, not the letters i had intended to destroy, but the bank notes, and that the letters were in the other hand. i was so surprised that i called out, 'who's here?'" { a} nobody will call this "the touch of a vanished hand". part of mrs. elliot's mind knew what she was about, and started an unreal but veracious feeling to warn her. we shall come to plenty of hands not so readily disposed of. next to touch, the sense most apt to be deceived is hearing. every one who has listened anxiously for an approaching carriage, has often heard it come before it came. in the summer of the writer, with a lady and another companion, were standing on the veranda at the back of a house in dumfriesshire, waiting for a cab to take one of them to the station. they heard a cab arrive and draw up, went round to the front of the house, saw the servant open the door and bring out the luggage, but wheeled vehicle there was none in sound or sight. yet all four persons had heard it, probably by dint of expectation. to hear articulate voices where there are none is extremely common in madness, { b} but not very rare, as mr. galton shows, among the sane. when the voices are veracious, give unknown information, they are in the same case as truthful dreams. i offer a few from the experience, reported to me by himself, of a man of learning whom i shall call a benedictine monk, though that is not his real position in life. the benedictine's voices my friend, as a lad, was in a strait between the choice of two professions. he prayed for enlightenment, and soon afterwards heard an _internal_ voice, advising a certain course. "did you act on it?" i asked. "no; i didn't. i considered that in my circumstances it did not demand attention." later, when a man grown, he was in his study merely idling over some books on the table, when he heard a loud voice from a corner of the room assert that a public event of great importance would occur at a given date. it did occur. about the same time, being abroad, he was in great anxiety as to a matter involving only himself. of this he never spoke to any one. on his return to england his mother said, "you were very wretched about so and so". "how on earth did you know?" "i heard ---'s voice telling me." now --- had died years before, in childhood. in these cases the benedictine's own conjecture and his mother's affection probably divined facts, which did not present themselves as thoughts in the ordinary way, but took the form of unreal voices. there are many examples, as of the girl in her bath who heard a voice say "open the door" four times, did so, then fainted, and only escaped drowning by ringing the bell just before she swooned. of course she might not have swooned if she had not been alarmed by hearing the voices. these tales are dull enough, and many voices, like dr. johnson's mother's, when he heard her call his name, she being hundreds of miles away, lead to nothing and are not veracious. when they are veracious, as in the case of dreams, it may be by sheer accident. in a similar class are "warnings" conveyed by the eye, not by the ear. the maoris of new zealand believe that if one sees a body lying across a path or oneself on the opposite side of a river, it is wiser to try another path and a different ford. the man at the lift in the same way, in august, , a lady in a boston hotel in the dusk rang for the lift, walked along the corridor and looked out of a window, started to run to the door of the lift, saw a man in front of it, stopped, and when the lighted lift came up, found that the door was wide open and that, had she run on as she intended, she would have fallen down the well. here part of her mind may have known that the door was open, and started a ghost (for there was no real man there) to stop her. pity that these things do not occur more frequently. they do--in new zealand. { } these are a few examples of useful veracious waking dreams. the sort of which we hear most are "wraiths". a, when awake, meets b, who is dead or dying or quite well at a distance. the number of these stories is legion. to these we advance, under their highland title, _spirits of the living_. chapter v "spirits of the living." mistakes of identity. followed by arrival of real person. "arrivals." mark twain's phantom lady. phantom dogcart. influence of expectant attention. goethe. shelley. the wraith of the czarina. queen elizabeth's wraith. second sight. case at ballachulish. experiments in sending wraiths. an "astral body". evidence discussed. miss russell's case. "spirits of the dying." maori examples. theory of chance coincidence. in tavistock place. the wynyard wraith. lord brougham's wraith story. lord brougham's logic. the dying mother. comparison with the astral body. the vision of the bride. animals as affected by the supposed presence of apparitions. examples. transition to appearances of the dead. "spirits of the living" is the highland term for the appearances of people who are alive and well--but elsewhere. the common highland belief is that they show themselves to second-sighted persons, very frequently before the arrival of a stranger or a visitor, expected or unexpected. probably many readers have had the experience of meeting an acquaintance in the street. he passes us, and within a hundred yards we again meet and talk with our friend. when he is of very marked appearance, or has any strong peculiarity, the experience is rather perplexing. perhaps a few bits of hallucination are sprinkled over a real object. this ordinary event leads on to what are called "arrivals," that is when a person is seen, heard and perhaps spoken to in a place to which he is travelling, but whither he has not yet arrived. mark twain gives an instance in his own experience. at a large crowded reception he saw approaching him in the throng a lady whom he had known and liked many years before. when she was near him, he lost sight of her, but met her at supper, dressed as he had seen her in the "levee". at that moment she was travelling by railway to the town in which he was. { a} a large number of these cases have been printed. { b} in one case a gentleman and lady from their window saw his brother and sister-in-law drive past, with a horse which they knew had not been out for some weeks. the seers were presently joined by the visitors' daughter, who had met the party on the road, she having just left them at their house. ten minutes later the real pair arrived, horse and all. { c} this last affair is one of several tales of "phantom coaches," not only heard but seen, the coach being a coach of the living. in the author was staying at a highland castle, when one of the ladies observed to her nephew, "so you and susan _did_ drive in the dogcart; i saw you pass my window". "no, we didn't; but we spoke of doing it." the lady then mentioned minute details of the dress and attitudes of her relations as they passed her window, where the drive turned from the hall door through the park; but, in fact, no such journey had been made. dr. hack tuke published the story of the "arrival" of dr. boase at his house a quarter of an hour before he came, the people who saw him supposing him to be in paris. { } when a person is seen in "arrival" cases before he arrives, the affair is not so odd if he is expected. undoubtedly, expectation does sometimes conjure up phantasms, and the author once saw (as he supposed) a serious accident occur which in fact did not take place, though it seemed unavoidable. curiously enough, this creation of phantasms by expectant attention seems to be rare where "ghosts" are expected. the author has slept in several haunted houses, but has never seen what he was led to expect. in many instances, as in "the lady in black" (infra), a ghost who is a frequent visitor is never seen when people watch for her. among the many persons who have had delusions as to the presence of the dead, very few have been hoping, praying for and expecting them. "i look for ghosts, but none will force their way to me: 'tis falsely said that there was ever intercourse between the living and the dead, for surely then i should have sight of him i wait for day and night with love and longings infinite." the affliction of margaret has been the affliction of most of us. there are curious historical examples of these appearances of the living. goethe declares that he once met himself at a certain place in a certain dress, and several years later found himself there in that costume. shelley was seen by his friends at lerici to pass along a balcony whence there was no exit. however, he could not be found there. the story of the wraith of catherine the great is variously narrated. we give it as told by an eye-witness, the comte de ribaupierre, about to lady napier and ettrick. the count, in , was a very old man, and more than thirty years have passed since he gave the tale to lady napier, whose memory retains it in the following form:-- the wraith of the czarina "in the exercise of his duties as one of the pages-in-waiting, ribaupierre followed one day his august mistress into the throne-room of the palace. when the empress, accompanied by the high officers of her court and the ladies of her household, came in sight of the chair of state which she was about to occupy, she suddenly stopped, and to the horror and astonished awe of her courtiers, she pointed to a visionary being seated on the imperial throne. the occupant of the chair was an exact counterpart of herself. all saw it and trembled, but none dared to move towards the mysterious presentment of their sovereign. "after a moment of dead silence the great catherine raised her voice and ordered her guard to advance and fire on the apparition. the order was obeyed, a mirror beside the throne was shattered, the vision had disappeared, and the empress, with no sign of emotion, took the chair from which her semblance had passed away." it is a striking barbaric scene! "spirits of the living" of this kind are common enough. in the highlands "second sight" generally means a view of an event or accident some time before its occurrence. thus an old man was sitting with a little boy on a felled tree beside a steep track in a quarry at ballachulish. suddenly he jerked the boy to one side, and threw himself down on the further side of the tree. while the boy stared, the old man slowly rose, saying, "the spirits of the living are strong to-day!" he had seen a mass of rock dashing along, killing some quarrymen and tearing down the path. the accident occurred next day. it is needless to dwell on second sight, which is not peculiar to celts, though the highlanders talk more about it than other people. these appearances of the living but absent, whether caused by some mental action of the person who appears or not, are, at least, _unconscious_ on his part. { } but a few cases occur in which a living person is said, by a voluntary exertion of mind, to have made himself visible to a friend at a distance. one case is vouched for by baron von schrenck-notzig, a german psychologist, who himself made the experiment with success. others are narrated by dr. gibotteau. a curious tale is told by several persons as follows:-- an "astral body" mr. sparks and mr. cleave, young men of twenty and nineteen, were accustomed to "mesmerise" each other in their dormitory at portsmouth, where they were students of naval engineering. mr. sparks simply stared into mr. cleave's eyes as he lay on his bed till he "went off". the experiments seemed so curious that witnesses were called, mr. darley and mr. thurgood. on friday, th january, , mr. cleave determined to try to see, when asleep, a young lady at wandsworth to whom he was in the habit of writing every sunday. he also intended, if possible, to make _her_ see _him_. on awaking, he said that he had seen her in the dining-room of her house, that she had seemed to grow restless, had looked at him, and then had covered her face with her hands. on monday he tried again, and he thought he had frightened her, as after looking at him for a few minutes she fell back in her chair in a kind of faint. her little brother was in the room with her at the time. on tuesday next the young lady wrote, telling mr. cleave that she had been startled by seeing him on friday evening (this is an error), and again on monday evening, "much clearer," when she nearly fainted. all this mr. sparks wrote to mr. gurney in the same week. he was inviting instructions on hypnotic experiments, and "launched a letter into space," having read something vague about mr. gurney's studies in the newspapers. the letter, after some adventures, arrived, and on th march mr. cleave wrote his account, mr. darley and mr. thurgood corroborating as to their presence during the trance and as to mr. cleave's statement when he awoke. mr. cleave added that he made experiments "for five nights running" before seeing the lady. the young lady's letter of th january, , is also produced (postmark, portsmouth, th january). but the lady mentions her _first_ vision of mr. cleave as on last _tuesday_ (not friday), and her second, while she was alone with her little brother, at supper on monday. "i was so frightened that i nearly fainted." these are all young people. it may be said that all five were concerned in a complicated hoax on mr. gurney. nor would such a hoax argue any unusual moral obliquity. surtees of mainsforth, in other respects an honourable man, took in sir walter scott with forged ballads, and never undeceived his friend. southey played off a hoax with his book the doctor. hogg, lockhart, and wilson, with allan cunningham and many others, were constantly engaged in such mystifications, and a "ghost-hunter" might seem a fair butt. but the very discrepancy in miss ---'s letter is a proof of fairness. her first vision of mr. cleave was on "tuesday last". mr. cleave's first impression of success was on the friday following. but he had been making the experiment for five nights previous, including the tuesday of miss ---'s letter. had the affair been a hoax, miss --- would either have been requested by him to re-write her letter, putting friday for tuesday, or what is simpler, mr. sparks would have adopted her version and written "tuesday" in place of "friday" in his first letter to mr. gurney. the young lady, naturally, requested mr. cleave not to try his experiment on her again. a similar case is that of mrs. russell, who tried successfully, when awake and in scotland, to appear to one of her family in germany. the sister corroborates and says, "pray don't come appearing to me again". { a} these spirits of the living lead to the subject of spirits of the dying. no kind of tale is so common as that of dying people appearing at a distance. hundreds have been conscientiously published. { b} the belief is prevalent among the maoris of new zealand, where the apparition is regarded as a proof of death. { c} now there is nothing in savage philosophy to account for this opinion of the maoris. a man's "spirit" leaves his body in dreams, savages think, and as dreaming is infinitely more common than death, the maoris should argue that the appearance is that of a man's spirit wandering in his sleep. however, they, like many europeans, associate a man's apparition with his death. not being derived from their philosophy, this habit may be deduced from their experience. as there are, undeniably, many examples of hallucinatory appearances of persons in perfect health and ordinary circumstances, the question has been asked whether there are _more_ cases of an apparition coinciding with death than, according to the doctrine of chances, there ought to be. out of about , answers to questions on this subject, has been deduced the conclusion that the deaths do coincide with the apparitions to an extent beyond mere accident. even if we had an empty hallucination for every case coinciding with death, we could not set the coincidences down to mere chance. as well might we say that if "at the end of an hour's rifle practice at long-distance range, the record shows that for every shot that has hit the bull's eye, another has missed the target, therefore the shots that hit the target did so by accident." { } but as empty hallucinations are more likely to be forgotten than those which coincide with a death; as exaggeration creeps in, as the collectors of evidence are naturally inclined to select and question people whom they know to have a good story to tell, the evidence connecting apparitions, voices, and so on with deaths is not likely to be received with favour. one thing must be remembered as affecting the theory that the coincidence between the wraith and the death is purely an accident. everybody dreams and out of the innumerable dreams of mankind, a few must hit the mark by a fluke. but _hallucinations_ are not nearly so common as dreams. perhaps, roughly speaking, one person in ten has had what he believes to be a waking hallucination. therefore, so to speak, compared with dreams, but a small number of shots of this kind are fired. therefore, bull's eyes (the coincidence between an appearance and a death) are infinitely less likely to be due to chance in the case of waking hallucinations than in the case of dreams, which all mankind are firing off every night of their lives. stories of these coincidences between appearances and deaths are as common as they are dull. most people come across them in the circle of their friends. they are all very much alike, and make tedious reading. we give a few which have some picturesque features. in tavistock place { } "in the latter part of the autumn of , between half-past three and four in the morning, i was leisurely walking home from the house of a sick friend. a middle-aged woman, apparently a nurse, was slowly following, going in the same direction. we crossed tavistock square together, and emerged simultaneously into tavistock place. the streets and squares were deserted, the morning bright and calm, my health excellent, nor did i suffer from anxiety or fatigue. a man suddenly appeared, striding up tavistock place, coming towards me, and going in a direction opposite to mine. when first seen he was standing exactly in front of my own door ( tavistock place). young and ghastly pale, he was dressed in evening clothes, evidently made by a foreign tailor. tall and slim, he walked with long measured strides noiselessly. a tall white hat, covered thickly with black crape, and an eyeglass, completed the costume of this strange form. the moonbeams falling on the corpse-like features revealed a face well known to me, that of a friend and relative. the sole and only person in the street beyond myself and this being was the woman already alluded to. she stopped abruptly, as if spell-bound, then rushing towards the man, she gazed intently and with horror unmistakable on his face, which was now upturned to the heavens and smiling ghastly. she indulged in her strange contemplation but during very few seconds, then with extraordinary and unexpected speed for her weight and age she ran away with a terrific shriek and yell. this woman never have i seen or heard of since, and but for her presence i could have explained the incident: called it, say, subjection of the mental powers to the domination of physical reflex action, and the man's presence could have been termed a false impression on the retina. "a week after this event, news of this very friend's death reached me. it occurred on the morning in question. from the family i learned that according to the rites of the greek church and the custom of the country he resided in, he was buried in his evening clothes made abroad by a foreign tailor, and strange to say, he wore goloshes over his boots, according also to the custom of the country he died in. . . . when in england, he lived in tavistock place, and occupied my rooms during my absence." { a} the wynyard wraith { b} "in the month of november ( or ), sir john sherbrooke and colonel wynyard were sitting before dinner in their barrack room at sydney cove, in america. it was duskish, and a candle was placed on a table at a little distance. a figure dressed in plain clothes and a good round hat, passed gently between the above people and the fire. while passing, sir j. sherbrooke exclaimed, 'god bless my soul, who's that?' "almost at the same moment colonel w. said, 'that's my brother john wynyard, and i am sure he is dead'. colonel w. was much agitated, and cried and sobbed a great deal. sir john said, 'the fellow has a devilish good hat; i wish i had it'. (hats were not to be got there and theirs were worn out.) they immediately got up (sir john was on crutches, having broken his leg), took a candle and went into the bedroom, into which the figure had entered. they searched the bed and every corner of the room to no effect; the windows were fastened up with mortar. . . . "they received no communication from england for about five months, when a letter from mr. rush, the surgeon (coldstream guards), announced the death of john wynyard at the moment, as near as could be ascertained, when the figure appeared. in addition to this extraordinary circumstance, sir john told me that two years and a half afterwards he was walking with lilly wynyard (a brother of colonel w.) in london, and seeing somebody on the other side of the way, he recognised, he thought, the person who had appeared to him and colonel wynyard in america. lilly wynyard said that the person pointed out was a mr. eyre (hay?), that he and john wynyard were frequently mistaken for each other, and that money had actually been paid to this mr. eyre in mistake." a famous tale of an appearance is lord brougham's. his lordship was not reckoned precisely a veracious man; on the other hand, this was not the kind of fable he was likely to tell. he was brought up under the regime of common-sense. "on all such subjects my father was very sceptical," he says. to disbelieve lord brougham we must suppose either that he wilfully made a false entry in his diary in , or that in preparing his autobiography in , he deliberately added a falsehood--and then explained his own marvel away! lord brougham's story "december , . " . . . at one in the morning, arriving at a decent inn (in sweden), we decided to stop for the night, and found a couple of comfortable rooms. tired with the cold of yesterday, i was glad to take advantage of a hot bath before i turned in. and here a most remarkable thing happened to me--so remarkable that i must tell the story from the beginning. "after i left the high school, i went with g---, my most intimate friend, to attend the classes in the university. . . . we actually committed the folly of drawing up an agreement, written with our blood, to the effect that whichever of us died the first should appear to the other, and thus solve any doubts we had entertained of 'the life after death'. g--- went to india, years passed, and," says lord brougham, "i had nearly forgotten his existence. i had taken, as i have said, a warm bath, and while lying in it and enjoying the comfort of the heat, i turned my head round, looking towards the chair on which i had deposited my clothes, as i was about to get out of the bath. on the chair sat g---, looking calmly at me. how i got out of the bath i know not, but on recovering my senses i found myself sprawling on the floor. the apparition, or whatever it was that had taken the likeness of g---, had disappeared. . . . so strongly was i affected by it that i have here written down the whole history, with the date, th december, and all the particulars as they are now fresh before me. no doubt i had fallen asleep" (he has just said that he was awake and on the point of leaving the bath), "and that the appearance presented so distinctly to my eyes was a dream i cannot for a moment doubt. . . ." on th october, , lord brougham copied this extract for his autobiography, and says that on his arrival in edinburgh he received a letter from india, announcing that g--- had died on th december. he remarks "singular coincidence!" and adds that, considering the vast number of dreams, the number of coincidences is perhaps fewer than a fair calculation of chances would warrant us to expect. this is a concession to common-sense, and argues an ignorance of the fact that sane and (apparently) waking men may have hallucinations. on the theory that we _may_ have inappreciable moments of sleep when we think ourselves awake, it is not an ordinary but an extraordinary coincidence that brougham should have had that peculiar moment of the "dream" of g--- on the day or night of g---'s death, while the circumstance that he had made a compact with g--- multiplies the odds against accident in a ratio which mathematicians may calculate. brougham was used to dreams, like other people; he was not shocked by them. this "dream" "produced such a shock that i had no inclination to talk about it". even on brougham's showing, then, this dream was a thing unique in his experience, and not one of the swarm of visions of sleep. thus his including it among these, while his whole language shows that he himself did not really reckon it among these, is an example of the fallacies of common-sense. he completes his fallacy by saying, "it is not much more wonderful than that a person whom we had no reason to expect should appear to us at the very moment we had been thinking or speaking of him". but lord brougham had _not_ been speaking or thinking of g---; "there had been nothing to call him to my recollection," he says. to give his logic any value, he should constantly when (as far as he knew) awake, have had dreams that "shocked" him. then _one_ coincidence would have had no assignable cause save ordinary accident. if lord brougham fabled in or in , he did so to make a "sensation". and then he tried to undo it by arguing that his experience was a thoroughly commonplace affair. we now give a very old story, "the dying mother". if the reader will compare it with mr. cleave's case, "an astral body," in this chapter, he will be struck by the resemblance. mr. cleave and mrs. goffe were both in a trance. both wished to see persons at a distance. both saw, and each was seen, mrs. goffe by her children's nurse; mr. cleave by the person whom he wished to see, but _not_ by a small boy also present. the dying mother { } "mary, the wife of john goffe of rochester, being afflicted with a long illness, removed to her father's house at west mulling, about nine miles from her own. there she died on th june, this present year, . "the day before her departure (death) she grew very impatiently desirous to see her two children, whom she had left at home to the care of a nurse. she prayed her husband to 'hire a horse, for she must go home and die with the children'. she was too ill to be moved, but 'a minister who lives in the town was with her at ten o'clock that night, to whom she expressed good hopes in the mercies of god and a willingness to die'. 'but' said she, 'it is my misery that i cannot see my children.' "between one and two o'clock in the morning, she fell into a trance. one, widow turner, who watched with her that night, says that her eyes were open and fixed and her jaw fallen. mrs. turner put her hand upon her mouth and nostrils, but could perceive no breath. she thought her to be in a fit; and doubted whether she were dead or alive. "the next morning the dying woman told her mother that she had been at home with her children. . . . 'i was with them last night when i was asleep.' "the nurse at rochester, widow alexander by name, affirms, and says she will take her oath on't before a magistrate and receive the sacrament upon it, that a little before two o'clock that morning she saw the likeness of the said mary goffe come out of the next chamber (where the elder child lay in a bed by itself) the door being left open, and stood by her bedside for about a quarter of an hour; the younger child was there lying by her. her eyes moved and her mouth went, but she said nothing. the nurse, moreover, says that she was perfectly awake; it was then daylight, being one of the longest days in the year. she sat up in bed and looked steadfastly on the apparition. in that time she heard the bridge clock strike two, and a while after said, 'in the name of the father, son and holy ghost, what art thou?' thereupon the apparition removed and went away; she slipped on her clothes and followed, but what became on't she cannot tell. "mrs. alexander then walked out of doors till six, when she persuaded some neighbours to let her in. she told her adventure; they failed to persuade her that she had dreamed it. on the same day the neighbour's wife, mrs. sweet, went to west mulling, saw mrs. goffe before her death, and heard from mrs. goffe's mother the story of the daughter's dream of her children, mrs. sweet not having mentioned the nurse's story of the apparition." that poor mrs. goffe walked to rochester and returned undetected, a distance of eighteen miles is difficult to believe. goethe has an obiter dictum on the possibility of intercommunion without the aid of the ordinary senses, between the souls of lovers. something of the kind is indicated in anecdotes of dreams dreamed in common by husband and wife, but, in such cases, it may be urged that the same circumstance, or the same noise or other disturbing cause, may beget the same dream in both. a better instance is the vision of the bride colonel meadows taylor writes, in the story of my life (vol. ii., p. ): "the determination (to live unmarried) was the result of a very curious and strange incident that befel me during one of my marches to hyderabad. i have never forgotten it, and it returns to this day to my memory with a strangely vivid effect that i can neither repel nor explain. i purposely withhold the date of the year. in my very early life i had been deeply and devotedly attached to one in england, and only relinquished the hope of one day winning her when the terrible order came out that no furlough to europe would be granted. "one evening i was at the village of dewas kudea, after a very long afternoon and evening march from muktul, and i lay down very weary; but the barking of village dogs, the baying of jackals and over- fatigue and heat prevented sleep, and i was wide awake and restless. suddenly, for my tent door was wide open, i saw the face and figure so familiar to me, but looking older, and with a sad and troubled expression; the dress was white and seemed covered with a profusion of lace and glistened in the bright moonlight. the arms were stretched out, and a low plaintive cry of 'do not let me go! do not let me go!' reached me. i sprang forward, but the figure receded, growing fainter and fainter till i could see it no more, but the low plaintive tones still sounded. i had run barefooted across the open space where my tents were pitched, very much to the astonishment of the sentry on guard, but i returned to my tent without speaking to him. i wrote to my father. i wished to know whether there were any hope for me. he wrote back to me these words: 'too late, my dear son--on the very day of the vision you describe to me, a. was married'." the colonel did not keep his determination not to marry, for his life is edited by his daughter, who often heard her father mention the incident, "precisely in the same manner, and exactly as it is in the book". { } if thinking of friends and lovers, lost or dead, could bring their forms and voices before the eye and ear of flesh, there would be a world of hallucinations around us. "but it wants heaven-sent moments for this skill," and few bridal nights send a vision and a voice to the bed of a wakeful lover far away. stories of this kind, appearances of the living or dying really at a distance, might be multiplied to any extent. they are all capable of explanation, if we admit the theory of telepathy, of a message sent by an unknown process from one living man's mind to another. where more than one person shares the vision, we may suppose that the influence comes directly from a to b, c and d, or comes from a to b, and is by him unconsciously "wired" on to b and c, or is "suggested" to them by b's conduct or words. in that case animals may be equally affected, thus, if b seems alarmed, that may frighten his dog, or the alarm of a dog, caused by some noise or smell, heard or smelt by him, may frighten b, c and d, and make one or all of them see a ghost. popular opinion is strongly in favour of beasts seeing ghosts. the people of st. kilda, according to martin, held that cows shared the visions of second-sighted milk-maids. horses are said to shy on the scene of murders. scott's horse ran away (home) when sir walter saw the bogle near ashiestiel. in a case given later the dog shut up in a room full of unexplained noises, yelled and whined. the same dog (an intimate friend of my own) bristled up his hair and growled before his master saw the grey lady. the rev. j. g. wood gives a case of a cat which nearly went mad when his mistress saw an apparition. jeremy taylor tells of a dog which got quite used to a ghost that often appeared to his master, and used to follow it. in "the lady in black," a dog would jump up and fawn on the ghost and then run away in a fright. mr. wesley's mastiff was much alarmed by the family ghost. not to multiply cases, dogs and other animals are easily affected by whatever it is that makes people think a ghost is present, or by the conduct of the human beings on these occasions. absurd as the subject appears, there are stories of the ghosts of animals. these may be discussed later; meanwhile we pass from appearances of the living or dying to stories of appearances of the dead. chapter vi transition to appearances of the dead. obvious scientific difficulties. purposeless character of modern ghosts. theory of dead men's dreams. illustrated by sleep-walking house-maid. purposeful character of the old ghost stories. probable causes of the difference between old and new ghost stories. only the most dramatic were recorded. or the tales were embellished or invented. practical reasons for inventing them. the daemon of spraiton. sources of story of sir george villier's ghost. clarendon. lilly, douch. wyndham. wyndham's letter. sir henry wotton. izaak walton. anthony wood. a wotton dream proved legendary. the ghost that appeared to lord lyttleton. his lordship's own ghost. appearances of the dead we now pass beyond the utmost limits to which a "scientific" theory of things ghostly can be pushed. science admits, if asked, that it does not know everything. it is not _inconceivable_ that living minds may communicate by some other channel than that of the recognised senses. science now admits the fact of hypnotic influence, though, sixty years ago, braid was not allowed to read a paper on it before the british association. even now the topic is not welcome. but perhaps only one eminent man of science declares that hypnotism is _all_ imposture and malobservation. thus it is not wholly beyond the scope of fancy to imagine that some day official science may glance at the evidence for "telepathy". but the stories we have been telling deal with living men supposed to be influencing living men. when the dead are alleged to exercise a similar power, we have to suppose that some consciousness survives the grave, and manifests itself by causing hallucinations among the living. instances of this have already been given in "the ghost and the portrait," "the bright scar" and "riding home after mess". these were adduced as examples of _veracity_ in hallucinations. each appearance gave information to the seer which he did not previously possess. in the first case, the lady who saw the soldier and the suppliant did not know of their previous existence and melancholy adventure. in the second, the brother did not know that his dead sister's face had been scratched. in the third, the observer did not know that lieutenant b. had grown a beard and acquired a bay pony with black mane and tail. but though the appearances were _veracious_, they were _purposeless_, and again, as in each case the information existed in living minds, it _may_ have been wired on from them. thus the doctrine of telepathy puts a ghost of the dead in a great quandary. if he communicates no verifiable information, he may be explained as a mere empty illusion. if he does yield fresh information, and if that is known to any living mind, he and his intelligence may have been wired on from that mind. his only chance is to communicate facts which are proved to be true, facts which nobody living knew before. now it is next to impossible to demonstrate that the facts communicated were absolutely unknown to everybody. far, however, from conveying unknown intelligence, most ghosts convey none at all, and appear to have no purpose whatever. it will be observed that there was no traceable reason why the girl with a scar should appear to mr. g., or the soldier and suppliant to mrs. m., or lieutenant b. to general barker. the appearances came in a vague, casual, aimless way, just as the living and healthy clergyman appeared to the diplomatist. on st. augustine's theory the dead persons who appeared may have known no more about the matter than did the living clergyman. it is not even necessary to suppose that the dead man was dreaming about the living person to whom, or about the place in which, he appeared. but on the analogy of the tales in which a dream or thought of the living seems to produce a hallucination of their presence in the minds of other and distant living people, so a dream of the dead may (it is urged) have a similar effect if "in that sleep of death such dreams may come". the idea occurred to shakespeare! in any case the ghosts of our stories hitherto have been so aimless and purposeless as to resemble what we might imagine a dead man's dream to be. this view of the case (that a "ghost" may be a reflection of a dead man's dream) will become less difficult to understand if we ask ourselves what natural thing most resembles the common idea of a ghost. you are reading alone at night, let us say, the door opens and a human figure glides into the room. to you it pays no manner of attention; it does not answer if you speak; it may trifle with some object in the chamber and then steal quietly out again. _it is the house-maid walking in her sleep_. this perfectly accountable appearance, in its aimlessness, its unconsciousness, its irresponsiveness, is undeniably just like the common notion of a ghost. now, if ordinary ghosts are not of flesh and blood, like the sleep-walking house-maid, yet are as irresponsive, as unconscious, and as vaguely wandering as she, then (if the dead are somewhat) a ghost _may_ be a hallucination produced in the living by the _unconscious_ action of the mind of the dreaming dead. the conception is at least conceivable. if adopted, merely for argument's sake, it would first explain the purposeless behaviour of ghosts, and secondly, relieve people who see ghosts of the impression that they see "spirits". in the scotch phrase the ghost obviously "is not all there," any more than the sleep walker is intellectually "all there". this incomplete, incoherent presence is just what might be expected if a dreaming disembodied mind could affect an embodied mind with a hallucination. but the good old-fashioned ghost stories are usually of another type. the robust and earnest ghosts of our ancestors "had their own purpose sun-clear before them," as mr. carlyle would have said. they knew what they wanted, asked for it, and saw that they got it. as a rule their bodies were unburied, and so they demanded sepulture; or they had committed a wrong, and wished to make restitution; or they had left debts which they were anxious to pay; or they had advice, or warnings, or threats to communicate; or they had been murdered, and were determined to bring their assassins to the gibbet. why, we may ask, were the old ghost stories so different from the new? well, first they were not all different. again, probably only the more dramatic tales were as a rule recorded. thirdly, many of the stories may have been either embellished--a fancied purpose being attributed to a purposeless ghost--or they may even have been invented to protect witnesses who gave information against murderers. who could disobey a ghost? in any case the old ghost stories are much more dramatic than the new. to them we turn, beginning with the appearances of mr. and mrs. furze at spraiton, in devonshire, in . our author is mr. richard bovet, in his pandaemonium, or the devil's cloister opened ( ). the motive of the late mr. furze was to have some small debts paid; his wife's spectre was influenced by a jealousy of mr. furze's spectre's relations with another lady. the daemon of spraiton in devon { } anno "about the month of november in the year , in the parish of spraiton, in the county of devon, one francis fey (servant to mr. philip furze) being in a field near the dwelling-house of his said master, there appeared unto him the _resemblance_ of an _aged gentleman_ like his master's father, with a pole or staff in his hand, resembling that he was wont to carry when living to kill the moles withal. the _spectrum_ approached near the young man, whom you may imagin not a little surprized at the _appearance_ of one that he knew to be dead, but the _spectrum bid him not be afraid of him, but tell his master_ (who was his son) that several _legacies which by his testament he had bequeathed were unpaid, naming ten shillings to one and ten shillings to another, both which persons he named_ to the young man, who replyed that the party he last named was dead, and so it could not be paid to him. the ghost answered _he knew that, but it must be paid to the next relation_, whom he also named. the spectrum likewise ordered him to carry twenty shillings to a gentlewoman, sister to the deceased, living near totness in the said county, and promised, if these things were performed, to trouble him no further; but at the same time the _spectrum_, speaking of his _second wife_ (who was also dead) _called her wicked woman_, though the gentleman who writ the letter knew her and esteemed her a very good woman. and (having thus related him his mind) the spectrum left the young man, who according to the _direction_ of the _spirit_ took care to see the small legacies satisfied, and carried the twenty shillings that was appointed to be paid the gentlewoman near totness, but she utterly refused to receive it, being sent her (as she said) from the devil. the same night the young man lodging at her house, the aforesaid spectrum appeared to him again; whereupon the young man challenged his _promise not to trouble him any more_, saying he had performed all according to his appointment, but that the gentlewoman, his sister, would not receive the money. "_to which the spectrum replied that was true indeed_; but withal _directed_ the young man to ride to totness and buy for her _a ring of that value, which the spirit said she would accept of_, which being provided accordingly, she received. since the performance of which the ghost or apparition of the old gentleman hath seemed to be at rest, having never given the young man any further trouble. "but the next day after having delivered the ring, the young man was riding home to his master's house, accompanyed by a servant of the gentlewoman's near totness, and near about the time of their entrance (or a little before they came) into the parish of spraiton aforesaid, there appeared to be upon the horse behind the young man, the resemblance of the _second wife_ of the old gentleman spoken of before. "this daemon often threw the young man off his horse, and cast him with such violence to the ground as was great astonishment, not only to the gentlewoman's servant (with him), but to divers others who were spectators of the frightful action, the ground resounding with great noise by reason of the incredible force with which he was cast upon it. at his coming into his master's yard, the horse which he rid, though very poor and out of case, leaped at one spring twenty-five foot, to the amazement of all that saw it. soon after the she-spectre shewed herself to divers in the house, viz., the aforesaid young man, _mistress thomasin gidly, ann langdon_, born in that parish, and a little child, which, by reason of the troublesomeness of the spirit, they were fain to remove from that house. she appeared sometimes in her own shape, sometimes in forms very horrid; now and then like a monstrous dog belching out fire; at another time it flew out at the window, in the shape of a horse, carrying with it only one pane of glass and a small piece of iron. "one time the young man's head was thrust into a very strait place betwixt a bed's head and a wall, and forced by the strength of divers men to be removed thence, and that not without being much hurt and bruised, so that much blood appeared about it: upon this it was advised he should be bleeded, to prevent any ill accident that might come of the bruise; after bleeding, the ligature or binder of his arm was removed from thence and conveyed about his middle, where it was strained with such violence that the girding had almost stopp'd his breath and kill'd him, and being cut asunder it made _a strange and dismal noise_, so that the standers by were affrighted at it. at divers other times he hath been in danger to be strangled with cravats and handkerchiefs that he hath worn about his neck, which have been drawn so close that with the sudden violence he hath near been choaked, and hardly escaped death. "the spectre hath shewed great offence at the perriwigs which the young man used to wear, for they are often torn from his head after a very strange manner; one that he esteemed above the rest he put in a small box, and that box he placed in another, which he set against the wall of his chamber, placing a joint-stool with other weight a top of it, but in short time the boxes were broken in sunder and the perriwig rended into many small parts and tatters. another time, lying in his master's chamber with his perriwig on his head, to secure it from danger, within a little time it was torn from him and reduced into very small fragments. at another time one of his shoe-strings was observed (without the assistance of any hand) to come of its own accord out of its shoe and fling itself to the other side of the room; the other was crawling after it, but a maid espying that, with her hand drew it out, and it strangely _clasp'd_ and _curl'd_ about her hand like a living _eel_ or _serpent_; this is testified by a lady of considerable quality, too great for exception, who was an eye-witness. the same lady shewed mr. c. one of the young man's gloves, which was torn in his pocket while she was by, which is so dexterously tatter'd and so artificially torn that it is conceived a cutler could not have contrived an instrument to have laid it abroad so accurately, and all this was done in the pocket in the compass of one minute. it is further observable that if the aforesaid young man, or another person who is a servant maid in the house, do wear their own clothes, they are certainly torn in pieces on their backs, but if the clothes belong to any other, they are not injured after that manner. "many other strange and fantastical freaks have been done by the said daemon or spirit in the view of divers persons; a barrel of salt of considerable quantity hath been observed to march from room to room without any human assistance. "an hand-iron hath seemed to lay itself cross over-thwart a pan of milk that hath been scalding over the fire, and two flitches of bacon have of their own accord descended from the chimney where they were hung, and placed themselves upon the hand-iron. "when the spectre appears in resemblance of her own person, she seems to be habited in the same cloaths and dress which the gentlewoman of the house (her daughter-in-law) hath on at the same time. divers times the feet and legs of the young man aforesaid have been so entangled about his neck that he hath been loosed with great difficulty; sometimes they have been so twisted about the frames of chairs and stools that they have hardly been set at liberty. but one of the most considerable instances of the malice of the spirit against the young man happened on easter eve, when mrs. c. the relator, was passing by the door of the house, and it was thus:-- "when the young man was returning from his labour, he was taken up by the _skirt_ of his _doublet_ by this _female daemon_, and carried a height into the air. he was soon missed by his master and some other servants that had been at labour with him, and after diligent enquiry no news could be heard of him, until at length (near half an hour after) he was heard singing and whistling in a bog or quagmire, where they found him in a kind of trance or _extatick fit_, to which he hath sometimes been accustomed (but whether before the affliction he met with from this spirit i am not certain). he was affected much after such sort, as at the time of those _fits_, so that the people did not give that _attention_ and _regard_ to what he said as at other times; but when he returned again to himself (which was about an hour after) he solemnly protested to them that the daemon had carried him so high that his master's house seemed to him to be but _as a hay-cock_, and _that during all that time he was in perfect sense, and prayed to almighty god not to suffer the devil to destroy him_; and that he was suddenly set down in that quagmire. the workmen found one shoe on one side of his master's house, and the other on the other side, and in the morning espied his perriwig hanging on the top of a tree; by which it appears he had been carried a considerable height, and that what he told them was not a fiction. "after this it was observed that that part of the young man's body which had been on the mud in the quagmire was somewhat benummbed and seemingly deader than the other, whereupon the following _saturday_, which was the day before _low sunday_, he was carried to _crediton, alias kirton_, to be bleeded, which being done accordingly, and the company having left him for some little space, at their return they found him in one of his fits, with his _forehead_ much _bruised_, and _swoln_ to a _great bigness_, none being able to guess how it happened, until his recovery from that _fit_, when upon enquiry he gave them this account of it: _that a bird had with great swiftness and force flown in at the window with a stone in its beak, which it had dashed against his forehead, which had occasioned the swelling which they saw_. "the people much wondering at the strangeness of the accident, diligently sought the stone, and under the place where he sat they found not such a stone as they expected but a weight of brass or copper, which it seems the daemon had made use of on that occasion to give the poor young man that hurt in his forehead. "the persons present were at the trouble to break it to pieces, every one taking a part and preserving it in memory of so strange an accident. after this the spirit continued to molest the young man in a very severe and rugged manner, often handling him with great extremity, and whether it hath yet left its violences to him, or whether the young man be yet alive, i can have no certain account." i leave the reader to consider of the extraordinary strangeness of the relation. the reader, considering the exceeding strangeness of the relation, will observe that we have now reached "great swingeing falsehoods," even if that opinion had not hitherto occurred to his mind. but if he thinks that such stories are no longer told, and even sworn to on bible oath, he greatly deceives himself. in the chapter on "haunted houses" he will find statements just as hard narrated of the years and . in these, however, the ghosts had no purpose but mischief. { } we take another "ghost with a purpose". sir george villiers' ghost. the variations in the narratives of sir george villiers' appearance to an old servant of his, or old protege, and the warning communicated by this man to villiers' son, the famous duke of buckingham, are curious and instructive. the tale is first told in print by william lilly, the astrologer, in the second part of a large tract called monarchy or no monarchy in england (london, ), twenty-three years after buckingham's murder. but while prior in publication, lilly's story was probably written after, though independent of lord clarendon's, in the first book of his history of the rebellion, begun on th march, , that is within eighteen years of the events. clarendon, of course, was in a position to know what was talked of at the time. next, we have a letter of mr. douch to glanvil, undated, but written after the restoration, and, finally, an original manuscript of . douch makes the warning arrive "some few days" before the murder of buckingham, and says that the ghost of sir george, "in his morning gown," bade one parker tell buckingham to abandon the expedition to la rochelle or expect to be murdered. on the third time of appearing the vision pulled a long knife from under his gown, as a sign of the death awaiting buckingham. he also communicated a "private token" to parker, the "percipient," sir george's old servant. on each occasion of the appearance, parker was reading at midnight. parker, _after_ the murder, told one ceeley, who told it to a clergyman, who told douch, who told glanvil. in lilly's version the ghost had a habit of walking in parker's room, and finally bade him tell buckingham to abstain from certain company, "or else he will come to destruction, and that suddenly". parker, thinking he had dreamed, did nothing; the ghost reappeared, and communicated a secret "which he (buckingham) knows that none in the world ever knew but myself and he". the duke, on hearing the story from parker, backed by the secret, was amazed, but did not alter his conduct. on the third time the spectre produced the knife, but at _this_ information the duke only laughed. six weeks later he was stabbed. douch makes the whole affair pass immediately before the assassination. "and mr. parker died soon after," as the ghost had foretold to him. finally, clarendon makes the appearances set in six months before felton slew the duke. the percipient, unnamed, was in bed. the narrative now develops new features; the token given on the ghost's third coming obviously concerns buckingham's mother, the countess, the "one person more" who knew the secret communicated. the ghost produces no knife from under his gown; no warning of buckingham's death by violence is mentioned. a note in the ms. avers that clarendon himself had papers bearing on the subject, and that he got his information from sir ralph freeman (who introduced the unnamed percipient to the duke), and from some of buckingham's servants, "who were informed of much of it before the murder of the duke". clarendon adds that, in general, "no man looked on relations of that sort with less reverence and consideration" than he did. this anecdote he selects out of "many stories scattered abroad at the time" as "upon a better foundation of credit". the percipient was an officer in the king's wardrobe at windsor, "of a good reputation for honesty and discretion," and aged about fifty. he was bred at a school in sir george's parish, and as a boy was kindly treated by sir george, "whom afterwards he never saw". on first beholding the spectre in his room, the seer recognised sir george's costume, then antiquated. at last the seer went to sir ralph freeman, who introduced him to the duke on a hunting morning at lambeth bridge. they talked earnestly apart, observed by sir ralph, clarendon's informant. the duke seemed abstracted all day; left the field early, sought his mother, and after a heated conference of which the sounds reached the ante-room, went forth in visible trouble and anger, a thing never before seen in him after talk with his mother. she was found "overwhelmed with tears and in the highest agony imaginable". "it is a notorious truth" that, when told of his murder, "she seemed not in the least degree surprised." the following curious manuscript account of the affair is, after the prefatory matter, the copy of a letter dated . there is nothing said of a ghostly knife, the name of the seer is not parker, and in its whole effect the story tallies with clarendon's version, though the narrator knows nothing of the scene with the countess of buckingham. cavalier version { } " . since william lilly the rebells jugler and mountebank in his malicious and blaspheamous discourse concerning our late martyred soveraigne of ever blessed memory (amongst other lyes and falsehoods) imprinted a relation concerning an aparition which foretold several events which should happen to the duke of buckingham, wherein he falsifies boeth the person to whom it appeared and ye circumstances; i thought it not amis to enter here (that it may be preserved) the true account of that aparition as i have receaved it from the hande and under the hande of mr. edmund wyndham, of kellefford in the county of somersett. i shall sett it downe (ipsissimis verbis) as he delivered it to me at my request written with his own hande. wyndham's letter "sr. according to your desire and my promise i have written down what i remember (divers things being slipt out of my memory) of the relation made me by mr. nicholas towse concerning the aparition wch visited him. about ye yeare , { } i and my wife upon an occasion being in london lay att my brother pyne's house without bishopsgate, wch. was ye next house unto mr. nicholas towse's, who was my kinsman and familiar acquaintance, in consideration of whose society and friendship he tooke a house in that place, ye said towse being a very fine musician and very good company, and for ought i ever saw or heard, a vurtuous, religious and wel disposed gentleman. about that time ye said mr. towse tould me that one night, being in bed and perfectly waking, and a candle burning by him (as he usually had) there came into his chamber and stood by his bed side an olde gentleman in such an habitt as was in fashion in q: elizebeth's tyme, at whose first appearance mr. towse was very much troubled, but after a little tyme, recollecting himselfe, he demanded of him in ye name of god what he was, whether he were a man. and ye aparition replyed no. then he asked him if he were a divell. and ye answer was no. then mr. towse said 'in ye name of god, what art thou then?' and as i remember mr. towse told me that ye apparition answered him that he was ye ghost of sir george villiers, father to ye then duke of buckingham, whom he might very well remember, synce he went to schoole at such a place in leicestershire (naming ye place which i have forgotten). and mr. towse tould me that ye apparition had perfectly ye resemblance of ye said sr george villiers in all respects and in ye same habitt that he had often seene him weare in his lifetime. "the said apparition then tould mr. towse that he could not but remember ye much kindness that he, ye said sr george villiers, had expressed to him whilst he was a schollar in leicestershire, as aforesaid, and that as out of that consideration he believed that he loved him and that therefore he made choyce of him, ye sayde mr. towse, to deliver a message to his sonne, ye duke of buckingham; thereby to prevent such mischiefe as would otherwise befall ye said duke whereby he would be inevitably ruined. and then (as i remember) mr. towse tould me that ye apparition instructed him what message he should deliver unto ye duke. vnto wch. mr. towse replyed that he should be very unwilling to goe to ye duke of buckingham upon such an errand, whereby he should gaine nothing but reproach and contempt, and to be esteemed a madman, and therefore desired to be exscused from ye employment, but ye apparition pressd him wth. much earnestness to undertake it, telling him that ye circumstances and secret discoveries which he should be able to make to ye duke of such passages in ye course of his life which were known to none but himselfe, would make it appeare that ye message was not ye fancy of a distempered brayne, but a reality, and so ye apparition tooke his leave of him for that night and telling him that he would give him leave to consider till the next night, and then he would come to receave his answer wheather he would undertake to deliver his message or no. "mr. towse past that day wth. much trouble and perplexity, debating and reasoning wth. himselfe wether he should deliver his message or not to ye duke but, in ye conclusion, he resolved to doe it, and ye next night when ye apparition came he gave his answer accordingly, and then receaved his full instruction. after which mr. towse went and founde out sr. thomas bludder and sr. ralph freeman, by whom he was brought to ye duke of buckingham, and had sevarall private and lone audiences of him, i my selfe, by ye favoure of a freinde (sr. edward savage) was once admitted to see him in private conference with ye duke, where (although i heard not there discourses) i observed much earnestnessse in their actions and gestures. after wch. conference mr. towse tould me that ye duke would not follow ye advice that was given him, which was (as i remember) that he intimated ye casting of, and ye rejecting of some men who had great interest in him, which was, and as i take it he named, bp. laud and that ye duke was to doe some popular acts in ye ensuing parliament, of which parliament ye duke would have had mr. towse to have been a burgesse, but he refused it, alleadging that unlesse ye duke followed his directions, he must doe him hurt if he were of ye parliament. mr. towse then toalde that ye duke of buckingham confessed that he had toalde him those things wch. no creature knew but himself, and that none but god or ye divell could reveale to him. ye duke offered mr. towse to have ye king knight him, and to have given him preferment (as he tould me), but that he refused it, saying that vnless he would follow his advice he would receave nothing from him. "mr. towse, when he made me this relation, he tolde me that ye duke would inevitably be destroyed before such a time (wch. he then named) and accordingly ye duke's death happened before that time. he likewise tolde that he had written downe all ye severall discourses that he had had wth. ye apparition, and that at last his coming was so familiar that he was as litle troubled with it as if it had beene a friende or acquayntance that had come to visitt him. mr. towse told me further that ye archbishop of canterbury, then bishop of london, dr. laud, should by his councells be ye authoure of very great troubles to ye kingdome, by which it should be reduced to ye extremity of disorder and confusion, and that it should seeme to be past all hope of recovery without a miracle, but when all people were in dispayre of seeing happy days agayne, ye kingdome should suddenly be reduced and resettled agayne in a most happy condition. "at this tyme my father pyne was in trouble and comitted to ye gatehouse by ye lords of ye councell about a quarrel betweene him and ye lord powlett, upon which one night i saide to my cosin towse, by way of jest, 'i pray aske your appairition what shall become of my father pyne's business,' which he promised to doe, and ye next day he tolde me that my father pyne's enemyes were ashamed of their malicious prosecution, and that he would be at liberty within a week or some few days, which happened according. "mr. towse, his wife, since his death tolde me that her husband and she living at windsor castle, where he had an office that sumer that ye duke of buckingham was killed, tolde her that very day that the duke was sett upon by ye mutinous mariners att portesmouth, saying then that ye next attempt agaynst him would be his death, which accordingly happened. and att ye instant ye duke was killed (as she vnderstood by ye relation afterwards) mr. towse was sitting in his chayre, out of which he suddenly started vp and sayd, 'wyfe, ye duke of buckingham is slayne!' "mr. towse lived not long after that himselfe, but tolde his wife ye tyme of his death before itt happened. i never saw him after i had seen some effects of his discourse, which before i valued not, and therefore was not curious to enquire after more than he voluntaryly tolde me, which i then entertayned not wth. these serious thoughts which i have synce reflected on in his discourse. this is as much as i can remember on this business which, according to youre desire, is written by "sr. yor., &c., "edmund windham. "boulogne, th august, ." * * * * * this version has, over all others, the merit of being written by an acquaintance of the seer, who was with him while the appearances were going on. the narrator was also present at an interview between the seer and buckingham. his mention of sir ralph freeman tallies with clarendon's, who had the story from freeman. the ghost predicts the restoration, and this is recorded before that happy event. of course mr. towse may have been interested in buckingham's career and may have invented the ghost (after discovering the secret token) { } as an excuse for warning him. the reader can now take his choice among versions of sir george villiers' ghost. he must remember that, in , sir henry wotton "spent some inquiry whether the duke had any ominous presagement before his end," but found no evidence. sir henry told izaak walton a story of a dream of an ancestor of his own, whereby some robbers of the university chest at oxford were brought to justice. anthony wood consulted the records of the year mentioned, and found no trace of any such robbery. we now approach a yet more famous ghost than sir george's. this is lord lyttelton's. the ghost had a purpose, to warn that bad man of his death, but nobody knows whose ghost she was! lord lyttelton's ghost "sir," said dr. johnson, "it is the most extraordinary thing that has happened in my day." the doctor's day included the rising of and of the wesleyans, the seizure of canada, the seven years' war, the american rebellion, the cock lane ghost, and other singular occurrences, but "the most extraordinary thing" was--lord lyttelton's ghost! famous as is that spectre, nobody knows what it was, nor even whether there was any spectre at all. thomas, lord lyttelton, was born in . in he entered the house of commons. in he was unseated for bribery. he then vanishes from public view, probably he was playing the prodigal at home and abroad, till february, , when he returned to his father's house, and married. he then went abroad (with a barmaid) till , when his father died. in january, , he took his seat in the house of lords. in november, , lyttelton went into opposition. on thursday, th november, he denounced government in a magnificent speech. as to a sinecure which he held, he said, "perhaps i shall not keep it long!" _something had happened_! on the night before his speech, that of wednesday, th november, lyttelton had seen the ghost, and had been told that he would die in three days. he mentioned this to rowan hamilton on the friday. { a} on the same day, or on friday, he mentioned it to captain ascough, who told a lady, who told mrs. thrale. { b} on the friday he went to epsom with friends, and mentioned the ghost to them, among others to mr. fortescue. { c} about midnight on th november, lord lyttelton died suddenly in bed, his valet having left him for a moment to fetch a spoon for stirring his medicine. the cause of death was not stated; there was no inquest. this, literally, is all that is _known_ about lord lyttelton's ghost. it is variously described as: ( ) "a young woman and a robin" (horace walpole); ( ) "a spirit" (captain ascough); ( ) a bird in a dream, "which changed into a woman in white" (lord westcote's narrative of th february, , collected from lord lyttelton's guests and servants); ( ) "a bird turning into a woman" (mrs. delany, th december, ); ( ) a dream of a bird, followed by a woman, mrs. amphlett, in white (pitt place archives after ); ( ) "a fluttering noise, as of a bird, followed by the apparition of a woman who had committed suicide after being seduced by lyttelton" (lady lyttelton, ); ( ) a bird "which vanished when a female spirit in white raiment presented herself" (scots magazine, november-december, ). out of seven versions, a bird, or a fluttering noise as of a bird (a common feature in ghost stories), { a} with a woman following or accompanying, occurs in six. the phenomena are almost equally ascribed to dreaming and to waking hallucination, but the common-sense of the eighteenth century called all ghosts "dreams". in the westcote narrative ( ) lyttelton explains the dream by his having lately been in a room with a lady, mrs. dawson, when a robin flew in. yet, in the same narrative, lyttelton says on saturday morning "that he was very well, and believed he should bilk the _ghost_". he was certainly in bed at the time of the experience, and probably could not be sure whether he was awake or asleep. { b} considering the remoteness of time, the story is very well recorded. it is chronicled by mrs. thrale before the news of lyttelton's death reached her, and by lady mary coke two days later, by walpole on the day after the peer's decease, of which he had heard. lord lyttelton's health had for some time been bad; he had made his will a few weeks before, and his nights were horror-haunted. a little boy, his nephew, to whom he was kind, used to find the wicked lord sitting by his bed at night, because he dared not be alone. so lockhart writes to his daughter, mrs. hope scott. { } he had strange dreams of being in hell with the cruel murderess, mrs. brownrigg, who "whipped three female 'prentices to death and hid them in the coal-hole". such a man might have strange fancies, and a belief in approaching death might bring its own fulfilment. the hypothesis of a premeditated suicide, with the story of the ghost as a last practical joke, has no corroboration. it occurred to horace walpole at once, but he laid no stress on it. such is a plain, dry, statistical account of the most extraordinary event that happened in dr. johnson's day. however, the story does not end here. on the fatal night, th november, , mr. andrews, m.p., a friend of lyttelton's was awakened by finding lord lyttelton drawing his curtains. suspecting a practical joke, he hunted for his lordship both in his house and in the garden. of course he never found him. the event was promptly recorded in the next number of the scots magazine, december, . { } chapter vii more ghosts with a purpose the slaying of sergeant davies in . the trial. scott's theory. curious recent corroboration of sir walter's hypothesis. other trials involving ghostly evidence. their want of authenticity. "fisher's ghost" criticised. the aylesbury murder. the dog o' mause. the ghosts of dogs. peter's ghost. much later in time than the ghost of sir george villiers is the ghost of sergeant davies, of guise's regiment. his purpose was, first, to get his body buried; next, to bring his murderers to justice. in this latter desire he totally failed. the slaying of sergeant davies we now examine a ghost with a purpose; he wanted to have his bones buried. the highlands, in spite of culloden, were not entirely pacified in the year . broken men, robbers, fellows with wrongs unspeakable to revenge, were out in the heather. the hills that seemed so lonely were not bare of human life. a man was seldom so solitary but that eyes might be on him from cave, corry, wood, or den. the disarming act had been obeyed in the usual style: old useless weapons were given up to the military. but the spirit of the clans was not wholly broken. even the old wife of donald ban, when he was "sair hadden down by a bodach" (ghost) asked the spirit to answer one question, "will the prince come again?" the song expressed the feelings of the people:-- the wind has left me bare indeed, and blawn my bonnet off my heid, but something's hid in hieland brae, the wind's no blawn my sword away! traffickers came and went from prince charles to cluny, from charles in the convent of st. joseph to cluny lurking on ben alder. kilt and tartan were worn at the risk of life or liberty, in short, the embers of the rising were not yet extinct. at this time, in the summer of , sergeant arthur davies, of guise's regiment, marched with eight privates from aberdeen to dubrach in braemar, while a corporal's guard occupied the spital of glenshee, some eight miles away. "a more waste tract of mountain and bog, rocks and ravines, without habitations of any kind till you reach glenclunie, is scarce to be met with in scotland," says sir walter. the sergeant's business was the general surveillance of the country side. he was a kindly prosperous man, liked in the country, fond of children, newly married, and his wife bore witness "that he and she lived together in as great amity and love as any couple could do, and that he never was in use to stay away a night from her". the sergeant had saved fifteen guineas and a half; he carried the gold in a green silk purse, and was not averse to displaying it. he wore a silver watch, and two gold rings, one with a peculiar knob on the bezel. he had silver buckles to his brogues, silver knee-buckles, two dozen silver buttons on a striped lute-string waistcoat, and he carried a gun, a present from an officer in his regiment. his dress, on the fatal th of september, was "a blue surtout coat, with a striped silk vest, and teiken breeches and brown stockings". his hair, of "a dark mouse colour," was worn in a silk ribbon, his hat was silver laced, and bore his initials cut in the felt. thus attired, "a pretty man," sergeant davies said good-bye to his wife, who never saw him again, and left his lodgings at michael farquharson's early on th september. he took four men with him, and went to meet the patrol from glenshee. on the way he met john growar in glenclunie, who spoke with him "about a tartan coat, which the sergeant had observed him to drop, and after strictly enjoining him not to use it again, dismissed him, instead of making him prisoner". this encounter was after davies left his men, before meeting the patrol, it being his intention to cross the hill and try for a shot at a stag. the sergeant never rejoined his men or met the patrol! he vanished as if the fairies had taken him. his captain searched the hill with a band of men four days after the disappearance, but to no avail. various rumours ran about the country, among others a clatter that davies had been killed by duncan clerk and alexander bain macdonald. but the body was undiscovered. in june, one alexander macpherson came to donald farquharson, son of the man with whom davies had been used to lodge. macpherson (who was living in a sheiling or summer hut of shepherds on the hills) said that he "was greatly troubled by the ghost of sergeant davies, who insisted that he should bury his bones, and that, he having declined to bury them, the ghost insisted that he should apply to donald farquharson". farquharson "could not believe this," till macpherson invited him to come and see the bones. then farquharson went with the other, "as he thought it might possibly be true, and if it was, he did not know but the apparition might trouble himself". the bones were found in a peat moss, about half a mile from the road taken by the patrols. there, too, lay the poor sergeant's mouse- coloured hair, with rags of his blue cloth and his brogues, without the silver buckles, and there did farquharson and macpherson bury them all. alexander macpherson, in his evidence at the trial, declared that, late in may, , "when he was in bed, a vision appeared to him as of a man clothed in blue, who said, '_i am sergeant davies_!'". at first macpherson thought the figure was "a real living man," a brother of donald farquharson's. he therefore rose and followed his visitor to the door, where the ghost indicated the position of his bones, and said that donald farquharson would help to inter them. macpherson next day found the bones, and spoke to growar, the man of the tartan coat (as growar admitted at the trial). growar said if macpherson did not hold his tongue, he himself would inform shaw of daldownie. macpherson therefore went straight to daldownie, who advised him to bury the bones privily, not to give the country a bad name for a rebel district. while macpherson was in doubt, and had not yet spoken to farquharson, the ghost revisited him at night and repeated his command. he also denounced his murderers, clerk and macdonald, which he had declined to do on his first appearance. he spoke in gaelic, which, it seems, was a language not known by the sergeant. isobel machardie, in whose service macpherson was, deponed that one night in summer, june, , while she lay at one end of the sheiling (a hill hut for shepherds or neatherds) and macpherson lay at the other, "she saw something naked come in at the door, which frighted her so much that she drew the clothes over her head. that when it appeared it came in in a bowing posture, and that next morning she asked macpherson what it was that had troubled them in the night before. to which he answered that she might be easy, for it would not trouble them any more." all this was in , but clerk and macdonald were not arrested till september, . they were then detained in the tolbooth of edinburgh on various charges, as of wearing the kilt, till june, , when they were tried, grant of prestongrange prosecuting, aided by haldane, home and dundas, while lockhart and mackintosh defended. it was proved that clerk's wife wore davies's ring, that clerk, after the murder, had suddenly become relatively rich and taken a farm, and that the two men, armed, were on the hill near the scene of the murder on th september, . moreover, angus cameron swore that he saw the murder committed. his account of his position was curious. he and another cameron, since dead, were skulking near sunset in a little hollow on the hill of galcharn. there he had skulked all day, "waiting for donald cameron, _who was afterwards hanged_, together with some of the said donald's companions from lochaber". no doubt they were all honest men who had been "out," and they may well have been on cluny's business of conveying gold from the loch arkaig hoard to major kennedy for the prince. on seeing clerk and macdonald strike and shoot the man in the silver- laced hat, cameron and his companion ran away, nor did cameron mention the matter till nine months later, and then only to donald (not he who was hanged). donald advised him to hold his tongue. this donald corroborated at the trial. the case against clerk and macdonald looked very black, especially as some witnesses fled and declined to appear. scott, who knew macintosh, the counsel for the prisoners, says that their advocates and agent "were convinced of their guilt". yet a jury of edinburgh tradesmen, moved by macintosh's banter of the apparition, acquitted the accused solely, as scott believes, because of the ghost and its newly-learned gaelic. it is indeed extraordinary that prestongrange, the patron of david balfour, allowed his witnesses to say what the ghost said, which certainly "is not evidence". sir walter supposes that macpherson and mrs. machardie invented the apparition as an excuse for giving evidence. "the ghost's commands, according to highland belief, were not to be disobeyed." macpherson must have known the facts "by ordinary means". we have seen that clerk and macdonald were at once suspected; there was "a clatter" against them. but angus cameron had not yet told his tale of what he saw. then who _did_ tell? here comes in a curious piece of evidence of the year . a friend writes ( th december, ):-- "dear lang, "i enclose a tradition connected with the murder of sergeant davies, which my brother picked up lately before he had read the story in your cock lane. he had heard of the event before, both in athole and braemar, and it was this that made him ask the old lady (see next letter) about it. "he thinks that glenconie of your version (p. ) must be glenclunie, into which allt chriostaidh falls. he also suggests that the person who was chased by the murderers may have got up the ghost, in order to shift the odium of tale-bearing to other shoulders. the fact of being mixed up in the affair lends some support to the story here related." here follows my friend's brother's narrative, the name of the witness being suppressed. concerning the murder of sergeant davies there is at present living in the neighbourhood of --- an old lady, about seventy years of age. her maiden name is ---, { } and she is a native of braemar, but left that district when about twenty years old, and has never been back to it even for a visit. on being asked whether she had ever heard the story of sergeant davies, she at first persisted in denying all knowledge of it. the ordinary version was then related to her, and she listened quietly until it was finished, when she broke out with:-- "that isn't the way of it at all, for the men _were_ seen, and it was a forbear of my own that saw them. he had gone out to try to get a stag, and had his gun and a deer-hound with him. he saw the men on the hill doing something, and thinking they had got a deer, he went towards them. when he got near them, the hound began to run on in front of him, and at that minute _he saw what it was they had_. he called to the dog, and turned to run away, but saw at once that he had made a mistake, for he had called their attention to himself, and a shot was fired after him, which wounded the dog. he then ran home as fast as he could, never looking behind him, and did not know how far the men followed him. some time afterwards the dog came home, and he went to see whether it was much hurt, whereupon it flew at him, and had to be killed. they thought that it was trying to revenge itself on him for having left it behind." at this point the old lady became conscious that she was telling the story, and no more could be got out of her. the name of the lady who keeps a secret of years' standing, is the name of a witness in the trial. the whole affair is thoroughly characteristic of the highlanders and of scottish jurisprudence after culloden, while the verdict of "not guilty" (when "not proven" would have been stretching a point) is evidence to the "common-sense" of the eighteenth century. { } there are other cases, in webster, aubrey and glanvil of ghosts who tried more successfully to bring their murderers to justice. but the reports of the trials do not exist, or cannot be found, and webster lost a letter which he once possessed, which would have been proof that ghostly evidence was given and was received at a trial in durham ( or ). reports of old men present were collected for glanvil, but are entirely too vague. the case of fisher's ghost, which led to evidence being given as to a murder in new south wales, cannot be wholly omitted. fisher was a convict settler, a man of some wealth. he disappeared from his station, and his manager (also a convict) declared that he had returned to england. later, a man returning from market saw fisher sitting on a rail; at his approach fisher vanished. black trackers were laid on, found human blood on the rail, and finally discovered fisher's body. the manager was tried, was condemned, acknowledged his guilt and was hanged. the story is told in household words, where sir frederick forbes is said to have acted as judge. no date is given. in botany bay, { } the legend is narrated by mr. john lang, who was in sydney in . he gives no date of the occurrence, and clearly embellishes the tale. in , however, the story is told by mr. montgomery martin in volume iv. of his history of the british colonies. he gives the story as a proof of the acuteness of black trackers. beyond saying that he himself was in the colony when the events and the trial occurred, he gives no date. i have conscientiously investigated the facts, by aid of the sydney newspapers, and the notes of the judge, sir frederick forbes. fisher disappeared at the end of june, , from campbeltown. suspicion fell on his manager, worral. a reward was offered late in september. late in october the constable's attention was drawn to blood-stains on a rail. starting thence, the black trackers found fisher's body. worral was condemned and hanged, after confession, in february, . not a word is said about _why_ the constable went to, and examined, the rail. but mr. rusden, author of a history of australia, knew the medical attendant d. farley (who saw fisher's ghost, and pointed out the bloody rail), and often discussed it with farley. mr. souttar, in a work on colonial traditions, proves the point that farley told his ghost story _before_ the body of fisher was found. but, for fear of prejudicing the jury, the ghost was kept out of the trial, exactly as in the following case. the gardener's ghost perhaps the latest ghost in a court of justice (except in cases about the letting of haunted houses) "appeared" at the aylesbury petty session on nd august, . on th october, , william edden, a market gardener, was found dead, with his ribs broken, in the road between aylesbury and thame. one sewell, in august, , accused a man named tyler, and both were examined at the aylesbury petty sessions. mrs. edden gave evidence that she sent five or six times for tyler "to come and see the corpse. . . . i had some particular reasons for sending for him which i never did divulge. . . . i will tell you my reasons, gentlemen, if you ask me, in the face of tyler, even if my life should be in danger for it." the reasons were that on the night of her husband's murder, "something rushed over me, and i thought my husband came by me. i looked up, and i thought i heard the voice of my husband come from near my mahogany table. . . . i thought i saw my husband's apparition, and the man that had done it, and that man was tyler. . . . i ran out and said, 'o dear god! my husband is murdered, and his ribs are broken'." lord nugent--"what made you think your husband's ribs were broken?" "he held up his hands like this, and i saw a hammer, or something like a hammer, and it came into my mind that his ribs were broken." sewell stated that the murder was accomplished by means of a hammer. the prisoners were discharged on th september. on th march, , they were tried at the buckingham lent assizes, were found guilty and were hanged, protesting their innocence, on th march, . "in the report of mrs. edden's evidence (at the assizes) no mention is made of the vision." { } here end our ghosts in courts of justice; the following ghost gave evidence of a murder, or rather, confessed to one, but was beyond the reach of human laws. this tale of is still current in highland tradition. it has, however, been improved and made infinitely more picturesque by several generations of narrators. as we try to be faithful to the best sources, the contemporary manuscript version is here reprinted from the scottish standard-bearer, an organ of the scotch episcopalians (october and november, ). the dog o' mause account of an apparition that appeared to william soutar, { a} in the mause, . [this is a copy from that in the handwriting of bishop rattray, preserved at craighall, and which was found at meikleour a few years ago, to the proprietor of which, mr. mercer, it was probably sent by the bishop.--w. w. h., rd august, .] "i have sent you an account of an apparition as remarkable, perhaps, as anything you ever heard of, and which, considered in all its circumstances, leaves, i think, no ground of doubt to any man of common-sense. the person to whom it appeared is one william soutar, a tenant of balgowan's, who lives in middle mause, within about half a mile from this place on the other side of the river, and in view from our windows of craighall house. he is about thirty-seven years of age, as he says, and has a wife and bairns. "the following is an account from his own mouth; and because there are some circumstances fit to be taken in as you go along, i have given them with reference at the end, { b} that i may not interrupt the sense of the account, or add anything to it. therefore, it begins:-- "'in the month of december in the year , about sky-setting, i and my servant, with several others living in the town (farm-steading) heard a scratching (screeching, crying), and i followed the noise, with my servant, a little way from the town (farm-steading throughout). we both thought we saw what had the appearance to be a fox, and hounded the dogs at it, but they would not pursue it. { a} "'about a month after, as i was coming from blair { b} alone, about the same time of the night, a big dog appeared to me, of a dark greyish colour, between the hilltown and knockhead { c} of mause, on a lea rig a little below the road, and in passing by it touched me sonsily (firmly) on the thigh at my haunch-bane (hip-bone), upon which i pulled my staff from under my arm and let a stroke at it; and i had a notion at the time that i hit it, and my haunch was painful all that night. however, i had no great thought of its being anything particular or extraordinary, but that it might be a mad dog wandering. about a year after that, to the best of my memory, in december month, about the same time of the night and in the same place, when i was alone, it appeared to me again as before, and passed by me at some distance; and then i began to think it might be something more than ordinary. "'in the month of december, , as i was coming from perth, from the claith (cloth) market a little before sky-setting, it appeared to me again, being alone, at the same place, and passed by me just as before. i had some suspicion of it then likewise, but i began to think that a neighbour of mine in the hilltown having an ox lately dead, it might be a dog that had been at the carrion, by which i endeavoured to put the suspicion out of my head. "'on the second monday of december, , as i was coming from woodhead, a town (farm) in the ground of drumlochy, it appeared to me again in the same place just about sky-setting; and after it had passed me as it was going out of my sight, it spoke with a low voice so that i distinctly heard it, these words, "within eight or ten days do or die," and it thereupon disappeared. no more passed at that time. on the morrow i went to my brother, who dwells in the nether aird of drumlochy, and told him of the last and of all the former appearances, which was the first time i ever spoke of it to anybody. he and i went to see a sister of ours at glenballow, who was dying, but she was dead before we came. as we were returning home, i desired my brother, whose name is james soutar, to go forward with me till we should be passed the place where it used to appear to me; and just as we had come to it, about ten o'clock at night, it appeared to me again just as formerly; and as it was passing over some ice i pointed to it with my finger and asked my brother if he saw it, but he said he did not, nor did his servant, who was with us. it spoke nothing at that time, but just disappeared as it passed the ice. "'on the saturday after, as i was at my own sheep-cots putting in my sheep, it appeared to me again just after daylight, betwixt day and skylight, and upon saying these words, "come to the spot of ground within half an hour," it just disappeared; whereupon i came home to my own house, and took up a staff and also a sword off the head of the bed, and went straight to the place where it used formerly to appear to me; and after i had been there some minutes and had drawn a circle about me with my staff, it appeared to me. and i spoke to it saying, "in the name of god and jesus christ, what are you that troubles me?" and it answered me, "i am david soutar, george soutar's brother. { a} i killed a man more than five-and-thirty years ago, when you was new born, at a bush be-east the road, as you go into the isle." { b} and as i was going away, i stood again and said, "david soutar was a man, and you appear like a dog," whereupon it spoke to me again, saying, "i killed him with a dog, and therefore i am made to speak out of the mouth of a dog, and tell you you must go and bury these bones". upon this i went straight to my brother to his house, and told him what had happened to me. my brother having told the minister of blair, he and i came to the minister on monday thereafter, as he was examining in a neighbour's house in the same town where i live. and the minister, with my brother and me and two or three more, went to the place where the apparition said the bones were buried, when rychalzie met us accidentally; and the minister told rychalzie the story in the presence of all that were there assembled, and desired the liberty from him to break up the ground to search for the bones. rychalzie made some scruples to allow us to break up the ground, but said he would go along with us to glasclune { a}; and if he advised, he would allow search to be made. accordingly he went straight along with my brother and me and james chalmers, a neighbour who lives in the hilltown of mause, to glasclune, and told glasclune the story as above narrated; and he advised rychalzie to allow the search to be made, whereupon he gave his consent to it. "'the day after, being friday, we convened about thirty or forty men and went to the isle, and broke up the ground in many places, searching for the bones, but we found nothing. "'on wednesday the rd december, about twelve o'clock, when i was in my bed, i heard a voice but saw nothing; the voice said, "come away". { b} upon this i rose out of my bed, cast on my coat and went to the door, but did not see it. and i said, "in the name of god, what do you demand of me now?" it answered, "go, take up these bones". i said, "how shall i get these bones?" it answered again, "at the side of a withered bush, { } and there are but seven or eight of them remaining". i asked, "was there any more guilty of that action but you?" it answered, "no". i asked again, "what is the reason you trouble me?" it answered, "because you are the youngest". then said i to it, "depart from me, and give me a sign that i may know the particular spot, and give me time". [here there is written on the margin in a different hand, "you will find the bones at the side of a withered bush. there are but eight of them, and for a sign you will find the print of a cross impressed on the ground."] on the morrow, being thursday, i went alone to the isle to see if i could find any sign, and immediately i saw both the bush, which was a small bush, the greatest stick in it being about the thickness of a staff, and it was withered about half-way down; and also the sign, which was about a foot from the bush. the sign was an exact cross, thus x; each of the two lines was about a foot and a half in length and near three inches broad, and more than an inch deeper than the rest of the ground, as if it had been pressed down, for the ground was not cut. on the morrow, being friday, i went and told my brother of the voice that had spoken to me, and that i had gone and seen the bush which it directed me to and the above-mentioned sign at it. the next day, being saturday, my brother and i went, together with seven or eight men with us, to the isle. about sun-rising we all saw the bush and the sign at it; and upon breaking up the ground just at the bush, we found the bones, viz., the chaft-teeth (jaw-teeth-molars) in it, one of the thigh bones, one of the shoulder blades, and a small bone which we supposed to be a collar bone, which was more consumed than any of the rest, and two other small bones, which we thought to be bones of the sword-arm. by the time we had digged up those bones, there convened about forty men who also saw them. the minister and rychalzie came to the place and saw them. "'we immediately sent to the other side of the water, to claywhat, { } to a wright that was cutting timber there, whom claywhat brought over with him, who immediately made a coffin for the bones, and my wife brought linen to wrap them in, and i wrapped the bones in the linen myself and put them in the coffin before all these people, and sent for the mort-cloth and buried them in the churchyard of blair that evening. there were near an hundred persons at the burial, and it was a little after sunset when they were buried.'" "this above account i have written down as dictated to me by william soutar in the presence of robert graham, brother to the laird of balgowan, and of my two sons, james and john rattray, at craighall, th december, . "we at craighall heard nothing of this history till after the search was over, but it was told us on the morrow by some of the servants who had been with the rest at the search; and on saturday glasclune's son came over to craighall and told us that william soutar had given a very distinct account of it to his father. "on st. andrew's day, the st of december, this david soutar (the ghost) listed himself a soldier, being very soon after the time the apparition said the murder was committed, and william soutar declares he had no remembrance of him till that apparition named him as brother to george soutar; then, he said, he began to recollect that when he was about ten years of age he had seen him once at his father's in a soldier's habit, after which he went abroad and was never more heard of; neither did william ever before hear of his having listed as a soldier, neither did william ever before hear of his having killed a man, nor, indeed, was there ever anything heard of it in the country, and it is not yet known who the person was that was killed, and whose bones are now found. "my son john and i went within a few days after to visit glasclune, and had the account from him as william had told him over. from thence we went to middle mause to hear it from himself; but he being from home, his father, who also lives in that town, gave us the same account of it which glasclune had done, and the poor man could not refrain from shedding tears as he told it, as glasclune told us his son was under very great concern when he spoke of it to him. we all thought this a very odd story, and were under suspense about it because the bones had not been found upon the search. "(another account that also seems to have been written by the bishop mentions that the murderer on committing the deed went home, and on looking in at the window he saw william soutar lying in a cradle-- hence it was the ghaist always came to him, and not to any of the other relations.)" mr. hay newton, of newton hall, a man of great antiquarian tastes in the last generation, wrote the following notes on the matter:-- "widow m'laren, aged seventy-nine, a native of braemar, but who has resided on the craighall estate for sixty years, says that the tradition is that the man was murdered for his money; that he was a highland drover on his return journey from the south; that he arrived late at night at the mains of mause and wished to get to rychalzie; that he stayed at the mains of mause all night, but left it early next morning, when david soutar with his dog accompanied him to show him the road; but that with the assistance of the dog he murdered the drover and took his money at the place mentioned; that there was a tailor at work in his father's house that morning when he returned after committing the murder (according to the custom at that date by which tailors went out to make up customers' own cloth at their own houses), and that his mother being surprised at his strange appearance, asked him what he had been about, to which inquiry he made no reply; that he did not remain long in the country afterwards, but went to england and never returned. the last time he was seen he went down by the brae of cockridge. a man of the name of irons, a fisherman in blairgowrie, says that his father, who died a very old man some years ago, was present at the getting of the bones. mr. small, finzyhan, when bringing his daughter home from school in edinburgh, saw a coffin at the door of a public house near rychalzie where he generally stopped, but he did not go in as usual, thinking that there was a death in the family. the innkeeper came out and asked him why he was passing the door, and told him the coffin contained the bones of the murdered man which had been collected, upon which he went into the house. "the soutars disliked much to be questioned on the subject of the dog of mause. thomas soutar, who was tenant in easter mause, formerly named knowhead of mause, and died last year upwards of eighty years of age, said that the soutars came originally from annandale, and that their name was johnston; that there were three brothers who fled from that part of the country on account of their having killed a man; that they came by soutar's hill, and having asked the name of the hill, were told 'soutar,' upon which they said, 'soutar be it then,' and took that name. one of the brothers went south and the others came north." { a} the appearance of human ghosts in the form of beasts is common enough; in shropshire they usually "come" as bulls. (see miss burne's shropshire folklore.) they do not usually speak, like the dog o' mause. m. d'assier, a french darwinian, explains that ghosts revert "atavistically" to lower forms of animal life! { b} we now, in accordance with a promise already made, give an example of the ghosts of beasts! here an explanation by the theory that the consciousness of the beast survives death and affects with a hallucination the minds of living men and animals, will hardly pass current. but if such cases were as common and told on evidence as respectable as that which vouches for appearances of the dead, believers in these would either have to shift their ground, or to grant that admitted to that equal sky, our faithful dog may bear us company. we omit such things as the dripping death wraith of a drowned cat who appeared to a lady, or the illused monkey who died in a chinese house, after which he haunted it by rapping, secreting objects, and, in short, in the usual way. { c} we adduce peter's ghost a naval officer visited a friend in the country. several men were sitting round the smoking-room fire when he arrived, and a fox-terrier was with them. presently the heavy, shambling footsteps of an old dog, and the metallic shaking sound of his collar, were heard coming up stairs. "here's old peter!" said his visitor. "_peter's dead_!" whispered his owner. the sounds passed through the closed door, heard by all; they pattered into the room; the fox-terrier bristled up, growled, and pursued a viewless object across the carpet; from the hearth-rug sounded a shake, a jingle of a collar and the settling weight of a body collapsing into repose. { } this pleasing anecdote rests on what is called _nautical evidence_, which, for reasons inexplicable to me, was (in these matters) distrusted by sir walter scott. chapter viii more ghosts with a purpose. ticonderoga. the beresford ghost. sources of evidence. the family version. a new old-fashioned ghost. half-past one o'clock. put out the light! the ghost in the following famous tale had a purpose. he was a highland ghost, a campbell, and desired vengeance on a macniven, who murdered him. the ghost, practically, "cried cruachan," and tried to rouse the clan. failing in this, owing to inverawe's loyalty to his oath, the ghost uttered a prophecy. the tale is given in the words of miss elspeth campbell, who collected it at inverawe from a highland narrator. she adds a curious supplementary tradition in the argyle family. ticonderoga it was one evening in the summer of the year that campbell of inverawe { } was on cruachan hill side. he was startled by seeing a man coming towards him at full speed; a man ragged, bleeding, and evidently suffering agonies of terror. "the avengers of blood are on my track, oh, save me!" the poor wretch managed to gasp out. inverawe, filled with pity for the miserable man, swore "by the word of an inverawe which never failed friend or foe yet" to save him. inverawe then led the stranger to the secret cave on cruachan hill side. none knew of this cave but the laird of inverawe himself, as the secret was most carefully kept and had been handed down from father to son for many generations. the entrance was small, and no one passing would for an instant suspect it to be other than a tod's hole, { a} but within were fair-sized rooms, one containing a well of the purest spring water. it is said that wallace and bruce had made use of this cave in earlier days. here inverawe left his guest. the man was so overcome by terror that he clung on to inverawe's plaid, { b} imploring him not to leave him alone. inverawe was filled with disgust at this cowardly conduct, and already almost repented having plighted his word to save such a worthless creature. on inverawe's return home he found a man in a state of great excitement waiting to see him. this man informed him of the murder of his (inverawe's) foster-brother by one macniven. "we have," said he, "tracked the murderer to within a short distance of this place, and i am here to warn you in case he should seek your protection." inverawe turned pale and remained silent, not knowing what answer to give. the man, knowing the love that subsisted between the foster-brothers, thought this silence arose from grief alone, and left the house to pursue the search for macniven further. the compassion inverawe felt for the trembling man he had left in the cave turned to hate when he thought of his beloved foster-brother murdered; but as he had plighted his word to save him, save him he must and would. as soon, therefore, as night fell he went to the cave with food, and promised to return with more the next day. thoroughly worn out, as soon as he reached home he retired to rest, but sleep he could not. so taking up a book he began to read. a shadow fell across the page. he looked up and saw his foster-brother standing by the bedside. but, oh, how changed! his fair hair clotted with blood; his face pale and drawn, and his garments all gory. he uttered the following words: "inverawe, shield not the murderer; blood must flow for blood," and then faded away out of sight. in spite of the spirit's commands, inverawe remained true to his promise, and returned next day to macniven with fresh provisions. that night his foster-brother again appeared to him uttering the same warning: "inverawe, inverawe, shield not the murderer; blood must flow for blood". at daybreak inverawe hurried off to the cave, and said to macniven: "i can shield you no longer; you must escape as best you can". inverawe now hoped to receive no further visit from the vengeful spirit. in this he was disappointed, for at the usual hour the ghost appeared, and in anger said, "i have warned you once, i have warned you twice; it is too late now. we shall meet again at ticonderoga." inverawe rose before dawn and went straight to the cave. macniven was gone! inverawe saw no more of the ghost, but the adventure left him a gloomy, melancholy man. many a time he would wander on cruachan hill side, brooding over his vision, and people passing him would see the far-away look in his eyes, and would say one to the other: "the puir laird, he is aye thinking on him that is gone". only his dearest friends knew the cause of his melancholy. in the war between the english and french in america broke out. the nd regiment embarked, and landed at new york in june of that year. campbell of inverawe was a major in the regiment. the lieut.- colonel was francis grant. from new york the nd proceeded to albany, where the regiment remained inactive till the spring of . one evening when the nd were still quartered at this place, inverawe asked the colonel "if he had ever heard of a place called ticonderoga". { } colonel grant replied he had never heard the name before. inverawe then told his story. most of the officers were present at the time; some were impressed, others were inclined to look upon the whole thing as a joke, but seeing how very much disturbed inverawe was about it all, even the most unbelieving refrained from bantering him. in an expedition was to be directed against ticonderoga, on lake george, a fort erected by the french. the highlanders were to form part of this expedition. the force was under major-general abercromby. ticonderoga was called by the french st. louis [really "fort carillon"], and inverawe knew it by no other name. one of the officers told colonel grant that the indian name of the place was ticonderoga. grant, remembering campbell's story, said: "for god's sake don't let campbell know this, or harm will come of it". the troops embarked on lake george and landed without opposition near the extremity of the lake early in july. they marched from there, through woods, upon ticonderoga, having had one successful skirmish with the enemy, driving them back with considerable loss. lord howe was killed in this engagement. on the th of july the assault was directed to be commenced by the picquets. { } the grenadiers were to follow, supported by the battalions and reserves. the highlanders and th regiment formed the reserve. in vain the troops attempted to force their way through the abbatis, they themselves being exposed to a heavy artillery and musket fire from an enemy well under cover. the highlanders could no longer be restrained, and rushed forward from the reserve, cutting and carving their way through trees and other obstacles with their claymores. the deadly fire still continued from the fort. as no ladders had been provided for scaling the breastwork, the soldiers climbed on to one another's shoulders, and made holes for their feet in the face of the work with their swords and bayonets, but as soon as a man reached the top he was thrown down. captain john campbell and a few men succeeded at last in forcing their way over the breastworks, but were immediately cut down. after a long and desperate struggle, lasting in fact nearly four hours, general abercromby gave orders for a retreat. the troops could hardly be prevailed upon to retire, and it was not till the order had been given for the third time that the highlanders withdrew from the hopeless encounter. the loss sustained by the regiment was as follows: eight officers, nine sergeants and men killed; seventeen officers, ten sergeants and men wounded. inverawe, after having fought with the greatest courage, received at length his death wound. colonel grant hastened to the dying man's side, who looked reproachfully at him, and said: "you deceived me; this is ticonderoga, for i have seen him". inverawe never spoke again. inverawe's son, an officer in the same regiment, also lost his life at ticonderoga. on the very day that these events were happening in far-away america, two ladies, miss campbell of ederein and her sister, were walking from kilmalieu to inveraray, and had reached the then new bridge over the aray. one of them happened to look up at the sky. she gave a call to her sister to look also. they both of them saw in the sky what looked like a siege going on. they saw the different regiments with their colours, and recognised many of their friends among the highlanders. they saw inverawe and his son fall, and other men whom they knew. when they reached inveraray they told all their friends of the vision they had just seen. they also took down the names of those they had seen fall, and the time and date of the occurrence. the well-known danish physician, sir william hart, was, together with an englishman and a servant, walking round the castle of inveraray. these men saw the same phenomena, and confirmed the statements made by the two ladies. weeks after the gazette corroborated their statements in its account of the attempt made on ticonderoga. every detail was correct in the vision, down to the actual number of the killed and wounded. but there was sorrow throughout argyll long before the gazette appeared. * * * * * we now give the best attainable version of a yet more famous legend, "the tyrone ghost". the literary history of "the tyrone ghost" is curious. in scott used the tale as the foundation of his ballad, the eve of st. john, and referred to the tradition of a noble irish family in a note. in the subject was discussed in notes and queries. a reference was given to lyon's privately printed grand juries of westmeath from . the version from that rare work, a version dated "dublin, august, ," was published in notes and queries of th july, . in december, , a member of the beresford family published in the nines (a journal of the wiltshire regiment), the account which follows, derived from a ms. at curraghmore, written by lady betty cobbe, granddaughter of the ghost-seer, lady beresford. the writer in the nines remembers lady betty. the account of is clearly derived from the curraghmore ms., but omits dates; calls sir tristram beresford "sir marcus "; leaves out the visit to gill hall, where the ghost appeared, and substitutes blanks for the names of persons concerned. otherwise the differences in the two versions are mainly verbal. the beresford ghost "there is at curraghmore, the seat of lord waterford, in ireland, a manuscript account of the tale, such as it was originally received and implicitly believed in by the children and grandchildren of the lady to whom lord tyrone is supposed to have made the supernatural appearance after death. the account was written by lady betty cobbe, the youngest daughter of marcus, earl of tyrone, and granddaughter of nicola s., lady beresford. she lived to a good old age, in full use of all her faculties, both of body and mind. i can myself remember her, for when a boy i passed through bath on a journey with my mother, and we went to her house there, and had luncheon. she appeared to my juvenile imagination a very appropriate person to revise and transmit such a tale, and fully adapted to do ample justice to her subject- matter. it never has been doubted in the family that she received the full particulars in early life, and that she heard the circumstances, such as they were believed to have occurred, from the nearest relatives of the two persons, the supposed actors in this mysterious interview, viz., from her own father, lord tyrone, who died in , and from her aunt, lady riverston, who died in also. "these two were both with their mother, lady beresford, on the day of her decease, and they, without assistance or witness, took off from their parent's wrist the black bandage which she had always worn on all occasions and times, even at court, as some very old persons who lived well into the eighteenth century testified, having received their information from eyewitnesses of the fact. there was an oil painting of this lady in tyrone house, dublin, representing her with a black ribbon bound round her wrist. this portrait disappeared in an unaccountable manner. it used to hang in one of the drawing-rooms in that mansion, with other family pictures. when henry, marquis of waterford, sold the old town residence of the family and its grounds to the government as the site of the education board, he directed mr. watkins, a dealer in pictures, and a man of considerable knowledge in works of art and vertu, to collect the pictures, etc., etc., which were best adapted for removal to curraghmore. mr. watkins especially picked out this portrait, not only as a good work of art, but as one which, from its associations, deserved particular care and notice. when, however, the lot arrived at curraghmore and was unpacked, no such picture was found; and though mr. watkins took great pains and exerted himself to the utmost to trace what had become of it, to this day (nearly forty years), not a hint of its existence has been received or heard of. "john le poer, lord decies, was the eldest son of richard, earl of tyrone, and of lady dorothy annesley, daughter of arthur, earl of anglesey. he was born , succeeded his father , and died th october, . he became lord tyrone at his father's death, and is the 'ghost' of the story. "nicola sophie hamilton was the second and youngest daughter and co- heiress of hugh, lord glenawley, who was also baron lunge in sweden. being a zealous royalist, he had, together with his father, migrated to that country in , and returned from it at the restoration. he was of a good old family, and held considerable landed property in the county tyrone, near ballygawley. he died there in . his eldest daughter and co-heiress, arabella susanna, married, in , sir john macgill, of gill hall, in the county down. "nicola s. (the second daughter) was born in , and married sir tristram beresford in . between that and two daughters were born, but no son to inherit the ample landed estates of his father, who most anxiously wished and hoped for an heir. it was under these circumstances, and at this period, that the manuscripts state that lord tyrone made his appearance after death; and all the versions of the story, without variation, attribute the same cause and reason, viz., a solemn promise mutually interchanged in early life between john le poer, then lord decies, afterwards lord tyrone, and nicola s. hamilton, that whichever of the two died the first, should, if permitted, appear to the survivor for the object of declaring the approval or rejection by the deity of the revealed religion as generally acknowledged: of which the departed one must be fully cognisant, but of which they both had in their youth entertained unfortunate doubts. "in the month of october, , sir tristram and lady beresford went on a visit to her sister, lady macgill, at gill hall, now the seat of lord clanwilliam, whose grandmother was eventually the heiress of sir j. macgill's property. one morning sir tristram rose early, leaving lady beresford asleep, and went out for a walk before breakfast. when his wife joined the table very late, her appearance and the embarrassment of her manner attracted general attention, especially that of her husband. he made anxious inquiries as to her health, and asked her apart what had occurred to her wrist, which was tied up with black ribbon tightly bound round it. she earnestly entreated him not to inquire more then, or thereafter, as to the cause of her wearing or continuing afterwards to wear that ribbon; 'for,' she added, 'you will never see me without it'. he replied, 'since you urge it so vehemently, i promise you not to inquire more about it'. "after completing her hurried breakfast she made anxious inquiries as to whether the post had yet arrived. it had not yet come in; and sir tristram asked: 'why are you so particularly eager about letters to- day?' 'because i expect to hear of lord tyrone's death, which took place on tuesday.' 'well,' remarked sir tristram, 'i never should have put you down for a superstitious person; but i suppose that some idle dream has disturbed you.' shortly after, the servant brought in the letters; one was sealed with black wax. 'it is as i expected,' she cries; 'he is dead.' the letter was from lord tyrone's steward to inform them that his master had died in dublin, on tuesday, th october, at p.m. sir tristram endeavoured to console her, and begged her to restrain her grief, when she assured him that she felt relieved and easier now that she knew the actual fact. she added, 'i can now give you a most satisfactory piece of intelligence, viz., that i am with child, and that it will be a boy'. a son was born in the following july. sir tristram survived its birth little more than six years. after his death lady beresford continued to reside with her young family at his place in the county of derry, and seldom went from home. she hardly mingled with any neighbours or friends, excepting with mr. and mrs. jackson, of coleraine. he was the principal personage in that town, and was, by his mother, a near relative of sir tristram. his wife was the daughter of robert gorges, ll.d. (a gentleman of good old english family, and possessed of a considerable estate in the county meath), by jane loftus, daughter of sir adam loftus, of rathfarnham, and sister of lord lisburn. they had an only son, richard gorges, who was in the army, and became a general officer very early in life. with the jacksons lady beresford maintained a constant communication and lived on the most intimate terms, while she seemed determined to eschew all other society and to remain in her chosen retirement. "at the conclusion of three years thus passed, one luckless day "young gorges" most vehemently professed his passion for her, and solicited her hand, urging his suit in a most passionate appeal, which was evidently not displeasing to the fair widow, and which, unfortunately for her, was successful. they were married in . one son and two daughters were born to them, when his abandoned and dissolute conduct forced her to seek and to obtain a separation. after this had continued for four years, general gorges pretended extreme penitence for his past misdeeds, and with the most solemn promises of amendment induced his wife to live with him again, and she became the mother of a second son. the day month after her confinement happened to be her birthday, and having recovered and feeling herself equal to some exertion, she sent for her son, sir marcus beresford, then twenty years old, and her married daughter, lady riverston. she also invited dr. king, the archbishop of dublin (who was an intimate friend), and an old clergyman who had christened her, and who had always kept up a most kindly intercourse with her during her whole life, to make up a small party to celebrate the day. "in the early part of it lady beresford was engaged in a kindly conversation with her old friend the clergyman, and in the course of it said: 'you know that i am forty-eight this day'. 'no, indeed,' he replied; 'you are only forty-seven, for your mother had a dispute with me once on the very subject of your age, and i in consequence sent and consulted the registry, and can most confidently assert that you are only forty-seven this day.' 'you have signed my death-warrant, then,' she cried; 'leave me, i pray, for i have not much longer to live, but have many things of grave importance to settle before i die. send my son and my daughter to me immediately.' the clergyman did as he was bidden. he directed sir marcus and his sister to go instantly to their mother; and he sent to the archbishop and a few other friends to put them off from joining the birthday party. "when her two children repaired to lady beresford, she thus addressed them: 'i have something of deep importance to communicate to you, my dear children, before i die. you are no strangers to the intimacy and the affection which subsisted in early life between lord tyrone and myself. we were educated together when young, under the same roof, in the pernicious principles of deism. our real friends afterwards took every opportunity to convince us of our error, but their arguments were insufficient to overpower and uproot our infidelity, though they had the effect of shaking our confidence in it, and thus leaving us wavering between the two opinions. in this perplexing state of doubt we made a solemn promise one to the other, that whichever died first should, if permitted, appear to the other for the purpose of declaring what religion was the one acceptable to the almighty. one night, years after this interchange of promises, i was sleeping with your father at gill hall, when i suddenly awoke and discovered lord tyrone sitting visibly by the side of the bed. i screamed out, and vainly endeavoured to rouse sir tristram. "tell me," i said, "lord tyrone, why and wherefore are you here at this time of the night?" "have you then forgotten our promise to each other, pledged in early life? i died on tuesday, at four o'clock. i have been permitted thus to appear in order to assure you that the revealed religion is the true and only one by which we can be saved. i am also suffered to inform you that you are with child, and will produce a son, who will marry my heiress; that sir tristram will not live long, when you will marry again, and you will die from the effects of childbirth in your forty- seventh year." i begged from him some convincing sign or proof so that when the morning came i might rely upon it, and feel satisfied that his appearance had been real, and that it was not the phantom of my imagination. he caused the hangings of the bed to be drawn in an unusual way and impossible manner through an iron hook. i still was not satisfied, when he wrote his signature in my pocket-book. i wanted, however, more substantial proof of his visit, when he laid his hand, which was cold as marble, on my wrist; the sinews shrunk up, the nerves withered at the touch. "now," he said, "let no mortal eye, while you live, ever see that wrist," and vanished. while i was conversing with him my thoughts were calm, but as soon as he disappeared i felt chilled with horror and dismay, a cold sweat came over me, and i again endeavoured but vainly to awaken sir tristram; a flood of tears came to my relief, and i fell asleep. "'in the morning your father got up without disturbing me; he had not noticed anything extraordinary about me or the bed-hangings. when i did arise i found a long broom in the gallery outside the bedroom door, and with great difficulty i unhooded the curtain, fearing that the position of it might excite surprise and cause inquiry. i bound up my wrist with black ribbon before i went down to breakfast, where the agitation of my mind was too visible not to attract attention. sir tristram made many anxious inquiries as to my health, especially as to my sprained wrist, as he conceived mine to be. i begged him to drop all questions as to the bandage, even if i continued to adopt it for any length of time. he kindly promised me not to speak of it any more, and he kept his promise faithfully. you, my son, came into the world as predicted, and your father died six years after. i then determined to abandon society and its pleasures and not mingle again with the world, hoping to avoid the dreadful predictions as to my second marriage; but, alas! in the one family with which i held constant and friendly intercourse i met the man, whom i did not regard with perfect indifference. though i struggled to conquer by every means the passion, i at length yielded to his solicitations, and in a fatal moment for my own peace i became his wife. in a few years his conduct fully justified my demand for a separation, and i fondly hoped to escape the fatal prophecy. under the delusion that i had passed my forty-seventh birthday, i was prevailed upon to believe in his amendment, and to pardon him. i have, however, heard from undoubted authority that i am only forty-seven this day, and i know that i am about to die. i die, however, without the dread of death, fortified as i am by the sacred precepts of christianity and upheld by its promises. when i am gone, i wish that you, my children, should unbind this black ribbon and alone behold my wrist before i am consigned to the grave.' "she then requested to be left that she might lie down and compose herself, and her children quitted the apartment, having desired her attendant to watch her, and if any change came on to summon them to her bedside. in an hour the bell rang, and they hastened to the call, but all was over. the two children having ordered every one to retire, knelt down by the side of the bed, when lady riverston unbound the black ribbon and found the wrist exactly as lady beresford had described it--every nerve withered, every sinew shrunk. "her friend, the archbishop, had had her buried in the cathedral of st. patrick, in dublin, in the earl of cork's tomb, where she now lies." * * * * * the writer now professes his disbelief in any spiritual presence, and explains his theory that lady beresford's anxiety about lord tyrone deluded her by a vivid dream, during which she hurt her wrist. of all ghost stories the tyrone, or beresford ghost, has most variants. following monsieur haureau, in the journal des savants, i have tracked the tale, the death compact, and the wound inflicted by the ghost on the hand, or wrist, or brow, of the seer, through henry more, and melanchthon, and a mediaeval sermon by eudes de shirton, to william of malmesbury, a range of years. mrs. grant of laggan has a rather recent case, and i have heard of another in the last ten years! calmet has a case in , the spectre leaves the sable score of fingers four on a board of wood. now for a modern instance of a gang of ghosts with a purpose! when i narrated the story which follows to an eminent moral philosopher, he remarked, at a given point, "oh, the ghost _spoke_, did she?" and displayed scepticism. the evidence, however, left him, as it leaves me, at a standstill, not convinced, but agreeably perplexed. the ghosts here are truly old-fashioned. my story is, and must probably remain, entirely devoid of proof, as far as any kind of ghostly influence is concerned. we find ghosts appearing, and imposing a certain course of action on a living witness, for definite purposes of their own. the course of action prescribed was undeniably pursued, and apparently the purpose of the ghosts was fulfilled, but what that purpose was their agent declines to state, and conjecture is hopelessly baffled. the documents in the affair have been published by the society for psychical research (proceedings, vol. xi., p. ), and are here used for reference. but i think the matter will be more intelligible if i narrate it exactly as it came under my own observation. the names of persons and places are all fictitious, and are the same as those used in the documents published by the s.p.r. half-past one o'clock in october, , i was staying at a town which we shall call rapingham. one night i and some kinsfolk dined with another old friend of all of us, a dr. ferrier. in the course of dinner he asked a propos de bottes:-- "have you heard of the ghost in blake street?" a sunny, pleasant street of respectable but uninteresting antiquity in rapingham. we had none of us heard of the ghost, and begged the doctor to enlighten our ignorance. his story ran thus--i have it in his own writing as far as its essence goes:-- "the house," he said, "belongs to my friends, the applebys, who let it, as they live elsewhere. a quiet couple took it and lived in it for five years, when the husband died, and the widow went away. they made no complaint while tenants. the house stood empty for some time, and all i know personally about the matter is that i, my wife, and the children were in the dining-room one sunday when we heard unusual noises in the drawing-room overhead. we went through the rooms but could find no cause or explanation of the disturbance, and thought no more about it. "about six or seven years ago i let the house to a mr. buckley, who is still the tenant. he was unmarried, and his family consisted of his mother and sisters. they preceded him to put the place in order, and before his arrival came to me in some irritation complaining that i had let them _a haunted house_! they insisted that there were strange noises, as if heavy weights were being dragged about, or heavy footsteps pacing in the rooms and on the stairs. i said that i knew nothing about the matter. the stairs are of stone, water is only carried up to the first floor, there is an unused system of hot air pipes. { a} something went wrong with the water-main in the area once, but the noises lasted after it was mended. "i think mr. buckley when he arrived never heard anything unusual. but one evening as he walked upstairs carrying an ink-bottle, he found his hand full of some liquid. thinking that he had spilt the ink, he went to a window where he found his hand full of water, to account for which there was no stain on the ceiling, or anything else that he could discover. on another occasion one of the young ladies was kneeling by a trunk in an attic, alone, when water was switched over her face, as if from a wet brush. { b} there was a small pool of water on the floor, and the wall beyond her was sprinkled. "time went on, and the disturbances were very rare: in fact ceased for two years till the present week, when mrs. claughton, a widow accompanied by two of her children, came to stay with the buckleys. { c} she had heard of the disturbances and the theory of hauntings-- i don't know if these things interested her or not. "early on monday, th october, mrs. claughton came to consult me. her story was this: about a quarter past one on sunday night, or monday morning, she was in bed with one of her children, the other sleeping in the room. she was awakened by footsteps on the stair, and supposed that a servant was coming to call her to miss buckley, who was ill. the steps stopped at the door, then the noise was repeated. mrs. claughton lit her bedroom candle, opened the door and listened. there was no one there. the clock on the landing pointed to twenty minutes past one. mrs. claughton went back to bed, read a book, fell asleep, and woke to find the candle still lit, but low in the socket. she heard a sigh, and saw a lady, unknown to her, her head swathed in a soft white shawl, her expression gentle and refined, her features much emaciated. "the appearance said, 'follow me,' and mrs. claughton, taking the bedroom candle, rose and followed out on to the landing, and so into the adjacent drawing-room. she cannot remember opening the door, which the housemaid had locked outside, and she owns that this passage is dreamlike in her memory. seeing that her candle was flickering out, she substituted for it a pink one taken from a chiffonier. the figure walked nearly to the window, turned three-quarters round, said 'to-morrow!' and was no more seen. mrs. claughton went back to her room, where her eldest child asked:-- "'who is the lady in white?' "'only me, mother, go to sleep,' she thinks she answered. after lying awake for two hours, with gas burning, she fell asleep. the pink candle from the drawing-room chiffonier was in her candlestick in the morning. "after hearing the lady's narrative i told her to try change of air, which she declined as cowardly. so, as she would stay on at mr. buckley's, i suggested that an electric alarm communicating with miss buckley's room should be rigged up, and this was done." here the doctor paused, and as the events had happened within the week, we felt that we were at last on the track of a recent ghost. "next morning, about one, the buckleys were aroused by a tremendous peal of the alarm; mrs. claughton they found in a faint. next morning { } she consulted me as to the whereabouts of a certain place, let me call it 'meresby'. i suggested the use of a postal directory; we found meresby, a place extremely unknown to fame, in an agricultural district about five hours from london in the opposite direction from rapingham. to this place mrs. claughton said she must go, in the interest and by the order of certain ghosts, whom she saw on monday night, and whose injunctions she had taken down in a note-book. she has left rapingham for london, and there," said the doctor, "my story ends for the present." we expected it to end for good and all, but in the course of the week came a communication to the doctor in writing from mrs. claughton's governess. this lady, on mrs. claughton's arrival at her london house (friday, th october), passed a night perturbed by sounds of weeping, "loud moans," and "a very odd noise overhead, like some electric battery gone wrong," in fact, much like the "warning" of a jack running down, which old jeffrey used to give at the wesley's house in epworth. there were also heavy footsteps and thuds, as of moving weighty bodies. so far the governess. this curious communication i read at rapingham on saturday, th october, or sunday, th october. on monday i went to town. in the course of the week i received a letter from my kinsman in rapingham, saying that mrs. claughton had written to dr. ferrier, telling him that she had gone to meresby on saturday; had accomplished the bidding of the ghosts, and had lodged with one joseph wright, the parish clerk. her duty had been to examine the meresby parish registers, and to compare certain entries with information given by the ghosts and written by her in her note-book. if the entries in the parish register tallied with her notes, she was to pass the time between one o'clock and half-past one, alone, in meresby church, and receive a communication from the spectres. all this she said that she had done, and in evidence of her journey enclosed her half ticket to meresby, which a dream had warned her would not be taken on her arrival. she also sent a white rose from a grave to dr. ferrier, a gentleman in no sympathy with the jacobite cause, which, indeed, has no connection whatever with the matter in hand. on hearing of this letter from mrs. claughton, i confess that, not knowing the lady, i remained purely sceptical. the railway company, however, vouched for the ticket. the rector of meresby, being appealed to, knew nothing of the matter. he therefore sent for his curate and parish clerk. "did a lady pass part of sunday night in the church?" the clerk and the curate admitted that this unusual event _had_ occurred. a lady had arrived from london on saturday evening; had lodged with wright, the parish clerk; had asked for the parish registers; had compared them with her note-book after morning service on sunday, and had begged leave to pass part of the night in the church. the curate in vain tried to dissuade her, and finally, washing his hands of it, had left her to wright the clerk. to him she described a mr. george howard, deceased (one of the ghosts). he recognised the description, and he accompanied her to the church on a dark night, starting at one o'clock. she stayed alone, without a light, in the locked-up church from . to . , when he let her out. there now remained no doubt that mrs. claughton had really gone to meresby, a long and disagreeable journey, and had been locked up in the church alone at a witching hour. beyond this point we have only the statements of mrs. claughton, made to lord bute, mr. myers and others, and published by the society for psychical research. she says that after arranging the alarm bell on monday night (october - ) she fell asleep reading in her dressing- gown, lying outside her bed. she wakened, and found the lady of the white shawl bending over her. mrs. claughton said: "am i dreaming, or is it true?" the figure gave, as testimony to character, a piece of information. next mrs. claughton saw a male ghost, "tall, dark, healthy, sixty years old," who named himself as george howard, buried in meresby churchyard, meresby being a place of which mrs. claughton, like most people, now heard for the first time. he gave the dates of his marriage and death, which are correct, and have been seen by mr. myers in mrs. claughton's note-book. he bade her verify these dates at meresby, and wait at . in the morning at the grave of richard harte (a person, like all of them, unknown to mrs. claughton) at the south-west corner of the south aisle in meresby church. this mr. harte died on th may, , and missed many events of interest by doing so. mr. howard also named and described joseph wright, of meresby, as a man who would help her, and he gave minute local information. next came a phantom of a man whose name mrs. claughton is not free to give; { } he seemed to be in great trouble, at first covering his face with his hands, but later removing them. these three spectres were to meet mrs. claughton in meresby church and give her information of importance on a matter concerning, apparently, the third and only unhappy appearance. after these promises and injunctions the phantoms left, and mrs. claughton went to the door to look at the clock. feeling faint, she rang the alarum, when her friends came and found her in a swoon on the floor. the hour was . . what mrs. claughton's children were doing all this time, and whether they were in the room or not, does not appear. on thursday mrs. claughton went to town, and her governess was perturbed, as we have seen. on friday night mrs. claughton _dreamed_ a number of things connected with her journey; a page of the notes made from this dream was shown to mr. myers. thus her half ticket was not to be taken, she was to find a mr. francis, concerned in the private affairs of the ghosts, which needed rectifying, and so forth. these premonitions, with others, were all fulfilled. mrs. claughton, in the church at night, continued her conversation with the ghosts whose acquaintance she had made at rapingham. she obtained, it seems, all the information needful to settling the mysterious matters which disturbed the male ghost who hid his face, and on monday morning she visited the daughter of mr. howard in her country house in a park, "recognised the strong likeness to her father, and carried out all things desired by the dead to the full, as had been requested. . . . the wishes expressed to her were perfectly rational, reasonable and of natural importance." the clerk, wright, attests the accuracy of mrs. claughton's description of mr. howard, whom he knew, and the correspondence of her dates with those in the parish register and on the graves, which he found for her at her request. mr. myers, "from a very partial knowledge" of what the meresby ghosts' business was, thinks the reasons for not revealing this matter "entirely sufficient". the ghosts' messages to survivors "effected the intended results," says mrs. claughton. * * * * * of this story the only conceivable natural explanation is that mrs. claughton, to serve her private ends, paid secret preliminary visits to meresby, "got up" there a number of minute facts, chose a haunted house at the other end of england as a first scene in her little drama, and made the rest of the troublesome journeys, not to mention the uncomfortable visit to a dark church at midnight, and did all this from a hysterical love of notoriety. this desirable boon she would probably never have obtained, even as far as it is consistent with a pseudonym, if i had not chanced to dine with dr. ferrier while the adventure was only beginning. as there seemed to be a chance of taking a ghost "on the half volley," i at once communicated the first part of the tale to the psychical society (using pseudonyms, as here, throughout), and two years later mrs. claughton consented to tell the society as much as she thinks it fair to reveal. this, it will be confessed, is a round-about way of obtaining fame, and an ordinary person in mrs. claughton's position would have gone to the psychical society at once, as mark twain meant to do when he saw the ghost which turned out to be a very ordinary person. there i leave these ghosts, my mind being in a just balance of agnosticism. if ghosts at all, they were ghosts with a purpose. the species is now very rare. the purpose of the ghost in the following instance was trivial, but was successfully accomplished. in place of asking people to do what it wanted, the ghost did the thing itself. now the modern theory of ghosts, namely, that they are delusions of the senses of the seers, caused somehow by the mental action of dead or distant people, does not seem to apply in this case. the ghost produced an effect on a material object. "put out the light!" the rev. d. w. g. gwynne, m.d., was a physician in holy orders. in he lived at p--- house, near taunton, where both he and his wife "were made uncomfortable by auditory experiences to which they could find no clue," or, in common english, they heard mysterious noises. "during the night," writes dr. gwynne, "i became aware of a draped figure passing across the foot of the bed towards the fireplace. i had the impression that the arm was raised, pointing with the hand towards the mantel-piece on which a night-light was burning. mrs. gwynne at the same moment seized my arm, _and the light was extinguished_! notwithstanding, i distinctly saw the figure returning towards the door, and being under the impression that one of the servants had found her way into our room, i leaped out of bed to intercept the intruder, but found and saw nothing. i rushed to the door and endeavoured to follow the supposed intruder, and it was not until i found the door locked, as usual, that i was painfully impressed. i need hardly say that mrs. gwynne was in a very nervous state. she asked me what i had seen, and i told her. she had seen the same figure," "but," writes mrs. gwynne, "i distinctly _saw the hand of the figure placed over the night-light, which was at once extinguished_". "mrs. gwynne also heard the rustle of the 'tall man- like figure's' garments. in addition to the night-light there was moonlight in the room." "other people had suffered many things in the same house, unknown to dr. and mrs. gwynne, who gave up the place soon afterwards." in plenty of stories we hear of ghosts who draw curtains or open doors, and these apparent material effects are usually called part of the seer's delusion. but the night-light certainly went out under the figure's hand, and was relit by dr. gwynne. either the ghost was an actual entity, not a mere hallucination of two people, or the extinction of the light was a curious coincidence. { } chapter ix haunted houses. antiquity of haunted houses. savage cases. ancient egyptian cases. persistence in modern times. impostures. imaginary noises. nature of noises. the creaking stair. ghostly effects produced by the living but absent. the grocer's cough. difficulty of belief. my gillie's father's story. "silverton abbey." the dream that opened the door. abbotsford noises. legitimate haunting by the dead. the girl in pink. the dog in the haunted room. the lady in black. dogs alarmed. the dead seldom recognised. glamis. a border castle. another class of hauntings. a russian case. the dancing devil. the little hands. haunted houses have been familiar to man ever since he has owned a roof to cover his head. the australian blacks possessed only shelters or "leans-to," so in australia the spirits do their rapping on the tree trunks; a native illustrated this by whacking a table with a book. the perched-up houses of the dyaks are haunted by noisy routing agencies. we find them in monasteries, palaces, and crofters' cottages all through the middle ages. on an ancient egyptian papyrus we find the husband of the lady onkhari protesting against her habit of haunting his house, and exclaiming: "what wrong have i done," exactly in the spirit of the "hymn of donald ban," who was "sair hadden down by a bodach" (noisy bogle) after culloden. { a} the husband of onkhari does not say _how_ she disturbed him, but the manners of egyptian haunters, just what they remain at present, may be gathered from a magical papyrus, written in greek. spirits "wail and groan, or laugh dreadfully"; they cause bad dreams, terror and madness; finally, they "practice stealthy theft," and rap and knock. the "theft" (by making objects disappear mysteriously) is often illustrated in the following tales, as are the groaning and knocking. { b} st. augustine speaks of hauntings as familiar occurrences, and we have a chain of similar cases from ancient egypt to . several houses in that year were so disturbed that the inhabitants were obliged to leave them. the newspapers were full of correspondence on the subject. the usual annoyances are apparitions (rare), flying about of objects (not very common), noises of every kind (extremely frequent), groans, screams, footsteps and fire-raising. imposture has either been proved or made very probable in ten out of eleven cases of volatile objects between and . { c} moreover, it is certain that the noises of haunted houses are not equally audible by all persons present, even when the sounds are at their loudest. thus lord st. vincent, the great admiral, heard nothing during his stay at the house of his sister, mrs. ricketts, while that lady endured terrible things. after his departure she was obliged to recall him. he arrived, and slept peacefully. next day his sister told him about the disturbances, after which he heard them as much as his neighbours, and was as unsuccessful in discovering their cause. { } of course this looks as if these noises were unreal, children of the imagination. noises being the staple of haunted houses, a few words may be devoted to them. they are usually the frou-frou or rustling sweep of a gown, footsteps, raps, thumps, groans, a sound as if all the heavy furniture was being knocked about, crashing of crockery and jingling of money. of course, as to footsteps, people _may_ be walking about, and most of the other noises are either easily imitated, or easily produced by rats, water pipes, cracks in furniture (which the aztecs thought ominous of death), and other natural causes. the explanation is rather more difficult when the steps pace a gallery, passing and repassing among curious inquirers, or in this instance. the creaking stair a lady very well known to myself, and in literary society, lived as a girl with an antiquarian father in an old house dear to an antiquary. it was haunted, among other things, by footsteps. the old oak staircase had two creaking steps, numbers seventeen and eighteen from the top. the girl would sit on the stair, stretching out her arms, and count the steps as they passed her, one, two, three, and so on to seventeen and eighteen, _which always creaked_. { } in this case rats and similar causes were excluded, though we may allow for "expectant attention". but this does not generally work. when people sit up on purpose to look out for the ghost, he rarely comes; in the case of the "lady in black," which we give later, when purposely waited for, she was never seen at all. discounting imposture, which is sometimes found, and sometimes merely fabled (as in the tedworth story), there remains one curious circumstance. specially ghostly noises are attributed to the living but absent. the grocer's cough a man of letters was born in a small scotch town, where his father was the intimate friend of a tradesman whom we shall call the grocer. almost every day the grocer would come to have a chat with mr. mackay, and the visitor, alone of the natives, had the habit of knocking at the door before entering. one day mr. mackay said to his daughter, "there's mr. macwilliam's knock. open the door." but there was no mr. macwilliam! he was just leaving his house at the other end of the street. from that day mr. mackay always heard the grocer's knock "a little previous," accompanied by the grocer's cough, which was peculiar. then all the family heard it, including the son who later became learned. he, when he had left his village for glasgow, reasoned himself out of the opinion that the grocer's knock did herald and precede the grocer. but when he went home for a visit he found that he heard it just as of old. possibly some local sentimental tommy watched for the grocer, played the trick and ran away. this explanation presents no difficulty, but the boy was never detected. { } such anecdotes somehow do not commend themselves to the belief even of people who can believe a good deal. but "the spirits of the living," as the highlanders say, have surely as good a chance to knock, or appear at a distance, as the spirits of the dead. to be sure, the living do not know (unless they are making a scientific experiment) what trouble they are giving on these occasions, but one can only infer, like st. augustine, that probably the dead don't know it either. thus, my gillie's father's story fishing in sutherland, i had a charming companion in the gillie. he was well educated, a great reader, the best of salmon fishers, and i never heard a man curse william, duke of cumberland, with more enthusiasm. his father, still alive, was second-sighted, and so, to a moderate extent and without theory, was my friend. among other anecdotes (confirmed in writing by the old gentleman) was this:-- the father had a friend who died in the house which they both occupied. the clothes of the deceased hung on pegs in the bedroom. one night the father awoke, and saw a stranger examining and handling the clothes of the defunct. then came a letter from the dead man's brother, inquiring about the effects. he followed later, and was the stranger seen by my gillie's father. thus the living but absent may haunt a house both noisily and by actual appearance. the learned even think, for very exquisite reasons, that "silverton abbey" { } is haunted noisily by a "spirit of the living". here is a case:-- the dream that knocked at the door the following is an old but good story. the rev. joseph wilkins died, an aged man, in . he left this narrative, often printed; the date of the adventure is , when mr. wilkins, aged twenty-three, was a schoolmaster in devonshire. the dream was an ordinary dream, and did not announce death, or anything but a journey. mr. wilkins dreamed, in devonshire, that he was going to london. he thought he would go by gloucestershire and see his people. so he started, arrived at his father's house, found the front door locked, went in by the back door, went to his parents' room, saw his father asleep in bed and his mother awake. he said: "mother, i am going a long journey, and have come to bid you good-bye". she answered in a fright, "oh dear son, thou art dead!" mr. wilkins wakened, and thought nothing of it. as early as a letter could come, one arrived from his father, addressing him as if he were dead, and desiring him, if by accident alive, or any one into whose hands the letter might fall, to write at once. the father then gave his reasons for alarm. mrs. wilkins, being awake one night, heard some one try the front door, enter by the back, then saw her son come into her room and say he was going on a long journey, with the rest of the dialogue. she then woke her husband, who said she had been dreaming, but who was alarmed enough to write the letter. no harm came of it to anybody. the story would be better if mr. wilkins, junior, like laud, had kept a nocturnal of his dreams, and published his father's letter, with post-marks. the story of the lady who often dreamed of a house, and when by chance she found and rented it was recognised as the ghost who had recently haunted it, is good, but is an invention! a somewhat similar instance is that of the uproar of moving heavy objects, heard by scott in abbotsford on the night preceding and the night of the death of his furnisher, mr. bullock, in london. the story is given in lockhart's life of scott, and is too familiar for repetition. on the whole, accepting one kind of story on the same level as the other kind, the living and absent may unconsciously produce the phenomena of haunted houses just as well as the dead, to whose alleged performances we now advance. actual appearances, as we have said, are not common, and just as all persons do not hear the sounds, so many do not see the appearance, even when it is visible to others in the same room. as an example, take a very mild and lady-like case of haunting. the girl in pink the following anecdote was told to myself, a few months after the curious event, by the three witnesses in the case. they were connections of my own, the father was a clergyman of the anglican church; he, his wife and their daughter, a girl of twenty, were the "percipients". all are cheerful, sagacious people, and all, though they absolutely agreed as to the facts in their experience, professed an utter disbelief in "ghosts," which the occurrence has not affected in any way. they usually reside in a foreign city, where there is a good deal of english society. one day they left the town to lunch with a young fellow-countryman who lived in a villa in the neighbourhood. there he was attempting to farm a small estate, with what measure of success the story does not say. his house was kept by his sister, who was present, of course, at the little luncheon party. during the meal some question was asked, or some remark was made, to which the clerical guest replied in english by a reference to "the maid-servant in pink". "there is no maid in pink," said the host, and he asked both his other guests to corroborate him. both ladies, mother and daughter, were obliged to say that unless their eyes deceived them, they certainly _had_ seen a girl in pink attending on them, or, at least, moving about in the room. to this their entertainers earnestly replied that no such person was in their establishment, that they had no woman servant but the elderly cook and housekeeper, then present, who was neither a girl nor in pink. after luncheon the guests were taken all over the house, to convince them of the absence of the young woman whom they had seen, and assuredly there was no trace of her. on returning to the town where they reside, they casually mentioned the circumstance as a curious illusion. the person to whom they spoke said, with some interest, "don't you know that a girl is said to have been murdered in that house before your friends took it, and that she is reported to be occasionally seen, dressed in pink?" they had heard of no such matter, but the story seemed to be pretty generally known, though naturally disliked by the occupant of the house. as for the percipients, they each and all remain firm in the belief that, till convinced of the impossibility of her presence, they were certain they had seen a girl in pink, and rather a pretty girl, whose appearance suggested nothing out of the common. an obvious hypothesis is discounted, of course, by the presence of the sister of the young gentleman who farmed the estate and occupied the house. here is another case, mild but pertinacious. the dog in the haunted room the author's friend, mr. rokeby, lives, and has lived for some twenty years, in an old house at hammersmith. it is surrounded by a large garden, the drawing-room and dining-room are on the right and left of the entrance from the garden, on the ground floor. my friends had never been troubled by any phenomena before, and never expected to be. however, they found the house "noisy," the windows were apt to be violently shaken at night and steps used to be heard where no steps should be. deep long sighs were audible at all times of day. as mrs. rokeby approached a door, the handle would turn and the door fly open. { } sounds of stitching a hard material, and of dragging a heavy weight occurred in mrs. rokeby's room, and her hair used to be pulled in a manner for which she could not account. "these sorts of things went on for about five years, when in october, , about three o'clock in the afternoon, i was sitting" (says mrs. rokeby) "with three of my children in the dining-room, reading to them. i rang the bell for the parlour-maid, when the door opened, and on looking up i saw the figure of a woman come in and walk up to the side of the table, stand there a second or two, and then turn to go out again, but before reaching the door she seemed to dissolve away. she was a grey, short-looking woman, apparently dressed in grey muslin. i hardly saw the face, which seemed scarcely to be defined at all. none of the children saw her," and mrs. rokeby only mentioned the affair at the time to her husband. two servants, in the next two months, saw the same figure, alike in dress at least, in other rooms both by daylight and candle light. they had not heard of mrs. rokeby's experience, were accustomed to the noises, and were in good health. one of them was frightened, and left her place. a brilliant light in a dark room, an icy wind and a feeling of being "watched" were other discomforts in mrs. rokeby's lot. after , only occasional rappings were heard, till mr. rokeby being absent one night in , the noises broke out, "banging, thumping, the whole place shaking". the library was the centre of these exercises, and the dog, a fine collie, was shut up in the library. mrs. rokeby left her room for her daughter's, while the dog whined in terror, and the noises increased in violence. next day the dog, when let out, rushed forth with enthusiasm, but crouched with his tail between his legs when invited to re-enter. this was in . several years after, mr. rokeby was smoking, alone, in the dining-room early in the evening, when the dog began to bristle up his hair, and bark. mr. rokeby looked up and saw the woman in grey, with about half her figure passed through the slightly open door. he ran to the door, but she was gone, and the servants were engaged in their usual business. { a} our next ghost offered many opportunities to observers. the lady in black a ghost in a haunted house is seldom observed with anything like scientific precision. the spectre in the following narrative could not be photographed, attempts being usually made in a light which required prolonged exposure. efforts to touch it were failures, nor did it speak. on the other hand, it did lend itself, perhaps unconsciously, to one scientific experiment. the story is unromantic; the names are fictitious. { b} bognor house, an eligible family residence near a large town, was built in , and occupied, till his death in , by mr. s. he was twice married, and was not of temperate ways. his second wife adopted his habits, left him shortly before his death, and died at clifton in . the pair used to quarrel about some jewels which mr. s. concealed in the flooring of a room where the ghost was never seen. a mr l. now took the house, but died six months later. bognor house stood empty for four years, during which there was vague talk of hauntings. in april, , the house was taken by captain morton. this was in april; in june miss rose morton, a lady of nineteen studying medicine (and wearing spectacles), saw the first appearance. miss morton did not mention her experiences to her family, her mother being an invalid, and her brothers and sisters very young, but she transmitted accounts to a friend, a lady, in a kind of diary letters. these are extant, and are quoted. phenomena of this kind usually begin with noises, and go on to apparitions. miss morton one night, while preparing to go to bed, heard a noise outside, thought it was her mother, opened the door, saw a tall lady in black holding a handkerchief to her face, and followed the figure till her candle burned out. a widow's white cuff was visible on each wrist, the whole of the face was never seen. in - , miss morton saw the figure about six times; it was thrice seen, once through the window from outside, by other persons, who took it for a living being. two boys playing in the garden ran in to ask who was the weeping lady in black. on th january, , miss morton spoke to her inmate, as the lady in black stood beside a sofa. "she only gave a slight gasp and moved towards the door. just by the door i spoke to her again, but she seemed as if she were quite unable to speak." { } in may and june miss morton fastened strings at different heights from the stair railings to the wall, where she attached them with glue, but she twice saw the lady pass through the cords, leaving them untouched. when miss morton cornered the figure and tried to touch her, or pounce on her, she dodged, or disappeared. but by a curious contradiction her steps were often heard by several of the family, and when she heard the steps, miss morton used to go out and follow the figure. there is really no more to tell. miss morton's father never saw the lady, even when she sat on a sofa for half an hour, miss morton watching her. other people saw her in the garden crying, and sent messages to ask what was the matter, and who was the lady in distress. many members of the family, boys, girls, married ladies, servants and others often saw the lady in black. in loud noises, bumps and turning of door handles were common, and though the servants were told that the lady was quite harmless, they did not always stay. the whole establishment of servants was gradually changed, but the lady still walked. she appeared more seldom in - , and by even the light footsteps ceased. two dogs, a retriever and a skye terrier, showed much alarm. "twice," says miss morton, "i saw the terrier suddenly run up to the mat at the foot of the stairs in the hall, wagging its tail, and moving its back in the way dogs do when they expect to be caressed. it jumped up, fawning as it would do if a person had been standing there, but suddenly slunk away with its tail between its legs, and retreated, trembling, under a sofa." miss morton's own emotion, at first, was "a feeling of awe at something unknown, mixed with a strong desire to know more about it". { } this is a pretty tame case of haunting, as was conjectured, by an unhappy revenant, the returned spirit of the second mrs. s. here it may be remarked that apparitions in haunted houses are very seldom recognised as those of dead persons, and, when recognised, the recognition is usually dubious. thus, in february, , lieutenant carr glyn, of the grenadiers, while reading in the outer room of the queen's library in windsor, saw a lady in black in a kind of mantilla of black lace pass from the inner room into a corner where she was lost to view. he supposed that she had gone out by a door there, and asked an attendant later who she was. there was no door round the corner, and, in the opinion of some, the lady was queen elizabeth! she has a traditional habit, it seems, of haunting the library. but surely, of all people, in dress and aspect queen elizabeth is most easily recognised. the seer did not recognise her, and she was probably a mere casual hallucination. in old houses such traditions are common, but vague. in this connection glamis is usually mentioned. every one has heard of the secret chamber, with its mystery, and the story was known to scott, who introduces it in the betrothed. but we know when the secret chamber was built (under the restoration), who built it, what he paid the masons, and where it is: under the charter room. { } these cold facts rather take the "weird" effect off the glamis legend. the usual process is, given an old house, first a noise, then a hallucination, actual or pretended, then a myth to account for the hallucination. there is a castle on the border which has at least seven or eight distinct ghosts. one is the famous radiant boy. he has been evicted by turning his tapestried chamber into the smoking- room. for many years not one ghost has been seen except the lady with the candle, viewed by myself, but, being ignorant of the story, i thought she was one of the maids. perhaps she was, but she went into an empty set of rooms, and did not come out again. footsteps are apt to approach the doors of these rooms in mirk midnight, the door handle turns, and that is all. so much for supposed hauntings by spirits of the dead. at the opposite pole are hauntings by agencies whom nobody supposes to be ghosts of inmates of the house. the following is an extreme example, as the haunter proceeded to arson. this is not so very unusual, and, if managed by an impostor, shows insane malevolence. { } the dancing devil on th november, , mr. shchapoff, a russian squire, the narrator, came home from a visit to a country town, iletski, and found his family in some disarray. there lived with him his mother and his wife's mother, ladies of about sixty-nine, his wife, aged twenty, and his baby daughter. the ladies had been a good deal disturbed. on the night of the th, the baby was fractious, and the cook, maria, danced and played the harmonica to divert her. the baby fell asleep, the wife and mr. shchapoff's miller's lady were engaged in conversation, when a shadow crossed the blind on the outside. they were about to go out and see who was passing, when they heard a double shuffle being executed with energy in the loft overhead. they thought maria, the cook, was making a night of it, but found her asleep in the kitchen. the dancing went on but nobody could be found in the loft. then raps began on the window panes, and so the miller and gardener patrolled outside. nobody! raps and dancing lasted through most of the night and began again at ten in the morning. the ladies were incommoded and complained of broken sleep. mr. shchapoff, hearing all this, examined the miller, who admitted the facts, but attributed them to a pigeon's nest, which he had found under the cornice. satisfied with this rather elementary hypothesis, mr. shchapoff sat down to read livingstone's african travels. presently the double shuffle sounded in the loft. mrs. shchapoff was asleep in her bedroom, but was awakened by loud raps. the window was tapped at, deafening thumps were dealt at the outer wall, and the whole house thrilled. mr. shchapoff rushed out with dogs and a gun, there were no footsteps in the snow, the air was still, the full moon rode in a serene sky. mr. shchapoff came back, and the double shuffle was sounding merrily in the empty loft. next day was no better, but the noises abated and ceased gradually. alas, mr. shchapoff could not leave well alone. on th december, to amuse a friend, he asked maria to dance and play. raps, in tune, began on the window panes. next night they returned, while boots, slippers, and other objects, flew about with a hissing noise. a piece of stuff would fly up and fall with a heavy hard thud, while hard bodies fell soundless as a feather. the performances slowly died away. on old year's night maria danced to please them; raps began, people watching on either side of a wall heard the raps on the other side. on th january, mrs. shchapoff fainted when a large, luminous ball floated, increasing in size, from under her bed. the raps now followed her about by day, as in the case of john wesley's sisters. on these occasions she felt weak and somnolent. finally mr. shchapoff carried his family to his town house for much-needed change of air. science, in the form of dr. shustoff, now hinted that electricity or magnetic force was at the bottom of the annoyances, a great comfort to the household, who conceived that the devil was concerned. the doctor accompanied his friends to their country house for a night, maria was invited to oblige with a dance, and only a few taps on windows followed. the family returned to town till st january. no sooner was mrs. shchapoff in bed than knives and forks came out of a closed cupboard and flew about, occasionally sticking in the walls. on th january the doctor abandoned the hypothesis of electricity, because the noises kept time to profane but not to sacred music. a tartar hymn by a tartar servant, an islamite, had no accompaniment, but the freischutz was warmly encored. this went beyond the most intelligent spontaneous exercises of electricity. questions were asked of the agencies, and to the interrogation, "are you a devil?" a most deafening knock replied. "we all jumped backwards." now comes a curious point. in the wesley and tedworth cases, the masters of the houses, like the cure of cideville ( ), were at odds with local "cunning men". mr. shchapoff's fiend now averred that he was "set on" by the servant of a neighbouring miller, with whom mr. shchapoff had a dispute about a mill pond. this man had previously said, "it will be worse; they will drag you by the hair". and, indeed, mrs. shchapoff was found in tears, because her hair had been pulled. { } science again intervened. a section of the imperial geographical society sent dr. shustoff, mr. akutin (a government civil engineer), and a literary gentleman, as a committee of inquiry appointed by the governor of the province. they made a number of experiments with leyden jars, magnets, and so forth, with only negative results. things flew about, both _from_, and _towards_ mrs. shchapoff. nothing volatile was ever seen to _begin_ its motion, though, in march, , objects were seen, by a policeman and six other witnesses, to fly up from a bin and out of a closed cupboard, in a house at worksop. { } mr. akutin, in mrs. shchapoff's bedroom, found the noises answer questions in french and german, on contemporary politics, of which the lady of the house knew nothing. lassalle was said to be alive, mr. shchapoff remarked, "what nonsense!" but mr. akutin corrected him. the bogey was better informed. the success of the french in the great war was predicted. the family now moved to their town house, and the inquest continued, though the raps were only heard near the lady. a dr. dubinsky vowed that she made them herself, with her tongue; then, with her pulse. the doctor assailed, and finally shook the faith of mr. akutin, who was to furnish a report. "he bribed a servant boy to say that his mistress made the sounds herself, and then pretended that he had caught her trying to deceive us by throwing things." finally mr. akutin reported that the whole affair was a hysterical imposition by mrs. shchapoff. dr. dubinsky attended her, her health and spirits improved, and the disturbances ceased. but poor mr. shchapoff received an official warning not to do it again, from the governor of his province. that way lies siberia. "imagine, then," exclaims mr. shchapoff, "our horror, when, on our return to the country in march, the unknown force at once set to work again. and now even my wife's presence was not essential. thus, one day, i saw with my own eyes a heavy sofa jump off all four legs (three or four times in fact), and this when my aged mother was lying on it." the same thing occurred to nancy wesley's bed, on which she was sitting while playing cards in . the picture of a lady of seventy, sitting tight to a bucking sofa, appeals to the brave. then the fire-raising began. a blue spark flew out of a wash-stand, into mrs. shchapoff's bedroom. luckily she was absent, and her mother, rushing forward with a water-jug, extinguished a flaming cotton dress. bright red globular meteors now danced in the veranda. mr. portnoff next takes up the tale as follows, mr. shchapoff having been absent from home on the occasion described. "i was sitting playing the guitar. the miller got up to leave, and was followed by mrs. shchapoff. hardly had she shut the door, when i heard, as though from far off, a deep drawn wail. the voice seemed familiar to me. overcome with an unaccountable horror i rushed to the door, and there in the passage i saw a literal pillar of fire, in the middle of which, draped in flame, stood mrs. shchapoff. . . . i rushed to put it out with my hands, but i found it burned them badly, as if they were sticking to burning pitch. a sort of cracking noise came from beneath the floor, which also shook and vibrated violently." mr. portnoff and the miller "carried off the unconscious victim". mr. shchapoff also saw a small pink hand, like a child's, spring from the floor, and play with mrs. shchapoff's coverlet, in bed. these things were too much; the shchapoffs fled to a cottage, and took a new country house. they had no more disturbances. mrs. shchapoff died in child-bed, in , "a healthy, religious, quiet, affectionate woman". chapter x modern hauntings the shchapoff story of a peculiar type. "demoniacal possession." story of wellington mill briefly analysed. authorities for the story. letters. a journal. the wesley ghost. given critically and why. note on similar stories, such as the drummer of tedworth. sir waller scott's scepticism about nautical evidence. lord st. vincent. scott asks where are his letters on a ghostly disturbance. the letters are now published. lord st. vincent's ghost story. reflections. cases like that of mrs. shchapoff really belong to a peculiar species of haunted houses. our ancestors, like the modern chinese, attributed them to diabolical possession, not to an ordinary ghost of a dead person. examples are very numerous, and have all the same "symptoms," as coleridge would have said, he attributing them to a contagious nervous malady of observation in the spectators. among the most notorious is the story of willington mill, told by howitt, and borrowed by mrs. crowe, in the night side of nature. mr. procter, the occupant, a quaker, vouched to mrs. crowe for the authenticity of howitt's version. ( nd july, .) other letters from seers are published, and the society of psychical research lately printed mr. procter's contemporary journal. a man, a woman, and a monkey were the chief apparitions. there were noises, lights, beds were heaved about: nothing was omitted. a clairvoyante was turned on, but could only say that the spectral figures, which she described, "had no brains". after the quakers left the house there seems to have been no more trouble. the affair lasted for fifteen years. familiar as it is, we now offer the old story of the hauntings at epworth, mainly because a full view of the inhabitants, the extraordinary family of wesley, seems necessary to an understanding of the affair. the famous and excessively superstitious john wesley was not present on the occasion. the wesley ghost no ghost story is more celebrated than that of old jeffrey, the spirit so named by emily wesley, which disturbed the rectory at epworth, chiefly in the december of and the spring of . yet the vagueness of the human mind has led many people, especially journalists, to suppose that the haunted house was that, not of samuel wesley, but of his son john wesley, the founder of the wesleyan methodists. for the better intelligence of the tale, we must know who the inmates of the epworth rectory were, and the nature of their characters and pursuits. the rector was the rev. samuel wesley, born in , the son of a clergyman banished from his living on "black bartholomew day," . though educated among dissenters, samuel wesley converted himself to the truth as it is in the church of england, became a "poor scholar" of exeter college in oxford, supported himself mainly by hack-work in literature (he was one of the editors of a penny paper called the athenian mercury, a sort of answers), married miss susanna annesley, a lady of good family, in - , and in was presented to the rectory of epworth in lincolnshire by mary, wife of william of orange, to whom he had dedicated a poem on the life of christ. the living was poor, mr. wesley's family multiplied with amazing velocity, he was in debt, and unpopular. his cattle were maimed in , and in his house was burned down. the rectory house, of which a picture is given in clarke's memoirs of the wesleys, , was built anew at his own expense. mr. wesley was in politics a strong royalist, but having seen james ii. shake "his lean arm" at the fellows of magdalen college, and threaten them "with the weight of a king's right hand," he conceived a prejudice against that monarch, and took the side of the prince of orange. his wife, a very pious woman and a strict disciplinarian, was a jacobite, would not say "amen" to the prayers for "the king," and was therefore deserted by her husband for a year or more in - . they came together again, however, on the accession of queen anne. unpopular for his politics, hated by the dissenters, and at odds with the "cunning men," or local wizards against whom he had frequently preached, mr. wesley was certainly apt to have tricks played on him by his neighbours. his house, though surrounded by a wall, a hedge, and its own grounds, was within a few yards of the nearest dwelling in the village street. in , when the disturbances began, mr. wesley's family consisted of his wife; his eldest son, sam, aged about twenty-three, and then absent at his duties as an usher at westminster; john, aged twelve, a boy at westminster school; charles, a boy of eight, away from home, and the girls, who were all at the parsonage. they were emily, about twenty-two, mary, nancy and sukey, probably about twenty-one, twenty and nineteen, and hetty, who may have been anything between nineteen and twelve, but who comes after john in dr. clarke's list, and is apparently reckoned among "the children". { } then there was patty, who may have been only nine, and little keziah. all except patty were very lively young people, and hetty, afterwards a copious poet, "was gay and sprightly, full of mirth, good-humour, and keen wit. she indulged this disposition so much that it was said to have given great uneasiness to her parents." the servants, robin brown, betty massy and nancy marshall, were recent comers, but were acquitted by mrs. wesley of any share in the mischief. the family, though, like other people of their date, they were inclined to believe in witches and "warnings," were not especially superstitious, and regarded the disturbances, first with some apprehension, then as a joke, and finally as a bore. the authorities for what occurred are, first, a statement and journal by mr. wesley, then a series of letters of to sam at westminster by his mother, emily and sukey, next a set of written statements made by these and other witnesses to john wesley in , and last and worst, a narrative composed many years after by john wesley for the arminian magazine. the earliest document, by a few days, is the statement of mr. wesley, written, with a brief journal, between st december, , and st january, . comparing this with mrs. wesley's letter to sam of th january, and sukey's letter of th january, we learn that the family for some weeks after st december had been "in the greatest panic imaginable," supposing that sam, jack, or charlie (who must also have been absent from home) was dead, "or by some misfortune killed". the reason for these apprehensions was that on the night of st december the maid "heard at the dining-room door several dreadful groans, like a person in extremes". they laughed at her, but for the whole of december "the groans, squeaks, tinglings and knockings were frightful enough". the rest of the family (mr. wesley always excepted) "heard a strange knocking in divers places," chiefly in the green room, or nursery, where (apparently) hetty, patty and keziah lay. emily heard the noises later than some of her sisters, perhaps a week after the original groans. she was locking up the house about ten o'clock when a sound came like the smashing and splintering of a huge piece of coal on the kitchen floor. she and sukey went through the rooms on the ground floor, but found the dog asleep, the cat at the other end of the house, and everything in order. from her bedroom emily heard a noise of breaking the empty bottles under the stairs, but was going to bed, when hetty, who had been sitting on the lowest step of the garret stairs beside the nursery door, waiting for her father, was chased into the nursery by a sound as of a man passing her in a loose trailing gown. sukey and nancy were alarmed by loud knocks on the outside of the dining-room door and overhead. all this time mr. wesley heard nothing, and was not even told that anything unusual was heard. mrs. wesley at first held her peace lest he should think it "according to the vulgar opinion, a warning against his own death, which, indeed, we all apprehended". mr. wesley only smiled when he was informed; but, by taking care to see all the girls safe in bed, sufficiently showed his opinion that the young ladies and their lovers were the ghost. mrs. wesley then fell back on the theory of rats, and employed a man to blow a horn as a remedy against these vermin. but this measure only aroused the emulation of the sprite, whom emily began to call "jeffrey". not till st december did mr. wesley hear anything, then came thumpings on his bedroom wall. unable to discover the cause, he procured a stout mastiff, which soon became demoralised by his experiences. on the morning of the th, about seven o'clock, emily led mrs. wesley into the nursery, where she heard knocks on and under the bedstead; these sounds replied when she knocked. something "like a badger, with no head," says emily; mrs. wesley only says, "like a badger," ran from under the bed. on the night of the th there was an appalling vacarme. mr. and mrs. wesley went on a tour of inspection, but only found the mastiff whining in terror. "we still heard it rattle and thunder in every room above or behind us, locked as well as open, except my study, where as yet it never came." on the night of the th mr. wesley seems to have heard of a phenomenon already familiar to emily--"something like the quick winding up of a jack, at the corner of the room by my bed head". this was always followed by knocks, "hollow and loud, such as none of us could ever imitate". mr. wesley went into the nursery, hetty, kezzy and patty were asleep. the knocks were loud, beneath and in the room, so mr. wesley went below to the kitchen, struck with his stick against the rafters, and was answered "as often and as loud as i knocked". the peculiar knock which was his own, - - , was not successfully echoed at that time. mr. wesley then returned to the nursery, which was as tapageuse as ever. the children, three, were trembling in their sleep. mr. wesley invited the agency to an interview in his study, was answered by one knock outside, "all the rest were within," and then came silence. investigations outside produced no result, but the latch of the door would rise and fall, and the door itself was pushed violently back against investigators. "i have been with hetty," says emily, "when it has knocked under her, and when she has removed has followed her," and it knocked under little kezzy, when "she stamped with her foot, pretending to scare patty." mr. wesley had requested an interview in his study, especially as the jacobite goblin routed loudly "over our heads constantly, when we came to the prayers for king george and the prince". in his study the agency pushed mr. wesley about, bumping him against the corner of his desk, and against his door. he would ask for a conversation, but heard only "two or three feeble squeaks, a little louder than the chirping of a bird, but not like the noise of rats, which i have often heard". mr. wesley had meant to leave home for a visit on friday, th december, but the noises of the th were so loud that he stayed at home, inviting the rev. mr. hoole, of haxey, to view the performances. "the noises were very boisterous and disturbing this night." mr. hoole says (in , confirmed by mrs. wesley, th january, ) that there were sounds of feet, trailing gowns, raps, and a noise as of planing boards: the disturbance finally went outside the house and died away. mr. wesley seems to have paid his visit on the th, and notes, " st january, . my family have had no disturbance since i went away." to judge by mr. wesley's letter to sam, of th january, there was no trouble between the th of december and that date. on the th of january, and the th of the same month, sam wrote, full of curiosity, to his father and mother. mrs. wesley replied ( th or th january), saying that no explanation could be discovered, but "it commonly was nearer hetty than the rest". on th january, sukey said "it is now pretty quiet, but still knocks at prayers for the king." on th february, mr. wesley, much bored by sam's inquiries, says, "we are all now quiet. . . . it would make a glorious penny book for jack dunton," his brother-in-law, a publisher of popular literature, such as the athenian mercury. emily (no date) explains the phenomena as the revenge for her father's recent sermons "against consulting those that are called cunning men, which our people are given to, and _it had a particular spite at my father_". the disturbances by no means ended in the beginning of january, nor at other dates when a brief cessation made the wesleys hope that jeffrey had returned to his own place. thus on th march, sukey writes to sam, remarking that as hetty and emily are also writing "so particularly," she need not say much. "one thing i believe you do not know, that is, last sunday, to my father's no small amazement, his trencher danced upon the table a pretty while, without anybody's stirring the table. . . . send me some news for we are excluded from the sight or hearing of any versal thing, except jeffery." the last mention of the affair, at this time, is in a letter from emily, of st april, to a mr. berry. "tell my brother the sprite was with us last night, and heard by many of our family." there are no other contemporary letters preserved, but we may note mrs. wesley's opinion ( th january) that it was "beyond the power of any human being to make such strange and various noises". the next evidence is ten years after date, the statements taken down by jack wesley in ( ?). mrs. wesley adds to her former account that she "earnestly desired it might not disturb her" (at her devotions) "between five and six in the evening," and it did not rout in her room at that time. emily added that a screen was knocked at on each side as she went round to the other. sukey mentioned the noise as, on one occasion, coming gradually from the garret stairs, outside the nursery door, up to hetty's bed, "who trembled strongly in her sleep. it then removed to the room overhead, where it knocked my father's knock on the ground, as if it would beat the house down." nancy said that the noise used to follow her, or precede her, and once a bed, on which she sat playing cards, was lifted up under her several times to a considerable height. robin, the servant, gave evidence that he was greatly plagued with all manner of noises and movements of objects. john wesley, in his account published many years after date in his arminian magazine, attributed the affair of to his father's broken vow of deserting his mother till she recognised the prince of orange as king! he adds that the mastiff "used to tremble and creep away before the noise began". some other peculiarities may be noted. all persons did not always hear the noises. it was three weeks before mr. wesley heard anything. "john and kitty maw, who lived over against us, listened several nights in the time of the disturbance, but could never hear anything." again, "the first time my mother ever heard any unusual noise at epworth was long before the disturbance of old jeffrey . . . the door and windows jarred very loud, and presently several distinct strokes, three by three, were struck. from that night it never failed to give notice in much the same manner, against any signal misfortune or illness of any belonging to the family," writes jack. once more, on th february, , emily (now mrs. harper) wrote to her brother john, "that wonderful thing called by us jeffery, how certainly it calls on me against any extraordinary new affliction". this is practically all the story of old jeffrey. the explanations have been, trickery by servants (priestley), contagious hallucinations (coleridge), devilry (southey), and trickery by hetty wesley (dr. salmon, of trinity college, dublin). dr. salmon points out that there is no evidence from hetty; that she was a lively, humorous girl, and he conceives that she began to frighten the maids, and only reluctantly exhibited before her father against whom, however, jeffrey developed "a particular spite". he adds that certain circumstances were peculiar to hetty, which, in fact, is not the case. the present editor has examined dr. salmon's arguments in the contemporary review, and shown reason, in the evidence, for acquitting hetty wesley, who was never suspected by her family. trickery from without, by "the cunning men," is an explanation which, at least, provides a motive, but how the thing could be managed from without remains a mystery. sam wesley, the friend of pope, and atterbury, and lord oxford, not unjustly said: "wit, i fancy, might find many interpretations, but wisdom none". { } as the wesley tale is a very typical instance of a very large class, our study of it may exempt us from printing the well-known parallel case of "the drummer of tedworth". briefly, the house of mr. mompesson, near ludgarshal, in wilts, was disturbed in the usual way, for at least two years, from april, , to april, , or later. the noises, and copious phenomena of moving objects apparently untouched, were attributed to the unholy powers of a wandering drummer, deprived by mr. mompesson of his drum. a grand jury presented the drummer for trial, on a charge of witchcraft, but the petty jury would not convict, there being a want of evidence to prove threats, malum minatum, by the drummer. in the rev. joseph glanvil, f.r.s., visited the house, and, in the bedroom of mr. mompesson's little girls, the chief sufferers, heard and saw much the same phenomena as the elder wesley describes in his own nursery. the "little modest girls" were aged about seven and eight. charles ii. sent some gentlemen to the house for one night, when nothing occurred, the disturbances being intermittent. glanvil published his narrative at the time, and mr. pepys found it "not very convincing". glanvil, in consequence of his book, was so vexed by correspondents "that i have been haunted almost as bad as mr. mompesson's house". a report that imposture had been discovered, and confessed by mr. mompesson, was set afloat, by john webster, in a well-known work, and may still be found in modern books. glanvil denied it till he was "quite tired," and mompesson gave a formal denial in a letter dated tedworth, th november, . he also, with many others, swore to the facts on oath, in court, at the drummer's trial. { } in the tedworth case, as at epworth, and in the curious cideville case of , a quarrel with "cunning men" preceded the disturbances. in lord st. vincent's case, which follows, nothing of the kind is reported. as an almost universal rule children, especially girls of about twelve, are centres of the trouble; in the st. vincent story, the children alone were exempt from annoyance. lord st. vincent's ghost story sir walter scott, writing about the disturbances in the house occupied by mrs. ricketts, sister of the great admiral, lord st. vincent, asks: "who has seen lord st. vincent's letters?" he adds that the gallant admiral, after all, was a sailor, and implies that "what the sailor said" (if he said anything) "is not evidence". the fact of unaccountable disturbances which finally drove mrs. ricketts out of hinton ampner, is absolutely indisputable, though the cause of the annoyances may remain as mysterious as ever. the contemporary correspondence (including that of lord st. vincent, then captain jervis) exists, and has been edited by mrs. henley jervis, grand-daughter of mrs. ricketts. { } there is only the very vaguest evidence for hauntings at lady hillsborough's old house of hinton ampner, near alresford, before mr. ricketts took it in january, . he and his wife were then disturbed by footsteps, and sounds of doors opening and shutting. they put new locks on the doors lest the villagers had procured keys, but this proved of no avail. the servants talked of seeing appearances of a gentleman in drab and of a lady in silk, which mrs. ricketts disregarded. her husband went to jamaica in the autumn of , and in she was so disturbed that her brother, captain jervis, a witness of the phenomena, insisted on her leaving the house in august. he and mrs. ricketts then wrote to mr. ricketts about the affair. in july, , mrs. ricketts wrote a long and solemn description of her sufferings, to be given to her children. we shall slightly abridge her statement, in which she mentions that when she left hinton she had not one of the servants who came thither in her family, which "evinces the impossibility of a confederacy". her new, like her former servants, were satisfactory; camis, her new coachman, was of a yeoman house of years' standing. it will be observed that mrs. ricketts was a good deal annoyed even _before_ nd april, , the day when she dates the beginning of the worst disturbances. she believed that the agency was human--a robber or a practical joker--and but slowly and reluctantly became convinced that the "exploded" notion of an abnormal force might be correct. we learn that while captain jervis was not informed of the sounds he never heard them, and whereas mrs. ricketts heard violent noises after he went to bed on the night of his vigil, he heard nothing. "several instances occurred where very loud noises were heard by one or two persons, when those equally near and in the same direction were not sensible of the least impression." { } with this preface, mrs. ricketts may be allowed to tell her own tale. "sometime after mr. ricketts left me (autumn, ) i--then lying in the bedroom over the kitchen--heard frequently the noise of some one walking in the room within, and the rustling as of silk clothes against the door that opened into my room, sometimes so loud, and of such continuance as to break my rest. instant search being often made, we never could discover any appearance of human or brute being. repeatedly disturbed in the same manner, i made it my constant practice to search the room and closets within, and to secure the only door on the inside. . . . yet this precaution did not preclude the disturbance, which continued with little interruption." nobody, in short, could enter this room, except by passing through that of mrs. ricketts, the door of which "was always made fast by a drawn bolt". yet somebody kept rustling and walking in the inner room, which somebody could never be found when sought for. in summer, , mrs. ricketts heard someone walk to the foot of her bed in her own room, "the footsteps as distinct as ever i heard, myself perfectly awake and collected". nobody could be discovered in the chamber. mrs. ricketts boldly clung to her room, and was only now and then disturbed by "sounds of harmony," and heavy thumps, down stairs. after this, and early in , she was "frequently sensible of a hollow murmuring that seemed to possess the whole house: it was independent of wind, being equally heard on the calmest nights, and it was a sound i had never been accustomed to hear". on th february, , a maid was alarmed by "groans and fluttering round her bed": she was "the sister of an eminent grocer in alresford". on nd april, mrs. ricketts heard people walking in the lobby, hunted for burglars, traced the sounds to a room whence their was no outlet, and found nobody. this kind of thing went on till mrs. ricketts despaired of any natural explanation. after mid-summer, , the trouble increased, in broad daylight, and a shrill female voice, answered by two male voices was added to the afflictions. captain jervis came on a visit, but was told of nothing, and never heard anything. after he went to portsmouth, "the most deep, loud tremendous noise seemed to rush and fall with infinite velocity and force on the lobby floor adjoining my room," accompanied by a shrill and dreadful shriek, seeming to proceed from under the spot where the rushing noise fell, and repeated three or four times. mrs. ricketts' "resolution remained firm," but her health was impaired; she tried changing her room, without results. the disturbances pursued her. her brother now returned. she told him nothing, and he heard nothing, but next day she unbosomed herself. captain jervis therefore sat up with captain luttrell and his own man. he was rewarded by noises which he in vain tried to pursue. "i should do great injustice to my sister" (he writes to mr. ricketts on th august, ), "if i did not acknowledge to have heard what i could not, after the most diligent search and serious reflection, any way account for." captain jervis during a whole week slept by day, and watched, armed, by night. even by day he was disturbed by a sound as of immense weights falling from the ceiling to the floor of his room. he finally obliged his sister to leave the house. what occurred after mrs. ricketts abandoned hinton is not very distinct. apparently captain jervis's second stay of a week, when he did hear the noises, was from st august to th august. from a statement by mrs. ricketts it appears that, when her brother joined his ship, the alarm ( th august), she retired to dame camis's house, that of her coachman's mother. thence she went, and made another attempt to live at hinton, but was "soon after assailed by a noise i never before heard, very near me, and the terror i felt not to be described". she therefore went to the newbolts, and thence to the old palace at winton; later, on mr. ricketts' return, to the parsonage, and then to longwood (to the _old_ house there) near alresford. meanwhile, on th september, lady hillsborough's agent lay with armed men at hinton, and, making no discovery, offered pounds (increased by mr. ricketts to pounds) for the apprehension of the persons who caused the noises. the reward was never claimed. on th march, , camis wrote: "i am very sorry that we cannot find out the reason of the noise"; at other dates he mentions sporadic noises heard by his mother and another woman, including "the murmur". a year after mrs. ricketts left a family named lawrence took the house, and, according to old lucy camis, in , mr. lawrence very properly threatened to dismiss any servant who spoke of the disturbances. the result of this sensible course was that the lawrences left suddenly, at the end of the year--and the house was pulled down. some old political papers of the great rebellion, and a monkey's skull, not exhibited to any anatomist, are said to have been discovered under the floor of the lobby, or of one of the rooms. mrs. ricketts adds sadly, "the unbelief of chancellor hoadley went nearest my heart," as he had previously a high opinion of her veracity. the bishop of st. asaph was incredulous, "on the ground that such means were unworthy of the deity to employ". probably a modern bishop would say that there were no noises at all, that every one who heard the sounds was under the influence of "suggestion," caused first in mrs. ricketts' own mind by vague tales of a gentleman in drab seen by the servants. the contagion, to be sure, also reached two distinguished captains in the navy, but not till one of them was told about disturbances which had not previously disturbed him. if this explanation be true, it casts an unusual light on the human imagination. physical science has lately invented a new theory. disturbances of this kind are perhaps "seismic,"--caused by earthquakes! (see professor milne, in the times, st june, .) chapter xi a question for physicians. professor william james's opinion. hysterical disease? little hands. domestic arson. the wem case. "the saucepan began it." the nurse-maid. boots fly off. investigation. emma's partial confession. corroborative evidence. question of disease repeated. chinese cases. haunted mrs. chang. mr. niu's female slave. the great amherst mystery. run as a show. failure. later miracles. the fire-raiser arrested. parallels. a highland case. a hero of the forty-five. donald na bocan. donald's hymn. icelandic cases. the devil of hjalta-stad. the ghost at garpsdal. more haunted houses a physician, as we have seen, got the better of the demon in mrs. shchapoff's case, at least while the lady was under his care. really these disturbances appear to demand the attention of medical men. if the whole phenomena are caused by imposture, the actors, or actresses, display a wonderful similarity of symptoms and an alarming taste for fire-raising. professor william james, the well-known psychologist, mentions ten cases whose resemblances "suggest a natural type," and we ask, is it a type of hysterical disease? { } he chooses, among others, an instance in dr. nevius's book on demon possession in china, and there is another in peru. he also mentions the great amherst mystery, which we give, and the rerrick case in scotland ( ), related by telfer, who prints, on his margins, the names of the attesting witnesses of each event, lairds, clergymen, and farmers. at rerrick, as in russia, the _little hand_ was seen by telfer himself, and the fire-raising was endless. at amherst too, as in a pair of recent russian cases and others, there was plenty of fire-raising. by a lucky chance an english case occurred at wem, in shropshire, in november, . it began at a farm called the woods, some ten miles from shrewsbury. first a saucepan full of eggs "jumped" off the fire in the kitchen, and the tea-things, leaping from the table, were broken. cinders "were thrown out of the fire," and set some clothes in a blaze. a globe leaped off a lamp. a farmer, mr. lea, saw all the windows of the upper story "as it were on fire," but it was no such matter. the nurse-maid ran out in a fright, to a neighbour's, and her dress spontaneously combusted as she ran. the people attributed these and similar events, to something in the coal, or in the air, or to electricity. when the nurse-girl, emma davies, sat on the lap of the school mistress, miss maddox, her boots kept flying off, like the boot laces in the daemon of spraiton. all this was printed in the london papers, and, on th november, the daily telegraph and daily news published emma's confession that she wrought by sleight of hand and foot. on th november, mr. hughes went from cambridge to investigate. for some reason investigation never begins till the fun is over. on the th the girl, now in a very nervous state (no wonder!) had been put under the care of a dr. mackey. this gentleman and miss turner said that things had occurred since emma came, for which they could not account. on th november, however, miss turner, looking out of a window, spotted emma throwing a brick, and pretending that the flight of the brick was automatic. next day emma confessed to her tricks, but steadfastly denied that she had cheated at woods farm, and weston lullingfield, where she had also been. her evidence to this effect was so far confirmed by mrs. hampson of woods farm, and her servant, priscilla evans, when examined by mr. hughes. both were "quite certain" that they saw crockery rise by itself into air off the kitchen table, when emma was at a neighbouring farm, mr. lea's. priscilla also saw crockery come out of a cupboard, in detachments, and fly between her and emma, usually in a slanting direction, while emma stood by with her arms folded. yet priscilla was not on good terms with emma. unless, then, mrs. hampson and priscilla fabled, it is difficult to see how emma could move objects when she was "standing at some considerable distance, standing, in fact, in quite another farm". similar evidence was given and signed by miss maddox, the schoolmistress, and mr. and mrs. lea. on the other hand mrs. hampson and priscilla believed that emma managed the fire-raising herself. the flames were "very high and white, and the articles were very little singed". this occurred also at rerrick, in , but mr. hughes attributes it to emma's use of paraffin, which does not apply to the rerrick case. paraffin smells a good deal--nothing is said about a smell of paraffin. only one thing is certain: emma was at last caught in a cheat. this discredits her, but a man who cheats at cards _may_ hold a good hand by accident. in the same way, if such wonders can happen (as so much world-wide evidence declares), they _may_ have happened at woods farm, and emma, "in a very nervous state," _may_ have feigned then, or rather did feign them later. the question for the medical faculty is: does a decided taste for wilful fire-raising often accompany exhibitions of dancing furniture and crockery, gratuitously given by patients of hysterical temperament? this is quite a normal inquiry. is there a nervous malady of which the symptoms are domestic arson, and amateur leger-de- main? the complaint, if it exists, is of very old standing and wide prevalence, including russia, scotland, new england, france, iceland, germany, china and peru. as a proof of the identity of symptoms in this malady, we give a chinese case. the chinese, as to diabolical possession, are precisely of the same opinion as the inspired authors of the gospels. people are "possessed," and, like the woman having a spirit of divination in the acts of the apostles, make a good thing out of it. thus mrs. ku was approached by a native christian. she became rigid and her demon, speaking through her, acknowledged the catholic verity, and said that if mrs. ku were converted he would have to leave. on recovering her everyday consciousness, mrs. ku asked what tsehwa, her demon, had said. the christian told her, and perhaps she would have deserted her erroneous courses, but her fellow-villagers implored her to pay homage to the demon. they were in the habit of resorting to it for medical advice (as people do to mrs. piper's demon in the united states), so mrs. ku decided to remain in the business. { } the parallel to the case in the acts is interesting. haunted mrs. chang mr. chang, of that ilk (chang chang tien-ts), was a man of fifty- seven, and a graduate in letters. the ladies of his family having accommodated a demon with a shrine in his house, mr. chang said he "would have none of that nonsense". the spirit then entered into mrs. chang, and the usual fire-raising began all over the place. the furniture and crockery danced in the familiar way, and objects took to disappearing mysteriously, even when secured under lock and key. mr. chang was as unlucky as mr. chin. at _his_ house "doors would open of their own accord, footfalls were heard, as of persons walking in the house, although no one could be seen. plates, bowls and the teapot would suddenly rise from the table into the air." { a} mrs. chang now tried the off chance of there being something in christianity, stayed with a native christian (the narrator), and felt much better. she could enjoy her meals, and was quite a new woman. as her friend could not go home with her, mrs. fung, a native christian, resided for a while at mr. chang's; "comparative quiet was restored," and mrs. fung retired to her family. the symptoms returned; the native christian was sent for, and found mr. chang's establishment full of buckets of water for extinguishing the sudden fires. mrs. chang's daughter-in-law was now possessed, and "drank wine in large quantities, though ordinarily she would not touch it". she was staring and tossing her arms wildly; a service was held, and she soon became her usual self. in the afternoon, when the devils went out of the ladies, the fowls flew into a state of wild excitement, while the swine rushed furiously about and tried to climb a wall. the family have become christians, the fires have ceased; mr. chang is an earnest inquirer, but opposed, for obvious reasons, to any public profession of our religion. { b} in mr. niu's case "strange noises and rappings were frequently heard about the house. the buildings were also set on fire in different places in some mysterious way." the christians tried to convert mr. niu, but as the devil now possessed his female slave, whose success in fortune-telling was extremely lucrative, mr. niu said that he preferred to leave well alone, and remained wedded to his idols. { } we next offer a recent colonial case, in which the symptoms, as mr. pecksniff said, were "chronic". the great amherst mystery on th february, , mr. walter hubbell, an actor by profession, "being duly sworn" before a notary public in new york, testified to the following story:-- in he was acting with a strolling company, and came to amherst, in nova scotia. here he heard of a haunted house, known to the local newspapers as "the great amherst mystery". having previously succeeded in exposing the frauds of spiritualism mr. hubbell determined to investigate the affair of amherst. the haunted house was inhabited by daniel teed, the respected foreman in a large shoe factory. under his roof were mrs. teed, "as good a woman as ever lived"; little willie, a baby boy; and mrs. teed's two sisters, jennie, a very pretty girl, and esther, remarkable for large grey eyes, pretty little hands and feet, and candour of expression. a brother of teed's and a brother of mrs. cox made up the family. they were well off, and lived comfortably in a detached cottage of two storys. it began when jennie and esther were in bed one night. esther jumped up, saying that there was a mouse in the bed. next night, a green band-box began to make a rustling noise, and then rose a foot in the air, several times. on the following night esther felt unwell, and "was a swelling wisibly before the werry eyes" of her alarmed family. reports like thunder peeled through her chamber, under a serene sky. next day esther could only eat "a small piece of bread and butter, and a large green pickle". she recovered slightly, in spite of the pickle, but, four nights later, all her and her sister's bed-clothes flew off, and settled down in a remote corner. at jennie's screams, the family rushed in, and found esther "fearfully swollen". mrs. teed replaced the bed-clothes, which flew off again, the pillow striking john teed in the face. mr. teed then left the room, observing, in a somewhat unscientific spirit, that "he had had enough of it". the others, with a kindness which did them credit, sat on the edges of the bed, and repressed the desire of the sheets and blankets to fly away. the bed, however, sent forth peels like thunder, when esther suddenly fell into a peaceful sleep. next evening dr. carritte arrived, and the bolster flew at his head, _and then went back again under esther's_. while paralysed by this phenomenon, unprecedented in his practice, the doctor heard a metal point scribbling on the wall. examining the place whence the sound proceeded, he discovered this inscription:-- esther cox! you are mine to kill. mr. hubbell has verified the inscription, and often, later, recognised the hand, in writings which "came out of the air and fell at our feet". bits of plaster now gyrated in the room, accompanied by peels of local thunder. the doctor admitted that his diagnosis was at fault. next day he visited his patient when potatoes flew at him. he exhibited a powerful sedative, but pounding noises began on the roofs and were audible at a distance of yards, as the doctor himself told mr. hubbell. the clergy now investigated the circumstances, which they attributed to electricity. "even the most exclusive class" frequented mr. teed's house, till december, when esther had an attack of diphtheria. on recovering she went on to visit friends in sackville, new brunswick, where nothing unusual occurred. on her return the phenomena broke forth afresh, and esther heard a voice proclaim that the house would be set on fire. lighted matches then fell from the ceiling, but the family extinguished them. the ghost then set a dress on fire, apparently as by spontaneous combustion, and this kind of thing continued. the heads of the local fire-brigade suspected esther of these attempts at arson, and dr. nathan tupper suggested that she should be flogged. so mr. teed removed esther to the house of a mr. white. in about a month "all," as mrs. nickleby's lover said, "was gas and gaiters". the furniture either flew about, or broke into flames. worse, certain pieces of iron placed as an experiment on esther's lap "became too hot to be handled with comfort," and then flew away. mr. hubbell himself now came on the scene, and, not detecting imposture, thought that "there was money in it". he determined to "run" esther as a powerful attraction, he lecturing, and esther sitting on the platform. it did not pay. the audience hurled things at mr. hubbell, and these were the only volatile objects. mr. hubbell therefore brought esther back to her family at amherst, where, in esther's absence, his umbrella and a large carving knife flew at him with every appearance of malevolence. a great arm-chair next charged at him like a bull, and to say that mr. hubbell was awed "would indeed seem an inadequate expression of my feelings". the ghosts then thrice undressed little willie in public, in derision of his tears and outcries. fire-raising followed, and that would be a hard heart which could read the tale unmoved. here it is, in the simple eloquence of mr. hubbell:-- "this was my first experience with bob, the demon, as a fire-fiend; and i say, candidly, that until i had had that experience i never fully realised what an awful calamity it was to have an invisible monster, somewhere within the atmosphere, going from place to place about the house, gathering up old newspapers into a bundle and hiding it in the basket of soiled linen or in a closet, then go and steal matches out of the match-box in the kitchen or somebody's pocket, as he did out of mine, and after kindling a fire in the bundle, tell esther that he had started a fire, but would not tell where; or perhaps not tell her at all, in which case the first intimation we would have was the smell of the smoke pouring through the house, and then the most intense excitement, everybody running with buckets of water. i say it was the most truly awful calamity that could possible befall any family, infidel or christian, that could be conceived in the mind of man or ghost. "and how much more terrible did it seem in this little cottage, where all were strict members of church, prayed, sang hymns and read the bible. poor mrs. teed!" on mr. hubbell's remarking that the cat was not tormented, "she was instantly lifted from the floor to a height of five feet, and then dropped on esther's back. . . . i never saw any cat more frightened; she ran out into the front yard, where she remained for the balance (rest) of the day." on th june "a trumpet was heard in the house all day". the rev. r. a. temple now prayed with esther, and tried a little amateur exorcism, including the use of slips of paper, inscribed with habakkuk ii. . the ghosts cared no more than voltaire for ce coquin d'habacuc. things came to such a pass, matches simply raining all round, that mr. teed's landlord, a mr. bliss, evicted esther. she went to a mr. van amburgh's, and mr. teed's cottage was in peace. some weeks later esther was arrested for incendiarism in a barn, was sentenced to four months' imprisonment, but was soon released in deference to public opinion. she married, had a family; and ceased to be a mystery. this story is narrated with an amiable simplicity, and is backed, more or less, by extracts from amherst and other local newspapers. on making inquiries, i found that opinion was divided. some held that esther was a mere impostor and fire-raiser; from other sources i obtained curious tales of the eccentric flight of objects in her neighbourhood. it is only certain that esther's case is identical with madame shchapoff's, and experts in hysteria may tell us whether that malady ever takes the form of setting fire to the patient's wardrobe, and to things in general. { a} after these modern cases of disturbances, we may look at a few old, or even ancient examples. it will be observed that the symptoms are always of the same type, whatever the date or country. the first is gaelic, of last century. donald ban and the bocan { b} it is fully a hundred years ago since there died in lochaber a man named donald ban, sometimes called "the son of angus," but more frequently known as donald ban of the bocan. this surname was derived from the troubles caused to him by a bocan--a goblin--many of whose doings are preserved in tradition. donald drew his origin from the honourable house of keppoch, and was the last of the hunters of macvic-ronald. his home was at mounessee, and later at inverlaire in glenspean, and his wife belonged to the macgregors of rannoch. he went out with the prince, and was present at the battle of culloden. he fled from the field, and took refuge in a mountain shieling, having two guns with him, but only one of them was loaded. a company of soldiers came upon him there, and although donald escaped by a back window, taking the empty gun with him by mistake, he was wounded in the leg by a shot from his pursuers. the soldiers took him then, and conveyed him to inverness, where he was thrown into prison to await his trial. while he was in prison he had a dream; he saw himself sitting and drinking with alastair maccholla, and donald macronald vor. the latter was the man of whom it was said that he had two hearts; he was taken prisoner at falkirk and executed at carlisle. donald was more fortunate than his friend, and was finally set free. it was after this that the bocan began to trouble him; and although donald never revealed to any man the secret of who the bocan was (if indeed he knew it himself), yet there were some who professed to know that it was a "gillie" of donald's who was killed at culloden. their reason for believing this was that on one occasion the man in question had given away more to a poor neighbour than donald was pleased to spare. donald found fault with him, and in the quarrel that followed the man said, "i will be avenged for this, alive or dead". it was on the hill that donald first met with the bocan, but he soon came to closer quarters, and haunted the house in a most annoying fashion. he injured the members of the household, and destroyed all the food, being especially given to dirtying the butter (a thing quite superfluous, according to captain burt's description of highland butter). on one occasion a certain ronald of aberardair was a guest in donald's house, and donald's wife said, "though i put butter on the table for you tonight, it will just be dirtied". "i will go with you to the butter-keg," said ronald, "with my dirk in my hand, and hold my bonnet over the keg, and he will not dirty it this night." so the two went together to fetch the butter, but it was dirtied just as usual. things were worse during the night and they could get no sleep for the stones and clods that came flying about the house. "the bocan was throwing things out of the walls, and they would hear them rattling at the head of donald's bed." the minister came (mr. john mor macdougall was his name) and slept a night or two in the house, but the bocan kept away so long as he was there. another visitor, angus macalister ban, whose grandson told the tale, had more experience of the bocan's reality. "something seized his two big toes, and he could not get free any more than if he had been caught by the smith's tongs. it was the bocan, but he did nothing more to him." some of the clergy, too, as well as laymen of every rank, were witnesses to the pranks which the spirit carried on, but not even donald himself ever saw him in any shape whatever. so famous did the affair become that donald was nearly ruined by entertaining all the curious strangers who came to see the facts for themselves. in the end donald resolved to change his abode, to see whether he could in that way escape from the visitations. he took all his possessions with him except a harrow, which was left beside the wall of the house, but before the party had gone far on the road the harrow was seen coming after them. "stop, stop," said donald; "if the harrow is coming after us, we may just as well go back again." the mystery of the harrow is not explained, but donald did return to his home, and made no further attempt to escape from his troubles in this way. if the bocan had a spite at donald, he was still worse disposed towards his wife, the macgregor woman. on the night on which he last made his presence felt, he went on the roof of the house and cried, "are you asleep, donald ban?" "not just now," said donald. "put out that long grey tether, the macgregor wife," said he. "i don't think i'll do that tonight," said donald. "come out yourself, then," said the bocan, "and leave your bonnet." the good-wife, thinking that the bocan was outside and would not hear her, whispered in donald's ear as he was rising, "won't you ask him when the prince will come?" the words, however, were hardly out of her mouth when the bocan answered her with, "didn't you get enough of him before, you grey tether?" another account says that at this last visit of the bocan, he was saying that various other spirits were along with him. donald's wife said to her husband: "i should think that if they were along with him they would speak to us"; but the bocan answered, "they are no more able to speak than the sole of your foot". he then summoned donald outside as above. "i will come," said donald, "and thanks be to the good being that you have asked me." donald was taking his dirk with him as he went out, but the bocan said, "leave your dirk inside, donald, and your knife as well". donald then went outside, and the bocan led him on through rivers and a birch-wood for about three miles, till they came to the river fert. there the bocan pointed out to donald a hole in which he had hidden some plough-irons while he was alive. donald proceeded to take them out, and while doing so the two eyes of the bocan were causing him greater fear than anything else he ever heard or saw. when he had got the irons out of the hole, they went back to mounessie together, and parted that night at the house of donald ban. donald, whether naturally or by reason of his ghostly visitant, was a religious man, and commemorated his troubles in some verses which bear the name of "the hymn of donald ban of the bocan". in these he speaks of the common belief that he had done something to deserve all this annoyance, and makes mention of the "stones and clods" which flew about his house in the night time. otherwise the hymn is mainly composed of religious sentiments, but its connection with the story makes it interesting, and the following is a literal translation of it. the hymn of donald ban o god that created me so helpless, strengthen my belief and make it firm. command an angel to come from paradise, and take up his abode in my dwelling, to protect me from every trouble that wicked folks are putting in my way; jesus, that did'st suffer thy crucifixion, restrain their doings, and be with me thyself. little wonder though i am thoughtful-- _always at the time when i go to bed the stones and the clods will arise-- how could a saint get sleep there_? i am without peace or rest, without repose or sleep till the morning; o thou that art in the throne of grace, behold my treatment and be a guard to me. little wonder though i am troubled, so many stories about me in every place. some that are unjust will be saying, "it is all owing to himself, that affair". judge not except as you know, though the son of god were awaking you; no one knows if i have deserved more than a rich man that is without care. although i am in trouble at this time, verily, i shall be doubly repaid; when the call comes to me from my saviour, i shall receive mercy and new grace; i fear no more vexation, when i ascend to be with thy saints; o thou that sittest on the throne, assist my speaking and accept my prayer. o god, make me mindful night and day to be praying, seeking pardon richly for what i have done, on my knees. stir with the spirit of truth true repentance in my bosom, that when thou sendest death to seek me, christ may take care of me. the bocan was not the only inhabitant of the spirit-world that donald ban encountered during his lifetime. a cousin of his mother was said to have been carried off by the fairies, and one night donald saw him among them, dancing away with all his might. donald was also out hunting in the year of the great snow, and at nightfall he saw a man mounted on the back of a deer ascending a great rock. he heard the man saying, "home, donald ban," and fortunately he took the advice, for that night there fell eleven feet of snow in the very spot where he had intended to stay. we now take two modern icelandic cases, for the purpose of leading up to the famous icelandic legend of grettir and glam the vampire, from the grettis saga. it is plain that such incidents as those in the two modern icelandic cases (however the effects were produced) might easily be swollen into the prodigious tale of glam in the course of two or three centuries, between grettir's time and the complete formation of his saga. the devil of hjalta-stad { } the sheriff writes: "the devil at hjalta-stad was outspoken enough this past winter, although no one saw him. i, along with others, had the dishonour to hear him talking for nearly two days, during which he addressed myself and the minister, sir grim, with words the like of which 'eye hath not seen nor ear heard'. as soon as we reached the front of the house there was heard in the door an iron voice saying: 'so hans from eyrar is come now, and wishes to talk with me, the --- idiot'. compared with other names that he gave me this might be considered as flattering. when i inquired who it was that addressed me with such words, he answered in a fierce voice, 'i was called lucifer at first, but now i am called devil and enemy'. he threw at us both stones and pieces of wood, as well as other things, and broke two windows in the minister's room. he spoke so close to us that he seemed to be just at our side. there was an old woman there of the name of opia, whom he called his wife, and a 'heavenly blessed soul,' and asked sir grim to marry them, with various other remarks of this kind, which i will not recount. "i have little liking to write about his ongoings, which were all disgraceful and shameful, in accordance with the nature of the actor. he repeated the 'pater noster' three times, answered questions from the catechism and the bible, said that the devils held service in hell, and told what texts and psalms they had for various occasions. he asked us to give him some of the food we had, and a drink of tea, etc. i asked the fellow whether god was good. he said, 'yes'. whether he was truthful. he answered, 'not one of his words can be doubted'. sir grim asked him whether the devil was good-looking. he answered: 'he is far better-looking than you, you --- ugly snout!' i asked him whether the devils agreed well with each other. he answered in a kind of sobbing voice: 'it is painful to know that they never have peace'. i bade him say something to me in german, and said to him lass uns teusc redre (sic), but he answered as if he had misunderstood me. "when we went to bed in the evening he shouted fiercely in the middle of the floor, 'on this night i shall snatch you off to hell, and you shall not rise up out of bed as you lay down'. during the evening he wished the minister's wife good-night. the minister and i continued to talk with him during the night; among other things we asked him what kind of weather it was outside. he answered: 'it is cold, with a north wind'. we asked if he was cold. he answered: 'i think i am both hot and cold'. i asked him how loud he could shout. he said, 'so loud that the roof would go off the house, and you would all fall into a dead faint'. i told him to try it. he answered: 'do you think i am come to amuse you, you --- idiot?' i asked him to show us a little specimen. he said he would do so, and gave three shouts, the last of which was so fearful that i have never heard anything worse, and doubt whether i ever shall. towards daybreak, after he had parted from us with the usual compliments, we fell asleep. "next morning he came in again, and began to waken up people; he named each one by name, not forgetting to add some nickname, and asking whether so-and-so was awake. when he saw they were all awake, he said he was going to play with the door now, and with that he threw the door off its hinges with a sudden jerk, and sent it far in upon the floor. the strangest thing was that when he threw anything it went down at once, and then went back to its place again, so it was evident that he either went inside it or moved about with it. "the previous evening he challenged me twice to come out into the darkness to him, and this in an angry voice, saying that he would tear me limb from limb. i went out and told him to come on, but nothing happened. when i went back to my place and asked him why he had not fulfilled his promise, he said, 'i had no orders for it from my master'. he asked us whether we had ever heard the like before, and when we said 'yes,' he answered, 'that is not true: the like has never been heard at any time'. he had sung 'the memory of jesus' after i arrived there, and talked frequently while the word of god was being read. he said that he did not mind this, but that he did not like the 'cross-school psalms,' and said it must have been a great idiot who composed them. this enemy came like a devil, departed as such, and behaved himself as such while he was present, nor would it befit any one but the devil to declare all that he said. at the same time it must be added that i am not quite convinced that it was a spirit, but my opinions on this i cannot give here for lack of time." in another work { } where the sheriff's letter is given with some variations and additions, an attempt is made to explain the story. the phenomena were said to have been caused by a young man who had learned ventriloquism abroad. even if this art could have been practised so successfully as to puzzle the sheriff and others, it could hardly have taken the door off its hinges and thrown it into the room. it is curious that while jon espolin in his annals entirely discredits the sheriff's letter, he yet gives a very similar account of the spirit's proceedings. a later story of the same kind, also printed by jon arnason (i., ), is that of the ghost at garpsdal as related by the minister there, sir saemund, and written down by another minister on th june, . the narrative is as follows:-- the ghost at garpsdal in autumn, , there was a disturbance by night in the outer room at garpsdal, the door being smashed. there slept in this room the minister's men-servants, thorsteinn gudmundsson, magnus jonsson, and a child named thorstein. later, on th november, a boat which the minister had lying at the sea-side was broken in broad daylight, and although the blows were heard at the homestead yet no human form was visible that could have done this. all the folks at garpsdal were at home, and the young fellow magnus jonsson was engaged either at the sheep-houses or about the homestead; the spirit often appeared to him in the likeness of a woman. on the th of the same month four doors of the sheep-houses were broken in broad daylight, while the minister was marrying a couple in the church; most of his people were present in the church, magnus being among them. that same day in the evening this woman was noticed in the sheep-houses; she said that she wished to get a ewe to roast, but as soon as an old woman who lived at garpsdal and was both skilled and wise (gudrun jons-dottir by name) had handled the ewe, its struggles ceased and it recovered again. while gudrun was handling the ewe, magnus was standing in the door of the house; with that one of the rafters was broken, and the pieces were thrown in his face. he said that the woman went away just then. the minister's horses were close by, and at that moment became so scared that they ran straight over smooth ice as though it had been earth, and suffered no harm. on the evening of the th there were great disturbances, panelling and doors being broken down in various rooms. the minister was standing in the house door along with magnus and two or three girls when magnus said to him that the spirit had gone into the sitting- room. the minister went and stood at the door of the room, and after he had been there a little while, talking to the others, a pane of glass in one of the room windows was broken. magnus was standing beside the minister talking to him, and when the pane broke he said that the spirit had gone out by that. the minister went to the window, and saw that the pane was all broken into little pieces. the following evening, the st, the spirit also made its presence known by bangings, thumpings, and loud noises. on the th the ongoings of the spirit surpassed themselves. in the evening a great blow was given on the roof of the sitting-room. the minister was inside at the time, but magnus with two girls was out in the barn. at the same moment the partition between the weaving-shop and the sitting-room was broken down, and then three windows of the room itself--one above the minister's bed, another above his writing- table, and the third in front of the closet door. a piece of a table was thrown in at one of these, and a spade at another. at this the household ran out of that room into the loft, but the minister sprang downstairs and out; the old woman gudrun who was named before went with him, and there also came magnus and some of the others. just then a vessel of wash, which had been standing in the kitchen, was thrown at gudrun's head. the minister then ran in, along with magnus and the girls, and now everything that was loose was flying about, both doors and splinters of wood. the minister opened a room near the outer door intending to go in there, but just then a sledge hammer which lay at the door was thrown at him, but it only touched him on the side and hip, and did him no harm. from there the minister and the others went back to the sitting-room, where everything was dancing about, and where they were met with a perfect volley of splinters of deal from the partitions. the minister then fled, and took his wife and child to muli, the next farm, and left them there, as she was frightened to death with all this. he himself returned next day. on the th of december, the woman again made her appearance in broad daylight. on this occasion she broke the shelves and panelling in the pantry, in presence of the minister, magnus, and others. according to magnus, the spirit then went out through the wall at the minister's words, and made its way to the byre-lane. magnus and gudrun went after it, but were received with throwings of mud and dirt. a stone was also hurled at magnus, as large as any man could lift, while gudrun received a blow on the arm that confined her to her bed for three weeks. on the th of the month the shepherd, einar jonsson, a hardy and resolute fellow, commanded the spirit to show itself to him. thereupon there came over him such a madness and frenzy, that he had to be closely guarded to prevent him from doing harm to himself. he was taken to the house, and kept in his bed, a watch being held over him. when he recovered his wits, he said that this girl had come above his head and assailed him. when he had completely got over this, he went away from garpsdal altogether. later than this the minister's horse was found dead in the stable at muli, and the folks there said that it was all black and swollen. these are the most remarkable doings of the ghost at garpsdal, according to the evidence of sir saemund, magnus, gudrun, and all the household at garpsdal, all of whom will confirm their witness with an oath, and aver that no human being could have been so invisible there by day and night, but rather that it was some kind of spirit that did the mischief. from the story itself it may be seen that neither magnus nor any other person could have accomplished the like, and all the folk will confirm this, and clear all persons in the matter, so far as they know. in this form the story was told to me, the subscriber, to samuel egilsson and bjarni oddsson, by the minister himself and his household, at garpsdal, th may, . that this is correctly set down, after what the minister sir saemund related to me, i witness here at stad on reykjanes, th june, . gisli olafsson * * * * * notwithstanding this declaration, the troubles at garpsdal were attributed by others to magnus, and the name of the "garpsdale ghost" stuck to him throughout his life. he was alive in , when jon arnason's volume was published. these modern instances lead up to "the best story in the world," the old icelandic tale of glam. chapter xii the story of glam. the foul fords. the story of glam there was a man named thorhall, who lived at thorhall-stead in forsaela-dala, which lies in the north of iceland. he was a fairly wealthy man, especially in cattle, so that no one round about had so much live-stock as he had. he was not a chief, however, but an honest and worthy yeoman. "now this man's place was greatly haunted, so that he could scarcely get a shepherd to stay with him, and although he asked the opinion of many as to what he ought to do, he could find none to give him advice of any worth. "one summer at the althing, or yearly assembly of the people, thorhall went to the booth of skafti, the law man, who was the wisest of men and gave good counsel when his opinion was asked. he received thorhall in a friendly way, because he knew he was a man of means, and asked him what news he had. "'i would have some good advice from you,' said thorhall. '"i am little able to give that,' said skafti; 'but what is the matter?' "'this is the way of it,' said thorhall, 'i have had very bad luck with my shepherds of late. some of them get injured, and others will not serve out their time; and now no one that knows how the case stands will take the place at all.' "'then there must be some evil spirit there,' said skafti, 'when men are less willing to herd your sheep, than those of others. now since you have asked my advice, i will get a shepherd for you. glam is his name, he belongs to sweden, and came out here last summer. he is big and strong, but not very well liked by most people.' "thorhall said that he did not mind that, if he looked well after the sheep. skafti answered that there was no hope of other men doing it, if glam could not, seeing he was so strong and stout-hearted. their talk ended there, and thorhall left the booth. "this took place just at the breaking up of the assembly. thorhall missed two of his horses, and went to look for them in person, from which it may be seen that he was no proud man. he went up to the mountain ridge, and south along the fell that is called armann's fell. there he saw a man coming down from the wood, leading a horse laden with bundles of brushwood. they soon met each other and thorhall asked his name. he said he was called glam. he was tall of body, and of strange appearance; his eyes were blue and staring, and his hair wolf-grey in colour. thorhall was a little startled when he saw him, and was certain that this was the man he had been told about. "'what work are you best fitted for?' he asked. glam said that he was good at keeping sheep in winter. "'will you look after _my_ sheep?' said thorhall. 'skafti has put you into my hands.' "'on this condition only will i take service with you,' said glam, 'that i have my own free will, for i am ill-tempered if anything does not please me.' "'that will not harm me,' said thorhall, 'and i should like you to come to me.' "'i will do so,' said glam; 'but is there any trouble at your place?' "'it is believed to be haunted,' said thorhall. "'i am not afraid of such bug-bears,' said glam, 'and think that it will be all the livelier for that.' "'you will need all your boldness,' said thorhall, 'it is best not to be too frightened for one's self there.' "after this they made a bargain between them, and glam was to come when the winter nights began. then they parted, and thorhall found his horses where he had just newly looked for them, and rode home, after thanking skafti for his kindness. "the summer passed, and thorhall heard nothing of the shepherd, nor did any one know the least about him, but at the time appointed he came to thorhall-stead. the yeoman received him well, but the others did not like him, and the good-wife least of all. he began his work among the sheep which gave him little trouble, for he had a loud, hoarse voice, and the flock all ran together whenever he shouted. there was a church at thorhall-stead, but glam would never go to it nor join in the service. he was unbelieving, surly, and difficult to deal with, and ever one felt a dislike towards him. "so time went on till it came to christmas eve. on that morning glam rose early and called for his food. the good-wife answered: 'it is not the custom of christian people to eat on this day, for to-morrow is the first day of christmas, and we ought to fast to-day'. glam replied: 'you have many foolish fashions that i see no good in. i cannot see that men are any better off now than they were when they never troubled themselves about such things. i think it was a far better life when men were heathens; and now i want my food, and no nonsense.' the good-wife answered: 'i am sure you will come to sorrow to-day if you act thus perversely'. "glam bade her bring his food at once, or it would be the worse for her. she was afraid to refuse, and after he had eaten he went out in a great rage. "the weather was very bad. it was dark and gloomy all round; snowflakes fluttered about; loud noises were heard in the air, and it grew worse and worse as the day wore on. they heard the shepherd's voice during the forenoon, but less of him as the day passed. then the snow began to drift, and by evening there was a violent storm. people came to the service in church, and the day wore on to evening, but still glam did not come home. there was some talk among them of going to look for him, but no search was made on account of the storm and the darkness. "all christmas eve glam did not return, and in the morning men went to look for him. they found the sheep scattered in the fens, beaten down by the storm, or up on the hills. thereafter they came to a place in the valley where the snow was all trampled, as if there had been a terrible struggle there, for stones and frozen earth were torn up all round about. they looked carefully round the place, and found glam lying a short distance off, quite dead. he was black in colour, and swollen up as big as an ox. they were horrified at the sight, and shuddered in their hearts. however, they tried to carry him to the church, but could get him no further than to the edge of a cleft, a little lower down; so they left him there and went home and told their master what had happened. "thorhall asked them what had been the cause of glam's death. they said that they had traced footprints as large as though the bottom of a cask had been set down in the snow leading from where the trampled place was up to the cliffs at the head of the valley, and all along the track there were huge blood-stains. from this they guessed that the evil spirit which lived there must have killed glam, but had received so much hurt that it had died, for nothing was ever seen of it after. "the second day of christmas they tried again to bring glam to the church. they yoked horses to him, but after they had come down the slope and reached level ground they could drag him no further, and he had to be left there. "on the third day a priest went with them, but glam was not be found, although they searched for him all day. the priest refused to go a second time, and the shepherd was found at once when the priest was not present. so they gave over their attempts to take him to the church, and buried him on the spot. "soon after this they became aware that glam was not lying quiet, and great damage was done by him, for many that saw him fell into a swoon, or lost their reason. immediately after yule men believed that they saw him about the farm itself, and grew terribly frightened, so that many of them ran away. after this glam began to ride on the house-top by night, { } and nearly shook it to pieces, and then he walked about almost night and day. men hardly dared to go up into the valley, even although they had urgent business there, and every one in the district thought great harm of the matter. "in spring, thorhall got new men, and started the farm again, while glam's walkings began to grow less frequent as the days grew longer. so time went on, until it was mid-summer. that summer a ship from norway came into huna-water (a firth to the north of thorhall-stead), and had on board a man called thorgaut. he was foreign by birth, big of body, and as strong as any two men. he was unhired and unmarried, and was looking for some employment, as he was penniless. thorhall rode to the ship, and found thorgaut there. he asked him whether he would enter his service. thorgaut answered that he might well do so, and that he did not care much what work he did. "'you must know, however,' said thorhall, 'that it is not good for any faint-hearted man to live at my place, on account of the hauntings that have been of late, and i do not wish to deceive you in any way.' "'i do not think myself utterly lost although i see some wretched ghosts,' said thorgaut. 'it will be no light matter for others if _i_ am scared, and i will not throw up the place on that account.' "their bargain was quickly made, and thorgaut was to have charge of the sheep during the winter. the summer went past, and thorgaut began his duties with the winter nights, and was well liked by every one. glam began to come again, and rode on the house-top, which thorgaut thought great sport, and said that the thrall would have to come to close quarters before he would be afraid of him. thorhall bade him not say too much about it. 'it will be better for you,' said he, 'if you have no trial of each other.' "'your courage has indeed been shaken out of you,' said thorgaut, 'but i am not going to fall dead for such talk.' "the winter went on till christmas came again, and on christmas eve the shepherd went out to his sheep. 'i trust,' said the good-wife, 'that things will not go after the old fashion.' "'have no fear of that, good-wife,' said thorgaut; 'there will be something worth talking about if i don't come back.' "the weather was very cold, and a heavy drift blowing. thorgaut was in the habit of coming home when it was half-dark, but on this occasion he did not return at his usual time. people came to church, and they now began to think that things were not unlikely to fall out as they had done before. thorhall wished to make search for the shepherd, but the church-goers refused, saying that they would not risk themselves in the hands of evil demons by night, and so no search was made. "after their morning meal on christmas day they went out to look for the shepherd. they first made their way to glam's cairn, guessing that he was the cause of the man's disappearance. on coming near to this they saw great tidings, for there they found the shepherd with his neck broken and every bone in his body smashed in pieces. they carried him to the church, and he did no harm to any man thereafter. but glam began to gather strength anew, and now went so far in his mischief that every one fled from thorhall-stead, except the yeoman and his wife. "the same cattleman, however, had been there for a long time, and thorhall would not let him leave, because he was so faithful and so careful. he was very old, and did not want to go away either, for he saw that everything his master had would go to wreck and ruin, if there was no one to look after it. "one morning after the middle of winter the good-wife went out to the byre to milk the cows. it was broad daylight by this time, for no one ventured to be outside earlier than that, except the cattleman, who always went out when it began to grow clear. she heard a great noise and fearful bellowing in the byre, and ran into the house again, crying out and saying that some awful thing was going on there. thorhall went out to the cattle and found them goring each other with their horns. to get out of their way, he went through into the barn, and in doing this he saw the cattleman lying on his back with his head in one stall and his feet in another. he went up to him and felt him and soon found that he was dead, with his back broken over the upright stone between two of the stalls. "the yeoman thought it high time to leave the place now, and fled from his farm with all that he could remove. all the live-stock that he left behind was killed by glam, who then went through the whole glen and laid waste all the farms up from tongue. "thorhall spent the rest of the winter with various friends. no one could go up into the glen with horse or dog, for these were killed at once; but when spring came again and the days began to lengthen, glam's walkings grew less frequent, and thorhall determined to return to his homestead. he had difficulty in getting servants, but managed to set up his home again at thorhall-stead. things went just as before. when autumn came, the hauntings began again, and now it was the yeoman's daughter who was most assailed, till in the end she died of fright. many plans were tried, but all to no effect, and it seemed as if all water-dale would be laid waste unless some remedy could be found. "all this befell in the days of grettir, the son of asmund, who was the strongest man of his day in iceland. he had been abroad at this time, outlawed for three years, and was only eighteen years of age when he returned. he had been at home all through the autumn, but when the winter nights were well advanced, he rode north to water- dale, and came to tongue, where lived his uncle jokull. his uncle received him heartily, and he stayed there for three nights. at this time there was so much talk about glam's walkings, that nothing was so largely spoken of as these. grettir inquired closely about all that had happened, and jokull said that the stories told no more than had indeed taken place; 'but are you intending to go there, kinsman?' said he. grettir answered that he was. jokull bade him not do so, 'for it is a dangerous undertaking, and a great risk for your friends to lose you, for in our opinion there is not another like you among the young men, and "ill will come of ill" where glam is. far better it is to deal with mortal men than with such evil spirits.' "grettir, however, said that he had a mind to fare to thorhall-stead, and see how things had been going on there. jokull replied: 'i see now that it is of no use to hold you back, but the saying is true that "good luck and good heart are not the same'". grettir answered: '"woe stands at one man's door when it has entered another's house". think how it may go with yourself before the end.' "'it may be,' said jokull, 'that both of us see some way into the future, and yet neither of us can do anything to prevent it.' "after this they parted, and neither liked the other's forebodings. "grettir rode to thorhall-stead, and the yeoman received him heartily. he asked grettir where he was going, who said that he wished to stay there all night if he would allow him. thorhall said that he would be very glad if he would stay, 'but few men count it a gain to be guests here for long. you must have heard how matters stand, and i shall be very unwilling for you to come to any harm on my account. and even although you yourself escape safe and sound, i know for certain that you will lose your horse, for no man that comes here can keep that uninjured.' "grettir answered that there were horses enough to be got, whatever might happen to this one. thorhall was delighted that he was willing to stay, and gave him the heartiest reception. the horse was strongly secured in an out-house; then they went to sleep, and that night passed without glam appearing. "'your coming here,' said thorhall, 'has made a happy change, for glam is in the habit of riding the house every night, or breaking up the doors, as you may see for yourself.' "'then one of two things will happen,' said grettir; 'either he will not restrain himself for long, or the hauntings will cease for more than one night. i shall stay for another night, and see how things go.' "after this they went to look at grettir's horse, and found that he had not been meddled with, so the yeoman thought that everything was going on well, grettir stayed another night, and still the thrall did not come about them. thorhall thought that things were looking brighter, but when he went to look to grettir's horse he found the out-house broken up, the horse dragged outside, and every bone in it broken. he told grettir what had happened, and advised him to secure his own safety, 'for your death is certain if you wait for glam'. "grettir answered: 'the least i can get for my horse is to see the thrall'. thorhall replied that it would do him no good to see him, 'for he is unlike anything in human shape; but i am fain of every hour that you are willing to stay here'. "the day wore on, and when it was bed-time grettir would not take off his clothes, but lay down on the floor over against thorhall's bed- closet. he put a thick cloak above himself, buttoning one end beneath his feet, and doubling the other under his head, while he looked out at the hole for the neck. there was a strong plank in front of the floored space, and against this he pressed his feet. the door- fittings were all broken off from the outer door, but there was a hurdle set up instead, and roughly secured. the wainscot that had once stretched across the hall was all broken down, both above and below the cross-beam. the beds were all pulled out of their places, and everything was in confusion. "a light was left burning in the hall, and when the third part of the night was past grettir heard loud noises outside. then something went up on top of the house, and rode above the hall, beating the roof with its heels till every beam cracked. this went on for a long time; then it came down off the house and went to the door. when this was opened grettir saw the thrall thrust in his head; ghastly big he seemed, and wonderfully huge of feature. glam came in slowly, and raised himself up when he was inside the doorway, till he loomed up against the roof. then he turned his face down the hall, laid his arms on the cross- beam, and glared all over the place. thorhall gave no sign during all this, for he thought it bad enough to hear what was going on outside. "grettir lay still and never moved. glam saw that there was a bundle lying on the floor, and moved further up the hall and grasped the cloak firmly. grettir placed his feet against the plank, and yielded not the least. glam tugged a second time, much harder than before, but still the cloak did not move. a third time he pulled with both his hands, so hard that he raised grettir up from the floor, and now they wrenched the cloak asunder between them. glam stood staring at the piece which he held in his hands, and wondering greatly who could have pulled so hard against him. at that moment grettir sprang in under the monster's hands, and threw his arms around his waist, intending to make him fall backwards. glam, however, bore down upon him so strongly that grettir was forced to give way before him. he then tried to stay himself against the seat-boards, but these gave way with him, and everything that came in their path was broken. "glam wanted to get him outside, and although grettir set his feet against everything that he could, yet glam succeeded in dragging him out into the porch. there they had a fierce struggle, for the thrall meant to have him out of doors, while grettir saw that bad as it was to deal with glam inside the house it would be worse outside, and therefore strove with all his might against being carried out. when they came into the porch glam put forth all his strength, and pulled grettir close to him. when grettir saw that he could not stay himself he suddenly changed his plan, and threw himself as hard as he could against the monster's breast, setting both his feet against an earth- fast stone that lay in the doorway. glam was not prepared for this, being then in the act of pulling grettir towards him, so he fell backwards and went crashing out through the door, his shoulders catching the lintel as he fell. the roof of the porch was wrenched in two, both rafters and frozen thatch, and backwards out of the house went glam, with grettir above him. "outside there was bright moonshine and broken clouds, which sometimes drifted over the moon and sometimes left it clear. at the moment when glam fell the cloud passed off the moon, and he cast up his eyes sharply towards it; and grettir himself said that this was the only sight he ever saw that terrified him. then grettir grew so helpless, both by reason of his weariness and at seeing glam roll his eyes so horribly, that he was unable to draw his dagger, and lay well-nigh between life and death. "but in this was glam's might more fiendish than that of most other ghosts, that he spoke in this fashion: 'great eagerness have you shown to meet me, grettir, and little wonder will it be though you get no great good fortune from me; but this i may tell you, that you have now received only half of the strength and vigour that was destined for you if you had not met with me. i cannot now take from you the strength you have already gained, but this i can see to, that you will never be stronger than you are now, and yet you are strong enough, as many a man shall feel. hitherto you have been famous for your deeds, but henceforth you shall be a manslayer and an outlaw, and most of your deeds will turn to your own hurt and misfortune. outlawed you shall be, and ever have a solitary life for your lot; and this, too, i lay upon you, ever to see these eyes of mine before your own, and then you will think it hard to be alone, and that will bring you to your death.' "when glam had said this the faintness passed off grettir, and he then drew his dagger, cut off glam's head, and laid it beside his thigh. thorhall then came out, having put on his clothes while glam was talking, but never venturing to come near until he had fallen. he praised god, and thanked grettir for overcoming the unclean spirit. then they set to work, and burned glam to ashes, which they placed in a sack, and buried where cattle were least likely to pasture or men to tread. when this was done they went home again, and it was now near daybreak. "thorhall sent to the next farm for the men there, and told them what had taken place. all thought highly of the exploit that heard of it, and it was the common talk that in all iceland there was no man like grettir asnundarson for strength and courage and all kinds of bodily feats. thorhall gave him a good horse when he went away, as well as a fine suit of clothes, for the ones he had been wearing were all torn to pieces. the two then parted with the utmost friendship. "thence grettir rode to the ridge in water-dale, where his kinsman thorvald received him heartily, and asked closely concerning his encounter with glam. grettir told him how he had fared, and said that his strength was never put to harder proof, so long did the struggle between them last. thorvald bade him be quiet and gentle in his conduct, and things would go well with him, otherwise his troubles would be many. grettir answered that his temper was not improved; he was more easily roused than ever, and less able to bear opposition. in this, too, he felt a great change, that he had become so much afraid of the dark that he dared not go anywhere alone after night began to fall, for then he saw phantoms and monsters of every kind. so it has become a saying ever since then, when folk see things very different from what they are, that glam lends them his eyes, or gives them glam-sight. "this fear of solitude brought grettir, at last, to his end." ghosts being seldom dangerous to human life, we follow up the homicidal glam with a scottish traditional story of malevolent and murderous sprites. 'the foul fords' or the longformacus farrier "about there lived a farrier of the name of keane in the village of longformacus in lammermoor. he was a rough, passionate man, much addicted to swearing. for many years he was farrier to the eagle or spottiswood troop of yeomanry. one day he went to greenlaw to attend the funeral of his sister, intending to be home early in the afternoon. his wife and family were surprised when he did not appear as they expected and they sat up watching for him. about two o'clock in the morning a heavy weight was heard to fall against the door of the house, and on opening it to see what was the matter, old keane was discovered lying in a fainting fit on the threshold. he was put to bed and means used for his recovery, but when he came out of the fit he was raving mad and talked of such frightful things that his family were quite terrified. he continued till next day in the same state, but at length his senses returned and he desired to see the minister alone. "after a long conversation with him he called all his family round his bed, and required from each of his children and his wife a solemn promise that they would none of them ever pass over a particular spot in the moor between longformacus and greenlaw, known by the name of 'the foul fords' (it is the ford over a little water-course just east of castle shields). he assigned no reason to them for this demand, but the promise was given and he spoke no more, and died that evening. "about ten years after his death, his eldest son henry keane had to go to greenlaw on business, and in the afternoon he prepared to return home. the last person who saw him as he was leaving the town was the blacksmith of spottiswood, john michie. he tried to persuade michie to accompany him home, which he refused to do as it would take him several miles out of his way. keane begged him most earnestly to go with him as he said he _must_ pass the foul fords that night, and he would rather go through hell-fire than do so. michie asked him why he said he _must_ pass the foul fords, as by going a few yards on either side of them he might avoid them entirely. he persisted that he _must_ pass them and michie at last left him, a good deal surprised that he should talk of going over the foul fords when every one knew that he and his whole family were bound, by a promise to their dead father, never to go by the place. "next morning a labouring man from castle shields, by name adam redpath, was going to his work (digging sheep-drains on the moor), when on the foul fords he met henry keane lying stone dead and with no mark of violence on his body. his hat, coat, waistcoat, shoes and stockings were lying at about yards distance from him on the greenlaw side of the fords, and while his flannel drawers were off and lying with the rest of his clothes, his trousers were on. mr. ord, the minister of longformacus, told one or two persons what john keane (the father) had said to him on his deathbed, and by degrees the story got abroad. it was this. keane said that he was returning home slowly after his sister's funeral, looking on the ground, when he was suddenly roused by hearing the tramping of horses, and on looking up he saw a large troop of riders coming towards him two and two. what was his horror when he saw that one of the two foremost was the sister whom he had that day seen buried at greenlaw! on looking further he saw many relations and friends long before dead; but when the two last horses came up to him he saw that one was mounted by a dark man whose face he had never seen before. he led the other horse, which, though saddled and bridled, was riderless, and on this horse the whole company wanted to compel keane to get. he struggled violently, he said, for some time, and at last got off by promising that one of his family should go instead of him. "there still lives at longformacus his remaining son robert; he has the same horror of the foul fords that his brother had, and will not speak, nor allow any one to speak to him on the subject. "three or four years ago a herd of the name of burton was found dead within a short distance of the spot, without any apparent cause for his death." { } chapter xiii the marvels at froda the following tale has all the direct simplicity and truth to human nature which mark the ancient literature of iceland. defoe might have envied the profusion of detail; "the large chest with a lock, and the small box," and so on. some of the minor portents, such as the disturbances among inanimate objects, and the appearance of a glow of mysterious light, "the fate moon," recur in modern tales of haunted houses. the combination of christian exorcism, then a novelty in iceland, with legal proceedings against the ghosts, is especially characteristic. the marvels at froda { } during that summer in which christianity was adopted by law in iceland ( a.d.), it happened that a ship came to land at snowfell ness. it was a dublin vessel, manned by irish and hebrideans, with few norsemen on board. they lay there for a long time during the summer, waiting for a favourable wind to sail into the firth, and many people from the ness went down to trade with them. there was on board a hebridean woman named thorgunna, of whom her shipmates said that she owned some costly things, the like of which would be difficult to find in iceland. when thurid, the housewife at froda, heard of this she was very curious to see the articles, for she was a woman that was fond of show and finery. she went to the ship and asked thorgunna whether she had any woman's apparel that was finer than the common. thorgunna said that she had nothing of the kind to sell, but had some good things of her own, that she might not be affronted at feasts or other gatherings. thurid begged a sight of these, and thorgunna showed her treasures. thurid was much pleased with them, and thought them very becoming, though not of high value. she offered to buy them, but thorgunna would not sell. thurid then invited her to come and stay with her, because she knew that thorgunna was well provided, and thought that she would get the things from her in course of time. thorgunna answered, "i am well pleased to go to stay with you, but you must know that i have little mind to pay for myself, because i am well able to work, and have no dislike to it, though i will not do any dirty work. i must be allowed to settle what i shall pay for myself out of such property as i have." although thorgunna spoke in this fashion, yet thurid would have her to go with her, and her things were taken out of the ship; these were in a large chest with a lock and a small box, and both were taken home to froda. when thorgunna arrived there she asked for her bed to be shown her, and was given one in the inner part of the hall. then she opened up the chest, and took bed-clothes out of it: they were all very beautiful, and over the bed she spread english coverlets and a silken quilt. out of the chest she also brought a bed-curtain and all the hangings that belonged to it, and the whole outfit was so fine that folk thought they had never seen the like of it. then said thurid the housewife: "name the price of all your bed- clothes and hangings". thorgunna answered, "i will not lie among straw for you, although you are so stately, and bear yourself so proudly". thurid was ill pleased at this, and offered no more to buy the things. thorgunna worked at cloth-making every day when there was no hay- making, but when the weather was dry she worked among the dry hay in the home field, and had a rake made for herself which she alone was to use. thorgunna was a big woman, both broad and tall, and very stout; she had dark eyebrows, and her eyes were close set; her hair brown and in great abundance. she was well-mannered in her daily life, and went to church every day before beginning her work, but she was not of a light disposition nor of many words. most people thought that thorgunna must be in the sixties, yet she was a very active woman. at this time one thorir "wooden-leg" and his wife thorgrima "charm- cheek" were being maintained at froda, and there was little love between them and thorgunna. the person that she had most ado with was kjartan, the son of the house; him she loved much, but he was rather cold towards her, and this often vexed her. kjartan was then fifteen years old, and was both big of body and manly in appearance. the summer that year was very wet, but in the autumn there came dry days. by this time the hay-work at froda was so far advanced that all the home field was mown, and nearly the half of it was quite dry. there came then a fine dry day, clear and bright, with not a cloud to be seen in all the sky. thorodd, the yeoman, rose early in the morning and arranged the work of each one; some began to cart off the hay, and some to put it into stalks, while the women were set to toss and dry it. thorgunna also had her share assigned to her, and the work went on well during the day. when it drew near to three in the afternoon, a mass of dark clouds was seen rising in the north which came rapidly across the sky and took its course right above the farm. they thought it certain that there was rain in the cloud and thorodd bade his people rake the hay together; but thorgunna continued to scatter hers, in spite of the orders that were given. the clouds came on quickly, and when they were above the homestead at froda there came such darkness with them that the people could see nothing beyond the home field; indeed, they could scarcely distinguish their own hands. out of the cloud came so much rain that all the hay which was lying flat was quite soaked. when the cloud had passed over and the sky cleared again, it was seen that blood had fallen amid the rain. in the evening there was a good draught, and the blood soon dried off all the hay except that which thorgunna had been working at; it did not dry, nor did the rake that she had been using. thurid asked thorgunna what she supposed this marvel might portend. she said that she did not know, "but it seems to me most likely that it is an evil omen for some person who is present here". in the evening thorgunna went home and took off her clothes, which had been stained with the blood; then she lay down in her bed and breathed heavily, and it was found that she was taken with sickness. the shower had not fallen anywhere else than at froda. all that evening thorgunna would taste no food. in the morning thorodd came to her and asked about her sickness, and what end she thought it would have. she answered that she did not expect to have any more illnesses. then she said: "i consider you the wisest person in the homestead here, and so i shall tell you what arrangements i wish to make about the property that i leave behind me, and about myself, for things will go as i tell you, though you think there is nothing very remarkable about me. it will do you little good to depart from my instructions, for this affair has so begun that it will not pass smoothly off, unless strong measures are taken in dealing with it." thorodd answered: "there seems to me great likelihood that your forebodings will come true; and therefore," said he, "i shall promise to you not to depart from your instructions". "these are my arrangements," said thorgunna, "that i will have myself taken to skalholt if i die of this sickness, for my mind forbodes me that that place will some time or other be the most glorious spot in this land. i know also that by now there are priests there to sing the funeral service over me. so i ask you to have me carried thither, and for that you shall take so much of my property that you suffer no loss in the matter. of my other effects, thurid shall have the scarlet cloak that i own, and i give it her so that she may readily consent to my disposing of all the rest as i please. i have a gold ring, and it shall go to the church with me; but as for my bed and bed-hangings, i will have them burned with fire, because they will be of service to no one. i do not say this because i grudge that any one should possess these treasures, if i knew that they would be of use to them; rather am i so earnest in the matter, because i should be sorry for folk to fall into such trouble for me, as i know will be the case if my words are not heeded." thorodd promised to do as she asked him, and after this thorgunna's sickness increased, so that she lay but few days before she died. the body was first taken to the church, and thorodd had a coffin made for it. on the following day thorodd had all the bed-clothes carried out into the open air, and made a pile of wood beside them. then thurid the housewife came up, and asked what he was going to do with the bed- clothes. he answered that he was to burn them with fire, as thorgunna had directed him. "i will not have such treasures burned," said thurid. thorodd answered: "she declared strongly that it would not do to depart from what she said". "that was mere jealousy," said thurid; "she grudged any other person the use of them, and that was why she gave these orders; but nothing terrible will happen though her words are set aside." "i doubt," said he, "whether it will be well to do otherwise than as she charged me." then thurid laid her arms round his neck, and besought him not to burn the furnishings of the bed, and so much did she press him in this that his heart gave way to her, and she managed it so that thorodd burned the mattresses and pillows, while she took for herself the quilt and coverlets and all the hangings. yet neither of them was well pleased. after this the funeral was made ready; trustworthy men were sent with the body, and good horses which thorodd owned. the body was wrapped in linen, but not sewed up in it, and then laid in the coffin. after this they held south over the heath as the paths go, and went on until they came to a farm called lower ness, which lies in the tongues of staf-holt. there they asked leave to stay over night, but the farmer would give them no hospitality. however, as it was close on nightfall, they did not see how they could go on, for they thought it would be dangerous to deal with the white river by night. they therefore unloaded their horses, and carried the body into an out- house, after which they went into the sitting-room and took off their outer clothes, intending to stay there over night without food. the people of the house were going to bed by daylight, and after they were in bed a great noise was heard in the kitchen. some went to see whether thieves had not broken in, and when they reached the kitchen they saw there a tall woman. she was quite naked, with no clothes whatever upon her, and was busy preparing food. those who saw her were so terrified that they dared not go near her at all. when the funeral party heard of this they went thither, and saw what the matter was--thorgunna had come there, and it seemed advisable to them all not to meddle with her. when she had done all that she wanted, she brought the food into the room, set the tables and laid the food upon them. then the funeral party said to the farmer: "it may happen in the end, before we part, that you will think it dearly bought that you would show us no hospitality". both the farmer and the housewife answered: "we will willingly give you food, and do you all other services that you require". as soon as the farmer had offered them this, thorgunna passed out of the room into the kitchen, and then went outside, nor did she show herself again. then a light was kindled in the room, and the wet clothes of the guests were taken off, and dry ones given them in their place. after this they sat down at table, and blessed their food, while the farmer had holy water sprinkled over all the house. the guests ate their food, and it harmed no man, although thorgunna had prepared it. they slept there that night, and were treated with great hospitality. in the morning they continued their journey, and things went very smoothly with them; wherever this affair was heard of, most people thought it best to do them all the service that they required, and of their journey no more is to be told. when they came to skalholt, they handed over the precious things which thorgunna had sent thither: the ring and other articles, all of which the priests gladly received. thorgunna was buried there, while the funeral party returned home, which they all reached in safety. at froda there was a large hall with a fireplace in the midde, and a bed-closet at the inner end of it, as was then the custom. at the outer end were two store-closets, one on each side; dried fish were piled in one of these, and there was meal in the other. in this hall fires were kindled every evening, as was the custom, and folk sat round these fires for a long while before they went to supper. on that evening on which the funeral party came home, while the folk at froda were sitting round the fires, they saw a half-moon appear on the panelling of the hall, and it was visible to all those who were present. it went round the room backwards and against the sun's course, nor did it disappear so long as they sat by the fires. thorodd asked thorir wooden-leg what this might portend. "it is the moon of fate," said thorir, "and deaths will come after it." this went on all that week that the fate-moon came in every evening. the next tidings that happened at froda were that the shepherd came in and was very silent; he spoke little, and that in a frenzied manner. folk were most inclined to believe that he had been bewitched, because he went about by himself, and talked to himself. this went on for some time, but one evening, when two weeks of winter had passed, the shepherd came home, went to his bed, and lay down there. when they went to him in the morning he was dead, and was buried at the church. soon after this there began great hauntings. one night thorir wooden- leg went outside and was at some distance from the door. when he was about to go in again, he saw that the shepherd had come between him and the door. thorir tried to get in, but the shepherd would not allow him. then thorir tried to get away from him, but the shepherd followed him, caught hold of him, and threw him down at the door. he received great hurt from this, but was able to reach his bed; there he turned black as coal, took sickness and died. he was also buried at the church there, and after this both the shepherd and thorir were seen in company, at which all the folk became full of fear, as was to be expected. this also followed upon the burial of thorir, that one of thorodd's men grew ill, and lay three nights before he died; then one died after another, until six of them were gone. by this time the christmas fast had come, although the fast was not then kept in iceland. the store- closet, in which the dried fish were kept, was packed so full that the door could not be opened; the pile reached nigh up to the rafters, and a ladder was required to get the fish off the top of it. one evening while the folk were sitting round the fires, the fish were torn, but when search was made no living thing could be found there. during the winter, a little before christmas, thorodd went out to ness for the fish he had there; there were six men in all in a ten-oared boat, and they stayed out there all night. the same evening that thorodd went from home, it happened at froda, when folk went to sit by the fires that had been made, that they saw a seal's head rise up out of the fireplace. a maid-servant was the first who came forward and saw this marvel; she took a washing-bat which lay beside the door, and struck the seal's head with this, but it rose up at the blow and gazed at thorgunna's bed-hangings. then one of the men went up and beat the seal, but it rose higher at every blow until it had come up above the fins; then the man fell into a swoon, and all those who were present were filled with fear. then the lad kjartan sprang forward, took up a large iron sledge-hammer and struck at the seal's head; it was a heavy blow, but it only shook its head, and looked round. then kjartan gave it stroke after stroke, and the seal went down as though he were driving in a stake. kjartan hammered away till the seal went down so far that he beat the floor close again above its head, and during the rest of the winter all the portents were most afraid of kjartan. next morning, while thorodd and the others were coming in from ness with the fish, they were all lost out from enni; the boat and the fish drove on shore there, but the bodies were never found. when the news of this reached froda, kjartan and thurid invited their neighbours to the funeral banquet, and the ale prepared for christmas was used for this purpose. the first evening of the feast, however, after the folk had taken their seats, there came into the hall thorodd and his companions, all dripping wet. the folk greeted thorodd well, thinking this a good omen, for at that time it was firmly believed that drowned men, who came to their own funeral feast, were well received by ran, the sea-goddess; and the old beliefs had as yet suffered little, though folk were baptised and called christians. thorodd and his fellows went right along the hall where the folk sat, and passed into the one where the fires were, answering no man's greeting. those of the household who were in the hall ran out, and thorodd and his men sat down beside the fires, where they remained till they had fallen into ashes; then they went away again. this befel every evening while the banquet lasted, and there was much talk about it among those who were present. some thought that it would stop when the feast was ended. when the banquet was over the guests went home, leaving the place very dull and dismal. on the evening after they had gone, the fires were kindled as usual, and after they had burned up, there came in thorodd with his company, all of them wet. they sat down by the fire and began to wring their clothes; and after they had sat down there came in thorir wooden-leg and his five companions, all covered with earth. they shook their clothes and scattered the earth on thorodd and his fellows. the folk of the household rushed out of the hall, as might be expected, and all that evening they had no light nor any warmth from the fire. next evening the fires were made in the other hall, as the dead men would be less likely to come there; but this was not so, for everything happened just as it had done on the previous evening, and both parties came to sit by the fires. on the third evening kjartan advised that a large fire should be made in the hall, and a little fire in another and smaller room. this was done, and things then went on in this fashion, that thorodd and the others sat beside the big fire, while the household contented themselves with the little one, and this lasted right through christmas-tide. by this time there was more and more noise in the pile of fish, and the sound of them being torn was heard both by night and day. some time after this it was necessary to take down some of the fish, and the man who went up on the pile saw this strange thing, that up out of the pile there came a tail, in appearance like a singed ox-tail. it was black and covered with hair like a seal. the man laid hold of it and pulled, and called on the others to come and help him. others then got up on the heap, both men and women, and pulled at the tail, but all to no purpose. it seemed to them that the tail was dead, but while they tugged at it, it flew out of their hands taking the skin off the palms of those who had been holding it hardest, and no more was ever seen of the tail. the fish were then taken up and every one was found to be torn out of the skin, yet no living thing was to be found in the pile. following upon this, thorgrima charm-cheek, the wife of thorir wooden- leg, fell ill, and lay only a little while before she died, and the same evening that she was buried she was seen in company with her husband thorir. the sickness then began a second time after the tail had been seen, and now the women died more than the men. another six persons died in this attack, and some fled away on account of the ghosts and the hauntings. in the autumn there had been thirty in the household, of whom eighteen were dead, and five had run away, leaving only seven behind in the spring. when these marvels had reached this pitch, it happened one day that kjartan went to helga-fell to see his uncle snorri, and asked his advice as to what should be done. there had then come to helga-fell a priest whom gizurr the white had sent to snorri, and this priest snorri sent to froda along with kjartan, his son thord, and six other men. he also gave them this advice, that they should burn all thorgunna's bed-hangings and hold a law court at the door, and there prosecute all those men who were walking after death. he also bade the priest hold service there, consecrate water, and confess the people. they summoned men from the nearest farms to accompany them, and arrived at froda on the evening before candlemas, just at the time when the fires were being kindled. thurid the housewife had then taken the sickness after the same fashion as those who had died. kjartan went in at once, and saw that thorodd and the others were sitting by the fire as usual. he took down thorgunna's bed-hangings, went into the hall, and carried out a live coal from the fire: then all the bed-gear that thorgunna had owned was burned. after this kjartan summoned thorir wooden-leg, and thord summoned thorodd, on the charge of going about the homestead without leave, and depriving men of both health and life; all those who sat beside the fire were summoned in the same way. then a court was held at the door, in which the charges were declared, and everything done as in a regular law court; opinions were given, the case summed up, and judgment passed. after sentence had been pronounced on thorir wooden- leg, he rose up and said: "now we have sat as long as we can bear". after this he went out by the other door from that at which the court was held. then sentence was passed on the shepherd, and when he heard it he stood up and said: "now i shall go, and i think it would have been better before". when thorgrima heard sentence pronounced on her, she rose up and said: "now we have stayed while it could be borne". then one after another was summoned, and each stood up as judgment was given upon him; all of them said something as they went out, and showed that they were loath to part. finally sentence was passed on thorodd himself, and when he heard it, he rose and said: "little peace i find here, and let us all flee now," and went out after that. then kjartan and the others entered and the priest carried holy water and sacred relics over all the house. later on in the day he held solemn service, and after this all the hauntings and ghost-walkings at froda ceased, while thurid recovered from her sickness and became well again. chapter xiv spiritualistic floating hands. hands in haunted houses. jerome cardan's tale. "the cold hand." the beach-comber's tale. "the black dogs and the thumbless hand." the pakeha maori and "the leprous hand". "the hand of the ghost that bit." hands all round nothing was more common, in the seances of home, the "medium," than the appearance of "spirit hands". if these were made of white kid gloves, stuffed, the idea, at least, was borrowed from ghost stories, in which ghostly hands, with no visible bodies, are not unusual. we see them in the shchapoff case, at rerrick, and in other haunted houses. here are some tales of hands, old or new. the cold hand [jerome cardan, the famous physician, tells the following anecdote in his de rerum varietate, lib. x., . jerome only once heard a rapping himself, at the time of the death of a friend at a distance. he was in a terrible fright, and dared not leave his room all day.] a story which my father used often to tell: "i was brought up," he said, "in the house of joannes resta, and therein taught latin to his three sons; when i left them i supported myself on my own means. it chanced that one of these lads, while i was studying medicine, fell deadly sick, he being now a young man grown, and i was called in to be with the youth, partly for my knowledge of medicine, partly for old friendship's sake. the master of the house happened to be absent; the patient slept in an upper chamber, one of his brothers and i in a lower room, the third brother, isidore, was not at home. each of the rooms was next to a turret; turrets being common in that city. when we went to bed on the first night of my visit, i heard a constant knocking on the wall of the room. "'what is that?' i said. "'don't be afraid, it is only a familiar spirit,' said my companion. 'they call them follets; it is harmless enough, and seldom so troublesome as it is now: i don't know what can be the matter with it.' "the young fellow went to sleep, but i was kept awake for a while, wondering and observing. after half an hour of stillness i felt a thumb press on my head, and a sense of cold. i kept watching; the forefinger, the middle finger, and the rest of the hand were next laid on, the little finger nearly reaching my forehead. the hand was like that of a boy of ten, to guess by the size, and so cold that it was extremely unpleasant. meantime i was chuckling over my luck in such an opportunity of witnessing a wonder, and i listened eagerly. "the hand stole with the ring finger foremost over my face and down my nose, it was slipping into my mouth, and two finger-tips had entered, when i threw it off with my right hand, thinking it was uncanny, and not relishing it inside my body. silence followed and i lay awake, distrusting the spectre more or less. in about half an hour it returned and repeated its former conduct, touching me very lightly, yet very chilly. when it reached my mouth i again drove it away. though my lips were tightly closed, i felt an extreme icy cold in my teeth. i now got out of bed, thinking this might be a friendly visit from the ghost of the sick lad upstairs, who must have died. "as i went to the door, the thing passed before me, rapping on the walls. when i was got to the door it knocked outside; when i opened the door, it began to knock on the turret. the moon was shining; i went on to see what would happen, but it beat on the other sides of the tower, and, as it always evaded me, i went up to see how my patient was. he was alive, but very weak. "as i was speaking to those who stood about his bed, we heard a noise as if the house was falling. in rushed my bedfellow, the brother of the sick lad, half dead with terror. "'when you got up,' he said, 'i felt a cold hand on my back. i thought it was you who wanted to waken me and take me to see my brother, so i pretended to be asleep and lay quiet, supposing that you would go alone when you found me so sound asleep. but when i did not feel you get up, and the cold hand grew to be more than i could bear, i hit out to push your hand away, and felt your place empty--but warm. then i remembered the follet, and ran upstairs as hard as i could put my feet to the ground: never was i in such a fright!' "the sick lad died on the following night." here carden the elder stopped, and jerome, his son, philosophised on the subject. miss dendy, on the authority of mr. elijah cope, an itinerant preacher, gives this anecdote of similar familiarity with a follet in staffordshire. * * * * * "fairies! i went into a farmhouse to stay a night, and in the evening there came a knocking in the room as if some one had struck the table. i jumped up. my hostess got up and 'good-night,' says she, 'i'm off'. 'but what was it?' says i. 'just a poor old fairy,' says she; 'old nancy. she's a poor old thing; been here ever so long; lost her husband and her children; it's bad to be left like that, all alone. i leave a bit o' cake on the table for her, and sometimes she fetches it, and sometimes she don't." the black dog and the thumbless hand [some years ago i published in a volume of tales called the wrong paradise, a paper styled "my friend the beach-comber". this contained genuine adventures of a kinsman, my oldest and most intimate friend, who has passed much of his life in the pacific, mainly in a foreign colony, and in the wild new hebrides. my friend is a man of education, an artist, and a student of anthropology and ethnology. engaged on a work of scientific research, he has not committed any of his innumerable adventures, warlike or wandering, to print. the following "yarn" he sent to me lately, in a letter on some points of native customs. of course the description of the beach-comber, in the book referred to, is purely fictitious. the yarn of "the thumbless hand" is here cast in a dialogue, but the whole of the strange experience described is given in the words of the narrator. it should be added that, though my friend was present at some amateur seances, in a remote isle of the sea, he is not a spiritualist, never was one, and has no theory to account for what occurred, and no belief in "spooks" of any description. his faith is plighted to the theories of mr. darwin, and that is his only superstition. the name of the principal character in the yarn is, of course, fictitious. the real name is an old but not a noble one in england.] "have the natives the custom of walking through fire?" said my friend the beach-comber, in answer to a question of mine. "not that i know of. in fact the soles of their feet are so thick-skinned that they would think nothing of it." "then have they any spiritualistic games, like the burmans and maories? i have a lot of yarns about them." "they are too jolly well frightened of bush spirits to invite them to tea," said the beach-comber. "i knew a fellow who got a bit of land merely by whistling up and down in it at nightfall. { } they think spirits whistle. no, i don't fancy they go in for seances. but we once had some, we white men, in one of the islands. not the oui-ouis" (native name for the french), "real white men. and that led to bolter's row with me." "what about?" "oh, about his young woman. i told her the story; it was thoughtless, and yet i don't know that i was wrong. after all, bolter could not have been a comfortable fellow to marry." in this opinion readers of the beach-comber's narrative will probably agree, i fancy. "bad moral character?" "not that i know of. queer fish; kept queer company. even if she was ever so fond of dogs, i don't think a girl would have cared for bolter's kennel. not in her bedroom anyway." "but she could surely have got him to keep them outside, however doggy he was?" "he was not doggy a bit. i don't know that bolter ever saw the black dogs himself. he certainly never told me so. it is that beastly thumbless hand, no woman could have stood it, not to mention the chance of catching cold when it pulled the blankets off." "what on earth are you talking about? i can understand a man attended by black dogs that nobody sees but himself. the catholics tell it of john knox, and of another reformer, a fellow called smeaton. moreover, it is common in delirium tremens. but you say bolter didn't see the dogs?" "no, not so far as he told me, but i did, and other fellows, when with bolter. bolter was asleep; he didn't see anything. also the hand, which was a good deal worse. i don't know if he ever saw it. but he was jolly nervous, and he had heard of it." the habits of the beach-comber are absolutely temperate, otherwise my astonishment would have been less, and i should have regarded all these phenomena as subjective. "tell me about it all, old cock," i said. "i'm sure i told you last time i was at home." "never; my memory for yarns is only too good. i hate a chestnut." "well, here goes! mind you i don't profess to explain the thing; only i don't think i did wrong in telling the young woman, for, however you account for it, it was not nice." "a good many years ago there came to the island, as a clerk, un nomme bolter, english or jew." "his name is not jewish." "no, and i really don't know about his breed. the most curious thing about his appearance was his eyes: they were large, black, and had a peculiar dull dead lustre." "did they shine in the dark? i knew a fellow at oxford whose eyes did. chairs ran after him." "i never noticed; i don't remember. 'psychically,' as you superstitious muffs call it, bolter was still more queer. at that time we were all gone on spirit-rapping. bolter turned out a great acquisition, 'medium,' or what not. mind you, i'm not saying bolter was straight. in the dark he'd tell you what you had in your hand, exact time of your watch, and so on. i didn't take stock in this, and one night brought some photographs with me, and asked for a description of them. this he gave correctly, winding up by saying, 'the one nearest your body is that of ---'" here my friend named a person well known to both of us, whose name i prefer not to introduce here. this person, i may add, had never been in or near the island, and was totally unknown to bolter. "of course," my friend went on, "the photographs were all the time inside my pocket. now, really, bolter had some mystic power of seeing in the dark." "hyperaesthesia!" said i. "hypercriticism!" said the beach-comber. "what happened next _might_ be hyperaesthesia--i suppose you mean abnormal intensity of the senses--but how could hyperaesthesia see through a tweed coat and lining?" "well, what happened next?" "bolter's firm used to get sheep by every mail from ---, and send them regularly to their station, six miles off. one time they landed late in the afternoon, and yet were foolishly sent off, bolter in charge. i said at the time he would lose half the lot, as it would be dark long before he could reach the station. he didn't lose them! "next day i met one of the niggers who was sent to lend him a hand, and asked results. "'master,' said the nigger, 'bolter is a devil! he sees at night. when the sheep ran away to right or left in the dark, he told us where to follow.'" "he _heard_ them, i suppose," said i. "maybe, but you must be sharp to have sharper senses than these niggers. anyhow, that was not bolter's account of it. when i saw him and spoke to him he said simply, 'yes, that when excited or interested to seek or find anything in obscurity the object became covered with a dim glow of light, which rendered it visible'. 'but things in a pocket.' 'that also,' said he. 'curious isn't it? probably the rontgen rays are implicated therein, eh?'" "did you ever read dr. gregory's letters on animal magnetism?" "the cove that invented gregory's mixture?" "yes." "beast he must have been. no, i never read him." "he says that major buckley's hypnotised subjects saw hidden objects in a blue light--mottoes inside a nut, for example." "rontgen rays, for a fiver! but bolter said nothing about seeing _blue_ light. well, after three or four seances bolter used to be very nervous and unwilling to sleep alone, so i once went with him to his one-roomed hut. we turned into the same bed. i was awakened later by a noise and movement in the room. found the door open; the full moon streaming in, making light like day, and the place full of great big black dogs--well, anyhow there were four or five! they were romping about, seemingly playing. one jumped on the bed, another rubbed his muzzle on mine! (the bed was low, and i slept outside). now i never had anything but love for dogs of any kind, and as--n'est- ce pas?--love casts out fear, i simply got up, turned them all out, shut the door, and turned in again myself. of course my idea was that they were flesh and blood, and i allude to physical fear. "i slept, but was anew awakened by a ghastly feeling that the blanket was being dragged and creeping off the bed. i pulled it up again, but anew began the slow movement of descent. "rather surprised, i pulled it up afresh and held it, and must have dozed off, as i suppose. awoke, to feel it being pulled again; it was slipping, slipping, and then with a sudden, violent jerk it was thrown on the floor. il faut dire that during all this i had glanced several times at bolter, who seemed profoundly asleep. but now alarmed i tried to wake him. in vain, he slept like the dead; his face, always a pasty white, now like marble in the moonlight. after some hesitation i put the blanket back on the bed and held it fast. the pulling at once began and increased in strength, and i, by this time thoroughly alarmed, put all my strength against it, and hung on like grim death. "to get a better hold i had taken a turn over my head (or perhaps simply to hide), when suddenly i felt a pressure outside on my body, and a movement like fingers--they gradually approached my head. mad with fear i chucked off the blanket, grasped a hand, gazed on it for one moment in silent horror, and threw it away! no wonder, it was attached to no arm or body, it was hairy and dark coloured, the fingers were short, blunt, with long, claw-like nails, and it was minus a thumb! too frightened to get up i had to stop in bed, and, i suppose, fell to sleep again, after fresh vain attempts to awaken bolter. next morning i told him about it. he said several men who had thus passed the night with him had seen this hand. 'but,' added he, 'it's lucky you didn't have the big black dogs also.' tableau! "i was to have slept again with him next night to look further into the matter, but a friend of his came from --- that day, so i could not renew the experiment, as i had fully determined to do. by-the-bye, i was troubled for months after by the same feeling that the clothes were being pulled off the bed. "and that's the yarn of the black dogs and the thumbless hand." "i think," said i, "that you did no harm in telling bolter's young woman." "i never thought of it when i told her, or of her interest in the kennel; but, by george, she soon broke off her engagement." "did you know manning, the pakeha maori, the fellow who wrote old new zealand?" "no, what about him?" "he did not put it in his book, but he told the same yarn, without the dogs, as having happened to himself. he saw the whole arm, and _the hand was leprous_." "ugh!" said the beach-comber. "next morning he was obliged to view the body of an old maori, who had been murdered in his garden the night before. that old man's hand was the hand he saw. i know a room in an old house in england where plucking off the bed-clothes goes on, every now and then, and has gone on as long as the present occupants have been there. but i only heard lately, and _they_ only heard from me, that the same thing used to occur, in the same room and no other, in the last generation, when another family lived there." "anybody see anything?" "no, only footsteps are heard creeping up, before the twitches come off." "and what do the people do?" "nothing! we set a camera once to photograph the spook. he did not sit." "it's rum!" said the beach-comber. "but mind you, as to spooks, i don't believe a word of it." { } the ghost that bit the idiot scotch laird in the story would not let the dentist put his fingers into his mouth, "for i'm feared ye'll bite me". the following anecdote proves that a ghost may entertain a better founded alarm on this score. a correspondent of notes and queries ( rd sept., ) is responsible for the narrative, given "almost verbatim from the lips of the lady herself," a person of tried veracity. "emma s---, one of seven children, was sleeping alone, with her face towards the west, at a large house near c---, in the staffordshire moorlands. as she had given orders to her maid to call her at an early hour, she was not surprised at being awakened between three and four on a fine august morning in by a sharp tapping at her door, when in spite of a "thank you, i hear," to the first and second raps, with the third came a rush of wind, which caused the curtains to be drawn up in the centre of the bed. she became annoyed, and sitting up called out, "marie, what are you about?" instead, however, of her servant, she was astonished to see the face of an aunt by marriage peering above and between the curtains, and at the same moment--whether unconsciously she threw forward her arms, or whether they were drawn forward, as it were, in a vortex of air, she cannot be sure--one of her thumbs was sensibly pressed between the teeth of the apparition, though no mark afterwards remained on it. all this notwithstanding, she remained collected and unalarmed; but instantly arose, dressed, and went downstairs, where she found not a creature stirring. her father, on coming down shortly afterwards, naturally asked what had made her rise so early; rallied her on the cause, and soon afterwards went on to his sister-in-law's house, where he found that she had just unexpectedly died. coming back again, and not noticing his daughter's presence in the room, in consequence of her being behind a screen near the fire, he suddenly announced the event to his wife, as being of so remarkable a character that he could in no way account for it. as may be anticipated, emma, overhearing this unlooked-for denouement of her dream, at once fell to the ground in a fainting condition. _on one of the thumbs of the corpse was found a mark as if it had been bitten in the death agony_. { } we have now followed the "ghostly" from its germs in dreams, and momentary hallucinations of eye or ear, up to the most prodigious narratives which popular invention has built on bases probably very slight. where facts and experience, whether real or hallucinatory experience, end, where the mythopoeic fancy comes in, readers may decide for themselves. footnotes: { a} principles of psychology, vol. ii., p. . by professor william james, harvard college, macmillan's, london, . the physical processes believed to be involved, are described on pp. , of the same work. { b} op. cit., ii., . { } story received from miss ---; confirmed on inquiry by drumquaigh. { a} phantasms of the living, ii., . { b} to "send" a dream the old egyptians wrote it out and made a cat swallow it! { } see "queen mary's jewels" in chapter ii. { } narrated by mrs. herbert. { a} story confirmed by mr. a. { b} this child had a more curious experience. her nurse was very ill, and of course did not sleep in the nursery. one morning the little girl said, "macpherson is better, i saw her come in last night with a candle in her hand. she just stooped over me and then went to tom" (a younger brother) "and kissed him in his sleep." macpherson had died in the night, and her attendants, of course, protested ignorance of her having left her deathbed. { c} story received from lady x. see another good case in proceedings of the psychical society, vol. xi., , p. . in this case, however, the finder was not nearer than forty rods to the person who lost a watch in long grass. he assisted in the search, however, and may have seen the watch unconsciously, in a moment of absence of mind. many other cases in proceedings of s.p.r. { } story received in a letter from the dreamer. { } augustine. in library of the fathers, xvii. short treatises, pp. - . { } st. augustine, de cura pro mortuis. { } the professor is not sure whether he spoke english or german. { } from some account of the conversion of the late william hone, supplied by some friend of w. h. to compiler. name not given. { } what is now called "mental telegraphy" or "telepathy" is quite an old idea. bacon calls it "sympathy" between two distant minds, sympathy so strong that one communicates with the other without using the recognised channels of the senses. izaak walton explains in the same way dr. donne's vision, in paris, of his wife and dead child. "if two lutes are strung to an exact harmony, and one is struck, the other sounds," argues walton. two minds may be as harmoniously attuned and communicate each with each. of course, in the case of the lutes there are actual vibrations, physical facts. but we know nothing of vibrations in the brain which can traverse space to another brain. many experiments have been made in consciously transferring thoughts or emotions from one mind to another. these are very liable to be vitiated by bad observation, collusion and other causes. meanwhile, intercommunication between mind and mind without the aid of the recognised senses--a supposed process of "telepathy"--is a current explanation of the dreams in which knowledge is obtained that exists in the mind of another person, and of the delusion by virtue of which one person sees another who is perhaps dying, or in some other crisis, at a distance. the idea is popular. a poor highland woman wrote to her son in glasgow: "don't be thinking too much of us, or i shall be seeing you some evening in the byre". this is a simple expression of the hypothesis of "telepathy" or "mental telegraphy". { } perhaps among such papers as the casket letters, exhibited to the commission at westminster, and "tabled" before the scotch privy council. { a} to joseph himself she bequeathed the ruby tortoise given to her by his brother. probably the diamonds were not rizzio's gift. { b} boismont was a distinguished physician and "mad doctor," or "alienist". he was also a christian, and opposed a tendency, not uncommon in his time, as in ours, to regard all "hallucinations" as a proof of mental disease in the "hallucinated". { a} s.p.r., v., . { b} ibid., . { } proceedings of the society for psychical research, vol. v., pp. , . { } proceedings, s.p.r., vol. xi., p. . { a} signed by mr. cooper and the duchess of hamilton. { b} see galton, inquiries into human faculty, p. . { } proceedings, s.p.r., vol. xi., p. . { } the case was reported in the herald (dubuque) for th february, . it was confirmed by mr. hoffman, by mr. george brown and by miss conley, examined by the rev. mr. crum, of dubuque.--proceedings, s.p.r., viii., - . pat conley, too, corroborated, and had no theory of explanation. that the girl knew beforehand of the dollars is conceivable, but she did not know of the change of clothes. { a} told by the nobleman in question to the author. { b} the author knows some eight cases among his friends of a solitary meaningless hallucination like this. { } as to the fact of such visions, i have so often seen crystal gazing, and heard the pictures described by persons whose word i could not doubt, men and women of unblemished character, free from superstition, that i am obliged to believe in the fact as a real though hallucinatory experience. mr. clodd attributes it to disorder of the liver. if no more were needed i could "scry" famously! { a} facts attested and signed by mr. baillie and miss preston. { b} story told to me by both my friends and the secretary. { } memoires, v., . paris, . { } readers curious in crystal-gazing will find an interesting sketch of the history of the practice, with many modern instances, in proceedings, s.p.r., vol. v., p. , by "miss x.". there are also experiments by lord stanhope and dr. gregory in gregory's letters on animal magnetism, p. ( ). it is said that, as sights may be seen in a glass ball, so articulate voices, by a similar illusion, can be heard in a sea shell, when "it remembers its august abodes, and murmurs as the ocean murmurs there". { } a set of scientific men, as lelut and lombroso, seem to think that a hallucination stamps a man as _mad_. napoleon, socrates, pascal, jeanne d'arc, luther were all lunatics. they had lucid intervals of considerable duration, and the belief in their lunacy is peculiar to a small school of writers. { a} a crowd of phantom coaches will be found in messrs. myers and gurney's phantasms of the living. { b} see the slaying of sergeant davies of guise's. { } principles of psychology, by prof. james of harvard, vol. ii., p. . charcot is one of sixteen witnesses cited for the fact. { } story written by general barter, th april, . (s.p.r.) corroborated by mrs. barter and mr. stewart, to whom general barter told his adventure at the time. { } statement by mr. f. g., confirmed by his father and brother, who were present when he told his tale first, in st. louis. s.p.r. proceedings, vol. vi., p. . { } s.p.r., viii., p. . { } mrs. m. sent the memorandum to the s.p.r. "march , . have just seen visions on lawn--a soldier in general's uniform, a young lady kneeling to him, . p.m." { } s.p.r., viii., p. . the real names are intentionally reserved. { a} corroborated by mr. elliot. mrs. elliot nearly fainted. s.p.r., viii., - . { b} oddly enough, maniacs have many more hallucinations of hearing than of sight. in sane people the reverse is the case. { } anecdote by the lady. boston budget, st august, . s.p.r., viii., . { a} tom sawyer, detective. { b} phantasms of the living, by gurney and myers. { c} the story is given by mr. mountford, one of the seers. { } journal of medical science, april, , p. . { } catholic theology recognises, under the name of "bilocation," the appearance of a person in one place when he is really in another. { a} phantasms, ii., pp. - . { b} phantasms of the living. { c} mr. e. b. tylor gives a maori case in primitive culture. another is in phantasms, ii., . see also polack's new zealand for the prevalence of the belief. { } gurney, phantasms, ii., . { } the late surgeon-major armand leslie, who was killed at the battle of el teb, communicated the following story to the daily telegraph in the autumn of , attesting it with his signature. { a} this is a remarkably difficult story to believe. "the morning bright and calm" is lit by the rays of the moon. the woman (a mrs. gamp) must have rushed past dr. leslie. a man who died in greece or russia "that morning" would hardly be arrayed in evening dress for burial before a.m. the custom of using goloshes as "hell-shoes" (fastened on the icelandic dead in the sagas) needs confirmation. men are seldom buried in eye-glasses--never in tall white hats.--phantasms of the living, ii., . { b} from a memorandum, made by general birch reynardson, of an oral communication made to him by sir john sherbrooke, one of the two seers. { } this is an old, but good story. the rev. thomas tilson, minister (non-conforming) of aylesford, in kent, sent it on th july, , to baxter for his certainty of the world of spirits. the woman mary goffe died on th june, . mr. tilson's informants were her father, speaking on the day after her burial; the nurse, with two corroborative neighbours, on nd july; the mother of mary goffe; the minister who attended her, and one woman who sat up with her--all "sober intelligent persons". not many stories have such good evidence in their favour. { } phantasms, ii., . { } "that which was published in may, , concerning the daemon, or daemons of spraiton was the extract of a letter from t. c., esquire, a near neighbour to the place; and though it needed little confirmation further than the credit that the learning and quality of that gentleman had stampt upon it, yet was much of it likewise known to and related by the reverend minister of barnstaple, of the vicinity to spraiton. having likewise since had fresh testimonials of the veracity of that relation, and it being at first designed to fill this place, i have thought it not amiss (for the strangeness of it) to print it here a second time, exactly as i had transcribed it then."-- bovet. { } shchapoff case of "the dancing devil" and "the great amherst mystery". { } additional mss., british museum, , , f. . { } really , unless, indeed, the long-continued appearances began in the year before buckingham's death; old style. { } it may fairly be argued, granting the ghost, his advice and his knowledge of a secret known to the countess, that he was a hallucination unconsciously wired on to old towse by the mind of the anxious countess herself! { a} hamilton's memoirs. { b} mrs. thrale's diary, th november, . { c} diary of lady mary coke, th november, . { a} see phantasms, ii., . { b} the difficulty of knowing whether one is awake or asleep, just about the moment of entering or leaving sleep is notorious. the author, on awaking in a perfectly dark room, has occasionally seen it in a dim light, and has even been aware, or seemed to be aware, of the pattern of the wall paper. in a few moments this effect of light disappears, and all is darkness. this is the confused mental state technically styled "borderland," a haunt of ghosts, who are really flitting dreams. { } life of lockhart. { } the author has given authorities in blackwood's magazine march, . a mr. coulton (not croker as erroneously stated) published in the quarterly review, no. , an article to prove that lyttelton committed suicide, and was junius. see also the author's life of lockhart. { } a prominent name among the witnesses at the trial. { } the report of the trial in the scots magazine of june, (magazines appeared at the end of the month), adds nothing of interest. the trial lasted from a.m. of june till a.m. of june . the jury deliberated for two hours before arriving at a verdict. { } sydney, no date. { } phantasms, ii., , quoting (apparently) the buckingham gazette of the period. { a} oddly enough a mr. william soutar, of blairgowrie, tells a ghost story of his own to the s.p.r.! { b} i put them for convenience at the foot.--w. l. l. { a} the dogs in all these towns (farms) of mause are very well accustomed with hunting the fox. { b} blair (blairgowrie) is the kirk-town of that parish, where there is also a weekly market: it lies about a mile below middle mause on the same side of the river. { c} knockhead is within less than half a mile of middle mause, and the hilltown lies betwixt the two. we see both of them from our window of craighall house. { a} this george soutar died about two or three years ago, and was very well known to william. { b} the isle is a spot of ground in the wood of rychalzie, about a mile above middle mause, on the same side of the river. { a} glasclune is a gentleman of the name of blair, whose house lies about three-quarters of a mile south-west from middle mause. { b} he said the voice answered him as if it had been some distance without the door. { } besides the length of time since the murder was committed, there is another reason why all the bones were not found, viz., that there is a little burn or brook which had run for the space of twenty years, at least, across upon the place when the bones were found, and would have carried them all away had it not been that the bush, at the side of which they were buried, had turned the force of the stream a little from off that place where they lay, for they were not more than a foot, or at most a foot and a half, under ground, and it is only within these three years that a water-spate has altered the course of the burn. { } the course of the river (the ericht) is from north to south. middle mause lies on the west side of it, and craighall on the east. { a} with reference to the last statement in mr. newton's notes see the journal of sir walter scott (edit., , p. ) under date th june, . { b} l'homme posthume. { c} denny's folklore of china. { } story received in a letter from lieutenant --- of h.m.s gunboat ---. { } he fought at culloden, of course for king george, and was appealed to for protection by old glengarry. { a} fox's hole. { b} how did inverawe get leave to wear the highland dress? { } in every version of the story that i have heard or read ticonderoga is called st. louis, and inverawe was ignorant of its other name. yet in all the histories of the war that i have seen, the only name given to the place is ticonderoga. there is no mention of its having a french name. even if inverawe knew the fort they were to storm was called ticonderoga, he cannot have known it when the ghost appeared to him in scotland. at that time there was not even a fort at ticonderoga, as the french only erected it in . inverawe had told his story to friends in scotland before the war broke out in america, so even if in he did know the real name of the fort that the expedition was directed against, i don't see that it lessens the interest of the story.--e. a. c. the french really called the place fort carillon, which disguised the native name ticonderoga. see memoirs of the chevalier johnstone.--a. l. { } abercromby's force consisted of the th, nd, th, th, th, and battalions of the th royal americans, with about provincials and a train of artillery. the assault, however, took place before the guns could come up, matters having been hastened by the information that m. de levy was approaching with french troops to relieve ticonderoga garrison. { a} i know one inveterate ghost produced in an ancient scottish house by these appliances.--a. l. { b} such events are common enough in old tales of haunted houses. { c} this lady was well known to my friends and to dr. ferrier. i also have had the honour to make her acquaintance. { } apparently on thursday morning really. { } she gave, not for publication, the other real names, here altered to pseudonyms. { } phantasms, ii., . { a} maspero, etudes egyptiennes, i., fascic. . { b} examples cited in classical review, december, , pp. , . { c} proceedings, s.p.r., vol. xii., p. - . { } see "lord st. vincent's story". { } anecdote received from the lady. { } story at second-hand. { } see the standard for summer, . { } i have once seen this happen, and it is a curious thing to see, when on the other side of the door there is nobody. { a} s.p.r., iii., , and from oral narrative of mr. and mrs. rokeby. in , when the account was published, mr. rokeby had not yet seen the lady in grey. nothing of interest is known about the previous tenants of the house. { b} proceedings, s.p.r., vol. viii., p. . { } letter of st january, . { } six separate signed accounts by other witnesses are given. they add nothing more remarkable than what miss morton relates. no account was published till the haunting ceased, for fear of lowering the letting value of bognor house. { } mr. a. h. millar's book of glamis, scottish history society. { } this account is abridged from mr. walter leaf's translation of aksakoff's predvestniki spiritizma, st. petersburg, . mr. aksakoff publishes contemporary letters, certificates from witnesses, and mr. akutin's hostile report. it is based on the possibility of imitating the raps, the difficulty of locating them, and the fact that the flying objects were never seen to start. if mrs. shchapoff threw them, they might, perhaps, have occasionally been seen to start. s.p.r., vol. xii., p. . precisely similar events occurred in russian military quarters in . as a quantity of government property was burned, official inquiries were held. the reports are published by mr. aksakoff. the repeated verdict was that no suspicion attached to any subject of the czar. { } the same freedom was taken, as has been said, with a lady of the most irreproachable character, a friend of the author, in a haunted house, of the usual sort, in hammersmith, about . { } proceedings, s.p.r., vol. xii., p. . { } john wesley, however, places hetty as next in seniority to mary or molly. we do not certainly know whether hetty was a child, or a grown-up girl, but, as she always sat up till her father went to bed, the latter is the more probable opinion. as hetty has been accused of causing the disturbances, her age is a matter of interest. girls of twelve or thirteen are usually implicated in these affairs. hetty was probably several years older. { } th january, . { } glanvil's sadducismus triumphatus, . preface to part ii., mompesson's letters. { } gentleman's magazine, november, december, . { } this happened, to a less degree, in the wesley case, and is not uncommon in modern instances. the inference seems to be that the noises, like the sights occasionally seen, are hallucinatory, not real. gentleman's magazine, dec., , p. . { } s.p.r. proceedings, vol. xii., p. . { } demon possession in china, p. . by the rev. john l. nevius, d.d. forty years a missionary in china. revel, new york, . { a} translated from report of hsu chung-ki, nevius, p. . { b} nevius, pp. - . { } op. cit., p. . there are other cases in mr. denny's folklore of china. { a} the great amherst mystery, by walter hubbell. brentano, new york, . i obtained some additional evidence at first hand published in longman's magazine. { b} the sources for this tale are two gaelic accounts, one of which is printed in the gael, vol. vi., p. , and the other in the glenbard collection of gaelic poetry, by the rev. a. maclean sinclair, p. ff. the former was communicated by mr. d. c. macpherson from local tradition; the latter was obtained from a tailor, a native of lochaber, who emigrated to canada when about thirty years of age. when the story was taken down from his lips in , he was over eighty years old, and died only a few months later. { } john arnason, in his icelandic folklore and fairy tales (vol. i., p. ), gives the account of this as written by the sheriff hans wium in a letter to bishop haldorr brynjolfsson in the autumn of . { } huld, part , p. , keykjavik, . { } as at amherst! { } written out from tradition on th may, . the name of the afflicted family is here represented by a pseudonym. { } from eyrbyggja saga, chaps, l.-lv. froda is the name of a farm on the north side of snaefell ness, the great headland which divides the west coast of iceland. { } fact. { } cornhill magazine, . { } this story should come under the head of "common deathbed wraiths," but, it is such an uncommon one! proofreaders from images generously made available by the canadian institute for historical microreproductions from whose bourne by robert barr (luke sharp) author of "in a steamer chair" etc. [illustration: william brenton.] _with forty-seven illustrations by c.m.d. hammond, g.d. hammond, and hal hurst_ to an honest man and a good woman from whose bourne principal illustrations: buel placed his portmanteau on the deck william brenton "do you think i shall be missed?" he again sat in the rocking-chair he saw standing beside him a stranger a venetian café venice in venice the brenton murder mrs. brenton gold publicity the broken toy "she's pretty as a picture" raising the veil jane the detective jane morton "oh, why did i do it?" "how much time do you give me?" in the prisoner's dock "i feel very grateful to you" "here's the detailed report" "guilty! guilty of what?" chapter i. "my dear," said william brenton to his wife, "do you think i shall be missed if i go upstairs for a while? i am not feeling at all well." [illustration: "do you think i shall be missed?"] "oh, i'm so sorry, will," replied alice, looking concerned; "i will tell them you are indisposed." "no, don't do that," was the answer; "they are having a very good time, and i suppose the dancing will begin shortly; so i don't think they will miss me. if i feel better i will be down in an hour or two; if not, i shall go to bed. now, dear, don't worry; but have a good time with the rest of them." william brenton went quietly upstairs to his room, and sat down in the darkness in a rocking chair. remaining there a few minutes, and not feeling any better, he slowly undressed and went to bed. faint echoes reached him of laughter and song; finally, music began, and he felt, rather than heard, the pulsation of dancing feet. once, when the music had ceased for a time, alice tiptoed into the room, and said in a quiet voice-- "how are you feeling, will? any better?" "a little," he answered drowsily. "don't worry about me; i shall drop off to sleep presently, and shall be all right in the morning. good night." he still heard in a dreamy sort of way the music, the dancing, the laughter; and gradually there came oblivion, which finally merged into a dream, the most strange and vivid vision he had ever experienced. it seemed to him that he sat again in the rocking chair near the bed. although he knew the room was dark, he had no difficulty in seeing everything perfectly. he heard, now quite plainly, the music and dancing downstairs, but what gave a ghastly significance to his dream was the sight of his own person on the bed. the eyes were half open, and the face was drawn and rigid. the colour of the face was the white, greyish tint of death. "this is a nightmare," said brenton to himself; "i must try and wake myself." but he seemed powerless to do this, and he sat there looking at his own body while the night wore on. once he rose and went to the side of the bed. he seemed to have reached it merely by wishing himself there, and he passed his hand over the face, but no feeling of touch was communicated to him. he hoped his wife would come and rouse him from this fearful semblance of a dream, and, wishing this, he found himself standing at her side, amidst the throng downstairs, who were now merrily saying good-bye. brenton tried to speak to his wife, but although he was conscious of speaking, she did not seem to hear him, or know he was there. [illustration: he again sat in the rocking-chair.] the party had been one given on christmas eve, and as it was now two o'clock in the morning, the departing guests were wishing mrs. brenton a merry christmas. finally, the door closed on the last of the revellers, and mrs. brenton stood for a moment giving instructions to the sleepy servants; then, with a tired sigh, she turned and went upstairs, brenton walking by her side until they came to the darkened room, which she entered on tiptoe. "now," said brenton to himself, "she will arouse me from this appalling dream." it was not that there was anything dreadful in the dream itself, but the clearness with which he saw everything, and the fact that his mind was perfectly wide awake, gave him an uneasiness which he found impossible to shake off. in the dim light from the hall his wife prepared to retire. the horrible thought struck brenton that she imagined he was sleeping soundly, and was anxious not to awaken him--for of course she could have no realization of the nightmare he was in--so once again he tried to communicate with her. he spoke her name over and over again, but she proceeded quietly with her preparations for the night. at last she crept in at the other side of the bed, and in a few moments was asleep. once more brenton struggled to awake, but with no effect. he heard the clock strike three, and then four, and then five, but there was no apparent change in his dream. he feared that he might be in a trance, from which, perhaps, he would not awake until it was too late. grey daylight began to brighten the window, and he noticed that snow was quietly falling outside, the flakes noiselessly beating against the window pane. every one slept late that morning, but at last he heard the preparations for breakfast going on downstairs--the light clatter of china on the table, the rattle of the grate; and, as he thought of these things, he found himself in the dining-room, and saw the trim little maid, who still yawned every now and then, laying the plates in their places. he went upstairs again, and stood watching the sleeping face of his wife. once she raised her hand above her head, and he thought she was going to awake; ultimately her eyes opened, and she gazed for a time at the ceiling, seemingly trying to recollect the events of the day before. "will," she said dreamily, "are you still asleep?" there was no answer from the rigid figure at the front of the bed. after a few moments she placed her hand quietly over the sleeper's face. as she did so, her startled eyes showed that she had received a shock. instantly she sat upright in bed, and looked for one brief second on the face of the sleeper beside her; then, with a shriek that pierced the stillness of the room, she sprang to the floor. "will! will!" she cried, "speak to me! what is the matter with you? oh, my god! my god!" she cried, staggering back from the bed. then, with shriek after shriek, she ran blindly through the hall to the stairway, and there fell fainting on the floor. chapter ii. william brenton knelt beside the fallen lady, and tried to soothe and comfort her, but it was evident that she was insensible. "it is useless," said a voice by his side. brenton looked up suddenly, and saw standing beside him a stranger. wondering for a moment how he got there, and thinking that after all it was a dream, he said-- "what is useless? she is not dead." "no," answered the stranger, "but _you_ are." [illustration: he saw standing beside him a stranger.] "i am what?" cried brenton. "you are what the material world calls dead, although in reality you have just begun to live." "and who are you?" asked brenton. "and how did you get in here?" the other smiled. "how did _you_ get in here?" he said, repeating brenton's words. "i? why, this is my own house." "was, you mean." "i mean that it is. i am in my own house. this lady is my wife." "_was_," said the other. "i do not understand you," cried brenton, very much annoyed. "but, in any case, your presence and your remarks are out of place here." "my dear sir," said the other, "i merely wish to aid you and to explain to you anything that you may desire to know about your new condition. you are now free from the incumbrance of your body. you have already had some experience of the additional powers which that riddance has given you. you have also, i am afraid, had an inkling of the fact that the spiritual condition has its limitations. if you desire to communicate with those whom you have left, i would strongly advise you to postpone the attempt, and to leave this place, where you will experience only pain and anxiety. come with me, and learn something of your changed circumstances." "i am in a dream," said brenton, "and you are part of it. i went to sleep last night, and am still dreaming. this is a nightmare and it will soon be over." "you are saying that," said the other, "merely to convince yourself. it is now becoming apparent to you that this is not a dream. if dreams exist, it was a dream which you left, but you have now become awake. if you really think it is a dream, then do as i tell you--come with me and leave it, because you must admit that this part of the dream is at least very unpleasant." "it is not very pleasant," assented brenton. as he spoke the bewildered servants came rushing up the stairs, picked up their fallen mistress, and laid her on a sofa. they rubbed her hands and dashed water in her face. she opened her eyes, and then closed them again with a shudder. "sarah," she cried, "have i been dreaming, or is your master dead?" the two girls turned pale at this, and the elder of them went boldly into the room which her mistress had just left. she was evidently a young woman who had herself under good control, but she came out sobbing, with her apron to her eyes. "come, come," said the man who stood beside brenton, "haven't you had enough of this? come with me; you can return to this house if you wish;" and together they passed out of the room into the crisp air of christmas morning. but, although brenton knew it must be cold, he had no feeling of either cold or warmth. "there are a number of us," said the stranger to brenton, "who take turns at watching the sick-bed when a man is about to die, and when his spirit leaves his body, we are there to explain, or comfort, or console. your death was so sudden that we had no warning of it. you did not feel ill before last night, did you?" "no," replied brenton. "i felt perfectly well, until after dinner last night." "did you leave your affairs in reasonably good order?" "yes," said brenton, trying to recollect. "i think they will find everything perfectly straight." "tell me a little of your history, if you do not mind," inquired the other; "it will help me in trying to initiate you into our new order of things here." "well," replied brenton, and he wondered at himself for falling so easily into the other's assumption that he was a dead man, "i was what they call on the earth in reasonably good circumstances. my estate should be worth $ , . i had $ , insurance on my life, and if all that is paid, it should net my widow not far from a couple of hundred thousand." "how long have you been married?" said the other. [illustration: a venetian café.] "only about six months. i was married last july, and we went for a trip abroad. we were married quietly, and left almost immediately afterwards, so we thought, on our return, it would not be a bad plan to give a christmas eve dinner, and invite some of our friends. that," he said, hesitating a moment, "was last night. shortly after dinner, i began to feel rather ill, and went upstairs to rest for a while; and if what you say is true, the first thing i knew i found myself dead." "alive," corrected the other. "well, alive, though at present i feel i belong more to the world i have left than i do to the world i appear to be in. i must confess, although you are a very plausible gentleman to talk to, that i expect at any moment to wake and find this to have been one of the most horrible nightmares that i ever had the ill luck to encounter." the other smiled. "there is very little danger of your waking up, as you call it. now, i will tell you the great trouble we have with people when they first come to the spirit-land, and that is to induce them to forget entirely the world they have relinquished. men whose families are in poor circumstances, or men whose affairs are in a disordered state, find it very difficult to keep from trying to set things right again. they have the feeling that they can console or comfort those whom they have left behind them, and it is often a long time before they are convinced that their efforts are entirely futile, as well as very distressing for themselves." "is there, then," asked brenton, "no communication between this world and the one that i have given up?" the other paused for a moment before he replied. "i should hardly like to say," he answered, "that there is _no_ communication between one world and the other; but the communication that exists is so slight and unsatisfactory, that if you are sensible you will see things with the eyes of those who have very much more experience in this world than you have. of course, you can go back there as much as you like; there will be no interference and no hindrance. but when you see things going wrong, when you see a mistake about to be made, it is an appalling thing to stand there helpless, unable to influence those you love, or to point out a palpable error, and convince them that your clearer sight sees it as such. of course, i understand that it must be very difficult for a man who is newly married, to entirely abandon the one who has loved him, and whom he loves. but i assure you that if you follow the life of one who is as young and handsome as your wife, you will find some one else supplying the consolations you are unable to bestow. such a mission may lead you to a church where she is married to her second husband. i regret to say that even the most imperturbable spirits are ruffled when such an incident occurs. the wise men are those who appreciate and understand that they are in an entirely new world, with new powers and new limitations, and who govern themselves accordingly from the first, as they will certainly do later on." "my dear sir," said brenton, somewhat offended, "if what you say is true, and i am really a dead man----" "alive," corrected the other. "well, alive, then. i may tell you that my wife's heart is broken. she will never marry again." "of course, that is a subject of which you know a great deal more than i do. i all the more strongly advise you never to see her again. it is impossible for you to offer any consolation, and the sight of her grief and misery will only result in unhappiness for yourself. therefore, take my advice. i have given it very often, and i assure you those who did not take it expressed their regret afterwards. hold entirely aloof from anything relating to your former life." brenton was silent for some moments; finally he said-- "i presume your advice is well meant; but if things are as you state, then i may as well say, first as last, that i do not intend to accept it." "very well," said the other; "it is an experience that many prefer to go through for themselves." "do you have names in this spirit-land?" asked brenton, seemingly desirous of changing the subject. "yes," was the answer; "we are known by names that we have used in the preparatory school below. my name is ferris." "and if i wish to find you here, how do i set about it?" "the wish is sufficient," answered ferris. "merely wish to be with me, and you _are_ with me." "good gracious!" cried brenton, "is locomotion so easy as that?" "locomotion is very easy. i do not think anything could be easier than it is, and i do not think there could be any improvement in that matter." "are there matters here, then, that you think could be improved?" "as to that i shall not say. perhaps you will be able to give your own opinion before you have lived here much longer." "taking it all in all," said brenton, "do you think the spirit-land is to be preferred to the one we have left?" "i like it better," said ferris, "although i presume there are some who do not. there are many advantages; and then, again, there are many--well, i would not say disadvantages, but still some people consider them such. we are free from the pangs of hunger or cold, and have therefore no need of money, and there is no necessity for the rush and the worry of the world below." "and how about heaven and hell?" said brenton. "are those localities all a myth? is there nothing of punishment and nothing of reward in this spirit-land?" there was no answer to this, and when brenton looked around he found that his companion had departed. [illustration: venice.] chapter iii. william brenton pondered long on the situation. he would have known better how to act if he could have been perfectly certain that he was not still the victim of a dream. however, of one thing there was no doubt--namely, that it was particularly harrowing to see what he had seen in his own house. if it were true that he was dead, he said to himself, was not the plan outlined for him by ferris very much the wiser course to adopt? he stood now in one of the streets of the city so familiar to him. people passed and repassed him--men and women whom he had known in life--but nobody appeared to see him. he resolved, if possible, to solve the problem uppermost in his mind, and learn whether or not he could communicate with an inhabitant of the world he had left. he paused for a moment to consider the best method of doing this. then he remembered one of his most confidential friends and advisers, and at once wished himself at his office. he found the office closed, but went in to wait for his friend. occupying the time in thinking over his strange situation, he waited long, and only when the bells began to ring did he remember it was christmas forenoon, and that his friend would not be at the office that day. the next moment he wished himself at his friend's house, but he was as unsuccessful as at the office; the friend was not at home. the household, however, was in great commotion, and, listening to what was said, he found that the subject of conversation was his own death, and he learned that his friend had gone to the brenton residence as soon as he heard the startling news of christmas morning. once more brenton paused, and did not know what to do. he went again into the street. everything seemed to lead him toward his own home. although he had told ferris that he did not intend to take his advice, yet as a sensible man he saw that the admonition was well worth considering, and if he could once become convinced that there was no communication possible between himself and those he had left; if he could give them no comfort and no cheer; if he could see the things which they did not see, and yet be unable to give them warning, he realized that he would merely be adding to his own misery, without alleviating the troubles of others. he wished he knew where to find ferris, so that he might have another talk with him. the man impressed him as being exceedingly sensible. no sooner, however, had he wished for the company of mr. ferris than he found himself beside that gentleman. "by george!" he said in astonishment, "you are just the man i wanted to see." "exactly," said ferris; "that is the reason you do see me." "i have been thinking over what you said," continued the other, "and it strikes me that after all your advice is sensible." "thank you," replied ferris, with something like a smile on his face. "but there is one thing i want to be perfectly certain about. i want to know whether it is not possible for me to communicate with my friends. nothing will settle that doubt in my mind except actual experience." "and have you not had experience enough?" asked ferris. "well," replied the other, hesitating, "i have had some experience, but it seems to me that, if i encounter an old friend, i could somehow make myself felt by him." "in that case," answered ferris, "if nothing will convince you but an actual experiment, why don't you go to some of your old friends and try what you can do with them?" "i have just been to the office and to the residence of one of my old friends. i found at his residence that he had gone to my"--brenton paused for a moment--"former home. everything seems to lead me there, and yet, if i take your advice, i must avoid that place of all others." "i would at present, if i were you," said ferris. "still, why not try it with any of the passers-by?" brenton looked around him. people were passing and repassing where the two stood talking with each other. "merry christmas" was the word on all lips. finally brenton said, with a look of uncertainty on his face-- "my dear fellow, i can't talk to any of these people. i don't know them." ferris laughed at this, and replied-- "i don't think you will shock them very much; just try it." "ah, here's a friend of mine. you wait a moment, and i will accost him." approaching him, brenton held out his hand and spoke, but the traveller paid no attention. he passed by as one who had seen or heard nothing. "i assure you," said ferris, as he noticed the look of disappointment on the other's face, "you will meet with a similar experience, however much you try. you know the old saying about one not being able to have his cake and eat it too. you can't have the privileges of this world and those of the world you left as well. i think, taking it all in all, you should rest content, although it always hurts those who have left the other world not to be able to communicate with their friends, and at least assure them of their present welfare." "it does seem to me," replied brenton, "that would be a great consolation, both for those who are here and those who are left." "well, i don't know about that," answered the other. "after all, what does life in the other world amount to? it is merely a preparation for this. it is of so short a space, as compared with the life we live here, that it is hardly worth while to interfere with it one way or another. by the time you are as long here as i have been, you will realize the truth of this." "perhaps i shall," said brenton, with a sigh; "but, meanwhile, what am i to do with myself? i feel like the man who has been all his life in active business, and who suddenly resolves to enjoy himself doing nothing. that sort of thing seems to kill a great number of men, especially if they put off taking a rest until too late, as most of us do." "well," said ferris, "there is no necessity of your being idle here, i assure you. but before you lay out any work for yourself, let me ask you if there is not some interesting part of the world that you would like to visit?" "certainly; i have seen very little of the world. that is one of my regrets at leaving it." "bless me," said the other, "you haven't left it." "why, i thought you said i was a dead man?" "on the contrary," replied his companion, "i have several times insisted that you have just begun to live. now where shall we spend the day?" "how would london do?" "i don't think it would do; london is apt to be a little gloomy at this time of the year. but what do you say to naples, or japan, or, if you don't wish to go out of the united states, yellowstone park?" "can we reach any of those places before the day is over?" asked brenton, dubiously. "well, i will soon show you how we manage all that. just wish to accompany me, and i will take you the rest of the way." "how would venice do?" said brenton. "i didn't see half as much of that city as i wanted to." "very well," replied his companion, "venice it is;" and the american city in which they stood faded away from them, and before brenton could make up his mind exactly what was happening, he found himself walking with his comrade in st. mark's square. "well, for rapid transit," said brenton, "this beats anything i've ever had any idea of; but it increases the feeling that i am in a dream." "you'll soon get used to it," answered ferris; "and, when you do, the cumbersome methods of travel in the world itself will show themselves in their right light. hello!" he cried, "here's a man whom i should like you to meet. by the way, i either don't know your name or i have forgotten it." "william brenton," answered the other. "mr. speed, i want to introduce you to mr. brenton." "ah," said speed, cordially, "a new-comer. one of your victims, ferris?" "say one of his pupils, rather," answered brenton. [illustration: in venice.] "well, it is pretty much the same thing," said speed. "how long have you been with us, and how do you like the country?" "you see, mr. brenton," interrupted ferris, "john speed was a newspaper man, and he must ask strangers how they like the country. he has inquired so often while interviewing foreigners for his paper that now he cannot abandon his old phrase. mr. brenton has been with us but a short time," continued ferris, "and so you know, speed, you can hardly expect him to answer your inevitable question." "what part of the country are you from?" asked speed. "cincinnati," answered brenton, feeling almost as if he were an american tourist doing the continent of europe. "cincinnati, eh? well, i congratulate you. i do not know any place in america that i would sooner die in, as they call it, than cincinnati. you see, i am a chicago man myself." brenton did not like the jocular familiarity of the newspaper man, and found himself rather astonished to learn that in the spirit-world there were likes and dislikes, just as on earth. "chicago is a very enterprising city," he said, in a non-committal way. "chicago, my dear sir," said speed, earnestly, "is _the_ city. you will see that chicago is going to be the great city of the world before you are a hundred years older. by the way, ferris," said the chicago man, suddenly recollecting something, "i have got sommers over here with me." "ah!" said ferris; "doing him any good?" "well, precious little, as far as i can see." "perhaps it would interest mr. brenton to meet him," said ferris. "i think, brenton, you asked me a while ago if there was any hell here, or any punishment. mr. speed can show you a man in hell." "really?" asked brenton. "yes," said speed; "i think if ever a man was in misery, he is. the trouble with sommers was this. he--well, he died of delirium tremens, and so, of course, you know what the matter was. sommers had drunk chicago whisky for thirty-five years straight along, and never added to it the additional horror of chicago water. you see what his condition became, both physical and mental. many people tried to reform sommers, because he was really a brilliant man; but it was no use. thirst had become a disease with him, and from the mental part of that disease, although his physical yearning is now gone of course, he suffers. sommers would give his whole future for one glass of good old kentucky whisky. he sees it on the counters, he sees men drink it, and he stands beside them in agony. that's why i brought him over here. i thought that he wouldn't see the colour of whisky as it sparkles in the glass; but now he is in the café quadra watching men drink. you may see him sitting there with all the agony of unsatisfied desire gleaming from his face." "and what do you do with a man like that?" asked brenton. "do? well, to tell the truth, there is nothing _to_ do. i took him away from chicago, hoping to ease his trouble a little; but it has had no effect." "it will come out all right by-and-by," said ferris, who noticed the pained look on brenton's face. "it is the period of probation that he has to pass through. it will wear off. he merely goes through the agonies he would have suffered on earth if he had suddenly been deprived of his favourite intoxicant." "well," said speed, "you won't come with me, then? all right, good-bye. i hope to see you again, mr. brenton," and with that they separated. brenton spent two or three days in venice, but all the time the old home hunger was upon him. he yearned for news of cincinnati. he wanted to be back, and several times the wish brought him there, but he instantly returned. at last he said to ferris-- "i am tired. i must go home. i have _got_ to see how things are going." "i wouldn't if i were you," replied ferris. "no, i know you wouldn't. your temperament is indifferent. i would rather be miserable with knowledge than happy in ignorance. good-bye." it was evening when he found himself in cincinnati. the weather was bright and clear, and apparently cold. men's feet crisped on the frozen pavement, and the streets had that welcome, familiar look which they always have to the returned traveller when he reaches the city he calls his home. the newsboys were rushing through the streets yelling their papers at the top of their voices. he heard them, but paid little attention. "all about the murder! latest edition! all about the poison case!" he felt that he must have a glimpse at a paper, and, entering the office of an hotel where a man was reading one, he glanced over his shoulder at the page before him, and was horror-stricken to see the words in startling headlines-- the brenton murder. _the autopsy shows that morphine was the poison used. enough found to have killed a dozen men. mrs. brenton arrested for committing the horrible deed_. [illustration: the brenton murder.] chapter iv. for a moment brenton was so bewildered and amazed at the awful headlines which he read, that he could hardly realize what had taken place. the fact that he had been poisoned, although it gave him a strange sensation, did not claim his attention as much as might have been thought. curiously enough he was more shocked at finding himself, as it were, the talk of the town, the central figure of a great newspaper sensation. but the thing that horrified him was the fact that his wife had been arrested for his murder. his first impulse was to go to her at once, but he next thought it better to read what the paper said about the matter, so as to become possessed of all the facts. the headlines, he said to himself, often exaggerated things, and there was a possibility that the body of the article would not bear out the naming announcement above it. but as he read on and on, the situation seemed to become more and more appalling. he saw that his friends had been suspicious of his sudden death, and had insisted on a post-mortem examination. that examination had been conducted by three of the most eminent physicians of cincinnati, and the three doctors had practically agreed that the deceased, in the language of the verdict, had come to his death through morphia poisoning, and the coroner's jury had brought in a verdict that "the said william brenton had been poisoned by some person unknown." then the article went on to state how suspicion had gradually fastened itself upon his wife, and at last her arrest had been ordered. the arrest had taken place that day. [illustration: mrs. brenton.] after reading this, brenton was in an agony of mind. he pictured his dainty and beautiful wife in a stone cell in the city prison. he foresaw the horrors of the public trial, and the deep grief and pain which the newspaper comments on the case would cause to a woman educated and refined. of course, brenton had not the slightest doubt in his own mind about the result of the trial. his wife would be triumphantly acquitted; but, all the same, the terrible suspense which she must suffer in the meanwhile would not be compensated for by the final verdict of the jury. brenton at once went to the jail, and wandered through that gloomy building, searching for his wife. at last he found her, but it was in a very comfortable room in the sheriffs residence. the terror and the trials of the last few days had aged her perceptibly, and it cut brenton to the heart to think that he stood there before her, and could not by any means say a soothing word that she would understand. that she had wept many bitter tears since the terrible christmas morning was evident; there were dark circles under her beautiful eyes that told of sleepless nights. she sat in a comfortable armchair, facing the window; and looked steadily out at the dreary winter scene with eyes that apparently saw nothing. her hands lay idly on her lap, and now and then she caught her breath in a way that was half a sob and half a gasp. presently the sheriff himself entered the room. "mrs. brenton," he said, "there is a gentleman here who wishes to see you. mr. roland, he tells me his name is, an old friend of yours. do you care to see any one?" the lady turned her head slowly round, and looked at the sheriff for a moment, seemingly not understanding what he said. finally she answered, dreamily-- "roland? oh, stephen! yes, i shall be very glad to see him. ask him to come in, please." the next moment stephen roland entered, and somehow the fact that he had come to console mrs. brenton did not at all please the invisible man who stood between them. "my dear mrs. brenton," began roland, "i hope you are feeling better to-day? keep up your courage, and be brave. it is only for a very short time. i have retained the noted criminal lawyers, benham and brown, for the defence. you could not possibly have better men." at the word "criminal" mrs. brenton shuddered. "alice," continued roland, sitting down near her, and drawing his chair closer to her, "tell me that you will not lose your courage. i want you to be brave, for the sake of your friends." he took her listless hand in his own, and she did not withdraw it. brenton felt passing over him the pangs of impotent rage, as he saw this act on the part of roland. roland had been an unsuccessful suitor for the hand which he now held in his own, and brenton thought it the worst possible taste, to say the least, that he should take advantage now of her terrible situation to ingratiate himself into her favour. the nearest approach to a quarrel that brenton and his wife had had during their short six months of wedded life was on the subject of the man who now held her hand in his own. it made brenton impatient to think that a woman with all her boasted insight into character, her instincts as to what was right and what was wrong, had such little real intuition that she did not see into the character of the man whom they were discussing; but a woman never thinks it a crime for a man to have been in love with her, whatever opinion of that man her husband may hold. "it is awful! awful! awful!" murmured the poor lady, as the tears again rose to her eyes. "of course it is," said roland; "it is particularly awful that they should accuse you, of all persons in the world, of this so-called crime. for my part i do not believe that he was poisoned at all, but we will soon straighten things out. benham and brown will give up everything and devote their whole attention to this case until it is finished. everything will be done that money or friends can do, and all that we ask is that you keep up your courage, and do not be downcast with the seeming awfulness of the situation." mrs. brenton wept silently, but made no reply. it was evident, however, that she was consoled by the words and the presence of her visitor. strange as it may appear, this fact enraged brenton, although he had gone there for the very purpose of cheering and comforting his wife. all the bitterness he had felt before against his former rival was revived, and his rage was the more agonizing because it was inarticulate. then there flashed over him ferris's sinister advice to leave things alone in the world that he had left. he felt that he could stand this no longer, and the next instant he found himself again in the wintry streets of cincinnati. the name of the lawyers, benham and brown, kept repeating itself in his mind, and he resolved to go to their office and hear, if he could, what preparations were being made for the defence of a woman whom he knew to be innocent. he found, when he got to the office of these noted lawyers, that the two principals were locked in their private room; and going there, he found them discussing the case with the coolness and impersonal feeling that noted lawyers have even when speaking of issues that involve life or death. "yes," benham was saying, "i think that, unless anything new turns up, that is the best line of defence we can adopt." "what do you think might turn up?" asked brown. "well, you can never tell in these cases. they may find something else--they may find the poison, for instance, or the package that contained it. perhaps a druggist will remember having sold it to this woman, and then, of course, we shall have to change our plans. i need not say that it is strictly necessary in this case to give out no opinions whatever to newspaper men. the papers will be full of rumours, and it is just as well if we can keep our line of defence hidden until the time for action comes." "still," said brown, who was the younger partner, "it is as well to keep in with the newspaper fellows; they'll be here as soon as they find we have taken charge of the defence." "well, i have no doubt you can deal with them in such a way as to give them something to write up, and yet not disclose anything we do not wish known." "i think you can trust me to do that," said brown, with a self-satisfied air. "i shall leave that part of the matter entirely in your hands," replied benham. "it is better not to duplicate or mix matters, and if any newspaper man comes to see me i will refer him to you. i will say i know nothing of the case whatever." "very well," answered brown. "now, between ourselves, what do you think of the case?" [illustration] "oh, it will make a great sensation. i think it will probably be one of the most talked-of cases that we have ever been connected with." "yes, but what do you think of her guilt or innocence?" "as to that," said benham, calmly, "i haven't the slightest doubt. she murdered him." as he said this, brenton, forgetting himself for a moment, sprang forward as if to strangle the lawyer. the statement benham had made seemed the most appalling piece of treachery. that men should take a woman's money for defending her, and actually engage in a case when they believed their client guilty, appeared to brenton simply infamous. "i agree with you," said brown. "of course she was the only one to benefit by his death. the simple fool willed everything to her, and she knew it; and his doing so is the more astounding when you remember he was quite well aware that she had a former lover whom she would gladly have married if he had been as rich as brenton. the supreme idiocy of some men as far as their wives are concerned is something awful." [illustration: publicity.] "yes," answered benham, "it is. but i tell you, brown, she is no ordinary woman. the very conception of that murder had a stroke of originality about it that i very much admire. i do not remember anything like it in the annals of crime. it is the true way in which a murder should be committed. the very publicity of the occasion was a safeguard. think of poisoning a man at a dinner that he has given himself, in the midst of a score of friends. i tell you that there was a dash of bravery about it that commands my admiration." "do you imagine roland had anything to do with it?" "well, i had my doubts about that at first, but i think he is innocent, although from what i know of the man he will not hesitate to share the proceeds of the crime. you mark my words, they will be married within a year from now if she is acquitted. i believe roland knows her to be guilty." "i thought as much," said brown, "by his actions here, and by some remarks he let drop. anyhow, our credit in the affair will be all the greater if we succeed in getting her off. yes," he continued, rising and pushing back his chair, "madam brenton is a murderess." chapter v. brenton found himself once more in the streets of cincinnati, in a state of mind that can hardly be described. rage and grief struggled for the mastery, and added to the tumult of these passions was the uncertainty as to what he should do, or what he _could_ do. he could hardly ask the advice of ferris again, for his whole trouble arose from his neglect of the counsel that gentleman had already given him. in his new sphere he did not know where to turn. he found himself wondering whether in the spirit-land there was any firm of lawyers who could advise him, and he remembered then how singularly ignorant he was regarding the conditions of existence in the world to which he now belonged. however, he felt that he must consult with somebody, and ferris was the only one to whom he could turn. a moment later he was face to face with him. "mr. ferris," he said, "i am in the most grievous trouble, and i come to you in the hope that, if you cannot help me, you can at least advise me what to do." "if your trouble has come," answered ferris, with a shade of irony in his voice, "through following the advice that i have already given you, i shall endeavour, as well as i am able, to help you out of it." "you know very well," cried brenton, hotly, "that my whole trouble has occurred through neglecting your advice, or, at least, through deliberately not following it. i _could_ not follow it." "very well, then," said ferris, "i am not surprised that you are in a difficulty. you must remember that such a crisis is an old story with us here." "but, my dear sir," said brenton, "look at the appalling condition of things, the knowledge of which has just come to me. it seems i was poisoned, but of course that doesn't matter. i feel no resentment against the wretch who did it. but the terrible thing is that my wife has been arrested for the crime, and i have just learned that her own lawyers actually believe her guilty." "that fact," said ferris, calmly, "will not interfere with their eloquent pleading when the case comes to trial." brenton glared at the man who was taking things so coolly, and who proved himself so unsympathetic; but an instant after he realized the futility of quarrelling with the only person who could give him advice, so he continued, with what patience he could command-- "the situation is this: my wife has been arrested for the crime of murdering me. she is now in the custody of the sheriff. her trouble and anxiety of mind are fearful to contemplate." "my dear sir," said ferris, "there is no reason why you or anybody else should contemplate it." "how can you talk in that cold-blooded way?" cried brenton, indignantly. "could you see _your_ wife, or any one _you_ held dear, incarcerated for a dreadful crime, and yet remain calm and collected, as you now appear to be when you hear of another's misfortune?" "my dear fellow," said ferris, "of course it is not to be expected that one who has had so little experience with this existence should have any sense of proportion. you appear to be speaking quite seriously. you do not seem at all to comprehend the utter triviality of all this." "good gracious!" cried brenton, "do you call it a trivial thing that a woman is in danger of her life for a crime which she never committed?" "if she is innocent," said the other, in no way moved by the indignation of his comrade, "surely that state of things will be brought out in the courts, and no great harm will be done, even looking at things from the standpoint of the world you have left. but i want you to get into the habit of looking at things from the standpoint of this world, and not of the other. suppose that what you would call the worst should happen--suppose she is hanged--what then?" brenton stood simply speechless with indignation at this brutal remark. "if you will just look at things correctly," continued ferris, imperturbably, "you will see that there is probably a moment of anguish, perhaps not even that moment, and then your wife is here with you in the land of spirits. i am sure that is a consummation devoutly to be wished. even a man in your state of mind must see the reasonableness of this. now, looking at the question in what you would call its most serious aspect, see how little it amounts to. it isn't worth a moment's thought, whichever way it goes." "you think nothing, then, of the disgrace of such a death--of the bitter injustice of it?" [illustration: the broken toy.] "when you were in the world did you ever see a child cry over a broken toy? did the sight pain you to any extent? did you not know that a new toy could be purchased that would quite obliterate all thoughts of the other? did the simple griefs of childhood carry any deep and lasting consternation to the mind of a grown-up man? of course it did not. you are sensible enough to know that. well, we here in this world look on the pain and struggles and trials of people in the world you have left, just as an aged man looks on the tribulations of children over a broken doll. that is all it really amounts to. that is what i mean when i say that you have not yet got your sense of proportion. any grief and misery there is in the world you have left is of such an ephemeral, transient nature, that when we think for a moment of the free, untrammelled, and painless life there is beyond, those petty troubles sink into insignificance. my dear fellow, be sensible, take my advice. i have really a strong interest in you, and i advise you, entirely for your own welfare, to forget all about it. very soon you will have something much more important to do than lingering around the world you have left. if your wife comes amongst us i am sure you will be glad to welcome her, and to teach her the things that you will have already found out of your new life. if she does not appear, then you will know that, even from the old-world standpoint, things have gone what you would call 'all right.' let these trivial matters go, and attend to the vastly more important concerns that will soon engage your attention here." ferris talked earnestly, and it was evident, even to brenton, that he meant what he said. it was hard to find a pretext for a quarrel with a man at once so calm and so perfectly sure of himself. "we will not talk any more about it," said brenton. "i presume people here agree to differ, just as they did in the world we have both left." "certainly, certainly," answered ferris. "of course, you have just heard my opinion; but you will find myriads of others who do not share it with me. you will meet a great many who are interested in the subject of communication with the world they have left. you will, of course, excuse me when i say that i consider such endeavours not worth talking about." "do you know any one who is interested in that sort of thing? and can you give me an introduction to him?" "oh! for that matter," said ferris, "you have had an introduction to one of the most enthusiastic investigators of the subject. i refer to mr. john speed, late of chicago." "ah!" said brenton, rather dubiously. "i must confess that i was not very favourably impressed with mr. speed. probably i did him an injustice." "you certainly did," said ferris. "you will find speed a man well worth knowing, even if he does waste himself on such futile projects as a scheme for communicating with a community so evanescent as that of chicago. you will like speed better the more you know him. he really is very philanthropic, and has sommers on his hands just now. from what he said after you left venice, i imagine he does not entertain the same feeling toward you as you do toward him. i would see speed if i were you." "i will think about it," said brenton, as they separated. to know that a man thinks well of a person is no detriment to further acquaintance with that man, even if the first impressions have not been favourable; and after ferris told brenton that speed had thought well of him, brenton found less difficulty in seeking the chicago enthusiast. "i have been in a good deal of trouble," brenton said to speed, "and have been talking to ferris about it. i regret to say that he gave me very little encouragement, and did not seem at all to appreciate my feelings in the matter." "oh, you mustn't mind ferris," said speed. "he is a first-rate fellow, but he is as cold and unsympathetic as--well, suppose we say as an oyster. his great hobby is non-intercourse with the world we have left. now, in that i don't agree with him, and there are thousands who don't agree with him. i admit that there are cases where a man is more unhappy if he frequents the old world than he would be if he left it alone. but then there are other cases where just the reverse is true. take my own experience, for example; i take a peculiar pleasure in rambling around chicago. i admit that it is a grievance to me, as an old newspaper man, to see the number of scoops i could have on my esteemed contemporaries, but--" "scoop? what is that?" asked brenton, mystified. "why, a scoop is a beat, you know." "yes, but i don't know. what is a beat?" "a beat or a scoop, my dear fellow, is the getting of a piece of news that your contemporary does not obtain. you never were in the newspaper business? well, sir, you missed it. greatest business in the world. you know everything that is going on long before anybody else does, and the way you can reward your friends and jump with both feet on your enemies is one of the delights of existence down there." "well, what i wanted to ask you was this," said brenton. "you have made a speciality of finding out whether there could be any communication between one of us, for instance, and one who is an inhabitant of the other world. is such communication possible?" "i have certainly devoted some time to it, but i can't say that my success has been flattering. my efforts have been mostly in the line of news. i have come on some startling information which my facilities here gave me access to, and i confess i have tried my best to put some of the boys on to it. but there is a link loose somewhere. now, what is your trouble? do you want to get a message to anybody?" "my trouble is this," said brenton, briefly, "i am here because a few days ago i was poisoned." "george washington!" cried the other, "you don't say so! have the newspapers got on to the fact?" "i regret to say that they have." "what an item that would have been if one paper had got hold of it and the others hadn't! i suppose they all got on to it at the same time?" "about that," said brenton, "i don't know, and i must confess that i do not care very much. but here is the trouble--my wife has been arrested for my murder, and she is as innocent as i am." "sure of that?" "_sure_ of it?" cried the other indignantly. "of course i am sure of it." "then who is the guilty person?" "ah, that," said brenton, "i do not yet know." "then how can you be sure she is not guilty?" "if you talk like that," exclaimed brenton, "i have nothing more to say." "now, don't get offended, i beg of you. i am merely looking at this from a newspaper standpoint, you know. you must remember it is not you who will decide the matter, but a jury of your very stupid fellow-countrymen. now, you can never tell what a jury _will_ do, except that it will do something idiotic. therefore, it seems to me that the very first step to be taken is to find out who the guilty party is. don't you see the force of that?" "yes, i do." "very well, then. now, what were the circumstances of this crime? who was to profit by your death?" brenton winced at this. "i see how it is," said the other, "and i understand why you don't answer. now--you'll excuse me if i am frank--your wife was the one who benefited most by your death, was she not?" "no," cried the other indignantly, "she was not the one. that is what the lawyers said. why in the world should she want to poison me, when she had all my wealth at her command as it was?" "yes, that's a strong point," said speed. "you were a reasonably good husband, i suppose? rather generous with the cash?" "generous?" cried the other. "my wife always had everything she wanted." "ah, well, there was no--you'll excuse me, i am sure--no former lover in the case, was there?" again brenton winced, and he thought of roland sitting beside his wife with her hand in his. "i see," said speed; "you needn't answer. now what were the circumstances, again?" "they were these: at a dinner which i gave, where some twenty or twenty-five of my friends were assembled, poison, it appears, was put into my cup of coffee. that is all i know of it." "who poured out that cup of coffee?" "my wife did." "ah! now, i don't for a moment say she is guilty, remember; but you must admit that, to a stupid jury, the case _might_ look rather bad against her." "well, granted that it does, there is all the more need that i should come to her assistance if possible." "certainly, certainly!" said speed. "now, i'll tell you what we have to do. we must get, if possible, one of the very brightest chicago reporters on the track of this thing, and we have to get him on the track of it early. come with me to chicago. we will try an experiment, and i am sure you will lend your mind entirely to the effort. we must act in conjunction in this affair, and you are just the man i've been wanting, some one who is earnest and who has something at stake in the matter. we may fail entirely, but i think it's worth the trying. will you come?" "certainly," said brenton; "and i cannot tell you how much i appreciate your interest and sympathy." arriving at a brown stone building on the corner of two of the principal streets in chicago, brenton and speed ascended quickly to one of the top floors. it was nearly midnight, and two upper stories of the huge dark building were brilliantly lighted, as was shown on the outside by the long rows of glittering windows. they entered a room where a man was seated at a table, with coat and vest thrown off, and his hat set well back on his head. cold as it was outside, it was warm in this man's room, and the room was blue with smoke. a black corn-cob pipe was in his teeth, and the man was writing away as if for dear life, on sheets of coarse white copy paper, stopping now and then to fill up his pipe or to relight it after it had gone out. "there," said speed, waving his hand towards the writer with a certain air of proprietory pride, "there sits one of the very cleverest men on the chicago press. that fellow, sir, is gifted with a nose for news which has no equal in america. he will ferret out a case that he once starts on with an unerringness that would charm you. yes, sir, i got him his present situation on this paper, and i can tell you it was a good one." "he must have been a warm friend of yours?" said brenton, indifferently, as if he did not take much interest in the eulogy. "quite the contrary," said speed. "he was a warm enemy, made it mighty warm for _me_ sometimes. he was on an opposition paper, but i tell you, although i was no chicken in newspaper business, that man would scoop the daylight out of me any time he tried. so, to get rid of opposition, i got the managing editor to appoint him to a place on our paper; and i tell you, he has never regretted it. yes, sir, there sits george stratton, a man who knows his business. now," he said, "let us concentrate our attention on him. first let us see whether, by putting our whole minds to it, we can make any impression on _his_ mind whatever. you see how busily he is engaged. he is thoroughly absorbed in his work. that is george all over. whatever his assignment is, george throws himself right into it, and thinks of nothing else until it is finished. _now_ then." in that dingy, well-lighted room george stratton sat busily pencilling out the lines that were to appear in next morning's paper. he was evidently very much engrossed in his task, as speed had said. if he had looked about him, which he did not, he would have said that he was entirely alone. all at once his attention seemed to waver, and he passed his hand over his brow, while perplexity came into his face. then he noticed that his pipe was out, and, knocking the ashes from it by rapping the bowl on the side of the table, he filled it with an absent-mindedness unusual with him. again he turned to his writing, and again he passed his hand over his brow. suddenly, without any apparent cause, he looked first to the right and then to the left of him. once more he tried to write, but, noticing his pipe was out, he struck another match and nervously puffed away, until clouds of blue smoke rose around him. there was a look of annoyance and perplexity in his face as he bent resolutely to his writing. the door opened, and a man appeared on the threshold. "anything more about the convention, george?" he said. "yes; i am just finishing this. sort of pen pictures, you know." "perhaps you can let me have what you have done. i'll fix it up." "all right," said stratton, bunching up the manuscript in front of him, and handing it to the city editor. that functionary looked at the number of pages, and then at the writer. "much more of this, george?" he said. "we'll be a little short of room in the morning, you know." "well," said the other, sitting back in his chair, "it is pretty good stuff that. folks always like the pen pictures of men engaged in the skirmish better than the reports of what most of them say." "yes," said the city editor, "that's so." "still," said stratton, "we could cut it off at the last page. just let me see the last two pages, will you?" these were handed to him, and, running his eye through them, he drew his knife across one of the pages, and put at the bottom the cabalistic mark which indicated the end of the copy. "there! i think i will let it go at that. old rickenbeck don't amount to much, anyhow. we'll let him go." "all right," said the city editor. "i think we won't want anything more to-night." [illustration: "she's pretty as a picture."] stratton put his hands behind his head, with his fingers interlaced, and leaned back in his chair, placing his heels upon the table before him. a thought-reader, looking at his face, could almost have followed the theme that occupied his mind. suddenly bringing his feet down with a crash to the floor, he rose and went into the city editor's room. "see here," he said. "have you looked into that cincinnati case at all?" "what cincinnati case?" asked the local editor, looking up. "why, that woman who is up for poisoning her husband." "oh yes; we had something of it in the despatches this morning. it's rather out of the local line, you know." "yes, i know it is. but it isn't out of the paper's line. i tell you that case is going to make a sensation. she's pretty as a picture. been married only six months, and it seems to be a dead sure thing that she poisoned her husband. that trial's going to make racy reading, especially if they bring in a verdict of guilty." the city editor looked interested. "want to go down there, george?" "well, do you know, i think it'll pay." "let me see, this is the last day of the convention, isn't it? and clark comes back from his vacation to-morrow. well, if you think it's worth it, take a trip down there, and look the ground over, and give us a special article that we can use on the first day of the trial." "i'll do it," said george. * * * * * speed looked at brenton. "what would old ferris say _now_, eh?" chapter vi. next morning george stratton was on the railway train speeding towards cincinnati. as he handed to the conductor his mileage book, he did not say to him, lightly transposing the old couplet-- "here, railroad man, take thrice thy fee, for spirits twain do ride with me." george stratton was a practical man, and knew nothing of spirits, except those which were in a small flask in his natty little valise. when he reached cincinnati, he made straight for the residence of the sheriff. he felt that his first duty was to become friends with such an important official. besides this, he wished to have an interview with the prisoner. he had arranged in his mind, on the way there, just how he would write a preliminary article that would whet the appetite of the readers of the chicago _argus_ for any further developments that might occur during and after the trial. he would write the whole thing in the form of a story. [illustration: "raising the veil."] first, there would be a sketch of the life of mrs. brenton and her husband. this would be number one, and above it would be the roman numeral i. under the heading ii. would be a history of the crime. under iii. what had occurred afterwards--the incidents that had led suspicion towards the unfortunate woman, and that sort of thing. under the numeral iv. would be his interview with the prisoner, if he were fortunate enough to get one. under v. he would give the general opinion of cincinnati on the crime, and on the guilt or innocence of mrs. brenton. this article he already saw in his mind's eye occupying nearly half a page of the _argus_. all would be in leaded type, and written in a style and manner that would attract attention, for he felt that he was first on the ground, and would not have the usual rush in preparing his copy which had been the bane of his life. it would give the _argus_ practically the lead in this case, which he was convinced would become one of national importance. the sheriff received him courteously, and, looking at the card he presented, saw the name chicago _argus_ in the corner. then he stood visibly on his guard--an attitude assumed by all wise officials when they find themselves brought face to face with a newspaper man; for they know, however carefully an article may be prepared, it will likely contain some unfortunate overlooked phrase which may have a damaging effect in a future political campaign. "i wanted to see you," began stratton, coming straight to the point, "in reference to the brenton murder." "i may say at once," replied the sheriff, "that if you wish an interview with the prisoner, it is utterly impossible, because her lawyers, benham and brown, have positively forbidden her to see a newspaper man." "that shows," said stratton, "they are wise men who understand their business. nevertheless, i wish to have an interview with mrs. brenton. but what i wanted to say to you is this: i believe the case will be very much talked about, and that before many weeks are over. of course you know the standing the _argus_ has in newspaper circles. what it says will have an influence, even over the cincinnati press. i think you will admit that. now a great many newspaper men consider an official their natural enemy. i do not; at least, i do not until i am forced to. any reference that i may make to you i am more than willing to submit to you before it goes to chicago. i will give you my word, if you want it, that nothing will be said referring to your official position, or to yourself personally, that you do not see before it appears in print. of course you will be up for re-election. i never met a sheriff who wasn't." the sheriff smiled at this, and did not deny it. "very well. now, i may tell you my belief is that this case is going to have a powerful influence on your re-election. here is a young and pretty woman who is to be tried for a terrible crime. whether she is guilty or innocent, public sympathy is going to be with her. if i were in your place, i would prefer to be known as her friend rather than as her enemy." "my dear sir," said the sheriff, "my official position puts me in the attitude of neither friend nor enemy of the unfortunate woman. i have simply a certain duty to do, and that duty i intend to perform." "oh, that's all right!" exclaimed the newspaper man, jauntily. "i, for one, am not going to ask you to take a step outside your duties; but an official may do his duty, and yet, at the same time, do a friendly act for a newspaper man, or even for a prisoner. in the language of the old chestnut, 'if you don't help me, don't help the bear.' that's all i ask." "you maybe sure, mr. stratton, that anything i can do to help you i shall be glad to do; and now let me give you a hint. if you want to see mrs. brenton, the best thing is to get permission from her lawyers. if i were you i would not see benham--he's rather a hard nut, benham is, although you needn't tell him i said so. you get on the right side of brown. brown has some political aspirations himself, and he does not want to offend a man on so powerful a paper as the _argus_, even if it is not a cincinnati paper. now, if you make him the same offer you have made to me, i think it will be all right. if he sees your copy before it goes into print, and if you keep your word with him that nothing will appear that he does _not_ see, i think you will succeed in getting an interview with mrs. brenton. if you bring me a note from brown, i shall be very glad to allow you to see her." stratton thanked the sheriff for his hint. he took down in his note-book the address of the lawyers, and the name especially of mr. brown. the two men shook hands, and stratton felt that they understood each other. when mr. stratton was ushered into the private office of brown, and handed that gentleman his card, he noticed the lawyer perceptibly freeze over. "ahem," said the legal gentleman; "you will excuse me if i say that my time is rather precious. did you wish to see me professionally?" "yes," replied stratton, "that is, from a newspaper standpoint of the profession." "ah," said the other, "in reference to what?" "to the brenton case." "well, my dear sir, i have had, very reluctantly, to refuse information that i would have been happy to give, if i could, to our own newspaper men; and so i may say to you at once that i scarcely think it will be possible for me to be of any service to an outside paper like the _argus_" "local newspaper men," said stratton, "represent local fame. that you already possess. i represent national fame, which, if you will excuse my saying so, you do not yet possess. the fact that i am in cincinnati to-day, instead of in chicago, shows what we chicago people think of the cincinnati case. i believe, and the _argus_ believes, that this case is going to be one of national importance. now, let me ask you one question. will you state frankly what your objection is to having a newspaper man, for instance, interview mrs. brenton, or get any information relating to this case from her or others whom you have the power of controlling?" "i shall answer that question," said brown, "as frankly as you put it. you are a man of the world, and know, of course, that we are all selfish, and in business matters look entirely after our own interests. my interest in this case is to defend my client. your interest in this case is to make a sensational article. you want to get facts if possible, but, in any event, you want to write up a readable column or two for your paper. now, if i allowed you to see mrs. brenton, she might say something to you, and you might publish it, that would not only endanger her chances, but would seriously embarrass us, as her lawyers, in our defence of the case." "you have stated the objection very plainly and forcibly," said stratton, with a look of admiration, as if the powerful arguments of the lawyer had had a great effect on him. "now, if i understand your argument, it simply amounts to this, that you would have no objection to my interviewing mrs. brenton if you have the privilege of editing the copy. in other words, if nothing were printed but what you approve of, you would not have the slightest hesitancy about allowing me that interview." "no, i don't know that i would," admitted the lawyer. "very well, then. here is my proposition to you: i am here to look after the interests of our paper in this particular case. the _argus_ is probably going to be the first paper outside of cincinnati that will devote a large amount of space to the brenton trial, in addition to what is received from the associated press dispatches. now you can give me a great many facilities in this matter if you care to do so, and in return i am perfectly willing to submit to you every line of copy that concerns you or your client before it is sent, and i give you my word of honour that nothing shall appear but what you have seen and approved of. if you want to cut out something that i think is vitally important, then i shall tell you frankly that i intend to print it, but will modify it as much as i possibly can to suit your views." "i see," said the lawyer. "in other words, as you have just remarked, i am to give you special facilities in this matter, and then, when you find out some fact which i wish kept secret, and which you have obtained because of the facilities i have given to you, you will quite frankly tell me that it must go in, and then, of course, i shall be helpless except to debar you from any further facilities, as you call them. no, sir, i do not care to make any such bargain." "well, suppose i strike out that clause of agreement, and say to you that i will send nothing but what you approve of, would you then write me a note to the sheriff and allow me to see the prisoner?" "i am sorry to say"--the lawyer hesitated for a moment, and glanced at the card, then added--"mr. stratton, that i do not see my way clear to granting your request." "i think," said stratton, rising, "that you are doing yourself an injustice. you are refusing--i may as well tell you first as last--what is a great privilege. now, you have had some experience in your business, and i have had some experience in mine, and i beg to inform you that men who are much more prominent in the history of their country than any one i can at present think of in cincinnati, have tried to balk me in the pursuit of my business, and have failed." "in that matter, of course," said brown, "i must take my chances. i don't see the use of prolonging this interview. as you have been so frank as to--i won't say threaten, perhaps warn is the better word--as you have been so good as to warn me, i may, before we part, just give _you_ a word of caution. of course we, in cincinnati, are perfectly willing to admit that chicago people are the smartest on earth, but i may say that if you print a word in your paper which is untrue and which is damaging to our side of the case, or if you use any methods that are unlawful in obtaining the information you so much desire, you will certainly get your paper into trouble, and you will run some little personal risk yourself." "well, as you remarked a moment ago, mr. brown, i shall have to take the chances of that. i am here to get the news, and if i don't succeed it will be the first time in my life." "very well, sir," said the lawyer. "i wish you good evening." "just one thing more," said the newspaper man, "before i leave you." "my dear sir," said the lawyer, impatiently, "i am very busy. i've already given you a liberal share of my time. i must request that this interview end at once." "i thought," said mr. stratton, calmly, "that perhaps you might be interested in the first article that i am going to write. i shall devote one column in the _argus_ of the day after to-morrow to your defence of the case, and whether your theory of defence is a tenable one or not." mr. brown pushed back his chair and looked earnestly at the young man. that individual was imperturbably pulling on his gloves, and at the moment was buttoning one of them. "our _defence_!" cried the lawyer. "what do you know of our defence?" "my dear sir," said stratton, "i know _all_ about it." "sir, that is impossible. nobody knows what our defence is to be except mr. benham and myself." "and mr. stratton, of the chicago _argus_," replied the young man, as he buttoned his coat. "may i ask, then, what the defence is?" "certainly," answered the chicago man. "your defence is that mr. brenton was insane, and that he committed suicide." even mr. brown's habitual self-control, acquired by long years of training in keeping his feelings out of sight, for the moment deserted him. he drew his breath sharply, and cast a piercing glance at the young man before him, who was critically watching the lawyer's countenance, although he appeared to be entirely absorbed in buttoning his overcoat. then mr. brown gave a short, dry laugh. "i have met a bluff before," he said carelessly; "but i should like to know what makes you think that such is our defence?" "_think_!" cried the young man. "i don't think at all; i _know_ it." "how do you know it?" "well, for one thing, i know it by your own actions a moment ago. what first gave me an inkling of your defence was that book which is on your table. it is forbes winslow on the mind and the brain; a very interesting book, mr. brown, _very_ interesting indeed. it treats of suicide, and the causes and conditions of the brain that will lead up to it. it is a very good book, indeed, to study in such a case. good evening, mr. brown. i am sorry that we cannot co-operate in this matter." stratton turned and walked toward the door, while the lawyer gazed after him with a look of helpless astonishment on his face. as stratton placed his hand on the door knob, the lawyer seemed to wake up as from a dream. "stop!" he cried; "i will give you a letter that will admit you to mrs. brenton." chapter vii. "there!" said speed to brenton, triumphantly, "what do you think of _that_? didn't i say george stratton was the brightest newspaper man in chicago? i tell you, his getting that letter from old brown was one of the cleverest bits of diplomacy i ever saw. there you had quickness of perception, and nerve. all the time he was talking to old brown he was just taking that man's measure. see how coolly he acted while he was drawing on his gloves and buttoning his coat as if ready to leave. flung that at brown all of a sudden as quiet as if he was saying nothing at all unusual, and all the time watching brown out of the tail of his eye. well, sir, i must admit, that although i have known george stratton for years, i thought he was dished by that cincinnati lawyer. i thought that george was just gracefully covering up his defeat, and there he upset old brown's apple-cart in the twinkling of an eye. now, you see the effect of all this. brown has practically admitted to him what the line of defence is. stratton won't publish it, of course; he has promised not to, but you see he can hold that over brown's head, and get everything he wants unless they change their defence." "yes," remarked brenton, slowly, "he seems to be a very sharp newspaper man indeed; but i don't like the idea of his going to interview my wife." "why, what is there wrong about that?" "well, there is this wrong about it--that she in her depression may say something that will tell against her." "even if she does, what of it? isn't the lawyer going to see the letter before it is sent to the paper?" "i am not so sure about that. do you think stratton will show the article to brown if he gets what you call a scoop or a beat?" "why, of course he will," answered speed, indignantly; "hasn't he given him his word that he will?" "yes, i know he has," said brenton, dubiously; "but he is a newspaper man." "certainly he is," answered speed, with strong emphasis; "that is the reason he will keep his word." "i hope so, i hope so; but i must admit that the more i know you newspaper men, the more i see the great temptation you are under to preserve if possible the sensational features of an article." "i'll bet you a drink--no, we can't do that," corrected speed; "but you shall see that, if brown acts square with stratton, he will keep his word to the very letter with brown. there is no use in our talking about the matter here. let us follow stratton, and see what comes of the interview." "i think i prefer to go alone," said brenton, coldly. "oh, as you like, as you like," answered the other, shortly. "i thought you wanted my help in this affair; but if you don't, i am sure i shan't intrude." "that's all right," said brenton; "come along. by the way, speed, what do you think of that line of defence?" "well, i don't know enough of the circumstances of the case to know what to think of it. it seems to me rather a good line." "it can't be a good line when it is not true. it is certain to break down." "that's so," said speed; "but i'll bet you four dollars and a half that they'll prove you a raving maniac before they are through with you. they'll show very likely that you tried to poison yourself two or three times; bring on a dozen of your friends to prove that they knew all your life you were insane." "do you think they will?" asked brenton, uneasily. "think it? why, i am sure of it. you'll go down to posterity as one of the most complete lunatics that ever, lived in cincinnati. oh, there won't be anything left of you when _they_ get through with you." meanwhile, stratton was making his way to the residence of the sheriff. "ah," said that official, when they met, "you got your letter, did you? well, i thought you would." "if you had heard the conversation between my estimable friend mr. brown and myself, up to the very last moment, you wouldn't have thought it." "well, brown is generally very courteous towards newspaper men, and that's one reason you see his name in the papers a great deal." "if i were a cincinnati newspaper man, i can assure you that his name wouldn't appear very much in the columns of my paper." "i am sorry to hear you say that. i thought brown was very popular with the newspaper men. you got the letter, though, did you?" "yes; i got it. here it is. read it." the sheriff scanned the brief note over, and put it in his pocket. "just take a chair for a moment, will you, and i will see if mrs. brenton is ready to receive you." [illustration: jane.] stratton seated himself, and, pulling a paper from his pocket, was busily reading when the sheriff again entered. "i am sorry to say," he began, "after you have had all this trouble, that mrs. brenton positively refuses to see you. you know i cannot _compel_ a prisoner to meet any one. you understand that, of course." "perfectly," said stratton, thinking for a moment. "see here, sheriff, i have simply _got_ to have a talk with that woman. now, can't you tell her i knew her husband, or something of that sort? i'll make it all right when i see her." * * * * * "the scoundrel!" said brenton to speed, as stratton made this remark. "my dear sir," said speed, "don't you see he is just the man we want? this is not the time to be particular." "yes, but think of the treachery and meanness of telling a poor unfortunate woman that he was acquainted with her husband, who is only a few days dead." "now, see here," said speed, "if you are going to look on matters in this way you will be a hindrance and not a help in the affair. don't you appreciate the situation? why, mrs. brenton's own lawyers, as you have said, think her guilty. what, then, can they learn by talking with her, or what good can they do her with their minds already prejudiced against her? don't you see that?" brenton made no answer to this, but it was evident he was very ill at ease. * * * * * "did you know her husband?" asked the sheriff. "no, to tell you the truth, i never heard of him before. but i must see this lady, both for my good and hers, and i am not going to let a little thing like that stand between us. won't you tell her that i have come with a letter from her own lawyers? just show her the letter, and say that i will take up but very little of her time. i am sorry to ask this much of you, but you see how i am placed." "oh, that's all right," said the sheriff, good-naturedly; "i shall be very glad to do what you wish," and with that he once more disappeared. the sheriff stayed away longer this time, and stratton paced the room impatiently. finally, the official returned, and said-- "mrs. brenton has consented to see you. come this way, please. you will excuse me, i know," continued the sheriff, as they walked along together, "but it is part of my duty to remain in the room while you are talking with mrs. brenton." "certainly, certainly," said stratton; "i understand that." "very well; then, if i may make a suggestion, i would say this: you should be prepared to ask just what you want to know, and do it all as speedily as possible, for really mrs. brenton is in a condition of nervous exhaustion that renders it almost cruel to put her through any rigid cross-examination." "i understand that also," said stratton; "but you must remember that she has a very much harder trial to undergo in the future. i am exceedingly anxious to get at the truth of this thing, and so, if it seems to you that i am asking a lot of very unnecessary questions, i hope you will not interfere with me as long as mrs. brenton consents to answer." "i shall not interfere at all," said the sheriff; "i only wanted to caution you, for the lady may break down at any moment. if you can marshal your questions so that the most important ones come first, i think it will be wise. i presume you have them pretty well arranged in your own mind?" "well, i can't say that i have; you see, i am entirely in the dark. i got no help whatever from the lawyers, and from what i know of their defence i am thoroughly convinced that they are on the wrong track." "what! did brown say anything about the defence? that is not like his usual caution." "he didn't intend to," answered stratton; "but i found out all i wanted to know, nevertheless. you see, i shall have to ask what appears to be a lot of rambling, inconsequential questions because you can never tell in a case like this when you may get the key to the whole mystery." "well, here we are," said the sheriff, as he knocked at a door, and then pushed it open. from the moment george stratton saw mrs. brenton his interest in the case ceased to be purely journalistic. mrs. brenton was standing near the window, and she appeared to be very calm and collected, but her fingers twitched nervously, clasping and unclasping each other. her modest dress of black was certainly a very becoming one. george thought he had never seen a woman so beautiful. as she was standing up, she evidently intended the interview to be a short one. "madam," said stratton, "i am very sorry indeed to trouble you; but i have taken a great interest in the solution of this mystery, and i have your lawyers' permission to visit you. i assure you, anything you say will be submitted to them, so that there will be no danger of your case being prejudiced by any statements made." "i am not afraid," said mrs. brenton, "that the truth will injure or prejudice my case." "i am sure of that," answered the newspaper man; and then, knowing that she would not sit down if he asked her to, he continued diplomatically, "madam, will you permit me to sit down? i wish to write out my notes as carefully as possible. accuracy is my strong point." "certainly," said mrs. brenton; and, seeing that it was not probable the interview would be a short one, she seated herself by the window, while the sheriff took a chair in the corner, and drew a newspaper from his pocket. "now, madam," said the special, "a great number of the questions i ask you may seem trivial, but as i said to the sheriff a moment ago, some word of yours that appears to you entirely unconnected with the case may give me a clue which will be exceedingly valuable. you will, therefore, i am sure, pardon me if some of the questions i ask you appear irrelevant." mrs. brenton bowed her head, but said nothing. "were your husband's business affairs in good condition at the time of his death?" "as far as i know they were." "did you ever see anything in your husband's actions that would lead you to think him a man who might have contemplated suicide?" mrs. brenton looked up with wide-open eyes. "certainly not," she said. "had he ever spoken to you on the subject of suicide?" "i do not remember that he ever did." "was he ever queer in his actions? in short, did you ever notice anything about him that would lead you to doubt his sanity? i am sorry if questions i ask you seem painful, but i have reasons for wishing to be certain on this point." "no," said mrs. brenton; "he was perfectly sane. no man could have been more so. i am certain that he never thought of committing suicide." "why are you so certain on that point?" "i do not know why. i only know i am positive of it." "do you know if he had any enemy who might wish his death?" "i doubt if he had an enemy in the world. i do not know of any." "have you ever heard him speak of anybody in a spirit of enmity?" "never. he was not a man who bore enmity against people. persons whom he did not like he avoided." "the poison, it is said, was put into his cup of coffee. do you happen to know," said stratton, turning to the sheriff, "how they came to that conclusion?" "no, i do not," answered the sheriff. "in fact, i don't see any reason why they should think so." "was morphia found in the coffee cup afterwards?" "no; at the time of the inquest all the things had been cleared away. i think it was merely presumed that the morphine was put into his coffee." "who poured out the coffee he drank that night?" "i did," answered his wife. "you were at one end of the table and he at the other, i suppose?" "yes." "how did the coffee cup reach him?" "i gave it to the servant, and she placed it before him." "it passed through no other hands, then?" "no." "who was the servant?" mrs. brenton pondered for a moment. "i really know very little about her. she had been in our house for a couple of weeks only." "what was her name?" "jane morton, i think." "where is she now, do you know?" "i do not know." "she appeared at the inquest, of course?" said stratton, turning to the sheriff. "i think she did," was the answer. "i am not sure." he marked her name down in the note-book. "how many people were there at the dinner?" "including my husband and myself, there were twenty-six." "could you give me the name of each of them?" "yes, i think so." she repeated the names, which he took down, with certain notes and comments on each. "who sat next your husband at the head of the table?" "miss walker was at his right hand, mr. roland at his left." "now, forgive me if i ask you if you have ever had any trouble with your husband?" "never." "never had any quarrel?" mrs. brenton hesitated for a moment. "no, i don't think we ever had what could be called a quarrel." "you had no disagreement shortly before the dinner?" again mrs. brenton hesitated. "i can hardly call it a disagreement," she said. "we had a little discussion about some of the guests who were to be invited." "did he object to any that were there?" "there was a gentleman there whom he did not particularly like, i think, but he made no objection to his coming; in fact, he seemed to feel that i might imagine he had an objection from a little discussion we had about inviting him; and afterwards, as if to make up for that, he placed this guest at his left hand." stratton quickly glanced up the page of his notebook, and marked a little cross before the name of stephen roland. "you had another disagreement with him before, if i might term it so, had you not?" mrs. brenton looked at him surprised. "what makes you think so?" she said. "because you hesitated when i spoke of it." "well, we had what you might call a disagreement once at lucerne, switzerland." "will you tell me what it was about?" "i would rather not." "will you tell me this--was it about a gentleman?" "yes," said mrs. brenton. "was your husband of a jealous disposition?" "ordinarily i do not think he was. it seemed to me at the time that he was a little unjust--that's all." "was the gentleman in lucerne?" "oh no!" "in cincinnati?" "yes." "was his name stephen roland?" mrs. brenton again glanced quickly at the newspaper man, and seemed about to say something, but, checking herself, she simply answered-- "yes." then she leaned back in the armchair and sighed. "i am very tired," she said. "if it is not absolutely necessary, i prefer not to continue this conversation." stratton immediately rose. "madam," he said, "i am very much obliged to you for the trouble you have taken to answer my questions, which i am afraid must have seemed impertinent to you, but i assure you that i did not intend them to be so. now, madam, i would like very much to get a promise from you. i wish that you would promise to see me if i call again, and i, on my part, assure you that unless i have something particularly important to tell you, or to ask, i shall not intrude upon you." "i shall be pleased to see you at any time, sir." when the sheriff and the newspaper man reached the other room, the former said-- "well, what do you think?" "i think it is an interesting case," was the answer. "or, to put it in other words, you think mrs. brenton a very interesting lady." "officially, sir, you have exactly stated my opinion." "and i suppose, poor woman, she will furnish an interesting article for the paper?" "hang the paper!" said stratton, with more than his usual vim. the sheriff laughed. then he said-- "i confess that to me it seems a very perplexing affair all through. have you got any light on the subject?" "my dear sir, i will tell you three important things. first, mrs. brenton is innocent. second, her lawyers are taking the wrong line of defence. third," tapping his breast-pocket, "i have the name of the murderer in my note-book." chapter viii. "now," said john speed to william brenton, "we have got stratton fairly started on the track, and i believe that he will ferret out the truth in this matter. but, meanwhile, we must not be idle. you must remember that, with all our facilities for discovery, we really know nothing of the murderer ourselves. i propose we set about this thing just as systematically as stratton will. the chances are that we shall penetrate the mystery of the whole affair very much quicker than he. as i told you before, i am something of a newspaper man myself; and if, with the facilities of getting into any room in any house, in any city and in any country, and being with a suspected criminal night and day when he never imagines any one is near him--if with all those advantages i cannot discover the real author of that crime before george stratton does, then i'll never admit that i came from chicago, or belonged to a newspaper." "whom do you think stratton suspects of the crime? he told the sheriff," said brenton, "that he had the name in his pocket-book." "i don't know," said speed, "but i have my suspicions. you see, he has the names of all the guests at your banquet in that pocket-book of his; but the name of stephen roland he has marked with two crosses. the name of the servant he has marked with one cross. now, i suspect that he believes stephen roland committed the crime. you know roland; what do you think of him?" "i think he is quite capable of it," answered brenton, with a frown. "still, you are prejudiced against the man," put in speed, "so your evidence is hardly impartial." "i am not prejudiced against any one," answered brenton; "i merely know that man. he is a thoroughly despicable, cowardly character. the only thing that makes me think he would not commit a murder, is that he is too craven to stand the consequences if he were caught. he is a cool villain, but he is a coward. i do not believe he has the courage to commit a crime, even if he thought he would benefit by it." "well, there is one thing, brenton, you can't be accused of flattering a man, and if it is any consolation for you to know, you may be pretty certain that george stratton is on his track." "i am sure i wish him success," answered brenton, gloomily; "if he brings roland to the gallows i shall not mourn over it." "that's all right," said speed; "but now we must be up and doing ourselves. have you anything to propose?" "no, i have not, except that we might play the detective on roland." "well, the trouble with that is we would merely be duplicating what stratton is doing himself. now, i'll tell you my proposal. supposing that we consult with lecocq." "who is that? the novelist?" "novelist? i don't think he has ever written any novels--not that i remember of." "ah, i didn't know. it seemed to me that i remembered his name in connection with some novel." "oh, very likely you did. he is the hero of more detective stories than any other man i know of. he was the great french detective." "what, is he dead, then?" "dead? not a bit of it; he's here with us. oh, i understand what you mean. yes, from your point of view, he is dead." "where can we find him?" "well, i presume, in paris. he's a first-rate fellow to know, anyhow, and he spends most of his time around his old haunts. in fact, if you want to be certain to find lecocq, you will generally get him during office hours in the room he used to frequent while in paris." "let us go and see him, then." * * * * * "monsieur lecocq," said speed, a moment afterwards, "i wish to introduce to you a new-comer, mr. brenton, recently of cincinnati." "ah, my dear speed," said the frenchman, "i am very pleased indeed to meet any friend of yours. how is the great chicago, the second paris, and how is your circulation?--the greatest in the world, i suppose." "well, it is in pretty good order," said speed; "we circulated from chicago to paris here in a very much shorter time than the journey usually occupies down below. now, can you give us a little of your time? are you busy just now?" "my dear speed, i am always busy. i am like the people of the second paris. i lose no time, but i have always time to speak with my friends." "all right," said speed. "i am like the people of the second chicago, generally more intent on pleasure than business; but, nevertheless, i have a piece of business for you." "the second chicago?" asked lecocq. "and where is that, pray?" "why, paris, of course," said speed. lecocq laughed. "you are incorrigible, you chicagoans. and what is the piece of business?" "it is the old thing, monsieur. a mystery to be unravelled. mr. brenton here wishes to retain you in his case." "and what is his case?" was the answer. lecocq was evidently pleased to have a bit of real work given him. [illustration: the detective.] speed briefly recited the facts, brenton correcting him now and then on little points where he was wrong. speed seemed to think these points immaterial, but lecocq said that attention to trivialities was the whole secret of the detective business. "ah," said lecocq, sorrowfully, "there is no real trouble in elucidating that mystery. i hoped it would be something difficult; but, you see, with my experience of the old world, and with the privileges one enjoys in this world, things which might be difficult to one below are very easy for us. now, i shall show you how simple it is." "good gracious!" cried speed, "you don't mean to say you are going to read it right off the reel, like that, when we have been bothering ourselves with it so long, and without success?" "at the moment," replied the french detective, "i am not prepared to say who committed the deed. that is a matter of detail. now, let us see what we know, and arrive, from that, at what we do not know. the one fact, of which we are assured on the statement of two physicians from cincinnati, is that mr. brenton was poisoned." "well," said speed, "there are several other facts, too. another fact is that mrs. brenton is accused of the crime." "ah! my dear sir," said lecocq, "that is not pertinent." "no," said speed, "i agree with you. i call it very impertinent." brenton frowned, at this, and his old dislike to the flippant chicago man rose to the surface again. the frenchman continued marking the points on his long forefinger. "now, there are two ways by which that result may have been attained. first, mr. brenton may have administered to himself the poison; secondly, the poison may have been administered by some one else." "yes," said speed; "and, thirdly, the poison may have been administered accidentally--you do not seem to take that into account." "i do not take that into account," calmly replied the frenchman, "because of its improbability. if there were an accident; if, for instance, the poison was in the sugar, or in some of the viands served, then others than mr. brenton would have been poisoned. the fact that one man out of twenty-six was poisoned, and the fact that several people are to benefit by his death, point, it seems to me, to murder; but to be sure of that, i will ask mr. brenton one question. my dear sir, did you administer this poison to yourself?" "certainly not," answered brenton. "then we have two facts. first, mr. brenton was poisoned; secondly, he was poisoned by some person who had an interest in his death. now we will proceed. when mr. brenton sat down to that dinner he was perfectly well. when he arose from that dinner he was feeling ill. he goes to bed. he sees no one but his wife after he has left the dinner-table, and he takes nothing between the time he leaves the dinner-table and the moment he becomes unconscious. now, that poison must have been administered to mr. brenton at the dinner-table. am i not right?" "well, you seem to be," answered speed. "seem? why, it is as plain as day. there cannot be any mistake." "all right," said speed; "go ahead. what next?" "what next? there were twenty-six people around that table, with two servants to wait on them, making twenty-eight in all. there were twenty-six, i think you said, including mr. brenton." "that is correct." "very well. one of those twenty-seven persons has poisoned mr. brenton. do you follow me?" "we do," answered speed; "we follow you as closely as you have ever followed a criminal! go on." "very well, so much is clear. these are all facts, not theories. now, what is the thing that i should do if i were in cincinnati? i would find out whether one or more of those guests had anything to gain by the death of their host. that done, i would follow the suspected persons. i would have my men find out what each of them had done for a month before the time of the crime. whoever committed it made some preparation. he did something, too, as you say, in america, to cover up his tracks. very well. by the keen detective these actions are easily traced. i shall at once place twenty-seven of the best men i know on the track of those twenty-seven persons." "i call that shadowing with a vengeance," remarked the chicago man. "it will be very easy. the one who has committed the crime is certain, when he is alone in his own room, to say something, or to do something, that will show my detective that he is the criminal. so, gentlemen, if you can tell me who those twenty-seven persons are, in three days or a week from this time i will tell you who gave the poison to mr. brenton." "you seem very sure of that," said speed. "sure of it? it is simply child's play. it is mere waiting. if, for instance, at the trial mrs. brenton is found guilty, and sentenced, the one who is the guilty party is certain to betray himself or herself as soon as he or she is alone. if it be a man who hopes to marry mrs. brenton, he will be overcome with grief at what has happened. he will wring his hands and try to think what can be done to prevent the sentence being carried out. he will argue with himself whether it is better to give himself up and tell the truth, and if he is a coward he will conclude not to do that, but will try to get a pardon, or at least have the capital sentence commuted into life imprisonment. he will possibly be cool and calm in public, but when he enters his own room, when his door is locked, when he believes no one can see him, when he thinks he is alone, then will come his trial. then his passions and his emotions will betray him. it is mere child's play, as i tell you, and long before there is a verdict i will give you the name of the murderer." "very well, then," said speed, "that is agreed; we will look you up in a week from now." "i should be pained," said lecocq, "to put you to that trouble. as soon as i get the report from my men i will communicate with you and let you know the result. in a few days i shall give you the name of the assassin." "good-bye, then, until i see you again," answered speed; and with this he and brenton took their departure. "he seems to be very sure of himself," said brenton. [illustration: jane morton.] "he will do what he says, you may depend on that." the week was not yet up when monsieur lecocq met john speed in chicago. "by the look of satisfaction on your face," said mr. speed, "i imagine you have succeeded in unravelling the mystery." "ah," replied the frenchman; "if i have the appearance of satisfaction, it is indeed misplaced." "then you have not made any discovery?" "on the contrary, it is all as plain as your big buildings here. it is not for that reason, but because it is so simple that i should be foolish to feel satisfaction regarding it." "then who is the person?" "the assassin," replied the frenchman, "is one whom no one has seemed to think of, and yet one on whom suspicion should have been the first to fall. the person who did monsieur brenton the honour to poison him is none other than the servant girl, jane morton." chapter ix. "jane morton!" cried speed; "who is she?" "she is, as you may remember, the girl who carried the coffee from mrs. brenton to monsieur." "and are you sure she is the criminal?" the great detective did not answer; he merely gave an expressive little french gesture, as though the question was not worth commenting upon. "why, what was her motive?" asked speed. for the first time in their acquaintance a shade of perplexity seemed to come over the enthusiastic face of the volatile frenchman. "you are what you call smart, you chicago people," he said, "and you have in a moment struck the only point on which we are at a loss." "my dear sir," returned speed, "that is _the_ point in the case. motive is the first thing to look for, it seems to me. you said as much yourself. if you haven't succeeded in finding what motive jane morton had for poisoning her employer, it appears to me that very little has been accomplished." "ah, you say that before you know the particulars. i am certain we shall find the motive. what i know now is that jane morton is the one who put the poison in his cup of coffee." "it would take a good deal of nerve to do that with twenty-six people around the table. you forget, my dear sir, that she had to pass the whole length of the table, after taking the cup, before giving it to mr. brenton." "half of the people had their backs to her, and the other half, i can assure you, were not looking at her. if the poison was ready, it was a very easy thing to slip it into a cup of coffee. there was ample time to do it, and that is how it was done." "may i ask how you arrived at that conclusion?" "certainly, certainly, my dear sir. my detectives report that each one of the twenty-seven people they had to follow were shadowed night and day. but only two of them acted suspiciously. these two were jane morton and stephen roland. stephen roland's anxiety is accounted for by the fact that he is evidently in love with mrs. brenton. but the change in jane morton has been something terrible. she is suffering from the severest pangs of ineffectual remorse. she has not gone out again to service, but occupies a room in one of the poorer quarters of the city--a room that she never leaves except at night. her whole actions show that she is afraid of the police--afraid of being tracked for her crime. she buys a newspaper every night, locks and bars the door on entering her room, and, with tears streaming from her eyes, reads every word of the criminal news. one night, when she went out to buy her paper, and what food she needed for the next day, she came unexpectedly upon a policeman at the corner. the man was not looking at her at all, nor for her, but she fled, running like a deer, doubling and turning through alleys and back streets until by a very roundabout road she reached her own room. there she locked herself in, and remained without food all next day rather than go out again. she flung herself terror-stricken on the bed, after her room door was bolted, and cried, 'oh, why did i do it? why did i do it? i shall certainly be found out. if mrs. brenton is acquitted, they will be after me next day. i did it to make up to john what he had suffered, and yet if john knew it, he would never speak to me again.'" [illustration: "oh, why did i do it?"] "who is john?" asked speed. "ah, that," said the detective, "i do not know. when we find out who john is, then we shall find the motive for the crime." "in that case, if i were you, i should try to find john as quickly as possible." "yes, my dear sir, that is exactly what should be done, and my detective is now endeavouring to discover the identity of john. he will possibly succeed in a few days. but there is another way of finding out who john is, and perhaps in that you can help me." "what other way?" "there is one man who undoubtedly knows who john is, and that is mr. brenton. now, i thought that perhaps you, who know brenton better than i do, would not mind asking him who john is." "my dear sir," said speed, "brenton is no particular friend of mine, and i only know him well enough to feel that if there is any cross-examination to be done, i should prefer somebody else to do it." "why, you are not afraid of him, are you?" asked the detective. "afraid of him? certainly not, but i tell you that brenton is just a little touchy and apt to take offence. i have found him so on several occasions. now, as you have practically taken charge of this case, why don't you go and see him?" "i suppose i shall have to do that," said the frenchman, "if you will not undertake it." "no, i will not." "you have no objection, have you, to going with me?" "it is better for you to see brenton alone. i do not think he would care to be cross-examined before witnesses, you know." "ah, then, good-bye; i shall find out from mr. brenton who john is." "i am sure i wish you luck," replied speed, as lecocq took his departure. lecocq found brenton and ferris together. the cynical spirit seemed to have been rather sceptical about the accounts given him of the influence that speed and brenton, combined, had had upon the chicago newspaper man. yet he was interested in the case, and although he still maintained that no practical good would result, even if a channel of communication could be opened between the two states of existence, he had listened with his customary respect to what brenton had to say. "ah," said brenton, when he saw the frenchman, "have you any news for me?" "yes, i have. i have news that i will exchange, but meanwhile i want some news from you." "i have none to give you," answered brenton. "if you have not, will you undertake to answer any questions i shall ask you, and not take offence if the questions seem to be personal ones?" "certainly," said brenton; "i shall be glad to answer anything as long as it has a bearing on the case." "very well, then, it has a very distinct bearing on the case. do you remember the girl jane morton?" "i remember her, of course, as one of the servants in our employ. i know very little about her, though." "that is just what i wish to find out. do you know _anything_ about her?" "no; she had been in our employ but a fortnight, i think, or perhaps it was a month. my wife attended to these details, of course. i knew the girl was there, that is all." the frenchman looked very dubious as brenton said this, while the latter rather bridled up. "you evidently do not believe me?" he cried. once more the detective gave his customary gesture, and said-- "ah, pardon me, you are entirely mistaken. i have this to acquaint you with. jane morton is the one who murdered you. she did it, she says, partly for the sake of john, whoever he is, and partly out of revenge. now, of course, you are the only man who can give me information as to the motive. that girl certainly had a motive, and i should like to find out what the motive was." brenton meditated for a few moments, and then suddenly brightened up. "i remember, now, an incident which happened a week of two before christmas, which may have a bearing on the case. one night i heard--or thought i heard--a movement downstairs, when i supposed everybody had retired. i took a revolver in my hand, and went cautiously down the stairs. of course i had no light, because, if there was a burglar, i did not wish to make myself too conspicuous a mark. as i went along the hall leading to the kitchen, i saw there was a light inside; but as soon as they heard me coming the light was put out. when i reached the kitchen, i noticed a man trying to escape through the door that led to the coalshed. i fired at him twice, and he sank to the floor with a groan. i thought i had bagged a burglar sure, but it turned out to be nothing of the kind. he was merely a young man who had been rather late visiting one of the girls. i suspect now the girl he came to see was jane morton. as it was, the noise brought the two girls there, and i never investigated the matter or tried to find out which one it was that he had been visiting. they were both terror-stricken, and the young man himself was in a state of great fear. he thought for a moment that he had been killed. however, he was only shot in the leg, and i sent him to the house of a physician who keeps such patients as do not wish to go to the hospital. i did not care to have him go to the hospital, because i was afraid the newspapers would get hold of the incident, and make a sensation of it. the whole thing was accidental; the young fellow realized that, and so, i thought, did the girls; at least, i never noticed anything in their behaviour to show the contrary." "what sort of a looking girl is jane morton?" asked ferris. "she is a tall brunette, with snapping black eyes." "ah, then, i remember her going into the room where you lay," said ferris, "on christmas morning. it struck me when she came out that she was very cool and self-possessed, and not at all surprised." "all i can say," said brenton, "is that i never noticed anything in her conduct like resentment at what had happened. i intended to give the young fellow a handsome compensation for his injury, but of course what occurred on christmas eve prevented that: i had really forgotten all about the circumstance, or i should have told you of it before." "then," said lecocq, "the thing now is perfectly clear. that black-eyed vixen murdered you out of revenge." [illustration] chapter x. it was evident to george stratton that he would have no time before the trial came off in which to prove stephen roland the guilty person. besides this, he was in a strange state of mind which he himself could not understand. the moment he sat down to think out a plan by which he could run down the man he was confident had committed the crime, a strange wavering of mind came over him. something seemed to say to him that he was on the wrong track. this became so persistent that george was bewildered, and seriously questioned his own sanity. whenever he sat alone in his own room, the doubts arose and a feeling that he was on the wrong scent took possession of him. this feeling became so strong at times that he looked up other clues, and at one time tried to find out the whereabouts of the servant girls who had been employed by the brentons. curiously enough, the moment he began this search, his mind seemed to become clearer and easier; and when that happened, the old belief in the guilt of stephen roland resumed its sway again. but the instant he tried to follow up what clues he had in that direction, he found himself baffled and assailed again by doubts, and so every effort he put forth appeared to be nullified. this state of mind was so unusual with him that he had serious thoughts of abandoning the whole case and going back to chicago. he said to himself, "i am in love with this woman and i shall go crazy if i stay here any longer." then he remembered the trust she appeared to have in his powers of ferreting out the mystery of the case, and this in turn encouraged him and urged him on. all trace of the girls appeared to be lost. he hesitated to employ a cincinnati detective, fearing that what he discovered would be given away to the cincinnati press. then he accused himself of disloyalty to mrs. brenton, in putting his newspaper duty before his duty to her. he was so torn by his conflicting ideas and emotions that at last he resolved to abandon the case altogether and return to chicago. he packed up his valise and resolved to leave that night for big city, trial or no trial. he had described his symptoms to a prominent physician, and that physician told him that the case was driving him mad, and the best thing he could do was to leave at once for other scenes. he could do no good, and would perhaps end by going insane himself. as george stratton was packing his valise in his room, alone, as he thought, the following conversation was taking place beside him. "it is no use," said speed; "we are merely muddling him, and not doing any good. the only thing is to leave him alone. if he investigates the roland part of the case he will soon find out for himself that he is on the wrong track; then he will take the right one." "yes," said brenton; "but the case comes on in a few days. if anything is to be done, it must be done now." "in that i do not agree with you," said speed. "perhaps everything will go all right at the trial, but even if it does not, there is still a certain amount of time. you see how we have spoiled things by interfering. our first success with him has misled us. we thought we could do anything; we have really done worse than nothing, because all this valuable time has been lost. if he had been allowed to proceed in his own way he would have ferreted out the matter as far as stephen roland is concerned, and would have found that there was no cause for his suspicion. as it is he has done nothing. he still believes, if left alone, that stephen roland is the criminal. all our efforts to lead him to the residence of jane morton have been unavailing. now, you see, he is on the eve of going back to chicago." "well, then, let him go," said brenton, despondently. "with all my heart, say i," answered speed; "but in any case let us leave him alone." before the train started that night stratton said to himself that he was a new man. richard was himself again. he was thoroughly convinced of the guilt of stephen roland, and wondered why he had allowed his mind to wander off the topic and waste time with other suspicions, for which he now saw there was no real excuse. he had not the time, he felt, to investigate the subject personally, but he flattered himself he knew exactly the man to put on roland's track, and, instead of going himself to chicago, he sent off the following despatch:-- "meet me to-morrow morning, without fail, at the gibson house. answer." before midnight he had his answer, and next morning he met a man in whom he had the most implicit confidence, and who had, as he said, the rare and valuable gift of keeping his mouth shut. "you see this portrait?" stratton said, handing to the other a photograph of stephen roland. "now, i do not know how many hundred chemist shops there are in cincinnati, but i want you to get a list of them, and you must not omit the most obscure shop in town. i want you to visit every drug store there is in the city, show this photograph to the proprietor and the clerks, and find out if that man bought any chemicals during the week or two preceding christmas. find out what drugs he bought, and where he bought them, then bring the information to me." "how much time do you give me on this, mr. stratton?" was the question. "whatever time you want. i wish the thing done thoroughly and completely, and, as you know, silence is golden in a case like this." [illustration: "how much time do you give me?"] "enough said," replied the other, and, buttoning the photograph in his inside pocket, he left the room. * * * * * there is no necessity of giving an elaborate report of the trial. any one who has curiosity in the matter can find the full particulars from the files of any paper in the country. mrs. brenton was very pale as she sat in the prisoner's dock, but george stratton thought he never saw any one look so beautiful. it seemed to him that any man in that crowded courtroom could tell in a moment that she was not guilty of the crime with which she was charged, and he looked at the jury of twelve supposedly good men, and wondered what they thought of it. [illustration: in the prisoner's dock.] the defence claimed that it was not their place to show who committed the murder. that rested with the prosecution. the prosecution, mr. benham maintained, had signally failed to do this. however, in order to aid the prosecution, he was quite willing to show how mr. brenton came to his death. then witnesses were called, who, to the astonishment of mrs. brenton, testified that her husband had all along had a tendency to insanity. it was proved conclusively that some of his ancestors had died in a lunatic asylum, and one was stated to have committed suicide. the defence produced certain books from mr. brenton's library, among them forbes winslow's volume on "the mind and the brain," to show that brenton had studied the subject of suicide. the judge's charge was very colourless. it amounted simply to this: if the jury thought the prosecution had shown mrs. brenton to have committed the crime, they were to bring in a verdict of guilty, and if they thought otherwise they were to acquit her; and so the jury retired. as they left the court-room a certain gloom fell upon all those who were friendly to the fair prisoner. despite the great reputation of benham and brown, it was the thought of every one present that they had made a very poor defence. the prosecution, on the other hand, had been most ably conducted. it had been shown that mrs. brenton was chiefly to profit by her husband's death. the insurance fund alone would add seventy-five thousand dollars to the money she would control. a number of little points that stratton had given no heed to had been magnified, and appeared then to have a great bearing on the case. for the first time, stratton admitted to himself that the prosecution had made out a very strong case of circumstantial evidence. the defence, too, had been so deplorably weak that it added really to the strength of the prosecution. a great speech had been expected of benham, but he did not rise to the occasion, and, as one who knew him said, benham evidently believed his client guilty. as the jury retired, every one in the court-room felt that there was little hope for the prisoner; and this feeling was intensified when, a few moments after, the announcement was made in court, just as the judge was preparing to leave the bench, that the jury had agreed on the verdict. stratton, in the stillness of the court-room, heard one lawyer whisper to another, "she's doomed." there was intense silence as the jury slowly filed into their places, and the foreman stood up. "gentlemen of the jury," was the question, "have you agreed upon a verdict?" "we have," answered the foreman. "do you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty?" "not guilty," was the clear answer. at this there was first a moment of silence, and then a ripple of applause, promptly checked. mrs. brenton was free. chapter xi. george stratton sat in the court-room for a moment dazed, before he thought of the principal figure in the trial; then he rose to go to her side, but he found that roland was there before him. he heard her say, "get me a carriage quickly, and take me away from here." so stratton went back to his hotel to meet his chicago detective. the latter had nothing to report. he told him the number of drug stores he had visited, but all without avail. no one had recognized the portrait. "all right," said stratton; "then you will just have to go ahead until you find somebody who does. it is, i believe, only a question of time and perseverance." next morning he arose late. he looked over the report of the trial in the morning paper, and then, turning to the leader page, read with rising indignation the following editorial:-- "the brenton case. "the decision of yesterday shows the glorious uncertainty that attends the finding of the average american jury. if such verdicts are to be rendered, we may as well blot out from the statute-book all punishment for all crimes in which the evidence is largely circumstantial. if ever a strong case was made out against a human being it was the case of the prosecution in the recent trial. if ever there was a case in which the defence was deplorably weak, although ably conducted, it was the case that was concluded yesterday. should we, then, be prepared to say that circumstantial evidence will not be taken by an american jury as ground for the conviction of a murderer? the chances are that, if we draw this conclusion, we shall be entirely wrong. if a man stood in the dock, in the place of the handsome young woman who occupied it yesterday, he would to-day have been undoubtedly convicted of murder. the conclusion, then, to be arrived at seems to be that, unless there is the direct proof of murder against a pretty woman, it is absolutely impossible to get the average jury of men to convict her. it would seem that the sooner we get women on juries, especially where a woman is on trial, the better it will be for the cause of justice." then in other parts of the paper there were little items similar to this-- "if mrs. brenton did not poison her husband, then who did?" that afternoon george stratton paid a visit to mrs. brenton. he had hoped she had not seen the paper in question, but he hoped in vain. he found mrs. brenton far from elated with her acquittal. "i would give everything i possess," she said, "to bring the culprit to justice." after a talk on that momentous question, and when george stratton held her hand and said good-bye, she asked him-- "when do you go to chicago?" "madam," he said, "i leave for chicago the moment i find out who poisoned william brenton." she answered sadly-- "you may remain a long time in cincinnati." "in some respects," said stratton, "i like cincinnati better than chicago." "you are the first chicago man i ever heard say that," she replied. "ah, that was because they did not know cincinnati as i do." "i suppose you must have seen a great deal of the town, but i must confess that from now on i should be very glad if i never saw cincinnati again. i would like to consult with you," she continued, "about the best way of solving this mystery. i have been thinking of engaging some of the best detectives i can get. i suppose new york would be the place." "no; chicago," answered the young man. "well, then, that is what i wanted to see you about. i would like to get the very best detectives that can be had. don't you think that, if they were promised ample reward, and paid well during the time they were working on the case, we might discover the key to this mystery?" "i do not think much of our detective system," answered stratton, "although i suppose there is something in it, and sometimes they manage in spite of themselves to stumble on the solution of a crime. still, i shall be very glad indeed to give you what advice i can on the subject. i may say i have constituted myself a special detective in this case, and that i hope to have the honour of solving the problem." "you are very good, indeed," she answered, "and i must ask you to let me bear the expense." "oh, the paper will do that. i won't be out of pocket at all," said stratton. "well, i hardly know how to put it; but, whether you are successful or not, i feel very grateful to you, and i hope you will not be offended at what i am going to say. now, promise me that you won't!" "i shall not be offended," he answered. "it is a little difficult to offend a chicago newspaper man, you know." "now, you mustn't say anything against the newspaper men, for, in spite of the hard things that some of them have said about me, i like them." "individually or collectively?" [illustration: "i feel very grateful to you."] "i am afraid i must say individually. you said you wouldn't be offended, so after your search is over you must let me----. the labourer is worthy of his hire, or i should say, his reward--you know what i mean. i presume that a young man who earns his living on the daily press is not necessarily wealthy." "why, mrs. brenton, what strange ideas you have of the world! we newspaper men work at the business merely because we like it. it isn't at all for the money that's in it." "then you are not offended at what i have said?" "oh, not in the least. i may say, however, that i look for a higher reward than money if i am successful in this search." "yes, i am sure you do," answered the lady, innocently. "if you succeed in this, you will be very famous." "exactly; it's fame i'm after," said stratton, shaking her hand once more, and taking his leave. when he reached his hotel, he found the chicago detective waiting for him. "well, old man," he said, "anything new?" "yes, sir. something very new." "what have you found out?" "everything." "very well, let me have it." "i found out that this man bought, on december th, thirty grains of morphia. he had this morphia put up in five-grain capsules. he bought this at the drug store on the corner of blank street and nemo avenue." "good gracious!" answered stratton. "then to get morphia he must have had a physician's certificate. did you find who the physician was that signed the certificate?" "my dear sir," said the chicago man, "this person is himself a physician, unless i am very much mistaken. i was told that this was the portrait of stephen roland. am i right?" "that is the name." "well, then, he is a doctor himself. not doing a very large practice, it is true, but he is a physician. did you not know that?" [illustration: "here's the detailed report."] "no," said stratton; "how stupid i am! i never thought of asking the man's occupation." "very well, if that is what you wanted to know, here's the detailed report of my investigation." when the man left, stratton rubbed his hands. "now, mr. stephen roland, i have you," he said. chapter xii. after receiving this information stratton sat alone in his room and thought deeply over his plans. he did not wish to make a false step, yet there was hardly enough in the evidence he had secured to warrant his giving stephen roland up to the police. besides this, it would put the suspected man at once on his guard, and there was no question but that gentleman had taken every precaution to prevent discovery. after deliberating for a long while, he thought that perhaps the best thing he could do was to endeavour to take roland by surprise. meanwhile, before the meditating man stood brenton and speed, and between them there was a serious disagreement of opinion. * * * * * "i tell you what it is," said speed, "there is no use in our interfering with stratton. he is on the wrong track, but, nevertheless, all the influence we can use on him in his present frame of mind will merely do what it did before--it will muddle the man up. now, i propose that we leave him severely alone. let him find out his mistake. he will find it out in some way or other, and then he will be in a condition of mind to turn to the case of jane morton." "but don't you see," argued brenton, "that all the time spent on his present investigation is so much time lost? i will agree to leave him alone, as you say, but let us get somebody else on the morton case." "i don't want to do that," said speed; "because george stratton has taken a great deal of interest in this search. he has done a great deal now, and i think we should he grateful to him for it." "grateful!" growled brenton; "he has done it from the most purely selfish motives that a man can act upon. he has done it entirely for his paper--for newspaper fame. he has done it for money." "now," said speed, hotly, "you must not talk like that of stratton to me. i won't say what i think of that kind of language coming from you, but you can see how seriously we interfered with his work before, and how it nearly resulted in his departure for chicago. i propose now that we leave him alone." "leave him alone, then, for any sake," replied brenton; "i am sure i build nothing on what he can do anyway." "all right, then," returned speed, recovering his good nature. "now, although i am not willing to put any one else on the track of miss jane morton, yet i will tell you what i am willing to do. if you like, we will go to her residence, and influence her to confess her crime. i believe that can be done." "very well; i want you to understand that i am perfectly reasonable about the matter. all i want is not to lose any more time." "time?" cried speed; "why, we have got all the time there is. mrs. brenton is acquitted. there is no more danger." "that is perfectly true, i admit; but still you can see the grief under which she labours, because her name is not yet cleared from the odium of the crime. you will excuse me, speed, if i say that you seem to be working more in the interests of stratton's journalistic success than in the interests of mrs. brenton's good name." "well, we won't talk about that," said speed; "stratton is amply able to take care of himself, as you will doubtless see. now, what do you say to our trying whether or not we can influence jane morton to do what she ought to do, and confess her crime?" "it is not a very promising task," replied brenton; "it is hard to get a person to say words that may lead to the gallows." "i'm not so sure about that," said speed; "you know the trouble of mind she is in. i think it more than probable that, after the terror of the last few weeks, it will be a relief for her to give herself up." "very well; let us go." the two men shortly afterwards found themselves in the scantily furnished room occupied by jane morton. that poor woman was rocking herself to and fro and moaning over her trouble. then she suddenly stopped rocking, and looked around the room with vague apprehension in her eyes. she rose and examined the bolts of the door, and, seeing everything was secure, sat down again. "i shall never have any peace in this world again," she cried to herself. she rocked back and forth silently for a few moments. "i wish," she said, "the police would find out all about it, and then this agony of mind would end." again she rocked back and forth, with her hands helplessly in her lap. "oh, i cannot do it, _i cannot do it_!" she sobbed, still rocking to and fro. finally she started to her feet. "i _will_ do it," she cried; "i will confess to mrs. brenton herself. i will tell her everything. she has gone through trouble herself, and may have mercy on me." "there, you see," said speed to brenton, "we have overcome the difficulty, after all." "it certainly looks like it," replied brenton. "don't you think, however, that we had better stay with her until she _does_ confess? may she not change her mind?" "don't let us overdo the thing," suggested speed; "if she doesn't, come to time, we can easily have another interview with her. the woman's mind is made up. she is in torment, and will be until she confesses her crime. let us go and leave her alone." * * * * * george stratton was not slow to act when he had once made up his mind. he pinned to the breast of his vest a little shield, on which was the word "detective." this he had often found useful, in a way that is not at all sanctioned by the law, in ferreting out crime in chicago. as soon as it was evening he paced up and down in front of roland's house, and on the opposite side of the road. there was a light in the doctor's study, and he thought that perhaps the best way to proceed was to go boldly into the house and put his scheme into operation. however, as he meditated on this, the light was turned low, and in a few moments the door opened. the doctor came down the steps, and out on the pavement, walking briskly along the street. the reporter followed him on the other side of the thoroughfare. whether to do it in the dark or in the light, was the question that troubled stratton. if he did it in the dark, he would miss the expression on the face of the surprised man. if he did it in the light, the doctor might recognize him as the chicago reporter, and would know at once that he was no detective. still, he felt that if there was anything in his scheme at all, it was surprise; and he remembered the quick gasp of the lawyer brown when he told him he knew what his defence was. he must be able to note the expression of the man who was guilty of the terrible crime. having made up his mind to this, he stepped smartly after the doctor, and, when the latter came under a lamp-post, placed his hand suddenly on his shoulder, and exclaimed-- "doctor stephen roland, i arrest you for the murder of william brenton!" chapter xiii. stephen roland turned quietly around and shook the hand from his shoulder. it was evident that he recognized stratton instantly. "is this a chicago joke?" asked the doctor. "if it is, mr. roland, i think you will find it a very serious one." "aren't you afraid that _you_ may find it a serious one?" "i don't see why i should have any fears in the premises," answered the newspaper man. "my dear sir, do you not realize that i could knock you down or shoot you dead for what you have done, and be perfectly justified in doing so?" "if you either knock or shoot," replied the other, "you will have to do it very quickly, for, in the language of the wild and woolly west, i've got the drop on you. in my coat pocket is a cocked revolver with my forefinger on the trigger. if you make a hostile move i can let daylight through you so quickly that you won't know what has struck you." "electric light, i think you mean," answered the doctor, quietly. "even a chicago man might find it difficult to let daylight through a person at this time in the evening. now, this sort of thing may be chicago manners, but i assure you it will not go down here in cincinnati. you have rendered yourself liable to the law if i cared to make a point of it, but i do not. come back with me to my study. i would like to talk with you." stratton began to feel vaguely that he had made a fool of himself. his scheme had utterly failed. the doctor was a great deal cooler and more collected than he was. nevertheless, he had a deep distrust of the gentleman, and he kept his revolver handy for fear the other would make a dash to escape him. they walked back without saying a word to each other until they came to the doctor's office. into the house they entered, and the doctor bolted the door behind them. stratton suspected that very likely he was walking into a trap, but he thought he would be equal to any emergency that might arise. the doctor walked into the study, and again locked the door of that. pulling down the blinds, he turned up the gas to its full force and sat down by a table, motioning the newspaper man to a seat on the other side. "now," he said calmly to stratton, "the reason i did not resent your unwarrantable insult is this: you are conscientiously trying to get at the root of this mystery. so am i. your reason is that you wish to score a victory for your paper. my motive is entirely different, but our object is exactly the same. now, by some strange combination of circumstances you have come to the conclusion that i committed the crime. am i right?" "you are perfectly correct, doctor," replied stratton. "very well, then. now, i assure you that i am entirely innocent. of course, i appreciate the fact that this assurance will not in the slightest degree affect your opinion, but i am interested in knowing why you came to your conclusion, and perhaps by putting our heads together, even if i dislike you and you hate me, we may see some light on this matter that has hitherto been hidden. i presume you have no objection at all to co-operate with me?" "none in the least," was the reply. "very well, then. now, don't mind my feelings at all, but tell me exactly why you have suspected me of being a murderer." "well," answered stratton, "in the first place we must look for a motive. it seems to me that you have a motive for the crime." "and might i ask what that motive is, or was?" "you will admit that you disliked brenton?" "i will admit that, yes." "very well. you will admit also that you were--well, how shall i put it?--let us say, interested in his wife before her marriage?" "i will admit that; yes." "you, perhaps, will admit that you are interested in her now?" "i do not see any necessity for admitting that; but still, for the purpose of getting along with the case, i will admit it. go on." "very good. here is a motive for the crime, and a very strong one. first, we will presume that you are in love with the wife of the man who is murdered. secondly, supposing that you are mercenary, quite a considerable amount of money will come to you in case you marry brenton's widow. next, some one at that table poisoned him. it was not mrs. brenton, who poured out the cup of coffee. the cup of coffee was placed before brenton, and my opinion is that, until it was placed there, there was no poison in that cup. the doomed man was entirely unsuspicious, and therefore it was very easy for a person to slip enough poison in that cup unseen by anybody at that table, so that when he drank his coffee nothing could have saved him. he rose from the table feeling badly, and he went to his room and died. now, who could have placed that poison in his cup of coffee? it must have been one of the two that sat at his right and left hand. a young lady sat at his right hand. she certainly did not commit the crime. you, stephen roland, sat at his left hand. do you deny any of the facts i have recited?" "that is a very ingenious chain of circumstantial evidence. of course, you do not think it strong enough to convict a man of such a serious crime as murder?" "no; i quite realize the weakness of the case up to this point. but there is more to follow. fourteen days before that dinner you purchased at the drug store on the corner of blank street and nemo avenue thirty grains of morphia. you had the poison put up in capsules of five grains each. what do you say to that bit of evidence added to the circumstantial chain which you say is ingenious?" the doctor knit his brows and leaned back in his chair. "by the gods!" he said, "you are right. i did buy that morphia. i remember it now. i don't mind telling you that i had a number of experiments on hand, as every doctor has, and i had those capsules put up at the drug store, but this tragedy coming on made me forget all about the matter." "did you take the morphia with you, doctor?" "no, i did not. and the box of capsules, i do not think, has been opened. but that is easily ascertained." the doctor rose, went to his cabinet, and unlocked it. from a number of packages he selected a small one, and brought it to the desk, placing it before the reporter. "there is the package. that contains, as you say, thirty grains of morphia in half a dozen five-grain capsules. you see that it is sealed just as it left the drug store. now, open it and look for yourself. here are scales; if you want to see whether a single grain is missing or not, find out for yourself. "perhaps," said the newspaper man, "we had better leave this investigation for the proper authorities." "then you still believe that i am the murderer of william brenton?" "yes, i still believe that." "very well; you may do as you please. i think, however, in justice to myself, you should stay right here, and see that this box is not tampered with until the proper authorities, as you say, come." then, placing his hand on the bell, he continued--"whom shall i send for? an ordinary policeman, or some one from the central office? but, now that i think of it, here is a telephone. we can have any one brought here that you wish. i prefer that neither you nor i leave this room until that functionary has appeared. name the authority you want brought here," said the doctor, going to the telephone, "and i will have him here if he is in town." the newspaper man was nonplussed. the doctor's actions did not seem like those of a guilty man. if he were guilty he certainly had more nerve than any person stratton had ever met. so he hesitated. then he said-- "sit down a moment, doctor, and let us talk this thing over." "just as you say," remarked roland, drawing up his chair again. stratton took the package, and looked it over carefully. it was certainly just in the condition in which it had left the drug store; but still, that could have been easily done by the doctor himself. "suppose we open this package?" he said to roland. "with all my heart," said the doctor, "go ahead;" and he shoved over to him a little penknife that was on the table. the reporter took the package, ran the knife around the edge, and opened it. there lay six capsules, filled, as the doctor had said. roland picked up one of them, and looked at it critically. "i assure you," he said, "although i am quite aware you do not believe a word i say, that i have not seen those capsules before." he drew towards him a piece of paper, opened the capsule, and, let the white powder fall on the paper. he looked critically at the powder, and a shade of astonishment came over his face. he picked up the penknife, took a particle on the tip of it, and touched it with his tongue. "don't fool with that thing!" said stratton. "oh, my dear fellow," he said, "morphia is not a poison in small quantities." the moment he had tasted it, however, he suddenly picked up the paper, put the five grains on his tongue, and swallowed them. instantly the reporter sprang to his feet. he saw at once the reason for all the assumed coolness. the doctor was merely gaining time in order to commit suicide. "what have you done?" cried the reporter. "done, my dear fellow? nothing very much. this is not morphia; it is sulphate of quinine." chapter xiv. in the morning jane morton prepared to meet mrs. brenton, and make her confession. she called at the brenton residence, but found it closed, as it had been ever since the tragedy of christmas morning. it took her some time to discover the whereabouts of mrs. brenton, who, since the murder, had resided with a friend except while under arrest. for a moment mrs. brenton did not recognize the thin and pale woman who stood before her in a state of such extreme nervous agitation, that it seemed as if at any moment she might break down and cry. "i don't suppose you'll remember me, ma'am," began the girl, "but i worked for you two weeks before--before----" "oh yes," said mrs. brenton, "i remember you now. have you been ill? you look quite worn and pale, and very different from what you did the last time i saw you." "yes," said the girl, "i believe i have been ill.". "you _believe_; aren't you sure?" "i have been very ill in mind, and troubled, and that is the reason i look so badly,--oh, mrs. brenton, i wanted to tell you of something that has been weighing on my mind ever since that awful day! i know you can never forgive me, but i must tell it to you, or i shall go crazy." "sit down, sit down," said the lady, kindly; "you know what trouble i have been in myself. i am sure that i am more able to sympathize now with one who is in trouble than ever i was before." "yes, ma'am; but you were innocent, and i am guilty. that makes all the difference in the world." "guilty!" cried mrs. brenton, a strange fear coming over her as she stared at the girl; "guilty of _what_?" "oh, madam, let me tell you all about it. there is, of course, no excuse; but i'll begin at the beginning. you remember a while before christmas that john came to see me one night, and we sat up very late in the kitchen, and your husband came down quietly, and when we heard him coming we put out the light and just as john was trying to get away, your husband shot twice at him, and hit him the second time?" "oh yes," said mrs. brenton, "i remember that very well. i had forgotten about it in my own trouble; but i know that my husband intended to do something for the young man. i hope he was not seriously hurt?" [illustration: "guilty! guilty of what?"] "no, ma'am; he is able to be about again now as well as ever, and is not even lame, which we expected he would be. but at the time i thought he was going to be lame all the rest of his life, and perhaps that is the reason i did what i did. when everything was in confusion in the house, and it was certain that we would all have to leave, i did a very wicked thing. i went to your room, and i stole some of your rings, and some money that was there, as well as a lot of other things that were in the room. it seemed to me then, although, of course, i know now how wicked it was, that you owed john something for what he had gone through, and i thought that he was to be lame, and that you would never miss the things; but, oh! madam, i have not slept a night since i took them. i have been afraid of the police and afraid of being found out. i have pawned nothing, and they are all just as i took them, and i have brought them back here to you, with every penny of the money. i know you can never forgive me, but i am willing now to be given up to the police, and i feel better in my mind than i have done ever since i took the things." "my poor child!" said mrs. brenton, sympathetically, "was that _all_?" "all?" cried the girl. "yes, i have brought everything back." "oh, i don't mean that, but i am sorry you have been worried over anything so trivial. i can see how at such a time, and feeling that you had been wronged, a temptation to take the things came to you. but i hope you will not trouble any more about the matter. i will see that john is compensated for all the injury he received, as far as it is possible for money to compensate him. i hope you will keep the money. the other things, of course, i shall take back, and i am glad you came to tell me of it before telling any one else. i think, perhaps, it is better never to say anything to anybody about this. people might not understand just what temptation you were put to, and they would not know the circumstances of the case, because nobody knows, i think, that john was hurt. now, my dear girl, do not cry. it is all right. of course you never will touch anything again that does not belong to you, and the suffering you have gone through has more than made up for all the wrong you have done. i am sure that i forgive you quite freely for it, and i think it was very noble of you to come and tell me about it." mrs. brenton took the package from the hands of the weeping girl, and opened it. she found everything there, as the girl had said. she took the money and offered it to jane morton. the girl shook her head. "no," she cried, "i cannot touch it. i cannot, indeed. it has been enough misery to me already." "very well," said mrs. brenton. "i would like very much to see john. will you bring him to me?" the girl looked at her with startled eyes. "you will not tell him?" she said. "no indeed, i shall tell him nothing. but i want to do what i can for him as i said. i suppose you are engaged to be married?" "yes," answered the girl; "but if he knew of this he never, never would marry me." "if he did not," said mrs. brenton, "he would not be worthy of you. but he shall know nothing about it. you will promise to come here and see me with him, will you not?" "yes, madam," said the girl. "then good-bye, until i see you again." mrs. brenton sat for a long time thinking over this confession. it took her some time to recover her usual self-possession, because for a moment she had thought the girl was going to confess that she committed murder. in comparison with that awful crime, the theft seemed so trivial that mrs. brenton almost smiled when she thought of the girl's distress. * * * * * "well," said john speed to mr. brenton, "if that doesn't beat the old harry. now i, for one, am very glad of it, if we come to the real truth of the matter." "i am glad also," said brenton, "that the girl is not guilty, although i must say things looked decidedly against her." "i will tell you why i am glad," said speed. "i am glad because it will take some of the superfluous conceit out of that french detective lecocq. he was so awfully sure of himself. he couldn't possibly be mistaken. now, think of the mistakes that man must have made while he was on earth, and had the power which was given into his hands in paris. after all, stratton is on the right track, and he will yet land your friend roland in prison. let us go and find lecocq. this is too good to keep." "my dear sir," said brenton, "you seem to be more elated because of your friend stratton than for any other reason. don't you want the matter ferreted out at all?" "why, certainly i do; but i don't want it ferreted out by bringing an innocent person into trouble." "and may not stephen roland be an innocent person?" "oh, i suppose so; but i do not think he is." "why do you not think so?" "well, if you want the real reason, simply because george stratton thinks he isn't. i pin my faith to stratton." "i think you overrate your friend stratton." "overrate him, sir? that is impossible. i love him so well that i hope he will solve this mystery himself, unaided and alone, and that in going back to chicago he will be smashed to pieces in a railway accident, so that we can have him here to congratulate him." chapter xv. "i suppose," said roland, "you thought for a moment i was trying to commit suicide. i think, mr. stratton, you will have a better opinion of me by-and-by. i shouldn't be at all surprised if you imagined i induced you to come in here to get you into a trap." "you are perfectly correct," said stratton; "and i may say, although that was my belief, i was not in the least afraid of you, for i had you covered all the time." "well," remarked roland, carelessly, "i don't want to interfere with your business at all, but i wish you wouldn't cover me quite so much; that revolver of yours might go off." "do you mean to say," said stratton, "that there is nothing but quinine in those capsules?" "i'll tell you in a moment," as he opened them one by one. "no, there is nothing but quinine here. thirty grains put up in five-grain capsules." george stratton's eyes began to open. then he slowly rose, and looked with horrified face at the doctor. "my god!" he cried; "who got the thirty grains of morphia?" "what do you mean?" asked the doctor. "mean? why, don't you see it? it is a chemist's mistake. thirty grains of quinine have been sent you. thirty grains of morphia have been sent to somebody else. was it to william brenton?" "by jove!" said the doctor, "there's something in that. say, let us go to the drug store." the two went out together, and walked to the drug store on the corner of blank street and nemo avenue. "do you know this writing?" said doctor roland to the druggist, pointing to the label on the box. "yes," answered the druggist; "that was written by one of my assistants." "can we see him for a few moments?" "i don't know where he is to be found. he is a worthless fellow, and has gone to the devil this last few weeks with a rapidity that is something startling." "when did he leave?" "well, he got drunk and stayed drunk during the holidays, and i had to discharge him. he was a very valuable man when he was sober; but he began to be so erratic in his habits that i was afraid he would make a ghastly mistake some time, so i discharged him before it was too late." "are you sure you discharged him before it was too late?" the druggist looked at the doctor, whom he knew well, and said, "i never heard of any mistake, if he did make it." "you keep a book, of course, of all the prescriptions sent out?" "certainly." "may we look at that book?" "i shall be very glad to show it to you. what month or week?" "i want to see what time you sent this box of morphia to me." "you don't know about what time it was, do you? "yes; it must have been about two weeks before christmas." the chemist looked over the pages of the book, and finally said, "here it is." "will you let me look at that page?" "certainly." the doctor ran his finger down the column, and came to an entry written in the same hand. "look here," he said to stratton, "thirty grains of quinine sent to william brenton, and next to it thirty grains of morphia sent to stephen roland. i see how it was. those prescriptions were mixed up. my package went to poor brenton." the druggist turned pale. "i hope," he said, "nothing public will come of this." "my dear sir," said roland, "something public will _have_ to come of it. you will oblige me by ringing up the central police station, as this book must be given in charge of the authorities." "look here," put in stratton, his newspaper instinct coming uppermost, "i want to get this thing exclusively for the _argus_." "oh, i guess there will be no trouble about that. nothing will be made public until to-morrow, and you can telegraph to-night if we find the box of capsules in brenton's residence. we must take an officer with us for that purpose, but you can caution or bribe him to keep quiet until to-morrow." when the three went to william brenton's residence they began a search of the room in which brenton had died, but nothing was found. in the closet of the room hung the clothes of brenton, and going through them stratton found in the vest pocket of one of the suits a small box containing what was described as five-grain capsules of sulphate of quinine. the doctor tore one of these capsules apart, so as to see what was in it. without a moment's hesitation he said-- "there you are! that is the morphia. there were six capsules in this box, and one of them is missing. william brenton poisoned himself! feeling ill, he doubtless took what he thought was a dose of quinine. many men indulge in what we call the quinine habit. it is getting to be a mild form of tippling. brenton committed unconscious suicide!" [illustration] chapter xvi. a group of men; who were really alive, but invisible to the searchers, stood in the room where the discovery was made. two of the number were evidently angry, one in one way and one in another. the rest of the group appeared to be very merry. one angry man was brenton himself, who was sullenly enraged. the other was the frenchman, lecocq, who was as deeply angered as brenton, but, instead of being sullen, was exceedingly voluble. "i tell you," he cried, "it is not a mistake of mine. i went on correct principles from the first. i was misled by one who should have known better. you will remember, gentlemen," he continued, turning first to one and then the other, "that what i said was that we had certain facts to go on. one of those facts i got from mr. brenton. i said to him in your presence, 'did you poison yourself?' he answered me, as i can prove by all of you, 'no, i did not.' i took that for a fact. i thought i was speaking to a reasonable man who knew what he was talking about." "haven't i told you time and again," answered brenton, indignantly, "that it was a mistake? you asked me if i poisoned myself. i answered you that i did not. your question related to suicide. i did _not_ commit suicide. i was the victim of a druggist's mistake. if you had asked me if i had taken medicine before i went to bed, i should have told you frankly, 'yes. i took one capsule of quinine.' it has been my habit for years, when i feel badly. i thought nothing of that." "my dear sir," said lecocq, "i warned you, and i warned these gentlemen, that the very things that seem trivial to a thoughtless person are the things that sometimes count. you should have told me _everything_. if you took anything at all, you should have said so. if you had said to me, 'monsieur lecocq, before i retired i took five grains of quinine,' i should have at once said; 'find where that quinine is, and see if it _is_ quinine, and see if there has not been a mistake.' i was entirely misled; i was stupidly misled." "well, if there was stupidity," returned brenton, "it was your own." "come, come, gentlemen," laughed speed, "all's well that ends well. everybody has been mistaken, that's all about it. the best detective minds of europe and america, of the world, and of the spirit-land, have been misled. you are _all_ wrong. admit it, and let it end." "my dear sir," said lecocq, "i shall not admit anything. i was not wrong; i was misled. it was this way----" "oh, now, for goodness' sake don't go over it all again. we understand the circumstances well enough." "i tell you," cried brenton, in an angry tone, "that---- "come, come," said speed, "we have had enough of this discussion. i tell you that you are all wrong, every one of you. come with me, brenton, and we will leave this amusing crowd." "i shall do nothing of the kind," answered brenton, shortly. "oh, very well then, do as you please. i am glad the thing is ended, and i am glad it is ended by my chicago friend." "your chicago friend!" sneered brenton, slightingly; "it was discovered by doctor stephen roland." "my dear fellow," said speed, "stephen roland had all his time to discover the thing, and didn't do it, and never would have done it, if george stratton hadn't encountered him. well, good-bye, gentlemen; i am sorry to say that i have had quite enough of this discussion. but one thing looms up above it all, and that is that chicago is ahead of the world in everything--in detection as well as in fires." "my dear sir," cried lecocq, "it is not true. i will show you in a moment--" "you won't show _me_," said speed, and he straightway disappeared. "come, ferris," said brenton, "after all, you are the only friend i seem to have; come with me." "where are you going?" asked ferris, as they left. "i want to see how my wife takes the news." "don't," said mr. ferris--"don't do anything of the kind. leave matters just where they are. everything has turned out what you would call all right. you see that your interference, as far as it went, was perfectly futile and useless. i want now to draw your attention to other things." "very well, i will listen to you," said brenton, "if you come with me and see how my wife takes the news. i want to enjoy for even a moment or two her relief and pleasure at finding that her good name is clear." "very well," assented ferris, "i will go with you." when they arrived they found the chicago reporter ahead of them. he had evidently told mrs. brenton all the news, and her face flushed with eager pleasure as she listened to the recital. "now," said the chicago man, "i am going to leave cincinnati. are you sorry i am going?" "no," said mrs. brenton, looking him in the face, "i am not sorry." stratton flushed at this, and then said, taking his hat in his hand, "very well, madam, i shall bid you good day." "i am not sorry," said mrs. brenton, holding out her hand, "because i am going to leave cincinnati myself, and i hope never to see the city again. so if you stayed here, you see, i should never meet you again, mr. stratton." "alice," cried stratton, impulsively grasping her hand in both of his, "don't you think you would like chicago as a place of residence?" "george," she answered, "i do not know. i am going to europe, and shall be there for a year or two." then he said eagerly-- "when you return, or if i go over there to see you after a year or two, may i ask you that question again?" "yes," was the whispered answer. * * * * * "come," said brenton to ferris, "let us go." proofreaders the return of peter grimm [illustration: david belasco] david belasco (born, san francisco, july , ) the present editor has had many opportunities of studying the theatre side of david belasco. he has been privileged to hear expressed, by this edison of our stage, diverse opinions about plays and players of the past, and about insurgent experiments of the immediate hour. he has always found a man quickly responsive to the best memories of the past, an artist naively childlike in his love of the theatre, shaped by old conventions and modified by new inventions. belasco is the one individual manager to-day who has a workshop of his own; he is pre-eminently a creator, whereas his contemporaries, like charles frohman, were emphatically manufacturers of goods in the amusement line. such a man is entitled to deep respect, for the "carry-on" spirit with which he holds aloft the banner used by boucicault, wallack, palmer, and daly. it is wrong to credit him with deafness to innovation, with blindness to new combinations. he is neither of these. it is difficult to find a manager more willing to take infinite pains for effect, with no heed to the cost; it is impossible to place above him a director more successful in creating atmosphere and in procuring unity of cooperation from his staff. no one, unless it be winthrop ames, gives more personal care to a production than david belasco. considering that he was reared in the commercial theatre, his position is unique and distinctive. in the years to come, when students enter the columbia university dramatic museum, founded by professor brander matthews, they will be able to judge, from the model of the stage set for "peter grimm," exactly how far david belasco's much-talked-of realism went; they will rightly regard it as the high point in accomplishment before the advent of the "new" scenery, whose philosophy belasco understands, but whose artistic spirit he cannot accept. maybe, by that time, there will be preserved for close examination the manuscripts of belasco's plays--models of thoroughness, of managerial foresight. the present editor had occasion once to go through these typewritten copies; and there remains impressed on the memory the detailed exposition in "the darling of the gods." here was not only indicated every shade of lighting, but the minute stage business for acting, revealing how wholly the manager gave himself over to the creation of atmosphere. i examined a mass of data--"boot plots," "light plots," "costume designs." were the play ever published in this form, while it might confuse the general reader, it would enlighten the specialist. it would be a key to realistic stage management, in which belasco excels. whether it be his own play, or that of some outsider, with whom, in the final product, belasco always collaborates, the manuscripts, constituting his producing library, are evidence of his instinctive eye for stage effect. the details in the career of david belasco are easily accessible. it is most unfortunate that the stupendous record of his life's accomplishment thus far, which, in two voluminous books, constituted the final labour of the late william winter, is not more truly reflective of the man and his work. it fails to reproduce the flavour of the dramatic periods through which belasco passed, in his association with dion boucicault as private secretary, in his work with james a. herne at baldwin's theatre, in san francisco, in his pioneer realism at the old new york madison square theatre, when the mallory brothers were managers, steele mackaye was one of the stock dramatists, henry demille was getting ready for collaboration with belasco, daniel frohman was house-manager and charles frohman was out on the road, trying his abilities as advance-man for wallack and madison square successes. winter's life is orderly and matter-of-fact; belasco's real life has always been melodramatic and colourful. his early struggles in san francisco, his initial attempts at playwriting, his intercourse with all the big actors of the golden period of the ' 's--mr. belasco has written about them in a series of magazine reminiscences, which, if they are lacking in exact sequence, are measure of his type of mind, of his vivid memory, of his personal opinions. belasco has reached his position through independence which, in the ' 's, brought down upon him the relentless antagonism of the theatrical trust--a combine of managers that feared the advent of so individualistic a playwright and manager. they feared his ability to do so many things well, and they disliked the way the public supported him. this struggle, tempestuous and prolonged, is in the records. a man who has any supreme, absorbing interest at all is one who thrives on vagaries. whatever belasco has touched since his days of apprenticeship in san francisco, he has succeeded in imposing upon it what is popularly called "the belasco atmosphere." though he had done a staggering amount of work before coming to new york, and though, when he went to the lyceum theatre, he and henry demille won reputation by collaborating in "the wife," "lord chumley," "the charity ball," and "men and women," he was probably first individualized in the minds of present-day theatregoers when mrs. leslie carter made a sensational swing across stage, holding on to the clapper of a bell in "the heart of maryland." even thus early, he was displaying characteristics for which, in later days, he remained unexcelled. he was helping bronson howard to touch up "baron rudolph," "the banker's daughter" and "the young mrs. winthrop;" he was succeeding with a dramatization of h. rider haggard's "she," where william gillette had failed in the attempt. "the heart of maryland" established both belasco and mrs. carter. then he started on that extravagant period of spectacular drama, which gave to the stage such memorable pictures as "du barry," with mrs. carter, and "the darling of the gods," with blanche bates. in such pieces he literally threw away the possibilities of profit, in order to gratify his decorative sense. out of that time came two distinctive pieces--one, the exquisitely poignant "madame butterfly" and the other, "the girl of the golden west"-- both giving inspiration to the composer, puccini, who discovered that a belasco play was better suited for the purposes of colourful italian opera than any other american dramas he examined. counting his western vicissitudes as one period, and the early new york days as a second, one might say that in the third period david belasco exhibited those excellences and limitations which were thereafter to mark him and shape all his work. there is an oriental love of colour and effect in all he does; but there is no monotony about it. "the darling of the gods" was different from "the girl of the golden west," and both were distinct from "the rose of the rancho." it is this scenic decorativeness which has enriched many a slim piece, accepted by him for presentation, and such a play has always been given that care and attention which has turned it eventually into a belasco "offering." none of his collaborators will gainsay this genius of his. john luther long's novel was unerringly dramatized; richard walton tully, when he left the belasco fold, imitated the belasco manner, in "the bird of paradise" and "omar, the tentmaker." and that same ability belasco possesses to dissect the heart of a romantic piece was carried by him into war drama, and into parlour comedies, and plays of business condition. i doubt whether "the auctioneer" would read well, or, for the matter of that, "the music master;" charles klein has written more coherent dialogue than is to be found in these early pieces. but they are vivid in mind because of belasco's management, and because he saw them fitted to the unique figure of david warfield. but a belasco success is furthered by the tremendous public curiosity that follows him in all he does. there is a wizardry about him which fascinates, and makes excellent reading in the press. long before i saw the three-winged screen upon which it is his custom to sort out and pin up his random notes for a play, it was featured in the press. so were pictures of his "collection," in rooms adjoining his studio--especially his napoleonic treasures which are a by-product of his du barry days. no man of the theatre is more constantly on the job than he. it is said that old john dee, the famous astrologer whom queen elizabeth so often consulted, produced plays when he was a student at cambridge university, with stage effects which only one gifted in the secrets of magic could have consummated. belasco paints with an electric switchboard, until the emotion of his play is unmistakably impressed upon the eye. at a moment's notice he will root out his proscenium arch, and build a "frame" which obliterates the footlights; at another time he will build an "apron" to his stage, not for its historical significance, but merely to give depth and mellowness to such an ecclesiastical picture as knoblauch's "marie-odile." he has spent whole nights alone in the theatre auditorium with his electrician, "feeling" for the "siesta" somnolence which carried his audience instantly into the spanish heat of old california, in "the rose of the rancho;" and the moving scenery which took the onlooker from the foot-hills of the sierras to the cabin of "the girl of the golden west" was a "trick" well worth the experiment. thus, no manager is more ingenious, more resourceful than david belasco. but his care for detail is often a danger; he does not know fully the value of elimination; the eye of the observer is often worried by the multiplicity of detail, where reticence would have been more quickly effective. this is the oriental in belasco. his is a strange blend of realism and decorativeness. "a young man came to me once," he said to me, "with the manuscript of a new play, which had possibilities in it. but after i had talked with him awhile, i found him preaching the doctrines of the 'new' art. so i said to him, 'my dear sir, here is your manuscript. the first scene calls for a tenement-house set. how would you mount it?'" he smiled, maybe at the recollection of gordon craig's statements that "actuality, accuracy of detail, are useless on the stage," and that "all is a matter of proportion and nothing to do with actuality." "i felt," mr. belasco continued, "that the young man would find difficulty in reconciling the nebulous perspectives of mr. craig with the squalor of a city block. i said to him, 'i have been producing for many years, and i have mounted various plays calling for differing atmospheres. i don't want to destroy your ideals regarding the 'new art', but i want you to realize that a manager has to conform his taste to the material he has in hand. i consider that one of the most truthful sets i have ever had on the stage was the one for the second act of eugene walter's 'the easiest way'. a boarding-house room on the top floor cannot be treated in any other way than as a boarding-house room. and should i take liberties with what we know for a fact exists in new york, on seventh avenue, just off broadway, then i am a bad producer and do not know my business. i do not say there is no suggestion in realism; it is unwise to clutter the stage with needless detail. but we cannot idealize a little sordid ice-box where a working girl keeps her miserable supper; we cannot symbolize a broken jug standing in a wash-basin of loud design. those are the necessary evils of a boarding-house, and i must be true to them'." one will have to give mr. belasco this credit, that whatever he is, he is _it_ to the bent of his powers. had he lived in elizabeth's day, he would have been an elizabethan heart and soul. but his habit is formed as a producer, and he conforms the "new" art to this habit as completely as reinhardt reinhardtized the morality play, "everyman," or von hofmannsthal teutonized "elektra." "the return of peter grimm" has been chosen for the present collection. it represents a belasco interest and conviction greater than are to be found in any of his other plays. while there are no specific claims made for the fact that_ peter _materializes after his death, it is written with plausibility and great care. the psychic phenomena are treated as though real, and our sympathy for_ peter _when he returns is a human sympathy for the inability of a spirit to get his message across. the theme is not etherealized; one does not see through a mist dimly. there was not even an attempt, in the stage production of the piece, which occurred at the belasco theatre, new york, on october , , to use the "trick" of gauze and queer lights; there was only one supreme thing done--to make the audience feel that_ peter _was on a plane far removed from the physical, by the ease and naturalness with which he slipped past objects, looked through people, and was unheeded by those whom he most wanted to influence. the remarkable unity of idea sustained by mr. belasco as manager, and by mr. warfield as actor, was largely instrumental in making the play a triumph. the playwright did not attempt to create supernatural mood; he did not resort to natural tricks such as maeterlinck used in "l'intruse," or as mansfield employed in "dr. jekyll and mr. hyde." he reduced what to us seems, at the present moment, a complicated explanation of a psychic condition to its simple terms, and there was nothing strange to the eye or unusual in the situation. one cannot approach the theme of the psychic without a personal concern. sardou's "spiritisme" was the culmination of years of investigation; the subject was one with which belasco likewise has had much to do during the past years. it is a privilege to be able to publish "peter grimm." thus far not many of the belasco plays are available in reading form. "may blossom" and "madame butterfly" are the only ones. "peter grimm" has been novelized--in the day, now fortunately past, when a play was novelized in preference to perpetuating its legitimate form. and excerpts from the dialogue have been used. but this is the first time the complete text has appeared and it has been carefully edited by the author himself. in addition to which mr. belasco has written the following account of "peter's" evolution, to be used in this edition. the play, "the return of peter grimm," is an expression in dramatic form of my ideas on a subject which i have pondered over since boyhood: "can the dead come back?" _peter grimm_ did come back. at the same time, i inserted a note in my program to say that i advanced no positive opinion; that the treatment of the play allowed the audience to believe that it had actually seen _peter_, or that he had not been seen but existed merely in the minds of the characters on the stage. spiritualists from all over the country flocked to see "the return of peter grimm," and i have heard that it gave comfort to many. it was a difficult theme, and more than once i was tempted to give it up. but since it has given relief to those who have loved and lost, it was not written in vain. victorian sardou dealt with the same subject, but he did not show the return of the dead; instead, he delivered a spirit message by means of knocking on a table. his play was not a success, and i was warned by my friends to let the subject alone; but it is a subject that i never can or never have let alone; yet i never went to a medium in my life--could not bring myself to do it. my dead must come to me, and have come to me--or so i believe. the return of the dead is the eternal riddle of the living. although mediums have been exposed since the beginning of time, and so-called "spiritualism" has fallen into disrepute over and over again, it emerges triumphantly in spite of charlatans, and once more becomes the theme of the hour. the subject first interested me when, as a boy, i read a story in which the dead "foretold dangers to loved ones." my mother had "premonitions" which were very remarkable, and i was convinced, at the time, that the dead gave these messages to her. she personally could not account for them. i probably owe my life to one of my mother's premonitions. i was going on a steamboat excursion with my school friends, when my mother had a strong presentiment of danger, and begged me not to go. she gave in to my entreaties, however, much against her will. just as the boat was about to leave the pier, a vision of her pale face and tear-filled eyes came to me. i heard her voice repeating, "i wish you would not go, davy." the influence was so strong that i dashed down the gang-plank as it was being pulled in. the boat met with disaster, and many of the children were killed or wounded. these premonitions have also come to me, but i do not believe as i did when a boy that they are warnings from the dead, although i cannot explain them, and they are never wrong; the message is always very clear. my mother convinced me that the dead come back by coming to me at the time of her death--or so i believe. one night, after a long, hard rehearsal, i went to bed, worn out, and fell into a deep sleep. i was awakened by my mother, who stood in my bedroom and called to me. she seemed to be clothed in white. she repeated my name over and over--the name she called me in my boyhood: "davy! davy!" she told me not to grieve--that she was dying; that she _had_ to see me. i distinctly saw her and heard her speak. she was in san francisco at the time--i, in new york. after she passed out of the room, i roused my family and told what i had heard and seen. i said: "my mother is dead. i know she is dead;" but i could not convince my family that i had not been dreaming. i was very restless--could not sleep again. the next day (we were rehearsing "zaza") i went out for luncheon during the recess with a member of my company. he was a very absent-minded man, and at the table he took a telegram from his pocket which he said he had forgotten to give me: it announced the death of my mother at the time i had seen her in my room. i am aware that this could be explained as thought transference, accompanied by a dream in which my mother appeared so life-like as to make me believe the dream real. this explanation, however, does not satisfy me. i am sure that i did see her. other experiences of a kindred nature served to strengthen my belief in the naturalness of what we call the supernatural. i decided to write a play dealing with the return of the dead: so it followed that when i was in need of a new play for david warfield, i chose this subject. slight of figure, unworldly, simple in all his ways, warfield was the very man to bring a message back from the other world. warfield has always appeared to me as a character out of one of grimm's fairy tales. he was, to my mind, the one man to impersonate a spirit and make it seem real. so my desire to write a play of the dead, and my belief in warfield's artistry culminated in "the return of peter grimm." the subject was very difficult, and the greatest problem confronting me was to preserve the illusion of a spirit while actually using a living person. the apparition of the ghost in "hamlet" and in "macbeth," the spirits who return to haunt _richard iii_, and other ghosts of the theatre convinced me that green lights and dark stages with spot-lights would not give the illusion necessary to this play. all other spirits have been visible to someone on the stage, but_ peter _was visible to none, save the dog (who wagged his tail as his master returned from the next world) and to _frederik_, the nephew, who was to see him but for a second._ peter _was to be in the same room with the members of the household, and to come into close contact with them. they were to feel his influence without seeing him. he was to move among them, even appear to touch them, but they were to look past him or above him--never into his face. he must, of course, be visible to the audience. my problem, then, was to reveal a dead man worrying about his earthly home, trying to enlist the aid of anybody--everybody--to take his message. certainly no writer ever chose a more difficult task; i must say that i was often very much discouraged, but something held me to the work in spite of myself. the choice of an occupation for my leading character was very limited. i gave_ peter _various trades and professions, none of which seemed to suit the part, until i made him a quaint old dutchman, a nursery-man who loved his garden and perennials--the flowers that pass away and return season after season. this gave a clue to his character; gave him the right to found his belief in immortality on the lessons learned in his garden. "god does not send us strange flowers every year, when the warm winds blow o'er the pleasant places, the same fair flowers lift up the same fair faces. the violet is here ... it all comes back, the odour, grace and hue, ... it is the thing we knew. so after the death winter it shall be," etc. against a background of budding trees, i placed the action of the play in the month of april; april with its swift transitions from bright sunlight to the darkness of passing clouds and showers. april weather furnished a natural reason for raising and lowering the lights--that the dead could come and go at will, seen or unseen. the passing rain-storms blended with the tears of those weeping for their loved ones. a man who comes back must not have a commonplace name--a name suggestive of comedy--and i think i must have read over every dutch name that ever came out of holland before i selected the name of "_peter grimm_." it was chosen because it suggested (to me) a stubborn old man with a sense of justice--whose spirit _would_ return to right a wrong and adjust his household affairs. the stage setting was evolved after extreme care and thought. it was a mingling of the past and present. it was _peter's_ sitting-room, with a mixture of furniture and family portraits and knick-knacks, each with an association of its own. it was such a room as would be dear to all old-fashioned, home-loving people--unlike a room of the present, from which every memento of parents and grand-parents would be banished in favour of strictly modern or antique formal furniture. in this room, the things of _peter's_ father mingled with those of _peter's_ boyhood and young manhood. this was done in order that the influence of his familiar belongings might be felt by the people of the play. when his niece stood with her hand on his chair; when she saw the lilies he loved; when she touched his pipe, or any of the familiar objects dear to her because of their associations,_ peter _was brought vividly back to her mind, although she could not see him. _peter's_ clothing was selected with unusual care so that it would not catch the reflection from the lights. months of preparation and weeks of rehearsal were necessary. one detail that was especially absorbing was the matter of lighting; catching the high lights and shadows. this was the first time the "bridge of lights" was used on any stage. lighting has always been to me more than mere illumination. it is a revelation of the heart and soul of the story. it points the way. lights should be to the play what the musical accompaniment is to the singer. a wordless story could be told by lights. lights should be mixed as a painter mixes his colours--a bit of pink here, of blue there; a touch of red, a lavender or a deep purple, with shadows intervening to give the desired effect. instead of throwing a mysterious light upon the figure of _peter_, i decided to reverse the process and put no lights on him. the light was on the other people--the people still in life, with just enough amber to give them colour. the play was cut and cut until there was not a superfluous line in it. every word was necessary, although it might not have seemed so when read. it was only after the play was recalled as a whole, that the necessity for everything could be seen. the coming of the circus with the clown singing "uncle rat has come to town," and the noise of the drums, are instances of this. it seemed like halting the action to bring in a country circus procession, but its necessity is shown in the final scene when the little boy, _william_, passes away. it is always cruel to see a child die on the stage. the purpose of the coming of the circus was to provide a pleasant memory for the child to recall as his mind wandered away from earth, and to have his death a happy one. this was made more effective when peter took up the refrain of the song as though he knew what was passing in the dying boy's mind, showing that the dead have their own world and their own understanding. no company of players ever had situations so fraught with danger of failure. they were very nervous. mr. warfield appeared in the part for several weeks before he felt at ease as the living man who returns as his own spirit. there is one memory associated with the play which will remain in my heart as long as it beats. this piece was written during the last year-and-a-half of my daughter augusta's life. for some reason, which i could not understand then, but which was clear to me later, the subject fascinated her. she showed the greatest interest in it. the dear child was preparing to leave the world, but we did not know it. when the manuscript was finished, she kept it by her side, and, notwithstanding her illness, saw the dress rehearsal. during the writing of the play, she often said, "yes, father, it is all true. i believe every word of it." it was as though the thought embodied in the play gave her comfort. when we discovered how ill she was, i took her to asheville, north carolina, thinking the climate would help her. she grew worse. still hoping, we went to colorado, and there i lost her. it has seemed to me since that the inspiration compelling me to go on with "peter grimm," in spite of its difficulties, came from this daughter who died. i cannot close this reminiscence of "the return of peter grimm" without acknowledging the help and inspiration received from david warfield, without whose genius and personality the play would not have been possible. i doubt whether mr. belasco has ever infused so much imaginative ingenuity into the structure and picture of a play. even in the reading, its quaint charm is instantly revealed. we quite agree with winter in saying that the effectiveness of the role of_ peter _lies in its simplicity. this was the triumph of warfield's interpretation. it may have been difficult to attain the desired effects, but once reached, technical skill did the rest. it will be noted on the program that credit is given for an idea to mr. cecil demille, son of mr. belasco's former collaborator. "the return of peter grimm" was scheduled for production in london by sir herbert tree, but plans were cut short by that actor's sudden death, july , . mr. belasco's interest in the psychic and the supernatural has been seen in other plays, notably in "the case of becky," by edward locke, and in henry bernstein's "the secret"--example of belasco's most skilled adaptation from the french, though we remember the excellence of his version of berton and simon's "zaza." that he thought warfield admirably suited to this type of play was one of the chief incentives which prompted him to write "van der decken" (produced on the road, december , ), a play whose theme is "the flying dutchman"--and not thus far given in new york.[a] [footnote a: some of mr. belasco's recent opinions regarding the stage have been published in book form, under the title, "the theatre through its stage door" (harper).] [illustration: belasco theatre forty fourth street near broadway under the sole management of david belasco beginning tuesday evening, october , . matinees thursday and saturday. david belasco presents david warfield -in- the return of peter grimm a play, in three acts. by david belasco. "only one thing really counts--only one thing--love. it is the only thing that tells in the long run; nothing else endures to the end." cast of characters. peter grimm..................................david warfield frederik, his nephew.........................john sainpolis james hartman................................thomas meighan andrew macpherson............................joseph brennan rev. henry batholommey.........................william boag colonel tom lawton...........................john f. webber willem.........................................percy helton kathrien.......................................janet dunbar mrs. batholommey................................marie bates marta.......................................marie reichardt the clown........................................tony bevan program continued on second page following * * * * * program continued. synopsis. the scene of the play is laid in the living room of peter grimm's home at grimm manor, a small town in new york state, founded by early settlers from holland. the first act takes place at eleven o'clock in the morning, on a fine spring day. the second act passes ten days later, towards the close of a rainy afternoon. the third act takes place at twenty minutes to twelve on the same night. program continued on second page following * * * * * program continued. note--mr. belasco does not intend to advance any theory as to the probability of the return of the main character of this play. for the many, it may be said that he could exist only in the minds of the characters grouped about him--in their subconscious memories. for _the few_, his presence will embody the theory of the survival of persistent personal energy. this character has, so far as possible, been treated to accord with either thought. the initial idea of the play was first suggested as a dramatic possibility by mr. cecil demille, to whom mr. belasco acknowledges his indebtedness. a conversation with professor james, of harvard, and the works of professor hyslop of the american branch of the london society of psychical research have also aided mr. belasco. the play produced under the personal supervision of mr. belasco. stage director....................................william j. dean stage manager........................................william boag scene by ernest gros. scenery built by charles j. canon electrical effects by louis hartman.] the return of peter grimm _a play in three acts_ _by_ david belasco [the editor wishes to thank mr. david belasco for his courtesy in granting permission to include "the return of peter grimm" in the present collection. all its rights are fully secured, and proceedings will immediately be taken against any one attempting to infringe them.] act i. _the scene shows a comfortable living-room in an old house. the furniture was brought to america by _peter grimm's_ ancestors. the _grimms_ were, for the most part, frugal people, but two or three fine paintings have been inherited by _peter_. _a small, old-fashioned piano stands near the open window, a few comfortable chairs, a desk with a hanging lamp above it, and an arm-chair in front of it, a quaint old fireplace, a dutch wall clock with weights, a sofa, a hat-rack, and mahogany flower-pot holders, are set about the room; but the most treasured possession is a large family bible lying on a table. a door leads to a small office occupied by _peter's_ secretary._ _stairs lead to the sleeping-rooms above. through the window, hothouses, beds of tulips, and other flowers, shrubs and trees are seen. "peter grimm's botanic gardens" supply seeds, plants, shrubbery and trees to the wholesale, as well as retail trade, and the view suggests the importance of the industry. an old dutch windmill, erected by a colonial ancestor, gives a quaint touch, to the picture. although _peter grimm_ is a very wealthy man, he lives as simply as his ancestors._ _as the curtain is raised, the room is empty; but _catherine_ is heard singing in the dining-room. _james hartman, peter's_ secretary, opens his door to listen, a small bundle of letters in his hand. he is a well set up young man, rather blunt in his manner, and a trifle careless in his dress. after a pause, he goes back into the office, leaving the door ajar. presently _catherine_ enters. in spite of her youth and girlish appearance, she is a good, thrifty housekeeper. she wears a simple summer gown, and carries a bunch of gay tulips and an old silver pitcher, from which she presently pours water into the harlequin delft vase on _peter grimm's_ desk. she peeps into the office, retreating, with a smile on her lips, as _james_ appears._ catherine. did i disturb you, james? james. [_on the threshold._] no indeed. catherine. do you like your new work? james. anything to get back to the gardens, catherine. i've always done outside work and i prefer it; but i would shovel dirt rather than work for any one else. catherine. [_amused._] james! james. it's true. when the train reached the junction, and a boy presented the passengers with the usual flower and the "compliments of peter grimm"--it took me back to the time when that was my job; and when i saw the old sign, "grimm's botanic gardens and nurseries"--i wanted to jump off the train and run through the grounds. it seemed as though every tulip called "hello" to me. catherine. too bad you left college! you had only one more year. james. poor father! he's very much disappointed. father has worked in the dirt in overalls--a gardener--all his life; and, of course, he over-estimates an education. he's far more intelligent than most of our college professors. catherine. i understand why you came back. you simply must live where things grow, mustn't you, james? so must i. have you seen our orchids? james. orchids are pretty; but they're doing wonderful things with potatoes these days. i'd rather improve the breed of a squash than to have an orchid named after me. wonderful discovery of luther burbank's-- creating an edible cactus. sometimes i feel bitter thinking what i might have done with vegetables, when i was wasting time studying greek. catherine. [_changing suddenly._] james: why don't you try to please uncle peter grimm? james. i do; but he is always asking my opinion, and when i give it, he blows up. catherine. [_coaxingly._] don't be quite so blunt. try to be like one of the family. james. i'm afraid i shall never be like one of _this_ family. catherine. why not? i'm no relation at all; and yet-- james. [_making a resolution._] i'll do my best to agree with him. [_offering his hand._] it's a promise. [_they shake hands._ catherine. thank you, james. james. [_still holding her hand._] it's good to be back, catherine. it's good to see you again. _he is still holding her hand when _frederik grimm_ enters. he is the son of _peter's_ dead sister, and has been educated by_ peter _to carry on his work. he is a graduate of amsterdam college, holland, and, in appearance and manner, suggests the foreign student. he has managed to pull through college creditably, making a specialty of botany._ peter _has given him the usual trip through europe, and_ frederik _has come to his rich uncle to settle down and learn his business. he has been an inmate of the household for a few months. he poses as a most industrious young man, but is, at heart, a shirker._ frederik. where's uncle? james. good-morning, frederik. your uncle's watching father spray the plum trees. the black knot's after them again. frederik. i can hardly keep my eyes open. uncle wakes me up every morning at five--creaking down the old stairs. [_eyeing_ catherine _admiringly._] you're looking uncommonly pretty this morning, kitty. [catherine _edges away and runs upstairs to her room._ frederik. hartman! james. yes? frederik. miss catherine and you and i are no longer children--our positions are altered--please remember that. i'm no longer a student home for the holidays from amsterdam college. i'm here to learn the business which i am expected to carry on. miss catherine is a young lady now, and my uncle looks upon her as his daughter. you are here as my uncle's secretary. that's how we three stand in this house. don't call me "frederik," and hereafter be good enough to say, "miss grimm." james. [_amiably._] very well. frederik. james: there's a good opportunity for a young man like you in our florida house. i think that if i spoke for you-- james. why do you wish to ship me off to florida? frederik. i don't understand you, hartman. i don't wish to ship you off. i am merely thinking of your future. you seem to have changed since-- james. we've all grown up, as you just said. [james _has laid some mail on the desk, and is about to leave the room, when_ frederik _speaks again, but in a more friendly manner._ frederik. the old man's aging; do you notice it? james. your uncle's mellowing, yes; but that's only to be expected. he's changing foliage with the years. frederik. he's growing as old-fashioned as his hats. in my opinion, this would be the time to sell. james. [_astonished._] sell? sell a business that has been in his family for--why, it's his religion! frederik. it's at the height of its prosperity. it would sell like that! [_snapping his fingers._] what was the last offer the old man refused from hicks, of rochester, jim? james. [_noticing the sudden friendliness--looking at_ frederik, _half-amused, half-disgusted._] can't repeat correspondence, mr. grimm. [_amazed._] good heavens! you surprise me! would you sell your great, great grandfather? i learned to read by studying his obituary out in the peach orchard: "johann grimm, of holland, an upright settler." there isn't a day your uncle doesn't tell me that you are to carry on the work. frederik. so i am, but it's not _my_ religion. [_sarcastically._.] every man can't be blessed like you with the soul of a market gardener--a peddler of turnips. james. [_thinking--ignoring_ frederik.] he's a great old man--your uncle. it's a big name--grimm--peter grimm. the old man knows his business--he certainly knows his business. [_changing._] god! it's an awful thought that a man must die and carry all that knowledge of orchids to the grave! i wonder if it doesn't all count somewhere.... i must attend to the mail. peter grimm _enters from the gardens. he is a well-preserved man of sixty, very simple and plain in his ways. he has not changed his style of dress in the past thirty years. his clothing, collar, tie, hat and shoes are all old-fashioned. he is an estimable man, scrupulously honest, gentle and sympathetic; but occasionally he shows a flash of dutch stubbornness._ frederik. i ran over from the office, uncle peter, to make a suggestion. peter. yes? frederik. i suggest that we insert a full-page cut of your new tulip in our mid-summer floral almanac. peter. [_who has hung up his hat on his own particular peg, affably assenting._] a good idea! frederik. the public is expecting it. peter. you think so, my boy? frederik. why, uncle, you've no idea of the stir this tulip has created. people stop me in the street to speak of it. peter. well, well, you surprise me. i didn't think it so extraordinary. frederik. i've had a busy morning, sir, in the packing house. peter. that's good. i'm glad to see you taking hold of things, fritz. [_humourously, touching_ frederik _affectionately on the shoulder._] we mustn't waste time; for that's the stuff life's made of. [_seriously._] it's a great comfort to me, frederik, to know that when i'm in my little private room with james, or when i've slipped out to the hothouses,--you are representing me in the offices--_young_ mr. grimm.... james, are you ready for me? james. yes, sir. peter. i'll attend to the mail in a moment. [_missing_ catherine, _he calls according to the household signal._] ou--oo! [_he is answered by_ catherine, _who immediately appears from her room, and comes running downstairs._] catherine, i have news for you. i've named the new rose after you: "katie--a hardy bloomer." it's as red as the ribbon in your hair. catherine. thank you, uncle peter, thank you very much. and now you must have your cup of coffee. peter. what a fine little housewife! a busy girl about the house, eh, fritz? is there anything you need to-day, katie? catherine. no, uncle peter, i have everything i need, thank you. peter. not everything,--not everything, my dear. [_smiling at_ frederik. james, _ignored, is standing in the background._] wait! wait till i give you a husband. i have my plans. [_looking from_ frederik _to_ catherine.] people don't always know what i'm doing, but i'm a great man for planning. come, katie, tell me, on this fine spring morning, what sort of husband would you prefer? catherine. [_annoyed,--with girlish impatience._] you're always speaking of weddings, uncle peter. i don't know what's come over you of late. peter. it's nesting time, ... spring weddings are in the air; besides, my grandmother's linen-chest upstairs must be used again for you [_impulsively drawing_ catherine _to him._], my house fairy. [_kisses her._] there, i mustn't tease her. but i leave it to fritz if i don't owe her a fine husband--this girl of mine. look what she has done for _me!_ catherine. done for you? i do you the great favour to let _you_ do everything for _me_. peter. ah, but who lays out my linen? who puts flowers on my desk every day? who gets up at dawn to eat breakfast with me? who sees that i have my second cup of coffee? but better than all that--who brings youth into my old house? catherine. that's not much--youth. peter. no? we'll leave it to fritz. [frederik, _amused, listens in silence._] what should i be now--a rough old fellow--a bachelor--without youth in my house, eh? god knows! katie has softened me towards all the ladies--er--mellowed me as time has mellowed my old pictures. [_points to pictures._] and i was growing hard--hard and fussy. catherine. [_laughing._] ah, uncle peter, have i made you take a liking to all the rest of the ladies? peter. yes. it's just as it is when you have a pet: you like all that breed. you can only see _your_ kind of kitten. james. [_coming down a step, impressed by_ peter's _remark--speaking earnestly._] that's so, sir. [_the others are surprised._] i hadn't thought of it in that way, but it's true. you study a girl for the first time, and presently you notice the same little traits in every one of them. it makes you feel differently towards all the rest. peter. [_amused._] why, james, what do you know about girls? "bachelor" is stamped all over you--you're positively labelled. james. [_good-naturedly._] perhaps. [_goes back to the office._ peter. poor james! what a life before him! when a bachelor wants to order a three-rib roast, who's to eat it? i never had a proper roast until katie and frederik came to make up my family; [_rubbing his hands._] but the roasts are not big enough. [_giving_ frederik _a knowing look._] we must find a husband. catherine. you promised not to-- peter. i want to see a long, long table with plenty of young people. catherine. i'll leave the room, uncle. peter. with myself at the head, carving, carving, carving, watching the plates come back, and back, and back. [_as she is about to go._] there, there, not another word of this to-day. _the 'phone rings._ james _re-enters and answers it._ james. hello! [_turns._] rochester asks for mr. peter grimm to the 'phone. another message from hicks' greenhouses. peter. ask them to excuse me. james. [_bluntly._] you'll have to excuse him. [_listens._] no, no, the gardens are not in the market. you're only wasting your time. peter. tc! tc! james! can't you say it politely? [james _listens at 'phone._ frederik. [_aside to_ peter.] james is so painfully blunt. [_then changing._] is it--er--a good offer? is hicks willing to make it worth while? [_catching his uncle's astonished eye--apologetically._] of course, i know you wouldn't think of-- catherine. i should say not! my home? an offer? _our_ gardens? i should say not! frederik. mere curiosity on my part, that's all. peter. of course, i understand. sell out? no indeed. we are thinking of the next generation. frederik. certainly, sir. peter. we're the last of the family. the business--that's peter grimm. it will soon be frederik grimm. the love for the old gardens is in our blood. frederik. it is, sir. [_lays a fond hand on_ peter's _shoulder._ peter. [_struck._] i have an idea. we'll print the family history in our new floral almanac. frederik. [_suppressing a yawn._] yes, yes, a very good idea. peter. katie, read it to us and let us hear how it sounds. catherine. [_reads._] "in the spring of there settled on quassick creek, new york state, johann grimm, aged twenty-two, husbandman and vine-dresser, also johanna, his wife." peter. very interesting. frederik. very interesting, indeed. catherine. "to him queen anne furnished one square, one rule, one compass, two whipping saws and several small pieces. to him was born--" peter. [_interrupting._] you left out two augurs. catherine. [_reads._] oh, yes--"and two augurs. to him was born a son--" peter. [_who knows the history by heart, has listened, his eyes almost suffused--repeating each word to himself, as she reads. he has lived over each generation down to the present and nods in approval as she reaches this point._] the foundation of our house. and here we are prosperous and flourishing--after seven generations. we'll print it, eh, fritz? frederik. certainly, sir. by all means let us print it. peter. and now we are depending upon you, frederik, for the next line in the book. [_to_ catherine _--slyly--as she closes the book._] if my sister could see frederik, what a proud mother she would be! james. [_turning from the 'phone to_ peter.] old man hicks himself has come to the 'phone. says he _must_ speak to mr. peter grimm. frederik. i'd make short work of him, uncle. peter. [_at the 'phone._] how are you, my old friend?... how are your plum trees? [_listens._] bad, eh? well, we can only pray and use bordeaux mixture.... no.... nonsense! this business has been in my family for seven generations. why sell? i'll see that it stays in the family seven generations longer! [_echoing._] do i propose to live that long? n--no; but my plans will. [_looks towards_ frederik _and_ catherine.] how? never mind. good-morning. [_hangs up the receiver._ james. sorry to disturb you, sir, but some of these letters are-- frederik. i'm off. peter. [_who has lifted a pot of tulips to set it in the sun--standing with the pot in his hands._] and remember the saying: [_a twinkle in his upraised eyes._] "thou, o god, sellest all good things at the price of labour." [_smells the tulips and sets them down._ frederik. [_goes briskly towards the door._] that's true, sir. i want to speak to you later, uncle--[_turning, looking at_ james.] on a private matter. [_he goes off looking at his watch, as though he had a hard day's work before him._ peter. [_looking after_ frederik.] very capable young fellow, frederik. i was a happy man, james, when i heard that he had won the prize for botany at amsterdam college. i had to find out the little i know by experience. james. [_impulsively._] yes, and i'll wager you've forgotten more than-- [_catching a warning glance from_ catherine, _he pauses._ peter. what? james. nothing, sir. i-- catherine. [_tugging at_ peter's _coat--speaking to him apart, as_ james _busies himself at the desk._] uncle peter, i think you're unfair to james. we used to have him to dinner very often before he went away. now that he's back, you treat him like a stranger. peter. [_surprised._] eh? i didn't know that i--[_petting_ catherine.] a good, unselfish girl. she thinks of everybody. [_aloud._] james, will you have dinner with us to-day? james. [_pleased and surprised._] thank you, sir--yes, sir. peter. it's a roast goose--cooked sweet, james. [_smacks his lips._] fresh green herbs in the dressing and a figaro pudding. marta brought over that pudding receipt from holland. marta, _an old family servant, has entered with the air of having forgotten to wind the clock. she smiles happily at_ peter's _allusion to her puddings, attends to the old clock, and passes of with_ catherine. peter _sits at the desk, glancing over the mail._ peter. katie's blossoming like a rose. have you noticed how she's coming out lately, james? james. yes, sir. peter. you've noticed it, too? [_picks up another letter, looking over it._ james. yes, sir. peter. [_pausing, taking off his eye-glasses and holding them on his thumb. philosophically._] how prettily nature accomplishes her will-- making a girl doubly beautiful that a young man may yield his freedom the more easily. wonderful! [_during the following, he glances over letters._] a young girl is like a violet sheltered under a bush, james; and that is as it should be, isn't it? james. no, sir, i don't think so. peter. [_surprised._] what? james. i believe people should think for themselves--not be.... peter. go on. james. --er-- peter. well? james. [_remembering his promise to_ catherine.] nothing. peter. go on, james. james. i mean swallowed up. peter. swallowed up? explain yourself, james. james. i shouldn't have mentioned it. peter. certainly, certainly. don't be afraid to express an honest opinion. james. i only meant that you can't shape another's life. we are all free beings and-- peter. free? of course katie's free--to a certain extent. do you mean to tell me that any young girl should be freer? nonsense! she should be happy that _i_ am here to think for her--_i_! _we_ must think for people who can't think for themselves; and a young girl can't. [_signing an answer to a letter after hastily glancing over it._] you have extraordinary ideas, james. james. excuse me, sir; you asked my opinion. i only meant that we can't think for others--any more than we can eat or sleep for them. peter. [_as though accepting the explanation._] oh ... i see what you mean. james. of course, every happy being is bound by its nature to lead its own life--that it may be a free being. evidently i didn't make my meaning clear. [_giving_ peter _another letter to sign._ peter. free? happy? james, you talk like an anarchist! you surprise me, sir. where do you get these extraordinary ideas? james. by reading modern books and magazines, sir, and of course-- peter. i thought so. [_pointing to his books._] read heine. cultivate sentiment. [_signing the letter._] happy? has it ever occurred to you that katie is not happy? james. no, sir, i can't truthfully say that it has. peter. i imagine not. these are the happiest hours of her life. young ... in love ... soon to be married. james. [_after a long pause._] is it settled, sir? peter. no, but i'll soon settle it. anyone can see how she feels towards frederik. james. [_after a shorter pause._] isn't she very young to marry, sir? peter. not when she marries into the family; not when _i_ am in the house--[_touching his chest._] to guard her--to watch over her. leave it to _me_. [_enthusiastically._] sit here, james. take one of frederik's cigars. [james _politely thanks him, but doesn't take one._] it's a pleasure to talk to some one who's interested; and you _are_ interested, james? james. yes, sir, i'm much more interested than you might think. peter. good. we'll take up the mail in a minute. now, in order to carry out my plans-- catherine. [_sticking her head in the door._] ready for coffee? peter. er--a little later. close the door, dear. [_she disappears, closing the door._] in order to carry out my plans, i have had to use great diplomacy. i made up my mind to keep katie in the family; being a rich man--everybody knows it--i've had to guard against fortune-hunters. however, i think i've done away with them, for the whole town understands that katie hasn't a penny--doesn't it, james? james. yes, sir. peter. yes, i think i've made that very clear. my dream was to bring catherine up to keep her in the family, and it has been fulfilled. my plans have turned out beautifully, for she is satisfied and happy. james. but did you want her to be happy simply because _you_ are happy, sir? don't you want her to be happy because _she_ is happy? peter. if she's happy, why should i care? [_picks up the last letter._ james. _if_ she's happy. peter. [_losing his temper._] what do you mean? that's the second time you've said that. why do you harp on-- james. [_rising._] excuse me, sir. peter. [_angrily._] sit down. what do you know? james. nothing, sir.... peter. you must know something to speak in this manner. james. no, i don't. you're a great expert in your line, mr. grimm, and i have the greatest respect for your opinion; but you can't mate people as you'd graft tulips. and more than once, i've--i've caught her crying and i've thought perhaps ... peter. [_pooh-poohing._] crying? of course! was there ever a girl who didn't cry?... you amuse me ... with your ideas of life.... ha! haven't i asked her why she was crying,--and hasn't she always said: "i don't know why--it's nothing." they love to cry. [_signs the last letter._] but that's what they all cry over--nothing. james, do you know how i happened to meet katie? she was prescribed for me by doctor macpherson. james. [_taking the letter._] prescribed? peter. as an antidote. i was growing to be a fussy bachelor, with queer notions. you are young, but see that you don't need the doctor, james. do you know how i was cured? i'll tell you. one day, when i had business in the city, the doctor went with me, and before i knew what he was at--he had marched me into a home for babies.... katie was nearest the door--the first one. pinned over her crib was her name: "catherine staats, aged three months." she held out her little arms ... so friendless--so pitiful--so alone--and i was done for. we brought her back home, the doctor, a nurse and i. the first time i carried her up those stairs--all my fine bachelor's ideas went out of my head. i knew then that my theories were all humbug. i had missed the child in the house who was to teach me everything. i had missed many children in my house. from that day, i watched over her life. [_rising, pointing towards the head of the stairs._] james, i was born in this house--in the little room where i sleep; and her children shall one day play in the room in which i was born.... that's very pretty, eh? [_wipes his eyes, sentimentally._] i've always seen it that way. james. [_coolly._] yes; it's _very_ pretty if it turns out well. peter. how can it turn out otherwise? james. to me, sir, it's not a question of sentiment--of where her children shall play, so long as they play happily. peter. what? her children can play anywhere--in china if they want to! are you in your senses? a fine reward for giving a child all your affection-- to live to see her children playing in china. no, sir! i propose to keep my household together, by your leave. [_banging his clenched fist on the desk._] it's my plan. [_cleans his pipe, looking at_ james _from time to time._ james _posts the letters in a mail-box outside the door._ peter _goes to the window, calling off._] otto! run to the office and tell mr. frederik he may come in now. [_the voice of a gruff dutchman: "het is pastoor's dag."_ (it is the pastor's day.)] ah, yes; i had forgotten. it's william's day to take flowers to the pastor. [_a knock is heard and, as_ peter _calls "come in,"_ william, _a delicate child of eight, stands timidly in the doorway of the dining-room, hat in hand._] how are you to-day, william? [_pats_ william _on the shoulder._ william. the doctor says i'm well now. peter. good! then you shall take flowers to the church. [_calls off._] a big armful, otto! marta _has entered with a neatly folded, clean handkerchief which she tucks into_ william's _breast pocket._ peter. [_in a low voice, to_ james.] there's your example of freedom! william's mother, old marta's spoiled child, was free. you remember annamarie, james?--let to come and go as she pleased. god knows where she is now ... and here is william with the poor old grandmother.... run along with the flowers, william. [_gives_ william _some pennies as he goes._] how he shoots up, eh, marta? marta. [_with the hopeless sorrow of the old, as she passes off._] poor child ... poor child. peter. give katie more freedom, eh? oh, no! i shall guard her as i would guard my own, for she is as dear to me as though she were mine, and, by marriage, please god, she shall be a grimm in _name_. james. mr. grimm, i--i wish you would transfer me to your branch house in florida. peter. what? you who were so glad to come back! james, you need a holiday. close your desk. go out and busy yourself with those pet vegetables of yours. change your ideas; then come back sane and sensible, and attend to your work. [_giving a last shot at_ james _as he passes into the office and_ frederik _re-enters._] you don't know what you want! frederik. [_looking after_ james.] uncle peter, when i came in this morning, i made up my mind to speak to you of james. peter. james? frederik. yes, i've wondered lately if ... it seems to me that james is interested in catherine. peter. james? impossible. frederik. i'm not so sure. peter. [_good-naturedly._] james? james hartman? frederik. when i look back and remember him as a barefoot boy living in a shack behind our hot-houses--and see him now--in here with you-- peter. all the more credit, frederik. frederik. yes; but these are the sort of fellows who dream of getting into the firm. and there are more ways than one. peter. do you mean to say--he wouldn't presume to think of such a thing. frederik. oh, wouldn't he! the class to which he belongs presumes to think of anything. i believe he has been making love to catherine. peter. [_after a slight pause, goes to the dining-room door and calls._] katie! katie! frederik. [_hastily._] don't say that i mentioned it. [catherine _enters._ peter. katie, i wish to ask you a question. i--[_he laughs._] oh, it's absurd. no, no, never mind. catherine. what is it? peter. i can't ask you. it's really too absurd. catherine. [_her curiosity aroused._] what is it, uncle?... tell me ... tell me.... peter. has james ever-- catherine. [_taken back and rather frightened--quickly._] no.... peter. what?... how did you know what i ... [frederik _gives her a shrewd glance; but_ peter, _suspecting nothing, continues._] i meant ... has james shown any special interest in you? catherine. [_as though accepting the explanation._] oh ... [_flurried._] why, uncle peter!... uncle peter!... whatever put this notion into your head? peter. it's all nonsense, of course, but-- catherine. i've always known james.... we went to school together.... james has shown no interest he ought not to have shown, uncle peter,--if that's what you mean. he has always been very respectful in a perfectly friendly way. peter. [_convinced._] respectful in a perfectly friendly way. [_to_ frederik.] you can't ask more than that. thank you, dear, that's all i wanted. run along. [_glad to escape,_ catherine _leaves the room._] he was only respectful in a perfectly friendly way. [_slaps_ frederik _on the back._] you're satisfied now, i hope? frederik. no, i am not. if _she_ hasn't noticed what he has in mind, _i_ have. when i came into this room a few moments ago,--it was as plain as day. he's trying to make love to her under our very eyes. i saw him. i wish you would ask him to stay in his office and attend to his own business. [james _now re-enters on his way to the gardens._] peter. james, it has just occurred to me--that--[_james pauses._] what was your reason for wanting to give up your position? had it anything to do with my little girl? james. yes, sir. peter. you mean that--you--you love her? james. [_in a low voice._] yes, sir. peter. o-ho! [frederik _gives_ peter _a glance as though to say, "now, do you believe it?"_ james. but she doesn't know it, of course; she never would have known it. i never meant to say a word to her. i understand, sir. peter. james! come here ... here!... [_bringing_ james _up before him at the desk._] get your money at the office. you may have that position in florida. good-bye, james. james. i'm very sorry that ... good-bye, sir. frederik. you are not to tell her that you're going. you're not to bid her good-bye. peter. [_to_ frederik.] sh! let me attend to-- james. [_ignoring_ frederik.] i'm sorry, mr. grimm, that-- [_his voice falters._ peter. [_rising._] james, i'm sorry, too. you've grown up here and--tc! tc! good fortune to you--james. get this notion out of your head, and perhaps one day you'll come back to us. we shall see. [_shakes hands with_ james, _who leaves the room too much overcome to speak._ dr. macpherson. [_who has entered, saying carelessly to_ james _as he passes him._] hy're you, jim? glad jim's back. one of the finest lads i ever brought into this world. _the_ doctor _is a man of about_ peter's _age, but more powerfully built. he has the bent shoulders of the student and his face is exceedingly intellectual. he is the rare type of doctor who forgets to make out his bills. he has a grizzled grey beard, and his hair is touched with grey. he wears silver-rimmed spectacles. his substantial but unpressed clothing is made by the village tailor._ peter. good-morning, andrew. frederik. good-morning, doctor. dr. macpherson. [_casts a quick, professional glance at_ peter.] peter, i've come over to have a serious word with you. been on my mind all night. [_brings down a chair and sits opposite_ peter.] i--er--frederik ... [frederik, _who is not a favourite of the_ doctor's, _takes the hint and leaves the room_.] peter, have you provided for everybody in this house? peter. what? have i-- dr. macpherson. you're a terrible man for planning, peter; but what have you done? [_casually_.] were you to die,--say to-morrow,--how would it be with--[_making a gesture to include the household_.]--the rest of them? peter. what do you mean? if i were to die to-morrow ... dr. macpherson. you won't. don't worry. good for a long time yet, but every one must come to it--sooner or later. i mean--what would katie's position be in this house? i know you've set your heart upon her marrying frederik, and all that sort of nonsense, but will it work? i've always thought 'twas a pity frederik wasn't james and james wasn't frederik. peter. what! dr. macpherson. oh, it's all very well if she wants frederik, but supposing she does not. peter, if you mean to do something for her--do it _now_. peter. now? you mean that i--you mean that i might ... die? dr. macpherson. all can and do. peter. [_studying the_ doctor's _face_.] you think ... dr. macpherson. the machinery is wearing out, peter. thought i should tell you. no cause for apprehension, but-- peter. then why tell me? dr. macpherson. when i cured you of that cold--wet flowerbeds--two days ago, i made a discovery. [_seeing_ catherine _enter, he pauses. she is followed by_ marta, _carrying a tray containing coffee and a plate of waffles_.] coffee! i told you not to touch coffee, peter. it's rank poison. catherine. wouldn't you like a cup, doctor? peter. yes he'll take a cup. he won't prescribe it, but he'll drink it. dr. macpherson. [_horrified_.] and hot waffles between meals! peter. yes, he'll take hot waffles, too. [marta _goes to get another plate and more waffles, and_ catherine _follows her_.] now, andrew, you can't tell me that i'm sick. i won't have it. every day we hear of some old boy one hundred years of age who was given up by the doctors at twenty. no, sir! i'm going to live to see children in my house,--katie's babies creeping on my old floor; playing with my old watch-dog, toby. i've promised myself a long line of rosy grimms. dr. macpherson. my god, peter! that dog is fifteen years old now. do you expect nothing to change in your house? man, you're a home worshipper. however, i--i see no reason why--[_lying_.]you shouldn't reach a ripe old age. [_markedly, though feigning to treat the subject lightly_.] er-- peter, i should like to make a compact with you ... that whoever _does_ go first--and you're quite likely to outlive me,--is to come back and let the other fellow know ... and settle the question. splendid test between old neighbours--real contribution to science. peter. make a compact to--stuff and nonsense! dr. macpherson. don't be too sure of that. peter. no, andrew, no, positively, no. i refuse. don't count upon me for any assistance in your spook tests. dr. macpherson. and how many times do you think _you've_ been a spook yourself? you can't tell me that man is perfect; that he doesn't live more than one life; that the soul doesn't go on and on. pshaw! the persistent personal energy must continue, or what _is_ god? [catherine _has re-entered with another cup, saucer and plate which she sets on the table, and pours out the coffee._ catherine. [_interested_.] were you speaking of--of ghosts, doctor? peter. yes, he has begun again. [_to_ catherine.] you're just in time to hear it. [_to_ dr. macpherson.] andrew, i'll stay behind, contented in _this_ life; knowing what i have here on earth, and you shall die and return with your--ha!--persistent personal whatever-it-is, and keep the spook compact. every time a knock sounds, or a chair squeaks, or the door bangs, i shall say, "sh! there's the doctor!" catherine. [_noticing a book which the_ doctor _has taken from his pocket, and reading the title_.] "are the dead alive?" dr. macpherson. i'm in earnest, peter. _i'll_ promise and i want you to promise, too. understand that i am not a so-called spiritist. i am merely a seeker after truth. [_puts more sugar in his coffee_. peter. that's what they _all_ are--seekers after truth. rubbish! do you really believe such stuff? dr. macpherson. i know that the dead are alive. they're here--here--near us--close at hand. [peter, _in derision, lifts the table-cloth and peeps under the table--then, taking the lid off the sugar-bowl, peers into it_.] some of the great scientists of the day are of the same opinion. peter. bah! dreamers! they accomplish nothing in the world. they waste their lives dreaming of the world to come. dr. macpherson. you can't call sir charles crookes, the inventor of crookes tubes,--a waster? nor sir oliver lodge, the great biologist; nor curie, the discoverer of radium; nor doctor lombroso, the founder of science of criminology; nor doctors maxwell, devesmé, richet, professor james, of harvard, and our own professor hyslop. instead of laughing at ghosts, the scientific men of to-day are trying to lay hold of them. the frauds and cheats are being crowded from the field. science is only just peeping through the half-opened door which was shut until a few years ago. peter. if ever i see a ghost, i shall lay violent hands upon it and take it to the police station. that's the proper place for frauds. dr. macpherson. i'm sorry, peter, very sorry, to see that you, like too many others, make a jest of the most important thing in life. hyslop is right: man will spend millions to discover the north pole, but not a penny to discover his immortal destiny. peter. [_stubbornly_.] i don't believe in spook mediums and never shall believe in them. dr. macpherson. probably most professional mediums cheat--perhaps every one of them; but some of them are capable of real demonstrations at times. peter. once a swindler, always a swindler. besides, why can't my old friends come straight back to me and say, "peter grimm, here i am!" when they do--if they do--i shall be the first man to take off my hat to them and hold out my hand in welcome. dr. macpherson. you ask me why? why can't a telegram travel on a fence instead of on a wire? your friends could come back to you if you could put yourself in a receptive condition; but if you cannot, you must depend upon a medium--a sensitive. peter. a what? [_to_ catherine.] something new, eh? he has all the names for them. yesterday it was "apports"--flowers that fell down from nowhere and hit you on the nose. he talks like a medium's parrot. he has only to close his eyes and along comes the parade. spooks! spooky spooks! and now he wants me to settle my worldly affairs and join in the procession. catherine. [_puzzled_.] settle your worldly affairs? what do you mean, uncle peter? peter. [_evasively_.] just some more of his nonsense. doctor, you've seen a good many cross to the other world; tell me--did you ever see one of them come back--one? dr. macpherson. no. peter. [_sipping his coffee_.] never have, eh? and never will. take another cup of poison, andrew. _the_ doctor _gives his cup to_ catherine, _who fills it_. peter _passes the waffles to the_ doctor, _at the same time winking at_ catherine _as the_ doctor _takes another_. dr. macpherson. there was not perhaps the intimate bond between doctor and patients to bring them back. but in my own family, i have known of a case. peter. [_apart to_ catherine.] he's off again. catherine. [_eager to listen_.] please don't interrupt, uncle. i love to hear him tell of-- dr. macpherson. i have known of a return such as you mention. a distant cousin died in london and she was seen almost instantly in new york. peter. she must have travelled on a biplane, andrew. dr. macpherson. if my voice can be heard from san francisco over the telephone, why cannot a soul with a god-given force behind it dart over the entire universe? is thomas edison greater than god? catherine. [_shocked_.] doctor! dr. macpherson. and they can't tuck it _all_ on telepathy. telepathy cannot explain the case of a spirit-message giving the contents of a sealed letter known only to the person that died. here's another interesting case. peter. this is better than "puss in boots," isn't it, katie? more--er-- flibbertigibberty. katie always loved fairy stories. catherine. [_listening eagerly_.] uncle, please. dr. macpherson. [_ignoring_ peter, _speaking directly to_ catherine, _who is all attention_.] an officer on the polar vessel, the _jeannette_, sent to the artic regions by the new york _herald_, appeared at his wife's bedside. _she_ was in brooklyn--_he_ was on the polar sea. he said to her, "count." she distinctly heard a ship's bell and the word "count" again. she had counted six when her husband's voice said, "six bells--and the _jeanette_ is lost." the ship was really lost at the time she saw the vision. peter. a bad dream. "six bells and the"--ha! ha! spirit messages! suet pudding has brought me messages from the north pole, and i receive messages from kingdom come after i've eaten a piece of mince pie. dr. macpherson. there have been seventeen thousand other cases found to be worth investigation by the london society of psychical research. peter. [_changing_.] supposing, andrew, that i did "cross over"--i believe that's what you call dying,--that i _did_ want to come back to see how you and the little katie and frederik were getting on, how do you think i could manage to do it? dr. macpherson. when we hypnotize subjects, peter, our thoughts take possession of them. as we enter their bodies, we take the place of a something that leaves them--a shadow-self. this self can be sent out of the room--even to a long distance. this self leaves us entirely after death on the first, second or third day, or so i believe. this is the force which you would employ to come back to earth--the astral envelope. peter. yes, but what proof have you, doctor, that i've got an--an astral envelope. dr. macpherson. [_easily_.] de rochas has actually photographed it by radio-photography. peter. ha! ha! ha! ho! ho! dr. macpherson. mind you--they couldn't _see_ it when they photographed it. peter. i imagine not. see it? ho! ho! dr. macpherson. it stood a few feet away from the sleeper, and was located by striking at the air and watching for the corresponding portion of the sleeper's body to recoil. by pricking a certain part of this shadow-self with a pin, the cheek of the patient could be made to bleed. the camera was focussed on this part of the shadow-self for fifteen minutes. the result was the profile of a head. peter. [_after a pause_.] ... you believe that? dr. macpherson. the experiment has been repeated again and again. nobody acquainted with the subject denies it now. peter. spook pictures taken by professional mediums! [_turning away from the table as though he had heard enough._ dr. macpherson. de rochas, who took the pictures of which i speak, is a lawyer of standing; and the room was full of scientists who saw the pictures taken. peter. hypnotized--all of them. humbug, andrew! dr. macpherson. under these conditions, it is quite impossible to hypnotize a room full of people. perhaps you think the camera was hypnotized? in similar circumstances, says lombroso, an unnatural current of cold air went through the room and lowered the thermometer several degrees. can you hypnotize a thermometer? catherine. [_impressed_.] that's wonderful, doctor! peter. yes, it's a very pretty fairy story; but it would sound better set to shivery music. [_sings_.] tol! dol! dol! dol! [_rising to get his pipe and tobacco_.] no, sir! i refuse to agree to your compact. you cannot pick the lock of heaven's gate. we don't come back. god did enough for us when he gave us life and strength to work and the work to do. he owes us no explanations. i believe in the old-fashioned paradise with a locked gate. [_he fills his pipe and lights it_.] no bogies for me. dr. macpherson. [_rising_.] peter, i console myself with the thought that men have scoffed at the laws of gravitation, at vaccination, magnetism, daguerreotypes, steamboats, cars, telephones, wireless telegraphy and lighting by gas. [_showing feeling_.] i'm very much disappointed that you refuse my request. peter. [_laying down his pipe on the table_.] since you take it so seriously--here--[_offers his hand_.] i'll agree. i know you're an old fool--and i'm another. now then--[_shakes hands._] it's settled. whichever one shall go first--[_he bursts into laughter--then controlling himself_.] if i do come back, i'll apologize, andrew. dr. macpherson. do you mean it? peter. i'll apologize. wait [_taking the keys from the sideboard_.], let us seal the compact in a glass of my famous plum brandy. dr. macpherson. good! peter. [_as he passes off_.] we'll drink to spooks. catherine. you really do believe, doctor, that the dead can come back, don't you? dr. macpherson. of course i do, and why not? catherine. do you believe that you could come back here into this room and i could see you? dr. macpherson. you might not see me; but i could come back to this room. catherine. could you talk to me? dr. macpherson. yes. catherine. and could i hear you? dr. macpherson. i believe so. that's what we're trying to make possible. [catherine, _still wondering, passes off with the tray. from the cellar,_ peter _can be heard singing lustily._ peter. "if you want a bite that's good to eat, (tra, la, ritte, ra, la, la, la!) try out a goose that's fat and sweet, (tra, la, ritte, ra, la, la, la!") _during the song,_ mrs. batholommey _has given a quick tap on the door and entered. she is about forty years of age. her faded brown hair is streaked with grey. she wears a plain black alpaca costume._ mrs. batholommey. [_agitated_.] good-morning, doctor. fortunate that i found you alone. dr. macpherson. [_dryly_.] hy're you, mrs. batholommey? _the_ rev. henry batholommey _now enters. he is a man of about forty-five, wearing the frock coat, high waistcoat and square topped hat of a minister of the dutch reformed church._ rev. mr. batholommey. hy're, henry? _the_ rev. mr. batholommey _bows._ william _has returned from his errand and entered the room,--a picture-book under his arm. he sits up by the window, absorbed in the pictures--unnoticed by the others._ mrs. batholommey. [_closing the door left open by_ peter, _shutting out the sound of his voice_.] well, doctor ... [_she pauses for a moment to catch her breath and wipe her eyes_.] i suppose you've told him he's got to die. dr. macpherson. [_eyeing_ mrs. batholommey _with disfavour_.] who's got to die? mrs. batholommey. why, mr. grimm, of course. dr. macpherson. [_amazed_.] does the whole damned town know it? mrs. batholommey. oh! rev. mr. batholommey. easy, doctor. you consulted mr. grimm's lawyer and _his_ wife told _my_ wife. dr. macpherson. he gabbed, eh? hang the professional man who tells things to his wife. mrs. batholommey. doctor! rev. mr. batholommey. [_with solicitude_.] i greatly grieve to hear that mr. grimm has an incurable malady. his heart, i understand. [_shakes his head._ dr. macpherson. he's not to be told. is that clear? he may die in twenty minutes--may outlive us all--probably will. mrs. batholommey. [_pointing to_ rev. mr. batholommey.] it seems to me, doctor, that if _you_ can't do any more, it's _his_ turn. it's a wonder you doctors don't baptize the babies. rev. mr. batholommey. rose! mrs. batholommey. at the last minute, he'll want to make a will--and you know he hasn't made one. he'll want to remember the church and his charities and his friends; and if he dies before he can carry out his intentions, the minister will be blamed as usual. it's not fair. rev. mr. batholommey. sh! sh! my dear! these private matters-- dr. macpherson. i'll trouble you, mistress batholommey, to attend to your own affairs. did you never hear the story of the lady who flattened her nose--sticking it into other people's business? rev. mr. batholommey. doctor! doctor! i can't have that! mrs. batholommey. let him talk, henry. no one in this town pays any attention to dr. macpherson since he took up with spiritualism. rev. mr. batholommey. rose! [_he motions to her to be silent, as_ peter, _coming up the stairs from the cellar, is heard singing_. peter. "drop in the fat some apples red, (tra, la, ritte, ra, la, la, la!) then spread it on a piece of bread, (tra, la, ritte, ra, la, la, la!)" [_he opens the door, carrying a big bottle in his hand; hailing the_ batholommeys _cheerfully_.] good-morning, good people. [_he puts the jug on the sideboard and hangs up the key. the_ batholommeys _look sadly at_ peter. mrs. batholommey _in the fore-ground tries to smile pleasantly, but can only assume the peculiarly pained expression of a person about to break terrible news._ rev. mr. batholommey. [_rising to the occasion--warmly grasping_ peter's _hand_.] ah, my dear friend! many thanks for the flowers william brought us, and the noble cheque you sent me. we're still enjoying the vegetables you generously provided. i _did_ relish the squash. peter. [_catching a glimpse of_ mrs. batholommey's _gloomy expression_.] anything distressing you this morning, mrs. batholommey? mrs. batholommey. no, no.... i hope _you're_ feeling well--er--i don't mean that--i-- rev. mr. batholommey. [_cheerily_.] of course, she does; and why not, why not, dear friend? peter. will you have a glass of my plum brandy? mrs. batholommey. [_stiffly_.] no, thank you. as you know, i belong to the w.c.t.u. peter. pastor? rev. mr. batholommey. [_tolerantly_.] no, thank you. i am also opposed to er-- peter. we're going to drink to spooks--the doctor and i. mrs. batholommey. [_with a startled cry_.] oh! [_lifts her handkerchief to her eyes_.] how can you! and at a time like this. the very idea--you of all people! peter. [_coming down with two glasses--handing one to the_ doctor.] you seem greatly upset, mrs. batholommey. something must have happened. rev. mr. batholommey. nothing, nothing, i assure you. my wife is a trifle nervous to-day. we must all keep up our spirits, mr. grimm. peter. of course. why not? [_looking at_ mrs. batholommey--_struck_.] i know why you're crying. you've been to a church wedding. [_to the_ doctor, _lifting his glass_.] to astral envelopes, andrew. [_they drink._ mrs. batholommey. [_with sad resignation_.] you were always kind to us, dear mr. grimm. there never was a kinder, better, sweeter man than you were. peter. than i _was_? rev. mr. batholommey. rose, my dear! mrs. batholommey. what _will_ become of william? [_weeps_. peter. william? why should you worry over william? i am looking after him. i don't understand-- mrs. batholommey. [_seeing that she has gone too far_.] i only meant--it's too bad he had such an m-- peter. an m--? mrs. batholommey. [_in pantomime--mouthing the word so that_ william _cannot hear_.] mother ... annamarie. peter. oh! ... mrs. batholommey. she ought to have told you or mr. batholommey who the f-- was. peter. f--? mrs. batholommey. [_in pantomime--as before_.] father. peter. oh... [_spelling out the word_.] s-c-o-u-n-d-r-e-l--whoever he is! [_calls_.] william. [william _looks up from his book_.] you're very contented here with me, are you not? william. yes, sir. peter. and you want to stay here? william. yes, sir. [_at that moment, a country circus band--playing a typical parade march--blares out as it comes up some distant street_.] there's a circus in town. peter. a circus? william. yes, sir. the parade has started. [_opens the window and looks out towards left_.] here it comes-- peter. [_hurrying to the door_.] where? where? william. [_pointing_.] there! peter. [_as delighted as_ william.] you're right. it's coming this way! here come the chariots. [_gestures to the_ batholommeys _to join him at the window. the music comes nearer and nearer--the parade is supposed to be passing._ william _gives a cry of delight as a clown appears at the window with handbills under his arm._ the clown. [_as he throws the handbills into the room_.] billy miller's big show and monster circus is in town this afternoon. only one ring. no confusion. [_seeing_ william.] circus day comes but once a year, little sir. come early and see the wild animals and hear the lions roar-r-r! mind! [_holding up his finger to_ william.] i shall expect to see you. wonderful troupe of trained mice in the side show. [_sings_.] "uncle rat has gone to town, ha! h'm! uncle rat has gone to town to buy miss mouse a--" [_ends the song abruptly_.] ha! ha! ha! ha! [_the_ clown _disappears, repeating "billy miller's big show," &c., until his voice is lost and the voices of shouting children are heard as they run after him._ peter. [_putting his hand in his pocket_.] we'll go. you may buy the tickets, william--two front seats. [frederik _re-enters with a floral catalogue._ mrs. batholommey. [_apart to_ rev. mr. batholommey--_looking at_ peter.] somebody ought to tell him. william. [_getting the money from_ peter.] i'm going! i'm going! [_dances_.] oh, mr. grimm, there ain't anyone else like you in the world. when the other boys laugh at your funny old hat, _i_ never do. [_pointing to_ peter's _hat on the peg._ peter. my hat? they laugh at my hat? william. we'll have such a good time at the circus. it's too bad you've got to die, mr. grimm. _there is a pause._ peter _stops short, looking at_ william. _the others are startled, but stand motionless, watching the effect of_ william's _revelation._ frederik _doesn't know what to make of it. there is an ominous silence in the room. then_ mrs. batholommey, _whose smile has been frozen on her face, takes_ william's _hand and is about to draw him away, when_ peter _lays his hand on_ william's _shoulder_. mrs. batholommey _steps back._ peter. [_kindly_.] yes, william, most people have to. ... what made you think of it just then? william. [_points to the_ doctor.] he said so. perhaps in twenty minutes. rev. mr. batholommey. [_quietly but very sternly_.] william! [william _now understands that he should not have repeated what he heard._ peter. don't frighten the boy. only children tell the truth. tell me, william--you heard the doctor say that? [william _is silent. he keeps his eyes on the_ clergyman _who is looking at him warningly. the tears run down his cheeks--he puts his fingers to his lips--afraid to speak_.] don't be frightened. you heard the doctor say that? william. [_his voice trembling_.] y--es, sir. peter. [_looks round the room--beginning to understand_.] ... what did you mean, andrew? dr. macpherson. i'll tell you, peter, when we're alone. peter. but ... [mrs. batholommey _shakes her finger threateningly at_ william _who whimpers_.] never mind. it popped out; didn't it, william? get the circus tickets and we'll have a fine time just the same. [william _goes for the tickets._ rev. mr. batholommey. i--er--good-morning, dear friend. [_takes_ peter's _hand_.] any time you 'phone for me--day or night--i'll run over instantly. god bless you, sir. i've never come to you for any worthy charity and been turned away--never. mrs. batholommey. [_suddenly overcome_] good-bye, mr. grimm. [_in tears, she follows her husband. the_ doctor _and_ peter _look at each other_. dr. macpherson. [_cigar in mouth--very abruptly_] it's cardiac valvular--a little valve--[_tapping heart_]--here. [_slaps_ peter _on the shoulder_] there's my 'phone, [_as a bell is heard faintly but persistently ringing across the street_] i'll be back. [_catches up his hat to hasten off._ peter. just a minute. dr. macpherson. [_turning_] don't fret yourself, peter. you're not to imagine you're worse than you are. [_angrily_.] don't funk! peter. [_calmly_] that wasn't my reason for detaining you, andrew. [_with a twinkle in his eye_] i merely wanted to say-- dr. macpherson. yes? peter. that if there is anything in that ghost business of yours, i won't forget to come back and apologize for my want of faith. [_the_ doctor _goes home_. frederik _stands looking at his_ uncle. _there is a long pause._ peter _throws up both hands_] rubbish! doctors are very often wrong. it's all guess work, eh, fritz? frederik. [_thinking of his future in case of_ peter's _death_] yes, sir. peter. however, to be on the safe side, i'll take that nip of plum brandy. [_then thinking aloud_.] not yet ... not yet ... i'm not ready to die yet. i have so much to live for. ... when i'm older ... when i'm a little old leaf ready to curl up, eh, fritz? [_he drains the glass. goes up to the peg, takes dawn his hat, looks at it as though remembering_ william's _words, then puts it back on the peg. he shows no sign of taking_ dr. macpherson's _verdict to heart--in fact, he doesn't believe it_.] frederik, get me some small change for the circus--enough for william and me. frederik. are you going ... after all? ... and with that child? peter. why not? frederik. [_suddenly showing feeling_.] that little tattler? a child that listens to everything and just told you ... he shouldn't be allowed in this part of the house. he should be sent away. peter. [_astonished_.] why do you dislike him, frederik? he's a fine little fellow. you surprise me, my boy ... [catherine _enters and goes to the piano, running her hands softly over the keys--playing no melody in particular._ peter _sits in his big chair at the table and picks up his pipe._ frederik, _with an inscrutable face, now strikes a match and holds it to his uncle's pipe_. peter _thoughtfully takes one or two puffs; then speaking so as not to be heard by_ catherine.] frederik, i want to think that after i'm gone, everything will be the same here ... just as it is now. frederik. yes, sir. [_sitting near_ peter. peter. just as it is ... [frederik _nods assent_. peter _smokes. the room is very cheerful. the bright midday sunshine creeps through the windows,-- almost causing a haze in the room--and resting on the pots and vases and bright flowers on the tables._ catherine. [_singing_.] "the bird so free in the heavens"-- peter. [_looking up--still in thought--seeming not to hear the song_.] and my charities attended to. [frederik _nods assent_. catherine. "is but the slave of the nest; for all must toil as god wills it,-- must laugh and toil and rest." peter. [_who has been thinking_.] just as though i were here. catherine. "the rose must blow in the garden"-- peter. william, too. don't forget _him_, frederik. frederik. no, uncle. catherine. "the bee must gather its store; the cat must watch the mouse-hole; the dog must guard the door." peter. [_as though he had a weight off his mind_.] we won't speak of this again. it's understood. [_smokes, listening with pleasure as_ catherine _finishes the song_. catherine. [_repeats the chorus_.] "the cat must watch the mouse-hole; the dog must guard the door. la la, la la," &c. _at the close of the song,_ peter _puts down his pipe and beckons to_ catherine. peter. give me the book. [catherine _brings the bible to_ peter _as the garden bell rings outside_. frederik. noon. peter. [_opening the book at the history of the family--points to the closely written page_.] under my name i want to see this written: "married: catherine and frederik." i want to see you settled, katie-- [_smiling_] settled happily for life. [_he takes her hand and draws_ frederik _towards his chair_. catherine, _embarrassed, plays with a rose in her belt_.] will you?... catherine. i ... i don't know.... peter. [_taking the rose and her hand in his own_] i know for you, my dear. make me happy. catherine. there's nothing i wouldn't do to make you happy, uncle, but-- frederik. you know that i love you, kitty. peter. yes, yes, yes. _that's_ all understood. he has always loved you. everybody knows it. catherine. uncle... peter. make it a june wedding. we have ten days yet. [_slipping her hand in_ frederik's, _taking the rose, and tapping their clasped hands with the flower as he speaks._ frederik. say yes, kitty. catherine. [_nervously_] i couldn't in ten days.... frederik. but-- peter. [_to_ frederik.] who is arranging the marriage, you or i? say a month, then, katie.... promise me. catherine. [_her lips set._] if you have set your heart on it, i will, uncle peter ... i will ... i promise. peter. [_takes a ring of his hand._] the wedding ring--my dear mother's. [_gives it to_ catherine.] you've made me very happy, my dear. [_he kisses_ catherine. _then, releasing her, he nods to_ frederik _to follow his example._ peter _turns his back on the young people and smokes._ frederik. catherine ... [_dreading his embrace, she retreats towards_ peter _and, as she touches him, his pipe falls to the floor. she looks at him, startled._ frederik, _struck, looking intently at_ peter _who sits motionless._ catherine. uncle peter ... uncle! what is it? what's the matter? [_runs to the door--calling across the street._] doctor! there he is--just going out. [_calls._] come back. come back, doctor. [_to_ frederik.] i felt it. i felt something strange a minute ago. i felt it. frederik. [_taking_ peter's _hand._] uncle peter! catherine. [_coming back to_ peter _and looking at him transfixed._] uncle peter! answer me! ... it's katie! _the_ doctor _enters hurriedly._ dr. macpherson. is it ... peter? [_he goes quickly to_ peter _and listens to his heart._ catherine _and_ frederik _on either side of him. the_ doctor _with tender sympathy takes_ catherine _in his arms._ william. [_rushes in with two tickets in his hand, leaving the door open. the circus music is faintly heard._] mr. grimm! dr. macpherson. sh! [_a pause as though breaking the news to them all._] he's gone. frederik. [_questioningly--dazed._] dead? [catherine _is overcome._ william. [_at_ peter's _side--holding up the circus ticket._] he can't be dead ... i've got his ticket to the circus. curtain. act ii. scene. _the second act takes place ten days later, towards the close of a rainy afternoon. a fire is burning in the grate and a basket of hickory wood stands beside the hearth._ peter's _hat is no longer on the peg. his pipes and jar of tobacco are missing. a number of wedding presents are set on a table, some unopened. the interior of the room, with its snapping fire, forms a pleasant contrast to the gloomy exterior. the day is fading into dusk._ mrs. batholommey _is at the piano, playing the wedding march from "lohengrin." four little girls are grouped about her, singing the words to the air._ _"faithful and true: we lead ye forth, where love triumphant shall lighten the way."_ _"bright star of love, flower of the earth, shine on ye both on love's perfect day."_ mrs. batholommey. that's better. children, remember that this is to be a very _quiet_ wedding. you're to be here at noon to-morrow. you're not to speak as you enter the room and take your places near the piano. miss staats will come down from her room,--at least i suppose she will--and will stand ... [_thinks._] i don't know where--but you're to stop when _i_ look at you. watch me as though i were about to be married. [_she takes her place at the foot of the stairs and the children repeat the song until she has marched across the room and stationed herself in some appropriate corner. as_ frederik _appears from the hall, where he leaves his raincoat and umbrella,_ mrs. batholommey _motions the children to silence._] that will do, dears, thank you. hurry home between showers. [_the children go as she explains to_ frederik.] my sunday-school scholars.... i thought your dear uncle would like a song at the wedding. i know how bright and cheery he would have been--poor man. dear, noble, charitable soul! frederik. [_in a low voice._] where's catherine? mrs. batholommey. [_taking up her fancy work, seating herself._] upstairs. frederik. with that sick child? tc! mrs. batholommey. catherine finds it a pleasure to sit beside the little fellow. william is very much better. frederik. [_taking a telegram from his pocket-book._] well, we shall soon be off to europe. i've just had a telegram to say a cabin has been reserved for me on the _imperator_. to-morrow, thank god, we shall take the afternoon train to new york. mrs. batholommey. i must confess that i'm very glad. of course, i'm happy to stay and chaperone catherine; but poor mr. batholommey has been alone at the parsonage for ten days ... ever since your dear uncle ... [_pauses, unwinding yarn, then unburdening her mind._] i didn't think at first that catherine could persuade herself to marry you. frederik. [_sharply._] i don't understand you, mrs. batholommey. mrs. batholommey. i mean she seemed so averse to--to an immediate marriage; but of course it was your uncle's last request, and that influenced her more than anything else. so it's to be a june wedding, after all; he has his wish. you'll be married in ten days from the time he left us. [_remembering._] some more letters marked personal came for him while you were out. i put them in the drawer--[_points to desk._] with the rest. it seems odd to think the postman brings your uncle's letters regularly, yet _he_ is not here. frederik. [_looking towards the door of the office._] did hartman come? mrs. batholommey. yes. he seemed rather surprised that you'd sent for him. frederik. did you--er--tell him that we intend to leave to-morrow? mrs. batholommey. i spoke of your wedding trip,--yes. frederik. did he seem inclined to stay? mrs. batholommey. he didn't say. he seemed very much agitated. [marta _enters, carrying a night lamp._] we'll pack miss catherine's things to-night, marta. [_she notices the lamp._] the night lamp for william? [_looks up towards the door of his room._] go in very quietly. he's asleep, i think. [marta _goes up the stairs and into_ william's _room._] by the way, mr. batholommey was very much excited when he heard that your uncle had left a personal memorandum concerning us. we're anxious to hear it read. [frederik, _paying no attention to her words, is glancing at the wedding presents._] we're anxious to hear it read. james. [_entering._] did you wish to see me? frederik. [_offering his hand to_ james.] how do you do, hartman? i'm very glad you consented to come back. my uncle never went into his office again after you left. there is some private correspondence concerning matters of which i know nothing; it lies on your old desk.... i'm anxious to settle everything to-night. mrs. batholommey _leaves the room._ james. very well. i have no doubt but that i can get through with it by midnight. frederik. if you care to remain longer with the firm, i--er-- james. no, thank you. frederik. i appreciate the fact that you came on my uncle's account. i have no ill-feeling against you, hartman. james. i'm not refusing to stay because of any ill-feeling. i'm going because i know that you'll sell out before your uncle's cold in his grave. i don't care to stay to see the old place change hands. frederik. i? sell out? my intention is to carry out every wish of my dear old uncle's. james. i hope so. i haven't forgotten that you wanted him to sell out to hicks of rochester on the very day he died. [_exit into the office._ catherine _comes from_ william's _room, simply dressed in white--no touch of mourning._ frederik _goes to the foot of the stairs and calls softly._ frederik. kitty! here is our marriage license. i have the cabin on the _imperator_. everything is arranged. catherine. [_coming downstairs._] yes. ... i meant to speak to you--again. frederik. to-morrow's the day, dear. catherine. [_very subdued._] yes.... frederik. a june wedding--just as uncle peter wished. catherine. [_as before_.] yes.... just as he wished. everything is just as he.... [_with a change of manner--earnestly--looking at_ frederik.] frederik, i don't want to go away. i don't want to go to europe. if only i could stay quietly here in--[_tears in her voice as she looks round the room._]--in my dear home. frederik. why do you want to stay in this old cottage--with its candles and lamps and shadows? it's very gloomy, very depressing. catherine. i don't want to leave this house.... i don't want any home but this. [_panic-stricken._] don't take me away frederik. i know you've never really liked it at grimm's manor. are you sure you'll want to come back to live here? frederik. [_as though speaking to a child._] of course. i'll do anything you ask. catherine. i--i've always wanted to please ... [_after a slight pause, finding it difficult to speak his name._] uncle peter.... i felt that i owed everything to him.... if he had lived ... if i could see _his_ happiness at our marriage--it would make _me_ happy; [_pathetically._] but he's gone ... and ... i'm afraid we're making a mistake. i don't feel towards you as i ought, frederik. i've told you again and again; but i want to tell you once more: i'm willing to marry you ... but i don't love you--i never shall. frederik. how do you know? catherine. i know ... i know.... it seems so disloyal to speak like this after i promised _him_; but-- frederik. yes, you _did_ promise uncle peter you'd marry me, didn't you? catherine. yes. frederik. and he died believing you? catherine. yes. frederik. then it all comes to this: are you going to live up to your promise? catherine. that's it. that's what makes me try to live up to it. [_wiping her eyes._] but you know how i feel.... you understand.... frederik. perfectly; you don't quite know your own mind.... very few young girls do, i suppose. i love you and in time you'll grow to care for me. [marta _re-enters from_ william's _room and closing the door comes down the stairs and passes off._] what _are_ we to do with that child? catherine. he's to stay here, of course. frederik. the child should be sent to some institution. what claim has he on you--on any of us? catherine. why do you dislike him? frederik. i don't, but-- catherine. yes, you do. i can't understand it. i remember how angry you were when you came back from college and found him living here. you never mention his mother's name, yet you played together as children. when uncle tried to find annamarie and bring her back, you were the only one opposed to it. frederik. william is an uncomfortable child to have in the house. he has a way of staring at people as though he had a perpetual question on his lips. it's most annoying. catherine. what question? frederik. as for his mother--i've never seen her since she left this house and i don't care to hear her name on your lips. her reputation is--[_the rain starts pattering on the shingled roof._] tc! more rain ... the third day of it.... [_going to the window--calling._] otto! [_angrily._] otto! see what the wind has done--those trellises. [_bangs the window shut._] that old gardener should have been laid off years ago.... by the way, his son james is here for a few hours--to straighten matters out. i must see how he's getting on. [_taking her hand, drawing her towards the table with a change of manner._] have you seen all the wedding presents, kitty? i'll be back in a few minutes. [_pats her cheek and exits._ catherine _stands over her wedding presents just as he left her--not looking at them--her eyes filled with tears. the door is suddenly opened and the_ doctor _enters, a tweed shawl over his shoulders, wearing a tweed cap. he has a book under his arm._ dr. macpherson. how's william? [catherine _tries to hide her tears, but he sees through her. he tosses his cap, coat and book on the sofa._] what's the matter? catherine. nothing.... i was only thinking.... i was hoping that those we love ... and lose ... _can't_ see us here. i'm beginning to believe there's not much happiness in _this_ world. dr. macpherson. why, you little snip. i've a notion to spank you. talking like that with life before you! read this book, child; [_gesturing towards the book on the sofa._] it proves that the dead do see us; they do come back. [_walks to the foot of the stairs--turns._] catherine, i understand that you've not a penny to your name--unless you marry frederik; that he has inherited you along with the orchids and tulips. don't let that influence you. if peter's plans bind you--and you look as though they did--my door's open. think it over. it's not too late. [_goes half-way up the stairs--then pauses._] don't let the neighbours' opinions and a few silver spoons--[_pointing to the wedding presents_ stand in the way of your future. [_exit into_ william's _room. the rain increases. the sky grows blacker--the room darker._ catherine _gives a cry and stretches out her arms, not looking up._ catherine. uncle peter! uncle peter! why did you do it? why did you ask it? oh, dear! oh, dear! if you could see me now. [_she stands rigid--her arms outstretched._ marta, _who has silently entered from the dining-room with fresh candles, goes to_ catherine. catherine _suddenly buries her face on_ marta's _broad breast, breaking into sobs; then recovering, wipes her eyes._] there, there ... i mustn't cry ... others have troubles, too, haven't they? marta. others have troubles, too. catherine. i had hoped, marta, that annamarie would have heard of uncle's loss and come back to us at this time.... marta. if it had only brought us all together once more; but no message ... nothing ... i cannot understand. catherine. she knows that our door is open.... _the rain beats against the windows. a sharp double knock is heard at the door._ catherine _starts as though suddenly brought to herself, hastily goes into the next room, taking the_ doctor's _book with her._ marta _has hurried towards the front door, when the_ rev. mr. batholommey _and_ colonel lawton _appear in the hall as though they had entered quickly, to escape the storm._ marta, _greeting them, passes of to tell_ frederik _of their presence. the_ rev. mr. batholommey _wears a long, black cloth, rain-proof coat._ colonel lawton _wears a rubber poncho._ colonel lawton _is a tall man with a thin brown beard and moustache, about forty-eight. he is dressed in a prince albert coat, unpressed trousers, and a negligée shirt. he wears spectacles and has a way of throwing back his head and peering at people before answering them. the_ rev. mr. batholommey _sets his umbrella in the hall and the_ colonel _hangs his broad-brimmed hat on the handle--as though to let it drip._ rev. mr. batholommey. brr! i believe it's raining icicles. colonel lawton. [_taking off his overshoes._] gee whillikins! what a day! good thing the old windmill out yonder is tied up. great weather for baptisms, parson. [_there is a faint, far-away rumble of thunder._ frederik _enters._] well, here we are, frederik, my boy--at the time you mentioned. rev. mr. batholommey. how are you, frederik? colonel lawton _crosses to the fire, followed by the_ rev. mr. batholommey. frederik. [_who has gone to the desk for a paper lying under a paper-weight._] i sent for you to hear a memorandum left by my uncle. i only came across it yesterday. [_there is a louder peal of thunder. a flash of lightning illuminates the room._ colonel lawton. i must have drawn up ten wills for the old gentleman, but he always tore 'em up. may i have a drink of his plum brandy, frederik? frederik. help yourself. pastor? rev. mr. batholommey. er--er-- colonel lawton _goes to the sideboard and pours out two drinks from a decanter. a heavy roll of thunder now ends in a sharp thunderclap._ mrs. batholommey, _who is entering the room, gives a cry and puts her hands over her face._ colonel lawton _bolts his whiskey. the_ rev. mr. batholommey _takes a glass and stands with it in his hand._ mrs. batholommey. [_removing her hands in time to see the brandy._] why, henry! what are you doing? are your feet wet? rev. mr. batholommey. no, rose; they're not. i want a drink and i'm going to take it. it's a bad night. [_drinks._ colonel lawton. [_throws a hickory log on the fire, which presently blazes up, making the room much lighter._] go ahead, frederik. [_sits._ rev. mr. batholommey _has drawn up a chair for his wife, and now seats himself before the snapping hickory fire._ rev. mr. batholommey. i knew that your uncle would remember his friends and his charities. he was so liberal! one might say of him that he was the very soul of generosity. he gave in such a free-handed, princely fashion. frederik. [_reading in a businesslike manner._] for mrs. batholommey-- mrs. batholommey. the dear man--to think that he remembered me! i knew he'd remember the church and mr. batholommey, of course; but to think that he'd remember me! he knew that my income was very limited. he was so thoughtful! his purse was always open. frederik. [_eyes_ mrs. batholommey _for a second, then continues._] for mr. batholommey--[rev. mr. batholommey _nods solemnly._] and the colonel. colonel lawton. [_taking out a cigar._] he knew that i did the best i could for him ... [_his voice breaks._] the grand old man. [_recovering._] what'd he leave me? mrs. b.--er? [_nods inquiringly at_ mrs. batholommey, _who bows assent, and he lights his cigar._ frederik. [_glancing at the paper._] mrs. batholommey, he wished you to have his miniature--with his affectionate regards. mrs. batholommey. dear old gentleman--and er--yes? frederik. to mr. batholommey-- mrs. batholommey. but--er--you didn't finish with me. frederik. you're finished. mrs. batholommey. i'm finished? frederik. you may read it yourself if you like. rev. mr. batholommey. no, no, no. she'll take your word for it. [_firmly._] rose! frederik. [_reads._] "to mr. batholommey, my antique watch fob--with my profound respects." [_continues._] to colonel lawton-- mrs. batholommey. his watch fob? is _that_ what he left to _henry_? is that all? [_as_ frederik _nods._] well! if he had no wish to make _your_ life easier, henry, he should at least have left something for the church. oh! won't the congregation have a crow to pick with you! frederik. [_reading._] "to my life-long friend, colonel lawton, i leave my most cherished possession." [colonel lawton _has a look on his face as though he were saying, "ah! i'll get something worth while."_ mrs. batholommey. [_angrily._] when the church members hear that-- colonel lawton. [_chewing his cigar._] i don't know why he was called upon to leave anything to the church--he gave it thousands; and only last month, he put in chimes. as _i_ look at it, he wished to give you something he had _used_--something personal. perhaps the miniature and the fob _ain't_ worth three whoops in hell,--it's the sentiment of the thing that counts--[_chewing the word with his cigar._] the sentiment. drive on, fred. frederik. "to colonel lawton, my father's prayer-book." colonel lawton. [_suddenly changing--dazed._] his prayer-book ... me? mrs. batholommey. [_seeing_ frederik _lay down the paper and rise._] is that all? frederik. that's all. colonel lawton. [_still dazed._] a prayer-book.... me? well, i'll be-- [_struck._] here, parson, let's swap. you take the prayer-book--i'll take the old fob. rev. mr. batholommey. [_stiffly._] thank you. i already _have_ a prayer-book. [_goes to the window and looks out--his back turned to the others--trying to control his feelings._ mrs. batholommey. [_her voice trembling with vexation and disappointment._] well, all that i can say is--i'm disappointed in your uncle. colonel lawton. is it for this you hauled us out in the rain, frederik? mrs. batholommey. [_bitterly._] i see now ... he only gave to the church to show off. rev. mr. batholommey. rose! ... i myself am disappointed, but-- mrs. batholommey. he did! or why didn't he _continue_ his work? he was _not_ a generous man. he was a hard, uncharitable, selfish old man. rev. mr. batholommey. [_horrified._] rose, my dear! mrs. batholommey. he was! if he were here, i'd say it to his face. the congregation sicked _you_ after him. now that he's gone and you'll get nothing more, they'll call you slow--slow and pokey. you'll see! you'll see to-morrow. rev. mr. batholommey. sh! mrs. batholommey. as for the colonel, who spent half his time with mr. grimm, what is his reward? a watch-fob! [_prophetically._] henry, mark my words--this will be the end of _you_. it's only a question of a few weeks. one of these new football playing ministers, just out of college, will take _your_ place. it's not what you _preach_ now that counts; it's what you coax out of the rich parishioners' pockets. rev. mr. batholommey. [_in a low voice._] _mrs._ batholommey! mrs. batholommey. religion doesn't stand where it did, henry--there's no denying that. there was a time when people had to go to church--they weren't decent if they didn't. now you have to wheedle 'em in. the church needs funds in these days when a college professor is openly saying that-- [_her voice breaks._] the star of bethlehem was a comet. [_weeps._ rev. mr. batholommey. control yourself. i must insist upon it, mrs. batholommey. mrs. batholommey. [_breaking down--almost breathlessly._] oh! if i said all the things i feel like saying about peter grimm--well--i shouldn't be fit to be a clergyman's wife. not to leave his dear friends a-- colonel lawton. he _wasn't_ liberal; but, for god's sake, madam, pull yourself together and think what he ought to have done for me!--i've listened to his plans for twenty years. i've virtually given up my business for him, and what have i got out of it? not a button! not a button! a bible. still _i'm_ not complaining. hang that chimney, frederik, it's smoking. [colonel lawton _stirs the fire--a log falls out and the flame goes down. the room has gradually grown darker as the night approaches._ mrs. batholommey. [_turning on_ colonel lawton.] oh, you've feathered your nest, colonel! you're a rich man. colonel lawton. [_enraged, raising his voice._] what? i never came here that _you_ weren't begging. frederik. [_virtuously--laying down the paper._] well, i'm disgusted! when i think how much more i should have if he hadn't continually doled out money to every one of you! colonel lawton. what? frederik. he was putty in your hands. mrs. batholommey. yes, you can afford to defend his memory--you've got the money. frederik. i don't defend his memory. he was a gullible old fossil, and the whole town knew it. mrs. batholommey. _you_ did at any rate. i've heard you flatter him by the hour. frederik. of course. he liked flattery and i gave him what he wanted. why not? i gave him plenty. the rest of you were at the same thing; and i had the pleasure of watching him give you the money that belonged to me--to _me_--my money.... what business had he to be generous with my money? [_the_ colonel _strikes a match to light his cigar, and, as it flares up, the face of_ frederik _is seen--distorted with anger._] i'll tell you this: had he lived much longer, there would have been nothing left for me. it's a fortunate thing for me that--[_he pauses, knowing that he has said too much. the room is now very dark. the rain has subsided. everything is quiet outside. there is not a sound, save the ticking of the clock._ rev. mr. batholommey. [_solemnly--breaking the pause._] young man, it might have been better had mr. grimm given his _all_ to charity--for he has left his money to an ingrate. frederik. [_laughing derisively._] ha! ha! mrs. batholommey. sh! someone's coming. _all is quiet. the clock ticks in the dark. the door opens._ frederik. [_with a change of voice._] come in. [_nobody enters._] where's a light? we've been sitting in the dark like owls. come in. [_a pause. he strikes a match and holds it above his head. the light shows the open door. a wind, blowing through the doorway, causes the match to flicker, and_ frederik _protects it with his hand._ colonel lawton. i'll see who's ... [_looks out._] no one. mrs. batholommey. someone _must_ be there. who opened the door? [_the wind puts out the match in_ frederik's _hand. the room is once more in semi-darkness._] there ... it closed again ... [frederik _strikes another match and holds it up. the door is seen to be closed._ colonel lawton. [_who is nearest to the door._] i didn't touch it. frederik. [_blowing out the match._] i'll have the lamps brought in. mrs. batholommey. curious ... rev. mr. batholommey. it was the wind--a draught. colonel lawton. [_returning to his chair._] must have been. catherine. [_entering with a lamp._] did someone call me? _without pausing, she sets the lamp on the table down right--opposite the group of characters. she turns up the wick and _peter grimm _is seen standing in the room--half in shadow. he is as he was in life. the clothes he wears appear to be those he wore about his house in the first act. he carries his hat in his hand. he has the same kind smile, the same deferential manner, but his face is more spiritual and years younger. the lamp, which _catherine_ has placed on the table, brightens the room._ peter. [_whose eyes never leave_ catherine.] yes ... i called you.... i've come back. frederik. [_to_ catherine.] no. peter. don't be frightened, katie. it's the most natural thing in the world. you wanted me and i came. frederik. why? what made you think someone called you? catherine. i'm so accustomed to hear uncle peter's voice in this room, that sometimes i forget he's not here ... i can't get over it! i was almost sure i heard him speak ... but, of course, as soon as i came in--i remembered.... but some one must have called me. frederik. no. peter _stands looking at them, perplexed; not being able to comprehend as yet that he is not seen._ catherine. isn't it curious ... to hear your name and turn and ... [_unconsciously, she looks in_ peter's _face._] no one there? rev. mr. batholommey. [_kindly._] nerves ... imagination. frederik. you need a complete change. [_crossing to the door._] for heaven's sake, let's have more light or we shall all be hearing voices. peter. strange.... nobody seems to see me.... it's--it's extraordinary! katie! ... katie! ... [_his eyes have followed_ catherine _who is now at the door._ catherine. [_pausing._] perhaps it was the book i was reading that made me think i heard.... the doctor lent it to me. frederik. [_pooh-poohing._] oh! catherine. [_half to herself._] if he _does_ know, if he _can_ see, he'll be comforted by the thought that i'm going to do everything he wanted. [_she passes out of the room._ peter. [_showing that he does not want her to carry out his wishes._] no, no, don't ... frederik, i want to speak to you. [frederik, _not glancing in_ peter's _direction, lights a cigarette._ mrs. batholommey. well, frederik, i hope the old gentleman can see his mistake _now_. peter. i can see several mistakes. [rev. mr. batholommey _rises and goes towards the door, pausing in front of_ peter _to take out his watch._] ... mr. batholommey, i'm glad to see you in my house.... i'm very sorry that you can't see me. i wasn't pleased with my funeral sermon; it was very gloomy--very. i never was so depressed in my life. mrs. batholommey. [_to_ frederik.] do you know what i should like to say to your uncle? peter. i know. rev. mr. batholommey. i hope at least you'll care for the parish poor as your uncle did--and keep on with _some_ of his charities. peter. [_putting his hand on_ rev. mr. batholommey's _shoulder._] that's all attended to. i arranged all that with frederik. he must look after my charities. frederik. i might as well tell you now--you needn't look to me. it's uncle peter's fault if your charities are cut off. rev. mr. batholommey. [_half-doubtingly._] it doesn't seem possible that he made no arrangements to continue his good works. [frederik _remains stolid._ rev. mr. batholommey _puts back his watch after glancing at it._] just thirty minutes to make a call. [_goes into the hall to put on his overshoes, coat, &c., leaving_ peter's _hand extended in the air._ colonel lawton. [_rising._] i must be toddling. [_pauses._] it's queer, frederik, how things turn out in this world. [_he stands, thinking matters over--cigar in mouth, his hand on his chin._ peter. [_slipping his hand through_ colonel lawton's _arm. they seem to look each other in the eye._] you were perfectly right about it, thomas, i should have made a will ... i--suppose it _is_ a little too late, isn't it?... it would be--er--unusual to do it now, wouldn't it? colonel lawton, _who has heard nothing--seen nothing--moves away as though_ peter _had never held his arm, and goes up into the hall for his cape and overshoes._ colonel lawton. [_noticing an old gold-headed walking-stick in the hall._] oh, er--what are you going to do with all the old man's family relics, frederik? frederik. the junk, you mean? i shall lay it on some scrap-heap, i suppose. it's not worth a penny. colonel lawton. i'm not so sure of that. they say there's a lot of money paid for this sort of trash. frederik. is that so? not a bad idea to have a dealer in to look it over. peter _stands listening, a faint smile on his face._ mrs. batholommey. if i could have the old clock--cheap, frederik, i'd take it off your hands. frederik. i'll find out how much it's worth. i shall have everything appraised. [_sets his watch by the clock._ mrs. batholommey _gives him a look and joins her husband at the door._ colonel lawton. good-night. [_exit, closing the door._ mrs. batholommey. [_as_ rev. mr. batholommey _goes out--calling after him._] henry, catherine wants you to come back for supper. [mrs. batholommey _leaves the room too disgusted for words._ frederik _goes into the office._ peter. [_now alone._] we live and learn ... and oh! what i have learned since i came back.... [_he goes to his own particular peg in the vestibule and hangs up his hat. he glances at the wedding presents. presently he sees the flowers which_ catherine _has placed on the desk. with a smile, he touches the flowers._ marta _enters with another lamp, which she places on a table. as_ peter's _eyes rest on_ marta, _he nods and smiles in recognition, waiting for a response._] well, marta?... don't you know your old master?... no?... no?... [_she winds the clock and leaves the room._] i seem to be a stranger in my own house ... yet the watch-dog knew me and wagged his tail as i came in. [_he stands trying to comprehend it all._] well! well! frederik. [_looking at his watch, re-enters from the office and goes to the 'phone, which presently rings._ frederik _instantly lifts the receiver as though not wishing to attract attention. in a low voice._] yes ... i was waiting for you. how are you, mr. hicks? [_listens._] i'm not anxious to sell--no. i prefer to carry out my dear old uncle's wishes. [peter _eyes him--a faint smile on his lips._] if i got my price? well ... of course in that case ... i might be tempted. to-morrow? no, i can't see you to-morrow. i'm going to be married to-morrow, and leave at once for new york. thank you. [_listens._] to-night? very well, but i don't want it known. i'll sell, but it must be for more than the price my uncle refused. make it ten thousand more and it's done. [_listens._] you'll come to-night?... yes, yes.... [_listens at the 'phone._] the dear old man told you his plans never failed, eh? god rest his soul! [_laughing indulgently._] ha! ha! ha! peter. ha! ha! ha! frederik. [_echoing_ hicks' _words._] what would he say if he knew? what could he say? everything must change. _a far-away rumble of thunder is heard--the lightning flickers at the window and a flash is seen on the telephone which tinkles and responds as though from the electric shock. exclaiming "ugh,"_ frederik _drops the receiver--which hangs down._ peter. [_the storm passes as he speaks into the receiver without touching the telephone._] good-evening, my friend. we shall soon meet--face to face. you won't be able to carry this matter through.... [_looking into space as though he could see the future._] you're not well and you're going out to supper to-night; ... you will eat something that will cause you to pass over.... i shall see you to-morrow.... a happy crossing! frederik. [_picks up the receiver._] hello?... you don't feel well, you say? [_then echoing the purport of_ hicks' _answer._] i see.... your lawyer can attend to everything to-night without you. very well. it's entirely a question of money, mr. hicks. send your lawyer to the grimm manor hotel. i'll arrange at once for a room. good-bye. [_hangs up the receiver._] that's off my mind. [_he lights a fresh cigarette--his face expressing the satisfaction he feels in the prospect of a perfectly idle future._ peter _looks at him as though to say: "and that's the boy whom i loved and trusted!"_ frederik _gets his hat, throws his coat over his arm, and hastens out._ peter. [_turns and faces the door leading into the next room, as though he could feel the presence of some one waiting there._] yes ... i am still in the house. come in ... come in ... [_he repeats the signal of the first act._] ou--oo. [_the door opens slowly--and_ catherine _enters as though at_ peter's _call. she looks about her, not understanding. he holds out his arms to her._ catherine _walks slowly towards him. he takes her in his arms, but she does not respond. she does not know that she is being held._] there! there!... don't worry.... it's all right.... we'll arrange things very differently. i've come back to change all my plans. [_she moves away a step--just out of his embrace. he tries to call her back._] katie! ... can't i make my presence known to _you_? katie! can't my love for you outlive _me_? isn't it here in the home?... don't cry. [_she moves about the room in thought. as_ peter _watches her--she pauses near his desk._ catherine. [_suddenly._] crying doesn't help matters. peter. she hears me. she doesn't know it, but she hears me. she's cheering up. [_she inhales the flowers--a half smile on her lips._] that's right, you haven't smiled before since i died. [_suddenly giving way to the realization of her loss_, catherine _sighs._ peter. [_correcting himself._] i--i mean--since i learned that there was a happier place than the world i left.... i'm a trifle confused. i've not had time to adjust myself to these new conditions. [catherine _smiles sadly--goes up to the window, and, leaning against the pane, looks out into the night._ peter _continues comfortingly._] the dead have never really died, you know. we couldn't die if we tried. we're all about you.... look at the gardens: they've died, haven't they? but there they are all the better for it. death is the greatest thing in the world. it's really a--ha!--delightful experience. what is it, after all? a nap from which we waken rested, refreshened ... a sleep from which we spring up like children tumbling out of bed--ready to frolic through another world. i was an old man a few days ago; now i'm a boy. i feel much younger than you--much younger. [_a conflict is going on in_ catherine's _mind. she walks to the chair by the fireplace and sits--her back to the audience. he approaches her and lays a tender hand on her shoulder._] i know what you're thinking.... katie, i want you to break that very foolish promise i asked you to make. you're almost tempted to. break it! break it at once; then--[_glancing smilingly towards the door through which he came--as though he wished to leave--like a child longing to go back to play._] then i could--take the journey back in peace.... i can't go until you do--and i ... i long to go.... isn't my message any clearer to you? [_reading her mind._] you have a feeling ... an impression of what i'm saying; but the words ... the words are not clear.... mm ... let me see.... if you can't understand me--there's the doctor, he'll know how to get the message-- he'll find the way.... then i can hurry back ... home.... catherine. [_helplessly--changing her position like a tired child._] oh, i'm so alone. peter. [_cheerily._] not alone at all--not at all. i shall drop in very often ... and then, there's your mother. [_suddenly remembering._] oh, yes, i had almost forgotten. i have a message for you, katie.... [_he seats himself in a chair which is almost in front of her._] i've met your mother. [_she sits in a reverie._ peter _continues with the air of a returned traveller relating his experiences._] she heard that i had crossed over and there she was--waiting for me. you're thinking of it, aren't you? wondering if we met.... yes, that was the first interesting experience. she knew me at once. "you were peter grimm," she said, "before you knew better"--that's what _they_ call leaving _this_ world--"_to know better_." you call it "dying." [_confidentially._] she's been here often, it seems, watching over you. i told her how much i loved you and said that you had a happy home. i spoke of your future--of my plans for you and frederik. "peter grimm," she said, "you've over-looked the most important thing in the world--love. you haven't given her _her right_ to the choice of her lover--_her right_!" then it came over me that i'd made a terrible mistake ... and at that minute, you called to me. [_impressively._] in the darkness surrounding all i had left behind, there came a light ... a glimmer where you stood ... a clear call in the night.... it seemed as though i had not been away one second ... but in that second, you had suffered.... now i am back to show you the way.... i am here to put my hand on your dear head and give you your mother's blessing; to say she will be with you in spirit until she holds you in her arms--you and your loved husband--[catherine _turns in her chair and looks towards the door of the room in which_ james _is working._ peter _catches the thought._]-- yes, james, it's you.... and the message ended in this kiss. [_prints a kiss on her cheek._] can't you think i'm with you, dear child? can't you _think_ i'm trying to help you? can't you even hope? oh, come, at least hope! anybody can hope. catherine _rises with an entire change of manner--takes a bright red blossom from the vase on_ peter's _desk--then deliberately walks to the door of the room in which_ james _is working._ peter _follows her action hopefully. she does not tap on the door, however, but turns and sits at the piano--in thought--not facing the piano. she puts_ peter's _flowers against her face. then, laying the flowers on the piano, sings softly three or four bars of the song she sang in the first act--and stops abruptly._ catherine. [_to herself._] that i should sit here singing--at a time like this! peter. sing! sing! why not? lift up your voice like a bird! your old uncle doesn't sleep out there in the dust. that's only the dream. he's here-- here--alive. all his age gone and youth glowing in his heart. if i could only tell you what lies before you--before us all! if people even _suspected_ what the next life really is, they wouldn't waste time here--i can tell you _that_. they'd do dreadful things to get away from this existence--make for the nearest pond or--[_pausing abruptly._] ah, here comes someone who'll know all about it! [_the_ doctor _comes from_ william's _room._ peter _greets him in a cordial but casual way, as though he had parted from him only an hour before._] well, andrew, i apologize. [_bowing obsequiously._] you were right. i apologize. catherine. how is he, doctor? dr. macpherson. william is better. dropped off to sleep again. can't quite understand him. peter. i apologize. i said that if i could come back, i would; and here i am--apologizing. andrew! andrew! [_trying to attract_ dr. macpherson's _attention._] i have a message, but i can't get it across. this is your chance. i want _you_ to take it. i don't wish catherine to marry frederik. dr. macpherson. he's somewhat feverish yet. peter. can't _you_ understand one word? dr. macpherson. it's a puzzling case.... peter. what? mine? dr. macpherson. [_getting a pad from his pocket--writing out a prescription with his fountain pen._] i'll leave this prescription at the druggist's-- peter. i'm quite shut out.... they've closed the door and turned the key on me. dr. macpherson. [_suddenly noticing that_ catherine _seems more cheerful._] what's happened? i left you in tears and here you are--all smiles. catherine. yes, i--i am happier--for some reason.... for the last few minutes i--i've had such a strange feeling. dr. macpherson. that's odd: so have i! been as restless as a hungry mouse. something seemed to draw me down here--can't explain it. peter. i'm beginning to be felt in this house. dr. macpherson. catherine, i have the firm conviction that, in a very short time, i shall hear from peter. [_sitting at the table._ peter. i hope so. it's high time now. dr. macpherson. what i want is some positive proof; some absolute test; some--er--[_thinks._ catherine _has seated herself at the table.--unconsciously they both occupy the same seats as in the first act._ peter. the trouble is with other people, not with us. you want us to give all sorts of proofs; and here we are just back for a little while--very poorly put together on the chance that you'll see us at all. dr. macpherson. poor old peter--bless his heart! [_his elbow on the table as though he had been thinking over the matter._ catherine _sits quietly listening._] if he kept that compact with me, and came back,--do you know what i'd ask him first? if our work goes on. peter. well, now, that's a regular sticker. it's bothered me considerably since i crossed over. catherine. what do you mean, doctor? dr. macpherson. the question _every man wants the answer to_: what's to become of me--_me_--_my work_? am i going to be a bone setter in the next life and he a tulip man?... i wonder. peter. andrew, i've asked everybody--tom, dick and harry. one spirit told me that sometimes our work _does_ go on; but he was an awful liar--you knew we don't drop our earth habits at once. he said that a genius is simply a fellow who's been there before in some other world and knows his business. now then: [_confidentially preparing to open an argument-- sitting in his old seat at the table, as in the first act._] it stands to reason, andrew, doesn't it? what chance has the beginner compared with a fellow who knew his business before he was born? dr. macpherson. [_unconsciously grasping the thought._] i believe it is possible to have more than one chance at our work. peter. there ... you caught that.... why can't you take my message to catherine? dr. macpherson. [_rising to get his shawl--gruffly._] thought over what i told you concerning this marriage? not too late to back out. peter. he's beginning to take the message. catherine. everything's arranged: i shall be married as uncle peter wished. i sha'n't change my mind. dr. macpherson. h'm! [_picks up his shawl._ peter. [_trying to detain the_ doctor--_tugging at his shawl without seeming to pull it._] don't give up! don't give up! a girl can always change her mind--while there's life. don't give up! [_the_ doctor _turns, facing_ peter, _looking directly at him as he puts his hand in his coat pocket._] you heard that, eh?... didn't you? yes? did it cross over?... what?... it did?... you're looking me in the face, andrew; can you see me? [_the_ doctor _takes a pencil out of his pocket, writes a prescription, throws his shawl over his shoulder--turning his back towards_ peter _and facing_ catherine.] tc! tc! tc! dr. macpherson. good-night. catherine. good-night. [catherine _goes quietly to the fireplace, kneeling down, mends the fire, and remains there sitting on an ottoman._ peter. [_calling after the_ doctor.] if i could only make some sign--to start you thinking; but i can't depend upon _you_, i see that.... [_then changing--as though he had an idea._] ah, yes! there _is_ another way. now to work. [_with renewed activity, he taps in the direction of the office door, although he himself stands three feet away from it. the door opens promptly and_ james _appears on the threshold--pen in hand--as though something had made him rise suddenly from his desk._ catherine, _still seated, does not see_ james, _who stands looking at her--remembering that she is to be married on the following day._ peter _tempts_ james.] yes, she _is_ pretty, james ... young and lovely.... look!... there are kisses tangled in her hair where it curls ... hundreds of them.... are you going to let her go? her lips are red with the red of youth. every smile is an invocation to life. who could resist her smiles? can you, james? no, you will not let her go. and her hands, james.... look! hands made to clasp and cling to yours. imagine her little feet trudging happily about _your_ home.... look at her shoulders ... shaped for a resting-place for a little head.... you were right, james, we should ask nothing of our girls but to marry the men they love and be happy wives and happy mothers of happy children. you feel what i am saying.... you couldn't live without her, could you? no? very well, then--[_changing abruptly._] now, it's your turn. james _pauses a moment. there is silence. then he comes forward a step and_ catherine, _hearing him, turns and rises._ james. [_coldly--respectfully._] miss grimm ... catherine. james ... james. i felt that you were here and wished to speak to me. i--i don't know why ... peter. good for james. catherine. [_shaking hands with him._] i'm very glad to see you again, james. [_when_ peter _sees that he has brought the two young people together, he stands in the background. the lovers are in the shadow, but_ peter's _figure is marked and clear._] why did you go away? james. oh--er-- catherine. and without saying a word. james. your uncle sent me away. i told him the truth again. catherine. oh ... james. i am going in a few hours. catherine. where are you going? what do you intend to do? james. [_half-heartedly._] father and i are going to try our luck together. we're going to start with a small fruit farm. it will give me a chance to experiment.... catherine. it will seem very strange when i come back home.... uncle gone ... and you, james. [_her voice trembling._ james. i hope you'll be happy, catherine. catherine. james, uncle died smiling at me--thinking of me ... and just before he went, he gave me his mother's wedding ring and asked me to marry frederik. i shall never forget how happy he was when i promised. that was all he wanted. his last smile was for me ... and there he sat--still smiling after he was gone ... the smile of a man leaving the world perfectly satisfied--at peace. it's like a hand on my heart--hurting it-- when i question anything he wanted. i couldn't meet him in the hereafter if i didn't do everything he wished; i couldn't say my prayers at night; i couldn't speak his name in them.... he trusted me; depended upon me; did everything for me; so i must do this for him.... i wanted you to know this, james, because ... james. why haven't you told frederik the truth? catherine. i have. james. that you don't love him? [catherine _doesn't answer, but_ james _knows._] ... and he's willing to take you like that?--a little girl like you--in _that_ way.... god! he's rotten all the way through. he's even worse than i thought. katie, i didn't mean to say a word of this to-day-- not a word; but a moment since--something made me change my mind--i don't know what!... [peter _smiles._] i felt that i _must_ talk to you. you looked so young, so helpless, such a child. you've never had to think for yourself--you don't know what you're doing. you _couldn't_ live under it, catherine. you're making the greatest mistake possible, if you marry where you don't love. why should you carry out your uncle's plans? you're going to be wretched for life to please a dead man who doesn't know it; or, if he does know it, regrets it bitterly. peter. i agree with you now, james. catherine. you musn't say that, james. james. but i will say it--i will speak my mind. i don't care how fond you were of your uncle or how much he did for you--it wasn't right to ask this of you. it wasn't fair. the whole thing is the mistake of a _very_ obstinate old man. catherine. james! james. i loved him, too; but he _was_ an obstinate old man. sometimes i think it was the dutch blood in his veins. peter. a very frank, outspoken fellow. i like to hear him talk--now. james. do you know why i was sent away? why i quarrelled with your uncle? i said that i loved you ... he asked me.... i didn't tell him because i had any hopes--i hadn't.... i haven't now.... [_struck._] but in spite of what i'm saying ... i don't know what makes me think that i ... i could take you in my arms and you would let me ... but i do think it. catherine. [_retreats, backing towards_ peter.] no!... don't touch me, james--you mustn't! don't!... don't! peter _pushes her into_ james' _arms, without touching her. she exclaims_ "oh, james!" _and fairly runs towards_ james _as though violently propelled. in reality, she thinks that she is yielding to an impulse. as she reaches him, she exclaims_ "no," _and turns back, but_ james, _with outstretched arms, catches her._ james. you love me. [_draws her to him._ catherine. don't make me say that, james. james. i _will_ make you say it! you _do_ love me. catherine. no matter if i do, that won't alter matters. james. what? what? catherine. no, no, don't say any more.... i won't hear it. [_she stands free of_ james--_then turns and walks to the stairs._] good-bye, jim. james. do you mean it? are you really going to sacrifice yourself because of--am i really losing you?... catherine! catherine! catherine. [_in tears--beseechingly._] please don't.... please don't.... frederik _enters. until the entrance of_ frederik, peter _has had hope in his face, but now he begins to feel apprehensive._ frederik. [_throwing his hat and coat on a chair._] i have some work to do--more of my uncle's unopened mail; then i'll join you, hartman. we must--er--make haste. james _looks at_ catherine, _then at_ frederik. catherine _gives him an imploring glance--urging him not to speak._ frederik _has gone to_ peter's _desk._ james. i'll come back later. [_goes towards the hall._ frederik. catherine, have you asked james to be present at the ceremony to-morrow? catherine. no. frederik. james, will you-- james. i shall be leaving early in the morning. frederik. too bad! [_exit_ james. frederik _lights the desk candles, takes the mail out of the drawer--opens two letters--tears them up after barely glancing at them--then sees_ catherine _still standing at the foot of the stairs--her back to him. he lays the cigar on the desk, crosses, and, taking her in his arms, kisses her._ catherine. [_with a revulsion of feeling._] no! no! no! [_she covers her face with her hands--trying to control herself._] please!... not now.... frederik. why not _now_? [_suspiciously._] has hartman been talking to you? what has he been saying to you? [catherine _starts slowly up the stairs._] wait a moment, please.... [_as she retreats a step up the stairs, he follows her._] do you really imagine you--you care for that fellow? catherine. don't--please. frederik. i'm sorry to insist. of course, i knew there was a sort of school-girl attachment on your part; ... that you'd known each other since childhood. i don't take it at all seriously. in three months, you'll forget him. i must insist, however, that you do _not_ speak to him again to-night. after to-morrow--after we are married--i'm quite sure that you will not forget you are my wife, catherine--my wife. catherine. i sha'n't forget. [_she escapes into her room._ frederik _goes to his desk._ peter. [_confronting_ frederik.] now, sir, i have something to say to you, frederik grimm, my beloved nephew! i had to die to find you out; but i know you! [frederik _is reading a letter._] you sit there opening a dead man's mail--with the heart of a stone--thinking: "he's gone! he's gone!-- so i'll break every promise!" but there is something you have forgotten-- something that always finds us out: the law of reward and punishment. even now it is overtaking you. your hour has struck. [frederik _takes up another letter and begins to read it; then, as though disturbed by a passing thought, he puts it down. as though perplexed by the condition of his own mind, he ponders, his eyes resting unconsciously on_ peter.] your hour has struck. frederik. [_to himself._] what in the world is the matter with me to-night? peter. read! frederik. [_has opened a long, narrow, blue envelope containing a letter on blue paper and a small photograph. he stares at the letter, aghast._] my god! here's luck.... here's luck! from that girl annamarie to my uncle. oh, if he had read it! peter. [_standing in front of_ frederik _looks into space--as though reading the letter in the air._] "dear mr. grimm: i have not written because i can't do anything to help william, and i am ashamed." frederik. wh! [_as though he had read the first part to himself, now reads aloud._] "don't be too hard upon me.... i have gone hungry trying to save a few pennies for him, but i never could; and now i see that i cannot hope to have him back. william is far better off with you. i--" [_hesitates._ peter. [_going back of the desk, standing behind_ frederik's _chair._] go on.... frederik. "i wish that i might see him once again. perhaps i could come and go in the night." peter. that's a terrible thing for a mother to write. frederik. [_who has been looking down at the letter--suddenly feeling_ peter's _presence._] who's that? who's in this room? [_looks over his shoulder--then glances about._] i could have sworn somebody was looking over my shoulder ... or had come in at the door ... or ... [_but seeing no one--he continues._] "i met someone from home; ... if there is any truth in the rumour of catherine's marriage--it mustn't be, mr. grimm--it mustn't be ... not to frederik. for frederik is my little boy's--" [frederik _gives a furtive glance upstairs at the door of the child's room. picks up the small picture which was in the envelope._] her picture ... [_turns it over--looks at the back--reads._] "for my boy, from annamarie." [frederik, _conscious-stricken for the time being, bows his head._ peter. for the first time since i entered this house, you are yourself, frederik grimm. once more a spark of manhood is alight in your soul. courage! it's not too late to repent. turn back, lad! follow your impulse. take the little boy in your arms. go down on your knees and ask his mother's pardon. turn over a fresh page, that i may leave this house in peace.... frederik. [_looks about uneasily, then glances towards the door leading into the hall._] who is at the door? curious ... i thought i heard someone at ... peter. i am at the door--i, peter grimm! annamarie is at the door--the little girl who is ashamed to come home; the old mother in the kitchen breaking her heart for some word. william is at the door--your own flesh and blood--nameless; katie, sobbing her heart out--you can hear her; all-- we are all at the door--every soul in this house. we are all at the door of your conscience, frederik.... don't keep us waiting, my boy. it's very hard to kill the love i had for you. i long to love you again--to take you back to my heart--lies and all. [frederik _rises--in deep thought._] yes! call her! tell her the truth. give her back her promise.... give her back her home.... close the door on a peaceful, happy, silent room and go. think--think of that moment when you give her back her freedom! think of her joy, her gratitude, her affection. it's worth living for, lad. speak! make haste and call her, fritz. [frederik _takes several steps--then turns back to the desk. he tears the letter in two, muttering to himself,_ "damn the woman," _and sinks into his chair._] frederik grimm, stand up before me! [frederik _starts to rise, but changes his mind._] stand up! [frederik _rises--not knowing why he has risen._ peter _points an accusing finger at_ frederik.] liar to the dead! cheat, thief, hypocrite! you sha'n't have my little girl. you only want her for a week, a day, an hour. i refuse. i have come back to take her from you and you cannot put me to rest.... i have come back.... you cannot drive me from your thoughts--i am there.... [_tapping his forehead, without touching it._] i am looking over your shoulder ... in at the window ... under the door.... you are breathing me in the air.... i am looking at your heart. [_he brings his clenched fist down on the desk in answer to_ frederik's _gesture; but, despite the seeming violence of the blow, he makes no sound._] hear me! you shall hear me! hear me! [_calling loudly._] hear me! hear me! hear me! will nobody hear me? is there no one in this house to hear me? no one? has my journey been in vain?... [_for the first time fully realizing the situation._] oh, must we stand or fall by the mistakes we made here and the deed we did? is there no second chance in this world? frederik. [_with a sneer on his lips as though trying to banish his thoughts._] psh! marta _enters with a tray, containing a pot of coffee and a plate of small cakes._ peter, _who has watched her with appealing eyes, like a dog craving attention, glances from her to the desk and from the desk back to_ marta--_trying to tempt her to look at the torn letter._ frederik, _deep in thought, does not notice her._ peter _points to the desk as though to say, "look!" after a pause, she picks up the picture and the letter-- holding them in one hand to clear a spot for the tray which she is about to set on the desk._ peter. [_speaking in a hushed voice._] marta, see what you have in your hand ... that letter ... there ... read it.... run to catherine with it. read it from the house-tops.... the letter ... look! there you have the story of annamarie.... it is the one way to know the truth in this house-- the only way.... there in your hand--the letter.... he will never speak.... the letter for catherine. marta _sets down the picture and the letter; but something prompts her to look at them; however, before she can carry out her impulse,_ frederik _starts up._ frederik. my god! how you startled me! [marta _sets down the tray._] oh! to be off and out of this old rat-trap. [_he wipes his forehead with his black-bordered handkerchief._] i mean--our loss comes home to us so keenly here where we are accustomed to see him. marta. a cup of coffee, sir? frederik. no, no, no. marta. [_pathetically._] i thought you wished to keep to your uncle's customs.... he always took it at this time. frederik. [_recovering._] yes, yes, of course. marta. ... no word?... frederik. [_hesitates._] what do you mean? marta. no letter? frederik. letter?... [_covering the letter with his hand._] from whom?... marta. from ... at a time like this, i thought ... i felt ... that annamarie ... that there should be some message.... every day i expect to hear ... frederik. no. peter _gestures to_ marta--_pointing to the picture and letter, now covered by_ frederik's _hand._ marta. [_hesitating._] are you certain? frederik. quite certain. [_she curtsies and leaves the room._ frederik, _as though relieved to see her go, jumps to his feet, and, tearing the letter in smaller pieces, lights them in the candle, dropping the burning pieces on a tray. as the flame dies out,_ frederik _brushes the blackened paper into the waste-basket._] there's an end to _that_! peter _crouches near the basket--hovering over it, his hinds clasped helplessly. after a pause, he raises his hand, until it points to a bedroom above. an echo of the circus music is very faintly heard; not with the blaring of brasses, but with the sounds of elfin horns, conveying the impression of a phantom circus band. the door of_ william's _room opens, and he comes out as though to listen to the music. he wears a sleeping suit and is bare-footed. he has come down stairs before_ frederik _sees him._ frederik _quickly puts aside the photograph, laying it on the desk, covering it with his hand._ frederik. [_gruffly._] why aren't you in bed? if you're ill, that's the proper place for you. william. i came down to hear the circus music. frederik. circus music? william. it woke me up. frederik. the circus left town days ago. you must have been dreaming. william. the band's playing now. don't you hear it, sir? the procession's passing. [_he runs to the window and opens it. the music stops. a breeze sweeps through the room--bellies out the curtains and causes the lustres to jingle on the mantel. surprised._] no. it's almost dark. there's no procession ... no shining horses.... [_turning sadly away from the window._] i wonder what made me think the--i must have been dreaming. [_rubbing his eyes._ frederik. [_goes to the window, closes it. the child looks at him and, in retreating from him, unconsciously backs towards_ peter.] are you feeling better? william. yes, sir, i feel better--and hungry. frederik. go back to bed. william. yes, sir. [frederik _sits._ peter. where's your mother, william? william. do you know where annamarie is? peter. ah! frederik. why do you ask me? what should i know of her? william. grandmother doesn't know; miss catherine doesn't know; nobody knows. frederik. i don't know, either. [_tears up the picture--turning so that_ william _does not see what he is doing._ peter, _who has been smiling at_ william, _motions him to come nearer._ william, _feeling_ peter's _presence, looks round the room._ william. mr. frederik, where's _old_ mr. grimm? frederik. dead. william. are you sure he's dead? 'cause--[_puzzled--unable to explain himself, he hesitates._ frederik. [_annoyed._.] you'd better go to bed. william. [_pointing to a glass of water on a tray._] can i have a drink of water, please? frederik. go to bed, sir, or you'll be punished. water's not good for little boys with fever. william. [_going towards the stairs._] wish i could find a cold brook and lie in it. [_goes slowly up the stairs._ frederik _would destroy the pieces of the picture; but_ peter _faces him as though forbidding him to touch it, and, for the first time,_ frederik _imagines he sees the apparition of his uncle._ frederik. [_in a very low voice--almost inaudibly._] my god! i thought i saw ... [_receding a step and yet another step as the vision of_ peter _is still before him, he passes out of the room, wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead._ william, _hearing the door close, comes down stairs and, running to the table at back, drinks a glass of water._ william. um! that's good! peter. william! [william _doesn't see_ peter _yet, but he feels his influence._ william. wish it _had_ been the circus music. peter. you shall hear it all again. [_gestures towards the plate of cakes on the tray._] come, william, here's something very nice. william. [_seeing the cakes._] um! cakes! [_he steals to the tray, looking over his shoulder in fear of being caught._ peter. don't be frightened. i'm here to protect you. help yourself to the cakes. william, do you think you could deliver a message for me ... a very important message?... _the circus music is heard._ william _sits at the tray and_ peter _seats himself opposite as though he were the host doing the honours._ william, _being unconsciously coaxed by_ peter, _is prevailed upon to choose the biggest cake. he takes a bite, looking towards_ peter. william. [_to himself._] ha!... think i am dreaming. [_rubbing his little stomach ecstatically._] hope i won't wake up and find there wasn't any cake. peter. don't worry, you won't. [william _has taken another piece of cake which he nibbles at--now holding a piece in each hand._] pretty substantial dream, eh? there's a fine, fat raisin. [william _eats the raisin, then looks into the sugar-bowl._] don't hesitate, william. sugar won't hurt you now. nothing can hurt you any more. fall to, william--help yourself. [william _looks over his shoulder, fearing the return of_ frederik.] oh, he won't come back in a hurry. ha! frederik thought he saw me, william; well, he didn't. he had a bad conscience--hallucination. [william _nibbles a lump of sugar._] now, william, i have a message for you. won't you try and take it for me, eh? [_but_ william _eats another lump of sugar._] i see ... i can't expect to get any assistance from a boy while his little stomach's calling. [william _empties the cream jug and helps himself to cakes. presently the music dies out._] now i'm going to tell you something. [_impressively._] you're a very lucky boy, william; i congratulate you. do you know why--of all this household--you are the only one to help me?... this is the secret: in a little time--it won't be long--you're going--[_as though he were imparting the most delightful information._]--to know better! think of _that_! isn't the news splendid? [_but_ william _eats on._] think of what most of us have to endure before _we_ know better! why, william, you're going into the circus without paying for a ticket. you're laying down the burden before you climb the hill. and in your case, william, you are fortunate indeed; for there are some little soldiers in this world already handicapped when they begin the battle of life.... their parents haven't fitted them for the struggle.... like little moon moths,--they look in at the windows; they beat at the panes; they see the lights of happy firesides--the lights of home; but they never get in.... you are one of these wanderers, william.... and so, it is well for you that before your playing time is over--before your man's work begins,--you're going to know the great secret. happy boy! no coarsening of your child's heart, until you stand before the world like frederik; no sweat and toil such as dear old james is facing; no dimming of the eye and trembling of the hand such as the poor old doctor shall know in time to come; no hot tears to blister your eyes, ... tears such as katie is shedding now; but, in all your youth, your faith--your innocence,--you'll fall asleep and oh! the awakening, william!... "it is well with the _child_." [william _lays down the cake and, clasping his hands, thinks._ peter _answers his thoughts._] what? no--don't think of it! nonsense! you _don't_ want to grow up to be a man. grow up to fail? or, still worse--to succeed--to be famous? to wear a heavy laurel wreath? a wreath to be held up by tired hands that ache for one hour's freedom. no, no, you're to escape all that, william; joy is on the way to meet you with sweets in its outstretched hands and laughter on its lips. [william _takes the last swallow of a piece of cake, exclaims_ "hm!" _in a satisfied way, brushes the crumbs off his lap, and sits back in his chair._] have you had enough? good! william, i want you to try to understand that you're to help me, will you? will you tell miss catherine that-- william. [_without looking up, his hands folded in his lap._] take me back with you, mr. grimm? peter. can you see me, william? william. no, sir; but i know. peter. come here. [william _doesn't move._] here ... here ... [william _advances to the center of the room and pauses hesitatingly._] take my hand ... [william _approaches in the direction of the voice._ peter _takes_ william's _outstretched hand._] have you got it? william. no, sir.... peter. [_putting his hand on_ william's _head._] now?... do you feel it? william. i feel something, yes, sir. [_puts his hand on_ peter's _hand, which is still on his head._] but where's your hand? there's nothing there. peter. but you hear me? william. i can't really hear you.... it's a dream. [_coaxingly._] oh, mr. grimm, take me back with you. peter. you're not quite ready to go with me yet, william--not until we can see each other face to face. william. why did you come back, mr. grimm? wasn't it nice where you were? peter. it was indeed. it was like--[_whimsically._]--new toys. william. [_to whom the idea appeals._] as nice as that! peter. nicer. but i had to come back with this message. i want you to help me to deliver it. [_indicating the picture._ william. where's the bosom of abraham, mr. grimm? peter. eh? william. the minister says you're asleep there. peter. stuff and nonsense! i haven't been near the bosom of abraham. william. too bad you died before you went to the circus, mr. grimm. but it must be great to be in a place where you can look down and see the circus for nothing. do you remember the clown that sang: "uncle rat has gone to town?" peter. yes, indeed; but let us talk of something more important. come here, william [_he starts towards the desk._]; would you like to see someone whom all little boys love--love more than anybody else in the whole world? [peter _is standing at the desk with his finger on the torn pieces of the picture._ william. yes, the clown in the circus.... no ... it isn't a clown; ... it's our mother.... yes, i want to see my mother, annamarie. [_unconsciously_ william _comes to the desk and sees the torn picture-- picks up a piece and looks at it. very simply._] why ... there she is!... that's her face. peter. ah! you recognize her. mother's face is there, william, but it's in little bits. we must put her together, william. we must show her to everybody in the house, so that everybody will say: "how in the world did she ever get here? to whom does this picture belong?" we must set them to thinking. william. yes. let us show her to everybody. [_he sits and joins the pieces under the guidance of_ peter.] annamarie ... annamarie ... peter. you remember many things, william ... things that happened when you lived with annamarie, don't you? william. i was very little.... peter. still, you remember.... william. [_evasively._] i was afraid.... peter. you loved her. william. [_to picture._] oh, yes ... yes, i loved you. peter. now, through that miracle of love, you can remember many things tucked away in your childish brain,--things laid away in your mind like toys upon a shelf. come, pick them up and dust them off and bring them out again. it will come back. when you lived with annamarie ... there was you ... and annamarie ... and-- william. --and the other one. peter. ah! we're getting nearer! who _was_ the other one? william. [_gives a quick glance towards the door--then as though speaking to the picture._] i must put you together before _he_ comes back. [_he fits the other pieces together_--peter _trying to guide him. presently_ william _hums as a child will when at play, singing the tune of "uncle rat."_] "uncle rat has gone to town." peter _and_ william. [_singing together._] "ha! h'm!" [_at this instant_, peter _is indicating another piece of the picture._ william. her other foot. [_then sings._] "uncle rat has gone to town, to buy his niece a wedding gown." [_adjusting a piece of the picture._] her hand. william _and_ peter. [_singing._] "ha! h'm!" william. her other hand. [_sings_.] "what shall the wedding breakfast be? hard boiled eggs and--" [_speaking_.] where's--[william _pauses--looking for a piece of the picture_. peter. [_finishing the verse_.] "a cup of tea." [_with a gesture as though knocking on the door of the adjoining room to attract_ mrs. batholommey's _attention_. william. [_speaks_.] there's her hat. william _and_ peter. [_singing_.] "ha! h'm!" william. [_stops singing and claps his hands with boyish delight--staring at the picture_.] annamarie! annamarie! you're not in bits any more-- you're all put together. _by this time,_ peter _is going up the stairs, and, as he stands in front of_ catherine's _door, it opens_. peter _passes in and_ catherine _comes out_. catherine. [_astonished_.] why, william! what are you doing here? william. miss catherine! come down! come down! i have something to show you. catherine. [_not coming down_.] no, dear--come upstairs; there's a good boy. you mustn't play down there. come to bed. [_passes into_ william's _room_. mrs. batholommey. [_who has entered, and sees_ william..] william! william. look--look! [_pointing to the picture_.] see what old mr. grimm brought back with him. mrs. batholommey. [_alarmed_.] what are you talking about, william? old mr. grimm is dead. william. no, he isn't; ... he's come back.... he has been in this room. mrs. batholommey. absurd! william. i was talking to him. mrs. batholommey. you're feverish again. i must get the doctor. [_comes down to_ william.] and i thought you were feeling better! [_seeing_ catherine, _who appears on the balcony as though wondering why_ william _doesn't come to bed_.] the child's mind is wandering. he imagines all sorts of things. i'll call the doctor-- peter. [_who has re-entered._] you needn't--he's coming now. come in, andrew. i'm giving you one more chance. _the_ doctor _enters, wearing his skull-cap, and carrying his pipe in his hand. it is evident that he has come over in a hurry._ mrs. batholommey. [_surprised._] i was just going for you. how fortunate that you came. dr. macpherson. i thought i'd have another peep at william. _by this time_, catherine _has seated herself on a chair, and takes_ william _on her lap. he puts his arms round her neck._ mrs. batholommey. he's quite delirious. dr. macpherson. doesn't look it. [_putting his hand on_ william's _cheek and forehead._] very slight fever. what makes you think he was delirious? [_taking_ william's _pulse._ mrs. batholommey. [_interrupting._] he said that old mr. grimm was in this room--that he was talking to him. dr. macpherson. [_interested._] yes? really? well, possibly he is. nothing remarkable in _that_, is there? peter. well, at last! mrs. batholommey. what? oh, of course, you believe in-- dr. macpherson. in fact, i had a compact with him to return if-- mrs. batholommey. a compact? of all the preposterous-- dr. macpherson. not at all. dozens of cases on record--as i can show you-- where these compacts have actually been kept. [_suddenly struck--looking at_ william.] i wonder if that boy's a sensitive. [_hand on his chin._] i wonder ... catherine. [_echoing the_ doctor's _words._] a sensitive? mrs. batholommey. what's that? dr. macpherson. it's difficult to explain. i mean a human organism so constituted that it can be _informed_ or _controlled_ by those who--er-- have--[_with a gesture._] crossed over. mrs. batholommey. i think i'll put the boy to bed, doctor. dr. macpherson. just a moment, mistress batholommey. i'm here to find out what ails william. william, what makes you think that mr. grimm is in this room? mrs. batholommey. i wouldn't have the child encouraged in such ideas, catherine. i-- dr. macpherson. sh! please, please. [_taking the boy on his knee._] what makes you think peter grimm is in this room? william. [_hesitating._] ... the things he said to me. mrs. batholommey. said to you? catherine. [_wonderingly._] william, ... are you sure he ... dr. macpherson. said to you, eh? [william _nods assent._] _old_ mr. grimm? [william _nods._] sure of that, william? william. oh. yes, sir. dr. macpherson. think before you speak, my boy; what did mr. grimm say to you? william. lots of things ... mrs. batholommey. really! dr. macpherson. [_raises his hand for silence._] how did he look, william? william. i didn't see him. mrs. batholommey. ha! dr. macpherson. you must have seen something. william. i thought once i saw his hat on the peg where it used to hang. [_looks at the peg._] no, it's gone. mrs. batholommey. [_remonstrating._] doctor! dr. macpherson. [_thinking._] i wonder if he really did-- catherine. do you think he could have seen uncle peter? peter. [_pointing to the desk._] william! william. look! ... [_points to the picture._] that's what i wanted to show you when you were upstairs. catherine. [_seeing the picture._] it's his mother--annamarie. mrs. batholommey. the lord save us--his mother! i didn't know you'd heard from annamarie. catherine. we haven't. mrs. batholommey. then how'd that picture get into the house? peter. ah! i knew she'd begin! now that she's wound up, we shall get at the truth. mrs. batholommey. it's a new picture. she's much changed. how ever did it find its way here? catherine. i never saw it before. it's very strange.... we've all been waiting for news of her. even her mother doesn't know where she is, or-- could marta have received this since i-- mrs. batholommey. i'll ask her. [_exit into dining-room._ catherine. if not, who had the picture?... and why weren't we _all_ told?... who tore it up? did you, william? [william _shakes his head, meaning "no."_] who has been at the desk? no one save frederik ... frederik ... and surely he--[_she pauses--perplexed._ mrs. batholommey. [_re-entering._] no, marta hasn't heard a word; and, only a few minutes ago, she asked frederik if some message hadn't come, but he said "no, nothing." i didn't tell her of the picture. catherine. [_looking at the picture._] i wonder if there was any message with it. mrs. batholommey. i remember the day that picture came ... the day your uncle died.... it was in a long blue envelope--the size of the picture.... i took it from the postman myself because every one was distracted and rushing about. it dropped to the floor and as i picked it up i thought i knew the writing; but i couldn't remember whose it was.... it was directed to your uncle.... [_looking from the desk to the waste-basket._] there's the envelope [_holding up a scrap of blue envelope._] and paper; ... some one has burned it. catherine. annamarie wrote to my uncle ... dr. macpherson. [_not understanding._] but what could peter have to say to _me_ concerning annamarie? [_making a resolution--rising._] we're going to find out. you may draw the curtains, catherine, if you please. [catherine _draws the curtains. the_ doctor _turns the lights down and closes the door. a pause._] peter grimm ... peter. yes, andrew?... dr. macpherson. [_not hearing._] if you have come back ... if you are in the room ... and the boy speaks truly--give me some sign ... some indication ... peter. i can't give you a sign, andrew.... i have spoken to the boy ... the boy ... dr. macpherson. if you cannot make your presence known to me--i know there are great difficulties--will you try and send your message by william? i presume you have one-- peter. yes, that's right. dr. macpherson. --or else you wouldn't have come back. peter. that's just the point i wanted to make, andrew. you understand perfectly. dr. macpherson. [_as before._] i am waiting.... we are all waiting. [_noticing that a door is a trifle ajar._] the door's open again. [mrs. batholommey, _without making a sound, closes it and sits as before._ peter. sh! listen! [_a pause._ william. [_in a peculiar manner--as though in a half dream--but not shutting his eyes. as though controlled by_ peter.] there was annamarie and me and the other. dr. macpherson. [_very low, as though afraid to interrupt_ william's _train of thought._] what other? william. the man ... that came. dr. macpherson. what man? william. the man that made annamarie cry. catherine. who was he? william. i don't know ... peter. yes, you do. don't tell lies, william. dr. macpherson. what man made annamarie cry? william. i can't remember.... peter. yes, you can.... you're afraid.... catherine. [_in a low voice._] so you do remember the time when you lived with annamarie; ... you always told me that you didn't ... [_to_ dr. macpherson.] i must know more of this--[_pauses abruptly._] think, william, who came to the house? peter. that's what _i_ asked you, william. william. that's what _he_ asked ... dr. macpherson. who? william. mr. grimm. dr. macpherson. when, william? william. just now ... catherine _and_ mrs. batholommey. [_together._] just now! dr. macpherson. h'm.... you both ask the same question, eh? the man that came to see-- mrs. batholommey. [_perplexed._] it can't be possible that the child knows what he's talking about. dr. macpherson. [_ignoring her._] what did you tell mr. grimm when he asked you? peter. you'd better make haste, william. frederik is coming back. william. [_looking uneasily over his shoulder._] i'm afraid. catherine. why does he always look towards that door? you're not afraid now, william? william. [_looking towards the door._] n-no--but.... please, please don't let mr. frederik come back. 'cause then i'll be afraid again. dr. macpherson. ah! peter. william! william! william. [_rising quickly._] yes, mr. grimm? peter. you must say that i am very unhappy. william. he says he is very unhappy. dr. macpherson. why is he unhappy?... ask him. william. why are you unhappy, mr. grimm? peter. i am thinking of catherine's future.... william. [_not understanding the last word--puzzled._] eh? peter. to-morrow ... william. [_after a slight pause._] to-morrow ... peter. catherine's-- william. [_looks at_ catherine--_hesitating._] your--[_stops._ catherine _gives the_ doctor _a quick glance--she seems to divine the message._ dr. macpherson. [_prompting._] her-- catherine. what, william? what of to-morrow? peter. she must not marry frederik. william. i mustn't say _that_. dr. macpherson. what? william. what he wanted me to say. [_points towards_ peter. _all instinctively look towards the spot to which_ william _points, but they see no one._ peter. [_speaking slowly to the boy._] catherine--must--not--marry frederik grimm. dr. macpherson. speak, william. no one will hurt you. william. oh, yes, _he_ will.... [_looking timidly towards the door_ frederik _passed through._] i don't want to tell his name--'cause ... 'cause ... dr. macpherson. why don't you tell the name, william? peter. make haste, william, make haste. william. [_trembling._] i'm afraid ... i'm afraid ... he will make annamarie cry; ... he makes me cry ... catherine. [_with suppressed excitement--half to herself._] why are you afraid of him? was frederik the man that came to see annamarie? mrs. batholommey. catherine! catherine. [_on her knees before_ william.] was he? was it frederik grimm? tell me, william. mrs. batholommey. surely you don't believe ... catherine. [_in a low voice._] i've thought of a great many things to-day ... little things ... little things i'd never noticed before.... i'm putting them together just as he put that picture together.... i must know the truth. peter. william, make haste.... frederik is listening at the door. william. [_frightened._] i won't say any more. he's there ... at the door ... [_he looks over his shoulder and_ catherine _goes towards the door._ dr. macpherson. william, tell me. peter. william! catherine _opens the door suddenly._ frederik _is standing, listening. he is taken unawares and for a few seconds he does not move--then he recovers._ william. please don't let him scold me. i'm afraid of him. [_going towards the stairs--looking at_ frederik.] i was afraid of him when i lived with annamarie and he came to see us and made her cry. dr. macpherson. are you sure you remember that? weren't you too small? william. no, i do remember.... i always did remember; only for a little while i--i forgot.... i must go to bed. he told me to. [_goes upstairs._ peter. [_calling after_ william.] you're a good boy, william. [william _goes to his room._ catherine. [_after a slight pause--simply._] frederik, you've heard from annamarie.... [_gestures towards the desk._ frederik _sees the photograph and is silent._] you've had a letter from her. you tried to destroy it. why did you tell marta that you'd had no message--no news? you went to see her, too. why did you tell me that you'd never seen her since she went away? why did you lie to me? why do you hate that child? frederik. are you going to believe what that boy-- catherine. i'm going to find out. i'm going to find out where she is, before i marry you. that child may be right or wrong; but i'm going to know what his mother was to you. i want the truth. dr. macpherson. [_who has been in thought--now looking up._] we've heard the truth. we had that message from peter grimm himself. catherine. yes, it is true. i believe uncle peter grimm was in this room to-night. frederik. [_not surprised--glancing towards the spot where_ peter _stood when he thought he saw him._] oh! you, too? did you see him, too? mrs. batholommey. [_incredulously._] impossible! catherine. i don't care what anyone else may think--people have the right to think for themselves; but i believe he has been here--he _is_ here. uncle peter, if you can hear me now, give me back my promise--or--or i'll take it back! peter. [_gently--smilingly--relieved._] i did give it back to you, my dear; but what a time i have had getting it across! curtain. act iii. _the third act takes place at twenty minutes to twelve on the same night._ _the fire is out. the table on which_ peter _took his coffee in the first act is now being used by the_ doctor _for_ william's _medicines, two bottles, two glasses, two teaspoons, a clinical thermometer, &c._ william, _who has been questioned by the_ doctor, _is now asleep upstairs._ peter's _hat hangs on the peg in the shadow. although the hour is late, no one has thought of going to bed._ frederik _is waiting at the hotel for the lawyer whom_ hicks _was to send to arrange for the sale of_ peter grimm's _nurseries, but he has not arrived. the_ doctor, _full of his theories, is seated before the fire, writing the account of_ peter grimm's _return, for the american branch of the "london society for psychical research." it is now a fine, clear night. the clouds are almost silvery and a hint of the moon is showing._ dr. macpherson. [_reading what he has written._] "to be forwarded to the 'london society for psychical research': dr. hyslop: dear sir: this evening at the residence of peter--" [_pauses and inserts "the late" and continues to read after inserting the words._] "--the late peter grimm-- the well-known horticulturist of grimm manor, new york, certain phenomena were observed which would clearly indicate the return of peter grimm, ten days after his decease. while he was invisible to all, three people were present besides myself--one of these, a child of eight, who received the message. no spelling out by signals nor automatic writing was employed, but word of mouth." [_a rap sounds._] who will that be at this hour?... [_looks at the clock._] nearly midnight. [_opening the door._] yes? a voice. [_outside._] telegram for frederik grimm. dr. macpherson. not in. i'll sign. [_he signs and, receiving the telegram, sets it against a candle-stick on the desk and resumes his seat. reads:_] "i made a compact with peter grimm, while he was in the flesh, that whichever went first was to return and give the other some sign; and i propose to give positive proof--" [_he hesitates--thinks--then repeats._] "positive proof that he kept this compact and that i assisted in the carrying out of his instructions." mrs. batholommey. [_enters--evidently highly wrought up by the events of the evening._] who was that? who knocked? dr. macpherson. telegram. mrs. batholommey. i thought perhaps frederik had come back. don't you consider william much better? dr. macpherson. mm ... mrs. batholommey. dear, dear! the scene that took place to-night has completely upset me. [_the_ doctor _takes up his pen and reads to himself._] well, doctor: [_she pushes forward a chair and sits at the other side of the table--facing him._] the breaking off of the engagement is rather sudden, isn't it? we've been talking it over in the front parlour, mr. batholommey and i. james has finished his work and has just joined us. i suggest sending out a card--a neat card--saying that, owing to the bereavement in the family, the wedding has been indefinitely postponed. of course, it isn't exactly true. dr. macpherson. won't take place at all. [_goes on reading._ mrs. batholommey. evidently not; but if the whole matter looks very strange to me--how is it going to look to other people; especially when we haven't any--any rational explanation--as yet? we must get out of it in some fashion. dr. macpherson. whose business is it? mrs. batholommey. nobody's, of course. but catherine's position is certainly unusual; and the strangest part of it all is--she doesn't seem to feel her situation. she's sitting alone in the library, seemingly placid and happy. what i really wish to consult you about is this: shouldn't the card we're going to send out have a narrow black border? [_the_ doctor _is now writing._] doctor, you don't appear to be interested. you might at least answer my question. dr. macpherson. what chance have i had to answer? you've done all the talking. mrs. batholommey. [_rising--annoyed._] oh, of course, all these little matters sound trivial to you; but men like you couldn't look after the workings of the _next_ world if other people didn't attend to _this_. some one has to do it. dr. macpherson. i fully appreciate the fact, mistress batholommey, that other people are making it possible for me to be myself. i'll admit that; and now if i might have a few moments in peace to attend to something really important-- _the_ rev. mr. batholommey _has entered with his hat in his hand._ rev. mr. batholommey. doctor, i've been thinking things over. i ran in for a moment to suggest that we suspend judgment until the information william has volunteered can be verified. i can scarcely believe that-- dr. macpherson. ump! [_rises and goes to the telephone on the desk._] four-red. rev. mr. batholommey. i regret that frederik left the house without offering some explanation. dr. macpherson. [_at the 'phone._] marget, i'm at peter's. i mean--i'm at the grimms'. send me my bag. i'll stay the night with william. bye. [_seats himself at the table._ rev. mr. batholommey. tell frederik that, if he cares to consult me, i shall be at home in my study. good-night, doctor. good-night, rose. dr. macpherson. hold on, mr. batholommey! [_the_ rev. mr. batholommey _turns._] i'm writing an account of all that's happened here to-night-- rev. mr. batholommey. [_dubiously._] indeed! dr. macpherson. i shall verify every word of the evidence by william's mother for whom i am searching. [_the_ rev. mr. batholommey _smiles faintly behind his hand._] then i shall send in my report, and not until then. what i wish to ask is this: would you have any objection to the name of mrs. batholommey being used as a witness? rev. mr. batholommey. [_looks perplexed._] well,--er--a-- mrs. batholommey. oh, no, you don't! you may flout our beliefs; but wouldn't you like to bolster up your report with "the wife of a clergyman who was present!" it sounds so respectable and sane, doesn't it? no, sir! you cannot prop up your wild-eyed-- rev. mr. batholommey. rose, my dear! mrs. batholommey. [_sweeping on._]--theories against the good black of a minister's coat. _i_ think myself that you have _probably_ stumbled on the truth about william's mother. rev. mr. batholommey. _can_ it be true? oh, dreadful! dreadful! mrs. batholommey. but that child knew it all along. he's eight years old and he was with her until five--and five's the age of memory. every incident of his mother's life has lingered in his little mind. supposing you do find her and learn that it's all true: what do you prove? simply that _william remembered_, and that's all there is to it. rev. mr. batholommey. let us hope that there's not a word of truth in it. don't you think, doctor--mind, i'm not opposing your ideas as a clergyman,--i'm just echoing what _everybody else_ thinks--don't you believe these spiritualistic ideas, leading _away_ from the heaven _we_ were taught to believe in, tend towards irresponsibility--er-- eccentricity--and--often--er--insanity? is it healthy--that's the idea--is it healthy? dr. macpherson. well, batholommey, religion has frequently led to the stake, and i never heard of the spanish inquisition being called _healthy_ for anybody taking part in it. still, religion flourishes. but your old-fashioned, unscientific, gilt, ginger-bread heaven blew up ten years ago--went out. my heaven's just coming in. it's new. dr. funk and a lot of the clergymen are in already. you'd better get used to it, batholommey, and get in line and into the procession. rev. mr. batholommey. you'll have to convince me first, doctor--and that no man can do. i made up my mind at twenty-one, and my heaven is just where it was then. doctor macpherson. so i see. it hasn't improved a particle. rev. mr. batholommey. [_tolerantly._] well, well. good-night. [mrs. batholommey _follows him in the hall._ mrs. batholommey. good-night, henry; i'll be home to-morrow. you'll be glad to see me, dear, won't you? rev. mr. batholommey. my church mouse! [_he pats her cheek, kisses her good-night and goes._ mrs. batholommey. [_who has gone to the door of her room--giving_ dr. macpherson _a parting shot._] write as much as you like, doctor; words are but air. we didn't see peter grimm and you know and i know and everybody knows that _seeing_ is believing. dr. macpherson. [_looking up._] damn everybody! it's everybody's ignorance that has set the world back a thousand years. where was i before you--oh, yes. [_reads as_ mrs. batholommey _leaves the room._] "i assisted in the carrying out of his instructions." [frederik grimm _enters._ frederik. anybody in this house come to their senses yet? dr. macpherson. i think so, my boy. i think several in this house have come to their senses. catherine has, for one. i'm very glad to see you back, frederik. i have a few questions to put to you. frederik. why don't you have more light? it's half dark in this room. [_he picks up the lamp from the_ doctor's _table and holds it so that he can look searchingly in the direction of the desk to see if_ peter's _apparition is still there. his eye is suddenly riveted on the telegram resting against the candlestick on the desk._] is that telegram for me? dr. macpherson. yes. frederik. oh.... it may explain perhaps why i've been kept waiting at the hotel.... [_tries to go to the desk but cannot muster up courage._] i had an appointment to meet a man who wanted to buy the gardens. i may as well tell you, i'm thinking of selling out root and branch. dr. macpherson. [_amazed._] selling out? peter grimm's gardens? so this is the end of peter's great work? frederik. you'll think it strange, doctor; but i--i simply can't make up my mind to go near that old desk of my uncle's.... i have a perfect terror of the thing! would you mind handing me that telegram? [_the_ doctor _looks at him with scarcely veiled contempt, and hands him the telegram. after a glance at the contents,_ frederik _gives vent to a long-drawn breath._] billy hicks--the man i was to sell to--is dead.... [_tosses the telegram across the table towards_ dr. macpherson, _who does not take it. it lies on the table._] i knew it this afternoon! i knew he would die ... but i wouldn't let myself believe it. someone told it to me ... whispered it to me.... doctor, as sure as you live--somebody else is doing my thinking for me in this house. dr. macpherson. [_studying_ frederik.] what makes you say that? frederik. to-night--in this room, i thought i saw my uncle ... [_pointing towards the desk._] there. dr. macpherson. eh?... frederik. and just before i--i saw him--i--i had the ... the strangest impulse to go to the foot of the stairs and call kitty--give her the house--and run--run--get out of it. dr. macpherson. oh, a good impulse, i see! very unusual, i should say. frederik. i thought he gave me a terrible look--a terrible look. dr. macpherson. your uncle? frederik. yes. my god! i won't forget that look! and as i started out of the room--he blotted out.... i mean--i thought i saw him blot out; ... then i left the photograph on the desk and-- dr. macpherson. that's how william came by it. [_jots down a couple of notes._] did you ever have this impulse before--to give up catherine--to let her have the cottage? frederik. not much, i hadn't. certainly not. i told you someone else was thinking for _me_. i don't want to give her up. it's folly! i've always been fond of her. but if she has turned against me, i'm not going to sit here and cry about it. i shall be up and off. [_rising._] but i'll tell you one thing: from this time, i propose to think for myself. i've taken a room at the hotel and a few things for the night. i've done with this house. i'd like to sell it along with the gardens, and let a stranger raze it to the ground; but--[_thinks as he looks towards the desk._] when i walk out of here to-night--it's hers--she can have it. ... i wouldn't sleep here.... i give her the home because ... dr. macpherson. because you don't believe anything; but you want to be on the safe side in case he--[_gesturing to desk._] was there. frederik. [_puzzled--awed--his voice almost dropping to a whisper._] how do you account for it, doctor? dr. macpherson. it might have been an hallucination or perhaps you did see him, though it could have been inflammation of conscience, frederik: when did you last see annamarie? frederik. [_angrily._] haven't i told you already that i refuse to answer any questions as to my-- dr. macpherson. i think it only fair to tell you that it won't make a particle of difference whether you answer me or not. i have someone on the track now--working from an old address; i've called in the detectives and i'll find her, you may be sure of that. as long as i'm going to know it, i may as well hear your side of it, too. when did you last see annamarie? frederik. [_sits--answers dully, mechanically, after a pause._] about three years ago. dr. macpherson. never since? frederik. no. dr. macpherson. what occurred the last time you saw her? frederik. [_quietly, as before._] what _always_ occurs when a young man realizes that he has his life before him, must be respected--looked up to, settle down, think of his future and forget a silly girl? dr. macpherson. a scene took place, eh? was william present? frederik. yes. she held him in her arms. dr. macpherson. and then? frederik. i left the house. dr. macpherson. then it's all true. [frederik _is silent._] what are you going to do for william? frederik. nothing. i'm a rich man now--and if i recognize him--he'll be at me till the day he dies. his mother's gone to the dogs and under her influence, the boy-- dr. macpherson. be silent, you damned young scoundrel. oh! what an act of charity if the good lord took william, and i say it with all my heart. out of all you have--not a crumb for-- frederik. i want you to know i've sweat for that money, and i'm going to keep it! dr. macpherson. _you've_ sweat for-- frederik. [_showing feeling._]--yes! how do you think i got the money? i went to jail for it--jail, jail. every day i've been in this house has been spent in prison. i've been doing time. do you think it didn't get on my nerves? i've gone to bed at nine o'clock and thought of what i was missing in new york. i've got up at cock-crow to be in time for grace at the breakfast table. i took charge of a class in sabbath-school, and i handed out the infernal cornucopias at the church christmas tree, while he played santa claus. what more can a fellow do to earn his money? don't you call that sweating? no, sir; i've danced like a damned hand-organ monkey for the pennies he left me, and i had to grin and touch my hat and make believe i liked it. now i'm going to spend every cent for my own personal pleasure. dr. macpherson. will rich men never learn wisdom! frederik. [_rising_.] no, they won't! but in every fourth generation there comes along a _wise_ fellow--a spender who knows how to distribute the money others have hoarded: i'm the spender. dr. macpherson. shame upon you and your like! your breed should be exterminated. frederik. [_taking a little packet of letters from the desk_.] oh, no, we're quite as necessary as you are. and now--i shall answer no more questions. i'm done. good-night, doctor. dr. macpherson. good-night and good-bye. [_with a look of disgust, he has gone to the table, held a medicine bottle to the light to look at the label and poured a spoonful into a wine-glass filled with water. as_ frederik _leaves the house, the_ doctor _taps on a door and calls_.] catherine! [catherine _enters, and shows by the glance she directs at the front door that she knows_ frederik _has been in the room and has just left the house_.] burn up your wedding dress. we've made no mistake. i can tell you _that_! [_goes up the stairs to_ william's _room, taking the lamp with him_. james _has entered, and, taking_ catherine's _hand, holds it for a moment_. james. good-night, catherine. [_she turns and lays her hand on his shoulder_. catherine. i wonder, james, if _he_ can see us now. james. that's the big mystery!... who can tell? but any man who works with flowers and things that grow--knows there is no such thing as death-- there's nothing but life--life and always life. i'll be back in the morning.... won't you ... see me to the door? catherine. yes ... yes.... [_they go up together,_ catherine _carrying a candle into the dark vestibule. the moment they disappear, a lamp standing on the piano goes out as though the draught from the door or an unseen hand had extinguished it. it is now quite dark outside, and the moon is hidden for a moment. at the same time, a light, seemingly coming from nowhere, reveals_ peter grimm _standing in the room at the door--as though he had been there when the young people passed out. he is smiling and happy. the moon is not seen, but the light of it (as though it had come out from behind a cloud) now reveals the old windmill. from outside the door the voices of_ james _and_ catherine _are heard as they both say:_] good-night. james. catherine, ... i won't go without it.... peter. [_knowing that_ james, _is demanding a kiss._] aha! [_rubs his hands in satisfaction--then listens--and after a second pause exclaims, with an upraised finger, as though he were hearing the kiss._] ah! now i can go.... [_he walks to the peg on which his hat hangs, and takes it down. his work is done._ catherine _re-enters, darting into the hall in girlish confusion._ james' happy voice. [_outside._] good-night! catherine. [_calling to him through the crack in the door._] good-night! [_she closes the door, turns the key and draws the heavy bolt--then leans against the door, candle-stick in hand--the wind has blown out the candle._] oh, i'm so happy! i'm so happy! peter. then good-night to you, my darling: love cannot say good-bye. [_she goes to_ peter's _chair, and, sitting, thinks it all over--her hands clasped in her lap--her face radiant with happiness._] here in your childhood's home i leave you. here in the years to come, the way lies clear before you. [_his arm upraised._] "_lust in rust_"--pleasure and peace go with you. [catherine _looks towards the door--remembering_ james' _kiss--half smiling._] [_humorously._] y--es; i saw you. i heard ... i know.... here on some sunny, blossoming day when, as a wife, you look out upon my gardens--every flower and tree and shrub shall bloom enchanted to your eyes.... all that happens--happens again. and if, at first, a little knock of poverty taps at the door, and james finds the road hard and steep--what is money?--a thing,--a good thing to have,--but still a thing ... and happiness will come without it. and when, as a mother, you shall see my plantings with new eyes, my catherine,--when you explain each leaf and bud to your little people--you will remember the time when _we_ walked together through the leafy lanes and i taught you--even as you teach them--you little thing!... so, i shall linger in your heart. and some day, should your children wander far away and my gardens blossom for a stranger who may take my name from off the gates,--what _is_ my name? already it grows faint to my ears. [_lightly._] yes, yes, yes, let others take my work.... why should _we_ care? all that happens, happens again. [_she rests her elbow on the chair, half hides her face in her hand._] and never forget this: i shall be waiting for you--i shall know all your life. i shall adore your children and be their grandfather just as though i were here; i shall find it hard not to laugh at them when they are bad, and i shall worship them when they are good--and i don't want them too good.... frederik was good.... i shall be everywhere about you ... in the stockings at christmas, in a big, busy, teeming world of shadows just outside your threshold, or whispering in the still noises of the night.... and oh! as the years pass, [_standing over her chair._] you cannot imagine what pride i shall take in your comfortable middle life--the very _best_ age, i think--when you two shall look out on your possessions arm in arm--and take your well-earned comfort and ease. how i shall love to see you look fondly at each other as you say: "be happy, jim--you've worked hard for this;" or james says: "take your comfort, little mother, let them all wait upon _you--you_ waited upon _them_. lean back in your carriage--you've earned it!" and towards the end--[_sitting on a chair by her side and looking into her face._] after all the luxuries and vanities and possessions cease to be so important--people return to very simple things, dear. the evening of life comes bearing its own lamp. then, perhaps, as a little old grandmother, a little old child whose bed-time is drawing near, i shall see you happy to sit out in the sunlight of another day; asking nothing more of life than the few hours to be spent with those you love,... telling your grandchildren, at your knees, how much brighter the flowers blossomed when _you_ were young. ha! ha! ha! all that happens, happens again.... and when, one glad day, glorified, radiant, young once more, the mother and i shall take you in our arms,--oh! what a reunion! [_inspired._] the flight of love--to love.... and now ... [_he bends over her and caresses her hand._] good-night. [catherine _rises and, going to the desk, buries her face in the bunch of flowers placed there in memory of_ peter. catherine. dear uncle peter.... marta _enters--pausing to hear if all is quiet in_ william's _room_. catherine, _lifting her face, sees_ marta _and rapturously hugs her, to_ marta's _amazement--then goes up the stairs_. peter. [_whose eyes never leave_ catherine.] "_lust in rust_!" pleasure and peace! amen! [catherine _passes into her room, the music dying away as her door closes_. marta, _still wondering, goes to the clock and winds it_.] poor marta! every time she thinks of me, she winds my clock. we're not quite forgotten. dr. macpherson. [_re-appears, carrying_ william, _now wrapped up in an old-fashioned dutch patchwork quilt. the_ doctor _has a lamp in his free hand_.] so you want to go downstairs, eh? very good! how do you feel, laddie? william. new all over. dr. macpherson. [_placing the lamp on the little table right, and laying_ william _on the couch_.] now i'll get you the glass of cold water. [_goes into the dining-room, leaving the door open_. peter. [_calling after the_ doctor.] good-night, andrew. i'm afraid the world will have to wait a little longer for the _big_ guesser. drop in often. i shall be glad to see you here. william. [_quickly rising on the couch, looks towards the peg on which_ peter grimm's _hat hung. calling_.] mr. grimm! where are you? i knew that you were down here. [_seeing_ peter.] oh, [_raising himself to his knees on the sofa_.] i see you _now_! peter. yes? [_there is an impressive pause and silence as they face each other_. william. oh, you've got your hat;... it's off the peg.... you're going. need you go right away--mr. grimm? can't you wait a little while? peter. i'll wait for you, william. william. may i go with you? thank you. i couldn't find the way without you. peter. yes, you could. it's the surest way in this world. but i'll wait,-- don't worry. william. i sha'n't. [_coaxingly_.] don't be in a hurry ... i want--[_lies down happily_.] to take a nap first.... i'm sleepy. [_he pulls the covering up and sleeps_. peter. i wish you the pleasantest dream a little boy can have in _this_ world. _instantly, as though the room were peopled with faint images of_ william's _dream, the phantom circus music is heard, with its elfin horns; and, through the music, voices call "hai! hai!" the sound of the cracking of a whip is heard, and the blare of a clown's ten-cent tin horn. the phantom voice of the_ clown _(very faint) calls:_ clown's voice. billy miller's big show and monster circus is in town this afternoon! don't forget the date! only one ring--no confusion. circus day comes but once a year, little sir. come early and see the wild animals and hear the lion roar-r-r! mind, i shall expect _you!_ wonderful troupe of trained mice in the side-show. _during the above, the deeper voice of a_ "hawker"--_muffled and far off-- cries:_ hawker's voice. peanuts, pop-corn, lemonade--ice cold lemo--lemo-- lemonade! circus day comes but once a year. _breaking in through the music, and the voices of the_ clown _and_ hawker, _the gruff voice of a_ "barker" _is heard calling._ barker's voice. walk in and see the midgets and the giant! only ten cents--one dime! _as these voices die away, the_ clown, _whose voice indicates that he is now perched on the head of the couch, sings:_ clown's voice. "uncle rat has gone to town, ha! h'm! uncle rat has gone to town to buy his niece"-- _his voice ends abruptly--the music stops. everything is over. there is silence. then three clear knocks sound on the door._ peter. come in.... [_the door opens. no one is there--but a faint path of phosphorous light is seen._] oh, friends! troops of you! [_as though he recognizes the unseen guests._] i've been gone so long that you came for me, eh? i'm quite ready to go back. i'm just waiting for a happy little fellow who's going back with us.... we'll follow. do you all go ahead-- lead the way. [_he looks at_ william, _holds out his arms, and_ william _jumps up and runs into them._] well, william! you _know better_ now. come! [_picking up_ william.] happy, eh? [william _nods, his face beaming._ william. oh, yes! peter. let's be off, then. [_as they turn towards the door._ dr. macpherson. [_re-entering, goes to the couch with the water, and suddenly, setting down the glass, exclaims in a hushed voice:_] my god! he's dead! [_he half raises up a boy that appears to be_ william. _the light from the lamp on the table falls on the dead face of the child. then the_ doctor _gently lays the boy down again on the couch, and sits pondering over the mystery of death._ peter. [_to the_ doctor.] oh, no! there never was so fair a prospect for _life_! william. [_in_ peter's _arms._] i _am_ happy! _outside a hazy moonlight shimmers. a few stars twinkle in the far-away sky; and the low moon is seen back of the old windmill._ peter. [_to_ william.] if the rest of them only knew what they're missing, eh? william. [_begins to sing, joyously._] "uncle rat has gone to town." peter _dances up a few steps towards the door, singing with_ william. peter _and_ william. "ha! h'm! uncle rat has gone to town to buy his niece a wedding gown. ha! h'm!" peter. [_gives one last fond look towards_ catherine's _room. to_ william.] we're off! [_putting the boy over his shoulder, they sing together, as they go up, the phantom circus music accompanying them._] "what shall the wedding breakfast be? ha! h'm!" peter. [_alone._] "what shall the wedding breakfast be? hard boiled eggs and a cup of tea." william _and_ peter. "ha! h'm!" peter grimm _has danced off with the child through the faint path of light. as he goes, the wind or an unseen hand closes the door after them. there is a moment's pause until their voices are no longer heard--then the curtain slowly descends. the air of the song is taken up by an unseen orchestra and continues as the audience passes out._ curtain. stranger than fiction being tales from the byways of ghosts and folk-lore by mary l. lewes london william rider & son ltd. aldersgate street, e.c. printed by ballantyne & company ltd at the ballantyne press tavistock street covent garden london to my sister preface i have to thank the editor of the _occult review_ for his kindness in allowing me to reprint here many stories which have appeared at different times in his magazine. and i am most grateful to the friends who have helped to swell the contents of this little volume, by permitting me to record their interesting experiences of the supernatural, or by furnishing me with details concerning local beliefs and superstitions, which would otherwise have been difficult to obtain. m. l. lewes contents i. introductory ii. welsh ghosts iii. welsh ghosts (_continued_) iv. other ghosts v. corpse-candles and the toili vi. corpse-candles and the toili (_continued_) vii. welsh fairies viii. wise men, witches, and family curses ix. odd notes x. conclusion chapter i introductory "strange, is it not? that of the myriads who before us passed the door of darkness through, not one returns to tell us of the road, which to discover we must travel too." if we may judge by the assertion contained in the above quatrain, omar khayyám was no believer in ghosts. in which respect the persian poet must have differed from the general opinion of his times. for until a very few centuries ago, it was only a small minority of those who considered themselves wise above their fellows, who ventured to deny the possibility of the spirit's return to earth. even amongst the romans during the antonine age (a.d. - ), when scepticism on religious matters had become almost universal among the learned, and the worship of the gods had sunk to mere outward observance of ceremony, gibbon says, "i do not pretend to assert that in this irreligious age, the natural terrors of superstitions, dreams, omens, apparitions, &c., had lost their efficacy." the younger pliny, in a letter to his friend sura, writes: "i am extremely desirous to know whether you believe in the existence of ghosts, and that they have a real form, and are a sort of divinities, or only the visionary impression of a terrified imagination." he also relates a really exciting tale of a haunted house at athens, but it is too long to quote here. the ancients believed that every one possessed three distinct ghosts; the _manes_, of which the ultimate destination was the lower regions, the _spiritus_, which returned to heaven, and the _umbra_, that, unwilling to sever finally its connection with this life, was wont to haunt the last resting-place of the earthly body. these "shades" were supposed to "walk" between the hours of midnight and cock-crow, causing burial-grounds, cemeteries or tombs to be carefully avoided at night. one reason given as to why very old yew-trees are so often found in country churchyards is, that originally these trees were planted to supply the peasants with wood for their bows, for in lawless times it was soon discovered that the only place where the trees would be safe from nightly marauders was the churchyard, where not the most hardened thief dared venture between darkness and dawn. particularly were the shades of those who, perishing by crimes of violence without absolution-- "unhousel'd, disappointed, unanel'd--" supposed to be uneasy; haunting sometimes the scene of their end, or, in other cases, the footsteps of the slayer. if a living person could summon courage to address one of these haunting spirits (for no ghost may speak unless spoken to) and discover the cause of its restlessness, it was thought possible to give it peace or "lay it," by righting the wrong it suffered from; whether by vengeance on a murderer, atonement for a crime committed, or by the offices of a priest to give absolution to an unshrived soul. an old writer tells us: "the mode of addressing a ghost is by commanding it in the name of the three persons of the trinity to tell you what it is, and what its business.... during the narration of its business a ghost must by no means be interrupted by questions of any kind; so doing is extremely dangerous...." besides believing in these ghosts of departed human beings, there was ever present in the minds of our forefathers, the dread of a host of "evil spirits" who were the agents and assistants of satan, always ready to injure innocent souls, and where possible, to cause worldly disaster also. magicians and sorcerers[ ] were supposed by their arts to have power in this world of demons, the forfeit being their own souls, lost beyond redemption. in his delightful "memoirs," benvenuto cellini ( - ) describes with great vividness some experiments he conducted with a necromancer at rome, in order to discover the whereabouts of a girl he loved. the magician was a sicilian priest, "a man of genius and well versed in the latin and greek authors," who made an appointment with cellini for a certain evening, desiring him to bring two companions. "i invited vincenzo romoli ... he brought with him a native of pistoja, who cultivated the black art himself." the trio then repaired to the colosseum, where the priest "... began to draw circles upon the ground with the most impressive ceremonies imaginable...." after this sort of thing and many incantations had lasted an hour and a half, "there appeared several legions of devils, insomuch that the amphitheatre was quite filled with them." this terrible phenomenon sounds dreadful enough to have frightened most people, but obtaining no result from his inquiries on the first occasion, cellini was intrepid enough to arrange for a second experiment, his account of which absolutely bristles with demons and bad spirits; the strange part being that he writes as if their appearance at the sorcerer's bidding was the most natural thing in the world, and quite what he had expected to see. and this attitude of absolute, matter-of-fact faith in the powers of darkness, and acceptance of the magician's arts, is very interesting in the man, of whose famous autobiography john addington symonds wrote: "the genius of the renaissance, incarnate in a single personality, leans forth and speaks to us." [footnote : magicians were able to command spirits to do their bidding, while sorcerers, though they could _summon_ demons, were obliged to obey them.] it is only when we begin to investigate the origin of certain old customs and superstitions that we gain any real idea of how deeply rooted in men's minds during the dark and middle ages was the fear of the supernatural, and particularly of evil spirits. to this day in pembrokeshire, the cottagers, after the saturday morning scrubbing, take a piece of chalk and draw a rough geometrical pattern round the edge of the threshold stone. this they do, not knowing that their ancestors thought it a sure way of keeping the devil from entering the house. another custom, often noticeable in country parishes, is the reluctance to bury the dead on the north side of the churchyard; this is because evil spirits were always supposed to lurk on that side of the church precincts. for many centuries christianity, at all events among the mass of the people, seemed powerless to raise the dark veil of superstition which the old pagan beliefs had spread over the world; and indeed in many countries--sometimes from ignorance, sometimes from motives of expediency--heathen traditions and practices were preserved, and merely transferred to a christian setting. particularly was this the case among the celtic nations, whose christianity must in the early ages have merely been grafted on the native druid beliefs. for the material that the great irish and welsh missionaries had to work with was rough indeed; and any drastic attempt to impose a new system of religion on a horde of celtic tribesmen would doubtless have ended in speedy disaster. so it is probable that st. patrick and st. david and their evangelist successors, instead of bluntly denouncing the most cherished of the heathen legends, merely took and adapted them to their own teaching; giving them first a decent christian garb. two instances of evident adaptation are quoted by mr. elworthy, in his book "the history of the evil eye," where he remarks: "here in britain the goddess of love was turned into st. brychan's daughter; and as late as the fourteenth century lovers are said to have come from all parts to pray at her shrine in anglesey. another similar example is found in the confusion of st. bridget and an irish goddess, whose gifts were poetry, fire and medicine ... almost all the incidents in her legend can be referred to the pagan ritual." and though so many long centuries have passed since the days when the druid priests offered propitiatory sacrifices to the spirits that dwelt in the great oak-trees, yet in the minds of the descendants of those old celts (in spite of all that civilisation and intermixture with other races have done) there still lingers a trace of mystery, a readiness of belief in things outside the realm of the five senses, which perhaps future ages will never quite obliterate. for this quality, call it what we will (and too often it has degenerated into mere superstition), is yet of the "unknown," and for all we can tell may indeed be a spark, though dwindled, of the divine fire. as every one knows, among the highlanders this curious mystic vein sometimes produces seers, and their gift is called "second sight." according to a very interesting book called "a description of the western islands of scotland," published in , this power of foretelling the future was in those days a recognised talent possessed by certain individuals, which apparently excited but little surprise among the rest of the community. the writer of the "description" says: "it is an ordinary thing for them (the seers) to see a man who is to come to the house shortly after, and if he is not of the seer's acquaintance, yet he gives such a lively description of his stature, complexion, habit, &c., that upon his arrival he answers the character given him in all respects. i have been seen thus myself by seers of both sexes at some hundred miles' distance--some that saw me in this manner had never seen me personally." in wales also, if we may believe the old writers, there seems to have been a class of persons somewhat resembling the highland seers, and called "awenyddion" (inspired people). "when consulted upon any doubtful event, they roar out violently, and become as it were possessed of an evil spirit. they deliver the answer in sentences that are trifling, and have little meaning, but are elegantly expressed. in the meantime, he who watches what is said unriddles the answer from some turn of a word. they are then roused as from a deep sleep, and by violent shaking compelled to return to their senses, when they lose all recollection of the answers they gave." and though the day of the awenyddion is long past, yet something of their inspiration, and a faint echo of the bards' songs of valour and enchantments seems still to linger about the mountains of wales. it is true that down in the valleys the railways and council schools have routed the "tylwyth teg" (fairies) from those "sweet green fields" of which matthew arnold wrote; and the young generation has no time to spare for listening in the winter evenings to the old folks' tales of haunted "mansions," or of the "canwyll corph," or the awe-inspiring "g[^w]rach" spectre. and there are very few people left now who will mistake the weird cry of a string of wild geese flying high overhead in the winter dusk, for the shrieks of tormented souls pursued by the hounds of hell. still, though fast disappearing, some of the old tales and beliefs are not entirely lost in the more remote localities; and it was with the idea of preserving a few of them from oblivion that this book was begun. living, as i have for many years, in a hitherto little-known part of the principality, where almost every old country house has its ghost (sometimes more than one), and where the highest hill is crowned by the grave of a mighty "ca[^w]r" (or giant)--though archæologists will tell you that it is merely a british burial-mound--and where the neighbouring lake is inhabited by fairy cattle that disappear at the approach of man; it is impossible not to feel regretful that all these old stories should be forgotten. especially will any one feel this who happens to have celtic blood in his veins; in which case, and if he inhabits a corner of "fair cambria," some of the things he hears will not appear so highly improbable and far-fetched as they might to the less imaginative saxon. we all know owen glendower's celebrated assertion: "i can call spirits from the vasty deep," and his description of the wonders that local tradition told him had preceded his birth. and we remember hotspur's aggravating retort to what he doubtless considered the empty boasting of the great welshman. but living amongst a people absolutely steeped in occult and legendary lore, quite ready to attribute any extraordinary characteristics in their leaders to supernatural aid, there is little doubt that glendower's belief in his wizard powers was as entirely sincere as his courage and energy were unquestioned. but one rather sympathises, too, with hotspur, when he describes afterwards how glendower had kept him up "last night, at least nine hours, in reckoning up the several devils' names that were his lackeys." most people like a good "ghost story." even the loudest of scoffers does so really; and he is generally the person who draws his chair nearest to that of the story-teller, and who, after asserting that the tale is "all rubbish," will nevertheless proceed to say what he would have done at that particular point in the narrative when "the candle burnt blue, and a faint rattling of chains was heard," &c. &c. but, as a fact, there are few real old-fashioned scoffers left. we have passed through the phase of extreme incredulity regarding occult happenings which was inevitable, and was merely the swing of the pendulum from the rank superstition and ignorance of the middle ages. few people now venture to declare that "there are no such things as ghosts"; for the mass of evidence collected and weighed by savants, such as gurney, myers, hodgson, t. h. hudson, and sir oliver lodge, is overwhelming as regards the truth that things _have_ happened, and do still happen, quite outside the limit of human explanation. but while most intelligent persons admit this, the time is still far distant when we shall be able to say how or why these things occur; though, guided by some of the greatest thinkers of our day, we may at last dare to hope that our feet are set in the path of knowledge, and that at some future time humanity may perhaps reach the goal, and lift the dark and impenetrable curtain that hides the unseen. whether the world will be any better off, when, or if, that happens, concerns us of this generation not at all; in fact, most of us who have this world's work to do, will find it best to leave close investigation of supernormal phenomena to those who are able to approach such subjects with a scientific mind, capable of recognising and collecting truthful evidence, and of detecting and setting aside what is false. and how very much the false outweighs the true, when it comes to a question of evidence in psychic inquiry, only the really conscientious searcher knows. all sorts of questions rise up in the mind of the critical inquirer and have to be satisfied before he will admit the impossibility of accounting by human explanation for the experiences brought to his notice. and besides the need for this severely critical attitude of mind, which we do not all of us possess, and in many cases the lack of leisure necessary for such abstract study, there is another reason why it is best for the majority of us to refrain from speculating overmuch on the whys and hows of these glimpses of the "unknown" that we are occasionally granted. it is because many people have actually not the strength of mind necessary to withstand the possible shock occasioned by occult experiences, and for these, such studies end only too often in mental disaster. this assertion may sound exaggerated, but it is not so; and if it serves as a hint of warning to those over-fond of dabbling in a sea of mystery, fathomless and wide beyond all human imaginings, so much the better. after these remarks, it will be realised that this book has nothing to do with the scientific aspect of "ghost-hunting," but is merely an attempt to gather together a number of stories dealing with the supernatural, and particularly those connected with the old superstitions and beliefs of welsh people which have happened to come to my knowledge. of course some of these tales are absurd, and interesting only from their quaintness; yet in many of them there is an element which, as the french say, "gives to think," and should interest serious students of the occult in search of fresh material. so, much of the ghostly gossip in the following chapters belongs to wales; indeed my original purpose was to deal with welsh ghosts and superstitions only. but in the course of collection, i came across so many interesting particulars and incidents concerning people and places beyond the borders of the principality, that i decided to include them in this volume, on the chance that they may be new to most of my readers. all the stories to be narrated are what are known as "true" ones, or have at least a well-established reputation in tradition; the majority having either been told me at first-hand, or imparted by people who believed in their truth, and who, in many cases, had personal knowledge of the people whose experiences they related, and of the localities they described. naturally, such tales as follow, in which hear-say must figure considerably, cannot lay claim to the evidential value possessed by the carefully sifted records of the psychical research society. but it may be pointed out that many of the stories contained in chapters ii., iii., and iv. concern the constant _repetition_ of certain definite phenomena, a feature which strongly supports belief in their foundation on a basis of truth. for instance, it seems to happen continually that a person going to a house which he does not know is haunted, sees a "ghost," and afterwards finds, on relating his experience, that the apparition he describes is exactly what other people have also seen. a good example of this occurs in chapter iv., where "colonel and mrs. west" saw the ghost of the headless woman, being previously unaware that they were occupying a haunted room. this agreement in the testimony of people who at different times, and generally quite unprepared, have seen particular apparitions is an interesting fact in itself, and surely not to be altogether despised as evidence of the cumulative order, though the scientific details demanded by the professional ghost-hunter may be lacking. the stories in my later chapters dealing with some ancient welsh superstitions need no comment, as, whatever may be thought of them as supernatural incidents, their interest from the standpoint of folk-lore is indisputable, and for that reason alone they are worth recording. throughout this book i shall change the real names of people for fictitious ones or initials, for reasons that will be obvious to every one. there are a few exceptions; and where they occur they will be noted. in most cases i shall disguise the names of houses, and sometimes those of villages and towns; but where the names of counties are mentioned they are the true ones. chapter ii welsh ghosts "a kind of old hobgoblin hall now somewhat fallen to decay, with weather-stains upon the wall, and stairways worn, and crazy doors, and creaking and uneven floors, and chimneys huge and tiled and tall." in one of the most remote parts of south wales there stands on a low cliff that is washed by the waters of a certain bay in st. george's channel a very curious old house which we will call plâsgwyn. inside one finds walls many feet in thickness, dark panelled rooms with enormous cupboards, and a beautiful oak staircase, its shallow, uneven steps polished by the feet of many generations. of course there is a ghost story too, and one possessing an element of picturesqueness, its origin dating far back to the days when smuggling was considered by quite respectable people as a useful means of increasing their income in a gentlemanly manner. when one reflects on the lonely situation of plâsgwyn, and listens--especially in winter--to the boom of wind and wave advertising with loud persistence the nearness of the sea, it is not difficult for the imagination to conjure up those far-away times; to picture the landing of many an interesting cargo in the little cove hard by when the nights were dark and stormy and the revenue men off their guard; and to conjecture that perhaps many crimes were committed at that period by villains using the smuggler's cloak to cover misdoing, and that possibly some such dark deed may have happened in the old house, thus giving a real foundation to our story. it begins with an incident that was told me as having occurred a few years ago at plâsgwyn. one day two maid-servants went to do some work in the largest bedroom, used always as a visitors' room. when they quickly came downstairs again, with white faces and trembling knees, they had a strange tale to tell. they declared that in the room, floating in the air near the bed, they had seen what appeared to be a human hand and wrist, bleeding as if just severed from an arm, the fingers of the hand covered with splendid rings. horribly frightened, the two maids did not look long at the apparition but fled downstairs as fast as they could. however, so convinced were they both of the reality of the thing they saw that neither could ever be induced to enter the room alone as long as they remained in the house, and one at least was in the service of the family for some years. now the legend of plâsgwyn is as follows. long ago a strange lady of great wealth once stayed there, and, for reasons now unknown, her hosts went away leaving her alone one night. feeling solitary and remembering with alarm tales she had heard of the lawless doings of smugglers known to frequent the coast, she went early to her room and tried to sleep. well-grounded indeed were her fears, for in the middle of the night she was aroused by loud knocking at her door and rough voices demanding admittance. terrified, the lady tried to hold the door, but in vain. it soon gave way beneath violent blows, and her arm, thrust forward in feeble resistance, was seized and held. unfortunately, she had forgotten to remove her rings, of which she wore many of great size and brilliance, and the sight of the jewels so excited the greedy robbers that they immediately tried to pull them off. they fitted the fingers so tightly, however, that they would not move; accordingly, the ruffians, determined to have possession of them, ruthlessly chopped off the poor woman's hand and wrist, immediately afterwards decamping with their dreadful booty. ever since that night, runs the tale, those who have the "gift" may sometimes see the jewel-covered hand hovering over the bed in the room once occupied by the ill-fated lady. nor is the spectral hand the only uncanny thing to be seen at plâsgwyn, if local rumour be correct; which declares that the spirit of "old brown," a former owner of the property, and from all accounts a person of much character (whether good or bad matters not), has been seen in a ball of fire rolling down the staircase into the hall at midnight! i have never met anybody who has witnessed this somewhat alarming phenomenon, but the legend is merely related for what it is worth, and as it was told me by a very old inhabitant of the neighbourhood. and whether the "ball of fire" is only an absurdity, originating in some one's too lively imagination, or really one of those "fire elementals" of which advanced occultists tell us, must be left to the reader's judgment to determine. but there are few people of imagination who could visit this quaint old house without feeling that scarcely any tale of the marvellous relating to it would sound incredible in such a setting. of quite a different type is another incident connected with the same place, which, though it certainly lacks sensation, is curious as one of that class of apparently pointless events so realistic as to seem commonplace, and which yet leave one in a perfect "cul-de-sac" of mystification as to why they should have happened at all. many years ago--perhaps thirty or forty--a meet of the hounds took place at plâsgwyn. most of the houses round sent representatives, but the meet was not a large one. among those who drove over were a mrs. a. and her friend miss b. when riders and hounds had trotted off to draw the coverts near the house, the hostess, mrs. c., suggested that she and her daughter, with mrs. a. and her friend, should walk out and watch the find. the two elder ladies kept on the main road, just outside the drive gate, while miss c. and miss b., more energetic, went through some fields and climbed a little hill which commanded a good view of the covert where the hounds were. just beneath them was the field where all the riders were grouped, and beyond that was the road, a short stretch of which was plainly visible from the hill, though at each end of this open piece it was hidden by the trees. after they had been waiting some little time on the hill-side, the two ladies heard the sound of a horse trotting quietly along the road beneath the trees, and very soon a rider mounted on a white horse, and wearing a red coat, emerged in the open part of the road, presently disappearing again beneath the further trees. miss b. remarked: "that must be mr. x." (the only gentleman in the district who usually hunted on a white horse), "how late he is." and she and miss c. concluded that mr. x. was making his way down the road to where a gate beyond the trees would take him into the field where the rest of the hunters were gathered. but the minutes passed, and he never came to join the other riders, though miss b. and her friend must have seen him if he had done so. however, they supposed that he was perhaps waiting in the road after all, hidden by the trees, and so thought no more of the matter. later on when the ladies were lunching at plâsgwyn, and were joined by some of the returned hunters, miss b. mentioned having seen mr. x. go along the road towards the covert. "you must be mistaken," said one of the party, "he was not out to-day." the two ladies then described the rider they had seen, and were still more puzzled when told that _no one_ had appeared with the hounds wearing a red coat and riding a white horse! yet miss b. and her friend knew they had both seen such a horseman, and that he was as absolutely real to them as the rest of the "field" close by. the odd thing was, that a good many people were gathered in the road beneath the trees behind the open stretch referred to, among them being mrs. a. and mrs. c. now none of these people had seen any such rider pass them, though he was coming from their direction when he became visible to miss b. on the hill, and yet he must have been a noticeable figure in his red coat on the white horse. he certainly did not come from the opposite direction and then turn in his tracks before reaching the foot-people, because in that case he must have been seen arriving by miss b. and miss c. who had been waiting some time on the hill-side overlooking the road. the mystery was never solved, for when miss b. next saw miss c. the latter said she had made inquiries amongst other people who were out hunting that day, and no one had seen the man on the white horse. neither had he been seen by the country people, though as is usual in wales on a hunting day, there were a good many labourers, &c., round the coverts and in the fields, snatching an hour's holiday for a taste of sport. when relating the experience to me after the lapse of many years, miss b. said she had no theory to offer on the subject, having always regarded it as a mystery defying ordinary explanation. [illustration] there does not seem to be any tradition connected with plâsgwyn which would throw light on the appearance of this phantom horseman, but a short time ago, i thought i had really come across his track, in conversation with a certain friend. this mr. r. declared that once when he and others were hunting on the hills, they suddenly saw an "unknown horseman" riding with the hounds, who, as they approached him, disappeared, no one knew whither, nobody at the time or since having been able to "place" him, either as a stranger or inhabitant of the country. but that the apparition _was_ an apparition, and no horse or man of flesh and blood, mr. r. seemed firmly persuaded. roughly speaking, the district where this mysterious rider was seen would be about a dozen miles from plâsgwyn. but there are two phantom hunt legends belonging to cardiganshire. of one i have only gleaned the very vaguest particulars, to the effect that on a certain farm in the sea-board parish of penbryn, a ghostly pack of hounds and hunters have occasionally been seen, all circumstantial details, or any origin for the tale being wanting. the other tradition of a spectral chase is really picturesque, and located in the neighbourhood of the little town of lland----l, is related by mr. alfred rees, in his charming book "ianto the fisherman." condensed, the story runs that long ago there lived, a few miles from lland----l, an old gentleman-farmer, who was well known and liked as a true sportsman throughout the county. he kept a pack of harriers, and had hunting rights over a considerable tract of country. his end was tragic, for one november evening, when returning late with the hounds, he was shot in the woods above the house by a supposed poacher; though in spite of the great hue and cry raised by such a foul deed, the murderer managed to evade justice. but, "the villagers still declare, that whenever november nights are moonlit and windy, the huntsman's horn is heard above the wood, and the pack winds down the glade in full music, till suddenly a shot echoes in the valley, after which there is silence. they declare that will the saddler, a sober deacon, coming home one night, when he had taken some mended harness to a farmer at the top of the wood, witnessed plainly a full repetition of the tragedy. the opening scene appeared so real, that unmindful of religious prejudices, he actually joined in the chase, till with the flash of the gun he remembered the story, and presently saw shadowy forms, attended by hounds and horse, pass by him down the glade with muttered whisperings, bearing the burden of their dead." another phantom horseman figures in the tradition attached to an old and well-known welsh house; which says, that always before a death occurs in the family, a noise of galloping hoofs is heard coming up the drive towards the house at dead of night. nearer and nearer it draws, passing at length under the windows, then ceases suddenly at the front door, as if a horse were violently reined in there. a pause succeeds, then loud hoof-beats again, hurry-scurry past the windows, and so down the drive, growing ever fainter, till they are lost in distance. if sleepers are awakened and rush to look out, nothing can be seen. but in the morning, fresh hoof-marks will be found upon the gravel.[ ] [footnote : the noise of a ghostly equipage being driven to the door is to be heard at Ô--l t--e, a house in ireland. a friend who lived there for some months told me she heard it not once but several times, and not only she, but other people in the house heard it also. the sound was described as unmistakably that of heavy carriage wheels; yet nothing was to be _seen_, nor could such a characteristic noise be accounted for in any other way.] mention of these ghostly horses and riders reminds one that pembrokeshire--in common with several other districts in great britain and ireland--possesses a good phantom coach legend, localised in the southern part of the county, at a place where four roads meet, called sampson cross. in old days, the belated farmer, driving home in his gig from market, was apt to cast a nervous glance over his shoulder as his pony slowly climbed the last steep pitch leading up to the cross. for he remembered the story connected with that dark bit of road, that told how every night a certain lady z. (who lived in the seventeenth century, and whose monument is in the church close by) drives over from tenby, ten miles distant, in a coach drawn by headless horses, guided by a headless coachman. she also has no head; and arriving by midnight at sampson cross, the whole equipage is said to disappear in a flame of fire, with a loud noise of explosion. a clergyman living in the immediate neighbourhood, who told me the story, said that some people believed the ghostly traveller had been safely "laid" many years ago, in the waters of a lake not far distant. he added, however that might be, it was an odd fact that his sedate and elderly cob, when driven past the cross after nightfall, would invariably start as if frightened there, a thing which never happened by daylight. it is not every one who is acquainted with the precise meaning of the expression "laying a ghost," which brand in his "antiquities" advises as the best remedy for cases of troublesome hauntings. "sometimes," he says, "ghosts appear and disturb a house without deigning to give a reason for so doing; with these the shortest way is to lay them. for this purpose there must be two or three clergymen and the ceremony must be performed in latin.... a ghost may be laid for any time less than a hundred years and in any place or body, as a solid oak, the point of a sword, or a barrel of beer, or a pipe of wine.... but of all places the most common and what a ghost least likes is the red sea." from another authority we learn that seven parsons are necessary to this weird performance. they must all sit in a row, each holding a lighted candle, and should all seven candles continue to burn steadily, it shows that not one of the reverend gentlemen is capable of wrestling with the uneasy spirit. but if one of the lights suddenly goes out, it is a sign that its holder may read the prayers of exorcism, though in so doing he must be careful that the ghost (who will mockingly repeat the words) does not get a line ahead of him. if this happens his labour is lost, and the ghost will defy his efforts and remain a wanderer. in some parts of the country it was believed that only a roman catholic priest could lay a ghost successfully. but to return to pembrokeshire. about a mile or so from sampson cross, there is a certain rectory said to be haunted by a mysterious "grey figure" which sometimes showed itself in the "best bedroom." two visitors, on different occasions (having previously known nothing of any supposed ghost in the house), declared that they had seen a "grey lady" standing by their bedside. a daughter of the house, who told me about this apparition, added that though she herself had never _seen_ anything, yet one night when she chanced to sleep in this room, she had been awakened by the most horrible and mysterious noises. she described the sounds as resembling "the groans and cries of a tortured animal," and they came, not from beneath the window (which looked on a strip of garden), but apparently from high up in the air above it, and could not be accounted for in any ordinary way. nor does there seem to be any story connected with the house in past times which might afford a clue to the meaning of these hauntings; or if any event of tragic or dramatic significance ever took place there, it has been forgotten by the present generation. yet it is quite reasonable to suppose that some such event may have happened at that lonely rectory. there must be few houses, constantly inhabited for, let us say, fifty years, of which the walls have not witnessed many varying circumstances of life--circumstances of joy and woe, and all the shades between. and besides actual events, think of the developments of human character, the play of different temperaments, and the range of passions and emotions that any such house has sheltered! and if, as some psychologists aver, human passions, thoughts, and emotions have at their greatest height actual dynamic force, capable of leaving impressions on their environment which may endure for ages, and even be perceptible to certain people--then does not this assertion supply us with a reason for many of the unexplained "ghosts" and hauntings of which one so constantly hears? for we can easily believe that these impressions would be most apt to linger round those earthly scenes best known in life, and where perhaps only the most ordinary chain of familiar events sufficed to lead up to the crisis which evoked the elemental passions and emotional force of some strong personality. certainly the lady who furnished the few particulars about the rectory ghost must possess the sixth sense necessary for the perception of these impressions, for she added that she had once seen an apparition in another pembrokeshire house, where she happened to be staying. one day during her visit, as she was coming out of her room in search of a book she wanted from the bookcase on the landing, she suddenly saw a woman's figure appear in front of her. "a little thin person," she described, "dressed in light blue, with sandy hair, much dragged up on top of her head," presenting altogether such a curious old-fashioned appearance that miss l----d looked very hard at her, and wondered who she could be, and where she had appeared from. but the next moment the figure vanished from view through the door of another bedroom. although her curiosity was rather roused by the odd looks of the woman she had seen, miss l----d thought little of the incident, imagining she must have seen one of the servants in rather strange attire. and it was only when she had been several days longer in the house that she discovered it possessed no inmate in the slightest degree resembling the queer apparition of the landing, which she was forced to conclude was no human being, but most probably the family ghost! personally i know this house well, and had always heard there was supposed to be a ghost there; but though i have often stayed there, and even slept in the "haunted" room, i never saw the sandy-haired lady, nor anything else of an uncanny nature. in fact, the county of pembroke is a happy hunting-ground for the ghost-tracker. nor is this to be wondered at, considering the innumerable associations, legendary, historical and romantic connected with a tract of country which is certainly one of the most interesting in great britain. so that the student of ghost-lore and superstition will there discover a fine field for research, the only pity being that in pembrokeshire as in other parts of wales, although almost every other old country house has its ghost, yet the stories and legends connected with these apparitions and hauntings are very often forgotten, and only vague details as to "noises," or doubtful reports of spectral appearances are forthcoming. however, in the case of one house (which we will call hill-view), some kind of explanation is given of hauntings which seem to have continued for a long time, and have been remarked by various people who have rented the place. i first heard of the hill-view ghost many years ago, when it was said to have caused a frightful noise one night in a room upstairs, which was apparently reserved for visitors, and at the time that the sound was heard was unoccupied. the noise was described as exactly like the thud and crash that a large piece of furniture, such as a wardrobe, would make in falling heavily on the floor; there seemed no mistaking the sound for anything else. yet when with fear and trembling the door was opened, those who looked in were astonished to find nothing unusual in the empty room, or in the dressing-room which opened off it. all was in order, darkness, and silence, and search as they would, nothing that could possibly account for such a noise could be found, nor was the problem ever solved. that happened a long while ago, but quite lately, the present occupants of the house were one day sitting in the room immediately beneath the bedroom before referred to, when they distinctly saw the door open, apparently of itself, and heard a sound as of some one entering the room. on another occasion also, members of the family have heard mysterious footsteps; but none of them seem to have heeded the ghost very much until a certain friend came to stay with them. this friend they put to sleep in the haunted bedroom, and one night spent there seems to have been quite enough for her. next morning she complained that she could get no sleep, owing to the incessant noises--knockings, rappings, and scrapings--which went on all night. that something of a sinister nature may still linger about that room is not strange, if local report be true; which says that a very long time ago a little boy--a son of the family who owned the property--was dreadfully ill-treated by a nurse or governess, and shut up in a cupboard in the room now haunted, where the poor child was eventually discovered, dead. not a thousand miles from hill-view is a house (we will temporarily christen it shipton rise) which possesses a rather interesting little story connected with a picture that hangs in the dining-room representing a ship, called the _shipton rise_. the original of this picture was a vessel commanded once upon a time by one captain joseph turner, of the east india company's service. during a long voyage on this ship, he was one night awakened by a voice, which said, "joseph turner, get up and sound the well." he thought he was dreaming, and promptly went to sleep again. a second time the same call woke him, and again he paid no attention, and slept. but once more came the voice, more insistent than before, "joseph turner, joseph turner, sound the well!" this time he was really roused, and felt so impressed that he determined to do as he was bid. so he went, and sounded the ship's well, and found a great leak sprung. the pumps were manned, and thanks to the timely warning, the ship was saved. it is extraordinary how very many stories of occult occurrences belong to what we may call the "warning type"; yet among them we find few resembling the foregoing instance, in which the message conveyed by ghostly voice or visitant has been of use in averting misfortune. in fact these supernormal intimations seem to be generally heralds of the inevitable, rather than friendly envoys of any special providence. the traditional "white swans of closeburn"; the mysterious "drummer-boy" of the airlies; the lytteltons' "white lady" (all figuring in tales too well known for repetition), belong to this very large class of supernatural incident which it seems only impending calamity can evoke. in this connection there is a rather curious sequel added to the "family ghost" story of mayfield, a very old house in west wales, dating back to the year . among the family portraits there, one is shown the picture of a young lady in the dress of the eighteenth century. this was a mrs. jones (jones shall replace the real name of the family) and an ancestress of the present owner of the house. tradition says that a wicked butler murdered this poor lady in a large cupboard--almost a little room--which opens out of the dining-room. he then fled with the family plate, but finding it too heavy, he dropped part of his plunder in a ditch near the house, where it was subsequently found, though history is silent as regards the fate of the butler. ever since then, the ghost of the murdered lady walks out of the cupboard every christmas evening (the anniversary of the tragedy), never appearing till the ladies have left the dinner-table. at least, so runs the tale; and now for the sequel. early in the last century, mayfield and the property were owned by a certain jones, who had a brother living in india. whether mr. jones was a bachelor or widower at the time of the following occurrence, one does not know, but at all events he lived at mayfield by himself. he used the dining-room as a sitting-room of an evening, and after his dinner would turn his chair round to the fire, and sit there reading till it was bed-time. one night he had sat up later than usual, and as he shut up his book and bethought him of bed, the clock struck midnight. in the corner of the room, behind his chair, was the cupboard already referred to. now as the last stroke of twelve died away, mr. jones heard the click of the door opening. he turned his head and there, walking out of the cupboard towards him, he saw the figure of a woman dressed in an old-fashioned costume. she advanced a few paces, stopped, and said in loud, clear tones, "your brother is dead." then she turned and walked back into the cupboard, the door of which shut with a loud clang. as soon as he recovered from his astonishment, mr. jones made a thorough search of the cupboard and room, but could find no trace of any inmate. convinced at length that a message from the other world had been brought to him, he made a careful note of the date and hour of the incident. in those days letters took a long while to travel from india to this country, and he had therefore many weeks to wait before the mail brought him news that his brother had died, the time of death _coinciding exactly_ with the night and hour in which he was warned by the apparition at mayfield. another incident which seems to have fore-shadowed death (though the warning in this case was not definitely given) recurs to my mind, and though trivial in a way, it yet possesses a certain impressiveness, perhaps from its very simplicity and lack of any dramatic element. or perhaps it is only because the locality described is so familiar to me that the following little story seems more weird and realistic than it really is. the reader must imagine one of the most peaceful and beautiful spots in wales, where there stands a large, square house called wernafon, backed by hanging oak woods, beneath which flows a clear river. higher up the vale the stream loiters through pleasant meadows, affording the angler many a tempting pool; but as it reaches wernafon, it begins to sing and clatter over stone and shingle as if it already heard the calling of the not far-distant sea, while in flood-time, heavy water rushes down, deeply covering stepping-stones, and swamping shallow fords. so, for the convenience of the wernafon workmen and labourers, and others who live on the hither side of the river, it is spanned near the house by a narrow, wooden foot-bridge, which saves people a considerable walk round. many years ago, there lived on the wernafon estate, two labourers, whom we will call ben and tom; and these men were great friends. they had worked together from boyhood, and when at last--both being old--ben died, tom felt sadly lonely and forlorn. one day, soon after his friend's funeral, he had occasion to cross the river by the little foot-bridge, and as he trudged heavily along its narrow planks, his head bent down in melancholy thought, he suddenly came to a full stop, for there was a man standing in the middle of the bridge. moreover, as he looked hard at the man, he somehow became aware that it was ben who stood there, and who smiled at tom as if glad to see him. entirely forgetting for the moment that he had seen ben buried but a few days before, tom accosted him, and a short conversation ensued between the two about ordinary, every-day matters. but suddenly ben asked his friend "if he would like to see the inside of wernafon, for," said he, "i go there every night, and a strange sight it is to see the people all asleep while i pass through." he then offered to take tom through the house that very night, if he would meet him again on the bridge at midnight; and without waiting for an answer, he glided along the bridge, and disappeared. immediately and with a feeling of horror, it dawned on tom that the man he had just talked to had actually been dead for several days, and he began to think he had seen a vision or had had some extraordinary dream. nevertheless, being a courageous old fellow, and at the same time curious to see if any result would follow, he determined to keep the strange appointment. so midnight found him waiting on the little bridge. a bright moon illumined the river and banks, and by its soft light, the old workman was presently aware of a dark shape hastening to join him. greeting the living man, the apparition took his former comrade by the hand, and led him to the front door of wernafon, which, as might be expected, was closely locked and barred. but at a touch from tom's escort, the great door opened without a sound, and the companions passed into the hall of the house. there, the silence of sleep and complete darkness reigned. yet without a stumble, tom found himself mounting the staircase with his ghostly guide. arrived on the landing, the pair stopped before a closed door, which immediately opened, allowing them to enter. softly they crept into the room, tom remarking that it seemed filled with a faint bluish light, unlike anything he had ever seen before. they gazed at the occupant of the room wrapped in deep slumber, and creeping out again, visited all the other rooms in turn, tom becoming more and more bewildered by the strangeness of his experience. at last--how he hardly knew--he found himself standing again in the moonlight outside the front door; and turning to speak to his friend, discovered that he was alone. he rubbed his eyes in astonishment, for an instant before, ben had been standing by his side. and now, except the fact of finding himself in such an unusual place at so late an hour, nothing remained to show that his adventure had been real and not a dream. he went home, wondering greatly at what had happened, and it does not appear that he saw the apparition again before his death, which occurred suddenly, only a few days after his mysterious experience. at a much later period than the date of the above story, but still some years ago, a curious instance of the "warning" kind occurred at n----e, which is a hamlet distant a few miles from wernafon. though in this case there is nothing tragic or of an important character to record, yet it is worth recounting on the ground of coincidence alone, if coincidence it really was. about eight o'clock one summer evening, several neighbours happened to be at the blacksmith's house, having a quiet smoke and gossip together. they were sitting in a room at the back of the smithy, which faced the main road. suddenly the talkers in this room were startled by the sound of a tremendous crash. exclaiming "some one's cart must have upset on the road," they all rushed out through the shop, fully expecting to see some bad accident. to every one's surprise, all was still, the road empty, and no sign of any vehicle could be seen in either direction. much perplexed, they went home, but the next evening, most of them were again at the smith's, and of course began to discuss the strange incident of the night before. but as the clock struck eight, again came the same terrific noise. once more they ran out, and this time they found a heavily laden cart upset on the road just outside the forge. nobody seems to have been killed or even hurt by the accident, and one wonders why, in the case of such an--apparently--unimportant event, such an impressive and collective warning should have been given. among my notes, i find mention of a little house near this same village of n----e, which was reputed to be haunted. the note says: "mr. z. (an old gentleman well versed in the antiquities and folk-lore of his district) told me about a haunted house called tyhir.... about twenty years ago, the man who lived there used to see _curious, little people_, of the size that could run under a chair, walking about the house. this man was so nervous of what he heard and saw that he would never, if he could help it, stay alone in the house. mr. z. spoke once to another man, who had often gone to keep the other company on sundays, when he was afraid to sit in the house by himself. this second man told mr. z. that though he himself had seen nothing, yet he had heard noises which were quite unaccountable. the 'little people' seen were said to exactly resemble in feature the former dwellers in the house; a little old man called 'tom tyhir,' and his wife." cases of apparitions that have acted as protectors in danger to the percipient are occasionally heard of, and one of the most interesting stories of this type was recorded in a well-known welsh newspaper, about two years ago, and will quite bear repetition in these pages. to quote the original words: "a story which appears strange even in these days of telepathic experiment has appeared recently concerning the rev. john jones,[ ] of holywell, in flintshire, one of the most prominent preachers of his day. he was once travelling alone on horseback from bala to machynlleth, where the country is wild and desolate. when emerging from a wood he met a man carrying a sickle. the man had been seen by the minister at an inn when passing. in answer to a question, the minister gave information as to the time by his watch, and a short time after, noticed the man had furtively moved into the field, and was running alongside the hedge, removing the straw from his sickle as he ran. then he noticed the man trying to conceal himself behind the hedge near the gate through which mr. jones would have to pass. firmly believing that the man intended to murder him, the minister bent his head in prayer. as he did so the horse became impatient, and started off so suddenly that the minister had to clutch the reins, which had fallen on the neck of the steed. turning round to see if there was any available help, the minister was astonished to find close to his side a horseman in a dark dress, mounted on a white horse. no previous sound had been given of the stranger's presence. mr. jones told him of the danger he feared, but no reply was vouchsafed, the stranger simply looking in the direction of the gate. then the minister saw the reaper sheathing his sickle and hurrying away. the gate was reached, the minister hastened to open it for his mysterious companion, and waited for him. but the guard on the white horse had disappeared as silently and unobserved as he arrived." [footnote : this is the real name. the story is included by the kind permission of the editor of the _western mail_.] and now this chapter will conclude with an account of a very frivolous spirit indeed, for the story of the riverside ghost must be told. rarely does one hear of a "spook" with a sense of humour, but that quality, as expressed by a taste for practical joking, was evidently possessed by the intelligence that used to haunt the old house to which we have given the fictitious name of riverside. situated in one of the deep and beautiful valleys of south wales, and belonging originally to the ancient family of rhys, the house dates back to the time of henry the seventh. the last rhys died about forty years ago, since when the place has changed hands several times, though its present tenants have owned it for a long while, and have apparently been left severely alone by the ghost. our story goes back fifty years or more, to a time when a certain mrs. x. and her infant daughter went to stay at riverside. one evening after dinner, mrs. x. went upstairs to see her child (whom she had left sleeping in her own room), but what was her astonishment and subsequent alarm to find the cradle empty. on inquiry and search being made, no trace of the baby could anywhere be found, and the distracted mother rushed off to find her host, and acquaint him with her anxiety. mr. rhys received the news with the astonishing remark, "do not be alarmed; wait patiently, and the baby will come back." he then went on to say that all in the house were often annoyed by the tricks of the family ghost. frequently books, garments, umbrellas, anything in fact, if left lying about, would disappear in the most unaccountable way. but if no notice were taken, the articles were always returned in a short time. mr. rhys added he was convinced that the ghost had taken the infant, and that she would certainly soon be returned. all this was cold comfort to the poor mother, who found the ghost theory a hard one to believe, and prepared to endure a night of suspense as best she could. left alone at length by her friend with many exhortations to try and sleep, she could only lie miserably awake, longing for the next day, when search could be renewed. but towards morning, a sudden impulse seized her to get up and look once more at the cradle, when scarcely could she believe her eyes! for there, sleeping peacefully, lay the missing child, who, it may be added, was never afterwards any the worse for what sounds like a rather unpleasant adventure. of the above story i think that "se non è vero, è ben trovato" might well be said! but it is here recounted for what it is worth, as an old tale which probably had more or less foundation in facts of an occult nature. another tale of riverside dealt with a lady in a green silk dress who could be heard rustling about the house, and had also the usual unpleasant ghostly habit of appearing by one's bedside at midnight. but the details--what there were of them--were too vague in character to be worth more than a passing allusion. a pity, as i have always thought there might be interesting possibilities connected with the history of this daintily robed ghost, whose presence in the old house was known by that gentle, feminine sound, the soft rustling of silken attire. chapter iii welsh ghosts (_continued_) "rest, rest, perturbèd spirit." many stories of haunted houses are told where the disturbing power has seemed to have a distinct object in view, and this object attained, all further manifestations have ceased. such was the case of a very old farm-house in one of the south welsh counties. it had long been known that mysterious tappings were constantly heard there, proceeding always from a certain spot in the wall of one particular room. at last this house fell into such bad repair that it had to be partly rebuilt. when the masons were pulling down the wall from whence the tappings came, they found, carefully built into this very wall, an old register-book. it was in a fair state of preservation, and the later entries in it dated from the time of the commonwealth. they showed that a mason, who could neither read nor write, was then appointed vicar of the parish, and the former incumbent turned out. however, he seems to have remained among his parishioners, performing the offices of the church in secret, and we may suppose that, taking refuge in the farm-house (which very likely was a place of more importance in those days), the clergyman had the register-book hidden in the wall, to preserve it from falling into the hands of the illiterate mason. the old book has been restored, and is much treasured by its possessor. since its discovery, the house has been rebuilt, and is now entirely free from the mysterious tappings. a striking instance of what determination on the part of a ghost can do, comes from glamorganshire. mr. roberts, the owner of a very ancient house in that county, decided for various reasons to let it for a time, and was fortunate in finding a tenant who took it for a term of years, seeming to be delighted with the place. but after he had lived there for a few months, this gentleman wrote to mr. roberts saying he could no longer stay in the house. when pressed for reasons, he evaded reply for a while, but at length said "he could not stand the ghost." it appeared that one day, soon after his arrival, he had been sitting quietly reading in one of the rooms, when on raising his eyes from his book, he had been astonished to see "a little old lady" with a "horrible frowning expression" standing close by him. as he gazed at her, she vanished as suddenly and noiselessly as she had come, but this appearance was followed by many others; in fact, the old lady, always with her sinister, frowning look, haunted him. whenever he least expected her, he was sure to look round and find her at his elbow. and at last the apparition had become too much for his nerves, and he felt he must leave the place. he added that he was sure the old lady was an ancestress of mr. roberts, who, annoyed at the family home being occupied by a stranger, evidently resolved to make herself unpleasant until she drove him away, in which amiable resolution she succeeded. as a rule, new bricks and mortar create an environment particularly uncongenial to a self-respecting ghost. ivied walls, gabled roots, dim and musty passages leading to gloomy, oak-panelled rooms, supply the kind of setting that the spook of convention demands, and nobody passing a certain little house close to the road, just outside the seaside village of aber----n would ever think of its being haunted. built some fifteen years ago by a retired seaman named captain morgan, this very ordinary dwelling (of the five-windows-and-door-in-the-middle style of architecture, absolutely unrelieved by gable, porch or balcony) is certainly far from suggesting any thoughts of the uncanny. yet i remember hearing, soon after it was built and occupied, that it was supposed to harbour a ghost, though inquiry could elicit little beyond the fact that captain morgan had remarked to a friend: "i don't know what it is about my house, but we do hear the queerest noises that we can't account for. we begin to think it is haunted." then people who heard about these "noises" remembered rather a curious thing. soon after the house was begun, while the workmen were engaged on the foundations they came across the skeleton of a man, buried in the earth, and examination revealed that the skull had a hole through the forehead. instead of keeping these remains together, and having them interred in consecrated ground, the finders carelessly left the bones lying about until they crumbled away and were hopelessly scattered. whether this discovery had anything to do with the disturbances of which captain morgan and his family complained one can but conjecture; time has long since closed the page on which is written the fate which overtook some unknown individual on that spot perhaps a century or more ago, and there is no local tradition to help one to frame a reason for any such deed of violence. however, the inexplicable sounds are no longer heard; and it is said that their cessation dates from the day of a terrible thunder-storm when the house was struck by lightning (though not much damaged), an electric disturbance which seems to have effectually laid, or at least frightened away, the ghost. carmarthenshire abounds in tales of ghosts and ghostly happenings. i know one house of great antiquity and historic interest in that county which possesses a spectre of most approved pattern in the person of a headless lady, who, report says, may be met walking along a certain path in the garden by an old yew-tree, at the uncomfortable hour of one in the morning. she is also supposed to account for mysterious footsteps sometimes heard in an upstairs passage. two people of my acquaintance have heard these footfalls, and declare they are produced by no human agency. a family tradition says that dancing must never take place in the drawing-room; if it does, the ghost will surely appear among the company. but far more interesting than the vague rumours concerning the "headless lady" (after all, a most conventional type of ghost) is the story connected with a maple-tree growing by the roadside, about a mile and a half from the house just described. "once upon a time" there was a poor tramp, who, walking along this road (which is the highway to carmarthen), sat down to rest at the very place where the tree now stands. he carried a staff made of maple-wood, which he plunged into the ground beside him, and soon, being very tired, he went to sleep. he never woke again, for while he slept he was foully murdered. his body, of course, was found and removed, but nobody noticed the maple staff, stuck in the ground beside him; and left there, it took root, flourished and became the tree one sees there now. and local belief declares the spot is haunted. nothing, say the country people, is ever _seen_; but after nightfall, no animal, and especially horses, will willingly pass the tree, which still marks the scene of an otherwise long-forgotten tragedy. if we continued our way along the road for a few miles beyond the maple-tree, we should come to a house said to possess a ghost story, for which, in repeating here, i feel i must apologise, owing to its very apocryphal character. but i cannot resist the temptation to relate it; as the tale--even if it is untrue, and perhaps it is not--is such an excellent example of the kind that sends one to bed with the "creepy feeling" that all really enjoyable ghost "yarns" should produce. well, many years ago, a young widow who was related to her hosts, went to pay a visit at this house, and was given a room containing a large, four-post bedstead. the dressing-table was against the wall opposite the bed. one night, as the widow sat before the glass, combing her plentiful locks, and murmuring sadly (we may presume in affectionate remembrance of the departed), "poor john, poor john," she suddenly saw, reflected in her mirror, a horrid sight. there was the quaint old "four-poster," and, hanging from the top rail, was the body of an old man. history is silent as to the feelings of "poor john's relict" on beholding this terrible reflection, but as she lived in early victorian times, it is safe to conclude that she immediately "swooned" and probably had hysterics afterwards. but she subsequently learned that an old miser had once inhabited that room, and had been strangled in that very bed one night for the sake of his money. it is usually supposed that bodily ills are left behind on our exit from this mortal world, but the tale of a well-known ghost that used to haunt another carmarthenshire house (now rebuilt) rather contradicts this theory. owing to the official position of its tenant, a great many people used formerly to be entertained there, and one day a certain guest asked his host which of the servants it was who had such a bad cough. he said that since he arrived, he had constantly heard some one coughing terribly in the passages and on the staircase, but could never see the person, although sometimes the sound seemed quite near him. the host listened gravely, and then remarked that he was sorry his friend had been disturbed by the cough, which was no earthly sound, but was caused by the "ghost," and had been heard by other people at different times. the "coughing" ghost had another idiosyncrasy. at this same house a certain bedroom and dressing-room, communicating by a door, were once occupied by a friend of mine and her husband during a couple of days' visit. now this door between the rooms was carefully shut and latched the last thing at night. in the morning, greatly to my friend's surprise, the door was thrown wide open, although she felt absolutely certain, and so did her husband, that it was firmly shut the night before. it was only a slight incident, but the strangeness of it rather dwelt in mrs. l----'s mind, until one day after her return home, when she happened to mention it to a neighbour, who remarked: "you must have had the haunted room. it has always been known that the dressing-room door can never be kept shut; no matter how tightly closed the night before, it is always found open in the morning." for many years local legend has used brynsawdde, the home of a very ancient carmarthenshire family, as a setting for various weird happenings. of these, perhaps the most interesting, and certainly the most inexplicable, is a story that i well remember was current at the time of the late owner's death, who was a well-known character in the country. it was said that on the day he died a small black dog appeared--from whence no one knew--leapt on the bed, and lay across the dead man's face. chased away, it disappeared, but was again found sitting on the coffin after the lid had been screwed down. and after the funeral, a whisper went round that "the dog" had jumped into the hearse as the coffin was put in; and that later it had appeared slinking, like some evil thing, through the knot of mourners at the graveside and was never seen again.[ ] [footnote : see remarks in chapter vi. referring to "corpse dogs."] another story tells how, not many years ago, some people were returning from a dinner-party in the neighbourhood, and as they passed brynsawdde, which they knew to be entirely uninhabited, they were astonished to see every window of the house brilliantly illuminated, as if for some great festivity. nor, on making inquiries, was the slightest explanation of the lights ever forthcoming. near the carmarthenshire border lies the little town of st. govan's, which, a very few years ago, was much agitated by the pranks of a most inconsequent and noisy ghost. selecting the abode of one of the quietest and most respected families in the place for the scene of its exploits, it proceeded with demonstrations that not only aroused excitement in the neighbourhood, but for a few days attracted considerable attention from the daily press. but in spite of close investigation no real solution of the mystery was ever arrived at, though the sceptical (and larger) section of the community at length dismissed the matter as a case of trickery in some shape or other, an explanation which, in the light of many reliable witnesses' evidence, was quite inadmissible to thoughtful minds, compelled eventually to relegate the strange happenings to that domain which m. camille flammarion has so happily called "l'inconnu." the first brief report of the occurrences in a local paper ran (slightly altered) as follows: "great excitement has been caused at st. govan's during the past week, owing to the alleged appearance in the principal street of a ghost. it has taken up its abode (so the story goes) in the house of mr. moore ... from which in the early hours of sunday morning loud metallic clanks were to be heard. mr. a. b. rose and others at once proceeded to investigate, and it was found that a bed in one of the rooms was rocking violently, and in doing so, came in contact with the wall, causing the sounds which had been heard. further investigation failed to reveal the cause of the rocking. the bed was in contact with nothing but the floor, and nothing could be found to indicate in any way that the rocking was caused by anything natural. it is curious that the phenomenon always takes place at about seven in the morning and at the same hour in the evening.... this is not the first occasion on which mysterious occurrences have taken place, and many are inclined to attribute them to the supernatural.... "since sunday several attempts have been made to solve the mystery, but up to now nothing has been deduced from the observations made.... the street opposite the house has been thronged all day, and the aid of the police has had to be called to remove the crowd of sightseers." the "metallic clanking" referred to above was so loud that it could be heard many yards away from the house, down the street. but though noises and disturbance continued each morning for several days afterwards they were never again as loud and insistent as on that sunday. various persons, bent on investigation of a more or less "scientific" order, soon discovered that by establishing a code of rappings they could communicate with the disturbing agent, and accordingly each morning, visitors arriving at the unconventional hour of . proceeded to the room containing the mysterious bedstead, and by means of taps held long conversations with the "ghost." these taps always came from the same place on one of the walls. some curious statements were thus obtained, and in one case when a lady (whom i know personally) was the interviewer, some assertions made to her were quite extraordinary in correctness, containing as they did information known to no one else in the town or district. on the other hand, it does not seem as if anything new or interesting was imparted to anybody; the answers to questions in most cases seemed evidently framed to suit preconceived ideas in the listeners' minds, and however impressive at the moment, the statements when repeated certainly sounded most vague and unconvincing, _except_ in the one instance referred to. but that the knocks and rappings were in themselves absolutely genuine, and produced by some supernormal means, cannot be doubted. any one who has ever had any experience of "table-turning" will realise that this genuineness of manifestation is quite compatible with the extreme futility of the "information" usually conveyed in such ways, and will recognise that the noises and rappings in the house at st. govan's evidently belonged to the same class of phenomena. manifestations of such a vehement and insistent order must surely have had their origin in some unknown psychic disturbance, some mysterious jarring sufficient to set quivering the veil between things seen and unseen. and in this and similar cases it has always seemed to me that trying, however vainly, to find a reason for these disturbances is very much more interesting than heeding or dwelling long on the "messages" which reward the efforts of the investigator. for if indeed "spirits" are responsible for the replies to our questions they seem only too often to belong to that "lying" class, with whom it is certainly best to avoid dealings. in regard to the haunted house of st. govan's its history and associations may have had something to do with the manifestations, for, as remarked in the previous chapter, there must be few old houses which have not known strange happenings within their walls. this particular habitation, of most unobtrusive and unghostlike aspect, is of some antiquity as houses go in st. govan's. for many years it was used as a bank, and long before that, it was an inn. and surely a "ghost" was ever a necessary appurtenance to every respectable inn of the olden days! but no authentic tale or legend remains to connect those times with the present, or to furnish a romantic background for the strange and inexplicable behaviour of the "st. govan's ghost." and as its noisy demonstrations daily became less, and at length ceased entirely, so public interest gradually waned; and no definite result having been obtained by any investigator, the subject--after forming for several weeks a sort of conversational bone of contention between sceptics and believers--shared at last the fate of all such abnormal topics, and died a natural death. high up in one of the wildest and loveliest valleys that pierce the ellineth mountains, is a house which we will call nantyrefel. one would like to linger in description of a place possessing a unique charm, which must appeal to all who appreciate the enchantment of beautiful scenery surrounding a house rich in literary and romantic associations. such a place without a ghost would be incomplete, and accordingly it has the reputation of being most respectably haunted, and by more than one "spook." for reasons of discretion, we cannot here relate the most interesting of the occult incidents connected with nantyrefel; but to pass its gates without mention of any one of its "revenants" would be impossible, and so the following short tale shall be told. rather more than two years ago, a certain lady went to stay at this mountain abode, taking her maid "brown" with her, a person, one is assured, of average intelligence, and not over-burdened with imagination. one evening, during the visit, about nine o'clock, brown had occasion to go up the front staircase, in order to fetch something required by her mistress. half-way up the stairs she paused, for, descending towards her, came an elderly man, with a long grey beard. standing respectfully on one side, brown allowed him to pass, wondering meanwhile who he could be, as she did not remember having seen such a noticeable figure about the house before. continuing his way down, the old gentleman reached the foot of the staircase, and disappeared round a corner into the hall. he walked very slowly, and the maid, looking round after he passed her, saw, to her great surprise, that his clothes were of the most extraordinary and antiquated cut. her errand despatched, brown found her way back to the housekeeper's room, where she remarked to the butler that she had just seen such an odd-looking old gentleman coming downstairs; adding that she supposed he must have arrived by some late train, and was going down to get some dinner. the butler promptly replied that no new visitors at all had arrived at nantyrefel that day; and when brown described the long beard and quaint garments of the man she had seen, she was assured that there was no one in the least resembling her description in the house. yet the maid knew she had not been dreaming, and that she actually had seen the old gentleman, and that moreover he had brushed past her as she waited at the angle of the stairs while he went slowly by. so it would appear that what brown really saw was an apparition, one of those household ghosts with which many an old mansion is peopled, could we but see them; ghosts harmless and timid, with no mission to terrify, or grievances to air, but just indulging a little earthly hankering for an occasional visit to the scenes they loved in life. do many people, i wonder, know the strange, uncanny feeling it gives one, to return to a sitting-room at night, after the lights have been out, and the house quiet for an hour or so? one descends to fetch a forgotten book, and pushing open the door, one wishes the candle gave a better light that would reach those far dark corners. for surely the room, so short a time deserted, is nevertheless peopled--and by what? at least, that is the impression i have had, and very odd it is, and one cannot help wondering whether, at the "very witching time of night," the "gentle ghosts" that shelley writes of, really do creep out of the invisible, and return for a little space to that human atmosphere, which perhaps some of them may have left many a year ago with regret and sorrow. and now, from the rather tame incident just repeated, we will turn to a real "thriller" in the way of ghostly experience, namely, the story of glanwern, in south wales. several mysterious tales are told about this house, but the most interesting one (and undoubtedly authentic as far as her own experience goes) was related to me by a miss travers, who was asked to stay there a few years ago. although there was nothing remarkable about the appearance of the room that was given her, it struck her at once with an odd feeling of nervousness, a feeling that increased so much when she was left alone for the night, that having no night-light, she determined to keep both her candles burning. the hours dragged by, miss travers finding sleep out of the question. suddenly, towards one o'clock, a sound broke the heavy stillness of the night, exactly as if some one had violently pushed open her door and rushed into the room. imagine her alarm! and the greater, as nothing was to be seen, although the first was followed by a succession of noises resembling the shuffling of feet about the floor, and struggles as of people fighting. after a time the sounds ceased, but poor miss travers, too terrified to move, lay quaking, and how she got through the night she never knew, for in an hour or so the same thing occurred again: the door was burst open, and the shufflings and strugglings went on as before. this invisible performance happened _four times_ during the night, but on the fourth occasion the struggle seemed to cease very abruptly, and the next sound miss travers heard was distinctly that of a heavy body being dragged across the floor towards the door. and as this occurred, she felt a horrible and indescribable sensation of intense cold pass over her like a wave. resolved not to spend another night alone, and under the plea of feeling nervous, she asked one of the daughters of the house to sleep in her room for the rest of her stay, but fearing incredulity, said nothing of her experience to her hosts, especially as after the first lonely night there was no repetition of the sounds. but when at a neighbouring house she mentioned where she was staying, her friend remarked, "i wonder if the ghost ever 'walks' there now." judicious inquiry from miss travers elicited the story that "once upon a time" two brothers lived at glanwern. one night they quarrelled and fought, one killing the other, and burying the body in a wood near the house. ever since then the murderer is said to haunt the room where the tragedy occurred. the following tale, which was related as being absolutely true, i have slightly altered in two or three minor details, to prevent any possible localisation, as it is connected with a very well-known house and family in west wales. oaklands will be a good name for the house, and in the sixties and seventies of the last century a certain colonel vernon, a widower, lived there as head of the family. at the time of the story he had invited a young man, named carter, the son of an old friend, to stay at oaklands, and besides carter there was another guest, a captain seaton, who was a frequent visitor there, and a contemporary and valued friend of colonel vernon. one night mr. carter stayed up reading long after his host and captain seaton had gone to bed, and the lights in the house been put out. indeed, it was nearly one o'clock when he lit his bedroom candle, made his way across the hall, and upstairs on the way to his room. half-way up the stair made a turn, and it was when he reached this turn and could look back into the hall, which of course was quite dark, that carter was astonished to see a light coming towards him down a passage which ended near the foot of the staircase. wondering who could be about so late, and thinking it might be one of the servants, he paused on the stairs, and was somewhat surprised to see the tall figure of a woman emerge from the passage, and begin swiftly mounting the stairs. she wore a kind of loose, flowing garment, and as she passed carter, who had involuntarily drawn back against the wall, he saw that her face was extraordinarily beautiful. he also noticed the candlestick she carried: it was of brilliantly polished silver, and most curiously shaped in the form of a swan. as the lady (for carter instantly divined that she was no servant) glided by without taking the slightest notice of him, his astonishment became curiosity, and determining to see what became of her, he followed her up the stairs. never turning her head, or showing by the slightest sign that she was aware of carter's presence, she reached the landing, where she stopped a moment, then turned down the corridor where the principal bedrooms were situated. carter, watching, saw her stop at the third door and enter the room, the door closing softly behind her. rousing himself from his surprise, carter proceeded to his own room, but the extraordinary appearance of the lady he had seen, joined to her apparent unconsciousness of his presence, the unusual hour, and the fact that he knew of no woman inmate of the house, other than the servants, produced such bewilderment of mind that he found it impossible to sleep. early next morning he was astir, and happening to meet captain seaton in the garden, he could not forbear relating his nocturnal experience to his fellow-guest. when captain seaton heard the story he looked very grave and asked, "at which door in the corridor did the lady stop?" carter replying that it was the third door, captain seaton would say no more, remarking that they would discuss the subject again later on, only begging him to say nothing of what he had seen to their host. soon after breakfast, captain seaton asked carter to come with him to the pantry, where they found the butler, who had been many years in the vernons' service. chatting with the old servant, captain seaton presently led the conversation round to the subject of the family plate, remarking how fine it was, and finally asking the butler to show mr. carter some of the most ancient and interesting pieces in the collection. much of the old silver was taken out of its wrappings and displayed, and at length seaton said, "but where are those queer candlesticks? you know the ones i mean--made in the shape of a swan." the butler answered rather reluctantly that the candlesticks mentioned had been put away for many years, and he feared they must be very tarnished. however, on being pressed, he fetched down from a high shelf in the plate cupboard, a baize-covered parcel, and from it drew a silver candlestick, very old and tarnished, but the shape of which, carter was startled to see, exactly resembled the one carried by the lady of his adventure. seaton said to the butler: "you are certain you have not had these candlesticks out lately?" "oh no, sir," answered the old man, but noticing seaton's serious expression, his tone changed to one of alarm, and he exclaimed, "but what is the matter, sir? _has anything been seen?_" seaton then asked carter to relate again what he had seen the night before, and when he heard that the lady had entered the third room in the corridor, the butler broke into a cry of, "oh, my poor master! some grief is coming to him." captain seaton then explained that the figure carter had seen was no human being, but an apparition, and that her appearance, carrying the swan-shaped candlestick--always brightly polished--invariably betokened trouble or misfortune for the oaklands family. "it was colonel vernon's door you saw her open," added seaton; "let us hope on this occasion her coming has not been for evil," a hope that was unfulfilled, as before the day was over, colonel vernon received news that his brother had died the night before. most people will agree that there is something particularly unpleasant in the idea of a ghostly animal, though why it should be so is hard to explain. but there is no doubt that the majority of us would prefer encountering a human rather than a four-footed "revenant." the welsh have a superstition about "hell-hounds," or _c[^w]n ann[^w]n_, as they are called in the principality. these fearsome creatures are said to hunt the souls of the departed, and generally only their mournful cry can be heard--a sound to make one shudder and tremble. but occasionally a stray hound is seen by some unlucky individual, to whom the sight is sure to bring disaster or death--an old celtic belief, and most certainly superstition, but it recurs to one's mind in connection with the following story.[ ] [footnote : in his "welsh folk-lore" the rev. elias owen says: "the fairy dogs howled more at cross-roads and like public places than elsewhere. and woe betide any one who stood in their way, for they bit them and were likely to even drag a man away with them, and their bite was often fatal. they collected together in huge numbers in the churchyard when a person whose death they announced was to be buried, and howling round the place that was to be his grave disappeared on that very spot; sinking there with the earth and afterwards they were not to be seen."] a few years ago, a certain mrs. hudson went to live near the small town of w----in south wales. one day, not long after her arrival, she and a friend went for a walk along the high road near the town. on their way they had to pass a quarry, which was reached by a gate and path leading off the road. just after the two ladies had passed this gate mrs. hudson heard a sound of loud panting behind her. she stopped, and looking back, saw a large black dog come running out of the quarry down the path towards the gate. whereupon she said, "i wonder whose dog that is, and why it was in the quarry." "what dog?" asked the friend, looking in the same direction, "i don't see any dog." "but there is a dog," said mrs. hudson impatiently; "can't you see it standing there looking at us?" however, the friend could see nothing, so mrs. hudson somewhat impatiently turned and walked on, feeling convinced the dog was there, and marvelling that her friend neither saw it nor heard its panting breaths. soon after this, happening to meet her brother-in-law, who was an old resident in the neighbourhood, she asked him who was the owner of a particularly large black dog, describing where she had seen it. the brother-in-law, listening with a rather queer expression, answered, "so you have seen that dog! then, according to tradition, either you or your friend will die before six months are past. that was a ghost-dog you saw; it has appeared to several other people before now, and always forebodes death." mrs. hudson did not pay much attention to what she considered a very superstitious explanation of a trivial occurrence, feeling perfectly certain that what she had seen was a real animal. but it was an explanation she recalled with a feeling of horror, when within six months of the date of that walk, her friend most unexpectedly died. the curious point in this experience is, of course, that the phantom dog was visible to only one of the two friends, and that not the one for whom the warning was intended. as i have before remarked, there still lingers in some parts of wales a breath of that atmosphere of fairyland and romance which, to anybody possessing imagination, gives a peculiar value to ideas and beliefs that in less inspiring surroundings would be classed as unmixed superstition by people of common sense. so that the explanation given to a certain mr. blair--who was partly of highland extraction, and therefore possessed something of the celtic temperament--of a singular little adventure that befell him in wales, did not seem to him at all far-fetched at the time, but rather the one most appropriate, and quite characteristic of the country. business obliged mr. blair to live some years in this particular welsh valley, and often, after dinner in the summer, he would cross the river, and walk up the opposite hill to a house called wernddhu where some friends lived, and spend the evening with them. from wernddhu a narrow, steep road led down to the bottom of the hill, where it ended; and from this point, a grass lane led up in the direction of a farm. in the twilight of a certain beautiful evening mr. blair left wernddhu, and started to walk home. he had his dog, a spaniel, with him, and as he descended the hill and reached the place from which the grass lane diverged, he noticed his dog, who was running in front, suddenly lie down and begin to whine. and then he saw that there was another dog, a big scotch collie, gambolling and playing round the spaniel, though where it had come from he could not imagine, as he was sure that no strange dog had followed him from wernddhu. but as he walked up to the two animals, his own still whining and shivering, the other suddenly darted away and disappeared up the lane that led to the farm, much to the apparent relief of the spaniel, who immediately seemed to forget his fright, and became quite lively again. blair continued his homeward way, wondering to whom the collie belonged, as he did not remember having seen it anywhere about before. but the incident, slight though it was, somehow made a decided impression on his mind, so much so, that he could not forbear mentioning it next day to his old landlady, remarking that he supposed they must have got a new dog at nantgwyn--the farm to which the grass lane referred to eventually led. mrs. morgan asked him what the dog was like, and when told, she exclaimed, "why, indeed, mr. blair, you must have seen the nantgwyn dog!" she said it was no creature of flesh and blood, but an apparition which had appeared to other people at different times. the story went that many years ago, a tramp had been found lying dead on the very spot where blair had seen the collie, and it was always thought that the dog, when living, must have belonged to him, and with the devotion characteristic of its kind, had continued faithful, even after death. writing of these wraiths of dogs recalls a story told by a welsh lady whom i will name miss johnson, and who was staying during the winter of with some relations at a house in the west of england. one sunday evening about six o'clock, when miss johnson and the family were sitting quietly in the drawing-room, a great noise was suddenly heard exactly like hounds in full cry. it seemed as if the pack swept past the drawing-room windows, turned the corner of the house, and entered the yard behind. the kennels of the local hunt were only four miles away, and on hunting days the hounds often met or ran in the direction of the house. but to be disturbed by the cry of hounds on a sunday evening was such an unheard-of thing that miss johnson and her friends were, for the moment, petrified with amazement. almost immediately the butler came running to the room, exclaiming, "the hounds must have got loose! i hear them all in the back yard." "but how could they get in?" asked some one; "the gates cannot be open at this hour on sunday." the butler went off looking rather disconcerted, and not a little scared; and miss johnson went into the hall, where she found her collie-dog--usually a very quiet, gentle animal--barking and rushing about in a state of frenzy. she opened the front door, and the collie ran out, barking and growling savagely, made a great jump in the air as if springing at somebody or something, then suddenly sank down cowering to the ground, and crept back whimpering to his mistress's side. an exhaustive search revealed not a sign of a hound or stray dog about the place, and miss johnson and her relations went to bed that night feeling much puzzled by the strange incident. next day came the news that a near relative of miss johnson had died suddenly the evening before at six o'clock! twenty-five years later, miss johnson had a similar experience previous to the death of another relation, on which occasion the hour of the death, and the time at which she heard the hounds cry, again tallied exactly. and while meditating on the strangeness of such a coincidence occurring twice over, miss johnson remembered the tales that the country people about her old home in wales used to tell concerning the "c[^w]n teulu" (family hounds) said to haunt the woods round the house, to see or hear one of which was a sure sign of death. some people have a vague superstition about the ill-luck of a bird coming into a house, and consider it a sure sign of approaching death should a bird chance to dash itself against a window-pane, as sometimes happens in a gale of wind, or through the attraction of a bright light within the room. a curious instance regarding this feeling, which occurred quite recently, shows what tremendous power such a superstition may have on certain minds, and how the mind, reacting on the body, may indeed bring fulfilment of what was regarded as a prophecy. the person concerned was a pembrokeshire farmer, well known to the friend who gave me the story, and whose words i now quote: "mr. a. b. jones, of s----, who was one of the churchwardens of the parish for forty years or thereabouts, died unexpectedly and somewhat suddenly, about three weeks ago. i went the day before yesterday to see mrs. jones, who told me all about it, and mentioned the following circumstances. on a cold sunday evening last winter, just as mr. r----, the rector, was going to the pulpit for the sermon, a starling perched on mr. jones's head, and remained there: presently he put out his hand, gently grasped the bird, and putting it into his coat pocket, took it home. he turned it loose in the stable, for he felt sorry for it, and wished to give it a chance of living. mrs. jones said she was, as i know, not superstitious, but was it not odd? "it seems that mr. jones had had for some months a presentiment that he was not long for this world; his widow showed me an entry in his diary to this effect, and told me that he had been giving his son, a lad of eighteen, all sorts of instructions not long before his death. whether he was influenced by the starling incident or not, i cannot say." (this account was written in september , some months after mr. jones's death occurred.) in a very interesting old work, entitled "cambrian superstitions" (published in ), the author, william howells, refers to the welsh belief in death-warnings brought by birds; quoting an instance which he mentions as being well known in his day. "the following remarkable occurrence i cannot refrain from narrating, as the family in which it occurred, who now reside at carmarthen, were far from being superstitious; their seeing this will recall it to memory. as they were seated in the parlour with an invalid lying very ill on the sofa, they were much surprised at the appearance of a bird, similar in size and colour to a blackbird, which hopped into the room, went up to the female who was unwell, and after pecking on the sofa, strutted out immediately; what appears very strange, a day or two after this, the sick person died." having previously been told that the invalid was "very ill," her demise does not appear in the cold light of print as "strange" as it did to mr. howells, in whose ears the story doubtless sounded more impressive than it does when read eighty years afterwards. after relating another story of the same kind, mr. howells goes on to say, "i have learnt of several similar instances occurring in england, and many more are related in wales; but this bird has now, i believe, become a 'rara avis in terris.'" chapter iv other ghosts "what beckoning ghost along the moonlight shade, invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?" let us now stray across the cambrian border, and pursue some of the "pale ghosts" that one suspects are probably just as numerous in england, scotland, and ireland, as in "superstitious" wales. and looking through my notes, the first story i come across seems quite worthy of repetition, though the incident described was not rounded off by anything sensational in the way of sequel or discovery. a few summers ago, a certain mrs. hunt, who is a relation of some friends of mine, took a house at blanksea on the south coast for the summer holidays. the house turned out all that was comfortable and convenient, and nothing particular happened while the hunt family were there. but after they all returned home, mrs. hunt noticed that her two boys were continually talking between themselves of somebody called "bobo." at last one day she asked the children who they meant by "bobo." they replied, "oh, she was the little girl who was always about the house at blanksea, and used to play with us. she didn't seem to have any name, so we called her 'bobo.'" mrs. hunt was extremely puzzled by this piece of information, as she had never seen any strange child in the house, and at length she concluded that it was only some nonsense imagined by the two boys. however, she still could not help thinking a little about the mysterious "bobo," and eventually determined to make some inquiries about the house; as to who had lived there, &c. &c.; and great was her astonishment to learn through these inquiries that the house was always supposed to be haunted "by the ghost of a little girl." this story reminded me of a very old house near arundel, in sussex, said to be haunted by the ghost of a nun; and it is alleged that the apparition has been seen by children living there. inexplicable noises are also frequently heard, and a window visible from outside is said to belong to "the nun's room," though the room it really lights is walled up and cannot be entered. the apparition of a child figures in another very curious tale. i was once told of a certain rectory in one of the english counties, where, during a summer not very long ago, a mr. shadwell, by profession an artist, went to stay as a paying guest. he was given a sitting-room of his own, and did not join the family of an evening unless he felt inclined. one evening after dinner he was sitting reading in this room by himself, when the door was quietly opened, and in walked a little girl. the clergyman had several children, with whom shadwell had already made friends, but this child he had not seen before, so concluded she must have been away from home and had probably only just returned. so he remarked, "good evening, my dear, i don't think i have seen you before." however, the child made no reply, and did not even look at him, but walking slowly along the side of the room, she paused, laid her hand on a certain part of the wall, and then turned, and as slowly and deliberately walked out again. trifling as the action was, there was something so curiously impassive about the demeanour of the little girl, and her absolute indifference to his presence, that it struck shadwell as extremely odd, and the more he thought of it the more uncomfortable he felt, though for the life of him he could not imagine why. next morning, when he saw the rector, he said to him: "i did not know you had another daughter, the little girl who came into my room last evening. why haven't i heard about her before?" he spoke lightly enough, for a night's sleep had convinced him that life in the country had made him fanciful, and that the impression made upon him by the silent child was due to morbid imagination. so what was his astonishment to see the clergyman appear greatly agitated by his question, and apparently unable to reply at once. presently he said to shadwell: "that was no living child that entered your room, but an apparition which has been seen before; and i beg of you not to mention the matter to my wife, for she always reproaches herself with being partly to blame for the death of that little girl, who was our eldest-born." he then told the artist that a few years previously they had had workmen in the house, doing some plastering and papering. one day, while the work was going on, the rector's wife had wished to pay somebody some money, and remembering that she had just left half a crown on her dressing-table, she told her eldest girl to run upstairs and bring down this coin. but after rather a long interval, the child returned saying the money was not there. whereupon the mother became annoyed, knowing she had really left the half-crown on the table, and told the child she must have either stolen the coin or else be playing a trick for mischief. the little girl obstinately denied all knowledge of the money, so she was sent to bed in disgrace, where she presently fell into such a terrible fit of sobbing and crying that an attack of convulsions came on, and finally she became unconscious and died. to the parents' grief was added remorse, caused by the torturing doubt that the poor child might have been after all unjustly blamed for a fault committed perhaps by one of the strange workmen, for the missing half-crown was never found. shadwell listened thoughtfully to this sad story, and later, after thinking over the incident of the evening before, in connection with the tragic circumstances of the child's death, an idea struck him. he at once sought the rector, and asked him whether he had ever thought of having the wall examined at the spot to which the apparition had pointed. on hearing that this had not been done, he asked permission to investigate, and, with the clergyman's help, he opened the wall. and there, embedded an inch or two in the plaster, exactly where the child's hand had been placed the night before, was a half-crown! now was this merely a wonderful coincidence? or may we believe that the little girl, having hidden the coin in the tempting surface of the wet plaster--whether for mischief or her own gain one cannot tell--was afraid to confess her fault? and death overtaking her, could not give the spirit rest, till its efforts to reveal the truth had been recognised and understood. but it is certain that since the discovery of the coin in the wall the apparition of the child has never again been seen. another rectory that possessed the reputation of being haunted is that of clifton, in kent. this is a very old house, dating from the fourteenth century, and, according to my informant, who knew the house well (a relation of his having held the living from to ), mysterious noises had often been heard there by different individuals. one lady who was paying a visit reported having a "dreadful night," "with people walking up and down the passage, and muffled voices," but no one had left their rooms all night. and a youth of sixteen or seventeen, employed as an outside servant, declared that once when an errand brought him into the house, he saw "an old gentleman in a grey dressing-gown walk down the stairs before him, and suddenly disappear." whatever it was he saw, the boy was so thoroughly frightened that he would never enter the house again. my friend's letter continued: "mrs. lowther (whose husband, the late dr. lowther, succeeded my relative as rector) when 'moving in' elected to stay the night in the rectory by herself, instead of returning to ... london. the workpeople left, and a village woman, having prepared mrs. lowther's evening meal and made up fires for her in sitting-room and bedroom, went home. _something_ is said to have occurred during the night, and mrs. lowther acknowledged (so the writer has been told) as much, but would never say what it was that had alarmed her; but it is believed that she _did_ say that nothing would induce her again to be alone in the house at night." i once went to tea with the wife of canon c----, in the cathedral city of e----. in the course of conversation the subject of "ghosts" came up, apropos of which mrs. c---- remarked: "as you know, these houses are exceedingly old, being actually part of the ancient norman monastery adapted to modern use. very odd and unaccountable noises were for a long while heard in the house next door to ours, which of course is all part of the same old building; and these noises were vaguely ascribed to 'the ghost,' though nothing was ever seen. but, at last, some structural alteration of the house became necessary, and in the course of this work the discovery was made of a human skeleton, which had evidently lain hidden for centuries, and presumably was that of a benedictine monk. the bones were carefully buried, and from that time no more noises have been heard." this story rather resembles the tale of a much more interesting ghost which inhabited an old manor-house in somersetshire, and which succeeded for many years in keeping human beings out of the place. time after time the house would be let, people always making light of its haunted reputation, or else determining to brave its terrors. but they never stayed more than a few weeks, when they invariably went away, declaring that one or more members of the household had seen an apparition on the main staircase. the description--and rather horrible it was--was always the same. the figure of a woman would come gliding downstairs, carrying her head under her arm, and on arriving at the foot of the stairs she invariably vanished. at last there came a tenant bolder than his predecessors, and gifted with an inquiring turn of mind. he said he liked the place and meant to stay there, and if possible evict the ghost. and he at once began to investigate. beginning at the attics he tapped and sounded every wall and suspicious-looking board in the house, with no result in the way of discovery till he reached the principal staircase. this, being the ghost's favourite haunt, received special attention, and working his way patiently down step by step, he found at length under the old flooring at the foot of the stairs, a hollow place of considerable size. and in this hole reposed, _headless_, a human skeleton (which subsequent examination proved to be that of a woman) with _the severed skull lying by its side_. then the enterprising tenant hied him to the vicar of the parish and told him of the grisly find, and after due consultation it was decided to collect the poor remains and bury them decently in the churchyard, a ceremony which seems to have effectually "laid" the ghost, as report says it has never since been seen. but to return for a while to the city of e----. the best ghost story i heard there concerns the bishop's palace, a beautiful tudor house, said to be built on the site of the great monastery for which e---- was famous in saxon times, and the predecessor of the norman building, of which parts still survive in the modern canons' residences. i was told that at some time during the sixties or seventies of the past century, a certain friend of the reigning bishop was invited to stay a night at the palace. he had never been at e---- before, and therefore knew but little of its history or traditions. there was nothing at all extraordinary in the appearance of the room assigned to him, and he slept well enough for the first few hours after going to bed. but towards morning he woke, and though he knew himself to be wide awake and not dreaming, yet he had a terrible vision. he was first roused by sounds which appeared like people scuffling and struggling, and almost immediately he seemed to be aware in some way of a dreadful scene being enacted in his room. although all was dark, yet he saw, as if by some extra sense, that a man dressed in what looked like very ancient armour was lying on the floor, while another figure in a monk's habit, knelt on, and was apparently trying to kill him. the vision--or whatever it was--lasted but a few moments, then the whole picture faded, and all became still again. the rest of the night passed undisturbed, though further sleep was impossible for the visitor, so great was the sense of horror and absolute reality left in his mind by the scene he had witnessed, and the sinister sounds he had heard. in the morning he sought the bishop, to whom he described his experience, and who listened gravely; answering that his friend's story was very remarkable in the light of an old tradition connected with the house, and with the saxon monastery which it was believed anciently occupied the site of the palace. at the time of the norman invasion, the community numbered only forty monks; who, feeling themselves a small and undefended company, and probably fearing local disturbances and possible pillage, when the conqueror's coming should be known, hastened to apply to william for protection. in reply the grim norman sent forty of his knights to be billeted on the monastery, saying that each monk should have a knight to defend him. such a claim on their hospitality was probably rather more than the holy men had bargained for, but the arrangement seems to have worked well enough, until at last a sad tragedy occurred. one of the monks having quarrelled (we are not told why) with his foreign guardian, and quite oblivious of the danger he was thereby bringing on his companions, rose up in the night and murdered the warrior, taken unawares in the darkness. what followed history does not relate, but no doubt william was careful to exact suitable vengeance for his slain follower. there is a curious mediæval painting still to be seen in the palace, representing the forty saxon monks and their knightly protectors. still one more story of a haunted rectory must be told, a story which when i heard it made a considerable impression on my mind, from the fact that it was related by a person who, i feel sure, would stoutly deny that she "believed in ghosts." and so her incredulity regarding matters pertaining to the world beyond our five senses made her recital all the more convincing. several years ago this lady, miss robinson, chanced to spend a summer with the rest of her family at a certain country rectory, which her father had rented for a few months. it should be stated that the neighbourhood was new to the robinsons; none of them had ever been in the county before, and when they first went to the rectory they did not know any of the residents around. it happened one evening when the days were very long, and there was still plenty of light left, that miss robinson was going upstairs about nine o'clock followed by her little dog, which half-way up passed her and ran on to the stair-head. there it suddenly stopped short, looking down a passage which led off the landing, and exhibiting every symptom of fear, shivering and whining, and its hair bristling. miss robinson thought this behaviour on the animal's part rather odd, but as she gained the landing and looked down the passage, wondering what had frightened her dog, she distinctly saw a man cross the end of it and apparently disappear into the wall. as there was no door at the spot where the figure vanished, miss robinson thought this still more curious, but as she saw nothing further, and the dog also seemed immediately reassured, she began to think they had both been victims of a hallucination, and resolved to keep the matter entirely to herself. a short time afterwards she went to tea with some neighbours who had called on them; and after the usual conventional inquiries as to how they liked the place, and so forth, miss robinson and her sister were asked, "if anything had been seen by them of the rectory ghost?" instantly miss robinson's thoughts flew back to that evening on the staircase, and her dog's terror. however, in reply, she only asked what form the "ghost" was supposed to take. the answer was that a former inhabitant of the house had murdered his wife, and that ever since, the murderer's ghost was said to _haunt the end of the passage_ which led off the landing. as she listened to these words, miss robinson could not repress a little shudder at the remembrance of the mysterious figure seen by herself and her dog at the very spot described. but no repetition of her experience ever occurred, nor was the apparition seen by any one else in the house during the time the family stayed there.[ ] [footnote : mr. leadbeater would probably class this "ghost" as a "thought-form." "apparitions at the spot where some crime was committed are usually thought-forms projected by the criminal, who, whether living or dead, but most especially when dead, is perpetually thinking over and over again the circumstances of his action. since these thoughts are naturally specially vivid in his mind on the anniversary of the original crime, it is often only on that occasion that the artificial elementals which he creates are strong enough to materialise themselves to ordinary sight."--"the astral plane."] there is a curious story told of a country house of some antiquity in north devon. this house was once let to a mr. barlow, who took up his abode there, and presently asked a friend to stay with him. this friend's name was sharpe, and he was put into a room containing an old and handsome four-post bed. next morning, barlow asked sharpe what sort of a night he had had. "very bad," was the unexpected reply. "i could not sleep for the talking and whispering going on--i suppose--in the next room. i hope you will ask the servants not to make so much noise to-night." barlow accordingly spoke to the servants, who promptly denied having been anywhere near the guest's bedroom, or having sat up late at all. but the following day sharpe had again the same complaint to make; he could get no sleep on account of the tiresome "whispering" going on round him all night. much mystified barlow suggested a change of apartment to his visitor, who refused, saying he would rather wait another night and try to find out the cause of the disturbance. barlow then said he would sit up with sharpe; and accordingly the two retired to the room at bed-time, and putting out the light, awaited developments. presently, sure enough, a whisper was heard, and very soon the room seemed full of whispering people. after listening amazed for some time, barlow struck a match, when immediately the sounds ceased, nor, although both men carefully examined walls, chimneys, windows, and every nook and corner anywhere near the room, could they find a sign of a human being, or any possible reason for the extraordinary manifestation. but both noticed with astonishment that, whereas the curtains had been pulled back off the bed, ready for occupation, they were now pulled _forward_, and the ends neatly folded up on the pillows as a bed is left in the day-time. after this sharpe changed his room for the rest of his stay, but barlow made diligent inquiries until he found out all that he could about the previous history of the house, and particularly of the room containing the four-poster. he learnt eventually that the big bed had been for many generations in the house, and had always been used when there was a death in the family for the lying-in-state of the corpse. another devonshire house, d----n hall, the ancestral home of an old and well-known family, is haunted by a lady who sometimes surprises visitors unaccustomed to her little ways. on one occasion a husband and wife, who happened to be staying at d----n, were both dressing for dinner on the first evening of their visit. suddenly, without any warning, the door of the wife's room was opened, and in walked a beautifully dressed woman, with grey or powdered hair turned off her forehead and worn very high. without appearing to take the slightest notice of mrs. blank the intruder passed through the room, opened the dressing-room door, went in and shut the door behind her. petrified with astonishment, mrs. blank stood for a moment staring after the apparition, then dashing into the dressing-room she exclaimed, "where did that lady go?" (there was no other door except the one communicating with the bedroom.) the husband, who was calmly dressing, was naturally somewhat surprised at the question; explanations followed; he had seen nothing and thought his wife must have been dreaming. but over-flowing with wonder, mrs. blank went downstairs, and seeking her hostess confided to her the singular incident, adding that she supposed the "lady" was a fellow-guest who had in some way mistaken her room; but where had she disappeared to when she entered the dressing-room? "hush," was the reply. "it was no living person you saw, but the _ghost_; only don't breathe a word to any one else here. there is no harm in her; and she has often been seen before by people staying in the house." and with this casual explanation mrs. blank was fain to be content. a story very similar to the above is told by mr. henderson in "folk-lore of the northern counties" about a house in perthshire, where the figure of a very beautiful woman was one evening seen on the staircase by a visitor staying in the house. in this case the hostess informed her friend that the apparition had frequently been seen before, but always by strangers, never by any member of the family. the following incident is said to have happened quite lately in another scotch country house. two sisters, one quite a young girl, went to stay at this place, and were given rooms close to one another. one night the younger sister suddenly woke up. the room was dimly lighted by a bright moon, and there, close by the bed, the girl saw, apparently rising out of the floor, a human hand. thinking she had nightmare she closed her eyes and vainly tried to sleep, but feeling impelled, in spite of fear, to look again, there was the hand--nothing else--close by her bedside still. this time she felt horribly frightened, and hurling herself out of bed, she rushed to her sister's room, which she insisted on sharing for the rest of the night. in the morning she told the elder girl what she had seen, declaring she could not pass another night in that room. her sister scolded her a little for what she considered foolish imagination, and begged her to say nothing of the "bad dream" to their friends, as people did not like it to be thought that there was anything ghostly about their houses. later in the day the son of the family was taking the elder sister over the house, which was old and interesting. presently he remarked, "we have a ghost here, too, you know." the visitor pricked up her ears, and asked what form the ghost was supposed to take. "it is a hand," was the reply, "nothing else." "then my sister saw it last night," exclaimed the girl, whereupon she was much surprised to see her companion turn pale and seem agitated. but in reply to her questions he would say nothing further, leaving his listener wondering uncomfortably if the appearance of the spectral hand was a bad omen; and if so, whether it boded ill to the owners of the house or to the individual who had had the disagreeable experience of seeing it. before leaving scotland we must mention an aberdeenshire house, described to us by a friend as inhabited by the ghost of an old lady, who regularly appears in a certain room once a year. evidently her unrest is caused by an uneasy conscience, if tradition be correct; which says that she was a wicked old person who flourished in the early seventeenth century. having a deadly feud with a neighbouring family, she decoyed them with false promises and an invitation to a feast into the tower of the house. then she had the doors locked, and setting fire to the tower, she got rid of her enemies in one horrible holocaust. from scotland to northumberland is not a far cry, and on our way south you must listen to an odd little story connected with a house called wickstead priory in that county. the friend who told me was staying at wickstead when the incident happened. i will call her x.; and her room happened to be on the opposite side of the corridor to a large bedroom occupied by a married sister of the hostess. one evening, while x. was dressing for dinner she heard some noise and commotion going on in this other room, and later in the evening, she asked its occupant what had been the matter. "oh," was the reply, "i had such a fright! i am sure you won't believe me, but as i sat doing my hair before the looking-glass, a _horrid-looking little monk_ came and peered over my shoulder. i saw him plainly in the glass, but when i turned round, no one was there!" i have before remarked on the disagreeable habit so common amongst ghosts of appearing by one's bedside at dead of night. in fact, a large percentage of the ghost stories one hears contain the words, "he (or she) looked round, and there was a figure standing by the bed," &c. &c. and a tale which i heard on excellent authority of a staffordshire house concerns a "bedside" spook of the most conventional pattern, which succeeded in thoroughly astonishing, if not alarming, a colonel and mrs. west, who were paying a visit to morton hall. the owner of the house was a cousin of colonel west's, whom he had not seen for a long time, and of whom he knew little, having been soldiering abroad for many years. on the first night of their visit, towards the small hours, mrs. west woke up quite suddenly, and although the room was dark, yet she could somehow perceive distinctly a figure advancing towards the end of the bed, seeming to emerge from the opposite wall. very startled, mrs. west woke her husband, who also saw the figure--by this time stationary at the foot of the bed--and called out to it, "who are you, and what do you want?" but at the sound of the voice the figure retreated, and seemed to fade away. the rest of the night passed undisturbed. next morning colonel west said to one of the children of the house, "a nice trick you played us last night." for after much discussion, he and his wife had come to the conclusion that the only reasonable explanation of what they had seen was that they had been the victims of a clever practical joke. the child addressed looked puzzled, and when questioned said that nobody had played any tricks at all. later on, their hostess came to mrs. west, and said she was extremely sorry to hear from her little girl that they had been disturbed the night before, adding that owing to the house being full the wests had been given the _haunted room_. for knowing they were complete strangers to morton, and probably knew little of its traditions, it was thought very unlikely they would be troubled by anything uncanny. they were then asked what they had seen, and mrs. west described the mysterious "figure," saying that it resembled a woman wrapped in flowing garments, and carrying a bundle under her arm. "that was the ghost," replied the cousin's wife. "years ago a woman was murdered in that room, and ever since then she has occasionally appeared to people, dressed as you describe and carrying her head under her arm." wherein lies the decided element of creepiness contained in my next story? perhaps it may be that it deals with a haunting of a most unusual and remote character, having its origin in some unknown disturbance of the very elements themselves. it relates to a very well-known english house called ainsley abbey, where not so very long ago there was a large party staying for the local hunt ball; among the guests a certain mrs. devereux. knowing that she would be very late returning from the ball, this lady told her maid not to wait up for her, but to go to bed at her usual time. so what was mrs. devereux's surprise when she came back in the early hours of next morning, to find that the maid had disobeyed her injunctions, and was waiting in her room. when asked why she had not gone to bed, she told her mistress that she had done so but had been so disturbed by the "terrible storm"--thunder and great gale--that she could not rest and grew too frightened to stay in her room. she sought the house-servants, but to her surprise they had noticed no storm, and laughed at her when she said there was a high wind raging round the house. finally she resolved to wait in her mistress's room, adding that she was thankful the party had got back safely, as she had felt concerned at mrs. devereux being out in such awful weather. as the night had been perfectly calm and fine, mrs. devereux was much astonished at this tale, but at last concluded (though she did not say so) that her maid must really have been asleep and dreamed of the storm. but happening to mention the matter as a joke to her host next day, she was surprised to find it treated with the greatest interest, and to be told it was no case of a dream. that occasionally people who came to stay at ainsley _could_ hear sounds that they always described as a thunder-storm and hurricane of wind blowing round the house. in fact, it was a species of haunting which had never been accounted for. like an echo of dante's "infernal hurricane that never rests, hurtles the spirits onward in its rapine; whirling them round." not long ago, i came across a lady who told me of some very interesting happenings of a ghostly nature connected with a house in a suburb of one of the great university towns. this house was taken by a mrs. drew, in order that she might be near her son, who was an undergraduate of one of the colleges. but he lived with his mother, who also took in three other undergraduates as paying guests. after a time mrs. drew discovered that there was something rather unusual about this house. she heard noises she could not account for, and frequently had the consciousness of an invisible presence in the room with her. but at last one day, she not only _felt_ but _saw_ quite near her, an appearance, as of the head and shoulders of a very pretty, amiable-looking girl, the head draped in a kind of veil. after this, she would sometimes become aware that the same apparition was sitting beside her; on other occasions she would see it dimly flitting about the rooms; but in time she got so accustomed to its appearance that she took little notice of it at all. once, when her son went up to the north to play in a cricket match, mrs. drew felt rather worried about him, as he had not been well, and she was afraid he was not really fit to play. especially during the night after the match, she could not help lying awake and thinking about him. suddenly she became conscious that the now familiar figure of the apparition was standing at the foot of the bed, looking at her. and then, for the first time, it spoke to mrs. drew, telling her to feel no alarm for her son's welfare, "for," it said, "i have been with him all day. he is quite well, and played very well in the match." then it disappeared. on another occasion, young drew and one of his friends were reading at night in the study, when they were startled by the sound of a terrific crash in the next room. they rushed in, expecting they knew not what, but the room was empty, quiet and dark. one summer mrs. drew tried to let the house for a while. a lady came to see and appeared on the point of taking it; but while discussing the subject with mrs. drew in the drawing-room, and making final arrangements, she quite suddenly got up and went away, saying she would write. when her letter came, it merely said the house did not suit her; but later, when pressed for an explanation of such a sudden change of mind, she admitted that while talking to mrs. drew in the drawing-room she had observed a beautiful young girl come and seat herself on the sofa close by them. no one else seemed to see the girl or to be in the least conscious of her presence; yet somehow her appearance produced such an uncanny feeling in the visitor's mind that she felt she could not stay another moment in the room or in the house. and so she broke off the negotiation. at last, her son's time at the university being finished, mrs. drew gave up the house, and was succeeded in it by some people who opened a shop. and while making the alterations necessary for the purpose, the workpeople discovered hidden under a floor the skeleton of a young woman! but who she was, and why her bones were there, no one had been able to find out at the time when i heard the story--about two years ago--though imagination promptly offers us a choice of sinister theories to account for the buried skeleton and its restless _umbra_. "requiescat in pace" for the future! why the foregoing tale should remind me of a ghost that was seen in a northamptonshire house, i do not know; but, in spite of the irrelevance, here is the story. some years ago, a large party was assembled there for shooting, and one of the guests was given a rather out-of-the-way room, which was usually allotted to a stray bachelor, when, as happened on this occasion, the house was very full. however, it was a very comfortable room, and the visitor slept there soundly enough on the first night, until at what seemed to be a very early hour, a knock on his door woke him up. mechanically saying "come in," he opened his eyes, and saw a little elderly man, dressed in rather tight-fitting, pepper-and-salt clothes, such as grooms wear, who walked into the room with an assured step, pulled up the blind, and went out again. mr. blank imagined that the man had come to call him, though wondering why he came so early and had brought no hot water; especially as a footman called him later at the usual hour. when asked next morning if he had slept well, he mentioned the fact of his being awakened so early, saying he supposed that the man must have made some mistake. "what was he like?" asked the host, and when his friend described the man as elderly, and looking like a groom, his friend replied, "what you say is rather odd, because only a fortnight ago, a groom, who was an old family servant here, died. of late years he had done little work, but almost until the end, one of his duties, which he would never relinquish, was _to call any one who chanced to occupy that room_." my next tale has always seemed to me one of the most interesting psychic experiences that i have ever heard related. some few years ago, a young officer, whom we will call lestrange, went to stay at a country house in the midlands. it may be said that he was a good type of the average british subaltern, whose tastes, far from inclining towards abstract study or metaphysical speculation, lay chiefly in the direction of polo, hunting, and sport generally. in fact, the last person in the world one would have said likely to "see a ghost." one afternoon during his visit, lestrange borrowed a dog-cart from his friend, and set out to drive to the neighbouring town. about half-way there he saw walking along the road in front of him a very poor and ragged-looking man, who, as he passed him, looked so ill and miserable that lestrange, being a kind-hearted person, took pity on him and, pulling up, called out, "look here, if you are going to c----, get up behind me and i will give you a lift." the man said nothing but proceeded to climb up on the cart, and as he did so, lestrange noticed that he wore a rather peculiar handkerchief round his neck, of bright red, spotted with green. he took his seat and lestrange drove on and reaching c---- stopped at the door of the principal hotel. when the ostler came forward to take the horse, lestrange, without looking round, said to him: "just give that man on the back seat a good hot meal and i'll pay. he looks as if he wanted it, poor chap." the ostler looked puzzled and said: "yes, sir; but what man do you mean?" lestrange turned his head and saw that the back seat was empty, which rather astonished him and he exclaimed: "well! i hope he didn't fall off. but i never heard him get down. at all events, if he turns up here, feed him. he is a ragged, miserable-looking fellow, and you will know him by the handkerchief he had round his neck, bright red and green." as these last words were uttered a waiter who had been standing in the doorway and heard the conversation came forward and said to lestrange, "would you mind stepping inside for a moment, sir?" lestrange followed him, noticing that he looked very grave, and the waiter stopped at a closed door, behind the bar, saying: "i heard you describe that tramp you met, sir, and i want you to see what is in here." he then led the way into a small bedroom, and there, lying on the bed, was the corpse of a man, ragged and poor, _wearing round his neck a red handkerchief spotted with green_. lestrange made a startled exclamation. "why, that is the very man i took up on the road just now. how did he get here?" he was then told that the body he saw had been found by the roadside at four o'clock the preceding afternoon, and that it had been taken to the hotel to await the inquest. comparisons showed that lestrange had picked up his tramp at the spot where the body had been discovered on the previous day; and the hour, four o'clock, was also found to tally exactly. now was this, as the ancients would have told us, the _umbra_ of the poor tramp, loth to quit entirely a world of which it knew at least the worst ills, to "fly to others that it knew not of"? or was it rather what mr. c. w. leadbeater has described in his book, "the other side of death," as a _thought-form_, caused by the thoughts of the dead man returning with honor to the scene of his lonely and miserable end, and thereby producing psychic vibrations strong enough to construct an actual representation of his physical body, visible to any "sensitive" who happened that way? we must leave our readers to decide for themselves what theory will best fit as an explanation of this strange and true story. and now for the curious experiences of a professor of a well-known theological institution, which he related most unwillingly and under great pressure to a small gathering of friends, amongst whom a friend of mine was present, who afterwards, knowing my interest in ghostly lore, told me the stories. this professor, whom we will call mr. bliss, was a graduate of one of the newer universities. some years after he had taken his degree, he had occasion to return to his university, and resolved to put up at his former lodgings, as he would have to make some little stay. so leaving his luggage at the station, he walked to the house, but before going in, he took a turn or two up and down the pavement to finish a cigarette he was smoking. while he was doing this, he saw a man, whom he recognised at once as the son of the landlady, run up the steps and enter the house, shutting the door behind him. his cigarette finished, bliss followed the man, and knocking at the door was warmly welcomed by his old landlady, who told him she would certainly take him in, adding, "you can have my son's room." "but your son is at home," said bliss. "oh no, he is abroad," was the reply, and as mrs. x. spoke, bliss saw a shadow come over her expression. "but that is impossible. i have just seen your son go into this house," and he told the mother how he had been smoking, and had seen the man whom he recognised as her son enter the house a few moments before himself. nor could mrs. x.'s continued assertions, that her son, far from being in the house was not even in england, shake the conviction of bliss that he had seen the man in question only a few minutes before. however, seeing that the subject was distressing to mrs. x. he said no more. when night came, the landlady told him that she had decided to give him her own room, taking herself the one formerly used by her son. bliss went to bed, and at first slept well, but very early next morning he was roused by a sound as of some one creeping softly into the room. he struck a light, and to his intense surprise saw mrs. x.'s son walking stealthily across the room to a corner where there stood an old closed bureau. the man apparently took not the smallest notice of bliss, who, watching him, saw him take a key from his pocket, and unlocking the bureau, fumble in its recesses until he drew out what appeared to be a bag of money. this was too much for bliss, who, convinced that he was witnessing an act of robbery, whether by young x. or somebody cleverly impersonating him he had no time to consider, jumped out of bed and rushed at the intruder, on whose shoulder he brought his arm down with some violence. but imagine the horror of bliss, when instead of being checked by a human body, the blow encountered--nothing! and even as he stood there, the apparition--for such it surely was--vanished utterly. next day bliss felt impelled to tell mrs. x. of his astonishing experience, and (passing over the painful excitement and emotion aroused by his recital) he heard the following story, which seemed to afford a possible if somewhat far-fetched explanation of an extraordinary happening. it appeared that young x. was far from being an exemplary character, and that he ended his various escapades by robbing his mother. he had entered her room in the night and by means of a false key opened her bureau, where he knew she kept money, and removed all that was there. after which he had left the country, and was living abroad, never, of course, having been home since. so much for one experience; the other is more dramatic, and happened on the same occasion of bliss's visit to his old university. one afternoon, he went for a long walk into the country, and it was quite dark when he returned homewards. as he proceeded along a deep lane, so overhung with trees that the gloom on either hand seemed almost impenetrable, he became aware of a dim light approaching him, and presently he saw that it came from the head of a figure who was walking towards him and who, as it drew nearer, seemed to be dressed like a sister of mercy, in a blue dress and large white cap, while always the strange, pale light seemed to radiate from her head. she walked straight and swiftly towards him, and bliss saw that unless he moved they would collide; so, thinking that the person did not see him in spite of the light she carried about her, he quickly stepped aside to let her pass. as he did so, he stumbled over what seemed to be a large bundle on the road, and, stooping down to see what it was, he discovered that the bundle was really a man, lying huddled up and inanimate, but whether drunk or otherwise unconscious it was impossible for the moment to tell, for utter darkness had again fallen, the woman with the light having absolutely disappeared. but bliss could now hear the sound of wheels and a horse being driven very fast; indeed, had he not loudly shouted, he and the unconscious man must have been run over. and what about this man, if he had not happened to find him lying there? and again, how _would_ he have found him if the figure with the light had not come by, and caused bliss to step aside. such thoughts came to his mind, as he helped the driver to lift the man into the trap, and gave directions for him to be taken to the nearest hospital; while further reflection during his walk home convinced him that any ordinary explanation of such an incident was quite inadequate, and that perhaps it was just one of those "things" that, as hamlet reminded his friend, are undreamed of "in our philosophy." this chapter shall conclude with a tale told me lately by a friend who had herself heard it on excellent authority. it concerns a mrs. borrow who, two years ago, happened to be staying at fontainebleau. one evening she thought she would go for a walk, and accordingly setting out, soon found herself free of the town, and in a deep country lane. suddenly, at some distance ahead of her, but still quite near enough to see plainly, she saw the oddest figure of a man jump down from the hedge into the road. he wore a curious kind of cap, red, with a tassel hanging down, and his costume altogether appeared more like a fancy dress than the garb of the present day. he stood in the middle of the road, and then mrs. borrow noticed that a deer, which had wandered from the forest into the lane, evidently saw the man too, for it stood quite still, gazing fixedly at him. mrs. borrow hurried on, wishing to get a closer look at such a strange person, but to her great bewilderment, as she drew near he seemed to vanish away, causing her to wonder if she and the deer had both been the victims of an optical delusion. at all events, she saw no more of the mysterious figure that evening, though, as may be imagined, her mind was full of the occurrence, and as soon as she returned to fontainebleau she sought out some friends who were residents there, and described what she had seen. they instantly exclaimed: "oh, you have seen 'le grand veneur.' how unlucky for you. he always presages misfortune to those who meet him in the forest." they then explained that "le grand veneur" was really a ghost, and told mrs. borrow the legend relating to him. it must be added that so far, happily, the omen has not worked in mrs. borrow's case, as no particular misfortune had befallen her when my friend heard the story, only a few months ago. so perhaps the powers of "le grand veneur" for "ill-wishing" those who see him have lapsed with time. mr. henderson mentions this apparition in "folk-lore of the northern counties": "near fontainebleau, hugh capet is believed to ride...." and again: "i have said that the wild huntsman rides in the woods of fontainebleau. he is known to have blown his horn loudly and rushed over the palace with all his hounds, before the assassination of henry the fourth." henderson, it will be noted, describes the huntsman as mounted, while mrs. borrow's apparition was on foot; as, however, her description seems to have been immediately recognised as "le grand veneur," a well-known ghost, it is probable that henderson refers to the same tradition. in a note to his version of the german ballad of "the chase," sir walter scott relates the legend of the "wild jäger," or wild huntsman of germany, adding: "the french had a similar tradition concerning an aerial hunter who infested the forest of fontainebleau." also in "quentin durward" he mentions "le grand veneur," to meet whom in the forest was a bad omen; and again in "woodstock" he writes of a similar apparition, said to haunt the woods of woodstock: "anon it is a solitary huntsman, who asks you if you can tell him which way the chase has gone. he is always dressed in green, but the fashion of his clothes is some five hundred years old." in a former chapter i have mentioned the alleged appearances in quite modern times of two phantom hunters in wales. the fact seems to be that the "wild huntsman" legend is one of great antiquity and wide distribution, its details in different places being merely altered to suit local circumstances. but that is a fact that does not in the least detract from the interest of mrs. borrow's strange little adventure in the lane near fontainebleau. chapter v corpse-candles and the toili "a vague presentiment of his pending doom like ghostly footsteps in a vacant room haunted him day and night." when st. david of blessed memory lay dying his soul was greatly troubled by the thought of his people, who would soon be bereft of his pious care and exhortations. he remembered the celtic character, apt to be lifted to heights of enthusiastic piety by any passing influence of oratory, and, alas! prone to sink to depths of indifference, or even scepticism, when that influence was removed. so the saint prayed very earnestly for his flock that some special sign of divine assistance might be granted them. tradition says that his prayer was heard, and a promise given that henceforth no one in the good archbishop's diocese should die without receiving previous intimation of his end, and so might be prepared. the warning was to be a light proceeding from the person's dwelling to the place where he should be buried, following exactly the road which the funeral would afterwards take. this light, visible a few days before death, is the _canwyll corph_ (corpse-candle). such is the legend generally supposed to be the foundation of a very ancient belief, though a less common version is given by howells in his "cambrian superstitions" ( ), where he says: "the reason of their (the candles) appearing is generally attributed to a bishop of st. david's, a martyr, who in olden days, while burning, prayed that they might be seen in wales (some say in his diocese only) before a person's death, that they might testify that he had died a martyr...." the bishop alluded to here was ferrars, who was burnt at carmarthen under the persecutions in queen mary's reign. but whatever the origin of the _canwyll_ belief, it was once almost universal in some parts of wales, and even in these sceptical days one sometimes comes across it in out-of-the-way corners of the principality. in brand's "antiquities" we read: "corpse candles, says grose, are very common appearances in the counties of cardigan, carmarthen, and pembroke, and also in some other parts of wales; they are called candles from their resemblance, not to the body of a candle, but the fire, because that fire, says the honest welshman, mr. davies, in a letter to mr. baxter, doth as much resemble material candle-light as eggs do eggs; saving that in their journey these candles are sometimes visible and sometimes disappear, especially if any one comes near them or in the way to meet them. on these occasions they vanish, but presently reappear behind the observer and _hold their corpse_ (_sic_). if a little candle is seen, of a pale bluish colour, then follows the corpse of some infant, if a larger one, then the corpse of some one come to age.... if two candles come from different places and meet, two corpses will do the same, and if any of these candles be seen to turn aside through some bypath leading to the church the following corpses will be found to take exactly the same way. sometimes these candles point out the place where people will sicken and die...." the "honest welshman" above quoted by grose was the rev. j. davies of geneurglyn, and the whole of his letter, which richard baxter published in his "world of spirits" ( ), is most interesting to read. he continues: "now let us fall to evidence. being about the age of fifteen, dwelling at llanylar, late at night, some neighbours saw one of these candles hovering up and down along the river-bank, until they were weary of beholding it; at last they left it so, and went to bed. a few weeks after came a proper damsel from montgomeryshire to see her friends, who dwelt on the other side of the river istwith, and thought to ford the river at that very place where the light was seen, being dissuaded by some lookers-on (some, it is most likely, of those who saw the light) to adventure on the water, which was high by reason of a flood; she walked up and down the river-bank, even where, and ever as the aforesaid candle did, waiting for the falling of the water, which at last she took, but too soon for her, for she was drowned therein.... some thirty or forty years since, my wife's sister being nurse to baronet rudd's three eldest children, and (the lady mistress being dead) the lady-comptroller of the house going late into the chamber where the maid-servants lay, saw no less than five of these lights together. it happened a while after this, that the chamber being newly plastered and a grate of coal-fire therein kindled to hasten the drying of the plaster, that five of the maid-servants went to bed as they were wont, but as it fell out, too soon, for in the morning they were all dead, being suffocated in their sleep by the steam of the newly tempered lime and coal. this was at llangathen in carmarthenshire." i have always been much interested in this story, as the house where the accident happened two hundred and fifty years ago is very well known to me in these days. and indeed the tradition of the five smothered maids is still extant; for the tale, substantially as related by mr. davies, was told me only a few years ago by an old woman living in llangathen village, who had been many years in service in the house referred to by baxter's reverend correspondent, though the rudd family has long disappeared, and the place changed owners many times since. as to "llanylar" on the river "istwith" it is a village not so far from my own home in cardiganshire; and quite lately a clergyman, born and brought up in that district, informed me that when he was a boy--and he is not old--stories of "corpse-candles" abounded there, and belief in them was very common. to return to "cambrian superstitions" again, its author relates what he seems to think a well-authenticated instance of a _canwyll's_ appearance, as follows. "some years ago (he was writing in ), when the coach which runs from llandilo to carmarthen was passing by golden grove (the property of the noble earl cawdor), three corpse-candles were observed on the surface of the water, gliding down the stream which runs near the road; all the passengers beheld them, and it is related that a few days after, some men were crossing the river near there in a coracle, but one of them expressed his fear at venturing, as the river was flooded, and remained behind; the other three possessing less discernment, ventured, and when about the middle of the river, lamentable to relate, their frail conveyance sank through the weight that was in it, and they were drowned." writing in of pembrokeshire, mr. edward laws, in "little england beyond wales," says: "it would be by no means difficult to find a score of persons who are fully persuaded that they themselves have been favoured with a vision of the mysterious lights," adding, "st. daniel's cemetery, pembroke, is a likely place for 'fetch-candles.'" although the weird privilege was supposed to belong entirely to st. david's diocese, yet some writers mention the belief as well known in north wales. george borrow, in "wild wales," describes in chapter xi. a conversation he had on the subject with a woman who lived near llangollen, and had herself seen a _canwyll corph_. and in our days, sir john rees writes in "celtic folk-lore": "it is hard to guess why it was assumed that the _canwyll corph_ was unknown in other parts of wales.... i have myself heard of them being seen in anglesey." but earlier authors nearly always assign south wales as the real home of the tradition. meyrick, in his "history of cardiganshire" ( ), speaks of st. david obtaining the privilege for his diocese, adding: "the _canwyll corph_ is bright or pale according to the age of the person, and if the candle is seen to turn out of the path that leads to the church, the corpse will do so likewise." scientifically approached, the corpse-candle is merely the well-known _ignis fatuus_ (will-o'-the-wisp or marsh light) occasionally seen to quiver and flicker at night over the surface of bog and swamp. shelley writes: "as a fen-fire's beam on a sluggish stream gleams dimly." often appearing in the distance like a carried lantern, these lights have been known to lure unwary travellers from a safe path to insecurity and danger. scott's name for the will-o'-the-wisp is friar rush's lantern: "better we had through mire and bush been lantern-led by friar rush." in the same connection, milton in "l'allegro" also mentions the "friar's lantern." but though one may have an open mind on the subject of the _canwyll corph_, yet it does not seem as if the _ignis fatuus_ explanation covers quite all the ground suggested in the various instances of the _canwyll's_ appearance described in the following notes. all authorities agree that the most characteristic feature of the corpse-candle's appearance is, that it invariably follows the exact line that will be taken by the funeral procession. this is well illustrated by an instance that occurred some years ago at a house in cardiganshire. instead of going straight along the drive, the light was seen to flicker down some steps and round the garden pond; and when the death occurred the drive was partly broken up under repair, and the coffin had to be taken the way indicated by the corpse-candle. at another place in the same county, tradition says that before a death takes place there, a corpse-light is always seen to emerge from the neighbouring churchyard, and pass quivering up the drive towards the house. another story from carmarthenshire relates how shortly before a death in the family owning a certain house, the woman living at the lodge saw a pale light come down the drive one evening. it pursued its way as far as the lodge, where it hovered a few moments, then through the gates, and out on the road, where it stopped again for several minutes under some trees. on the day of the funeral the hearse, for an unexpected reason, was pulled up for some time at the exact spot where the _canwyll_ had halted. the following story, which was related by a lady of cultured mind and much common sense, has always seemed to me one of the most interesting of its kind that i have ever heard. whether it was a case of _canwyll corph_ or not must be left to my readers to determine, but it is certainly hard to account for the incident in any ordinary way: my friend, miss morris, lived when she was a young girl in wales, and her father's house stood on a steep hill-side, with the village church just below, a short walk from the lodge gates. one sunday evening, in winter, miss morris, her sister, and two maids walked down to the church to attend the six o'clock service. as they came out from the drive on to the road, they saw flickering down the hill in front of them, a pale bluish light, which, in the darkness, miss morris and her sister took to be a lantern carried by some church-goer like themselves, although they could see no figure of man or woman. the light stopped at the churchyard gate, and turned in, but miss morris observed that the person carrying it did not enter the church, but went on towards a grave with a tombstone. now this grave happened to be the only one in the burying-ground, for the church had only lately been built, and the churchyard but newly consecrated. arrived at the solitary tombstone, the light suddenly disappeared. the two girls went round to the same place, as their curiosity was roused by the light's disappearance, but there was nobody by the grave. rather puzzled, they went into the church, where they had to wait some time for the service to begin, as the vicar was very late. afterwards he told miss morris that he had been detained at a cottage by a dying woman, who had begged him to stay with her till the end. when they returned home, the sisters told their mother of the light they had seen, and were promptly advised by her to speak to no one else on the subject, and to dismiss it from their minds as soon as possible. however, next day, as miss morris was passing the churchyard gate, she saw a brother of the deceased woman standing there with the vicar, to whom he said: "my sister wished to be buried by the side of her friend, sarah jones." and the man then walked through the churchyard, _straight to the exact place by the tombstone_ where miss morris and her sister had seen the light disappear on the evening before. not long ago i was talking about the _canwyll corph_ and kindred subjects with the postmistress of a cardiganshire village, who remarked that she had only known one person who had ever seen a "corpse-light." this was a woman--now dead--called mary jones, and to use the words of the postmistress "a very religious and respectable person." at one time in her life she lived in a village called pennant (its real name), a place well known to me, where the church is rather a landmark, being set on top of a hill. mary jones invariably and solemnly declared that whenever a death occurred among her neighbours, she would always previously see a corpse-candle wend its way up the hill from the village to the churchyard. and at the same place she once saw the toili (a phantom funeral). this last experience was in broad daylight, and was shared with several other people who were haymaking at the time, and who all saw clearly the spectral procession appear along a road and mysteriously vanish when it reached a certain point. but we will speak of the toili presently. another belief relating to the _canwyll_ was that it not only boded future troubles, but that it was positively dangerous for anybody who saw one to get in its way. i had never heard locally of this disagreeable attribute of the corpse-light until i talked to the postmistress already quoted. this woman said that long ago she and other children were always frightened from straying far from home by tales of "jacky lantern," a mysterious light, which, encountered on the road, would infallibly burn them up! george borrow ("wild wales," chapter lxxxviii.) mentions meeting with the same belief when talking to a shepherd who acted as his guide from the devil's bridge over plinlimmon. borrow said: "they (corpse-candles) foreshadow deaths, don't they?" to which the shepherd replied: "they do, sir; but that's not all the harm they do. they are very dangerous for anybody to meet with. if they come bump up against you when you are walking carelessly, its generally all over with you in this world." then followed the story of how a man, well known to the shepherd, had actually met his death in that weird manner. howells also mentions the same idea in "cambrian superstitions," where, writing of corpse-lights, he says: "when any one observes their approach, if they do not move aside they will be struck down by their force, as i was informed by a person living, whose father coming in contact with one was thrown off his horse." this certainly adds to the fear inspired by the sight of the _canwyll_, but the more general belief seems to have been that these lights were quite harmless in themselves, and when seen were regarded with awe only as sure harbingers of future woe. if we may believe the rev. mr. davies, whose letter, published in baxter's "world of spirits," has been already quoted, there is yet another kind of fire apparition peculiar to wales, called the tanwe, or tanwed. "this appeareth to our seeming, in the lower region of the air, straight and long ... but far more slowly than falling stars. it lighteneth all the air and ground where it passeth, lasteth three or four miles or more for ought is known, and when it falls to the ground it sparkleth and lighteth all about. these commonly announce the death ... of freeholders, by falling on their lands, and you shall scarcely bury any such with us, be he but a lord of a house and garden, but you shall find some one at his burial that hath seen this fire fall on some part of his lands." sometimes these appearances have been seen by the persons whose deaths they foretold, two instances of which mr. davies records as having happened in his own family. when reading the above description of the "tanwe"--of which i had previously never heard--there came to my mind a story told me by an old welsh lady of an extraordinary phenomenon, which she solemnly declared had preceded the death of her brother-in-law--a gentleman well known and respected in cardiganshire. shortly before his last and fatal illness his wife, returning home one evening, was amazed to see the most curious lights, apparently falling from the sky immediately over their house. from the account given by my friend, her sister seems to have at once recognised the supernatural character and sinister import of the mysterious lights; their appearance being recalled with melancholy interest by her and her sisters after the sad event which so soon followed. can this incident be explained as a survival of the old "tanwe" idea, of which our authority, the then vicar of geneurglyn, wrote in the seventeenth century? it seems as if it might be so, and that belief in the tanwe was probably an old _local_ superstition, peculiar to that district; considering the fact that the parish of which mr. davies was vicar is in the same county and not more than a dozen miles from the house where the fiery death-signals are supposed to have been seen twelve or fifteen years ago. for so far i have neither heard nor read of the tanwe being known in any other part of wales. belief in the toili used to be very widely spread in cardiganshire, especially, it is said, in the northern part of the county. meyrick, the historian of cardiganshire, tells us: "the toili ... is a phantasmagoric representation of a funeral, and the peasants affirm that when they meet with this, unless they move out of the road, they must inevitably be knocked down by the pressure of the crowd. they add that they know the persons whose spirits they behold, and hear them distinctly singing hymns." but the toili was not always visible; sometimes the presence of the ghostly _cortège_ would be known merely by the sudden feeling of encountering a crowd of people and hearing a dim wailing like the sound of a distant funeral dirge. those of us who have lived in the country, and know how characteristic of a welsh burial is this singing of funeral hymns--one or two of which are of a poignant sadness impossible to describe--can imagine how significant and suggestive such a ghostly sound would be to peasant ears. an old woman, whom i knew well years ago, used always to declare that she heard this hymn singing before the death of any friend or neighbour. she would invariably say, if one commented on any death that occurred: "yes, indeed, but i knew some one was going; i heard the toili last week." i have heard of two cases of people being involved in invisible funeral processions, which must truly be a most disagreeable experience. one story relates to a mrs. d----, who lived in the parish of llandewi brefi, in cardiganshire. her husband was ill, and one day as she was going upstairs to his room, she had a feeling as of being in a vision, though she could _see_ nothing. but the staircase seemed suddenly crowded with people, and by their shuffling, irregular footsteps, low exclamations, and heavy breathings she knew they were carrying a heavy burden downstairs. so realistic was the impression, that when she had struggled to the top of the stairs she felt actually faint and weak from the pressure of the crowd. a few days later her husband died, and on the day of the funeral, when the house was full of people, and the coffin carried with difficulty down the narrow stairs, she realised that her curious experience had been a warning of sorrow to come. the other instance was told me by the rev. g. eyre evans of aberystwith (who kindly allows his real name to be given), a minister and writer on archæological subjects of considerable local fame. in his own words: "as to the toili, well, if ever a man met one and got mixed in it, i certainly did when crossing trychrug[ ] one night. i seemed to feel the brush of people, to buffet against them, and to be in the way; perhaps the feeling lasted a couple of minutes. it was an eerie, weird feeling, quite inexplicable to me, but there was the experience, say what you will." [footnote : a high hill in cardiganshire.] quite lately a friend writes from south cardiganshire telling me of "a ghostly hearse and followers, seen recently by a neighbour, the man recognising the driver of the hearse and the chief mourner ... and little thinking it was a ghostly procession he was looking at, he whipped up his horse to get closer.... the animal reared and trembled, refusing to go nearer or move even in the direction taken by the hearse. terror then also seized the man, and he turned and fled the longest way home to avoid the ghostly burial-ground." another story of the toili comes from st. david's, and this we will also give in the words of the correspondent who, knowing my weakness for "ghosteses," was kind enough to send it. "an old lady, one miss black, who is still living, resided some time ago in the house formerly belonging to the archdeacon of st. david's, with one servant-maid, whom on a certain evening she sent on an errand, telling her to return at once. this she did not do, and in consequence was found fault with. the girl stated, in explanation, that she had been greatly frightened by coming across a phantom funeral descending the steps below the entrance gateway towers (of the cathedral) and that it turned to the right in the direction of the lady chapel. the old lady was incredulous, and said, moreover, that funerals never entered the cathedral yard (this was, of course, before the yard was closed for burials) that way, which was the fact; they used to pass down the road running parallel with the yard, and enter by the big gate below the deanery. "but actually not long after a real funeral did come by the way the girl said, and went in the direction she described; the road referred to being for the time impassable, having been dug across for the laying of some pipes." the next very good example of this strange second sight also comes from st. david's, and it is through the courtesy of the editor of the _western mail_ that i am able to relate it here: "the following anecdote was related by the late mr. pavin phillips, the haverfordwest antiquary, of a friend of his, a clergyman resident at st. david's. one of his parishioners was notorious as a seer of phantom funerals. when the clergyman used to go out to his sunday duties, the old woman would frequently accost him with, 'ay, ay, mr. ---- _fach_,[ ] you'll be here of a weekday soon, for i saw a funeral last night.' [footnote : _fach_, a mild term of endearment in welsh.] "on one occasion he asked her, 'well, molly, have you seen a funeral lately?' 'ay, ay, mr. ---- _fach_,' was the reply; 'i saw one a night or two ago, and i saw you as plainly as i see you now, but you did what i never saw you do before.' 'what was that?' 'why,' replied the old woman, 'as you came out of the church to meet the funeral, you stooped down and appeared to pick something off the ground.' 'well,' thought the clergyman to himself, 'i'll try, molly, if i can't make a liar of you for once.' some time afterwards the good man was summoned to a funeral on horseback. dismounting he donned his surplice, and moved forward to meet the procession. the surplice became entangled in his spur, and as he stooped to disengage it he suddenly thought of the old woman and her vision. molly was right, after all." our next story, recounting a most curious incident which happened a comparatively short time ago in my own neighbourhood, certainly sounds incredible. yet i have reason to believe in the truthfulness of the clergyman whose experience is narrated, and should judge him incapable of even wishing to invent any such extraordinary adventure as befell him one night only a few years ago. mr. harris is the vicar of llangaredig (which i substitute for the real name), a pretty country church with a comfortable vicarage just across the road from the churchyard. at the time of our story the vicar's pony was sick, and feeling very anxious about the animal, he determined to sit up one night, in order to see how it got on. about midnight he thought he would go out and have a look at the pony, which was in a stable exactly opposite the churchyard, with the road between. as the vicar emerged from the stable into the road he was surprised to hear the sound as of many footsteps, while he immediately had a queer feeling of people pressing round him. in a minute or two he heard wheels as of traps and carriages driving up to the churchyard gate and stopping there, and especially the sound of a heavy vehicle like a hearse. then, after a pause, came the unmistakable, hollow sound of the hearse door, as it was slammed to on an empty interior. then followed the heavy tread of men, bearing a burden into the church. but all this time mr. harris _saw_ nothing. rooted to the spot with amazement, he waited a while at the stable-door till the night's stillness was again broken by the sound of many people coming out of church. past him they brushed invisibly, then came the roll and rattle of wheels, as traps and gigs drove away. then as the crowd seemed slowly to move off, the vicar _distinctly heard talking_, and though he could not distinguish the words spoken, yet he plainly recognised the voices of two or three of his parishioners. when all at last was still, mr. harris returned to the house, much mystified by his inexplicable experience, which he was presently forced to regard as a prophecy. for next day came a telegram, informing him that a relation _of the people whose voices he had recognised_ had died, and requesting him to arrange for the burial of the deceased in llangaredig churchyard. much resembling these accounts of the toili in wales is the experience of certain persons possessing second sight, of whom martin writes, in his "description of the western islands of scotland": "some find themselves as it were in a crowd of people, having a corpse which they carry along with them, and after such visions the seers come in sweating and describe the people that appeared; if there be any of their acquaintances among them, they give an account of their names, also of the bearers, but they know nothing concerning the corpse." so that in ancient times belief in the toili may have been common to several of the celtic tribes, and its origin is possibly of great antiquity. corpse-candles, too, seem to have been known in scotland, judging by scott's allusion, in his ballad of "glenfinlas"-- "i see the death-damps chill thy brow, i hear thy warning spirit cry; the corpse-lights dance--they're gone, and now ... no more is given to gifted eye." --though the "lights" here mentioned more probably refer to the vivid blue flames which seers declared to be visible hovering over a dying person. such a "superstition" is possibly supposed to be extinct; yet this phenomenon has been witnessed by a friend of mine (need i say of celtic race?) who described the tiny flames as "dancing," using exactly the same word as sir walter scott does.[ ] it seemed impossible to disbelieve my friend's statement, which was made with the utmost solemnity and carried conviction at the moment; yet what can we think as to the absolute truth of it and the many alleged appearances of the canwyll corph and the toili? it is difficult indeed to say. no doubt large "grains of salt" must be taken with some of the stories, while on the other hand one cannot entirely discredit the testimony of sane and sober individuals, such as mr. harris, or mary jones, the "very respectable and religious" friend of the postmistress. personally i have no wish to be too sceptical; partly on the principle that all these ancient beliefs and legends help to add interest and lend a glamour to a world ever becoming more matter-of-fact and material. and also to quote the words of the great french scientist m. camille flammarion, because "ce que nous pouvons penser ... c'est que tout en faisant la part des superstitions, des erreurs, des illusions, des farces, des malices, des mensonges, des fourberies, il reste des faits psychiques véritables, digne de l'attention des chercheurs." [footnote : in "folk-lore of the northern counties" mr. henderson says: "they believe in the county of sussex that the death of a sick person is shown by the prognostic of 'shell-fire.' this is a sort of lambent flame, which seems to rise from the bodies of those who are ill and envelop the bed."] chapter vi corpse-candles and the toili[ ] (_continued_) "o that's a meteor sent us, a message dumb, portentous, an undeciphered solemn signal of help or hurt." [footnote : i am indebted to mr. owen m. edwards, the editor of _cymru_, for his kind permission to publish the translations included in this and chapter vii.] the stories and experiences contained in this chapter consist of material relating to the "canwyll corph," the "toili," and other beliefs, which were collected by the late lledrod davies, an inhabitant of the village of swyddffynon, near ystrad meurig, in cardiganshire. he was a young man of delicate constitution, but gifted with that intelligence and zest for knowledge which distinguish so many of our welsh people, and which, when joined to ambition and steadiness of character, are apt to carry them far in worldly progress. and this love of knowledge, and a native shrewdness untrammelled by any smattering of modern education, combined to form many a delightful character amongst our old-fashioned peasants, a few of whom still survive, though the type is fast dying out. if we may believe the descriptions in "wild wales," george borrow met many such people in his travels through the principality, but that was nearly sixty years ago, before the flower of our rural population had begun to migrate to "the works"--as they call the mines and iron foundries of glamorganshire. however, we are digressing from lledrod davies, who it seems had intended to enter the church, but died before he could be ordained. apparently he was always much interested in the legendary lore and superstitions of his native county, and for a long time had made a point of collecting all the curious tales and experiences he could glean on these subjects; and as the district to which he belonged happens to be remarkable for all kinds of uncanny occurrences in the way of "corpse-candles," fairy legends and the like, he had no doubt a wide field for research. his object in collecting all this information seems to have been exactly the same as my own in a similar pursuit; namely, that he thought it too quaint and interesting to be allowed to die with the old generation, to whom a firm belief in these occult happenings was a matter of course. also, in the spirit of the true folklorist, he had intended if he had lived to endeavour to trace a connection between these old welsh beliefs and the folk-legends of other countries. but he died before he could accomplish this object, and after his death (which took place in , at the age of thirty-three) his mss. relating to these subjects were collected by friends, and published locally in a little pamphlet entitled "ystraeon y gwyll"--in english, "stories of the dark." this pamphlet, now out of print, was lent to me a short time ago, and partly because its contents concerned my own county and several districts that i know, it interested me so much that i asked and obtained permission to translate and republish the tales contained therein. as folk-lore these are really valuable, for they were noted down exactly as mr. davies heard them from the lips of the country people, free from all self-consciousness, and with no idea that they were relating anything but what were fairly common experiences amongst themselves and their friends. in my translation i have occasionally made use of abbreviation, and i have sometimes slightly paraphrased the original text, here and there rather weighted by repetition, a trait which, however quaint and characteristic in the vernacular, is apt to sound tedious in our more precise and reserved english language. but with these small limitations, i have kept as nearly as possible to mr. davies' narrative, which, he tells us, he wrote down as well as he could in the words used by his informants. i will pass over his general description of "corpse-candles," because most of it would only be a recapitulation of what i have already told in the last chapter. but he mentions an interesting item connected with the superstition of which i had never heard before; to the effect that people who saw the candles were able to judge how soon the death which they prognosticated would occur. if the light were seen in the evening, death would follow quickly; if in the depths of night, the fatal event would be delayed a while. and it is said that there was scarcely ever a mistake made in this calculation of time. * * * * * i will now proceed in mr. davies' words, heading each incident with the title given it in the collection, and the first is called the old woman who saw her own corpse-light in the quiet village of s---- there dwelt an old woman, poor, of miserable appearance and very ragged in clothing. the only light that entered her cottage came through the door; in a word, the whole business of the house took place at the door. even the smoke generally escaped by it, although it is true there was a chimney. in such a place had the old woman chosen to pass the rest of her life. she spent many of the long summer days on her door-step, knitting in hand, exchanging the gossip of the season with her friends; while in winter she would be found sitting by the hearth, near a wretched heap of ashes or a bit of turf fire. one very cold winter evening, as she sat in her accustomed place, knitting her stocking, and humming an old hymn-tune or ballad, she saw something like a spark fall from her bosom into the ashes of the fire before her, where it glittered very brightly. thinking to find out what the spark was, she seized the tongs, and searched about with them in the ashes. she drew the tongs backwards and forwards through the ashes, and while so doing, she perceived the spark jump up again from the hearth, and go out through the door, and she herself got up and went to the door to see what direction it took. she looked out, and there before her was the little spark become a great light; so bright that it lit the whole place. she took courage to look well at it, she said, in order to make sure what it was. she saw it go out of the house rather slowly, onward along the road towards the burial-ground, to which it was probable that in the course of nature she would ere long be carried. then, overcome by fear, she went back into the house, and afterwards fell very ill, because she felt quite sure that it was her own corpse-light she had seen, and no other. she related what had happened to her friends, and in truth it was not long before her body followed its light to the burial-ground, there to be reunited. this old woman was noted for seeing and hearing spirits, corpse-candles, and the toili. whenever she said to her friends, "there will soon be a burial at such and such a house," they were quite certain the prediction would come to pass. * * * * * the next story tells of possible danger connected with seeing a corpse-light. the old woman who was blinded for a month by a corpse-light this time it was one of the most wonderful things i have heard in connection with a corpse-light. an old woman, considered one of the best nurses in the country, was made blind by the light. she was always remarkably fortunate in her cases, and chiefly for the reason that she was a seventh daughter. because it is considered very lucky to have as your doctor or nurse a seventh son or daughter. so because she was lucky, she was universally in request by all the good-wives far and near. on a certain night the farmer's wife at g---- was taken ill, and elli the nurse must be sent for, and they despatched the servant-man at once to fetch her. she lived not far from g----, but the road was very rough. the servant mounted a horse and away he rode with much diligence. and very quickly he reached the nurse's dwelling. he told his errand, and it was not long before both set out on the way back. it was a beautiful starlight night, but there was no moon at that season. the old woman went on horseback, and the servant behind her. they were going along as fast as they could, when the woman asked the man, "dost thou see a light, tom?" "i don't see one; where do you see it?" "i tell thee it is coming along the road, down from bont bren garreg." "oh, i see it now," said tom. the old woman knew it at once for a corpse-light. they went on talking about the light, and tom said in his opinion it was perhaps the light from that house or the other. now there was a cross-road[ ] on the road along which the light was coming. on they went until they came to the main road, in which place there was a turn, and as they approached the turn, tom the servant said, "well, if there was no light before, good-wife, here is one now." and there it was in their midst, on the road and bushes, every corner of the compass was illuminated. they had now stopped at the house. the old woman went in and fell fainting, and when she came to herself, she was quite blind, and could see nothing. they put her to bed and when the morrow brought daylight, she went home. and a month passed before she saw again as usual. after the old nurse went home the servant had to go out again to fetch the mistress's mother. now he was obliged to go along the road where the light had been, and past the churchyard. away he went and very quickly came in sight of the burial-ground, where, to his fright and agitation, he saw the light again! for as he came opposite the graveyard, he plainly saw the light inside, and carefully noticed the exact spot at which it lingered. [footnote : in welsh folk-lore cross-roads always figure as likely spots for uncanny happenings.] the old woman declared that some one would most surely soon be brought along that road to be buried, which came to pass very quickly after the light's appearance, this showing that it was indeed a corpse-candle. she also told tom where the grave of this person would be in the churchyard, which he remembered, and found to be at the exact spot she described. although this old woman in her day had seen scores of corpse-candles after nightfall, yet this was the most wonderful she ever saw, because of its direct connection with what followed. for its effect could be seen, and tom the servant, who was an eye-witness of it all, bore testimony of the circumstances from the beginning to the end. * * * * * the two following incidents show how the identity of the doomed individual was known. how to know whose light it was in old times i have heard numbers of elderly people assert that they could tell one whose was the "light" passing by, and could relate how this was possible; and with my own ears i have heard one man say how his fear of the thing decreased as he came to know its mystery. one way was to mind and be near running water, or any pond that happened to be conveniently near the road along which the light was coming. as soon as the light was to be seen approaching, one should stop near the water or the running brook that the candle had to cross, and therein would be seen a reflection of the person whose light it was. apparently the illumination of the light showed it in the water. there was always a mysterious light on the breast of the doomed individual. one man told me how he had seen the corpse-light after hearing a sound like a great report, whereupon running to some water he found out the person who was to be buried. though he had seen other corpse-lights from time to time, yet he had never happened to be near water until a certain night. he had been very late, he said, at the smithy, having a ploughshare sharpened, and had a middling long way to return home from the forge. as he was going along the road, he saw a light in the far distance, coming towards him. he did not suspect any harm at the moment, and hastened along, keeping his eye on the light, until he got to the bottom of a slope, up which he had to go. he had a big old cape over him, and for convenience, he folded the skirts of it round his middle. as he straightened himself after doing this, he perceived the light just at his side, and realising that it was a corpse-candle, he determined to see whether the saying was false or true that one could see whose light it was. now there happened to be a little brook crossing the road at that place. as the light went by he looked carefully into the water, and saw therein a woman he knew very well. he went home much frightened. a little time after, that woman was stricken with illness, and when she subsequently died it happened that her body was carried along that very road for burial. afterwards he saw a man's light, and that time again it was near water. he resolved to try and know whose it was. he saw the light reflected in the water, and knew the person at once as the gamekeeper in that neighbourhood. though the keeper was in good health at the time, yet very soon afterwards he fell ill and died, and his funeral too followed the course the "candle" had taken. the smith of llanfihangel and the corpse-light there was yet another way of knowing whose corpse-candle was seen. this way of finding out required more nerve than the other, for the reason that one must go to the churchyard, through the graves, and inside the church door, and there wait until the corpse-candle came in. and there, as if he were going in his body to church, would be seen the doomed person. this required great determination and bravery as may easily be seen, and for this reason there were but few found to do such a thing. as a rule it was better for the children of men to have but a half-knowledge about the corpse-candle than to dare this thing, as few knew whether they could bear such a sight. but according to universal rule, "every country nourishes brave men," and so it was in quiet llanfihangel. a blacksmith of unusual stature and strength lived there, and his bravery and prowess had become a proverb throughout the country, and of his daring many things were spoken by the fireside. this smith took it into his head to go to the church porch every time a corpse-light was seen going towards the burial-ground. through the advantage given him by his daring and courage, he was thus able to say beforehand who would be buried next, which appeared amazing to the people, because he invariably foretold the truth. at last was discovered what had been a mystery to the neighbours, and they knew that he was in the habit of going to the porch every time the corpse-light was seen, and that he there found out whose light it was. on a certain night, as there were, according to custom, many men and boys in the smithy, their conversation turned to corpse-candles, and from talking to disputing hotly whether it was possible to know beforehand whose light it was. at last they asked the smith for his opinion on the point, asking him if it was true that he himself had acquired the knowledge, to which he replied that it was perfectly true. just then a neighbour entered breathless and perspiring, having had a great fright. when he recovered himself a little, he said he had seen a corpse-candle making towards the churchyard, and if they went out they could all see it. out they all went, and there they saw the light approaching in the direction of the burial-ground. "now then," said they to the smith, "go you to the porch this evening." he answered that he was quite at leisure and ready to go, and proud to be of use. as the blacksmith's house and shop were at the side of the churchyard, he had but a few steps to take before finding himself amongst the quiet inhabitants of the churchyard; so leaving his work as it was, away he went without any hesitation to the church porch, so that he might be there ready before the light came. he was seen to enter the church, and very soon the corpse-candle was seen coming along the path, and then it, too, went into the porch. after a little while the smith returned, looking most unusually upset and frightened. when he was more collected, he related to the gathering what had happened. he said he had gone to the church porch, and after a short wait, he saw the corpse-candle coming through the churchyard and then to the church. there, standing as usual in the porch, was to be seen the person who would be buried. as the light shone upon him, the smith recognised him as the nanteos keeper. but as the corpse passed him by to enter the church, it turned towards him and exposed its grinning teeth in the most horrible and ghastly manner. he felt so alarmed that he was near to falling down dead, and indeed would so have fallen if he had not been a giant for strength. he said it was the last time he should go and see the corpse-light, to know who was going to die. some little time after this, the keeper was stricken by death in some form or other, and his body was brought to llanfihangel to be buried, as the old smith had truly said. so the neighbours were assured that it was possible to identify the person whose light was seen, but that it was a great risk to life to seek to find out. * * * * * the next story gives a particularly unpleasant experience. following his own candle it happened once that a young man of the neighbourhood of ll----i went to visit a friend of his in the neighbouring district. after passing an amusing day, he had a mind to return, and of course his friend must go with him, to "send" his crony home.[ ] as they walked along talking of each other's affairs, they saw far off in front of them, a light. and one said to the other about it: "i tell you, that is a corpse-light, let's follow it and see whose light it is. because they say you can see that, if you mind to get to the churchyard gate before the light goes through." [footnote : to "send" any one means to go with him part of the way back--a welsh idiom.] so away they went, and it was not long before they got to within measurable distance of the light. but as they followed, a great fear fell on the visitor, and he told his friend he could not go a step farther in pursuit. the other laughed in his face; and so they separated. the friend went home, and left the man he had been visiting to follow the spirit of the light. he went on till he came to the churchyard entrance. there he plainly saw whose light it was. he went home dreadfully frightened, and took to his bed, from which he never rose again. he confessed to his family that he had seen _his own light_ at the churchyard gate. but he never said a word as to its appearance, though it was supposed that the thing had given him a ghastly look and nothing more. and very soon his funeral took place in the very churchyard where he had seen the light. * * * * * mr. davies now goes on to relate some stories of the toili before passing on to stories of the toili, a word of explanation regarding them may not be out of place, in case it happens that these lines travel to a region where there is no toili, or fall into the hands of those not privileged to see it. the toili was a spirit burial or funeral. it was also an apparition or "double"; and very often in days gone by one heard that so-and-so had seen his own apparition. in some parts the cyheuraeth[ ] was seen. the people of glamorganshire always saw the cyheuraeth; and the folks of teify-side used to see, and still do see, the toili. all the movement and action of a real funeral were to be perceived in the toili. in this way the whole business of the real funeral could be known beforehand by the person who happened to witness the spectral one, and a few of his friends to whom he would speak about it. there was the crowd collected round a certain house, then came the corpse carried out to the bier or hearse, the reading, the prayers, the singing, and if any particularly penetrating voice were heard at the funeral in the crying of the deceased's relatives, that was sure to have been noticed beforehand in the toili. in this way it came to be known very often which of a family was to go. in the movement of the procession the sound of the coach-wheels was loudly heard. and on it went, just like the real funeral, to the churchyard; there again it could be observed where the real body should be buried. the voice of the minister was clearly to be heard going through the burial service. as was the toili, so was the funeral. but we have never heard of the church bell tolling for the toili; that is the one difference between the vision and the reality. [footnote : a horrible spectre, supposed to foretell death.] they were able to predict the date of the burial from the time of night when the toili appeared. if it were seen at the beginning of the night, the funeral would be soon; if very late at night, it would not happen quickly. every one had his toili, but it could not always be seen, and not by everybody. those people born on sunday could not see it, nor any other kind of spirit either. as a rule we readily observed that whenever the toili was heard or seen, a funeral did inevitably follow. and we only knew it fail once, thus showing there is no rule without exception. * * * * * it is interesting to read of this exception to an ordinarily fatal rule in the story called the toili without a funeral just as the toili itself upsets the usual order of things, so we will reverse the general rule of writers by relating, first, the story of the toili without a funeral. this case happened at a farm not very far from tregaron, inhabited by a quiet and respectable old couple. the dwelling-house was very old, and like other old things had become very fragile, but because the old man had been born and brought up in it, he had determined to end his days there also, on the old hearth so dear to him. but very suddenly he was taken ill with a high fever, which took hold of his system so powerfully that his improvement became very uncertain, and unless his constitution proved the stronger, there was little hope that he could pull through. one night, when the fever was at its highest point, those who watched him were alarmed by a sudden and terrifying noise. they were two in number, sitting by the fireside; and a little before midnight, after everybody else had gone to sleep, and when even the sick man seemed to be slumbering quietly, they heard this noise in the inner room where the patient was; something like a great stove or furnace being raked out, they said. at first they thought the invalid was awake, and had got out of bed in a state of unconsciousness and was knocking things about; and they ran in, but everything was as usual, not a sign of anything having taken place there, so they came back. whereupon they felt as if the door was open, and a multitude of people pushing in, and before they had time to speak, they found themselves in the midst of a crowd of men, without being able to move a step. _yet nothing was to be seen._ neither said a word to the other, perhaps overcome with fright, but both made the best of their way to the hearth and there sat down as close in the corner as they could. they could not hear a single word clearly, but only a sort of whispering all through the place, and felt perfectly sure they heard breathings. presently it seemed that the place got clearer, and they heard men going out through the door, which in reality was shut and locked. at last they thought they heard a coffin closed in the next room. therefore they knew that it was the toili; and presently the coffin was taken up with great bustle and shaking--for the old man who was ill was very heavy--and then it was carried from the inner room, through the kitchen, knocking against the dresser as it went, for they distinctly heard the sound. then it was taken outside, and there again they thought they heard the house door creak as the weight was forced against it. then the coffin was put on the bier, and they heard the feet of those in the toili moving away from the house. now there was no disputing that it really was the toili, and so every one supposed there was no hope of recovery for the old man. but the wonderful thing is, that he got better! then the point was, who was going to die? weeks went by without a sign that death had singled out any one of the family. weeks ran into months, and years passed by without a single funeral from the place. here was a mystery; the toili followed by a burial was entirely natural, but a toili without a funeral!! the best guess failed to solve the problem. however, the old house becoming at last in danger from the roof, it was necessary to build a new one, and the other fell to ruin, so that no burial ever could take place from there, and therefore quite naturally this unusual case of the toili was explained. i confess the explanation is hard to follow. it seems to suggest that apparently even destiny may be cheated on occasion, or perhaps the toili in this case was an auto-suggestion. * * * * * the three stories that follow are very typical instances of the strange old belief. the unbeliever and the toili we were never very fond of that class of person who denies everything he cannot see through himself, and thinks it is impossible for anything to take place outside his own experience.... such think themselves too wise to put trust in those foolish stories relating to spirits, corpse-candles, and such-like. they consider themselves too clever to listen to those kind of tales; but some even of that class are occasionally obliged to confess that there is a mystery about such coincidences which is beyond their understanding to comprehend. of this class was the young man who heard this toili. he had publicly denied the authenticity of spirits, and when he heard any one relating a story of having seen one, he would laugh in his face for superstition, and contradict him in the most contemptuous manner. whether it was conceit, or whether he did really consider himself wiser than the common people, we do not know. but one cold winter's night his head was brought low and belief forced on him, in spite of his displeasure.... in that part of the country--teify-side--they used to be very fond of "courting" of an evening, and on "courting" nights the boys would gather and go off together to the different houses where their friends amongst the maidens lived. on such a journey was the young man when he heard the toili. he had a friend who was going to visit his sweetheart some little way off, and our hero must needs go with him for company. it was a frosty night, and a thin covering of snow had fallen. they had to cross gors goch on their way, and as the bog was frozen, they got across with comparative ease. when they reached the farm, the young man left his friend to go in and visit his beloved, while he himself turned his steps back across the gors towards home. but on the way there lived another friend, and to save the trouble of calling up his own family to let him in, he determined to stay with this friend instead. now this man lived in a cottage, in a place where there were two or three other workmen's houses. one of these was under the same roof as the friend's house, and in order to call on him, our young man had to pass the door of the upper house.... he hastened along as fast as his feet would carry him, for night was now rather far advanced, and very soon he came to the cottages. the next thing we know about him is, that he called up his friend, who let him in, and made a splendid fire to warm him. then we find the friend observing that he trembled either from fear or cold, and looked terrified, which caused the question: "what has come to thee! art thou frightened?" at first he denied, and it was long before he let the cat out of the bag. but at last, hard pressed, he confessed that he _had_ heard something he could not explain. "what didst thou hear? was it a spirit or the toili?" was immediately demanded. now our friend did not know what to do, because he had always publicly scoffed at all such things, but here was his belief in himself collapsed without resistance. on the other hand, to keep silence might cause pain and trouble to his friend's family, who might fear he had heard something concerning them. at last he made an unequivocal confession of all that he had heard.... he said that all had gone well until he drew near the door of the cottage adjoining his friend's, and when opposite that house he thought he heard the sound of a man's voice speaking. approaching nearer, he recognised the voice at once as that of the minister, the rev. t. r., of d----. he heard him take a certain text--afterwards he remembered exactly what the text was--and after the reading of the text, waited to hear the beginning of the address. at first he thought he was strong enough to stop and listen to the sermon, but fear suddenly overcame him, and he left the door and took refuge in the next house with his friend. besides, he felt almost too weak to stand on his feet, or even shout to his friend, so greatly had terror seized him. that was all he had heard, but he had received proof enough of the possibility of seeing and hearing the toili, and would deny it no longer. in the house we have mentioned there lived an old man and woman and their daughter, all at that time in good health, considering the age of the old people. but soon afterwards the wife was taken ill with jaundice, and though every remedy was tried, she grew weaker, and at last died of the complaint. the day of the funeral came, but no preacher could be found to read and pray by the door when the corpse was carried out. all the ministers in the neighbourhood had gone off to the end of the county to attend some monthly meeting that was being held that week. our young man, his friend and family, waited with great interest to see if the real funeral would take place like the toili, though it is true they were much puzzled as to how it could happen, seeing that mr. t. r., the minister, was at the meeting. but on the morning of the day, as the young man was himself on the way to the funeral, he met the reverend pastor returning from his journey, and although it took much persuasion, he finally induced him to come to the funeral and do the service. after reading, praying, and hymn-singing, the minister chose his text from the very same chapter and verse as the young man had heard in the toili, and immediately began his address in the same words as the ghostly sermon, well remembered by the terrified listener, and which now corroborated his account! we have no hesitation in setting down this old story as true, for we have not the least doubt of the truthfulness of those who told it to us--namely, the friend and family of the young man himself. we do not know how it will appear to the wise and learned, but we do know that it is not an easy task to gainsay the facts of the case. the toili at llanbadarn odwyn churchyard what we are about to chronicle happened some years ago, during the time of september harvest, and there are a number of people living who were eye-witnesses of the circumstance. consequently it cannot have been imagination, or anything of that kind, of which solitary individuals are sometimes accused when they see these inexplicable visions. there could have been no deception, as it happened in broad daylight, and on high and open ground, the season, as we have already observed, being harvest-time. the cemetery and church of llanbadarn odwyn are situated on a high and healthy hill overlooking the beautiful little vale of aeron. over against the church, on an equally salubrious spot, stands the farm called birch hill, more to the south than the church, but in sight of, and quite near it. one day in harvest there happened to be a strong reaping party at birch hill, and they were reaping a field which overlooked the churchyard. just before noon, one of the men chanced to look that way, and perceived a funeral procession. he remarked this to his fellow-labourers, and looking in the direction of the church, they one and all saw the funeral too. it appeared to be rather different to the common run of burials, more "stylish," like that of a well-to-do person. they particularly noticed a pall over the coffin, which was a very unusual thing with them. the whole ceremony seemed to be taking place in perfect order. now the great question was, whose burial could it be? they asked one another, but no one knew of any death within the district. and at dinner-time they told the farmer's wife what they had seen, asking her if she knew what funeral it could be. but neither could she tell. however, those were not the sort of people to be hindered from finding out exactly what they wanted to know. so they decided that the head-servant should go to the sexton, and ask him whose burial they had seen, and let them know on the morrow. and at the proper time away went the servant to the grave-digger to get the information. but when he got there and asked, not a sound or syllable of a funeral could he hear of. the sexton was quite certain that nobody had been buried that day, and said they must have seen something else than a funeral. the servant could not believe the sexton, who, on the other hand, disbelieved the servant when he asserted that he had seen a funeral that day. and each one was so sure of his own facts as to leave the matter a mystery impossible to explain. the servant went home, and when he said there had been no burial that day at llanbadarn it was concluded that they must have seen the toili, with which conclusion the reapers also agreed on the morrow. then came the excitement of watching to see whose funeral would follow. some days later, as the minister's family was returning home from london for a stay in the country, it happened that his wife was taken ill, and it was not long before her soul left the body to join the world of spirits. the family burial-place was at llanbadarn odwyn, and no time was lost in making arrangements for burying her there. every one was informed of the sad event, so that on the day of the funeral quite a crowd of relations and family connections were gathered together to go and meet the corpse. and towards the time at which the toili was seen, there was the real funeral in the cemetery, exactly in the same way as the phantom one was seen. everything was the same, even to the white pall thrown over the coffin. so the reapers of birch hill were quite satisfied that it was the toili of this funeral they saw, and no other. here was an example of the toili seen by a crowd of people in the broad light of noonday, each individual seeing it exactly in the same form in which the real funeral presently took place. their eyes did not deceive them, because so many eyes perceived the same occurrence at the same moment, and moreover, the testimony of the sexton was certain proof that there was no burial in the churchyard that day. let the wise explain that vision as they will. the toili of rhosmeherin as already stated, night was the time when the toili was commonly seen and heard. it was then one might expect to meet it, and men and women are to be found who have been carried along with it even to the churchyard gate. but the vision has been seen at midday and at the hour of dusk, and it was at this latter time that appeared the toili of rhosmeherin. on a beautiful spring evening it happened that a farmer, after a hard day's work, lingered outside his house for a while, enjoying the soft breeze that blew through wood and orchard, and listening to the anthem of the winged choir. presently he chanced to look in the direction of bryn meherin, where lived vicar hughes, a well-known and industrious man in his day; and the farmer was amazed to perceive every appearance of a funeral there. he knew very well that it could not be a funeral either, for nobody was dead, and besides the time of day was contrary to the usual hour for burials, so he concluded that what he saw must be the toili. he called his family from the house to look lest he should be mistaken. but there, seen by all of them, was a complete funeral, and from its appointments a very respectable one. in front, preceding the crowd, was a man on horseback; then, according to the custom of those parts, there followed the men on foot, then the body. over the coffin was a black cloth. then came the women on foot, and last of all the coaches. as the procession moved slowly along a man on a white horse from the crowd behind moved from his place right up to the man on horseback at its head. not a doubt remained with the spectators that they had seen the toili, and it was not long before the vision was fulfilled. the clergyman died soon afterwards, and on the day of the funeral the farmer and family observed carefully to see if it resembled the toili. the clergyman had always been greatly respected; he was liked by all ranks and classes, and beloved by the poor; so that at the funeral there was a larger number of people than had ever been seen before. and there in their midst was a man on a white horse, who turned out to be one of the clergy, and who, anxious to be ready to take his part in the burial service, was seen to push forward from the back of the procession and move up to the front--exactly what had happened in the toili. we have heard that several other people also saw this toili, and observed that the incidents of the real funeral were similar to those of the spectral one. * * * * * really grisly was the belief in corpse-dogs, of which our author relates the following stories: corpse-dogs our "wrestlings with the spirits" have led us from corpse-candles to the toili, and in natural order we now come to the subject of "corpse-dogs," not the least important of death omens. it is true that i have failed to get the knowledge of their appearance that i wanted, and can therefore not give a very good description of them. there are those i know that have seen corpse-candles, a spirit, and the toili. but of the many tales concerning hell-hounds i have heard of but one person who actually saw one, and his free description must therefore suffice us. "hell-hounds" is another name for these apparitions. this particular corpse-dog was seen at a place called llwyn beudy isaf by a member of the family who happened to be living there then, and that was about a hundred and fifty-two years ago. an inmate of the house was taken very ill one day, and at night the farm dog began to howl in a very unusual and disturbing manner. on the following night, as one of the sons of the family went out to look after the animals before going to bed, he heard a sound which he thought was made by a sheep or a pig coming towards him, with a curious noise of chains; he could hear a chain clanking quite plainly. as it came nearer him he saw the thing clearly, namely, a little dog in appearance, of a sort of reddish grey colour, dragging a chain. it ran past him with the speed of lightning, and he saw no sign of it again. he supposed some one had been leading it, but could see no one about. directly afterwards their own dog began to howl in the most dismal and extraordinary way, and when this sound was heard all hope of recovery for the sick person was given up, and indeed it was not long before he drew his last breath. the tradition about corpse-dogs is, that they are sent from hell to the country of the earth to fetch corpses, and as a rule death follows wherever they appear. and when they approach a dwelling where death is coming they are seen by the dog of the house, and cause the animal such terror that it foams at the mouth, and utters dismal howlings as long as the hell-hounds continue near. that is the reason why a dog howls before a death; when you hear that mournful sound you may be quite sure that a corpse-dog is in the neighbourhood, and if you observe which way the dog's head is turned, in that same direction is the demon animal. some dogs are daring enough to go to the door of the sick person's house, where the corpse-dog watches--yes, and howl beneath the window of the room where death awaits his prey. although corpse-dogs are as a rule invisible, yet of their existence nobody has a doubt. that one has been actually seen by an individual is as good a proof as if a hundred or more had seen them. dogs are reliable witnesses of their presence in any place where they come. they strike terror in any religious family, especially if any member of it be ill, and no small anxiety is felt until the foul creatures leave the neighbourhood, and the house-dogs cease to howl and foam.... the hour of their visitation to a locality is generally towards the edge of night, just before cock-crow. usually at that hour the dogs will begin howling in heart-rending fashion, as if pitying him who will soon be seized by the teeth of the hounds of hell, and find themselves gripped in the claws of the king of terrors. as every reader must have heard many a dog howl, it would be idle to describe the sound which has often caused the remark, "we shall be sure to hear of a death very soon," and it is but rarely that it happens otherwise. it is well known that dogs and horses are creatures gifted with very keen senses of scent and sight, especially after the shades of night have fallen on the face of nature, and particularly as regards sight or smell of anything beyond the usual limits of this world, such as spirits, corpse-candles, toili, hell-hounds and the like. but there is a great difference in the powers of individual dogs and horses in this respect. it is just the same with mankind; some have been endued with powers to behold the unseen, while others again are found blind to every vision of the kind. that is the reason why it is useless to heed every dog that howls, but only certain ones in cases where it has been found that a death always follows their howling.... such a one was old "brins" of tymawr, of respected memory. shaggy and red-eyed, he was not a particularly good sheep-dog, but he was very faithful to his owners and full of doggish common sense. the voice of brins always struck terror into the community, for well was it known that some one was sure to die if brins opened his mouth to howl at night. people would go out and look to see in what direction his head was pointed, so as to know whereabouts the death would be. there was an old butcher who had exceeded the allotted span of human days by ten years. at last his time came; he was taken ill, and from the hour when he began to keep to his bed, the old dog brins began to howl. as night after night went by, john hughes growing weaker and weaker, so did the dog continue his howlings. at first he gave tongue near his own home, but as the old man's end drew near, brins went over to his house, the two places not being far apart. at last, such was his boldness that he crept right under the window of the room where the dying man lay, and howled steadily until the end came. after this his voice was not heard again at night, until just before another death occurred. it was indeed bold of the old dog to go and howl beneath the sick man's window; because the wise who know say that as death approaches, the c[^w]n ann[^w]n (hell-hounds) draw round the house, and on the last night they enter the room and stay by the bedside, so as to be near when the breath leaves the body. chapter vii welsh fairies "heaven defend me from that welsh fairy." readers must not turn up their noses when they read the title of this short chapter. of course nobody believes in fairies nowadays, but in the olden time most welsh people did, and in other things more remarkable even than "y tylwyth teg,"[ ] such as giants and dragons. i could relate a most interesting story of a giant who once lived (rather long ago!) only about three miles from my own home; and there is a respectable tradition of a terrible dragon having been seen--history omits the date--flying over the town of newcastle emlyn. and i feel this volume would be incomplete without a passing reference to one of the most picturesque and romantic of the ancient welsh beliefs. sir john rhys, the great celtic scholar, has said almost the last word on the subject of welsh fairy-lore, and there are indeed few crumbs of information that he neglected to gather about the fair folk. but i do not think he gleaned the two or three genuine fairy-tales which i found in mr. lledrod davies' little pamphlet, and which i have translated, and will repeat here. for as folk-lore it is material far too valuable to be lost in a publication already out of print, and in any case inaccessible to people not conversant with the welsh language. personally i have only come across two people who had anything to say about the tylwyth teg, and they were not of the peasantry, but persons of antiquarian tastes, who had noted the instances they referred to as curiosities of local belief. so, though i have heard numbers of tales relating to superstitions such as corpse-candles, the toili, &c., yet i have never myself heard a single _first-hand_ story about fairies, and i fancy their disappearance from their old haunts dates very nearly from the time that board schools were established in wales. education then became--and very properly so--a practical and rather material business; children were told that fairies were "silly," in fact, non-existent, and so they learnt to despise the wonderful tales their parents and grandparents knew, and would listen no more to them. so the old stories, handed down by word of mouth through centuries, and always greedily heard, and willingly remembered, were gradually forgotten; and as the elder folk died out, were nearly all lost. a pity, for trivial and even childish as they would sound to us who live in a world of scientific wonders that those old people could never dream of, and no longer require to feed our imagination with the marvellous and supernatural, still all those ancient beliefs, legends and superstitions always seem to me like the romance of life crystallised, and, as such, a very precious thing. for romance and glamour grow rare as the world grows older, though most of us have had a glimpse--even though a momentary one--of what those two names mean. and the power to express them grows less; i think most people will agree about that. but these old fairy beliefs and curious traditions seem to transmit the true, romantic atmosphere throughout the ages, bringing to our knowledge what our forefathers thought and felt in that set of ideas not immediately affected by their material necessities and circumstances. so that is why i think almost any of these old tales are interesting and worth preserving. [footnote : literally, "fair family."] w. howells, who wrote that entertaining old book, "cambrian superstitions," to which i have often referred, has a great deal to say about fair folk, or ellyllyn, or bendith eu mammau, for by these different names were the fairies known in different districts. this is what he tells us of their origin: "the following is the account related in wales of the origin of the fairies, and was told me by an individual from anglesey. in our saviour's time there lived a woman whose fortune it was to be possessed of near a score of children ... and as she saw our blessed lord approach her dwelling, being ashamed of being so prolific, and that he might not see them all, she concealed about half of them closely, and after his departure, when she went in search of them, to her surprise found they were all gone. they never afterwards could be discovered, for it was supposed that as a punishment from heaven, for hiding what god had given her, she was deprived of them; and, it is said, these her offspring have generated the race of beings called fairies." howells also mentions the interesting belief formerly prevailing in pembrokeshire and carmarthenshire concerning mysterious islands, inhabited by fairies, who "attended regularly the markets at milford haven and laugharne, bought in silence their meat and other necessaries, and leaving the money (generally silver pennies) departed, as if knowing what they would have been charged. they were sometimes visible and at other times invisible. the islands, which appeared to be beautifully and tastefully arranged, were seen at a distance from land, and supposed to be numerously peopled by an unknown race of beings. it was also imagined that they had a subterraneous passage from these islands to the towns." our author tells us that both cardiganshire and carmarthenshire were specially favoured by the tylwyth teg; he heard of them on the banks of the gwili (a tributary of the towy), where "they made excursions to the neighbouring farms to inspect the dairies, hearths, barn-floors, and the 'ystafell,'[ ] to reward the meritorious housemaid, and to punish the slut and sluggard. it is said they were not partial at all to the gospel, and that they left monmouthshire on account of there being so much preaching, praying to, and praising god, which were averse to their dispositions." [footnote : rooms.] it seems that there was a well-known tradition in carmarthenshire about one iago ap dewi, a man, howells tells us, of considerable talent, who translated the "pilgrim's progress" into welsh. he lived in the parish of llanllawddog, and "was considered a wonderful man and of great learning, as he spent the whole of his time in study and meditation; that he was absent from the neighbourhood for a long period, and the universal belief among the peasantry was, that iago got out of bed one night to gaze on the starry sky, as he was accustomed (astrology being one of his favourite studies), and whilst thus occupied the fairies, who were accustomed to resort to the neighbouring wood, passing by, carried him away, and he dwelt with them seven years. upon his return he was questioned by many as to where he had been, but he always avoided giving them a reply." howells afterwards goes on to say that others with whom he conversed related that "their parents credited the above story, and that they had no question of the existence of fairies and their wonderful exploits; but one mary shon crydd said that when a child she knew the daughter of iago ap dewi, and that she thought it very probable that he had been from home with some learned characters, but the superstition of the people led them to attribute his learning, &c., to the interference of the fairies." although it disposes of the fairy idea, "mary shon crydd's" explanation of iago's absence, though prosaic, was, i should think, the true one! but it is interesting to read of such a tradition being extant in days so comparatively near our own. all dwellers in the country are familiar with the appearance of "fairy rings," those curious and inexplicable circles that occur in the grass of meadows and lawns. no amount of mowing obliterates them, and probably nothing short of digging up or ploughing would get rid of them. in wales these odd patches seem to have ever been regarded with a mixture of fear and interest, as the undoubted haunts of the tylwyth teg, and were carefully shunned in consequence, especially after nightfall. howells says, regarding these rings, that "no beasts will eat of them, although some persons suppose that sheep will greedily devour the grass." he adds that he had a friend who told him that when he was a child he was always warned by his mother never to approach, much less enter, the rings, for they were enchanted ground, and anybody going near them was liable to be carried off by the fair folk. in connection with the fairies' practice of kidnapping human beings, there are many stories in "cambrian superstitions," most of which have one feature in common, namely, that when the people thus carried off returned to this upper world--in the cases where they did return, but that did not always happen--they always supposed they had been but a few moments absent, though the period had often run into years, as in iago ap dewi's case. giraldus cambrensis, in his "itinerary through wales," in the twelfth century, heard many marvels, and not the least of these was the tale of one elidorus, a priest, who in his youth had been carried off by the fairies, and by them held in captivity for many years. according to giraldus, he made some use of his time amongst them by learning their language, which he is said to have told the bishop of st. david's much resembled the greek idiom! i will now proceed with mr. lledrod davies' account of the tylwyth teg, as he heard of them in cardiganshire, not so very many years ago. * * * * * "in collecting and noting down these few tales from an older generation, it is useless to try and trace their source in the history of the old times before ours. it is enough for readers to know now that there were always 'little people' of that kind in wales, and that our ancestors were very sociable and friendly with them. i take the following tales from some i heard by word of mouth in the country of teify-side. "small of stature were the tylwyth teg, towards two feet in height, and their horses of the size of hares. fair of aspect were they, and very fine their clothing; their clothes were generally white, but on certain occasions they are said to have been seen dressed in green; their gait was lively, and ardent and loving was their glance. very mischievous if thwarted, kind and good-natured otherwise. and--speaking from the human point of view--they were thieves by inclination, and therefore it was considered rather dangerous to have them coming round houses, as they regarded all property as shared in common.... "they were peaceful and kindly amongst themselves, diverting in their tricks, and charming in their walk and dancing. they were good-natured to good-natured people, and hateful to those who hated them. they were subterranean people, therefore in the earth was their home. there were their country, their cities, and their castles, and there lived their king. and from thence they made their incursions into the earth-country, in some way that nobody can guess or know, nor is there any hope of any one ever knowing." * * * * * our author goes on to information about the fairy rings, and has two stories to relate of people who disappeared in them. the fairy rings a number of these rings are shown by the old people all through the country; i myself remember many of them. they were of various appearance; sometimes the circle was but small, again others were seen as large as a mill-wheel.... these rings were the places where the tylwyth teg came to dance on fine, bright nights. the circles were only to be seen on marshy meadow-ground, and sometimes on hay land. on a moonlight night was the time to see these rings, because then the fairy folk came out of their hiding-places to whirl and dance about; and so they may be seen until the son of the dawn[ ] opens his eyes and causes them to disappear. on the following morning the keen-eyed may see the mark of their feet on the meadow. the grass that surrounds the rings is thicker than the rest, because no animal will feed on the spot where the fairies have been. so these circles remained by day as the tylwyth teg had shaped them; and they were considered places it was best to keep away from, except in broad daylight while the owner of cattle was always alarmed if he saw his animals go near them. there was great danger in approaching the rings when the fair folk were dancing; for there was such magic in their melody, such allurement in their appearance, and such an attraction in their whirling, that it was impossible for any one who came near to resist their charm. if within their enchanted circle they could entice a handsome youth, or a pure maiden, nevermore would they be seen in this world. in some cases people have been kidnapped accidentally and against their will. [footnote : _i.e._, the sun.] such a one, and who lived with them for a year, was the servant of allt ddu. this farm stood half-way along the road between pontrhydyfendigaid and tregaron. it is said that this servant and another one left the house at dusk to look for some cattle--yearlings and two-year-olds--that had strayed that morning.... so, as was natural to do in such a case, one servant took one road and his companion the other, so as to be sure of coming across them. but after hours spent in searching, one of the men returned; how he found the cattle is not related, but at least they came back in safety. and as it was very late--indeed nearly morning--he felt anxious about the safety of his fellow-servant, as he was afraid some accident had befallen him in one of the bog-holes of gors goch. morning came but no servant, and not a sound of his footsteps returning. then inquiries were made, but no sign or syllable could be heard of him. days and weeks passed by, and now, doubt arose about his fate amongst his relations, for they began to suspect that his fellow-servant was the cause of his disappearance, and had murdered him and concealed his body. so the other labourers, night after night, accused the poor man of the crime; and though the young fellow protested his innocence in the most emphatic manner, yet appearances were against him; he could not satisfy their doubts, and a black mark stood against his name. at last, whatever happened, he determined to go to a "wise man" (a person of uncommon importance in those days) and ask him point-blank if he could tell what had happened. so he went, and laid the case before the "wise man," who told him that his companion was alive, but that a year and a day must elapse before they would see him again, and that then they must seek him at the very hour when he was lost. so, after weary waiting, a year and a day passed by, and the long-expected hour arrived. and then the missing man's family, with the servant at their head, betook themselves to the appointed glade; and there, to their amazement, whom should they see in the midst of a fairy ring, dancing as gaily and happily as any one, but the lost youth. then, according as the wise man had directed, his fellow-servant seized him by his coat collar and dragged him away, saying to him, "where hast thou been, lad?" the other replied, "hast thou got the cattle?" he thought he had been at that spot only two or three minutes. when it was explained to him that he had been in the fairy ring, and how he had been stolen by them, he said they had been such good company that he never supposed he had been more than a few minutes with them. and great was the joy at recovering the lost one. the maiden who was lost in a fairy ring i will only tax the reader's patience with two of the tales about these fairy rings, because we come across such tales in various forms all through the country. but the extraordinary case of the disappearance of the maiden in this story is excuse enough, i think, for introducing it into this book of memories. in an old farm on teify-side there lived a very respectable family; and in order to carry on the work of the farm briskly they kept both men and maid servants. on a certain evening a servant man and maid went out to fetch the cattle home for milking, and all of a sudden the man lost sight of the maid, and, although he searched and called, no sign of her or sound of her voice reached him. he went back with the cows, and told the family of the mysterious disappearance of the girl. from the evil reputation that the tylwyth teg had in those parts, it was decided to consult a "wise man" at once. away they went to him, and after answering the usual inquiries he said the girl had been snatched into the fairies' ring and that she was with them now. if they were careful they might get her back after a year and a day, if they would go to the appointed place at the proper time. all was done as the wise man directed, and great was their astonishment to perceive the maiden dancing away in the midst of the fair folk, and, as they were instructed, they seized and drew her out of the magic circle, happy and in good health. her master was told by the wise man to be careful never to touch her with iron after she was rescued. at first he was very particular about this, but as time went on they all got careless, and at last one day, just as she had dressed to go on an errand, he accidentally touched her with a horse's bridle; when, as suddenly as pulling a cat out of the fire, he entirely lost sight of the maid. he rushed off at once to the wise man for help, but was told that the girl was gone never to return. we may observe further, in this connection, that it was formerly supposed that the tylwyth teg always hovered round about dwelling-houses watching people, especially at night. and in all likelihood, according to this story, they had kept an eye on the maiden ever since she was taken away from them. the time of their dancing the fairies' dancing took place when spring began, and continued throughout the summer. but spring, as a rule, was the season of their merriment, and at that time children would be lost, yes, and people of full age too. readers will surely have heard these tales of children being stolen and returning again after some years; of the frequent visitation by the tylwyth teg of families in a neighbourhood, of their boldness as winter began, and their anger if every family were not careful to put money, food, and such things in convenient places near the hearth, so that when the fairies came they could take what they wanted without difficulty. they required great cleanliness of every woman and girl they met with. if care was not taken in these respects, their curse was sure to fall on the family, in years to come. night was the time when they visited the earth, and from midnight till morning they enjoyed themselves frolicking about hay-fields and marsh-lands. they were very sociable beings. so much so that it was with difficulty they were got rid of once they got their heads into the houses of any neighbourhood. the only way to get rid of them was to throw rusty iron at them. to do this was like spitting in the face of god, the greatest insult you could hurl at them. away they went at once, never to return except for deeds of vengeance.... it may be observed, amongst their other characteristics, that they only inhabited certain parts of the country. the neighbourhood of swydd ffynon was especially distinguished by them. all around there would be seen the "rings" on every fine morning in spring and summer, while other parts of wales were entirely ignorant of these fairy circles, and never a sign or sight of them was to be had. the fairy ointment in the quiet village of swydd ffynon there lived an old woman who died about twenty years ago, when drawing near her hundredth year. she was very fond of old stories; in a word, she simply lived on them. she was in her element when relating ancient tales of the adventures of the welsh folk, and according to her they were full of adventures in those days. and amongst others, she told the following story about her grandmother: this grandmother when young, seems to have been a pious and thoughtful person, very fond of the society of invisible beings, and the inhabitants of the spirit-world. also, by some means or other, she got into communication with the fair folk, and became great friends with them; her hearth became a kind of rendezvous for them; and so faithful was she to them that she thoroughly gained their favour and confidence, such a thing as seldom happens to human beings. so fond of her were they that they invited her to go with them to one of their palaces under the earth, to which she heartily consented. when she got there she found herself in the most beautiful and stately house her eyes had ever seen; in truth, never had she imagined such a place was possible. how she went there she did not know; all she knew was that she had left the earth country, and was now an inhabitant of a region she had not dreamed could exist; but she went there and returned in some way entirely unknown to herself. at last one day she found herself summoned to the fairy country on an errand as nurse to the wife of one of their princes, who lived in a palace magnificent to a degree that exceeds earthly language to express. there were splendid ornaments, costly pearls, a golden pavement, partitions hung with silks of varying hue, and the garments of the people all changing white and blue. indeed the old woman was puzzled to describe the splendours of the house, clothes and so on. there was installed the nurse, and her charge, the fairy infant, slept on a bed of down, with coverings of the finest lawn. everything she wanted was complete and at hand. the nurse was amazed at such perfection, and astonished that a person like herself should have been summoned by such princely people. while tending the baby night and morning, she had to anoint him with a certain ointment. when this ointment was given her, she was told to be careful not to let it touch the eyes, as it was injurious and even destructive to the sight. at first her fear of the ointment caused her to be very careful in using it, but as time went by she grew forgetful. so in a little while, as she was anointing the infant one day, something accidentally tickled her eye, and at once her hand, faithful to its owner, went up to the eye and rubbed it gently. immediately it was as if a veil fell from her eyes, and she began to see things a thousand times more wonderful than before. in the course of the day she saw many a marvellous and splendid vision. she saw the fair folk quite plainly, little men and women, going and coming through the palace, and carrying presents of every kind to her lady. no lack of dainties was brought her, the purest kindness and affection were displayed. later on, when undressing the child, she remarked to the princess on the number of visitors she had had that day. "how do you know that?" asked the princess, "have you anointed your eyes with the ointment?" and in the flash of an eyelid she leapt from her couch, and striking one hand with the other, she blew on the nurse's eyes, which immediately lost sight of the enchanted surroundings, and though she tried hard in future days, nevermore did she see the princess, or any of the fair family or their doings. and so, without knowing how, she found herself by her own fireside at home, just as usual, and that was the last of her stories about the tylwyth teg. and i also leave them here, for though i could add other stories to these i have noted, i have written enough about them now. i knew the old woman who told this story, and she always insisted she was the grandchild of the fairies' nurse, and, moreover, was very proud of the fact, and not without cause either. * * * * * i should have mentioned earlier that in translating mr. lledrod davies' tales, i have left the names of places exactly as he had them. where they are filled in they are the real ones, several of them places i know. it will be noticed that he often makes use of the expression "teify-side." now that name we generally apply to the district of the lower teify, lying more or less between the towns of llandyssil and cardigan. but from what mr. davies says, he evidently includes in this term all the upper valley of the teify too, which rises in the hills not many miles away from his native village, and most of his stories are located more or less in that neighbourhood. it is, or was until late years, a remote and lonely district, backed by the wild moors of the ellineth mountains, that to this day look as if they might be the last refuge of all the fairies, ghosts, and goblins of wales. with these mountain wastes behind, and the gloomy stretch of the great tregaron bog before them, is it any wonder that the imaginative celtic inhabitants of pontrhydyfendigaid and the surrounding hamlets saw, and wished to see, evidences of the supernatural in almost every unimportant coincidence? to them it came natural to believe in those "faery elves, whose midnight revels, by a forest-side, or fountain, some belated peasant sees, or dreams he sees, while overhead the moon sits arbitress." george borrow tells us that when he was walking through cardiganshire, he came one evening to a large sheet of water not far from tregaron. he must needs find out the name of this little lake, and therefore knocked at the door of a cottage that happened to be close by, in order to ask the information. a woman opened the door, of whom borrow seems to have asked a great many tiresome questions, after his usual habit; but this time he elicited the curious information from his victim that a fairy cow was supposed to live in the lake, a "water-cow, that used to come out at night, and eat people's clover in the fields." that odd tradition was living only sixty years ago, which is interesting to think of. now i have told the little i have been able to gather about the tylwyth teg and their ways, and so we will bid them farewell, and turn to more serious subjects. chapter viii wise men, witches, and family curses "wizards that peep and that mutter." when reading a provincial daily paper a few days ago, i came across the following paragraph: "although the school-master has been abroad in wales for quite a long time, the belief in witchcraft still lingers here and there, and cropped up yesterday in an assault case at aberavon, where one woman accused another of 'marking her house with a criss-cross to bewitch her.'" it seems curious to read these words in the twentieth century, and it is hard to realise that a very few generations ago the woman who had put the "criss-cross" on her neighbour's house would have stood a very good chance of losing her life by being ducked by the mob for a witch, if indeed legal proceedings had not been taken against her. as late as the year the great judge, sir matthew hale, presided at the trial which resulted in the condemnation and hanging of two poor women as witches, and the last execution of the kind took place in when three other wretched women were executed at exeter for the same offence, on their own confession. and the statute against witchcraft passed under james the first was not repealed until the reign of george the second, though by that time it was indeed practically a dead letter. mental progress and education have since done their part in abolishing that panic fear of witchcraft which, supported by a bad law, caused the persecution and death of so many innocent persons for more than a century; but that belief--genuine if surreptitious--in the powers of "wise" men and women still lingers in the minds of the people in the west country, one need only live in wales for a few years to find out. nor must one feel too scornful of such "superstition" when one recollects how palmists, clairvoyants, and crystal-gazers flourish in london and every other city on the payments of hundreds of well-educated and enlightened people. "oh, a pack of silly women with more money than sense," you may exclaim. to which i reply, "not at all," if the testimony of a most respectable fortune-teller who was once well known to me can be believed. according to her, quite a number of her clients belonged to the sterner (and we presume) more sensible sex, and my own observation has also led me to conclude that men on the whole are quite as much tempted to peer into futurity as women are, only naturally they think it their duty to pretend indifference on such matters! still, however that may be, the bond street fortune-teller, with whom one makes a solemn appointment, and who never "looks at a hand" under a guinea, is nevertheless but a witch, belonging to the same ancient guild as the unkempt old woman who lives in a hovel on the sea-shore near a certain little town in cardiganshire. this particular old woman has quite a local reputation as a witch--even attaining to the fame of having her portrait on a postcard--and is much resorted to by summer visitors who wish to have their fortunes told. but cardiganshire, especially the northern part, has always been a stronghold of belief in witches and wise men, and their supposed powers of putting a "curse" on the persons or property of those who annoyed them. there is a story told of an old woman who had the reputation of being a witch in a lonely district of the wild hills of north cardiganshire. she was on the road one day, when the doctor came riding along in great haste, whom she tried to detain. but he, either not understanding what she wanted, or unwilling to stop, urged his horse forward, somewhat roughly bidding the old crone begone. shrieking after him, she told him to beware, "as she would lay a curse upon his horse," which threat he soon forgot, and after visiting his patient returned home in safety. that night, however, dr. g. was roused from his sleep by the groom, who asked him to come out at once to the horse, as it seemed to be very ill. to make the story short, the poor animal died in a few hours' time, nor could its owner ever determine the nature of its extraordinary attack, as it was apparently perfectly well when stabled for the night. but the coincidence between the horse's death and the witch's words was certainly striking. i am reminded of another and quite modern instance of a welsh witch's curse, though to avoid localisation i will not say exactly where she lived in the principality. her father was cowman at a house called fairview, inhabited by a family called trower. mr. trower possessed a rather savage bull, which one day broke loose, charged all who tried to catch him, and finally, sad to relate, gored and killed the poor cowman. he had lived in a cottage on the estate, and nothing could exceed the kindness and sympathy shown by the trower family to his daughter in her bereavement. we will call her patty jones. after a decent interval had elapsed, mr. trower gave the woman notice to quit, as the cottage was wanted for somebody else. although every indulgence regarding the notice was given, and continual consideration shown, patty, being a woman of violent and ungrateful temper, took the matter very badly. she refused to go, and was eventually evicted, and her goods sold. it is said that meeting mr. trower on the road one day, she took the occasion to call down the wrath of heaven upon him and his family, and made no secret afterwards of having "put a curse" upon her benefactors, for such indeed the trowers had shown themselves. whether it is ever really given to any human being so to blast the lives of fellow-creatures or not, one cannot tell. but it is certain that this particular family thereafter appeared for some years to be singled out by fate for more than their fair share of ill-luck, though, to avoid recognition, further details must not be given here. at the sale of her goods a man named morgan happened to buy patty jones's cow. whereupon she told him she would "put a curse" on the animal, so that "he would never get any good from her." sure enough, soon afterwards the cow sickened with a mysterious complaint, which defied the skill of the local "cow-doctor." so morgan, advised by his neighbours, went to seek counsel of a "white witch," who gave him a charm which she said would cure the cow. "and now," she added, "wouldn't you like me to put a curse on that woman? because i can if you wish it." but morgan magnanimously replied, "oh, no. _i do not wish_ her any harm whatever," and departed with his charm and cured his cow. it would be interesting to know the nature of this "charm," whether it was a written form of incantation, or something of the nature of a medicine. mr. henderson, whose interesting book on folk-lore i have already quoted, tells us of a piece of silver at lockerby in dumfries-shire, called the lockerby penny, which was used against madness in cattle. it was put into a cleft stick, and the water of a well stirred round with it, after which the water was bottled off and given to any animal so afflicted. in other districts certain pebbles and stones are supposed to have the same magic property. some welsh witches are said to treat their patients with sulphur, a remedy which i think savours more of "black magic" than "white." it seems that a favourite trick of north cardiganshire witches was to "put a spell" on the pigs of any neighbour who annoyed them, making the poor animals _pranking_ mad (as my informant expressed it). and nothing would cure this madness till the witch had been fetched, and (doubtless for a consideration) consented to remove the spell. however, belief in the powers of "wise" men and women is now chiefly confined to their abilities as healers, and in this capacity they are still resorted to in the more remote districts of cardiganshire. the cure--whatever the malady--appears to be always the same, and is called "measuring the wool." the witch takes two pieces of yarn--scarlet for choice--of exactly the same length. one of these is bound round the wrist or leg of the patient; the other is worn in the same way by the healer. the patient goes home, and after a few days the witch measures her own piece of yarn. if it has shrunk from the original length, well and good; the yarn continues to grow shorter (so it is said) and the patient recovers. but if on the contrary the yarn grows perceptibly slacker, the patient gets worse and will surely die. the person who told me about the bewitched pigs had also much to say regarding this practice of "measuring the yarn." she declared that quite lately a friend of hers, a young man, who was very ill with "decline" and for whom ordinary doctors could do nothing, went at last to consult a "wise woman" in the parish of eglwysfach[ ] in north cardiganshire. she measured the yarn for him, and he immediately began to recover and is now well and working at the business which ill-health had forced him to leave. in this case faith must have been a strong factor towards recovery. but "i cannot tell how the truth may be; i say the tale as 'twas said to me." [footnote : "eglwysfach" is the real name, and in "welsh folk-lore" mr. owen relates a case of "measuring the yarn" in the same village, where the custom seems to have been long prevalent and firmly believed in. his account of the charming for a case of "clefyd y galon" (or heart-sickness) is worth quoting. the patient was bidden to roll his sleeves up above the elbow, then "mr. jenkins (a respectable farmer and deacon amongst the wesleyans) took a yarn thread and placing one end on the elbow measured to the tip of felix's (the patient) middle finger, then he tells his patient to take hold of the yarn at one end, the other end resting the while on the elbow, and he was to take fast hold of it, and stretch it. this he did and the yarn lengthened, and this was a sign he was actually sick of heart-disease. then the charmer tied the yarn around the patient's left arm above the elbow, and there it was left, and in the next visit measured again, and he was pronounced cured."] only a year ago, in my own district, i heard of a young girl being taken to the local "wise man" to have "her wool measured," but in her case the charm does not seem to have worked well, as though she did not die, she is still ailing. another wizard, who died only last year, was an old man who lived at trawscoed in cardiganshire. he also worked cures with scarlet worsted, and enjoyed a great local reputation. the use of scarlet wool as a charm is of great antiquity, and is supposed to be originally derived from the practices of the magicians of babylon. and according to theocritus, the greek maidens used it as a charm to bring back faithless lovers. mr. elworthy, in his book on the "evil eye," refers to the ancient use made of coloured yarn in incantations, quoting from petronius: "she then took from her bosom a web of twisted threads of various colours, and bound it on my neck." in south wales, as in many other districts, witches were supposed to have the power of transforming themselves into hares. especially, as i have said before, was this superstition rife in north cardiganshire, and there to this day, any hare that has white about it is called "a witch hare," and it is held very unlucky to kill it, while until quite lately incidents such as the following were freely repeated and firmly believed among the shepherds, small farmers, and miners who composed the scanty population of those lonely hills. one day, the story goes, a funeral party was proceeding from the deceased's house towards the churchyard, when suddenly a hare was seen running just ahead of the procession. nobody took much notice of it at first, thinking it had merely been disturbed from its form, and would probably soon disappear on one side of the road or the other. there was neither hedge nor fence to prevent its doing so, for the road was only a mountain track, which the hare might have left at any moment to seek cover among the heather and fern of the hill-side. but this it did not do; to the astonishment of all, the animal, apparently not a whit frightened by the people behind, held steadily on its way. sometimes, of course, owing to its swiftness, it would be lost to view for a few moments, but always a turn of the way would bring it in sight again, and so it led the procession to the burial-ground. then on a sudden it vanished as mysteriously as it had appeared. for no man could say what direction it took; only that at one moment it was there in plain view of all, and at the next it was gone. and after that, nobody present doubted that the creature was no hare, but a witch in that shape, who, scenting the approach of death, had added her noisome presence to the crowd of mourners, until their arrival on consecrated ground had forced her to fly. there is a tale belonging to the same district--roughly speaking--of which i have unfortunately only heard the vague outlines, but the incident is worth relating even without details, as it seems extraordinary in whatever way it is explained. on a certain day, not very many years ago, a hare was hunted somewhere in the hill-country bordering the shires of montgomery and cardigan. from all accounts, never was better sport seen; the animal was game to the last, and by many a twist and turn managed to cheat its pursuers. at last, however, it appeared exhausted; the hounds closed in, and the hunters, immediately behind, saw them hurl themselves upon their quarry. the huntsman hastened forward, and every one pressed round to see the gallant animal which had given such a splendid run. but where was the hare? whimpers and yelps of disappointment from the hounds proclaimed that their prey had escaped, but the question was, how? no hare that ever lived could have eluded the hounds as they fairly threw themselves upon her, but still the fact remained, "puss" had disappeared, vanishing somehow in the very onslaught of tearing, eager hounds, and before the eyes of several spectators. of course the story in the country has ever been that a "witch hare" was hunted that day, and "every one knows" that nothing but a silver bullet can destroy a witch. the belief that only a silver bullet can harm a witch is illustrated in my next story. it was related to me by the rector of a certain parish in pembrokeshire, who said that though the people it concerned had been dead some years, the incident was still repeated with conviction by the country-folk of the district. there was an old woman living in the village of llaw----n who was supposed to be a witch and to have the power of changing herself into a hare. it was asserted that she had often been seen in this guise, and several persons tried on various occasions to shoot the uncanny beast. but no shot would touch it. however, "john the smith" was a cunning man, and one day he loaded his gun with a silver sixpence in lieu of shot, and went out to look for the "witch hare." presently he came across it in a field, and then--bang! went his gun. instantly the poor animal made off, but the sixpence had evidently found its mark, for as the hare ran it trailed a hind leg behind it. still, lame as it was, it managed to elude the smith, and, turning in the direction of the village, disappeared. but that evening john went to the house of 'liza the witch, and, knocking at the door, cried, "how be'st thou, 'liza?" "john, john, thou very well knowest how i be," was the reply. nor would she allow him to enter. then john the smith went home well satisfied that he had done what no one else had been able to do, and had wounded the "witch hare." apropos of this belief in a witch's powers of self-transformation, a rather curious incident came under my notice in my own neighbourhood some few months ago. two gentlemen were partridge-shooting, and in the course of their walk the path they followed should have led them through the garden of a somewhat lonely cottage inhabited by an old woman. this woman was known to be very unpopular with her neighbours, in consequence, it was supposed, of a quarrelsome disposition. when the shooters reached this cottage, they found, to their surprise, that the gate by which they usually passed through the premises was fastened with a padlock. a shout produced the old woman from the house, who hastened to let them through, apologising profusely for the padlock, but saying she had been obliged to lock her gate, because "the boys were so bad to her. look," she added, pointing to the end wall of her cottage, "that is what they did to me last night." and there, nailed to the wall, was a black rabbit. one of the gentlemen, to cheer her, said jokingly, "oh, that's nothing. a black rabbit! isn't that lucky?" "no," was the answer, "not lucky; very bad luck, and they knew that very well." to any one conversant with cardiganshire superstitions, there is no doubt that the nailing up of the black rabbit was intended to signify that the inhabitant of the house was a witch. true, the animal should have been a hare, but the ground game act having caused hares to become almost extinct in this district, the perpetrators of the insult took the best substitute they could find in the shape of the black rabbit, well knowing that its sinister significance would not be lost on the poor old woman. to return for a moment to the pembrokeshire village we have already mentioned, llaw----n, where there is a beautiful ruin of a castle, most picturesquely situated on the edge of a wooded cliff overhanging the river cleddau. in olden times this castle was a place of great importance as a palace of the bishops of st. david's, some of whom, it is said, preferred its strong, well-fortified walls to their splendid palace in the episcopal city. and in llaw----n castle there was once imprisoned a celebrated witch, tanglost ferch glyn, against whom the reigning prelate, bishop john morgan, had taken proceedings for some rather serious offence, and whom he pronounced "accursed," or, in other words, excommunicated. after escaping once from custody, and being rearrested, tanglost made submission, and (we presume) did penance, and was at length released, though banished from the diocese of st. david's. thereupon she betook herself to bristol, where, engaging the services of another witch, one margaret hackett, she endeavoured to "distrew" her enemy the bishop by witchcraft. after a time, tanglost ventured to return to pembrokeshire, and at a certain house[ ] (still well known and inhabited), "in a chambre called paradise chambre," made, with hackett's help, two waxen images for injuring the bishop. two images not being powerful enough to do the work, tanglost and her coadjutor called in the aid of a third party, "which they thought hadde more counynge and experience than they had, and made the iiird ymage to distrew the bishop." however, not only did the prelate continue to live and flourish, but, as was inevitable, knowledge of these sinister designs reached his ears, and tanglost, with her two assistants, was summoned to appear for judgment before the prior of monckton, who held jurisdiction in her neighbourhood. escaping for the moment, she again fled to bristol, but was there reached by the long arm of the church, and arrested on a charge of heresy. four doctors of divinity considered her case, and handed her over to the bishop for punishment, which would probably have meant being burnt as a witch in the market-place, if fate had not again interfered through the efforts of her friends, who caused tanglost to be arrested on an accusation of debt, bailed her successfully out of prison, and rescued her from the bishop's emissaries. then a bill in chancery was filed against her, praying that the mayor and sheriffs of the city of bristol should be ordered to arrest her, and bring her before the king in chancery. but to make a long story short, tanglost, who seems to have been a woman of infinite resource, managed once more to evade this fresh danger, and it is to be supposed eventually died in her bed, in spite of her unlawful traffic with witchcraft. her persecutor, bishop john morgan, held the see of st. david's from to , and reference to the chancery proceedings against tanglost are to be found at the record office under "early chancery proceedings." [footnote : perhaps this house had an ancient reputation for possessing an atmosphere suitable for such "works of darkness." for giraldus cambrensis, writing three hundred years before the time of tanglost, mentions it as being haunted by an unclean spirit which "conversed with men, and in reply to their taunts upbraided them openly with everything they had done from their birth, and which they were not willing should be known by others ... the priests themselves, though protected by the crucifix or the holy water, on devoutly entering the house were equally subject to the same insults...."] the practice of making waxen images of the person to be injured is of immemorial antiquity. we read in professor maspero's "dawn of civilisation" about the egyptian magicians that "to compose an irresistible charm they merely required a little blood from a person, a few nail-parings, some hair, or a scrap of linen which he had worn, and which from contact with his skin had become impregnated with his personality. portions of these were incorporated with the wax of a doll which they modelled and clothed to resemble their victim. thenceforward all the inflictions to which the image was subjected were experienced by the original; he was consumed with fever when his effigy was exposed to the fire, he was wounded when the figure was pierced with a knife. the pharaohs themselves had no immunity from these spells." nor need we go back as far as the pharaohs to find witches and wizards making use of effigies for the undoing of their enemies. according to mr. elworthy, from whose interesting book on the "evil eye" i have already quoted, such images and figures were used in quite modern times by "witches" among the somersetshire peasants, and dried pigs' and sheeps' hearts studded with pins have been found in old cottages in that county dedicated to the same malevolent purpose. onions were also sometimes used in the same way. a lady, who lived many years in a rural parish of somerset, also told me only a few months ago that she had there known several people who were supposed to be witches, and had seen hanging in their chimneys, dried animals' hearts, stuck full of pins, intended to injure their own or other people's enemies. a well-known "white witch" lives and flourishes to-day in the village of t----n, in south pembrokeshire. some most interesting particulars concerning her were sent me a few weeks ago, by a correspondent in that county. my friend wrote: "an old man, david evans, (no relation to the witch) ... who has worked ... for thirty years, 'failed,' as they say in pembrokeshire, some time ago, and has done no work for seventeen weeks. he has had medical advice and medicine, but with no satisfactory results.... he took it into his head that he would consult the 'charmer.' i was on my way to visit him and his wife, when i met mr. blank's bailiff, pike, who told me he had sent him to t----n that very day, and that i should only find the wife at home.... when i got to the house i found the old man had returned.... he told me whom he had been to see, and i naturally wanted to know all about it. the following is what he told me: "'when i got to gwen davies'[ ] house, i told her about myself, and how long i had been ill, and that i had seen the doctor and had bottles of physic and was no better. she made me sit down in a chair and she laid eleven little pieces of straw on the table; then she took a long straw and waved it several times round my head; having done this she went to the table and removed one of the little bits of straw to another part of the table. when this was done she came back to me and repeated the waving of the long straw, and so on till all the eleven little bits of straw had been removed from where they had been put at the beginning.' [footnote : the witch's name and that of her patient are of course changed.] "i asked whether the 'charmer' had said anything during this performance. 'she mumbled something each time she was at the table, but i could not make out the words.' "i inquired then, 'what did she say to you when this was over?' "david evans replied that she said that he would recover, but that it would be a long time.... "'what advice did she give you as to what you should eat, drink, and avoid?' "'eat all you can get,' she told him, 'but no doctor's stuff, and no drink.' my last inquiry was, 'did you give her anything?' "'no,' said the old man, 'she would take nothing.' i think i may safely say this is a properly authenticated narrative." to this account my friend a few days later added the following postscript. "to add something to my last letter. i met our archdeacon ... on friday, and was telling him about the 'white witch of t----n'; he had heard of her when he was vicar of l----n; his account of her proceedings is slightly different from what i wrote to you;--the little bits of straw are more than eleven, and she moves them, not on a table, but on two chairs, transferring them from one to the other; and what the old man described as 'mumbling' is that she repeats passages from the bible. this latter fact connects, in my mind, her 'hanky-panky' with the old ceremony of 'touching' for the king's evil." the slight discrepancy in the details of the witch's proceedings in nowise detracts from the central, most interesting fact, that such professional "charmers" should be still resorted to in the rural districts of wales by invalids having apparently every faith in their ability to work cures. it was the rector of llaw----n who kindly gave me many particulars of a very famous "wise man" known as harries of caio. these are real names; caio is a parish in carmarthenshire, and my clerical friend had formerly been vicar there, though subsequent to harries' death, which occurred some years ago. but he is well remembered and talked of in the country, and if all tales told of him are true he must have possessed considerable psychic powers, which in these days would by no means be thought supernatural by enlightened people, but which thirty or forty years ago would most certainly have impressed and awed an ignorant peasantry. harries is described as a fine-looking man with a long beard and remarkably bushy eyebrows. he would occasionally tramp the country, carrying an enormous volume of astrological lore under his arm, leather-bound, with a strong lock attached. this, he said, was to prevent ignorant people reading the charms contained in the book, and thereby raising evil spirits. although often consulted as a healer it was on his powers as a seer or prophet that harries' fame chiefly rested. if any one had a relation ill or in trouble, he would go to the wizard and ask what his friend's fate would be. harries then put himself into a trance, and when he came out of it would say, "i am sorry for you, but your friend will die," or "he will recover," as the case might be. but the most interesting story connected with harries of caio, and one which the rector of llaw----n had heard on excellent authority, is as follows: a certain man in carmarthenshire started one day to walk over the hills to breconshire on some farming business. he did not return when expected; time went by, and his friends became alarmed and made inquiries, but to no purpose; nothing could be heard about him. at last the police were called in, but they were equally unsuccessful, and after many weeks had passed without news of the missing man, his relations determined as a last resource to apply to the wizard of caio. so a deputation of them went to his house, and having stated the purpose of their visit were told by harries that he could give them the information they sought. "but," he added solemnly and with great feeling, "i am sorry to tell you that your friend is no longer alive. if you cross the mountain between llandovery and brecon your path will lead you past a ruined house, and near that house there is a large and solitary tree. dig at the foot of that tree and you will find him whom you seek." these words of gloomy import only crystallised the feelings of vague foreboding already in the minds of the inquirers, who, after a short consultation, determined to test the truth of the wizard's information. a small party was formed, who proceeded, according to the seer's directions, along the lonely track that led over the mountain to brecon, the way by which it was known their friend had intended to travel. after a while they came to a ruined cottage, with a large tree close by--landmarks probably known to most of them. dead leaves covered the ground beneath the tree, but on raking these aside it was at once seen that the earth had been lately disturbed, and on digging deep below harries' words were sadly verified by the searchers, who did indeed discover the body of their friend. that a crime had been committed was abundantly clear, but by whom has remained a mystery to this day, nor was any ordinary explanation ever sufficient to account for harries' extraordinary information on the subject, all inquiry--and also his high character--precluding the most remote suspicion of his being in any way connected with such a misdeed. after harries' death his "magic books" were sold, and are now in the possession of the registrar of the welsh university college at aberystwith. mention of llandovery reminds me of a celebrated "curse story" connected with cardiganshire, but which has been so often the theme of abler pens than mine that i shall do little more than refer to it here. briefly it is this. in the seventeenth century, maesyfelin hall, a large house some few miles from lampeter, was the centre of hospitality and culture in cardiganshire. judge marmaduke lloyd, owner of the house and great estates, was universally known and respected in south wales, counting among his intimate friends the well-known vicar pritchard of llandovery, whose book, "canwyll y cymru" (the welshman's candle), is still much prized for its quaintly pious teaching by all religious welsh people. this clergyman had a son, samuel, who seems to have been a frequent and welcome visitor at maesyfelin, until a day came when a terrible tragedy occurred. the young man's body, bearing evidence that he had been foully done to death, was found floating in the river teify, and dark must have been the suspicions of his grief-stricken parent when he could pen words such as the following, fraught with deadly enmity towards his former friends: "the curse of god on maesyfelin fall, on root of every tree, on stone of wall, because the flower of fair llandovery town, was headlong cast in teivi's flood to drown." or in the original welsh: "melldith duw ar maesyfelin ar bob carreg, dan bob gwreiddyn, am daflu blodeu tref llandyfri ar ei ben i deifi i foddi." tradition asserts that samuel pritchard met his death in some brawl arising from the discovery of his persistence in some prohibited love affair; but the whole story rests on the most slender evidence, and beyond the fact that he lost his life by violence, somewhere between lampeter and llandovery, there is nothing to prove that the family of maesyfelin had any share at all in the dark deed. however, not many generations passed before it seemed as if the vicar's words had indeed taken effect, for after sir marmaduke's death, the estate of maesyfelin was gradually weakened by the extravagance of his descendants, and finally what was left of the land passed through marriage into the possession of the lloyds of peterwell in the year . maesyfelin hall was left empty, and time and neglect have most literally fulfilled to the letter the curse pronounced by vicar pritchard nearly three hundred years ago. not an unusual history, and one that might probably be true of many an old and extinct family in great britain. but in cardiganshire the reverses and final extinction of the lloyds of maesyfelin were always ascribed to the effect of the pious vicar's malison. oddly enough, that curse seemed to follow the name of lloyd, for the family of peterwell had no better luck with the maesyfelin estates than the original owners. at the death of john lloyd of peterwell, his great property, including maesyfelin, went to his brother herbert, who was made a baronet in , and sat in parliament for seven years. he was a man of extravagant tastes and imperious temper, and seems to have ruled like a dictator in his own neighbourhood. many and interesting are the tales still told of him and his ways, and the manner of his death and burial were as sensational as his career through life might lead one to expect. but all that is "another story," and here it is sufficient to say that, sir herbert lloyd dying deeply in debt and without descendants, his heavily mortgaged lands passed to strangers and were divided, while his great house of peterwell, with its "four gilded domes," became, like maesyfelin, a ruin, of which only the broken walls remain to tell of former splendours. and the famous curse, having fulfilled its end, is now forgotten, or remembered in the district only as an interesting tradition. a scotch friend once told me of a curse that had been laid upon her own family by three highlanders. these men were implicated in the ' rebellion, and were handed over to the duke of cumberland by an ancestor of my friend, a man whose sympathies were hanoverian, and the owner of considerable property. the highlanders were duly condemned and executed, but before they died they solemnly cursed their enemy, prophesying that his descendants in the third generation should not possess an acre of land. this prophecy was fulfilled to the letter; and my friend tells me that a relation of hers has talked with a very old woman who came from the same part of the country, and who spoke of the curse and its origin as well-known facts. connected with this subject of family curses is a story i heard not long ago, of a certain country house in one of the eastern counties. on the landing of the principal staircase of this house there might be seen, a few years since, a glass case covered by a curtain, which, if drawn, revealed the waxen effigy of a child, terribly wasted and emaciated, lying on her side as if asleep. it was described to me as so realistic as to be quite horrible, and it is apparent that some very strong reason must have existed for keeping so unpleasant an object in such a thoroughfare of the house. its history is this. some generations ago, the wife of the owner of the place died, leaving motherless a little girl. the father soon married again, giving his child a cruel stepmother, who, in her husband's absence from home, so ill-treated and starved the poor little girl that very soon after her father's return she died. it is said that the facts of his wife's cruelty reached the father's ears, and in order that he might punish her with perpetual remorse, he had a wax model made of his child exactly as she appeared in death, and placed it conspicuously on the staircase landing, where his wife must see it whenever she went up or down stairs. he further directed in his will that the model should never be removed from its place, adding that if it were, _a curse_ should fall on house and family. so, covered in later years by a curtain, the effigy remained until a day arrived in quite recent times, when the family then in possession were giving a dance, and for some reason had the case containing the wax-work carried downstairs and put in an outhouse. but mark what happened. that very night occurred a shock of earthquake violent enough to cause part of the house to fall down! very likely mere coincidence; but as it _might_ have been the working of the curse consequent on the removal of the case, it was thought advisable to restore the grisly relic to its former position, where, as far as my informant knew, it may be seen to this day. chapter ix odd notes "plain and more plain, the unsubstantial sprite to his astonish'd gaze each moment grew; ghastly and gaunt, it reared its shadowy height, of more than mortal seeming to the view, and round its long, thin, bony fingers drew a tatter'd winding-sheet, of course _all white_." in that very interesting book, "john silence," mr. algernon blackwood remarks that cats seem to possess a peculiar affinity for the unknown, and that while dogs are invariably terrified by anything in the nature of occult phenomena, cats, on the contrary, are soothed and pleased. perhaps that is why cats have so often figured in history and fiction as companions of sorcerers and witches; and perhaps it was a knowledge of their occult sympathies that helped to render these animals sacred to the ancient egyptians. these are only speculations, but there is no doubt that cats are, in fact, queer and sphinx-like creatures; capable moreover of inspiring an extraordinary dread and dislike (quite out of proportion to their size and character) in some people. it is said that lord roberts, bravest of generals, cannot stand the sight of a cat. i have known personally at least two people who have the same loathing and fear; and one of these individuals can tell if a cat is anywhere near without either seeing or hearing it; and i have seen this exemplified when my friend has been assured--in good faith--that there was not a cat in the house, much less in the room. but on search being made a cat was found--though no one knew how it got there. and this curious instance of perception by some "sixth sense" reminds me of an odd thing i was told about a man who, until quite lately, was employed as a verger in ely cathedral. this man, in some unknown way, could always tell if there were any person in the cathedral, although he could neither see, feel, nor hear them. it is said that this extraordinary faculty was tested over and over again, but the verger was never mistaken. but to return to our friend puss; another of her funny characteristics is, that she always seems to seek out the people who dislike her, and appears to desire their friendship, contrary to her usual habit with strangers, with whom she is generally coy and repellent. altogether it is not difficult to credit cats with some degree of psychic power, and probably few of us would object to their comfortable tabbies or languid persians seeing ghosts and spirits if they are able to. but when it comes to a cat being itself a ghost, the idea is somehow horribly uncanny. yet i know a lady who for a long while occupied a house in dublin where there was a ghost cat. i had heard a vague rumour of this, and much interested, i wrote to miss m----n for information. she replied (dated october , ): "with regard to my 'ghost cat' i have no story to tell, or cause for its appearance. for some time my sister and i were the only people who saw it, but of late my niece, and also different friends i have had staying with me, have also seen it. it is always just walking under a table or chair when seen, which may account for neither its head nor front portion of its body ever having been seen. it is coal-black. for many years when it used to appear, i had no black cat, but have had one now for some time, so don't notice the ghost one so much, as we don't bother to notice whether it is the real or the supernatural, but know for a fact it has been seen several times this year. i am sorry i can't give you any further details, but not being a believer in ghosts, i am afraid i pay very little attention to my friendly cat." one would like to know the _raison d'être_ of that little feline spectre, and there is doubtless some story connected with it that would account for its presence could we but look back far enough into the histories of former tenants of the house. but in a city or town, strange happenings connected with any particular family are more quickly forgotten than in the country, where such traditions are apt to linger far longer in the memories of the local inhabitants. in a town, one is told "such and such a house is haunted"; but if you ask why and how haunted, you will generally meet with "i don't know" in reply. whereas in the country, if a house acquires a "haunted" reputation, there is mostly chapter and verse for its particular kind of ghost, and often a story told to account for the haunting. but ghostly dogs are, to my mind, quite as unpleasant as ghostly cats, and there is something very disagreeable, i think, about the following experience of a person whom we will temporarily christen mr. archer. he was a youngish man of strongly psychic temperament, and in the intervals of business was accustomed to dabble pretty freely in occult matters of all kinds. it happened once that he went to stay in a large northern city, where he had some spiritualist friends, and one evening he and these people arranged to hold a séance. forgetting all about such a mundane affair as dinner, they "sat" for hours, but with no result; they could get no manifestations, and at last gave up the attempt, archer returning weary and disappointed to his hotel. it was then very late, so going to his room, he locked the door, and proceeded to get ready for bed. suddenly he heard a very queer noise--a sort of rustling and scrambling; and as he turned quickly to see where it came from, a large, black dog darted from under the bed. archer felt much annoyed at what he considered the carelessness of the hotel servants in shutting the animal into his room, and he promptly rushed at it with the intention of turning it out into the passage. but before he could reach it, the dog walked to the locked door and simply vanished or melted through the panels, leaving archer in a state of bewilderment hard to describe. the incident as i heard it goes no further. but as archer was presumably accustomed to investigating supernatural phenomena, we may suppose that he made full inquiries in the hotel as to a possible real dog, or an already known ghostly one, though apparently without satisfaction. he told the friend from whom i had the story that he had no shadow of doubt as to his having really seen the thing, and that it disappeared in the unusual manner related, and that, whatever the dog may have been, it was no hallucination. could it have been possible, i wonder, that the fruitless séance was answerable for the creature's appearance? that not being able to raise the powers they wished, the sitters had unwittingly attracted some being from a lower plane, which archer was able to visualise, owing to the mental effects produced by a long fast and bodily fatigue, joined to his peculiar temperament. for there is no doubt that they who deliberately set to work to "raise spirits" must take their chance of the character of such "demons" (to use the ancient name) as respond to the call. traditions concerning mysterious "bogies," elementals, or spirits--call them what we will--supposed to haunt certain localities, are to be heard of in many parts of great britain. in wales such legends have always abounded, and innumerable are the tales of bogies said to frequent lonely roads, and especially the neighbourhood of bridges. many of these stories were no doubt invented for the purpose of frightening ignorant people and children, while others had their origin in the brains of intoxicated individuals returning late at night from fair or funeral. yet it is curious how these old tales cling. there is a bridge spanning a ravine or dingle, about a mile from my own home, which had such an evil reputation for being haunted that until quite recent years no local postboy or fly-driver would take his horses over it after dark, for fear of the bogey that was said to sit on the parapet at night, or that, "half seen by fits, by fits half heard," would glide tall and menacing across the road just where the hill was steepest, and the gloom of overhanging trees most impenetrable. only the other day, a merionethshire woman told me of an extraordinary apparition seen by two men whom she knew well, on the bridge in her native village. one of these men was a chapel deacon, respected and respectable, and, according to my friend, quite incapable of misrepresenting facts. their houses were separated by the bridge, and on a certain evening, when one man had been visiting the other, he said jokingly to his friend, "now, john, you must come out and see me home, for i'm afraid to cross the bridge alone." so the two started together. it was a bright moonlight night, and arrived on the bridge, what should they see but the figure of an enormous man, clad in white, standing in the middle of the road! remembrance of their jesting words, spoken only a few minutes before, flashed across the deacon's memory, and with their hearts in their mouths they stood rooted to the spot. but the figure, whatever it was, made no movement, and at last with shaking limbs and clammy brows, they stole past it in safety. then came the dilemma. how was he who had acted escort to reach his own home across the bridge alone? my informant said it was afterwards rumoured that the two friends spent the whole night escorting each other home. for neither dared ever return alone. but in fact all they themselves really said when questioned was, that they had waited what seemed to them an interminable time before the shape which they watched vanished quite suddenly and never reappeared. of course this tale is capable of more than one humorous interpretation, such as that of an evening spent in overmuch good-fellowship, or as an example of a successful practical joke. but still i give it as it was told me, as an excellent instance of the welsh "bogey story," of a kind that might, i expect, have been collected by the dozen in our remote districts twenty or thirty years ago, but are now rapidly being forgotten. i have heard of another "b[^w]cgi" (as bogey becomes in welsh) of the same type as the above, which used to frequent a cross-road some four miles from newcastle emlyn, and took pleasure in frightening respectable people after dark. and still another of these creatures of the night was supposed to haunt the grounds of a house not far from cardigan, and was known as "b[^w]cgi chain," its appearance being always accompanied by the noise of clanking chains. this bogey seems to have been quite an institution in the neighbourhood, and i fancy familiarity with the tradition had bred, if not contempt, at least disregard of poor old "b[^w]cgi chain." a friend who lives in south cardiganshire wrote to me of a man in her own neighbourhood--still living--who declared he had once seen "the evil spirit" of a neighbour, "at dawn, near a limekiln, a creature 'twixt dog and calf, and with lolloping gait, not fierce, but evil to look at, for the welsh believe that evil people can take the form of creatures and roam about, for no good of course. and though they never name it, and would deny it to you or me, yet secretly, behind closed doors, they whisper of the different forms taken by the evil spirits of neighbours who are workers of darkness." personally i have never come across this belief in wales, but it is most likely the remains of a very ancient superstition peculiar to that district, just as the belief in the "tanwe" (to which i alluded in a former chapter) seems to have been localised in north cardiganshire. of course this idea of the spirit of a living person roaming about to work wickedness can be nothing more nor less than a variation of the were-wolf or loup-garou legend, which from time immemorial has been believed throughout almost all europe, and, it is said, still lingers in remote parts of france, and particularly brittany. now, closely related in race as the welsh are to the bretons, it is not hard to imagine that the superstitions and beliefs of both nations have had their origin in a common stock, taking us back to those far-away times when the great celtic tribes were young. local circumstances, religious influences, and differences of education have combined in the course of centuries to determine the survival or decay of these old traditions in both countries, and probably the "loup-garou" ceased to be generally heard of in wales many hundreds of years ago. but everybody who has studied even slightly the subject of folk-lore and superstition, knows how long fragments of some ancient belief (often so tattered as to be almost unrecognisable) will be found obstinately preserved in perhaps quite a small district, among a few people in whom such a belief appears as an instinct which yields but slowly before the spread of modern education. and endeavouring to follow these dwindling rivulets of strange old-world ideas to their source is one of the most fascinating subjects of speculation in the world. however, all this is digression, and we must come back to our welsh bogies, for to omit mention of the g[^w]rach or cyhoeraeth, which is the most terrible of them all, would be unpardonable. fortunately, to see or hear one of these spectres seems to be very rare. howells, in his "cambrian superstitions," says that the cyhoeraeth is a being with dishevelled hair, long black teeth, lank withered arms, a frightful voice, and cadaverous appearance. "its shriek is described as having such an effect as literally to freeze the blood in the veins of those who heard it, and was never uttered except when the ghost came to a cross-road or went by some water, which she splashed with her hands ... exclaiming 'oh, oh fyn g[^w]r, fyn g[^w]r' (my husband, my husband), or sometimes the cry would be 'my wife, my wife,' or 'my child.' of course this doleful plaint boded ill for the relations of those who were unlucky enough to hear it, and if the cry were merely an inarticulate scream it was supposed to mean the hearer's own death." the wailing cry of the welsh cyhoeraeth reminds one of the irish banshee legends; and though i have never so far come across any one who has seen or heard the cyhoeraeth, yet two people in wales have told me of death warnings conveyed by what they called "banshees." one story concerns a welsh lady, miss w----, who happened to be staying at an hotel at bangor, in north wales, and was awakened one night by a hideous, wailing cry. much alarmed, she got up, and as she reached the window (from whence the sound came) saw slowly and distinctly cross it the shadow of some great flying creature, while the dreadful cry died gradually away. miss w---- felt half frozen with fear, but managed to open the window and look into the street. nothing was to be seen; but afterwards, as she lay awake, trying to account for what she had seen and heard, a possible, though perhaps far-fetched solution, occurred to her. next morning, when breakfasting, she asked the waiter whether he knew if any irish person in the house or street had died. the man looked rather surprised at the question, and said "no." presently, however, he came hurrying back to miss w---- and said "colonel f.," mentioning a well-known name, "a gentleman from ireland, who has been staying here very ill for some time, died last night." miss w---- was always firmly convinced that what she heard and saw that night at bangor were the shadow and the warning cry of the colonel's family banshee. the other instance was told me by a friend, who declared that being awakened one night when staying in the town of cardigan by an extraordinary and startling noise at his window, he jumped up, threw open the window and looked out. and there, _flying_ down the street he saw what he called "a banshee"-like spectre "of horror indescribable, which beat its way slowly past the silent houses till it disappeared in the gloom beyond." it returned no more, and the rest of the night passed undisturbed; but on receiving unexpected news next day of the death of a great friend, my informant could not help thinking of the extraordinary incident, and wondering if the "banshee" had brought a warning. it is a common belief in wales that the screeching of barn-owls close to a house is a very bad sign, betokening the approach of death, and certainly it requires no great effort of the imagination to produce a shudder of foreboding as the gloom of an autumn evening is suddenly rent by the weird cry. and though i am no believer in what is of course a mere superstition, yet the recollection of it came to my mind on an occasion when i happened to be staying at a country house where a death occurred somewhat unexpectedly. i well remember the incessant and extraordinary noise made by the owls during a few evenings immediately before and after the event, shriek following shriek, often appearing to be just outside the windows; and though every one knew it was only the owls, yet it would be difficult to describe the uncanny, disturbing effect produced on one's mind by such an unearthly-sounding clamour. this was only coincidence; but whether regarded as prophetic or not, the "gloom-bird's hated screech," as keats calls it, is not a cheerful sound, and seems a fitting accompaniment to that hour "in the dead vast and middle of the night when churchyards yawn." mysterious knockings and taps, or the sound of an invisible horse's hoofs stopping at the door, are also thought in wales to be death omens. it is said that in the old days of lead-mining in cardiganshire, the miners always used to declare that to hear "the knockers" at work was "a sure sign" of an accident coming. i once heard a story about a woman belonging to a parish not far from my own home, who went with her husband to live in glamorganshire, where he heard of work at pontypridd, to which town he betook himself, leaving his wife at dowlais. but a terrible accident happened in the mine where the man worked, and he was killed. his body was brought back to his wife's house at dowlais, and as the coffin was carried into one of the upstairs rooms, it was carelessly allowed to knock noisily against the door. the widow afterwards told her friends that two nights before the accident happened she had been awakened in that very room, by a loud sound exactly like that caused by the bumping of the coffin, and could not imagine what had made such an odd noise. she was thenceforward convinced that a premonitory sound of the coffin being carried into the room had been sent her as a "warning." there is a house i know very well in south wales where a curious sound, always supposed to be of "ghostly" origin, used to be heard occasionally by a lady who lived there for a few years. she described it as the noise "of a person digging a grave," or using a pick-axe for that purpose, and said it was most horrible and gruesome to hear. it appeared to come from just outside the drawing-room windows, yet nothing was to be seen if one looked out. other tenants have come and gone since that lady's time, and i have never heard again of the ghostly grave-digger. but mysterious footsteps have been heard in that house quite lately, and by three people who say they do not "believe in ghosts"; one of them, however, admitted to me that in spite of close investigation he was utterly unable to account for the soft footfalls he most certainly heard. but it may well be that invisible presences still linger about a place which in olden times was the site of a little settlement of monks, though nothing now remains but the name to remind us of the fact.[ ] [footnote : there is a tradition connected with this house concerning a former owner who was a miser and died about a century ago, to the effect that his spirit is imprisoned within a certain rock on the coast about two miles away, where he is doomed to stay until he has picked his way out with a pin!] while on the subject of warnings and death omens, i may mention a curious tradition connected with an old church i know in pembrokeshire. in a corner of the building is kept the bier used at funerals; and it is reported that always just before any death occurs in the parish, this bier is heard to creak loudly, as though a heavy burden had been laid upon it. the churchyard adjoining has also a haunted reputation, and i have been told that not even a tramp would willingly pass its gates after dark. another death warning is the tolling--by unseen hands--of the bell of blaenporth church (in cardiganshire). this eerie sound was said to be always heard at midday and midnight just before the death of any parishioner of importance. but as far as i can gather, the blaenporth bell has ceased to toll its warnings; for an inhabitant of the parish, who knows the country people and their ideas very well, told me she had never heard of the mysterious tolling, and thought it must be a dead tradition. but it is a picturesque one, and so characteristic of celtic ideas, ever interpreting as signs and portents the slightest incident that happens to break the ordinary routine of life, that i thought it worth recording here. another superstition (certainly not picturesque), which i have never heard of but in cardiganshire, was that it was very unlucky to bury the bodies of any cattle that happened to be found dead in the fields! what idea can have been connected with such an unsanitary prejudice i cannot imagine. when reading a paper at a local antiquarian meeting some few weeks ago, the vicar of lledrod,[ ] mr. h. m. williams, referred to the origin of the welsh word "croesaw," which means "welcome"; and in explanation he related how he came to realise that the word was derived from the noun _croes_ (a cross). he said: "a farmer's wife, whenever i visited her house, as soon as she saw me at the door, would take some instrument of iron, such as a poker or knitting-needle, and ceremoniously describe a cross on the hearth, and would afterwards address me with the words 'croesaw i' chwi, syr.' ('welcome to you, sir.') this custom existed at llanddeusant, carmarthenshire, where i lived twenty years ago." [footnote : a cardiganshire parish.] this strikes me as one of the most curious survivals of an ancient superstition that i have heard of in wales. of course there can be no doubt as to the word "croesaw" being derived from the "croes" made as described above; but the question is, why was that cross made at all? the vicar, who is a scholar and learned antiquary, and whose views should therefore be regarded with respect, seemed to think that the cross was a sort of sign and seal of welcome, as a man in old days would set his mark--a cross--to anything as a signification of approval and affirmation. perhaps that is so; but my own idea (advanced with all diffidence) is that the cross had a far different meaning, and that it had its origin in the mediæval dread of the "evil eye." a stranger coming to the house must ever be welcomed according to the laws of welsh hospitality, and he might very likely be quite guiltless of the uncanny power to "ill-wish" or "overlook." but to avoid risks, it was better to use some simple charm, before bidding the visitor enter, and what could be more powerful against malign influences than the holy symbol of the cross quickly made in the ashes, where it could be as easily obliterated the next moment, and so wound nobody's feelings. again, the use of the poker or knitting-needle for the rite seems to be a remnant of the old universal belief that witches, evil spirits, and ghosts hated iron, and cannot harm a person protected by that metal. such at least is my explanation of a most interesting local custom, which has become mechanical nowadays--just as many of us cross ourselves when we see a magpie, without knowing why--and perhaps by this time has disappeared altogether. mr. williams tells me he has never met with this custom in cardiganshire, but says that a curious little ceremony used to be performed, about fifty years ago, by the children of the parish of verwig, near cardigan. "as the children were going home from school, at a cross-road before parting, one of the elder ones would describe a cross on the road and solemnly utter the following holy wish: "gris groes, myn un, ie, myn un, aed mys moes." rendered in english this is: "christ's cross by the holy one, yea by the holy one, may gentle manners prevail." what the quaint little ceremony meant it is hard to say, and no doubt the children themselves could have given no reason for its performance, except that "they always did it." but it was a pretty idea, whatever its esoteric meaning, which would probably lead us back to the days when wales was roman catholic, and nearly all instruction, both as regards book-learning and manners, in the hands of priests and monks. then it is not difficult to imagine some such simple charm or invocation taught his wild scholars by the gentle schoolmaster-monk of the local monastery, to help carry the peace of the cloister home with them, and as a safeguard against the emissaries of satan, in whose active power to work ill our forefathers so firmly believed. and it may be that the slight element of mystery--always attractive to childish minds--connected with the making of the cross may have helped to preserve the little custom, when one dependent on words alone would more readily have been forgotten. chapter x conclusion "the wind-borne mirroring soul: a thousand glimpses wins, and never sees a whole." it is easier to write the title of this chapter than its contents. for what general conclusion can be satisfactory, regarding all these instances of the supernatural? every one has his own ideas about them, ranging from the sceptic's point of view to that of the most credulous believer, both attitudes of mind to be equally deprecated when dealing with occult phenomena. however, such extremes of opinion are becoming rare, while the number of people who preserve an open mind on such subjects is ever increasing, and this, i venture to think, is the right way of regarding "the unknown." for blind negation has never enlightened any one, while uncritical acceptance of unsubstantiated statements is equally prejudicial to real knowledge. of course, this attitude of toleration, and, as it were, awaiting further revelation, is essentially a modern one. our forefathers of three or four hundred years ago would have thought us poor creatures for holding our judgment in suspense. most people then believed in "ghosts" and held it no shame to do so; while the minority of the superior who disbelieved took no pains to dissemble their scorn and contempt for those who did. there was never any attempt at impartial investigation of supernatural occurrences; one section would have had neither the courage nor intelligence necessary, while the other would have scorned the undertaking. so superstition's sway remained unchecked for many a long century, and though its power began to dwindle directly education became a systematic affair amongst civilised nations, yet it is only in recent years that one has begun to foresee a time when its terrors will have disappeared for good and all. because it is only within the last few decades that men of great and trained intellect have discovered that the methods of science and law apply as perfectly in the investigation of psychic as in material phenomena; and that discovery once made, i cannot help thinking that it is merely a matter of time before mankind penetrates the mystery of the unseen, though, as i have said before, this will not happen in our generation. at present we are only at the beginnings of things; learning the alphabet of a whole new series of experiences, one of which is telepathy, or thought communicating thought, without aid of the ordinary senses. we know this wonderful power does exist, reliable experiment has proved it, but so far we know little more, and can only guess that some minds in some way--probably unknown to themselves--possess the mysterious faculty of setting in motion vibrations that travel along a medium finer and rarer far than the famous hertzian waves. but presently the laws that govern such vibrations will be discovered, and mind will then speak to mind at will, even across half the world. and telepathy, which we are still apt to think of as something almost supernatural, will then be as much a matter of course as wireless telegraphy is in our day. however, at present we are only on the threshold of these marvels, and we who are not engaged in the task of occult discovery can still be interested and entertained by "ghost stories" _as_ ghost stories, and can discuss various points and form our own ideas about them. and there is one feature common to a great many of these supernatural tales and incidents which i think must strike everybody, whether believers or sceptics, and that is their apparent lack of purpose. there are, as we have seen, ghostly happenings which come as "warnings," though, as i have remarked in a former chapter, these warnings seldom appear to avert disaster. but in nine cases out of ten odd things are seen or heard, and nothing particular happens afterwards. the question--and a puzzling one--is, why should these things occur at all? why should such a tremendous reversal of the laws which ordinarily govern our human environment take place, as is implied by, let us say, the extraordinary experience of miss travers at glanwern, related in chapter iii? of course in this volume i have tried to collect ghost stories that _did_ mean something, as naturally they are the more interesting type of incident. but i have heard innumerable instances of people hearing and seeing strange things, followed by no particular consequences. probably every one knows the kind of tale, interesting to the person concerned, but rather dull when related. perhaps the following illustration will help us to understand these inconsequent manifestations a little better. let us imagine ourselves as the audience in a huge, well-lighted theatre. at least the auditorium is lit up, but the vast stage is in complete darkness, with a great shadowy curtain hiding anything that may be taking place behind it from our eyes. in fact, nobody troubles much about the stage at all, every one is talking and thinking of other things and few people so much as glance towards the curtain, though those who do dimly feel that there really is a play going on behind it, and some of us wish, in a vague sort of way, that we could know what it is. but sometimes the curtain goes up for a moment, and then, if any one is looking, he sees a glimpse of the play; and, not knowing what has come before or what is to follow, it seems rather meaningless, or even alarming. sometimes, too, an actor will appear on the stage, or come amongst the audience with a message for one or a group of them, but only the few can see him, and his message is not always intelligible to them. some bold people, tired of looking at the impenetrable curtain, have ventured to explore behind it, and if they escaped the dangers so braved, have tried to impart their experiences to their friends when they returned. but their accounts are often received with incredulity or lukewarm interest, some even asserting that there is really nothing at all behind the curtain, and that the explorers have merely been the victims of their own imaginations. and this they say, knowing quite well that when "carriages are called" they and every one else will have to leave the house by way of the dark stage, and be obliged to go behind the scenes and learn the mystery that the curtain hides. in this simple illustration i have tried to convey the idea of a life--or perhaps i should rather say a consciousness--coincident and connected with this life that we know, but separated from it by a difference of consciousness which the majority of us are not able at present to bridge. a few have done so, either by a system of mystic training, or by the natural gift of the "sixth sense," clairvoyance, second sight, whatever we like to call it, which in olden days often caused its possessors to be classed as magicians and witches. and if we grasp this idea of a consciousness, interwoven and yet by matter separated from this life, of which only a few of us can get glimpses from time to time, but which is as absolutely real, perhaps more so than the life we live here, it will help us enormously to understand the meaning of psychic phenomena, or what we call "ghost stories." because we shall realise that there is _continuity_ behind the veil which hides the unseen, just as there is continuity in this life, and that the law of cause and effect goes with us "behind the scenes," just as it governs our present existence. so that we must cease to think of any supernatural incident as irrelevant or inconsequent, even if it means nothing to ourselves. it is just a glimpse--seen "through a glass darkly"--of a life organised on lines at present unfamiliar to our own, and infused with a meaning which we cannot trace, and which we yet feel has the most intimate connection with our life here. however, these are paths of metaphysics, in which it is not well to linger, unless one can give time and all one's thoughts to their exploration. a little knowledge about occult matters is worse than useless; it is absolutely dangerous, and every furlong of the road that leads to such knowledge should be marked with a red signal, for it is strewn with the wrecked intellects of those who, unequipped, have lightly followed its windings. regarding the chapters in this book which concern welsh superstitions, the first idea which occurred to me when reading them over was the exceedingly gloomy character of these ancient beliefs. they all seem to dwell morbidly on death and its surroundings, ignoring the lighter and happier side of life altogether. and any one who did not know wales might imagine from reading these tales that the welsh were a sullen and silent people, given to solitude and brooding. nothing could be further from the truth; they are a lively and gregarious race and never seem to cease talking amongst themselves. nobody is fonder of junketing than a welshman or welshwoman, nothing in the way of an outing comes amiss; fairs, eisteddfodau, "auctions," church and chapel festivals, political meetings, anything for a jaunt! but the most important functions of all are--funerals. every one goes to a funeral, and makes it a point of honour to do so, for the more burials you attend in your lifetime, the greater are the number of people who will come to your own obsequies. i often think of the characteristic remark addressed by a welshwoman i knew to an english neighbour, who had no taste for gadding, and found cardiganshire rather _triste_. "well indeed, mrs. brown _fach_, i am sorry for you; but indeed you should go about to fairs and funerals, and enjoy yourself." so as funerals and the excitement connected with them really occupy a large place in the minds of the welsh country-folk, it is perhaps not strange that superstition and folk-lore have collected round the subject and that omens and death warnings should be specially heeded and repeated. also, in spite of lively manners and gregarious instincts, there is a curious strain of melancholy underlying the welsh character, in common with the other celtic races; a trait which i do not think any one can understand unless he has some celtic blood in his veins. it is not a melancholy which colours the disposition, for most welsh people are cheerful and pleasant companions. of course there are variations from the type, and differences of temperament just as in other nationalities, but if asked suddenly to name a welsh characteristic, i should at once mention cheerfulness. and yet they are melancholy; and if this sounds paradoxical, it cannot be helped, because it is true. it is the primitive sadness of an old, old race, the remembrance of "old unhappy, far-off things, and battles long ago," inherited from tribal ancestors, and the days when life was a struggle even to the strong, and elementary passions held undisputed sway. so it is that the welsh character unconsciously responds to all that touches this minor string in its nature, and, as it were, almost enjoys gloom and woe. this is the secret of the great religious revivals that from time to time agitate the principality; the welsh really relish their spiritual wretchedness, and enjoy being miserable sinners (especially in company!). and well does a revivalist like evan roberts understand his work, and the character of his congregations, and know how to twang that minor string. not that i would jest at revivals; in many cases their influence has been for permanent good, and the kind of people they reach and benefit are no doubt those who require a spiritual "dressing-down" occasionally. nowadays, as i have said before, belief in corpse-candles, toili, &c. has very much gone out of fashion amongst the country-folk; the present generation, having many of them been away to london or the large towns, are much too superior to believe such things, and it is difficult to get the old people to talk about them. but it is not so very long ago that such beliefs were really part of a welsh person's life, and supernatural experiences only infrequent enough to be interesting. if john jones entered the village inn trembling and perspiring declaring that he had seen the toili--well, he _had_ seen it, and no one thought of questioning his statement, but all fell to wondering "whose toili" it could be. and it was not only among the lower classes that these beliefs obtained, their "betters" often shared them. the story is still told about here how a neighbouring squire, head of a well-known county family, saw the toili in the twilight of a summer's evening, wending its way along the road which passed his house to the church. the old gentleman who saw the vision has himself been dead for over sixty years, but the locality is probably quite unchanged from what it must have been in his day, and i have often thought when passing the spot how well the natural surroundings of romantic beauty lent themselves as a setting to any such weird happening, and have tried to conjure up the scene in my own mind. to this day it is said that when a death occurs in that particular family a corpse-light is always seen a few days previously, flickering and quivering up the drive from the direction of the churchyard. but very soon all these ancient beliefs will be obliterated in the land of cambria; and though it seems a pity from the picturesque point of view, and to lovers of antiquity and folk-lore, yet on the whole it is a good thing. for we who are apt to bewail the passing of the old ideas often forget that they frequently went hand in hand with dreadful ignorance both mental and moral. for instance, belief in witchcraft is very interesting and picturesque to read about in our times, but we should not overlook the terrible consequences of it which took the form of torturing and persecuting hundreds of innocent persons only three hundred years ago. read sir walter scott's "demonology and witchcraft" if you want to know what the result of a "picturesque superstition" may be among ignorant people. there is no question as to the ultimate benefit of enlightenment and education, even if at first they appear to banish originality and produce monotony of character. but that is better than the type of mind which could drown an old woman because she kept a black cat, and sold nasty herbal "love-philtres" to silly girls. i do not think witches were much persecuted in wales as a matter of fact, and, as i have shown, they and "wise men" are still to be found in the country. as we have seen, superstition took other forms there, and a greater hold, because it was, i am convinced, rooted in a foundation of psychic facts, just as the "second sight" was, and i suppose is still, a fact amongst the highlanders of scotland. but i have no doubt that for one welshman who did really have the vision of his own or a neighbour's funeral, there were at least ten who would make the same assertion out of their own imaginations. and probably now the real faculty is very rare indeed, for it is a gift belonging to primitive races, and ever stifled by education and self-consciousness. we cannot deplore its loss, because with it has gone a mass of darkest ignorance, but that need not prevent us from being interested in its effect on the traditions and beliefs of the country. personally i am quite indifferent as to the amount of occult truth contained in the miscellaneous material of this volume; that some truth there is, i do not doubt, but its existence is of secondary importance in comparison with the delightful, old-world atmosphere that clings to these antiquities, and seems in some way to make us realise "the times of our forefathers" better than the history of more serious events. so let us, in our hurrying, bustling days, cherish this faint fragrance of a bygone age as long as we can; it will fade quickly enough, dying with that "... race of yore, who danced their infancy upon their knee, and told our marvelling boyhood legends store, of their strange ventures happed by land or sea. how are they blotted from the things that be! how few all weak and withered of their force, wait on the verge of dark eternity, like stranded wrecks, the tide returning hoarse, to sweep them from our sight...." second edition of a discovery concerning ghosts: with a rap at the "spirit-rappers." by george cruikshank. illustrated with cuts. to which is added a few parting raps at the "rappers," and questions, suggestions, and advice to the davenport brothers. dedicated to the "ghost club." price one shilling. london: published by routledge, warne, and routledge, and sold by all booksellers. . harrild, printer, london. i think it a duty to inform the public that i have a nephew whose _christian_ name is percy. he is employed by a person of the name of "read," a publisher, of johnson's court, fleet street; who, in advertising any work executed by my _nephew_, announces it as by "_cruikshank_," instead of (as it ought to be) _illustrated_ by "percy cruikshank." and having been informed by numerous persons that they have purchased these publications under the impression that they were works executed by me, i hereby caution the public against buying any work as mine with the name of read, of johnson's court, upon it as publisher. i never _did anything for that person_, and never shall; and i beg the public to understand that these observations are not directed against my _nephew_, to whom i wish every good, but that they are against the said read, who, by leaving out my nephew's christian name, percy, deprives him of whatever credit he may deserve for his literary and artistic productions, and thereby creating a confusion of persons, which, if not done for the purpose of deceiving the public, appears to be very much like it. a discovery concerning ghosts. [illustration: "enter ghost."] hamlet.--"thou com'st in such a _questionable_ shape."-- shakespeare. questionable!--ay; so _very_ questionable, in my opinion, is the fact of their coming at all, that i am now going to question whether they ever _did_, or _can_ come. this opinion i know is opposed to a very general, a long-established, and with some a deeply-rooted belief in supernatural appearances, and is opposed to what may be _almost_ considered as well-authenticated _facts_, which neither the repeated exposure of very many "ghost tricks," and clearly-proved imposture, nor sound philosophical arguments, have been able to set aside altogether. most persons, therefore, will no doubt consider that the task of "laying" all the ghosts that _have_ appeared, and putting a stop to any others ever making an appearance, is a most difficult task. this is granted; and although i do not believe, like owen glendower, that i can "call the spirits from the vasty deep," but on the contrary agree in this respect with hotspur, if i did call that they would not come, i nevertheless, although no conjuror, do conjure up for the occasion hosts of ghosts which i see i have to contend against. yes, i do see before me, "in my mind's eye"-- a vast army, composed of ghost, goblin, and sprite! with their eyes full of fire, all gleaming with spite! all lurking about in the "dead of the night" with their faces so pale and their shrouds all so white! or hiding about in dark holes and corners, to fright grown-up folk, or little "jack horners." but though they all stand in this fierce grim array, armed with pen and with pencil, "i'll drive them away." it is not only, however, against these horrible and ghastly-looking cloud of flimsy foes that one has to deal with in a question like this, but there are numbers of respectable and respected authors, and highly respectable witnesses, on the side of the ghosts; and it must be admitted that it is no easy matter to put aside the testimony of all these respectable persons. they may have thought, and some may still think, that they have done, and are doing, _good_, by supporting this belief; but i _know_ on the contrary that they have done, and are doing, great _harm_; and i, therefore, stand forth in the hope of "laying" _all_ the ghosts, and settling this long-disputed question for ever. the belief in ghost, or apparition, is of course of very early date, originating in what are called the "dark ages," and _dark_ indeed those ages were! as a reference to the early history of the world will show; and although we have in these days a large diffusion of the blessed light of intelligence, nevertheless there is still existing, even amongst civilized people, a fearful amount of ignorance upon the subject of ghosts, witchcraft, fortune-telling, and "ruling the stars," besides a vast amount of this sort of imaginary and mischievous nonsense. now it will be as well here to inquire what good has ever resulted from this belief in what is commonly understood to be a ghost? none that i have ever heard of, and i have been familiar with all the popular ghost stories from boyhood, and have of late waded through almost all the works produced in support of this spiritual visiting theory, but in _no one instance_ have i discovered where any beneficial result has followed from the supernatural or rather unnatural supposed appearances; whereas, on the other hand, we do find unfortunately a large and serious amount of suffering and injury arising from this belief in ghosts, and which i shall have occasion to refer to further on; but i will now proceed to bring forward some of the evidences which have been adduced from time to time, all pretty much in the same style, in support of the probability and truth of the appearance of ghosts--first, in fact, to call up the ghosts, in order that i may put them down. all the ghost story tellers, or writers upon this subject, seem to consider that one most important point in the appearance of apparitions is, that the ghost should be a most perfect and exact resemblance, in every respect, to the deceased person--the spirit of whom they are supposed to be. their faces appear the same, except in some cases where it is described as being rather paler than when they were alive, and the general expression is described as "more in sorrow than in anger," but this varies in some instances according to circumstances; but in all these appearances the countenances are so precisely similar, so minutely so, that in one case mentioned by mrs. crowe in her "night-side of nature," the very "pock-pits" or "pock-marks" on the face were _distinctly_ visible. the narrators also all agree that the spirits appear in similar, or the same dresses which they were accustomed to wear during their lifetime (please to observe that this is very important), so exactly alike that the ghost-seer could not possibly be mistaken as to the identity of the individual, in _face_, _figure_, _manner_, and _dress_; and on the same authority in some cases the _same spirit_ has appeared at the _same moment_ to _different persons_ in _different places_, although perhaps , miles apart, in _precisely_ the _same dress_. in referring to the play of "hamlet," it will be found that shakespeare has been _most particular_ in describing the general appearance of the ghost of hamlet's father, who was "doomed for a certain time to walk by night." for instance, when marcellus says to horatio, "is it not like the king?" horatio replies-- "as thou art to thyself: such was the very _armour_ he had on, when he the ambitious norway combated; so _frown'd_ he once, when, in angry parle, he smote the sledded polack on the ice." horatio also, in describing the ghost to hamlet, says-- "a figure like your father, _armed_ at all points, _exactly_, _cap-à-pé_." and, in further explanation, it is stated that the ghost was _armed_ "from top to toe," "from head to foot," that "he wore his beaver up," with "a countenance more in sorrow than in anger," and was "very pale." then, again, when hamlet sees his father's spirit, he exclaims-- "what may this mean, that thou, dead corse, again, in _complete steel_, revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon." so also in the play of "macbeth," when the ghost of banquo rises, and takes a seat at the table, macbeth says to the apparition-- "never shake thy _gory_ locks at me." and further on he says-- "thou hast no speculation in those eyes which thou dost glare with!" daniel de foe also insists upon, and goes into the most _minute_ details as to the _person_ and _dress_ of a ghost; and in a work which he published upon apparitions,[ ] we may see how careful and circumstantial the author is in his descriptions of apparitions, whose appearance he vouches for in his peculiar narrative and matter-of-fact style. one of these ghost stories is of some robbers who broke into a mansion in the country, and whilst ransacking one of the chambers, they saw, sitting in a chair, "a grave, ancient man, with a long full-bottomed wig and a rich brocaded gown," etc. one of the robbers threatened to tear off his "rich brocaded gown;" another hit at him with a fuzee, and was instantly alarmed at finding it passed through air; and then the old gentleman "changed into the most horrible monster that ever was seen, with eyes like two fiery daggers red hot." they then rushed into another room, and found the same "grave, ancient man" seated _there_! and so also in another chamber; and he was seen by different robbers in _three different rooms at the same moment_! just at this time the servants, who were at the top of the house, threw some "hand grenades" down the chimneys of these rooms. the result altogether was that some of the thieves were badly wounded, the others driven away, and the mansion saved from being plundered. what a capital thing it would be surely, if the police could attach some of these spirits to their force! [ ] "an essay on the history and reality of apparitions; being an account of what they are and what they are not, when they come and when they come not; as also how we may distinguish between apparitions of good and evil spirits, and how we ought to behave to them; with a variety of surprising and diverting examples never published before." london, . another case, a clergyman (the rev. dr. scot) was seated in his library, _with the door closed_, when he suddenly saw "an ancient, grave gentleman, in a black _velvet_ gown"--very particular, you observe, as to the _material_--"and a long wig." this ghost was an entire stranger to dr. scot, and came to ask the doctor to do him a favour--asking a favour under such circumstances of course amounts to a command--which was to go to another part of the country, to a house where the ghost's son resided, and point out to the son the place where an important family document was deposited. dr. scot complied with this request, and the family property was secured to the son of the ghost in the "black velvet gown and the long wig." now one naturally asks here, why did not this old ghost go and point the place out to his son himself? and so also with the _well-authenticated_ story of the ghost of sir george villars, who wanted to give a warning to his son, the duke of buckingham; which warning, if properly delivered and properly acted upon, _might_ have saved the duke's life; but instead of warning his son himself (take notice), he appeared to one of the duke's domestics, "_in the very clothes he used to wear_," and commissioned him to deliver the message. after all, this warning was of no use, so this ghost might have saved himself the trouble of coming; but spirits are indeed strange things, and of course act in strange ways. about the year , a translation from a french book was brought out in london, entitled "drelincourt on death;" and after it had been published for some time, daniel defoe, at the request of mr. midwinter, the publisher, wrote a preface to the work, and therein introduced a short story about the ghost of a lady appearing to her friend. it was headed thus:--"a true relation of the apparition of mrs. veal, next day after her death, to one mrs. bargrave, at canterbury, on the th of september, ; which apparition recommends the perusal of drelincourt's book of consolation against the fears of death. (thirteenth edition.)" mrs. veal and mrs. bargrave, it appears, were intimate friends. one day at twelve o'clock at noon, when mrs. b. was sitting alone, mrs. veal entered the room, dressed in a "riding habit," hat, etc., as if going a journey. mrs. bargrave advanced to welcome her friend, and was going to salute her, and their lips _almost touched_, but mrs. v. held back her head and passing her hand before her face, said, "i am not very well to-day;" and avoided the salute. in the course of a long talk which they had, _mrs. veal strongly recommends drelincourt's book on death to mrs. bargrave, and occasionally "claps her hand upon her knee, in great earnestness."_ mrs. veal had been, subject to fits, and she asks if mrs. bargrave does not think she is "mightily impaired by her fits?" mrs. b.'s reply was, "no! i think you look _as well as ever i knew you_;" and during the conversation she _took hold of mrs. veal's gown several times_, and commended it. mrs. v. told her it was a "scoured silk" and newly made up. mrs. veal at length took her departure, but stood at the street door some short time, in the face of the beast market; this was saturday the market-day. she then went from mrs. b., who saw her walk in her view, till a turning interrupted the sight of her; this was three quarters after one o'clock. _mrs. veal had died that very day at noon!!!_ at dover, which is about twenty miles from canterbury. some surprise was expressed to mrs. bargrave, about the fact of her _feeling_ the gown, but she said she was _quite sure_ that she felt the gown. it was a striped silk, and mrs. veal had never been seen in such a dress; but such a one was found in her wardrobe after her decease. this story made a great sensation at the time it was published; and "drelincourt on death," with the preface and defoe's tale, became exceedingly popular.[ ] [ ] the introduction runs thus:--"this relation is a matter of fact, and attended with such circumstances as may induce any reasonable man to believe it. it was sent by a gentleman, a justice of peace, in maidstone in kent, and a very intelligent person, to his friend in london, as it is here worded; which discourse is attested by a sober and understanding gentlewoman, a kinswoman of the said gentleman's, who lives at canterbury within a few doors of the house in which the within-named mrs. bargrave lives; who believes his kinswoman to be of so discerning a spirit as not to be put upon by fallacy, and who positively assured him that the whole matter as related and laid down is really true; and what she herself had in the same words (as near as may be) from mrs. bargrave's own mouth; who she knows had no reason to invent and publish such a story; or design to forge and tell a lie, being a woman of much honesty and virtue, and her whole life a course as it were of piety. the use which we ought to make of it is, that there is a life to come after this, and a just god, who will retribute to every one according to the deeds done in the body, and therefore to reflect upon our past course of life we have lead in the world--that our time is short and uncertain; if we would escape the punishment of the ungodly and receive the reward of the righteous, which is the laying hold of eternal life, we ought for the time to come to turn to god, by a speedy repentance, ceasing to do evil and learning to do well, to seek after god early, if haply he may be found of us, and lead such lives for the future as may be well pleasing in his sight." the absurdities and impossibilities of the foregoing narrative of this apparition of mrs. veal need not be pointed out; but the story is introduced here for two reasons; one of which will be explained further on, and the other is to show how the public have been imposed upon with these short stories. it has all along been known to the literary world that this "_true_ relation" was a _falsehood_, and brought forward under the following circumstances:-- mr. midwinter, who published the translation of "drelincourt on death," finding that the work did not sell, complained of this to defoe, and asked him if he could not write some preface or introduction to the work for the purpose of calling the attention of the public to this rather uninviting subject. defoe undertook to do so, and produced this story about the ghost of mrs. veal. the gullibility of the public was much greater at that time than now, and they would then swallow anything in the shape of a ghost; a great sensation was created, and the publisher's purpose was answered, as the work had an extraordinary sale; but one cannot help expressing a very deep regret that the author of "robinson crusoe" should have so degraded his talent, by thus deliberately foisting upon the public a gross and mischievous falsehood as a veritable truth; and, worse than this, guilty of bringing in the most sacred names upon one of the most solemn subjects which the mind of man can contemplate, for the purpose of supporting and propagating a falsehood for a mercenary purpose. as the belief in ghosts has long been popular, and considered as an established fact, it may be quite allowable for an author to introduce a ghost into his romance; and it may be argued that authors have thus been enabled "to point a moral" as well as to "adorn a tale," by using this poetical license, or spiritual medium; but in these cases the tales or poems were given out to the world as inventions of the author to amuse the public, or to convey a moral lesson, and were accepted by the public as such. we find in these foregoing examples that apparitions do appear sometimes to strangers, and sometimes in the dresses in which they had not been seen when alive; but these dresses have been afterwards discovered or accounted for, and it has also been discovered who these _strange_ spirits represented. but it will be seen by the cases cited, and others which are to follow, that this exact appearance, this _vraisemblance_ is _essential_, nay, indispensable, in order that there shall be "no mistake;" for should mistakes be made, it would, in some cases, be perhaps a very serious matter. i fully assent to all this, and to show that i wish to do battle in all fairness, that it shall be a "fair fight and no favour," i am willing even to illustrate my opponents' statements in these particulars, and to do this i here introduce--don't start, reader! not a ghost, but a figure of napoleon the first, but without a head; not that i mean to imply thereby that this military hero had no head. no, no! quite the contrary, but i have omitted this head and the head of the ghost of hamlet's father for an especial purpose, as will be explained further on, when i shall have occasion to touch upon these _heads_ again. but if this cut is held at a distance, by any one at all familiar with the portraits or statues of "napoleon le grand" in this costume, they will at once recognize who the figure is intended to represent. let us now turn to "the night-side of nature," and through the dismal gloom which surrounds these apparitions, call up some more spirits, who, according to mrs. crowe, and, indeed, on the authority of all other authors who support the ghost doctrine, "generally come in their habits as they lived;" and it appears that there is no difference in this respect between the beggar and the king, for they come "some in rags, and some in jags, and some in silken gowns." at page of this exceedingly cleverly written but most ghastly collection of ghost stories, it is related that the ghost of a beggar-man appeared at the _same time in two different_ apartments (all in his _dirty_ rags, of course), to a young man and a young woman who had allowed this beggar to sleep in their master's barn (unbeknown to their master), where he died in the night, but could not rest after his death until some money of his was found by these young people, who had both suffered in their health in consequence of these visits of the beggar's ghost. they at length consulted and explained all this to a priest, who advised them to distribute the money they had found under the straw (where the beggar had slept and died) between _three_ churches, which advice was accordingly acted upon, and this settled the business, for the _dirty_ ragged ghost never troubled them again. in contrast to this we have the story of the ghost of a lady of title, who had been in her lifetime princess anna of saxony. she came decked out in "silks and satins," gold lace, embroidery, and jewels, all so grand, and appeared to one of the descendants of her family, duke christian of saxe eisenburg, requesting him to be so kind as to try and "make it up" between her and her ghost husband, who, it seems, was a bad-tempered man, had quarrelled with her, and had died without being reconciled. duke christian consented to do this. she had walked into the duke's presence, although all the doors were _shut_, and one day after their first interview she brought her husband to their relative in the same unceremonious manner. her ghost husband, who had been the duke casimer, appeared dressed in his royal robes. they each told their story (these, you will observe were _talking_ ghosts as well as _stalking_ ghosts). duke christian most gallantly decided in favour of the lady, and the ghost duke very properly acquiesced in the justice of the decision. duke christian then took the "icy cold hand" of the ghost-duke and placed it in the hand of the ghost-wife, whose hand felt of a "_natural_ heat." it appears to be the opinion of the advocates of apparitions that _naughty_ ghosts have _cold_ hands. in this case the husband was the offending party, and was very naughty, and therefore his hands were very cold. it seems strange that his hands should have been cold, for, being naughty, one would suppose he would come from the same place that hamlet's father did; and from what _he_ said we should conclude that there was a roaring fire there, where the duke might have _warmed_ his cold hands. it further appears that these parties all "_prayed_ and _sung_ together!" after which the now happy ghosts disappeared _sans ceremonie_, without troubling the servants to open the doors, or allowing duke christian to "show them out." one remarkable fact in connection with this story is, that, upon referring to the portraits of these ghosts which hung in the castle, was, that they had appeared in exactly the same dresses which they had on, when these portraits were painted--one hundred years before this time. duke christian died two years after the ghosts' visits, and by his own orders was buried in "quicklime," to prevent, it is supposed, _his_ ghost from walking the earth! he must indeed have been a poor ignorant creature, although a duke, to suppose that "quicklime," or "slow lime," or any other kind of lime, or anything else that would destroy the _body_, could make any difference with respect to the appearance of the _spirit_. the next case, then, is of the ghost of a soldier's wife, who appeared to a "corporal q----" who was lying ill in bed, and also to a comrade who was an invalid lying in the next bed. this was in the night, but the corporal could see that she was dressed in a "flannel gown, edged with a black ribbon," _exactly_ like the grave-clothes which he had helped to put on her twelve months before. it appears, however, that he could _see through her_, _flannel gown_ and all. this female ghost came to the bed-side of the sick man to ask him to write to her husband, who was in ireland, to communicate something to him which was to be kept a "profound secret." this is certainly a strange story, but is it not still more strange that this ghost did not go to her husband and tell him the important secret _herself_, instead of trusting a stranger to do so? it will be observed that there are different classes of ghosts, as there are of living people--the princely, the aristocratic, the genteel, and the common. the vulgar classes delight to haunt in graveyards, dreary lanes, ruins, and all sorts of dirty dark holes and corners, and in cellars. yes, dark cellars seem to be a favourite abode of these _common_ ghosts. this fact raises the question whether the lower class of spirits are obliged to keep to the _lower_ parts of the house--to the "lower regions"--and are not allowed to go into the parlours or the drawing-rooms, and not allowed to mix with the higher order of ghosts! can this be a law or regulation amongst the ghosts? if so, is it not most extraordinary that these spirits should not be allowed to choose their own place of residence, and take to the most comfortable apartments, instead of grovelling amongst the rats and mice, the slugs, the crickets, and the blackbeetles? 'tis strange, 'tis passing strange; but so it appears to be. by the by, some few of these poor spirits of the humble class of ghosts do sometimes, it appears, mount up to the bed-rooms, in the hope, i suppose, of getting occasionally now and then a "_comfortable_ lodging" and a "good night's rest." at page of this same work we have an account of a haunted cellar in a gentleman's house, out of town, in which were heard "loud knockings," "a voice crying," "heavy feet walking," etc. the old butler, with his "acolytes," descended to the cellar (wine cellar) armed with sword, blunderbuss, and other offensive weapons, but the ghosts put them all to flight, and they "turned tail" in a fright. yes, they all ran up-stairs again, followed by the "_sound of feet_" and "a _visible shadow_!" this, of course, is a _fact_; and it so happens that i know another _fact_ about a haunted wine-cellar, which, however, had quite a different result to the foregoing. in a wine-cellar of a gentleman's house, somewhere near blackheath, it was found that strange noises were sometimes heard in the evenings and in the night time, in this "wine vault," similar to those described above, such as _knocking_, _groaning_, _footsteps_, etc., so that the servants were afraid to go into the cellar, particularly at a late hour. the master at length determined to "lay" this ghost, if possible, and one evening when these noises had been heard, arming himself with a sword, and the servants with a fowling-piece and a poker, they cautiously descended into the cellar (with lighted candles, of course). nothing was to be seen there, and all was quiet except a strange, smothered kind of sound, like the hard breathing of an animal, something like snoring, that seemed to proceed out of the earth in one of the dark corners of the vault, when, lo and behold! in turning their lights in the direction from which the sounds came, and advancing carefully, they discovered--what do you think? don't be alarmed. why, the ghost lying on the ground, dead--drunk! yes, the ghost had _laid_ himself, not with "bell, book, and candle," but by swallowing the spirit of alcohol, the spirit of wine, beer, and brandy. most disgraceful; in fact, this ghost had taken a "_drop too much_." upon looking a little closer, they found that this ghost was one tom brown, an under-gardener; and it was discovered that he had _tunnelled_ a hole from the "tool-house" through the wall into the cellar. this spirit was so over-charged _with spirit_, that he was unable to _walk_, so was _doomed_ to be carried in a _cart_ to the "_cage_;" and all the people living round about came next morning to look at the ghost that had been haunting the squire's wine cellar. oh! what a _fortune_ it would be to any one who could catch a ghost--a real, right down, "'arnest" ghost, and put him in a cage to show him round the country! i wish i had one.[ ] it would cost little or nothing to keep such a thing; only the lodging, as he would require neither food, fire, clothing, nor washing! [ ] some few years back, a ghost was said to have been seen frequently in the neighbourhood of some roman catholic institution near leicester, and upon one occasion had nearly frightened a young woman to death. i was staying with a friend at leicester at the time, and offered £ reward to any one who would show me the ghost, as i wanted very much to make a sketch of it, but i could not get a sight of it for love nor money. at page , we find an account of an apparition appearing to a gentleman, who was staying at a friend's house at sarratt, in hertfordshire, and was awoke in the middle of the night by a pressure on his feet, and, looking up, saw, by the light that was burning in the fire-place, a "well-dressed gentleman," in a "_blue_ coat and bright gilt buttons," leaning on the foot of the bed, _without a head_! it appears that this was reported to be the ghost of a poor gentleman of that neighbourhood who had been murdered, and whose head had been cut off! and could therefore only be recognized by his "_blue_ coat and bright gilt buttons." under any _real_ circumstance this would indeed be _too horrible_ and _too serious_ a subject to turn into ridicule; but in this case, such an evident falsehood, it is surely allowable to "lay" such a ghost as this, such a senseless ghost, in any possible way; in fact, to laugh such a ghost out of countenance-- i, therefore, with my rod of double h. blacklead, hold up to scorn this well-dressed ghost without a head. any one looking at this figure will clearly see that he does not belong to _this world_, and has therefore no business here; for, although there may be some persons in _this world_ who, perhaps, go about with a very small allowance of _brain_, yet every _body here_ must have some sort of a _head_ upon his shoulders, no matter how handsome, or queer-looking it may be. now i am sorry to be rude to any "well-dressed gentleman," or, indeed, to any _body_ or _soul_; but as it appears (from the story) that this ghost had really no real _business_ upon earth, what "on earth" does he come here for? why, for no other object, it appears, but to "show himself off;" so, in my opinion, the sooner he "walks off" the better. by the by, perhaps we ought not to be too severe upon the poor fellow, for, upon consideration, he is placed in rather an awkward position, as his _head_ may be on the look out for the _body_, and know where it is, but having no legs it cannot get to the body. on the other hand, although the _body_ has legs and could walk to the _head_, yet, having no eyes, cannot see where the _head_ is; so some excuse may be made upon this _head_, particularly if he is not a _talking_ ghost. there is a story, somewhere in the roman catholic chronicles, of a martyr, who, after being beheaded, picked up his head, and walked away with it under his arm; but our ghost here, in the "blue coat and bright gilt buttons," is not allowed to do this sort of thing, and the question naturally arises, what has become of, or where is the _spirit_ of this unfortunate gentleman's _head_? can the believers in ghosts tell us that? and surely we shall all feel obliged if they can inform us whether the apparitions of _all decapitated persons appear without their heads_; and, if not, what becomes of their heads? and, further, whether the mutilation of the _body_ can in any way affect the _spirit_--the _soul_? i shall not in this case "pause for a reply," because i know i shall have a very long time to wait for an answer; but in proceeding to bring to the light of day some more facts about ghosts from the _dark_ side of nature, i feel as if some inquisitive spirit was irresistibly compelling me to put questions as i go on writing; and therefore, under these circumstances, present my compliments to those persons who know about ghosts, and the various authors who support this belief, and i shall feel greatly obliged if they will answer my queries at their earliest convenience.--n.b. shall be glad to hear the replies from the ghosts themselves, provided they pay the postage. in the first place, then, from the authority quoted above, it appears that a widow lady had, strange to say, married a second time! and that the ghost of her first husband paid her "constant visits." query, what did the ghost come for, and was the second husband at all jealous of his coming? with respect to a celebrated actor, who had married a second wife, we find that the apparition of his first wife appeared to him, and which appearance unfortunately threw him into a fit, and at the same moment this ghost appeared to the second wife, although they were several hundred miles apart at the time. i can understand why the ghost of his first wife came to visit _him_ who once was hers, that is, because he was such a great actor, and such a good fellow; but why did it appear to the second wife? and how is it that the same spirit can appear in _several places_ at _the same instant_? i should like to know that. at page we find a dog frightened at the ghost of a soldier! but this is not the only "unlucky dog" that has been terrified by apparitions; several instances are given in different works. query, how do the "poor dogs" know a ghost is a ghost when they see one, particularly as they appear in the same dresses which they had on when "in the flesh;" and even, suppose they know that they are in the presence of a ghost, what makes them "turn tail?" yes, why should a _dog_, especially if he is a _spirited_ dog, do so? for almost in the same page we are told of a horse who recognized his old master, who appeared in the same dress he wore when alive, a "sky-blue coat." this horse did not "turn tail." no! but followed the phantom of his dear old master, who was walking about the farm, and no doubt wanted to give him a ride. query, if a horse is not frightened at a ghost, why should dogs be frightened at the sight of them? and also, if a _goose_ would be frightened if it saw a ghost? _asses_, we know, are sometimes frightened at nothing, and as a ghost is "next to nothing," they must of course be frightened at ghosts. at page we are told of the ghost of a "horse and cart," and also of the "ghosts of sheep." if this be so, doubtless there must likewise be the ghosts of dogs (what "droll dogs" they must be), also of puppies, and asses. what an interesting subject of inquiry is this for the zoologist! we find, as we dive into the dark mysteries of apparitions, that there are ghosts of all sorts and sizes, and that there are even _lame_ ghosts, as is proved by the following true tale of the apparition of an officer in india, as related by several of his brother officers, whose words _dare not_ be doubted:--one major r----, who was presumed to be of about fifty or sixty years of age, was with some young officers, proceeding up a river in a barge; and as they came to a considerable bend in the river, the major and the other officers went ashore, in order to cross the neck of land, taking their fowling-pieces and powder and shot with them, in the hopes of meeting some game; and they also took something to _refresh_ themselves on the road. at one part of their journey they took their "tiffing," and after this they had to jump across a ditch, which the young officers cleared, but the major "jumped short." he told his companions to march on, and he would follow after he had dried and put himself a little in marching order. they saw him lay down his fowling-piece and his hat, and they moved on. after marching some time, they came in sight of the barge, and were wondering why the major did not follow, when, on a sudden, they were surprised to see him (the major) at some distance from them making towards the barge, "without his hat or gun," _limping_ hastily along in his _top boots_, and he did not appear to observe them. when they arrived at the barge, he was not there. they returned to the spot where they had left him, and found his hat and his fowling-piece, and with the assistance of some natives they discovered the body of the major in a pit dug for trapping wild animals! i defer asking any questions upon the foregoing for the present, for a reason, but as the next case related is that of the ghost of a young man who had been drowned, and the poor old mother saw her son "dripping with water," we may surely inquire here if there is or can be such a wonderful sight as an _apparition_ of "dripping water!" or ghosts of _tears_! for we find at page an account of a _weeping_ ghost, who let his tears fall on the face of a female, who "_often felt the_ tears _on her cheek; icy cold, but burn afterwards, and leave a blue mark!_" and on the same authority we find that there is the ghost of dirt, for the ghost of the old beggar-man was "dirty." and then if the ghost of a chimney-sweep were to appear--and why not the spirit of a sweep as well as anybody else? but if he came, _he must_ also appear "in his habits as he lived." in that case there must be the ghost of _soot_! thus there are not only the apparitions of _fluids_, and _dust_ and _dirt_, but also of hard substances, as in the case of a ghost who was seen in a garden with the ghost of a "_spade_ in his hand!" and not only have we, then, ghosts of all these matters, but also a ghost of the "_rustling of silk_," "_creaking of shoes_," and "_sounds of footsteps_," many instances of which will be found in "footfalls on the boundary of another world," by robert dale owen, a work most elaborately compiled, and sincerely do i wish that such talent and such research had been engaged and directed to illustrate and assist with _light_, instead of darkness, the present progressive state of society, instead of striving and endeavouring, as it does, to drive us back into the "outer darkness" of the ignorance of the "dark ages," to endeavour to support and to bring back the mind of man to a belief in the visits of ghosts, of necromancy, bewitching, and all the "black arts;" all of which it was hoped, in the progress of time, would ultimately be swept away from the face of the earth, by pure and sound christian religion, education and science, all of which go clearly to prove that "black arts" are matters contrary to the natural laws of the creation and the laws of god. in one of the tales brought forward by this author is an account of the haunting of an old manor-house near leigh, in kent, called ramhurst, where there was heard "knockings and sounds of footsteps," more especially voices which could not be accounted for, usually in an unoccupied room; "sometimes as if talking in a loud tone, sometimes as if reading aloud, occasionally screaming." the servants never _saw_ anything, but the cook told her mistress that on one occasion, in broad daylight, hearing the _rustling_ of a _silk dress_ behind her, and which seemed to _touch_ her, she turned suddenly round, supposing it to be her mistress, but to her great surprise and terror could not see anybody. mr. owen is so thoroughly master of this spirit subject that he must be able to tell us all about this "rustling" of the "silk dresses" of ghosts, and surely every one will be curious to learn the secret of such a curious fact. the lady of the house, a mrs. r----, drove over one day to the railway station at tunbridge to fetch a young lady friend who was coming to stay with her for some weeks. this was a miss s----, who "had been in the habit of seeing apparitions from early childhood," and when, upon their return, they drove up to the entrance of the manor-house, miss s---- perceived on the threshold the appearance of two figures, apparently an elderly couple, _habited in the costume of the time of queen anne_. they appeared as if standing on the ground. miss s---- saw the same apparition several times after this, and held conversations with them, and they told her that they were husband and wife, and that their name was "children;" and she informed the lady of the house, mrs. r----, of what she had seen and heard; and as mrs. r---- was dressing hurriedly one day for dinner, "and not _dreaming_ of anything _spiritual_, as she hastily turned to leave her bed-chamber, there, in the doorway, stood the same female figure miss s---- had described! identical in appearance and costume--even to the old 'point-lace' on her 'brocaded silk dress'--while beside her, on the left, but less distinctly visible, was the figure of the old squire, her husband; they uttered no sound, but above the figure of the lady, as if written in phosphoric light in the dusk atmosphere that surrounded her, were the words, '_dame children_,' together with some other words intimating that having never aspired beyond the joys and sorrows of this world, she had remained '_earth bound_.' these last, however, mrs. r---- scarcely paused to decipher, as her brother (who was very hungry) called out to know if they were 'going to have any dinner that day?'" there was no time for hesitation; "she closed her eyes, rushed through the apparition and into the dining-room, throwing up her hands, and exclaiming to miss s----, 'oh, my dear, i've walked through mrs. children!'" only think of that, "gentle reader!" only think of mrs. r---- walking _right through_ "dame children"--"old point-lace, brocaded silk dress," and all--and as old "squire children" was standing by the side of his "dame," mrs. r---- must either have upset the old ghost or have walked through him also. although this story looks very much like as if it were intended as an additional chapter to "joe miller's jest-book," the reader will please to observe that mr. owen does not relate this as a joke, but, on the contrary, expects that it will be received as a solemn serious fact; there was a cause for the haunting of this old manor-house, with the talking, screaming, and rustling of silk, and the appearance of the old-fashioned ghosts; there was a secret which these ghosts wished to impart to the persons in the house at that time, and if the gentleman reader will brace up his nerves, and the lady reader will get her "smelling-bottle" ready, i'll let them into the secret. now, pray, dear madam, don't be terrified! squire children had formerly been proprietor of the mansion, and he and his "dame" had taken great delight and interest in the house--when alive--and they were very sorry to find that the property had gone out of the family, and he and his dame had come on purpose to let mrs. r---- and her friend know all this! there now, there's a secret for you--what do you think of that? in the year , a baron (of the rather funny name of _gul_denstubbé) was residing alone in apartments in the rue st. lazare, paris, and one night there appeared to him in his bed-room the ghost of a stout old gentleman. it seems that he saw a column of "light grayish vapour," or sort of "bluish light," out of which there gradually grew into sight, within it, the figure of a "tall, portly old man, with a fresh colour, _blue_ eyes,[ ] snow white hair, thin white whiskers, but without beard or moustache, and dressed with care. he seemed to wear a white cravat and long white waistcoat, high stiff shirt collar, and long black frock coat thrown back from his chest as is wont of corpulent people like him in _hot_ weather. he appeared to lean on a _heavy white cane_." after the baron had seen this _portly_ ghost, he went to bed and to sleep, and in a dream the same figure appeared to him again, and he thought he heard it say, "hitherto you have not believed in the reality of apparitions, considering them only as the recallings of memory; now, since you have seen a _stranger_, you cannot consider it the reproduction of former ideas." [ ] the baron must have had _good_ eyes to have seen the precise colour of the ghost's eyes under such circumstances. every one will acknowledge that this was exceedingly kind on the part of the ghost, as he had no doubt to come a long way for the express purpose of setting the baron's mind right upon this point; and had also come from a _very warm place_, as his frock coat "was thrown from his chest, as is wont with corpulent people in hot weather." this polite, good-natured, "blue"-eyed apparition, who was "dressed with care," had been the proprietor of the maison--a monsieur caron--who had dropped down in an apoplectic fit; and, oh, horror of horrors, had actually "died in the very bed now occupied by the baron!"... when the daughter heard of the ghost of her papa, appearing thus upon one or two occasions, "she caused masses to be said for the soul of her father," and it is "alleged that the apparition has not been seen in any of the apartments since;" or, to use a vulgarism, we might say here, that this ghost had "cut his stick." mr. robert dale owen had this narrative from the baron himself in paris, on the th of may, , and he is of opinion that this "story derives much of its value from the calm and dispassionate manner in which the witness appears to have observed the succession of phenomena, and the exact details which, in consequence, he has been enabled to furnish. it is remarkable also, as well for the electrical influences which preceded the appearance, as on account of the correspondence between the apparition to the baron in his waking state, and that subsequently seen in his dream; the first cognizable by one sense only--that of sight--the second appealing (though in vision of the sight only) to the hearing also. the coincidences as to personal peculiarities and details of dress are too numerous and minutely exact to be fortuitous, let us adopt what theory we may." as this baron is no doubt a most respectable and well-conducted gentleman, in every respect, i will not say-- that monsieur the baron de guldenstubbe had taken too much out of a bottle or tub, but this i will say, that his account seems to be nothing more or less than a very _exact_ description of some "dissolving view" trick played off upon the baron and others by some clever french neighbour; and as to his _dream_, it is surely hardly worth while to notice such nonsense, as dreams are now well understood to be only the imperfect operations of the organs of thought, in a semi-dormant state, "half asleep and half awake," and are the effect sometimes of agreeable sensations or painful emotions, during the waking hours, and may be produced to any disagreeable amount by eating a very hearty supper of underdone "pork pies," and going to sleep on the back instead of reclining on the side. we cannot dream of anything of which we have not seen or had something of a similar kind before, nor can we form either awake or in a dream any form whatever--animate or inanimate, which does not partake or form some part of nature's general objects; and in fact we cannot _invent_ an animal form without combining the parts of existing animals either of man or beast. i trust that this _fact_ will be a sufficient answer for monsieur caron. and then, as to the "laying" of this ghost, it does seem to me to be extraordinary, that any person possessed of common understanding in these days, let their religion be what it may, should believe that the almighty god would not let a departed spirit _rest_, until "masses" had been said for the soul of such person; until some _money had been paid_ to a priest to mumble over a few set forms of prayer. _paid_ for prayers--prayers at a certain market price! then, as to the "white cravat," "white waistcoat," "high stiff shirt collar," and "black frock coat," and more particularly the "heavy white cane," is it to be understood that these said "masses" put all these materials to rest, as well as the soul or spirit of the body? if not, where did they go to? had they to return to purgatory by themselves--had the heavy white walking-stick to walk off without its owner? in the frame of mind in which this _story_ is written, it is not at all surprising that the author should have taken so much trouble to put these _facts_ together, and that he should evidently be altogether so satisfied with the conclusion which he arrives at. but ghost stories, like many other matters, where a foundation is once laid and established in falsehood or nonsense, such builders may go on, adding any amount of the same materials, upon this false basis. they may go on, _working in the dark_--piling up one _story_ upon another, until the structure assumes the appearance in the dusk of a well-established and substantial edifice, and looking as if it would stand firm for ever; but undermine this apparently stronghold, with that which is always considered as a great _bore_, when used in working under the foundations of long-established error or prejudice, namely, truth, guided by true religion, and when thus armed and prepared, "spring the mine" with a good "blow-up" of common sense, to let in the light of heaven and christian civilized intelligence, and the whole mass of ignorance and superstition is blown and scattered to the winds, "like the baseless fabric of a vision." it may be said that the truth of this ghost _story_ rests mainly on a _stick_--_leans_ upon a "heavy white cane." take away the _cane_ and down comes the ghost! "white waistcoat," "high stiff shirt collar," "black coat," "blue eyes," and all! the author of "footfalls on the boundary of another world" is evidently a religious man, and had he but thought as deeply upon these matters as i have done, i am sure he would never have been guilty of the impiety of bringing forward such questions as to the _spirituality_ of walking-sticks. but i am well pleased that this "heavy white cane" has been introduced here, because it affords me a handle to cane or to knock down and drive away entirely these hideous and unnatural myths; and also because it enables me to _stick_ to the text, and to introduce here to the public an old friend, as another illustration bearing upon the stick question. this is the apparition of one tom straitshank, drawn, as you will see, by your humble servant. [illustration: george cruikshank] this was a jolly bold daring spirit, and was seen when on board the _victory_ at the battle of trafalgar to emerge, like monsieur caron, out of some light bluish vapour, very much like the smoke of gunpowder; and in that battle it appears, like one of the heroes in "chevy chase," his "legs were smitten off!" but, unlike that warrior, he found that _he_ could not fight "upon his stumps," so he had a pair of wooden legs made, and having bought two stout walking-sticks, was thus enabled to hobble about on his "timber toes." he almost always appeared in various different parts of "greenwich hospital," and very often surrounded by, and sometimes emerging from, a vapour very like the smoke of tobacco. i feel here that i ought to have given tom his pipe, but the drawing of this tar was done many years since, and until i read mrs. crowe's book lately, i was not aware that ghosts smoked their pipes, but it actually appears that they do smoke, for at page of "the night-side of nature," a ghost is introduced with a "short pipe," and it was found out that the reason of his "walking by night" was, that he owed "a _small debt for tobacco_!" and when this little bacca-bill was paid, this ghost, with his little bacca-pipe, was "laid;" and we may suppose the spirit _laid_ down his pipe. this ghost of a tobacco-pipe raises the question of what these spiritual pipes are made--of what clay, or if the meer schum are only _mere shams_; what sort of tobacco-leaves their cigars are made of, and if there are any spiritual "cabbage-leaves" mixed up with them. yes, we'd just like to know, what weed 'tis they burns, whether "shortcut," "shag," "bird's eye," or "returns." as the gents _here_, light their pipes and cigars with a kind of _lucifer_ match, we may be pretty sure that they will continue to do so _elsewhere_; but one would like to know also if ghosts chaw tobacco, if they take a quid of "pig-tail," and if the smokers use spittoons--faugh!--and further, as ghosts do smoke, if they take a pinch of snuff, if there is such a thing as spiritual snuff, if there be such things as the spirit of "irish blaguard" and "scotch rappee?" some of these "_sensation_" melodramas, or rather _farces_, might vie in the number of nights in which the performances took place, with some of the "sensation" or popular theatrical pieces of the present day. here is one entitled, "the drummer of tedworth" (what a capital heading for a "play bill!"), in which the ghost or evil spirit of a drummer, or the ghost of a drum (for it does not appear clearly which of the two it was), performed the principal part in this drama, with slight intervals, for "_two entire years_." oh! this drummer, oh! this drummer, i'll tell you what he used to do, he used to beat upon his drum, the "_old gentleman's_ tattoo." the "plot" runs thus:--in march, , mr. mompesson, a magistrate, caused a vagrant drummer to be arrested, who had been annoying the country by noisy demands for charity, and had ordered his drum, "oh that drum!" to be taken from him and left in the bailiff's hands. about the middle of april following (that is in ), when mr. mompesson was preparing for a journey to london, the bailiff sent the drum to his house. upon his return home he was informed that noises had been _heard_, and then he heard the noises himself, which were a "thumping and _drumming_" accompanied by "a strange noise and hollow sound." the sign of it when it came, was like a hurling in the air, over the house, and at its going off, the beating of a drum, like that at the "breaking up of a guard." "after a month's disturbance _outside_ the house ('which was most of it of board') it came _into the room where the drum lay_." "for an hour together it would beat 'roundheads and cockolds,' the 'tattoo,' and several other points of war, as well as any drummer." upon one occasion, "when many were present, a gentleman said, 'satan, if the drummer set thee to work, give _three_ knocks,' which it did very distinctly and no more." and for further trial, he bid it for confirmation, if it were the drummer, to give _five_ knocks and no more that night, which it did, and left the house quiet all the night after. all this seems very strange, about this drummer and his drum, but for myself, i really think this drumming ghost was "all a hum." but strange as it certainly was, is it not still more strange, that educated gentlemen, and even clergymen, as in this case also, should believe that the almighty would suffer an evil spirit to disturb and affright a whole innocent family, because the head of that family had, in his capacity as magistrate, thought it his duty to take away a _drum_, from no doubt a drunken drummer, who by his noisy conduct had become a nuisance and an annoyance to the neighbourhood? the next case of supposed spiritual antics was not the drumming of a drum, but a tune upon a warming-pan, the "clatter" of "a warming-pan," and a vast variety of other _earthly_ sounds, which it was proved to have been heard at the rev. samuel wesley's, who was the father of the celebrated john wesley, the founder of methodism, at a place called epworth, in lincolnshire. these sounds consisted of "knockings," and "groanings," of "footsteps," and "rustling of silk trailing along" (the "rustling of silk" seems to be a favourite air with the ghosts), "_clattering_" of the "_iron casement_," and "_clattering_" of the "_warming-pan_," and then as if a "vessel full of silver was poured upon mrs. wesley's breast and ran jingling down to her feet;" and all sorts of frightful noises, not only enough to "frighten anybody," but which frightened even a big dog!--a large mastiff, who used at first, when he heard the noises, "to bark and leap and snap on one side and the other, and that frequently before any person in the room heard the noises at all; but after two or three days, he used to tremble and creep away before the noise began. and by this, the family knew it was at hand; nor did the observation ever fail." poor bow woo! what cruel ghosts to be sure, to go and frighten a poor dog in this way. mrs. wesley at one time thought it was "_rats_, and sent for a _horn_ to _blow_ them away;" but blowing the horn did not blow the ghosts away. no; for at first it only came at night, but after the horn was blown it came in the daytime as well. there were many opinions offered as to the cause of these disturbances, by different persons at different times. dr. coleridge "considered it to be a contagious nervous disease, the acme or intensest form of which is catalepsy." mr. owen here asks if the mastiff was cataleptic also? it is rather curious that a _cat_ is mentioned in this narrative. now supposing the _dog_ could not have been _cat_aleptic, the cat might perhaps have been so. some of the wesley family believed it to be supernatural hauntings, and give the following reason for it:--it appears that at morning and evening family prayers, "when the rev. samuel wesley, the father, commenced the prayer for the king, a knocking began all round the room, and a thundering knock attended the _amen_." mr. wesley observed that his wife did not say _amen_ to the prayer for the king. she said she could not, for she did not believe that the prince of orange was king. mr. wesley vowed he could not live with her until she did. he took his horse and rode away, and she heard nothing of him for a twelvemonth. he then came back and lived with her, as before, and although he did so, they add, that they fear this vow was not forgotten before god. if any religious persons were asked whether they thought that any law, natural or divine, could be suspended or set aside without the permission or sanction of the creator, their answer would be, nay, _must_ be, _certainly not_. yes, this would be their answer. then is it not extraordinary that the members of this pious clergyman's family, and from whence sprang the founder of such a large and respectable religious sect, should have such a mean idea of the supreme being, as to suppose that he would allow the regular laws of the universe to be suspended or set aside, and whole families (including unoffending innocent children) to be disturbed, terrified, and sometimes seriously injured, for such contemptible, ridiculous, and senseless reasons, or purposes, such as those assigned in the various cases already alluded to. it is indeed to me surprising that any one possessing an atom of sound christian religion, can suppose and maintain for one moment that these silly, supposed supernatural sounds and appearances can be, as they say, "of god." we may defy the supporters of this apparition doctrine to bring forward one circumstance in connection with these ghosts, which corresponds in any way with the real character of the creator, where any real benefit has been known to result from such sounds and such appearances--none, none, none; whereas we know that there has been a large amount of human suffering, illness, folly, and mischief, and in former times, we know, to a large and serious extent, but even now, in this "age of intellect," when we come to investigate the causes of some of the most painful diseases amongst children and young persons, particularly young females, we find, on the authority of the first medical men, that they are occasioned by being frightened by mischievous, thoughtless, or cruel persons, mainly in consequence of being _taught in their childhood to believe in ghosts_. i know a young lady who, when a child, was placed in a dark closet by her nurse, and so terrified in this way that the poor little girl lost her speech, and has been dumb ever since. dr. elliotson, in one of his reports of the mesmeric hospital, cites several most distressing and painful cases of "chorea," or st. vitus's dance, and dreadful fits, brought on through fright; and dr. wood, physician to st. luke's hospital (for lunatics), assures me that many cases of insanity are produced by terror from these causes; but even supposing that there are not very many cases of positive insanity brought on in this way, still the unnatural excitement thus acting on the brain, or the mind dwelling upon such matters, must have an unhealthy tendency. if all rational and religious persons will give this subject the attention which it demands, they will, i feel confident, see, that this belief in ghosts should not only be discountenanced, but put an end to altogether, if possible, as such notions not only have an injurious effect upon the health and comfort of many persons, particularly those of tender age, but it also debases the proper ideas which man ought to have of the creator; and not only so, but it also interferes with and trenches upon that mysterious and sacred question, _the immortality of the soul_; that it disturbs that belief which, with a firm trust and reliance upon the goodness and mercy of god, is the only consolation the afflicted mind can have, when mourning for the loss of those they have loved dearer than themselves. these hauntings of drumming and knocking, and thumping and bumping, with thundering noises, almost shaking the houses down, accompanied by the _delicate_ rustlings of silk and _trailing_ of gowns, etc., were at the time suspected of being _tricks_; and by the perusal of the following cases the reader will see that such tricks _can_ and _have_ been played, and such imposture carried on so successfully as to deceive clergymen and others; and but for the severe _natural_ tests brought to bear upon the supposed supernatural actors, would no doubt have been quoted by mr. owen and others as well-attested, well-established, veritable spiritual performances. at the corner of a street which runs from snow hill into smithfield, stands what _i_ consider a public nuisance, commonly called a "public-house," the sign of "the cock," and that which is now a street was formerly a rustic lane, and took its name from the sign of that house, and therefore called to this day "cock lane," which locality, in about the years to , became one of the most celebrated places in london, in consequence, as it was believed, of one of the houses therein being taken possession of by a female ghost, who was designated "the cock lane ghost." a man of the name of parsons kept the house, and in which lodged a gentleman and his wife of the name of kempe. this lady died at this house, and after her death it was given out by parsons that his daughter, then eleven years of age (who used to sleep with mrs. kempe when her husband was out of town), was "possessed" with the spirit of the deceased lady, and that the spirit had informed the little girl that she had been murdered by her husband--that she had been "poisoned!" a vast number of respectable ladies and gentlemen, including clergymen, were "taken in"--but happily for themselves not "done for"--by this ghost; and it is said that even the celebrated dr. samuel johnson was _convinced_ of the spirituality of the "knocks" which the ghost gave in answer to questions, for it kept up conversations in precisely the same manner--that is, by "knocks" or "raps"--as the "spirit-rappers" do at the present day. the "scratchings" and "knocks" were only heard when parson's little daughter was in bed. after this sort of thing had gone on for a considerable time, and a _post-mortem_ examination of the body of the supposed murdered lady, which had been deposited in the vaults of st. john's, clerkenwell close, mr. kempe found it necessary to take steps to defend his character. the child was removed to the house of a highly-respectable lady, where "not a sound was heard," no "scratchings" or "knocks," for several nights; but the girl parsons, who was now a year or two older, upon going to bed one night informed the watchers that the ghost would pay a visit the following morning; but the servants of the house informed the watchers that the young lady had taken a bit of wood, six inches long by four inches broad, into bed with her, which she had concealed in her stays. this bit of wood was used to "stand the kettle on." the imposture was discovered, and the poor girl confessed to the wicked trickery which her _parents_ had taught her to practise! mr. kempe indicted parsons and others for conspiracy against his life and character, the case was tried before lord mansfield at guildhall, july th, , and all the parties convicted. the rev. mr. more and a printer, with others, were heavily fined. parsons was set in the pillory three times in one month and imprisoned for two years, his wife for one year, and mary eraser, the "medium," for six months in bridewell, and kept to hard labour. it came out in the course of investigation that master parsons had borrowed some money of mr. kempe, and it was rather suspected that he did not want to pay it back again. another celebrated spiritual farce was enacted in , entitled "_the sampford ghost_." this is a village near tiverton, in devonshire, and the following striking performances were "attested by _affidavit_ of the rev. c. cotton," who, by the by, was of opinion that "a belief in ghosts is favourable to virtue." imprimis, "stamping on the boards answered by similar sounds underneath the flooring, and these sounds followed the persons through the upper apartments and answered the stamping of the feet. the servant women were beaten in bed 'with a fist,' a candlestick thrown at the master's head but did not hit him, heard footsteps, no one could be seen walking round, candles were alight but could see no one, but steps were heard 'like a man's foot in a slipper,' with rapping at the doors, etc. etc. after this the servants were slapped, pushed, and buffeted. the bed was more than once stuck full of pins, loud repeated knockings were heard in all the upper rooms, the house shook, the windows rattled in their casements, and all the horrors of the most horrible of romances were accumulated in this devoted habitation." amongst other things it was _declared_ by a man, of the rather suspicious name of "dodge," that the prentice boy had seen "an old woman descend through the ceiling." the house was tenanted by a man of the name of chave, a huckster. the landlord was a mr. tully, who determined to investigate this matter himself, and went to sleep, or rather to pass the night, at the house for this purpose. the account says that "he took with him a reasonable degree of scepticism, a considerable share of common sense;" and i believe a good thick stick, which is, in my opinion, a much more powerful instrument in _laying_ these kinds of ghosts than the old-fashioned remedy of "bell, book, and candle." when mr. tully went to the house he saw "dodge" speaking to mrs. chave in the shop, and also saw him leave the house; but when he went up stairs by himself who should he see but this same "dodge," who had got up stairs by a private entrance, but who could not _dodge_ out of mr. tully's way. so mr. tully pounced upon him and locked him in the room, where he also found a mopstick "battered at the end into splinters and covered with whitewash," and this was the ghost that answered the stamping on the floors. mr. tully went to bed, and as no ghosts thumped he went to sleep and had a good night's rest; and upon examining the house the next day, found the ceilings below in "a state of mutilation," from the ghostly thumps it had received. tho cause of the house being _haunted_ was a conspiracy on the part of chave and his friends to get the house at a _very low rent_, as _he_ would not mind living on the promises, but other persons would not, of course, be likely to take a "haunted house." a drunken mob one day met and assaulted chave after this trick was exposed, and he took refuge in his "haunted house," from whence he fired a pistol and shot one man dead. another man was also killed at the same time, thus two lives were sacrificed to this "sampford ghost." the rev. c. cotton died shortly after this ghost was discovered to be a flam, or _sham_ ghost; it was supposed of chagrin and vexation at being made a _butt_ of by the vulgar for his simplicity and credulity. another sensation farce was "the stockwell ghost," which performed its tricks very cleverly and successfully at a farm-house in that place in the year . it broke nearly every bit of glass, china, and crockery in the house, and no discovery was made at the time of the _how_, the _why_, or the _wherefore_. but in "the every day book," edited and published by w. hone, the whole matter is explained in the confession of a woman who lived at the house as servant girl at the time, and who played the part of the ghost so well, that she escaped detection, and came off, only suspected by a few. the inutility of attempting to do away entirely with this popular belief in ghosts by _arguments_, however well founded on reason and science, has already been hinted at; but it will be only fair that _science_ should just put a word in, as it can do no harm and may do good. in "sketches of the philosophy of apparition, or an attempt to trace such illusions to their physical causes, by samuel hibbert, m.d., f.r.s.e.," the author states his opinion to be that "apparitions are nothing more than ideas or recollected images of the mind, which have been rendered more vivid than actual impressions," perhaps by morbid affections. it is also pointed out that "in ghost stories of a supposed supernatural character which by disease are rendered so unduly intense as to induce spectral illusions, may be traced to such fantastical objects of prior belief as are incorporated in the various systems of superstition which for ages have possessed the minds of the vulgar." "spectral illusions arise from a highly excited state of the nervous irritability acting generally upon the system, or from inflammation of the brain." "the effect induced on the brain by intoxication from ardent spirits, which have a strong tendency to inflame this organ, is attended with very remarkable effects. these have lately been described as symptoms of 'delirium tremens.' many cases are recorded which show the liability of the patient to long-continued spectral impressions." sir david brewster represents these phenomena as images projected on the retina--from the brain, and seen with the eyes open or shut. of the many causes assigned for spectral illusions the following may be enumerated:--holy ecstasies, various diseases of the brain, diseases of the eye, extreme sensibility or nervous excitement from fright, various degrees of fever, effects of opium, delirium tremens, ignorance and superstition, catalepsy, and confused, indistinct, or uncomprehended natural causes. now all persons who suppose they see ghosts are at liberty to select any of the foregoing causes for their being so deluded, for delusion it is, as i hope presently to prove; but they may rest assured that these supposed spectres are always produced either by disease or by over-excited imagination, which in some cases it may be said amounts to disease. however, to return to the ghosts. a very common, or rather _the_ common, idea of a ghost is generally a very _thin_ and _scraggy_ figure; but if there are such things there must be _fat_ ghosts as well as _thin_ ghosts; fat or thin people are equally eligible "to put in an appearance" of this sort if they can; and to carry out this idea and make it quite clear, i here introduce an old acquaintance of the public, mr. daniel lambert, as he appeared to _my_ _un_-excited imagination whilst engaged on this work. now if daniel came as an apparition, he must, according to the authorities in these matters, not only "come in his habits as he lived," that is, in the clothes he wore, but must also come in his _fat_, or he would not be recognized as the fattest man "and the heaviest man that ever lived," and although he weighed " stone pounds" ( lb. to the stone) in the flesh, in the spirit, he would, of course, be "as light as a feather," or rather an "air bubble;" and as he could not dance and jump about when alive, i thought if i brought him in as a ghost, i'd give him a bit of a treat, and let him dance upon the "tight rope." most persons will remember a story told by "pliny the younger" of the apparition of "an old" man appearing to athenadorous, a greek scholar. this ghost was "lean, haggard, and _dirty_," with "dishevelled hair and a long beard." he had "chains on," and came "shaking his chains" at the greek scholar, who heeded him not, but went on with his studies. the old ghost, however, "came close to him and shook his chains over his head as he sat at the table," whereupon athenadorous arose and followed the dirty old man in his chains, who went into the courtyard and "stamped his foot upon a stone about the centre of it, and--disappeared." the greek scholar marked the spot, and next day had the place dug up, when, lo and behold, they found there the skeleton of a human being. going back to the days of "pliny the younger" is going back far enough into early history for my purpose, which is to show that the notions about apparitions which prevailed at that period are the same as those of the present day, that is, of their _appearing in the dresses they wore in their life-time, in every minute particular_, as to _form_, _colour_, and _condition_, _new_ or _old_, as the case might be; but to prevent any mistake upon this head, i will just add some few words from that _reliable_ authority, defoe, who, you will have already remarked, is _exceedingly particular_ as to the exactness of every article of dress; but in what follows he goes far beyond any other writer on this subject, for instance he says, "we see them dressed in the very clothes which we have _cut_ to _pieces_, and given away, some to one body, some to another, or applied to this or that use, so that we can _give an account of every rag of them_. we can hear them speaking with the same voice and sound, though the organ which formed their former speech we are sure is perished and gone." from the various instances of the appearance of apparitions which have been brought before the reader, it will, i presume, be admitted that abundant and sufficient proof has been given that the writers about ghosts, and all those who have professed to have seen ghosts, declare that _they appear in the dresses which they wore in their lifetime_; but from all i have been able to learn, it does not appear that from the days of pliny the younger down to the days of shakespeare, and from thence down to the present time, that any one has ever thought of the gross absurdity, and impossibility, of there being such things as ghosts of wearing apparel, iron armour, walking sticks, and shovels! no, not one, except myself, and this i claim as my discovery concerning ghosts, and that therefore it follows, as a matter of course, that as ghosts _cannot_, _must not_, _dare not_, for decency's sake, appear without clothes; and as there can be no such things as ghosts or spirits of clothes, why, then, it appears that ghosts never did appear, and never can appear, at any rate not in the way in which they have been hitherto supposed to _appear_. and now let us glance at the _material_ question, or question of _materialism_. in the year , a work was published, entitled "past feelings renovated; or, ideas occasioned by the perusal of dr. hibbert's philosophy of apparitions," which the author says were "written with the view of counteracting any sentiments approaching _materialism_, which that work, however unintentional on the part of the author, may have a tendency to produce." the author of "past feelings renovated" is a firm believer in apparitions, who generally "come in their _habits_ as they lived;" and in his preface he says, "the general tendency of dr. hibbert's work, and evident fallacy of many of the arguments in support of opinions too nearly approaching '_materialism_,' induced me to give the subject that _serious consideration_ which it imperatively demands." this author, it will be perceived, is very much opposed to anything like "_materialism_" in relation to this question, and is strongly in favour of "_spiritualism_," but will he be so good as to tell us what "a pair of buckskins" are made of? and what a pair of top-boots are made of? and whether these materials are _spiritualized_ by any process, or whether the clothes we wear on our bodies become a part and parcel of our souls? and as it is clearly impossible for spirits to wear dresses made of the _materials_ of the _earth_, we should like to know if there are spiritual-outfitting shops for the clothing of ghosts who pay visits on earth, and if empty, haunted houses are used for this purpose, in the same way as the establishments, and after the manner of "moses and son," or "hyam brothers," or such like houses of business, or if so, then there must be also the _spirit_ of woollen cloth, the _spirit_ of leather, the _spirit_ of a coat, the _spirit_ of boots and shoes. there must also be the _spirit_ of trousers, _spirits_ of gaiters, waistcoats, neckties, _spirits_ of buckles, for shoes and knees; _spirit_ of buttons, "bright gilt buttons;" _spirits_ of hats, caps, bonnets, gowns, and petticoats; _spirits_ of hoops and crinoline, and _ghost's_ stockings. yes; only think of the _ghosts_ of stockings, but if the ghost of a lady had to make her appearance here, she could not present herself before company without her shoes and stockings, so _there must be_ ghosts of stockings. most persons will surely feel some hesitation in accepting the assertions made by defoe, that ghosts appear in clothes that have been cut up, or distributed in different places, or destroyed, or that they come in the same garments that are being worn at the same moment by living persons, or which are at the time of appearing, in wardrobes or old clothes shops; or, perhaps, thousands of miles away from the spot where the ghost pays his unwelcome visit, or worn or torn into rags, and stuck upon a broomstick "to frighten away the crows." no, no, i think we may rest assured that ghosts could not appear in these dresses, or shreds and patches; in fact, that they could not show themselves in any dress made of the materials of the earth as already suggested; and, therefore, if they did wear any dresses they must have been composed of a _spiritual material_, if it be possible to unite, in any way, two such opposites. then comes the question, from whence is this spiritual material obtained, and also if there are spirit manufactories, spirit weavers and spinners, and spirit tanners and "tan pits?" if this be so, then there must, of course, be ghost tailors, working with ghosts of needles (how sharp _they_ must be!), and ghosts of threads (and how fine _they_ must be!), and the ghost of a "sleeve board," and the ghost of the iron, which the tailors use to flatten the seams, called a "goose" (only think of the ghost of a tailor's "goose!") then there must be the ghost of a "bootmaker," with the ghost of a "lapstone," and a "last," and the spirit of "cobbler's wax!" ghost of "button makers," "wig makers," and "hatters;" and, indeed, of every trade necessary to fit out a ghost, either lady or gentleman, in order to make it appear that they really did appear "in their habits as they lived." there are, i know, many respectable worthy persons even at the present day who believe they sometimes see apparitions, and i would here take the liberty to advise such persons to ponder a little upon the above remarks relative to the clothing of spirits, and, when again they think they see a ghost, recollect that with the exception of the _face_ and a little bit of the _neck_ perhaps, and also the _hands_, if without gloves, that _all the other parts are_ clothes. and i would also take the liberty to suggest that he should ask the ghost these questions:--"who's your tailor?" and "who's your hatter?" whatever the belief of the "bard of avon" might have been with respect to ghosts, it is quite clear that in these cases he was merely exercising his great poetical talent to work out the several points of popular belief in apparitions, for the purpose of producing a striking "stage effect;" but all that he brings forward, goes to prove the long-established faith in these aërial beings, and the general and almost universal requisites of character and costume. but it probably never entered the great mind of this great poet that there could be no such thing as a ghost of iron, for if it had, he would, no doubt, have dressed up the ghost of hamlet's father in some sort of suit rather more aërial than a suit of steel armour. there may be "more things 'twixt heaven and earth" than were dreamt of in horatio's philosophy; but the ghost of _iron_ armour could not be one of these things, be included in the list, and on reverting to this ghost, the reader will observe that i have given no figure in that suit of armour, and no head to the figure of napoleon the first, and for this reason, the art of drawing, you will please to observe, is a severe critical test in matters of this sort. for suppose an artist is employed to make a drawing of this ghost of hamlet's father, he will begin, or ought to begin, first to sketch out, very lightly, the size and attitude of the figure required; then suppose he makes out the face; and then begins to work on the helmet, but here he stops--why? because if he has any thought, he will say this is not _spirit_, this is manufactured iron! and so with the other parts of the figure, all except the face is _material_; and then to my old enemy in one sense, and _friend_ in another--napoleon, for i volunteered, and armed myself to assist to keep him from coming over here before i was twenty years of age; and as a caricaturist, what by turning him, sometimes into ridicule, and sometimes, in fact very often i may say, killing him with my sharp etching needle, "little boney" used very frequently to give me a good solid bit of meat, and make my "pot boil." but with respect to this headless figure, if the artist is requested to make a drawing of the spirit of this great general, he would, after making out the face, begin with the collar of the coat, and then stop--and why? because the coat is no part of a _spirit_, and if the whole of the figure were finished with the face in, what would that be but the spirit of the _face_ of napoleon; all the rest would consist of a cocked-hat, with tricolored cockade; a military coat, with buttons; a waistcoat, a sword and sash, leather gloves, and leather pantaloons, jack-boots, and spurs! are, or can these things be _spiritual_? if the end of the finger is placed over the space which is left for the face of napoleon, the figure will be recognized as _his without the head_; and so with hamlet's father, place the end of the finger in front of the helmet, and the armour will pass for the ghost; and do the like with the figure of daniel lambert, put the head out of sight, _all the rest_ is neck-handkerchief, a bit of shirt, a coat, a waistcoat, a pair of gloves, small clothes (not very _small_ by the by), an immense pair of stockings, and the points of a pair of shoes; and as to the headless ghost of the gentleman in the _blue_ coat and gilt buttons, that is also nothing but a suit of clothes. the reader will recollect that daniel defoe, mrs. crowe, and mr. owen, and other authors have all introduced ghosts of wigs amongst their facts, in support of spiritual apparitions, so if there are ghosts of "wigs," there must also be ghosts of "pigtails," because they were sometimes a part of a wig; and in taking leave of the reader, i take the liberty of introducing a ghost of a wig and pigtail, who will make a polite bow for the humble author and artist of this "discovery concerning ghosts." addenda. just as i depicted the ghost of the wig and pigtail to bow out all the old-fashioned ghosts, methought i heard a voice say, "well, sir, suppose it _granted_ that you _have_ shown the utter impossibility of there being such things as ghosts of hats, coats, sticks, and umbrellas; admitting that you really have "laid" all these ghosts of the old style, what say you to the "spirit manifestations" of the present day?" well, this does certainly seem to be putting rather a "_home_ question"--a "home thrust," if you please; but sharp as the question may be, and difficult as it may seem to answer, i am not going to shirk the question. in the first place, this _inquiring_ spirit must please to recollect that these "spirit-rappers" of the present day are almost an entirely _new-fashioned_ spirit, a different sort of ghost altogether, or ghosts in "piecemeal;" only _bits_ of spirits, who _never come of their own accord_, and have to be _squeezed_ out of a table bit by bit, when they do hold up a hand, or tap or touch people's legs under the table with their hand, or a bit of one. but never having attended a "_séance_," i cannot give the _inquiring_ spirit any information about these spirits from my own personal knowledge. if the inquirer wishes to know "all about" these spirits, he had better apply to mr. d. d. home, who is quite "at home" with these spirits, upon the most "familiar" terms! in fact, "hand and glove" with them; and they feel so much at home with mr. home, that they are constantly putting their _hands_ and _arms_, if not their _legs_, "under his mahogany." i therefore take the liberty of referring "inquirer" to this home medium, or any other medium, home or foreign, for a "full, true, and particular account" of the character and conduct of these new-fashioned, new-found-_land_ ghosts or spiritual _gentlefolk_, for it does not appear that there are any of the "working-class" amongst them. it has been asserted by mr. home, that he has seen "full length" ghosts. these i shall put to the _test_ a little further on. as i intend putting a few _questions_ myself to these "mediums," or through this medium, to the spirits, i have to hope that these questions of mine will be taken by the _inquiring_ spirits who question me as an answer to _their_ question upon what may be at present considered upon the whole as almost, if not entirely, _unanswerable_, at least with the ordinary natural organs of thought and judgment, and therefore it must be left to these tabular spirits or their mediums to explain (that is, if they can) that which, to the "outsiders," as the affair stands at this moment, is an _inexplicable puzzle_. in bringing forward my questions, i will take the liberty of making an extract from the "times," of the th of april last, where mr. d. d. home's book of "incidents in my life," is reviewed with considerable acumen and ability; and wherein the writer states that a dr. wilkinson was desirous of obtaining some information and explanations respecting the "ways and means" of these spirits. the doctor asked mr. home why the effects (that is, the manifestations) "took place _under_ the table and not _upon_ it." mr. home said, that "in habituated circles the results were easily obtained above board, visibly to all, but that at the first sitting it was not so; that scepticism was almost universal in men's intellects, and marred the forces at work; that the spirits accomplish what they do through our _life sphere_, or _atmosphere_, which was _permeated at our wills_, and if _the will_ was _contrary_, the _sphere_ was unfit for being operated upon." moreover, allowance must be made for a certain indisposition on the part of the spirits (as we infer a sort of spiritual bashfulness), "which deters them from exhibiting their members in a state of imperfect formation." when some had merely a _single finger_ put upon their knees, "mr. home said that the presenting spirits could often make _one finger_ where they could not _make two_, and two where they could not form an _entire hand_, just as they could form a hand where they could not realize a whole human figure" (for there seems never to have been life sphere at a _séance_ adequate to the exhibition of an entire figure, "though mr. home has frequently seen spirits in their full proportions when alone"). and now for one of my questions, which question is not only _my_ question, but a public question, and one which mr. home is bound to answer, if he can. i therefore publicly call upon that gentleman to inform the public if these spirits, which he saw in their "full proportions," were in a state of nudity, or if they had clothes on? and if clothed, of what those clothes were made? if he does not know these particulars of his own knowledge, as he has the _ear_ of these spirits, their _entire_ confidence, and as they have _his_ ear, let him call upon them to let him into the secret of the manufacture of their garments, or how the spirits procure them; and until mr. home explains this satisfactorily to the public, we have a right to suspect that either he has been himself deceived, or that he----perhaps i had better not finish the sentence. the "_inquiring_ spirit" will see that the _clothes_ are the test, and this test stands good here, as well as with the _old_ fashioned ghosts, and this, i presume, will be allowed as rather a "home question" to mr. home; a home thrust which he can only parry by giving the information asked; which, if he does not, i will not say "britons, _strike_ home," but unless he or the spirits "rap" out a satisfactory answer, he may rely upon it that he will feel the weight of public opinion, which will weigh rather heavily upon him. but i give him a first-rate chance of becoming exceedingly popular, for the mass, the millions, are ready to believe anything in the _shape_ of a fact, and i am confident that the whole world would be delighted to get hold of such a secret as this. it would be, perhaps, extreme cruelty to put this gentleman _quite_ "out of spirits;" but unless he tells us what the clothes of spirits are made of, i should say that he will stand in rather an awkward position before the bar of public opinion. another question here i'll put, about this spirit "d d outfit," which i fear that the spirits won't answer, just as yet-- it is a question, i grant, that looks _rather_ queer, which is--are their "togs" made out of our _atmosphere_? if the cloth is made out of stuff "_permeated by our wills_"-- and further, if these ghosts are honest, and pay their tailors' bills? and then, as to the handy craft and crafty hands-- oh tell us if warm hands, and cold-- so cold! so cold! oh dear!-- are made in any kind of mould, or how they trick 'em out of our "life sphere?" now supposing, nay even admitting, that the _hands_ of spirits are exhibited at these _séances_, does it not really seem to be impossible to believe that they are made out of the air that surrounds the persons who surround the table!!! making fingers and hands out of our "life-sphere" or "atmosphere!" "permeated by our wills!" well, i was going to say, "after that comes in a horse to be shaved," but really i hardly know what to say; for whilst reading the accounts of these spirits, i feel almost bewildered, and as the mediums say that there is what they call "spirit-writing," and that spirits seize the person's wrist, and make them write just what they wist, i suspect that the spirit of botheration has got hold of my hand, and is making me write what it pleases; and i therefore hope the "gentle reader" will excuse me if i write down here "handy pandy, jack a dandy," or any other childish nonsense; for as this table lifting and turning seems to alter and set aside altogether the law of gravitation and all the universal laws of the universe, that used to be thought by simple people as fixed and unalterable, so likewise these "spirit hands" and "spirit rapping" seem to put reason and rationality entirely out of the field. therefore, as common sense cannot be used in any sense on this question, as it is utterly useless in the present state of affairs to attempt to "chop logic" with "raps," and their mediums upon such tables as these, it will be here quite in place to talk a little nonsense. the reader will therefore, i am sure, bear with me if i make two or three silly suggestions upon this phenomena of moving tables. under ordinary circumstances, when persons who are not "habituated" have any natural substance to deal with--say, for instance, a _deal_ table--the mind naturally endeavours to account in a natural way for such a piece of furniture moving or being moved without any assignable natural cause. common sense in this case being "put out of court," and the scientific world having seemingly "given it up," there is no other source left but to deal with the spirits or their mediums in this matter; and i would here ask if these _tables_, heavy or light, are moved by this "life-sphere" or "atmosphere" which is "permeated by our wills;" or if the hands made out of this airy nothing move and lift the furniture? as _they can_ give an answer to the query, we shall all surely be very much obliged to them if they will do so; and whilst they are preparing their answer, i will go on with a little more nonsense, and make a most ridiculous suggestion upon the table lifting, quite as ridiculous perhaps as anything that has emanated from the spirits or their mediums. it may seem absurd to bring "dame nature" into this "circle," but nevertheless it does seem true that animals who are associated with man seem to partake, to a very large extent, of man's intelligence. dogs particularly so, cats pretty well, and even pigs have been known, when domesticated, to be cleanly and polite, and of course we have all heard of the "learned pig." dear little birds, and even asses and geese, have been known to share in this "life sphere" or "atmosphere" of man's brain. i knew a man who was educating and training a goose, to come out before the public as a performer as a _learned_ goose, which intention was unfortunately not carried out, in consequence of an accident which happened to the poor bird about "michaelmas" time. it appears that he got placed so near a large fire that he was very soon "_done brown_," and upon a "post mortem" examination it was discovered that he was stuffed full of _sage_ and onion. we are so accustomed to have intelligent animals about us, that we do not look upon it as anything very extraordinary. nevertheless, the phenomena is not the less wonderful for all that. now i lay this question on the table, for the spirits to rap out an answer--viz., as tables and chairs are associated with man (and woman, of course), can, or is the vital spark, or life principle, conveyed from the body into the wood, which is _porous_, and can it make these otherwise _inanimate_ objects "all alive alive o?" the reader must excuse me for asking such a silly question, and will please to recollect that i am not putting the question to him, but to the silly spirits and their mediums, for these _spirits_, it is stated, are sometimes quite as silly as _any body_ can be. i therefore ask again whether the vital principle or force is conveyed into the tables whilst the parties or "circle" are pressing their hands upon it; and if not, please to tell us what it is, for the "outer" world are very anxious and waiting to know. it must be observed that the tables only move under this _pressure_, and whilst the "circle" is thus acting and using its _atmospheric_ influence, otherwise the tables might or would be always jumping about the room; and if the tables are not thus moved by animal heat, how would the animal man be able to get his meals? and it follows as a natural--beg pardon, spiritual--consequence, that if this be not the case, or the cause, then are the spirits a very thoughtful and well-behaved society, to be thus careful not to rattle or roll the table about and jump it up and down when the dinner is spread; or perhaps these spirits partake of the "good things of this life," as very poor french emigrants used to do, namely, by merely _smelling_ the viands at a cook's shop--"sniff, sniff, ah! dat is nice a roast a bef--sniff, sniff, ah! dat nice piece de veal--ah! sniff, sniff, dat a nice piece a de pork--ah! ah! sniff, sniff"--but if they don't _eat_ it appears they _drink_; for in an article by r. h. hatton, in the "victoria magazine,"[ ] entitled "the unspiritual world of spirits," it states that mr. howitt "believes in a modern german ghost that drank beer," which called forth the words (with a horrible exclamation), "it swallows!" and at a "_séance_" held at a cháteau near paris, three years back, a gentleman asked for some brandy and water, which when brought was "snatched out of his hold by a spirit-hand which carried it beneath the table," and "the glass came back _empty_." we are told that the spirits have difficulty in making a finger; if so, they must have a greater difficulty in "making mouths;" but suppose they do make a mouth, and the spirits drink the beer and spirits, where is the liquid to go to, if they have made no stomach out of the _atmosphere_ of the _ladies_ and gentlemen forming the "circle" round the table? this does not look as if it were "all fair and above board;" but, on the contrary, very much as if there were some clever rascally little _bodies_ playing their pranks and taking the "spirits" under the table; however, if it be the _real_ spirits who drank the beer and spirits, i as a teetotaler must express my disgust at such conduct, and, for one, will have nothing to do with such spirits; indeed, i am quite shocked to find, contrary to all former ideas of spiritual life, that even these "_pure_ spirits" have still a taste for the spirit of alcohol. i really begin to fear that these drinking, if not drunken spirits, do haunt the "spirit-vaults." the _beer_ they drink is, i presume, "_home_-brewed." [ ] published by emily faithful. and i take this opportunity of wishing success to the "victoria magazine," as a part of the good work in which that lady is engaged. but to turn again to the "table-turning." one way that i would suggest this question, to test, as to whether it be the life principle that gives a sort of life to these wooden _legs_, and _drawers_, and _body_, and _flaps_, from which the spirits send out their "raps," would be, to substitute an iron table, a good heavy iron table, and as it is said they can lift any weight, let 'em lift that; and if not iron, then try a good large marble slab. if the iron will not "enter into _their_ soul," let them try if their _soul_ will enter into the iron, or if the stone will be moved by the "atmosphere" of their flesh and their bone. wonders, it is said, will never cease, and most assuredly some of the tales told of these "_séances_," and some of the reported spirit exhibitions are so wonderful, so astounding, that one does not know _how_ to believe them; and there are certain circumstances in some parts of the performance that look so _like_ trickery, that it is impossible to accept the _whole_ relation as fact, however much we might feel disposed to receive a part thereof. some of these performances are performed in the dark, in the "pitch dark," so dark that the company cannot see each other; and it is in this state of "inner" and "utter" darkness that the spirits prefer to lift mr. home, and _float him up to the ceiling_,[ ] so that the spirits who lift him are "_invisible_ spirits," and mr. home is _invisible_ also. and this makes me think that these spirits are without clothing, and being so, are ashamed to show themselves. i put this as a question to mr. home, and also, as they only _make_ hands and _shake_ hands, if they are not "ashamed to show their faces," _why_ don't they _make faces_? (i don't mean grimaces). but i should not only like to know why they don't make some "atmospheric" "life-sphere" faces, but should also very much like to sketch their likenesses, or "take them off," as people say. [ ] i should like to ask a question here-- is home by spirits lifted, or by "atmosphere?" touching upon these faces reminds me that a new feature has been introduced in this _new_ world, that is, taking up this new fashion of the _old_ world by having "_carte de visites_." a mr. _mum_-ler, of boston, u.s., discovered that these spirits have a taste for art as well as music, and that they have a little vanity like ourselves; and it has since been discovered that _fraud_ has been _discovered_, of photographers--"_palming off as spirit likeness_--_pictures of persons now alive!_" but here comes the clothes test again, these _spirited_ portraits have all got their _clothes on_. apparitions of suits of clothes, spirits of _coats_, _boots_, and _ladies' dresses_!!! this _test_ of the _clothing_ is very severe, for without having clothes the ghost can't appear; for even that extraordinary clever invention of professor pepper's, the "patent" ghost, which he exhibited at the polytechnic institution, and which is introduced into a piece called "the haunted man and the ghost's bargain," now performing at the adelphi theatre, and which ghost, i am sorry to say, i have not yet had time to see, but this "patent ghost," of course, has clothes on. in fact, apparitions cannot appear without clothes, and apparitions of clothes cannot appear; and so--but really i had quite forgotten that i had left mr. home sticking up against the ceiling, upon which it appears he makes his _mark_--all in the dark--as a kind of "skylark." "_seeing_ is believing," but as his friends could not see him, he was obliged to do some thing of this sort, suspecting, i suppose, that his friends would not take _his word_. when a light was thrown upon this scene, mr. home was discovered lying upon his back upon the table! it may be rude to say that all this was all a trick, but pardonable, perhaps, to say it looks very like trickery. talking of "skylarking," reminds me, that in conversation with a friend of mine, who is a believer in mr. home, and expressing a doubt about the possibility of mr. h. kicking his heels up in the air in this way, and asking if it were not imaginary, my friend assured me that it was no "flight of fancy," that it was quite true, and that it was not at all improbable but that some day, in daylight, we might "see mr. home _floating across the metropolis_!" i suggested that mr. h. had better mind what he was about, as there was danger in such a flight, for some short-sighted sports-man, or if not short-sighted, he might be in such a state of _fuddle_ as not "to know a hawk from a hand saw," and might mistake him for some gigantic, "monstrous blackbird," or some "_rara avis_," and bring him down with his gun, though in this case he would not want to "bag his game." to prevent such a hit as this, or rather such a _mis_chance, i would suggest that due notice should be given to the public when mr. home intends appearing up above the chimney-pots; and that in addition to his _floating_, that the spirits should run him along the "electric telegraph" wires. that would be something worth seeing, and much better than the stupid, silly, nonsensical tricks they now play either on the table or under the table. there used formerly, even in my time--i don't go back so far as the reign of the charles's, but to the days of the "charlies," as the old watchmen were called, and before the "_new_ police" were introduced to the public,--in those days ghost tricks were played in various parts of london; one favourite spot was in front of st. giles's churchyard, near unto a "spirit vault." it used to be reported that there was a ghost every night in this churchyard, but it was an invisible ghost, for it never was seen, though there was a mob of people gaping and straining their eyes to get a peep at it; but during this time, some low cunning spirits used to creep out of the adjoining spirit vaults, mix amongst the crowd, and having very _light fingers_, used, instead of _tapping_ the people on the knees, as the spirits do at the "_séances_" they dipped their hands into the "atmosphere" of respectable people's pockets, and "spirited away" their watches, handkerchiefs, pocket-books, or anything else that came in their way, and then bolt into the vaults again. n.b.--these spirits could swallow _spirits_, like those described in the preceding pages. spirits of the old style used to delight in the darkness of night, but sometimes they'd show their pale faces by moonlight. a "_séance_" is described that took place by moonlight. i don't mean to _assert_ that it was _all_ "moonshine." a table was placed in front of a window between the curtains; the "circle" round the table and the space between the curtains was the _stage_ where the performance took place. query: how did the mediums know, when they placed this table, that the spirits who "lent a hand" in the performance would act their play at that part of the table? by the by, the _table_ plays an important part in these spirited pieces; the spirits surely would not be able to get on at all without a _table_! at each side of this stage, lit by the moon, and close to the window curtains, which formed as it were the "proscenium," stood a gentleman, one on each side, like two "prompters," one of whom was mr. home; and when one particular hand was thrust up above the rim of the table, and which _hand_ had a _glove on_, mr. h. cried out, "oh! keep me from that hand! it is so cold; do not let it touch me." query: how did mr. h. know that this hand _was so cold_? and had it put the glove on because it felt itself so cold? and out of whose "atmosphere," or "life sphere" had the spirit made this hand? if it were _so_ cold, it must have got the stuff through some very _cold-hearted_ "medium." then comes my _clothes test_ again, where did the _hand_ get the _glove_? suppose it was a _spirit hand_, the hand of a soul that once did live on earth, could it be the _spirit_ of a _glove_? whilst waiting for an answer to these queries, i would suggest to these "mediums," that if they see this "hand and glove" again, they should ask, "who's your glover?" yes, it would be important to obtain the name and address of such a glover, as such gloves, we may suppose, would not wear out, nor require cleaning. an old and valued friend of mine attended a _séance_ in , of which he wrote a short account, and which he keeps (in manuscript) to lend to his friends for their information and amusement, upon this subject; and although he confesses that, as a novice, he was rather startled upon one or two occasions during the evening, that the extraordinary proceeding of the _séance_ had something of a _supernatural tinge_ about it; nevertheless, upon mature reflection he came to the conclusion that the whole was a very cleverly-managed piece of trickery and imposture. as i am permitted to quote from this manuscript, i will here give a short extract to show the reader how an american medium--a dr. _dash_--assisted by two other "mediums," also americans, _managed_ the spirits upon that occasion. a party of eight were seated round a table:-- "shortly and anon, a change came o'er the spirit of the doctor. he jumped up and said, '_hush! i hear a spirit_ rapping at the door.' * * * * * "the doctor told us there was a spirit which wished to join our _séance_, the door was opened, a chair was most politely placed at the table, and there the spirit sat, but, like 'banquo's' ghost, _invisible to the company_." in the waterloo road there resided--next door to each other--some years back, two paperhangers, who vied with each other in doing "stencilling"--that is, rubbing colour on walls through a _cut out_ pattern; there was great opposition between them, and one of them (no. ) wrote on the front of his house in _large_ letters, "the acme of stencilling," upon which no. , determined not to be outdone in this style, wrote upon the front of his house in letters _double_ the size of his neighbour's, "the heigth of the acme of stencilling." now, i do not know whether this pretended _introduction_ of an _invisible_ spirit, and putting a chair for this worse than nothing to sit in, when he had nothing to sit down upon, may be considered as the _heigth_ of the _acme_ of unprincipled, impudent imposture; but it goes far enough to show that trickery _can be and is carried on_, and carried on even as a trade or "calling" in this "spirit-rapping" business, for i have seen a printed card where a _professional_ "medium" gives his name and address, and has on it, "circles for spiritual manifestation--hours from to and to p.m.;" to which is added, "private parties and _families_ visited." if such a card as this had been introduced in "the broad grin jest book," some years back, it would have been quite in place, but to think that such a card as this should be circulated in this "age of intellect," as a _business_ card--the card of a "_maître de ceremonie_," who undertakes to introduce _invisible spirits_, into parties and _private families_, is something more than i ever expected to see, on the outside of bethlem, or in the list of impostures at a police station. as this dr. _dash_ pretended that spirits were "mixed up" with this party--were indeed surrounding the "circle," and who had come into the room _without knocking_, and were not _accommodated with chairs_, why should this ghost of nothing knock at the door, and how did the dr. know that he wished to join the _séance_, and why should _this invisible_ mr. nobody have a chair, and the other _spirits_ be obliged to stand? and then was this spirit _dressed_ in his best? for as it was an evening party, he ought to have been "dressed with care." the calling up of one spirit seems to call up or raise another spirit, and as dr. _dash_ introduced a dumb and invisible spirit who was supposed to take his seat at a table, i take this opportunity of introducing a spirit of a very different character--one of the old fashioned spirits--one that could both be seen and heard, and who was _seen_ to take his seat at the table, and enter into conversation with his friends. an extract from the "registry of brisley church in ," runs thus:--a mr. grose went to see a mr. shaw, and whilst these gentlemen were quietly smoking their pipes, in comes (without "rapping") the ghost of their friend mr. naylor. they asked him to sit down, which he did, and they conversed together for about two hours; he was asked how it fared with him, he replied, "very well," and when he seemed about to move, they asked him if he could not stay a little longer, he replied that he "could not do so, for he had only three days' leave of absence, and had other business to attend to."[ ] [ ] as, according to mrs. crowe, ghosts can smoke, and upon equally good authority, spirits can swallow _spirits_, no doubt this ghost of mr. naylor, who did not come without the help of his tailor, took a pipe with his friends, and took something to _drink_ with them also, for you may _rely_ upon it, that the ghost's friends were not smoking a "_dry_ pipe." now this is something like a ghost, whose visit you observe is recorded in the registry of a parish church, and as the party i believe were all clergymen, of course the rev. mr. naylor came in his clerical "habits as he lived," no doubt "dressed with care." yes, this you see was a respectable sort of ghost--one that you could see and listen to, not such a poor "dummy" as dr. _dash's_ poor spiritless spirit, mr. nothing nobody, esq., who could neither be seen nor heard, which even to name, seems quite absurd. the reason for thus suddenly pretending to introduce a _spirit_, was to produce an _effect_--a _sensation_--upon the nerves of the party assembled (particularly the novices), for it is only under excited nervous feelings that anything like success can attend the operations of such "mediums." the creator has so formed us that our nerves are more excitable in darkness than in the light, and our senses thus excited, are for our safety and protection, when moving about in the dark, either in-doors or out, as we feel and know, that there is a chance of our being seriously injured by running against or falling over something, or that there might be evil spirits in the shape of robbers lurking about, against whom it would be necessary to be ready to defend ourselves, or to avoid. our faculties being thus put on the "_qui vive_," is natural, healthy, and proper; but when the mind has been imbued from childhood with a belief in ghosts, and the individual should happen to be in a dark and lonely place, and should hear or see indistinctly something which the mind on the instant is not able to account for, _naturally_, or _comprehend_ rationally, then under such circumstances, to use a common expression, "we are not ourselves," and in giving way to imaginary fears, under the impression of supernatural appearances, the stoutest hearts and the strongest men, have been known "to quiver and to quail," to be confused and to feel that thrilling sensation, that cold trickling down the back from head to heel, which is produced from fright, and nothing but the rallying of their mental and physical forces, and rousing up a determined resolution, has enabled such men to overcome this coward-like fear, and to discover that they have been scared by some natural sound, or some imperfectly-seen natural object, that it was all "a false alarm," or perhaps a made up ghost, by some fool or rogue, or both, who was playing his "tricks upon travellers." but with weak and nervous persons, who believe in supernatural appearances, the effects of fright, under such circumstances, produce the most painful feelings, total prostration of the faculties, and sometimes fatal consequences. here is an instance where all the faculties were prostrated by fright in consequence of seeing a supposed apparition, followed by the death of an innocent person:-- in the year , the inhabitants of hammersmith, a village situated on the west side of the metropolis, but now forming part of it, were much terrified by the appearance of, as it was said, a spectre clothed in a winding sheet. this apparition made its appearance in the dark evenings in the churchyard, and in several avenues about the place. i well remember "the hammersmith ghost," as it was called, being the "town talk" of that day, and not only in hammersmith, but even in town, many persons were afraid to leave their homes after dusk. besides a man of the name of john graham, who was detected, and i believe imprisoned, there were several actors in this ghostly farce, which was however brought to an end in a tragical manner--that is, by a young man of the name of thomas millwood, a plasterer, being shot dead by one francis smith, an exciseman, who at the time (as the narrator states) was rather "warm over his liquor"--that is about half drunk; and in this state he was allowed at the "white hart" public house to load a gun with shot, and go out for the purpose of discovering the ghost, and he no sooner saw a figure in a light dress (which was the poor plasterer in his _working dress_, on his road to fetch his wife home, who had been at work all day at a house in the neighbourhood of "black lion lane," where this murder was committed) than he lost the use of his faculties, and was in such a state of fright that, as he said in his defence, he "did not know what he was about," and unfortunately, under these circumstances, killed an innocent man, which he never would have done had he not been a believer in apparitions and ghosts. in p. , of the "victoria magazine," the writer, in speaking of an interview which mr. home had with the spirit of the count cagliostro, states that the said _spirit_ diffused and wafted over his friend mr. h. the most "delicious perfumes," and that they "appeared to have been a part of the count's personal resources;" and argues for various reasons that these spirits are "sensitive to sweet smells," and that the spirits are "adepts in perfumery," "are fond of it," and surround themselves and their medium "with exquisite odours." and as mr. home is such a great favourite with these "spirits," his "life sphere" and "atmosphere" must be very highly scented and perfumed with smells, and this accounts at once for the spirits playing "home, _sweet_ home" upon the accordion, when he holds it under the table with one hand, and they play upon it, i suppose, with "_their hands of atmosphere!_" be this as it may, however "sweet upon themselves" they may be, these spirits are at this moment in _very_ "_bad_ odour" with a large body of the press, as also with the large body of the public, and it therefore rests with the "mediums" to bring these "spirits of darkness" into light, and that these supposed spirits, their mediums, and their friends should _place_ themselves in a right position before the public. "come out in the road" (as the low folk say when they are going to fight). by the by, there surely must be (as they are all _spirited_ fellows) some "prizefighters" amongst these "rapping" spirits, and if so, i would suggest that mediums, as "backers" and "bottle-holders" (provided they don't have any "spirits" in their bottle), should get up a "prizefight" as a public exhibition, between such spirits as jem belcher and tom crib, or any of those celebrated deceased popular heroes; and there would be this advantage in such contests, that the "sporting world" would have all their favourite sport, and be able to bet upon their favourites in these "sham-fights" without the attendant horrible and disgusting brutalities of the _real_ fights; for although they would, of course, "rap" each other, their _fists_ being only made of "_atmosphere_," they could not hurt or disfigure each other as they do in the _earthly_ boxing. and if these aërial boxers did "knock the wind out" of each other, it would be of no consequence, for as they would be surrounded with lots of their own kind of "life sphere," or "atmosphere," they could soon "make themselves _up_" again, if even they did not "make it up" with each other. but i see some difficulties in carrying out these "sports," which did not occur to me at first; for instance, if they cannot make their own thick heads out of the "atmosphere" of the heads about them, having no heads then, how can they be "set by the ears?" besides, they could not hear when "time" was called, and then, again, the patrons of the "prize ring" would not be satisfied unless they could see these spirited ghosts "knock each other's heads half off." if these spirits cannot "make head," and keep up with the intellectual progress of the spirit of the times, and with the spirit of the world. if they cannot be a "body politic," or a body of spirits, or any other body, let the mediums set their _hands_ to work, "all _hands_, ahoy!" let them lend a hand to any "handiwork;" "hand-looms," or hand about the tea and bread and butter at parties, or make themselves "handy" in any way, even if they were made to use "hand-brooms." yes; let them put their hands to any honest calling rather than keep their hands in idleness, for they should recollect what dr. watts asserts-- "that _satan_ finds some mischief still for _idle hands_ to do." and if these "spirit hands" are too flimsy and delicate to _work_--to do hard work--then let them _play_ musical instruments, get up popular concerts, and as they can make perfumes, or are themselves perfumers, they could thus whilst playing gratify their audiences with sweet sounds and sweet scents at the same time. however absurd this asserted _fact_ of tables being moved by spirits may appear, and to many persons appearing not worth a "second thought," yet it is natural that we should endeavour to account for such a movement in a natural way, one cause assigned is natural heat, the other involuntary muscular action, etc., etc. in this state of uncertainty a little "_guess_ work" about the table movement, may perhaps be excused, even if it be as absurd as "table lifting" itself. we know that the common air, dry or moist, affects all earthly materials, and that the water and the air, are everywhere, changing, the flower and the stone, the flesh and the bone. and we also know that wood, being a very _porous_ material, is powerfully affected by the "broad and general casing air," that it expands or contracts according to the condition of the atmosphere, and thus we find when there is any considerable change in the temperature, that all the book-cases, wardrobes, chests of drawers, clothes presses, tables, or "what-nots," in different parts of the house, will indicate this change by a _creaking_, cracking noise. i have in my studio an oaken cabinet, which acts under the influence of the change of air, like a talking thermometer, and with which i sometimes hold a sort of a "_cabinet_ council" upon the subject of the change of weather. when seated in my room, with doors, and windows, and shutters shut, if it has been dry weather for any length of time, and my cabinet begins creaking, i know by this sound from the wood, that the warm moist air, which has been wafted with the warm gulf stream from the west indies, is diffusing itself around the room, and producing an effect upon me and my furniture, even to the fire-irons and fender, and so, on the contrary, after wet or moist weather, if the creaking is heard again, i know pretty well "which way the wind blows," and that it is a dry wind, without looking out at the weather vane. if it merely goes _creak, creak, crack_, and stops there, the change will not be great, but when it goes _cre-ak, cre-ak, creak, crack, crack, crack--rumble, rumble, rumble, creak, crack_! then do i know, and find, that the _change_ will be _considerable_, and can _spell_ out, change--rain--rain--rain, much rain. many persons who have given any thought to this question, are of opinion that electric currents passing from the human body is the cause of this "table-moving," and i introduce my "weather wise" cabinet to the public here to show, that if a _little damp air_, or a _little dry air_ will _move_, and _make_ a _large heavy cabinet_ talk in this way, how much more likely it is that a _table_ should be moved, and particularly if these "electric currents" fly "like lightning" through the passages or spiracles of this popular, but at present mysterious piece of furniture. no wonder then if the "life sphere" and "the atmosphere" of the "light-headed," "light-heeled," who "_permeate their wills_" into this otherwise inanimate object, should all of a sudden "set the table in a roar," and "rap out their rappartees," and that "the _head_ of the table" should bob up and down, so as to make the people stare, either standing around or stuck in a chair, and that the legs all so clumsy, should caper and dance and kick up in the air, to the tune of "well did _you_ ever!" and "well _i_ declare!" _!!!_ this cabinet of mine is filled with the spirited works of departed spirits, including some of my dear father's humorous works, also of the great hogarth, the great gilray, and other masters, ancient and modern; the mediums would, i suppose, say-- that when this cabinet begins a "crack"[ ] or creaking, it is these sprites of art, who thus to me are speaking. [ ] scotch for talking. and as one of the panels was _split_ some years back, the mediums would perhaps suggest that these "_droll_ spirits" made the cabinet "_split_ its sides with laughter," but _i_ know it was the _hot air_ of a hot summer, and certainly not done by a drum or a drummer--that this "splitting" or "flying," only shows the _force_ of the _common air_, and i hope adds to the force of my argument in this respect, and further, of this i feel assured, that if i were to "clear the decks for action," bring this cabinet out into the middle of my studio, and could induce some of the lady and gentlemen "mediums" to come and form a "circle," and clap their hands on and around this piece of furniture, that, although monsieur cabinet has no "light fantastic toe," that he would nevertheless join in the merry dance, and cut some curious capers on his castors, and even "beat time" perhaps with his curious creaks and cracks. by the by, glass being a non-conductor, a table made of _glass_, would at once settle this question, as to whether the tables are moved by electric currents or not. i am now about to suggest what i feel assured every one will admit to be a grand idea, and which would be to make these spirits useful in a way that would be highly appreciated and patronized by the public, and put all the "fortune-tellers" and "rulers of the stars" out of the field altogether, and perhaps even damage the "electric wires" a little. it is to establish a company, to be entitled, "the human question and spirit answer company!" the principal "_capital_" to work upon, would be the overpowering principle of curiosity; in this case, instead of having a "_chair_-man," they would, i suppose, have a _table_-man; if so, then homo would be the _man_, and of this company it never could be said, that they had _not_ a _rap_ at their bankers. "limited," of course, but the _business_ would be un-_limited_, with profits, corresponding; branch question and answer offices, branching out all over the globe, with "letter-boxes" and "chatter-boxes". if the business of such offices were worked and carried out in a "_proper spirit_," it would assuredly be "a success." i am supposing, of course, that these spirits will be able to "tell us something we don't know," for up to the present time it does not appear that they have told anything to us that we could not have told them, and in a more common sense and grammatical style than most of the communications which they have "rapped out," but if there are any _real_, great, and good spirits amongst these gammocking table-turners, they must, one would suppose, know all about everything and everybody, and everybody would be asking questions, and if so, "oh, my!" what a lot of funny questions there would be! and what a lot of funny answers! (_all_ "_private_ and _confidential_," of _course_) as nobody would be sure not to tell nobody any secrets that nobody wanted anybody to know. under ordinary circumstances i am not at all what might be called a _curious_ person, but although i should (like other people) like to know how certain matters might turn out, and although i should never think of asking a "fortune-teller" or of consulting the gentry who profess to "rule the stars," yet if such a company as this were started, i feel that i should be compelled to start off to the first office i could get to, for the purpose of putting two or three questions, to which i want immediate answers if it were possible, and should not mind paying something extra for _favourable_ answers. i will here just give a specimen of some of these questions. some literary gentleman and others belonging to the "urban club," and also some members of the "dramatic authors'" society, have formed themselves in a committee (upon which they have done me the honour to place my name), for the purpose of setting on foot and assisting to raise a fund, if possible, to erect a monument in honour of william shakspeare, as the rd of april, , will be the ter-centenary of that poet's birthday. another committee for the same purpose is also in formation, and the two committees will either amalgamate or work together. i have suggested to the first committee that in order to assist the funds for the above-mentioned purpose, that a notice be sent out to the public to this effect--that all persons having any works of art, either paintings, drawings, or sculpture, should be invited and respectfully requested to lend such works to a committee of artists, to form a gallery or national collection illustrating this author's works, to be called "the shakspeare exhibition," and in which designs for the said monument could also be exhibited. the question, therefore, i would put to the _spirits_ through the proper _medium_ would be this, viz.--if such invitations were sent out, would the holders of such works lend them for the purpose of thus being placed before the public? and further--if the government were applied to, would they "lend the loan" of a proper and fitting building to exhibit the various works in? and a little further, and "though last not least," would the nobility and gentry, and the public at large, patronize such an exhibition _largely_, and what the receipts would amount to? i should like to have all this answered, and that at an early day. but as it may be a _long day_, before such a company could get into working order, and as the members of the public press are a good-natured, shrewd class of spirits--if the idea is worth anything, they would most likely take it up, and i should be as much pleased to get an answer through that _medium_ as any other that i know of. there are several other questions which i should put to this "_spirit_ answer company" if it were started, and which i feel that i could not well put to any one else, as i do not think that _any body_ would give themselves the trouble to give me an answer; and it is not _every body_ who _could_ give me satisfactory answers, however much they might feel disposed to do so. i enumerate two or three. firstly--after a dreadful railway accident which occurred the other day, lord brougham in the house of lords suggested, i believe, that an act of parliament should be passed compelling the _public_ to travel at a rational speed; and as civil engineers declare that if the _public_ would be content to do so, that it would decrease the risk of life to about per cent., i want to know if the _public_ are ever likely to adopt the moderate speed, or sort of safe and sure, mode of travelling by rail, instead of _flying_ along at such a risk of life and limb as they do now, occasionally coming to a _dreadful smash_, with an awful unnecessary sacrifice of life, picking up the bodies or the pieces thereof, crying out "all right, go a-head," and dashing off at the same irrational speed with the probability of the like accidents again? secondly--if it is at all likely that "lovely woman" will ever leave off wearing dresses which constantly expose her to the risk of being burnt to death? upon looking, however, at some of the other questions, they appear so frivolous and ridiculous, that i do not think i would put them even to these spirits. for instance, one was, that supposing i took a part in one of shakspeare's plays, for the purpose of assisting this proposed shakspearian fund, and for some other purposes, if, as i can draw a little, should i, under such circumstances, _draw_ a full house? there is a common saying amongst schoolboys, that "if all _ifs_ were _hads_, and all _hads_ were _shads_, we never should be in want of fish for supper." now the _if_, in this _spirit_ question, is an important _if_, for if _all be true_, that is asserted by the "mediums" of the marvels which they publish, then are those marvels some of the most marvellous and astounding wonders that have ever been known or heard of in the _authentic_ history of the world. and from the extent to which this belief has spread, and is still spreading, and also from the injurious effects it has already produced, and is likely still further to produce, on the mental and physical condition of a large number of the people, it now becomes rather, indeed, i may say, a, _very_ serious question. some of the effects produced by attending the _soirées_ of these "good, bad, and indifferent" spirits, will be seen from the reasons stated by a staunch supporter of these supernatural pastimes for giving up--in fact, being compelled to give up--_séances_, "because, in the first place (he states), it was _too exhausting_ to the vital fluids of the medium." (they took too long a pull, or swallowed too much of his "_atmosphere_.") and also "because the necessity of keeping the mind elevated to a higher state of contemplation, while we were repeating the alphabet and receiving messages letter by letter, was too great a strain upon our faculties; and because the undeveloped and earth-bound spirits throng about the mediums, and struggle to enter into parley with them, apparently with the purpose of getting possession of their natures, or exchanging natures; and i have heard of sittings terminating from this cause in cases of paralysis or demoniacal possession." in such a state, no doubt the poor creatures imagine that they see apparitions. i had an old friend who was affected with paralysis of the brain, but not from this cause, as he was a total and _decided disbeliever_ in apparitions; but from the diseased condition of his brain he had the _appearance_ of a person or ghost constantly by his side for a considerable time, at which he used to laugh, and which i wanted him to introduce to me; but to me it was always invisible. one day at dinner he stood up, and said to those present, "don't you see i'm going?" and fell down--dead! although there is much to laugh at with respect to these modern spirits, although some of the scenes at the _séances_ are perfectly ridiculous--and would have afforded capital subjects for the powerful pen of my dear deceased friend, "thomas ingoldsby"--the "raps" rapped out sometimes are positive nonsense and sometimes positive falsehood; and "evil communications," which all who have been to school know, "corrupt good manners," yet, on the other hand, there are serious symptoms sometimes attended with serious consequences. the mediums tell us that these spiritual manifestations are permitted by the "omnipotent;" that jesus christ sanctions some of these spiritual communications, and are indeed given us as if proceeding from himself; and yet we find that some persons who attend these "_séances_" have their nervous system so shaken as to distort their limbs, in fact, lose the use of their limbs altogether, or are "driven raving mad!" in "the light in the valley," a work which i consider ought to be entitled "_darkness_ in the valley," but which i must do the author the justice to say is written and edited in what is evidently intended as a profound, proper, and religions spirit, and with a good intent; but however sincere and honest those pious feelings may be, they are nevertheless _distorted_ religious opinions, containing symbolical ideas as dark as any symbolical emanations ever given forth in the darkest ages. in this work specimens are given of "_spirit writing_" and "_spirit drawing_." the "spirit writing" consists of unmeaning, unintelligible scribbling scrawls, and very rarely containing any letters or words. these productions are ascribed to a "spirit _hand_" seizing and guiding the medium's _hand_, but which is nothing more than involuntary action of the muscles under an excited and unnatural state of the nervous system; and the spirit drawings are executed under similar conditions. the drawings profess to be designed and conjointly executed in this way, by _holy_ spirits or _angels_, and are given as _sacred_ guidances to man. these are the medium's opinions and belief; but, unfortunately, too many of these sort of drawings may be seen in certain asylums. but if i know anything of religion, which i have been looking at carefully and critically for half a century; also if i know anything of designing and drawing, in which profession i have been working in my humble way for more than that time, i pronounce these spirit drawings (in the language of art) to be "out of drawing," and contrary to all healthy emanations of thought as design and composition; and instead of representing subjects or figures which would convey a proper and great idea of divine attributes, are, in fact, caricatures of such sacred subjects. i shall here give a few extracts from the communication of these false spirits, and spiritual explanations of these spirit scrawls and scratches; but some which i had intended to insert, upon reflection, i refrain from giving, believing that they would not only be offensive to sensible religious persons, but injurious to youthful minds. some of the illustrations given in this book are furnished by a "drawing medium," under the titles of "christ without hands," "the bearded christ," "christ among the sphere," "the woman crucified," etc., etc. in the first of these something like a figure is scribbled in, and surrounded with scratches, called spirit writing; the "bearded christ" is merely a bust, very badly drawn, and produced in the same unnatural way, and surrounded by the same sort of scribbling. the _shape_ of the beard and the _atmosphere_ of the beard are, it appears, most important matters; and the author, in speaking of this, says, in describing him, "in 'the bearded christ' the atmosphere of the beard, as well as the beard itself, is represented; and i am acquainted with a '_seeing_ medium,' who has seen the beard-atmosphere, not only when the beard is worn, but about the shaven chin, with sufficient precision to decide of what shape the beard would be were it allowed to grow"!!! !!! !!! !!! !!! the subject professing to represent "christ among the spheres" is a better and more finished drawing; but, according to all the laws and rules of proportion, the figure of christ, by the side of our globe, would be , miles in height, and a lily which he holds in his hand , miles long! all these gross absurdities show, that the _real_ spirit has nothing whatever to do with such absurd doctrines or productions. this "drawing medium" gives an account of the trials and sufferings, bodily and mental, which she went through before she became an accomplished and complete medium; and, according to her own statement, she must have gone through a most fearful and horrible schooling. in one part it is stated she went through "_several months of most painful bewilderment and extreme distress of mind_;" and in another part she says that the intensest antagonism between truth and falsehood, between light and darkness, encounters the astounded and unprepared pilgrim upon his first entrance into the realm of spirit. "i felt frequently as if enveloped in an atmosphere which sent through my whole frame warm streams of electricity in waving spirals from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet; and occasionally, generally at midnight, i was seized with twitchings and convulsive movements of my whole body, which were distressing beyond words. all these symptoms at length came to a crisis in a frightful trance." and this _drawing medium_ signs herself "comfort!" and further states that-- "waking in the night, the _strange_ drawing process instantly commenced, and i felt and saw within me the figure of an angel, whose countenance resembled that of christ, descending from a morning sky towards me, and bearing upon his shoulders a large cross, whilst from his lips proceeded these words--'love, mercy, peace, but not till after death.' again my soul _trembled with anguish_, for that strange portentous word, '_death_,' was ever written within me or without. this peculiar stage of development soon produced a singular affection of my throat, an affection of the mucous membrane, which caused several times a day, and especially when rising in the morning, the _most distressing sensations_. after suffering thus for several days, the mysterious writing informed me that i must take a _certain quantity of port wine_ every day, and then the sensation would leave me." and she adds, "i followed the spiritual direction, and found almost immediate relief." the spirit doctor, in fact, after the dreadful suffering the scholar had gone through, prescribed a "drop of comfort," a drop of the spirit of alcohol, which spirit is very much like these rapping spirits, _deceitful_ and _dangerous_, and this, we may presume, is the reason why the medicine adopted the name of "comfort." well, some people will say that some little _comfort_ was needed after so much _dis_comfort and suffering--but _why_, all this suffering? cannot these spirit drawing-masters instruct their pupils in this poor, wretched, miserable style of drawing, without all this misery and punishment? if not, i should think that very few ladies or gentlemen would like to take lessons in drawing, or, indeed, in any other art, under such painful circumstances. a _spirit_ drawing-master's card would, i presume, be something like the following:-- [illustration: tom pain, drawing master. medium spirit drawing taught, under extreme torture, in twenty-four lessons, at so much ill-health and suffering per lesson. _n.b.--private residence_, under _the table_. * * all the drawing and writing _materials_ to be provided by * the pupils. the lashing supplied by the spirit, and the medical advice gratis; but the pupils to find the "drop of _spirit_ comfort" themselves.] in taking one more extract from "comfort," i hope that i am not giving any discomfort to that "medium," who, from my _in_most heart i hope and trust, is now enjoying that rational and natural comfort which all well-wishers to their fellow-creatures wish strangers to feel, as well as their friends. the medium proceeds to say:--"ignorance of their real nature and of their alternate purposes in the progress of civilization and development of mind, has already caused _immense misery_ in many directions, and will cause more and more, even infinitely worse, until the time arrives that the medical world will follow the example of dr. garth wilkinson in his valuable pamphlet on the treatment of _lunacy_ through _spiritualism_, and calmly regard this growing development not as insanity, but as a _key whereby to unlock insanity_"!!! i have not the slightest notion of what this pamphlet contains, but from the above very _un_comfortable opinion expressed by "comfort" upon this matter, it seems to me that a sufficient "_key_" is here given to unlock, if not all, at all events, the greater part of the mysteries of this _spirit drawing_ and _spirit writing_, and, indeed, the whole of this spirit movement. i would here call the attention of the medical world to the way in which the spirits are acting towards that body. i presume that they are the spirits of deceased members of the profession; and if so they are acting in a most unbrotherly, underhanded manner, in fact, undermining the profession altogether by "rapping" out prescriptions from _under the table_, for which they do not take a "rap" as a fee. yes, "advice gratis" for nothing. i entreat medical men not to smile at my remarks, for they may be assured that there is a dark conspiracy--i cannot say "afoot," because spirits have no feet--but i may say in hand; and as matters stand at present, it looks as if "the d. _without_ the m., and dr. faustus" had entered into a partnership to destroy all medical doctors by introducing a system which they could not only not practise, but, as far as i am able to judge, could never understand, and which, though it is given in the "_light_ in the valley," "_read_" they may, and "_mark_" they may, "_learn_" they cannot, and "inwardly digest" they never will. in the concluding pages of the "light in the valley," a letter is introduced, which is evidently written by a highly-educated person, in support of "an occult law," and from all that is stated in this letter the writer might as well have said at once, i believe in witchcraft, or that craft which enables an ignorant old woman, who is called a "witch," to make contracts with the evil one, for the purpose of torturing, or making miserable for life, or destroying unto death, her neighbours, their children, or their cattle; and that an ignorant old man, under the name of a "wizard," may do the same; also, in astrology, or "ruling the stars," to predict coming events, or the future fate of individuals born at particular periods of the year, according to the position of the stars at that time; or in "fortune-telling," performed either by "crossing the hand" with a piece of money, got out of some simpleton's pocket for that purpose, but which never gets back there again; or by bits of paper, called "cards;" to which also may be added, as a matter of course, i believe in ghosts, hobgoblins, and in everything of a supernatural character. we can readily understand why the ignorant and uneducated believe in all these matters; the cause is traced and known; but it seems almost impossible to believe that educated persons, even with a small amount of reflection, can put their faith in such superstitious delusions; and if the question is put to such persons, as "show us any good" resulting in the existence of an "occult law," we may safely defy any one to show _one instance, where any good has ever resulted from such a belief_ in what they term the deep "arcana of nature's book," or rather unnatural nonsense. whereas, on the other hand, the amount of evil arising from this source has been fearfully great, and the murders many; dragging poor old creatures through ponds, and hanging them, and even torturing them to death in a way too disgusting to describe. our own records are, unfortunately, too massive of such ignorant and savage atrocities; but not only were such deeds enacted in this (at that time) so misnamed christian land, but also in other countries denominated christian; but which title their brutal acts gave them, like ourselves, no right to assume; not only in europe, but also in america. in that country, about the year , many poor old women were persecuted to death. one woman was hung at salem for bewitching four children, and the eldest daughter afterwards confessed to the tricks that she and her sisters had played in pretending to be "bewitched." but in our own time we find that this belief in the power of foretelling events leads to much mischief and misery, and from certain facts we may be assured that there is a larger amount of evil from this cause than is made known to the public. the "occult law" leads to many breaches of the law of the land, and to serious crime; it opens the door to gross imposture, swindling, and robbery, misleading the minds of simple people, and turning their conduct and ways from their proper and natural course, and the strange _unaccountable_ conduct of some persons might be easily accounted for, when traced to this "fortune-telling" foolery. the happiness of one family was destroyed only the other day by a deaf and dumb "ruler of the stars," who is now in penal servitude, and who would have been executed had the offence been committed some years back. several such "rulers of the stars," or "fortune-tellers," have been hung for similar crimes, in my time, one i remember was a black man, hung at the old bailey. the _clothes test_ cannot be brought to bear upon the predicting of events, but there is a _test_, which may be brought with equal force upon this question, which is, that although these prophets profess to tell what is going to happen to others, they cannot foretell what is going to happen to themselves, for if they could, they would have, of course, avoided the punishments which the law has, and is constantly inflicting upon them for their offences. and mr. "zadkiel," for instance, would not have brought his action against admiral sir edward belcher, if he could have _foreseen_ the result; after which, no doubt, he cried out, "oh! my stars!--if i had known as much as i know now, i never would have gone into court!" a "bow street officer" (as a branch of the old police were styled) told me that he had a warrant to take up a female fortune-teller, who was plucking the geese to a large amount. her principal dupes were females, and he being a _gander_ had some difficulty in managing to get an introduction (for this tribe of swindlers use as much caution as they can). he however succeeded in getting the _wise_ woman to tell him his fortune, for which he professed himself much obliged, and told her that as he had a little faculty in that way himself, he would in return, tell her, her fortune, which was, that she was that morning going before the magistrate at bow street, who had some power in this way also, and he would likewise tell her her fortune. she smiled at first and would not believe in what he said, but he showed her the warrant, and all came true that he had told her; but nothing came _true_ of what she had told him. from the high and pure character of many persons well known to me, who are mixed up in these _séances_, it is _almost_ impossible not to believe their statements of these wonders, the truth of which wonders they so _positively_ assert. _if_ true, they are _indeed_ wonderful; but _if tricks_, then do they surpass all other tricks, ever performed by all the "sleight of hand" gentry put together, who ever bamboozled poor credulous, simple creatures, or astonished and puzzled a delighted audience. there can be but _two sides_ to a question, _true_ or _false_; and, as already hinted, it remains for the mediums to prove their case, and to place the matter in a better light than it stands at present, which is indeed a very dim and uncertain sort of "night light;" but as, up to this time, their assertions are at variance with what has hitherto been considered as sound sense and understanding, those outside the "circle" have not only a right, to be cautious of stepping into such a circle, but, until some more reasonable reasons are given--even putting aside the _cui bono_ for the present--unless some rational natural cause can be assigned, they have a right to suspect the whole, either as a _delusion_ or a _disease_. but even if this party _prove_, that these "thing-em bobs" are _real_ spirits, they appear to be so dreadful and dangerous, and there really is such a "_strong_ family likeness" between some of them, and a certain "_old gentleman_," that i would say "the less they have to do with them the better;" but even supposing they are not "so black as they are painted" (by their mediums), if even they are a sort of "half-and-half," nevertheless, i would say-- "rest, rest, perturbed spirits rest;" for if not for you, for us 'twill be the best. there _may_ be, as already observed, more things _between_ heaven and earth than were dreamt of in the philosophy of horatio; but let the "inquiring spirit" _rest_ assured that amongst these "things" there could not be included the _ghost_ of iron armour; and though 'tis said "there's nothing like leather," yet none of these said "things" could have been the leather of "top-boots"--no, not even the leather of the "tops" nor the leather of the "soles" thereof. in concluding, i will just add to this addenda, that,-- although i _have_ seen, (in the "mirage," in the sky) a ship "upside down," the great hull and big sails, no one, has ever yet seen, such things, as the _ghosts_, of hats or wigs, or of short, or long pig-tails. and this is the "long and the short" of my discovery concerning ghosts, with a rap at the rappers. the end. habbild, printer, london. to be published before christmas. puss in boots, to form no. of george cruikshanks fairy library. the other numbers already published being hop o my thumb, jack and the bean-stalk, and cinderella. also, preparing for publication, the adventures of mr. lambkin; or, the bachelor's own book. now on sale, the shilling edition of the bottle. * * * * * the loving ballad of lord bateman. comic alphabet. illustrations of sir walter scott's demonology and witchcraft. transcriber's note: inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. obvious typographical errors have been corrected. italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal signs=. the haunted mine by harry castlemon author of "the gunboat series," "rocky mountain series," "war series," etc. the john c. winston co., philadelphia, chicago, toronto. copyright, , by henry t. coates & co. contents. chapter page i. the sale of "old horse," ii. casper is disgusted, iii. julian is astonished, iv. where the box was, v. casper thinks of something, vi. a mr. haberstro appears, vii. a plan that didn't work, viii. claus calls again, ix. the master mechanic, x. where are the valises? xi. in denver, xii. casper nevins, the spy, xiii. getting ready for work, xiv. how casper was served, xv. how a mine was haunted, xvi. good news, xvii. mr. banta is surprised, xviii. grub-staking, xix. going to school, xx. waterspouts and blizzards, xxi. the camp at dutch flat, xxii. the haunted mine, xxiii. haunted no longer, xxiv. "that is gold," xxv. claus, again, xxvi. claus hears something, xxvii. bob tries strategy, xxviii. an inhuman act, xxix. a tramp with the robbers, xxx. home again, xxxi. conclusion, the haunted mine. chapter i. the sale of "old horse." "going for twenty-five cents. going once; going twice; going----" "thirty cents." "thirty cents! gentlemen, i am really astonished at you. it is a disgrace for me to take notice of that bid. why, just look at that box. a miser may have hidden the secret of a gold-mine in it. here it is, neatly dovetailed, and put together with screws instead of nails; and who knows but that it contains the treasure of a lifetime hidden away under that lid? and i am bid only thirty cents for it. do i hear any more? won't somebody give me some more? going for thirty cents once; going twice; going three times, and sold to that lucky fellow who stands there with a uniform on. i don't know what his name is. step up there and take your purchase, my lad, and when you open that box, and see what is in it, just bless your lucky stars that you came to this office this afternoon to buy yourself rich." it happened in the adams express office, and among those who always dropped around to see how things were going was the young fellow who had purchased the box. it was on the afternoon devoted to the sale of "old horse"--packages which had lain there for a long time and nobody had ever called for them. when the packages accumulated so rapidly that the company had about as many on hand as their storeroom could hold, an auctioneer was ordered to sell them off for whatever he could get. of course nobody could tell what was in the packages, and somebody always bought them by guess. sometimes he got more than his money's worth, and sometimes he did not. that very afternoon a man bought a package so large and heavy that he could scarcely lift it from the counter, and so certain was he that he had got something worth looking at that he did not take the package home with him, but borrowed a hammer from one of the clerks and opened it on the spot, the customers all gathering around him to see what he had. to the surprise of everybody, he turned out half a dozen bricks. a partner of the man to whom the box was addressed had been off somewhere to buy a brickyard, and, not satisfied with the productions of the yard, had enclosed the bricks to the man in st. louis, to see how he liked them. the purchaser gazed in surprise at what he had brought, and then threw down the hammer and turned away; but by the time he got to the door the loud laughter of everybody in the office--and the office was always full at the sale of "old horse"--caused him to arrest his steps. by that time he himself was laughing. "i'll tell you what it is, gentlemen," said he; "those bricks, which are not worth a nickel apiece, cost me just two dollars." he was going on to say something more, but the roar that arose caused him to wait until it was all over. then he went on: "i have spent fifty dollars for 'old horse,' and if anybody ever knows me to spend another dollar in that way i will give him my head for a football. a man who comes here to squander his money for anything like that is a dunce, and ought to have a guardian appointed over him. i wish you all a very good day." but in spite of this man's experience, julian gray had invested in this box because he thought there was something in it. he did not care for what the auctioneer said to him, for he talked that way to everybody; but julian knew there were no bricks in it, for it was done up too neatly. the box was not more than twelve inches long and half as wide, and by shaking it up and down the boy became aware that there were papers of some kind in it. he paid the clerk the amount of his bid upon it, picked up his purchase, and started for the door, paying no heed to the remarks that were offered for his benefit. there he met another boy, dressed in a uniform similar to the one he himself wore, and stopped to exchange a few words with him. "well, you got something at last," said the boy. "it is not bricks, i can swear to that." "no, sir, it is not," said julian. "lift it. it contains papers of some kind." "why don't you open it, and let us see what is in it?" "i won't do that, either. i am not going to have the whole party laughing at me the way they served that man a little while ago. come up to my room when jack comes home, and then i will open it." "i would not be in your boots for a good deal when jack sees that box," said the boy, hurrying away. "he says you have no business to spend the small earnings you get on such gimcracks as 'old horse.'" "i don't care," said julian, settling the box under his arm and going away in the opposite direction. "i've got the box, and if jack does not want to see what is in it, he need not look." julian broke into a run,--he knew he had no business to spend as much time in that express office as he had done,--and in a few minutes reached the headquarters of the western union telegraph company, in whose employ he was. he laid down his book of receipts for the dispatches he had delivered, then picked up his box again and stowed it away under the counter, where he was sure it would be out of everybody's way. "i don't care," julian repeated to himself, when he recalled what his older companion, jack shelden, would have to say to him when he found that he had been investing in "old horse." "i don't know that i expect to make anything out of it, but somehow or other i can't resist my curiosity to know what is in those bundles. when you can get the packages for little or nothing, where's the harm? but that is no way to save my money. i will never go near that express office again." with this good resolution, julian took his seat among the other boys and waited in silence for the operator to call upon him to deliver a dispatch. it came at last, and during the rest of the afternoon julian was kept busy. when six o'clock came he put his box under his arm and started for home. his duties were done for that day. the place that julian called home was a long way from the office, for, being a poor boy, he was obliged to room where he could get it as cheaply as possible. he passed along several streets, turned numerous corners, and finally sprang up the stairs in a sorry-looking house which seemed almost ready to tumble down, and when he reached the top he found the door of his room open. there he met his chum, who had already returned from his work, going about his preparations for supper, and whistling as though he felt at peace with himself and all the world. "halloo!" he exclaimed, as julian came in. "what's the news to-day? well, there. if you haven't been to that old express office again!" these two boys were orphans--or at least jack was. julian had a stepfather who, when his mother died, told the boy that he could not support him any longer, and that he must look out for himself. he no doubt expected that the boy would find himself in the poorhouse before he had been long out of his care; but julian was not that sort of a fellow. he wandered aimlessly about the streets, looking for something to do, sleeping in dry-goods boxes or on a plank in some lumber-yard; and one morning, while passing along the street, wondering where he was going to get something to eat, he saw a scene that thrilled him with excitement. a span of horses was running away, and a telegraph operator--julian knew that he was an operator from the uniform he wore--in making an attempt to stop them, lost his footing and fell on the ground right in front of the frantic team. julian was nearer to him than anybody else, and acting upon the impulse of the moment, but scarcely knowing why he did so, he dashed forward, seized the young man by the shoulders, and pulled him out of the way. it was all done in an instant, and julian shuddered when he thought of what he had done. "thank you, my lad," said the man, when he got up, brushed the dust from his clothes, and looked after the flying horses. "you saved my life, but you couldn't save the man in the buggy. now, what can i give you?" "i don't want anything, sir," said julian. the man was neatly dressed, and looked as though he had some money, and julian had more than half a mind to ask him for enough with which to get some breakfast. but he concluded that he would not do it; he would look farther, and he was sure that he could get something to do, such as sweeping out a store, and earn some breakfast in that way. "you don't want anything?" exclaimed the man. "well, you are the luckiest fellow i ever saw!" the man now turned and gave julian a good looking over. it was not necessary that he should ask any questions, for poverty was written all over him. "where's your home?" he asked. "i haven't any, sir." "have you had any breakfast?" "no, sir." "well, here's enough to enable you to get a good fill-out," said the man, pulling out a dollar. "get the very best breakfast you can, and then come down to the western union telegraph office and ask for wiggins. i will see what i can do for you." the man hurried away, and julian looked at the dollar he held in his hand, then gazed in the direction in which his benefactor had gone, and could hardly believe that he was awake. a dollar was a larger sum of money than he had ever had before. of course julian followed the operator's instructions. when he reached the western union telegraph office he was asked several questions about his habits, and what he knew about the city, and it finally ended by his being offered employment. julian jumped at the chance. he had no money with which to purchase a uniform, but wiggins got around that, and he had been there ever since, trying hard to do his duty, except in one particular, and his highest ambition was to become an operator. long before this time he made the acquaintance of jack sheldon, who finally came to room with him, and they had been fast friends ever since. jack had formerly gained a good living by shining boots and shoes around the st. louis foundry-works, until one day the master mechanic, who had taken a wonderful shine to him, offered to take him away from his blacking-brush and give him a position where he could make a man of himself. jack was waiting for this, and he promptly closed with it. of course his wages were small now, but he wanted to get away from the bootblacks and mingle with persons more like himself, and when julian made him a proposition to take him in as a roommate, jack was only too glad to agree to it. he was but a year older than julian, but he often took it upon himself to advise him; and one thing he could not stand was julian's longing to find out what was concealed in those packages that every once in a little while were sold in the express office. being economical himself, and never spending a cent unless absolutely necessary, he wanted to make his companion so, too. "that is no way for you to save money, julian," said jack. "to go to that express office when you ought to be at your work, and spending money for 'old horse' when you don't know what is in the bundle you bid on, is the very way for you to wear a poor man's clothes the longest day you live. i want to go into business myself some time, and i should think you would, too." this was the way he talked to julian every time he brought home a bundle of "old horse," and he was ready to talk to him now in the same way. chapter ii. casper is disgusted. "well, you have been to that old express office again and invested some of your hard earnings in 'old horse,' haven't you?" repeated jack, placing his hands on his hips and looking sullenly at the box, which julian placed upon the table. "is that any way for you to save your money?" "no, it is not; but, jack, i've got something in this," said julian. "see how nicely this box is done up----" "i don't care to know anything about it," said jack, turning away and going on with his preparations of getting supper. "that is the only thing i have against you. what do you care what is in those bundles? if they were worth anything don't you suppose that the people to whom they were addressed would have come after them? how much money have you got in bank, anyway?" "about forty dollars, i guess, including tips and everything." "well, i've got a hundred," said jack. "you will never be able to go into business by doing this way." "lend me your knife and talk about it afterward. i want to get these screws out." "take your own knife. i don't want to have mine broken." "well, i want you to remember one thing, jack. if i get anything out of this box, it is mine entirely. you will have no interest in it." "all right--i will agree to that." seeing that he must depend entirely upon himself to get his box open, julian took his knife from his pocket and went to work upon the screws; but they had been put there to stay, and he finally gave it up in disgust. then jack relented and came to his assistance. the strong blade of his knife presently worked the screws loose, and the inside of the box was revealed to them. there was nothing but a mass of papers, which looked so ancient that jack declared they had been through two or three wars. he took one look at them, and then went on with his work of getting supper. "what's the use of fooling away your time with that stuff?" said he. "that's all your 'old horse' amounts to. if you are going to spend money in that way, i wish you would get something that is of some use." julian did not reply. he took his box to an out-of-the-way corner where he would not be in jack's way, and devoted himself to the reading of the first paper he took up. "who's haberstro?" said he. "don't know him," said jack. "here's a letter addressed to him." "what is in it?" "oh, you want to know something about it, now, don't you?" "of course i do. if we can find out who haberstro is, we must take the letter to him." julian began and read the letter, which was written in a very plain hand, and before he had read a page of it he stopped and looked at jack, while an expression of astonishment came to his face. "go on with it," said jack; "we might as well know it all." julian "went on with it," and when he got through he had read a very good description of a gold-mine located somewhere out west, and inside the letter was a map which would lead anyone straight to it. there was one thing in it that did not look exactly right, and here is the passage that referred to it: "they have got the story around that the mine is haunted, but don't you believe it. i worked for almost six months in that mine alone after my partner took sick and died, going down into it and shovelling the dirt in, coming up and hoisting the bucket out, and went through the process of washing, and i never found anything to scare me yet. i took out, with every bucketful i washed, anywhere from ten to fifty dollars; anyway, i got fifty thousand dollars out of it. there is one thing about it: the mine is fully five miles from anybody's place, and in all that region you won't find a man who will prospect anywhere near you. it shows that all the country about dutch flat is not played out yet." a little farther on the letter spoke of the manner in which the miner came to turn his claim over to haberstro: "you know that very shortly after we got there my partner died, and was buried near the mine. perhaps that has something to do with the story of the mine's being haunted. i went to work and dug in the claim alone, not knowing anything about mining, until i made the sum that i told you of. finally i received a letter from some lawyer in europe, who told me that my father had died and left me heir to all his wealth. he urged me to come home and settle my claim at once, and who should my mind revert to but to you, old fellow, who stood by me when i was sick unto death. i know that we did not have the stamps to buy a mule-halter, but that did not make any sort of difference to you. you stayed at my back until i got well; and as i can't pay you in any other way i give you this mine, hoping it will make you as rich as it did me. more than that, for fear that the mine may play out on you, which i don't believe, i give you the deeds of several little pieces of property located in denver and vicinity, which you will find will be more than enough to run you, even if you don't choose to go mining. for me, nothing would suit me. you know how you used to rail at me because i wanted to go from one thing to another. after i had accumulated that property in denver, i had to go and look for claims, and that is the way i come to have this mine. "i send all these things to you by express, for i am in new york, now, and all ready to sail. by the time you get them i shall be on the deep sea. i forgot to say that the property which i have given to you for your kindness to me is worth, in round numbers, one hundred thousand dollars. take it, and live happily with it. i don't know that i shall ever see you again; but if i do not, remember that my blessing always goes with you." "well, sir, what do you think of that?" said julian, as he folded up the letter. jack sheldon did not know what to say. he sat with a case-knife in his hand and with one leg thrown over the table, his mouth open, and listening with all his ears to the contents of the letter. "i tell you that auctioneer uttered a prophecy when he said that some miser had hidden the secret of a gold-mine inside the lid of that box," said julian. "he told me that when i got home and opened this thing i would bless my lucky stars that i had come to that office to buy myself rich." "but there is one thing that you don't think of, julian," replied jack. "what's that?" "that we must make every effort to find this man haberstro." "yes," said julian, with a sigh, "i did think of that. but it seems hard to have so much money in our grasp, and then to have it all slip away." "of course it does. but that is the honest way of going at it." "here's the deeds for a block of buildings that cost this man twenty-five thousand dollars," said julian, continuing to examine the papers in the box. "oh, put the box away," said jack. "and he gives it all to this man haberstro. we must find him, julian, the first thing we do. who's that coming upstairs, i wonder?" the boys turned toward the door, which opened almost immediately, admitting casper nevins, the boy who had met julian at the express office. there was something about the boy that jack did not like. he could not have told what it was, but there are those we meet in every-day life who have certain traits of character that excite our suspicions. jack had often warned julian to keep away from him, and the latter did not cultivate his acquaintance any more that he could help; but, being employed in the same office that casper was, of course he was thrown into his company oftener than he desired. "good-evening, boys," said casper. "i was on my way home, and i thought i would drop in and see what julian bought to-day at the express office. you promised to show me if i would come up," he added, turning to julian. "i did, and there it is," said julian, passing over the letter. "sit down in this chair. we are so poor just now that we have only one chair apiece, but when we get out to our gold-mine we shall have two chairs." "ah! you have a gold-mine, have you?" said casper, with a smile. "when do you start?" "read the letter, and you will think we ought to start right away," said julian, while jack got up and proceeded with his supper. "we think of starting to-morrow morning." "i would like to have my hand on your coat-tail about the time you get out there," said casper. "now, the question is, does the mine pay anything?" "read the letter, and you will understand as much as we do." casper began the letter, and he had not gone far with it before he broke out with "jerusalem!" and "this beats me!" and "fifty thousand dollars!" when he had got done with the letter, he folded it up and passed it back to julian without saying a word. "and that is not all of it," said the latter. "do you see the rest of the papers there in that box? well, they are deeds of property which amount to one hundred thousand dollars." "whew!" whistled casper. "by gracious! you're lucky--are you not? when do you start?" "laying all jokes aside, we don't intend to start at all," said jack. "you don't?" exclaimed casper. "have you got something better on hand?" "no, i don't know that we have; but our first hard work must be to find this man haberstro. it would not be right for us to keep what is in that box without turning the city upside down in order to locate him." "why, the box was sold to you, was it not?" said casper, turning to julian. "of course it was. didn't i pay thirty cents of my hard earnings for it?" "did you agree to hunt up this man haberstro?" "no, because the clerks did not know where he was." "then i say the box and everything in it belongs to you. undoubtedly the man does not live here any more. he has gone somewhere else. i would not make a precious fool of myself, if i were you. take the money and say nothing to nobody." "and go out there and take possession of that property while there is another man waiting for it?" asked jack, with some heat. "yes, sir; that's what i would do." "then, sir, you are not honest. i am glad you don't train in my crowd." "i don't call it dishonest in holding fast to what you have. a hundred thousand dollars! you would not need to go mining at all." "we are well aware of that; but we must find out where that man lives, if we can. after having exhausted every means to find out, then i would consider that the property belongs to us. julian, we will have to see a lawyer about that." "that's what i was thinking," said julian. "well, of all the plumb dunces that ever i saw, you are the beat!" said casper, getting up and putting on his hat. "i tell you that if that property was mine i would never let anyone know that i had it. i would throw up my position to-morrow, borrow money, go out there and take possession; and you are fools if you don't do it." and casper went out, slamming the door behind him. chapter iii. julian is astonished. "well, sir, what do you think of that?" asked julian, when he heard the noise the telegraph boy made in running down the stairs. "he really acts as though he were mad about it." "he is a dishonest fellow," said jack, once more coming up to the table and throwing his leg over it. "you don't believe everything he said, do you?" "not much, i don't," replied julian, emphatically. "i could not go out there and work the mine as he talks of doing. i should think it was haunted, sure enough." "well, put the papers away, and then let us have supper. while we are doing that, we will decide what we are going to do with the box." "i say, don't let us do anything with it. we will put it up there on the mantel, and when we are through supper one of us will write an advertisement calling upon mr. haberstro to come up and show himself. i guess the _republican_ is as good a paper as any, isn't it?" "but haberstro may be a democrat, instead of a republican," said jack. "well, then, put it in both papers. that will cost us two dollars--seventy-five cents for the first insertion and a quarter for the second." it did not take the boys a long time to get their supper. they had nothing but bacon, baker's bread, tea, and a few cream cakes which jack had purchased on his way home; but there was an abundance, they were hungry, and they did full justice to it. after supper came something that everybody hates--washing the dishes; but that was something the two friends never neglected. the dishes must be washed some time, and the sooner it was done the sooner it would be over with. then one picked up the broom and went to sweeping, while the other lighted the lamp and brought out the writing materials. "i have already made up my mind what i want to say," said julian, who, being a better scribe than his companion, handled the pen. "wait until i get the advertisement all written out, and then i will read it to you." the pen moved slowly, and by the time that jack had finished sweeping and seated himself in a chair ready to listen, julian read the following: "information wanted regarding the whereabouts of s. w. haberstro, formerly of st. louis. if he will communicate with the undersigned he will hear of something greatly to his advantage. any relative or friend of his who possesses the above information will confer a favor by writing to the name given below." "there; how will that do?" said julian. "by the way, whose name shall i sign to it--yours or mine?" "sign your own name, of course. your place of business is much handier than mine." "i tell you, jack, it requires something besides a knowledge of penmanship to write out an advertisement for a newspaper. i have worried over this matter ever since we were at supper, and then i didn't know how you would like it. now, the next thing is to put it where it will catch the public eye in the morning." the boys did not intend to let the grass grow under their feet. they put on their coats and turned down the lamp, but before they went out they took particular pains to put the box where they knew it would be safe. they opened the closet, pushed the box as far back as they could on the top shelf, and threw some clothing in front of it to hide it from anyone who might look in there. burglaries were common in the city, and the boys never left anything in their room that was worth stealing. the friends did not ride on the street cars, for they believed that five cents was worth as much to them as it was to the conductor, but walked all the distance that lay between them and the business part of the city. they reached the newspaper offices at last, paid for two insertions in each paper, and went away satisfied that they had done all in their power to find mr. haberstro. "now we have done as we would be done by," said julian, "and i believe a glass of soda water would help me sleep easier. come in here." "we don't want any soda water," exclaimed jack, seizing julian by the arm and pulling him away from the drug store. "we don't need it. when we get home we will take a glass of cold water, and that will do just as well as all the soda water in town." "i suppose i shall have to give in to you," said julian, continuing his walk with jack, "but i think we deserve a little credit for what we have done. here we are with a fortune of one hundred thousand dollars in our pockets, and yet we are anxious to give it up if mr. haberstro shows himself. i tell you, it is not everybody in the world who would do that." "i know it, but that is the honest way of doing business. i never could look our master mechanic in the face again if i should go off and enjoy that money without making an effort to find the owner." in due time the boys reached home and went to bed, but sleep did not visit their eyes before midnight. they were thinking of the fortune that was in their grasp. no one would have thought these boys very guilty if they had kept silent about the contents of that box and had gone off to reap the pleasure which good luck or something else had placed in julian's hands; but such a thought had never entered their heads until casper nevins had suggested it to them. by being at the sale of "old horse" julian had stumbled upon something that was intended for mr. haberstro, and he was just as much entitled to the contents of it as anybody. "but i would be dishonest for all that," said he, rolling over in his bed to find a more comfortable position. "i never could enjoy that money, for i should be thinking of mr. haberstro, who ought to have it. no matter whether he is alive or dead, he would come up beside me all the while, and reach out his hand to take the money i was getting ready to use for my own pleasure. no, sir. we will do the best we can to find mr. haberstro, and if he does not show up within any reasonable time, then jack says the money belongs to us. i can spend it, then, to get anything i want, with perfect confidence." when julian got to this point in his meditations he became silent, and thought over the many things he stood in need of, and which he thought he could not possibly get along without, until finally he fell asleep; but the next morning, when he arose and returned jack's hearty greeting, that fortune came into his mind immediately. "i tell you what it is, jack," said he. "if, after waiting a few days, we don't hear from mr. haberstro or any of his kin, suppose i go to mr. wiggins with it? he will know exactly what we ought to do." "all right," said jack. "that will be better than going to a lawyer, for he won't charge us anything for his advice." "and shall you keep still about this?" "certainly. don't lisp it to anybody. we don't want somebody to come along here and claim to be haberstro, when perhaps he don't know a thing about what is in the box." "of course he would not know a thing about it," said julian, in surprise. "haberstro himself don't know what there is in the box. he has got to prove by outside parties that he is the man that we want, or we can put him down as a fraud." "that's so," said jack, after thinking a moment. "we must be continually on the lookout for breakers." why was it that jack did not go further, and say that they must be continually on the lookout for the safety of the box when they were not there to watch over it? it was not safe from anybody who knew it was there, and it would have been but little trouble for them to have taken it with them and put it into the hands of mr. wiggins. if they had thought of this, no doubt they would have lost no time in acting upon it. long before the hands on jack's watch had reached the hour of half-past six the two friends were on their way toward their places of business, and when julian reached the office almost the first boy he saw was casper nevins, who had denounced them for trying to find out what became of mr. haberstro. "good-morning, julian," said he. "have you advertised for that man of yours yet?" "what do you want to know for?" said julian, remembering what jack had said about keeping the matter still. "oh, nothing; only i want to tell you that if you get yourselves fooled out of that fortune you can thank yourselves for it. what is there to prevent some sharper from coming around and telling you that he is haberstro? you didn't think of that, did you?" "yes, we thought of it," said julian, with a smile. "do you suppose we will take any man's word for that? he must prove that he is the man we want, or else we won't have anything to do with him." "pshaw! that is easy enough. i can find fifty men right here in this town who will prove that they are president of the united states for half of what that box is worth. say!" he added, sinking his voice almost to a whisper, "you haven't said a word to anybody about advertising for him, have you?" "no; and i have not said a word to you about it either," said julian. "that's all right, but you can't fool me so easy. i want to tell you right now that there are a good many here who know about it, and that they are bound to have that box. ah!" he added, noting the expression that came upon julian's face, "you didn't think of _that_, did you?" "who are they?" asked julian. "there were men in the express office yesterday who know all about it. you needn't think you are going to keep that express box hid, for you can't do it. where did you put it?" "it is safe. it is where nobody will ever think of looking for it." "then you are all right," said casper, who was plainly very much disappointed because he did not find out where the box was. "but you had better keep an eye out for those fellows in the express office, for, unless the looks of some of them belied them, they will steal that box from you as sure as you are a foot high." "if they thought so much of the box, why didn't they buy it in the first place?" "that is for them to tell. i don't know but they have somehow got an idea that there is something in it. you are going to get fooled out of it, and it will serve you just right for advertising for haberstro." that day was a long one to julian, for he could not help turning over in his mind what casper had said to him. when he reached home after his day's work was done he went straight to the closet, paying no sort of attention to jack, who looked at him in surprise, took a chair with him, and hunted up the box. it was where he put it, and he drew a long breath of relief. "now, then, i would like to have you explain yourself," said jack, after he had waited some little time for julian to say what he meant by his actions. "it is there," said julian, "but i have been shaking in my shoes all day. did it ever occur to you that some of those people who saw me buy the box at the express office would come up here to take it?" "no; and i don't believe they will do it." "well, casper said they would." "you tell casper nevins to keep his long, meddlesome nose out of this pie and attend strictly to his own affairs," said jack, in disgust. "it is ours, and he has nothing to do with it. if anybody comes into this room when we are not here, it will be casper himself." "he can't; he has not got a key." "i know that. if he had, we would have trouble with that box. what did he say to you?" julian then repeated the conversation he held with casper that morning, and jack nodded his head once or twice to say that he approved of it. "you did perfectly right by declining to answer his question about advertising for our man," said jack. "what did he want to know that for? if they wanted the box, why did they not buy it in the first place?" during the next few days the two friends were in a fever of suspense, for they did not want somebody to come and take their fortune away from them. every man who came into the telegraph office julian watched closely, for he had somehow got it into his head that haberstro must be a german; but every german who came in there had business of his own, and as soon as it was done he went out. no one came to see julian about the box, and, if the truth must be told, he began to breathe easier. of late he had got out of the habit of looking for the box as soon as he came home, and perhaps the sport that jack made of him for it was the only thing that made him give it up. "one would think you owned that fortune," said he. "i don't believe a miser ever watched his gold as closely as you watch that box." "i don't care," said julian. "the fortune is ours, or rather is going to be in a few days. now you mark my words, and see if i don't tell you the truth." "there's many a slip. we will never have such luck in the world." "well, i am going to look at it now. it seems to me that if haberstro is around here he ought to have put in an appearance before this time. we have waited a whole week without seeing anything of him." "a whole week!" exclaimed jack, with a laugh. "if you wait a month without seeing him you may be happy. if we keep the box for three months without the man appearing, then i shall think it belongs to us." julian did not believe that. he thought that the contents of the box would belong to them before that time. he made no reply, but took a chair to examine the closet. he moved the clothing aside, expecting every minute to put his hand upon the box, and then uttered an exclamation of astonishment and threw the articles off on the floor. "what's the matter?" asked jack, in alarm. "the box is gone!" replied julian. chapter iv. where the box was. this startling piece of information seemed to strike jack sheldon motionless and speechless with astonishment. his under jaw dropped down, and he even clutched the back of a chair, as if seeking something with which to support himself. the two boys stood at opposite sides of the room looking at each other, and then jack recovered himself. "gone!" he repeated. "you are mistaken; you have overlooked it. i saw it night before last myself." "i don't care," said julian, emphatically; "i have taken the clothes all out, and the box is gone. look and see for yourself." julian stepped down from the chair and jack took his place. he peered into every nook and corner of the dark shelf, passed his hands over it, and then, with something like a sigh, got down and began to hang the clothes up in their proper places. then he closed the door of the closet, took a chair, and gazed earnestly at the floor. "well, sir, what do you think of that?" said julian. "didn't i tell you that if anybody came in here to look for that box while we were not here it would be casper nevins, and nobody else?" said jack. "you surely don't suspect him!" exclaimed julian. "i _do_ suspect him; if you could get inside his room to-night you would find the box." "why, then he is a thief!" said julian, jumping up from his chair and walking the floor. "shall we go down to no. station and ask the police to send a man up there and search him?" "i don't know whether that would be the best way or not," said jack, reflectively. "has casper got many friends among the boys of your office?" "i don't believe he's got one friend there who treats him any better than i do. the boys are all shy of him." "and well they may be. that boy got a key somewhere that will fit our door, and came in here and took that box. you say he has not any friends on whom he can depend in the office?" "not one. if he has any friends, none of us know who they are." "then he must be alone in stealing the box from us. he has it there in his room, for he has no other place to hide it. do you know what sort of a key he has to fit his door?" "of course i do. i was with him when he got it. it is a combination key; one that he folds up when he puts it into his pocket." "do you believe you can buy another like it?" "by george! that's an idea. let us go down and find out. then to-morrow, if i can get away, i will come up here and go through his room." that was jack's notion entirely. he wanted to see "the biter bit"--to know that he would feel, when he awoke some fine morning and found his fortune gone, just how they were feeling now. they put on their coats and locked the door,--it seemed a mockery to them now to lock the door when their fortune was gone,--and, after walking briskly for a few minutes, turned into the store where casper had purchased his key. when julian told the clerk that he wanted to see some combination keys, he threw out upon the counter a box which was filled to overflowing. "do you remember a telegraph boy who was in here several months ago and bought a combination lock to fit his door?" asked julian. "i was in here at the time, and i know he bought the lock of you." "seems to me that i _do_ remember something about that," said the clerk, turning around to the shelves behind him and taking down another box, "and we have got just one lock of that sort left." "are you sure this key will open his door?" asked julian. "i am sure of it. if it don't open his door, you can bring it back and exchange it for another." julian told him that he would take the lock, and while the clerk was gone to another part of the store to do it up he whispered to jack, "i have just thought of something. he has not any closet in his room that i know of, and who knows but that he may have put that box in his trunk? i had better get some keys to his trunk while i am about it." "do you remember how the key looked?" asked jack. "i guess i can come pretty close to it," answered julian. the work of selecting a key to the trunk was not so easy; but julian managed to satisfy himself at last, and the boys left the store. julian did not say anything, but he was certain that the box would be in his own possession before that time to-morrow. that would be better than calling the police to search his room. in the latter case, casper would be held for trial, and julian did not want to disgrace him before all the boys in the office. "i will give mr. wiggins the box as soon as i get my hands on it, but i shan't say anything to him about casper's stealing it," said he. "would you?" "you are mighty right i _would_," exclaimed jack, who looked at his friend in utter surprise. "he stole it, didn't he? he was going to cheat haberstro out of it if he showed up, and, failing that, he would leave us here to work all our lives while he lived on the fat of the land. no, sir; if you get the box you must tell mr wiggins about it." for the first time in a long while the boys did not sleep much that night. jack was thinking about casper's atrocity,--for he considered that was about the term to apply to him for stealing their box,--and julian was wondering if he was going to get into casper's room and recover the fortune which he was attempting to deprive them of. "i tell you, that boy is coming to some bad end," said jack. "i would not be in his boots for all the money he will ever be worth." "i don't care what end he comes to," said julian, "but i was just thinking what would happen to us if this key did not open his door. we would then have to get the police, sure enough." morning came at length, and at the usual hour julian was on hand in the telegraph office, waiting to see what his duties were going to be. as usual, he found casper nevins there. he looked closely at julian when he came in, but could not see anything in the expression of his face that led him to believe there was anything wrong. "good-morning, julian," said he. "good-morning," said julian. "how do you feel this morning?" "right as a trivet. i feel much better than you will when you find that that box is gone," added casper to himself. "he hasn't found it out yet, and i hope he will not until i get my pay. i have waited and watched for this a long time, and, thank heaven! i have found it at last. i wish i knew somebody who would take that box and hide it for me; but i can't think of a living soul." all the fore part of that day julian was kept busy running to the lower part of the city with messages, and not a chance did he get to go up past casper's room. two or three times he was on the point of asking mr. wiggins to excuse him for a few minutes, but he always shrunk from it for fear of the questions that gentleman would ask him. "where did he want to go?" "what did he want to go after?" "what was he going to do when he got there?" and julian was quite certain that he could not answer these questions without telling a lie. while he was thinking it over he heard his name called, and found that he must go right by casper's room in order to take the message where it was to go. he seemed to be treading on air when he walked up to take the telegraphic dispatch. "do you know where that man lives?" asked the operator. "i know pretty nearly where he lives," answered julian. "well, take it there, and be back as soon as you can, for i shall want to send you somewhere else. what's the matter with you, julian? you seem to be gay about something." "i don't know that i feel any different from what i always do," replied julian. "i will go there as soon as i can." when julian got into the street, his first care was to find his keys. they were all there; and, to gain the time that he would occupy in looking about the room, julian broke into a trot, knowing that the police would not trouble him while he had that uniform on. at the end of an hour he began to draw close to casper's room, and there he slackened his pace to a walk. "ten minutes more and the matter will be decided," said julian, his heart beating with a sound that frightened him. "that boy has the box, and i am going to have it." a few steps more brought him to the stairs that led up to casper's room. it was over a grocery store, and the steps ran up beside it. he turned in there without anybody seeing him, and stopped in front of the door. the combination key was produced, and to julian's immense delight the door came open the very first try. "i guess i won't lock it," muttered julian. "i might lock myself in. he does not keep his room as neat as we do ours." julian took one glance about the apartment, taking in the tumbled bedclothes, and the dishes from which casper had eaten his breakfast still unwashed on the table, and then turned his attention to what had brought him there. there was no closet in the room, and the box was not under the bed; it must therefore be in his trunk. one after another of the keys was tried without avail, and julian was about to give it up in despair, when the last key--the one on jack's bunch--opened the trunk, which he found in the greatest confusion. he lifted off the tray, and there was the box, sure enough. julian took it, and hugged it as though it was a friend from whom he had long been separated. "now the next question is, are the papers all here?" thought he. "there were seven of them besides the letter, and who knows but that he has taken a block of buildings away from us." but the papers were all there. however much casper might have been tempted to realize on some of the numerous "blocks of buildings" which the box called for, he dared not attempt the sale of any of them. it was as much as he could do to steal the papers. julian placed the tray back and carefully locked the trunk, and then looking around, found a paper with which to do up his box. then he locked the door, came down, and went on to deliver his message. "that boy called us foolish because we advertised for mr. haberstro," said julian, as he carefully adjusted the box under his arm. "i would like to know if we were bigger fools than he was. we could have found the police last night as easy as not, and it would have been no trouble for them to find the box. he ought not to have left it there in his trunk. he didn't think that we could play the same game on him that he played upon us." julian conveyed his message and returned to his office in less time than he usually did, and, after reporting, told mr. wiggins in a whisper that he would like to see him in the back room. "i know what you want," said mr. wiggins, as he went in. "you have been up to the express office, buying some more of that 'old horse.' some day i am going to give you fits for that. it is the only thing i have stored up against you." "can you tell when i did it?" asked julian, slowly unfolding the box which he carried under his arm. "haven't i carried my telegraphic dispatches in as little time as anybody? now, i have something here that is worth having. read that letter, and see if it isn't." mr. wiggins seated himself on the table and slowly read the letter which julian placed in his hands, and it was not long before he became deeply interested in it. when he had got through he looked at the boy with astonishment. "i declare, julian, you're lucky," said he. "now, the next thing for you to do is to advertise for haberstro." "we have already advertised for him. we have put four insertions in the papers." "and he doesn't come forward to claim his money? put two other advertisements in, and if he don't show up the money is yours." "that is what i wanted to get at," said julian, with a sigh of relief. "now, mr. wiggins, i wish you would take this and lock it up somewhere. i don't think it safe in our house." "certainly i'll do it. by george! who would think you were worth a hundred thousand dollars!" "it isn't ours yet," said julian, with a smile. "about the time we get ready to use it, here will come mr. haberstro, and we will have to give it up to him." "well, you are honest, at any rate, or you would not have advertised for him. this beats me, i declare. i won't scold you this time, but don't let it happen again." "i'll never go into that express office again while i live," said julian, earnestly. "i have had my luck once, and i don't believe it will come again." when julian went out into the office he saw casper there, and he was as white as a sheet. julian could not resist the temptation to pat an imaginary box under his arm and wink at casper. "what do you mean by that pantomime?" said he. "it means that you can't get the start of two fellows who have their eyes open," said julian. "i've got the box." "you have?" gasped casper. "you've been into my room when i was not there? i'll have the police after you before i am five minutes older!" casper jumped to his feet and began to look around for his hat. chapter v. casper thinks of something. julian stood with his hands in his pockets looking at casper, and something that was very like a smile came into his face. "i know what you went in there with mr. wiggins for," said casper; and having found his cap by that time, he jammed it spitefully on his head, "and i just waited until you came out so that i could ask you. i don't need to ask you. i tell you once for all----" "well, why don't you go on?" asked julian. "you will tell me once for all--what?" casper had by this time turned and looked sternly at julian, but there was something about him which told him that he had gone far enough. "go and get the police," said julian. "right here is where i do business. look here, casper: you came into our room and stole that box out of our closet." "i never!" said casper, evidently very much surprised. "so help me----" "don't swear, because you will only make a bad matter worse. i found the box in your trunk, just where you had left it. the way i have the matter arranged now, there's nobody knows that you took it; but you go to work and raise the police, and i will tell all i know. if you keep still, i won't say one word." casper backed toward the nearest chair and sat down. this conversation had been carried on in whispers, and there was nobody, among the dozen persons who were standing around, that had the least idea what they were talking about. if casper supposed that he was going to scare julian into giving up the box, he failed utterly. "i won't give up that fortune," said he, to himself, when julian turned away to go to his seat. "a hundred thousand dollars! i'll have it, or i'll never sleep easy again." during the rest of the day julian was as happy as he wanted to be. the box was now safe in the hands of mr. wiggins, and he would like to see anybody get hold of it. furthermore, mr. wiggins had told him to put two more advertisements in the papers, and, if mr. haberstro did not show himself in answer to them, the money was his own. "i do hope he won't come," said julian. "i don't believe in giving up that fortune." the boy was glad when the day was done, and the moment he was safe on the street he struck a trot which he never slackened until he ran up the stairs to his room. jack was there, as he expected him to be, and he was going about his work of getting supper. he looked up as julian came in, and he saw at a glance that he had been successful. "i've got it!" shouted julian; and, catching jack by the arm, he whirled him around two or three times. "it was in the trunk, just as i told you it was. mr. wiggins has it now, and he will take care of it, too." "that's the best news i have heard in a long time," said jack, throwing his leg over the table. "did you tell mr. wiggins about the way casper acted?" "no, i did not. somehow, i couldn't bear to see the boy discharged. i simply told mr. wiggins that it wasn't safe in our room." "well, i don't know but that was the best way, after all," said jack, looking reflectively at the floor. "but i tell you, if i had been in your place i would have let it all out. now tell me the whole thing." julian pulled off his coat, and, while he assisted jack in getting supper, told him all that passed between mr. wiggins and himself, not forgetting how the latter had promised to scold him at some future time for going to the express office and investing in "old horse." "i hope he will tell you some words that will set," said jack. "all i can say to you has no effect upon you." "i will never go near that express office again--never!" said julian, earnestly. "i hope you will always bear that in mind." "i've had my luck, and if i live until my head is as white as our president's i never shall have such good fortune again. i will get bricks the next time i buy." "you had better sit down and write out that advertisement for two more insertions, and after supper we'll take it down and put it in. if haberstro does not appear in answer to them the money is ours. that's a little better fortune than i dared to hope for." anybody could see that jack was greatly excited over this news, but he tried not to show it. if he had gone wild over it, he would have got julian so stimulated that he would not have known which end he stood on. he had to control himself and julian, too. he ate his supper apparently as cool as he ever was, and after the room had been swept up and the dishes washed he put on his coat and was ready to accompany his friend to the newspaper offices. "remember now, julian, we don't want any soda water to-night," said jack. "if you want anything to drink, get it before you start." julian promised that he would bear it in mind, and during the three hours that they were gone never asked for soda water or anything else. "just wait until i get that fortune in my hands, and then i will have all the soda water i want," said julian to himself. "but, after all, jack's way is the best. i don't know what i should do without him." in due time the boys were at home and in bed; and leaving them there to enjoy a good night's rest, we will go back to casper nevins and see what he thought and what he did when he found that he had lost the box he had risked so much to gain. he was about as mad as a boy could hold when he ran down the stairs after his interview with them in their room, and he straightway began to rack his brain to see if he could not get that box for himself. "of all the dunces i ever saw, those two fellows are the beat!" said he, as he took his way toward his room. "they have got the fortune in their own hands; no one will say a word if they use it as though it was their own; and yet they are going to advertise for the man to whom it was addressed. did anybody ever hear of a fool notion like that? i was in hopes that i could get them to go partners with me, but under the circumstances i did not like to propose it. why didn't i happen into that express office and bid on that box? gee! what a fortune that would be!" casper was almost beside himself with the thought, and he reached his room and cooked and ate his supper, still revolving some plan for obtaining possession of that box. he had suddenly taken it into his head that he ought to go into partnership with the two boys in order to assist them in spending their money, although there was not the first thing that he could think of that induced the belief. julian had always been friendly with him,--much more so than any of the other boys in the office,--although he confessed that he had not always been friendly with julian. "of course i have little spats with him, but julian isn't a fellow to remember that," said casper to himself. "i've had spats with every boy, and some of them i don't want anything more to do with. but julian ought to take me into partnership with him, and i believe i'll ask him. but first, can't i get that box for my own? that is an idea worth thinking of." it was an idea that had suddenly come into casper's head, and he did not think any more about the partnership business just then. of course their advertising for haberstro knocked all that in the head; but then if he had the box he could do as he pleased with it. the next day, at the office, he did say something about partnership, but julian laughed at him. he said that he and jack could easily spend all that money, and more too, if they had it. it was made in a joking way, and julian had not thought to speak to jack about it. "it is no use trying you on," said casper to himself, getting mad in a minute. "you can spend all that money yourselves, can you? i'll bet you don't. there must be some keys in the city that will fit your door, and i am going to have one." from that time forward casper had but just one object in view, and that was to get the box. he spent three days in trying the different keys which he had purchased to fit the lock, and one time he came near getting himself into difficulty. he was out a great deal longer than he ought to have been with a message, and when he got to the office mr. wiggins took him to task for it. "how is this, casper?" said he. "you have been gone three-quarters of an hour longer than you ought to have been." "i went just as soon as i could," replied casper, who was not above telling a lie. "the man wasn't at his place of business, and so i went to his home." "then you are excusable. it seems strange that he should be at home at this hour." casper did not say anything, but he was satisfied that he was well out of that scrape. he had not been to the man's home at all. he was trying the lock on julian's door. although he made two attempts without getting in, he succeeded on the third. the door came open for him, and after searching around the room in vain for the box, he looked into the closet. "aha! i've got you at last!" said he, as he drew the clothing aside and laid hold of the object of his search. "now i wish i had my money that is due me from the telegraph office. to-morrow would see me on my way toward denver." hurriedly locking the door, casper made the best of his way down the stairs and to his room, and put the box into his trunk. then he broke into another run and went to the office, where he arrived in time to avoid a second reprimand. "oh, you feel mighty well now," said casper, watching julian, who was talking and laughing with some of the boys, "but i bet you you will feel different in a little while. now who am i going to get to hide that box for me? none of the boys in here will do it, so i must go elsewhere." during the rest of the week casper was as deeply interested in watching the persons who came there as julian was. he did not advertise for haberstro, because he did not want to give up the box. he was more than half inclined to go to mr. wiggins and tell him he was going to leave when his month was out, but some way or other he did not. something compelled him to wait, and in three days more he found out what it was. he was in the office waiting for a message to deliver, when julian came in with a bundle wrapped up in a newspaper under his arm. casper was thunderstruck, for something told him that julian had played the same game that he had. he had been to his room and got the box. his face grew as pale as death when he saw mr. wiggins follow julian into the back room, and his first thought was to leave the office before he came out. "it is all up with me now," said he, rising to his feet and looking around for his cap, which, boy fashion, he had tossed somewhere, on entering the room. "he will tell mr. wiggins that i stole the box, and i will be discharged the first thing. i'll deny it," he added, growing desperate. "i haven't seen his box. he did not find it in my room, but got it somewhere else. i will make a fight on it as long as i can." so saying, casper sat down to await julian's return; but the boy came out alone, and the antics he went through drove casper frantic. "i've got the box," said julian, when casper asked him what he meant by that pantomime. the guilty boy was given plenty of opportunity to "deny it all," but he gave it up in despair when he found that julian was not to be frightened into giving up the box. the latter was perfectly willing that the police should come there, but if they did, he would tell all casper had done. he might get julian in a scrape, but he would get into a worse one himself. he was glad when julian moved off to his chair and left him alone. "i guess it is the best way as it is," said casper, getting upon his feet and looking out into the street. "if he sets the police onto me--good gracious, what should i do? so that plan has failed, and now the next thing is something else. i'll have that box, or die trying to get it." all that day, while he was in the office or carrying his telegraphic dispatches around the street, casper thought of but one thing, and that was, how was he going to get that box again? he did not have much to say to anybody, and when six o'clock came he lost no time in getting home. he had evidently determined upon something, for he ate a very scanty supper, changed his clothes, and hurried out again. his changing his uniform for a citizen's suit was something that would have brought him his instant discharge if his company officers had found him in that fix. he could mingle with loafers about the pool-rooms, and no one could have told that he was any different from anybody else. he could drink his beer, too, and no one would suspect that he was going back on the pledge he made to the company. but, then, casper was used to such things, and he thought nothing of it. more than that, he had an object to gain, and he had already picked out the person whom he hoped to induce to enter into a scheme to possess that box. "claus is the fellow i am going to try," said he, as he hurried along toward a pool-room which he often frequented. "he is a german, he is well along in years, and i know he isn't above making a dime or two whenever he gets the chance. now for it. it is make or break." chapter vi. a mr. haberstro appears. as casper nevins uttered these words he turned into an entry, ran up a flight of stairs, and opened the door of the pool-room. the apartment was always crowded at night, and the players were mostly young men who ought by rights to have been somewhere else. one end of the room was occupied with pool-tables, and the other was taken up by billiards, which were in full blast. casper gave out among the players that he was a broker's clerk, and the story seemed to satisfy the young men, who asked no further questions. there was no chance for him in a pool game, and consequently he did not look for it. he looked all around, and finally discovered his man claus, who was sitting near one of the tables, watching the game. this man was one of the loafers about the pool-rooms. he always dressed very neatly, but he was never known to have any money. he was a german, and that fitted the name of the man to whom the box was addressed. "i am living on the interest of my debts," said he, when some one asked what his occupation was. "i never have any money. i don't need it. i can get along without it. you fellows have to work every day, while i do nothing but sit around the pool-room and wait for some one to challenge me for a game." "but you must make some money sometime, or else you couldn't play pool as often as you do." "oh, as to that, i make a dollar or two when i find the right man who can play a little, and sometimes i make more. if i could get a chance to make a hundred thousand dollars i would take it in a minute. after that, i would not be obliged to work." these remarks were made in the presence of casper nevins, who remembered them. after he had stolen the box, and before julian had got it back again, he thought it best to try him on a new tack. "supposing you didn't get a hundred thousand dollars the first time trying," said he. "would not fifty thousand do you?" "well, i think i could live on that much. fifty thousand would tempt me awfully. i wish i had a chance to try it." "there is claus, and i am going to speak to him the first thing i do," said casper. "if there is anybody who can play the part of the missing haberstro, he is the man." "ah! good-evening, casper," he exclaimed, as the boy approached him. "how is the brokerage business to-day? have you made any money?" "i don't make any. the boss does all that." "well, why don't you pick up some money and go in yourself? you will never be a man in the world as long as you stay in the background. do you want to see me? here i am, and all ready for business. is there any money in this thing you have to propose?" claus, following casper's lead, occupied an arm-chair in a remote corner of the room, away from everybody, and casper sat down alongside of him. it was not any work for him to begin the conversation, for claus "had given himself away" every time the subject of money was introduced. "were you in earnest the other day when you said that if you had a chance to steal a hundred thousand dollars you would try it on?" said casper. "i want you to deal fairly with me now. i want to know just how you feel about it." "my dear boy, i was never more in earnest in my life," said claus emphatically. "just give me a chance, and you will see whether or not i meant what i said." "well, i have got a chance for you to make something," said casper. "you have? let her rip. i am all attention. but hold on a bit. let us get a cigar. have you any money?" "i have ten cents." "that is enough. anything to keep our jaws puffing. i can listen a great deal better with a cigar than i can without it." the two arose from their seats and made a trip to the bar. they lighted their cigars, and casper paid ten cents for them. it made no difference to claus that casper had paid out some of his hard earnings and wondered where his next morning's breakfast was coming from. as long as he got the cigar, it mattered little to him whether casper had any more money or not. "now i am all ready to listen," said claus, seating himself in his arm-chair once more. "be explicit; go into all the minutiæ, so that i may know what i have to do." there was no need that claus should tell casper this, and for the next fifteen minutes claus never said a word, but listened intently. he told about julian's habit of going to the express office on the day that "old horse" was offered for sale, until finally he bought the secret of a gold-mine which was hidden away in a box that came near being sold for twenty-five cents. the box was addressed to s. w. haberstro, and the boys had put four advertisements in the papers asking that man to show himself; and, if he did not show up in reasonable time, the money was to be theirs. "here is a copy of the _democrat_, with a copy of the advertisement in it," said casper. "i knew you would want to know everything, and so i brought it along. a hundred thousand dollars! now, why couldn't i have bid on that box? that little snipe does not get any more money than i do, and yet he had to go and buy himself rich." "then it seems that you are not a broker's clerk after all," said claus. "i don't know as i blame you." "you see i would get discharged if any of the company officers should find me dressed up in citizen's rig," said casper. "i can go among the boys, now, and have a good time." "i don't know that i blame you," repeated claus. "i will keep your secret. well, go on. i begin to understand the matter now." "i tell you i was mad when i found out that they were going to advertise for old man haberstro," said casper. "i called them everything but decent boys, and went to work to conjure up some plan for getting the box for my own. i got it, too----" "you did? then you are all right." "not so near right as you think i am. julian got some keys that would fit my door, and went in and stole it." "whew! they are a desperate lot; ain't they?" "that is just what they did; and, furthermore, julian gave the box into the hands of mr. wiggins, our chief telegraph operator. now, i want you to come down there, pass yourself off for haberstro, and claim that box. can you do it?" mr. claus did not answer immediately. he stretched his legs out before him and slid down in his chair until his head rested on the back of it. he was thinking over the details of the plan. casper did not interrupt him, but waited to see what he was going to say about it. "and you are willing to give me half the contents of that box if i will get it for you?" said he. "you have given me the hardest part of the work. where do you suppose that man wiggins keeps the box?" "in the bank, of course. he's pretty sharp, and you must look out for that. if we can get that box, i won't go near the mine. i am not going to handle a pick and shovel when i have fifty thousand dollars to fall back upon. i am not going to work every day when i am afraid that something will come up and scare me to death. i will take half the block of buildings described there, and you can take the other half. that is fair, isn't it?" "yes, it is fair enough, but i am afraid of that man wiggins. what sort of a looking man is he?" "the worst part about him is his eyes. they are steel-gray, and when he turns them on a culprit in the office you would think he was going to look him through. you will have to be pretty sharp to get around him." "well, suppose i go and see julian first. if i can get around him, that will be so much gained." this was the beginning of a long conversation between casper and claus, and when it was done the latter felt greatly encouraged, and told himself that he was nearer getting the box for his own than he ever was before. casper told him everything he could think of that related to the matter, and when claus got up, removed his hat and wiped his face with his handkerchief, casper said that if he would just act that way in the presence of mr. wiggins, he would carry the day. "you act more like a german than i ever saw you act before," said he. "if you will just do that way to-morrow, i will answer for your success." "i can act the german all over, if that is what he wants," said claus, with a laugh. "you haven't got another ten cents, have you? well, let it go. i will go home and sleep upon it." "but look here," said casper, earnestly. "if you come to that telegraph office you must not know me. you never saw me before." "of course not. i won't give you away. that money is worth trying for. what is the reason that you and i have not some good friends to leave us that amount of money?" "because we are not honest enough," said casper, bitterly. "honesty has nothing to do with it. we ain't sharp; that is what's the matter with us. well, good-night. i will go and see julian to-morrow night, and the next day i may be down to the telegraph office. i want to go easy, because i don't want to spoil the thing by being too brash." as it was already late, casper did not attempt to enter any game that night. he went home and tumbled into bed, and for a long time he lay thinking over what he had said to claus. there was another thing that came into his mind every once in a while, and that was, where was his breakfast to come from? "i was not going to get any cigars to-night, because ten cents was all i had left," said casper. "but i could not well refuse claus. no matter. if he succeeds in getting that box, i will have all the cigars i want." the next morning casper went to the office without any breakfast; but the first message he had to carry took him to a saloon where they set a free-lunch table. there he took the edge off his appetite and ate enough to last him until supper-time, when he was to get his pay. julian was there, looking as happy as ever. casper did not blame him for that. if he had a box with that amount of money in it, he would be happy, too. "by george! it is six o'clock," said casper, at length. "in two hours more i will know what julian says to claus. till then, i must have patience." casper received his money when the others did, and without saying a word to anybody set out for home. julian was not in quite so big a hurry. he walked along with his hands in his pockets, and once, when passing by a baker's shop, he went in and bought some cakes with which to top off their supper. jack sheldon always reached home before he did, and julian found him in his usual act of getting supper. in reply to his ordinary greetings, he answered that there had been nothing unusual going on in the telegraph office, and that no man who said his name was haberstro had been there to see about the advertisement that had appeared in the papers. "i tell you, jack, that fortune in the box is ours," said julian. "that man has had ample time to show up, and it won't be long before we will be on our way to denver." "don't be too sure of that," said jack. "haberstro may be off on a vacation somewhere. i shall believe we are in denver when we get there, and not before." almost as jack said the words there was a sound of somebody coming up the stairs. he stopped in front of the door, and called out to somebody he left below, "does mr. julian gray live here? thank you;" and a moment afterward his rap sounded upon the door. "what did i tell you?" whispered jack. "that's haberstro, as sure as you live." for an honest boy, julian's heart fell. his fortune was gone, and there were no two ways about it. he stepped to the door and opened it, and there stood claus, more neatly dressed than ever. "good-evening," said he, while his eyes roved from one boy to the other. "which one of you is julian gray?" "i am, sir." "i am delighted to meet you," said he; and he thrust out his hand, into which julian put his own. then he put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a card on which the name s. w. haberstro was engraved. "i got belated in my hotel while waiting for the train, and i picked up this paper and saw this advertisement in it. as it happened to be my name, i read it through." "come in, sir," said jack, placing a chair for him. "it is one of four advertisements that we put into the daily papers. your name is haberstro, i believe?" "that is my name. you said you had something of great value to tell me. what is it?" julian could not have opened his mouth to save him. he was obliged to let jack do all the talking. chapter vii. a plan that didn't work. julian gray took his stand in one corner of the room, with his hands in his pockets and his feet spread out, and looked at this man who called himself haberstro. he was a german, there were no two ways about that; and he had a habit of taking out his handkerchief and wiping his face with it that nobody but a pompous and well-to-do german ever imitated. "do you know of a man of the name of winkleman?" asked jack. "know him?" exclaimed the german. "of course i do. he was living here in st. louis with me, but all on a sudden he took the gold fever and went out to denver. i was engaged in pretty good business, and so i did not go with him. i never heard what he was doing out there. he--he isn't dead, is he?" "oh, no. he accumulated some property while he was out there. he got a notice that his father had died in europe and left all his property to him, and he has gone home to take possession of it." "then that accounts for his not writing to me. he always said that his folks were immensely rich, and that some day he would have more than he wanted. what property did he collect out there?" "he is worth several buildings which are worth a hundred thousand dollars. furthermore, he has given them to you." "to me?" cried the german, rising to his feet. "yes, to you. and, more than that, he has a mine out of which he took fifty thousand dollars, and you come into possession of that, also." "lord bless my soul!" exclaimed the german. "i don't remember that i ever did anything to him to give him so good an opinion of me." "did you not nurse him while he was sick?" "did you not care for your mother when she was sick?" returned the german. "of course that did not amount to anything. he was my chum, and i had to stand by him." "well, he gave you the property for it, anyway. he sent you the deeds by express, and julian bought them for thirty cents." "well, sir, that is a heap of money. i don't know anybody that needs it more than i do. where is the box now?" "it is safe in the hands of mr. wiggins. we were not going to have somebody come along here and claim to be haberstro. have you anybody here in st. louis to whom you can recommend us? we want to know who you are before we give up the box." "that is perfectly right and proper. you see, my home is in chicago, and i know but few persons here. if you think this mr----what do you call him?" "wiggins?" said jack. "yes; if you think he will want somebody to vouch for me, i can give him the names of all the germans in the city. where does he hang out?" "the union telegraph office. you know where that is?" "i can easily find it, for i have a tongue in my head. i don't believe i will go near that mine at all. i will sell it." "you had better not. the miners have a story around that it is haunted." the german threw back his head and laughed heartily. "i am not afraid of that. if he took fifty thousand dollars out of it, it is surely worth as much more. well, if you have told me everything, i guess i had better go back to my hotel. i was going back to my home to-night, but now i am glad i did not go." "i guess we have told you everything that pertains to the matter," said jack. "do you think of any questions you would like to ask us?" "no; but i may think of some to-morrow. good-night." "by the way," said jack, as if he had just thought of something. "where were you when this man winkleman was sick? you were out in the mines, i suppose?" "oh, no, we were not; we were here in st. louis. if we had been out at the mines, where no doctor could have been reached, he would have gone up on my hands. look here--i don't want you to do this for nothing. make up your minds what you ought to have and i will give it to you. if it had not been for you i would never have seen the box. good-night." the german bowed himself out and closed the door behind him. the boys waited until he got to the street, and then julian took possession of the chair he had just vacated. "well, sir, what do you think of that?" asked jack, using companion's expression. "i think our fortune is gone up," answered julian; and then he leaned his elbows on his knees and looked down at the floor. jack laughed as loudly as the german did a few moments before. julian straightened up and looked at him in surprise. "what do you mean by that?" he exclaimed. "is a hundred thousand dollars such a sum in your eyes that you can afford to be merry over it?" "no; but you will never lose it through that man. his name is not haberstro any more than mine is." "jack, what do you mean?" "you were so busy with your own thoughts that you didn't see how i was pumping him, did you? in the first place he told us that winkleman was sick in st. louis; and yet winkleman says in his letter that they were so poor that they could not raise enough to buy a halter for a mule. now, he would not have used such an expression as that if he had been here in the city, would he?" "no, i don't think he would," said julian, reflectively. "he used the words of the country in which he lived." "that is what i think. in the next place, he said that he was engaged in a paying business here, and consequently did not go with winkleman to the mines; and then, almost in the same breath, he said he could not refer me to anybody here because his home was in chicago. you didn't see those little errors, did you?" julian began to brighten up. he remembered all the german had said to jack, but somehow he did not think of it. the box was not lost, after all. "now, he must have had somebody to post him in regard to these matters," said jack. "who do you think it was?" "casper nevins!" said julian, who just then happened to think of the boy's name. "that is what i think. he is bound to have that box, is he not? don't you give that box up; do you hear me?" "i am mighty sure i won't give it up," said julian, emphatically. "i shan't give it up until you are on hand. i had better take mr. wiggins into my confidence to-morrow." "of course. tell him the whole thing. tell him about the mistakes this man made in his conversation with me, and let him draw his own conclusions. i never saw such a desperate fellow as that casper nevins is. now let us go on and get supper." "i feel a good deal better than i did a few minutes ago," said julian, with something like a long-drawn sigh of relief. "i thought the box was lost to us, sure." the boys were impatient to have to-morrow come because they wanted to see what the german--they did not know what his true name was--was going to do about it. "i will tell you one thing, jack," said julian. "if that dutchman goes to-morrow and sees mr. wiggins about it, he will get a look that will last him as long as he lives. i ought to know, for i have had those eyes turned on me two or three times. if that man stands against them i shall think he is a nervy fellow." the night wore away at last, and at the usual hour the boys were at their posts. casper was in the office, and he seemed to be uneasy about something. he could not sit still. he was continually getting up and going to the door, and then he would come back and walk around the room. when mr. wiggins came in and wished them all a good-morning, julian followed him into the back room. "julian, have you some news about that box?" said he. "yes, sir; there was a man up to our room and handed us this card, and i thought----" "halloo," said mr. wiggins. "the box does not belong to you, after all." "hold on until i get through explaining things," said julian. with this julian began, and told him of the conversation that had taken place between jack and the german, not omitting the smallest thing. mr. wiggins listened intently, and when the story was done he said, "somebody has been posting that man in regard to that box. now, who have you told about it except jack sheldon?" "i don't know as that has anything to do with it," said julian, who resolved that he would stand by casper as long as he could. "yes, it has; it has a good deal to do with it. does casper nevins know all about it?" "what do you know about casper?" said julian in surprise. he wondered if there was any boy in the office who could do anything wrong without mr. wiggins finding it out. "because he has been uneasy for the past week. does casper know all about it?" "yes, sir, he does. he was there when we read the letter." "that is all. i will see you again after a while." julian went out and sat down, and in a few minutes mr. wiggins came from the back room and spoke to the operator, who immediately sent off a dispatch. nobody was called to carry this, for the message went straight to the office for which it was intended. five minutes passed, and then a stout man, who was a stranger to all of them, strolled into the office. one of the boys got up to wait upon him, pushing some blanks toward him, but the stout man did not want to send any telegraphic dispatches. "i just want to look around and see how you do things here," said he. "then take this chair, sir," said mr. wiggins. "i guess you will find that we do things about right." the minutes passed, and all the boys who had congregated in the office had been sent off with messages--all except casper. there did not seem to be any dispatches for him. the chief operator was busy at his desk, when suddenly the door opened, and the same german who had called at julian's room the night before, came in. mr. wiggins glanced toward him and then he looked toward casper. the latter never could control himself when he was in difficulty, and his face grew white. "is this the western union telegraph office?" said the german, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. "do i speak to mr. wiggins? well, sir, i would like to see you about a box that one of your boys bought at a sale of 'old horse' in the express office. that box contains something that is off immense value to me--s. w. haberstro." and he handed out his card with his name engraved on it. "there is a box here addressed to a man of that name," said mr. wiggins, "but it is in the bank now. i suppose you have plenty of friends here to whom you can refer?" "i am sorry to say that i have not," replied the german. "my home is in chicago. i can refer you to all the germans there." "then, would it not be worth while for you to write to some of your friends there and get some letters of recommendation? you see, we don't want to give the box to anybody unless we know who it is." "that is all right, sir. i have some business on hand in chicago, and i will go up there and get them." "that will be sufficient. good-day, sir." the german, who appeared to be in a great hurry, closed the door and hastened up the street. as soon as he was gone, mr. wiggins beckoned to casper and went into the back room. "who was that man who just went out?" said he, in a tone of voice which did not admit of argument. "tell me the truth." "his name is claus, sir," said casper. "where does he stay, principally?" "he stays first in one pool-room, and then in another. where he lives i don't know." "that will do," said mr. wiggins. "i never have been guilty of such a thing before," began casper. "i said that would do," interrupted mr. wiggins. "i may see you again after a while." when mr. wiggins and casper got out into the other room they found that the stout man had disappeared. he had gone out about the time that the german disappeared. in half an hour he came back, leaned over the desk, and spoke to the chief operator. "that fellow is no more haberstro than i am," he whispered. "his name is solomon claus. we have had him up a time or two for vagrancy, and i'll take him up for the same cause, if you say so." "no; let him go, but keep your eyes on him. he has not done us any harm yet. if he comes here again i will send for you." chapter viii. claus calls again. when the stout man reached the sidewalk he saw the german a short distance in advance of him, still hurrying along as though he had no time to waste. he turned several corners, and at last disappeared up the stairs that led to the pool-room. the detective, for that was what he was, did not seem to notice what had become of the german, but he marked the place where he had gone up and kept on to the station-house. there he changed his coat and hat, and picked up a huge walking-stick which stood in one corner. when he came out on the streets again, everybody noticed that he walked with difficulty, and there was an expression on his face which only those who were intimate with the detective would have thought belonged to him. it was very different from his ordinary appearance. instead of the frank, open look with which he regarded everybody, it was drawn up as though he was suffering intense pain, from which he could not get a moment's relief. the detective speedily found the place where the german had disappeared, walked wearily up the stairs, opened the door, and sank into the nearest chair. then he pulled a pair of eye-glasses from his pocket and became interested in a paper. but he used his eyes to some advantage, and quickly discovered the man he wanted seated off by himself, with his legs outstretched before him and his chin resting on his breast. "i guess he found some difficulty in getting that box," said the detective, who knew what mr. wiggins wanted of him before he came to the office. "you want to go easy, my friend, or i'll have you up for vagrancy again." there were not so many in the pool-room as there were the night before, and nobody seemed to bother the german; but presently, while he was thinking about it, another party came in. he took off his coat, seized a cue, and looked all around the room for an antagonist, until he discovered the german sitting there doing nothing. "halloo, claus!" he shouted, "come on, and let us have a game of billiards." "no, you must excuse me," was the reply; "i don't feel in the humor for billiards or anything else." "have you anybody on a string that you are trying to make some money out of?" asked his friend. "come on, and perhaps a game will brighten you up." "'claus,'" muttered the detective. "i know you now. i was told to find out what his name was, so i will go back. so this is where you hang out. i will remember you." the detective hobbled out the door and down the stairs; but by the time he got down to the street his lameness had all disappeared, and he walked as briskly as anybody. he went to the western union telegraph office, told mr. wiggins he had discovered that the man's name was claus, and not haberstro, and then went back to the station. casper nevins was called into the back room a moment afterward, but he was not there more than long enough to receive his discharge. "i have never done anything like this before," said casper, trying to beg off. "if you will overlook this----" "i can't do it," said mr. wiggins. "you are a boy that i can't trust. why, casper, do you know what will become of you if you do not mend your ways? you will get into the state's prison before you are five years older. i paid you up yesterday, and you have not done anything to-day, and so you can go." "it would not be of any use for me to ask for a letter of recommendation, would it?" asked casper. he always had a good deal of audacity about him, but this made mr. wiggins open his eyes in surprise. "not from me, you can't," he answered. "you will have to go somewhere else to get it." casper put on his cap and left the office, and on the way to the pool-room, where he expected to find claus, he blamed everybody but himself for the disgrace he had got into. he blamed claus, although it is hard to see what that man had done, for he worked as hard as anybody could to get that box; but he reproached julian gray more than all for his interference in the matter. "come to think of it, i don't know but i am to blame a little myself," said he, after he had thought the affair all over. "why did i not dig out the moment i got that box? i would have been in denver by this time, and enjoying my wealth. it beats the world what luck some people do have." but claus was not in the pool-room. he wanted to be alone, so that he could think over the matter, and he had gone out where he would be by himself. the barkeeper did not know where he had gone, and casper went home to change his clothes. as he pulled his uniform off he told himself that it would be a long time before he ever wore it again. then he threw himself into a chair and tried to determine what he should do next. "i have just ten dollars," he mused, taking the bill from his pocket, "and what i shall do when that is gone is another and a deeper question. i'll bet that claus don't get any cigars out of me to-night." meanwhile julian gray came in from delivering his message. his face was flushed, and he acted as though he had been running. he made his report, and then went into the back room in obedience to a sign from mr. wiggins. "well, julian, your box is still safe," said the latter. "has that dutchman been around here?" asked julian. mr. wiggins said he had, and then went on to give the boy a complete history of what claus had done to secure the box. "i got rid of him very easily," said mr. wiggins. "i told him that it would be well for him to write to some german friends in chicago, where he said he lived, and he said he was going up there on business and would bring the letters back with him. i found out that his name is claus, and that he hangs out in a pool-room. you don't know him, do you?" no, julian could not say that he had ever heard of him before. "well, don't you let the box go without seeing me about it." "nobody shall have it. mr. wiggins, i don't know how to thank you for what you have done." "you are a good boy, julian, and the only thing i have against you is that you will hang around that express office so much. some day i am going to give you a good scolding for that." "you will never hear of my being there again. i am done going there forever." "i don't think you will have to do it any more. you have your fortune, easy enough." "oh, mr. wiggins! do you think it is ours sure enough?" "well, perhaps i ought not to speak so positively; it is hard to tell at this stage of the game. i _hope_ you have." julian was delighted to hear mr. wiggins talk in this way, but before he could ask him any more questions that gentleman had gone back into the office. he then went out and looked around for casper. one of the boys told him he believed casper had got the "sack," for he put on his cap and left the office. "i don't know what he has been doing," said the boy; "do you?" "mr. wiggins knows, and he will not tell," replied julian. "i wonder what the poor fellow will do now?" julian was impatient for night to come, so that he could go home and see jack about it. it came at last, and julian never broke a trot until he ran up the stairs and burst into his room. "well?" said jack. "you look happy. tell us all about that dutchman." "there is not much to tell. his name is claus, and he lives in a pool-room." "i knew i was not mistaken in him," said jack, taking his usual seat by throwing his leg over the table. "that man had better go somewhere else." but that he did not feel inclined to go somewhere else just then was evident, for just as jack pronounced his name the boys heard his step coming up the stairs. he had a peculiar step, which, once heard, could not be forgotten. "well, he is coming again," said julian. "now, what are you going to say to him?" "that depends upon what he has to say to me," said jack. "go to the door, let him in, and put out a chair for him." he rapped on the door the minute he got there, and julian opened it for him. he looked closely from one to the other of the boys, but did not see anything in their faces to make him hide what he had on his mind. he had a new plan, but it did not promise as well as the one which had been defeated by mr. wiggins. he wanted to induce one of them to get the box for him and let him read the papers that were in it. if he could prevail upon them to bring the box out of the bank, he was certain that in some way he could get an opportunity to steal it. he did not intend to go about it slyly; he intended to take it, open and above-board, and let jack and julian help themselves if they could. he was certain that a revolver, presented at their heads and cocked, would surely keep them quiet until he had locked the door and got into the street. where he would go after that he neither knew nor cared. what he wanted was to get possession of the box. "ah! good-evening," said claus, bowing very politely. "i came back to see you about that box." "take a chair," said jack. "what about the box?" "mr. wiggins said it was in the bank," said claus, "and i want to know if you could get it out of there and let me read the letter and the papers. you see, the thing may not be for me, and i don't want to go home and bother my friends about it until i know what the box contains." "oh! your friends won't care anything about that," said jack. "you tell them that the box is for you, and they will give you all the letters you want. besides, i don't think mr. wiggins would agree to what you ask." the german did not like the way julian was acting. he had kept his eyes roaming from one to the other; but, although the boy occupied his favorite position, with his hands buried in his pockets and his feet spread out, his expression was different from what it had been the night before. there was a smile on his face, and it would not have taken very much to set him to laughing outright. claus began to think there was something up. "why, the box is your own, ain't it?" asked claus. "you can do what you please with it." "not now, we can't. we have told mr. wiggins that we wanted him to watch over it for us, and he will have to be present when you read the papers." "then you can't get it for me?" "no, i don't believe i could, mr. claus. you don't need anybody to give you a recommend. go to some of your friends here----" "claus! claus! that is not my name. my name is haberstro." julian grinned broadly, and even jack did not appear to be above merriment. "what do you mean by applying that name to me?" exclaimed claus. "there is my card." "i don't want to see it. i have one already. your name is claus, you live in a billiard saloon, and you got a full history of this box from casper nevins." "young man, i will have you arrested before you are an hour older!" said claus, getting upon his feet. "i come here and ask a civil question of you, and you insult me!" "do so, and we will have casper arrested for burglary and you for trying to obtain money under false pretenses. the sooner you get about it the better it will suit us." "very well--i will have a policeman here in less than ten minutes!" mr. claus went out, and this time he did not bow himself through the door as he had done the night before. the boys heard him going downstairs, and then turned and looked at each other. "somebody has been posting those fellows," said claus, as he hurried away toward casper's room. "i wonder if there was a detective in there while i was at the office? two attempts have failed, but the third is always successful." claus was almost beside himself with fury, but he retained his wits sufficiently to guide him on the road to casper's room. he found the boy in, seated in a chair, with his elbows on his knees, trying his best to make up his mind what he was going to do, now that he had been discharged from the telegraph office. he had sat that way ever since eleven o'clock in the forenoon, and had not been able to determine upon anything. the first intimation he had that anybody was coming was when the door was thrown open and claus came in, muttering something under his breath that sounded a good deal like oaths. "there is no need that you should say anything," said casper. "you have failed." "yes, sir, i have; failed utterly and plump," said claus. "and i have been discharged." "whew!" whistled claus. "you are in a fix, aren't you?" "yes, and i don't know what i shall do now. tell me your story, and i will tell you mine." "have you a cigar handy?" "no; and i have no money." "how long before you will be paid?" "oh, it will be two weeks yet." "then i will have to go down and get some cigars myself. i can think more clearly while my jaws are puffing than i can without." "you got your last cigar out of me, old fellow," said casper to himself, when claus had left the room. "i have but little money, and i am going to keep it." chapter ix. the master mechanic. "well, sir, what do you think of that?" said julian, when he was certain that claus had gone down the stairs and out on the street. "he had better try some other way of getting that box." "he has failed," said jack, putting a frying-pan filled with bacon on the stove. "casper nevins is at the bottom of that. i tell you, that money is safe yet." "do you know that i looked upon it as gone when he first came here and handed out his card?" said julian. "i thought he was haberstro, sure enough." "i confess that i thought so, too. now let us go on and get supper. the next time we save that money, somebody else will have a hand in it." "why, will we have to fight for it?" "it looks that way to me now. we don't know anything about business, and the first thing we know we'll get tripped up." "i did not think of that," said julian, drawing a long breath. "i wish mr. wiggins were going out to denver with us. i will get advice from him before we start." "we have not got out there yet," said jack, with a laugh. "if we do get there, we will go to the lawyer who drew up those deeds. he must be an honest man." the boys continued to talk in this way until the room was swept up and the dishes washed, and when bedtime came they went to sleep. the next morning found them on duty again. casper was not there to greet him and make inquiries concerning the box, but there were other boys there who wanted to know why casper had been discharged. they appealed to julian, for he was in the back room shortly before; but he thought the best thing he could do was to keep a still tongue in his head. "mr. wiggins knows why he discharged casper, and if he won't tell you, i don't know where else you can apply." "you had a hand in it and i know it," said one boy who was enough like casper to have been his brother. "maybe you are a spy on us." "you come out in the back yard and i'll show you who is a spy!" said julian, rising to his feet. "no one ever accused me of that before. if i am a spy, you want to do your duty right up to the handle." this was something new on julian, for we know how hard he worked to keep the police off from casper's track. some of the other boys turned away as if they were quite willing to believe that julian was seeking for promotion, while some others stood up close to him, as if to assure him of their protection. "if you will stay by me when mr. wiggins comes here, i will ask him before you if i had anything to do with casper's discharge. he will tell you the truth." but the boys wisely appealed to him not to do that. since casper had been discharged, they wanted their skirts clear of him, and the best way to do that would be to say nothing about it. "but, julian, you want to keep clear of that fellow who called you a spy," said one of the boys. "he has been jealous of you for a long time, in fact ever since the day you came into the office, and just as soon as he gets a good chance he is going to split on you." "thank you; i did not suppose i had an enemy in this city. let him keep watch, if he wants to. my conduct will bear investigation." julian did not do his work with his usual energy that day, for he could not bear to think that one boy was acting as a spy upon him. he carried his dispatches as well as he could, never stopping to gaze in at the prize windows or to make one of a crowd who gathered around some show that had stopped for a moment on a corner, and that was as well as anybody could do. jack laughed loudly when he saw what a gloomy face julian had on when he told him of the matter. "what do you care for spies?" said jack. "do your duty faithfully, and then you will be all right. in our place we don't have any such things. the boys are always glad to see me promoted, for they think they have a new mechanic to assist them when they get into trouble." for another month things moved along in their usual way, and nothing was heard from mr. haberstro. julian did not meet casper or claus, for they had disappeared completely. he held frequent and earnest consultations with mr. wiggins on the subject of the box, put other advertisements in the papers, and finally mr. wiggins took julian down to the bank and talked to the president. it excited julian wonderfully to know that the box was theirs. "i should not wait any longer, if i were in your place," said the president. "you have done all that you can to find the owner, and he does not make his appearance. you can go out there and lay claim to the property, and enjoy it; and if at any time this mr. haberstro turns up, you can give the property over to him. but i want you to be careful in what you are doing. there are plenty of haberstros in the world who would like nothing better than to get that box." "by george, jack," said julian, when he went home that night, "did i not tell you that that box was ours? i have talked with the president of the bank about it, and he says we can go out there and enjoy that property." jack took his usual seat, with his leg thrown over the table, and looked at julian without speaking. he had never laid great stress on having that box. he supposed that haberstro would show himself in due time, and all they would have to do would be to give up the money and go on with their work. his good fortune was a little too much for him to take in all at once. a dollar a day was pretty big wages for him, and he supposed that it would last till he learned his trade, and that then he would receive more money. but a hundred thousand dollars, to say nothing of the gold-mine! why, that mine had already yielded its owner fifty thousand dollars! "jack, why don't you say something?" exclaimed julian. "you don't act as though you were a bit pleased. i wish, now, that i had been a mile away when that box was put up for sale." jack roared. he was always ready to laugh when julian talked in this way. "i am very glad you _were_ there when it was sold," said he; "but the idea of owning so much money rather takes my breath away. i was just wondering what we would do if some more haberstros came up and demanded the money. i suppose there are some men like that in denver, as well as there are here." "the president cautioned me about that. he told me to be careful in what we did. now, jack, when will we start?" "i don't know. i shall have to see the master mechanic about that. you know that i am as deeply indebted to him as you are to mr. wiggins." "does he know about the box?" "not a thing. i thought i had better see you about that before i broached the subject to him." "well, then, tell it to him to-morrow. we don't want to be any longer in getting out there than we can help. we want to be there before the snow flies, or the first thing we know we'll be snowed up." "are you going to see mr. wiggins about it?" "i am. let us go out to denver at once." "i tell you it comes hard to say good-bye to those fellows; i have been with them so long that i hate to do it. if i get in trouble in any way, they will always help me out." the next day julian talked to mr. wiggins about going out to denver, and the latter's face grew grave at once. he could not bear to let julian go out there among strangers. he had always had him under his eye, was waiting for a chance to promote him, and now he was going away. "i will go down and get the box," said he. "and remember one thing, julian: you may get into a hard row of stumps out there, and i want you to write to me fully and plainly of what you are doing. if you want some money, say so; and if you want to come back here in the office, say that also, and i will try and make room for you." julian's eyes filled with tears when he saw mr. wiggins go out on the street and turn toward the bank. he found, with jack, that it was going to be hard work to say good-bye. when he went out into the other room, the boys noticed at once that he had been crying. "aha!" said the boy who had once accused him of being a spy, "you have come up with a round turn, have you?" "yes," said julian, "i've got it at last." "it serves you right!" said the boy. "if wiggins gave it to you in pretty good order i shall be satisfied. you know now how casper felt when he was discharged." "are you discharged, julian?" whispered another of the boys. "i guess i have got something like it," was the reply; "you won't see me here to-morrow." julian walked to the window and looked out on the street, and in a few minutes mr. wiggins came up with the box. the boy followed him into the back room, all the boys, of whom there were half a dozen in the office, looking on with surprise. mr. wiggins's face was grave, but he was not angry, and they did not know what to make of it. "i think i would do this up and send it by express--wouldn't you?" said he. "if this is put in your trunk, and the cars run off the track and get smashed, your trunk might get smashed, too, and the box with it. before i put the cover on i will write a letter to our agent in denver. i have never seen him, but that won't matter; and then, if you want any good advice, go to him. come in in the course of half an hour--" "no, sir!" said julian, emphatically; "i am going to do my duty as long as i stay in the office." "well, go ahead; i will give you the box, sealed and addressed to yourself, to-night." julian went out and took his seat among the boys, and about half of them felt a little bit sorry for him, but the other half did not. here was one favorite out of the way, and consequently there was a chance for somebody else. presently his name was called, and then julian went away to deliver his dispatch. when six o'clock came, julian went into the back room and received the package. "you will be around here before you go?" said mr. wiggins, extending his hand. "then i won't bid you good-bye. take this box to the express office and send it off. have you any money?" yes, julian had plenty of money. did mr. wiggins suppose that he was going to spend all his month's wages in two days? he took the box and went out, and took his way toward the express office, wondering what the clerk would say if he knew what was in that package. the clerk turned out to be the same one who had given him the box, but he said nothing about it; and when julian had paid the express charges on it he came out and started for home. as he was going up the stairs he heard the sound of voices in the room, and opened the door to find a man there, dressed in his best, and with a very smiling face, which he turned toward julian. "so this is the boy who bought himself rich," said he, getting on his feet "i know you from the description i have received of your uniform. i congratulate you heartily, but i am sorry you are going to take jack away from me. when you are awful home-sick, and are short of money, you can write to me, and i will send you something to come home on." "this is mr. dawson, our master mechanic," said jack. "i am glad to meet you, mr. dawson," said julian, shaking the man's hand very cordially. "jack often found fault with me for going to that office, but i struck it once,--didn't i?" "well, i should say you _did_," returned mr. dawson, with a laugh; "you couldn't do it again if you were to try it your lifetime." "sit down, sir; we will have supper ready after awhile, and you must join us." "that's just what i came up here for. jack is going away pretty shortly, and i shall not see him any more, so i came up to be with him as long as i could." mr. dawson moved back his chair so that he would not be in the way, and julian pulled off his coat and went to work; but he saw by the extra bundles there were on the table that his chum had been going back on his principles. there were cream cakes and peaches by the dozen, as well as sundry other little things that jack had purchased for supper. it was a better meal than they had been accustomed to for a long time, and if there was any faith in the way that master mechanic asked for peaches, he thoroughly enjoyed it. "i hope you boys will live this way while you are gone," said he, as he pushed back his chair and declined having any more. "you must remember that a hundred thousand dollars don't go very far. there certainly is an end to it, and the first thing you know you'll be there. now, i hope you fellows won't object if i smoke a cigar?" the "fellows" did not object, nor did he raise any complaint when they proceeded to wash the dishes. it was eleven o'clock when mr. dawson said it was time he was going home, and when the boys felt the hearty grasp of his hand at parting, they told themselves that there was one friend they were leaving behind. chapter x. where are the valises? for the next two days julian did not know whether he stood on his head or heels. jack went about his preparations very moderately, but the fact of it was, julian was in a great hurry. he could not help telling himself that if they did not get away from st. louis, that man haberstro would appear just at the wrong time, and they would have to go back to work again. he donned a citizen's dress and tied his uniform up neatly in a bundle, calculating to take it down to the office and present it to a boy there who did not act as though he had more in this world than the law allows. "i will give this up to hank," said he. "the poor fellow don't have any too much, and perhaps this suit will help him." jack accompanied him to the office--it was the first time he had ever been there--and while he was looking around to see how they did business, julian found the boy of whom he was in search. "here's a present i have brought for you, hank," said he in a whisper. "you asked me yesterday if i had been discharged, and that showed that you were a friend of mine. i told you the truth; i have been discharged, and i am going out to denver. this is my uniform. take it and wear it, and think of me." julian did not wait for the boy to raise any protests, but laid the bundle down on his seat, and then turned toward mr. wiggins. "i haven't gone yet," said he. "we are going to-morrow night." "well, come in and say good-bye before you go," said mr. wiggins. julian took the opportunity to introduce jack, who raised his cap respectfully. he listened while mr. wiggins congratulated him on his good fortune, and heard some very good advice in regard to saving his money. "i tell you what it is, julian," said he, when they had left the office behind them, "everybody who is anybody is glad that we are going to improve ourselves, and many seem to think there is going to be an end to that hundred thousand dollars." "i'll bet you that it don't come to an end with _me_," said julian, emphatically. "i am going to purchase some things that i need, but i shan't touch the principal at all." the first thing was to go to a store and buy a trunk. up to this time they had never had any receptacle for their clothes, carrying all their belongings in a traveling-bag. they concluded that one trunk was enough, and, after they had purchased it, jack shouldered it and was going to take it home. "come, now, that won't do," whispered julian; "it is three miles to our room." "no matter if it is a thousand," said jack; "i can take it there." "put it down, and i will get a carriage." "well, i won't pay for it." "i _will_; i don't see what's the use in our being so particular." jack put the trunk down, and julian went out, and very soon returned with a carriage. the boys held a consultation, and decided that, now that they had a conveyance, they might as well stop at some places on the way home and invest in some other articles they needed. "but i'll tell you one thing," said jack; "you are keeping this rig too long; i won't pay for it." it was three hours before the friends got home, and then they had their trunk more than half-filled with new clothing. the hackman carried it upstairs for them, and julian, having paid him his price, threw himself into a chair to wait until jack did the packing. in addition to the trunk, the boys bought small traveling-bags, in which they carried several handy little articles they thought they might need during their journey, such as towels, comb and brush; and julian stowed away in his a book that he had long desired to possess--"the last chronicle of barset," by anthony trollope. jack could hardly conceal his disgust; he was going to look out of the window when they were fairly on the train, and he would see more fun in that than julian could in reading his book. "there, sir, i guess it's all done," said jack, going to the closet to make sure that they had left nothing behind. "all right; lock the trunk and put the key in your pocket," said julian. "now give me half of what this room will come to during the present month, and i will go down and pay the landlady. we haven't anything to eat, so i guess we will have to go down to a restaurant and get dinner and supper all in one." "i think a sandwich and a cup of coffee would go pretty well," said jack. "oh! i am going to have a better meal than that. where's the money?" jack counted out his share of the rent, and julian posted off to see the landlady. he was gone a long time, but he came back with a receipt in his hand which he showed jack, and then the two boys went out to get their dinner. jack ordered what he had said he would; but anyone who could have seen what julian sent for would have thought he was a millionaire already. jack looked on but did not say anything; he was old enough to know that the change in julian's circumstances would make him reckless for a while. he remarked that he might as well go down to the shop and bid the fellows good-bye, and then it would be done with; so they turned their faces in that direction when they came out, and in a short time they were among the railroad shops. jack knew where to go; and, after leading his companion through a long workshop, where julian would certainly have got in somebody's way if he had not stuck close to his heels, finally ushered him into the helpers' room. he shook hands with them one after the other--dirty, begrimed fellows they were, too, looking very unlike the well-dressed men they were when dressed up for sundays--and presently he came to the master mechanic. the latter threw his arm around jack, led him away out of earshot of the others, and held an earnest conversation with him. he even put his hand into his pocket, but jack shook his head and turned away. "come on, julian; i guess i have said good-bye to them all," said he, as he led the way to the street. "every one of those fellows wanted to give me money--as if they didn't know i have enough already. well, i hope the last one of them will be successful. if they want any money, they can apply to me." julian had never seen jack look sad before. after going a little way on the street, jack turned and looked at the shop as if he thought he never would see it again. julian did not know that jack had so much heart in him. the next day was devoted to julian, who went down to the office and took leave of all his friends. even the boy who had accused him of being a spy came in for a good, hearty hand-shake. he did not know how to take it, but stammered out something about being sorry he had treated julian in the way he did. "that's all right," said the boy; "only, the next time don't you accuse any boy of being a spy on you unless you know whereof you speak." mr. wiggins had something more to say to julian. he conducted him into the back room, and kept him there until jack began to be impatient. when he came out again, julian was wiping his eyes. "i tell you, jack," said he, when they were well on their way to the railroad depot to purchase their tickets, "when one has been here and done the best he could in the office, it comes hard to say good-bye. every boy--and man, too--has used me white, if i except that fellow who accused me of being a spy. but this isn't the last time we will see st. louis, i hope. when we get out to denver, and get fairly settled, we will come back again." the friends waited a long time at the depot, for the ticket office was not open; but they had much to talk about. what sort of a looking place was denver? they had not read much about that, and they had somehow got it into their heads that it was a little settlement, and that they should find more wigwams there than houses. but at last the window was opened, and, falling in behind the others, they purchased tickets which were to carry them farther west than they had ever been before. "now, the next thing is to get a sleeping-car," said julian. "we don't want a sleeping-car," said jack, catching julian by the arm and leading him away. "you can lie down on one seat, and i can take the other, and we'll sleep just as well there as we would on a pile of down." julian was obliged to give up, but told himself that it would not always be so. he wanted to spend money for something he really needed, and he thought he could sleep better in a sleeping-car than he could in another which was devoted to passengers who were wide awake. nothing now remained but to get their supper and call a carriage to take them to the depot. the boys took coffee and sandwiches, and during the meal hardly spoke to one another. that was the last meal they would eat in st. louis, and they wondered what the future had in store for them. perhaps, when they got to denver, they would find that haberstro had been there already, and by some hook or crook had managed to get the property into his own hands. "but i don't see how that could be done," said jack, when julian hinted at this. "the deeds are in winkleman's name, and we have them. how is he going to get the property, then?" "i don't know; but i am afraid he will get it some way." "if he does, all we have to do is to give it up." but this was going to be a hard job, in julian's estimation. he did not confess that much, but it would be disastrous to him to have to surrender those blocks of buildings. he thought of it all that day, and while he was seated in the cars, going with as much speed as steam could put forth to carry him to his destination, it still bothered him. the master mechanic was there to bid them once more a good-bye, and julian was certain, when he turned away and hung his head down, that there were tears in his eyes. as long as daylight lasted, julian was busy looking out of the window as they rushed through the country; but when the lamps were lighted he began to grow sleepy. julian was sitting on one bench, and jack, having turned his seat over, was sitting on the other, and, having arranged their beds, they lay down on them; but it was a long time before they fell asleep. "now, you see, if we had a sleeping-car we wouldn't have to go to all this trouble," said julian. "wait until you get too tired to keep your eyes open, and you won't know whether we are in a sleeping-car or not," said jack; "i am most ready to go off this minute." jack's words came out true, for after they had given up their tickets and been furnished with a slip to put in their caps, julian speedily lost himself in the land of dreams, and the next thing he knew jack was shaking him by the shoulder. it was broad daylight, and the train was still whirling them onward. "can we get anything to eat along here?" said julian, looking out of the window; "i am hungry." "there is a place a few miles ahead, so i heard the conductor tell a passenger, where we will stop to get breakfast," said jack. "that was the reason i called you. if you are anything like me, you can eat a whole pan of baked beans." "baked beans!" said julian. "they have something better than that to eat on the railroad. i am going to get a breakfast that is worth the money." there was another thing that bothered julian, and that was, he did not have any place to wash; but jack told him that that would be remedied when they came to their stopping-place. they rode on for a dozen miles or so, and when the whistle sounded, and the brakeman announced fifteen minutes for breakfast, they left their valises in their racks and moved up nearer the door. "that wakes a fellow up," said julian, as he plunged his face into a basin of water. "we have to hurry, jack, for fifteen minutes is not a great while." the boys' breakfast was all that could be asked, although, if the truth must be told, they were not long in eating it. julian boarded the train first, and led the way along to their seats; but where were the valises they left there when they went out to breakfast? "is this our car?" said julian, running his eyes over the passengers. "why yes, this is our car," said jack. "there is that red-faced man who sat behind you; he was sitting there when we left st. louis. but what is the matter with you?" "matter enough; our valises are gone!" "by george! so they are!" "say!" said the red-faced man, leaning over the back of the seat. "i saw the man who took those valises, but i supposed he was a member of your party and that you had sent him for them; therefore i did not stop him." "what sort of a looking man was he?" "he was a very genteel fellow, but i noticed that he toed in, and that he had a very german cast of countenance." "i wonder if it was claus?" said julian. "i don't know what his name was, but he got the valises. say! if i were you i would search the train, and if you find him you can make him give your property up." "we will do it. i wonder if we are ever going to see the last of that man?" the train had been gathering headway all the while, and was now running at the rate of thirty-five miles an hour. if claus, or whoever stole the valises, was on the train, the boys were certain he could not jump off to escape them. chapter xi. in denver. "did the man find anything of value in your valises?" asked the red-faced man, as the boys turned toward the front part of the car. "he could have bought everything i had in my valise for two dollars," said jack, with a laugh. "it seems funny that he should want to put himself in danger of arrest for that" "he got a book in mine," said julian. "of course i have read it before, but i wanted to read it again. say, jack," he continued, when the latter reached the door and was about to open it, "if the man was claus, don't you suppose he had an eye on that box?" jack released the door and leaned up heavily against it. such an idea had never occurred to him. "he watched us while we were in st. louis, and when he saw us ready to come out, he got on the same train with us." "what a lucky thing it was that we sent that box off by express!" jack almost gasped. "of course it was claus, and we shall not find him on this train, either. he jumped off at that station back there." "let us go and see. if he is going to follow us in this way, we are going to be in a fix, the first thing you know." jack opened the door and went out, and julian followed close at his heels. they went slowly through the cars, looking sharply at every man they saw on the train, but nobody with "a very german cast of countenance" could be seen. the next thing was to try the other end of the train. jack led the way, as before, and when they got into their own car the red-faced man, who seemed to take an interest in their success, said, in a low tone, "did you find him?" "no," replied jack; "he must have got off at the station. we are going through the sleeping-cars, and, if he is not there, we will have to give him up." in the next car there was no one who looked like claus, and when they opened the door of the next car, and entered the vestibuled part of the train, they found themselves in an entry which was fitted up in the most gorgeous manner. a negro porter stood in front of the window looking out, and when he saw who the boys were, he stepped up in front of them. "does you want to see somebody on dis train?" he asked. "well, i should say we did," replied jack. "some one has stolen our valises, and we want to find him." "dat's bad. has you got a ticket?" "of course we have. don't you see the slips in our caps?" "but i mean a ticket for dis part of de train. if you hasn't got one, you can't go in." this was a new arrangement to jack. the last time he travelled on the railroad it was when the hands connected with the railroad-shop gave an excursion and a picnic, and then he had no difficulty in going all over the train; but he saw the beauty of it at once. "then we will have to give it up," said he, turning toward the door. "that man may be here and have our valises, and we can't help ourselves." "mebbe not," said the negro. "what kind of a looking man was he? i will go over the train and look for him." jack described the man as well as he could from the description the passenger had given him, and the negro went out. "just see what we would have got we had taken a sleeping-coach," whispered julian. "no one can come near you except those who purchased tickets at the depot." "we'll come to that after a while," said jack. "wait until we get our money. just now it seems as though we shall have to be constantly on the watch." the negro was gone a long time, but our friends found themselves busy in taking a note of all their surroundings. there must have been a good deal of money spent upon that sleeping-car. there did not seem to be a cheap thing about it. one or two passengers, who had slept late and were just getting up, came in, and yawned, and stretched, and prepared to go through their ablutions. they merely glanced at the two boys, and went on with their work. they did not care for the eating-stations that were scattered along the route; when they were hungry, they could go into the dining-coach and get all they wanted. "i tell you, it is worth while to know where your money is coming from when you travel," thought julian; "one feels so much safer." by the time he had reached this conclusion the negro appeared. "dar ain't a man on dis train that looks like the one you spoke of," said he. "dey's all americans; the last man-jack of them." "thank you," said jack. "our man has got off at the station. i hope he will get rich on what he found in those valises." the two friends went back to their own car, and to the inquiry of the passenger who sat behind them replied that the man had left the train as soon as he got the valises. then they settled down and prepared to enjoy their journey; but it must be confessed that claus came into their minds very frequently. if he was the one who took their valises, they were certain that they had not seen the last of him yet. "and to think that that fellow watched us all the while we were in st. louis," said jack, leaning over and whispering the words to julian. "he may watch us after we get in denver. who knows?" but claus, if that was the man, did not come near them any more during their journey. they grew weary, of course, and julian, having no book to read, slept most of the way. their night was passed in much the same way that the first one was, and about two o'clock in the morning they arrived at denver. the appearance of the city, wrapped though it was in slumber, surprised them. there were as many people running about in the depot as there were in st. louis, and all appeared to have work to do. the man to whom they had given their check was there to show them the way to their omnibus, and julian, while he was on the way to it, looked all around for indians, but did not see any. the hotel was as large as those they had left in st. louis, and almost before they knew it they were in their room with two beds in it, the porter had carried up their trunk, had bid them good-night, and they were alone. "say, jack, there's more houses than wigwams here, is there not?" "i was just thinking so myself," said jack. "denver is a big city. now, the next thing is something else. it is something i don't like to think of. that letter which mr. wiggins wrote to the agent here may help us some, but we have something to prove after that." "well, don't let us worry about that to-night," said julian. "perhaps in the morning it will look different." julian had never slept in so comfortable a bed before, and when sleep overpowered him he did not know a thing until he opened his eyes in the morning and saw jack standing at the window, with his suspenders about his waist, looking through the window at some mountains which seemed to be looming up close at hand. "when we get settled, if we ever do, we must walk out there and take a view from the top," said he. "how far are they away from here?" "about two or three miles, probably. i believe if we get on the summit of those mountains we can see california." "i have just thought of another thing that may bother us some," said julian. "i don't know whether the express clerks will want us to identify ourselves before they give us that box, but if they do--then what?" "although we are in the right, there is always something to bother us," said jack, seating himself in the nearest chair. "what will we do?" "we can't do anything except to write to st. louis. there is nobody here that knows us from adam." that was something that bothered jack during breakfast, but at eight o'clock, the hour when the express offices are generally open, they were directed by the clerk how to reach it, and in process of time drew up before the counter. to julian's inquiry if there was a box there addressed to himself the clerk placed the box before him, and never asked him who he was or where he came from. "now, the next thing is to keep an eye out for the telegraph office. if you see a sign sticking out, let me know it." "i see a sign already," said jack, pointing it out. julian began to feel a little more at home. he had worked in a telegraph office, and he was certain that he was going among friends. the boys were there, and they came up to wait on him, but julian went ahead until he confronted the operator at his desk. "is mr. fay in?" julian asked. "yes, sir. he is in his private office. would you like to see him?" "i would thank you first to give me a screw-driver so that i can take this cover off. there is a letter in here addressed to him." the screw-driver was soon forthcoming, and while julian was at work at it, a hustling little man suddenly stood before him. "do you want to see me?" he asked, in a business way. julian had by this time taken out the letter, which was placed on top, and handed it to mr. fay, who leaned against the counter and read it. the boys watched him closely, and finally saw his eyes light up with surprise. "this letter has a stamp on it, so i know it is all right," said he. "but this man wiggins i never heard of. come into the office." the boys followed him, seating themselves in chairs that were pointed out to them, while mr. fay went on reading the letter. he was utterly amazed, and looked at the two friends as if he could scarcely believe it. "which one of you boys is julian gray?" he asked. "you are? then i congratulate you from the bottom of my heart. you struck it rich once in buying 'old horse,' didn't you? how long have you been with mr. wiggins?" julian began, and told as much of his history as he was willing that any stranger should know--all except about pulling him out from under the feet of the runaway horses. he thought that that was a sacred matter between him and mr. wiggins, and so he said nothing about it. "and how about your friend, here, john sheldon?" said he. "you see, i want to get at the bottom of all your doings, so that i can explain it to mr. gibson, mr. winkleman's lawyer. we know of that man, and we know why he left; but we want to be certain that you have a right to the box." jack began and related his story; and although mr. wiggins did not say much about it, never having been acquainted with jack, the tale he told was so honest and truthful that mr. fay could not but believe him. "well, boys, i will go with you to see mr. gibson," said the operator. "it all rests with him. you see, all these things happened eleven months ago, and he has collected considerable money in rent for all these places. you will come in for fifteen or twenty thousand dollars at the start. he may want to ask you some questions." what mr. fay said almost took the boys' breath away. they had hardly anything in their pockets, and to be told that they were worth ten thousand dollars apiece was almost too good for belief. they followed mr. fay out on the street--the way he moved proved that he had come up from the ranks--and up the stairs that led to mr. gibson's office. they found the lawyer in there, walking up and down, but he stopped long enough to bid mr. fay good-morning. "what have these young men been doing?" said he, pulling up a chair for each one to sit down. "more lawsuits, i suppose." "no, sir, there is no law in this except what you have a mind to tell us. read this letter; but first let me introduce the boys." mr. gibson said he was glad to see them, and then commenced the letter, and before he had read it half-way through he whistled and looked at them with intense surprise. "well, sir, you have done it, have you not?" said he. "now, whom have you to prove that you bought this 'old horse' at the express office?" "read on, sir, and i think the letter will answer that question for you," replied julian. "i told mr. wiggins about it. that is all he knows of it." mr. gibson finished the letter at last, and then turned and gave the boys a good looking over. he evidently was not thinking about them at all, but about some point of law that had just occurred to him. finally he said, "i want you to understand that i believe your story, but in order to be all right in everything, and leave nothing for anybody to pick a flaw with, i would like to know what you did to look up this man haberstro." "if i were in your place, gibson," said mr. fay, "i would write to mr. wiggins and the president of that bank, and get a full history of the boys. they will tell the truth." "let me suggest to you, also, the name of mr. dawson," said jack. "i used to work for him, and he knows all about me." the lawyer took down the three addresses of the men he wanted to write to. "have you young fellows any money?" asked the lawyer. "yes, sir, a little." "will it last you two weeks?" the two friends were sure it would last them as long as that. "where are you stopping?" julian replied that they were stopping at some hotel, but they did not know which one. "well, fay will no doubt direct you to a cheaper boarding-house than that. what are you boys going to do with this?" said mr. gibson, placing his hand upon the box. "we want to put it somewhere so it will be safe," said julian. "shall i take charge of it for you? i will put it in the bank. it is most too valuable for me to carry around." "yes, sir." after a little more conversation his two clients went out. the lawyer sat for a long time thinking the matter over, and at last he got up, took the box under his arm and started for the bank. he had decided that he would go to st. louis that very night. chapter xii. casper nevins, the spy. "no, sir," said casper, leaning over and placing his elbows on his knees, his eyes gazing thoughtfully at the floor; "you don't get any more five cents out of me, yet awhile, to pay for cigars. i have got only ten dollars, and i am anxious to make that do. now, what shall i go at next?" casper nevins was in a predicament the first thing he knew. he claimed to be an orphan, the same as julian was; but those who were well acquainted with his history knew that he had a mother in a western village who was a dressmaker, and who would have been glad to get every cent he could send her. but casper never sent her any money. on the contrary, he often appealed to her to forward him a few dimes, to pay his debts for pool and cigars. claus often got into him a dollar or two on the games he lost, and his mother was the only person he had to call on. now he had lost his position, and the next thing was to find something else to do. he was really afraid he would have to go to work with his hands. he thought of jack sheldon, dirty and begrimed as he was when he came from the shop, and wondered how he would look in that fix. and, another thing, he wasn't satisfied that he could get as good a position as jack held. aside from being acquainted with the city and carrying the telegraphic dispatches, there was nothing else that he could do. "i tell you i am up a stump," said casper to himself; "i shall soon be sweeping out saloons, as julian did, to pay for my breakfast. i would rather die than do that." when he had reached this point in his meditations the door opened, and claus came in with a couple of cigars in his hand. he did not seem to be at all worried over his failure to get his hands upon that box, but he was whistling a jig as he closed the door and offered a cigar to casper. "what is the matter with you, any way?" he asked, when he saw the gloomy look on casper's face. "you act as though you had lost your last friend." "what am i going to do now?" asked casper. "i have no trade, no profession, and i must do something to keep myself in grub. there is no pool or cigars for me from this time on." "well, let that thing go until i tell you my story," said claus, who did not like to hear a man talk in this way. he knew that he was to blame for casper's shortness of funds--a good deal of his hard earnings was located in claus's own pockets--and he wanted to make him look on the bright side of things while he was in his presence. when he got away where he could not see him, then he could indulge in moody thoughts as often as he pleased. "i wish i had not played pool with you as often as i have," said casper, showing a little spirit. "every time i have crossed cues with you i have always been out three or four dollars. why don't you play with somebody else?" "well, if you are going to talk that way i'll go on," said claus, getting up from his chair. "what i was going to say was that i don't believe that box is gone yet. i have tried twice to get it and have failed; but there is a charm in everything. three times and out is what i go by; but if you don't want to hear what i have to say, why, good-night." "well, sit down," said casper, who couldn't bear to let claus go away if he had anything to say concerning that box; "but you yourself would be angry if you were in my fix." "oh, i have been that way lots of times. i have been so i didn't know where my next meal was coming from." "i have been that way, too," said casper. "the other night you got ten cents of me, and it was the last cent i had in the world; i had to get my next meal at the free-lunch saloons." "i didn't know you were as hard up as that," said casper, with surprise. "have you money with which to get breakfast to-morrow?" "not a cent." "then here are twenty cents," said claus, putting his hand into his pocket. "two meals will do you. in the meantime, if you get hard up for something to eat, go to the saloons; that's the way i do." "yes, but you always get something else. if i go in there and dabble with their lunch, the barkeeper will want to know why i don't get something to drink." "then walk out and go to another saloon. you ain't posted. now, i want to tell you my story. it isn't long, and i want to ask you a question before i get through." when claus said this, casper settled back in his chair and tried to look interested; but the trouble was, he only succeeded in looking guilty. "i have just come from julian's room," continued claus, "and i threatened him with the police. he called me by my own name, or jack did, and i want to know who has been telling him that. did you?" "i never said a word to him about you or anybody else," said casper, looking claus squarely in the eye. "did you say anything to mr. wiggins about it?" "never a word. there might have been a detective in the office while you were there." "a detective? who was it?" "i am sure i don't know. but if he knew your name, there was where he got it. you went up to the pool-room after you got through there? well, did anybody follow you up to see what your name was?" "there was nobody up there that i saw, and i took mighty good care to watch out. i threatened him with the police for addressing me by that name, and he just as good as told me to go and get them." "what made you say police at all? what had he done?" "i wanted him to get the box and let me read the papers in it, because i wanted to be sure that they were intended for me; but he would not do it." "of course he would not!" exclaimed casper, in disgust. "that was a pretty way to do business, wasn't it?" "i calculated, if he brought the box in there, to steal it away from them," said claus. "if i once got out on the street, i would like to see anybody catch me. i would have hung around this city for a month but that i would have got away with it." "and what would i be doing in the meantime?" "you would have known where i was," said claus, bending toward casper and speaking in a whisper. "i would have found means to communicate with you. of course if i had got that box you would have had a share of it." casper did not know whether to believe this or not. somehow he had felt suspicious of claus ever since the first night he spoke to him about the box. if the german got it without any of his help, he was sure that he never would see any of it. "well, you failed in that scheme, and i would like to know if you have some other means of getting hold of it." "certainly i have. three times and out is what i go by. my next scheme will be to steal the box from them on the train." "how are you going to do that?" "we will keep watch of them, and when they are ready to go to denver, we will go, too. you know their habits better than i do, and by keeping your eyes on them--" "well, i won't do it," said casper, emphatically. "they may not go for a month yet, and i must have something to eat in the meantime." "i will give you twenty cents a day and enough to pay your rent," said claus. "that will keep you going, won't it?" "you must give me more than that. i shall need a cigar once in a while, won't i?" "then i will give you thirty cents. you don't want to smoke more than two cigars every day, do you?" the question where claus earned the money he had was a mystery to every one except himself. when the police arrested him for vagrancy and the justice fined him ten dollars, believing that he was going to shut him up for two months, claus pulled out a roll of greenbacks as large as one's wrist. the justice gazed at him in surprise and said, "i had no idea that you were so well heeled as that." "i have a relative in europe who sends me money once in a while," said claus. "well, get out of here, and don't come into this station any more." "i won't," said claus; "and i wouldn't have come in here this time, only the police brought me." "you must go easy on me, because i haven't too many ducats," said claus, continuing the conversation which we have broken off. "i think thirty cents a day will see you through in good fashion." "of course that puts a different look on the matter. begin by giving me ten cents to get a cigar with to-night. thank you. now, what do you want me to do?" "you are to begin and keep your eye on julian, and report to me every day at the pool-room. whenever you see preparations made for them to go out to denver, you must let me know it; then we will go, too." "but how are you going to steal their valises, if they have any?" "they will leave their valises behind them when they go out to get their meals, and i will slip up and get them. you won't have anything to do with stealing them at all." "that is a bargain," said casper. "i believe that is the best way yet. but remember--you must keep out of their sight; and i will, too." a little more conversation was held on the subject, and then claus took his leave. when the door closed behind him casper arose to his feet, placed his thumb against his nose, and wiggled his fingers. that was his opinion of mr. claus's scheme. "i know what you mean to do," said he, in a voice that was choked with passion. "you are going to get me out there on the railroad and leave me. but i will see that you don't do it; i will stick closer to you than a brother, and when you get that box i will be close at hand. now i will go off to some restaurant and get some supper." the next morning dawned clear and bright, and when casper opened his eyes his first thought was to get up; but remembering that he had not to go to the office that day, he rolled over and dropped asleep again. but he had to get up at last; and after a good, hearty breakfast, and smoking a cigar, he strolled down toward the telegraph office. julian was there, sitting in his chair, for he could see him through the window. he had not made preparations to go to denver yet. and so it was during every day that the boys waited for haberstro to show up. julian was as impatient as casper, and even claus began to growl for fear there was being too big a haul made upon his money. "i am not an astor, to be giving you thirty cents a day to watch those fellows," said he. "if they don't begin to make some move very soon i shall be sorry that i hired you." "they are going to denver some time, and if you are bound to have a hand in the box, the best thing for you to do is to keep on hiring me," said casper. "i know what you want," he added to himself. "if you were to give me every cent of money you have, i would just about get my own back." but not long after this, when casper was strolling by the telegraph office to see what was going to happen, he saw julian and jack go in there. the two boys were dressed in citizens' clothes, too, and that proved that there was something up. while he was wondering whether or not he had better go back and report the matter to claus, mr. wiggins came out and took his way toward the bank. in a little while he came back again with the box under his arm. casper concluded to wait still longer, and the result proved satisfactory. the two friends came out of the office, and julian held the door open long enough to say, "i haven't gone yet; i will come back and bid you good-bye before i start." "by gracious, they are going!" said casper, so excited that he could not stand still. "now, the next thing is to find out _when_ they are going. i guess i will go and see what claus has to say about it." claus was found in the pool-room, and he was playing a game with somebody. he drew off on one side, and casper hurriedly related what he had to say to him. for a wonder claus smiled. "they are going to-morrow night," said he. "you talk as though you knew all about it. how do you know?" asked casper, with the accent on the adverb. "because julian has got his discharge, he is dressed in citizen's clothes, and they will have to take to-day in order to bid their friends good-bye and get some things that are necessary for the trip," said claus. "watch them closely, and when you see a carriage drive up to their door and a trunk put on, come to me here and i will be ready for you." "how are you going to get your own luggage down?" asked casper. "i don't want any luggage," replied claus; "i have more money than enough to buy--humph!" he had intended saying that he had money enough to buy all the clothing he wanted, but seeing casper's eyes fastened upon him he caught his breath in time and said, "i have money enough to pay for a night's lodging, and that is all we want. now you go and do just as i tell you." claus turned again to his game and casper went slowly out of the room. the german watched him, as he opened the door, and said to himself, "i wonder if that fellow knows what i am up to? he acts like it; but if he does, i would like to see him help himself." chapter xiii. getting ready for work. "i know just what you are going to do," repeated casper, as he ran down the stairs--"you are going to steal the box, and leave me out on the prairie to get back the best way i can. for two cents i would not have anything to do with it." but in spite of this resolution, casper, as soon as he reached the street, turned his gaze in every direction in the hope of finding julian and jack; but the boys had disappeared. he walked along the streets looking everywhere for them, and finally came to a standstill opposite julian's room. "they will have to come here some time, and i will just take my stand here in this door and watch for them," said casper. "they will not take that box with them, anyhow; it is much too valuable to lug about in a valise. they will send it by express." this was something that had occurred to casper on the spur of the moment, and he thought seriously of going back to claus with it; but, on the whole, he decided to keep still about it. he was getting thirty cents a day for doing nothing, and he did not want to bring that to an end too speedily. claus had plenty of money. casper had seen the inside of his pocketbook when he took it out to pay him his money, and he might as well have thirty cents of it as not. at the end of three hours casper saw the carriage coming up the street. he was certain that he was right in his suspicions, because carriages of that description were not often seen in that by-street; and, more than that, there was a trunk perched in front of the driver. he drew up in front of julian's room, and a moment afterward the boys got out. casper saw the driver catch up the trunk and carry it upstairs, and presently he came down again, mounted to his box, and disappeared up the street. "they are gentlemen now, and of course they could not carry that trunk upstairs," sneered casper, coming out of his concealment. "now, i wish i knew when they are going to start. if things were all right between julian and myself i would go upstairs and find out; but as it is, i guess i had better keep away; he would not tell me, anyhow. i stole that box from him once, and that was where i missed it. i ought to have gone to denver at once." after some time spent in rapid walking, casper once more found himself in the pool-room, and saw claus busy with his game. claus drew off on one side, while casper whispered the result of his investigations to him. "that is all right," said he, and a smile overspread his face. "you are much better at watching than i thought you were. wait until i get through here and i will give you a cigar." "but, claus, though they had a valise apiece in their hands, they have no idea of carrying the box in them," said casper; "it is too valuable." "that's the very reason they will take it with them," whispered claus. "they will not trust it out of their sight." "i'll bet you that they will send it by express," answered casper; "that is what i should do with it." "but all persons are not as careful as you are," said claus; and he turned to take his shot at the game. "you need not think you can soft-sawder me in that style," thought casper, as he backed toward a chair and took his seat to see how the game was coming out. "you have some other little trick that you want me to play. well, if it is not too dangerous i'll do it; if it is, i won't." "there is nothing more that we can do to-night, but i shall expect to see you bright and early to-morrow morning," resumed claus, as he finished his game and hung the cue up in its proper place. "here is a dollar. you may get yourself all the cigars you want." "thank you for nothing," said casper to himself, as he turned to leave the room. "the last game i played with you you got an even five dollars out of me. this does not make me straight with you by a long way." casper did not rise bright and early the next morning, because he did not think there was any need of it. he spent a quarter of claus's dollar for breakfast, smoked a cigar, and strolled leisurely down to the telegraph office. he was just in time to see julian and jack coming out. the face of the former wore a very sad expression, and there was a suspicious redness about his eyes, which looked as though he had been crying. "by gracious! i don't think i would shed tears if i were in your place," said casper, in disgust. "and you are going away with a hundred thousand dollars in your pocket! it beats me, how many people go to make up a world! julian has been bidding them good-bye in there, and so he must be getting ready to go off very soon. now i will go and see claus." casper found his companion in guilt at the very place he said he would be; and, for a wonder, he was sitting there alone, in one corner of the room. he told what he had seen, adding that julian could not keep back his tears when he came out. "we'll give him something to cry for when he goes out of that car," said claus, with a wink; "he will be just a fortune out of pocket." casper had several times been on the point of asking claus how he was going to work in order to secure to himself the full possession of all that property. he thought there would have to be some legal steps taken before the agent, or whoever had charge of those blocks of buildings, would be willing for claus to call them all his own. suppose the agent should write to some of the many friends he was presumed to have in chicago, and should get no answer from them; what would claus do then? all the friends he had were in st. louis; he did not know anybody in chicago, and consequently he would receive a check at the very start. if the german thought of this, he did not say anything about it. he wanted first to get the box, and then he could settle these things afterward. "well, there is only one thing for you to do now," said claus, after thinking the matter over; "you must stay around julian's room, and wait for them to go to the depot. you will find me right here." "i shall want a cigar to smoke in the meantime," said casper. it was right on the end of claus's tongue to make a flat refusal, but there was something in casper's eye, which he turned full upon him, that made him hesitate. he growled out something about not being made of money, but finally put his hand into his pocket and produced another dollar. "you need not mutter so lustily every time i ask you for money," said casper to himself as he left the pool-room. "i will have to give up this business before long, and i am going to make all i can." casper went straight to a restaurant and got his dinner, and with a cigar for company took up his usual hiding-place in the doorway and waited to see what was going to happen. he stayed there until four o'clock in the afternoon, and then began to grow interested. he saw julian come out and hasten away, and something told him that he had gone for a carriage. but why was it that casper got so mad, and threw his cigar spitefully down upon the pavement? julian was dressed in a suit of new clothes, and he looked like a young gentleman in it. the suit that casper wore was the only one he had, and when that was gone he did not know what he should do to get another. "that fellow must have received a good many tips while he was in the office," muttered casper, "or else he saved his money. i wish to goodness i had saved mine, instead of giving it all to claus." julian soon came back with a carriage, and it became evident that they were going to take the train for denver. julian and the hackman went upstairs, and when the boys came down again they each wore a traveling-coat and had a small valise in their hands. they got into the carriage and were driven away for the depot. "now, then, i am going to see if claus is fooled," thought casper, as he hurried off in another direction. "the box is not in those gripsacks; they are not large enough. now, you mark what i tell you." "what's the news?" said claus, who was loitering at one of the windows of the pool-room. "did you see them go?" he asked, in a whisper. "i did," answered casper. "we have just time to get down there, and that is all. you are making a mistake by not taking some baggage along." "no, i am not. we shall go as far as the station at which the passengers take breakfast, and then we will stop and come back. that is as far as we want to go." "and come back as empty-handed as we went," said casper to himself. "i'll bet there won't be anything worth having in those valises." it took claus and casper a long time to walk to the depot, although they went with all the speed they could command; but when, at last, they got there, they found that the ticket office was not open. it was no trouble at all for them to find the boys whom they were seeking; they occupied a couple of seats in the gentlemen's waiting-room, sitting pretty close together, too, and were engaged in earnest conversation. "those are the ones, are they not?" questioned claus. "they are dressed up so fine that i would not have known them." "yes; they have new clothes on," said casper. "they are going off as though they were business men starting out on a vacation." "that is the way we will travel when we get our money," said claus, with a wink. "and when we do get it you may go your way and i will go mine," said casper to himself; "i am not going to stay around where you are all the while bothering me to play a game with you. i am going to save my money; that's what i will do." it was shortly after they reached the depot that the ticket office was opened, and julian went to purchase tickets for himself and companion. casper watched them until they were safe in the train, and then claus bought two tickets for casper and himself, and they took seats in the car behind julian's. in that way they would keep out of sight. they did not intend to show themselves until the train stopped for breakfast the next morning, and then they would show themselves to some purpose. the night was a long and wearisome one to casper, who did not once close his eyes in slumber. he was wondering what was going to be the result of this new scheme of theirs, and telling himself over and over again that it would not amount to anything. it did not look reasonable that the boys should carry their box in a valise, and leave it behind when they went to breakfast while there was so much in it that needed their constant care. "and then, after he gets the valises and finds that there is nothing in them, that is the time for me to look out," thought casper. "he won't get away from me if i have to stay awake for two or three nights to watch him." finally, to casper's immense relief, day began to dawn and some of the wakeful passengers to bestir themselves. he arranged his hair with the aid of a comb which he had in his pocket, and then sat on the seat and waited impatiently for claus to wake up. all night long the german had slumbered heavily, as though he felt at peace with himself and all the world. that was something that casper could not understand. here he was, fully intending to steal a fortune from a boy who had come honestly by it, and yet he could sleep peacefully and quietly over it! "i wonder if i shall be the way he is?" soliloquized casper. "i will try this once, and if we don't get the box i will go back and go to work--that's the best thing i can do." it was not long before a brakeman came in and told them that they were approaching the place where they would be allowed fifteen minutes for breakfast; whereupon casper leaned over and shook claus by the shoulder. "it was time you were getting up," said he in a whisper; "it is time to go to work." "i heard every word that was said," said claus. "this is the place to which i bought tickets, and it is as far as we shall go. go forward, and see if they are in the car ahead of us." "but suppose they see me?" said casper. "you must not let them see you. keep out of their sight. if they leave their valises behind when they go out to breakfast, it is all i want." casper went, but he walked slowly, as if he did it under protest. when he arrived at the end of the car he found he could not see anything from there, so he opened the door and went out on the platform. he was gone a good while, but when he came back his face told claus all he wished to know. "they are there," casper whispered, "and are getting ready to go out. i saw the valises in the rack over their seats." "that's all right. now, when we go out you must keep close behind me. i will come in at the front end of the car as if i had a perfect right there, and if i say anything to you, you must just nod your head." "what must i do that for?" asked casper. "because there may be somebody looking. i want to convince everybody that i have a right to the valises. now, you go on ahead, and do as i tell you." casper did not approve of this plan at all. the understanding between him and the german was that he was to have no hand in stealing the valises, but this looked as though he was the prime mover in the affair. before he could make any further objection the cars stopped, the gong sounded for breakfast, and the passengers began to move toward the door. chapter xiv. how casper was served. "come on, now, and remember what i told you," said claus, getting on his feet. "there they go! all we have to do, now, is to go in there and get the valises. you know where they sat, don't you?" casper glanced toward the front end of the car, and saw julian and jack step down and hurry toward the dining-room. claus waited until most of the passengers got off, and then, with a motion to casper to follow him, he went boldly forward and climbed the steps. he opened the door, and, when casper went in, he said, "now tell me exactly where they sat, so that i can pick up the valises without exciting anybody's suspicions." "do you see that red-faced man sitting on the right-hand side?" whispered casper. "and do you see those valises in the rack directly in front him? well, they are the ones you want." "all right! we will have them out of there in a jiffy." "i don't like the way that man looks at us," casper ventured to remark; "perhaps he knows them." "it don't make any difference to me whether he does or not. if he says anything to us, we will tell him the valises belong to us, and that we have come after them." calling a smile to his face, claus went down the passage-way, looking at the various valises stowed away in the racks. when he arrived opposite the seat where julian had sat before he left the train, a look of surprise spread over his countenance, and he stepped in and took them down, one after the other. "these are ours, ain't they?" he asked, turning to casper. "yes--they are the ones." "i don't see what those boys put them in here for. now we will take charge of them ourselves." he passed one valise to casper, who took it and made his way out of the car, while claus kept close at his heels. "now we want to go somewhere and get out of sight as soon as we can," said casper, looking around guiltily, and almost expecting a policeman to take him by the collar. "i shall not feel easy until this train goes." "well, we don't want to get out of sight just yet," said claus. "that red-faced man kept his eyes on us, didn't he? let us see what he will make of it now." "why, claus, you are not going in there?" queried casper, when his companion led the way toward the waiting-room. "julian and jack went in there, and they will be certain to discover us." "no, they won't. you follow me, and do just as i do." casper turned his eyes and looked back at the train. there was the red-faced man, sitting by the car window, closely watching all their movements, and when he saw them enter the waiting-room into which julian and jack had gone a few moments before, his suspicions, if he had any, were set at rest, and he settled back in his seat and picked up a newspaper which he had just purchased. claus kept on to the waiting-room, but he did not stop when he got there. he kept right on through and went out at the other door, and after walking briskly for a few minutes, and turning several corners until he was sure that the depot had been left out of sight, he seated himself on the steps of a deserted house, took off his hat, and wiped his forehead. "it was not such an awful thing to get those valises, after all," said he. "when that train goes, we will go and get our breakfast." "but i would like to know what is in those valises first," said casper. "i tell you, you are fooled. i have felt this valise all over on the outside, and there is nothing in it that feels like a box." "i don't suppose you could feel anything of that kind in it, because i don't believe the box was put in there," said claus. "my only hope is that they took the papers out of the box and put them in here; consequently they left the box at home." "good enough!" exclaimed casper, catching up his valise and feeling the outside of it, to see if he could feel anything that seemed like papers that were stowed away on the inside of it; "i never thought of that. now, how shall we go to work to get the valises open? i haven't a key in my pocket that will fit them." "i haven't, either; but as soon as we get our breakfast we will go up the road a little distance and cut them open. these gripsacks will never be worth anything to anybody after we get done with them." even while they were talking in this way they heard the shriek of the whistle twice, followed by the ringing of the bell, and knew that their train was getting ready to start on again; whereupon claus got up and said he was as hungry as a wolf, and that he must procure a breakfast somewhere. "i shall not eat much till i find out what those valises are hiding from us," said casper. "it would be just dreadful if we should fail, after all the trouble we have been to." by the time they got back to the depot the train was well under way; but claus went out and looked after it, to satisfy himself that the coast was clear. then they placed their valises in charge of the clerk at the desk, enjoyed a good wash, and went in and took their seats at the table. their meal was a better one than they had had served up to them at st. louis, especially when they were hard up for money; and, after taking their time in eating it, claus settled the bill, took his valise, and started up the railroad track. "have you a cigar?" he asked, before they had gone a great ways. "that is all right. we will go on until we get into that sagebrush, and then we will stop and look into these things. i will take just a hundred thousand dollars for my find." "i'll bet you will take less than that," said casper; for, somehow, he could not get over the idea that the box had been sent by express. "there is nothing in them that you want." it did not take them more than a quarter of an hour to get into the sagebrush; and, after looking all around to make sure that there was no one in sight, they stepped down from the track and seated themselves on the bank beside it. claus did not waste any time in trying his keys upon the valise, but stretched out his legs and put his hand into his pocket, and when he pulled it out again he held a knife in it. "the shortest way is the best," said he, thrusting the blade into the valise he held in his hand. "come out here, now, and let us see what you have." his knife made short work of the valise, but nothing in the way of papers could be found. it was jack's valise that he had destroyed, and all he found in it was a brush and comb, and half a dozen handkerchiefs. "i just knew how it would be," said casper, despairingly. "you will find the same things in here." he had never seen claus look so angry and disappointed as he was at that moment. with a spiteful kick of one foot he sent the valise out of sight in the sagebrush, and was about to send the other things to keep it company, when he happened to think of something. "i guess i'll keep the handkerchiefs and brush and comb for the good they may do me," said he. "where's your valise?" casper handed it over, and in a moment more that valise was a wreck, also. they found things in it similar to those found in jack's gripsack, with the exception of a book which julian had purchased to read on his journey, the leaves of which were uncut. casper took possession of the handkerchiefs and the brush and comb, while claus slowly rolled up the book and sat with his eyes fastened on the ground. he was mad--casper could easily see that, and he dared not interrupt his train of thought. claus sat for some moments communing with his own thoughts, then broke into a whistle and got upon his feet. "to say that i am disappointed, and angry, too, would not half express my feelings," said he, pulling off his hat with one hand and digging his fingers into his head with the other. "i did not suppose they would send those papers by express, for i know it is something that i would not have done. i would have kept them by me all the while, so that i could see that they were safe. now, the next thing is to determine upon something else." "do you intend to make another effort to get the money?" asked casper, very much surprised. "your 'three times and out' did not amount to anything--did it?" "no, i don't suppose it did," said claus, who was evidently thinking about something else. "i guess you have done about all you can do, and so you had better go back to st. louis." this was nothing more than casper expected. he had his ten dollars stowed away somewhere about his clothes, together with small sums which he had saved from the amount that claus had paid him, and so he could pay his way back to st. louis easily enough; but what should he do when he got there? he shuddered when he thought of it. here was winter coming on, and unless he should obtain work very soon he would have to go out to where his mother lived, which was all of two hundred and fifty miles from there. and what should he say when he got home? he had gone to st. louis with big boasts of what he intended to do when he got there, and for him to turn up penniless and friendless at his mother's house was rather more than he had bargained for. "and what will _you_ do?" asked casper. "i haven't had time to think the matter over," said claus, who was rather surprised that his companion took his discharge, or whatever you might call it, so easily, "but i think i shall go on to denver." "and i can't be of any use to you there?" "no, i don't think you can. i may not be back to the city before next spring." "i wish you would tell me what you are going to do when you get there. you can't get the box; that will be safe in the bank." "but perhaps i can pass myself off for mr. haberstro. i have some of his cards in my pocket." "but you will only get yourself into trouble if you try that game. there are people out there who know haberstro." "well, that is so," said claus, looking reflectively at the ground. "i shall have to think up some way to get around that. at any rate, you cannot be of any further use to me, and so you had better start by the next train." "well, you had better give me some money before you turn me off in this way," said casper. "how am i going to get back to the city without money?" "where is that ten dollars you got out of the telegraph office when your time was up?" asked claus, who did not like it whenever the subject of giving some of his hard earnings was brought up before him. "you have not spent all of that, i know." "yes, i have. i have just a quarter, and there it is," said casper, pulling out of his pocket the coin in question. "i wish to goodness i had never seen you!" said claus, shoving his hand into the pocket in which he kept his money. casper heard the jingling of some silver pieces, and thought that perhaps his companion might be tempted to give him a few dollars. that would be better than nothing, and he would have some money left when he reached st. louis. "if i had never seen you, i would have more dollars left in my pocket than i have now," said claus, bringing out a handful of small change. casper said nothing in reply. he wanted to see how much claus was going to give him; and, once he had the money in his hand, he could talk to him as he pleased. "there are five dollars that i will give you, and you need not ask me for any more," said claus, counting out the money; "for, if you do, you won't get it." "i don't know whether five dollars will pay my fare to st. louis or not," said casper. "give me six." "no, sir; that's all i have to spare. it will take you so close to the city that you can easily walk in," said claus, turning on his heel and starting toward the town they had just left. "you can walk twenty-five miles very easily." it was right on the point of casper's tongue to "open out" on claus, and give him as good as he sent. wouldn't he have had more dollars in _his_ pocket if he had never met the man who was anxious at all times to play a game of billiards or pool with him, especially on pay-day, when casper was known to have money in his pocket? but, on thinking the matter over, he decided that he would say nothing about it. claus was a pretty big man, and there was no knowing what he would do if the boy made him angrier than he was now. "he is going to be fooled again," said casper, as he fell in behind claus, who walked toward the town as if he were in an awful hurry to get there. "what good will it do him to go on to denver? he can't get the box there, neither can he cheat julian out of his money. julian will find any amount of friends there--i never heard of a boy with a hundred thousand dollars in his pocket who could not find somebody to stand by him--and they will tell him what to do. oh! why did i make so great a mistake! i ought to have started for denver the moment i got my hands on that box. well, i got five dollars out of claus, anyhow." casper sauntered along behind claus, who was walking rapidly, and when he reached the depot he looked all around for his companion, but failed to see him. claus had gone off somewhere, and casper was there alone. chapter xv. how a mine was haunted. "well, boys," said mr. fay, when they had reached the street and were walking toward their hotel, "i have somehow taken a great interest in you, and i am anxious to see you come out all right. it is the most remarkable thing i ever heard of. you did not know what was in that box when you bought it, did you?" "no, sir," replied julian; "it was all sealed up. the auctioneer said something about a miner having hidden the secret of a gold-mine in it, and i bought it for thirty cents." "the auctioneer happened to hit the matter right on the head. i will go with you in search of a cheaper boarding-house than the one at which you are now stopping, and you had better remain there until mr. gibson hears from those people in st. louis. that will be two weeks, probably. if, at any time, you grow weary of walking about our city, looking at what little there is worth seeing, come down to the office, and we'll sit there and swap a few lies." mr. fay continued to talk in this way while they were walking along the streets, meanwhile turning several corners, and the longer he talked the more the boys saw the traits of his western character sticking out all over him. he talked like a gentleman, and then spoiled it all by remarking that they would "swap a few lies" when they came around to his office. he had probably been out west so long that he had become accustomed to western ways of conversation. at length mr. fay turned off from the sidewalk, ascended the steps that led to the door of a house, saying, as he did so, "now we will go in here and see what we can do," and rang the door-bell. it was a very different-looking house from the one they had been in the habit of living in when in st. louis. there were no broken-down doors to be opened before they went in, nor any rickety steps to be climbed, but everything was neat and trim, and kept in perfect order. a motherly-looking old lady answered mr. fay's pull at the bell. "ah! good-morning, mrs. rutherford," was the way in which mr. fay greeted her. "let me introduce julian gray and john sheldon. they are looking around for a cheap boarding-house,--not too cheap, mind you,--and i have called to see if you have any place in which to hang them up for the night." mrs. rutherford was glad to meet julian and jack, invited them into the parlor, and asked them if they wanted a room together. the boys replied that they did, and she conducted them upstairs, to show them a room that was vacant. they were gone not more than five minutes, and when they came downstairs again mrs. rutherford was putting some bills away in her pocket-book, and the boys acted as though they were well satisfied. "well, you have found a place, have you?" said mr. fay. "have you jotted down the street and number?" no, the boys had not thought of that, and julian quickly pulled his note-book from his pocket. "your city is somewhat larger than we expected to find it," began julian. "you don't find many wigwams around here now," answered mr. fay. "we keep spreading out all the time. can you boys find the way back to your hotel?" julian and jack thought they could find it if they were given time enough, but mr. fay thought he had better go with them. it was right on the road to his office, and he walked off so rapidly that his young companions were obliged to increase their speed in order to keep up with him. before they had gone a great way, julian, who was anxious to learn all he could about their surroundings, asked how far it was to the mountains behind them. mr. fay had evidently answered such questions before, for all he said in reply was, "how far do you think it is?" "i think two miles would cover the distance," he answered, for he was determined he would guess enough while he was about it. "how far do _you_ say it is, john?" said mr. fay, turning to jack. "i would rather be excused from expressing an opinion, but i think we could walk out there in two hours." "and come back the same day?" "why, yes; certainly." "now, let me tell you," said mr. fay: "if you have made up your minds to go out to the mountains, hire a good, fast walking-horse, and go out one day and come back the next." "is it as far as that?" exclaimed the boys, looking at each other with amazement. "it is all of twelve miles. you must take into consideration that the air is very rare up here, and that things appear nearer than they are. you are feet above the level of the sea." "my goodness! i didn't think we were so far out of the world!" "we have awfully uncertain weather here," continued mr. fay, "but still we regard our climate as healthy. our thermometer sometimes changes as much as forty degrees in twenty-four hours. since professor loomis took charge of the matter, the mercury has changed forty-five times in one day. what sort of a place did you expect to find denver, anyway?" "well, i did not know what sort of a place it was," said julian. "we thought we should find more wigwams here than houses, and you can't imagine how surprised we were when we found ourselves in a depot full of people." "denver used to be full of wigwams, but it is not so now. until the year the indians lived in peace; but in that year gold was discovered by w. g. russell, a georgian, on the banks of the river platte, which is but a little way from here, and that settled the business of the indians in a hurry. denver, black hawk, golden city, and many other cities that i can't think of now, were founded in , and a host of immigrants appeared. since that time we have been spreading out, as i told you, until we have a pretty good-sized city." "it shows what western men can do when they once set about it," said jack. "now, answer another question while you are about it, if you please. if the mercury changes forty degrees in twenty-four hours, working in the mines must be dangerous business." "that depends upon where you are working," said mr. fay. "if you are at work in a placer-mine, you stand a good chance of leaving your bones up there for somebody to bring home; but if you are working under the ground, it does not make any difference. are you thinking of going out to dutch flat to try your hand at it? i don't know where that is, but you can find plenty of men here who can tell you." "i have not said anything to julian about it, but i think that would be one of the best things we could do. you see, we are not settled in that property yet." "i see," said mr. fay. "gibson may get word from those fellows in st. louis that you are impostors, and that you stole that box instead of buying it at a sale of 'old horse.' that would be rough on you." the boys did not know how to take this remark. they looked at mr. fay, but he was walking along as usual, with his hands in his pockets, bowing right and left to the many persons he met on the streets, and did not seem to think anything of it. perhaps it was his ordinary style of talking. "i am not at all afraid of that," remarked jack. "if he finds us impostors, we are willing to go to jail." mr. fay threw back his head and laughed heartily. "i have no idea of anything of the kind," said he, as soon as he could speak. "i was just wondering what you would think of it. but what were you going to say?" "this property is not settled on us yet," replied jack, "and we may want something to keep us in grub while we are here. we have a perfect right to work that mine, have we not?" "if you can find it--yes. go up there, and if nobody else is working it, pitch in and take fifty thousand dollars more out of it." "and what will we do if somebody else is working it?" "you had better give up to them, unless you think you are strong enough to get the better of them. but you need not worry about that. the mine is haunted, and you won't catch any of the miners going around where ghosts are." "who do you suppose are haunting it?" asked julian. "that letter says the writer worked the mine alone, and took lots of money out of it, and never saw a thing to frighten him." "perhaps somebody has been murdered up there; i don't know. you won't see anything until you get down in the mine, and then you want to look out. i heard of a mine up at gold cove that was haunted in that way. there were a dozen miners tried it, and each one came away without getting anything, although the gold was lying on top of the ground. as often as a miner went below (it was about thirty feet down to the bottom), he was sure to see somebody at work there before him. he was picking with a tool at the bottom of the shaft in order to loosen it up, accompanying every blow he made with a sonorous 'whiz!' which showed that he was an irishman. some of the miners retreated to their bucket and signaled to their helper to pull them up, and you couldn't hire them to go into the mine again. others, with a little more bravery than they had, went up to put their hands on the man, but as fast as they advanced he retreated; and when they got to the end of the shaft, the phantom miner was still ahead, and picking away as fast as ever." "then the mine is deserted?" "yes, and has been for years. it is one of the richest mines around here, too." "why, i should think somebody would shoot him," said jack. "shoot him! he has been shot at more times than anybody could count; but he pays no attention to it. he is a ghost, and he knows you can't hurt him. i never saw it, and, what is more, i don't want to; but i would not go down into that mine for all the gold there is in the hills." "did anybody think a murder had been committed somewhere around there?" said julian. "i never heard that there was." "well, i just wish our mine would be haunted with something like that," said jack. "i would find out what he was, and what business he had there, or i would know the reason why." "well, you may have a chance to try it. does this look like your hotel? now i will bid you good-bye, and i will see you again to-morrow, if you come around." mr. fay departed, taking with him the hearty thanks of the boys for all his kindness and courtesy, and then they slowly ascended the steps to the office. they had secured one thing by his attentions to them--a boarding-house at which the money they had in their pockets would keep them safely for a month, if it took mr. gibson that long to hear from st. louis; but, on the whole, jack wished mr. fay had not used his western phraseology so freely. "does he want us to work that mine or not?" asked jack. "i don't know. he talked pretty readily, did he not?" "i wonder if that is the way all westerners talk? did he scare you out of going up there to that mine?" "no, sir," replied julian, emphatically. "do you know that i rather like that man? he reminds me of mr. wiggins, and talks exactly like him." "what do you suppose it was that those fellows saw in that mine?" "i give it up. some of these western men are good shots with a revolver, and it seems to me they might have struck the fellow if they had had a fair chance at him." "but he was a ghost, you know." "oh, get out! if they saw him there, you can bet that there _was_ somebody there. some of the miners had their minds all made up to see something, and of course they saw it." "but how do you account for that 'whiz!' that he uttered every time he struck with his pick?" "they never heard any 'whiz!' coming from that man; they only imagined it." "do you think their ears could be deceived, as well as their eyes?" "jack, i am surprised at you. you are big enough and strong enough to whip any ghost that i ever saw, and yet you are afraid to go down in that mine!" "wait until we find it, and then i'll show you whether i am afraid or not. now, if you will go on and pay our bill and have our trunk brought down, i'll go and get a carriage." in five minutes this was done, and the boys were soon on their way to their boarding-house. chapter xvi. good news. for a week after julian and jack went to their new boarding-house they had much to occupy their attention--so much, indeed, they did not think of going down to the telegraph office and "swapping a few lies" with the chief operator. their new home charmed them in every particular. mr. fay had not forgotten that _he_ had been a boy in the not so very long ago, and the boarding-house he had chosen for them was such as he would have chosen for himself. the boarders were young men who, like themselves, had come out west to seek their fortunes, and they were all employed in various avocations in the city. jack noticed one thing, and that was they did not run around of evenings to any extent; or, if they did, they went down to the library, where they spent their time in reading. "do you know that that is something that strikes me," said jack one night when they went upstairs to their room. "we ought to join the young men's christian association." "have you forgotten our mine?" asked julian. "no, i have not; but i don't believe in going up there in winter. a thermometer that can change so many times within twenty-four hours is something that i want to keep clear of." "well, where is the money to come from?" "humph!" said jack, who had not thought of that before; "that's so. where is it?" the first thing the boys thought of, when they got up the next morning, was to take a trip to the mountains. jack was in favor of walking. it was only twelve miles, and the amount they would have to pay out for a horse would keep one of them a week at their boarding-house. but julian could not see it in that light. "i tell you, you have never walked twenty-four miles in a day," remarked the latter. "i have done it many a time, but i am not going to do it now, when there is no need of it." "you act as though you had that money in your hands already," retorted jack. "now, i'll tell you what's a fact: i am going to have the same trouble with you that i had in st. louis. there won't be any 'old horse' for you to spend your money on, but you will squander it in some other way." "you will see," said julian, with a laugh. "come on, now; i am going to get a saddle-horse--one that can take me out there in an hour." jack reluctantly yielded to his companion, who made his way toward a livery-stable which he had seen when they came to their boarding-house. there they engaged a couple of saddle-horses which seemed to know what they were expected to do, for when allowed the rein they put off toward the mountains, and went along at a brisk pace. jack could not get over grumbling about hiring horses to do what they could do themselves, but julian did not pay the least attention to it. when they had gone a long distance on the road they met a teamster, and of him jack inquired how many miles they had yet to travel to reach their destination. "them mountains?" asked the man, facing about in his seat. "they are a matter of six miles from here." "if i had a good start for a run i believe i could jump that far," said jack. "yes, it does look that way," said the man; "but it would be a mighty lengthy jump for you. i guess you are a tenderfoot--ain't you?" "i never was so far west as this in my life." the man had evidently heard all that he wanted to hear, for he started his team, smiling and nodding his head as if to say that jack would learn more about distances on the prairie before he had been there long. the distance was fully as great as the boys expected to find it; and, when they drew up in front of a little hotel in the foothills, the mountains seemed to be as far off as ever. the proprietor came to the door, bid them good-morning in his cheery way, and asked if there was anything that he could do for them. "how far off are those peaks from here?" questioned jack. "twenty miles," said the man. "you are not going out there to-day, are you?" "why, the folks in denver told us that the mountains were twelve miles away," said jack, greatly surprised. "well, you are twelve miles from denver now. these little hills here are the beginning of the mountains." "i guess you may feed our horses and give us some dinner, and then we will go back," said julian. "well, jack, we've seen the mountains." "yes, and laid out six dollars for the horses besides," replied jack, in disgust. "the next time you want anything to carry you, we will go on foot." the man laughed heartily as he took charge of their horses, and the boys went into the hotel, where they found a fire on the hearth, and were glad to draw up close to it. "i declare, i did not know it was so cold," said julian. "i suppose it is warm enough in st. louis. how high is that city above the sea-level?" "i don't know," answered jack, who could not get over the feeling that those people in denver had played too much on his credulity. "twenty miles! i guess we won't go up to the top of those mountains, yet a while, and look for california. i wish those horses were back in the stable where they belong." "we will have them back there in three hours," answered julian, "and if you don't want me to hire any more horses, i won't do it." the boys got back to denver without any mishap, and after that they were eager to see the city. jack did not have anything to grumble about during the week that followed, for they went on foot, and there were no horses hired. finally, after viewing all the fine buildings that were to be seen, they thought of the telegraph operator, and decided to take him in the next day; so on monday they presented themselves at his office. mr. fay was there; and, unlike mr. wiggins, he did not seem to have much to do, for he was sitting in an easy-chair, with his feet perched upon the desk in front of him, playing with a paper-cutter. the boy who came forward to attend to their wants seemed to have made up his mind that mr. fay was the man they wanted to see, and so he conducted them into his private office. "halloo! boys," he cried, taking down his feet and pushing chairs toward them; "you are here yet, are you? have you been out to look at your gold-mine?" "no, sir," replied julian; "we could hardly go out there and come back in a week--could we?" "no, i don't believe you could. i have been thinking about you," continued mr. fay, depositing his feet on the desk once more, "and if you know when you are well off you won't go out there this fall. i was talking with a man who has come in from dutch flat, and he says it is getting most too cold up there to suit him. he has made a heap of money, and has come here to spend it. i suppose that is what you will be doing when you get to work out there--make all you want in summer, and come here in winter and spend it." "no, sir," asserted julian, emphatically; "we have worked hard for what little money we have, and we know how to take care of it. i thought it would not make any difference to us how cold it was if we were working under the ground; i thought you said something like that." "certainly, i said so," affirmed mr. fay; "but you will have to take provisions with you to last you six months. if you don't, you will get snowed up in the mountains; the drifts will get so deep that you can't get through them." "i did not think of that," said julian. "well, you had better think of it, for if you get up there, and get blocked by drifts, my goodness!--you will starve to death!" "did you say anything to the man about our claim up there?" "no, i did not, for i did not know where it was located. i will tell you what you can do, though. he is going back in the spring, and he can assist you in getting everything you need." "we are very much obliged to you for saying that," responded jack, who felt that a big load had been removed from his and julian's shoulders. "i am only speaking of what i know of the man," remarked mr. fay. "miners are always ready to help one another, and i know he will do that much for you. i will tell you where you can see him. do you know where salisbury's hotel is?" the boys replied that they did not. they had been all over the city, but did not remember having seen any sign of that hostelry. "well, i will go with you," said mr. fay "come around about two o'clock and we'll start. by the way, that lawyer has got back." "what lawyer, and where has he been?" "i mean gibson--the lawyer that you employed to do your business for you. he has been to st. louis." "good enough!" exclaimed jack. "he has found out by this time more than we could tell him." "i saw him last night just as he got off the train, and he desired me to tell you, if i happened to see you before he did, that he would be glad to see you around at his office as soon as you could get there," said mr. fay. "so you can run down there as soon as you please. you know where he hangs out--don't you?" yes, the boys were certain they could find his office without any help, and arose and put on their caps. they told mr. fay they would be sure to come around at two o'clock, to go with him to call upon the miner who had recently come from dutch flat, bade him good-bye, and left the office. "what do you think of the situation now?" asked julian, as they hurried along toward the place where the lawyer "hung out." "are you still sorry that i bid on that 'old horse?'" "i only hope there will be no hitch in the business," said jack. "if he should ask us some questions that we could not answer--then what?" "we will tell him the truth," said julian. "he can't ask us any questions that we can't answer. claus and casper could go in on telling lies, but that way would not suit us." as the boys had taken particular note of the location of mr. gibson's office, they went there as straight as though they had been in denver all their lives, ran up the stairs to the first floor, and opened the lawyer's door. mr. gibson was there, as well as two men whom he was advising on some law-point they had brought to him to clear up. when the boys came in he stopped what he was saying, jumped up, and extended a hand to each of them. "i was coming around in search of you fellows as soon as i got through with these men," said he. "how have you boys been, out here, so far away from home? please excuse me for fifteen minutes or so." the boys took the chairs he offered them, and for a few minutes kept track of what he was saying; but that did not last long. it was about a fence that a neighbor of the two men had built, but which their cattle had broken down, and they were anxious to get out of a lawsuit for the field of wheat their cattle had ruined. they heard the lawyer advise them, honestly, that they must either compromise the matter or get into a lawsuit, in which case they would have to pay full damages; and while he was talking to them he proved that he was a man who could do two things at once. he opened a drawer and took out two photographs, which he compared with the boys, one after the other. it did not take him long to decide upon this business, and then he devoted himself to the question of fences again. "it is as plain as daylight to me," said he, as he arose to his feet. "your cattle broke the fence down, went in, and ate up the man's wheat. it was a good, strong, staked-and-ridered fence, too. there are only two ways out of it: yon can either settle the matter with him, or you can go to law; and if you do that, you will get beaten." one of the men then asked him how much he charged for his advice, and when he said "five dollars," the boys cast anxious glances at each other. if he charged that way for advising a man to keep out of law, what price would he demand for taking care of one hundred thousand dollars? mr. gibson showed them to the door, bowed them out, and then turned to the boys. "i ought to have charged that man ten dollars," he declared, with an air of disgust. "he is always in a row; he never comes here to seek advice but that he wants to beat somebody. do you recognize these pictures?" "of course i do," replied julian. "this is a photograph of me, and that is my signature on the back; the other one is jack's." "i have been to st. louis since you were here," mr. gibson went on. "i called upon the men whose addresses you gave me, and found out all about you. i tried my best to find mr. haberstro, but could not do it, and so i have concluded that the money is yours." "everything?" exclaimed julian. "the gold-mine and all?" "everything belongs to you," answered mr. gibson; and one would have thought, from the way in which he announced the fact, that somebody had left the fortune all to julian. "of course, if mr. haberstro ever turns up you will have to surrender the money; but i don't take any stock in his turning up. julian, you now have very nearly twenty thousand dollars coming to you." "but jack must have half," said julian, earnestly. "he has stuck to me like a good fellow, and i don't know what i should have done without him." "well, then, that makes you worth ten thousand dollars apiece." julian drew a long breath and looked at jack. the latter leaned his elbows on his knees, whirled his cap in his hand, and looked at the floor. chapter xvii. mr. banta is surprised. "you fellows look surprised," said mr. gibson, running his eyes from one to the other of the boys. "it seems to me, if a man told me i had that amount of money coming to me, and that i had ten thousand dollars where i could draw on it at my leisure, this room would not hold me; i should want the whole city to splurge in." the boys made no reply. jack drew his hand once or twice across his forehead, as if to brush away some wrinkles, while julian got up and walked to the window. "you did not expect to get it--did you?" continued mr. gibson. "no, sir, we did not," replied julian; "but we hoped to get it. we tried our level best to find mr. haberstro, following the advice of mr. wiggins in everything he told us to do; but he was out of our reach." "he is dead, probably," said mr. gibson. "i know just what you tried to do, and all about it. of course there will be some law to go through with before you can step into the property. do you wish me to take charge of it for you?" "oh, mr. gibson, we really wish you would. we know nothing about law, and consequently we should not know how to act." "and do you wish me to take charge of the rental of your blocks of buildings?" "yes, sir; go on just as you did before, and when we want money we will come to you." "well, that is a different thing altogether," said mr. gibson, looking down at the floor. "the twenty thousand dollars that i told you of is now in the bank, subject to my order. i guess i had better go up there with you and have it changed. you can then get money whenever you want it. by the way, julian, mr. wiggins sent his kindest regards to you; and, furthermore, he gave me a letter which he wished me to hand to you. i've got one for you, jack, from your boss; what do you call him?" "master mechanic," replied jack. mr. gibson opened his desk and took out two letters, which he gave to the boys. the sight of mr. wiggins's handwriting on the envelope was almost too much for julian, for he put the letter into his pocket and walked to the window again. "there is some good advice in those letters, and i want you boys to follow it out implicitly," said the lawyer. "you will always find me here, ready to tell you what to do in case you get into trouble. you must come to me or to mr. fay every time you get into a box. but, first and foremost, don't have anything to do with strangers. there are some of them who are bound to hear of your good fortune, and will take every means in their power to get hold of it. don't sign any papers unless you bring them to me." "we have already had a little experience in that line," said julian, with a smile. "claus came up to us and tried to pass himself off for mr. haberstro, and he is the one who stole our valises on our way here; but he didn't make anything by it." "yes--i heard all about this man claus, and about that friend of yours, casper nevins. you know enough to steer clear of such fellows in future. now, if you are all through, we'll go up to the bank." the boys followed mr. gibson out of the office, along the street, turning three or four corners, until they reached the bank. he did not have any business to do with the man who stood behind the desk counting out the money, but he simply asked him, "is e. a. in?" "yes, sir; he is in his private office," replied the cashier. the boys did not know who e. a. was, but they found out a moment later, for the lawyer led them into the presence of the president of the bank. he was gray-headed and wore a pair of gold spectacles, but he stopped his work and shook mr. gibson warmly by the hand. he looked curiously at the boys, but when the lawyer began his story, talking very rapidly, for there was a card hung up over his desk which said on it, "this is my busy day," he laid down his pen and glanced at julian and jack with some interest. "and you want the twenty thousand dollars changed, so that it will be subject to their order?" said he. "yes, sir, that is my errand up here." the president got upon his feet and walked into the room where the cashier was. when he went, the boys had not more than ten dollars in their pockets that they could call their own; when he came back, they had a small fortune coming to them. "it is all right," said he. "and which of you boys was it who bid on the 'old horse?'" he continued, extending a hand to each of them. "you are the one? well, my son, remember that there is an end to your money somewhere, and if you go to work and spend it all without waiting for some more to come in, the end of it is not far off. i wish you good luck." the boys retraced their steps to the cashier's desk, and the transfer of the property from mr. gibson's order to their own was easily completed. mr. gibson signed a check, the boys attached their names to a big book which was thrust out at them, and then the cashier wanted to know if they needed any money. "we would like about one hundred dollars apiece," said julian. "very well; make out a check for it and sign your names to it, and you can get it all right. you will find the checks there on that desk." the boys accordingly made out their checks for the money, and mr. gibson stood watching them, smiling to himself when he saw how the boys' hands trembled, and how anxious they were to have everything correct. the money was paid on the checks, and julian and jack put it into their pockets. "you got it, didn't you?" said the lawyer. "yes, sir; thanks to you, we have got it," said julian. "mr. gibson, i can't begin to tell you how much we thank you----" "oh, that is all right," said the lawyer, opening the door of the bank; "only, don't get into a fuss and lose it all." "when we came here," continued julian, "we had no money at all; now see how different it is! i assure you that we are not going to get into any fuss. the money is safe where it is." "well, let it stay there. i am pretty busy this morning, so i beg that you will excuse me. good-bye." the lawyer hurried away, and julian stood a little on one side of the door of the bank, one hand thrust into his pocket where he had placed the bills, and his eyes fastened upon mr. gibson as long as he remained in sight. "say, jack," said he, suddenly; "i don't believe mr. gibson had any right to give us this money." "he hadn't?" exclaimed jack. "why, it was his." "no, it was not; it belongs to that haberstro estate. it seems to me he ought to have got an order from the court before giving any of the money up to us." "perhaps he has an order," said jack. "then why did he not say something about it? i would like to know when the court sits. if the judge finds any blundering in the business, why, then we are up a stump. what will we do if this man haberstro comes up, all on a sudden, and tells us he wants this hundred dollars?" "whew!" said jack; "i did not think of that." "but mr. gibson probably knew what the decision of the court was going to be or he would not have done this," added julian, after a moment's pause. "i guess we are all right, but i shall feel better when we have all that property in our hands." julian wished now, when it was too late, that he had not spoken to jack about this. during the dinner hour he was unusually silent and thoughtful, and the landlady's questioning could not get a word out of him. he would arouse up long enough to reply, and then he would fall to thinking again. "i will never tell you another piece of news as long as i live," said julian, as they went up to their room to get ready to accompany mr. fay to call on the miner. "you always have enough to say at dinner, but to-day you were as solemn as an owl." "i could not help it," said jack. "if that man who owns this property turns up here, i tell you we shall be in a fix. we shall spend this before the winter is over, and how are we to get a hundred dollars to pay him? i'll speak to mr. gibson about that the next time i see him." "i believe that would be a good plan," said julian, after thinking the matter over. "i'll bet you that he has some good reason for it." in due time the boys arrived at mr. fay's office, and found him ready to accompany them. all he said was that he was going out for half an hour, and if anybody came to see him he was to be told that he would soon be back; and then he set off, with his long strides, to lead the way to salisbury's hotel. the boys found it as much as they could do to keep up with him. "i guess you have been a messenger-boy in your day," said julian. "i was a messenger-boy for six years," replied mr. fay. "of course i did not want to hold that position all my life, so i learned telegraphy at odd times, and got my promotion as fast as i was qualified for it, until at last i got where you see me now. that's the way that young men ought to do--look out for promotion." "we received good news down there at mr. gibson's office," continued julian. "i knew you would. have you the property all in your hands?" "no; there is some law-business to go through with, first. we told mr. gibson to go ahead with it, as he did before." "that was the best thing that you ever did," said mr. fay, earnestly. "gibson is an honest man, even if he is a lawyer, and you will get every cent that is coming to you. now, then, here we are. you will find this rather a different hotel from the one you first stopped at when you came here, but the old fellow makes lots of money out of the miners. there is nobody stays here except those who have shovelled dirt." mr. fay opened the door as he spoke, and the boys speedily found themselves in the living-room of the hotel. before they had time to look around them the chief telegraph operator walked up and laid his hand upon the shoulder of a man who sat with his back to him. "you are here yet, are you, banta?" said he. "yes," replied the miner, looking up to see who it was that accosted him. "i am on hand, like a bogus coin made out of iron pyrites; you can't get rid of me." "i have brought some boys with me who would like to know something about the mines at which you are working," said mr. fay; and he proceeded to introduce julian and jack. banta speedily proved that he was a gentleman, for he straightway got upon his feet to shake hands with the boys. "all right," said the miner; "if anybody can tell them about dutch flat, i am the man." "they are going to stay here this winter, and go out with you next spring," mr. fay went on. "all right," said the miner, again; "i will put them where they can dig gold so fast that you won't see anything but gold coming out of the pit." "but they have a gold-mine up there already." "they have? where is it located?" mr. fay could not answer this question, so he stood aside and waited for julian to tell him the whereabouts of the mine. the boy began by asking him, "do you know the mine that winkleman used to work when he was here?" mr. banta started, and looked at julian to see if he was in dead earnest. the boy gazed fixedly at him, and the miner finally settled back in his chair and pulled himself down until his neck rested on the back of it. "of course i know that mine," said he. "you don't think of working there, do you?" "we thought some of trying it," replied julian. "pete, what do you think of that?" asked mr. banta, pushing his hand against the shoulder of the man who sat nearest him, with his eyes closed, as if he were fast asleep. "here are two boys going up to dutch flat next spring to work the winkleman mine." "well," replied pete, without lifting his head, "i am glad i am not going up there." "are the ghosts so awful thick up there?" asked julian, who felt his courage oozing out at the ends of his fingers. "you know something about it--don't you? the ghosts are so thick up there that you can't go down in the mine to shovel a bucketful of dirt without scaring some of them up." "well, you will have to excuse me," said mr. fay. "i should like to see what those ghosts are, but my work calls me. you will take charge of the boys next spring, will you, mr. banta?" "sure i will; but they are plumb dunces if they try to work that mine. i will go with them as far as i can, and the balance of the way they will have to depend on themselves." mr. fay said he believed they could do that, opened the door and went out, and julian and jack were left alone. chapter xviii. grub-staking. "sit down," said banta, pushing chairs toward the two boys with his foot; "i want to talk to you about that mine. what loon has been so foolish as to grub-stake you?" "grub-stake us?" repeated julian, for the words were quite new to him. "yes; he does not expect to get his money back again very soon. i mean the fellow who has furnished you with grub and tools, and such things, to work the mine with." "we never heard that before; we did not know there was anybody who _could_ grub-stake us." "say, pete, what do you think of that?" said banta, once more pushing the man who sat nearest him. "here are a couple of tenderfeet, come away out west from--where did you come from?" "from st. louis; this is as far west as we have ever been." "here are a couple of tenderfeet from st. louis who didn't know that they could get anybody to grub-stake them," continued banta. "what do you think of that?" pete, who had by this time got his wits about him, straightened up, pushed his hat on the back of his head, and regarded the boys with some curiosity. julian and jack looked at him, too, and concluded that he and banta were partners in working a mine. he was roughly dressed, but there was a good-natured look about him that made the boys take to him at once. there were other men, dressed as miners, in the room, and they all seemed to be interested in the conversation. "then i reckon i shall have to tell you about this grub-staking business," said banta, squaring around in his chair so as to face the boys. "you are going to lay in a supply of things yourselves, i suppose?" "yes, we are; and we shall have to depend on you to tell us what to get." "well, there is plenty of time between this and spring, and we will have time to talk that over afterward. now, about this grub-staking business. there are lots of fellows who come out here who haven't got the money to enable them to go prospecting, and what do they do but hunt up some fellow who is willing to buck against a hole in the ground, and get their provisions and tools of him. he gets half of what they make. the men stay out there until they have eaten up all their provisions and then come in; and if they have had good luck, so much the better. but if they have wasted their time in looking for gold where there wasn't any to be found, why, so much the worse; that man is just so much out of pocket. "well, along in ' pete and me struck this very town, and we flew so light that we couldn't hardly stay on the ground. we didn't have enough to buy our next meal with; but we struck a gang whom we knew, and headed along with them for the gold country. of course we had nothing, but we managed to strike a grub-stake and went prospecting up there behind dutch flat. we lit into that rock and dirt, working like beavers, but the sign didn't come right. it looked well enough at the start, but it did not pan out much. we stuck to it for nearly three months, and then concluded that we had better go down and get another grub-stake and strike in somewhere else. so i stayed up there alone, and pete went down and brought up the man that employed us. he looked at the hole, liked the looks of it, and wanted us to go farther; but pete and i couldn't see it in that light. one word brought on another, and he offered us three hundred dollars for the hole." "for the hole!" exclaimed julian. "and there was not a sign of gold about it?" "now, hold on till i tell you," returned banta. "there was a little sign of gold about it, but there was not enough to pay pete and me for digging. we snapped him up quicker'n a flash, and what does that man do? he went down to dutch flat, brought up his tools, and set in to working the hole, and before he had gone two feet farther he struck the richest vein you ever clapped your eyes on. he took sixty thousand dollars out of it. now, some of you fellows talk about hard luck. if any of you can beat that story, i'll give you what little i made on dutch flat this summer." "that _was_ hard luck, i must say," said julian. "and you lacked only two feet of being rich?" "only just two feet," returned banta, "we might have been running around now with two niggers to drive the team--one dressed as a coachman and the other as a footman. pete didn't get over pulling his hair for a month after that." "but we are going to stake ourselves next summer," said julian. "if we lose, it will come out of our own pockets. have you been anywhere near this mine that we are going to work?" "what do you think of that, pete?" exclaimed banta. "he wants to know if we have been near his mine. not much! i'll bet there are two hundred miners on dutch flat this minute, and not one of them has ever seen that mine. they have heard about it, they know there is plenty of gold up there, but nobody has ever been near it. the last two that went up there came away so badly frightened that they packed up and left the country so quick that you could not see them for the dust they kicked up along the trail. they saw something down there in the pit, and it took all the pluck out of them." "what did they see?" asked julian. "well, perhaps i was a little too fast in saying that they saw something," said banta. "they heard something, and that was as good as though they had seen it. it first began with a scurrying on the ground, as if somebody was hurrying over it. where it came from nobody knew; it seemed to fill the air all around them. before they had time to get frightened at this there was a shriek that made it appear as if the pit was full of unearthly spirits, and then all was still; but the fellows had heard enough. the man down below yelled to his partner to pull him up, and when he found himself safe on top he laid down on the ground and swore he would never go down there again. oh, you boys have something to face, if you are going up there!" "could not the sound they heard have been occasioned by bats that had been disturbed while trying to take a rest?" asked julian. "he had a light, of course." "bats!" exclaimed banta, with deep disgust; "it was a great deal larger than bats. and he could have seen them if he had a light, could he not?" "and, besides, bats don't shriek that way," said a miner who had not spoken before. "there used to be a miner who was working that pit along with winkleman----" "you hold your yawp," exclaimed banta, fiercely; "i am telling the boys nothing but facts. i want them to know just what they have to face. i don't go into any of this cock-and-bull story about a dead miner. if that man died up there, and was buried, he's there yet, and he can't come out to work in the pit any more." "what about him?" asked julian. "we want to know everything connected with the mine, then we will be prepared for anything." "but this thing is not connected with the mine," said banta; "it is some sort of a story the miners have, and there is not a word of truth in it. they tell about a miner being seen there by everyone who goes down, and when you try to get up to him, he is not there. he goes farther and farther away every time you approach him." "we have heard that story before," said julian, with a smile; "mr. fay knows all about it." "then of course you don't believe it. i have told you the truth about the mine, and now you can go up with me next spring or stay away, just as you have a mind to." "oh, we will go with you," said julian. "i never was interested in any property yet that i was afraid to work just on account of some things you could not see. when we bid you good-bye at dutch flat we shall know what there is in that mine before we come back." "i like your pluck," said banta; and the look of admiration he bestowed upon julian more than confirmed his words. "if you live up to that, i hope you will get some gold." "they say that gold is plenty up there," said another miner. "they say it is lying around under your feet." "and you never went there to get it!" exclaimed julian with surprise. "it isn't as thick as that," said banta. "probably every bucketful you send up to be washed will yield you from ten to fifty dollars. you will get rich at that rate." "well, i guess we have troubled you long enough," said julian, rising to his feet. "we are really obliged to you, mr. banta, for offering to take charge of us, although we are nothing but tenderfeet. there are no indians out there, are there?" "indians!--no; and if there were some on the warpath, we have miners enough up there to make them hunt their holes." "i am glad of that; we don't want anything to do with those savages, after what we have read about them. we will see you again, mr. banta." "do so, and the next time i will tell you what things you want to buy, to make your enterprise successful. good-morning." "there's two boys that have gone plumb crazy," said one of the miners, after the door had closed upon julian and jack. "i wonder how they got that mine, in the first place?" "the boys are bound to get gold there, if they can stick it out," said another. "one of the men who came down from there showed me a piece of metal as big as a marble, which he had picked up on the bottom of that pit; but the trouble is, can they stick it out?" "i believe _they_ will," said banta, settling down in his chair once more. "that boy who did most of the talking is one who has plenty of 'sand' to see him through. after they get fairly settled, i believe i'll go up and see how they are getting along." "then you will go without me," said pete; "i am as close to that mine as i want to be." "well, jack," said julian, as he buttoned his coat, "what do you think of our mine? shall we go up and try it? the miners all think there is gold up there." "we will have plenty of time to talk about that between this time and spring," returned jack. "mr. haberstro may come up before we get ready to start, and demand his money." "i have no fears on that score," replied julian. "did not the lawyer say that he did not look for that? but, jack, i really believe you are afraid of that mine." "you need not be. when we get up there, and get things fixed, i will be the first to go into it." "all right. i'll stand back and let you. now, jack, what are we going to do this winter? we can't sit around all the time without something to occupy our minds." "i have been thinking about that. let us call on mr. fay, and see what he says." julian thought this a piece of advice worth acting upon, and they bent their steps toward mr. fay's office, where they found him seated, as before, with his feet on the desk in front of him. when he saw who his visitors were, he jumped up hastily and seized each of them by the arm with a firm grip. "oh, boys, you surely haven't made up your minds to go up to that mine next spring, have you?" he asked, almost in a whisper. "why, yes, sir," said julian, somewhat surprised by the man's actions. "i reckon it is ours, and we want to see what gold is to be found in it." "but think of the ghosts you will have to contend with," said mr. fay. "you will hear scurrying of feet--what was that?" he continued, looking toward a distant part of his office and pulling the boys around in front of him. "i am certain there is a ghost there." julian and jack began to see into the matter now. the man was so full of his fun that he could not keep it in under any circumstances, and it had come to the surface when he saw the boys come into his office. perhaps a lingering smile around his mouth had something to do with it. "i don't believe you heard any ghost there," said julian; "they are so busy up there at the mine that they have no time to come down here to trouble you." "all right, boys; sit down. what did banta say the spirits looked like?" julian replied that he could not tell, for he had not seen them; and with this as an introduction he went on and repeated the miner's conversation as nearly as he could recall it. mr. fay listened, highly amused, and when julian ceased speaking he said, "if you can see them, what's the use of your being afraid? and as for that phantom miner, that happened a long ways from here. i ought to be kicked for trying to frighten you." "it will take something more than that to scare us out," said julian. "now, mr. fay, we want to ask your advice." "i am ready to give it. do you want to invest some property in a gold-mine?" no; julian assured him that it had no reference to their property, which was not theirs yet until the court had passed upon it, but it was in regard to their going to school in order to learn something. mr. fay was all attention now, and when julian spoke of joining some mercantile academy, he slapped his hands down upon his knees as if that was the best thing the boys could do. "i have no fears that your money will not prove useful to you," said he; "the idea of your wanting to go to school is a big feather in your caps. some young men, with such an amount of money as you have coming to you, would loaf around and do nothing until their funds were all gone; but you don't act that way. believe me, there is an end to that hundred thousand dollars somewhere." "that is just what the president of the bank told us when we called upon him," said julian. "we have worked so hard for the little money we have that we intend to take care of it. but, mr. fay, we don't believe that mr. gibson did right in giving us these funds." "what's the reason you don't?" "why, he said he would have to get word from the court before all the property could be turned over to us--" "oh, that's all right; mr. gibson knew what he was doing. you will find it all right when the judge hears the case. now, do you know where the business college is situated?" julian was not so sure about that, but he received certain instructions from mr. fay that made him think he could find it; so the boys put on their caps and went out. chapter xix. going to school. "is the boss mechanic anywhere about?" asked jack, who chanced to be the first who entered the college when they found it. they had opened a door, and found themselves in one of the study-rooms of the school. there were fifty men and women there, all interested with their books, and the best of order prevailed. a young man, whose seat was near the door, on seeing that the boys were strangers, had arisen and asked them what he could do for them. "the boss mechanic?" he repeated, in a surprised tone. "he means the man who is at the head of this institution," said julian. we want to see him for a few minutes, if you please." "oh, yes," said the young man, as he gave jack a looking over. "i guess you have worked at manual labor all your life." "yes, i have," replied jack; "i have done nothing but lift heavy iron for a good many years, and now i want to find an easier way of making a living." "you have come to the right place to find it. step this way." the student led the way around the room, passing close to the scholars, some of whom merely glanced up, others paying not the least attention to them, until he opened a door and ushered them into a private office. he introduced the boys as persons who had come there to see the "boss mechanic," and then went out; while a pleasant-faced, elderly gentleman replied that he was the "boss mechanic" of that school, and asked them what they wanted. jack, who had made a blunder by the first question he asked, remained silent, leaving julian to do all the talking. "we want to get an education," said julian. "well, that is what this school can give you," said the man. "what do you want to study?" "stenography and type-writing." "and you?" he added, turning to jack. "bookkeeping and writing; i write a fearful hand." the superintendent, having made a start with the boys, invited them to sit down, and in a few minutes he learned something of the boys' history, and what occupation they had been engaged in previous to coming to denver. without telling him anything of their circumstances, they chanced to mention the names of mr. fay and mr. gibson, and after that julian thought he seemed to take more interest in them. after a little conversation the boys pulled out their roll of bills and paid for six months' instruction and the books they would need, and then arose to go, after telling him they would be on hand in the morning, ready to go to work. "i'll tell you what's a fact," said jack, pausing on the stairs and pulling out his diminished roll of bills; "we will have to go to the bank and get some more money, the first thing you know." "that is so," replied julian. "and i have just thought of another thing. did you see how neatly all those students were dressed? i am going to draw two hundred dollars--" "man alive!" said jack, appalled by the sum mentioned. "suppose mr. haberstro comes up--" "i don't bother my head about him. we will go and get some money, and then we will go to a tailor's and get some clothes worth having. if mr. haberstro is going to appear, mr. gibson will show us the way out." jack was not convinced by any means, but he kept close by julian's side until he reached the bank. julian made out the check for him and he signed his name, and the money was paid to each of them without a word of protest. jack felt a little uneasy after that. he did not like to have so much money about him. he carried his left hand in the pocket where he had placed the bills, and looked at every roughly-dressed man he met, as if he were afraid that somebody would rob him. "i don't feel exactly right," said he to julian. "as soon as we get home i'll put this money in my trunk, and then i know it will be safe." "don't keep your hand on it all the while, or you will lead somebody to suspect something," said julian. "now, here is a tailor shop; let us go in and see what we can do." jack fairly gasped when julian said he wanted the finest suit of clothes there was in the store. he wanted two suits--one for every day and one for sundays. of course the merchant was eager to show them to him, and the result was that he ordered the best suits he had ever had in his life. jack did not believe in expensive clothes, but julian urged it upon him, telling him that he would look as though he came from the country among all those nicely-dressed students, and jack finally yielded to him. "that's the worst expenditure of money that i was ever guilty of," said he, when they were fairly on the street. "grumbling again, are you?" was julian's comment. "never mind; you will get used to it after a while." the next thing the boys had in view was to join the young men's christian association, so that they could get some books to take home with them; and when that was done they considered themselves settled for the winter. they went to school the next day, and from that time until spring opened they never missed a lesson. jack was rather awkward at first. the hands which had been in the habit of lifting heavy bars of iron could not accommodate themselves to a pen very readily; and oftentimes, when julian sat in his room, of nights, reading, jack was there learning to write. no two boys ever behaved themselves better than they did, and it was not long before they became favorites, both with the boarders and others who came there to visit. jack soon got used to his fine clothes, and wore them as if he had been accustomed to them all his life. they took an evening now and then to call upon mr. banta, and they always found him as talkative as ever. sometimes they became so interested in his tales of life in the gold-camps that it was ten o'clock before they returned home. mr. fay and mr. gibson also came in for visits occasionally, and once the latter took out a bundle of papers, which he handed to julian. "what are these?" he asked. "they are your property," said the lawyer. "you can keep the papers yourself, or you can let me keep them, and i will put them in my till in the bank." "do you mean that all comes to us?" inquired julian, while a thrill shot all through him. "yes, sir; the court decided so a week ago." "jack," said julian, turning to his companion, "are you sorry, now, that i went to the express office and invested in that 'old horse'?" jack could not say anything. he remembered how he had scolded julian for that, and he did not want it thrown up to him so often. julian then went on and told mr. gibson what had happened in their room the night he brought the "old horse" home, and the lawyer laughed loudly at his description of it. "mr. gibson, we really wish you would take charge of this matter for us," said julian. "you hope so, too--don't you, jack?" "of course; we don't know what to do with it." and so the matter was settled, and the boys breathed a good deal easier while they were on their way home. there was one thing that often came into their minds, and that was, what had become of claus and casper nevins? had they given up all hopes of gaining possession of that hundred thousand dollars? jack scouted the idea. casper might have given it up, but claus would stick to his idea until he got into jail by it. he was not a man who gave up so easily. it is true they had not seen anything of him since they came to denver, but jack was sure they would hear from him at some other time. "you will see," exclaimed jack, when he confided his opinions to julian. "you want to be on the watch, or the first thing you know he will jump down on us." "i guess mr. gibson can shut him up very easily," said julian. "yes; but it may happen when mr. gibson is not around." "eh? do you mean that he will come down on us while we are up at the mine?" "such things as that have happened. when you see a german you want to look out." things went along in denver as they usually did, and when winter fairly opened on them the boys thought they had never experienced such cold weather before. but it did not interfere with their business in any way. it was not long before mr. banta began to talk to them about the things that would be necessary for them to have if they were going to operate their mine successfully, and the boys had a lengthy list of things they would have to buy. they thought they could get along without some of them, but banta assured them that everything they had down would be of use to them sooner or later. as time wore on, the prospect of leaving denver and going off to the mountains alone, where they were destined to encounter some risks that they did not know whether they could stand up against or not, made the boys silent and thoughtful. in denver they had friends--they were sure of that; but when they got out to their mine they would be left all to themselves, and julian and jack did not know what they would make of it. jack had less to say about it than his companion, but it was plain enough to see that he was not going to back out. "i tell you i hate to go away and leave all the kind friends we have gathered about us," said julian, as they left salisbury's hotel after mr. banta had told them that by two weeks from monday they must be on hand bright and early, all ready to start for the mountains. "i wish i knew what was in that mine." "so do i; and the only way we can find out is to go and see," replied jack. "i don't believe in ghosts, but i have heard so much about the things up there in that mine that i am almost ready to give in to them." there was another thing that jack thought of, although he did not mention it. julian had always been one of the first to talk about going to the mine, and he was ready to accuse jack of cowardice; but when the time for their departure drew near, julian did not open his mouth. jack thought of that, but said nothing. mr. banta told them, finally, that they had better go to work and get their things ready, and they set about it in earnest. the first thing they did was to take leave of the students at the college. the boys were all sorry to see them go, and the superintendent said he hoped julian and jack had given up the idea of a gold-mine, for they were getting on so rapidly in their studies that he trusted to see them complete the course. he predicted they would come back poorer than when they went away. he had heard of such things before; and, after the young men had eaten up all their provisions, they would be glad to find somebody to grub-stake them back to denver. "you will see us back here in the fall," said julian, confidently. "we are not going to give up our chances of learning something." "but you may meet your death up there," said the superintendent. "i have often heard of such things." "i was awfully afraid you were going to say something about the ghosts in our gold-mine," said jack, as they went down the stairs. "you looked at me several times as though you wanted to say something about it." "it was right on the end of my tongue," said julian, "but i thought i had better keep still about it. if we should come back here before fall, they would say right away that we had been frightened out and dared not go back." mr. banta was busy getting his own things together, but he found time now and then to overlook the boys' expenditures. under his instructions they bought three horses,--two of them for riding, the other intended as a pack-horse to carry their utensils,--and then he led the boys away to a gun-shop, where they were to purchase rifles. "look here, mr. banta," said julian; "we don't need anything in here. we have got a revolver apiece, and, if the truth must be told, we have spent a good deal of time in practicing with them." "what good will a revolver do you?" asked banta, greatly surprised. "if we chance to meet any indians----" "but you told us there were no indians," said julian. "we don't want to shoot at anybody unless they are close at hand. maybe they will come in handy on the ghosts, you know." "well, you don't know anything about the plains--i can see that, plain enough. if you think revolvers are going to do you, why, i am done with you." "then we have purchased everything we want, have we?" "i think so. be on hand on monday morning, because we shall be off before the sun gets an hour high." the boys drew a long breath when they heard this. if they had not talked so much about visiting their mine it is probable that both of them would have backed squarely out. chapter xx. waterspouts and blizzards. "hi! nellie; get on, there! strike a trot! we won't get to the mountains in seven years, at this gait." it was mr. banta who spoke, and he emphasized his remarks by making the whip he carried in his hand crack loudly. the old, white bell-mare pricked up her ears and slowly quickened her pace, closely followed by all the pack-mules and horses belonging to the train. "that old pack-mare knows where we are going as well as we do," said banta, squaring around and throwing his leg over the horn of his saddle so that he could face the two boys whom he was addressing. "she has been up here so often that she knows every foot of the way. if we get hard up for deer meat, all we have to do is to take her bell off, and then we can go twenty miles out on the prairie, and she will bring us back home again. you can't get lost if you are on her." "why do you take the bell off when you want to go hunting with the mare?" asked julian of mr. banta, who, by reason of his age and experience, acted as leader of the company. "does the noise of the bell frighten the game?" "that is one reason," replied banta; "and the other is, we don't want all the pack-mules and horses to follow us. wherever they hear the bell, they will go to it. if we were on the other side of a wide river, even though it was swimming-deep, and some of these mules don't like water any too well, and should sound that bell a few times, they would all come over. if anything should happen to that old bell-mare, and she should die, we'd send a man on with that bell, and the mules would follow him wherever he went." it was monday morning, and the sun was just rising. the cavalcade had been on its way for two hours, for they left the hotel, amid wishes for good luck from all who saw them go, at the first peep of day. they went directly past the hotel at which julian and jack had stopped to eat dinner when they first came there, and were now alone in the foothills which arose on all sides of them. there were at least a dozen miners in the company, and they had all set out for dutch flat in the hope of digging up a fortune before the winter's storms overtook them. julian and jack were there, dressed in rough miners' clothing, and the horse which bore their provisions and tools was with the others who were following the bell-mare. anybody could see at a glance that these boys were tenderfeet, and they did not attempt to deny it. every other miner had a heavy winchester slung at his back, while the only firearms the boys exhibited were smith & wesson revolvers, which they carried strapped to their waists. they did not look forward to the future with as brave hearts as most of the miners did. they could not get the idea out of their minds that the gold they wanted to find was protected by something which they did not want to see. the miners now and then cast curious looks at them, to see if they were not afraid of the prospect before them, but finally came to the conclusion that the boys were "going through with it." the miners were happy, and sang rude songs and cracked jokes with each other; but the boys were busy with their own thoughts, and took no part in what was going on around them. "and i don't blame them, either," said one miner, in a low voice, to his companion. "i wouldn't take any part in the singing if i were in their place. they are brave enough now, but wait until they have been up to that mine about two days; then we will see them at our camp, frightened to death." "banta has rather taken them under his care, judging by the way he keeps watch over them," said the other miner. "yes; he was made acquainted with them by some high man in denver, and so he keeps an eye on them. but he can't go up to their mine with them. more than that, those ghosts will not stop for him or anybody else." julian and jack were not accustomed to being in the saddle from daylight until dark, and the ride was long and wearisome to them. they stopped at noon to eat their lunch and to let their animals crop the grass for a few minutes; but their packs were never removed from them until they halted for the night at a place which showed that there had been a camp before. lean-to's were scattered around, partly unroofed by the storms of winter, and remnants of fires were to be seen; and banta said that no one had been there since he and his party made the camp last fall. "we made this camp while we were going down to the city," said he. "it was raining when we stopped here, and that accounts for the lean-to's. we had a waterspout that night, this little stream was filled twenty feet deep, and some of us began to look wild." "a waterspout?" queried jack. "what is that?" "why, i don't know that i can describe it so that you can understand it," answered banta, scratching his head. "it is caused by the large quantity of water that sometimes falls among the hills up-country, and when it all rushes into these ravines--well, you can imagine how it looks, but i cannot describe it. this stream has not much water in it now--you can step across it anywhere; but i have seen it bank full from rains in the up-country, while there was not a drop of it fell here. i remember that night. i was sound asleep in a lean-to. i had told the boys that before morning we would have to get farther up the bank or run the risk of having some of our things carried off, and about midnight i awoke with a feeling that there was something going on. you don't know anything about that, do you? well, you wait until you have acted as guide for two or three mule-trains, and then you'll know it. everything depends upon you to see that the train comes out all right. "i could not go to sleep again when once i woke up, and so i arose and went out. it was still raining heavily, but the brook didn't show much sign of it. i placed myself on the edge of the bank, and hardly had i got there before a long, creamy wave, which extended clear across this gully, crept with a hissing sound across the sand and rocks. following with equal speed, and about a hundred feet behind it, was another wave, an unbroken mass of water at least five feet in height. it was not rounded into a wave, as at sea or on the lakes, but rose sheer and straight, a perfect wall of water. i knew that in five minutes this little creek would be brim full, so i raised a yell and awoke everybody in camp. the men i had with me were all veterans, and there was no need that i should explain matters. they took just one look at the water, and then grabbed their things and made a rush for the high bank behind the lean-to's. after placing them where they would be safe, they came back and made a rush for the horses. pete, there, caught the bell-mare, and by dint of pulling and boosting we finally got them to that level spot you see up there." mr. banta pointed to the bank, which seemed almost as straight as the side of a house, and the boys looked on with perfect astonishment. "how in the world did you get the mules and horses up there?" inquired julian. "a man can do a heap of things when he is working for his life and for things that he can't afford to lose," said banta, with a laugh. "pete has a heap of strength in those arms of his, and when i get hold of a mule's tail and begin to twist it, he goes somewhere as soon as he can. we got them up easy enough, and there we stayed for two whole days, until the water had all passed away. we didn't lose so much as a pound of bacon. but if i had been asleep, like the rest of the fellows were, we would have had a time of it; somebody would have had to swim for his life, and the current ran like lightning, too." "i did not know you had to look out for water on the plains," remarked julian. "is there anything you don't stand in fear of out here? you see, we want to know it all." "well, a waterspout is one thing, and a blizzard is the next," said banta. "i mean a blizzard where the clouds send down chunks of ice at you as big as your fist. oh, you needn't laugh. look at that." banta stripped up his leggings, and showed the boys a long, ragged scar which he had received in one of the commotions of nature referred to. the wound must have been a dangerous one. "and the worst of it was, i did not have a doctor look at it for two weeks," banta went on. "you see, i was out alone, and making the best track i could for the fort. the sky had all along been hazy, and on this day i had to go across the twenty-mile desert, where there was not a willow-twig big enough for me to get under. when i was about half-way over it began to rain, and in less than an hour afterward the blizzard came a-ripping. my horse and mule were made so frantic by the pelting of the ice that i finally let them go; but before i released the horse i took my knife and cut the saddle and blankets off him. what did i do that for? because i was too cold to use my fingers. i settled down there on the prairie, put the saddle and blankets over my head, and waited for the storm to cease; but before i did that, there came a big bunch of ice and struck me on the leg. i never had anything hurt so bad in my life." "how long did you have to stay there?" asked jack. "i hear that some of these storms last two or three days." "this one lasted one day, and i was glad to see the ice quit dropping. i was thirty miles from the fort, and i'll bet i didn't do two miles of walking in all that distance. i left everything except my weapons and crawled all the way. this is the saddle, right here." "i should keep that for the good it had done," said julian. "your saddle probably saved your life." "it will stay with me while i live," said banta, casting an affectionate look upon the article in question. "now, boys, suppose you get ready and chop some wood and start the fire. i'll take the things off the animals and straighten up the lean-to. you boys don't know how to make a lean-to, do you? if you take a good look at this one, you will see how it is done." there was one satisfaction the boys had in listening to mr. banta's stories--they were true, every word of them. if any of the "boys" tried to make things different from what they were, banta always shut them up. that was the reason the boys thought so much of him, and anything he had to say in regard to working their mine was always listened to with the keenest interest. the change that a few experienced men made in that deserted camp in a short time was wonderful. every stroke of the axe counted for something, and every step the men made to and from the places they had chosen to make their beds seemed to count for something else; so that by the time julian and jack had cut wood enough to last them all night the lean-to's were covered with fresh boughs, those who did not choose to sleep under shelter had their beds made up under the protecting branches of trees, the animals were staked out, and two of the cooks were busy getting supper. it was all done without the least commotion, for each man knew what his duty was. "if a rain-storm was coming up you couldn't have made this camp quicker," said julian. "it beats the world how soon men can get ready for the night." "yes, but that comes from experience, you know," said banta. "do you know that i have been thinking of something? when we get up to dutch flat, and you get ready to go up to your mine, i believe i will go with you." "that's the best piece of news i have heard for a long time," declared julian, who was delighted beyond measure. "we don't ask you to go down in the mine, you understand, but if you will just stay there until we get things fixed you will confer a great favor upon us." "yes, i guess i had better see to your wants a little," said banta. "you are tenderfeet, you have never lived alone in the mountains, and perhaps i can tip you a wink now and then that will be of use to you. you will need the mine cleared away--it has all grown up to grass by this time--and you will need a windlass and a lean-to; and maybe i can be of assistance." "i know you can; and of great assistance, too. i tell you, i feel easier. i have often wondered how that mine looked, and how we were going to get it in shape to work it, but i don't worry about it now. we are much obliged to you for your offer." "oh, that's all right. i remember that i was a boy myself, and any such little help as i have offered you would have been a regular blessing to me. now let us go and see if supper is ready." supper was almost ready, and the neat manner in which it was served up, and the way it was cooked, told the boys that if the miners could always get such food as that, they could work their claims to the best possible advantage. "can we help you a little?" said julian to one of the cooks after the meal was over and the man began gathering up the dishes. "what a-doing?" asked the cook. "we want to help you wash the dishes," said julian. "why, bless you, that's no trouble. there is only one way you can help us, and that is by sitting by and looking on. i never yet saw a tenderfoot that didn't get in the way. you will have enough of it to do when you get up to that ghost-haunted mine of yours and have to cook your own meals. you had better take my advice," said the cook, in a lower tone, "and stay down on dutch flat with us. there are no spirits down there." "but it is ours, and i don't see why we can't work it," replied julian. "if there is anybody there, we will make him show himself." "you will see," said the cook, going to the camp-fire for a bucket of water. "the next time we see you, you will be all ready to go back to denver." the cook struck up a whistle as he began washing the dishes, and the boys, taking this as a gentle hint that he would rather be alone, walked off to another fire which had been kindled in the upper end of the camp. all the miners were gathered about there, and each one of them had a story to tell about some wonderful "find" which he had almost struck, and then ceased digging because he was discouraged by the way the gold "showed up." banta was there, and after relating three or four stories of his own, he began to stretch and yawn as though he were sleepy, and finally arose and went into his lean-to. the boys followed him, hoping he would say something more about going up to their mine with them; but he talked on other topics until he got into bed, and then he became silent. he had already decided what he would do when they reached dutch flat, and there the matter ended. chapter xxi. the camp at dutch flat. the boys slept as comfortably as if they had been at home in their boarding-house. it is true their blankets were rather hard, and their pillows were not as soft as they might have been, being simply their saddles with nothing but the horse-blankets over them, but they never knew a thing from the time they went to bed until they heard mr. banta's voice roaring out "catch up!" they found all in the camp busy. some were raking the embers of the fire together, others were getting ready to cook breakfast, but most of them were engaged in packing the animals. this last was a task that the boys always wanted to see, for the operation was so complicated that they did not think they could ever learn how to do it. the mules were blinded, in the first place, so that they could not kick when the heavy pack was thrown upon their backs, and the man on the near side, who seemed to "boss" the business, placed his foot against the mule's side and called lustily for the rope which the other fellow held in his hands. "you have more rope there, and i know it," was the way in which he began the conversation. "here you are," said his companion, and the rope was passed over the pack to where the other fellow was waiting to receive it. "come, let's have a little more rope," repeated the first man. "there's oceans of it here, and you can have all you want of it." "are you all fast there?" "i will be in a minute. here's your end." "all fast here. now let us see him kick it off," said the first man; whereupon a dexterous twist tore off the blinders, and the mule was free to go and join his companions. it was all done in two minutes, and the pack was safe to last until the train halted for the night. "come on, boys," said mr. banta, turning to julian and jack, who stood, with towel and soap in their hands, watching the operation of packing the animals. "you must get around livelier than this. when you get to digging out gold by the bucketful you won't wait to wash your faces or get breakfast; you'll be down in that mine before the sun is up." "are we not going to eat at all?" asked julian, who was amused at the man's way of telling them that they would be so anxious to find the gold that they would not spend time to cook their meals. "yes, i suppose you will have to eat sometimes, but you will hold your grub in one hand and use the spade with the other." the miners were in a hurry, now, to resume their journey, and it took them about half as long to eat breakfast as they devoted to their supper. five minutes was about the time they applied themselves to their meal, and when mr. banta arose from his seat on the ground and drew his hairy hand across his mouth to brush away the drops of coffee that clung to his mustache the miners all arose, too. in less time than it takes to tell it they were all in their saddles and under way, and when they stopped again for the night they were in a camp which they had occupied on the way down to denver. mr. banta was as talkative as usual, and when he had got his pipe going, and had taken three or four puffs to make sure that it was well started, he began his round of stories, which the boys were always ready to listen to. they were all of a week in making their journey; and about three o'clock in the afternoon, when the old bell-mare struck a trot, mr. banta turned to jack and gave him a poke with his finger. "we are almost home," said he, joyfully. "i don't suppose this will seem like home to you, but it does to me, for it is the only home i have." "do you never get tired of this business?" asked julian. "i should think you would like to go back to the states, where you belong." "how do you know that i belong in the states?" asked mr. banta. "i judge by your way of talking, as much as anything. you were not raised in this country--i am certain of it." "well, i will go back when i get enough." "how much do you call enough?" "half a million dollars." julian and jack opened their eyes and looked surprised. "i've got three hundred thousand now in the bank at denver." "then you are not so badly off, after all. i think i could live on the interest of that much." "there are some objections to my going back," said mr. banta, looking off toward the distant mountains. "when i get back there i will have to settle down to a humdrum life, and there won't be nothing at all to get up a little excitement. here the thing is different. we live here, taking gold in paying quantities all the time, and the first thing we know we hear of some new placers, which have been found somewhere else, that make a man rich as fast as he can stick a shovel into the ground. of course we pack up and go off to find the new placers. we have a muss or two with some outlaws, and when we get rid of them we go to work and find out that there is nothing there." "then you wish yourself back at dutch flat," said jack. "that's the way it happens, oftentimes. it is the excitement that keeps us a-going. now, in the states i would not have any of that." "did you find many outlaws in this country when you first came here?" "they were thicker than flies around a molasses barrel," answered mr. banta. "but we have got rid of them all, and your life is just as safe here as it would be in st. louis. whenever we go to a new country, the outlaws are the first things we look out for. there's the camp, all right and tight, just as we left it." the camp covered a good stretch of ground; but then mr. banta had not told them that there were fully two hundred miners in it, and of course such a multitude of men, where nobody owned the land, would spread over a good deal of territory. the boys had a fine opportunity to take a survey of the first mining camp they had ever seen. they were surprised at the neatness of it. things in the shape of old bottles or tin cans were not scattered around where somebody would stumble over them, but such articles were thrown into a ravine behind the camp, out of sight. the most of the miners had erected little log cabins to protect them from the storms of winter, and the others had comfortable lean-to's which served the same purpose. most of the men were busy with their mines, but there were three or four of them loafing about, and when the noise made by the pack-animals saluted their ears they turned to see who was coming. one glance was enough; they pulled off their hats and waved them by way of welcome. "well, if here ain't banta!" they all exclaimed in a breath. "did you drop your roll down at denver and come back to get more?" "nary a time," replied mr. banta, emphatically. "we got just what we could eat and drink, and that is all the money we spent. who has passed in his checks since i have been gone?" (this was a miner's way of asking "who's dead?") "none of the boys who are here shovelling for gold," said the man, coming forward to shake hands with mr. banta, "but those four outlaws who came up here from denver to deal out some whiskey and start a faro bank could tell a different story, if they were here." "they did not get a foothold here, did they?" asked mr. banta. "i'll bet they didn't. we hardly gave them time to unpack their goods before we jumped on them and spilled their traps on the ground. one of the bums grew huffy at that, and he took a wounded arm down for the doctor to bandage up." "have any of the boys made their pile?" "some have, and some have not. tommy moran has struck a vein with sixty thousand dollars in it, and has been loafing around for the last two months, doing nothing. he went out to-day to see if he can get some more. he wants to go home, now." "i should not think he would like to travel between here and denver with that amount of money about him," said mr. banta. "well, there will be plenty more to join in with him when he is ready to go. the discouraged ones number a heap. the sign looks right, but the paying-stuff don't pan out first-rate. some are going home, and the rest are going off to hunt up new diggings." having briefly got at the news of what had been going on at the camp while he had been away, mr. banta led the way toward his own log cabin, which was fastened up just as it was when he left it. there was one bed, made of rough boards, an abundance of dishes, a fireplace, and one or two chairs, and that was all the furniture to be seen. but mr. banta thought his cabin just about right. "it don't matter how hard it rains or blows, this little house has sheltered me for a year, and has got to do so until my vein gives out. now, boys, catch the pack-animals and turn them over to me, and i'll soon make things look as though somebody lived here." julian and jack managed to secure the pack-animals by catching the bell-mare and leading her up to the door of the cabin, and it was not long before the bundles which they had borne for two hundred miles were placed on the ground, and mr. banta was engaged in carrying the things into his house. he unpacked all the bundles except the one that belonged to the boys, and that would not be opened until they reached their mine. "are you fellows decided on that matter yet?" he asked. "had you not better stay with us here on the flat? we will promise you that no spooks will trouble you here." "the more you talk about that mine, the more determined we are to see what is in it," answered jack. "you need not think you can scare us out in that way." "i like your pluck, and if you are determined to go there, why, i am going with you. it is only five miles, and we can easily ride over there in two hours." "where is it you are going?" asked one of the miners, who stood in the doorway unobserved. "you know that haunted mine, don't you?" "great moses! you ain't a-going up there!" said the man; and as he spoke he came into the cabin and sat down in one of the chairs. "the boys are going there, and i thought i would go with them to see them started," said mr. banta. "the mine is all grown up to grass, because there hasn't been anybody up there for some time now." "no, i should say not!" exclaimed the miner, as soon as he had recovered from his astonishment. "are the boys plumb crazy? i tell you, lads, when you see----" "tony, shut your mouth!" cried mr. banta. "the boys won't see anything, but they'll hear something that will take all the sand out of them. i have talked to the boys many times about that mine, during the past winter, but they have their heads set on it, and i don't see any other way than to let them go." "well, if we hear anything, there must be something that makes the noise," asserted julian. "it will be something that you can't see," said the miner, shaking his head and looking thoughtfully at the ground. "two fellows went up there since i knew the mine, and when they got down to the bottom of the pit they were so frightened that they came down here as fast as they could and struck out for denver. they were both big, stout men, and were armed with winchesters and revolvers. if they had seen what made the noise, they would have been apt to shoot--wouldn't they?" "i should think they would," answered jack. "will you go down into the mine when you get there?" asked the man, turning to mr. banta. "not much, as anybody knows of," declared the latter, shivering all over. "the ghosts don't bother anybody working at the top, so i shall get along all right." "well, that puts a different look on the matter," remarked tony, evidently much relieved. "then i shall expect to see you back in two or three days." "yes, i'll be back by that time," asserted mr. banta; and he added to himself, "if anything happens to the boys after that, why, i shall be miles away." this was the first time that mr. banta had anything to say to the miners about what he intended to do when he reached dutch flat, but it was all over the camp in less than five minutes. the miner went slowly and thoughtfully out of the cabin, as if he did not know whether it was best to agree to his leader's proposition or not, and it was not long before the men who were busy with things about their houses came up in a body to inquire into the matter. they were filled with astonishment; and, furthermore, they were anxious to see the boys who were going to take their lives in their hands and go up to work that pit, from which strong men had been frightened away. and it was so when six o'clock arrived, and the men all came in to get their supper. some of the miners declared that it was not to be thought of, and some said that if mr. banta was bound to go, they would go with him to see that he came out all right. "you see what the miners think of this business," remarked mr. banta, as he began preparations for their supper. "they think you are out of your heads." "well, you will not see anything of it, because you won't go into the mine," said jack. "you are mighty right i won't go into the mine," declared mr. banta, looking furtively about the cabin, as if he expected to see something advancing upon him. "we will go up there and put the pit all right, and then you will have to work it." "i wonder if there is any gold up there?" asked julian. "there is more gold up there than you can see in dutch flat in a year's steady digging. the men who have been down in the mine say so." "well, when we come back you may expect to see us rich," said julian, compressing his lips. "and you may be sure that the spooks won't drive us out, either." this was all that was said on the subject--that is, by those in the cabin; but when the men had eaten their suppers they all crowded into it, and the stories that would have been told of ghosts interfering with miners who tried to take away their precious belongings would have tested the boys' courage; but mr. banta did not allow them to go on. "as i told these boys down at denver, i am telling them nothing but facts in regard to this mine, and i want you to do the same," said he. "don't draw on your imagination at all." before the miners returned to their cabins, it came about that the boys were going to have a small army go with them on the morrow. at least a dozen miners declaimed their readiness to go with banta "and see him through," and banta did not object. "the more, the merrier," said he, when they had been left alone and he turned down his bedclothes. "now, you boys can spread your blankets on the floor in front of the fire and go to sleep; i will have you up at the first peep of day." chapter xxii. the haunted mine. mr. banta kept his word the next morning, for the day was just beginning to break when he rolled out on the floor and gave the order to "catch up." all the miners were astir soon afterward; but there was no joking or laughing going on in the camp, as there usually was. the men went silently about their work of cooking breakfast, or sat smoking their pipes in front of the fire, for their thoughts were busy with that mine up in the mountains. even the talkative mr. banta had nothing to say. he seemed to have run short of stories, all on a sudden. "say, julian," remarked jack, as they stood by the stream washing their hands and faces, "why don't banta talk to us the way he usually does? i'll bet he is thinking about what is going to happen to us." "i was just thinking that way myself," replied julian. "but we have gone too far to back out; we have got to go on." "of course we have. i wouldn't back out now for anything." breakfast was cooked and eaten, and the same silence prevailed; and that same silence did more to shake the boys' courage than all that had been said against their mine. mr. banta answered their questions in monosyllables, and when he had satisfied his appetite he put the dishes away unwashed and went out to catch his horse. "take hold of the bell-mare and lead her up the path," said he, addressing the miners who were getting ready to accompany him. "we have to take her and all the stock along, or the boys' pack-horse won't budge an inch." the miners were talkative enough now, when they saw the boys getting ready to start on their journey. they crowded around them, and each one shook them by the hand. "good-bye! kids," said one. "the next time i see you, you will be so badly scared that you won't be able to tell what happened to you up there; or, i sha'n't see you at all. i wish you all the good luck in the world, but i know that will not amount to anything." "do you think they can whip all these men?" asked jack, running his eye over the miners, who were getting on their horses and making ready to go with mr. banta. "that ain't the thing; you won't see anybody; but the sounds you will hear when you get fairly on the floor of that pit you will never want to hear again." the bell-mare was caught and led along the path, the stock all followed after her, and the miners brought up the rear. then mr. banta opened his mouth and proceeded to talk all the way to the mine. "you boys may come along here pretty sudden, some time, and if you don't find dutch flat you will stray off into the mountains and get lost; so i will just blaze the way for you." as mr. banta spoke he seized a handful of the branches of an evergreen and pulled them partly off, so that they just hung by the bark. "now, whenever you see that, you are on the right road," said he; "but if you don't see it, you had better turn back and search for a blaze until you find it." for once the boys did not pay much attention to mr. banta's stories, for their minds were fully occupied with their own thoughts. at last--it did not seem to them that they had ridden a mile--the man with the bell-mare sung out "here we are!" and led the way into a smooth, grassy plain which seemed out of place there in the mountains, and to which there did not appear to be any outlet except the one by which they had entered it. it was surrounded by the loftiest peaks on all sides except one, and there the plain was bounded by a precipitous ravine which was so deep that the bottom could not be seen from the top. near the middle of the plain was a little brook, placed most conveniently for "washing" their finds, which bubbled merrily over the stones before it plunged into the abyss before spoken of; and close on the other side were the ruins of the mine--a strong windlass, which had hauled up fifty thousand dollars' worth of gold--and the rope that was fast to the bucket, or rather to the fragments of it, for the bucket itself had fallen to pieces from the effects of the weather, and lay in ruins on the ground. still farther away stood the lean-to--firmly built, of course, but not strong enough to stand the fury of the winter's storms. taken altogether, a miner could not have selected a more fitting camp, or one better calculated to banish all symptoms of homesickness while they were pulling out the gold from the earth below. mr. banta kept a close watch on the boys, and saw the pleased expression that came upon their faces. "i know it looks splendid now, but it will not look so before long," said he, with a knowing shake of his head. "now, boys, let us get to work. we want to get through here, so as to get back to dutch flat to-night." the miners unsaddled their horses, grabbed their axes and spades, and set in manfully to make the "mine all right," so that the boys could go to work at it without delay. some repaired the lean-to, others laboriously cleared the mouth of the pit from the grass and brush which had accumulated there, and still another brought from the boys' pack the new bucket and rope which they expected would last just about long enough for one of them to go down and up--and they were positive that the boy would come up a great deal faster than he went down. the boys did not find anything to do but to get dinner, and they were rather proud of the skill with which the viands were served up. "i didn't know you boys could do cooking like this," said mr. banta, as he seated himself on the grass and looked over the table--a blanket spread out to serve in lieu of a cloth. "if the cooking was all you had to contend with you could live like fighting-cocks as long as you stay here." "we had hardly enough money to pay for a housekeeper while we were in st. louis, and so we had all this work to do ourselves," said julian. "you must give jack the credit for this. we kept bachelor's hall while we were at home. he cooked, and i swept out and helped wash the dishes." "now, boys," said mr. banta, after he had finished his pipe, "i guess we have julian and jack all ready to go to work whenever they feel like it. look over your work, and see if there is anything you have missed, and then we will go back to dutch flat. i tell you, i hate to leave you up here in this sort of a way." "you need not be," said jack. "if you will come up here in two weeks from now, we will have some gold-dust to show you." mr. banta did not say anything discouraging, for he had already exhausted all his powers in that direction. he inspected all the work, to satisfy himself that it was properly done, and then gave the order to "catch up." "of course your stock will go back with us," said he. "you could not keep them here away from that old bell-mare." "that was what we expected," said julian; "we may be so badly frightened that we won't think to bring our weapons with us." "i am not afraid to say that i'll risk that," said mr. banta, leaning over to shake julian by the hand. he told himself that the miner's heart was in that shake. it was very different from the clasp of the hand that he gave him when he was first introduced to him in denver. "good-bye, julian. that is all i can say to you." the other miners rode up to take leave of them, and all looked very solemn. some had a parting word to say, and some shook them by the hand without saying anything, the man with the bell-mare led off, the stock followed, the miners came last, and in two minutes more they were alone. julian sat down on the grass feeling lonely indeed, but jack jumped up and began to bestir himself. "come on, boy--none of that!" said he, beginning to gather their few dishes together. "we must get these things out of the way and i must get ready to go into that mine." "are you going down to-day?" asked julian. the time had come at last. for long months julian had talked about going down into that mine--not boastingly, to be sure, but he had said enough to make people believe he would not back out, and now the opportunity was presented for him to do as he had agreed. "why can't you let it go until to-morrow?" "because i am just ready to go now," said jack; and there was a determined look on his face which julian had never seen there before. "i am fighting mad, now, and to-morrow i may be as down-hearted as you are." "do you think i am afraid?" exclaimed julian, springing up and beginning to assist his chum. "i'll show you that i am not! if you want to go first you can go, and i will go the next time." julian went to work with a determination to get the dishes done as soon as possible. when they had got them all stowed away where they belonged, jack stopped to roll up his sleeves, examined his revolver, which he strapped to his waist, lighted his lamp, and led the way toward the mine without saying a word. julian gave a hasty glance at him and saw that his face was as calm as it usually was, and he began to take courage from that. "it looks dark down there, does it not?" asked julian, leaning on the windlass and peering down into the pit. "it is dark enough now, but it will be lighter when i get down there with my lamp," replied jack. "now, julian, are you sure you can hold me up?" "of course i can. if i can't, we had better get another man up here." jack stopped just long enough to shake julian by the hand, then seized the rope and stepped into the bucket, his partner holding the windlass so that he would not descend too rapidly. slowly he went down, until finally the bucket stopped. "all right!" called jack; and his voice sounded strangely, coming up from thirty feet underground. "this hole is bigger down here than it is at the top. somebody has cut away on each side to try to find gold," and at last he started off toward the gully. julian leaned over the pit and followed his companion's movements by the light of his lamp. he saw him as he went around to the "false diggings," and finally his lamp disappeared from view as jack went down toward the ravine. his face was very pale; he listened intently, but could not hear that rustling of feet nor that moaning sound that had frightened two men away from there, and his courage all came back to him. "i wonder what those men were thinking of when they started that story about this mine being haunted?" julian muttered to himself. "there is nothing here to trouble anyone." hardly had this thought been framed in julian's mind than there came a most startling and thrilling interruption. the boy was leaning over the pit with his head turned on one side, so that he could hear any unusual sounds going on below, and all of a sudden he sprang to his feet and acted very much as though he wanted to go below to jack's assistance. he distinctly heard that rustling of feet over the rocks below, some of them made by jack as he ran toward the bucket, and the other by something else that made julian's heart stand still. and with that sound came others--moans or shrieks, julian couldn't tell which--until they seemed to fill the pit all around him. this lasted but a few seconds, and then came the report of jack's revolver and the sound was caught up by the echoes until it appeared to julian that a whole battery of artillery had been fired at once. "there!" said julian, greatly relieved to know that jack had seen something to shoot at. "i guess one ghost has got his death at last!" a moment afterward came jack's frantic pull on the rope, accompanied by his frightened voice-- "pull me up, julian! for goodness' sake, pull me up!" julian jumped for the windlass and put every atom of his strength into it. at first the resistance of the bucket was just about what it would have been if jack had stepped into it; but suddenly the resistance ceased, the crank was jerked out of his hand, and julian was thrown headlong to the ground. "what was that?" exclaimed the boy, regaining his feet as quickly as he could. "jack, did you fall out of the bucket?" there was no response to his question. he leaned over and looked into the pit; but jack's light had gone out, and everything was silent below. the rustling of feet had ceased, the moans had died away, and the mine was as still as the grave. "something has happened to jack!" exclaimed julian, running to his lean-to after his revolver and lamp. "i am going down there to see about it if all the ghosts in the rocky mountains should be there to stop me!" julian worked frantically, and in less time than it takes to tell it he was ready to go down to jack's help. he hastily unwound the rope until all the length was out except the extreme end, which was fastened to the windlass by a couple of staples, and swung himself into the mine. he went down much faster than jack did, and when he reached the bottom he let go his hold on the rope, and, holding his revolver in readiness for a shot, he turned slowly about, as if he were expecting that whatever had frightened jack would be upon him before he could think twice. but nothing came. in whatever direction he turned his light, everything seemed concealed by egyptian darkness, and finally he resolved to let the ghosts go and turned his attention to jack. there he lay, close to julian's feet, his lamp extinguished and his revolver at a little distance from him; and it was plain that he was either frightened or dead, for julian had never seen so white a face before. his own face, if he only knew it, was utterly devoid of color, and his hands trembled so that he could scarcely use them. "i would like to know what it was that could make jack faint away in this fashion," muttered julian, first looking all around to make sure that nothing had come in sight before he laid his revolver down. "how to get him into that bucket, and the bail over him, is what bothers me just now; but he must go in, and get out of this." jack was a heavyweight, and if any boy who reads this has ever been called upon to handle a playmate who remained limp and motionless in his arms he will know what a task julian had to put him into the bucket. and remember that he must go inside the bail, otherwise he could not pull him out; and the bail would not stay up without somebody to hold it. but julian worked away as only a boy can under such circumstances, and was just getting him in shape, so that in a moment more he would have had him in, when he noticed that one of his hands was wet. he stopped for a moment to look at it, and at the sight of it he seemed ready to sit down beside jack and faint away, too. "it is blood!" murmured julian. "my goodness! you must get out of here, and be quick about it! what was that?" julian straightened up again, but he had his revolver in his hand. that moaning sound was repeated again, but the boy could not tell where it came from. it was not so great in volume as the first one that had saluted jack, but it was a complaining kind of a sound, such as one might utter who was being deserted by the only friend he had upon earth. julian stood there with his revolver in his hand, but, aside from the sound which rung in his ears for many a night afterward, his eyes could not reveal a single thing for him to shoot at. julian thought now that he had got at the bottom of the mystery. hastily slipping his revolver into his belt, he turned his attention to jack, and in a few moments had him ready to hoist to the top. then he seized the rope, and, climbing it hand over hand, he reached the surface, when, throwing off his hat and revolver, he turned around to haul up jack. chapter xxiii. haunted no longer. this time julian laid out all his strength on the windlass; but the bucket resisted, and he knew that jack's weight was safely within it. presently his head and shoulders appeared above the pit, whereupon julian slipped a bucket over the crank, and in a few minutes jack was safe above ground. to tumble him out of the bucket and dash into his face some water that he dipped up from the stream with his hat occupied but little of his time, and almost at once jack opened his eyes and looked about him. "well, sir, you saw them, did you not?" asked julian, with a smile. "i tell you, you wouldn't have smiled if you had been in my place," replied jack. "that thing looked awful as it came at me." "what thing?" "there is some animal down there who is not going to let us work this mine if he can help it," said jack, feeling around with his right hand to examine his shoulder. "as i stepped into the bucket with one foot he jumped--my goodness! i don't like to say how far it was; but i saw his eyes shining green in the darkness, and just as i pulled on him he sprang at me, dug his claws into my shoulder, and pulled me out. i thought i was gone up, sure; then all was blank to me. did you see him?" "i did not see anything," said julian. "when the bucket came up easily, as though you were not in it, i went down after you; but i did not see a thing. what was it?" "you tell. it was some kind of an animal that i never saw before. and didn't he make a howling just before he jumped! i wish you would look at my shoulder; it smarts awfully." jack could handle himself well enough now, and it was no trouble for him to roll over on his face and give julian a chance to view his wounds. his shirt was torn completely off, and underneath were four scratches which went the whole length of his back and spent themselves on the thick waistband of his trousers, which they had ripped in two. very little blood came from the wounds, and julian assured him that they were not deep enough to cause him any inconvenience. "you must have killed him before he got to you," said julian. "a bear could not jump that far, and if it were a panther--why, you have done something to be proud of. you have done it anyway, for you have cleared up something that scared those two men away from here." "do you really think so?" asked jack. "i know it." "but think of the howling he made! it seemed as if the pit was full of bears and panthers, and i didn't know which way to look. have you got all the blood off? then let us go down there and see about it. we can't work our mine with those fellows in there. if i killed him at once, how did he come to jump so far? and then he took himself off after clawing me; that is something i don't understand." "you have to shoot one of those fellows through the brain or in the spine, in order to throw him in his tracks. did you have a fair chance at his heart?" "i don't know. i simply shot a little ways below that green spot, in the darkness, and the next thing i knew i didn't know anything." "because, if you had a fair chance at his heart, a wild animal will sometimes run a good way before he drops. he is down there somewhere, and i'll bet you will find him. but, jack, there are others that we must get rid of before we own this mine." "what do you mean by that? i was in hopes i had shot the last one of them." "well, you did not. while i was working over you i heard those moans repeated. that proves others are there--don't it?" "i am going down to clear it up," persisted jack, who had got upon his feet by this time and started toward the lean-to. "hold on till i get cartridges to put in this revolver. i used to grumble at you because you spent so much money in denver, last winter, in shooting at a mark, but i begin to believe you were right and that i was wrong. if i had been as awkward with this shooting-iron as i used to be, you would have got the whole of that hundred thousand dollars to spend for yourself." "don't speak about it!" exclaimed julian, who wondered what he should do if jack was taken away from him. "i need somebody to grumble at me, and you will do as well as anybody. are you not going to put on another shirt?" "not much, i ain't. maybe i did not kill that animal, whatever it was and he will come for me again. now, you hold up and let me go," said jack, when he saw julian place one foot in the bucket." "i am a better shot than you are, and if i pull on one of those ghosts you will see him drop," returned julian, drawing the other foot in. "take hold of the windlass and let me down easy. if i halloo, you must lose no time in hauling me up." jack was obliged to submit to this arrangement, and he carefully lowered julian out of sight. when the bucket stopped he seized the rope, and in a moment more stood beside him. "i am glad it is animals that are interfering with us, for i am not at all afraid of them," declared jack. "now, where is that other sound you heard?" the question had hardly been formed on jack's lips when that sound came to their ears--not faint and far off, as was the one that caused julian to handle his revolver, but louder and clearer, as though the animal that made it was close upon them. sometimes they thought it was in front, and they held their revolvers ready to shoot at a moment's warning, and then, again, it sounded behind them; and in a second more it appeared as if the rocks on each side of them concealed the enemy that was uttering those startling sounds. "it is the echo--that's what it is," said julian. "there is only one animal in here, and we can't shoot him any too quick." julian, aided by his lamp, led the way cautiously along the subterranean passage, which would have been level but for the carelessness or haste of the men who had worked the pit before them, peering into every little cavity he saw, until at last he stopped suddenly and pointed his revolver at something that lay upon the floor. "what is it, julian?" whispered jack, pressing eagerly to his side. "well, sir, you have done it now," answered julian, bending over and examining the animal as well as he could by the light of his lamp. "this is the thing that frightened the other two men away." "what is it?" repeated jack. "a panther?" "no, sir; this animal will make two of the biggest panthers you ever saw. it is a lion!" "in america?" said jack, in astonishment. "it is what the miners call them, anyway. when we get it into the bucket i will let you have the crank, and we will see if it does not weigh almost as much as you do. this animal is a mother, and her babies are crying for her." jack was surprised when he saw what a monster animal his lucky shot had put out of the way, for he did not lay any claim to his skill as a marksman in making that shot. he must have shot her plumb through the heart, or else she would not have died so quickly. she looked as big as a yearling, marked for all the world like the panthers he had seen in the shows which he had attended; but it was her size more than anything else which impressed him. it was wonderful, too, what a change the sight of this animal made in jack. his courage all came back to him, and after taking a hasty glance at his trophy he took the lead and pressed on toward the farther end of the passage. every few feet he found what the miners called "false diggings"--that is, places that they had dug, either on the right-hand side or the left, to see if the vein they were following turned that way. in one of these "false diggings" jack stopped and pointed silently before him. julian looked over jack's shoulder, and saw that the miner had dug through the embankment there and into a cave which extended through into the gulch--the boys could see that by the little streaks of light which came in at the other end. on a slight shelf which formed one side of the passageway some leaves had been gathered, and in this bed were two cubs about the size of full-grown cats, while a third had crawled out and was trying, in his clumsy way, to follow his mother into the mine. the little thing was wild, and set up a furious spitting as the boys approached. "these things account for the noise you heard," remarked jack, picking up the cub and beating its head against the floor. "what made you do that, jack?" exclaimed julian. "we ought to save the young ones alive." "well, suppose we do; what will we raise them on? it is true that we might tell the milkman to leave us an extra quart or two to feed them on, for such little things can't eat bacon and hard-tack. now, after we get through--" "by gracious, jack--look out!" exclaimed julian, suddenly. "the old man is coming home to see what's the matter with his young ones!" jack dropped the cub he had picked up, and which he was about to serve as he had the first, and, looking toward the farther end of the passageway, saw that the light was shut off by the head and shoulders of another monstrous lion that had stopped when he discovered the boys. in an instant two revolvers were aimed at the white spot on his chest. "be sure you make as good a shot as you did before," whispered julian, whose face was as pale as jack's was when he pulled him out of the pit. "it's a matter of life and death with us." the revolvers cracked in quick succession, raising an echo that almost deafened them. without a moment's delay they fired again, then threw themselves prone upon the floor of the cave, for they saw the lion coming. he had evidently got all ready for a spring, and when the first two bullets struck him he made it, jumping over them and landing in the pit beyond. the moment he touched the ground two more balls went into him, and then the boys jumped to their feet; for they did not want the lion to spring upon them while lying down. but the animal made no effort to recover his feet; he was too badly hurt for that. he struggled frantically, springing from the ground as high as the boys' heads, and his motions were so quick and rapid that there was no chance to shoot him again; but this lasted only for a few seconds. his struggles grew weaker, and he soon lay upon the floor, stone dead. "there, sir," said julian, who was the first to speak; "this is a haunted mine no longer. our little -caliber revolvers did as good work as banta would have done with his winchester." "whew! i am glad it is all over, and that we were not frightened out of coming here. i don't believe in ghosts, anyway." "how do you account for that man in the mine up the country who always gets farther and farther away every time anybody tries to touch him?" asked julian. "i believe that story originated in the minds of some miners who were afraid to go there. and as for their shooting at him, i don't take any stock in that, either. now, i will finish what i was going to say when the old gentleman came in and interrupted me. after i have killed these cubs, we will go to work and fill this cave so full of the rocks which some of the miners have left scattered about that there won't be a chance for any other animal to make a commotion in this mine." the work of dispatching the cubs was very soon accomplished, and then the boys wanted to get the lions above ground, so that they could see how they looked. but when they undertook to lift the "old gentleman," to carry him to the bucket, they found they had more than they could do; so they each took hold of a hind leg and dragged him to the shaft. when they came to put him in, they saw there was not room enough for the cubs, for the bucket would not hold any more. "i'll go up and haul the old fellow out," said jack. "i tell you, he is big enough to scare anybody--is he not?" "yes," answered julian, with a laugh; "and if we had been frightened away, and somebody else had found out that they were lions, and not unearthly spirits, it would have been all over denver inside of a month." jack, who said he thought that was so, seized the rope and began working his way toward the top. then the bucket began to move, and presently julian saw it go out over the top. in a few minutes jack came down again, and they got the mother of the family ready to be hoisted up. julian went up this time, tumbled the lion out beside his mate, and let down the bucket for the dead cubs and jack, who, when he stepped out, found julian with his hat off and drawing his shirt-sleeves across his forehead. "i tell you, jack, if the dirt you send up weighs as much as these ghosts did, the one who pulls it out will have the hardest part of the work," said julian. "now let us sit down and take a good look at them." the longer the boys looked, the larger seemed to grow the animals that had created so great an uproar in the country for miles around. they regretted they had not brought a tape-line with them, that they might take measurements; but they came to one conclusion--if they found an animal like either of those in the mountains, they would give it a wide berth. they had read of encounters with them by men, and during their stay in denver had listened to some thrilling stories, told by miners, of their fierceness, and they decided that those men had more pluck than they had. "let us take the skins off, and by that time it will be night," said julian. "we can fill up the hole to-morrow." "i don't know how to go to work at it--do you?" asked jack, taking off his hat and scratching his head. "i never did such a piece of business in my life." "we are not going to take them off with the intention of selling them; we are going to show them to the miners. if we tell them our story without anything to show for it, they will think we are trying to shoot with a long bow. if we make a few holes in the skins by a slip of our knives, who cares?" the boys went to work on the cubs first, one holding the hind legs and the other doing the skinning, and they got along so well with them that they went to work on the big ones with more confidence. by the time it grew dark the skins were removed, and the carcasses were dragged away and thrown into the ravine. then the boys began supper with light hearts. the mystery of the haunted mine had been unearthed, and julian and jack were ready to dig up the treasure--that is, if there was any there waiting for them. chapter xxiv. "that is gold." "jack, come up here; i have something to show you." "what is it? have you made yourself rich by washing out the last bucket of earth i sent up?" "i have something, and it looks like gold. wait until i haul this bucket up, and then i'll send it down for you." this conversation took place between julian and his chum on the third morning after their arrival at the mine. the hole that led into the cave which the lions had made their habitation had been filled up so tight that even a ground-squirrel would have found it a hard task to work his way through; all the little rocks had been cleared away from the floor of the pit, making it an easy matter for them to carry the earth in a basket to the bottom of the shaft, and the digging had been going on for two days without any signs of "color" rewarding their anxious gaze. the buckets of dirt, as fast as they were sent up, were washed in the brook by the aid of a "cradle" which the boys had brought with them, but their most persistent "rocking" failed to leave a sediment behind. all the dirt went out with the water, and the cradle was as clean when they got through rocking it as it was before they began. "i believe the fellow who wrote that letter must have taken all the gold in the mine," remarked julian, one night, after they had spent a hard day's work at the pit. "fifty thousand dollars! that's a heap of money to take out of one hole in the ground." "i think so myself," replied jack; "but we will keep it up until our provisions are gone, and then we will go back to dutch flat." but on this particular day julian, who was washing the dirt at the head of the shaft, thought he saw some settlings in the bottom of his cradle, and forthwith began to handle it a little more carefully. the longer he rocked the more the sediment grew, until at last he had a spoonful, which he gathered up and then approached the mouth of the pit. "if you have any gold to show me i'll come up before the bucket does," declared jack; "the bucket can wait." "i have enough here to buy another block of houses," exclaimed julian, as jack's head and shoulders appeared. "what do you think of that?" "is it gold or not?" asked jack, who was inclined to be suspicious. "maybe it is some of that iron that mr. banta told us about." "that is just what i was afraid of," said julian; "but i reckon iron pyrites comes in lumps, don't it? if it does, this is gold, sure enough." the boys did not know what to make of it, and they finally decided that they would put it away until mr. banta came up to see how they were getting along, which he had agreed to do at the end of two weeks. the boys spoke of their "find" as iron pyrites, for they did not like to think they would be lucky enough to dig gold out of the ground, and this was not the only spoonful of dust that went into their bag. the bag grew in size as the days wore on, and finally, at the end of two weeks, it was almost full. "i tell you, jack, i don't like to show this to mr. banta," declared julian, holding up the bag, and looking ruefully at it. "perhaps we have done all our best digging all for nothing." "well, it can't be helped," was jack's reply. "they were inexperienced when they first came out here, and there was nobody to tell them whether they had iron pyrites or gold. but we have done one thing that he can't laugh at--we have worked the haunted mine." two weeks had never passed so slowly to the boys before. they worked early and late, but they found time now and then to glance toward the entrance of the valley, to see if mr. banta was approaching. all this while the bag grew heavier and fuller, until julian declared that it would not hold another spoonful. "then we must tie it up tight and hide it somewhere," said jack. "what is the use of hiding it?" asked julian. "nobody knows that we have been so successful in our haunted mine." "no matter; such things have happened, and we want to be on the safe side. we must hide it a little way from the lean-to, for there is the first place anybody will look for it." julian readily gave in, although he could not see any necessity for it, took a spade, and went with jack to what he considered to be a good hiding-place. a hole was dug, the bag put in, some leaves were scattered over the spot, and then jack drew a long breath of relief. "one would think we are surrounded by robbers," said julian. "who do you suppose is going to steal it?" "i don't know; but i have never had so much money, or what is equivalent to money, in my charge before, and, as i said before, i think it best to be on the safe side." "our two weeks have passed, and mr. banta ought to be here to-morrow," observed julian, leading the way back to the lean-to. "i expect he will look for us to be all chawed up." the very next day mr. banta appeared. the boys had found an extra "find" that morning. julian was rocking the cradle back and forth, and jack was leaning over his shoulder to see what gold there was in it, when they heard the sound of horses' hoofs on the rocks, and looked up to find the miner and his partner, pete, standing in the entrance to the valley. "now we will soon have this thing cleared up," exclaimed julian, joyfully. "mr. banta, you don't know how glad we are to see you again!" mr. banta did not say anything in reply. he and his partner rode slowly toward them, looking all around, as if they expected to discover something. "is it the ghosts you are looking for?" asked jack. "come along, and we will show them to you." "boys," stammered mr. banta, as if there was something about the matter that looked strange enough to him, "you are still on top of the ground. put it there." the boys readily complied, and they thought, by the squeeze the miner gave their hands, that he was very much surprised to see them alive and well, and working their mine as if such things as ghosts had never been heard of. "did you see them?" he continued. "you are right, we did," answered julian. "jack, pull off your shirt. he has some marks that he will carry to his grave." jack did not much like the idea of disrobing in the presence of company, but he divested himself of his shirt and turned his back to the miners. on his shoulder were four big welts, which promised to stay there as long as he lived. "it was a lion!" exclaimed mr. banta. "that is just what it was. now come with me and i will show you the skins. we have something to prove it." the miners followed after the boys, when, as they were about to pass their pit, julian said he wanted to see them about something that had been worrying them a good deal ever since they first discovered it. "what do you call that?" he asked, gathering up a pinch of the sediment that still remained in the cradle. "good gracious! do you gather much of this stuff?" exclaimed mr. banta, who was all excitement now. "it is not iron pyrites, is it?" "iron your grandmother!" retorted mr. banta. "it is gold, and a bag full of that stuff will be worth about ten thousand dollars to you!" "we have a bagful of it hidden away," asserted julian; while jack was so overcome with something, he didn't know what, that he sat right down on the ground. "jack thought we had best hide it, but i will get it and show it to you." "well, well! this beats anything in the world that i ever heard of! don't it you, pete?" asked mr. banta, dismounting from his horse. "here's you two, come out here as tenderfeet from st. louis, who never saw or heard of a gold-mine before, and you come up to this pit, which has all manner of ghosts and other things wandering about it at will,--so much so that they scared away two of the best men we had on dutch flat,--and then you get the upper hand of the spirits and make ten thousand dollars out of the mine in two weeks! i tell you that bangs me; don't it you, pete?" jack came up to take the horses and hitch them to swinging limbs, and mr. banta turned to julian and told him he was anxious to see that bag with the ten thousand dollars in gold in it; whereupon julian caught up a spade and hurried out, and jack, who had returned to the lean-to, was told to sit down and tell them the story about the haunted gold-mine. "there isn't much to tell," said jack, who, like all modest fellows, disliked to talk about himself. "i went down to see what the inside of the mine looked like, and one of the lions pitched onto me and i shot him." "there's more in the story than that comes to," declared mr. banta. "let us go out and look at the skins; we will hear the straight of the matter when julian comes in." the skins were rolled up,--they had been stretched on the ground until the sun dried them,--but jack quickly unrolled them, and the miners looked on as if greatly surprised. they could not understand how one ball, fired in the dark, had finished the lion so speedily. "it is a wonder she did not tear you all to pieces," said pete. "you must have made a dead-centre shot." the other skin was unrolled, too, and by the time the miners had examined it to their satisfaction julian came up with the bag. mr. banta untied it, and one look was enough. "that is gold," said he; "there is no iron pyrites about that. now, jack, you go on and get dinner for us, and we will listen while julian tell us about those ghosts." "i told you i did not believe in such things," remarked julian. "and the whole thing has come out just as i said it would." "what have you in this pack?" asked jack. "it looks like provisions." "that is just what it is. we thought you must be nearly out by this time, and so we brought some along. let the mule go home, if she wants to; she misses that old bell-mare." the story which jack did not tell lost nothing in going through julian's hands. he described things as nearly as he could see them before jack's light went out, and told of the lucky shot and the savage shrieks that came up to him through the pit. "those shrieks were what got next to me," declared julian, with a shudder. "i can't get them out of my mind yet. i thought that the ghost had jack, sure." "well, go on," said mr. banta, when julian paused. "there were two lions there--how did you get the other one?" when julian told how jack had taken charge of the matter, and had gone ahead in order to hunt up the other ghost, mr. banta acted as though he could scarcely believe it; while pete thrust his spurred heels out before him and broke out into a volley of such quaint oaths that julian threw back his head and laughed loudly. "if you had not done anything else since you have been up here but go to hunt up that lion with revolvers, i should know you were tenderfeet pure and simple," declared mr. banta. "why, boys, that was the most dangerous thing you ever did!" "well, we did not know what else to do," explained julian, modestly. "jack said the lion would not let us work the mine if he could help it, and so we had to go and find him." "i know some miners down at dutch flat who would think twice before going for that lion with their winchesters," declared pete, "and you had nothing but little popguns!" "they did the work, anyhow," asserted julian. "well, boys, you have been very lucky," said mr. banta. "take your bag of dust and hide it where nobody will ever think of looking for it. and remember--if any person comes here and asks you for money, you are to give him what is in the other bag, and keep still about this full one." julian's eyes began to open wide as this hint was thrown out. he looked at jack, who was by this time engaged in dishing up the dinner; but the latter only shook his head at him, as if to say, "didn't i say we had better hide that gold while we had the opportunity?" "who do you think is going to rob us?" asked julian, as soon as he could speak. "i am sure i don't know; but we have some men down at the flat who would not be any too good to come up here and see how you are getting along. of course this thing will get all over the flat in less than five minutes after we get there. we must tell just how we found you; for, if we try to keep it secret, the miners will suspect something and come up here in a body. but if they do that, then you will be safer than if you were alone." "we don't want any truck with such people," declared jack. "if we shoot as well as we did at the lion that wore that big skin, you will hear something drop. now sit up and eat some dinner." "jack, i believe you have the most pluck," said pete. "he has it all," replied julian. "he don't say much, but he keeps up a dreadful lot of thinking." dinner over, the miners lit their pipes, and then mr. banta said they wanted to go down into the mine to see how it looked. "it is my opinion that you won't get much more gold out of here," said he, as he stepped into the bucket. "you are gradually working your way toward the ravine, and when you break through the wall, you will find no color there." "i don't care," replied julian. "if it will hold out until we get another bag filled, that will be all we want. we can say, when we get back to denver, that we have been in the mines." "and had some adventures there, too," remarked mr. banta. "lower away." julian and pete followed mr. banta down to the bottom of the mine, and jack stayed up above to manage the bucket. they were gone a long time, for julian was obliged to tell his story over again; and, when they were pulled up, mr. banta repeated what he had said before he was let down, namely, that the boys had about reached the end of their vein. "but even with these bags full, you have got more than some men have who have been on the flat for two years," said he. "now, boys, is there anything we can do for you before we bid you good-bye?" no, julian and jack could not think of anything they wanted. they thanked the miners for bringing them some provisions, and offered payment on the spot; but mr. banta said they would let that go until the boys had got through working their mine. they shook them by the hand, wished them all the good luck in the world, turned their faces toward home, and in a few moments the sound of their horses' hoofs on the rocks had died away in the distance. chapter xxv. claus, again. "there!" said mr. solomon claus, as he entered at a fast walk the railroad depot, passed through it, and took up the first back street that he came to; "i guess i have got rid of him. now, the next thing is to go somewhere and sit down and think about it." claus kept a good watch of the buildings as he passed along, and at last saw a hotel, into which he turned. he bought a cigar at the bar, and, drawing a chair in front of one of the windows, sat down to meditate on his future course; for this german was not in the habit of giving up a thing upon which he had set his mind, although he might fail in every attempt he undertook. he had set his heart upon having a portion of that money that julian had come into by accident, and, although something had happened to upset his calculations, he was not done with it yet. "that was a sharp trick, sending off the box by express, when they might as well have carried its contents in their valises," said claus, settling down in his chair and keeping his eyes fastened upon the railroad depot. "wiggins was at the bottom of that, for i don't believe the boys would ever have thought of it. i wonder how they felt when they found their valises gone? now, the next thing is something else. shall i go home, get my clothes, and spend the winter in denver, or shall i go home and stay there? that's a question that cannot be decided in a minute." while claus was endeavoring to come to some conclusion on these points he saw casper nevins coming along the railroad and entering the depot. by keeping a close watch of the windows he discovered him pass toward the ticket office, where he made known his wants, and presently claus saw him put a ticket into his pocket. "so far, so good," muttered claus, as he arose from his chair. "i guess i might as well get on the train with him, for i must go to st. louis anyhow. perhaps something will occur to me in the meantime." casper was sitting on a bench, with his hands clasped and his chin resting on his breast, wondering what in the world he was going to do when he got back to st. louis, when he heard claus's step on the floor. he first had an idea that he would not speak to him at all; but solomon acted in such a friendly manner, when he met him, that he could not fail to accost him with "you were trying to shake me, were you?" "shake you! my dear fellow," exclaimed claus, as if he were profoundly astonished. "such a thing never entered my head! i simply wanted to get away by myself and think the matter over. have a cigar." "i don't want it!" declared casper, when claus laid it down upon his knee. "i don't believe i shall want many cigars or anything else very long." "disappointed over not finding that wealth, were you?" asked claus, in a lower tone. "well, i was disappointed myself, and for a time i did not want to see you or anybody else. i have wasted a heap of hard-earned dollars upon that 'old horse.'" "have you given it up, too?" inquired casper. "what else can i do? of course i have given it up. i will go back home again and settle down to my humdrum life, and i shall never get over moaning about that hundred thousand dollars we have lost." "do you think we tried every plan to get it?" "every one that occurred to me. they have it, and that is all there is to it. what are you going to do when you get back to st. louis?" inquired claus, for that was a matter in which he was very much interested. he was not going to have casper hanging onto him; on that he was determined. "i suppose i shall have to do as others do who are without work," replied casper. "i shall go around to every store, and ask them if they want a boy who isn't above doing anything that will bring him his board and clothes. i wish i had my old position back; i'll bet you that i would try to keep it." "that is the best wish you have made in a long time," said claus, placing his hand on casper's shoulder. "if i was back there, with my money in my pocket, i would not care if every one of the express boys would come and shove an 'old horse' at me. i tell you, 'honesty is the best policy.'" casper was almost ready to believe that claus had repented of his bargain, but he soon became suspicious of him again. that was a queer phrase to come from the lips of a man who believed in cheating or lying for the purpose of making a few dollars by it. for want of something better to do, he took up the cigar which claus had laid upon his knee and proceeded to light it. "well, i guess i'll go and get a ticket," remarked claus, after a little pause. "i don't know how soon that train will be along." "'honesty is the best policy,' is it?" mused casper, watching claus as he took up his stand in the door and looked away down the railroad. "some people would believe him, but i have known him too long for that. i wish i knew what he has in his head. he is going to try to get his hands on that 'old horse'; and if he does, i hope he will fail, just as we have done. he need not think that i am going to hold fast to him. i have had one lesson through him, and that is enough." claus did not seem anxious to renew his conversation with casper. he had heard all the latter's plans, as far as he had any, and now he wanted to think up some of his own. he walked up and down the platform with his hands behind his back, all the while keeping a bright lookout down the road for the train. "i must go to denver, because i shall want to make the acquaintance of some fellows there whom i know i can trust," soliloquized claus. "i can get plenty of men in st. louis, but they are not the ones i want. i must have some men who know all about mining, and perhaps i can get them to scrape an acquaintance with julian. that will be all the better, for then i can find out what he is going to do. well, we will see how it looks when i get home." for half an hour claus walked the platform occupied with such thoughts as these, and finally a big smoke down the track told him the train was coming. he stuck his head in at the door and informed casper of the fact, and when the train came up he boarded one of the forward cars, leaving his companion to do as he pleased. "you are going to shake me," thought casper, as he stepped aboard the last car in the train. "well, you might as well do it at one time as at another. i have all the money i can get out of you, but i am not square with you by any means. from this time forward i'll look out for myself." and the longer casper pondered upon this thought, the more heartily he wished he had never seen claus in the first place. he did not sleep a wink during his ride to st. louis, but got off the train when it reached its destination and took a straight course for his room. the apartment seemed cheerless after his experience on the train, but he closed the door, threw himself into a chair, and resumed his meditations, for thus far he had not been able to decide upon anything. "i am hungry," thought he, at length, "and after i have satisfied my appetite i will do just what i told claus--go around to the different stores and ask them if they want a boy. i tell you that will be a big come-down for me, but it serves me right for having anything to do with claus." we need not go with casper any further. for three nights he returned from his long walks tired and hungry, and not a single storekeeper to whom he had applied wanted a boy for any purpose whatever. sometimes he had sharp words to dishearten him. "no, no; get out of here--you are the fifth boy who has been at me this morning;" and casper always went, for fear the man would lay violent hands on him. on the fourth night he came home feeling a little better than usual. he had been hired for a few days to act as porter in a wholesale dry-goods store, and he had enough money in his pocket to pay for a good supper. the wages he received were small--just about enough to pay for breakfast and supper; but when the few days were up the hurry was over, and casper was once more a gentleman of leisure. and so it was during the rest of the summer and fall. he could not get anything to do steadily, his clothes were fast wearing out, and the landlord came down on him for his rent when he did not have a cent in his pocket. utterly discouraged, at last he wrote to his mother for money to carry him to his home; and so he passes out of our sight. as for claus, we wish we could dispose of him in the same way; but unfortunately we cannot. everybody was glad to see him when he entered the pool-room where he had been in the habit of playing, and more than one offered him a cigar. he told a long story about some business he had to attend to somewhere out west, and when he talked he looked up every time the door opened, as if fearful that casper would come in to bother him for more money. but casper was sick of claus. the lesson he had received from him was enough. claus remained in st. louis for two months; and he must have been successful, too, for the roll of bills he carried away with him was considerably larger than the one which casper had seen. when he was ready to go he bade everybody good-bye, and this time he carried his trunk with him. he was going out west to attend to "some business," which meant that he was going to keep watch of julian and jack in some way, and be ready to pounce upon them when they worked their mine--that is, if they were successful with it. "that will be the only thing i can do," decided claus, after thinking the matter over. "they have the buildings by this time, at any rate, so that part of it has gone up; but when they get out alone, and are working in their mine, that will be the time for me to take them. they will have all the work, but i will have the dust they make." when claus reached this point in his meditations, he could not help remembering that some of the men who were interested in the mines were dead shots with either rifle or revolver, and that if he robbed the boys he would be certain to have some of them after him, and what they would do if they caught him was another matter altogether. "i can shoot as well as they can," thought he, feeling around for his hip pocket to satisfy himself that his new revolver was still in its place. "if i have some of their money in my pocket, i would like to see any of the miners come up with me." when claus reached denver, his first care was to keep clear of julian and jack, and his next was to find some miners who were familiar with the country in the region bordering on dutch flat; for thus far claus had not been able to learn a thing about it. dutch flat might be five miles away or it might be a hundred, and he wanted somebody to act as his guide. he put up at a second-rate hotel, engaged his room, and then came down into the reading-room to keep watch of the men who tarried there. "i must find somebody whose face tells me he would not be above stealing a hundred thousand dollars if he had a good chance," decided claus; "but the countenances of these men all go against me--they are too honest. i guess i'll have to try the clerk, and see what i can get out of him." on the second day, as claus entered the reading-room with a paper in his hand, he saw before him a man sitting by a window, his feet elevated higher than his head, watching the people going by. he was a miner,--there could be no doubt about that,--and he seemed to be in low spirits about something, for every little while he changed his position, yawned, and stretched his arms as if he did not know what to do with himself. claus took just one look at him, then seized a chair and drew it up by the man's side. the man looked up to see who it was, and then looked out on the street again. "excuse me," began claus, "but you seem to be a miner." "well, yes--i have dabbled in that a little," answered the man, turning his eyes once more upon claus. "what made you think of that?" "i judged you by your clothes," replied claus. "have a cigar? then, perhaps you will tell me if you know anything about dutch flat, where there is--" "don't i know all about it?" interrupted the man. "ask me something hard. a bigger fraud than that dutch flat was never sprung on any lot of men. there is no color of gold up there." "then what made you go there in the first place?" asked claus. "it got into the hands of a few men who were afraid of the indians, and they coaxed me and my partner to go up," replied the man. "but there were no indians there. i prospected around there for six months, owe more than i shall ever be able to pay for grub-staking, and finally, when the cold weather came, i slipped out." "i am sorry to hear that," remarked claus, looking down at the floor in a brown study. "i have a mine up there, and i was about to go up and see how things were getting on there; but if the dirt pans out as you say, it will not be worth while." "you had better stay here, where you have a good fire to warm you during this frosty weather," said the man, once more running his eyes over claus's figure. "if you have a mine up there you had better let it go; you are worth as much money now as you would be if you stayed up there a year." "but i would like to go and see the mine," replied claus. "there was a fortune taken out of it a few years ago, and it can't be that the vein is all used up yet." "where _is_ your mine?" "that is what i don't know. i have somehow got it into my head the mine is off by itself, a few miles from everybody else's." "do you mean the haunted mine?" asked the man, now beginning to take some interest in what claus was saying. "i believe that is what they call it." "it is five miles from dutch flat, straight off through the mountains. you can't miss it, for there is a trail that goes straight to it." "do you know where it is?" "yes, i know; but that is all i do know about it. i saw two men who went there to work the pit, and who were frightened so badly that they lit out for this place as quick as they could go, and that was all i wanted to know of the mine." "then you have never been down in it?" "not much, i haven't!" exclaimed the man, looking surprised. "i would not go down into it for all the money there is in the mountain." "did those men see anything?" "no, but they heard a sight; and if men can be so badly scared by what they hear, they don't wait to see anything." "well, i want to go up there, and who can i get to act as my guide?" "i can tell you one thing," answered the man, emphatically--"you won't get me and jake to go up there with you. i'll tell you what i might do," he added, after thinking a moment. "are you going to stay here this winter?" "yes, i had thought of it. it is pretty cold up there in the mountains--is it not?" "the weather is so cold that it will take the hair right off of your head," replied the man. "if you will stay here until spring opens, you might hire me and jake to show you up as far as dutch flat; but beyond that we don't budge an inch." "how much will you charge me? and another thing--do i have to pay you for waiting until spring?" "no, you need not pay us a cent. we have enough to last us all winter. i was just wondering what i was going to do when spring came, and that made me feel blue. but if you are going to hire us--you will be gone three or four months, won't you?" yes, claus thought that he would be gone as long as that. then he asked, "how far is dutch flat from here?" "two hundred miles." the two then began an earnest conversation in regard to the money that was to be paid for guiding claus up to dutch flat. the latter thought he had worked the thing just about right. it would be time enough to tell him who julian and jack were, and to talk about robbing them, when he knew a little more concerning the man and his partner. he had not seen the other man yet, but he judged that, if he were like the miner he was talking to, it would not be any great trouble to bring them to his own way of thinking. chapter xxvi. claus hears something. never had a winter appeared so long and so utterly cheerless as this one did to solomon claus. the first thing he did, after he made the acquaintance of jake and his partner, was to change his place of abode. jake was as ready to ask for cigars as claus had been, and the latter found that in order to make his money hold out he must institute a different state of affairs. he found lodgings at another second-rate hotel in a distant part of the city, but he found opportunity to run down now and then to call upon bob and jake,--those were the only two names he knew them by,--to see how they were coming along, and gradually lead the way up to talking about the plans he had in view. it all came about by accident. one day, when discussing the haunted mine, claus remarked that he knew the two boys who were working it, and hoped they would have a good deal of dust on hand by the time he got here. "then they will freeze to death!" declared bob. "what made you let them go there, if you knew the mine was haunted?" "oh, they are not working it now," said claus. "they are in st. louis, and are coming out as soon as spring opens. they are plucky fellows, and will find out all about those ghosts before they come back." "yes, if the ghosts don't run them away," answered bob. "i understood you to say they are boys. well, now, if they get the better of the ghosts, which is something i won't believe until i see it, and we should get there about a month or two after they do, and find that they have dug up dust to the amount of ten or fifteen thousand dollars--eh?" "but maybe the gentleman is set on those two boys, and it would not pay to rob them," remarked jake. "no, i am not set on them," avowed claus, smiling inwardly when he saw how readily the miners fell in with his plans. "i tried my level best to get those boys to stay at home, for i don't want them to dig their wealth out of the ground, but they hooted at me; and when i saw they were bound to come, i thought i would get up here before them and see what sort of things they had to contend with." "what sort of relationship do you bear to the two boys?" asked bob. "i am their uncle, and i gave them a block of buildings here in denver worth a hundred thousand dollars and this haunted mine; but, mind you, i did not know it was haunted until after i had given it to them. but, boy like, they determined to come up, brave the ghosts, and take another fifty thousand out of it." bob and jake looked at each other, and something told them not to believe all that claus had said to them. if he was worth so much money that he was willing to give his nephews a hundred thousand dollars of it, he did not live in the way his means would allow. "and another thing," resumed claus. "i would not mind their losing ten thousand dollars, provided i got my share of it, for then they would learn that a miner's life is as full of dangers as any other. but remember--if you get ten thousand, i want three thousand of it." this was all that claus thought it necessary to say on the subject of robbing the boys, and after finishing his cigar he got up and went out. jake watched him until he was hidden in the crowd on the street, and then settled back in his chair and looked at bob. "there is something wrong with that fellow," he remarked. "his stories don't hitch; he has some other reason for wishing to rob those boys. now, what is it?" "you tell," retorted bob. "he has something on his mind, but he has no more interest in that pit than you or i have. he never owned it, in the first place." "then we will find out about it when we show him the way to the flat," said jake. "oh, there will be somebody there working the mine--i don't dispute that. but he is no uncle to them two boys. but say--i have just thought of something. we are not going up there for three dollars a day; and if we don't make something out of the boys, what's the reason we can't go to headquarters?" jake understood all his companion would have said, for he winked and nodded his head in a way that had a volume of meaning in it. the two moved their chairs closer together, and for half an hour engaged in earnest conversation. there was only one thing that troubled them--they did not like the idea of staying at dutch flat, among the miners, until they heard how the boys were getting on with their mine. "you know they did not like us any too well last summer," said bob, twisting about in his chair. "if we had not come away just when we did, it is my belief they would have ordered us out." "yes; and it was all on your account, too. you were too anxious to know how much the other fellows had dug out of their mines. you must keep still and say nothing." claus went away from the hotel feeling very much relieved. bob and jake had come over to his plans, and they had raised no objection to them. the next thing was to bring them down to a share in the spoils. he was not going to come out there all the way from st. louis and propose that thing to them, and then put up with what they chose to give him. "i must have a third of the money they make, and that is all there is about it," said he to himself. "they would not have known a thing about it if it had not been for me. who is that? i declare, it is julian and jack!" the boys were coming directly toward him, and this was the first time he had seen them since his arrival in denver, although he had kept a close watch of everybody he had met on the street. he stepped into a door, and appeared to be looking for some one inside; and when the boys passed him, he turned around to look at them. the latter were in a hurry, for it was a frosty morning, and they felt the need of some exercise to quicken their blood; besides, they were on their way to school, in the hope of learning something that would fit them for some useful station in life. they were dressed in brand-new overcoats, had furs around their necks and fur gloves on their hands, and julian was bent partly over, laughing at some remark jack had made. he watched them until they were out of sight, and then came out and went on his way. "i tell you we are 'some,' now that we have our pockets full of money," soliloquized claus, who grew angry when he drew a contrast between his and their station in life. "most anybody would feel big if he was in their place. but i must look out--i don't want them to see me here." fortunately claus was not again called upon to dodge the boys in his rambles about the city. he kept himself in a part of the city remote from that which the boys frequented. the winter passed on, and spring opened, and he did not again see them; but he heard of them through bob and jake, who made frequent visits to the hotel where mr. banta was located. "i guess we saw your boys to-day," said bob, who then went on to give a description of them. "they have it all cut and dried with banta, and he is going to show them the way to their mine. no, they did not mention your name once. they are going to buy a pack-horse, and load him up with tools and provisions, and are going out as big as life." "that is all right," said claus. "now, remember--i am to have a third of the dust you get." "of course; that is understood," answered jake, who now seemed as anxious to go to dutch flat as he had before been to keep away from it. "it would not be fair for us to take it all. where are you going after you get the money?" "i haven't got it yet," remarked claus, with a smile. "those ghosts may be too strong for the boys, and perhaps they will come away without anything." "then we will pitch in and work the mine, ourselves," said bob. "they say that gold is so thick up there that you can pick it up with your hands. we won't come away and leave such a vein behind us." "what about the ghosts?" queried claus, who could not deny he was afraid of them. "they may be too strong for you, also." "if they can get away with cold steel we'll give in to them," said jake. "but i'll risk that. where are you going when you get the money? of course you can't go back to st. louis." "no; i think i shall go on to california. i have always wanted to see that state." "well, we will go east. three thousand dollars, if they succeed in digging out ten thousand, added to what we shall make--humph!" said bob; and then he stopped before he had gone any further. it was a wonder that claus did not suspect something, but his mind was too fully occupied with other matters. where was he going when he got the money? that was something that had not occurred to claus before, and he found out that he had something yet to worry him. "you fellows seem to think you will get rich by robbing those boys," remarked claus, knowing that he must say something. "no, we don't," answered jake; "but that will be enough to keep us until we can turn our hands to some other kind of work. now about our pack-horse, tools and provisions. you have money enough to pay for them, i suppose?" "oh, yes--that is, i have a little," claus replied, cautiously, for he was afraid the miners might want more of it than he felt able to spend. "but i tell you i shall be hard up after i get those things." "you have other money besides what you gave the boys," said bob. "you can write to st. louis for more." "but i don't want to do that. i have with me just what i can spare, for my other funds are all invested." "oh, you can get more for the sake of what is coming to you," said jake, carelessly. "now, we want to start for dutch flat in about a week. that will give the boys time to fight the ghosts and get to work in their pit. suppose we go and see about our pack-horse and tools." claus would have been glad to have put this thing off for a day or two, but he could not see any way to get out of it. he went with the miners, who knew just where they wanted to go, and the horse he bought was a perfect rack of bones that did not seem strong enough to carry himself up to dutch flat, let alone a hundredweight of tools and provisions with him. the tools he bought were to be left in the store until they were called for, and the miners drew a long breath of relief, for that much was done. if claus at any time got sick of his bargain, and wanted to haul out, he could go and welcome; but they would hold fast to his tools and provisions, and use them in prospecting somewhere else. the morning set apart for their departure came at last, and claus and his companions put off at the first peep of day. they made the journey of two hundred miles without any mishap, and finally rode into the camp of dutch flat just as the miners were getting ready to have their dinner. they all looked up when they heard the newcomers, and some uttered profane ejaculations under their breath, while others greeted them in a way that claus did not like, for it showed him how his partners stood there with the miners. "well, if there ain't bob i'm a dutchman!" exclaimed one, straightening up and shading his eyes with his hand. "you are on hand, like a bad five-dollar bill--ain't you? i was in hopes you were well on your way to the states by this time." "no, sir; i am here yet," answered bob. "you don't mind if i go and work my old claim, do you? i don't reckon that anybody has it." "mighty clear of anybody taking your claim," said another. "you can go there and work it, for all of us; but we don't want you snooping around us like you did last summer." "what is the matter with those fellows?" asked claus, when they were out of hearing. "what did you men do here last summer?" "just nothing at all," replied jake. "we wanted to know how much gold everybody was digging, and that made them jealous of us." "but if you can't mingle with them as you did then, how are you going to find out about the haunted mine?" "oh, we'll mix with them just as we did last year, only we sha'n't have so much to say to them," said jake. "here is our claim, and it don't look as though anybody had been nigh it." claus was both surprised and downhearted. if he had known that the miners were going to extend such a reception as that to him he would have been the last one to go among them. there he was, almost alone, with two hundred brawny fellows around him, each one with a revolver strapped to his waist, and their looks and actions indicated that if necessity required it they would not be at all reluctant to use them. he managed to gather up courage to visit the general camp-fire, which was kindled just at dark, where the miners met to smoke their pipes and tell about what had happened in their mines during the day. this one had not made anything. the dirt promised fairly, and he hoped in a few days to strike a vein that would pay him and his partner something. another had tapped a little vein, and he believed that by the time he got a rock out of his way he would stumble onto a deposit that would make him so rich that he would start for the states in short order. "well, partner, how do you come on?" asked the man who was sitting close to claus, who was listening with all his ears. "does your dirt pan out any better than it did last summer?" "we have not seen the color of anything yet," replied claus. "i do not believe there is any gold there." "you are a tenderfoot, ain't you?" "yes; i never have been in the mines before." "and you will wish, before you see your friends again, that you had never seen them this time. if you get any dust, you hide it where your partners can't find it." there was one man, who did not take any part in the conversation, that kept a close watch on claus and listened to every word he said. it was mr. banta, who wondered what in the world could have happened to bring so gentlemanly appearing a man up there in company with bob and jake. "he must have money somewhere about his good clothes, and that is what bob is after," said he to himself. "but if that is the case, why did they not jump him on the way here? i think he will bear watching." three nights passed in this way, claus always meeting the miners at the general camp-fire, while his partners stayed at home and waited for him to come back and tell them the news, and on the fourth evening banta seemed lost in thought. he sat and gazed silently into the fire, unmindful of the tales that were told and the songs that were sung all around him. at last one of the miners addressed him. "well, banta, i suppose this is your last evening with us," he remarked. "yes; i go off to-morrow." "don't you wish you had not promised to go up there?" "no, i don't; i shall find out if the boys are all right, anyway. that is what i care the most about. i shall take some provisions with me, and if the boys are above ground i will leave them; otherwise, i shall bring them back." "oh, the boys must have the better of the ghosts by this time," said another; "they would have been here before this time if they had not. you will find them with more gold stowed away than they know what to do with." "and didn't they see the ghosts at all?" "why, as to that, i can't say. but they have beaten them at their own game. you will see." claus pricked up his ears when he heard this, and when the miners had all drawn away, one by one, and sought their blankets in their lean-to's, he asked of the man who sat near him, and who was waiting to smoke his pipe out before he went to bed, "where is banta going?" "up to the haunted mine," was the reply. "you see, he went up there two weeks ago with the boys, and promised to come back in two weeks to see how they were coming on. his two weeks are up to-night." "what is up there, anyway?" "well, you can ask somebody else to answer that question," said the miner, getting upon his feet. "i don't know what is up there, and i don't want to know." the miner walked off and left claus sitting there alone. he was certain that he was on the right track at last. as soon as banta came back they would know something about the haunted mine. chapter xxvii. bob tries strategy. "well, what did you hear this time?" asked bob, who lay on his blanket with his hands under his head and a pipe in his mouth. "everybody kept still about the haunted mine, i suppose?" "no, sir; i heard about it to-night for the first time," answered claus. "banta is going up there to-morrow." "then we will know something about it when he comes back," remarked bob. "i hope the boys have got the better of those ghosts in some way, and that they are working their mine. go on, and tell us what you have heard." claus did not have much to tell, for the miners had cut the conversation short; but what little he did say created great excitement between those who heard it now for the first time. the boys had got the better of those unearthly spirits in some way, for if the ghosts had driven them out and not allowed them to work their mine, the miners would have found it out long before this time. "i don't see why banta put it off for two weeks," said jake; "i reckon he was afraid of them spirits." the next day was one which claus often remembered. there was much excitement in the camp, although it did not show itself. there was none of that singing and whistling going on, but every man worked in silence. banta and his partner had got off at daylight, and ten hours must pass away before they could look for their return; but evening came on apace, the camp-fire was lighted, and the miners gathered around it and smoked their pipes without making any comments on the long delay of mr. banta and the man who had gone with him. there was one thing that troubled them, although no one spoke of it--the mule which had carried their pack-saddle came home alone, and was now feeding in company with the old bell-mare. that looked suspicious, but the men said nothing. for an hour they sat around the fire, and then one of them broke the stillness. he was an old, gray-headed man, experienced in mining, and of course all listened to what he had to say. he spoke in a low tone, as if there had been a patient there and he was afraid to arouse him. "ten miles in ten hours," said he, knocking the ashes from his pipe. "boys, something's got the better of those two men. i remember that several years ago i was waiting for a partner of mine who had gone away to prospect a mine----" "what was that?" exclaimed a miner, jumping to his feet. "i heard something, but i don't know what it was," said another. it was done quicker than we could tell it. in less than a second two hundred men sprang to their feet, and two hundred hands slipped behind them and laid hold of as many revolvers. of all those men, there was not one who would have hesitated to fight indians with the fear of death before their eyes, but there was not a single instance of a miner who did not change color at the sound of a noise which seemed to come upon them from no one could have told where. "which way did the noise come from?" asked a miner. "what did it sound like?" queried another. "there it is!" said the miner who had at first detected it--"it sounds like a horse's hoofs on the rocks. there! don't you hear it?" and so it proved. the noise was heard plainly enough by this time, and in a few moments more two men came out of the willows and rode into the circle of light that was thrown out by the camp-fire. they were banta and his partner; and one look at their faces was enough--they were fairly radiant with joy. "halloo! boys," cried banta. "i declare, you act as though you had lost your best friend; and some of you have revolvers drawn on us, too!" "say, pard," said one of the miners, shoving his revolver back where it belonged and extending a hand to each of the newcomers, "where have you been so long? your pack-mule has been home all the afternoon, and has kept the camp in an uproar with her constant braying. she acted as though she wanted to see your horses. did you see the boys?" "yes, sir, we saw the boys," answered banta. he did not seem in any particular hurry to relieve the suspense of his friends, which was now worked up to the highest degree, but dismounted from his horse very deliberately and proceeded to turn him loose. "well, why don't you go on with it?" asked another miner. "were the boys all right?" "the boys were all right and tight, and digging away as hard as they could." "did they--did they see the ghosts?" "of course they did; and the ghosts are now lying up there with their skins off." "were they animals?" "you are right again. now, hold on till i light my pipe and i'll tell you all about it. tony, you ought to have gone up there; you would be ten thousand dollars better off than you are this minute." tony was a man who was noted far and near for his success in killing the lions which were so abundant in the mountains. he would rather hunt them than dig for gold, because he was almost sure to get the animal he went after. he was filling his pipe when banta was speaking, but he dropped it and let it lay on the ground where it had fallen. "it is the truth i am telling you," declared banta. "if you don't believe it, you can go up there to that haunted mine and find out all about it. the boys killed them with nothing but revolvers." banta had his pipe lit by this time, and the miners crowded around him, all eager for his story. bob and jake were there, and no one seemed to pay the least attention to them; but they were impatient to learn all the particulars of the case. there was one question they wanted answered immediately, and that was, did the boys really have a bagful of dust, or was banta merely joking about that? fortunately tony recovered his wits and his pipe at the same time and asked the question for them. "did the boys get ten thousand dollars in two weeks?" he asked. "well, they brought a bag out for us to examine, and they thought it was nothing but iron pyrites," said banta; and then he went on smoking his pipe. "we took one look at the bag," said his partner, "and we took a big load off the boys' minds when we told them it was gold, and nothing else. yes, sir--they have it fair and square." "the boys are going ahead as though there had never been any ghosts there," said banta; and then he went on to tell the miners everything that had happened during their trip to the haunted mine; and when he got started, he followed julian's narrative, and paid no attention to jack's. it was certain that the story did not lose anything by passing through his hands. "jack pulled off his shirt," said he, in conclusion, "and he has some wounds on his back that will go with him through life." "and is the gold as thick as they say it is--so thick that one can pick it up with his hands?" "it is not quite as thick as that," replied banta, with a laugh. "but every time one washes out a cradleful he finds anywhere from a teaspoonful to three or four which he wants to put in his bag. i tell you, the boys have been lucky." "i am going up there the first thing in the morning," said a miner. "here i have been slaving and toiling for color for six months, and i can hardly get enough to pay for my provisions, but i'll bet it won't be that way, now, much longer." "wait until i tell you something," answered banta. "neely, you can go up there, if you are set on it; there's no law here that will make you stay away. there are plenty of places where you can sink a shaft without troubling the boys any, but whether or not it will pay you is another question. the boys will be down here themselves in less than two weeks' time." "how do you account for that?" "their vein is giving out. it will end in a deep ravine that is up there, and there their color ends." "why don't they go back farther and start another?" asked the miner. "it won't pay. the man who started that shaft upon which they are now at work was a tenderfoot, sure enough. there is not the first sign of color about the dirt anywhere. he thought it was a pretty place and so went to work, and the consequence is, it has panned out sixty thousand dollars. but go ahead if you want to, neely." neely did not know whether or not he wanted to go ahead with such a warning in his ears. banta was an experienced prospector, and he could almost tell by looking at the ground if there was any gold anywhere about there. a good many who had been on the point of starting for the haunted mine with the first peep of day shook their heads, and concluded they would rather stay where they were than go off to a new country. there were three, who did not say anything, whose minds were already made up as to what they would do. they waited until the miners were ready to go to their blankets, and then bob attracted the attention of those nearest him by saying, "what banta says throws a damper on me. the haunted mine is going to play out in a day or two, this place here is not worth shucks, and we are going off somewhere at break of day to see if we can't do better than we are doing here." "where are you going?" asked one. "i don't know, and in fact i don't care much. i'll go to the first good place i hear of, i don't care if it is on the other side of the rocky mountains. i came out here expecting to get rich in a few days, and i am poorer now than i was ten years ago. these mountains around here have not any gold in them for me." "and i say it is good riddance," whispered the miner to some who stood near him. "if you had acted as you did last year, you would have been sent out before this time." having paved the way for the departure of himself and companions, bob joined them and led the way into his own cabin. they seated themselves close together, for they did not want to talk loud enough to be heard by anyone who was passing their camp. "well, they have it!" exclaimed claus, who was so excited that he could not sit still. "and it is gold, too," declared jake. "banta says so, and that is enough." "in the morning, after we get breakfast," said bob, "we'll hitch up and take the back trail toward denver. we will go away from the haunted mine, and that will give color to what i told them a while ago." "what if you should chance to miss your way?" asked claus. "you can't lose me in these mountains; i have prospected all over them, and i have seen where the haunted mine is located a hundred times. what a pity it was that i did not stay there. sixty thousand dollars! jake, if we had that sum of money we would be rich." jake did not say anything--that is, anything that would do to put on paper. he stretched himself out on his blanket and swore softly to himself, so that nobody but his companions could hear him. "that will be three thousand three hundred dollars apiece," said claus, who did not like the way that bob and jake left him out entirely. "remember, i am to have a third of it." "of course; and it will be more than that. the boys will have some time to do more digging, and maybe they'll have another bagful. i understood you to say that the boys were pretty plucky." "you may safely say that," replied claus. "the way they stood up against those lions, when they did not know what was onto them, is abundant proof of that. you will have to go easy when you tackle them, or some of you will get more than you want." the three continued to talk in this way until they grew tired and fell asleep--that is, all except claus, who rolled and twisted on his blanket for a good while before he passed into the land of nod. but he was out before daybreak and busy with breakfast, while the others brought up the animals and packed them for their journey. there was only one man who came near them, and that was banta, who wanted to make sure they were not going toward the haunted mine. "well, boys, are you going to leave us?" he inquired. "where are you going?" "not giving you a short answer, we don't care much _where_ we go," replied bob. "there is nothing here for us, and we will go elsewhere. we are going to take the back track." "are you not deciding on this matter suddenly?" "we determined on it yesterday. we decided to go up to the haunted mine if you came back with a favorable report of the condition of things, but you say the lead is played out, and of course that knocks us. wherever we go, we can't find a much worse place than this." "well, boys, i wish you luck, and we'll all go away from here before a great while." "why are you so anxious to find out about where we are going?" asked bob. "because i wanted to remind you to keep away from that mine up the gully," answered banta, looking hard at bob while he spoke. "the boys have that mine all to themselves, and we are going to stand by them." "we have no intention of going near that haunted mine," asserted bob, rather sullenly. "if those boys have gold, let them keep it." "all right! then i have nothing further to say to you." so saying, banta turned on his heel and walked away. there was nothing insulting in what he said, but bob and his companions knew that he was in earnest about it. they all kept watch of him as long as he remained in sight, and then looked at each other with a broad grin on their faces. "i guess banta didn't make anything by trying to pump me," said bob. "when we get a mile or two down the gully, we'll save what little provisions we want, push our horses over the bluff----" "what do we want to do that for?" exclaimed claus, in great amazement. "can't we turn them loose?" "yes, and have them come back here and join the old bell-mare," said jake, in disgust. "we have to be in a hurry about what we do, for we must get a long start of the men here. if our nags appeared among the other horses here, the miners would know we had been fooling them and would start for the haunted mine at once." "couldn't we tie them up?" asked claus; "or, we could shoot them. that would be an easier way than pushing them over the bluff." "but there's the report our pistols would make," replied bob, turning fiercely upon claus. "the easiest way is the best. now, if we have everything we want, let us dig out from here." the men in the camp saw them when they mounted their horses and started down the gully toward denver, but there was not one who shouted a farewell after them. when they disappeared from view, banta drew a long breath of relief. "it is just as well that they took themselves off before we had a chance to tell them that their room was better than their company. i do not like the way they have been acting since they have been here." chapter xxviii. an inhuman act. "i'll bet no men ever went away from a camp before without somebody said good-bye to them," said jake. "they don't care where we go, or what luck we have, provided we don't go near the haunted mine. if they will just stay that way until to-morrow, they can all come on at once, if they have a mind to." claus was the soberest man in the party. he was waiting and watching for that bluff at which their faithful steeds were to give up their lives to make it possible for their owners to get away with the amount they expected to raise at the haunted mine. there was something cold-blooded about this, and claus could not bring himself to think of it without shivering all over. "i don't see why you can't tie them there," claus ventured to say; "they won't make any fuss until we are safely out of the way. it looks so inhuman, to kill them." "look here!" said bob, so fiercely that claus resolved he would not say anything more on the subject--"if you don't like the way we are managing this business, you can just go your way, and we'll go ours." "but you can't go yet," interrupted jake; "we are not going to have you go back to dutch flat and tell the men there what we are going to do. you will stay with us until we get that money." "of course he will," assented bob. "when we get through with that haunted mine we'll go off into the mountains, and then you'll be at liberty to go where you please." "of course i shall stay with you," said claus, not a little alarmed by the threat thus thrown out. then he added to himself, "i reckon i played my cards just right. if i can keep them from searching me, i'll come out at the big end of the horn, no matter what happens to them." for the next hour claus held his peace; but he noticed that his horse turned his head and looked down the gully as if he feared they were not going the right away. he did not remember that he had come that route before, but concluded that bob was gradually leaving the trail behind them, and was veering around to get behind the camp at dutch flat. then the mule which bore their pack-saddle began to be suspicious of it, too, for he threw up his head and gave utterance to a bray so long and loud that it awoke a thousand echoes among the mountains. "shut up!" exclaimed jack, jerking impatiently at his halter. "i hope that bluff is not far away. we'll soon put a stop to your braying when we get there." in another hour they came upon the bluff, one side of which was bounded by a deep ravine that seemed to extend down into the bowels of the earth, and the other was hemmed in by lofty mountains which rose up so sheer their tops seemed lost in the clouds above. here again the mule became suspicious, for, in spite of the jerks which jake gave at his halter, he set up another bray that sounded as if the mountains were full of mules. "hold fast to him, jake, until i take his saddle off," said bob, hastily dismounting from his horse; "i can soon stop that, if you can't. there--his pack is off. take him by the foretop--don't let him get away from you. now, then, look at you!" the mule got away in spite of all jake's efforts to hold fast to him. the moment the bridle was out of his mouth he dodged the grab that jake made for his foretop, and with a flourish of his heels and another long bray made for the gully by which he had entered the bluff. the horses made a vain attempt to follow him, and the animal on which claus was mounted seemed determined to go away, but he was finally stopped by his rider before he reached the gully. bob and jake were fairly beside themselves with anger. bob stamped up and down so close to the ravine that the least misstep would have sent him over the brink, and jake sat down on the ground and swore softly to himself. "i tell you, this won't do!" said bob, coming back to the horses. "let us put them over without the least delay; and, mind you, we won't take their bridles off at all. that mule will be in camp in less than an hour, so we must make tracks. let their saddles go, too." the men went to work at pushing the horses over into the ravine as if they were in earnest. first bob's horse went; then jake's; and finally they took claus's bridle out of his hands and shoved his horse over, too. claus did not see any of this work. the animals went over without making any effort at escape beyond putting out their feet and trying to push themselves away from the brink; but the miners got behind them, and all their attempts to save themselves amounted to nothing. he heard the horses when they crashed through the branches of the trees below him, and then all was silent. "what else could we do?" exclaimed bob, who thought claus looked rather solemn over it. "dutch flat is not a mile from here, and some one there would have heard their whinnying. i am sorry to do it, too, but when there is ten thousand dollars in sight, i don't stop at anything. now pitch that mule's things over, also, and then we'll get away from here." this being done, the three, with a small package of provisions on their shoulders, set out once more at a rapid pace, bob leading the way. for a long time no one spoke, the travelling being so difficult that it took all their breath to keep pace with bob; but finally he turned about and made a motion of silence with his hand, and then they began to pick their way through the bushes with more caution. after a few moments he stopped, pushed aside the branches of an evergreen, and after taking a survey of the scene presented to his gaze he made another motion, which brought his companions up beside him. "we have caught them at it!" said he. 'julian is on top, and jack is down below, shovelling dirt. where are your revolvers?" "those fellows from the flat have not come yet," said jake, looking all around to make sure that the boys were alone. "lead ahead, bob, and remember that we are close at your heels." leaving his provisions behind him, bob arose to his feet, stepped out of his place of concealment and advanced toward the pit. julian was so intent on watching his companion below that he did not hear the sound of their footsteps until they were so close to him that he could not pull his partner up; so he simply raised his head, and was about to extend to them a miner's welcome, when he saw something that made him open his eyes and caused him to stare harder than ever. there was something about that short, fleshy man which he was sure he recognized. it did not make any difference in what style of clothing claus was dressed in,--whether as a gentleman of leisure or as a miner,--his face betrayed him. he saw that it was all up with him, for he had no time to go to the lean-to after his revolver. "pitch that dirt out of the bucket and come up, jack," called julian, shaking the rope to attract the attention of his comrade. "claus is up here." there was a moment's silence; then jack's voice came back in no very amiable tones. "get away with your nonsense!" he exclaimed. "if i come up there again for just nothing at all, i pity _you_! if claus is there, make him show himself." "why, he's your uncle," asserted bob, who began to wonder if that was the first lie that claus had told them. "that man?" exclaimed julian. "not much, he ain't. jack, is claus your uncle?" "tell him to come down here and i'll see about it," said jack, who could not yet be made to see that there was something really going on at the top. "that makes two i have against you, old fellow." "no, you haven't got anything against me," said julian. "here is claus. don't you see his face? any man who would claim such an uncle as that--" "that is enough out of you!" interrupted jake. "fetch that partner of yours up, and then bring out your money--we must get away from here in a hurry." "well! well!" cried jack, who happened to look up and catch a glimpse of claus's face. "i will come up directly." "say, you, down there," called bob, bending over the shaft, "if you have a revolver down there, be careful that you keep it where it belongs." "don't worry yourself," answered jack; "i haven't anything in the shape of a revolver about me. hoist away, julian." the dirt was emptied out by this time, and jack stepped into the bucket and was promptly hoisted to the top. then he stood waiting for the three men to make known their wants; but he devoted the most of his time to scrutinizing the face of claus, to whom he was indebted for the presence of the other two. "do you think you could recognize me if you should chance to meet me again anywhere?" asked claus. "certainly, i could," answered julian; "i would recognize you if i saw you in asia. you are bound to have some of that money, are you not?" "that is just what i am here for," said claus, with a grin. "you have one bagful and another partly full, and we want them both as soon as you can get them." jack was astonished when he heard this, for mr. banta had told him to keep the full bag hidden where no one could find it. how, then, did claus know anything about it? julian was equally amazed; but, after thinking a moment, he turned on his heel and led the way toward their lean-to. bob and his companion kept close by the side of the two boys, for they did not want them to find their revolvers before they knew something about it. they had heard from various sources that the boys were fair shots, and they did not want to see them try it on. "well, claus, you slipped up on one thing," said julian; "you didn't get any of that block of buildings--did you?" "come, now, hurry up!" insisted bob. "where are those bags?" "here's one you have been talking about," answered jack, pulling the head of his bed to pieces and producing the article in question. "julian, you know where the other one is." while jack was engaged in performing this work the revolvers were kept pointed straight at him, for fear he might pull out another one and turn it loose upon them before they could draw a trigger. but the boys did not seem to care any more about the revolvers than if they had been sticks of wood that were aimed at them. claus had a revolver, but he did not seem inclined to use it. "are you sure it is gold in here, and not something else?" asked bob. "you have got the bag in your hands, and you can look and see for yourself," said jack. "go out in front of the lean-to and sit down on the ground so that i can watch you," said bob. "jake, go with that boy and dig up the other one. is this all you have made since you have been here?" "yes, that's all. now, what are you going to do with us?" "i'll tell you when jake comes back. is there much more of that lead down there?" "well, you have charge of the mine, now, and there is no law to hinder you from going down and finding out," retorted jack. "claus, where are you going? i don't expect to see these gentlemen any more, but i should like to keep track of you." claus did not see fit to answer this question, and in the meantime julian and jake returned with the other bag. chapter xxix. a tramp with the robbers. "oh, it is gold!" exclaimed jake, as bob took the bag and bent over it; "it is not iron pyrites." "stow that about your clothes, jake, and then we'll go on," said bob; "and we want you boys to gather up provisions enough to last you for three or four days. but, in the first place, where are your revolvers?" "don't you see them hung up there, in plain sight?" asked jack, pointing to the articles in question, which were suspended from the rack of the lean-to, in plain sight. "what are you going to do with us?" "we are going to take you a three days' journey with us, and then turn you loose." "why can't you let us go now?" queried julian. "we have nothing else that is worth stealing." "no, but you are too close to dutch flat," jake replied. "we haven't got anything against you, and when we get out there in the mountains--" "you might as well shoot us on the spot as to lose us among these hills. i pledge you my word that we will not stir a step--" "that is all very well," interrupted bob with a shake of his head which told the boys that he had already decided on his plan; "but, you see, it don't go far enough. if you don't go to the miners, the miners will come here to you, so we think you would be safer with us. gather up your grub and let us get away from here." the boy saw very plainly that bob and jake wanted to make their escape from the miners sure; so julian collected some bacon and hard-tack, which he wrapped up in a blanket and fixed to sling over his shoulders. there was one thing that encouraged him--"if he did not go to the miners, the miners would come after him"--and proved that they must in some way have had their suspicions aroused against bob and jake. jack also busied himself in the same way, and in a very few minutes the boys were ready to start. "i must say you are tolerably cool ones, to let ten or fifteen thousand dollars be taken from you in this way," remarked bob, who was lost in admiration of the indifferent manner in which the boys obeyed all orders. "i have seen some that would have been flurried to death by the loss of so much money." "if claus, here, told the truth, they have a whole block of buildings to fall back on," answered jake. "but maybe that is a lie, too." "no, he told you the truth there," said julian. "he tried to cheat us out of those buildings while we were in st. louis--" "i never did it in this world!" declared claus, emphatically. "did you not claim to be our uncle?" asked julian. "uncle!" ejaculated jack. "great scott!" claus did not attempt to deny this. bob and jake were almost within reach of him, and they looked hard at him to see what he would say, and he was afraid to affirm that there was no truth in the statement for fear of something that might happen afterward. he glanced at the boys, who were looking steadily at him, and jack moved a step or two nearer to him with his hands clenched and a fierce frown on his face, all ready to knock him down if he denied it; so claus thought it best not to answer the question at all. "you won't think it hard of me if i hit him a time or two?" asked jack. "come here and behave yourself," said julian, walking up and taking jack by the arm. "i think, if the truth was known, he is in a worse fix than we are." "but he claims to be my uncle!" exclaimed jack. the tone in which these words were uttered, and jack's anger over the claim of relationship, caused bob and jake to break out into a roar of laughter. "we'll take your word for it," said bob, as soon as he could speak; "but we can't waste any more time here. follow along after me, and jake will bring up the rear." bob at once set off to the spot where they had left their provisions, and, having picked them up, led the way down the almost perpendicular side of the ravine until they reached the bottom. now and then he would look over his shoulder at jack, who was following close behind him, and would break into another peal of laughter. "so you didn't want that fellow to claim relationship with you?" said he. "well, i don't blame you. he has done nothing but tell us one pack of lies after another ever since we met him. the only thing that had the least speck of truth in it was that we should find you here at the haunted mine." this remark was made in a low tone, so that it did not reach the ears of claus, who was following some distance behind. if claus had not seen already that he was in a "fix," he ought to have seen it now. "now, perhaps you wouldn't mind telling us what you are going to do with us," jack ventured to say, in reply. "well, the men there at dutch flat are hot on our trail now," asserted bob. "how do you know that?" "because our mule got away from us when we tried to shove him over the bluff. we wanted to destroy everything we had that we could not carry on our backs, but he got away from us. banta warned us against coming up here, and we fooled him by making him believe we were going straight down to denver; but he will be after us now. if he comes, he had better take us unawares; that's all." "we don't want to see that fight," remarked jack. "you'll let us go before that comes off?" "oh, yes; when we get you so deep in the mountains that you can't find your way back readily, why, then we'll let you go. if you behave yourselves, you won't get hurt." bob led the way at a more rapid pace when they reached the bottom of the gorge, jumping from rock to rock, and climbing over fallen trees that lay in their road, and jack followed his example. he knew that bob was making the trail more difficult to follow, but it was done in order to keep out of argument with his charge; for bob often stopped, whenever he came to a place that took some pains to get over, and saw that those who were following him left no tracks behind them. "there!" said bob, pulling off his hat and looking back at the way they had come; "i reckon banta will find some trouble in tracking us up here. i am hungry, and we'll stop here and have something to eat." after they had satisfied their appetites they took a little time to rest, and then set off again at a more rapid pace than ever. it was almost dark when they stopped to camp for the night. the boys were tired, and they showed it as soon as they had disposed of their bacon and hard-tack by wrapping their blankets about them and lying down to sleep, with their feet to the fire. their slumber was as sound as though they were surrounded by friends instead of being in the power of those who had robbed them of their hard-earned wealth. it seemed to them that they had scarcely closed their eyes when they were awakened by the sound of footsteps moving about, and threw off their blankets in time to see bob cutting off a slice of bacon. it was as dark as pitch in the woods, and the boys did not see how bob was to find his way through them. "it will be light enough by the time we have our breakfast eaten," said he, in response to the inquiry of julian. "you have a watch with you. what time is it?" julian had a watch with him, it is true, but he had been careful how he drew it out in the presence of bob and jake. it had no chain attached to it, and the boy was not aware that bob knew anything about it; but he produced the gold timepiece and announced that it was just five o'clock. this was another thing over which julian had had an argument with jack, who believed that, with the money he had at his disposal, he ought to have the best watch that could be procured, and, in spite of jack's arguments, he had purchased the best american patent lever he could find. jack's watch was an ordinary silver one, and he said that by it he could tell the time when dinner was ready as well as he could by a good timepiece. "do you want this watch?" asked julian, because he thought the man who would steal his money would not be above stealing his watch also. "oh, no," replied bob, with a laugh; "you can keep that. i wanted your money, and, now that i have it, i am satisfied." by the time breakfast was cooked and eaten there was light enough to show them the way, and bob once more took the lead. there was no trail to guide them--nothing but the gully, which twisted and turned in so many ways that julian almost grew heart-sick when he thought of finding his way back there in company with jack. more than once he was on the point of asking bob if he did not think they had gone far enough, but the man had been so friendly and good-natured all the time that he did not want to give him a chance to act in any other way. so he kept with him during that long day's tramp, looking into all the gullies he crossed, and once or twice he slyly reached behind him and pulled down a branch of an evergreen that happened to come in his way. "that's the way our women used to do in old revolutionary times when they were captured and wanted to leave some trail for their rescuers to follow," soliloquized julian; "but bob doesn't take any notice of it." "well, i reckon we'll stop here for the night," remarked bob, when it got so dark that he could scarcely see. "this is as far as we shall ask you to go with us, julian. i suppose you are mighty glad to get clear of us." "yes, i am," assented julian, honestly. "if you will give us what you have in your pockets, you can go your way and we will make no attempt to capture you." "oh, we couldn't think of that! you have wealth enough to keep you all your lives, and i have struggled for ten years to gain a fortune, and to-day i have just got it." "what would you do if somebody should catch you along the trail, somewhere? you would come in for a hanging, sure." "don't you suppose we know all that? it is a good plan for you to catch your man before you hang him. we have two revolvers apiece, and you know what that means." "you don't count claus worth anything, then," remarked jack. "eh? oh, yes, we do," exclaimed bob, who wondered what claus would think of him for leaving him out entirely. "but claus is not used to this sort of business, you know. he could make a noise, and that is about all he could do." "we know we should come in for a hanging if those fellows at dutch flat should ever get their hands on us, but when they do that we'll be dead. you need not think we are going to stay in this country, where everybody has got so rich, and we be as poor as job's turkey all the while. we have just as good a right to be rich as they have." when jake got to talking this way it was a sure sign that he was rapidly getting toward a point which bob called "crazy." he was always mad when he spoke of others' wealth and his own poverty; and the boys, who were anxious to get him off from that subject, began their preparations for supper. they were glad to know they had gone far enough with the robbers to insure their escape, and they were disposed to be talkative; but they noticed that claus was more downhearted than he had ever been. he lit his pipe, leaned back against a tree, and went off into a brown study. "i suppose he'll get a portion of the money that was stolen from us," said jack, in a low tone. "no, he won't," answered julian in the same cautious manner. "he has been promised some of that money, but i'll bet you he don't get a cent of it. he is here in these fellows' power, and they'll take what they please out of him." the boys, although as tired as they were on the previous day, were not by any means inclined to sleep. in fact they did not believe they had been asleep at all until they heard bob moving around the fire. it was five o'clock by julian's watch, and his first care was to find out what had become of claus, who lay muffled up, head and ears, in his blanket; but he would not have stayed there if he knew what was going to happen to him during the day. "now perhaps you will be good enough to tell us what route we have to travel in order to get out of here," said jack. "have you a compass with you?" asked jake. no, the boys had none; they did not think they would need one when they were surrounded by friends who knew the woods, and consequently they had not brought one with them. "you know which way is east, don't you? well, place your backs to the sun, and keep it there all the time. dutch flat lies directly west of here." "that will be good if the sun shines all the time," said julian. "but if it goes under a cloud--then what?" "then you will have to go into camp, and stay until it comes out again," replied bob. "but at this time of the year you have nothing to fear on that score. are you going already? well, good-bye. why don't you wish us good luck with that money we took from you?" "because i don't believe it will bring you good luck," said jack. "we worked hard for it, and we ought to have it. i wish you good-bye, but i don't wish you good luck." "shake hands with your uncle, why don't you?" asked bob. "not much!" returned jack. "if that money doesn't bring him some misfortune i shall miss my guess." julian and jack shouldered the blankets which contained the few provisions they had left, plunged into the thicket, and were out of hearing in a few minutes. the robbers sat by the fire without making any effort to continue their journey, and presently bob turned his eyes upon claus. "now, my friend, it is time for you to go, too," said he. chapter xxx. home again. claus had been expecting something of this kind. it is true he had a revolver, but by the time he could reach back to his hip pocket and draw it he could be covered by jake, whose weapon lay close at hand. there was but one thing to be done--he had to surrender. instead of getting three thousand dollars for his share in the robbery, he would be turned loose in that country, two hundred miles from anybody, without a cent left in his pockets--that is, if bob searched him. "well," said claus, "i suppose you want all the money i have around me. i should think you might leave me a little." "how much have you?" asked bob. without saying a word, claus unbuttoned his vest, worked at something on the inside, and presently hauled out a belt, which he handed over to bob. it did not stick out as though there was much money in it, and when bob began to investigate it, all he drew forth was twenty-five dollars. "you are a wealthy millionaire, i understood you to say," exclaimed bob, in great disgust. "this looks like it!" "i told you, when i had purchased the pack-mule, provisions and tools, that i should not have much left," answered claus. "that's all i have, and if you take it from me i shall starve." "stand up!" commanded jake, who was as disgusted as bob was. "you are sure you haven't got any about your clothes? but, first, i'll take possession of that revolver." the revolver having been disposed of, jake then turned his attention to feeling in all claus's pockets, but he found nothing more there--claus had evidently given them the last cent he had. "take your little bills," said bob, throwing claus's belt back to him. "if you are careful of them, they will serve you till you get back to denver." "and when you get there, you can go to one of those men who own that block of buildings and borrow another thousand or two. now, get out of here!" put in jake. "i thank you for this much," returned claus. "but i should thank you a good deal more if you would give me my revolver. i may want it before i reach denver." "give it to him, jake. he hasn't pluck enough to shoot at us or anybody else. make yourself scarce about here!" "they think they are awful smart!" thought claus, when he had placed some bushes between him and the robbers. "why didn't they think to look in my shoe? i have three hundred dollars that they don't know anything about. now i guess i'll go back to st. louis; and if anybody ever says anything to me about an 'old horse,' i'll knock him down." we are now in a position to take a final leave of claus, and we do it with perfect readiness. did he get back to st. louis in safety? yes, he got there in due course, but he had some fearful sufferings on the way. in the first place, he was nearly a week in finding his way out of the mountains; and by the time he reached a miner's cabin he was so weak from want of food that he fell prone upon the floor, and stayed there until the miner came from his work and found him there. of course he was taken in and cared for, and when he was able to resume his journey he offered to present the miner with every cent he had,--twenty-five dollars,--to pay him for his kindness; but the miner would not take it. "you will need every cent of that before you get to denver," said he. "the food and care i have given you don't amount to anything. good-bye, and good luck to you." he was nearly three times as long in finding his way back to denver. he tried to buy a horse on the way, but no one had any to sell. he now and then found a chance to ride when he was overtaken by a teamster who was going somewhere for a load, but the most of his journey was accomplished on foot. his long tramp never cost him a cent, for everybody pitied his forlorn condition. "i tell you, if i had been treated this way by those robbers i wouldn't look as bad as i do now," claus often said to himself; "i would have seen california before i went home." all this while, claus was on nettles for fear he would see some of the men from dutch flat who were in pursuit of him; but the trouble was, the miners all went the other way. they never dreamed that claus was going home, but saddled their horses at mr. banta's command, and, making no attempt to follow the devious course of the robbers through the mountains, took the "upper trail," and did their best to shut them off from the towns toward which they knew the men were hastening to buy some more provisions. what luck they met with we shall presently see. no man ever drew a longer breath than claus did when he came within sight of denver. he went at once to the hotel where he had left his clothes, but the landlord did not recognize him and ordered him out of the house; but he finally succeeded in making himself known; and, now that he was safely out of reach of the miners at dutch flat, he had some fearful stories to tell of his experience. "you know i left my clothes with you on condition that you would keep them for me for a year," said claus, who thought that was the wisest thing that he ever did. "well, i want them now. i have the key to my trunk, so everything is all right." claus was not long in recovering from the effects of his journey, for he could not help thinking that mr. banta, or some other man who belonged to the flat, would find out that he had gone to denver and come after him; so he remained there but two days before he took the cars for home. "now i am safe," said he, settling down in his seat and pulling his hat over his eyes; "i would like to see them catch me. but what shall i do when i get back to st. louis? i must settle down into the same old life i have always led, and that will be a big come-down for me." claus is there now, spending his time at the pool-rooms, where he makes the most of his living, and ready at any time to talk about the mines and the terrible experience he had there. and where were julian and jack all this while? to begin with, they were in the ravine, making all the haste they could to leave the robbers behind and reach the haunted mine before their provisions gave out. that troubled them worse than anything. "if our grub stops, where are we going to get more?" asked jack. "i don't believe there is a house any nearer than dutch flat." "and we can't get there any too soon," returned julian. "at any rate, we are better off than claus is. what do you suppose they intend to do with him?" "i suppose they intend to divide the money with him. what makes you think they would do anything else?" "from the way they treated him. if we could learn the whole upshot of the matter, you would find that they don't intend to give him a dollar." "i wish we could see mr. banta for about five minutes," said jack. "i don't like to give up that money. it is the first we ever earned by digging in the ground, and i was going to suggest to you that we keep some of it." julian replied by lengthening his steps and going ahead at a faster rate than ever. he, too, did not like to confess that the money was lost,--that is, if they could only get word to mr. banta in time. he did not know where the robbers were heading for; but, with two hundred men at his back, julian was certain he could come up with them before they had left the country entirely. "but i hope they will not hurt the robbers," said julian. "if they will just get the dust, that is all i shall ask of them." about five o'clock in the afternoon, when it began to grow dark in the ravine, julian, who had been all the time leading the way, stopped and pointed silently before him. jack looked, and there was the camp they had occupied two nights before. "we are on the right road, so far," said he. "if we don't miss our way to-morrow we are all right." the boys had not stopped to eat any dinner, and for that reason they were hungry. they spent a long time in cooking and eating their bacon, and julian said there was just enough for two more meals. he did not like to think of what might happen when it was all gone, and, after replenishing the fire, bade his companion good-night, wrapped his blanket about him, and laid down to rest; but sleep was out of the question. a dozen times he got up to see the time, and there was jack, snoring away as lustily as he had done at the haunted mine. julian wished that he, too, could forget his troubles in the same way, but when morning came he had not closed his eyes. julian proved to be an invaluable guide, for that night they slept in the first camp they had made after leaving the haunted mine. if he had always known the path, he could not have brought his companion straighter to it. "now keep your eyes open for the trail we made when we came down from our mine, and then we are at home. but i say, julian, i shall not be in favor of staying here. all our money is gone, i don't feel in the humor to work for any more, and we will go down to dutch flat." "and we'll stay there just long enough to find somebody starting out for denver, and we'll go with him," replied julian. "i don't want anything more to do with the mines as long as i live." the night passed away, and the next morning, without waiting to cook breakfast, the two boys started to find the trail that led up the bluff to the haunted mine. they were a long time in finding it--so long, in fact, that julian began to murmur discouraging words; but finally jack found it; and now began the hardest piece of work they had undertaken since they left the robbers. the cliff was as steep as it looked to be when they gazed down into its depths from the heights above, and they did not see how they had managed to come down it in the first place. "are you sure the mine is up here?" asked julian, seating himself on a fallen tree to rest. "i should not like to go up there and find nothing." "didn't you see the trail we made in coming down?" inquired jack. "of course we are on the right track; but if you spend all your time in resting, we shall never be nearer the top than we are this minute." julian once more set to work to climb the hill, and in half an hour more jack pushed aside some branches that obstructed his way and found himself in plain view of the mine. julian was satisfied now, but declared he could not go any farther until he had recovered all the wind he had expended in going up the bluff; but jack wanted to see that everything in the camp was just as they left it. he walked on toward the lean-to, and the first thing that attracted his attention was that his goods had been disturbed. the skins were gone, some of the blankets were missing, and there were hardly provisions enough to get them a square meal. julian came up in response to his call, and was obliged to confess that there had been other robbers while they were absent. "let us dish up the few provisions left, take those things we want to save, and dig out for the flat," said julian. "i am sure there is nothing here to keep us, now." "and we'll leave the dirt-bucket here for somebody else to use," added jack. "if he thinks there is a lead down there, let him go and try it. i did not send up enough dust the last time i was down there to pay for the rope." at the end of an hour the boys resumed their journey, each one loaded with a few things they wanted to save, and in two hours more they arrived within sight of dutch flat. some few of the men had already given up their workings and were sitting in front of the store, smoking their pipes; but one of them speedily caught sight of the boys, and the miners broke out into a cheer. in a few seconds more they were surrounded, shaking hands with all of them, and trying in vain to answer their questions all at once. "this is no way to do it," declared julian. "let us put our things in the cabin and get our breath, and i will tell you the story." "in the first place," began jack, as he deposited the things with which his arms were filled and came out and seated himself on the doorsteps of mr. banta's cabin, "let me ask a few questions. i won't delay the story five minutes. where is the man who owns this house?" "mr. banta?" said one of the miners. "he took the upper trail two or three days ago, and rode with all possible speed in the direction of mendota. he hopes in that way to cut off those villains." "he will do it, too, for they have no horses," said julian. "no horses? what did they do with them?" "i don't know, i am sure," answered julian, in surprise. "they were on foot when they came to rob us." "why, their mule came up here a few hours after they left, and made the biggest kind of a fuss, and banta suspected something at once. he called for some men to go with him, and he went as straight as he could to your mine. you were not there, and that proved that those miners had paid you a visit." "we are going to get our dust again!" said julian, slapping jack on the shoulder. "but i hope they won't hurt the robbers after they catch them." "well, that is rather a difficult thing to tell. a man who comes into a mining-camp and watches his chance to steal money instead of working for it, takes his life in his hand." "then they must have been the ones who disturbed our things," said jack. "probably they were. they brought the skins of the ghosts back, and also some of your provisions. they are there in his cabin now. now let us have that story." chapter xxxi. conclusion. when julian had fairly settled down to tell his story, which he did by crossing his right leg over his left leg and clasping his hands around his knee, he discovered that there was not so much to be told as he had thought for. his adventure with the robbers was nothing more than might have happened to any one of the miners who were standing around him; the only question in his mind was, would the other miner have fared as well as he did? "they came to our mine and stole our dust; but i don't see how they found out about the full bag. mr. banta told us to be careful about that." "why, mr. banta told it himself!" remarked one of the miners. "he said you had a bagful hidden away." "you see, he had to do it, or the men here would have become suspicions and gone up to your mine in a body," explained another. "go on--what next?" "they took the full bag, as well as the half-empty one, and told us we would have to go with them on a three days' journey into the mountains, so as to keep you fellows here in ignorance of the robbery as long as possible but they took us only a two days' journey, and then told us we had gone far enough. that's all there was of it." "is that all you have to tell?" asked one. "well, no. they went away from here on horseback, you said. now, what did they do with their animals? they were on foot when they came to see us, and they never said 'horses' once during the two days we were with them." "probably they rode their horses as far as they could, and then killed them." "no doubt they pushed them over a bluff," said a man who had not spoken before. "we did not see any horses; of that much we are certain. the only thing i can't see into is, what they did with claus after we went away. of course they agreed to give him a portion of the money they got off us." "maybe so, but i don't think they did it. go on--how did they treat you?" "as well as they knew how," answered julian, emphatically. "that is the reason why i hope mr. banta will be kind to them if he catches them." "well, you'll see how he'll treat them," retorted a miner. "you'll never see those three men again." julian became uneasy every time the men spoke of the way the miners would use their prisoners if they found them, but he knew it would be of no use to say a word. if anything was done to them, he was in hopes the miners would get through with it before they came to camp. he was not used to any western way of dealing with criminals, and he thought he was getting too old to become used to it now. this was the way julian told his story, in answer to numerous questions of the miners, who finally heard all they wanted to know. in regard to what had happened to claus, none of the miners had any idea. he did not get any of the dust that was stolen from the boys, and he would be lucky if he got away with a dollar in his pocket. "do you know, i have been on the watch for them fellows to get into a squabble of some kind before we saw the last of them?" remarked a miner. "that bob was a regular thief--one could tell that by looking at him. the short, pursy fellow--you called him claus, didn't you?--looked like a gentleman; but his face did not bear out his good clothes." the miners then slowly dispersed, one after the other,--some to their work, and some to lounge in front of the grocery, smoking their pipes,--and the boys were left to themselves. their first care was to get something to eat, for they had not had a sufficient quantity of food, the bacon and hard-tack they first put into their blankets having disappeared until there was none left. provisions were handy in mr. banta's cabin, and when they had got fairly to work on it they heard a sound from the miners whom they had left outside. "here they come!" shouted a voice. "now we'll see what will be done with those prisoners!" the boys looked at each other in blank amazement. they had caught the robbers, so their dust was safe; but what were they going to do with the culprits, now that they had captured them? "i declare," said another miner, at length, "they haven't brought any prisoners with them! and there's tony, with his arm tied up in a sling!" the boys had by this time reached the door, and saw mr. banta, accompanied by a dozen miners, ride into the camp. the boys looked closely at them, but could not see anybody that looked like bob and jake; but tony did not seem to have left all the fight there was in him up in the mountains, for he raised his rifle and flourished it over his head. "halloo! mr. banta," shouted julian. "you meant to catch them, did you? but i guess you came out at the little end of the horn." "well, there!" exclaimed mr. banta, stopping his horse and addressing himself to his men; "didn't i tell you those boys would come back all right? put it there, kids!" julian and jack shook hands with all the returning miners before they saw an opportunity to propound any other questions; and then, when they did ask them, they did not get any satisfactory answers. "did you get our dust?" asked jack. "yes, sir! and the men--ah!" said mr. banta, who stopped and looked around at the miners as if he hardly knew what to say next. "well, what about the men?" inquired julian. "you saw them, of course." "oh, yes, we saw the men; and when we asked them where the dust was that they stole down here at the haunted mine, they took it out of their clothes and gave it to us. ain't that so, boys?" the men around him nodded their heads emphatically, as if to say their leader had told nothing but the truth, but there was something in their faces that told a different story. the boys concluded they would ask no more questions while mr. banta was around, but when he went away they were sure they would get at the truth of the matter. "and, julian, there's your money," continued mr. banta, who had been trying to take something out of his coat-pocket. "there is the full bag, and there is the other. the next time i leave you with such an amount of money to take care of, i'll give you my head for a football." "why, mr. banta, _you_ told them all about this!" asserted jack, laughingly. "no, i never!" shouted mr. banta. "didn't you tell the men what we had done and all about the dust we had?" asked julian. "you _did_ tell them, and the robbers were sitting by the camp-fire, and heard it all." "eh? oh, well--i did say--i could not well help it--let us go into the cabin and see what you have to eat." mr. banta lost no time in getting into the cabin, for the boys had asked a question he could not answer, and when they followed him in he was engaged in filling his pipe. "we rode to the haunted mine and found you were not there, so we came back and took the upper trail on the way to mendota," said the miner, talking rapidly, as if he hoped to shut off any questions the boys might have ready to ask him. "we had a good time. we found the men there and asked them for the money, and they gave it over as peaceable and quiet as could be. now, don't let us hear any more about it. you know the whole of the story. is this all you have to ease a man's appetite? why, i could eat it all myself!" "that's a funny story," whispered jack, as he and julian went to the spring after a bucket of water. "well, keep still," said julian. "he told us not to say anything more about it, and that's just the same as an order. we'll get the straight of the matter yet." "who will you go to?" "we'll go to tony for it. he was the man who was shot in the fracas, and he will tell us all about it." it was two days before julian had an opportunity to speak to tony in private. tony's right arm was injured so badly that he could not use a shovel, and the boys volunteered to go down in his mine and help him--a voluntary act on their part which gained them the good-will of all the miners. one day, when tony was sitting by his mine smoking his pipe and julian was waiting for jack to fill up their bucket, the latter thought the chance had come, for tony was unusually talkative that morning. "now, there is no need that you should keep this thing away from us any longer," said julian, suddenly. "who shot those two men?" tony was taken off his guard and looked all around as if he was waiting for some one to suggest an answer. finally he took off his hat and dug his fingers into his hair. "who said anything about shooting a man?" he asked. "no one has said anything about it this morning, but i just want to know if everything i suspect is true," answered julian, with his eyes fastened on tony's face. "some one who was there can't keep his mouth shut," remarked tony, in great disgust. "mr. banta said he didn't want you to know anything about it, and here that man has gone and blowed the whole thing! but you'll remember that i didn't say a word about it--won't you?" "no one shall ever know what you tell me," asserted julian. "did you shoot them?" "well, i couldn't help it--could i? we came up with them just before we got to mendota. we rode right plump onto them before we knew it, and without saying a word they began to shoot. if they had had rifles, some of us would have gone under; but they had nothing but revolvers, and the first thing i knew something went slap through my arm, and i began to shoot, too. i got in two shots while you would be thinking about it, and then mr. banta looked through their clothes and got the dust. we went down to mendota and reported the matter to the sheriff, and he sent up and buried them." "it is a wonder to me that they didn't arrest you," said julian. "who--me? what did i do? the men were shooting at us, and i was defending myself. it would have taken more men than they had there to arrest me, for any man would have done the same. anyhow, we got your money back. say! don't lisp a word of this to mr. banta. he would go for me hot and heavy." julian was obliged to promise again that mr. banta should never hear a word of what tony had told him; but that night he told it to jack, who said that his "funny story" had come out just as he thought it would. "you said you didn't want them to deal with the culprits here in camp, and you have your wish," said jack. not long after that the miners, discouraged, packed up, by companies of half a dozen or more, bid good-bye to their associates, and struck out for other localities. dutch flat was "played out," there was no gold there for them, and they were going where they could do better. some of them talked of going home, while others, whose "piles" were not quite as large as they wished, were going to try it again for another year. mr. banta lingered there for some time, and then he, too, astonished the boys by bringing up his tools and telling them that next day he would strike for denver. "and when i get there i don't think i shall stop," said he. "i have been away from my home in the granite hills so long that i won't know how to act when i get there, and i can't learn any younger than i can now. i am going as far as st. louis with you, and then i shall strike off alone." this put new life into the boys. as soon as it became known in camp that mr. banta was going away, a dozen others joined in with his party, and when they rode away from the camp the few miners who were left behind cheered themselves hoarse. the boys had been "to the mines," had met with some adventures while there, and they were ready to go back among civilized people once more. their stay in denver did not last more than a week, and the boys were made to promise, over and over again, that after they had seen their friends in st. louis they would go back there to live. everything they had in the world was there, the western country seemed to agree with them, and there they would remain. they had not yet completed their course at the business school, and when that was done they must look for some useful occupation in which to spend their lives. mr. banta proved that he had some money in the bank before he had been in denver two days. the boys left him at his old hotel, clad in a miner's suit, and looking altogether, as he expressed it, "like a low-down tramp," and when they saw him again they could hardly recognize him. the barber had been at work on him, the tailor had done his best to fit him out; but the squeeze he gave their hands proved that he was the same "old banta" still. the boys never forgot him; his kindness had saved them many a dollar. after taking leave of mr. banta at st. louis the boys took up their quarters at a leading hotel, and for two weeks devoted themselves to calling upon their friends. as they signed their names to the register julian whispered, "i have often thought, while i have been carrying messages here in the city and looked into this hotel while hurrying past it, that the men who could put up at a first-class house like this must be a happy lot, and now i have a chance to see how it goes myself. jack, let us go down and have a glass of soda water. why don't you grumble about that the way you did the last time we were here?" but jack did not feel like grumbling--he was too happy for that. he did not think, while he was finding fault with julian for the wages he had spent at the express office in buying 'old horse,' that he was one whose fortunes hung upon the letter that was to tell him about the haunted mine. the end. the john c. winston co.'s popular juveniles. harry castlemon. how i came to write my first book. when i was sixteen years old i belonged to a composition class. it was our custom to go on the recitation seat every day with clean slates, and we were allowed ten minutes to write seventy words on any subject the teacher thought suited to our capacity. one day he gave out "what a man would see if he went to greenland." my heart was in the matter, and before the ten minutes were up i had one side of my slate filled. the teacher listened to the reading of our compositions, and when they were all over he simply said: "some of you will make your living by writing one of these days." that gave me something to ponder upon. i did not say so out loud, but i knew that my composition was as good as the best of them. by the way, there was another thing that came in my way just then. i was reading at that time one of mayne reid's works which i had drawn from the library, and i pondered upon it as much as i did upon what the teacher said to me. in introducing swartboy to his readers he made use of this expression: "no visible change was observable in swartboy's countenance." now, it occurred to me that if a man of his education could make such a blunder as that and still write a book, i ought to be able to do it, too. i went home that very day and began a story, "the old guide's narrative," which was sent to the _new york weekly_, and came back, respectfully declined. it was written on both sides of the sheets but i didn't know that this was against the rules. nothing abashed, i began another, and receiving some instruction, from a friend of mine who was a clerk in a book store, i wrote it on only one side of the paper. but mind you, he didn't know what i was doing. nobody knew it; but one day, after a hard saturday's work--the other boys had been out skating on the brick-pond--i shyly broached the subject to my mother. i felt the need of some sympathy. she listened in amazement, and then said: "why, do you think you could write a book like that?" that settled the matter, and from that day no one knew what i was up to until i sent the first four volumes of gunboat series to my father. was it work? well, yes; it was hard work, but each week i had the satisfaction of seeing the manuscript grow until the "young naturalist" was all complete.--_harry castlemon in the writer._ gunboat series. vols. by harry castlemon. $ . frank the young naturalist. frank on a gunboat. frank in the woods. frank before vicksburg. frank on the lower mississippi. frank on the prairie. rocky mountain series. vols. by harry castlemon. $ . frank among the rancheros. frank in the mountains. frank at don carlos' rancho. sportsman's club series. vols. by harry castlemon. $ . the sportsman's club in the saddle. the sportsman's club afloat. the sportsman's club among the trappers. frank nelson series. vols. by harry castlemon. $ . snowed up. frank in the forecastle. the boy traders. roughing it series. vols. by harry castlemon. $ . george in camp. george at the fort. george at the wheel. rod and gun series. vols. by harry castlemon. $ . don gordon's shooting box. the young wild fowlers. rod and gun club. go-ahead series. vols. by harry castlemon. $ . tom newcombe. go-ahead. no moss. war series. vols. by harry castlemon. $ . true to his colors. marcy the blockade-runner. rodney the partisan. marcy the refugee. rodney the overseer. sailor jack the trader. houseboat series. vols. by harry castlemon. $ . the houseboat boys. the mystery of lost river cañon. the young game warden. afloat and ashore series. vols. by harry castlemon. $ . rebellion in dixie. a sailor in spite of himself. the ten-ton cutter. complete catalog of best books for boys and girls mailed on application to the publishers the john c. winston co., philadelphia the roundabout library for young people this well-known series of books is recognized as the best library of copyright books for young people, sold at popular prices. the authors represented in the roundabout library are not only the best well-known writers of juvenile literature, but the titles listed comprise the best writings of these authors, over titles are now in this library and all new titles will be selected with the same care as in the past, for stories that are not only entertaining but equally _instructive_ and _elevating_. this respect for wholesome juvenile literature is what has made and kept _the roundabout library better than any other library of books for boys and girls_. our aim is to maintain the supremacy of these books over all others _from every viewpoint_, and to make the superior features so apparent that those who have once read one, will always return to the roundabout library for more. _bound in extra cloth, with gold title and appropriate cover designs stamped in colors, attractive and durable, printed on the best paper from large clear type. illustrated, mo._ price per. volume, $. catalogue mailed on application to the publishers. the john c. winston co., publishers philadelphia roundabout library for young people selected from the works of alger, castlemon, ellis, stephens, henty, mrs. lillie and other writers. price, per volume, $ . =across texas.= by edward s. ellis. =adventures in canada; or, life in the woods.= by john c. geikie. =alison's adventures.= by lucy c. lillie. =american family robinson, the; or, the adventures of a family lost in the great desert of the west.= by w. d. belisle. =bear hunters of the rocky mountains, the.= by anne bowman. =ben's nugget; or, a boy's search for a fortune.= by horatio alger, jr. =bob burton; or, the young ranchman of the missouri.= by horatio alger, jr. =bonnie prince charlie; a tale of fontenoy and culloden.= by g. a. henty. =brave billy.= by edward s. ellis. =brave tom; or, the battle that won.= by edward s. ellis. =by england's aid; or, the freeing of the netherlands ( - ).= by g. a. henty. =by pike and dyke; a tale of the rise of the dutch republic.= by g. a. henty. =by right of conquest; or, with cortez in mexico.= by g. a. henty. =by love's sweet rule.= by gabrielle emelie jackson. =cabin in the clearing, the.= a tale of the frontier. by edward s. ellis. =camping out, as recorded by "kit."= by c. a. stephens. =camp in the foothills, the.= by harry castlemon. =cornet of horse, the.= a tale of marlborough's wars by g. a. henty. =cruise of the firefly.= by edward s. ellis. =dear days, a story of washington school life.= by ada mickle. =diccon the bold.= a story of the days of columbus. by john russell coryell. =do and dare; or, a brave boy's fight for fortune.= by horatio alger, jr. =dog crusoe, the. a tale of the western prairies.= by r. m. ballantyne. =dog of cotopaxi, the.= by hezekiah butterworth. =doris and theodora.= by margaret vandegrift. =dr. gilbert's daughters.= by margaret h. matthews. =dragon and the raven, the; or, the days of king alfred.= by g. a. henty. =elam storm, the wolfer; or, the lost nugget.= by harry castlemon. =elinor belden; or, the step brothers.= by lucy c. lillie. =esther's fortune.= by lucy c. lillie. =floating treasure.= by harry castlemon. =four little indians.= by ella mary coates. =family dilemma.= by lucy c. lillie. =floating light of the goodwin sands, the.= by r. m. ballantyne. =for honor's sake.= by lucy c. lillie. =four boys; or, the story of the forest fire.= by edward s. ellis. =fox hunting, as recorded by "raed."= by c. a. stephens. =freaks on the fells.= by r. m. ballantyne. =gascoyne, the sandalwood trader.= by r. m. ballantyne. =girl's ordeal, a.= by lucy c. lillie =gorilla hunters, the.= by r. m. ballantyne. =great cattle trail, the.= by edward s. ellis. =hunt on snow shoes, a.= by edward s. ellis. =hartwell farm, the.= by elizabeth b. comins. =hector's inheritance; or, the boys of smith institute.= by horatio alger, jr. =helen glenn; or, my mother's enemy.= by lucy c. lillie. =helping himself; or, grant thornton's ambition.= by horatio alger, jr. =honest ned.= by edward s. ellis. =haunted mine, the.= by harry castlemon. =in freedom's cause.= a story of wallace and bruce. by g. a. henty. =in the reign of terror; the adventures of a westminster boy.= by g. a. henty. =jack midwood; or, bread cast upon the waters.= by edward s. ellis. =joe wayring at home; or, the adventures of a fly rod.= by harry castlemon. =kangaroo hunters, the; or, adventures in the bush.= by anne bowman. =king's rubies, the.= by adelaide fulaer bell. =lady green satin.= by baroness deschesnez. =left on labrador; or, the cruise of the yacht "curlew."= by c. a. stephens. =lena wingo, the mohawk.= by edward s. ellis. =lenny, the orphan.= by margaret hosmer. =lion of the north. the; a tale of the times of gustavus adolphus.= by g. a. henty. =luke walton; or, the chicago newsboy.= by horatio alger, jr. =lynx hunting.= by c. a. stephens. =limber lew, the circus king.= by edward s. ellis. =marion berkley.= by elizabeth b. comins. =missing pocket-book, the.= by harry castlemon. =mysterious andes, the.= by hezekiah butterworth. =northern lights.= stories from swedish and finnish authors. =off to the geysers; or, the young yachters in iceland.= by c. a. stephens. =on the amazon; or, the cruise of the "rambler."= by c. a. stephens. =on the trail of the moose.= by edward s. ellis. =orange and green; a tale of the boyne and limerick.= by g. a. henty. =oscar in africa.= by harry castlemon. =our boys in panama.= by hezekiah butterworth. =our fellows; or, skirmishes with the swamp dragoons.= by harry castlemon. =path in the ravine, the.= by edward s. ellis. =plucky dick; or, sowing and reaping.= by edward s. ellis. =queen's body guard, the.= by margaret vandegrift =question of honor.= by lynde palmer. =righting the wrong.= by edward s. ellis. =river fugitives, the.= by edward s. ellis. =romain kalbris.= his adventures by sea and shore. translated from the french of hector malot. =rose raymond's wards.= by margaret vandegrift. =ruth endicott's way.= by lucy c. lillie. =shifting winds; a story of the sea.= by r. m. ballantyne. =snagged and sunk; or, the adventures of a canvas canoe.= by harry castlemon. =squire's daughter, the.= by lucy c. lillie. =steel horse, the; or, the rambles of a bicycle.= by harry castlemon. =store boy, the; or, the fortunes of ben barclay.= by horatio alger, jr. =storm mountain.= by edward s. ellis. =struggling upward; or, luke larkin's luck.= by horatio alger, jr. =tam; or, holding the fort.= by edward s. ellis. =through forest and fire.= by edward s. ellis. =true to the old flag; a tale of the american war of independence.= by g. a. henty. =two bequests, the; or, heavenward led.= by jane r. sommers. =two ways of becoming a hunter.= by harry castlemon. =under drake's flag. a tale of the spanish main.= by g. a. henty. =under the holly.= by margaret hosmer. =under the red flag; or, the adventures of two american boys in the days of the commune.= by edward king. =ways and means.= by margaret vandegrift. =where honor leads.= by lynde palmer. =wilderness fugitives, the.= by edward s. ellis. =wild man of the west, the.= by r. m. ballantyne. =with clive in india; or, the beginning of an empire.= by g. a. henty. =with wolfe in canada; or, the winning of a continent.= by g. a. henty. =wyoming.= by edward s. ellis. =young adventurer, the; tom's trip across the plains.= by horatio alger, jr. =young circus rider, the.= by horatio alger, jr. =young conductor, the; or, winning his way.= by edward s. ellis. =young explorer, the; or, among the sierras.= by horatio alger, jr. =young miner, the; or, tom nelson in california.= by horatio alger, jr. =young ranchers, the; or, fighting the sioux.= by edward s. ellis. =young wreckers the.= by richard meade bache. the john c. winston co.'s popular juveniles j. t. trowbridge. neither as a writer does he stand apart from the great currents of life and select some exceptional phase or odd combination of circumstances. he stands on the common level and appeals to the universal heart, and all that he suggests or achieves is on the plane and in the line of march of the great body of humanity. the jack hazard series of stories, published in the late _our young folks_, and continued in the first volume of _st. nicholas_, under the title of "fast friends," is no doubt destined to hold a high place in this class of literature. the delight of the boys in them (and of their seniors, too) is well founded. they go to the right spot every time. trowbridge knows the heart of a boy like a book, and the heart of a man, too, and he has laid them both open in these books in a most successful manner. apart from the qualities that render the series so attractive to all young readers, they have great value on account of their portraitures of american country life and character. the drawing is wonderfully accurate, and as spirited as it is true. the constable, sellick, is an original character, and as minor figures where will we find anything better than miss wansey, and mr. p. pipkin, esq. the picture of mr. dink's school, too, is capital, and where else in fiction is there a better nick-name than that the boys gave to poor little stephen treadwell, "step hen," as he himself pronounced his name in an unfortunate moment when he saw it in print for the first time in his lesson in school. on the whole, these books are very satisfactory, and afford the critical reader the rare pleasure of the works that are just adequate, that easily fulfill themselves and accomplish all they set out to do.--_scribner's monthly._ the john c. winston co.'s popular juveniles. jack hazard series. vols. by j. t. trowbridge $ . jack hazard and his fortunes the young surveyor. fast friends. doing his best. a chance for himself. lawrence's adventures. charles asbury stephens. this author wrote his "camping out series" at the very height of his mental and physical powers. "we do not wonder at the popularity of these books; there is a freshness and variety about them, and an enthusiasm in the description of sport and adventure, which even the older folk can hardly fail to share."--_worcester spy._ "the author of the camping out series is entitled to rank as decidedly at the head of what may be called boys' literature."--_buffalo courier._ camping out series. by c. a. stephens. all books in this series are mo. with eight full page illustrations. cloth, extra, cents. camping out. as recorded by "kit." "this book is bright, breezy, wholesome, instructive, and stands above the ordinary boys' books of the day by a whole head and shoulders."--_the christian register_, boston. left on labrador; or, the cruise of the schooner yacht "curlew." as recorded by "wash." "the perils of the voyagers, the narrow escapes, their strange expedients, and the fun and jollity when danger had passed, will make boys even unconscious of hunger."--_new bedford mercury._ off to the geysers; or the young yachters in iceland. as recorded by "wade." "it is difficult to believe that wade and read and kit and wash were not live boys, sailing up hudson straits, and reigning temporarily over an esquimaux tribe."--_the independent_, new york. lynx hunting: from notes by the author of "camping out." "of _first quality_ as a boys' book, and fit to take its place beside the best."--_richmond enquirer._ fox hunting. as recorded by "raed." "the most spirited and entertaining book that has as yet appeared. it overflows with incident, and is characterized by dash and brilliancy throughout."--_boston gazette._ on the amazon; or, the cruise of the "rambler." as recorded by "wash." "gives vivid pictures of brazilian adventure and scenery."--_buffalo courier._ distributed proofreading canada team (http://www.pgdpcanada.net) ghosts and family legends. a volume for christmas. by mrs. crowe, authoress of "night side of nature," &c. london: thomas cautley newby, publisher, welbeck street, cavendish square. . contents. _page_ first part. preface v round the fire. first evening the lover's farewell. _the appointment kept_. second evening the white cat. passing spirits. the garde chasse. third evening the carrier. fourth evening rehearsals, &c. prophetic dreams. fifth evening the vigil. the strange dog. the scotch minister. sixth evening the radiant boy. the prediction. haunted houses. the justification. seventh evening the german inn. the benighted traveller. eighth evening my own visit to a haunted house. mr. g.'s adventure. conclusion to first part. appendix autograph letters communicating personal experiences addressed to the author. second part. legends of the earthbound. the italian's story the dutch officer's story the old frenchman's story the swiss lady's story the sheep farmer's story my friend's story preface. it happened that i spent the last winter in a large country mansion, in the north of england, where we had a succession of visitors, and all manner of amusements--dancing, music, cards, billiards, and other games. towards the end of december, , however, the gaiety of the house was temporarily interrupted by a serious misfortune that occurred to one of the party, which, in the evening, occasioned us to assemble with grave faces round the drawing-room fire, where we fell to discussing the slight tenure by which we hold whatever blessings we enjoy, and the sad uncertainty of human life, as it affects us in its most mournful aspect--the lives of those we love. from this theme, the conversation branched out into various speculations regarding the great mysteries of the here and hereafter; the reunion of friends, and the possible interests of them that have past away in the well-being of those they have left behind; till it fell, naturally, into the relation of certain experiences which almost everybody has had, more or less; and which were adduced to fortify the arguments of those who regard the future as less disjoined from the present than it is considered to be by theologians generally. in short, we began to tell ghost stories; and although some of the party professed an utter disbelief in apparitions, they proved to be as fertile as the believers in their contributions--relating something that had happened to themselves or their friends, as having undoubtedly occurred, or to all appearance, occurred--only, with the reservation, that it must certainly have been a dream. the substance of these conversations fills the following pages, and i have told the stories as nearly as possible in the words of the original narrators. of course, i am not permitted to give their names; nobody chooses to confess, in print, that he or anybody belonging to him, has seen a ghost, or believes that he has seen one. there is a sort of odium attached to the imputation, that scarcely anyone seems equal to encounter; and no wonder, when _wise_ people listen to the avowal with such strange incredulity, and pronounce you at the best a superstitious fool, or a patient afflicted with spectral illusions. under these circumstances, whether i have ever seen a ghost, myself, i must decline confiding to the public; but i take almost as courageous a step in avowing my entire and continued belief in the fact that others do occasionally see these things; and i assert, that most of those who related the events contained in the ensuing pages of this work, confessed to me their absolute conviction that they or their friends had actually seen and heard what they said they did. some of the company related curious traditions and legends connected with their family annals; and these form the second part of this little book, which i hope may prove a not uninteresting companion for a christmas fireside. catherine crowe. th _october_, . ghost stories and family legends. round the fire. first evening. "but there are no ghosts now," objected mr. r. "quite the contrary," said i; "i have no doubt there is nobody in this circle who has not either had some experience of the sort in his own person, or been made a confidant of such experiences by friends whose word on any other subject he would feel it impossible to doubt." after some discussion on the existence of ghosts and cognate subjects, it was agreed that each should relate a story, restricting himself to circumstances that had either happened to himself or had been told him by somebody fully entitled to confidence, who had undergone the experience. we followed the order in which we were sitting, and miss p. began as follows:-- "i was some years ago engaged to be married to an officer in the ---- regiment. circumstances connected with our families prevented the union taking place as early as we had expected; and in the mean while captain s., whose regiment was in the west indies, was ordered to join. i need not say that this separation distressed us a good deal, but we consoled each other as well as we could by maintaining a constant correspondence; though there were no steam packets in those days, and letters were much longer on their way and less certain in their arrival than they are now. still i heard pretty regularly, and had no reason for the least uneasiness. "one day that i had been out shopping, and had returned rather tired, i told my mother that i should go and lie down for an hour, for we were going out in the evening, and i was afraid i might have a head-ache, to which i am rather subject; so i went up to my room, took down a book and threw myself on the bed to read or sleep as it might happen. i had read a page or two, and feeling drowsy had laid down the volume in order to compose myself to sleep, when i was aroused by a knock at my chamber door. "'come in,' i said, without turning my head, for i thought it was the maid come to fetch the dress i was going to wear in the evening. "i heard the door open and a person enter, but the foot was not her's; and then i looked round and saw that it was captain s. what came over me then i can't tell you. i knew little of mesmerism at that period, but i have since thought that when a spirit appears, it must have some power of mesmerising the spectator; for i have heard other people who had been in similar situations describe very much what i experienced myself. i was perfectly calm, not in the least frightened or surprised, but transfixed. of course, had i remained in my normal state, i should either have been amazed at seeing captain s. so unexpectedly, especially in my chamber; or if i believed it an apparition, i should have been dreadfully distressed and alarmed; but i was neither; and i can't say whether i thought it himself or his ghost. i was passive, and my mind accepted the phenomenon without question of how such at thing could be. "captain s. approached the bedside, and spoke to me exactly as he was in the habit of doing, and i answered him in the same manner. after the first greeting, he crossed the room to fetch a chair that stood by the dressing table. he wore his uniform, and when his back was turned, i remember distinctly seeing the seams of his coat behind. he brought the chair, and having seated himself by the bed side, he conversed with me for about half-an-hour; he then rose and looking at his watch, said his time had expired and he must go; he bade me good bye and went out by the same door he had entered at. "the moment it closed on him, i knew what had happened; if my hypothesis be correct, his power over me ceased when he disappeared and i returned to my normal state. i screamed, and seized the bell rope which i rang with such violence that i broke it. my mother, who was in the room underneath, rushed up stairs, followed by the servants. they found me on the floor in a fainting state, and for some time i was unable to communicate the cause of my agitation. at length, being somewhat calmed, i desired the servants might leave the room, and then i told my mother what had happened. of course, she thought it was a dream; in vain i assured her it was not, and pointed to the chair which, wonderful to say, had been actually brought to the bedside by the spirit--there it stood exactly as it had been placed by him; luckily nobody had moved it. i said, you know where that chair usually stands; when you were up here a little while ago it was in its usual place--so it was when i lay down--i never moved it; it was placed there by captain s. "my mother was greatly perplexed; she found me so confident and clear; yet, the thing appeared to her impossible. "from that time, i only thought of captain s. as one departed from this life; suspense and its agonies were spared me. i was certain. accordingly, about a month afterwards, when one morning major b. of the ---- regiment sent in his card, i said to my mother, 'now you'll see; he comes to tell me of henry's death.' "it was so. captain s. had died of fever on the day he paid me that mysterious visit." we asked miss p. if any similar circumstance had ever occurred to her before or since. "never," she answered; "i never saw anything of the sort but on that occasion." "i have no experience of my own to relate," said dr. w., "but in the course of my late tour in scotland, i went amongst other places to skye, and i found the whole island talking of an event that had just happened there, which may perhaps interest you. there was a tradesman in portree of the name of robertson; i believe he was a sort of general dealer, as shopkeepers frequently are in those remote localities. whatever his business was, however, it frequently took him to the other islands or the mainland to make purchases. he had arranged to go on one of these expeditious, i think to raasa, when a friend called to inform him that a meeting of the inhabitants was to be held on some public question in which he, robertson, was much interested." "'you had better defer going till after friday,' said mr. brown; 'we can't do without you, and its very possible you may not get back in time.' "'oh, yes, i can do all my business, and be back very well on thursday,' said mr. robertson; objecting that if he waited over friday it would be no use going till monday. brown tried to persuade him to alter his plans, but in vain; 'however,' said he, 'you may rely on seeing me on thursday, if you'll look in, in the evening; as i would not miss the meeting on any account.' "this conversation took place at an early hour on tuesday morning. immediately afterwards mr. robertson bade his wife and children good-bye, and proceeded to the boat which left at eleven o'clock, having on board, besides himself, two other passengers, and two boatmen. "on thursday evening, mr. brown, who had been busying himself in fortifying and encouraging their adherents against the next day, and had taken upon himself to answer for his friend robertson's presence, as soon as he had finished business, set off to keep his appointment with the latter, anxious to ascertain that he was arrived. "his anxiety was soon relieved, for on his way he met him. "'well, here you are,' said he, holding out his hand. "'yes,' answered robertson, not appearing to notice the hand, 'i have kept my promise.' "upon that mr. brown introduced the subject of the meeting, and mentioned the hopes he had of carrying the question, with which robertson seemed satisfied; but as soon as possible turning the conversation into another direction, he began talking to his friend about his wife and children, and certain arrangements he had wished to be made respecting his property. "his mind seemed so much more engrossed with these matters than the meeting, that little was said upon the latter subject, and mr. brown, having parted with him in the street, rather wondered why he chose such a moment to discuss his private affairs. "the next morning, at the appointed hour, the principal inhabitants of the place assembled in a public room at the tun. brown, who wanted to say a word to robertson, lingered at the door; but as he did not come, he thought he must have arrived before himself, and went up stairs. "'is robertson here?' said he, on entering the room. "'no,' said one, 'i'm afraid he's not come back from raasa.' "'oh, yes,' said brown, 'he'll be here; i saw him yesterday evening.' "they then discoursed about the matter in hand for some time, till finding the chairman was about to proceed to business, robertson's absence was again reverted to. "'i know he's come back,' said one, 'for i saw him standing at his own door as i passed last night.' "'he can't have forgotten it,' said another. "'certainly not, for we spoke of it last night,' said brown. "'perhaps he's ill,' suggested somebody. "'just send your man to mr. robertson's, and say we are waiting for him,' said brown to the landlord. "the landlord left the room to do so; and, in the meantime, they proceeded to business. "presently, the landlord re-entered the room, saying, that mrs. robertson answered that her husband had not returned from raasa, and that she did not much expect he would be back till night. "'nonsense,' cried brown, 'why, i saw the man yesterday according to appointment, and had a long conversation with him.' "'i am sure he's come back,' said one who had spoke before. 'i was coming down the street on the other side of the way, and i saw him standing at the door with his apron on. i should have crossed over to speak to him, but i was in a hurry.' "'it's extraordinary,' said the landlord: 'mrs. robertson declares he's not come.' "some jokes were then passed about the apparent defection of robertson from his spouse, and the meeting concluded their business without him, his party being exceedingly annoyed at his absence, which they thought not fair to the cause. "'he should have given us his support.' "'i suppose he has altered his opinions.' "'then he had better have said so.' "'it struck me, certainly, that he was rather lukewarm on the subject when i talked to him last night; but on tuesday i saw him just before he started, and he said he would not miss the meeting on any account. i'll go and look after him and know what he means.' "accordingly, brown proceeded to his friend's house, and found mrs. robertson and her children at dinner. "'weel," mr. brown,' she said, 'so your meeting's over.' "'aye,' said he, 'but where's robertson? why didn't he keep his word with us?' "'why, you see, i dare say he meant to be back--indeed, i know he did: but business won't be neglected, and i suppose he could not manage it.' "'do you mean to say he's not come back!' said brown. "'sure, i do,' answered mrs. r. 'of course, he'd have been at the meeting if he had.' "'but people saw him last night, standing at his own door,' answered the cautious brown. "'na, na, mr. brown, don't you believe that,' said mrs. r., laughing; they that say that had too much whiskey in their een.' "the children laughed at the idea of anybody seeing their father when he was at raasa, and on the whole it was evident, that if john robertson had returned, it was unknown to his family. but what could be his reason for so strange a proceeding, and why, if he wanted to evade the meeting, had he needlessly shown himself at all? why not really stay away from portree? "however, robertson did not appear; and later in the day the landlord of the tun said to brown, as he was passing the door, 'you must have been mistaken about seeing mr. robertson; the boat from raasa is not come in.' "'then he must have come over by some other, for i not only saw him but walked and talked with him. i can't think what he can mean by playing at hide and seek in this way?' "'it's very extraordinary,' said the landlord, 'for i am expecting a hamper from raasa; and so, hearing from you that mr. robertson was come, i went down to inquire about it; but they declare no boat of any sort has come in these two days; the wind's right against them.' "'i know the boat from raasa is not come back,' said the porter; 'for i saw jenny mcgill just now, and she says her husband is not returned.' "'really you'll persuade me that i'm not in my right senses,' said the perplexed brown. 'if ever i saw robertson in my life i saw him last night; i was going to call upon him, as he had asked me to do so before he went away; but i met him, not far from my own house; and what is more, he told me of a thing i did not know before, regarding a purchase he had made, and spoke of what he intended to do with it.' "'it's most extraordinary,' said the landlord. "'eh, sirs,' said an old fishwife, who was standing by, 'i wish it may not be john robertson's ghaist that ye saw, for the wind's sair agin them, and i'd a bad dream about jamie mcgill last night.' "they all laughed; but this was the first suggestion of the sort that had been made; and though he would not confess it, brown began to feel rather uncomfortable; the more so as several things were recalled to his memory that had not struck him at the time. he remembered that robertson had avoided shaking hands with him, either on meeting or parting, as was his wont; he had even then been struck with the grave tone of his conversation, and with his choosing that particular moment for pressing on his friend's attention what did not appear to have any urgent interest at present. then it occurred to him that he looked ill and sad--he had attributed this to fatigue; but now, putting everything together, he could not help feeling a considerable degree of uneasiness. he kept hovering about robertson's house, and from that to the shore all day; went to bed at night quite nervous; and by the next afternoon the alarm had spread and become universal. it was not without cause. "john robertson never came back; the boat had been lost--how, was not known, as all on board had perished. however, mr. brown took upon himself to be the friend and guardian of the bereaved family; and the information he received in that melancholy interview he was enabled to turn much to the advantage of their circumstances." "a very remarkable story," said i. "yes," answered dr. w. "very remarkable indeed, if true." "and is it not true," i said, "remember, we are upon honour; i should think it a very ill compliment if any one attempted to mystify us with an invented story." "i did not invent it, i assure you," replied dr. w.; "i give it you as it was given to me on the spot. if you ask me if i believe it, i can't say i do." "do you think the people who told you believed it?" "they certainly appeared to do so." "and did it seem generally believed?" "i can't say but it did; but of course, one must have wonderfully strong evidence before one could believe such a thing as that." "granted; but unless you had seen the thing yourself, you cannot have stronger evidence of a phenomenon of that description, than that it was believed by those who had good reason to know the grounds of their belief. they were able to judge how far mr. brown was worthy of credit; and they had the advantage of having witnessed his demeanour at the public meeting, when he asserted that he had walked and talked with robertson, at a time he could not possibly know if he was telling a lie, that the man would not sooner or later return to confute him. besides, as far as we see, it would have been a useless and wicked lie, inasmuch as it was calculated to make the man's family very uneasy. his subsequent conduct does not at all countenance the persuasion that he was capable of such a proceeding.' "certainly not; but you know the scotch are very superstitious." "i can't agree with you; the higher and lower classes of the towns are exactly similar in that respect to the same classes of england. in all countries the lower classes are more disposed to put faith in these things, because they believe in their traditions and adhere to the axiom that seeing is believing. the higher classes, on the other hand, are carefully educated not to believe in such traditions and to reject the axiom that seeing is believing, if the thing seen is a ghost. now i freely admit, that our senses often deceive us, and that we think we see what we do not; every body with the slightest intelligence has, i suppose, learnt to distrust his own senses to a certain extent; but why on one particular point we should reject their evidence altogether, i never could understand." "you have heard, i suppose of spectral illusions?" said the doctor. "of course i have, and admit their existence; but we have so many cases on our side, that doctrine will not cover, and it is so impossible for you to prove that any particular case of ghost seeing falls under that head, that it is no use discussing the subject. it complicates the difficulty i confess, but can never decide the question. i was going to say, however, that the shopkeepers and middle classes of scotland are anything but what you mean by superstitious--the class to whom brown and robertson belong, is the most hardheaded, argumentative, and matter of fact in the kingdom; and their religion, which is eminently unimaginative, so far from inducing a belief in ghosts, would have a precisely opposite tendency, because ghosts do not form an article of belief in either the longer or shorter catechism. in the remoter districts of the highlands, the people are said to have more of what you would call superstition; but the same peculiarity is remarked in all mountainous regions; and as it has never been satisfactorily accounted for, we will not enter into the discussion now." round the fire. second evening. "after the doctor's story, i fear mine will appear too trifling," said mrs. m., "but as it is the only circumstance of the kind that ever happened to myself, i prefer giving it you to any of the many stories i have heard. "about fifteen years ago, i was staying with some friends at a magnificent old seat in yorkshire, and our host being very much crippled with the gout, was in the habit of driving about the park and neighbourhood in a low pony phaeton, on which occasions, i often accompanied him. one of our favourite excursions was to the ruins of an old abbey just beyond the park, and we generally returned by a remarkably pretty rural lane leading to the village, or rather, small town of c. "one fine summer's evening we had just entered this lane, when seeing the hedges full of wild flowers, i asked my friend to let me alight and gather some; i walked on before the carriage picking honeysuckles and roses as i went along, till i came to a gate that led into a field. it was a common country gate, with a post on each side, and on one of these posts sat a large white cat, the finest animal of the kind i had ever seen; and as i have a weakness for cats, i stopt to admire this sleek, fat puss, looking so wonderfully comfortable in a very uncomfortable position; the top of the post on which it was sitting, with its feet doubled up under it, being out of all proportion to its body, for no angola ever rivalled it in size. "'come on, gently,' i called to my friend, 'here's such a magnificent cat!' for i feared the approach of the phaeton would startle it away before he had seen it. "'where?' said he, pulling up his horse opposite the gate. "'there,' said i, pointing to the post, 'isn't it a beauty; i wonder if it would let me stroke it!' "'i see no cat,' said he. "'there on the post,' said i, but he declared he saw nothing, though puss sat there in perfect composure during this colloquy. "'don't you see the cat, james,' said i, in great perplexity to the groom. "'yes, ma'am; a large white cat on that post.' "i thought my friend must be joking, or else losing his eye-sight, and i approached the cat, intending to take it in my arms, and carry it to the carriage; but as i drew near, she jumped off the post, which was natural enough--but to my surprise she jumped into nothing--as she jumped she disappeared! no cat in the field--none in the lane--none in the ditch! "'where did she go, james?' "'i don't know, ma'am, i can't see her,' said the groom, standing up in his seat, and looking all round. "i was quite bewildered; but still i had no glimmering of the truth; and when i got into the carriage again, my friend said he thought i and james were dreaming, and i retorted that i thought he must be going blind. "i had a commission to execute as we passed through the town, and i alighted for that purpose at the little haberdasher's; and while they were serving me, i mentioned that i had seen a remarkably beautiful cat sitting on a gate in the lane; and asked if they could tell me who it belonged to, adding, it was the largest cat i ever saw. "the owners of the shop, and two women who were making purchases, suspended their proceedings, looked at each other, and then looked at me, evidently very much surprised. "'was it a white cat, ma'am?' said the mistress. "'yes, a white cat; a beautiful creature and--' "'bless me!' cried two or three, 'the lady's seen the _white cat of c._ it hasn't been seen these twenty years.' "'master wishes to know if you'll soon be done, ma'am? the pony is getting restless,' said james. "of course, i hurried out, and got into the carriage, telling my friend that the cat was well known to the people at c., and that it was twenty years old. "in those days, i believe, i never thought of ghosts, and least of all should i have thought of the ghost of a cat; but two evenings afterwards, as we were driving down the lane, i again saw the cat in the same position, and again my companion could not see it, though the groom did. i alighted immediately, and went up to it. as i approached, it turned its head, and looked full towards me with its soft, mild eyes, and a kindly expression, like that of a loving dog; and then, without moving from the post, it began to fade gradually away, as if it were a vapour, till it had quite disappeared. all this the groom saw as well as myself; and now there could be no mistake as to what it was. a third time, i saw it in broad daylight, and my curiosity greatly awakened, i resolved to make further inquiries amongst the inhabitants of c., but before i had an opportunity of doing so, i was summoned away by the death of my eldest child, and i have never been in that part of the world since. however, i once mentioned the circumstance to a lady who was acquainted with that neighbourhood, and she said she had heard of the white cat of c., but had never seen it. "but as you may not think this story very interesting since it only relates to a cat, i will, if you please, tell you another, in which i was concerned, although i saw nothing myself." "we shall be very happy," i said, "but i am far from thinking your story wanting in interest, in fact, to me it has a very peculiar interest. there are few friends so sincere as the animals who have loved us, and none that i, for my part, more earnestly desire to see again. i have had two dogs, in my life, who contributed much to my happiness while they lived, and never caused me a sorrow till they died. besides, there is a deep mystery in the being of these creatures, which proud man never seeks to unravel, or condescends to speculate on. what is their relation to the human race? why are these spiritual germs embodied in those forms and made subject to man, that hard and cruel master! who assumes to be their superior, because he is endowed with some higher faculties, the most of which he grossly misuses. how beautiful are their characters when studied? how wonderful their intelligence when cultivated? how willing they are to serve us when kindly treated? but man, by his cruelty, ignorance, laziness, and want of judgment, spoils their temper, blunts their intelligence, deteriorates their nature, and then punishes them for being what he himself has made them. well might chalmers exclaim, 'all nature groans beneath the cruelty of man.' why are these creatures, sinless, as far as we see, placed here as the subjects of this barbarous, unthinking tyrant? that has always appeared to me a solemn question." after this little digression, mrs. m. continued as follows:-- "i had been travelling on the continent, and was staying at brussels on my way home. the bedroom i occupied was within another, in which slept my faithful maid, rachel, and one of my children. i had been in bed sometime, and had not been to sleep, when i heard rachel's voice, saying something which i did not distinctly hear, and before i could ask what it was, she uttered a cry that immediately brought me to her bedside. i found her in a state of violent agitation, and as soon as she was composed enough to speak, she told me that she had not been long in bed when she heard a voice call her, which she supposed to be mine, and immediately afterwards, in the glass which was opposite the foot of the bed, she saw a figure in white, enter and proceed to the other end of the room. she concluded it was me in my night dress, and that i had only mentioned her name to ascertain if she was awake, fearing to disturb the child, who was restless, she lay still, and did not answer. the figure went back through the door, but presently returned again, and seemed to be looking about for something, whereupon she half sat up in bed; when it approached, and laid its hand heavily on her knee, there was something painful in the pressure, and she exclaimed, 'oh, don't do that ma'am!' but she had scarcely uttered the words when she discerned the features, and saw it was her sister. the phantom looked sadly at her, and then retreating to the opposite corner, disappeared. this circumstance, in spite of my arguments and suggestions that it was a dream, made a very painful impression on her; she felt sure some misfortune had happened, and so it proved; her sister had died on that night, leaving a family of young children, about whom, in her last moments, she was very anxious." "cases of that sort are very numerous," said lady a., "i know of two which i can give upon perfectly good authority. a friend of mine was sitting a few years since in the drawing room at her country seat; there was a door at each end, leading to other rooms, both of which were open. a slight rustle caused her to raise her eyes from her work, when she saw her nephew enter at one door, walk straight through, and out at the other. the young man was at college, and she had no reason to expect him then, but concluding some unforeseen business had brought him, and that he was in search of her, she called--'arthur, here i am,' and pursued him into the adjoining room, and then into the hall. receiving no answer, and not being able to find him in any direction, she rang for the servants, and inquired where he was; but they did not know; they had seen nothing of him. she insisted he had arrived, and he was sought for all over the house and grounds in vain. the thing remained perfectly incomprehensible, till the post brought a letter, announcing that the young man had been drowned on that day. "another instance, equally well established, is that of dr. c., of dublin. he resided with his family some few miles from the city, i believe, at or near howth, and when he returned in the evening after visiting his patients, he frequently, to save time, took a short cut across some sands, which in certain states of the tide were not always safe. mrs. c. had often entreated him to relinquish this practice, and take the more circuitous way; but he thought he was too well acquainted with the place to run any danger. one evening that they were expecting him, as usual, to dinner, his brother, who was standing at the window, saw him arrive; he rode a white horse, and was therefore a conspicuous object. when the dinner hour came, as he had not appeared in the drawing room, his brother and mrs. c., to whom the latter had mentioned having seen him, desired the servants to seek him in his dressing room, and ask if he was ready. he was not in his room, nor was he any where to be found; neither had any of the servants seen him, nor was his horse in the stable. mr. c., however, confident of his arrival, suggested that he might be gone to visit some sick person in the neighbourhood; so they waited. but in vain; news presently arrived that horse and man had been drowned that evening in crossing the sands." there was scarcely any one present unacquainted with examples of this kind of appearance amongst their family or friends, but captain l. related to us a case still more curious and unaccountable that had happened to himself in india when he was in the himalaya. "i was just finishing my breakfast one morning," said he, "when my servant entered and announced a visitor. it was captain p. b. of ours, who came to invite me to a game of billiards. our billiard-room was situated about a mile beyond my quarter, and captain b., who lived at the other extremity, had to pass my residence to go to it. "'are you going up there now?' i said. "'yes,' said he; 'will you come?' "'why, i can't come directly,' i answered; 'for i have a letter to write first; but if you'll go on, i'll join you presently.' "he left me, and as soon as i had written my letter, i started for the billiard-room. when i entered it, captain p. b. was not there, nor, indeed, anybody but the marker--which was not surprising, as it was earlier than we usually went there. "'where's captain b?' i said. "'don't know, sir; he has not been here yet.' "'not been here?' "'no, sir, not to-day.' "thinking, that as i was not ready, he had filled up the interval by going somewhere else, i began knocking about the balls; every now and then looking out of the window, expecting to see him approach; but when this had lasted upwards of two hours, i began to be rather impatient, and was just thinking of going away, when i saw him approaching with his wife in an open carriage from an opposite direction. "'a pretty fellow you are, to keep me kicking my heels here waiting for you,' said i, as he entered the room. "'keep you waiting!' he said; 'i have not kept you waiting.' "'why, i've been here these two hours and more.' "'how was i to know that; i did not know you were coming up here.' "'why, i told you i'd come as soon as i had finished my letter.' "'my dear fellow, what are you talking about?' exclaimed my friend, in evident surprise; 'when did you tell me so? i don't recollect making any appointment to meet you to-day.' "'what! not this morning, as you were passing my quarter?' said i, amazed in my turn. 'didn't you ask me to come and play a game at billiards; and didn't i tell you i'd come as soon as i had finished my letter? and i did.' "p. b. looked at me as if he thought i'd suddenly become insane; but as i suppose my countenance did not confirm that impression, he said, 'here's some mistake; when do you suppose i made this appointment with you?' "'suppose!' i answered, rather indignant; 'what do you mean by _suppose_? didn't you come into my quarter about three hours ago, just as i was finishing breakfast, and ask me to come up here and play a game at billiards with you?' "'no; it must have been somebody else. who gave you the message?' "'message! there was no message,' i answered, quite bewildered. 'you came in yourself--you know you did. what's the use of trying to hoax one?' "'i don't know whether you are trying to hoax _me_,' replied p. b.; 'but upon my soul i have not been in your quarter to-day; nor have i seen you at all, till i entered this room. moreover, i went with my wife at an early hour to breakfast with captain d., and we are now returning thence; and i told the coachman to set me down here as he passed.' "this was most confounding; and as we were both equally positive in what we asserted, we left the billiard-room together, and proceeded to take the testimony of my servant. on being asked who he had introduced when i was finishing breakfast, he unhesitatingly answered, captain b. his account, in short, coincided entirely with mine. "'now then,' said captain b., 'as you have your witness, you must hear mine,' and we went on to his quarter, where i received the most satisfactory and unimpeachable evidence, that what he said was correct. he had left home with mrs. b. at six o'clock, and gone by appointment to breakfast with captain d., who lived quite in a different direction to my quarter; and captain d. afterwards testified to his never having left his house till he stept into the carriage with his wife. "this event created a great sensation at the time; and people endeavoured by every means to explain it away, but nobody ever could. captain b. did not like it at all; and his wife and family were very much alarmed, but nothing ensued, and i believe he is alive and well at this moment." we next turned to madame von b., who said she knew so many cases of spiritual appearances, and occurrences of that nature, that she was rather perplexed by the abundance of her recollections. amongst these she selected the following on account of its singularity:-- "we resided a great deal on the continent before i was married, and my mother had a favourite maid, called françoise, who lived with her many years--a most trustworthy, excellent creature, in whom she had the greatest confidence; insomuch, that when i married, being very young and very inexperienced, as she was obliged to separate from me herself, she transferred françoise to my service, considering her better able to take care of me than anybody else. "i was living in paris then, where françoise, who was a native of metz, had some relations settled in business, whom she often used to visit. she was generally very chatty when she returned from these people; for i knew all her affairs, and through her, all their affairs; and i took an interest in whatever concerned her or hers. "one sunday evening, after she had been spending the afternoon with this family, observing that she was unusually silent, i said to her, while she was undressing me, 'well, françoise, haven't you anything to tell me? how are your friends? has madame pelletier got rid of her _grippe_?' "françoise started as if i had awakened her out of a reverie, and said, 'oh! oui, madame; oui, mercé; elle se porte bien aujourd'hui.' "'and monsieur pelletier and the children, are they well?' "'oui, madame, merci; ils se portent bien.' "these curt answers were so unlike those she generally gave me, that i was sure her mind was pre-occupied, and that something had happened since we parted in the morning; so i turned round to look her in the face, saying '_mais, qu'avez vous donc, françoise? qu'est ce qu'il y a?_' "then i saw what i had not observed before, that she was very pale, and that her cheeks had a glazed look, which showed that she had been crying. "'mais, ma bonne françoise,' i said; 'vous avez quelque chose--est il arrivé quelque malheur à metz?' "'c'est cela, madame,' answered françoise, who had a brother there whom she had not seen for several years, but to whom she still continued affectionately attached. his name was benoît, and he was in a good service as garde forestier to a nobleman who possessed very extensive estates, _près de chez nous_, as françoise said. he had a wife and children; and some time before the period i am referring to, françoise had told me, with great satisfaction, that in order to make him more comfortable, the prince de m---- had given benoît the privilege of gathering up all the dead wood in the forest to sell for firewood, which, as the estate was very large, rendered his situation extremely profitable. when she said 'c'est cela, madame,' françoise, who had just encased me in my dressing gown, sunk into a chair, and having declared that she was _bête, très bête_, she gave way to a hearty good cry, after which, being somewhat relieved, she told me the following strange story:-- "'you remember,' she said, 'that the prince was so good as to give benoît all the dead wood of the forest--and a great thing it was for him and his family, as you will think, when i tell you it was worth upwards of two thousand francs a-year to him. in short, he was growing rich, and perhaps he was getting to think too much of his money and too little of the _bon dieu_--at all events, this privilege which the prince gave him to make him comfortable, and which made him a great man amongst the foresters, has been the cause of a dreadful calamity.' "'how?' said i. "'we never heard anything of what had happened,' said she, till yesterday, when mons. pelletier received a letter from benoît's wife, and another from a cousin of ours, relating what i am going to tell you, and saying that both he and his family had wished to keep it secret; but that was no longer possible.' "'well, and what has happened?' "'la chose la plus incroyable! eh bien, madame; it appears that one day last autumn, benoît went out in the forest to gather the dead-wood. he had his cart with him, and as he gathered it he bound it into faggots and threw it in the cart. he had extended his search this day to a remote part of the forest, and found himself in a spot he did not remember to have visited before; indeed, it was evident to him that he had not, or he could not have escaped seeing an old wooden cross which was lying on the ground, and had apparently fallen into that recumbent position from old age. it was such a cross as is usually set up where a life has been lost, whether by murder or suicide; or sometimes when poor wanderers are frozen to death or lost in the deep winter snows. he looked about for the grave, but saw no indication of one; and he tried to remember if any catastrophe had happened there in his time, but could recall none. he took up the cross and examined it. he saw that the wood was decayed, and it bore such marks of antiquity, that he had no doubt the person whose grave it had marked had died before he was born--it looked as if it might be a hundred years old. "'eh bien,' said françoise, wiping her eyes, into which the tears kept starting, 'of course you will think that benoît, or anybody in the world who had the fear of god before his eyes, as he could not find the grave to replace it as it should be, would have laid it reverently down where he had found it, saying a prayer for the soul of the deceased; but, alas! the demon of avarice tempted him, and he had not the heart to forego that poor cross, but bound it up into a faggot with the rest of the dead wood he found there, and threw it into his cart!' "'well, françoise,' said i, 'you know i am not a catholic, but i respect the custom of erecting these crosses, and i do think your brother was very wrong; i suppose he has lost the prince's favour by such impious greediness.' "'pire que ça! worse than that,' she replied. 'it appears that while he was committing this wicked action, he felt an extraordinary chill come over him, which made him think that, though it had been a mild day, the evening must have suddenly turned very cold, and hastily throwing the faggot into his cart, he directed his steps homeward. but walk as he would, he still felt this chill down his back, so that he turned his head to look where the wind blew from, when he saw, with some dismay, a mysterious-looking figure following close upon his footsteps. it moved noiselessly on, and was covered with a sort of black mantle that prevented his discerning the features. not liking its appearance, he jumped into the cart and drove home as fast as he could, without looking behind him; and when he got into his own farmyard he felt quite relieved, particularly, as when he alighted he saw no more of this unpleasant-looking stranger. so he began unloading his cart, taking out the faggots, one by one, and throwing them upon the ground; but when he threw down the one that contained the cross, he received a blow upon his face, so sharp that made him stagger and involuntarily shout aloud. his wife and children were close by, but there was no one else to be seen; and they would have disbelieved him and fancied he had accidentally hit himself with the faggot, but that they saw the distinct mark on his cheek of a blow given with an open hand. however, he went into supper perplexed and uncomfortable; but when he went to bed this fearful phantom stood by his side, silent and terrible, visible to him, but invisible to others. in short, madame, this awful figure haunted him till, in spite of his shame, he resolved to consult our cousin jerome about it.' "but jerome laughed, and said it was all fancy and superstition. 'you got frightened at having brought away this poor devil's cross, and then you fancy he's haunting you,' said he. "but benoît declared that he had thought nothing about the cross, except that it would make fire wood, and that he had no more believed in ghosts than jerome; 'but now,' said he, 'something must be done. i can get no sleep and am losing my health; if you can't help me, i must go to the priest and consult him.' "'why don't you take back the cross and put it where you found it,' said jerome. "'because i am afraid to touch it and dare not go to that part of the forest.' "'so jerome who did not believe a word about the ghost, offered to go with him and replace the cross. benoît gladly accepted, more especially, as he said he saw the apparition standing even then beside him, apparently, listening to the conversation. jerome laughed at the idea; however, benoît lifted the cross reverently into the cart and away they went into the forest. when they reached the spot, benoît pointed out the tree under which he had found it; and as he was shaking and trembling, jerome took up the cross and laid it on the ground, but as he did so he received a violent blow from an invisible hand, and at the same moment saw benoît fall to the ground. he thought he had been struck too, but it afterwards appeared that he had fainted from having seen the phantom with its upraised hand striking his cousin. however, they left the cross and came away; but there was an end to jerome's laughter, and he was afraid the apparition would now haunt him. nothing of the sort happened; but poor benoît's health has been so shaken by this frightful occurrence that he cannot get the better of it; his friends have advised change of scene, and he is coming to paris next week.' "this was the story françoise told me, and in a few days i heard he had arrived and was staying with mons. pelletier; but the shock had been too great for his nerves, and he died shortly after. they assured me that previous to that fatal expedition into the forest, he had been a hale, hearty man, totally exempt from superstitious fancies of any sort; and in short, wholly devoted to advancing his worldly prosperity and getting money." round the fire. third evening. "i don't know that i could tell you anything interesting in the way of ghost stories; i have never attended to them, though i have heard a great many," said colonel c.; "but i can tell you an extraordinary circumstance which may, perhaps, be considered of a spiritual nature, and which i can myself vouch for the truth of. "my father, when i was young, resided in the south of england--i shall not give the name of the place, nor of the people immediately concerned, if these stories are to be published; because, for anything i know, some persons may survive to whom the publication might give pain; i lived there with him and my mother and sisters. our house was on the road between two large towns, situated about eight miles distant from each other; and though we had a little ground and a short avenue in front, we were not more than half a quarter of a mile from the highway. when all was still, we could distinctly hear the carts and carriages as they passed, and even distinguish by the sound of the wheels what kind of vehicle it was. there was a carrier that plied between these two towns, whom i will call healy, and as everything we used we had from b., he was generally at our house three or four times a week; in short, he did our marketings, in a great degree; my mother giving him an order, as he passed, for what he was to bring back; and many a time healy has smuggled a novel from the circulating library for my sisters, or done little commissions for me that i could not so well manage for myself. all this made him a popular character with us, for he was very obliging; but for all that, he did not bear the best of characters. it was his interest to be well with us, and the gentry in general, who were his customers; and he understood that too well to incur our ill-will; but by his equals and inferiors he was looked upon with a less favourable eye. they had nothing very positive to allege against him; but they thought him a hard, griping, greedy man, who was honest in his dealings with us because the slightest suspicion would have ruined his trade, but who would take an advantage when he thought no possible damage to himself could accrue from it. he was about forty years of age; tall, with a long face, prominent nose, and dark complexion; his shoulders were round, but his frame was wiry, and he was reputed very strong. "one evening, between thirty and forty years ago, towards the beginning of winter, we were expecting healy--my mother was solicitous about some provisions she had ordered for an approaching dinner-party; and i was very anxious for the arrival of a cricket-bat that i wanted for use the day after the next. of course, long before the time he usually arrived, i was looking out for him, and fancying him late; i said, 'i wondered healy was not come!' upon which my father looked at his watch, and found that it wanted full half-an-hour of his time, which was nine o'clock; sometimes, indeed, later, but never earlier. it was then exactly half-past eight; and before my father had returned his watch into his pocket, one of my sisters exclaimed, 'here he is!' and we heard the wheels coming up the avenue--we should have heard him before, but two of my sisters were practising a duet, which was to be produced at the approaching festivity, and drowned the sound. "thereupon, i and my mother left the room, and went towards the back door, where healy had just alighted, and was bringing sundry packages into the kitchen. "'have you got my bat, healy?' said i. "'no, sir,' he replied; 'there wasn't one in the whole town the size you wanted; but i'll bring you one from s. as i pass to-morrow. i know they've got 'em there. i believe that's all, ma'am?' he added, addressing my mother. "she said she believed it was, and was going to pay him his week's account, which she had asked for, but he hurried out, saying, 'another time, if you please, ma'am; i'm rather late to-night;' and he was in his cart and away before i had time to give him some directions in regard to the bat. "'what a hurry he's in!' i said; 'and it wants almost twenty minutes to nine now.' "'i suppose he has a great many places to stop at,' said my mother; 'if he don't get all his parcels delivered before people are gone to bed, he gets into trouble sometimes. he's a very punctual fellow certainly.' "we returned to the drawing-room, and resumed our occupations; and about half-an-hour afterwards--happening to be all silent at the moment, we heard a pair of light wheels and a brisk trotting horse passing in the road. "'that's farmer gould's mare, i'm sure,' said i. 'what a famous trotter she is!' "'yes,' said my father; 'i wish he'd part with her. i made him an offer the other day. i should like her for my buggy.' "'and what did he say? won't he sell her?' "'he said nothing--he only laughed, and shook his fat sides.' "'money is no object to him,' said my mother, 'he won't part with her unless he gets another he likes better.' "we breakfasted at nine o'clock, and i was getting up, and about half dressed, when one of my sisters burst into my room, crying, 'la! fred., such a shocking thing has happened! poor farmer gould was found dead in the road this morning; they think his horse ran away, for it's not to be found; and the chaise was upset and lying on its side. how lucky, papa did not get the mare!' "'who says so?' said i. "'the postman;' she answered, 'he saw some labourers standing round something in the road; and when he came up to them, he found it was the chaise, and poor farmer gould quite dead beside it!' "when i got down stairs i found the whole house occupied with the subject of this sad accident, all lamenting the good man, who was a general favourite, and agreeing that, for so heavy a person, a two-wheeled carriage was very dangerous, as a fall was almost sure to be fatal. "my father said when he had finished his letters and papers he would walk up to the farm, and see if he could be of any use to poor mrs. gould; i, with the curiosity of fifteen, begged to go with him; and my mother improved the occasion by giving the governor a serious lecture about his love for high-trotting horses and buggies. "i expected healy with my bat about eleven o'clock, as he had nothing else to bring, i knew he wouldn't come up the avenue, but leave it at a cottage near our gate; and wishing to learn if he'd heard any particulars about the accident, i walked down to meet him when the hour approached. presently, i saw him coming, sitting in front of his cart. "'well, healy,' i said, 'isn't this a shocking thing about poor farmer gould? you've heard he was found dead in the road this morning?' "'yes, sir, the mare ran away, and pitched him out upon his head; i can't say as ever i liked her myself; but i've got your bat, master frederick; a nice un too; i wouldn't come away this morning till i'd got it.' "i thanked him, and he drove on, as if he had no time to lose in gossip, while i was untying the string of my parcel. "by the time my father and i reached gould's farm, the doctor had arrived from b., and we heard he was examining the body in the parlour, where it had been laid by the labourers who found it. the chaise, too, was standing near the door, just as it had been wheeled up, and the mare, they told us, had been found in a neighbouring field, with the harness hanging about her, and unhurt, except on the forehead, where she appeared to have had a violent blow. the farm men, standing about, said, that she had no doubt taken her head, and ran foul of something, and so pitched out mr. gould, and overturned the chaise; which seemed likely enough. "my father said, he should like to see mr. wills, the surgeon; so we stood about outside till he came. when he did, he looked very grave, as, indeed, befitted the occasion; but in answer to my father's inquiries, he said, that he could give no decided opinion of the cause of death till he had investigated the case further; and then he proceeded to examine the chaise, and next the horse. he then walked with us down to the spot where the thing had happened, and narrowly surveyed the ground; but he was very uncommunicative, which, as we knew him well, rather surprised us. he hurried away, saying, that he must prepare for the inquest on the following day. "my father went to the inquest; and i should have liked to go, too, but i was engaged to play a match at cricket with a few of my young neighbours. however, i was home first, for the inquest lasted a long time, and took a very unexpected turn. "it appeared that mr. wills, who was by marriage a connexion of gould's wife, had suspected on the first examination of the body that the farmer had not come fairly by his end. it so happened that gould had dined with him the last day he was at b., and had mentioned to him that he had 'at last got that seventy pounds that he was afraid he should never see;' alluding to some money that had been long owing to him; and as he spoke, he drew from his pocket a bundle of notes, some of which appeared to be of the bank of england, and some of country banks. as soon, therefore, as wills had arrived at certain conclusions, he inquired of mrs. gould if she had found his money safe. "in her grief and surprise it had not occurred to her to search--and indeed she was not aware of his having any sum of importance about him. they proceeded immediately to examine his pockets, but no notes were there; a few shillings, a silver watch, and some unconsidered trifles, were all that was found about him. mr. wills made inquiries at the banker's and others, at b., and by the time the inquest sat he was prepared to say, that there was every reason to think that mr. gould had had this money in his waistcoat pocket, where he had seen him deposit it, at the time he left to return home. "this presented quite a new view of the case to the coroner, who had come there without the slightest suspicion of anything beyond an accident. the labourers were examined as to the attitude in which they had discovered the body, which, they all agreed, was lying on its face; and indeed there were some stains from the dirt of the road, which testified to this being the case; yet, according to mr. wills, death had been occasioned by a terrible blow on the back of the head which had fractured the skull; and which, in his opinion, was inflicted by a heavy bludgeon. the man's hair was very thick behind; but on dividing it a wound was visible, from which a small quantity of blood had oozed and dried up. "after a long investigation, the inquest was adjourned for a few days in order that further evidence might be collected. we were all much excited about this affair; it formed the staple of conversation at our dinner party, and various were the conjectures formed as to who was the criminal, if criminal there were; for some thought it possible that gould had fallen on his back in the first instance, and then got upon his legs, and fallen a second time on his face; but mr. wills was confident the death wound was not the result of a fall; and besides, where was the money? then all agreed, that if he had been robbed, it was by no ordinary thief; it must have been by some one who knew the sum he had in his pocket, and who did not care for the loose silver and the watch. "'no doubt,' said my father, 'they will find out if anybody was present when the money was paid to him, or he may have told somebody of it, as he told wills.' "we had so many things provided for the party, that for two or three days we wanted nothing of healy and did not see him; but the servants having mentioned that they wanted soap for the next week's washing, my mother sent a note to the cottage, where he always stopt to enquire for orders, desiring him to bring some on his return, and also a barrel of beer for the use of the kitchen. "when i heard the cart coming up the avenue, i went to the back door, to have a little gossip. "'well healy,' said i, as he rolled in the barrel of beer; have you heard any news?' "'no sir,' said he. "'nothing about farmer gould?' i asked. "'no sir, nothing. shall i put the beer in the cellar?' he enquired. "this question being answered, i said, 'did you meet anybody on the road that night?' "'lord, sir, i meet loads of people as i never take any notice of. i've enough to do to mind my own business.' "'you couldn't have been far off when he was attacked--for you know mr. wills says he's been killed by a blow on the back of the head, don't you?' "'well, sir, i've heard so; but how should he know? he wasn't there, i suppose. anything else wanted, sir?' "'i believe not, healy,' i said; and he got into his cart and drove away while i went back to the drawing-room. "'what does healy say?' asked my father. 'has he heard anything new about this affair?' "'no, he says he hasn't, but he said very little and seemed rather sulky, i thought.' "'by the bye, he couldn't have been far off when the thing happened; for he had only been gone half-an-hour when we recognized the step of poor gould's mare i recollect, and she'd soon overtake him.' "'so i told him; and i asked him if he had met anybody on the road that night, but he said he'd plenty to do to mind his own business.' "my father who was reading the paper at the time, looked up at me over his spectacles; and then fell into a reverie that lasted some minutes, but he said nothing; my mother observed that she thought healy ought to be summoned as a witness; and my father rejoined, that no doubt he'd be examined. "on the following day the inquest was resumed; my father went early and had some private conversation with mr. wills and i waited outside amongst the assembled crowd, listening to their speculations and conjectures. presently, the coroner arrived, and i went in with him and heard the whole of the evidence. that of mr. wills, and the labourers who found the body was the same as before. then, as my father had conjectured, healy was called; his face was familiar to everybody in the room, and there was not one i should think who was not struck with the singularly sulky, dogged expression his features had assumed. there was no manifest reason for it, for he was only summoned like other witnesses, and no breath of suspicion had been cast upon him; at least, as far as we had heard. but he evidently came in a spirit of resistance and wound up for self-defence. he declared that he had not overtaken mr. gould on the night in question, and did not know he was on the road; nor did he hear anything of what had happened till the next morning. he believed he had met some tramps on the road that night--two men and a woman--but he had not particularly noticed them, and he did not recollect meeting anybody else. he had first heard of the accident at a shop where he had gone to buy a bat for master c. when he said this, he looked up at me and our eyes met. i have often thought of that look since. "the next witness was mr. f., who had paid gould the seventy pounds in notes; and then a mr. h. b., a solicitor, came forward and volunteered the following evidence, which, he said, he should have given before, but that he had left home on the afternoon preceding this unfortunate business, and had only returned yesterday. he was acquainted with gould; and had met him at the door of the bank at b----, as he himself was on his way to the coach that was starting for e. gould spoke to him, and said he had just got that seventy pounds; and when he said so, he clapt his hand on his pocket, implying it was there. he said, 'i came to pay it in here, but i see they're shut, and it does not signify; i shall have to pay away a good deal of it next week;' this was all that passed, as i told him i must be off for i should lose the coach. upon this, he was asked if anybody else had been present when gould made this communication. he answered, that people had been passing to and fro, but he could not say whether they heard it. there was one person who he thought might, though he could not affirm that he did; and that was healy, the carrier, who was standing at the door of the tanner's shop, which is next to the bank, and examining some cricket bats that he had in his hand. gould had spoken loud, as was his wont. "i saw mr. wills and my father exchange looks when this evidence was given, and then for the first time the question occurred to me, could healy be the murderer? i could hardly entertain the suspicion--it is so difficult to believe such a thing of a person one is having constant intercourse with. healy was recalled and asked if he remembered seeing mr. gould and the lawyer together on that day. he declared he did not. "the harness was afterwards produced; and it appeared that the traces had been cut, which was a strong confirmation of the worst suspicions. "the inquest was once more adjourned; and healy plied his trade as usual for the next two days, though everybody had a strange feeling towards him; and he retained his dogged, sulky look; on the third night we missed him. we had expected a parcel from b----, but he did not come; and the next day we heard he had been arrested on suspicion of being the murderer of mr. gould. a gentleman's servant, who had been out without leave to some festivity at b----, and had come home and got in at the pantry window without being discovered, at last came forward, and said, that as he was going to the rendezvous, he had seen a cart, which he believed to be healy's, though it was very dark, drawn right across the road; the horse was out of the shafts and tied to a gate, for he nearly ran against him; he did not see any person with the cart, but the driver might be behind it. it was just where there are some large trees over-hanging the road, which made it darker than in other parts; and a person driving would not see the obstruction till he was on it. he himself, thinking it was healy, slipt quietly by, for he did not want to be recognised, as the carrier often came to his master's, and might have betrayed him. he met a one-horse carriage about a couple of miles further on; the horse was trotting pretty fast. he thought it was mr. gould, but he could not positively say, as the night was so dark. "the spot described was precisely where mr. gould's body was found; and the man added, that it struck him when he met the gig, that if the cart had not moved out of the way, there would be an accident, and he should have warned the driver to look out, if he had not been upon a lark himself. "you may imagine the sensation created by this allegation in the neighbourhood, where the carrier was so well known. till the spring assizes at e----, where he was to be tried, it furnished the staple of conversation, and every fresh bit of evidence, for or against him, was eagerly repeated and canvassed. my father was summoned as a witness to the hour at which healy had been at our house that night, and also to the recognising the foot of mr. gould's mare. the evidence was entirely circumstantial, as nobody had witnessed the murder, though murder there certainly had been; nor was there anybody else to whom suspicion could attach. as for the tramps healy said he had met, no trace of them could be found, nor did anyone appear to have seen such a party. "when all the evidence had been heard, my father said he felt considerable doubt what the verdict would be, and he really believed the jury were greatly perplexed; but when healy stood up, and in the most solemn manner said, 'i am innocent, my lord! i call god to witness, i am innocent! may this right arm wither if i murdered the man!' so great an impression was made on the court, that, added to the prisoner's previous good character, every body saw he would be acquitted. "he was; healy went forth a free man, and we were all too glad to believe in his innocence, to dispute the justice of the verdict; but lo! the hand of the lord was on him. he had called upon god to bear witness to his words; and he did. in three days from that time, richard healy's stalwart right arm was withered! the muscles shrunk; the skin dried up; and it looked like the limb of a mummy! "though a voice from heaven testified against him, he could not be arraigned again for the same crime, and he remained at liberty. he attempted for a short time to carry on his business, but people ceased to employ him; and his feeble arm could no longer lift the boxes and hampers with which his cart was wont to be loaded. he went about, avoided by every one but his own immediate connexions. i often met him, but he never looked me in the face; indeed, he rarely, if ever, raised his eyes; his round shoulders grew rounder, till he came to stoop like an old man. he seemed to move under a heavy burthen that weighed him to the earth. "after an interval, however, he bought some property; and in his old age--for he survived his trial several years--he was in prosperous circumstances. but everybody said, 'where did he get the money?' "we were all deeply interested in this singular story; and in reference to the withered arm, colonel c. said, that he should certainly not have believed it had he not seen it himself. "i think, said i, that it was not so difficult to account for the phenomenon as at first appears. had he been innocent, the solemn adjuration he uttered in court would have been justifiable in the eyes of god and man, and would have occasioned him no concern afterwards; but he was guilty; he had called upon god to bear witness to a lie, and, doubtless, the consciousness of this sacrilegious appeal filled him with horror and alarm. he would tremble lest his prayer should be heard and the curse fall upon him. these terrors would direct all his thoughts to his arm, and produce the very thing he feared; for sir henry holland asserts that the mind is capable of acting upon the body to such a degree, as sometimes to create disease in a particular part on which the attention is too intently fixed." round the fire. fourth evening. "the circumstance i am going to mention," said sir charles l., "will appear very insignificant after these interesting narratives, but as it happened very lately, you'll perhaps think it worth hearing. "i was living a few months ago in an hotel, the owner of which died while i was there. he had an apoplectic seizure, and expired shortly afterwards. a week before this happened, at a time he was supposed to be in perfect health, an acquaintance of the family called, and without giving any reason, requested his daughter not to attend a ball she was engaged to go to. the young lady did not take her advice; but the visitor confided to another person that she had a particular reason for her request, which reason was as follows:-- "the night before she called, she and her husband had retired to bed in a somewhat anxious state of mind respecting a near relative of theirs, who was very ill, and whom they had been visiting. the husband, however, soon fell asleep, but the wife lay thinking of the sick person, and the consequences that would ensue if she died, when her reflections were interrupted by seeing a bright spot of light suddenly appear upon the wall--that is, upon the wainscoat of her room. she looked about to see whence it proceeded; there was no light burning, nor could any be reflected from the window; as she looked it increased in size, till, at last, it was as large as the frame of a picture; then there began to appear in the frame a form, gradually developed, till there was a perfect head and face, hair and all, distinctly visible. "whilst this development was proceeding, she lay, as it were, transfixed; she wanted to wake her husband, but she could neither speak nor move; at length she seemed to burst the bonds, and cried to him to look, but as she spoke, the vision faded, and by the time he was sufficiently aroused there was nothing to be seen. "both he and she interpreted this occurrence into a bad omen for their sick relative, and augured very ill of her case; but the next morning, as she was standing in her shop, she saw the hotel keeper pass to market, and he nodded to her, whereupon she turned to her husband, and exclaimed--'that's the face i saw last night! sure nothing can be going to happen to him!' "i heard these circumstances from my servant; and the unexpected seizure and death occurred within a few days." "when i was at weimar, about two years ago," said mademoiselle g., "an accident occurred that occupied the attention of the whole place, and which seems to belong to the same class of phenomena as the story just related. the palace, called the château, in weimar, is at one end of the park, and at the other end is another château, called the belvedere; both are ducal residences, and an avenue runs from the one palace to the other. opposite this avenue is the russian chapel or greek church--the present dowager duchess being a sister of the emperor nicholas--and in front of this chapel a sentinel is always posted. "the grand duke, charles frederick, father of the present sovereign, was, at the period i allude to, residing at the belvedere not well in health, but by no means alarmingly ill, for had that been the case he would have been brought into weimar, where etiquette requires that the sovereign should make his first and last appearance in this world--there he must be born, and there die, if possible. "one night the sentinel, who was standing at the entrance of the russian chapel, was surprised to see, in the far distance, a long procession winding its way down the avenue from the belvedere. as there was no stir in the town, for the night was far advanced, and as he had not heard of any solemnity in preparation, the man stared at it in mute wonder, but his amazement was redoubled when it approached near enough for him to distinguish the individual objects to perceive that it was a state funeral, accompanied by the royal mourners, and all the pomp usual at these ceremonies; the velvet pall bore the initials and arms of the duke, and following the bier was his favourite and well known horse, led by one of his attendants. slowly and mournfully the procession moved on till it reached the chapel; the doors opened to admit the cortege; it passed in; and as the doors closed on this mysterious vision the soldier fell to the ground, where he was found in a state of insensibility when the guard was relieved. "of course, nobody believed his story; he was placed under arrest, severely punished, and had a nervous fever that brought him to the brink of the grave. "i was there when this happened, said mademoiselle g., and it was the talk of the town; almost everybody laughed at him; but five days afterwards the duke fell suddenly ill, and was found to be in so dangerous a state, that the physicians forbade his being removed into the town. he finally died at the belvedere, and was buried in the russian chapel, exactly in the manner pourtrayed by the shadowy forms seen by the sentinel, and there buried." we all agreed that these rehearsals, if we may so call them, are amongst the most perplexing of these very perplexing phenomena; a very curious case of this description will be found in one of the letters inserted in the appendix. "my sister-in-law, lady s.," said lady r., "told me, the other day, that during her late residence in st. petersburg, she was intimately acquainted with a prussian lady of high rank, to whom the following strange events occurred, an account of which she herself gave to my sister. this prussian lady was sitting one morning in her boudoir, when she heard a rustling sound in the ante-room, which was divided by a _portière_ from the boudoir. the sound continuing, she rose and drew aside the curtain to ascertain the cause, when, to her surprise, she saw a very pale man, in a chasseur's uniform, standing in the middle of the room. she was about to speak to him, and inquire what he was doing there, when he retreated towards the window and vanished. greatly alarmed, she sought her husband, and related what had occurred; but he laughed at her, and desired her not to expose herself to ridicule by talking of it. some days afterwards, whilst in the boudoir, she heard the same rustling noise near her, and on looking up, she saw the figure of the chasseur suspended in the air between the ceiling and the floor, with his legs dangling in the air. a scream brought her husband, who was in the adjoining room, and he saw the figure as well as herself. nevertheless, the fear of ridicule kept them silent; but some time afterwards, when they had a party, one of the company exclaimed, 'good heavens! this, i remember, is the very room that unfortunate chasseurs hung himself in!' and then they learned that the house had been previously occupied by the danish minister, and that a chasseur in his service had, from some cause or other, committed suicide." "i don't know whether dreams are admissible," said miss m.; "but the sort of occurrences just related appear to me to be little removed from waking dreams. i know two cases of extraordinary dreaming, the authenticity of which i can answer for, if you would like to hear them." we accepted gladly, and the lady began as follows:-- "my father was intimate with mr. s.--whose name, perhaps, is known to you as the particular friend of mr. spencer percival. this gentleman, mr. s., when he was a young man, had one night a remarkable dream, that he could not in any way account for--the circumstances having no relation to any previous event, train of thought, or conversation whatever. "he found himself, in his dream, on horseback, in a very extensive forest; he was alone, evening was drawing on, and he sought some place where he could pass the night. after riding a little farther, he espied an inn; he rode up to it and alighted, asking if they could give him lodging for the night, and stabling for his horse. they said 'yes,' and conducted him to an upper chamber. he ordered some refreshments, when it occurred to him that he should like to see how his horse was faring; and he descended, in order to find his way to the stables; in doing so, he got a glimpse of some very ill-looking men in a side chamber, who seemed in close conference; moreover, he thought he saw weapons lying on the table, and there were other circumstances which i do not precisely remember, the effect of which was to create alarm, and lead him to suspect he had fallen into a _repaire de voleurs_. "he saw his horse rubbed down and fed, and then re-ascended to take his refreshment; betraying no suspicion of evil, but secretly resolved on flight. after his supper, he went down again, stood at the door, and pretended to stroll about. when he saw an opportunity, he went round to the stable, saddled his horse, and cautiously rode away. but he had not gone far, when he heard the tramp of horses' feet behind him, and from the pace they came, he felt sure he was pursued. he urged his horse forward, but the animal was not fresh--he had done his day's work already, and the pursuers were gaining on him, when he saw he was approaching a spot where two roads met. which of the two should he follow? he had nothing to guide him in his choice, and his life probably depended on his decision! suddenly, a voice whispered in his ear, 'take the right!' he did so, and shortly reached a house where he obtained shelter and protection. "when he awoke, the circumstances of his dream were so vividly impressed on his mind, that he could hardly believe the thing had not actually happened. he related it to his friends; and, for some days, thought a good deal of it; but he was just entering into active life, and the impression soon faded before the varied interests that absorbed him; and the strange dream was entirely forgotten. "many years afterwards, when he had reached middle age, he was travelling in germany, and in the course of an excursion he was making to see the country, he had occasion to cross a part of the schwarzwald--the black forest. he was on horseback and alone; he reached an inn, the aspect of which he fancied was familiar to him. here he thought he might conveniently pass the night; so he alighted, ordered his supper, and then went to see his horse fed. on further acquaintance with the place, he did not like the look of it, and he saw suspicious-looking men hanging about. he resolved to seek another resting-place; and leaving some money on the table to pay for what he had had, he went down stairs, and after lounging about a little, strolled to the stable, saddled his horse, and rode off as quietly as he could. but he was missed and pursued, he heard the tramp of the horses as they gained upon him. at this critical moment, he saw he was approaching a place where the roads divided; his life depended on which of the two he should take; suddenly, and strange to say, though he had misty recollections of the scene, now for the first time, the dream of his youth clearly and vividly recurred to him. he remembered the voice that whispered, 'take the right!' he obeyed the hint, and his pursuers soon gave up the chase. he found a château about half-a-mile from the turning; the owner of which hospitably received him. his host said there had been for some time unpleasant suspicions with regard to the inn in question; and that, if he had taken the left hand road, he would have been quite at their mercy." this very curious dream reminded us of that of dr. w., which i have related in the "night side of nature;" who in the same manner was saved from the attack of an infuriated bull, in his dream, having been shown where to fly for safety; but the case is less remarkable than that of mr. s., as the dream occurred only the night before the danger presented itself. "the other dream i alluded to," said miss m., "is less curious on that account. some friends of mine, who reside in the country, had an old nurse who had lived in the family many years, and for whom they had a great regard. when her services ceased to be required, she was settled in a cottage on the estate, where she lived very comfortably with her only daughter. the daughter, however, married a man who kept a turnpike some miles distant; and one morning, just as the family were leaving home on some expedition, the old woman arrived in considerable agitation, saying that she had had a frightful dream about her daughter, and that she was going off immediately to the place where she lived. the ladies endeavoured to dissuade her from walking all that way, merely on account of a dream. but she said she could not rest, and must go. they even promised that if she would wait till the following day they would drive her there in the carriage, in which there was now no room; if there had been they would have taken her, as their road lay not far from the spot. "with this offer they left her and went their way; but her anxiety would not permit her to wait; and shortly afterwards she set off and walked all the distance to the turnpike. the moment she arrived she saw reason to rejoice in her determination; she found her daughter alone, her husband having been called away on business; and, said the young woman, i am dreadfully alarmed, for there is a quantity of money in the house. the farmers are accustomed to bring the money for their rent here twice a year, as it save them several miles, and the agent always comes to fetch it on the same day. but a letter to my husband has just arrived from the agent to say, he can't come till to-morrow. knowing his hand, i opened it; and i am terrified, for the custom of leaving the money here is no secret; and if it should get wind that it has not been fetched away, heaven knows what may happen. "the old woman then told her daughter that she had dreamed on the preceding night that some thieves had broken into the turnpike house, and robbed and murdered the inhabitants. "but what were these two helpless women to do, mutually confirmed in their apprehensions as they naturally were? it was already late in the day; there was no help near at hand, and besides they did not dare to separate in search of any. they watched anxiously for a traveller, resolved to confide in the first respectable one that passed, and beg him to send assistance. but none came that they thought it safe to trust. night approached; and it being a little frequented road, except on market days, every moment their hope of help declined. so they did the best they could in this extremity; they shut and barricaded the lower part of the house, stopping up the door and windows with every piece of furniture they had, and locked themselves up, with the money, in an upper chamber, put out the light, and with a chink of the window open, they set themselves down to listen for the marauders whom they confidently expected to arrive. "nor were they disappointed; about eleven o'clock their anxious ears distinguished the sound of approaching footsteps. presently, they heard voices and the door was attempted; the men said they had lost their way, and on receiving no answer they attempted to force an entrance. then, the poor women knowing their poor defences would soon yield to violence, began to scream lustily from the window above; and luckily not in vain. "it happened, that the family, who had gone on some expedition of pleasure in the morning, was just then returning; their road lay within a quarter of a mile of the turnpike; and in the silence of the night, the women's shrill voice reached their ears. they immediately desired the coachman to turn his horses heads in the direction the cries came from, and before the thieves had effected an entrance into the little fortification, they were scared by the sound of approaching wheels and took to flight." "a dream of a very singular nature occurred to a young friend of mine," said mr. s. "she was about fifteen at the time, and a schoolfellow who was going to be married had promised her that she should be one of the bridesmaids. the intended wedding was near at hand; insomuch that the dresses and everything was prepared--in short, the fixing of the day was only delayed by some small matter of business that was not completed. my young friend, to whom the whole thing was an exciting novelty, while impatiently waiting for the affair to come off, dreamt, one night, that a person in a very unusual costume, presented himself at her bedside and informed her that he was brutus; and that he would reveal to her anything that she particularly desired to know; whereupon she begged him to tell when miss l. would be married. brutus answered 'paulo post græcas kalendas.' when she awoke in the morning, she perfectly remembered the words; but not having the most distant idea of their meaning she ran to her brother to enquire if he could explain them. he told her that they were equivalent to _never_. the prophecy was fulfilled; obstacles entirely unforseen arose, and the couple were never united." "some years ago," said dr. forster, "two young friends of mine were staying at naples, when one of them told the other that he had on the preceding night, seen in his sleep, the face of a beautiful woman; but the features were disfigured by a horrible expression--and that it was, somehow, impressed on his mind that he was in danger, and that he must be on his guard against her. the conviction was so strong as to create considerable uneasiness, and he never went out without scrutinizing every female face he saw; but some weeks past without any fulfilment of his dream or vision, and gradually the impression faded. however, he was one day on the chiaja, surrounded by several people, who like himself, were observing a gang of convicts going to the castle of st. elmo; when something occasioned him suddenly to turn his head, and there, close behind him, he recognized the beautiful face of his dream. by an instinctive impulse, he sprang aside, and at the same moment felt himself wounded in the back. the woman was seized and did not attempt to deny the act, but alleged that she had mistaken the young englishman for another person who had done her an irreparable injury, expressing great regret at having wounded an unoffending stranger, and also at having failed in the revenge she sought. he told me that the dream saved his life; for that, had he not sprung aside, the wound would in all probability have been mortal." round the fire. fifth evening. "i have but one experience to relate," said miss d., the next speaker. "when i was a child, i and my elder sister slept in two beds, placed close beside each other. we were in the country, and one night my father, going to the door, perceived an unusual light in the sky, and learnt on inquiry that there was a great fire a mile or two off. he said he'd go to see it, and the night being fine, my mother accompanied him, having first seen us safe in bed. she locked the chamber door, and took the key, thinking that every body would be out looking at the fire, and we might take the opportunity of playing tricks, for we were quite young at the time--not more than six or seven years old. "after they were gone, we lay chattering, as children do, about our own little concerns, when our voices were suddenly arrested by terror. at the foot of my bed i perceived a figure, apparently kneeling, for i saw only the head--but that i saw distinctly--it looked dark and sad, and the eyes were intently fixed on me. i crept into my sister's bed, and neither of us dared to look up again till my mother returned, and came to see if we were asleep. we had not closed our eyes, and we told her what we had seen, agreeing perfectly in our account of it. the room was searched, but nothing unusual found. the incident made a lasting impression on my sister and myself, and we both remember the face as if we had seen it but yesterday." one of the ladies present mentioned a very similar circumstance occurring to herself, but as she was alone at the time, she had always endeavoured to believe it an illusion. "the first part of the story i am going to relate to you," said dr. s., "was told me by an eminent man in my own profession, who had every opportunity of testing the truth of it; the latter part i give you on my own word. "some years ago there was a house in the suburbs of dublin that had remained a long time unoccupied, in consequence, it was said, of its evil reputation--the report was, that it was haunted. people who had taken it got rid of it as soon as they could, and those who lived in the neighbourhood affirmed that they saw lights moving about the interior, and, sometimes, a lady in white standing at the window with a child in her arms, when they knew there was no living creature, except rats and mice, within the walls. the wise and learned laughed at these rumours; but still the house remained empty, and was getting into a very dilapidated state. "the former owner of the house was dead. he was a miser or a misanthrope, or both; at all events, for several years he had lived in it utterly alone, and scarcely ever seen by any body. it was rumoured that for a short time a young female had been occasionally observed by the neighbours, but she disappeared as suddenly as she had appeared, and nobody knew whence she came, nor whither she was gone. his life was a mystery, and whether merely on this account, or whether there were better grounds for it, there had certainly existed a prejudice against him. however, as i said, he had been dead some years, and the relative to whom the property had fallen on his decease was naturally very anxious to let the house, and offered it to any occupant at an extremely low rent. "at length, a gentleman who wanted to establish a manufactory, seeing that it would answer his purpose--for the premises were extensive, and there was some garden ground behind--took it, and erected buildings on this waste ground for his workmen to inhabit. between the new part and the old there was a long vestibule, or covered passage, by which they might pass from one to the other without exposing themselves to the weather. a large door, which was open by day and closed at night, divided this passage in two, and on one side there was a small room or office, where a clerk sat and kept the books and memoranda, of various sorts, incident to a considerable business. "however, the thing was scarcely set going and established before it reached the ears of the master that the workmen objected to pass the night on the premises; the reason alleged being that they were disturbed and alarmed by various sounds, especially footsteps, and the banging of the heavy door in the vestibule which divided the sleeping places from the workrooms. at first, the objection being thought absurd, was not attended to; next, it was supposed to be a trick of some of the workmen to frighten the others; but when it became serious, and they began to act upon it, and steady, respectable men declared they heard these things, the master, still persuaded it was some practical jokers amongst them mystifying the more simple, took measures, first, to ascertain if such sounds as they described were audible; and next, to discover who made them. for this purpose he sat up himself, and his clerks sat up, and exactly as had been described, at one o'clock this clatter and banging of doors commenced--that is, there was the sound; for the doors remained immovable, and though they heard footsteps they could see nobody. "'still,' said the manufacturer, who was not willing to be made the victim of this mischievous conspiracy, 'we must discover who it is; and we shall, when they are more off their guard,' and for this purpose it was arranged that a relation of his own, a young man in whose discretion and courage he had great confidence should sleep in the office. "accordingly, a bed was prepared there; and he arranged himself for that night or as many future nights as it might be necessary; determined not to relinquish the investigation till he had unravelled the mystery. "at dawn of day, the next morning, there was a violent knocking at the outer door; an early passenger had found this young man in the street, with nothing on but his night dress, and in a state of delirium. he was taken home and dr. w. was sent for. the result was a brain fever; but when he recovered, he said that he had gone to bed and to sleep, that he was wakened by a loud noise, and that just as he was about to rise to ascertain the cause, his door opened, and the apparition of a female dressed in white entered, and approached his bed side. he remembered no more, but being seized with horror, supposed he had got out of the window into the street, where he was found. "this was, certainly, very extraordinary and very serious; still the persuasion that it was some mystification prevailed; and dr. w.'s offer to pass a night in the office himself, was gladly accepted. he had informed me of the young man's illness and the cause of it; and when i heard of his intention, i requested leave to bear him company. "the noise had not been interrupted by the catastrophe that had occurred, and nobody had slept in the office during the young man's confinement. the bed had been removed, but we declined having it re-placed, for we wished our intention to remain a secret; besides, we preferred watching through the night. it was not till the workmen had all retired that we took up our position, accompanied by a sharp little terrier of mine, and each armed with a pistol. we took care to go over the house, to make sure that nobody was concealed in it; and we examined every door and window to ascertain that it was secure. we had provided ourselves with refreshments also, to sustain our courage; and we entered upon our vigil with great hopes of detecting the imposition. "dr. w. is a most enlightened and agreeable companion, and we soon fell into a lively discussion that carried us away so entirely, that, i believe, we had both ceased to think of the object of our watch, when we were recalled to it by the clock in the vestibule striking one; and the loud bang that immediately followed, accompanied by the barking of our little dog, who had been aroused from a tranquil sleep by the uproar. w. and i seized our pistols, and rushed into the passage, followed by the terrier. we saw nothing to account for the noise; but we distinctly heard receding footsteps, which we hastened to pursue, at the same time urging on the dog; but instead of running forward, he slunk behind, with his tail between his legs, and kept at our heels the whole way. on we went, distinctly hearing the footsteps preceding us along the vestibule, down some steps, and, finally, down some stairs that led to an unused cellar--in one corner of which lay a heap of rubbish. here the sound ceased. we removed the rubbish, and under it lay some bones, which we recognised at once as parts of a human skeleton. on further examination, we ascertained that they were the remains of a female and a new-born infant. "they were buried, and the men were no more disturbed with these mysterious noises. who the woman was, was never ascertained; nor was any further light thrown upon these strange circumstances." some remarks on the terror displayed by animals, on these occasions, elicited a curious story from mrs. l. "they not only seem to see sometimes," she said, "what we do not; but occasionally to be gifted with a singular foreknowledge. "many years ago," she continued, "i and my husband went to pay a visit in the north. i am very fond of animals, and my attention was soon attracted by a dog that was not particularly handsome, but seemed gifted with extraordinary intelligence. "'i see,' said my hostess, 'you are struck with that dog. well, he is the most mysterious creature; he not only opens and shuts the door, and rings the bell, and does all sorts of wonderful things, but i am sure he understands every word we say, and that he knows as well what i am saying now as you do. moreover, we got him in a very unaccountable manner. "'one night, not long ago, we had been out to dinner; and on returning at a pretty late hour, we found the gentleman stretched out comfortably on the dining-room rug. where in the world did this dog come from? i said to the servants. they couldn't tell; they declared the doors had been long shut, and that they had never set eyes on him till that minute.' "'well,' i said, 'don't turn him out; he'll no doubt be claimed by some one in the neighbourhood--for he had quite the manners and air of a dog accustomed to good society; and i liked his large, expressive eyes. he made himself quite at home; and now we have discovered what a strangely intelligent creature he is, i hope no one will claim him, for i should be very sorry to part with him. but,' added she, 'poor mrs. x. can't endure him.' mrs. x., i must mention, was a widow lady, also on a visit there, with an only son. "'why?' said i. "'it is rather singular, certainly,' said she; but whenever young x. is in the room, the dog never takes his eyes off his face--you see he has peculiar eyes--they're full of meaning; and out of doors he does the same.' "'perhaps the dog has taken a fancy to him?' i suggested. "'it does not seem to be that; no, i think he likes me and mrs. c. and my children a great deal better. i can't tell what it is; but if you watch, you'll see it.' "i did, and it was really remarkable, and evidently annoyed mrs. x. very much. the young man affected to laugh at it, but i don't think he liked it altogether. "suddenly, one evening, mrs. x.--whose visit was to have extended to some weeks longer, announced that she should take her departure in a few days. i suspected this move was occasioned by her desire to get away from the dog, and so did my hostess--and we both thought it absurd. "mr. l. being obliged to return to london, we took our leave the morning after this announcement was made; but we had scarcely arrived there, when a letter from my friend followed, informing me that young mr. x. had been unfortunately drowned in the fish-pond, and that the dog had never been seen since the accident, though they had made inquiries and sought for him in every direction. whence he came, or whither he went, they were never able to discover. "but," said mrs. l., "as this is not a ghost story, i will tell you another anecdote that belongs more legitimately to the subjects you are treating of. once, when we were travelling in the north, mr. l. fell ill of a fever at paisley. this detained us there, and the minister called on us. when mr. l. recovered, we returned his visit; and, in the course of conversation, some of the old customs of the scotch fell under discussion; amongst others the _cutty stool_, which we had heard still subsisted. "'why don't you abolish it?' said mr. l. 'it would be much better to amend people by other influences than exposure.' "'well, sir,' said the good man, 'that was my opinion also; and i had determined to do it. before taking the step, however, i thought it advisable to publish my reasons; and i was one day sitting at the table writing on the subject, when i looked up, and beheld my father, who was minister here before me, and died in this manse, sitting on the opposite side of the table.' "'don't do any such thing, david,' said he; 'morality is loose enough; don't make it looser.'" round the fire. sixth evening. "the most interesting circumstance of the ghostly kind that i know, as really authentic," said madame s., "is what happened to the late lord c., when he was a young man--it is an old story, and you must have heard of the _radiant boy_; but as i had it from a member of the family, perhaps you will accept it as my contribution. "captain s., who was afterwards lord c., when he was a young man, happened to be quartered in ireland. he was fond of sport; and one day the pursuit of game carried him so far that he lost his way. the weather, too, had become very rough, and in this strait he presented himself at the door of a gentleman's house, and sending in his card, requested shelter for the night. the hospitality of the irish country gentry is proverbial; the master of the house received him warmly, said he feared he could not make him so comfortable as he could have wished, his house being full of visitors already--added to which, some strangers, driven by the inclemency of the night, had sought shelter before him, but that such accommodation as he could give he was heartily welcome to; whereupon he called his butler, and committing his guest to his good offices, told him he must put him up somewhere, and do the best he could for him. there was no lady, the gentleman being a widower. "captain s. found the house crammed, and a very jolly party it was. his host invited him to stay, and promised him good shooting if he would prolong his visit a few days; and, in fine, he thought himself extremely fortunate to have fallen into such pleasant quarters. "at length, after an agreeable evening, they all retired to bed, and the butler conducted him to a large room, almost divested of furniture, but with a blazing peat fire in the grate, and a shake down on the floor, composed of cloaks and other heterogeneous materials. "nevertheless, to the tired limbs of captain s., who had had a hard day's shooting, it looked very inviting; but before he lay down, he thought it advisable to take off some of the fire, which was blazing up the chimney, in what he thought, an alarming manner. having done this, he stretched himself upon the couch, and soon fell asleep. "he believed he had slept about a couple of hours when he awoke suddenly, and was startled by such a vivid light in the room, that he thought it was on fire, but on turning to look at the grate he saw the fire was out, though it was from the chimney the light proceeded. he sat up in bed, trying to discover what it was, when he perceived, gradually disclosing itself, the form of a beautiful naked boy, surrounded by a dazzling radiance. the boy looked at him earnestly, and then the vision faded, and all was dark. captain s., so far from supposing what he had seen to be of a spiritual nature, had no doubt that the host, or the visitors, had been amusing themselves at his expense, and trying to frighten him. accordingly he felt indignant at the liberty; and on the following morning, when he appeared at breakfast, he took care to evince his displeasure by the reserve of his demeanour, and by announcing his intention to depart immediately. the host expostulated, reminding him of his promise to stay and shoot. captain s. coldly excused himself and, at length, the gentleman seeing something was wrong, took him aside, and pressed for an explanation; whereupon captain s., without entering into particulars, said that he had been made the victim of a sort of practical joking that he thought quite unwarrantable with a stranger. "the gentleman considered this not impossible amongst a parcel of thoughtless young men, and appealed to them to make an apology; but one and all, on honour, denied the impeachment. suddenly, a thought seemed to strike him; he clapt his hand to his forehead, uttered an exclamation, and rang the bell. "'hamilton,' said he to the butler, 'where did captain s. sleep last night?' "'well, sir,' replied the man, in an apologetic tone,' 'you know every place was full--the gentlemen were lying on the floor, three or four in a room--so i gave him the _boy's room_; but i lit a blazing fire to keep him from coming out.' "'you were very wrong,' said the host, 'you know i have positively forbidden you to put any one there, and have taken the furniture out of the room to ensure its not being occupied.' then retiring with captain s., he informed him very gravely of the nature of the phenomenon he had seen; and, at length, being pressed for further information, he confessed that there existed a tradition in his family, that whoever the _radiant boy_ appeared to will rise to the summit of power; and when he had reached the climax, will die a violent death, and i must say, he added, that the records that have been kept of his appearance go to confirm this persuasion. "i need not remind you," said madam s., "what a remarkable confirmation was afforded by the life and death of lord c." "i had never heard these particulars before; but i had heard the story of lord c.'s _radiant boy_ alluded to, ápropos of the case of the rev. mr. a., who saw a very similar apparition some years ago at c. castle. i have related this case in the 'night side of nature.' i received the particulars from a relation of mr. a.'s, who was himself surviving at the time i published it." "it is curious," observed mrs. e., "how many houses in the north of england where i have been lately residing have something of this sort attached to them. some friends of mine not long ago heard of a very pretty place to let, and finding the rent unusually moderate they took it. they were delighted with their new residence; and often wondered that the proprietor, with whom they were slightly acquainted, did not either live there himself, or insist on more money for it. "after they had been there some time, his brother, that is, the brother of the proprietor, who did not live very far off, called one morning to see them; and asked them how they liked the place. they expressed their extreme satisfaction; adding, 'we wonder your brother does not live here himself.' "'there are reasons why it does not suit our family,' he answered. "when he was going away, my friends proposed to walk through the grounds with him; they had to cross a little brook not far from the house; and as they did so, a hare sprang past them and they all stopt and turned round to look at her, by which means they had a full view of the house. "'good heavens!' exclaimed the visitor, 'there she is!' "'where?' enquired my friend, thinking he alluded to the hare. "'is any of your family ill?' asked the stranger. "'no they answered;' and following the direction of his eyes, they observed at one of the upper windows of the house, a female figure in white, and enveloped in what looked like grave clothes. "the visitor appearing much agitated, my friend rushed back and ran up to the floor where the female had appeared; and not only was there no one there, but he found that the window was that of a vestibule and much too high from the ground for any one to reach. "on returning to their visitor, he said 'one of us will die before this year has expired; it is an unfailing omen in our family, and caused us so much distress, that that is the real reason why we do not live here. but it concerns nobody but ourselves; you will never be troubled by her visitations.' the destiny fell on the seer himself this time; he was dead before the year had expired. "there is another house in the same part of the county, where sometime ago a young friend of mine, one of three sisters, went on a visit for a short time. the first night, after she got into bed, she was startled by the most terrific screams she ever heard, which appeared close to her door. she jumped up and opened it, but there was nobody there. the next day she mentioned the circumstance, but the old lady she was visiting, said her ears must have deceived her, and turned the conversation; but she heard it again several times, and was quite sure there was no mistake. when she went home she told her sisters, who laughed at her; but each of them went to visit subsequently at the same house and heard precisely the same thing; but as it was evidently an unpleasant subject to their hostess, they could get no information on the subject." "a near relation of mine," said lord n., "is living in a place at present, where there is very much the same annoyance, and three families successively, had left the house in consequence of it. the building is large, part of it very old, and it is surrounded by a fine park; nevertheless, it has been found difficult to get a tenant--or, at least, to keep one. my relation was warned of the inconvenience before he took it. it is said that a lady was murdered there by her husband; at all events, there is one room--one of the best in the house, shut up, and never allowed to be opened. whoever sleeps in the room under this, is liable to be disturbed by extraordinary noises--footsteps and moving of furniture, &c.; but the most strange thing is, that every now and then a dreadful piercing scream is heard through the house, that brings any strangers who happen to be there, out of their rooms, in terror, to enquire what has occurred. the family who resided there before, met the apparition of a lady occasionally, and left the place in consequence. my relations have never seen anything; but everybody who stays there any time hears the screams. "another relation of mine, a very religious person, and as she belongs to the free church of scotland, most opposed to the belief in ghosts, went some time since to pay a visit at an old place belonging to our family. on the morning after her arrival, she announced at breakfast that she was going away. she gave no reason, but went, to the consternation of her host. with much difficulty, he has since extracted from her, that in the night an apparition appeared at the foot of her bed--a man dressed in an old-fashioned brown suit. he spoke to her, and some conversation passed--the subject of which she declares she will never disclose; she says it was not a good spirit, and nothing would induce her to visit the place again. this house has always been said to be haunted, but this is the only instance i know of the family themselves seeing anything of the sort; but no better evidence could be adduced of such a phenomenon than that of the lady in question. nobody ever doubted her word, and a more confirmed disbeliever in ghosts never existed. "a rather curious thing happened to myself lately," continued lord n. "i went to visit some friends at the lakes. as they had no vacant rooms, i engaged apartments near them for myself and servant. the house was small, quite modern, and as un-ghostly as possible. i always dined with my friends, and went to my lodgings about twelve o'clock, and i had been there five or six nights without anything unusual occurring. on the fourth or fifth evening, i had returned home rather earlier than usual, and instead of going to bed, i sat down to write a letter. while so engaged, i heard what i thought was a boy cracking a whip close to the drawing-room door. i paid no attention to it at first, though rather wondering at the hour chosen for the amusement. however, as it continued unintermittingly, and grew louder, i got up and opened the door, with the intention of desiring the child to go away. there was no one there. it then occurred to me that my ears must have deceived me, and that the sound might have proceeded from some explosive substance in my bedroom fire. the room was on the same floor, and the door shut; but when i opened it, i found the fire almost out--certainly not in a state to produce the noises i had heard. i went forward to stir it, and while doing so, the whip was cracked over my shoulder. i turned round quickly, but could see nothing, and i returned to the drawing-room, and had just seated myself again, when i was amazed to see the table rise about a foot perpendicularly into the air, and at the same moment, both the candles that were on it went out, without being upset or even moved. there was a fire, so that i was not quite in the dark, and i re-lighted them; after which the whip began cracking again vigorously, and cracked on till i went to bed and afterwards. i stayed in these apartments a fortnight or three weeks longer; and once, again, i heard the whip, but much fainter and for a shorter time; and one night there were distinct rappings on the mantel-piece, and afterwards on the dressing-table. "i could make no discovery in regard to these phenomena; and i leave it to the company to decide whether they were of a spiritual nature or not. the only other thing of the sort that ever happened to me was this:--i was travelling on the continent, and not being very well, was lying in bed, when i suddenly saw the door open, and two of my brothers walk through the room, dressed in deep mourning. i rang the bell furiously, and the people came, but could in no way explain what had happened. i shortly received letters, announcing that another brother had died at that time. "i will mention another instance that occurred in our family a few years since. during my grandfather's last illness, all the family were assembled at k. castle, except my brother john, with whom he was not on good terms. while we were living there, waiting to see what turn the illness would take, john died very unexpectedly, but we resolved not to mention the circumstance to lord a., as it might affect him injuriously; it was therefore kept a profound secret. "one day, some little time afterwards, lord a. had been asleep in his arm-chair, and on waking, he suddenly exclaimed, 'i shall see john on thursday!' this was on a monday, and he died on the thursday following." "a relation of mine," said mrs. l., "had a friend with whom a great intimacy had subsisted for many years, but a subject of difference arose that embittered her feelings towards this lady to such a degree, that she felt reconciliation impossible. they continued to live in the same town, but all intercourse was at an end. "one morning, lately, she was lying awake in her bed, when the door opened, and this lady came in; approaching the bed side, she spoke in a friendly manner, and entered into explanations with regard to the misunderstanding. my relation was not frightened during this interview; but when it was over, and she was gone, she suspected the nature of the visit. when her maid came to her room, she enquired if there had been any news of miss ----. the servant answered, none; but presently afterwards, a person called to mention the lady's death, which had taken place that morning." "for my part," said sir a. c., "i am acquainted with a circumstance that has settled entirely any doubts i might have entertained on the subject of ghosts. not many miles from my place in s--shire, there is a seat belonging to some connexions of my own. at the time i am about to refer to, an old lady was in possession, and it so happened, that a matter of business arose regarding the heirs of the property, which made it necessary to refer to the title deeds. to the surprise and dismay of the family they could not be found. a vigorous search was instituted, in vain; and the circumstance so preyed on my old relation's mind that she at length committed suicide, under the impression that some one else would lay claim to the estate. "after her death people complained that they could not live there--the place they said was haunted by this old lady, who, with her grey hair dishevelled, and dressed exactly as she used to be in her life time, they described as walking about the house, looking into drawers and cupboards, and incessantly searching for her deeds. we, of course, did not believe in the story, and were not even altogether convinced when the house, after being let to several strangers in succession, who all gave it up on the same plea, seemed destined to remain without an inhabitant. "it had stood empty two or three years, though offered at a very low rent, when a lady and gentleman from the west indies came into the neighbourhood to visit some acquaintance, and being in want of a residence, and hearing this was to be had on very reasonable terms, they proposed to take it. their friends told them of the objection made by preceding tenants, but they laughed with scorn at the idea of losing so good a house on account of a ghost; so they closed the bargain, took possession of the place, and sent for their family to join them. "the children, the youngest of whom was between three and four, and the eldest about ten, were, as a temporary arrangement, placed on the first night of their arrival to sleep in one room; but the next morning, when their mother went at a very early hour to see how they were, to her surprise, she found them all wide awake. they were looking pale and weary, and began with one voice to complain that they had been kept awake all night by such a disagreeable old lady, who would keep coming into the room, and looking for something in the drawers. 'i told her i wished she'd go away,' said the eldest, 'and then she did go; but she came back; and we don't like her. who is she, mamma? is she to live with us?' "they then, on being questioned, described her appearance, which exactly coincided with the account given by the former tenants. i can vouch for the truth of these circumstances; and since these children had, certainly, never heard a word on the subject of the apparition, and had, indeed, no idea that it was one, 'i think the evidence,' said sir a. c., 'is quite unexceptionable.' "i should say so, too, if it referred to any other question," said mr. e., a barrister, who happened to be present when the story was related; "but on the subject of ghosts i cannot think any evidence sufficient." "a state of mind by no means uncommon," i said, "and which it is, of course, in vain to contend with. i can only wonder and admire the confidence that can venture to prejudge so interesting and important a subject of inquiry." round the fire. seventh evening. "my story will be a very short one," said mrs. m.; "for i must tell you that though, like every body else, i have heard a great many ghost stories, and have met people who assured me they had seen such things, i cannot, for my own part, bring myself to believe in them; but a circumstance occurred when i was abroad, that you may perhaps consider of a ghostly nature, though i cannot. "i was travelling through germany, with no one but my maid--it was before the time of railways, and on my road from leipsic to dresden, i stopt at an inn that appeared to have been long ago part of an aristocratic residence--a castle in short; for there was a stone wall and battlements, and a tower at one side; while the other was a prosaic-looking, square building that had evidently been added in modern times. the inn stood at one end of a small village, in which some of the houses looked so antique that they might, i thought, be coeval with the castle itself. there were a good many travellers, but the host said he could accommodate me; and when i asked to see my room, he led me up to the towers, and showed me a tolerably comfortable one. there were only two apartments on each floor; so i asked him if i could have the other for my maid, and he said yes, if no other traveller arrived. none came, and she slept there. "i supped at the table d'hôte, and retired to bed early, as i had an excursion to make on the following day; and i was sufficiently tired with my journey to fall asleep directly. "i don't know how long i had slept--but i think some hours, when i awoke quite suddenly, almost with a start, and beheld near the foot of the bed, the most hideous, dreadful-looking old woman, in an antique dress, that imagination can conceive. she seemed to be approaching me--not as if walking, but gliding, with her left arm and hand extended towards me. "'merciful god deliver me!' i exclaimed under my first impulse of amazement; and as i said the words she disappeared." "then, though you don't believe in ghosts, you thought it was one when you saw it," said i. "i don't know what i thought--i admit i was a good deal frightened, and it was a long time before i fell asleep again. "in the morning," continued mrs. m., "my maid knocked, and i told her to come in; but the door was locked, and i had to get out of bed to admit her--i thought i might have forgotten to fasten it. as soon as i was up, i examined every part of the room, but i could find nothing to account for this intrusion. there was neither trap or moving panell, or door that i could see, except the one i had locked. however, i made up my mind not to speak of the circumstance, for i fancied i must have been deceived in supposing myself awake, and that it was only a dream; more particularly as there was no light in my room, and i could not comprehend how i could have seen this woman. "i went out early, and was away the greater part of the day. when i returned i found more travellers had arrived, and that they had given the room next mine to a german lady and her daughter, who were at the table d'hôte. i therefore had a bed made up in my room for my maid; and before i lay down, i searched thoroughly, that i might be sure nobody was concealed there. "in the middle of the night--i suppose about the same time i had been disturbed on the preceding one--i and my maid were awakened by a piercing scream; and i heard the voice of the german girl in the adjoining room, exclaiming, 'ach! meine mutter! meine mutter!' "for some time afterwards i heard them talking, and then i fell asleep--wondering, i confess, whether they had had a visit from the frightful old woman. they left me in no doubt the next morning. they came down to breakfast greatly excited--told everybody the cause--described the old woman exactly as i had seen her, and departed from the house incontinently, declaring they would not stay there another hour." "what did the host say to it?" we asked. "nothing; he said we must have dreamed it--and i suppose we did." "your story," said i, "reminds me of a very interesting letter which i received soon after the publication of 'the night side of nature.' it was from a clergyman who gave his name, and said he was chaplain to a nobleman. he related that in a house he inhabited, or had inhabited, a lady had one evening gone up stairs, and seen, to her amazement, in a room, the door of which was open, a lady in an antique dress, standing before a chest of drawers, and apparently examining their contents. she stood still, wondering who this stranger could be, when the figure turned her face towards her, and, to her horror, she saw there were no eyes. other members of the family saw the same apparition also. i believe there were further particulars; but i unfortunately lost this letter, with some others, in the confusion of changing my residence. "the absence of eyes i take to be emblematical of moral blindness; for in the world of spirits there is no deceiving each other by false seemings; as we are, so we appear." "then," said mrs. w. c., "the apparition--if it was an apparition--that two of my servants saw lately, must be in a very degraded state. "there is a road, and on one side of it a path, just beyond my garden wall. not long ago two of my servants were in the dusk of the evening walking up this path, when they saw a large, dark object coming towards them. at first, they thought it was an animal; and when it got close, one of them stretched out her hand to touch it; but she could feel nothing, and it passed on between her and the garden wall, although there was _no space_, the path being only wide enough for two; and on looking back, they saw it walking down the hill behind them. three men were coming up on the path; and as the thing approached, they jumped off into the road. "'good heavens, what is that!' cried the women. "'i don't know,' replied the men; 'i never saw such a thing as that before.' "the women came home greatly agitated; and we have since heard there is a tradition that the spot is haunted by the ghost of a man who was killed in a quarry close by." "i have travelled a great deal," said our next speaker, the chevalier de la c. g.; and, certainly, i have never been in any country where instances of these spiritual appearances were not adduced on apparently credible authority. i have heard numerous stories of the sort, but the one that most readily occurs to me at present, was told to me not long ago, in paris, by count p.--the nephew of the celebrated count p. whose name occurs in the history of the remarkable incidents connected with the death of the emperor paul. "count p., my authority for the following story, was attached to the russian embassy; and he told me, one evening, when the conversation turned on the inconveniences of travelling in the east of europe, that, on one occasion, when in poland, he found himself about seven o'clock in an autumn evening on a forest road, where there was no possibility of finding a house of public entertainment within many miles. there was a frightful storm; the road, not good at the best, was almost impracticable from the weather, and his horses were completely knocked up. on consulting his people what was best to be done, they said, that to go back was as impossible as to go forward; but that by turning a little out of the main road, they should soon reach a castle where possibly shelter might be procured for the night. the count gladly consented, and it was not long before they found themselves at the gate of what appeared a building on a very splendid scale. the courier quickly alighted and rang at the bell, and while waiting for admission, he enquired who the castle belonged to, and was told that it was count x's. "it was some time before the bell was answered, but at length an elderly man appeared at a wicket, with a lantern, and peeped out. on perceiving the equipage, he came forward and stept up to the carriage, holding the light aloft to discover who was inside. count p. handed him his card, and explained his distress. "'there is no one here, my lord,' replied the man, 'but myself and my family; the castle is not inhabited.' "'that's bad news,' said the count; 'but nevertheless, you can give me what i am most in need of, and that is--shelter for the night.' "'willingly,' said the man, 'if your lordship will put up with such accommodation as we can hastily prepare.' "'so,' said the count, 'i alighted and walked in; and the old man unbarred the great gates to admit my carriages and people. we found ourselves in an immense _couer_, with the castle _en face_, and stables and offices on each side. as we had a _fourgon_ with us, with provender for the cattle and provisions for ourselves, we wanted nothing but beds and a good fire; and as the only one lighted was in the old man's apartments, he first took us there. they consisted of a _suite_ of small rooms in the left wing, that had probably been formerly occupied by the upper servants. they were comfortably furnished, and he and his large family appeared to be very well lodged. besides the wife, there were three sons, with their wives and children, and two nieces; and in a part of the offices, where i saw a light, i was told there were labourers and women servants, for it was a valuable estate, with a fine forest, and the sons acted as _gardes chasse_. "'is there much game in the forest?' i asked. "'a great deal of all sorts,' they answered. "'then i suppose during the season the family live here?' "'never,' they replied. 'none of the family ever reside here.' "'indeed!' i said; how is that? it seems a very fine place.' "'superb,' answered the wife of the custodian; 'but the castle is haunted.' "she said this with a simple gravity that made me laugh; upon which they all stared at me with the most edifying amazement. "'i beg your pardon,' i said; 'but you know, perhaps, in great cities, such as i usually inhabit, there are no ghosts.' "'indeed!' said they. 'no ghosts!' "'at least,' i said, 'i never heard of any; and we don't believe in such things.' "they looked at each other with surprise, but said nothing; not appearing to have any desire to convince me. 'but do you mean to say,' said i, 'that that is the reason the family don't live here, and that the castle is abandoned on that account?' "'yes,' they replied, 'that is the reason nobody has resided here for many years.' "'but how can you live here then?' "'we are never troubled in this part of the building,' said she. 'we hear noises, but we are used to that.' "'well, if there is a ghost, i hope i shall see it,' said i. "'god forbid!' said the woman, crossing herself. 'but we shall guard against that; your seigneurie will sleep not far from this, where you will be quite safe.' "'oh! but,' said i, 'i am quite serious, if there is a ghost, i should particularly like to see him, and i should be much obliged to you to put me in the apartments he most frequents.' "they opposed this proposition earnestly, and begged me not to think of if; besides, they said if any thing was to happen to my lord, how should they answer for it; but as i insisted, the women went to call the members of the family who were lighting fires and preparing beds in some rooms on the same floor as they occupied themselves. when they came they were as earnest against the indulgence of my wishes as the women had been. still i insisted. "'are you afraid,' i said, 'to go yourselves in the haunted chambers?' "'no,' they answered. 'we are the custodians of the castle and have to keep the rooms clean and well aired lest the furniture be spoiled--my lord talks always of removing it, but it has never been removed yet--but we would not sleep up there for all the world.' "'then it is the upper floors that are haunted?' "'yes, especially the long room, no one could pass a night there; the last that did is in a lunatic asylum now at warsaw,' said the custodian. "'what happened to him?' "'i don't know,' said the man; 'he was never able to tell.' "'who was he?' i asked. "'he was a lawyer. my lord did business with him; and one day he was speaking of this place, and saying that it was a pity he was not at liberty to pull it down and sell the materials; but he cannot, because it is family property and goes with the title; and the lawyer said he wished it was his, and that no ghost should keep him out of it. my lord said that it was easy for any one to say that who knew nothing about it, and that he must suppose the family had not abandoned such a fine place without good reasons. but the lawyer said it was some trick, and that it was coiners, or robbers, who had got a footing in the castle, and contrived to frighten people away that they might keep it to themselves; so my lord said if he could prove that he should be very much obliged to him, and more than that, he would give him a great sum--i don't know how much. so the lawyer said, he would; and my lord wrote to me that he was coming to inspect the property, and i was to let him do any thing he liked. "'well, he came, and with him his son, a fine young man and a soldier. they asked me all sorts of questions, and went over the castle and examined every part of it. from what they said, i could see that they thought the ghost was all nonsense, and that i and my family were in collusion with the robbers or coiners. however, i did not care for that, my lord knew that the castle had been haunted before i was born. "'i had prepared rooms on this floor for them--the same i am preparing for your lordship, and they slept there, keeping the keys of the upper rooms to themselves, so i did not interfere with them. but one morning, very early, we were awakened by some one knocking at our bedroom door, and when we opened it, we saw mr. thaddeus--that was the lawyer's son--standing there half-drest and as pale as a ghost; and he said his father was very ill and he begged us to go to him; to our surprise he led us up stairs to the haunted chamber, and there we found the poor gentleman speechless, and we thought they had gone up there early and that he had had a stroke. but it was not so; mr. thaddeus said, that after we were all in bed, they had gone up there to pass the night. i know they thought that there was no ghost but us, and that's why they would not let us know their intention. they laid down upon some sofas, wrapt up in their fur cloaks, and resolved to keep awake, and they did so for some time, but at last the young man was overcome by drowsiness, he struggled against it, but could not conquer it, and the last thing he recollects was his father shaking him and saying 'thaddeus, thaddeus, for god's sake keep awake!' but he could not, and he knew no more till he woke and saw that day was breaking, and found his father sitting in a corner of the room speechless, and looking like a corpse; and there he was when we went up. the young man thought he'd been taken ill or had a stroke, as we supposed at first; but when we found they had passed the night in the haunted chambers, we had no doubt what had happened--he had seen some terrible sight and so lost his senses.' "'he lost his senses, i should say, from terror when his son fell asleep,' said i, 'and he felt himself alone. he could have been a man of no nerve. at all events, what you tell me raises my curiosity. will you take me up stairs and shew me those rooms?' "'willingly,' said the man, and fetching a bunch of keys and a light, and calling one of his sons to follow him with another, he led the way up the great staircase to a suite of apartments on the first floor. the rooms were lofty and large, and the man said the furniture was very handsome, but old. being all covered with canvas cases, i could not judge of it. 'which is the long room?' i said. "upon which he led me into a long narrow room that might rather have been called a gallery. there were sofas along each side, something like a dais at the upper end; and several large pictures hanging on the walls. "i had with me a bull dog, of a very fine breed, that had been given me in england by lord f. she had followed me up stairs--indeed, she followed me every where--and i watched her narrowly as she went smelling about, but there were no indications of her perceiving any thing extraordinary. beyond this gallery there was only a small octagon room, with a door that led out upon another staircase. when i had examined it all thoroughly, i returned to the long room and told the man, as that was the place especially frequented by the ghost, i should feel much obliged if he would allow me to pass the night there. i could take upon myself to say that count x., would have no objection. "'it is not that,' replied the man; 'but the danger to your lordship,' and he conjured me not to insist on such a perilous experiment. "when he found i was resolved, he gave way, but on condition that i signed a paper, stating that in spite of his representations i had determined to sleep in the long room. "i confess, the more anxious these people seemed to prevent my sleeping there, the more curious i was; not that i believed in the ghost the least in the world. i thought that the lawyer had been right in his conjecture, but that he hadn't nerve enough to investigate whatever he saw or heard; and that they had succeeded in frightening him out of his senses. i saw what an excellent place these people had got, and how much it was their interest to maintain the idea that the castle was uninhabitable. now, i have pretty good nerves--i have been in situations that have tried them severely--and i did not believe that any ghost, if there was such a thing, or any jugglery by which a semblance of one might be contrived, would shake them. as for any real danger, i did not apprehend it; the people knew who i was, and any mischief happening to me would have led to consequences they well understood. so they lighted fires in both the grates of the gallery, and as they had abundance of dry wood, they soon blazed up. i was determined not to leave the room after i was once in it, lest, if my suspicions were correct, they might have time to make their arrangements; so i desired my people to bring up my supper, and i ate it there. "my courier said he had always heard the castle was haunted, but he dare say there was no ghost but the people below, who had a very comfortable berth of it; and he offered to pass the night with me, but i declined any companion and preferred trusting to myself and my dog. my valet, on the contrary, strongly advised me against the enterprize, assuring me that he had lived with a family in france whose château was haunted, and had left his place in consequence. "by the time i had finished my supper it was ten o'clock, and every thing was prepared for the night. my bed, though an impromptu, was very comfortable, made of amply stuffed cushions and thick coverlets, placed in front of the fire. i was provided with light and plenty of wood; and i had my regimental cutlass, and a case of excellent pistols, which i carefully primed and loaded in presence of the custodian, saying, you see i am determined to fire at the ghost, so if he cannot stand a bullet, he had better not pay me a visit. "the old man shook his head calmly, but made no answer. having desired the courier, who said he should not go to bed, to come up stairs immediately if he heard the report of fire-arms, i dismissed my people and locked the doors, barricading each with a heavy ottoman besides. there was no arras or hangings of any sort behind which a door could be concealed; and i went round the room, the walls of which were pannelled with white and gold, knocking every part, but neither the sound, nor dido, the dog, gave any indications of there being anything unusual. then i undressed and lay down with my sword and my pistols beside me; and dido at the foot of my bed, where she always slept. "i confess i was in a state of pleasing excitement; my curiosity and my love of adventure were roused; and whether it was ghost, or robber, or coiner, i was to have a visit from, the interview was likely to be equally interesting. it was half-past ten when i lay down; my expectations were too vivid to admit of sleep; and after an attempt at a french novel, i was obliged to give it up; i could not fix my attention to it. besides, my chief care was not to be surprised. i could not help thinking the custodian and his family had some secret way of getting into the room, and i hoped to detect them in the fact; so i lay with my eyes and ears open in a position that gave me a view of every part of it, till my travelling clock struck twelve, which being pre-eminently the ghostly hour, i thought the critical moment was arrived. but no, no sound, no interruption of any sort to the silence and solitude of the night occurred. when half-past twelve, and one struck, i pretty well made up my mind that i should be disappointed in my expectations, and that the ghost, whoever he was, knew better than to encounter dido and a brace of well charged pistols; but just as i arrived at this conclusion, an unaccountable _frisson_ came over me, and i saw dido, who tired with her day's journey, had lain till now quietly curled up asleep, begin to move, and slowly get upon her feet. i thought she was only going to turn, but, instead of lying down, she stood still with her ears erect and her head towards the dais, uttering a low growl. "the dais, i should mention, was but the skeleton of a dais, for the draperies were taken off. there was only remaining a canopy covered with crimson velvet, and an arm chair covered with velvet too, but cased in canvas like the rest of the furniture. i had examined this part of the room thoroughly, and had moved the chair aside to ascertain that there was nothing under it. "well, i sat up in bed and looked steadily in the same direction as the dog, but i could see nothing at first, though it appeared that she did; but as i looked, i began to perceive something like a cloud in the chair, while at the same time a chill which seemed to pervade the very marrow in my bones crept through me, yet the fire was good; and it was not the chill of fear, for i cocked my pistols with perfect self possession and abstained from giving dido the signal to advance, because i wished eagerly to see the denouement of the adventure. "gradually, this cloud took a form, and assumed the shape of a tall white figure that reached from the ceiling to the floor of the dais, which was raised by two steps. at him, dido! at him! i said, and away she dashed to the steps, but instantly turned and crept back completely cowed. as her courage was undoubted, i own this astonished me, and i should have fired, but that i was perfectly satisfied that what i saw was not a substantial human form, for i had seen it grow into its present shape and height from the undefined cloud that first appeared in the chair. i laid my hand on the dog who had crept up to my side, and i felt her shaking in her skin. i was about to rise myself and approach the figure, though i confess i was a good deal awe struck, when it stepped majestically from the dais, and seemed to be advancing. 'at him!' i said, 'at him, dido!' and i gave the dog every encouragement to go forward; she made a sorry attempt, but returned when she had got half way and crouched beside me whining with terror. the figure advanced upon me; the cold became icy; the dog crouched and trembled; and i, as it approached, honestly confess, said count p., that i hid my head under the bed clothes and did not venture to look up till morning. i know not what it was--as it passed over me i felt a sensation of undefinable horror, that no words can describe--and i can only say that nothing on earth would tempt me to pass another night in that room, and i am sure if dido could speak, you'd find her of the same opinion. "i had desired to be called at seven o'clock, and when the custodian, who accompanied my valet, found me safe and in my perfect senses, i must say the poor man appeared greatly relieved; and when i descended the whole family seemed to look upon me as a hero. i thought it only just to them to admit that something had happened in the night that i felt impossible to account for, and that i should not recommend any body who was not very sure of their nerves to repeat the experiment." when the chevalier had concluded this extraordinary story, i suggested that the apparition of the castle very much resembled that mentioned by the late professor gregory, in his letters on mesmerism, as having appeared in the tower of london some years ago, and from the alarm it created, having occasioned the death of a lady, the wife of an officer quartered there, and one of the sentries. every one who had read that very interesting publication was struck by the resemblance. round the fire. eighth evening. "as this was our last evening, i was called upon for a story; but i pleaded that i had told all mine in the 'night side of nature,' and of personal experience i had very little to tell; but i said i will give you the history of a visit i made several years ago to a haunted house although it resulted in almost nothing. "after the publication of the 'night side,' i received many valuable communications--i wish i had kept a note of them all, but i never expected to publish again on the same subject. amongst others, i received a letter from a gentleman called mc. n., and as it contained several interesting particulars, i requested him to call on me. i remember, in the letter, he told me that a few years previously, he had been on an excursion from home, and that while stopping at an inn, one morning, about five o'clock, the door opened and his father entered; he came to the bedside, looked at him, and then went out again. the young man sprang from his bed, and followed him down stairs, where he lost sight of him. he returned home, and found his father had died on that morning. "he was in a lawyer's office, and, amongst other things, he mentioned to me that there was not very far off a house said to be haunted, of which they had the charge, but that it was impossible to do anything with it. 'we offer it at a mere nominal rent, but no one will stay there.' "i was often absent from home at this time, but for the next two or three years i sometimes met him and inquired about the house. the report was always the same; till, at length, no one would go into it; it was shut up--the shutters were closed, and the boys of the neighbourhood threw stones at the windows and broke the glass. yet it was situated in a street where every other house was inhabited, and which had not been built many years. "it was as much as six or seven years after i had first heard of this house, that i happened to mention the circumstance to some gentlemen of my acquaintance--very eminent men, with honest, inquiring minds; truth seekers, who, if she were in the bottom of a well, would have thought it right to go after her. as they had humility enough to feel that they could not pronounce upon a question that they had never studied or investigated, they expressed a wish to visit the house. accordingly, i applied to mr. mc. n., who had the keys in his office, and he obligingly consented to accompany us. our expedition was to be kept a profound secret; and it was so, till some time afterwards, when, like most other secrets, it got wind and it spread abroad. "we started in a carriage, between eleven and twelve o'clock at night, taking with us a young girl who was easily mesmerised, and when in that state a good clairvoyante. she was not told the object of our journey, and had no means whatever of learning it. we said we were going to look at a house, and that that was the most convenient time for the gentleman to show it us. we did not drive to the door, but mr. mc. n. met us in the next street, where we alighted, lest we should attract observation. we walked to our destination, and mr. mc. n. explained to the policeman on duty who he was and where we were going, lest he should suspect mischief, and interrupt us. he then unlocked the door with the aid of the policeman's lantern, for it was a dark winter's night; and on entering, we found ourselves in a narrow passage. "it was a small house, in no respect different from the others in the street. they seemed all of the same description. a narrow frontage, with one window and the door, on the ground floor; two windows above; two rooms on a floor, three stories in height, and a kitchen, scullery, and cellars underground. "as soon as the door closed on us, we were in utter darkness, but we had provided ourselves with candles and matches, and when we had lighted them, we entered the back parlour, which mr. mc. n. had heard from the different inhabitants was the room in which they had met with most annoyance. "the clairvoyante was then put to sleep, and asked if she liked the house, and would recommend us to take it. she shuddered and said 'no; that two people had been murdered there, and we should be _troubled_.' we asked in which room; she answered, 'it was before this house was built--that another house stood there then--a very old house.' this was not exactly on the same ground, but the room we were in was on part of it. she said that it was these murdered people who would trouble us. we asked if she could see them, and she answered 'no.' "we then waited in silence to see if anything occurred; but nothing did, except a metallic sound at the door, which was ajar, like the striking of two pieces of iron. we all heard it, but could not say what occasioned it. "after a little time, some one suggested that we should extinguish the lights. we did so, and were then in absolute darkness. there was but one window in the room, and that was coated with dust, and the shutter was shut; besides, as i have said, it was a very dark night, and this room, being at the back, looked into a yard, i believe; at all events, not into a street. "presently, the clairvoyante started, and exclaimed, 'look there!' we saw nothing, and asked what it was. "'there!' she said. 'there again! don't you see it?' "'what?' we asked. 'the lights!' she said. 'there! now!' these exclamations were made at intervals of two or three seconds. "we all said we saw nothing whatever. "'if mrs. crowe would take hold of my hand, i think she would see them,' she suggested. "i did so; and then at intervals of a few seconds, i saw thrown up, apparently from the floor, waves of white light, faint, but perfectly distinct and visible. in order that i might know whether our perceptions of this phenomenon were simultaneous, i desired her, without speaking, to press my hand each time she saw it, which she did; and each time i distinctly saw the wave of white light. i saw it, at these intervals, as long as i held her hand and we were in the dark. nobody saw it but she and myself; and we did not follow up the experiment by the others taking her hand, which we should have done. "during this interval, another light suddenly appeared in the middle of the room, away from where we were standing, i saw a bright diamond of light, like an extremely vivid spark--only not the colour of fire; it was white, brilliant, and quiescent, but shed no rays. i did not mention this, because i wished to learn if it was visible to any body else--but nobody spoke of it; not even the clairvoyante. whether she saw it or not, i cannot say. when the candles were re-lighted these lights were no longer visible. i and one of the gentlemen went over the house above and below, but saw nothing but the dust and desolation of a long uninhabited dwelling. "when we came away, and mr. mc. n. had locked the door, we walked to the carriage. i said, 'then you none of you saw the waves of light.' "'no,' said they. "'well,' said i, 'i certainly did, and i never saw anything like it before. moreover, i saw another sort of light.' "'did you,' said mr. mc. n., interrupting me; 'was it a bright spark of light like the oxy-hydrogen light.' "'exactly,' said i. 'i could not think what to compare it to; but that was it.' "i thus was certain that he had seen the same thing as myself; he had not spoken of it from a similar motive; he waited to have his impression confirmed by further testimony. "you see our results were not great, but the visit was not wholly barren to me. of course, many wise people will say, i did not see the lights, but that they were the offspring of my excited imagination. but i beg to say that my imagination was by no means excited. if i had been there _alone_, it would have been a different affair; for though i never saw a ghost nor ever fancied i did, i am afraid i should have been very nervous. but i was in exceedingly good company, with two very clever men, besides the lawyer, a lady, and the clairvoyante; so that my nerves were perfectly composed, as i should not object to seeing any ghost in such agreeable society. moreover, i did not _expect_ any result; because, there is very seldom any on these occasions, as ghosts appear we know not why; but certainly not because people wish to see them. they generally come when least expected and least thought of. "mr. mc. n., on inquiry, learnt that unaccountable lights were amongst the things complained of. what occasioned them and the other phenomena, it had certainly been the proprietor's interest for many years to discover; it had also been the interest of numerous tenants, who having taken the house for a term, found themselves obliged to leave it at a sacrifice. yet, for all those years, no explanation could be found for the annonyances but that the house was haunted. no tradition seems extant to account for its evil reputation. if what the clairvoyante said was true, the murders must have occurred long ago. "a gentleman, an inhabitant of the same city, once mentioned to me that a friend of his, many years previously, when quite a young man, had one sunday evening been walking alone in the fields outside this town; and that he met a young woman, a perfect stranger, who, on some pretence asked him to see her safe home. he did so; she led him to a lone farm house, and then inviting him to walk in, shewed him into a room and left him. whilst waiting for her return, idly looking about, he found hidden under the table, which was covered with a cloth, a dead body. on this discovery, he rushed to the door; it was locked; but the window was not very high from the ground, and by it he escaped; terrified to such a degree, that he not only left the city that very evening, but hastened out of the country, apprehensive that he had been enticed to the house and shut up with the murdered man, for the purpose of throwing the guilt on him; and as justice was not so clear sighted, and much more inexorable than in these days, he feared the circumstantial evidence might go against him. he settled in a foreign country and finally died there. "where this locality was, i don't know, except that it was in the environs of the city--environs which have since been covered with buildings; what if the house that we visited should have been erected on the site of that lone farm! "it may be so; at all events, this story shews how possible it is that some similar event might have occurred on the spot where the haunted house stands." in conclusion, let me once more recall to my readers that one, whose insight none will dispute, reminds us, in relation to this very subject, that "our philosophy," does not comprehend all wisdom and all truth. philosophy is a good guide when she opens her eyes, but where she obstinately shuts them to one class of facts because she has previously made up her mind they cannot be genuine, she is a bad one. professor a. told me that when he was at göttingen, as a great favour, and through the interest of an influential professor there, he was allowed to see a book that had belonged to faust, or faustus, as we call him. it was a large volume, and the leaves were stiff and hard like wood. they contained his magic rites and formulas, but on the last page was inscribed a solemn injunction to all men, as they loved their own souls, not to follow in his path or practice the teaching that volume contained. there appears to be a mystery out of the domain--i mean the present domain of science; within the region of the hyper-psychical, regarding our relations, while in this world, with those who have past the gates, a belief in which is, i think, innate in human nature. this belief, in certain periods and places, grows rank and mischievous; at others, it is almost extinguished by reaction and education; but it never wholly dies; because, every where and in all times, circumstances have occurred to keep it alive, amongst individuals, which never reach the public ear. now, the truth is always worth ascertaining on any subject; even this despised subject of ghosts, and those who have an inherent conviction that they themselves are spirits, temporarily clothed in flesh, feel that they have an especial interest in the question. we are fully aware that the investigation presents all sorts of difficulties, and that the belief is opposed to all sorts of accepted opinions; but we desire to ascertain the grounds of a persuasion, so nearly concerning ourselves which in all ages and all countries has prevailed in a greater or less degree, and which appears to be sustained by a vast amount of facts, which, however, we admit are not in a condition to be received as any thing beyond presumptive evidence. these facts are chiefly valuable, as furnishing cumulative testimony of the frequent recurrence of phenomena explicable by no known theory, and therefore as open to the spiritual hypothesis as any other. when a better is offered, supported by something more convincing than pointless ridicule and dogmatic assertion, i for one, shall be ready to entertain it. in the meanwhile, hoping that time may, at length, in some degree, rend the veil that encompasses this department of psychology, we record such experiences as come under our observation and are content to await their interpretation. appendix. i have referred in the preceding pages to the loss of several letters, which i should have been glad to insert here. the following very interesting ones i have fortunately retained. i give them verbatim, only suppressing the names of the writers, as requested. * * * * * letter i. _aug. , ._ madam, i have received your kind favor of the th, and i really feel that i must now apologize to you, for venturing so quickly to call in question the accuracy of your details. being unaware, however, of the marvellous coincidence of the _two dreams_, i feel assured you at once appreciated the motives which alone impelled me to write. allow me, then, to attempt a narration of the particulars referred to in my last, as having come under my own observation. two intimate friends of mine (clergymen of the church of england) and one of whom is unmarried, have for the last three years occupied a large old-fashioned house in the country. it is a very pretty place--stands within its own grounds--and is quite aloof from any other dwellings. it has long had the reputation in the neighbourhood of being haunted, in consequence, it is said, of a former proprietor having committed suicide there. the story goes thus, he was _laid out_ in a chamber which is now called the spare room, and is the scene of what i am about to relate. i may as well tell you that it was only on my last visit, some six weeks since, that i became at all aware of the _character_ of the mansion, for my friends felt so annoyed at what has taken place, that they purposely avoided communicating to their visitors what they thought might make them anything but comfortable. on that occasion there happened to be on a visit to my friend's wife, a lady very nearly related to him. she had the spare room assigned to her as a chamber, and on the very first night of her arrival was so terrified by what took place that she would not again sleep there without company. she stated that in the middle of the night she was alarmed by the most unearthly groanings and lamentations--the voice seemed close to her bedside. it was afterwards attended by a rustling noise, and she distinctly felt the curtains at the foot of the bed removed. now, as my knowledge of what was going on could not be disputed, my friends admitted that it was not the _first_ time these noises had been heard, nay, that in two instances the apparition of a form in grave-clothes had been seen; the one occurring to a young gentleman of about twenty years of age, who happened to be visiting them, and the other to one of their own servants. in the former case, it appears that the young man was sitting rather late at night in the study reading--all the family being in bed--when the form emerged, apparently, from the wall dividing the study from the haunted chamber. it remained a short time only and then melted away. so great was the young man's terror that he has never been near the place since. the servant also described a similar appearance, and no one in the house who saw her terror could believe it acted. independently of all this, no less than four gentlemen, two of them from the university, have experienced all the unearthly groanings and be-wailings before mentioned, and in nearly every instance the parties were, like myself, ignorant of the character attributed to the house. but i now come to my own experience. i was on a visit to my friends about twelve months since, when i met a gentleman who had just left the army for the church. he appeared about years of age, and there was that indescribable _something_ in his manner which charmed me immediately. without any pretence to being set up--so to speak--in piety, there was yet _that_ in his sunny countenance and air of cheerfulness, which made you feel that he had been called to a brighter path of usefulness. i certainly very much admired him, and i have since learnt that he is a general favourite. on retiring to rest i found that he was to occupy the next room--not the study side. from a variety of causes i could not sleep--but the imaginative powers were not particularly aroused--my thoughts were of very prosy and worldly things. as near as i could recollect, about an hour after i had been in bed, i heard the most dreadful groans followed by exclamations of the most horrible kind. the voice certainly _seemed_ in the room, and was continued for at _least two hours_, at intervals of about ten minutes. it was that of a man who had committed a deadly sin which could never be pardoned! the agony seemed to me to be intense. will you believe it, madam, in spite of what i thought of my acquaintance of the next chamber, i ascribed it to him. i believed little in the supernatural, and concluded it to be some dreadful dream. it is astonishing the thought never struck me that a _continuous_ dream of such a character was scarcely possible. it did not, however, and despite of its unearthly character, and the apparent woe of the unfortunate one--the despair, as i said before, of a lost soul--i continued to associate it all with my neighbour next door, until the events which occurred at my last visit entirely upset my conviction, and i became at once assured i had been doing him a great injustice. like some of the cases in the "night side of nature," you will perceive here a great difference in the manifestations--to some it was given to _hear_, to others to _see_. are you still of opinion that this results from what you term comparative freedom of _rapport_! do you not think there _are_ times when the material may give place to the supernatural? i admit freely the truth of spectral illusions--i have myself experienced one--but knew it to be nothing more. still, notwithstanding this, and my further belief in a _certain_ connection of mind and matter, i cannot altogether cast from me the persuasion that the almighty one may _at times_ think fit to exercise a power independent of all rule, for the attainment of certain ends to us, perhaps, unknown. i cannot conclude without telling you that with regard to what i have mentioned above, nothing in the shape of _trick_ could possibly have been practised. trusting i may not have trespassed too much on your patience, i will now remain, madam, yours very respectfully, j. h. h. * * * * * letter ii. _gloucestershire, june , ._ madam, being not long ago on a visit of some days at the house of a friend, i happened to meet with your work, entitled "the night side of nature." the title struck my imagination, and opening the book i was delighted to find that it treated of subjects which had long engaged my serious thoughts. i was much pleased to see in you such an able and earnest protester against the cold scepticism of the age in reference to truths of the highest order, and those too sustained by a body of evidence which in any other case would be esteemed irresistible. i must also say that i never met with so great a number of well authenticated facts in any other work as you have given us, whilst the truly catholic spirit of your theological reflections, was to me pecularly refreshing. i once had a thought of making a similar collection, that design i have however abandoned, the state of my health not admitting of much literary labour. i could relate to you many things as remarkable as any you have described, for the truth of which i can vouch. i will mention one of a most singular nature, and should you be inclined to read anything more from me on these matters, i shall feel a pleasure in the communication. writing letters i find to be a relief from a melancholy, induced some two years ago by a variety of heavy afflictions, and this must be my apology for addressing you. but to my narrative:-- shortly after i entered the ministry, i was introduced to a gentleman of very superior mind who belonged to the same profession, and whom i had never seen equalled for the genius and eloquence which his conversation displayed. i became at once attached to him, and for some reason or other he evinced a desire to cultivate my friendship. after some months of most agreeable intercourse had elapsed, he was taken seriously ill, and one evening i was hastily summoned to his house. on my entering his chamber he requested that we might be left alone, and he then told me that it was his impression that his disease was mortal--that many supernatural occurrances had marked his life, which he desired might be given to the world when he was gone, and that he wished me to perform this office. having expressed my willingness to gratify him, he commenced the chapter of extraordinaries. here is one event in his remarkable history. prior to his becoming a minister and when in humble circumstances, he lodged at the house of a tradesman at a certain sea-port town in w--s. he was then in perfect health. one night he retired to rest in peculiarly good spirits, and as his custom was (for it was then summer) he sat near the window and gazed for some time on the beauties of nature. he then amused himself for a while by humming a tune, when presently on looking towards the door, he saw the figure of a man enter--his dress was a blood red night cap, flannel jacket, and breeches. the man approached the bed (his countenance and walk indicating extreme illness), threw himself upon it, gave several groans and apparantly expired. my friend was so filled with horror that he lost all power of speech and motion, and remained fixed on his seat till morning, when he told his landlord the occurrence of the night, and declared that unless they could find him other apartments he would leave them that very day. the honest people were disinclined to part with him and agreed to accommodate him on the ground-floor. about _twelve months after this_, he went out on a market day for the purpose of purchasing some provisions, and when he returned, he heard that his old room was taken; but what was his surprise to find in the new lodger the very form, with the very same dress that had so terrified him a year before! the man was then very ill: he died in a few weeks, and the circumstances were without _any exception_ the same as those which my friend had witnessed. this is one of those cases in which it is extremely difficult to ascertain the design of the appearance. i should much like to know what conjecture you would form, as to the _modus_ and end of such a singular incident. of the veracity of the narrator it was impossible for me to doubt. as this minister is still _living_ i am not at liberty to mention his name. pray excuse the freedom of thus addressing you, and believe me to be madam, with every sentiment of respect and esteem, yours, very truly, mrs. c. crowe. r. i. o. * * * * * letter iii. _gloucestershire, june , ._ madam, as i find that another communication will not be unacceptable, i proceed to detail a few cases. my first relates to the minister, a part of whose history i have given you, and belongs to the class of prophetic dreams. when he had resolved to study for the ministry and through the influence of friends, had obtained admission to a dissenting college; as the day affixed for his departure drew near, he was filled with anxiety, from the fact that he had not even money to pay his travelling expenses. he did not like to borrow, and he had no reason to conclude that any one suspected the miserable state of his finances. the evening before his expected removal, he laid down to rest with a troubled heart. this was in the very same seaport where the circumstance happened which i have already told you. after some hours of great mental suffering sleep came to his relief, and in his dream there seemed to approach him one of a most pleasing form, who told him that he not only saw that he was in distress, but that he well knew the cause of it, and that if he would walk down on the beach to a certain place which he pointed out as in a picture, he would find under some loose stones enough for his present necessities. in the morning, accordingly, almost as soon as it was light he hastened to the indicated spot and to his great surprise and delight found a sum amounting to a trifle more than was absolutely necessary for his journey. i would just, in passing, remark that he said that on another occasion, his father who died many years before appeared to him with an angry countenance, and assured him that he would suffer much from something he had done in reference to his family, but as this was evidently an unpleasant and even painful topic i did not wish him to enlarge upon it. the other fact i shall mention, happened to my grandfather who was also a minister. i am well aware that it is of such a nature that the relation of it would in most companies excite a burst of laughter or at least a contemptuous and sceptical smile, but i know i am addressing one who has studied in a very different school of philosophy. it was in the large town of b--m where my grandfather resided for many years, that the event took place. he himself my grandfather, my aunts, and my mother used often to tell it to their friends when the conversation turned on the supernatural. i have probably heard it a hundred times and i am not ashamed to say that on the testimony of such a man as my grandfather i cannot but yield to it my belief. one morning when _breakfast had just commenced_, my grandfather went from the table, at which my grandmother also was sitting, into the passage, for what purpose i have now forgotten, and there he found (for the front door had been standing open,) a strange looking man in black, with a shuffling gait and a club foot. he declared that he had an instantaneous conviction that this was a supernatural appearance, and that a spirit of evil stood before him. the man in black exclaimed, moving towards the breakfast room, "i am come to take breakfast with you this morning." my grandfather convulsively seizing the handle of the door, said, with a stern look, "you are too late sir," to which the other instantly replied, "i am not too late for the remnant," and then rushed into the street. my grandfather followed, and to his amazement saw this creature at the top of the street, which was of great length, and in a moment or two he vanished. my grandmother heard a loud talking, and when my grandfather returned to the table in considerable agitation, she naturally wished to know what had occurred, but as she was near her confinement he of course concealed the matter from her. the mysterious words of the stranger followed him continually, and he puzzled himself in seeking to explain their meaning. in a few days my grandmother was confined. the child was dead-born and her life for some time hung in jeopardy. he now believed he had arrived at the solution of the difficulty--the infant was the "remnant" referred to. i am not the subject of remarkable dreams. i had one, however, lately, and i give it you because it stands connected in my mind with the knowledge of a singular psychical fact which i am confident will greatly interest you, if you have not yet fallen upon it in the course of your reading. about a fortnight ago i thought i saw in my sleep, a young man, who is assistant to our principal surgeon, come into my room, looking exceedingly unwell. he laid himself on the other bed in my chamber, and i thought that he had come there to linger out his last illness, at which i felt not the least surprise or objection. he seemed to be perfectly resigned, and presently he began to converse with me, and after we had talked for some time, whilst he was replying to something i had said, i distinctly saw his spirit rise up out of his body. he gazed at the corpse with the deepest interest and pleasure. one moment he would stand by the head and survey the face, and the next move to the feet, and then gaze at the entire body. he called me to come and stand by his side and view this lifeless frame, which i did with as much placidity as he seemed himself to possess, and without the slightest idea of their being anything absurd in what i saw. i could not, however, help saying "o, that i could leave my body and have such a view of it as you have now of yours!" i remember no more. in the morning i had occasion to call on a friend, who has a large library containing many rare books. not being in the humour for close reading (for i spend many hours at a time there) i took up from a centre table a volume of a lighter kind. it happened to be mrs. child's "letters from new york." turning the leaves over carelessly, my eye lighted on a chapter headed "the spirit surveying its own body!" she there says that she was told by a pious lady, that when once in a swoon, she felt that she left the body and was _standing by it_ during the whole time it lasted; that she distinctly heard every word spoken by the doctor and her family, and saw every movement of their countenances, and all that was done with her body. i may observe that i have not heard that anything has occurred to the young man i saw. if i have not already tired your patience you may draw on my memory for something more. a line to that effect will oblige, yours very truly, mrs. crowe, r. i. o. * * * * * letter iv. _edinburgh, aug. th._ madam, in consequence of a long absence abroad, i never had, till recently, an opportunity of reading your agreeable work, "the night side of nature," which contains a mass of evidence in favour of your theories, to which i take the liberty of adding a few cases from my own experience. many years ago i lived in a house in edinburgh, which belonged to my mother's relatives, and in which my maternal grandfather had died, several years antecedent to my own birth. the room in which i slept was that (but at the time unknown to me) in which my relative had expired. there were two beds in the room--one a large four-poster and the other a sort of couch. the latter was next the door, and both lay between it and the window, which was barred and bolted, and opposite to them was the fireplace, with rather a high mantlepiece. being summer, the "board" was on the chimney. it was about eleven o'clock at night; the rest of the family had retired to rest. as there were only about two inches of candle left, i placed the candlestick on the mantlepiece, intending to allow it to burn out, and went to my bed, which was on the couch. i had just lain down, and was looking towards the candle, when, to my extreme horror, i perceived a tall old man in his night dress, standing by the mantlepiece. his sight seemed impaired, for he put forth his hand _and felt for something_, and then moved across the fireplace, in doing which, _he obscured the light on passing it_. my gaze was riveted on him. he then turned towards the large bed on my left, and stretching out his hands attempted with a feeble effort to lay himself down, and in doing so i heard him _sigh_ distinctly. he disappeared almost at the same moment. he did not appear to have noticed me. i immediately sprang out of bed and opening the door on my right hand, called out loudly, but _never left the doorway_, as i was resolved that if the figure were that of a living person there should be no means of egress. on the assembling of the family in my room, a search was made; but there was nothing to be seen, and there had been no possibility of a human being having been in the room; the affair was put down to an _illusion_. yet so strong an impression did it leave on my mind, that a few years since ( or ), when in india, i published in "saunder's magazine," printed at the delhi gazette press, an account of this apparition, in a narrative, which i wrote called "idone, or incidents in the life of a dreamer," and which with the exception of this introductory vision, was, in reality, a series of actual dreams of which i had kept a record, and this i endeavoured to weave into a vague story, with the view of illustrating how a person might live _two distinct lives_! sometime after the above were published, i read with much interest, "swedenborg's theory of the spiritual world;" and lately when reading your work, i was struck with some peculiar resemblances between my own experience and the cases you cite. but to return to the family and house in edinburgh, of my grandfather. other members of the family have seen unaccountable figures in the same house. an aunt of mine and a cousin, one night, met an old woman on the stairs with a large bunch of keys, and were in the greatest alarm. on another occasion, on going to open a room which had been locked up for some time, in order to prepare it for the reception of my eldest uncle, who had just returned that night from abroad, two members of the family started back and locked the door again, for on entering they had both seen the _mattrass &c. violently heaved up_. on returning with the servants, nothing was visible of an unusual description. again, two relatives occupied the same room, and one night, as the fire was burning low, after they had gone to bed (the door being locked) they were alarmed by a sound like wings, over their beds, and by a _dusky form_ moving about the room. it walked up to the fireplace and seemed restless. when it had disappeared, they both rose and _unlocked_ the door, called for assistance, but, as usual, nothing of their visitor was to be seen. a still more remarkable incident occurred in the same house. as two of my aunts were sitting opposite the window, at night, they were startled by the apparition of an absent brother-in-law looking in, and with a pen in his hand. a few days afterwards the intelligence of his death arrived. he had been _signing his will_ at the exact time they had seen his apparation. my eldest uncle shortly after his return from abroad went to musselburgh to visit an old school-master, and as he entered the yard he observed him limping into the school. he tried to overtake him, and on reaching the door he met one of the tutors, who informed him that the dr. had been confined to his bed for some time with a broken leg. the same uncle, who was an officer in the army, dreamt that he had obtained his captaincy by the retirement of an officer of the name of patterson (so far as i remember.) there was no such officer then in the regiment, and he mentioned it as strange that he should have dreamt of a _particular_ name. a few gazettes afterwards my uncle obtained his promotion by an officer of _this_ name being _brought in from the half-pay to sell out in the same gazette_. i have myself heard the most remarkable and unaccountable noises in my grandfather's house. the servants were often in the greatest terror. i have heard, seemingly, the whole of the furniture, in a particular room, thrown violently about, accompanied with the noise of something rolling on the floor. at other times i have distinctly heard, as it were, a boy's marble falling step by step down the stairs and striking against my door, which was at the foot of them, and yet this was at night, and there were no children in the house. this annoyance, with that of steps heard round my bed, was so common as to cease to make any impression on me. i may mention that my grandfather was not happy in his family relations, and died in an uneasy frame of mind, on christmas eve, . since my family sold his house, i have never heard that its new occupants were disturbed. i have at different periods of my life had _groups_, as it were, of very remarkable allegorical dreams. it is somewhat singular that involuntary efforts may be made during sleep, which are i believe beyond the bounds of possibility during waking moments. indeed the curious phenomena which you have so ably criticised, are without limit. though you do not approve of the concealment of names, i hope you will excuse my asking you to do so in the present instance as many of the parties concerned might be displeased. i have the honour to remain, madam, your obedient servant, mrs. catherine crowe. h. a. "p.s. i know two remarkable instances of prophetic denunciation or the power of will, under, of course, the control of providence. in one instance, the death of the party denounced, followed on the week predicted, although at the time he was well. moreover, the denunciation was never mentioned to him. "in the other instance, the accomplishment of the denunciation was accomplished to the exact day, and under very remarkable circumstances. i believe this power to be _involuntary_, and more of the nature of inspiration." second part. legends of the earthbound. the italian's story. "how well your friend speaks english!" i remarked one day to an acquaintance when i was abroad, alluding to a gentleman who had just quitted the room. "what is his name?" "count francesco ferraldi." "i suppose he has been in england?" "oh, yes; he was exiled and taught italian there. his history is very curious and would interest you, who like wonderful things." "can you tell it me." "not correctly, as i never heard it from himself. but i believe he has no objection to tell it--with the exception of the political transactions in which he was concerned, and which caused his being sent out of the austrian dominions; that part of it i believe he thinks it prudent not to allude to. we'll ask him to dinner, if you'll meet him, and perhaps we may persuade him to tell the story." accordingly, the meeting took place; we dined _en petit comité_,--and the count very good-naturedly yielded to our request; "but you must excuse me," he said, "beginning a long way back for my story commences three hundred years ago. "our family claims to be of great antiquity, but we were not very wealthy till about the latter half of the th century, when count jacopo ferraldi made very considerable additions to the property; not only by getting, but also by saving--he was in fact a miser. before that period the ferraldis had been warriors, and we could boast of many distinguished deeds of arms recorded in our annals; but jacopo, although by the death of his brother, he ultimately inherited the title and the estates, had begun life as a younger son, and being dissatisfied with his portion, had resolved to increase it by commerce. "florence then was a very different city to what it is now; trade flourished, and its merchants had correspondence and large dealings with all the chief cities of europe. my ancestor invested his little fortune so judiciously, or so fortunately, that he trebled it in his first venture; and as people grow rapidly rich who gain and don't spend, he soon had wealth to his heart's content--but i am wrong in using that term as applied to him--he was never content with his gains but still worked on to add to them, for he grew to love the money for itself, and not for what it might purchase. "at length, his two elder brothers died, and as they left no issue he succeeded to their inheritance, and dwelt in the palace of his ancestors; but instead of circulating his riches he hoarded them; and being too miserly to entertain his friends and neighbours, he lived like an anchorite in his splendid halls, exulting in his possessions but never enjoying them. his great pleasure and chief occupation seems to have been counting his money, which he kept either hidden in strange out-of-the-way places, or in strong iron chests, clamped to the floors and walls. but notwithstanding those precautions and that he guarded it like a watch dog, to his great dismay he one day missed a sum of two thousand pounds which he had concealed in an ingeniously contrived receptacle under the floor of his dining-room, the existence of which was only known to the man who made it; at least, so he believed. small as was this sum in proportion to what he possessed, the shock was tremendous; he rushed out of his house like a madman with the intention of dragging the criminal to justice, but when he arrived at the man's shop he found him in bed and at the point of death. his friends and the doctor swore that he had not quitted it for a fortnight; in short, according to their shewing, he was taken ill on his return from working at the count's, the very day he finished the job. "if this were true, he could not be the thief, as the money was not deposited there till some days afterwards, and although the count had his doubts, it was not easy to disprove what everybody swore, more especially as the man died on the following day, and was buried. baffled and furious, he next fell foul of his two servants--he kept but two, for he only inhabited a small part of the palace. there was not the smallest reason to suspect them, nor to suppose they knew anything of the hiding place, for every precaution had been used to conceal it; moreover, he had found it locked as he himself had locked it after depositing the money, and he was quite sure the key had never been absent from his own person. nevertheless, he discharged them and took no others. the thief, whoever he was, had evinced so much ingenuity, that he trembled to think what such skill might compass with opportunity. so he resolved to afford none; and henceforth to have his meals sent in from a neighbouring eating-house, and to have a person once a week to sweep and clean his rooms, whom he could keep an eye on while it was doing. as he had no clue to the perpetrators of the robbery, and the man whom he had most reason to suspect was dead, he took no further steps in the business, but kept it quiet lest he should draw too much attention towards his secret hoards; nevertheless, though externally calm, the loss preyed upon his mind and caused him great anguish. "shortly after this occurrence, he received a letter from a sister of his who had several years before married an englishman, saying that her husband was dead, and it being advisable that her dear and only son should enter into commerce, that she was going to send him to florence, feeling assured that her brother would advise him for the best, and enable him to employ the funds he brought with him advantageously. "this was not pleasing intelligence; he did not want to promote any body's interest but his own, and he felt that the young man would be a spy on his actions, an intruder in his house, and no doubt an expectant and greedy heir, counting the hours till he died; for this sister and her family were his nearest of kin, and would inherit if he left no will to the contrary. however, his arrival could not be prevented; letters travelled slowly in those days, and ere his could reach england his nephew would have quitted it, so he resolved to give him a cold reception and send him back as soon as he could. "in the mean time, the young man had started on his journey, full of hope and confidence, and immediately on his arrival hastened to present himself to this rich uncle who was to shew him the path he had himself followed to fortune. it was not for his own sake alone he coveted riches, but his mother and sister were but poorly provided for, and they had collected the whole of their little fortune and risked it upon this venture, hoping, with the aid of their relative, to be amply repaid for the present sacrifice. "a fine open countenanced lad was arthur allen, just twenty years of age; such a face and figure had not beamed upon those old halls for many a day. well brought up and well instructed too; he spoke italian as well as english, his mother having accustomed him to it from infancy. "though he had heard his uncle was a miser, he had no conception of the amount to which the mania had arisen; and his joyous anticipations were somewhat damped when he found himself so coldly received, and when he looked into those hard grey eyes and contracted features that had never expanded with a genial smile; so fearing the old man might be apprehensive that he had come as an applicant for assistance to set him up in trade, he hastened to inform him of the true state of the case, saying that they had got together two thousand pounds. "'of course, my mother,' he said, 'would not have entrusted my inexperience with such a sum; but she desired me to place it in your hands, and to act entirely under your direction. "to use the miser's own expression--for we have learnt all these particulars from a memoir left by himself--'when i heard these words the devil entered into me, and i bade the youth bring the money and dine with me on the following day.' "i daresay you will think the devil had entered into him long before; however, now he recognized his presence, but that did not deter him from following his counsel. "pleased that he had so far thawed his uncle's frigidity, arthur arrived the next day with his money bags at the appointed hour, and was received in an inner chamber; their contents were inspected and counted, and then placed in one of the old man's iron chests. soon afterwards the tinkle of a bell announced that the waiter from the neighbouring traiteur's had brought the dinner, and the host left the room to see that all was ready. presently he re-entered, and led his guest to the table. the repast was not sumptuous, but there was a bottle of old lacryma christi which he much recommended, and which the youth tasted with great satisfaction. but strange! he had no sooner swallowed the first glass, than his eyes began to stare--there was a gurgle in his throat--a convulsion passed over his face--and his body stiffened. "'i did not look up,' says the old man in his memoir, 'for i did not like to see the face of the boy that had sat down so hearty to his dinner, so i kept on eating mine--but i heard the gurgle, and i knew what had happened; and presently lest the servant should come to fetch the dinner things, i pushed the table aside and opened the receptacle from which my two thousand pounds had been stolen--curses on the thief! and i laid the body in it, and the wine therewith. i locked it and drove in two strong nails. then i put back the table--moved away the lad's chair and plate, unlocked the door which was fast, and sat down to finish my dinner. i could not help chuckling as i ate, to think how his had been spoilt. "'i closed up that apartment, as i thought there might be a smell that would raise observation, and i selected one on the opposite side of the gallery for my dining-room. all went well till the following day. i counted my two thousand pounds again and again, and i kept gloating over the recovery of it--for i felt as if it was my own money, and that i had a right to seize it where i could. i wrote also to my sister, saying, that her son had not arrived; but that when he did, i would do my best to forward his views. my heart was light that day--they say that's a bad sign. "'yes, all was so far well; but the next day we were two of us at dinner! and yet i had invited no guest; and the next and the next, and so on always! as i was about to sit down, he entered and took a chair opposite me, an unbidden guest. i ceased dining at home, but it made no difference; he came, dine where i would. this preyed upon me; i tried not to mind, but i could not help it. argument was vain. i lost my appetite, and was reduced nearly to death's door. at last, driven to desperation, i consulted fra guiseppe. he had been a fast fellow in his time, and it was said had been too impatient for his father's succession; howbeit, the old man died suddenly; guiseppe spent the money and then took to religion. i thought he was a proper person to consult, so i told him my case. he recommended repentance and restitution. i tried, but i could not repent, for i had got the money; but i thought, perhaps, if i parted with it to another, i might be released; so i looked about for an advantageous purchase, and hearing that bartolomeo malfi was in difficulties, i offered him two thousand pounds, money down, for his land--i knew it was worth three times the sum. we signed the agreement, and then i went home and opened the door of the room where it was; but lo! he sat there upon the chest where the money was fast locked, and i could not get it. i peeped in two or three times, but he was always there; so i was obliged to expend other moneys in this purchase, which vexed me, albeit the bargain was a good one. then i consulted friend guiseppe again, and he said nothing would do but restitution--but that was hard, so i waited; and i said to myself, i'll eat and care not whether he sit there or no. but woe be to him! he chilled the marrow of my bones, and i could not away with him; so i said one day, "what if i go to england with the money?" and he bowed his head.' "the old man accordingly took the moneybags from the chest and started for england. his sister and her daughter were still living in the house they had inhabited during the husband's lifetime; in short, it was their own; and being attached to the place they hoped, if the young man succeeded in his undertakings, to be able to keep it. it was a small house with a garden full of flowers, which the ladies cultivated themselves. the village church was close at hand, and the churchyard adjoined the garden. the poor ladies had become very uneasy at not hearing of arthur's arrival; and when the old man presented himself and declared he had never seen anything of him, great was their affliction and dismay; for it was clear that either some misfortune had happened to the boy, or he had appropriated the money and gone off in some other direction. they scarcely admitted the possibility of the last contingency, although it was the one their little world universally adopted, in spite of his being a very well conducted and affectionate youth; but people said it was too great a temptation for his years, and blamed his mother for entrusting him with so much money. whichever it was, the blow fell very heavy on them in all ways, for arthur was their sole stay and support, and they loved him dearly. "since he had set out on this journey, the old man had been relieved from the company of his terrible guest, and was beginning to recover himself a little, but it occasioned him a severe pang when he remembered that this immunity was to be purchased with the sacrifice of two thousand pounds, and he set himself to think how he could jockey the ghost. but while he was deliberating on this subject, an event happened that alarmed him for the immediate safety of the money. "he had found on the road, that the great weight of a certain chest he brought with him, had excited observation whenever his luggage had to be moved; on his arrival two labouring men had been called in to carry it into the house, and he had overheard some remarks that induced him to think they had drawn a right conclusion with regard to its contents. subsequently, he saw these two men hovering about the house in a suspicious manner, and he was afraid to leave it or to go to sleep at night, lest he should be robbed. "so far we learn from jocopo ferraldi himself; but there the memoir stops. tradition says that he was found one morning murdered in his bed and his chest rifled. all the family, that is the mother and daughter and their one servant, were accused of the murder; and notwithstanding their protestation of innocence were declared guilty and executed. "the memoir i have quoted was found on his dressing table, and he appears to have been writing it when he was surprised by the assassins; for the last words were--'i think i've baulked them, and nobody will understand the--' then comes a large blot and a mark, as if the pen had fallen out of his hand. it seems wonderful that this man, so suspicious and secretive, should thus have entrusted to paper what it was needful he should conceal; but the case is not singular; it has been remarked in similar instances, when some dark mystery is pressing on a human soul, that there exists an irresistible desire to communicate it, notwithstanding the peril of betrayal; and when no other confident can be found, the miserable wretch has often had recourse to paper. "the family of arthur allen being now extinct, a cousin of jacopo's, who was a penniless soldier, succeeded to the title and estate, and the memoir, with a full account of what had happened, being forwarded to italy, enquiries were made about the missing two thousand pounds; but it was not forthcoming; and it was at first supposed that the ladies had had some accomplice who had carried it off. subsequently, however, one of the two men who had borne the money chest into the house, at the period of the old man's arrival, was detected in endeavouring to dispose of some italian gold coin and a diamond ring, which jacopo was in the habit of wearing. this led to investigation, and he ultimately confessed to the murder committed by himself and his companion, thus exonerating the unfortunate woman. he nevertheless declared that they had not rifled the strong box, as they could not open it, and were disturbed by the barking of a dog before they could search for the keys. the box itself they were afraid to carry away, it being a remarkable one and liable to attract notice; and that therefore their only booty was some loose coin and some jewels that were found on the old man's person. but this was not believed, especially as his accomplice was not to be found, and appeared, on enquiry, to have left that part of the country immediately after the catastrophe. "there the matter rested for nearly two centuries and a half. nobody sorrowed for jacopo ferraldi, and the fate of the allens was a matter of indifference to the public, who was glad to see the estate fall into the hands of his successor, who appears to have made a much better use of his riches. the family in the long period that elapsed, had many vicissitudes; but at the period of my birth my father inhabited the same old palace, and we were in tolerably affluent circumstances. i was born there, and i remember as a child the curiosity i used to feel about the room with the secret receptacle under the floor where jacopo had buried the body of his guest. it had been found there and received christian burial; but the receptacle still remained, and the room was shut up being said to be haunted. i never _saw_ anything extraordinary, but i can bear witness to the frightful groans and moans that issued from it sometimes at night, when, if i could persuade anybody to accompany me, i used to stand in the gallery and listen with wonder and awe. but i never passed the door alone, nor would any of the servants do so after dark. there had been an attempt made to exclude the sounds by walling up the door; but so far from this succeeding they became twenty times worse, and as the wall was a disfigurement as well as a failure, the unquiet spirit was placated by taking it down again. "the old man's memoir is always preserved amongst the family papers, and his picture still hangs in the gallery. many strangers who have heard something of this extraordinary story, have asked to see it. the palace is now inhabited by an austrian nobleman,--whether the ghost continues to annoy the inmates by his lamentations i do not know. "'i now,' said count francesco, 'come to my personal history. political reasons a few years since obliged me to quit italy with my family. i had no resources except a little ready money that i had brought with me, and i had resolved to utilise some musical talent which i had cultivated for my amusement. i had not voice enough to sing in public, but i was capable of giving lessons and was considered, when in italy, a successful amateur. i will not weary you with the sad details of my early residence in england; you can imagine the difficulties that an unfortunate foreigner must encounter before he can establish a connexion. suffice it to say that my small means were wholly exhausted, and that very often i, and what was worse, my wife and child were in want of bread, and indebted to one of my more prosperous countrymen for the very necessaries of life. i was almost in despair, and i do not know what rash thing i might have done if i had been a single man; but i had my family depending on me, and it was my duty not to sink under my difficulties however great they were. "one night i had been singing at the house of a nobleman, in st. james's square, and had received some flattering compliments from a young man who appeared to be very fond of italian music, and to understand it. my getting to this party was a stroke of good luck in the first instance, for i was quite unknown to the host, but signor a. an acquaintance of mine, who had been engaged for the occasion, was taken ill at the last moment, and had sent me with a note of introduction to supply his place. "i knew, of course, that i should be well paid for my services, but i would have gladly accepted half the sum i expected if i could have had it that night, for our little treasury was wholly exhausted, and we had not sixpence to purchase a breakfast for the following day. when the great hall door shut upon me, and i found myself upon the pavement, with all that luxury and splendour on one side, and i and my desolation on the other, the contrast struck me cruelly, for i too had been rich, and dwelt in illuminated palaces, and had a train of liveried servants at my command, and sweet music had echoed through my halls. i felt desperate, and drawing my hat over my eyes i began pacing the square, forming wild plans for the relief or escape from my misery. no doubt i looked frantic; for you know we italians have such a habit of gesticulating, that i believe my thoughts were accompanied by movements that must have excited notice; but i was too much absorbed to observe anything, till i was roused by a voice saying, 'signor ferraldi, still here this damp chilly night! are you not afraid for your voice--it is worth taking care of.' "'to what purpose,' i said savagely, 'it will not give me bread!' "if the interruption had not been so sudden, i should not have made such an answer, but i was surprised into it before i knew who had addressed me. when i looked up i saw it was the young man i had met at lord l.'s, who had complimented me on my singing. i took off my hat and begged his pardon, and was about to move away, when he took my arm. "'excuse me,' he said, 'let us walk together,' and then after a little pause, he added, with an apology, 'i think you are an exile.' "'i am,' i said. "'and i think,' he continued, 'i have surprised you out of a secret that you would not voluntarily have told me. i know well the hardships that beset many of your countrymen--as good gentlemen as we are ourselves--when you are obliged to leave your country; and i beg therefore you will not think me impertinent or intrusive, if i beg you to be frank with me and tell me how you are situated!' "this offer of sympathy was evidently so sincere, and it was so welcome, at such a moment, that i did not hesitate to comply with my new friend's request--i told him everything--adding that in time i hoped to get known, and that then i did not fear being able to make my way; but that meanwhile we were in danger of starving. "during this conversation we were walking round and round the square, where in fact he lived. before we parted at his own door, he had persuaded me to accept of a gift, i call it, for he had then no reason to suppose i should ever be able to repay him, but he called it an advance of ten guineas upon some lessons i was to give him; the first instalment of which was to be paid the following day. "i went home with a comparitively light heart, and the next morning waited on my friendly pupil, whom i found, as i expected, a very promising scholar. he told me with a charming frankness, that he had not much influence in fashionable society, for his family, though rich, was _parvenue_, but he said he had two sisters, as fond of music as himself, who would be shortly in london, and would be delighted to take lessons, as i had just the voice they liked to sing with them. "this was the first auspicious incident that had occurred to me, nor did the omen fail in its fulfilment. i received great kindness from the family when they came to london. i gave them lessons, sung at their parties, and they took every opportunity of recommending me to their friends. "when the end of the season approached, however, i felt somewhat anxious about the future--there would be no parties to sing at, and my pupils would all be leaving town; but my new friends, whose name, by the way, was greathead, had a plan for me in their heads, which they strongly recommended me to follow. they said they had a house in the country with a large neighbourhood--in fact, near a large watering-place; and that if i went there during the summer months, they did not doubt my getting plenty of teaching; adding, 'we are much greater people there than we are here, you see; and our recommendation will go a great way.' "i followed my friend's advice, and soon after they left london, i joined them at salton, which was the name of their place. as i had left my wife and children in town, with very little money, i was anxious that they should join me as soon as possible; and therefore the morning after my arrival, i proceeded to look for a lodging at s., and to take measures to make my object known to the residents and visitors there. my business done, i sent my family directions for their journey, and then returned to salton to spend a few days, as i had promised my kind patrons. "the house was modern, in fact it had been built by mr. greathead's grandfather, who was the architect of their fortunes; the grounds were extensive, and the windows looked on a fine lawn, a picturesque ruin, a sparkling rivulet, and a charming flower-garden; there could not be a prettier view than that we enjoyed while sitting at breakfast. it was my first experience of the lovely and graceful english homes, and it fully realised all my expectations, both within doors and without. after breakfast mr. greathead and his son asked me to accompany them round the grounds, as they were contemplating some alterations. "'among other things,' said mr. g., 'we want to turn this rivulet; but my wife has a particular fancy for that old hedge, which is exactly in the way, and she won't let me root it up.' "the hedge alluded to enclosed two sides of the flower-garden, but seemed rather out of place, i thought. "'why?' said i. 'what is mrs. greathead's attachment to the hedge?' "'why? it's very old; it formerly bordered the churchyard, for that old ruin you see there, is all that remains of the parish church; and this flower-garden, i fancy, is all the more brilliant for the rich soil of the burial-ground. but what is remarkable is, that the hedge and that side of the garden are full of italian flowers, and always have been so as long as anybody can remember. nobody knows how it happens, but they must spring up from some old seeds that have been long in the ground. look at this cyclamen growing wild in the hedge.' "the subject of the alterations was renewed at dinner, and mrs. greathead, still objecting to the removal of the hedge, her younger son, whose name was harry, said, 'it is very well for mamma to pretend it is for the sake of the flowers, but i am quite sure that the real reason is that she is afraid of offending the ghost.' "'what nonsence, harry,' she said. 'you must not believe him, mr. ferraldi.' "'well mamma,' said the boy, 'you know you will never be convinced that that was not a ghost you saw.' "'never mind what it was,' she said; 'i won't have the hedge removed. presently,' she added, 'i suppose you would laugh at the idea of anybody believing in a ghost, mr. ferraldi.' "'quite the contrary,' i answered; 'i believe in them myself, and upon very good grounds, for we have a celebrated ghost in our family.' "'well,' she said, 'mr. greathead and the boys laugh at me; but when i came to live here, upon the death of mr. greathead's grandfather,--for his father never inhabited the place, having died by an accident before the old gentleman,--i had never heard a word of the place being haunted; and, perhaps, i should not have believed it if i had. but, one evening, when the younger children were gone to bed, and mr. greathead and george were sitting with some friends in the dining-room, i, and my sister, who was staying with me, strolled into the garden. it was in the month of august, and a bright starlight night. we were talking on a very interesting matter, for my sister had that day, received an offer from the gentleman she afterwards married. i mention that, to show you that we were not thinking of anything supernatural, but, on the contrary, that our minds were quite absorbed with the subject we were discussing. i was looking on the ground, as one often does, when listening intently to what another person is saying; my sister was speaking, when she suddenly stopped, and laid her hand on my arm, saying, 'who's that?' "'i raised my eyes and saw, not many yards from us, an old man, withered and thin, dressed in a curious antique fashion, with a high peaked hat on his head. i could not conceive who he could be, or what he could be doing there, for it was close to the flower-garden; so we stood still to observe him. i don't know whether you saw the remains of an old tombstone in a corner of the garden? it is said to be that of a former rector of the parish; the date, , is still legible upon it. the old man walked from one side of the hedge to that stone, and seemed to be counting his steps. he walked like a person pacing the ground, to measure it; then he stopped, and appeared to be noting the result of his measurement with a pencil and paper he held in his hand; then he did the same thing, the other side of the hedge, pacing up to the tombstone and back. "'there was a talk, at that time, of removing the hedge, and digging up the old tombstone; and it occurred to me, that my husband might have been speaking to somebody about it, and that this man might be concerned in the business, though, still, his dress and appearance puzzled me. it seemed odd, too, that he took no notice of us; and i might have remarked, that we heard no footsteps, though we were quite close enough to do so; but these circumstances did not strike me then. however, i was just going to advance, and ask him what he was doing? when i felt my sister's hand relax the hold she had of my arm, and she sank to the ground; at the same instant i lost sight of the mysterious old man, who suddenly disappeared. "'my sister had not fainted; but she said her knees had bent under her, and she had slipt down, collapsed by terror. i did not feel very comfortable myself, i assure you; but i lifted her up, and we hastened back to the house and told what we had seen. the gentlemen went out, and, of course, saw nothing, and laughed at us; but shortly afterwards, when harry was born, i had a nurse from the village, and she asked me one day, if i had ever happened to see "the old gentleman that walks!" i had ceased to think of the circumstance, and inquired what old gentleman she meant? and then she told me that, long ago, a foreign gentleman had been murdered here; that is, in the old house that mr. greathead's grandfather pulled down when he built this; and that, ever since, the place has been haunted, and that nobody will pass by the hedge, and the old tombstone after dark; for that is the spot to which the ghost confines himself.' "'but i should think,' said i, 'that so far from desiring to preserve these objects, you would rather wish them removed, since the ghost would, probably, cease to visit the spot at all.' "'quite the contrary,' answered mrs. g. 'the people of the neighbourhood say, that the former possessor of the place entertained the same idea, and had resolved to remove them; but that then, the old man became very troublesome, and was even seen in the house; the nurse positively assured me, that her mother had told her, old mr. greathead had also intended to remove them; but that he quite suddenly counter-ordered the directions he had given, and, though he did not confess to anything of the sort, the people all believed that he had seen the ghost. certain, it is, that this hedge has always been maintained by the proprietors of the place.' "the young men laughed and quizzed their mother for indulging in such superstitions; but the lady was quite firm in her opposition, alledging, that independently of all considerations connected with the ghost, she liked the hedge on account of the wild italian flowers; and she liked the old tombstone on account of its antiquity. "consequently, some other plan was devised for mr. greathead's alterations, which led the course of the rivulet quite clear of the hedge and the tombstone. "in a few days, my family arrived, and i established myself at s., for the summer. the speculation answered very well, and through the recommendations of mr. and mrs. greathead, and their personal kindness to myself and my wife, we passed the time very pleasantly. when the period for our returning to london approached, they invited us to spend a fortnight with them before our departure, and, accordingly, the day we gave up our lodgings, we removed to salton. "preparations for turning the rivulet had then commenced; and soon after my arrival, i walked out with mr. greathead to see the works. there was a boy, about fourteen, amongst the labourers; and while we were standing close to him, he picked up something, and handed it to mr. g., saying, 'is this yours, sir?' which, on examination, proved to be a gold coin of the sixteenth century,--the date on it was . presently, the boy who was digging, picked up another, and then several more. "'this becomes interesting,' said mr. greathead, 'i think we are coming upon some buried treasure;' and he whispered to me, that he had better not leave the spot. "accordingly, he did stay, till it was time to dress for dinner; and, feeling interested, i remained also. in the interval, many more coins were found; and when he went in, he dismissed the workmen, and sent a servant to watch the place,--for he saw by their faces, that if he had not happened to be present he would, probably, never have heard of the circumstance. a few more turned up the following day, and then the store seemed exhausted. when the villagers heard of this money being discovered, they all looked upon it as the explanation of the old gentleman haunting that particular spot. no doubt he had buried the money, and it remained to be seen, whether now, that it was found, his spirit would be at rest. "my two children were with me at salton on this occasion. they slept in a room on the third floor, and one morning, my wife having told me that the younger of the two seemed unwell, i went up stairs to look at her. it was a cheerful room, with two little white beds in it, and several old prints and samplers, and bits of work such as you see in nurseries, framed and hung against the wall. after i had spoken to the child, and while my wife was talking to the maid, i stood with my hands in my pockets, idly looking at these things. amongst them was one that arrested my attention, because at first i could not understand it, nor see why this discoloured parchment, with a few lines and dots on it, should have been framed and glazed. there were some words here and there which i could not decipher; so i lifted the frame off the nail and carried it to the window. then i saw that the words were italian, written in a crabbed, old-fashioned hand, and the whole seemed to be a plan, or sketch, rudely drawn, of what i at first thought was a camp--but, on closer examination, i saw was part of a churchyard, with tomb stones, from one of which lines were drawn to various dots, and along these lines were numbers, and here and there a word as _right_, _left_, &c. there were also two lines forming a right angle, which intersected the whole, and after contemplating the thing for some time, it struck me that it was a rude sort of map of the old churchyard and the hedge, which had formed the subject of conversation some days before. "at breakfast, i mentioned what i had observed to mr. and mrs. greathead, and they said they believed it was; it had been found when the old house was pulled down, and was kept on account of its antiquity. "'of what period is it,' i asked, 'and how happens it to have been made by an italian?' "'the last question i can't answer,' said mr. greathead; 'but the date is on it, i believe.' "'no,' said i, 'i examined it particularly--there is no date.' "'oh, there is a date and name, i think--but i never examined it myself;' and to settle the question he desired his son harry to run up and fetch it, adding, 'you know italian architects and designers of various kinds, were not rare in this country a few centuries ago.' "harry brought the frame, and we were confirmed in our conjectures of what it represented, but we could find no date or name. "'and yet i think i've heard there was one,' said mr. greathead. 'let us take it out of the frame?' "this was easily done, and we found the date and the name; the count paused, and then added, 'i dare say you can guess it?' "'jacopo ferraldi?' i said. "'it was,' he answered; and it immediately occurred to me that he had buried the money supposed to have been stolen on the night he was murdered, and that this was a plan to guide him in finding it again. so i told mr. greathead the story i have now told you, and mentioned my reasons for supposing that if i was correct in my surmise, more gold would be found. "with the old man's map as our guide, we immediately set to work--the whole family vigorously joining in the search; and, as i expected, we found that the tombstone in the garden was the point from which all the lines were drawn, and that the dots indicated where the money lay. it was in different heaps, and appeared to have been enclosed in bags, which had rotted away with time. we found the whole sum mentioned in the memoir, and mr. greathead being lord of the manor, was generous enough to make it all over to me, as being the lawful heir, which, however, i certainly was not, for it was the spoil of a murderer and a thief, and it properly belonged to the allens. but that family had become extinct; at least, so we believed, when the two unfortunate ladies were executed, and i accepted the gift with much gratitude and a quiet conscience. it relieved us from our pressing difficulties, and enabled me to wait for better times. "'and,' said i, 'how of the ghost? was he pleased or otherwise, by the _denouement_?' "'i cannot say,' replied the count; 'i have not heard of his being seen since; i understand, however, that the villagers, who understand these things better than we do, say, that they should not be surprised if he allowed the hedge and tombstone to be removed now without opposition; but mr. greathead, on the contrary, wished to retain them as mementoes of these curious circumstances.'" the dutch officer's story. "well, i think nothing can be so cowardly as to be afraid to own the truth?" said the pretty madame de b., an englishwoman, who had married a dutch officer of distinction. "are you really venturing to accuse the general of cowardice?" said madame l. "yes," said madame de b., "i want him to tell mrs. crowe a ghost story--a thing that he saw himself--and he pooh, poohs it, though he owned it to me before we were married, and since too, saying that he never could have believed such a thing if he had not seen it himself." while the wife was making this little _tirade_, the husband looked as if she was accusing him of picking somebody's pocket--_il perdait contenance_ quite. "now, look at him," she said, "don't you see guilt in his face, mrs. crowe?" "decidedly," i answered; "so experienced a seeker of ghost stories as myself cannot fail to recognise the symptoms. i always find that when the circumstances is mere hearsay, and happened to nobody knows who, people are very ready to tell it; when it has happened to one of their own family, they are considerably less communicative, and will only tell it under protest; but when they are themselves the parties concerned, it is the most difficult thing imaginable to induce them to relate the thing seriously, and with its details; they say they have forgotten it, and don't believe it; and as an evidence of their incredulity, they affect to laugh at the whole affair. if the general will tell me the story, i shall think it quite as decisive a proof of courage as he ever gave in the field." betwixt bantering and persuasion, we succeeded in our object, and the general began as follows:-- "you know the belgian rebellion (he always called it so) took place in . it broke out at brussels on the th of august, and we immediately advanced with a considerable force to attack that city; but as the prince of orange hoped to bring the people to reason, without bloodshed, we encamped at vilvorde, whilst he entered brussels alone, to hold a conference with the armed people. i was a lieutenant-colonel then, and commanded the th foot, to which regiment i had been lately appointed. "we had been three or four days in cantonment, when i heard two of the men, who were digging a little drain at the back of my tent, talking of jokel falck, a private in my regiment, who was noted for his extraordinary disposition to somnolence, one of them remarked that he would certainly have got into trouble for being asleep on his post the previous night, if it had not been for mungo. 'i don't know how many times he has saved him,' added he. "to which the other answered, that mungo was a very valuable friend, and had saved many a man from punishment. "this was the first time i had ever heard of mungo, and i rather wondered who it was they alluded to; but the conversation slipt from my mind and i never thought of asking any body. "shortly after this i was going my rounds, being field-officer of the day, when i saw by the moonlight, the sentry at one of the outposts stretched upon the ground. i was some way off when i first perceived him; and i only knew what the object was from the situation, and because i saw the glitter of his accoutrements; but almost at the same moment that i discovered him, i observed a large black newfoundland dog trotting towards him. the man rose as the dog approached, and had got upon his legs before i reached the spot. this occupied the space of about two minutes--perhaps, not so much. "'you were asleep on your post,' i said; and turning to the mounted orderly that attended me, i told him to go back and bring a file of the guard to take him prisoner, and to send a sentry to relieve him. "'non, mon colonel,' said he, and from the way he spoke i perceived he was intoxicated, 'it's all the fault of that _damné_ mungo. il m'a manqué.' "but i paid no attention to what he said and rode on, concluding _mungo_ was some slang term of the men for drink. "some evenings after this, i was riding back from my brother's quarter--he was in the th, and was stationed about a mile from us--when i remarked the same dog i had seen before, trot up to a sentry who, with his legs crossed, was leaning against a wall. the man started, and began walking backwards and forwards on his beat. i recognised the dog by a large white streak on his side--all the rest of his coat being black. "when i came up to the man, i saw it was jokel falck, and although i could not have said he was asleep, i strongly suspected that that was the fact. "'you had better take care of yourself, my man,' said i. 'i have half a mind to have you relieved, and make a prisoner of you. i believe i should have found you asleep on your post, if that dog had not roused you.' "instead of looking penitent, as was usual on these occasions, i saw a half smile on the man's face, as he saluted me. "'whose dog is that?' i asked my servant, as i rode away. "'je ne sais pas mon, colonel,' he answered, smiling too. "on the same evening at mess, i heard one of the subalterns say to the officer who sat next him, 'it's a fact, i assure you, and they call him mungo.' "'that's a new name they've got for schnapps, isn't it?' i said. "'no, sir; it's the name of a dog,' replied the young man, laughing. "'a black newfoundland, with a large white streak on his flank?' "'yes, sir, i believe that is the description,' replied he, tittering still. "'i have seen that dog two or three times,' said i. 'i saw him this evening--who does he belong to?' "'well, sir, that is a difficult question,' answered the lad; and i heard his companion say, 'to old nick, i should think.' "'do you mean to say you've really seen mungo?' said somebody at the table. "'if mungo is a large newfoundland--black, with a white streak on its side--i saw him just now. who does he belong to?' "by this time, the whole mess table was in a titter, with the exception of one old captain, a man who had been years in the regiment. he was of very humble extraction, and had risen by merit to his present position. "'i believe captain t. is better acquainted with mungo than anybody present,' answered major r., with a sneer. 'perhaps he can tell you who he belongs to.' "the laughter increased, and i saw there was some joke, but not understanding what it meant, i said to captain g., 'does the dog belong to jokel falck?' "'no, sir,' he replied, 'the dog belongs to nobody now. he once belonged to an officer called joseph atveld.' "'belonging to this regiment?' "'yes, sir.' "'he is dead, i suppose?' "'yes, sir, he is.' "'and the dog has attached himself to the regiment?' "'yes, sir.' "during this conversation, the suppressed laughter continued, and every eye was fixed on captain t., who answered me shortly, but with the utmost gravity. "'in fact,' said the major, contemptuously, 'according to captain t., mungo is the ghost of a deceased dog.' "this announcement was received with shouts of laughter, in which i confess i joined, whilst captain t. still retained an unmoved gravity. "'it is easier to laugh at such a thing than to believe it, sir,' said he. '_i_ believe it, because i know it.' "i smiled, and turned the conversation. "if anybody at the table except captain t. had made such an assertion as this, i should have ridiculed them without mercy; but he was an old man, and from the circumstances i have mentioned regarding his origin, we were careful not to offend him; so no more was said about mungo, and in the hurry of events that followed. i never thought of it again. we marched on to brussels the next day; and after that, had enough to do till we went to antwerp, where we were besieged by the french the following year. "during the siege, i sometimes heard the name of mungo again; and, one night, when i was visiting the guards and sentries as grand rounds, i caught a glimpse of him, and i felt sure that the man he was approaching when i observed him, had been asleep; but he was screened by an angle of the bastion, and by the time i turned the corner, he was moving about. "this brought to my mind all i had heard about the dog; and as the circumstance was curious, in any point of view, i mentioned what i had seen to captain t. the next day, saying, 'i saw your friend mungo, last night.' "'did you, sir?' said he. 'it's a strange thing! no doubt, the man was asleep!' "'but do you seriously mean to say, that you believe this to be a visionary dog, and not a dog of flesh and blood?' "'i do, sir; i have been quizzed enough about it; and, once or twice, have nearly got into a quarrel, because people will persist in laughing at what they know nothing about; but as sure as that is a sword you hold in your hand, so sure is that dog a spectre, or ghost--if such a word is applicable to a fourfooted beast!' "'but, it's impossible!' i said. 'what reason have you for such an extraordinary belief?' "'why, you know, sir, man-and-boy, i have been in the regiment all my life. i was born in it. my father was pay-serjeant of no. company, when he died; and i have seen mungo myself, perhaps twenty times, and known, positively, of others seeing him twice as many more.' "'very possibly; but that is no proof, that it is not some dog that has attached himself to the regiment.' "'but i have seen and heard of the dog for fifty years, sir; and my father before me, had seen and heard of him as long!' "'well, certainly, that is extraordinary,--if you are sure of it, and that it's the same dog!' "'it's a remarkable dog, sir. you won't see another like it with that large white streak on his flank. he won't let one of our sentries be found asleep, if he can help; unless, indeed, the fellow is drunk. he seems to have less care of drunkards, but mungo has saved many a man from punishment. i was once, not a little indebted to him myself. my sister was married out of the regiment, and we had had a bit of a festivity, and drank rather too freely at the wedding, so that when i mounted guard that night--i wasn't to say, drunk, but my head was a little gone, or so; and i should have been caught nodding; but mungo, knowing, i suppose, that i was not an habitual drunkard, woke me just in time.' "'how did he wake you?' i asked. "'i was roused by a short, sharp bark, that sounded close to my ears. i started up, and had just time to catch a glimpse of mungo before he vanished!' "'is that the way he always wakes the men?' "'so they say; and, as they wake, he disappears.' "i recollected now, that on each occasion when i had observed the dog, i had, somehow, lost sight of him in an instant; and, my curiosity being awakened, i asked captain t., if ours were the only men he took charge of, or, whether he showed the same attention to those of other regiments? "'only the th, sir; the tradition is, that after the battle of fontenoy, a large black mastiff was found lying beside a dead officer. although he had a dreadful wound from a sabre cut on his flank, and was much exhausted from loss of blood, he would not leave the body; and even after we buried it, he could not be enticed from the spot. the men, interested by the fidelity and attachment of the animal, bound up his wounds, and fed and tended him; and he became the dog of the regiment. it is said, that they had taught him to go his rounds before the guards and sentries were visited, and to wake any men that slept. how this may be, i cannot say; but he remained with the regiment till his death, and was buried with all the respect they could show him. since that, he has shown his gratitude in the way i tell you, and of which you have seen some instances.' "'i suppose the white streak is the mark of the sabre cut. i wonder you never fired at him.' "'god forbid sir, i should do such a thing,' said captain t., looking sharp round at me. 'it's said that a man did so once, and that he never had any luck afterwards; that may be a superstition, but i confess i wouldn't take a good deal to do it.' "'if, as you believe, it's a spectre, it could not be hurt, you know; i imagine ghostly dogs are impervious to bullets.' "'no doubt, sir; but i shouldn't like to try the experiment. besides, it would be useless, as i am convinced already.' "i pondered a good deal upon this conversation with the old captain. i had never for a moment entertained the idea that such a thing was possible. i should have as much expected to meet the minotaur or a flying dragon as a ghost of any sort, especially the ghost of a dog; but the evidence here was certainly startling. i had never observed anything like weakness and credulity about t.; moreover, he was a man of known courage, and very much respected in the regiment. in short, so much had his earnestness on the subject staggered me, that i resolved whenever it was my turn to visit the guards and sentries, that i would carry a pistol with me ready primed and loaded, in order to settle the question. if t. was right, there would be an interesting fact established, and no harm done; if, as i could not help suspecting, it was a cunning trick of the men, who had trained this dog to wake them, while they kept up the farce of the spectre, the animal would be well out of the way; since their reliance on him no doubt led them to give way to drowsiness when they would otherwise have struggled against it; indeed, though none of our men had been detected--thanks, perhaps, to mungo--there had been so much negligence lately in the garrison that the general had issued very severe orders on the subject. "however, i carried my pistol in vain; i did not happen to fall in with mungo; and some time afterwards, on hearing the thing alluded to at the mess-table, i mentioned what i had done, adding, 'mungo is too knowing, i fancy, to run the risk of getting a bullet in him.' "'well,' said major r., 'i should like to have a shot at him, i confess. if i thought i had any chance of seeing him, i'd certainly try it; but i've never seen him at all.' "'your best chance,' said another, 'is when jokel falck is on duty. he is such a sleepy scoundrel, that the men say if it was not for mungo he'd pass half his time in the guard house.' "'if i could catch him i'd put an ounce of lead into him; that he may rely on.' "'into jokel falck, sir?' said one of the subs, laughing. "'no, sir,' replied major r.; 'into mungo--and i'll do it, too.' "'better not, sir,' said captain t., gravely; provoking thereby a general titter round the table. "shortly after this, as i was one night going to my quarter, i saw a mounted orderly ride in and call out a file of the guard to take a prisoner. "'what's the matter?' i asked. "'one of the sentries asleep on his post, sir; i believe it's jokel falck.' "'it will be the last time, whoever it is,' i said; 'for the general is determined to shoot the next man that's caught.' "'i should have thought mungo had stood jokel falck's friend, so often that he'd never have allowed him to be caught,' said the adjutant. 'mungo has neglected his duty.' "'no, sir,' said the orderly, gravely. 'mungo would have waked him, but major r. shot at him.' "'and killed him,' i said. "the man made no answer, but touched his cap and rode away. "i heard no more of the affair that night; but the next morning, at a very early hour, my servant woke me, saying that major r. wished to speak to me. i desired he should be admitted, and the moment he entered the room, i saw by his countenance that something serious had occurred; of course, i thought the enemy had gained some unexpected advantage during the night, and sat up in bed inquiring eagerly what had happened. "to my surprise he pulled out his pocket-handkerchief and burst into tears. he had married a native of antwerp, and his wife was in the city at this time. the first thing that occurred to me was, that she had met with some accident, and i mentioned her name. "'no, no,' he said; 'my son, my boy, my poor fritz!' "'you know that in our service, every officer first enters his regiment as a private soldier, and for a certain space of time does all the duties of that position. the major's son, fritz, was thus in his noviciate. i concluded he had been killed by a stray shot, and for a minute or two i remained in this persuasion, the major's speech being choked by his sobs. the first words he uttered were-- "'would to god i had taken captain t.'s advice!' "'about what?' i said. 'what has happened to fritz?' "'you know,' said he, 'yesterday i was field officer of the day; and when i was going my rounds last night, i happened to ask my orderly, who was assisting to put on my sash, what men we had told off for the guard. amongst others, he named jokel falck, and remembering the conversation the other day at the mess table, i took one of my pistols out of the holster, and, after loading, put it in my pocket. i did not expect to see the dog, for i had never seen him; but as i had no doubt that the story of the spectre was some dodge of the men, i determined if ever i did, to have a shot at him. as i was going through the place de meyer, i fell in with the general, who joined me, and we rode on together, talking of the siege. i had forgotten all about the dog, but when we came to the rampart, above the bastion du matte, i suddenly saw exactly such an animal as the one described, trotting beneath us. i knew there must be a sentry immediately below where we rode, though i could not see him, and i had no doubt that the animal was making towards him; so without saying a word, i drew out my pistol and fired, at the same moment jumping off my horse, in order to look over the bastion, and get a sight of the man. without comprehending what i was about, the general did the same, and there we saw the sentry lying on his face, fast asleep.' "'and the body of the dog?' said i. "'nowhere to be seen,' he answered, 'and yet i must have hit him--i fired bang into him. the general says it must have been a delusion, for he was looking exactly in the same direction, and saw no dog at all--but i am certain i saw him, so did the orderly.' "'but fritz?' i said. "'it was fritz--fritz was the sentry,' said the major, with a fresh burst of grief. the court-martial sits this morning, and my boy will be shot, unless interest can be made with the general to grant him a pardon.' "i rose and drest myself immediately, but with little hope of success. poor fritz being the son of an officer, was against him rather than otherwise--it would have been considered an act of favouritism to spare him. he was shot; his poor mother died of a broken heart, and the major left the service immediately after the surrender of the city." "and have you ever seen mungo again?" said i. "no," he replied; "but i have heard of others seeing him." "and are you convinced that it was a spectre, and not a dog of flesh and blood?" "i fancy i was then--but, of course, one can't believe--" "oh, no;" i rejoined; "oh, no; never mind facts, if they don't fit into our theories." the old french gentleman's story. i spent the summer of fifty-six at dieppe--a charming watering-place for those who can bear an exciting air, and are not very particular about what they eat. dieppe, as travellers see it who are hurrying through to paris, has a most unpromising aspect, with its muddy basins and third and fourth rate inns on the quays, but if you are not hastening from the packet to the train, which the great proportion of people do; you have only to pass up one of the short streets you will see _en face_, when you issue from the custom-house, into which you have been introduced on landing, and you will find yourself on an esplanade of considerable extent, with a wide expanse of clear salt water before you, a fine terrace walk along the shore, and several newly erected hotels opposite the sea. of course, there is an _etablissement_ where the usual amusements are provided; the bathing is excellent, and the company numerous, for dieppe is the favourite watering place of the fashionable world of paris. the beauty of the place is greatly increased by a judicious suggestion of the emperor's. i was told that when he and the empress were there in ' , they complained of the absence of flowers on the esplanade; it was objected that none would grow there; however, he recommended them to try hollyhocks, china-asters, and poppies, the latter are the finest i ever saw, and the brilliant and varied masses of colour produce a very good effect. but they do not feed you well here; '_la viande est longue à dieppe_' as the garçon of the hôtel royal urged when i objected to the meat which, on application of the knife fell into strips of pack-thread; the poultry is lean and bad; fish scarce, because it all goes to london or paris, by contract, and everything dear. nevertheless, dieppe is a very nice place and the surrounding country is exceedingly pretty and picturesque. some members of the jockey club were in the hôtel royal, living very fast indeed. they all bore very aristocratic names and titles, but not the impress of high blood. how should they? judging from what i saw, such a course of profligate self-indulgence, unredeemed, even by good breeding, must have effaced the stamp, if it ever was there. they inhabited a pavilion in the cour, and the luxurious repasts that we constantly saw served to them gave us an awful idea of the amount of their bill. they played at cards all day--the live long summer day! and only suspended this amusement when the garçons appeared with their trays loaded with expensive wines and high-seasoned dishes. one other amusement they had, which was no less an amusement to us--they had a drag--a regular english four-in-hand. the cour of the hotel was divided from the road by iron rails, with a large gate at each extremity for carriages, so that to an english whip, nothing would have been easier than to drive in at one of these gates, and round the sweep, and out at the other; but this the jockey club could never accomplish; when the gentlemen took the reins from the coachman, if they were in, they could not get out; and if they were out, they could not get in; so after a few ambitious attempts and ignominious failures, they submitted to the inglorious expediency of mounting and dismounting outside the gates. the french have certainly a remarkable incapacity for riding or driving, which is strange, as they are active men and have generally light figures. the emperor is almost the only frenchman i ever saw ride well; but he rides like an english gentleman. there were many elegantly drest women, of all nations, at dieppe, but there was one who particularly attracted my attention, and for whom, when i afterwards heard her story, i felt an extraordinary interest. this was the countess adeline de-givry-monjerac, at least so i will call her here. when i first saw her she was going down to bathe, attended by her maid, a grave elderly person, and i was so much struck by her appearance, that i took the first opportunity of enquiring her name. she was tall and very pale, with fine, straight features, and an expression of countenance at once noble and melancholy. her figure was so good, and her bearing at once so graceful and dignified, that her unusual height did not strike you till you saw her standing beside other women. she was leaning on her maid's arm, and stooped a little, apparently from feebleness. her attire was a peignoir of grey taffetas, lined with blue, and on her head she wore a simple capote of the same. her age, i judged to be about forty. she lodged in the hôtel royal, as i did also, but lived entirely in private; and we only saw her there as she went in and out. later in the season, the duchesse de b., and other persons, arrived from paris, with whom she was acquainted, and i often observed her in conversation with them on the promenade; but her countenance never lost its expression of melancholy. however, i should have left dieppe, ignorant of the singular circumstances i am about to relate, but for an accident. there was a verandah in the court of the hotel, in which many of us preferred to breakfast, rather than in the salon; and the verandah not being very extensive, and the candidates numerous, there was often a little difficulty in securing a table. one morning, i had just laid my parasol on the only one i saw vacant, when the garçon warned me that it was already engaged by _ce monsieur_, indicating an old gentleman, who was standing with his back to me, in conversation with one of a sisterhood called _soeurs de la providence_, who was soliciting him to buy some of the lottery tickets she held in her hand; they were for the _loterie de bienfaisance_, the proceeds of which are devoted to charitable purposes. there are innumerable lotteries of this sort in france, authorized by the government; and they seem to me to be the substitute for our magnificent private charities in england, for very large sums are collected. the tickets only cost a franc. i believe the _tirage_ is conducted with perfect fairness; and people thus subscribe a franc for the poor, with the agreeable, but very remote, chance of being repaid, _même ici bas_, a hundred thousand-fold. the old gentleman turned his head on hearing my conversation with the waiter; and, begging i would not derange myself on his account, desired that i might have the table. grateful for such an unusual exertion of politeness--for the politeness of the modern french gentleman does not include the smallest modicum of self-sacrifice--i modestly declined, and said, "i would wait." he answered, "by no means." and while we were engaged in this amicable contest, the waiter brought his breakfast, and placed it on the table; seeing which, he proposed, that as he was denied the pleasure of making way for me, i should have my coffee placed on the other side, and we should breakfast together; an offer which i gladly accepted. he was a pleasant, garrulous, old gentleman. monsieur de vennacour was his name, _proprietaire à paris_, and he told me how he had lost his fortune by the revolutions, and how he lived now in a _petit apartment_ in the _rue des ecuries d'anjou_, and belonged to a coterie of old ladies and gentlemen like himself, who had a _petit whisk_ every night during the winter. while we were talking, the countess passed us on her way to the bath; and, happening to catch her eye as she crossed the court, he bowed to her; whereupon i asked him if he knew her? "a little," he said; "but i knew her husband well; and her mother's hotel was next to that my family formerly inhabited. she was a beautiful woman, madame de lignerolles." "then, she is dead?" said i. "no," he replied. "she has retired from the world,--she is in a convent. c'est une histoire bien triste celle de madame de lignerolles et sa fille, et aussi bien etrange!" "if it is not a secret, perhaps you will tell it to me?" said i; for i saw that my new acquaintance desired nothing better. he was a famous raconteur; and i wish i could tell the story in english as well, and as dramatically, as he told it to me in french; however, i'll repeat it as faithfully as i can. "madame de lignerolles née hermione de givry, was married early to the marquis de lignerolles, without any particular _penchant_ for or against the union. the marquis was a great deal older than herself, but it was considered a good match, for he was very rich, and his genealogy was unexceptionable. not more so, however, than the young lady's; for the de givry's heraldic tree had apparently sprung from an acorn floated to the west by deucalion himself. at the period of hermione's marriage her father, mother, and two brothers, older than herself, still lived. her father, the comte de givry had been a younger son, and had inherited the fortune on the death of his elder brother who was killed in a duel the day before he was to have been married to a woman he passionately loved. he died by the hand of one of his most intimate friends, with whom he had never had a word of difference before, and the subject of quarrel was a peacock! but it was always remarked by the world, that the eldest scions of the house of givry were singularly unfortunate; they seldom prospered in their loves, and if they did, they were sure to die before their hopes were realised. people in general called it _a destiny_; others whispered that it was a curse; but the family laughed contemptuously if any one presumed to hint such a thing in their presence, and asserted that it was merely _le hazard_; and as the world in these days is very much disposed to believe in _le hazard_, few persons sought to penetrate further into the cause of these misadventures. however, hermione's elder brother, etienne, did not escape his _mauvais destin_; the lady he was engaged to marry was seized with the smallpox, and, from being a pretty person, became a very ugly one. during her illness, he had sworn nothing should break his engagement, and accordingly, disfigured as she was, he married her; but he had better, for both their sakes, have left it alone. he was disgusted and she was jealous; they parted within a month after the wedding, and he was soon after killed by a fall from his horse in the bois de boulogne, and died, leaving no issue. upon his decease, the second son, armande, now the heir, was recalled from prussia, whither he had gone with his regiment, but they were on the eve of a battle, and it was not consistent with his honour to leave till it was over. he was the first officer that fell in the fight, and thus the hopes of the ancient family of givry became centered in the offspring of hermione. but, adeline, the fair object of my admiration, was the sole fruit of the marriage, and great were the lamentations of the old count and countess that the continuation of this noble stock rested on so frail a tenure, for the child was exceedingly delicate; she outgrew her strength, and for some years was supposed to be _poitrinaire_. but, either, thanks to the wonderful care that was bestowed upon her, or to an inherent good constitution, she survived this trying period and grew up to marriageable years, rewarding all the solicitude of her family by her charms and amiability. she was not so beautiful as her mother had been--and even was still--but she was quite sufficiently handsome; and there was so much grace in her movements and her manners, and she had such a noble and pure expression of countenance--a true indication of her character--that adeline de lignerolle's perfections were universally admitted by the men, and scarcely denied by the women, insomuch, that these attractions, added to her lineage and fortune, caused her to be looked upon as one of the most desirable matches in the kingdom. "her father, the old marquis de lignerolles-givry--for he was constrained to adopt the latter name--had died previous to this period; and as her grandfather monsieur de givry undertook the affair of her marriage, numerous were the propositions he privately received, and frequent the closettings and consultations on the subject. in these cases, the more people have, the more they require; and as adeline had better blood, and more money, than most people, the family exigence in these respects was considerable, and the difficulties that lay in the way of procuring a suitable alliance, manifold. "she had reached the age of seventeen, and this important point was still unsettled, when she and her mother went to visit a relative of madame de lignerolles, who was united to a portuguese nobleman. on her marriage, she had followed her husband to his own country; but he was now on a mission to the french court; and the paris season being over, they had taken a château on the loire, for the summer months. there were other young people in the house, and all sorts of amusements going on, which no one seemed to enjoy, at first, more than adeline de givry; but, at the end of a fortnight, a change began to be observable in her spirits and demeanour, which did not escape the observation of her young companions; and by their means awakened the attention of madame de saldanha, their hostess; who hinted to her cousin, madame de lignerolles, that adeline was falling in love with the young count de la cruz; at least, such was the opinion of her own daughter, isabella; adding, that if so abnormal a circumstance, as a young lady choosing her own husband _was_ to happen, she could not have fixed on a more desirable individual than rodriguez de la cruz,--a man unexceptionable in person, mind, and manners whose genealogy might vie with that of the de givry's themselves; and whose name was associated with distinguished deeds of arms during the holy wars. "but this indulgent view of the case was not shared by madame de lignerolles. she seemed exceedingly surprised and incredulous; but when the other insisted on the probability of such a result, since the two young people had been residing for six weeks under the same roof; and pointed out to the lady that the assiduous attentions paid by de la cruz to herself were, doubtless, not without an object, suggesting that that object was to gain her interest in his favour, she evinced so much displeasure and indignation, that madame de saldanha apologized and gave up the point, saying, she was very likely mistaken, and that it was a mere fancy of isabella's. "nevertheless, these suspicions were perfectly well founded. de la cruz was waiting for his father's consent to make his proposals in form; and this consent was only delayed till the old gentleman had time to come to paris and make the needful inquiries regarding fortune and family; about which, he considered himself entitled to be quite as particular as the de givry's. "it was remarked that, from this time, madame de lignerolles observed her daughter with a jealous eye, and sought every means of keeping her away from the young portuguese; added to which, as it afterwards appeared, she severely reproved adeline for what she called the levity of her conduct. "moreover, she hastened her departure; and in a few days after the conversation with madama de saldanha, took her leave; alleging, that her presence was required by her father, in paris. to paris, however, she did not immediately go. there was in brittany an ancient château belonging to the family, which, for some reason or other, they very rarely visited; it was supposed, because they possessed others more agreeable. at all events, whatever might be the cause, it was known that the old count had a mortal aversion to this residence, insomuch, that his daughter had never been there since her infancy; when something very unpleasant was reported to have happened to her mother's eldest brother shortly before his death. thither, however, they now travelled with all speed, accompanied only by two maids and a man. "madame de lignerolles was a person, in whom the maternal instinct had never been largely developed. she was even, still, at eight-and-thirty, a beautiful woman; and it was generally suspected, that she did not feel at all delighted at having this tall, handsome daughter, to proclaim her age; and, perhaps shortly, make her a grandmother. but, her manner to adeline--usually, more indifferent than harsh--now assumed a new character; she seemed engrossed with her own thoughts; was cold and constrained; spoke little; and when she did, it was with a gravity truly portentous. "they were not unexpected at château noir--for such was the ominous name of the old castle, which frowned upon them in the gloom of a dusky november evening; but instead of the liveried servants, by whom they were accustomed to be greeted, an elderly housekeeper, a concierge, and a few rustic menials, appeared to be its only inhabitants. however, they had done their best to make ready for this visit; fires were lighted, and dinner was prepared and served, accompanied by plenty of apologies for its not being better. "the evening passed in silence; they were tired, and went early to bed. the next two days, mdme. de lignerolles kept her room, and adeline strolled about the neglected grounds, occupied with her own thoughts of the future, not without wondering a little at her mother's mysterious behaviour. on the third day, she was summoned to the presence of mdme. de lignerolles, who received and bade her be seated, with the same significant solemnity, and then proceeded to inform her that she had a most painful secret to communicate--a secret that had long prest upon her conscience, but which she could never find resolution to disclose; that lately, however, her confessor had so strongly urged her to perform this act of duty, that, with the greatest reluctance, she had resolved to obey his injunctions--her doing so having become more imperative from the fact of adeline's having arrived at marriageable years, as in the event of any alliance presenting itself, honour would constrain her to speak. the dreadful secret was, that adeline was not her child; that the nurse who had had the charge of her infancy, confessed on her death-bed, that she had substituted her own infant for the countess's, that the latter had subsequently died, but that she could not leave the world in peace without avowing her crime. "'i did not believe her,' said mdme. de lignerolles, 'but she reminded me that my child had a mole under the left breast, which you, adeline, have not. this cruel change was effected during our absence from france. shortly after my confinement, i was ordered to spend the winter in italy, and the child was left to the care of my father and mother, who by that time had nearly lost her eye-sight. to this circumstance, and the little notice men usually take of infants, the woman trusted to escape detection. of course, i could not discern the difference between the child i had left and the one i found. i had no suspicion; and whatever alterations i remarked, i attributed to the lapse of time--though i must own that maternal instinct offered a strong confirmation of the nurse's confession. while i believed you my own offspring, i had none of those tender yearnings which i have heard other women speak of, and i often reproached myself for the want of them. however, i endeavoured to do my duty by you, and no pains or expense were spared on your education, which was already nearly completed, when i became acquainted with this dreadful secret, of which, when the nurse died, i was the sole possessor. but, aware of the intense grief such a disclosure would occasion my husband, who was then in exceedingly bad health, i determined during his lifetime to preserve silence. after his death, i ought to have exerted courage to speak; but my mother adored you--it would have killed her. she is now gone, and there is only your grandfather left. i well know the suffering it will cause him, and, believe me, i feel for _you_--but my duty is plain. you will be amply provided for--' but ere the sentence could be finished, adeline, who had sat like a statue, listening to this harangue, with wondering eyes and open lips, suddenly rose and rushed out of the room. that she was not mdme. de lignerolles' daughter caused her little grief, nor was she of an age very highly to appreciate the position and splendours she was losing; but she thought of her grandfather, whom she really loved; she thought of de la cruz, and her heart filled with anguish. "she was not pursued to her retreat; the whole day she kept her chamber, and mdme. de lignerolles kept hers. on the following morning, a note was handed to her from mdme. de l., announcing that she was starting for paris to communicate this distressing intelligence to m. de givry; and desiring adeline to remain where she was, under the care of mdme. vertot, the housekeeper, till she received further directions; assuring her, at the same time, that everything should be done for her happiness and welfare, and, in due time, a suitable _parti_ be provided for her." just as monsieur de venacour reached this point of his story, madame de montjerac returned from bathing, and if i looked at her with interest before, it may be well imagined how much more she inspired now. "how extraordinary!" i said, as my eyes rested on her noble countenance and majestic figure, "that that distinguished-looking woman is really the daughter of a good-for-nothing servant; and yet i should have said, if ever there was a person who bore the unmistakeable impress of aristocracy, it is she." he nodded his head, and significantly lifting his fore-finger to the side of his nose, said "ecoutez!" and forthwith proceeded with his narration as follows. "on madam de lignerolle's arrival in paris, she sent for her father, threw herself at his feet, and with tears and lamentations, disclosed this dreadful secret, which, she said, had been making the misery of her life for the last two years; but whatever distress it occasioned her, it was quite evident that that of monsieur de givry was much more severe. he was wounded on all sides; his pride, his love of lineage, his personal affection for adeline, and his horror of the notoriety such an extraordinary event must naturally acquire. so powerful were the two last sentiments, that for a moment he even entertained the idea of accepting adeline as the heiress of givry, and concealing the whole affair from her and every body else; but to this proposition his daughter objected that the poor girl was already in possession of the truth, and that it was impossible to make her a party to such a deception. "'then,' said monsieur de givry, 'she must die! there is no other expedient.' "'mais, non, mon pere!' cried hermione, starting from her seat, evidently taken quite aback by this unexpected proposition. "de givry waved his hand with a melancholy smile; 'enfant!' he said. 'do you think i intend to become an assassin? god forbid!' and then he explained that he did not mean a real but a fictitious death, for which purpose she must be removed to a foreign country, under the pretence of the re-appearance of pulmonary symptoms; that a husband must be found for her who would bind himself to leave france for ever, and to keep this secret, under pain of forfeiting the very handsome allowance he proposed to make them; for the safe conduct of which part of the business, it would be necessary to confide their unhappy circumstances to the family physician and lawyer. in the meantime, as these arrangements could not be made in a day, it was decided that adeline should remain where she was till all was ready for their completion. "'i shall take her out of the country myself,' he said, 'and you must accompany us. every consideration must be shown her; she is the victim, and not the criminal.' "in the course of this conversation, as may be imagined, monsieur de givry more than once lamented the extinction of his race; his daughter, however, on that point, offered him some consolation, by suggesting that she was still a young woman, and that for her father's sake, although she had never intended to marry again, she would consent to do so provided she could meet with an unobjectionable _parti_. "shortly after this melancholy disclosure, de la cruz arrived with his father in paris; where they were so well received by madame de lignerolles, that the old gentleman, fascinated by her beauty and manners, expressed his surprise that his son had not fallen in love with the mother, instead of the daughter. however, at his son's desire, he made formal propositions for the young lady's hand; which, to the surprise of the young man, monsieur de livry said, was already promised; adding, however, that his granddaughter's state of health would, probably, retard the union; the physicians having discovered that the seeds of consumption were beginning to develope themselves in her constitution, and, consequently, recommended her removal to a warmer climate. "in the meanwhile, the poor young girl was pining alone in the dreary, old château, with no companion but her own maid,--receiving no intelligence, and ignorant of her future fate. all she knew was, that she never could be the wife of rodriguez de la cruz. she supposed, that when he made his proposals, he would be informed of the circumstances above related, and that she should never hear more of him. but, in this, she was mistaken. about three weeks after her mother had left her, a letter from him arrived, saying, that he had succeeded in discovering where she was, and that he had lost no time in writing to inform her of the ill fortune that had attended his proposals; adding, that if her sentiments continued unchanged, he would come to château noir, accompanied by his own chaplain, who would unite them; after which, he had no doubt, it would be easy to obtain her grandfather's forgiveness; he, probably, having only refused his consent because he was trammelled by a prior engagement. "but this letter was addressed to mademoiselle de lignerolles; and it was evident, from the whole tenour of it, that the writer knew nothing of the change in her fortunes. honour forbad her to take advantage of this ignorance; but the struggle threw her into agonies of grief. she passed a miserable day, and retired early to bed; where she might indulge her tears, and avoid the curious eyes of her maid, who was greatly perplexed at these unusual proceedings. sleep was far from her eyes, and her mind was busy, framing the answer she had to write on the following day to de la cruz, when she heard a knock at her chamber door. 'come in,' she said; not doubting that it was her maid, or madame vertot. immediately, she heard the handle turned, and she saw in a mirror that was opposite, the door open, and a miserable, haggard-looking woman enter. she was attired in rags, and she led by the hand two naked children. they approached the foot of the bed, and the woman held out a letter, as if she wished adeline to take it, which she made an effort to do; but a sudden horror seized her, and she uttered a scream which roused her maid who slept in the adjoining apartment. she was found insensible; but the usual applications restored her; and, without telling what had happened, she requested the servant to pass the rest of the night in her room. the next day, she felt very poorly in consequence of this horrid vision; but she wrote to de la cruz such a letter, as she felt her altered circumstances demanded. she could not bring herself to avow that she was the daughter of robertine collet; but sent him, simply, a cold, haughty refusal, which precluded all possibility of any further advances. the next day, she changed her room, and she saw no more of the frightful apparition. "she had done her duty to de la cruz, but she was miserable; and when, shortly afterwards, her grandfather arrived, accompanied by dr. pecher, the family physician, they found her exceedingly ill, and confined to her bed. this dr. pecher was a clever and worthy man; and having been necessarily made the confidant of the painful secret, it had been privately arranged between him and monsieur de givry, that he should marry the girl; and that they should, thereupon, quit the country,--monsieur de g. making ample provision for their future maintenance. "but the main thing needful, was to restore her to health; and in the course of his attendance on her, he learnt from her maid how she had been first attacked; and then elicited from herself, the cause of her alarm. of course, he looked upon the vision as an illusion; in short, the premonitory symptoms of her illness,--and mentioned it in that light, to monsieur de givry. but to his surprise, monsieur de g. took a different view of the matter; and hastening to adeline's room, he made her repeat to him the exact description of what she had seen; after which, he started immediately for paris, without explaining the motive of this sudden departure. "on his arrival, he presented himself before his daughter, and taxed her with having deceived him; what her motive could be he was unable to imagine; he supposed it to be pecuniary, and that she did not wish to part with the large portion to be paid to adeline on her marriage; but he believed that the traditionary apparition of his family would not have appeared to any one who was not a member of it; and that therefore the girl, who had accurately described the appearance of these figures, of which the young people were always kept in entire ignorance, must be actually his granddaughter. "madame de lignerolles persisted in her story, and all she could be brought to own was, that it was possible, the woman, collett, had deceived her. strong in his own opinion, monsieur de givry returned to château noir, dr. pecher having recommended the young lady's removal; and after writing his daughter a very urgent and serious letter, he started on a tour of a few weeks, with adeline, for the recovery of her health. "no answer reached him for some time, but at the end of a month, he received one, acknowledging the cruel deception she had practiced, alleging as her excuse, an ardent passion for rodriguez de la cruz; and the wish to detach him from adeline, and marry him herself. but she had failed, and he was on the point of marriage with a lady selected for him by his father. the letter concluded by the announcement, that she was about to retire to a convent where she should, in due time, take the veil. "monseiur de givry assumed this to be a mere ebullition of shame and disappointment; but she kept her word. mademoiselle de lignerolles, some years later, married the baron de montjerac, from whom, said monsieur de venacour, i heard the story. by him she had two sons; but the constant apprehension that in the eldest will be fulfilled the _mauvais destin_ entailed on the heirs of givry, preys, it is said, on her mind and health, and is the cause of the expression of melancholy for which her fine countenance is so remarkable. "some centuries earlier, when power was irresponsible, count armand de givry, a cruel and oppressive lord of the soil, who then inhabited château noir, had put to death one of his serfs, and turned his wife and two children out of doors in inclement weather, forbidding any of his tenants to shelter or assist them. the children were without clothes, and the three poor creatures perished from cold and starvation, but leaving behind them a terrible retribution, in the form of a curse pronounced by the wretched woman's lips in her dying agonies, which, strange to say, seems to have been pretty literally fulfilled. "when they were nearly at the last extremity, some good christian had had the courage to write a pathetic letter for her, which, however, it was necessary she should deliver herself, as no one else durst do it. she watched her opportunity; concealed herself in the park, and waylaid the count as he returned one day from shooting. but instead of taking the letter, he set his dogs upon her, who would have torn her to pieces, but for the courageous interference of one of his followers. "the curse ran, that never should the heir of givry prosper till one of them took the letter; and that the last scion of the house should _renier le croix et se vouer à l'enfer_. "since that, it was said that, no eldest son or daughter of the house of givry had lived and prospered, whilst the letter, in some way or other had been offered to every one of them; but as the cadets of the family lived and married and prospered like other people, they did not choose to believe in the story; at least, whatever their secret thoughts on the subject may have been, they publicly threw ridicule on the tradition, whenever it was alluded to; but monsieur de givry had sufficient faith in it to believe, that if adeline had been the daughter of robertine collet, she would never have been visited by the ghost of madeleine dogue and her children." the swiss lady's story. "it was not i," said madame de geirsteche; "it was my mother who saw the apparition you have heard of; but i can tell you all the particulars of the story if you have patience to listen to it." "you would be conferring a great favour," i said; "from what i have heard of the circumstance, i am already much interested." we were in the steamboat that plies between vevay and geneva when this conversation occurred, and as there could not be a more convenient opportunity of hearing the narration, we retired from the crowd of travellers that thronged the deck, and madame de g. began as follows. "my husband's father, the elder monsieur geirsteche, was acquainted with two young men named zwengler. he was at school and at college with them, and their intimacy continued after their education was finished. when one was fourteen and the other ten, they had the misfortune to lose both their parents by an accident. they were crossing the alps, when by the fall of an avalanche their carriage was overturned down a precipice, and they and their servants perished. "the zwenglers were people of good family but small fortune; and as they had always lived fully up to what they had, their property, when it came to be divided between their four children, for they had two daughters besides the sons i have named, afforded but an inadequate portion to each; but this misfortune was mitigated by their rich relations--a wealthy uncle adopted the boys, and an equally wealthy aunt took the girls. this was but just, for they had both been enriched by what ought to have been the inheritance of the other sister, the mother of these children, who, having married monsieur zwengler contrary to the wishes of her parents, was cut off with a shilling. this uncle and aunt had never married, for their father objected to every match that was proposed, as not sufficiently advantageous; whilst the brother and sister, taking warning by the fate of madame zwengler, preferred living single to the risk of incurring the same penalty. the daughters having good fortunes married early, and i believe did well enough; it is on the history of the sons that my story turns. "as i mentioned, they were at the same school with my husband's father when the catastrophe happened to their parents, and he remembered afterwards the different manner in which the news had affected them; alfred's grief was apparently stormy and violent; that of the other was less demonstrative, but more genuine. alfred, in short, was secretly elated at the independence he expected would be the consequence of this sudden bereavement; and he lost no time in assuming over louis the importance and authority of an elder brother. louis was an enthusiastic, warm-hearted, and imaginative child, too young to appreciate his loss in a worldly point of view, but mourning his parents--especially his mother--sincerely. "alfred's hopes of independence were considerably abated, when he found himself under the guardianship of mr. altorf, his uncle, a proud, pompous, tenacious, arbitrary man; on the other hand, he was somewhat consoled by the expectation of becoming the heir to his large fortune, the magnitude of which he had frequently heard descanted on by his parents. he soon discovered, too, that as the heir expectant he had acquired an importance that he had never enjoyed before; and in order to make sure of these advantages, he neglected no means of recommending himself to the old gentleman, insomuch, that mr. altorf, being very fond of the study of chemistry, alfred affected great delight in the same pursuit, sacrificing his own inclinations to shut himself up in his uncle's laboratory, with crucibles and chemicals that he often wished might be consumed in the furnace they employed. louis, the while, pursued his studies, thoughtless of the future as young people usually are; but as he advanced in age, he began to exhibit symptoms of a failing constitution, and as the law for which his uncle designed him required more study than was compatible with health, he was allowed to follow his inclination and become a soldier. with this view, he was sent to paris, and committed to the surveillance of a friend of his uncle there, who was in the french service. "no profession being proposed for alfred, he lived on with his uncle, confirmed in the belief that though his brother, if he survived, would be remembered in the old man's will, he himself should inherit the bulk of the property. it was a weary life to him, shut up half the day in the laboratory, that he detested, in constant association with an uncongenial companion. moreover, up to the period of his being of age, he was kept almost entirely without money, and was excluded from all the pleasures suitable to his years. when he attained his majority, he became possessed of the small patrimony that devolved on him as the eldest son of his father, and was enabled to make himself some amends for the privations he had previously submitted to. not that he threw off his uncle's authority, or became openly less submissive and conformable; but secretly he contrived to procure himself many relaxations and enjoyments, from which he had before been shut out; and in the attaining and purchasing these pleasures he freely squandered all the proceeds of his inheritance, reckoning securely on the future being well provided for. "his uncle inhabited a villa outside of geneva, on the road to ferney, and seldom came into the town, except when he visited his banker. his chemicals and other articles, alfred usually purchased, and he had made acquaintance with several young men, whose society and amusements he availed himself of these opportunities to enjoy. one frosty day in december, he was strolling arm in arm with some of these youths, when, on turning a corner, he unexpectedly saw sailing down the street before them, the massive figure of his uncle, attired in his best chocolate suit, his hair powdered, and a long pigtail hanging down his back. the air of conscious importance and pomposity with which he strode along, amused these gay companions, and they were diverting themselves at the old gentleman's expense, when his foot slipped on a slide, and he fell down. this was irresistible; and they all burst into a simultaneous shout of laughter. a passer by immediately assisted him to rise; and as he did so, he turned round to see from whence the merriment proceeded--perhaps he had recognised his nephew's voice--at all events, alfred felt sure he _saw_, if he did not _hear_, and thought it prudent to apologise for his ill-timed hilarity, which he sought to excuse by alleging that he had not at first been aware who it was that had fallen. mr. altorf looked stern; but as he said nothing, and never alluded to the subject again, alfred congratulated himself at having got off so well, and endeavoured to efface any unpleasant impression that might remain by extra attentions and compliances. "everything went on as usual till the following year, when one morning the old gentleman was found dead in his bed, and the medical men pronounced that he had expired in a fit of apoplexy. "when the will--which was dated several years back--came to be read, it was found that after two trifling legacies, and five thousand pounds to louis, the whole estate was bequeathed to alfred, whose breast dilated with joy, as the words fell upon his ear, although it was no more than he was prepared for; but the first flush of triumph had not subsided, when the lawyer arrested the incipient congratulations of the company, by saying, 'here is a codicil, i see, dated the fourteenth of december, last year.' "the company resumed their seats, and a cold chill crept through alfred's veins, as the reader proceeded as follows:-- "'i hereby revoke the bequest hereabove made to my nephew alfred zwengler, and i give and bequeath the whole of my estates, real and personal, to my nephew, louis zwengler. to my nephew, alfred zwengler, i give and bequeath my bust, which stands on the hall table. it is accounted a good likeness, and when i am gone, it will serve to keep him merry. may he have many a hearty laugh at it--on the wrong side of his mouth.' "the auditors looked confounded on hearing this extraordinary paragraph, but alfred understood it too well. "it is unnecessary to dwell upon his feelings; a quarter of an hour ago he was one of the richest men of his canton--now there were not many poorer in all switzerland than alfred zwengler. he had awakened from his long dream of wealth and importance, and habits of expense, to poverty and utter insignificance; while louis, whom he had always despised--louis, over whom he had domineered, and assumed the airs of an elder brother and a great man, had leapt into his shoes at one bound, and left him grovelling in the mud. how he hated him. "but he might die; what letters they had had from paris reported him very sickly; he might be killed in battle, for europe was full of wars in those days; but he might do neither; and at all events, in the meantime what was alfred to do? a thousand wild and desperate schemes passed through his brain for bettering his situation, but none seemed practicable. the sole remnant of the property he had inherited from his father, that still remained in his possession, was a house in geneva, called l'hôtel dupont, that he had mortgaged to nearly its full value, intending at his uncle's death, to pay the money and redeem it. it had been let, but was now empty and under repair, and the creditors talked of selling it to pay themselves. but alfred induced them to wait, by giving out that as soon as his brother understood his situation, he would advance the necessary sum to relieve him. perhaps he really entertained this expectation, but he had no precise right to do so, for he had never given louis a crown piece, though the latter had suffered much more from his uncle's parsimony than he had, having inherited nothing whatever from his parents. however, alfred wrote to louis, dating his letter from that house, dilating on his difficulties, and the hardness of his fate, and hinting that, had he come into possession of his uncle's fortune, as he had every right to expect he should, how he should have felt it his duty to act towards an only brother. "he received no answer to this appeal; and, at first, he drew very unfavourable conclusions from his brother's silence; but, as time went on, and louis neither appeared to take possession of his inheritance, nor wrote to account for his absence, hope began once more to dawn in the horizon; the brighter, that no letters whatever arrived from him; even the lawyers who had applied for instructions, received no answer. the last letter his uncle had had from him, had mentioned the probability of his joining the republican forces in the south, if his health permitted him to do so. altogether, there certainly were grounds for anxiety or hope, as it might be; i need not say which it was on this occasion. rumours of bloody battles, too, prevailed, in which many had fallen. even the creditors were content to wait, not being inclined to push to extremity a debtor, who might be on the verge of prosperity, for it was not likely that louis would make a will; and it was even possible that he might have died before his uncle. in either case, alfred was the undoubted heir; and, accordingly, he began once more to taste some of the sweets of fortune;--hats were doffed, hands were held out to him, and one or two sanguine spirits went so far as to offer loans of small sums and temporary accommodation. "at length, affairs being in this state of uncertainty, the lawyers thought it necessary to investigate the matter, and endeavour to ascertain what was become of the heir. measures were accordingly taken, which evidently kept alfred in a violent state of agitation; but the result, apparently, made him amends for all he had suffered. it was proved that louis, with his military friend, had joined the republican forces in the south, but was supposed to have perished in an encounter with the chouans; nobody could swear to having seen him dead; but, as the republicans had been surprised and fallen into an ambush, they had been obliged to retreat, leaving their dead upon the field. "this being the case, the property was given up to alfred; a portion being sequestered, in order that it might accumulate for a certain number of years, for the purpose of refunding the original heir, should he--contrary to all expectation--reappear. if not, at the expiration of that term, the sequestrated portion would be released. "alfred zwengler was now at the summit of his wishes; and one might have thought, would have felt the more intense satisfaction, in the possession of his wealth, from the narrow escape he had had of losing it; but this did not seem to be the case. he had, formerly, been very fond of society, though he had few opportunities of entering into it; but when he had, nobody enjoyed it more. now, he did not shun mankind; on the contrary, he sought their company; but he was moody, silent, and apparently unhappy. people said, that he lived in constant fear of his brother's turning up again and reclaiming his inheritance. it might be so; nobody knew the cause of the change in him, for he was uncommunicative, even to his nearest acquaintance. "one thing, that gave colour to this supposition was, that he evidently disliked to hear louis named; and whenever he was alluded to, he invariably asserted that he did not believe he was dead, and that he expected every day to see him come back. after saying this, it was observed that, he would turn deathly pale,--rising from his chair, and walking about the room in manifest agitation. "preferring the town to the country, mr. zwengler had declared his intention of residing in his own house, which had lately been repaired under his special directions, and fitted up with all the appliances of comfort and elegance; but he was scarcely settled there before he took a sudden and unaccountable dislike to it, and offered it for sale. as it was an excellent property, mr. geirsteche, my husband's father bought it; and mr. zwengler purchased another house and removed his furniture thither. "mr. geirsteche had no intention of living in the house; he bought it as an investment; for being situated in one of the best streets of the city, it was sure to let well; and accordingly it was not long before he found an eligible tenent in mr. bautte, an eminent watchmaker of geneva, who furnished it handsomely. he was very rich, and wanted it for his family, who expressed themselves delighted with their new residence. nevertheless, they had not been in it three months before they expressed a desire to live in the environs of the city rather than in it. as mr. bautte had taken a long lease of the house, he put up a ticket announcing that it was to be let. a gentleman from lucerne, named maurice, who had just married his sister's governess, and wished therefore to reside at a distance from his family, took it for three years, with the option of keeping it on for whatever term he pleased at the end of that period. he gave directions for the furnishing, and when it was ready, they came to geneva and took up their abode in their new house. at the end of a year, they applied to mr. bautte for permission to sub-let the house. there was no such provision in the agreement, and mr. bautte at first, we were told, objected, but consented after an interview with mr. maurice. but these frequent removals had begun to draw observation, and it began to be rumoured that there was something objectionable about the hôtel du pont. the common people whispered that it was haunted; some said it was infested with rats; others that it was ill drained; in short, it got a bad reputation, and nobody was willing to take it. mr. maurice and his wife, who were gone to paris for a few months, and had not yet removed their furniture, being informed of this, advertised it to be let furnished. so many strangers come to geneva, that there is no want of tenants for good furnished houses, and it was soon engaged by a french family from dijon. they took it for a year, but at the end of that time they left it for a residence much inferior in every respect, and yet more expensive; the rent mr. maurice asked being very moderate. "i don't know who were the next tenants, but family after family took the house, for it was a very attractive one, but nobody lived in it long. when mr. maurice's three years had expired, mr. bautte bought his furniture, and continued to let the house furnished. he would have been glad to sell his lease, which was for thirty years, but nobody was inclined to buy it. "i now, said madame de g. come to that part of the story that concerns my mother. i have frequently heard the story from her own lips, and nothing made her so angry as to see people listen to it with incredulity. my grandfather, mr. colman, was, as you are aware, much given to the pursuit of literature, and as that is one that seldom brings wealth, his means were somewhat restricted, although he had a small independance of his own. he had three daughters and two sons, and when his family had outgrown their childhood, and my mother, who was the eldest, had attained the age of seventeen, they came to geneva for the sake of giving the young people some advantages of education that he could not afford them in england; besides there was a good deal of literary society to be had here then, and the place was cheaper than it is now. "having no acquaintance, they applied on their arrival to an agent, who offered them several houses and l'hôtel du pont amongst the number. at first they were about to decline it as a residence beyond their means; but when the rent was named, they took it immediately. it was so far the best house they had seen, and the cheapest, that when the agreement was signed, they expressed their surprise to the agent, at what appeared the unreasonable demands of the other proprietors. "'why, this house is particularly situated, sir,' said the agent. 'the gentleman who furnished it was obliged to leave geneva almost immediately after he had settled himself here; and he being absent, and caring more for a good tenant than a high rent, we don't stand out for a price as people must do when they look to make money by a house.' "mr. colman congratulated himself on his good luck in finding such a liberal proprietor, and in a few days he and his family were comfortably established in the hôtel du pont. the only difficulty they had found was in procuring servants. they had one english maid with them, and, at last, they succeeded in getting two girls as cook and housemaid. the latter was a german, who had been brought there by a family who had gone on to italy; and the former was a frenchwoman, who had married a gentleman's valet, and had followed him from paris to geneva. "as soon as everything was arranged, they resumed their usual habits--one of which was, that for an hour or two before they went to bed the father read aloud to them, in a room they called the library--it was, in fact, his writing-room--whilst the ladies worked. a few evenings after they had recommenced this practice, a discussion arose between mr. colman and his eldest daughter, mary, as to the precise meaning of a french word, and the dictionary had to be appealed to to decide the question. mary said it was in her bed-chamber, and left the room to fetch it. the library was on the ground-floor, and the staircase was a broad, handsome one as far as the first flight; it had been made by alfred zwengler when the house was repaired, and there was a wide landing at the top, the whole being lighted sufficiently for ordinary purposes by a lamp that hung in the hall. the stairs were very easy of ascent, and my mother--i mean mary--for she was afterwards my mother, who was a lively, active girl, was springing up two steps at a time, when, to her amazement, she saw a gentleman in uniform standing on the landing above. she stopt suddenly, but as he did not appear to notice her, she continued to ascend, concluding it was some stranger, who had got into the house by mistake, for he did not look a thief; but when she reached the landing he was gone. she stood at first bewildered. there were four doors opening into bedrooms, but they were all shut; and after thinking a moment, she concluded it was the shadow of some cloaks and hats, and sticks, that were hanging in the hall, that had deceived her. she did not pause to consider how this could be, but turned into her own room; felt for the book, which she remembered to have left on her bed and ran down stairs again to her father; so occupied with the disputed question, that for the moment she forgot what had happened, and as her father resumed his reading immediately, she did not mention it. when they were going to bed, and they were lighting their candles in the hall, she said, 'you can't think what a start i had this evening when i went for the dictionary. it must have been the shadow of those cloaks and things, but i could have declared i saw an officer in uniform standing at the top of the stairs. i even saw his epaulette and the colour of his clothes.' "'la! mary,' said one of the younger ones, 'weren't you frightened?' "'frightened! no, why should i be frightened at a shadow?' "'or a handsome young officer either,' said one of the boys. "she playfully gave him a tap on the head, and they all went to bed, thinking no more of the matter. "the kitchen was at the back of the house, on the same floor as the library, and a few evenings after this occurrence, one of the girls being in the store-room, heard sounds of distress proceeding thence; and on opening the kitchen-door, to inquire what was the matter, she saw jemima, the english girl, in hysterics, and the other two standing over her, sprinkling her face with water. they said that she had left the kitchen to fetch some worsted to mend her master's stockings, but that before she could have got up stairs, she had rushed back again, thrown herself into a chair, and '_gone off_' as they expressed it. on hearing the noise, mr. and mrs. colman joined them, but, for a long time, they could extract nothing from her--but that she had seen _something_. my grandfather asked if it was a rat, or a robber! but she only shook her head; and it was not till they had all left the kitchen and sent her a glass of wine, that she was sufficiently collected to tell them that, as she got to the foot of the stairs, she saw an officer in uniform, going up before her. he had his cap in his hand, and his sword at his side; and supposing he was some friend of her master's, she was going to follow him up; but when he reached the landing, to her surprise and horror, he disappeared through the wall. "when the family heard this, combining it with what had happened to mary--though the circumstance had never been mentioned in the hearing of the servants; nor, indeed, even alluded to a second time--they began to ask themselves whether it was possible any such person could get into the house? and they examined every part of it with care, but found nothing that threw a light on the mystery. after this, jemima was afraid to go up stairs alone at night, and gretchen shared her fears; but the frenchwoman laughed at them both, and said she should like to see a ghost that would frighten her. one night, however, about nine o'clock, when the family were in the library, they suddenly heard a great noise upon the stairs, as if something had fallen from the top to the bottom, and when they all rushed out to see what was the matter, they found the cook lying across the lower step in a state of insensibility, and the coalscuttle upset beside her, with its contents scattered around. they carried her into the library, and when she revived, she insisted on immediately leaving the house; she would not sleep in it another night on any account whatever, and away she went. gretchen and jemima said, they were sure she had seen the ghost, but was too proud to own it, after turning their fears into ridicule; and the family began to be very much perplexed. "my grandfather had a truly philosophical mind, and did not think it a proof of wisdom to hold decided opinions on subjects that he had not investigated. he had never believed in spiritual appearances, but he had never thought seriously on the subject at all, and did not feel himself qualified to assert that such things were impossible. certainly, it was a singular coincidence, that jemima's description of the apparition exactly coincided with what my mother had seen; and though the frenchwoman had confessed to nothing, yet it was at the same hour and the same place that she had taken fright. he tried, whether--by placing the cloaks and the lamp in certain relative positions--he could produce any reflection that might deceive the eye; but there was not the most remote approximation to such a thing; in short, he perceived that that explanation of the appearance was altogether inadmissible. "'well,' he said, 'if anybody sees this figure again, i beg they will call me!' "they were not a nervous family, i suppose; my mother was quite the reverse, i know. i never saw anybody with more courage; at all events, they do not seem to have been alarmed, though both the boys afterwards saw the same figure on the same spot, and ran to call their father; but when mr. colman came it was gone. however, they declared they had seen it cross the landing; and that it had seemed to them, to walk through the wall, just as jemima had described. "some weeks after this, towards the same hour, as mr. colman was about to commence reading aloud, he discovered that he had left his spectacles in the pocket of his coat, when he dressed for dinner; and my mother, who was always alert and active, left the room to fetch them. presently, she re-entered the room,--pale, and somewhat agitated, but perfectly collected; and said, that when she had ascended the stairs about half-way, she heard a slight rustle above, which caused her to raise her eyes; when she saw, distinctly, the same figure she had seen before. 'i was not frightened!' she said, 'and i stopt with one foot on the next stair, and looked at it steadily, that i might be sure i was not under a delusion. the face was pale, and it looked at me with such a sad expression, that i thought if it was really a ghost, it might wish to say something; so i asked it.' "'asked it!' they all exclaimed. 'what did you say?' "'i said, if you have anything to communicate, i conjure you--speak!' "'and did it.' "'no,' answered mary, 'but it made a sign--' "'good heavens!' said mrs. colman, 'do you know what you're saying?' "'perfectly,' said mary, calmly. 'with one hand it pointed to the wall--just where jemima and the boys saw it go in--and with the other it made a movement, as if it was going to strike the wall with something heavy.' "'perhaps there's some money buried there,' said one of the boys. "mr. colman, who had hitherto been a silent but amazed listener to his daughter's narration, asked her what the gesture appeared to signify. "'it was as if it wanted the wall to be pulled down--at least, i thought so. i wish i had asked if that was what it wished, but i had not presence of mind; if i see it again, i will.' "'but we could not pull down the wall, you know, my dear,' said mrs. colman. "'i suppose we might, if we engaged to build it up again,' suggested one of the party. "'but if we told anybody, we should not get the money,' said the boys. "'hush!' said mary, 'don't speak in that way; think what a solemn thing it is. i shall never forget his face--never, to the day of my death; and it looked at me so gratefully when i spoke to it, and then it disappeared into the wall.' "of course this extraordinary occurrence formed the subject of conversation for the rest of the evening, and mr. colman narrowly questioned his daughter with regard to the particulars; but her story was always consistent, and as he had a very high opinion of mary's courage and sense, the circumstance made so much impression on him, that he set about making enquiries as to the owner and antecedents of the house. it was difficult to obtain much information--for saying a house is haunted, is an injury to the landlord, and sometimes brings people into trouble--but he ascertained that it had had several tenants, that nobody had staid in it long, and that one of the persons who had inhabited it for a short time, was mr. bautte himself, whereupon he resolved to pay him a visit. "mr. bautte, as i have mentioned, was a watchmaker; and though very rich, still attended to his trade, so that it was easy to obtain an interview with him. mr. colman called at his place of business, which was not a shop, but a room on the first floor of a private house. he asked about the engraving of a seal that he had to his watch-chain; and then, having ascertained which was mr. b., he told him he was his tenant. mr. b. bowed and said, 'i hope you like the house, sir.' "my grandfather said that, perhaps, he might not have observed it but for what had happened, but that he fancied this was said with a sort of misgiving, as if he was conscious that there was something objectionable about the house. "'why,' said my grandfather, drawing him rather aside, 'i like the house very much; but there's one great inconvenience about it--we can't get any servants to stay with us. one has left us already, and the others have given us warning, and nobody seems willing to come in their places. i understand you lived in the house yourself a short time; may i ask if you found any similar difficulty?' "'well, sir,' said mr. bautte, trying to look unconcerned, 'you are aware how ignorant and foolish such people are--i fancy from the construction of the house that the sounds from the next door penetrate the walls.' "'we hear no sounds,' said mr. colman. 'i have heard no complaints of any. did any of your family ever say they saw anything extraordinary there?' "'well, sir, since you put the question so directly, i can't deny that the female part of my family did assert something of the sort; but women have generally a tendency to superstition, and are easily terrified.' "'very true,' said mr. colman, 'but i should take it as a great favour if you would tell me what they said they saw--i have no idea of leaving the house; you need not be afraid of that; and of course i shall not mention this conversation to any one--what did they say they saw?' "mr. bautte thus exhorted, confessed that his family, and everybody who had lived in the house, asserted that they had seen the apparition of a young man in uniform, who always appeared on the stairs or the landing; adding, that he himself had never seen it, although he had put himself in the way of it repeatedly, and he firmly believed it was some extraordinary delusion or optical deception, though it was impossible to account for its affecting so many persons in the same way. "my grandfather then told him what had occurred in his family; especially to his eldest daughter, in whose testimony, he assured mr. bautte, he placed the greatest reliance; and he ventured to propose an examination of the spot, where the figure was said invariably to disappear. at first, mr. bautte laughed at the idea; for--besides his scepticism, which made him unwilling to take any proceeding that countenanced what he considered an absurd superstition--he urged, that the staircase and landing in question, were of very recent erection, being one of mr. zwengler's improvements when he repaired the house. however, after a short argument, wherein my grandfather represented that nobody but the parties concerned need know the real reason for what they did, that the expense would be small, and the possible result beneficial to the property, mr. bautte consented, provided mr. geierstecke made no objection; he being still the owner of the house. "mr. g., who, you know, was my husband's father, was aware that the hôtel du pont had frequently changed its tenants, but was quite ignorant of the cause. he had no immediate interest in the matter, as mr. bautte held a thirty-years lease, and he naturally assumed that these frequent changes were purely accidental. everybody, who became acquainted with the house, had a strong motive for keeping the secret; for--besides the ridicule and penalty they might have incurred--they all wanted to get it off their hands. it's true, that amongst the servants and common people of the neighbourhood, there were strange whispers going about; the source of which it would not have been easy to trace. a glazier said he knew a man, who had heard another declare, that he was acquainted with a bricklayer, who had helped to build the staircase; who used to say, he did not wonder that nobody could live in the hôtel du pont; and that it was his opinion that nobody ever would be able to live in it; and a woman who kept a shop opposite, had been heard to say, that she saw somebody go into that house that never came out again; but whenever she alluded to this subject, her husband always reproved her, and told her she did not know what she was talking about. "this gossip had, however, never reached mr. geierstecks, and he was exceedingly surprised when mr. bautte communicated mr. colman's proposal, and the reason of it. he immediately called upon my grandfather, who recited the circumstances to him, and introduced my mother; from whose lips he wished to hear the account of her two rencontres with the ghost; and also, a particular description of its appearance. at the commencement of his visit, he was inclined to be jocular on the subject; but after he had seen my mother, and heard her describe the dress of the apparition, which was that of an officer in the republican army of france, he seemed a good deal struck, and became serious. he said, he did not believe in ghosts; though he had heard people affirm, that they had seen such things; he always supposed them to be under a delusion; but that my mother's testimony was so clear, and from the account of her family she was so unlikely a person to be deceived, that he felt bound to give his assent to the proposed investigation; only stipulating for entire secrecy, and that he might fix the day for it himself. 'i'll speak to a builder,' said he; 'mr. bautte, of course, will wish to be present; and, perhaps, i may bring a friend with me.' "as i mentioned before, he had been early acquainted with the zwengler's; and betwixt him and alfred the intimacy still continued, although the latter was by no means the pleasant companion he had been formerly. mr. geierstecke concluding that his uncle's will, and the sudden vicissitudes of fortune he had experienced, had affected his spirits, pitied him; and had often endeavoured to argue him out of his depression, but with little effect. "i have heard him say, that after he left my grandfather's house on that day, he went to mr. zwengler's with the intention of telling him the circumstances i have related, and also of giving him notice of the impending investigation; but when he had got to the door, and his hand was upon the bell, he shrunk from the interview. 'not,' he said, 'that he admitted a suspicion; on the contrary, he repelled it; but he could not overcome an uneasy feeling at the striking resemblance between louis zwengler and the ghost (if ghost there was), as described by my mother. he feared that, if his words did not betray this feeling, his countenance would, and he could not face alfred in this state of mind; so he turned from the door and went home. still he felt he could not allow this thing to be done without warning his friend of their intention, and he sat down to write him a letter; but it was a difficult thing to communicate,--at least, he somehow found it so. he could have mentioned it jocularly; but that, under all the circumstances, he could not do so; and he had torn up two or three unsuccessful efforts, when the door opened, and the servant announced mr. zwengler himself. "my father-in-law told me that he felt his knees tremble, and his cheek turn pale, when he rose to receive his visitor, who seemingly rather more cheerful than usual, said he had called to ask him why he did not come in to-day, when he was at his door. 'i was at the window,' said he, 'and was quite disappointed to see you turn away.' "this was too good an opportunity to be lost, and mr. geierstecke answered, that it was quite true, and that he had actually had his hand upon the bell, when he thought it was useless troubling him with such nonsense. "'what nonsense?' asked zwengler. "'it's about that house i bought of you,' said mr. geierstecke. 'people say they can't live in it;' adding, while he affected to laugh; 'they say there's a ghost in it, and they want to pull down the staircase to look for him.' "'how absurd,' said mr. zwengler; 'and are you going to do it?' but the voice sounded as if there was something in his throat. "'we are,' replied mr. g. 'mr. bautte has never been able to keep a tenant, and i can't refuse, for it appears they all assert the same thing. even mr. bautte's family would not live in it--they say they see----' "'ha! ha!' laughed zwengler, rising suddenly, and pushing back his chair in a hurried manner, 'but i must leave you--i've an appointment; i merely called as i passed the door, to ask why you'd not come in. bless me! i'm late,' he added, as he looked at his watch; and he hurried out of the room, crying 'good night,' as he disappeared. "mr. geierstecke used to say that he believed that he (mr. g. himself) continued standing on the same spot, like a statue, for nearly half an hour after the door closed on his visitor. "'i had scarcely had time to rise from my chair,' he said, 'before he was gone, and i felt paralysed. i did not know what to do. i wished i had never bought the house, and i lay awake all night, thinking of horrors, and then trying to persuade myself that perhaps there was no cause for my apprehensions after all.' "'i saw nothing more of zwengler, though i frequently passed his house purposely; and, at length, the day arrived which i had--not without design--fixed at the interval of a week from my first visit to mr. colman. we all assembled at the appointed time, with a respectable workman whom i was in the habit of employing, to whom we accounted for our proceeding, by alleging that there was a bad smell sometimes, which we thought might proceed from a dead rat. "'i never felt more nervous and agitated in my life, than while the man was demolishing the wall, and we were waiting the denouement; while mary, the heroine, stood pale and earnest, with her eyes eagerly fixed on the spot.' "'we had better have a light, sir,' said the mason presently, 'there is something here----' "one of the boys went for a light, while silent and breathless they waited its arrival. "when it came it disclosed a fearful sight. there lay, huddled up, as if thrust in in haste, the bones of a perfect skeleton, and what appeared to be burnt remnants of clothes. before they touched anything, mr. bautte sent for the police, and these sad relics were removed by their officers. there was no means of discovering how life had been taken, but the medical men said that some strong chemical preparation had been used to consume the flesh and clothes, and prevent any bad odour. "everybody knew the zwenglers and their history; and on this discovery, the prefêt sent for my mother, and took her deposition as to the appearance of the figure she had seen. he also examined jemima and the frenchwoman who had left our service; and the testimony of all parties coinciding, he issued an order to arrest alfred. but when they went to his house he was not there. the servants said he had been absent nearly a week; that he left, saying he was going on business to dôle, and his stay was uncertain. he had taken no baggage with him but a carpet bag. a messenger was despatched to dôle, but nothing was known of him there; and the enquiries that were instituted at the messageries and voituriers threw no light on his mode of conveyance, if, indeed, he had left geneva. "various people, who had lived in the house, now confessed to have been troubled with the same apparition; and several amongst the neighbours of the lower ranks avowed that they had strong suspicions that alfred zwengler did not come fairly by his fortune, alleging different reasons for their opinion; one of which was singular--it was, that a little deaf and dumb girl, who lived near him, described to her mother, that when he passed their door, she always saw him as enveloped in a black cloud. "howbeit, alfred zwengler never appeared more; and it was generally thought that terrified by the impending disclosure he had thrown himself either into the lake or the river, to escape it. he left no will, and the fortune went to his sisters. but this strange circumstance resulted in my mother's marriage to monsieur de beaugarde the prefect, who was so captivated by her courage, that he made her an offer immediately; and the acquaintance with mr. geierstecke, thus commenced, led to my marriage with his son." in answer to my enquiry, of how it was supposed the murder was committed, madame de g. said, the conjecture was, that louis had made his escape from the chouans, and returned unexpectedly--a neighbour even testified to having seen him enter the house one night at the time it was under repair--and that his brother by a sudden and dreadful impulse, had struck him down unawares. one of the masons who had been employed in building the staircase, but who was killed by a fall shortly before the discovery, had been heard to hint that before he died he must unburden his mind of a secret that weighed heavily on his conscience. "not that the guilt lies on my soul, he used to say, but perhaps it's a sin to hold my tongue." however, he had no time to speak; but one came from the grave to tell the tale and bear awful witness against the unhappy alfred zwengler. the sheep-farmer's story. the following singular story was related to me in a dialect which, though i understood, from having lived much in the country where it was spoken, i cannot attempt to imitate, not being "to the manner born;" neither, if i could, would it be agreeable, or very comprehensible, to my readers in general. i shall, therefore, tell it in plain english; and hope it will interest others as much as it did me. sandy shiels, the narrator, was a sheep-farmer in the lammermuirs. he lived in a lone house, in a wild and desolate country, with his wife and children, his farm-servants, and his dogs, and seldom saw a stranger enter his door, from week's end to week's end; but on certain occasions, more or less frequent, sandy attended the fairs and markets about the country; and at the cattle shows, sometimes, appeared in edinburgh itself. he was a shrewd and a simple man--for the two characteristics are by no means incompatible--hardhanded and hardfeatured, but not unkindly; a serious churchman, a great reader of his bible, and a keen observer of nature and nature's language, as men who are born and bred amongst mountains generally are. his wife was a plain, hardworking woman, by whom he had two children, yet young; but he had an elder son by a former marriage, called ihan dhu; a highland appellation not common in the lammermuirs; but his mother was a highland woman, and had given it to him. ihan dhu means black john; and it suited him well; for, instead of the brawny figure and sandy hue which so generally prevails in the south, he had inherited the slight figure, the dark complexion, and black hair and eyes of his mother, who was a specimen of the genuine highland type; which, contrary to the belief commonly entertained in england, is (lord jeffrey informed me), _a little dark man_. the two farm-servants were called donald and rob. the former a heavy, stolid lout, who had just intellect enough to do what he was told; the latter, a smart, lively, goodnatured lad, who was fond of reading, when he could get a book; and wide awake about everything that his very limited sphere brought him in contact with. the only other member of the family was a girl, called annie goil, an orphan niece of mrs. shiel's; who, in conjunction with her aunt, did all the work of the house and dairy. the whole household lived and ate, and sat together, and with them the two sheep dogs, coully and jock. in the summer, it was pleasant enough; but in the winter, when the snow fell and the sheep were on the hills, they had often a hard time of it. annie goil was a pretty lass; and, naturally enough, there being no other at hand, the three young men, ihan, donald, and rob, were all candidates for her favour. nevertheless, they lived tolerably well together; the rivalry, apparently, not running very high. ihan was, of course, much the best match; and he might, perhaps, feel pretty confident that whenever he chose seriously to put in his claim, it could not be resisted. rob, possibly, comforted and consoled himself with the sundry little marks of preference she bestowed on him, which might be genuine, or might be designed to _agacer_ ihan. as for donald, he was of so slow and undemonstrative a nature, that though she and the other two often jeered him, and pretended to think he was the one destined to carry off the prize, he exhibited neither anger nor jealousy; if he felt either, he kept them to himself. nevertheless, a sharp word, or sour look, would occasionally pass between them; that is, between ihan and rob; for any dissatisfaction on the part of donald was only expressed by increased stolidity and silence; and so persuaded was the old man that their feelings towards each other were not very genial; to say the least, that he had been heard to say to his wife, that annie goil was a good girl; but, perhaps, it would have been better, if she had never come amongst them. still they rubbed on "middling well," as sandy said, and certainly far better than might have been expected under such circumstances. the winter preceding the circumstances i am about to relate, had been a very severe one, and sandy shiels, who had exposed himself too much to the weather, was laid up with an attack of rheumatism. as he was a very active man, still not much past middle life, who when in health diligently looked after his business himself; his loss during this confinement was much felt; and the others had enough to do to make up for his absence. on the th of february, the snow was on the ground, and the wind blew wildly over the lammermuir hills; the sheep sought shelter and munched their turnips sadly in the nooks and hollows. donald was abroad, with the dogs looking after them, and seeing that no stray lamb perished in the cold; while ihan and rob were off to gifford. ihan to do business there for his father; for there was a three days fair, or market, which sandy, when in health, never failed to attend, both as a buyer and seller; and rob to fetch some medicine for the patient, and other matters wanted at the farm. rob set out at dawn of day, for it was a long walk of ten miles through the snow, and the sooner he could return the better, as the things he was to bring were wanted. ihan rode a rough little shetland pony; he did not start till midday, and was not expected back till the evening after the next. on the first day he had to go on as far as haddington, which is four miles beyond gifford, where he was to consult a lawyer about a disputed point in his father's lease. he was to sleep there at the house of a friend, and to be back to the gifford market early the next morning. annie goil stood at the door covertly watching ihan as he mounted his pony, well equipt for his cold ride, his neck enveloped in a red comforter, knitted for him by annie herself. she leant against the door-post looking about her with an air of indifference; while ihan seemed wholly occupied in tightening his girths and seeing that his stirrups were of the right length. neither spoke; still he lingered over his gear, and still she stood leaning against the post, when suddenly mrs. shiels called from above, "is ihan gone? stop him!" and hurrying down stairs appeared at the door. "ihan," she said, "i forgot to tell rob to bring sixpennyworth of camphorated spirits for your father; if he has not left gifford before you get there, tell him to get it." "he will have left, i should think," answered ihan. "perhaps not," said mrs. shiels, "but if he has you must bring it, though i want it to night." "very well," said ihan as he rode away, and mrs. shiels and annie re-entered the house. the hours passed drearily at the farm, with the sick man groaning in his pain, and the two lonely women dividing their time betwixt his chamber and their household cares. as the day advanced annie went frequently to the door and looked up the glen; and mrs. shiels, glancing at the dutch timepiece that stood in the kitchen, observed that she wondered rob had not come back. annie responding that the snow was deep, and it must be very heavy walking, again went to the door and looked up the glen; but there was nobody in sight. the hours dragged on, and as it grew later, large flakes began to fall and obscure what little light remained. sandy grew impatient and accused rob of idling and lingering at the fair; mrs. shiels wondered; and annie having done her work, took up her station at the door with her gown-skirt over her head; there she stood listening for the sound of a step, for it was too dark to see, and at last, she heard a heavy foot approaching, but it was donald returning from the hills, followed by jock. "you haven't seen anything of rob, have you?" said annie. "how should i see rob! he's gone to gifford ar'n't he?" "you might have been on that side of the hill?" "ar'n't he come back with the stuff?" "no; he might have been here three hours since. i can't think what's become of him." "stopt at the fair, may-be; there's dancing the night at the lion." "nonsense!" said annie, pouting her lips at him, and turning away to prepare their evening meal. donald shook himself, and stamped his feet to get rid of the snow, and then entered the kitchen. mrs. shiels hearing a foot, came down, hoping to find rob; and was very much disappointed when she saw it was donald. "what can that boy be doing, all this time?" she said. "perhaps he met ihan, and went back for the camphor," suggested annie. "he'd never think of such a thing! ihan would not let him; that is, if he had got any way on," said mrs. shiels. "there's dancing the night at the lion," reiterated donald. "why, the boy would never think of staying for that!" exclaimed mrs. shiels; indignant at the mere notion of such a disorderly proceeding. "to be sure, he wouldn't," said annie; "donald knows that well enough;" and her lip curled as she spoke! annie was evidently disturbed at rob's prolonged absence, and angry with donald's insidious attempts to put an ill construction on it. but still rob did not come. annie went on preparing the supper, which consisted of porridge; and when she had poured it into the bowls, she made two messes for the dogs. "where's coullie?" she said looking round. "arn't he here?" inquired donald. "no.--don't you see he's not?" "well, i thought he came in with me," said donald; and going to the door he began whistling the familiar whistle that calls home the dogs. jock leaving his bowl of porridge, that annie had set down, went to the door too. presently they both returned; donald sat down to his supper, saying, he supposed the dog would come presently; and jock applied himself to his. as the night drew on, the wonders and conjectures increased, and the family grew more and more fidgity and perplexed at rob's absence. donald went to bed as he had to be up betimes in the morning; mrs. shiels did the same, because she slept in her sick husband's room; annie lingered as long as she could; then she made up a good fire, set a saucepan of porridge on the hob, left a bowl and a spoon, and salt on the table, and went to bed too. when she was undrest and had extinguished her candle, she opened the lattice window of her chamber and put out her head. the snow still fell, and it was very dark; after listening for some minutes, she shut the window, and softly opening her chamber door, she crept down stairs again to the kitchen. there she unhooked a lantern from the wall, put a lighted candle in it, and returning to her room, she hung it on the latch of the window before she got into bed. she thought she should not sleep, but after a little while she did, and soundly too, till next morning. when she opened her eyes at dawn of day, the candle was burnt out, but the sight of the lantern in so unusual a place, reminded her immediately why she had placed it there, and she wondered whether rob had come home in the night, and been let in by donald. when she came down, donald was already outside the house cleaning his shoes and feeding the pigs. she called to him, "is rob come?" "i don't know," he answered. of course, then, he was not. it was most extraordinary. "is coullie come in?" she asked. "i ha'nt seen him," he said. he was very silent; swallowed his mess of porridge in haste, and then set off to the hills with jock. when mrs. shiels came down, the same questions were reiterated; and when she found rob was not come, she was very angry, and expressed her conviction that he had staid for the dance at the lion. even annie no longer defended him, for where else could he be all night? a pretty rating he will get when he comes back thought she; and she could not deny that he well deserved it. she expected him early, and every now and then she went to the door as on the preceding day; but hour after hour passed, and he did not come. all sorts of conjectures were formed as to the cause of the delay, but mrs. shiels and her husband admitted but one solution of the difficulty--"the boy's head had got clean turned, and he was gone to the bad althegither." at night, donald came home to the great surprise of all, without coullie; he said he had seen nothing of the dog. now coullie was devoted to rob--in short, he was the only person the animal cared for--and it occurred to annie that he had somehow come upon rob's footsteps, and tracked him to gifford, and she expected whenever they did come, to see them both arrive together. but that night passed and the next day, and then, towards evening, annie, who had been to the door, announced that she heard the pony's foot; here was at hand one who doubtless would be able to solve the mystery about the absentee. it was the first question addressed to him--"where's rob?" "how should i know?" "haven't you seen him?" "seen him, no; i've not seen him since the day before yesterday. why? what's the matter?" "he's never come back from gifford. where was he when you saw him?" "i never saw him at all, except in the morning before he set off." "you did not meet him on the road, nor in the village?" "no; i saw nothing of him after he left this." "did you hear if he had been there?" "i never asked; i bought the camphor--here it is. how's father?" at night, donald came home, still without coullie; and as the dog had never strayed before, it was natural to conclude that he had gone after rob, wherever the latter might be. the irritation of mr. and mrs. shiels increased hourly, so did annie's wonder and perplexity. the two young men, ihan and donald, were differently affected; ihan seemed rather pleased, and he covertly taunted annie with this desertion of her favourite; donald was only more silent and stolid than he had been before. but the next day, and the next passed, and so on through the winter, and neither the man nor the dog were seen or heard of. it was ascertained by enquiry that he had been at gifford, and made his purchases, and it was supposed, had left it early, but _that_ no one knew. certainly, he was not at the ball at the lion. somebody had seen him in company with a young man from edinburgh, in a tax cart, but nobody knew who he was; and, finally, mr. and mrs. shiels declared their conviction that, tempted by fine promises--being an ambitious lad--he had gone off to edinburgh with this acquaintance, to better his fortune; and ihan appeared to adopt their opinion. annie had considerable difficulty in doing so; but, at length, even she ceased to defend him, since there was no other way of accounting for his absence. before the winter was over, donald had left. he had come home one night, with his hands dreadfully mangled by a pole-cat, which he said he had found devouring a rabbit under a bush, and had rashly attempted to lay hold of. hereupon, he went away to the infirmary in edinburgh, to be under dr. s.; and sandy shiels engaged a man to fill his situation, and also bought a dog in place of coullie, whose loss he much regretted, well-broken sheep dogs being very valuable. some time had elapsed--the fine weather had set in; and with it, the farmer had got rid of his rheumatism, and resumed his former habits of active occupation; when one day, as he was crossing the hill between his own farm and a place called 'the hopes,' he observed a dog trotting along, that struck him as being very like coullie. he gave a whistle, and the animal stopt and looked round, and on calling him by his name, he came up and fondled his master, appearing very glad to see him, and finally accompanying him where he was going. 'the hopes' was a gentleman's house, about three miles from shiels' farm, and when he reached the gate, he was surprised to hear the keeper at the lodge say, patting the dog familiarly, "well, willie, so you've come back again?" whereupon sandy asked him if he knew him. "oh, yes, i know him," he said; "he's a great favourite of the ladies here. they found him on the hill nearly starved, some time ago, and he followed them home, and has lived here, off and on, ever since." "that's very odd," said sandy, "for the dog's mine. i brought him up from a pup, and we broke him ourselves--that is, a lad did, that lived with me then, called rob. but, one day last winter, the lad disappeared, and the dog too, and i've never seen either of them since, till just now i saw the dog on the hill." "well," said the keeper, "i think it was early in march the ladies brought him home here. he often goes away; but he comes back again, and the ladies take him along with them when they walk out." sandy could not conceive why the dog had deserted his home, or why he had remained starving on the hill, when he knew very well where his food awaited him. the keeper agreed in its being very extraordinary, since he must have known his way over every part of the moor for miles round; and suggested that he might have gone after the young man who had disappeared, and been on his way back, when the ladies met him; but, even if that were so, why had he not returned home since, especially as he was frequently absent for hours, and sometimes all night? when sandy shiels had concluded his business, and was about to depart, he whistled the dog, who followed him willingly enough; but as he approached his own house, coullie shrunk behind, and seemed inclined to turn tail, and run away; however, he came on in obedience to his master's call, and was joyfully received by the family in general, who listened with interest to the account of his adventures, as far as they were known; all agreeing that his absence must, in some way, be connected with that of rob. it was observed that one of his first movements was to examine the premises after his own fashion, sniffing about, first below, and afterwards above stairs in the attic in which rob and donald formerly slept. what was the result of these investigations we cannot tell; but when they were concluded, he stretched himself before the kitchen fire, and went to sleep. the following days, sandy took him on the hill when he went to look at the sheep, and he did his duty as formerly; but on the third or fourth evening he was missed, and was absent all night. he returned in the morning, and was gently chided for this irregularity--the family concluding he had been to visit his friends at "the hopes;" however, a few evenings after, when they were sitting at supper, with the doors closed, and the dogs lying quietly dozing on the hearth, coullie suddenly started up, and began to show signs of uneasiness; while, almost at the same moment, something like a low whistle reached their ears, which seemed to proceed from the air, rather than the earth. they had heard no sound of footsteps, but ihan rose from the table and opened the door; whereupon coullie seized the opportunity to dart out, and ihan returned, saying he could see nobody, but that coullie was off at the rate of ten miles an hour. everybody wondered where he was gone; and at last it was concluded that some person from 'the hopes' had been passing near the house, and that the dog had recognised the whistle, and followed him. the truant was found at the door in the morning, and chided as before, but that did not prevent his repeating the offence, till their wonder was greatly increased by the following circumstance:-- sandy shiels always read prayers to his family on the sunday evenings; and one night, while he was thus engaged, and the dogs were lying apparently asleep, coullie suddenly uttered two or three low whines. annie raised her head from her book to bid him be silent, and observing that he was sitting up, looking eagerly towards the door, which was open, she turned her eyes in that direction, and saw to her astonishment, a man standing in the dusk of the passage. as all the inmates of the house were present, and the outer door was shut, so that no stranger could have come in, she uttered an exclamation of surprise which interrupted the reader, and caused everybody to turn their heads; but with the sound of her voice the figure had disappeared, and the others saw nothing. coullie ran to the door, and became uneasy, while sandy asked what was the matter. "i saw a man in the passage," said annie, looking very pale and agitated. "a man," said ihan, rising; "i saw no man;" and going into the passage, he opened the outer door to look round; whereupon, coullie seized the opportunity, and rushed out. "there's nobody that i see," said ihan; "but the dog's off again." "i'm sure i saw somebody," said annie. "go and look up stairs," said mrs. shiels; ihan went and returned, saying there was nobody in the house but themselves, and annie must have been mistaken. but annie shook her head, and beginning to cry, asserted that she had not been mistaken, and that she believed the man she saw was rob, adding, that she always thought that the whistle they sometimes heard, and which agitated coullie so much, was rob's whistle. at this suggestion, ihan fired and showed symptoms of great irritation; and if sandy had not been present, high words would have arisen betwixt him and annie. as it was, his countenance was clouded all the rest of the evening. this event made a great impression on the young girl; she thought of it day and night, and she watched with increasing interest coullie's inexplicable proceedings, which still continued. sometimes of an evening they would hear footsteps, whereon the dog would betray great uneasiness till they opened the door, and he could dart off on his mysterious errand. once or twice they confined him and would not let him go; but the animal seemed so much distressed and whined so piteously, that they ceased to oppose his inclinations. although when they heard these footsteps they searched the premises in all directions, nobody was ever to be found. annie wished them to endeavour to find out where coullie went; but nobody seemed to have sufficient curiosity to take any trouble about the matter, though they all admitted the singularity of the circumstances. no doubt, it was difficult, inasmuch as he always started on these expeditions at night, while he ran off so rapidly that it would have been impossible to overtake him or keep him in sight. this state of things continued till the month of october, which became very cold; and one morning, towards the end of it, annie, when she went to the door, found there had been a fall of snow in the night. coullie, who had gone off the evening before, was there waiting to be let in, and she observed the track of his feet on the ground. it immediately occurred to her that here was an opportunity of discovering what she wished so much to know. she had nobody to consult, for her aunt and uncle were not come down; and being a stout country girl, she threw her shawl over her head, and calling the dog to follow her, she set off up hill and down dale, guided by the marks of coullie's footsteps which remained perfectly distinct for about four miles in the direction of gifford, when they turned off to the left, and stopt at the edge of an old quarry. the dog, who had trotted cheerily beside her, now began to descend into the hollow, stopping and looking up every now and then, whining as if inviting her to follow; but after several attempts she found the descent too steep. when at the bottom, coullie disappeared for a minute or two under the embankment, and she heard him still whining; but finding she could make no further investigations without assistance, she called the dog who joined her directly, and they returned home to find mrs. shiels in a dreadful state of mind at annie's unaccountable and unprecedented absence. however, when she communicated the cause of it, and the discovery she had made, sandy was sufficiently aroused to say that he would send some one down to examine the quarry. he did so, and the result was that they found the remains of poor rob under circumstances that led to the conclusion that he had somehow gone out of his way, and fallen into the pit; for on medical examination, it appeared that both his legs were broken. as the quarry was abandoned and in a lonely spot, a person might very possibly die there under such circumstances without being able to make his distress known. poor rob's remains were committed to the earth; coullie left off his erratic habits and became an ordinary, but intelligent, sheep dog; and the family at shiel's farm, after due comment, on the singular events that had led to the discovery of his body, which could only be accounted for by admitting a spiritual agency (a view of the case which ihan always repelled with scorn) turned their thoughts into other channels, with the exception of annie, who had a strong persuasion that rob had not come fairly by his end; and oftentimes she would say to coullie when alone with the dog, "ah, coullie, if you had a tongue that could speak, i think you could tell a tale!" and coullie looked at her with his large wise eyes full of affection; for she petted and cherished him for rob's sake, and always gave him the largest mess at supper time. sometimes, too, annie had strange thoughts about ihan; he had become more dark, and silent, and sulky, since rob's death; was it because he was jealous of the interest she had exhibited, or was it from any other cause? did he meet rob that day on his way to gifford? what could rob be doing so much out of the road as the quarry? these thoughts naturally made her more and more cold to ihan, whilst her reserve aggrivated his ill-temper and dissatisfaction. and annie was not the only person to whom these questions suggested themselves. people would gossip amongst themselves secretly; it got abroad that there had been a good deal of jealousy amongst the young men, and it was whispered that the first mrs. shiels had aptly named her son when she called him ihan dhu--black john. at length, these reports reached sandy shiels and his son; the latter appeared sullenly indifferent, but they made the old man very unhappy; and every night when he prayed aloud with the family before retiring to rest, he besought god, saying, "oh lord if it be thy pleasure, may them that are innocent be justified!" at term time, when, in scotland, servants frequently, especially farm servants, change their situations, the man whom shiels had engaged in donald's place left; and having heard that donald, who had been in service at dunse, was leaving also, sandy wrote and proposed to him to return; the proposal was accepted, and they were expecting him, when a cart was heard to stop at the door, out of which they looked to see him alight; but the visitor proved to be an old highland woman who introduced herself as rob's grandmother--his father and mother having emigrated. she said she had heard the account of her boy's death, and the attachment displayed by the dog, and that she had come all the way to see the animal, and had brought the money to purchase him; if his master did not object. she had travelled from argyleshire to haddington by coach; and at the latter place she had hired a cart and a lad to drive her to her destination. she added that she and her old man "were no that puir but that they could afford to buy the dog that had been so faithful to their ain boy." sandy shiels and his family made her welcome; invited her to stay and take a day or two's repose after her journey, and granted her request with regard to coullie. annie was very much interested in the old woman; and the latter was deeply impressed with the circumstances the young girl related to her; enquiring minutely into every particular of places and persons connected with the boy's death. she said it was "wonderfu';" adding, that she had "seen" rob's funeral,--meaning by the second sight--"but not the manner of his death; but she had no doubt god would shew it her before she died." on the third day she departed; and sandy shiels, who had business at gifford, drove her and annie, who wished to accompany her, in his cart. they started in time to meet the coach, coullie making the fourth passenger; and in due time reached the village and drove up to the door of the lion, where three or four men were sitting on the bench outside smoking and drinking beer; but the moment the cart stopped--almost before it had stopped--coullie bounded out of it and with indescribable fury attacked one of the men. his master called him, but he was deaf to his voice; and so violent was his rage that it was not without the assistance of the others that he could draw him off. even then, whilst holding him back with an iron grasp, the dog growled and shewed his teeth, and with flashing eyes, struggled to renew the onslaught. "wha's that?" asked the old woman, who had witnessed the scene with surprise. "that's our donald, that i told you of--he that lived with us in poor rob's time," said annie. "what a very extraordinary thing of coullie to do! i never saw him in such a way before. besides, he couldn't have forgotten donald!" "forget him!" exclaimed the old woman; "na, na; coullie no forgets. mind ye lass; tak tent o' that man--there's bluid upon him!" donald in the mean time had retreated into the house in search of some water to wash his hand that coullie had bitten. when he came out the old woman and the dog had departed. but the lookers on were not uninterested observers of what had past. a new idea struck them; the tide of opinion was rather turned in ihan's favour. however, this was but the under current of gossip. donald went home with sandy shiels and annie, who whatever they might have thought, said nothing; but after this, in the nightly prayer, sandy not only besought god that the innocent might be justified; but also, that the guilty might be brought to repentance; and sometimes he would go further, dilating on the duties enjoined by a _true_ repentance; such as reparation, where reparation could be made; and, at all events, where it could not, taking the burthen of our guilt on our own shoulders, even though it weigh us down to death, rather than let the guiltless man suffer, though it were only the breath of slander. one morning, about three weeks after the departure of the old highland woman, when they opened the door they found coullie waiting to be let in. however, kindly treated by his new owners, he had found his way back; a letter arrived from them shortly afterwards, saying, they had missed him, and that they did not doubt that he would reach his former home, "and, may, be yet give testimony agen the wicked." annie kept the contents of this epistle to herself, but it did not escape her eye that donald seemed cowed by coullie's enmity, which the animal never failed to exhibit as much as he durst. moreover, as time passed, donald lost his appetite and the healthy hue of his complexion; in short it was evident he was far from happy in his situation; and she thought that sandy's significant and awful prayers were eating into his soul and wearing him away. farm servants are usually hired for six months; and at last donald gave warning that he should leave next term--he did not think the place agreed with him; so it seemed indeed; but that was the year ; and ere term time arrived, the cholera came, and seized upon donald as one of its first victims in those parts. before he died, he made his confession in presence of the doctor, to the effect, that he was jealous of rob, because in the morning he and ihan had overheard a conversation between him and annie, and she had promised him a lock of her hair. that he met him as he was returning from gilford, induced him to go out of his road towards the quarry, by saying one of the sheep had fallen in, and when rob was off his guard, he pushed him over; but not without a desperate struggle, rob being very active and strong. he was dreadfully frightened, and ran from the place not knowing what would happen, and for some time he hourly expected rob to come home. but at length finding he did not, he ventured to approach the spot; but coullie was there and he flew at him and bit him so severely that he resolved to leave the country and go to the infirmary. he had heard of rob's remains being found and buried, while he was living at dunse; and thinking there would be no more enquiry about the matter, he accepted the farmer's offer to come back, because he wanted to see annie. and so he died, justifying the innocent, according to the old man's prayers; but ihan did not long survive. sandy said he feared he had taken to whiskey drinking from disappointment and vexation, and the cholera found him also an easy prey. my friend's story. "i don't know how often you have promised to tell me a remarkable thing in the ghostly line, that happened to yourself," said i, the other day to my friend; "but something has always come in the way; now i shall be very much obliged to you for the particulars, if you have no objection to my printing the story." "none," she said, "but as regards names of persons and places; the circumstances are so singular that i think they deserve to be recorded. that part of the affair which happened to myself i vouch for; and i can only say that i have most entire confidence in the truth of the rest, and that all the enquiries i made, tended to confirm the story. "i remember your asking me once, why i so seldom visited our place in s----, and i told you it was because it was so dreadfully _triste_ that i could not inhabit it. you will perhaps suppose that what i am going to relate happened there, but it did not, for the house has not even the recommendation of being haunted--that would at least give it an interest--but i am sorry to say the sole interest it possesses is, that it happens to be ours. dull as it is, however, we lived there shortly after i was married, for some time. i had no children then, which made it all the duller, particularly when my husband was called away; and on one of these occasions, some acquaintances i had, who were living at a place called the bellfry, about two miles distant, invited me to visit them for a few days. "the bellfry is a common place square house, just such as the doctor or lawyer would inhabit in a provincial town; a little white swing gate, a round grass plot, with a few straggling dahlias, a gravel road leading to the small portico, and a terrible loud bell to ring, when you want to be admitted. so much for the exterior. the interior is not at all more suggestive to the fancy. on the ground floor, there is the usual parlour on one side, and drawing-room on the other, with a long passage leading to the offices at the back; upstairs, a sort of corridor, with dingy bedrooms opening into it. decidedly not lively, but perfectly prosaic, it was by no means calculated to inspire ghostly terrors; and, indeed, i must confess the supernatural, as it is called, was a subject that, at that time, had never engaged my attention. i mention all this to show you that what happened was not 'the offspring of my excited imagination,' as the learned always tell you these things are. moreover, i was young; and, to the best of my belief, in very good health. "the room they gave me was the best. it was plainly but comfortably furnished, with a large four-post bed, and it looked into the churchyard; but this is not an uncommon prospect in country towns, and i thought nothing about it. now that we understand these things better, i should think it not ghostly, but unhealthy. "the first two or three nights i slept there, nothing particular occurred; but on the fourth or fifth night, soon after i had fallen asleep, i was awoke by a noise which appeared very near me, and on listening attentively, i heard a rustling sound, and footsteps on the floor. i forgot for the moment that i had locked my door, and concluding it was the housekeeper, who sometimes looked in when i was going to bed, to ask if i was comfortable, i said, 'is that you, mrs. h?' but there was no answer, upon which i sat up and looked around; and seeing nobody, though i heard the sound still, i jumped out of bed. then i observed, for if was a bright moonlight night, that there was a large tree in the churchyard, which grew very close to the window, and i concluded that a breeze had arisen, and caused the branches to touch the glass; so i got into bed again quite satisfied, and settled myself to sleep. but scarcely had i closed my eyes, when the footsteps began again, much too distinct this time to be mistaken for anything else; and whilst i was listening in amazement, i heard a heavy, heavy sigh. i had raised myself on my elbow, in order to have my ears freer to listen, and presently i saw the curtains at the foot of the bed, which were closed, slowly and gently opened. i saw no figure, but they were held apart, apparently by the two hands of some one standing there. i bounded out of bed, and rushed out of the room into the corridor, screaming for help. all who heard me, got up and came out of their rooms, to enquire what had happened; but i had not courage to tell the truth, i was afraid of giving offence, or incurring ridicule, and i said i had been awakened by a noise in my room, and i was afraid somebody was concealed there. they went in with me and searched; of course, nobody was found; and one suggested that it was a mouse, another that it was a dream, and so forth. but then, and still more the next morning, i fancied, from their manner, they were better acquainted with my midnight visitor than they chose to say. however, i changed my room, and soon after quitted the bellfry, which i have never slept at since, so there concludes the story, so far as i am concerned; but there is a sequel to the tale. "i must tell you that i never mentioned these circumstances, because i knew i should only be laughed at; besides i thought it might annoy my hosts, as they had an idea of going abroad for some time, and it might have interfered with their letting the house. "now to my sequel. "two or three years after this occurrence, i fell desperately ill; first i was confined of an infant which did not survive; and then i was attacked with typhus fever, which raged in the neighbourhood. i was at death's door for eleven weeks, and not expected to recover; but you see, i did, _nonobstant messrs. les medicins_; but i was so long regaining my strength, that i was recommended to try the effects of a sea voyage. even then, i could not sit up, and was lifted about like a baby; and as a fine lady's maid would have been of no use on board the yacht, a sailor's daughter from the coast was engaged to attend me; a strong, healthy young woman, to whom my weight was a feather. she tended me most faithfully, and i found her simple, truthful, and straightforward; insomuch, that i had thoughts of engaging her in my service permanently. with this view, and also because it helped to pass the time, i questioned her about her family, and the manner of life of her class, in the out of the way part of the country from which she came. "'i suppose, mary, you've never been away from home before?' "'oh, yes, ma'am; i was in service as housemaid for a short time at the bellfry, not far from your place, ma'am; but i soon left that, and i have never been out again.' "'but why did you leave? didn't you like the place?' "'no, ma'am.' "'but why? perhaps you'd too much to do?' "'no, ma'am, it wasn't a hard place; but unpleasant things happened, and so i left.' "'what sort of unpleasant things?' said i, my own adventure there suddenly recurring to my memory. "she hesitated, and said, that perhaps it would alarm me; she had also made a sort of promise to her master and mistress not to talk about it, and she never had mentioned what happened except to her parents, in order to account for leaving so suddenly. i assured her that i should not be alarmed, and overcame her scruples, and then she told me what follows. "it appeared that she was engaged as housemaid at the bellfry about two years before my visit there. shortly after her arrival, her mistress being taken very unwell, her master went to sleep at the other side of the house, whilst mary made her bed in the dressing-room, in order to be near at hand if the invalid required any assistance in the night. she had directions to keep some refreshment ready in case it was wanted, and towards two o'clock in the morning, her mistress saying she should like a little broth, mary rose, and half drest, proceeded down stairs with a candle in her hand, to fetch some which she had left simmering on the kitchen fire. as she descended the last flight of stairs, she was a good deal startled at seeing a bright light issuing from the kitchen--the door of which was open--much brighter than could possibly proceed from the fire, for the whole passage was illuminated by it. her first and very natural idea was that there were thieves in the house; and she was about to rush upstairs again to her master's room, when it occurred to her that one of the servants might be sitting up for some object of her own, and she stopt to listen, but there was not the least sound--all was silent. it then occurred to her that possibly something might have caught fire; so half-frightened, she advanced on tip-toe and peeped in, when, to her surprise, she saw a lady dressed in white, sitting by the fire, into which she was sadly and thoughtfully gazing. her hands were clasped upon her knees, and two large greyhounds--beautiful dogs, said mary--sat at her feet, both looking up fondly in her face. her dress seemed to be of cambric or dimity, and from mary's description, was that worn by ladies in the seventeenth century. "the kitchen was as bright as if illuminated by twenty candles, but this did not strike her she said, till afterwards; so quite reassured by the appearance of a lady instead of a band of robbers, it did not occur to her to question who she was or how she came there; and saying, 'i beg your pardon ma'am', she entered the kitchen, dropt a curtsey, and was going towards the fire, but as she advanced the vision retreated, till, at last, lady, chair, and dogs, glided through the closed window; and then the figure appeared standing erect in the garden, with its face close to the panes, and the eyes looking sorrowfully and earnestly on poor mary. "'and what did you do then, mary?' said i. "'oh, ma'am, then i _fared_ to feel very queer, and i fell upon the floor with a scream.' "her master heard the cry, and came down to see what was the matter. when she told him what she had seen, he endeavoured to persuade her it was all fancy; but mary said she knew better than that; however, she promised not to talk of it, as it might frighten her sick mistress. "subsequently, she met the same melancholy apparition pacing the corridor into which the room that i had slept in opened; and not liking these rencontres she gave warning and left the place. "she knew nothing more, for her home was at some distance from the bellfry, which she had not since revisited: but when i had recovered my health and returned to that part of the country, i found, on enquiry, that this apparition was believed to haunt not only the house, but the neighbourhood; and i conversed with several people who affirmed they had seen her, generally alone, but sometimes accompanied by the two dogs. "one woman said she had no fear, and that she had determined if she met the ghost, to try and touch her, in order to ascertain if it was positively an apparition; she did meet her in the dusk of the evening on the path that runs by the high road between the bellfry and g---- and put out her arm to take hold of her dress. she felt no substance, but she described the sensation as if she had plunged her hand into cold water. "another person saw her go through the hedge, and he observed, that he could see the hedge through the figure as she glided into the field. "it is whispered that this unfortunate lady was an ancestress of the original proprietor of the place, who married a man she adored, contrary to the advice of her friends; and too late she discovered that he had taken her only for her money, which was needed to repair his ruined fortunes; he, the while being deeply enamoured of her younger sister, whose portion was too small for his purpose. "the sister came to live with the newly married couple; and suspecting nothing, the bride was some time wholly unable to account for her husband's mysterious conduct and total alienation. at length she awakened to the dreadful reality, but unable to overcome her passion, she continued to live under his roof, suffering all the tortures of jealousy and disappointed love. she shunned the world; and the world, who soon learnt the state of affairs, shunned her husband's society; so she dragged on her dreary existence with no companionship but that of two remarkable fine greyhounds, which her husband had given her before marriage. riding or walking, she was always accompanied by these animals--they and their affection were all she could call her own on earth. "she died young; not without some suspicions that her end was hastened--at least, passively, by neglect, if not by more active means. "when she was gone, the husband and the sister married; but the tradition runs, that the union was anything but blest. it is said that on the wedding night, immediately after her attendant had left her, screams were heard proceeding from the bridal chamber; and that on going upstairs, the bride was found in hysterics, and the groom pale, and apparently horror-stricken. after a little while, they desired to be left alone, but in the morning it was evident that no heads had prest the pillows. they had past the night without going to bed, and the next day they left their home--she never to return. she is supposed to have gone out of her mind, and to have died abroad in that state, carefully tended by him to the last. after her decease, he returned once to the bellfry, a prematurely aged, melancholy man; and after staying a few days, and destroying several letters and papers, to do which appeared the object of his visit, he went away, and was seen no more in that county." alas, for poor human nature! how we are cursed in the realisation of our own wishes! how we struggle and sin to attain what we are never to enjoy! ostell, printer, hart street, bloomsbury. _the_ ghosts _of their_ ancestors [illustration: "_those ancestry books are a standard joke with us_"] _the_ ghosts _of their_ ancestors _by weymer jay mills_ _author of_ "caroline _of_ courtlandt street" _pictures by_ john rae [illustration] new york fox duffield & co. copyright, , by fox duffield & company published, march, the trow press, n. y. [illustration: to american ladies & gentlemen of prodigious quality] to _minerva_ and _virginia_ pictures "_those ancestry books are a standard joke with us_" frontispiece facing page "_how lovely she is, juma!_" "_my julie saw them kissing less than an hour ago on the marine parade_" "_the lady of the banished portrait was moving through the doorway_" chapter _one_ [illustration] there was a clanging, brassy melody upon the air. for three-score years since york of the scarlet coats died, and the tune "god save the king" floated for the last time out of tavern door and mansion window, the bells of old st. paul's had begun their ringing like this: "loud and full voiced at eight o'clock sends good cheer abroad," said the tottering sexton. "softer and softer, as folks turn into bed, and faint and sweet at midnight, when our dear lord rises with the dawn." cheery bells full of hope--gentle chimes, as if the holy mother were dreaming of her babe. joyous, jingling, jangling bells! through the town their tones drifted, over the thousands of slate-colored roofs, now insistent on the broadway, now lessening a little in some long winding alley, and then finally dying away on the bare lispenard meadows. vesey street--the gentry street--heard them first. the bigwigs in the long ago, with the help of gracious george, built the church, and who had a better right than their children to its voices. calm and serene lay vesey street with its rows of leafing elms. over the dim confusion of architectural forms slipped the moonlight in silver ribbons, seeming to make sport of the grave, smug faces of the antiquated domiciles. like a line of deserted dowagers waiting for some recalcitrant sir roger de coverley, they stood scowling at one another. no longer linkboys and running footmen stuck brave lights into the well-painted extinguishers at each doorstep. no longer fashion fluttered to their gates. the gallants who had been wont to pass them with, "lud! what a pretty house!" were most of them asleep now on the green breast of mother england, forgetful of that wide thoroughfare, which had never reckoned life without them. into the parlor of knickerbocker house, dubbed knickerbocker mansion some years after the bibulous sir william howe had laid down his sceptre as ruler of the town, the chorus of bells crashed. "what a dastardly noise!" cried jonathan knickerbocker, throwing his newspaper over his head. "can this easter time never be kept without an infernal bell bombilation? i shall call a meeting of the vestry--that idiot jenkins should be kept at home!" the head of the knickerbocker family turned irately in his chair and glared at his daughters. three timid pairs of blinking eyes were raised from short sacks in answer to his challenge, then lowered again over the wool. the fourth and fairest daughter of the house, seated on the walnut sofa in the bow-window, gave no heed to his vehemence but a suppressed sigh. with a final snort the _gazette_ was picked up again. the easter melody was waning. [illustration] [illustration] the knickerbocker parlor--not the state parlor, which had long been closed--was a dismal place--so large that four candles and one rumford lamp made but a patch of brightness in the gloom. most of the furniture was ponderous and ugly, with two or three alien little chairs that looked as if they might once have belonged to some light-hearted lover of the louis. on the almost barren chimney-piece stood a pair of tall nankeen beakers, sepulchrally reminiscent of buried chinese years. along the walls hung a score of mediocre portraits, the handiwork of the usurious limner john watson and his compatriot hessilius. spans of sunlit days had stolen every tinge of carmine from their immobile and woodeny faces, leaving them the drab color of time, in keeping with the room. above the cornice, near the sofa where patricia knickerbocker sat, hung an empty frame. the portrait it contained had been banished to the attic while her three eldest sisters were still in wellington pantalets. "the woman looks like a jezebel," jonathan had sputtered. "och! that leering smile." he tried to blot from his mind the stray leaves he knew of her story, and the disturbing thought that she was of his blood. "she shall not remain with the likenesses of my ancestors!" he had told his sisters, who were over from goby house. when this descendant of the knickerbockers spoke of his progenitors he always held his head a trifle more erect, and puffed out his pompous figure, though, strange to relate, like many another worthy man of a later day having the same foible, he knew very little about them. of course he could have told you that the lady over the east bookcase, wearing a blue tucker and holding a spray of milk-weed in her hand, was his aunt jane; and that his father was a noted new york judge, the pride of three circuits. or if his digression were extended, there was his trump card, one of the first american knickerbockers, labelled "the friend of lord cornbury!" these were the firmest rocks in his family history, to which he could climb in safety, thence to look down with scorn on those unfortunates beneath his social eminence. he was a knickerbocker, of knickerbocker mansion, vesey street, and a member of one of the oldest families in york and america. patricia, smiling little patricia, rummaging one day among the dust-bins under the eaves, had found the banished portrait. juma, the gray-wooled negro, a comparatively new member of the knickerbocker household, who had appointed himself her body-servant ever since his arrival at the mansion, was with her. [illustration] a faithful slave to old miss johnstone of crown street, juma had been forced by his mistress's death into new service. he was a picture of ebonized urbanity, a good specimen of the vanished race of gotham blacks, gentler in manners and clearer in speech than their southern cousins. in his youth he had been sent to one jean toussaint of elizabethtown to learn the art of hair-dressing. he could impart much knowledge of wigs to a wigless age, and talked in a grandiloquent fashion of spencers, albemarles, and lavants. many a beau peruke and macaroni toupee his lithe fingers curled and sprinkled with sweet flower-water. the voices of the fine people who were his visitors made constant music in his memory, and his tongue was ever ready with anecdotes of wizened beauties and uncrowned cavaliers. juma was faithful to the period of his greatest splendor. deep in his heart he despised the home to which freedom and poverty had led him after the demise of his protectress. "gold braid on company coat and silk stockings done ravel out in dese days. knickerbockers talk quality, but dey ain't got quality mannahs--missy patsy is de only one of dem with tone." he loved to listen to the girl as she tripped through the great rooms, humming softly some air from lennet's "london song-book"--one of the relics of his "ole miss." patricia always sang on the days when her sisters were visiting their aunts on the bluff. juma loved her, and during his five years' residence in the family had many times taken her youthful mind in train with quaint eighteenth-century maxims and fetiches. "de wise miss drop her fan when she enters de ballroom," he would say. "den she gets de men on der knees from de start." "i wish i were invited to balls," patricia sighed. "the kings and grahams give one or two every year, but father never notices them." "well, you jes' know how to behave," he chuckled. "doan' yo' forget de tricks your uncle juma taught yo'." when the two had met in the attic that april day, juma's spirits were as ebullient as usual. "how lovely she is, juma! see, there is a blush on each cheek. her pink brocade makes me think of a rose dancing in the wind." patricia stared into the canvas face before her and the lips seemed to curve themselves into the shadow of a smile. "i know you were the fairest one of us," she whispered, "the fairest and the best." "dat's the real quality way of holding the head," vouchsafed juma. "i'se pow'ful 'clined to think she looks like yo', missy." and then they had laughed, shut away with maimed chairs, tired spinets, and other voiceless things, glad to have escaped from knickerbocker frowns. [illustration: "_how lovely she is, juma!_"] it was a dismal household, that of the old mansion--the master absorbed in his passion for wealth and worship of family; the three eldest daughters, who might once have had some individuality but now were moulded in the form of their father. "callow old maids," any individual of the lower ranks of york would have dubbed them. they wore little bunches of sedate curls over each ear, and dressed in sombre, genteel colors proper to their exalted rank. on the first day of the week they dozed through a long sermon; on its last day they simpered politely at the whist club. fears of broken jelly-moulds or of the romping patricia's next prank were the only disturbers of the tranquillity of their lives. jonathan knickerbocker was their one almighty mirror. when he labelled mrs. scruggins, the draper's niece, a person not fit to associate with, their stiff gowns obediently gave forth hisses at the said lady. when he prated of his father's shrewdness, they nodded discreet approval; and at the mere mention of the loyal friend of lord cornbury, they bobbed like grass before a gale. patricia's impressionable temperament was saved by juma's advent from the sirocco of dulness that wafted her sisters over the lake of years. his "ole miss," a looker on at the "court of florizel," had unconsciously taught him to imbibe the atmosphere surrounding the graces. a democracy could not spoil her elegance, for chesterfield's warning was ever before her eyes. she who copied the footsteps of baccelli, adored her sterne and beattie, and though her eyes grew dim, never let romance pass her window unmolested, had left her impress upon the mind of the faithful servitor. life to him was a gay-colored picture-book, brighter perhaps because he could not read the printed page. all his maids were cherry-ribboned and belaced; all his roystering sparks clinked gilded canakins. love was ever smiling on them! for wellnigh half a century he had listened to tales of the gay god as he bound one romance-loving woman's silken tresses. small wonder that he thought the urchin ruled the world! * * * * * when the bells rested their brassy throats for the first time that night, and jonathan knickerbocker could take up his west indies accounts undisturbed, giving his daughters freedom to doze in peace, "miss patsy" stole on tiptoe from the room. she wanted to be alone. juma, ambling through the dim hall to his pantry, caught sight of her fluttering garments, but did not speak. only an hour or two before, he had placed in the chamber where she slept a bunch of arbutus which young sheridan, the organist, had given into his keeping. the wild, sweet-scented flower grew in but one spot near the town--an island in the centre of the woodbridge swamp, where captain kidd in a freak of fancy had planted it over the body of a comrade, tradition said, and no one ever disputed the story. to reach it, even the most sure-footed ran the danger of being caught in the bog. patricia wondered as she mounted the stairs how her lover had been able to come with her gift unseen. the watching negro smiled sadly and shook his head when the last bit of her garment disappeared over the staircase like a white moth moving treeward. oh, how terrible it was never to see him in her father's house! never to have seen him alone, only that one time, after twilight service, when she had stolen a meeting at the battery, while her family were taking their sabbath-day ride up the bowery road! the old vehicle held but six, and as the aunts always rode home with their brother, patricia was left to the escort of juma, custodian of the prayer-books. by the clump of protecting boxwood at the end of the marine parade she had come upon him. the sea held his eyes until there was no mistaking the footsteps. her approaching crinoline made soft little rustles, as if entreating him to leave his musings. her body-guard's shuffles, too, were unmistakable. like some young potentate her lover turned about, describing an elaborate bow with his white castor. the very picture of starched tranquillity he looked, but underneath the blue hammer-tail coat a heart was beating wildly, as she, made wise by love, knew well--for her own was its echo. there was a brief moment while she watched the color mount to his sun-bronzed face, the blue eyes glow, the strong form quiver ever so slightly. then her lips framed "richard"--the key of the universe. "patricia!" came the answer. juma, from his discreet distance, heard her compared to the magnolia worn on the lapel of the coat she admired so much. in her white and fragrant young womanhood she was like it from sheer inaccessibility. the flower expressed her character and position--patricia knickerbocker, a daughter of the autocrat of york. when he mentioned her father's name the girl shivered. an invisible wall seemed to rise between them. then the feeling died away. her soul grew wider awake each moment her lover gazed at her. as he drew her closer to him juma's figure in the background bent over a flower in the path. "let 'em kiss," he mumbled. "ole miss used to say de female dat never lub am a sour pippin, and dere's enough ter start a vinegar press in dis family." "you'll not permit them to take you away from me? you will be mine forever and ever?" said the youth. a sigh of happiness answered him. "i know i'm poor, patricia, and my family can never equal yours." "don't!" she whispered. "what does it matter, what does anything matter--only that i'm here _with you_!" "see the night creeping in off there, dear heart. it holds nothing more wonderful than this moment." "how black the water looks," she faltered. "i will go to your father and demand your hand." she was trembling. "you do not know what a knickerbocker is--an awful creature with a hundred gorgon heads constantly leering and preaching; detecting flaws in other people's families. one head will tell you that you play the organ in st. paul's, and another may see that your coat is a trifle worn. we're not the only clan of them in the land." "we must not fear them--not to-night, when love is filling the world." "only one of my grandmothers married for love, and she was thought to be disgraced." "you will follow her?" he asked, a catch in his voice. juma was signalling for them to part, and on his forehead she kissed "i will!" now alone on the dark staircase she meditated on his words. when that malignant crone, gossip, started on her round, what would happen? suddenly the voice of her father adding up the indigo cargo fell upon her ears. he would end their happiness; a man powerful enough to kill the spirit of easter in his home could do anything. creeping through the narrow passage she came to the great north balcony window. there she paused and raised her eyes to the dome of the night. long lines of stars were strung across the meadows of heaven. the dials of the world seemed suddenly stilled. below the infinite peace a budding landscape sloped gently into a placid sea. myriads of little lights in humble cots blinked an answer to the fires above. leaning on the broad window-seat of blackened jersey oak she tried to descry his dwelling, but the tree-tops shut it away. a few hours before, he had asked her to be his wife, and she, a knickerbocker, had thrilled at his words. like a tide the memory of his love swept back to her. then on its surges came the stupor of desolation. the gates of knickerbocker pride were strong. a second david might fail to force them. all her dreams were fantasies, with no bearing upon reality. all her hopes were sunbeams vanquished by one dark shadow. to her distorted imagination her family seemed accursed. every face bore some mark of it, even the row of dim portraits in the room below. but, ah! there was one, a face turned to the rafters of the attic, whose bright eyes and red lips knew love untinctured by the dross of the world. in the darkness it rose before her strangely insistent. as in a time-blurred mirror she looked and saw herself, and the feeling, though uncanny, gave her a sense of comfort. a wind began to sigh in the garden. through the boxwood maze and barren urns it swept. smiling flora, sleeping endymion, and all the fabulous court that had stood there years before the coming of the knickerbockers grew more humanly colored as the moon passed behind a cloud. since york had become a queenly city and the wonder of the western world, mute and peacefully passive they had watched the seasons come and go. countless lovers must have known them. she saw back into the springs, the flower times. sedan chairs and swaying post-chaises had borne these dainty lovers all away. oh, strange, sweet thought! she, too, would have to go--with him. down by the pale and shivering elms the iron bar of the gate clicked. dark figures were entering the garden. the gods and goddesses faded before her eyes. no one visited them on easter eve. her father did not keep the season. she steadied her knees on the slippery seat. the spray of arbutus she was wearing over her heart cut her hands as she pressed closer to the pane. "my aunts! they know!" she whispered to herself. terror of her father--of them all--swept over her, chilling the very recesses of her being. as the habiliments of her august relatives became more distinct, she grew calmer. with slow and measured tread they walked, while to their right minced betty, a small abigail, swaying a lantern. "it is the march of pride coming to crush me!" she cried. then the bells began to peal again--"pride--pride" they seemed to mock. "love must die for pride!" [illustration] chapter _two_ [illustration: i rule by right] on the wreck of many social thrones--for the town named after the duke of york passed through numerous transitions the world knows nothing of--patricia's aunt, miss georgina knickerbocker, had elected to raise her sceptre. "i rule by right" was her dictum. "my family is old; few families are older or more aristocratic. the famous judge josiah knickerbocker was my father, and my brother jonathan owns knickerbocker mansion, the finest dwelling in york." no potentate ever wore a crown more blissfully than miss georgina. tall, beak-nosed, gruff-voiced she was, always with her younger sister, miss julie, in tow and under good control--miss julie, who smirked and copied her when family pride was concerned, though she had her own misgivings and opinions on other matters. miss julie even had emotions and sentimentalities of her own, which she struggled to keep bottled up before her relatives and the world, uncovering them only in secret, as she did her jasmine scent and pomatum pot. the little woman's real name was jerusalem, bestowed upon her at a time when the judge her father's religious spirit was in its blossoming period. one great grief of her life was that she had given way to wickedness and changed this outlandish cognomen. she often brought the subject up before dr. slumnus, as he stopped in for a social game of chess. "indeed, miss julie," he would answer soothingly, "the name is so christian that it sounds heathenish. no well-conducted female should presume to bear the name of the holy city. nay, ma'am, it would have come perilously near sacrilege to retain it!" thus assured, miss julie would give herself over to the excitement of endeavoring to queen a pawn. later, in her chamber, ready to blow out her candle, alone with the crowd of memories waiting to conduct her to the land of dreams, she shuddered. her father's stern eyes would glare at her reproachfully; sometimes she would try to mock at them, remembering the words of dr. slumnus--but oftener a tear or two trickled down her faded cheeks and stained the strings of her nightcap. together these two elderly knickerbockers were unweary in their efforts to interpret high life to their circle. their family pride was more expansive than their brother jonathan's. he talked chiefly of his aunt jane, the milk-weed lady, of his renowned father, and of that dim shade of a knickerbocker who was the friend of lord cornbury. miss georgina had climbed higher into her hereditary tree. she prated of a great-uncle who married a niece of lord campbell--a cousin underscored in her records as laird of barula--the grand makemies, the high-stepping gabies, and the learned gobies. and, as for aunt jane, why, she was dowered with a larger chest of silver than any jersey woman of her day. those records of her paduasoys and alamodes would have sickened a custis; and her love-affairs!--the wench herself might have been astounded at hearing that she once refused a patroon of rensselaerswyck and a president of the college of new jersey. quietly miss julie would sit and listen to her sister, but, once away from her, she would assume what she believed to be the almack manner, call imagination to her aid, and discourse to her long-suffering acquaintance. aunt jane's chest of plate became a veritable crown furgeon laden with tasters, posset cups, punch-bowls, muffineers, and salvers of priceless and unique patterns. her gowns would have done credit to a drury lane queen. the patroon of rensselaerswyck drank a flask of camphor to forget his jane. scores of suitors died of lacerated hearts for her dear sake, and the president of the college of new jersey vowed he could not hear the word love spoken in his presence, not even in his young gentlemen's conjugations. it was the arrival, from the vulgarian camp of trenton, of one mrs. snograss that first brought interference with the sway of these gentle ladies. that year, in which richard sheridan first played the organ in st. paul's and mrs. snograss elected to reside in york, proved, indeed, an eventful one for the community. the genteel portion of gotham society, like the family of the vicar of wakefield, was wont to lead a peaceful life. most of its adventures befell it by its own fireside, or consisted of migrations from the blue bed to the brown. or there was the yearly glimpse of the branch, or schooley's mountain, and on rare occasions venturesome parents took their offspring to hobuck for a fortnight--especially if they were marriageable daughters. the misses knickerbocker had visited the latter place in its transition period. there georgina purchased her davenport tea-service for a song, and was fond of telling of the fact. and julie treasured a sweeter memory of the green elysium--a dried-up flower of memory, but once a rose, nevertheless, carefully guarded from the world, hidden indeed from herself most of the time. no one knew exactly how it began--that social war over the two capitals of trenton and york. black "rushingbeau," the york pronunciation for mrs. snograss's serving-man, rochambeau, meeting juma at the morning market in the centre of the green, had dubbed the knickerbocker chickens "spinkle-shanked fowls." "wot you know 'bout hens in yo' small 'count town!" retorted the loyal champion of york. like a mushroom the story grew, and spread from vesey street kitchens into sitting-rooms and parlors. of course the aspersive attitude toward york was that of mrs. snograss reflected in rochambeau. "to think that a resident of trenton, a city named after a mere merchant, should have the effrontery to speak disparagingly of our ancient capital!" cried mrs. rumbell, mother-in-law of dr. slumnus. "these are degenerate times, alack! what would poor roberta johnstone say if she were here? let me see how many royal governors have lived amongst us." mrs. rumbell counted on her slim, old fingers. the knickerbocker ladies, who lacked the rumbell knowledge of their city's past, brought all their brightest family banners to the fray. "lud," said miss georgina, and miss julie promptly echoed her, "i have never even visited the spot where the snograss woman came from; i know that the comte de survilliers, or plain mr. bonaparte, as he prefers to be called, when he failed to secure knickerbocker mansion for a residence decided to repair thither. poor man, he must have languished!" she added with a final snort. "and he was such a showy man too!" sighed her sister. mrs. snograss, learning of the ferment her servant had aroused, sagaciously remarked: "let them talk; their chatter is a lecture to the wise; as for capitals, everybody knows, counting out the inhabitants of this mud-hole, that trenton came near being the capital of the whole country!" when this bombastic statement was hurled at vesey street, it made as much of a sensation as the late news from cherubusco. most of the government officers were classed with the snograss widow by the affronted gothamites, and mrs. rumbell said openly that if she had her life to live over england should have welcomed her when the cross of st. george was torn down from the courthouse flag-staff. the winter died and still there was no cessation of hostilities. the choir-room of st. paul's, where the ladies of the bengal mission met and listened to itinerant lecturers, or sewed garments for the needy, was the usual field for battle. when mrs. snograss arrived late one day for mr. timbuckey's talk on the piety of george crabbe, she was unfortunately ushered to miss georgina knickerbocker's bench. that haughty lady, the enemy being comfortably ensconced, arose and stalked over to mrs. rumbell's seat, followed by her sister and the mansion girls, so that the bustle ensuing spoke to everybody of what was taking place. patricia smiled a mortified, half-sad smile at mrs. snograss, but the trentonian only accepted it as additional insult. a month later mrs. rumbell fainted when her sewing-chair was placed by the disturber of her peace. she was one of the most violent in her aversion to the newcomer. the rev. samuel slumnus shook his fat finger at his mother-in-law, as the crafty dowager, enjoying the excitement created by her feigned swoon, could see with her eyes half-opened. such conduct was not to be borne. "rebellion in my own family," fumed the perplexed dominie. "i must put a stop to it at once." in his agitation he clasped and unclasped his hands and caressed his sparse locks. when a hush fell at last upon the room, he was seen mounting the choir-platform. "the meeting of the easter guild will be held this year at the residence of mrs. snograss," he sputtered. for a full minute silence reigned--then came a clangor of tongues. "he is almost as red in the face as if he choked on the prune-pits in the knickerbocker fruit-cake," some irreverent one whispered. it was said afterward that mrs. snograss had put a five-dollar bill in the mission-box as she left the choir-room that morning--a performance not without effect. a few parishioners were even heard to lament the fact that dr. slumnus's family was not of the same standing as his wife's. miss georgina declared privately to her sister that any one who went to the snograss woman's should never darken the door of goby house again. but when the day preceding easter came, and she heard from julie of the delight the town was taking in the prospect of viewing the much-talked of snograss interior, one venturesome housekeeper having even asserted that she intended going up to the chambers, miss georgina, wild with jealousy, decided to carry the war into the enemy's country. [illustration] as the night before that day of days died away and clarion cocks made the young dawn vocal, eager hands drew back the curtains of four-posters. above the green-gray of spring-time streets and lanes, the sentinel tree-tops pointed to the translucent blue of a smiling sky. "day's fair and all's well!" bawled the watch as they blew out their smoking lights. voices cracked and rusted by sleep echoed the cry in the depths of soft, chintz-bound coverlets. "my best ferrandine coat," mumbled miss georgina to herself, in her delight over a pleasing picture of her entrance into the snograss parlor. she let the bolster slip to the floor and precipitated her head against the carved laurel leaves of the top-board, all unconsciously. bright were the visions of cherished falafals and gewgaws that came to the members of the easter guild as they parted company with morpheus. mrs. rumbell, looking from a casement in the rectory, felt the sweetness of the season fall upon her. that patch of fresh sky, suggestive of new life and a swift-footed may, was more to her than a volley of sermons. the snow still lay on hill and heath. father winter, neglectful of one of his worlds, was sporting among the northern mountains. oh, the peace of it! why should she care if the wealthy mrs. snograss had come to york with her trenton innovations? all her past grievances were forgotten. in her blissful state she felt she could even go the length of sewing whalebone in her second-best silk skirt to conform to the ridiculous fashion of stiffened skirts, introduced by that lady. everything was changing! what could she, frail and old, gain by wrestling with the times? across the way, torn landscape shades blinded the windows of johnstone house. roberta was dead and her home awaited a new tenant. beyond lay the bowling green, the background of her long life--witness to all the parts the stage-master, fate, had dealt out to her. joys and sorrows marked its worn paths. the city of her golden time was fading away. no halloos of eager huntsmen, ushering in aurora, greeted her ears as of yore. only a stray thrush, mistaking the season, trilled liquid notes to his lost mates on a hemlock by her chamber. soon the daylight's eyes were wide open, and the door-knockers, across the church-yard, began to glow like miniature suns. festivals and holidays always brought the housekeepers of york to market, followed by their faithful blacks carrying little wicker baskets. they tripped first to mrs. sykes's booth, where one could find all the season's delicacies; then to the wintergreen-berry man, and on through the circle of venders. the mystical joy of eastertide that flooded the heart of mrs. rumbell in the dawn swept through the concourse at the market. the perfume of the southern lilies, the merry cries of hucksters, and the shrill calls of gutter-waifs as they tugged at the skirts of cock-a-nee-nae bess were all permeated with it. the prattling groups about mrs. sykes ofttimes broke away to take sly looks across the green at the distant broadway. "will she come?" "shall we extend our hands to her, or just curtesy?" these and many like questions went for naught that morning. the blinds of snograss house were parted; a turbaned negress came out and washed the entry. once the opening of a door thrilled the curious dames. but the newcomer was waiting to enjoy her full triumph in the afternoon. no one looked toward the house on vesey street. the knickerbockers never frequented the market--jonathan knickerbocker forbade his family's participation in such vulgar customs. georgina did not descend to her sitting-room in as pleasant a humor as was to have been expected from her waking contemplations. she jangled her keys so ominously as she strutted through the halls and pantries that julie was afraid to venture out. on the day before easter the little woman was in the habit of stealing away to a by-lane near the market. from a discreet distance she directed her purchases. children would run for her oranges, the cock-a-nee-nae necessary to her happiness, the boxes of poppleton sweets and foreign nuts. when they were very swift she would reward them with as much as a dime apiece, so great was the delight she felt in providing a secret store of goodies. to-day there was no escaping. the market was sold out and the booths carried away before she finished helping her sister tie up the easter presents. it was a custom among the ladies of york to exchange chaste and useful gifts of their own handiwork. worsted hat-bag covers and silk mittens were the favorites. mrs. rumbell was the one exception to the rule. she still cut up her father's brocade vests into small squares, which she filled with dried rose-geranium leaves and distributed among her acquaintance. three generations had received these fragrant marks of her regard, and the wits accused her relative of having been a hollander, addicted to the habit of swarthing himself in superfluous garments. members of the scruggins set went further, and hinted maliciously that he was a dealer in old clothes. miss georgina preferred silk mittens, and gave and received no less than a dozen pairs a season. if the ones sent to her were of a color she did not like, she kept them for a year or two, and then packed them off again. this was quite permissible in york. on one occasion georgina's own mittens were returned to her, but far from being angry, she smiled a grim welcome at them, and remarked to her household that she was glad to see them back for they were at least fashioned of pure silk, and that was more than she could say of many pairs that had been sent to her. quaint little ladies of gothamtown--quaint little old-time figures!--flitting in and out of your ancient homes like shadows!--who cares to-day for your petty gifts, your plans, and jealousies? only one or two remember you. the walks you trod are vanishing, the water-front gardens where you smiled and languished at sedate gentlemen are mostly hidden 'neath bricks and mortar, and the very buildings you were born in, that stood so long impervious to the rude hands of progress, are being demolished. those musty garments of juma's "ole miss," the friend of mrs. rumbell, are now folded in some attic trunk with your own pet vanities. what would the haughty miss georgina have said if she could have gazed through the door of the future and seen a scruggins brat grown into a leader of fashion and carrying her own tortoise fan--sold with other knickerbocker effects at the last vendue? [illustration] if one had loitered in vesey street that afternoon before easter so many years past, one would, no doubt, have joined the stragglers about the gates of snograss house, and watched the members of st. paul's easter guild mince up broadway, carefully keeping to the pave. the flying swan from elizabethtown was due at four o'clock, and those timid ladies of the long ago knew that the swaying, swaggering bedlam of a coach would enjoy spattering them as it rattled up to the city hotel. on the porch of that fine hostelry, where mr. clarke once wooed his muse and scores of thirsty throats the wine-cup, stood the host, davy juniper, whose very name was synonymous with cheer. through the half-opened door came loud gusts of unceremonious laughter as the portly innkeeper, curveting on tiptoe, swung his garland of easter green over the sign-board. davy's eyes were riveted on the flashing colors of feminine gear across the street. now mrs. rumbell tottered by and bobbed to him; now a bevy of the scruggins set passed the house opposite, and gazed in, like forbidden peris at the door of paradise. sometimes the street was covered with pedestrians. the quality abroad affected the good man's spirits. he began to pipe some merry verses from a tap-room ditty: major macpherson heav'd a sigh, tol, de diddle, dol, dol; and major macpherson didn't know why, tol, de diddle, dol, dol; but major macpherson soon found out, tol, de diddle, dol, dol; 'twas all for miss lavinia scout, tol, de diddle, dol, dol. the night was creeping on, clear and cold, and there would be full settles about his waggish fires. in the sky, puffs of fleecy clouds were hurrying away like sheep eager to reach the fold of mother-dusk. off in the west, where twilight parted her curtains, glowed faint streaks of yellow and rose color, promises of daffodil meadows and flower-strewn lands to come. he was turning for a parting survey of the street when his ears caught the tremulous motion of some vehicle. dashing out of vesey street came the knickerbocker chariot, creaking protestations as it swung up to the snograss stile. out popped miss georgina, followed by her sister. never had miss georgina seemed so like a man-of-war's man in a flounce. miss julie shrunk into insignificance beside her. tavern maids, attracted by the noise and heedless of the cold, poked their heads out of dormer windows. the passengers on the flying swan just turning the pike slipped cautiously from the seats behind the guard to find out the cause of the excitement. juma, hurrying home to the mansion, paused for a moment to see the sisters of his master step down. "ramrods--old ramrods," jeered mr. juniper, as he flung a last defiant "tol, de rol," at the gaping street. the door of the tavern had no more than swung to when that of snograss house opened. every inmate of the room eyed miss georgina as she greeted the mistress. there was an element of hostility in their ceremonious handshake. as the sister of the autocrat of york viewed the rich furnishings of the apartment, the gold-legged piano and the silk-covered furniture, her lips straightened into a sinister line. her own possessions shrunk into insignificance compared with this elegance. even the long shut-up state parlor in knickerbocker mansion could hardly vie with it. lady tyron, the last lady of york, had fitted that room with heirlooms from her english home. jonathan was in the habit of calling it the finest apartment in the state. he prated of its mouldering beauties often, forgetting that it was lauded by his townsmen long before the knickerbockers entered its portals. the contents of the snograss parlor had given other gothamites momentary uneasiness that afternoon. of course no one felt they possessed the knickerbocker right to feel deeply aggrieved over them. mrs. rumbell, spying the oil-painted views of trenton by the entrance door, hurriedly shut her eyes, vowing the calm feeling in her heart should not be disturbed. as penance for the pain which the pictures of the hated capital gave her she seized a dish of quince scones and ran with them to dr. slumnus. refreshments had not been passed about, and the rector of st. paul's signalled to his mother-in-law not to approach. thinking that he preferred the gooseberry tarts on an opposite table she hastened over for them, until samuel, visibly embarrassed by her attentions, left his comfortable cushioned chair and took refuge in the hall. [illustration] if any one had imagined that mrs. snograss would forgive the various slights put upon her in york, she or he was doomed to disappointment. all the pleasant things they said to her about her costly egg-shell china, the glass aviary with the artificial tree, and other luxuries, failed to soften her vindictive mood. each timidly expressed compliment recalled to her a covert sneer, a deprecating smile, or a garment hastily drawn aside. as miss georgina, on behalf of the presiding committee, counted up the easter gifts the church would give to the poor, the trenton widow whom she feared as a rival was musing on past insults. "ten tin trumpets," called the loud voice. "i can humble her," thought the snograss woman. "ten surprise packages," continued the other. "i'll give the knickerbocker family a surprise," spoke the indignant trentonian half aloud. she was naturally an amiable person, but the aristocratic congregation of st. paul's had impaired her temper, proffering her vinegar when she had sought the wine of good-fellowship. she stared at the bedizened figure of the sister of the autocrat of york a moment longer, then turned meaningly to the only member of the scruggins set who happened to be present. there was already a look of triumph in her eyes. "she shall bend to the dust soon," she whispered. then she arose from her sofa, clashing the folds of her tilter until the room was full of lustring mockery. everything was in readiness for mrs. snograss's climax of the afternoon. revenge spread out its hands and gave her tongue. "have you ever heard of 'the school for scandal,' miss knickerbocker?" she asked, wreathing her face in an inscrutable smile. glad of an opportunity for displaying her knowledge, georgina rose eagerly to the bait. "i saw the play at the park in the twenties. 'twas a prodigious fine cast, if i remember." "they say a new sheridan has come to our city." every gothamite loved that phrase, "our city," and mrs. snograss dwelt on the words with the nicest shade of mimicry. "he is preparing a little comedy i might dub the same name," she snickered. "an author man?" asked the knickerbocker voice that always filled the room. "what does he want here?" a sudden silence fell upon the company. eyes were turned on the turkey carpet before the fireplace where the great ladies stood. ears were cocked in their direction. the pirouetting woodland fay embellishing the tambour firescreen, worked by the trentonian when she attended madame de foe's academy for gentle children, wore a more conscious smirk than usual. even the twin bow dogs which had held their tufted tails erect through the stormiest family fracases seemed agitated. "he plays the organ at our church," she answered with forced deliberation; then in a whisper loud enough to have done credit to a lady on the boards, she added, "and when away from that instrument spends his time making love to your niece patricia." mrs. snograss gave a hysterical laugh and retreated a few rods. a thunder-bolt falling at miss georgina's feet could not have created more consternation. for a moment she glared at the creature before her as if she were a butterfly or a beetle--something to be crushed and killed--then remembering that politeness is always a trusty weapon, she roared in as soft a fashion as she could, "you are mistaken, madam!" "my julie saw them kissing less than an hour ago on the marine parade!" "ladies who make confidants of their servants are often misinformed," the other hissed. by this time all vesey street was on its feet. the plans of the day were forgotten. every one was too stunned to speak. a knickerbocker openly insulted--the thought was appalling! miss julie, who was fingering some snograss ambrotypes, let them slip to the floor in her excitement. she had not been so much agitated for years--not since a certain ship sailed out of amboy for the indies bearing a youthful captain whom judge knickerbocker had bidden her forget. "oh, oh!" she gasped--and there were those who afterward declared she looked almost pleased. "my niece has a lover!" but in another breath, "oh, what will her father say?" [illustration: "_my julie saw them kissing less than an hour ago on the marine parade_"] "jerusalem, restrain yourself," called her sister. that lady was sweeping proudly from the room. "impudence!" she said, thrusting her sister out of the hall. when the cold air of the street touched their hot faces, she spoke again. her anger was fast engulfed in a wave of bitter humiliation. "we are disgraced, jerusalem! the knickerbocker name dishonored! the man is a person of common family. i fear the gobies and the gabies are turning in their graves. what would aunt jane have thought?" "they kissed in the shrubbery--my niece in love?" miss julie was whispering to herself unheeded. the faded leaves of the one flower in her heart were stirring gently. now and then the faint note of a bell drifted on the air. the old sexton of st. paul's was preparing his metal children for their long anthem. "oh, joyous night, make haste--make haste," they tinkled to the taper-like star above them. "disgraced!" muttered miss georgina. [illustration] chapter _three_ [illustration] the glimmering lantern which the serving-maid betty carried seemed like a huge firefly come back to a land of blooms. sometimes in dim alleyways it caught in her flapping garments, and her two mistresses were forced to cling together until they reached the next patch of moonlight. when their half-tasted dinner was finished, and the silver counted and locked in the cherry cabinet, georgina commanded her sister to step over with her to the mansion. jonathan never permitted the family vehicle to be brought out when the world was not looking, and his womenkind were used to tramping through the darkness. julie was reluctant to go at first, but the other's anger flamed so high she could not help catching some of the sparks. "would you allow your niece to ruin her life by marrying a man who gains his livelihood playing a musical instrument? methinks you have a fondness for hornpipers and such. there was signor succhi, our dancing-master, i recollect"--nodding her head--"he used to call you 'little peach-blossom'--his little peach-blossom!" julie smiled at georgina's latest feat of memory; then she turned about and gazed into the dying embers. for a moment she stood beside a merry-eyed youth who dared her to prick the signor's silken calves. did he really perfect their symmetry with cotton as was said, she wondered? alas, that she was born timorous. "are your wits leaving you, jerusalem?" continued the other--"you who wear aunt jane's hair locket and have been for years an ornament in the highest sphere of this city--now being ruined by trentonians and other foreigners. where is your boasted allegiance to those of your family who have gone before you?" threatened and cajoled by turns miss julie was led into the night. "the snograss woman may have lied," came the consoling thought. she cheered herself with it hurrying through the snow. up church street they stumbled past huts and houses. warm windows beckoned to them. georgina had forgotten the mittens for her nieces. the scene at the snograss house was uppermost in her mind. "what a sly minx patricia is to have kept the disgraceful affair from us so long," she was thinking. "could that skulking juma have helped her? he knew enough to bamboozle one. there was a report that old roberta johnstone even read him novels." the boisterous wind, tossing the budding lilac branches about the statues in the knickerbocker garden which the girl in the window-seat was watching, came shrieking out of unexpected openings and buffeted her aunts in the face. now they were entering the narrow passage that opened into vesey street. the tavern lights twinkled beyond, but drear and lonely the artery for cut-throats appeared. georgina, brave and intrepid, was still nursing her wrath when a mist came before her eyes. "i see! i feel queer!" she cried. her companions were shaking like autumn leaves. "oh, don't pause, sister!" squeaked terrified julie, "here's where that picaroon in the black mask was wont to hide. a dick turpin may be concealed yonder!" "hist!" called georgina, as if speaking to some vermin of the night. a shadowy mocking face was rising up before her. she began to tremble--where had she seen it? yes, 'twas the face of the ancestress whose portrait jonathan took down from the line of knickerbockers in the parlor. "my nerves," she gasped. "come, let us haste, you trembling fools!" once in the driveway to the house she denied her fright. betty was scolded for stumbling over a brier-bush. when the long flight of steps was reached, she rushed at them boldly. "knock, jerusalem," she commanded. the little woman tried to sound the clapper, then fell back exhausted. georgina, enraged, seized it and thumped violently upon the plate. the sounds reverberated through the night, clashing against the bell-notes and the sound of the swaying elms. jonathan and his daughters sprang from their seats. the santa cruz invoices slipped to the floor and fluttered after the wool balls like merchants aspiring to new possessions. what cared the horn of plenty on the door for the profits of the fleet sally? it had watched the ebb and flow of lordlier fortunes. "that ear-splitting bell hubbub--and now visitors," said the master, advancing to his offspring as if they were the cause of this new annoyance. juma, already half-drunk with dreams, rubbed his dazed head and hastened toward the entry. was toussaint calling him? did the chair of marie du buc de marcinelle, the elizabethtown beauty, pause before the hair-dresser's sign? then time and place came back. realizing that he was watched, he drew the great bolt with a show of strength, and in bounded the gale-blown humanity. "you?" queried the head of the knickerbockers. that was the only greeting he gave his nearest relations on easter eve. he glanced at julie to see whether she secreted any packages about her person. georgina, entering the room, her face stern and white, said, eyeing him, "prepare yourself for a shock." he returned the challenge. had she been tampering with her five-per-cents for peruvian investments? was it the old plaint--jerusalem's frivolity? why did the woman gaze at him so mournfully? "prepare yourself," she continued, her voice rising to a shriek. "patricia--your patricia--has disgraced us!" [illustration] the girl peering from the landing heard her name called. her secret was known to the world and would soon be an implement of torture. the arbutus fell from her bodice unheeded. she could not meet that cruel group below! "richard," sighed the stray gusts of wind on the staircase; "richard" chimed the patient clock. she crept closer to the baluster railing. some mysterious force was guiding--impelling her onward. out of the shadows flashed a face. like a smile it vanished. she ran to the steps. for a moment she stood silent, gaining courage to descend. * * * * * [illustration] at the very moment when she had glanced back tremblingly for a parting benediction from the stars, a figure wrapped in a great-coat was hurrying out of the sheridan garden. it was patricia's lover. the youth often came to gaze at her home after sleep locked all the doors of the world but the dream door for which he had never yet found a key. then the daytime's barriers were broken and she was his alone. under the knickerbocker elm-trees he would stand, sometimes, a wild, impassioned troubadour, aflame with songs of love for his imprisoned mate. again she came to him a vision pure and ethereal and he folded her to his heart in memory of one perfect junetime day--while multitudes of roses shed their fragrant petals and birds trilled a divine chorus. to-night, with the wondrous easter peace upon him, she seemed to walk by his side. those bell-notes drifting on the air were the music of their lives. hand in hand they floated on the flow of the darkness. through the days--and the years. through the springs--and the summers. always together! little forms clutched their knees. carking care crept out of black coverts. death beckoned to them in the distance--still, there was the scent of junetime roses. ah, god! those roses of love, they were theirs for all eternity! as he neared knickerbocker mansion his mood changed. the bells were dying away again. old jenkins up in the steeple above the lights of the drowsy city was letting his metal children rest. their task would soon be over, for the faithful moss-hung clock already pointed to the nightcap hour. the rushes in the poorer regions near the waste lands were flickering out--only the gentry street was still aglow. a flock of snow-sparrows caught by the gale dashed past the youth, chattering bird imprecations. beyond, in the moonlight, loomed her dwelling-place. coldly white and dreary it looked. everything about it was mute and unaware of the joyous night. did juma keep his promise and give her the arbutus? a longing thrilled him to know her thoughts at this hour. were they of him? he hastened into the carriage-path, following the footprints made by the trio from goby house. the leaden statues leered at him in the spaces between the evergreens. bare shrubs sighed their gusty dirges at his heels. at the lordly flight of steps he paused and hesitated. then her pleading voice seemed to rise on the wind. a strange intuition swayed him. the great door of the mansion was moving, opening inward. he asked himself if he were going stark mad, as he crept to it softly, like a thief. a cry met his ears, and he staggered back--"i love him! i shall love him always!" came the words. "patricia," he whispered breathlessly. before him was the dismal length of the hall that he had never hoped to enter. slowly he reeled forward. * * * * * while her lover was coming to her through the night, the girl was descending the staircase. at the bottom she paused and remained very still. from the room beyond an army of candle rays was slipping underneath the green sarcenet curtain and capering gnome-like about her feet. they were waiting for her in there! a prowling rat scampered down the dark passage. in another moment she would stand before her indignant family. the curtain shifted and shadows chased away the light. behind the awful thing were their watchful eyes. she began to tremble and stretch out her hands imploringly at the space before it. the courage that had brought her so near to the chamber of judgment was fast vanishing when juma came slowly out of the pantry. he did not speak, but his sad old eyes rested on her lovingly. stifled sobs shook her slender frame as she nestled close to him, seeking the help that he was powerless to give. a wilder gust of wind blew the neglected spray of arbutus from the landing above and it fell at her feet like a message. she looked at it a moment, then slowly parted the veil of the inevitable. the eyes she feared were now upon her. jonathan, choleric with indignation, stood by his desk, clenching his hands. at the sight of the child whose conduct swept aside every knickerbocker law his rage overflowed, and the room was full of a torrent of reproaches. once he came near knocking over a bust of mr. washington, the property of a makemie, and miss julie gave a slight scream. patricia heard him silently. she was calmer than any of the spectators. the other mansion girls continually slid off their chairs and made weird gurgles with their throats. several times they almost interrupted their parent. as for georgina, her high-built hair shook like a barrister's wig in the heat of a court appeal. "you have disgraced us--a common follower fit for a tire-woman! yes, miss, in your veins flows the knickerbocker blood, though i cannot credit it. say 'tis a lie ere i turn you out. say 'tis the fabrication of that catamount trenton woman, envious of your aunts' reputation. speak, girl! is it true that the town has seen you keeping trysts with him at the battery? speak!" gasped the worthy man. "it is true," said patricia, trying to keep herself strong for battle. the draught from the half opened door, which juma in his excitement had neglected to shut, swept the chimney piece and ended the life of a candle. "look!" said jonathan dragging his daughter by the arms, and pointing to the portraits along the wall. "you are the first to disgrace them! they were as fine a line of men and women as was ever bred up in america. think you they stepped down from their high places for silly fancies? think you they forgot they were born to superior circumstances and sullied their reputations?" here the autocrat of york's voice broke slightly. the same ghostly face that had appeared to miss georgina in cut-throat alley leered at him suddenly, and he recoiled. aghast, he remembered the painting under the attic eaves! patricia was facing him. the word love was in his ears. with a maddened cry he advanced quivering. along the films of the air he saw his ancestors as he often pictured them to himself--a fine mass of superior clay on a pedestal. "you shall give him up!" he thundered. then he turned. the green sarcenet curtain moved ominously, and the form of richard sheridan was disclosed in its folds. the youth, heedless of the frowning faces about him, gazed only at the woman he was ready to die for if need were. the passions of the world were swept away as the echo of her cry "i love him--i shall love him always!"--bounded through his heart. for one harmonious moment they gazed into each other's eyes forgetful of surging discords. with stronger grip he clutched at the curtain! "you, sirrah!" scoffed the voice patricia thought would go on forever, inflicting fresh wounds at each new outburst. "impudent organ thumper--to dare come here! i'll better your judgment." as he moved nearer richard she thrust herself before him. from the corner of the room came a wail from julie. "oh, don't be hard on them, jonathan. you helped father make me give up captain macleerie," she faltered. "i might have been mrs. captain macleerie! poor bodsey--he vowed he'd never sail a ship into amboy harbor again--and perhaps the cannibals have him now, or the devil fishes!" she began to weep softly. outside a heavy oaken shutter clanked against the house. patricia threw her arms about her lover's neck, and her father gazed at her spellbound with fury. "disgraced us, hussy," he muttered. "go with your tinker!" juma fell on his knees and began to lament after the fashion of his kind. "begone!"--spoke the voice again, breaking at last--"you are no longer one of us!" the girl, supported by the man to whom she was giving her young life, and followed by the trembling negro, crept slowly away. whiffs of air increasing to a current swept from out the hall. the remaining lights fought with it--then despaired. a tired moon was slumbering behind the western pines, and only the glow of a few watchful stars dripped through the casements. simultaneously the breaths of every one in the room came faster and faster. vapors wan and tinged with dust filled the atmosphere, and an unmistakable odor of sandal-wood, faint from long imprisonment. the startled knickerbockers retreated to the walls, knocking over chairs and tables in their flight. before the green sarcenet curtain which had played such a part in the affairs of the night there was a waft of airy garments. a white weft of towering hair--black, burning eyes. three knickerbockers knew them! the lady of the banished portrait was moving through the doorway and speaking in quaint last-century utterance. [illustration: "_the lady of the banished portrait was moving through the doorway_"] "come back!" she called to the lovers, speaking to patricia. "'tis a weary while i have been in the other world, but your sore need has brought me here on the anniversary of the birth of love. i am your great-great-grandmother, who felt the full force of the pretty passion and stole away with my dear heart from yonder theatre in old john street--a grain house in your time, so one from york who recently joined us informed me. "although my likeness does not hang in the family line, i bear you small malice. i get a surfeit of their society." here the ghost sighed, and with the saddest air possible tapped her empty snuffbox and went through the act of inhaling a reviving pinch of strong spanish. "this girl who has the bloom of me i would befriend, and as the greatness of your ancestors is all that stands in the way of a marriage with the man of her choice, i have bid them come to meet you and get their opinions, mayhap." a tremor went through the room! more unearthly visitants? the flesh was creeping on the bones of all the living knickerbockers! "they are waiting for us in lady knickerbocker's state-room yonder--sir william tried to kiss me there once after a junket," she continued. "he would not come to-night--i fear he was afraid it would be dull." she moved over to jonathan, who was speechless from fright, and laid a shadowy hand on his. once past the door ledge she began the descent of the hall as if footing the air of some ancient melody. with grim, rebellious face the present head of her house moved with her, apparently against his own volition. by the one brightly floriated mirror she straightened her osprey plumes and tapped him gently with her fan. "you dance like a footman," she said. "have you go-carts 'neath your feet?" the trembling file of knickerbockers followed after them, seemingly blown by the wind, whose diabolical wailing reverberated through the house. doors and windows raged and rattled. there were stridulous, uncanny groans from quaking beams. behind the panels adown the hall rose and swelled the confused murmur of many voices. the echoes of long dead years were reviving. above them all was a dying requiem of bells, tolling low and mournfully like a warning to belated road-farers that the ghosts of the haughty knickerbockers were seeking earth again. [illustration] _chapter four_ [illustration] as the family neared the long unused state parlor the din grew louder--a rising treble of voices, ascending from hoarse trumpet tones to a twittering falsetto, accompanied by a maddening persistent tapping of high heels on the smooth floor. the sounds of shivering glass as a girandole crashed from its joining met their ears. each second was a discord running wild with panic-striking incidents. julie grasped frantically at the more stalwart georgina, while clinging to her own garments were the three mansion girls, screeching like the town's whistles in a march twilight. the ghost little jerusalem feared the most was that of the stern judge. "will he know that i have changed my name?" she wailed. "oh, sister, i ate up those bracelets he gave me for taking treacle. i sold them to a silversmith and bought french prunes. you know you said that you'd as soon eat stewed bull-frogs as anything grown by the monsieurs, and all york was stewing prunes!" georgina never turned her head at this remarkable confession. her features had assumed a strange rigidity; she was as silent as her brother. the shrieks of her nieces, old juma's incessant lamentations, and the low whispers of the lovers were all unheeded. the racket behind the cobwebbed doors, never opened but for knickerbocker weddings and funerals, absorbed her senses. slowly they were swinging back for jonathan and his phantom partner. the delicate odor of sandal-wood, was strengthened by gasps of musk. into a yellow blinding glare of light the file of knickerbockers looked, and their eyes grew gooseberry-like with horror. a crowd of shades bedecked in their last earthly garniture were gliding and teetering about; some dignified as at a stately farce, others hilarious with ungraceful levity. as the living knickerbockers appeared in the room the waggling and chortling fell into a monotone, and the company began to pass in review before them, seemingly desirous of attracting individual notice. few wore the costly attire one would have expected from the tales spread about them by the knickerbockers of vesey street. several were clad in plain hum-hums and torn fustians. one chirpy dame in a moth-eaten tabby hugged a little package of bohea to her stomacher, unmindful of the fact that the luxury had grown much cheaper since she quitted this sphere. another, who evidently thought herself a beauty, wore a false frontage of goat hair before her muslin cap, and ogled jonathan as she passed, though he did not seem eager for a flirtation with his ugly great-aunt. an ungainly yokel stepped on the feet of the mansion girls, and some bold gentlemen, who had spent a goodly portion of their natural lives in bridewell, swore at them. still the awful procession kept moving on--faces were as thick as the tapers glowing in every bracket and candelabra. bursts of music rose on the wind--a wheezing tune that sobbed of past jubilation. suddenly all the knickerbockers gasped. stern judge knickerbocker, who had rarely smiled in life, was seen advancing, bent double with laughter and clinging to a figure in a cardinal hoop. "oh, let us cover our eyes," whispered miss georgina. "this is more than i can bear." "don't!" said the lady of the banished portrait. "you have often boasted of your family's intimacy with that queer figure. through your veneration of him, york has made him into quite a hero. it is the friend of one of the first american knickerbockers--lord cornbury! he was addicted to wearing women's furbelows!" "gazooks!" exclaimed his lordship, in a tone loud enough for the knickerbockers to hear. "more of those tiresome impertinents! the next thing the whole of the presumptuous clan will be petitioning me for standing room at my routs." "don't go any nearer to them," said the judge, in the tones of a sycophant. "if they bore you, my dear corny, i am willing to cut them. _you know it is the fashion on earth to recognize only the most desirable_ ancestors, and we can return the compliment. besides it was decreed that i should be jocular for the next half century, and i'm afraid a too close inspection would cause me to don weepers." the group by the doors felt a sickening sensation in their flaccid frames. jonathan's partner, knowing how grievously they must all have been affected by the change in their parent, turned her head. a one-eyed hag was advancing to her. she curtsied low, and presented two bits of plaster which had fallen from the ceiling. "messages," she snickered, fumbling with her hands. "from marmaduke and leonidas barula," read the lady (though no one knows how, for she only observed the niches). "we beg to be excused from coming to-night. to put it mildly, we were raised aloft in pearl street hollow for practising target shooting on coach-drivers, and our necks are still out of joint and not fit to be seen in company." as the merriment waxed louder a gobie, who had spent her life as a fish-fag, began tapping on the panelled wainscot. with a hoarse guffaw she turned her piercing alaquine eyes on miss julie and squinted--"more negus! more here, you slubber-degullions. we gobies has a thirst. 'twas what we were noted for in life--not our learning, great-niece," she mocked, as she turned her head and grimaced at miss georgina. "go away!" snuffled that once resolute woman, too weak to combat any longer. a feeling of despair was settling upon her like a pall. what if mrs. rumbell, or, worse still, if mrs. snograss should be passing knickerbocker house and hear the oaths and ungenteel voices of the supposedly elegant family? no tap-room fracas at fraunces' could have equalled the deafening hubbub. "beshrew the old fool, she be as jealous for the lies she told of us as a barbary pigeon." "go away!" continued the sinking sister of the autocrat of york. that distraught-looking gentleman himself was hastening across the room with restorative salts, which one of his daughters always carried in her reticule. as he approached georgina the gobie snatched the bottle from his hand and drained it at a gulp. "anything with fire-water for me," she hiccoughed. then clutching hold of him, she sunk her voice to a whisper--"i left this sphere for drinking a quart of gillyflower scent!" julie began to weep softly--"oh, aunt jane, if you were only here! our aunt jane was different from these people," she wailed to herself, half apologetically. she was fond of studying the picture in the other room and could have traced it from memory. raising her eyes, she gave a prolonged shriek. the fish-fag and some of the makemies were dragging her beloved jane over lady lyron's court steps, out of the powdering closet. the room was becoming uproarious. doors were opening and shutting again, letting in the moaning of the bells. the culmination of the buffoonery was approaching. "good, jane," sobbed miss julie. "good, jane," echoed the chorus of the spectres. reluctant, and feigning a great stress of emotion, the poor lady was pushed into the illuminated space below the hundred-taper drop. she looked like some pretty long-vaulted effigy. in her hands she still carried the spray of milk-weed. the noise lessened for a moment. jane gazed reproachfully at her niece, julie, as if the indiscreet wish were the cause of her present misery, and said, in a pensive voice, "i did not want to come to-night." "i always knew you were a modest woman," said jonathan, recovering a little of his once audacious manner. "modest forsooth!" giggled the fish-fag diabolically, and seizing one of jonathan's fat hands in her bony fingers, she drew it over the other's face. "look, see the white streaks on her now! she reddened, the hussy,--or i'm not a gobie!" "yes, i was vain," answered the most prated-about of female knickerbockers. "i used countless beautifiers--pearl powders, cherry salve, cupid's tints. everything mr. gaine sold at the crown. they hooked the men. when pearl powders came upon the market, i received three offers--jenks--a tutor at king's college--not the president, as the report remains on earth--wrote me a poem in the _weekly gossiper_, called 'pink and white amanda.'" "jane knickerbocker," said the ghost who was giving the party, "your family has spent many hours telling the present generation of your womanly virtues, and they cannot fail in having an overweening respect for any opinion you may utter. shall this girl who bears your blood marry yon youth?" "let them wed by all means, if they see advantage in it. i vow if i could come back to earth and live my twenty-eight years over again, i would join hands with jean, our elizabeth-town perfumer." lord cornbury and the shades about him were bowed with mirth. "janet, you giddy girl, though half the age of most of us, i protest you are becoming a wit. you will be getting into society next," he cried. "i shall never be mean enough to tell that in sublunary times one of the first american knickerbockers knew me intimately only as my valet." "a fig for your class distinctions," called the fair indignant, hunting for a rouge rag. "years ago we heard ''twas money made the court circle at york.' why, you must remember how you feared your creditors when they first came below." "alack, indeed," said his lordship plaintively, "this hooped petticoat was never paid for." after dishevelled jane had vanished again into the powdering closet whence she had first emerged, the lady of the banished portrait moved over to patricia and her lover. standing side by side the resemblance between the two women was remarkable. one was the budding flower; the other the fragile shadow of a beautiful life. "her kind will always exist," she said. "they marry for pearl powders and other vanities, and usually seek, or are forced into, a gilded cage. there, like jackdaws, they call out their possessions from dawn till night, and the heedless world passing by sees the sparkling of the gold, mistakes the caws for singing, and applauds. i knew love--the ideal love that smiles at one from the wayside when one is seeking it in the well-kept gardens. i paid for it with my heart's blood, and i never had cause to regret. over the rough places of my earthly journey it followed me with radiant illusions. the april winds were sweeter, the sunshine on the roads warmer. i felt all the raptures mother nature gives her children. that is why i could leave the other world to do you this service. _love_ is the one thing death cannot lull to sleep!" patricia tried to answer, but the power of speech had left her for the moment. juma's face was glowing with peaceful smiles. he bent low on his right knee to kiss the diaphanous draperies of the shade. outside in the night there arose the low murmurous chanting of the town waits moving homeward. a chime of bells, as soft as a blessing. the thorns had fallen from the brows of love. while patricia's benefactress gave her message the circle of ghosts was making way for the other knickerbockers to enter. on closer inspection, many of them proved to be tame sort of animals enough. from a distance one monster of a woman had given the impression that she was trying to bully posterity. perhaps this was due to the long feathers in her head-dress, that nodded maliciously at her most placid motion. as she bowed to her descendants a plume tickled the tip of jonathan's nose and he jumped back slightly. "i am melodia mudford makemie," she said, "and i thought you would like to meet me, as i started the christmas fashion of giving hot-bag covers in york." "hot-bag covers!" reiterated miss georgina, astonished. "i have always said mittens. why, in my ancestry book it is noted that in the year you gave one hundred pairs of silk mittens to gruel hall, the home for tiresome gentlewomen." "the years play great hoaxes," chuckled the ghost. "those ancestry books are a standard joke with us, and i believe they are looked upon with some suspicion in your own world." melodia seemed so friendly, julie gained courage enough to purse up her lips for a speech, but the shade anticipated her. "i know what you are going to ask--why did i make such a wide frill about the bottle's neck? 'tis easy to explain. i never took my bag to church to warm my hands--'twas my stomach!" "oh!" said miss julie, faltering slightly, fearing that this relative might become vulgar like the terrible gobies still dancing about lord cornbury. "yes," continued the other, "when william fell asleep during the sermon i used to sink down well in the pew, put the frill up to my mouth, squeeze the end of the bag, and get as much as a dram of whiskey." "oh!" exclaimed julie, aghast; "a hot-water bag for whiskey!" "why not?" said the ghost, angrily. her manner was that of one who had expected commendation for her cleverness. the plumes in her head-dress were shaking violently. "why not, miss?" she asked again. "you are far too nice. at any rate you know the reason for those tomfool bag-covers. 'twas to deaden the smell of liquor. your generation of yorkers does not appreciate them as we did." then her voice broke into derisive sniggers, as she glided away. and now upon the strange company fell the bellowing of some faithful passing watchman. "midnight's here and fair weather!" a sleepy cock crowed in a distant chelsea barn. the faces of the shades began to blanch and assume the lack-lustre tint of ashes. the lady of the banished portrait touched patricia as if giving her a last embrace, and her smile at richard sheridan was full of good wishes. "do you consent to the marriage," she whispered, bending over jonathan, "or shall we come to-morrow night?" "i do," he answered hoarsely. "then we go in peace," sighed the ghost. there was a flutter of garments and the lights vanished suddenly. only the scents of old-time perfumes remained, sweet as the hearts of vanished roses. a cackle of feeble laughter floated back to the room as if the departing knickerbockers were still making merry on the stairway to the other world. the song of the weary bells was over. peace had fallen upon the earth, and in lady tyron's mouldering parlor the vials of a foolish pride were despoiled forever. through the mystical light the living of the family seemed to be strangely transfigured. jonathan knickerbocker, the autocrat of york, walked with his head bowed upon his breast. the hard lineaments of georgina's face were softened. ofttimes she turned uneasily, half expecting some awful apparition to emerge before her. as for miss julie, she moved like one in a dreamland of her own. the tears of the night had fallen upon that little flower in her heart and brought it back to life. henceforth it would fill all her remaining years with fragrance. the three eldest knickerbocker daughters clung to her as if she were the guiding light of their starved souls. suddenly she left them, and went to her brother. "i am glad they came, jonathan," she faltered; "we had forgotten god made us all in his own image. he gave us the flowers and the stars, the sweet winds and the spring-times--the voices of children and the songs of birds. every man is rich if he but knew it, and those who are only rich in pride are the poorest of the race." over by the shimmering casement, the youth and the girl crept nearer to each other. softly he drew her to him until her face was close to his. the night was dead. down old broadway, over the bowling green, the easter dawn tiptoed into the silent city. [illustration] transcriber's note: all apparent printer's errors retained. generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) ghostly phenomena by elliot o'donnell author of "some haunted houses of england and wales." "haunted houses of london." "true ghost stories," etc., etc. london t. werner laurie clifford's inn contents. part i. chapter page i. "elementals" ii. phantasms of the living and dead--death warnings and dreams part ii. phenomena witnessed by other people. iii. "elementals" iv. phantasms of the dead part iii. v. the hauntings of the old sydersterne parsonage ( ), near fakenham, and a personal experience in sydenham part iv. vi. suggestions and hypotheses part i. ghostly phenomena chapter i. "elementals." i have, from time to time, witnessed many manifestations which i believe to have been superphysical, both from the peculiarity of their properties, and from the effects their presence invariably produced on me--an effect i cannot associate with anything physical. one of the first occult phenomena i remember, appeared to me when i was about five years of age. i was then living in a town in the west of england, and had, according to the usual custom, been put to bed at six o'clock. i had spent a very happy day, playing with my favourite toys--soldiers--and not being in the least degree tired, was amusing myself with planning a fresh campaign for the following morning, when i suddenly noticed that the bedroom door (which i distinctly remembered my nurse carefully latching) was slowly opening. thinking this was very curious, but without the slightest suspicion of ghosts, i sat up in the bed and watched. the door continued to open, and at last i caught sight of something so extraordinary that my guilty conscience at once associated it with the devil, with regard to whom i distinctly recollected to have spoken that afternoon in a sceptical, and i frankly admit, very disrespectful manner. but far from feeling the proximity of that heat which all those who profess authority on satanic matters ascribe to satan, i felt decidedly cold--so cold, indeed, that my hands grew numb and my teeth chattered. at first i only saw two light, glittering eyes that fixed themselves on me with an expression of diabolical glee, but i was soon able to perceive that they were set in a huge, flat face, covered with fulsome-looking yellow spots about the size of a threepenny bit. i do not remember noticing any of the other features, save the mouth, which was large and gaping. the body to which the head was attached was quite nude, and covered all over with spots similar to those on the face. i cannot recall any arms, though i have vivid recollections of two thick and, to all appearances, jointless legs, by the use of which it left the doorway, and, gliding noiselessly over the carpet, approached an empty bed, placed in a parallel position to my own. there it halted, and thrusting its misshapen head forward, it fixed its malevolent eyes on me with a penetrating stare. on this occasion, i was far less frightened than on any of my subsequent experiences with the occult. why, i cannot say, for the manifestation was certainly one of the most hideous i have ever seen. my curiosity, however, was far greater than my fear, and i kept asking myself what the thing was, and why it was there? it did not seem to me to be composed of ordinary flesh and blood, but rather of some luminous matter that resembled the light emanating from a glow-worm. after remaining in the same attitude for what seemed to me an incalculably long time, it gradually receded, and assuming, all of a sudden, a horizontal attitude, passed head first through the wall opposite to where i sat. next day, i made a sketch of the apparition, and showed it to my relatives, who, of course, told me i had been dreaming. about two weeks later i was ill in bed with a painful, if not actually dangerous, disease. i was giving an account of this manifestation at a lecture i delivered two or three years ago in b., and when i had finished speaking was called aside by one of my audience who very shyly told me that he, too, had had a similar experience. prior to being attacked by diphtheria, he had seen a queer-looking apparition that had approached his bedside and leaned over him. he assured me that he had been fully awake at the time, and had applied tests to prove that the phenomenon was entirely objective. a number of other cases, too, have been reported to me, in which various species of phantasms have been seen before different illnesses. hence i believe that certain spirits are symbolical of certain diseases, if not the actual creators of the bacilli from which those diseases arise. to these phantasms i have given the name of morbas. i have seen two other morbas in addition to the one i have already described. the first case happened to me when i was in dublin, reading for the royal irish constabulary at the then well-known queen's service academy, ely place. i lodged in merrion street, and above my rooms were those of a mr. charles clifford, at that time a briefless barrister, but who afterwards established a big reputation in the west indies, where he eventually died. i became very friendly with mr. clifford, whose father had been a contemporary with several of my relations--also barristers--at trinity college. one particularly mild evening,--if i remember rightly it was in the beginning of september--i was chatting away with him in his sitting-room, when he suddenly complained of feeling extremely cold, and asked me if i would mind shutting the window, as i was nearest to it. as i got up in order to carry out his wishes, i noticed that the curtain on the near side of the recess (it was a bay window) was rustling in a very peculiar manner, and i was just going to call my friend's attention to it when i perceived the most odd-looking, yellow hand suddenly emerge from the drapery. sick with fear, but urged on by a curiosity i could not restrain, i approached the curtain, and, pulling it aside vigorously, found myself confronted by the tall, nude, yellow figure of something utterly indefinable. it seemed to me to be wholly composed of some vibrating, luminous matter. its head was large and round, its eyes light green, oblique and full of intense hatred. i did not notice any other features. its awful expression of malignity so fascinated me that i could not remove my gaze from its face, and i was standing still and staring at it helplessly, unable to move or speak, when clifford asked what in the world was the matter. the moment he spoke the phenomenon vanished, and the spell which its appearance had cast over me being thus broken, i shut the window and returned to my seat. i did not mention what i had seen to clifford, as he was of an extremely nervous temperament, and, like the majority of irishmen, very superstitious. i made, however, a note of the occurrence in my diary, and was not surprised when, eight or nine days later, clifford was ill in bed with a malignant disease. the second instance happened when i was on tour with no. company of "the only way." we were performing in plymouth, and i was sharing rooms with an actor of the name of cornelius, who had lately joined us from a dramatic school in oxford street. saturday night, as every one in the profession knows, is the most tiring night in the week, for apart from there being a matinée that day, there is packing to be done after the evening performance, and one rarely, if ever, leaves the theatre before half-past twelve or one o'clock. on the saturday night i am about to speak of, cornelius, who did not appear in the last act, had gone home before me, and on my leaving the theatre an hour or so later, i found the streets in the vicinity of our lodgings silent and deserted. i was hastening along, thinking, i admit, of the good things that awaited us at supper, for cornelius, who arranged the meals, was an excellent caterer, when, just as i was turning in at our gate, i saw a tall figure come out of the house and approach me with a peculiar, gliding motion. a cold terror at once ran through me, for i instinctively felt that the figure was nothing human. overcoming, with a desperate effort, a sudden sensation of helplessness, i moved aside, and, as i did so, the figure halted; i then perceived that it was exactly like the yellow phantasm i had seen in dublin some nine or ten years previously. it remained stationary for, perhaps, forty seconds, when it seemed to dissolve into the mist. i then pushed open the gate and entered the house. i made a note of the vision, and learned some few weeks later that an actor, who was then in the rooms we had occupied, had fallen a victim there to the same malady that had attacked clifford. from the numerous cases that have been related to me, as well as from my own experience, i have come to the conclusion that certain species of phantasms prefer to appear to children, and only under exceptional circumstances manifest themselves to adults. one of these species bears a slight resemblance to pixies, inasmuch as they are exceedingly diminutive; but there the likeness ends. for whereas pixies, from most of the statements i have heard regarding them, are an intelligent race of fairies that prefer places remote from the haunts of men, these phantasms do not seem to possess any intelligence or feeling at all, and are frequently to be seen in houses occupied by living people. their visits, apparently, have no object--they are merely forms consisting of matter without mind. night after night, when i was a little boy, i used to lie awake watching half a dozen or so of these tiny phantasms moving about the floor or turning round and round on the top of a wardrobe that faced the bed. in appearance they were more or less like men--never women--but always grotesque, with big heads, long beards, and something odd in the shape of their limbs and bodies. their faces were uniformly white, and utterly devoid of expression. i was never in the least degree afraid of them, but often felt very much annoyed because they did not do anything sensible. on the slightest sound or movement on my part they instantly vanished, and would not appear again till the following evening. i daresay some writers on occultism would classify them with nature spirits, but i prefer to designate them a species of the genus "elemental"--that is to say, a species of the phantasm that has never inhabited any kind of earthly body. one afternoon in may, many years ago,--i was a very young child at the time,--i happened to be staying with some friends in the country, and on running to the nursery window to look at what i thought was one of the household behaving in a very odd manner in the garden, i perceived to my astonishment the figure of a woman with a long beard, rolling about on the lawn as if in great agony. there was something so odd, both in her appearance and actions, that i was too fascinated to remove my gaze from her, and in breathless silence watched her slowly rise up and approach the window. i then saw that her face was hardly like that of a human being, but resembled rather some very grotesque kind of animal, and that her fingers, which she kept opening and shutting, were short and webbed. she did not impress me as being either horrible or malignant, and i was noticing, with the keenest interest, the peculiarities of her formation when one of the servants entered the nursery, and she instantly vanished. how to classify this phenomenon, i must confess i am somewhat puzzled. it does not appear to me to belong altogether to the order of vagrarian, and yet i know of no other species of phantasm to which it is more nearly allied. this type of ghost, _i.e._, the vagrarian, is very often seen by children. it is a species of elemental, and is in my opinion a survival (or descendant) of the earliest attempts at life on this planet--possibly an experiment in forms of life half physical, half superphysical--prior to the creation and selection of animal and vegetable life as it is known to us. in addition to the power of materialising and dematerialising at will, vagrarians can, at times, exercise a certain amount of physical force. i have heard of them, for example, moving furniture, banging on doors and walls, and making all sorts of similar disturbances. i have used the expression, "or descendants," with regard them because i think it is quite feasible that vagrarians are mortal, and that they possess some especial means of generating. they are generally to be met within lonely places--country lanes and spinneys, empty houses, isolated barns, and on moors, commons, and hill-tops. in appearance they are caricatures of man and beast--sometimes compounds of both--and would seem to possess a great diversity of form. i have, for example, had them described to me as tall, thin figures with tiny, rotund, or flat, rectangular, or wholly animal heads, and again as short, squat figures with a similar variety of heads. they are probably the most terrifying of all apparitions, as, apart from the grotesqueness of their bodies, the expression in their eyes is invariably diabolical; they seem, indeed, to be animated with an intense, an absolutely unlimited, animosity to every form of earthly life. why, i cannot, of course, say, unless it is that they are jealous of both man and beast, whom they might possibly regard as the usurpers of a sphere which was at one time strictly confined to themselves. my first experience of this kind of phantasm occurred when i was a boy. i was staying with some friends in a large old country house in the midlands, and being, even at that early age, fond of adventure, i frequently used to wander off alone in order to explore the adjacent neighbourhood. on one of these peregrinations i arrived at a farm which, for some reason or other, happened just then to be untenanted. delighted at the prospect of examining the empty buildings, i scaled a gate, and, crossing a paved yard, entered a large barn. the sight of one or two rats scurrying away at my approach made me wish i had my friend's terrier with me, and i was turning to look for a stone or some missile to throw at them, when a noise in the far corner of the building attracted my attention. it was now twilight, and the only windows in the place being small, dirty, and high from the ground, the further extremities of the barn were bathed in gloom, and in a gloom that made me feel nervous. following the direction of the sound, i looked and saw to my inconceivable horror a tall, luminous something with a white rectangular head, crouching on the floor. as its long, glittering, evil eyes met mine it sprang up (i then perceived that it was fully seven feet high and perfectly nude), and, with its spidery arms poised high in the air, darted forward. shrieking at the top of my voice, i flew, and my wild cries for help being overheard by some of my friends, who chanced to be returning home that way, they at once came to my assistance. i shall never forget their faces, for i am sure my cries frightened them almost as much as the apparition had frightened me. to assure me it must have been my imagination, they searched the building, and, of course, saw nothing, as the phantasm had, doubtless, dematerialised. i made enquiries, however, on the quiet about the farm, and learned that it had always borne the reputation for being haunted, and that it was on that account that it was then untenanted. needless to say, i never ventured there again alone! when i was in dublin in , i stayed for a while at a boarding-house in leeson street. the house, which was large and gloomy, impressed me from the very first with a sense of loneliness, and i intuitively felt that all its denizens were not of flesh and blood. i occupied a bedroom on the first floor, on which at the time of my visit there were only two other people, both of whom slept in rooms opposite to mine, on the other side of the landing. the shape of my room was rendered somewhat peculiar owing to the deep window recess on the one side, and the still deeper alcove, in which my bed stood, on the other. in the twilight, whilst the former of these recesses was filled with the weirdest shadows imaginable, the latter was so bathed in gloom as to be hardly discernible at all. the furniture, which reflected the past glories of the proprietress, who, like so many people in that position in dublin, belonged to an at one time wealthy family of landed proprietors, consisted of a massive mahogany four-poster, handsomely carved and draped in faded yellow tapestry, a huge, mahogany wardrobe, an ottoman, covered with tapestry, adorned at irregular intervals with the most grotesque arabesque figures; a bog-oak chest, richly carved and always kept locked; two antique, big, oaken chairs, and several rather damaged and painfully modern cane-bottomed ones; a threadbare carpet that might have been a brussels, and just the necessary amount of ordinary bedroom articles, several of which were very much the worse for wear. i never liked the room, for, apart from its habitual darkness--a darkness that seemed to me to be quite independent of the daylight--there was in it an atmosphere of intense oppression, an oppression that seemed to arise solely and wholly from an evil influence. night after night my sleep was disturbed by the most harrowing dreams, from which i invariably awoke with a start to find my heart beating violently, and my body bathed in perspiration. those sort of dreams were quite unusual to me; indeed, i had seldom had them since i was a child; they certainly could not be in any way accounted for by my state of health, which was quite normal, nor by my food, which was of the simplest and most digestive nature. though ashamed to admit it, i at last grew to dread going to bed on account of those dreams, and i accordingly requested the proprietress of the establishment to give me another room. this she somewhat reluctantly promised to do the following day. overjoyed at the prospect of so speedy a deliverance from a room i so cordially feared and detested, i went to bed that night with a comparatively light heart, assuring myself gleefully that it would be the last time i should sleep there. i can remember even now my thoughts as i undressed. what an inadequate light my candle gave as i placed it on the chimney-piece, and watched its feeble, flickering flame vainly trying to dissipate the heavy folds of darkness that seemed to roll in on me from the surrounding nooks and crannies with unprecedented intensity! how unusually bright the surface of the mirror looked, and with what remarkable clearness it reflected the bog-oak chest! the bog-oak chest! i could not remove my eyes from it, and as i stared at its image in the glass, i saw to my horror the long-locked, heavy cover slowly begin to rise. gradually, very gradually, it opened, until i fancied i could detect something grey and evil peering out at me. my terror was now so great that i dare not turn round to look at the actual chest, but was compelled by an irresistible fascination to keep my attention riveted on the mirror, upon the surface of which there suddenly fell a dark and fantastically shaped shadow that, apparently proceeding from the chest, moved stealthily towards my bed, and disappeared in the innermost recesses of the dimly-lighted alcove. i was so unnerved by this incident that it was only after a series of severe mental efforts that i could persuade myself to make a thorough examination of the room, and so satisfy myself that what i had seen was in all probability the result of my imagination. with timid footsteps i first of all approached the chest--it was still locked. i then advanced more complacently to the bed, and, falling on my hands and knees, peered under it--there was nothing to be seen! endeavouring to persuade myself now that there were absolutely no grounds for fear, and that mere shadows--for whichever way i turned, the room was full of them--could do me no harm, i undressed, and, blowing out the candle, got into bed. having spent the day fishing off the mugglestone rocks, near dalkey (in company with two of my fellow students at the queen's service academy), i felt healthily tired, and, after a few preliminary turns and twists to get into a comfortable position, was soon fast asleep. i awoke with a violent start, just as the clock on the landing outside solemnly struck two. the house was wrapped in complete silence, and, beyond a few occasional creakings on the stairs and in--so i fancied--the recess of the window, i could hear nothing. the sky, which had been covered with a thick coating of grey mist all the day, had cleared, and a silvery stream of moonlight, pouring in through the open window, flooded that side of the room on which stood the bog-oak chest. again my eyes involuntarily wandered to the mirror, which was exactly opposite to where i lay, and again, with even greater horror than before, i watched the lid of the chest slowly begin to rise. wider and wider it opened, until, with a faint click, it fell back on its hinges and struck the wall. i then saw a tall, grey shape climb out of it, and, with a snake-like movement of its long limbs, advance silently towards me. though it was in the full glare of the moonbeams, i cannot say definitely what it was like, saving that it impressed me with a strong sense of its utter grotesqueness, a grotesqueness that at once pronounced it a vagrarian. paralysed with terror, and unable to move or utter a sound, i was constrained to sit bolt upright and await its approach. though i could see no distinct eyes, i felt they were there, and that they were fixed on me all the time with insatiable glee and malice. nearer and nearer it drew, until, gliding round the foot of the bed, it passed along by me, accompanied by a current of icy cold air that made every tooth in my head chatter. i then became conscious of some powerful magnetic force drawing me backwards, and as i sank gasping and panting on the pillow, a hideous, nude form rose quivering over me, and i lost consciousness. when i regained my senses the greyness of dawn was struggling for mastery with the moonbeams, and the vagrarian had gone. that night, as i passed the door of the now vacated room on the way to my new and somewhat brighter quarters, i heard a soft chuckle proceeding, as i felt certain, from the bog-oak chest--but i did not stop to investigate. oddly enough, that same year i had another experience of a similar nature, whilst staying with some relatives of mine in a town many miles remote from dublin. my bedroom on this occasion, however, was a cheerful contrast to the one in which i witnessed the phenomenon in dublin, and from the fact that the colour of its wallpaper, carpet, curtains, bed-hangings, and furniture was emerald, was appropriately termed the green room. its windows, large and low down, overlooked a garden that had been at one time, so i was told, a morass, and this garden, which was even now, at certain seasons of the year, excessively damp, was, in my opinion, the only drawback to an otherwise charming place. the first time i saw it, which was in my early childhood, i felt a cold, apprehensive chill steal over me, nor did i, subsequently, ever pass by it without experiencing a sensation of extreme horror and aversion. consequently, much as i liked the green room itself, i would have infinitely preferred sleeping on the other side of the house. for the first few nights, however, i slept well, and the room was so warm and sunny that i was even beginning to get over my antipathy to its prospect, when i received a rude shock. i had gone to bed at about eleven o'clock as usual, and, being unable to sleep, was formulating in my brain plans for the morrow, when i suddenly felt the bed violently agitated. my first thought was that some one was playing a practical joke on me, but i quickly pooh-poohed that idea, since, with the exception of one of the servants, i was by far the youngest person in the house, and my relatives were much too staid and sensible even to think of doing such a stupid thing. i next thought of burglars, and being a great deal younger and, i admit, pluckier than i am now, i struck a light, and, jumping out of bed, looked under it. there was nothing there. greatly relieved, i hastily got into bed again, and, blowing out the candle, lay down. for some minutes all was still, and then the foot of the bed rose several inches from the ground, and, falling down with a dull crash, was shaken furiously. i was now very much frightened, for i knew the disturbance was due to nothing purely physical. just at that very moment, too, a strong gust of air blowing in through the window transported the atmosphere of the garden, and simultaneously i was seized with a sense of utter loneliness and despair. lying back on my pillow, i now perceived the glistening white figure, quite nude, of what looked like an abnormally tall, thin man, with a cylindrical-shaped head, crawl from beneath my bed, and, suddenly assuming an erect position, bound to the window, through which he vanished to the darkness beyond. the following day i made some excuse, and returned to dublin; nor have i ever slept in the green room since. from the general appearance of the phenomenon, though i did not see its face, i have no hesitation in saying that it was a vagrarian, and that the primitive nature of the garden attracted it thither. that the famous irish banshee, like the drummer and pipers of scotland, the death candles of wales, and the various english family ghosts, is the work of a species of elemental, to which i have given the name, "clanogrian," i have no doubt. the celtic word banshee, meaning the woman of the barrow, may in all probability account for the popular idea that whenever a member of one of the old irish clans dies, their doom is foretold (to any or every member of the family but themselves) by a series of wails, in a woman's voice, the phantasm of the woman herself being sometimes seen. but as a matter of fact there is a great variety of form in these death-warnings peculiar to the irish, and each historic family has its own particular banshee. i have experienced the o'donnell banshee (that banshee that has ofttimes been heard in spain, italy, france, and austria, wherever, in fact, a member of the clan lives) on one occasion. i was living at the seaside at the time, and had been in bed about an hour, when i heard, as i thought, outside my door, not a series, but just one wail, which, beginning in a low key, ended withal in a scream so loud and agonising that my blood froze. instinctively i knew it was the banshee. scrambling out of bed, i opened the door, and the moment i did so, several other doors opened, and a troup of terrified figures, in night attire, came timidly out on to the landing. one and all had heard the sound, which they, too, recognised as the banshee, but we saw nothing. that night a near relative of mine died! as i have already hinted, our clan is numerous, and as many of its members are now scattered throughout europe, it is not often i come in touch with them. last year, however, i met one of my kinsmen, who was at that time m.p. for a london constituency, and in the course of a long conversation with him, i was interested to hear that on the eve of his father's death both he and his brother had heard the single wail of the banshee (just as i had done) outside the door of the room in which they were sitting. they both rushed out, as one naturally does on hearing it, but saw nothing. their father, it is needless to say, had been quite unconscious of the banshee, though he was keenly sensible of every other sound. i think any one, who is acquainted with the history of ireland, in which my clan figures so prominently, will not be at all astonished that i have been visited by so many psychic phenomena. the last experience, in connection with elementals, to which i will allude here, happened to me some years ago, when i was renting a house in the extreme west of england. the house, though new--i was the first occupant--was not only close to a ridge of rocks, where it was alleged that wreckers used to carry on their nefarious work until quite recently, but was within walking distance of an ancient celtic settlement. furthermore, from comparatively close at hand, several skeletons, supposed to belong to the neolithic age, had recently been disinterred. i entered the house with a perfectly unbiassed mind; indeed, the thought that it might be haunted never for one moment entered my mind. being at that time unmarried, i had a housekeeper, who soon complained to me of heavy, queer noises. not wishing to lose her, i pooh-poohed the idea of there being anything wrong with the place, and suggested that the sounds were produced by the wind. it was a big, oddly-constructed place, full of long, dark passages and gloomy nooks and cupboards. i occupied a room on the top landing, separated from my housekeeper's by a sepulchral-looking corridor. facing my door was that of a room connected by means of a low doorway with a big loft, the furthest extremities of which were totally obscured from view by a perpetual shroud of darkness, a darkness that the feeble rays of sunlight, filtering through the tiny skylight in the slanting roof, entirely failed to dissipate. this loft certainly did suggest the superphysical, and i felt that if any ghostly presence walked the house, it had its headquarters in that spot. still, i heard nothing, nothing beyond the occasional banging of a door and loud creakings on the staircase. my housekeeper, however, left me, and her successor, who, to all appearances, was a practical, matter-of-fact sort of woman, had not been with me many days before she, too, gave notice. "i never believed in ghosts till i came here," she told me, "but i am certain there are such things now. for every night i hear not only the strangest noises in my room, but the pattering of stealthy footsteps in the passage--sounds which i feel certain could neither be produced by rats nor the wind. indeed, sir, i can't bear being left alone in the basement of the house after dusk, as i have the feeling that something uncanny walks about the house." the housekeeper, who succeeded her, speedily gave notice for precisely the same reason, and every one, who subsequently slept in the house, complained that they had the most unpleasant sensations as soon as it was dark, and heard the most extraordinary and harrowing noises. one woman, an ex-salvation army officer, whom i left in charge of the house during my temporary absence, told me she had been awakened in the night by the sounds of shuffling footsteps that had stopped outside her door, the handle of which was then slowly turned. "i was awfully frightened," she said, "for i knew at once it was a devil; but screwing up courage, i sang as loud as my parched throat would allow me, 'washed in the blood of the lamb,' when the evil spirit ceased its disturbances and i heard the sound of its steps in full retreat up the staircase." when the summer season was at its height, the manageress of one of the adjacent hotels asked me if i would mind letting her have a room for the night, in my house, as she really did not know where to put all her visitors; there was no accommodation left for them in the town. i consented, and the visitor, who happened to be a middle-aged lady, told my housekeeper the following morning that she was sure the house was haunted, as she had been awakened about two o'clock from the most revolting dreams to hear the most curious footsteps--like those of some big animal--approach her door. she then heard the sound of heavy breathing, and watched the door handle gradually turn. "i then crossed myself and prayed with all my might," she said, "when the thing retired, and i heard its soft footsteps die away in the distance." one morning, between three and four o'clock, i awoke from a very nasty dream, in which i had seen a tall figure with a grey, evil face come bounding up the stairs, three steps at a time, and along the passages to my bedroom. i was so shocked at the appearance of this thing in my dreams, that for several minutes after recovering conscious my heart palpitated violently. i then heard the sound of stealthy footsteps coming along the passage parallel with my bed. nearer and nearer they came, until they halted outside my door, on the top panels of which there suddenly came a crash so tremendous that every article in the room quivered. i jumped out of bed, threw open the door, and saw--nothing. the passage was silent and empty. the following night, taking various precautions to satisfy myself and others that the noises were due to superphysical agencies, i covered the floor of the passage outside my room with alternate layers of chalk, flour, and sand, fastened wires across it, and blocked it up at one end with a table, on the edge of which i carefully balanced a bottle of ink. at the same time in the morning, however, the footsteps again came. first of all they came to the table, when i distinctly heard the ink-bottle hurled to the ground with a crash; then, passing through the wires and over the chalk, flour, and sand, they drew up to my door. sick with suspense i awaited the crash, and the moment it came, sprang out on the landing. there was nothing there, save an almost preternatural hush and the cold grey of dawn, but the instant i withdrew into my room, every wall and beam throughout the house shook with satanical laughter! i was now so horrified that i never kept vigil in the place again, but left it shortly afterwards. i subsequently heard from two entirely independent sources that an apparition had been seen on the site of the house some years previously. my first informant, mrs. t., said: "one night, at about twelve o'clock, as i was coming home from a party, i saw, just about the place where your house now stands, the tall figure of a man with a tiny, rotund head. it seemed to rise out of the ground, and, striding forward with a slightly swaying motion, vanished over the cliff exactly opposite your front door. the night being moonlight, i saw the thing distinctly, and can well recall the horrible expression in its light, round eyes and leering mouth. it had small, bestial features, close-cropped hair, and a very grey complexion. its arms and legs were abnormally long and thin. i should think it stood fully seven feet. i am sure it was nothing subjective, because when i rubbed my eyes it was still there; neither could it have been any one masquerading, as the cliff at that particular spot is fully forty feet high, and to have jumped, or even dropped over it, could not have been done without incurring serious injury. i did not learn till long afterwards that the cliff has long borne a reputation for being haunted." my other informant, who had certainly neither met this lady nor heard her story, gave me an account of a similar experience she had had in the same place. hence i am inclined to think that the house was haunted by an elemental, either a vagrarian or vice elemental, that had been attracted thither either by the loneliness of the locality, or the barrow (to which i have alluded), or by the crimes formerly perpetrated on the cliff by wreckers. it was in this house that i witnessed a manifestation prior to the death of a near relative of mine. as i have seen a similar apparition since, and have heard of a thing answering to the same description being seen separately by members of my family, i am inclined to classify it with family elementals, rather than to associate it with the elemental i have just described. the incident took place one morning at about four o'clock. my attention being drawn to a bright object in one corner of my room, i sat up in bed and looked at it, when to my horror i saw a spherical mass of vibrating, yellow-green light suddenly materialise into the round head of something half human, half animal, and wholly evil! the face was longer than that of a human being, whilst the upper part, which was correspondingly wide, gradually narrowed till it terminated in a very pronounced and prominent chin. the head was covered with a mass of tow-coloured, matted hair; the face was entirely clean-shaven. the thin lips, which were wreathed in a wicked leer, displayed very long, pointed teeth. but it was the eyes, which were fixed on mine with a steady stare, that arrested and riveted my attention. in hue they were of a light green, in expression they were hellish, for no other word can so adequately express the unfathomable intensity of their diabolical glee, and, as i gazed at them in helpless fascination, my blood froze. i do not think the manifestation lasted more than a few seconds, though to me, of course, it seemed an eternity. it vanished simultaneously with a loud and utterly inexplicable crash (as if countless crockery was being smashed) in the passage outside my door. in the morning i learned of the death of a near relative who had died just at the time i witnessed the phenomenon. a striking instance of another kind of phantasm, which i can only conclude is an elemental of the order of clanogrians, occurred quite recently. in a work of mine entitled "the haunted houses of london," published last year, i narrated an instance of a lady who, prior to the death of her husband, heard a grandfather clock (there being no clock of that description in the house), first of all, strike thirteen, and then, at intervals, several other numbers, which were subsequently found to denote the exact date of her husband's death. some months after the appearance of this book, i went to see "the blue bird," and found myself seated next but one to the lady who experienced the phenomenon of the clock. in between the acts she leaned forward to speak to me, and said: "isn't it odd, i have heard that clock again, mr. o'donnell, and it struck thirteen just as before? and what is still more strange, a few days ago, as i was sitting in my drawing-room, i heard a gong--i have no such thing in my house--very solemnly strike a certain number of times, quite close to me. unfortunately, i did not count the strokes; but what do you think it means?" i replied that i did not know; possibly, perhaps, the death of some relative. at the same time, i instinctively felt that the sounds foretold her own doom--a presentiment which, alas! was only too true, as mrs. ---- was killed a few days afterwards in a somewhat extraordinary taxi-cab collision in portman square. as mrs. ---- was a lady well known in society, the accident was fully reported in several of the leading london dailies--in fact, that was how i first heard of it. chapter ii. phantasms of the living and dead--death warnings and dreams. in one of my works i have alluded to the case of miss d. (a signed account of which appeared in the october number, , of the "magazine for the society of psychical research"), who unconsciously projected her superphysical body into the presence of four witnesses, including myself, and once when i was staying in northampton a rather amusing incident with regard to projection happened to me. i went to castle street station to see mrs. w., a connection of mine, off, and as the train steamed out of the "bay," i was very much surprised to see her lean out of the window and wave to me. of course, i waved back, but thinking such a proceeding on her part was most extraordinary, as i knew her to be extremely dignified, and averse to anything "tripperish," i made a note of the circumstance, and resolved to allude to it when next we met. i did so, but although i made use of all the tact i possess, mrs. w. was intensely annoyed, and, of course, indignantly denied having done such a thing. now, was this a case of unconscious projection, or merely of suggestion? i am inclined to think the former. the same thing happened at temple mead station, bristol, when i was again seeing mrs. w. off to her home. this time i rubbed my eyes, and still her phantom was at the window, waving vigorously until the train had travelled some distance! in an article specially written for "cassell's magazine" last year, i described how, on certain nights in the year (new year's eve for example), i have seen the phantasms of people destined to play some more or less important rôle in my subsequent life. i have referred to this peculiar form of phenomenon, too, in my book, "the haunted houses of london," and i am now afforded the opportunity of quoting a third instance. one new year's eve a few years ago i was at a small country station in the midlands, waiting for the birmingham train. as the weather was very cold and wet, there were few travellers, and the platform, gloomy and streaming with water, presented a singularly forlorn and forbidding appearance. having been confined indoors all day, i was glad to snatch any opportunity for stretching my limbs, and was pacing up and down in the rain, when i narrowly avoided collision with a very elegantly--though unseasonably--dressed lady. apart from being pretty, she had a decidedly intellectual face, and i was so struck with her, that i admit i wheeled round with the intention of passing her again, when to my astonishment there was no one to be seen, and on my enquiring both of the station-master and solitary porter who the lady was, it was positively asserted that no such person had entered the station. some months later, when taking tea at a club in knightsbridge, i was introduced to lady ----, whom i immediately recognised as the lady i had seen on new year's eve. i mentioned the incident to her, and she laughingly told me she had never been to such a place. lady ---- is now a great friend of mine. also the phantasms of people, who have at any time deeply impressed me, appear to me frequently. some years ago i was always seeing the phantasm of h., a boy to whom i had the strangest aversion when i was at c. college. i recollect the first time i witnessed the phenomenon was in the high street, falmouth. i was walking with an old school friend, now major f., of the ---- regiment. seeing h. suddenly cross the road very slowly in front of us, i exclaimed, "why, how extraordinary! if that isn't h.! you remember h. at school, don't you? he hasn't altered in the slightest." f. laughed. "what are you talking about?" he said. "i certainly do remember h., but he's not here. whatever makes you think of him?" i looked again, and the figure of h. had completely disappeared. within that year i saw the phantasm of h. five or six times, but always in different places, and always when my thoughts were far removed from him. the question now arises as to whether what i saw was subjective or objective; if the former, whether it was due to telepathy, suggestion, or hallucination; if the latter, whether it was superphysical or illusionary? and here again, i am inclined to attribute the phenomenon both to the objective and superphysical. i have alluded in one of my former works to the only really satisfactory instance in which i have consciously projected my superphysical body, though i have made various attempts. my failures are, i think, due to the difficulty i experience in obtaining the necessary conditions of perfect tranquillity of mind and absolute physical silence. an interesting experiment i have tried, and in which i hope eventually to succeed, is as follows:--i lean my forehead against the door of a room in which several people are seated with cameras. concentrating tremendously hard, i bring before my mind a vivid picture of the contents of that room. the picture becomes clearer and clearer, until i can see every little detail in it, when i suddenly find myself passing through the door into the brilliantly illuminated space beyond. an instant more, and i feel my presence would be revealed to the sitters, but at the critical moment something mysterious happens, and my superphysical ego is sharply recalled to my physical body. before i refer to my experiences with phantasms of the dead, i think some allusions to death warnings by dreams and otherwise may be of interest. when i was a little boy, i well remember a miss c. coming into the room in which i was sitting, and observing to my companion, "i am sure something is going to happen to my mother, for as i was crossing the road just now i distinctly saw her standing on the edge of the pavement beckoning to me. as i approached, she suddenly vanished." two hours later miss c. again came into my room. this time she was holding a telegram in her hand, and crying bitterly. "i was sure something would happen," she said: "my mother is dead. she died just about the time i saw her." the house in which i was then staying was in bath, and miss c.'s mother died in worcester. the next instance of a phenomenon of this nature occurred years later, when i was an assistant master in a preparatory school for the royal navy. i was chatting with the principal one night in his study, which was in the rear of the house, overlooking a somewhat dreary back garden. the headmaster was making some remark on the new regulations that were shortly to come in force with respect to the entrance examination to the _britannia_, when he suddenly stopped short, and with a kind of gasping cry that made my blood run cold, pointed to the white window blind. "see!" he said, "see! it's my father! he's in his grave-clothes, signalling to me. oh! my god! he must be dead!" he then sank back in his chair, breathing heavily. for some seconds there was a silence which to me, at any rate, was most painful; he then exclaimed, "it's gone now. did you see it?" i replied that i had not seen anything except a violent agitation of the blind, which agitation, curiously enough, he had not noticed. the next morning he received a telegram saying his father was dead; the latter had died about the time his phantasm had been seen by his son. though i cannot say i have any great faith in the majority of omens, such as spilling salt and seeing magpies, nevertheless there are some to which i do attach importance. the same miss c., to whom i have just referred, told me one evening that she had just seen a winding-sheet in the candle, and that it pointed towards her. that same night she dreamed one of her teeth came out, and on it was a portrait of her brother jack. the following day she received a telegram to the effect that jack had died suddenly from an attack of apoplexy. i have frequently seen phantasms of the dead both in haunted houses and elsewhere. one of the best friends i ever had was "k.," who was a fellow student with me when i was reading in dublin. k., who came of a very distinguished military family, and was the great-nephew of the baroness b., used often to chat with me about the possibilities of the future life. "look here," he said to me one night, "i'll make you a promise. if anything happens to me within the next few years i'll appear to you." i laughingly told him i should be very pleased to see his ghost, and that i would do all i could to make it feel thoroughly at home. some months later, "k." went to south africa, where he eventually joined one of the mounted police forces. one evening, when i was sitting alone in my room in d., i suddenly felt very cold, and on glancing towards the window saw a figure standing in the recess. though the figure was misty, luminous, and not at all clearly defined, i had no difficulty in recognising it as the phantasm of "k.," who had certainly not been in my thoughts for some long time. he appeared to be wearing a khaki uniform, which was very much torn and blood-stained. his face was deathly white and shockingly mutilated, and his eyes, which were wide open and glassy, were fixed on me with a blank stare. it was a horrid spectacle, and i was so shocked that i fell back in my chair, feeling sick and faint. i do not think the manifestation lasted more than a minute at the most. a few days later, i read in the papers that major wilson's party had been ambushed and cut to pieces on the shangani river, and among the names of the victims was that of "k." another experience of this nature happened to me whilst i was staying in northamptonshire. i was cycling along a road one very hot summer day, when i suddenly perceived, pedalling steadily away ahead of me, a cyclist in a grey suit. how he had got there was a mystery, for the road was straight, there were no turnings, and i had not seen him pass me. moreover, there was something very odd both about the rider and his machine, for despite the dryness of the day, the man's clothes and bicycle were splashed with mud and dripping with water. curious to see his face, i tried my hardest to overtake him, but fast as i went, the distance between us never seemed to decrease, although he apparently did not alter his pace. at last we came to a steep hill marked dangerous, and i saw lumbering slowly up it a heavy drayman's cart. without slacking speed the grey cyclist rode recklessly down, and, to my intense horror, dashed straight into the cart. jumping off my machine, i placed it against the hedge, and ran to the cart, fully expecting to see the mangled remains of the foolhardy rider. to my astonishment, however, there were no signs of him anywhere, and the driver of the vehicle was politely incredulous when i told him what i had seen. i subsequently learned, though not, i admit, on very reliable authority, that a cyclist had been killed on that hill two or three years previously, but whether the accident took place on a wet day, or whether the cyclist was clad in a grey suit, i could not ascertain. an incident which i have omitted to mention in the proper order, namely, among phantasms of the living, happened to me in a village near yarmouth. i was on tour at the time, and had gone for a long walk on sunday afternoon in the country. on my way back i arrived at the village of e., and as i was passing a very pretty thatched-roof cottage, saw, to my astonishment, an actress i had known on tour (and whose professional name was ethel raynor) standing on the path. she was holding both hands outstretched towards me, and in each of them was a large bunch of snowdrops. i saw her very distinctly, as she seemed to give out a light of her own, a bright white glow which emanated from every part of her body. her features--she was a singularly handsome girl--were perfectly life-like, though the total absence of colour made her appear unnatural. her eyes, which were dark and beautiful, were fixed on me with an expression of the utmost intensity, and from the slight movement of her lips i felt sure she wanted to say something. i stepped forward with the intention of addressing her, and the instant i did so, she vanished. on arriving at my rooms, i made a note of the occurrence in my diary, and was very surprised to hear that, instead of dying, miss raynor had married--her marriage taking place on the day i had seen her phantasm. within a year, however, her husband deserted her, and she committed suicide! with reference to dreams, there is a vast field for speculation. in a subsequent chapter i shall state a few of my theories regarding them. it will suffice here merely to enumerate a few instances from my own experience. i once recollect having a very vivid dream in which i saw a man, with whom i was slightly acquainted, thrown from his horse and terribly mutilated. the horse looked so evil, and acted with such an extraordinary amount of diabolical cunning, that i have always felt suspicious of horses since. the dream was literally fulfilled. i have often been warned against certain people in dreams, and found that these warnings were fully justified. for example, when i was the solitary guest of a man (who, by the way, was the nephew of a celebrated peer) abroad, i dreamed that my host came into my room and drew the picture of a crown on my mirror with a piece of red chalk. he then retraced his steps in silent glee, and as he closed the door behind him, the glass in the mirror gave a loud crack, and fell on the floor with a crash. i was so impressed with the dream that i became prejudiced in no slight degree against my host, and when the latter, a few days later, tried to persuade me to invest money in a mining enterprise in cornwall, i refused; and it was very fortunate i did so, for the mine which had been opened with so much show and flourish failed, and nearly all the shareholders were ruined. many years ago i visited the state of b----, and shortly after my arrival at a farm, situated some distance from any settlement, i made the acquaintance of a neighbouring farmer and his wife, of the name of coney. the coneys, perceiving that i did not like my present surroundings, suggested that they should take me to the next province in their waggon. i was to pay them one and a half dollars a day, in return for which i was to receive such sleeping accommodation as the waggon could afford and full board. the route, they took very good care to assure me, was both beautiful and interesting. crossing the c---- mountains, and passing within sight of a famous crater lake and lake d----, they would go through mile after mile of forest, teeming with big game and lovely scenery. as i was young (i was comparatively fresh from a public school) and very fond of adventure, the prospect of seeing so much new country and of doing a little shooting appealed to me very strongly. consequently, though i was by no means favourably impressed with the looks either of the farmer (a squat, beetle-browed man) or of his wife (a dark, saturnine woman with sly brown eyes and a cruel mouth), i was on the whole inclined to accept their offer. for the rest of the day after their visit i deliberated what i should do, and that night i had a very vivid dream. i saw myself lying asleep in a waggon which was standing close to the edge of a tremendous abyss. the horses, which had been taken from the shafts, were tethered to the trunks of two lofty fir trees, and close to them, engaged in earnest confabulation, were the farmer and his wife. the moonbeams, falling direct on their faces, rendered both features and expressions clearly visible, and as i gazed into their eyes and recognised the intensity of their evil natures, my soul sickened--they were plotting to murder me. gliding over the red-brown soil with noiseless feet, they crept up to the waggon, and seizing the individual i identified as myself by the head and feet, they hurled him into the chasm. there was the sound of a splash in the far distance--and--i awoke. my mind was now made up. i would remain where i was for the present, at least. and very thankful i am for the warning, since i afterwards learned that the coneys bore a very sinister reputation, and that had i gone with them there is but little doubt they would have robbed and murdered me. a friend of mine, who is an officer in the ---- regiment, dreamed three times that he was descending a road, at the bottom of which was a bridge overhead. when he came to the bridge, a man who was in hiding there rushed out and shot him. the scene was so real and the details so graphic that my friend was greatly impressed. one day, when he was walking in the south of spain, he came to a dip in the road, and there, before him, lay the scene he had seen so often in his dreams. he was now in some doubt as to whether he should go on, as he felt sure the person he had dreamed of would dash out on him. after some hesitation, however, he proceeded, and eventually arrived at the bridge. there was no one there, nor did he suffer any molestation whatsoever on his way home. it is impossible to explain why the dream should only have been verified in part. i have many times dreamed i have been fishing in a wood by a waterfall, and so vividly has the scenery been portrayed that i have got to know every stick and stone in the place. so far, however, i have never come across the objective counterpart of that cascade. in other instances i have found myself visiting the actual spots i have seen in my visions. for instance, i constantly dreamed of a curious-looking red and white ship with two funnels, side by side, three masts and a hull, very high out of the water. something always told me the vessel was for some peculiar use, but i could never discover what, neither could i make out the name which was written on her bows. i could read the first three letters, but no more. on arriving at a seaside town in the west of england shortly after one of these vivid nocturnal visions, i saw a steamer in the bay which i instantly identified as that of my dreams, whilst to make me still more certain, the letters on her bows corresponded with those i had seen in my sleep. she had been specially designed as an atlantic cable boat! before going to america i distinctly recollect dreaming that i was standing by myself in the corridor of an enormous hotel. i saw no other visitors, only one or two porters in very faded uniforms, and instinctively felt that i was the only guest in the place. this feeling filled me with awe, and i was dreading the idea of spending a night on one of the deserted landings, when i awoke. on arriving in san francisco some months later, i was conducted by a passenger agent to an hotel, which i at once recognised as the hotel of my dreams. there was the same tier upon tier of empty galleries, the same almost interminable succession of gloomy, deserted corridors and row upon row of gaping doors leading into silent, tenantless rooms, whilst to complete the likeness the hall porters wore exactly similar uniforms. from a variety of causes i was, so the clerk at the booking-office informed me, the only visitor in the building. if dreams of present-day places have their objective counterparts, and dreams of future scenes are fulfilled, is it not feasible that dreams of the past should be equally veritable? i see no reason why it should not be so. i have often dreamed of ancient cities teeming with people clad in loose, flowing drapery and turbans, or tight hose and armour. i have rubbed shoulders with red-crossed knights, and followed in the wake of bare-headed monks and light-footed priests. i have gazed admiringly into the faces of fair ladies whose shining hair was surmounted with lofty, conical hats, and i have moved aside to make way for great dames on milk-white palfreys. in my dreams i have lived in all ages, breathed all kinds of atmospheres, seen all kinds of events. one or two of these dreams haunt me now. i remember, for example, dreaming that i was in a very quaint old town covered with cobblestones. i had a lady with me who was very near and dear to me, and my object was to protect her from the crowds of hustling, jostling merrymakers who crowded the thoroughfares. from the style of dress i saw on all sides, and which both i and my companion wore, i knew we were in the middle ages. but where we were and what was going on i could not tell. after threading our way through endless narrow streets, lined with gabled wooden houses, whose upper storeys projected far over their entrances, we at length arrived at a big square in which a vast number of people were watching a show. there were three actors--a devil in a tight-fitting black costume and mask, and two imps in red, whilst the show consisted of the acrobatic performance of a number of tricks played by the imps on the devil, who apparently tried his level best to catch his tormentors, but always failed. though my companion and i thought it extremely stupid, the crowd enjoyed it thoroughly, and i saw one or two stout red-faced women and several burly men-at-arms convulsed with laughter. suddenly, however, when the performance was at its height, there was an abrupt pause--two priests, with knit brows and glittering eyes, glided up to a girl, and, placing a hand on each of her arms, led her despairingly away, the crowd showing their approval of the act by shaking their fists in the poor wretch's face. seized with a terrible fear lest my companion should likewise be taken, i hurried her away, and as we hastened along i heard the most fearful screams of agony. on and on we went, until we came to an open space in the town, void of people, and surrounded by dark, forbidding-looking houses. i halted, and was deliberating which direction to take, when my companion clutched me by the elbow. i turned round, and saw, a few yards behind us, three priests, who, fixing their eyes malevolently on us, darted forward. catching my companion by the hand, i was preparing to drag her into one of the houses opposite, when my foot slipped, and the next moment i saw her struggling in the hands of her relentless captors. there was a long, despairing cry--and i awoke. i have had this same dream, detail by detail, five times, and i know the faces of all the principals in it now as well as i know my own. curiously enough, i have dreamed of the same place, but at a different period. i have found myself walking along the quaint streets with a girl, whom i instinctively knew was my wife, past crowds of laughing, frolicing people dressed in the costume of the french revolutionary period. we have come to the open space with the dark, forbidding houses, when i have slipped just as two savage-looking men in red caps have dashed out on us. my companion has attempted to escape; they have pursued her, and with the wails of her death-agony in my ears i have awakened. can it be that these dreams are reminiscences of a former existence, of scenes with which i was once familiar? or have they been vividly portrayed to me by an elemental? i fancy the latter to be the more likely. occasionally i have a peculiarly phantastic dream, in which i find myself in the depths of a dark forest, standing by a rocky pool, the sides of which are covered with all kinds of beautiful lichens. as i am gazing meditatively at the water, a slight noise from behind makes me look round, when i perceive the tall figure of a man in grey hunting costume, _à la_ robin hood, with a bow in one of his hands and a quiver of arrows by his side. his face is grey, and his eyes long and dark and glittering. he points to the root of a tree, where i perceive a huge green wooden wheel, that suddenly commences to roll. in an instant the forest is alive with grey archers, who fire a volley of arrows at the wheel, and endeavour to stop it. an arm is thrown round me, i am swung off the ground, and when i alight on the earth again it is to find myself on a flight of winding stone steps, in what i suppose is a very lofty tower. the walls on either side of me are of rough-hewn stone, and on peering through a small grated window, i can see, many feet beneath me, the silvery surface of a broad river and a wide expanse of emerald grass. i ascend up, up, up, until i arrive in a large room, brilliantly illuminated with sunbeams. hanging on a wall is a picture representing a woman gazing at a grey door, which is slowly opening. on the door something is written, which i feel is the keynote to life and death, and i am endeavouring to interpret it when a hand falls on my shoulder. i look round, and standing beside me is the grey huntsman. i awake with his subtle, baffling smile vividly before me. a moment more and i might have been initiated into the great mystery i have long been endeavouring to solve. i have little faith in dreams of marriages and deaths. they so seldom portend what they were once supposed to do. in my opinion, they are the suggestions of mischievous elementals. in concluding this chapter, i will describe a dream i had comparatively recently. i fancied it was late at night, and that i was on the thames embankment. the only person in sight was a well-dressed man in a frock-coat and silk hat, who was leaning over the parapet. feeling certain from his attitude that he was contemplating suicide, i yielded to impulse, and, walking up to him, said, "you seem to be very unhappy! can i do anything for you?" raising his head, he looked at me, when to my astonishment i at once recognised the grey huntsman i had seen in the dream which i have previously narrated. complexion, hair, eyes, mouth, were the same--the expression alone differed. on this occasion he was sad. "you need not be afraid," he said. "i cannot put an end to my existence. i wish i could." "why can't you?" i enquired with interest. and i have never forgotten the emphasis of his reply. "because," he responded, "i am an evil force, a vice elemental." some months after this, when i was travelling one night from victoria to gipsy hill, i had as my sole companion a well-dressed man in a soft panama hat, who appeared to be occupied in a novel. i did not pay the slightest attention to him till the train stopped at wandsworth common, when he proceeded to get out. as he glided by me on his way to the door, he stooped down and, smiling sardonically, passed out into the darkness of the night. it was the man of my dreams, the huntsman and the would-be suicide! part ii. phenomena witnessed by other people. chapter iii. "elementals." the reticence people in general show towards having their names and houses mentioned in print has led me to substitute fictitious names in most of the cases referred to in this chapter. in one of my former works i alluded to a phantasm with a pig's head i saw standing outside an old burial ground in guilsborough, northampton. some years after the occurrence i was discussing the occult with my father-in-law, henry williams, m.d. (late of chapel place, cavendish square), and was very much surprised when he told me that he, too, had witnessed the same or a similar phenomena in guilsborough. i append the statement he made with regard to it:-- "guilsborough, "northampton, "_january , ._ "i well remember many years ago, when a boy, running upstairs into the top room of a certain house in guilsborough and seeing a tall, thin figure of a man with an animal's head crouching on the bed. i was so frightened when i saw it that i ran out of the room as fast as i could. "henry w. williams, m.d." my father-in-law had certainly made no mention of what he had seen to me before he heard my experience, neither had i the slightest idea that such a phantasm had been encountered in the village by any one but myself. close to the house where he saw the phenomena i believe an ancient sacrificial stone was once found, whilst in the same neighbourhood there are the remains of a barrow and numerous other evidences of the stone age; hence the pig-faced phantasm may have been either a vice elemental attracted to guilsborough by the human blood once spilt on the sacrificial stone, or by certain crimes committed in and around the village in modern times, or by the thoughts of some peculiarly bestial-minded person, or people, buried in the now disused cemetery; or, again, the phantasm may have been the actual earth-bound spirit of some very vicious person, whose appearance would be in accordance with the life he or she led when on earth. which of the two it is i cannot, of course, say: that is--for the present, at least--beyond human knowledge. i have recorded another haunting of a similar nature. writing to me from devizes on may th, , mr. "i. walton" says:-- "dear sir, "i have just been reading your book, 'haunted houses of london.' it recalls to my mind a hideous apparition which i witnessed about ten days ago, and which made such an impression on my mind that i send you particulars of it. "i was on a visit to my two sons, who live at no. , m---- square, chelsea. on the first night of my visit i slept in a room on the third floor facing the square. i have no knowledge of the science you profess, and no personal faith in supernatural apparition, but the spectacle i witnessed was so extraordinary that, by the light of your thrilling narratives, it looks as though i may have been sleeping in a room that has been the scene of a tragedy. "the room was not utterly dark, and some light penetrated from the lamps in the square, but as i lay with my face to the wall, all in front of me was dark. "i fell asleep, and remained so for an hour or more, when i suddenly awoke with a great jerk, and found confronting me the most awful apparition you can imagine. it was a dwarfed, tubby figure with a face like a pig, perfectly naked, in a strong bright light. the whole figure resembled in appearance the scalded body of a pig of average size, but the legs and arms were those of a human being brutalised, male or female i could not say. in ten or fifteen seconds it vanished, leaving me in a profuse perspiration and trembling, from which i did not recover for some time. but i slept off the rest of the night. "when the landlady came to call me (she slept on the third floor back) she pointed out that a picture on the connecting door had fallen down between my bed and the next room. doubtless it was the fall of the picture that waked me up with a start. but what about the apparition? i can only assign it to some occult cause. "i remain, dear sir, "yours faithfully, "'i. walton.'" in this instance it is, of course, very difficult to tell whether the phenomena is subjective or objective. presuming it to be objective, which i am inclined to believe it was, then it was either the earth-bound spirit of some particularly vicious person who was in some way connected with the house, or else it was a vice elemental attracted to the house either by the foul thoughts of some occupant or by some murder formerly committed there. writing to me again on june th, , mr. "i. walton" says:-- "dear sir, "i am quite willing that you should find a place for my experience in your forthcoming book. i think i omitted one detail of the spectre: it had bright yellow hair worn in ringlets extending barely as far as the shoulders. "yours faithfully, "'i. walton.'" another case in which there is little or no doubt of the apparition being a vice elemental was related to me by mrs. bruce, whose husband was recently stationed in india. her narrative is as follows:-- "we once lived in a bungalow that had been built on the site of a house whose inhabitants had been barbarously murdered by the sepoys during the indian mutiny, and we had not occupied it many days before we were disturbed by hearing a curious, crooning noise coming from various parts of the building. the moment we entered a room, whence the noise seemed to proceed, there was silence, while the instant our backs were turned it recommenced. we never saw anything, however, until one day when my husband, hearing the sounds, hurriedly entered the room in which he fancied he could locate them. he then saw the blurred outlines of something--he could only describe as semi-human--suddenly rise from one of the corners and dart past him. the disturbances were so worrying that we eventually left the house." in this case the amount of blood spilt on the site of the bungalow would in itself be a sufficient cause for the hauntings, and my only surprise is that it did not attract many more elementals of this species. miss frances sinclair had an uncanny experience whilst travelling by rail between chester and london last autumn. on entering a tunnel, at about six in the evening, miss sinclair was quite positive there was no one in the compartment saving herself and her dog. judge then her astonishment and dismay, when she suddenly saw, seated opposite her, the huddled-up figure of what she took to be a man with his throat cut! he had two protruding fishy eyes, which met hers in a glassy stare. he was dressed in mustard-coloured clothes, and had a black bag by his side. miss sinclair was at once seized with a violent impulse to destroy herself, and whilst her dog was burying its nose in the folds of her dress and exhibiting every indication of terror, miss sinclair was doing all she could to prevent herself jumping out of the carriage. just when she thought she must succumb and was on the verge of opening the door, the tunnel ended, the phantasm vanished, and her longing for self-destruction abruptly ceased. she had never before, she assures me, experienced any such sensations. here, of course, it is impossible to say whether what she witnessed was subjective or objective, but assuming the latter, then i am inclined to think that the apparition, judging by its appearance and the desires it generated, was a vice elemental, and not a phantasm of the dead. it need not necessarily have been attached to the compartment in which she happened to see it, but may have haunted the tunnel itself, manifesting itself in various ways. an author, whom i will designate mr. reed, told me a few weeks ago, that he and his brother, on going upstairs one evening, had seen the figure of a man with a cone-shaped head suddenly stalk past them, and, bounding up the stairs, vanish in the gloom. though naturally very surprised, neither mr. reed nor his brother were in the least degree frightened. on the contrary, they were greatly interested, as the phantasm answered so well to their ideas of a bogey! as both brothers saw it, and neither of them were in the least degree nervous, i am inclined to think that this phantom was a vagrarian, and that its presence in the house was due either to some prehistoric relic that lay buried near at hand, or to the loneliness and isolation of the place. mrs. h. dodd had a strange experience with an elemental. "waking up one night many years ago," she tells me, "i saw a tall figure standing by my bedside. it appeared to have a light inside it, and gave the same impression that a hand does when held in front of a candle. i could see the red of the flesh and dark-blue lines of the ribs--the whole was luminous. what the face was like i do not know, as i never got so far, being much too frightened to look. it bent over me, and i hid my head in the bedclothes with fright. when i told my parents about it at breakfast, to my surprise no one laughed at me; why, i do not know, unless the house was haunted and they knew it. my brother said he had seen a tall figure disappear into the wall of his room in the night." as mrs. dodd adds that a near relative of hers died about that time, it is, of course, possible that the phantasm was that of the latter, although from the possibilities of grotesqueness suggested by what she saw of the ghost, as well as from the fact that the house was newly built in a neighbourhood peculiarly favourable to elementals, i am inclined to assign it to that class of apparitions. some months ago i received from the baroness von a---- the following account of a haunting experienced by her family:-- "dear mr. o'donnell" (she writes), "i should be much obliged if you would tell me the meaning of the things witnessed by my grandmother, lady w----, widow of general sir b. w----. i must first tell you that she was always a most truthful, sensible and unimaginative woman, that i am quite sure she would not have invented or added to anything she told so often. the story is thus:-- "during the fifties or sixties, she and my grandfather, then colonel w----, went to stay with some very old friends of theirs, colonel and mrs. v----, at their place in the country: i forget the name, but think it was near worcester. neither of my grand-parents had ever heard of anything supernatural in connection with the v----'s house, yet my grandmother told me she felt a sense of the most acute discomfort the minute she entered her friends' house. this, however, passed off until, having occasion to go upstairs to her room after dinner to fetch her needlework, she felt it again on crossing the hall. scarcely had she started to mount the stairs than she distinctly heard footsteps behind her. she stopped, so did they; so, thinking it a trick of imagination, she went on, when the footsteps went on, too. they could not possibly be the echo of hers, as she heard the sound of her own, and the others were quite different, lighter and shorter. they followed her to the door of her bedroom, the door of which she quickly shut and bolted, as she was feeling very frightened, but all the time she felt the footsteps were waiting for her outside. at last she made up her mind to go down again, but scarcely had she emerged from her room and started to go down the corridor, when the footsteps recommenced. thoroughly frightened, she ran to the drawing-room, never stopping till she was in the midst of her friends, but hearing all the while the light steps flying after her. they stopped only when she entered the drawing-room. on mrs. v---- remarking on her pale face, my grandmother told her what had happened. mrs. v---- then announced that the footsteps were a common occurrence, that nearly every one in the house had heard them, and that a thorough investigation had been made without result--there was no explanation. my grandmother heard the footsteps on several other occasions. "the other manifestations occurred during her stay in the same house. it was some days after the last occurrence, that my grandfather had occasion to go up to town with colonel v----, leaving my grandmother alone. quite contrary to her usual habit, when bedtime came she felt unaccountably nervous, and therefore asked a friend, miss r----, who was also a guest at the v----'s, to stay with her for the night. they went to bed and to sleep, but not for long. they were both awakened by the clock on the landing outside striking twelve, when they both sat up in bed simultaneously, owing to their hearing the most unaccountable knocking over their heads, although, otherwise, the house was absolutely silent. they listened, and heard it again and again, and my grandmother said it sounded to them both as if nails were being driven into a coffin. the knocking continued for some time, until, unable to bear it any longer, miss r---- jumped out of bed and said, 'well! i'm going to see what it is; it is evidently coming from the room on the floor above, just over us, and i must find out.' my grandmother volunteered to go with her, and they crept up to the second storey, the knocking getting louder each step they took. on arriving at the door whence the sounds--which were very distinct now--proceeded, they found the door was locked, and as they turned the handle for the second time the knocking ceased, to be replaced by the most gruesome and hellish laughter. too frightened to go on with their investigations, they fled downstairs, the laughter continuing as they ran. immediately they entered their room the knocking recommenced, and went on for a considerable time, and when it stopped, being both too frightened to sleep, they lit a lamp and talked till the morning. when the housemaid brought them their tea, she remarked on their worn looks, and on being told the reason, said, 'oh, dear! that's mr. harry's room, and it's always kept locked when he is away. if only nothing has happened to him!' "during the day a telegram came to say that the eldest boy, harry, who was then in london, had died during the night; they did not even know he was ill. "one thing i ought to mention is that a large cage of doves stood outside on the second floor landing. as a rule, these birds are frightened at the smallest sound, but my grandmother says she noticed that they never moved, although the noise of the knocking and laughter was enough to waken any one." the baroness von a---- goes on to ask if i think the disturbances were due to phantasms of the dead or to elementals. i told her that, in my opinion, the knockings and laughter were due to one and the same agency, namely, that of an elemental which had attached itself to the house in the same way as other elementals--commonly known as family ghosts--attach themselves to families. very probably the elemental was attracted to the house in the first instance by some crime committed there, or it may even have been attracted to the soil prior to the building of the house. such spirits vary in their attitude to man. "the yellow boy," for instance, that haunted a certain room at knebworth, appearing periodically to whoever was sleeping there, and by gestures describing the manner of their approaching death, did not, when giving the warning, exhibit any glee or malice: his actions were perfectly mechanical and his expression neutral. for example, when the apparition appeared to lord castlereagh, it merely drew its hand three times across its throat, thus predicting the way his lordship would die. (lord castlereagh shortly afterwards committed suicide by cutting his throat.) other cases of death-warning in which there is no apparent malice are "the radiant boy" at corby castle, when the apparition is benevolent rather than otherwise, and the "drummer" at cortachy castle, when the phenomenon appears to be mischievous rather than malicious. on the other hand, that there is evil design and intention on the part of some death-warning phenomena is quite evident, to my mind, from the case of the clock to which i have alluded in chapter i.; a case which also proves, i think, that the fates of some, if not indeed of all of us, are pre-ordained, and that there are certain orders of elementals that not only have the power to warn us of these fates, but that can also be instrumental in accomplishing them. for instance, _re_ the clock that struck thirteen, and the lady who was killed in the taxi-cab accident, it will be remembered that the latter was of a very extraordinary nature--so extraordinary, in fact, that it really seems as if the elemental was the actual contriver of it--that it deliberately plotted the disaster, and that it was present at the time, predominating the thoughts and guiding the hands of the two drivers as they collided with one another. why it did so is difficult to conceive, unless, preferring solitude for its domain, it regarded mrs. wright as an obstacle in its way, and an intruder where it had the sole privilege of haunting. possibly, too, the house in which mrs. wright lived may be under some curse or ban, which necessitates those having the temerity to occupy it, paying the penalty of so doing with their lives, the time and nature of their deaths being decided by the phenomenon in charge. this supposition--namely, that elementals can be instrumental in working evil--coincides with my theory that diseases are primarily due to powers or spirits antagonistic to the human race, and that such powers or spirits exist in multitudinous forms; but whereas morbas have the widest range possible, the other two species of elementals, _i.e._, vice elementals and clanogrians, or family ghosts, are confined to certain families and houses. miss rolands, a friend of mine, who is an artist, gives me an experience that once happened to her. "i am afraid i will tell this story very badly," she begins, "but i will do my little best. i remember it all so well, though i was little more than a child at the time. i lived with my grandparents, aunts, and sister in an old house in birkenhead. the house was a very high one. it had both attics and cellars, and in one of the attics there was a bloodstain, due, so i was told, to a murder of a particularly horrible nature, that had once been perpetrated there, and on account of which the house was reputed to be haunted. rumour said that in bygone days the house had been inhabited by priests, and that it was one of them who had been killed, his body being taken away in a barrel! in spite, however, of the bloodstain and the grim tales in connection with it, my sisters and i, at the commencement of our tenancy of the house, used to play in the attic, and nothing happened. but at last there came a night when we awoke to the fact that there was a ghastly amount of truth in what we had heard. some time after we had all gone to bed, we were all aroused (even my practical old grandfather) by three loud knocks on one of the doors which each of us fancied was our own. then there was silence, and then, from the very top of the house where the attic was situated, a barrel was rolled down the stairs!--bump! bump! bump! when it reached each separate landing, there was a short interval as if the barrel was settling itself before beginning its next journey, and then again, bump! bump! fainter and fainter, until it reached the cellar, when the sounds ceased. when this stage was reached, we used to light tapers and all look out of our respective doors with white scared faces and hair that literally felt as if it were standing on end, and then, after a few seconds of breathless silence we flew with one accord to one room, where we remained, packed like herrings, till the morning. this strange, mysterious occurrence happened at least three times to my knowledge, and i can vouch for its absolute truth, as can my aunts and sister, and as could my grandparents, if they were alive. without any accurate details with regard to the murder, it is impossible to say definitely to what class of phantasms this haunting was due. one might attribute it entirely to the work of impersonating elementals, entirely to phantasms of the dead, or to both impersonating elementals and phantasms of the dead. i have recently been seeking for information concerning pixies, and as the result of my enquiries have received replies from several people (whose social position and consequent sense of honour are a guarantee of their veracity) declaring they have seen this species of elemental. one of my informants, miss white, who lives in west cornwall, tells me that on one occasion, when she was crossing some very lonely fields, almost within sight of castle-on-dinas, she suddenly saw a number of little people rise from among the boulders of granite on the top of a hill facing her; they were all armed with spears and engaged in a kind of mimic battle, but, on miss white approaching them, they instantly vanished, nor did she ever see them again. i can quite imagine that the hill, where miss white alleges she saw these little phantasms, is haunted, as the whole of that neighbourhood (with which i have been acquainted for some years) is most suggestive of every kind of elemental. there are, for example, on castle-on-dinas, the remains of an ancient celtic village, and i have no doubt the locality has experienced many violent deaths, and that many prehistoric people lie buried there. another of my correspondents, mrs. bellew, says:--"in the winter of - i was suffering from delicate lungs, and was advised to have a fire in my bedroom night and morning. one night, between eleven and twelve, i was awakened suddenly by a coal falling into the fender, and heard a small voice, resembling the squeaking of a mouse, say, 'we did that! you didn't know it,' then there followed shrill laughter. i sat up in bed so as to command a view of the fireplace, and saw sitting on a live coal two little beings about six inches high, with human faces and limbs and white skins. "quite naturally i answered, 'i knew perfectly well it was you.' at the sound of my voice they vanished at once, and i, only then, realised how strange an experience i had had. the whole incident only occupied a minute or two." of course, it is very difficult to think that this was not entirely subjective, and were it not for the fact that mrs. bellew is so positive that the phenomena were objective, i should be inclined to believe otherwise. still, it is very delightful to think there may be such a pleasant type of elemental. an interesting incident occurred to the rev. g. chichester, with whom i had some correspondence two years ago. it was the only psychic experience he had had, and took place at a druid's circle in the north of england. as he was examining the stones of the circle, he suddenly became aware of a "death-like smell" (to quote his own words) and the sense of some approaching presence. retreating hastily to a distance, he then perceived a figure clad in white or light grey glide from the adjoining wood and vanish near the largest stone of the cromlech. the circle was in a pine wood, and under one of the stones which had been dug up in the late seventies of the last century an urn had been found, which urn is now in a museum. the rev. g. chichester informed me that manifestations of an unpleasant nature had also followed the lifting of a stone in a celebrated cromlech in cumberland, so that he was inclined to think psychic phenomena invariably followed the disturbance of any of the stones. though mr. chichester did not give me any very definite idea of what he saw, it seems to me highly probable that it was a barrowvian, or the phantasm of a prehistoric man; the latter, being thoroughly animal, would possess no soul, and his spirit would doubtless remain earth-bound _ad infinitum_. on the other hand, of course, it might have been a vagrarian. of the appearance of spirit lights i have had abundant evidence. mrs. w----, of guilsborough, with whom i am well acquainted, informs me that on awaking one night she found the room full of the most beautiful coloured lights, that floated in mid-air round the bed. they were so pretty that she was not in the least alarmed, but continued to watch them till they suddenly vanished. the darkness of the night, the inclemency of the weather, and the situation of the room precluded the probability of the lights being produced by any one outside the house. in the memoirs of a famous lady artist i have just been editing, i have given an account of blue lights seen by her and her husband in their bedroom. on this occasion the manifestations filled the eye-witnesses with horror, and the husband, in his endeavours to ward them off the bed, struck at them with his hand, when they divided, re-uniting again immediately afterwards. i am inclined to think that in both instances the lights were due to the presence of some form of elemental in the initial stage of materialisation; but whereas the beauty of the lights and the absence of fear in the first case suggests that the phantasms belonged to some agreeable type of elemental, very likely of the order of pixies, the uniform blueness and the presence of fear in the latter case suggests that the lights were due to some terrifying and vicious form of elemental, that was in all probability permanently attached to the house. these lights seem to resemble in some respects those seen from time to time in wales, though in the latter case the phenomena appear with the purpose of predicting death. a description is given of them in "frazer's magazine." they would seem to be closely allied with the corpse candles, or canhyllan cyrth, also seen in wales, an account of which is given in "news from the invisible world," a work by t. charley, who collected his information (so i understand from an announcement on the title-page) from the works of baxter, wesley, simpson, and other writers. these candles are so called because their light resembles in shape that of a candle; in colour it is sometimes white, sometimes of various shades of blue. if it is pale blue and small, it predicts the death of an infant; if big, an adult. the writer then narrates several cases relative to the appearance of these lights, the concluding one running thus: "about thirty-four or thirty-five years since, one jane wyatt, my wife's sister, being nurse to baronet rud's three eldest children and (the lady being deceased) the lady controller of that house, going late into a chamber where the maidservants lay, saw there no less than five of these lights together. it happened a while after, the chamber being newly plastered and a grate of coal fire therein kindled to hasten the drying up of the plastering, that five of the maidservants went there to bed, as they were wont; but in the morning they were all dead, being suffocated in their sleep with the steam of the newly tempered lime and coal. this was at langathen, in carmarthenshire." these lights do not appear to have ever reached any further stage of materialisation, though i imagine they possess that capability and that they are in reality some peculiarly grim form of elemental--as grim, maybe, as the drummers and pipers of scotland, and other glanogrians or family ghosts, with which they would seem to be closely connected. of noises, that are popularly attributed to poltergeists, but which i think are due either to phantasms of the dead or to vagrarian, impersonating or vice elementals, i have received many accounts. miss dulcie vincent, sister to the society beauty (whose experience i shall give later on), and herself a well-known beauty, says:-- "when i was staying with my uncle some years ago in his house in norfolk, we used to hear the most remarkable noises at night, which no one could in any way explain. for example, there were tremendous crashes as if all the crockery in the house was being dashed to pieces on the kitchen tiles, whilst at other times we heard heavy thuds and bumps as if furniture were being moved about wholesale from one room to another. one night, the noises were so great that my uncle took his gun and went downstairs, making sure that there were burglars in the house; but the moment he opened the door of the room whence the sounds proceeded, there was an intense hush, and nothing was to be seen. a few nights after this incident, i was awakened by hearing my bedroom door slowly open. i looked, but saw no one. seized with ungovernable terror, i then buried my head under the bedclothes, when i distinctly heard soft footsteps approach the bed. there was then a silence, during which i instinctively felt some antagonistic presence close beside me. then, to my indescribable terror, the bedclothes were gently pulled from my face, and i felt something--i knew not what--was peering down at me and trying to make me look. exerting all my will power, however, i am thankful to say i kept my eyes tightly closed, and the thing at length stealthily withdrew, nor did i ever experience it again. "my uncle's house was built on the site of some old cottages, in one of which lived a mad woman, but whether the disturbances were due to her phantasm or not, i cannot, of course, say." neither can i! though i should think it not at all improbable, as many hauntings of a similar nature are undoubtedly caused by the earth-bound spirits of the mad, which accounts for the senseless crashings and thumpings! miss featherstone, a lady residing in hampshire, has also had an experience with similar phenomena. "about six years ago," she informs me, "after my sister's death, i had a very unpleasant form of psychism" (i quote her own words), "which has only lately ceased. things used to disappear and reappear in a very strange way. though it was apparently uncanny, it was, of course, difficult to prove absolutely they had not been moved by physical means. the first time the phenomena took place was during the visit of a very practical friend. she had been writing, and had put her materials together, and was walking out of the room, when her pen was whisked out of her hand. she looked about everywhere, she shook her dress (which was quite a new one), but the pen had vanished--it was nowhere to be seen. then she went upstairs, put on her walking shoes, hat, and gloves, and went to the railway station, came straight home, and, on taking off her outdoor things, discovered the missing pen inside a tailor's stitching across the front of her dress! she could not find any opening where it could have got in, and was obliged to unpick part of the dress to get it out. i wanted her to send an account of the incident to the s.p.r., but as she had a strong aversion to anything in the nature of publicity, i could not persuade her to do so. after this things constantly disappeared, and reappeared in a prominent position after every one had searched the place. i think, and hope, however, that this has now ceased, as it procured me a very bad reputation with several servants, who emphatically declared i was in league with the evil one." in a subsequent letter she writes:--"the house in which my poltergeist experiences took place was in dawlish, but the annoyances followed me to london. i had been sitting at friendly _séances_ with one or two friends at that time. at the beginning the phenomena seemed in some way associated with an old cupboard which i had bought second-hand, and which i still possess." if the disturbances were not brought about by human agency, then i think it highly probable that both the _séances_ at which miss featherstone had been attending and the oak chest may have been responsible for them. i am quite sure that whenever a genuine spirit manifestation takes place at a _séance_, that that manifestation is due either to the earth-bound spirits of people who were merely silly when in the body (and of these there have been, still are, and always will be a superabundance), to the earth-bound spirits of people who were bestial and lustful, or simply due to mischievous impersonating and other kinds of elementals. these latter, when once encouraged, are extremely difficult to shake off. they attach themselves to certain of the sitters, whom they follow to their homes, which they subsequently haunt. i have known many such instances; hence, i think it very probable that a mischievous elemental attached itself to miss featherstone at one of the _séances_ she attended, and, following her from place to place, pestered her with its unpleasant attentions. on the other hand, it is quite possible that the oak chest was haunted by some species of elemental, as is often the case with pieces of furniture, either old in themselves or constructed of antique wood--wood, for instance, that comes from a bog, an ancient forest, a mountain top, or any other spot frequented by vagrarians. miss featherstone gives me another experience she once had, and which is not without interest. "about seven years ago," she says, "my two sisters and i were staying at a farmhouse near chagford, on dartmoor, between thridly and gidleigh. we started one day to walk to the latter place, and went through the village and up a lane beyond, on to the open moor, where we found ourselves on a level piece of ground, with kes tor close by to our left, whilst on our right were three new-looking houses, with little gardens and wicket gates leading to them. i went into one to enquire if there were any rooms to let for the following year, and was shown over it, while my sisters waited on the moor for me. strange to say, i forgot to ask the name and address of the place, but it seemed on a perfectly straight road from gidleigh. when we got back to chagford, we asked our landlady where we had been, and she said the name of the place was berry down; so the next year we wrote there for rooms, but on arriving were astonished to find quite a different place--not on the open moor at all. we then set about looking for the three houses we had seen. we walked round gidleigh in every direction, enquiring of the postman, clergymen, farmers, and villagers, but none knew of any such houses, nor could we ever find the remotest traces of them. the day on which we saw them was bright and sunny, so that we could not possibly have been mistaken, and, moreover, we rested on the moor opposite them for some time, so that had they been mere optical illusions, we should have eventually become aware of the fact. several old gidleigh cottagers to whom we narrated the incident were of the opinion we had been 'pixie led.' is such a thing possible?" there are instances i know--though i cannot at present recall one--where people have seen and entered phantom houses, just as sailors have witnessed the phenomenon of the phantom ship--which i have heard has been seen again comparatively recently off the north cornwall coast--but whether such visions are due to pixies, or any other kind of elemental, i cannot, with certainty, say. taking into consideration, however, the numerous tricks elementals do play, and how they very often, i believe, suggest dreams, i see no reason why they should not have been responsible for the delusion of the three cottages. chapter iv. phantasms of the dead. though i head this chapter "phantasms of the dead," it is almost impossible to discriminate between phantasms of the dead, _i.e._, the actual earth-bound souls of the people, and elementals, whose special function it is to impersonate them. in the case of murder, whereas, i think it quite possible that the spirit of the actual murderer appears, i think it highly unlikely that the soul of his victim (save, of course, where the latter has led a vicious life) is equally earth-bound, but that what we see is merely an impersonating elemental, who, in company with the earth-bound soul of the homicide, nightly (or periodically) re-enacts the tragedy. in cases of suicide, too, i think the nature of the phantasms that subsequently appears largely depends on the life led by the suicide--if vicious the hauntings would be due to his earth-bound spirit, if moral to an impersonating elemental, but in either case vice elementals would in all probability be attached to the spot, when the hauntings would at once become dual (which so frequently happens). where the suicide is a criminal lunatic or epileptic imbecile, i believe the phenomenon seen is his or her actual spirit--i do not think such people have souls. by spirit, i mean the mere animal side of man's nature--that force, which is solely directed to the attainment and furtherance of carnal desires; by soul, that force, which recognizes and strives after all that tends to make the mind pure and beautiful. with regard to wraithes, _i.e._, apparitions seen shortly after death, i think that in the majority of cases at all events, it is the actual superphysical body of the deceased that appears, prior to its removal to other spheres, and that, except during this interval, the souls of the rational and moral never return to the material world. in all other cases of hauntings the phenomena are due either to the earth-bound spirits of the depraved, to the silly, _i.e._, those who, without being actually cruel or lustful, have no capacity for the culture of mind; to criminal lunatics, and epileptic imbeciles; or else to elementals, benevolent, neutral and otherwise. cases. mrs. p., the wife of an army medical officer, living in my neighbourhood, says: "some years ago i was travelling to southampton, with my little daughter, a child of four. my nephew, who lived in mare street, hackney, asked me to pass the night at his house. it was a large building, with long passages, out of which many doors opened, and, close to the back of it, there lay a cemetery. "we arrived, to find no one at home but the servants. my nephew had left a message for me, asking me to make myself thoroughly 'at home' and go to bed, if i felt tired after the journey. "my little daughter and i shared a big room with a double bed. i did not sleep for some time on account of a curious noise. though there was no wind, all the doors in the passage rattled on their hinges and bumped about, as if someone was going along trying the handles. the noise lasted for some time, and disturbed me a great deal so that i did not sleep at all well. "in the morning my nephew said, 'well, aunt, i hope you were comfortable and had a good night?' 'oh, everything was comfortable,' i replied, 'but i did not pass a good night. there is something very strange about the doors in your upstairs passage. they seemed to be kicking about on their hinges for hours.' "he looked at me in rather a curious way, and said, 'i suppose you did not know that my mother died in the room where you slept--in fact, in the very same bed.' "'indeed, i did not,' i answered, 'and, if i had known it, i should never have accepted your hospitality.' "well, i went on my journey to india, and thought no more about the matter. but, when i returned, a year or two later, i happened to speak of it to one of my nieces, who instantly gave me her experience in the same house. "'after our mother died,' she said, 'the room was shut up and it remained so for some time. then my sister and i decided that we should use it, and we slept there together. the first night we were not disturbed, but the second night i woke and saw our mother sitting in a chair before the large dressing glass. my sister was asleep, but i suppose i must have made some movement which roused her, for she awoke, and, without a word from me, cried out--'there's mother! mother has come back to us!' thus, you see, we both saw the apparition plainly and had not the least doubt as to who it was." the manifestations in this case were, i think, due to a benevolent elemental that impersonated the dead lady with the object of conveying some message from the soul of the latter to her living relatives and friends. the impression conveyed by the phenomenon to the girls, would be that their mother was still cognisant of them; whilst the elemental would, in all probability, find some means of communicating the welcome tidings to the mother that her daughters had not forgotten her. mrs. p---- narrated to me another case. "my husband," she said, "attended a certain old man and his wife who were very devoted to one another. they were quite elderly people, but sound and sane--not at all fanciful or inclined to be foolish. when the old man died, his wife felt his loss most dreadfully. she never quite got over it, and, when she took to her bed with her last illness, she was constantly saying that she wished she could see her husband again. her attendants told her that she ought not to say such a thing, but the wish grew upon her, till, one day, being alone, she spoke to him and begged him to come back. "immediately he appeared to be sitting in a chair by her bedside. but, though her wish was gratified, she was terrified. "'go away, go away!' she cried, 'i don't want you.' the vision vanished. some few days later, she died. i often used to sit with her, and i am sure that she was quite reasonable and in full possession of her wits." here, of course, one has to entirely depend upon the evidence of the deceased who, being ill at the time, might easily have been the victim of an illusion--at least so it seems to me. i merely quote the case to show that i am not always ready to accept as objective the phenomena witnessed by a single individual. the case of miss v. st. jermyn, a lady living in the north of london, is a great deal stronger. "my father," she says, "was the rector of an immense parish, which was divided at his death. he had ten curates. the senior curate, who was appointed to succeed him in the more important division, was shortly afterwards made a canon, so i shall speak of him as canon jervis. he owed everything he had to my father, and he was always ready to say this and talk of his obligations to my father. i mention this to show the sort of regard he had for my father. we on our side, my brothers, sisters and i, always looked on him as a very great friend, having known him all our lives. there was never anyone with whose appearance we were more familiar, and he certainly was rather remarkable looking. standing at least six feet and proportionately broad, he had a square face, rough hewn features and very thick crêpé hair, which was getting grizzled. he was always very well dressed. everyone was much struck with his appearance and i was constantly being asked who he was. "early one january (about the rd, i think), some years ago, he died, and we were all so grieved that we at once wrote expressing our sympathy to his family. we certainly thought about him a good deal, though his death was not one of those great sorrows which leave no room in one's mind for the remembrance of anything else. "about the th of february (of that year), my brother, sister and myself went to tea with a friend, a well-known artist at the pembroke studios, kensington. it was a very pleasant party and we stayed late; indeed, we were nearly the last to leave. for about fifteen minutes before we left the studios, i was talking to our host, who was showing us a curious old french bible with coloured illustrations. i mention this to show how my mind had been engaged. "after leaving the studio, on our way to the high street, kensington, we had to pass along one side of edwardes' square. there the houses have little gardens with iron railings and the pathway is very narrow. we were walking one after the other, my brother in front, my sister next, and i last, when, suddenly, i saw canon jervis as clearly and plainly as i have ever in my life seen anyone before or since. he passed me on the side next the railings. i cannot in any way explain why i did, or said, nothing at the time, saving that i was too overcome with amazement. we went on and got into an omnibus, which took us to the street where we live. as we walked along the latter, i again saw the canon coming down a side street and my sister immediately exclaimed: 'there is canon jervis! looking just as if he were alive!' my brother, who was a little way in front of us, did not speak--he had seen nothing. "looking back on the incident i cannot explain why we neither attempted to look after or follow him. but i think most people at the time of seeing an apparition seem to be in a sense paralysed with astonishment and quite lose their presence of mind." as the manifestation occurred so soon after the canon's death, i am inclined to think that in this instance it was a _bona fide_ phantasm of the dead. a case of a haunting with a purpose was related to me recently by a mrs. craven. whilst visiting at a country house, mrs. craven often used to retire to the library for a few minutes' quiet reading, when she invariably found a priest sitting there, in a peculiarly pensive attitude. wondering who he was, as she never saw him in any other part of the house, but not liking to disturb him, mrs. craven used to sit and steal furtive glances at him from over her book, until she felt she could no longer stand being in his presence, when she made her escape as silently as possible from the room. this went on for some days, until determining one morning to brave it out, she remained in her seat till the priest somewhat electrified her by suddenly pointing in a very agitated manner to the book shelves. thinking him queerer than ever, but attributing his inertness to some possible physical affliction, mrs. craven went to the bookcase and after some trouble discovered the book he wanted. but on bringing it to him, he motioned her to turn over the leaves, and to her astonishment the book seemed to open at the place he indicated, where she perceived a loose sheet of paper covered with writing. obeying his tacit injunctions she threw the document into the fire, whereupon the priest at once vanished. much startled, mrs. craven related what had occurred to the hostess, who coolly informed her that the library was well known to be haunted by just such an apparition as she had described, which, however, only appeared periodically. so far, mrs. craven does not think it has been seen again. the identity of the priest being unknown, one cannot say for certain whether this phenomenon was a phantasm of the dead or an impersonating elemental, though, from the lives of self-indulgence led by so many priests in the past, i am inclined to believe it was a genuine phantasm of the dead. i think the incident of the document is quite sufficient in itself to prove the manifestations were objective. there is a well authenticated story current in clifton (bristol) of an apparition appearing (in the home of a well-known professional man) comparatively recently, with a purpose. miss debrett, an artist belonging to one of the cornish art colonies, had a curious experience at moret, which experience i will tell in her own words:-- "from paris to moret-sur-loing is not a very long run, two hours at the most. my friend, an artist, and myself went there in the month of july. we 'put up' at the hotel de la chalette. we had rooms adjoining one another, my friend using hers as a studio in the daytime. my room was very close, the roof sloped horribly and i experienced a queer shrinking sensation the moment i entered it. however, overcoming such feelings i resolved to sleep there and say nothing of my misgivings to my friend. at two o'clock in the morning of my first night there, i was awakened by little tappings and a feeling of terror. i tried in vain to sleep but could not, the presence of some ghost-like creature was strongly about me. i lit my candle and placed it on the stand beside my bed, trying to assure myself that this at least would protect me from apparitions, but the feeling of the invisible presence remained. i was immeasurably relieved when morning came, though i did not mention a word of what had happened to my friend. "night after night the sensations were repeated with ever increasing intensity, until i could instinctively feel the presence of a woman who appeared to be enduring the most severe mental and physical pain. i could feel her close to me, bending backwards and forwards and writhing to and fro, and a deadly fear seized me lest she would clutch hold of me in her throes of agony. once i saw her shadow on the wall. apart from the unmistakeable likeness it bore to a woman, i am sure it was her shadow, as i looked carefully about the room, removing sundry articles of furniture to assure myself the phenomenon was not due to them. it was not, for whatever i did in no way disturbed it--it still remained plainly and ominously outlined on the wall. "about the second week of my stay in moret-sur-loing, i was taken ill with a violent cold and feverish pains. i could not discover any cause, though my friend attributed it to a night's rowing on the river loing. for a few days i was confined to my room and my only consolation was to look at a little pot of flowers which i had bought at the local market. the flowers were bright scarlet and in pleasant contrast to the general gloominess of the apartment. at last, however, utterly worn out with my illness and the long succession of harassing nights, i persuaded my friend to leave the hotel, which she reluctantly did, and we returned to england. "on our way home we met a fellow artist who told us she had also been staying quite recently at moret, and then it transpired that she, too, had had rooms at the hotel de la chalette, but had given them up as they were so depressing. upon hearing this i related my experiences, whereupon she exclaimed, 'how odd! a girl whom i knew very well used to go very often to the hotel de la chalette, and occupied the very room you slept in. she was very much attached to the place and when she was dying in england continually expressed a longing to be there. she died in the very greatest agony--just such agony as that of the woman you describe--and fought against death to the very last. she was most unresigned and rebellious. i wonder if the sensations you experienced were in any way due to her?'" i think so without a doubt, and that the phantasm miss debrett saw is either that of the earth-bound spirit of the unhappy girl who, when dying, wished herself at the hotel de la chalette, or that of an impersonating elemental;--let us hope it is the latter. death wishes are, i am sure, frequently fulfilled, and, consequently, cannot be regarded both by utterer and audience with too much seriousness. the strong desire of the girl to cling to life--on this earth--proving that her spiritual aspirations were strictly limited--was almost a sufficient guarantee that her spirit would remain earth-bound. miss viola vincent, a well-known society beauty, has furnished me with an account of a house presumably haunted by a phantasm of the dead. it is a large country house not very far from london, and the case was reported to miss vincent by an old servant of the name of garth. garth, who had no idea at the time that the house was haunted, was taking a short nap on her bed one afternoon when she heard the door slowly open and on looking up, saw to her astonishment a little sinister old man, who tiptoed up to her bed and, leaning over her, placed his finger on his lips as if to enjoin silence (an unnecessary precaution as garth was far too terrified either to utter a sound or to move). on perceiving her fright, a subtle smile of satisfaction stole over the man's face, which garth describes as yellow and wizened. he left the bed and, turning round, glided surreptitiously through the open doorway. greatly mystified, garth mentioned the affair to the other servants, who, instead of laughing at her, at once exclaimed, "why, you've seen old s----. he committed a murder, just outside the door of your room, many years ago, and is frequently seen about the house and grounds. if you examine the boarding in the passage carefully, you will see the bloodstains." as garth refused to sleep in the room again, a valet of one of the visitors was put there, and he experienced precisely the same phenomenon. garth constantly saw the phantasm of the man in various parts of the building. sometimes she would meet him face to face on a staircase, sometimes he would creep stealthily after her, down one of the numerous, gloomy corridors. indeed, she never seemed to be free from him, and, in the end, her nerves became so upset that, although the situation was an excellent one, she was obliged to relinquish it. when in the orchard, garth, on several occasions, heard the sound of galloping horses and saw the misty figures of two people engaged in earnest conversation. on approaching them, however, they invariably melted into fine air. miss vincent enquired into the case, and, eventually, got into communication with other people who had witnessed the same phenomena. i think it is highly probable that the apparition of the old man, at any rate, was a phantasm of the dead, that is to say, the earth-bound spirit of the murderer; for despite the tendency there is nowadays for pseudo-humanitarians to sympathise with the perpetrators of revolting and cruel murders, it is very certain that the higher occult powers hold no such erroneously lenient views, and that he who spills human blood is bound by that blood to the earth. hence murderers--or at least such murderers as are not genuinely repentent--are chained for an unlimited time to the scenes of their crimes, which they are compelled willy-nilly to re-enact nightly. another case of haunting by the phantasm of a murderer, or murderers, was told me by miss dalrymple, aunt of the famous singer, t.c. dalrymple. her experiences began the night of her arrival at "the lichens," the house her nephew was then renting, near felixstowe. on retiring to rest she found the servants had made a very big fire in her room, and growing somewhat apprehensive about it, she got out of bed and took some of it off. then, thinking that her alarm was rather foolish, and that, as there was a proportionately large fender, no danger could possibly arise, she put the coal on again and got back into bed. a few minutes afterwards the room was pervaded with a current of icy cold air, that blew over the bed and rustled through her hair. the next instant, she felt a cold, heavy hand laid on one of her shoulders, and she was steadily and mercilessly pressed down and down. her terror was now so intense that she could neither move nor articulate a sound, and she could almost hear the violent palpitation of her heart. after what seemed to her an eternity, but which was, in all probability, only a few seconds, the hand was removed, and miss dalrymple then heard seven loud thumps on the table at the foot of the bed, after which there was silence, and the manifestations ceased. miss dalrymple, however, was too upset to sleep, and lay awake all night in a great agony of mind, lest there should be any further disturbances. when the maid brought her some tea in the morning, the latter immediately exclaimed, "oh, madam, how dreadfully ill you look!" to which miss dalrymple replied, "yes! i have been feeling very ill, but do not, on any account, tell your master or mistress, as it will only worry them." miss dalrymple then took one of the older servants into confidence, and asked her if the house was haunted. "well, madam," was the reluctant response, "people do say that there is a house in this village that is haunted by the ghost of a murdered lady, but i am not quite sure which house it is"--an answer which implied much. miss dalrymple did not have any further experiences there herself, but some time afterwards one of her great-nieces remarked to her, "did you know, auntie, 'the lichens' was haunted?" and went on to say that on one occasion, when going upstairs, she had seen the figure of a woman in a grey dress bending over the basin in the bath-room as if engaged in rinsing her hands. thinking it was the head nurse, she was going on her way unconcernedly when she saw the nurse coming towards her from quite a different part of the house. greatly astonished, she at once made enquiries, in reply to which the nurse assured her that she had not been in the bath-room for at least an hour. the figure in grey was repeatedly seen, always in or near the bath-room, and always appearing as if rinsing her hands. once, too, when one of the children was alone in a downstairs room that opened on to the lawn, a hideous, trampish old man, carrying a sack, approached the window, and, after peeping in at the child with an evil smile, placed his fingers knowingly alongside his nose and glided noiselessly away into the shrubbery. the child ran out at once and asked the gardener to look for the man, but despite a vigorous search, no such person could be found. another inmate of the house, on going one day to her bedroom, heard something behind her, and, turning round, perceived, to her unmitigated horror, the luminous trunk of a man, which had apparently been dismembered. the body, which was bobbing up and down in mid-air, approached her rapidly, and, moving aside to let it pass, she saw it vanish through the door of the room mrs. dalrymple had occupied. after this ghastly manifestation, t.c. dalrymple, esq., fearing, for the sake of his family, to remain any longer in such a place, left "the lichens," part of which has since been pulled down and rebuilt. miss dalrymple's heart has never been sound since she felt the ghostly hand on her shoulder, the horror of which phenomenon, as any of her friends can testify, turned her hair white. as to the cause of the hauntings, that must be entirely a matter of conjecture, since, with regard to the former history of the house, nothing definite is known. a very vague rumour is current that many years ago it was the _rendezvous_ of all manner of rips and _roués_, and, strange though it may seem, the fact that the phantasm of the woman, seen there, was wearing a modern costume, does not preclude the idea that the said phantasm belonged to a bygone period. such an anachronism is by no means uncommon in cases of haunting, but it renders the task of theorising on ghostly phenomena all the more difficult. it may be asked with regard to this case--had the phantasm of the woman any connection with that of the tramp, the mutilated body and the hand; and my answer to that question is, that all four phenomena were, in all probability, closely allied with one another. very possibly an old man had been murdered there by his paramour, who, after cutting up his body, had bribed a tramp to dispose of it, in which case the house would, of course, be haunted by the earth-bound spirits of both the victim and agents of the crime. but it is quite possible, supposing the phenomena are genuine phantasms of the dead, that the tragedy did not take place in that house at all, but was enacted in some far-away spot, one or more of the principals being in some way connected with "the lichens." however, as i have already said, it is one of those cases that must, by reason of the uncertain history of the house, always remain a mystery. a haunting of a similar nature occurred quite recently at a house near leeds. the place, which had stood empty for a very long while, was eventually taken on a lease by my informants, mr. and mrs. urquhart. neither of the latter had had any previous experience with the superphysical, at which both were more or less inclined to scoff. one evening, shortly after their arrival, mrs. urquhart was alone in the study, and, looking up from her needlework, saw what at first sight appeared to be a luminous disc--but which speedily developed into a head--emerge from the wall opposite, and, bobbing up and down in mid-air, slowly approach her. it was a woman's head, the woman having obviously been decapitated, the expression in the wide open staring eyes showing every indication of a cruel ending. the hair was long and matted, the skin startlingly white. mrs. urquhart was at first far too terrified to move or utter a sound, but as the ghastly object floated right up to her, the revulsion she experienced was so great that the spell of her inertness was broken and she fled from the room. when she told her husband what had occurred, he exclaimed laughingly, "why, my dear, i never knew you had such a vivid imagination! you will soon be asking me to believe in hobgoblins and pixies." whereupon mrs. urquhart bit her lips and was silent. however, after dinner mrs. urquhart, hearing a great commotion in the study, ran to see what was happening, and discovered her husband and his friend, looking ghastly white, thrashing the air with walking-sticks. catching sight of her, they both cried out, "we've seen the head--the beastly thing came out of the wall, as you described, and floated towards us!" on hearing this, mrs. urquhart recoiled in horror, nor could she be persuaded ever again to enter the room. her husband, whom the experience had effectually cured of scepticism, at once fell in with her proposal that they should immediately quit the house, and soon after their removal they learned that the place had been pulled down. from the fact, revealed by subsequent enquiries, that some years previously an old woman had been murdered there, it is quite evident to my mind that what the urquharts and their friend saw was both objective and superphysical; but whether the apparition was a phantasm of the dead, or an impersonating elemental, can only be decided by an adequate knowledge of the character of the murdered person in whose likeness the phenomenon appeared. hauntings of a very disturbing nature go on (or, at least, did so a short while ago) at a house in rugeley, where dreadful groans are frequently heard proceeding from a room on the ground floor. my informant, however, would not say whether or not the house was the one in which the notorious palmer poisoned his victims; but here again it seems more than probable, that the sounds are due to the presence of an elemental attached to the spot by the sacrifice of human blood. i am hoping, at no great future date, to make a series of investigations in houses that have been the scenes of unsolved mysteries, since i believe it quite possible that i should experience such superphysical demonstrations as would give me the direct clue to the identity of the perpetrators of the crimes. visions and dreams. the baroness von a----, in a recent letter to me, says:--"i wonder if it would interest you to hear of a rather strange occurrence that once befell my husband. he was staying in town at the time, and was asked to tea at the house of some friends of ours in westminster. the name of the friends is howard, and their house, which is very old, is in one of the old squares behind the abbey. my husband, an absolute sceptic himself, knew that the howards were interested in psychical research, but had never heard of any legend in connection with their house. one evening, after tea, which took place in a back room, my husband, more in a teasing spirit than anything else, suddenly exclaimed, 'look here! shall i tell you what i can see in this room?' (he is most insistent that at the time he spoke he saw nothing, but was preparing to make the whole thing up, and meant to tell the howards so afterwards.) 'i seem to be standing in a small garden. it is a dark night, and i see two men, dressed in the fashion of charles ii.'s time, just finishing digging a small grave, near the edge of which another man is standing holding in one hand a lantern of antique design. the two men have finished, the third waves his lantern slowly, and the door of the house which faces me (i feel it is this house, albeit somewhat different, though how i cannot say) opens, and out of it comes a fourth man, also dressed according to the charles ii. period, though in a very much richer costume. there is an expression of diabolical satisfaction in his eyes as they dwell on the face of the child he is carrying in his arms, and which, to my horror, i see has been murdered. the villain approaches the grave, into which he ruthlessly drops the body, and the diggers at once cover it with shovels full of earth. that is all i can see.' "to my husband's astonishment the howards were wildly excited, and told him that the legend connected with the house (and which they believed was only known to one or two people besides themselves) tallied detail for detail with the vision he had just witnessed. it was quite in vain that he protested he had seen nothing at all, but had invented the story just to 'have them on'--they would not believe him. it appears that in the time of charles ii., another house had occupied the site of the present one, though the garden was practically the same. a child had been murdered there for its inheritance, and had been buried in the garden where its bones had been subsequently found, after which the house had been pulled down and the present one built. i am sure my husband honestly thought he was inventing the vision. could it have been a case of suggestion?" yes, i am inclined to believe it was a case of suggestion, but of suggestion due to some superphysical objective presence that actually put the words of the story into the mouth of the narrator. i do not think the story was a chance invention, a mere coincidence, any more than i think the suggestion was telepathic. my next case deals with a dream, a lady, of the name of carmichael, had whilst staying in an old house in the punjab. she dreamed she was awakened by a lovely hindoo lady, who came to her bedside, and by signs implored her to follow her. this mrs. carmichael at once did, and the hindoo led her down winding passages and through numerous rooms, until they at length arrived in a courtyard with a well at the far end of it. the hindoo silently and mournfully approached the well, and, pointing down it, wrung her hands and disappeared. mrs. carmichael then woke to find herself bathed in perspiration; and the dream made such an impression on her that when she went to stay with some friends the next day, she told them about it. to her astonishment they were intensely excited. "why!" they exclaimed, "we know the place well, and you have described exactly the winding passages in that part of the house that has never been used since a hindoo lady was murdered there for her jewels some years ago. neither the murderer nor his booty was ever found." it was now mrs. carmichael's turn to be amazed, and she readily agreed to go with them to the house to see if she could find the well she had seen in her vision. accordingly they all set out, and, on reaching the house, appointed mrs. carmichael as guide. without any hesitation she at once made for the disused wing, and, leading the party through the rooms and down the passages she had seen in her dream, eventually brought them to the well in the courtyard. the well was then dug, and at the bottom lay a number of valuable diamond and pearl necklaces, rings and ear-rings! no body, however, was found, but when mrs. carmichael slept in the house again she dreamed no more of the hindoo lady. i unhesitatingly vouch for the truth of this story. the question now arises--to what cause could the vision be attributed? was it due to a telepathic communication from some living brain acquainted with the story, or did mrs. carmichael's superphysical body leave her material body and visit the scene she witnessed, or was it all suggested to her by some objective superphysical presence, presumably that of an impersonating and benevolently disposed elemental? i am inclined to think the last theory the most feasible. an account of another interesting dream has been sent me by miss featherstone, several of whose other psychic experiences i have already related. "in a dream," she says, "which occurred twenty-three years ago, i thought i was very much upset and worried, and was running up and down passages which i had never seen before, looking for something (i am not sure that i knew in my dream what i was looking for), and being unable to find it, i exclaimed, 'oh! i do wish arthur was here!' i woke up saying this. some months afterwards i was staying with a cousin in worcestershire, when she had an epileptic fit. all the servants were out excepting two young girls. the doctor came and ordered brandy, and i could not find the key of the cellar anywhere. i had never explored the downstairs of my cousin's house before, and as i raced down a long succession of passages in my search for the cellar key, i instantly recognised and identified the passages with those i had seen in my dream. moreover, to make the resemblance still more striking, my cousin arthur, who alone knew where the key was kept, was away, and i kept saying to myself, 'i would give anything if only arthur were here!' later in the day he returned with the key in his pocket." in this instance i think the superphysical body of miss featherstone, under the guidance of an elemental, separated itself from her material body whilst the latter was asleep, and visited the actual spot where the incident of the key took place. as to why the elemental should then have initiated miss featherstone into the trivial details only of an incident of the future, it is impossible to explain. one can only surmise that the act was an inconsequent one on the part of the elemental, or that it would have revealed more to her had not some unexpected interruption recalled miss featherstone's superphysical self. part iii. chapter v. the hauntings of the old sydersterne parsonage ( ), near fakenham, and a personal experience in sydenham. some weeks ago the rev. henry hacon, m.a., of searly vicarage, north kelsey moor, wrote to me, very kindly enclosing the following interesting letter which his father, many years ago, had received from the rev. john stewart, m.a., at that time rector of sydersterne, near fakenham. the letter, which deals exclusively with the then very much discussed hauntings at sydersterne parsonage, runs thus:-- sydersterne parsonage, near fakenham, _may , _. my dear sir, all this parsonage circle were gratified to learn that you and your family were recovered from the late epidemic. we are very sensible of your kind wishes, and shall be happy to see you at any time your press of business may allow you to leave swaffham. the interest excited by the noises in our dwelling has become quite intense throughout this entire district of country. the arrivals from every quarter proved at last so utterly inconvenient that we have been obliged to decline receiving any more. we were compelled to draw the line somewhere, and we judged it could not be more sensibly done than immediately after the highly respectable authentication of the noises furnished last thursday. on the night preceding and the thursday morning four god-fearing, shrewd, intelligent brother clergymen assembled at the parsonage, and together, with a pious and accomplished lady and a medical gentleman from holt (of eminence in his profession), joined mrs. stewart, my two eldest boys and myself, in watching. the clergymen were those of st. edmund's, norwich, of (here the writing is indiscernible owing to a tear in the ms.) docking, and of south creake. at ten minutes to two on thursday morning the noises commenced, and lasted, with very little pause, till two hours after daybreak. the self-confident were crestfallen, and the fancied-wise acknowledged their ignorance as the sun rose high. within the limits of any sheet of paper i could not give you even a sketch of what has taken place here. the smile of contented ignorance, or the sneer of presumption, cut but a poor figure when opposed to truth and fact--and the pharisaical cloak that is ostensibly worn to exclude "superstition" may secrete in its folds the very demon of "infidelity." arrangements are in progress to detect the most cunning schemes of human agency--but must be kept profoundly secret until the blow can be struck. the magistrates, clergy, and surrounding gentry continue to arrive at the parsonage, and offer us their public and private services in any way that can be at all considered useful. the marquis of cholmondeley's agent has gone to town resolved to lay the whole business before his lordship, and to suggest that a bow street officer should be sent down. i have likewise written to his lordship, who has been very kind to me. you may rely upon it, that no human means (at whatever expense) shall be neglected to settle the point as to human agency. to attain a right history of the sydersterne noises you must read the details of (here the writing is illegible, owing to a blot), that took place in the family of the wesleys in , their rectory being at epworth, in lincolnshire. the father's (the rev. s. wesley's) journal is transcribed by the great and good john wesley, his son. these noises never could be accounted for. i have already traced the existence of noises in sydersterne parsonage for thirty-six years back. i am told that mr. bullen, farmer, of swaffham (with whom you are intimate), lived about that time at creake (three miles from here), and recollects them occurring then. be kind enough to ask him if he remembers of what nature they, at that period, were, and how long they continued without intermission. favour me with the results of your enquiries. i think that but three of the generation then living now survive. the noises were here in . some ignoramus put the notices of them in the _east anglian_. in that account some things are correct, mixed up with much that is wrong. however, i have kept a regular diary or journal of all things connected with them, and which in due time shall be published. get the solution of these questions from mr. bullen for me, and, lest we should be wanderers, when you purpose coming over to us, let us know by post the day you mean to visit here. on saturday forenoon there will be a letter for james at mr. finch's, and which claxton is to take. kind compliments from all to all under your "roof tree." john stewart. commenting upon the hauntings, the rev. h. hacon, m.a., in a letter to me dated june , , says:-- "... here you have whatever further particulars i am able to send about the haunted house. some of them are among my earliest recollections. "i can remember my father, when relating some of them, seeing my infant eyes expressing delicious terror, i suppose, turning the conclusion into something comic, so that i might not go to my bed in fear and trembling. when older i heard particulars from one of mr. stewart's sons. "sometimes the noises heard at the parsonage were like the scratchings, not of a cat, but of a tiger, on the inner walls of the house, whilst at other times they resembled a shower of copper coins promiscuously falling. one sunday night, about the time mr. stewart came into residence, there were heard in the parsonage noises like the shifting about of heavy furniture. so that one who heard the disturbances said, 'well! i do wonder our new vicar should have his house set to rights on a sunday!' there was not, however, a living soul in the house. "the stewart family were, of course, in a way, burdened by curious visitors. but being very hospitable, they were always glad to see their friends, two of whom, swaffham contemporaries, mr. and mrs. seppings, were passing the day and night there, anxious, of course, to witness some of the phenomena. as it was drawing near bedtime, mr. seppings, before saying good night, went to a side table to take up a bedroom candlestick, saying, 'well! i don't suppose we shall hear anything to-night,' when, as his hand was about to grasp the candlestick, there came a stroke under the table and under the candlestick like that of a heavy hammer. miss stewart, the daughter of the house, after retiring to bed, would sometimes sing the evening hymn, when taps were heard on the woodwork of the bed beating time to the music. mr. stewart, whose wife's health at last became enfeebled under the stress, concluded that the phenomena were evidences of the presence of a troubled spirit, for after every effort was made to ascertain the cause of the disturbances, nothing was discovered that in any way pointed to human agency. "the marquis of cholmondeley, the patron of the living, had the ground round the house excavated to ascertain whether there was any vault underneath the house--none, however, was found. two bow street officers were sent to exercise their skill. they passed the night, armed with loaded pistols, in chambers opposite to one another. in the night, each, hearing a noise as if in the opposite chamber, came out with a loaded pistol with the intention of firing. but a mutual recognition ensuing, the catastrophe of each being shot by the other was averted. "the house, to the best of my belief, like a number of other old parsonages, was at length pulled down and a new one built in its stead...." in another letter my correspondent says:--"mr. stewart was a _quasi alumnus_ of the great greek scholar, dr. parr, and was a man of eminent local literary celebrity. mrs. stewart, his wife, was a daughter of an admiral mcdougall, so there was neither in them, nor in any of their children, any peasant or bourgeois predilection to superstition about ghosts." upon my writing to the rev. h. hacon, m.a., and asking him if he had given me an exhaustive account of all the phenomena that were experienced in the parsonage, he sent me the following list, which was a brief recapitulary of what he had already told me, with a few additions:-- ( ) the sound as of a huge ball descending upon the roof and penetrating to the ground floor. ( ) a sound as of metal coin showering down from above. ( ) scratching on the inner wall as of from the claws of a lion or tiger. ( ) on the occasion of a guest retiring for the night and putting his hand out for the night candlestick, a blow as from a hammer upon the under-side of the table where the candlestick was standing. the guest, by the way, had been expecting to hear the sounds, and was now concluding there would be none. ( ) the sound as of a hand on the woodwork of the bed, keeping time to the singing of the evening hymn by mrs. stewart's daughter, on the conclusion of the latter's daily devotions. ( ) the incident of the bow street officers. ( ) the incident of the shifting of the furniture. ( ) the screams as of a human being under torture. since after every precaution had been taken to guard against the possibility of trickery, the disturbances still continued, and were heard collectively, there can be little doubt they were superphysical. such being the case, i am inclined to attribute them to the presence of an elemental, though to what kind of elemental it is impossible for me to say with any certainty, as the history of the parsonage is unknown to me. since, however, the disturbances do not seem to have been the precursors of any misfortune to the stewarts, i can safely conclude that the elemental was not a clanogrian. it was, in all probability, either a vice elemental attracted thither by the past committal of some crime, or by the vicious thoughts of some former occupant, or a vagrarian drawn to the spot by its seclusiveness or by some relic of prehistoric times. i think the latter is the most probable, for the grotesque nature of the sounds are quite in accordance with the appearance and behaviour of the generality of vagrarians, who usually manifest their resentment of human trespassers, on what they presume to be their special preserves, by creating all manner of alarming disturbances. shortly before commencing this book, hearing rumours that a certain house in the neighbourhood of the crystal palace was haunted, i obtained permission from the owner to sleep there, the only condition being that i should on no account give any clue as to the real identity of the place, which he was most anxious to let; and it is a fact, however incredible it may seem to sceptics, that nothing more effectually prevents a house letting than the reputation that it is haunted! the house in question, though furnished, had been standing empty for some long time, and when i entered it alone one evening about nine o'clock, i was at once impressed with the musty atmosphere. my first act, therefore, was to open the windows on the top landing. the house consisted of three storeys and a basement, twelve bed and four reception rooms, with the usual kitchen offices. i had had no definite information as to the nature of the hauntings, so that i came to the house with a perfectly unbiassed mind, and under conditions that excluded any possibility of suggestion. i admit that, when the front door closed behind me, and i found myself in a silent, empty hall, in which the shadows of evening were fast beginning to assemble, my heart beat a little faster than usual. confronting me was a staircase leading to all the grim possibilities of the upper landings, whilst a little on one side of it was a dark, narrow passage, from which a flight of unprepossessing stone steps led into the abyssmal depths of the basement. after a few minutes' hesitation, glad even to hear my own footsteps, i moved across the hall, and after examining the rooms on the ground floor, ascended to those above. all the blinds in the house being down, each room with its ponderous old-fashioned furniture presented a particularly funereal aspect, to which a startling effect was given by a few patches of brilliant moonlight, that, falling on the polished surfaces of the wardrobes, converted them into mirrors, wherein i saw the reflections of what apparently had no material counterparts. here and there, too, in some remote angle, i saw a white and glistening something, that for a moment chilled my blood, until a closer inspection proved it to be a mere illumination on the wall or on some naturally bright object. i have generally been able to detect, both in silence and in shadows, an indefinable something that is--to me, at any rate--an almost sure indication of the near proximity of the superphysical; and the moment i crossed the threshold of this house, i felt this indefinable something all round me in a degree that was most marked. the hush, indeed, which was forced and unnatural, had grown with each step i took, until now, as i involuntarily paused to listen, the pulsation of my own heart was like the rapid beating on a drum, whilst i instinctively felt that numerous other beings were holding in their breath simultaneously with mine. the shadows, too, were far from normal shadows, for as i glanced behind me, and saw them waving to and fro on the walls and floor, i was not only struck with the fact that several of them resembled nothing near at hand, nothing that could in any way be explained by the furniture, but that, wherever i went, the same few shadows glided surreptitiously behind me. as i was about to enter one of the top attics, there was a thud, and something flew past me. i switched on my flashlight. it was a black cat--a poor stray creature with gaunt sides and unkempt coat--a great deal more frightened than i. my investigation of the upper premises over, i descended into the basement, which, like all basements that have remained disused for any length of time, was excessively cold and damp. there were two cellars, the one opening into the other, both pitch dark and streaming with moisture, and as i groped my way down into them by the spasmodic aid of my pocket search-light, i could not help thinking of the recent gruesome discoveries in hilldrop crescent. in nine cases out of ten the origin of hauntings may be looked for in basements, the gloomy, depressing nature of which seem to have a special attraction for those elementals that suggest crime. and here, in the cellars, far removed from prying eyes and sunlight, here, under the clammy, broken cement floor, here was an ideal sepulchre ready for the use of any murderer. he had only to poke his nose half-way down the steps to be struck with the excellence of the idea, and to hurry back for pick and shovel to make the job complete. the longer i lingered in the cellars, the more firmly i became convinced that they had at one time or another witnessed some secret burial. dare i remain down there and wait for the phenomena? the heavy, foetid atmosphere of the place hung round me like a wet rag, while the chill fumes, rising from between the crevices in the cement, ascended my nostrils and made me sneeze. if i stayed in this charnel house, i must certainly risk rheumatic fever. then a brilliant thought struck me--i would cover the floor of the innermost cellar with cocoanut matting; there were several loose stacks of it lying in the scullery. i did so, and the result, though not, perhaps, quite as satisfactory as i had anticipated, for the dampness was still abominable, made it at least possible for me to remain there. i accordingly perched myself on a table i had also brought from the scullery, and waited. minute after minute passed and nothing happened, nothing beyond a few isolated noises, such as the slamming of some far-distant door--which slamming, as i tried to reassure myself, momentarily forgetting that the house i was in was detached, might be in the next house--and the creaking of boards, those creakings that one so seldom seems to hear in the daytime, but which one laughingly tells oneself are due to natural causes--though what those causes are is apparently inexplicable. the wind does not blow every night, neither can it perform half of that for which it is often held responsible, neither does every house swarm with rats. still, i do not say that what i then heard could not have been accounted for naturally--i daresay it might have been--only i was not clever enough to do it. sceptics are usually so brilliant that one often wonders how it is they do not occupy all the foremost places in literature, science, and art--why, in fact, the smart, shrewd man, who scoffs at ghosts, is so often unheard of, whilst the poor silly believer in the superphysical is so often eminent as a scientist or author. can it be that it is, after all, the little learning that makes the man the fool? but to continue. the hour of midnight--that hour erroneously supposed to be the one when psychic phenomena usually show themselves--passed, and i anxiously awaited for what i felt every moment might now produce. about one o'clock the temperature in the cellars suddenly grew so cold that my teeth chattered, and i then heard, as i thought, in the front hall, a tremendous crash as if all the crockery in the house had been dashed from some prodigious height in one big pile on the floor. then there was a death-like hush, and then a jabber, jabber, jabber--apparently in the kitchen overhead--as of someone talking very fast, and very incoherently, to themselves; then silence, and then, what made me feel sick with terror, the sound of shuffling footsteps slowly approaching the head of the steps confronting me. nearer and nearer they came, until they suddenly paused, and i saw the blurred outlines of the luminous figure of something stunted, something hardly human, and something inconceivably nasty. it rushed noiselessly down the steps, and, brushing swiftly past me, vanished in the furthest corner of the cellar. feeling that nothing more would happen now, i ascended the steps, and after a final and brief survey of the premises, walked home, feeling convinced that the phenomena i had experienced were due to a vice elemental attracted to the house by a murder that had once been committed there, the body of the victim being interred in one of the cellars. i was not able to visit the house again, and the owner, though acknowledging that what i had seen and heard was a recognised feature of the hauntings, refused to disclose anything further. part iv. chapter vi. suggestions and hypotheses. in accordance with a general opinion, which is unquestionably correct, it would be extremely ridiculous to dogmatise on a subject so open to controversy as psychic phenomena, hence my statements must not be regarded in any sense as arbitrary; they are merely views based on a certain amount of actual experience. phantasms. a phantasm, in my opinion, is a phenomena that cannot be explained by any physical laws. it is an objective--something, that can materialise and dematerialise at will, that can sometimes emit sounds, sometimes move material objects, and sometimes (though rarely) commit acts of physical violence on material objects. it can produce various sensations on living material bodies, whilst it is, in itself, though sometimes sensible and rational, as far as we know, always insensible to physical action. it can adopt a variety of different forms, and, being subject to no limitations of space and time, it can pass through opaque objects in any place and at any time. classification of phantasms. without any attempt at an exhaustive classification (which is, of course, impossible), i have divided the different kinds of phantasms that have come within my experience as follows:--phantasms of the dead, phantasms of the living, and elementals, and since i have defined each of these species in another of my works, it will be sufficient for me to say here, that by phantasms of the dead, i mean the phantasms of every form of life that has inhabited a material body, whether human, animal, or vegetable, for i maintain that there is a spirit in everything that lives; that by phantasms of the living, i mean the superphysical counterpart of a living material body that can, under certain conditions not at present fully known, leave that body and manifest itself at any distance away from that body, either visually or auditorially; and that by elementals, i mean all spirits that have never inhabited any material body. phantasms of the dead. as i have already stated, i think earth-bound spirits of the dead are confined to people whose animal propensities were far in excess of their spiritual--that is to say, whose thoughts were entirely centred on matters appertaining to the material world. i do not suppose for one moment all such spirits would be compelled to haunt certain localities, but only the spirits of murderers, of carnal-minded suicides, of misers and other people who, when alive, were attracted to one spot by some special vice or peculiar hobby; the spirits of criminal lunatics, and vicious imbeciles, and of particularly gross and sensual people, whose phantasms are, according to some authorities (a view i do not altogether take), as bestial and savage in appearance as the people, when alive, were lustful and cruel in disposition, need not necessarily haunt one spot. that the earth-bound spirits of murderers, suicides, and grossly sensual people haunt certain localities in the shape of certain animals has been firmly believed for many centuries. according to hartshorne, a man, who committed suicide at broomfield, near salisbury, came back to earth in the form of a black dog; whilst legend says that the spirit of lady howard, of james the first's reign, who got rid of four husbands, haunts the road from fitzford to oakhampton park, in the shape of a hound. many spectral dogs, supposed by some to be the souls of evil-doers, are alleged to haunt the sides of pools and rivers, particularly in devon. mr. dyer, in his _ghost world_ (p. ) gives an instance of a haunting near tring, where the spirit of a chimney-sweep, who murdered an old woman, was frequently seen on the site of the gibbet, on which he was hanged, in the form of a black dog. as, however, the phantasms of so many murderers and vicious people have been seen in forms more or less resembling those people when alive, i am inclined to attribute the apparitions of animals either to the earth-bound spirits of the animals themselves, or to impersonating and vice elementals, whilst to the latter i attribute the entire sub-human and sub-animal type of psychic phenomenon--such, for example, as the pig-headed ghost of guilsborough. the souls of the good. whilst the spirits of bad people are thus held to be reincarnate, in the shape of animals, in some countries there is a belief that the souls of the good remain on earth for an indefinite period in the guise of birds. in bulgaria, for example, all souls are supposed to leave the body in the form of birds--a belief that was at one time prevalent among certain north american indian tribes, whilst in denmark and germany there was at one time an almost universal belief that the advent of infants was heralded by the appearance of a stork, who brought the child's soul with it (vide _thorpe's northern mythology_, i., p. ). to my mind, it is a significant fact that from time immemorial psychism has been closely associated with the bird which, in egyptian hieroglyphics and other symbols of the ancients, signifies the soul. apropos of psychism and birds, a very curious incident happened this spring to a relative of mine with whom i was staying in the village of g----. early one morning a large bird came to his bedroom window, and by violent tappings and flappings of its wings against the glass, attracted his attention, when it at once flew away. the previous day an old and dear friend of his (to whom he was very much attached) had died, and he subsequently learned that on the day of her funeral a dove had come to the window of the room in which the dead body lay, and had behaved in precisely the same manner, flying away directly it had succeeded in attracting attention. the visitation of these birds may, of course, only have been a coincidence, but if so, it was a very curious one--indeed, i am inclined to believe that in each instance the bird was a benevolent elemental that appeared with the sole object of intimating to my relative and to those around the dead body of his friend that the soul of the latter was still alive. though i think it quite possible that the souls of the virtuous and spiritual-minded remain earth-bound for a short space after death, i do not think that, when once they are removed to other spheres, they can, under any circumstances, return. there can be no going back when once they have begun the slow, but sure process of spiritual evolution which will lead them to paradise. futurity for dumb animals. there is, in my opinion, abundant evidence to show that dogs, horses, and birds have spirits that survive death, and this being so, it is only reasonable to suppose that there is a future existence for every kind of animal and for everything, in fact, that possesses any sort of mind--though i do not believe that their spirits all go to the same sphere. a relative of mine, once a year, always hears the sound of barking over the grave of a very favourite fox-terrier, whilst another relative has on more than one occasion seen the phantasm of a black spaniel to which she was very much attached. mr. harper, in his book of _haunted houses_ (chapman and hall, ), gives a very interesting account of the alleged haunting of ballechin house, perthshire, by the phantasms of a number of dogs that had been shot on the death--and at the express desire--of a major stewart, the late owner of the property; whilst a lady correspondent of mine tells me that her eldest nephew has, from the time he was three years old, seen, occasionally, two thin dogs like greyhounds. to quote her own words: "they seem to come and look at him, he says. he is a most matter-of-fact person, and i do not think he has any belief in psychic matters at all. he was born in the north west territory, where there are no dogs of that kind, and did not come to england until he was over four years old." in my book, _the haunted houses of london_, i gave several instances of the apparitions of animals, including that of a dear old dog of mine that appeared to me in york road, london, and of a parrot that was seen standing on the shoulders of a lady near clifton. although it is only too apparent that animals have not man's capacity for appreciating what is morally beautiful--in other words, have no souls--i think their intelligence, sagacity, and faithfulness ensures a future life of happiness to them with as great a certainty as "soul" entails a happy futurity to us. consequently, i believe that all animals and insects have future lives, and that the spirits of all animals and insects, like the souls of men, are being continually contended for by elementals; and that whilst the spirits of the faithful, benignant, gentle, and industrious go to the animals' paradise, the spirits of the cruel and savage are condemned to go to a corresponding hades. there is apparently, however, no very stringent law to prevent the spirits of all kinds of animals--benevolent and otherwise--from occasionally returning and materialising to us. phantasms of the living. i have already stated that it is quite possible to separate the superphysical from the physical body, and for the former to manifest itself either visually or auditorially, or both, at any distance from the latter. the accomplishment of this act--which is called projection--is entirely a question of concentration, but of a concentration so intense that it cannot be reached--at least, such is my experience--without absolute physical quiet and total absence of mental disturbance. the separation of the two bodies may be done consciously or unconsciously, more often the latter, and not infrequently, too, during sleep. indeed, many cases of nocturnal hauntings have been found to be due to the phantasms of living people, who have dreamed they were visiting certain localities, and whose superphysical bodies frequently have, in very truth, visited the places in question, and thereby occasioned the hauntings. the following is one of the many stories i have heard that would serve as an example of this kind of haunting. a mrs. elmore, on the occasion of her first visit to scotland, told me that the people with whom she was staying took her to see a picturesque house near montrose. the caretaker, on opening the door to them, turned deadly pale, and screamed out, "god help us! if it isn't the ghost come to visit me in broad daylight!" when the woman had recovered a little from her fright, she explained to them that, for some months past, the house had been haunted by an apparition the exact image of mrs. elmore; it had exactly the same face and figure, but was wearing different clothes, which clothes, however, when the caretaker described them, mrs. elmore immediately identified with certain garments she had at home. as they proceeded to explore the house, it began to dawn on mrs. elmore that the face of the old woman was strangely familiar, and, on ascending the main staircase, she at once recognised the landing and passages as those she had been continually dreaming about during the past year. pointing to one of the closed doors, she exclaimed, "that is my favourite room with the pretty blue wall paper, the blue carpet and the quaint inlaid cabinet standing opposite the foot of the old oak bedstead." the caretaker again almost fainted in astonishment. "it is just as you describe, ma'am," she exclaimed. "the de'il is in it." and it did indeed seem like it, as mrs. elmore knew the upper part of the house--the part she had visited in her sleep--by heart. as a matter of fact, there is no doubt that during sleep mrs. elmore's superphysical body had left her material body and visited the house. in all such cases, however, as well as in cases of conscious projection, there is great danger, since, awake or asleep, we are never free from antagonistic elementals, who would have no difficulty in seizing both our superphysical and material bodies, and appropriating the latter to their own use, were it not for the combatting and counteracting efforts of our guardian angels--the benevolent elementals. all dreams, whether accompanied or unaccompanied by unconscious projections, are induced by elementals. the clothes of phantasms. again, and again, sceptics, with would-be smartness, have said to me, "where do ghosts get their clothes? one can imagine the spirit of a person, but not the spirit of his garments. there are surely no tailoring establishments in the psychic world?" but this argument, if such it can be called, is of little value, since the dead who appear would naturally assume those forms in which they were best known when living, and when on earth they were surely better known clothed than unclothed. the clothes are not, of course, material clothes any more than the body is a material body--they are mere accessories assumed, so to speak, to make the image more complete, and to facilitate the question of identity. it is surely not difficult to understand that the force which has the power to manifest itself at all, has the power to manifest itself in the most suitable guise. the phantasm is, after all, only the image of the spirit or soul; it is not actually the spirit or soul itself, any more than the man we see walking about regent street in a silk hat and frock-coat is actually the man himself; the latter is an abstract quantity, compounded of spirit, soul, and intelligence--what we see is merely an outward concrete form, whereby we are able to identify that abstract quantity. so it is with the superphysical ego. to identify it we must either see or feel it, and thus to those of us who have sight, it appears in a form with which some of us, at least, are familiar--the form that was once common to its material body; hence clothes--illusionary clothes--are necessary appendages. it is not so with certain orders of elementals: having no identity to prove, they manifest themselves--nude. phantasms of the murdered and of suicides. as i have already stated, where suicides and murdered people have led gross lives, the hauntings are undoubtedly due to their earth-bound spirits; but where they have been benevolent and pure-minded people, then the phenomena experienced after their deaths may be attributed to elementals. elementals. elementals--namely, those spirits that have never had material bodies, human or animal--are either benevolent, antagonistic, or neutral, and are subjected to the supervision of those higher occult forces that are responsible for the creation of nature. i do not think it feasible that the same powers (or power) that created all that is beneficial to man, created also all that is obnoxious to him. if man were the only sufferer, then one could attach some credence to the story of the fall, though there would be little enough justice in it then; but when one considers the vast amount of suffering that has always been endured by all forms of animal life, the biblical version of the garden of eden degenerates into a mere myth as unjust as it is fanciful. whatever man may have done to have brought upon himself thousands of years of the most hideous sufferings, it is ludicrous to suppose that animals and insects also sinned! and therefore, since to me the terms almighty and merciful, and almighty and just, are utterly irreconcilable when applied to the creator of this material world, i can only assume that there was not one creative force, but many, and that whilst some (probably the majority) of these forces (none of which are supreme, for if one were omnipotent, then the others would assuredly cease to exist) have always been diametrically opposed to one another in their attitude towards all forms of animal life, others have remained indifferent and neutral. of these creative forces, some, whom i will designate the benevolent powers, wished both man and beast to live for ever in perfect happiness, whilst others, whom i will designate the evil powers, wished both man and beast to die. some sort of a compromise was therefore arranged by which the contending forces agreed that all forms of animal life should die, and that the material body should be succeeded by the superphysical, for the possession of which both forces must contend. the benevolent powers would strive to transfer superphysical man, after subjecting him to the thorough process of spiritual evolution to their own particular sphere, namely, paradise, whilst the evil powers would strive to keep superphysical man permanently bound to this earth, namely, purgatory; hence there would be a constant struggle between them, a struggle in which each opposing force would resort to every conceivable device to secure the souls and spirits of both man and beast. to the benevolent creative powers, then, we owe everything that tends to man's happiness (and what is more necessary to real happiness than temperance and morality), whilst to the evil creative powers are due all diseases, crimes, and cruelties--everything, in fact, that is injurious to health and responsible for suffering, either mental or physical. i think i have elsewhere stated in my definition of benevolent elementals that they would seem to be identical with the good fairies of our childhood's days, and with the angels in the bible. in any case they are employed by the higher occult powers friendly to man, and are always with us, trying to keep us in the paths of virtue, and guarding us from physical danger. vice elementals, on the other hand, are employed by the higher occult powers inimical to man, and are also always with us, trying to persuade us to do everything that harms us mentally, morally, and physically, and that, in a like manner, indirectly injures our neighbours. vice elementals appear in every variety of form, from beautiful, captivating women and handsome, insinuating men, to the grossest and most terrifying caricatures of both man and beast; for example, pig-headed men, monstrous dogs (such as "the mauthe dog" of peel castle, isle of man; the kirk-grim of scandinavia, which is sometimes a dog and sometimes a horse or pig); the gwyllgi of wales; huge bears (such as the famous "bear" ghost of the tower of london), and many other mal-shaped forms of man and beast. whereas, however, the more prepossessing type of this class of elemental roams everywhere, the more terrible are usually confined to places where crimes have been committed and impure thoughts conceived. vagrarians. these elementals, which i have already described, are merely survivals of experiments at life, prior to the selection of any definite forms of man and beast; they were created by the neutral powers, and their attitude to man (whom they shun as much as possible), though spiteful and mischievous, is prompted by nothing actually sinister. morbas, or disease elementals. these phantasms are the agents of the evil creative powers. always hideous in appearance, they create all manner of malignant bacilli, and are responsible for all diseases and illness, which they often delight in predicting. clanogrians, or family ghosts. why there should be a particular type of elemental attached to certain families it is difficult to say. some people think it is solely on account of the dreadful crimes perpetrated by members of these families in past days; but if that were the case, what family would be exempt, since there can be very few amongst us who could positively assert that no ancestor of his had ever committed a murder! i think it more likely, that, at one time, man was in much closer touch with the creative powers than he is now, and that certain families, as a mark of friendship, or otherwise, had clanogrians attached to them (by both the benevolent and antagonistic powers), with the express purpose of warning them of physical danger, and that in course of time, as the relationship between the higher powers and man grew more distant, the functions of these family elementals became fewer and fewer, until at length they consisted solely of death warnings, as is now the case. it would seem that certain houses, such, for example, as knebworth and the one in which mrs. wright (whose case i have already mentioned) lived, as well as families, have ghosts attached to them that have the power of warning people of their approaching doom. it is, of course, quite possible that these ghosts were once attached to people, either living in those houses, or in some way connected with them, and, that leaving those people, they took up their freed abode in the houses, continuing, however, their function of death warning. on the other hand, they may be a type of vagrarian who, being brought to the house with some antique piece of furniture, resolve to take up their abode in it. as this type of elemental prefers solitude, it would naturally take every means in its power to insure it. or, again, they may be a type of elemental closely allied to morbas, who are attracted to these houses by crimes once committed there (for i think when once a murder has been committed no benevolent powers can prevent vice and other antagonistic elementals from taking up their abode on the spot), and who have the power committed to them to bring about all manner of catastrophes fatal to the material inmates of the house; hence houses where death warnings of the nature of phantom clocks have been heard should be studiously avoided. impersonating elementals. one of the functions of impersonating elementals, as i have already stated, is to perform the _rôles_ both of the victim of murder and of suicide, though only in those cases where the spirits of the murdered person and the suicide are not themselves earth-bound. these elementals would seem to be neutrals, or spirit properties, employed alike by the benevolent and antagonistic forces. in cases of suicide, for example, they would be employed by the benevolent forces with the object of warning people against self-destruction; and, at the same time, they might be employed by the antagonistic forces with the object of leading people on to self-destruction. i think impersonating elementals sometimes manifest themselves at spiritualistic _séances_, when they appear as relatives and friends of the sitters, and are pronounced to be such by the "controls." in dreams, too, impersonating elementals frequently find constant employment, assuming every variety of guise--indeed, dreams, as i have already remarked, are completely under the control of benevolent, impersonating, and antagonistic elementals. neutral elementals. under this heading are included all impersonating elementals, some clanogrians, and the greater number of vagrarians, pixies, and fire elementals. materialisation. all superphysical spirits, whether earth-bound spirits of the dead or elementals, have the power of materialisation, though the conditions under which they may do so vary considerably. what the conditions actually are, is quite unknown at present to physical man. the psychic faculty. i think the seeing, hearing, or feeling of psychic phenomena is determined by the phenomena themselves, and that the latter themselves select the person to whom they wish to become manifest--hence there is no actual psychic faculty. i have, for example, in a haunted house, seen the phenomenon on one night and not on another, though on both occasions other people in the room have witnessed it. there are no end of other instances, too, in which people, who see apparitions on one occasion, do not see them on another, although the manifestations are of a precisely similar nature. phantom coaches, clocks, ships, etc. phantom coaches, clocks, ships, etc., are merely illusionary accessories to help carry out the design of elementals. a coach was said at one time to haunt a road in monmouthshire, and there are numerous cases of similar hauntings in different parts of england. from time to time, too, phantom ships are reputed to have been seen off the north cornish coast, whilst there is hardly a coast in the world that has not been visited by them. as they are usually seen before maritime catastrophes, they undoubtedly belong to the order of clanogrians, with which i accordingly classify them. phantasms in mines. in certain mining districts, after work hours, the miners say they hear the sounds of knocking and picking proceeding from the levels they have just vacated, and they declare it is "the buccas" at work, the buccas being a species of neutral elemental (closely allied to the pixie) peculiar to mines. i have never heard of any of the miners seeing the buccas, though several have spoken to me of the noises they have heard. deserted old mines are often alleged to be haunted, and i have been told that if one stands by the mouth of an empty shaft on a still night, one can hear the rolling of the buccas' barrows and the thud, thud, of the buccas' picks. interesting accounts of similar phenomena are given in carne's _tales of the west_ and hunt's _popular romances of the west of england_. another species of ghost, allied, perhaps, to the clanogrian, is a blue, luminous hand that appears in various parts of the mine before a catastrophe; sometimes it is seen climbing ropes, sometimes resting on the edge of one of the cages, and sometimes hovering in mid-air with a finger pointed at the doomed men. certain mines in france are haunted by a white hare that appears with the same purport, whilst in germany the miners are haunted by elementals of the pixie order, called respectively kobolds and knauffbriegen, that play all sorts of mischievous pranks (very often of a dangerous nature) on the miners. mines are, in addition, of course, subjected to all the ordinary forms of hauntings. phantasms of the sea. in all parts of the world there is a firm belief among many of the people living in lonely spots on the coast, that the sea and rocks are haunted by the earth-bound spirits of the drowned, and often when i have been walking alone at night along the cliffs or sandy beaches between bude and clovelly, and lamorna and the land's end, dalkey and bray and lunan bay, i have heard the rising and falling of ghostly voices from over the deserted, star-lit sea--voices that may either have come from the superphysical bodies of those who lay engulfed there, or from impersonating elementals. i have repeatedly heard it said that in the grey hours of the morning all sorts of queer filmy shapes rise out of the sea and glide over the silent strand. mr. dyer, in his _ghost world_, refers to "the bay of the departed" in brittany, where boatmen are summoned by some unseen power to launch their boats and to ferry to some island near at hand the souls of the men who have been drowned. in this bay, too, the wails and cries of the phantasms of shipwrecked sailors are clearly heard in the dead of night. so strong is the antipathy of the seafaring community in many parts of brittany to the sea coast that none will approach it after nightfall. mr. hunt, in his _romances of west of england_, says that one night when a fisherman was walking along the sands at porth-towan, he suddenly heard a voice cry out three times from the sea, "the hour is come, but not the man," whereupon a black figure, like that of a man, appeared on the top of the hill, paused for a moment, and then, rushing impetuously down the steep incline, over the sand, vanished amid the gently lapping waves. the figure, of course, may have been the actual earth-bound spirit of someone who was once drowned in that spot, or it may have been an impersonating or vice elemental attracted to that spot by some tragedy that had taken place there; since i have heard of many similar instances of tall, thin figures bounding over cliffs or across sandy beaches, vanishing in the sea, i conclude such phenomena are by no means uncommon. in certain parts of the norfolk coast it is still, i believe, affirmed that before any person is drowned a voice is heard from the sea predicting a squall, and a great reluctance is still shown in many countries to rescue anyone from drowning, since it is popularly supposed that the drowning person will at some time or another injure his rescuer--an idea which should certainly be discouraged, whether there is any truth in it or not. but the sea certainly has a peculiar fascination for most people, and, i feel sure, it possesses a species of elemental peculiar to itself. those elementals probably resent the rescue of their would-be victims, and use the latter as a means of wreaking their vengeance on the rescuer! haunted trees. cases of trees haunted by particularly grotesque kinds of phantasms (presumably vagrarians, vice elementals, and neutrals) are numerous. a few years ago, a mrs. cayley told me that when riding along a certain road in india, she had the greatest difficulty in making her horse pass a particular tree, and that on mentioning the matter to a native servant, the man at once exclaimed, "allah preserve you, mem-sahib, from ever passing near that tree. a dog-faced man sits at the base of the trunk, and, with his long arms outstretched, watches for passers-by. he springs upon them, half frightens them to death, and overwhelms them with misfortune. if ever you come within the clutches of the dog-faced spirit, mem-sahib, you will shortly afterwards meet with some dire calamity. the horse has second sight, mem-sahib; it can see the spirit and its evil nature, and has no desire to place either itself or you within its clutches. be wise, mem-sahib, and never go near that tree!" mrs. cayley, however, was not wise. laughing at the indian's credulity, she immediately saddled her horse, and riding to the tree, compelled the reluctant and terrified animal to pass under its branches. just as it did so, mrs. cayley felt an icy current of air pass right through her, and, glancing down, saw, to her horror, a misty something crouching against the trunk of the tree and peering up at her. she couldn't tell what it was, its shape being altogether too indistinct, but from the fact that it impressed her with sensations of the utmost terror and loathing, she realised that it was something both diabolical and malignant. at this moment her horse shied, and she knew nothing more till she found herself with a sprained ankle, lying on the ground close to the tree. her terror was then so great that, without daring to look round, she rolled over and over till she had got from under cover of the branches, when, despite the pain caused by her injury, she got up and hobbled home. that evening a very near relative of hers was accidentally shot, and within the week her favourite brother died from the effects of sunstroke! the ghost in this case was either a vice elemental attracted to the tree by some tragedy once enacted there, or a phantasm of the malignant order of clanogrian. hauntings of a similar nature are not uncommon in ireland. according to certain north american indian tribes, trees have spirits of their own, which resemble beautiful women, whilst in greece certain trees are haunted by "stichios" (see _superstitions of modern greece_, by m. le baron d'estournelles), a malignant kind of vagrarian or clanogrian that wreaks vengeance on anyone or anything venturing to sleep beneath the branches. in australia, too, the bushmen often shun trees, declaring them to be haunted by demons that whistle in the branches. whether this is true or not, many trees are haunted, and the phantasm that most commonly haunts them is undoubtedly the sub-human and sub-animal type of vice elemental--such as was seen by mrs. cayley on the day her relative was accidentally shot and shortly before her brother succumbed to sunstroke. telepathy. the transference of thought from one mind to another without any other medium than air is an established fact--such communications are of daily occurrence. at present, however, the communications usually take place without any conscious endeavour on the part of the transmitter, or knowledge of actual reception on the part of the receiver. for example, a certain mr. philpotts, with whom i am acquainted, when on a visit to london, was wishing very earnestly one morning that his wife, whom he had left at home, would go into his study and write a letter in reply to one which he had forgotten to answer. on his return home next day, he found to his astonishment that at the very time he had been thinking of the letter, his wife had actually gone into the study and penned it. up to that moment, she had had no intention of going into the study, and no idea that any letter there needed an answer. instances like this are numerous. the questions now arise as to whether it is possible for the transmitter of the thoughts to raise in the recipient's mind visions which might be thought to be objective, and that if such a process should be possible, if it would not account for many of the so-called superphysical phenomena? in instances where phenomena are seen individually, _i.e._, where they manifest themselves to single individuals, i think it possible, but not probable, that they may be due to telepathy; but where the demonstrations take place, either visually or auditorially, before a number of people, several of whom are conscious of them, then those demonstrations are without doubt objective, and consequently in no way traceable to telepathic communication. this being so, why, then, should not all such demonstrations, whether manifesting themselves individually or collectively, be objective? in the case of miss d., a case i have already mentioned in reference to projection, the phenomenon was without a doubt objective. four of us suddenly saw what we all took to be the natural body of miss d. descend the staircase, pass between us, open a door and slam it behind her, the fact of her disappearance--there being no exit from the room she had entered and into which we had immediately followed her--proving beyond question that what we had seen was her superphysical body. she was actually a long distance from the house at the time of the occurrence, and could not remember thinking either of us or the house, so that the separation of her superphysical from her physical body must have taken place unconsciously. i had a decided impression of her dress as it swept over my feet during her descent of the staircase. we were all busily engaged in discussing our programme for the day when the phantasm appeared, and had, certainly, not been thinking of miss d. i do not think, then, that phantasms of the living are in any way attributable to telepathy, but that, like all other phantasms, they are purely superphysical. i have often been to haunted houses where the nature of the haunting was entirely unknown to me, and witnessed the same phenomena that i have subsequently learned have been experienced by countless other people. this has happened to me individually and collectively; collectively when my companions have been in as complete ignorance as to the nature of the manifestations as myself. indeed, in most of my investigations i am accompanied by pronounced sceptics, who are, in addition, complete strangers to the neighbourhood. hence there can be no question, under these circumstances, either of telepathy or suggestion. spiritualistic _sÉances_. as i have already inferred, i think it quite likely that genuine superphysical manifestations do, at times, take place at spiritualistic _séances_, but i am convinced that all such phenomena are confined to earth-bound spirits of the dead, and impersonating and vice elementals. for this reason i think constant, or even casual, attendance at _séances_ is a very dangerous thing, as, not content with appearing at the _séance_, these undesirable elementals will attach themselves to the sitters, accompanying them home and wherever they may go, with the sole object of doing them mischief; and when once attached, they will not easily, if ever, be got rid of. i am often asked if i know of a materialising medium who is above the suspicion of trickery. i do not. there is no medium that i have ever met, or even heard of, that has not at times (at all events) resorted to fraudulent means of producing phenomena. if spirits can manifest themselves in haunted houses without the assistance of a medium, or the necessity of sitting round tables with joined hands, or facing "curtained off" recesses or mysterious cabinets--why cannot they thus simply manifest themselves at a _séance_? to my mind the reason is obvious, since the genuine superphysical manifestations cannot be summoned at will by any medium, the latter, rather than allow his audience to go away unsatisfied, invariably makes use of conditions, under cover of which--failing the genuine phenomenon--he can always produce a fraudulent representation. the stock-in-trade of many spiritualistic _séances_ seems to be an indian, who executes a wild dance and speaks in a hill dialect only known to one or two people in the room (confederates, of course), a beautiful girl who was once a very naughty nun, or hospital nurse, and several soldiers stated to have been killed in recent wars and who are anxious to materialise. this, however, they do not do, as one or two ladies in the audience (confederates again) declare they dare not under any circumstances behold bullet wounds and sabre cuts--a protest that at once meets with the approval of the "control," who bids the soldiers remain invisible, and talk only. the sound of voices is then heard proceeding from behind a heavy curtain that is hung across the recess of a window conveniently left open. sometimes, a number of feet are seen moving backwards and forwards under the curtain, and, occasionally, a very ugly but unmistakeably material head (wearing a mask) is poked through between the drawn curtains, much, of course, to the horror of the more timid of the audience, who are only too ready to believe the declaration of the medium and his confederates, that the head is that of some earth-bound spirit. the darkness of the room--for _séances_ are seldom held in the light--facilitates every manner of trickery, whilst the window, cabinet, and door all furnish easy means of entrance and exit. the knockings on the table and the banging of tambourines are, as i have proved over and over again, invariably the work either of the medium himself or of confederates amongst the audience. the trumpets that blow on the walls are generally manipulated by someone outside the room, and the sound that apparently comes from them, often, in reality, proceeds from an entirely different quarter. i think, however, that genuine spirits do occasionally materialise, but that when they do, it is as much to the terror of the medium as of his audience. the fear inspired by a _bona-fide_ superphysical demonstration is a very different thing to that produced by a bogus one--the sensations are absolutely unlike, and anyone who has once beheld a spontaneous psychic materialisation in a genuinely haunted house cannot be deceived by the doll-like make-beliefs at spiritualistic _séances_. automatic writing. though i have never been able to obtain any very definite results myself with planchette, i have no doubt genuine spirit messages are obtained in this way, and that such messages are always suggested by elementals. but since these messages cannot be relied upon, owing to the fact that it is impossible to tell by what order of elementals they are suggested, i think automatic writing is sheer waste of time. the laying of phantasms. last year, when i was investigating at a notorious haunted house in the west of england, the ghost suddenly and quite unexpectedly appeared in our midst. there were several of us present, and we were all much alarmed, as i believe one always is in the presence of the unknown. i addressed the phenomenon, challenging it in the name of god and adjuring it to speak; there was, however, no response of any kind, and i think it extremely doubtful if it understood what i said, or even if it heard me. i have done this on other occasions, and always with the same result--the phenomenon has remained totally unaffected by my words. i know also of a case in which a roman catholic priest tried to lay a spirit, with the startling result that the spirit (figuratively speaking) laid him, for on his mumbling out some form of exorcism, it stretched out a grotesque and shadowy hand, and he fell face downwards on his bed, unable to utter a sound or move a muscle. i have, however, heard instances in which phantasms have been "laid" by the repetition of prayers, and so can only conclude that the possibility of laying a ghost depends entirely on conditions about which we know nothing. whereas i think it highly probable that oral communication may sometimes be held with rational phantasms of the dead with possible beneficial results on one or both sides, no mode of address produces other than an irritating effect on phantasms of the insane; there is no consistency whatever in the result of exhortation on elementals. phantasms of the insane. whether the spirit of an insane person is earth-bound, or not, depends entirely on the cause of the malady. if the insanity is due to long indulgence in vice, or if it is hereditary, then i think the spirit of the mad person is earth-bound; but if the disease is the result of a shock or of something not brought about by vicious indulgences, and the sufferer had been perfectly pure-minded before the affliction, then his spirit is certainly not earth-bound. the former species of insanity would be the work of vice elementals and morbas, and the latter of morbas only. the ghosts of idiots are, in my opinion, always earth-bound, and few forms of hauntings are more horrible than those in which the manifestations are due to imbeciles--a by no means uncommon occurrence. index. a. page animals (future for), - " (phantasms of), - antagonistic elementals, - , " forces, automatic writing, b. banshee, (def. of), , baroness von a---- (case of the), - , - barrowvians, (def. of) bellew (case of mrs.), benevolent elementals, - " forces, (def. of), bruce (case of mrs.), - buccas, c. c---- (case of miss), - carmichael (case of miss), cayley (case of miss), - chichester (case of rev. g.), - clanogrians, (def. of), , , , , (def. of), , clifford (case of mr.), clocks (phantom), , , , clock that struck thirteen, , , clothes of phantasms, - coaches (phantom), cone shaped head (phantasm with), coney (mr. and mrs.), cornelius (case of mr.), craven (case of mrs.), - cyclist in grey, d. d---- (case of miss), - dalrymple (case of miss), - dead (phantasms of the), , , , , , - death candles of wales, , death warnings, , debrett (case of miss), , dodd (case of miss), - dreams, - , - drummers (phantom), , , e. elementals (def. of), (def. of), (def. of) elmore (case of mrs.), - f. family ghosts, , , , (def. of) falmouth, featherstone (case of miss), , - fire elementals, , h. h---- (phantasm of), - hacon (rev. h.), , - howards (case of), - i. impersonating elementals, , , , , , , - (def. of), k. k---- (case of mr.), - kobolds, l. lady ---- (case of), laying of phantasms, - lichens (haunting of the), - lights (spirit), - living (phantasms of), , , - , m. mad (spirits of the), , , materialisation, mines (phantasms in), - morbas, - , , (def. of), murdered (phantasms of), , , , , murderers (phantasms of), , n. nature spirits, neutral elementals, o. omens, p. p---- (case of mrs.), - palmer the murderer, phantasms (classification of), " (def. of), pig's head (phantasm with), - pipers (phantasms of), , pixies, , - , , - , poltergeists, , portman square (tragedy in), , projection, , - projection (process of), psychic faculty, r. radiant boy, raynor (case of miss), - reed (case of mr.), rolands (case of miss), - s. "s" (phantasm of "old"), sea (phantasms of the), séances, - , , - ships (phantom of), sinclair (case of miss), - soul (def. of), souls of good, - spirit (def. of), st. jermyn (case of miss), - stewart (case of rev. j.), - suicides (phantasms of), - , suggestion, sydersterne parsonage (haunting of), - t. telepathy, , - trees, - u. urquhart (case of mrs.), - v. vagrarians (def. of), , vagrarians, - , - , , , , , , vice elementals, , , , , , , , , , , , , vincent (case of miss), , vincent (case of miss viola), - w. w---- (case of mrs.), , walton (case of mr.), - williams (case of dr.), - wraithes, y. yellow boy, transcriber's notes: passages in italics are indicated by _underscore_. the following words have been retained in both versions: morbas (page , , , , , index) and morbas (page ) forwards (pages , ) and forward (pages , , , , , ) d/death warnings (page , , , index) and death-warnings (page ) cone-shaped (page ) and cone shaped (index) grandparents (pages , ) and grand-parents (page ) rough hewn (page ) and rough-hewn (page ) everyone (page ) and every one (pages , , , ) someone (pages , , , ) and some one (page ) wallpaper (page ) and wall paper (page ) well known (pages , ) and well-known (pages , , , , ) would be (pages , , , , , , , , , , , , ) and would-be (pages , , ) bona-fide (page ) and bona fide (page ) the following parts have been left as printed: castle-on-dinas which seems to mean castle-an-dinas in cornwall (page ) a narration from miss rolands starting on page with opening quotation marks continous over several pages without marking other paragraphs beeing part of the narration or closing the quotation mark (middle of page ). these paragraphs have been left as set in the book. other than the corrections listed below, printer's inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation, hyphenation, and ligature usage have been retained. the following misprints have been corrected: changed "figure of some thing utterly" into "figure of something utterly" page changed "to be met with in lonely" into "to be met within lonely" page changed "various english family-ghosts, is the work" into "various english family ghosts, is the work" page changed "recovering consciousn ss my" into "recovering consciousness my" page changed "vagrarian or vice-elemental, that" into "vagrarian or vice elemental, that" page changed "illusionary? ande here" into "illusionary? and here" page changed "she suddenly vanished." into "she suddenly vanished."" page changed "would doubtless remain earthbound" into "would doubtless remain earth-bound" page changed "other glanogrians or" into "other clanogrians or" page changed "the actual earthbound souls of the people," into "the actual earth-bound souls of the people," page changed "is equally earthbound, but" into "is equally earth-bound, but" page changed "company with the earthbound soul of" into "company with the earth-bound soul of" page changed "mrs. p--. narrated to me" into "mrs. p---- narrated to me" page changed "night after night the" into ""night after night the" page changed "in the day time, but" into "in the daytime, but" page changed "sometimes (though-rarely) commit" into "sometimes (though rarely) commit" page changed added "in india, s had the greatest difficulty in making her ho pass a particular tree, and that on mentioni the matter" into "in india, she had the greatest difficulty in making her horse pass a particular tree, and that on mentioning the matter" page changed "you within its cluthces. be" into "you within its clutches. be" page changed "altogether too distinct, but from the fact that it impressed r with sensations of the utmost terror and thing, she realised" into "altogether too indistinct, but from the fact that it impressed her with sensations of the utmost terror and loathing, she realised" page changed "so, mrs. caley felt an" into "so, mrs. cayley felt an" page changed "baroness von a-- (case of the)" into "baroness von a---- (case of the)" index changed "clanogrians, (def. of), , , , (def. of), , " into "clanogrians, (def. of), , , , , (def. of), , " index changed "family ghosts, , , (def. of)" into "family ghosts, , , , (def. of)" index ghosts i have seen and other psychic experiences by violet tweedale new york frederick a. stokes company publishers _copyright, , by_ frederick a. stokes company _all rights reserved_ contents chapter page i "silk dress" and "rumpus" ii the ghost of broughton hall iii curious psychic experiences iv east end days and nights v the man in the marylebone road vi the ghost of prince charlie vii pilgrims and strangers viii some strange events ix pompey and the duchess x the invisible hands xi dawns xii peacock's feathers--the skeleton hand at monte carlo xiii i commit murder xiv the angel of lourdes xv the wraith of the army gentleman xvi an austrian adventure xvii across the threshold xviii haunted rooms xix "the new jeanne d'arc" xx haunted houses--"castel a mare" xxi the sequel xxii the haunted lodge xxiii auras xxiv adieu ghosts i have seen chapter i "silk dress" and "rumpus" from the terrible conditions of the present i have turned back to the past, for a little joy and a great deliverance. in the present one lives no longer from day to day, but from hour to hour, and even a fleeting memory of the joys that are no more refreshes the soul--wearied, and fainting with a pallid anxiety that wraith-like envelops the whole being in a thrall of sadness. to-day i heard music which i had known and loved in the happy, careless long ago, and whilst i was lost in a dream of half-forgotten bliss i smelt the fragrance of mimosa flower. i cannot describe the sensations of joy that thrilled through my whole being. an involuntary moving of the spirit, an emergence into a dream world, described by the greeks as "ecstasy." the music fashioned the invisible link, and i was back again on a hillside where the mimosa grew in native abundance. now, one thinks of france only as a hideous battle plain, but memory, the true dispensator of time, is never bound by years. she keeps ever fresh, in glowing colors, those ideal moments that gather up the utter joys of life into one divine sheaf of memory. it is not only for its great uses that we must have memory, but for its joys. it rends the gray veil shrouding present existence, and shows us life as what it really is. a phantasmagoria of wonder, wrapped in mystery. the day of miracles is not past, it never will be past, but if you want miracles you must have the power of seeing them. i have written in this book of the miracles i have seen. some of them any one can see, others are reserved for the delectation of the few. i have written of strange visitants from other realms, and of that vivid illumination which at moments lays bare the hidden springs of life, when the spirit emerges beyond the limit of human thought, and familiar things, beyond the horizon of life, and touches a sphere beyond immortality. it is a condition that the grave has nothing to do with, a beholding beyond the frontiers of the soul. i have written of the spiritual life, for without this spiritual life a palace would be no wider than a tomb. the vastness of the spirit world defies description. it can choose its own pathways, and any one of these long, long roads leading to the great mysteries. it is now almost universally acknowledged that psychic experiences, of a specific nature, occur at certain times to certain people, that are not explicable by any known science. generally, they are experiences which point to the continuity of the human consciousness with a wider spiritual environment, from which the normal man is shut off. a few such experiences that have come to me i record. i hope that i have never tried to convince others of the truth of these experiences. if i have done so it has been unconsciously done. i am absolutely persuaded that such phenomena can only become convincing when personally experienced. such matters ought not to be accepted on hearsay. it is mere folly for one woman to attempt to demonstrate to another the existence of the human soul. the most that a can communicate to b, of any part of her own experiences, is so much of it as is common to the experiences of both. i have proved conclusively to my own consciousness that i am linked up with a wider consciousness from which, at times, such experiences flow in. i know my soul to be in touch with a greater soul, which at moments enters into communication with me, and opens out a vastness which it is impossible to translate into words, and which annihilates space and time. i have had my vision, and i know. therefore i am quite unmoved by criticism or ridicule. i believe that what has come to me will come to all, and there is no need to hurry the process. we are simply a tiny part of a whole, which has neither beginning nor end. we live in a universe which is infinite in time and space, which has always existed in some form, and will go on in some form for ever. the discovery of the law of the indestructibility of matter has proved this beyond a doubt. at some second in time our universe will be dissolved into new systems, for the life of a solar system lasts only a second in eternity, but that need not worry us yet. there is lots of time for man to realize his soul, and all will doubtless do so at some moment in their many earth lives. the classic idea is that the golden age lies in the past, but the stoic doctrine of recurring cycles in the ages of the world seems to suggest that the golden age may return. there are people to-day who ask, "is this the end of the world?" more probably it is the end of an age. the harvest may be ripe for the sickle to be thrust in. the opposition of good and evil may have reached their fullest manifestation. it may be the hour in eternity for a complete readjustment of the little ant-hills we call great nations. we know the rise and fall of nations to be an historical fact, apparently based on an immutable law. this recurring phenomenon cannot be explained, though there are theories. possibly the true one may be found in the failure or compliance to respond to the challenge: "advance to a higher spiritual plane or perish." it may be that the right of continuance depends upon the answer to that challenge. what brought about the decline of those mighty civilizations whose monuments of antiquity seem to mock our pride? what insidious disease brought about the fall of rome? the beauty and inspiration of greece was arrested by some swift decay, and the giant temples and pyramids of egypt, and the mounds of mesopotamia, testify to a grandeur far surpassing ours. in the world's morning time, before the mists began to clear, we can trace the rise and fall of a score of mighty empires. from out their present tombs of tragic silence arise figures, colossal sculptured figures, with faces and forms of commanding power. assyrians, a mighty race, leaving behind whole libraries of record, chiseled upon indestructible pages. the lost arts of three thousand years ago. earlier still the earth resounded to the thunder of xenophon's thousands, and the chariots of persia sweeping after them. lying deeper still in the shroud of antiquity the pharaohs emerge as mighty conquerors, and we can dimly discern in the empire of the chaldeans the movement of a gorgeous civilization, and the majestic figures of men versed in mystic, and, to us, unknown lore. in italy, memorials of a refined people, who were precursors of roman power, have been found, forms of perfect grace in delicate vases and coins of gold and silver. the old etruscan art is traced back to the assyrians' sculpture. the snowy crown of ancient greece budded and bloomed in the mighty halls of assyria's splendor, hundreds of years before christ. no phantom world could furnish a mightier or more resplendent host. reading of those proud and mighty civilizations brings the simple life of the nazarene very near to us in years, it also shows us how quickly great splendors are sanded over by the hands of time. the british museum holds the sculptured records of twenty-five hundred years. whilst the flames, kindled by the mob of christian monks, from the great alexandrian library rose to heaven, the temple fronts of the pharaohs, the pyramids, the sphinx, loomed out of the conflagration. the impotent torches of the fanatics were powerless against such imperishable records. what of our records? will these ancient civilizations be remembered when the fame of modern nations has vanished utterly? which has the best chance of enduring in the future? the paper and pasteboard of to-day, or the monuments of stone, to which the monarchs of bygone empires entrusted the history of their unsurpassed grandeur? "if thou hadst known in this thy day, even thou, the things which belong to thy peace! but now they are hid from thine eyes." this is the epitaph written across the tombs of all nations now crumbling into dust. "the things which belong to thy peace." the things which never die or fade, whose continuity is never broken, the divine seeds that cannot perish, the things which are immortal. the winged soul in its æon-long pilgrimages through eternity to home. i find it easy to write to-day upon psychic subjects, for everywhere i discern the dawn of what conan doyle, in his deeply interesting book, calls "the new revelation." to one who, for the last forty years, has been immersed in all branches of occult research, the change of view that has come over the world in four years is very remarkable. every one is now interested in the human soul, and all that appertains to it. the speeding up in the number of psychic experiences coming to light is enormous. so often now i come across "the last man in the world to see or hear anything" who has just been accorded a startling experience, and the rank skeptic is becoming a thing of the past. whilst sitting in solitude it is interesting to let one's thoughts slip back to childhood, and trace the present life in the mirror of the old. i discover that in the immediate now there is nothing new, but only that which has its symbol in the old. i seem to get only the much clearer vision of what once was vague and cloudy, or wholly unconsidered by the mind of youth. in that garden of memory i can set old happenings in a new light, and measure my slow footprints in the age-long journey behind me. two facts emerge from out such musings. firstly, the journey of my soul takes a spiral path, which at intervals brings me face to face with the old things that i have learned to modernize by dressing in fresh thought forms, as new perceptions are won. perceptions prophetic of the greater capacity for attainment when the divine power is permitted to unfold itself without let or hindrance. secondly, the further on the soul journeys the more solitary the road becomes. one by one the old companion pilgrims drop away. perhaps it is that on that long, lone trail the traveler must be free. very early in my life came the consciousness that everywhere about me, in the infinitely above, in the infinitely below, permeating heart, mind and soul, is life--endless, eternal. on this shoreless ocean of existence, without form or name, the soul is afloat. birth and death are the tides, the ebb and flow of the ocean of life. the human soul is but a ripple on the sea of existence, and phenomenal life is but a flash in the eternity of eternities. all the teeming lives of effort around us, all the travail and suffering to which humanity is destined, are ordained for the great purpose of soul evolution. god sets the balance at every grave. that which distinguishes every man is the vast dower of our nature, eventually the same to all, the passing incidents of station, fortune, talent, are mere surface varieties. i find in my mind the existence of something illimitably beyond mind, doubtless a common experience. i do not know what that something is, but it is very real, and it invariably shows me how cribbed, cabined and confined this life really is. i cannot even tell what it is that confines me. i only know that there is a limitless world full of infinite possibilities all around me. i seem always to have known this, but i cannot grasp it. true, at rare intervals, i catch a glimpse through a rift in the clouds, then they close again. at such moments i experience an ecstasy of heart sweet happiness, so marvelously sweet, so pure, so near divine with its deep wordless thoughts of infinite beauty. such regions are not so much impenetrable as ineffable. they are glimpses gained at some great altitude, from which i can look down on the mortal pageant and behold mysteries in which i take no part, but by which i am encircled, as an island, by infinity. such are luminous and splendid moments, when the soul beholds the world in its real mystic beauty. it is the hour of transfiguration, in which the veil drops from the heart and the film from the eyes, so that we see life as god means it to be. often, as a mere child, when lying awake in those nights, whose stillness have a quality of awe, the silence would be broken by weird, barbaric songs which wafted a sense of old, wild adventurous life, and in a curious quality of mystery i saw violet mountains sleeping in sunlight, above a sea of amethyst. childish visions, but sacred nights. very many years passed before i understood them. on hot velvety nights in june a curious scent of smoke would come to me, the measured hollow beating of bells, and a tremulous far-away piping. years after, i stood alone one evening on the slopes of etna, amid the pale asphodels and the desolation of tumbling lava fields, and i heard the pipes of pan, the reed pipe of the herd boy, and linked the past with the present. again, passing through a region where the smoke rose from the charcoal burners' fires the scent of an ancient memory came vaporing up, the unfamiliar scent that puzzled my childhood, and i was away in a flash, to wait for the soul to free herself and return from the world's edge. i had to journey further east before i heard again at dawn the ring of camel bells as a caravan broke camp, and then i understood the visions of my youth, as i listened to the measured hollow beating, and watched a strange medley of eastern traffic trail away across the desert. sometimes, when the nursery clock seemed to tick more loudly than usual, i saw a gigantic water-wheel, and behind it massive rocks with the hewn tombs of ancient kings, and beyond them lay distant glamorous mountains, white sails creeping amid warm purple isles, set in a gulf of turquoise. sometimes i have dreamed holy things, and waked to find myself over-awed by the sublimity of the vision and the glory of the universe. so many of those childish visions i have identified in later life, but there is one which eludes me. it is a great white road leading to the farther east, and i see it drenched in white sunlight. tinkling mule trains pass along it, and i know now it is in some way connected with ida that saw ancient troy, and the capital of pontus, the seat of mithridates' court, and the empire of trebizond. some day, who knows, i may walk upon it. looking back i can recollect nothing psychic happening to me before the age of six. i can fix that date upon which i became actually aware of the other world. it all happened through "silk dress" and "rumpus." i slept in a bed in one corner, and my younger brother slept in another corner. the room was large, and at the top of a modern, quite ordinary, town house. two flights of stairs ran down to the ground floor. "silk dress" was something we were extremely interested in, but i cannot recollect that we were ever in the least afraid. when we first became aware of "silk dress" i do not know, but in looking back across those many years i think that in the beginning we must have accepted "it" as something or somebody "real." only after several experiences did it dawn upon us that "it" was not real. by then we had passed beyond the stage when we might have felt fear. after we had gone to bed we were left quite alone in the dark, and the nurses went down to supper. the younger children slept in another room. it was during such periods of silence that "silk dress" began its ascent. just as we were dropping off to sleep one of us would murmur drowsily, "here comes silk dress." then we lay quite still, very wide awake again and listened intently. from far down on the ground floor we heard footsteps quietly and methodically ascending, and the rustle of a silk dress. we could hear quite distinctly when "it" arrived at the first floor, which was occupied by our parents, then "it" passed on to the next flight of stairs leading to our floor. the sound of footsteps and the rustle of the silk dress became more and more clearly audible as "it" drew ever nearer. we could tell the second at which "it" passed from the last step on to the corridor which led past our half-open door. then there was a thrilling moment or two, when the tip-tap of shoes, and the swish of silk on the linoleum was quite loud, but the footsteps never halted. they always swept past the half-closed door, and went on into a small room beyond, which was used for storing boxes. then dead silence fell again. in those days we never heard the word "ghost" mentioned, yet i cannot recollect thinking of "silk dress" as anything but a visitor from the other world. we talked of "it" freely in the household, but probably because we expressed no fear, no one seemed in the least interested. on wakeful nights we occupied ourselves in waiting for "it," and on wet nights we could not hear "it" clearly because the rain pattered so loudly on a large skylight outside our door. what interested us enormously was the fact that we never heard "it" descend again. how "it" got down in order to mount once more was a great puzzle. "rumpus" was quite another matter, quite another order of manifestation. "rumpus" always began when we were sound asleep, and "rumpus" always wide awakened us. "they" came at longer intervals, about every ten days, whilst "it" came on most nights. during the summer mornings in the north, when one could often read a book in the light of a one a. m. dawn, "they" were very interesting, because when "their" hour, five a. m., arrived the room was flooded with sunshine. in winter mornings, when the room was in black darkness, we were merely bored, and cross at being roused, and we simply lay still and endured "them" till they had quite finished. but in the summer mornings we always sat up in bed and intently watched something we never saw. when "rumpus" roused us brusquely from our slumbers it was by means of a demoniac pandemonium. the room was in possession of "them," and "they" crashed, and banged, and tossed about the furniture in the most reckless fashion. crash went the wardrobe, bang went one chair after another, hurtling across the room. crash went wardrobe back into its place again, clang went the fire-irons. rushing collisions, and rappings on the window-panes, thuds on the floor, rattlings and clatterings of crockery, jingling of brass, creakings and groanings of expostulation from the old sofa, clanking of the fireguard, a veritable tornado of noise, enough surely to awaken the dead, yet out of the living it only awakened--us. no one else in the house ever heard it, and our vivid descriptions were, perhaps, naturally attributed to nightmare. we, of course, knew that it was nothing of the sort. we were, indeed, very wide awake during the ten to fifteen minutes the pandemonium continued, and our eyes were kept darting from side to side following the track of the noises, as they grew in volume and intensity. creak, groan, crash! no mistaking the spot where that deafening sound came from. that was the old mahogany wardrobe being hurled face downwards on the floor, but whilst our eyes were riveted on its statuesque and utter immobility jingle, clank, from the fender, where the fire-irons commenced to jig. a wildly confused uproar over all the room, then boom, thud, beneath us, and our beds shivered convulsively, and sent thrills of wild excitement coursing through our nerves. suddenly the tumult would cease. the mystery lay in the fact that we never saw anything move, though we distinctly heard everything moving, and could feel our beds reel beneath us. i have no explanations to offer of those happenings. they are very clearly fixed in my objective memory, and when we were both grown up, and had finally left that house my brother used often to say to me, "do you remember 'silk dress' and 'rumpus'?" such recollections crowd back upon me now, with many other images of childhood. no sooner do i recollect one than another emerges like a shining cloud from below the horizon. where have they been lying hidden during all those flying years? they have dwelt deep down in the eternal memory, the heart of god which beats in all humanity. within that heart are stored æonic treasures. they lie ever in wait to be bidden arise and cross the threshold. chapter ii the ghost of broughton hall i was about six years old when my family moved to a brand new house in claremont crescent, that had just been erected on the outskirts of edinburgh. there were still some green fields unbuilt upon, and some fine old trees left standing close to us, and those were still included in a triangular group of three grand old manors--broughton hall, powder hall, and logie green. all three had the reputation of being badly haunted. the first named stood almost within a stone's throw of our end of the crescent, and was occupied by an ancient family named walker, who had held the property for generations. they still existed as a very charming relic of scotch antiquity, and they had always been friends of our family. the house from the outside was very grim and forbidding-looking. it was hidden from the eyes of the curious behind very high walls, and was entered upon by two huge gates, always kept closed. inside, the house was most interesting and attractive. there were many closed rooms and winding staircases, and odd steps in long, dark corridors, but the rooms that were lived in were beautiful of their kind. there were desks with secret drawers, wonderful pieces of chippendale, tenderly cared for, quantities of rare old china and cut glass, and on the walls hung glorious romneys and hoppners, which fetched huge prices at christie's when the household was finally broken up by death. the family consisted of three sisters, fanny, hope, and kitty, the latter a widow, named mrs. chew. there were two brothers, adam and john. the former lived with his sisters. john was a minister, and only paid visits. there was a nephew, the heir, william stephens, who also paid long visits to the hall. though, at the date of which i speak, about , he must have been at least sixty, he was always referred to as "the laddie." the three sisters occupied distinct positions in the house. mrs. chew acted as cook, though servants were kept, and she always sat in the kitchen, only coming "through" to the dining-room for her meals. miss hope was the worldly member of the family. she had been to london town, and could not be relied upon to stop at home. she looked after the polishing of the furniture, the old glass and china. miss fanny was the lady of the family. she always sat in the best parlor. every one waited on her, and she was never permitted to do anything for herself. she dressed for the part in thick, black satin, with, in winter, a white silk embroidered chinese shawl, and, in summer, old brussels lace. across her forehead was a band of black velvet, with a pear-shaped pearl depending between the eyebrows. over her snow-white hair was flung a piece of old lace surmounting a wreath of artificial flowers. her claw-like hands were covered by lace mittens and many rings. i saw her constantly, and she was always idle. i never saw her read, or sew, or knit, and often i wondered what she thought about, as she sat there always in the same chair, year in year out, and with no companion but a large gray parrot. true, her surroundings were delightful. from her chair near the fire she could look out on the quaint old garden, always full of flowers, and she could glance around her at the many beautiful objects the room contained. i especially admired one hoppner. the subject was a beautiful woman, with a mass of powdered hair, seated by an open window. her cheek was supported in her hand, and at her elbow was a quaint little wicker cage containing a bird. i think the artist meant to suggest that both were captives. though quite well in health, miss fanny never left the house, even to walk in the garden. my father and i went very often to call upon those curious old people, who were so utterly out of touch with modern life, backward though life was then in the northern capital. we arrived at all sorts of hours, but refreshments were always produced. an amazingly rich cake, and fruity old port, served in large quarter-pint cut-glass rummers. it was not considered polite to refuse those offerings, which were always kept in a corner cupboard, and served by mrs. chew, who emerged from the kitchen, or miss hope, who left her housework to greet us. though broughton hall was commonly reputed to be haunted, no one seemed to know what form the ghost took. i was great friends with mr. adam, a majestic, clean-shaven old man, who carried his chin very high above an enormous black silk stock, and often i tried to draw him on the subject of the ghost, but without success. he took it very seriously, and warned me that "i wouldn't be any the better for having seen it. besides," he always concluded, "it's a family affair." the sisters were even more uncommunicative. my father and i were profoundly interested in this ghost. there was something about the whole establishment that was extremely promising, from the ghost-hunter point of view. the consequence of this was that we were always on the prowl. nothing discouraged us, and we spared neither time nor trouble. there is no research which requires such infinite patience as psychic research. several years passed before the great moment arrived, and when it did arrive it was all over in about four minutes. my father had a way of suddenly looking up from his work and saying, "let's go to broughton hall." i would at once rise, and together we would pass out into the night, without either hats or coats. very eccentric, it may be said, but then we frankly were very eccentric. we would steal away together around the crescent, and down the road till we reached the great gates. very softly we opened and closed them, and keeping well in the shadow of the trees and bushes we would creep round the silent house. i cannot describe the thrill of those nocturnal adventures. it was all so eerie, so full of vague, terrifying possibilities. i don't know what we expected to see, and we were generally back again in our own house in half an hour; but one night our patience really was rewarded. it was november, dry, but wild and bitterly cold. billowy white snow clouds scudding before a brisk north wind threw us alternately into light and darkness, as they covered and uncovered the face of the full moon. we had emerged from our house about half-past nine, and had reached the back of broughton hall. the house was shrouded in darkness and dead silence, every blind was close drawn, and the suggestion was one of utter emptiness. my father and i were walking apart, i being right under the shadow of the walls, whilst he was in the middle of the paved court, which had neither hedge nor walls, but met the edge of the field running up to it. suddenly i heard him whisper "hush!" though we never did utter a word whilst close to the house. his arm was pointing in front of him. i stared ahead, and then i saw, clearly lit by the moon, a woman who had apparently just rounded the corner of the house. she was running hard, straight towards us, and her feet made no sound on the round cobble stones. terror suddenly seized me, and i darted across to my father, and got well behind him, seizing him firmly round the waist. the woman came on, rushing wildly. she had nearly reached us, and i was almost thrown over as my father faced her, and backed to allow her to pass. i peeped round him, and saw a woman, ghastly pale, and distraught-looking, clad in a white nightdress. two long strands of black hair streamed out behind her, and her bare arms were outstretched in front. in a flash she had passed, and absolutely silently, and i found myself lying on the ground alone, and my father vanishing in hot pursuit. needless to say i very quickly picked myself up again, and joined the chase. terror lent me wings, and in a minute or two i came up with him, standing breathless by the gate. "vanished into thin air just as i reached her. that's always the way. you can't catch them," he said. we made a little détour before going home, in order to discuss the great event. we had no doubt that we had seen a genuine apparition. we knew all the occupants of the hall, and the woman had vanished in the open, and in full flight, just as my father had come up alongside her. he cautioned me against mentioning our adventure to any one, and i kept silence until years after, when broughton hall was pulled down and its inmates were all dead. before going on to our next ghostly adventure i will say a few words about my father, robert chambers, who in those days was something of a celebrity, and a very remarkable man. in appearance he was very handsome, extremely tall and well built, and with features that were well-nigh perfect. it was the fashion in his time to wear the hair rather long, and his was dark and very curly. he always dressed well, in the style of the country gentleman, rather than as a town dweller. in character he was extremely independent, and was utterly indifferent to two things--money and public opinion. his intellect was extraordinary, and it was commonly said that he knew a great deal about most things, and something about all things. in scotland, in those days, it was not considered necessary to trouble about the education of girls. no one ever tried to educate me, consequently at a very early age i was absolutely free to devote myself entirely to my father, and we were inseparable. our intercourse was not that of father and daughter. it was that of confidential friends of an equal age. at that period my mother was more or less of an invalid, and had her own attendants. my father and i went every morning at ten o'clock to the old business house of w. and r. chambers, in the high street of edinburgh, and remained there till half-past two, when we walked home together, sometimes paying a call or two on the way. though a mere uneducated child i helped him in his literary work, and at odd hours committed to memory many poets. we returned to four o'clock dinner, the correct hour in those days, and at six o'clock a porter arrived with my father's bag, containing manuscripts to be read and selected for _chambers' journal_. from six p. m. till midnight he worked at reading manuscript, not typed then, and proof correcting. twice a week we went to the theater--there was only one in edinburgh then. it was managed by a hard working couple, mr. and mrs. howard, who sometimes filled up a week by acting themselves. i am bound to say we spent most of our time in the green room, and i knew every turn and twist behind the curtain. this turned out to be lucky for us. one night we went to a performance given by the arthur sullivan company, and about halfway through a cry of "fire" was raised. great masses of burning stuff began to drop from the ceiling down into the auditorium. instantly there was a panic, and a terrible stampede, and my father and i leaned forward, protecting our heads behind the backs of the stalls in front, whilst the mad rush climbed over us. when all was clear in front of us we made our way to the back of the stage, and escaped quite easily. i looked behind me, and i can see now the dense mass of struggling humanity wedged in the doorway. i remained safely with mrs. howard whilst my father ran around to the front and helped to extricate the dead. the theater was burned to the ground, but was very rapidly built up again. my first literary effort must here be recorded. i collaborated with professor andrew wilson in writing the pantomime of "ali baba and the forty thieves." andrew wilson was professor of natural science, and an extremely versatile person--a passionate love of the drama was added to his many scientific attainments. we wrote the dialogue together, in one long revelry of laughter, and i was responsible for the words of the songs. as a literary effort i can only describe it as appalling. the pantomime was, however, a great success. the audacity of our utter incompetence proved highly successful, and the critics justly described it as "the funniest pantomime in scotland." no wonder the audience laughed from start to finish. my father always called at once upon any celebrity who happened to be passing through the city, and thus i became acquainted with many interesting and amusing people. henry irving was amongst the number. we always called upon him on our way to business, a little before ten. if he was playing for a week we called on him every morning, and often looked into the green room at night. he and my father were great friends, and at the hour of our visit he was always propped up in bed having breakfast. i used to perch on the bed whilst the two men talked. irving's nightshirt interested me (pyjamas had not come in then). it was white cambric with two enormous double frills down the front, and quite a pierrot ruffle round his neck. he was profoundly interested in the occult, and told me that a ghost he had once seen had suggested to him a particular action of his whilst playing in "the bells." at the moment when he parted the curtains, and looked wildly out, shouting hoarsely, "the bells, the bells." through irving we came to know the baroness burdett coutts, his ardent admirer. she was very kind to me, and presented me with a green silk dress, but i always thought her a very melancholy woman, even when entertaining many interesting people in her celebrated corner house in piccadilly, with its white china parrot swinging in the window. she was much attached to my father, and treated him with a humble and touching deference. robert chambers was a very keen sportsman, who fortunately did not require much practice to keep up his game. he held championships in golf and bowling. he was too ardent a naturalist and ornithologist to care for shooting, but he was an expert angler. he was also a born actor and mimic, and used to keep a green room in roars by "taking off" any of "the profession" called for, and i never heard a better ventriloquist. he adored music, and played the flute well. as a platform speaker he was extremely fluent and perfectly at ease. his indifference to money resulted in his never having a penny in his pocket at night, no matter how much he took with him in the morning, and one of my tasks was to prevent his being fleeced by those who lay in wait for him. he took any amount of trouble over impecunious and incompetent authors, and constantly re-wrote their work for them in order to make it fit for publication. he was a unique editor, and his labors in the cause of charity were strenuous, secret, and, i fear, rather indiscriminate. during this period of my life, the head of the house, william chambers, was still living, with his quaint old wife, in the west end of edinburgh. william, who had survived his more versatile brother, robert (my grandfather), was a little shriveled-up old man, with a dry and severe manner. most people were afraid of him, few liked him, but i got on with him famously. i have always been extremely proud of the fact that he rose from nothing to great wealth. there must be something fine in a man, who, as a lad, rose at four a. m. to read classics to an intelligent baker, whilst the batch of bread was being baked, and who gladly accepted as payment a copper or a roll. william and robert chambers had left their widowed mother to fend for themselves. the family was at the lowest financial ebb. much money had been spent on the french refugees who flocked into scotland in , and there was nothing to spare now. we were originally french, like so very many of the old scotch families. the first of us in history is recorded as guillaume de la chaumbre, who, as the most prominent man in peebles, signed the ragman roll in . my people had always lived in the dales of the tweed, so very appropriately i married a man called tweedale. towards the end of his life william chambers amused himself by spending many thousands on the restoration of st. giles' cathedral, an historic church which had fallen into great disrepair. this was a time of great interest for me, and i used to spend hours helping the workmen to gather up the thousands of human skulls that paved the church to a good depth. there were tombs laid bare of many celebrated people of the long ago, and these had to be identified, and carefully kept intact, until finally given a safer resting-place. william chambers had been offered a baronetcy some years previously, but he refused it. he told me he did not consider it a dignified thing for a man of letters to bear any other honor than that accorded to brain power by a benefited world. he and his brother robert were the pioneers of cheap and good educational literature for the laboring man, and the avidity with which this literature, "chambers' information for the people," was consumed, appeared to be a fitting reward. in those days it was an unheard-of thing for a publisher to be honored by a title. now, however, on the eve of the re-opening of st. giles' cathedral, her majesty, queen victoria, commanded william chambers to accept a baronetcy. the old couple were much agitated, but had to submit, and the queen announced her intention of performing the opening ceremony. when the day arrived william chambers lay dead in his house, and my father and i took the place of the old couple. the queen was indisposed, and lord aberdeen took her place. after the ceremony both lord aberdeen and lord rosebery urged upon my father to take up the baronetcy, more especially as he was his uncle's heir, but this he utterly refused to do. old lady chambers, the widow, discarded her title immediately and remained mrs. chambers till the day of her death. it must have been at least a month after william chambers' death that he visited me in a very vivid dream. i dreamed that he was standing beside my bed, and suddenly he bent over me and whispered in my ear, "i've left you all my money." on waking i had totally forgotten the dream, but later in the day an old servant of ours said to me, "i saw the wraith of your uncle william last night, but he had nothing to say to me." then my dream flashed back to me. a day or two afterwards i said suddenly to the old family lawyer, "was there ever a question of uncle william leaving his money to me?" the dry answer was, "yes! at one time there was a question of that." i could never extract anything further from him on the subject. though now possessed of considerable wealth my father made no difference in his mode of life, and he continued to work just as hard as ever, and to give away large sums of money. he never wanted anything for himself, but was always ready to give to others. he had a great love of precious stones, and always carried about little packets of diamonds, which looked like packets of chemists' powders. had i desired i could have loaded myself with jewels. he never denied me anything and we continued our close companionship, the only difference now being we took some holidays in the form of afternoons off. on one of these occasions we saw our second ghost. we went to pay a visit to a very old woman, whose name i cannot remember. she lived alone with one servant in an ancient dwelling in inveresk. the house was a large one, and was enclosed by very high walls, which entirely isolated it from the busy streets that surrounded it. the original old garden remained, in all its beauty, and the rooms were full of quaint heirlooms. we were always made very welcome, and the servant at once produced a delicious tea, consisting of fresh baked scones, butter made of real cream--margarine being not then invented--home-made strawberry jam, and home-laid eggs. russian eggs were not then imported. i must here interpose that deliciously innocent telegram sent by an aberdeen merchant in the first days of the great war, and which set all england and scotland mad to see the fur and snow-clad russian troops passing through to the front. the telegram ran as follows:-- "twenty thousand russians arrived." the twenty thousand muscovites were only twenty thousand stale eggs, but lord kitchener's order was, "let it stand." to return to my story. one glorious late spring evening we were seated at tea, and the window was thrown wide to the perfumed garden, where lilacs, and wallflowers, and lilies of the valley rioted gloriously. the birds were in full song in this peaceful sanctuary, which might have been a hundred miles away from a town. my father had put his invariable question to the old woman, "have you seen her again?" sometimes the answer was yes, sometimes no. i gathered that this question referred to the old woman's dead daughter, her only child. this daughter had been violently insane for many years and had remained under her mother's protection. she had died some years previously, at the age of fifty-five, having endured a terribly long martyrdom. suddenly my father broke off the conversation. "my god! there she is!" he half rose from his chair and stared through the open window. i looked in the same direction. a woman was strolling aimlessly along the path just outside. there was a curious uncertainty about her movements. she walked like a blind person, who has neither stick nor arm to guide her. strangely enough i never thought of connecting this woman with the ghost of the mad daughter. she looked so natural, so commonplace. her hollow face was quite gray, and her dark hair was drawn tightly back from it, and rolled in an ugly knob behind. her dress was of some dark material, her boots were of cloth, and her hands and arms were rolled up in a stuff apron she wore. there she was, vacantly wandering in the garden, in the lovely spring evening, with the blackbirds and thrushes singing their hearts out all around her, and i did not comprehend why such an ordinary, unattractive looking person should so deeply interest my father. i turned round to say something to the old woman, then i instantly understood. she had gone down on her knees, and had hidden herself by throwing the end of the tablecloth over her head. then i turned my eyes back to the apparition. i don't suppose she was visible for more than four minutes. i remember my father uttering consoling words to the effect that "she's gone," and helping the old woman into her chair again, when we resumed our tea and conversation, as if nothing unusual had occurred. looking back upon these incidents i contrast the infinite trouble we took in our hunt for ghosts, with present-day psychical research. i think of the innumerable half hours we spent at broughton hall, and only once were we rewarded by seeing anything. we visited the old woman at inveresk whenever we found time. there was nothing in the least inspiring or interesting in her conversation, yet to us there was an unspeakable charm about her outward circumstances. there was the spiritual charm of the silent old house, with its vibrating memories of the long departed. the charm of the cloistered peace, amidst which the woman lived and dreamed, shut away from the world by the high walls. it was a retreat in which to meditate, and that always appealed to me. a dwelling with a beautiful view has a great charm, but it draws the thoughts always outward to the external. still, when i pass a quiet old homestead, hidden away in its own flowery old garden from the eyes of the world, it attracts me far more than the far-flung grandeur of many a stately english mansion. only in such retreats of ancient peace can the thoughts be turned continuously inward, to their true bourne--the temple of the living god. i seem to have been born with an ingrained belief in the enormous virtue of renunciation. self-sacrifice, i am certain, is the foundation stone upon which is built the moral progress of man. i had occasion to prove this for myself at a comparatively early age. my mother suddenly became much more ailing than usual, and began to suffer a great deal of pain. a consultation of doctors was called by our own family physician, and two of the greatest surgeons in edinburgh arrived one morning at our house. after about an hour they came into the room in which i awaited them. their faces were very grave. they informed me, as kindly as they could, that they had arrived at the unanimous opinion that my mother was suffering from internal cancer, and that she might possibly live another six months. our own doctor confessed that he had long suspected this, and the two surgeons corroborated his opinion. there was no doubt in their minds, as the disease had openly declared itself. i took this shock in perfect silence for a minute or two, then i decided upon my first course of action. i asked them in the meanwhile to keep this matter secret from every one, even from my father. to this they rather demurred, saying that it was only right that he should know the truth, and that he would certainly question them. i then urged that our family doctor had known of this, and had hidden his knowledge up to to-day. it would be easy enough for him to go on hiding the truth for a short time longer. the doctors sought to know my reason for this secrecy; it would do no good, the truth would have to come out. i could give no reason. i had no reason, only a very strong instinct, and i wanted time. i asked for a fortnight, after which i would myself inform my father of the nature of my mother's malady. they agreed to this, doubtless much relieved that so unpleasant a task was removed to other shoulders, and they went away. that night i did not sleep. i had too much to think out. my mother must not die. i had to form some plan to save her, if it were humanly possible. she was absolutely necessary, i considered, to the younger children. she would be required for some years yet. my life was wholly given up to my father, i had become necessary to him, and this left me no time to mother the young ones. his health was not of the best. a curious tendency to hemorrhage kept him constantly weak. if he had a tooth drawn bleeding would continue for days after. he needed all my attention. at that particular time i possessed something--never mind what--that meant more to me than anything else in the whole wide world. it was the greatest thing i had in life. i decided before morning that with this, my one great possession, i would strike a bargain with the almighty. i would give him a fortnight to consider it. i would offer him the greatest thing in my life in exchange for my mother's life. quite conceivably he might refuse to consider the proposition, in which case i stood to lose everything. i could never again recover what i proposed to risk, but i came to the deliberate conclusion that it was worth it. the case demanded a desperate remedy. having made up my mind, i went about the business in the crudest and most practical manner. i set aside certain odd half hours during the coming fortnight, in which i would state my case. i wanted god to have every opportunity of considering my suggestion on its simple merits. i began by pointing out to him why it was so necessary that my mother should live, and then i went on to say that he might be sure i asked nothing for myself. i proposed to give in exchange for my mother's life the greatest thing i possessed on earth, a thing that doubtless was of little interest to him, but nevertheless meant a very great deal to me--in fact, my all. i really had nothing else of any value to offer. now, in thus addressing the almighty, i was not acting as a primitive savage, for i had considered the subject of deity for several years, and had studied most of the great theologians. i addressed him thus as a spirit of too supreme a potency, of too extraneous a mentality and majesty, to be addressed in any other terms but plain downright reasoning. elaborate and propitiatory words were good enough for earthly princelets, but ridiculous when offered up to the supreme creative power. that was my way of looking at it, and i began at once to carry out my plan. there was no time to lose. meanwhile, no living soul, save the doctors, knew of my secret. at the end of the second day my mother was free from pain. at the end of the first week she was recovering rapidly. the family doctor was intensely puzzled, but still adhered to his original conviction. on the eighth day i ceased my half-hourly reasoning with god. i merely thanked him for concluding the bargain. he had accepted my sacrifice, the greatest i could make, and there that matter ended. i felt, without the smallest irreverence, that we were quits. at the end of the month the two great surgeons returned, at our own doctor's request. i awaited them with perfect assurance and tranquillity. when they came in to me they still looked perturbed. they told me that they had examined my mother, and found all traces of the malady had disappeared. they could not account for it, they reiterated their former diagnosis, dwelling upon certain facts, in very natural self-justification. they expressed, in the very kindest manner, their deep regret for all the suffering and anxiety they must have caused me, and said how very lucky it was that no one had been made aware of their original convictions, save myself. the case was extraordinary, abnormal, there was nothing more to say. then they went away for the last time. my father was greatly puzzled at their refusing to accept any fee, and to the day of his death our own doctor, whenever he found me alone, referred to the case as the most marvelous he had ever come across. my mother quite regained her health, and died many years after from lung trouble. one other great sacrifice i had to make a year or two after. my father was entirely confined to bed with a severe attack of internal hemorrhage, and at the same time my youngest sister was threatened with consumption. she was ordered to go to the south of france immediately. it was decided that i must go with her, as she could not be trusted to strangers. my mother, absolutely restored to health, would be left with my father, who had also a good nurse valet. my father and i bade each other farewell one early morning in february, . we knew we would not meet again on earth. only one other curious incident do i remember in connection with that town house we lived in. on the night of the th december we were all assembled in the library, most of us were reading, and a violent wind storm was howling round the house. suddenly my father laid down the proof sheets he was correcting, and took out his watch. then he turned to us and said: "at this moment, seven fifteen, on sunday the th of december, , something terrible has happened. i think a bridge must be down." the next day we learned that the tay bridge had been blown down at that very hour, and the train and its occupants hurled to death in the waters below. chapter iii curious psychic experiences after my father's death i began to live a much more independent life. i was financially independent, and i proceeded to london, where i felt i would have a wider range of intellectual companionship. i lived in hotels and dispensed with all chaperonage, thus leaving myself free to join my mother on the riviera in the early spring months. i never cared for dancing, and always having had the companionship of people who were years older than myself, i had made few girl friends. my first cousin, lady campbell, wife of sir guy campbell, bart., th rifles, and another first cousin, menie muriel dowie, were the only two i really saw much of. lady campbell was, and is, a very attractive woman, possessed of great charm of manner. exceedingly cultured and intelligent, she is also an artist to her finger tips. as girls we used to be fond of attending queen victoria's drawing-rooms. a bevy of us would take lunch with us in the carriages, and thoroughly enjoy our day out. i was the last woman to kiss the hand of queen victoria at a drawing-room. i was stopped by a court official just as i was moving forward, and told to wait as "her majesty is going to withdraw." the present dowager queen alexandra, as princess of wales, then took her place. on this occasion i heard the queen say, "let this lady pass." i was then told to proceed. being very tall i had always a certain difficulty in getting down low enough to kiss the tiny queen's hand. after i had passed, and as i backed out of "the presence," i saw her majesty being assisted out of the queer little half chair, half stool she used. she never held another drawing-room, and i regret that, being abroad, i had not the honor of making a last curtsy to the little coffin as it passed through the streets of london. menie muriel dowie was a brilliant bohemian, as can be gathered by those who have read her book, "a girl in the carpathians." i have never known any woman who was possessed of so many natural talents. she is as much at home in skilled and polished diplomacy as in practical agriculture. she has always been a great traveler, yet a delicate woman. only her indomitable spirit kept her going in her youth, as it still does in her beautiful house in green street, and her model farm in gloucestershire. my greatest older friends were mrs. lynn linton, the novelist, browning, the poet, lord leighton, the painter, and mrs. proctor, widow of barry cornwall, and mother of adelaide proctor, the poet. all people old enough to be my parents. i had a great admiration for mrs. lynn linton's strong, cold intellect; it was so invigorating, and she was so self-reliant, an uncommon thing for a woman to be in those days. we had long arguments over matters occult, but i never could make the least impression upon her strong materialism. "i won't leave this earth even with you," she used to protest. she was a great friend and admirer of my aunt, lady priestley, also a woman of very fine intellect, who devoted herself to scientific pursuits. had she been a man, or had she lived in the present day, when woman has at last come into her own, she would have made a very strong mark. robert browning, whom i had known for some years, used to drop in very often to have a chat, and i rejoiced in him exceedingly as a born mystic of a high order. we often discussed the possibility of his work being directed from the other side, and we argued as to whether he received inspiration from various quarters, or whether he was the beloved of some poet of a former age, who, active still in the spirit world, expressed his great thoughts through robert browning on earth. so many people at that time frankly said they could not understand browning's poetry, and this i told him was to be attributed to lack of the mystic perception. now that mysticism has so enormously developed, his work is much more comprehensive to the world. i had alas! only one year of really close friendship with him, for he died the year after i came to london. one curious thing browning told me. he dropped in one night to see me, after dinner at a house where millais, the painter, had been one of the guests. "johnnie millais told me an odd thing to-night," he said. "he's constantly seeing figures appearing and disappearing on the face of the canvas he's working upon." "what sort of figures?" i asked. browning shot out his cuff. "here they are. i knew you'd be interested, so i took them down for you. better write them down for yourself, but don't mention the subject to him or any of his family." i fetched a piece of paper and copied from browning's cuff. " . . . . . the figures don't always come in that order," he said, "but more often than not they do. the always comes up as , but he's seen . . . . what do you make of it?" "at present nothing, but the future may throw light upon the phenomenon," i answered. i never mentioned this occurrence to any one, and, indeed, forgot all about it till some years after millais' death, when i came upon my notes in an old box. i then realized that the great painter had been looking upon the dates of his own death. he died on august th, . one night some one, i have not the least idea who, came to me in my sleep and bade me take up pencil and paper, and write to dictation. still sound asleep i did as i was bidden. i always kept writing materials by my bedside. in the morning i remembered nothing of this till my eye fell upon some sheets of paper. the writing upon them was mine, but very big and untidy. then i recollected the command i had received in the night and eagerly read what i had written. here it is. i gave browning a copy as he was so deeply interested-- "a solitary cottage stood on the edge of a bleak moorland. the sun sank behind the low horizon, and left marshy pools glowing like living opals. a stream of homeward flying rooks made a streak of indigo across the topaz sky where gauzy wind-riven clouds floated westward. the sacred hush of eventide brooded under the calm wings of night. "out on the waste wandered the angel of 'sleep,' and the angel of 'death' with arms fraternally entwined, and whilst the brotherly genii embraced each other, night stole down with velvet footfall, and the green stars peered forth. "then the angel of sleep shook from out his hands the invisible grains of slumber, and bade the night wind waft them o'er the world. and soon the child in its cradle, the tired mother, the aged man, and the pain-laden woman were at peace. the curfew tolled out from the distant hamlet and then was still. "inside the cottage a rushlight burned faintly, indicating the poverty of the room, and illuminating the death-like features of the boy who lay on the bed. by his side, worn out, sat the father, his horny hand clasped in that of his child. "and the two brother angels advanced, hand in hand, and peered in at the window, and the angel of sleep said: 'behold how gracious a thing it is, that we can visit this humble dwelling and scatter grains of slumber around, and send oblivion to the weary watcher. i am beloved and courted by all. how merciful is our vocation.' and silently he entered the room. "he kissed the eyelids of the weary watcher, and as he did so some grains fell from out the wreath of scarlet poppies that lay like drops of blood upon his brow. "but the angel of death sat without, his pallid face shrouded in the sable of his wings. "and he spake to the angel of sleep, 'of a truth thou art happy and beloved. the welcome guest of all, whereas i am shunned, the door is barred as against a secret foe, and i am counted the enemy of the world.' "but the angel of sleep wiped away the immortal tears from the dark and mournful eyes of his brother death. "'are we not children born of the one father?' said he, 'and do not the good call thee friend, and the lonely, the homeless, the weary laden bless thy hallowed name when they wake in paradise.' "and the angel of death unfurled his sable wings and took heart. and as lucifer the light-bringer paled in the violet heavens he silently entered the dwelling. with his golden scythe he cut the silver cord of life, and gathered the child to his faithful bosom." the evenings i most enjoyed were those i spent in the studio of felix moscheles, the great apostle of peace. there one met all the genius and talent in london, and any genius of foreign nationality who happened to be visiting england. the cosmopolitan element always attracted me, and i went to several frankly revolutionary houses, where red ties flaunted, and where those russian nihilists found a welcome who were constantly rushing over here to escape siberia. through them i learned to understand what the real woes of russia were, and to expect the present revolution as the inevitable result of brutal repression and misgovernment. during one winter at nice i renewed my acquaintance with one of the most remarkable mystics of modern times, marie, countess of caithness and duchesse de pomar. i had first met her in edinburgh in when she was on the eve of her second marriage with lord caithness. my father and mother attended her very quiet wedding. now we met again many years after at her beautiful home, the palais tiranty, nice. lady caithness was widowed for the second time, lord caithness having died in , and lived alone with her devoted son, the duc de pomar. she had a magnificent home in paris, "holyrood," avenue wagram. this house contained a large lecture hall filled with gilt chairs, and hung round with fine pictures. leading from this hall down a flight of marble stairs one came to a chapel or séance room, used for direct communication with the spirit of mary stuart, and said to have been built "under the queen's instructions." this presupposes queen mary to be still on "the other side." other occultists maintain that she has reincarnated again in the person of a very old empress, who still lives on earth. it has been often said of lady caithness that she believed herself to be the reincarnation of mary stuart. during all the years i knew her intimately i never heard her even hint at such a belief, and the fact that she believed herself to be in touch with the queen on "the other side" precludes in my opinion the possibility of her having formed such a conception. what may have given rise to the suggestion was the fact that she dressed after the fashion of the scottish queen, and was surrounded by "mary relics." also, there is no doubt that she had a deeply sympathetic interest in the unfortunate queen, and had elevated her memory into what amounted almost to a religion. in the chapel there is a full length lovely portrait of mary, which is so lighted and arranged that it gives the impression of a living woman. leading out of the dining-room was the bedroom of lady caithness, a sumptuous apartment. the bed was a state bed, plumes of ostrich feathers uprose at each corner. at one end was a crown, and behind the pillows was a fresco painting representing jacob's ladder, with a multitude of angels ascending and descending. often lady caithness received in bed, as was the habit of the french queens of former days. the jewels possessed by lady caithness were the most gorgeous i have ever seen. nothing worn by crowned heads, at the many english courts i have attended, were comparable to them. i can remember an edinburgh jeweler inviting my father and me to inspect some diamonds belonging to her that he was cleaning. there was a long chain of huge diamonds reaching to the knees, with a cross attached, which no casual observer, not possessing the jeweler's guarantee as we did, would have believed to be genuine. when standing receiving her guests in the beautiful salons of the palais tiranty, clad in crimson velvet, she looked a very wonderful figure, for she possessed exceptional personal beauty as well. as may be supposed, a woman of such commanding presence who was known to possess a deep interest in the occult, could secure the services of the best mediums the world over. i sat with her through many séances, successful, barren, and indifferent, conducted by mediums of various nationalities. i remember one conducted by a south american medium, where the "controls" became very noisy and troublesome, and threatened to do serious damage. the medium could not be roused out of the trance she had fallen into, and it had really become necessary to put an end to the performance. she was a very big, heavy woman, and had sunk half off her chair on to the floor. i suggested to lady caithness that if we could drag or carry her into another room matters might then quiet down, but i added dubiously, "she must be a great weight." lady caithness replied with a smile: "try. you'll probably find her very light indeed." i did try, and this was the only time in my life that i had the opportunity of proving to myself how tremendously a medium loses weight whilst genuine manifestations are in progress. i found it quite easy to lift this woman, who in ordinary circumstances must have weighed at least twelve or thirteen stone. sir william crookes has given to the world a very interesting account of his work in weighing mediums, before and during materialization. he always found that a great decrease in weight took place during the materializations, proving how enormous is the drain on the strength of the medium. such evidence is most valuable, as coming from our greatest chemist. on this particular night i had no doubt as to the genuineness of the medium. had she been a fraud she would have stopped the séance at once, on seeing how annoyed lady caithness was. she had every reason to conciliate her, and was greatly distressed to hear that her services would no longer be required. the troublesome spirits followed her into the next room, but gradually subsided as we succeeded in bringing the woman back out of her trance. i used to go very often to the theater at nice with lady caithness. she had her own box, and often invited don carlos of spain, and other distinguished personages, to accompany her. one night we went to hear the incomparable judic. we were only a party of three, the third being prince valori. the prince was then a man past middle age. he suggested a magnificent ruin, retaining as he did the battered remains of great good looks, and it was plain to see that his valet was exceedingly skillful. he possessed also a european reputation for heiress hunting, but to the day of his death he never succeeded in catching one, though it was said he had pursued his quarry in all parts of the world. perhaps the figure he placed upon his ancient lineage and his personal charm was too high; perhaps he had begun his quest too late in life, though the position of a widowed princess valori would certainly not have been without attraction. i attributed his single blessedness to quite a different cause. that night, whilst my attention was fixed on the stage, i became dimly aware that some one had entered our box, but until the song was over i did not turn round to look who it was. we always had visitors coming and going. when at last i did glance round i saw nothing remarkable. only a man in fancy dress seated behind valori, a man whom i had never seen before. at that period nice went mad during the winter season. the most extravagant amusements were entered into with a wild zest, by the very cosmopolitan society of extremely wealthy people. there were fancy dress balls every night somewhere, and no one thought it strange to see bands of revelers in fancy costume walking about the streets and thronging the cafés at all hours of the night. i was not therefore astonished to see this man in fancy dress, leaning familiarly over the back of prince valori's chair. he was a very thin man, with very long, thin legs, and he was dressed entirely in chocolate brown--a sort of close-fitting cowl was drawn over his head, and his curious long, impish face was made more weird by small, sharply pointed ears rising on each side of his head. he appeared to have "got himself up" to look like a satyr, or some such mythical monstrosity. he was not introduced to me at the moment, and other people entering our box whom i knew, i forgot about him. when the box cleared before the next act i noticed he had gone. a week or so after this i went to a fancy dress ball given by a russian friend of mine--princess lina galitzine. there was a great crowd, and a number of grand dukes and grand duchesses, some of whom had driven long distances from their villas and hotels in mentone, monte carlo, and beaulieu, etc. i soon saw prince valori making his way towards me, dressed very magnificently, in a french costume of the eighteenth century. by his side moved the man in brown. now that i saw "the satyr" under brilliant light he struck me at once as something peculiar. his walk was alone sufficient to attract attention. he strutted on tiptoes, with a curious jerk with every step he made. those who remember henry irving's peculiar walk may form some idea of "the satyr's" movements. they were irving's immensely exaggerated. i concluded that valori was bringing him up to present him to me, but such proved not to be his intention. valori shook hands, coolly requested the young american to whom i was talking to move off and find some one to dance with, and seated himself in the vacated chair. "the satyr" stood by his side and said nothing. i thought this very odd, and glancing, whenever i could do so unobserved, at the silent brown figure, i began to feel uneasy and shivery. it was impossible, whilst he stood there listening to all we said, to ask valori who he was, and no mention was made of him. as soon as i could i escaped to talk to some one else, and for an hour or two i avoided both. during this time i asked several people who "the satyr" was, but no one seemed to have noticed him in the crowd. at last, when seated at supper with the late james gordon bennett, who did not usually go to balls, but had looked in here for half an hour for some purpose of his own, i found myself seated next to a very charming pole, married to a russian, the princess schehoffskoi. i knew her to be a genuine mystic, one of the group who first instituted spiritualism into the russian court circles. i seized an opportunity, whilst gordon bennett was occupied with some one else, to ask her who the brown satyr was who had attached himself to valori. she was at once absorbed in the question, and, lowering her voice, she said, "why, how interesting! don't you know that is his 'familiar' who is constantly in attendance upon him. people say they became attached whilst he was attending a 'sabbath' in the vosges, and he can't get rid of it." "a sabbath!" i echoed blankly. "yes! surely you have heard of a 'witch's sabbath.' they still hold them at lutzei, and each person receives a 'familiar.' those 'sabbaths' are the most appalling orgies and hideously blasphemous. the 'familiars' have names--minette, verdelet, etc. i had an ancestor who owned a 'familiar' called sainte buisson. his name was de laski. of course, he was a pole, and a prince of siradia, and he came across dr. dee, the necromancer of queen elizabeth's time. they seem to have entered into a sort of partnership." all this the princess told me quite seriously, and i found out later from her that satanism or devil worship was largely practiced in france. it is interesting to note that the names of the french war mascots of the moment are all taken from the names of well-known "familiars" in occult lore. "then the 'satyr' attached to valori is not human flesh and blood; how horrible!" i whispered back. "have many people seen him? is he always there?" the princess nodded, "the clairvoyantes here all know about it, and i myself have seen him, not here, but in paris. i shall go in search of valori directly after supper." "and i shall go home to bed," i answered. the next morning i met valori, alone, on the promenade des anglais. he turned and strolled by my side, and i determined to put a straight question. after a little trivial conversation i said, "by the way, who is that brown man, dressed like a satyr, who has been with you lately?" i watched valori's face as i put the question, and as i saw the change that came over it i felt very sorry and ashamed of having spoken. he looked so utterly dejected and miserable. "you also?" he muttered, then fell to silence. i gathered that the same question had been put to him before, and i hastened to reassure him. "don't answer. my question was impertinent; let us speak of other things," i said hastily, but he remained silent, staring down at the ground. then suddenly he said-- "i am not the only one in the world so afflicted." i did not pursue the subject. his words were true. that evening i received a large bouquet of russian violets, and on a card was written the following french proverb:--"la réputation d'un homme est comme son ombre, qui tantôt le suit et tantôt le précède; quelquefois elle est plus longue et quelquefois plus courte que lui." at that time the whole riviera was swarming with professional clairvoyantes, and it soon "got wind" that prince valori's "familiar" was walking about with him. he treated the matter almost as lightly as a distinguished english general treated his "familiar." the englishman, general elliot, who commanded the forces in scotland, was a very well-known society man, about twenty-five years ago. he had a name for his familiar, "wononi," and used actually to speak aloud with him in the middle of a dinner-party. the general occupied a very distinguished position, not only in his profession, but in the social world, and to look at he was the very last man that one would associate with matters occult. in marie, duchesse de pomar and countess of caithness, died. she had the right to claim burial in holyrood chapel, and a very simple stone marks her last resting-place. to her i owe the warmest friendship of my life, for it was in her opera box i met the present lady treowen, born a daughter of lord albert conynghame, who afterwards became the first lord londesborough. to the many who know and love her, albertina treowen represents a type of perfect breeding, alas! fast becoming extinct in these days. she has lived the reality of noblesse oblige, has the rare gift of perfect friendship, and combines a rare refinement of mind with strong moral courage. chapter iv east end days and nights if we had found the golden thread of meaning which gives coherence to the whole; if we had been taught as our religion that every man and woman was receiving the strictest justice at the divine hands, and that our conditions to-day were exactly those our former lives entitled us to, how different would be our outlook on life. as it is, men have fallen away in their bitter discontent from a god in whose justice they have ceased to believe, and of whose impartiality they see no sign. i doubt if any religion extant has claimed such a wide diversity in its adherents as christianity. calvin, knox, torquemada, the archbishop of canterbury, and kaiser wilhelm. mr. gladstone, and czar nicolas. the pope of rome, and spurgeon. even those nine names, which might be multiplied indefinitely, show us diametrically opposed readings of the same faith. it would be of enormous benefit to us if we studied all the great religions, and separated from each the obviously false from the true, and appropriated the latter. the bible would gain enormously in value if studied in conjunction with other sacred books written before the advent of christ. a careful study of the ancient faiths will reveal a wonderful similarity. we are beginning to break down the limitations which have been presumptuously cast around the conceptions of the divine teachings. we begin to see that not only in palestine, but in all the world, and amongst all peoples, god has been revealing himself to the hearts of men. it is always folly for the orthodox to hold up hands in holy horror at the views of the unorthodox. it is a selfish standpoint, and makes matters no better. doubt does not spring from the wish to doubt. it arises solely from the play of the mind on the facts of daily life surrounding us. the truth remains, that, unless the church recovers those vital doctrines that she has lost, and which alone make life rational to the intelligent, she will be finally abandoned when the present generation dies out. we can never rest content with a faith which flatly contradicts the facts of life which surround us, and press in on us from every side in our daily existence. we hold that what we undoubtedly find in life ought to have its complement in religion. the searching temper of our vast sacrifices in war are thrusting faith down to primitive bed-rock. orthodoxies and heterodoxies will not matter much now. what will matter will be honesty, effectiveness, and a rational explanation of life. for nineteen hundred years we have professed the religion of what others said about christ. now the hour is approaching when we must try the religion of what christ said about us and the world. i was always of a very inquiring turn of mind, and i had abandoned orthodoxy before i was twenty. i had read everything i could lay my hands on, and i emerged after a year or two, an out-and-out agnostic, in the popular sense of the term. i had, however, no intention of remaining in that condition. i was convinced there must be some link between science and religion, and that a just god, worthy of all worship, was to be found, if only i knew where to seek. i can look back on this crude stage of my life, and see what a nuisance i must have been, with my defiant disbelief and constant questioning. i became an ardent truth-seeker, but my demands, i can now realize, grew out of my palpitating desire to reduce the world of disorder to the likeness of a supreme and beneficent creator. if god be just and good, then what is the explanation of this hideous discrepancy in human lives? following on this came the question: "is it possible that a just god is going to judge us, one and all, on our miserable record of three score years and ten?" "whatsoever ye soweth that shall ye reap." so the criminal and the savage were to be judged by their deeds, though, through no fault of their own, they were born under circumstances which precluded any glimmer of light to shine in on their darkness. "ah!" but i was told, "god will make it up to them hereafter. of course, he won't judge them as he will judge you." this seemed to me pure nonsense. i could not understand a god who arranged his creation so badly. whilst in london i started out on a search for truth. amongst those who accorded me interviews were cardinal newman and the late archdeacon liddon. the former was exquisitely sympathetic and patient, but he gave me no mental satisfaction. i helped him for some weeks in the great dock strike, and then we drifted apart for ever. liddon listened patiently, then told me flatly he could not solve the mysteries i sought to probe. i also was accorded an unsatisfactory interview with basil wilberforce. after a lapse of thirty years we met again, though i never recalled to him the visit i had paid him in my youth, being sure he must have forgotten all about it. i found him enormously changed mentally. he had outgrown all resemblance to his former mental self. at that early period some one happened to mention to me that a certain madame blavatsky had just arrived in london, bringing with her a new religion. my curiosity was at once fired, and i set off to call upon her. i shall never forget that first interview with a much maligned woman, whom i rapidly came to know intimately and love dearly. she was seated in a great armchair, with a table by her side on which lay tobacco and cigarette paper. whilst she spoke her exquisite taper fingers automatically rolled cigarettes. she was dressed in a loose black robe, and on her crinkly gray hair she wore a black shawl. her face was pure kalmuk, and a network of fine wrinkles covered it. her eyes, large and pale green, dominated the countenance--wonderful eyes in their arresting, dreamy mysticism. i asked her to explain her new religion, and she answered that hers was the very oldest extant, and formed the belief of five hundred million souls. i inquired how it was that this stupendous fact had not yet touched christendom, and her reply was that there had never been any interference with christian thought. though judge of all, christianity had been judged by none. the rise of japan was a factor of immense potency, and in time would open out a new era in the comprehension of east by west. then the meaning would flash upon the churches of the words, "neither in this mountain nor yet at jerusalem." i explained to her my difficulties, which she proceeded to solve by expounding the doctrines of reincarnation and karma. they jumped instantly to my reason. i there and then found the just god, of whom i had been in search. from that day to this i have never had reason to swerve from those beliefs. the older i grow, the more experience i gather, the more i read, the more confirmed do i become in the belief that such provide the only rational explanation of this life, the only natural hope in the world to come. i have offered those beliefs to very many people whom i discovered to be on the same quest as i had been. i have never once had them rejected by any serious truth-seeker, and i have seen them passed on and on by these people to others, forming enormous ramifications which became lost to view in the passage of time and their own magnitude. in these early days there was little literature available for the student, but the circle of clever brains which rapidly surrounded blavatsky set to work with a will under her guidance, and now, after the lapse of thirty years, there is an enormous literature always commanding a wide sale, and the little circle that gathered round "the old lady" has swollen into very many thousands. what was the secret of helena petrovski blavatsky's instant success? i have no doubt that it lay in her power to give to the west the eastern answers to those problems which the church has lost. in her way blavatsky was a true missioner. "go forth on your journey for the weal and the welfare of all people, out of compassion for the world and the welfare of angels and mortals," was the command given by the lord buddha to his disciples, and christ, following the universal ideal, five hundred years later, commanded, "go ye into all the world and preach the gospel of the whole creation." i began to study those, to me, new doctrines at once, and i also took up their occult side, no light task, but one of absorbing interest. not till then did i fully realize that in no one human life could that long, long path be trodden, in no new-born soul could be developed those divine possibilities of which i could catch but a fleeting illusive vision. "thou canst not travel in the path before thou hast become the path itself." did not the christ warn his followers that the path must be trodden more or less alone? "forsake all and follow me." so, also in the bhagavad gita it is written: "abandoning all duties come unto me alone for shelter. sorrow not, i will liberate thee from thy sins." "the secret doctrine" written by blavatsky proved a mine of wealth, and i read the volumes through seven times in seven different keys. the works of a. p. sinnett, text books then, and now brought up to date by expanding knowledge, were extremely helpful. for advanced students "the growth of the soul" is unsurpassed. a very short time elapsed before mental food was supplied for practically every branch of mysticism and occult development, and students flocked into headquarters from all parts of the world. it is interesting to remember the two adjoining villas in avenue road, st. john's wood, where we used to congregate to study, and hear lectures thirty years ago, and to look now on the stately buildings in tavistock square. they are designed by the great architect lutyens, whose wife, lady emily, is an ardent theosophist. i am glad that i have lived to see these doctrines take firm root in the west, and grow so amazingly that in all cities they are now held by vast numbers, and even in cases where they have not been finally adopted they are acknowledged to be the only logical conclusion for those who desire to possess a rational belief. i am glad that i can look back with love and profound gratitude to helena p. blavatsky, the woman who grafted on the west the wisdom of the ages. i have no doubt that she is enabled to see the mighty structure raised on her small beginnings, and doubtless she has met on "the other side" men and women whose debt to her is equally as great as mine. blavatsky began by exploding the theory that men are born equal. if this one life were all, then this great error ought, in common justice, to be absolute truth, and every man should possess common rights in the community, and one man ought to be as good as another. if every soul born to-day is a fresh creation, who will in the course of time pass away from this life for ever, then why is it that one is only fitted to obey, whilst another is eminently fitted to rule? one is born with a tendency to vice and crime, another to virtue and honesty. one is born a genius, another is born to idiocy. how, she asked, could a firm social foundation ever be built up on this utter disregard of nature? how treat, as having right to equal power, the wise and the ignorant, the criminal and the saint? yet, if man be born but once it would be very unjust to build on any other foundation. re-incarnation implies the evolution of the soul, and it makes the equality of man a delusion. in evolution time plays the greatest part, and through evolution humanity is climbing. "souls while eternal in their essence are of different ages in their individuality." many of us must know people who though quite old in years are children in mind. men and women who having arrived at three score years and ten are still utterly childish and inconsequent. they are young souls who have had the experiences of very few earth lives. again, we all know children who seem born abnormally old. infant prodigies, musicians, calculators, painters who have brought over their genius from a former life. i remember once meeting with a curious experience, which is not very easy to describe. it was an experience more of feeling than of seeing. i was standing in milan cathedral. in front of me and behind was gathered a crowd of peasants. high mass was being celebrated, and all the seats were occupied. after a few moments i began to feel a curious sensation of being intently watched. some penetrating influence was probing me through and through, with a quiet but intensely powerful directness. i had the sensation that my soul was being stripped bare. i looked round, but could see nothing to account for my sensation. every one seemed intent on their devotions. i began to wonder if some malicious old peasant was throwing over me the spell of the evil eye, but again my feelings were not conscious of an evil intent; it was more an absorbed speculation directed towards me. some one was probing my soul, speculating on my spiritual worth or worthlessness, with an intensely earnest yet cold calculation. just in front of me stood a peasant woman of the poorest class. her back was towards me, and over her shoulder hung a baby of not more than a year old. suddenly i met the eyes of the child full. then i knew. as a psychological experience it was most interesting, but it sent a little thrill of creepiness through me. the baby did not withdraw its gaze, but continued leisurely to look me through and through. the eyes were large and gray, the expression that of a contemplative savant, with a faint dash of irony in their glance. i do not pretend to be anything but what is now called "psychic," but i am certain that those windows of the soul, with that age-long experience flooding out of them, would have arrested the most material person. my husband, who is accustomed to my "flights of imagination," was very much struck by that look of maturity, that suggestion of æonic knowledge. blavatsky taught me to look on man as an evolving entity, in whose life career births and deaths are recurring incidents. birth and death begin and end only a single chapter in the book of life. she taught me that we cannot evade inexorable destiny. i made my present in my past. to-day i am making my future. in proportion as i outwear my past, and change my present abysmal ignorance into knowledge, so shall i become free. i have often heard blavatsky called a charlatan, and i am bound to say that her impish behavior often gave grounds for this description. she was foolishly intolerant of the many smart west end ladies who arrived in flocks, demanding to see spooks, masters, elementals, anything, in fact, in the way of phenomena. madame blavatsky was a born conjuror. her wonderful fingers were made for jugglers' tricks, and i have seen her often use them for that purpose. i well remember my amazement upon the first occasion on which she exhibited her occult powers, spurious and genuine. i was sitting alone with her one afternoon, when the cards of jessica, lady sykes, the late duchess of montrose and the honorable mrs. s.---- (still living) were brought in to her. she said she would receive the ladies at once, and they were ushered in. they explained that they had heard of her new religion, and her marvelous occult powers. they hoped she would afford them a little exhibition of what she could do. madame blavatsky had not moved out of her chair. she was suavity itself, and whilst conversing she rolled cigarettes for her visitors and invited them to smoke. she concluded that they were not particularly interested in the old faith which the young west called new; what they really were keen about was phenomena. that was so, responded the ladies, and the burly duchess inquired if madame ever gave racing tips, or lucky numbers for monte carlo? madame disclaimed having any such knowledge, but she was willing to afford them a few moments' amusement. would one of the ladies suggest something she would like done? lady sykes produced a pack of cards from her pocket, and held them out to madame blavatsky, who shook her head. "first remove the marked cards," she said. lady sykes laughed and replied, "which are they?" madame blavatsky told her, without a second's hesitation. this charmed the ladies. it seemed a good beginning. "make that basket of tobacco jump about," suggested one of them. the next moment the basket had vanished. i don't know where it went, i only know it disappeared by trickery, that the ladies looked for it everywhere, even under madame blavatsky's ample skirts, and that suddenly it reappeared upon its usual table. a little more jugglery followed and some psychometry, which was excellent, then the ladies departed, apparently well satisfied with the entertainment. when i was once more alone with madame blavatsky, she turned to me with a wry smile and said, "would you have me throw pearls before swine?" i asked her if all she had done was pure trickery. "not all, but most of it," she unblushingly replied, "but now i will give you something lovely and real." for a moment or two she was silent, covering her eyes with her hand, then a sound caught my ear. i can only describe what i heard as fairy music, exquisitely dainty and original. it seemed to proceed from somewhere just between the floor and the ceiling, and it moved about to different corners of the room. there was a crystal innocence in the music, which suggested the dance of joyous children at play. "now i will give you the music of life," said madame blavatsky. for a moment or two there fell a trance-like silence. the twilight was creeping into the room, and seemed to bring with it a tingling expectancy. then it seemed to me that something entered from without, and brought with it utterly new conditions, something incredible, unimagined and beyond the bounds of reason. some one was singing, a distant melody was creeping nearer, yet i was aware it had never been distant, it was only becoming louder. i suddenly felt afraid of myself. the air about me was ringing with vibrations of weird, unearthly music, seemingly as much around me as it was above and behind me. it had no whereabouts, it was unlocatable. as i listened my whole body quivered with wild elation, and the sensation of the unforeseen. there was rhythm in the music, yet it was unlike anything i had ever heard before. it sounded like a pastorale, and it held a call to which my whole being wildly responded. who was the player, and what was his instrument? he might have been a flautist, and he played with a catching lilt, a luxurious abandon that was an incarnation of nature. it caught me suddenly away to green sicilian hills, where the pipes of unseen players echo down the mountain sides, as the pipes of pan once echoed through the rugged gorges and purple vales of hellas and thrace. alluring though the music was, and replete with the hot fever of life, it carried with it a thrill of dread. its sweetness was cloying, its tenderness was sensuous. a balmy scent crept through the room, of wild thyme, of herbs, of asphodel and the muscadine of the wine press. it enwrapt me like an odorous vapor. the sounds began to take shape, and gradually mold themselves into words. i knew i was being courted with subtlety, and urged to fly out of my house of life and join the saturnalia regna. the player was speaking a language which i understood, as i had understood no tongue before. it was my true native tongue that spoke in the wild ringing lilt, and i could not but give ear to its enchantments and the ecstasy of its joy. my soul seemed to strain at the leash. should i let go? like a powerful opiate the allurement enfolded me, yet from out its thrall a small insistent voice whispered "caution! where will you be led: supposing you yield your will, would it ever be yours again?" now my brain was seized with a sense of panic and weakness. the music suddenly seemed replete with gay sinfulness and insolent conquest. it spoke the secrets which the nature myth so often murmurs to those who live amid great silences, of those dread mysteries of the spirit which yet invest it with such glory and wonderment. with a violent reaction of fear i rose suddenly, and as i did so the whole scene was swept from out the range of my senses. i was back once more in blavatsky's room with the creeping twilight and the far off hoarse roar of london stealing in at the open window. i glanced at madame blavatsky. she had sunk down in her chair, and she lay huddled up in deep trance. she had floated out with the music into a sea of earthly oblivion. between her fingers she held a small russian cross. i knew that she had thrust me back to the world which still claimed me, and i went quietly out of the house into the streets of london. on another occasion when i was alone with madame blavatsky she suddenly broke off our conversation by lapsing into another language, which i supposed to be hindustanee. she appeared to be addressing some one else, and on looking over my shoulder i saw we were no longer alone. a man stood in the middle of the room. i was sure he had not entered by the door, window or chimney, and as i looked at him in some astonishment, he salaamed to madame blavatsky, and replied to her in the same language in which she had addressed him. i rose at once to leave her, and as i bade her good-by she whispered to me, "do not mention this." the man did not seem aware of my presence; he took no notice of me as i left the room. he was dark in color and very sad looking, and his dress was a long, black cloak and a soft black hat which he did not remove, pulled well over his eyes. i found out that evening that none of the general staff were aware of his arrival, and i saw him no more. i remember clearly the first night that annie besant came to headquarters as an interested inquirer. she arrived with the socialist, herbert burrows. madame blavatsky told me she was destined to take a very great part in the future theosophical movement. at that time such a thing seemed incredible, yet it has come to pass. about this period i went to live in the east end of london, haggerston and whitechapel, where i had a night shelter of my own. there i saw into what surroundings children were born, how they grow up, and how their parents live and die. i have seen so much of the lives of the outcast poor that i can feel nothing but the most passionate pity for them, even though i can now look upon them as souls just beginning to climb the ladder of evolution. my night shelter was for women only, and was purposely of the roughest description. the floor was bare concrete, and round the walls were heaps of millers' sacks i had bought cheap, owing to mice having eaten holes in them. according to our laws the legal age at which a girl can marry is thirteen, and i used to get many of these girl wives in for the night, as their lawful husbands used to turn them out of doors. i discovered that it was no uncommon practice for a man to buy one of those children from the parents for a few pence, the parents' consent being necessary. the marriage was solemnized, and the child wife was used only as a drudge to slave for the husband and his mistress, who was of a more suitable age to become his mate. i used to be very much troubled by women in the throes of delirium tremens. they would come in quite quietly when the shelter opened, strip, pick up a sack and get into it, and then lie down and at once go to sleep. after a few hours' dead slumber they would get up, raving mad, and disturb all the other sleepers. the reason of this peculiar form of d. t. was explained to me by a doctor in the neighborhood. the publicans kept a pail behind the bar, into which was thrown the dregs of every species of liquor sold during the day. this concoction was distributed cheap at closing time, and its effects were cumulative. one night i had a curious experience. the room was unusually quiet, and i had closed my eyes, but i was not asleep. i opened them, and, in the bright light of one unshaded gas jet, i saw a dark figure moving. its back was towards me, and i instantly thought a plain clothes policeman had entered, no unusual occurrence, without my hearing him. in these days detectives used often to escort the west end ladies on slumming expeditions, and they usually called on me. then i saw this figure was clad in dark robes, and was very tall. again i thought, this is some old jew who has crept in, and i was just about to rise and eject him, when something suddenly stopped me. _i saw through him and beyond him._ i then and there realized that feeling of hair of one's head rising on one's scalp is no mere figment of speech. the figure moved softly round the room, it made no sound whatever, and as it came to each sleeper it bent down, as if closely scrutinizing each face. it occurred to me that it was looking for some one. i began to dread the moment when the search was over, and the figure would turn its face towards me. i felt that my hair had turned into the quills of a porcupine. i wanted to shut my eyes, but dared not. then before that quest was over, the figure straightened itself and turned full towards me. my fears instantly fell away from me like a fallen mantle, for though i knew the visitor had come from the other side, there was something so profoundly sad in the pale weary face, that compassion quite eclipsed fear. another second and it had vanished. i lived in whitechapel during the dread visitation of "jack the ripper," and all women at once adopted the habit of walking in the middle of the road amongst the horses and carts. fortunately there were no motors in those days to add to the confusion. when we came to the house or alley we wished to enter, we made a sudden dash for it. one night i had occasion to pass the entire night by the bedside of a dying prostitute. she lived in one of four rooms, all occupied by the same class, and all opening into a court not larger than ten feet by ten. i suppose i must have been very tired, for i fell asleep, and about five a. m. i woke and found i was alone, the woman was dead. i went out into the court, hearing a sudden noise of excited voices, and discovered that "jack" had been at work in the adjoining room, only separated from mine by a match-board partition. portions of the unfortunate woman were neatly arranged on a deal table. i had heard absolutely nothing. later on that same day i revisited the scene, and found a curious contrast. seeing his way to a cheap furnished lodging, a coster had married his donah in a hurry, and the wedding breakfast was being eaten off the blood-stained table! it was in those days that i developed into a convinced suffragist. i saw that until men and women came together to improve and mold our civilization, very little improvement could be expected. the son of the bondwoman is not on a level with the son of the free woman, and we saw that the struggle must go on until we were accorded the right to govern our own lives. i could always see the anti's point of view, for, had i thought only of my own position as an isolated unit, a vote would have seemed to me a needless responsibility. no social worker who has penetrated to the depths can maintain this attitude, and so, in company with all other women workers, i entered on the crusade which has just terminated in victory. much as i dislike militancy, i am convinced that it hastened our victory by very many years, by bringing the subject before the world. also the enormous number of idle and, formerly, indifferent women, who have rushed into work in answer to their country's call, has helped our cause enormously. i have invariably found that directly a woman enters the ranks of active labor, her views, however strongly they have been opposed to us, at once swing round. once a woman _proves for herself_ the disabilities under which we labor, she is at once converted. to the very many women who suffered acute physical torture during the militant campaign, our easy victory must seem passing strange. chapter v the man in the marylebone road it is thirty years ago since i became a convert to spiritualism. at that time i made up my mind that i would attend fifty séances, and if, out of that number, i did not come across one that i could be absolutely certain was genuine i would attend no more. spiritualism, in itself, never interested me, but i was determined to see for myself if there was really anything in it. i attended twenty-nine séances before i happened on one that was absolutely convincing. several had been almost convincing, but a loophole for fraud had remained, and so long as that was the case i persevered. i went one summer morning to see an old man who lived in the marylebone road. i was shown up into a sunny little room on the first floor. it had neither carpet, curtains nor window blind, and it looked on the street. the furniture consisted of a plain, uncovered deal table in the middle of a clean planked floor, and eight plain uncovered deal chairs were ranged round the walls. the room was utterly destitute of ornament, there was not even a clock, and i was the only occupant. soon the old man entered, a very ordinary looking person, and civilly asked what i wanted. i said that i understood he was possessed of psychic powers, and i would like to see an exhibition of them. he smiled and answered, "my fee is two-and-six for a quarter of an hour. choose your own phenomenon, and i'll see what i can do." i was puzzled at first, and looked round the bare walls for inspiration. there was not even a photograph or picture. then suddenly i thought of something rather silly. "please make those four chairs opposite to us cross the floor and mount on to the table," i said. the old man drew his chair quite close to mine, "then give me your hand." i removed my glove and did as he asked. he looked, not at the chairs, but into my face, and i at once warned him. "i am no good as a subject for hypnotism, so it is useless to try." he laughed and answered, "i am not a hypnotist, but i see you have power. you may as well lend me some. you are young, and i am old." at that second my attention was distracted by a grating sound, and i forgot all about my companion. i saw the four chairs leave the wall and advance towards the table, in exactly the position, and tilted forward, they would be in if a human hand was dragging them across the floor. there appeared to be four invisible hands at the work. then, one by one, they were neatly balanced, one on the top of the other, on the table. when the manifestation was complete i remembered the old man, and looked round at him. he was watching the business, as keenly interested as i was. "good boys! good boys," i heard him murmur. "how is it done?" i asked him. he shrugged. "the petris (spirits) do it. i don't." "then ask 'the petris' to put the chairs neatly back again." "the petris" performed this feat very expeditiously, and i paid two-and-sixpence and departed. there was no loophole here for fraud, not a wire, or string, or any human manipulation, and i was not hypnotized. i never have been. for that sort of test i had seen enough. shortly after i witnessed a materialization in broad daylight. i was free to move about the room, and stand by the medium as she lay bound and deeply entranced. i was free to make any examinations i pleased, whilst others present conversed with the spirit, and i left the house absolutely convinced of the genuineness of that phenomenon. that was the last test séance i attended, and for years afterwards i did not interest myself in spiritualism, nor did i attend many private sittings. towards the close of the south african war i was ordered from "the other side" to begin again, but on different lines. i was ordered to be a medium. a man whom i barely knew, and who had passed over, wished to communicate with his people. this put me in a quandary. i hardly knew his people, and their social position was not such as could be treated unceremoniously by a casual acquaintance. i had never heard that they were interested in "other side" subjects. the very little i knew of them suggested quite the reverse. i consulted with my husband. "one cannot," i argued, "go up to people who are almost strangers and tell them their son wishes to communicate with them through me." my husband quite saw the difficulty, but it had always happened that when any one wished to communicate with us, and we paid no attention, we were given no peace till we did take heed, and sat down with an ouija board to receive the message. he therefore proposed that we should consult mr. a. p. sinnett, now such a well-known writer on occultism, and an old friend of ours. we therefore laid the matter before him. his reply was uncompromising. "do as you are told from the other side. it is not for you to question or consider the social consequences to yourselves." this advice we immediately followed, and we were met with the utmost kindness and sympathetic understanding. sittings were arranged, communication established. test questions were put, which we did not understand, but which were satisfactory to the questioners, and for many years the sittings continued until the "other side" made arrangements for a change of mediums and i was set free for other work. i say, set free, because during all those years we had held ourselves entirely at the disposal of this wonderful spirit, who communicated through me, and it is no exaggeration to say that our daily lives, our worldly plans, entirely depended upon his wishes. he had his own work to do, and our earth lives were always arranged to suit his convenience. about the same time as the above experience began my husband was disturbed by noises in his library, and he came to the conclusion that some one had something to say and was determined to say it. one evening, when the disturbance prevented serious reading, we sat down with the ouija board. the result was as follows-- a spirit who purported to be a well-known soldier of fortune who had lately committed suicide, desired to give a message. this astonished us, as we had known him only slightly, and we wondered why he had chosen to bestow his attentions on us. he said he was very unhappy because he owed a certain sum of money to a friend, whom i will call b. this money b. could have refunded to him if he would communicate with a certain london address, which the departed soldier gave us in full. we knew b., and knew that he had been a close friend of the departed. we also knew that b. was on the gold coast. we promised, however, to send him the message, and that was the last we ever heard of the soldier. my husband wrote to b. on the gold coast simply giving him the message and leaving it at that. we were sure b. was an absolute skeptic. he was! and did nothing till his return to england three years later, when he applied at the address which he happened to have kept, and received his money. i first became interested in occultism, not only through my own very early experiences, but through hearing as a mere child that my grandfather, robert the younger of the two well-known publishing brothers, w. and r. chambers, had investigated spiritualism to his entire satisfaction. in those days, about , scientific men did not trouble about occult subjects, which were deemed beneath their notice. science was so strictly orthodox that my grandfather published his "vestiges of creation" anonymously. it created an enormous sensation, and upon that book and the writings of lamarck, darwin founded his "origin of species." robert chambers determined to go to america and investigate for himself the reported marvelous happenings there. he had sittings with all the renowned mediums, bringing to bear upon their phenomena the acumen of his scientific mind, and he returned to europe a convinced believer. he carried on regular sittings with mr. and mrs. s. c. hall and other intellectuals, and with general drayson, then a young beginner who went very far in his investigations before he died. about the year i happened to be staying at hawarden with mr. and mrs. gladstone, and the only other guest, outside the family party, was the late canon malcolm mccoll, through whose instrumentality i became a member of the psychical society. mccoll was a most interesting personality, a leading light on matters occult, and a famous recounter of ghost stories. he was also _persona grata_ in the gladstone household, and mrs. gladstone often spoke to me of their deep love for him. i forget now what led up to the subject, but one night, when we were sitting talking, i told mr. gladstone that my grandfather, robert chambers, had been a convinced spiritualist. the canon at once tried to draw the g.o.m., and to our mutual amazement his arguments in favor of the return of the disembodied soul to earth were met by concurring short ejaculations, such as "of course! naturally! why, certainly!" then quite suddenly mr. gladstone began to prove to us that the old biblical scribes were convinced spiritualists. from his intimate knowledge of the bible he quoted text after text in support of his contention. "here he worked no wonders because the people were wanting in faith," he compared to the present day medium's difficulty in working with skeptics. when christ asked, "who has touched me? much virtue has passed out of me," he but spoke as many a modern healer speaks on feeling a failure of power. "try the spirits whether they be of god," is what all spiritualists of to-day should practice rigorously. conan doyle, in his book, "the new revelation," touches upon those facts, and it was only on reading his book with profound interest that i remembered the impressive talk i had so many years ago with mr. gladstone. as conan doyle truly says, "the early christian church was saturated with spiritualism." what, it may be asked, is the value to a woman of psychic experiences, whose reality may be convincing to herself, but never to others? firstly, there is this enormous value for me, that certain psychic experiences i have had make a future existence, after so-called death, a certainty. secondly, other varieties of psychic phenomena have furnished me with unmistakable proof that i possess an immortal soul. thirdly, still other varieties of experiences have provided me with the implicit belief in a god, who is in actual touch with humanity. again, all soul experiences, begotten from out the supreme mystery of being, show us that our real life is not contained in our present normal consciousness, but in a vastly wider, grander plane, which, as yet, is but dimly sensed by the few. those who have bathed in "the light invisible" can bring glory to those in gloom. they visit, but no longer live in the day. their glory is in the night, when they walk with the immortals, and bear with them the golden lamps of life eternal. those who have realized the powers within, powers which not only are the pillars of infinite harmony, but the mainspring of eternal life, have builded on a rock which no tempest can destroy. "'tis time new hopes should animate the world, new light should dawn from new revealings to a race weighed down so long." paracelsus. chapter vi the ghost of prince charlie scotland in the autumn of the pre-war days was a very gay place. the big country houses were filled with shooting parties, and for the autumn meetings, ayr races, perth races, and games, the inverness gathering, etc. the dates were so arranged that one could go the round, and thus dance through several weeks. i used to go regularly to inverness, and afterwards visit friends in the surrounding neighborhood. one of the most delightful houses to visit was tarbat, belonging to the countess of cromartie. any one who has read her unique books must have come to the conclusion that lady cromartie is a mystic of no ordinary type, but only those who know her intimately are aware how predominating in her character is this inborn mysticism. i first remember the two sisters, lady sibell and lady constance mackenzie, hanging on to their father's arms as they walked about folkestone. they were then tiny tots, and i was staying with their mother, the beautiful lilian, daughter of lord macdonald of the isles. beautiful was the only word to describe lord cromartie's wife--and lily seemed the most suitable name that could have been bestowed upon her. she was intensely musical and interested in ghosts. born the daughter of a highland chieftain she understood how to live the life of a great scottish noblewoman. she was always very kind to me, and i used to stay with her very often. in lord cromartie died, and his eldest daughter, lady sibell, became countess of cromartie in her own right--the title going in the female line. as a child the young countess had been a great reader. i remember she used often to be missing, and found in some quiet room buried in a book. to this day she has the faculty of so absorbing herself in a book that no amount of talking and noise in the room penetrates her ears. lady constance was quite different, devoted to out-of-door life, and i shall never forget how adoring the old people on the properties were to her, and how she loved them. one sterling and unusual quality she had. i never heard her say an unkind word of any one. in the countess of cromartie married major, now colonel blunt, and she has three fine children, two boys and a girl. one of the most remarkable facts about her is her agelessness. she never alters with the years. her white delicate skin, her girlish figure and dark glowing eyes, always retain their look of extreme youth. i have said that her mysticism must at once become apparent to the readers of her books, but to those, who like myself have known her from childhood, her psychic powers have always been extraordinary. i remember one autumn staying at tarbat with only a very few other guests, i forget now who they all were. it had been a dead, still day. one of those sad, brooding days one gets so often in the north. in the afternoon, when we were out walking, lady cromartie said suddenly to me and a miss drummond, whom we were both very fond of, "there is going to be an earthquake to-night." we received this piece of information as a joke, and i thought nothing more of the matter till tea-time, when a gorgeous sunset was illuminating the heavens. as we were standing at the window looking out at it we were all startled by a tremendous roar, more like a very loud peal of thunder than anything else, yet we knew, by the look of the sky, that it could not have been thunder. every one offered a different opinion as to what the noise could mean, but lady cromartie calmly said, "the noise is in the earth, not in the sky; it is the forerunner of the earthquake." we now began to take this earthquake business more seriously. sibell drummond, also very psychic, said she knew the noise came from the interior of the earth, and that very early that morning she had heard the same sound, only much more distant. we asked lady cromartie how she could possibly tell that an earthquake was coming. such convulsions are not common enough in scotland to admit of lucky guesses. "i can tell those things of nature; something in me is akin to them," she explained. "it is quite certain this earthquake will come before morning." as the sun went down the quiet weather changed, and by bed-time it was blowing such a gale that we forgot all about lady cromartie's prophecy. at one o'clock in the morning, when we were all asleep, the earthquake arrived, and awakened us all instantly. my bed rocked, and the china clattered, and i heard a big picture near my bed move out from the wall and go back again. some of us got up, but there was only the one sharp shock. in the morning we heard that considerable damage had been done. several houses and stables had been razed to the ground, and some animals killed and people injured. another curious incident i remember happening during a visit to tarbat. at breakfast one morning lady cromartie told us that she had a very vivid dream just before daylight. she dreamed that if she went into a certain room in the house she would find some jewels that had been hidden there. she seemed to have been told this in her sleep by some one she did not know. the room was indicated, but not the spot where the jewels lay. the present duke of argyll, always keenly alive to psychic phenomena, was of our party, and he at once proposed that directly after we had finished breakfast we should all proceed to the room, rarely used, but formerly a business room, and make a thorough search. by the way, i cannot refrain here from suggesting what a wonderful book of scottish ghost stories the duke could give us if he chose. his repertoire was endless and most thrilling, and he knew how to tell a ghost story. after breakfast we adjourned to the room indicated in the dream, and began our search. the only likely place seemed a large bookcase, full of books, with cupboards beneath. all the doors were locked and keyless. a pause ensued whilst keys were fetched from the housekeeper's room, and for a long time we could find nothing to fit the doors, but at last we were rewarded. the cupboards below were opened, disclosing a quantity of rubbish. old books, estate maps, fishing tackle, every sort of thing, but no jewels. at last the duke, down on his knees fumbling amongst the dust, drew forth two tin japanned boxes. he shook them, and the thumping inside proved that they were not empty. the trouble was they also were locked and keyless. again there was a scramble to fit keys. we were all on the tiptoe of excited expectation. at last both boxes were opened, and there lay the jewels. fine, old-fashioned pieces that had lain there, who knows for how long, and probably had belonged to lady cromartie's grandmother, "the countess duchess" rd duchess of sutherland. still another reminiscence of beautiful tarbat. lady cromartie asked me to join a shooting party she and major blunt were giving, to meet prince arthur of connaught. i arrived one evening in wild winter weather. there had been a heavy snowstorm, and the sky looked as if there was considerably more to come. i found all the other guests had already arrived, and we were a very merry party. it was prince arthur's first "shoot" in the far north, and his first experience of what scotland could provide in the way of autumn weather, and he was glad to avail himself of a thick woolen sweater of mine, which i was proud to present to him. he was perfectly charming to us all, and there was, owing to his simplicity, no sense of stiffness introduced into our party. that evening, after dinner, he was strolling round the room, looking at the pictures, and he paused opposite a framed letter, written by prince charles edward during the ' to the lord cromartie of that time, who was his earnest supporter. "why!" exclaimed prince arthur, "that letter is written by 'the pretender,' isn't it?" there was no answer. a thrill of horror ran through the breasts of the ardent jacobites present. dead silence reigned. then i could stand it no longer. "please, sir," i said, "we all call him prince charles edward stuart." prince arthur turned round laughingly. "i beg his pardon and all of yours," he exclaimed in the most charming manner, and the hearts of all the outraged jacobites warmed to him at once. i was just about to creep into bed, very late that night, and very tired after my long, cold journey in a desperately sluggish train, when lady cromartie peeped in at my door. her wonderful dark eyes were ablaze, and i knew at once she had something psychic to tell me. her eyes looked like nothing else in the world but her eyes, when she is on the track of a ghost, or one of her "other side" experiences. "i have just seen prince charles edward," she announced. i took her firmly by the arm. prince charles edward means a very great deal to me, and i don't let anything pass me by that concerns his beloved memory. "tell me quick. where did you see him?" i asked. "i was just going to get into bed when i saw him standing looking at me, at the far end of the room. he was smiling, and as i stared back at him he slowly crossed the floor, his smiling face always turned to me, and vanished through the wall," was lady cromartie's answer. then i told her of a certain feeling i had experienced earlier in the evening. at the moment when our jacobite hearts were stung to deep, though fleeting resentment, we had formed a thought form, powerful enough to reach the spirit of bonny prince charlie on "the other side." our spirits had called on him, and he had heard and responded. why not? if we believe in the immortality of the soul, the soul of prince charles edward surely lives. where? on the astral plane, where the souls of all must go to divest themselves of the lower passions of earth, and the veil between the physical plane and the astral plane is wearing very thin in these days. for many of us there are rents through which we are permitted to see the old friends who are not lost but gone before, and who await us in a sphere where we in turn will await the coming of those who follow after. indeed, the time does not now seem to be so far distant when so-called death will be pushed one stage further back, and the transference of the soul from earth to the astral plane will no longer be treated as severance. what then will be termed the severance we now call death? it will be the passing of the cleansed soul from the astral plane to the heaven world, for a period of blissful rest before the life urge compels the reincarnating ego to take on once more the veil of flesh, in a transient human world. i doubt if it is possible for an english person to comprehend what it means to be a jacobite. one is born a jacobite or one is not. i was born a jacobite, and i never lose my passionate love and regret for the sufferings and sorrows of prince charles edward. no female figure in the past attracts me so much as does flora macdonald. had i lived during the ' i would have worn the white cockade, and parted with my last "shift" for the love of bonny prince charlie. all very ridiculous, many may say, but there it is. that is what it means to be born a jacobite. my grandfather was an ardent jacobite, and consorted largely with old jacobite families. the sobieski stuarts often made their home with him. grand looking men of striking physique and good looks. robert chambers used to tell a story of the ghost piper of fingask; the property of a fine old jacobite, sir peter murray threipland. the baronetcy is now extinct. one night, whilst my grandfather was visiting sir peter, they were sitting at supper in the old dining-hall. the two old sisters of sir peter, eliza and jessie, were present. suddenly the faint strain of the pipes was heard in the distance, surely no uncommon sound in scotland, where every laird has his own piper to play round the dining-table, yet a sudden silence fell upon the little party of four. all ears were listening intently, and straining eyes were blank to all but the evidence of hearing. the noise grew louder, the piper seemed to be mounting the stone staircase, yet his brogues made no sound as he ascended. sir peter dropped his head down into his arms folded upon the table. he sought to hide the fear in his old eyes. the women sat as if chiseled out of granite, gray to the lips. the piper of fingask had come for one of them. which? now the piper of death was drawing very near, the skirl of his pipes had nearly reached the door. in another moment, with a full blast of triumph that beat about their ears as it surged into the hall, he had passed, and had begun his ascent to the ramparts. the skirl was dying away into a wail. miss eliza spoke: "he's come for you, jessie." there was no response. the piper of fingask was playing a "last lament" now, as he swung round the ramparts. true enough he had come for miss jessie, and very shortly after she obeyed the call. to this day there are men and women who never forget to offer up their passionate regret for prince charles before they sleep. i know of one old scottish house where his memory is an ever-present, ever-living thing. the shadowy old room is consecrated to him. on the walls hang portraits of him, and trophies of the ' and the ' stand round in glass cases. on one table lies a worn, white cockade, yellow with age, and a lock of fair hair clasped by a band of blackened pearls. in a tall slender glass there is always, in summer-time, a single white rose. above is the portrait of the idol of the present house, who gave in the past of their all in life and treasure, for the cause they hold so sacred, so dear. i cannot look upon that gay, careless, handsome face without the tears rising to my eyes. his eyes smile into mine. involuntarily i bend before him. what was the power in you, prince charles edward stuart, that drew from countless women and men that wild unswerving devotion? which made light of terrible hardships, which followed you faithfully through glen and corrie? what is that power which you still exert over those to whom your name is but a memory, but who still, when they think on you or look upon your pictured face, cry silently in their hearts for the lost house of stuart? "oh! waes me for prince charlie!" one must be scotch to understand that the union did nothing to unite england and scotland. to the scottish plowman the englishman is still a foreigner, whom he dislikes. scotch and english servants do not work well in the same house. to us, mary queen of scots lived "only the other day." when the house of stuart passed from us our history ended. our old houses are full of ghosts, the atmosphere is saturated with the tragic history of the past, the very skies seem to brood in melancholy over the soil, where so many wild bloody scenes were enacted. to the psychic, scotland is a land not yet emerged from the dour savagery of the past. once, on visiting an historic old castle, my host pointed out to me a group of seven old trees standing close to the entrance. "seven skeletons lie there," he said. "my grandfather went after a neighboring clan who had raided his cattle. he brought back seven men with halters round their necks and strung them up to those trees. holes were dug beneath, and they all dropped into them by degrees, and then the earth was shoveled over them again." what will become of all those grand old places in the future? they are so costly to maintain. i think of all those lying around our own aberdeenshire home; fyvie castle, a great stately pile, beautiful to look upon always, but more especially so when the red fires of a winter sunset blaze upon its many windows, and turn to rose the mantling snow on battlements and towers, whilst all around is wrapped in a garment of spotless white: house of monymusk, craigston castle, craigievar. i have just mentioned a few, all have their ghosts, and some have a curse upon them. a friend of ours came to see us, not very long ago, and told us of a horrible experience he had been through recently. he had been visiting a great house in the north, noted in scottish history. the new laird had only entered into possession during the last few years, on the death of a near relative, who had died from excessive drinking, the scotchman's curse. our friend had heard that this dead laird "walked," but he had not met any one who had actually seen his ghost. after spending a pleasant evening with his host, and going through many reminiscences of his former visits to the house, and to the late laird, who in spite of his fatal propensities had been a gallant gentleman and a great sportsman, our friend retired to bed. the room he slept in was a large one, and the bed faced the door, and a washstand stood on one side of it. he remembered the room, having slept in it on former occasions. he was roused in the night by some one rather noisily fumbling at the handle of his door, which was not locked. he sat up in bed and called out, "who is it?" there was a full moon riding in a clear, frosty sky, and the room was only in semi-darkness. he stared at the door, which at that moment burst open, and standing in the aperture was a man, the dead laird. outside, was a long corridor with several windows, through which the moonlight poured. against this silvery background stood the huge figure of the late laird. he leaned forward, supporting himself by holding with both hands to the framework of the door, and with a glowering, half-drunken stare his eyes were fixed on the startled occupant of the bed. a panic seized our friend, who felt that if that menacing figure advanced into the room he would go mad. there was only one door, and no other means of escape, and very stealthily he slid to the opposite side of the bed, and reaching out, seized the water-bottle on his washstand. this action did not pass unnoticed by his terrible visitor. suddenly relaxing his hold on the doorposts, he dropped down on his knees, and began rapidly crawling on all fours towards the bed, his inflamed eyes blazing with anger. our friend did not wait for his arrival. with a blood-curdling yell he hurled the water-bottle full at his old friend, and leaping from the other side of the bed tore to the door and fled down the passage, as if pursued by a pack of devils. hardly knowing what he did, he battered with his hands on the door of the room he knew to be occupied by his host and hostess, shouting out at the same time a call for assistance. then he heard the voice of the wife saying to the husband, "it's charlie. open the door. i believe he's seen poor angus." he had indeed seen "poor angus," and for the last time, he assured us. old friendship could not stand the test of so horrible an apparition. the room was empty when he returned to it with his host. angus had gone back again to the land of the shadows, and only the scattered fragments of the water-bottle remained as a souvenir of his visit. several servants had seen angus, and it was difficult to keep the house staffed. one old housemaid, who had been in the family many years, had seen him frequently, and had even ventured to remonstrate with her former master, bidding him go back to his shroud and sleep peacefully in his grave like a respectable man, but apparently to no purpose. angus preferred to "walk" and to terrify all to whom he had the power to show himself. speaking of the duke of argyll has reminded me of some curious occurrences in connection with lord colin campbell. at one time of my life, soon after my father's death, i saw a good deal of him. he was then studying law and intended later to practice in india. this plan he carried out, and in india he died, the result of a chill. lord colin was a very interesting man, a keen geologist and something of an artist. there were few subjects he was not interested in, and though somewhat shy of the subject, he had a decided aptitude for ghosts. one day in london he brought to my house a small gold cross fixed to a slab of gray marble, and asked me if i would keep it for him. he explained that it was an exact reproduction of the old stone cross of inverary. he was then living in argyll lodge, campden hill, and i said i should have thought there was room enough for it there. i could not understand why he brought it to me. he looked uneasy and said he wished to get rid of it out of the house. when pressed to say why, he confessed that there was something uncanny about it. he thought it made him "see things," and he added, "garry hates it." garry was a fine, sable collie, devoted to his master and he to it. garry had the misfortune to break his leg, and this caused lord colin acute distress. the leg was set, and the dog lay in a large clothes basket, and eventually got well. garry was just recovering when lord colin brought me the cross. he became more expansive in a few moments, and said that he had seen a figure bending over the cross, as if to examine it. the figure had a hood, and he thought it must be the ghost of a monk. he had seen this many times, and garry often growled, and his hair bristled at the very moment when his master caught sight of the apparition. anything that distressed the dog must be removed, and knowing how interested i was in ghosts he had brought the cross to me. of course i was delighted to have a chance of witnessing psychic phenomena of any kind, but alas, though i kept the cross for years, and only sent it lately to the present duke, i never saw anything in connection with it. i did, however, see something interesting in connection with lord colin. one hot june evening, in london, i was sitting alone by the open window. the day had been very exhausting; it was one of those hot spells that come so often before regular summer sets in, and i was glad to rest quietly and do nothing. the street was wonderfully quiet at that hour, nine o'clock, when all the world of fashion was dining, and the daylight was strong enough to read by, had i so desired. suddenly my attention was attracted by a slight noise behind me, and glancing round at the open door i saw that lord colin and his dog had just entered the room, as was their habit, unannounced. in his hand he carried a huge bunch of white and mauve lilac blossoms. i had not expected him that evening, but i was very pleased to see him, and exclaimed, "why, colin, what a glorious bouquet! i can smell it already." he was smiling as he and his dog moved up the long room towards me, but he said nothing. i had risen and held out my hand, but when about halfway across the floor both he and the dog vanished entirely and quite suddenly. i shall never forget my utter amazement and consternation. i could not disbelieve the evidence of my own senses, for i was absolutely certain i could still smell the lilac, and i had no doubt whatever that i had seen lord colin and his dog. i sat down again and fell to considering the extraordinary circumstance. i was perfectly well and normal, i had not been thinking of lord colin, and yet in the midst of other thoughts a sound had attracted my attention, and looking round i had seen him enter with his dog. for the space of quite two minutes both had been visible. i got up again and timed the whole affair by my wrist watch. the room i sat in was very long. i was at one end, and the door at the other. it took me just one minute to walk leisurely forward over the ground they had covered, before they vanished from my sight. i sat down again and began to wonder if lord colin was ill, or was he dead, and why was he carrying lilacs? 'phones were uncommon things in those days; i had no means of communication with argyll lodge. for an hour i sat considering the wonderful vividness of my curious experience. the daylight had faded into a close, soft twilight, but i wanted no artificial light. then just as ten o'clock was striking i heard a voice in the hall below; a voice i was sure was lord colin's, and he was answered by one of my servants. steps sounded on the stairs, and in another moment in he walked with garry, and in his hand he carried a big bunch of white and mauve lilacs. i stood staring at him in the dim twilight. was this the real man and dog at last? "i know it's awfully late to pay a call, but i thought you would like some lilac," he exclaimed; "it's so lovely in our garden just now," and he held out the flowers. i took them and bade him be seated. garry came to me and rested his nose on my lap. for a moment i could not speak. "aren't you well?" asked colin. then i recovered myself, but i did not tell him what had happened only an hour before. as we talked i discovered that he had intended to come at nine o'clock, and was just starting when a relative arrived and detained him. on another occasion he told me of a curious dream he had as a boy. queen victoria came to inverary to pay a visit to the duke and duchess of argyll, lord colin's parents, and it was arranged that the young sons of the house should act as pages to her majesty. the night of the day on which the queen arrived, colin dreamed that some one whom he did not know came to him and said, "to-morrow the queen will give you twenty shillings." when the boy wakened up in the morning he remembered this dream, and all day long he was on the outlook for its fulfillment. the hours passed, but though he was often in her presence and kept as close to her as he dared, the queen never produced her purse. just before reëntering the house towards evening, she suddenly turned to john brown, her constant attendant, and said something which colin did not catch. what was his joy on perceiving that surly henchman extract from a shabby old purse a filthy scotch one pound note, which he handed to her majesty. "my little colin, here is a present for you," said the queen, and making his best bow the boy accepted the gift. his dream had come true. john brown was the terror of all the great nobles whom the queen was pleased to visit. her majesty took him everywhere with her, and he was her closest attendant. born of the humblest scotch parents on the estate of balmoral, he died in the position of a potentate in a royal residence. his manners were terribly rough and objectionable, and his behavior to the gentlemen with whom he constantly came into contact was insulting to the last degree. he had one invariable habit. when the queen paid a visit naturally her honored host was in waiting to hand her out of her carriage. brown contrived to nip down from his perch at the back of the carriage, just at a certain moment, and with a violent push thrust aside the prince, duke or peer who sought to do honor to the sovereign. some of the gentlemen about the court paid him very liberally, not for civility, but simply to desist from his habitual insults, and it has been said that disraeli discovered some method of conciliation, but brown took an absolute pleasure in insulting all who had occasion to approach her majesty. latterly he drank very heavily, and when he died, to the unutterable relief of all and sundry he bequeathed all his savings and possessions, even the watch he wore, to her majesty. his many poor relatives living in cottages on the estate never saw a penny of his money, nor so much as a button from his doublet. chapter vii pilgrims and strangers we are all of us, in this world, strangers and pilgrims, and to each human being, in turn, and in varied ways, comes the knowledge, "a stranger with thee and a sojourner as all my fathers were." like ships that pass in the night "we exchange signals with one another," and pass on our different ways through the ocean of life. i think it is the sea that most clearly brings home to me the transitory nature of our pilgrimage. leaning over the side of a ship in mid ocean, and watching a trail of smoke from another ship on the horizon, i am always impelled to wonder about its human cargo. who and what are they, and for what distant shores are they bound? again one sweeps the far horizons only to find them empty of aught but a vast tumbling expanse of waters. then, without warning, we are wrapped in a dense blanket of fog. the sirens sound insistently, and are at once answered by ships on every side. it is startling to find there are many so near, but utterly invisible. in a few minutes we have emerged again into distance and clear skies, and again there is nothing that meets the eye but the empty watery expanse. looking back on my life i can recall many meetings with fellow pilgrims that apparently were purely accidental, yet they left their mark upon my life. meetings such as those, when two souls thrown together by the force of circumstances, in quiet far-away places; or in the marts of the world, become in a few short hours like old and tried friends. how often have i heard it said, even after one short hour, "i feel as if i had known you all my life." such i look upon as epochs in my pilgrimage, milestones and guiding stars on my life's road. yet the limitations of such epochs are obvious enough. time on earth is circumscribed, still there is subconsciously the instant recognition of two kindred souls who hear and remember, who instinctively know that once, perchance many times before, they have landed together on the shores of time, from the storm-tossed bark of life. it seems strange that those chance meetings should have no continuity. i remember one such meeting in the east, and how utterly by chance it seemed to come about. it lasted for three days, yet after three hours i knew more of my fellow pilgrim and he of me than we would have known of each other in three months at home. we were both quite alone, but i remember his recalling the pre-buddha words written a thousand years before the coming of the christ: "thou shalt not separate thy being from being, and the rest, but merge the ocean in the drop, the drop within the ocean. so shalt thou be in full accord with all that lives, bear love to men as though they were thy brother pupils, disciples of one teacher, the sons of one sweet mother." when we bade each other good-by and i boarded my ship we told each other we would meet again, but instinctively we knew we never should. i have forgotten his name, but all else i can remember very clearly, and the wonderful comradeship two souls, drifting together for a second in time, can give each other. he gave me the sufi mysticism of omar khayyam, and i can still see the english face burnt dark with eastern suns, under the snowy turban, and the brilliant parrot swinging on a palm bough above his head. i can still hear the low grave voice reciting the quatrains of persia's astronomer poet, written a thousand years ago. they fitted in with our surroundings:-- "there was a door to which i found no key. there was a veil past which i could not see! some little talk awhile of me and thee there seemed, and then no more of me and thee." i suppose we all have many such recollections in our lives, and it is impossible (for me) to believe them to be a mere matter of chance, for, always on parting, i have been conscious that i have received some lasting good, or it has mercifully chanced that i have been able to help a stranger and pilgrim on a difficult way. again, i remember another interesting meeting. a woman was sitting alone on a bench in the outskirts of cairo, and her worn face was turned to the dying fires of sunset. she was very shabby and poor looking, and obviously she was a european. in my casual glance i caught something familiar, and after going on some paces i felt a compelling force bidding me return. i sat down beside her and at once spoke to her. i knew who she was when she turned her face to me, and the hideous contrast of her past and her present appalled me. she does not know to-day that i am aware of her real identity. she is in england, and all now is well with her. one can always, as the pre-buddhist taught us, "point out the way however dim and lost amongst the host, as does the evening star to those who tread their path in darkness." again, it is strange to tell why unknown pilgrims should leave their mark upon us for all earthly time, pilgrims to whom one has never spoken, and of whom one knows nothing. when i was quite a child i passed every day through a very quiet and well-to-do street of dwelling-houses. at a window behind two flower-pots, sat a woman whom i supposed to be sewing, though her hands were hidden from view. i can see her as clearly now as i saw her then, over forty years ago in the northern capital. the pale, tragic profile, the down-drooped eyelids, the meekly-banded hair. i used to wonder about her constantly. she possessed me, and interested me at that time more than anything else in my life. even to this day she comes unbidden into my mind at frequent intervals. again from my bedroom window in belgrade i used to watch another woman. she came out on her balcony twice a day, always at the same hours. she put her hands on the rails, and turned her dark, southern face up to the skies, and there she would stand for an hour, gazing fixedly above. i never once saw her eyes drop to the busy street below, and once a prisoner, dragging his heavy chains behind him, paused and looked up and cried out to her for bread. she appeared not to hear him, her rigid attitude never relaxed. it is the thoughts of such pilgrims, as one conjectures them to be, that form the interest, or perhaps it really is something more, a far-off kinship, stretching invisible threads down through the ages. with both those women i had a feeling of kinship. i had picked them out of the world's crowd, because of some silent influence they exerted over me, the lingering power of some far back, forgotten touch, which had once drawn us together. i know that in my life i had met those "that i have loved long since and lost awhile." for me there was purpose in those "stars" that shine through my life, as looking back they show me where i had arrived at the moment of their uprising, and their rays pierce the penumbra shadows wherein the soul lies hid. each star showed me the lees in the cup of destiny, brought to me a new revelation of soul, and elucidated for me something of the mystery of life. again, surely there is divine purpose in those islets of friendship which jewel-like stud the gray vesture of ordinary existence. they are close, warm, and utterly sincere, often for many long years, then they are suddenly sundered by the inrush of some invading force which cuts them off in their full bloom. sometimes the master death bids them pass on, sometimes the break comes by some utterly trivial, yet inexorable fiat of human destiny. in the clash of human interests it must needs be that pain must come to some. life cannot be all serenity and peace to the pilgrims who toil upon its stormy way, its _via dolorosa_. such crises teach us the just attitude that should prevail in all such trials and circumstances. amiel says, "there is one wrong man is not bound to punish, that of which he himself is the victim. such a wrong is to be healed, not avenged." for hate there is but one antidote--love. the art of forgetfulness is not yet a science, but to forget the evil one has but to remember the good. love knows neither saint nor sinner, for she seeks in every heart the hidden gem of good. she thinks no ill, because she knows the trials of each one are penalty enough for deeds already done. neither in the case of death's intervention, nor in the case of human misunderstanding should there be sorrow for lost friendships, though there must inevitably be regret. love brings with it suffering, for all who love suffer with those they love. unkindness and injustices are hard to bear, and the loss of those we love is a bitter pain, but those whose hearts are great enough still find others on whom to lavish love. are there not many who need it, and are there not great rewards for those who have love to spare. to be required, to be appealed to, and turned to as a help and refuge. such are the prizes for those whose hearts are always alight with love, who from one flame can kindle many. when death looses the silver cord, and souls seem torn asunder for ever more, there will be sadness of spirit. when a break comes, perhaps through third-party treachery, there may come the sense of eternal severance, but is it eternal? i doubt it. more probably there lies before us an existence of clearer judgment and understanding, of vaster possibilities, in which we shall know, even as also we are known. though now we see each other through a glass darkly, a day will come when we shall no longer see in part, but face to face. when faith, hope and love shall be reunited, and we shall realize that the greatest of these three is love, which suffereth long, and is kind and thinketh no evil. again, there are these loves in one's life, some fleeting, some lasting, that are too sacred to write of, and of which one never speaks. the joys and sorrows they brought, the prose or poesy of our intercourse are graven deep on the heart. whether it be they still walk by our side, or have gone west to rest after labor, we must learn to say with the pre-buddhists of old time: "do not grieve for the living or the dead. never did i not exist for you... nor will any one of us ever hereafter cease to be." such sacramental hours sanctify the variety of our lot, combine the pathos of love and death, and stretch through the corridors of memory into the hush and shadow of the haunted past; where all the mystery of such hours seem gathered for inspiration. there linger the symbols of our sojourn here. how potent, yet how fragmentary they are! the scent of a flower, the long embrace, the hand held out in vain, the flash of recognition, the chime of the clock which altered the course of the pilgrimage. the meek hands folded on the still breast. such symbols abide with us like the image of a divine form, some echo of immortal music, some lingering word of angels. their cadences come ever back to us from infinite distances, ghostly chords and evanescent. harmonies which come and go too fitfully for apprehension. chapter viii some strange events after my marriage my husband and i passed some time in the united states and canada; we then returned to england and took a place in cambridgeshire. we were both very fond of racing, and attended all the meetings at newmarket. one day i drove by appointment to the house of a neighbor who had asked me to meet miss catherine bates, author of that interesting book, "seen and unseen." just before i started my husband, half in fun, and knowing miss bates to be a psychic, said, "ask her what horse is going to win the cambridgeshire." i promised to put the question and drove off. i had a most interesting visit, but i totally forgot to ask miss bates for the winner of the coming race. it was not until i was seated in the victoria, exchanging a few parting words with the two ladies standing in the doorway to bid me good-by, that i suddenly recollected my husband's request. as the horses were starting i called out to miss bates-- "tell me what's going to win 'the cambridgeshire?'" the answer was prompt and clear: "marco to win, ---- for a place." (i regret i cannot remember the name of the second horse.) as i drove away i waved my thanks, and directly i got home i told my husband--"marco to win, ---- for a place." he was much interested in this "tip" from so well-known a psychic, and of course we backed "marco to win and ---- for a place" for all we were worth. i wish i could remember the odds. i only know that they were "long." the event duly came off, and i wrote to miss bates thanking her for the good turn she had done us. her reply astounded me. she began by saying she had not heard me put any question to her regarding the winner of the cambridgeshire, and went on to say that she knew nothing about racing, and knew none of the horses' names, therefore it was impossible that she could have given me the "tip." her hostess cared nothing for racing, and was as ignorant as she was upon the subject, but she did remember hearing me call out to miss bates, "what's going to win the cambridgeshire?" i then questioned our coachman and footman. both distinctly remembered my calling out the question, and both, keen on racing, listened for the reply, but they heard none. where did that answer come from? i cannot tell. was some spirit interested in racing hovering near? did he contrive to drop the "tip" into my mind, open at that moment and eager to catch the response? a year after the event i have recounted above, i was resting one afternoon in the summer-time. i had been ill, and was not yet strong enough to lead an ordinary life, and i was lying on a sofa in a top floor room. the room immediately beneath me was the drawing-room, and the weather being hot all the windows were wide open. the house we inhabited was quite isolated in its own park, and the village was about half a mile distant. my husband was from home, and i was alone in that particular part of the house, the servants' quarters being at the back, and shut off from the rest. out of the absolute quiet suddenly came the sound of music. some one was playing my piano in the drawing-room below. this, in itself, caused me irritation, but no surprise. i was not well enough to entertain callers at tea, due in half an hour, and i had given orders that i would see no one, but it had happened before that the musical neighbors had called, and whilst waiting for me had sat down to the piano. i was too annoyed to hasten downstairs. i lay waiting for the butler to come to me and inform me why my orders had been disobeyed. meanwhile i listened to the music, and wondered greatly who the brilliant pianist could be. i did not recognize the music, but it sounded quite modern, and requiring a great amount of technique. the player was, however, a most brilliant performer, who had acquired considerable skill. "evidently a professional," i thought, and wondered all the more who it could possibly be. still there were no signs of the ascending butler, and time continued to pass. i began to feel obstinate, and determined to remain where i was, until i was correctly informed of the caller's identity. the music steadily continued, every note borne to my ears as clearly as if i had been in the room with the performer. "very wonderful music, but soulless," i concluded, and though my curiosity was growing every moment my obstinacy prevailed, and i remained where i was. at last, after quite twenty minutes, the music suddenly stopped; it broke off in the middle of a movement. i rose at once, and went downstairs feeling very cross. i pushed open the drawing-room door and entered. it was absolutely empty, but the piano, which had not been opened for several weeks, was open now. i went to the window which commanded the avenue; not a soul was in sight. then i rang the bell, and when the butler entered the following dialogue took place:---- "who was the caller who has just been?" "there have been no callers to-day, madam." "but surely you heard the piano being played?" "we heard a lot of music, but we thought it was you playing, madam." "then you all heard it?" "all of us in the hall heard it, madam." i left it at that. suddenly it came to me that i had better not push my inquiries further. until that second it had never occurred to me that the performer might be a disembodied spirit. the butler did not leave the matter alone, but made every inquiry at the lodge, and also of the out-door servants, but nothing came of it. no one had seen a stranger, and the silver was intact. my maid told me some time afterwards that the household had shaken down to the conviction that i had really been the performer, and that my recent illness had caused me to forget the fact. i let this conviction remain unshaken, but i marveled at the lack of musical discrimination my household displayed. the disparity between my strumming and the brilliant execution of my spirit guest was so vast that i could not even feel flattered by their mistake. a year or two after we took a cottage on the thames, and there, during our summer visits, i had an uncomfortable time. there was something wrong with the sideboard end of the dining-room. for a long time i could not make out what it was. my attention was constantly being attracted to the spot. if i passed the door i thought instantly of the sideboard. in plain language, i was constantly being invited, by some invisible person, to come in and have a drink. if i was putting anything away in the sideboard the suggestion was always very strong. on the outside stood a tantalus of spirits and soda water, ready to refresh any calling boating men. inside the cupboards were wine decanters. i always resisted the suggestion, i suppose because i did not happen to want anything to drink--for years i have been a total abstainer, and at the time i certainly did not realize the menace of those suggestions. now and again i caught sight of a small oblong gray cloud hovering in front of the sideboard but it was not till many months afterwards that i saw something much more definite. the gray shadow had become the clearly defined shade of a small woman. she hovered about the spot in a wavering, undecided manner. it was apparent that she was seeking something. one day, in a flash, i recognized the truth, the suggestion came from her. she was inviting me to drink with her. my husband and i set to work to find out who this unfortunate woman had been when she dwelt on earth. we discovered a very sad story. she had been a celebrity of the half world, and i had actually seen her in the flesh. she had traveled to monte carlo one winter in the next sleeping compartment to ours, and she had lived for some years in our riverside cottage. latterly she had fallen an incurable victim to drinking, and had died of it. poor little soul; my heart went out to her in deepest pity, but i was glad to leave the cottage forever, when in we went to live at my husband's place, balquholly, aberdeenshire. some people, perhaps once in their lives, become sensitive enough to recognize a visitor from the astral plane. if the occasion is not repeated they believe themselves to have been victims of hallucinations. others find themselves seeing and hearing, with increasing frequency, something to which those around them are blind and deaf. they realize, in fact, that they are in touch with the astral plane, the region lying next to our world of dense matter, and often some astral entity on the lowest levels of that plane is continuously striving to work through their mediumship. the world is very far from realizing this danger. what are those entities working for? the man or woman who has led a decently pure life on earth will have no attraction to the lowest levels, contiguous with earth, of the astral plane, and will, at so-called death, pass swiftly through it. but, alas! the vast majority have by no means freed themselves from all lower desires before passing over, and it takes a considerable time before the evil forces generated on earth work themselves out on "the other side." the length of man's detention on the lower level will depend entirely on the earthly life he has lived, and the quality of the desires he has indulged in. the desires of a drunkard, a debaucher, are as strong after death as before. the present bishop of london made that very clear in one of his easter addresses, but the subject finds it impossible, without a physical body, to gratify his lusts. occasionally it can be done in a vicarious manner, when he is able to seize on a like minded person and obsess him or her, or when he finds a medium who consciously or unconsciously panders to his desires. for this reason i hold it to be imperative for safety's sake, that every genuine medium should be a total abstainer. how often one is asked the question: "what is a medium?" it is a difficult question to answer in a few words. i should put it thus---- a medium is one whose principles, physical, mental, spiritual, are so loosely bound together that an astral entity can draw from him without difficulty the matter it requires for manifestation. the very essence of mediumship is the ready separability of the principles. in the case of the poor little woman i have mentioned, she was fortunate enough not to meet with (in me) a sensitive, through whom her passion could be vicariously gratified. such unfulfilled desires gradually burn themselves out, and the suffering caused in the process no doubt goes to work off evil karma generated in the past life. it is the soul that desires, the body is but the tool to grasp the desire, and after death old lusts crowd upon the departed. thirsty with no throat; sensual with no body to grip the foul desire, soon it is learned that the worst evils and the hardest to undo have been woven out of the mind. here is another story or two relating to one of the most puzzling mysteries in ghost lore--the phenomena of temporary hauntings. why do ghosts suddenly take possession of a house with which, in their incarnate days, they have had no connection? such ghosts differ from those only seen once. they take up their abode in a dwelling which has absolutely no traditions of haunting. they will be seen and heard on many occasions, for a few months, possibly for a few years. they will then suddenly depart, and be seen or heard no more. such apparitions cannot readily be traced to any defunct friend or member of the family. they have no known connection with the house in which they appear, and no one can form the faintest conception why they should suddenly elect to "walk" within those four walls, which hitherto have been normal and free from "other side" visitors. a case of this description happened to my youngest brother, who, before he bought his present country house, lived in a detached, new building, not far from the dean bridge, in edinburgh. he had occupied this house for some years previous to his experience, and had neither heard nor seen anything of a spooky nature. the manifestation only lasted for a few weeks. nothing in the form of a ghost was seen, but much was heard. i will give the story in my brother's own words: "on a certain evening, a year or two ago, i went out after dinner to visit some friends, and returned home about half-past eleven. "not feeling inclined to go to bed, i took up a book and sat down to read for half an hour. "about a quarter-past midnight i suddenly became aware that stealthy footsteps were coming upstairs. looking at my watch i thought it very strange that any of the maids should be still up at such a late hour. "the door was well ajar, and i arose from my chair, listening intently, as i crossed the room. the footsteps were now quite distinct, and i knew at once they were not those of any woman. they were the stealthy footsteps of a man, and naturally i at once concluded that he was a burglar. "i calculated swiftly that he would either enter the room in which i stood, or he would go on and up the next flight of stairs to the bedrooms. in any case, he had to be faced and caught. i realized that, and i much regretted i had nothing at hand which would help me, should he prove to be armed. "there was, however, no time for further thought. every second brought him nearer, and taking up a position just behind the door, i waited till he arrived on the landing, and until he came to the spot when he must either turn in, or go on upstairs. "the moment came, almost at once. with a sudden bound i sprang out to close with him. lo! and behold! nothing was to be seen! nothing was now to be heard, except the ticking of a clock. "i stood still and absolutely astounded. the footsteps had been no trick of imagination, i was very sure of that. had i not heard them stealthily beginning the ascent of the stairs, and grow louder the nearer they approached me? "i mopped my brow. would any self-respecting burglar have come on, and up a lighted staircase, and along a landing towards a room which he must have known was still occupied, as the light shone through the half-open door? are burglars ever as rash as that? "then i reminded myself that as there was no burglar in the case my speculations were mere waste of time. "i put out the lights, and went to bed in a very uncomfortable frame of mind. "the next day, when i returned home from business, my housekeeper informed me that a strange man had been walking about the house. she had not seen him, though she had looked for him--that was the curious part of it, but she had heard him quite distinctly, several times, and she didn't like it one little bit. not that she was frightened! oh! dear no, but it was uncanny, and she thought she had better tell me. i thanked her and assured her that there was nothing to fear. the house was quite new, and uncanny things never happen in new houses. i advised her not to mention the subject to any one but me, and told her that i was not going out again that evening. "after dinner i settled down in my room, to wait for the footsteps i instinctively felt sure would return. i kept the lights burning on stairs and landing, and set the door half open, placing my chair in such a position that i could see any one who passed outside the room on the landing. this time i did not think of arming myself. i had come to the firm conclusion that the sounds came from no person living in the flesh. as no house adjoined mine i had no 'next door' on which to lay the blame for the disturbance. "sure enough, about an hour earlier this time, the unknown, unseen visitor began his ascent of my staircase. i cannot describe my feelings during those moments of waiting for 'it' to pass. i can only say they were intensely unpleasant, and i hope i may never again have to confess myself to be a wretched coward. a burglar would at that moment have appeared to me in the guise of a dear friend. "however, the thing had to be faced, there was no one else that i could put onto the job, and so i simply sat still and waited, with my eyes fixed on the landing outside. the steps came on, distinct enough, and growing nearer and louder. they arrived on the landing, they reached my door, they passed, and proceeded to mount the next flight of steps to the bedrooms. i had seen absolutely nothing. "i rose and walked out on to the landing, and looked up at the brightly lit staircase. i could mark, by the sound, the progress made by those invisible feet. they passed on to the bedroom floor, and with heartfelt gratitude i heard them enter, not mine, but an empty room. i heard nothing more that night. presumably the ghost remained quietly in his comfortable quarters. "the next day came more complaints from the housekeeper. the 'strange man' not only promenaded the house at intervals, but he had the impertinence to ring several bells. i wondered if a whisky and soda left casually on his dressing-table would appease his thirst for summoning the servants in this irritating fashion. "for some days after this we were left in peace, and i began to hope that 'it' had betaken itself to the house of some other chap, but no such luck! "one evening i was in the dining-room decanting some wine before dinner. it was just seven o'clock, when i heard 'its' footsteps again. this time they were coming downstairs. i went to the door and looked out. there was no one to be seen. i reëntered the dining-room and shut 'it' out. i suppose 'it' had been having a rest in the bedroom. i trusted 'it' meant to have a night out. "a moment or two later i heard a click near the fireplace, and looking towards the spot whence this sound came, i saw the handle of the bell being pulled back. in another second the bell rang. "when the maid answered it i was ready for her. "'oh! don't you know what that is?' i inquired with mild sarcasm. 'only mice crossing the wires. nothing to be frightened of in that, is there?' "i stuck to this all through the weeks that followed. the maids ceased to answer the bells, and went early to bed in a bunch. they no longer required rooms to themselves. "in a few months the trouble stopped as suddenly as it had begun. 'it' had evidently found other quarters more to 'its' liking. the mice were equally obliging. they ceased running across the wires." what theory will explain this species of haunting which is quite common? may it not be that this disembodied entity attached itself to my brother whilst he was out, and like a lost dog followed him home? there must be countless entities wandering about all over this globe, seeking an abiding-place for their restless souls. people who find themselves as bereft of friends on the other side of death, as they were in earth life. those who have friends here have doubtless friends there. in old days we used to think of a post-mortem abode as somewhere in the skies. some even mentioned a receiving station in the bowels of the earth. now i find that the majority of educated people have come to regard so-called death as merely a change of consciousness, and the immediate post-mortem sphere of our activities to be a region interpenetrating this earth. * * * * * a county neighbor of ours in aberdeenshire told me of a very tantalizing experience he had a very few years ago of temporary haunting. this was a case of seeing, not hearing. the time was late autumn, and his family had gone south for the winter, leaving him alone for a week or two to finish up the shooting. one night, immediately after he had dined, he ran upstairs to his bedroom to fetch something. on coming out of his room again, what was his astonishment to see, walking in front of him, a tall young lady, very smartly dressed in the height of the prevailing fashion. she wore black satin, cut very low and without sleeves, and she moved very quietly along the passage, and proceeded to go downstairs. she never turned her elaborately coiffed head, and he could not see her face. he followed, too speechless with amazement to address her. who on earth could she be? where was she going? nine o'clock at night; only two old servants in the house! in the depth of the country, and nine miles away from anywhere! and this charming young lady who so unexpectedly had made her appearance to brighten his solitude! what a surprising adventure! the situation was piquant to say the least of it. he followed immediately behind the attractive vision. he even wondered what room he would have prepared for her. so absolutely real did she look, that not for a second did he doubt she was ordinary flesh and blood. when describing her afterwards to me he said, "i can assure you i saw the actual white flesh of her bare arms and shoulders. i was close behind her." the lady moved composedly on, walking with supple grace and perfect self-possession. she was not in the least hurried or flustered. she reached the bottom of the stairs, and he had a momentary fear that she would make for the front door, where surely a rolls royce would be awaiting her. not so! she walked straight into the dining-room. he followed. as he entered the door she had gained the opposite end of the room, where the sideboard stood. for a second she stood still, turned and glanced round at him with an enchanting smile of delicate raillery. then she deliberately walked through the sideboard and wall beyond, and was lost to sight. the beholder of this ghost had never seen anything of the sort before, and was, if anything, a disbeliever in psychic phenomena. he is a perfectly healthy, normal country gentleman, whose principal hobby is sport, and who prefers a country life out of doors to the life of an intellectual student. needless to say the occurrence puzzled him beyond measure. he could not "place" the lady, and was certain that he had never seen her before. her dress proclaimed her to be absolutely modern. though in roundabout ways he tried to find out if any woman, answering to her description, was visiting at the time in any of the neighboring country houses, he failed entirely to get any result. being rather shy of the chaff he knew would be indulged in at his expense, he mentioned the incident to no one. he took careful notes of date, time, and other particulars, and kept a strict watch, but the lady appeared no more during his stay, and before christmas he went south to rejoin his family. he did not forget the experience. when the following autumn came round he found himself again in the north, under exactly similar circumstances. eagerly he anticipated the anniversary of his first ghost. he was waiting for her on the landing outside his bedroom door, and suddenly she sprang into sight from nowhere. to-night he had determined to lay hold of her, but he calculated without his ghost. she sped downstairs, this time as if she was well aware that he was in pursuit. they gained the dining-room almost neck to neck, and this time she made no pause before slipping through the wall. she simply looked back at him over her shoulder, and smiled at him enchantingly, provokingly. then he found himself alone. the following year was blank. she came no more. why did she come to that house, with which, it is certain, she had no connection? why did she only appear twice, and both times on the same date? such are the questions one asks in vain, but such fugitive visions suggest the whisperings of a voice which calls out in the wilderness, and leads through life's enigmas to the final awakening. there are visions of beauty to which we are blind, and joyous harmonies we do not hear. there are depths of feeling we have not plumbed, and heights we have not aspired to, yet i am sure if we but place ourselves in a simple attitude of receptiveness, we will draw nearer to the glory of the unseen, and nature's finer forces will draw nearer to us. chapter ix pompey and the duchess have animals souls? i unhesitatingly answer "yes." if my dog has not a soul then neither have i--my dreams of immortality are merely a delusion. i base my belief upon the god-like qualities found in animals--the highest quality of all, love, pure, and unadulterated by self-seeking. the oldest scriptures of the world tell us that when wild animals die their life flows back into a group soul, a mass, as it were, of undifferentiated life essence. as the animal becomes domesticated, as a dog or cat learns to live with man, shares in his joys and sorrows, to be his constant companion, then it advances rapidly in evolution. it is developing human qualities, and in due time will no more return to merge in the group soul, but be born into the human family. a lowly human family it is true, a primitive savage to begin with, but that animal has passed one of the most important milestones on the long, lone trail. it will never more return to the world in the form of the beast, henceforth it will commence its slow ascent from the most elementary human body to the exalted heights of a god. they tell us in the east: "first a stone, then a plant, then an animal, then a man, and finally a god." this is how the wisdom of the east understands divine evolution. cases where the ghosts of animals have been seen are becoming quite common. before describing the astral apparitions of some of our animals, i will recall a very interesting case which was investigated in recent years at ballechin, perthshire. the accounts of the ballechin hauntings are contained in a big volume, but at present i am only concerned in the four-footed ghosts that were seen. the trouble began upon the death of the eccentric owner, old major stewart, in . he had frequently stated his intention of haunting the place after his death, and, furthermore, had asserted his determination to "walk" in the form of one of his many dogs, a favorite black spaniel. the family, anxious, as they thought, to be on the safe side, had all the pack, numbering fourteen, destroyed at the death of their master, but this wholesale slaughter of the innocents proved of no avail. the first intimation of its futility was immediately apparent. the wife of the old major's nephew and heir was seated one day adding up accounts in the dead man's study, when the room was suddenly invaded by the old doggy smell, and an unseen dog pushed distinctly up against her. many other unpleasant incidents followed after, but the really great happenings did not begin till , when a shooting tenant, after a week or two, was compelled to quit the house, and forfeit the considerable rent he had paid in advance. the above fact came to the notice of that inveterate ghost-hunter, the late marquis of bute, and he, and several other members of the psychical society, hired the house, and went into residence. _the times_ of june, , contains elaborate details of the various experiences and the names of the investigators. the phenomena they describe are very startling, but perhaps the most unnerving specter was the frequent appearance of a black spaniel, which was seen by numerous persons. one member of the party had brought a black spaniel of his own. he saw it run across the room, when at that moment the real dog--his own--entered and began to fraternize with the ghost dog. two ladies occupying the same bedroom had a curious experience. a pet dog on the end of the bed began to whine, and looking to where its eyes were fixed they saw, not the black spaniel, but two black paws on the table by the bed. various other sorts of dogs were seen by many people. the black spaniel by no means had the monopoly, and dogs, purposely brought by the investigators to aid them in their elucidation of the mystery, made friends or exhibited mistrust of the pack of ghost dogs haunting both house and grounds. twice in my life i have seen the wraith of our own dogs, "pompey" and "triff." pompey was a big brindled bulldog of terrifying aspect and angelic nature. my husband and i adored him, and his death caused us great grief. indeed, the whole household mourned him long and deeply. one day, about ten days after his death, i suddenly caught sight of him walking in front of me down the avenue. on the spur of the moment i called him by name, then he vanished. i mentioned this occurrence to my maid, who at once told me the kitchenmaid had seen him in exactly the same place. when alive on earth "pompey" had a habit of stealing into a guest's room when the early tea was brought up. he would lie in wait in a dark corner and then attempt to enter behind the maid or valet. when the door was shut again he would emerge from his hiding-place, and attempt to leap on the bed. he was exceedingly gentle and affectionate, but externally he was so forbidding that his offers of friendship were not always accepted, and he was a great weight. one day a mrs. shelton came to stay with us, and the next morning asked to have her room changed, because "pompey" had kept walking round her bed all night, and she had not been able to sleep. she was sure it was "pompey," because she recognized his peculiar, heavy, slithering movements. some time after this millicent, duchess of sutherland, came to pay us a visit. she had been very overworked, and needed a complete rest. she brought with her a maid and a small french bulldog, and she and the maid occupied a suite of three rooms, two bedrooms and a bathroom, shut off from the rest of the house by a heavy swing door. the french bulldog was accustomed to sleep in the maid's room. we had no dog left of our own. the beautiful duchess went to bed about half-past ten; she was very tired and ought to have slept well, but she didn't. in the night she was awakened by what she took to be her own bulldog prowling round her bed, yet its footsteps sounded strangely heavy. she knew nothing about "pompey's" ghostly visits; we had been careful not to mention them. when she came downstairs the next morning she told us what a disturbed night she had passed through. she was awakened soon after midnight by the restless movements of a bulldog round her bed. she did not doubt it was her own dog, that owing to the forgetfulness of her maid had been left asleep under her bed. she called it, and at the same time switched on the light, but could see no signs of any dog at all. rather puzzled, but concluding that she must have been mistaken, she composed herself to sleep once more. before very long the noise began again. a bulldog with its heavy, slouching tread was moving about round her bed. this time the duchess got up, and made a thorough search of her room, but could see nothing in the shape of any animal. yet so convinced was she that a dog had been in the room, that she determined to look into her maid's room to see if her own dog was there. she opened her maid's door, which was shut, and went into the room. the woman was asleep, and on the bed at her feet slept the french bulldog. there was nothing to be done but to go back to her own bed once more, and try to sleep in spite of the disturbances. this was the story the duchess told us, and added to me, "if he comes again to-night i shall come along to your room and rouse you." it did not come again. the peculiarity of "pompey's" visits was that they only occurred once to each stranger, though he came several times to me, as was but natural. we honored his memory by raising to him a large granite headstone, on which was inscribed-- "soft lies the turf on one who finds his rest, here, on our common mother's ample breast, unstained by meanness, avarice and pride, he never flattered and he never lied. no gluttonous excess his slumbers broke, no burning alcohol, no stifling smoke. he ne'er intrigued a rival to displace, he ran, but never betted on a race. content with harmless sports and moderate food, boundless in love, and faith and gratitude. happy the man, if there be any such, of whom his epitaph can say as much. "on this spot are deposited the remains of one who possessed beauty without vanity, strength without insolence, courage without ferocity, and all the virtues of man without his vices. this praise, which would be unmeaning flattery if inscribed over human ashes, is but a just tribute to the memory of 'pompey' a dog. born . died ." our next dog, "triff," was a very handsome sable collie. of course, we became devoted to him, and when he also passed away we felt very desolate without him. for a long time i never could feel that he had left me. though i could not see him, i used to speak to him, just as if i could see the dear presence i so strongly felt. it was hard that i never could catch a glimpse of him, because others did. the butler saw him many times, and my maid caught sight of him twice. one often reads in ghost books of abnormal animal-like creatures being seen by psychics, but it is rare to meet with living individuals who can testify to such personal experiences. i remember lilian, countess of cromartie, telling me of a strange incident that once happened to her. she was walking alone one bright summer morning in windsor great park. suddenly she saw an amazing looking creature loping slowly towards her. it resembled an enormous hare. that is to say, its legs and head were those of a hare, but its size was that of a goat, and its horned head was half-goat, half-hare. this creature, loping without any fear, and with a hare's movement straight towards her, caused her to pause. she stood still and breathlessly waited its approach. it passed quite close to her, and as it did so she struck at it with her parasol. instantly it disappeared. princess frederica of hanover, always intensely interested in psychic phenomena, and herself no tyro in psychic knowledge, told me many years ago that she had seen several different sorts of abnormal animals, quite unknown to this earth, and under circumstances which left no doubt as to their actual existence. many years ago there was much talk amongst a certain set of an experience that had come to a foreign grand duchess and her husband, who spent much of their time in england. this couple were traveling in the wilds of greece, and one night they wandered out together on to a bare mountain side. sitting down to rest they were enjoying the beauty and utter loneliness of the moonlit scene, when they suddenly heard the galloping of many horses' hoofs approaching them. this astonished them greatly, as they were in so wild and unfrequented a part of the country. there was no road near them, and it seemed strange to hear horses galloping so fast on such rough ground at night, even though there was a moon. husband and wife stood up immediately in order to show themselves. the sound suggested a headlong rush, and they feared that in another second a whole regiment might ride over them. they had not long to wait. a troop of creatures, half-men, half-horses, tore past them, helter-skelter. fleet and sure-footed they thundered by, and they brought with them the most wonderful sense of joy and exhilaration. neither the grand duchess nor her husband felt the smallest fear; on the contrary, both were seized by a wild elation, a desire to be one of that splendid legion. the thundering of their hoofs spread over the hills, and died away into the distance. on returning to their camp the husband and wife found an uproar. something had gone wrong with the greek servants, who were shivering with terror, and struggling with equally terrified horses to prevent a stampede. all that could be learned from the greeks was that they had heard something, something known of and greatly feared. i happened to hear the grand duchess tell of her weird experience, and i have often wondered in later years if algernon blackwood had also heard the story, and founded upon it his fascinating book, "the centaur." there were several people in the room whilst the grand duchess was unfolding, in the most impressive manner, this strange event. amongst them was the first lady henry grosvenor, born miss erskine wemyss of wemyss castle. she told us that when a child of seven years old, she had passed through some minutes of such absolute terror, that as long as she lived she would never forget the experience. with another child, and a nurse in attendance, she was playing one summer morning out of doors. after a little while the nurse rose from her seat amongst the heather, and wandered away a short distance, out of sight but not out of hearing. a few moments after the two little girls heard some bushes behind them rustling, and a huge creature, half-goat, half-man, emerged and leisurely crossing the road in front of them plunged into the woods beyond and was lost to sight. both children were thrown into a paroxysm of terror, and screamed loudly. the nurse ran back to them, and when told what was the matter scolded them for their foolish fancies. no such animal existed, such as they described, an animal much bigger than a goat, that walked upright, and had but two legs, and two hoofs, that was covered with shaggy brown hair from the waist downward, and had the smooth skin of a man from the waist upward! the nurse bade them come home at once, and as they gained the road miss wemyss pointed down into the dust. clearly defined was the track of a two-hoofed creature that had crossed at that spot. the nurse stared for a moment or two, then with one accord they all ran. she never took her charges near that spot again. lady henry said that the memory of that experience was so firmly grafted on her mind that she could always recall with perfect clarity the exact appearance of this appalling creature. in after years, when grown up, she realized from pictures that what she had seen was a faun or satyr. such pictures or statues always sent a thrill of horror through her. she attributed this apparition to the fact that she and her companion were playing close to the site of a roman camp, and the road was an old roman road. she went on to say that the grand duchess had given her courage to tell this incredible story. it was as absolutely real to her as was the passing of the centaurs to the grand duchess. the whole scene stood out in brilliant light as a picture before her, whenever she thought of it, which she very often did. she never mentioned it to any one, as she felt that no one would believe her. she could always smell again the scent of summer, and the odor of pine trees, and hear the trickling of water from a tiny stream. she could always see a wide, white road, ribbon-like stretching away to the horizon. then, suddenly, she and her young companion stood face to face with a presence, a hideous, unspeakable shape, that was neither man nor beast. she believed that there was a real world beyond the glamour and vision of our ordinary senses, and sometimes this veil was lifted for a few seconds. she believed that much of the tradition of mythical creatures represented solid fact, and that it was possible there were failures of creation still extant. again, might there not be races fallen out of evolution, but retaining as a survival certain powers that to us appear miraculous. a very gifted being was miminie erskine wemyss, who married lord henry grosvenor. one of my earliest memories is the thrill her beauty gave me when first i saw her, as she walked into church, a silver prayer-book, slung on a silver chain, depending from her arm. chapter x the invisible hands all through my life there have come to me moments never to be forgotten. often the incidents that so deeply impressed me were utterly trivial in themselves, still they were sacramental, inasmuch as they proved to me, absolutely and conclusively, the immortality of the soul, and the power possessed by the soul after so-called death to concern itself with terrestrial happenings. such moments are sacramental, in the sense that nature is sacramental, in its showing forth of god's glory, and the manifestation of his handiwork. * * * * * i was sitting near the library window, reading, in the fading light of a quiet november afternoon. it was one of those utterly still, mournful days, with a gray, brooding sky, save where, in the west, a pale primrose sunset was bathing the horizon in light. i was reading "man and the universe," by sir oliver lodge, and had arrived at page , which ends chapter vi. in those days, the year was , i always tried to arrange at least one week of perfect quiet for the study of a new book which i had just ordered. i would calculate on which day the post would bring it to my country home, and i would arrange my life accordingly. this may sound rather ridiculous, but the truth is that a book like "man and the universe" is such a pure intellectual treat to me, that i like to gloat over it, to taste it slowly, and imbibe it gradually. i try to spin out the joy of it as long as possible by reading slowly, and thinking over the problems presented. at last i put the book down on a table by my side. i was in no hurry. it lay on its back, open, the pages uppermost; just where i had stopped reading. i fell to wondering on the words i had just read. "a reformer must not be in haste. the kingdom cometh not by observation, but by secret working as of leaven. nor must he advocate any compromise repugnant to an enlightened conscience. bigotry must die, but it must die a natural, not a violent death. would that the leaders in church and state had always been able to receive an impatient enthusiast in the spirit of the lines-- "dreamer of dreams! no taunt is in our sadness, what e'er our fears our hearts are with your cause, god's mills grind slow; and thoughtless haste were madness, to gain heaven's ends we dare not break heaven's laws." i must have sat thinking for quite ten minutes when my attention was suddenly attracted by a sound. the sound of paper leaves being rustled. the room was so dead still that the faintest sound would have called my attention, but this sound was by no means faint. i turned my head and looked at the book i had been reading, because, from it, unmistakably the noise proceeded. i beheld a most enthralling phenomenon. unseen hands were turning over the pages. a thrill of intense excitement ran through me, and i stared at the book in breathless interest. the hands seemed to be searching for some particular passage. the number of the page upon which the passage was printed was not, apparently, known to the searcher. i will try to describe what actually happened. several leaves of the book were turned over rather rapidly, each leaf making the usual sound which accompanies such an ordinary physical action. then, as if fearing that the passage required had been overlooked or passed by, several leaves were turned back again. this manifestation continued for at least ten minutes, and i could see nothing but the pages of the book being turned quite methodically, as by a human hand. at moments there was rather a long pause in the search, and at the first pause i thought the demonstration might be over, but once again the invisible entity resumed the search, and i found myself saying, "he found something there that interested him. that is why he stopped." for no reason i can give i felt certain my visitor was a male spirit. on the second pause in the search occurring i had no doubt that again he had found something that interested him. the whole manifestation was very leisurely and wonderfully human. as i sat watching the book being manipulated by unseen fingers, every smallest action suggested design. one could not doubt as to what was taking place. at length there came a pause longer than usual. the book lay flat on its back wide open. there was now no quiver of the leaves. the invisible entity had found what he wanted and gone. i curbed my curiosity for five minutes more, then feeling convinced that i was again alone i stretched out my hand, took the book and, rising, carried it close to the window. there was still enough light to read by, and the leaves were open at pages - . i had only read as far as page . i scanned them eagerly, and at once discovered that a mark had been made on the margin of page . a long cross had been placed against a paragraph. the mark was such as might have been made by a sharp finger-nail. the words marked were-- "i want to make the distinct assertion that a really existing thing never perishes, but only changes its form." to-day the mark is as clearly visible on the page as on the day it was made. i can form no conjecture as to who the entity was, but he certainly knew the contents of the book. no one watching the search could doubt that, or that he was desirous of impressing upon the readers of the book a certain fact stated therein, which must have previously attracted his attention. in the year we took a house for the winter months in the west end of london. it was a small house though joined on either side by great mansions, and once upon a time it had actually been a farmhouse standing amid smiling fields. it retained many relics of its ancient origin in fine oak paneling and quaint nooks and corners, and had been for many of its latter years the town residence of a man whose type had practically died out, the perfect type of our old english aristocracy. the bedroom i occupied was exceedingly comfortable and warm. the bed, placed against the wall, was exactly opposite to the fireplace, so that lying on my right side i looked straight at the fire and could see the whole room. i was constantly on the alert, as i knew how full of history such a house must be, but for several weeks i neither saw nor heard anything in the least unusual. one night, quite unexpectedly, a change occurred. i no longer had the room to myself. a stranger occupied it with me. it was a cold, snowy night, and i was lying in bed facing the fire and courting sleep, when i heard a sudden noise which was totally different to the sounds made by the dying fire. take a large sheet of stiff writing paper in your hand and crush it up between your fingers and you will hear the sound i heard. quite a loud and distinct noise if you happen to be in a very quiet room, at an hour when all the household has retired to bed. naturally, i instantly opened my eyes and looked out into the room, which was lit brightly enough by the fire to make all the objects it contained quite distinct. an armchair was drawn up close to the fire; half an hour before i had been seated in it warming my toes before getting into bed; now it was again filled. in it sat a man turned sideways towards me. he was lying back with his legs stretched straight out in front of him towards the fire. one of his arms hung over the arm of the chair, and in his clenched hand was a large piece of paper or parchment. his finely cut profile was clearly outlined, he was clean shaven, and he stared into the fire, his chin sunk in a high black stock. his hair was powdered and tied behind by a large black bow, and he wore bright blue cloth knee breeches, white stockings, silver buckled shoes, and many gold buttons on his blue coat. i did not take in all those details at once; i had ample leisure to do so later. for, i suppose, a full two minutes, i stared very hard at him, and lay very still, knowing full well i was looking at a ghost. then very cautiously i drew the bedclothes over my head, and shut out the startling vision. i was invaded by wild panic. i have never been one of those timid women who are frightened by their own shadows. i require to be face to face with a tangible danger before i put faith in its existence, yet, i confess that at that moment i knew what actual fear meant. my heart beat thickly, then seemed to stop, and i was instantly bathed in cold perspiration. i knew that the servants were all in bed two flights of stairs below me, and my husband was out of london, so no calling for help was any use. i therefore forced a sort of spurious desperate courage, and began to be angry with myself for being thus afraid when no cause for fear existed. i treated myself to a scornful lecture. "you who profess to know all about ghosts, you who have actually seen several ghosts, you coward to quail before this one! don't you know perfectly well that he won't hurt you, that he has a perfect right to sit in that chair, and that it is your duty to speak to him should he show any desire for conversation?" "i am so terribly alone," pleaded my other self in feeble self-defense. "well, what of it? if the whole household was in the room what could they do? you are not a child. uncover your head and look the specter boldly in the face." the stillness and hush of deep night, at the hour when sleepers slumber soundest, was upon the house. the traffic of london was muffled in a heavy fall of snow. i could hear nothing but the feeble crackling of the expiring fire in the grate, but gradually i rallied my courage and faculties and peeped stealthily out. there sat that dark form between me and the fire; there he lay in an attitude of moody carelessness, watching the cooling embers as they faded from scarlet to pink, from pink to yellow, and then fell tinkling into heaps of white ashes. no statue was ever stiller. he did not move in the least, but sat more like an effigy of a man carved out of stone than a creature of flesh and blood. i closed my eyes and re-opened them, to test the fact whether i was awake or asleep and dreaming. no, i was broad wake and the room was still fairly well lit, and there sat the phantom before the fire, the proud, well-set head with its powdered curls distinctly visible in the red glow of the firelight. i should think an hour must have passed thus, whilst i gazed at the figure before me, taking in every detail. there was no indication that he knew or cared for my presence. the figure sat like a stone. i came to the conclusion that the phantom was about thirty years of age, and a sailor who had lived in the days of nelson, judging by his clothes and the pictures i had seen. i noticed particularly his hand clenched on the paper. a white hand, with strong cruel-looking fingers. there is so much character in hands. the face may be drilled into a mere mask, but hands tell tales of their owners. i could imagine the hand that had crushed the paper closing murderously on the throat of an adversary, or gripped hard on the hilt of a dagger. there were moments when the awful inertia of the figure began to play havoc with my nerves, when i would have given anything to make that impassive form move from out its dreary attitude of sullen brooding; anything to cause the profile of the face, with all its gloom and pride, to turn and front me, so that i might know the worst. but the figure never turned, never stirred, but sat with stately head bowed under a weight of thought. now and again a little flame would spurt up and glitter on his shoe buckles, his brass buttons, but the fire was dying now, and gradually the figure became more and more indistinct. then i slept. i had been feeling drowsy for some time, and fought against it. i had violently resisted sleep, feeling a great repugnance to losing consciousness whilst the specter still sat there, but the blank force of sleep at length overpowered me. when i awoke the cold gray morning light was stealing feebly in through the window. the chair was empty. the figure was gone. the next night i went to bed full of courage, but i was left alone. if the sailor returned it was not until after i had gone to sleep. a week later he came back. one moment the chair was empty, the next moment with one wild heart throb i opened my eyes at the sound of crackling paper, and the chair was filled. there he sat in his brooding sullen attitude and continued so to sit till slumber vanquished me. after that i saw him at constant intervals. by this time i had entirely rid myself of all fear. i did not even desire to change my room which would have been very inconvenient, and i dreaded alarming the household and being left alone to conduct the domestic duties. but though no longer afraid those constant visits began to get on my nerves, and i consulted a catholic friend who was always sympathetic to the occult side of life. she said at once that this spirit should be exorcised and set free from the bondage of earth, and that she had an old friend, a franciscan monk, who was known to be a powerful exorcist. she offered to arrange the matter, and i gladly accepted her suggestion. it was on an early spring afternoon that father reginald buckler came to the house. in his white habit, sandaled feet and shorn crown, he looked an incongruous figure in that fashionable locality already beginning its social entertainments in view of the season's approach. he was a charming, courteous old man, who took his mission very seriously. after a few words of explanation we mounted to the bedroom floor. there were four doors opening on to the little landing, and without asking which of the doors led to the haunted chamber, he turned the handle of the right one and entered. still he put no question, but at once proceeded with the service of exorcism. sprinkling the four corners of the room with holy water, he bade me kneel down in the middle. then he raised his crucifix and offered up prayers for the repose of the earth-bound soul, that he might be loosed and set free. for five weeks longer we remained in the house, but i never saw the sailor again. chapter xi dawns we have been given many wonderful dawns this winter, and i have used them eagerly as a cleansing of the war-weary mind and distracted soul. in such ethereal apparitional dawns one walks with the eternal, and all temporal things fade away. those pale silver daybreaks have a rapture of their own, they suggest a fresh creation straight from the looms of god. when the hours of day have drawn on the flaming sunset, that exquisitely serene emotion of virgin tranquillity will have passed away, and the horizon will be lurid and grand beneath a grave frowning sadness gathered from the scenes of earth they have brooded over. such dawns beckon imperiously to the pilgrim, to leave the shelter of the roof-tree, and come forth to walk with the immortals whilst the morning star, the light-bringer, still shines, a white gold radiance in the heavens, and the distance is still dissolved in veils of pearl and opal. such daybreaks always rouse in me the urge for wider thought, for the broad day of the mind. out of the limitless beyond comes the certain knowledge of a something unimagined, lying just outside human thought. i am sure there is so much not yet imagined, something more than mere existence. there is a wine of happiness in tranquil daybreak, and an aloofness from life that urges one to seek for that which is beyond comprehension. the draught exalts the soul, and quickens it with unquenchable fire, until the world falls away, far from one, as day wells out of still darkness. only at such moments do we reach the true horizon. again, there is an amnesty in such dawns, a glory of release from the house of bondage. in the great silences, life, as we know it, is remote, and the immensity is a magic that draws the soul, fusing it in a strange passion, so that whatever fulfillment our existence holds is summed in that hour of solitude. a pale wash of translucent gold is thrown across land and sea. on the far horizon a ship is set in relief, against a core of crimson flame which heralds the sun. a dove coos softly, and on a bare branch a thrush thrills in waves of sound, seeking in the universal ether to reproduce its divine instinct in other feathered hearts that are attuned to its melody. such joys as these are transitory, and never wholly possessed. they pass the enclosures of life, and bring one nearer to the beating heart of truth. the agonizing fear of losing hold on them is, in itself, the cause of their dispersal. it is the same at rare moments of semi-consciousness, when one has actually laid hold of a genuine astral experience--and knows it. then comes the frantic endeavor to hold on--to pin the moment fast and tight, till the whole vision is absorbed. the soul seems to hold its breath! how often, with bitter disappointment i have rushed reluctantly into full waking consciousness--and only half the story told. fragmentary though such moments are their potency is such that they endure through time. thank god, that whilst the wedlock of body and soul still holds undissolved there is scope for such joys. they are uncommunicable, and may not be shared with others at will, and they tell the soul that she is not of creation and cannot be contained by law. at such hours she learns the truth, that she passes for a brief span into the limited, from out the limitless whence she came. at such sacramental hours one can pray the prayer of socrates, offered up by the banks of the illissus: "o beloved god of the forests and flocks and all ye divinities of this place, grant me to become beautiful in the inner man, and that whatever outward things i have may be at peace with those within. may i deem the wise man rich, and may i have so much wealth, and so much only, as a good man can manage to enjoy. "do we need anything else, phædrus? for myself i have prayed enough." * * * * * how many people now recall fragments of former lives! ask the next man you meet if he has any recollections of former existences, and be sure he will not eye you askance as a fugitive from bedlam. he may smile and shake his head, and regret to say he isn't psychic, but he won't ask you what on earth you mean. this is how we have progressed towards truth in the last thirty years. the truth of reincarnation is being quietly accepted by the west and is now openly preached from many pulpits. if god is love, who could reconcile with any comprehensive idea of justice and law in the world the lives and experiences of common humanity? how reconcile the births taking place in one single day in their vast diversity, by the hell for the criminal, born, nurtured and killed in crime, who never had a chance, and heaven for the happily born, who need never have a temptation? what is the divine law lying behind this seeming hideous injustice? undoubtedly the continuous evolution of the soul in bodies of matter. men are looking now to the scheme of organic evolution to provide the field for spiritual evolution. they are finding it in the depths of their own consciousness. i chanced upon one of those fragments of a past life, those islets in eternity in a strange way. i was paying a visit to a stranger in cambridgeshire, and whilst awaiting her entry i walked round the room looking at some lovely water-colored sketches that hung upon the walls. when their owner entered, and after a few minutes' conversation, i said, "how beautiful those sicilian scenes are!" she looked pleased and answered: "i'm so glad you recognize them. i painted them. when were you last in sicily?" i had never at that time been in sicily. i told her so, but i could not tell a stranger that suddenly there had dawned upon me a keen recollection of the country i had certainly been in, though not in this life. the paintings, of course, dealt with a restricted field, but as i looked at them one by one i saw mentally a wide landscape in which each picture formed but a tiny spot. one i remember was a painting of a wonderfully perfect temple, which occupied the whole space of the picture. as i looked at it i saw wide rolling plains, and a wide expanse of blue sea. this i later recognized in girgenti. a month or two afterwards my husband and i went to sicily for the winter, and, as i had expected, the island was perfectly familiar to me. i knew exactly round which bend of the hill i should find a temple, but syracuse was really my spiritual home. it was there that i had played out one of my many life dramas, and many incidents returned to me as i wandered over the hills, and gathered maiden-hair ferns in the twilight of the empty tombs. once i opened my eyes on stromboli, one of the Æolian or lipari isles. instantly i felt a passion of love for it, an intuition of spiritual delight which is utterly irreducible to terms. i have looked upon it since, and always with an adoration impossible to paint with pen or pencil. i have for weeks anticipated the moment when i should see it again. it means something to me far beyond what the eye can see, the tongue relate, and it is this something lying betwixt rhapsody and lament which draws me by a tenuous chain of thought right back into the womb of time, where buried memory stirs in its long sleep. stromboli, so the ancient poets tell us, was the home of the fiery god, vulcan. that explains much to me, but it unfolds a secret none may learn. it was in a flaming dawn that i first saw stromboli rising from amid the numerous isles surrounding it. from its cone shot a great plume of smoke, like a giant ostrich feather, silver tinted. in its ethereal loveliness it seemed to float in the void, half of earth, half of heaven. neither bondage of words, nor the cold scrutiny of reason can impinge upon a scene which draws the soul away upon a celestial pilgrimage. free and elate, she passes beyond the frontiers of life, and like the echoes of the sea when a shell is held to the ear, she hears the pulse of earth beat far away in unfathomable distance. the marvel of the uncreated consumes her in a trance of unincarnate passion. those who have once adventured on such pilgrimages are never quite the same again. they become children of "the divine unrest." they have experienced a moment in which earth and flesh dissolve, in which law is not, in which creeds and covenants find no place, and the hold upon common life with its moving mirages is blotted out. time and space are annulled, the æon and the second are one. the soul unswathed, has risen from the tomb where the life urge has laid it, and is aglow with the transcendental fires of eternal being. in after days the soul learns to set barriers against such visitants. one must not look upon the other side of the moon too often, for fear one is drawn away from home and kindred. the time is not yet, but it will surely come. one other curious happening i must relate. years ago, one autumn when i was in the far north there came a magnificent visitation of falling stars and many aerolites dropped to earth. the display was predicted, and i was on the lookout. it came in a rain of gold and seemingly from all points of the compass. for hours i watched a sight far more marvelous than anything i had anticipated. when at last i reluctantly went to bed i had a strange dream or, rather, astral experience. i was a hungarian gipsy, the head or queen of an enormous clan. i heard wild hungarian music, and saw enormous crowds of my people gathered round me. they were very savage and picturesque, and a ceremony was proceeding. on the ground, and in the center of a great ring of people, stood a large bowl filled with blood. i stood in front of it and watched the swearing in of new adherents to my clan, by means of the "blood covenant." the blood that filled the bowl had been drawn from the veins of my people, and the new adherents were each required to drink from it and swear their allegiance. only one thing troubled me all through what seemed a long ceremony. my feet caused me pain, and i was aware that they were bare, as were the feet of all my people. so vivid was the dream that i could visualize my whole life as i lived it on the plains of hungary, and the scenery surrounding me was lit up by a glorious sunset. there were hundreds of horses grazing loose, as far as the eye could reach, and flocks of enormous white geese, amid which great storks strutted. suddenly i awoke with the acute pain in my feet uppermost in my mind. i found myself clad only in my nightgown, walking bare-footed on the rough gravel paths of the garden, whence i had watched the stellar display. i had been walking in my sleep, and the sudden unaccustomed stony hardness of the path under my bare feet had awakened in me the recollection of a past life, in which i had lived, a wild nomad in southern hungary. this is the one and only occasion in my life in which i have known somnambulism. luckily my memory did not fail me on waking and, some time after, when i was able to revisit the scenes of that long ago pilgrimage i was quite familiar with my surroundings. buda pest and the lands lying southward were then my home, a roving home and tent life of infinite variety. thus the dead of vanished years are disguised in the present living. i have no doubt that many people who have not had the interesting experience of remembering one or more of their former incarnations have been able through some trivial incident to recollect happenings long vanished from their memory. sometimes the scent of a flower, the glimpse of a scene, a chance word or expression will vividly recall some episode lying hidden for many years in the subconsciousness. again it will be pulled over the threshold from past to present, from the storehouse of the eternal memory into the everyday working consciousness or mind. this is not a book for scientists. i will therefore go into no elaborate metaphysics, but will sketch as simply as i can what i mean by subconsciousness. i use the term for the region or zone within us which stores up the residues of past thoughts and experiences. scientists tell us there are three realms of mind, the super-conscious, the conscious, the subconscious. the conscious mind is what we commonly use. it belongs purely to the objective world, and its instruments are the five senses. the subconscious mind is the storehouse for experiences on the human plane of man's long past. the super-consciousness is independent of the five senses. it is a faculty of perception closely akin to the one force in the universe, which is inseparably related to all created things. it possesses the attributes of infinity, is indestructible, immortal, undying. we may forget a fact for many years, then suddenly we remember it. i believe it has come back to us again across the threshold from the subconscious region to our consciousness or mind which is open to everyday observation. i have become convinced, by personal experience, of the existence in us of this region below the threshold of our ordinary conscious life. when i was young there were many problems i wished to solve, and in this effort human aid often failed me. my plan was to "sleep on" a problem, ardently desiring before "dropping off" that an answer might be accorded me. i suppose this desire was of the nature of prayer, though addressed to no deity. almost invariably the solution was clear and unmistakable to me in the morning. i lost this great advantage at the age of twenty-one, but even now i can sometimes "get at" a solution by leaving the question severely alone, after turning it well over in my mind. the solution will suddenly pop up, often weeks after i have tried to get at it, and when it comes there, it arrives apropos of nothing, so to speak. it simply dawns in the thick of quite other subjects, which happen at the moment to occupy my mind. though i can no more demonstrate to others the existence of the subconsciousness than i can prove the existence of the immortal soul, i have got sufficient proof to satisfy myself, and i believe the same knowledge is open to many of us. within our being are sympathetic chords that can vibrate to all the symphonies of nature. there are visions of beauty and depths of feeling which may be seen and felt, if heart and mind are open to the higher influences. the finer forces of nature, and her immutable laws, are ready to draw nigh to us if we desire to welcome them, and are eager to place ourselves in harmony with the infinite source of being. we are in the keeping of the best and highest, and whatever things are pure, whatsoever things are beautiful, whatsoever things are true and high and holy will gravitate towards us in proportion to the degree we desire them. the mysterious gift of existence is in itself a beckoning ideal, and a foregleam of the final awakening that will surely be ours. now what does the subconsciousness contain? firstly, i believe it to be permeated by deity, and the divine indwelling. it is the seat of genius. i believe a genius to be one who is capable of drawing from the contents of his subconsciousness that which outwardly appears as a creation. it is said that genius creates and talent copies. i believe that a man becomes great when he represents the results of countless lives in his individuality, and each life is an arc of the infinite life of the universe. the man with æons of experience behind him is infinitely more _en rapport_ with his subconsciousness than those younger, more immature souls who have as yet experienced few earth lives and who constitute the bulk of humanity. the eternal mind finds its home in the subconsciousness, by which i mean that nothing is really forgotten by man. this lapse of memory is the passing of the subject from the ordinary mind into the subconsciousness, whence it may later be recovered again. the memory of all our former incarnations i believe to lie hidden in the subconsciousness. it is from this region or zone that one gets sudden uprushes of memory, and such uprushes are induced by stumbling on a chance link between the two zones of consciousness. some chance incident, such as the presence of my bare feet upon the rough gravel, touches a correspondence on the other side of the threshold, and lays bare old scenes to the observation of the ordinary mind. it is noteworthy that the matter contained in this up-rushing is recognized first, and the means which brought about the uprush is recognized secondly. i believe there is a vital communication between consciousness and subconsciousness which could be enormously developed and utilized by practice. the age in which we live has produced the most marvelous triumphs of mind over matter. access to the subconsciousness is becoming commoner and simpler. we have broken in and harnessed material forces in a manner undreamt of fifty years ago. yet there is an alas! a fact which detracts from all our legitimate pride in our achievement--the base uses to which our triumphs have been put. the whole of our inventive power has been turned against the life that gave it birth. the parents are being consumed by their own offspring.... matter evolved out of spirit has threatened destruction to the latter. the threshold between our ordinary consciousness and the region of subconsciousness seems to me like a bridge which is rarely used, and which separates the country known from the country unknown. i live in the country known, but if i can touch a button at my end i can get a response instantaneously transmitted from the country unknown. the trouble is to find the button. at present i only press it at long intervals and by the merest chance. still it is something of an achievement to have convinced one's self that such a region actually does exist. i believe this subconsciousness of ours is in direct contact with the great creative power. "it is god that worketh" in man, and its vital communications are hidden in the infinite eternity. says a sufi ideal: "to abide in god after passing away is the work of the perfect man, who not only journeys to god--passes from plurality to unity--but in and with god--continuing in the unitive state he returns with god (his subconscious self) to the phenomenal world from which he sets out, and manifests unity in plurality." though at present, to all outward seeming, the evolution of the beast is consummated, there is a something that flatly contradicts this apparent certainty. that something is man's subconsciousness, and the divinity it enshrouds, and which fiercely and irrevocably is set against the bestiality into which he is plunged. war has never been so universally hated as it now is. it is in this vital fact, which cannot be too strongly emphasized, that our future hope lies. i believe this vital fact to be so strong that entire regeneration is a certainty. where hitherto this force has lain dormant or been dispersed, disunited and weak in spiritual utterance, it is now a collective force concentrated in millions of lives. all over the earth it is now gathered _en masse_, and that stupendous aggregate, vivified, sharpened, and intensely accentuated by untold suffering will revolutionize all former weak and fatalistic acquiescence in the inevitability of war. millions of men have descended into hell, they are there now, but they will arise again from amongst the dead, and ascend one day into the heaven of peace, and thence they will judge the quick and the dead by a new standard. the standard of the god within, whose voice has been heard at last from out the din of battle. it is the same god who has said to the east:-- "have perseverance as one who dost forever more endure. thy shadows (physical bodies) live and vanish, that which is in thee shall live forever, that which in thee knows is not of fleeting life, it is the man that was, that is, that will be, for whom the hour shall never strike." to-day we all use, in some cases automatically, the powers and aptitudes developed in us in the long and painful evolution of the physical form. as evolution proceeds we will gain a vastly greater control over the subconsciousness, and in æons to come "in the flight of the alone to the alone" union will be achieved. the two will be merged in one. the lord buddha has said that to enter nirvana is to become fully conscious of our fundamental oneness with the universal life. "i and my father are one." christ's sense of oneness with the father was essentially nirvanic. we have not yet accustomed ourselves to think of evolution in any terms but the material, as a power inherent in matter, darwin's physical evolution stood for pure materialism. bergson now carries us a step farther. he introduces us to a spiritual principle. his creative evolution is a spiritual activity seeking freedom of expression in matter. darwin's struggle for existence is by bergson transmuted into life, expressing itself through material forms, and life and matter are in constant conflict. again he points out that the spiritual principle, life, has not "had it all its own way." it has experienced checks, but in two modes of activity it has succeeded, in instinct and intelligence. thus he draws for us the grandiose upward sweep of a divine activity. curbed, it is true, by the crust of matter, but finding ever higher capacities, and higher expression towards that ultimate reality which is creative life and to me is union with that higher self lying in the subconsciousness of all men. chapter xii peacock's feathers--the skeleton hand at monte carlo a sea voyage once provided me with a wonderfully lucky experience, inasmuch as it saved me from an extremely bad accident. i was returning quite alone from the east in a ship crammed full of women and children, most of them soldiers' wives and families going home to escape the hot weather. many of them were attended by ayahs. two days out we ran into a raging storm, and everything was battened down. owing to the weather, and the excessive crowding, the conditions below soon became very unpleasant, and i asked the captain if i might take possession of the ladies' summer drawing-room on the upper deck and close to the bridge. seeing that it would not be used by any one else for some time to come he kindly agreed, and i at once settled myself in my eyrie with a few books, and prepared for some days of solitude. but as the storm did not abate the suffering women and children below claimed my attention. they were confined in an atmosphere which was appalling, they were all terribly ill and utterly helpless. the mothers were unable to attend to their children, most of whom were infants, and the ayahs suffered horribly. having no cabins they lay groaning on the floors of the corridors, drenched with water as the ship was awash from stem to stern, and tossed hither and thither as she rolled heavily. it was never easy to descend from my perch aloft, but the sufferers had to be aided, and day after day i never knew a dry moment till i lay down at night. so far the summer drawing-room remained fairly water-tight in spite of being swept continually by heavy seas, but the noise of the elements was absolutely deafening, and when the captain called upon me we had to shout in each other's ears. with his connivance i got a shelter rigged up on what appeared to be the only dry spot on board. it was about twelve feet square and walled in with sailcloth, and there the sailors helped to carry a number of tiny children. they were to remain there during the best hours of the day, until their mothers and nurses were capable of attending to them once more. i took charge at first and found my task no light one. the babies did not seem to appreciate my blandishments. they cried persistently, but luckily their voices were drowned in the roaring of the wind. at last a cabin boy chanced to look in, and at once sized up the situation. he signaled to me that he knew of something that would ease the tension and then he disappeared. in five minutes he was back brandishing a large bunch of peacock's feathers. these he shook in the face of each infant in turn, at the same time making the most hideous grimaces at them. it was an anxious moment for me, but luckily the effect was electrical. the babies suddenly forgot to yell, they stiffly maintained their equilibrium and stared in a sort of indignant amazement. then, gradually, as the boy kept going round the circle repeating the process, smiles and dimples began to appear, and in five minutes more the whole crêche was laughing. i applied for permission to annex that boy; he was indeed a treasure, and the joy in the peacock's feathers never palled. his gutta-percha face had an infinite variety of expression, which he could instantly turn on to suit all occasions. it was a fascinating sight to see him going round the group feeding each baby out of the same bottle, one of the old-fashioned horrors with a long indiarubber tube and teat. those infants who had contemptuously rejected all my offers of nourishment now sat expectantly agape waiting their turn. the scene always reminded me of the artificial feeding of fowls, by the man who goes round the pens squirting liquid down each gaping throat. when we landed at marseilles there was a wonderful parting between the babies and the cabin boy. they clung to him to the last, and howled dismally when they were carried off by their haggard mothers. one night, during the height of the storm i was asleep on the fixed red velvet seat running round the walls of the summer drawing-room. i lay just under a porthole, to which was attached a rope. the other end of the rope was tied round my arm to prevent my being thrown to the floor by the rolling of the ship. at five o'clock in the morning i was suddenly awakened by hearing my husband's voice shouting in my ear. (my husband not being on board, but in our home in the north of scotland.) "sit up! sit up!" shouted his voice commandingly. considerably startled i threw myself into a sitting position, and as i did so a gigantic wave shattered the porthole, and the heavy fragments of glass fell on to the pillow where a second before my face had lain. of course, the water poured in and over me in volumes, and stopped my wrist watch at five a. m., but i had got used to salt water, and in a few minutes the weary captain had waded in, and was disentangling me from my rope and congratulating me on my lucky escape. i told him how it was that i had escaped, and he was not in the least skeptical. on the contrary, he said that he had known some curious things happen in his time, for which there was no accounting; but he always kept a black cat on board. had the safety of his ship not claimed his whole attention i believe he would have told me some of his experiences, but when, at last, the weather abated he was too much in need of rest to be bothered by any one. my husband had no knowledge of the service he had rendered me. at five a. m. that morning he was asleep at home, and had no premonition of danger, or any recollection on waking of the rôle his astral counterpart had undoubtedly played. what is this astral counterpart of man? his soul and spirit dwells in a shroud of flesh, and the feat of getting out of that shroud of flesh at will is the aim of all occultists. it is to the astral world they go, soul and spirit encased in the astral sheath we term the astral body. during sleep, or in trance, when the normal physical senses are in abeyance, when the body is unconscious in sleep, the mind continues to act in the realm corresponding to the suggestions given when awake. the world at large is open to the highly developed man, and he will sometimes bring back from his astral plane expeditions memories of what he has seen and heard. in deep slumber the physical body in healthful repose remains where it has lain down to rest, but the man's higher principles, the astral body encasing the soul and spirit, is invariably withdrawn, and in underdeveloped persons hovers in the immediate neighborhood. in such cases the higher principles, the astral body, soul and spirit of st. paul's gospel, are not sufficiently developed to roam, and remain near the physical body in a brooding sleep. all cultured persons in the present day have their astral senses fairly well developed, and have the power during sleep to go where they will, but as yet few have the power to retain the memory of it when returning to the body. in some cases the astral man during sleep is specially attracted to some one point, and he invariably travels towards it; in other cases he will drift aimlessly about on the astral currents, meeting with experience of all sorts and with people in a similar condition whom he knows. is there anything very extraordinary in all this, and is not the condition of deep unconscious sleep a demonstration in itself that the physical consciousness has departed elsewhere? as it is no longer functioning on the physical plane clearly it has found another realm in which it can temporarily exercise its activities. my husband once had a rather interesting experience of his own, on the astral plane. he was in bed and asleep on the physical plane, and he believes that the time must have been between eleven p. m. and twelve a. m. he simply became aware that he was functioning consciously on the astral plane, and was intensely interested. he found himself in a strange house of medium size, and he was floating at the top of a flight of stairs leading to an ordinary entrance hall below. at the foot of the stairs hung a lighted lamp, and below the lamp stood a man and woman, who were apparently exchanging a word or two before bidding each other good-night. my husband instantly conceived the idea of testing and proving his belief, that he was consciously afloat on the astral plane. if this belief was true, then he ought to be able to pass through the couple standing below, without their being in the least aware of his presence. in a flash he was downstairs, and his belief stood the test. his imponderable astral body passed without feeling or shock through two ponderable bodies of flesh and blood, and he was out on the other side. the excitement of the adventure awakened him, and he brought back to the physical plane a clear recollection of all that had happened. when one thinks of it, the possible presence of total strangers in one's house is rather alarming. luckily for us such wanderers rarely bring back to waking consciousness the memory of their nocturnal escapades. when we are more advanced in "other side" knowledge we will doubtless refrain from intruding upon the privacy of our neighbors' dwellings, and confine our attentions to realms which are free to all. it is curious how constantly one hears of the ghosts of priests and monks being seen. i have not met any one yet who has encountered the wraith of an anglican parson, or a nonconformist preacher. i wonder why? i presume the latter do sometimes "walk." once upon a time, when we were in rome, my husband and i went to keep an appointment with monsignor stonor, who was a great celebrity, and an extremely handsome and charming man. we were being shown upstairs by a servant, and the hour was eleven o'clock on a sunny spring day. i was walking first, my husband following, and at the top of the stairs, coming slowly downward, was an old priest carrying a huge portfolio, under which he seemed to be staggering. he passed the servant, and as he neared me i noticed that the cassock which he wore was torn in great rents in several places. his gray hair hung on his shoulders, though his crown was shaven, and his face was the color of old ivory. i moved slightly to give him and his burden room to pass, and as he did so our eyes met. his were very strange. they were exactly like points of live flame. something about his whole presence struck me as so weird that i turned involuntarily and looked back. as i did so, i saw my husband walk straight through him. my husband saw nothing. then i knew and understood. i did not mention this incident to monsignor stonor, but some time after i met his sister, viscountess clifden, at monte carlo. she was an intimate friend of mine, and one day when an opportunity offered i told her the little story, and asked her if she had ever met with anything of the sort herself. she replied that personally, she had not, but she had heard that several people encountered at different times the old priest in her brother's rooms, though he himself had seen nothing of this apparition. lady clifden enjoyed nothing more than a little flutter at the tables. she never missed a single day during her long sojourns at monte carlo. every one knows that the anglican church-goers in the principality hurry from church to gaming rooms in order to stake on the numbers of the hymns. lady clifden used also to hurry from mass with any numbers she had caught up, and she considered sunday her lucky day. suddenly her luck changed. she told me that on the previous sunday she had just pulled off a nice little coup, and was about to grasp it, when, to her horror she saw a skeleton hand stretched forth. before she could collect her scattered senses the skeleton hand had raked in her gold. where that gold had gone to worried and puzzled her dreadfully. so it did me! i never heard the last of it. she could not get over her loss. it was no use suggesting that the hand had belonged to one of the emaciated harpies who prey upon the unwary. lady clifden knew all about them, and was a match for the whole gang, had they attacked her. she insisted that the hand that had grasped her gold had neither skin nor flesh upon it, and that she had seen the two bare arm bones from wrist to elbow. we compromised on the suggestion of a third party that it must have been the devil himself, and that the heat he is supposed to engender had melted the gold entirely away. monte carlo is a very interesting place for the clairvoyant to be in, more especially if her vision extends to seeing auras. perhaps nowhere on earth are the basest human passions more swiftly and violently aroused, and several times, when some tragedy was being enacted, or some enormous coup was being brought off, i have been unable to see details, because they were hidden within a dense envelop of dark crimson clouds. in the rooms a crowd collects swiftly, and from a hundred human auras, all gathered in one compact mass, stream forth emanations of the basest description. cupidity, envy, revenge, lust of the vilest, despair, ruin, death. i remember being met one night by a friend in the attrium who was very excited. "hurry up," she cried, "the double duchess has broken the bank and is still playing." i went into the gambling rooms, and looked for the table at which the duchess of devonshire was staking. i knew she would attract a big crowd if she was winning. i found the table easily enough, not because it was surrounded by a crowd of people, but because it was hidden by a dark and dense crimson fog. with patience i got through this fog, and watched the handsome duchess of devonshire, formerly duchess of manchester, and born a hanoverian, playing with a great quantity of gold, and a pile of thousand franc notes. by bending low down, almost level with the table, i found i got completely out of the fog, and could see clearly underneath it. one night there was a rush outside, and a huge ring formed to watch "a scrap" taking place between two celebrated members of _la haute cocotterie de paris_. they were fighting with formidable hatpins, and i understood that the prey they fought over was leopold, king of the belgians. i ran with the crowd, the gambling rooms emptied in a twinkling, for the combat took place in the casino square. i squeezed through the excited mob till i got behind the backers of both parties, who were holding the ring and defying the police. it was a wonderful sight to witness the combined play of flaming red auras, shot through with vivid flashes like lightning, and blazing jewels. the duel ended with a few scratches, much tearing of gorgeous raiment and disheveled hair. how interesting it was to the mystic to feel the psychology of that crowd, and see the thin veneer of civilization stripped off, leaving nothing but the human tiger and ape. both ladies were eventually led off the arena by the police, not, be it understood, to the police-station, but to their own sumptuous apartments. all the time they shrieked and chattered like infuriated macaws, and between the shrieks they administered resounding smacks upon the cheeks of their patient escort. monte carlo was a wonderful place in those days, in which to study human nature at its best and worst. in latter years it has become meretricious and shabby, and the old magnificence is seen no more. fifteen to twenty years ago all that was greatest in europe, asia, and the americas, congregated there, and crowned heads mingled freely with the scum of the earth. constant _habitués_ were the duchess of devonshire, and her son, lord charles montague; the duchess of montrose, known to the ring at newmarket as "bobs," and always the personification, to listen to and look at, of a thames bargee. leopold of belgium, ferdinand of bulgaria, grand dukes of russia, potentates from india, all hobnobbing together and gambling heavily. i often wonder now what has befallen those brilliant stars of the half-world firmament. emmeline d'alençon with her "bobbed" hair, and her passionate love of animals and birds. the demure jeanne ray, who came out every morning to her garden gate, and distributed food to the crowd of paupers and cripples. i have seen peasants kiss the hem of her dress as she walked on an afternoon along the promenade des anglais. the beautiful, soulless mérode, the fierce, stately otero, and many others who thought nothing of wearing fifty to a hundred thousand pounds' worth of jewels on one evening. where are they now? if living they are old! old! a word more dreaded by their class than death. chapter xiii i commit murder i will now relate a very unpleasant experience that befell me thirty years ago, but which has by no means exhausted itself in the passage of years. it still, at long intervals, recurs to me as vividly as when first i passed through the painful hours of its unfoldment. it was the month of july, and i was making a tour by road through a portion of scotland, driving my own horse. i was accompanied by a groom and a maid. one evening we arrived at a well-known inn on deeside, where i had arranged to pass a couple of nights. i found my room ready for me, an ordinary hotel bedroom, and after supper i retired very early to bed, feeling very sleepy after a long day in the open air. towards morning i had a vision. i was a woman who had committed the crime of murder; and i went in hourly terror of discovery and arrest, as the police were actively in search of the criminal. up to the present i had succeeded in evading them, and no shadow of suspicion had yet fallen upon me, but i lived in constant haunting dread that sooner or later some chance clue would direct their attention to me, and i should be arrested and brought up for trial. i had no clue in the vision as to how the murder had been committed. my victim was a man, and a sensation, vague and cloudy, suggested that a quick poison was the mode of destruction i used, but i never gathered why i murdered him, or what relation, if any, he was to me. the vision was confined to my miserable sensations of fear of detection, and the trouble was that i seemed utterly powerless to keep away from the scene of my crime, a large mansion in the west end of london. not only did i haunt the outside of the house, but i had several times contrived to penetrate into the interior without being discovered, the house having stood empty since the crime. it was a dark, foggy night when i determined again to effect an entrance, and i listened intently in the street before darting up to the front door and fitting my key in the lock. there was not a sound, and i found myself in the interior with the door softly closed behind me. i carried a candle, which i was about to light, when i saw that the large hall was not in its usual darkness. a dim light burned in a pendant globe, and looking round i perceived abundant evidences that the house was again occupied. several pairs of men's gloves were neatly folded on the hall table, and a man's silk hat was neatly covered with a cloth. there was not the faintest sound to be heard in the house, and the hour was between eleven and midnight. very softly i crept up the wide staircase. my heart was beating tumultuously, and i was in an agony of apprehension. on the first corridor i entered the room where i had concealed the body of the man i had murdered. i had dragged it there and hidden it in a great dress wardrobe. i opened the wardrobe door and found the interior had been filled with women's clothes, they were swathed in linen sheets. amongst them i began to search with both hands, but, of course, found no signs of the body, which had long since been removed. however, in some unaccountable way the action of searching seemed to comfort me, and soon i turned to retrace my steps and gain the street once more. at that second i heard some one approaching, and quick as thought i slipped into the wardrobe and pulled the door close. some one entered the room and then left it again. in a few more moments the house was again silent as the grave, and i began to creep downstairs very softly. when halfway down, at a bend which brought me in full view of the hall and the front door in the background, i stopped short at a sound. some one was about to enter, some one was fumbling with a latch key at the other side of that door. another moment and that some one would enter and i would be discovered. there was but one chance. whoever it was might not come upstairs. he or she might strike off to the left of the hall, where a corridor ran to that end of the house. i cannot attempt to describe my agonizing terror of suspense, yet i did not lose my presence of mind. instantaneously i decided what to do, should the one about to enter elect to come straight upstairs. i hastily lit my candle, carefully shading it with my hand, and crouching low i peered through the banisters, towards the front door. it opened, and a man entered, middle-aged, well dressed, a gentleman, and an utter stranger to me. he closed the door and turned the key, but drew no bolts. then he threw off a heavy coat, and placed his hat and gloves on the table. my heart beat to suffocation, as i waited to see which way he would go. he was whistling softly to himself and, turning, began to walk across the hall, heading for the stairs. then the moment for action came. i knew now i should have to pass him in order to make my escape. i threw myself into the tragic pose of a somnambulist. i wore a long floating cloak, and i knew my face was white as death, and my eyes wide with sheer terror. with both hands, one of which held the lighted candle, outstretched gropingly, with distraught gaze fixed in wild vacancy, i slipped silently down the few remaining steps and sped noiselessly in my soft shoes straight across the hall towards him. though i never turned my eyes upon him i was aware that he had stopped dead short, and was staring at me in startled amazement. then fear suddenly invaded him, i could feel it. he fell back as if to let me pass, as i glided silently nearer to him and to the door. he was backing away from me now, then in another instant, he had turned and fled along the corridor. one more moment and i was safely outside, on the pavement. i woke up to a brilliant summer morning pouring in at my open window, but i was in no mood to enjoy its loveliness. i was bathed in cold perspiration, i was shivering with pure unadulterated fear. i was prostrate with the violent revulsion of feeling, from acute dread of discovery to partial immunity on gaining the street and escaping from the house. the vividness of every detail was crystal clear, and attended by all the violent emotions such an adventure and escape would naturally arouse in me, had they happened in the world of realities. it was hours before i could shake off the horror of the vision, and i left the hotel that day. nothing would induce me ever to pass another night under that roof. i had no recurrence of the vision till three months after, then it came again, with all its attendant horrors, when i was asleep in my own bed at home. this was succeeded at long intervals by a vision of my condition of mind as an undiscovered criminal, always evading detection, but without the vision of my return to the scene of the crime. during the last thirty years i have had recurrences of the complete and partial vision, but at long intervals. a few years ago i happened to be standing with my host in an enormous stone hall, in one of the greatest houses in england. we were discussing the house, and its uncomfortable vastness. there were suites of apartments in outlying parts where whole families might hide for days if housemaids were careless. to reach the dining and drawing-rooms from the bedrooms, if one was tired, was a real weariness. we were looking up at the great gallery, running round the hall. it was reached by four wide flights of stairs at different corners, and it was full of all sorts of recesses, and massive pieces of old furniture and screens. on the spur of the moment i said to my host, "wouldn't it be uncanny if we were to see a strange face looking down on us?" to my surprise, he answered: "oh! that has often happened. i've often seen strangers looking down. at one time i took them to be inquisitive members of my own household, whom i didn't know by sight, and one day i complained about it, to the housekeeper. she looked very much disturbed and told me she had seen the same thing herself. the house is opened on certain days to the public, and she was half inclined to think one of the visitors had escaped from the crowd, and hidden herself for several days, as it was not on a public day that the figure was seen." "is it always the same figure?" i asked. "oh, no," replied my host. "always a different one, and always some one quite ordinary and modern looking. the strictest orders are given that none of the servants' friends are to be allowed in this part of the house, and the housekeeper has always been with us and is thoroughly trustworthy. the fact remains an unsolved mystery." the housekeeper was a very agreeable old woman of the real, old-fashioned type. very rustling in the evening, in a rich silk gown, and wearing some fine piece of jewelry presented to her by one or other of the crowned heads who had visited the famous house. i had asked her before i left about these mysterious appearances, and she had no explanation to offer. she had ascertained beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they had nothing to do with the household. "they were always just ordinary looking men and women, such as one meets in the streets every day. sometimes they seem to have hats on, sometimes their heads appear uncovered," she explained. this fits in with a belief i have always held that we constantly rub shoulders with the disembodied, without being in the least aware of it. as the bishop of london once said: "we will find ourselves exactly the same persons ten minutes after death as we were ten minutes before death." there are many occasions when we cannot express feeling in intellectual terms owing to the poverty of language. one's life not being a matter of intellectual perception, but a conscious experience, little of it can be made known. the mystic life is really incommunicable. we regard the universe through the lens of five very imperfect senses, conscious all the time that there are certainly many more mediums for the expression of consciousness. perception is a manifestation of consciousness, and varies enormously in individuals, ranging often above and beneath the normal. undoubtedly perception can be enormously extended by practice, not only in seeing material objects, but in approaching the borderland of other worlds. the sight of the psychic or medium is not so much vision as a consciousness of the thoughts and feelings of others. it is a sensation rather than a process of thinking, sensation not as we commonly accept the term, but sensation through which mental objects are realized with as great a clarity of vision as physical objects are seen with the naked eye. this intuitive vision is near akin to ordinary physical vision, inasmuch as the object seen has a real concrete existence. the psychic feels vibrations and absorbs them. my explanation of my vision in the highland inn is that the actual criminal had slept the night before in the room i occupied, and happening to be mediumistic i at once began to absorb the vibrations, and became steeped in all the circumstances, environment, and conditions thrown off by the criminal in connection with the crime. the vibrations were intensely strong, and still fresh and concentrated. i absorbed them so fully that still at times they steal back across the threshold of my subconsciousness, the vehicle which registers and retains all impressions. during sleep, when one is off guard, the gate is often ajar, and old memories and incidents steal through, and range at will through the ordinary consciousness. in daily, normal existence the mind is merely a whirlpool, but undoubtedly the criminal would concentrate mentally on every detail of her crime. there would be a focalization of her mind; a concentration of her whole mental faculties upon this one single subject, and when the mental force is reduced from its normal, dissipated condition into coherency, its power is unlimited. it is possible to catch a physical disease by sleeping in an infected bed. it is quite as easy to catch a mental disease by the same means. many emotions are highly contagious, notably fear. all are invisible to human sight, and there is rarely any warning. a psychic may sense something unpleasant before infection is established. in fact, this often happens to quite normal individuals. something in the atmosphere of a place conveys a warning, is unpleasant or uncongenial and it is avoided. if a warning was conveyed to me in the highland inn i was too tired to heed it. at one time in my life i saw a great deal of two intimate and charming friends, lord and lady wynford. alas! both have now passed over. lady wynford was born caroline baillie of dochfour, and owing to her scotch blood, and her relationship with many of our great scotch families, she was profoundly interested in ghosts. lord wynford, on the contrary, had an absolute horror of the subject, and always left the room whilst it was under discussion. though very dissimilar, husband and wife were the best of friends. she was very handsome and a brilliant woman of the world. he was shy, retiring, and deeply religious. a perfect example of a true gentleman of the old school, and an aristocrat to his finger-tips. i was devoted to them both, and they were very kind to me in giving me their warm friendship, though at the time of which i write i was only a girl of about twenty years old. at that period the great topic of conversation amongst ghost-hunters was glamis castle, the most celebrated of all haunted houses. no ghost book is ever considered complete without reference to this celebrated castle, and the story usually narrated is, that in the secret room some abnormal horror lived, and that the heir, lord glamis, and the factor, had to be told of its existence by the earl of strathmore in person. this information was of so terrible a nature that it changed not only the lives of those two men, but even their personal appearance. they grew aged and haggard in a single night. this story was readily discussed in old days by members of the strathmore family, who were just as keen as outsiders were to probe the mystery. to-day it is universally believed that the monstrosity is at last laid to rest, and that though other ghosts still walk the castle, the worst has departed forever. i went one afternoon to see the wynfords in the hotel in which they stayed whilst in scotland, and found lady reay with them. she was a wonderful woman in her way, and preserved her youth up till very late in life. lord wynford was not present, and lady wynford at once greeted me by exclaiming, "we are going to stay at glamis next week, and lady reay has been there and seen a ghost." "but not _the_ ghost," admitted lady reay. "then what did you see?" i inquired. she then told the following story, which has a sequel:-- "i had been in the castle for three nights and much to my satisfaction seen absolutely nothing. we were a very cheery party, and every one was frightfully thrilled and nervously expectant, but we were very careful not to breathe the word 'ghost' before our host and hostess. "on the fourth night i was awakened by a moaning sound in my room, and i opened my eyes. the room was in total darkness, but i saw something very bright near the door. i shut my eyes instantly, and pulled the bedclothes over my head in a paroxysm of fear. i longed to light my candles, but didn't dare, and the moaning continued, and i thought i should go quite mad. "at last i ventured to peep out again. i saw a woman dressed exactly like mary tudor, in her pictures, and she was wandering round the walls, flinging herself against them, like a bird against the bars of a cage, and beating her hands upon the walls, and all the time she moaned horribly. i'm sure she was the ghost of a mad woman. her face and form were lit up exactly like a picture thrown upon a magic lantern screen, and every detail of her dress was clearly defined. "luckily she never looked at me, or i should have screamed, and i thought of lord and lady i. sleeping in the next room to mine, and wondered how i could reach them. i was really too terrified to move, and the ghost kept more or less to that part of the room where the door was situated. "i must have lain there awake for two or three hours, sometimes with my head buried under the clothes, sometimes peeping out, when at last the moaning suddenly stopped. i opened my eyes. thank god, i was alone. the ghost had departed. "i lay with wide open eyes till daybreak. then the first thing i did was to run to the mirror to see if my hair had turned white. mercifully it hadn't, but i looked an awful wreck. "i told just a few people what i had seen, and contrived to get a wire sent me before lunch. early in the afternoon i was on the way to edinburgh." such was the story lady reay related. thirteen years later captain eric streatfield, who was a nephew of lord strathmore, and an intimate friend of my husband, told me exactly the same story. he was a boy of six at the time, when the lady of tudor days appeared moaning in his room, and he said he would never forget the misery of the night he passed. he was very much interested in hearing that lady reay had gone through the same experience. he told me another extraordinary story. whilst, as a school boy, he was visiting at glamis castle with his parents, he noticed that they began to behave in rather a peculiar manner. they were often consulting alone with one another, and constantly scanning the sky from their bedroom window, which adjoined his. for two or three days this sort of thing went on, and he caught queer fragments of conversation whispered between them, such as, "it doesn't always happen. we might be spared this year, the power must die out some day." at last one evening his father called him into his room, where his mother stood by the open window. in his hand his father held an open watch. his mother bade him look out, and tell them what sort of night it was. he replied that it was fine, and still and cold, and the stars were beginning to appear. his father then said, "we want you to take particular note of the weather, for in another moment you may witness a remarkable change. probably you will see a furious tempest." eric could not make head or tail of this. he wondered if his parents had gone mad, but glancing at his mother he noticed that she looked strangely pale and anxious. then the storm burst, with such terrific suddenness and fury that it terrified him. a howling tempest, accompanied by blinding lightning and deafening thunder, rushed down upon them from an absolutely clear sky. his mother knelt down by the bed, and he thought that she was praying. when eric asked for an explanation he was told that when he was grown up one would be given him. unfortunately the moment never came. an aunt had told him that the storm was peculiarly to do with glamis, and was something that could not be explained. lord and lady wynford paid their visit to glamis, and i looked forward eagerly to their return in a week's time. i went to see them the day after their arrival back again, and was met by lady wynford alone. before i could question her she began to speak of the visit. "i don't want you even to mention the word glamis to wynford," she said very gravely. "he's had a great shock, and he's in a very queer state of mind." she paused, and i ventured to ask, "but what sort of shock?" then she gave me the following account:-- "wynford and i occupied adjoining bedrooms. we were having a delightful time. glorious weather, and a lot of very pleasant people. i really forgot all about there being any ghost. we were out all day, and very sleepy at night, and i never heard or saw a thing that was unusual. "two nights before we left something happened to wynford. he came into my room and awakened me at seven o'clock in the morning. he was fully dressed, and he looked dreadfully upset and serious. he said he had something to tell me, and he wished to get it over, and then he would try not to think of it any more. i was certain then that he had seen or heard something terrible, and i waited with the greatest impatience for him to continue. he seemed confronted with some great difficulty, but after a long pause he said-- "'you know that i have always disbelieved in the supernatural. i have never believed that god would permit such things to come to pass as i have heard lightly described. i was wrong. such awful experiences are possible. i know it to my own cost, and i pray god i may never pass such a night again as that which i have just come through. i have not slept for a moment. i feel i must tell you this, in fact, it is necessary that i tell you, because i am going to extract a promise from you. a promise that you will never mention in my hearing the name of this house, or the terrible subject with which its name is connected.' "i was speechless for a few minutes with perplexed amazement. i had never heard wynford speak like that, nor had i ever seen him so terribly upset. "'but,' i said at last, 'aren't you going to tell me what has so unnerved you?' "he began pacing up and down the room. 'good god, no,' he exclaimed, 'i couldn't even begin to tell you. i have no words that would have any meaning or expression. don't you understand, there is no language to convey such happenings from one to the other. they are seen, felt, heard! they cannot be uttered. there are some things on earth i know of now, that may not be related to the spoken word. perhaps between a man and his god, but not even between you and me.' "we were silent again for some minutes, during which he continued to pace the room, his head drooped on his breast. i was really seriously alarmed. i even feared for his reason, and i couldn't form the smallest conjecture as to what had been the nature of his experiences. i was quite convinced of one thing. what he had seen was no ordinary ghost, like lady reay's tudor lady. she might have amazed him, but it required something much more terrible and awe-inspiring to have reduced him to such a condition of mental misery and desolation. "i wanted to comfort him, to sympathize with him, but something about him held me at arm's length. it was his soul that was suffering, and with his soul a man must wrestle alone. i felt that his deep religious convictions of a lifetime had been violently dislocated, for all i knew shattered entirely, and i felt profound compassion for him. i may have had doubts, on many points. i confess to being a worldly skeptic, but wynford's faith has always been so pure and childlike, and i have striven never to jar him on religious subjects. now i feel as if somehow, everything that he has ever had has been taken away from him. "at last i said, 'don't you think we had better leave to-day? we can easily make some excuse.' "he stopped and looked straight at me, so strangely. "'no, i can't leave to-day. i must stay another night here. there is something i must do. now will you give me your promise never to mention this subject to me again? we may not be alone together again to-day. i want to get it over. promise.' "i gave him my promise at once. i dared not have opposed him. i was horribly frightened. he went out of the room at once, and i lay thinking and shivering with dread. 'what was it he had to do? why could we not leave to-day?' it was all so mysterious. "well! the day passed in an ordinary manner, and if wynford was more grave than usual i don't think any one noticed it. then came the night i so dreaded. of course i didn't sleep at first, i was too anxious, and i heard him come up to his room half an hour after i did. the door between our rooms was closed, and i lay awake listening intently. i heard him moving about; i supposed he was undressing, and his man never sits up for him. then after a time there were occasional creaks which i knew came from an armchair, and i knew that he had not gone to bed. "i suppose i must have fallen asleep, because the next thing i was aware of was wynford's voice. he was speaking to some one, and seemed to be in the middle of a conversation. when he ceased speaking i strained my ears to catch a reply. i could hear no words, only his voice. then a reply did come, and it simply froze the blood in my body, and i felt bathed in ice, and had to put my finger between my teeth, they chattered so horribly. "the reply was a hoarse whisper, a sort of rasping, grating undertone, that was not so much a whisper as an inability to speak in any other voice. there was something almost inhuman in those harsh, vibrating, yet husky words, spoken too low for me to catch. i knew at once that no guest, no member of the family, spoke like that, and i could not conceive that it could be a servant. what could wynford have to say to any servant of lord strathmore? "a clock somewhere in the castle struck three. no; i was certain that the presence with him, whatever else it might be, was no human being dwelling under the roof of glamis. "at times they seemed to hold an argument; sometimes wynford's voice was sharp and decisive, at other times it was utterly weary and despondent. i dreaded what the effect might be upon him of this awful night, but i could do nothing but lie shivering in bed, and pray for the morning. "how long it went on for i can't say, but the conviction came to me suddenly that wynford had begun to pray. his voice was raised, and now and again i fancied i could hear words. the rasping whisper came now only in short, sharp interjections or expostulations, i don't know which. the even flow of wynford's words went quietly on, and i began to be certain that he was praying for the being who spoke with that terrible whisper. it occurred to me that he might even be trying to exorcise some unclean spirit. "at last a silence fell. wynford stopped praying, and i hoped that the terrible interview was at an end. then it began again, and for quite an hour the prayers went on, with long periods of silence in between. i heard no more of the terrible, husky whisper. "i fell asleep again and did not awake till my maid brought me early tea. no sooner had she gone than wynford entered, fully dressed. though he looked desperately tired and wan, he seemed quite composed, and as if some weight had been removed from off him. he said he was going for a stroll before breakfast, and, of course, i remembered my promise and put no questions. i have come to the conclusion that a hundred people may stay any length of time at glamis and see or hear nothing. the hundred and first may receive such a shock to the nervous system that he never really recovers from it." such was the mysterious story that lady wynford unfolded. i saw her husband the next day, but beyond being graver than usual in his manner i detected no difference in him. he never referred, even in the most indirect way, to his visit, but he must have inferred by my silence that i had been warned not to mention the subject. many others must, however, have done so, for every one, who at that period passed a night under glamis castle roof, was eagerly questioned by friends and acquaintances on their return. the only occasion on which i visited glamis was on the night of a ball, given in honor of the crown prince of sweden. the curiosity of the guests was held in check by servants being stationed at certain doors, and entrances to corridors and staircases, to inform rude explorers that they could not pass. it is hard to believe that such a course of action was necessary, but i personally watched little parties being turned back towards the ballroom and sitting-out-rooms, showing that intense curiosity may even prove stronger than good breeding. what wynford saw that night will never be known, but one fact remains. it left so deep an impression upon him that he was never the same man again. he became graver and more wrapped up in his own thoughts month by month, and the change that ended in his death his wife attributed to those nights passed in glamis castle. chapter xiv the angel of lourdes one lovely summer evening i was standing in a hotel bedroom, washing my hands. i was in lourdes, and i was pondering upon a certain long flight of stone steps that i could see quite clearly from my window. at the top of the steps, which were cut in the face of the wooded hillside, stood a great calvary, and from dawn till darkness pilgrims made the hard ascent upon their knees. the stones were worn and grooved by the stream of human beings making their painful way to the foot of the cross. the atmosphere of lourdes is very impressive to the psychic. one breathes the concentrated essence of prayer. no one goes there who is not on prayer intent, and in the public streets, gardens and churches one comes across kneeling figures lost in divine contemplation. no one heeds them; all are on a like mission, and sometimes men and women stand for hours with outstretched arms. human crosses, oblivious to all, lost in a mystic rapture which takes count of neither time nor place. i turned my head towards the window. the sun had just set behind the mountains, and the sky was illuminated by a rosy afterglow. down in the valley the shadows were beginning to lengthen, but i could still see the calvary on the hillside, and the dark human stream slowly moving up the stony way, the _via dolorosa_ of the cross. at that moment the sense of a presence swung into my field of consciousness, and contracted my vague faculties to focus. something moving in the sky above caught my eye. how shall i describe the sight? i saw an angel floating above the mountains. the figure, wingless, yet floating in erect grace, was of great size, and wrapped entirely in cloudy gray. the head was bare and slightly bent, as if looking down on earth. the movements were smooth and gliding, as a feather floats in the wind. the distance was too great--i judged about a quarter of a mile--for me to distinguish the features, but owing to its great size the figure was clearly visible and deeply inspiring. it was a vision on which none could look intently without feeling the weight of a mighty awe. it gathered up the wandering emotions of the heart, and all a lifetime's ideals of beauty, grandeur, sublimity, in one serene presentation. the vision floated on majestically, across the valley and the little town with its praying multitudes. in about three minutes it had passed, and was lost in the pearly mists of the gathering night. and whilst the vision lasted i was acutely conscious of that innumerable concourse of kneeling forms below, all struggling upwards to the cross. it seems to me that the devout, of other faiths than that of rome, lose much by not taking advantage of lourdes. for many years, thousands of pilgrims from all corners of the earth have bent their steps towards the shrine, and poured out their souls in a passion of supplication. this tremendous concentration of faith, love and fervent adoration, often ecstatic thanksgiving for answered prayer, must find an echo in the heaven world to which they are sent. it is so easy at lourdes to feel that the throne of grace has been actually reached, because one can sense the pathway, the ladder made by human love, praise and faith, down which, i doubt not, the angels of god are always passing. it is easier to concentrate the mind in a place where religious thought has been poured out for many years, because one insensibly becomes calmed, and tranquilized, and aided by the atmosphere thousands of others have created. at lourdes there is nothing to attract the scoffer, and thousands of hearts filled with reverence and devotion reënforce each year the already powerful vibrations, and leave the place the better and richer for their presence. how few people realize that they have never seen themselves? how many can tell what they really look like? a very, very few can, and i am amongst the number. i wakened one morning in summer, and opened my eyes on my sunlit bedroom at home. instantly i saw something which thrilled me with vivid interest. i saw myself! i was emerging out of a corner of the room, and composedly approaching the bed. there was no doubt as to recognition. i knew instantly i was looking on my own face for the first time, and it was something of a shock to discover that i was more or less of a stranger to myself. i saw how false a looking-glass can be. i had not begun to know myself. with absorbed interest i stared very hard, in my intense desire to imprint on my memory my own image. i approached the bed, and as i did so, i seemed to shrink, fade, and waver. then suddenly i vanished--into my recumbent body. for a few minutes afterwards i was too concerned with my physical condition to ponder on the vision of my real self. i was tossing violently in the bed, in an inner distraughtness which was most disturbing. then, as my nervous system began to calm down, i strove to imprint on my memory the recollection of what i really looked like. my face, even in the wonder of those few moments in which i had seen it, expressed emotions i had never seemed to know. nothing was as i had believed it to be. all the traits that went to form my character needed readjusting, and all seemed curiously imperfect. i could not remember how i was clothed, though i had seen myself from head to foot. i suppose i was too engrossed in studying my face to think of my body. the vision left me with a blank sense of utter disillusionment and failure. nothing in me was finished or complete. my expression suggested a character which was horribly crude, imperfect and rudimentary. looking at myself afterwards in the mirror, i came to the conclusion that it lied, or that in waking life i wear a mask. it is salutary to behold one's spiritual portrait, a thing not visible to the mind alone but to the physical sight. in a flash comes the knowledge that dwelling in us are forces, not yet grasped by mortal mind, that cry for recognition. there have been moments in all lives, i believe, when a glimpse is caught of the olympian heights to which it is possible to rise. glimpses, alas! of the evanescent thing we know ourselves in truth to be. sometimes, on the astral plane, it happens that friends meet under strange circumstances, and one figures largely in the doings of another. the memory of those nocturnal adventures is brought through and clearly recollected in the morning. one such occurrence i will relate, and it is peculiar and unusual. an old friend of ours, a man who has devoted his life to the development of his spiritual faculties (not to be confused with the development of mediumship and phenomena), had a series of dreams in which he appeared to be two people. he himself was the same tall, slender man he is in daily life, but in this psychic experience a much smaller man moved always on his left side, and somehow seemed to symbolize his waking personality. the central figure in one of these unusual experiences was a young man who was unknown to our friend, and who had died abroad. his body had been embalmed and brought home for burial, and our friend had been shown photographs of him, and had also communicated with him through automatic writing. this much was imprinted on his physical memory. now, whilst lying asleep one night, the spiritual counterpart of our friend became aware that the body of the young man was exposed and could be seen. his companion, or other self, the shorter man who moved by his side, shrank back with horror from such a suggestion, just as our friend would instinctively have done in waking consciousness, but he himself was determined to see the body, and went straight through a door facing him, into a room where it was lying on a low table. now comes the moment when i began to figure in this experience. i was standing on the opposite side of the table, making vigorous passes over the young man's body, which appeared to be fashioned out of pinkish clay. the trunk and legs looked as though i had roughly modeled them with my hands. the head was more highly finished. it was sharp and distinct in outline, and our friend recognized it instantly as being a representation of the young man whose portraits he had seen. he stared at the face with great interest, and taking up a cloth, gently wiped the cheek where a fleck of foam lay. this action seemed to vivify the body, for it began to mutter and murmur indistinctly. apparently it was alive, and not dead. our friend relates that this discovery gave him such a shock that he lost the thread of memory which he was bringing back to his physical body on the bed. the next moment he woke up. my recollection, a perfectly clear one, of these happenings, was that he simply vanished from the scene, leaving me alone with the body, which i continued to manipulate. afterwards, through automatic writing, our friend was told by the departed young man, that this astral vision signified the collecting of etheric matter to fashion a body in which he could function on etheric planes. on another occasion our friend had the experience of walking about on the other side with the young man, who was dressed in an ordinary tweed suit, and being taken by him to various acquaintances, to whom he was introduced. with the exception of the above experience, he believes that this was the first time he had ever seen him. the interesting point of both experiences is, that both i and our friend brought back on waking, a clear and similar recollection of the episode in which we were jointly concerned. this friend of ours is a disciple of "the flaming heart," called by catholics "the sacred heart." he writes to me thus:-- "i see now more clearly than before that the christ self within uses its powers as a whole, just as the personal man uses intellect, will, and feeling, all three being energized by love, which is the element of interest in the several activities." "so the self of love works out and manifests as-- love and life beauty. love and power goodness. love and knowledge wisdom. "the love element saves us from wrong living, wrong doing or wrong thinking. so we go from strength to strength, by yielding the lower self to the transmuting power of the higher." it was long before i came to understand the full significance of the flaming heart. it was plain to see what its realization meant to our friend. he radiates an extraordinary serenity of mind, an atmosphere of strength and peace, a calm in the midst of storm which apparently nothing can shake. pre-eminently, when in his presence, one is conscious of a commanding power which will only be used for exalted purposes. this clear subjection of the lower self, to the transmuting power of the higher self, has worked such marvels in him that one longs to grasp the secret of his success. a few years passed, and still the heart of the mystery eluded me. this year, , it came to me in a flash. the experience i am about to relate may have happened to many others. to me, it was a tremendous revelation. i was kneeling one morning in front of the altar, at early celebration. i have always felt, through the eucharist, the possibility of great spiritual development, and often there comes to me at such moments, a mystical response to the inner mysteries of the sacrament. i have never looked for supernatural happenings, hallucinations, or psychic excitements, but my spiritual instincts are always alive and craving satisfaction. this they have never before received in any really lasting degree. now came a new divine illumination. two clergymen were officiating at the celebration. i had just received the bread from the one, and had raised my head and hands to receive the cup from the other, when suddenly i went quite blind. the vicar, who was moving towards me, was blotted out. i stared at a black veil utterly impenetrable, and i was aware of a tremendous internal dislocation. my heart beat tumultuously, and felt as if thrust out of place. then my sight was restored. i saw before me, not the man, bearing in his hands the chalice, but a flaming heart of fire, from which radiated out living, scintillating streams of golden light. they filled the background with their quivering radiance, and i was conscious of shrinking back, and bowing my head as the supernal vision approached me and enveloped me in its aura. the cup had been transmuted by divine alchemy into the flaming heart of love's sacrifice, and i was given to taste of the living waters of life. for a few minutes i was quite unconscious of where i was. i had been, indeed, caught up into the seventh heaven. i know now that i acted mechanically, and to outward semblance i behaved in the orthodox manner, but when i raised my head again the vicar had passed on and the vision had vanished. nothing had happened to distract the attention of others. i returned to my seat conscious that i had been taught the meaning and marvelous significance of the flaming heart. i understood the words of the great mystic, st. john. "in him was life; and the life was the light of men. "and the light shineth in the darkness; and the darkness overcame it not. "there was the true light, even the light which lighteth every man, coming into the world." i know that the flaming heart of divinity dwells in the breasts of all humanity, that the soul is no empty shell, but the shrine of the divine presence, and that presence is the guide and light of life. i have seen revealed the inner mystery of the sacramental life. through a rift in the veil of the material, the hidden life of eternity was symbolized for me in the flaming heart, the true eucharistic mystery. chapter xv the wraith of the army gentleman to some people life is an unspeakable tragedy; to others it is a mere farce. to all it is a profound mystery. what am i? where have i come from? where am i going? what is this mysterious ego that thinks and acts? from darwin we learn that the human body has taken a million years to evolve its present form. is it logical to suppose that there is no scheme of evolution for the immortal soul, in which it can preserve its individuality through the ages? the mills of god grind slowly, and what is seventy or eighty years in eternity, in which we develop the highest and most complex organism we can conceive of--the soul? five hundred and thirty-five years b. c. pythagoras was teaching the reincarnation of the immortal soul in his celebrated school. plato, socrates, aristotle, philo, virgil, cicero, euclid, the egyptians and the hindoos taught the same doctrine. in the days of christ the transmigration of souls was an accepted belief, and in a. d. origen, the greatest of the christian fathers, was still teaching the same doctrine. justin martyr recognized the presence of the logos in jesus, and socrates and clement of alexandria affirmed that the same philosophy had brought the greeks to christ. to this day it remains the belief of three-fourths of the human race. in our country, though a rapidly growing faith, buddhism fails to command the attention it otherwise would, for two reasons. firstly, we have never been a religious-minded people, and are now very much less so than formerly. what are loosely termed religious subjects interest a very few, and bore intensely the great majority. out of our forty-four million souls, a mere handful are interested in a future life. the rest prefer not to take the problem into consideration, though they are ready to accept a small dose of conventional religion, ready-made and pre-digested. secondly, faith in the transmigration of souls in a succession of physical bodies only becomes an urgent mental necessity, a vitally necessary explanation of life's inequalities, to those who mix with the outcast poor. such persons are again comparatively few, and, to those of them who think, life without reincarnation is simply an incomprehensible and chaotic puzzle. once the faith is grasped that life between birth and death is only a tiny fragment of the æons allotted to us, in which to develop spiritually, divine harmony; love and justice reappear. only thus can one see light. but if the tardy growth of this all-sufficient illumination is slow to take root, it must be remembered that to the ordinary, well-to-do person it makes no appeal. "am i my brother's keeper?" is generally answered in the negative, and the hypocritical rejoinder, covering a mountain of selfishness, that it is an impertinence to pry into the lives of the poor, is the facile excuse for sitting at ease and cozening the conscience into the belief that the poor are god's affair. even the devout and pious, who may feel deep compassion for the sorrow of the destitute, have no spur to prick their mental apathy, unless they mix freely and constantly with the poor and oppressed. only then will come the perplexed question: where can i see in all this overwhelming misery the divine hand of love and justice? the christ who established his brotherhood with us, by proclaiming god the universal father, told us that "before abraham was, i am," and i suppose that most people, who accept anything, accept the pre-existence of christ. yet how few of us can remember anything of our own past lives, and how merciful it is that we cannot. how utterly overwhelming such memory would be! the future is as carefully hidden from us as the past, yet our previous lives have been by no means unfruitful. the experiences we have gathered in the past years of this life are nearly all forgotten, yet our development has gone on, and the records are stored in the subconsciousness, sometimes to be pulled across the threshold and displayed in a complete panorama before the dying eyes. the statements to this effect made by those who have been resuscitated when at the point of death by drowning, are too numerous to be discarded as mere fables. undoubtedly we all contain the germs of sin at birth, but few educated people now accept the statements that we are born sinful because our parents sinned, or because of the moral delinquencies of those of eden. certainly we all bear the consequences of others' sins, but the cruel injustice of a god who deliberately punishes present humanity for the sins of past humanity is too revolting a conception of the creator to gain acceptance to-day. this very fact shows that we have advanced spiritually. so base a conception of the almighty is violently repugnant to serious thinkers. the intuitive consciousness of man postulates the over-ruling spirit as a power representing perfect justice and love, and the innate instinct to believe that we ourselves are in some mysterious way akin to this divine ideal keeps ever alive the belief in our divine origin. what is the grand apotheosis of each human life? the christ spirit; a scheme of regenerative redemption, simple, natural, yet superlatively grand. if one asks whether the orbs in space take precedence of personal will and intelligence, or personal will and intelligence take precedence of the orbs in space, one has only to ask whether builders or buildings have priority. do pictures originate the artist? do books originate the author? if one begins to study with a belief in spirit as power and cause, one can account for all things, but to start with matter as a foundation is to fail absolutely to account for either matter or spirit. in some infinite womb the vital heavens, the visible universe must have existed before time was. we see all elements have their affinities, all stars their course, all atoms their polarity. we see the wheel of ezekiel symbolizing the whole scheme and fabric of nature. heaven works not only with stupendous immensities but with small minorities. atoms of unutterable minuteness are streaming into the unseen atmosphere every second from the souls and bodies of the human race. when the soul seeks, aspires after god, the most vital of all atoms go forth with the breath, as light from the sun to the earth. surely we and our angel kindred inhabit one house of which the most distant provinces are in touch with the center of all. heaven and earth are bridged by the spirit ladder of love, and the soul can inbreathe the spirit of god as the body inbreathes oxygen. the contemplative mind beholds every day the passage of things invisible into sight, the transfer of the seen into the unseen, and all is natural. the life throb of the palpable world is a pulsation going forth every instant from the eternal energy, drawing out by an ethereal medium from the invisible and intangible, that which is visible and tangible. i will speak now of the passage of a thing invisible into sight. how, to me, it became so i cannot tell. i don't know. one summer evening my husband and i were occupying two communicating bedrooms in a london hotel, contiguous with one of the great railway stations. we had to make an early start in the morning, and had come there to be near our train. i awakened in the early morning hours. the gray dawn was just beginning to show through the bars of the venetian blinds lowered before the two windows. those bars had not been adjusted, and they also admitted a rather bright light from a street lamp. i judged it to be somewhere about four o'clock, but i did not look at my watch. i was too pre-occupied in looking at something else. my bare arm was stretched outside the coverlet, and i was aware that what had awakened me was a cold wind blowing on my skin. the furniture of the room was dimly outlined, and at first i vaguely threw my half-open eyes around without perceiving anything unusual, but gradually my senses, shaking off their drowsiness, became aware of movement between the bed and the window. something tall and gray was wavering like a pillar of smoke betwixt me and the struggling daylight. i closed my eyes again with a creepy feeling, a disinclination to look again, but my bare arm, which still lay outside the coverlet, received another intimation that roused me to keen alertness. a chill wind was blowing over my skin. i drew in my arm hastily, and opened my eyes. that tall gray something had approached much nearer to me, and now i could distinguish with perfect clearness the figure of a man, but such a wavering, fluid form that one moment seemed on the point of dissolving into thin air, and the next moment gathering itself together again in clear cut outline. for what seemed to me a long time i stared at the gray apparition. i felt a cold fear, a rigid horror creep over me, and but for the recollection of my husband's nearness, and the open door between us, i might have fainted from pure terror. i thought of calling to him, but something sinister in that wavering shadow made me desist. at times the form came quite close to the bed, but i could never see the face clearly; it was vague and undetermined in outline, in fact, not completely materialized. not for a second did that wavering movement cease, that floating, shimmering motion 'twixt bed and window, of what i knew to be the ghost of a man. how long this unpleasant state of things continued i do not know. i was perfectly well aware that a ghost should be addressed in sympathetic terms, should be asked if any human help can be rendered, but at the time it never once occurred to me to speak. gradually, as i watched that retreating then advancing form, at moments opaque, then almost transparent, i lost consciousness and fell asleep again. i was awakened a few hours later by a loud knocking at my door. i slid instantly out of bed, turned the key, and was confronted by the chambermaid, bringing my early tea. "who was the man who killed himself in this room?" luckily, the woman did not drop the tray, as i hurled at her this abrupt question. she set the tea down on a table and turned to me a scared face, as she answered by another question: "how ever did you find out that?" "never mind how i found out. please answer me. i won't get you into trouble," i said firmly. "it was an army gentleman. he shot himself here the night before last. that's all i know," was her subdued answer. poor "army gentleman"! so you were revisiting the scene of your last tragedy, or had you ever left that confined space between four walls which witnessed the supreme mental agony of the suicide? what had prompted me to put that sudden question to the chambermaid? i could not tell. in the moment of waking, slipping out of bed and opening the door, no recollection had come to me of my earlier experience, but betwixt that experience and my abrupt waking at her knock knowledge must have been somehow afforded me of the tragedy. i knew a man had done himself to death in that room shortly before i occupied it. a day or two afterwards i read an account of the inquest held upon the body. a rankling sense of unjust treatment had preyed upon his brain. suicide whilst of unsound mind was the verdict. poor "army gentleman," i fear i could have been of little service to you, even if i had opened up some form of communication between myself and your disembodied soul! when one remembers how many persons occupy even one room in a hotel in twelve months, it seems natural that psychic phenomena should be common to such houses. undoubtedly many tragedies must be enacted in every hotel within a comparatively short space of time, and one may, in utter unconsciousness, occupy a bedroom in which, but the night before, murder or suicide has taken place. some years ago, i had occasion to pass a night in one of the big west end hotels of london. it was very full, and i had to be content with a very indifferent room on the main entrance floor, and looking to the back. the window had iron bars in front of it, through which one could slip one's head, but not one's shoulders. the reason for the bars was obvious. a wide mews ran on a level with this floor of the house, and failing this obstruction any one could have stepped with perfect ease from the pavement into the room. thrusting my head through the bars i could see from end to end of the mews. on the left there was no exit, on the right was a narrow lane running down the side of the hotel, and leading into the main thoroughfare. the mews seemed very quiet, clean and respectable, and for one night only i decided that the room would do. i was very tired after passing two nights in a train, and went early to bed and fell asleep at once. i ascertained afterwards that i had been sleeping for five hours, when i was suddenly awakened by a loud noise of scuffling feet, accompanied by a gurgling choking sound, as if some one was struggling to find utterance, to gain breath. to be awakened by a noise out of a sound sleep is always a startling, uncomfortable experience. if the astral body has been wandering far afield, it has to return to the physical body in far too great a hurry for comfort. there is always more or less of a dislocating jar under such circumstances. the startled sensation is greatly accentuated when, in place of waking to dead silence, one awakens to unaccountable and very unpleasant sounds. i lay perfectly still, with every nerve tingling, and every muscle taut, and listened intently. the noise came from the window which was shut, and my heart began to beat more thickly with a dread and terror which had neither form nor shape. slowly i remembered the mews outside, and felt instantly thankful that because of its proximity i had shut the window, instead of sleeping with it wide open, as is my custom. was murder taking place out there? what was that hideous, choking sound, that surged in with guttural gasps from out the darkness, and which suggested nothing so much as a frenzied struggle of loathing and agonized fear? i lay shuddering and quaking as with the grip of ague. my imagination instantly constructed the scene so vividly suggested by the nature of the sounds. a man's hands were on the throat of a woman, and he was deliberately strangling the life out of her struggling body. i was sick with unspeakable agonies of dread, and for quite five minutes i could not summon force or motion to my limbs. if some unfortunate was being done to death it was clearly my duty to run to the window and give the alarm by shrieking "murder," but now i began to wonder if that awful struggle was taking place outside or just inside my room. though the mews was well lit my blind was drawn down, and the room was in darkness, except for a faint reflection shining in from a street lamp. i had only to stretch out my hand in order to switch on a light above my bed, but a paralysis of fear held me. that noise of infinite pain, of frantic, dying agony, those convulsive, ghastly groans and scuffling of feet, and wrestling, writhing bodies, were spell-binding beyond the power of human conception, and the most awe-inspiring fantasy. i tried to reason with myself, but the horror scattered all reasoning, yet a sense of duty, of natural humanity, and anger with my own fears, kept tugging at me. it seemed as if the sounds were losing force, were beginning to die out. i was lying still in abject terror, whilst a fellow-creature was being deliberately done to death. a blind fury with myself, and the murderer, suddenly superseded fear. without turning on the light i jumped out of bed, and knocking up against the furniture in my haste, i dashed towards the faint light coming in from the street. in another moment i had thrust aside the blind, and thrown the window wide. i know i shouted out something; i have no idea what. i thrust my head out between the iron bars, and looked to right and left. i could see absolutely nothing. the street was quite empty, and so well lit that i could see from end to end of it. i drew in my head, and stood there silently, and quivering still with excitement, as one does when awakened with the broken fragments of an evil dream. then, suddenly, a sensation of bristling fear took possession of me once more, unreasoning and unreasonable fear, clutching at my heart with a grip of ice. the noise had not ceased, it continued more faintly, and it came from a corner of my room to the right of the window. murder had been done in the room in which i now stood, and was being re-enacted now. the certainty rushed on me with the force of a whirlwind. i was dimly conscious of human voices in the mews, of a window being thrown open. my cry had awakened other sleepers. i left my window open, and let the blind fall before it. then i crept softly across to the opposite side of the room, whence the dying sound proceeded. the victim was almost dead. i could hear nothing but a gasping, rattling sigh, and then silence. the silence of death. i was roused from my trance of horror by the measured tread of a policeman outside. i heard him speaking with others, then, seeing nothing to account for the disturbance in the mews, he went away again, and i fell asleep from utter mental exhaustion. when i awoke the sun was in the room, and i looked towards the corner where the tragedy of the darkness had been enacted. how peaceful and innocent the room now looked, in the light of a cheerful summer morning, and how thankful i was to know that i would be far away from it in a very few hours. yet another hotel story comes to me as i write. my sister and her husband came to torquay to spend a couple of nights and took rooms in one of the principal hotels. they had not announced their arrival beforehand, and the manageress took them upstairs to see several vacant rooms. there was one not shown to them, but the door was wide open, and my sister seeing that it was unoccupied walked in, and said she preferred it to any of the others, because of its particular view. for some unknown reason the manageress was greatly against their taking it; she raised every sort of objection, but my sister was firm, and finally the luggage was carried up and she began to unpack, whilst her husband went down to order tea. after a few minutes, and whilst she was on her knees beside the trunk, she heard some one moving in the room behind her, but she could see nothing. it occurred to her, however, that some tragedy might have taken place in that particular room, which would explain the reluctance of the manageress to let them hire it. not being of a nervous disposition, my sister thought no more of the matter, and went downstairs to join her husband. that night she was awakened by something, she never knew what, but on opening her eyes she saw a rather disturbing vision. close to the door stood the figure of a man, looking straight towards her. his figure was brilliantly luminous, and stood out clearly and distinctly in the darkness of the room. she awakened her husband, who sat up in bed and stared back at the figure. he saw it as clearly and distinctly as his wife saw it, and for some considerable time they watched it, until it gradually faded out. what is so sad is that they did not address this ghost. they had every opportunity, for at the same hour the same figure appeared the next night. it never tried to approach them: it simply stood there quietly for about an hour, and then vanished. probably it was the wraith of a suicide. the fact remains that very few people do address the ghosts they see. even if they are not afraid, it never seems to occur to seers that to speak to the disembodied might be a very kind and helpful thing to do. on their return home my brother-in-law told this story to some friends at his club, and a stranger who was present said that he was aware there was a haunted room in that torquay hotel, for he knew some one else who had seen it. chapter xvi an austrian adventure only once did i ever see an elemental of the terrifying type, and i have no desire to repeat the experience. several years ago i was traveling alone on my way to bohemia. with me, in the railway carriage, i had an aluminum traveler's typewriter, enclosed in, and fastened down to a leather case. i had also a large leather dispatch box, containing several chapters of a new novel i was writing, and which i meant to finish whilst abroad. at the last moment, just as i was starting on my journey, a friend had given me a small russian ikon, and i had put that in the box with my writing materials. on reaching the frontier into austria, i got out with the other travelers, carrying the typewriter in my hand to ensure its safety. a porter brought along the dispatch box, and the luggage from the van to the custom house. i had nothing to declare and said so, but when the officials came to look at the typewriter and the contents of the dispatch box, their civil attitude changed, and i was curtly told that i would have to remain behind, in order that a more thorough examination might be made. there was little use in expostulating, no one took the smallest notice of any explanations i made, and i had the unhappy fate to behold all my fellow travelers stream out onto the platform, and make for the waiting train, and the growing conviction that they would proceed on their journey without me. when alone with the officials i had the field to myself, and i explained that i was a british subject, and a british novelist, but they merely looked at me with the same blend of incredulity my fellow countrymen so often favor me with, when they accidentally discover that i am synonymous with the writer, violet tweedale. how well i know the look and the words accompanying it: "are you violet tweedale, the novelist? well! who'd have thought it? i never would have guessed." their expression says plainly enough, "you don't look capable of writing out a laundry bill, far less a novel." seeing that my statements made no impression upon the customs officials, i resigned myself to an unknown fate, and in a few moments, looking through the open door, i had the misery of seeing my train glide out of the station, leaving me behind. an animated conversation now began which occupied at least ten minutes, and my typewriter and dispatch box were subjected to a most rigid scrutiny. i kept on imploring the officials not to break the typewriter, but they paid no heed, and at last, after playing about with it for some time, they requested me to give them an exhibition of its powers. alas! it was too late. the machine was thoroughly upset with the rough fingering it had been subjected to, and i could not get it to work. i saw that this fact was set down as another black mark of suspicion against me, and they then began another long discussion upon the ikon. i began to be so bored and tired that i sat down on my trunk, lit a cigarette, and attempted to preserve a certain amount of outward calm, whilst mentally i raged furiously within. i noticed that a messenger had been sent out of the room, but could not catch the object of his errand. when all chattering and gesticulating together, they abandoned ordinary german, and fell into a dialect of their own which i could not understand. in a few moments the messenger returned with two more officials, and a waiter from the station restaurant. the waiter was given a chapter of my novel--each chapter had an ordinary exercise book to itself--and told to translate my english into german. i presume he honestly tried to do his best, but the translation bore no resemblance to the original. even the officials soon wearied of the fumbled nonsense, and the waiter was sent away. then the head official informed me that i might continue my journey by the next train, but i must consider myself under arrest, till further information concerning my business and identity was obtained. he informed me, finally, that i was a russian spy. i retaliated by informing him that i was a british subject. that my husband was at that moment in bavaria, and directly i could communicate with him he would obtain my release through our embassy at vienna. never did i regret anything more than my own stupidity in having left my much-viséd passport behind me in england. the typewriter was then closed down, tied with string and heavily sealed. i was ordered to carry it myself, and place it in the very center of an empty luggage wagon. as i complied it flashed upon me that they had never seen a typewriter before, and suspected it to be a sort of infernal machine. my dispatch box disappeared altogether, and i got into a first-class carriage, accompanied by two very smart attendants. they wore cocked hats, much gold braid, and many gold buttons, and they each carried a sword and a revolver, with which to shoot me, i presume, if i tried to run away. we three were not alone in the carriage. in a corner sat a dark man with a small black mustache, and smoking a very long cigar. he was neatly dressed in a long dust coat, and on his smooth black hair he wore a brown homburg hat. in one dark eye was a single monocle, through which he regarded me with a mild surprise. i saw at once that if i was to be burdened with the constant society of my two officials for several days, the only thing to do was to make friends with them. the circumstances had not arisen through any fault of theirs, and they had to obey the orders of their superiors. both were men who looked between the age of thirty to forty, and they had quite pleasant faces. i began by offering them cigarettes from my case--no customs officials object to enough tobacco being carried to last out a journey--and they accepted my civility with profuse thanks. the man in the corner still regarded us from time to time with interest, and when we had finished our cigarettes he leaned forward and most politely offered us each a big cigar. the voice of this person so amazed me that in refusing with thanks, and saying i never smoked cigars, i looked very closely at him. the voice was that of a cultured gentlewoman, and that was exactly what this person turned out to be. not a man, but a woman dressed exactly to resemble a man. when she stood up i saw that she wore a divided skirt, and by the manner in which my guards addressed her when they accepted her cigars, i knew that she was some great personage. later on i discovered that she was a member of the imperial house of austria. she spoke english perfectly, and i explained my position, which seemed to amuse her immensely. we found that we had mutual friends, and we were chattering most amicably when i reached my destination. evidently a wire had preceded us, for other officials were waiting on the platform to take possession of the typewriter, and i said good-by to it, as i thought, forever. the amazement of the hotel manager may be imagined when he saw me arrive under escort. though i had engaged my rooms he had never seen me before, and i was secretly uneasy lest he should refuse to take me in under the circumstances, but my attendants appeared to possess unlimited authority. i was shown into a good bedroom at the very end of the corridor. the manager spoke perfect english, and i explained my position from my point of view. he was quite civil, but i thought rather non-committal. he evidently did not like the situation, but at that moment i had a stroke of luck. there entered the head waiter, carrying the usual paper of identification which one always fills in abroad. his face was quite familiar to me. i never forget a face, but i cannot always fit a name to it. where had i seen this man before? then in a flash i remembered. it was in egypt. when i had filled the paper, both men remaining in the room, i recalled myself to his memory, and the occasions when he had waited upon some members of our royal family, to whose table i had been bidden. these occasions had been of comparatively recent happening, and though possibly not being quite sure in his recollection of me, he remembered our royal family perfectly, and several little personal incidents that had occurred whilst we were all in the same hotel. for instance, there had been a very brilliant ball given at the hotel, and the royalties had looked on for several hours, and included me in their circle. this man had been specially detailed to wait upon the circle, all the evening. this conversation produced a great effect upon the manager, who volunteered to make matters as easy as he could for me, till the embassy moved. the officials would sit by the door, and not at my table during meals, and they would be accommodated with chairs in the corridor by the top of the staircase, instead of outside my bedroom door. he regretted that they would closely follow me whenever i went out, but doubtless i would communicate with my husband at once, and the mistake would soon be corrected. after i had had some tea, i began to feel quite light-hearted, and i unpacked and wrote to my husband in bavaria. that night when i went to bed i locked my door securely, and composed myself to sleep after a tiring and disturbing day. i had been in a railway "sleeper" all the night before, and though i sleep like a top in a train, i am always unusually sleepy on the following night in bed. it was summer-time, and very hot weather, and my blinds were drawn up and the window thrown wide open. no houses faced me; i looked out on a big public garden. i was soon fast asleep, but was awakened again by some noise in the room. i lay still for a little, listening intently, all the unpleasant incidents of the past day rushing back upon me. the noise was not continuous, but now and again came the sound of something soft, dragging about the floor. the room was fairly light, with the glow of a waning moon, and i judged the hour to be between two and three o'clock. at last i determined to ascertain what produced this curious sound. i had an electric light over my bed, and i sat up and suddenly switched it on. then i realized with horror that i was in the presence of something i had never encountered before, but had often read and heard of. an elemental of a malignant type, and of grotesque form. just for an instant i saw nothing but what looked like an enormous pillow, but suddenly out of this grayish-green pillow emerged a head of frog-like shape, and two bright yellow eyes were fixed on mine. i suppose i was too terrified even to remember what my sensations were. a sort of paralysis of fear and horror held me spellbound. there it squatted, thrusting out its misshapen head, its yellow eyes regarding me fixedly. i have no idea how long it remained there, or how long we continued to gaze at one another, but i gradually became aware that it was receding from view. it grew smaller and smaller, and dimmer and more indistinct, till at length it vanished altogether. elliott o'donnell mentions in one of his books having seen such creatures, and of having had a number of such cases reported to him, but generally as the forerunners of illness. to such phantasms he has given the name of "morbas," and he believes that certain apparitions are symbolical of certain diseases "if not the actual creators of the bacilli from which these diseases arise." this seems to me to be a reasonable explanation of such phenomena, but in my case there was no disease in question. i was perfectly well at the time, and remained so. it is possible, however, that a sick person might have occupied my room the night before. one never knows in hotels, and i had not then read o'donnell's explanation and made no inquiries. many of the experiences related in his deeply interesting books are no doubt regarded as fiction, but i know that they are cases common to very many psychics. for some time i lay awake, fearful of a recurrence of the horrible phenomenon, but gradually sleep overcame me, and i did not wake again till seven o'clock on a lovely summer morning. that day i took two long walks, closely followed by my escort. they walked immediately behind me, and often we stopped to converse, or to sit down to rest and smoke a cigarette together. they told me all their family history, and about their wives and children, and really they made themselves as agreeable as they possibly could. in the afternoon we climbed up the mountains to one of the many cafés, and had chocolate and cakes, which they thoroughly enjoyed. when i finally went back to the hotel for the night they complained of being tired, and hoped i would not walk so far on the morrow. their idea of enjoyment was the usual foreign custom of taking a seat outside a street café, and sitting there hour after hour idly watching the passers-by, smoking endless cigarettes and drinking beer. that night i prepared myself for a recurrence of the abnormal phenomenon i had witnessed, and gathered up all my courage, and decided to attack it with the sacred command. for a long time i lay awake, but nothing happened, and finally i fell asleep. i awoke to pandemonium. my room was in a hub-bub of high-pitched noise. screams of glee and frolic, shouts of thin laughter, and pattering feet with little thuds interspersed. the sounds were all pitched in an unknown key. they can best be described as ordinary sounds intensely rarefied, and pitched in so high a treble that they had run out of the scale altogether. it was a much darker night, and very hot. thunder clouds hung over the town, and now and again there was a gleam of lightning and a mutter of distant thunder. i peeped over the edge of the bed, but could see nothing. the noises continued with unabated merriment. a hundred creatures of sorts apparently were playing round me. summoning all my courage i sat up and switched on the light. what i saw must read like pure nonsense to the majority, but nevertheless i mean to record facts as they happened to me. about a dozen small forms, half-man, half-animal, were playing leap-frog round the room. they were about three feet in height, some slightly smaller, and though their bodies, legs and feet were human, their heads resembled apes. i forgot all about being afraid, they were so amazingly grotesque, and they were so thoroughly happy. one would go down on all fours, and the creatures immediately behind him would leap his back, and so on down the chain, and all the while they kept up that shrill, high-pitched note of intense enjoyment. i have come to the conclusion that it was the light that finally put an end to their revels. they took no heed of me, but gradually their energies flagged, they faded and became blurred in outline; one by one they simply went out like sparks until not one was left. though i occupied that room for a month i was never disturbed again. perfect quiet reigned for the rest of my stay. at the end of five days a police official came to call upon me, and informed me that my identity had been perfectly established by the british embassy at vienna, and that my escort was now withdrawn. he also begged to return my typewriter, rendered utterly useless i discovered, to my great dismay, and the dispatch box arrived intact the next morning. i have no explanation to offer of the phenomena i have described. they belong to the many unsolved mysteries that constantly surround us. it will be said that my mind was in an excited and abnormal condition owing to my adventures in the customs house, and that i probably imagined the scene instead of really seeing the creatures i have described. i agree that probably my mental faculties, for the time being, were possibly abnormal, but i hold that when the consciousness is in an abnormal condition it is naturally much easier to see the abnormal. at ordinary times the veil of the flesh seems denser, and the consciousness much less acute. the question seems to me to hang more on the query--do such creatures actually exist, than on the argument did i, or did i not see them? there are creatures living in the physical world quite as horrible to look upon as the astral entities i saw. the octopus and some apes, for instance. innumerable people of unimpeachable veracity have testified to seeing grotesque and hideous creatures, which can only be placed in the category of astral denizens, and in that category i place the phenomena i certainly witnessed on two successive nights. the following story has been given to me by a barrister who kindly allows me to give his name: e. f. williams, b.a. trinity college, cambridge. "it is clear that needle jim was murdered by the proprietor, corbett of the tally ho, and that his wraith haunted the spot. horses appear to be as sensitive as dogs are to apparitions, and there are several instances on record where horses have been the means of bringing murder to light. "it is a difficult matter, indeed, to be asked to write a ghost story if you do not believe in ghosts; however, i will endeavor to relate the nearest approach to one which has come within my knowledge. "the winter of the year was an exceptionally severe one, very heavy falls of snow and deep drifts in many places, especially in the neighborhood of worcester, near which the scene of my story lies. "it was, in those days, the custom of packmen as they were called, to travel around the country with various assortments of goods--calling at the various farmhouses and cottages offering their wares for sale; some would have cutlery, some laces and ribbons, but the packman with whom we are concerned carried pins, needles, and such like, hailing from redditch, where they are manufactured. he used to go his round four times a year, and was known by the name of needle jim. "about the beginning of january, in spite of the snow, jim left worcester for upper onslow, clayton and broadway, with a view of going to cleobury mortimer, wyn forest, and back to redditch. apparently he was seen at onslow and clayton, but after that, there was no further trace of him. "now at the village of broadway, there is a little cider house called the tally ho, and a few cottages. the road is narrow, with three very sharp corners, protected only from a very steep dingle by an ill-kept, low, out-of-repair hedge--very dangerous on a dark night. the old proprietor of the inn, named corbett, lived there with his old wife, and was in the poorest of circumstances, the customers at the inn not being very numerous. nothing more was heard of needle jim. "now opposite the tally ho, on the far bank of the dingle, was a piece of ground facing the south, and old corbett thought it would make an excellent cherry orchard. so the hitherto impecunious corbett bought a portion, and when he had bought it he fenced it round, and from the opposite side it looked exactly the shape of a coffin, and the coffin piece it is called to this day. "at the time of which i am writing, if was permissible after a man had been hung, for his relatives to take the body away home for burial. one day, two men arrived at the tally ho, with such a body fastened across the back of a horse; tying up the horse they went into the inn for some refreshment, shortly to be called out by a woman who said the horse, burden and all, had jumped over the hedge into the dingle and was lying at the bottom. they hurried down and there found the horse with his neck broken and his ghastly burden under him. it was a curious fact that after the disappearance of needle jim, horses approaching this corner broke into heavy sweats and showed great signs of fear, and a number of people preferred to travel by the longer route, _via_ the hundred horse. "some years ago some alterations were being made to the front of an old hotel in a little country town about five miles from the scenes depicted above, and on raising the large flagstone of the bottom step, there was discovered the skeleton of a man with his skull smashed. the old folks declared it must be the body of the missing packman; anyhow, after the discovery, the spirit or ghost seems to have departed from the precincts of the tally ho. "now i am not a believer in ghosts or their allies, but when i was a small boy i went on my pony accompanied by two servants, who were taking a parcel to a house next door to the tally ho, and whilst they were inside the house, all at once the pony snorted and started full gallop for home as hard as he could go; we parted company going down a steep hill, and i have often thought it was a good thing for me we did, for if he had bolted into his stable (which he did do) i should probably have had my head smashed, as the doorway was very low. "still, i do not believe in ghosts, i think it is more convenient not to!" chapter xvii across the threshold once upon a time i had an interesting experience showing how often one may be in the presence of the disembodied without being in the least aware of the fact. it was a bright, cold day in october, with a biting wind and brilliant sunshine. about midday i was walking up a long avenue leading to a great house. on either side of me, for a mile or so, lay flat, open grass country, pasturages full of grazing cattle. the trees bordering the avenue stood at about thirty feet apart; they were gigantic beeches of considerable age. their silvery trunks of wide girth were smooth and straight, and in no way impeded the view on all sides. the avenue was wide and straight and bordered by grass out of which the trees sprang. as i turned in at the lodge gate i noticed, without any particular interest, a woman walking in front of me, but in a very few moments i began to pay more attention to her obvious peculiarities. she was about twenty-five to thirty feet ahead of me, moving in the same direction, and the view i had of her back began to puzzle me. on that decidedly chilly morning she wore a white muslin dress, a material never used out of doors even in summer in that northern clime. over her shoulders floated something mauve and flimsy, and on her head was what looked like an old-fashioned poke-bonnet. her back looked young, and yet she was a creature of a bygone century, and knowing every one within a twenty-mile radius of where i walked i speculated as to who she could possibly be. perhaps what puzzled me most was how she had managed to avoid the attention of the village children, who would at once have been alive to the novelty of her whole appearance. i looked forward to hearing all about her at the big house, and as seemed highly probable, meeting her face to face and obtaining an introduction to her. then it suddenly occurred to me to overtake her and pass her; we were both walking very slowly. i at once quickened my steps, but somehow i never seemed to gain on her. even this did not rouse in me the faintest suspicion of being in the presence of a disembodied soul, it merely sharpened my curiosity and urged me to greater efforts. i moved from the road to the grass which i calculated would deaden the sound of my footsteps, then i began to run. still no success! the lady never turned her head to right or left, but was clearly aware of my pursuit, for apparently without the least effort she kept her distance from me. at the moment when i was feeling rather baffled and very much puzzled i caught sight of my friend, n., in the distance coming to meet me. "ah!" i thought, as i at once slowed down to draw breath, "she will have to pass her and she'll tell me what her face is like." i kept eyes and attention closely fixed on the two figures as they drew nearer and nearer to one another. now the stranger appeared to be exactly at an equal distance between us, when, lo! she simply vanished as utterly and entirely as the electric light one switches off in a room. one second there she was, perfectly and clearly visible, the next second, there she was not. i looked foolishly around, though i knew that neither to right or left was there any hiding-place, moreover my eyes had been fully upon her when she vanished, flicked out-- how well i remember n. running up to me and without any greeting, we both simultaneously burst out-- "did you see her?" n. told me that the inside of the poke-bonnet was empty. the lady had no face. of course we gazed around and searched behind the boles of the trees, but we were both aware how foolish any such proceeding was, for we had both been staring hard at her when she disappeared. there was a bygone tragedy connected with that part of the avenue, but on discussing the matter with the owner of the great house we all had to come reluctantly to the conclusion that the woman we had seen had no connection with that story. a former lady dalrymple had been murdered by one of her servants in the avenue about a hundred years previously, but the portraits of the deceased and the lady we had seen bore not the smallest resemblance. it was said that "lady dalrymple walked"--a tall, massive figure clad in a dark, heavy cloak sprinkled with snow. she had been done to death one january night in a snowstorm which had hidden her remains for several days. the apparition we had seen was that of a very slender girl or young woman. the interesting fact that i wish to emphasize is that had this young drama in muslin turned aside, slipped through the light fence, and struck off across the fields it would never have occurred to either n. or me that she was not physical. we would have speculated as to who she was, but out of common civility we would not have followed her. we would have made casual inquiries as to who she was, simply out of curiosity aroused by her peculiar attire, and then the trifling incident would have been forgotten. that sudden vanishing has rooted the experience firmly in my mind, and i have long since become convinced that the little story i have just told is an extremely common one. i believe such disembodied spirits are constantly with us, and that many of us see them, pass them in the streets, stand beside them in crowds, and accept them perfectly naturally as physical entities in no way different from what we are ourselves. many people believe that our faculties have a limit beyond which we cannot go, but this is certainly not so, as it is now proved that some people have the x-ray sight by nature and can see far more than others. this faculty has nothing to do with keenness of sight, it is a question of sight which is able to respond to different series of vibrations. undoubtedly there are many entities about us who do not reflect rays of light that we can see, yet who may reflect those other rays of rates of vibration which can be photographed. it is extremely difficult for the average person to grasp the reality of that which we cannot see with our physical eyes, and to realize how very partial our sight is, yet science continually demonstrates to us worlds of teeming life of whose very existence we should be ignorant so far as our senses are concerned. what ought clearly to be grasped is the fact that we are not separated from the so-called dead, save by the limitation of our consciences. we have not lost those gone before, we have only lost the power to see them, and very occasionally that power is restored to us, by what means we know not. all visible things are the result of invisible causes, and doubtless those denizens of the subtler worlds come amongst us with a distinct purpose in view. sometimes that purpose can be traced to remorse, revenge, a quest, a strong attraction to the scene of a crime, but in many other cases no object can be discerned. the condition of the observer is constantly found to be absolutely normal. the mental conditions of both myself and n. were, as far as we could tell, quite normal. our mental activity was no greater, no more vivid or more accurate than usual, yet we both saw an object that was beyond normal sense and rational vision. the fact that so often there is no connecting link between the apparition and his or her surroundings induces me to believe that we are everywhere surrounded by the denizens of the other world, and on rare occasions we catch a glimpse of them. here is another utterly trivial story which emphasizes the above suggestion. i was lunching with my husband in a house built within the last fifty years. the only former occupants were known to us. we were discussing a letter i had that morning received and i said: "i'll go and fetch it for you to read." i rose and left the dining-room, and pushed open the half-closed door of the adjoining drawing-room. what was my astonishment to behold standing in the middle of the floor a tall, dark man, a total stranger. he stood exactly between the door and a large bow window, through which poured a flood of sunshine, and i paused involuntarily and stared at him. not that there was anything the least peculiar about him, and, indeed, his air of great respectability instantly banished the flashing thought of "burglar." the stranger returned my stare with perfect composure, and in a second or two during which we regarded each other i had time to observe his appearance. he was well dressed, all in black, with a modern, black broadcloth frockcoat buttoned close. he was very tall and strongly built, his face was sallow and heavy featured, and he wore a short, black beard. i bowed and addressed him: "i'm sorry! i didn't know any one was waiting. do you wish to see me or my husband?" i said politely. the man made no reply, but at once began to glide, not walk, towards a closed glass door leading to a conservatory on the left. his eyes never left mine. without opening the door he passed through it and vanished. then i realized and darted after him, throwing open the door and staring beyond. nothing! nothing physical could have passed through a glass door without shattering it, and that is all there is to this story. the man had no connection with us nor, so far as we could learn, with the former occupants of the house. a very old friend of mine, mrs. sinclair, wife of the late sir tollemache sinclair's second son, told me of an experience she and her mother once had when visiting a cousin, major fetherston dilke, of maxstoke castle, warwickshire. the castle is ancient and surrounded by a moat, and within the moat lies a tennis court. in order to reach their rooms on the ground floor, mrs. sinclair and her mother had to pass through a great stone hall filled with fine old oak and armor. beyond that their way lay through the remains of an old chapel, which once had been extensively damaged by fire. one evening after playing tennis till rather late, mrs. sinclair and her mother hastened indoors to change for dinner. as they passed through the chapel mrs. sinclair saw her mother suddenly shrink back against the wall; at the same time she exclaimed, "oh, may, stand aside and let that person pass." mrs. sinclair looked round, but could see no one. again her mother cried out insistently: "oh, do let her pass." "but no one is here," mrs. sinclair assured her. then seeing that her mother looked terrified she took her by the arm and hurried her to their rooms. when the door was shut mrs. sinclair tried to soothe her mother's agitation, and asked her what she had seen, and why she was so disturbed. her mother replied: "there was a young woman in the corner who was trying hard to escape observation, and the sight of her gave me the most uncomfortable feeling. she was not a maidservant, and wore no cap. she was dressed in a mauve print gown with a violet sprig upon it. she might have been a needle-woman." mrs. sinclair calmed her mother as well as she could, and they went down to dinner together. during the meal what was her horror to hear her mother say to their host, "oh, william, i feel sure there are ghosts in the castle. i've seen one to-night." there was a most uncomfortable silence after this, and major fetherston dilke looked terribly agitated. after dinner, when the ladies were alone in the drawing-room, mrs. dilke asked mrs. sinclair what they had seen, and on being told she explained that before a death in the family a certain housekeeper, who had been murdered, always haunted the chapel, and in consequence of this warning always coming true her husband was exceedingly nervous of this apparition. nothing more was said upon the subject during mrs. sinclair's stay, but before the end of the year major fetherston dilke lay dead. such warnings are very common, and very hard to understand. they suggest that the apparition knows of the approaching death of a certain person, and that it has the power to make itself visible to certain persons, at certain times. why this warning should be given is a baffling mystery. again, why did not mrs. sinclair see this ghost when her mother so plainly saw it? the fact is that all sorts of most unlikely persons see apparitions, even the rankest unbeliever and the most matter-of-fact individual, and they generally see them at most unexpected moments. i remember one day walking along a country road, and seeing a dog-cart in the distance coming towards me. as it drew nearer i saw that it contained (the late) lord wemyss, and on recognizing me he drew up and jumped down. "i've got a confession to make to you," he said. "i wouldn't tell any one else for the world. i'd have the life chaffed out of me. i've actually seen a ghost." "i'm not in the least surprised. why shouldn't you see a ghost?" i retorted. "well! i never believed in them, and i didn't think i was the sort of man who'd ever see one. now, if it had been arthur balfour there would have been nothing in it. he's a member of the psychical society, and all that sort of thing." "but being a member of the psychical society does not predispose one to see ghosts," i expostulated, but lord wemyss remained very puzzled. he told me that when about half a mile from his own front door at gosford, east lothian, he saw a man walking in front of him in the same direction, going towards the house. in a vague sort of way he wondered for a moment where this man had suddenly sprung from, as he had not noticed him before, but there was nothing unusual in his appearance to arouse curiosity. he was a stranger and looked like a foreman in his sunday clothes. lord wemyss walked on, always keeping about ten yards between himself and the stranger. at a certain point he fully expected he would strike off by a path leading to the servants' and tradesmen's entrance, but rather to his surprise, the man did no such thing. he pursued an undeviating course towards the main entrance, and on observing this lord wemyss became more interested, and looked at him more closely. still there was something remarkable to be observed, and concluding that the man, being a stranger, did not know of any other entrance, he quickened his steps in order to come up with him. in this he failed--the man kept his distance, and just as he reached the door he vanished from sight. i tried hard to persuade lord wemyss to tell this story to mr. balfour, who was so intimate a friend, but i believe he never did so. the interest lies in the long time, during a half-mile walk, in which the ghost was under observation, also in the fact that until the man disappeared on the doorstep lord wemyss had never suspected that the stranger was other than ordinary flesh and blood. so many people have confided their ghost stories to me, and swore me to secrecy, that i am convinced such experiences are very common, and only remain hidden either from fear of being laughed at or from being thought to suffer from hallucinations. chapter xviii haunted rooms how is it that one can "feel" a room is haunted? what is it that gives one the strong impression that there is something unpleasant about a certain room, a something that sets it apart, as a place to be avoided? the mind operates with the senses. it receives impressions through the air as sound, or through the ether as sight, and so forth. through the various senses we catch the vibrations of consciousness belonging to our environment, near or far. psychically developed persons possess an increase of sensibility which enables them to see, hear, and feel more acutely than most people. wherever some great mental disturbance has taken place, wherever overwhelming sorrow, hatred, pain, terror, or any kind of violent passion has been felt, an impression of a very marked character has been imprinted on the astral light. so strong is this impression that often persons possessing but the first glimmer of the psychic faculty are deeply impressed by it. but a slight temporary increase of sensibility would enable them to visualize the whole scene. that such impressions should be imprinted on the astral light is no more wonderful than ordinary photography, or the impression of the human voice upon the cylinders of a gramophone. to me, a haunted room is always full of shadows. that is how i see it. that is one of several ways by which i distinguish it from other rooms. other people do not always see these shadows, and the room may actually be flooded with sunshine when i enter it for the first time. this makes no difference to what i see. the shadows are there, despite the sunshine. there are long-drawn-out shadows, which seem to take their rise in the corners of the room, and creep across the floor. they are not motionless, but in constant vibration and re-formation, like smoke drifts. such shadows are not of a uniform gray, but tinged by dull colors, dark red, sulphur yellow, muddy brown. in a haunted room there is always a shadow above one's head. a hovering cloud between the ceiling and midway to the floor. then there are the sensations i feel when entering a haunted room. little shivers run through me, and what i take to be nervous excitation sets all my spine jangling, and the tiny nerve threads quivering. the sensation of icy cold water trickling down my back is most unpleasant. at times a profound melancholy falls upon me, often blended with a poignant compassion for some one, i know not whom. at other times a sensation of violent repulsion invades my being, which has actually, in some cases, produced physical sickness. again, there is the helpless feeling, and that is the hardest to bear of all such psychic disturbances. the feeling that something is about to occur in that room which i will be powerless to ward off. what can one do when paying a visit if one is ushered into a bedroom by one's hostess which one instantly knows to be "unhealthful"? i cannot find a better word to describe many a haunted room. this experience has several times happened to me, and unless i know my hostess very well, i am obliged to sleep in this unhealthful atmosphere. on one occasion i was invited to dine and sleep with some old friends, who had taken on lease an old castle in the neighborhood of st. andrews, where i happened to be staying. they had only been in residence for a month or two, an old brother and an old sister, whom i had known all my life. in spite of this long friendship they were not the sort of people to whom i could have said, "would you mind giving me another room? the one you have selected for me is haunted, and if i remain in it i will have no sleep. i shall not even dare to try to sleep, but shall have to keep awake all night to ward off the evil." they would have been both shocked and indignant at such a suggestion, and probably have concluded that i had gone stark staring mad. i had accepted a seat in a carriage belonging to some friends in st. andrews, who were also going to the castle to dine, but who were returning to sleep in their own homes in the town. it was twilight when we drove up the long avenue, and caught a first glimpse of the exterior. a typical old scotch castle, very large, with high-peaked roofs and pepper-box turrets, and all built of gray stone. about an hour before dinner i was conducted to my room. my evening dress was already spread upon the bed, and the housemaid was arranging my toilet articles on the dressing-table. "i think you will be comfortable here, my dear," said my kind hostess, and i thanked her with a sinking heart as she went away. as the housemaid prepared to follow her i said, "am i the only person sleeping on this floor?" she answered, "you are the only one in this wing, miss." "it is a very large house, i suppose?" "twenty-six bedrooms," answered the housemaid, "but we've shut up most of them. this one has such a good view that miss young thought it ought to be used." with that she went away, and i looked round. six lighted candles and a big wood fire seemed only to accentuate the profound gloom and depression of the large, irregular room. the very first thing i did was to throw a towel over the face of the mirror on the dressing-table. then i investigated every nook and corner. there was a powdering closet formed in a pepper-box turret. the carpet of the room stopped short at its door, and inside the boards looked loose and uneven. i fetched a candle and soon discovered that the floorboards lifted up quite easily, and beneath them was a black yawning hole, an _oubliette_, through which wretched prisoners were cast in days not so long ago. i replaced the boards, telling myself that in the morning i would have a look at the outside of this black shaft. it probably ended, as most of such places did end in the old scotch castles, in a big dungeon underground. inside my big room there were sloping ceilings, and great beams, and an enormous fireplace had been bricked up to suit more modern requirements. there were two doors, the one i had entered by and another which was locked and keyless. the window, with the view, was hidden by heavy red curtains, and the atmosphere was musty and dank, like that of a vault. as i stared around me i could not help thinking what an unfortunate thing it is to be born without any imagination. any one possessed of a spark of that quality would have hesitated before putting a young guest into so gloomy a chamber, the only room occupied in that wing. "no sleep possible here," i told myself grimly, as i began to dress. then i set myself to "feel after" what was really wrong with the room. supposing i did fall asleep, what would happen? would some one come and try to strangle me in the night? that had actually happened to many people. would i suddenly awake to the fact that some one unseen was pulling off the bedclothes? that was also a trick common to ghostly visitants. gradually i gathered impressions, very unpleasant ones. i became positively certain that i was being watched intently. some one, present in the room, though unseen by me, was watching my every movement. that some one violently resented my occupation of the room, was intensely hostile, and meant to make things nasty for me later on that night. wherever i moved i felt that malignant eyes followed me, and i kept glancing over my shoulder at every crack of the furniture, and the scratching of a mouse in the wainscot. it was in the stretches of dead silence that the presence became most imminent, most menacing, and i had a strong instinct to set my back against the wall and face right out into the room. again i was confronted by the mirror problem. i had become certain that it must remain covered. if i looked into its surface i knew i would see something horrible. something kept whispering to me, "never mind how you look, never mind if your bodice is all awry, or your skirt all askew, or your hair all bulging out on one side. don't uncover the mirror if you value your sanity. what there is to be seen can only become visible in the mirror. don't worry after explanations, or why this should or how it could be. do as i tell you. keep the mirror covered and when you come up to bed keep your back to the wall." dressing was a very rapid process that night, and when completed, so far as circumstances would allow, i found i still had twenty minutes to wait until the dinner gong would ring. i sat down with my back against the wall, and surveyed the depressing apartment with a gloomy anticipation. where was that stealthy watcher, whose baleful eyes i felt were fixed upon me? i could see nothing. i could only feel acutely that i was not alone, and that i was "in for" an awful night. oh! to get away, and leave that malignant unseen watcher in undisputed possession of his dismal abode! i was quite certain of the gender! then a chance of deliverance flashed over me. i could return after dinner to st. andrews with the friends who had brought me. but i had accepted the invitation to stay the night. what possible excuse could i make for cutting short my visit? in this case the truth was no use; in fact, worse than useless. not only would my host and hostess utterly fail to understand what i was talking about, but they would be exceedingly indignant, and look upon me as absolutely insane. as falsehood had to be resorted to, i surely could invent some plausible excuse that would hurt no one's feelings, but the only excuse i could think of was illness. i must tell my hostess that i feared i was "in for" an illness of some sort, and the wisest thing to do was to drive back to st. andrews and be laid up in my own bed. the most hospitable person would rather not have a sick guest under her roof. the excuse i proposed to make seemed to me to be the one most likely to be accepted without much fuss. i did not determine upon this plan without a certain amount of wavering. "after all," i told myself, "it is only for one night, and what can this entity do but give you a very creepy and disturbed night. you will have to sit up against the wall, and defend yourself by the power of the cross, bidding it begone, in the name of the father, the son, and the holy ghost. this you may have to do many times, but the night won't last forever, and you had best try to make the best of things, and not risk offending old friends." it did seem hard that i dared not tell the truth. had the entity been in the flesh how easy it would have been. who has not, at some time or another in her life, found herself unwittingly to be an unwelcome guest, and made to feel "if you don't go away at once you will regret it"? sometimes one comes across persons who for some private reason dread being overlooked, or who love their hermitage so dearly that they refuse to be amiable, to even the most swiftly passing guest. old people are often like that, every one knows, or has known, of such people in the flesh. yet how few believe that such unpleasant traits persist just as strongly after so-called death, as before. what should suddenly change a man's whole disposition the moment he "shuffles off this mortal coil"? i felt i was now in the presence of one who dreaded being overlooked, and who sought to get rid of me by every device in his power. whilst thinking thus my mind was irrevocably made up for me. my attention was suddenly drawn towards a soft stealthy noise. padded footsteps. something had come near, and was creeping warily round in front of me. i felt the eyes upon me. i was being regarded more closely. what was about to follow? i leapt to my feet, and raising my arm made the sign of the cross. "i bid you begone, in the name of the father, the son, and the holy ghost." there was a moment's pause of utter silence. the atmosphere struck suddenly chill as ice. a curious sensation of emptiness crept over the room. i was alone, but for how long would i remain alone? i hurried downstairs and tried to play my part, and during the course of the evening i told my falsehoods as naturally as i could. at half-past ten i drove off to st. andrews with a light heart, and an utter indifference to the consequences. i believe that my falsehoods did not, however, "go down," for i never was asked again to that house. perhaps it was as well, for i certainly never would have set foot in it again, and i had sacrificed the truth quite sufficiently upon this one occasion. i had no difficulty in finding out what sort of reputation the castle bore. every one agreed that it was haunted. i asked one elderly woman who had lived all her life in st. andrews, and who knew the whole country intimately, what she thought of s. castle. "horrible, haunted old place. i can't think how the youngs could have taken it," she replied. "but what sort of ghosts haunt it?" i asked. "old sir james and his son. they were in league with the devil, and the son, another james, used to murder people and throw them down into the dungeon. he was beheaded in the reign of charles the first." "have you known any one who has ever seen anything?" i persisted. "no, but my father remembered as a young man seeing a pile of human bones being removed from the dungeon, and buried in the churchyard. the late people lived to be very old, and always kept sir james' wing shut up. now the place has changed hands, and probably the youngs will never be disturbed. they are installed in the most modern part of the house, and won't need to use the haunted wing." it must not be supposed that all haunted houses or rooms are unpleasant to live in. people in the flesh are either pleasant or unpleasant, disturbing or tranquil to live with, and so it is with their astral counterparts. when they elect to haunt the scenes of their old activities some ghosts are so inoffensive that they can be lived with under the most tranquil conditions. one autumn we took a shooting lodge in the far north of scotland, and though i recognized at once that it was frequented by an entity from the "other side," i experienced no uneasy feelings whatever. we had not been in residence longer than three hours before this ghost put in an appearance. we were in a lively confusion of unpacking and settling down. several large trunks had been carried upstairs, and set down on a wide corridor on to which the bedrooms opened. i was on my knees unpacking one of those trunks, our dog "pompey" was seated beside me superintending matters, and my maid was standing at my side waiting to carry various articles into the different rooms. the hour was midday, and the early autumn sunshine flooded the house. suddenly "pompey" growled, and turned towards the staircase, with all his hair bristling. i also looked round and saw a tall, quite ordinary man mounting the staircase. i thought nothing of this, supposing him to be the factor whom we expected, and i rose to my feet at once. he came on along the corridor straight towards us, and looking directly at us, but when within about ten feet from where we stood he suddenly vanished. i heard my maid give a sharp exclamation, and at the same instant "pompey" made a furious dash at the spot, and growling angrily began to pursue something invisible to us, down the stairs. i followed as quickly as i could. i feared "pompey" would be lost if he ran out into the deer forest surrounding us on all sides. i caught him at the deer fence, edging the vegetable garden, and induced him with some difficulty to return to the house. my maid and i compared notes. what i had seen accorded exactly with what she had seen. she soon got over her uncomfortable experience, and though i never saw this entity again, i often felt him near me. he was, however, of so colorless a personality, that he never proved in the least disturbing to any one in the house. at the time of which i write the astral plane was not so generally recognized as an actual residential quarter as it is now. in these days a halfway house for the soul was not considered necessary for protestants. they either went direct to heaven or hell, according to their manner of life on earth. the catholics alone had their purgatory, to which the departed souls repaired, there to slough off the passions of earth and fit themselves for higher realms. purgatory and the astral plane mean the same thing now to the vast majority of thinkers. a halfway house for the soul. a condition of consciousness interpenetrating this earth, which may actually be visited under certain conditions by those still possessing a physical body, an abode so contiguous to this world as to make the words of the poet literally true-- "all houses wherein men have lived and died are haunted houses." in these days i used to get severely chaffed on the subject of the astral plane. frivolous young things would say to me, "hello! been on the astral plane lately?" one day i was undergoing a certain amount of good-natured chaff from a number of young people at dunrobin castle. i defended my beliefs vigorously, and at last the present lady londonderry, then miss chaplin, the duke's niece, challenged me to pick out the haunted room in the castle. i had never at that time been in any part of the building save in one bedroom, and the public rooms. i at once took up the challenge, and the duke remarked that i had my work cut out for me, as several of the rooms had a reputation for being haunted. i replied that i would undertake to pick out a room where life was still actively carried on by those who had suffered something terrible on that spot in the past, and who were now denizens of the astral plane. a small crowd of us then started, led by miss chaplin, and we went from room to room. she opened the door and remained with the others on the threshold. i walked into each room alone and gathered impressions. in several of the rooms i felt the presence of astral entities, but nothing of a strong or unpleasant nature. at last we came to a room occupied by a maid, sitting alone, sewing, and i felt instantly that my quest was at an end. there was a sharp atmosphere of anguish that was quite unmistakable; some ghastly tragedy had taken place within those four walls, but i said nothing before the sewing woman. i felt drawn towards the window, the trouble was centered there. if i remember rightly, the room was high up, and overlooking, not the sea, but a paved courtyard. i walked back to the others with my finger on my lip, and miss chaplin closed the door behind me. "we need not go any further; that is the haunted room," i said, in a low voice that could not reach the woman inside. "you're right. you've found it," was the answer. i heard the story when we went downstairs, but i can only recollect that it had to do with a lady sutherland, who had been brutally flung out of the window. i will now relate a curious incident of haunting by elementals, and it will be seen that such hauntings may quite easily appear to the ordinary observer as an abnormal occurrence to which no clue can be given. what is an elemental? it is only when the mystic has advanced in her studies that she discovers how manifold evolution is, and how small a part humanity really fills in the economy of nature. when the microscope is used myriads of germs of life, unsuspected by us, are revealed; even so the invisible planes connected with this earth contain myriads of forms of life, of whose existence most of us are unconscious. when we read of a "good or bad elemental" it must always be either an artificial entity, or one of the many varieties of nature spirits that is meant. i will deal now with a case of the artificial variety. such elementals are formed out of the elemental essence lying behind the mineral kingdom. it is the monadic essence, or material used in creation, or it may be called the outpouring of divine force into matter. this elemental essence is marvelously sensitive to human thought, however fleeting. it responds instantly to the vibrations set up consciously or unconsciously by human will or desire. the influence of thought can mold a living force, good or evil, into an existence, evanescent or lasting. such shapes possess a certain appropriateness to the character of the desire which calls them into existence, though they generally possess distortions, either unpleasant or terrifying. persons who play with, or use for some malign purpose, black magic, generally have a swarm of such semi-intelligent entities surrounding them, and professional black magicians can call artificial elementals of great power into existence, and use them for their fell designs. as a rule, however, the enormous inchoate mass of entities, known as elementals, are beings of human thought creation, created in no malicious spirit, but more often the result of curiosity, and tampering with a very dangerous power, as yet little understood. the amateur magician on passing over to the other side by no means loses his taste for the grotesque and abnormal, and often continues to play pranks on those left behind, by means of the dangerous powers he has acquired whilst on earth. i was visiting some old friends in the south of england. some years before they had succeeded to a fine inheritance, and it was the first time that i had stayed with them in that house. i did not experience any uncomfortable sensations in the bedroom appointed to me. it was early summer-time when there is but a short spell of darkness, and i was on such intimate terms with my hostess, herself a psychic, that i had only to say i disliked the atmosphere of my bedroom, to have it changed. the former mistress of the house had been a very remarkable woman whom i had known intimately. she was brilliantly clever and accomplished, and charming to talk to, but unfortunately she took a vivid interest in occultism of the wrong sort--in black magic. anything to do with spells, witchcraft, elementals, incantations, attracted her enormously, and she had a very considerable knowledge of the subject. i have no doubt she could have worked a great deal of mischief had she been so inclined, but luckily her designs were more impish than malign. i often warned her that there was undoubted danger in such researches, and that she was certain to attract about her elementals of a most undesirable kind, but my warnings went unheeded, and to the time of her death her interest in the dark subject never flagged. she had not died in the house i had come to stay in, but it occurred to me as i dressed for dinner that i was in her old bedroom. this suggestion came to me suddenly, and to the accompaniment of a sound. a sound more felt than heard, a sound known to the spirit rather than to the ear; a tiptoe silence hovering on the brink of sound's threshold. my surroundings gave a very pleasant impression. a glorious sunset was flooding the west. my room was full of golden light, and the window was flung wide to the warm summer air. there was nothing to be recorded either ghostly or uncanny, yet something was present which made me uncomfortable. strange thoughts, bizarre fancies, found lodgment in my mind, and i stood rigid, listening intently. the room was full of secrets. they seemed suddenly to creep forth and whisper together. there it was again! that soft echo of a sound which was like no other sound. an eerie, uncanny sensation crept down my spine, a strange, undefinable feeling of uncertainty, not yet amounting to fear. i moved towards the corner of the room, whence the sound proceeded, and as i approached, out of that corner dropped down a huge gray moth, a second dropped down after it, and both lay with outstretched wings on the white coverlet of the bed. now i have always had a peculiar antipathy to moths, the big furry sort. i can handle a spider, and bear with a black beetle, but with big woolly moths i cannot live happily. i saw one once under a microscope, and it was covered with horrid looking parasites. i am aware that other creatures are similarly afflicted, but this microscopic vision accentuated my horror of all big moths. they seem to me repulsive, sinister, and uncanny creatures. the curious thing is that though i dislike them they adore me, and i always know that if there is one in my parish it will find me out. on this occasion i felt a very natural desire to laugh at myself. of course, the creatures had at once discovered me, and this was all that had resulted from my uncomfortable sensations. a feeling of scorn swept over me. two moths had rustled softly. could anything be more banal, more commonplace? i flung a towel over them, and finished dressing. then i rang for the housemaid. when she came i told her she must accomplish the destruction of the occupants of my bed. i could see no moths flying about outside, but nevertheless the window must be kept closed till i opened it again in the dark, before getting into bed. she told me that she was always particular to close the windows before bringing in a light, as the bats were a nuisance. i assured her that i had no objection to a room full of bats, but i could not sleep in a room full of moths. she promised to look about the room whilst it was still light, and destroy any she found. i closed the window myself and went down to dinner. we were but three women present; my hostess, myself, and a friend of ours, and we spent a delightful evening together talking of old times. that night, before beginning to undress, i blew out my candle, and throwing up the window i stood looking forth upon enchantment. it was still light, with a luster that filled all space, and it seemed wicked to shut out such beauty. westward the stars were pale, but southward one great dull red star shone low down on the horizon. the owls were haunting the gardens with their banshee notes. it was a night for the revelation of the fairy folk, elves and pixies, fauns and dryads, elfins, nymphs and satyrs. a night when she tells her secrets to her lovers in the psalmody of nature, when the spirits of earth, fire, air, and water utter softly to human souls, if they will but incline the ear to hearken to the message. if i want a definition of god i shall go, not to the bell and the book, but to a starlit, fragrant garden, where i can look long and deep into the passion of creation's eyes. i will be as the old gray poet who wrote-- "i am he that walks with the tender and growing night, i call the earth and sea, half hid by the night. press close magnetic, nourishing night, night of the south wind, night of the large, few stars." across the hushed magic came silver sweet the strokes of eleven from the village church, and the spell was broken. i closed the window, lit my candles, and prepared for bed. just before extinguishing my lights, and re-opening the window, i carried a candle to the side of the bed with a box of matches. what was my horror on discovering that the turned-down bed and both pillows were liberally strewn with enormous gray moths. the sight was extraordinary, i literally could not believe my eyes. i stood there staring, and mechanically counting them. twenty--thirty. i turned back to the dressing-table with the candle still in my hand. what was i to do? if i had the courage to destroy them, what sort of condition would the bed be in after? i am writing of actual facts, and without the least exaggeration. the smallest of those moths must have been quite an inch long in their fat gray bodies, and quite three inches long across the wings. i thought i knew most moths by sight and name, but i had never seen any like these before. what depressed me most was the fact that moths are attracted by candle-light. i had been burning four candles for quite twenty minutes, and not a moth had forsaken the bed for the flame. i was positively certain that they had not flown in whilst i stood in the dark of the open window. they were far too big and numerous to have escaped observation. what was i to do? i could not use that bed, and i now felt a strong repulsion for the room. i regretted deeply that the household must all be in bed, because i knew that no description i could give would convey anything like actuality, and the truth was certain to appear wild exaggeration. i made up my mind at once. i knew there were several unoccupied rooms on either side of me, and taking my lighted candle i placed it, still lit, in a basin on the marble-topped washstand. it should remain lit all night, and in the morning i would come to search for victims. the other candles i extinguished, all but one to take with me, and leaving the window still shut i softly left the room. i entered the next bedroom and approached the bed. of course, there were no sheets, but the white dust sheet covering the blankets was spotless--there was not a moth to be seen anywhere. blowing out my candle i opened the window, and getting into bed between the blankets i was soon fast asleep. i awakened to glorious sunshine, and looked at my wrist watch, which i had placed beside my bed. six o'clock and a lovely warm summer morning. i jumped out of bed, full of curiosity regarding my visitors of over-night, and returned to my own room. not a trace of a moth to be seen anywhere. the candle had burnt itself out, no singed wings or blackened bodies lay near. the window was shut. i threw it wide, and then i went round the room shaking curtains, looking behind pictures, and climbing on a chair i examined the top of the wardrobe. not the faintest signs of the great gray drove of the night before. where could they all have vanished to? i gave it up, and got into my own bed, to await the advent of my early tea. i hated having to tell the housemaid that i had been driven into another room, but i knew she would find out the fact for herself. she was obviously incredulous, and assured me she had thoroughly searched the room, and seen but two winged creatures; those she had removed from the bed. i had seen for myself when coming to bed that the window had remained shut. she had often seen one or two brown moths in the rooms at night, but she owned that never before had she seen huge gray ones. the matter was left at that, and during the day i told my hostess of my adventure, and she at once ordered the room i had slept in to be prepared for me, in case i might encounter the same difficulties again. i dressed for dinner in the moth-room, without catching sight of one. when bedtime came we three women all entered the room together. on approaching the bed, and looking down on it, no one spoke for a moment. then my fellow guest exclaimed: "well, i must say that if i had not seen this with my own eyes i never would have believed it." the bed was liberally sprinkled with large gray moths. my hostess shivered. "come away, and let us shut the door. it's too horrible," she said. during the remainder of my visit i was perfectly comfortable in my new room, and the curious fact must be stated that after i had left the moth-room the moths forsook it too. i could discern a pitying incredulity in the housemaid's attitude towards me afterwards. she had seen but two, and she did not believe in the drove. my hostess and friend who had witnessed the phenomenon at once agreed that there was something more in it than an entomological curiosity. i would have given much for the opinion of a naturalist. what, i wonder, would he have made of that fat, gray flock sprinkling the bed? what species of moth would he have declared them to be? i have searched in many books since and never found anything the least resembling them, and i retain my original, firm belief that they were nothing more or less than a flock of elementals, sent forth as a practical joke by a practiced magician on the other side. chapter xix "the new jeanne d'arc" before writing on the above subject, which is proving to-day of absorbing interest to a very large number of people, protestant as well as catholic, i will point out a curious fact that is occultly connected with it. at certain periods in our normal life, certain subjects lying quite outside our earthly experience begin quite suddenly to be talked of and written upon. no one knows why, no one, outside occultism, can even form a conjecture why such subjects should suddenly obsess the brains of a considerable number of persons, why they should crop up in the most unexpected places, or why they should form the foundations of a considerable mass of literature. it would appear as if they were floating in the air at some particular time, and masses of people catch them up like germs, and carry them about until their power is exhausted. i will give an instance. in the years just before the war "the great god pan" drifted across our mental horizon and was at once drawn into our aura. no one knows anything about "the great god pan." he is supposed to belong to mythology, but novelists of distinction at once began to write upon him, not one after the other, but simultaneously. i read at least three thrilling novels in which he figured largely, and i myself was impelled to write a novel upon the same subject. i began the book knowing nothing of the god, beyond what i could gather from the london library, and frazer's "golden bough," but as i proceeded i was conscious of new information drifting in from without, and on finishing the book i found that other authors had been at work on the same subject. "the great god pan" appeared on the stage, and a popular actress sang a song about him. one heard his name mentioned constantly in society, and hideous stories were told of him in bohemian art circles. he was the bugbear of the séance room, journalists mentioned him in quite serious articles, and i once heard his name spoken from a pulpit. the bare fact of this seemingly inconsequent disease (for it almost amounted to a disease with us) drifting into our stolid british atmosphere was not curious to the occultist, who is aware that at certain times, certain subjects are flooded in on us from "the other side" by those who have our welfare at heart. i never heard any explanation of why pan should have come here to play quite an important part in our mental lives, or why he should have obsessed so many of us for about a couple of years. the more one discovered about him the less one liked him, but psychics are led to believe that there are many schemes of evolution hovering about us, and interpenetrating our own, though not visible to our normal consciousness. it may therefore be that "the great god pan" did actually come into our atmosphere, and thus his individuality impressed itself upon those whose minds were plastic to such impressions. possibly he arrived on this earth much as an aerolite arrives, drawn out of his own orbit by the superior attraction of this globe. "the great god pan" was, what might be termed, the forerunner of the devil's reincarnation. the belief in a personal devil was rapidly dying out amongst us, in spite of "the sorrows of satan," and the belief in "the prince of this world" so insisted upon throughout the old and new testaments. there is no more engrossing subject for the occultist to indulge in than gathering together every verse in the bible dealing with "the evil one," and trying, with the aid of ancient traditions, to piece a coherent story together. when one gets a certain distance in the study one comes to the conclusion that there is a great deal more in it than meets the eye. it is a vast subject, and i think the most profoundly occult mystery extant and undeciphered. the devil now occupies a prominent position in the collective thought of the nation. an enormous number of people believe now in his existence, who would have scorned the bare idea before . it was in that year that he began to loom large in the beliefs of quite materially minded people, and his advent into actual, active existence at once complicated matters terribly. said a well-known writer to me, "i think there is something in it. it's very tiresome. i was just beginning to settle down in my beliefs, now i'm all upset again by this conception of a personal adversary to the supreme ruler." in the early weeks of a new impression drifted in on us. some angel came down and stirred the pool of the world, and left with us "the sacred heart." "the sacred heart" was the forerunner of "the new jeanne d'arc," claire ferchaud. there is nothing that has more astonished the catholic world than hearing "the sacred heart" talked of by protestants, and actually adopted by them as a sacred symbol. hitherto it has been exclusively a part of catholic worship. there was such a demand for the little metal "sacred heart" images (a figure of the christ, with hands outstretched and a flaming heart at his breast), that can be carried about in the pocket, that they were not to be bought in england, and were hard to procure abroad. enormous numbers had been sent to the front by persons belonging to all denominations, who treasured one of their own at home. very suddenly "the sacred heart" became an object of veneration amongst thousands to whom roman catholicism was anathema. then came the demand from france that "the sacred heart" should be placed above the tricolor. i had not heard of claire ferchaud before the beginning of , though her divine mission began about six years previously. occultists began to speak of her amongst themselves as one who would yet save france. this hope was never lost sight of in the country's darkest hours. now there is a steadily growing demand amongst the educated british public to learn all that can be known about this girl who has been called "the new joan of arc." in she was summoned to appear before an ecclesiastical commission at poitiers in the same room in which "the maid of orleans" was interrogated, before being placed at the head of the army of deliverance. both claire ferchaud and her communications were subjected to the strictest scrutiny. the result was entirely in her favor. her writings were examined by father vaudrious, d.d., m.s.d., who declared them inspired, and equal to those of st. catherine of sienna and st. teresa. finally they were taken to rome, and submitted to a commission appointed by the holy see. the result being that she was ordered to continue her mission. the writings deal with devotion to "the sacred heart" and the dignity of priesthood. one is irresistibly reminded of the opening scenes at lourdes, whilst bernadette soubirons was alive, in . again, one cannot but recall a certain similarity betwixt certain events in the life of the maid of orleans and the events taking place now in the life of claire ferchaud. claire is a girl twenty-two years old, the daughter of a peasant proprietor in the village of ranfillières, a mile from lublande, deux sèvres dept., france. her parents are alive, and she has two sisters and three brothers. the father and one brother fought during the war, another brother was a prisoner, and the youngest assists on the farm. one of the sisters works on the farm, and the eldest sister is a réligieuse at the community of la sagesse. claire was tending her father's flocks when the first great revelation came to her nine years ago; then she was but thirteen years old. she had crept into a thicket to read, and suddenly the divine master appeared to her and bade her lay down her book. he told her she had been chosen for a divine mission, and that he would guide and instruct her. he showed her "the sacred heart" covered with wounds. on recounting her vision to her priest, she was treated with coldness and disbelief, and on her telling him two years later that our lord daily appeared to her in holy communion she was treated still more coldly. until he himself received a sign he maintained an attitude of utter disbelief. what happened soon after whilst he was celebrating holy mass, entirely convinced him. at that particular part of the canon when the priest divides the sacred species he saw blood issue from the sacred host. nor was this all. a week afterwards he observed claire ferchaud in a trance in his own church, and he saw her using a handkerchief as if wiping some object in front of her, which he could not see. blood stains appeared on the handkerchief, and increased as she repeated the action. filled with amazement he sought later for an explanation, and she told him. "our lord appeared before me suffering greatly because of the terrible sins of the world, and he asked me to do for him what veronica did on the road to calvary. to wipe away the bloody sweat that trickled down his face. i saw the sacred heart, riddled with wounds, and the deepest wound of all was inflicted by france, the eldest daughter of the church, on whom he had lavished so deep a love. once before he appeared to me walking upon ears of corn which he crushed to powder." the priest after hearing this explanation took the handkerchief to the bishop, who listened to the wonderful story with sympathetic attention. he examined the blood-stained handkerchief minutely, and sent for a nun. "if," he said, "the stains are what they are represented to be they cannot be washed out." the bishop put the matter to the test, and watched the nun endeavoring to remove the stains. it was all in vain, and the bishop standing by his own test declared the mission of claire ferchaud to be divine. every night, between eleven and twelve o'clock, claire beholds apparitions, and receives the sacred teaching that was promised, and it was in that she was ordered to poitiers to undergo cross-examination. unfortunately the further development of claire ferchaud's mission cannot yet be communicated to the world, but in time it will be, and very startling and wonderful it will seem. meanwhile she encountered very strong opposition. with considerable difficulty the deputy of vendée arranged a meeting between claire and m. poincaré. claire implored him to permit the emblem of the sacred heart to be placed on the standards of france, as the one condition of success. unfortunately m. poincaré had to refuse, owing to political reasons, though as proof of her mission she disclosed an incident only known to him which happened after the victory of the marne. the same adverse influence operated at her interview with m. clemenceau. this appointment was arranged by the archbishop of rheims, cardinal lucon. the archbishop implored m. clemenceau to fix a day of public intercession for france. this also the prime minister of france had reluctantly to refuse. it is openly stated that before the later french successes the emblem of the sacred heart was secretly sewn upon the flags of france, and it is also affirmed that general foch is a devoted lover of the sacred heart, and bears its emblem with him wherever he goes. great changes have come about in the village where claire ferchaud dwells. formerly a sleepy, neglected little place, it is now converted into a scene of the greatest activity. from all parts of france the pilgrims come--some on foot, having walked many miles, some in motors and horse-driven vehicles. hundreds of soldiers find their way there, and it is estimated that from fifteen to twenty thousand people pass through lublande in a month. with the consent of her bishop, claire ferchaud has formed a small community of nine, and is now established in a temporary convent adjacent to her parish church at lublande. it is believed that her divine mission will be accomplished in , and that she will then be released from earthly life. claire has predicted a stormy period for france after peace has been signed. according to her prophecy there will be violent unrest until rulers arise who possess firm religious convictions. at the beginning of the war she affirmed that the french army would never prosper until the troops were commanded by a true son of the church. this affirmation she claimed to receive from a divine source. when maréchal foch took over the supreme command she was satisfied that victory, so far as the french arms were concerned, was assured. as all the world knows, and as all may learn who read hyndman's life of his old friend clemenceau, the prime minister of france, like the majority of his colleagues, is frankly atheistical. claire ferchaud claims to have received the divine intimation that until this condition of mind is superseded by a public acknowledgment of a supreme divine power, a supreme arbiter over the destinies of the world, the affairs of france can never prosper. she predicts that in rulers will arise who will bow before a power superior to their own human energies. the first part of her prophecy has come true. a man of god won his way to the front, and saved france and the allies at the darkest hour of their tribulation. the supreme command was vested in a man of profound religious convictions, who carried his beliefs and observances openly into the arena of war. i translate the words written lately to me by one who has served under ferdinand foch. they throw a brilliant light upon a great soul. "i can see him now, alone and unattended, at an hour when the church of cassel was deserted, praying and seeking comfort in the great sorrow, of which he never spoke. he had lost his only son, and one of his daughters was widowed. in spite of his indomitable energy there was about him an air of profound melancholy and sadness. "at certain moments his eyes seemed to say, 'i approach the twilight of my life in the consciousness of being a good servant who will repose in the peace of god. my faith in life eternal, in a good god, has sustained me in my hardest hours. prayer has illumined my soul. see to it, you young men of france, who are without a great ideal, without any conception of the spiritual side of life, there can be nothing for you but discouragement and feebleness. we demand of you great sacrifices to the end. accept those sacrifices as i accept mine, who believe that spirit must prevail over matter.'" chapter xx haunted houses--"castel a mare" i have never yet met any one who was not interested in haunted houses. even the most blatant skeptic always wants to "hear all about it," though he has predetermined to treat the story with his habitual scoffing incredulity. of all the departments of psychical research none commands more general interest than a "spooky" house, and there are few people who cannot name a dwelling which has acquired the reputation for being haunted by denizens of the other world. of course, any house that falls into serious disrepair, and remains unoccupied for some long period, any dwelling whose owner permits decay to proceed unchecked, and dilapidation to run its course, at once suggests the thought to the beholder, "what a haunted looking old place," and rumor, in such cases, quickly supplies all the old phenomena, even though tradition be totally absent. tramps are always on the lookout for such shelters, and their damped-down fires catch the eye of some scared rustic who happens to be passing in the dark. rats and the winds of heaven play hide-and-seek through the deserted rooms and corridors, and owls find sanctuary in the surrounding gardens. their cries, varying from the exultant shriek to the mournful wail, add a weird suggestiveness to the abiding melancholy of such abandoned habitations. there is so much talk nowadays of hauntings and ghosts, that it seems strange we should know so very little about them. i have never heard a really convincing explanation of why ghosts should haunt certain houses, and i have no explanation of my own to offer. if ghosts could be commanded, if one could be sure of witnessing certain phenomena that have been elaborately described to one, then there might be the ghost of a chance of advantageous investigation. no such opportunities seem to be afforded the investigator. he may watch for months and see nothing, yet the elusive wraith may turn up before several witnesses on the very night after he has abandoned his quest out of sheer boredom and discouragement. some seven years ago, whilst wintering in torquay, i heard a great deal of gossip about a villa on the warberries, which was reputed to be badly haunted. for the last forty to fifty years nobody, it was said, had been able to live in it for any length of time. several people asserted that they had heard screams coming from it as they passed along the high road, and no occupant had ever been able to keep a door shut or even locked. the house is at present being pulled down, therefore i commit no indiscretion in describing the phenomena connected with it. "castel a mare" is situated in what house agents would describe as "a highly residential quarter." it is surrounded by numerous villas, inhabited by people who are all very "well to do," and who make torquay their permanent home. the majority of these villas lie right back from the road, and are hidden in their own luxuriant gardens, but the haunted house is one of several whose back premises open straight on to the road. no dwelling could have looked more commonplace or uninteresting. it was built in the form of a high box, three storied. it was hideous and inartistic in the extreme, but along its frontage looking towards the sea and hidden from the road, there ran a wide balcony on to which the second floor rooms opened, and from there the view over the garden was charming. when i first went to look at it, dilapidation had set in. jackdaws and starlings were busy in the chimneys, the paint was peeling off the walls, and most of the windows were broken. year after year those windows were mended, but they never remained intact for more than a week, and during the war there has been no attempt at renewal. even the agents' boards, "to be let or sold" dropped one by one from their stems, as if in sheer weariness of so fruitless an announcement. it was not long before i obtained the loan of the keys, and proceeded to "take the atmosphere." it was decidedly unhealthful, i concluded, though i neither heard nor saw anything unusual during the hour i spent alone in quietly wandering through the deserted rooms. i found no trace of tramps, and all the closed windows were thickly cobwebbed _inside_, an important fact to notice in psychic research. i fixed upon the bathroom and one other small room, as the _foci_ of the trouble, and left the house with no other strong impression than that my movements had been closely watched, by some one unseen by me. it was no uncommon sight in pre-war days to see several smart motor cars drawn up at the gate. frivolous parties of explorers in search of a thrill drove in from the surrounding neighborhood, and romped gayly through the house and out again, and i discovered that several of those visitors had distinctly felt that they were being followed about and watched. my husband and i were naturally much interested in this haunted dwelling, so accessible, and so near to our own house. we determined that if we could make friends with the owner we would do a little investigation on our own. numerous people, on the plea that the house might suit them as a residence, got the loan of the keys, and spent an hour or two inside the place, wandering about the house and garden, but the owner was getting tired of this rush of spurious house-hunters. he was beginning to ask for _bona fides_, so we determined honestly to state our purpose. the proprietor was an old builder who owned several other houses. he received me very civilly, even gratefully. he would willingly give us the keys for as long a period as we required them. "castel a mare" brought him extreme bad luck; he longed to be rid of it, and he added that after our investigations, if my husband could give the house a clean bill of health it would be of enormous benefit to him, in enabling him to let or sell it. he did not seem very hopeful, but stated it to be his opinion that the hauntings were all nonsense, and that the screams people heard were the cries of some peacocks that lived in a property not far off. this sounded very reasonable, and i promised him that if we could honestly state that the house was perfectly unhealthful, we would permit our conclusions to be made public. my husband and i decided that the hour one p. m. till two p. m. would be the quietest and least conspicuous time in which to investigate. doubtless the night would have been better still, but it would have created too much excitement in the neighborhood, and callers to see "how we were bearing up" would have defeated our object. between one and two all torquay would be lunching, and we could easily slip in unobserved, and we would require neither lights nor warm comforts. we started at once, my husband keeping the keys, and making himself responsible for the doors. though the window-panes were badly broken there were no openings large enough to admit a small child, and, as i have said, the network of cobwebs within was evidence that no human being entered the house by the windows. the front door lock was in good order, and so were most of the other locks in the house. we shut ourselves in, and after a thorough examination of the premises we mounted to the first floor. three rooms opened on to it, belonging to the principal bedroom--a smaller room and a bathroom opening out of the big bedroom. my husband closed all the doors, and we sat down on the lower steps of the bare staircase leading to the floor above. that day we drew an absolute blank, and at two o'clock we closed every door in the house, and just inside the front door we made a careless looking arrangement of twigs, dead leaves, pieces of straw and dust, which could not fail to betray the passing of human feet, should anybody possess a duplicate key to the front door and enter by that means. the second day we found our twig and straw arrangements intact, but not a single door was shut, all were thrown defiantly wide. this seemed rather promising and we went upstairs to our seat on the steps, and carefully reclosing the doors immediately in front of us, sat down to await events. quite half an hour must have passed when suddenly a click made us both look up. the handle of the door, but a couple of yards distant from me, leading into the small room, was turning, and the door quietly opened wide enough to admit the passing of a human being. it was a bright sunny day, and one could see the brass knob turning round quite distinctly. we saw no form of any sort, and the door remained half open. for perhaps a couple of moments we awaited developments, then our attention was suddenly switched off the door by the sound of hurrying footsteps running along the bare boards on the corridor above us. my husband rushed up and searched each empty room, but neither saw anything nor heard anything more. before leaving the house we shut all doors, and locked all that would lock. such was the meager extent of our second day's investigations. on the third day the doors were all found wide flung. no door opened before our eyes as on our former visit, but a brushing sound was heard ascending the stairs, as if from some one pressing close against the wall. for about a fortnight nothing happened beyond what i have recounted, but i was strongly conscious that we were being watched. the most unhealthful spots were the bathroom, a servants' room entered by a staircase leading from the kitchen, and the stable, a small building immediately to the right of the house. the bathroom was in great disrepair, long strips of paper hung from the walls, and an air of profound depression pervaded it. obviously it had once been merely a large cupboard, and it had a window admitting light from a passage behind it. we had never once failed to find every door which we had closed thrown wide on our return, and one day we locked the bathroom, and removing the key we looked about for some spot in which to secrete it. on that floor was nothing large enough to hide even so small an object as a key, so we took it downstairs to the dining-room. in a corner lay a rag of linoleum about six inches square, under this we placed the bathroom key and left the house. that afternoon a house agent called and asked for the loan of the keys. he told us that a brave widow, who knew the history of the house, thought it might suit her to live in, and he proposed to take her over it and point out its charms. he would return the keys to us directly afterwards. i took advantage of this occasion to say to the agent that probably the screams some people had heard proceeded from the peacocks in the neighborhood. he shook his head and answered, "we hoped that might prove to be the case, but we have ascertained that it is not so." he seemed despondent about the place, even though what we had to tell him was as yet nothing very formidable or exciting. what we did not tell him was that we had locked up the bathroom, and hidden the key. we left him to discover that fact for himself. he returned with the keys in about an hour, and i asked him what the widow thought of "castel a mare." "she thinks something might be made of it. the cheapness attracts her," he answered. "but it will need so much doing to it," i demurred. "what did she think of the bathroom?" "she said it only needed cleaning and repapering. the bath itself she found in good enough condition." so the bathroom door was open, in spite of our having locked it and hidden the key! after the agent had gone we went to the house. every door stood wide. the bathroom key was still in its hiding-place, and the door open. we replaced the key. the ghosts laughed to scorn such securities as locks and keys. for a month or two we pursued our investigations, then we returned the keys to the owner. though we had seen and heard so little it was impossible to give the house a clean bill of health, and the old builder was much cast down. a few days afterwards we received a letter from him offering us the house as a free gift. it would pay him to be rid of the ground rent, and the place was as useless to him as to any one else. we thanked him and refused the gift. about this period i was lucky enough to get into touch with a former tenant of "castel a mare," and this lady most kindly gave me many details of her residence there. about thirty years ago she occupied it with her father and mother, and they were the last family to live in it for any length of time, and for many years it has remained empty. soon after their arrival this family discovered that there was something very much amiss with their new residence. the house, the garden, and the stable were decidedly uncanny, but it was some time before they would admit, even to themselves, that the strange happenings were of a supernatural order. the phenomena fell under three headings: a piercing scream heard continually, at any hour and during all seasons; continuous steps running along corridors, and up and down stairs; constant lockings of doors by unseen hands. the scream was decidedly the most unnerving of the various phenomena. the family lived in constant dread of it. sometimes it came from the garden, sometimes from inside the house. one morning whilst they sat at breakfast, they were violently startled by this horrible sound coming from the inner hall, just outside the room in which they sat. it took but a moment to throw open the door, but, as usual, there was nothing to be seen. on another occasion the family doctor had just arrived at the front door, and was about to ring, when he was startled by the scream coming from inside the house. this doctor still lives in the neighborhood, and is one of many people who can bear witness to the fact. the footsteps of unseen people kept the family pretty busy. they were always running to the doors to see who was hurrying past, and up and down stairs. very soon the drawing-room became extremely uncomfortable, and practically uninhabitable. it was always full of unseen people moving about. the lady of the house never felt herself alone, and when she found herself locked into her own room, the behavior of her astral guests seemed to her to have become intolerable. the master of the house no more escaped these attentions than did the rest of the inhabitants, and finally all keys had to be removed from all doors. one night some guests, after getting into bed, heard some one open the door of their room and enter. astonishment kept them silent, and in a minute or two their visitor quietly withdrew and closed the door again. they concluded that it must have been their hostess, and that thinking they were asleep she had not spoken, yet still they thought the incident very strange. the next morning they discovered that no member of the household had entered their room. on another occasion a lady who had come to help nurse a sick sister saw, one night, a strange woman dressed in black velvet walk downstairs. animals fared badly at "castel a mare." a large dog belonging to the family was often found cowering and growling in abject fear of something visible to it, but not to the human inhabitants, and the harness horse showed such an invincible objection to its stable, that it could only be got in by backing. later on i was told that a member of the psychical society had visited "castel a mare," and had pronounced the garden to be more haunted than the house. it is interesting to note how absolutely untenable badly haunted houses become. no matter how skeptical, how resolutely material the tenants may be, the phenomena wear them down to a humble surrender at last. after all, what can people do but quit a residence which is constantly showing incontrovertible evidence that it is possessed by numerous unseen entities that defy analysis? every one is interested in getting rid of this weird disturbance, but how to do it? the skeptic is resolute in unmasking the fraud, but finds himself balked by intangibility. he hears the scream at his door, and rushes to arrest the miscreant, but sees no one to grapple with. domestic difficulties become acute. no warning is given, no wages asked. the servants decamp, too scared to care for anything but putting distance between themselves and the nameless dread. visitors begin to fight shy of the house. they have heard the screams. month after month the master of the house, thinking of his rent, and his reputation for sanity, and what the loss of both would mean to him, clings to skepticism as his only hope and refuge. he is not going to be driven forth by any such stuff and nonsense as ghosts! why! there are no such things! "seen things? heard things?" well, yes, he has, but, of course, there must be some rational explanation. a man who has fought for king and country is not going to be defeated and put to flight by a pack of silly women's stories. he will soon get to the bottom of the whole affair, then woe betide the practical joker! when alone he racks his brains in vain. he is furious with himself for having heard the scream, and tells himself he must be "going dotty." he is puzzled, baffled, irritated, but more determined than ever to "stick it out." who can the "joker" be who is demoralizing his household, who has even dared to lock him into his own room? he thinks of his wife and family, and of their shattered nerves; he thinks of his terrified servants, and of his dog, which can no longer be persuaded to enter the house. he feels he must look elsewhere for the disturber of his peace. but where? he keeps careful watch unknown (as he thinks) to his family. the steps approach him, pass close to him, then die away in the distance, leaving him fuming, impotent. he finds it necessary to wipe his brow, which enrages him still more. at dead of night he watches on the staircase, with all lights full on. silence, utter silence! absolutely nothing to be seen or heard. he thinks of going to bed. he always said the whole thing was "tommy rot." the deathly silence is suddenly rent by a piercing scream at his very elbow, and he leaps to his feet, growling out an oath below his breath. he looks wildly round on every side of him. nothing! something strange is happening to his head. he passes his hand over his hair. it seems to be creeping along his scalp, and he thinks of the quills of a porcupine. "what the devil is he to do?" "go to bed," answers inclination, "you're doing no good here. yes! go to bed; that's the sensible thing to do." the next morning every one asks him if he heard "it." he acknowledges to himself that his temper is becoming vile. the day comes when he is left alone with his family. the staff has fled and he feels rather broken. at last he gives in, and agrees to seek another home, but it is not to the ghosts he gives in, but to the nervous fancies of a pack of silly women. he feels wonderfully light-hearted, however, now that his mind is made up, and a glow of magnanimity pervades him. "if you do a thing at all do it well and _at once_," he tells himself, and promptly hires another house in another neighborhood. when questioned by his men friends he laughs. the man in the street might understand certain things that he could tell, but the man in the club, never! "all tommy rot, my dear chap, but my wife got nervous, and the servants! you know what they are. scared by the scratch of a mouse. for the women's sake i thought it best to quit. you know what women are, when they once get an idea into their heads!" chapter xxi the sequel in a friend rang me up and asked me if i would form one of a party of investigation at "castel a mare." the services of a medium had been secured, and a soldier on leave, who was deeply immersed in psychic research, was in high hopes of getting some genuine results. i accepted the invitation because a certain incident had once more roused my curiosity in the haunted house. during our investigations i had been disappointed at not hearing the much-talked-of scream, the more so after learning from the former tenants how very often they had heard it. when i did at last hear it i was walking past the house on a very hot summer morning, about eleven o'clock. i was not thinking of the house, and had just passed it on my way home, when a piercing scream arrested my attention. i wheeled round instantly; there was not a doubt as to where the scream came from, but unfortunately, though there were people on the road, there was no one near enough to bear witness. the scream appeared to come from some one in abject terror, and would have arrested the attention of any one who happened to be passing. i mean that had no haunted house stood there, had the scream proceeded from any other villa, i am sure that any passer-by would have halted wonderingly, and awaited further developments. "castel a mare" lay in absolute silence, under the blazing sunshine, and in a minute or two i walked on. i could now understand what it must have meant to live in that house, in constant dread of that weird and hideous sound resounding through the rooms or garden. this incident made me eager to join my friend's party, and on reaching the house i found a small crowd assembled. the medium, myself, and four other women. the soldier, and an elderly and burly builder belonging to the neighborhood, who was interested in psychic research. eight persons in all. as there was no chair or furniture of any description in the house, we carried in a small empty box from a rubbish heap outside, and followed the medium through the rooms. she elected to remain in the large bedroom, on the first floor, out of which opened the bathroom, and she sat down on the box and leaned her back against the wall, whilst we lounged about the room and awaited events. it was a sunny summer afternoon, and the many broken panes of glass throughout the house admitted plenty of air. after some minutes it was plain to see that the medium had fallen into a trance. her eyes were closed, and she lay back as if in sound sleep. time passed, nothing happened, we were all rather silent, as i had warned the party that though we were in a room at the side of the house farthest from the road, our voices could plainly be heard by passers-by, and we wanted no interference. just as we were all beginning to feel rather bored and tired of standing, the medium sprang to her feet with surprising agility, pouring out a volume of violent language. her voice had taken on the deep growling tones of an infuriated man, who advanced menacingly towards those of us who were nearest to him. in harsh, threatening voice he demanded to know what right we had to intrude on his privacy. there was a general scattering of the scared party before this unlooked-for attack, and the soldier gave it as his opinion that the medium was now controlled by the spirit of a very violent male entity. i had no doubt upon the point. then commenced so very unpleasant a scene that i had no doubt also of the medium's genuineness. no charlatan, dependent upon fraudulent mediumship for her daily bread, would have made herself so intensely obnoxious as did this frail little woman. i found myself saying, "never again. this isn't good enough." the entity that controlled her possessed superhuman strength. his voice was like the bellow of a bull, as he told us to be gone, or he would throw us out himself, and his language was shocking. i had warned the medium on entering the house that we must be as quiet as possible, or we would have the police walking in on us. now i expected any moment to see a policeman, or some male stranger arrive on the scene, and demand to know what was the matter. the majority of our party were keeping at a safe distance, but suddenly the control rushed full tilt at the soldier, who had stood his ground, and attacking him with a tigerish fury drew blood at once. the big builder and i rushed forward to his aid. the rest of the party forsook us and fled, pell-mell, out of the house and into the garden. glancing through a window, near which we fought, i saw below a row of scared faces staring up in awed wonder. the scene being enacted was really amazing. this frail little creature threw us off like feathers, and drove us foot by foot before her, always heading us off the bathroom. we tried to stand our ground, and dodge her furious lunges, but she was too much for us. after a desperate scuffle, which lasted quite seven or eight minutes, and resulted in much torn clothing, she drove us out of the room and on to the landing. then suddenly, without warning, the entity seemed to evacuate the body he had controlled, and the medium went down with a crash and lay at our feet, just a little crumpled disheveled heap. for some considerable time i thought that she was dead. her lips were blue, and i could feel no pulse. we had neither water nor brandy with which to revive her, and we decided to carry her down into the garden and see what fresh air would do. though villas stood all round us, the foliage of the trees gave us absolute privacy, and we laid her flat on the lawn. there, after about ten minutes, she gradually regained her consciousness, and seemingly none the worse for her experiences she sat up and asked what had happened. we did not give her the truth in its entirety, and contrived to account for the blood-stained soldier and the torn clothing, without unduly shocking and distressing her. we then dispersed; the medium walking off as if nothing whatever had occurred to deplete her strength. some days after this the soldier begged for another experiment with the medium. he had no doubts as to her genuineness, and he was sure that if we tried again we would get further developments. she was willing to try again, and so was the builder, but with one exception the rest of the party refused to have anything more to do with the unpleasant affair, and the one exception stipulated to remain in the garden. she very wisely remarked that if she came into the house there was no knowing what entity might not attach itself to her, and return home with her, and she was not going to risk it. of course this real danger always had to be counted upon in such investigations, but as the men of the party desired a woman to accompany the medium, i consented, and we entered the house once more, a reduced party of four. after the medium had remained entranced for some minutes, the same male entity again controlled her. the same violence, the same attacks began once more, but this time we were better prepared to defend ourselves. the soldier and the stalwart builder warded off the attacks, and tried conciliatory expostulations, but all to no purpose. then the soldier, who seemed to have considerable experience in such matters, tried a system of exorcising, sternly bidding the malignant entity depart. there ensued a very curious spiritual conflict between the exorcist and the entity, in which sometimes it seemed as if one, then the other, was about to triumph. those wavering moments were useful in giving us breathing space from the assaults, and at length having failed, as we desired, to get into the bathroom, we drove him back against the wall at the far end of the room. finally the exorcist triumphed, and the medium collapsed on the floor, as the strength of the control left her. for a few moments we allowed the crumpled up little heap to remain where she lay, whilst we mopped our brows and regained our breath. the soldier had brought a flask of brandy which we proposed to administer to the unconscious medium, but quite suddenly a new development began. she raised her head, and still crouching on the floor with closed eyes she began to cry bitterly. wailing, and moaning, and uttering inarticulate words, she had become the picture of absolute woe. "another entity has got hold of her," announced the soldier. it certainly appeared to be so. all signs of violence had gone. the medium had become a heart-broken woman. we raised her to her feet, her condition was pitiable, but her words became more coherent. "poor master! on the bed. help him! help him!" she moaned, and pointed to one side of the room. again and again she indicated, by clenching her hands on her throat, that death by strangulation was the culmination of some terrible tragedy that had been enacted in that room. she wandered, in a desolate manner, about the floor, wringing her hands, the tears pouring down her cheeks, whilst she pointed to the bed, then towards the bathroom with shuddering horror. suddenly we were startled out of our compassionate sympathy by a piercing scream, and my thoughts flew instantly to the experiences of the former tenants, and what i myself had heard in passing on that june morning of the former year. the medium had turned at bay, and began a frantic encounter with some entity unseen by us. wildly she wrestled and fought, as if for her life, whilst she emitted piercing shrieks for "help." we rushed to the rescue, dragging her away from her invisible assailant, but a disembodied fighter has a considerable pull over a fighter in the flesh, who possesses something tangible that can be seized. i placed the medium behind me, with her back to the wall, but though i pressed her close she continued to fight, and i had to defend myself as well as defend her. her assailant was undoubtedly the first terrible entity which had controlled her. at intervals she gasped out, "terrible doctor--will kill me--he's killed master--help! help!" gradually she ceased to fight. the soldier was exorcising with all his force, and was gaining power; finally he triumphed, inasmuch as he banished the "terrible doctor." the medium was, however, still under the control of the broken-hearted entity, and began again to wander about the room. we extracted from her further details. an approximate date of the tragedy. her master's name, that he was mentally deficient when the murder took place. she was a maidservant in the house, and after witnessing the crime she appeared to have shared her master's fate, though by what means we could not determine. the doctor was a resident physician of foreign origin. at last we induced her to enter the bathroom, which she seemed to dread, and there she fell to lamenting over the dead body of her master, which had lain hidden there when the room was used as a large cupboard. it was a very painful scene, which was ended abruptly by her falling down insensible. she had collapsed in an awkward corner, but at last we lifted her out, and carried her downstairs to the garden. when i tried to revive her with brandy i found that her teeth were tightly clenched. i then tried artificial respiration, as i could feel no pulse. gradually she came back to life, quietly, calmly, and in total ignorance of what had occurred. the most amazing thing was that she showed no signs whatever of exhaustion or mental fatigue. we were all dead beat, but not so the fragile-looking little medium, though externally she looked terribly disheveled and draggled. this was the last time i set foot in the haunted house, which is now being demolished, but i still had to experience more of its odd phenomena. the date and names the medium had given us were later on verified by means of a record of villa residents, which for many years had been kept in the town of torquay. there is no one left now who has any interest in verifying a tragic story supposed to have been enacted about fifty years ago. it must be left in the realms of psychic research, by which means it was dragged to light. certain it is that no such murder came to the knowledge of those who were alive then, and live still in torquay. if there is any truth in the story it falls under the category of undiscovered crimes. the murderer was able somehow to hide his iniquities, and escape suspicion and punishment. i do not know if it is intended to build another house on the same site. i hope not, for it is very probable that a new residence would share the fate of the old. bricks and mortar are no impediment to the free passage of the disembodied, and there is no reason why they should not elect to manifest for an indefinite period of time. there can be no doubt that the scream was an actual fact. there are so many people living who heard it, and are willing to testify to the horror of it. amongst those living people are former tenants, who for long bore the nervous strain of its constant recurrence. there remains one other weird incident in connection with "castel a mare" which i will now try to describe. in the winter of i was engaged in war work which took me out at night. like every other coast town torquay was plunged at sunset into deepest darkness, save when the moon defied the authorities. the road leading from the nearest tramcar to our house was not lit at all, and one had to stumble along as best one could, even electric torches being forbidden. i was returning home one very dark, still night about a quarter past ten, and being very tired i was walking very slowly. owing to the inky darkness i thought it best to walk in the middle of the road, in order to avoid the inequalities in the footpath at each garden entrance to the villas. at that hour there was no traffic, and not a soul about. suddenly my steps were arrested by a loud knocking on a window-pane, and i collected my thoughts and tried to take my bearings. the sound came from the left, where two or three villas stand close to the road. all i could distinguish was a denser blot of black against the dense surroundings, but by making certain calculations i recognized that i stood outside "castel a mare." the knocking on the pane lasted only a moment or two, and was insistent and peremptory. i jumped to the instant conclusion that some one was having "a lark" inside, and was trying to "get a rise" out of me. i was too tired to be bothered, and moved on again with a strong inclination towards my own warm bed, when the knocking rang out more peremptory than ever. it seemed to say "stop! don't go on. i have something to say to you." involuntarily i stood still again, and wished that some human being would pass along the road. i really would not have cared who it was, policeman, soldier, maidservant. i would have laid hold of them and said, "do you hear that knocking? it comes from the haunted house." alas! no one did come. the night lay like an inky pall all about me, silent as the grave, save for that commanding order to stop which was rapped upon a window-pane whenever i attempted to move on. though the being who thus sought to detain me could not possibly distinguish who i was, or whether my gender was male or female, he could certainly hear my footsteps as i walked, and the cool inconsequence of his behavior began to nettle me. i was about to move resolutely on when i heard something else. this time something really thrilling! peal after peal of light laughter, accompanied by flying feet. but such laughter! thin, high treble laughter, right away up and out of the scale, and apparently proceeding from many persons. such flying feet! racing, pattering, rushing feet, light as those of the trained athlete. i stood enthralled with wonder, for in the pitch-black darkness of that house surely no human feet could avoid disaster. they were rushing up and down that steep, bare wooden staircase that i knew so well, and the laughter and the swift-winged feet sounded now from the ground floor, then could be clearly traced ascending, till they reached the third and last floor. tearing along the empty corridors, they began the breakneck descent again to the bottom, a pell-mell, wild rush of demented demons chasing each other. that is what it sounded like. i must have stood there for quite ten minutes, longing intensely for some one to share in my experiences, but torquay had gone to bed, and i felt it was time for me to do likewise. what could i make of the affair? nothing! rats? rats don't laugh. human beings having a rag and trying to scare the neighborhood? no human being could have run up and down that staircase in such profound darkness. it would have been a case of crawling up with a firm hand on the banister rail. i gave up trying to think and turned resolutely away. as i did so the knocking began again upon the window-pane. "do stop; oh! don't go away. stop! stop!" it seemed to call after me insistently as i quickened my footsteps and gradually outdistanced the imperious demand. what explanation have i to offer? none! the hallucinations of a tired woman? that may do for the general public, but not for me. you see, i was the person who heard it. there are many haunted houses that are quite habitable, such as hampton court palace, etc. where the apparition keeps strictly to an anniversary, or where the phenomena are mild and inoffensive, their presence can be endured with a certain amount of equanimity. the point really lies in this. are the ghosts who haunt a dwelling indifferent to, or hostile to, the presence of their companions in the flesh? if the situation is according to the latter, then the ghosts will certainly score. they will rid themselves of the human inhabitants by a wearing-down nerve pressure, which cannot be fought against with any chance of success. if the ghosts are shy or indifferent, wrapped up in their own concerns and containing themselves in a world of their own, then there is no reason why the incarnate and discarnate should not live peacefully together. to-day, february th, , i read the following in the _morning post_:-- "haunted or disturbed properties. a lady who has deeply studied this subject and possesses unusual powers will find out the history of the trouble and undertake to remedy it. houses with persistent bad luck can often be freed from the influence. strictest confidence. social references asked and offered." what would our grandparents have thought of this means of turning an honest penny? i have no doubt the lady "possessing the unusual powers" will be employed, and in many cases she will be successful. in the majority of cases i venture to say that she will fail, simply because the majority of cases are too elusive to be dealt with by human means. how would this lady treat the "castel a mare" scream? how would she deal with the next story i am going to relate? it is a simple matter to compile a book of thrilling ghost stories if direct evidence is not given, if names of persons and places are suppressed. i claim that my stories have a special interest and value, because i have tried to restrict them to such as can be attested to by living persons, closely related to me either by friendship or by family ties. in a very few instances i have been obliged for obvious reasons to suppress the names of houses and hotels. in these cases i am ready personally to supply full information to genuine students of the occult, if they are willing to approach me privately. chapter xxii the haunted lodge a considerable number of people are alive who can testify to the truth of the facts i now narrate. i regret that i have not been able to investigate this case personally, but i hope to do so before very long. in the spring of , my sister and her husband, major stewart, rented an old shooting lodge in argyllshire. the place was charmingly situated, the shooting and fishing excellent, and the scenery around was noted for its romantic beauty. though the main portion of the house was old, a new wing had been added for the sleeping accommodation of servants, and this arrangement shut them off at night from the ancient part of the dwelling. the original kitchen still remained in use. the servants had been sent on in advance to prepare the lodge, and when major and mrs. stewart arrived they were at once confronted with the information that the place bore a very evil reputation. the villagers had not hesitated to prime the maids with all sorts of creepy stories, eminently calculated to cause their precipitate departure. luckily for the master and mistress the maids had been with them for some years, and were neither of a timid age nor disposition, so the household settled comfortably down, in those long spring and summer days, which in the north means practically no darkness. my sister had banished the alleged hauntings from her mind, and probably the maids had done likewise, for all was going quietly and well, when suddenly, after a week's residence, there came a rude reminder. major and mrs. stewart were both awakened one night by unmistakable sounds of very noisy burglars, who appeared to have broken into the house through the kitchen quarters. the major lit a candle, and looked at his watch. it was just on midnight. what puzzled them both was the noise the intruders made. burglars naturally tread softly and stealthily, but these men stamped about in heavy boots, and were engaged in throwing about heavy articles. there seemed to be quite a number of accomplices involved in the enterprise, and they displayed an amazing indifference to detection. my sister and her husband decided that events could not be left to take their course. this matter must be looked into. the major armed himself with a loaded revolver. my sister armed herself with a lighted candle and a box of matches, and together they crept softly downstairs on their way to the kitchen. all this time the noises continued. stamping of heavy feet, crashing down of heavy weights, but on the way downstairs a first glimmering that the supernatural came into this affair began to dawn upon my sister. she became aware that an invisible presence was following them. the noises continued as they cautiously and silently crept towards the kitchen. as they reached the door, suddenly utter silence fell. inside nothing was disarranged. there were no signs of burglars, everything was as usual. considerably mystified major and mrs. stewart returned to bed, and were not disturbed again that night. the next day, about four o'clock in the afternoon, the same sounds began again. this time the noise was easily located in one of the unused bedrooms on the top floor of the house. heavily shod men were tramping about the floor overhead, throwing down heavy boxes and making a considerable disturbance. major and mrs. stewart ascended on tiptoe, and when outside the closed door listened intently. there was no mistake this time. nothing could sound more human than the activity going on inside that room. half a dozen men at least were in possession of it, and those men had to be confronted. luckily they had no means of escape. this time they really would be caught. after a few minutes of silent listening the major, whose hand was on the knob, threw open the door and bounded into the room. instant silence--nothing--not even the whisk of a defiant rat's tail! the husband and wife sat down and stared at one another in utter bewilderment. the bright spring daylight seemed to mock them as it flooded every chink and cranny. shortly after this occurrence three guests came to stay, two women and a man. they were given bedrooms on the top floor, but the room whence the disturbance had come was left severely alone. the household, with one accord, welcomed their advent as a pleasant distraction, and it was unanimously agreed that they should be kept in absolute ignorance of what had taken place. the next morning the three guests all had the same story to tell, of having had no sleep. heavily booted men kept passing their doors, and heavy articles were flung about in adjacent rooms. they had spent a night of terror. no one had possessed sufficient courage to look out into the corridor, along which the men were passing, and they had kept lights burning in their rooms till full daybreak. they refused to sleep again upon that floor. my sister moved them down to the second floor, on which she herself slept, and a thorough investigation of the house, outside and inside, was made. no conclusion was come to. the noises continued on the following night, but being overhead, and more distant, they were more endurable. a second male guest now arrived, and the assembled household waited in breathless interest to see how the ghosts would affect him. nothing whatever was told to him, and he was lodged in a bedroom immediately underneath the noisy one. the next morning, after all had passed a disturbed night, it was found that some of the noises had proceeded from the new guest. he had carried some of his blankets out into the garden and had slept there. he remained on, but refused to sleep in the house, and a tent was rigged up for him outside. he stated that the disturbances were too much for his nerves, though he had no idea what they were. his behavior, on the first night, in retiring to the garden, was meant as a strong protest against such treatment of a tired guest. his temper had got the upper hand of him, after fruitless efforts to sleep, and, finally, he had tramped downstairs with an armful of blankets, anticipating many apologies next morning from host and hostess, and a peaceful night to follow. the following day a new maid arrived. she slept in the old part of the house, and shortly afterwards asked my sister if the house was haunted, as she had been kept awake by "heavy people running past her door with naked feet." by this time it was only the influence of the staid old servants which prevented the younger ones from taking flight. my sister and her husband were not alarmed, they were profoundly interested. the summer passed on, and there were days and weeks when nothing was heard, then quite suddenly the disturbances would begin again. as the noises sounded so very human it was extremely difficult to believe that they really did not proceed from incarnate beings, and my sister told me that time after time, as she listened, she would say to herself, "now, beyond a shadow of doubt there are men in that room." she would creep upstairs, listen for some time with her hand on the door-knob--then suddenly throw it open--to find nothing. she never wearied of trying to surprise those invisible men. at times when her husband was away from home, she would spend the entire night in an obstinate attempt to solve the mystery. when she had no guests, and the servants were asleep in their new wing, she would awake to the noise. taking her candle she would mount on bare, silent feet to the floor above, and listen at the door, often for half an hour at a time. she had no fear, but intense curiosity. it was easy to trace what was going on in the room. men were packing, moving heavy boxes, throwing down heavy articles, walking about the floor with ponderous tread. first they would be at one end of the room, then move on to the other. sometimes they approached so near the door behind which she stood, that she expected to see it open, and to be confronted by several burly ruffians. she would rush suddenly in, candle in hand, only to be received in sudden, utter silence. not even the scurry of a scared mouse. after half an hour of patient waiting within the room, she would leave it, close the door, and sit down on the staircase. in a few moments the disturbance was again in full swing. were i writing an account of these hauntings for the psychical society i should go into the most minute details; suffice it here to say, that during all this time every sort of investigation had been carried out by practical men and women, who had personally heard the disturbances, and who were keenly interested in the phenomena. rats were, of course, the first natural suggestion, but no one put forth this theory after having once, with their own ears, heard the disturbances. no one could advance any rational conclusion. the whole affair was baffling in the extreme. it would have been simple enough to leave the place and forfeit the rent, but my sister and her husband loved the sport and the beauty of the surroundings, and were determined to remain, unless anything worse developed. no one ever saw anything unpleasant, or even suggestive of the supernatural, and the whole household had become more or less indifferent to the noises. they brought no harm to anybody, and might be safely ignored. mrs. stewart had four pomeranian dogs which did not produce a calming effect upon their human companions. they were constantly seeing things, bristling and showing every sign of terror. into the noisy room they refused to go, and they objected to being left a moment alone. they slept in my sister's bedroom. one night she was alone in the old house. major stewart had gone on business to edinburgh, and the servants had retired to bed in their own wing. mrs. stewart was sitting in the smoking-room, reading an interesting novel by the light of a lamp. a good fire burned, and the four poms were asleep on the hearth-rug. the door was slightly ajar, and outside it ran a short corridor. suddenly, at its far end a terrible noise arose. a very different noise to anything that had been heard before, and one so blood-curdling that mrs. stewart at last knew the meaning of mortal fear. two men were fighting desperately, swaying and wrestling, and snarling fiercely like two tigers locked in deathly combat. she glanced at the dogs. they were sitting up, staring with terrified eyes at the door, their bodies quivering, their little fangs showing. then--with a bound--they were off, tearing for dear life along the corridor towards the stairs. it was a situation that demanded considerable nerve. impossible to sit there alone in the dead of night, and listen to that hideous din, but a few yards from the door. she must follow the dogs as swiftly as she dared. she took up the lamp and moved stealthily to the door. the corridor was in complete darkness, and in that darkness the two men fought desperately, and below their breath they raved, groaned, blasphemed, incoherently. one long drawn out babel of breathless discord. in an overwhelming rush of terror mrs. stewart made a dash for the stairs, but while still in the corridor she heard flying feet approaching her from the end she was trying to reach. she shrank back against the wall, the flying feet passed in a wild tempestuous rush, and as they did so the lamp was struck violently out of her hand, and she was left in complete darkness. she reached her bedroom and locked the door, then she lighted the candles and looked for the dogs. she found them huddled together in abject terror under her bed. the next day my sister called upon the lady who owned the place, and recounting her experiences asked to be told the origin of the hauntings. she was told the following story:-- many years previously a farmer, who was a widower, lived in the lodge with an only son, who was grown up. the old farmer married again, a pretty young girl, and the son fell in love with his stepmother. a quarrel ensued, and a desperate conflict, in which the father stabbed his son to death. the stewarts did not leave the haunted lodge till some long time after the events i have narrated; in fact, my sister inhabited it after her husband died, during a stay in the south of england. it is difficult to form any conjecture as to the actual cause of the disturbances. how do ghosts contrive to make such a noise? the common answer would be, "they were astral noises heard clairaudiently." but was every one in the house clairaudient? it is possible, but most unlikely. when the noises began every one under that roof heard them, and continued to hear them till they ceased. the lodge is still to let, so perhaps the mystery may yet be unraveled. will a member of the psychical society not try his luck? the rent is low, the sport, of more than one kind, is excellent. in the course of time my widowed sister married again, and her second husband has given me a curious and gruesome story of an experience which came to him whilst he was still a bachelor. i will give it in his own words:-- "about fourteen years ago i retired from the london stock exchange, and owing to ill health i was advised by my doctor to take a long sea voyage. this advice i followed, and much benefited by rest and sea air i returned to london, after an absence of nine months. "always having lived an active life i could not contemplate settling down in utter idleness, and i consulted my solicitor on the subject of work. "he told me that a client of his had just bought a flourishing and well-known mill in north wales. he proposed to run it for a time alone, and then turn it into a company or syndicate, as he had not sufficient capital of his own to ensure its ultimate success. in due time, my solicitor gave me a letter of introduction to this man, and i went to stay at his house close to the mill, which he had just bought. "it was a rambling old place, which in the good old days had been a coaching inn. owing to bad management the landlord had failed, and for many years it had stood empty and 'to let.' it was a queer idea, i thought, to turn a coaching inn into a private residence, more especially as i soon heard that it had a very evil reputation. "though i made many inquiries in the neighborhood i could never get anything more definite than that there was some evil influence in the house. every one who lived in it came to a bad or violent end. i concluded that its proximity to his work caused the mill owner to purchase it, and i thought no more of the matter. "if i was favorably impressed, my intention was to put a certain amount of capital into the concern and learn the trade, but after staying for a few days with the mill owner, i came to the conclusion that i would have nothing to do with so odd a person. "he was of medium height and very thin, with rather straggling hair turning gray, and a sallow, hollow-cheeked face. he had a curious habit of glancing suddenly behind him, as if some one had just tapped him on the shoulder, and several other little traits bespoke an extreme nervousness of disposition. "one night i entered a room where he happened to be, and discovered him staring at himself in a mirror. i suppose i exhibited some surprise, for he wheeled round on me and cried, 'well! how do you think i am looking?' "had i answered truthfully i should have said, 'stark, staring mad.' his face was ghastly pale, and his eyes were blazing. i made some careless reply, and shortly afterwards left the house to play a game of billiards with some acquaintances i had made. there i was given some interesting information. the mill owner was a declared bankrupt. "i returned to the house at ten o'clock, and at once retired to bed, without again seeing my unfortunate host. "the next morning i was awakened at half-past seven by my hostess knocking at my door, and inquiring if i had seen anything of her husband. i replied that i had seen nothing of him, but if she was anxious i would dress quickly and have a look round for him. this offer she accepted with gratitude. the station was not far distant, and she suggested that he might have taken the train to manchester. would i go and make inquiries? "i was soon on the way, and interviewed a porter, who informed me he had seen the mill owner about an hour ago, not on the platform, but staring at the rails. the man had watched him, thinking his behavior suspicious, and remembering the evil reputation of his dwelling, but after a while he had turned away, and was last seen walking rapidly off in the direction of his own home. "i went back and reported what i had heard, and the very anxious wife suggested that i should snatch a hasty breakfast and then make inquiries at a farm a mile off, which was also their property. this i readily consented to do. i was extremely sorry for the poor woman, and though she did not make a confidant of me, i could see she was consumed with anxiety. "my errand was quite fruitless, nothing was known of the master, no one had seen him, and back i went to the mill house, feeling by this time that probably the wife had every cause for her anxiety. "i saw nothing of her when i entered. i looked into every room on the ground floor, and was just going to ring for a servant, when i fancied i heard a faint cry. "i went out into the hall and listened intently. the voice was calling from somewhere below the ground, and i thought at once of the huge cellars i had been shown, where once the good old ale had been brewed and stored. i ran to the door which led to the cellars; it was open, and then i clearly heard a woman's voice crying, 'oh! bring a knife! bring a knife quickly!' "i darted back into the dining-room and caught up the first knife i could find, a ham carver, then hastened to the door and began descending the dark stairs. "the cellars were fairly well lighted by two grated windows, and a horrible sight met my eyes. there stood the wife, bending under the weight of her husband, who was suspended by a rope round his neck from the great beam overhead. one glance at the hideously distorted face, the glazed eyes protruding from their sockets, the gaping mouth and swollen tongue, told me the worst. "hastily i severed the rope, and the wife and her dead husband sank to the ground together. "there was little to be done. we laid the corpse flat on the stone floor, and i persuaded her to leave it and come upstairs with me, and wait for the arrival of the doctor and police. this she consented to do. she was very quiet and composed, a curious apathy of indifference possessed her, and i would far rather have seen her in floods of natural tears. "by evening the house had fallen into a dead silence. the doctor had pronounced life to be extinct, and the corpse had been carried up to an unused bedroom immediately over the smoking-room. the police found that the mill owner had committed suicide by hanging. he had jumped off a stone slab, after having adjusted the rope to the beam and his own throat. with the exception of an old nurse who was devoted to her mistress, the servants all departed in a body, and the house was left brooding under a weight of intolerable depression. "i did not blame the servants. as a matter of fact, there was nothing i would have liked better than to quit the mill house there and then, and never set foot in it again, but i had the desolate widow to consider. i could not leave her alone, whilst there was still the smallest possibility of my being of use. added to this i had the queerest feeling that she required protection, though from what i would have been at a loss to say. "another feeling, which i combated violently, was a sensation of being mocked and jeered at by some unseen entity. i was being urged to get out of the house, to recognize my own impotence, to mind my own business, and when i metaphorically replied, 'get thee behind me, satan,' i could have sworn i heard a sly laugh. "of course i told myself all this was but the result of a shock to the nerves, and i was not going to pay any attention to it, so despite my intense longing to run out of the house i settled down with the daily paper, a cigarette, and a novel in the smoking-room, and resolutely turned my thoughts away from the tragedy. "the widow, and her old nurse, who had promised me not to leave her mistress for a moment, had retired together for the night, so i felt satisfied, so far as they were concerned. "i suppose i must have dozed off, for i was suddenly roused broad awake by footsteps overhead, in the room where the corpse lay. i sat up straight and listened intently. were my nerves playing tricks with me? no; certainly not. there was no mistaking that sound for hallucination. it was perfectly clear and distinct. a man was walking about overhead, and the only man save myself within these walls had hanged himself by the neck until he was dead. there it was--the sound. a man's footsteps pacing slowly up and down the floor of the bedroom above, from end to end, backwards and forwards. "i considered what i had better do. i was sure the widow and the old nurse were in the bedroom, quite at the other end of the house. probably they were both asleep. i hoped so. what had i better do--nothing? yet this inaction irked me. my curiosity was intense. the supernatural had never occupied much of my thoughts, but now it began to do so. those steps must proceed from the supernatural. there was no other explanation. i was the only live man in the house. "at last i could stand it no longer. i jumped up and proceeded upstairs. the lights had been left to me to extinguish; they were still on, and i saw at once that the door of the bedroom was open. "i entered the room, lit the gas and searched every corner. no living thing was present. the dead man lay in rigid lines beneath a sheet. i left the room again in darkness, and carefully closing the door i went softly along to the widow's room, and knocked very gently. "the old nurse came to the door. she told me her mistress was asleep, and that the doctor had given her a sleeping draught. neither of them had left the room since they entered it to go to bed, more than an hour ago. "i went downstairs again and took up the newspaper, but almost immediately the footsteps began once more overhead, in the room where the dead man lay. "the sound was soft and stealthy at first, then it grew louder. the same footsteps moving about the floor, up and down, up and down. i am not ashamed to say that i felt a cold sweat break out all over me. i could not stand that sound any longer. i made up my mind to go to bed. "i removed my shoes and turned out the light. as i did so i could have sworn i heard a sly, low laugh behind me. i crept upstairs. the door of that horrible room was again open. with a shaking hand i closed it, and hurried to my bedroom, locking the door at once. "the next day i told my experiences to one of the acquaintances i had made, and he volunteered to come in and keep me company until the funeral was over. i gladly accepted his offer. i did not hear the footsteps again. i conclude because the widow was sitting with us on the following nights, and the ghost had no desire to terrify her." chapter xxiii auras i was born with the power to see auras, and i had attained to quite a grown-up age before i discovered that every one could not see them. what is an aura? you will see them glittering round the heads of saints, and of the christ in church windows. you will see them painted round the head of the blessed virgin, round the head of the infant she holds, but, indeed, auras are the property of all, however humble and lowly. nothing that has life, be the spark ever so faint, is without its astral counterpart, its tenuous surrounding atmosphere. science has demonstrated this. auras have now been photographed. habitual seeing of human auras has made me no more or less observant of them than i am of the human face. if i am asked by any one to say what her aura looks like, i do so to the best of my ability, but at that complacent moment it is a very tame affair, much like the aura that any one may see surrounding a lighted candle. a medley of prismatic hues, no color predominating. where auras become really interesting is in a room full of people. i look down to the far end of the room where a group is seated talking. i cannot hear what they are saying, but i can tell at once whether the conversation is harmonious or otherwise. often there will be one member of the group whose aura is very disturbed. it will emit flashes of brilliant red as he talks vehemently. the aura of the man he is addressing has turned a sulky, leaden gray. a woman who is sitting listening has an aura of intense boredom. the colors are all there, but they have become faded, and the extreme tips droop dejectedly, like so many wilted blades of grass. the biggest aura i ever saw was that of the late mr. sexton, a great orator whom i once heard in the house of commons. some people have mean, tight little auras, others have great spreading haloes of brilliant light. i met with a very unusual aura quite lately. a young woman, miss l., came to tea with me, a charming, cultured woman, whose profession it is to keep a large girls' school. she is much interested in occult matters, and we "got upon" the subject of a rather wonderful case of spiritualism of which she knows the details--the medium being a young girl whom i will call "elsie." whilst i was talking to miss l. i could not help observing something very peculiar in her aura; it was all lopsided. in place of being a complete circle around her head, it had a huge bulge out to the left. i had never before seen an aura like that, and it interested me greatly. just before leaving she mentioned auras, and asked me what hers was like. i told her honestly that it was peculiar, lopsided, and bulging on one side. she laughed and said she knew that, because "elsie" always chaffed her about it, saying, "you wear your halo all awry." this was very interesting confirmation of my power to see auras correctly. i don't know "elsie," i don't even know her name, which has been kept a secret, but we evidently see miss l.'s aura in exactly the same peculiar form. the other day i was sitting reading by the window, and as i moved in my chair i caught sight, "with the tail of my eye," of something bright at the other end of the room. a patch of light about a foot deep, and two feet long was coming from behind the edge of a tall screen that hid a door. i rose and walked out of the room. behind the screen was a maid, whom i had not heard enter the open door. she was busy over some quiet work, and it was her aura that i had seen, though she herself was hidden from view. once before in my life my attention has been drawn to the aura of one whom i could not at the moment see in the flesh. i happened to be passing a glove shop in the south of france, and as i strolled slowly past the door a blaze of yellow gold inside the shop caught my eye, and attracted my attention. i paused at once and looked through the open door. this great golden aura belonged to the empress elizabeth of austria, who was standing at the counter. her back was turned towards me, and i stood for a minute watching this aura of a woman whose restless imagination, and passionate love for the bitter wine of liberty, brought her finally to an absolutely fitting death. i believe she would have chosen this death before all others, for at heart she was a born anarchist. she fell painlessly by the dagger of anarchism. one effect of being able to see auras is that they fix certain incidents firmly in the mind. i remember one such incident very clearly. i was staying at hawarden with the gladstones whilst the irish troubles of ' were at their height. one afternoon we were all assembled on the lawn having tea; mr. gladstone was standing rather apart, his hands full of papers, which had just been brought to him. i saw him unfold what looked like a large poster, glance at it, then suddenly he dashed it to the ground and stamped viciously upon it. i heard him give vent to some exclamations of intense anger, but had i heard nothing i could not have failed to know he was desperately annoyed over something, for he was suddenly wrapped in a brilliant crimson cloud, through which sharp flashes like lightning darted hither and thither. he was "seeing red." i remember mrs. gladstone murmuring something about "posters being torn down in ireland," but i was too thrilled over her husband's aura to pay much heed to what she said. i shall never forget that scene, and the practical disappearance of mr. gladstone in the enveloping folds of a great red cloud. in a minute or two he emerged, and resumed his habitual aura, which extended to about two and a half feet beyond his head, and was largely tinged with purple. at hawarden church on sunday, whilst he read the lessons, i watched his aura with much interest, because it changed so continuously, and i discovered that this change arose out of his absorption in what he read. only one little example can i remember to illustrate what i mean. "and the heart of pharaoh was hardened and he would not let the people go." in reading those words aloud mr. gladstone's aura deepened to red, and i saw he was very indignant with pharaoh's behavior. during the sermon he sat facing us in our pew, and in a chair just beneath the pulpit, and i could tell by watching his aura just how he felt about the discourse. later on, just after the tragic murders by the fenians in phoenix park of lord frederick cavendish and mr. bourke, i received a note from mrs. gladstone, asking me to go to breakfast with them in their london house in buckingham gate. when i arrived the first person i saw was lady frederick cavendish, calm and composed, and bearing her loss with quiet stoicism, but the atmosphere of the house was very different from that of hawarden. a gloom was over all, and for the first time i noticed that mr. gladstone's aura was depressed and tired. its vigorous vibrations had considerably slowed down, like a jet of flame that had been turned low, and the extremities drooped dejectedly. though crimson red is the color of anger, there is a beautiful soft rose which is the color of love. the "green-eyed monster" of jealousy history has handed down to us from the ancient seers, also the "jaundiced" appearance of envy. a gloomy, grumbling person has a very leaden gray atmosphere, and one who has "a fit of the blues" shows he is "off color" in his dull, muddy blue aura. but there is a beautiful sky-blue to be seen in the auras of many artists and scientists. very material, earthly people have generally a deep, dull orange tinge in their astral envelope, and there is a glorious golden yellow surrounding the heads of the spiritually joyful and highly intellectual. purple is the color of power, greatness. children have an aura of crystal whiteness, which develops color after the age of seven. i remember the aura of frederic myers very well. a large and intensely spiritual halo. he is the only man i can remember in those days--about ' -' --as having an aura within an aura, though this phenomenon is now becoming more marked. "a rainbow was about his head," those words explain exactly what i mean. about a foot above his head circled a pure rainbow, and this beautiful decoration looked as if it were superimposed upon the original aura, which streamed out far above it. i have only as yet, in these later years, seen this rainbow above the heads of two people: one alive, miss maud roydon, one alas! gone west--the incomparable elsie inglis. i conclude it means a degree of self-sacrificing spirituality, which as yet has been attained to by very few. indeed, i would venture further, and assert that it stands for a certain initiation conferred upon "the beloved" by the masters of wisdom. king edward was blessed by a very fine aura of constantly changing colors. i remember once noticing this in the most unspiritual of environments, and whilst the king was still prince of wales. we were on newmarket heath, and his majesty came up to me and said, "i hear you are married." after a few minutes of friendly conversation, which had taken an amusingly domestic turn, he said to me, "now, how much has your husband got a year?" there was nothing in the question but the most friendly interest; still, it will naturally seem strange that he should have possessed the faintest curiosity as to the financial situation of so humble a member of his people. whilst he put the question, and waited for the answer, his whole aura and atmosphere deepened and intensified. he was actually interested in my answer, and this i have always believed was the fundamental reason of his great popularity. the power he possessed of throwing himself heart and soul into the trivial, as into the great things of life. he was intensely human, with a genuine fund of sympathy for the ordinary affairs of life. he liked to know the domestic conditions of those whom he honored with his friendship, and the first time i ever spoke to him, at a dance given by the rothschilds in piccadilly, i saw at once that the natural human simplicities of life absorbed him absolutely whilst under discussion. though a man who would not tolerate a liberty, the easiest way to get on with him when alone, was to confide in him any personal difficulty, and to forget who he was, always providing that one had the good breeding to remember instantly that he was the king when speaking to him in public. the most occult day (to use the popular expression) i ever spent was the th june, , the day of the postponed coronation. i shall never forget that warm summer day of stupendous gloom, and oppressive darkness. there was something more than meteorology in that leaden pall that hid the skies, and enveloped the whole of london. even the densest materialists were uneasy, startled and inquiring, for putting aside that mighty aura of sorrow and gloom rising up to heaven from the hearts of millions, there was, as it were, the response of heaven herself. that dark and mournful response nature assumed, when wrapping herself in a shroud of leaden darkness she brooded over the city, like the pall of death itself. that day the mystic walked in a dream, enmeshed in the warp of great occult happenings being woven out in the loom of karmic fatality. it was impossible to settle down to doing anything. one just "sat about," living every moment intensely. once, when presenting a girl at court, during the present reign, i noticed what a very striking aura john burns possesses. this girl naturally wished to see all she could, so we went to the palace very early, and found a seat in the throne room, close to where the king and queen would sit later on. in a short time celebrities began to stroll into the royal circles, divided from us by a cord. first came the present lord grey of falloden, and then came mr. john burns, resplendent in dark blue knee breeches and gold-embroidered coat. he moved about quite familiarly inside the holy of holies, speaking first to one, then another of the gathering little crowd. being so close to him i observed him with unusual interest. his aura is very large, and what i can only describe as massive, and already it was tinged by the gray veil of disappointment. i have seen him several times since, and the veil has become more opaque. what interested me so profoundly in him that night were the contrasts i knew to exist in his life, and which must have profoundly influenced his outlook on human existence. one afternoon i was walking alone up piccadilly. there had been rumors of coming riots, but no one in the west end gave any credence to such silly stories, and the streets were full of the usual gay throng, intent on amusement. suddenly, as i walked along, a youth on a bicycle dashed past the pavement, shouting something i could not catch. more men on bicycles followed. the promenaders began to "sit up and take notice." carriage horses were being smartly whipped up, and women began to scurry nervously. then it seemed to me i could hear something above the roar of the ordinary traffic, a hoarse prolonged shout. servants now appeared on doorsteps, and looked about anxiously for non-existent policemen, others began closing outside shutters before windows. just as i reached the naval and military club i saw that the servants had come out, and were about to close both great gates--"in" and "out." one of these men pointed up the street and advised me at once to seek cover, and i saw in the dim distance what looked like a mighty crowd advancing. in a second i had darted through the gates, and was safely inside before they closed upon the approaching mob. i have only a very confused memory of what happened after. of kindly attentions from the members. of women's shrieks as their carriages were stopped, and their valuables taken from them. of the deafening roar of furious male voices, crashings of glass windows, howls of savage exultation, as a hosier's shop close by fell victim to the rioters, the clatter of hoofs from terrified horses. i could see nothing, but the battering upon the club gates added tenfold to the terrifying din. the members withdrew, taking me with them, to the house, and prepared to hold it against the furious mob, should the gates give way. such wild moments are not easily forgotten, and why i looked upon john burns that night at court with such a peculiar interest was because he led that riot, and suffered imprisonment for so doing. looking upon him in court dress, in the royal enclosure, on intimate terms with the great of the world, though perhaps not the great of the earth, knowing him to hold high office in the government, i marked the change. then throwing back my mind to those poignant hours in the past, which he had created, i felt that nothing is too extraordinary to belong to the careers of some men; they live through several lives in one. their karma is so crowded with stirring events, in the working out of the past, in the makings of the future, that nothing human can be any longer strange to them. the auras of such men are naturally great, because such contrasts of light and shade only come in the lives of men possessed of great and lofty ideals. for some years little has been heard of the former idol of battersea. he is facing west now, though a ray or two of dawning light may still touch him in the near future. that wild idealism which comes to men who keep their eyes fixed upon a dawn so long in coming, fades out behind the veil of disillusion, as the days come not, and the years draw nigh with no pleasure in them. man's ingratitude to man is one of the cruelest tests imposed upon the soul of idealism. the soul that can bear it without a tinge of cynicism has risen to mighty heights. such grandeur of soul was possessed by elsie inglis. so impregnated was she with pure love of humanity, that when her own country virtually turned its back upon her, this irreparable disgrace, brought upon themselves by her own people, cast no shadow upon her soul. in the years before the war i often noted her lovely aura as i sat amongst an audience, and watched her on a platform fighting woman's battle. after the war broke out i only saw her once, by the merest chance. it was then i marked that a rainbow was now about her head, and i knew at once that tremendous events were in store for her, though the british government had refused her services. ah! the poor little cramped mind of england's officialism! yet has not this very poverty of imagination, this iron-bound worship of worn-out tradition, brought to birth an internationalism which could never have been ours without it? it drove forth hundreds, thousands of ardent souls, to other lands. rejected by their own, they clasped the pierced hands of strangers, and laid down their own incomparably gallant lives at the foot of a cross, whereon hung those who had at length become their brothers through a commune of agony. elsie inglis received no honor or decoration from the people, or the "great of england." only the body, worn very thin in the service of humanity, was at last honored in death. knowing the woman, and the stuff she was made of, one can only feel intensely this was all as it should have been. to offer elsie inglis a medal would have been a sacrilege. "hands off such souls as hers," is the cry one's every instinct rings forth to the "bauble worshipers" of this world. besides, and this is a very great besides, those who go with a rainbow about their heads are not destined for earthly honors. they have taken the great step, they have received the great initiation, a jewel in the blazing crown of eternity, and for them no more are the laurel wreaths that perish. in justice to those throned on high on earth, the above should be remembered. if it is with elsie inglis, as i fully believe, she would have understood that for her god and mammon were eternally divorced, and any attempt at worldly recognition would have been frustrated by "the lords of eternal light and wisdom," whose chosen disciple she had become. the psychology of the people is a very interesting and curious study, to the aura seer. the analysis of the collective mind awaits some great writer who will give us a book of absorbing interest. those who can see auras have a great advantage, if they are public speakers. during the period of my life, when i had a great deal of political platform work, i was always very sensitive to my audiences, because i could see how they were taking my remarks. i have always found big audiences of the people very colorless in the main. flashes of bright color would be apparent all over the hall, but there was no sustained glow. whilst sitting on some one else's platform, often that of a great orator, i have marked exactly the same phenomenon. the soul of the people is still young and childlike. it has the indifference of extreme youth, the forgetfulness and ingratitude of extreme youth. i look back upon the fall of parnell and dilke, great minds whose earthly careers were destroyed by the people. all the world knows why. to-day i look on the "perpetrators" of the gallipoli and mesopotamia tragedies, and i see they have all gone up higher in the esteem of the people. they have risen in the world, and are looked upon as ripe for even higher office. the poor human brain reels before such anomalies. i was in london when the gallipoli reports were given to the public. they shook me to the very foundation of my being. i think they were given out towards the end of the week, because i remember saying to myself, "on sunday morning the british working man and woman will read all this abomination of desolation and crime in their sunday paper." purposely i strolled about the london parks in the lovely afternoon of that sunday. crowds were there, reading, courting, sleeping. i went home realizing that no one cared. the collective aura of the people was as serene and indifferent as ever. i have come to think more kindly of our people's pathetic indifference, because i am sure it is the indifference of very young souls, who have passed through but few incarnations, and "know not what they do." i see them exploited by the politicians, given a rag doll to amuse themselves with, anything will do, from the big loaf to the "kayzer," and sent to the polls hugging their golliwog, but i doubt the returning troops being so easily amused and deluded. the state of the universe is the expression of man's desire, and man is really the builder of his own body, that "house not made with hands," though in his youthful ignorance he attributes both to an over-ruling intelligence, whom he alternately blesses and curses. when men learn that they must work with, and not against the mental laws, they will no longer ask why god permits the world to be so full of misery. they will cease to erect a scapegoat, because they will have learned that they are the makers of their own misery or happiness. many people seem to think that the power to see auras must be very useful in helping one to distinguish between friends and foes, but such is not really the case. auras exemplify individual character, not individual predilections, and some of my friends being very bad characters, indeed, have shocking auras. i had one great friend who, at the beginning of our acquaintance, spent much of his time in prison, which was really a blessing for his ill-used wife. his aura was literally in tatters, just a little irregular circle of rags and patches. i had just succeeded in making him sober, by insisting constantly and most seriously that he was "a cut above the public-house," and much too superior a man to mix with such degraded companions, when the war broke out. he went to the front, and on his first return to blighty, badly gassed, he came at once to see me. i really felt a sort of personal pride in him, and an actual sense of personal possession in his enormously grown aura. it was clear evidence of his sprouting soul. he went back to france, but was wounded and again gassed, and this time his return was final, as he was of no further use. for a few months he did odd jobs with great difficulty, then, finally, he succumbed to pneumonia. i was very proud indeed of his aura as i sat beside his bed, his hand in mine. there was real love in my heart for him that day. here, indeed, was an infant soul that had begun to develop on the right road, and the tattered aura of rags and patches had become a neatly trimmed little halo round his poor tired head. so he went west, and his broken body, wrapped in the british flag, went to a soldier's grave, and a firing party gave him the last post. his wife returned home to find that her neighbors, anxious to celebrate the occasion, had brought their best china and had arranged a tea-party. as we sat down, she turned to me and said: "well, thank god, my man's been buried like a gentleman." when i came to think it over i arrived at the conclusion that "the worst character in the slums" had not done so badly with his life, after all. he had died like a gentleman. the british flag is a strange case of transubstantiation. at first, just so many pieces of common material sold across a counter. fashioned into the emblem of our nation it becomes a sacred symbol, taken kneeling like a sacrament, which indeed it has become. what better shroud could any man ask for? i am sorry that i have had no opportunity of seeing president wilson's aura, the man who has turned his face towards a heavenly ideal, and is scattering the seed amongst all the nations. when a man sets out on such a long radiant path, he will carry visibly in the daylight an illuminated brow. he has brought to us the vision without which the people perish. the life of the heart has always meant much more to me than the life of the head. the rebel by nature can only be held by love, and i have been blest by twenty-eight years of perfect union with one who has given me love for love, faith for faith, and complete intellectual understanding. my life has also been wonderfully gifted by staunchest friends, who have loved me through sunshine and storm, and who still clasp hands with me across continents and seas. i suppose i must have enemies. they say every one has, but they have never made me aware of their enmity, perhaps because there is no room in a very full heart to receive aught but love. if i were to single apart one outstanding feature in my life, it would be the wonderful kindness and friendship that has been given to me. ah! how easy that makes it to write lovingly of others. behind all this lies the master passion of the born mystic for liberation. the constant ache and urge for real freedom, and power to be victorious over all circumstances. at home in all scenes, restful in all fortunes. there is the urge of the soul for universality of contact with all humanity, independent of race, color or creed. the urge of the spirit to smash the confines which pinion it down to earth. i think it is really the urge of reincarnating life still clinging to me. the knowledge that my immortal soul must return to the house of bondage, until perfection is reached, and there is the going out no more from the father's house, from a freedom which has become supreme. chapter xxiv adieu to-day there are many, an ever-swelling number, who behold with joy the gates ajar, who standing in the twilight catch momentary glimpses of dawn upon the horizon of time, who know by personal experience that they have come into touch with a region where vast schemes are conceived, and universal laws of boundless magnitude connected with the soul's eternal pilgrimage are carried out. again, there are others, timid, shrinking souls to whom, by a mere chance combination of circumstances, a glimpse has been shown which is none too welcome. such affrighted ones drop the eyelids from the startling vision. they will have none of it, and they are free to accept or reject, go on, or stand still. others, again, have actually been born with that super-normal sight which can discern the workings behind the drop scene shrouding the stupendous drama of cosmic government. i have long been conscious that the veil has worn very thin between myself and another world lying around me. as the years draw swiftly on, and every second thrown back into eternity brings me nearer to blessed deliverance i find the rents in the veil grow more numerous. they bring single shining moments, which reveal the spirit of life, its motives and consecration. through the driving storm wrack there will come quite suddenly a brilliant heavenly glimpse. it never lasts long, but long enough to show me reality. something of the vastness of cosmos and the pathetic minuteness of this earth, just a speck of star dust in the palm of god, an atom of world stuff swinging in boundless space. something of the reality of those shining ones who guide the progression of natural order, embodiments of resistless energy and of stateliest imperial mien. glimpses that show to me what was in the mind of the great christian mystic when he wrote of a mighty angel: "a rainbow was upon his head, and his face was as it were the sun, and his feet as pillars of fire." behind such visions extend vast ranges of being, quite outside my ken, yet, nevertheless, speaking to me of things, for the expression of which no words have yet been coined. infinitely greater than anything that can be said. significant in meaning beyond expression, and far transcending imagination. such glimpses show to me lives that as compared with ours, are as ours to the tiniest insect afloat for an hour on the breath of the south wind. lives which ordain the fateful hour when the rise and fall of empires, the destruction of nations, and the clash of worlds, and their cosmic significance in world history shall begin or end. where things life promised but never gave come to full fruition. other glimpses and echoes from the great beyond bring to me the answer to a problem, a few notes and a new melody, a new energy of hope and love, an inspiration from the great brotherhood, whose lowliest disciple i am, whose work to establish the brotherhood, the true affinity of humanity upon earth i hold most dear, most high. in the present dark hour all the world is drinking of one chalice, its wine the life outpoured for others. all humanity is partaking of one bread, a body which has most truly and literally being given to be broken. death has left many songs unsung, a myriad graves are filled, youth is blighted in the bud, in this white winter men call death, and its cup is pressed close to the lips of love. many are the hopes that lie folded away in the quiet cemetery of the heart, where we lay flowers of tender reminiscence. yet, this sacrament of fellowship which is eclipsed in the awful impoverishment of human life will one day be swelled by the return of the young, fallen on the field of honor, glorified and purified for their god-appointed work in evolution. perhaps i have gone a few steps farther than most people into the mysterious beyond, come nearer reading the great riddle, for the creature who is not afraid of thought and worldly condemnation, who is not afraid of solitude or ridicule, will soon come near the truth, will quickly catch the incommunicable thrill of advancing destinies. she will cease to live under the despotism of days, the tyranny of years. she will know that the swiftest touch cannot put a finger on the present, and that there is but one recorder of time, the great star clock of the sky. the symbol of life is the circle, not the straight line, and each of us lives over again the story of humanity, as in the shadow of pre-natal gloom we repeat the physical evolution of the race. the increase of knowledge but widens the horizon of the unknown promised land, to which we are moving onward and upward throughout the ages. however far the mind travels there is always deep down in the soul stores of information awaiting transference to the surface of consciousness. rich mines of knowledge are there awaiting the day when they will be uncovered, waiting in patience the day when some divine adventurer will search for them and bring them to light. however great its aspirations the soul but looks out upon an illimitable horizon, and sees the human pilgrimage as a long emmæus walk, with hearts burning by the way. always must there be mystery in life, because life is spiritual, not material. the presence of mystery in life is the presence of god, and the infinity of god shows that mystery must always exist. such glimpses beyond the veil are all transfiguring. they exalt the heart in a single flash to a glow point, and show the soul of the universe in the incandescent crucible of the eternal. in a deeply beshadowed time such visions tell us all that we need know, and it is this: god is with us and in us. though obscure for the moment his transcendence stands outside the change and flux of time, and his awful sovereignty sways irresistibly the tides of human circumstances. hours must come when the pen falls from the nerveless fingers, the task is left undone, when the weary cry goes up, "there is nothing we can do!" we have been doing for so many thousand years, the years which the locusts hath eaten. what have we achieved? when such hours come, as come they must, is there nothing to fall back upon but this awful confession of failure, this haunting undertone of all our mortal life that many ages have not hushed? surely, yes! there is always for the mystic the unmeasured immensity of soul land to explore, that great beyond and within which is infinite, eternal, and of which we are all a part. ah! but it may be said, all are not mystics, to which i would reply, all who desire can be mystics. for what, after all, is a mystic, but one who enters into possession of the inner life? one who becomes fully aware of her self-consciousness, and who gains thereby new faculties and enlightenment. it places her in touch with that supreme reality which some call god and some the great creative power. the mystic knows that power is to be found within through identification and submergence with the primordial force which constitutes the ocean of life. she can always pass the sky and clouds of earth, and enter the great, deep, real world outside. it is always possible to her to seek a fairer world where the only things that matter are the eternal verities, which should be taken kneeling, like a sacrament. love and life which is beauty. love and power which is goodness. love and knowledge which is wisdom. the road of the flaming sacred heart is strewn with insight, kindness and sympathy, which gives eyes to the blind, ears to the deaf, and a voice to the dumb! it is paved with love that serves the humble and defends the disinherited. bravely it walks the _via dolorosa_, and it "beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, its reward to know the love of god, unutterable even to them that know." the mystic can face the future without fear, for the power has been given her to take her soul, and like a carrier dove, loose it into space, to speed away into the fathomless, the everlasting, the voiceless deep whose silence is the "welcome home" of god. toppleton's client or _a spirit in exile_ by john kendrick bangs new york charles l. webster & company to f. d. s. contents. chapter i. page introducing mr. hopkins toppleton chapter ii. mr. hopkins toppleton leases an office chapter iii. mr. hopkins toppleton encounters a weary spirit chapter iv. the weary spirit gives some account of himself chapter v. hopkins becomes better acquainted with the weary spirit chapter vi. the spirit unfolds a horrid tale chapter vii. a chapter of profit and loss chapter viii. further developments in the making of a name chapter ix. the crowning act of infamy chapter x. the spirit's story is concluded chapter xi. toppleton consults the law and forms an opinion chapter xii. toppleton makes a fair start chapter xiii. at barncastle hall chapter xiv. the dinner and its result chapter xv. barncastle confides in hopkins chapter xvi. mr. hopkins toppleton makes a discovery chapter xvii. epilogue toppleton's client. chapter i. introducing mr. hopkins toppleton. mr. hopkins toppleton, barrister of london and new york, was considered by his intimates a most fortunate young man. he was accounted the happy possessor of an income of something over fifty thousand dollars a year, derived from investments which time had shown to be as far removed from instability, and as little influenced by the fluctuations of the stock market, as the pyramids of egypt themselves. better than this, however, better even than personal beauty, with which he was plentifully endowed, mr. hopkins toppleton was blessed with a great name, which he had received ready-made from his illustrious father, late head of the legal firm of toppleton, morley, harkins, perkins, mawson, bronson, smithers and hicks. the value of the name to hopkins was unquestionable, since it enabled him, at his father's death, to enter that famous aggregation of legal talent as a special partner, although his knowledge of law was scant, receiving a share of the profits of the concern for the use of his patronymic, which, owing to his father's pre-eminent success at the bar, messrs. morley, harkins, _et al._, were anxious to retain. this desire of mr. toppleton's late associates was most natural, for such was the tremendous force exerted by the name he bore, that plaintiffs when they perceived it arrayed in opposition to their claims, not infrequently withdrew their suits, or offered terms upon which any defendant of sense might be induced to compromise. on the other hand, when a defendant found himself confronted with the fact that hopkins toppleton, sen., had joined forces with the plaintiff, he usually either settled the claim against him in full or placed himself beyond the jurisdiction of the courts. when toppleton, sen., died, it was very generally believed that the firm, whose name has already been mentioned at some length, lost not only its head, but also a very large proportion of its brains,--a situation quite as logical as it was unfortunate for the gentlemen with whom mr. toppleton had been associated. nor was this feeling, that with the departure of toppleton, the illustrious, for other worlds the firm was deprived of a most considerable portion of its claims to high standing, confined to cavilling outsiders. no one recognized the unhappy state of affairs at the busy office on broadway more quickly than did messrs. morley, harkins, perkins, mawson, bronson, smithers, and hicks themselves, and at the first meeting of the firm, after the funeral of their dead partner, these gentlemen unanimously resolved that something must be done. it was at this meeting that mr. hicks suggested that the only course left for the bereaved firm to pursue, if it desired to remain an aggressive force in its chosen profession, was to retain the name of toppleton at the mast-head, and, as mr. mawson put it, "to bluff it out." mr. perkins agreed with mr. hicks, and suggested that the only honest way to do this was to induce mr. toppleton's only son, known to all--even to the clerks in the office--as hoppy, to enter the firm as a full partner. "i do not think," mr. perkins said, "that it is quite proper for us to assume a virtue that we do not possess, and while hoppy--i should say hopkins--has never studied law, i think he could be induced to do so, in which event he could be taken in here, and we should have a perfectly equitable claim to all the business which the name of toppleton would certainly bring to us." "i am afraid," mr. bronson put in at this point, "i am very much afraid that such a course would require the entire reorganization of the firm's machinery. it would never do for the member whose name stands at the head of our partnership designation, to be on such terms of intimacy with the office boys, for instance, as to permit of his being addressed by them as hoppy; nor would it conduce toward good discipline, i am convinced, for the nominal head of the concern to be engaged in making pools on baseball games with our book-keepers and clerks, which, during his lamented father's life, i understand was one of the lad's most cherished customs. now, while i agree with my friend perkins that it is desirable that the firm should have an unassailable basis for its retention of the name of toppleton, i do not agree with him that young hopkins should be taken in here if we are to retain our present highly efficient force of subordinates. they would be utterly demoralized in less than a month." "but what do you suggest as an alternative?" inquired mr. morley. "i believe that we should make hopkins a special partner in the firm, and have him travel abroad for his health," returned mr. bronson after a moment's reflection. "i regret to say," objected mr. hicks, "that hoppy's health is distressingly good. your point in regard to the probable demoralization of our office force, however, is well taken. hopkins must go abroad if he becomes one of us; but i suggest that instead of sending him for his health, we establish a london branch office, and put him in charge on a salary of, say, , dollars. we have no business interests outside of this country, so that such a course, in view of his absolute ignorance of law, would be perfectly safe, and we could give hoppy to understand in the event of his acceptance of our proposition that he shall be free to take a vacation whenever he pleases, for as long a period of time as he pleases, and the oftener the better." "that's the best plan, i think," said mr. mawson. "in fact, if hoppy declines that responsible office, i wouldn't mind taking it myself." and so it happened. the proposition was made to hopkins, and he accepted it with alacrity. he did not care for the practice of the law, but he had no objection to receiving an extra ten thousand dollars a year as a silent partner in a flourishing concern with headquarters in london, particularly when his sole duties were to remain away from the office on a perpetual vacation. "i was born with a love of rest," hoppy once said in talking over his prospects with his friends some time before the proposition of his father's partners had been submitted to him. "even as a baby i was fond of it. i remember my mother saying that i slept for nearly the whole of my first year of existence, and when i came to my school days my reputation with my teachers was, that in the enjoyment of recess and in assiduous devotion to all that pertained to a life of elegant leisure, there was not a boy in school who could approach me." the young man never railed at fate for compelling him to lead a life which would have filled others of robuster ideas with ennui, but he did on occasions find fault with the powers for having condemned him to birth in a country like the united states, where the man of leisure is regarded with less of reverence than of derision. "it is a no harder fate for the soul of an artist to dwell in the body of a pork-packer," he had said only the night before the plan outlined by mr. hicks was brought to his attention, "than for a man of my restful tendencies to be at home in a land where the hustler alone inspires respect. what the fates should have done in my case was clearly to have had me born a rich duke or a prince, whose chief duty it would be to lead the fashionable world and to set styles of dress for others to follow. i'd have made a magnificent member of the house of lords, or proprietor of a rich estate somewhere in england, with nothing to do but to spend my income and open horse shows; but in new york there is no leisure class of recognized standing, excepting, of course, the messenger-boys and the plumbers, and even they do not command the respect which foreign do-nothings inspire. it's hard luck. the only redeeming feature of the case is that owing to a high tariff i can spend my money with less effort here than i could abroad." then came the proposition from the firm, and in it hoppy recognized the ingredients of the ideal life--a life of rest in a country capable of understanding the value to society of the drones, a life free from responsibility, yet possessing a semblance of dignity bound to impress those unacquainted with the real state of affairs. added to this was the encouragement which an extra ten thousand a year must invariably bring to the man appointed to receive it. "it's just what i needed," he said to mr. hicks, "to make my income what it ought to be. fifty thousand dollars is, of course, a handsome return from investments, but it is an awkward sum to spend. it doesn't divide up well. but sixty thousand a year is simply ideal. twelve goes into sixty five times, and none over--five thousand a month means something, and doesn't complicate accounts. besides, the increase will pay the interest on a yacht nicely." "you are a great boy, hoppy," said mr. hicks, when the young man had thus unbosomed himself, "but i doubt if you will ever be a great man." "oh, i don't know," said hoppy; "there's no telling what may develop. of course, mr. hicks, i shall go into the study of the law very seriously; i couldn't think of accepting your offer without making some effort to show that i deserved it. i shall give up the reading of my irresponsible days, and take to reading law. i shall stop my subscription to the sporting papers, and take the _daily register_ and _court calendar_ instead, and if you think it would be worth while i might also subscribe to the _albany law journal_, with which interesting periodical i am already tolerably familiar, having kept my father's files in order for some years." "no, hoppy," said mr. hicks, with a smile, "i don't think you'd better give up the sporting papers; 'all work and no play makes jack a dull boy.'" "perhaps you are right," said hopkins, in reply to this. "but i _shall_ read blackstone, and accumulate a library on legal subjects, mr. hicks. in that i am firm. i am a good deal of a book-lover anyhow, and since law is to be my profession i might as well suit my books to my needs. i'll order a first edition of blackstone at once." "you'd better get the comic blackstone," said mr. hicks, gravely. "you will find it a very interesting book." "very well, mr. hicks," returned the amiable head-partner-elect of the famous legal firm, "i'll make a note of that. i will also purchase the 'newgate calendar,' and any other books you may choose to recommend,--and i tell you what, mr. hicks, when my collection gets going it will be the talk of the town. i'll have 'em all in absolute firsts, and as for the bindings, your old yellow-backed tomes at the office will be cast utterly in the shade by my full crushed levant morocco books in rich reds and blues. just think of the hundred or more volumes of new york reports in russia leather, mr. hicks!" "it takes my breath away, hoppy," returned the lawyer. "every one of the volumes will be absolutely uncut, i suppose, eh?" "never you mind about that," retorted hopkins; "you think i'm joking, but you'll find your mistake some day. i'm serious in this business, though i think i'll begin my labours by taking a winter at nice." "that is wise," said mr. hicks, approvingly; "and then you might put in the summer in norway, devoting the spring and autumn to rest and quiet." "i'll think about that," hopkins answered; "but the first step to take, really, is to pack up my things here, and sail for london and secure an office." "a very proper sentiment, my dear boy," returned mr. hicks; "but let me advise you, do not be rash about plunging into the professional vortex. remember that at present your knowledge of the law is limited entirely to your theories as to what it ought to be, and law is seldom that; nor must you forget that in asking you to represent us in london, it is not our desire to inflict upon you any really active work. we simply desire you to live in an atmosphere that, to one of your tastes, is necessarily broadening, and if you find it advisable to pursue intellectual breadth across the continent of europe to the uttermost parts of the earth, you will find that the firm stands ready to furnish you with material assistance, and to remove all obstacles from your path." "thanks for your kindness, mr. hicks," said hopkins. "i shall endeavour to prove myself worthy of it." "i have no doubt of it, my boy," rejoined mr. hicks, rising. "and, in parting with you, let me impress upon you the importance, both to you and to ourselves in the present stage of your legal development, of the maxim, that to a young lawyer not sure of his law, and devoid of experience, there is nothing quite so dangerous as a client. avoid clients, hoppy, as you would dangerous explosives. many a young lawyer has seemed great until fate has thrown a client athwart his path." with these words, designed quite as much for the protection of the firm, as for the edification of that concern's new head, mr. hicks withdrew, and hopkins turned his attention to preparations for departure; paying his bills, laying in a stock of cigars, and instructing his valet as to the disposition of his lares and penates. four weeks later he sailed for london, arriving there in good shape early in june, ready for all the delights of the season, then at its height. it was not until hopkins had been four days at sea, that the firm of toppleton, morley, harkins, perkins, mawson, bronson, smithers, and hicks learned that the new partner had presided at a coney island banquet, given by himself to the office-boys, clerks, book-keepers, and stenographers of the firm, on the saturday half-holiday previous to his departure. it is doubtful if this appalling fact would have come to light even then, had not mr. mawson, in endeavouring to discharge one of the office-boys for insubordination, been informed by the delinquent that he defied him; the senior member of the firm, the departed hoppy, having promised to retain the youth in his employ at increased wages, until he was old enough to go to london, and assist him in looking after the interests of his clients abroad. an investigation, which followed, showed that hopkins had celebrated his departure in the manner indicated, and also divulged the interesting fact that the running expenses of the office, according to the new partner's promises, were immediately to be increased at least twenty-five per cent. per annum in salaries. chapter ii. mr. hopkins toppleton leases an office. it did not take hopkins many days to discover that a life of elegant leisure in london approximates labour of the hardest sort. nor was it entirely easy for him to spend his one thousand pounds a month, with lodgings for his headquarters. this fact annoyed him considerably, for he valued money only for what it could bring him, and yet how else to live than in lodgings he could not decide. hotel life he abhorred, not only because he considered its excellence purely superficial, but also because it brought him in contact with what he called his "flash-light fellow countrymen, with wagnerian voices and frontier manners"--by which i presume he meant the diamond studded individuals who travel on cook's tickets, and whose so-called americanism is based on the notion that britons are still weeping over the events of ' , and who love to send patriotic allusions to the star-spangled banner echoing down through the corridors of the hotels, out and along the thames embankment, to the very doors of parliament itself. "why don't you buy a house-boat?" asked one of his cronies, to whom he had confided his belief that luxurious ease was hard on the constitution. "then you can run off up the thames, and loaf away the tedious hours of your leisure." "that's an idea worth considering," he replied, "and perhaps i'll try it on next summer. i do not feel this year, however, that i ought to desert london, considering the responsibilities of my position." "what are you talking about?" said the other with a laugh. "responsibilities! why, man, you haven't been to your office since you arrived." "no," returned hoppy, "i haven't. in fact i haven't got an office to 'be to.' that's what bothers me so like thunder. i've looked at plenty of offices advertised as for rent for legal firms, but i'll be hanged if i can find anything suitable. your barristers over here have not as good accommodations as we give obsolete papers at home. our pigeon-holes are palatial in comparison with your office suites, and accustomed as i am to breathing fresh air, i really can't stand the atmosphere i have been compelled to take into my lungs in the rooms i have looked at." "but, my dear fellow, what more than a pigeon-hole do you need?" asked his friend. "you are not called upon to attend to any business here. a post-office box would suffice for the receipt of communications from america." "that's all true enough," returned hopkins, "but where am i to keep my law library? and what am i to do in case i should have a client?" "keep your books in your lodgings, and don't count your clients before they get into litigation," replied the other. "my dear tutterson," hopkins said in answer to this, "you are the queerest mixture of common sense and idiotcy i have ever encountered. my library at home, indeed! haven't you any better sense than to suggest my carrying my profession into my home life? do you suppose i want to be reminded at every step i take that i am a lawyer? must my business be rammed down my throat at all hours? am i never to have relaxation from office cares? indeed, i'll not have a suggestion of law within a mile of my lodgings! i must have an office; but now that i think of it, not having to go to the office from one year's end to another, it makes no difference whether it consists of the ground floor of buckingham palace or a rear cell three flights up, in newgate prison." "except," returned tutterson, "that if you had the office at newgate you might do more business than if you shared buckingham palace with the royal family." "yes; and on the other hand, the society at the palace is probably more desirable than that of newgate; so each having equal advantages, i think i'd better compromise and take an office out near the tower," said hopkins. "the location is quite desirable from my point of view. it would be so inaccessible that i should have a decent excuse for not going there, and besides, i reduce my chances of being embarrassed by a client to a minimum." "that is where you are very much mistaken," said tutterson. "if you hang your shingle out by the tower, you will be one lawyer among a hundred beef-eaters, and therefore distinguished, and likely to be sought out by clients. on the other hand, if you behave like a sensible man, and take chambers in the temple, you'll be an unknown attorney among a thousand q.c's. and as for the decent excuse for not attending to business, you simply forget that you are no longer in america but in england. here a man needs an excuse for going to work. trade is looked down upon. it is the butterfly we esteem, not the grub. a man who _will_ work when he doesn't need to work, is looked upon with distrust. society doesn't cultivate him, and the million regard him with suspicion,--and the position of both is distinctly logical. he who serves is a servant, and society looks upon him as such, and when he insists upon serving without the necessity to serve, he diminishes by just so much the opportunities of some poor devil to whom opportunity is bread and butter, which sets the poor devil against him. you do not need an excuse for neglecting business, toppleton, and, by jove, if it wasn't for your beastly american ideas, you'd apologize to yourself for even thinking of such a thing." "well, i fancy you are right," replied toppleton. "to tell you the truth, i never thought of it in that light before. there is value in a leisure class, after all. it keeps the peach-blow humanity from competing with the earthenware, to the disadvantage of the latter. i see now why the lower and middle classes so dearly love the lords and dukes and other noble born creatures nature has set above them. it is the generous self-denial of the aristocracy in the matter of work, and the consequent diminution of competition, that is the basis of that love. i'll do as you say, and see what i can do in the temple. even if a client should happen to stray in at one of those rare moments when i am on duty, i can assume a weary demeanour and tell him that i have already more work on my hands than i can accomplish with proper deference to my health, and request him to take his quarrel elsewhere." so the question was settled. an office was taken in the temple. hopkins bought himself a wig and a gown, purchased a dozen tin boxes, each labelled with the hypothetical name of some supposititious client, had the room luxuriously fitted up, arranged his law library, consisting of the "comic blackstone," "bench and bar," by sergeant ballantyne, the "newgate calendar," and an absolute first of "parsons on contracts," on the mahogany shelves he had had constructed there; hung out a shingle announcing himself and firm as having headquarters within, and, placing beneath it a printed placard to the effect that he had gone out to lunch, he turned the key in the door and departed with tutterson for a trip to the land of the midnight sun. now it so happened, that the agent having in charge the particular section of the temple in which hopkins' new office was located, had concealed from the young american the fact that for some twenty-five or thirty years, the room which toppleton had leased had remained unoccupied--that is, it had never been occupied for any consecutive period of time during that number of years. tenants had come but had as quickly gone. there was something about the room that no one seemed able to cope with. luxuriously furnished or bare, it made no difference in the fortunes of number , from the doors of which now projected the sign of toppleton, morley, harkins, perkins, mawson, bronson, smithers, and hicks. just what the trouble was, the agent had not been able to determine in a manner satisfactory to himself until about a year before hopkins happened in to negotiate with him for a four years' lease. departing tenants, when they had spoken to him at all on the subject, had confined themselves to demands for a rebate on rents paid in advance, on the rather untenable ground that the room was uncanny and depressing. "we can't stand it," they had said, earnestly. "there must be some awful mystery connected with the room. there has been a murder, or a suicide, or some equally dreadful crime committed within its walls at some time or another." this, of course, the agent always strenuously denied, and his books substantiated his denial. the only possible crime divulged by the books, was thirty-three years back when an occupant departed without paying his rent, but that surely did not constitute the sort of crime that would warrant the insinuation that the room was haunted. "and as for your statement that the room makes you feel weird and depressed," the agent had added with the suggestion of a sneer, "i am sure there is nothing in the terms of the lease which binds me to keep tenants in a natural and cheerful frame of mind. i can't help it, you know, if you get the blues or eat yourselves into a state that makes that room seem to you to be haunted." "but," one expostulating tenant had observed, "but, my dear sir, i am given to understand that the five tenants preceding my occupancy left for precisely the same reason, that the office at times is suffocatingly weird; and that undefined whispers are to be heard playing at puss in the corner with heart-rending sighs at almost any hour of the day or night throughout the year, cannot be denied." "well, all i've got to say about that," was the agent's invariable reply, "is that _i_ never saw a sigh or heard a whisper of a supernatural order in that room, and if you want to go to law with a case based on a welsh rarebit diet, just do it. if the courts decide that i owe you money, and must forfeit my lease rights because you have dyspepsia, i'll turn over the whole business to you and join the army." of course this independent attitude of the agent always settled the question at once. his tenants, however insane they might appear to the agent's eyes, were invariably sane enough not to carry the matter to the courts, where it was hardly possible that a plaintiff could be relieved of the conditions of his contract, because his office gave him a megrim, super-induced by the visit of a disembodied sigh. judges are hard-headed, practical persons, who take no stock in spirits not purely liquid, realizing which the tenants of number , without exception, wisely resolved to suffer in silence, invariably leaving the room, however, in a state of disuse encouraging to cobwebs, which would have delighted the soul of a connoisseur in wines. "if i can't make the rent of the room, i can at least raise cobwebs for innkeepers to use in connection with their wine cellars," said the agent to himself with a sad chuckle, which showed that he was possessed of a certain humorous philosophy which must have been extremely consoling to him. at the end of three years of abortive effort to keep the room rented, impelled partly by curiosity to know if anything really was the matter with the office, partly by a desire to relieve the building of the odium under which the continued emptiness of one of its apartments had placed it, the agent moved into number himself. his tenancy lasted precisely one week, at the end of which time he moved out again. he, too, had heard the undefined whispers and disembodied sighs; he, too, had trembled with awe when the uncanny quality of the atmosphere clogged up his lungs and set his heart beating at a galloping pace; he, too, decided that so far as he was concerned life in that office was intolerable, and he acted accordingly. he departed, and from that moment no. was entered on his books no longer as for rent as an office, but was transferred to the list of rooms mentioned as desirable for storage purposes. to the agent's credit be it said that when hopkins toppleton came along and desired to rent the apartment for office use his first impulse was to make a clean breast of the matter, and to say to him that in his own opinion and that of others the room was haunted and had been so for many years; but when he reflected that his conscience, such as it was, along with the rest of his being, was in the employ of the proprietors of the building, he felt that it was his duty to hold his peace. toppleton had been informed that the room was useful chiefly for storage purposes, and if he chose to use it as an office, it was his own affair. in addition to this, the agent had a vague hope that hopkins, being an american and used to all sorts of horrible things in his native land--such as boa-constrictors on the streets, buffaloes in the back yard, and indians swarming in the suburbs of the cities,--would be able to cope with the invisible visitant, and ultimately either subdue or drive the disembodied sigh into the spirit vale. in view of these facts, therefore, it was not surprising that when hopkins had finally signed a four years' lease and had taken possession, the agent should give a sigh of relief, and, on his return home, inform his wife that she might treat herself to a new silk dress. during the few weeks which elapsed between the signing of the lease and hopkins' ostensible departure on a three months' lunching tour, he was watched with considerable interest by the agent, but, until the "gone to lunch" placard was put up, the latter saw no sign that hopkins had discovered anything wrong with the office, and even then the agent thought nothing about it until the placard began to accumulate dust. then he shook his head and silently congratulated himself that the rent had been paid a year in advance; "for," he said, "if he hasn't gone to new york to lunch, the chances are that that sigh has got to work again and frightened him into an unceremonious departure." neither of which hypotheses was correct, for as we have already heard, hopkins had departed for norway. as for the sigh, the young lawyer had heard it but once. that was when he was about leaving the room for his three months' tour, and he had attributed it to the soughing of the wind in the trees outside of his window, which was indeed an error, as he might have discovered at the time had he taken the trouble to investigate, for there were no trees outside of his window through whose branches a wind could have soughed even if it had been disposed to do so. chapter iii. mr. hopkins toppleton encounters a weary spirit. it was well along in october when hopkins returned to london, and he got back to his office in the temple none too soon. the agent had fully made up his mind that he was gone for good, and was about taking steps to remove his effects from number , and gain an honest penny by sub-letting that light and airy apartment for his own benefit, a vision of profit which toppleton redivivus effectually dispelled. the return, for this reason, was of course a grave disappointment to mr. stubbs, but he rose to the occasion when the long lost lessee appeared on the scene, and welcomed him cordially. "good morning, sir," he said. "glad to see you back. didn't know what had become of you or should have forwarded your mail. have a pleasant trip?" "very," said toppleton, shortly. "it seems to have agreed with you,--you've a finer colour than you had." "yes," replied hopkins, drily. "that's natural. i've been to norway. the sun's been working day and night, and i'm tanned." "i hope everything is--er--everything was all right with the room, sir?" the agent then said somewhat anxiously. "i found nothing wrong with it," said hopkins; "did you suspect that anything was wrong there?" "oh, no!--indeed not. of course not," returned the agent with some confusion. "i only asked--er--so that in case there was anything you wanted, you know, it might be attended to at once. there's nothing wrong with the room at all, sir. nothing. absolutely nothing." "well, that's good," said toppleton, turning to his table. "i'm glad there's nothing the matter. it will take a very small percentage of the rental to remedy that. good morning, mr. stubbs." "good morning, sir," said mr. stubbs, and then he departed. "now for the mail," said hopkins, grasping his letter-opener, and running it deftly through the flap of a communication from mr. morley, written two months previously. "dear hoppy," he read. "we have just been informed of your singular act on the saturday previous to your departure for london." "hm! what the deuce did i do then?" said hopkins, stroking his moustache thoughtfully. "let me see. 'singular act.' i've done quite a number of singular things on saturdays, but what--oh, yes! ha, ha! that coney island dinner. oh, bosh!--what nonsense! as if my giving the boys a feast were going to hurt the prospects of a firm like ours. by george, it'll work just the other way. it'll fill the force with an enthusiasm for work which--" here hopkins stopped for a moment to say, "come in!" somebody had knocked, he thought. but the door remained closed. "come in!" he cried again. still there was no answer, and on walking to the door and opening it, toppleton discovered that his ears had deceived him. there was no one there, nor was there any sign of life whatever in the hallway. "i'm glad," he said, returning to his chair and taking up mr. morley's letter once more. "it might have been a client, and to a man at the head of a big firm who has never been admitted to practice in any court or country, that would be an embarrassment to say the least. it's queer though, about that knock. i certainly heard one. maybe there is some telepathic influence between morley and me. he usually punctuates his complaints with a whack on a table or back of a chair. that's what it must have been; but let's see what else he has to say." "of course," he read, "if you desire to associate with those who are socially and professionally your inferiors, we have nothing to say. that is a matter entirely beyond our jurisdiction, but when you commit the firm to outrageous expenditures simply to gratify your own love of generosity, it is time to call a halt." "what the devil is he talking about?" said hopkins, putting the letter down. "i paid for that dinner out of my own pocket, and never charged the firm a cent, even though it does indirectly reap all the benefits. i'll have to write morley and call his attention to that fact. how vulgar these disputes--" at this point he was again interrupted by a sound which, in describing it afterwards, he likened to a ton of aspirates sliding down a coal chute. "this room appears to be an asylum for strange noises," said he, looking about him to discover, if possible, whence this second interruption came. "i don't believe morley feels badly enough about my behaviour for one of his sighs to cross the ocean and greet my ears, but i'm hanged if i know how else to account for it, unless there's a speaking tube with a whistle in it somewhere hereabouts. i wonder if that's what stubbs meant!" he added, reflecting. "bah!" he said in answer to his own question, picking up mr. morley's letter for a third time. "this is the nineteenth century. weird sounds are mortal-made these days, and i'm not afraid of them. if there were anything supernatural about them, why didn't the air get blue, and where's my cold chill and my hair standing erect? i fancy i'll retain my composure until the symptoms are a little more strongly developed." here he returned to his reading. "we desire to have you explain to us, at your earliest convenience," the letter went on to say, "why you have so extravagantly raised the salary of every man, woman and child in our employ, utterly regardless of merit, and without consultation with those with whom you have been associated, to such a figure that the firm has been compelled to reduce its autumn dividend to meet the requirements of the pay roll. your probable answer will be, i presume,--knowing your extraordinary resources in the matter of explanations--that you cannot consent to be a mere figure-head, and that you considered it your duty to impress upon our clerks the fact that you are not what they might suspect under the circumstances, but a vital, moving force in the concern; but you may as well spare yourself the trouble of making any such explanation, since it will not be satisfactory either to myself or to the other members of the firm, with the possible exception of our friend mawson, who, with his customary about-town manners, is disposed to make light of the matter. we desire to have you distinctly understand that your duties are to be confined entirely to the london office, and to add that were it not for your esteemed father's sake we should at once cancel our agreement with you. the name you bear, honoured as it is in our profession, is of great value to us: but it is, after all, a luxury rather than a necessity, and in these hard times we are strongly inclined to dispense with luxuries whenever we find them too expensive for our pockets." hopkins paused in his reading and pursed his lips to give a long, low whistle, a sound which was frozen _in transitu_, for the lips were no sooner pursed than there came from a far corner the very sound that he had intended to utter. for the first time in his life toppleton knew what fear was; for the first time since he was a boy, when he wore it that way, did he become conscious that his hair stood upon end. his blood seemed to congeal in his veins, and his heart for a moment ceased to beat, and then, as if desirous of making up for lost time, began to thump against his ribs at lightning pace and with such force that hopkins feared it might break the crystal of the watch which he carried in the upper left-hand pocket of his vest. mr. morley's letter fluttered from his nerveless hand to the floor, and, despite its severity, was forgotten before it touched the handsome rug beneath hopkins' table. the new sensation--the sensation of fear--had taken possession of his whole being, and, for an instant, he was as one paralyzed. then, recovering his powers of motion, he whirled about in his revolving chair and started to his feet as if he had been shot. "this is unbearable!" he cried, glancing nervously about the room. "it's bad enough to have an office-boy who whistles, but when you get the whistle in the abstract without the advantage of the office-boy, it is too much." then hopkins rang the bell and summoned the janitor. "tell the agent i want to see him," he said when that worthy appeared, and then, returning to his desk, he sat down and mechanically opened a copy of the _daily register_ and tried to read it. "it's no use," he cried in a moment, crumpling the paper into a ball and throwing it across the room. "that vile whistle has regularly knocked me out." the paper ball reached the door just as the agent entered, and struck him athwart the watch chain. "beg pardon," said hopkins, "i didn't mean that for you. everything here seems to be bewitched this morning, that dull compilation of legal woe included." "it's of no consequence, sir, i assure you," returned the agent uneasily. "no, i don't think it amounts to a row of beans to a man who hates trouble," said hopkins, referring more to the journal than to the untoward act of the paper ball. "but i say, mr. stubbs, i've been having a devil of a time in this room this morning, and when i say devil i mean devil." stubbs paled visibly. the moment he had feared had come. "wh--wh--what sus--seems to b--be the m--mum--matter, sir?" he stammered. "nothing seems, something _is_ the matter," returned hopkins. "i don't wonder you stammer. you'd stammer worse if you had been here with me three minutes ago. stubbs, i believe this room is haunted!" mr. stubbs's efforts at surprise at this point were painful to witness. "haunted, sir?" he said. "yes, haunted!" retorted hopkins; "and by a confoundedly impertinent something or other that not only sighs and knocks on the door but whistles, stubbs--actually whistles. has this room a history?" "well, a sort of a one," returned stubbs; "but i never heard any one complain about it on the score of whistling, sir." "stubbs, i believe you are lying. hasn't somebody killed an office-boy in this apartment, for whistling?" queried hopkins, gazing sternly at the shuffling agent. "i'll take an affidavit that nothing of the kind ever happened," returned the agent, gaining confidence. "that won't be necessary," said toppleton. "i am satisfied with your assurance. but, stubbs, to what do you attribute these beastly disturbances? ghosts?" "of course not, mr. toppleton," replied mr. stubbs. "i fancy you must have heard some boy whistling in the hall." "how about the knock and the sigh?" demanded the american. "the knock is easily accounted for," returned the agent. "somebody in the room above you must have dropped something on the floor, while the sigh was probably the wind blowing through the key-hole." "or a bit of fog coming down the chimney, eh, stubbs?" put in hopkins, satirically. "no, sir," replied poor stubbs, growing red where he had been white; "there is no fog to-day, sir." "true, stubbs; and you will likewise observe there is no wind to sough through key-holes," retorted hopkins, severely, rising and walking to the window. stubbs stood motionless, without an answer. toppleton had cornered him in a flimsy pretext, and then came the climax to his horrible experience. from behind him in the corner whence had come the sigh and the whistle, there now proceeded a smothered laugh--a sound which curdled his blood and left him so limp that he staggered to the mantel and grasped it to keep himself from falling to the floor. hopkins turned upon him, his face livid with anger, and the two men gazed at each other in silence for a moment, the one endeavouring to master his fear, the other to smother his wrath. "do you mean to insult me, mr. stubbs, by laughing in my face when i send for you to request explanations as to the conduct--as to the--er--the conduct of your room? it sounds ridiculous to say that, but there is no other way to put it, for it _is_ the conduct of the room of which i complain. what do you mean by your ill-timed levity?" "i pass you my word, mr. toppleton, i will swear to you, sir, that nothing was further from my thoughts than mirth. i agree with you that it is no laughing matter for--" "but i heard you laugh," said toppleton, eyeing the agent, his anger now not unmixed with awe. "you laughed as plainly as it is possible for any one to laugh, except that you endeavoured to smother the sound." "i did nothing of the sort, mr. toppleton," pleaded stubbs, his hand shaking and his eyes wandering fearsomely over toward the mysterious corner where all was still and innocent-looking. "that laugh came from other lips than mine--if, indeed, it came from lips at all, which i doubt." "you mean," cried toppleton, grasping stubbs by the arm with a grip that made the agent wince, "you mean that this room is--" "khee-hee-hee-hee-hee!" came the derisive laugh from the corner, followed by the mysterious whistle and heartrending sigh which hopkins had already so unpleasantly heard. toppleton was transfixed with terror, and the agent, with an ejaculation of fear, ran from the room, and scurried down the stairs out into the court as fast as his legs could carry him, where he fell prostrate in a paroxysm of terror. deserted by the agent and shut up in the room with his unwelcome visitor--for the agent had slammed the door behind him with such force that the catch had slipped and loosened the bolt, so that toppleton was to all intents and purposes a prisoner--hopkins exerted what little nerve force he had left, and pulled himself together again as best he could. he staggered to his table, and taking a small bottle of whiskey from the cupboard at its side, poured at least one half of its fiery contents down into his throat. "_similia similibus_," said he softly to himself. "if i have to fight spirits, i shall use spirits." then facing about, he gazed into the corner unflinchingly for a moment, following up his glance with one of the hand fire grenades that hung in a wire basket on the wall, which he hurled with all his force into the offending void. to this ebullition of heroic indignation, the only reply was a repetition of the sounds whose origin was so mysterious, but this time they proceeded directly from toppleton's chair which stood at his side. another grenade, smashed into the maroon leather seat of the chair, was hopkins' rejoinder, whereupon he was infuriated to hear the smothered laugh emanate from the depths of a treasured bit of cloisonné standing upon the mantel, within which it had been hopkins' custom, in his apartments at home, to keep the faded leaves of the roses given to him by his friends of the fairer sex--a custom which, despite the volumes of tobacco smoke poured into the room by hopkins and his companions night and day, kept the atmosphere thereof as sweet as a garden. "you are a bright spirit," said hopkins with a forced laugh. "you know mighty well that you are safe from violence there; but if you'll get out of that and give me one fair shot at you over on the washstand, you'll never haunt again." "at last!" came the smothered voice, this time from the top of the jar. "at last, after years of weary waiting and watching, i may speak without breaking my vow." "then for heaven's sake," cried hopkins, sinking back into his chair and staring blankly at the jar, "for heaven's sake speak and explain yourself, if you do not wish to drive me to the insane asylum. who in the name of my honoured partners are you?" there was a moment's pause, and then the answer came,-- "i am a weary spirit--a spirit in exile--harmless and unhappy, whose unhappiness you may be able to relieve." "i?" cried hopkins, wildly. "yes, you. i am come to intrust my affairs to your hands." "you are--" "a client," returned the spirit. hopkins gasped twice, closed his eyes, clutched wildly at his heart, and slid down to the floor an inert mass. he had fainted. chapter iv. the weary spirit gives some account of himself. how long hopkins would have remained in an unconscious state had not a cold perspiration sprung forth from his forehead, and, trickling over his temples, brought him to his senses, i cannot say. suffice it to relate that his stupor lasted hardly more than a minute. when he opened his eyes and gazed over toward the haunted vase, he saw there the same depressing nothingness accompanied by the same soul-chilling sighs that had so discomfited him. to the ear there was something there, a something quite as perceptible to the auricular sense as if it were a living, tangible creature, but as imperceptible to the eye as that which has never existed. the presence, or whatever else it was that had entered into toppleton's life so unceremoniously, was apparently much affected by the searching gaze which its victim directed toward it. "don't look at me that way, i beg of you, mr. toppleton," said the spirit after it had sighed a half dozen times and given an occasional nervous whistle. "i don't deserve all that your glance implies, and if you could only understand me, i think you would sympathize with me in my trials." "i? i sympathize with you? well, i like that," cried toppleton, raising himself on his elbow and staring blankly at the vase. "it appears to me that i am the object of sympathy this time. what the deuce are you, anyhow? how am i to understand you, when you sit around like a maudlin void lost in a vacuum? are you an apparition or what?" "i am neither an apparition nor a what," returned the spirit. "i couldn't be an apparition without appearing. i suppose you might call me a limited perception; that is, i can be perceived but not seen, although i am human." "you must be a sort of cross between a rumour and a small boy, i suppose; is that it?" queried toppleton, with a touch of sarcasm in his tone. "if you mean that i am half-way between things which should be seen and not heard, and other things which should be heard and not seen, i fancy your surmise approximates correctness. for my part, a love of conciseness leads me to set myself down as a presence," was the spirit's answer. "i'll give you a liberal reward," retorted toppleton, eagerly, "if you'll place yourself in the category of an absence as regards me and my office here; for, to tell you the truth, i am addicted more or less to heart disease, and i can't say i care to risk an association with a vocally inclined zero, such as you seem to be. what's your price?" "you wrong me, toppleton," returned the presence, indignantly, floating from the edge of the vase over to the large rocking chair in the corner by the window, which began at once to sway to and fro, to the undisguised wonderment of its owner. "i am not a blackmailer, as you might see at once if you could look into my face." "where do you keep your face?" asked hopkins, sitting up and embracing his knees. "if you have brought it along with you for heaven's sake trot it out. i can't ruin my eyes on you as you are now. have you no office hours, say from ten to two, when you may be seen by those desirous of feasting their eyes upon your tangibility?" "i am afraid you are joking, hopkins," said the spirit, growing familiar. "if you are, i beg that you will stop. what is a good joke to some eyes is a very serious matter to others." "that, my dear presence," returned toppleton, "is a very true observation, as is borne out by the large percentage of serious matter that appears in comic journals." "please do not be flippant," said the voice from the rocking-chair, sadly. "i have come to you as a suppliant for assistance. the fact that i have come without my body is against me, i know, but that is a circumstance over which i have absolutely no control. my body has been stolen from me, and i am at present a shapeless wanderer with nowhere to lay my head, and no head to lay there, if perchance the world held some corner that i might call my own." "i can't see what you have to complain about on that score," said toppleton, rising from the floor and seizing a large magnifying glass from his table and gazing searchingly through it into the chair which still rocked violently. "an individual like yourself, if you are an individual, ought to be able to find comfort anywhere. the avidity with which you have seized upon that chair, and the extraordinary vitality you seem to have imparted to its rockers, indicate to my mind that the world has about everything for you that any reasonable being can desire. if you can percolate into my apartment and make use of the luxuries i had fondly hoped were exclusively mine, i can't see what is to prevent your settling down at windsor castle if you will. aren't there any comfortable chairs and beds there?" "i don't know whether there are or not," replied the presence. "i never went there, and being a loyal british presence, i should hesitate very strongly before i would discommode the royal family." "it might be awkward, i suppose," returned toppleton with a laugh, "if you should happen to fall asleep in the prince of wales' favourite arm-chair, and he should happen to come in and sit on you, for i presume you are no more visible to royalty than you are to republican simplicity as embodied in myself. still, as a loyal british subject, i should think you'd rather be sat on by the prince than by a common mortal." as hopkins spoke these words the chair stopped rocking, and if its attitude meant anything, its invisible occupant was leaning forward and staring with pained astonishment at the young lawyer, who was leaning gracefully against the mantelpiece. then on a sudden the chair's attitude was relaxed and it rocked slowly backward again, resuming its former pace. a few minutes passed without a word being spoken, at the end of which time the spirit sighed deeply. "is there anything in this world," it asked, "is there anything too sacred for you americans to joke about? have you no ideals, no--" "plenty of ideals but no special idols," returned hopkins, perceiving the spirit's drift. "but of course, if i hurt your feelings by joking about the prince, i apologize. though unasked, you are still my guest, and i should be very sorry to seem lacking in courtesy. but tell me about this body of yours. how did you come to lose it, and is it still living?" "yes, it is still living," replied the spirit. "living a life of honoured ease." "but how the deuce did you come to lose it? that's what i can't understand. i have heard of men losing pretty nearly everything but their bodies." "as i have already told you," said the spirit, wearily, "it was stolen from me." "and have you no clue to the thieves? do you know where it is?" "yes, i know where it is. in fact i saw it only last week," replied the spirit with a sob, "and it's getting old, toppleton, very old. when it was taken away from me it was erect of stature, broad-shouldered, muscular and full of health. to-day it is round-shouldered, flabby and generally consumptive-looking. when i occupied it, the face was clean-shaven and ruddy. the hair was of a rich auburn, the hands milk white. the carriage was graceful, and about my lips there played a smile that fascinated. the blue eyes sparkled, the teeth shone out between my lips when i smiled, like a strip of chased silver in the sunlight; i tell you, toppleton, when i had that body it had some style about it; but now--it breaks my heart to think of it now!" "it hasn't lost its good looks altogether, has it?" queried hopkins, his voice slightly tremulous with the sympathy he was beginning to feel for this disembodied entity before him. "it has," sobbed the spirit; "and i'm not surprised that it has, considering the life it has led since i lost it. the auburn hair that used to be my mother's pride, and my schoolmates' source of wit, has gradually dropped away and left a hairless scalp of an insignificant pinkish hue which would disgrace a shrimp. my once happy smile has subsided into something like a toothless sneer; for my dazzling teeth are no more. the blue eyes are expressionless, the elastic step is halting, and, what is worse, the present occupant of my physical self has grown a beard that makes me look like a pirate." "i wonder you recognized yourself," said hopkins. "it was strange; but i did recognize myself by my ring which i still wear," returned the spirit. "but, toppleton," it added, "you have no notion how terrible it is for a man to see himself growing old and breaking away from all the habits and principles of youth, powerless to interfere. for instance, my body was temperate when i was in it. i never drank more than one glass of whiskey in one day. now it is brandy and water all day long, and it galls me, like the merry hereafter, with my temperance scruples, to see myself given over to intemperate drams. _i_ never used profane language. last friday i heard my own lips condemn a poor unoffending fly to everlasting punishment. but i want to tell you how this outrageous thing came to pass. i want to tell you how it was that in the very bud of my existence i was robbed of a suitable case in which to go through life, and i want you, with your extraordinary knowledge of the law, as i understand it to be, to devise some scheme for my relief. if you don't, nobody will, and before many years it will be too late. the body is growing weaker every day. i can see that, and i want to get it back again before it becomes absolutely valueless. i believe that under my care, restored to its original owner, it can be fixed up and made quite respectable for its declining years. of course the teeth and the hair are gone for ever, but i think i can furbish up the smile, the eye and the hands. i know that i can restore my former good habits." "i'm hanged if i see how i can help you," rejoined hopkins. "do you mean to say that the present occupant of your personality is the creature who robbed you of it?" "precisely," said the spirit. "he's the very same person, and, stars above us, how he has abused the premises! he has made my name famous--" "you don't mean to say that he took your name too?" put in hopkins incredulously. "i mean just that," retorted the spirit. "he stole my name, my body, my prospects, my clothing--every blessed thing i had except my consciousness, and he thrust that out into a cold, unsympathetic world, to float around in invisible nebulousness for thirty long years. oh, it is an awful tale of villainy, toppleton! awful!" "you say he has made your name famous," said toppleton. "you give him credit for that, don't you?" "i would if the very fame accorded my name did not tend to make me infamous in the eyes of those i hold most dear; and the beastly part of it is that i can't explain the situation to them." "why not?" asked hopkins. "if you can lay all this misery bare to me, why can't you lay it before those for whose good will and admiration you are lamenting?" "because, hopkins, they never address me, and it is my hard fate not to be able to open a conversation," returned the spirit. "if you will remember, it was not until you asked me who the devil i was, or some equally choice question of like import, that i began to hold converse with you; you are the only man with whom i have talked for thirty years, hopkins, because you are the only person who has taken the initiative." "well, you goaded me into it," returned hopkins. "so i can't see why you can't goad your friends of longer standing into it." "the explanation is simple," replied the spirit. "my friends haven't had the courage to withstand the terrors of the situation. the minute i have whistled, sighed or laughed, they have made a bee line for the door, and raised such a hullabaloo about the 'supernatural visitation,' as they termed my efforts, that i couldn't do a thing with them. they've everyone of them, from my respected mother down, avoided me, even as that man stubbs has avoided me. i believe you too would have fled if the door hadn't locked automatically, and so forced you to remain here." "if i could have avoided this interview i should most certainly have done so," said toppleton, candidly. "you can probably guess yourself how very unpleasant it is to be disturbed in your work by a whistle that emanates from some unseen lips, and to have your room taken possession of by an invisible being with a grievance." "yes, hopkins. i've had almost the same experience myself," replied the spirit; "and to be as candid with you as you have been with me, i will say that it was just that experience, and nothing else, that is responsible for my present difficulties." "that's encouraging for me," said hopkins, nervously. "but tell me how have you become infamously famous?" "the bandit who now occupies my being has violated every principle of religion and politics that he found in me when he took possession," returned the spirit, leaving the rocking-chair and settling down on the mantelpiece, in front of the clock. "where i was a pronounced tory he has made me vote with the liberals. notwithstanding the fact that i was brought up in the church of england, he joined first the dissenters and is now a thorough agnostic, and signs my name to the most outrageous views on social and moral subjects you ever heard advanced. my family have cut loose from me as i am represented by him, and the dearest friend of my youth never mentions my name save in terms of severest reprehension. would you like that, hopkins toppleton?" "i'd be precious far from liking it," hopkins answered. "it seems to me i'd commit suicide under such circumstances. have you thought of that?" "often," replied the spirit; "but the question has always been, how?" "take poison! shoot yourself! drown yourself!" "i can't take poison. that fiend who robbed me has my stomach, so what could i put the poison into?" retorted the spirit. "shoot myself? how? i haven't a pistol. if i had a pistol i couldn't fire it, because i've nothing to pull the trigger with. if i had something to pull the trigger with, what should i fire at? i have no brains to blow out, no heart to shoot at. i'd simply fire into air." "how about the third method?" queried toppleton. "drowning?" asked the unhappy presence. "that wouldn't work. i've nothing to drown. if i could get under water, i'd bubble right up again, so you see it's useless. besides, it's only the body that dies, not the spirit. you see the shape i'm left in." "no," returned hopkins, "i perceive the lack of shape you are left in, and i must confess you are in the hardest luck of any person i ever knew; but really, my dear sir, i don't see how i can render you any assistance, so we might as well consider the interview at an end. now that i am better acquainted with you i will say, however, that if it gives you any pleasure to loll around here or to sleep up there in my cloisonné jar with the rose leaves, you are welcome to do so." "if you would only hear my story, hopkins," said the spirit, beseechingly, "you would be so wrought up by its horrible details that you would devise some plan for my relief. you would be less than a man if you did not, and i am told that you americans are great fighters. take this case for me, won't you?" hopkins hesitated. he was strongly inclined to yield, the cause was so extraordinary, and yet he could not in a moment overcome his strongly-cultivated repugnance to burdening himself with a client. then he was conscientious, too. he did not wish to identify the famous house of toppleton, morley, harkins, perkins, mawson, bronson, smithers and hicks with a case in which the possibilities of success seemed so remote. on the other hand he could not but reflect that, aside from the purely humane aspect of the matter, a successful issue would redound to the everlasting glory of himself and his partners over the sea--that is, it would if anybody could be made to believe in the existence of such a case. he realized that the emergency was one which must be met by himself alone, because he was thoroughly convinced that the hard-headed practical men of affairs whom he represented would scarcely credit his account of the occurrences of the last hour, and would set him down either as having been under the influence of drink or as having lost his senses. he would not have believed the story himself if some one else had told it to him, and he could not expect his partners in new york to be any more credulous than he would have been. his hesitation was short-lived, however, for in a moment it was dispelled by a sigh from his unseen guest. it was the most heartrending sigh he had ever heard, and it overcame his scruples. "by george!" he said, "i will listen to your story, and i'll help you if i can, only you will unstring my nerves unless you get yourself a shape of some kind or other. it makes my blood run cold to sit here and bandy words with an absolute nonentity." "i don't know where i can get a shape," returned the spirit. "what did the thief who took your shape do with his old one?" asked hopkins. "he'd buried it before i met him," returned the spirit. "buried it? oh, heavens!" cried hopkins, seizing his hat. "let's get out of this and take a little fresh air; if we don't, i'll go mad. come," he added, addressing the spirit, "we'll run over to the lowther arcade and buy a form. if we can't find anything better we'll get a wooden indian or a french doll, or anything having human semblance so that you can climb into it and lessen the infernal uncanniness of your disembodiment." hopkins rang the janitor's bell again, and when that worthy appeared he had him unfasten the door from the outside; then he and the spirit started out in search of an embodiment for the exiled soul. "hi thinks as 'ow 'e must be craizy," said the janitor, as toppleton disappeared around the corner in animated conversation with his invisible client. "e's' talkin' away like hall possessed, hand nobody as hi can see within hearshot. these hamericans is nothink much has far as 'ead goes." as for toppleton and the presence, they found in the lowther arcade just what they wanted--an aunt sallie with a hollow head, into which the spirit was able to enter, and from which it told its tale of woe, sitting, bodily and visibly, in the rocking-chair, before the eyes of hopkins toppleton, the words falling fluently from the open lips of the dusky incubus the spirit had put on. "it was odd, but not too infernally weird," said hopkins afterwards, "and i was able to listen without losing my equanimity, to one of the meanest tales of robbery i ever heard." chapter v. hopkins becomes better acquainted with the weary spirit. "i do not know," said the weary spirit, as he entered the head of the aunt sallie and endeavoured to make himself comfortable therein, "i do not know whether i can do justice to my story in these limited headquarters or not, but i can try. it isn't a good fit, this body isn't, and i cannot help being conscious that to your eyes i must appear as a blackamoor, which, to an english spirit of cultivation and refinement such as i am, is more or less discomfiting." "i shouldn't mind if i were you," returned hopkins. "it's very becoming to you; much more so, indeed, than that airy nothingness you had on when i first perceived you, and while your tale may be more or less affected by your consciousness of the strange, ready-made physiognomy you have assumed, i, nevertheless, can grasp it better than i might if you persisted in sounding off your woes from an empty rocking-chair, or from the edge of my cloisonné rose jar." "oh, i don't blame you, toppleton," returned the spirit. "i am, on the contrary, very grateful to you for what you have done for me. i shall always appreciate your generosity, for instance, in buying me this shape in order to give me at least a semblance of individuality, and i assure you that if i can ever get back into my real body, i will work it to the verge of nervous prostration to serve you, should you stand in need of assistance in any way." hopkins' scrutiny of the aunt sallie, as these words issued from the round aperture in the red lips made originally to hold the pipe stem, but now used as a tubal exit for the tale of woe, was so searching that anything less stolid than the wooden head would have flinched. the aunt sallie stood it, however, without showing a trace of emotion, gazing steadfastly with her bright blue eyes out of the window, her eyelids more fixed than the stars themselves, since no sign of a wink or a twinkle did they give. "i wish," said toppleton, experiencing a slight return of his awed chilliness as he observed the unyielding fixity of sallie's expression, "in fact, i earnestly wish we could have secured a ventriloquist's marionette instead of that thing you've got on. it would really be a blessing to me if you could wink your eyes, or wag your ears, or change your expression in some way or other." "i don't see how it can be done," returned the spirit from behind toppleton's back. "i cannot exercise any control over these wooden features." hopkins jumped two or three feet across the room, the unexpected locality of the voice gave him such a shock, and the pulsation of his heart leaped madly from the normal to the triply abnormal. "wh--whuh--what the devil did you do tha--that for?" he cried, as soon as he was calm enough to speak. "do y--you want to give me heart failure?" "not i!" replied the spirit, once more returning to the sallie. "that would be a very unbusiness-like proceeding on my part at a time like this, when, after thirty years of misery, i find at last one who is willing to champion my cause. i only wanted to see how my second self looked in this chair. to my eyes i appear rather plain and dusky-looking, but what's the odds? the figure will serve its purpose, and after all that's what we want. i'm sorry to have frightened you, toppleton, honestly sorry." "oh, never mind," rejoined toppleton, graciously. "only don't do it again. let's have the tale now." "very well," said the spirit. "if you will kindly shove me further back into the chair, and arrange my overskirt for me, i'll begin--that's another uncomfortable thing about my situation at present. it's somewhat trying to a spirit of masculine habits to find himself arrayed in a shape wearing the habiliments of the other sex." hopkins did as he was requested, and, throwing himself down on his lounge, lit his pipe, and announced himself as ready to listen. "i think i'd like a pipe myself," said the sallie. "i've got a fine place for one, i see." "how can you talk if you stop your mouth up with a pipe?" asked hopkins. "through my nose," replied the spirit. "or there are holes in the ears, i can talk through them quite as well." "well, i guess not," returned hopkins. "i have had enough of your weird vocal exercises to-day without having you talk with your ears, but if you'll smoke with one or both of them, you're welcome to do it." "very well," replied the spirit. "i fancy you're right, and inasmuch as i haven't had a pipe for thirty years, i'll let you fill up two for me, and i'll try 'em both." accordingly hopkins filled two of the clay pipes, three dozen of which had come with the aunt sallie, and lighting them for the spirit, placed them in the ears of his vis-à-vis as requested. "ah," said the spirit as he began to puff, "this is what i call comfort." and then he began his story. "i was born," he said, breathing forth a cloud of smoke from his right ear, "sixty years ago in a small house within a stone's throw of what is now the band stand in the park at buxton." "you must have had human catapults in those days," interrupted toppleton, for as he remembered the band stand at buxton, it was situated at some considerable distance from anything which in any degree represented a habitation in which one could begin life comfortably. "i don't know about that. i am not telling you a sporting tale. i am simply narrating the events of my career, such as they are," returned the spirit, "and my father has assured me that the house in which i first saw light was, as i have said, within a stone's throw of what is now the band stand in the buxton park. the band stand may have been nearer the house in the old days than it is now,--that is an insignificant sort of a detail anyhow, and if you'd prefer it i will put it in this way: i was born at buxton sixty years ago in a small house, no longer standing, from whose windows the band stand in the park might have been seen if there had been one there. how is that?" "perfectly satisfactory," replied hopkins. "a statement of that kind would be accepted in any court in the land as veracious on the face of it, whereas we might be called upon to prove that other tale, which between you and me had about it a distinctly munchausenesque flavour." the spirit was evidently much impressed with this reasoning, for he forgot himself for a moment, and inhaled some of the smoke, so that it came out between his lips instead of from his ears as before. "i am glad to see you take such interest in the matter," he said after a moment's reflection. "we must indeed have an absolutely irrefragable story if we are to take it to court. i had not thought of that. but to resume. my parents were like most others of their class, poor but honest. my mother was a poetess with an annuity. my father was a non-resistant, a sort of forerunner of tolstoï, with none of the latter's energy. he was content to live along on my mother's annuity, leaving her for her own needs an undivided interest in the earnings of her pen." "he was a gentleman of leisure, then," returned hopkins, "with pronounced leanings towards the sedentary school of philosophy." "that's it," replied the spirit. "that was my father in a nut-shell. he took things as they came--indeed that was his chief fault. as mother used to say, he not only took things as they came, but took all there was to take, so that there was never anything left for the rest of us. his non-resistant tendencies were almost a curse to the family. why, he'd even listen to mother's poetry and not complain. if there were weeds in the garden, he would submit tamely, rather than take a hoe and eradicate them. he used to sigh once in awhile and condemn my mother's parents for leaving her so little that she could not afford to hire a man to keep our place in order, but further than this he did not murmur. my mother, on the other hand, was energetic in her special line. i've known that woman to turn out fifteen poems in a morning, and, at one time, i think it was the day of victoria's coronation, she wrote an elegy on william the fourth of sixty-eight stanzas, and a coronation ode that reached from one end of the parlour to the other,--doing it all between luncheon and dinner. dinner was four hours late to be sure, but even that does not affect the wonderful quality of the achievement." "didn't your father resist that?" queried toppleton, sympathetically. "no," replied the spirit, "never uttered a complaint." "he must have been an extraordinary man," observed toppleton, shaking his head in wonder. "he was," assented the spirit. "father was a genius in his way; but he was born tired, and he never seemed able to outgrow it." here the spirit requested toppleton's permission to leave the aunt sallie for a moment. the head was getting too full of smoke for comfort. "i'll just sit over here on the waste basket until the smoke has a chance to get out," he said. "if i don't, it will be the ruin of me." "all right," returned toppleton. "i suppose when a man is reduced to nothing but a voice, it is rather destructive to his health to get diluted with tobacco smoke. but, i say, that was a pretty tough condition of affairs in your house i should say. poetic mother, do-nothing father, small income and a baby. how did you manage to live?" "oh, we lived well enough," replied the spirit. "the income was large enough to pay the rent and keep father from hunger and thirst--particularly the latter. mother, being a poet, didn't eat anything to speak of, and i fed on cow's milk. we had a cow chiefly because her appetite kept the grass cut, and when i came along she served an additional useful purpose. in the matter of clothing we did first rate. mother's trousseau lasted as long as she did, and father never needed anything more than the suit he was married in. inheriting my mother's poetic traits, and my father's tendency to let things come as they might and go as they would, it is hardly strange that as i grew older i became addicted to habits of indecision; that i lacked courage when a slight display of that quality meant success; that i was invariably found wanting in the little crises which make up existence in this sphere; that i always let slip the opportunities which were mine, and that at those tides of my own affairs which taken at the flood would have led on to fortune, i was always high and dry somewhere out of reach, and that, in consequence, all the voyage of my life has been bound in shallows and in miseries, as my mother would have said." "your mother must have been a diligent student of shakespeare," toppleton retorted, resenting the spirit's appropriation to his mother of the great singer's words, and also taking offence at the implied reflection upon his own reading. "yes, she was," replied the spirit unabashed. "in fact, my mother was so saturated--she was more than imbued--with the spirit of shakespeare, that she was frequently unable to distinguish her own poems from his, a condition of affairs which was the cause, at one time, of her being charged with plagiarism, when she was in reality guilty of nothing worse than unconscious cerebration." "that is an unfortunate disease when it develops into verbatim appropriation," said toppleton, drily. "precisely my father's words," returned the spirit. "but the effect of such parental causes, as i have already said," continued the exiled soul, "was a pusillanimous offspring, which for the offspring in question, myself, was extremely disastrous. the poet in me was just sufficiently well developed to give me a malarious idea of life. in spite of my sex i was a poetess rather than a poet. i could begin an epic or a triolet without any trouble; but i never knew when to stop, a failing not necessarily fatal to an epic, but death to a triolet. the true climaxes of my lucubrations were generally avoided, and miserably inadequate compromises adopted in their stead. my muse was a snivelling, weak-kneed sort of creature, who, had she been of this earth, would have belonged to the ranks of those who are addicted to smelling-salts, influenza and imaginary troubles, and not the strong, picturesque, helpful female, calculated to goad a man on to immortality. i generally knew what was the right thing to do, but never had the courage to do it. that was my peculiarity, and it has brought me to this--to the level of a soul with no habitation save the effigy of a negress, provided for me by a charitably disposed chance acquaintance." "you do not appear to have had a single redeeming feature," said toppleton, some disgust manifested on his countenance, for to tell the truth he was thoroughly disappointed to learn that the spirit's moral cowardice had brought his trouble upon him. "oh, yes, i had," replied the spirit hastily, as if anxious to rehabilitate himself in his host's eyes. "i was strong in one particular. in matters pertaining to religion i was unusually strong. my very meekness rendered me so." "your kind of meekness isn't the kind that inherits the earth, though," retorted toppleton. "meekness that means the abandonment of right for the sake of peace is a crime. meekness that subverts self-respect is an offence against society. meekness which is synonymous with pusillanimity is not the meekness which develops into true religious feeling." "no; that is very true," said the spirit. "i do not deny one word of what you say; but i, nevertheless, was an extremely religious boy, nor did i change when i entered upon man's estate; and it is that strong religious fervour with which my spirit is still imbued that has made my cup so much the more bitter, since, as i have hinted, he who robbed me of my body has written pamphlets of the most shocking sort over my name, denouncing the church and attempting to upset the whole fabric of christianity." "i am anxious to get to the details of the robbery," said toppleton, with a smile of sympathy; "pass over your extreme youth and come to that." "i will do so," replied the spirit, returning to the figure toppleton had provided for him, the smoke having by this time evacuated his new habitation. "i will omit the details of my life up to the time when i became a lawyer and--" "you don't mean to say you _ever_ became a lawyer?" interrupted hopkins, incredulously. "why, certainly," replied the spirit; "i became a lawyer, and at the time i lost my body i was getting to be considered a famous one." "how on earth, with your meekness, did you ever have the courage to take up a profession that requires nerve and an aggressive nature if success is to be sought after?" asked the american. "it was that same fatal inability to make up my mind to do what my conscience prompted. it was another one of my compromises," returned the spirit, sadly. "i couldn't make up my mind between the pulpit and literature, so i compromised on the law, mastered it to a sufficient extent to be admitted to practice, and opened an office--the same room, by the way, as that in which you and i are seated at this moment." "do you remember any of your law now?" toppleton asked uneasily, for he was afraid the spirit might discover how ignorant he was on the subject. "not a line of it," returned the spirit. "it has gone from me as completely as my name, my body, my auburn hair and my teeth. but i _was_ a lawyer, and by slow degrees i built up a fair practice. people seemed to recognize how strong i was in matters of compromise, and cases that were not considered strong enough to take into court were brought to me in order that i might suggest methods of adjustment satisfactory to both parties. for three years i did a thriving business here, and for one whose knowledge of the law was limited i got along very well. i was one of the few barristers in london who had become well-known to litigants without ever having appeared in court, and i was very well satisfied with my prospects. "everything went smoothly with me until a few weeks after i had passed my thirtieth birthday, when a man came into my office and retained me in an inheritance case, in which the amount involved was thirty thousand pounds. he had been made defendant in a suit brought against him by his own brother for the recovery of that sum. it was a very complicated case, but the brother really had no valid claim to the money. the father of the two men, ten minutes before his death, had told my client in confidence that it was his desire that he should inherit sixty thousand pounds more than the other brother, telling him, however, that he must get it for himself, since the written will of the dying man provided that the two sons should share and share alike. in spasmodic gasps the old man added that he would find the money concealed in a secret drawer in an old desk up in the attic, in sixty one-thousand pound notes. my client, realizing that his father could not last many minutes longer, and feeling that his dying wishes should not be thwarted, rushed from the room to the attic, and after rummaging about for nine minutes, found the drawer and touched the secret spring. unfortunately the day was a very damp one, and the drawer stuck, so that it was fully eleven minutes before the money was really in my client's hands. he shoved it into his pocket and went downstairs again, where he learned that his father had expired one minute before, or just ten minutes after he had left him. "the other son not long after discovered what had been done, and after listening to my client's story, decided to contest his title to his share of the sixty thousand pounds, alleging that the money not having passed into my client's hands until after the testator's death, belonged to the estate, and could only be diverted therefrom upon the production of an instrument in writing over the deceased man's signature, duly witnessed. you see," added the spirit, "that was a very fine point." "yes, indeed!" said toppleton; "it's the kind of a point that i hope and pray may never puncture my professional epidermis, for i'll be hanged if i'd know what to advise. what did you do?" "ah!" sighed the spirit, "there's where the trouble came in. i studied that case diligently. i consulted every law book i could find. every leading case on inheritance matters i read, marked, learned and inwardly digested, and i made up my mind that if we could prove that my client's watch was fast upon that occasion, and that the money was in his hands one minute before his father's death instead of one minute after it, the plaintiff would not have a leg to stand on. then it occurred to me 'this means trouble.' it means a long and tedious litigation. it means defeat, appeal, victory, appeal, defeat, appeal, on, on through all the courts in great britain, and finally the house of lords, the result being the loss to my client of every penny of the amount involved, even though he should ultimately win the suit, and the loss to me of sleep, the development of nerves and a career of unrelieved anxiety. compromise was the proper course to be recommended." "a proper conclusion, i should say," said toppleton. "i think so, too," replied the spirit, "and if i had only remained true to my instincts my client would have compromised, and i should have been spared all that followed. it would have been better for all concerned, for i should have been in possession of myself to-day, and my client by compromising would in the end have lost no more than he had to pay me for my services--fifteen thousand pounds." "phe--e--ew!" whistled hopkins. "that was a swindle!" "yes, but i wasn't party to it, as you will shortly see. when i made up my mind that compromise was the best settlement of the case, all things considered, i sat down right here by this window to write to mr. baskins to that effect. it was a beastly night out. the wind shrieked through the court there, and it was cold enough to freeze the marrow in a grilled bone. i was just about to sign my communication to mr. baskins, when i heard a knock at the door. "'come in,' i said. "and then, mr. toppleton, as sure as i am sitting here in this aunt sallie talking to you, the door opened and then slowly closed, a light step was perceptible to the ear, moving across the carpet, and in a moment a rocking-chair owned by me began to sway to and fro, just as this one sways when i or you are sitting in it, but to my eyes there was absolutely nothing visible that had not always been in the room." hopkins began to feel chilly again. "you mean to say that to all intents and purposes, an invisible being like yourself called on you as you have called on me?" he said in a minute, his breath coming in short, quick gasps. "precisely," returned the incumbent of the aunt sallie. "i was visited, even as you have been visited, by an invisible being, only my visitor did not remain invisible, for as i sprang to my feet, my whole being palpitant with terror, the lamp on my table sputtered and went out; and then i saw, sitting luminous in the dark, gazing at me with large, gaping, unfathomably deep green eyes, a creature having the semblance of a man, but of a man no longer of this earth." chapter vi. the spirit unfolds a horrid tale. "if ever a man had a right to swoon away, hopkins," continued the spirit, his voice dropping to a whisper, "i was that man, and i presume i should have done so but for the everlasting spirit of compromise in my breast. the proper thing to do under the circumstances was manifestly to flop down on the carpet insensate, just as you did when i announced myself to you; and i assure you i had greater reason for so doing than you had, for my visitor had absolutely no limitations whatsoever in the line of the horrible. he was an affront to every sense, and not, like myself, trying only to the ear. to the sense of sight was he most horrible, and i would have given anything i possessed to be able to remove my eyes from his dreadful personality, with the long bony claws where you and i have fingers; with tight-drawn cheeks so transparent that through them could be seen his hideous jaws; with eyes which stared even when the lids closed over them; and, worst of all, his throbbing brain was visible as it worked inside his skull; and so bloodless of aspect was he withal, that the mind instinctively likened him to a fasting vampire." "excuse me!" groaned hopkins, throwing himself down on the couch and burying his face in the pillow. "this is awful. i've crossed the ocean eight times, sallie, and until now i have never known sea-sickness, but this--this vampire of yours is mightier than neptune; just hand me the whiskey." "i'm sorry it affects you that way, hopkins," said the spirit, "and i'd gladly give you the whiskey if i could, but you know how circumscribed my abilities are. i haven't any hand to hand it with." "never mind," said hopkins, the colour returning to his cheeks, "i feel better now. it was only a sudden turn i had; only, my friend, go slow on the horrible, will you?" "i wish i could," replied the spirit sadly, "but the cause of truth requires that i tell you precisely what happened, omitting no single detail of the sickening totality. perhaps, before i proceed, you had better take a dozen grains of quinine, and have the whiskey within reach." "that is a good suggestion," said hopkins, rising and gulping down the pills, and grasping the neck of the square-cut bottle containing the treasured fluid, with his trembling hand. "go ahead," he said, as he resumed his recumbent position on the couch. "to the olfactories," resumed the spirit, "the visitant was stifling. a gross of sulphur matches let off all at once would be a weak imitation of the atmospheric condition of this room after he had been here two minutes, and yet i did not dare to turn from him to open the window. my only weapon of defence was my eye, under the tense gaze of which he seemed uneasy, and i was fearful of what might happen were i to permit it to waver for one instant. his colour was simply deadly. i should describe it best, perhaps, as of a pallid green in which there was a suggestion of yellow that heightened the general effect to the point where it became ghastly." here hopkins' eyelids fluttered, and the bottle was raised to his lips. when the draught had been taken the bottle dropped from his nerveless fingers to the floor, and shivered into countless slivers of brown crystal. "jove!" ejaculated the spirit. "that was very unfortunate, hop--" "no matter," interrupted hopkins, "it was empty. go on. did this private view you and the nile-green apparition were having of each other last for ever?" "no," returned the spirit, "it did not. it probably lasted less than a minute, although it seemed a century. i tried half a dozen times to speak, but my words were frozen on my lips." "why didn't you break them off and throw them at him?" suggested toppleton, hysterical to the point of flippancy. "because i did not possess the genius of the yankee who is inventive where the briton is only enduring," retorted the spirit, somewhat disgusted at toppleton's airy treatment of his awful situation. "finally my visitor spoke, and for an instant i wished he hadn't, his voice was so abominably harsh, so jangling to every nerve in my body, however callous." "'you don't appear to be glad to see me,' he said. "'well, to tell you the truth,' i replied, 'i am not. i am not a collector of optical delusions, nor am i a lover of the horrible and mysterious.' "'but i am your friend,' remonstrated my visitor. "'i should dislike to be judged by my friends, if that is so,' i returned, throwing as much withering contempt into my glance as i possibly could. 'i think,' i resumed, 'if i were to be seen walking down piccadilly with you, i should be cut by every self-respecting acquaintance i have.' "'you are an ungrateful wretch,' said the intruder. 'here i have travelled myriads of miles to help you, and the minute i put in an appearance you cast worse slurs upon me than you would if i were your worst enemy.' "'i do not wish to be ungrateful,' i answered coolly, 'but you must admit that it is difficult for a purely mortal being like myself to receive a supernatural being like yourself with any degree of cordiality.' "'granted,' returned the spectre with a grin, which was more terrifying to me than anything i had yet seen, 'but when i tell you that i have come to befriend you--' "'i don't call it friendly to scare a man to death; i don't call it friendly to steal invisibly into a man's office and choke him nearly to suffocation. it seems to me you might use some other style of cologne to advantage when you go calling on your friends, and if i had cheeks through which my whole molar system was visible to the outside world, i'd grow whiskers.'" "my admiration for you has increased eighty-seven per cent.," put in toppleton, "that is, it has if all you say you said to the spook is true." "i'd swear to it," returned the spirit, the tone of his voice showing the gratification he felt at toppleton's words. "i talked up to him all the time, though i was quaking inwardly from the start. he noticed it too, for he said practically what you have just remarked. "'you command my highest admiration,' were his words. 'if you were as spunky as this all the time, you would not need my assistance, but you are not, and so i have come. _you must not compromise that case._' "here the deadly green thing rose from the chair and approached me," continued the spirit, "and as he approached my terror increased, so it is no wonder that, when he got so near that i could feel his wretched soul-chilling breath upon my cheek, his luminous body towering above me as a giant towers over a dwarf, and repeated the words, '_you must not compromise that case_,' i should shrink back into a heap at the side of my desk, and reply, 'certainly _not_.'" "'you have a splendid fighting chance,' he added, 'but it will be a bitter fight,--a fight, the winning of which will make you famous, but which you, by yourself, with all the law in christendom on your side, could no more win than you could batter down the tower of london with balls of putty.' "'then,' said i, 'i _must_ compromise.' "'no,' returned my visitor, 'for i am here to win the case for you.' "'you will never be retained,' i retorted. 'you are a degree too foggy to be acceptable either to my client or to myself.' "'i do not ask to be retained; but you must provide me with the means to appear in court. _you must leave your body and let me put it on._'" "that must have been a staggerer," said hopkins. "were you fool enough to give it to him without getting a receipt?" "i was not fool enough to yield without persuasion," rejoined the spirit sadly, "but when he brought all the infernal power at his command into play to lure me on, i weakened, and when i weaken i am done for. toppleton, that messenger of satan promised me everything that was dear to my soul. the temptation of faust was nowhere alongside of that which was placed before me as mine if i but chose to take it, and no price was asked save that one little privilege of being permitted to do the things which should make me rich, powerful and happy in the guise which i was to put off that the apparition might put it on. from my boyhood days i had wished to be rich and powerful, and from the hour in which i reached man's estate had i been in love, but hopelessly, since she i loved was ambitious, and would not consent to be mine until i had made my mark. "'alone,' said my visitor, 'you will never make your name illustrious. with my help you may--and consider what it means. refuse my offer, and you will lead the dull, monotonous life of him who knows no success, to whose ears the plaudits of the world shall never come; you will live alone and uncared for, for she whom you love cannot become the wife of a failure. accept my offer, and in a month you are famous, in a year you are rich, in an instant you are happy, for the heart you yearn toward will beat responsive to your own.' "'but your motive!' i cried. 'why should you do all this for me who know you not, and without a price?' "'my reason,' returned that perjured instrument of malign fate, 'is my weakness. i love the world. i love the sensation of living. i love to hear the praises of man ringing in my ears. i am a lover of earth and earthly ways, with no hope of tasting the joys of earth save in your acquiescence. i am the soul of one departed. i have put off against my will the mortal habitation in which i dwelt for many happy years. i have solved the rebus of existence and have put on omniscience. all things i can accomplish once i have the means. i ask you for them, with little hope that you will grant my request, however, because you are the embodiment of all that is uncertain. had you lived among the olympian gods, they would have made you the deity of indecision; but before refusing my offer remember this, you have now the grand opportunity of life, such an opportunity as has never been offered to any mortal being since the time of shakespeare--' "'did shakespeare have this opportunity?' i asked eagerly. "'my son,' returned the apparition, with a meaning look, 'do not seek to know too much about the mystery of william shakespeare. you know whence he sprang, how he lived and what he achieved; let my unguarded words of a moment since be the seed of suggestion which planted in the soil of your brain may sprout and blossom forth into the flowers of certain knowledge. it is not for me to let a mortal like you into the confidence of the fates; suffice it that _i_ offer you immortality and present happiness. think it over: i will return to-morrow.' "before i could reply," continued the spirit, "he had vanished. the light of my lamp returned of its own volition, and but for the odour of sulphur which still clung to the hangings of the room i should have supposed that i had been dreaming. "utterly wearied by the excitement of my strange experience, i threw myself down upon my couch, and fell into a deep sleep from which i did not awake for sixteen hours, in consequence of which a whole day was practically gone out of my life. "darkness was closing in upon me as i opened my eyes, and as it grew more dense i could see taking shape in the chair by my table my visitor of the night before, more pallid and sulphurous than ever. "'well?' he said, as i opened my eyes. "'no!' i answered shortly, 'i am not well. i might be much better if you'd confine yourself to the cemetery to which you belong.' "'reparteedious as ever!' he retorted. "'i don't know the word,' i replied; 'it belongs to neither a dead nor a live language.' "'but it's a good word, nevertheless,' observed the ghost quietly,' and i advise you to think of it whenever you are inclined to indulge in stupid repartee. it may help you in your career,--but i have come for an answer to my proposition.'" "he was right about reparteedious," said hopkins, interrupting the spirit's story; "that's a good word, and unless you have it copyrighted i think i'll open the doors of my vocabulary and admit it to the charmed circle of my verbiage." "no, i have no copyright on it," replied the spirit, gazing at hopkins with as sad an expression as could possibly be assumed, considering the imperturbability of aunt sallie's countenance. "you may have it for your vocabulary, hopkins, but if you will take a little well-meant advice you had better be very careful about your word collection. your frequent and flippant interruptions of my sad story lead me to fear that you are overworking your vocabulary, which is a very dangerous thing for a young man of your age and intelligence to do. "but to resume my tale," continued the spirit, after waiting a moment for hopkins to reply to his suggestion, which hopkins seemed not to hear, so busy was he looking for his memorandum book on his table,--a table so littered up with papers and silver paraphernalia for writing that no portion of its polished surface was visible. "i told my unwelcome guest that i had no answer to give him; that, as i was not a believer in the supernatural, i did not intend to waste my time in parleying with a figment of my brain. "'you are cautious enough to have been a policeman,' he said in response to this. 'but caution in this instance is a vice.' "'caution is not a vice when a spirit of your evil aspect enters one's office in the dead of night, and asks for the loan of one's body,' i answered. 'i should be more justified in lending my diamond-stud to a sneak thief to wear to a lawn-tennis party at the duke of devonshire's, than in acquiescing in your scheme.' "'then you do not care to become a great man, to assure yourself of a fortune beyond your wildest dreams, to put yourself in such a position that she whom you love will be unable to resist your proposal of marriage?' "'i am not untruthful enough to make any such pretence as that,' i answered. 'i do want to be everything you say, to have everything that you promise, but if i know the young woman upon whom my affections are lavishing themselves, she would object strenuously to my making a bargain with a transparent offshoot of the infernal regions like yourself. how do i know that, after i am married and have settled down to a life of honourable ease, you will not come along and insist upon an invitation to dinner; or obtrude yourself into the home circle at times when it will be extremely inconvenient to receive you? what guarantee have i that, when i have suddenly developed from my present obscurity into the promised distinction, you will not appear to some of my rivals and let them into the secret of my success; and, more important still, how do i know that after miss hicksworthy-johnstone has become my wife you will not go to her and destroy my happiness by revealing to her the true state of affairs?' "'i can only give you my word that i will be faithful,' returned my visitor. "'well, if your word is no better than reparteedious, it is not the kind of word upon which i should place any reliance whatsoever,' i retorted; 'so you may as well take yourself off; i am not lending myself these days.'" "that was very well said," observed toppleton, "only i wish you had had witnesses. your sudden development of back-bone under the circumstance was so extraordinarily extraordinary that it is almost beyond credence. did the fiend depart as you spoke those words?" "no," returned the exiled spirit, "he did not. he began operations, deceiving me grossly. he rose from the rocking-chair and said he fancied it was time for him to be off. when he got to the door he turned and kissed his right collection of claws to me, and asked if there was any place in the neighbourhood where he could get a drink. well, of course, unpleasant as he was to look at, he had injured me in no respect, and save for my instinctive suspicions i had no real reason for believing that he was actuated by any but the best of motives. so i replied that the best place i knew of for him to get a drink was right here in this room, and that if he would wait a second i would join him in a glass. he hesitated an instant, and then said that seeing it was i who asked him, he thought he would; so i got out my little stone jug and poured out two rather stiff doses of brandy. now it had been my habit to take my liquid refreshment undiluted, and taking my glass in hand i held it aloft and observed, 'here's to you.' "my visitor placed his claws on my arm. "'you do not mean to say,' he said, 'that you take this fiery stuff without water?' "'that is my custom,' i answered. 'i think it a positive wrong to spoil good brandy with the rather inferior brand of water we get here in london, nor do i deem it proper to take so pure a fluid as water and destroy its innocence by introducing this liquid into it.' "'as you please,' was my visitor's response. 'i was foolish enough to do that myself when i was fortunate enough to have a physique. in fact it was just that thing that finally laid me by the heels. but let me have a little water with mine please.' "i laid my glass down beside his on the table, and, taking the pitcher, left the room for an instant to fill it at the water-cooler." "that was a fine thing to do," said toppleton. "your idiocy cropped out then in great shape. how did you know he wouldn't rob you?" "i wish he had robbed me and gone about his business," returned the spirit. "if that was all he did, i'd have been all right to this day. i was gone about two minutes, and when i returned he was standing by the window, whistling the most obnoxious tune i ever heard. what it was i don't know, but it gave me a chill. as i entered the room he stopped whistling and turned to greet me, took the pitcher from my hand, filled his glass to the brim with water and quaffed its contents. i drank my dose raw. as the brandy coursed down my throat into my stomach i fairly groaned with pain, it burned me so. "'what the devil have you been doing with that brandy?' i cried, turning upon my visitor. "'swallowing it; why?' he asked innocently. 'you meant that i should drink it, didn't you?' "'you can't put me off that way,' i groaned in my agony; for if i had swallowed a hot coal i could not have suffered more, that infernal stuff scorched me so. 'you have drugged my brandy.' "'have i?' he asked, with a menacing gesture and a frown that wrinkled up his hideous forehead, until his brains, still visible through the transparent flesh and bone, were reduced to a spongy mass no bigger than a walnut--" "he was concentrating his mind, i suppose?" suggested hopkins. "it looked that way," said the spirit, "and it was an awful sight. "'have i?' he repeated, and then he added, 'well, if i have, it is only to save you from yourself, for by this means alone can you ever fulfil your destiny.' "as these words issued forth from his white lips, i became unconscious. how long i remained so, i do not know; but when i came to once more, i was as i am now--a spirit having no visible shape; while seated in my chair, writing with my pen and in perfect imitation of my chirography, i saw what had been my body now occupied by another." chapter vii. a chapter of profit and loss. so overcome was the occupant of the aunt sallie at this point of his story, that he requested hopkins' permission to leave his quarters that he might sit on the floor near the slivers of the shattered whiskey bottle. he needed stimulant. hopkins readily granted the request, for he felt as if he would not mind having a little stimulant for himself, but as the last drop available for his purposes had been put to the use for which it was intended, he had to deny himself the comfort he would have derived from it. the fact that this horrid event, the harrowing details of which he had just listened to, had occurred right there in his own apartments served to make him doubly depressed, for it certainly indicated that the room, despite its cheerful situation, had been the dwelling-place of a supernatural being, and the present lessee was fearful lest that being should appear on the scene once more to practise some of his infernal tricks upon him. "you mean to say that when you recovered your senses, you had been deprived of your body?" said hopkins at last, breaking the silence more for the sake of calming his agitated mind than because he had anything to say. "yes," replied the spirit. "i lay there on the sofa an intellectual abstract whose concrete had been amputated and invested by a being who had already lived four-score of years in one body, and who, having worn that out, was now on the look-out for a second. the sensation was dreadful, and when i attempted to do what theretofore i had always done in moments of extreme agitation--to pull fiercely at my moustache--i was simply appalled to realize that the power to raise my hand to do this had passed, along with the moustache itself, into the control of that other being. then an access of rage surged over me, and i attempted to stamp my foot and shriek. the shriek was a success, but my foot like my arm was beyond my control. "as the shriek died away i observed my head slowly turning from the paper before it on the table, my right hand relaxed its grasp on the pen, and my own eyes were turned upon me, and i was simply maddened to see the left eye wink mischievously at me, while my mouth broadened into a smile at my own misfortunes. "'hello,' i said to myself--that is you know the other being in myself said this to me outside of myself. 'you've come to, at last, eh? i thought you were going to remain in a comatose state for ever.' "'see here, my friend,' i said, trying to be calm. 'this is a very clever trick you've put upon me, but from my point of view it is most uncomfortable, and i'd just as lief have you evacuate the premises, and permit me once more to assume my normal condition.' "'not until i have accomplished what i set out to accomplish,' was the answer that fell from my own lips, which again indulged in an impertinent smile at my expense. 'you don't suppose that i have put in three weeks of time and energy to make you famous with the intention of withdrawing on the eve of success, do you?' "'i don't know what you mean,' i replied, 'i don't understand the allusion, nor can i see why you permit me to be insulted by my own lips.' "here," said the spirit, "my face became clouded and my smile vanished. "'ungrateful wretch that you are!' said he who had rifled me of myself. 'are you not aware that three weeks have elapsed since you and your body parted company? are you not aware that in that time i have forced the fight between the brothers baskins to a point that has made that case the talk of london, and you, the hero of the hour in legal circles? do you not understand that to-morrow you are to appear in court to sum up for your side, and that the london _times_ itself is to have five stenographers in court to take down every word that is uttered by him they call a second burke, because of his eloquence, by him they call a second sheridan, because of his wit, by him they call the newly discovered leader of the english bar, because of the aggressive and powerful manner in which this now celebrated will case has been conducted? and finally, are you not aware that it is you who gain the credit due to me, since it is i who have merged my personality into yours, while you have only to remain quiescent and accord to me the undisturbed occupation of your physical self for a few days more?' "'i know none of these things,' i answered. 'i know that possibly an hour ago you robbed me of my senses by your infernal machinations, and that when they are restored to me i find myself disembodied, nameless, invisible.' "'do you know the date upon which i visited you first?' asked my tormentor. "'yes, it was november eighth. you returned on the night of november ninth--that is you returned early this evening.' "'perhaps this will convince you of the lapse of time, then,' retorted the occupant of my chair, tossing me a copy of the _times_, 'and these will prove the rest,' he added, throwing several other newspapers at the place where my feet would have been had he not deprived me of them. "i looked the papers over. the _times_ was dated november twenty-ninth and contained, as did also the others, a long account of the trial of the case of baskins _v._ baskins, in which i seemed to have figured prominently, concluding with a biographical sketch of myself coupled with the announcement that my former neighbours at buxton were thinking of calling upon me to stand for parliament. the tenour of everything in the papers was complimentary in the highest degree. it seemed that i had fairly routed my client's adversaries by nothing else than the aggressive manner of my fighting; that the case was practically won, though it still remained for me to sum up on the morrow, and that all london was expected to swarm into the court room to listen to my marvellous eloquence. i read and was stunned. my position was more unhappy than ever, for here was a greatness builded up for me, that was utterly beyond my ability once returned to my corse of clay to sustain, and before me was placed the horrible alternative of perpetual exile or stultification." "lovely prospect," murmured hopkins. "as i read on," continued the spirit, "i felt the burning gaze of my visitor upon me, though he could not see me. in my body or out of it, he still possessed that fearful power of mental concentration which when exerted upon another through the medium of the eye was withering to the soul. so nervous did i become, that noiseless as a sun-mote i moved across to the other side of the room, and yet his gaze followed me as if instinctively aware of my slightest move. for a time not a word was spoken by either of us. i was so overcome at the sudden revelation of my fame, that i knew not what to say. the words of blame that entered into my consciousness--for that was all that was left of me--to say, i could not utter, because however badly i had been treated by this fearful creature in the beginning, it could not be denied that he had exerted his powers entirely for my benefit. on the other hand, i found it impossible to thank him for what he had done, since i was unable to dismiss the sense of indignation i felt at the summary and tricky manner in which he had robbed me of my individuality. as for the other, he seemed to be thinking deeply, which contributed to my alarm, for i knew not what it was he was revolving in his mind, and i feared some additional exercise of his supernatural power to my further discomfiture. finally he spoke. "'i am very deeply disappointed in you,' he said. 'i at least supposed you to be a person of gratitude. i deemed your nature to be sufficiently refined and sensible to favours to evince some little appreciation of what has been done for you, but i must say that the veriest clod of a peasant would be hardly less stolid in the face of generous effort in his behalf than you have been toward me. a more unresponsive soul than yours can hardly have lived.' "'can you blame me for not being effusively grateful to you for having cut me out of three weeks of existence?' i asked. "'i can and i do,' he replied. 'you have not been incommoded. upon your own confession you have not even been conscious during the period that you lacked anatomy. on the other hand, consider what i have gone through! i have suffered more in the past fortnight than i did in my whole previous life. in making the substitution of my inner self for yours in your body, i failed to remember how much greater than the mortal mind is the mind which has put on omniscience, and i have found the head in which your intellect lived at ease, so contracted, so narrow for the accommodation of mine, that the work i have undertaken in your interest has been one prolonged bit of unremitting agony. if you have ever tried to wear a shoe fifteen sizes too small for you, you will have a faint glimmering of the pain i have suffered in trying to encase a number thirty mind in a seven and a quarter head. it has been almost impossible for me to get some of my great thoughts into this thick cranium of yours in their entirety,--indeed if thoughts were visible, your client might have seen them sticking out of these ears, or hovering above this lovely halo of auburn hair you wear, waiting for admission to an already overcrowded skull.' "as he spoke these words," said the spirit, with a chuckle, "i would have given ten pounds to have had something to smile with. i never thought one could miss his lips so much as when i tried to grin and found i had not the wherewithal. despite the insulting comment of my visitor upon the quality of my own mind, it really filled what there was left of me with pleasure to hear that, even though i had departed from it, my body through its limitations had been able to resent the intrusion of this alien spirit so effectually. "'in addition to the bad fit mentally,' continued the usurper of my anatomy, 'i have had to cope with your dyspepsia, which i did not know you had, and various other physical troubles such as rheumatism and toothache. it appears to me that even if i had not made you famous, the mere fact that i have relieved you of your toothache and rheumatism for three weeks should entitle me to your gratitude. however, i am willing to withdraw in your favour immediately if you insist. of course you will have to sum up that case to-morrow, and i sincerely hope that you will do it in a manner creditable to your new self, that is to yourself as i have made you.' "of course you see, hopkins," said the spirit, pausing in his story for a moment, "what a dreadful position that left me in. i was absolutely in the dark as to what had been done in the case. i did not know what line of argument had been pursued--i was even unacquainted with the name of the presiding justice at the trial, and as for the testimony elicited during the three weeks of my own personal desuetude, i had not read one word of it. to attempt to sum up the case under the circumstances meant ruin--it meant the final sacrifice of all my hopes; disgrace was imminent. "'i cannot sum up the case,' i answered in a moment. 'i have not mastered the details, nor is there time for me to do so before the court opens.' "'i am aware of that fact,' retorted the other. 'but that is nothing to me. i am not at all interested in upholding the undeserved fame of an ingrate. it's nothing to me if disgrace stares you in the face. my name is safe; graven upon a white marble stone in a country cemetery, it is beyond the reach of dishonour, and is endorsed in deep-cut letters with an epitaph extolling the virtues of him who bore it. this is your affair entirely; i wash my hands of it. come, prepare for your return.' "now i submit to you, hopkins, that, considering the situation, i was justified in changing my tone toward him. put yourself in my place for a moment," said the spirit. "i'd rather not," returned hopkins with a shudder. "oh, i don't mean for you to exchange places with me. i just want you to try to imagine what you would have done under the circumstances. you would have besought him even as i did to crown his work with final success, and not leave matters in so unsatisfactory a condition; to spare you the dishonour of a public failure, wouldn't you?" "yes, either that or suicide would have been my course," returned hopkins. "i think i'd have fled to some apothecary's and concealed myself in a chloroform bottle until my consciousness evaporated if i'd been you. you must have known that this thing could not keep up for ever, unless you would consent to remain disembodied all your days." "that was just the most horrible thing about it," said the spirit. "when i realized what it all meant, i was nearly distracted; but believing suicide to be a crime, and knowing, as i have already told you, that the mind is indestructible, i could not do as you suggested. i might have lulled myself into a state of perpetual unconsciousness, but i did not care to do that, for the reason that, despite the harrowing features of my situation, i was morbidly interested to see how it would all come out. at any rate, i succumbed to my fears, and begged him not to think of departing from my mortal habitation and leaving me in the lurch. "'now,' he replied, his face, or rather my face, wreathing with smiles, 'now you are talking sense. i thought you would come to it. it would be the height of folly for you to ruin yourself simply to gratify your love of retaining your form. i promise you that to-morrow night, after the great speech has been made in court--a speech which will ring out through the whole country, that will echo from the hills of scotland across the atlantic ocean to the rocky mountains, to re-echo thence to the himalayas, and so on until your fame has encircled the earth--i promise you that then i will depart hence and trouble you no more, except it be your desire that i return.'" "that was a fair proposition--he wasn't such a mean fiend after all," said hopkins. "at that moment i thought he was rather a square fiend," returned the spirit sadly; "but he developed as time went on." "and the speech next day? how was that? did he keep his word?" hopkins asked. "indeed he did," said the spirit with enthusiasm, "and it was simply marvellous. that night, after we had had the conversation i have just told you of, that fellow worked like a slave getting up his points, consulting the records, classifying the testimony and making notes for his great oratorical effort. hardly a poet in the history of literature was there who did not contribute some little line or two to make the speech more interesting, or to emphasize some point in a manner certain to appeal to a polished mind or overawe an uncultivated one. greek and latin authors were levied upon for tribute. parallels in ancient and modern history utterly unknown to me were instituted for the elucidation of the arguments advanced--in short, a more polished bit of oratory than that prepared for my tongue to utter never fell from mortal lips before, and as for the peroration--well, it would require the consummate art of the fiend himself adequately to describe it. it was simply dazzling. "'there is only one drawback, one thing i fear for to-morrow,' said the fiend, as he finished his preparations, 'and that is that these miserable mortal lungs of yours will not be able to do justice to that speech, and some of these quotations rasp on your unpractised tongue, so that i fear their effect may be weakened. however, i'll do the best i can with poor tools; but one thing is certain, you must make a sacrifice to me who have sacrificed time and comfort to you.' "'what is that?' i asked. "'i cannot properly accent my words with your teeth in their present condition. for instance these words here: _and, gentlemen of the jury, what have we to say of the plaintiff in this action, the brother of the defendant and the firstborn son of the decedent whose desires he now seeks to have over-ridden by the laws of this land, what have we to say of him? what palliation can he offer for his unfraternal conduct in thus dragging his own brother into the courts of this land in a mad effort to recover the paltry sum of thirty thousand pounds? history affords no parallel, gentlemen of the jury, to this cause of son living arrayed against his parent gone before, of brother fighting brother for a miserable pittance_, and so on. don't you see that to be spoken impressively these words demand a certain venomous hiss? i want to electrify the jury by that hiss, but i can't do it unless i have out two of your back teeth and this front one.' "here he tapped the left of my two front teeth--pearls they were, hopkins, pearls beyond price. of course i objected. "'i can't let you do that,' i said, 'it'll ruin my personal appearance.' "'bah, man!' he said. 'what is personal appearance to pre-eminent success? what are looks compared to immortality? i must again take advantage of your helplessness and rescue you from the effects of your own indecision. i have arranged to have a dentist here to-morrow morning at eight. in five minutes he will have the teeth out, and by noon your seething voice will have turned twelve good men and true into a mass of goose flesh that will be utterly unable to resist you.'" hopkins was heartless enough to laugh at this unexpected development. "i wish i could appreciate the joke, hopkins," said the spirit indignantly. "what is fun for you was tragedy for me. i had always prided myself on the vigour of my voice. there was nothing weak or affected about it, nor would i, had i been in control of my being, have permitted such vandalism as was perpetrated by that dentist the next morning, just for the sake of making a _coup_ with the jury. i can't deny, however, that when the speech was delivered the general effect was heightened by the sibilant tone in which the words were spoken. to me the dreadful spirit within my body was apparent from introduction to peroration. the deadly greenness of the fiend shone out through every vein in my body. my eyes, once a beautiful blue, became like the eyes of an adder, and my cheeks took on a pallor that was horrible to look upon, and yet which so fascinated all beholders that they could not take their eyes away from it. the jurors sat petrified, terror depicted on every line of their faces; the judge himself, a florid, phlegmatic person ordinarily, was pale as a sheet and uneasy as an exposed nerve, and when my poor innocent finger, once so prettily pink of hue, was pointed, absolutely livid with the scorn that that creature alone could throw into it, at the terror-stricken plaintiff, he actually fell backward into convulsions, and was carried shrieking profanely from the court-room. "as for me, i sat cowering directly behind the jury-box fearful for the future, fearful for the effect upon my poor body of the terrible strain that was put upon it, and wondering what i could possibly do upon resuming my normal condition to maintain the reputation which that morning's achievement had brought to me. so absorbed was i in these reflections that the judge's faltering charge at the conclusion of the proceedings fell upon my consciousness unheard, save as the monotonous roar of the vehicles in the street outside was heard; but the verdict of the jury, rendered without leaving the box, in favour of my client did reach my ears, and almost simultaneously came the announcement that there would be no appeal, since the plaintiff in the cause had been frightened into imbecility by the fearful indictment of his character in the summing-up of the counsel for the defendant." chapter viii. further developments in the making of a name. "you must have felt like a vest-pocket byron, to wake up and find yourself famous that way," said toppleton; "or, perhaps you found yourself _in_famous, eh? i don't know how it is here in england, but in america a lawyer who'd browbeat a poor innocent litigant into a state bordering upon lunacy, would be requested to move out of town." "it all depends," returned the spirit. "if my substituted self had limited his brow-beating to the plaintiff, it might have made the reputation which i found awaiting me upon my return to my remains, one of infamy, but that was by no means the case. the judge himself succumbed to nervous prostration a week later, the jurors vanished like a pack of frightened hares immediately they were discharged, and even my client shook like a leaf when he felt my eyes resting upon him. as for my own proper self, i was the worst scared man of the lot; so, you see, it was a sort of universal awe that was inspired by the demeanour of my body that day, and one which commanded rather than invited respect." "did you find your head a little stretched when you got back into yourself again, or did he break his word and refuse to let you back?" queried toppleton. "oh, he kept his word that time," replied the spirit. "after the trial was over he took a cab and drove rapidly out to regent's park and back, returning to my chambers about six o'clock. i was there waiting for him, ready to enter upon my usual anatomical ways once more. my client was also there, though, of course, unaware that i was present in spirit. i was very much amused to see how utterly unnerved poor baskins was by the strange events of the day. several times he muttered to himself remarks like, '_i didn't know he had it in him_,' and '_if i'd thought he was that kind of a man i'd have kept blessed clear of him. i wonder what he'll charge._' and then every time there was a step or noise of any kind out in the corridor, he would straighten up nervously and stare at the door in a tense sort of fashion which showed that he dreaded meeting me. once he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a big duelling pistol which i was alarmed to note was loaded to the muzzle. it was evident that the awe which my new self had inspired in him amounted to positive fear. "that duelling pistol put an end to my enjoyment of the situation," continued the spirit. "i was afraid he might be goaded into discharging a load of cold lead into my body. of course, i didn't care to have that happen, and under the agitation of the moment i uttered an ejaculation of consternation. i never saw in all my experience a man so thoroughly frightened as baskins was when the sound for which he could not account greeted his ear. he went on his knees and shook like a leaf, clasping his hands, as if in prayer, before his face, which turned a blue white. the pistol fell from his hands to the floor, and, as it did so, the door opened, and i saw myself standing on the sill, haggard of face, but not worn of spirit, for the supernatural brilliance of my eye as it caught sight of the pistol and realized at a flash just what the situation was, showed that the soul within was still unwearied by its effort. "then," added the spirit, his voice husky with the remembrance of his dishonour, "came an interview that makes me blush, even though i have no cheek on which to display that manifestation of shame. my body sprang forward as the pistol met my eye, and, snatching the weapon from the floor, flung it out through the window into the court, where it exploded, the jar of contact with the stone walk being sufficient to discharge it. as the sharp report of the pistol echoed through the court my client threw himself flat on his face, and prostrate there at my feet began to utter a string of incoherent lamentations and despairing requests for mercy at my hands which were painful to hear, and i judged from what meaning i could patch together from his jumble of words, that he deemed me an emissary of satan,--and i think he was right. "'what does this mean?' queried the fiend within me. 'murder or suicide? if you contemplated suicide, i forgive you; if murder--' "'i was afraid,' gasped my unhappy client. 'your power was so terrible; the effect of your words so awful, that i--' "'ah!' interrupted the fiend. 'i see. it was murder you were prepared to do in case we should not agree, and the power of my eye should chance to be exerted to win you from your determination whatever it may have been.' "'no--not that--not that!' shrieked my client. 'it was but the natural instinct of self-preservation that led me to--' "'you weaken your cause by your loquacity, my friend,' said the fiend. 'you suspected me of contemplating some dishonourable or cowardly act, and for that reason you entered the office of him who has saved your good name and your purse alike from them who would have robbed you of both, having so little sense of gratitude that you bring with you an instrument of death. very well, let it be so. i am satisfied if you are. i might do that to you now which would place you in far worse estate than your poor brother is in. if you had your pistol in your hand, aimed at my heart, you would still be powerless to do me an injury, for with one glance of my eye i could force you to turn the muzzle to your own head, and with another compel you to empty its leaden load into your own brains. your suspicions are insulting, but an insult from one of your calibre to one of mine is as the sting of a fly to the elephant; i pass it over and charge it on the bill. ten thousand pounds for trying the case, two thousand five hundred for accepting your insult, two thousand five hundred for condoning it, and in one hour must this money be in my hands with a letter--a letter written and signed by you, expressing your satisfaction with the manner of my conducting the case, and concluding with an allusion to your surprise that my charge is so moderate." "'and if i refuse to submit to this outrage?' queried my client, lashed into a show of courage which he really did not feel. "'you leave this room a raving maniac, for i have the power to make you so,' i was appalled to hear myself reply." "and do you mean to tell me," said hopkins, his bosom heaving with indignation, "that you sat there like a zero on a pedestal, and kept silent with this blackmailing infamy going on under your very eyes?" "i was speechless with rage," returned the spirit, "or i should have interfered. before i could recover my composure the letter had been written and the money paid, for my client still had the sixty thousand pounds in their original form, in the one thousand pound banknotes. the struggle he went through was terrible to witness, and as the notes passed from his hands into mine he sighed like one who was heart-broken. the fiend dictated the letter commending my efforts, and expressing surprise that the amount asked for my services was so moderate, and then he opened the door and ushered the unfortunate victim out. as the latter left the room the fiend whispered to him in withering tones to beware of his vengeance if he ever attempted to reveal what had passed since he entered the room. "'for,' said he, 'if you are not careful, it matters not in what part of this or any other world you may be, you must forever be within my reach, and forever subject to the consequences of my resentment.' "then," said the spirit, "he slammed the door violently and turned and fixed my eyes upon the corner wherein i sat aghast with the mortification of having my name identified in any man's mind with such a diabolical act as that i had just witnessed. "'now,' he said, 'you may have this carcass of yours back and welcome. it's lucky for you i have the power i have. if i hadn't, your body would be riddled with bullets within twenty-four hours.' "'bah!' i replied. 'that man had no more intention of using that pistol without provocation than i have, and considering the terror with which you have managed to inspire everyone with whom you have come in contact to-day, i don't wonder he came armed.' "'i never thought of that,' said my substitute, 'though what you say about everybody's terror is true; you might apply it even more broadly than you do, because as i drove down the strand just now even the omnibus horses shied, and the driver of my cab had all he could do to keep his ramshackle steed from running away. but hurry up and get ready to relieve me of this mortal incubus of yours, and take your money--it's a nice little sum, eh?' "'magnificent,' i returned. 'and when you and i have changed places i am going to return all but five hundred pounds to that poor fellow you have just robbed in such a conscienceless fashion.' "the moment i said this," said the spirit, "i regretted it, for he grasped the money with my right hand, and holding it over the fire, which was blazing merrily in the grate, he said. 'my friend, i exact from you an oath that you will not return one penny of this sum to mr. baskins. if you refuse, i shall cast every one of these bank notes into that fire, nor shall i admit you once more to your form until the very ashes of those notes have disappeared into the air.' "now what could i do under the circumstances, toppleton?" asked the spirit earnestly. "could i do anything but swear to what he asked?" "yes," returned hopkins, "you could. i don't believe so vile a creature as he could have distinguished between a bible and a city directory. i'd have taken the oath on the city directory." "alas!" said the spirit sadly, and with such evident sincerity that it jostled the aunt sallie from the chair to the floor. "as i said to you before, i am only an enduring briton where you have the inventive genius of the yankee. i never thought of the substitution of the directory for the bible, and the consequent elimination of moral responsibility from the oath. i simply swore as he desired me to, and in an hour i was alone in my office, the occupant of a frame so exhausted that i could scarcely lift my head, and in my pockets were those miserable bank notes, more burning to my conscience than had they been sovereign for sovereign in gold coin hot from the mint." "of course," suggested hopkins, "you devoted them to the cause of charity; subscribed all but your just due to the house for imbeciles, in which that wronged unfortunate the plaintiff was incarcerated?" "i intended something of the sort," returned the spirit, extricating himself from the head of aunt sallie, and ensconcing himself on the paper-weight on hopkins' desk. "but i didn't have time. you see, immediately after the trial a perfect avalanche of litigants from other offices slid into mine, and within a week i was so overwhelmed with business that i had to hire the rest of this floor here to find room for my papers. it was painful to me, too, to observe that those who had heard of my fame, but who had never seen me, were manifestly disappointed, when taking their departure at the close of a first interview, at having found me so much less great than they had been led to believe by the public estimate of my abilities. nevertheless, cases of the most intricate sort were fairly dumped into my hands by the cart-load, and, worst of all, i found that eminence brought with it other responsibilities which i was ill-prepared to meet. i was constantly in receipt of requests to lecture on subjects of a variety that would have appalled the fiend himself, and worse than all i was called into consultation by the crown in certain litigation of international importance. for a time i tried to go it alone, and by assiduous devotion to study to fit myself for the responsibilities which my fame had brought me, but it was impossible. i broke down in less than a month; but having tasted the joys of prominence i was not strong enough to resist the temptation to prolong it indefinitely, and, without thinking of the means, i committed myself to certain undertakings which were utterly beyond my intellectual strength to accomplish, and then, when brought face to face with failure and disgrace, there was but one thing left for me to do, and that i did. "i summoned the fiend. the mere expression of a desire to see him was sufficient to bring him into my presence, and time and time again did i subject my poor body for ambition's sake to the dreadful interchange of spirits. "from without i watched my development from mediocrity to fame with a joyous interest, not unmixed, however, with regret, for, at such moments as were permitted me to enjoy the undivided possession of myself, i could not but feel conscious of a diminution of physical strength which detracted materially from my happiness; and yet when day after day i saw my name in print, and noted that i was regarded as one of the most marvellous intellectual products of the day, i could not bring myself to the point where i could renounce everything i had gained, and withdraw to the contented life of the recluse. let a man once taste a living immortality, hopkins, and i care not how strong his character may be, he would part with all that he holds most dear sooner than he would renounce that. "and so it went on for a full year. i became the leading light of the english bar; i astonished the world as a public orator; so potent were my arguments that in court or on the hustings none were able to resist me. at public dinners i was the speaker who alone could hold the feasters when the seductions of the wine cup awaited the cessation of my eloquence. had i been able to extend the hours of my days from twenty-four to ten times twenty-four, i could not have responded to all the calls that were made upon my time. then as if to show the world that one profession was too small to hold the boundless qualities of my genius, i startled the english reading public with a novel, the depth and power of which stirred the soul of the most _blasé_ of novel-readers, and the presses of my publisher were taxed to the utmost to supply the demand for my work; then came a volume of poems which caused my name to be mentioned as a possible successor to the laureateship; then a series of essays on scientific and philosophical subjects which were nearly my undoing, since my omniscient self, as i came to call the fiend who was responsible for my greatness, was absent upon one occasion when i was called upon unexpectedly to receive a delegation of scottish scientists, who had travelled from edinburgh to london to consult with me in regard to certain propositions advanced in my book. what they thought of me heaven only knows. you see, hopkins, as far as my original self was concerned there wasn't an atom of scientific knowledge in my body, and to tell you the truth i hadn't even read my book, concerning which these unwelcome grey beards had come from edinburgh to speak." "i should like to have been on hand to hear you," said hopkins with a laugh. "you must have felt like damocles!" "i was worse off than damocles. he was face to face with nothing but death. i was having a _tête-à-tête_ with dishonour. damocles had a sword suspended over his head, held in place by a hair, i had a krupp cannon over mine, held in place by heaven knows what." "how did you get out of it?" queried hopkins. "summon the fiend?" "what, summon that deadly green thing before those men, and change places with him in the presence of witnesses? i fancy not. i have been a complete hall-marked fool in many respects, hopkins, but my idiocy never went as far as that. the only thing left for me to do was to acquiesce in nine things that those fellows said, and look doubtful at the tenth and say i didn't know about that; my inherent love of compromise and my ingenuity in that direction stood me in good stead upon that occasion. it was a narrow squeak, but i got through all right. the _savants_ went back to edinburgh somewhat disappointed, i presume, with the new sun on the scientific horizon. and you ought to have seen how the fiend laughed when i told him about it the next time i saw him! he fixed it all right, however, by sitting down and writing a letter to my late visitors and answering every one of their questions, and asking them a few additional ones, to answer which i fancy put them to their trumps. "after making me famous as scientist, novelist and lawyer, the fiend induced a political bee to enter my cap, and one day after an absence of a week from my body, during which period of time i was utterly in the dark as to its whereabouts, i was appalled to see it reel in at the door in a maudlin state that revolted me. "'well,' i said as soon as i was able to speak,' what new disgrace is this you have put upon me? am i to make my mark now as an inebriate, or is this simply a little practical joke you are putting upon my sensibilities? if it is the latter, it is a mighty poor joke.' "'no,' returned the fiend, who i am pleased to say showed some sense of shame at the plight he had got me into this time. 'no, this is not a practical joke, nor do i wish to ruin your reputation for sobriety. i regret this apparent liquidation of your system quite as much as you do, not because i care what others say, though. it is because i find it much harder to manage your body under these present circumstances. when one leg wants to go dancing down pall mall, and the other evinces a strange desire to walk gravely off in the direction of scotland yard, it is a most difficult thing for a mind not thoroughly in sympathy with either of them to drive them down the strand in that modest, unassuming fashion which alone enables one to avoid police supervision. i've had the devil's own time with this weak corse of yours, and if i had known how abominably light-headed and airy-legged a little strong drink made you, i never should have had you stand for parliament--' "'stand for parliament?' i cried, aghast at the new honour which was being thrust upon me. 'have i been standing for parliament?' "'well, not exactly' laughed the fiend. 'you've been sort of held up for parliament; you haven't been able to stand up without wobbling for five days; in fact, not since you tried to do your duty by your constituency, and take a little something at your own expense with a few rounds of doubtful voters. you were nearly defeated, my boy, because of your disgusting inability to cope with the flowing bowl, but i managed to pull you through. the temperance people voted to a man against you, but the other interests stood by you pretty well, and you now represent your old neighbours in--' "'my old neighbours,' i moaned. 'have i been made to appear to my old neighbours in the light of a dissipated politician when all my life long i had been known to them as a sober--' "'don't dwell on that point, my good fellow,' interrupted the fiend. 'forget it. in forgetfulness of what you have been, and in consideration of what you have become, lies happiness. by the way--have you a mother living?' "'yes,' i answered, numb with anxiety for fear of what was coming. 'you haven't disgraced me in her eyes, have you?' "'oh, no,' returned the fiend. 'but a lady claiming to be your mother visited me during the campaign, and was very indignant because i failed to recognize her--that cost you some votes, but not enough to change the result. she didn't look a bit like you, and i was afraid the opposition was putting up some game on us, so i just laughed her off.' "'you--you laughed her off--you mean to tell me,' i stammered, 'that when my mother came to my political headquarters to see her son, he refused to recognize her, and laughed her off?' "'oh, come,' said the fiend indignantly, 'don't get angry. remember one thing, please. you are now a member of parliament, a great lawyer, a famous scientist, a novelist and an orator. it is i who have made you so. if you don't like what i've done, we'll call the arrangement off, and you can make a spectacle of yourself in the eyes of the world. i hate an ingrate. you couldn't expect me to know a lady whom i never even saw before, and when i have a big scheme on foot i do not intend to have it spoiled for want of caution. if i made you seem an undutiful son, i am sorry for it, and will strive to make amends next time i meet your mother. i'll write a formal apology if you desire, but i don't wish to hear any more of your sentimental nonsense. much has to be sacrificed in achieving greatness, and you have got therewith just about as little personal inconvenience as any man in history. stop your snivelling, or i'll desert your cause, and what that means even you can grasp.' "with these words," concluded the spirit, "he departed, and left me to sleep off the effects of a seven days' campaign in which my moral welfare had been sacrificed to the thirst of at least four hundred doubtful voters. credited with a seat in parliament, i found my name debited with the crime of intemperance, lack of self-respect, and a gross affront to my own mother; a fine record for one week in which in my own consciousness i was unable to recollect doing anything that could not have been done with propriety by a candidate for canonization." "humph!" ejaculated toppleton, deeply moved by the horror of the weary spirit's story. "it strikes me that canonization in the form in which it was used on the sepoys in ' would be mild punishment for that nile-green brute that got you into this. to tell you the truth, sallie, the fearful justice of your cause is almost enough to make me withdraw entirely. i should hate to be called upon to prosecute a defendant of the nature of your verdant visitor." chapter ix. the crowning act of infamy. "hear me to the end, hopkins, i beseech you," said the exile earnestly. "of course the fiend strikes you as a being to be avoided, but i do not believe that he is now as powerful and as terrible as he was in the days gone by. long confinement to a purely mortal sphere must necessarily have weakened his supernatural powers, and it strikes me that properly managed by a young and aggressive lawyer, our case against him would be won in an instant. at all events, do not compel me to leave my story unfinished. i am sure that when you hear of the crowning act of infamy of which my evil genius was guilty, you will not hesitate a moment in making up your mind that duty summons you to aid me." "very well," rejoined hopkins. "go on with the tale, only do not be too sanguine as to its results in convincing me that i am the man to extricate you from this horrid plight." "after i had attended one or two meetings of the house of commons," said the exile, resuming the thread of his story, "i enjoyed the experience so much that i almost forgave the fiend for having so nearly ruined me with all my old friends; and having written, in accordance with his promise, a truly beautiful letter to my mother, explaining away the harsh treatment she had suffered at the hands of her now illustrious son on the ground of his not being quite himself on that occasion--a state of mind due to too close attention to work and study--i quite forgave him for that unpleasant episode in my campaign. my mother too overlooked the affront, and wrote me a most affectionate epistle, stating that i might trample upon her most cherished ideals with her entire acquiescence if my taking that course would ensure to her the receipt of so loving and touching a letter as the one i had sent her. the fiend and i both had to smile, on receiving my mother's note, to observe that the dear old lady attributed my ability to express myself in such beautiful terms to the poetic traits i had inherited from her. "'she's very proud of her dear boy,' sneered the fiend. "'in spite of his brutality at the committee-room,' i retorted; and then we both grinned, for each truly believed that he had got the better of the other." "it was a pretty close contest," said hopkins. "but on the whole the laugh seems to be on you." "it certainly was the first time i tried to speak in parliament," returned the spirit. "such a failure was never seen. i was to take part in a very important debate, and when the hour came for me to get on my feet and talk, i was my weak-kneed self and utterly unacquainted even with the side i was expected to take. the fiend had promised to do all the talking, and on this occasion failed to materialize. i spoke for ten minutes in an incoherent fashion, mouthing my words so that no one could understand a syllable that i uttered. it was a fearful disappointment to my friends in the house and in the galleries; the latter being packed when it was understood that i was to speak. of course, when the fiend appeared later on, he straightened it all out, and the printed speech which he dictated and which i wrote was really a fine effort and did our party much good. but these little embarrassments were tragedies to me, and at every new success i quailed before the possibilities of disastrous failure at the next effort. in but one respect was i entirely free from the fiendish influence, and that was in the matter of my love. from that phase of my life the fiend kept himself apart, and it was the only joyous oasis to be found in the boundless desert of my misery. to the fiend, sunday was literally a day of rest, for upon that day he never approached me, and i devoted it to calling upon the woman i loved. "she was a beautiful woman, the only daughter of a retired city merchant, and fond of the admiration of successful men. that she loved me before i attained to eminence in the various professions in which the fiend had compelled me to dabble, i had much reason to believe; but i had never ventured to make love to her in dead earnest, because i feared for the result. she had often said to me that while she should never marry for riches and position, she did not intend to fall in love with any man just because he had neither, and that no man need ever propose marriage to her who was not reasonably sure of a successful career. it was not selfishness that led her to think and speak in this manner, but a realizing sense of the unhappy fact that mediocrity married is as hopeless as a broken-winded race-horse in harness. there is plenty of ambition but no future, and as she often said, 'where hopelessness comes, happiness dwelleth not!'" "a daughter of solomon, i wot," interrupted toppleton. "yes," said the spirit, with a sigh for her he had lost, "and rather superior to the old gentleman in a great many ways. of course i understood, and, lacking achievement in my profession, discreetly held my tongue on the subject of matrimony, taking good care, however, when i called never to let any other fellow outstay me, unless perchance he was some poor drivelling idiot from whose immediate present the laurel was further removed than from my own. she understood me, i think, though i never put that point to a practical test by a proposal of marriage. this was the state of affairs at the time of my first meeting with the fiend, and for a year subsequent to that ill-starred night upon which he first crossed my path i let matters take their own course, waiting a favourable opportunity to ask the great question, upon the answer to which hung all my future happiness. i could see that with my increasing fame, her interest in me waxed; but as every passing day brought new and undreamed-of distinctions she grew more and more reserved toward me--a most feminine trait that, hopkins. when a woman begins to love a man in dead earnest, in nine cases out of ten she will make him feel that he is utterly abhorrent to her, and it's a good thing she does, because it makes him look carefully into his own character in an endeavour to discover and to root out all the undesirable features thereof. it is this that enables love to redeem men whom the world considers irredeemable, so, of course, i had no feeling of discouragement at her growing coldness, for, understanding women, i knew exactly what it meant. i think i was more or less of an enigma to her." "i should think it likely," said toppleton. "if she really knew you, she must have been mightily surprised at your sudden strides towards universal genius. it's a wonder to me that she did not suspect the enigma, and give it up." "yes," returned the spirit. "it was very embarrassing to me when she expressed her surprise at my progress, and asked me how i did it, and other questions equally hard to answer. and then her father, who was always more or less insufferable, now became absolutely insulting--that is, his new found appreciation of my virtues led him into making assertions which galled me, he little knew how much--assertions to the effect that to look at me no one would suspect that i had more than ordinary intelligence; that to hear me talk one would never suppose i could make a speech of any kind, much less set the world on fire by my eloquence; and finally, that no man after this could tell him that it was possible to judge of the future by the past, or the past by the present, for he had always thought me foredoomed to failure, and i had achieved success, and, having achieved success, gave no present evidence that i deserved it." "he had the making of the accepted mother-in-law in him," said hopkins. "what could have induced you to fall in love with the daughter of a man like that?" "she was a superb woman, that's what," rejoined the spirit with enthusiasm, "and when i think of the happiness that the nile-green shade first placed within my reach and then snatched from me, i regret that the soul is immortal, and that i am not all-powerful, for it would please me to grind his soul into absolute nothingness. "it was at least a year and two months subsequent to my first meeting with him," continued the spirit as soon as his overwrought feelings would permit, "that he first broached the subject of matrimony. he had attended a grand ball at the house of the earl of piccadilly and was the lion of the occasion owing to his stand in certain recent parliamentary crises. his readiness in debate had gained him a high position, and his natural grace of manner--that is, _my_ natural grace of manner--had helped him to a hold on the affections of those with whom he was associated, for, as he grew more accustomed to my figure and got his angles comfortably rounded off to fit my curves, he managed to subdue that horrible aspect he had assumed with such fearful effect in the trial of baskins _v._ baskins, and when geniality was the attribute most likely to help him on he was geniality personified. the ball was ostensibly one of the earl of piccadilly's usual series of annual functions, but in reality it was given for the purpose of introducing me into society. from all accounts, it was a grand affair, and i seemed to have made as fine an impression as a social debutant as i had in the law courts, in the field of literature, and in the house of commons. if the fiend spoke truly that night, when he returned and handed my fatigued body over to me for a rest, i made a marked success; all the ladies were raving about me; i was a divine dancer, though before that night my feet had never tripped to the strains of a waltz, polka, or any other terpsichorean exercise. i pleased the dowagers as well as the maids, and had, in short, become an eligible--that is i had become as desirable a matrimonial _parti_ as an untitled person could hope to be, and the fiend remarked with a sly wink that it was not beyond the range of possibilities that the premier would bestow upon me one of the peerages at his disposal when the proper time came. "'bachelorhood is pardonable in a young man,' said my evil genius upon this occasion, 'but we must marry if we are to reach the pinnacle of success. there is a solidity about the married man's estate that bachelorhood lacks, and i rather think i can make a match that will push us ahead.' "'i don't think i need your assistance,' i replied. 'in fact i prefer that some of the things which pertain to myself shall be left entirely in my own hands. in matters of the affections i can take care of myself.' "'very well,' was the fiend's response. 'have your own way about it, only take my advice and get married. we need a wife.' "'we?' i cried. 'we! i just want you to understand, my dear sir, that the pronoun doesn't fit the case. _i_ may need a wife and _you_ may need a wife, but if you think i'm going into any co-operative scheme with you in that matter you are less omniscient than usual. remember that please and let us have nothing more to say on the subject.'" "that was a very proper stand for you to take," said hopkins, gravely. "though i think that, under the circumstances, you should have given up all ideas of marriage. no woman would have you, knowing that you were not yourself at times; and then having as little control over your other self as you seem to have had, you would often have found yourself in hot water for flirting with other women, when, in reality, your own self was as innocent as a mountain daisy." "i know i did wrong in thinking of marriage, hopkins," returned the spirit, "but if you had ever met the woman i loved, you would have loved her too--yes, even if you were a confirmed celibate. i don't believe a cardinal, sir, would have hesitated between his hat and her. my sole justification was her loveliness, and then the fiend's ready acquiescence in my statement that in that matter he must hold aloof gave me confidence that i might safely take the step i had so long and so ardently desired to take. "weeks passed by, and in everything save the courtship of miss hicksworthy-johnstone i gave myself unreservedly over to the fiend, who began suddenly to take an interest in my personal appearance which he had never before manifested. he laid in a fine supply of clothes--dress suits, walking suits, lounging suits--suits in fact of every description and of the finest texture. shirts and collars, and ties of the choicest sort were imported by him from paris, and on my hands i now observed he was beginning to wear kid gloves of fashionable type. his hats and shoes were distinctly in the mode, and his jewelry, as far as it went, was of unexceptionable taste and quiet elegance. in fact, toppleton, i began to be something of a dandy. this i attributed to the natural vanity of my other self. i, too, was proud of that graceful form, but i never thought enough about it to go about arraying it in a fashion which neither solomon nor the lily of the field could ever have approached. i cared nothing for gloves save as a means to a warm finger's end, and it made no difference to me whether my hat was of the style of ' , or plucked fresh from the french emperor's own block. as long as my head was covered i was satisfied. patent leather shoes i could never bring myself to buy, because they had always seemed to me to go hand in hand either with poverty or laziness. to a man who cannot afford shoe blacking or who is too lazy to black his own boots, patent leathers, i thought, were a boon; but i never classed myself under either head, and wore the regular foot gear of the plain but honest son of toil. "but now all was changed. my other self was vain, and unexpectedly gave himself over to dandyism. at first he rather disturbed my equanimity by wearing somewhat loud patterns, but he soon got over that, and between us, after a very little while, two or three months perhaps, my body had the best clothes there were to be had in all london. i had not realized all this time that i was fast becoming a millionaire, and when my tailor's bill for fifteen hundred pounds came home one night i was in a great stew, but the fiend came in and relieved my conscience very much by showing me my balance in the bank. it amounted, toppleton, to one hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds, with an income still running evenly along from my law practice of ten thousand pounds per annum, not to mention the revenues from my books, which in six months had amounted to two thousand pounds. i was a rich man, and when i observed that this was my condition, i made up my mind to ask miss hicksworthy-johnstone's hand in marriage the very next time i saw her. i hoped this would be soon, but, alas for human expectations, it was not. the christmas holidays were about to begin, and i bethought me that at the season of goodwill toward men i might ask the possessor of my heart to accept it as a permanent gift, a decision which i unfortunately kept to myself, for from one end of the holidays to the other i never laid eyes upon my mortal habitation. the fiend was off with it for one whole month, hopkins." "didn't you know where?" asked toppleton. "i did not," returned the spirit. "he went off with it as usual one night late in november to attend a meeting of the leaders of our party, telling me not to worry if he did not return for twenty-four hours, since there was important business on hand. what the business was he did not inform me, nor did i seek to know it, since under our arrangement it was not necessary that i should familiarize myself with parliamentary matters, which were usually as dry as they were weighty anyhow, and hence distasteful to me. "well, i waited twenty-four hours and no fiend appeared. another day passed with no sign of him. a third day moved into the calendar of the past; a week elapsed, then a second, a third, a fourth, and finally a month had gone. i was growing sick with apprehension. what if something dreadful had happened and my lovely, only body was lying dead somewhere, too shattered for the fiend to remain longer within it, and gone for ever from me? what if the present occupant of my corse had again yielded to the seductive influence of the cup, and was off somewhere upon a prolonged spree? i floated uneasily in and about my quarters here, sleepless, worried to distraction. i searched my papers, as best i could without hands, to see if there was not some clue as to my whereabouts among them, and found none. i went through the contents of the waste basket even, and found nothing to relieve my dreadful anxiety, and then i went to the wardrobe to search the pockets of my clothes for possible evidence to calm my agitated soul. "toppleton, there was not one vestige of a garment in that clothes press from top to bottom. not a shoe, not a coat, absolutely nothing. it was bare even as mother hubbard's cupboard was bare. this was an additional shock, and i became giddy with fear. i floated madly across to the bureau and peered into the drawers thereof. beyond the ties i had formerly worn and the collars, frayed at the edges, of my negligée days, nothing remained, and then for the first time i noticed that my trunk was gone from the room. "'what can it mean?' i asked myself, though i might as well have spared the question, for it was one i could not answer. days came and went, leaving me still pondering. christmas eve came and found me here moping in a cheerless apartment, friendless, forlorn, clothesless and bodiless--a fine way to pass what should have been the happiest night of the year." "elegant!" said toppleton. "it might have been worse though. if you had had your body and still been clothesless you would have found it rather cold, i fancy." "i had almost given up all hope of ever seeing myself again," continued the exile, ignoring hopkins' interruption, "when on the evening of january second i heard a step coming along the hall which i at once recognized as my own, my latch-key was inserted in the lock and the door was opened, and at last i stood before myself again, the picture of health and happiness. "'are you there?' my lips said with a broad smile, as my body entered the room. "'i am,' i replied shortly; 'and i've been here, heaven knows how long, worried sick to know what had become of you. i don't think you are the most considerate fiend in the world to take me off for weeks without letting me know anything of my whereabouts.' "'i am very sorry,' said the fiend, throwing himself down on the lounge. 'i meant to have told you, but you were not here when i returned. lord smitherton invited me out to his house at snorley farms for the christmas holidays along with the earl of pupley, general carlingberry-jimpson, and a half-dozen members of the birmingham society of fine arts. it was an invitation i could not well refuse, and, besides, our carcass here was beginning to feel the need of an outing, so i accepted. i came back here to tell you about it, but you must have been floating about somewhere else. at all events, you are much better for the outing, and your purely mortal self has had a good time. and, by the way, i want to warn you about one point. when you are the occupant of this corse, i think you would better not walk down rotten row, or go anywhere in fact where i am accustomed to going, because you don't know my friends any more than i know yours, and that is apt to lead to misunderstanding. lady romaine cushing, who was visiting lady smitherton, told me that i had cut her dead in the row one afternoon, although she had stopped her carriage particularly to speak to me. it was you who cut her, but, of course, you were not to blame, because you never saw lady romaine cushing; but it is hard to explain away little matters of that sort, and i had the deuce of a time getting her to believe that her eye must have deceived her. we can't afford to offend our friends of the fair sex, you know; they can make or mar a man these days.' "'and i am to be kept away from the haunts of polite society,' i said, with some natural indignation, 'just because it embarrasses _you_ to explain why i don't bow to people i don't know.' "'but it's all for your good,' he replied. 'you seem to forget that i am actuated entirely by the best of motives.' "'no doubt,' i said, 'but i think it's rather hard on me to be excluded from the most attractive quarter of london.' "'you are not excluded. you can walk there if you choose at night or very early in the morning, or when society is out of town, or, better still, you can float there in your invisible state at anytime. in fact,' added the fiend, 'it would be very enjoyable for you, i should think, to do that last. you can poise yourself over a tree for instance, and watch yourself hobnobbing with the illustrious. you can sit in your invisibility in any one of the carriages that roll to and fro, and, as long as you do not obtrude yourself on the occupants, there is not an equipage in london, high or low, in which you cannot ride. you are better off than i am in that respect. while i have no particular shape i am visible like a bit of sea-fog, but you being invisible can go anywhere without making trouble. the theatres are open to you free of charge. the best seats are at your disposal. if you choose to do it you could even sit on the throne of england, and nobody would be the wiser.' "'that's all very well,' i said; 'but i don't care to travel about in that impersonal fashion. i prefer the incarnate manner of doing things, and if you will kindly permit me to assume bodily form once more, i'll be very much obliged.' "'certainly!' he replied, and with that we changed places. "the sensation of getting back to my accustomed figure once more was delightful, and there was no denying the fact that i was better off for the outing i had so unceremoniously taken. my step was elastic, my head felt clear as a bell, and, altogether, i had never before enjoyed the consciousness of so great a physical strength as now was mine. "this feeling gave me courage to do many things which i had hitherto put off, and among them was the making of a proposal of marriage to the admired miss hicksworthy-johnstone. it was seven o'clock when the fiend had left me to the personal enjoyment of my complete self, and at eight o'clock i was in a hansom cab speeding out to the dwelling-place of the woman i loved. at eight thirty i was on my knees before her, and by eleven o'clock i was her accepted suitor. such happiness as was mine, hopkins, no man ever knew. the only trouble known to my soul at the moment was the consciousness that arabella, as i was now permitted to call miss hicksworthy-johnstone, was in the dark as to the methods by which my greatness had been achieved. i could not confess my dreadful secret to her, for that would have put an end entirely to our relations, and i loved her so that i could not bring myself to give her up. she asked me numberless questions of a most embarrassing sort, as if she suspected there was something wrong, but i managed in some way, i know not how, to give a plausible answer to every one of them." "possibly the fiend left a little of his brain in your head when he got out," suggested toppleton. "perhaps so," returned the exile. "however it was, i managed to make out a satisfactory case for myself, and at the close of a cross-examination such as no man ever went through before, lasting two and a half hours, arabella threw herself into my arms and called me by my first name. she was mine, and all the world seemed bright. "i walked home," continued the spirit, "and in a condition of ecstasy that almost compensates for all i have suffered since. my feet seemed hardly to touch the ground, and i whistled from the time i left arabella until i entered my room here,--a reprehensible habit, perhaps, but one which had always been my method of expressing satisfaction with the world. as i entered this room i was brought down from my ecstatic heights to an appreciation of my actual state, for the first thing to greet my eyes was the fiend, greener than ever, sitting by the fire ruminating apparently, for it was at least five minutes before he took note of my presence, although i addressed him politely as soon as i saw him. "'hallo,' he said finally. 'where have you been?' "the question was as unexpected as it was natural, and i was unprepared for it, so i made no reply, covering my silence by taking off my shoes and preparing for bed. "'where have you been?' he asked again, this time in a tone so peremptory that i decided in an instant not to tell him. "'out,' i answered. 'where have you?' "at this he laughed. "'don't be impudent,' he said. 'i do not wish to pry into your affairs. i only wanted to know where you had been because i am interested in you, and i want to help you to avoid pitfalls.' "'that's all right,' i responded graciously. 'i appreciate your kindness, but you need not be interested in where i have been to-night, because i have been engaged in a little matter that concerns you not at all.' "'very well,' he replied, turning once more to the fire. 'i'll take your word for it; only you and i must be perfectly candid with each other, or complications may arise, that's all. by the way, i'll have to borrow you again to-morrow morning. there are a half-dozen members of parliament coming here to discuss certain matters of state, and you would be somewhat embarrassed if you undertook to meet them.' "'that suits me,' i said, happy enough to acquiesce in anything. 'only i'll want to get back here to-morrow evening. i have an engagement.' "the fiend eyed me narrowly for a moment, and i winced beneath his gaze. "'all right,' he said, 'you can get back, but this parliamentary business is very important, and i _must_ have the semblance of a mortal being every morning this week.' "'that can be arranged,' i replied. arabella could have my evenings, and he could have my mornings. that was fair enough, i thought, and so it happened. every night for a week i spent in the company of my _fiancée_,--whose name, by the way, i never mentioned in the fiend's presence--and every morning for the same period he was in charge, conducting negotiations which only served to make me more famous. "finally the dreadful morning came. it was saturday, and the fiend and i were sitting together in my quarters. we had just changed places. i was in my present disembodied state, and the fiend had taken possession for the day, when there was heard in the corridor a quick nervous step which stopped as he who directed it came to my door, and a voice, which to my consternation i recognized at once as that of arabella's father following close upon a resounding knock, cried out,-- "'this is the place. this is the kennel in which the hound lives. open the door!' "there was not time for the fiend and me to change places. indeed, i had hardly recognized the old gentleman's voice, when the fiend in answer to his demand opened the door. "a madder man than my prospective father-in-law appeared to be i never saw, hopkins," said the spirit, his voice trembling with emotion. "he was livid, and when the door opened, and he saw the man he supposed to be me standing before him showing absolutely no signs of recognition, he fairly foamed at the mouth. "'how do you do, sir?' said the fiend, polite as chesterfield. "'don't speak to me, you puppy,' roared the old gentleman. 'don't you dare to address me until i address you.' "'this is most extraordinary,' said the fiend, seemingly nonplussed at mr. hicksworthy-johnstone's inexplicable wrath; for he could understand it no better than i, and to me it was absolutely incomprehensible, for i was not aware of anything that i had done that could possibly give rise to so violent an ebullition of rage. 'i am at a loss, sir, to understand why you enter the office of a gentleman in a fashion so unbecoming to one of your years; you must have made some mistake.' "'mistake!' shrieked arabella's father. 'mistake, you snivelling hypocrite? what mistake can there be? do you see that note in this week's _vanity fair_, you vile deceiver? do you see me? do you see anything?' "'i see you,' replied the fiend calmly, 'and i wish i didn't.' "'i'll go bond you wish you didn't,' howled the enraged visitor. 'and when i get through with you you'll wish i hadn't brought this oak stick along with me. now i want to know what explanation you have to make of that paragraph in the paper.' "'i cannot explain what i have not read,' returned the fiend. 'nor shall i attempt to read what you wish to have explained until i know who you are, and what possible right you can have to demand an explanation of anything from me. what are you, anyhow, a retired maniac or simply an active imbecile?' "as the fiend spoke these words," said the spirit, "i tried to arrest him; but he was so angry that he either could not or would not hear my whispered injunction that he be silent. as for the old gentleman, he sat gasping in his chair, glaring at my poor self, a perfect picture of apoplectic delirium. the fiend returned the glare unflinchingly. "'well!' gasped mr. hicksworthy-johnstone after a minute's steady glance, 'if you aren't the coolest hand in christendom. who am i, eh? what am i here for, eh? what's my name, eh? what claim have i on you, eh? young man, you are the most consummate lothario on the footstool. you are a don juan with the hide of a rhinoceros and the calmness of a snow-clad alp, but i can just tell you one thing. you can't trifle with arabella!' "and then, hopkins, that infernal fiend looked my father-in law elect square in the eye and asked,-- "'who the devil is arabella?' "as the words fell from my lips, the old gentleman with an oath started from his chair, and grasping the inkstand from the table, hurled it with all his force at my waistcoat, which received it with breathless surprise; and then, toppleton, it breaks my heart to say it, but my foot--the foot of him who loved arabella to distraction,--was lifted against her father, and the man to whom he had promised his daughter's hand, appeared to kick him forcibly, despite his grey hairs, out into and along the corridor to the head of the stairs. then, as i watched, the two men grappled and went crashing down the stairs, head over heels together. "sick with fear and mortification, i flew back into the room, where, lying upon the floor, i saw the copy of _vanity fair_ that mr. hicksworthy-johnstone had brought, and marked with blue pencil upon the page before me was printed the announcement of the engagement of myself to ariadne maude, second daughter of john edward fackleton, earl of pupley, of castle marrowfat, sauceton downs, worcestershire." chapter x. the spirit's story is concluded. "i should say," volunteered hopkins, with a shake of his head, "that that was about the most unpleasant situation he had got you into yet; and yet he was not entirely to blame. he requested candour from you, and you declined to be candid. you should have told him of your engagement to miss hicksworthy-johnstone. that would at least have prevented his kicking her father out of your office and rolling downstairs with him." "it is easy enough to say now what ought to have been done," sobbed the exile. "i do not think you would have done very differently if you had been in my position. i was jealous of the fiend, i suppose, and i didn't know but what he would insist upon doing some of the courting--which would have been intolerable." "better that than to be set down by your _fiancée_ as a heartless trifler," returned hopkins. "but what happened next? was the old gentleman hurt?" "not he," replied the exile. "when he and i, as he supposed me to be, reached the bottom of the stairs he landed on top, and was the first to get on his feet again. and then, hopkins, i was glad not to be in my normal condition; for as the fiend attempted to rise my arabella's father, who still retained his grip upon that oak stick, gave me the worst licking i ever had in my life, and i--well, i really enjoyed the spectacle, because i knew that i deserved it. the fiend, hampered somewhat by the corse to which he was not yet entirely accustomed was at a tremendous disadvantage, and i know mr. hicksworthy-johnstone's blows caused him considerable pain. the only possible escape for him was to leave the body, which he did just as the attacking party landed a resounding thwack upon the back of my neck. of course, the minute the fiend evacuated the premises, i appeared to mr. hicksworthy-johnstone to have been killed, because there was in reality no slightest bit of animation left in my body. it was the horror of this discovery that covered the retreat of the fiend, who, more horribly green than ever--the green that comes from rage--mounted the steps he had so summarily descended a moment before, and hurried into my room, dragging me by sheer force of will, which i was unable to resist, after him. you see, hopkins, we were now nothing more than two consciousnesses; two minds, one mortal, the other immortal; one infinitely strong, the other finite in its limitations, and i was of course as powerless in the presence of the fiend as a babe in the arms of its nurse. mr. hicksworthy-johnstone, thinking that he had killed me, after a vain endeavour to restore my stricken body to consciousness--in which he would have succeeded had the fiend permitted me to take possession again, for i did not wish arabella's father to suppose for one instant that he was a murderer--sneaked on tip-toes from the building, and, mumbling to himself in an insane fashion, disappeared in the crowd of pedestrians on the street. "'this is a pretty mess you've got us into,' said the fiend. 'i should like to know what excuse you can have for such infernal duplicity as you have been guilty of?' "'i cannot discuss this matter with you,' i answered. 'the duplicity is not mine, but yours. you have endeavoured to exercise rights which were clearly not yours to exercise. i informed you that in matters of love--' "'matters of love!' he ejaculated. 'do you call this a matter of love? do you think it's a matter of love for an entire stranger to throw a two-pound crystal inkstand loaded with ink at the very core of my waistcoat? is it a matter of love for a grey-haired villain like that to drag me or you, whichever way you choose to put it, down a flight of stairs and then knock the life out of us? it seems to me, you have a strange idea of love.' "'don't you understand!' i cried. 'that man was only doing his duty. he is arabella's father!' "'again, i must ask,' said the fiend, in a manner that aggravated me as it had aggravated the old gentleman, 'who, in all creation, is arabella?' "'my _fiancée_!' i yelled. 'my _fiancée_, you poor blind omniscient! whom did you suppose?' "as i uttered these words, hopkins, the fiend's whole manner changed. he was no longer flustered and angry merely; he was a determined and very angry being. he rose from his chair, and fixing his eye upon the point where he thought i was--and he had a faculty of establishing that point accurately at all times--and pointing that horrible finger of his at me, fairly hissed with rage. "'that settles it, sir,' he cried. 'you and i part for ever. you, by your foolish perversity, by your inexplicable lack of candour, by your sinful refusal to trust your welfare to my hands, who have done so much for you, have nearly overthrown the whole structure of the greatness i have builded up. your idiotic behaviour has decided me to do that which from the very beginning i have most feared. i have been haunted by the fear that you would want to marry some woman simply for the empty, mortal reason that you loved her, utterly ignoring the fact that by a judicious matrimonial step you could attain to heights that otherwise could never be yours. having your interests entirely in view, i had arranged a match which would strengthen into permanence your, at present, rather uncertain hold upon society. lady ariadne maude fackleton, to whom you are at present engaged, as the daughter of the earl of pupley, can give you the _entrée_ to the best circles in london or out of it; while this arabella of yours can serve only to assist you in spending your income and keeping your parlour free from dust. now, what earthly use was there in your philandering--' "'i fancy i have a right to select my own wife,' i said. "'you always were strong on fancies,' he retorted. 'you might have known that with the career opening up before you a plain arabella would never do. do you suppose you could take her to a ball at the earl of mawlberry's? do you suppose that any woman, in fact, who would consent to marry you as your weak inefficient self could go anywhere and do me justice? i guess not; and your behaviour has settled our partnership for ever. we part for good.' "'well, i'm glad of it,' i retorted, goaded to anger by his words. 'get out. i don't want to see you again. you've ruined me by putting me in false positions from the time we met until now, and i am sick of it. you can't leave too soon to suit me.' "when i had spoken these words he darted one final venomous glance at me, and walked whistling from the room. as long as his whistle was perceptible i remained quiet--quiet as my agitation would permit; and then, when the last flute-like note died away in the distance, i floated from the room and down the stairs to get my poor bruised body and put it in shape to call on arabella. "hopkins, when i reached the foot of the stairs my body had disappeared! i was frantic with fear. i did not know whether it had been found by the janitor and conveyed to the morgue, whether arabella's father had returned to conceal it, and so conceal his fancied crime, or whether the fiend had finally crowned his infamous work by stealing it. i sought for it in vain. forgetful of my invisibility, i asked the janitor if he had seen it, and he fled shrieking with fear from the building, and declined ever thereafter to enter it again. every nook and corner in the temple i searched and found it not, and then i floated dejectedly to arabella's home, where i found her embracing her father in a last fond farewell. the old gentleman was about leaving the country to escape the consequences of his crime. "'arabella!' i cried, as i entered the room. "the girl turned a deadly white, and her father fell cringing upon his knees, and then i realized that, recognizing my voice, they feared my ghost had come to haunt them, and with this realization came to my consciousness the overwhelming thought that both would go insane were i to persist in speaking while invisible. "the situation, hopkins, was absolutely terrible, and if i had had my teeth i should have gnashed them for the very helplessness of my condition." "did the old gentleman persist in his determination to leave the country?" asked hopkins. "he did. he sailed for the united states on a small freight schooner that night, and reached new york in time to hear in that far-off clime of the marriage of his supposed victim; but i must not anticipate," said the exile. "for three weeks after that horrible day i never caught sight of my missing person, nor did i discover the slightest clue as to its whereabouts. it never turned up at my quarters that i could learn, but that it was not dead or buried i had good reason to believe; for one morning, while i was away from my rooms floating along rotten row, hoping to catch sight of myself if perchance i still lived, four truckmen arrived at the temple here and moved all my clothes and furniture, whither i never discovered, in consequence of which act, upon my return here, i found the room cold and bare as a barn." "that was rank robbery," said toppleton. "we should have trouble in establishing that fact in court," returned the exile. "i could not deny on oath that my hand had penned the order for the removal of the goods, and as for the clothes and other things, most of them had been bought by the money i had earned through the fiend's instrumentality." "that is so," said toppleton, hastily acquiescing in the exile's words, lest he should seem to his visitor less acute than a full-fledged lawyer should be. "and how long was it before you encountered yourself once more?" "three weeks," returned the exile. "and where do you suppose the meeting took place?" "i don't know," said hopkins. "at buckingham palace?" "no, sir. in arabella's parlour! it was just three weeks from the hour in which mr. hicksworthy-johnstone appeared at my office door in the temple that, for the want of something better to do, i floated into arabella's parlour again, and was filled with consternation to see standing there before the mirror, adjusting his tie, the fiend in full possession of my treasured self. i was about to utter a cry of delight when i heard an ejaculation of fear behind me, and turning saw arabella herself entering the room, pale as a sheet. i tell you hopkins, it was dramatic; though, as far as the fiend was concerned, he was as nonchalant as could be. "'you are not dead!' cried arabella, hoarsely. "'not that i am aware of, madam,' said the fiend coolly.' have i the honour of addressing miss arabella hicksworthy-johnstone?' "'oh, edward, edward,' she cried--'i forgot to tell you, hopkins,' explained the spirit, 'my name was edward'--'oh, edward, what does this mean?' she cried. 'my father has fled to america, thinking that in that unhappy moment of saturday three weeks ago he had killed you.' "'indeed!' returned the fiend. 'i sincerely hope he will enjoy the trip, though he did inflict injuries upon me from which i shall be a long time in recovering. but tell me, madame, are you miss arabella hicksworthy-johnstone?' "'edward,' she replied, 'are you mad?' "'i have a right to be indignant at your father's treatment of me, if that vilely vindictive old person was your father, but i am not what you might call mad. i cherish no vindictive feelings. but as my time is limited i should like to proceed at once to the business i have in hand, if you will permit me.' "arabella sat aghast as the man she deemed her _fiancé_ spoke these words to her. she was utterly unable to comprehend the situation, and i could not clarify the cloud upon her understanding without imperilling her reason. oh, hopkins, hopkins, were the fires of hades to become extinguished to-day, there are other tortures for the spirit close at hand more hideously unbearable even than they!" "it would seem so," said hopkins. "if i had my choice between your experience and hades, i think i should warm up to the latter. but go on. what did arabella say?" "she drew herself up proudly after a moment of hesitation, and said, 'i have no desire to hinder you in going about your business.' "'thanks,' said the fiend. 'assuming that you are miss arabella hicksworthy-johnstone, i would say to you that i should like to know upon what your father's claim that you and i are engaged rests.' "'really, edward,' she returned impatiently, 'i cannot comprehend your singular behaviour this afternoon. you know how we became engaged. you know you asked me to be your wife, and you know that after keeping you on your knees for several hours i consented.' "'madam,' observed the fiend, 'i never went on my knees to a woman in my life. i never asked but one woman in this world to be my wife, and you are not she.' "'what!' cried arabella. 'do you mean to say to me, edward, that you did _not_ ask me to be your wife?' "'i meant to say exactly what i said. that i am engaged to be married to lady ariadne maude fackleton, daughter of the earl of pupley, the only woman to whom i ever spoke or thought of speaking a word of love in my life. i mean to say that lady ariadne maude fackleton and i expect to be married before the month is up. i mean to say that i never saw you before in my life, and i should like to know what your intentions are concerning this absurd claim that i am engaged to you may be, for i do not intend to have my future marred by any breach of promise suits. in short, madam, do you intend to claim me as your matrimonial prize or not? if not, all well and good. if so, i shall secure an injunction restraining you from doing anything of the sort. even should you force me to the altar itself i should then and there forbid the banns.' "'sir,' said my arabella, drawing herself up like a queen, 'you may leave this house, and never set foot again within its walls. i should as soon think of claiming that celebrated biblical personage, of whom you remind me, ananias, for a husband as you. do not flatter yourself that i shall ever dispute the lady ariadne's possession of so accomplished a lord and master as yourself,--though i should do so were i more philanthropically disposed. if it be the duty of one woman to protect the happiness of another, i should do all that lies in my power to prevent this marriage; but inasmuch as my motive in so doing would, in all likelihood, be misconstrued, i must abstain; i must hold myself aloof, though the whole future happiness of one of my own sex be at stake. farewell, sir, and good riddance. if you will leave me lady ariadne's address, i will send her my sympathy as a wedding gift.' "'madam,' returned the fiend, bowing low, 'your kind words have taken a heavy load from my heart. you deserve a better fate; but farewell.' "then as the fiend departed arabella swooned away. my first impulse was to follow the fiend, and to discover if possible his address; but i could not bring myself to leave arabella at that moment, she was so overcome. i floated to the prostrate woman, and whispered the love i felt for her in her ear. "'arabella,' i said. 'arabella--my love--it is all a mistake. open your eyes and see. i am here ready to explain all if you will only listen.' "her answer was a moan and a fluttering of the eyelids. "'arabella,' i repeated. 'don't you hear me, sweetheart? open your eyes and look at me. it is i, edward.' "'edward!' she gasped, her eyes still closed. 'what _does_ it all mean? why have you treated me so?' "'it is not i who have done this arabella; it is another vile being over whose actions i have no control. he is a fiend who has me in his power. he is--oh, arabella, do not ask me, do not insist upon knowing all, only believe that i am not to blame!' "'kiss me, edward,' she murmured. 'one little kiss.' "hopkins," moaned the exile, "just think of that! one little kiss was all she asked, and i--i hadn't anything to kiss her with--not the vestige of a lip. "'kiss me, edward,' she repeated. "'i cannot,' i cried out in anguish. "'why not?' she demanded, sitting up on the floor and gazing wildly around her, and then seeing that she was absolutely alone in the room, and had been conversing with--" "oh!" ejaculated hopkins, wringing his hands. "dear me! the poor girl must have been nearly crazy." "nearly, hopkins?" said the exile, in a sepulchral tone. "nearly? arabella never did anything by halves or by nearlies. she became quite crazy, and as far as i know has remained so until this day, for with the restoration of consciousness, and the shock of opening her eyes to see nothing that could speak with her, and yet had spoken, her mind gave way, and she fled chattering like an imbecile from the room. i have never seen her since!" "and the fiend?" queried toppleton. "i saw him at st. george's on the following wednesday," returned the exile. "i had been wandering aimlessly and distractedly about london for four days since the dreadful episode at arabella's, when i came to st. george's church. there was an awning before the door, and from the handsome equipages drawn up before the edifice i knew that some notable function was going on within. the crowds, the usual london crowds, were being kept back by the police, but i, of course, being invisible, floated over their heads, past the guards, through the awning into the church. there was a wedding in progress, and the groom's back seemed familiar, though i could not place it at first, and naturally, toppleton, for it was my own, as i discovered, a moment later. when the last irrevocable words binding me to a woman i had never before seen had been spoken, and the organ began to peal forth the melodious measures of the lohengrin march, the bride and groom, made one, turned and faced the brilliant assemblage of guests, among whom were the premier and the members of his cabinet, and as complete a set of nabobs, mentioned in burke, as could be gathered in london at that time of the year, and i recognized my own face wreathed in smiles, my own body dressed in wedding garb, standing on the chancel steps ready to descend. "i was married, hopkins, at last. married to a woman of beauty and wealth and high position, utterly unknown to me, and not only were my own mother and my best friends absent, but i myself had only happened in by accident. "my rage knew no bounds, and as the fiend and his bride passed down the aisle amid the showered congratulations of the aristocratic multitude, i impotently endeavoured to strike him, of which he was serenely unconscious; but as he left the church my voice, which had been stifled with indignation, at last grew clear, and i howled out high above the crowds,-- "'you vile scoundrel, restore me to myself! give me back the presence of which you have robbed me, or may every curse in all the universe fall upon you and your house for ever.' "he heard me, toppleton, and his answer was a smile--a green smile--seeing which his bride, the lady ariadne maude fackleton, fainted as they drove away. "that, hopkins, is substantially the tale of villainy i have come to tell. little remains to be told. the fiend has been true to his promise to make me famous, for every passing year has brought some new honour to my name. i have been elevated to the peerage; i have been ambassador to the most brilliant courts of europe; i have been all that one could hope to be, and yet i have not been myself. i ask your assistance. will you not give it to me?" "edward," said toppleton warmly, "i will. i will be candid with you, edward. i am almost as ignorant of law as a justice of the peace, but for your sake i will study and see what can be done. i will fight your case for you to the very last, but first tell me one thing. your name is what?" "edward pompton chatford." "what!" cried toppleton, "the famous novelist?" "he made me so," said the exile. "and the fiend's present title is?" "lord barncastle of burningford." "he?" said toppleton, incredulously, recognizing the name as that of one who fairly bent beneath the honours of the world. "none other," returned the exile. "heavens!" ejaculated toppleton. "how morley, harkins, perkins, mawson, bronson, smithers, and hicks will open their eyes when i tell them that i have been retained to institute _habeas corpus_ proceedings in the case of chatford v. barncastle of burningford! morley particularly, i am afraid will die of fright!" chapter xi. toppleton consults the law and forms an opinion. at the conclusion of the exile's story hopkins glanced at his watch, and discovered that he had barely time to return to his lodging and dress for a little dinner he had promised to attend that evening. "i will look up the law in this case of yours, chatford," he said, rising from his chair and putting on his hat and coat, "and in about a week i rather think we shall be able to decide upon some definite line of action. it will be difficult, i am afraid, to find any precedent to guide us in a delicate matter of this sort, but as a lay lawyer, if i may be allowed the expression, it seems to me that there ought to be some redress for one who has been made the victim of so many different kinds of infamy at once as you have. the weak part of our case is that you were yourself an accessory to every single one of the fiend's crimes, and in instituting a suit at law we cannot get around the fact that in a measure you are both plaintiff and defendant. i believe those are the terms usually employed to designate the two parties to a suit, except in the case of an appeal, when there is an appellant and a repellant if my memory serves me." "it may be as you say," returned the exile, sadly. "i'll have to take your word for it entirely, since, as i have already told you, all the law i ever knew i have forgotten, and then, too, my business being purely one of adjudication, i used to distinguish my clients one from another--representing, as i did, both sides--by calling them, respectively, the compromisee and the compromisor." "well," toppleton said, "i'll find out all about it and let you know, say, by friday next. we'll first have to decide in what capacity you shall appear in court, whether as a plaintiff or defendant. i think under the circumstances you will have to go as a plaintiff, though in a case in which my father was interested some years ago, i know that it was really the plaintiff who was put on the defensive as soon as the old gentleman took him in hand to cross-examine him. it was said by experts to have been the crossest examination on the calendar that year; and between you and me, edward, the plaintiff never forgave his attorneys for not retaining the governor on his side in the beginning. if you would rather go as a defendant, i suppose i could arrange to have it so, but it strikes me as a disadvantageous thing to do in these days, because in most cases, it is the defendant who has committed the wrong upon which the suit is based, and a man who starts in as the underdog, has to combat the prejudices of judge, jury and general public, with whom it is a time-honoured custom to believe a man guilty until he has proven his innocence. i think, on the whole, it would be easier for you to prove lord barncastle's guilt than your own innocence." "i know from the lucid manner in which you talk, toppleton," said the exile, with a deep sigh indicating satisfaction, "from the readiness and extemporaneousness with which you grasp the situation, not losing sight of side issues, that i have made no mistake in coming to you. heaven bless you, sir. you will never regret the assistance you are so nobly giving to one you have never seen." "don't mention it, sallie--i should say chatford," said toppleton. "i am an american citizen and will ever be found championing the cause of the oppressed against the oppressor. my ears are ever open to the plaint of the plaintiff, nor shall i be deaf to the defendant in case you choose to be the latter. count on me, edward, and all will yet be well!" with these inspiring words, toppleton lit his cigar and walked jauntily from the room, and the exile relapsed into silence. faithful to his promise, toppleton applied himself assiduously to the study of the law as it seemed to him to bear upon the case of his mysterious client. to be sure, his library was not quite as extensive as it might have been, and there may have been points in other books than the ones he had, which would have affected his case materially, but the young lawyer was more or less self-reliant, and what he had to read he read intelligently. "if i were called upon suddenly to rescue a young woman from drowning, and possessed nothing but an anchor and a capstan bar to do it with, my duty clearly would be to do the best i could with those tools, however awkward they might be. i could not ease my conscience after neglecting to do all that i could with those tools, by saying that i hadn't a lifeboat and a cork suit handy. here is a parallel case. i must do the best i can with the tools i have, and i guess i can find enough law in blackstone and that tree calf copy of the sixteenth volume of abbott's 'digest' i picked up the other day to cover this case. if i can't, i'll have to use the sense that nature gave me, and go ahead anyhow." to his delight, hopkins found it utterly unnecessary for him to read the tree calf sixteenth volume of abbott's "digest," he found so much in the "comic blackstone" that applied. "why, do you know," he said to the exile when they met, the one to explain the law, the other to listen, "do you know you have the finest case in all christendom, without leaving the very fundamental principles of the law? it's really extraordinary what a case you have, or rather, would have, if you could devise some means of appearing in court. that's the uncrackable nut in the case. how the deuce to have you appear on the witness stand, i can't see. the court would not tolerate any such makeshift as the aunt sallie scheme you and i have adopted, it would be so manifestly absurd, and would give the counsel for the defence--for you must be the plaintiff after all, can't help yourself--it would give the counsel for the defence the finest chance to annihilate us by the use of his satirical powers he had ever had, and before a jury that would simply ruin our cause at the outset." "i don't see why i can't testify as i am--bodiless as i have been left. the mere absence of my body and presence of my consciousness would almost prove my case," said the exile. "it would seem as if it ought to," said toppleton. "but you know what men are. they believe very little that they hear, and not much more than half that they see. you couldn't expect anyone to believe the points of a person unseen. if they can't see you they can't see your hardships, and besides, hearsay evidence unsupported is not worth shucks." "i don't know what shucks are," returned the exile, "but i see your point." "it's a serious point," said toppleton. "and then there is another most embarrassing side to it. we can't afford to have our case weakened by putting ourselves in a position where countercharges can be brought against us, and i am very much afraid our opponents would charge vagrancy against you, for the very obvious and irrefutable reason that you have absolutely no visible means of support. you wouldn't have a leg to stand on if they did that, and yet it does seem a pity that something cannot be done to enable you to appear, for as i said a minute ago, you have otherwise a perfectly magnificent cause of action. why, edward, there isn't a page in the comic blackstone that does not contain something that applies to your case, and that ought to make you a winner if we could get around this horrible lack of body of yours. "for instance," continued toppleton, opening a'beckett's famous contribution to legal lore, "in the very first chapter we find that blackstone divides rights into rights of _persons_ and rights of things. clearly you have a right to your own person, and no judge on a sane bench would dare deny it. absolute rights, it says here, belong to man in a state of nature, which being so, you have been wronged, because in being deprived of your state of nature you have been robbed of your absolute rights. clear as crystal, eh?" "that's so," said the exile. "you are a marvel at law, hopkins." "in section six reference is made to the _habeas corpus_ act of charles the second, and unless i have forgotten my latin, that is a distinct reference to a man's right to the possession of his own body. section eight, same chapter, announces man's right to personal security, and asserts his legal claim to the enjoyment of _life, limbs, health and reputation_. have you enjoyed your life? no! have you enjoyed your limbs? not for thirty years. have you enjoyed your health. no! barncastle of burningford has enjoyed that as well as your reputation. i think on the whole though, we would better not say anything about your reputation if we get into court, for while it is undoubtedly _yours_, and has been by no means enjoyed by you, you didn't make it for yourself. that was his work, and he is entitled to it." "true," said the exile. "i do not wish to claim anything i am not entitled to." "that's the proper spirit," said toppleton. "you want what belongs to you and nothing more. you are entitled to your property, for which section eleven of this same chapter provides, saying that the law will not allow a man to be deprived of his property except by the law itself. if a man's own body isn't his, i'd like to know to whom it belongs in a country that professes to be free!" toppleton paused at this point to make a few notes and to reinforce his own spirit by means of others. "now, under the head of real property, chatford," he said, "i find that in england property is real or personal. i think that in this case, that of which you have been deprived comes under both heads. one's body is certainly real and unquestionably personal, and if a man has a right to the possession of each, he has a right to the possession of both, and he who robs him of both is guilty of a crime under each head. real property consists of lands, tenements and hereditaments. lands we must perforce exclude because you have lost no lands. tenements may be alluded to, however, with absolute fairness because the body is the tenement of the soul. of hereditaments i am not sure. i don't know what hereditaments are, and i haven't had time to find out anything about them except that they are corporeal or incorporeal, which leads me to infer that you have been wronged under this head also, for i must assume that a hereditament is something that may or may not have a body according to circumstances, which is your case exactly. "now a man's right to the possession of an estate is called his title, if i am not mistaken," continued hopkins, "and it is only reasonable to suppose that this refers to bodily estate as well as to landed estate. what we must dispute is barncastle's title to your bodily estate. our case is referred to in section two, chapter nine, part second of this book, which deals with joint tenancy in which two or more persons have one and the same interest in an estate, but it must be held by both at the same time. now, even granting, as the other side may say, that you entered into a partnership with the fiend, we could knock him right off his pins on the sole fact that in declining to admit you to your own bodily estate, he has not only deprived you of an undoubted right, but has in reality forfeited his own claim to possession, since he has violated the only principle of law upon which he could claim entrance to the estate under any circumstances." "superb!" ejaculated the exile. "now we come to an apparent difficulty," continued hopkins. "possession is, according to my authority, five points of the law. the fiend has possession, and in consequence tallies five points; out of how many i do not know. what the maximum number of points in the law is, the book does not say, but even assuming that they form a good half, i think we can bring forward five more with a dozen substitutes for each of the five in support of our position. some of these points will evolve themselves when we come to consider whence barncastle's title was derived. "did he acquire his title by descent? no; unless it was by a descent to unworthy tricks which, i fear, are outside of the meaning of the law. by purchase? if so, let him show a receipt. by occupancy? yes, and by a forcible occupancy which was as justifiable as his occupation of the throne would be, an occupancy which can be shown in court to be an entire subversion of the right of a prior occupant whose title was acquired by inheritance." "that's a strong point," said the exile. "yes, it is," said hopkins, "especially in a country where birth means so much. but that isn't all we have to say on this question of title. a title can be held by prescription. barncastle may claim that he got his this way, but we can meet that by showing that he compounded his own prescription, and originally got you to swallow it by a trick. he also has a title by alienation, and there i think we may be weak since you were a party to the final alienation, though we may be able to pull through on even that point by showing that you consented only in the expectation of an early return of the premises. it was an alienation by deed, an innocent deed on your part, an infamous one on his. it was not an alienation of record, which weakens his claim, but one of special custom, which by no means weakens yours. "and so, edward, we might go on through the whole subject of the right of property, and on every point we are strong, and on few can barncastle of burningford put in the semblance of a defence." "it's simply glorious," said the exile. "i don't believe there ever was a case like it." "i don't believe so either," said toppleton. "and on the whole i'm glad there never was. i should hate to think that a crime like this could ever become a common one. "now," he said, resuming the discussion of the legal aspect of the exile's case, "let us see what we can find under the head of 'private and public wrongs and their remedies!' i suppose yours would come under the head of a civil wrong, though your treatment has been very far from civil. as such your redress lies in the courts. you are forbidden to take back what has been taken from you by a force which amounts to a breach of the peace,--that is, it would not be lawful for you to seize your own body and shake the life out of it for the purpose of yourself becoming once more its animating spirit. "first we must decide, 'what is the wrong that has been put upon you?' well, it's almost any crime you can think of. he has dispossessed you of that which is yours. he has ousted you from your freehold. he has been guilty of trespass. he has subjected you to a nuisance, that is if it is a nuisance to be deprived of one's body, and i should think it would so appear to any sane person. he has been guilty of subtraction. he has subtracted you from your body and your body from you, leaving apparently no remainder. he has been guilty of an offence against your religion. to an extent he has committed an offence against the public health in that he has haunted citizens of this city and caused you unwittingly to do the same to the detriment of the sanity of those who have been haunted. i think we might even charge him with homicide, for if depriving a man of thirty years of his corporeal existence isn't depriving him of life, i don't know what is. however this may be, i am convinced that he is guilty of mayhem, for he certainly has deprived you of a limb--that is shown by your utter absence of limb. he has been guilty of an offence against your habitation, corporeal and incorporeal, and finally he has been guilty of larceny both grand and petty. grand in the extent of it, petty in the method. by jove, chatford, if we could bring you into court as a concrete individual, and not as an abstract entity, we could get up an indictment against lord barncastle of burningford that would quash him for ever. "a body obtained for you, i should carry the case to the appellate court at once, for two reasons. first because it would not be appropriate to try so uncommon a cause in the common pleas, second because a decision by the court of appeals is final, and we should save time by going there at once; but the point with which we must concern ourselves the most is, how shall we bring you before the eyes of the court; how shall we get our plaintiff into shape--visible shape?" a painful silence followed the conclusion of toppleton's discussion of the law in the case of chatford _v_. barncastle of burningford. it was evident that the exile could think of no means of surmounting the unfortunate barrier to a successful prosecution of the case. finally the exile spoke: "i perceive the dreadful truth of what you say. having no physical being, i have no standing in court." "that's the unfortunate fact," returned hopkins. "can't you get a body in some way? can't you borrow one temporarily?" "where?" asked the exile. "you are my only material friend. you wouldn't lend me yours." "no, i wouldn't," said toppleton. "if i did, where would your only material friend be? it's hopeless, edward; and now that i think of it, even if you did get a form and should go to court, where are your witnesses? you could only assert, and barncastle could always deny. strong as your cause is, the courts, under the circumstances, will give you no redress, because you cannot prove your case. we must seek other means; this is a case that requires diplomatic action. strategy will do more for us than law, and i think i have a scheme." "which is?" "i will go to lord barncastle, and by means of a little clever dissembling will frighten him into doing the right thing by you. i realize what a tremendous undertaking it is, but failure then would not mean public disgrace, and failure in the courts would put us, and particularly myself, under a cloud. in short, we might be suspected of blackmail, chatford; barncastle is so prominent, and liable to just such attacks at all times." "but how do you propose to reach him? he has the reputation now of being the haughtiest and most unapproachable member of the aristocracy." "oh, dear!" laughed hopkins. "you don't understand americans. why, chatford, we can push ourselves in anywhere. if you were a being like myself, and had ten pounds to bet, i would wager you that within forty-eight hours i could have an invitation in autograph from the prince of wales himself to dine with him and prince battenburg at sandringham, at any hour, and on any day i choose to set. you don't know what enterprising fellows we yankees are. i'll know lord barncastle intimately inside of one month, if i once set out to do it." "excuse me for saying it, hopkins," said the exile, sadly, "but i must say that what i have liked about you in the past has been your freedom from bluster and brag. to me these statements of yours sound vain and empty. i would speak less plainly were it not that my whole future is in your hands, and i do not want you to imperil my chances by rashness. tell me how you propose to meet barncastle, and, having met him, what you propose to do, if you do not wish me to set this talk down as foolish braggadocio." "i'll tell you how i propose to meet him," said hopkins, slightly offended, and yet characteristically forgiving; "but what i shall do after that i shall not tell you, for i may find that he is a politer person than you are, and it's just possible that i shall like him. if i do, i may be impelled to desert you and ally myself with him. i don't like to be called a braggart, edward." "forgive me, hopkins," said the spirit. "i am so wrought up by my hopes and fears, by the consciousness of the terrible wrongs i have suffered, that i hardly know what i am saying." "well, never mind," rejoined hopkins. "don't worry. the chances of my deserting you are very slight. but to return to your question. i shall meet barncastle in this way; i shall have a sonnet written in his praise by an intimate friend of mine, a poet of very high standing and little morality, which i shall sign with my own name, and have printed as though it were a clipping from some periodical. this clipping i will send to lord barncastle with a note telling him that i am an american admirer of his genius, the author of the sonnet, and have but one ambition, which i travelled from america to gratify--to meet him face to face." "aha!" said the spirit. "an appeal to his vanity, eh?" "precisely," said toppleton. "it works every time." "and when you meet him?" "we shall see," rejoined toppleton. "i have given up brag and bluster; but if lord barncastle of burningford does not take an interest in hopkins toppleton after he has known him fifteen minutes, i'll go back home to new york, give up my law practice and become--" "what?" said the spirit as hopkins hesitated. "a sister of charity," said hopkins, gravely. chapter xii. toppleton makes a fair start. a few weeks later toppleton was able to report progress to his invisible client. he had the sonnet to barncastle of burningford and was much pleased with it, because, in spite of the fact that it was two lines too long, he was confident that it would prove very fetching to the man to whom it was addressed. "you ought to take out those two extra lines, though," said the exile. "barncastle is a great stickler for form, and he will be antagonized at once by your violation of the rules." "not a bit of it," returned toppleton. "those lines stay right there, and i'll tell you why. in the first place barncastle, as an englishman, will see in the imperfect sonnet something that will strike him as a bit of american audacity, which will be very pleasing to him, and will give him something to talk about. as a briton you are probably aware that your countrymen are very fond of discovering outrages of that sort in the work of those over the sea, because it is a sort of convincing proof that the american as a writer is still an inferior, and that england's controlling interest in the temple of immortality is in no danger of passing into alien hands. in the second place, he will be so pleased with the extra amount of flattery that is crammed into those two lines that he will not have the heart to criticize them; and thirdly, as one who knows it all, he will be prompted to send for me to come to him, in order that he may point out to me in a friendly spirit one or two little imperfections in what he will call my otherwise exquisite verse. i tell you what it is, edward," said toppleton, pausing a moment, "i never devoted myself with any particular assiduity to latin, greek, or mathematics, but when it comes to human nature, i am, as we new yorkers say, a daisy, which means that i am the flower upon which you may safely bet as against the field." "you certainly have an ingenious mind, hopkins," returned the exile, "and i hope it will all go as you say, but i fear, hopkins, i fear." "wait and see," was hopkins' confident reply, and being unable to do otherwise the exile obeyed. in three days the sonnet was printed, and so fixed that it appeared to be a clipping from the _rocky mountain quarterly review, a monthly magazine_. "that'll strike him as another interesting americanism," said hopkins, with a chuckle. "there is no people on earth but my own who would dare publish a quarterly twelve times a year." to the sonnet was appended the name "hopkins parkerberry toppleton;" parkerberry being a novelty introduced into the signature by the young lawyer, not because he was at all entitled to it, but for the proper reason, as he said, that no american poet was worth a nickel who hadn't three sections to his name. a note with a distinctly western flavour to it was penned, and with the "decoy" sonnet went that night to burningford castle addressed to "his excellency, lord barncastle," and then toppleton and the exile sat down to await the result. they had not many days to wait, for within a week of the dispatch of the poem and the note hopkins, on reaching the office one morning, found the exile in a great state of excitement over a square envelope lying on the floor immediately under the letter slot hopkins had had made in the door. "it's come, hopkins, it's come!" cried the exile. "what's come?" queried hopkins, calmly. "the letter from barncastle. i recognize my handwriting. it came last night about five minutes after you left the office, and i have been in a fever of excitement to learn its contents ever since. do open it at once. what does he say?" "be patient, edward, don't get so excited. suppose you were to have an apoplectic stroke!" "i can't be patient, and i can't have apoplexy, so do hurry. what do i say?" "seems to me," returned hopkins, picking up the letter and slowly opening it, "it seems to me you are getting confused. but let's see; what _does_ barncastle say? h'm!" he said, reading the note. "'barncastle hall, fenwick morton, mascottonton-on-the-barbundle, december th, --. hopkins parkerberry toppleton, esquire, , temple, london. dear sir,--i have to thank you for your favour and enclosure of the th inst. your sonnet is but one of a thousand gratifying evidences i am daily receiving that i have managed to win to no inconsiderable degree the good will of your countrymen. it is also evidence to me that you are a young man of much talent in the line of original versification, since, apart from the sentiment you express, your sonnet is one of the most original i have ever seen, not only for its length, but also for the wonderful mixture of your metaphor. it is truly characteristic of your great and growing country, and i cannot resist your naïve appeal to be permitted to meet the unworthy object of its praise. i should be gratified to have you to dinner at barncastle hall, at eight o'clock on the evening of december rd, --. kindly inform me by return post if your engagements will permit us to have the pleasure of having you with us on that evening. believe me to be, with sentiments of regard, ever, my dear sir, faithfully yours, barncastle.'" "by heavens!" ejaculated the exile, in delighted accents, "you've got there, hopkins, you've got there. you'll go, of course?" "well, rather," returned toppleton; "and to carry out the illusion, as well as to pique his interest in america, i'll wear a blue dress coat. but first let me reply." "dear barncastle," he wrote. "i'll be there. yours for keeps,--toppleton." "how's that?" he asked, reading it aloud to the exile. "you're not going to send that, are you?" said the exile in disgust. "i'm not, eh? well just you watch me and see," said toppleton. "why, edward, that will be the biggest _coup_ of the lot. he will get that letter, and he will be amused by it, and the more he thinks of it the more he'll like it, and then he'll say to himself, 'why, this man is a character;' and then do you know what will happen, chatford?" "i'll be hanged if i do," growled the exile. "well, i'll tell you. he will invite all the high panjandrums he knows to that dinner to meet me, and he will tell them that i am an original, and they'll all come, chatford, just as they would flock to see a seven-humped camel or a dwarf eight feet high, and then i will have lord barncastle of burningford just where i want him. i could browbeat him for weeks alone and never frighten him, but once i let him know that i know his secret, in the presence of his wife and a brilliant company, _he_ will be apprehensive, and, if i mistake not, will be more or less within my reach." "lady barncastle is no longer living," said the exile. "his household is presided over by his daughter." "very well," said hopkins. "we'll dazzle the daughter too." "is this the way american lawyers do business generally?" sneered the exile. "no," returned toppleton; "there is probably not another american lawyer who would take a case like yours. that's the one respect in which they resemble your english lawyers, but i'll tell you one thing. when they start in to do a thing they do it, unless their clients get too fresh, and then they stop _in medias res_." "i hope there is nothing personal in your remarks, hopkins," said the exile, uneasily. "that all depends on you," retorted hopkins. "despite your croakings and fears, the first step we have taken has proven justifiable. we have accomplished what we set out to accomplish. i am invited to meet the fiend. score one point for us. now, when i advance a proposition for the scoring of a second point, you sneer. well, sneer. i'll win the case for you, just to spite you. this despised note posted to barncastle, i shall order a blue dress coat with brass buttons on it. i shall purchase, if it is to be found in london, one of those beaver hats on which the fur is knee deep, a red necktie, and a diamond stud. my trousers i shall have cut to fit the contour of my calves like a glove. i shall sport the largest silver watch to be found on the strand, with a gold chain heavy enough to sustain a weight of five hundred pounds; in short, chatford, you won't be able to distinguish me from one of teniel's caricatures of uncle sam." "you won't be able to deceive barncastle that way. he's seen new yorkers before." "barncastle doesn't know i'm a new yorker, and he won't find it out. he thinks i'm from the rocky mountains, and he knows enough about geography to be aware that the rocky mountains aren't within two hours' walk of manhattan island. he knows that there is a vast difference between a london gentleman and a son of the soil of yorkshire, and he doesn't know but what there are a million citizens of our great republic who go about dressed up in fantastic garments similar to those i shall wear to his dinner. if he is surprised, his surprise will add to his interest, and materially contribute to the pleasure of those whom he invites to see the animal the untamed poet of the rockies. see?" "yes, i see," said the exile. "but clothes won't make the illusion complete. you look too much like a gentleman; your manners are too polished. a man like barncastle will see through you in a minute." "again, chatford, i am sorry that your possessions are nil, for i would like to wager you that your noble other self will do nothing of the sort. i have not been an amateur actor for nothing, and as for manners i can be as bad mannered as any nabob in creation if i try. don't you worry on that score." the acceptance of lord barncastle's invitation was therefore sent as hopkins wrote it, and the ensuing days were passed by the young lawyer in preparing the extraordinary dinner suit he had described to his anxious client, who could hardly be persuaded that in taking this step toppleton was not committing a bit of egregious folly. he could not comprehend how barncastle upon receipt of hopkins' note could be anything but displeased at the familiarity of its tone. the idea of a common untitled mortal like toppleton even assuming to be upon familiar terms with a member of the aristocracy, and especially one so high as barncastle of burningford, oppressed him. he would as soon expect an ordinary tradesman to slap the prince of wales on the back, and call him by one of his first names, without giving offence, as that barncastle should tolerate toppleton's behaviour, and he in consequence was fearful of the outcome. toppleton, on the other hand, went ahead with his extraordinary sartorial preparations, serenely confident that the events of the next few days would justify his course. the exile was relieved to find that the plan was of necessity modified, owing to toppleton's inability to find a typical uncle sam beaver in london; but his relief was short-lived, for hopkins immediately proceeded to remedy this defect by purchasing a green cotton umbrella, which, he said, was perhaps better than the hat as an evidence of eccentricity. "if i cling to that umbrella all through dinner, chatford," said toppleton, with a twinkle in his eye, "preferring rather to part with life, honour, or virtue than lose sight of it, i will simply make an impression upon the minds of that assembled multitude that they'll not forget in a hurry." "they'll think as i do," sighed the exile. "they'll think you are a craz--" "what?" asked toppleton, sharply. "they'll think you are a genius," returned the exile humbly and quickly too, fearing lest toppleton should take offence. "have you--er--have you considered what barncastle's servants will think of this strange performance? they won't let you into the house, in the first place," he added, to cover his retreat. "i shall be admitted to the house by barncastle himself; for i prophesy that his curiosity to meet this rocky mountain poet will be so great that he will be at the railway station to greet me in person. besides," continued toppleton, "why should i care what his servants think? i never had nor ever knew any one who had a servant whose thoughts were worth thinking. a servant who can think becomes in my country a servant of the people, not the lackey of the individual. furthermore, i am after high game, and servants form no part of my plan. they are not in it. when i go out on a lion hunt i don't bother my head about or waste my ammunition upon beasts of burden. i am loaded to the muzzle for the purpose of bringing down barncastle. if he can't be brought down without the humbling of his butler, why, then, his butler must bite the dust. if i become an object of suspicion to the flunkies, i shall not concern myself about it unless they become unpleasant, and if they become unpleasant i shall corrupt them. i'll buy every flunkey in the house, if it costs a five-pound note." "well, go your own gait," said the exile, not much impressed by toppleton's discourse. "if you are not clapped into a lunatic asylum, i shall begin to believe that the age of miracles is still extant; not that _i_ think you crazy, hopkins, but these others do not know you as well as i do. for my part, i think that by going to barncastle's as your own handsome, frank, open-hearted self, you will accomplish more than you will in this masquerade." "your flattery saves your cause," said hopkins. "i cannot be indignant, as i ought, with a man who calls me handsome, frank, and open-hearted, but you must remember this: in spite of your long absence from your body, you retain all the commonplace weakness of your quondam individuality. you would have me do the commonplace thing you yourself would have done thirty years ago. if there is a common, ordinary, uninteresting individual in the world, it is the handsome, frank, and open-hearted man. you find him everywhere--in hut and in palace, in village, town, and city. he is the man who goes through life unobserved, who gets his name in the paper three times in his lifetime, and always at somebody else's expense. once when he is born, once when he marries, and once when he dies, and it is a paid advertisement, not an earned one, each time. the first is paid for by his parents, the second by his father-in-law, the third by his executors. people like him well enough, but no one ever cares enough about him to hate him. his conversation ranges from babies--if he has any himself--through the weather to politics. beyond these subjects he has nothing to say, and he rarely dines out, save with the parson, the candidate, or the man who wants to get the best of him in a business transaction. he is an idol at home, a zero abroad. nobody is interested in him, and he would as likely be found dining with the khedive of egypt as with lord barncastle, and i'll wager that, even if he should in some mysterious manner receive an invitation to lend his gracious presence to the barncastle board, he would be as little in evidence as an object of interest as the scullery-maid. were i to accept your advice, chatford, barncastle's guests would be bored, barncastle himself would be disappointed, and your chance of ever becoming the animating spirit of your own body would correspondingly diminish. only by a bold stroke is success to be obtained. the means i am about adopting are revolting to me as a man of taste, but for the sake of our cause i am willing to stifle my natural desire to appear as a gentleman, to sink my true individuality, and to go as a freak." "but why do you think you will succeed, hopkins? even granting that you make a first-class freak, has it really ever happened that idiocy--i say idiocy here not to imply that i think you are an idiot, understand me--has it ever happened that a freak succeeds with us where that better, truer standard which is represented by you as you really are has failed?" "not exactly that way," replied hopkins. "but this has happened. your englishmen have flocked by the tens of thousands to see, and have been interested by an american wild west show, where tens of hundreds have straggled in to witness the thoughtful shakespearian productions of our most intellectual tragedians. barncastle can have a refined, quiet, gentlemanly appearing person at his table three hundred and sixty-five times a year. he can get what i am going to give him but once in a lifetime, so say no more about it. i am set in my determination to stand or fall in the manner i have indicated." "all right," said the exile. "i've nothing more to say; but there's one thing mighty certain. i'm going with you. i want to witness your triumph." "very well," said toppleton. "come along. but if you do, leave that infernal whistle of yours home, or there'll be trouble." "i'm hardly anything else but a whistle. i can't help whistling, you know." "then there are only two things to be done. you must either get yourself set to the tune of yankee doodle, or stay right here. i'm not going to have my plans upset by any such buoy like tootle-toot as you are when you get excited." "perhaps, on the whole, i'd better stay home." "i think you had," said toppleton. "you would be sure to whistle before we were out of the woods." hopkins and his invisible client had hardly finished this interview when the tailor's boy arrived, bringing with him the fantastic garments hopkins had ordered, and almost simultaneously there came a second letter from barncastle of burningford, which set many of the exile's fears at rest, and gave toppleton good reason to believe that for the first part of his plan all was plain sailing. barncastle's note was very short, but it was a welcome one, for it acknowledged the receipt of toppleton's "characteristically american acceptance to dine," and closed with an expression of barncastle's hope that hopkins would become one of his guests for the christmas holidays at the hall. "see, there!" said hopkins, triumphantly. "that is the way my plans work." "you are a napoleon!" ejaculated the exile. "not quite," returned hopkins, drily. "i won't have any waterloo in mine; but say, edward, let's try on our uncle sam's." "let's!" echoed the exile. "i am anxious to see how we look." "there!" said toppleton, ten minutes later, as he grasped the green cotton umbrella, and arrayed in the blue dress coat and red tie and other peculiar features of the costume he had adopted, stood awaiting the verdict of the exile. "you look it, toppleton; but i think there is one thing missing. where is your chin whisker?" "by jove!" ejaculated hopkins, with a gesture of impatience. "how could i forget that? and it's too late now, for if there is one thing a yankee can't do, chatford, it is to force a goatee inside of forty-eight hours. i'll have to cook up some explanation for that--lost it in an indian fight in fairmount park, philadelphia, or some equally plausible theory, eh?" "i think that might work," said the exile, in an acquiescent mood since the receipt of barncastle's second note. "i thought you would," returned hopkins. "the little detail that there aren't any indians in fairmount park, philadelphia, doesn't affect the result, of course. but tell me, chatford, how do i look?" "like the very devil!" answered the exile with enthusiasm. "good," said toppleton. "if i look like him i've got barncastle down, for if the devil is not his twin brother, he is his master. in either event i shall be a _persona grata_ at the court of barncastle of burningford." chapter xiii. at barncastle hall. toppleton's surmises as to barncastle's method of receiving him appeared to be correct, for upon his arrival, green umbrella and carpet bag in hand, at the fenwick merton station he was met by no less a person than his host himself, who recognized him at once. "i knew it was you," said barncastle, as he held out his hand to grasp toppleton's. "i knew it was you as soon as i saw you. your carpet bag, and the fact that you are the only person on the train who travelled first class, were the infallible signs which guided me." "and i knew you, barncastle, the minute i saw you," said hopkins, returning the compliment, "because you looked less like a lord than any man on the platform. how goes it, anyhow?" the englishman's countenance wore a puzzled expression as toppleton put the question. "how goes it?" he repeated slowly. "how goes what? the train?" "oh, no," laughed hopkins. "how goes it is rocky mountain for how's things, all your family well, and your creditors easy?" "ah! i see," said barncastle with a smile. "all is well with us, thank you. my daughter is awaiting your coming with very great interest; and as for my creditors, my dear sir, i am really uncertain as to whether i have any. my steward can tell you better than i how they feel." "it's a great custom, ain't it?" said hopkins with enthusiasm, "that of being dunned by proxy, eh? i wish we could work it out my way. if you don't ante up right off out in the mountains, your grocer comes around and collects at the point of his gun, and if you pay him in promises, he gives you back your change in lead." "fancy!" said barncastle. "how unpleasant it must be for the poor." "poor!" laughed toppleton; "there's none of them in the rockies. you don't get a chance to get poor in a country where boys throw nuggets at birds, and cats are removed from back-yard fences with silver boot-jacks. ever been in the rockies, barncastle?" "no," returned the lord, "i have not, but if all you say is true, i should like to visit that section very much." "true, barncastle?" said toppleton, bristling up. "why, my dear lord, that if of yours would have dug your grave out near pike's peak." "i meant no offence, my dear fellow," returned barncastle, apologetically. "no need to tell me that," said toppleton, affably. "the fact that you still survive shows i knew it. what time is dinner? i'm ravenous." "eight o'clock," replied lord barncastle, looking at his watch. "it is now only three." "phew!" ejaculated toppleton. "five hours to wait!" "i thought we might take a little drive around the country until six, and then we could return to the hall and make ready for dinner," said barncastle. "that suits me," returned toppleton. "but i wish you'd send that gentleman with the mutton-chop whiskers that drives your waggon to the lunch counter and get me a snack before we start." "no," said barncastle, ushering toppleton into his dog-cart. "we'll do better than that. we'll give up the drive until later. i take you directly to the hall, and send a cold bird and a glass of wine to your apartment." "good!" ejaculated toppleton, with a smack of the lips. "you must live pretty near as fine here as we do in our big hotels at home. they're the only other places i know where you can get your appetite satisfied at five minutes' notice." toppleton and his host then entered the carriage, and in a short time they reached the hall--a magnificently substantial structure, with ivy-clad towers, great gables, large arched windows looking out upon seductive vistas, and an air of comfortable antiquity about it that moved hopkins' tongue to an utterance somewhat at variance with his assumed character. "how beautiful and quiet it all is," he said, gazing about him in undisguised admiration. "a home like this, my lord, ought to make a poet of a man. the very air is an inspiration." barncastle shrugged his shoulders and laughed; and had toppleton not been looking in rapt silence out through the large bowed window at the end of the hall they had entered, along an avenue of substantial oak trees to the silver waters of the barbundle at its other end, he might have seen a strange greenish light come into the eyes of his host, which would have worried him not a little. he did not see it, however, and in a moment he remembered his mission and the means he had adopted to bring it to a successful issue. "it beats the deck!" he ejaculated, with a nervous glance at barncastle, fearful lest his enthusiasm had led him to betray himself. "i find it a pleasant home," said barncastle, quietly, ushering him into a spacious and extremely comfortable room which toppleton perceived in a moment was the library, at the other end of which was a large open fireplace, large enough to accommodate a small family, within whose capacious depths three or four huge logs were blazing fiercely. before the fire sat a stately young woman, about twenty-five years of age, who rose as the lord of burningford and his guest entered. as she approached toppleton would have given all he possessed to be rid of the abominable costume he had on; and when the young heiress of burningford's eye rested upon the fearfully green cotton umbrella, he felt as if nothing would so have pleased his soul as the casting of that adjunct to an alleged americanism into the fire; for lady alice was, if he could judge from appearances, a woman for whose good opinion any man might be willing to sacrifice immortality itself. but circumstances would not permit him to falter, and, despite the fact that it hurt his self-respect to do it, hopkins remained true to the object he had in view. "alice, this is mr. toppleton. my daughter, lady alice chatford, mr. toppleton," said barncastle. "howdy," said hopkins, making an awkward bow to lady alice. "she don't need her title to show she's a lady," he added, turning to barncastle, who seemingly acquiesced in all that he said. "my friend toppleton, my dear," said barncastle, "has paid me the compliment of travelling all the way from his home in the rocky mountains in the united states to see me. he is the author of that wonderful sonnet i showed you the other night." "yes, i remember," said lady alice, with a gracious smile, which won toppleton's heart completely, "it was delightful. lord barncastle and i are great admirers of your genius, mr. toppleton, and we sincerely hope that we shall be able to make your stay with us here as pleasant for you as it is for us." again hopkins would have disappeared through the floor had he been able to act upon the promptings of his own good taste. it made him feel unutterably small to think that he had come here, under the guise of an uncultivated, boorish clod with poetical tendencies, to work the overthrow of the genius of the house. "thank you," he said, his voice husky with emotion. "i had not expected so cordial a reception. in fact," he added, remembering his true position, "i had a bet of ten to one with a friend of mine who is doing the lakes this afternoon that i'd get frozen stiff by a glance of your ladyship's eye. i'm mighty glad i've lost the bet." "he has some courtliness beneath his unpolished exterior," said lady alice later, when recounting the first interview between them to some of her friends. "i quite forgave his boorishness when he said he was glad to lose his wager." "now, mr. toppleton," said his host, "if you care to go to your apartment i will see that you get what you want. just leave your umbrella in the coat room, and let parker take your bag up to your room." "thanks, barncastle, old fellow," said the rocky mountain poet, "i'll go to my room gladly; but as for leaving that umbrella out of my sight, or transferring the handle of that carpet bag to any other hand than my own, i can't do it. they're my treasures, my lady," he added, turning to lady alice. "that bag and i have been inseparable companions for eight consecutive years, and as for the umbrella we haven't been parted for five. it's my protector and friend, and since it saved my life in a shooting scrape at the papyrus club dinner in denver, i haven't wanted to let it get away from me." "how odd he is," said lady alice a moment later to her father, toppleton having gone to his room. "are you sure he is not an impostor?" "no, i'm not," returned barncastle with a strange smile; "but i know he is not a thief. i fancy he is amusing, and i believe he will be a valuable acquisition to my circle of acquaintances. have you heard from the duchess of bangletop?" "yes, she will be here. i told her you had a real american this time--not an imitation englishman--a poet, and, as far as we could judge, a character who would surely become a worthy addition to her collection of oddities; a match, in fact, for her german worshipper of napoleon and that other strange freak of nature she had at her last reception, the young illinois widow who whistled the score of parsifal." "the duchess must have been pleased," said barncastle with a laugh. "this toppleton will prove a perfect godsend to her, for she has absolutely nothing that is _bizarre_ for her next reception." toppleton, upstairs in a magnificently appointed chamber, from the windows of which were to be seen the most superb distances that he had ever imagined, was a prey alternately to misery and to joy. he felicitated himself upon the apparent success of his plan, while bemoaning his unhappy lot in having to keep his true self under in a society he felt himself capable of adorning, and to enter which he had always aspired. "it's too late to back out now, though," he said. "if i were to strike my colours at this stage of the battle, i should deserve to be put in a cask and thrown into the barbundle yonder. when i look about me and see all these magnificent acres, when i observe the sumptuous furnishing of this superb mansion, when i see unequalled treasures of art scattered in profusion about this castle, and then think of that poor devil of a chatford roaming about the world without a piece of bric-a-brac to his name, or an acre, or a house, or bed, or chair, or table, of any kind, without even a body, it makes me mad. here his body, the inferior part of man, the purely mortal section of his being, is living in affluence, while his immortal soul is a very tramp, an outcast, a wanderer on the face of the earth. barncastle, barncastle, you are indeed a villain of the deepest--" here toppleton paused, and looked apprehensively about him. he seemed to be conscious of an eye resting upon him. a chill seized upon his heart, and his breath came short and quick as it had done but once before when his invisible client first betrayed his presence in no. . "i wonder if this is one of those beastly castles with secret doors in the wainscot and peep-holes in the pictures," he said nervously to himself. "it would be just like barncastle to have that sort of a house, and of course nothing would please him better than to try a haunted chamber on me. the conjunction of a ghost and a rocky mountain poet would be great, but after my experience with chatford, i don't believe there is a ghost in all creation that could frighten me. nevertheless, i don't like being gazed at by an unseen eye. i'll have to investigate." then toppleton investigated. he mounted chairs and tables to gaze into the stolid, unresponsive oil-painted faces of somebody's ancestry, he knew not whose. not barncastle's, he was sure, for barncastle was an upstart. nothing wrong could be found there. the eyes were absolutely proof against peeping toms. then he rolled the heavy bureau and several antique chests away from the massive oak wainscoting that ran about the room, eight feet in height and superbly carved. he tapped every panel with his knuckles, and found them all solid as a rock. "no secret door in that," he said; and then for a second time he experienced that nervous sensation which comes to him who feels that he is watched, and as the sensation grew more and more intense and terrifying, an idea flashed across toppleton's mind which heightened his anxiety. "by jove!" he said; "i wonder if i am going mad. can it be that chatford is an illusion, a fanciful creation of a weak mind? am i become a prey to hallucinations, and if so, am i not in grave danger of my personal liberty here if barncastle should discover my weakness?" it was rather strange, indeed, that this had not occurred to hopkins before. it was the natural explanation of his curious experience, and the sudden thought that he had foolishly lent himself to the impulses of a phantasm, and was carrying on a campaign of destruction against one of the world's most illustrious men, based solely upon a figment of a diseased imagination, was prostrating. he staggered to the side of a large tapestried easy-chair, and limp with fear, toppled over its broad arm into its capacious depths an almost nerveless mass of flesh and bones. he would have given worlds to be back in the land of the midnight sun, in new york, in london, anywhere but here in the house of barncastle of burningford, and he resolved then and there that he would return to london the first thing in the morning, place himself in the hands of a competent physician, and trifle with the creations of his fancy no more. a prey to these disquieting reflections, toppleton lay in the chair for at least an hour. the last rays of a setting sun trembled through the leaves of the tree that shaded the western side of the room, and darkness fell over all; and with the darkness there came into toppleton's life an experience that scattered his fears of a moment since to the winds, and so tried and exercised his courage, that that fast fading quality gained a renewed strength for the fearful battle with a supernatural foe, in which he had, out of his goodness of heart, undertaken to engage. a clock in the hall outside began to strike the hour of six in deep measured tones, that to toppleton in his agitated state of mind was uncomfortably suggestive of the bell in coleridge's line that "knells us back to a world of death." at the last stroke of the hammer the tone seemed to become discordant, and in a frenzy of nervous despair toppleton opened his eyes and sprang to his feet. as he did so, his whole being became palpitant with terror, for staring at him out of the darkness he perceived a small orb-like something whose hue was that of an emerald in combustion. he clapped his hands over his eyes for a moment, but that phosphorescent gleam penetrated them, and then he perceived that it was not an eye that rested upon him, but a ray of light shining through a small hole that had escaped his searching glance in the wainscoting. the relief of this discovery was so great that it gave him courage to investigate, and stepping lightly across the room, noiseless as a particle of dust, he climbed upon a chair and peeped through the aperture, though it nearly blinded him to do so. to shade his eyes from the blinding light, he again covered them with his hand, and again observed that its intensity was sufficient to pierce through the obstruction and dazzle his vision. the hand so softened the light, however, that he could see what there was on the other side of the wall, though it was far from being a pretty sight that met his gaze. what he saw was a small oblong room in which there was no window, and, at first glance, no means of entrance or exit. it was high-ceiled like the room in which he stood, and, with the exception of a narrow couch covered with a black velvet robe, with a small pillow of the same material at the far end, the room was bare of furniture. there was no fire, no fixture of any kind, lamp or otherwise, from which illumination could come, and yet the room was brilliant with that same green light that chatford had described to hopkins at his office in the temple. so dazzling was it, that for a moment hopkins had difficulty in ascertaining just what there was in the apartment, but as he looked he became conscious of forms which grew more and more distinct as his eye accustomed itself to the light. on the couch in a moment appeared, rigid as in death, the body of barncastle; the eyes lustreless and staring, the hands characterless and bluish even in the green light, the cheeks sunken and the massive forehead white and cold as marble. the sight chilled toppleton to the marrow, and he averted his eyes from the horrible spectacle only to see one even more dreadful, for on the other side of the apartment, grinning fiendishly, the source of the wonderful light that flooded the room, he now perceived the fiend, making ready to assume once more the habiliments of mortality. he was stirring a potion, and, as hopkins watched him, he began to whistle a combination of discords that went through toppleton's ears like a knife. the watcher became sick at heart. this was the frightful thing he had to cope with! so frightful was it that he tried to remove his eye from the peep-hole, and seek again the easy chair, when to his horror he found that he could not move. if his eye had in reality been glued to the aperture, he would not have found it more firmly fixed than it was at present. as he struggled to get away from the vision that was every moment being burned more and more indelibly into his mind, the fiend's fearful mirth increased, at the close of one of the paroxysms of which he lifted the cup in which the potion had been mixed to his lips, and quaffed its contents to the very dregs. as the last drop trickled down the fiend's throat, hopkins was startled further to see the light growing dim, and then he noticed that the fiend was rapidly decreasing in size, shrinking slowly from a huge spectral presence into a hardly visible ball of green fire which rolled across the apartment to where the body lay; up the side of the couch to the pillow; along the pillow to that marble white forehead, where it paused. a tremor passed through the human frame lying prostrate there, and in a moment all was dark as night. the ball of fire had disappeared through the forehead, and a deep groan told toppleton that the body of barncastle was once more a living thing having the semblance of humanity. a moment later another light appeared in the apartment into which toppleton still found himself compelled to gaze. this time the light was more natural, for it was the soft genial light of a lamp shining through a sliding panel at the other end of the room, through which the lord of burningford passed. it lasted but a moment, for as the defendant in this fearful case of chatford _v._ burningford passed into the room beyond, the slide flew back and all was black once more. with the departure of barncastle, toppleton was able to withdraw from his uncomfortable position, and in less than a moment lay gasping in his chair. "it is too real!" he moaned to himself. "chatford did not deceive me. i am not the victim of hallucination. alas! i wish i were." a knock at the door put an end to his soliloquizing, and he was relieved to hear it. here was something earthly at last. he flew from his chair across the room through the darkness to the door and threw it wide open. "come in," he cried, and barncastle himself, still pale from the effects of the ordeal he had passed through, entered the room. "i have come to see if there is anything i can do for you," he said pleasantly, touching an electric button which dissipated the darkness of the room by lighting a hundred lamps. "the duchess of bangletop has arrived and is anxious to meet you; but you look worn, toppleton. you are not ill, i hope?" "no," stammered toppleton, slightly overcome by barncastle's coolness and affability, "but i--i've been taking a nap and i've had the--the most horrible dream i ever had." "which was?" "that i--ah--why, that i was writing an obituary poem on--" "me?" queried barncastle, calmly. "no," said toppleton. "on myself." chapter xiv. the dinner and its result. a half-hour later toppleton entered the drawing room of barncastle hall, umbrella in one hand, carpet-bag in the other; his red necktie arranged grotesquely about his neck, the picture of americanism "as she is drawn" by british cartoonists. any other than a well-bred english gathering would have received him with hilarious enthusiasm, and hopkins was rather staggered as he passed through the doorway to note the evident interest, and yet utter lack of surprise, which his appearance inspired in those who had been bidden to the feast to meet him. he perceived at once that he no more than fulfilled the expectations of these highly cultivated people, and it was with difficulty that he repressed the mirth which was madly endeavouring to take possession of his whole system. the only portions of his make-up that attracted special attention--if he could judge from a whispered comment or two that reached his ears, and the glances directed toward them by the duchess of bangletop and the daughters of the earl of whiskerberry--were the carpet-bag and the umbrella. the blue dress coat and tight-fitting trousers were taken as a matter of course. the red necktie and diamond stud were assumed to be the proper thing in rocky mountain society, but the bag and umbrella seemed to strike the english mind as a case of ossa piled upon pelion. "good evening, ladies," said hopkins with a bow which was graceful in spite of his efforts to make it awkward. "i hope i haven't increased anybody's appetite uncomfortably by being late. this watch of mine is set to rocky mountain time, and it's a little unreliable in this climate." "he's just the dear delightful creature i have been looking for for years and years," said the duchess of bangletop to lady maude whiskerberry. "so very american," said lady cholmondely persimmon, of persimmon towers--a well-preserved young noblewoman of eighteen or twenty social seasons. "duchess," said barncastle, coming forward, "permit me to present to you my friend hopkins parkerberry toppleton, the poet laureate of the rocky mountains." "howdy do, duchess," said toppleton, dropping his carpet-bag, and extending his hand to grasp that of the duchess. "so pleased," said the duchess with a smile and an attempt at hauteur, which was hardly successful. "glad you're pleased," said toppleton, "because that means we're both pleased." "lady maude whiskerberry, mr. toppleton. lady persimmon, mr. toppleton," said barncastle, resuming the introductions after toppleton had picked up the carpet-bag again and announced his readiness to meet the other ladies. in a very short time toppleton had been made acquainted with all in the room, and inasmuch as he seemed so taken with the duchess of bangletop, lady alice, who was a young woman of infinite tact, and not too rigidly bound by conventionality, relinquished her claim to the guest of the evening, and when dinner was announced, permitted toppleton to escort the duchess into the dining-room. "don't you think, my dear mr. toppleton," said the duchess as the american offered her his arm, "don't you think you might--ah--leave your luggage here? it's rather awkward to carry an umbrella, a carpet-bag, and a duchess into dinner all at once." "nothing is too awkward for an american, duchess," said toppleton. "besides," he added in a stage whisper, "i don't dare leave these things out of my sight. barncastle's butler looks all right, but i've lived in a country where confidence in your fellow-men is a heaven-born gift. i wasn't born with it, and there hasn't any of it been sent down since." "aren't you droll!" said the duchess. "if you say it i'll bet on it," said toppleton, gallantly, as they entered the beautiful dining-room and took their allotted chairs, when hopkins perceived, much to his delight, that barncastle was almost the length of the table distant; that on one side of him was lady alice, and on the other the duchess of bangletop. "these two women are both an inspiration in their way," he said to himself. "lady alice, even if she loves that monster of a father of hers, ought to be rescued from him. she will inspire me with courage, and this portly duchess will help me to be outrageous enough in my deportment to satisfy the thirst of the most rabidly uninformed englishman at the board for american unconventionality." "have you been in this country long?" asked the duchess, as toppleton slid his umbrella and carpet-bag under his chair, and prepared to sit down. "yes, quite a time," said toppleton. "ten days." "indeed. as long as that?" said the duchess. "you must have seen a great deal of england in that time." "yes, i have," said hopkins. "i went out to see shakespeare's house and his grave and all that. that's enough to last a lifetime; but it seems to me, lord barncastle, you don't give shakespeare the mausoleum he ought to have. out in the rockies we'd have had a pile set up over him so high that you could sit on top of it and talk with st. peter without lifting your voice." "you are an admirer of shakespeare, then, mr. toppleton?" said barncastle with a look of undisguised admiration at hopkins. "am i? me? well, i just guess i am," replied toppleton. "if it hadn't been for william shakespeare of stratford-on-avon, you'd never have heard of hopkins p. toppleton, of blue-bird gulch." "how poetic! blue-bird gulch," simpered lady persimmon. "he was your inspiration, mr. toppleton?" suggested lady alice with a gracious smile. "that's what he was," said toppleton. "i might say he's my library. there's three volumes in my library all told. one's a fine thick book containing the total works of the bard of avon; another is a complete concordance of the works of the same author; and the third is the complete works of hopkins parkerberry toppleton, consisting of eighty-three poems, a table of contents, and a portrait in three colours of the author. i'd be glad to give you all a copy, ladies, but it's circulated by subscription only." "i should so like to see the book," said lady maude whiskerberry. "i'd be mighty proud to show it to you," said toppleton, "and if you and your father here, the earl, ever pass my way out there in the rockies, just look me up and you shall see it. but shakespeare was my guiding genius, duchess. when i began to get those tired feelings that show a man he's either a poet or a victim to malaria, i began to look about and see who i'd better take as a model. i dawdled around for a year, reading some of milton's things, but they didn't take me under the eighth rib, which with me is the rib of appreciation, so i bought a book called 'household poetry,' and i made up my mind that shakespeare, taking him altogether, was my poet. he was a little old-fangled in some things, but in the main he seemed to strike home, and i sent word to our bookseller to get me everything he wrote, and to count on me to take anything new of his that happened to be coming out." "not a costly matter that!" said the earl of whiskerberry with the suggestion of a sneer. he did not quite approve of this original. "no, my dear earl," replied toppleton. "for you know shakespeare is dead--though i didn't know it at the time, either. but i got the book, and i tell you it made a new man of me. 'here' i said, 'is my model. i'll be like him, and if i succeed, h. p. t.'s name will be known for miles around.' and it was so. it was not a year before i had a poem of lines printed in our county paper, and there wasn't a word in it that wasn't shakespearean. i took good care of that, for when i had the poem written, i bought the concordance, and when i found that i had used a word that was not in the concordance, i took it out and used another that was." "that's a very original idea, and, i think, a good one," said lady alice. "you are absolutely sure of your english if you do that; but wasn't it laborious, mr. toppleton?" "it was at first, miss, but as i went along, and began to use words over again it got easier and easier, and for the last fifteen pages of the poem i hardly had to look up on an average more than six words to a page." "but poetry," put in barncastle, half closing his eyes and gazing steadfastly at hopkins as he did so, "poetry is more than verbiage. did you become a student of nature?" as barncastle spoke, toppleton's nerve weakened slightly, for it was the very question he had desired to have asked. it brought him to the point where his winning stroke was possible, and to feel that he was on the verge of the struggle was somewhat disquieting. his uneasiness was short-lived, for in a moment when he realized how eminently successful had been his every step so far, how everything had transpired even as he had foreseen it would, he gained confidence in himself and in his course. "i did, barncastle; particularly a student of human nature. i studied man. i endeavoured to learn what quality in man it was that made him great and what quality made him weak. i became an expert in a great many osophies and ologies that had never been heard of in the rocky mountains before," answered toppleton, forgetting his assumed character under the excitement of the moment and speaking, flushed of face, with more vehemence than the occasion seemed to warrant. "and i venture to assert, sir, that there is no physiognomy in all creation that i cannot read, save possibly yours which baffles me. i read much in your face that i would rather not see there." barncastle flushed. the ladies toyed nervously with their fans. lady alice appeared slightly perturbed, and hopkins grew pale. the duchess of bangletop alone was unmoved. toppleton's heat was hardly what was expected on an occasion of this sort, but the duchess had made up her mind not to marvel at anything the guest of the evening might do, and she regarded his vehemence as quite pardonable inasmuch as it must be characteristic of an unadulterated americanism. "fancy!" she said. "do you mean to say, mr. toppleton, that you can tell by a face what sort of a life one has led; what his or her character has been, is, and is to be?" "i do, duchess," returned toppleton. "though for your comfort as well as for that of others at this table, let me add that i invariably keep what i see religiously to myself." the humour of this rejoinder and the laughter which followed it cleared the atmosphere somewhat, but from the gravity of his host and the tense way in which barncastle's eye was fastened upon him, hopkins knew that his shaft as to the baffling qualities of barncastle's face had struck home. "you interest me," said the earl, when the mirth of his guests had subsided. "i too have studied physiognomy, but i never observed that there was anything baffling about my own. i am really quite interested to know why you find it so." "because," said toppleton nervously yet firmly, "because your face is not consistent with your record. because you have achieved more than one could possibly read in or predict from your face." "i always said that myself, barncastle," said the duchess airily. "i've always said you didn't look like a great man." "while acknowledging, duchess, that i nevertheless am?" queried barncastle with a smile. "well, moderately so, barncastle, moderately so. fact is," said the duchess, "you can stir a multitude with your eloquence; you can write a novel that so will absorb a school-girl that she can't take her eyes from its early pages to look into the back of the book and see how it is all going to turn out; you can talk a hostile parliament into doing violence to its secret convictions; but in some respects you are wanting. you are an atrocious horse-back rider, you never take a run with the hounds, and i must say i have seen times when you seemed to me to be literally too big for yourself." "by jove!" thought toppleton. "what a clever fellow i am! if this duchess is so competent a reader of character as her estimate of barncastle shows her to be, it's a marvel she hasn't found me out." barncastle laughed with a seeming heartiness at the duchess's remark, though to toppleton, who was now watching him closely, he paled slightly. "one of us is more than he expected, and two of us simply shock him," said hopkins to himself. "of course, mr. toppleton," said barncastle, "in view of my perfect willingness to have you do so, you can have no hesitation in telling me what you read in my face. eh?" "i have not," said toppleton, gulping down a glass of wine to gain a little time as well as to stimulate his nerves. he had not expected to be so boldly met by his host. "i have not; but truly, my dear barncastle, i'd rather not, for it's a mighty poor verdict that the lines of your face return for you, and inasmuch as that verdict is utterly opposed to your record, it seems hardly worth--" "oh, do tell it us, mr. toppleton," put in lady alice. "it will be the more interesting coming from one who has so admired my father that he has travelled thousands of miles to see him. do go on." hopkins blushed, hesitated a minute and then began. "very well," he said, "let it be as you say. my lord," he added, looking barncastle straight in the eye, "if i were to judge you by the lines of your face, i should say that your character was essentially a weak one. that you possessed no single attribute of greatness. that your whole life was given over to an almost criminal tendency to avoid responsibility; to be found wanting at crises; to a desire, almost a genius i might say, for meeting your troubles in a half-hearted, compromising spirit which should have resulted in placing you in the ranks of the mediocre. the lines of your head are singularly slight for one of your years. there is hardly a furrow on your brow; on the contrary your flesh is so tightly drawn over your skull, that it would seem to suggest the presence in that skull of a brain too far developed for its prison; in other words your brain is as badly accommodated by your skull, i should judge, as a man of majestic proportions would be in the best sunday suit of a little lord fauntleroy." "you are giving me a fine idea of my personal appearance, my dear toppleton," said lord barncastle, pouring a tablespoonful of wine into a small glass into which, if his guests had been watching his hands closely, they might have seen him place a small white powder. "the strange part of it is that it is true, barncastle," said the duchess. "i've thought pretty much the same thing many a time." "anything more, toppleton?" queried barncastle. "yes, one thing, my lord," said hopkins, nerving himself up to the final stroke. "the eyes, one of our american poets has said, are the windows of the soul. now if i were to look into your eyes at your soul, i'd say to myself, 'hopkins, my boy, there's an old man living in a new house,' for i'll take my oath that _i_ see the soul of a centenarian, lord barncastle, in the body of a man of sixty every time i look into your eyes." toppleton's bold words had hardly passed his lips when lady alice, who was becoming very uncomfortable because of the personal trend of the conversation, rose from her chair and gave the signal for the ladies to depart into the drawing-room, leaving barncastle and his guests over their coffee and cigars. "what an extraordinary gift that is of yours!" the earl of whiskerberry said to toppleton as barncastle walked with the duchess as far as the drawing-room door. "d'ye know, my deah sir, it's truly appalling to think you can do it, you know, because there's so much that--" the earl's sentence was never finished, for a heavy fall interrupted him at this point, and toppleton, turning to see whence it came, was horrified and yet not altogether displeased to see prostrate on the rug, white and lifeless as it had been in the room on the other side of the wainscoting upstairs two hours before, the body of barncastle of burningford. "frightened him out at the very first shot!" said toppleton gleefully to himself. "he is easier game than i thought." "i believe the man is dead!" said the earl, anxiously putting his hand over barncastle's heart, and standing appalled to find that it had stopped beating. "no," said toppleton, with an effort at calmness, "this is a case of trance only--suspended animation. he will revive in a very short time, i fancy. this sort of thing is common among men of his peculiar character; i've seen it happen dozens of times. have him carried to his room; tell lady alice that at my request he has started out to show me the barbundle in the moonlight--in fact, say anything about me you please, only get up a plausible pretext for barncastle's absence. i do not think his daughter knows he has these attacks, and there is no reason why she should know, because they are not dangerous." with this the earl repaired to the drawing-room, where he made the excuses for hopkins and lord barncastle. toppleton and the butler carried the prostrate barncastle up to his room, and then the american, utterly worn out with excitement, entered his own apartments to await developments. chapter xv. barncastle confides in hopkins. toppleton had not long to wait. his nerves had hardly resumed their normal condition when he heard a tottering step in the hall outside, followed by a soft tapping at the door. "who's there?" he cried. "it is i, toppleton--barncastle. let me in and be quick. i have something very important to say to you." hopkins ran to the door and opened it, and barncastle entered, his face pale and his general aspect that of a man who had passed through a terrible ordeal. "by jove! i've landed my man!" said toppleton to himself. then he added aloud, "my dear barncastle, you don't know what a turn you gave me downstairs. i sincerely hope you are not ill?" "i am ill, toppleton; ill almost unto death, and it is you who have made me so." "i?" cried hopkins, with well-feigned surprise. "i don't quite catch your drift." "your accursed faculty for reading character in the face, and searching out the soul of man in the depths of his eyes has made you the only man i have ever feared. we must come to some understanding in this matter. i want to know what your object is in coming here to expose me before my friends, to lay bare--" "object? what is my object?" returned hopkins, with capital dissemblance. "why, my dear fellow, what object could i have? i read your face and searched your eyes for indications of your character at your own request, and with your permission made known what i saw there--for it is there, barncastle, plain as any material object in this room." "it is dreadful! dreadful!" said barncastle, covering his eyes with his hands and quivering with emotion and fear. "i had no idea your power was so great. do you suppose for an instant that had i known how unerringly accurate you are as a reader of mind and face, that i would ever have asked you to lay bare to those people--" "dear me, barncastle," said toppleton, rising and putting his hand on the other's shoulder in a caressing manner, "really you ought to lie down and rest. this thing will all pass off with a night's sleep. you--you don't seem to be quite yourself to-night. you mustn't mind what i have said." "you do not know, toppleton, you do not know. you have done that to-night which has shown me that a dreadful secret which i have carried locked in my breast for thirty years, is as easily to be wrested from me by you as my jewels by a house-breaker." "but, my dear fellow," said toppleton, his spirit growing with pride at his success in bringing down his game with so little effort, "i--i understand that this is only one of the exceptions to the rules which govern the mind-reader's art. i do not really believe, of course, that what i seem to see beneath the surface is actually there. i--" "do not try to deceive me, mr. toppleton," sobbed barncastle. "i, too, am something of a reader of character, as i told you, and i know exactly what you believe and what you do not believe. had i been in such a position at dinner as would have permitted me to look as deeply into your eyes as you looked into mine, i should not have asked you to divulge what you saw. in fact, toppleton, as you have probably seen for yourself, i have all along under-estimated your abilities, which do not, i confess, show up as advantageously as they might. you americans are a cleverer people than you appear to be, and you have a faculty of dissemblance that is baffling to us in the older world, who have acquired candour through our conceit. we are so conscious of our superiority and ultimate ability to gain the upper hand in all that we undertake, that we do not consider it necessary to cloak our real feelings. the whole world speaks of the briton's brutal frankness, and speaks justly. we are candid often against our best interests. we are impulsively frank where you americans are diplomatically reserved. it is this trait in my people that makes it difficult for our government to find suitable diplomats to fill the various foreign missions that must be filled, while your government finds it difficult to find missions for all the diplomats who must be provided for. we have to train our ministers and ambassadors in the hard school of experience, as _attachés_ to legations, while you have only to go to your newspaper offices, to your great political organizations, or to your flourishing business concerns to find all the envoys extraordinary you need with a comfortable reserve force standing always ready to step into any shoes that death, advancement, or revulsion of popular sentiment may make vacant. you are a great people; greater far than you seem on the surface, and it is this fact, unheeded by me who should have known better, that deceived me. i judged you from the standpoint of your exterior; i saw that you were a character, but beyond the green umbrella and carpet-bag indications i failed to look, and i thought i might safely venture the act which has come so nearly to my undoing. i see you now as you are. i apologize for underrating your ability, and i say to you frankly, that i rejoice all the more greatly in your proffered friendship since i have come to see that it is an honour not lightly to be worn." "my dear barncastle," ejaculated hopkins, breathless with wonder and pride. "i assure you that your words overwhelm me. your kind heart, i fear, has led you into over-estimating my poor character as much as you claim to have under-estimated it. i am by no means all that--" "ah, toppleton!" said barncastle, "let us not waste words. i know you as you are at last, and you need cloak your real self from me no more. i feared for an instant that you might be my enemy, though why you should be i do not know, and to have you read my secret as though it were printed upon an open page before you, filled my soul with terror. you have found me out, but you do not and you cannot know what has brought me to this unless i tell you, and i must insist that you become acquainted with my story, that you may the better judge of my innocence in the matter. when i have told you this story, i wish to exact from you a promise never to reveal it, for once revealed it would be my ruin." "i do not wish, my dear barncastle," said toppleton, burning with anxiety to hear the other's story, and yet desirous of appearing unconcerned in order that barncastle might throw himself unreservedly in his hands. "i have no desire to pry into another man's secrets, to wrest unwilling confidences from any man. if i have discovered one of your secrets, i have done so unwittingly, and i do not wish you to feel that i am holding you up, to use one of our western expressions, for confidences. keep your secret if it is one you wish to hold inviolate. i shall never tell what i have seen or what you have said to me." "you are a generous, high-minded person, toppleton. a poet at soul and a gentleman as well; but you must hear my story, for it is my justification in your eyes, and that is as necessary to my happiness, now that i know you for the man you are, as justification in the eyes of the world would become were the world to suspect what you have seen. i did not mind any portion of what you said at the table to-night, toppleton, until you delivered yourself of the opinion that the soul of a man of a hundred and more years was dwelling in this body of mine, a body many years younger. mr. toppleton, i do not want you to think me mad. i want you to believe me when i say that what you saw is absolutely a fact. my soul has lived precisely one hundred and twenty-six years, my body sixty-one!" toppleton's expression of surprise as barncastle spoke would have done credit to a tragedian of the highest rank. "excuse me, barncastle," he said, kindly. "i really think you'd better let me send for lady alice and have the family physician summoned. your mind is somewhat affected." "come with me," said barncastle, rising from his chair and leading toppleton out through the door into and along the hallway until they reached his private apartment. "i want you on entering this room to swear never to divulge what you shall see within, for i shall prove the truth of my assertion respecting my soul before you leave it, and, toppleton, the maintenance of my secret is a matter of life and death to me." "of course, my lord, i shall not tell anyone of this interview except for your good. it is truly painful to me, for in spite of your apparent clearness of head i cannot help feeling that the excitement of this evening, together with the responsibilities a man of your position must necessarily assume, have made you feverish and slightly delirious." "i shall dispel all such ideas as that," said barncastle, opening the door and ushering hopkins into his room. "pray be seated," he said, "and do not leave your seat until i request you to." "i hear and obey," quoted toppleton, his mind reverting to the arabian tales, the splendour of his surroundings and the generally uncanny quality of his experience reminding him forcibly of the land of the genii. "i am going to prove to you now," said barncastle, "that what i have said about my soul is true. excuse me for being absent from the room for just five minutes, and also pardon me if i extinguish the light here. darkness is necessary to convince you that what i say is truth; and, above all, toppleton, look to your nerves." barncastle suited his action to his words. he extinguished the light and disappeared. in five minutes, during which time hopkins sat in the inky darkness alone trying to formulate a plan for future action, a panel in the wainscot was moved softly to one side and toppleton found himself face to face with the fiend. for a moment he was numb with fear, but when the green shadow moved toward him and spoke in soft insinuating tones and appeared to fear him quite as much as he feared it, his courage returned. "what the deuce is this?" he cried, springing to his feet. "i am the soul of barncastle. barncastle lies prostrate as in death in the den beyond the wall. i am also the soul of horace calderwood who died forty-five years ago at the age of eighty, whose body lies buried in the yard of monckton chapel, at kennelly manor, kent." "what is the meaning of it--how--how has it come that you--that you are here?" cried hopkins, with well-feigned terror. "what awful power have you that you can leave your body and appear as you do now?" "calm yourself, toppleton. there is no awful power about it," said the fiend. "it is a simple enough matter when you understand it. i am simply an immortal soul with mortal cravings. i love this world. it delights me to live in this sphere, and it is given to the soul to return here if it sees fit. that is what makes heaven heaven. the soul is free to do whatsoever it wills." "but how is it," said toppleton, "that this has never happened before?" "it has happened before. it is happening all the time, only you mortals never find it out. you want instances? the soul of macchiavelli returned to earth and entered the body of a jew; result, beaconsfield. the soul of cæsar returned to earth and entered the body of a puny corsican; result, bonaparte. the soul of horace returned to earth and entered the body of an english boy; therefore, thackeray. the soul of diogenes returned to earth and entered the body of another english boy; result, thomas carlyle. six souls, those of terence, plato, Ã�sculapius, cicero, cæsar, chaucer, combined and, returning to earth, took possession of the body of a wayward child of warwickshire; whence, shakespeare." "and the real souls of these men?" cried hopkins. "became a part of space, and still so remain. how else account for the evolution of genius? did you ever know a genius in his infancy?" "no; i can't say that i ever did," said toppleton. "well, with very rare exceptions geniuses are the stupidest of babies, or, supposing that in youth they give great promise, the valedictorian of his college class ends his life oftener than not without distinction, a third-rate lawyer, perhaps a poor doctor, a prosy clergyman, or as mrs. somebody's husband. the man who is graduated at the foot of his class has oftener won the laurels than he. how is it accounted for? how did keats, son of a stableman, become the sweetest of our sonneteers? in your own country, how did lincoln and grant spring from nothing to greatness? was the germ of greatness discoverable in them in their youth? would the most reckless of prophets have dared assert that the heavy tanner's boy would become the immortal hero of the wilderness, the saviour of the republic, the uncrowned ruler of fifty millions of people even with a thousand years of life to live? i tell you, toppleton, the mystery of this life is more mysterious than you think. there are things happening every minute of the day, every second of the minute, the knowledge of which would drive a mortal mind--that is, a mind which has never put on immortality by passing into the other world--to despair." "but, barncastle," said hopkins, his knees growing weak and his blood running cold, this time in actual terror, "how comes it that i, a mortal, inspire you, an immortal, with fear, as you claim i have done?" "there is a point beyond which an immortal mind cannot with safety indulge in mortal habiliments. have you never observed how men of genius outlive their genius? did bonaparte die at the height of his glory? did grant die at the zenith of his power?" "d'israeli did." "d'israeli embodied macchiavelli, and macchiavelli made no mistakes. i have made a mistake. i have lived too long as barncastle, and every day beyond the day on which i should have left this body has lessened my greatness, my power, until i am become as weak as though i had never put on immortality. it is my craving to be among men, that has been my weakening, if not my ruin. the love of contact with mankind is as strong with me as is the love of drink with others. i cannot give it up." "and the poor soul whose place you took?" said toppleton. "don't speak of him," said the fiend. "i have made his name a great one. i have suffered more than he in my efforts to lift his personality to a plane it would never have reached had he been left to go his own way, to occupy his own person. he is my debtor, toppleton. i have no feelings of regret for him. i went to him in a spirit of fairness and honesty, and offered to make him a famous man. he declined the offer. i assumed the risk of compelling him, and after the first compulsion he was acquiescent but not candid. when horace calderwood died, and i, his soul, for the first time learned that it was possible for a spirit to return to earth and do these things, the idea of depriving a fellow-soul of material existence was repellent to me, and seemed not to be strictly honest. he should enjoy, it seemed to me, something more than the consciousness of his greatness. he should be permitted to taste _in propriâ personâ_ the delights of fame. and i resolved that i would not do as these others before me had done, and drive the real spirit of my,--ah--well, call him my victim if you choose--i resolved that i would not drive the real spirit of my victim out into space, leaving him to sigh and bewail his unhappy estate throughout all eternity. my plan was to go shares. to assume possession only so far as was necessary to insure the winning of the laurel; to let the other return to his corporeal estate in hours of leisure. i should have continued of this mind until to-day had i not had the misfortune to select for my operations an uncandid person, who had no genius, save that for tearing down what i was up-building. it became necessary for me to exile him for ever to save him from himself. he had been made a great man, and had i deserted him he would have become a conspicuous failure; his name would have been disgraced in proportion to the greatness it had had thrust upon it, and the soul of that one would have lived a life of humiliation and misery. what i did was the humane thing. i exiled him from himself, and i have no regrets for having done so." "well, of course," said toppleton, "you know more about it than i do, but it seems to me it's a mighty rough thing to condemn a soul to perpetual existence on this earth deprived of the only means which can put him in a position to enjoy that life. if you are not joking with me, barncastle, and your present appearance is pretty good proof that you are not, it seems to me that you have been guilty of a wrong, although your reasons for believing that you have done right are worthy of consideration. it strikes me that an omniscient, such as you pretended to be, ought not to have been bothered by the lack of candour of a purely finite mind; and, after all, it was but a bit of superb conceit on your part to think that you could do things differently from those who had gone before you." "but my motive, toppleton. credit me with a proper motive," pleaded the fiend. "yes, i do," said hopkins. "but out in the rocky mountains, my lord, we have lynched several thieves who stole to keep their families from starving. their motives were all right, but they were suspended just the same. but let me ask you one question. to what extent do you retain that remarkable omniscient quality? i want to know, for candidly, much as i admire you, barncastle, it rather awes me to think that you can penetrate to the innermost recesses of my brain--" "i can no longer do that," said barncastle. "my power through long confinement to mortal habitations has materially lessened, as i have already told you. do you suppose, my dear sir, that, were it not so, i should be here, at this moment, unbosoming myself to you, and begging you in the name of humanity never to utter one word of what has passed between us? do you think that i, who was once able to destroy a mortal's reason by one glance of my eye, would be so overcome by the words of a mind-reading american poet if i still had the power to subject his will to mine?" "no one would believe me were i to tell him your horrible secret," said hopkins. "indeed, i don't know that i believe it myself. there is, of course plenty of evidence of which i have had ocular demonstration, but this may be all a dream. i may wake up to-morrow and find myself in my hammock in blue-bird gulch." "no, it is no dream," said the fiend. "it is all too real, but you will not expose me, toppleton. there are those who would believe it, some who half suspect me even now would gain re-enforcement in their suspicions. my daughter would be shocked beyond expression and--" "that, my lord," said hopkins "is your convincing argument. lady alice's peace of mind must be held inviolate, and i shall be dumb; but i think you might let the exiled spirit enter once more into bodily life. the allotted days of the body you have wrested from him must be growing few in number. why not atone for the past by admitting him once more?" "there are two reasons, toppleton," said barncastle, fixing his eye with great intensity upon hopkins, who maintained his composure with great difficulty. "in the first place, there are responsibilities which still devolve upon the lord of burningford which he would be utterly unable to assume. you might assume them, for you are a clever man. you have the making of a brilliant man in you, but he has not, and never will have. he is the most pusillanimous soul in the universe, and with him in charge, that body would die in less than six months. in the second place i have lost sight of him of late years, or rather lost consciousness of him, for he has been visible at no time since he departed from his normal condition, and since the day of my marriage, whose happiness he made a mad public endeavour to destroy, i have had no dealings with him. where he is now, i have not the slightest idea." "well, i know!" ejaculated toppleton, forgetting himself and throwing caution to the winds. "you know what? where he is?" returned the fiend, with a look that restored toppleton's senses and showed him that he had made a mistake. "oh, no!" he replied, his face getting red with confusion. "oh, no, not that. you interrupted me. i was going to say that i know--er--i know how difficult your--er--your position is in the matter, and--er--that i hardly knew what to advise." "ah!" returned the fiend, with a smile that to toppleton's eyes betokened relief. "you have taken a load off my mind. do you know, my dear fellow, that for one instant i half believed that you really knew of the original chatford's whereabouts, and that perhaps you were in league with him against me. i see, however, how unfounded the impression was." "how could you suspect me of that?" said toppleton, reproachfully, his heart beating wildly at the narrowness of the escape. "but you don't intend to let him back?" "not if i can help myself, toppleton," said the fiend. "i shall hang on here as long as i can, not only for my own sake and for that of my daughter, but also for the peace of mind of the exiled soul. you will respect my confidence, will you not?" "i shall, barncastle. you may count on me," said toppleton. "good. now i will resume the mortal habitation for which i have so long been a trustee, and we can rejoin the ladies." ten minutes later barncastle and the poet of the rockies entered the drawing-room. "did you enjoy your walk, mr. toppleton?" queried lady alice. "well, i guess!" returned toppleton. "your father has one of the finest estates i have ever seen since i left colorado, and as for your moon, it fairly out-moons any moon i've seen in the rockies in all my life." "it's the same moon that everybody else has," said the duchess of bangletop with a smile. "yes, duchess," returned toppleton, sitting beside her. "but you've furnished it better than we have. that barbundle river gives it a setting beside which the creek in blue-bird gulch is as a plate-glass window to a sea of diamonds." chapter xvi. mr. hopkins toppleton makes a discovery. it is hardly to be wondered at that toppleton did not sleep much that night at barncastle hall. the state of his nerves was not calculated to permit him to sleep even had he been willing to do so. the experiences of the day were not of a nature to give him such confidence in his surroundings as would have enabled him to woo rest with a serene sense of safety. furthermore, it was his desire to push his endeavour through to as immediate a conclusion as was possible, and time was too precious to waste in rest. hence it was that the dawning of another day found him utterly fagged out, awake, and still meditating upon the means most likely to crown his efforts with success. "i am afraid," he said, as he turned the matter over and over in his mind, "i am afraid it's going to be a harder task than i thought. my plan has worked admirably up to a certain point, but there it has ceased to result as i had anticipated. he is frightened, that is certain; but he cannot be frightened into a restitution. he is too selfish to give up chatford's body and take his chances of getting another, and his rather natural distrust of chatford's ability to sustain the greatness of the name of barncastle re-enforces his selfishness. i can't blame him either. i haven't a doubt that chatford's spirit would prove too weak to keep the body going a year at the outside, and yet it is his, and he ought to have it. he ought to--have--" here wearied nature asserted herself, and hopkins' head dropped back on the soft cushion of his couch, and he lost consciousness in a sleep that knew no dreams. the morning hours passed away and still he slept. afternoon gave place to night, and as the moon rose over the barbundle and bathed the beautiful scene as with silver, hopkins opened his eyes again and looked about him. he was annoyed to find that his vision had in some manner become slightly obscured; he seemed to see everything through a faint suggestion of a haze, and an object ten feet distant that he remembered admiring as he lay on his couch the afternoon before, its every detail clear cut and distinct to the eye, was now a confused jumble of lines only, suggestive of nothing in particular, though the moonlight streaming in through the window shone directly upon it. "dear me!" he said, passing his hands over his eyes as if to sweep away the filmy web that interfered with his sight. "i seem to have a slight vertigo, and yet i cannot understand why i should. i hardly drank anything last night, and as for what i ate it was simplicity itself. but i wonder how long i have been asleep; let me see." here he consulted his watch, the great silver timepiece he had brought with him. "humph," he said; "half-past seven. i must have slept nearly thirteen hours; unlucky number that. no wonder i have vertigo." he rose from the couch and walked, or rather tottered, to the window to look out upon the beautifully serene barbundle. "mercy! how weak i am!" he cried, grasping the sill for support. "this trouble seems to have gone to my knees as well. i can hardly stand, and--ow--there is a touch of rheumatism in my right arm! i shall have to ring for parker to bring me a little resolution in the form of a stiff horn of whiskey. these old english homes i'm afraid are a little damp." he touched the bell at the side of the doorway and staggered back to the couch, falling upon it in a heap in sheer weakness, and as he did so he again became conscious of someone gazing at him from the other side of the room, and as he looked, the fiend in his emerald disembodiment took shape and approached him. "ah, barncastle," said toppleton, to whom custom had rendered the fiend's appearance less terrible. "i am glad to see you. i'm afraid i am ill. i have the most unaccountable weakness in my knees. my eyesight seems to have grown dim, and i am conscious of my head which is really a new sensation to me. i wish you'd send your butler up here with some whiskey." "all right, i'll send him," returned the fiend with, or so it seemed to toppleton, a lack of friendly interest in his tone which rather surprised him, for barncastle had hitherto been the quintessence of politeness. "i fancy you'll be better in the morning; and between you and me i'd let whiskey alone. brandy and soda is my drink, and i think it will do you more good in your present state than whiskey." "very well, barncastle," hopkins began. "don't call me barncastle," returned the fiend, impatiently. "your discovery of my secret has made all that intolerable to me, and i intend hereafter to spend as little of my time in that form as is consistent with propriety. i did not realize until you came here how long confinement within anatomical limits had weakened my powers, and to find myself at this period of my existence almost, if not quite, as incompetent to meet the grave crises of life as any mortal, is galling in the extreme. call me anything you please, but drop barncastle." "very well," again replied toppleton. "i will call you my friend greene." "humorous to the last, toppleton," laughed the fiend. "that's a truly american characteristic. i believe you'll jest with your dying breath." "quite likely," said hopkins, lightly. "that is if i ever draw it." "ah! have you discovered an elixir of life, then?" queried the fiend. "not yet," returned hopkins. "but i am sure i cannot see why, with your assistance, i should not do so. if you know all the secrets of the universe, i think you might confide at least one of them to me, and the only one i ask is, what shall i do to live for ever?" "you are an insinuating young man," returned the fiend. "and i must say i like you, toppleton, in spite of your abominable poetry, for now i am going to be candid with you." "so much, then, is gained," said hopkins, cheerfully. "if you like me, give me the recipe of life." "i would, my boy," the fiend replied with a harsh laugh, "i would do it gladly, if i hadn't forgotten it. some day i shall take a day off from these mundane operations of mine, and return to the spirit vale and freshen up my formulæ. then perhaps i can help you. but i have something very important to say to you, and if you will come with me to my own quarters i will say it. this room is too chilly for a spirit with nothing on." toppleton readily acquiesced. his other sensations had been so acute since his awakening, that he did not realize until the fiend spoke of the chill in the atmosphere that he was himself cold to the very marrow of his bones; that his blood seemed hardly to run in his veins, so congealed had it become. he followed the fiend, who led the way from toppleton's room to barncastle's own quarters, where a log fire blazed fiercely on the hearth. there was no other light than that of the fire in the room, and hopkins was glad of it, his eyes were too weary for any illumination save the one which made the darkness in which he now sat even blacker than was natural. "lie down there on my bed, toppleton," said the fiend. "lie down and listen to me." toppleton obeyed, and gladly. "you are a sick man," began the fiend, "though you may not know it. you have no more than an even chance of living beyond this night. if you do live until to-morrow morning i see no reason why you should not continue to do so for many years to come; in fact i confidently anticipate that such will be the case, but you have got to be careful." "if you were not one of the supernatural element, mr. greene," said toppleton, nervously tapping his fingers together, "i should be inclined to laugh at your notions respecting my health. a man of my habits and physique doesn't go to pieces after a single late supper, to be brought up standing at the doors of death uncertain as to whether he will be invited in or requested to move on, all in a single night." "for an acute man you are an obtuse sort of a person," returned the fiend, gravely. "i do not mean that you are in immediate danger of physical collapse, though that will come shortly unless you take care of yourself. it is a worse than physical death that i refer to. you are on the verge of intellectual death, toppleton. you need twenty-four hours of wakefulness to put you in an insane asylum, an incurable, hopelessly mad for the balance of your days. you remarked a moment since that you were conscious of your head. by that you meant that you felt the weight of it, and it is a leaden weight unless my eyes deceive me. i have experienced it, and i know what it means." hopkins' face blanched as the fiend spoke. it was too easy for him to believe all that had been said; and why should it not be so, he asked himself. here was a case of mortal arrayed in combat against a supernatural being, and in the nature of things it was a contest of the intellectuals and not one of the sort in which toppleton's training would have made him an easy victor. in a bout at arms barncastle would have been a prey to toppleton with scarce an effort on the american's part, but mind for mind, the young lawyer was fighting against terrible odds. he had proven to a very considerable extent a winner, and yet his victory was quite as hollow as the victory of a trotting horse who has won only the preliminary heats and still has the final test to undergo; but to win even the trial heat was a great thing, and that his mind should be well-nigh used up was to have been expected. realizing this, and realizing also that it was his defeated adversary who was advising him as to what was necessary to be done for the preservation of his sanity, he was quite overcome. he nearly fainted, in fact he would have done so had not the fiend seeing his condition applied restoratives to his head and feet, and poured between his open lips a concoction which made every drop of blood in his body glow as with health, which imparted strength to his weary limbs, and which seemed to clear his aching head with its magical potence. "you have had a narrow escape, my dear fellow," said the fiend, as hopkins revived. "if i hadn't saved you, you would have stepped over the line." "you--are--very--very kind," murmured hopkins, raising himself on his elbow and then dropping wearily back into the pillows again. "you place me under very deep obli--" "don't speak of that," said the fiend with a smile. "the obligation you have placed me under is still greater. but now, toppleton, you must sleep, or you will be beyond all hope to-morrow." "i will," said toppleton, faintly, and then he closed his eyes and consciousness departed from him. the fiend regarded him for a moment and turned away with a sigh. "if i had had the good fortune to operate on you instead of upon chatford," he said, "well, there'd have been a president of the united states in your family by this time, or, better still, a railway king with an amount of brains equal to the possessions of the best of them. oh, well! he wasn't to be had, and i haven't done badly with chatford." with which reflection the fiend passed from the room, and left toppleton breathing heavily in sleep. when next toppleton opened his eyes consciously to himself, he was lying on a great oak bed with a tapestry canopy over his head. the sun was streaming in through the broad mullioned windows. the world without was white with snow, the tall evergreens down by the now ice-covered barbundle presenting the only vestige of green in sight. "ah!" he sighed, as he looked wearily out of the window. "we shall have a white christmas after all, but," he added, gazing about him, "how the dickens did i ever come to be here, i wonder? in barncastle's own room--oh, yes, i remember. i fell asleep here last night and i suppose he has--hello!--who's that?" the last words were addressed to whomsoever it was that entered the room at the moment, for the door had opened and closed softly. "it is i," came a soft, sweet voice, and before hopkins had time to place it, lady alice entered the room. "good morning!" said toppleton, slightly embarrassed at the unexpected appearance of his hostess. "good morning!" she replied, coming to his side and stroking his forehead lightly. "and i can say with all my heart, after these awful days of suspense, that it is a good morning. you have been very ill." "oh, it was nothing," said hopkins, endeavouring to conceal his surprise at the way things were going. "only a little headache and rackety feeling generally. it will pass off. barncastle was very good to let me have his quarters." lady alice's face took on a troubled look. "how beautiful it is out," said toppleton, turning his eyes toward the snow-clad landscape again. "i was just thinking that we should have a white christmas after all." "why, my dear, christmas is over by two weeks. you have been ill here for three weeks yesterday." "what?" cried toppleton. "i?" "why, certainly," said lady alice. "of course, you didn't know it, but it is so. you haven't had a lucid moment in all that time." a sudden fear clutched at toppleton's heart. "but--but tell me, have i--what do--what have the doctors said--that i had lost my mind, was in danger of a living death; that--" "don't get so excited," returned lady alice, softly, still retaining the look of anxiety on her face. "here, read this. it is a letter from your rocky mountain friend, i think, and i fancy it will amuse you. it has only just come." "my rocky mountain friend!" ejaculated hopkins under his breath. "what devilish complication does this mean, i wonder?" "shall i open it for you?" asked lady alice. "yes," said hopkins mechanically; "i'll be very much obliged to you if you will do so. thank you," he added, staring wildly at the foot of the bed as the young woman opened and handed him the letter. "while you are reading it," said she, "i'll run downstairs a moment, and tell parker to prepare you a little breakfast." "you are very kind," said toppleton, faintly; and then as lady alice went softly from the room he began to read the letter. "' , the temple, london, january nd. my dear barncastle--' why, she must have made a mistake," he said; "this is for barn--by jove! it's in my handwriting, and signed--hopkins--top--ple--ton. what in the name of heav--" here he ceased his soliloquizing and began to read the letter which was as follows:-- "my dear barncastle,--i understood your game from the beginning. it was audacious, but unavailing, as the attack of a finite upon an infinite mind must always be. i led you on to your own undoing if you so regard it. i removed gladly every obstacle from your path, and let you think in your own conceit that you were an easy victor in the fight. by so doing i put your caution asleep, and when your caution slept you became a victim to my ambition just as did chatford, with this exception, that i have left you in a position to enjoy life, while circumstances made it necessary for me to place him in perpetual exile. perhaps when you get this letter and realize what i have done, you will curse me. do not do so. you are not a loser in the premises. you have gained the burningford estates, you have gained the enjoyment of the honours which i have won, at the expense of the difference of strength between the body i have put off and this one of yours which i now occupy. the latter, let me say to you, is a superb specimen, the ideal habitation for a soul like mine. aided by it a still greater future than the one, to be paradoxical, i have left behind me, will be mine, and not mine only, but yours also, since it is under your name that my future greatness is to be achieved. i repeat, do not curse me, for in cursing me you but curse yourself, and when you get over the first sensation of horror at the changes i have wrought in our respective destinies, and can think upon it calmly and dispassionately, you will not find me so much to blame. nor are you to be deprived of any of your years by my act. the infusion of a younger spirit into the corse of barncastle will make it young again, and gradually you will recover the physical ground you now seem to have lost. "i sail for new york on the _city of paris_ to-morrow, and you may rest assured that the name that now flies at the mast-head in the firm of toppleton, morley, bronson, mawson, perkins, harkins, smithers and hicks will no longer be a mere figurehead, a minimum among maxima; it will become once more what it used to be, a tower of strength in the legal profession, and, permit me to say, a tower of such height that beside it the famous structure erected by your illustrious father will become but as an ant hill to the pyramid of cheops. "good-bye, barncastle, for that is now your name. in the years to come we may meet again, and when we do, may it be in friendship, for as barncastle i loved myself, and as toppleton i love you. may you go and do likewise, and above all, give up masquerading as a broncho poet, and get down to the business for which you were fitted by nature, if not by birth: that of a member of the noblest aristocracy in the world; that of a peer of the british realm. "faithfully yours, "hopkins toppleton, _alias_ barncastle, "_né_ calderwood. "p.s.--i have had an interview with the original chatford, and have informed him that it is impossible for him to return to his former corporeal state, because barncastle no longer knows the formula by which the re-entrance can be effected, which is true. he believes it, and has gone off into space with his whistle and his sigh." for a moment toppleton was overcome. this unexpected denouement was almost too much for him, but the indignation that surged up in his breast gave him strength to withstand the shock; and then, singular to relate, he laughed. "to think that i should be born a yankee and at my time of life become a peer surrounded by everything that wealth can procure, and loaded down with every honour that man can devise; oh, nonsense! it's all a joke, and a good one. barncastle saw through my trick, and is paying me back in my own coin." here hopkins laughed till the room echoed with his mirth, and as his laugh died away the door opened and the heiress of burningford entered. "why, father!" she cried, exultantly, "do you feel as well--" at the word "father," hopkins' heart gave a great throb. "my dear," he said in a moment, "i have been ill you say for three weeks, and with no lucid intervals?" "yes." "and my hallucination was what?" "that you were that ridiculous american poet." "bring me the glass, my child," said hopkins, gravely. "i--i'd just like to see my face in the mirror." the glass was brought and hopkins looked into it. the face of barncastle in very truth gazed back at him from its silver depths. "ah!" he said. "i have changed; have i not?" "yes, indeed," said the lady of burningford. "but really i think your illness has done you good, for i do believe you look ten years younger." "it is well," said the new barncastle, with a sigh of resignation. "i have worked too hard. i shall now retire from public life and devote my remaining years to--to the accomplishment of my one great ambition." "and what is that?" asked his daughter. "to becoming a leader in the busy world of leisure, my child," said toppleton, falling back to his pillow once more, and again losing consciousness in sleep. this time fortunately the sleep was that of one who had fought a good fight, had lost, but whose conscience was clear; and to whom, after many days, had been restored a sound mind in a body sound enough to last through many years of unremitting rest. chapter xvii. epilogue. a single year has passed since the episode which brought our last chapter to a close. the new barncastle of burningford is well and happy in the paths of pleasantness and peace, into which he was so unexpectedly and so unwittingly brought. his daughter has become engaged to a promising scion of a neighbouring house of large means and high estate in the social world. hopkins toppleton is in new york, busy at the practice of the law, developing a genius in the profession he had adopted for the convenience of his partners at which they stand amazed; steadily forging his way to the front, his energy, his aggressiveness, and extraordinary fertility of resource dazzling all beholders. as for the weary spirit,--alas for him! he still whistles, wearily, through space, hopeless and forlorn, but at all times a welcome visitor to burningford, whither he personally went, shortly after toppleton's departure for new york, to lay his petition at the feet of barncastle himself. he knows now what has happened to his young counsel, and his regret for himself is tempered by his regret for what he has brought upon him who so nobly undertook to champion his cause, for the quondam toppleton has concealed from his first client the happiness that he feels over the strange metamorphosis in his fortunes, lest, comparing it with his own miserable condition, the exile may become more unhappy than ever. the end. * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious punctuation errors repaired. page viii, table of contents, " " changed to " " to reflect actual place of chapter xv. page , "depature" changed to "departure" (preparations for departure) page , "irrefragible" changed to "irrefragable" (an absolutely irrefragable) page , "n" changed to "in" (in the face of) page , "stong" changed to "strong" (a strong point) page , "sentitiments" changed to "sentiments" (to be, with sentiments) page , "thousand" changed to "thousands" (has travelled thousands) http://www.archive.org/details/banshee_ odon the banshee by elliot o'donnell author of "haunted places in england," "the irish abroad," "twenty years experiences as a ghost hunter," etc., etc. london and edinburgh sands & company contents chap. page i. the definition and origin of banshees ii. some historical banshees iii. the malevolent banshee iv. the banshee abroad v. cases of mistaken identity vi. dual and triple banshee hauntings vii. a similar case from spain viii. the banshee on the battle-field ix. the banshee at sea x. alleged counterparts of the banshee xi. the banshee in poetry and prose xii. the banshee in scotland xiii. my own experiences with the banshee addenda the banshee chapter i the definition and origin of banshees in a country, such as ireland, that is characterised by an arrestive and wildly beautiful scenery, it is not at all surprising to find something in the nature of a ghost harmonising with the general atmosphere and surroundings, and that something, apparently so natural to ireland, is the banshee. the name banshee seems to be a contraction of the irish bean sidhe, which is interpreted by some writers on the subject "a woman of the faire race," whilst by various other writers it is said to signify "the lady of death," "the woman of sorrow," "the spirit of the air," and "the woman of the barrow." it is strictly a family ghost, and most authorities agree that it only haunts families of very ancient irish lineage. mr mcannaly, for instance, remarks (in the chapter on banshees in his "irish wonders"): "the banshee attends only the old families, and though their descendants, through misfortune, may be brought down from high estate to ranks of peasant farmers, she never leaves nor forgets them till the last member has been gathered to his fathers in the churchyard." a writer in the _journal of the cork historical and archæological society_ (vol. v., no. , pp. - ) quotes an extract from a work entitled "kerry records," in which the following passage, relating to an elegiac poem written by pierse ferriter on maurice fitzgerald, occurs: "aina, the banshee who never wailed for any families who were not of milesian blood, except the geraldines, who became 'more irish than the irish themselves'; and in a footnote (see p. ) it is only 'blood' that can have a banshee. business men nowadays have something as good as 'blood'--they have 'brains and brass,' by which they can compete with and enter into the oldest families in england and ireland. nothing, however, in an irishman's estimation, can replace 'blue blood.'" sir walter scott, too, emphasises this point, and is even more specific and arbitrary. he confines the banshee to families of pure milesian stock, and declares it is never to be found attached to the descendants of the multitudinous english and scotch settlers who have, from time to time, migrated to ireland; nor even to the descendants of the norman adventurers who accompanied strongbow to the green isle in the twelfth century. lady wilde[ ] goes to the other extreme and allows considerable latitude. she affirms that the banshee attaches itself not only to certain families of historic lineage, but also to persons gifted with song and music. for my own part i am inclined to adopt a middle course; i do not believe that the banshee would be deterred from haunting a family of historical fame and milesian descent--such as the o'neills or o'donnells--simply because in that family was an occasional strain of saxon or norman blood, but, on the other hand, i do not think the banshee would ever haunt a family that was not originally at least celtic irish--such, for instance, as the fitz-williams or fitz-warrens--although in that family there might happen to be periodic infusions of milesian blood. i disagree, _in toto_, with lady wilde's theory that, occasionally, the banshee haunts a person who is extremely poetical and musical, simply because he happens to be thus talented. in my opinion, to be haunted by the banshee one must belong to an irish family that is, at least, a thousand years old; were it not so, we should assuredly find the banshee haunting certain of the musical and poetical geniuses of every race all over the world--black and yellow, perhaps, no less than white--which certainly is not the case. the banshee, however, as mr mcannaly says, does, sometimes, travel; it travels when, and only when, it accompanies abroad one of the most ancient of the irish families; otherwise it stays in ireland, where, owing to the fact that there are few of the really old irish families left, its demonstrations are becoming more and more rare. it may, perhaps, be said that in dublin, cork, and other of the irish towns one may still come across a very fair percentage of o's and macs. that, undoubtedly, is true, but, at the same time, it must be borne in mind that these prefixes do not invariably denote the true irishman, since many families yclept thompson, walker, and smith, merely on the strength of having lived in ireland for two or three generations, have adopted an irish--and in some cases, even, a celtic irish name, relying upon their knowledge of a few celtic words picked up from books, or from attending some of the numerous classes now being held in nearly all the big towns, and which are presided over by teachers who are also, for the most part, merely pseudo-irish--to give colour to their claim. such a pretence, however, does not deceive those who are really irish, neither does it deceive the banshee, and the latter, i am quite sure, would never be persuaded to follow the fortunes of any anglo-saxon, or scotch, dick, tom, or harry, no matter how clever and convincing their camouflage might be. once again, then, the banshee confines itself solely to families of _bona-fide_ ancient irish descent. as to its origin, in spite of arbitrary assertions made by certain people, none of whom, by the way, are of irish extraction--that no one knows. as a matter of fact the banshee has a number of origins, for there is not one banshee only--as so many people seem to think--but many; each clan possessing a banshee of its own. the o'donnell banshee, for example, that is to say the banshee attached to our branch of the clan, and to which i can testify from personal experience, is, i believe, very different in appearance, and in its manner of making itself known, from the banshee of the o'reardons, as described by mr mcannaly; whilst the banshee of a certain branch of the o'flahertys, according to this same authority, differs essentially from that of a branch of the o'neills. mr mcannaly says the banshee "is really a disembodied soul, that of one who, in life, was strongly attached to the family, or who had good reason to hate all its members." this definition, of course, may apply in some cases, but it certainly does not apply in all, and it is absurd to be dogmatic on a subject, concerning which it is quite impossible to obtain a very great deal of information. at the most, mr mcannaly can only speak with certainty of the comparatively few cases of banshees that have come under his observation; there are, i think, scores of which he has never even heard. i myself know of several banshee hauntings in which the phantom certainly cannot be that of any member of the human race; its features and proportions absolutely negative such a possibility, and i should have no hesitation in affirming that, in these cases, the phantom is what is commonly known as an elemental, or what i have termed in previous of my works, a neutrarian, that is a spirit that has never inhabited any material body, and which belongs to a species entirely distinct from man. on the other hand, several cases of banshee hauntings i have come across undoubtedly admit the possibility of the phantom being that of a woman belonging to the human race, albeit to a very ancient and long since obsolete section of it; whilst a few, only, allow of the probability of the phantom being that of a woman, also human, but belonging to a very much later date. certainly, as mr mcannaly stated, banshees may be divided into two main classes, the friendly banshees and the hateful banshees; the former exhibiting sorrow on their advent, and the latter, exultation. but these classes are capable of almost endless sub-division; the only feature they possess in common being a vague something that strongly suggests the feminine sex. in most cases the cause of the hauntings can only be a matter of conjecture. affection or crime may account for some, but, for the origin of others, i believe one must look in a totally different direction. for instance, one might, perhaps, see some solution in sorcery and witchcraft, since there must be many families, who, in bygone days, dabbled in those pursuits, that are now banshee ridden. or, again, granted there is some truth in the theory of atlantis, the theory that a whole continent was submerged owing to the wickedness of its inhabitants, who were all more or less adepts in necromancy--the most ancient of the irish, the so-called milesian clans who are known to have practised sorcery, might well be identical with the survivors of that great cataclysm, and have brought with them to the green island spirits which have stuck to their descendants ever since. i think one may dismiss mr c. w. leadbeater's[ ] and other writers' (of the same would-be authoritative order) assertion that family ghosts may be either a thought-form or an unusually vivid impression in the astral light, as absurd. spiritualists and others, who blindly reverence highfalutin phraseology, however empty it may be, might be satisfied with such an explanation, but not so those who have had actual experience with the ghost in question. whatever else the banshee may, or may not be, it is most certainly a denizen of a world quite distinct from ours; it is, besides, a being that has prophetic powers (which would not be the case if it were a mere thought-form or impression), and it is by no means a mere automaton. some banshees represent very beautiful women--women with long, luxuriant tresses, either of raven black, or burnished copper, or brilliant gold, and whose star-like eyes, full of tender pity, are either dark and tearful, or of the most exquisite blue or grey; some, again, are haggish, wild, dishevelled-looking creatures, whose appearance suggests the utmost squalor, foulness, and despair; whilst a few, fortunately, i think, only a few, take the form of something that is wholly diabolical, and frightful, and terrifying in the extreme. as a rule, however, the banshee is not seen, it is only heard, and it announces its advent in a variety of ways; sometimes by groaning, sometimes by wailing, and sometimes by uttering the most blood-curdling of screams, which i can only liken to the screams a woman might make if she were being done to death in a very cruel and violent manner. occasionally i have heard of banshees clapping their hands, and tapping and scratching at walls and window-panes, and, not infrequently, i have heard of them signalling their arrival by terrific crashes and thumps. also, i have met with the banshee that simply chuckles--a low, short, but terribly expressive chuckle, that makes ten times more impression on the mind of the hearer than any other ghostly sound he has heard, and which no lapse of time is ever able to efface from his memory. i, for one, have heard the sound, and as i sit here penning these lines, i fancy i can hear it again--a satanic chuckle, a chuckle full of mockery, as if made by one who was in the full knowledge of coming events, of events that would present an extremely unpleasant surprise. and, in my case, the unpleasant surprise came. i have always been a believer in a spirit world--in the unknown--but had i been ever so sceptical previously, after hearing that chuckle, i am quite sure i should have been converted. in concluding this chapter i must refer once again to mr mcannaly, who, in his "irish wonders," records a very remarkable instance of a number of banshees manifesting themselves simultaneously. he says that the demonstrations occurred before the death of a member of the galway o'flahertys "some years ago."[ ] the doomed one, he states, was a lady of the most unusual piety, who, though ill at the time, was not thought to be seriously ill. indeed, she got so much better that several of her acquaintances came to her room to enliven her convalescence, and it was when they were there, all talking together merrily, that singing was suddenly heard, apparently outside the window. they listened, and could distinctly hear a choir of very sweet voices singing some extraordinarily plaintive air, which made them turn pale and look at one another apprehensively, for they all felt intuitively it was a chorus of banshees. nor were their surmises incorrect, for the patient unexpectedly developed pleurisy, and died within a few days, the same choir of spirit voices being again heard at the moment of physical dissolution. but as mr mcannaly states, the ill-fated lady was of singular purity, which doubtless explains the reason why, in my researches, i have never come across a parallel case. chapter ii some historical banshees amongst the most popular cases of banshee haunting both published and unpublished is that related by ann, lady fanshawe, in her memoirs. it seems that lady fanshawe experienced this haunting when on a visit to lady honora o'brien, daughter of henry, fifth earl of thomond,[ ] who was then, in all probability, residing at the ancient castle of lemaneagh, near lake inchiquin, about thirty miles north-west of limerick. retiring to rest somewhat early the first night of her sojourn there, she was awakened at about one o'clock by the sound of a voice, and, drawing aside the hangings of the bed, she perceived, looking in through the window at her, the face of a woman. the moonlight being very strong and fully focussed on it, she could see every feature with startling distinctness; but at the same time her attention was apparently riveted on the extraordinary pallor of the cheeks and the intense redness of the hair. then, to quote her own words, the apparition "spake loud, and in a tone i never heard, thrice 'ahone,' and then with a sigh, more like wind than breath, she vanished, and to me her body looked more like a thick cloud than substance. "i was so much affrighted that my hair stood on end, and my night clothes fell off. i pulled and pinched your father, who never awaked during this disorder i was in, but at last was much surprised to find me in this fright, and more when i related the story and showed him the window opened; but he entertained me with telling how much more these apparitions were usual in that country than in england." the following morning lady honora, who did not appear to have been to bed, informed lady fanshawe that a cousin of hers had died in the house at about two o'clock in the morning; and expressed a hope that lady fanshawe had not been subjected to any disturbances. "when any die of this family," she said by way of explanation, "there is the shape of a woman appears in this window every night until they be dead." she went on to add that the apparition was believed to be that of a woman who, centuries before, had been seduced by the owner of the castle and murdered, her body being buried under the window of the room in which lady fanshawe had slept. "but truly," she remarked, by way of apology, "i thought not of it when i lodged you here." another well-known case of the banshee is that relating to the o'flahertys of galway, reference being made to the case by mr mcannaly in his work entitled "irish wonders." in the days of much inter-clan fighting in ireland, when the o'neills frequently embarked on crusades against their alternate friends and enemies the o'donnells, and the o'rourks[ ] embarked on similar crusades against the o'donovans, it so happened that one night the chief of the o'flahertys, arrayed in all the brilliance of a new suit of armour, and feeling more than usually cheerful and fit, marched out of his castle at the head of a numerous body of his retainers, who were all, like their chief, in good spirits, and talking and singing gaily. they had not proceeded far, however, when a sudden and quite inexplicable silence ensued--a silence that was abruptly broken by a series of agonising screams, that seemed to come from just over their heads. instantly everyone was sobered, and naturally looked up, expecting to see something that would explain the extraordinary and terrifying disturbance; nothing, however, was to be seen, nothing but a vast expanse of cloudless sky, innumerable scintillating stars, and the moon which was shining forth in all the serene majesty of its zenith. yet, despite the fact that nothing was visible, everyone felt a presence that was at once sorrowful and weird, and which one and all instinctively knew was the banshee, the attendant spirit of the o'flahertys, come to warn them of some approaching catastrophe. the next night, when the chieftain and his followers were again sallying forth, the same thing happened, but, after that, nothing of a similar nature occurred for about a month. then the wife of the o'flaherty, during the absence of her husband on one of these foraging expeditions, had an experience. she had gone to bed one night and was restlessly tossing about, for, try how she would, she could not sleep, when she was suddenly terrified by a succession of the most awful shrieks, coming, apparently, from just beneath her window, and which sounded like the cries of some woman in the direst trouble or pain. she looked, but as she instinctively felt would be the case, she could see no one. she then knew that she had heard the banshee; and on the morrow her forebodings were only too fully realised. with a fearful knowledge of its meaning, she saw a cavalcade, bearing in its midst a bier, slowly and sorrowfully wending its way towards the castle; and, needless to say, she did not require to be told that the foraging party had returned, and that the surviving warriors had brought back with them the lifeless and mutilated body of her husband. the kenealy banshee furnishes yet another instance of this extremely fascinating and, up to the present, wholly enigmatical type of haunting. dr kenealy, the well-known irish poet and author, resided in his earlier years in a wildly romantic and picturesque part of ireland. among his brothers was one, a mere child, whose sweet and gentle nature rendered him beloved by all, and it was a matter of the most excessive grief to the entire household, and, indeed, the whole neighbourhood, when this boy fell into a decline and his life was despaired of by the physicians. as time went on he grew weaker and weaker, until the moment at length arrived, when it was obvious that he could not possibly survive another twenty-four hours. at about noon, the room in which the patient lay was flooded with a stream of sunlight, which came pouring through the windows from the cloudless expanse of sky overhead. the weather, indeed, was so gorgeous that it seemed almost incredible that death could be hovering quite so near the house. one by one, members of the family stole into the chamber to take what each one felt might be a last look at the sick boy, whilst he was still alive. presently the doctor arrived, and, as they were all discussing in hushed tones the condition of the poor wasted and doomed child, they one and all heard someone singing, apparently in the grounds, immediately beneath the window. the voice seemed to be that of a woman, but not a woman of this world. it was divinely soft and sweet, and charged with a pity and sorrow that no earthly being could ever have portrayed; and now loud, and now hushed, it continued for some minutes, and then seemed to die away gradually, like the ripple of a wavelet on some golden, sun-kissed strand, or the whispering of the wind, as it gently rustles its way through field after field of yellow, nodding corn. "what a glorious voice!" one of the listeners exclaimed. "i've never heard anything to equal it." "very likely not," someone else whispered, "it's the banshee!" and so enthralled were they all by the singing, that it was only when the final note of the plaintive ditty had quite ceased, that they became aware that their beloved patient, unnoticed by them, had passed out. indeed, it seemed as if the boy's soul, with the last whispering notes of the dirge, had joined the beautiful, pitying banshee, to be escorted by it into the realms of the all-fearful, all-impatient unknown. dr kenealy has commemorated this event in one of his poems. the story of another haunting by the friendly banshee is told in kerry, in connection with a certain family that used to live there. according to my source of information the family consisted of a man (a gentleman farmer), his wife, their son, terence, and a daughter, norah. norah, an irish beauty of the dark type, had black hair and blue eyes; and possessing numerous admirers, favoured none of them so much as a certain michael o'lernahan. now michael did not stand very well in the graces of either of norah's parents, but terence liked him, and he was reputed to be rich--that is to say rich for that part of ireland. accordingly, he was invited pretty freely to the farm, and no obstacles were placed in his way. on the contrary, he was given more than a fair amount of encouragement. at last, as had been long anticipated, he proposed and norah accepted him; but no sooner was her troth plighted than they both heard, just over their heads, a low, despairing wail, as of a woman in the very greatest distress and anguish. though they were much alarmed at the time, being positive that the sounds proceeded from no human being, neither of them seems to have regarded the phenomenon in the shape of a warning, and both continued their love-making as if the incident had never occurred. a few weeks later, however, norah noticed a sudden change in her lover; he was colder and more distant, and, whilst he was with her, she invariably found him preoccupied. at last the blow fell. he failed to present himself at the house one evening, though he was expected as usual, and, as no explanation was forthcoming the following morning, nor on any of the succeeding days, inquiries were made by the parents, which elicited the fact that he had become engaged to another girl, and that the girl's home was but a few minutes' walk from the farm. this proved too much for norah; although, apparently, neither unusually sensitive nor particularly highly strung, she fell ill, and shortly afterwards died of a broken heart. it was not until the night before she died, however, that the banshee paid her a second visit. she was lying on a couch in the parlour of the farmhouse, with her mother sitting beside her, when a noise was heard that sounded like leaves beating gently against the window-frames, and, almost directly afterwards, came the sound of singing, loud, and full of intense sorrow and compassion; and, obviously, that of a woman. "'tis the banshee," the mother whispered, immediately crossing herself, and, at the same time, bursting into tears. "the banshee," norah repeated. "sure i hear nothing but that tapping at the window and the wind which seems all of a sudden to have risen." but the mother made no response. she only sat with her face buried in her hands, sobbing bitterly and muttering to herself, "banshee! banshee!" presently, the singing having ceased, the old woman got up and dried her tears. her anxiety, however, was not allayed; all through the night she could still be heard, every now and again, crying quietly and whispering to herself "'twas the banshee! banshee!"; and in the morning norah, suddenly growing alarmingly ill, passed away before medical assistance could be summoned. a case of banshee haunting that is somewhat unusually pathetic was once related to me in connection with a dublin branch of the once powerful clan of mcgrath. it took place in the fifties, and the family, consisting of a young widow and two children, isa and david, at that time occupied an old, rambling house, not five minutes' walk from stephen's green. isa seems to have been the mother's favourite--she was undoubtedly a very pretty and attractive child--and david, possibly on account of his pronounced likeness to his father, with whom it was an open secret that mrs mcgrath had never got on at all well, to have received rather more than his fair share of scolding. this, of course, may or may not have been true. it is certain that he was left very much to himself, and, all alone, in a big, empty room at the top of the house, was forced to amuse himself as he best could. occasionally one of the servants, inspired by a fellow-feeling--for the lot of servants in those days, especially when serving under such severe and exacting mistresses as mrs mcgrath, was none too rosy--used to look in to see how he was getting on and bring him a toy, bought out of her own meagre savings; and, once now and again, isa, clad in some costly new frock, just popped her head in at the door, either to bring him some message from her mother, or merely to call out "hullo!" otherwise he saw no one; at least no one belonging to this earth; he only saw, he affirmed, at times, strange-looking people who simply stood and stared at him without speaking, people who the servants--girls from limerick and the west country--assured him were either fairies or ghosts. one day isa, who had been sent upstairs to tell david to go to his bedroom to tidy himself, as he was wanted immediately in the drawing-room, found him in a great state of excitement. "i've seen such a beautiful lady,"[ ] he exclaimed, "and she wasn't a bit cross. she came and stood by the window and looked as if she wanted to play with me, only i daren't ask her. do you think she will come again?" "how can i tell? i expect you've been dreaming as usual," isa laughed. "what was she like?" "oh, tall, much taller than mother," david replied, "with very, very blue eyes and kind of reddish-gold hair that wasn't all screwed up on her head, but was hanging in curls on her shoulders. she had very white hands which were clasped in front of her, and a bright green dress. i didn't see her come or go, but she was here for a long time, quite ten minutes." "it's another of your fancies, david," isa laughed again. "but come along, make haste, or mother will be angry." a few minutes later, david, looking very shy and awkward, was in the drawing-room being introduced to a gentleman who, he was informed, was his future papa. david seems to have taken a strong dislike to him from the very first, and to have foreseen in the coming alliance nothing but trouble and misery for himself. nor were his apprehensions without foundation, for, directly after the marriage took place, he became subjected to the very strictest discipline. morning and afternoon alike he was kept hard at his books, and any slowness or inability to master a lesson was treated as idleness and punished accordingly. the moments he had to himself in his beloved nursery now became few and far between, for, directly he had finished his evening preparation, he was given his supper and packed off to bed. the one or two servants who had befriended him, unable to tolerate the new regime, gave notice and left, and there was soon no one in the house who showed any compassion whatever for the poor lonely boy. things went on in this fashion for some weeks, and then a day came, when he really felt it impossible to go on living any longer. he had been generally run down for some weeks, and this, coupled with the fact that he was utterly broken in spirit, rendered his task of learning a wellnigh impossibility. it was in vain he pleaded, however; his entreaties were only taken for excuses; and, when, in an unguarded moment, he let slip some sort of reference to unkind treatment, he was at once accused of rudeness by his mother and, at her request, summarily castigated. the limit of his tribulation had been reached. that night he was sent to bed, as usual, immediately after supper, and isa, who happened to pass by his room an hour or so afterwards, was greatly astonished at hearing him seemingly engaged in conversation. peeping slyly in at the door, in order to find out with whom he was talking, she saw him sitting up in bed, apparently addressing space, or the moonbeams, which, pouring in at the window, fell directly on him. "what are you doing?" she asked, "and why aren't you asleep?" the moment she spoke he looked round and, in tones of the greatest disappointment, said: "oh, dear, she's gone. you've frightened her away." "frightened her away! why, what rubbish!" isa exclaimed. "lie down at once or i'll go and fetch mamma." "it was my green lady," david went on, breathlessly, far too excited to pay any serious heed to isa's threat. "my green lady, and she told me i should be no more lonely, that she was coming to fetch me some time to-night." isa laughed, and, telling him not to be so silly, but to go to sleep at once, she speedily withdrew and went downstairs to join her parents in the drawing-room. that night, at about twelve, isa was awakened by singing, loud and plaintive singing, in a woman's voice, apparently proceeding from the hall. greatly alarmed she got up, and, on opening her door, perceived her parents and the servants, all in their night attire, huddled together on the landing, listening. "sure 'tis the banshee," the cook at length whispered. "i heard my father spake about it when i was a child. she sings, says he, more beautifully than any grand lady, but sorrowful like, and only before a death." "before a death," isa's mother stammered. "but who's going to die here? why, we are all of us perfectly sound and well." as she spoke the singing ceased, there was an abrupt silence, and all slowly retired to their rooms. nothing further was heard during the night, but in the morning, when breakfast time came, there was no david; and a hue and cry being raised and a thorough search made, he was eventually discovered, drowned in a cistern in the roof. chapter iii the malevolent banshee the banshees dealt with in the last chapter may all be described as sympathetic or friendly banshees. i will now present to the reader a few equally authentic accounts of malevolent or unfriendly banshees. before doing so, however, i would like to call attention to the fact that, once when i was reading a paper on banshees before the irish literary society, in hanover square, a lady got up and, challenging my remark that not all banshees were alike, tried to prove that i was wrong, on the assumption that all banshees must be sad and beautiful because the banshee in her family happened to be sad and beautiful, an argument, if argument it can be called, which, although it is a fairly common one, cannot, of course, be taken seriously. moreover, as i have already stated, there is abundant evidence to show that banshees are of many and diverse kinds; and that no two appear to be exactly alike or to act in precisely the same fashion. according to mr mcannaly, the malevolent banshee is invariably "a horrible hag with ugly, distorted features; maledictions are written in every line of her wrinkled face, and her outstretched arms call down curses on the doomed member of the hated race." other writers, too, would seem more or less to encourage the idea that all malignant banshees are cast in one mould and all beautiful banshees in another, whereas from my own personal experiences i should say that banshees, whether good or bad, are just as individual as any member of the family they haunt. it is related of a certain ancient mayo family that a chief of the race once made love to a very beautiful girl whom he betrayed and subsequently murdered. with her dying breath the girl cursed her murderer and swore she would haunt him and his for ever. years rolled by; the cruel deceiver married, and, with the passing away of all who knew him in his youth, he came to be regarded as a model of absolute propriety and rectitude. hence it was in these circumstances that he was sitting one night before a big blazing fire in the hall of his castle, outwardly happy enough and surrounded by his sons and daughters, when loud shrieks of exultation were heard coming, it seemed, from someone who was standing on the path close to the castle walls. all rushed out to see who it was, but no one was there, and the grounds, as far as the eye could reach, were absolutely deserted. later on, however, some little time after the household had retired to rest, the same demoniacal disturbances took place; peal after peal of wild, malicious laughter rang out, followed by a discordant moaning and screaming. this time the aged chieftain did not accompany the rest of the household in their search for the originator of the disturbances. possibly, in that discordant moaning and screaming he fancied he could detect the voice of the murdered girl; and, possibly, accepting the manifestation as a death-warning, he was not surprised on the following day, when he was waylaid out of doors and brutally done to death by one of his followers. needless to say, perhaps, the haunting of this banshee still continues, the same phenomena occurring at least once to every generation of the family, before the death of one of its members. happily, however, the haunting now does not necessarily precede a violent death, and in this respect, though in this respect only, differs from the original. another haunting by this same species of banshee was brought to my notice the last time i was in ireland. i happened to be visiting a certain relative of mine, at that date residing in black rock, and from her i learned the following, which now appears in print for the first time. about the middle of the last century, when my relative was in her teens, some friends of hers, the o'd.'s, were living in a big old-fashioned country house, somewhere between ballinanty and hospital in the county of limerick. the family consisted of mr o'd., who had been something in india in his youth and was now very much of a recluse, though much esteemed locally on account of his extreme piety and good-heartedness; mrs o'd., who, despite her grey hair and wrinkled countenance, still retained traces of more than ordinary good looks; wilfred, a handsome but decidedly headstrong young man of between twenty-five and thirty; and ellen, a blue-eyed, golden-haired girl of the true milesian type of irish beauty. my relative was on terms of the greatest intimacy with the whole family, but especially with the two younger folk, and it was generally expected that she and wilfred would make what is vulgarly termed a "match of it." indeed, the first of the ghostly happenings that she experienced in connection with the o'd.'s actually occurred the very day wilfred took the long-anticipated step and proposed to her. it seems that my relative was out for a walk one afternoon with ellen and wilfred, when the latter, taking advantage of his sister's sudden fancy for going on ahead to look for dog-roses, passionately declared his love, and, apparently, did not declare it in vain. the trio, then, in more or less exalted spirits--for my relative had of course let ellen into the secret--walked home together, and as they were passing through a big wooden gateway into the garden at the rear of the o'd.'s house, they perceived a tall, spare woman, with her back towards them, digging away furiously. "hullo," wilfred exclaimed, "who's that?" "i don't know," ellen replied. "it's certainly not mary" (mary was the old cook who, like many of the servants of that period, did not confine her labour to the culinary art, but performed all kinds of odd jobs as well), "nor anyone from the farm. but what on earth does she think she's doing? hey, there!" and ellen, raising her naturally sweet and musical voice, gave a little shout. the woman instantly turned round, and the trio received a most violent shock. the light was fading, for it was late in the afternoon, but what little there was seemed to be entirely concentrated on the visage before them, making it appear luminous. it was a broad face with very pronounced cheek-bones; a large mouth, the thin lips of which were fixed in a dreadful and mocking leer; and very pale, obliquely set eyes that glowed banefully as they met the gaze of the three now appalled spectators. for some seconds the evil-looking creature stood in dead silence, apparently gloating over the discomposure her appearance had produced, and, then, suddenly shouldering her spade, she walked slowly away, turning round every now and again to cast the same malevolent gleeful look at them, until she came to the hedge that separated the garden from a long disused stone quarry, when she seemed suddenly to fade away in the now very uncertain twilight, and disappear. for some moments no one spoke or stirred, but continued gazing after her in a kind of paralysed astonishment. wilfred was the first to break the silence. "what an awful looking hag," he exclaimed. "where's she gone?" ellen whistled. "ask another," she said. "there's nowhere she could have gone excepting into the quarry, and my only hope is that she is lying at the bottom of it with a broken neck, for i certainly never wish to see her again. but come, let's be moving on, i'm chilly." they started off, but had only proceeded a few yards, when, apparently from the direction of the quarry, came a peal of laughter, so mocking and malignant and altogether evil, that all three involuntarily quickened their steps, and, at the same time, refrained from speaking, until they had reached the house, which they hastily entered, securely closing the door behind them. they then went straight to mr o'd. and asked him who the old woman was whom they had just seen. "what was she like?" he queried. "i haven't authorised anyone but mary to go into the garden." "it certainly wasn't mary," ellen responded quickly. "it was some hideous old crone who was digging away like anything. on our approach she left off and gave us the most diabolical look i have ever seen. then she went away and seemed to vanish in the hedge by the quarry. we afterwards heard her give the most appalling and intensely evil laugh that you can imagine. whoever is she?" "i can't think," mr o'd. replied, looking somewhat unusually pale. "it is no one whom i know. very possibly she was a tramp or gipsy. we must take care to keep all the doors locked. whatever you do, don't mention a word about her to your mother or to mary--they are both nervous and very easily frightened." all three promised, and the matter was then allowed to drop, but my relative, who returned home before it got quite dark, subsequently learned that that night, some time after the o'd. household had all retired to rest, peal after peal of the same infernal mocking laughter was heard, just under the windows, first of all in the front of the house, and then in the rear; and that, on the morrow, came the news that the business concern in which most of mr o'd.'s money was invested had gone smash and the family were practically penniless. the house now was in imminent danger of being sold, and many people thought that it was merely to avert this catastrophe and to enable her parents to keep a roof over their heads that ellen accepted the attentions of a very vulgar parvenu (an englishman) in limerick, and eventually married him. where there is no love, however, there is never any happiness, and where there is not even "liking," there is very often hate; and in ellen's case hate there was without any doubt. barely able, even from the first, to tolerate her husband (his favourite trick was to make love to her in public and almost in the same breath bully her--also in public), she eventually grew to loathe him, and at last, unable to endure his hated presence any longer, she eloped with an officer who was stationed in the neighbourhood. the night before ellen took this step, my relative and wilfred (the latter was escorting his fiancée home after a pleasant evening spent in her company) again heard the malevolent laughter, which (although they could see no one) pursued them for some distance along the moonlit lanes and across the common leading to the spot where my relative lived. after this the laughter was not heard again for two years, but at the end of that period my relative had another experience of the phenomena. she was again spending the evening with the o'd.'s, and, on this occasion, she was discussing with mr and mrs o'd. the advent of wilfred, who was expected to arrive home from the west indies any time within the next few days. my relative was not unnaturally interested, as it had been arranged that she and wilfred should marry, as soon as possible after his arrival in ireland. they were all three--mr and mrs o'd. and my relative--engaged in animated conversation (the old people had unexpectedly come into a little money, and that, too, had considerably contributed to their cheerfulness), when mrs o'd., fancying she heard someone calling to her from the garden, got up and went to the window. "harry," she exclaimed, still looking out and apparently unable to remove her gaze, "do come. there's the most awful old woman in the garden, staring hard at me. quick, both of you. she's perfectly horrible; she frightens me." my relative and mr o'd. at once sprang up and hastened to her side, and, there, they saw, gazing up at them, the pallor of its cheeks intensified by a stray moonbeam which seemed to be concentrated solely on it, a face which my relative recognised immediately as that of the woman she had seen, two years ago, digging in the garden. the old hag seemed to remember my relative, too, for, as their glances met, a gleam of recognition crept into her light eyes, and, a moment later, gave way to an expression of such diabolical hate that my relative involuntarily caught hold of mr o'd. for protection. evidently noting this action the creature leered horribly, and then, drawing a kind of shawl or hood tightly over its head, moved away with a kind of gliding motion, vanishing round an angle of the wall. mr o'd. at once went out into the garden, but, after a few minutes, returned, declaring that, although he had searched in every direction, not a trace of their sinister-looking visitor could he see anywhere. he had hardly, however, finished speaking, when, apparently from close to the house, came several peals of the most hellish laughter, that terminated in one loud, prolonged wail, unmistakably ominous and menacing. "oh, harry," mrs o'd. exclaimed, on the verge of fainting, "what can be the meaning of it? that was surely no living woman." "no," mr o'd. replied slowly, "it was the banshee. as you know, the o'd. banshee, for some reason or another, possesses an inveterate hatred of my family, and we must prepare again for some evil tidings. but," he went on, steadying his voice with an effort, "with god's grace we must face it, for whatever happens it is his divine will." a few days later my relative, as may be imagined, was immeasurably shocked to hear that mr o'd. had been sent word that wilfred was dead. he had, it appeared, been stricken down with fever, supposed to have been caught from one of his fellow-passengers, and had died on the very day that he should have landed, on the very day, in fact (as it was afterwards ascertained from a comparison of dates), upon which his parents and fiancée, together, had heard and seen the banshee. soon after this unhappy event my relative left the neighbourhood and went to live with some friends near dublin, and though, from time to time, she corresponded with the o'd.'s, she never again heard anything of their banshee. this same relative of mine, whom i will now call miss s---- (she never married), was acquainted with two old maiden ladies named o'rorke who, many years ago, lived in a semi-detached house close to lower merrion street. miss s---- did not know to what branch of the o'rorkes they belonged, for they were very reticent with regard to their family history, but she believed they originally came from the south-west and were distantly connected with some of her own people. with regard to their house, there certainly was something peculiar, since in it was one room that was invariably kept locked, and in connection with this room it was said there existed a mystery of the most frightful and harrowing description. my relative often had it on the tip of her tongue to refer to the room, just to see what effect it would have on the two old ladies, but she could never quite sum up the courage to do so. one afternoon, however, when she was calling on them, the subject was brought to their notice in a very startling manner. the elder of the two sisters, miss georgina, who was presiding at the tea table, had just handed miss s---- a cup of tea and was about to pour out another for herself, when into the room, with her cap all awry and her eyes bulging, rushed one of the servants. "good gracious!" miss georgina exclaimed, "whatever's the matter, bridget?" "matter!" bridget retorted, in a brogue which i will not attempt to imitate. "why, someone's got into that room you always keep locked and is making the devil of a noise, enough to raise all the saints in heaven. norah" (norah was the cook) "and i both heard it--a groaning, and a chuckling, and a scratching, as if the cratur was tearing up the boards and breaking all the furniture, and all the while keening and laughing. for the love of heaven, ladies, come and hear it for yourselves. such goings on! ochone! ochone!" both ladies, miss s---- said, turned deadly pale, and miss harriet, the younger sister, was on the brink of tears. "where is cook?" miss georgina, who was by far the stronger minded of the two, suddenly said, addressing bridget. "if she is upstairs, tell her to come down at once. miss harriet and i will go and see what the noise is that you complain about upstairs. there really is no need to make all this disturbance"--here she assumed an air of the utmost severity--"it's sure to be either mice or rats." "mice or rats!" bridget echoed. "i'm sorry for the mice and rats as make all those noises. 'tis some evil spirit, sure, and norah is of the same mind," and with those parting words she slammed the door behind her. the sisters, then, begging to be excused for a few minutes, left the room, and returned shortly afterwards looking terribly white and distressed. "i am sure you must think all this very odd," miss georgina observed with as great a degree of unconcern as she could assume, "and i feel we owe you an explanation, but i must beg you will not repeat a word of what we tell you to anyone else." miss s---- promised she would not, and then composed herself to listen. "we have in our family," miss o'rorke began, "a most unpleasant attachment; in other words, a most unpleasant banshee. being irish, you will not laugh, of course, as many english people do, at what i say. you know as well as i do, perhaps, that many of the really ancient irish families possess banshees." miss s---- nodded. "we have one ourselves," she remarked, "but pray go on. i am intensely interested." "well, unlike most of the banshees," miss georgina continued, "ours is appallingly ugly and malevolent; so frightful, indeed, that to see it, even, is sometimes fatal. one of our great-great-uncles, for instance, to whom it once appeared, is reported to have died from shock; a similar fate overtaking another of our ancestors, who also saw it. fortunately, it seems to have a strong attraction in the shape of an old gold ring which has been in the possession of the family from time immemorial. both ancestors i have referred to are alleged to have been wearing this ring at the time the banshee appeared to them, and it is said to strictly confine its manifestations to the immediate vicinity of that article. that is why our parents always kept the ring strictly isolated, in a locked room, the key of which was never, for a moment, allowed to be out of their possession. and we have strenuously followed their example. that is the explanation of the mystery you have doubtless heard about, for i believe--thanks to the servants--it has become the gossip of half dublin." "and the noise bridget referred to," miss s---- ventured to remark, somewhat timidly, "was that the banshee?" miss georgina nodded. "i fear it was," she observed solemnly, "and that we shall shortly hear of a relative's death or grave catastrophe to some member of the family; probably, a cousin of ours in county galway, who has been ill for some weeks, is dying." she was partly right, although the latter surmise was not correct. within a few days of the banshee's visit a member of the family died, but it was not the sick cousin, it was miss georgina's own sister, harriet! chapter iv the banshee abroad as i have remarked in a previous chapter, the banshee to-day is heard more often abroad than in ireland. it follows the fortunes of the true old milesian irishman--the real o and mc, none of your adulterated o'walters or o'cassons--everywhere, even to the poles. lady wilde, in her "ancient legends, mystic charms and superstitions of ireland," quotes the case of a banshee haunting that was experienced by a branch of the clan o'grady that had settled in canada. the spot chosen by this family for their residence was singularly wild and isolated, and one night at two o'clock, when they were all in bed, they were aroused by a loud cry, coming, apparently, from just outside the house. nothing intelligible was uttered, only a sound indicative of the greatest bitterness and sorrow, such as one might imagine a woman would give vent to, but only when in an agony of mind, almost beyond human understanding. the effect produced by it was one of sublime terror, and all seemed to feel instinctively that the source from which it emanated was apart from this world and belonged wholly and solely to the unknown. nevertheless, from what lady wilde says, we are led to infer that an exhaustive search of the premises was made, resulting, as was expected, in complete failure to find any physical agency that could in any way account for the cry. the following day the head of the household and his eldest son went boating on a lake near the house, and, although it was their intention to do so, did not return to dinner. various members of the family were sent to look for them, but no trace of them was to be seen anywhere, and no solution to the mystery as to what had happened to them was forthcoming, till two o'clock that night, when, exactly twenty-four hours after the cry had been heard, some of the searchers returned, bearing with them the wet, bedraggled, and lifeless bodies of both father and son. then, once again, the weird and ominous sound that had so startled them on the previous night was heard, and the sorrow-stricken family--that is to say, those who were left of it--agreeing now that the banshee had indeed visited them, remembered that their beloved father, whom they had just lost, had often spoken of the banshee, as having haunted their branch of the clan for countless generations. another case of banshee haunting, that i have in mind, relates to a branch of the southern o'neills that settled in italy a good many years ago. it was told me in paris by a mrs dempsey, who assured me she had been an eye-witness of the phenomena, and i now record it in print for the first time. mrs dempsey, when staying once at an hotel in the north of italy, noticed among the guests an elderly man, whose very marked features and intensely sad expression quickly attracted her attention. she observed that he kept entirely aloof from his fellow-guests, and that, every evening after dinner, he retired from the drawing-room, as soon as coffee had been handed round, and went outside and stood on the veranda overlooking the shore of the adriatic. she made inquiries as to his name and history, and was told that he was count fernando asioli, a wealthy florentine citizen, who, having but recently lost his wife, to whom he was devoted, naturally did not wish to join in the general conversation. upon hearing this mrs dempsey was more than ever interested. it was not so very long since she, too, had lost her partner--a husband to whom she was much attached--and, consequently, it was in sympathetic mood that, seeing the count go out, as usual, one evening, on to the veranda, she resolved to follow him, to try, if possible, to get into conversation with him. with this end in view she was about to cross the threshold of the veranda, when, to her astonishment, she perceived the count was not there alone. standing by his side, with one hand laid caressingly on his shoulder, was a tall, slim girl, with masses of the most gorgeous red gold hair hanging loose and reaching to her waist. she was wearing an emerald green dress of some very filmy substance; but her arms and feet were bare, and stood out so clearly in the soft radiance of the moonbeams, that mrs dempsey, who was an artist and had studied on the continent, noticed with a thrill that they equalled, if, indeed, they did not surpass in beauty, any she had ever come across either in greek or florentine sculpture. much perplexed as to who such a queerly attired visitor on such friendly terms with the count could be, mrs dempsey remained for a second or two watching, and then, afraid lest she should attract their attention and so be caught, seemingly, in the act of spying, she withdrew. the moment she got back again into the drawing-room, however, she made somewhat indignant inquiries of a lady who generally sat next to her at meals, as to the identity of the girl she had just seen standing beside the, said to be, heart-broken count in an attitude of such close intimacy. "a woman with the count!" was the reply. "surely not! who can she be, and what was she like?" mrs dempsey described the stranger in detail, but her friend, shaking her head, could only suggest that she was some new-comer, some guest who had arrived at the hotel, and gone on the veranda whilst they were at dinner. feeling a little curious, however, mrs dempsey's friend walked towards the veranda, and, in a very short time, returned, looking somewhat puzzled. "you must have been mistaken," she whispered, "there is no one with count asioli now, and, if anyone had come away, we should have seen them." "i am quite sure i did see a woman there," mrs dempsey replied, "and only a minute or two ago; she must have got out somehow, although there is, apparently, no other way than through this room." at this moment, the count, entering the room, took a seat beside them; and the subject, of course, had to be dropped. the next night, however, the events of the preceding night were repeated. mrs dempsey followed the count on to the veranda, saw the girl in green standing with her hand on his shoulder, came back and told her neighbour at meals, and the latter, on hastening to the veranda to look, once more returned declaring that the count was alone. after this, a slight altercation took place between the two ladies, the one declaring her belief that it was all an optical illusion on the part of the other, and the other emphatically sticking to her story that she had actually seen the girl she had described. they parted that night, both a little ruffled, though neither would admit it, and the following night, mrs dempsey, as soon as she saw the count go on to the veranda, fetched her friend. "now," she said, "come with me and see for yourself." the two ladies, accordingly, went to the veranda and, opening the door gently, peeped in. "there she is," mrs dempsey whispered, "standing in just the same position." the sound of her voice, though so low as to be scarcely heard even by the lady standing beside her, seemingly attracted the attention of both the girl and the count, for they turned round simultaneously. then mrs dempsey, whose gaze was solely concentrated on the girl, saw a face of almost indescribable beauty--possessing neatly chiselled, but by no means coldly classical features, long eyes of a marvellous blue, a smooth broad brow, and delicately and subtly moulded mouth; it was the face of a young girl, barely out of her teens, and it was filled with an expression of infinite sorrow and affection. mrs dempsey was so enraptured that, to quote her own words, she "stood gazing at it in speechless awe and amazement," and might, perhaps, have been gazing at it still, had not the voice of the count called her back to earth. "i hope, ladies," he was saying, "that you do not see anything unusually disturbing in my appearance to-night, for i undoubtedly seem to be the object of your solicitude. may i ask why?" though he spoke quite politely, even the dullest could have seen that he was more than a little annoyed. mrs dempsey therefore hastened to reply. "it is not you," she stammered out, "it is the lady--the lady you have with you. i--i fancied i knew her." "the lady i have with me," the count exclaimed, in accents of cold surprise. "kindly explain what you mean?" "why the lady----" mrs dempsey began, and then she glanced round. the count was standing in front of her--but he was quite alone. there was no vestige of a girl in green, nor of any other person on the veranda saving themselves, and immediately beneath it, at a distance of at least thirty feet, glimmered the white shingles of the silent and deserted--utterly deserted--seashore. "she's gone," mrs dempsey cried, "but i'm positive i saw her--a lady in green standing beside you." then, for the first time, she felt afraid, and trembled. the count, who had been observing her very closely, now advanced a step or two towards her, and in a very different tone said: "will you please describe the lady? was she old or young, dark or fair?" "young and fair, very fair," mrs dempsey exclaimed. "but please come inside, for i've received something of a shock, and can, perhaps, talk to you better in the gaslight, with people near at hand whom i know are human beings." he did as she requested, and became more and more interested as she proceeded with her description, interrupting her every now and again with questions. was she sure the girl had blue eyes, he asked, and how could she tell what colour the eyes were by the light of the moon only; mrs dempsey's reply to which being that the girl's whole body seemed to be illuminated from within, in such a manner that every detail could be seen, almost, if not quite, as clearly as if she had been standing in the full glare of an electric light. at the conclusion of her narrative mrs dempsey was further questioned by the count. "had she," he inquired, "ever been told that he was partly irish, because," he added, on receiving a negative reply, "i am, and my real name is o'neill, my great-great-grandfather having assumed the name of asioli in order to come into some property when the family, which came from the south of ireland, settled in italy, many, many years ago. but what will, i am sure, be of considerable interest to you is the fact that this branch of the o'neills, the branch to which i belong, is haunted by a banshee, and that that banshee has, i believe--since the description of it given me by various members of my family tallies with the description you have given me of the girl you saw standing by me--appeared to you. i would add that it never reveals itself, excepting when an o'neill is about to die, and as i am quite the last of my line, i cannot conceive any reason for its having thus appeared three nights in succession, unless, of course, it is to predict my own end." mrs dempsey was not long left in doubt. on the morrow the count was summoned to venice on urgent business, and on his way to the railway depôt he suddenly dropped down dead, the excitement and exertion having, so it was supposed, proved too much for his heart, which was known to be weak. said to be descended from the younger of the two sons of king milesius, it certainly is not surprising that the o'neills[ ] should possess a banshee--indeed, it would be surprising if they did not--but i have found it somewhat difficult to trace. however, according to lady wilde in her "irish wonders," p. , there is a room at shane castle which is strictly set aside for it. the banshee, lady wilde says, is very often seen in this apartment, sometimes appearing shrouded in a dark, mist-like mantle; and at other times as a very lovely young girl with long, red-gold hair, clad in a scarlet cloak and green kirtle, adorned with gold. lady wilde goes on to tell us no harm ever comes of the banshee's visit, unless she is seen in the act of crying, when her wails may be taken as a certain sign that some member of the family will shortly die. mr mcannaly corroborates this by stating that on one occasion one of the o'neills of shane castle heard the banshee crying, just as he was about to set out on a journey, and perished soon afterwards, which is somewhat unusual, because in the majority of cases i have come across the banshee does not manifest itself at all to the person whose death it predicts. a very old, probably the oldest, branch of the o'neills now resides in portugal, but up to the present i have not succeeded in obtaining any evidence to warrant the assumption that the banshee haunting has been experienced in that country. indeed, the banshee seems to be just as erratic and wayward as any daughter of eve, for there is no consistency whatever in her movements. the very families one thinks she would haunt, she often studiously avoids, and not infrequently she concentrates her attention on those who are utterly obscure, albeit, always of _bona fide_ irish extraction. chapter v cases of mistaken identity in previous chapters i have dealt exclusively with cases that are, without doubt, those of genuine banshee haunting. i now propose to narrate a few cases which i will term cases of doubtful banshee haunting--that is to say, cases of haunting which, although said to be banshee, cannot, in view of the phenomena and circumstances, be thus designated with any degree of certainty. to begin with i will recall the case relating to the r----s, a family living in canada. their house, a long, low, two-storied building, stood on a lonely spot on the road leading to montreal, and a young lady, whom i will designate miss delane, was visiting them when the incidents i am about to narrate took place. the weather had been more than commonly fine for that time of year, but at last the inevitable and unmistakable signs of a break had set in, and one evening black clouds gathered in the sky, the wind whistled ominously in the chimneys and savagely shook the many-coloured maple leaves, while, after a time, the moon, which had been hanging like a great red globe over the st lawrence, became suddenly obscured, and big drops of rain came spluttering against the windows. miss delane, who had been seized with a strange restlessness which she could not shake off, then went into the hall, and was about to speak to one of major r----'s nieces, who was also on a visit there, when her attention was arrested by the sound of a heavy carriage lumbering along the high road, from the direction of montreal, at a very great rate. it being now nearly ten o'clock, an hour when there was usually very little traffic, she was somewhat surprised, her astonishment increasing by leaps and bounds when she heard the wheels crunching on the gravel drive, and the carriage rapidly approaching the house. "surely, it is too late----" she began, but was cut short by the major, who, abruptly pushing past her to the front door, just as the carriage drew up, swung it to, and, in trembling haste, locked, and barred, and bolted it. footsteps were then heard hurriedly ascending the steps to the front door, and immediately afterwards a series of loud rat-tat-tats, although, as everyone instantly remembered, there was no knocker on the door, the major having had it removed many years ago, for a reason he either could not or would not explain. startled almost out of their senses by the noise, the whole household had in a few seconds assembled in the hall, and they now knelt, huddled together, whilst the major in a voice which, despite the fact that it was raised to its highest pitch, could barely be heard above the furious and frenzied knocking, besought the almighty to protect them. as he continued praying the rat-tats gradually grew feebler and feebler, until they finally ceased, after which the footsteps were once again heard on the stone steps, this time descending, and the carriage drove away. it was not, however, until the reverberations of the wheels could no longer be heard that the major rose from his knees. then, bidding his household do likewise, he insisted that they should at once retire, without speaking a word, to their rooms; and forbade them ever to mention the matter to him again. as soon as miss delane and the major's nieces were in their bedroom--they shared a room between them--they ran to the window and looked out. the sky was quite clear now, and the moon was shining forth in all the splendour of its calm cold majesty; but the grounds and road beyond were quite deserted; not a vestige of any person or carriage could be seen anywhere, and, on the morrow, when they hastened downstairs and examined the gravel, there were no indications whatever of any wheels. the day passed quite uneventfully, and once again it was night-time; the major had read prayers as usual at about ten, and the household, also as usual, had retired to rest. miss delane, who was used to much later hours, found it difficult to compose herself to sleep so soon, but she had just managed to doze off, when she was aroused by her friend ellen, the elder of the major's two nieces, pulling violently at her bedclothes, and, on looking up, she perceived a tall figure, clad in what looked like nun's garments, walking across the room with long, stealthy strides. as she gazed at it in breathless astonishment, it suddenly paused and, turning its hooded head round, stared fixedly at ellen, and then, moving on, seemed to melt into the wall. at all events, it had vanished, and there was nothing where it had been standing, saving moonlight. for some minutes ellen was too terrified to speak, but she at last called out to miss delane and implored her to come and get into her bed, as she no longer dared lie there by herself. "did you see the way it looked at me," she whispered, clutching hold of miss delane, and shuddering violently. "i don't think i shall ever get over it. we must leave here to-morrow. we must, we must," and she burst out crying. as may be imagined, there was little sleep for either of the girls again that night, and it seemed to them as if the morning would never come; but, when at last it did come, they told major r---- what had happened, and declared they really dared not spend another night in the house. though obviously distressed on hearing what they had to say, the major did not press them to alter their decision and stay, but told them that to go, he thought, under the circumstances, was far the wisest and safest thing for them to do. an hour or so later, having finished their packing, they were all three taking a final stroll together in the garden, when they fancied they heard someone running after them down one of the sidewalks, and, turning round, they saw the figure that had disturbed them in the night, standing close behind them. the sunlight falling directly on it revealed features now only too easily distinguishable of someone long since dead, but animated by a spirit that was wholly antagonistic and malicious, and as they shrank back terror-stricken, it stretched forth one of its long, bony arms and touched first ellen and then her sister on the shoulder. it then veered round, and, moving away with the same peculiarly long and surreptitious strides, seemed suddenly to amalgamate with the shadows from the trees and disappear. for some moments the girls were far too paralysed with fear to do other than remain where they were, trembling; but their faculties at length reasserting themselves, they made a sudden dash for the house, and ran at top speed till they reached it. it was some weeks afterwards, however, and not till then, that miss delane, who was back again in her home in ireland, received any explanation of the phenomena she had witnessed. it was given her by a friend of the r----s who happened to be visiting one of miss delane's relatives in dublin. "what you saw," this friend of the r----s said to miss delane, "was, i believe, the banshee, which always manifests itself before the death of any member of the family. sometimes it shrieks, like the shrieking of a woman who is being cruelly done to death, and sometimes it merely stares at or touches its victim on the shoulder with its skeleton hand. in either case its advent is fatal. only," she added, "let me implore you never to breathe a word of this to the r----s, as they never mention their ghost to anyone." miss delane, of course, promised, at the same time expressing a devout hope that the phenomena she had witnessed did not point to the illness or death of either of her friends; but in this she was doomed to the deepest disappointment, for within a few weeks of the date upon which the banshee--if banshee it really were--had appeared, she received tidings of the deaths of both ellen and her sister (the former succumbing to an attack of some malignant fever, and the latter to an accident), and in addition heard that major r---- had died also. as major r---- would never discuss the subject of his family ghost with anyone at all, it is impossible to say whether he believed the haunting to be a banshee haunting or not; but many, apparently, did believe it to be this type of haunting, and i must say i think they were wrong. to begin with, the r----s were anglo-irish. their connection with ireland may have dated back a century or so, but they were certainly not of milesian nor even celtic irish descent; and, for this reason alone, could not have acquired a banshee haunting. besides, the banshee that we know does not appear, as the r----'s ghost appeared, attired in the vestments of a religious order; and the coach or hearse phantasm (which in the r----'s case preceded the manifestation of the supposed banshee) is by no means an uncommon haunting;[ ] and since it is more often than not accompanied by phenomena of the sepulchral type (the type witnessed by miss delane and the major's nieces), it may be said to constitute in itself a peculiar form of family haunting which is not, of course, exclusively confined to the irish. hence i entirely dismiss the theory that the notorious r----'s ghost had anything at all to do with the banshee. À propos of coaches, i am reminded of an incident related by that past master of the weird, j. sheridan le fanu, in a short story entitled "a chapter in the history of a tyrone family." as it relates to that type of phantasm that is so often foolishly confused with the banshee, i think i cannot do better than give a brief sketch of it. miss richardson, a young anglo-irish girl, resided with her parents at ashtown, tyrone, and her elder sister, who had recently married a mr carew of dublin, being expected with her husband on a visit, great preparations were on foot for their reception. they were leaving dublin by coach on the monday morning, they had written to say, and hoped to arrive at ashtown some time the following day. the morning and afternoon passed, however, without any sign of the carews, and when it got dark, and still they did not come, the richardson family began to feel a trifle uneasy. the night was fine, the sky cloudless, and the moon, when it at length rose, could not have been more brilliant. it was a still night, too, so still that not a leaf stirred, and so still that those on the qui vive, who were straining their ears to the utmost, must have caught the sound of an approaching vehicle on the high road, had there been one, when it was still at a distance of several miles. but no sound came, and when suppertime arrived, mr richardson, as was his wont, made a tour of the house, and carefully fastened the shutters and locked the doors. still the family listened, and still they could hear nothing, nothing, either near to, or far away. it was now midnight, but no one went to bed, for all were buoyed up with the desperate hope that something must at last happen--either, the carews themselves would suddenly turn up, or a messenger with a letter explaining the delay. neither eventuality, however, came to pass, and nothing occurred until miss richardson, who had, for the moment, allowed her mind to dwell on an entirely different topic, gave a start. her heart beat loud, and she held her breath! she heard carriage wheels. yes, without a doubt, she heard wheels--the wheels of a coach or carriage, and they were getting more and more distinct. but she remained silent. she had been rebuked once or twice for giving a false alarm--she would now let someone else speak first. in the meantime, on and on came the wheels, stopping for a moment whilst the iron gate at the entrance to the drive was swung open on its rusty hinges; then on and on again, louder, louder and louder, till all could distinguish, amid the barking of the dogs, the sound of scattered gravel and the crackling and swishing of the whip. there was no doubt about it now, and with joyous cries of "it is them! they have come at last," a regular stampede was made for the hall door, parents and sister, servants and dogs, vying with one another to see who could get there first. but, lo and behold, when the door was opened, and they stepped out, there was no sign of a coach or carriage anywhere; nothing was to be seen but the broad gravel drive and lawn beyond, alight with moonbeams and peopled with queer shadows, but absolutely silent, with a silence that suggested a churchyard. the whole household now looked at one another with white and puzzled faces; they began to be afraid; whilst the dogs, running about, and sniffing, and whining, were obviously ill at ease and afraid, too. at last a kind of panic set in, and all made a rush for the house, taking care, when once inside, to shut the door with even greater haste than they had displayed in opening it. the family then retired to rest, but not to sleep, and early the next morning they received news that fully confirmed their suspicions. mrs carew had been taken ill with fever on monday, while preparations for the departure were being made, and had passed away, probably at the very moment when the richardsons, hearing the phantom coach and mistaking it for a real one, had opened their hall door to welcome her. that is the gist of the incident as related by mr le fanu, and i have quoted it merely to show how a case of this kind, especially when it happens in ireland, and to a family that has for some time been associated with ireland, may sometimes be mistaken for a genuine banshee haunting, although, of course, there is no reason whatever to suppose that mr le fanu himself laboured under any delusion with regard to it, or intended to convey to his readers an impression of the haunting that the circumstances did not warrant. he merely states it as a case of the supernatural without attempting to consign it to any special category. lady wilde in her "ancient cures, charms and usages of ireland," pp. , , quotes another case of coach haunting in ireland, a very terrible one; while in a book entitled "rambles in northumberland," by the same author, we are informed, "when the death-hearse, drawn by headless horses and driven by a headless driver, is seen about midnight proceeding rapidly, but without noise, towards the churchyard, the death of some considerable personage in the parish is sure to happen at no distant period." also, there is a phantom of this description that is occasionally seen on the road near langley in durham, and my relatives, the vizes[ ] of limerick--at least, so my grandmother, _née_ sally vize, used to say--are haunted by a phantom coach too; indeed, there seems to be no end to this kind of haunting, which is always either very picturesque or very terrifying, and sometimes both picturesque and terrifying. at the same time, although intensely interesting, no doubt, the phantom coach is not essentially irish, and not in any way connected with the banshee. as an example of the extreme anxiety of some people to be thought to be of ancient irish extraction and to have a banshee, i might refer to an incident in connection with mrs elizabeth sheridan, which is recorded in footnotes on pages and of "the memoirs of the life and writings of mrs frances sheridan," compiled by her granddaughter, miss alicia lefanu, and published in , and quote from it the following: "like many irish ladies who resided during the early part of life in the country, miss elizabeth sheridan was a firm believer in the banshi, a female dæmon, attached to ancient irish families. she seriously maintained that the banshi of the sheridan family was heard wailing beneath the windows of quilca before the news arrived of mrs frances sheridan's death at blois, thus affording them a preternatural intimation of the impending melancholy event. a niece of miss sheridan's made her very angry by observing that as miss frances sheridan was by birth a chamberlaine, a family of english extraction, she had no right to the guardianship of an irish fairy, and that, therefore, the banshi must have made a mistake." now i certainly agree with miss sheridan's niece in doubting that the cry heard before mrs frances sheridan's death was that of the real banshee; but i do not doubt it because mrs frances sheridan was of english extraction, for the banshee has frequently been heard before the death of a wife whose husband was one of an ancient irish clan--even though the wife had no irish blood in her at all, but i doubt it because the husband of mrs frances sheridan was one of a family who, not being of really ancient irish descent, does not, in my opinion, possess a banshee. in "personal sketches of his own times," by sir jonah barrington, we find (pp. - , vol. ii.) the account of a ghostly experience of the author and his wife, which experience the writer of the paragraph, referring to this work in the notes to t. c. croker's banshee stories, evidently considered was closely associated with the banshee. at the time of the incident, lord rossmore was commander-in-chief of the forces in ireland. he was a scot by birth, but had come over to ireland when very young, and had obtained the post of page to the lord-lieutenant. fortune had favoured him at every turn. not only had he been eminently successful in the vocation he finally selected, but he had been equally fortunate both with regard to love and money. the lady with whom he fell in love returned his affections, and, on their marriage, brought him a rich dowry. it was partly with her money that he purchased the estate of mount kennedy, and built on it one of the noblest mansions in wicklow. not very far from mount kennedy, and in the centre of what is termed the golden belt of ireland, stood dunran, the residence of the barringtons; so that lord rossmore and the barringtons were practically neighbours. one afternoon at the drawing-room at dublin castle, during the vice-royalty of earl hardwick, lord rossmore met lady barrington, and gave her a most pressing invitation to come to his house-party at mount kennedy the following day. "my little farmer," said he, addressing her by her pet name, "when you go home, tell sir jonah that no business is to prevent him from bringing you down to dine with me to-morrow. i will have no ifs in the matter--so tell him that come he must." lady barrington promised, and the following day saw her and sir jonah at mount kennedy. that night, at about twelve, they retired to rest, and towards two in the morning sir jonah was awakened by a sound of a very extraordinary nature. it occurred first at short intervals and resembled neither a voice nor an instrument, for it was softer than any voice, and wilder than any music, and seemed to float about in mid-air, now in one spot and now in another. to quote sir jonah's own language: "i don't know wherefore, but my heart beat forcibly; the sound became still more plaintive, till it almost died in the air; when a sudden change, as if excited by a pang, changed its tone; it seemed descending. i felt every nerve tremble: it was not a natural sound, nor could i make out the point from whence it came. at length i awakened lady barrington, who heard it as well as myself. she suggested that it might be an Æolian harp; but to that instrument it bore no resemblance--it was altogether a different character of sound. my wife at first appeared less affected than i; but subsequently she was more so. we now went to a large window in our bedroom, which looked directly upon a small garden underneath. the sound seemed then, obviously, to ascend from a grass plot immediately below our window. it continued. lady barrington requested i would call up her maid, which i did, and she was evidently more affected than either of us. the sounds lasted for more than half an hour. at last a deep, heavy, throbbing sigh seemed to come from the spot, and was shortly succeeded by a sharp, low cry, and by the distinct exclamation, thrice repeated, of 'rossmore!--rossmore!--rossmore!' i will not attempt to describe my own feelings," sir jonah goes on. "the maid fled in terror from the window, and it was with difficulty i prevailed on lady barrington to return to bed; in about a minute after the sound died gradually away until all was still." sir jonah adds that lady barrington, who was not so superstitious as himself, made him promise he would not mention the incident to anyone next day, lest they should be the laughing stock of the place. at about seven in the morning, sir jonah's servant, lawler, rapped at the bedroom door and began, "oh, lord, sir!", in such agitated tones, that sir jonah at once cried out: "what's the matter?" "oh, sir," lawler ejaculated, "lord rossmore's footman was running past my door in great haste, and told me in passing that my lord, after coming from the castle, had gone to bed in perfect health (lord rossmore, though advanced in years, had always appeared to be singularly robust, and sir jonah had never once heard him complain he was unwell), but that about two-thirty this morning his own man, hearing a noise in his master's bed (he slept in the same room), went to him, and found him in the agonies of death; and before he could alarm the other servants, all was over." sir jonah remarks that lord rossmore was actually dying at the moment lady barrington and he (sir jonah) heard his lordship's name pronounced; and he adds that he is totally unequal to the task of accounting for the sounds by any natural causes. the question that most concerns me is whether they were due to the banshee or not, and as lord rossmore was not apparently of ancient irish lineage, i am inclined to think the phenomena owed its origin to some other class of phantasm; perhaps to one that had been attached to lord rossmore's family in scotland. moreover, i have never heard of the banshee speaking as the invisible presence spoke on that occasion; the phenomena certainly seems to me to be much more scottish than irish. chapter vi dual and triple banshee hauntings it is a somewhat curious, and, perhaps, a not very well-known fact, that some families possess two banshees, a friendly and an unfriendly one; whilst a few, though a few only, possess three--a friendly, an unfriendly, and a neutral one. a case of the two banshees resulting in a dual banshee haunting was told me quite recently by a man whom i met in paris at henriette's in montparnasse. he was a scot, a journalist, of the name of menzies, and his story concerned an irish friend of his, also a journalist, whom i will call o'hara. from what i could gather, these two men were of an absolutely opposite nature. o'hara--warm-hearted, impulsive, and generous to a degree; menzies--somewhat cold, careful with regard to money, and extremely cautious; and yet, apart from their vocation which was the apparent link between them, they possessed one characteristic in common--they both adored pretty women. the high brow and extreme feminist with her stolid features and intensely supercilious smile was a nightmare to them; they sought always something pleasing, and dainty, and free from academic conceits; and they found it in paris--at henriette's. it so happened one day that, unable to get a table at henriette's, the place being crowded, they wandered along the boulevard montparnasse, and turned into a new restaurant close to the boulevard raspail. this place, too, was very full, but there was one small table, at which sat alone a young girl, and, at o'hara's suggestion, they at once made for it. "you sly fellow," menzies whispered to his friend, after they had been seated a few minutes, "i know why you were so anxious to come here." "well, wasn't i right," o'hara, whose eyes had never once left the girl's face, responded. "she's the prettiest i've seen for many a day." "not bad!" menzies answered, somewhat critically. "but i don't like her mouth, it's wolfish." o'hara, however, could see no fault in her; the longer he gazed at her, the deeper and deeper he fell in love; not that there was anything very unusual in that, because o'hara was no sooner off with one flame than he was on with another; and he averaged at least two or three love cases a year. but to menzies this latest affair was annoying; he knew that when o'hara lost his heart he generally lost his head too, and could never talk or think on any topic but the eyes, hair, mouth and finger-nails--for, like most irishmen, o'hara had a passion for well-kept, well-formed hands--of his new divinity, and on this occasion he did want o'hara to remain sane a little longer. it was, then, for this reason chiefly, that menzies did not get a little excited over the new discovery, too; for he was bound to admit that, in spite of the lupine expression about the mouth, there was some excuse this time for his friend's enthusiasm. the girl was pretty, an almost perfect blonde, with daintily shaped hands, and dressed as only a young paris beauty can dress, who has money and leisure at her command. yes, there was excuse; and yet it was the height of folly. girls mean expenditure in one way or another, and just now neither he nor o'hara had anything to spend. while he was thinking, however, o'hara was acting. he offered the girl a cigarette, she smilingly rejected it; but the ice was broken, and the conversation begun. there is no need to go into any particulars as to what followed--it was what always did follow in a case of this description--blind infatuation that invariably ended with a startling abruptness; only in this instance the infatuation was blinder than ever, and the ending, though sudden, was not usual. o'hara asked the girl to dinner with him that night. she accepted, and he took her out again the following evening. from that moment all reason left him, and he gave himself up to the maddest of mad passions. menzies saw little of him, but when they did by chance happen to meet it was always the same old tale--gabrielle! gabrielle delacourt. her star-like eyes, gorgeous hair, and so forth. then came a night when menzies, tired of his own company, wandered off to montmartre, and met a fellow-countryman of his, by name douglas. "i say, old fellow," the latter remarked, as they lolled over a little marble-topped table and watched the evolutions of a more than usually daring vaudeville artiste, "i say, how about that irish pal of yours, 'o' something or other. i saw him here the other night with marie diblanc." "marie diblanc!" menzies articulated. "i have never heard of her." "not heard of marie diblanc!" douglas exclaimed. "why i thought every journalist in paris knew of her, but perhaps she was before your time, for she's had a pretty long spell of prison--at least five or six years, which as you know is pretty stiff nowadays for a woman--and has only recently come out. she was quite a kiddie when they bagged her, but a kiddie with a mind as old as brinvillier's in crime and vice--she robbed and all but murdered her own mother for a few louis, besides forging cheques and stealing wholesale from shops and hotels. they say she was in with all the worst crooks in europe, and surpassed them all in subtlety and daring. when i saw her the other night her hair was dyed, and she was wearing the most saint-like expression; but i knew her all the same. she couldn't disguise her mouth or her hands, and it is those features that i notice in a woman more than anything else." "describe her to me," menzies said. "a brunette originally," douglas replied, "but now a blonde--masses of very elaborately waved golden hair; peculiarly long eyes--rather too intensely blue and far apart for my liking--a well-moulded mouth, though the lips are far too thin, and give her away at once." "that's the girl," menzies exclaimed emphatically. "that's the girl he calls gabrielle delacourt. i was with him the day he first met her--over in montparnasse." douglas nodded. "that's right," he said. "that's the name he introduced her to me by. but, i'm quite positive she's marie diblanc; and i think you ought to give him the tip. if he's seen about with her he'll be suspected by the police. besides, she is sure to commit some crime--for a girl with that kind of face and history never reforms, she goes on being right down bad to the bitter end--and get him implicated. only, possibly, she will use him as her tool." "i'll see him and warn him," menzies said. "i'll call at his place to-night, though there's no knowing when he'll turn up, for he's the most erratic creature under the sun." true to his word, menzies, after a few more minutes' conversation, got up and retraced his steps to montparnasse. o'hara lived in the rue campagne première, close to the famous "rabbit warren." his door, as not infrequently happened, was unlocked, but he was out. menzies went in, and, entering the little room which served as a parlour, dining-room, and study combined, threw himself into an armchair and lit a cigarette. he did not bother to light up as it was a moonlight night, and the darkness suited his present mood. after a while, however, feeling a little chilly, he turned on the gas fire, and then, glancing at the clock over the mantel-shelf, perceived it was close on twelve. at that instant there was a noise outside, and, thinking it was o'hara, he called out, "hulloa, bob, is that you?" as there was no response he called again, and this time there was a laugh--an ugly, malevolent kind of chuckle that made menzies jump up at once and angrily demand who was there. no one replying, he went to the room door, and, opening it wide, saw a few yards from him a tall dark figure enveloped in what appeared to be a cloak and gown. "hulloa!" he cried. "who are you, and what the ---- do you want here?" whereupon the figure drew aside its covering and revealed a face that caused menzies to utter an exclamation of terror and spring back. it was the face of an old woman with very high cheek-bones, tightly drawn shrivelled skin, and obliquely set pale eyes that gleamed banefully as they met menzies' horrified stare. a disordered mass of matted yellow hair crowned her head and descended half-way to her shoulders, revealing, however, her ears, which stood out prominently from her head, huge and pointed, like those of an enormous wolf. a leadenish white glow seemed to emanate from within her and to intensify the general horror of her appearance. though menzies had never believed in ghosts before, he felt certain now that he was looking at something which did not belong to this world. it was, he affirmed, so absolutely hellish that he would have uttered a prayer and bid it begone, had not his words died in his throat so that he could not articulate a sound. he then tried to raise a hand to cross himself, but this, also, he was unable to do; and the only thing he found he could do, was to stare at it in dumb, open-mouthed horror and wonder. how long this state of affairs might have gone on it is impossible to say; but at the sound of heavy and unmistakably human footsteps, first in the lower part of the building, and then ascending the stone staircase leading to this flat, the old woman disappeared, apparently amalgamating with the somewhat artistic hangings on the wall behind her. menzies was still rubbing his eyes and looking when o'hara burst in upon him. "hulloa, donald, is that you?" he began. "i've done it." "done what?" menzies stuttered, his nerves all anyhow. "why, proposed to gabrielle, of course," o'hara went on excitedly, "and she's accepted me. she, the prettiest, sweetest, finest little colleen i've ever come across, has told me she will marry me. ye gods, i shall go off my head with joy; go stark, staring mad, i tell you." and crossing the floor of the study he tumbled into the chair menzies himself had just occupied. "i say, old fellow, why don't you congratulate me?" he continued. "i do congratulate you," menzies observed, taking another seat. "of course i congratulate you, but are you sure she is the sort of girl you will always care about or who will always care about you. you haven't known her very long, and most women cost a deuced lot of money, especially french ones. don't take the irrevocable steps before contemplating them well first." "i have," o'hara retorted, "so it's no use sermonising. i have made up my mind to marry gabrielle, and nothing on earth will deter me." "do you know her people, or anything about them?" menzies ventured. o'hara laughed. "no," he said, "but that doesn't bother me in the slightest. i shouldn't care whether her father was a navvy or a publican, or whether her mother took in washing and pinched a few odd shirts and socks now and again, only as it happens, they don't affect the question at all, because they are both dead. gabrielle is an orphan--quite on her own--so i am perfectly safe as far as that goes. no pompous papa to consult, no cantankerous old mother-in-law to dread. gabrielle was educated at a convent school, and, though you may laugh, knows next to nothing of the world. she's as innocent as a butterfly. we are to be married next month." finding that it was no earthly use to say any more on the subject, just then at all events, menzies changed the conversation and referred to the incident of the old woman. o'hara at once became interested. "why," he said, "from your description she must have been one of the banshees that is supposed to haunt our family, and which my mother always declared she saw shortly before my father's death. a hideous hag with a shock head of tow-coloured hair, who stood on the staircase laughing devilishly, and then, all at once, vanished. she is known as the bad banshee to distinguish her from the good one, which is, so i have always been led to understand, very beautiful, but which never manifests itself, saving when anything especially dreadful is going to happen to an o'hara." feeling very uneasy in his mind, menzies now bid his friend good night, and went home. after that days passed and menzies saw nothing of o'hara, until one evening, when he was thinking it must be about now that the marriage was to take place, o'hara turned up at his flat, and proposed that they should go for a stroll in the direction of the fortifications near montsouris. but o'hara was not in his usual good spirits; he seemed very glum and depressed, and menzies gathered that there had been occasional differences of opinion between his friend and gabrielle, and that the affair was not running quite as smoothly as it might. gabrielle had a great many admirers, one of them very rich, and o'hara was obviously very much annoyed at the attentions they had been bestowing on his fiancée, and at the manner in which she had received them. but there was something else, too; something he could see in his friend's face and manner, but which o'hara would not so much as hint at. menzies was, of course, pleased, for there now seemed to be a glimmer of hope that these frictions would materialise into something stronger and more definite, and lead to a rupture that would be final. he was so engrossed in speculations of this nature that he forgot all about the time or where they were, and was only brought back to earth by the whistle and shriek of a train, which made him at once realise they had left montsouris and were several miles without the fortifications. it was also getting very dusk, and, as he had to be up unusually early in the morning, he suggested to o'hara they had better turn back. they were then close beside a clump of bushes and a very lofty pine tree that was bending to and fro in such a peculiar manner that menzies' attention was at once directed to it. "what's wrong with that tree?" he remarked, pointing at it with his stick. "what's wrong with the tree?" o'hara laughed. "why, it's not the tree there's anything the matter with--the tree's all right, quite all right--it's you. what on earth are you staring at it for in that ridiculous fashion? have you suddenly gone mad?" menzies made no reply, but went up to the tree and examined it. as he was doing so, a slight disturbance in the bushes made him glance around, and he saw, a few feet from him, the tall figure of a girl, clad in a kind of long flowing mantle, but with bare head and feet. the moonlight was on her face, and menzies, hard and difficult though he was, as a rule, to please, realised it was lovely, far more lovely, so he declared afterwards, than any woman's face he had ever gazed upon. the eyes particularly impressed him, for, although in the darkness he could not tell their colour, he could see that they were of an extremely beautiful shape and setting, and seemed to be filled with a sorrow that was almost more than her heart could bear. indeed, so poignant was this sorrow of hers, that menzies, infected by it, too, could not keep back the tears from his own eyes; and, dour and unemotional as he was by nature, his whole being suddenly became literally steeped in sadness and pity. the girl looked straight at him, but only for a few seconds; she then turned towards o'hara, and seemed to concentrate her whole attention upon him. there was now, menzies thought, a certain indistinctness and a something shadowy about her that he had not at first noticed, and he was thinking how he could test her to see if she were really a substance or merely an optical illusion, when o'hara, who was getting tired at his long absence, called out, whereupon the girl at once vanished, uttering, as she melted away in the background, in the same inexplicable manner as the old woman had done, such an awful, harrowing, wailing shriek, that it seemed to fill the whole air, and to linger on for an eternity. thoroughly terrified, menzies, as soon as his scattered senses could collect themselves, fled from the spot, and didn't cease running till o'hara's angry shout brought him to a standstill. to his astonishment o'hara hadn't heard anything, and was only annoyed at his seemingly mad behaviour. in answer to his description of the girl, however, and the wailing, o'hara at once declared it was the banshee, and the one he had always been so particularly anxious to see. "unless you are having a joke at my expense," he said, "and you look too genuinely scared for that, you have actually seen her--a very beautiful girl, dressed after some old-time irish custom, in a loose flowing green mantle--only of course you couldn't see the colour--with head and feet bare. but it's odd about that wail. the good banshee in a family is always supposed to make it, but why didn't i hear her? why should it only be you? you're scotch, not irish." "for which i'm truly thankful," menzies said with warmth. "i've lived without ever seeing or hearing a ghost or anything approaching one for thirty-eight years, and now i've seen and heard two, within the short space of three weeks, and all because of you, because you're irish. no thanks. none of your banshees for me. i'd rather, ten thousand times rather, be just an ordinary laddie from the highlands, and dispense with your highly aristocratic and fastidious family ghost." "come, now," o'hara said good-humouredly, "we won't quarrel about so unsubstantial a thing as the banshee. let's hurry up and have a bottle of cognac to make us think of something rather more cheerful." menzies often thought of those words, for it is not infrequently the most trifling words and actions that haunt our memory to the greatest extent in after days. the rest of the evening passed quite uneventfully, and, after they had "toasted" each other, the two friends separated for the night. two days later o'hara's body lay in the morque, whither it had been taken from the seine. though there were some doubts expressed as to the exact manner in which he had met his death, it was officially recorded "death from misadventure," and it was not till several years later menzies learned the truth. he was then in mexico, in a little town not twenty miles from san blas, on the western coast, doing some newspaper work for a south american paper. a storekeeper and his wife were murdered; done to death in a singularly cruel manner, even for those parts, and one of the assassins was caught red-handed. the other, a woman, succeeded in escaping. as there had been so many murders lately in that neighbourhood, the townspeople declared they would make a very severe example of the culprit, and hang him, right away, on the scene of his diabolical outrage. menzies, who had never witnessed anything of the kind before, and was, of course, anxious for copy, took good care to be present. he stood quite close to the handcuffed man, and caught every word of the confession he made to the local padre. he gave his name as andré fécamps, his age as twenty-five, and his nationality as french. he asserted that he was first induced to take to crime through falling in love with a notorious french criminal of the name of marie diblanc, who accepted him as her lover, conditionally on his joining the band of apaches of which she was the recognised leader. he did so, and forthwith plunged into every kind of wickedness imaginable. among other crimes in which he was implicated he mentioned that of the murder of an irishman of the name of o'hara, who was supposed to have met with an accidental death from drowning in the seine. what really happened, so the young desperado said, was this. m. o'hara was madly in love with marie diblanc, who was posing to him as gabrielle delacourt, an innocent young girl from the country, when she was already very much married, and was being searched for high and low, at that very time, by certainly more than one desperate husband. well, one day she persuaded m. o'hara to take her to a dance given by some very wealthy friends of his. he did so, and she contrived, unknown to him of course, to smuggle me in, and between us we walked off with something like ten thousand pounds of jewellery. m. o'hara came to suspect her--how i don't know, unless he overheard some stray conversation between her and some other member of our gang at one of the restaurants they used to dine at. anyhow, she got to know of it, and at once resolved to have him put out of the way. it was arranged that she should bring him to a house in montmartre, where several of us were in hiding, and that we should both kill and bury him there. well, he came, and, on perceiving that he had fallen into a trap, besought her, if his life must be forfeited--and, anyhow, now he knew she was a thief he wouldn't have it otherwise--to take it herself. this she eventually agreed to do, and, lying in her arms, he allowed her to press a poison-bag over his mouth, and so put him to death. his body was taken to the seine that night in a fiacre and dropped in. fécamps added that it was the only occasion upon which he had seen marie diblanc really moved, and he believed she was a trifle fond of the irishman, that is to say, if she could be genuinely fond of anyone. menzies, who was of course deeply interested, extracted every particle of information he could out of the man, but nothing would make the latter admit a word as to what had become of diblanc. "if i go to hell," he said, "she is certain to go there, too; for bad as i am, i believe her to be infinitely worse; worse, a hundred times worse than any apache man i have ever met. and yet, depraved and evil as she is, i love her, and shall never know a second's happiness till she joins me." the man died; and menzies, as he made a sketch of his swinging body, felt thoroughly satisfied at last that the ghost he had seen outside the fortifications of monsouris was the good and beautiful banshee, the banshee that only manifested itself when some unusually dreadful fate was about to overtake an o'hara. chapter vii a similar case from spain another case of dual banshee haunting that occurs to me, took place in spain, where so many of the oldest irish families have settled, and was related to me by a distant connection of mine--an o'donnell. he well remembered, he said, many years ago, when he was a boy, his father, who was an officer in the carlist army, telling him of an adventure that happened to him during the first outbreak of the civil war. his father and another young man, dick o'flanagan, were subalterns in a cavalry regiment that took a prominent part in a desperate engagement with the queen's army. the carlists were being driven back, when, as a last desperate resource, their bare handful of cavalry charged and immediately turned the fortunes of the day. in the heat of the affray, however, ralph o'donnell and dick o'flanagan, carried away by their enthusiasm, got separated from the rest of the corps, and were, consequently, overpowered by sheer numbers and taken prisoners. in those days much brutality was shown on either side, and our two heroes, beaten, and bruised, and starving, were dragged along in a half-fainting condition, amid the taunts and gibings of their captors, till they were finally lodged in the filthy dungeon of an old mountain castle, where they were informed they would be kept till the hour appointed for their execution. the moment they were alone, they made the most strenuous efforts to unloosen the thongs of tough cowhide with which their hands and feet were so cruelly bound together, and, after many frantic endeavours, they at last succeeded. o'flanagan was the first to get free, and as soon as his numbed limbs allowed him to do so, he crawled to the side of his friend and liberated him, too. they then examined the room as best they could in the dark, and decided their only hope of escape lay in the chimney, which, luckily for them, was one of those old-fashioned structures, wide enough to admit the passage of a full-grown person. ralph began the ascent first, and, after several fruitless efforts, during which he bumped and bruised himself and made such a noise that o'flanagan feared he would be heard by the guard outside, he eventually managed to obtain a foothold and make sufficient progress for o'flanagan to follow in his wake. in everything they did that night luck favoured them. on emerging from the chimney on to the roof of the castle, they were rejoiced to find a tree growing so near to one of the walls that they had little difficulty in gripping hold of one of its branches and so descending in safety to the ground. the guards apparently were asleep, at least none were to be seen anywhere, and so, feeling their way cautiously in and out a thick growth of trees and bushes, they soon got altogether clear of the premises, and found themselves once again free, but in a part of the country with which they were totally unacquainted. two hours tramping along a tortuous, hilly high road, or to give it a more appropriate name, track, for it was nothing more, at last brought them to a wayside inn where, in spite of the advanced hour--for it was between one and two o'clock in the morning--they determined to risk inquiry for a night's shelter. i say "risk" because there was a strong spirit of partisanship abroad, and it was quite as likely as not that the inn people were adherents of the queen. ralph knocked repeatedly, and the door was at length opened by a young girl who, holding a candlestick in one hand, sleepily rubbed her eyes with the other and, in rather petulant tones, asked what the gentlemen meant by coming to the house at such an unearthly hour and waking everyone up. ralph and o'flanagan were so struck by her appearance that for some seconds they could only stand gaping at her, deprived of all power of speech. such a vision of loveliness neither of them had seen for many a long day, and both were more than ordinarily susceptible where the fair sex was concerned. dark, like most of the girls are in spain, she was not swarthy, but had, on the other hand, a most singularly fair complexion, devoid of that tendency to hairiness which is apparent in so many of the women of that country. her features were, perhaps, a trifle too bold, but in strict proportion, and her eyes a wee bit hard, though the shape and colour of them--by candlelight an almost purplish grey--were singularly beautiful. she had very white teeth, too, though there was a something about her mouth, in the setting of the lips when they were closed for instance, and in the general expression, that puzzled ralph, and which was destined to return to his mind many times afterwards. ralph noticed, too, that her hands were not those of a peasant class, of a class that has to do much rough and hard work, but that they were white and well-kept, the fingers tapering and the nails long and almond shaped. she wore several rings and bracelets, and seemed altogether different from the type of girl one would have expected to find in such a very unpretentious kind of building, situated, too, in such a very remote spot. ralph was not quite as impulsive as his friend, and although, as i have said, very susceptible, was not so far led away by his feelings as to be altogether incapable of observation. his first impressions of the girl were that, although she was extraordinarily pretty, there was something--apart even from her mouth--that he could not fathom, and which caused him a vague uneasiness; he noticed it particularly when her glance wandered to their travel-stained uniforms, and momentarily alighted on o'flanagan's solitary ring, which contained a ruby and was a kind of family mascot, akin to the famous cathach of count daniel o'donnell of tirconnell; and she muttered something which ralph fancied had reference to the word "carlists," and then, as if conscious he was watching her, she raised her eyes quickly and, in tones of sleepy indifference this time, asked what the gentlemen wanted. ralph immediately replied that they required a bed with breakfast, not too early, and, perhaps, later on--luncheon. he added that if the inn was full they wouldn't in the least mind sleeping in a barn or stable. "all we want," he said, "is to lie down somewhere with a roof over our heads, for we are terribly tired." at the mention of a stable the girl smiled, saying she could offer them something rather better than that; and, bidding both follow her upstairs, with as little noise as possible, she conducted them to a large room with a very low ceiling, and, having deposited the candlestick on a chest of drawers, she wished them good night and noiselessly withdrew. "rather better than our late quarters in the prison," ralph exclaimed, taking a survey of the apartment, "but a wee bit gloomy." "nonsense!" o'flanagan retorted. "the only gloomy things here are your own thoughts. i want to stay here always, for i never saw a prettier girl or a cosier-looking bed." he began to undress as he spoke, and in a few minutes both young men were stretched out at full length fast asleep. about two hours later ralph awoke with a violent start to hear distinct sounds of footsteps tiptoeing their way softly along the passage outside towards their room door. in an instant all his faculties were on the alert, and he sat up in bed and listened. then something stirred in the corner by the window, and, glancing in that direction, he saw to his astonishment the figure of a tall slim girl, in a long, loose, flowing gown of some dark material, with a very pale face, beautifully chiselled, though by no means strictly classical features, and masses of shining golden hair that fell in rippling confusion on to her neck and shoulders. the idea that she was the banshee instantly occurred to him. from his father's description of her, for his father had often spoken to him about her, she and the beautiful woman, whom he was now looking at, were certainly very much alike; besides, as the banshee, when his father saw her, was crying, and this woman was crying--crying most bitterly, her whole body swaying to and fro as if racked with the most poignant sorrow--he could not help thinking that the identity between them was established, and that they were, in fact, one and the same person. as he was still gazing at her with the most profound pity and admiration, his attention was suddenly directed, by an odd scratching sound, to the window, where he saw, pressed against the glass, and looking straight in at him, a face which in every detail presented the most startling contrast to that upon which his eyes had, but a second ago, been feasting. it was so evil that he felt sure it could only emanate from the lowest inferno, and it leered at him with such appalling malignancy that, brave man as he had proved himself on the field of battle, he now completely lost his nerve, and would have called out, had not both figures suddenly vanished, their disappearance being immediately followed by the most agonising, heart-rending screams, intermingled with loud laughter and diabolical chuckling, which, for the moment, completely paralysed him. the screams continued for some seconds, during which time every atom of blood in ralph's veins seemed to freeze, and then there was silence--deep and sepulchral silence. afraid to be any longer in the dark, ralph jumped out of bed and lit the candle, and, as he did so, he distinctly heard footsteps move hurriedly away from the door and go stealthily tiptoeing down the passage. as may be imagined, he did not sleep again for some time, not, indeed, until daylight, when he gradually fell into a doze, from which he was eventually aroused by loud thumps on the door, and the voice of the pretty inn maiden announcing that it was time to get up. after breakfast he narrated his experience in the night to o'flanagan, who, somewhat to his astonishment, did not laugh, but exclaimed quite seriously: "why, you have seen our banshee. at least, the girl in green is our banshee. i saw her before the death of a cousin of mine, and she appeared to my mother the night before my father died. i don't know what the other apparition could have been, unless it was what my father used to term the 'hateful banshee,' which he said was only supposed to appear before some very dreadful catastrophe, worse even than death, if anything could be worse." "you haven't the monopoly of banshees," ralph laughed. "we have one too, and i am positive the woman i saw--the beautiful woman i mean--was the o'donnell banshee. i would have you know that the limerick o'donnells, with whom i am connected, are quite as old a family as the o'flanagans; they are, indeed, directly descended from niall of the nine hostages." "so are we," o'flanagan answered hotly, then he burst out laughing. "well, well," he said, "fancy quarrelling about anything as immaterial as a banshee. but, anyhow, if they were banshees that you saw last night, they're a bit out in their calculations. they should have come before that skirmish, not after it; unless it's the death of some relative of one of us they're prophesying. i hope it's not my sister." "i don't imagine it has anything to do with you," ralph replied. "they were both looking at me." he was about to say something further, when o'flanagan, seeing the young girl come into the room to clear away the breakfast things, at once began talking to her; and as it was only too evident that he wanted the field to himself, for he was obviously head over ears in love, ralph got up and announced his intention of taking a walk round the premises. "don't go in the wood, señor, whatever you do," the girl observed, "for it is infested with brigands. they do not interfere with us because we were once good to one of their sick folk--and the spaniard, brigand though he may be, never forgets a kindness--but they attack strangers, and you will be well advised to keep to the high road." "which is the nearest town?" ralph demanded. "trijello," the girl answered, the same curious expression creeping into her eyes that had puzzled ralph so much before, and which he found impossible to analyse. "it is about eight miles from here. don hervado, the governor, is a carlist, and was entertaining some carlist soldiers there yesterday." "good!" ralph exclaimed. "i will walk there. will you come with me, dick, or will you wait here till i return. i don't suppose i shall be back much before the evening." "oh, don't hurry," o'flanagan laughed, eyeing the girl rapturously, "i am perfectly happy here, and want a rest badly. don't, whatever you do, let on to anyone connected with headquarters where we are. let them go on imagining, for a while, we are dead." "the señors have been in a battle, yes?" the girl interrupted, shyly. "a battle," o'flanagan laughed, "not half one. why, we were taken prisoners and only escaped hanging through my unparalleled wits and perseverance. however, i don't in the least bemoan the perils and hardships we have undergone, for, had events turned out otherwise, we should never have had the joy of seeing you, señora," and catching hold of her hand, before she could prevent him, he pressed it fervently to his lips, smothering it with kisses. thinking it was high time to be off, ralph now took his departure. a couple of hours' walking brought him to trijello, where, but for a lucky incident, he might have found himself landed in a quandary. as he was entering the outskirts of the town he met an old peasant, staggering under a sack of onions, and no sooner did the latter catch sight of his uniform than he at once called out: "señor, if you value your liberty, you won't enter trijello in that costume. the governor is the sworn enemy of all carlists, and has given strict orders that, anyone with leanings towards that party shall be put under arrest at once." "are you sure?" ralph exclaimed. "why, i was told it was just the other way about, and that he was a strong adherent of our cause." "whoever told you that, lied," the old man responded, "for he had a nephew of mine shot only yesterday morning for saying in public he hoped that wretched weakling of a woman would soon be put off the throne and we should have someone who was fit to govern--meaning don carlos--in her place. take my advice, señor, and either change those clothes at once or give trijello as wide a berth as possible." ralph then asked him if there was any place near at hand where he could purchase a civilian suit, and, on being informed that there was a jew's shop within a few minutes' walk, he thanked the old man most cordially for giving him so friendly a warning, and at once proceeded there. to cut a long story short he bought the clothes and, thus disguised, went on into the town, and, with the object of picking up any information he could with regard to the enemy's forces, he dined at the principal hotel, and listened attentively to the conversation that was taking place all around him. later on in the day some christino soldiers arrived, officers on the staff of one of the royalist generals, and ralph decided to remain in the hotel for the night and see if he could get hold of some really definite news that might be of value to his own headquarters. learning that someone would be leaving the hotel shortly and passing by the inn where o'flanagan was staying, he gave them a note to give to his friend, stating that he could not be back till the following day, perhaps about noon. he then took up his seat before the parlour fire, apparently absorbed in reading the latest bulletin from madrid, but in reality keeping his ears well open for any conversation that might be worth transcribing in his pocket-book. nor was he disappointed, for the christino soldiers waxed very talkative over some of mine host's best port, and disclosed many secrets concerning the movements of the queen's forces, that would have most certainly entailed a court martial, had it but come to the notice of their general. that night, though the room he was given was quite bright and cheerful, and very different from the one he had occupied the night before, his mind was so full of grim apprehension that he found it quite impossible to sleep. he kept thinking of the vision he had seen--that lovely, fairy face of the girl with the golden hair, her adorable eyes, her heavenly, albeit very human mouth; she was so perfect, so angelic, so full of delicious sympathy and pity; so unlike any earthly woman he had ever met; and then that other face--those intensely evil, pale green eyes, that sinister mocking mouth, that dreadfully disordered mass of matted, tow-coloured hair. it was too hellish--too inconceivably foul and baneful to dare think about, and seized with a fit of shuddering, he thrust his head under the bedclothes, lest he should see it again appearing before him. what, he wondered, did they portend? not some horrible happening to dick. he had always understood that the one who neither sees nor hears the banshee during its manifestations is the one that is doomed to die. and yet dick was assuredly as safe in that inn as he was here--here, surrounded on all sides by his enemies. once or twice he fancied he heard his name called, and so realistic was it, that, forgetful of his dread of seeing something satanic in the room, he at last sat up in bed and listened. all was still, however; there were no sounds at all; none whatever, saving the gentle whispering of the wind, as it swept softly past the window, and the far-away hooting of a night bird. then he lay down again, and once more there seemed to come to him from somewhere very close at hand a voice that articulated very clearly and plaintively his name--ralph, ralph, ralph!--three times in quick succession, and then ceased. nor did he hear it again. tired and unrested, he got up early and, paying his bill, set off with long, rapid strides in the direction of the wayside inn. there was an air of delightful peace and tranquillity about the place when he arrived. all the sunbeams seemed to have congregated in just that one spot, and to have converted the walls and window-panes of the little old-fashioned building into sheets of burnished gold. birds twittered merrily on the tree-tops and under the eaves of the roof, and the most delicious smell of honeysuckle and roses permeated the whole atmosphere. ralph was enchanted, and all his grim forebodings of the night before were instantly dissipated. the abode was truly named "the travellers' rest"; it might even have been styled "the travellers' paradise," for all seemed so calm and serene--so truly heavenly. he rapped at the door, and, after some moments, rapped again. he then heard footsteps, which somehow seemed strangely familiar, cautiously come along the stone passage and pause at the other side of the door, as if their owner were in doubt whether to open it or not. again he rapped, and this time the door was opened, and the young girl appeared. she looked rather pale, but was very much sprucer and smarter than she had been when ralph last saw her. she wore a very bewitching kind of gipsy frock of red velvet--the skirt very short and the bodice adorned with masses of shining silver coins, whilst her feet were clad in very smart, dainty shoes, also red, with big silver buckles. "your friend's gone," she said. "he seemed very upset at your not turning up last night, and went away directly after breakfast." "but didn't he get my note?" ralph exclaimed, "and didn't he leave any message?" "no, señor," the girl replied. "no note came for him, but he said he would try and call in here again to-morrow morning, to see if you had arrived." "and he didn't say where he had gone?" "no." ralph eyed her quizzically. she certainly was wonderfully pretty, and, marvellous to relate, did not smell of garlic. yes, he would stay, and try and come under the fascination of her beauty as dick had done. and yet, why had dick gone off in such a hurry? what had this starry-eyed creature done to offend him? ralph knew o'flanagan was at times apt to be over-impulsive and hasty in his love-makings. had he got on a bit too rapidly? spanish girls are very easily upset, and perhaps this one had a lover in the background. perhaps she was married. that seemed to him the most feasible explanation for dick's absence. to be offended at his not turning up last night was all nonsense. ralph knew his friend far too well for that. anyhow, he decided to stay, and the girl offered him the room he and dick had previously occupied. only, she explained, he must not go in it till later on in the day, as it was going to be cleaned. after luncheon, which he sat down to alone, as the girl, despite his pressing invitation, refused to partake of the meal with him, on the plea that she had many things to attend to, he went a little way up the hillside at the back of the premises, and enjoyed a quiet siesta under the shadow of the trees. indeed, he slept so long that the twilight had well set in before he awoke and once again made tracks for the inn. this time he entered by a doorway in the rear of the house, and, in a small paved courtyard, saw the girl, habited in a rather more workaday attire, but with her hair still very coquettishly decorated with ribbons, sharpening a long glistening knife on a big grinding stone, which she was turning round and round with the skill of a past mistress of the art. "hulloa!" he exclaimed. "what are you up to? not sharpening that blade to stick me with, i hope." "the señor has heard of pigs," the girl replied, showing her beautiful teeth in a smile, almost amounting to a grin. "well, i'm going to kill one to-night." "good heavens!" ralph ejaculated, glancing incredulously at the white, rounded arms and the long, slim, tapering fingers. "you kill a pig! do you do all the work of this house? is there no one else here to help you?" "oh, yes, señor," the girl laughed. "there is isabella, an old woman who comes here every day to do all the hard rough work, and my aunt, but there are certain jobs they can't do because their eyesight is not very good, and their hands lack the skill. the gentleman looks shocked, but is there anything so very dreadful in killing a pig? one slash and it is quickly done--very quickly. we have to live somehow, and, after all, the señor is a soldier--he follows the vocation of killing!" "oh, yes, it is all very well for big, rough men. one somehow associates them with deeds of violence and bloodshed. but with beautiful, dainty girls like you it is different. you should shudder at the very thought of blood, and be all pity and compassion." "but not for pigs," the girl laughed, "nor for señors. now please go in and sit in the parlour, or my aunt will hear me talking to you and accuse me of wasting my time." ralph reluctantly obeyed, and drawing his chair close up to the parlour fire--for the summer evenings in spain are often very chilly--was soon deeply absorbed in plans and speculations as to the future. after supper, when the young girl came into the room to clear the table, ralph noticed that she was once again wearing the gay apparel she had worn earlier in the day; and all in red, even to the ribbons in her hair, she seemed to be dressed more coquettishly than ever. she was also inclined to be more communicative, and in response to ralph's invitation to partake of a glass of wine with him, she fetched an armchair and came and planted it close beside him. pretty as he had thought her before, she now appeared to him to be indescribably lovely, and the longer he stared at her, stared into the depths of her large, beautifully shaped purplish grey eyes, the more and more hopelessly enslaved did he become, till, in the end, he realised she had him completely at her mercy, and that he was most madly and desperately in love with her. they drank together, and so absorbed was he in gazing at her eyes--indeed he never ceased gazing at them--that he did not observe what he was drinking or how many times she filled up his glass. if she had given him a poisoned goblet, it would have been all the same, he would have drained it off and kissed her hands and feet with his dying breath. "now, señor," she said at length, after he had held her hand to his lips and literally smothered it in kisses, "now, señor, it is time for you to go to bed. we do not keep late hours here, and to-morrow, señor, if he is still in the same state of mind, will have plenty of time for repeating to me his sentiments." "to-morrow," ralph stuttered. "to-morrow, that is a tremendous way off, and isn't it to-morrow that that fellow o'flanagan is coming?" the girl laughed. "yes," she said saucily, "there will be two of you to-morrow, the one as bad as the other, and i did think, señor, you were the steadier of the two. well, well, you are both soldiers, and soldiers were ever gay dogs; but you must be careful, señor, you and your friend do not quarrel, for, as you know, more than one friendship has been terminated through the witching glance of a lady's eyes, and you both seem to like looking into mine." "what!" ralph stuttered angrily. "did that fellow dick look at you? did he dare to look at you? damn----" but before he could utter another syllable, the girl put her soft little hand over his mouth and pushed him gently to the door. alternately making wild love to her and passionately denouncing dick, ralph then allowed himself to be got upstairs to his room by pushes and coaxings, and, as he made a last frantic effort to kiss and fondle her, the door slammed in his face and he found himself--alone. for some moments he stood tugging and twisting at the door handle, and then, finding that his efforts had no effect, he was staggering off to the bed with the intention of getting into it just as he was, when he caught his foot on something and fell with a crash to the floor, striking his face smartly on the edge of a chair. for a moment or so he was partially stunned, but, the flow of blood from his nose relieving him, he gradually came to his senses, all trace of his drunkenness having completely vanished. the first thing he did then was to look at the carpet which, by a stroke of luck, was crimson, a most pronounced, virulent crimson, exactly the colour of his blood. the spot where he had fallen was close to the bed, and, as his eyes wandered along the carpet by the side of the bed, he fancied he saw another damp patch. he at once fetched the candle and had a closer look. yes, there was a great splash of moisture on the floor, near the head of the bed, just about in a line with the pillow. he applied his finger to the patch and then held it to the light--it was wet with blood. filled with a sickening sense of apprehension, ralph now proceeded to make a careful examination of the room, and, lifting the lid of a huge oak chest that stood in one corner, he was horrified to perceive the naked body of a man lying at the bottom of it, all huddled up. gently raising the body and bending down to examine it, ralph received a second shock. the face that looked up at him with such utter lack of expression in its big, bulging, glassy eyes was that of the once gay and humorous dick o'flanagan. the manner of his death was only too obvious. his throat had been cut, not cleanly as a man would have done it, but with repeated hacks and slashes, that pointed all too clearly to a woman's handiwork. this then explained it all, explained the curious something in the girl's eyes and mouth he had noticed when he first saw her; explained, too, the stealthy, tiptoeing footsteps in the passage that night, the reason for the appearance of the banshees, the eagerness with which the girl had plied him with wine, her red dress--and--the red carpet. but why had she done it--for mere sordid robbery, or because they were carlists. then recollecting the look she had fixed on the ruby in dick's ring, the answer seemed clear. it was, of course, robbery. snake-like, she used those beautiful eyes of hers to fascinate her victims--to lull them into a false sense of security; and then, when they had wholly succumbed to love and wine, of which she gave them their fill, she butchered them. murders in spanish inns were by no means uncommon about that time, and even at a much later date, and had this murder been committed by some old and ugly and cross-grained "host," ralph would not have been surprised, but for this girl to have done it--this girl so young and enchanting, why it was almost inconceivable, and he would not have believed it, had not the grim proofs of it lain so close at hand. what was he to do? of course, now that he was sober and in the full possession of his faculties, it was ridiculous for him to be afraid of a girl, even though she were armed; but supposing she had confederates, and it was scarcely likely she would be alone in the house. no, he must try and escape; but how! he examined the window, it was heavily barred; he tried the door, it was locked on the outside; he looked up the chimney, it was far too narrow to admit the passage of anyone even half his size. he was done, and the only thing he could do was to wait. to wait till the girl tiptoed into the room to kill, and then--he couldn't bear the idea of fighting with her, even though she had so cruelly murdered poor dick--make his escape. with this end in view he blew out the candle, and, lying on the bed, pretended to be fast asleep. in about an hour's time he heard steps, soft, cautious footsteps, ascend the staircase and come stealing surreptitiously towards his door. then they paused, and he instinctively knew she was listening. he breathed heavily, just as a man would do who had drunk not wisely but too well, and had consequently fallen into a deep sleep. presently, there was a slight movement of the door handle. he continued breathing, and the movement was repeated. still more stentorian breaths, and the handle this time was completely turned. very gently he crept off the bed to the door, and, as it slowly opened and a figure in red, looking terribly ghostly and sinister, slipped in, so he suddenly shot past and made a bolt for the passage. there was a wild shriek, something whizzed past his head and fell with a loud clatter on the floor, and all the doors in the house downstairs seemed to open simultaneously. reaching the head of the stairs in a few bounds, he was down them in a trice. a hideous old hag rushed at him with a hatchet, whilst another aged creature, whose sex he could not determine, aimed a wild blow at him with some other instrument, but ralph avoided them both, and, reaching the front door, which providentially for him was merely locked, not bolted, he was speedily out of the house and into the broad highway. the screams of the women producing answering echoes from the wood in the hoarser shouts of men, ralph took to his heels, nor did he stop running until he was well on his way to trijello. he did not, however, go to the latter town, fearing that the inn people might follow him there and get him arrested as a carlist; instead, he struck off the high road along a side path, and, luckily for him, about noon fell in with an advanced guard of the carlist army. his troubles then, for a time at least, ceased; but to his lasting regret he was never able to avenge dick's death; for when the war was at last over and he had succeeded in persuading the local authorities to take the matter in hand, the inn was found to be empty and deserted. nor was the pretty murderess ever seen or heard of again in that neighbourhood. chapter viii the banshee on the battle-field although the banshee haunting referred to in my last chapter occurred during a war, the manifestations did not take place on the battle-field; nor were they actually due to the fighting. at the same time it cannot be denied that they were the outcome of it, for had our two lieutenants not been fighting desperately in a skirmish and got separated from the main body of the army, in all probability they never would have visited the wayside inn, and the banshee manifestations there would never have occurred. there are, however, many instances on record of banshee manifestations occurring on the battle-field, either immediately before or after, or even whilst the fighting was actually taking place. mr mcannaly, in his "irish wonders," p. , says: "before the battle of the boyne, banshees were heard singing in the air over the irish camp, the truth of the prophecy being verified by the death roll of the next morning." now several of my own immediate ancestors took part in the battle of the boyne,[ ] and according to a family tradition one of them both saw and heard the banshee. he was sitting in the camp, the night prior to the fighting, conversing with several other officers, including his brother daniel, when, feeling an icy wind coming from behind and blowing down his back, he turned round to look for his cloak which he had discarded a short time before, owing to the heat from a fire close beside them. the cloak was not there, and, as he turned round still further to look for it, he perceived to his astonishment the figure of a woman, swathed from head to foot in a mantle of some dark flowing material, standing a few feet behind him. wondering who on earth she could be, but supposing she must be a relative or friend of one of the officers, for her mantle looked costly, and her hair--of a marvellous golden hue--though hanging loose on her shoulders, was evidently well cared for, he continued to gaze at her with curiosity. then he gradually perceived that she was shaking--shaking all over, with what he at first imagined must be laughter; but from the constant clenching of her hands and heaving of her bosom, he finally realised that she was weeping, and he was further assured on this point, when a sudden gust of wind, blowing back her mantle, he caught a full view of her face. its beauty electrified him. her cheeks were as white as marble, but her features were perfect, and her eyes the most lovely he had ever seen. he was about to address her, to inquire if he could be of any service to her, when, someone calling out and asking him what on earth he was doing, she at once began to melt away, and, amalgamating with the soft background of grey mist that was creeping towards them from the river, finally disappeared. he thought of her, however, some hours later, when they were all lying down, endeavouring to snatch a few hours' sleep, and presently fancied he saw, in dim, shadowy outline, her fair face and figure, her big, sorrowful eyes, gazing pitifully first at one and then at another of his companions, but particularly at one, a mere boy, who was lying wrapped in his military cloak, close beside the smouldering embers of the fire. he fancied that she approached this youths and, bending over him, stroked his short, curly hair with her delicate fingers. thinking that possibly he might be asleep and dreaming, he rubbed his eyes vigorously, but the outlines were still there, momentarily becoming stronger and stronger, more and more distinct, until he realised with a great thrill that she actually was there, just as certainly as she had been when he had first seen her. he was so intent watching her and wishing she would leave the youth and come to him, that he did not notice that one of his comrades had seen her, too, until the latter, who had raised himself into a half-sitting posture, spoke; then, just as before, the figure of the girl melted away, and seemed to become absorbed in the dark and shadowy background. a moment later, he heard, just over his head, a loud moaning and wailing that lasted for several seconds and then died away in one long, protracted sob that suggested mental anguish of an indescribably forlorn and hopeless nature. the deaths of most of his companions of the night, including that of the curly haired boy, occurred on the following day. but the banshee, although of course appearing to soldiers of irish birth only, does not confine its attentions to those who are fighting on their native soil; it has been stated that she frequently manifested herself to irishmen engaged on active service abroad during the napoleonic wars, and also to those serving in america during the civil war. with regard to the banshee demonstrations in connection with the napoleonic campaigns, i have not been able to acquire any written record; but as the result of numerous letters sent out by me broadcast in quest of information, i was asked by several people to call either at their houses or clubs, and, gladly accepting their invitations, i learned from them the incidents which, with their permission, i am now about to relate. miss o'higgins, an aged lady, residing, prior to the late war, close to fifth avenue, new york, and visiting, when i met her, a friend in the rue campagne première, paris, told me that she well remembered her grandfather telling her when she was a child that he heard the banshee at talavera, a day or two prior to the great battle. he was serving with the spanish army, having married the daughter of a spanish officer, and had no idea at the time that there were any men of irish extraction in his corps. bivouacking with about a hundred other soldiers in a valley, and happening to awake in the night with an ungovernable thirst, he made his way down to the banks of the river that flowed near by, drank his fill, and was in the act of returning, when he was startled to hear a most agonising scream, quickly followed by another, and then another, all proceeding apparently from the camp, whither he was wending his steps. wondering what on earth could have happened, and inclining to the belief that it must be in some way connected with one of those women thieves who prowled about everywhere at night, robbing and murdering, with equal impunity, wherever they saw a chance, he quickened his pace, only to find, on his arrival at the camp, no sign whatever of the presence of any woman, although the screaming was going on as vigorously as ever. the sounds seemed to come first from one part of the camp, and then from another, but to be always overhead, as if uttered by invisible beings, hovering at a height of some six or seven feet, or, perhaps, more, above the ground, and although lieutenant o'higgins had at first attributed these sounds to one person only, on listening attentively he fancied he could detect several different voices--all women's--and he eventually came to the conclusion that at least three or four phantasms must have been present. as he stood there listening, not knowing what else to do, the wailing and sobbing seemed to grow more and more harrowing, until it affected him so much that, hardened as he had become to all kinds of misery and violence, he, too, felt like weeping, out of sheer sympathy. however, this state of affairs did not last long, for at the sound of a musket shot (that of a sentry, as lieutenant o'higgins afterwards ascertained, giving a false alarm in some distant part of the camp) the wailing and sobbing abruptly and completely ceased, and was never, the lieutenant declared, heard by him again. on mentioning the matter to one of his brother officers in the morning, the latter, no little interested and surprised, at once said: "you have undoubtedly heard the banshee. poor d----, who fell at corunna, often used to tell me about it, and, you may depend upon it, there are some irishmen in camp now, and it was their funeral dirge that you listened to." what he said proved to be quite correct, for, on inquiring, lieutenant o'higgins discovered three of the soldiers who had been sleeping around him that evening had irish names, and were, unquestionably, of ancient irish origin; and all of them perished on the bloody field of talavera, twenty-four hours later. a story relating to an o'farrell, who was with the spanish in the same war, was also told me by miss o'higgins; but whether this o'farrell was the famous general of that name or not i do not know. the story ran as follows:[ ] it was the day prior to the fall of badajoz, and o'farrell, who was in badajoz at the time, a prisoner of the french, was invited to partake of supper with some spanish-irish friends of his of the name of mcmahon. the french, it may be observed, were, as a rule, rather more lenient to their irish prisoners than to their english, and o'farrell was allowed to ramble about badajoz in perfect freedom, a mere pledge being extracted from him that he wouldn't stroll outside the boundaries of the town without special permission. on the night in question o'farrell left his quarters in high spirits. he liked the mcmahons, especially the youngest daughter katherine, with whom he was very much in love. he deemed his case hopeless, however, as mr mcmahon, who was poor, had often said none of his daughters should marry, unless it were someone who was wealthy enough to ensure them being well provided for, should they be left a widow; and as o'farrell had nothing but his pay, which was meagre enough in all conscience, he saw no prospect of his ever being able to propose to the object of his affections. had he been strong-minded enough, he told himself, he would have at once said good-bye to katherine, and never have allowed himself to see or even think of her again; but, poor weakling that he was, he could not bear the idea of taking a final peep into her eyes--the eyes that he had idealised into his heaven and everything that made life worth living for--and so he kept accepting invitations to their house and throwing himself across her path, whenever the slightest opportunity presented itself. and now he found himself once more speeding to meet her, telling himself repeatedly that it should be the last time, but at the same time making up his mind that it should be nothing of the sort. he arrived at the house far too early, of course--he always did--and was shown into a room to wait there till the family had finished their evening toilets. large glass doors opened out of the room on to a veranda, and o'farrell, stepping out on to the latter, leaned over the iron railings, and gazed into the semi-courtyard, semi-garden below, in the centre of which was a fountain surmounted by the marble statue of a very beautiful maiden, that his instinct told him was an exact image of his beloved katherine. he was gazing at it, revelling in the delightful anticipation of meeting the flesh and blood counterpart of it in a very short time, when sounds of music, of someone playing a very, very sad and plaintive air on the harp, came to him through the open doorway. much surprised, for none of the family as far as he knew were harpists, nor had he, indeed, ever seen a harp in the house, he turned round; but, to add to his astonishment, no one was there. the room was apparently just as empty as when he had been ushered into it, and yet the music unquestionably emanated from it. considerably mystified, for every now and then there was a peculiar far-offness in the sounds which he could liken to nothing he had ever heard before, he remained on the veranda, prevented by a strange feeling of awe, and something very akin to dread, from venturing into the room. he was thus occupied, half standing and half leaning against the framework of the glass door, when the harping abruptly ceased, and he heard moanings and sobbings as of a woman suffering from paroxysms of the most intense and violent grief. combatting with a great fear that now began to seize him, he summed up the resolution to peep once more into the room, but though his eyes took in the whole range of the room, he could perceive no spot where anyone could possibly be in hiding, and nothing that would in any way account for the sounds. there was nothing in front of him but walls, furniture, and--space. not a living creature. what then caused those sounds? he was asking himself this question, when the door opened, and mr mcmahon, followed by katherine and all of the other girls, came into the apartment; and, with their entry, the strange sounds at once ceased. "why, what's the matter, mr o'farrell," the girls said, laughingly. "you are as white as a sheet and trembling all over. you haven't seen a ghost, have you?" "i haven't seen anything," o'farrell retorted, a trifle nettled at their gaiety, "but i've heard some rather extraordinary sounds." "extraordinary sounds," katherine laughed. "what on earth do you mean?" "just what i say," o'farrell remarked. "when i was on the veranda just now i distinctly heard the sound of a harp in this room, and shortly afterwards i heard a woman weeping." "it must have been someone outside in the street," mr mcmahon observed hastily, at the same time giving o'farrell a warning glance from his dark and penetrating eyes. "we do occasionally receive visits from street musicians. i have something to say to you about the english and their rumoured new attack on the town," and drawing o'farrell aside he whispered to him: "on no account refer to that music again. it was undoubtedly the banshee, the ghost that my forefathers brought over from ireland, and it is only heard before some very dreadful catastrophe to the family." the following day badajoz was stormed and entered by the english, and in the wild scenes that ensued, scenes in which the drunken english soldiery got completely out of hands, many spanish--spanish men and women--perished, as well as french, and among the casualties were the entire mcmahon family. chapter ix the banshee at sea talking of phantom music, there is a widespread belief among celtic races that whenever it is heard proceeding from the sea, either a death or some other great calamity is prognosticated. such a belief is very prevalent along the coasts of scotland, wales, and cornwall, and mr dyer, in his "ghost world," p. , refers to it in ireland. "sometimes," he says, "music is heard at sea, and it is believed in ireland that, when a friend or relative dies, a warning voice is discernible." to what extent this music is connected with banshee hauntings it is, of course, impossible to say; but i have known cases in which it has owed its origin to the banshee and to the banshee only. during the civil war in america, for example, a transport of confederate soldiers was making for charlestown one evening, when a young irish officer, who was leaning over the bulwarks and gazing pensively into the sea, was astonished to hear the very sweetest sounds of music coming from, so it seemed to him, the very depths of the blue waters. thinking he must be dreaming, he called a brother officer to his side and asked him if he could hear anything. "yes," the latter responded, "music, and what is more, singing. it is a woman, and she is singing some very tender and plaintive air. how the deuce do you account for it?" "i don't know," the young irishman replied, "unless it is the banshee, and it sounds very like the description of it that my mother used to give me. i only hope it does not predict the death of any one of my very near relatives." it did not do that, but oddly enough, and unknown to him at the time, a namesake of his, whom he subsequently discovered was a second cousin, stood not ten yards from him at the very moment he was listening to the music, and was killed in action in a sortie from charlestown on the following day. a story of a similar nature was told me in oregon by an old irish federal soldier, who was in the temporary employ of an apple merchant at medford, jackson county. i don't in any way vouch for its truth, but give it just as it was related to me. "you ask me if i have ever come across any ghosts in america. well, i guess i have, several, and amongst others the banshee. oh, yes, i am irish, although i speak with the nasal twang of the regular yank. everyone does who has lived in the eastern states for any length of time. it's the climate. my name, however, is o'hagan, and i was born in county clare; and though my father was only a peasant, i'm a darned sight more irish than half the people who possess titles and big estates in the old country to-day. "i emigrated from ireland with my parents, when i was only a few weeks old, and we settled in new york, where i was working as a porter on the quays when the civil war broke out. like me, the majority of irishmen who, as you know, are always ready to go wherever there's the chance of doing a bit of fighting, i at once enlisted in the marines, for i was passionately fond of the sea, and in due course of time was transferred to a gunboat that patrolled the carolina coast on the lookout for confederate blockade runners. well, one night, shortly after i had turned in and was lying in my hammock, trying to get to sleep, which was none too easy, for one of my mates, an ex-actor, was snoring loud enough to wake the whole ship, i suddenly heard a tapping on the porthole close beside me. 'hello,' says i to myself, 'that's an odd noise. it can't be the water, nor yet the wind; maybe it's a bird, a gull or albatross,' and i listened very attentively. the sound went on, but it had none of that hardness and sharpness about it that is occasioned by a beak, it was softer and more lingering, more like the tapping of fingers. every now and then it left off, to go on again, tap, tap, tap, until, at last, it unnerved me to such an extent that i jumped out of my hammock and had a peep to see what it was. to my astonishment i saw a very white face pressed against the porthole, looking in at me. it was the face of a woman with raven black hair that fell in long ringlets about her neck and shoulders. she had big golden rings in her ears, that shone like anything as the moonbeams caught them, as did her teeth, too, which were the loveliest bits of ivory i have ever seen, absolutely even and without the slightest mar. "but it was her eyes that fascinated me most. they were large, not too large, however, but in strict proportion to the rest of her face, and as far as i could judge in the moonlight, either blue or grey, but indescribably beautiful, and, at the same time, indescribably sad. as i drew nearer, she shrank back, and pointed with a white and slender hand at a spot on the sea, and then suddenly i heard music, the far-away sound of a harp, proceeding, so it seemed to me, from about the place she had indicated. it was a very still night, and the sounds came to me very distinctly, above the soft lap, lap of the water against the vessel's side, and the mechanical squish, squish made by the bows each time they rose and fell, as the ship gently ploughed her way onwards. i was so intent on listening that i quite forgot the figure of the woman with the beautiful face, and when i turned to look at her again, she had gone, and there was nothing in front of me but an endless expanse of heaving, tossing, moonlit water. then the music ceased, too, and all was still again, wondrously still, and feeling unaccountably sad and lonely--for i had taken a great fancy to that woman's face, the only what you might term really lovely woman's face that had ever looked kindly on me--i got back again into my hammock, and was soon fast asleep. on my touching at port, the first letter i received from home informed me of the death of my father, who had died the same night and just about the same time i had seen that fairy vision and heard that fairy music. "when i told my mother about it, some long time afterwards, she said it was the banshee, and that it had haunted the o'hagan family for hundreds and hundreds of years." this, as i have already said, is merely a trooper's story, unconfirmed by anyone else's evidence, and, of course, not up to the standard of s.p.r. authority. yet, i believe, it was related to me in perfect sincerity, and the narrator had nothing whatever to gain through making it up. i did not even offer him a chew of tobacco, for at that moment i was pretty nearly, if not, indeed, quite as hard up as he was himself. and now, before i finish altogether with banshee hauntings that are associated with war, i feel i must refer to a statement in mr mcannaly's book, "irish wonders," to the effect that when the duke of wellington died, the banshee was heard wailing round the house of his ancestors. this statement does not, in my opinion, bear inspection. i am quite ready to grant that some kind of apparition--perhaps a family ghost he had inherited from one or other of his anglo-irish ancestry--was heard lamenting outside the domain in question; but as the family to whom the duke belonged could not be said to be of even anything approaching ancient irish extraction, i cannot conceive it possible that the disturbances experienced were in any way due to the genuine banshee. to revert to the sea, and banshee haunting. on the coast of donegal there is an estuary called "the rosses," and this at one time was said to be haunted by several kinds of phantoms, including the banshee, which was reported to have manifested itself on quite a number of occasions. under the heading of "an irish water-fiend," bourke, in his "anecdotes of the aristocracy" (i. ), relates the following case of a ghostly happening there, which, although not due to a banshee, is so characteristic of irish supernatural phenomena that i cannot refrain from quoting it. in the autumn of the rev. james crawford, rector of the parish of killina, county leitrim, was riding on horseback with his sister-in-law, miss hannah wilson, on a pillion behind him, along the road leading to the "the rosses," and, on reaching the estuary, he at once proceeded to cross it. after they had gone some distance, miss wilson, noticing that the water touched the saddle laps, became so alarmed that she cried out and besought mr crawford to turn the horse round and get back to land as quickly as possible. "i do not think there can be danger," mr crawford answered, "for i see a horseman crossing the ford not twenty yards before us." to this miss wilson, who also saw the horseman, replied: "you had better hail him and inquire the depth of the intervening water." mr crawford at once did so, whereupon the horseman stopped and, turning round, revealed a face distorted by the most hideous grin conceivable, and so frightfully white and evil that the luckless clergyman promptly beat a retreat, and made no attempt to check the mad haste of his panicked steed till he had left the estuary many miles behind him. on arriving home he narrated the incident to his wife and family, and subsequently learned that the estuary was well known to be haunted by several phantoms, whose mission was invariably the same, either to foretell the doom by drowning of the person to whom they appeared, or else to actually bring about the death of that person by luring them on and on, until they got out of their depth, and so perished. one would have thought that mr crawford, after the experience just narrated, would have given the estuary a very wide berth in future; but no such thing. he again attempted to cross the ford of "the rosses" on th september, , and was drowned in the endeavour. among many thrilling and (so it struck me at the time) authentic stories told me in my youth by a mrs broderick, a well-known vendor of oranges and chocolate in bristol, were several stirring accounts of the banshee. i was at the time a day boy at clifton college, residing not very far from the school, and mrs broderick, who used to visit our house every week with her wares, took a particular interest in me because i was irish--one of "the real old o'donnells." she was a native of cork, and had, i believe, migrated from that city in the _juno_, an old cattle boat, that for more than twenty years plied regularly every week between cork and bristol carrying a handful of passengers, who, for the cheapness of the fare, made the best of the rolling and tossing and extremely limited space allotted for their accommodation. in later years i often travelled to and from dublin and bristol in the _argo_, the _juno's_ sister ship, so i speak feelingly and from experience. but to proceed with mrs broderick's banshee stories. the one containing an account of a banshee haunting on the sea i will narrate in this chapter, and the other, which has no connection with either sea or river, i will deal with later on. before i commence either story, however, i would like to say that though mrs broderick spoke with a rich brogue and was really irish, she used few, if any, of those words and expressions that certain professors of the dublin academic school apparently consider inseparable from the speech of the irish peasant class. i cannot, for example, remember her ever saying musha, or arrah, or oro; and, as for erse, i am quite certain she did not know a word of it. yet, as i have said, she was irish, and far more irish than many of the gaelic scholars of to-day who, insufferably proud of their knowledge of the celtic tongue, bore one stiff by their feeble and futile attempts to acquire something of the real irish wit and proverbial humour. mrs broderick did not often speak of her parents; they were, i fancy, peasants, or, perhaps, what we should term "small farmers," and from what i could gather they lived, at one time, in a little village just outside cork; but mrs broderick was, she told me, very fond of the sea, and often, when a girl, walked into cork and went out boating with her young friends in queenstown harbour. on one occasion, she and another girl and two young men went for a sail with an old fisherman they knew, who took them some distance up the coast in the direction of kinsale. there had been a slight breeze when they started, but it dropped suddenly as they were tacking to come back home, and since the sails had to be taken down and oars used, both the young men volunteered to row. their offer being accepted by the old fisherman, they pulled away steadily till they espied an old ship, so battered and worn away as to be little more than a mere shell, lying half in and half out of the water in a tiny cove. then, as the weather was beautifully fine and no one was in a hurry to get home, it was proposed that they pull up to the wreck and examine it. the old fisherman demurred, but he was soon won over, and the two young men and mrs broderick's girl friend boarded the old hulk, leaving mrs broderick and the old fisherman in the boat. the shadows from the trees and rocks had already manifested themselves on the glistening shingles of the beach, and a glow, emanating from the rapidly rising moon and myriads of scintillating stars that every moment shone forth with increased brilliancy, showed up every object around them with startling distinctness. always in her element in scenes of this description, mrs broderick was enjoying herself to the utmost. leaning on the side of the boat and trailing one hand in the water, she drank in the fresh night air, redolent with the scent of flowers and ozone. she could hear her friends talking and laughing as they tried to steady themselves on the sloping boards of the old hulk; and presently, one of them, o'connell, proposed that they should descend below deck and explore the cabins. then their voices gradually grew fainter and fainter, until eventually all was still, save for the lapping of the sea against the sides of the boat, and the gentle ripple of the wavelets as they broke on the beach, and the occasional far-away barkings of a dog--noises that somehow seem to belong to summer more than to any other period of the year. mrs broderick's memory, awakened by these sounds, travelled back to past seasons, and she was depicting some of the old scenes over again, when all at once, from the wreck, from that side of it, so it seemed to her, that was partly under water, there rang out a series of the most appalling screams, just like the screams of a woman who had been suddenly pounced upon and either stabbed, or treated in some equally savage and violent manner. mrs broderick, of course, at once thought of her friend, mary rooney, and, clutching the boatman by the arm, she exclaimed: "the saints above, it's mary. they're murdering her." "'tis no woman, that," the old boatman said hoarsely. "'tis the banshee, and i would not have had this have happened for the whole blessed world. i with my mother so ill in bed with the rheumatism and a cold she got all through her with sitting out on the wet grass the night before last." "are you sure?" mrs broderick whispered, clutching him tighter, whilst her teeth chattered. "are you sure it isn't mary, and they are not killing her?" "sure," replied the boatman, "that's the way the banshee always screams--'tis her, right enough, 'tis no human woman," and like the good catholic that he was, he crossed himself, and, dipping the oars gently into the water, he began to pull slowly and quietly away. by and by the screaming ceased, and a moment later the three explorers came trooping on to the deck, showing no signs whatever of alarm, and when questioned as to whether they had heard anything, laughingly replied in the negative. "only," o'connell added facetiously, "the kiss mike power stole from mary. that was all." but for o'connell that was not all. when he arrived home he found that during his absence his mother had died suddenly, and, in all probability, at the very moment when mrs broderick and the boatman had heard the banshee. chapter x alleged counterparts of the banshee no country besides ireland possesses a banshee, though some countries possess a family or national ghost somewhat resembling it. in germany, for example, popular tradition is full of rumours of white ladies who haunt castles, woods, rivers, and mountains, where they may be seen combing their yellow hair, or playing on harps or spinning. they usually, as their name would suggest, wear white dresses, and not infrequently yellow or green shoes of a most dainty and artistic design. sometimes they are sad, sometimes gay; sometimes they warn people of approaching death or disaster, and sometimes, by their beauty, they blind men to an impending peril, and thus lure them on to their death. when beautiful, they are often very beautiful, though nearly always of the same type--golden hair and long blue eyes; they are rarely dark, and their hair is never of that peculiar copper and golden hue that is so common among banshees. when ugly, they are generally ugly indeed--either repulsive old crones, not unlike the witches in grimm's fairy tales, or death-heads mockingly arrayed in the paraphernalia of the young; but their ugliness does not seem to embrace that ghastly satanic mockery, that diabolical malevolence that is inseparable from the malignant form of banshee, and which inspires in the beholders such a peculiar and unparalleled horror. it is not my intention in this work to do more than briefly refer to a few of the most famous of the german hauntings in their relation to the banshee; and, since it is the best known, i would first of all call attention to the white lady, that restricts its unwelcome attentions to royalty, and more especially, perhaps, to that branch of it known as the house of hohenzollern. between this white lady family phantasm and the banshee there is undoubtedly something in common. they are both exclusively associated with families of really ancient lineage, which they follow about from town to town, province to province, and country to country; and the purpose of their respective missions is generally the same, namely, to give warning of some approaching death or calamity, which in the case of the white lady is usually of a national order. occasionally, too, the german family ghost, like the banshee, is heard playing on a harp, but here i think the likeness ends. there are no very striking characteristics in the appearance of the white lady of the hohenzollerns, she would seem to be neither very beautiful nor the reverse; nor does she convey the impression of belonging to any very remote age; on the contrary, she might well be the earth-bound spirit of someone who died in the middle ages or even later. in december, , she was seen in the royal palace in berlin, and was heard to say, "_veni, judica vivos et mortuos; judicum mihi adhuc superest_"--that is to say, "come judge the quick and the dead--i wait for judgment." she also manifested herself to one of the fredericks of prussia, who regarded her advent as a sure sign of his approaching death, which it was, for he died shortly afterwards. we next read of her appearing in bohemia at the castle of neuhaus. one of the princesses of the royal house was trying on a new head-gear before a mirror, and, thinking her waiting-maid was near at hand, she inquired of her the time. to the princess's horror, however, instead of the maid answering her, a strange figure all in white, which her instincts told her was the famous national ghost, stepped out from behind a screen and exclaimed, "_zehn uhr ist es irh liebden!_" "it is ten o'clock, your love"; the last two words being the mode of address usually adopted in germany and austria by royalties when speaking to one another. the princess was soon afterwards taken ill and died. a faithful account of the appearance of the white lady was published in _the iris_, a frankfort journal, in , and was vouched for by the editor, george doring. doring's mother, who was companion to one of the ladies at the prussian court, had two daughters, aged fourteen and fifteen, who were in the habit of visiting her at the palace. on one occasion, when the two girls were alone in their mother's sitting-room, doing some needlework, they were immeasurably surprised to hear the sounds of music, proceeding, so it seemed to them, from behind a big stove that occupied one corner of the apartment. one girl got up, and, taking a yard measure, struck the spot where she fancied the music was coming from; whereupon the measure was instantly snatched from her hand, the music, at the same time, ceasing. she was so badly frightened that she ran out of the room and took refuge in someone else's apartment. on her return some minutes later, she found her sister lying on the floor in a dead faint. on coming to, this sister stated that directly the other had quitted the apartment, the music had begun again and, not only that, but the figure of a woman, all in white, had suddenly risen from behind the stove and began to advance towards her, causing her instantly to faint with fright. the lady in whose house the occurrence took place, on being acquainted with what had happened, had the flooring near the stove taken up; but, instead of discovering the treasure which she had hoped might be there, a quantity of quick-lime only was found; and the affair eventually getting to the king's ears, he displayed no surprise, but merely expressed his belief that the apparition the girl had seen was that of the countess agnes of orlamunde, who had been bricked up alive in that room. she had been the mistress of a former margrave of brandenburg, by whom she had had two children, and when the margrave's legitimate wife died the countess hoped he would marry her. this, however, he declined to do on the plea that her offspring, at his death, would very probably dispute the heirship to the property with the children of his lawful marriage. the countess then, in order to remove this obstacle to her union, poisoned her two children, which act so disgusted the margrave that he had her walled up alive in the room where she had committed the crimes. the king went on to explain that the phantasm appeared about every seven years, but more often to children, to whom it was believed to be very much attached, than to adults. against this explanation, however, is the more recent one that the white lady is princess bertha or perchta von rosenberg. this theory is founded on the discovery of a portrait of princess bertha, which was identified by someone as the portrait of the white lady whom they had just seen. in support of this theory it was pointed out that once when certain charities which the princess had stated in her will should be doled out annually to the poor were neglected, not only was the white lady seen, but music and all kinds of other sounds were heard in the house where the princess had died. very possibly, however, in neither of these theories is there any truth, and the secret of the white lady's activity lies in some subtle and, perhaps, entirely unsuspected fact. it is, i think, quite conceivable that she is no earth-bound soul, but some impersonating elemental, which--like the banshee--has, for some strange and wholly inexplicable reason, attached itself to the unfortunate hohenzollerns, and their relatives and kinsmen. ballinus and erasmus francisci, in their published works, give numerous accounts of the appearance of this same apparition; whilst mrs crowe asserts that it was seen shortly before the publication of her "night side of nature." it would be interesting to know whether it appeared to the ex-kaiser wilhelm, or to any of his family, before this last greatest and most signally disastrous of all wars. william brereton in his "travels" (i. ) gives rather a different description of this ghost. he says that the queen of bohemia told him "that at berlin--the elector of brandenberg's house--before the death of anyone related in blood to that house, there appears and walks up and down that house like unto a ghost in a white sheet, which walks during the time of their sickness until their death." in this account it will be noticed that there is no mention of sex, so that the reader can only speculate as to whether the apparition was the ghost of a man or a woman. its appearance, however, according to this account, strongly suggests a ghost of the sepulchral and death-head type--an ordinary species of elemental--which suggestion is not apparent in any other description of it that we have hitherto come across. other ancient german and austrian families, besides those of the ruling houses, possess their family ghosts, and here again, as in the parallel case of the irish and their banshee, the family ghost of the germans or austrians is by no means confined to the "white lady." in some cases of german family haunting, for example, the phenomenon is a roaring lion, in others a howling dog; and in others a bell or gong, or sepulchral toned clock striking at some unusual hour, and generally thirteen times. in all instances, however, no matter whether the family ghost be german, irish, or austrian, the purpose of its manifestations is the same--to predict death or some very grave calamity.[ ] in the notes to the edition of thomas crofton croker's "fairy legends and traditions of the south of ireland," we find this paragraph taken from the works of the brothers grimm and manuscript communications from dr wilhelm grimm: "in the tyrol they believe in a spirit which looks in at the window of a house in which a person is to die (deutsche sagen, no. ), the white woman with a veil over her head answers to the banshee, but the tradition of the klage-weib (mourning woman) in the lünchurger heath (spiels archiv. ii. ) resembles it more. on stormy nights, when the moon shines faintly through the fleeting clouds, she stalks of gigantic stature with death-like aspect, and black, hollow eyes, wrapt in grave clothes which float in the wind, and stretches her immense arm over the solitary hut, uttering lamentable cries in the tempestuous darkness. beneath the roof over which the klage-weib has leaned, one of the inmates must die in the course of a month." in italy there are several families of distinction possessing a family ghost that somewhat resembles the banshee. according to cardau and henningius grosius the ancient venetian family of donati possess a ghost in the form of a man's head, which is seen looking through a doorway whenever any member of the family is doomed to die. the following extract from their joint work serves as an illustration of it: "jacopo donati, one of the most important families in venice, had a child, the heir to the family, very ill. at night, when in bed, donati saw the door of his chamber opened and the head of a man thrust in. knowing that it was not one of his servants, he roused the house, drew his sword, went over the whole palace, all the servants declaring that they had seen such a head thrust in at the doors of their several chambers at the same hour; the fastenings were found all secure, so that no one could have come in from without. the next day the child died." other families in italy, a branch of the paoli, for example, is haunted by very sweet music, the voice of a woman singing to the accompaniment of a harp or guitar, and invariably before a death. of the family ghost in spain i have been able to gather but little information. there, too, some of the oldest families seem to possess ghosts that follow the fortunes, both at home and abroad, of the families to which they are attached, but with the exception of this one point of resemblance there seems to be in them little similarity to the banshee. in denmark and sweden the likeness between the family ghost and the banshee is decidedly pronounced. quite a number of old scandinavian families possess attendant spirits very much after the style of the banshee; some very beautiful and sympathetic, and some quite the reverse; the most notable difference being that in the scandinavian apparition there is none of that ghastly mixture of the grave, antiquity, and hell that is so characteristic of the baleful type of banshee, and which would seem to distinguish it from the ghosts of all other countries. the beautiful scandinavian phantasms more closely resemble fairies or angels than any women of this earth, whilst the hideous ones have all the grotesqueness and crude horror of the witches of andersen or grimm. there is nothing about them, as there so often is in the banshee, to make one wonder if they can be the phantasms of any long extinct race, or people, for example, that might have hailed from the missing continent of atlantis, or have been in ireland prior to the coming of the celts. the scandinavian family ghosts are frankly either elementals or the earth-bound spirits of the much more recent dead. yet, as i have said, they have certain points in common with the banshee. they prognosticate death or disaster; they scream and wail like women in the throes of some great mental or physical agony; they sob or laugh; they occasionally tap on the window-panes, or play on the harp; they sometimes haunt in pairs, a kind spirit and an evilly disposed one attending the fortunes of the same family; and they keep exclusively to the very oldest families. oddly enough at times the finnish family ghost assumes the guise of a man. burton, for example, in his "anatomy of melancholy," tells us "that near rufus nova, in finland, there is a lake in which, when the governor of the castle dies, a spectrum is seen in the habit of orion, with a harp, and makes excellent music, like those clocks in cheshire which (they say) presage death to the masters of the family; or that oak in lanthadran park in cornwall, which foreshadows so much." i will not dwell any longer, however, on scandinavian ghosts, as i purpose later on to publish a volume on the same, but will pass on to the family apparitions of scotland, england, and wales. beginning with scotland, sir walter scott was strong in his belief in the banshee, which he described as one of the most beautiful superstitions of europe. in his "letters on demonology" he says: "several families of the highlands of scotland anciently laid claim to the distinction of an attendant spirit, who performed the office of the irish banshee," and he particularly referred to the ghostly cries and lamentations which foreboded death to members of the clan of maclean of lochbery. but though many of the highland families do possess such a ghost, unlike the banshee, it is not restricted to the feminine sex, nor does its origin, as a rule, date back to anything like such remote times. it would seem, indeed, to belong to a much more ordinary species of phantasm, a species which is seldom accompanied by music or any other sound, and which by no means always prognosticates death, although on many occasions it has done so. in addition to the maclean, some of the best known cases of scottish family ghosts are as follows: the bodach au dun, or ghost of the hills, which haunts the family of grant rothiemurcus, and the llam-dearg, or spectre of the bloody hand, which pursues the fortunes of the clan kinchardine. according to sir walter scott in the macfarlane mss. this spirit was chiefly to be seen in the glenmore, where it took the form of a soldier with one hand perpetually dripping with blood. at one time it invariably signalled its advent in the manner which, i think, has no parallel among ghosts--it challenged members of the kinchardine clan to fight a duel with it, and whether they accepted or not they always died soon afterwards. as lately as , says sir walter scott, it fought with three brothers, one after another, who immediately died therefrom. then there is the clan of gurlinbeg which is haunted by garlin bodacher; the turloch gorms who, according to scott, are haunted by mary moulach, or the girl with the hairy left hand;[ ] and the airlie family, whose seat at cortachy is haunted by the famous drummer, whose ghostly tattoos must be taken as a sure sign that a member of the ogilvie clan--of which the earl of airlie is the recognised head--will die very shortly. mr ingram, in his "haunted houses and family legends," quotes several well authenticated instances of manifestations by this apparition, the last occurring, according to him, in the year , though i have heard from other reliable sources that it has been heard at a much more recent date. the origin of this haunting is generally thought to be comparatively modern, and not to date further back than two or three hundred years, if as far, which, of course, puts it on quite a different category from that of the banshee, though its mission is, without doubt, the same. according to mr ingram, a former lord airlie, becoming jealous of one of his retainers or emissaries who was a drummer, had him thrust in his drum and hurled from a top window of the castle into the courtyard beneath, where he was dashed to pieces. with his dying breath the drummer cursed not only lord airlie, but his descendants, too, and ever since that event his apparition has persistently haunted the family. other highland families that possess special ghosts are a branch of the macdonnells, that have a phantom piper, whose mournful piping invariably means that some member or other of the clan is shortly doomed to die; and the stanleys who have a female apparition that signalises her advent by shrieking, weeping, and moaning before the death of any of the family. perhaps of all scottish ghosts this last one most closely resembles the banshee, though there are distinct differences, chiefly with regard to the appearance of the phantoms--the scottish one differing essentially in her looks and attire from the irish ghost--and their respective origins, that of the stanley apparition being, in all probability, of much later date than the banshee. then, again, there is the bodach glas, or dark grey man, in reference to which mr henderson, in his "folk-lore of northern countries," p. , says: "its appearance foretold death in the clan of ----, and i have been informed on the most credible testimony of its appearance in our own day. the earl of e----, a nobleman alike beloved and respected in scotland, was playing on the day of his decease on the links of st andrew's at golf. suddenly he stopped in the middle of the game, saying, 'i can play no longer, there is the bodach glas. i have seen it for the third time; something fearful is going to befall me.' that night he fell down dead as he was giving a lady her candlestick on her way up to bed." another instance, still, of a scottish family ghost is that of the willow tree at gordon castle, which is referred to by sir bernard bourke in his "anecdotes of the aristocracy." sir bernard asserts that whenever any accident happens to this tree, if, for example, a branch is blown down in a storm, or any part of it is struck by lightning, then some dire misfortune is sure to happen to some member of the family. there are other old scottish family ghosts, all very distinct from the banshee, though a few bear some slight resemblance to it, but as my space is restricted, i will pass on to family ghosts of a more or less similar type that are to be met with in england. to begin with, the oxenhams of devonshire the heiress of sir james oxenham, and the bride that is invariably seen before the death of any member of the family. according to a well-known devonshire ballad, a bird answering to this description flew over the guests at the wedding of the heiress of sir james oxenham, and the bride was killed the following day by a suitor she had unceremoniously jilted. the arundels of wardour have a ghost in the form of two white owls, it being alleged that whenever two birds of this species are seen perched on the house where any of this family are living, some one member of them is doomed to die very shortly. equally famous is the ghost of the cliftons of nottinghamshire, which takes the shape of a sturgeon that is seen swimming in the river trent, opposite clifton hall, the chief seat of the family, whenever one of the cliftons is on the eve of dying. then, again, there is the white hand of the squires of worcestershire, a family that is now practically extinct. according to local tradition this family was for many generations haunted by the very beautiful hand of a woman, that was always seen protruding through the wall of the room containing that member of the family who was fated to die soon. most ghost hands are said to be grey and filmy, but this one, according to some eye-witnesses, appears to have borne an extraordinary resemblance to that of a living person. it was slender and perfectly proportioned, with very tapering fingers and very long and beautifully kept filbert nails--the sort of hand one sees in portraits of women of bygone ages, but which one very rarely meets with in the present generation. other families that possess ghosts are the yorkshire middletons, who are always apprised of the death of one of their members by the appearance of a nun; and the byrons of newstead abbey, who, according to the great poet of that name, were haunted by a black friar that used to be seen wandering about the cloisters and other parts of the monasterial building before the death of any member of the family. in england, there seems to be quite a number of white lady phantoms, most of them, however, haunting houses and not families, and none of them bearing any resemblance to the banshee. indeed, there is a far greater dissimilarity between the english and irish types of family ghosts than there is between the irish and those of any of the nations i have hitherto discussed. lastly, with regard to the welsh family ghosts, mr wirt sikes, in his "british goblins," quite erroneously, i think, likens the banshee in appearance to the gwrach y rhibyn, or hag of the dribble, which he describes as hideous, with long, black teeth, long, lank, withered arms, leathern wings, and cadaverous cheeks, a description that is certainly not in the least degree like that of any banshee i have ever heard of. he goes on to add that it comes in the stillness of the night, utters a blood-curdling howl, and calls on the person doomed to die thus: "da-a-a-vy! de-i-i-o-o-ba-a-a-ch." if it is in the guise of a male it says, in addition, "fy mlentyn, fy mlentyn bach!" which rendered into english is, "my child, my little child"; but if in the form of a woman, "oh! oh! fy ngwr, fy ngwr"--"my husband! my husband!" as a rule it flaps its wings against the window of the room in which the person who is doomed is sleeping, whilst occasionally it appears either to the ill-fated one himself or to some member of his family in a mist on the mountainside. mr sikes gives a very graphic description of the appearance of this apparition to a peasant farmer near cardiff, a little over forty years ago. to be precise, it was on the evening of the th november, . the farmer was on a visit to an old friend at the time, and was awakened at midnight by the most ghastly screaming and a violent shaking of the window-frame. the noise continued for some seconds, and then terminated in one final screech that far surpassed all the others in intensity and sheer horror. greatly excited--though mr sikes affirms he was not frightened--the old man leaped out of bed, and, throwing open the window, saw a figure like a frightful old woman, with long, dishevelled, red hair, and tusk-like teeth, and a startling white complexion, floating in mid-air. she was enveloped in a long, loose, flowing kind of black robe that entirely concealed her body. as he gazed at her, completely dumbfounded with astonishment, she peered down at him and, throwing back her dreadful head, emitted another of the very wildest and most harrowing of screams. he then heard her flap her wings against a window immediately underneath his, after which he saw her fly over to an inn almost directly opposite him, called the "cow and snuffers," and pass right through the closed doorway. after waiting some minutes to see if she came out again, he at length got back into bed, and on the morrow learned that mr llewellyn, the landlord of the "cow and snuffers," had died in the night about the same time as the apparition, which he, the old farmer, now concluded must have been the gwrach y rhibyn, had appeared. there is, of course, this much in common between the gwrach y rhibyn and the banshee: both are harbingers of death; both signalise their advent by shrieks, and both confine their hauntings to really ancient celtic families; but here, it seems to me, the likeness ends. the gwrach y rhibyn is more grotesque than horrible, and would seem to belong rather to the order of witches in fairy lore than to the denizens of the ghost world. another ghostly phenomenon of the death-warning type that is, i believe, to be met with in wales, is the canhywllah cyrth, or corpse candle, so called because the apparition resembles a material candlelight, saving for the fact that it vanishes directly it is approached, and reforms speedily again afterwards. the following descriptions of the canhywllah cyrth are taken from mr t. c. charley's "news from the invisible world," pp. - . the first extract is the account of the corpse candles given by the rev. mr davis. "if it be a little candle," he writes, "pale or bluish, then follows the corpse either of an abortive, or some infant; if a big one, then the corpse either of someone come of age; if there be seen two or three or more, some big, some small, together, then so many such corpses together. if two candles come from divers places, and be seen to meet, the corpses will do the like; if any of these candles be seen to turn, sometimes a little out of the way that leadeth unto the church, the following corpse will be found to turn into that very place, for the avoiding of some dirty lane, etc. when i was about fifteen years of age, dwelling at llanglar, late at night, some neighbours saw one of these candles hovering up and down along the bank of the river, until they were weary in beholding; at last they left it so, and went to bed. a few weeks after, a damsel from montgomeryshire came to see her friends, who dwelt on the other side of the istwyth, and thought to ford it at the place where the light was seen; but being dissuaded by some lookers-on (by reason of a flood) she walked up and down along the bank, where the aforesaid candle did, waiting for the falling of the waters, which at last she took, and was drowned therein." continuing, he says: "of late, my sexton's wife, an aged understanding woman, saw from her bed a little bluish candle upon her table; within two or three days after comes a fellow in, inquiring for her husband, and taking something from under his cloak, clapped it down directly upon the table end, where she had seen the candle; and what was it but a dead-born child?" in another case the same gentleman relates a number of these candles were seen together. "about thirty-four or thirty-five years since," he says, "one jane wyat, my wife's sister, being nurse to baronet reid's three eldest children, and (the lady being deceased) the lady controller of that house, going late into a chamber where the maidservants lay, saw there no less than five of these lights together. it happened a while after, the chamber being newly plastered and a great grate of coal-fire thereon kindled to hasten the drying up of the plastering, that five of the maidservants went there to bed, as they were wont, but in the morning they were all dead, being suffocated in their sleep with the steam of the newly tempered lime and coal. this was at llangathen in carmarthenshire." occasionally a figure is seen with the lights, but nearly always that of a woman. À propos of this the same writer says: "william john of the county of carmarthen, a smith, on going home one night, saw one of the corpse candles; he went out of his way to meet with it, and when he came near it, he saw it was a burying; and the corpse upon the bier, the perfect resemblance of a woman in the neighbourhood whom he knew, holding the candle between her forefingers, who dreadfully grinned at him, and presently he was struck down from his horse, where he remained a while, and was ill a long time after before he recovered. this was before the real burying of the woman. his fault, and therefore his danger, was his coming presumptuously against the candle." lastly, an account of these death candles appeared some years ago in _fraser's magazine_. it ran as follows: "in a wild and retired district in north wales, the following occurrence took place to the great astonishment of the mountaineers. we can vouch for the truth of the statement, as many members of our own teutu, or clan, were witnesses of the fact. on a dark evening, a few winters ago, some persons, with whom we are well acquainted, were returning to barmouth, on the south or opposite side of the river. as they approached the ferryhouse at penthryn, which is directly opposite barmouth, they observed a light near the house, which they conjectured to be produced by a bonfire, and greatly puzzled they were to discover the reason why it should have been lighted. as they came nearer, however, it vanished; and when they inquired at the house respecting it, they were surprised to learn that not only had the people there displayed no light, but they had not even seen one; nor could they perceive any signs of it on the sands. on reaching barmouth, the circumstance was mentioned, and the fact corroborated by some of the people there, who had also plainly and distinctly seen the light. it was settled, therefore, by some of the old fisherman, that this was a "death-token"; and, sure enough, the man who kept the ferry at that time was drowned at high-water a few nights afterwards, on the very spot where the light was seen. he was landing from the boat, when he fell into the water, and so perished." "the same winter the barmouth people, as well as the inhabitants of the opposite banks, were struck by the appearance of a number of small lights which were seen dancing in the air at a place called borthwyn, about half a mile from the town. a great number of people came out to see these lights; and after a while they all but one disappeared, and this one proceeded slowly towards the water's edge, to a small bay where some boats were moored. the men in a sloop which was anchored near the spot saw the light advancing--they saw it also hover for a few seconds over one particular boat, and then totally disappear. two or three days afterwards, the man to whom that particular boat belonged was drowned in the river, where he was sailing about barmouth harbour in that very boat. we have narrated these facts just as they occurred." another well-known welsh haunting that may be relegated to the same class of phenomena as the corpse candles is that of the stradling ghost. this phantasm, which is supposed to be that of a former lady stradling, who was murdered by one of her own relatives, haunts st donart's castle, on the southern coast of glamorganshire, appearing whenever a death or some very grievous calamity is about to overtake a member of the family. writing of her, mr wirt sikes, in his "british goblins," p. - , says: "she appears when any mishap is about to befall a member of the house of stradling, the direct line, however, of which is extinct. she wears high-heeled shoes, and a long trailing gown of the finest silk." according to local reports, her advent is always known in the neighbourhood by the behaviour of the dogs, which, taking their cue from their canine representatives in the castle, begin to howl and whine, and keep on making a noise and showing every indication of terror and resentment so long as the earth-bound spirit of the lady continues to roam about. of course the stradling ghost cannot be said to be characteristically welsh, because its prototype is to be found in so many other countries, but it at least comes under the category of family apparitions. the gwyllgi, or dog of darkness, which mr wirt sikes asserts has often inspired terror among the welsh peasants, does not appear to be confined to any one family, any more than do the corpse candles, though, like the latter, it would seem to manifest itself principally to really welsh people. its advent is not, however, predicative of any special happening. the cwn annwn, or dogs of hell, that are chiefly to be met with in the south of wales, on the contrary, rarely, if ever, appear, saving to warn those who see them of some approaching death or disaster. neither they, nor the gwyllgi, nor the corpse candles, since they do not haunt one family exclusively, can be called family ghosts. and only inasmuch as they are racial have they anything in common with the banshee. indeed, there is a world of difference between the banshee and even its nearest counterpart in other countries, and the difference is, perhaps, one which only those who have actually experienced it could ever understand. chapter xi the banshee in poetry and prose "'twas the banshee's lonely wailing, well i knew the voice of death, on the night wind slowly sailing o'er the bleak and gloomy heath." these are the dramatic lines thomas crofton croker, in his inimitable "fairy legends and traditions of the south of ireland," puts in the mouth of the widow maccarthy, as she is lamenting over the body of her son, charles, whose death had been predicted by the banshee; not the beautiful and dainty banshee of the o'briens, but a wild, unkempt, haggish creature that seemed in perfect harmony with the drear and desolate moorland from whence it sprang. mr croker, indeed, almost invariably associates the banshee with the heath and bogland, for at the commencement of his tales of the banshee in the same volume, we find these well-known lines: "who sits upon the heath forlorn, with robe so free and tresses worn, anon she pours a harrowing strain, and then she sits all mute again! now peals the wild funereal cry, and now--it sinks into a sigh." very different from this grim and repellent portrayal of the banshee given by mr croker is the very pleasing and attractive description of it presented to us by dr kenealy, whose account of it in prose appears in an earlier chapter of this book. referring to the death of his brother, dr kenealy says: "here the banshee, that phantom bright who weeps over the dying of her own loved line, floated in moonlight; in her streaming locks gleamed starshine; when she looked on me, she knew and smiled." and again: "the wish has but escaped my lips--and lo! once more it streams in liquid lapse upon the fairy winds that guard each slightest note with jealous care, and bring them hither, even as angels might to the beloved to whom they minister." in reference to phantom music heard at sea, mr dyer, in his "ghost world," p. , quotes the following lines: "a low sound of song from the distance i hear, in the silence of night, breathing sad on my ear, whence comes it? i know not--unearthly the note, yet it sounds like the lay that my mother once sung, as o'er her first-born in his cradle she hung." as i have already stated, the banshee is not infrequently heard at sea, either singing or weeping, hence, in all probability, the author of these lines, whose name, by the way, mr dyer does not divulge, had the banshee in mind when he wrote them. but, perhaps, the best known, as well as the most direct reference to this ghost in verse is that made by ireland's popular poet, thomas moore, in one of the most famous of his "irish melodies." i append the poem, not only for the reference it contains, but also on account of its general beauty. "how oft has the banshee cried! how oft has death untied bright bonds that glory wove sweet bonds entwin'd by love. peace to each manly soul that sleepeth! rest to each faithful eye that weepeth! long may the fair and brave sigh o'er the hero's grave. we're fallen upon gloomy days, star after star decays, every bright name, that shed light o'er the land, is fled. dark falls the tear of him who mourneth lost joy, a hope that ne'er returneth, but brightly flows the tear wept o'er the hero's bier. oh, quenched are our beacon lights thou, of the hundred fights! thou, on whose burning tongue truth, peace, and freedom hung! both mute, but long as valour shineth or mercy's soul at war refineth so long shall erin's pride tell how they lived and died." with the following extracts from the translation of an elegy written by pierse ferriter, the irish poet soldier, who fought bravely in the cromwellian wars, i must now terminate these references to the banshee in poetry: "when i heard lamentations and sad, warning cries from the banshees of many broad districts arise. aina from her closely hid nest did awake the woman of wailing from gur's voicy lake; from glen fogradh of words came a mournful whine, and all kerry's banshees wept the lost geraldine.[ ] the banshees of youghal and of stately mo-geely were joined in their grief by wide imokilly. carah mona in gloom of deep sorrow appears, and all kinalmeaky's absorbed into tears. * * * * the banshee of dunquin in sweet song did implore to the spirit that watches o'er dark dun-an-oir, and ennismare's maid by the dark, gloomy wave with her clear voice did mourn the fall of the brave. on stormy slieve mish spread the cry far and wide, from steeply finnaleun the wild eagle replied. 'mong the reeks, like the thunder peal's echoing rout, it burst--and deep moaning bright brandon gives out, oh chief! whose example on soft-minded youth like the signet impressed honour, glory, and truth. the youth who once grieved if unnoticed passed by, now deplore thee in silence with sorrow-dimmed eye, o! woman of tears, who, with musical hands, from your bright golden hair hath combed out the long bands, let those golden strings loose, speak your thoughts--let your mind fling abroad its full light, like a torch to the wind." in fiction no writer has, i think, dealt more freely with the subject of the banshee than thomas crofton croker, the translator of the abovementioned elegy. in his "fairy legends and traditions of the south of ireland," he gives the most inimitable accounts of it; and for the benefit of those of my readers who are unacquainted with his works, as well as for the purpose of presenting the banshee as seen by such an unrivalled portrayer of irish ghost and fairy lore, i will give a brief résumé of two of his stories. the one i will take first relates to the rev. charles bunworth, who about the middle of the eighteenth century was rector of buttevant, county cork. mr bunworth was greatly beloved and esteemed, not only on account of his piety--for pious people are by no means always popular--but also on account of his charity. he used to give pecuniary aid, often when he could ill afford it, to all and any, no matter to what faith they belonged, whom he really believed were in need; and being particularly fond of music, especially the harp, he entertained, in a most generous and hospitable manner, all the poor irish harpers that came to his house. at the time of his death, no fewer than fifteen harps were found in the loft of his granary, presents, one is led to infer, from strolling harpers, in token of their gratitude for his repeated acts of kindness to them. about a week prior to his decease, and at an early hour in the evening, several of the occupants of his house heard a strange noise outside the hall door, which they could only liken to the shearing of sheep. no very serious attention, however, was paid to it, and it was not until some time afterwards, when other queer things happened, that it was recalled and associated with the supernatural. later on, at about seven o'clock in the evening, kavanagh, the herdman, returned from mallow, whither he had been dispatched for some medicine. he appeared greatly agitated, and, in response to miss bunworth's questions as to what was the matter, could only ejaculate: "the master, miss, the master! he is going from us." miss bunworth, thinking he had been drinking, sternly reproved him, whereupon he responded: "miss, as i hope mercy hereafter, neither bite nor sup has passed my lips since i left this house; but the master----" here he broke down, only adding with an effort, "we will lose him--the master." he then began to weep and wring his hands. miss bunworth, who, during this strange recital, was growing more and more bewildered, now exclaimed impatiently: "what _is_ it you mean? do explain yourself." kavanagh was silent, but, as she persisted, commanding him to speak, he at length said: "the banshee has come for him, miss; and 'tis not i alone who have heard her." but miss bunworth only laughed and rebuked him for being superstitious. "maybe i am superstitious," he retorted, "but as i came through the glen of ballybeg she was along with me, keening, and screeching, and clapping her hands by my side, every step of the way, with her long white hair falling about her shoulders, and i could hear her repeat the master's name every now and then, as plain as ever i hear it. when i came to old abby, she parted from me there, and turned into pigeon field next the berrin'-ground, and, folding her cloak about her, down she sat under the tree that was struck by lightning, and began keening so bitterly that it went through one's heart to hear it." miss bunworth listened more attentively now, but told kavanagh that she was sure he was mistaken, as her father was very much better and quite out of danger. however, she spoke too soon, for that very night her father had a relapse and was soon in a very critical condition. his daughters nursed him with the utmost devotion, but at length, overcome with the strain of many hours of sleepless watchfulness, they were obliged to take a rest and allow a certain old friend of theirs, temporarily, to take their place. it was night; without the house everything was still and calm; within the aged watcher was seated close beside the sick man's bed, the head of which had been placed near the window, so that the sufferer could, in the daylight, steal a glimpse at the fields and trees he loved so much. in an adjoining room, and in the kitchen, were a number of friends and dependents who had come from afar to inquire after the condition of the patient. their conversation had been carried on for some time in whispers, and then, as if infected by the intense hush outside, they had gradually ceased talking, and all had become absolutely hushed. suddenly the aged watcher heard a sound outside the window. she looked, but though there was a brilliant moonlight, which rendered every object far and near strikingly conspicuous, she could perceive nothing--nothing at least that could account for the disturbance. presently the noise was repeated; a rose tree near the window rustled and seemed to be pulled violently aside. then there was the sound like the clapping of hands and of breathing and blowing close to the window-panes. at this, the old watcher, who was now getting nervous, arose and went into the next room, and asked those assembled there if they had heard anything. apparently, they had not, but they all went out and searched the grounds, particularly in the vicinity of the rose tree, but could discover no clue as to the cause of the noises, and although the ground was soft with recent rain, there were no footprints to be seen anywhere. after they had made an exhaustive examination, and had settled down again indoors, the clapping at once recommenced, and was accompanied this time by moanings, which the whole party of investigators now heard. the sounds went on for some time, apparently till close to dawn, when the reverend gentleman died. the other story concerns the maccarthys, of whom mr croker remarks, "being an old, and especially an old catholic family, they have, of course, a banshee." charles maccarthy in was the only surviving son of a very numerous family. his father died when he was twenty, leaving him his estate, and being very gay, handsome, and thoughtless, he soon got into bad company and made an unenviable reputation for himself. going from one excess to another he at length fell ill, and was soon in such a condition that his life was finally despaired of by the doctor. his mother never left him. always at his bedside, ready to administer to his slightest want, she showed how truly devoted she was to him, although she was by no means blind to his faults. indeed, so acutely did she realise the danger in which his soul stood, that she prayed most earnestly that should he die, he should at least be spared long enough to be able to recover sufficiently to see the enormity of his offences, and repent accordingly. to her utmost sorrow, however, instead of his mind clearing a little, as so often happens after delirium and before death, he gradually fell into a state of coma, and presented every appearance of being actually dead. the doctor was sent for, and the house and grounds were speedily filled with a crowd of people, friends, tenants, fosterers, and poor relatives; one and all anxious to learn the exact condition of the sick man. with tremendous excitement they awaited the exit of the doctor from the house, and, when he at length emerged, they clustered round him and listened for his verdict. "it's all over, james," he said to the man who was holding his steed, and with those few brief words he climbed into his saddle and rode away. then the women who were standing by gave a shrill cry, which developed into a continuous, plaintive and discordant groaning, interrupted every now and again by the deep sobbing and groaning, and clapping of hands of charles' foster-brother, who was moving in and out the crowd, distracted with grief. all the time mrs maccarthy was sitting by the body of her son, the tears streaming from her eyes. presently some women entered the room and inquired about directions for the ceremony of waking, and providing the refreshments necessary for the occasion. mournfully the widow gives them the instructions they need, and then continues her solitary vigil, crying with all her soul, and yet quite unaware of the tears that kept pouring from her eyes. so, on and on, with brief intervals only, all through the loud and boisterous lamentations of the visitors over her beloved one, far into the stillness of the night. in one of the interludes, in which she has removed into an inner room to pray, she suddenly hears a low murmuring, which is speedily succeeded by a wild cry of horror, and then, out from the room in which the deceased lies, pour, like some panic-stricken sheep, the entire crowd of those that have participated in the wake. nothing daunted, mrs maccarthy rushes into the apartment they have quitted, and sees, sitting up on the bed, the light from the candles casting a most unearthly glare on his features, the body of her son. falling on her knees before it and clasping her hands she at once commences praying; but hearing the word "mother," she springs forward, and, clutching the figure by the arm, shrieks out: "speak, in the name of god and his saints, speak! are you alive?" the pale lips move, and finally exclaim: "yes, my mother, alive, but sit down and collect yourself." and then, to the startled and bewildered mother he, whom she had been mourning all this time as dead, unfolded the following remarkable tale. he declared he remembered nothing of the preliminary stages of his illness, all of which was a blank, and was only cognisant of what was happening when he found himself in another world, standing in the presence of his creator, who had summoned him for judgment. "the dreadful pomp of offended omnipotence," he dramatically stated, "was printed on his brain in characters indelible." what would have happened he dreaded to think, had it not been for his guardian saint, that holy spirit his mother had always taught him to pray to, who was standing by his side, and who pleaded with him "that one year and one month might be given him on the earth again, in which he should have the opportunity of doing penance and atonement." after a terribly anxious wait, in which his whole fate--his fate for eternity--hung in the balance, the progress of his kindly intercessor succeeded, and the great and awful judge pronounced these words: "return to that world in which thou hast lived but to outrage the laws of him who made that world and thee. three years are given thee for repentance; when these are ended thou shalt again stand here, to be saved or lost for ever." charles saw and heard no more; everything became a void, until he suddenly became once again conscious of light and found himself lying on the bed. he told this experience as if it were no dream, but, as he really believed it to be, an actual reality, and, on his gradually regaining health and strength, he showed the effect it had had on him by completely changing his mode of life. though not altogether shunning his former companions in folly, he never went to any excess with them, but, on the contrary, often exercised a restraining influence over them, and so, by degrees, came to be looked upon as a person of eminent prudence and wisdom. the years passed by till at last the third anniversary of the wonderful recovery drew near. as charles still adhered to his belief that what he had experienced had been no mere dream or wandering of the mind, but an actual visit to spirit land, so nervous did his mother become, as the time drew near for the expiration of the lease of life he declared had been allotted to him, that she wrote to mrs barry, a friend of hers, begging her to come with her two girls and stay with her for a few days, until, in fact, the actual day of the third anniversary should have passed. unfortunately, mrs barry, instead of getting to spring house, where mrs maccarthy lived, on the wednesday, the day specified in the invitation, was not able to commence the journey till the following friday, and she then had to leave her eldest daughter behind and bring only the younger one. what ultimately happened is very graphically described in a letter from the younger girl to the elder. in brief it was this: she and her mother set out in a jaunting-car driven by their man leary. the recent rains made the road so heavy that they found it impossible to make other than very slow progress, and had to put up for the first night at the house of a mr bourke, a friend of theirs, who kept them until late the following day. indeed, it was evening when they left his premises, with a good fifteen miles to cover before they arrived at spring house. the weather was variable, at times the moon shone clear and bright, whilst at others it was covered with thick, black, fast-scudding clouds. the farther they progressed, the more ominous did the elements become, the clouds collected in vast masses, the wind grew stronger and stronger, and presently the rain began to fall. slow as their progress had been before, it now became slower; at every step the wheels of their car either plunged into a deep slough, or sank almost up to the axle in thick mud. at last, so impossible did it become, that mrs barry inquired of leary how far they were from mr bourke's, the house they had recently left. "'tis about ten spades from this to the cross," was the reply, "and we have then only to turn to the left into the avenue, ma'am." "very well, then," answered mrs barry, "turn up to mr bourke's as soon as you reach the crossroads." mrs barry had scarcely uttered these words when a shriek, that thrilled the hearers to the very core of their hearts, burst from the hedge to their right. it resembled the cry of a female--if it resembled anything earthly at all--struck by a sudden and mortal blow, and giving out life in one long, deep pang of agony. "heaven defend us!" exclaimed mrs barry. "go you over the hedge, leary, and save that woman, if she is not yet dead." "woman!" said leary, beating the horse violently, while his voice trembled. "that's no woman; the sooner we get on, ma'am, the better," and he urged the horse forward. there was now a heavy spell of darkness as the moon was once again hidden by the clouds, but, though they could see nothing, they heard screams of despair and anguish, accompanied by a loud clapping of the hands, just as if some person on the other side of the hedge was running along in a line with their horse's head, and keeping pace with them. when they came to within ten yards of the spot where the avenue branched off to mr bourke's on the left, and the road to spring house led away to the right, the moon suddenly reappeared, and they saw, with startling distinctness, the figure of a tall, thin woman, with uncovered head, and long hair floating round her shoulders, attired in a kind of cloak or sheet, standing at the corner of the hedge, just where the road along which they were driving met that which led to spring house. she had her face turned towards them, and, whilst pointing with her left hand in the direction of spring house, with her right was beckoning them to hurry. as they advanced she became more and more agitated, until finally, leaping into the road in front of them, and still pointing with outstretched arm in the direction of spring house, she took up her stand at the entrance to the avenue, as if to bar their way, and glared defiantly at them. "go on, leary, in god's name!" exclaimed mrs barry. "'tis the banshee," said leary, "and i could not, for what my life is worth, go anywhere this blessed night but to spring house. but i'm afraid there's something bad going forward, or she would not send us there." he pressed on towards spring house, and almost directly afterwards clouds covered the moon, and the banshee disappeared; the sound of her clapping, though continuing for some time, gradually becoming fainter and fainter, until it finally ceased altogether. on their arrival at spring house they learnt that a dreadful tragedy had just taken place. a lady, miss jane osborn, who was charles maccarthy's ward, was to have been married to one james ryan, and on the day preceding the marriage, as ryan and charles maccarthy were walking together in the grounds of the latter's house, a strange young woman, hiding in the shrubbery, shot charles in mistake for ryan, who, it seems, had seduced and deserted her. the wound, which at first appeared trivial, suddenly developed serious symptoms, and before the sun had gone down on the third anniversary of his memorable experience with the unknown, charles maccarthy was again ushered into the presence of his maker, there to render of himself a second and a final account. chapter xii the banshee in scotland there is, i believe, one version of a famous scottish haunting in which there figures a banshee of the more or less orthodox order. i heard it many years ago, and it was told me in good faith, but i cannot, of course, vouch for its authenticity. since, however, it introduces the banshee, and, therefore, may be of interest to the readers of this book, i publish it now for the first time, embodied in the following narrative: "well, ronan, you will be glad to hear that i consent to your marrying ione, provided you can assure me there is nothing wrong with your family history. no hereditary tendencies to drink, disease, or madness. you know i am a great believer in heredity. your prospects seem good--all the inquiries i have made as to your character have proved satisfactory, and i shall put no obstacles in your way if you can satisfy me on this point. can you?" the speaker was captain horatio wynne pettigrew, r.n., late in command of his majesty's frigate _prometheus_, and now living on retired pay in the small but aristocratic suburb of birkenhead; the young man he addressed--ronan malachy, chief clerk and prospective junior partner in the big business firm of lowndes, half & company, dublin; and the subject of their conversation--ione, youngest daughter of the said captain, generally and, perhaps, justly designated the bonniest damsel in all the land between the dee and the far distant tweed. the look of intense suspense and anxiety which had almost contorted ronan's face while he was waiting for the captain's reply, now gave way to an expression of the most marked relief. "i think i have often told you, sir," he replied, "that i have no recollection of my parents, as they both died when i was a baby; but i have never heard either of them spoken of in any other terms than those of the greatest affection and respect. i have always understood my father was lost at sea on a journey either to or from new york, and that my mother, who had a weak heart, died from the effects of the shock. my grandparents on both sides lived together happily, i believe, and died from natural causes at quite a respectable old age. if there had been any hereditary tendencies of an unpleasant nature such as those you name, or any particular family disease, i feel sure i should have heard of it from one or other of my relatives, but i can assure you i have not." "very well then," captain pettigrew remarked genially, "if your uncle, who is, i understand, your guardian, and whom i know well by reputation, will do me the courtesy to corroborate what you say, i will at once sanction your engagement. but now i must ask you to excuse me, as i have promised to have supper with general maitland to-night, and before i go have several matters to attend to." he held out his hand as he spoke, and ronan, who had been secretly hoping that he would be asked to spend the evening, was reluctantly compelled to withdraw. outside in the hall, ione, of course, was waiting, almost beside herself with anxiety, to hear the result of the interview, but ronan had only time to whisper that it was quite all right, and that her father had been far more amenable than either of them had supposed, before the door of the room he had just left opened, and the captain appeared. there was no help for it then, he was obliged to say good-bye, and, having done so, he hurried out into the night. at the time of which i am writing there were neither motors nor trains, so that ronan, who, owing to an accident to his horse, had to walk, did not reach home, a distance of some four or five miles, till the evening was well advanced. on his arrival, burning with impatience to settle the momentous question, he at once broached the subject of his interview with captain pettigrew to his uncle, remarking that his fate now rested with him. "with me!" mr malachy exclaimed, placing his paper on an empty chair beside him, and staring at ronan with a look of sudden bewilderment in his big, short-sighted but extremely benevolent eyes. "why, you know, my boy, that you have my hearty approval. from all you tell me, miss ione must be a very charming young lady; she has aristocratic connections, and will not, i take it, be altogether penniless. yes, certainly, you have my approval. you have known that all along." "i have, uncle," ronan retorted, "and no one is more grateful to you than i. but captain pettigrew has very strong ideas about heredity. he believes the tendency to drink, insanity, and sexual lust haunts families, and that, even if it lies dormant for one generation, it is almost bound to manifest itself in another. i told him i was quite sure i was all right in this respect, but he says he wants your corroboration, and that if you will affirm it by letter, he will at once give his consent to my engagement to ione. i know letter-writing is a confounded nuisance to you, uncle, but do please assure captain pettigrew at once that we have no family predisposition of the kind he fears." mr malachy leaned back in his chair and gazed into the long gilt mirror over the mantel-shelf. "drink and gambling," he said. "and suicide," ronan added. "you can at any rate swear to the absence of that in our family----" but, happening to glance at the mirror as he spoke, he caught in it a reflection of his uncle's face, that at once made him turn round. "uncle!" he cried. "tell me! what is it? why do you look like that?" mr malachy was silent. "you're hiding something," ronan exclaimed sharply. "tell me what it is. tell me, i say, and for god's sake put an end to my suspense." "you are right, ronan," his uncle responded slowly. "i am hiding something, something i ought perhaps to have told you long ago. it's about your father." "my father!" "yes, your father. i have always told you he was lost at sea. well, so he was, but in circumstances that were undoubtedly mysterious. he was last seen alive on the wharf at annan, where he was apparently waiting for a boat to take him to the opposite coast. someone said they saw him suddenly leap in the water, and some days later a body, declared to be his, was picked up in the solway firth." "then it was suicide," ronan gasped. "my god, how awful! was anyone with him at the time?" "i don't think i need tell you any more." "yes, tell me everything," ronan answered bitterly. "nothing makes any difference now. let me hear all, i insist." in a voice that shook to such an extent that ronan looked at him in horror, mr malachy continued: "ronan," he said, "remember that i tell you against my will, and that you are forcing me to speak. they did say at the time that there was a woman with your father--a woman who had travelled with him all the way from lockerbie--that they quarrelled, that he--he----" "yes--go on! for god's sake go on." "pushed her in the water--in a rage, mind you, in a rage, i say; and then, apparently appalled at what he had done, jumped in, too." "were they both drowned then?" "yes." "and no one tried to save them?" "no one was near enough. the tide was running strong at the time, and they were both carried out to sea. the woman's body was never found; and your father's, when it was recovered several days afterwards, was so disfigured that it could only be identified by the clothes." "and they were sure it was my father?" "i am afraid there is little doubt on that score. your aunt bridget, who, being the last of the family to see him alive, was called upon to identify the body, always declared there was a mistake; she identified the clothes, but mentioned that the body was that of a person whom she had never seen before." "then there is a slight hope!" "i hardly think so, but--but go and see her--it is your only hope, and i will defer writing to captain pettigrew until your return." * * * * * early next morning ronan was well on his way to lockerbie. in his present state of mind, every inch was a mile, every second an eternity. if his aunt could only furnish him with some absolute proof that it was not his father who had pushed the woman into the water and afterwards jumped in himself, then he might yet marry the object of his devotion, but, if she could not, he swore with a bitter oath that the water that had claimed his parent, should also claim him; and in the very same spot where the unlucky man who had proved his ruin had perished, he would perish too. it was ione or obliteration. his whole being concentrated on such thoughts as these, he pressed forward, taking neither rest nor refreshments, till he reached silloth, where he was compelled to wait several hours, until a fisherman could be prevailed upon to take him across the solway firth to annan. so far luck had favoured him. the weather had kept fine, and, despite the dangerous condition of the roads, which were notoriously full of footpads, and in the most sorry need of repair, he had covered the distance without mishap. after leaving annan, however, disaster at once overtook him. the coach had only proceeded some seven or eight miles along the road to lockerbie, when a serious accident, through the loss of a wheel, was but narrowly escaped, and, as there seemed little chance of getting the necessary repairs executed that night, the driver suggested that his fares should walk back to annan and put up at the "red star and garter," till he was able to call for them in the morning. to this all agreed excepting ronan, who, scorning the proposal to turn back, declared that he would continue his journey to lockerbie on foot. "it's a wild, uncanny bit of country you'll have to go through, mon," the driver remonstrated, "and i'm nae sure but what you may come across some of them smuggler laddies from away across the borders of kirkcudbright. they are fair sore just noo at the way in which the custom house officials are treating them, and are downright suspicious of everyone they meet. you'll be weel guided to return to the coast with us." to this well-intentioned advice ronan did not even condescend a reply, but, bidding his fellow-passengers good night, he buttoned his overcoat tightly round his chest, and stepped resolutely forward into the darkness. the driver had not exaggerated. it was a wild, uncouth bit of country. the road itself was a mere track, all ruts and furrows, with nothing to denote its boundaries saving ditches, or black tarns that gleamed fitfully whenever the moonbeams, emerging from behind black masses of clouds, fell on them. beyond the road, on one side, was a wide stretch of barren moorland, terminating at the foot of a long line of rather low and singularly funereal-looking hills; and, on the other, a black, thickly wooded chasm, at the bottom of which thundered a river. in every fitful outburst of lunar splendour each detail in the landscape stood out with almost microscopic clearness, but otherwise all lay heavily shrouded in an almost impenetrable mantle of gloom, from which there seemed to emanate strange, indefinable shadows, that, as far as ronan could see, had no material counterparts. naturally stout of heart and afraid of nothing, ronan was, at the same time, a celt, and possessed, in no small degree, all the celtic awe and respect for anything associated with the supernatural. hence, though he pushed steadily on and kept picturing to himself the face and form of his lady love, to win whom he was fully prepared to go to any extremity, he could not prevent himself from occasionally glancing with misgiving at some more than usually perplexing shadow, or, from time to time, prevent his heart from beating louder at the rustle of a gorse-bush, or the dismal hooting of an owl. in some mysterious fashion the night seemed to have suddenly changed everything, and to have vested every object and every trifling--or what in the daytime would have been trifling--sound with a significance that was truly enigmatical and startling. the air, however, with its blending of scents from the pines, and gorse, and heather, with ozone from the not far distant solway firth, was so delicious that ronan kept throwing back his head to inhale great draughts of it; and it was whilst he thus stood a second, with his nostrils and forehead upturned, that he first became aware of an impending storm. at first a few big splashes, and the low moaning of the wind as it swept towards and past him from the far distant hill-tops; then more splashes, and then a downpour. ronan, who was now walking abreast a low white wall, beyond which he could see one of those shelters that in scotland are erected everywhere for the protection of both cattle and sheep from the terrible blizzards that nearly every winter devastate the country, perceiving the futility and danger of trying to face the storm, made for the wall and, climbing it, dropped over on the other side. as bad luck would have it, however, he alighted on a boulder and, unable to retain his foothold, slipped off it, striking his head a severe blow on the ground. for some seconds he lay unconscious, then, his senses gradually returning, he picked himself up and made for the shelter. stumbling blindly forward towards the entrance of the building, he collided with a figure that suddenly seemed to rise from the ground, and for a moment his heart stood still, but his fears were quickly dissipated by the unmistakable sound of a human voice. "who is that?" someone inquired in tremulous tones. "oh, sir, are you one of the revellers?" "one of the revellers?" ronan replied. "it's an ill night for any revelling. what do you mean?" "i mean, are you one of the young men going to the fancy dress dance at the spelkin towers," the voice responded. "but your accent tells me you are not; you don't belong to these parts. you are irish." "that is truly said," ronan answered. "my home is in dublin, and it's the first time i have set foot on dumfries soil, and i'll stake every penny in my purse it will be the last. i'm bound for lockerbie, but i'm thinking it will be the early hours of the morning before i get there." "for lockerbie," the voice replied. "why that's a distance of about twenty miles. it's a straight road, however, and you pass the spelkin towers on the way. it stands in a clump of trees about a hundred yards back from the road, on this side of it, about three miles from here. if there were a moon you would easily recognise the place by the big white gate leading directly to it." "so i might, but why waste my time and your breath. the spelkins, or whatever you call it, has naught to do with me. i'm bound for lockerbie, i tell you, and as the rain seems to be abating i intend moving on again." "sir," the woman pleaded, "i pray you stay a few moments and listen to what i have to say. a gentleman is going to the revels to-night for whom i have a letter of the utmost importance. his name is dunloe--mr robert dunloe of annan. he is due at the towers at eight o'clock, and should surely be passing here almost at this very moment. but, sir, i durst not wait for him any longer, as i have an aged mother at home who has been taken suddenly and violently ill. for mercy's sake i beg of you to wait and give him the letter in my stead." "give him the letter in your stead!" ronan ejaculated. "why, i may never see him--indeed, the odds are a thousand to one i never shall. i'm in a hurry, too. i can't stay hanging around here all night. besides, how should i know him?" "he's dressed as a jester," the woman answered, "and if the wind is not blowing too strong you'll hear the sound of his bells. he's sure to be coming by very soon. oh, sir, do me this favour, i pray you." as she spoke the rain ceased and the moon, suddenly appearing from behind a bank of clouds, revealed her face. it was startlingly white, and in a strange, elfish kind of way, beautiful. ronan gazed at it in astonishment, it was altogether so different from the face he had pictured from the voice, and as he stared down into the big, black eyes raised pleadingly to his, he felt curiously fascinated, and all idea of resistance at once departed. "all right," he said slowly, "i will do as you wish. a man in court-jester's costume, with jingling bells, answering to the name of robert dunloe. hand me the letter, and i will wait in the road till he passes." she obeyed, and, taking from her bosom an envelope, handed it to him. "oh, sir," she said softly, "i can't tell you how grateful i am. it is most kind of you--most chivalrous, and i am sure you will one day be rewarded. hark! footsteps. a number of them. it must be some of the revellers. i must remain here till they pass, for i would not for the world have them see me; they are rude, boisterous fellows, and have little respect for a maiden when they meet her alone on the highway. there have been some dreadful doings of late around here." she laid one of her little white hands on ronan's arm as she spoke, and, with the forefinger of the other placed on her lips, enjoined silence. then as the footsteps and voices, which had been drawing nearer and nearer, passed close to them and died gradually away in the distance, she hurriedly bade ronan farewell, and darted nimbly away in the darkness. ronan stood for some minutes where she had left him, half expecting she would reappear, but at last, convinced that she had really taken her departure, he climbed the wall, back again into the road, and waited. had it not been for the envelope, which certainly felt material enough, ronan would have been inclined to attribute it all to some curious kind of hallucination--the girl was so different--albeit so subtly and inexplicably different--from anyone he had ever seen before. but that envelope with the name "robert dunloe, esquire," so clearly and beautifully superscribed on it, was a proof of her reality, and, as he stood fingering the missive and pondering the subject over in his mind, he once again heard the sound of footsteps. this time they were the footsteps of one person only, and, as he had been led to expect, they were accompanied by the faint jingle, jingle of bells. the moon, now quite free from clouds, rendered every object so clearly visible that ronan, looking in the direction from which the sounds came, soon detected a tall, oddly attired figure, whilst still a long way off, advancing towards him with big, swinging strides. had he not been prepared for someone in fancy costume, ronan might have felt somewhat alarmed, for a scotch moor in the dead of winter is hardly the place where one would expect to encounter a masquerader in jester's costume. moreover, though the magnifying action of the moon's rays were probably accountable for it, there seemed to be something singularly bizarre about the figure, apart from its clothes; its head seemed abnormally round and small, its limbs abnormally long and emaciated, and its movements remarkably automatic and at the same time spiderlike. ronan gripped the envelope in his hand--it was solid enough; therefore, the queer, fantastic-looking thing, stalking so grotesquely towards him, must be solid too--a mere man--and ronan forced a laugh. another moment, and he had stepped out from under cover of the wall. "are you mr robert dunloe?" he asked, "because, if so, i have a letter for you." the figure halted, and the white, parchment-like face with two very light green, cat-like eyes, bent down and favoured ronan with a half-frightened, but penetrating gaze. "yes," came the reply, "i am mr dunloe. but how came you with a letter for me? give it to me at once." and before ronan could prevent him, he had snatched the envelope from his grasp, and, having broken open the seal, was reading the contents. "ah!" he ejaculated. "what a fool! i might have known so all along, but it's not too late." then he folded the letter in his hand and stood holding it, apparently buried in thought. ronan, whose hot irish temper had been roused by the rude manner in which the stranger had obtained possession of the missive, would have moved on and left him, had he not felt restrained by the same peculiar fascination he had experienced when talking to the girl. "i trust," he at length remarked, "that your letter contains no ill news. the lady who requested me to give it you mentioned the fact that a relative of hers had been taken very ill." "when and where did you see her?" the stranger queried, his eyes once again seeking ronan's face with the same fixed, penetrating stare. "in that shelter over there," ronan answered, pointing to it. "we were strangers to one another, and i was sheltering from the storm. i explained to her that i was on my way to lockerbie, and in no little hurry to get there, but she begged me so earnestly to await your arrival, so that i might hand you the letter, that she might be free to return home at once, that i consented. that is all that passed between us." "she went?" "yes, she slipped away suddenly in the darkness, where i don't know." the stranger mused for a few moments, stroking his chin with long, lean fingers. then he suddenly seemed to wake up, and spoke again, but this time in a far more courteous fashion. "young man," he said, "i believe you. you have a candid expression in your eyes, and an honest ring in your voice. men that speak in such tones seldom lie. you are kind-hearted, too, and i am going to ask of you a favour. yesterday morning, in annan, two of the leading townsfolk laid me a wager that i would not attend a ball to-night at the spelkin towers, and, attired as a court jester, walk all the way to and fro, no matter how inclement the weather. i accepted the challenge, and now, having progressed so far, i should aim at completing my task, but for this letter, which fully corroborates what the young lady told you, and informs me that a very old and dear friend of mine is dying, and would at all costs see me at once, as she has an important statement to make for my ears only. now, sir, i cannot possibly go to her in these outlandish clothes, lest the shock of seeing me so attired should prove too much for her in her present serious condition. can i prevail upon your charity and chivalry--for once again it is on behalf of a woman--and good christian spirit--for i doubt not, from your demeanour, that you have been brought up in a truly god-fearing and pious manner--to persuade you to change costumes with me over yonder in that shed. i would then be able to appear before my poor, dying friend in suitable, sober garments, whilst you would be free to go to the ball, and, by posing as mr robert dunloe, share the proceeds of my wager with me." then, noting the expression that came over ronan's face, he added quickly: "you will incur no risks. i am a comparative stranger in these parts--none of the revellers know me by sight. all you will have to do on your arrival at the towers will be to explain to your host, sir hector mcblane, the nature of the wager, and ask him to give you some record of your attendance that i can subsequently show to my two friends. remember, sir, that it is not only for the sake of gratifying a dying woman's wish that i am asking this favour of you, but it is also to make sure that the young lady who gave you the letter shall not be jeopardised." ronan hesitated. had such a mystifying proposition been made to him on any other occasion he would, perhaps, have rejected it at once as the sheerest lunacy; but there was something about this night--the wild grandeur of the silent moonlit scenery, the intoxicating sweetness of the subtly scented air, to say nothing of the maiden whose elfish appearance had seemed in such absolute harmony both with the soft, silvery starlight and the black granite boulders--that was wholly different from anything ronan had ever experienced before, and his deeply emotional and easily excited temperament, rising in hot rebellion against his reason, urged him to embark upon what he persuaded himself might prove a vastly entertaining adventure. he consequently agreed to do as the stranger suggested, and, accompanying him into the shelter, he exchanged clothes with him. after arranging to meet in the same spot at four o'clock in the morning, the two men parted, the stranger making off across the moors, and ronan continuing along the high road. nothing of moment occurred again till ronan caught sight of the clump of pines, from the centre of which rose the spelkin towers, and a few yards farther on perceived the white wooden gate that the elfish maiden had described to him. on his approach, several figures, in fancy dress and wearing dominoes, advanced to meet him, and one, with a low bow, inquired if he had the honour of addressing mr robert dunloe. "why, yes," ronan responded, with some astonishment, "but i did not think anyone knew i was coming here to-night saving our host, sir hector mcblane." "that is because you are so modest," was the reply. "i can assure you, mr dunloe, your fame has preceded you, and everyone present here to-night will be eagerly looking forward to the moment of your arrival. let me introduce you to my friends. sir frederick clanstradie, sir austin maltravers, lord henry baxter, mr leslie de vaux." each of the guests bowed in turn as their names were pronounced, and then, at a signal from the spokesman, who informed ronan he was sir philip mcblane, cousin to their host, they proceeded in a body to the queerly constructed mansion. inside ronan could see no sign whatever of any festivity, but on being told that sir hector was awaiting him in the ball-room, he allowed himself to be conducted along a bare, gloomy passage and down a narrow flight of steep stone steps into a large dungeon-like chamber, piled up in places with strange-looking lumber, and in one corner of which he perceived a tall figure, draped from head to foot in the hideous black garments of a spanish inquisitor, standing in the immediate vicinity of a heap of loose bricks and freshly made mortar, and bending over a cauldron full of what looked like simmering tar. the whole aspect of the room was indeed so grim and forbidding, that ronan drew back in dismay and turned to sir philip and his comrades for an explanation. before, however, anyone could speak, the figure in the inquisitorial robes advanced, and, bidding ronan welcome, declared that he considered it both an honour and a privilege to entertain so illustrious a guest. not knowing how to reply to a greeting that seemed so absurdly exaggerated, ronan merely mumbled out something to the effect that he was delighted to come, and then lapsed into an awkward and embarrassed silence, during which he could feel the eyes of everyone fixed on him with an expression he could not for the life of him make out. finally, the inquisitor, whom ronan now divined was sir hector mcblane, after expressing a hope that the ladies would soon make their appearance, invited the gentlemen to partake of some refreshments. bottles scattered in untidy profusion upon a plain deal table were then uncorked, and the sinisterly clad host proposed they should all drink a toast of welcome to their distinguished guest, mr robert dunloe. up to the present ronan had only been conscious of what seemed to him courtesy and cordiality in the voices of his fellow-guests, but now, as one and all clinked glasses and shouted in unison, "for he's a jolly good fellow, and so say all of us," he fancied he could detect something rather different; what it was he could not say, but it gave him the same feeling of doubt and uncertainty as had the expression in their faces immediately after his introduction to sir hector. again there was an embarrassed silence, which was eventually broken by ronan, who, perceiving that something was expected from him, at length stood up and responded to the toast. his speech was of very short duration, but it was hardly over, before a loud rapping of high-heeled shoes sounded on the stone steps, and a number of women, dressed in every conceivable fashion, from the quaintly picturesque costume of the middle ages to the still fondly remembered and popular empire gown, came trooping into the room. their curiously clumsy movements caused ronan to scrutinise them somewhat closely, but it was not until, in response to a wild outburst on wheezy flutes and derelict bagpipes, the assembly commenced dancing, that he awoke to the fact which now seemed obvious enough, that these weird-looking women were not women at all, but merely men mummers. for the next few minutes the noise and confusion were such that ronan, whose temples had been set on fire by the wine, hardly knew whether he was standing on his head or his feet. first one of the pretended women, and then another, solicited the honour of dancing with him, until at last, through sheer fatigue and giddiness, he was constrained to stop and lean for support against the walls of the building. he was still in this attitude, when the music, if such one could style it, suddenly ceased, and the whole company, as if by a preconcerted signal, suddenly stood at attention, as still and silent as statues. sir hector mcblane then approached ronan with a bow, and informing him that his bride awaited him in the bridal chamber, declared that the time had now arrived for his introduction to her. this announcement was so unexpected and extraordinary that ronan lost all power of speech, and, before he could realise what was taking place, he found himself being conducted by his host to a dimly lighted corner of the room, where he perceived, for the first time, a recess or kind of cell, measuring not more than four feet in depth, and three feet across, but reaching upwards to the same height as the ceiling. exactly in the centre of it was a tall figure, absolutely stiff and motionless, and clad in long, flowing, white garments. still too bewildered and astonished to protest or remonstrate, ronan permitted himself to be led right up to the figure, which a sudden flare from a torch held by one of the revellers, enabled him to perceive was merely a huge rag doll, decked out in sham jewellery, with a painted, leering face and a mass of tow hair, a clever but ridiculous caricature of a woman. he was about to demand an angry explanation of the foolery, when he was pushed violently forward, and, before he could recover his equilibrium, a rope was wound several times round his body, and he was strapped tightly to the doll, which was securely attached to an iron stake fixed perpendicularly in the ground. loud shouts of laughter now echoed from one end of the chamber to the other, the merriment being further increased when sir hector, with an assumed gravity, presented his humblest respects to the bride and bridegroom, and hoped that they would enjoy a long and very happy honeymoon. ronan, whose indignation was by this time raised to boiling pitch, furiously demanded to be released, but the more angry he became, the more his tormentors mocked, until at length even walls, floor, and ceiling seemed to become infected and to shake with an uncontrollable and devilish mirth. finally, however, when things had gone on in this fashion for some time, sir hector again spoke, and this time announced in loud tones that, as he was quite sure the bride and bridegroom must now be wishing for nothing better than to be left to themselves, he and his guests would now proceed to seal up the bridal chamber. a general bustle and subsequent clinking of metal on the stone floor, immediately following this speech, left ronan in no doubt whatever as to what was happening. he was, of course, being bricked up. now although he felt assured that it was all a joke, he also felt it was a joke that had gone on quite long enough. it was only too clear to him that, for some reason or another, mr robert dunloe was very far from popular with these masqueraders, and he began to wonder if mr dunloe's explanation of his desire to exchange clothes was the correct one, whether, in fact, mr dunloe had not got an inkling of what was going to happen to him from the elfish girl's letter, and whether he had not merely trumped up the story of the sick woman and the wager for the occasion. in any case ronan felt that he had been let down badly, and since he did not see why he should still pretend to be the man who had taken such advantage of him, he called out: "look here, i've a confession to make. you think i'm mr robert dunloe, but i'm not. my name is ronan malachy. i'm staying with my uncle, mr hugh malachy, near birkenhead, and anyone there would confirm my identity. i was bound to-night for lockerbie, when i met a girl who begged me to wait in the road and deliver a letter for her to an individual dressed as a court jester, and styling himself robert dunloe, who would presently pass by. not liking to refuse a lady, i agreed, and when i had given the man the letter, and he had read it, he told me that it was a summons to attend the death-bed of a very dear friend and urged me to exchange clothes with him, in order that he might go suitably attired. to this i naturally assented, and he then begged me to impersonate him here, as he had laid a big wager that he would be present at this ball and would walk all the way from annan in this costume." ronan was about to add more, when sir hector mcblane approached the mound of bricks, which was already breast high, and, looking straight at him, exclaimed: "robert dunloe, it is useless to try and hoodwink us. we know all about you. we know that you were once arrested for highway robbery and murder, but got off through turning king's evidence against your mate, 'hal of the seventeen strings,' who was hanged at lancaster; that you then, took up government spying as a trade, and got a score of the best fellows who ever breathed life sentences at morecombe for smuggling a few casks of brandy. a month ago we heard that you were coming to annan to try and place a rope round some of our necks for the same so-called felony, and we determined that we would be first in the field and teach you a lesson. we are now going to seal you up and leave you to soliloquise over the rope which is round you, and which is, doubtless, of the same hue and texture as that which has hanged the many that have been sentenced through your treachery. adieu." it was in vain, when sir hector had finished speaking, that ronan alternately pleaded and swore; he could get no further reply. the layers of bricks rose, till only one was left to render the task complete; and already the air within was becoming fetid and oppressive. a terrible sense of utter and hopeless isolation now surged through ronan, and forced him once again to call out: "for the love of god," he said, "set me free. for the love of god." he had barely uttered these words, when the whole assembly looked at one another with startled faces. "hark!" exclaimed one. "do you hear that screaming and clapping? what in the world is it?" "i should say," said another, "that it was some puir bairn being done to death were it not for the clapping, but that gets over me. whatever can it mean?" at that moment steps were heard descending the stairs in a great hurry, and a young man, with bright red hair, and dressed strictly in accordance with the fashion prevailing at that time, burst into the room. "boys," he exclaimed, his voice shaking with emotion, "i have just seen the banshee. she was in the road outside the gates of this house, running backwards and forwards, just as i saw her five years ago in kerry, and, as i tried to pass her by to get on my way to dumfries, she waved me back, shaking her fist and screaming at the same time. then she signalled to me to come here, and ran on ahead of me, crying, and groaning, and clapping her hands. and as i knew it would be as much as my life is worth to disobey her, i followed. you can still hear her outside, keening and screeching. but what are all these bricks for, and this mortar?" "the informer, robert dunloe," exclaimed one of the revellers. "we have been bricking him up for a lark, and intend keeping him here till the morning." "it's a lie," ronan shouted. "i'm no more dunloe than any of you. i'm ronan malachy, i tell you, and my home is in dublin. i heard an irish voice just now, surely he can tell i'm irish, too." "arrah, i believe you," said the new-comer. "it's the real brogue you've got, and none other, though it's not so pronounced as is my own; but may be you've lived longer in this country than i. pull down those bricks, boys, and let me have a look at him." "no, no," cried several voices, angrily. "anybody could take you in, pat. he's dunloe right enough; and now we've got him, we intend to keep him." in the altercation that now ensued, some sided with the irishman, and some against him; but over and above all the clamour and confusion the voice of the banshee could still be heard shrieking, and wailing, and clapping her hands. at last someone struck a blow, and in an instant swords were drawn, sticks and cudgels were used, furniture was flung about freely, and table, brazier, and cauldron were overturned; and the blazing pitch and red hot coals, coming in contact with piled up articles of all kinds--casks, chests, boxes, musty old books, paper and logs--it was not long before the whole chamber became a mass of flames. one or two of the calmer and more sober revellers attempted to get to the recess and batter down the bricks, which were merely placed together without cement, but the fury of the flames drove them back, and the hapless ronan was, in the end, abandoned to his fate. hideously aware of what was going on, he struggled desperately to free himself, and, at last succeeding, made a frantic attempt to reach a small window, placed at a height of some seven or eight feet from the floor. after several fruitless efforts he triumphed, only to discover, however, that the aperture was just too small for his body to pass through. the flames had, by this time, reached the entrance to the recess, and the heat from them was so stupendous that ronan, weak and exhausted after his long fast and all the harrowing and exciting moments he had passed through, let go his hold, and, falling backwards, struck his head a terrific crash on the floor. * * * * * much to his amazement, on recovering his faculties, ronan found himself lying out of doors. above him was no abysmal darkness, only the heavens brilliantly lighted by moon and stars, whilst as far as his sight could travel was free and open space, a countryside dotted here and there with gorse bushes and the silvery shimmering surface of moorland tarns. he turned round, and close beside him was a big boulder of rock that he now remembered slipping from when he had dropped over the wall to take cover from the storm. and there, sure enough, was the shelter. he got up and went towards it. it was quite deserted, no one was there, not even a cow, and the silence that came to him was just the ordinary silence of the night, with nothing in it weirder or more arrestive than the rushing of distant water and the occasional croaking of a toad. considerably mystified, and unable to decide in his mind whether all he had gone through had been a dream or not, he now clambered back into the road and pursued his way, according to his original intention, towards lockerbie. on reaching the spot where he had in his dream, or whatever it was, first sighted the spelkin towers, he perceived, to his amazement, the very same building, apparently exact in every detail. on approaching nearer he found the white gate, but whereas when he had beheld the towers only such a short time ago, there had been a feeble flicker of artificial light in some of the slit-like windows, all was now gloomy and deserted, and, still further to his amazement, he perceived, on opening the gate and entering, that the building was, to some extent, in ruins, and that the charred timber and blackened walls gave every indication of its having been partially destroyed by fire. totally unable to account for his experience, but convinced in his own mind that it was not all a dream, he now hurried on, and reached his aunt's house in lockerbie, just in time to wash and tidy himself for breakfast. after the meal, and when he was sitting with his aunt by the fire in the drawing-room, ronan not only announced to her the purpose of his visit, but gave her a detailed account of his journey and adventures on the way, asking her in conclusion what she thought of his experience, whether she believed it to be merely a dream or, in very truth, an encounter with the denizens of ghostland. miss bridget malachy, who during ronan's recitation obviously had found it extremely difficult to maintain silence, now gave vent to her feelings. "i cannot tell you," she said excitedly, "how immensely interested i am in all you have told me. last night was the anniversary of your father's strange disappearance. i had only been living here a few weeks, when i received a letter from him, saying he had business to transact in the north of england, and would like to spend two or three days with me. he gave me the exact route he intended to travel by from dublin, and the exact hour he expected to arrive. your father was the most precise man i ever met. "well, on the night before the day he was due to arrive, as i was sitting in this very room, writing, i suddenly heard a tapping at the window, as if produced by the beak and claws of some bird, or very long finger nails. wondering what it could be, i got up, and, pulling aside the blind, received the most violent shock. there, looking directly in at me, with an expression of the most intense sorrow and pity in its eyes, was the face of a woman. the cheeks shone with a strange, startling whiteness, and the long, straggling hair fell in a disordered mass low over her neck and shoulders. as her gaze met mine she tapped the window with her long, white fingers and, throwing back her head, uttered the most harrowing, heart-rending scream. convinced now that she was the banshee, which i had often had described to me by my friends, i was not so much frightened as interested, and i was about to address her and ask her what in god's name she wanted, when she abruptly vanished, and i found myself staring into space. "a week later, i received tidings that a body, believed to be your father's, had just been recovered from the solway firth, and i was asked to go at once and identify it. i went, and though it had remained in the water too long, perhaps, to be easily recognisable, i was absolutely certain my surmises were correct, and that the body was that of a stranger. it was that of a man somewhat taller than your father, and the tips of his fingers, moreover, were spatulate, whereas, like all the rest of our family's, your father's fingers were pointed. from what you have told me i am now convinced that i really was right, and that your father, falling into the hands of the smugglers, who, at that time, infested the whole of this neighbourhood, did actually meet with foul play. i recollect perfectly well the fire at the spelkin towers the night your father disappeared, but, until now, i never in any way associated the event with him. do, i beseech you, make a thorough search of the ruins and see if you can find anything that will help to substantiate your story and prove that your experience was of a nature very different from that of an ordinary dream." ronan needed no further bidding. accompanied by his aunt's gardener and two or three villagers--for the gardener would not venture there without a formidable escort; the place, he said, bore a most evil and sinister reputation--he at once proceeded to the towers, and, in one of the cellars, bricked up in a recess, they found a skeleton--the skeleton of a man, on one of whose fingers was a signet-ring, which miss bridget malachy at once identified as having belonged to her missing brother. moreover, with the remains were a few tattered shreds--all that was left of the clothes--and, though blackened and rusty, a number of tiny bells, such as might have once adorned the cap of a court jester. * * * * * the spelkin towers is still haunted, for it has ghosts of its own, but never, i believe, since that memorable experience of ronan's within its grey and lichen-covered walls, has it again been visited by the banshee. chapter xiii my own experiences with the banshee in order definitely to establish my claim to the banshee, i am obliged to state here that the family to which i belong is the oldest branch of the o'donnells, and dates back in direct unbroken line to niall of the nine hostages. i am therefore genuinely celtic irish, but, in addition to that, i have in my veins strains both of the blood of the o'briens of thomond (whose banshee visited lady fanshawe), and of the o'rourkes, princes of brefni; for my ancestor, edmund o'donnell, married bridget, daughter of o'rourk of the house of brefni, and his mother was the daughter of donat o'brien of the house of thomond. all of which, and more, may be ascertained by a reference to the records of the truagh o'donnells.[ ] possibly my first experience of the banshee occurred before i was old enough to take note of it. i lost my father when i was a baby. he left home with the intention of going on a brief visit to palestine, but, meeting on the way an ex-officer of the anglo-indian army, who had been engaged by the king of abyssinia to help in the work of remodelling the abyssinian army, he abandoned his idea of visiting the holy land, and decided to go to abyssinia instead. what actually happened then will probably never be known. his death was reported to have taken place at arkiko, a small village some two hours walking distance from massowah, and from the letters[ ] subsequently received from the french consul at massowah and several other people, as well as from the entries in his diary (the latter being recovered with other of his personal effects and sent home with them), there seems to have been little, if any, doubt that he was trapped and murdered, the object being robbery. the case created quite a sensation at the time, and is referred to in a work entitled "the oriental zig-zag," by charles hamilton, who, i believe, stayed some few years later at the house at massowah, where my father lodged, and was stated to have shared his fate. with regard to the supernatural happenings in connection with the event. the house that my father had occupied before setting out for the east was semi-detached, the first house in a row, which at that time was not completed. it was situated in a distinctly lonely spot. on the one side of it, and to the rear, were gardens, bounded by fields, and people rarely visited the place after nightfall. on the night preceding my father's death, my mother was sitting in the dining-room, which overlooked the back garden, reading. it was a windy but fine night, and, save for the rustling of the leaves, and an occasional creaking of the shutters, absolutely still. suddenly, from apparently just under the window, there rang out a series of the most harrowing screams. immeasurably startled, and fearing, at first, that it was some woman being murdered in the garden, my mother summoned the servants, and they all listened. the sounds went on, every moment increasing in vehemence, and there was an intensity and eeriness about them that speedily convinced the hearers that they could be due to no earthly agency. after lasting several minutes they finally died away in a long, protracted wail, full of such agony and despair, that my mother and her companions were distressed beyond words. as soon as they could summon up the courage they went out and scoured the gardens, but though they looked everywhere, and there was little cover for anyone to hide, they could discover nothing that could in any way account for the noises. a dreadful fear then seized my mother. she believed that she had heard the banshee which my father had often spoken about to her, and she was little surprised, when, in a few days time, the news reached her that my father was dead. he had died about dawn, the day after my mother and the servants had heard the screaming. i sent an account of the incident, together with other phenomena that happened about the same time, signed by two of the people who experienced them, to the society for psychical research, who published it in their journal in the autumn of . i have vivid recollections of my mother telling me about it when i was a little boy, and i remember that every time i heard the shutters in the room where we sat rattle, and the wind moan and sigh in the chimney, i fully expected to hear terrible shrieks ring out, and to see some white and ghastly face pressed against the window-panes, peering in at me. after these recitations i was terrified at the darkness, and endured, when alone in my bedroom, agonies of mind that no grown-up person, perhaps, could ever realise. the house and garden, so very bright and cheerful, and in every way ordinary, in the daytime, when the sun was out, seemed to be entirely metamorphosed directly it was dusk. shadows assuredly stranger than any other shadows--for as far as i could see they had no material counterpart--used to congregate on the stairs, and darken the paths and lawn. there were always certain spots that frightened me more than others, a bend in one of the staircases, for example, the banisters on the top landing, a passage in the basement of the house, and the path leading from the gate to the front door. even in the daytime, occasionally, i was chary about passing these places. i felt by instinct something uncanny was there; something that was grotesque and sinister, and which had specially malevolent designs toward me. when i was alone i hurried past, often with my eyes shut; and at night time, i am not ashamed to admit, i often ran. yet, at that time i had no knowledge that others beside myself thought these things and had these experiences. i did not know, for instance, that once, when my youngest sister, who was a little older than i, was passing along that passage i so much dreaded, she heard, close beside her, a short, sharp laugh, or chuckle, and so expressive of hatred and derision, that the sound of it haunted her memory ever after. i also did not know then that one evening, immediately prior to my father's death, when another of my sisters was running up the stairs, she saw, peering down at her from over the banisters on that top landing i so much dreaded, a face which literally froze her with horror. crowned with a mass of disordered tow-coloured hair, the skin tightly drawn over the bones like a mummy, it looked as if it had been buried for several months and then resurrected. the light, obliquely set eyes, suffused with baleful glee, stared straight at her, while the mouth, just such a mouth as might have made that chuckle, leered. it did not seem to her to be the face of anyone that had ever lived, but to belong to an entirely different species, and to be the creation of something wholly evil. she looked at it for some seconds, too petrified to move or cry out, until, her faculties gradually reassuring themselves, she turned round from the spot and flew downstairs. some years later, just before the death of my mother, at about the same time of day and in precisely the same place, the head was again seen, this time by my younger sister, the one who had heard the ghostly chuckle. i think, without doubt, that the chuckle, no less than the head, must be attributed to the malignant banshee. i may add, perhaps, without digressing too much, that supernatural happenings, apart from the banshee, were associated with both my parents' deaths. on the night following my father's murder, and on every subsequent night for a period of six weeks, my mother and the servants were aroused regularly at twelve o'clock by a sound, as of someone hammering down the lids of packing-cases, issuing from the room in the basement of the house, which my father had always used as a study. they then heard footsteps ascending the stairs and pausing outside each bedroom in turn, which they all recognised as my father's, and, occasionally, my old nurse used to see the door of the night nursery open, and a light, like the light of a candle outside, whilst at the same time she would hear, proceeding from the landing, a quick jabber, jabber, jabber, as of someone talking very fast, and trying very hard to say something intelligible. no one was ever seen when this voice and the footsteps, said to be my father's, were heard, but this circumstance may be accounted for by the fact that my father, just before leaving ireland, had remarked to my mother that, should anything happen to him abroad, he would in his spirit appear to her; and she, growing pale at the mere thought, begged him to do no such thing, whereupon he had laughingly replied: "very well then, i will find some other means of communicating with you." many manifestations of a similar nature to the foregoing, and also, like the foregoing, having nothing to do with the banshee, occurred immediately after the death of my mother, but of these i must give an account on some future occasion. years passed, and nothing more was seen or heard of the banshee till i was grown up. after leaving school i went to dublin to read with dr chetwode crawley, in ely place, for the royal irish constabulary, and i might, i think, have passed into that force, had it not been for the fact that at the preliminary medical examination some never-to-be-forgotten and, as i thought then, intensely ill-natured doctor, rejected me. accordingly, i never entered for the literary, but returned home thoroughly dispirited, and faced with the urgent necessity of at once looking around for something to do. however, in a very short time i had practically settled on going to america to a ranch out west (a most disastrous venture as it subsequently proved to be), and it was immediately after i had reached this decision that my first actual experience with what i believe to have been the malevolent family banshee occurred. it happened in the same house in which the other supernatural occurrences had taken place. all the family, saving myself, were away at the time, and i was the sole occupant of one of the landings, the servants being all together on another floor. i had gone to bed early, and had been sleeping for some time, when i was awakened about two o'clock by a loud noise, for which i could not account, and which reverberated in my ears for fully half a minute. i was sitting up, still wondering what on earth could have produced it, when, immediately over my head, i heard a laugh, an abrupt kind of chuckle, that was so malicious and evil that i could not possibly attribute it to any human agency, but rather to some entity of wholly satanic origin, and which my instinct told me was one of our attendant banshees. i got out of bed, struck a light, and made a thorough investigation, not only of the room, but the landing outside. there was no one there, nothing, as far as i could see, that could in any way explain the occurrence. i threw open the bedroom window and looked out. the night was beautiful--the sky brilliantly illuminated with moon and stars--and everything perfectly still, excepting for the very faintest rustling of the leaves as the soft night breeze swept through the branches and set them in motion. i listened for some time, but, the hush continuing, i at last got back again into bed, and eventually fell asleep. i mentioned the incident in the morning to the servants, and they, too, had heard it. a short time afterwards i went to the united states, and had the most unhappy and calamitous experience in my whole career. my next experience of the banshee happened two or three years later, when, having returned from america, i was living in cornwall, running a small preparatory school, principally for delicate boys. the house i occupied was quite new, in fact i was the first tenant, and had watched it being built. it was the last house in a terrace, and facing it was a cliff, at the foot of which ran a steep path leading to the beach. at this particular time there was no one in the house but my aged housekeeper, by name mrs bolitho, and myself, and whilst mrs bolitho slept in a room on the first floor, i was the sole occupant of the floor immediately above it. one night i had been sitting up writing, rather later than usual, and, being very tired, had dropped off to sleep, almost immediately after getting into bed. i woke about two o'clock hearing a curious kind of tapping noise coming along the passage that ran parallel with my bed. wondering what it could be, i sat up and listened. there were only bare boards outside, and the noise was very clear and resonant, but difficult to analyse. it might have been produced by the very high heels of a lady's boot or shoe, or the bony foot of a skeleton. i could compare it with nothing else. on it came, tap, tap, tap, till it finally seemed to halt outside my door. there was then a pause, during which i could feel somebody or something was listening most earnestly, making sure, i thought, whether i was awake or not, and then a terrific crash on one of the top panels of the door. after this there was silence. i got up, and, somewhat timidly opening the door, for i more than half expected to find myself confronted with something peculiarly dreadful and uncanny, peeped cautiously out. there was nothing to be seen, however; nothing but the cold splendour of the moon, which, shining through a window nearly opposite me, filled the entire passage with its beams. i went into each of the rooms on the landing in turn, but they were all empty, and there was nothing anywhere that could in any way account for what i had heard. in the morning i questioned mrs bolitho, but she had heard nothing. "for a wonder," she said, "i slept very soundly all through the night, and only awoke when it was time to get up." two days later i received tidings of the death of my uncle, colonel john vize o'donnell of trough.[ ] he had died almost suddenly, his death occurring a few hours after i had heard the footsteps and the knock. three years after this experience i had moved into another house in the same town--also a new house, and also the last in a terrace. at the rear, and on one side of it, was a garden, flanked by a hedge, beyond which were fields that led in almost unbroken succession to the coast. it could not be altogether described as occupying a lonely position, although the fields were little frequented after dusk. well, one night my wife and i were awakened about midnight by a series of the most agonising and heart-rending screams, which, if like anything earthly at all, seemed to us to be more like the screams of a woman in the very direst distress. the cries were so terrible and sounded so near to us, almost, in fact, in the room, that we were both horribly alarmed, and hardly knew what to say or think. "whatever is happening?" my wife whispered, catching hold of me by the arm, "and what is it?" "i don't know," was my reply, "unless it is the banshee, for there is nobody else that could make such a noise." the screams continued for some seconds, and then died away in one long-drawn-out wail or sob. i waited for some minutes to see if there was a repetition of the sounds, and, there being none, i at length got up, and not, i confess, without considerable apprehensions, went out on to the landing, where i found several of the other inmates of the house collected together discussing with scared faces the screams which they, too, had heard. an examination of the house and grounds was at once made, but nothing was discerned that could in any way account for the sounds, and i adhered to my opinion that it must have been the banshee; which opinion was very considerably strengthened, when, a few days later, i received the news that an aunt of mine, an o'donnell, in county kerry, had passed away within twenty-four hours of the time the screaming had occurred. it is, perhaps, a dozen years or so since we left cornwall, and my latest experience of the banshee took place in the house in which we are now living near the crystal palace. the experience occurred in connection with the death of my youngest sister. on the night preceding her decease i dreamed most vividly that i saw the figure of a female dressed in some loose-flowing, fantastic garment come up the path leading to the house, and knock very loudly several times, in quick succession, at the back door. i was going to answer, when a sudden terror held me back. "it's the banshee," a voice whispered in my ear, "the banshee. don't let her in, she's coming for one of you." this so startled me that i awoke. i then found that my wife was awake also, trembling all over, and in a great state of excitement. "did you hear that tremendous knock?" she whispered. "what!" i replied. "you don't mean to say there really was a knock? why, i fancied it was only in my dream." "you may have dreamt it," she said, "but i didn't--i heard it; it was at this door, not at the front door. i say knock, but it was really a crash--a terrific crash on the top panel of the door." we anxiously waited to see if there would be a repetition, but, nothing happening, we lay down again, and eventually went to sleep. on the following day we received a telegram informing us that at ten o'clock that morning my sister had passed away. since then, i am glad to relate i have not again come in contact with the banshee. at the same time, however, there are occasions when i feel very acutely that she is not far away, and i am seldom, if ever, perhaps, absolutely free from an impression that she hovers near at hand, ready to manifest herself the moment either death or disaster threaten any member of my family. moreover, that she takes a peculiar interest in my personal affairs, i have, alas, only too little reason to doubt. addenda in reply to a letter of mine asking for particulars of the banshee alleged to be attached to the inchiquin family, i received the following: "i think the name (of the banshee) was obenheim, but i am not sure. two or three people have told me that she appeared before my grandfather's death, but none of them either saw or heard her, but they had met people who did say they had heard her." writing also for particulars of the banshee to a cousin of the head of one of the oldest irish clans, i received a long letter, from which i will quote the following: "i have heard 'the banshee' cry. it is simply like a woman wailing in the most unearthly fashion. at the time an o'neill was in this house, and she subsequently heard that her eldest brother had died on that night between twelve a.m. and three a.m., when we all of us heard the banshee wailing. i heard her also at my mother's death, and at the death of my husband's eldest sister. the cry is not always quite the same. when my dear mother died, it was a very low wail which seemed to go round and round the house. "at the death of one of the great o'neill family, we located the cry at one end of the house. when my sister-in-law died i was wakened up by a loud scream in my room in the middle of the night. she had died at that instant. i heard the banshee one day, driving in the country, at a distance. sometimes the banshee, who follows old families, is heard by the whole village. some people say she is red-haired and wears a long flowing white dress. she is supposed to wring her long thick hair. others say she appears as a small woman dressed in black. "such an apparition did appear to me in the daytime before my mother-in-law died." the writer of this letter has asked me not to publish her name, but i have it by me in case corroboration is needed. in reference to the o'donnell banshee, chapter xiii., my sister, petronella o'donnell, writes: "i remember vividly my first experience of our banshee. i had never heard of it at the time, and in fact i have only heard of it in recent years. "it happened one day that i went into the hall, in the daytime, i forget the exact hour, and as i climbed the stairway, being yet a small child, i happened to look up. there, looking over the rails at the top of the stairway, was an object so horrible that i shudder when i think of it even now. in a greenish halo of light the most terrible head imagination could paint--only this was no imagination, i knew it was a real object--was looking at me with apparently fiendish fire in its light and leering eyes. the head was neither man nor woman's; it was ages old; it might have been buried and dug up again, it was so skull-like and shrunken; its pallor was horrible, grey and mildewy; its hair was long. its mouth leered, and its light and cruel eyes seemed determined to hurt me to the utmost, with the terror it inspired. i remember how my childish heart rebelled against its cowardice in trying to hurt and frighten so small a child. gazing back at it in petrified horror, i slowly returned to the room i had come from. i resolved never to tell anyone about it, i was so proud and reserved by nature. "i had then two secret terrors hidden in my irish heart. the first one i have never till recently spoken of to anyone; it happened before i saw this awful head. i was asleep, but yet i knew i was _not_ asleep. suddenly, down the road that led to our home in ireland came an object so terrible that for years after my child's heart used to stand still at the memory of it. the object i saw coming down to our house was a procession--there were several pairs of horses being led by grooms in livery, pulling an old coach with them. it was a large and awful looking old coach! the horses were headless, and the men who led them were headless, and even now as i write, the awful terror of it all comes over me, it was a terror beyond words. i _knew_, i felt certain they had come to cut off my head! this procession of headless things stopped at our door, the men entered the house, chased me up to the very top of it, and then cut off my head! i can remember saying to myself, 'now i am dead, i am dead, i can suffer no more.' "they then went back to the coach, and the procession moved away and was lost to view. "night after night i lay shivering with terror, for months, for years, there was such a _lurid_ horror about this headless procession. "some weeks after i saw the head, we heard that our father had been killed about that time in egypt, murdered it was supposed. my mother died some years afterwards. "one evening, when i was grown up, we were sitting round the fire with friends, and someone said: "'i don't believe in ghosts. have you ever met anyone who has seen one? i have not!' "a sudden impulse came over me--never to that moment had i ever mentioned the head--and, leaning forward, i said: "'i have seen a ghost; i saw the most terrible head when i was a child, looking over the staircase.' "to my astonishment my sister, who was sitting near me, said: "'i saw a most terrible head, too, looking over the staircase.' "i said: "'when did you see it? i saw it when our father died.' "and she said: "'and, _i_ saw it when our mother died.' "in describing it, we found all the details agreed, and learned not long after that it was without doubt our own banshee we had seen. "people have said to me that banshees are heard, not seen. this is not correct, it all depends if one is clairvoyant or clairaudient. "i remember when my mother was alive, how i came in from a walk one evening and found the whole house in a ferment, the most terrible screaming and crying had been heard pass over the house. our mother said it must be the banshee. sure enough we heard of the death of a very near relation directly after. if i had been present, no doubt i should not only have heard the screams but i should have seen something as well. "a few years ago in ireland i was talking about these things, and a relation i had not met before was present. he said to me: "'but as well as the banshee do you know that we have a _headless coach_ attached to our family; it is proceeded by men, who lead the horses, and none of them have heads.' "like a flash came that never-to-be-forgotten vision of that awful procession i had seen as a child, and of which i had never made any mention till then. i remember now that after i saw the headless coach we heard that our grandmother was dead. i believe that the headless coach belongs to her family. "petronella o'donnell." the headless coach referred to in the foregoing account comes to us, i believe, from the vize family. my grandmother before her marriage was sarah vize, daughter of john vize of donegal, glenagad and limerick. her sister frances married her cousin, david roche of carass (see burke's "landed gentry of ireland," under maunsell family, and burke's "peerage under roche"), their son being sir david roche, bart. the great-great-grandmother of sarah vize was mary, daughter of butler of the house of the earl glengall cahir. sarah vize's mother, my great-grandmother, before her marriage was sarah maunsell, granddaughter of william maunsell of ballinamona, county cork, the fifth son of colonel thomas maunsell of mocollop. in the accompanying genealogical tree, tracing the descent of the o'donnells of trough from niall of the nine hostages, the o'briens of thomond and the o'rourkes of brefui, may be found the basis upon which my family's claim to the dual banshee rests. the original may be seen in the office of the king of arms, dublin. the following is merely an extract: niall of the nine hostages. king of ireland | conall gulban | feargus | leadna, prince of tirconnell | feargus | lughaidb, and from him, in direct descent, to foirdhealbhach an fhiona o'donnhnaill, who had two sons, the elder, shane luirg and the younger, niall garbh. from niall garbh the illustrious red hugh and his brother rory, earl of tirconnell, were descended, from shane luirg, whose rank as "the o'donnell" was taken by his younger brother, presumably the stronger man of the two, the trough o'donnells are descended. the line goes on thus: shane luirg | art o'donnhnail | (ob. circa ) | niall o'donnhnaill | (ob. circa ) | foirdheal bhach o'donnhnaill _m._ julia maguire | (ob. ) | shane _m._ rosa, d. of hugh o'donnell | (ob. ) | hugh o'donnell of limerick _m._ maria, d. of donat o'brien of the | house of thomond (ob. ) | edmund, of limerick _m._ bridget, d. of o'rourk of the (ob. ) | house of brefui | james, of limerick _m._ helena, d. of james sarsfield, (ob. ) | great-uncle of patrick | sarsfeld, earl of lucan | john _m._ margaret, d. of thomas creagh | of limerick | james _m._ christiana, d. of william | stritch of limerick | john _m._ deborah, d. of william anderson (ob. ) | of tipperary | +--------------------------------------------+ | | [ ]john, of limerick _m._ sarah elliot henry anderson _m._ domina jan, and baltimore, | of baltimore, o'donnell | daughter of u.s.a (ob. ) | u.s.a. (ob. ) | nephew of | | shah of | | persia | | elliot, of limerick _m._ sarah vize, gen. sir c. r. _m._ catherine (ob. ) | of limerick o'donnell, anne, d. | k.c.b., and of gen. p. | member of the murray, | irish academy nephew of | (ob. ) the earl | of elibank rev. henry o'donnell | elliot (youngest son) for particulars of the pedigree see vol. x., p. , genealogias, in the office of ulster king of arms, dublin. from niall to shane luirg, see register xv., p. ; from shane to my grandfather, elliot, see register xxiii., p. ; and down to myself, see "sheridan," p. . referring to the banshee prior to my aunt's death (see chapter xiii.) my wife writes: "i certainly remember, one night, when we were living in cornwall, hearing a most awful scream, a scream that rose and fell, and ended in a long-drawn-out wail of agony. i have never heard any other sound at all like it, and therefore cannot think that it could have been anything earthly. at the time, however, i did think that possibly the scream was that of a woman being murdered, and did not rest until my husband, with other inmates of our house, had made a thorough search of the garden and premises. "shortly after we had had this experience, we heard of the death, in ireland, of one of my husband's aunts. "i also recollect that one night, shortly before we received the news of my sister-in-law's death, i heard a crash on our bedroom door. it was so loud that it quite shook the room, and my husband, apparently wakened by it, told me he had dreamed that the banshee had come and was knocking for admittance. this happened not very long ago, when we were living in norwood. "ada o'donnell." printed at the northumberland press, waterloo house, thornton street, newcastle-upon-tyne footnotes: [ ] "ancient legends, mystic charms and superstitions of ireland," by lady wilde. [ ] "the astral plane," p. . [ ] this book was published in . [ ] in the addenda at end of this volume will be found a genealogical tree showing descent of author from the thomond o'briens. [ ] in addenda see tree showing descent of author from o'rourks of brefni. [ ] as a rule the banshee is neither heard nor seen by the person whose death it predicts. there are, however, some notable exceptions. [ ] for further reference to the banshee of the o'neills see addenda. [ ] see addenda. [ ] see addenda. [ ] it may be recorded here as a matter of interest that my ancestress, helena sarsfield, was a daughter of james sarsfield, great-uncle of patrick sarsfield, earl of lucan and the defender of limerick against the english. [ ] neither of her stories have appeared in print before. [ ] see "the ghost world," by t. f. t. dyer, p. . [ ] see sir walter scott's poetical works, , viii., p. . [ ] these extracts are taken from quotations of the poem in chapter ii. of a work entitled "ancient history of the kingdom of kerry" by friar o'sullivan of muckross abbey, published in the journal of the cork historical and archæological society (vol. v., no. ); and friar o'sullivan, in commenting upon these passages relating to the banshees, writes (quoting from "kerry records"): "it seems that at this time it was the universal opinion that every district belonging to the geraldines had its own attendant banshee" (see _archæological journal_, , on "folk lore" by n. kearney). [ ] see records of the truagh o'donnells in the office of the king of arms, dublin. refs.: genealogias, vol. xi., p. ; register xv., p. ; register xxii., p. ; and sheridan, p. . [ ] the originals are still in existence. the diary was kept right up to the night preceding his death. [ ] also spelt truagh. [ ] john o'donnell of baltimore's eldest son, columbus, had a daughter, eleanora, who married adrian iselin of new york, and their grand-daughter, norah, is the present princess coleredo mansfeldt. * * * * transcriber's note: text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). the following misprints have been corrected: "know" corrected to "known" (page ) "sometime" corrected to "sometimes" (page ) "heartrending" standardized to "heart-rending" (page ) other than the corrections listed above, inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the original. the laird o' coul's ghost. _an eighteenth-century chap-book._ the laird o' coul's ghost. from the original ms. in the possession of the rev. dr. gordon, st. andrew's, glasgow. london: elliot stock, , paternoster row. . introit. the ms. of _coul's ghost_ was found among the papers of collector hamilton, of dalzell (pronounced _dëëll_), who died in the summer of , aged years. this incident made him years old when this story was fledged, which was in . in lady anne spencer, duchess of hamilton, came to hamilton palace, and the collector gave to her grace this story to read. the duke, to play a practical joke on the collector, caused one of his servants to whisper to him while at supper, that there was a gentleman calling, who desired to see him immediately. being asked who he was, the valet answered, "_the laird o' coul_." the guests were all amused at the collector's embarrassment, who sat still and allowed the "gentleman" to await in the hall! _the laird o' coul's ghost_ first appeared in type in , and was eagerly bought by all and sundry from the _flying stationers_ who hawked it about the country. mrs. ogilvie delivered it to watkins, the king's printer, which was published from newcastle. in a fanatical character, mrs. elizabeth steuart, of coltness, termed "aunt betty," became a convert to the halcyon notions of emmanuel swedenborg, founder of "the new jerusalem sect." this personage was related to henry erskine, lord advocate for scotland, and was enraptured with the penny chap-book: so much so that she embodied it in her "remarks and illustrations of the world of spirits," which she strictly enjoined her nephew to print after her decease. not a copy of this brochure of pages is in any of our university libraries; and a few weeks ago £ s. were paid for a soiled copy. "aunt betty" does not miss to note one point in _the laird o' coul's ghost_ that may insinuate her imaginations about angels and the unseen; while she adverts to the ghosts of lord clarendon, sir george villiars, the father of the duke of buckingham, and to the dialogue of dives and lazarus, in that remarkable parable. she ferreted out from mrs. henrietta hog, edinburgh, daughter of the rev. mr. ogilvie, innerwick, that the sequel was undoubtedly the genuine copy in her father's handwriting. no declaration has been given how the ms. came into collector hamilton's possession. mr. ogilvie died soon after the conference. j. f. s. g. abbacy of susanna rig, glasgow, _xtmas, _. the first conference _an account of mr. maxwell laird of coul his appearance after death to mr. ogilvie a minister of the present establishment at innerwick, miles east from dunbar._ upon the d day of february, , at seven a clock at night after i had parted with thurston [his name cant], and was coming up the burial road, one came riding up after me: upon hearing the noise of his horse's feet, i took it to be thurston, but upon looking back, and seeing the horse of a greyish colour, i called "who is there?" the answer was, "the laird of coul [his name maxwell], be not afraid." then looking to him by the help of the dark light which the moon afforded, i took him to be collector castellow designing to put a trick upon me, and immediately i struck at him with all my force, with my cane, thinking i mould leave upon him a mark, to make him remember his presumption; but being sensible i aimed as well as ever i did in my life, yet my cane finding no resistance, but flying out of my hand the distance of about feet, and observing it by its white head, i dismounted and took it up, and had some difficulty in mounting again, what by the ramping of my horse, and what by reason of a certain kind of trembling throughout my whole joints; something likewise of anger had its share in the confusion; for, as i thought, he laughed when my staff flew away; coming up with him again, who halted all the time i sought my staff, i asked once more, "who he was?" he answered, "the laird of coul." i enquired--j{st}, "if he was the laird of coul, what brought him hither?" and "what was his business with me?" c. the reason of my waiting on you is, that i know you are disposed to do for me a thing which none of your brethren in nithsdale will so much as attempt, tho' it serve to ever so good purposes. i told him i would never refuse to do a thing to serve a good purpose, if i thought i was obliged to do it as my duty. he answered, since i had undertaken what he found few in nithsdale would, for he had tryed some upon that subject, who were more obliged to him than ever i was, or to any person living: i drew my horse, and halted in surprize, asking what i had undertaken? he answered, that on the sabbath last, i had heartily condemned m{r}. paton, and the rest of the ministers in dumfries presbytery for dissuading dr. menzies's man, from keeping his appointment with me, and that if you had been in their place, you would have persuaded the lad to do as i desired him; and that you would have gone with him, lest he had been feared; and that if you had been in mr. paton's place, you would have delivered my commissions your self, since it tended to do some people justice. o. pray, coul, who informed you that i talked at that rate? c. you must know, that we are acquainted with many things, that the living know nothing about. these things you did say, and much more to that purpose, and all that i want is, that you fulfill your promise, and deliver my commissions to my loving wife. o. 'tis a pity, coul, that you who know so many things, should not know the difference between an absolute, and a conditional promise. i did indeed at the time you mention, blame mr. paton, for i think him justly blameable, for hindering the lad to meet with you, and if i had been in his place, i would have acted quite the reverse: but did i ever say, that if you would come to innerwick, and employ me, that i would go all the way to dumfries upon that errand? that is what never so much as once entered into my thought. c. what was in your thought i do not pretend to know; but i can depend upon my information, that these were your _words_: but i see you are in some disorder, i will wait on you again, when you have more presence of mind. by the time we were got to james dickson's inclosure below the churchyard, and while i was recollecting in my mind, whether ever i had spoken these words he alledged, he broke from me thro' the churchyard with greater violence, than ever any man on horseback is capable of, and with such a singing and buzzing noise, as put me in greater disorder, than i was all the time i was with him. i came to my house, and my wife observed something more than ordinary paleness in my countenance, and would alledge that something ailed me. i called for a dram & told her i was a little uneasie; after i found myself a little eased and refreshed, i retired to my closet, to meditate on this the most astonishing adventure of my whole life. the d conference. upon the th of march . being at blarehead baptizing the shepherd's child, i came off at sunsetting, or, a very little after. near will. white's march the laird of coul came up with me on horseback as formerly, and, after his first salutation bid me not be afraid, for he would do me no harm. i told him i was not in the least afraid, in the name of god, and of christ my saviour, that he would do the least harm to me: for, i knew that he in whom i trusted was stronger than all them put together, and if any of them should attempt even to do the horse i rode upon, harm, as you have done to dr. menzies' man,[ ] if it be true that is said, and generally believed about dumfries, i have free access to complain to my lord and master, to the lash of whose resentment you are as much liable now as before. c. you need not multiply words upon that head, for you are as safe with me, and safer, if safer can be, than when i was alive. i said, well then, coul, let me have a peaceable and easy conversation with you for the time we ride together, and give me some information about the affairs of the other world, for no man inclines to lose his time, in conversing with the dead, without having a prospect of hearing and learning something that may be usefull. c. well, sir, i will satisfy you, as far as i think it proper and convenient. let me know what information you want from me. o. may i then ask you, if you be in a state of happiness or not? c. there are a great many things that i _can_ answer, which the living are entirely ignorant of: there are many more things, that notwithstanding the additional knowledge i have acquired, since my death, that i _cannot_ answer, and there are several things and questions that you may start, of which the last is one, that i _will_ not answer. o. then i know not how to manage our conversation, for whatever i shall enquire of you, i see you can easily shift me, so that i might profit more by conversing with myself. c. you may try. o. well then, what sort of a body is it that you appear in, and what sort of a horse is it that you ride on, that appears so full of mettle? c. you may depend upon it, 'tis not the same body that i was witness to your marriage in, nor in which i died, for that is in the grave rotting; but it is such a body as answers me in a moment, for i can fly as fast as my soul can do without it, so that i can go to dumfries and return again, before you ride twice the length of your horse; nay if i incline to go to london, or to jerusalem, or to the moon, if you please, i can perform all these journeys equally soon, for it costs me nothing but a thought or wish; for this body you see, is as fleet as your thought, for in the same moment of time that you can carry your thoughts to rome, i can go there in person. and for my horse, he is, much like myself, for 'tis andrew johnstoun who was seven years my tennant, and he died about hours before me. o. so it seems when andrew johnstoun inclines to ride, you must serve him for an horse, as he now does you. c. you are mistaken. o. i thought all distinction between mistresses and maids, lairds & tennants had been done away at death. c. true 'tis so, yet still you don't take up the matter. o. is then, sir, this one of the questions you _will not_ answer? c. you are still mistaken; for that question i _can_ answer, and after this you may readily understand. o. tell me then, coul, have you never yet appeared before god, nor received any sentence from him as a judge. c. never yet. o. i know you was a scholar, coul; and 'tis generally believed there is a private judgment, besides the general at the great day. the former is immediately after death. upon this he interrupted me, crying, no such thing, no such thing, no tryal till the last day: the heaven which good men enjoy immediately after death, consists only in the serenity of their thoughts, the satisfaction of a good conscience, and the certain hope they have of an eternity of joy when that day shall come. the punishment or hell of the wicked immediately after death, consists in the dreadful things of their awakened conscience, and the terror of facing the great judge, and the sensible apprehensions of eternal torments ensuing; and this bears still a due proportion to the evils they have done, when they were living. so indeed the state of some good folks differs but little in happiness from what they enjoyed upon earth, save only they are freed from the body and the sins and sorrows that attend it. and, on the other hand, there are some, who may be said rather not to have been _good_ than that they have been _wicked_ while living: their condition is not easily distinguished from that of the _former_, and under that class comes a great herd of souls, a vast number of your ignorant people, who have not much minded the concerns of eternity, but, at the same time, have lived in much indolence, ignorance, and innocence. o. i always thought that their rejecting the terms of salvation offered, was sufficient ground for god to punish them with his eternal displeasure. and as to their ignorance, that could never excuse them, since they lived in a place of the world, where the knowledge of these things might easily have been attained. c. they never properly rejected the terms of salvation, they never, strictly speaking, rejected christ, poor souls! they had as great liking both to him, and to heaven, as their gross understandings were capable of; and as to their ignorance, impartial reason must make many allowances, such as, the stupidity of their parents, their want of education, their distance from people of good sense and knowledge, the uninterrupted application they were obliged to give to their secular affairs, for their daily bread, the impious treachery of their pastor, whom they heard perhaps but once a month, or so, and thro' his unfaithfulness are perswaded, that if they be of such or such a party all is well; and many other considerations of the like nature, which god who is pure and perfect reason itself will not overlook. these are not so much under the load of the divine displeasure, as they are _out of his graces and favours_, for you know it is one thing to be discourted, and quite anoyr thing to be persecuted with all the power and rage of an incensed earthly king. so i assure you, men's faces in this world are not more various and different, than their conditions are after death. o. i am loath to believe all that you have said at this time, coul; but i will not dispute these matters with you, besides, some things you have advanced, seem to contradict the scriptures, which i shall ever look upon as the infallible truths of god; for i find by the parable of dives and lazarus, that one was immediately carried up by the angels to abraham's bosom, and the other thrust down to a place of torment. c. excuse me, sir, that does not contradict one word that i have said; but you seem not to understand the parable, whose only end is to illustrate the truth, that a man may be very happy and flourishing in this world, and most wretched in the next; and that a man may be most miserable and wretched in this world, and most glorious and happy in the next. o. be it so, coul, i yield that point, and shall pass to another, which has afforded me much speculation since our last encounter, and that is, how you came to know that i talked after the manner i did concerning mr. paton and you on the j{st} sabbath of february. was you present with us but invisible. he answered somewhat haughtily, no, sir, i was not present myself. o. i would not have you to be angry, coul; i proposed this question for my own satisfaction, but, if you judge it improper to answer it, let it pass. after he had paused, with his eyes fixed, as i thought, on the ground for about or seconds at most; with some haste and seeming cheerfulness, he says: well, sir, i will satisfy you in that point. you must know, that from time to time, there are sent from heaven angels to guard and comfort, and to do oyr special services to good people, and even the spirits of good men departed are employed on that very errand. o. and do you think every man has a guardian angel? c. no, but a great many particular men have, and there are but few houses, of distinction especially, but what have one attending them. and from what you have already heard of these spirits, 'tis no difficult matter to understand, how he may be serviceable to each particular member of it, tho' in different places, at a great distance. many are the good offices that the angels do to men that fear god, tho' many times they are not sensible of it, and i know assuredly, that one powerful angel, or even an active clever spirit departed, may be sufficient for some villages: but for your great cities, such as london, edinburgh, or the like, there is one great angel that has the superintendency of the whole; and there are inferior ones, or spirits departed, to whose particular charge, such a particular man of weight and bussiness is committed. now, sir, the kingdom of sathan does ape the kingdom of christ as much in matters of politicks as can be: well knowing that the court of wisdom is above; so that, hence are sent out missionaries too in the same order. but because, the kingdom of sathan is much better replenished than the other, instead of one devil, in many instances, there are or commissioned to attend a particular family, if it be a family of great influence, power, or distinction. o. i read that there are - d times - d angels that wait on god, and sing his praise, and do his will; and i cannot understand how the good angels should be inferior in number to the evil. c. did i not say that whatever the number be, yet the spirits departed were employed in the same bussiness? so, as to the number of original devils, whereof sathan is the chief, i cannot determine. but you need not doubt that there are more spirits departed in that place you in a loose general sense call _hell_, by almost an infinity, by what are gone to that place, which in the like sense, you call _heaven_, which likewise are employed to the same purpose. and i can assure you, by the bye, that there are as great differences between angels, both good and bad, as there are amongst men, with respect to their sense, knowledge, cleverness, and cunning or action. nay, which is more, the departed spirits on both sides, out doe severals, from their j{st} departure, of the original angels; this you'l think a paradox, yet 'tis true. o. i don't doubt of it, but what is that to my question, concerning which i am sollicitous? c. take a little patience, sir; from what i have said, you might have understood me, if you had your thoughts about you, but, i shall explain my self to you. both the good and bad angels have their stated times of rendezvous, and the particular angel that has the charge either of towns, cities or kingdoms, not to mention inferiour villages and families, and persons; all that are transacted in these several parts of the country, are then made open, and at their encounters, on each side, every thing is told, as in your paroch, at milns, kilns and smiddies, only with this difference, that many things false are told at the living encounters, but nothing but what is exact truth is told amongst the dead. only, i must observe to you, that as i am credibly informed, several of the inferiour bad angels, or spirits of wicked departed, have told mighty things which they have done; and when a more intelligent spirit has been sent out upon enquiry, and, the report of the former, seeming doubtful, he brings in a contrary report, and making it appear truth, the former fares very ill. o. does ever the like happen among good angels? c. i believe never, for their regard to truth prevents it; for while they observe truth, they do their bussiness, and keep their station, and god is truth. o. so much truth being among the good angels, i shall be apt to think, that lyes and falshood will be as much in vogue amongst the bad. c. a gross mistake, and 'tis not the alone mistake, that the living folks labour under anent another world: for the case is plainly this; as an ill man will not stick at any falshood, that may promote his design, so as little will an evil spirit departed stand at any thing which may make him successfull; but in making reports, he must tell the truth, and nothing but the truth, or, wo be to him; but besides their stated monthly, quarterly, and yearly meetings, or whatever they happen to be, the departed spirits acquainted can make a trip to sea, and converse with one another, yearly, daily and weekly, or oftener if they please. thus i answer the question you are so much concerned about; for, my information was from no less than three, viz. andrew aikman, who attends thurston's family, and james corbet who waits upon m{r} paton's for the time, and was then looking after m{rs} sarah paton, when shee was at your house, and an original emissary appointed to wait on your's. o. at this i was much surprized, and after a little thinking, i asked him; and is there really, coul, an emissary from hell, in whatever sense you take it, who attends my family? c. yes, you may depend upon it. o. and what do you think is his bussiness? c. to divert you from your duty, and to cause you under hand do as many ill things as he can, for much depends on having the minister on their side. o. upon this i was struck with a sort of terrour, that i cannot account for, nor express. in the mean time, he said several things that i did not notice, but after a little, i coming to my former presence of mind, said. but coul, tell me in earnest, if there be a devil that attends my family, tho' invisible to us all? c. just as sure as you are breathing; but be not too much dejected upon this information; for, i tell you likewise, there is a good angel that attends you, who is stronger than the other. o. are you sure of that, coul? c. yes, there is one just now riding at your right-hand, who might as well have been else where, for i meant you no harm. o. and how long has he been with me? c. only since we past brunsley, but now he is gone. o. coul, we are just now upon elmscleugh, and i desire to part with you, tho' i have gained more from our conversation together, than what perhaps i would have done otherwise in a twelve month, i chuse rather to see you at another time, when you are at leisure, and i wish it may be at as great a distance from innerwick as you can. c. be it so, but i hope you will be as obliging to me, next encounter, as i have been to you this. o. i promise you, i will, as far as it consists with my duty to my lord and master christ jesus; and since you oblige me so much by information, you may depend upon it, i will answer all the questions you can propose, so far as it consists with my knowledge; but i believe you want no information from me. c. i came not to be instructed by you, but i want your help of anoyr kind. but more of this at next meeting, so, says he, i bid you farewell and went off peaceably at the head of the paith[ ] opposite to elmscleugh. the third conference. upon the {th} of april . as i was returning from old hamstocks, coul struck up with me upon the back, at the foot of the ruinous inclosure before we come to dodds. i told him his last conversation had proven so acceptable to me, that i was well pleased to see him again, and that there was a vast number of things, which i wanted to inform my self further of, if he would be so good as to satisfy me. c. last time we met, i refused you nothing that you asked, and now i expect, you will refuse me nothing that i ask. o. nothing, sir, that is in my power, or, that i can with safety to my reputation and character. what then are your demands upon me? c. all i desire is, that as you proposed that sabbath day, you will go to my wife, who now possesses all my effects, and tell her the following particulars, and desire her, in my name, to rectify these matters. {st} that i was justly owing to provost crosby £ scots, and three years interest, but upon hearing of his death, my good brother, the laird of chapel and i, did forge a discharge narrating the date of the bond, the sum, and oyr particulars, with this onerous clause, that at that time it was fallen by, and could not be found, with an obligation on the provost's part, to deliver up the bond assoon as he could hit upon it, and this discharge was dated three months before the provost's death: and when his only son and successor andrew crosby wrote to me concerning this bond, i came to him, and shewed him that discharge, which silenced him, so that i got my bond without more adoe. and when i heard of robert kennedy's death, with the same help of chapel, i got a bill upon him, for £ sterline, which i got full and compleat payment of, and chapel got the half. when i was in dumfries the day thomas greer died, to whom i was owing an account of £ sterline, chapel my good brother at that time was at london, and not being able of my self, being but a bad writer to get a discharge of the account, which i wanted exceedingly, i met accidentally with robert boyd a poor writer lad in dumfries. i took him to mrs carricks, gave him a bottle of wine, and told him, that i had payed thomas greer's account, but wanted a discharge, and if he would help me to it, i would reward him. he flew away from me in great passion, saying he would rayr be hanged; but, if i had a mind for these things, i had best wait till chapel came home. this gave me great trouble, fearing that what he & i had formerly done, was no secret. i followed boyd to the street, made an apology that i was jesting, commended him for his honesty, and took him solemnly engaged that he should not repeat what had passed. i sent for my cousin barn-howrie your good brother, who with no difficulty for one guinea and an half, undertook and performed all that i wanted, and for one guinea more, made me up a discharge for £ scots, which i was owing to your fayr in law and his friend m{r} morehead, which discharge i gave in to john ewart, when he required the money, and he, at my desire, produced it to you, which you sustained. a great many of the like instances were told, which i cannot remember, the person's names, and sums: but added he, what vexes me more than all these, is the injustice i did to homer maxwell tenant to lord nithsdale for whom i was factor. i had borrowed , {d} merks from him, {d} of which he borrowed from another hand, and i gave him my bond; for reasons i contrived, i obliged him to secrecy, he dyed within the year, he had nine children, and his wife had dyed a month before himself. i came to seal up his papers for my lord's security. his eldest daughter intreated me to look through them all, and to give her an account what was their stock, and what was their debt. i very willingly undertook it, and in going through his papers, i put my own bond in my pocket. his circumstances proved bad, and the nine children are now starving. these things i desire you to represent to my wife; take her brother with you, and let them be immediately rectifyed, for shee has sufficient fund to do it upon, and, if that were done, i think i would be easie and happy; therefore i hope you will make no delay. o. after a short pause i answered; 'tis a good errand, coul, that you are sending me to do justice to the oppressed and injured; but notwithstanding that i see my self among the rest, that come in for £ {d} scots, yet i beg a little time to consider on the matter, and since i find you are as much master of reason _now_ and more than ever; i'l j{st} reason with you upon the matter in it's general view; and then, w{t} respect to the expediency of my being the particular messenger; and this i'le do, w{t} all manner of frankness. for, from what you have said, i see clearly what your present state is, so that, i need not ask any more questions upon that head, and you need not bid me take courage, or not be afraid, for at this moment, i am no more afraid of you, than of a new born child. c. well, say on. o. tell me then, since such is your agility, that in the twinkling of an eye, you can fly {d} miles, if your desire to do justice to the oppressed persons be so great as you pretend; what is the reason, that you do not fly to the coffers of some rich jew or banker, where is thousands of gold and money, invisibly lift it, and invisibly return it to the persons injured. or, since your wife has sufficient fund and more, why can't you empty her purse in your hat invisibly to make the people amends? c. because i _cannot_. o. if these things were rectified, _you would be easy and happy_. i do not at all credit that; for whatever justice may now be done to these people, yet the guilt of the base action must still belong to you. c. now, you think you have silenced me, and gained a notable victory, but, i will shew you your mistake immediately, for i cannot touch any man's gold or money by reason of these spirits, which are the stated guardians of justice and honesty. o. what is that you tell me, coul; do not unworthy fellows break houses every night, and yet you, who can put your self in {d} shapes in a moment, cannot do it; what is that you say coul? c. 'tis true, sir, that among the living, men may find some probable way of securing themselves, but, if spirits departed were allowed, then no man would be secure, for, in that case, every man they had a prejudice at, would soon be beggared. o. but might not you go, to the mines of mexico, where these little sums would never be missed? c. no, for the same reason. o. but, coul there is so much treasure lost in the sea, you can easily dive into the bottom of it, search that, and refund these people their losses, and thereby no man is injured. c. you are a little too forward, and incline much to banter; what i said might satisfie you; but since it does not, i tell you further, that no spirits, good or bad, have any power to take any money or gold: the good never do. and the bad, if once in an age they do, it is no small parcel [so, in the copy]; for if it were allowed them, then, they would be very successful in their bussiness, for they would never fail to gain their point. o. what hinders them, said i, coul? c. superior power, that guards & governs all. o. you have satisfied me entirely upon that head, said i; but prithee, coul, what is the reason, that you cannot go to your wife yourself, and tell her what you have a mind to; i should think this a sure way to gain your point. c. the reason is, _because i cannot_. o. that does not satisfy me coul. c. and that is one of the questions that i told you long ago, i _would not_ answer. but, if you will go, as i desired, i promise i mail give you full satisfaction, after you have done your bussiness. trust me for once, and believe me i will not disappoint you. the fourth conference. upon the {th} of april . coming from old-camus upon the post road, i met with coul as formerly, upon the head of the pathe called the _pease_. he asked me, if i had considered the matter he had recommended? i told him, i had, and was in the same opinion that i was of, when we parted: that i could not possibly undertake his commission, unless he would give it in writing under his hand. i wanted nothing but reason to determine me, not only in that, but all oyr affairs of my life. i added that the list of his grievances was so long, that i could not possibly remember them w{t}out being in writing. i know, said he, that this is a mere evasion: but tell me, if your neighbour, the laird of thurston will do it? i would gladly wait upon him. o. i am sure, said i, he will not: and, if he inclined so, i would do what i could to hinder him; for, i think, he has as little concern in these matters, as i. but tell me, coul, is it not as easie for you to write your story, as to tell it, or to ride on what is it you call him, for i have forgotten your horse's name. c. no, sir, 'tis not, and perhaps i may convince you of it afterwards. o. i would be glad to hear a reason that is solid, for your not speaking to your wife your self. but however, any rational creature may see, what a fool i would make of my self, if i should go to dumfries and tell your wife, that you had appeared to me, and told me of so many forgeries and villanies which you had committed, and that shee behoved to make reparation. the event might, perhaps, be, that shee would scold me: for, as 'tis very probable, shee will be loth to part with any money shee possesses, and therefore tell me, i was mad, or possibly might pursue me for calumny. how could i vindicate my self, how should i prove, that ever you had spoken with me? m{r} paton, and the rest of my broyrn would tell me, that it was a devil who had appeared to me, and why should i repeat these things as truth, which he that was a lyar from the beginning had told me? chapel and barn-howrie would be upon my top, and pursue me before the commissary, and every body will look upon me, as brainsick or mad. therefore, i entreat you, do not insist upon sending me an april-errand: the reasonableness of my demand i leave to your consideration, as you did your former to mine; for i think what i ask is very just. but dropping these matters till our next interview; give me leave to enter upon some more diverting subject; and i do not know, coul, but thro' the information given to me, you may do as much service to mankind, as the redress of all the wrongs, you have mentioned would amount to, &c. the end. _elliot stock, paternoster row, london._ footnotes: [ ] the first appearance that coul made was to dr. menzies's servant at a time he was watering his master's horse. at some subsequent appearance, while the lad was about the same business, whether coul had done him any real harm, or, that the lad had fallen from his horse thro' fear and confusion, is uncertain, but so it was, that the lad was found dead on the road. [ ] a paith in scottish signifies a steep, and oft times rugged road. transcriber's notes: passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. superscripted letters are shown in {superscript}. web archive (the university of california) transcriber's notes: . page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/tomossingtonsgho marsrich (the university of california [illustration: "'listen! can't you hear him crying now? can't you see the ghost?'" (_to face p_. )] tom ossington's ghost by richard marsh _author of_ _"the beetle: a mystery"; "the duke and the damsel";_ _"the crime and the criminal," &c., &c_. with illustrations by harold piffard london james bowden , henrietta street, covent garden, w.c. contents chap. i. a new pupil. ii. there's a conscience. iii. two lone, lorn young women. iv. in the dead of night. v. a representative of law and order. vi. the long arm of coincidence. vii. bruce graham's first client. viii. madge ... and the panel. ix. the thing which was hidden. x. madge finds herself in an awkward situation. xi. under the spell. xii. tom ossington's lawyer. xiii. an interrupted treasure hunt. xiv. the cause of the interruption. xv. the companion of his solitude. xvi. two visitors. xvii. the key to the puzzle. xviii. madge applies more strength. xix. the woman and the man. xx. the fortune. tom ossington's ghost chapter i a new pupil the first of the series of curious happenings, which led to such a surprising and, indeed, extraordinary denouement, occurred on the twelfth of october. it was a monday; about four-thirty in the afternoon. madge brodie was alone in the house. the weather was dull, a suspicion of mist was in the air, already the day was drawing in. madge was writing away with might and main, hard at work on one of those mss. with which she took such peculiar pains; and with which the editors for whom they were destined took so little. if they would only take a little more--enough to read them through, say--madge felt sure they would not be so continually returned. her pen went tearing away at a gallop--it had reached the last few lines--they were finished. she turned to glance at the clock which was on the mantelshelf behind her. "gracious!--i had no idea it was so late. ella will be home in an hour, and there is nothing in the place for her to eat!" she caught up the sheets of paper, fastened them together at the corner, crammed them into an envelope, scribbled a note, crammed it in after them, addressed the envelope, closed it, jumped up to get her hat, just as there came a rat-tat-tat at the hall-door knocker. "now, who's that? i wonder if it is that miss brice come for her lesson after all--three hours late. it will be like her if it is--but she sha'n't have it now. we'll see if she shall." she caught up her hat from the couch, perched it on her head, pushed a pin through the crown. "if she sees that i am just going out, i should think that even she will hardly venture to ask me to give her a lesson three hours after the time which she herself appointed." as she spoke she was crossing the little passage towards the front door. it was not miss brice--it was a man. a man, too, who behaved somewhat oddly. no sooner had madge opened the door, than stepping into the tiny hall, without waiting for any sort of invitation, taking the handle from her hand, he shut it after him with considerably more haste than ceremony. she stared, while he leaned against the wall as if he was short of breath. he was tall; she only reached to his shoulder, and she was scarcely short. he was young--there was not a hair on his face. he was dressed in blue serge, and when he removed his felt hat he disclosed a well-shaped head covered with black hair, cut very short, with the apparent intention of getting the better of its evident tendency to curl at the tips. his marked feature, at that moment, was his obvious discomposure. he did not look as if he was a nervous sort of person; yet, just then, the most bashful bumpkin could not have seemed more ill at ease. madge was at a loss what to make of him. "i'm feeling a little faint." the words were stammered out, as if with a view of explaining the singularity of his bearing--yet he did not appear to be the kind of individual who might be expected to feel "a little faint," unless nature belied her own handwriting. the strength and constitution of a samson was written large all over him. it seemed to strike him that his explanation--such as it was--was a little lame, so he stammered something else. "you give music lessons?" "yes, we do give music lessons--at least, i do." "you? oh!--you do?" his tone implied--or seemed to imply--that her appearance was hardly consistent with that of a giver of music lessons. she drew herself a little up. "i do give music lessons. have you been recommended by one of my pupils?" she cast her mind over the scanty list to ascertain which of them might be likely to give such a recommendation. his stumbling answer saved her further trouble on that score. "no, i--i saw the plate on the gate, so i--i thought i'd just come in and ask you to give me one." "give you a music lesson?" "yes, if you wouldn't mind." "but"--she paused, hardly knowing what to say. she had never contemplated giving lessons to pupils of this description. "i never have given lessons to a--gentleman. i supposed they always went to professors of their own sex." "do they? i don't know. i hope you don't mind making an exception in my case. i--i'm so fond of music." suddenly he changed the subject. "this is clover cottage?" "yes, this is clover cottage." "are you--pardon me--but are you miss ossington?" "ossington? no--that is not my name." "but doesn't some one of that name live here?" "no one. i never heard it before. i think there must be some mistake." she laid her hand on the latch--by way of giving him a hint to go. he prevented her opening it, placing his own hand against the door; courteously, yet unmistakably. "excuse me--but i hope you will give me a lesson; if it is only of a quarter of an hour, to try what i can do--to see if it would be worth your while to have me as a pupil. i have been long looking for an opportunity of taking lessons, and when i saw your plate on the gate i jumped at the chance." she hesitated. the situation was an odd one--and yet she had already been for some time aware that young women who are fighting for daily bread have not seldom to face odd situations. funds were desperately low. she had to contribute her share to the expenses of the little household, and that share was in arrear. of late mss. had been coming back more monotonously than ever. pupils--especially those who were willing to pay possible prices--were few and far between. who was she, that she should turn custom from the door? it was nothing that this was a stranger--all her pupils were strangers at the beginning; most of them were still strangers at the end. men, she had heard, pay better than women. she might take advantage of this person's sex to charge him extra terms--even to the extent of five shillings a lesson instead of half a crown. it was an opportunity she could not afford to lose. she resolved to at least go so far as to learn exactly what it was he wanted; and then if, from any point of view, it seemed advisable, to make an appointment for a future date. she led the way into the sitting room--he following. "are you quite a beginner?" she asked. "no, not--not altogether." "let me see what you can do." she went to a pile of music which was on a little table, for the purpose of selecting a piece of sufficient simplicity to enable a tyro to display his powers, or want of them. he was between her and the window. in passing the window he glanced through it. as he did so, he gave a sudden start--a start, in fact, which amounted to a positive jump. his hat dropped from his hand, and, wholly regardless that he was leaving it lying on the floor, he hurried backwards, keeping in the shadow, and as far as possible from the window. the action was so marked that it was impossible it should go unnoticed. it filled madge brodie with a sense of shock which was distinctly disagreeable. her eyes, too, sought the window--it looked out on to the road. a man, it struck her, of emphatically sinister appearance, was loitering leisurely past. as she looked he stopped dead, and, leaning over the palings, stared intently through the window. it was true that the survey only lasted for a moment, and that then he shambled off again, but the thing was sufficiently conspicuous to be unpleasant. so startled was she by the connection which seemed to exist between the fellow's insolence and her visitor's perturbation that, without thinking of what she was doing, she placed the first piece she came across upon the music-stand--saying, as she did so: "let me see what you can do with this." her words were unheeded. her visitor was drawing himself into an extreme corner of the room, in a fashion which, considering his size and the muscle which his appearance suggested, was, in its way, ludicrous. it was not, however, the ludicrous side which occurred to madge; his uneasiness made her uneasy too. she spoke a little sharply, as if involuntarily. "do you hear me? will you be so good as to try this piece, and let me see what you can make of it." her words seemed to rouse him to a sense of misbehaviour. "i beg your pardon; i am afraid you will think me rude, but the truth is, i--i have been a little out of sorts just lately." he came briskly towards the piano; glancing however, as madge could not help but notice, nervously through the window as he came. the man outside was gone; his absence seemed to reassure him. "is this the piece you wish me to play? i will do my best." he did his best--or, if it was not his best, his best must have been something very remarkable indeed. the piece she had selected--unwittingly--was a minuet of mozart's. a dainty trifle; a pitfall for the inexperienced; seeming so simple, yet needing the soul, and knowledge, of a virtuoso to make anything of it at all. hardly the sort of thing to set before a seeker after music lessons, whose acquaintance with music, for all she knew, was limited to picking out the notes upon the keyboard. at her final examination she herself had chosen it, first because she loved it, and, second, because she deemed it to be something which would enable her to illustrate her utmost powers at their very best. it was only when he struck the first few notes that she realised what it was she had put in front of him; when she did, she was startled. whether he understood what the piece was there for--that he was being set to play it as an exhibition of his ignorance rather than of his knowledge--was difficult to say. it is quite possible that in the preoccupation of his mind it had escaped him altogether that the sole excuse for his presence in that room lay in the fact that he was seeking lessons from this young girl. there could be no doubt whatever that at least one of the things that he had said of himself was true, and that he did love music; there could be just as little doubt that he already was a musician of a quite unusual calibre--one who had been both born and made. he played the delicate fragment with an exquisite art which filled madge brodie with amazement. she had never heard it played like that before--never! not even by her own professor. perhaps her surprise was so great that, in the first flush of it, she exaggerated the player's powers. it seemed to her that this man played like one who saw into the very depths of the composer's soul, and who had all the highest resources of his art at his command to enable him to give a perfect--an ideal--rendering. such an exquisite touch! such masterly fingering! such wondrous phrasing! such light and shade! such insight and such execution! she had not supposed that her cheap piano had been capable of such celestial harmony. she listened spellbound--for she, too, had imagination, and she, too, loved music. all was forgotten in the moment's rapture--in her delight at hearing so unexpectedly sounding in her ears, what seemed to her, in her excitement, the very music of the spheres. the player seemed to be as oblivious of his surroundings as madge brodie--his very being seemed wrapped up in the ecstasy of producing the quaint, sweet music for the stately old-time measure. when he had finished, the couple came back to earth, with a rush. with an apparent burst of recollection his hands came off the keyboard, and he wheeled round upon the music-stool with an air of conscience-stricken guilt. madge stood close by, actually quivering with a conflict of emotions. he met her eyes--instantly to avert his own. there was silence--then a slight tremor in her voice in spite of her effort to prevent it. "i suppose you have been having a little jest at my expense." "a jest at your expense?" "i daresay that is what you call it--though i believe in questions of humour there is room for wide differences of opinion. i should call it something else." "i don't understand you." "that is false." at this point-blank contradiction, the blood showed through his sallow cheeks. "false?" "yes, false. you do understand me. did you not say that you had been for some time seeking for an opportunity to take lessons in music?" "i--i----" confronted by her red-hot accusatory glances, he stammered, stumbled, stopped. "yes?--go on." "i have been seeking such an opportunity." "indeed? and do you wish me to suppose that you believed that you--you--could be taught anything in music by an unknown creature who fastened a plate announcing lessons in music, to the palings of such a place as this?" he was silent--looking as if he would have spoken, but could not. she went on: "i thank you for the pleasure you have given me--the unexpected pleasure. it is a favourite piece of mine which you have just performed--i say 'performed' advisedly. i never heard it better played by any one--never! and i never shall. you are a great musician. i?--i am a poor teacher of the rudiments of the art in which you are such an adept. i am obliged by your suggestion that i should give you lessons. i regret that to do so is out of my power. you already play a thousand times better than i ever shall--i was just going out as you came in. i must ask you to be so good as to permit me to go now." he rose from the music stool--towering above her higher and higher. from his altitude he looked down at her for some seconds in silence. then, in his deep bass voice, he began, as it seemed, to excuse himself. "believe me----" she cut him short. "i believe nothing--and wish to believe nothing. you had reasons of your own for coming here; what they were i do not know, nor do i seek to know. all i desire is that you should take yourself away." he stooped to pick up his hat. rising with it in his hand, he glanced towards the window. as he did so, the man who had leaned over the palings came strolling by again. the sight of this man filled him with his former uneasiness. he retreated further back into the room--all but stumbling over miss brodie in his haste. in a person of his physique the agitation he displayed was pitiful. it suggested a degree of cowardice which nothing in his appearance seemed to warrant. "i--i beg your pardon--but might i ask you a favour?" "a favour? what is it?" "i will be frank with you. i am being watched by a person whose scrutiny i wish to avoid. because i wished to escape him was one reason why i came in here." madge went to the window. the man in the road was lounging lazily along with an air of indifference which was almost too marked to be real. he gave a backward glance as he went. at sight of madge he quickened his pace. "is that the man who is watching you?" "yes, i--i fancy it is." "you fancy? don't you know?" "it is the man." "he is shorter than you--smaller altogether. compared to you he is a dwarf. why are you afraid of him?" either the question itself, or the tone in which it was asked, brought the blood back into his cheeks. "i did not say i was afraid." "no? then if you are not afraid, why should you have been so anxious to avoid him as to seek refuge, on so shallow a pretext, in a stranger's house?" the intruder bit his lip. his manner was sullen. "i regret that the circumstances which have brought me here are of so singular and complicated a character as to prevent my giving you the full explanation to which you may consider yourself entitled. i am sorry that i should have sought refuge beneath your roof as i own i did; and the more so as i am compelled to ask you another favour--permission to leave that refuge by means of the back door." she twirled round on her heels and faced him. "the back door!" "i presume there is a back door?" "certainly--only it leads to the front." again he bit his lip. his temper did not seem to be improving. the girl's tone, face, bearing, were instinct with scorn. "is there no means of getting away by the back without returning to the front?" "only by climbing a hedge and a fence on to the common." "perhaps the feat will be within my powers--if you will allow me to try." "allow you to try! and is it possible that you forced your way into the house on the pretence of seeking lessons in music, when your real motive was to seek an opportunity of evading pursuit by means of the back door?" "i am aware that the seeming anomaly of my conduct entitles you to think the worst of me." "seeming anomaly!" she laughed contemptuously. "pray, sir, permit me to lead the way--to the back door." she strode off, with her head in the air; he came after, with a brow as black as night. at the back door they paused. "i thank you for having afforded me shelter, and apologise for having sought it." she looked him up and down, as if she were endeavouring, by mere force of visual inspection, to make out what kind of a man he was. "i want to ask you a question. answer it truthfully, if you can. is the man in front a policeman?" he started with what seemed genuine surprise. "a policeman! good heavens, no." "are you sure?" "of course i'm sure. he's very far from being a policeman--rather, if anything, the other way." what he meant to infer, she did not know; but he laughed shortly, "what makes you ask such a thing?" she was holding the door open in her hand. he had crossed the threshold and stood without. malice--and something else--gleamed in her eyes. "because," she answered, "i wondered if you were a thief." with that she slammed the door in his face and turned the key. then, slipping into the kitchen which was on her left, keeping the door on the jar, remaining well in the shadow, she watched his proceedings through the window. for a moment he stayed where she had left him standing, as if rooted to the spot. then, with an exaggerated courtesy, taking off his hat, he bowed to the door. turning, he marched down the garden path, his tall figure seeming more gigantic than ever as she noted how straight he held himself. in a twinkling he was over the fence and hedge. once on the other side, he shook his fist at clover cottage. the watcher in the kitchen clenched her teeth as she perceived the gesture. "ungrateful creature! and to think that a man who has the very spirit of music in his soul, and who plays the piano like an angel, should be such a wretch! that a monster seven feet high, who looks like a combination of samson and goliath rolled into one, should be such a coward and a cur--afraid of a pigmy five foot high! i hope i've seen the last of him. if i have any more such pupils i shall have to shut up shop. now perhaps i shall be allowed to post my ms. and run across to brown's to get a chop for ella's tea." with that she passed from the back to the front. outside the front door she paused to look around her and take her bearings, half doubtful as to whether any more dubious strangers might not be in sight. the only person to be seen was the man whose presence had proved so disconcerting to her recent visitor. he had reached the corner of the street, and, turning, strolled slowly back towards clover cottage. he gave one quick, shifty glance at her as she came out, but beyond that he took--or appeared to take--no notice of her appearance. "now, i wonder," she said to herself, "who you may be. your friend, who, for all i know, is now running for his life across the common, said you were no policeman--and, i am bound to say, you don't look as if you were; he added that, if anything, you were rather the other way. if, by that, he meant you were a thief, i'm free to admit you look your profession to the life. i wonder if it would be safe to run across to brown's while you're about;--not that i'm afraid of you, as i'll prove to your entire satisfaction if you only let me have the chance. only you seem to be one of those agreeable creatures who, if they are only sure that a house is empty, and there's not even a girl inside, can enact to perfection the part of area sneak; and neither ella nor i wish to lose any of the few possessions which we have." while she hesitated a curious scene took place--a scene in which the gentleman on the prowl played a leading rôle. the road in which clover cottage stood was bisected on the right and left by other streets, within a hundred yards of the house itself. on reaching the corner of the street on the left, the gentleman on the prowl, as we have seen, had performed a right-about-face, and returned to the cottage. as he advanced, a woman came round the corner of the street, upon the right. he saw her the instant she appeared, and the sight had on him an astonishing effect. he stopped, as if petrified; stared, as if the eyes were starting from his head; gave a great gasp; turned; tore off like a hunted animal; dashed round the corner on the left; and vanished out of sight. having advanced to within a few feet of where madge was standing, she was a close spectator of his singular behaviour. as she looked to see what had been the exciting cause, half expecting that her recent visitor had come back and that the tables had been turned, and the gentleman on the prowl had played the coward in his turn, the woman who had come round the other corner had already reached the cottage. pushing the gate unceremoniously open, she strode straight past madge, and, without a with-your-leave or by-your-leave, marched through the open door into the hall beyond. as madge eyed her with mingled surprise and indignation she exclaimed, with what seemed unnecessary ferocity-- "i've come to see the house." chapter ii there's a conscience! madge had been taken so wholly unawares that for a moment she remained stock-still--and voiceless. then she followed the woman to the door. "you have come to do what?" "i've come to see the house." "and pray who are you?" "what affair is that of yours? don't i tell you i've come to see the house?" "but i don't understand you. what do you mean by saying you've come to see the house?" for only answer the woman, turning her back on her, walked another step or two along the little passage. she exclaimed, as if addressing the staircase, which was in front of her, in what seemed a tone of intense emotion-- "how his presence is in all the place! how he fills the air!" madge felt more bewildered than she would have cared to admit. was the woman mad? mad or sane, she resolved that she would not submit tamely to such another irruption as the last. she laid her hand upon the woman's shoulder. "will you be so good as to tell me, at once, to whom i have the pleasure of speaking, and what business has brought you here?" the woman turned and looked at her; as she did so, madge was conscious of a curious sense of discomfort. she was of medium height, slender build, and apparently between forty and fifty years of age. her attire was not only shabby, it was tawdry to the last degree. her garments were a heterogeneous lot; one might safely swear they had none of them been made for the wearer. one and all were shocking examples of outworn finery. the black chip hat which she wore perched on her head, with an indescribable sort of would-be jauntiness, was broken at the brim, and the one-time gorgeous ostrich feathers were crushed and soiled. a once well-cut cape of erstwhile dark blue cloth was about her shoulders. it was faded, stained, and creased. the fur which had been used to adorn the edges was bare and rusty. it had been lined with silk--as she moved her arms one perceived that of the lining there was nothing left but rags and tatters. her dress, once the latest fashionable freak in some light-hued flimsy silk, had long since been fit for nothing else than cutting into dusters. she wore ancient patent-leather shoes upon her feet, and equally ancient gloves upon her hands--the bare flesh showing through holes in every finger. if her costume was strange, her face was stranger. it was the face of a woman who had once been beautiful--how long ago, no one who chanced on her haphazard could with any certainty have guessed. it might have been five, ten, fifteen, twenty years ago--and more than that--since hers had been a countenance which charmed even a casual beholder. it was the face of a woman who had been weak or wicked, and maybe both, and who in consequence had been bandied from pillar to post, till this was all that there was left of her. her big blue eyes were deep set in careworn caverns; her mouth, which had once been small and dainty, was now blurred and pendulous, the mouth of a woman who drank; her cheeks were sunk and hollow as if she had lost every tooth in her head, the cheek-bones gleaming through the yellow skin in sharp and cruel ridges. to crown it all, her hair was dyed--a vivid yellow. like all the rest of her, the dye was old and worn. it stood in urgent need of a renewal. the roots were grey, they demonstrated their greyness with savage ostentation. here and there among the yellow there were grey patches too--in some queer way her attempt at juvenesence had made her look older even than she was. this was not a pleasant face to have encountered anywhere at any time, being the sort from which good women instinctively shrink back. just now its unpleasantness was intensified by the fact that it was lit up by some, to madge, inscrutable emotion; inflamed by some mastering excitement. the hollow eyes gleamed as if they were lighted by inner fires; the lips twitched as if the muscles which worked them were uncontrollable. the woman spoke in short, sharp, angry gusts, as if she were stumbling on the verge of frenzied passion. "this house is mine," she said. "yours?" "it was his, and mine--and now it's mine." madge, persuaded that the woman must be either mad or drunk, felt that perhaps calmness might be her safest weapon. "do you mean that you're the landlady?" "the landlady!" the woman laughed--unmirthfully. "there is no landlady. and the landlord--he's a ghost. he's in it now--don't you feel that he is in it?" she spoke with such singular intensity that, in spite of herself, madge shuddered. she was feeling more and more uncomfortable--wishing heartily that some one might come, if it was only the mysterious stranger who had previously intruded. the woman went on--her excitement seeming to grow with every word she uttered. "the house is full of ghosts--full! they're in every corner, every nook and cranny--and i know them every one. come here--i'll show you some of them." she caught the girl by the arm. madge, yielding to her strange frenzy, suffered herself to be led into the sitting-room. once inside, the woman loosed her hold. she looked about her. then crossed to the fireplace, standing in the centre of the hearthrug. "this is where i struck him." she pointed just in front of her. "he was sitting there. i had asked him for some money. he would not let me have any. he always clung to his money--always! i swear it--always!" she raised her hands, as if appealing to the ceiling to bear her witness. "he said that i was ruining him. ruining him? bah! i knew better than that. he would let no one ruin him--he was not of that kind. i told him i must have money. he said he'd given me five pounds last week. 'five pounds!' i cried; 'what are five pounds?' then we quarrelled--he said things, i said things. then i flew into a rage; my temper has been the curse of my whole life. i caught up a decanter of whisky which was on the table, and struck him with it on the head. the bottle broke, the whisky went all over him--how it smelt! can't you smell it?--and he went tumbling down, down, on to the floor. he's lying there now--can't you see him lying there?" she turned to madge with a gesture which seemed to make the girl's blood run colder. "can't you see the ghost?" she moved a little to one side. "just here is where i knelt down, and asked him to forgive me. that was after--i'd been carrying on with some fellow i'd met at a dance, and he had found me out. i cried and cried as if my heart would break, and at last he came and put his hand upon my head--when i set myself to do it, and stuck at it, i could twist him round my finger!--and he began to stroke my hair--i'd lovely hair then, no woman ever had lovelier, and he was always one to stroke it when i'd let him!--and he said, 'my girl, how often shall i have to forgive you?' listen! can't you hear him saying it now? can't you see the ghost?" she went to where the modest sideboard stood. "this is where we had our sideboard too--it was a bigger one than this; all our things were good. i was standing here, leaning against it just like this, the first time he saw me drunk. he'd been out all the evening on some sort of business, and i'd been left in the house alone with the girl, and i hadn't liked it, and i'd been sulking. and at last i got to the whisky and i started to drink, drink, drink. i always had been fond of drink long before that, but i'd never let him find it out. but that time i was that sulky i didn't seem to care, and by the time i might have cared i couldn't care--i was too far gone. i had to keep on drinking. there wasn't much in the bottle; when i got to the end of it i started on another. then i got to the sideboard, and stood leaning over it, lolly fashion, booze, booze, boozing. all of a sudden the door opened, and he came into the room. i turned to have a look at him, the bottle in one hand and the glass in the other. directly i got clear of the sideboard i went flop on the floor, and the bottle and the glass went with me, and there i had to lie. he rushed towards me, and as soon as he had had a look at me he saw how it was. then he fell on his knees at my side, and put his hands up to his face, and began to cry. my god, how he did cry!--not like me. his sobs seemed tearing him to pieces, and his life's blood seemed coming from him with every tear. drunk as i was, it made me cry to hear him. listen! can't you hear him crying now? can't you see the ghost?" the woman's words and manner were so realistic, and despite--or perhaps because of--her seeming frenzy, she had such an eerie capacity of conjuring up the picture as her memory painted it, that madge listened spellbound. she was as incapable of interrupting the other's flow of language as if the conscience haunted wretch had cast on her some strange enchantment. the sea of visions went to the table, and, bending over it, beckoned to madge to draw closer. as if she found the invitation irresistible, madge approached. the woman's outstretched finger pointed to a particular place about the centre of one side of the table. her excitement all at once subsided; her voice grew softer. her manner became more human, more womanly. "see!--this is where my little baby died--my little child--the only one i ever had. it was a girl; we called it lily--my name's lily"--she glanced up with a grin, as if conscious of how grotesquely inappropriate, in her case, such a name was now; "it was such a little thing--i didn't want it when it came. i never was fond of children, and i wasn't one to play the mother. but, when it did come, it got hold of me somehow--yes, it did! it did! i was fond of it, in my way. as for him, he worshipped it; it was baby, baby, baby! all the time. i was nowhere. it made me wild to hear him, and to see the way that he went on. we fell out because i would have it brought up by hand. he wanted me to let it have my milk--but i wouldn't have it. i wasn't going to be any baby's slave--not likely! i don't think he ever forgave me that. then he was always at me because he said i neglected it; and that made me worse than ever: i wasn't going to have a crying brat thrust down my throat at every turn, and so i told him. 'why isn't there a place in which they bring up babies so that they needn't worry their mothers?' i wanted to know. when i said that, how he did look at me, and how he went on! i thought he would have killed me--but i didn't care. he did his share of all the nursing that baby ever had--and perhaps a little more." again the woman laughed. "at last the little thing went wrong. it always was small; it never seemed to grow--except thin. it was the queerest looking little mite, with a serious face like a parson's, and great big eyes which seemed to go right through you, as if it was looking at something which nobody but itself could see. he would have it that it got worse and worse, but he was always making such a fuss that i said he was making a fool of the child. the doctor came and came, but i was pretty often out, and when i wasn't i didn't always choose to see him, so i only heard what he cared to tell me--and i didn't believe the half of that. "one night i went to a masked ball with mrs. sutton--she was a larky one, she was, and led her husband a pretty dance. it was latish when i came back; i hadn't enjoyed myself one bit, and left in a temper and came off home by myself i let myself in at the front door, and when i came into this room, on the table just here"--she pointed with her finger--"there was a pillow, and on the pillow was the baby, and he was kneeling on the floor in front, his elbows on the table, and his face on his hands, and the tears streaming down his cheeks as if they'd never stop. i'd been to the ball as a ballet girl--though he hadn't known it, and i hadn't meant that he should, but the sight took me so aback that, without thinking, i dropped my cloak and stood before him just as i was. 'what's the matter now?' i cried; 'what's the child down here at this time of the night for?' i expected that he'd let fly at me, and perhaps send me packing out of the house right there and then. but, instead, he just glanced my way as if he hardly saw me, or wanted to, and said, 'baby's dying.' when he said that, it was as if he had run something right into my heart. 'dying,' i cried, 'stuff!' i ran to the table and bent over the pillow. i had never seen anybody dying before, and knew nothing at all about it, but directly i looked at it, i seemed to know that what he said was true, and that the child was dying. my heart stopped beating--i couldn't breathe, i couldn't speak, i couldn't move, i could only stare like a creature who had lost her wits--it was as if a hand had been stretched right out of heaven to strike me a blow. there he was on one side of the table--and there was me leaning right over the other, both of us motionless, neither of us speaking a word; and there was the baby lying on the pillow between us, stiller than we were. how long we stopped like that i don't know; it seemed to me as if it was hours--but i daresay it was only a few minutes. all at once the baby--my baby--gave a little movement with its little arms--a sort of trembling. he moved his arm, and put one of his fingers into its tiny hand; the baby seemed to fasten on to it. 'give it one of your fingers,' he said, sobbing as if his heart would break. 'it'll like to feel your finger as it goes!' hardly knowing what i was doing, i stretched out one of my fingers; it was the first finger of my right hand--this one." she held up the finger in question in its ragged casing. "and i put it in the mite's wee hand. it took it--yes, it took it. it closed its fingers right round it, and gave it quite a squeeze--yes, quite a squeeze. then it loosened its hold. it was dead. dead upon the pillow.--and it's there now. can't you see it lying on the pillow, with a smile on its face? a smile! can't you see the ghost?" stooping, the woman made pretence to kiss the lips of some one who was lying just beneath her. it might have been that to her the thing was no pretence, and that, as in a vision, the dead lips did indeed touch hers. then, drawing herself erect again, she broke into another of her discordant laughs. throwing out her arms on either side of her, she exclaimed in strident tones: "ghosts! ghosts! the place is full of them--i see them everywhere. i touch them, hear them all the time. they've been with me all through the years, wherever i've been--and where haven't i been? my god--in heaven and hell! crowds and crowds of them, more and more as the years went on. and do you think that i can't see them here--in their house, and mine! can't you see them too?" madge replied between set lips--she had been forming her own conclusions while the woman raved: "no, i do not see them. nor would you were you not under the influence of drink." the woman stared at her in what seemed genuine surprise. "under the influence of drink! me? no such luck! i wish i were." again she gave one of those bursts of laughter which so jarred on madge's nerves. "when i'm drunk i can't see ghosts--it's only when i'm sober. i've had nothing to eat since i don't know when, let alone to drink. i'm starving, starving! that's the time when i see ghosts. they point at me with their fingers and say, 'look at us and look at you--this is what it's come to!' they make me see what might have been. he made me come to-day; i didn't want to, but he made me. and now he's in all the house.--listen! he's getting out of bed in the room upstairs--that's his bedroom. can't you hear his lame foot moving about the floor? how often i've thrown that lame foot in his face when i've been wild!--can't you hear it hobble--hobble?" "you are mad! how dare you talk such nonsense? there's no one in the house but you and i." the woman seemed to believe so implicitly in the diseased imaginings of her conscience-haunted brain, that madge felt that unless she made a resolute effort her own mental equilibrium might totter. on the other's face there came a look of shrewd, malignant cunning. "isn't there! that's all you know,--i'm no more mad than you are. and i tell you what--he's not the only thing that's in the house. there's something else as well. it was his, and now it's mine. and don't you think to rob me." "rob you?--i." "yes, you. there's others after it as well as you--i know! i'm not the simpleton that some may think. but i won't be robbed by all the lot of you--you make no error. it was his, and now it's mine." "if there really is anything in the house to which you have the slightest shadow of a claim, which i very much doubt, and let me know what it is, and where it is, i'll see that you have it without fail." a look of vacancy came on the woman's face. she passed her hand across her brow. "that's it--i don't know just where it is. he comes and tells me, almost, but never quite. he says it's in the house, but he doesn't say exactly where. but he never lies--so i do know it's in the house, and i won't be robbed." "i have not the slightest idea of what you mean--if you really do mean anything at all. i don't know if you know me--or are under the impression that i know you; if so, i can only assure you that i don't. i have not the faintest notion who you are." the woman, drawing nearer, clutched madge's arm with both her hands. "don't you know who i am? i'm the ghost's wife!" her manner was not only exceedingly unpleasant; it was, in a sense, uncanny--so uncanny that, in spite of herself, madge could not help a startled look coming into her face. the appearance of this look seemed to amuse her tormentor. she broke into a continuous peal of unmelodious laughter. "i'm the ghost's wife!" she kept repeating. "i'm the ghost's wife." madge brodie prided herself on her strength of nerve, and as, a rule, not without cause. but, on that occasion, almost for the first time in her life it played her false. she would have been glad to have been able to scream and flee; but she was incapable even of doing that. the other seemed to hold her spellbound; she was conscious that her senses were reeling--that, unless something happened soon, she would faint. but from that final degradation she was saved. "madge," exclaimed a voice, "who is this woman?" it was ella duncan, and with her was jack martyn. at the sound of the voice, the woman released her hold. never before had madge been sensible of such a spasm of relief. she rushed to ella with a hysterical sob. "oh, ella!" she cried, "how thankful i am you've come." ella looked at her with surprise. "madge!--who is this woman?" the woman in question spoke for herself. she threw up her arms. "i'm the ghost's wife!" she shrieked, "i'm the ghost's wife!" before they had suspected her purpose, or could say anything to stop her, she had rushed out of the room and from the house. chapter iii two lone, lorn young women ella and jack eyed each other. madge took refuge in a chair, conscious of a feeling of irritation at her weakness now that the provocation had passed. ella regarded her curiously. "what's the matter with you, madge? what's happened?" "it's nothing--only that horrible woman has upset me." "who is she? and what's she been doing? and what's she want?" "i don't know who she is, or what she wants, or anything at all about her. i only know that she's prevented me getting anything for your tea." "that's all right--we've got something, haven't we, jack?" jack waved a parcel. "but whatever did you let such an extraordinary-looking creature into the house for? and whatever did she mean by screaming out that she's a ghost's wife? is she very mad?" "i think she is--and i didn't let her in." then, while they were preparing tea, the tale was told, or at least a part of it. but even that part was enough to make jack martyn grave. as the telling proceeded, he grew graver and graver, until, at the end, he wore a face of portentous gloom. when they seated themselves to the meal he made precisely the remark which they had expected him to make. he rested his hands on his knees, and he solemnly shook his head. "this comes of your being alone in the house!" ella laughed. "there! now you've started him on his own particular crotchet; he'll never let you hear the last of this." jack went on. "i've said before, and i say again, and i shall keep on saying, that you two girls ought not to live alone by yourselves in a house in this out-of-the-way corner of the world." "out-of-the-way corner of the world!--on wandsworth common!" "for all practical intents and purposes you might as well be in the middle of the desert of sahara; you might shriek and shriek and i doubt if any one would hear you. this agreeable visitor of madge's might have cut her throat from ear to ear, or chopped her into mincemeat, and she would have been as incapable of summoning assistance as if she had been at the top of mont blanc." "that's it. jack--pile it on!" "i don't think it's fair of you to talk like that, ella; i'm not piling it on; i'm just speaking the plain and simple truth. honestly, madge, when you've been alone in the house all day long, haven't you felt that you were at the mercy of the first evil-disposed person who chose to come along; or, if you haven't felt it before, don't you think you'll feel it now?" "no--to both your questions." "supposing this woman comes back again to-morrow?" madge had to bite her lip to repress a shudder; the idea was not a pleasant one. "she won't come back." "but suppose she does?--and from what you say i think it very probable that she will; if not to-morrow, then the day after." "if she comes the day after to-morrow she'll find me out; i shall be out all day." "there's a confession! it's only because you know that you will be out that you're able to face the prospect with equanimity." "you are not entitled to infer anything of the kind." ella interposed, perceiving that the girl was made uncomfortable by the man's persistence. "don't do quite so much supposing, jack; let me do a little for a change. suppose we lived in one of those flats in the charming neighbourhood of chancery lane or bloomsbury, after which--vicariously--your soul so hankers, how much better off should we be there?" "you would, at any rate, be within the reach of assistance." "no more so than we are now, because, quite probably, the kind of neighbours we should be likely to have in the sort of flat we should be able to afford would be worse--much worse--than none at all. the truth is that two lonely, hard-up girls--desperately hard-up girls--will be lonely wherever they are. we are quite prepared for that. only we intend to choose the particular kind of loneliness which we happen to prefer--don't we, madge?" "of course we do." "it makes me wild to hear you say such things. rather than you should feel like that, i'd marry on nothing." "thank you, but i wouldn't. i find it quite hard enough to be single on nothing." "you know what i mean; i don't mean actually on nothing. i was reckoning it up the other night. my income----" "your income's like mine, jack--capable of considerable increment. and would you be so kind as to change the subject?" but the thing was easier said than done. jack's thoughts had been started in a groove, and they kept in it; the conversation was continually reverting to the subject of the girls' loneliness. his last words as he left the room were on the familiar theme. "i grant that there are advantages in having a pretty little place like this all to yourselves, especially when you get it at a peppercorn rent; and that it's nice to be your own mistresses, and all that kind of thing. but in the case of you two girls the disadvantages are so many and so serious, that i wonder you don't see them more clearly for yourselves. anyhow, madge has had her first peep at them to-day, and i sincerely hope it will be her last; though i am persuaded that before very long you will discover that, as a place of residence for two lone, lorn young women. clover cottage has its drawbacks." when ella returned from saying farewell to mr. martyn in the hall, she glanced at madge and laughed. "jack's in his prophetic mood." "i shouldn't be surprised if his prophecy's inspired." her tone was unexpectedly serious. ella stared. "what do you mean?" "what i say." "you're oracular, my dear. what do you say?" "that i think it quite possible that we shall find that residence at clover cottage has its drawbacks; i've lighted on one or two of them already." ella leaned against the edge of the table, regarding the speaker with twinkling eyes and smiling lips. "my dear, you don't mean to say that that crazy creature has left such an impression on your mind?" "you see, my dear ella, i haven't told you all the story. i felt that i had given mr. martyn a sufficient handle against us as it was; so i refrained." "pray what else is there to tell? to judge from your looks and manner one would think that there was something dreadful." "i don't know about dreadful, but there certainly is something--odd. to begin with, that wretched woman was not my only visitor." then the rest of the tale was told--and this time the whole of it. ella heard of the stranger who had intruded on the pretence of seeking music lessons: of his fear of the seedy loafer in the street; of his undignified exit through the back door; and the whole of his singular behaviour. "and you say he could play?" "play! he played like an--i was going to say an angel, but i'll substitute artist." "and he looked like a gentleman?" "certainly, and spoke like one." "but he didn't behave like one?" "i won't go so far as to say that. he said or did nothing that was positively offensive when he was once inside the house." "but you called him a thief?" "yes; but, mind you, i didn't think he was one. i felt so angry." "i should think you did. i should have felt murderous. and you don't think the man in the road was a policeman?" "not he. he was as evil-looking a vagabond as ever i saw." "it doesn't follow merely on that account, my dear, that he wasn't a policeman." there was malice in the lady's tones. "not at all; but even a policeman of that type would hardly have jumped out of his skin with fright at the sight of that horrible woman. he knew her, and she knew him. there's a mystery somewhere." "how nice!" "nice? you think so? i wish you had interviewed her instead of me. my dear ella, she--she was--beyond expression." ella came and seated herself on a stool at madge's feet. leaning her arms on her knees she looked up at her face. "poor old chap! it wasn't an agreeable experience." madge's answer was as significant as it was curt. "it wasn't." she gave further details of what the woman had said and done, and of how she had said and done it--details which she had omitted, for reasons of her own, in mr. martyn's presence. by the time she had finished the listener was as serious as the narrator. "it makes me feel creepy to hear you." "it would have made you creepy to have heard her. i felt as if the house was peopled with ghosts." "madge, don't! you'll make me want to sleep with you if you go on like that. poor old chap! i'm sorry if i seemed to chaff you." she reflected before she spoke again. "i can see that it can't be nice for you to be alone in the house while i'm away in town all day, earning my daily bread--especially now that the days are drawing in. if you like, we'll clear out of this, this week--we could do it at a pinch-- and we'll return to the seething masses." madge reflected, in her turn, before she answered. "nothing of the sort has happened before, and nothing may happen again. but i tell you frankly, that, if my experiences of to-day do recur, it won't take much to persuade me that i have an inclination towards the society of my fellows, and that i prefer even the crushes of petticoat lane to the solitudes of wandsworth common." "well, in that case, it shall be petticoat lane." there was silence. presently madge stretched herself--and yawned. "in the meantime," suggested ella, putting her hand up to her own lips, "what do you say to bed?" and it was bed. "would you like me to sleep with you," inquired ella as they went upstairs; "because if you would like me to very much, i would." "no," said madge, "i wouldn't. i never did like to share my bed with any one, and i never shall. i like to kick about, and i like to have plenty of room to do it in." "very good--have plenty of room to do it in. ungrateful creature! if you're haunted, don't call to me for aid." as it happened, madge did call to her for aid, after a fashion; though it was not exactly because she was haunted. chapter iv in the dead of night madge was asleep almost as soon as she was between the sheets, and it seemed to her that as soon as she was asleep she was awake again--waking with that sudden shock of consciousness which is not the most agreeable way of being roused from slumber, since it causes us to realise too acutely the fact that we have been sleeping. something had woke her; what, she could not tell. she lay motionless, listening with that peculiar intensity with which one is apt to listen when woke suddenly in the middle of the night. the room was dark. there was the sound of distant rumbling: they were at work upon the line, where they would sometimes continue shunting from dusk to dawn. she could hear, faintly, the crashing of trucks as they collided the one with the other. a breeze was murmuring across the common. it came from clapham junction way--which was how she came to hear the noise of the shunting. all else was still. she must have been mistaken. nothing had roused her. she must have woke of her own accord. stay!--what was that? her keen set ears caught some scarcely uttered sound. was it the creaking of a board? well, boards will creak at night, when they have a trick of being as audible as if they were exploding guns. it came again--and again. it was unmistakably a board that creaked--downstairs. why should a board creak like that downstairs, unless--it was being stepped upon? as madge strained her hearing, she became convinced that there were footsteps down below--stealthy, muffled footsteps, which would have been inaudible had it not been for the tell-tale boards. some one was creeping along the passage. suddenly there was a noise as if a coin, or a key, or some small object, had fallen to the floor. possibly it was something of the kind which had roused her. it was followed by silence--as if the person who had caused the noise was waiting to learn if it had been overheard. then once more the footsteps--she heard the door of the sitting-room beneath her open, and shut, and knew that some one had entered the room. in an instant she was out of bed. she hurried on a pair of bedroom slippers which she kept beside her on the floor, and an old dressing-gown which was handy on a chair, moving as quickly and as noiselessly as the darkness would permit. snatching up her candlestick, with its box of matches, she passed, without a moment's hesitation, as noiselessly as possible from the room. on the landing without she stood, for a second or two, listening. there could be no doubt about it--some one was in the sitting-room. someone who wished to make himself or herself as little conspicuous as possible; but whose presence was still sufficiently obvious to the keen-eared auditor. madge went to ella's room, and, turning the handle, entered. as she did so, she could hear ella start up in bed. "who's there?" she cried. "hush! it's i. there's some one in the sitting-room." lighting a match, madge applied it to the candle. ella was sitting up in bed, staring at her, with tumbled hair and sleepy eyes, apparently only half awake. "madge!--what do you mean?" "what i say. we're about to experience another of the drawbacks of rural residence. there's some one in the sitting-room--another uninvited guest." "are you sure?" "quite. if you care to go downstairs and look, you'll be sure." "whatever shall we do?" "do!--i'll show you what we'll do. where's that revolver of jack martyn's, which he lent you?" "it's in my handkerchief drawer--but it's loaded." "all the better. i've fired off a revolver before to-day, and i am quite willing, at a pinch, to fire off another one to-night. i'll show you what we'll do." while she spoke, madge had been searching the drawer in question. now she stood with the weapon in her hand. "perhaps you'll be so good as to get out of bed, and put something on, unless you prefer to go downstairs as the woman in white. i suppose you're not afraid?" ella had got so far out of bed as to sit on the side, with her feet dangling over the edge. "well--i don't know that i am exactly afraid, but if you ask me if being woke in the middle of the night, to be told there's burglars in the house, is the kind of thing i'm fond of, i'll admit it isn't." madge laughed. ella's tone, and air of exceeding ruefulness, apparently struck her as comical. "it occurs to me, miss duncan, that it won't be long before mr. martyn makes a convert of you. as for me, now my blood's getting up--and it is getting up--i am beginning to think that it is rather fun." "are you? then i'm afraid your sense of humour must be keener than mine." she followed madge's example--putting on a pair of slippers and a dressing-gown. "now, what are you going to do?" "i'm going down to ask our guest to show me his card of invitation." "madge! hadn't we better open the window and scream? or you might fire into the air--if you're sure you do know how to fire a revolver." "i'll soon show you if i know--and i'll show our visitor too. and i don't think we'd better open the window and scream. are you coming?" madge moved out of the room, ella going after her with a rush. "madge!--don't leave me!" the two girls stood listening at the top of the stairs--madge with the candlestick in one hand, and the revolver in the other. "it strikes me that we sha'n't be able to inquire for that card of invitation, because he doesn't mean to stay for us to ask him. his intention is not to stand upon the order of his going, but to go at once." apparently the proceedings in ella's bedroom had been audible below. evidently the person in the sitting-room had become startled. there was a stampede of heavy feet across the floor; the noise of furniture being hastily pushed aside; then they could hear the sound of the window being unlatched, and opened. it was plain that the intruder, whoever it was, was bent on showing a clean pair of heels. it seemed as if the certitude of this fact had inspired ella with sudden courage. anyhow, she there and then shouted, with the full force of her lungs, as if she all at once had found her voice. "who's that downstairs?" "speak!" exclaimed madge, with a nearly simultaneous yell, "or i fire!" and she did fire--though no one spoke; or, for the matter of that, had a chance of speaking; for the words and the shot came both together. what she fired at was not quite plain, since, if appearances could be trusted, the bullet lodged in the ceiling; for, at the same moment, a small shower of plaster came tumbling down. "madge!" cried ella. "i believe you've sent the bullet right through the roof! how you frightened me!" "it was rather a startler," admitted madge, in whose voice there seemed a slight tendency to tremor. "i'd no idea it would make such a noise--the other revolver i fired didn't. ella!--what are you doing?" the question was induced by the fact that ella had rushed to the landing window, thrown the sash up, thrust her head out, and was shouting as loudly as she could: "thieves! thieves!--help!" madge came up and put her head out beside her. "can you see him? has he gone?" "of course he's gone--there he is, running down the road." "are you sure it's a man?" "a man! it's a villain!--help! thieves! help!" "don't make that noise. what's the use? no one can hear you, and it only gives him the impression that we're afraid of him, which we're not; as, if he comes back again, we'll show him. there's more bullets in this revolver than one--i remember jack saying so; and i'm not forced to send them all through the roof." ella drew her head inside. there was colour in her cheeks, and fire in her eyes. now that the immediate danger seemed past her humour was a ferocious one. "i wish you'd shot him." madge was calmer, though still sufficiently sanguinary. "well--i couldn't very well shoot him if i never caught a glimpse of him, could i? but we'll do better next time." ella clenched her fists, and her teeth too. "next time!--oh, i think a burglar's the most despicable wretch on the face of the earth, and, if i had my way, i'd send every one caught in the act right straight to the gallows." "precisely--when caught. but you can scarcely effect a capture by standing on the top of the stairs, and inquiring of the burglar if he's there." "i know i behaved like a coward--you needn't remind me. but that was because i was taken by surprise. if he were to come back----" "yes--if he were to come back?" madge looked out of the window--casually. "i fancy there's some one coming down the road--it may be he returning." ella clutched at her arm. "madge!" "you needn't be alarmed, my dear, i was mistaken; it's no one after all. suppose, instead of breathing threatenings and slaughters 'after the battle is over,' we go down and see what mementoes of his presence our visitor has left behind--or, rather, what mementoes he has taken with him." "are you sure he was alone?" "we shall be able to make sure by going down to see." "oh, madge, do you think----" "no, my dear, i don't, or i should be no more desirous of going down than you. i'm only willing to go and see if there is some one there because i'm sure there isn't." there was not--luckily. there was little conspicuously heroic about the bearing of the young ladies as they descended the stairs to suggest that they would have made short work of any ruthless ruffian who might have been in hiding. about halfway down, madge gave what was perhaps an involuntary little cough; at which ella started as if the other had been guilty of a crime; and both paused as if fearful that something dreadful might ensue. the sitting-room door was closed. they hung about the handle as if it had been the entrance to some bluebeard's den, and unimaginable horrors were concealed within. when madge, giving the knob a courageous twist, flung the door wide open, ella's face was pasty white. both perceptibly retreated, as if expecting some monster to spring out on them. but no one sprang--apparently because there was no one there. a current of cold air came from the room. "the window's open." ella's voice was tremulous. her tremor had the effect of making madge sarcastic. "that's probably because our visitor opened it. you could hardly expect him to stop to close it, could you?" she went boldly into the room--ella hard on her heels. she held the candle above her head--to have it almost blown out by the draught. she placed it on the table. "if we want to have a light upon the subject, we shall have to shut that window." she did so. then looked about her. "well, he doesn't seem to have left many tokens of his presence. there's a chair knocked over, and he's pushed the cloth half off the table, but i don't see anything else." "he seems to have taken nothing." "probably that was because there was nothing worth his taking. if he came here in search of plunder, he must have gone away a disgusted man." "if he came here in search of plunder?--what else could he have come for?" "ah! that's the question." "what's this?" stooping, ella picked up something off the floor. "here's something he's left behind, at any rate." she was holding a scrap of paper. "what is it--a _pièce de conviction_ of the first importance: the button off the coat by means of which the infallible detective hunts down the callous criminal?" "i don't know what it is. it's a sort of hieroglyphic--if it isn't--nonsense." madge went and looked over her shoulder. ella was holding half a sheet of dirty white notepaper, on which was written, with very bad ink and a very bad pen, in a very bad hand:-- "tom ossington's ghost." "right--straight across--three--four--up. "right--cat--dog--cat--dog--cat--dog--cat--dog--left eye--push." the two girls read to the end--then over again. then they looked at each other--madge with smiling eyes. "that's very instructive, isn't it?" "very. there seems to be a good deal of cat and dog about it." "there does, i wonder what it means." "if it means anything." madge, taking the paper from ella's hand, went with it closer to the candle. she eyed it very shrewdly, turning it over and over, and making as if she were endeavouring to read between the lines. "do you know, ella, that there is something curious about this." "i suppose there is, since it's gibberish; and gibberish is curious." "no, i'm not thinking of that. i'm thinking of the heading--'tom ossington's ghost.' do you know that that enterprising stranger, who came in search of music lessons he didn't want, asked me if my name was ossington, and if no one of that name lived here." "are you sure ossington was the name he mentioned? it's an unusual one." "certain; it was because it was an unusual one that i particularly noticed it. then that dreadful woman was full of her ghosts, even claiming, as you heard, to be the ghost's wife. doesn't it strike you, under the circumstances, as odd that the paper the burglar has left behind him, should be headed 'tom ossington's ghost'?" "it does seem queer--though i don't know what you are driving at." "no; i don't know what i am driving at either. but i do know that i am driving at something. i'm beginning to think that i shall see a glimmer of light somewhere soon--though at present i haven't the faintest notion where." "do you think it was either of your visitors who has paid us another call to-night?" "no; but i tell you what i do think." "what?" "i shouldn't be surprised if we've been favoured with a call from the individual who wasn't one of my visitors; the man in the road, who took to his heels in such a hurry at the sight of the woman." "what cause have you to suppose that?" "none whatever, i admit it frankly; but i do suppose it all the same. in the first place the man was burning to be one of my visitors, of that i'm persuaded--and he would have been if the woman hadn't come along. and in the second, he looked a burglar every inch of him. ella, i'll tell you what!" she brought her hand on to the table with a crash which made ella start, "there's a mystery about this house--you mark my words and see. it's haunted--in one sense, if it isn't in another." ella cast furtive glances over her shoulder, which were suggestive of anything but a mind at ease. "you've a comfortable way of talking, upon my word." madge threw her arms out in front of her. "there is a mystery about the house; it's one of these old, ramshackle sort of places in which there is that kind of thing--i'm sure of it. aren't you conscious of a sense of mystery about the place, and don't you feel it's haunted?" "madge, if you don't stop talking like that, i'll leave the house this instant." "the notion is not altogether an agreeable one, i'll allow; but facts are----" "what's that?" "what's what?" ella, clutching at madge's arm, stared over her shoulder with a face white as a sheet. "did--didn't i hear s-something in the kitchen?" "something in the kitchen? if you did hear something in the kitchen, i'll shoot that something as dead as a door nail." madge caught up the revolver, which she had placed on the table. "madge, for goodness sake don't do anything rash!" "i will do something rash--if you call it rash to shoot at sight any scoundrel who ventures to intrude on my premises at this hour of the night!--and i'll do it quickly! do you think i'm going to be played the fool with because i'm only a woman! i'll soon prove to you i'm not--that is, if it is to be proved by a little revolver practice." madge spoke at the top of her voice, her words seeming to ring through the house with singular clearness. but whether this was done for the sake of encouraging herself and ella, or with the view of frightening a possible foe, was an open question. she strode out of the room with an air of surprising resolution. ella clinging to her skirts and following her, simply because she dare not be left behind. as it chanced, the kitchen door was open. madge marched bravely into the room--only to find that her display of courage was thrown away, since the room was empty. having made sure of this, madge turned to ella with a smile on her face--though her cheeks, like her friend's, were whiter than they were wont to be. "you see, we are experiencing some of the disadvantages of two lone, lorn young women being the solitary inhabitants of a rural residence--jack martyn scores." for answer ella burst into tears. madge took her in her arms--as well as she could, for the candle in one hand and the revolver in the other. "don't cry, girl; there's nothing to cry at. you'll laugh at and be ashamed of yourself in the morning. i'll tell you what--i'll make an exception!--you shall have half my bed, and for the rest of the night we'll sleep together." chapter v a representative of law and order the next morning, information was given to a passing policeman of the events of the night, and in the course of the day an officer came round from the local station to learn particulars. madge received him in solitary state; she had refused ella's offer to stop away from business to keep her company, declaring that for that day, at any rate, she would be safe from undesirable intruders. the officer was a plain-clothes man, middle-aged, imperfectly educated, with the stolid, matter-of-fact, rather stupid-looking countenance which one is apt to find an attribute of the detective of fact, rather than fiction. "you say you didn't see him?" "i saw the back of him." "hum!" this stands for a sort of a kind of a sniff. "would you know him if you saw him again?" "from the glimpse which i caught of him last night i certainly shouldn't. it was pretty dark, and he was twenty or thirty yards down the road when i first caught sight of his back." "you didn't follow him?" "we did not." madge smiled as she thought of how such a suggestion would have been received had it been made at the time. "he came in through the back window and left through the front?" "that's it." "and he took nothing?" "no--but he left something behind him--he left this." madge produced the half-sheet of paper which ella had picked up from the floor. "you're sure this was his property?" "i'm sure it isn't ours, and i'm sure we found it in this room just after he left it." the officer took the paper; read it, turned it over and over; looked it up and down; read it again. then he gave his mouth a rather comical twist; then he looked at madge with eyes which he probably intended to be pregnant with meaning. "hum!" he paused to cogitate. "i suppose you know there's been a burglary here before?" "i know nothing of the kind. we have only been here six weeks, and are quite strangers to the place." "there was. something more than a year ago. the house was empty at the time. the man who did it was caught at the job--and our chap got pretty well knocked about for his pains. but that wasn't the only time we've had business at this house; our fellows have been here a good many times." "neither my friend or i had the slightest notion that the house had such a reputation." "i daresay not. it's been empty a good long time. i expect the stories which were told about it were against its letting." "what sort of stories?" "all sorts--nonsense, most of them." "were the people who lived here named ossington?" "ossington?" the officer screwed his mouth up into the comical twist which it seemed he had a trick of giving it. "i believe it was, or, at any rate, something like it. a queer lot they were--very." "do you see what's written as a heading on that piece of paper?" the officer's glance returned to the writing. "'tom ossington's ghost!'--yes, i noticed it, but i don't know what it means--do you?" "except that if the name of the people who lived here last was ossington, it would seem as if last night's affair had some reference to the house's former occupants." "yes--it would look as if it had--when you come to look at it in that way." he was studying it as if now he had made up his mind to understand it clearly. "it looks as if it was some sort of cryptogram, and yet it mightn't be--it's hard to tell." he wagged his head. "i'll take it to our chaps, and see what they can make of it. some men are better at this sort of thing than others." folding up the paper he placed it in his pocket-book. "am i to understand that you can give no description of the burglar--that there's no one you suspect?" "i don't know that it amounts to suspicion--but there was a man hanging about here in rather a singular fashion whom i can't help thinking might have had a finger in the pie." "can you describe him?" "he was about my height--i'm five feet six and a half--thick set, and i noticed he walked in a sort of rolling way; i thought he was drunk at first, but i don't believe he was. he kept his hands in his trousers pockets, and he was very shabbily dressed, in an old black coat--i believe you call them chesterfields--which was buttoned down the front right up to the chin--i doubt if he had a waistcoat; a pair of old patched trousers--and i'm under the impression that his boots were odd ones. he had an old black billycock hat, with no band on, crammed over his eyes, iron-grey hair, and a fortnight's growth of whiskers on his cheeks and chin. he had a half impudent, half hang-dog air--altogether just the sort of person to try his hand at this sort of thing." "i'll take down that description, if you'll repeat it." she did repeat it--and he did take it down, with irritating slowness. when she had finished he read what he had written, tapping his teeth with the end of his pencil and looking most important. "i shouldn't be surprised if you've laid your finger on the very man--and if we lay our fingers on him before the day is over. you will excuse my saying, miss, that you've got the faculty of observation--marked. i couldn't have given a better description of a chap myself--and i've been a bit longer at the game than you have. now i'll just go through the place once more, and then i'll go; and then in due course you'll hear from us again." he did go through the place once more--and he did go. "now," observed madge to herself, as she watched him going down the road, "all that remains, is for us in due course to hear from you again--to some effect--and that, if you're the sort of blunderbuss i take you to be, will be never." turning from the window, she looked about the room, speaking half in jest and half in earnest. "this is a delightful state of things--truly! it seems as if we couldn't have found a more undesirable habitation, if we had tried petticoat lane. not the first burglar that's been in the place! and the house well known to the police--not to speak of a sinister reputation in all the country side! charming! clover cottage seems to be an ideal place of residence for two lone, lorn young women. the abode of mystery, and, so far as i can make out, a sink of crime, one wonders if it still waits to become the scene of some ghastly murder to give to the situation its crowning touches. i shiver--or, at any rate, i ought to shiver--when i reflect on the horrors with which i may be, and probably am, surrounded!" ella returned earlier than the day before, and, this time, she came alone. the question burst from her lips the instant she was in the house. "well, has anything happened?" "nothing--of importance. it's true the police have been, but as it appears that they've been here over and over again before, that's a trifle. there's been at least one previous burglar upon the premises, and it seems that the house has been known to the police--and to the whole neighbourhood--for years, in the most disreputable possible sense." ella could but gasp. "madge!" the statements which the officer had made were retailed, with comments and additions--and, it may be added, interpolations. ella was more impressed even than madge had been--being divided between concern and indignation. "to think that we should have been inveigled into taking such a place! we ought to claim damages from those scamps of agents who let it us without a word of warning. you can't think how i have been worrying about you the whole day long; the idea of our being together in the place is bad enough, but the idea of your being alone in it is worse. what that policeman has said, settles it. jack may laugh if he likes, but my mind is made up that i won't stop a moment longer in the house than i can help; the notion of your being all those hours alone here would worry me into the grave if nothing else did--and so i shall tell him when he comes." madge's manner was more equable. "he will laugh at you, you'll find; and, unless i'm in error, here he is to do it." as she spoke there was a vigorous knock at the front door. chapter vi the long arm of coincidence "go," said ella, as she hastened from the room, "and open the door, while i go upstairs and take my hat off." madge did as she was told. there were two persons at the door--jack martyn and another. "this," said jack, referring to his companion, "is a friend of mine." it was dark in the passage, and madge was a little flurried. she perceived that jack had a companion, and that was all. "go into the sitting-room, i'll bring you a lamp in a minute. ella has gone to take her hat off." presently, returning with the lighted lamp in her hand, placing it on the table, she glanced at jack's companion--and stared. in her astonishment, she all but knocked the lamp over. jack laughed. "i believe," he said, "you two have met before." madge continued speechless. she passed her hand before her eyes, as if to make sure she was not dreaming. jack laughed again. "i repeat that i believe you two have met before." madge drew herself up to her straightest and her stiffest. her tone was icy. "yes, i rather believe we have." she rather believed they had?--if she could credit the evidence of her own eyes the man in front of her was the stranger who had so unwarrantably intruded on pretence of seeking music lessons--who had behaved in so extraordinary a fashion! "this," went on jack airily, "is a friend of mine, bruce graham,--graham, this is miss brodie." madge acknowledged the introduction with an inclination of the head which was so faint as to be almost imperceptible. mr. graham, on the contrary, bent almost double--he seemed scarcely more at his ease than she was. "i'm afraid, miss brodie, that i've behaved very badly. i trust you will allow me to express my contrition." "i beg you will not mention it," she turned away; "i will go and tell ella you have come." there came a voice from behind her. "you needn't--ella is aware of it already." as ella came into the room, she moved to leave it. jack caught her by the arm. "madge, don't go away in a fume!--you wait till you have heard what i have got to say. do you know that we're standing in the presence of a romance in real life--on the verge of a blood-curdling mystery? fact!--aren't we, graham?" mr. graham's language was slightly less emphatic. "we are, or rather we may be confronted by rather a curious condition of affairs." jack waved his arm excitedly. "i say it's the most extraordinary thing. now, honestly, graham, isn't it a most extraordinary thing?" "it certainly is rather a striking illustration of the long arm of coincidence." "listen to him. isn't he cold-blooded? if you'd heard him an hour or two ago, he was hot enough to melt all the ice-cream in town. but you wait a bit. this is my show, and i'll let you know it. sit down, ella--sit down, madge--graham, take a chair. to you a tale i will unfold." taking up his position on the hearthrug in front of the fireplace, he commenced to orate. "you see this man. his name's graham. he digs in the same house i do. to be perfectly frank, his rooms are on the opposite side of the landing. you may have heard me speak of him." "i have. often!" this was ella. "have you? you must know, graham, that there are frequently occasions on which i have nothing whatever to talk about, so i fill up the blanks with what i may call padding. i say this, because i don't want you to misunderstand the situation. this morning he lunched at the same crib i did. directly he came in i saw that he was below par; so i said--i always am a sympathetic soul--'i do hope, graham, you won't forget to let me have an invitation to your funeral--and, in the meantime, perhaps you'll let me know of what it is you're dying?' now, he's not one of those men who wear their hearts upon their sleeves for daws to peck at--you know the quotation, and if you don't, i do; and it was some time before i could extract a word from him, even edgeways. but at last he put down his knife and fork with a clatter--it was distinctly with a clatter--and he observed, 'martyn, i've been misbehaving myself.' i was not surprised, and i told him so. 'i'm in a deuce of a state of mind because i've been insulting a lady.' 'that's nothing!' i replied. 'i'm always insulting a lady.'--i may explain that when i made that remark, ella, you were the lady i had in my mind's eye. at this point i would pause to inquire why, miss brodie, you did not take me into your confidence yesterday afternoon?" "i did." "you did not." "i did." "you told me about the lunatic lady, because, i suppose, you could not help it--since you were caught in the act--but you said nothing about a lunatic gentleman." he wagged his finger portentously. "don't think you deceive me, madge brodie--i smell a rat, and one of considerable size." "jack, do go on." this was ella. "i will go on--in my own way. if you bustle me, i'll keep going on for ever. don't i tell you this is my show? do you want to queer it? well, as i was about to observe--when i was interrupted--graham started spinning a yarn about how he had forced his way into a house, in which there was a young woman all alone, by herself, and, so far as i could make out, gone on awful. 'may i ask,' i said, beginning to think that his yarn smelt somewhat fishy, 'what house this was?' 'the place,' he replied, as cool as a cucumber, 'is called clover cottage.' 'what's that!' i cried--i almost jumped out of my chair. 'i say that the place is called clover cottage.' i had to hold on to the hair of my head with both my hands. 'and whereabouts may clover cottage be?' 'on wandsworth common.' when he said that, as calmly as if he were asking me to pass the salt, i collapsed. i daresay he thought that i'd gone mad." "i began to wonder." this was graham. "did you? let me tell you, sir, that as far as you were concerned, i had long since passed the stage of wonder, and had reached the haven of assurance. 'are you aware?' i cried, 'that clover cottage, wandsworth common, is the residence of the lady whom i hope to make my wife?' 'good lord!' he said. 'no,' i screamed, 'good lady!' i fancy the waiter, from his demeanour, was under the impression that i was about to fight; in which case i should have proved myself mad, because, as you perceive for yourselves, the man's a monster. 'it seems to me,' i said, 'that if the lady you insulted was not the lady whom i hope to make my wife, it was that lady's friend, which is the same thing----'" "is it?" interposed ella. "you hear him, madge?" "i hear." "'which is the same thing,'" continued jack. "'and therefore, sir, i must ask you to explain.' he explained, i am bound to admit that he explained there and then. he gave me an explanation which i have no hesitation in asserting"--jack, holding his left hand out in front of him, brought his right list solemnly down upon his open palm--"was the most astonishing i ever heard. it shows the hand of providence; it shows that the age of miracles is not yet past; it shows----" ella cut the orator short. "never mind what it shows; what's the explanation?" jack shook his head sadly. "i was about to point out several other things which that explanation shows, with a view, as i might phrase it, of improving the occasion, but, having been interrupted for the third time, i refrain. the explanation itself you will hear from graham's own lips--after tea. he is here for the purpose of giving you that explanation--after tea. i believe, graham, i am correct in saying so?" "perfectly. only, so far as i am concerned, i am ready to give my explanation now. i cannot but feel that i shall occupy an invidious position in, at any rate, miss brodie's eyes until i have explained." "then feel! i'll be hanged if you shall explain now. dash it, man, i want my tea; i want a high tea, a good tea--at once!" ella sprang up from her chair. "come, madge, let's give the man his tea." it was a curious meal--if only because of the curious terms on which two members of the party stood toward each other. the two girls sat at each end of the table, the men on either side. madge, unlike her usual self, was reserved and frosty; what little she did say was addressed to ella or to jack. mr. graham she ignored, treating his timorous attempts in a conversational direction with complete inattention. his position could hardly have been more uncomfortable. ella, influenced by madge's attitude, seemed as if she could not make up her mind how to treat him on her own account; her bearing towards him, to say the least, was chilly. on the other hand. jack's somewhat cumbrous attempts at humour and sociability did not mend matters; and more than once before the meal was over mr. graham must have heartily wished that he had never sat down to it. still, even madge might have admitted, and perhaps in her heart she did admit, that, under the circumstances, he bore himself surprisingly well; that he looked as if he was deserving of better treatment. half unconsciously to herself--and probably quite unconsciously to him--she kept a corner of her eye upon him all the time. he scarcely looked the sort of man to do anything unworthy. the strong rough face suggested honesty, the bright clear eyes were frank and open; the broad brow spelt intellect, the lines of the mouth and jaw were bold and firm. the man's whole person was suggestive of strength, both physical and mental. and when he came to tell the story which jack martyn had foreshadowed, it was difficult, as one listened, not to believe that he was one who had been raised by nature above the common sort. he told his tale with a dramatic earnestness, and yet a simple, modest sincerity, which held his hearers from the first, and which, before he had done, had gained them all over to his side. chapter vii bruce graham's first client "i don't know," he began, "if martyn has told you that by profession i am a barrister." "no," said jack, as he shook his head, "i have told them nothing to your credit." graham smiled; the smile lighting up his features, and correcting what was apt to be their chief defect, a prevailing sombreness. "i am a barrister--one of the briefless brigade. one morning, about fourteen months ago, i left london for a spin on my bicycle. it was the long vacation; every one was out of town except myself. i thought i would steal a day with the rest. i came through wandsworth, meaning to go across wimbledon common, through epsom, and on towards the shirley hills. as i came down st. john's hill my tyre caught up a piece of broken glass off the road, and the result was a puncture, or rather a clean cut, nearly an inch in length. i took it to a repairing shop by the bridge. as i stood waiting for the job to be done, two policemen came along with a man handcuffed between them, a small crowd at their heels. "i asked the fellow who was doing my cycle what was wrong. he told me that there had been a burglary at a house on the common the night before, that the burglar had been caught in the act, had half-murdered the policeman who had caught him, and was now on his way to the magistrate's court. "as it seemed likely that the mending of my tyre would take some time, actuated by a more or less professional curiosity, i followed the crowd to the court. "the case was taken up without delay. the statement that the constable who had detected what was taking place had been half-murdered was an exaggeration, as the appearance of the officer himself in the witness-box disclosed. but he had been roughly handled. his head was bandaged, he carried his arm in a sling, and he bore himself generally as one who had been in the wars. my experience, small as it is, teaches that constables on such occasions are wont, perhaps not unnaturally, to make the most of their injuries; and, to say the least, the prisoner had not escaped scot free. his skull had been laid open, two of his teeth had been knocked down his throat, his whole body was black and blue with bruises. indeed his battered appearance so excited my sympathy that then and there i offered him my gratuitous services in his defence. my offer was accepted. i did what i could. "however, there was very little that could be done. the burglary, it seemed, had occurred at a place called clover cottage." "why," cried ella, "this is clover cottage!" "yes," said jack, shaking his head with what he meant to be mysterious significance, "as you correctly observe, this is clover cottage. didn't i tell you you'd see the hand of providence? you just wait a bit, you'll be dumbfounded." mr. graham continued. "clover cottage it appeared was unoccupied. there were in it neither tenants nor goods. so far as the evidence showed, it contained nothing at all. being found in an absolutely empty house is not, as a rule, an offence which meets with a severe punishment. i was at a loss, therefore, to understand why my client should have made such a desperate defence and thus have enormously increased the measure of his guilt in the way he had done. had it not been for what was termed, and perhaps rightly, his assault on the police, the affair would have been settled out of hand. as it was, the magistrate felt that he had no option but to send the case to trial; which he did do there and then. "before his trial i had more than one interview with my client in his cell at wandsworth gaol. he told me, by way of explaining his conduct, an extraordinary story; so extraordinary that, from that hour to this, i have never been able to make up my mind as to its truth. "under ordinary circumstances i should have had no hesitation in affirming his statement, or rather his series of statements, was a more or less badly contrived set of lies. but there was something about the fellow which assured me that at any rate he himself believed what he said. he was by no means an ordinary criminal type, and there seemed no reason to doubt his assertion that this was the first felonious transaction he had ever had a hand in. he admitted he had led an irregular life, and that he had come down the ladder of respectability with a run, but he stoutly maintained that this was the first time he had ever done anything deserving the attention of the police. "he was a man about forty years of age; he claimed to be only thirty-six. if that was the fact, then the life he had been living, and the injuries he had recently received, made him look considerably older. his name, he said, was charles ballingall. by trade he was a public-house broker; once, and that not so long ago, in a very fair way of business. he had had a lifelong friend--i am telling you the story, you understand, exactly as he told it me--named ossington--thomas ossington. ballingall always spoke of him as tom ossington." ellen looked at madge. "madge!" she exclaimed, "how about tom ossington's ghost?" "i know." madge sat listening with compressed lips and flashing eyes; that was all she vouchsafed to reply. mr. graham glanced in her direction as he went on. "according to ballingall's story, ossington must have been a man of some eccentricity. he was possessed of considerable means--according to ballingall, of large fortune. but his whole existence had been embittered by the fact that he suffered from some physical malformation. for one thing, he had a lame foot----" "i know that he was lame." this was madge; all eyes stared at her. "you knew? how did you know?" "because she told me." ella's eyes opened wider. "she told you? who?" "the ghost's wife." "the ghost's wife!" "yes, the ghost's wife. but never mind about that now. mr. graham will perhaps go on." and mr. graham went on. "this had preyed upon his spirits his whole life long; and, as his unwillingness to show himself among his fellows increased, it had made of him almost a recluse. he was, however, as it seemed, a man of strong affections, tender heart, and simple disposition. in these respects ballingall could not speak of him with sufficient warmth. there never had been, he declared, a man like tom. there was nothing he would not do for a friend--self-abnegation was the passion of his life. ballingall owned that he owed everything to ossington. ossington had set him up in business, had helped him in a hundred ways. in return he (ballingall) had rewarded him with the most hideous ingratitude. this part of the story was accompanied by such a strong exhibition of remorse that i, for one, found it difficult not to believe in the fellow's genuineness. "in spite of his mis-shapenness, ossington had found a wife, apparently a lovely one. the man loved her with the single-eyed affection of which such natures as his are capable. she, on the other hand, was as unworthy of his affection as she possibly could have been. from ballingall's account she was evil through and through; he could find no epithet too evil to hurl at her. but then it was very possible that he was prejudiced. according to him, this woman, ossington's wife, loathing her devoted husband, full to the lips with scorn of him, had deliberately laid herself out to win his (ballingall's) love, and had succeeded so completely as to have caused him to forget the mountain-load of gratitude under which he ought to have stumbled, even to the extent of causing him to steal his friend's wife--the wife who was the very light of that friend's eyes. "i think there was some truth in the fellow's version of the crime--for crime it was, and of the blackest dye. he declared to me that as soon as the thing was done, he knew himself to be the ineffable hound which he indeed was. the veil which the woman's allurements and sophistries had spread before his eyes was torn into shreds, and he saw the situation in all its horrible reality. she was as false to him as she had been to her husband, and he had been to his friend. in a few months she had left him, having ruined him before she went. from that time his career was all downhill. remorse pursued him day and night. he felt that he was a pariah--an outcast among men; that an ineffaceable brand was on his brow which would for ever stamp him as accursed. it is possible that under the stress of privation,--for he quickly began to suffer actual privation--his mind became unhinged. but that he had suffered, and was still suffering, acutely, for his crime, the sweat of agony which broke out upon his brow as he told his tale was, to me, sufficient evidence. "two or three years passed. he sank to about the lowest depths to which a man could sink. at last, ragged, penniless, hungry, he was refused a job as a sandwich-man because of his incapacity to keep up with his fellows. one night he was on the surrey side of the embankment, near westminster bridge. it was after one o'clock in the morning; shortly before, he had heard big ben striking the hour. he was leaning over the parapet in front of doulton's factory--you will observe that i reproduce the attention to detail which characterised this portion of his story, such an impression did it make upon my mind. as he stood looking at the water, some one touched him on the shoulder. supposing it was a policeman who suspected his intentions, he turned hastily round. to his astonishment it was tom ossington. 'tom!' he gasped. "'charlie!' returned the other. 'come the first thing to-morrow morning to clover cottage.' "without another word he walked rapidly away in the direction of the wandsworth road--ballingall distinctly noticing, as he went, that his limp had perceptibly diminished. left once more alone, ballingall was at a loss what to make of the occurrence. ossington's appearance at that particular moment, so far away from home at that hour of the night, was a problem which he found it difficult to solve. he at last decided that the man's incurable tender-heartedness had caused him to at least partially overlook the blackness of the offence, and to offer his whilom friend succour in the depths of his distress. anyhow, the next morning found the broken-down wretch in front of ossington's house--of this house, as i understand." as mr. graham said this, for some reason or other at least two of its hearers shivered; ella clasped her hands more tightly as they lay upon her knee, and the expression of madge's wide-open eyes grew more intense. even jack martyn seemed subdued. "to his indescribable astonishment, the house was empty. a board in the garden announced that it was to be let or sold. as he stood staring, a policeman came along. "'excuse me!' he said, 'but doesn't mr. ossington live here?' "'he did!' answered the policeman; 'but he doesn't now.' "'can you tell me where he is living? i want to know because he asked me to call on him.' "'did he? then if he asked you to call on him, i should if i was you. you'll find him in wandsworth churchyard. that's where he is living now!' "the policeman's tone was jocular, ballingall's appearance was against him. evidently the officer suspected him of some clumsy attempt at invention. but as soon as the words were uttered ballingall staggered back against the wall, according to his own account, like one stricken with death. he was speechless. the policeman, with a laugh, turned on his heel and left him there. impelled by some influence which he could not resist, the conscience-haunted vagabond dragged his wearied feet to the churchyard. there among the tombstones he found one which purported to be erected to the memory of thomas ossington, who had been interred there some two years previously. while he stared, thunderstruck, at the inscription, ballingall assured me that tom ossington stood at his side, and pointed at it with his finger." [illustration: "tom ossington stood at his side, and pointed at it with his finger." (_to face p_. )] graham paused. his listeners fidgeted in their seats. it was a second or two before the narrator continued. "you understand that i am telling you the story precisely as it was told me, without accepting for it any responsibility whatever. i can only assure you that whilst it was being told, i was so completely held, by what i can best describe as the teller's frenzied earnestness, that i accepted his facts precisely as he told them, and it was only after i got away from the glamour of his intensity of self-conviction that i perceived how entirely irreconcilable they were with the teachings of our everyday experience. "thenceforward, ballingall declared that he was never without a feeling that ossington was somewhere in the intermediate neighbourhood--to use his own word, that he was shadowing him. for the next week or two he lighted upon somewhat better times. he obtained a job at road-cleaning, and in one way or another managed to preserve himself from actual starvation. but, shortly, the luck ran out, and one night he again found himself without a penny with which to buy either food or lodging. he was struggling up southampton street, in the strand, intending to hang about the purlieus of covent garden with the faint hope that he might be able to get some sort of job at the dawn of day, when he saw, coming towards him from the market, tom ossington. ballingall shrank back into the doorway, and, while he stood there shivering, ossington came and planted himself in front of him. "'charlie!' he said, 'why didn't you come to clover cottage when i told you?' "ballingall protested that he looked and spoke just like a rational being--with the little air of impatience which had always been his characteristic; that there was nothing either in his manner or his appearance in any way unusual, and that there was certainly nothing to suggest an apparition. a conversation was carried on between them just as it might have been between an ordinary jones and robinson. "'i did come!' he replied. "'yes--but you stopped outside. why didn't you come inside?' "'because the house was empty!' "'that's all you know.' "'yes,' repeated ballingall, 'that's all i do know.' "'there's my fortune in that house!' "'your fortune?' "'yes my fortune; all of it. i brought it home, and hid it away--after lily went.' "lily was his wife's name. he spoke of her with a sort of gasp. ballingall felt as if he had been struck. "'what's your fortune to do with me?' "'everything maybe--because it is yours, if you'll come and get it; every farthing. it's anyone's who finds it, anyone's--i don't care who it is. what does it matter to me who has it--now? why shouldn't it be yours? there's heaps and heaps of money, heaps! more than you suppose. it'll make a rich man of you--set you up for life, buy you houses, carriages and all. you have only got to come and get it, and it is yours. think of what a difference it'll make to you--of all that it will do for you--of all that it will mean. it will pick you out of the gutter, and place you in a mansion, with as many servants as you like to pay for at your beck and call. and all yours for the fetching--or anyone's for the matter of that. but why shouldn't you make it yours? don't be a fool, but come, man, come!' "he continued urging and entreating ballingall to come and take for his own the treasures which he declared were hidden away in clover cottage, until, turning round, without a farewell word, he walked down the street and disappeared into the strand. "ballingall assured me that he didn't know what to make of it; and if he was speaking the truth, i quite understand his difficulty. he was aware that, neither physically nor mentally, was he in the best of health, and he knew also that ossington was continually in his mind. he might be the victim of hallucination; but if so, it was hallucination of an extraordinary sort. he himself had not touched ossington, but ossington had touched him. his touch had been solid enough, he looked solid enough, but how came he to be in southampton street if he was lying in wandsworth churchyard? on the other hand, the story of the hidden fortune was quite in accordance with what he knew of the man's character. he always had a trick of concealing money, valuables, all sorts of things, in unusual places. and for him to have secreted the bulk of his capital, or even the whole of it, or what represented the whole of it, and then to have left the hiding-place unrevealed, for some one to discover after he was dead and gone, was just the sort of thing he might have been expected to do. "anyhow, ballingall did not go to clover cottage the following day. he found a job when the market opened, and that probably had a good deal to do with his staying away. the next night ossington returned--if i remember rightly, just as ballingall was about to enter a common lodging-house. and he came back not that night only, but over and over again, so far as i could understand, for weeks together, and always with the same urgent request, that he would come and fetch the fortune which lay hidden in clover cottage. "at last torn by conflicting doubts, driven more than half insane--as he himself admitted--by the feeling that his life was haunted, he did as his mysterious visitor desired--he went to clover cottage. he hung about the house for an hour. at last, persuaded that it was empty, he gained admission through the kitchen window. no sooner was he in than a constable who, unconsciously to himself, had been observing his movements with suspicious eyes, came and found him on the premises. the feeling that, after all, he had allowed himself to be caught in something that looked very like a trap, bereft ballingall of his few remaining senses, and he resisted the officer with a degree of violence which he would not have shown had he retained his presence of mind. "the result was that instead of leaving clover cottage the possessor of a fortune, he left it to be hauled ignominiously to the stationhouse." chapter viii madge . . . and the panel "and is that all the story?" asked ella, for mr. graham had paused. "all of it as it relates to ballingall. so far as he was concerned, it brought his history up to date." "and what became of him?" "he was tried at the surrey sessions. there was practically no defence--for, of course, i could not urge on his behalf the wild story he had told me. all i could do was to plead extenuating circumstances. he was found guilty, and got twelve months." "and then?" "then i came in--that was my first brief, and my last. although i could not see my way to shape his story into the form of any legal plea, still less could i erase it from my mind. never had i heard such a tale before, and never had i listened to a man who had so impressed me by his complete sincerity as ballingall had done when telling it. he had struck me as being as sane as i myself was; had used commonplace words; had not gone out of his way to heighten their colour; but had simply told the thing straight on, exactly as it occurred. i felt convinced that, from his own point of view, the affair was genuine. "months went by, and still the story stuck in my brain. i found myself putting propositions of this kind. there was a house called clover cottage, and there had lived in it a man named ossington, an avowed eccentric--for i had made inquiries in the neighbourhood, and had learned that he had been regarded thereabouts as more or less insane. suppose, in this empty house of his, he had hidden something which was more or less valuable, for which there existed no actual owner, nor any designated heir. what then?" the speaker paused again. then spoke more softly. on his countenance the shadows seemed to deepen. "you must understand that i am a poor man. all the world that knows me is conscious of my poverty, but none but myself is aware how poor i really am. i have felt, and feel, that if i can only hold on, i shall win my way in my profession yet. but it is the holding on which is so difficult. some time ago i came to the end of my resources, and during the last year i have been living from hand to mouth. had i had my time more fully occupied i should have been able to banish from my mind the man's queer story; or had i seen my way to earn money sufficient to supply my daily needs, anyhow, without forfeiting my right to call myself a professional man, and so barring that gate to my future advancement; my thoughts would not have turned so frequently to that possibly hidden, useless hoard. i was frequently conscious that the whole thing might be, and probably was, a pure phantasm, and that there was no such hoard, and never had been; but, at the same time i was persuaded that ballingall had not been a conscious liar. "things came to such a pitch that i found myself in possession of less than ten shillings, and with nothing pawnable on which to raise the wind--you must forgive my entering on these details, but it is absolutely necessary if you are to have a complete comprehension of my position. this, i told myself, was absurd, and if there really was something hidden at clover cottage worth having, which could be had for the finding, it was absurder still. i started then and there with a half-formed resolution to put the matter to a final test, and to look for myself. i reached clover cottage--to find that it was occupied. there was a plate outside, announcing that lessons were given in music. my mind had been in a tolerable state of confusion when i started. i was conscious of the apparent absurdity of my quest; and that consciousness had not grown less as i went on. the discovery that the house was tenanted made my confusion worse confounded. more than half ashamed of my errand, i was wholly at a loss what to do. while i hesitated, i chanced to glance up, and there, a few yards down the road, was ... ballingall." "i knew it was ballingall." this was madge. ella turned on her. "you knew it was ballingall?--how did you know it was ballingall? it seems to me that you know everything." "miss brodie," observed bruce graham, "very naturally draws her own conclusions. the sight of him turned me into a drivelling idiot. in the confusion of my mind his appearance on the scene at that particular moment seemed nothing short of supernatural. i felt as if i had been guilty of some act of treachery towards him, and as if he had sprung from goodness alone knew where to catch me in the very act. i blundered through the gate, knocked at the door and almost forced my way into the house." "you did almost force your way into the house." madge's tone was grim. "i'm afraid i did--and, being in, i blurted out some nonsense about being in search of music lessons, and generally misbehaved myself all round. as a climax, just as i was about to put an end to my intrusion, i saw ballingall staring at me through the window. i would not have encountered him then for all the hidden hoards the world contains. i entreated miss brodie--to permit me to make my escape through the back door--and she did." "yes, and insulted you as you went." graham rose from his seat. "you behaved to me, miss brodie, infinitely better than i deserved. you would have been perfectly justified in summoning a policeman, and giving me into charge. i can only thank you for your forbearance. i assure you of my most extreme penitence. and while i cannot expect that you will forgive me at once----" "but i do forgive you." madge had also risen. "miss brodie." "of course i do. and i did behave badly--like a wretch. but why didn't you explain?" "you saw what, at the moment, was my capacity to explain, and now you perceive how extremely complicated the explanation would have had to be." "but to think," cried ella, "that we should be in the very centre of a mystery." jack struck in. "exactly--living in the very heart of it; surrounded by it on every side; having it staring you in the face whichever way you turn. what did i tell you? isn't it blood-curdling? like the man says in the song--you really never do know where you are." ella glanced at madge. "the burglary last night--do you think?" "of course it was." "ballingall?" "without a doubt." "but, my dear, how can you be so sure?" "he was hanging about all day--he tried again last night; it's as plain as it possibly can be." jack, puzzled, had been looking from one to the other. "perhaps you will tell us what is as plain as it possibly can be." ella turned to him. "there was another burglary last night." "where?" "here--in the very middle of the night." "upon my honour!--this appears to be--graham, this really does appear to be a pleasant house to live in. the delights of the country, with the horrors of town thrown in.--did you catch the ruffian?" "madge heard him first." "oh--madge heard him first?" "yes, and then she came and told me----" "where was he all the time?" "wait a bit, and i'll tell you. then we both of us heard him--then madge fired----" "fired?--what?" "your revolver." "gracious!--did she hit him?" "she never saw him." "never saw him! then what did she fire at?" "well----" ella stopped, as if somewhat at a loss. so madge went on. "i fired to let him know he was discovered. i believe the bullet lodged in the roof." "heavens! what a target." "he took the hint, and did not wait to be made a target of himself." "then didn't you see him at all?" "through the window, as he was running down the road." "did you give the alarm?" "we were in our night-dresses." "why, he might have murdered the two of you if he had liked." "he might, but he didn't." madge's tone was dry. ella put her hand up to her ears. "jack!--don't talk like that; i've been shivering ever since. you can't think what a day i've had in town, thinking of madge in the house all alone." "my dear girl." he put his arm about her waist, to comfort her. "and you think that it was--graham's friend." "it was charles ballingall." this was madge; ella was less positive. "my dear, how can you be so certain? you only caught a glimpse of the man's back in the darkness." "he has committed burglary here before. his presence in the daytime is followed by another burglary that same night. isn't the inference an obvious one? don't you think so, mr. graham? "it looks exceedingly suspicious. to convince a jury of his innocence he would have to prove an alibi." "the burglar, whoever it was--and for the sake of argument we'll say that we don't know--took nothing with him, but he left something behind him, a piece of paper with writing on it. when the police came today----" "do you mean to say that the police have been here to-day?" "certainly--or, rather, a sample of them. and a lot of good he did, or is likely to do. i gave him the original piece of paper, but not before i had copied what was on it. here is the copy. what do you make of it, mr. graham?" madge handed a sheet of paper to the gentleman addressed. as he looked at it jack, too impatient to wait his turn, leaned over his elbow to look at it too. "my stars! 'tom ossington's ghost!' large as life! here's thrillers. what's that? 'right--straight across--three four--up!' here's mysteries! 'right--cat--dog--cat--dog--cat--dog--dog--cat--dog--left eye,--push'--there seem to be several dogs after a good few cats. perhaps it is my stupidity, but, while it's very interesting, i don't quite see what it means." madge paid no attention to martyn. she kept her eyes fixed on his companion. "what do you make of it, mr. graham?" she asked. bruce graham continued silent for a moment longer, keeping his eyes fixed upon the paper. then he looked up and met her glance. "i think that we have here the key of the riddle, if we could only read it." "if we could only read it!" "nor, from a superficial glance, should i imagine that that would be very difficult." "nor i." "one thing it seems to me that this paper proves--that you were correct in your inference, and that last night's burglar was charles ballingall." "i am sure of it." "you two," interposed martyn, "appear to be in thorough agreement--thorough! which is the more delightful since you began by disagreeing. but you must excuse my saying that i don't quite see where the cause for harmony comes in." "are you so stupid?" "my dear madge! don't strike me! it's constitutional." "don't you see what the situation really is?" "well--pardon me--but--really, you are so warm. miss brodie. if this gentleman were to allow me to study this interesting document, i might." "somewhere in this house, the dead man, tom ossington, concealed his fortune, all that he had worth having. it is as clear as if i saw the actual hiding place." "my gracious goodness! is it?" "it is within a few feet of where we're standing. at this moment we're 'hot,' i know--i feel it!" "listen to that now! madge, you must have second sight." "that scrap of paper contains, as mr. graham puts it, the key of the riddle. it's a minute description of the precise whereabouts of the dead man's hiding place. all we have to do is to find out what it means, and if we are not all idiots, that shouldn't be hard. why, you've only got to see the house; you've only to look about you, and use your eyes, to at once perceive that it's honeycombed with possible hiding places--just the sort of crevices and crannies which would commend themselves to such a man as this tom ossington. look at this very room, for instance; it's wainscotted. that means, probably, that between the outer wall and the wainscot there's an open space--and who knows what beside? listen!" she struck the wainscot in question with her open palm. "you can hear it has a hollow backing. why"--she touched it again more gently, then stopped, as if puzzled--"why, the wood-work moves." she gave a little cry, "ella." "madge?" they came crowding round her, with eager faces. chapter ix the thing which was hidden she had placed her hand against a portion of the wainscotting which was about level with her breast. as, in her excitement, she had unconsciously pressed it upwards, the panel had certainly moved. between it and the wood below there was a cavity of perhaps a quarter of an inch. "push it! push it higher!" this was jack. apparently that was just what madge was endeavouring to do, in vain. "it won't move. it's stuck--or something." mr. graham advanced. "allow me, perhaps i may manage." she ceded to him her position. he placed his huge hand where her smaller one had been. he endeavoured his utmost to induce the panel to make a further movement. "put your fingers into the opening," suggested jack, "and lever it." graham acted on the suggestion, without success. he examined the panel closely. "if it were ever intended to go higher, the wood has either warped, or the groove in which it slides has become choked with dust." ella was peeping through the opening. "there is something inside--there is, i don't know what it is, but there is something--i can see it. oh, mr. graham, can't you get it open wider!" "here, here! let's get the poker; we'll try gentle persuasion." jack, forcing the point of the poker into the cavity, leant his weight upon the handle. there was a creaking sound--and nothing else. "george! it's stiff! i'm putting on a pressure of about ten tons." as he paused, preparatory to exerting greater force, madge, brushing him aside, caught the poker from him. she drove the point against the wainscot with all her strength--once, twice, thrice. the wood was shivered into fragments. "there! i think that's done the business." so far as destroying the panel was concerned, it certainly had. only splinters remained. the wall behind was left almost entirely bare. they pressed forward to see what the act of vandalism had disclosed. between the wainscot and the party-wall there was a space of two or three inches. among the cobwebs and the dust there was plainly something--something which was itself so encrusted with a coating of dust as to make it difficult, without closer inspection, to tell plainly what it was. ella prevented jack from making a grab at it. "let madge take it--it's hers--she's the finder." madge, snatching at it with eager fingers, withdrew the something from its hiding-place. "covered," exclaimed jack, "with the dust of centuries!" "it's covered," returned the more practical madge, "at any rate with the dust of a year or two." she wiped it with a napkin which she took from the sideboard drawer. "why," cried ella, "it's nothing but a sheet of paper." jack echoed her words. "that's all--blue foolscap--folded in four." madge unfolded what indeed seemed nothing but a sheet of paper. the others craned their necks to see what it contained. in spite of them she managed to get a private peep at the contents, and then closed it hastily. "guess what it is," she said. "a draft on the bank of elegance for a million sterling." this was jack. "i fancy it is some sort of legal document." this was graham. ella declined to guess. "don't be so tiresome, madge; tell us what it is?" "mr. graham is right--it is a legal document. it's a will, the will of thomas ossington. at least i believe it is. if you'll give me breathing space i'll read it to you every word." she drew herself away from them. when she was a little relieved of their too pressing importunities, she unfolded the paper slowly--with dramatic impressiveness. "listen--to a voice from the grave." she read to them the contents of the document, in a voice which was a trifle shaky:-- "i give and bequeath, absolutely, this house, called clover cottage, which is my house, and all else in the world which at present is, or, in time to come, shall become my property, to the person who finds my fortune, which is hidden in this house, whoever the finder may chance to be. "i desire that the said finder shall be the sole heir to all my worldly goods, and shall be at liberty to make such use of them as he or she may choose. "i do this because i have no one else to whom to leave that of which i am possessed. "i have neither kith nor kin--nor friend. "my wife has left me, my friend has betrayed me; my child is dead. "i am a lonely man. "may my fortune bring more happiness to the finder than it has ever brought to me. "god grant it. "this is my last will and testament. "(signed) thomas ossington, "october the twenty-second, . "in the presence of edward john hurley, solicitor's clerk, , hercules buildings, holborn. and of louisa broome, , acacia cottages, battersea (maid-servant at present in the employ of the said thomas ossington)." the reading was followed by silence, possibly the silence of amazement. the first observation came from jack. "by george!" the next was ella's. "dear life!" for some reason, madge's eyes were dim, and her tone still shaking. "isn't it a voice from the grave?" she looked down, biting her lower lip; then up again. "i think, mr. graham, this may be more in your line than ours." she handed him the paper. he read it. without comment he passed it to jack, who read it with ella leaning over his shoulder. he placed it on the table, where they all four gathered round and looked at it. the paper was stained here and there as with spots of damp. but these had in no way blurred the contents. the words were as clear and legible as on the day they were written. the caligraphy was small and firm, and a little finical, but as easy to read as copperplate: the handwriting of a man who had taken his time, and who had been conscious that he was engaged on a weighty and a serious matter. the testator's signature was rather in contrast with the body of the document, and was bold and strong, as if he had desired that the witnesses should have no doubt about the fact that it was his name he was affixing. edward john hurley's attestation was in a cramped legal hand, expressionless, while louisa broome's was large and straggling, the sign-manual of an uneducated woman. jack martyn asked a question, addressed to graham. "is it a will?--a valid one, i mean?" "looking at it on the surface, i should say certainly--if the witnesses can be produced to prove the signatures. indeed, given certain circumstances, even that should not be necessary. the man expresses his wishes; their meaning is perfectly plain; he gives reasons for them. no testator need do more than that. what may seem the eccentric devising of his property is, in his position, easily accounted for, and is certainly consistent with entire sanity. thousands of more eccentric documents have been held to be good in law. i have little doubt--if the testator's signature can be proved--that the will is as sound as if it had been drawn up by a bench of judges." madge drew a long breath. jack was jocular, or meant to be. "think of that, now!" "but i don't see," said ella, "that we're any forwarder now, or that we're any nearer to madge's mysterious hoard. the will--if it is a will--says that the fortune is hidden in the house, but it doesn't give the faintest notion where. we might pull the whole place to pieces and then not find it." "suppose the whole affair is a practical joke?" mr. graham commented on jack's insinuation. "i have been turning something over in my mind, and i think, martyn, that i can bring certain facts to bear upon your supposition which will go far to show that it is unlikely that there is much in the nature of a practical joke about the matter. i want to call attention to miss brodie's copy of the paper which the burglar left behind last night--to the second line. now observe." he crossed the room. "the paper says 'right'--i have the door-post on my right, close to my right arm. the paper says 'straight across'--i walk straight across the room. miss brodie, have you a tape measure?" madge produced one which she ferreted out of a work-basket which was on a chair in a corner. "the paper says 'three '--i measure three feet from where i am standing, along the wainscot--you see? it says 'four'--i measure four feet from the floor. as you perceive, that measurement brings us exactly to the panel behind which the will was hidden. the paper says 'up.' as miss brodie showed, there can be no doubt whatever that the panel was meant to move up. owing to the efflux of time and to disuse, it had become jammed. does not all this suggest that we have here an explanation of part of what was written on the burglar's paper?" "it does, by george! graham," cried jack, "i always did know you had a knack of clarifying muddles. your mental processes are as effective, in their way, as a handful of isinglass dropped into a cask of muddy beer. ladies, i give you my word they are." martyn was ignored. "if, therefore, part of the paper is capable of explanation of such a striking kind, does it not seem probable that the rest of it also has a meaning--a meaning which does not partake of the nature of a practical joke?" "the idea," declared madge, "of a practical joke is utter nonsense. as you say, everything points the other way. it is as clear as anything can be that, while one part of the paper is a key to the hiding-place of the will, the other is the key to the hiding-place of the fortune." "very well," said jack. "let's grant it. i stand snubbed. but perhaps you'll tell us what is the key to the key?" "that's another question." "very much another question." "but it needn't be an insoluble one, if we use our wits. the house isn't a large one; it isn't as though it contained a hundred rooms." mr. graham had been studying the scrap of paper. "this allusion to cats and dogs seems a striking one. i notice that each word is repeated five times. is there anything about the house which gives you a hint as to the meaning?" madge replied to the question with another. "is there anything in this room which gives you a hint? look around and see." "i have been looking round, and i confess there isn't. nor do i think it likely that the fortune would be hidden in the same room which contained the will." "very well; then we'll all of us go over the house together, and we'll all of us look out for hints." madge led the way, and they went over the house. it was a tiny one. behind the solitary sitting-room was the kitchen. the kitchen was an old-fashioned one, with brick floor, and bare brick walls coloured white. in one corner a door led into the pantry; in another was a door into the scullery; there was nothing remarkable about either of these. under the staircase was a roomy cupboard. they examined it with some thoroughness, by the aid of a lamp, without discovering anything out of the way. on the floor above were the bedrooms used by ella and madge, and a smaller room in which they stored their lumber. the walls of these were papered from floor to ceiling, and in none of them did there seem to be anything calculated to convey a hint as to the meaning of the cabalistic allusion. "it seems to me," observed jack, when the work of exploration was completed, "that there's nothing about these premises breathing of either dogs or cats." "it is just possible," said graham, "that they may be in the grounds. for instance, several of them may be buried there, and the reference may be to one of their graves." "then do you propose to dig up the whole of the back garden till you light upon their hallowed bones?" graham smiled. "i propose to do nothing." madge struck in. "but i do; i mean to do a great deal. i'm going to strip all the wainscot off the sitting-room wall, and all the flooring up as well. and i'm going to continue that process till we reach the roof. i'm absolutely certain--absolutely certain, mind you!--that that unhappy man's hoard is somewhere within the four walls of this house, and i give you my word that i mean to find it." "how about the landlord?" asked graham. "what about his feelings? by the way, who is the landlord?" "we're the landlord, ella and i--or, at any rate, we very soon shall be." "but in the meantime?" "i don't know anything about a landlord. we took the house from parker and beading, the house agents over by the station." "they would probably be acting for some principal. did they not tell you his name?" "they told us nothing. we took the house from them, and the supposition is that we're to pay the rent to them." "if you will allow me, i'll take the will away with me--if you will trust me with it--and obtain expert opinion as to its validity. i will also call on messrs. parker and beading, and ascertain, if possible, on whose authority they are acting." "when will you do this?" "the agents i will call upon to-morrow, and will acquaint you, by letter, with the result." "you will do nothing of the kind--or, rather, i would prefer that you did not. both ella and i would prefer that you should come and tell us the result in person--that is if you can spare the time." mr. graham bowed, expressing acquiescence in the lady's wishes. and on that understanding the matter was left. when the two men had gone, ella faced madge with sparkling eyes. "suppose, madge, there should be a fortune hidden somewhere in the house?" madge was scornful. "suppose!--there's no supposition about it. it's a certainty, i know there is." "and suppose you should find it--it would be yours. what would you do with it?" "what a question! we shall find it all four of us together. it will be share and share alike." "what--mr. graham too?" possibly the question was put maliciously. it provoked miss brodie to wrath. "mr. graham too? ella, what can you mean? if it hadn't been for mr. graham we should have known nothing whatever about it. i suppose that, in strict equity, the whole of it would be his. whatever can you mean by saying 'mr. graham too?' in such a tone as that!" "my dear, i meant no harm. really you're a trifle warm--don't you think you are?" "warm! it's enough to make any one a trifle warm to hear you talk like that." ella made a little face behind miss brodie's back. "well, fortune or no fortune, i do hope that no more burglars will come and look for it again to-night." "if they do," declared madge, with a viciousness which presaged violence, "they'll not find us unprepared. i shall sleep with jack's revolver at my bedside, and if you like you can have half my bed again." ella's manner was much more mild. "thank you, my dear; since you're so good--i think i will." chapter x madge finds herself in an awkward situation 'there was no burglar. the night was undisturbed; and the next day was, for both, a busy one. the morning post brought madge an intimation from a publisher to whom she had submitted one of her mss., that he would be obliged if, when she was in town, she would call on him, so that she might discuss with him terms for its publication. that business-like memorandum made her heart beat faster; sent the blood coursing quickly through her veins; added a sparkle to her eyes. this, after all, was the sort of fortune she preferred--one for which she had striven with her own brains and hands--better than hidden hoards! the simple breakfast became an elysian feast. ella was almost as jubilant as she herself was. "northcote & co? that's a good house, isn't it?" "rather. they published----" madge reeled off the names of two or three pronounced fictional successes. "how much do you think they'll give you for it?" "in cash?--not much; don't you think i shall bring home the bank of england. so long as they give me a fair share of anything it may ultimately bring, i'll be content. but it isn't that; it's getting the first footing on the ladder--that's the thing." "of course it is. how splendid! and i'll tell you what; you shall dedicate it to me, and then if it sells by the hundred thousand, i shall have a bit of your fame." "done!--and your name upon the flyleaf ought to help to sell the book: it's as well known as mine is, anyhow. the author's spoken--you shall be the dedicatee?" they went up to town together. ella had to be at her office at half-past nine, and it is true that that seemed a trifle early to make a call upon a publisher. but, as ella correctly observed, "you can look at the shops until it is time." which is precisely what madge did do. and it is remarkable how many things she saw in the shop windows which she mentally resolved to purchase if the book succeeded. such an unusual number of useful things seemed to be displayed. and it certainly is odd what a quantity of them were just the articles which ella and she particularly required. her interview with the publisher was a delightful one. she agreed to everything he proposed. his propositions were not quite on the scale of magnificence which she had conceived as being within the range of possibility. but still, they were near enough to be satisfactory. she was to have a sum of money paid her on the publication of the book--not a large sum, but still something. and there was to be royalty besides. when she hinted, almost as if she had been hinting at something of which she ought to be ashamed, that if part of the money were paid before publication it would be esteemed a favour, that publisher went so far as to draw a check for half the amount, and to hand it to her then and there. it is a fact that madge brodie was an uncommonly pretty girl--but such an accident was not likely to make any impression on the commercial instincts of a creature who battens upon authors. she went straight off and cashed that cheque. when she had the coin in her pocket--actually in her pocket--she felt the financial equal of a rothschild. she lunched all by herself at a restaurant in the neighbourhood of charing cross--and a nice little lunch she had; made some purchases, with one eye on ella and another on herself; and then she went and gave a music lesson to miss clara parkins, whose father is the proprietor of the belvedere tavern--that well-known hostelry, within a hundred miles of wandsworth common. miss parkins was within a year or two of her own age, an uncommonly shrewd young woman, and a pleasant one to boot. the lesson had not been proceeding two minutes before she perceived that something was disturbing the ordinarily tranquil currents of her teacher's mind. when the lesson was finished, she made a valiant effort to find out what that something was. she looked down, and she picked at the nap of her frock, and she asked, a tone or two under her usual key: "what is it? i wish you'd tell me." madge stared; nothing which had gone before had led to such a question. "what is what?" "what is it which makes you--all brimming over?" madge went red. she was an arrant little snob, and by no means proud of giving music lessons to a publican's daughter--although that publican's daughter was the best paying pupil she had, and not the least agreeable. she was on her stilts in a moment. "i don't understand you." "that's a story. of course it's no business of mine. but you do seem so happy, and i think that sharing other people's happiness is almost as good as being happy yourself--don't you? but i'm awfully sorry i asked." miss parkins' air of contrition melted madge's mood. as she adjusted her veil, she condescended to explain. "i have had rather a stroke of luck." "i'm awfully glad to hear it. of course i know you think nothing of me; but i think no end of you. i do hope that some one has left you a fortune." "i like it as well as if some one had, though i daresay you'll think it's nothing. i've sold a book." "a book? oh!--one of your own writing? i knew you were clever. when is it coming out?" "we've hardly got so far as dates." "when it does come, i'll buy a dozen and pay for them, if you'll give me one with your name inside." "i'll give you the one without there being the necessity for your buying the dozen." "i knew you'd say that. i know you don't think i'm good enough to buy your book. but i don't mind. i hope it will be a success." "that's very kind of you." "and it will be, i'm sure of it. you're the sort that does succeed." "how do you make that out?" "i don't know exactly--but you are. you've got the air of success about you. i noticed it when first i spoke to you. and when people have got the air of success, you'll generally find that they get the thing itself." "you student of the world!" she stooped and kissed the girl. it was the first familiarity they had exchanged. miss parkins put her arms about her neck and kissed her in return--a half quizzical something in her eyes. "you mark my word--you're the sort that does succeed!" madge walked home with an added feeling of elation. she laughed at the girl's pretension to what almost amounted to prophetic insight--yet wondered if there might not be something in what she said. at any rate it was nice to be believed in, even by miss parkins. she felt that she had done the young woman an injustice. a publican's daughter, after all, is flesh and blood. if the book succeeded, should opportunity offer, she would place it upon public record that clara parkins had foretold its success--which would be fame for clara. she smiled at her own conceit. the possibility that she might one day become an important person only loomed on the horizon since the advent of that note in the morning. immersed in such thoughts, almost unwittingly she arrived at clover cottage. inserting her latchkey in the keyhole, she turned and opened the door. almost as soon as she did so, it was thrust violently back on her, and banged in her face. she was so startled that, for a second or two, she stared at the closed door as if in doubt as to what had really happened. she had been, in imagination, so far away that it required positive effort on her part to bring herself back to earth. "well," she muttered, below her breath, "that's cool. i wonder who did that. perhaps it was the wind." she did not stay to consider how the wind could have behaved in such an eccentric manner. she gave her key another twist, and the door a push. but the key refused to act, or to move, in the direction required, and the door stood still. this, under the circumstances, singular behaviour of the key and the door, seemed to rouse her to a clearer perception of the situation. she gave the key a further twist, exerting all her strength. "what is the matter? it turned easily enough just now." it would not turn then, try how she might, and the door would not budge. "can the catch have fallen? i don't see how; it has never done anything of the kind before. i wonder if some one's having a joke with me; perhaps ella has returned." acting on the supposition, though it was two hours in advance of the time at which miss duncan might be generally expected, she knocked at the door. none answered. she knocked again--louder. if ella was having a jest at her expense it was hardly to be expected that she would put an end to the joke by answering her first summons. she knocked again and again--without result. "this is charming--to be locked out of my own house is not what i expected." she drew back, in order to survey the premises. nothing was to be seen. "perhaps i'd better try the back door. since the front seems hermetically closed, the back may be open for a change." but it was not. she rattled at the handle; shook the door; rapped at the panels with her knuckles. no one heeded her. she returned to the front--with a curious feeling of discomfiture. "what can have happened? it's very odd. the door opened easily enough at first--it felt as if some one had pulled it from within. i wonder--hullo! that's the time of day is it? i saw that curtain move. i fancy now, miss ella duncan, that i've caught you--you are amusing yourself inside. i'll give that knocker a hammering which i'll engage to say you shall hear." she was as good as her word--so far as the hammering was concerned. she kept up a hideous tattoo for some three or four minutes without cessation. but though it is not impossible that the din was audible on the other side of the common, within none heeded. she was becoming annoyed. going to the sitting-room window, she tapped sharply at the frame. "ella, i saw you! don't be so silly! open the door! you'll have all the neighbourhood about the place. it's too bad of you to keep me outside like this." it might be too bad; but the offender showed no sign of relenting. madge struck her knuckles against the pane with force enough to break the glass. "ella!" still silence. "how can you be so stupid--and unkind! ella, open the door! or is it you, jack? don't think i didn't see you, because i did--i saw you move the curtain." she might have done, but the curtain was motionless enough now. madge was losing her temper fast. in her estimation, to be kept out of the house like this was carrying a sufficiently bad joke a good deal too far. "if you don't open the door at once, i shall break the glass and let myself in that way!" she assailed the window-pane with a degree of violence which suggested that she meant what she said; then flattened her nose against it in an endeavour to discover who might be within. while she peered, the door was opened, and some one did come in. she started back. "who on earth----" she was going to say. "who on earth is that?" but when she got so far, she stopped--because she knew. at least in part. first through the door there came a woman. and, although she could scarcely credit the evidence of her own eyesight, in her she recognised the visitor of the day but one before--the creature who had persisted in calling herself "the ghost's wife." at her heels there was a man, a perfect stranger to madge. having recognised the woman, she looked to see in her companion the loafer of the previous afternoon--but this certainly was not he. this was a miserable, insignificant-looking fellow, very much down at heel--and apparently very much down at everything else. the woman, with impudent assurance, came striding straight to the window. the man hung back, exhibiting in his bearing every symptom of marked discomfort. the female, as brazen-faced as if she was on the right side of the window, stared at madge. and madge stared at her--amazed. so amazed, indeed, that for a moment or two she was at a loss for words. when they came at last, they came in the form of an inquiry. "what," she asked, "are you doing there?" the woman waved her hand--in fact, she waved both her hands--as if repelling some noxious insect. "go away!" she cried; "go away! this house is mine--mine!" madge gasped. that the creature was mad, at the best, she made no doubt. but that conviction, in the present situation, was of small assistance. what was she to do? as she asked herself this question, with no slight sense of helplessness, the gate clicked behind her. some one entered the garden. it was bruce graham. chapter xi under the spell "mr. graham!" she exclaimed. "really, i do believe that if i had been asked what thing i most desired at this particular moment, i should have answered--you!" graham's sombre features were chastened by a smile. "that's very good of you." "look here!" laying one hand against his arm, with the other she pointed at the sitting-room window. his glance followed her finger-tips. "who's that?" "that's what i should very much like to ascertain." "i don't quite follow you. do you mean that you don't know who she is?" "i only know that i've been away all day, and that on my return i find her there. how she got there i can't say--but she seems determined to keep me out." "you don't mean that! and have you no notion who the woman is? she looks half mad." "i should think she must be quite mad. it's the woman who forced herself into the house the day before yesterday after you had gone--that's all i know of her. this time she is not alone; she has a man in there with her." "a man! not--ballingall?" "no, not ballingall. at least, i only caught a glimpse of him--but it's not the man who was watching you. from her behaviour the woman must be perfectly insane." "we'll soon make an end of her, insane or not." graham went to the window. the woman, completely unabashed, had remained right in front of it, an observant spectator of their proceedings. he spoke to her. "open the door at once!" she repeated the gesture she had used to madge--raising her voice, at the same time, to a shrill scream. "go away! go away! this house is mine--mine! i don't want any trespassers here." graham turned to madge. "do you authorise me to gain an entry?" "certainly. i don't want to spend the night out here." permission was no sooner given than the thing was done. grasping the upper sash of the window with both his hands, graham brought it down with a run, tearing away the hasp from its fastening as if it had been so much thread. it was a capital object-lesson of the utility of such a safeguard against the wiles of a muscular burglar. the upper sash being lowered, in another moment the lower one was raised. mr. graham was in the room. the woman was possibly too astonished by the unceremonious nature of his proceedings to attempt any resistance, even had she felt disposed. graham addressed miss brodie through the window. "will you come this way? or shall i open the door?" "if you wouldn't mind, i'd rather you opened the door." he opened the door. presently they were in the sitting-room, face to face with the intruders. graham took them to task--the woman evincing no sign of discomposure. "who are you, and what is the meaning of your presence on these premises?" "this house is mine--mine! it's all of it mine! and who are you, that you ask such a question--of a lady?" she crossed her hands on her breast with an assumption of dignity which, in a woman of her figure and scarecrow-like appearance, was sufficiently ludicrous. graham eyed her as if subjecting her to a mental appraisement. then he turned to the man. "and pray, sir, what explanation have you to offer of the felony you are committing?" this man was a little, undergrown fellow, with sharp hatchet-shaped features, and bent and shrunken figure. he had on an old grey suit of clothes, which was three or four sizes too large for him, the trousers being turned up in a thick roll over the top of an oft-patched pair of side-spring boots. there was about him none of the assurance which marked the woman--the air of bravado which he attempted to wear fitted him as ill as his garments. "i ain't committed no felony, not likely. she asked me to come to her house--so i come. she says to me, 'you come along o' me to my house, and i'll give you a bit of something to eat.' now didn't you?" "certainly. i suppose a gentleman is allowed to visit a lady if she asks him." the dreadful-looking woman, as she stood with her head thrown back, and her nose in the air, presented a picture of something which was meant for condescension, which was not without its pathos. "of course!--ain't that what i'm saying? she come here, and she took a key out of her pocket, and she put it in the keyhole, and she opened the door, all quite regular, and she says, 'this here's my house,' and she asked me to come in, so of course i come in." "do you mean to say that she gained entrance to this house by means of a key which she took from her pocket?" "course! how do you suppose we came in?--through the window? not hardly, that's not my line, and so i tell you." graham returned to the woman. "be so good as to give me the key with which you obtained admission to these premises." the woman put her hand up to her neck, for the first time showing signs of discomposure. "the key?" starting back, she looked about her wildly, and broke into a series of shrill exclamations. "the key!--my key!--no!--no!--no!--it is all i have left--the only thing i've got. i've kept it through everything--i've never parted from it once. i won't give it you--no!" she came closer to him; glaring at him with terrible eyes. "it's my key--mine! i took it with me when i went that night. he was sitting in here, and i came downstairs with the key in my pocket, and i went--and he never knew. and i've kept it ever since, because i've always said that one day when i went back i should want my key to let me in: i hate to have to stand on the step while they are letting me in." mr. graham was regarding her intently, as if he was endeavouring to read what stood with her in the place of a soul. "is your name ossington?" "ossington? ossington?" she touched the sides of her forehead with the tips of her fingers, glancing about her affrightedly, as if making an effort to recall her surroundings. her voice dropped to a whisper. "who said ossington? who said it? who asked if my name was--ossington?" mr. graham addressed miss brodie. "with your permission i should like to speak to this woman--after the man has gone." in his last words there was meaning. "by all means, if you wish it. get rid of him at once. at the best the fellow is an impudent intruder, and the story he tells is a ridiculously lame one. he must have been perfectly well aware that a woman of this sort was not likely to possess a house of her own, and that accepting what he calls her invitation he was committing felony." the fellow in question shook his head as if he felt himself ill-used. "i call that hard--cruel hard. if the young lady was to think of it for half a moment she'd see as it was cruel hard." "the young lady declines to think of it. have the goodness to take yourself away, and consider yourself lucky that you are allowed to escape scot free." the man moved towards the door, endeavouring to bear himself as if he were doing so of his own free will. he spoke to the woman. "ain't you coming with me?" "yes, i'm coming." she hastened towards him. graham interposed. "let him go. there are one or two things about which we should like to speak to you, this young lady and i, after he has gone." but she would have none of him. shrinking back, she stared at him, in silence, for a second or two; then began to shriek at him like some wild creature. "i won't stay!--i won't!--i shall go!--i shall! you tried to get my key--my key! you touch it--you dare! you asked me if my name"--she stopped, stared about as if in terror, gave a great sigh, "you asked me if my name----" she stopped again--and sighed again, the pupils of her eyes dilating as she watched and listened for what was invisible and inaudible to all but her. graham moved forward, intending to soothe her. mistaking, apparently, his intention, she rushed at him with outstretched arms, giving utterance to yell after yell. in a moment she was past him and flying from the house. her male companion, who stood still in the doorway, pointed his thumb over his shoulder with a grin. "there you are, you see--drove her out of her seven senses! so you have." much more leisurely, the man went after the woman. for some reason, when mr. bruce graham and miss brodie were left alone, nothing was said about the recent visitors. "if you'll sit down and wait," remarked miss brodie, "i'll go and take my things off." having returned from performing those sacred offices, the topic still remained untouched. possibly that was because there were so many things which needed doing. when one has been out all day, and keeps no maid, when one returns there are things which must be done. for instance, there was a fire to make. miss brodie observed that there ought to have been two, one in the kitchen, and one in the sitting-room; but declared that folks would have to be content with one. and that one bruce graham made. she brought in the wood, and the coal, and the paper; and then she went to fetch the matches. when she returned she caught him in the act. "what are you doing?" she demanded. he was on his knees on the hearthrug, with some sticks in his hand. "making a fire--on scientific principles. i'm a scientific expert at this kind of thing. women's methods are unscientific as a rule." "indeed." her air was scornful. "men always think they can make fires. it's most surprising." she commented on his methods--particularly when he took the pieces of coal from the scuttle, and placed them in their places with his fingers. "that's right! men always use their fingers to put coal on the fire--if they can. it's an agreeable habit." he continued calm. "it's scientific, strictly scientific; and may be logically defended, especially when a fire is being lighted. heaping on coal with a shovel is unscientific--in the highest degree." he struck a match; presently the paper was in flames. "now you had better go and wash your hands. you'll have to do it in the scullery; and by the time you're done, the fire will be out." but the fire was not out. it was a complete success. the kettle was put on, preparations were made for tea, and the table was laid, graham showing a talent for rendering assistance which was not accorded the thanks it might have been. madge was chilly. "i should imagine you were rather a handy person to have about the house." "there are diversities of gifts; let us hope that each of us has at least one." "exactly. but, unfortunately, i do not care to see a man, what is called, 'making himself useful about the house'--if your gift lies in that direction. i suppose it is because i am not enough of a new woman. perhaps now you've given me your assistance in laying the cloth, you will give me some music." he was smoothing a corner of the cloth in question--and looked down. "it is you who are the teacher." she flashed up at him. "what do you mean by that?" "it is true--is it not?" "if you wish me to understand that you would rather not play, have the goodness to say so plainly." whereupon he sat down--and played. and madge listened. when he stopped, she was looking away from him, toward the fire. tears were in her eyes. "i suppose you are a genius?" her voice seemed a little strained. he shook his head. "no--the music comes out of the ends of my fingers." he went on playing. when he ceased, again she turned to him--with passionate eyes. "i never heard any one play like you before." "it's because i'm in the mood." he played on. it seemed to her that he spoke to her out of the soul of music. she sat still and listened. her heart-strings tightened, her pulses throbbed, her cheeks burned; every nerve in her frame was on the alert. never had such things been said to her before. she could have cried--and would have cried, if she had dared. the message breathed to her by bruce graham's playing told of a world of which she, unconsciously, had dreamed. he played; and she sat and listened, in the firelight, till ella came home to tea. and with ella came jack martyn. chapter xii tom ossington's lawyer it was while they were seated at table that bruce graham told them of the result of his investigations. although, for some reason, the subject had not been mentioned when madge and he had been alone together, that young lady showed herself alert and eager enough then. nor, in that respect, was ella behind her friend, while martyn concealed an interest which was probably equal to theirs under ponderous attempts at jocularity. it was jack who brought him to the point. "if the honourable and learned gentleman has sufficiently refreshed himself with the cup that cheers, would he oblige the company by mentioning if he has done anything in the matter of the hidden treasure--with capitals please!--and, if so, what?" "i have at least found that everything points to there being such a hidden treasure--in spite of jack's pretended scepticism." "my pretended scepticism! sir, i would have you know that i am no sceptic; or, if i am, never was one more willing to be converted to the faith." ella interposed. "and, mr. graham, you really think there is a hidden treasure?" "i think it extremely probable." "tell us all about it. what have you been doing? all day long i have been dreaming in the city of what would happen if we did light upon a secret hoard. it really would be too splendid for words." the young lady looked the eagerness which the words suggested--like an imaginative child who pictures the materialisation of some favourite tale of faerie. "to begin with, i went to the house agents to learn for whom they are acting." "well, and what did they say?" "they were not particularly willing to say anything--as i expected. they were apparently under the impression that i intended to take the bread out of their mouths, by dealing with their principals direct. but when i had succeeded in, at any rate, partly reassuring them, they informed me they were acting for a firm of solicitors--messrs. nicholls & hawkins, , south square, gray's inn." "well, and what did you do then?" "i went to the solicitors." "it is awfully good of you to take so much trouble. and what did they say?" "as it happened, i had some knowledge of the firm. my father was on terms of friendship with their senior partner, so that when i introduced myself to mr. nicholls as my father's son, the way was smoothed for me. they have the reputation of being a steady-going, old-fashioned firm, and i found them as open and above-board as they very well could have been. when i mentioned my errand, mr. nicholls was all alive at once." "'messrs. palmer & beading, of wandsworth,' i began, 'inform me that in letting clover cottage they are instructed by you. may i ask who is the owner of the property?' "when i said that, he sat up straight in his chair, and, as i observed, became all alive--oh. "'may i inquire, in return, why you ask the question?' "'the question,' i admitted, 'is a little irregular; but i take it that you will have no objection to give me an answer.' "'not the slightest. on the contrary, we shall be delighted if you will help us to throw light into what is, at present, a very dark corner; because, as a matter of fact, so far as we are concerned, there is no owner.' "'the late thomas ossington died intestate!' "'so far as our knowledge goes.' "'leaving instructions that you should act on his behalf?' "'not a bit of it. so far as we're aware, he left no instructions of any sort or kind. we have assumed a responsibility of which we should be glad to be rid. do you know the man's history?' "'i know something of it--though i confess, candidly, that i should like to know more. my own connection with the matter is a curious one. at a later stage i will tell you exactly what it is. in the interim, i assure you, on my word of honour, that any information you can give me shall be used for the furtherance of justice, and for that only.' "'very good; so long as right is done, all that we require is to be relieved of a very awkward situation. you know that ossington was--peculiar?' "'not insane?' "'insane?--no; he was as sane as you are--every whit. but he was a disappointed man. he was malformed--the muscles of one leg were paralysed. as he grew older, the paralysis increased, until it extended up the whole of one side, and, at last, it killed him. he married a girl who acted as book-keeper at an hotel, at which he was in the habit of stopping, at ilfracombe. she turned out a regular bad lot--finally running away with a man named ballingall.' "'charles ballingall?' "'that's the man. do you know him?' "'i have acted for him professionally.' "'have you? then let me inform you, without prejudice, that you have acted for as rascally a scamp as ever trod the earth. ossington regarded him as a particular friend; and, as particular friends sometimes have a knack of doing, he borrowed no end of money from ossington, ending by robbing him not only of his money, but of his wife as well. the double blow almost broke ossington's heart, and during the remainder of his existence he lived the life of a recluse. but, until then, we had acted for him continually. for instance, we had acted for him in the purchase of clover cottage.' "'do you hold the deeds of the house?' "'not a deed. we hold nothing. all that we have are the various letters which he wrote to us at various times, on business. we had heard nothing of him for months, when one morning we received a telegram asking us to go at once to clover cottage. i went myself--i liked the man. he was, in his way, as fine a gentleman as i ever met. he had been cruelly used by friend and fortune. i found him dead--alone in the house there, with a maid and a doctor; dead--killed, according to the medical testimony, by a paralytic affection of the heart; but actually, as sure as you and i are alive, by the wicked wanton usage of those he had held dear. now here the queer part of the thing comes in. "'his last words had been an instruction to send for us; but that was the only instruction he had given. i myself searched the house from top to bottom, and, as you know, it is not a large one. i had it searched by others--every nook and cranny. not a scrap of writing could be discovered--letter, note, or memorandum. not a document of any sort of kind. nothing whatever to show of what he had died possessed, or to whom it was to go.' "'you had reasons to suppose that he had means?' "'every reason! we had every reason to believe him to be a man of comfortable means. we ourselves had, on more than one occasion, acted for him in matters involving thousands of pounds. we applied to the national and provincial bank--where we were aware he had an account. they informed us that he had closed the account some two months previously, and that on that occasion they had handed him over six thousand pounds in notes on the bank of england. they gave us a list of the numbers of the notes; and not one of them has been presented for payment to this day.' "'is that so?' "'it is. we furnished the bank with a copy of the list, requesting them to notify us should one of them come in: as yet not a single one of them has made its appearance. where are those notes? surely, if they were in the possession of any living person, ere this some of them would have been presented. where are the title deeds of clover cottage--and of other properties, of which he was the undoubted owner? he is the registered holder of ten thousand great northern railway stock. since his death, the dividends on it have remained unclaimed. where is the scrip? with the rest, has it vanished into air? in a box in his bedroom were forty-seven pounds in gold. that was all the cash the house contained. we buried him in wandsworth cemetery; hawkins, i, and the doctor were the only mourners. we sold the furniture, paid the expenses, and the balance stands to the credit of the estate. we advertised for next of kin, without results. we advertised also for information as to the whereabouts of any property of which he might have died possessed--such as title-deeds, and anything of that kind. you understand that there is a delicate question as to who is entitled to collect the rents of other properties which we believe to have been his freehold. but nothing came of that. clover cottage we placed in the hands of messrs. parker and beading, but only recently have they succeeded in letting it--i believe to two single ladies.' "'so i understand.'" jack struck in. "you are the two single ladies. you," pointing to ella, "are one of them, and you," pointing to madge, "are the other." ella was impatient. "jack, i do wish you wouldn't interrupt.--mr. graham, do go on. it's like a romance. my curiosity is such that i feel as if i were all pins and needles." bruce graham continued. "'and you, mr. nicholls,' i said, 'have you formed no theory of your own upon the subject?' "old nicholls leaned back in his chair. he put his hands into his two pockets, and he looked at me out of the corners of his eyes. "'i have--i have formed a decided theory. but, upon my word, i don't know what right you have to ask me.' "'i trust, before we part, to prove to your entire satisfaction that i have every right. what's the nature of your theory?' "'what's the nature of your right?' "i laughed. i saw that he meant to understand more clearly where we stood before he went any further. "'i believe i am in a position to produce an owner for the property--when found.' "'when found?' "'precisely--when found. as yet it still remains to be found. i must ask you not, at this moment, to press me for further details, and of course you, on your part, are entitled to keep your theory to yourself.' "'i am entitled to keep my theory to myself, as you say. but i know your father was an honest man, and as it happens, i know something about you, and i believe you also are an honest man. so as i am anxious, for many reasons, that this ossington mystery should be unravelled, you shall have my theory for what it's worth.' "'he tilted his chair on to its hind-legs, watching me keenly all the time. "'thomas ossington was peculiar--not, in any sense of the word, insane, but out of the common run. in particular he was secretive, especially latterly, as perhaps was only natural. my theory is that, distrusting banks and all such human institutions, he secreted his cash, his title deeds, and everything he valued, in some hiding-place of his own contriving, and that there it remains concealed unto this hour.'" the two girls rose simultaneously. "madge," cried ella, "did you hear that? that's exactly what you said." in madge's tones there was the ring of an assured conviction. "i was sure of it--and i am sure of it; as sure as any one possibly can be." "may i ask," inquired jack, with mock severity, "who is it who is interrupting now? will you let the gentleman go on?" graham went on. "'but where,' i said, 'do you think he is likely to have found such a hiding-place?' "old nicholls looked at me, if possible, more shrewdly than ever. "'at clover cottage. i knew the man. the salient events of his life happened there. in his whimsical way he regarded it as part and parcel of himself. i have heard him say so half a dozen times. his heart was in the place. whatever he did conceal, was concealed within its four walls. before the furniture was sold, i had it overhauled by an expert--some of the things were pulled to pieces. his verdict was that nothing was hidden there. had i had my way i would have dismantled the whole house--only hawkins was against me. he said very properly, that if the heir-at-law proved cantankerous, i might be made to smart in damages to the tune of a pretty penny. so i abstained. all the same, if the house was in the market to-morrow, i'd be a purchaser at a good round sum--if all rights of treasure trove went with it. you may tell the present tenants'--here he looked at me in a fashion which took me a little aback--'if you have the honour of their acquaintance, that we keep a sharp eye on the property; that it is not to be tampered with to the extent of one jot or tittle; and that not so much as one inch of paper is to be taken off the wall except with our express permission.'" ella turned to madge. "what do you say to that?" she exclaimed. "that knocks on the head all your notions of pulling the house to pieces." madge was defiant. "does it? it does nothing of the kind. not after what i found in this very room last night. in the face of that, i care nothing for mr. nicholls, or for his threats either. what do you think yourself, mr. graham?" "if you will allow me, i will give you my own opinion when i have told you of all that passed between mr. nicholls and myself. indeed, i am now coming to that very point." "there you are, you see. you will not let the man finish, you really won't. i never saw anything like you women for interrupting--never in all my life." this of course was jack--who was, as usual, ignored. graham brought his story to an end. "'there is one more question', i said, 'which i should like to ask you, mr. nicholls. do you know any one of the name of edward john hurley?' "'i ought to, seeing that some one of the name of edward john hurley is in our office at this moment, and has been in our office for something over a quarter of a century.' "'can i see him?' "mr. nicholls touched a bell, and presently mr. hurley entered. i felt that his presence on the spot was a stroke of luck for which i had certainly been unprepared. he was a tall, thin, dignified looking man, with grey hair. he wore spectacles. taking them off, he wiped them with his handkerchief before he replaced them on his nose to look at me. "'do you remember, mr. hurley,' i began, 'the nd of october, ?' "'the nd of october, ?' he repeated my words, then replied to my question with another, 'may i inquire why you ask?' "'i will put my question in another form. do you remember witnessing mr. thomas ossington's attachment of his signature to a certain document on the nd of october, ?' "i had noticed that mr. nicholls and he had exchanged glances when i first put my query. now he looked at his principal evidently in search of guidance. "'shall i answer this gentleman's question, sir?' "'certainly. give him all the information you can.' "this mr. hurley proceeded to do, with the utmost clearness. "'i do remember the nd of october, , and the whole of the circumstances. i chanced to meet mr. ossington in holborn as i was leaving the office. he asked me if i would dine with him in his house at wandsworth. i went with him to dinner there and then. after dinner he asked me if i would witness his signature. i expressed my willingness. i witnessed it.' "'were you acquainted with the nature of the document he was signing?' "'i was not. i have often wondered what it was, especially in the light of after events. the document, which was on a sheet of blue foolscap, had evidently been prepared before my arrival: mr. ossington, covering the writing with a piece of blotting-paper, signed it, in the middle of the page, directly underneath, while i affixed my signature, as witness, on the left-hand side.' "'was there another witness?' "'there was, the servant girl.' "'what was her name?' "'i never heard it. i only know that he called her louisa. i think i should recognise her if i saw her again. she was a red-faced, light-haired, strapping wench, about eighteen years of age.' "'should you recognise ossington's signature--and your own--and the document to which they were attached?' "'most decidedly; under any circumstances, at any time.' "i thanked him for his frankness, and rose to go. nicholls stopped me. "'one moment,' he said. 'hurley informed us, at the time, of what he has just now told you, and, like him, we have frequently wondered what was the nature of the document he witnessed. as you are evidently aware that such a paper existed once upon a time, you are probably acquainted with its present whereabouts?' "'i am. it will be produced in due course. when, i promise you, you will see as curious a document as is to be found upon the records.' "both nicholls and hurley endeavoured to induce me to be more definite. but i was not to be persuaded. thanking them for the information they had given me, i came away." chapter xiii an interrupted treasure hunt "well," inquired martyn, when graham? had finished, "what is the situation now?" "first of all," struck in madge, "how about the will?" "as regards the will, i do not hesitate to say that it is as sound and valid a declaration of the testator's wishes as has been admitted to probate--mr. hurley's testimony removes all doubt upon that point. a man has a right to do what he will with his own--and that is all mr. ossington has done." "how does it effect our right of search?" "that is another question. the will gives neither you nor any one else a title for the destruction of property. it simply conveys to the finder the possession of certain things which are not specifically mentioned. but it authorises no one to look for those things, still less to do damage while looking." "then is our search barred? aren't we to look at all?" "i don't say that. my advice is to put the legal aspect aside, and to regard the common-sense one only. the will says that certain things, when found, are to become the property of the finder, and this house with them. you have reason to believe that those things are concealed within this house. then it is for you to consider whether it is worth your while to run the risk of becoming responsible for any damage you may do in case of your failure to find those things. my opinion is, that it is worth your while to run that risk--that it is worth any one's while to run that risk." madge stood up, with resolute lips, and sparkling eyes. she struck her hand upon the table. "i'm sure it is! i know it is!" bruce graham also rose. "i am willing to share the risk if it is shareable--or to assume the whole of it, for the matter of that. i incline strongly to your belief, miss brodie, that there is something hidden well worth the finding, and that its hiding-place is within the walls of clover cottage." jack martyn hammered his fist upon the table. "hear, hear!--bravo!--spoken like a man! 'pon my word, i'm beginning to think that there is something in it after all. a conviction is creeping over me, slowly but surely, that in less time than no time i shall be filling my pockets with the contents of aladdin's cave--and as there is only a bent sixpence and two bad pennies in them at present, there's plenty of room for more." "the point is," said ella, "where are you going to begin to look?" "i am going to do what mr. nicholls wanted to do," declared madge--"tear the house to pieces." "but, my dear, even if you set about the business in that drastic fashion, you'll require method. how are you going to begin to take the house to pieces--by taking the slates off the roof, and the chimney-pots down?" "and by taking the windows out of their frames, and the doors off their hinges, and displaying the grates in the front garden! george! you'll be improving the property with a vengeance if you do." "i propose to do nothing so absurd. i simply wish you to understand that before i give up the search the house will literally have been torn to pieces--though i assure you, ella, that i do not intend to begin by taking off either the slates or the chimney-pots." "have you been able to make anything more of the writing which was left behind by your burglarious visitor?" the inquiry came from graham. madge shook her head. "let me try my hand at it," cried jack. "i have brains--i place them at your service. it is true i never have been able to solve a puzzle from my very earliest hours, but that is no reason why i should not begin by solving this." the scrap of paper was given him. he spread it out on the table in front of him. leaning his head upon his hands, he stared at it, the expression on his face scarcely promising a prompt elucidation. "the first part is simple, extremely simple. especially after mr. graham's last night's lucid exposition. otherwise i should have described it as recondite. but the second part's a howler; yes, a howler! 'right--cat--dog--cat--dog--cat--dog--cat--dog--left eye-- push!' the conjunction is surprising. i can only remark that if that assorted collection of animals is bottled up somewhere in this house all together, that alone would be a find worth coming upon. there will be some lively moments when you let the collection out." "did you mention anything to mr. nicholls about the paper?" asked madge of graham. "not a syllable. i gathered from what he said that the house was done up before it was let--papered, painted, and so on, and that therefore any former landmarks to which it might have been alluding have probably disappeared." "that's what i think, and that's what i mean by saying we shall have to pull the house to pieces." "even if that is the case, as miss duncan puts it, where are you going to begin? you must remember that you will have to continue living in the house while it is being dismantled, and that you must spare yourselves as much discomfort as possible." "it seems that you have to begin by pushing the left eye," said jack, who still was studying the paper. "though whether it is the left eye of the entire assorted collection is not quite clear. if that is the case, and that remarkable optic has to be pushed with any degree of vigour, i can only say that i shall take up a position in the centre of the road till the proceedings are concluded." "why not commence," asked madge, "with a thorough examination of the room which we're now in?" "you yourself," said ella, "admitted last night that it was hardly likely that the treasure would be hidden in the same room which contained the will." madge pursed her lips and frowned. "i've been thinking about that since, and i don't at all see why we should take it for granted. one thing's certain, the room is honeycombed with possible hiding-places. there are hollows behind the wainscot, the walls themselves sound hollow. that unhappy man can hardly have found a part of the house better adapted to his purpose." "see there--what's that?" ella was pointing to a kind of plaster cornice which ran round the room. "what are those things which are cut or moulded on that strip of beading, if it is beading, under the ceiling?" "they look to me like some sort of ornamental bosses," said graham. "they certainly are neither cats or dogs," decided madge. "i'm not so sure of that; you know what extraordinary things they tell you are intended to represent things which are not in the least bit like them. where's that paper? jack, give me that paper." jack gave it her. she glanced at it. "'right'--i'll take up a position like you did last night, mr. graham, to the right of the door; 'cat--dog--cat--dog--cat--dog--cat--dog--' now----" "well?" queried madge, for ella had stopped. "now what?" "i think," continued ella, with evident dubitation, "that i'll again do what you did last night, mr. graham, and cross right over; though it says nothing about it here, but perhaps that was omitted on purpose." she marched straight across the room. "now we'll take the first thing upon the beading, or whatever it is, to be a cat, and we'll count them alternately--cat--dog--the fifth dog." "very good," said graham, standing close up to the wall and pointing with his outstretched hand, "cat--dog--cat--dog--cat--dog--cat--dog--here you are." "now, 'left eye--push.'" "or shove," suggested jack. "but there is no eye--whether left or otherwise." "that's a detail," murmured jack. "let me see." ella clambered on to a chair. from that position of vantage she examined the protuberances in question. "there really does seem nothing which could represent an eye; the things look more like knuckle-bones than anything else." "what's the odds? let's all get hammers and whack the whole jolly lot of them in the eye, or where, if right is right, it ought to be. and then, if nothing happens--and we'll hope to goodness nothing will--we'll whack 'em again." "i'm afraid, ella," put in madge, "that your cats and dogs are merely suppositions. i vote, by way of doing something practical, that we start stripping the wainscot. you'll find hiding-places enough' behind that, and it's quite on the cards, something in them." "certainly," assented jack, "i am on. bring out your hatchets, pickaxes, crowbars, and other weapons of war, and we'll turn up our shirt-sleeves, and shiver our timbers, and not leave one splinter of wood adhering to another. buck up, graham! take off your coat, my boy! you're going to begin to enjoy yourself at last, i give you my word." ella, possibly slightly exacerbated by the failure of her little suggestion, endeavoured to snub the exuberant mr. martyn. "i don't know if you think you're funny, jack, because you're only silly. if you can't be serious, perhaps you'd better go; then, if we do find something, you'll have no share." "upon my sam!" cried jack, "if that ain't bitter hard. if there's any sharing going on, i don't care what it is, if there's any man who wants his bit of it more than i do, i should like you to point him out. ella, my dearest ella, i do assure you, by the token of those peerless charms----" "jack, don't be silly." "i think," insinuated madge, "that you and i, mr. graham, had better go and fetch a chisel and a hammer." they went. when they returned, bearing those useful implements, however the discussion might have gone, mr. martyn showed no signs of being crushed. "give me that chisel," he exclaimed. "you never saw a man handle a tool like me--and to the last day of your life you'll never see another. i'm capable of committing suicide while hammering in a tack." "thank you, jack," said madge; "but i think carpentering may be within the range of mr. graham's capacity rather than yours." at least mr. graham showed himself capable of stripping the wainscot, though with the tools at his command--those being limited to the hammer and the chisel, with occasional help from the poker--it was not so easy a business as it might have been. it took some time. and, as none of the hoped-for results ensued--nothing being revealed except the wall behind--it became a trifle tedious. eleven o'clock struck, and still a considerable portion of the wainscot was as before. "might i ask," inquired jack, "if this is going to be an all night job; because i have to be at the office in the morning, and i should like to have some sleep before i start." graham surveyed the work of devastation. "i will finish this side, and then i think, miss brodie, we might leave the rest to another time--till to-morrow, say." "i really don't see what's the use of doing it at all," said ella. "i don't believe there's anything hidden in this room; and look at the mess, it will take hours to clear it up. and who wants to live in a place with bare brick walls? it gives me the horrors to look at them." madge looked at her, more in sorrow than in anger. "i think, mr. graham, that perhaps you had better stop." he detected the mournful intonation. "at any rate, i'll finish this side." he continued to add to the uncomfortable appearance of the room; for there certainly was something in what ella said. he had worked for another quarter of an hour, or twenty minutes, and had torn off three or four more strips of wood--for they had been firmly secured in their places, and took some tearing--and the others were gathered round them, assisting and looking on, momentarily expecting that something would come to light better worth having than dust and cobwebs, of which articles there were very much more than sufficient, when ella gave a sudden exclamation. "madge! jack!" she cried. "who--who's this man?" "what man?" asked madge. turning, she saw. chapter xiv the cause of the interruption what she saw, and what they saw, spoke eloquently of the engrossed attention with which they had watched the work of destruction being carried on. so absorbed had they been in bruce graham's proceedings that, actually without their knowledge, a burglarious entry had been all but effected into the very room in which they were. there was the proof before them. the window had been raised, the blind and curtains pushed away, and a man's head and shoulders thrust inside. when ella's exclamation called their attention to the intruder's presence, they stared at him, as well they might, for a moment or two with stupefied amazement; the impudence of the act seemed almost to surpass the bounds of credibility. he, on his part, met their gaze with a degree of fortitude, not to say assurance, which was more than a little surprising. to the fellow's character his looks bore evidence. the buttoning of his coat up to his chin failed to conceal the fact that his neck was bare, while the crushing of a dilapidated billycock down over his eyes served to throw into clearer relief his unshaven cheeks and hungry-looking eyes. for the space of perhaps thirty seconds they looked at him, and he at them, in silence. then jack moved hastily forward. "you're a cool hand!" he cried. but madge caught him by the arm. "don't!" she said. "this is the man who stared through the window." jack turned to her, bewildered. "the man who stared through the window? what on earth do you mean?" "don't!" she repeated. "i think that mr. graham knows this man." the man himself endorsed her supposition. "yes, i'm rather inclined to think that mr. graham does." his voice was not a disagreeable one; not at all the sort of voice which one would have expected from a person of his appearance. he spoke, too, like an educated man, with, however, a strenuous something in his tone which suggested, in some occult fashion, the bitterness of a wild despair. seeing that he remained unanswered, he spoke again. "what's more, if there is a cool hand it's mr. graham, it isn't me. i am a poor, starving, police-ridden devil, being hounded to hell, full pelt, by a hundred other devils--but, bruce graham, what are you?" they turned to the man who was thus addressed. at the moment of interruption he had been levering a strip of wainscot from its place with the aid of the inserted chisel. he still kept one hand upon the handle, holding the hammer with the other, while he drew his body back against the wall as close as it would go, and, with pallid cheeks and startled eyes, he stared at the intruder as if he had been some straggler from the spiritual world. from between his lips, which seemed to tremble, there came a single word-- "ballingall!" "yes, ballingall! that's my name. and what's yours--cur, hound, thief? by god! there have been people i've used badly enough in my time, but none worse than you've used me." "you are mistaken." "am i? it looks like it. what are you doing here?" "you know what i'm doing." "by god! i do--you're right there. and it's because you know i know, that, although you're twice my size, and have got all the respectability and law of england at your back, you stand there shivering and shaking, afraid for your life at the sight of me." "i am not afraid of you. i repeat that you are mistaken." "and i say you lie--you are afraid of me, penniless, shoeless, hungry beggar though i am. your face betrays you; look at him! isn't there cowardice writ large?" the man stretched out his arm, pointing to graham with a dramatic gesture, which certainly did not tend to increase that gentleman's appearance of ease. "do you think i didn't see you the other day, knowing that the time was due for me to come out of gaol, trying to screw your courage to the striking point to play the traitor; how at the sight of me the blood turned to water in your veins? deny it--lie if you can." "i do not wish to deny it, nor do i propose to lie. i repeat, for the third time, that in the conclusions you draw you are mistaken. miss brodie, this is the person of whom i was telling you--charles ballingall." "so you have told them of me, have you? and a pretty yarn you've spun, i bet my boots. yes, madam, i am charles ballingall, lately out of wandsworth prison, sent there for committing burglary at this very place. my god, yes! this house of haunting memories of a thousand ghosts! i only came out the day before yesterday, and that same night i committed burglary again--here! and now i'm at it for the third time, driven to it--by a ghost! and, my god! he's behind me now." a sudden curious change took place in the expression of the fellow's countenance. partially withdrawing his head, he turned and looked behind him--as if constrained to the action against his will. his voice shrank to a hoarse whisper. "is that you, tom ossington?" none replied. madge moved forward, quite calm, and, in her own peculiar fashion, stately, though she was a little white about the lips, and there was an odd something in her eyes. "i think you had better come inside--and, if convenient, please moderate your language." at the sound of her voice the man turned again, and stared. "i beg your pardon. were you speaking to me?" "i was, and am. mr. graham has spoken to me of you, and i am quite certain that in doing so he has told us nothing but the exact and literal truth. in the light of what he has said, i know that i am giving expression to our common feeling in saying that we shall feel obliged to you if you will come in." the man hesitated, fumbling with his hands, as if nonplussed. "it's a good many years since i was spoken to like that." "possibly it's a good many years since you deserved to be spoken to like that. as a rule, that sort of speech is addressed to us to which we are entitled." "that's true. by god, it is!" "i believe i asked you to moderate your language." "i beg your pardon; but it's a habit--of some standing." "then if that is the case, probably the time is come that it should die. please let it die--if for this occasion only. must i repeat my invitation, and press you to enter, in face of the eagerness to effect an entrance which it seems that you have already shown?" mr. ballingall continued to exhibit signs of indecision. "this isn't a trap, or anything of that kind?" "i am afraid i hardly understand you. what do you mean by a trap?" "well"--his lips were distorted by what was possibly meant for a grin--"it doesn't want much understanding, when you come to think of it." "we ask you to come in. if you accept our invitation you will of course be at liberty to go again whenever you please. we certainly shall make no effort to detain you, for any cause whatever." "well, if that's the case, it's a queer start, by----" he seemed about to utter his accustomed imprecation; then, catching her eyes, refrained, adding, in a different tone, "i think i will." he did, passing first one leg over the sill, and then the other. when the whole of his body was in the room he removed his hat, the action effecting a distinct improvement in his appearance. the departure of the disreputable billycock disclosed the fact that his head was not by any means ill-shaped. one perceived that this had once been an intelligent man, whose intelligence was very far from being altogether a thing of the past. more, it suggested the probability of his having been good-looking. nor did it need a keen observer to suspect that if he was shaven and shorn, combed and groomed, and his rags were exchanged for decent raiment, that there was still enough of manliness about him to render him sufficiently presentable. he was not yet of the hopelessly submerged; although just then he could scarcely have appeared to greater disadvantage. his clothes were the scourings of the ragman's bag--ill-fitting, torn, muddy. his boots were odd ones, whose gaping apertures revealed the sockless feet within. in his whole bearing there was that indefinable, furtive something which is the hall-mark of the wretch who hopes for nothing but an opportunity to snatch the wherewithal to stay the cravings of his belly, and who sees an enemy even in the creature who flings to him a careless dole. this atmosphere which was about him, of the outcast and the pariah, was heightened by the obvious fact that, at that very moment, he was hungry, hideously hungry. his eyes, now that they were more clearly seen, were wolfish. in their haste to begin their treasure-hunting they had not even waited to take away the tea-things. the man's glances were fastened on the fragments of food which were on the table, as if it was only by an effort of will that he was able to keep himself from pouncing on them like some famished animal. madge perceived the looks of longing. "we are just going to have supper. you must join us. then we can talk while we are eating. ella, help me to get it ready. sit down, mr. ballingall, i daresay you are tired--and perhaps you had better close the window. ella and i shall not be long." they made a curious trio, the three men, while the two girls made ready. ballingall closed the window, with an air half sheepish, half defiant. then placed himself upon a seat, in bolt upright fashion, as if doubtful of the chair's solidity. jack took up a position in the centre of the hearthrug, so evidently at a loss for something appropriate to say as to make his incapacity almost pathetic--apparently the unusual character of the situation had tied his tongue into a double knot. graham's attitude was more complex. the portion of the wainscot which he had undertaken to displace not having been entirely removed, resuming his unfinished task, he continued to wrench the boards from their fastenings as if intentionally oblivious of the new arrival's presence. nor was the meal which followed of a familiar type. the resources of the larder were not manifold, but all that it contained was placed upon the table. the _pièce de resistance_ consisted of six boiled eggs. "if you boil all those eggs," ella declared, when madge laid on them a predatory hand, "there'll be nothing left in the house for breakfast." "the man is famished," retorted madge with some inconsequence. "what does breakfast matter to us if the man is starving." so the six were boiled. and he ate them all. indeed he ate all there was to eat--devoured would have been the more appropriate word. for he attacked his food with a voracity which it was not nice to witness, bolting it with a complete disregard to rules which suggest the advisability of preliminary mastication. it was not until his wolf-like appetite was, at least, somewhat appeased by the consumption of nearly all the food that was on the table, that madge approached the subject which was uppermost in all their thoughts. "as i was saying, mr. ballingall, mr. graham has told us of all that passed between you." at the moment he had a piece of bread in one hand and some cheese in the other--all the cheese that was left. the satisfaction of his appetite seemed to have increased his ferocity. cramming both morsels into his mouth at once, he turned on her with a sort of half-choked snarl. "then what right had he to do that?" "it seems to me that he had a good deal of right." "how? who's he? a lawyer out of a job, who comes and offers me his services. i'm his client. as his client i give him my confidence. looking at it from the professional point of view only, what right has he to pass my confidence on to any one?--any one! he's been guilty of a dirty and disgraceful action, and he knows it. you know it, you do." he snarled across the board at graham. "if i were to report him to the law society they'd take him off the rolls." "i question it." madge's tone was dry. "you may question it--but i know what i'm talking about. what use does he make of the confidence which he worms out of me?" "i wormed nothing out of you." the interruption was graham's. "whatever you said to me was said spontaneously, without the slightest prompting on my part." "what difference does that make?--then what use does he make of what i said spontaneously? he knows that i am a poor driven devil, charged with a crime which i never committed. i explain to him how it happened that that crime comes to be laid against me, how i've been told that there's money waiting for me in a certain place, which is mine for the fetching, and how, when i went to fetch it, i was snapped for burglary. i'm found guilty of what i never did, and i get twelve months. in this country law and justice are two different things. what does my lawyer--my own lawyer, who pressed on me his services, mind!--do, while i'm in prison for what i never did? he takes advantage of my confidence, and without a word to me, or a hint of any sort, he goes and looks for my money--my money, mind!--on his own account--and for all i know he's got it in his pocket now." "that he certainly has not." this was madge. "then it isn't his fault if he hasn't. can you think of anything dirtier? not to speak of more unprofessional? why one thief wouldn't behave to another thief like that--not if he was a touch above the carrion. here have i, an innocent man, been rotting in gaol, think, think, thinking of what i'd do with the money when i did come out, and here was the man who ought to have been above suspicion, and whom i thought was above suspicion, plotting and planning all the time how he could rob me of what he very well knew was the only thing which could save me from the outer darkness of hell and of despair." graham motioned madge to silence. "one moment, miss brodie. you must not suppose, mr. ballingall, that because i suffer you to make your sweeping charges against me without interruption, that i admit their truth, or the justice of the epithets which you permit yourself to apply to me. on the contrary, i assert that your statements are for the most part wholly unjustifiable, and that where they appear to have some measure of justification, they are easily capable of complete explanation. whatever you may continue to say i shall decline to argue with you here. if you will come to my rooms i will give you every explanation you can possibly desire." "yes, i daresay,--and take the earliest opportunity of handing me over to the first convenient copper. unless i'm mistaken, that's the kind of man you are." madge caught the speaker by the sleeve of his ragged coat, with a glance at graham, whose countenance had grown ominously black. "if you will take my advice, mr. ballingall, since it is plain that you know nothing of the mind of man mr. graham really is, instead of continuing to talk in that extremely foolish fashion you will listen to what i have to say. the night before last we were the victims of an attempted burglary----" "i did it--you know i did it. i give myself away--if there's any giving about it. you can whistle for a constable, and give me into charge right off; i'm willing. perhaps it'll turn out to be the same bobby i handled before, and then he'll be happier than ever." "i am sorry to learn that you were the burglar--very sorry. my friend, miss duncan, and i were alone in the house, a fact of which you were probably aware." that mr. ballingall might still be possessed of some remnants of saving grace was suggested by the fact that, at this point, he winced. "other considerations aside, it was hardly a heroic action to break, at dead of night, into a lonely cottage, whose only inmates were a couple of unprotected girls." "there was a revolver fired." "as you say, there was a revolver fired--by me, at the ceiling. does that tend to strengthen the evidence which goes to show that the deed, on your part, was a courageous one?" "i never said that it was." "you are perfectly conscious that we shall not whistle for a policeman, and that we shall not give you into charge. is it necessary for you to talk as if you thought we should?" "am i to be robbed----" "i fancy that the robbing has not been all upon one side." mr. ballingall did not look happier. "the burglar left behind him a scrap of paper----" "oh, i did, did i? i wondered where it was." "at present it is in the possession of the police." "the devil!" "you need not be alarmed." mr. ballingall had suddenly risen, as if disturbed by some reflection. "that was before we knew by whom we had been favoured. now that we do know, the paper will not be used in evidence against you--nor the police either. before handing over that scrap of paper we took a copy of the writing which was on it. that writing was a key to two secret hiding-places which are contained within this house." "how do you know that?" "by exercising a little of my elementary common sense. observe, mr. ballingall." rising from her seat, she crossed to the door. "on that paper which you were so good as to leave behind you it was written, 'right'--i stand on the right of the door. 'straight across'--i walk straight across the room. 'three'--i measure three feet horizontally. 'four'--and four feet perpendicularly. 'up'--i push the panel up; it opens, and i find that there is something within. that, mr. ballingall, is how i know the paper was a guide to two secret hiding-places--by discovering the first. what is the matter with the man? has he gone mad?" the question, which was asked with a sudden and striking change of tone, was induced by the singularity of mr. ballingall's demeanour. he had started when madge took up her position at the door, eyeing her following evolutions speechlessly, breathlessly, as if spellbound. her slightest movement seemed to possess for him some curious fascination. as she proceeded, his agitation increased; every nerve seemed strained so that he might not lose the smallest detail of all that happened, until when, with dramatic gestures, she imitated the action of striking the panel, raising it, and taking out something which was contained within, he broke into cry after cry. "my god!--my god!--my god!" he repeated, over and over again. covering his face with his hands, as if he strove to guard his eyes against some terrible vision, he crouched in a sort of heap on the floor. chapter xv the companion of his solitude when he looked up, it was timidly, doubtfully, as if fearful of what he might see. he glanced about him anxiously from side to side, as if in search of something or some one. "tom!--tom!" he said, speaking it was difficult to say to whom. he paused, as if for an answer. when none came, he drew himself upright gradually, inch by inch. they noticed how his lips were twitching, and how the whole of his body trembled. he passed his hand over his eyes, as a man might who is waking from a dream. then he stretched it out in front of him, palm upwards, with a something of supplication in the action which lent pathos to the words he uttered--words which in themselves were more than sufficiently bizarre. "do any of you believe in ghosts?--in disembodied spirits assuming a corporeal shape?--in the dead returning from their graves? or is a man who thinks he sees a ghost, who knows he sees a ghost, who knows that a ghost is a continual attendant of his waking and of his sleeping hours alike--must such a man be in labour with some horrible delusion of his senses? is his brain of necessity unhinged? must he of a certainty be mad?" not only was such an interrogation in itself remarkable, but more especially was it so as coming from such a figure as ballingall presented. his rags and dirt were in strange contrast with his language. his words, chosen as it seemed with a nice precision, came from his lips with all the signs of practiced ease. his manner, even his voice, assumed a touch of refinement which before it lacked. in him was displayed the spectacle of a man of talent and of parts encased in all the outward semblance of a creature of the kennel. madge, to whom the inquiry seemed to be more particularly addressed, replied to it with another. "why do you ask us such a question?" about the man's earnestness, as he responded, there could be no doubt. the muscles of his face twitched as with st. vitus' dance; beads of sweat stood upon his brow; the intensity of his desire to give adequate expression to his thoughts seemed to hamper his powers of utterance. "because i want some one to help me--some one, god or man. because, during the last year and more i have endured a continual agony to which i doubt if the pains of hell can be compared. because things with me have come to such a pitch that it is only at times i know if i am dead or living, asleep or waking, mad or sane, myself or another." he pointed to graham. "he has told you how it was with me aforetime; how i was haunted--driven by a ghost to gaol. when i was in gaol it was worse a thousandfold--i was haunted, always, day and night. the ghost of my old friend--the best friend man ever had--whom in so many ways i had so blackly and often wronged, was with me, continually, in my cell. oh for some sign by which i could know that my sins have been forgiven me!--by which i could learn that by suffering i could atone for the evil i have done! some sign, o lord, some sign!" he threw his hands above his head in a paroxysm of passion. as has been said of more than one great tragic actor, in his voice there were tears. as, indeed, there were in the eyes of at least one of those who heard. his manner, when he proceeded, was a little calmer--which very fact seemed to italicise the strangeness of his tale. "the first day i spent in prison i was half beside myself with rage. i had done things for which i had merited punishment, even of man, and now that punishment had come, it was for something i had not done. the irony, as well as the injustice of it, made me nearly wild. i had my first taste of the crank--which is as miserable, as futile, and as irritating a mode of torture as was ever spewed out of a flesh and blood crank's unhealthy stomach; and i was having, what they called there, dinner, when the cell door opened, and--tom ossington came in. it was just after noon, in the broad day. he came right in front of me, and, leaning on his stick, he stood and watched me. i had not been thinking of him, and, a moment before, had been hot with fury, ready to dare or do anything; but, at the sight of him, the strength went out of me. my bones might have been made of jelly, they seemed so little able to support my body. there was nothing about him which was in the least suggestive of anything unusual. he was dressed in a short coat and felt hat, which were just like the coat and hats which he always had worn; and he had in his hand the identical stick which i had seen him carry perhaps a thousand times. if it was a ghost, then there are ghosts of clothes as well as of men. if it was an optical delusion, then there are more things in optics than are dreamt of in our philosophy. if it was an hallucination born of a disordered mind, then it is possible to become lunatic without being conscious of any preliminary sappings of the brain; and it is indeed but an invisible border line which divides the madmen from the sane. "'well, charlie,' he said, in the quiet tones which i had known so well, 'so it's come to this. you made a bit of a mistake in coming when you did to fetch away that fortune of yours.' "'it seems,' i said, 'as if i had.' "he laughed--that gentle laugh of his which had always seemed to me to be so full of enjoyment. "'never mind, charlie, you come another time. the fortune won't run away while you're in here.' "with that, he turned and limped out of the cell; the door seeming to open before him at a touch of his hand, and shutting behind him as noiselessly as it had opened. it was only after he had gone that i realised what it was that i had seen. in an instant i was in a muck of sweat. while i was sitting on my stool, more dead than alive, the door opened again, this time with clatter and noise enough, and a warder appeared. he glared at me in a fashion which meant volumes. "'is that you talking in here? you'd better take care, my lad, or you'll make a bad beginning.' "he banged the door behind him--and he went." ballingall paused, to wipe his brow with the back of his hand; and he sighed. "i made a bad beginning, and, from the warder's point of view, i went from bad to worse. i do not know if the man i had injured has been suffered to torture me before my time, or if, where he is, his nature has changed, and he seeks, in the grave, the vengeance he never sought in life. if so, he has his fill of it--he surely has had his fill of it!--already. it was through him that i was there, and now that i was there he made my sojourn in the prison worse than it need have been. much worse, god knows. "that first visitation of his was followed by others. twice, thrice, sometimes four times a day, he would come to me when i was in my cell, and speak to me, and compel me to answer him; and my voice would be heard without. it became quite a custom for the warder on duty to stand outside my cell, often in the middle of the night, and pounce on me as soon as tom had gone. the instant tom went, the warder would come in. never once did an officer enter while he was actually with me, but, almost invariably, his departure was the signal for the warder to put in his appearance. i don't know how it was, or why it was, but so it was. i would be accused of carrying on a conversation with myself, reported, and punished. as a matter of fact, i was in continual hot water--because of tom. not a single week passed from that in which i entered the prison, to that in which i left it, during which i did not undergo punishment of some sort or the other, because of tom. as a result, all my marks were bad marks. when i left the gaol, so far from receiving the miserable pittance which good-conduct prisoners are supposed to earn, i was penniless; i had not even the wherewithal with which to buy myself a crust of bread. "a more dreadful form of torture tom could hardly have invented. a man need not necessarily suffer although he is in gaol. but i suffered. always i was in the bad books of the officers. they regarded me as an incorrigible bad-conduct man--which, from their point of view, i was. all sorts of ignominy was heaped on me. every form of punishment i could be made to undergo i had to undergo. i never earned my stripe, nor the right of having a coir mattress with which to cover the bare board on which i was supposed to sleep. i was nearly starved, owing to the perpetually recurring bread and water. and the horrors i endured, the devils which beset me, in that unspeakable dark cell! to me, gaol was a long-drawn-out and ever-increasing agony, from the first moment to the last. "god knows it was!" the speaker paused. he stood, his fists clenched, staring vacantly in front of him, as if he saw there, in a mist, the crowding spectres of the past. there seemed to come a break in his voice as he continued. he spoke with greater hesitation. "some three months before my sentence was completed, tom changed his tactics. while i was sleeping--such sleep!--on the bare board which served me as a bed, i'd have a vision. it was like a vision--like a vision, and yet--it was as if i was awake. it seemed as if tom came to me, and put his arm into mine, and led me out of gaol, and brought me here to clover cottage. he'd stand at the gate and say 'charlie, this is clover cottage,' and i'd answer, 'i know it is.' then he'd laugh--in some way that laugh of his seemed to cut me like a knife. and he'd lead me down the pathway and into the house, to this very room. though"--ballingall looked about him doubtfully--"it wasn't furnished as it is now. it was like it used to be. and he'd go and stand by the door, as you did"--this was to madge--"and he'd say, 'now, charlie, pay particular attention to what i am about to do. i'm going to show you how to get that fortune of yours--which you came for once before and went away without. now observe.' "then he'd walk straight across the room, as you did," again to madge--"and he'd turn to me and say, 'notice exactly what i'm doing!' then he'd take a foot rule from his pocket, and he'd measure three feet from where he stood along the floor. and he'd hold up the rule, and say, 'you see--three feet.' then he'd measure four feet from the floor, and hold out the rule again and say, 'you see, four feet.' then he'd put his hand against the panel and move it upwards, and it would slide open--and there was an open space within. he'd put his hand into the open space, and take something out; it looked to me like a sheet of paper. and he'd say, 'this is what will give you that fortune of yours--when you find it. only you'll have to find it first. be sure you find it, charlie.' "and he'd laugh--and, though it was the gentle laugh of his which i had known so well of old, there was something about it which seemed to mock me, and cut me like a whip and make me quiver. he'd take my arm again, and lead me from the house and back to the gaol, and i'd wake to find myself lying on the bare board, alone in the dark cell, crying like a child. "in the morning, perhaps at dinner-time, he'd come into the cell in the usual way, and ask me: "'charlie, do you remember last night?' 'yes, tom,' i'd reply, 'i do.' and then he'd go on: "'mind you don't forget. it's most important, charlie, that you shouldn't forget. i'll tell you what you must remember. take this and write it down.' "and he'd give me something, my bible, or my prayer-book, or even the card of rules which was hung against the wall, and a piece of pencil--though where he got that from i never knew, and he'd say, 'now write what i dictate.' "and i did, just as you saw it on the paper which i left behind; the first line, 'tom ossington's ghost'--he always made me write that; it was the only allusion he ever made to there being anything unusual about his presence there; and the second line, 'right--straight across--three--four--up.' when i'd written it he'd say: "'charlie, mind you take the greatest care of that; don't let it go out of your possession for a moment. it's the guide to that fortune of yours.' "then he'd go. and the moment he had gone the warder would come bursting in, and catch me with the pencil, and the bible, or whatever it was, in my hand, with the writing on the flyleaf. and he'd begin to gird at me. "'so you're at it again, are you? and you've got a pencil, have you? and been writing in your bible? you're a pretty sort, upon my word you are. i tell you what it is, my lad, you'll get yourself into serious trouble before you've done.' "and he'd take the pencil away with him, and the bible, and the writing; and i'd be reported again, and punished with the utmost severity which was within the compass of the governor's power." ballingall stopped again. a convulsive fit of trembling seemed to go all over him. "towards the end, the vision took another form. tom would bring me to the house--only i think, not to this room, but to another--and he would do something--he would do something. i saw quite clearly what it was he did, and understood it well, but, so soon as i was out of the house, the recollection of what he had done became blurred as by a mist. i could not remember at all. i'd wake in my cell in an agony to think that all that tom had shown me should have slipped my memory. in the morning he'd come and ask: "'charlie, you remember what we did last night?' "'no, tom, i don't. i've tried to think, but i can't. it's all forgotten.' "he'd laugh--his laugh seeming to mock me more than ever. "'never mind, charlie, i'll tell you all about it. you write down what i say.' "and i wrote it down--the last line which was on the scrap of paper. though i never knew what it meant--never! never! i've searched my brains many times to think; and been punished for writing it again and again. "at last i was released. at last--my god, at last!" his whole frame quivered. he drew himself upright, as if endeavouring to bear himself as became a man. "i was treated, when going out, according to my deserts. i had earned no favour, and i received none. the governor reprimanded me, by way of a god-speed; told me that my conduct, while in prison, had been very bad, and warned me that it would go ill with me if i returned. i went out in the rags in which i had entered, without a penny in my pocket--hungry at the moment of release, i have not tasted bite or sup from the time that i came out of gaol until tonight. "in the afternoon i came round to clover cottage. the first thing i saw was him." he pointed to graham. "he was afraid of me, and i was afraid of him--that is the truth. otherwise i should have gone up to him and asked him for at least a shilling, because directly i caught sight of him i knew what he was after, and that i was going to be tricked and robbed again. while i was trying to summon up courage enough to beg of the man whom i knew had played me false, i saw some one else, and i ran away. "i meant to get a bed in the casual ward of the wandsworth workhouse. but tom came to me as i was going there, and told me not to be so silly, but to come and get the fortune which was waiting for me at clover cottage. so i came. but i never got the fortune. "and ever since i've been growing hungrier and hungrier, until i've grown beside myself with hunger--because tom stopped me when i was going to the workhouse again last night, and bade me not to be so silly, though i don't know why i should have been silly in seeking for shelter and for food. and not a couple of hours ago he came to me while i was trying to find a hole on the common in which to sleep, and packed me off once more to fetch away my fortune. but i haven't found it yet--not yet, not yet. though"--he stretched out his arms on either side of him, and on his face there came a strange look of what seemed exultation--"i know it's near." in the pause which followed, ella raised her hand. "listen," she exclaimed; "who's that? there's some one at the garden gate." there did seem some one at the garden gate, some one who opened and shut it with a bang. they heard footsteps on the tiles which led to the front door. while they waited, listening for a knock, another sound was heard. "hark," cried ella. "there's some one fumbling with a latchkey at the door, trying to open it. whoever can it be--at this hour of the night? there must be some mistake." "i think," said madge, in her eyes there was a very odd expression, "it is possible there is no mistake--this time." chapter xvi two visitors instinctively ella drew closer to jack, nestling at his side, as if for the sake of the near neighbourhood. graham advanced towards madge, placing himself just at her back, with a something protective in his air--as if he designed to place himself in front of her at an instant's warning. while ballingall moved farther towards the window, with that in his bearing which curiously suggested the bristling hairs of the perturbed and anxious terrier. and all was still--with that sort of silence which is pregnant with meaning. without in the stillness, there could be plainly heard the fumbling of the latchkey, as if some one, with unaccustomed hands, was attempting to insert it in the door. presently, the aperture being found, and the key turned, the door was opened. some one entered the house; and, being in, the door was shut--with a bang which seemed to ring threateningly through the little house, causing the listeners to start. some one moved, with uncertain steps, along the passage. a grasp was laid from without on the handle of the sitting-room door. they saw it turn. the door opened--while those within, with one accord, held their breath. and there entered as strange and pitiful a figure as was ever seen. it was the "ghost's wife," the woman who had so troubled madge, who had done her best that afternoon to keep her outside the house. she was the saddest sight in her parti-coloured rags, the dreadful relics of gaudy fripperies. when they saw it was her, there was a simultaneous half-movement, which never became a whole movement, for it was stopped at its initiatory stage--stopped by something which was in the woman's face, and by the doubt if she was alone. on her face--her poor, dirty, degraded, wrinkled face--which was so pitifully thin there was nothing left of it but skin and bone, there was a look which held them dumb. it was a look like nothing which any of them had ever seen before. it was not only that it was a look of death--for it was plain that the outstretched fingers of the angel already touched her brow; but it was the look of one who seemed to see beyond the grave--such a look as we might fancy on the face of the dead in that sudden shock of vision which, as some tell us, comes in the moment after death. she was gazing straight in front of her, as if at some one who was there; and she said, in the queerest, shakiest voice: "so, tom, you've brought me home at last. i'm glad to be at home again. oh, tom!" this last with the strangest catching in her throat. she looked about her with eyes that did not see. "it seems a long time since i was at home. i thought i never should come back--never! after all, there's nothing to a woman like her home--nothing, tom." again there was that strange catching. "you've brought me a long way--a long, long way. to think that you should see me in the borough--after all these years--and should bring me right straight home, i wondered, if ever you did see me, if you'd bring me home--tom. only i wish--i wish you'd seen me before. i'm--a little tired now." she put her hand up to her face with a gesture which suggested weariness which was more than mortal, and which only eternal rest could soothe--her hand in what was once a glove. when she removed it there was something in her eyes which showed that she had suddenly attained to at least a partial consciousness of her surroundings. she looked at the two girls and the two men grasped together on her right, with, at any rate, a perception that they were there. "who--who are these people? whoever you are, i'm glad to see you; this is a great night with me. i've seen my husband for the first time for years and years, and he's brought me home with him again--after all that time. this is my husband--tom." she held out her hand, as if designating with it some one who was in front of her. they, on their part, were silent, spellbound, uncertain whether the person to whom and of whom she spoke with so much confidence might not be present, though by them unseen. "it's a strange homecoming, is it not? and though i'm tired--oh, so tired!--i'm glad i'm home again. to this house he brought me when we were married--didn't you, tom? in this house my baby was born--wasn't it, tom? and here it died." there came a look into her face which, for the moment, made it beautiful; to such an extent is beauty a matter of expression. "my dear little baby! it seems only the other day when i held it in my arms. it's as if the house were full of ghosts--isn't it, tom?" her eyes wandered round the room, as if in search of some one or of something, and presently they lighted upon mr. ballingall. as they did so, the whole expression of her countenance was changed; it assumed a look of unspeakable horror. "charles ballingall!" she gasped. "tom--tom, what is he doing here?" she stretched out her hands, seeming to seek for protection from the some one who was in front of her--repeating the other's name as if involuntarily, as though it were a thing accursed. "charles ballingall!" slowly, inch by inch, her glance passed from the shrinking vagabond, until it stayed, seeming to search with an eager longing the face of the one who was before her in the apparently vacant air. "tom!--what's he doing here? tom! tom! don't look at me like that! don't, tom--for god's sake, don't look at me like that!" she broke into sudden volubility, every word a cry of pain. "tom, i'm--i'm your wife! you--you brought me home! just now!--from the borough!--all the way!--all the long, long way--home! tom!" the utterance of the name was like a scream of a wounded animal in its mortal agony. the four onlookers witnessed an extraordinary spectacle. they saw this tattered, drabbled remnant of what was once a woman, whose whole appearance spoke of one who tottered on the very borders of the grave, struggling with the frenzy of an hysterical despair with the visitant from the world of shades who, it was plain to her, if not to others, was her companion--the husband whom, with such malignant cruelty and such persistent ingratitude, she had wronged so long ago. she had held out her hands, her treacherous hands, seeking to shelter them in his; and it seemed as if, for a moment, he had suffered them to stay, and that now, since she had realised the presence of her associate in sin, unwilling to retain them any more in his, he sought to thrust them from him; while she, perceiving that what she had supposed to be the realisation of hopes which she had not even dared to cherish was proving but a chimera, and the fruit which she was already pressing to her lips but an apple of sodom, strained every nerve to retain the hold of the hands whose touch had meant to her almost an equivalent to an open door to paradise. with little broken cries and gasping supplications, she writhed and twisted as she strove to keep her grasp. "tom! tom! tom!" she exclaimed, over and over again. "you brought me home! you brought me home! don't put me from you! tom! tom! tom!" it seemed that the struggle ended in her discomfiture, and that the hands which she had hoped would draw her forward had been used to thrust her back; for, staggering backwards as if she had been pushed, she put her palms up to her breasts and panted, staring like one distraught. by degrees, regaining something of her composure, she turned and looked at ballingall, with a look before which he cowered, actually raising his arm as if warding off a blow. and, when she had breath enough, she spoke to him, in a whisper, as if her strength was gone. "what are you doing here?" ballingall hesitated, looking about him this way and that as if seeking for some road of retreat. finding none, making a pitiful effort to gather himself together, he replied to her question in a voice which was at once tremulous and sullen. "tom asked me to come. you know, tom, you asked me to come." he stretched out his arm with a gesture which was startling, as if to him also the woman's companion was a reality. there was silence. he repeated his assertion, still with his outstretched arm. "you know, tom, you asked me to come." then there happened the most startling thing of all. some one laughed. it was a man's laugh--low, soft, and musical. but there was about it this peculiar quality--it was not the merriment of one who laughs with, but of one who laughs at; as though the laugher was enjoying thoroughly, with all his heart, a jest at another's expense. before it the man and woman cowered, as if beneath a rain of blows. after it ceased they were still. it was plain that the woman was ashamed, disillusioned, conscious that she had been made a butt of; and that, in spite of all appearances to the contrary, she was still among the hopeless, the outcast, the condemned. she glanced furtively towards the companion of her shame; then more quickly still away from him, as if realising only too well that, in that quarter, there was no promise of hope rekindled. and she said, with choking utterance: "tom, i never thought--you'd laugh at me. did you bring--me home--for this?" she put up her hands, in their dreadful gloves, to her raddled, shrunken face, and stood, for a moment, still. then her frame began to quiver, and she cried; and as she cried there came that laugh again. the note of mockery that was in it served to sting ballingall into an assertion of such manhood as was in him. he clenched his fists, drew himself straighter, and, throwing back his head, faced towards where the laughter seemed to stand. "tom," he said, "i've used you ill. we've both of us used you ill, both she and i--she's been as false a wife to you as i've been friend. our sins have been many--black as ink, bitter as gall. we know it, both of us. we've had reason to know it well. but, tom, consider what our punishment has been. look at us--at her, at me. think of what we were, and what we are. remember what it means to have come to this from that. every form of suffering i do believe we've known--of mind and of body too--she in her way, and i in mine. we've been sinking lower and lower and lower, through every form of degradation, privation, misery, until at last we're in the ditch--amidst the slime of the outer ditch. we've lost all that there is worth having, so far as life's concerned, for ever. the only hope that is left us is the hour in which it is appointed that we shall die. for my part, my hope is that for me that hour is not far off. and, as i'm a living man, i believe that for her it has already come; that the scythe is raised to reap; that she's dying where she stands. have you no bowels of compassion, tom--none? you used to have. are they all dried and withered? there's forgiveness for sinners, tom, with god; is there none with you? you used to be of those who forgive till seventy times seven; are you now so unforgiving? you may spurn me, you may trample on me, you may press my head down into the very slime of the ditch; you know that these many months you've torn and racked me with all the engines of the torture chambers: but she's your wife, tom--she was your wife! you loved her once! she bore to you a little child--a little baby, tom, a little baby! it's dead--with god, tom, with god! she's going to it now--now, now! while she's passing into the very presence chamber, where her baby is, don't abase her, tom. don't, tom, don't!" he threw out his arms with a gesture of such frenzied entreaty, and his whole figure was so transformed by the earnestness, and passion, and pathos, and even anguish with which he pressed his theme, that at least the spectators were cut to the heart. "i know not," he cried, "whether you are dead or living, or whether i myself am mad or sane--for, indeed, to me of late the world has seemed all upside down. but this i know, that i see you and that you see me, and if, as i suppose, you come from communion with the eternal, you must know that, in that presence, there is mercy for the lowest--for the chief of sinners! there is mercy, tom, i know that there is mercy! therefore i entreat you to consider, tom, the case of this woman--of she who was your wife, the mother of your child. she has paid dearly for her offence against you--paid for it every moment of every hour of every day of every year since she offended. since then she has been continually paying. is not a quittance nearly due--from you, tom? if blood is needed to wash out her guilt, she has wept tears of blood. if suffering--look at her and see how she has suffered. and now, even as i stand and speak to you, she dies. she bears her burden to the grave. is she to add to it, still, the weight of your resentment? that will be the heaviest weight of all. beneath it, how shall she stagger to the footstool of her god? all these years she has lived in hell. don't--with your hand, tom!--now she's dying, thrust her into hell, for ever. but put her hand in yours, and bear her up, and stay her, tom, and lead her to the throne of god. if she can say that you've forgiven her, god will forgive her too. and then she'll find her baby, tom." it was a strange farrago of words which ballingall had strung together, but the occasion was a strange one too. his earnestness, in which all was forgotten save his desire to effect his purpose, seemed to cast about them a halo as of sanctity. it was almost as if he stood there, pleading for a sinner, in the very name of christ--the great pleader for all great sinners. the woman, this latest magdalene, did as that first magdalene had done, she fell on her knees and wept--tears of bitterness. "tom! tom!" she cried, "tom! tom!" but he to whom she cried did not do as the christ, the impersonation of divine mercy, did. christ wept with the sinners. he to whom she pleaded laughed at her. and, beneath his laughter, she crouched lower and lower, till she lay almost prostrate on the floor; and her body quivered as if he struck her with a whip. ballingall, as if he could scarcely credit the evidence of his own senses, started back and stared, as though divided between amazement and dismay. under his breath, he put a singular inquiry--the words seeming to be wrung from him against his will. "tom!--are you a devil?" and it seemed as if an answer came. for he stood in the attitude of one who listens, and the muscles of his face worked as if what was being said was little to his mind. a dogged look came into his eyes, and about his mouth. he drew himself further back, as if retreating before undesired advances. words came sullenly from between his teeth. "no, tom, no--i want none of that. it isn't that i ask; you know it isn't that." it appeared as if the overtures made by the unseen presence, unwelcome though they were, were being persisted in. for ballingall shook his head, raising his hands as if to put them from him, conveying in his bearing the whole gamut of dissent; breaking, at last, into exclamations which were at once defiant, suppliant, despairing. "no, tom, no! i don't want your fortune. you know i don't! all this time you've been dangling it before my eyes, and all the time it's been a will-o'-the-wisp, leading me deeper and deeper into the mire. i was unhappy enough when first you came to me and spoke of it--but i've been unhappier since, a thousand times. you might have let me have it at the beginning, if you'd chosen--but you didn't choose. you used it to make of me a mock, and a gibe--your plaything--whipping boy! to-night the lure of it has only served as a means to bring us here together--she and i!--when you know i'd rather have gone a hundred miles barefooted to hide from her my face. i don't know if there is a fortune hidden in this house or not, and i don't care if behind its walls are concealed the riches of golconda. i'll have none of it--it's too late! too late! i've asked you for what i'd give a many fortunes, and you've laughed at me. you'll not show, by so much as a sign, that you forgive her--now, at this eleventh hour. there's nothing else of yours i'll have." in reply, there came again that quiet laughter, with in it that curious metallic quality, which seemed to act on the quivering nerves of the two sin-stained, wayworn wretches as if it had been molten metal. at the sound of it they gave a guilty start, as if the ghosts of all their sins had risen to scourge them. from her demeanour, the laugher, diverting his attention from ballingall, had apparently turned to address the woman. in accents which had grown perceptibly weaker since her first entering, she essayed to speak. "yes, tom, i'll get up. if you wish me, tom, of course i will. i'm--tired, tom--that's all." she did get up, in a fashion which demonstrated she was tired. the process of ascension was not the work of a moment, and when she had regained her feet, she swung this way and that, like a reed in the wind. it was only by what seemed a miracle that she did not fall. "don't be angry--i'm tired--tom--that's all." in her voice there was a weariness unspeakable. something, it seemed, was said to her--from which, as ballingall had done, only in her feebler way, she expressed dissent. "i don't want your money, tom. it's so good of you; it's like you used to be, kind and generous. you always did give me lots of money, tom, but--i don't want money--not now, tom, not now." something else was said, which stung her, for she clasped her hands in front of her, with a movement of pain. "i--didn't wish to make you angry, tom--i'm--sure i didn't. don't speak to me and look at me like that, don't, tom, don't! you don't know how it hurts me, now--that i'm so tired. i'll go and fetch your money if you wish me--of course i will, if--you'll show me--where it is. i'll go at once. upstairs? yes, tom--i don't think i'm--too tired to go upstairs, if--you'll come with me. yes, tom--i'm--going--now." the woman turned towards the door hastily. with a swift, eager gesture, in which there was something both mysterious and secretive, ballingall addressed the four onlookers, the spellbound spectators of this, perhaps, unparelleled experience in the regions of experimental psychology. he spoke beneath his breath, hurriedly, hoarsely, with fugitive sidelong glances, as if before all things he was anxious that what he said should be heard by them alone. "he's going to show her where the fortune is!" the woman opened the door. chapter xvii the key to the puzzle she stood, for a second, with the handle of the open door in her grasp--as if she was glad of its support to aid her stand. then, with a quick glance backwards, as of pleading to the one who exercised over her so strange a spell, she tottered from the room. she continued speaking as she went, as if deprecating the other's wrath. "i shall be all right--in a moment--if you don't--hurry me at first. i'm only slow because--i'm a little tired. it'll soon go, this tired feeling, tom--and i'll be sure--to be quicker when it's gone." ballingall hung back as she passed from the room, seeming, from his attitude, to be in two minds whether to follow her at all. the others, as if taking their cue from him, seemed hesitating too--until madge, with head thrown back, and fists hanging clenched at her sides, went after her through the door. then they moved close on madge's heels--bruce graham in front, ballingall bringing up the rear. the woman was staggering up the stairs, with obvious unwillingness--and, also, with more than sufficient feebleness. it was with difficulty she could lift her feet from step to step. each time she raised her foot she gave a backward lurch, which threatened to precipitate her down the whole of the distance she had gained. madge's impulse was to dash forward, put her arms about the unfortunate creature's wrist and, if she needs must go forward, bear her bodily to the top of the stairs. but although, at the pitiful sight which the woman presented, her fingers tingled and her pulses throbbed, she was stayed from advancing to proffer her the assistance which she longed to render by the consciousness, against which she strove in vain, that between the woman and herself there was a something which not only did she dare not pass, but which she dare not even closely approach. over and over again she told herself that it was nonsense--but a delusion born of the woman's diseased and conscience-haunted brain. there was absolutely nothing to be seen; and why should she, a healthy-minded young woman, suffer herself to be frightened by the vacant air? but in spite of all her efforts at self-persuasion, she allowed a considerable space to continue to exist between herself and the trembling wretch upon the stairs. slowly the queer procession advanced--the woman punctuating, as it were, with her plaintive wailings every step she took. "tom! tom! tom!" she continually repeated the name, with all the intonations of endearment, supplication, reproach, and even terror. to hear her was a liberal education in the different effects which may be produced by varieties of emphasis. "don't hurry me! i'm--going as quickly as i can. i--shall soon be at the top! it's so--so steep--a staircase--tom." at last the top was reached. she stood upon the landing, clinging to the banisters as she gasped for breath. her figure swayed backward and forward, in so ominous a fashion that, halfway up the staircase, almost involuntarily madge stretched out her arms to catch her if she fell. but she did not fall--nor was she allowed much time to recover from her exertions. "i'm going--if--you'll let me--rest--for just one moment--tom. where do you wish me to go?" it seemed as if her question was answered, for she gave a shuddering movement towards the wall, and burst into a passion of cries. "no, tom--not there! not there! not there! don't make me go into our bedroom--not into our bedroom!" the command which had been given her was apparently repeated, for, drawing herself away from the wall, she went with new and shuddering haste along the passage. "i'm--i'm going! only--have mercy--have mercy on me, tom! i don't wish to anger you, only have mercy, tom!" the bedroom in front of the house was the one which was occupied by ella, it was towards this room that the woman was moving with hurried, tremulous steps. her unwillingness to advance was more marked than before, and yet she seemed urged by something which was both in front and behind her, which she was powerless to resist. they could see she shuddered as she went; and she uttered cries, half of terror, half of pain. and yet she advanced with a decision, and a firmness, and also a rapidity, which was unlike anything she hitherto had shown. on the threshold of the room she stopped, starting back, and throwing out her hands in front of her. "it's our bedroom, tom--it's full of ghosts! ghosts! ghosts! don't make me go into the bedroom, tom." but the propelling force, whatever it might have been, was beyond her power to withstand. she gave a sudden, exceeding bitter cry. turning the handle, she flung the door right back upon its hinges. with a peal of laughter, which grated on the ears of those who heard almost more than anything which had gone before, she staggered into the room. as she disappeared they stopped, listening, with faces which had suddenly grown whiter, to her strange merriment. "this is our bedroom--ha! ha! ha!--where you brought me when we were first married! why, tom, how many years is it since i was here? ha, ha, ha!--i never thought i should come back to our bedroom, tom--never! ha, ha, ha!" all at once there was a change in her tone--a note of terror. the laughter fled with the dreadful suddenness with which it had come. "don't, tom, don't! have mercy--mercy! i'll do as you wish me--you know i will; i'll--get your money. only--i didn't know--you kept it--in our bedroom--tom. you didn't use to." so soon as the laughter, fading, was exchanged for that panic cry, madge hurried after her into the room--the others, as ever, hard upon her heels. the woman stood in the centre of the floor, looking about her with glances of evident bewilderment, as if seeking for something she had been told to look for. she searched in vain. her eagerness was pitiful. she looked hither and thither, in every direction, as if, urged to the search, she feared, in speechless agony, the penalties of disobedience. all the while she kept giving short, sharp cries of strained and frenzied fear. "i'm looking! i'm looking, tom, as hard as i can, but--i see nothing--nothing, tom! i'm doing as you tell me--i am--i am--i am! oh, tom, i am! but i don't see your money--i don't! i don't! if you'll show me where it is, i'll get it; but i see nothing of your money, tom! where is it?--here!" she moved towards the wash-hand stand, which was at the side of the room. "behind the washstand?" she lifted the piece of furniture on one side with a degree of strength of which, light though it was, one would not have thought that she was capable. getting behind it, she placed against the wall her eager, trembling hand. "but--your money isn't here. there's nothing but the wall. take the paper off the wall? but--how am i to do it?--with my fingers!--i can't tear off with my fingers, tom. oh, tom, i'll try! don't speak to me like that--i'll try!" with feverish haste she dragged the apologies for gloves off her quivering hands. "where shall i tear it off?--here? yes, tom, i'll try to tear it off just here." dropping on her knees she attacked with her nails the wall where, while she remained in that posture, it was about the height of her head--endeavouring to drive the edges through the paper, and to pick it off, as children do. but her attempts were less successful than are the efforts of the average ingenious child. "i can't, tom, i can't! my fingers are not strong enough, and my nails are broken--don't be angry with me, tom." she made frantic little dabs at the wall. but her endeavours to make an impression on the paper were without result. it was plain that with her unassisted nails she might continue to peck at it in vain for ever. madge turned to mr. graham. [illustration: "'i can't, tom, i can't! my fingers are not strong enough, and my nails are broken--don't be angry with me, tom!'" (_to face p_. .)] "have you a pocket-knife?" without a word he took one from his waistcoat pocket. not waiting for him to open it, she took it from him with an action which almost amounted to a snatch. with her own fingers she opened the largest blade. making a large, and under the circumstances curious circuit, in order to reach her, leaning over the washstand, touching the woman on the shoulder, she held out to her the knife. shrinking under madge's finger, with an exclamation she looked round to see who touched her. "take this," said madge. "it's a knife. with its help you'll be better able to tear the paper off the wall." she took it--without a word of thanks, and, with it in her grasp, returned to the attack with energies renewed. "i've got a knife, tom, i've got a knife. now i'll get the paper off quicker--much quicker. i'll soon get to your money, tom." but she did not get to it. on the contrary, the process of stripping off the paper did not proceed much more rapidly than before, even with the help of mr. graham's knife. it was with the greatest difficulty that she was able to get off two or three square inches. the disappearance, however, of even this small portion revealed the fact that the paper-hanger who had been responsible for putting it into place, instead of stripping off the previous wall covering, as paperhangers are supposed to do, had been content, to save himself what he had, perhaps, deemed unnecessary trouble, to paste this latest covering on the previous one. this former paper appeared to have been of that old-fashioned kind which used to be popular in the parlours of country inns, and such-like places, and which was wont to be embellished with "pictorial illustrations." the scraping off, by the woman, of the small fragments of paper which she had succeeded in removing, showed that the one beneath it seemed to have been ornamented with more or less striking representations of various four-footed animals. on the space laid bare were figures of what might have been meant for anything; and which, in the light of the last line on mr. ballingall's manuscript, were probably intended for cats and dogs. with these the woman was fumbling with hesitating, awkward fingers. "cat--dog? i don't--i don't understand, tom--i see, tom,--these are the pictures of cats and dogs. i'm blind, and stupid, and slow. i ought to have seen at once what they were?--i know i ought. but--be patient with me, tom. which one?--this one? yes, i see--this one. it's--it's--yes, tom, it's a dog's head, i see it is.--what am i to do with it? press?--yes, tom, i am pressing.--press harder? yes, i'll--i'll try; but i'm--i'm not very strong, and i can't press much harder. have mercy!--have mercy, tom! say--say you forgive me--forgive me! but i--i can't press harder, tom--i can't!" she could not--so much was plain. even as the words were passing from her lips, she relinquished pressing altogether. uttering a little throbbing cry, she turned away from the wall, throwing up her arms with a gesture of entreaty, and sinking on to the floor, she lay there still. as she dropped, that gentle, mocking laugh rang through the startled room. chapter xviii madge applies more strength was it imagination? or was it fact? did some one or something really pass from the room, causing in going a little current of air? with startled faces each put to the other an unspoken query. which none answered. the woman lay there, motionless, her exceeding stillness seeming accentuated by the sudden silence which filled the room. bruce graham, moving forward, took her up in his arms, as if she were but a feather's weight. his knife fell from her nerveless fingers, tumbling to the floor with startling clatter. madge picked it up. her voice rang out with clarion clearness--the voice of a woman whose nerves were tense as fiddle-strings. "i'll see if i cannot press harder. this mystery must be solved to-night--before some of us go mad; if pressing will do it, it shall soon be done--if there's strength in me at all." there was strength in her--and not a little. she went on her knees where the woman had been; and, as she had done, fumbled with her fingers where the paper had been scraped from the wall, peering closely at it, as she did so. "a dog's head, is it?--it doesn't look as if it were a dog's head to me, and that's not because i'm stupid. it's to be pressed, is it?--well, if pressing will do it, here's for pressing!" she exerted all her force against the point to which the woman had been directed. "it gives! it gives!--something gives beneath my thumb: it's the knob of a spring or something--i'm sure of it." turning, she looked up at graham with flaming cheeks and flashing eyes. "the spring is sure to be rusty. it will need all your strength. try it again." she tried again. "it does give--it does! but whatever it is supposed to open is not likely to act now that the wall has been repapered. some one go and fetch the hammer and the chisel from downstairs--we'll try another way." she glanced at jack, as if intending the suggestion to apply to him. but ella clung to his arm, which perhaps prevented him from moving with the speed which might have been expected. "will no one go?" cried madge. "why, then, i'll go myself." but that bruce graham would not permit. swiftly depositing his still unconscious burden on ella's bed, he went in search of the required tools, returning almost as soon as he had gone. "i think, miss brodie, that perhaps you had better allow me to try my hand. i am stronger than you." she gave way to him unhesitatingly. "drive the chisel into the wall and see if it is hollow." he did as she bade him. a couple of blows put the thing beyond a doubt. the chisel disappeared up to the hilt through what was evidently but an outer shell. madge continued to issue her instructions. "break the wall in! it's no use fumbling with dogs' head in search of hidden springs--with us it's a case of the shortest road's the best. whatever's inside that wall has been there long enough to excuse us if we're a little neglectful of ceremonious observances." in a few minutes the wall was broken in, the ancient woodwork offering no resistance to bruce graham's vigorous onslaught. a cavity was made large enough to thrust one's head in. madge stopped him. "that'll do--for the present! now let's see what there is inside!" she went down on her knees the better to enable her to see, graham moving aside to give her room. she thrust her fair young face as far into the opening as she could get it--only to discover that she was obscuring her own light. out it came again. "give me a light--a match, or something. it's as dark as pitch in there." graham gave her a box of matches. striking one, she introduced it into what was as the heart of the wall. "there is something in there!" she dropped the match. fortunately it went out as it fell. "it's the hidden fortune!" she gave a gasp. then in an instant she was on her feet and was hastening towards the recumbent figure on the bed. the woman still lay motionless. madge, bending down, caught her by the shoulder, forgetful of all in her desire to impart the amazing news. "your husband's fortune's in the wall--we've found it there." something on the woman's face, in her utter stillness, seemed to fill her with new alarm. she called to the others. "ella!--mr. graham! jack!" her voice sank to a whisper; there was a catching of her breath. "is she dead?" they came hastening towards her. jack martyn, stopping halfway, looking round, startled them with a fresh inquiry, to which he himself supplied the answer. "by george!--i say!--where's ballingall?--why, he's gone!" chapter xix the woman and the man yes--the woman was dead. ballingall had gone--and the fortune was found. put in that way, it was a curious sequence of events. indeed, put in any way, there could be no doubt about the oddity of the part which the woman had played. medical examination clearly showed that death had come to her from natural causes. she must, the doctor said, have been within a hand's-breadth of death for, at any rate, the last twelve months. he declared that every vital organ was hopelessly diseased. asked if the immediate cause of death was shock, he replied that there was nothing whatever in the condition of the body which could be regarded as supporting such a theory. in his opinion, the woman had burned out, like a candle, which, when it is all consumed, dies. nothing, in his judgment, could have retarded the inevitable end; just as there was nothing to suggest that it came one instant sooner than might, in the natural course, have been expected. that was what the doctor said in public, at the coroner's inquest. he listened to them when, in private, they told him the strange story of the night's adventure, pronouncing at the conclusion an opinion which contained in it the essence of all wisdom, for it might be taken any way. the gist of it was this. very probably for some time before her death, the woman had been light-headed. when people are light-headed they suffer from hallucinations. it was quite possible that, in her case, those hallucinations had taken the form--literally--of her injured husband. it was on record that hallucinations had taken form, in similar cases. it was a perfectly feasible and reasonable theory which supposed that the woman, wandering, a homeless outcast, in the streets of london, delirious, premonitions of her approaching dissolution being borne in upon her in spite of her delirium, would turn her dying footsteps towards her one-time home, to which, as her behaviour in forcing herself on madge plainly showed, her thoughts had recently returned. nor, under the circumstances, was there anything surprising in her delusion that her husband had led her there. it was when asked to explain how it was that she had hit upon the hiding-place of her husband's fortune--hit upon it, as it seemed, altogether against her will, that the doctor became oracular. but even here he was not without his hints as to the direction in which an explanation might be found. he pointed out that our study of the science of mental psychology was still in its infancy. but, even so far as it had gone, it seemed to suggest the possibility of what has come to be called telepathic communication between two minds--even when the whilom owner of one of the minds has passed beyond the confines of the grave. this sounded a trifle abstruse. but as the doctor professed his inability to put it any clearer, they had to take his statement as it stood, and make out just as much of it as they were able. as for ballingall's pretensions to having shared the woman's hallucination--if hallucination it was--the doctor pooh-poohed them altogether. the man was as mad as the woman, and madder; and an impudent rogue to boot. where was he? let him come forward, and allow himself and his statements to be scientifically tested. then it would be shown what reliance could be placed on anything which he might say. but where ballingall was, was exactly the problem which they found insoluble. he had vanished as completely as if he had never existed. the presumption was, that while they had been absorbed in watching madge's efforts to carry on the work of discovery from the point at which the woman had left it, he had sneaked, unnoticed, from the room and from the house. the curious feature was that they were unable to agree as to the exact moment at which he could have gone. bruce graham declared that he was in the room when he went to fetch the hammer and chisel, and that he was still there when he returned. madge protested that he was in the room when she ran across to the recumbent figure on ella's bed. if so, since jack discovered his absence within less than a minute afterwards, it was during that scant sixty seconds that he made good his escape. why he had gone at all was difficult to say. one might have thought that after what he had undergone during his search for the fortune he would hardly have disappeared at the moment of its finding. he had suffered so much in looking, that he had earned at least a share, when at last it was brought to light. such, certainly, was the strong feeling of its actual discoverer. he stood in need enough of money; that was sure. why then, at what from one point of view might be described as the very moment of his triumph, had he vanished? he alone could tell. they could only give wild guesses. nothing has been seen or heard of him from that hour to this. they put advertisements for him in the papers, without result. then, as they felt that living the sort of life which he probably was living--that is, if he was living at all--it was within the range of probability that a newspaper would never come his way, and that he would never glance at it if it did, they distributed handbills broadcast through the slums of london, beseeching him to apply to a certain address, and offering a reward to any one who could give an account of his proceedings after the night on which he had taken himself away. to those handbills they did receive answers--in abundance. there were evidently plenty of people who were willing, nay, anxious, to lay their hands on that reward, just as there seemed several charles ballingalls with whom they were acquainted. but no one of them was the charles ballingall. more than once they thought they had chanced on him at last; the stories told were such very specious ones, and they followed up the trail till it proved beyond all manner of doubt to be a false one. when the charles ballingall to whom it referred was unearthed, he proved, in each and every case, to be not in the least like theirs. and so the presumption is that the man is dead. he was, probably, as the doctor suggested, more than half out of his mind on that eventful night; his sins had brought him suffering enough to have driven the average mortal mad. it is not unlikely that the strange things which then transpired, completing the work of destruction, robbed him of his few remaining senses; and that, at that last moment, when madge brodie announced her discovery of what he had sought with so much pain and with such ardour, the irony of fate which seemed to have pursued him, pressing on him still, had driven him out into the night, a raving lunatic, seeking anywhere and anyhow for escape from the burden of life which haunted him. god alone can tell where and how he found it. chapter xx the fortune and the fortune? this remark may be made--that had they not found it when they did there would very shortly have been nothing left to find. mr. thomas ossington had chosen for the treasure-chest a simple opening in the wall, to which access had originally been gained by touching a spring. this spring had been concealed under what had probably been a picture of a dog's head; the fifth alternating dog's head on the right-hand side of the bedroom door. when you pressed it a door flew open. but this primitive treasure-chest, if not entirely obvious to the world at large, was open to the rats and mice, and similar small deer, who had their happy hunting-grounds within the wall itself. the result was that, when the contents were examined, it was found that the bundles of bank-notes had been gnawed, in some cases to unrecognisable shreds; that meals--hearty ones of the cut-and-come-again description--had been made of parchment deeds, bonds, share certificates, and similar impediments; that coin--gold coin--had been contained in bags, which bags had been consumed, even to the strings which once had tied them. the coins lay under accumulations of dust, in heaps upon the floor. on several were actually well-marked indentations, showing that sharp, gleaming teeth had applied to them a stringent test before finally deciding that they really were not good to eat. a curious spectacle the whole presented when first brought to the light of day. however, in but few cases had the damage proceeded to lengths which had rendered what was left absolutely worthless--discovery had come just in the nick of time. the bank of england was good enough to hand over cash in exchange for the fragments of all notes of which there was satisfactory evidence that there had been once a whole. the various documents which represented property were none of them in a condition which rendered recognition altogether impossible, and when it was once established what they were, for all intents and purposes they were as available for their original use as if they had been in a condition of pristine freshness. altogether the find represented a sum of something like £ , . not a large fortune, as fortunes go, but still a comfortable capital to be the possessor of. if fate only had been kind to him, and the men and women who formed his world of finer texture, tom ossington might have been as happy as the days were long. oddly enough, the real trouble came after the fortune was found. the difficulty was as to whom it belonged--not because the claimants were so many, but because they were so few. it was madge's wish that it should be divided between those who were actually present at the moment of its discovery, maintaining that such a division would be in accordance with both law and equity. ballingall's continued disappearance resolved the number of these into four--ella, jack martyn, bruce graham, and herself. the first rift in the lute was caused by mr. graham, he refusing point-blank to have part or parcel in any such transaction. he maintained that the fortune had been found by madge, and that therefore, in accordance with the terms of the will, the whole of it was hers. in any case he would have none of it. he had felt, on mature reflection, that ballingall's accusations had not been without foundation, that his conduct had been unprofessional, that he had had no right to share his confidence with anybody--that, in short, he had behaved ill in the whole affair; and that, therefore, he had no option but to decline to avail himself of any advantages which were, so to speak, the proceeds of his misbehaviour. when she heard this, madge laughed outright. seeing that her laughter made no impression, and that the gentleman continued of the same opinion still, she was moved to use language which was, to say the least, surprising. it was plain that, beneath the lash of the lady's tongue, he was unhappy. but his unhappiness did not go deep enough to induce him to change his mind. when it was obvious that his resolve was adamant, and that by no means could he be induced to move from it, she announced her own decision. "very well; if the fortune's mine, it's mine. and if it's mine i can do what i like with it. and what i like, is to divide it with ella; and if ella will not have half, then i'll not have a farthing either. and the whole shall go to the queen, or to whoever unclaimed money does go. and you'll find that i can be as firm--or as obstinate--as anybody else." "but, my dear," observed ella, mildly, "i never said that i wouldn't have half. i'm sure i'll be delighted. i'll need no pressing--and thank you very kindly, ma'am." "i do believe, ella," returned madge, with calmness which was both significant and deadly, "that you are the only reasonable person with whom i am acquainted." so it was arranged--the two girls divided the whole; which of course meant, as madge knew perfectly, that jack martyn would have his share. as a matter of fact, mr. and mrs. martyn have been husband and wife for some time now, and are doing very well. and it is said--as such things are said--that madge brodie will be mrs. bruce graham yet before she dies. it is believed by those who know them best that he would give his eyes to marry her, and that she has made up her mind to marry him. this being so, it would seem as if a marriage might ensue. if such is the case, it appears extremely likely, if madge ever is his wife, that, whether he will or won't, bruce graham will have to have his share. she is as obstinate as he is--every whit. the gresham press unwin brothers, woking and london. [illustration: cover: old scrooge] "old scrooge:" a christmas carol in five staves. dramatized from charles dickens' celebrated christmas story, by charles a. scott. newark, n. j.: new jersey soldiers' home print. . entered according to act of congress, in the year , by charles a. scott, in the office of the librarian of congress, at washington, d. c. all rights reserved. _this edition is limited, and is printed for the convenience of to enable the owner to make such alterations as may seem judicious._ _characters._ ebenezer scrooge, a miserly broker frederick merry, a nephew to scrooge bob cratchit, clerk to scrooge ghost of jacob marley, dead seven years spirit of christmas past spirit of christmas present mr. thomas topper mr. henry snapper mr. mumford | philanthropic citizens mr. barnes | peter cratchit little cratchit tiny tim scrooge's former self mr. stevens | mr. jones | mr. fatchin | scrooge's business friends mr. snuffer | mr. redface | mr. kemper mr. fezziwig, scrooge's former master mr. james badger dick wilkins, fezziwig's apprentice old joe, a pawnbroker mr. shroud, an undertaker old baldhead, the fiddler the lamp lighter first man second man ignorance the boy with the turkey thomas, a servant mrs. belle kemper, scrooge's first and last love mrs. frederick merry | miss julia kemper | her daughters miss sarah kemper | mrs. cratchit, a devoted wife belinda cratchit | her daughters martha cratchit | mrs. caroline badger mrs. mangle, a laundress mrs. dilber, a char-woman mrs. fezziwig, a worthy matron clara fezziwig | her daughters emma fezziwig | little fanny scrooge want six or eight children for tableaux. [illustration: hand with pointing finger] by a distribution of two or three character to one person, the piece can be performed by fifteen males and nine females. _costumes._ _scrooge._ first dress: brown quaker-cut coat, waistcoat and pants. dark overcoat. low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat. black silk stock and standing collar. bald wig with tufts of white hair on each side. smooth face. second dress: dressing gown, cotton night-cap and slippers. _fred. merry._ first dress: walking suit, overcoat, black silk hat. black silk stock and standing collar. side whiskers. second dress: dress suit. _bob cratchit._ long-tailed business coat of common material, much worn, and buttoned up to the neck. woolen pants and waistcoat of check pattern. colored scarf and standing collar. large white comforter. narrow-rimmed silk hat, old style and the worse for wear. smooth face. _ghost of marley._ drab cut-away coat and breeches. low-cut single-breasted vest. ruffled shirt. white neckcloth. drab leggings. gray, long-haired wig, with queue. shaggy eyebrows. _spirit of christmas past._ white tunic trimmed with flowers. fleshings. jeweled belt around waist. long white hair hanging loose down neck and back. jeweled star for forehead. white conical hat, very high, carried under the arm. smooth, pale face--no wrinkles. wand of holly. _spirit of christmas present._ green robe bordered with white fur. fleshings. trunks. brown hose. dark-brown curls. holly wreath for the head. _mumford._ overcoat. under suit of the period-- . black silk hat. white neckcloth and standing collar. gray, long-haired wig. smooth face. spectacles. _barnes._ blue cloth over and under coats. black silk hat. black silk stock and standing collar. iron-gray short-haired wig. mutton-chop whiskers. walking stick. _topper and snapper._ dress suits of the period-- . _peter cratchit._ jacket or short coat. very large standing collar and neckerchief. _little cratchit._ calico shirt. short trousers. shoes and stockings. apron. _tiny tim._ same as little cratchit, with the addition of a jacket. _scrooge's former self._ first dress: cutaway coat. knee breeches. second dress: cape coat. hessians. _ignorance and want._ clad in rags. fleshings. _old joe._ gabardine or long-skirted coat. shaggy wig and beard. old smoking cap. _mrs. cratchit._ plain black or brown dress. cap and apron. _mrs. merry, kemper and misses kemper._ handsome house dresses of the period. _misses fezziwig._ low-necked dresses with short sleeves. _mrs. badger._ plain walking dress. bonnet and shawl. _scenery, furniture and properties._ act i. scene i.--scrooge & marley's counting house, st g. backed by an interior d g. set fire-place--painted grate fire l. window in flat l. c. double doors in flat, thrown open, r. c. scrooge's desk and chair near window--ruler, pens, ink and paper on desk. bob cratchit's desk in inner room in sight of audience. lighted candles on both desks. scuttle of coal near fire place. clothes hooks on flat for scrooge's hat and great coat. coal shovel for bob to enter with. subscription list for mumford to enter with. [illustration: hand]clear stage of desk, chair and scuttle. scene ii.--scrooge's apartments d or th g. door l. c. and window r. c. in flat, backed by a street scene. small grate fire and mantel l. . old-fashioned clock and two plaster casts on mantel. door r. . table l. c. lighted candle, spoon, basin and writing materials on table. saucepan of gruel on hob. two easy chairs near fire place. lights down. fender at fire. ringing bells of place. scrooge's hat and coat hung on the wall. chain made of cash boxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, purses, etc., for ghost to enter with. toothpick for scrooge to show. trap ready for ghost to disappear. act ii. scene i.--scrooge's bed room st g. chimney c., with painted coal fire. door l. c., window r. c. trap near hearth for spirit of christmas past to enter. small four-post bedstead with curtains l. bureau or washstand r. scene ii.--an old school room d g. door l. c., and window r. c. in flat. chair at window. a stuffed parrot on stand near r. . two or three school desks, a platform and desk for the master; books for young scrooge. scene iii.--a wareroom, full depth of stage. an elevated platform, centre of flat, for the fiddler. old-fashioned arm chair at l. , for mrs fezziwig. scene iv.--plain room, d g. no properties. scene v.--drawing room, th g., trimmed with evergreens. a christmas tree, trimmed and lighted, r. u. e. ornaments on mantel. fireplace l. suite of parlor furniture. centre table c. toys for children--doll and doll's dress for belle. trap ready for spirit to disappear. act iii. scene i.--a room in scrooge's house, st g. flat painted to show game, poultry, meats, etc. torch, shaped like a cornucopia for spirit of christmas present. scene ii.--bob cratchit's home--plain room th g. door r. and l. c., backed by kitchen flat. dresser and crockery c. of flat. fireplace l. u. e. saucepan of potatoes on fire; six wooden or cane-seat chairs; a high chair for tiny tim. large table c.; white table-cloth; large bowl on side table r.; three tumblers and a custard cup without a handle. nuts, apples and oranges on dresser. small crutch for tiny tim to enter with. goose on dish for peter to enter with. scene iii.--a street mansion with lighted windows showing shadow of a group inside, st g. snow. torch and ladder for lamp lighter. scene iv.--drawing room th g. arch d g. handsome suite of furniture. large table r. sideboard with wine and glasses at flat c. piano l. d e. coffee-urn and cups on small table r. d e. piano-stool, music stand. sheet music on piano. salver for waiter. act iv. scene i.--scrooge's bed room d g. as in scene , act . scene ii.--street st g. snuff-box for snuffer to enter with. scene iii.--pawn shop d g. doors r. and l. c. in flat--table c., four common chairs; a smoky oil lamp--lighted, and a piece of white chalk on table. bundle of bed curtains--same as on scrooge's bedstead--blankets and shirts for mrs. mangle to enter with. bundle of under-clothing, towels, sheets, sugar-tongs, tea-spoons and old boots for mrs. dilber to enter with. a package containing a seal, pencil-case, pair of sleeve-buttons and scarf pin, for shroud to enter with. purse of coins for old joe. scene iv.--street--exterior of scrooge and marley's st g. window l. c. no properties. scene v.--bob cratchit's home--same as scene , act, . table c., candles and work-basket on table. book for peter on table; calico or muslin for mrs. cratchit and belinda to sew. act v. scene i.--scrooge's apartment, as in scene d act st. no additional properties. scene ii.--street--exterior of scrooge's house st g. brass knocker on the door. turkey for boy to enter with. scene iii.--drawing room same as scene , act . handkerchief for fred to blindfold. old scrooge. stave one. scene i.--_christmas eve. counting house of scrooge & marley. set fireplace with small grate fire_ l. _centre door in flat, thrown open, showing a small inner chamber and desk, at which bob cratchit is discovered seated, endeavoring to warm his hands over the candle. small desk,_ l. c., _at which scrooge is discovered busy at figures_. _enter bob cratchit, from inner room, with coal shovel, going toward fireplace._ _scrooge._ and six makes twenty-eight pounds, four shill----what do you want in here? _bob._ my fire is nearly out, sir, and i thought i would take one or two lumps of coal, and-- _scro._ you think more of your personal comforts than you do of your business and my interest. _bob._ the room, sir, is very cold, and i-- _scro._ work sir, work! and i'll warrant that you'll keep warm. if you persist, in this wanton waste of coals, you and i will have to part. (_bob retires to his desk, puts on his white comforter, and again tries to warm his hands. scrooge resuming_). four shillings and ninepence-- _enter fred'k merry_, c. d., _saluting bob as he passes him_. _fred._ a merry christmas, uncle. god save you. _scro._ bah; humbug. _fred._ christmas a humbug, uncle! you don't mean that, i'm sure? _scro._ i do. merry christmas! what right have you to be merry? what reason have you to be merry? you're poor enough. _fred._ come then. what right have you to be dismal? what reason have you to be morose? you're rich enough. _scro._ bah; humbug. _fred._ don't be cross, uncle. _scro._ what else can i be when i live in such a world of fools as this? merry christmas! out upon merry christmas! what's christmas-time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour richer; a time for balancing your books and having every item in 'em through a round dozen of months presented dead against you? if i could work my will, every idiot who goes about with "merry christmas" on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. he should. _fred._ uncle! _scro._ (_sternly_). nephew, keep christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine. _fred._ keep it! but you don't keep it. _scro._ let me leave it alone, then. much good may it do you. much good it has ever done you. _fred._ there are many things from which i might have derived good, by which i have not profited, i dare say, christmas among the rest. but i am sure i have always thought of christmas-time, when it came round--apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that--as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time i know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. and, therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, i believe that it _has_ done me good, and _will_ do me good; and i say, god bless it. (_cratchit applauds, but observing scrooge, endeavors to be intent on something else._) _scro._ (_to bob_). let me hear another sound from _you_, and you'll keep your christmas by losing your situation! (_to fred_). you're quite a powerful speaker, sir, i wonder you don't go into parliament. _fred._ don't be angry, uncle. come, dine with us to-morrow? _scro._ i'd see you in blazes first. _fred._ but why? why? _scro._ why did you get married? _fred._ because i fell in love. _scro._ because you fell in love! the only one thing in the world more ridiculous than a merry christmas. good afternoon. _fred._ nay, uncle, but you never came to see me before that happened. why give it as a reason for not coming now? _scro._ good afternoon. _fred._ i want nothing from you; i ask nothing of you; why cannot we be friends? _scro._ good afternoon! _fred._ i am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute. we have never had any quarrel, to which i have been a party. but i have made the trial in homage to christmas, and i'll keep my christmas humor to the last. so a merry christmas, uncle. _scro._ good afternoon! (_as fred goes out he exchanges greetings with bob._) _fred._ a merry christmas. _bob._ the same to you, and many of them. _scro._ there's another fellow, my clerk, with fifteen shillings a week, and a wife and family, talking about a merry christmas. i'll retire to the lunatic asylum. _enter mr. mumford and mr. barnes with subscription book and paper, ushered in by bob._ _mr. mumford._ scrooge & marley's. i believe (_referring to paper_). have i the pleasure of addressing mr. scrooge, or mr. marley? _scro._ mr. marley his been dead these seven years. he died seven years ago this very night. _mr. m._ we have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his surviving partner. (_presents list. scrooge frowns, shakes his head, and returns it._) at this festive season of the year, mr. scrooge, it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir. _scro._ are there no prisons? _mr. m._ plenty of prisons. _scro._ and the union work-houses--are they still in operation? _mr. m._ they are. i wish i could say they were not. _scro._ the tread-mill and the poor law are in full vigor, then? _mr. m._ both very busy, sir. _scro._. oh! i was afraid from what you said at first that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course. i'm very glad to hear it. _mr. m._ under the impression that they scarcely furnish christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude, a few of us are endeavoring to raise a fund to buy the poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth. we chose this time because it is a time, of all others, when want is keenly felt, and abundance rejoices. what shall i put you down for? _scro._ nothing. _mr. m._ you wish to be anonymous? _scro._ i wish to be left alone. since you ask me what i wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. i don't make merry myself at christmas, and i can't afford to make idle people merry. i help to support the establishments i have mentioned; they cost enough, and those who are badly off must go there. _mr. b._ many can't go there; and many would rather die. _scro._ if they had rather die, they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. besides, excuse me, i don't know that. _mr. b._ but you might know it. _scro._ it's not my business. it's enough for a man to understand his own business, and not interfere with other people's. mine occupies me constantly. good afternoon, gentlemen. _mr. m._ it is useless, we may as well withdraw. [_exeunt. as they go out bob is seen to hand them money._] (_voice at door_ r. _singing_.) god bless you, merry gentlemen. may nothing you dismay-- _scro._ (_seizes ruler and makes a dash at the door._) begone! i'll have none of your carols here. (_makes sign to bob, who extinguishes his candle and puts on his hat and enters._) you'll want all day to morrow, i suppose? _bob._ if quite convenient, sir. _scro._ it's not convenient, and its not fair. if i was to stop half-a-crown for it you'd think yourself ill-used, i'll be bound? (_bob smiles faintly._) and yet you don't think _me_ ill-used when i pay a day's wages for no work. _bob._ it's only once a year, sir. _scro._ a poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every twenty-fifth of december. (_buttoning up his great coat to the chin._) but i suppose you must have the whole day. be here all the earlier next morning. (_exit_ c.) _bob._ i will, sir. you old skinflint. if i had my way, i'd give you christmas. i'd give it to you this way (_dumb show of pummelling scrooge._) now for a slide on cornhill, at the end of a lane of boys, twenty times, in honor of christmas eve, and then for camden town as hard as i can pelt. (_exit_ c., _with sliding motions, closing doors after him_.) scene ii.--_scrooge's apartments._ _grate fire_, l. _ , window_, r. c. _door_, l. c. _in flat_. _table_, l. _ . spoon and basin on table. saucepan on hob. two easy chairs near fire. lights down._ [_scrooge in dressing gown and night-cap, discovered, with candle, searching the room._] _scro._ pooh! pooh! marley's dead seven years to night. impossible. nobody under the table, nobody under the couch, nobody in the closet, nobody nowhere (_yawns_). bah, humbug! (_locks door_ r. _and seats himself in easy chair; dips gruel from saucepan into basin, and takes two or three spoonsful. yawns and composes himself for rest._) [_one or two stanzas of a christmas carol may be sung outside, at the close of which a general ringing of bells ensues, succeeded by a clanking noise of chain._] _enter jacob marley's ghost._ r., _with chain made of cash-boxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, purposes, etc. hair twisted upright on each side to represent horns. white bandage around jaws._ _scro._ it's humbug still! i won't believe it. [_pause, during which ghost approaches the opposite side of the mantel._] how now. what do you want with me? _ghost._ much. _scro._ who are you? _gho._ ask me who i _was_. _scro._ who _were_ you then? you're particular, for a shade. _gho._ in life i was your partner, jacob marley. _scro._ can you--can you sit down? _gho._ i can. _scro._ do it, then. _gho._ you don't believe in me? _scro._ i don't. _gho._ what evidence do you require of my reality beyond that of your senses? _scro._ i don't know. _gho._ why do you doubt your senses? _scro._ because a little thing affects them. a slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. you may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an under-done potato. there's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are. you see this tooth-pick? _gho._ i do. _scro._ you are not looking at it. _gho._ but i see it, notwithstanding. _scro._ well! i have but to swallow this, and be for the rest of my days persecuted by a legion of gobblins, all of my own creation. humbug, i tell you; humbug. (_ghost rattles chain, takes bandage off jaws, and drops lower jaw as far as possible._) _scro._ (_betrays signs of fright._) mercy! dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me? _gho._ man of the worldly mind, do you believe in me, or not? _scro._ i do. i must. but why do spirits walk the earth, and why do they come to me? _gho._ it is required of every man that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow men and travel far and wide, and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. it is doomed to wander through the world--oh, woe is me--and witness what it can not share, but might have shared on earth, turned to happiness. [_shakes chain and wrings his hands._] _scro._ you are fettered; tell me why? _gho._ i wear the chain i forged in life; i made it link by link and yard by yard. i girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will i wore it. is its pattern strange to _you_? or would you know the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself. it was full as heavy and as long as this seven christmas-eves ago. you have labored on it since. it is a pondrous chain! _scro._ jacob, old jacob marley, tell me more. speak comfort to me, jacob. _gho._ i have none to give. it comes from other regions, ebenezer scrooge, and is conveyed by other ministers to other lands of men. nor can i tell you what i would. a very little more is all that is permitted to me. i can not rest, i can not stay, i can not linger anywhere. my spirit never walked beyond our counting house, mark me!--in life my spirit never roved beyond the narrow limits of our money changing hole; and weary journeys lie before me. _scro._ you must have been very slow about it, jacob. _gho._ slow? _scro._ seven years dead. and traveling all the time. _gho._ the old time. no rest, no peace. incessant tortures of remorse. _scro._ you travel fast? _gho._ on the wings of the wind. _scro._ you might have got over a great quantity of ground in seven years, jacob. _gho._ (_clinking his chain._) oh! captive, bound and double-ironed, not to know that ages of incessant labor by immortal creatures; for this earth must pass into eternity before the good of which it is susceptible is all developed. not to know that any christian spirit working kindly in its little sphere, whatever it may be, will find its mortal life too short for its vast means of usefulness. not to know that no space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunity misused. yet, such was i. oh, such was i! _scro._ but you were always a good man of business jacob. _gho._ business! [_wringing his hands and shaking chain._] mankind was my business. the common welfare was my business. charity, mercy, forbearance and benevolence were all my business. the dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business. [_holds up chain at arm's length, and drops it._] at this time of the rolling year i suffer most. why did i walk through crowds of fellow beings with my eyes turned down, and never raise them, to that blessed star which led the wise men to a poor abode? were there no poor houses to which its light would have conducted _me_? hear me! my time is nearly gone. _scro._ i will; but don't be hard upon me. don't be flowery, jacob, pray. _gho._ how it is that i appear before you in a shape that you can see, i may not tell. i have sat invisible beside you many and many a day. that is no light part of my penance. i am here to-night to warn you that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. a chance and hope of my procuring, ebenezer. _scro._ you were always a good friend to me. thank 'er. _gho._ you will be haunted by three spirits. _scro._ is that the chance and hope you mentioned, jacob? _gho._ it is. _scro._ i--i think i'd rather not. _gho._ without their visits you can not hope to shun the path i tread. expect the first to-morrow, when the bell tolls one. _scro._ couldn't i take'em all at once, and have it over, jacob? _gho._ expect the second on the next night at the same hour. the third on the night following, when the last stroke of twelve has ceased to vibrate. look to see me no more; and look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us. [_ghost replaces bandage around jaws, rises, winds chain about his arm, walks backward to window, beckoning scrooge, who rises and follows. as soon as ghost walks through window, which opens for him, he motions for scrooge to stop, and disappears through trap. window closes as before._] curtain. stave two. scene i.--_scrooge's bed room. a small, four-post bedstead with curtains at_ l. e., _bureau_ r. e. _bell tolls twelve. scrooge pulls curtains aside and sits on side of bed. touches spring of his repeater, which also strikes twelve._ _scro._ way, it isn't possible that i can have slept through a whole day, and far into another night. it isn't possible that anything has happened to the sun, and this is twelve o'clock at noon. (_the spirit of christmas past rises from the hearth as scrooge finishes his speech._) _scro._ are you the spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me? _spirit._ i am. _scro._ who, and what are you? _spir._ i am the ghost of christmas past. _scro._ long past? _spir._ no; your past. _scro._ i beg you will be covered. _spir._ what! would you so soon put out, with worldly hands, the light i give? is it not enough that you are one of those whose passions made this cap, and force me through whole trains of years to wear it low upon my brow? _scro._ i have no intention of offending you. may i make bold to enquire what business has brought you here? _spir._ your welfare. _scro._ i am much obliged, but i think a night of unbroken rest would be more conducive to that end. _spir._ your reclamation, then. take heed! observe the shadows of the past, and profit by the recollection of them. _scro._ what would you have me do? _spir._ remain where you are, while memory recalls the past. scene ii.--_the spirit waves a wand, the scene opens and displays a dilapidated school-room. young scrooge discovered seated at a window, reading._ _scro._ (_trembling_) good heavens! i was a boy! it's the old school; and its the christmas i was left alone. _spir._ you remember it? _scro._ yes, yes; i know! i was reading all about ali baba. dear old honest ali baba. and valentine and his wild brother, orson; and the sultan's groom turned upside down by the geni. served him right, i'm glad of it; what business had _he_ to be married to the princess! [_in an earnest and excited manner, and voice between, laughing and crying._] there's the parrot: green body and yellow tail, with a thing like a lettuce growing out of the top of his head; there he is! poor robin crusoe, where have you been, robin crusoe? there goes friday, running for his life to the little creek. halloo! hoop! halloo! [_changing to a pitiful tone, in allusion to his former self._] poor boy. _spir._ strange to have forgotten this for so many years. _scro._ (_putting his hand in his pocket and drying his eyes on his cuff_) i wish--but it's too late now. _spir._ what is the matter? _scro._ nothing; nothing. there was a boy singing a christmas carol at my door, last night, i should like to have given him something, that's all. [_young scrooge rises and walks up and down. door opens and fanny scrooge darts in and puts her arms about his neck and kisses him._] _fanny._ dear, dear brother! i have come to bring you home, dear brother. (_clapping her hands and laughing gleefully._) to bring you home, home, home! _young s._ home, little fan? _fan._ yes! home for good, and all. home for ever and ever. father is so much kinder than he used to be, that home is like heaven. he spoke so gently to me one dear night when i was going to bed, that i was not afraid to ask him once more if you might come home; and he said yes, you should; and sent me in a coach to bring you. and you're to be a man, and never to come back here; but first we're to be together all the christmas long, and have the merriest time in all the world. _young s._ you're quite a woman, little fan! [_she claps her hands and laughs, tries to touch his head, but being too little, laughs again. stands on tip-toe to embrace him, and in childish eagerness and glee, drags him willingly towards the door. exeunt._] _voice_ [_outside_]. bring down master scrooge's box, there. [_scene closes_] _spir._ always a delicate creature, whom a breath might have withered. but she had a large heart. _scro._ so she had. you're right. i will not gainsay it, spirit. lord forbid. _spir._ she died a woman, and had, as i think, children. _scro._ one child. _spir._ true; your nephew. _scro._ [_uneasily_] yes. _spir._ let us see another christmas. (_waves wand._) scene iii.--_fezziwig's ball, full depth of stage, representing a wareroom. fezziwig and mrs. fezziwig l., the former standing and clapping his hands, and the latter seated in an arm-chair, manifesting delight. old bald-headed fiddler, on an elevated seat, at the back. dick wilkins, with two miss fezziwigs, forward to right and back. scrooge's former self advances and retires to the partners, with fancy steps: hands around; right and left; ladies change; balance; promenade. other characters to fill up the picture. laughter and merriment to follow scrooge's speech._ _spir._ do you know it? _scro._ know it! i was apprenticed here. why, its old fezziwig. bless his heart; its fezziwig alive again, and mrs fezziwig, too. dick wilkins, to be sure, with fezziwig's two daughters. bless me, yes. there he is. he was very much attached to me, was dick. poor dick. and see me, cutting the pigeon-wing. dear, dear, dear! (_dance comes to an end amid general hilarity and merriment, and the scene closes in._) _spir._ a small matter to make these silly folks so full of gratitude. _scro._ small! why, old fezziwig was one of the best men that ever lived. he never missed giving his employees a christmas ball. _spir._ why, is it not! he spent but a few pounds of money--three or four pounds, perhaps--. is that so much that he deserves your praise? _scro._ it isn't that, spirit. he had the power to render us happy or unhappy; to make our services light or burdensome; a pleasure or a toil. say that his power lives in words and looks; in things so light and unsignificant that it is impossible to add and count 'em up; what then? the happiness he gives is quite as great if it cost a fortune--oh, dear. _spir._ what is the matter? _scro._ nothing, particular. _spir._ something, i think. _scro._ no, no. i should like to be able to say a word or two to my clerk, just now, that's all. _spir._ my time grows short, let us hurry on. do you remember this? (_waves wand._) scene iv.--_a room. enter belle and scrooge's former self, at twenty-five years of age._ _scro._ it is belle, as sure as i am a living sinner. _belle._ it matters little to you. to you very little. another idol has displaced me; and if it can cheer and comfort you in time to come, as i would have tried to do, i have no just cause to grieve. _young s._ what idol has displaced you? _belle._ a golden one. _young s._ this is the even-handed dealing of the world. there is nothing on which it is so hard as poverty; and there is nothing it professes to condemn with such severity, as the pursuit of wealth. _belle._ you fear the world too much. all your other hopes have merged into the hope of being beyond the chance of its sordid reproach. i have seen your nobler aspirations fall off one by one, until the master passion _gain_, engrosses you. have i not? _young s._ what then? even if i have grown so much wiser, what then? i am not changed toward you, (_she shakes her head._) am i? _belle._ our contract is an old one. it was made when we were both poor and content to be so, until in good season, we could improve our worldly fortune by our patient industry. you _are_ changed. when it was made you were another man. _young s._ i was a boy. _belle._ your own feeling tells you that you were not what you are. i am. that which promised happiness when we were one in heart is fraught with misery now that we are two. how often and how keenly i have thought of this, i will not say. it is enough that i _have_ thought of it, and can release you. _young s._ have i ever sought release? _belle._ in words; no, never. _young s._ in what, then? _belle._ in a changed nature; in an altered spirit; in another atmosphere of life; another hope as to its great end. in everything that made my love of any worth or value in your sight. if this had never been between us, tell me, would you seek me out and try to win me now? ah, no! _young s._ you think not? _belle._ i would gladly think otherwise, if i could; heaven knows. when i have learned a truth like this, i know how strong and irresistible it must be. but if you were free to-day, to-morrow, yesterday, can even i believe that you would choose a dowerless girl--you, who, in your very confidence with her, weigh everything by gain; or choosing her, if for a moment you were false enough to your one guiding principle to do so, do i not know that your repentance and regret would surely follow? i do; and i release you, with a full heart, for the love of him you once were. (_he is about to speak, but with her head turned from him she resumes._) you may--the memory of what is past half makes me hope you will--have pain in this. a very, very brief time, and you will dismiss the recollection of it, gladly, as an unprofitable dream, from which it happened well that you awoke. may you be happy in the life you have chosen. fare well. [_exit._] _young s._ (_following_) belle, belle! hear me. let me explain. [_exit._] [_scene closes._] _scro._ spirit, show me no more! conduct me home. why do you delight to torture me? _spir._ o, mortal, what a treasure didst thou cast away. she, whom you resigned for paltry gold, became the happy wife of your former schoolmate, kemper. one shadow more. behold now the tender mother of smiling children, in their joyous home--a home that might have been your own. _scro._ no more! no more! i don't wish to see it. _spir._ behold. (_waves wand._) scene v.--_drawing room. six or eight children, of various sizes, in groups, playing with toys. a christmas tree, trimmed and lighted. mr. and mrs. kemper seated at table; their daughter belle seated at fire, dressing a doll for one of the girls._ _mr. k._ belle, i saw an old friend of yours this afternoon. _mrs. k._ who was it? _mr. k._ guess? _mrs. k._ how can i? tut, don't i know (_laughingly_), mr. scrooge? _mr. k._ mr. scrooge it was--your old sweetheart (_laughing_). i passed his office window, and as it was not shut up, and he had a candle inside, i could scarcely help seeing him. his partner, old jacob marley, lies upon the point of death, i hear. and there he sat, alone. quite alone in the world, i do believe. _mrs. k._ poor old man. [_scene closes._] _scro._ spirit (_in a broken voice_), remove me from this place. _spir._ i told you these were shadows of the things that have been. that they are what they are, do not blame me. _scro._ i am to blame for what they are, and now that i see what they might have been, i am more wretched than ever. remove me! i can not bear it. (_turns upon the spirit, and struggles with it._) leave me! take me back! haunt me no longer! (_seizes the extinguisher-cap, presses it down, while spirit sinks through trap, and disappears. when trap is replaced, scrooge reels to the bedstead, apparently exhausted, and with the cap grasped in his hand, falls asleep._) curtain. stave three. scene i.--_adjoining room in scrooge's house. flat to represent piles of turkeys, geese, game, poultry, joints of meat, sucking-pigs, strings of sausages, oysters, mince pies, plum-puddings, pears, apples, oranges, cakes and bowls of punch; also holly, mistletoe and ivy._ _the spirit of christmas present_ r. [_a giant_], _discovered holding a glowing torch--shaped like a cornucopia, to shed its light on scrooge's entrance._ _spir._ come in! _enter scrooge, timidly_, l. _spir._ come in, and know me better, man. you have never seen the like of me before. _scro._ never. _spir._ have never walked forthwith the younger members of my family, meaning--for i am very young--my elder brothers, born in these later years? _scro._ i don't think i have. i am afraid i have not. have you had many brothers, spirit? _spir._ more than eighteen hundred. _scro._ a tremendous family to provide for. spirit, conduct me where you will. i went forth last night on compulsion, and i learned a lesson which is working now. to-night, if you have aught to teach me, let me profit by it. _spir._ touch my robe, and remember that we are invisible, and unable to manifest our presence to those with whom we come in contact. loose not your hold, lest you should lose yourself. [_exeunt_ l.] scene ii.--_bob cratchit's home. mrs. cratchit discovered laying cloth. belinda assisting her. master peter cratchit blowing the fire._ _mrs. c._ what has ever got your precious father, then? and your brother, tiny tim! and martha warn't as late last christmas day by half an hour? _enter little cratchit and martha. door in flat._ _little c._ here's martha, mother! here's martha hurrah! oh, martha, there's such a big goose at the bakers, next door. i smelt it cooking. _mrs. c._ why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are! (_kissing her and taking off her bonnet and shawl._) _martha._ we'd a deal of work to finish up last night, and had to clear away this morning, mother. _mrs. c._ well, never mind, so long as you are come. sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm, lord bless ye. _little c._ no, no! there's father coming. hide, martha, hide. (_martha gets behind the door._) _enter bob cratchit with tiny tim on his shoulder and little crutch in his hand. spirit and scrooge following, coming down front, and observing with interest all that passes._ _bob._ why, where's our martha? (_looking around and putting tiny tim down._) _little c._ come, tiny tim, and see the pudding boil. [_exeunt children._] _mrs. c._ not coming. _bob._ not coming! not coming, on christmas day? _mar._ (_running into his arms._) dear father! i could not see you disappointed, if it were only in joke. _bob._ (_embraces her._) you're a good girl, martha, and a great comfort to us all. (_commences to mix a bowl of punch._) _mrs. c._ and how did little tim behave? _bob._ as good as gold, and better. somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. he told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon christmas day, who made lame beggars walk and blind men see. tiny tim is growing strong and hearty. _enter little cratchit and peter cratchit with the goose, followed by tiny tim._ _little c._ hurrah! hurrah! here's peter with the big goose. _tiny tim._ hurrah! (_children place chairs around the table; bob puts tiny tim in a high chair beside him, and peter on his left, facing front, belinda and little cratchit opposite. mrs. c. and martha at the end of the table. bob carves and serves the goose, mrs. c. the gravy and mashed potatoes, and martha the apple-sauce._) _little c._ oh! oh! look at the stuffing. _tiny t._ hurrah! _bob._ i don't believe there ever was such a goose as this cooked. it's more tender than a woman's love, and only cost two and sixpence. a merry christmas to us all, my dears. god bless us. _all._ god bless us. _tiny t._ god bless us every one. _scro._ spirit, tell me if tiny tim will live? _spir._ i see a vacant seat in the poor chimney-corner and a crutch without an owner carefully preserved. if these shadows remain unaltered by the future, none other of my race will find him here. what then? if he be like to die, he had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. _scro._ (_hangs his head._) my very words. _spir._ man--if man you be in heart, not adamant--forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered what the surplus is, and where it is. will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die. it may be, in the sight of heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child. oh, heaven! to hear the insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers of the dust! _mrs. c._ now, martha and belinda, change the plates, while i bring the nuts, apples and oranges. _bob._ (_rising and placing the punch-bowl on the table._) here is what will remind us it is christmas. (_fills three tumblers and custard-cup without a handle, and passes them to mrs. c., peter and martha._) i'll give you mr. scrooge, the founder of the feast. _mrs. c._ the founder of the feast, indeed! i wish i had him here, i'd give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and i hope he'd have a good appetite for it. _bob._ my dear, the children! christmas day. _mrs. c._ it should be christmas day, i am sure, on which one drinks the health of such an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man as mr. scrooge. you know he is, robert. nobody knows it better than you, poor fellow. _bob._ my dear. christmas day. _mrs. c._ i'll drink his health for your sake and the day's, not for his. long life to him. a merry christmas and a happy new year! he'll be very merry and very happy, i have no doubt. _all._ a merry christmas, and a happy new year. _scro._ spirit, take me away. i see the very mention of my name casts a gloom on what, were it not for me, would be a very happy party. _spir._ wait; they will soon put the memory of you aside, and will be ten times merrier than before, and tiny tim will sing. _scro._ no, no; take me hence. (_as they retire toward the door, the spirit shakes his torch toward the party, which restores good humor._) _little c._ oh! we forgot the pudding! _all._ the pudding! the pudding! (_laughter and confusion._) scene iii.--_a street. mansion with lighted window, showing shadow of a group. sounds of music inside._ _enter spirit and scrooge_ l. _a lamp-lighter with torch and ladder_ r; _as he passes them, the spirit waves his torch, and the lamp-lighter exits singing a carol. enter two men, quarreling._ _first man._ but, i know better, it is not so. _second man._ it is so, and i will not submit to contradiction. (_spirit waves his torch over them._) _first man._ well, i declare, here we are, old friends, quarreling on christmas day. it is a shame to quarrel on christmas day. _second man._ so it is a shame to quarrel on this day. god love it, so it is; come, and if we are not merry for the rest of it, it shall not be my fault. [_exeunt._] _scro._ spirit, is there a peculiar flavor in what you sprinkle from your torch? _spir._ there is. my own. _scro._ i notice that you sprinkle it to restore good humor, and over dinners. would it apply to any kind of dinner on this day? _spir._ to any kindly given. to a poor one most. _scro._ why to a poor one most? _spir._ because it needs it most. _enter ignorance and want; approaching the spirit, they kneel at his feet. scrooge starts back appalled._ _spir._ look here! oh, man, look here! look! look down here. behold, where graceful youth should have filled their features out and touched them with its freshest tints; a stale and shriveled hand, like that of age, has pinched and twisted them and pulled them into shreds. where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurk and glare out, menacing. no change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible and dread. _scro._ they are fine-looking children. spirit, are they yours? _spir._ they are man's. and they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. this boy is ignorance, this girl is want. beware them both, and all of their degree; but most of all, beware this boy, for on his brow i see that written which is _doom_, unless the writing be erased. deny it, great city. slander those who tell it ye. admit it for your factious purposes, make it worse, and abide the end. _scro._ have they no refuge or resource? _spir._ are there no prisons? are there no work-houses? _scro._ my very words, again. _spir._ begone! hideous, wretched creatures, your habitation should not be in a christian land. (_ignorance and want slouch off._) let us proceed, time is passing, and my life is hastening to an end. _scro._ are spirit's lives so short? _spir._ my life on this globe is very brief. it ends to-night. _scro._ to-night? _spir._ to-night, at midnight. (_exeunt._) scene iv--_drawing room. mr. and mrs. fred merry, miss julia kemper, miss sarah kemper, mr. thomas topper, mr. henry snapper, discovered seated around the dessert table. servant serving coffee._ _all._ (_laughing_) ha, ha! ha, ha, ha, ha! _enter spirit and scrooge_, l. _fred._ he said christmas was a humbug, as i live. _all._ ha, ha! ha, ha, ha, ha! _fred._ he believed it, too. _mrs. m._ more shame for him, fred! _fred._ he's a comical old fellow, that's the truth; and not so pleasant as he might be; however, his offenses carry their own punishment, and i have nothing to say against him. _mrs. m._ i'm sure he's very rich, fred. at least you always tell _me_ so. _fred._ what of that, my dear. his wealth is of no use to him. he don't do any good with it. he don't make himself comfortable with it. he hasn't the satisfaction of thinking--ha, ha, ha, ha!--that he is ever going to benefit us with it. _mrs. m._ i have no patience with him. _julia._ neither have i for such a stingy old wretch! _fred._ oh, i have. i am sorry for him; i couldn't be angry with him if i tried. who suffers by his ill whims? himself, always. here he takes it into his head to dislike us, and he won't come and dine with us. what's the consequence? he don't lose much of a dinner. _mrs. m._ indeed, i think he loses a very good dinner. _sarah._ a much better one than he could have served up in his old dingy chambers. _fred._ well, i'm very glad to hear it, because i haven't great faith in these young housekeepers. what do _you_ say, topper? _topper._ a bachelor like myself is a wretched outcast, and has no right to express an opinion on such an important subject. _mrs. m._ do go on, fred. he never finishes what he begins to say. he is such a ridiculous fellow. _fred._ i was only going to say, that the consequence of our uncle taking a dislike to us, and not making merry with us, _is_, as i think, that he loses some pleasant moments, which could do him no harm. i am sure he loses pleasanter companions than he finds in his own thoughts, either in his moldy old office or his dusty chambers. i mean to give him the same chance every year, whether he likes it or not, for i pity him. he may rail at christmas till he dies, but he can't help thinking better of it--i defy him--if he finds me going there, in good temper, year after year, and saying, uncle scrooge, i wish you a merry christmas and a happy new year! if it only puts him in the vein to leave his poor clerk fifty pounds, _that's_ something; and i think i shook him yesterday.--come, let us have some music. here, thomas, clear away. [_all rise and go to the piano. waiter clears table during the singing of a christmas carol or any selected piece._] _fred._ we must not devote the whole evening to music. suppose we have a game? _all._ agreed. _spir._ time flies; i have grown old. we must hasten on. _scro._ no, no! one half hour, spirit, only one. _fred._ i have a new game to propose. _sarah._ what is it? _fred._ it is a game called yes and no. i am to think of something and you are all to guess what it is. i am thinking of an animal, a live animal, rather a disagreeable animal, a savage animal that growls and grunts sometimes, and talks sometimes, and lives in london, and walks about the streets, and is not made a show of, and is not led by anybody and don't live in a menagerie, and is not a horse, a cow or a donkey or a bull. there, now guess? _mrs. m._ is it a pig? _fred._ no. _julia._ is it a tiger? _fred._ no. _topper._ is it a dog? _fred._ no. _sarah._ is it a cat? _snapper._ it's a monkey. _fred._ no. _mrs. m._ is it a bear? _fred._ no. _julia._ i have found it out! i know what it is, fred! i know what it is! _fred._ what is it? _julia._ it's your uncle scro-o-o-oge! _fred._ yes. _all._ ha, ha, ha! ha, ha, ha! _mrs. m._ it is hardly fair, you ought to have said yes, when i said, it's a bear. _fred._ he has given us plenty of merriment, i'm sure, and it would be ungrateful not to drink his health. here is some mulled wine ready to our hand at the moment; and when you are ready i say uncle scrooge! (_servant brings wine forward._) _all._ well! uncle scrooge! _fred._ a merry christmas, and a happy new year to the old man. he wouldn't take it from me, but may he have it, nevertheless. uncle scrooge! _all._ uncle scrooge, uncle scrooge! (_scrooge seems to make efforts to reply to the toast, while spirit drags him away._) curtain. stave four. scene i.--_scrooge's chambers._ _scrooge discovered upon his knees._ _scro._ can this be the spirit of christmas future that i see approaching? shrouded in a black garment, which conceals its head, its form, its face, and leaves nothing visible save one outstretched hand. i am in the presence of the ghost of christmas yet to come. it points onward with its hand. you are about to show me the shadows of things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us. is that so, spirit? (_rises and stands trembling._) ghost of the future, i fear you more than any spectre i have seen; but as i know your purpose is to do me good, and as i hope to live to be another man from what i was, i am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart. will you not speak to me? it will not speak. the hand points straight before us. lead on! lead on! the night is waning fast, and it is precious time to me, i know. lead on, spirit. (_scrooge crosses stage, as if following spirit to tormentor entrance, and remains while the scene changes._) scene ii.--_a street._ _scro._ ah, here comes stevens and there jones. i have always made it a point to stand well in their esteem--that is in a business point of view. _enter mr. stevens_ r. _and mr. jones_ l., _meeting_. _stevens._ how are you? _jones._ pretty well. so old scratch has got his own, at last, hey? _stev._ so i am told. cold, isn't it? _jones._ seasonable for christmas-time. you're not a skater, i suppose? _stev._ no, no. something else to think of. good morning. [_exeunt in opposite directions._] _scro._ ah, here are more of my old business friends; the spirit directs me to hear what they say. _enter mr. fatchin, mr. snuffer and mr. redface._ _mr. f._ no; i don't know much about it, either way; i only know he's dead. _mr. r._ when did he die? _mr. f._ last night, i believe. _mr. s._ why, what was the matter with him? (_takes snuff out of a large snuff-box._) i thought he would never die. _mr. f._ i did not take the trouble to inquire. _mr. r._ what has he done with his money? _mr. f._ i haven't heard (_yawning_); left it to his company, perhaps. he hasn't left it to _me_. that's all i know. (_all laugh._) it's likely to be a very cheap funeral, for upon my life i don't know of any body to go to it. suppose we make up a party and volunteer? _mr. r._ i don't mind going if a lunch is provided. i must be fed if i make one. (_all laugh._) _mr. f._ well, i am the most disinterested, after all, for i never wear black gloves and i never eat lunch. but i'll offer to go, if any body else will. when i come to think of it, i am not at all sure that i wasn't his most particular friend; for we used to stop and speak whenever we met. _mr. s._ i would volunteer, but that i have another little matter to attend to that will prevent me. however, i have no objections to joining you in a drink to his memory. _mr. r._ i am with you. let us adjourn to the punch bowl. [_exeunt._] _scro._ to whom can these allusions refer; jacob marley has been dead these seven years, and surely those whom i have considered my best friends would not speak of my death so unfeelingly. i suppose, however, that these conversations have some latent moral for my own improvement, and as i have now resolved upon a change of life, i shall treasure up all i see and hear. lead on, shadow, i follow! (_crosses to the opposite entrance and remains._) scene iii.--_interior of a junk or pawn-shop._ _enter old joe, ushering in mrs. mangle, mrs. dilber and mr. shroud, door in flat._ _old joe._ you couldn't have met in a better place; come in. you were made free here long ago, you know, and the other two ain't strangers. stop till i shut the door of the shop. ah! how it shrieks! there isn't such a rusty bit of metal in the place as its own hinges, i believe, and i'm sure there's no such old bones here as mine. ha, ha! we're all suitable to our calling, we're well matched. come, come! we are at home here. (_trims smoky lamp at table._) _mrs. m._ what odds, then! what odds, mrs. dilber? (_throws her bundle on the floor and sits on a stool, resting her elbows on her knees._) every person has a right to take care of themselves. _he_ always did. _mrs. d._ that's true, indeed! no man cared for himself more than he did. _mrs. m._ why, then, don't stand staring as if you was afraid, woman; who's the wiser? we're not going to pick holes in each other's coats, i suppose? _mr. shroud._ no, indeed! we should hope not. _mrs. m._ very well, then: that's enough. who's the worse for the loss of a few things like these? not a dead man, i suppose. _mr. s._ (_laughing._) no, indeed. _mrs. m._ if he wanted to keep 'em after he was dead, the wicked old screw, why wasn't he natural in his life time? if he had been, he'd have had somebody to look after him when he was struck with death, instead of lying gasping out his last there, alone by himself. _mrs. d._ it's the truest word ever was spoke. it's a judgment on him. _mrs. m._ i wish it was a little heavier judgment, and it should have been, you may depend upon it, if i could have laid my hands on anything else. open that bundle, old joe, and let me know the value of it. speak out plain. i'm not afraid to be the first, nor afraid to let them see it. we knew pretty well that we were helping ourselves, before we met here, i believe. it's no sin. open the bundle, joe. _mr. s._ oh, no; we don't mind showing what we have. here, joe, value these. (_mrs. d. and mr. s. lay their packages on the table and joe proceeds to examine them._) _joe._ (_chalking the figures on the wall as he names them._) a seal, eight shillings; pencil-case, three and six pence; pair of sleeve-buttons, five and four-pence; scarf-pin, ninepence. nine and four, thirteen, and six, is nineteen--seven. one and five's six, and thirteen is nine, and eight makes seventeen. that's your account, and i wouldn't give another sixpence if i was to be boiled for it. who's next? _mrs. d._ i hope you'll be more liberal with me, mr. joe. i'm a poor, lone widow, and it's hard for me to make a living. _joe._ i always give too much to the ladies. it's a weakness of mine, and that's the way i ruin myself. under-clothing, sheets, towels, sugar-tongs; these tea-spoons are old-fashioned, and the boots won't bear mending. one pound six, that's your account. if you asked me another penny, and made it an open question i'd repent of being liberal, and knock off half a crown. _mrs. m._ now, undo _my_ bundle, joe. _joe._ (_opening bundle._) what do you call this? bed curtains? _mrs. m._ ah! (_laughing._) bed curtains. _joe._ you don't mean to say you took 'em down, rings and all, with old scrooge lying there? _mrs. m._ yes i do. why not? _joe._ you were born to make your fortune, and you'll certainly do it. _mrs. m._ i certainly shan't hold my hand, when i can get anything in it by reaching it out, for the sake of such a man as _he_ was, i promise you, joe. don't drop that oil upon the blanket, now. _joe._ his blankets? _mrs. m._ whose else's do you think? he isn't likely to take cold without 'em, i dare say. joe. i hope he didn't die of anything catching. eh? (_stopping his work and looking up._) _mrs. m._ don't you be afraid of that: i ain't so fond of his company that i'd loiter about him for such things if he did. ah, you may look through that shirt till your eyes ache, but you won't find a hole in it nor a thread-bare place. it's the best he had, and a fine one, too. they'd have wasted it if it hadn't been for me. _joe._ what do you call wasting of it? _mrs. m._ (_laughing._) putting it on him to be buried in, to be sure. somebody was fool enough to do it, but i took it off again. if calico ain't good enough for such a purpose, it isn't good enough for anything. it's as becoming to the body. he can't look uglier than he did in that one. _joe._ well, well! i'll ruin myself again. i'll give you two guineas for the lot, and go to the bankrupt court. (_takes bag of coin and counts out their amounts._) _mrs. m._ ha, ha! this is the end of it, you see. he frightened every one away from him when he was alive, to profit us when he was dead. _all._ ha, ha, ha! [_exeunt door in flat, old joe lighting them out._] _scro._ spirit! i see, i see. this is my own case, if nothing happens to change it. my life tends this way. spirit, in leaving this. i shall not leave its lesson; trust me. if there is any person in the city who feels the least emotion for the death here announced, show that person to me. [_crosses to_ l., _while scene closes in_.] scene iv.--_street. exterior of scrooge & marley's counting house._ _scro._ why, here is my place of business, and has been occupied by scrooge & marley for many years. i see the house, let me behold what i shall be in the days to come. why, spirit, the house is yonder. why do you point away? (_goes to the window and looks in._) it is the old office still; the same furniture; but no one occupies my chair. ah! some one comes. _enter james badger from counting house, going off right, meets mrs. badger at right entrance._ _mrs. b._ ah! james. i have waited for you so long. what news? is it good or bad? _james._ bad. _mrs b._ we are quite ruined? _james._ no. there is hope yet, caroline. _mrs. b._ if _he_ relents, there is. nothing is past hope, if such a miracle has happened. _james._ he is past relenting. he is dead. _mrs. b._ dead! thank heaven; we are saved. (_pause._) i pray forgiveness, i am sorry that i gave expression to the emotions of my heart. _james._ what the half drunken woman, whom i told you of last night, said to me when i tried to see him and obtain a week's delay, and what i thought was a mere excuse to avoid me, turns out to have been quite true. he was not only very ill, but dying then. _mrs. b._ to whom will our debt be transferred? _james._ i don't know, and i have been unable to ascertain. at all events, before that time we shall be ready with the money; and even though we were not, it would be a bad fortune indeed to find so merciless a creditor in his successor. we may sleep to-night with light hearts, caroline! _mrs. b._ yes; and our dear children will be brighter when they find the gloom dispelled from the minds of their parents. we cannot deny that this man's death has occasioned some happiness. _james._ come, let us hurry home [_exeunt_, r.] _scro._ spirit, it is evident that the only emotion you can show me, caused by the event foreshadowed, is one of pleasure. let me see some tenderness connected with the death of another, or what has just been shown me will be forever present in my mind. scene v.--_bob cratchit's home. mrs. cratchit, belinda, little cratchit and peter cratchit discovered at table, the two former sewing and the latter reading a book._ _peter._ (_reading._) and he took a child and set him in the midst of them. _scro._ where have i heard those words? i have not dreamed them. why does he not go on? _mrs c._ (_betrays emotions; lays her work upon the table, and puts her hand to her face._) the color hurts my eyes. _bel._ yes, poor tiny tim! _mrs. c._ they're better now. it makes them weak by candle-light; and i wouldn't show weak eyes to your father when he comes home, for the world. it must be near his time. (_resumes her work._) _peter._ past it, rather (_shutting up book_), but i think he has walked a little slower than he used, these last few evenings, mother. _mrs. c._ (_in a faltering voice._) i have known him walk with--i have known him walk with tiny tim upon his shoulder very fast indeed. _peter._ and so have i, often. _bel._ and so have i. _mrs. c._ but he was very light to carry, and his father loved him so, that it was no trouble; no trouble. and there is your father at the door. _enter bob cratchit. belinda and little cratchit meet him; peter places a chair for him, and mrs. c. averts her head to conceal her emotion. bob kisses belinda, and takes little c. on his knees, who lays his little cheek against his face._ _bob._ hard at work, my dears; hard at work. why, how industrious you are, and what progress you are making. you will be done long before sunday. _mrs. c._ sunday! you went to-day, then, robert? _bob._ yes, my dear; i wish you could have gone, it would have done you good to see how green a place it is. but you'll see it often. i promised him that i would walk there on a sunday. my little, little child! my little child! (_rises and retires up stage to compose himself; returns and resumes his place at the table._) oh, i must tell you of the extraordinary kindness of mr scrooge's nephew, whom i have scarcely seen but once, and who, meeting me in the street, and seeing that i looked a little--just a little--down, you know, inquired what had happened to distress me. on which, for he is the pleasantest-spoken gentleman you ever heard, i told him. i am heartily sorry for it, mr. cratchit, he said, and heartily sorry for your good wife. by-the-bye, how he ever knew _that_, i don't know. _mrs. c._ knew what, my dear? _bob._ why, that you were a good wife. _peter._ everybody knows that! _bob._ very well observed, my boy. i hope they do. heartily sorry, he said, for your good wife. if i can be of service to you in any way, he said, giving me his card, that's where i live; pray come to me. now, it wasn't for the sake of anything he might be able to do for us, so much as for his kind way, that this was quite delightful. it really seemed as if he had known our tiny tim, and felt with us. _mrs. c._ i'm sure he's a good soul. _bob._ you would be sure of it, my dear, if you saw and spoke to him. i shouldn't be at all surprised--mark my words--if he got peter a better situation. _mrs. c._ only hear that, peter. _bel._ and then peter will be keeping company with some one, and setting up for himself. _peter._ (_grinning_.) get along with you! _bob._ it's just as likely as not, one of these days; though there's plenty of time for that, my dear. but, however and whenever we part from one another, i am sure we shall none of us forget poor tiny tim, shall we? _all._ never, father. _bob._ and i know, i know, my dears, that when we recollect how patient and how mild he was--although he was a little child--we shall not quarrel easily among ourselves, and forget poor tiny tim in doing it. _all._ no, never, father. (_all rise._) _bob._ i am very happy. i am very happy! (_kisses mrs c., belinda, young c. and shakes hands with peter._) spirit of tiny tim, thy childish essence is from above. curtain. stave five. scene i.--_scrooge's chamber. scrooge discovered on his knees at the easy chair._ _scro._ spirit! hear me! i am not the man i was. i will not be the man i must have been, but for this intercourse. why have shown me all that you have, if i am past all hope? good spirit, your nature intercedes for me, and pities me. assure me that i yet may change the shadows you have shown me, by an altered life. your hand trembles. i will honor christmas in my heart and try to keep it all the year. i will live in the past, the present and the future. the spirits of all three shall strive within me. i will not shut out the lessons that they teach. oh! tell me i may sponge away the shadows of the future. (_grasps the easy chair in his agony, as if struggling to detain it._) do not go, i entreat you. it shrinks, it has collapsed, it has dwindled down into an easy chair. yes! my own chair, my own room and best--and happiest of all--my own time before me to make amends in. oh, jacob marley, heaven and the christmas time be praised for this! i say it on my knees, old jacob; on my knees! (_rises and goes and opens door_ r., d e.) they are not torn down--the bed curtains are not torn down, rings and all. they are there--i am here--the shadows of the things that would have been, may be dispelled. they will be; i know they will! (_commences to dress himself, putting everything on wrong, etc._) i don't know what to do! (_laughing and crying._) i am as light as a feather; i am as happy as an angel; i am as merry as a school boy; i am as giddy as a drunken man. a merry christmas to every body! a happy new year to all the world! halloo here! waoop! halloo! (_dancing and capering around the room._) there's the saucepan that the gruel was in; there's the door by which the ghost of jacob marley entered; there's the corner (_pointing into adjoining room_) where the ghost of christmas past sat. it's all right; it's all true; it all happened. ha, ha, ha! (_laughing heartily._) i don't know what day of the month it is. i don't know how long i've been among the spirits. i don't know any thing. i'm quite a baby. never mind; i don't care. i'd rather be a baby. haloo! whoop! halloo here! (_bells or chimes commences to ring. goes to window and opens it._) no fog, no mist; clear, bright, jovial, cold; cold, piping for the blood to dance to; golden sunlight, heavenly sky; sweet, fresh air; merry bells. oh, glorious! glorious! (_looking out of window_) hey! you boy in your sunday clothes, what's to-day? _voice outside._ eh? _scro._ what's to day my fine fellow? _voice outside._ to-day! why. christmas day. _scro._ it's christmas day; i haven't missed it. the spirits have done it all in one night. they can do any thing they like. of course they can. of course they can. (_returns to window._) halloo, my fine fellow! _voice outside._ halloo! _scro._ do you know the poulterers in the next street but one, at the corner? _voice outside._ i should hope i did. _scro._ an intelligent boy! a remarkable boy! do you know whether they've sold the prize turkey that was hanging up there? not the little prize turkey; the big one? _voice outside._ what the one as big as me? _scro._ what a delightful boy. it's a pleasure to talk to him. yes, my buck. _voice outside._ it's hanging there now. _scro._ is it? go and buy it. _voice outside._ what do you take me for? _scro._ no, no. i am in earnest. go and buy it, and tell 'em to bring it here, that i may give them the directions where to take it. come back with the man, and i'll give you a shilling. come back with him in less than five minutes, and i'll gave you half a crown. that boy's off like a shot. i'll send it to bob cratchit's. (_rubbing his hands and chuckling._) he shan't know who sent it. it's twice the size of tiny tim. joe miller never made such a joke as sending it to bob's will be. i must write the directions for that turkey. (_sits at table to write._) scene ii--_a street. exterior of scrooge's chambers._ _enter scrooge from the house._ _scro._ (_addressing the knocker on the door._) i shall love it as long as i live. (_patting the knocker._) i scarcely ever looked at it before. what an honest expression it has in its face. it's a wonderful knocker.--here's the turkey. _enter boy with large turkey._ _scro._ halloo! whoop! how are you! merry christmas! there's a turkey for you! this bird never could have stood upon his legs, he would have snapped 'em short off in a minute, like sticks of sealing-wax. here's your half-crown, boy. now take the monster to bob cratchit, camden-town; and tell him it's a present from his grandmother, who wishes him a merry christmas, and a happy new year. hold, that, turkey is too large for you to carry; take a cab, here's the money to pay for it. _enter mr. and mrs. badger_, r. _scro._ why, here comes james badger and wife, as sure as i live. good morning! _james._ good morning, sir! a merry christmas to you! _scro._ the same to you both, and many of them. _mrs. b._ he seems in a good humor, speak to him about it. _scro._ going to church, eh? _james._ we were going, sir, to hear the christmas carols, but mindful of the obligation resting upon us, which falls due to-morrow, and of our inability to meet the payment, we have called to beg your indulgence, and ask for a further extension of time. _scro._ why, james, how much do you owe me? _james._ twenty pounds, sir. _scro._ how long since you contracted the debt? _james._ ten years to morrow, sir. _scro._ then you have already paid me over half the amount in interest, which interest has been compounded, and i have, in fact, received more than the principal. my dear fellow, you owe me nothing, just consider the debt cancelled. _james._ surely, sir, you cannot mean it. _scro._ but i do. _mrs. b._ oh, sir, how can we ever sufficiently manifest our gratitude for such unexpected generosity? _scro._ by saying nothing about it. remember, james and wife, this is christmas day, and on this day, of all others, we should do unto others as we would have them do unto us. _james._ may heaven reward you, sir. you have lightened our hearts of a heavy burden. _scro._ there, there! go to church. _james._ we shall, sir, and remember our benefactor in our devotions. (_shaking hands._) i can say heartily a merry christmas. _mrs. b._ and a happy new year. [_exeunt_ l.] _scro._ i guess they are glad, now, that i am alive, and will be really sorry when i die. halloo! whoop! _enter mr. barnes_, l., _passes across stage; scrooge follows and stops him._ _scro._ my dear sir (_taking both, his hands_), how do you do? i hope you succeeded yesterday. it was very kind of you. a merry christmas to you, sir. _mr. b._ mr. scrooge? _scro._ yes. that is my name, and i fear it may not be pleasant to you. allow me to ask your pardon. and will you have the goodness--(_scrooge whispers in his ear._) _mr. b._ lord bless me--you take my breath away. my dear mr. scrooge, are you really serious? _scro._ if you please. not a farthing less. a great many back payments are included in it, i assure you. will you do me the favor? _mr. b._ my dear sir (_shaking hands with him_), i don't know what to say to such munifi-- _scro._ don't say any thing, please. come and see me. will you come and see me? _mr. b._ i will--with great pleasure. [_exit_, r.] _scro._ thank'er. i am much obliged to you. i thank you fifty times. bless you! _enter bob cratchit_, r., _with tiny tim on his shoulder_. _scro._ halloo, bob cratchit! what do you mean by coming here? _bob._ i am very sorry, sir; i was not coming, i was only passing, sir, on my way to hear the christmas carols. _scro._ what right have you to be passing here to remind me that it is christmas? _bob._ it's only once a year, sir; it shall not be repeated. _scro._ now, i'll tell you what, my friend. i am not going to stand this any longer: and therefore i give you permission to pass my house fifty times a day, if you want to. i give you a week's vacation, without any deduction for lost time. i am about to raise your salary. (_giving him a dig in the waistcoat; bob staggers back, and scrooge follows him up._) a merry christmas, bob! (_slapping him on the back._) a merrier christmas, bob, my good fellow, than i have ever given you for many a year! i'll raise your salary, and endeavor to assist your struggling family, and i'll be tiny tim's godfather. come along, my good fellow, we'll go to church together, and discuss your affairs on the way. tiny tim, what do you say to that? _tiny tim._ i say god bless us, every one. _bob._ i would like to say something, sir, but you have deprived me of the power of speech. _scro._ come on, then, we'll talk it over as we go. come tiny tim, and go with your godfather. (_takes tim on his shoulder. exeunt_, l.) scene iii.--_drawing room in fred merry's house. fred, mrs. fred and mrs. kemper discovered seated at table, conversing._ _fred._ is it possible! you surprise me. i never had the least idea that you had ever met uncle scrooge, much less that he was an old admirer of yours. _mrs. m._ oh! do tell us all about it, dear mother; i'm dying to hear it. _mrs. k._ well, you must know, my dear children, that fanny scrooge--our mother, fred--was my earliest friend and schoolmate, and through her i became acquainted with her brother--your uncle; at that time a noble spirited boy, fresh from his studies. our friendship soon ripened into love, and a betrothal. i cannot describe to you how happy and light hearted i was, and how true and devoted your uncle continued. our marriage was deferred until such time as he should be in a position to provide us a suitable home. after he left mr. fezziwig's, where he had served his time, he entered the service of jacob marley, and subsequently became his partner. it was at this time i observed a change in him; he was not less ardent than before, but i soon discovered that avarice had become the guiding passion of his nature, and that our love was subservient to its influence. foreseeing that only misery could ensue from our union, i released him from the engagement. and now after the lapse of many years, with the exception of the day, five years ago, when he attended your father's funeral, we have not met or exchanged a word with each other. _mrs m._ but, mother, did you really love him? _mrs. k._ i did, my dear--previous to the discovery of the change in him. _mrs. m._ and did you not sacrifice your love in releasing him? _mrs. k._ i merely sacrificed my desires to common sense. love, to be lasting, must be mutual, and if it is not paramount to all other passions, it ends in misery or hate. hence, being guided by judgment, i soon found by experience that true love can again exist if worthily bestowed. _fred._ well, dear mother, i agree with your estimate of uncle scrooge. this is the sixth christmas day of our married life, and each christmas eve i have invited him to come and dine with us, but he has never yet honored us with his presence, and i suppose he never will. _scro._ (_gently opening the door and putting in his head._) fred! may i come in? (_all start and rise, and fred rushes toward the door with both hands extended._) _fred._ why, bless my soul! who's that? _scro._ it's i, your uncle scrooge. i have accepted your invitation. will you let me in? _fred._ let you in! (_shaking him heartily by both hands._) dear heart alive! why not! welcome! welcome! my wife, your niece--yes, you may. (_scrooge kisses her._) our mother. _scro._ belle! heavens! what shall i do? (_aside._) _mrs. k._ i fear that our meeting will be painful. i beg your permission, my son, to retire. _fred._ no, no, no. this is christmas day. everybody can be happy on this day that desires to be, and i know that your meeting can be made a pleasant and agreeable one if you both so will it. "peace on earth and good will to man," is the day's golden maxim. _scro._ although somewhat embarrassed, i concur most heartily in the wise and good-natured counsel of my dear nephew. never before have i experienced the joys common to this day, and never hereafter, while i am permitted to live, shall i miss them. in the past twenty-four hours i have undergone a complete revolution of ideas and desires, and have awakened unto a new life. instead of a sordid, avaricious old man, i trust you will find a cheerful, liberal christian, ever ready to extend to his fellow creatures a merry christmas, and a happy new year. _fred._ why! uncle, i wonder _you_ don't go into parliament. i could dance for joy. (_embracing him._) you dear old man! you shall ever find a hearty welcome here. _mrs. m._ i join with my husband in his earnest congratulations. _mrs. k._ i confess, mr. scrooge, that i am rejoiced to find your nephew's assertions so quickly verified, and that an opportunity is offered to renew an acquaintance which i hope will end in uninterrupted friendship. (_they shake hands._) _fred._ ah, here comes topper and the girls. _enter topper and julia kemper, snapper and sarah kemper._ _fred._ come, girls, hug and kiss your uncle scrooge, he has come to make merry with us. (_takes the girls to scrooge, and endeavors to make them hug, doing most of the hugging himself._) hug him hard! this is topper, and this is snapper, they are both sweet on the girls. (_all laugh._) _julia and sarah._ oh, you bad man. _fred._ come, let us lose no time. what do you say to a game? shall it be blind man's buff? _all._ agreed. _fred._ come, uncle scrooge, the oldest, first. _scro._ do with me as you please; it is christmas day. (_they play a lively game, falling over chairs, etc. scrooge catches each lady, and guesses wrong, until he gets mrs. merry, who, in turn, catches topper, who pulls the bandage down and goes for julia, and pretends that he tells who she is by the way the hair is fixed, etc. scrooge and mrs. kemper retire up stage, and converse._) _julia._ ah, that's not fair, you peeped. i won't play any more. (_goes up stage with topper._) _fred._ well, i could have guessed that catch, and it's nothing more than fair that he should peep before making it. it seems, my dear, that our company have divided into couples. ought we not demand an explanation? _mrs. m._ as master of the house, it is your duty. _fred._ mr. thomas topper and others, we have long suspected you of some horrible design against the peace and happiness of this family. what say you to the charge? _julia._ on behalf our clients, we plead guilty. _sarah._ and urge extenuating circumstances. _fred._ then nothing more remains, but for the court to pronounce sentence, which is, that you be placed under the bonds of matrimony, at such time and place as may suit your convenience. but, madam belle kemper and ebenezer scrooge, what have you to say in your defense. _mrs. k._ only this, that christmas works wonders. _scro._ in other words, mrs. kemper finds that christmas has restored me to a primitive condition, and leaves it to time to test the merits of the happy change. (_to audience._) we all have cause to bless christmas, and it shall always be my delight to wish you a merry christmas, and a happy new year, with tiny tim's addition of "god bless us every one." _curtain._ * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious punctuation errors repaired. corrections were made in the text where part of a phrase or name was only partially italic. for example, on page , the "f." of _mr. f._ on one part of dialogue had been printed as "_mr._ f." these things were repaired. page iii, "peice" changed to "piece" (piece can be performed) page vi, "past" changed to "past" (hearth for the spirit of christmas past) page vii, "suit" changed to "suite" (fireplace l. suite of) page vii, "dressar" changed to "dresser" (oranges on dresser) page viii, "windew" changed to "window" (g. window l. c.) page viii, "cratchet's" changed to "cratchit's" (scene v.--bob cratchit's) page , "calender" changed to "calendar" (the long calendar of) page , "sch." changed to "scro." (_scro._. oh! i was afraid) page , "make" changed to "made" (i made it link) page , "invisable" changed to "invisible" (sat invisible beside) page , "use" changed to "used" (than he used to be) page , "gho." changed to "scro." (_scro._ know it!) page , "to" changed to "too" (the world too much) page , "chosing" changed to "choosing" (or choosing her) page , "mistleto" changed to "mistletoe" (also holly, mistletoe) page , "hurrrh" changed to "hurrah" (hurrah! hurrah! here's) page , "ahd" changed to "and" (than before, and tiny) page , "scro." changed to "spir." (_spir._ begone! hideous) page , "desert" changed to "dessert" (around the dessert table) page , "househeepers" changed to "housekeepers" (these young housekeepers) page , "vain" changed to "vein" (puts him in the vein) page , "prepered" changed to "prepared" (i am prepared to) page , "be ore" changed to "before" (before us. lead) page , "that" changed to "that's" (that's all i know) page , "skrieks" changed to "shrieks" (how it shrieks!) page , "mysel" changed to "myself" (i ruin myself) page , "suapper" changed to "snapper" (and this is snapper) out of the air by inez haynes irwin grosset & dunlap publishers--new york made in the united states of america copyright, , , by metropolitan publications, inc. copyright, , by harcourt, brace and company, inc. to billy and phyllis out of the air i "... so i'll answer your questions in the order you ask them. no, i don't want ever to fly again. my last pay-hop was two saturdays ago and i got my discharge papers yesterday. god willing, i'll never again ride anything more dangerous than a velocipede. i'm now a respectable american citizen, and for the future i'm going to confine my locomotion to the well-known earth. get that, spink sparrel! the earth! in fact...." david lindsay suddenly looked up from his typewriting. under his window, washington square simmered in the premature heat of an early june day. but he did not even glance in that direction. instead, his eyes sought the doorway leading from the front room to the back of the apartment. apparently he was not seeking inspiration; it was as though he had been suddenly jerked out of himself. after an absent second, his eye sank to the page and the brisk clatter of his machine began again. "... after the woman you recommended, mrs. whatever-her-name-is, shoveled off a few tons of dust. it's great! it's the key house of new york, isn't it? and when you look right through the arch straight up fifth avenue, you feel as though you owned the whole town. and what an air all this chaste antique new england stuff gives it! who'd ever thought you'd turn out--you big rough-neck you--to be a collector of antiques? not that i haven't fallen myself for the sailor's chest and the butterfly table and the glass lamps. i actually salaam to that sampler. and these furnishings seem especially appropriate when i remember that jeffrey lewis lived here once. you don't know how much that adds to the connotation of this place." again--but absently--lindsay looked up. and again, ignoring washington square, which offered an effect as of a formal garden to the long pink-red palace on its north side--plumy treetops, geometrical grass areas, weaving paths; elegant little summer-houses--his gaze went with a seeking look to the doorway. "question no. . i haven't any plans of my own at present and i am quite eligible to the thing you suggest. you say that no one wants to read anything about the war. i don't blame them. i wish i could fall asleep for a month and wake up with no recollection of it. i suppose it's that state of mind which prevents people from writing their recollections immediately. of course we'll all do that ultimately, i suppose--even people who, like myself, aren't professional writers. don't imagine that i'm going on with the writing game. i haven't the divine afflatus. i'm just letting myself drift along with these two jobs until i get that _guerre_ out of my system; can look around to find what i really want to do. i'm willing to write my experiences within a reasonable interval; but not at once. everything is as vivid in my mind of course as it's possible to be; but i don't want to have to think of it. that's why your suggestion in regard to lutetia murray strikes me so favorably. i should really like to do that biography. i'm in the mood for something gentle and pastoral. and then of course i have a sense of proprietorship in regard to lutetia, not alone because she was my literary find or that it was my thesis on her which got me my a in english . but, in addition, i developed a sort of platonic, long-distance, with-the-eye-of-the-mind-only crush on her. and yet, i don't know...." again lindsay's eyes came up from his paper. for the third time he ignored washington square swarming with lumbering green busses and dusky-haired italian babies; puppies, perambulators, and pedestrians. again his glance went mechanically to the door leading to the back of the apartment. "you certainly have left an atmosphere in this joint, spink. somehow i feel always as if you were in the room. how it would be possible for such a pop-eyed, freckle-faced piute as you to pack an astral body is more than i can understand. it's here though--that sense of your presence. the other day i caught myself saying, 'oh, spink!' to the empty air. but to return to lutetia, i can't tell you how the prospect tempts. once on a _permission_ in the spring of ' , i finds myself in lyons. there are to be gentle acrobatic doings in the best gallic manner in the park on sunday. i gallops out to see the sports. one place, i comes across several scores of _poilus_--on their _permissions_ similar--squatting on the ground and doing--what do you suppose? picking violets. yep--picking violets. i says to myself then, i says, 'these frogs sure are queer guys.' but now, spink, i understand. i don't want to do anything more strenuous myself than picking violets, unless it's selling baby blankets, or holding yarn for old ladies. perhaps by an enormous effort i might summon the energy to run a tea-room." lindsay stopped his typewriting again. this time he stared fixedly at washington square. his eyes followed a pink-smocked, bob-haired maiden hurrying across the park; but apparently she did not register. he turned abruptly with a--"hello, old top, what do you want?" the doorway, being empty, made no answer. having apparently forgotten his remark the instant it was dropped, lindsay went on writing. "i admit i'm thinking over that proposition. among my things in storage here, i have all lutetia's works, including those unsuccessful and very rare pomes of hers; even that blooming thesis i wrote. the thesis would, of course, read rotten now, but it might provide data that would save research. when do you propose to bring out this new edition, and how do you account for that recent demand for her? of course it establishes me as some swell prophet. i always said she'd bob up again, you know. then it looked as though she was as dead as the dodo. it isn't the work alone that appeals to me; it's doing it in lutetia's own town, which is apparently the exact kind of dead little burg i'm looking for--quinanog, isn't it? come to think of it, spink, my favorite occupation at this moment would be making daisy-chains or oak-wreaths. i'll think it..." he jumped spasmodically; jerked his head about; glanced over his shoulder at the doorway-- "what i'd really like to do, is the biography of lutetia for about one month; then--for about three months--my experiences at the war which, i understand, are to be put away in the manuscript safe of the publishing firm of dunbar, cabot and elsingham to be published when the demand for war stuff begins again. that, i reckon, is what i should do if i'm going to do it at all. write it while it's fresh--as i'm not a professional. but i can't at this moment say yes, and i can't say no. i'd like to stay a little longer in new york. i'd like to renew acquaintance with the old burg. i can afford to thrash round a bit, you know, if i like. there's ten thousand dollars that my uncle left me, in the bank waiting me. when that's spent, of course i'll have to go to work. "you ask me for my impressions of america--as a returned sky-warrior. of course i've only been here a week and i haven't talked with so very many people yet. but everybody is remarkably omniscient. i can't tell them anything about the late war. sometimes they ask me a question, but they never listen to my answer. no, i listen to them. and they're very informing, believe me. most of them think that the cavalry won the war and that we went over the top to the sound of fife and drum. for myself..." again he jumped; turned his head; stared into the doorway. after an instant of apparent expectancy, he sighed. he arose and, with an elaborate saunter, moved over to the mirror hanging above the mantel; looked at his reflection with the air of one longing to see something human. the mirror was old; narrow and dim; gold framed. a gay little picture of a ship, bellying to full sail, filled the space above the looking-glass. the face, which contemplated him with the same unseeing carelessness with which he contemplated it, was the face of twenty-five--handsome; dark. it was long and lean. the continuous flying of two years had dyed it a deep wine-red; had bronzed and burnished it. and apparently the experiences that went with that flying had cooled and hardened it. it was now but a smoothly handsome mask which blanked all expression of his emotions. even as his eye fixed itself on his own reflected eye, his head jerked sideways again; he stared expectantly at the open doorway. after an interval in which nothing appeared, he sauntered through that door; and--with almost an effect of premeditated carelessness--through the two little rooms, which so uselessly fill the central space of many new york houses, to the big sunny bedroom at the back. the windows looked out on a paintable series of backyards: on a sketchable huddle of old, stained, leaning wooden houses. at the opposite window, a purple-haired, violet-eyed foreign girl in a faded yellow blouse was making artificial nasturtiums; flame-colored velvet petals, like a drift of burning snow, heaped the table in front of her. a black cat sunned itself on the window ledge. on a distant roof, a boy with a long pole was herding a flock of pigeons. they made glittering swirls of motion and quick v-wheelings, that flashed the gray of their wings like blades and the white of their breasts like glass. their sudden turns filled the air with mirrors. lindsay watched their flight with the critical air of a rival. suddenly he turned as though someone had called him; glanced inquiringly back at the doorway.... when, a few minutes later, he sauntered into the rochambeau, immaculate in the old gray suit he had put off when he donned the french uniform four years before, he was the pink of summer coolness and the quintessence of military calm. the little, low-ceilinged series of rooms, just below the level of the street, were crowded; filled with smoke, talk, and laughter. lindsay at length found a table, looked about him, discovered himself to be among strangers. he ordered a cocktail, swearing at the price to the sympathetic french waiter, who made an excited response in french and assisted him to order an elaborate dinner. lindsay propped his paper against his water-glass; concentrated on it as one prepared for lonely eating. with the little-necks, however, came diversion. from behind the waiter's crooked arm appeared the satiny dark head of a girl. lindsay leaped to his feet, held out his hand. "good lord, gratia! where in the world did you come from!" the girl put both her pretty hands out. "i _can_ shake hands with you, david, now that you're in civies. i don't like that green and yellow ribbon in your buttonhole though. i'm a pacifist, you know, and i've got to tell you where i stand before we can talk." "all right," lindsay accepted cheerfully. "you're a darn pretty pacifist, gratia. of course you don't know what you're talking about. but as long as you talk about anything, i'll listen." gratia had cut her hair short, but she had introduced a style of hair-dressing new even to greenwich village. she combed its sleek abundance straight back to her neck and left it. there, following its own devices, it turned up in the most delightful curls. her large dark eyes were set in a skin of pale amber and in the midst of a piquant assortment of features. she had a way, just before speaking, of lifting her sleek head high on the top of her slim neck. and then she was like a beautiful young seal emerging from the water. "oh, i'm perfectly serious!" the pretty pacifist asserted. "you know i never have believed in war. dora says you've come back loving the french. how you can admire a people who--" after a while she paused to take breath and then, with the characteristic lift of her head, "belgians--the congo--algeciras--morocco-- and as for england--ireland--india--egypt--" the glib, conventional patter dripped readily from her soft lips. lindsay listened, apparently entranced. "gratia, you're too pretty for any use!" he asserted indulgently after the next pause in which she dove under the water and reappeared sleek-haired as ever. "i'm not going to argue with you. i'm going to tell you one thing that will be a shock to you, though. the french don't like war either. and the reason is--now prepare yourself--they know more about the horrors of war in _one_ minute than you will in a thousand years. what are you doing with yourself, these days, gratia?" "oh, running a shop; making smocks, working on batiks, painting, writing _vers libre_," gratia admitted. "i mean, what do you do with your leisure?" lindsay demanded, after prolonged meditation. gratia ignored this persiflage. "i'm thinking of taking up psycho-analysis," she confided. "it interests me enormously. i think i ought to do rather well with it." "i offer myself as your first victim. why, you'll make millions! every man in new york will want to be psyched. what's the news, gratia? i'm dying for gossip." gratia did her best to feed this appetite. declining dinner, she sipped the tall cool green drink which lindsay ordered for her. she poured out a flood of talk; but all the time her eyes were flitting from table to table. and often she interrupted her comments on the absent with remarks about the present. "yes, aussie was killed in italy, flying. will arden was wounded in the argonne. george jennings died of the flu in paris--see that big blonde over there, dave? she's the village dressmaker now--dark dale is in russia--can't get out. putty doane was taken prisoner by the germans at--oh, see that gang of up-towners--aren't they snippy and patronizing and silly? but molly fearing is our best war sensation. you know what a tiny frightened mouse of a thing she was. she went into the 'y.' she was in the trenches the day of the armistice--_talked_ with germans; not prisoners, you understand--but the retreating germans. her letters are wonderful. she's crazy about it over there. i wouldn't be surprised if she never came back-- oh, dave, don't look now; but as soon as you can, get that tall red-headed girl in the corner, marie maroo. she does the most marvelous drawings you ever saw. she belongs to that new vortex school. and then joel-- oh, there's ernestine phillips and her father. you want to meet her father. he's a riot. octogenarian, too! he's just come from some remote hamlet in vermont. ernestine's showing him a properly expurgated edition of the village. hi, ernestine! he's a civil war veteran. ernest's crazy to see you, dave!" the middle-aged, rather rough-featured woman standing in the doorway turned at gratia's call. her movement revealed the head and shoulders of a tall, gaunt, very old man, a little rough-featured like his daughter; white-haired and white-mustached. she hurried at once to lindsay's table. "oh, dave!" she took both lindsay's hands. "i _am_ glad to see you! how i have worried about you! my father, dave. father, this is david lindsay, the young aviator i was telling you about, who had such extraordinary experiences in france. you remember the one i mean, father. he served for two years with the french army before we declared war." mr. phillips extended a long arm which dangled a long hand. "pleased to meet you, sir! you're the first flier i've had a chance to talk with. i expect folks make life a perfect misery to you--but if you don't mind answering questions--" "shoot!" lindsay permitted serenely. "i'm nearly bursting with suppressed information. how are you, ernestine?" "pretty frazzled like the rest of us," ernestine answered. ernestine had one fine feature; a pair of large dark serene eyes. now they flamed with a troubled fire. "the war did all kinds of things to my psychology, of course. i suppose i am the most despised woman in the village at this moment because i don't seem to be either a militarist or a pacifist. i don't believe in war, but i don't see how we could have kept out of it; or how france could have prevented it." "ernestine!" lindsay said warmly. "i just love _you_. contrary to the generally accepted opinion of the pacifists, france did not deliberately bring this war on herself. nor did she keep it up four years for her private amusement. she hasn't enjoyed one minute of it. i don't expect gratia to believe me, but perhaps you will. these four years of death, destruction, and devastation haven't entertained france a particle." "well, of course--" ernestine was beginning, "but what's the use?" her eyes met lindsay's in a perplexed, comprehending stare. lindsay shook his handsome head gayly. "no use whatever," he said. "i'm rapidly growing taciturn." "what i would like to ask you," mr. phillips broke in, "does war seem such a pretty thing to you, young man, after you've seen a little of it? i remember in ' most of us came back thinking that sherman hadn't used strong enough language." "mr. phillips," lindsay answered, "if there's ever another war, it will take fifteen thousand dollars to send me a postcard telling me about it." the talk drifted away from the war: turned to prohibition; came back to it again. lindsay answered mr. phillips's questions with enthusiastic thoroughness. they pertained mainly to his training at pau and avord, but lindsay volunteered a detailed comparison of the american military method with the french. "i'll always be glad though," he concluded, "that i had that experience with the french army. and of course when our troops got over, i was all ready to fly." "then the french uniform is so charming," gratia put in, consciously sarcastic. lindsay slapped her slim wrist indulgently and continued to answer mr. phillips's questions. ernestine listened, the look of trouble growing in her serene eyes. gratia listened, diving under water after her shocked exclamations and reappearing glistening. "oh, there's matty packington!" gratia broke in. "you haven't met matty yet, dave. hi, matty! you _must_ know matty. she's a sketch. she's one of those people who say the things other people only dare think. you won't believe her." she rattled one of her staccato explanations; "society girl--first a slumming tour through the village--perfectly crazy about it--studio in mcdougal alley--yeowoman--becoming uniform--rolls-royce--salutes--" matty packington approached the table with a composed flutter. the two men arose. gratia met her halfway; performed the introductions. in a minute the conversation was out of everybody's hands and in miss packington's. as gratia prophesied, lindsay found it difficult to believe her. she started at an extraordinary speed and she maintained it without break. "oh, mr. lindsay, aren't you heartbroken now that it is all over? you must tell me all about your experiences sometime. it must have been too thrilling for words. but don't you think--_don't_ you think--they stopped the war too soon? if i were foch i wouldn't have been satisfied until i'd occupied all germany, devastated just as much territory as those beasts devastated in france, and executed all those monsters who cut off the belgian babies' hands. don't you think so?" lindsay contemplated the lady who put this interesting question to him. she was fair and fairy-like; a little, light-shot golden blonde; all slim lines and opalescent colors. her hair fluttered like whirled light from under her piquantly cocked military cap. the stress of her emotion added for the instant to the bigness and blueness of her eyes. "well, for myself," he remarked finally, "i can do with a little peace for a while. and then to carry out your wishes, miss packington, foch would have had to sacrifice a quarter of a million more allied soldiers. but i sometimes think the men at the front were a bit thoughtless of the entertainment of the civilians. somehow we _did_ get it into our heads that we ought to close this war up as soon as possible. another time perhaps we'd know better." miss packington received this characteristically; that is to say, she did not receive it at all. for by the time lindsay had begun his last sentence, she had embarked on a monologue directed this time to gratia. the talk flew back and forth, grew general; grew concrete; grew abstract; grew personal. it bubbled up into monologues from gratia and matty. it thinned down to questions from ernestine and mr. phillips. drinks came; were followed by other drinks. all about them, tables emptied and filled, uniforms predominating; and all to the accompaniment of chatter; gay mirth; drifting smoke-films and refilled glasses. latecomers stopped to shake hands with lindsay, to join the party for a drink; to smoke a cigarette; floated away to other parties. but the nucleus of their party remained the same. david answered with patience all questions, stopped patiently halfway through his own answer to reply to other questions. at about midnight he rose abruptly. he had just brought to the end a careful and succinct statement in which he declared that he had seen no belgian children with their hands cut off; no crucified canadians. "folks," he addressed the company genially, "i'm going to admit to you i'm tired." inwardly he added, "i won't indicate which ones of you make me the most tired; but almost all of you give me an awful pain." he added aloud, "it's the hay for me this instant. good-night!" back once more in his rooms, he did not light up. instead he sat at the window and gazed out. straight ahead, two lines of golden beads curving up the avenue seemed to connect the arch with the distant horizon. the deep azure of the sky was faintly powdered with stars. but for its occasional lights, of a purplish silver, the square would have been a mere mystery of trees. but those lights seemed to anchor what was half vision to earth. and they threw interlaced leaf shadows on the ceiling above lindsay's head. it was as though he sat in some ghostly bower. looking fixedly through the arch, his face grew somber. suddenly he jerked about and stared through the doorway which led into the back rooms. nothing appeared-- after a while he lighted one gas jet--after an instant's hesitation another-- * * * * * in the middle of the night, lindsay suddenly found himself sitting upright. his mouth was wide open, parched; his eyes were wide open, staring.... a chilly prickling tingled along his scalp.... but the strangest phenomenon was his heart, which, though swelled to an incredible bulk, nimbly leaped, heavily pounded.... lindsay recognized the motion which inundated him to be fear; overpowering, shameless, abject fear. but of what? in the instant in which he gave way to self-analysis, memory supplied him with a vague impression. _something_ had come to his bed and, leaning over, had stared into his face-- that _something_ was not human. lindsay fought for control. by an initial feat of courage, his fumbling fingers lighted a candle which stood on the tiny sheraton table at his bedside. on a second impulse, but only after an interval in which consciously but desperately he grasped at his vanishing manhood, he leaped out of bed; lighted the gas. then carrying the lighted candle, he went from one to another of the four rooms of the apartment. in each room he lighted every gas jet until the place blazed. he searched it thoroughly: dark corners and darker closets; jetty strata of shadow under couches. he was alone. after a while he went back to bed. but his courage was not equal to darkness again. though ultimately he fell asleep, the gas blazed all night. * * * * * lindsay awoke rather jaded the next morning. he wandered from room to room submitting to one slash of his razor at this mirror and to another at that. at one period of this process, "rum nightmare i had last night!" he remarked casually to the unresponsive air. he cooked his own breakfast; piled up the dishes and settled himself to his correspondence again. "this letter is getting to be a book, spink," he began. "but i feel every moment as though i wanted to add more. i slept on your proposition last night, but i don't feel any nearer a decision. quinanog and lutetia tempt me; but then so does new york. by the way, have you any pictures of lutetia? i had one in my rooms at holworthy. must be kicking around among my things. i cut it out of the annual catalogue of your book-house. photograph as i remember. she was some pip. i'd like--" he started suddenly, turned his head toward the doorway leading to the back rooms. the doorway was empty. lindsay arose from his chair, sauntered in a leisurely manner through the rooms. he investigated closets again. "damn it all!" he muttered. he resumed his letter. "you're right about writing my experiences now. i had a long footless talk with some boobs last night, and it was curious how things came back under their questions. i had quite forgotten them temporarily, and of course i shall forget them for keeps if i don't begin to put them down. i have a few scattered notes here and there. i meant, of course, to keep a diary, but believe me, a man engaged in a war is too busy for the pursuit of letters. but just as soon as i make up my mind--" another interval. absently lindsay addressed an envelope. spinney k. sparrel, esq., park street, boston; attacked the list of other long-neglected correspondents. suddenly his head jerked upward; pivoted again. after an instant's observation of the empty doorway, he pulled his face forward; resumed his work. page after page slid onto the roller of his machine, submitted to the tattoo of its little lettered teeth, emerged neatly inscribed. suddenly he leaped to his feet; swung about. the doorway was empty. "who are you?" he interrogated the empty air, "and what do you want? if you can tell me, speak--and i'll do anything in my power to help you. but if you can't tell me, for god's sake go away!" * * * * * that night--it happened again. there came the same sudden start, stricken, panting, perspiring, out of deep sleep; the same frantic search of the apartment with all the lights burning; the same late, broken drowse; the same jaded awakening. as before, he set himself doggedly to work. and, as before, somewhere in the middle of the morning, he wheeled about swiftly in his chair to glare through the open doorway. "i wonder if i'm going nutty!" he exclaimed aloud. * * * * * three days went by. lindsay's nights were so broken that he took long naps in the afternoon. his days had turned into periods of idle revery. the letter to spink sparrel was still unfinished. he worked spasmodically at his typewriter: but he completed nothing. the third night he started toward the rochambeau with the intention of getting a room. but halfway across the park, he stopped and retraced his steps. "i can't let you beat me!" he muttered audibly, after he arrived in the empty apartment. it did not beat him that night; for he stayed in the apartment until dawn broke. but from midnight on, he lay with every light in the place going. at sunrise, he dressed and went out for a walk. and the moment the sounds of everyday life began to humanize the neighborhood, he returned; sat down to his machine. "spink, old dear, my mind is made up. i accept! i'll do lutetia for you; and, by god, i'll do her well! i'm starting for boston tomorrow night on the midnight. i'll call at the office about noon and we'll go to luncheon together. i'll dig out my thesis and books from storage, and if you'll get all your dope and data together, i can go right to it. i'm going to quinanog tomorrow afternoon. i need a change. everybody here makes me tired. the pacifists make me wild and the militarists make me wilder. civilians is nuts when it comes to a war. the only person i can talk about it with is somebody who's been there. and anybody who's been there has the good sense not to want to talk about it. i don't ever want to hear of that war again. personally, i, david lindsay, meaning me, want to swing in a hammock on a pleasant, cool, vine-hung piazza; read lutetia at intervals and write some little pieces subsequent. yours, david." ii susannah ayer dragged herself out of her sleepless night and started to get up. but halfway through her first rising motion, something seemed to leave her--to leave her spirit rather than her body. she collapsed in a droop-shouldered huddle onto the bed. her red hair had come out of its thick braids; it streamed forward over her white face; streaked her nightgown with glowing strands. she pushed it out of her eyes and sat for a long interval with her face in her hands. finally she rose and went to the dresser. haggardly she stared into the glass at her reflection, and haggardly her reflection stared back at her. "i don't wonder you look different, glorious susie," she addressed herself wordlessly, "because you _are_ different. i wonder if you can ever wash away that experience--" she poured water into the basin until it almost brimmed; and dropped her face into it. after her sponge bath, she contemplated herself again in the glass. some color had crept into the pearly whiteness of her cheek. her dark-fringed eyes seemed a little less shadow-encircled. she turned their turquoise glance to the picture of a woman--a miniature painted on ivory--which hung beside the dresser. "glorious lutie," she apostrophized it, "you don't know how i wish you were here. you don't know how much i need you now. i need you so much, glorious lutie--i'm frightened!" the miniature, after the impersonal manner of pictures, made no response to this call for help. susannah sighed deeply. and for a moment she stood a figure almost tragic, her eyes darkening as she looked into space, her young mouth setting its soft scarlet into hard lines. in another moment she pulled herself out of this daze and continued her dressing. an hour and a half later, when, cool and lithe in her blue linen suit, she entered the uptown skyscraper which housed the carbonado mining company, her spirits took a sudden leap. after all, here _was_ help. it was not the help she most desired and needed--the confidence and advice of another woman--but at least she would get instant sympathy, ultimate understanding. anyone, however depressed his mood, must have felt his spirits rise as he stepped into the admolian building. it was so new that its terra-cotta walls without, its white-enameled tiling within, seemed always to have been freshly scrubbed and dusted. it was so high that, with a first acrobatic impulse, it leaped twenty stories above ground; and with a second, soared into a tower which touched the clouds. that had not exhausted its strength. it dug in below ground, and there spread out into rooms, eternally electric-lighted. from the eleventh story up, its wide windows surveyed every purlieu of manhattan. its spacious elevators seemed magically to defy gravitation. a touch started their swift flight heavenward; a touch started their soft drop earthward. every floor housed offices where fortunes were being made--and lost--at any rate, changing hands. there was an element of buoyancy in the air, an atmosphere of success. people moved more quickly, talked more briskly, from the moment they entered the admolian building. as always, it raised the spirits of susannah ayer. the set look vanished from her eyes; some of their normal brilliancy flowed back into them. her mouth relaxed-- when the elevator came to a padded halt at the eighteenth floor, she had become almost herself again. she stopped before the first in a series of offices. black-printed letters on the ground glass of the door read: carbonado mining company private. enter no. an accommodating hand pointed in the direction of no. . susannah unlocked the door and with a little sigh, as of relief, stepped in. other offices stretched along the line of the corridor, bearing the inscriptions, respectively, "no. , h. withington warner, president and general manager; no. , joseph byan, vice-president; no. , michael o'hearn, secretary and treasurer." ultimately, susannah's own door would flaunt the proud motto, "no. , susannah ayer, manager women's department." susannah threaded the inner corridor to her own office. she hung up her hat and jacket; opened her mail; ran through it. then she lifted the cover from her typewriter and began mechanically to brush and oil it. her mind was not on her work; it had not been on the letters. it kept speeding back to last night. she did not want to think of last night again--at least not until she must. she pulled her thoughts into her control; made them flow back over the past months. and as they sped in those pleasant channels, involuntarily her mood went with them. had any girl ever been so fortunate, she wondered. she put it to herself in simple declaratives-- here she was, all alone in new york and in new york for the first time, settled--interestingly and pleasantly settled. eight months before, she had stepped out of business college without a hundred dollars in the world; her course in stenography, typewriting, and secretarial work had taken the last of her inherited funds. without kith or kin, she was a working-woman, now, on her own responsibility. two months of apprenticeship, one stenographer among fifty, in the great offices of the maxwell mills, and barty joyce, almost the sole remaining friend who remembered the past glories of her family, had advised her to try new york. "susannah," he said, "now is the time to strike--now while the men are away and while the girls are still on war jobs. get yourself entrenched before they come back. you've the makings of a wonderful office helper." susannah, with a glorious sense of adventure once she was started, took his advice and moved to new york. for a week, she answered advertisements, visited offices; and she found that barty was right. she had the refusal of half a dozen jobs. from them she selected the offer of the carbonado mining company--partly because she liked mr. warner, and partly because it seemed to offer the best future. mr. warner said to her in their first interview: "we are looking for a clever woman whom we can specially train in the methods of our somewhat peculiar business. if you qualify, we shall advance you to a superior position." that "superior position" had fallen into her hand like a ripe peach. within a week, mr. warner had called her into the private office for a long business talk. "miss ayer," he said, "you seem to be making good. i am going to tell you frankly that if you continue to meet our requirements, we shall continue to advance you and pay you accordingly. you see, our business--" mr. warner's voice always swelled a little when he said "our business"--"our business involves a great deal of letter-writing to women investors and some personal interviews. now we believe--both mr. byan and i--that women investing money like to deal with one of their own sex. we have been looking for just the right woman. a candidate for the position must have tact, understanding, and clearness of written expression. we have been trying to find such a woman; and frankly, the search has been difficult. you know how war work--quite rightly, of course--has monopolized the able women of the country. we have tried out half a dozen girls; but the less said about them the better. for two weeks we will let you try your hand at correspondence with women investors. if your work is satisfactory, it means a permanent job at twice your present salary." her work had pleased them! it had pleased them instantly. but oh, how she had worked to please them and to continue to please! every letter she sent out--and after explaining the carbonado company and its attractions, mr. warner let her compose all the letters to women--was a study in condensed and graceful expression. at the end of the fortnight mr. warner engaged her permanently. he went even further. he said: "miss ayer, we're going to make you manager of our women's department; and we're going to put your name with ours on the letterhead of the new office stationery." when the day came that she first signed herself "susannah ayer, manager women's department," she felt as though all the fairy tales she ever read had come true. susannah, as she was assured again and again, continued to give satisfaction. no wonder; for she liked her job. the work interested her so much that she always longed to get to the office in the morning, almost hated to leave it at night. it was a pleasant office, bright and spacious. everything was new, even to the capacious waste basket. her big, shiny mahogany desk stood close to the window. and from that window she surveyed the colorful, brick-and-stone west side of manhattan, the hudson, and the city-spotted, town-dotted stretches beyond. the clouds hung close; sometimes their white and silver argosies seemed to besiege her. once, she almost thought the new moon would bounce through her window. snow noiselessly, winds tumultuously, assailed her; but she sat as impervious as though in an enchanted tower. gray days made only a suaver magic, thunderstorms a madder enchantment, about her eyrie. the human surroundings were just as pleasant. though the carbonado company worked only with selected clients, though they transacted most of their business by mail, there were many visitors--some customers; others, apparently, merely friends of mr. warner, mr. byan, and mr. o'hearn--who dropped in of afternoons to chat a while. pleasant, jolly men most of these. snatches of their talk, usually enigmatic, floated to her across the tops of the partitions; it gave the office an exciting atmosphere of something doing. and then--it happened that susannah's way of life had brought her into contact with but few men--everything was so _manny_. she stood a little in awe of h. withington warner, president and general manager. mr. warner was middle-aged and iron-gray. that last adjective perfectly described him--iron-gray. everything about him was gray; his straight, thick hair; his clear, incisive eyes; even his colorless skin. and his personality had a quality of iron. there was about him a fascinating element of duality. sometimes he seemed to susannah a little like a clergyman. and sometimes he made her think of an actor. this histrionic aspect, she decided, was due to his hair, a bit long; to his features, floridly classic; to his manner, frequently courtly; to his voice, occasionally oratorical. this, however, showed only in his lighter moments. much of the time, of course, he was merely brisk and businesslike. whatever his tone, it carried you along. to susannah, he was always charming. if she stood a little in awe of h. withington warner, she made up by feeling on terms of the utmost equality with michael o'hearn, secretary and treasurer of the carbonado mining company. mr. o'hearn--the others called him "mike"--was a little irishman. he had a short stumpy figure and a short stumpy face. moreover, he looked as though someone had delivered him a denting blow in the middle of his profile. from this indentation jutted in one direction his long, protuberant, rounded forehead; peaked in another his upturned nose. the rest of him was sandy hair and sandy complexion, and an agreeable pair of long-lashed irish eyes. he was the wit of the office, keeping everyone in constant good temper. susannah felt very friendly toward mr. o'hearn. this was strange, because he rarely spoke to her. but somehow, for all that, he had the gift of seeming friendly. susannah trusted him as she trusted mr. warner, though in a different way. in regard to joseph byan, the third member of the combination, susannah had her unformulated reservations. perhaps it was because byan really interested her more than the other two. byan was little and slender; perfectly formed and rather fine-featured; swift as a cat in his darting movements. in his blue eyes shone a look of vague pathos and on his lips floated--susannah decided that this was the only way to express it--a vague, a rather sweet smile. susannah's job had not at first brought her as much into contact with mr. byan as with mr. warner. his work, she learned, lay mostly outside of the office. but once, during her third week, he had come into her office and dictated a letter; had lingered, when he had finished with the business in hand, for a little talk. the conversation, in some curious turn, veered to the subject of firearms. he was speaking of the various patterns of revolvers. he stood before her, a slim, perfectly proportioned figure whose clothes, of an almost feminine nicety and cut, seemed to follow every line of the body beneath. suddenly, one of his slight hands made a swift gesture. there appeared--from where, she could not guess--a little, ugly-looking black revolver. with it, he illustrated his point. since, he had never passed through the office without susannah's glance playing over him like a flame. nowhere along the smooth lines of his figure could she catch the bulge of that little toy of death. despite his suave gentleness, there was a believable quality about byan; his personality carried conviction, just as did that of the others. susannah trusted him, too; but again in a different way. on the very day when mr. byan showed her the revolver, she was passing the open door of mr. warner's office; and she heard the full, round voice of the chief saying: "remember, joe, rule number one: no clients or employ--" byan hastily closed the door on the tail of that sentence. sometimes she wondered how it ended. a cog in the machine, susannah had never fully understood the business. that was not really necessary; mr. warner himself kept her informed on what she needed to know. he explained in the beginning the glorious opportunity for investors. from time to time, he added new details, as for example the glowing reports of their chief engineer or their special expert. susannah knew that they were paying three per cent dividends a month--and in april there was a special dividend of two per cent. besides, they were about to break into a "mother lode"--the reports of their experts proved that--and when that happened, no one could tell just how high the dividends might be. true, these dividend payments were often made a little irregularly. one of the things which susannah did not understand, did not try to understand, was why a certain list of preferred stockholders was now and then given an extra dividend; nor why at times mr. warner would transfer a name from one list to another. "i'm thinking of saving my money and investing myself in carbonado stock!" said susannah to mr. warner one day. "don't," said mr. warner; and then with a touch of his clerical manner: "we prefer to keep our office force and our investors entirely separate factors for the present. we are trying to avoid the reproach of letting our people in on the ground floor. when our ship comes in--when we open the mother lode--you shall be taken care of!" so, for six months, everything went perfectly. susannah had absorbed herself completely in her job. this was an easy thing to do when the business was so fascinating. she had gone for five months at this pace when she realized that she had not taken the leisure to make friends. except the three partners--mere shadows to her--and the people at her boarding-house--also mere shadows to her--she knew only eloise. not that the friendship of eloise was a thing to pass over lightly. eloise was a host in herself. they had met at the dorothy dorr, a semi-charitable home for young business women, at which susannah stayed during her first week in new york. eloise was an heiress, of that species known to the newspapers as a "society girl." pretty, piquant, gay, extravagant, she dabbled in picturesque charities, and the dorothy dorr was her pet. sometimes in the summer, when she ran up to town, she even lodged there. by natural affinity, she had picked susannah out of the crowd. by the time susannah was established in her new job and had moved to a boarding-house, they had become friends. but the friendship of eloise could not be very satisfactory. she was too busy; and, indeed, too often out of town. from her social fastnesses, she made sudden, dashing forays on susannah; took her to luncheon, dinner, or the theater; then she would retreat to upper fifth avenue, and susannah would not see her for a fortnight or a month. then, that terrible, perplexing yesterday. if she could only expunge yesterday from her life--or at least from her memory! of course, there were events leading up to yesterday. chief among them was the appearance in the office, some weeks before, of mr. ozias cowler, from iowa. mr. cowler, susannah gathered from the manner of the office, was a customer of importance. he was middle-aged. no, why mince matters--he was an old man who looked middle-aged. he was old, because his hair had gone quite white, and his face had fallen into areas broken by wrinkles. but he appeared to the first glance middle-aged, because the skin of those areas was ruddy and warm; because his eyes were as clear and blue as in youth. he looked--well, susannah decided that he looked _fatherly_. he was quiet in his step and quiet in his manner. though he appeared to her in the light of a customer rather than that of an acquaintance, susannah was inclined to like him, as she liked everyone and everything about the carbonado offices. susannah gathered in time that mr. cowler had a great deal of money, and that he had come to new york to invest it. of course the carbonado mining company--and this included susannah herself--saw the best of reasons why it should be invested with them. but evidently, he was a hard, cautious customer. he came again and again. he sat closeted for long intervals with mr. warner. sometimes mr. byan came into these conferences. mr. cowler was always going to luncheon with the one and to dinner with the other. he even went to a baseball game with mr. o'hearn. but, although he visited the office more and more frequently, she gathered that the investment was not forthcoming. susannah knew how frequently he was coming because, in spite of the little, admonitory black hand on the ground-glass door, he always entered, not by the reception room, but by her office. usually, he preceded his long talk with mr. warner by a little chat with her. evidently, he had not yet caught the quick gait of new york business; for as he left--again through susannah's office--he would stop for a longer talk. once or twice, susannah had to excuse herself in order to go on with her work. she had been a little afraid that mr. warner would comment on these delays in office routine. but, although mr. warner once or twice glanced into her office during these intervals, he never interfered. then came--yesterday. early in the morning, mr. warner said: "miss ayer, i wonder if you can do a favor for us?" he went on, without waiting for susannah's answer: "cowler--you know what a helpless person he is--wants to go to dinner and the theater tonight. it happens that none of us can accompany him. we've all made the kind of engagement which can't be broken--business. he feels a little self-conscious. you know, his money came to him late, and he has never been to a big city before. i suspect he is afraid to enter a fashionable restaurant alone. he wants to go to sherry's and to the theater afterward--" mr. warner paused to smile genially. "he's something of a hick, you know, and especially in regard to this sherry and midnight cabaret stuff." mr. warner rarely used slang; and when he did, his smile seemed to put it into quotation marks. "true to type, he has bought tickets in the front row. after the show, he wants to go to one of the midnight cabarets. would you be willing to steer him through all this? the show is _let's beat it_." susannah expressed herself as delighted; and indeed she was. to herself she admitted that mr. cowler was no more of a "hick" in regard to broadway, sherry's, and midnight cabarets than she herself. but about admitting this, she had all the self-consciousness of the newly arrived new yorker. "that is very good of you, miss ayer," said mr. warner, appearing much relieved. "you may go home this afternoon an hour earlier." again mr. warner passed from his incisive, gray-hued sobriety to an expansive geniality. "i know that in these circumstances, ladies like to take time over their toilettes." he smiled at susannah, a smile more expansive than any she had ever seen on his face; it showed to the back molars his handsome, white, regular teeth. mr. cowler called for her in a taxicab at seven and-- * * * * * she heard mr. warner's door open and shut. footsteps sounded in the corridor--that was mr. o'hearn's voice. she glanced at her wrist-watch. half-past nine. the partners had arrived early this morning, of all mornings. they were night birds, all three, seldom appearing before half-past ten, and often working in the office late after she had gone. susannah stopped mid-sentence a letter which she was tapping out to a widow in iowa, rose, moved toward the door. at the threshold, she stopped, a deep blush suffusing her face. so she paused for a moment, irresolute. when finally she started down the corridor, mr. warner emerged from the door of his own office, met her face to face. and as his eyes rested on hers, she was puzzled by the expression on his smooth countenance. was it anxiety? his expression seemed to question her--then it flowed into his cordial smile. susannah was first to speak: "good-morning, mr. warner. may i see you alone for a moment?" "certainly!" with his best courtliness of manner, he bowed her into his private office. "won't you have a seat?" susannah sat down. "it's about--about mr. cowler and last night." she paused. "oh," asked mr. warner, carelessly, casually, "did you have a pleasant evening?" "it's about that i wanted to talk with you," susannah faltered. suddenly, her embarrassment broke, and she became perfectly composed. "mr. warner, i dislike to tell you all this, because i know how it will shock you to hear it. but you will understand that i have no choice in the matter. it is very hard to speak of, and i don't know exactly how to express it, but, mr. warner, mr. cowler insulted me grossly last evening ... so grossly that i left the table where we were eating after the theater and ... and ... well, perhaps you can guess my state of mind when i tell you that i was actually afraid to take a taxi. of course, i see now how foolish that was. but i ... i ran all the way home." for an instant, mr. warner's fine, incisive geniality did not change. then suddenly it broke into a look of sympathetic understanding. "i am sorry, miss ayer," he declared gravely, "i am indeed sorry." his clergyman aspect was for the moment in the ascendent. he might have been talking from the pulpit. his voice took its oratorical tone. "it seems incredible that men should do such things--incredible. but one must, i suppose, make allowances. a rural type alone in a great city and surrounded by all the intoxicating aspects of that city. it undoubtedly unbalanced him. moreover, miss ayer, i may say without flattery that you are more than attractive. and then, he is unaccustomed to drinking--" "oh, he had not drunk anything to speak of," susannah interrupted. "a little claret at dinner. he had ordered champagne, but this ... this episode occurred before it came." "incredible!" again murmured mr. warner. "inexplicable!" he added. he paused for a moment. "you wish me to see that he apologizes?" "i don't ask that. i am only telling you so that you may understand why i can never speak to him again. for of course i don't want to see him as long as i live. i thought perhaps ... that if he comes here again ... you might manage so that he doesn't enter through my office." "we can probably manage that," mr. warner agreed urbanely. "of course we can manage that. he is, you see, a prospective client, and a very profitable one. we must continue to do business with him as usual." "oh, of course!" gasped susannah. "please don't think i'm trying to interfere with your business. i understand perfectly. it is only that i--but of course you understand. i don't want to see him again." she rose. her lithe figure came up to the last inch of its height; the attitude gave her the effect of a column. her head was like a glowing alabaster lamp set at the top of that column. all the trouble had faded out of her face. the set, scarlet lines in her mouth had melted to their normal scarlet curves. the light had come back in a brilliant flood to her turquoise eyes. in this uprush of spirit, her red hair seemed even to bristle and to glisten. she sparkled visibly. "and now, i guess i'll get back to work," she said. "oh, by the way, i found in my mail this morning a letter addressed, not to the women's department, but to the firm. i opened it, but of course by accident." mr. warner drew the letter from its envelope, began casually running through it. the conversation seemed now to be ended; susannah moved toward the door. from his perusal of the letter, mr. warner stabbed at her back with one quick, alarmed glance, and: "oh, miss ayer, don't go yet," he said. his tone was a little tense and sharp. but he continued to peruse the letter. as he finished the last page, he looked up. again, his tone seemed peculiar; and he hesitated before he spoke. "er--did you make out the signature on this?" he asked. "no--it puzzled me," replied susannah. "sit down again, please," said mr. warner. now his manner had that accent of suavity, that velvety actor quality, which usually he reserved solely for women clients. "i'm awfully sorry, but i'm afraid i shall have to ask you to see mr. cowler again." "mr. warner, i ... i simply could not do that. i can never speak to him again. you don't know.... you can't guess.... why, i could scarcely tell my own mother ... if i had one...." "it seems quite shocking to you, of course, and--wait a moment--" mr. warner rose and walked toward the door leading to byan's office. but he seemed suddenly to change his mind. "i know exactly how you must feel," he said, returning. "believe me, my dear young lady, i enter perfectly into your emotions. shocked susceptibilities! wounded pride! all perfectly natural, even exemplary. but, miss ayer, this is a strange world. and in some aspects a very unsatisfactory one. we have to put up with many things we don't like. i, for instance. you could not guess the many disagreeable experiences to which i submit daily. i hate them as much as anyone, but business compels me to endure them. now you, in your position as manager of the women's department--" "nothing," susannah interrupted steadily, "could induce me knowingly to submit again to what happened last night. i would rather throw up my job. i would rather die." "but, my dear miss ayer, you are not the only young lady in this city who has been through such experiences. if women will invade industry, they must take the consequences. actresses, shopgirls, woman-buyers accept these things as a matter of course--as all in the day's work. indeed, many stenographers complain of unpleasant experiences. you have been exceedingly fortunate. have we not in this office paid you every possible respect?" "of course you have! it is because you have been so kind that i came to you at once, hoping ... believing ... that you would understand. it never occurred to me that you...." "of course i understand," mr. warner insisted, in his most soothing tone. "it's all very dreadful. what i am trying to point out to you is that whatever you do or wherever you go in a great city, the same thing is likely to happen. i am trying to prove to you that you are especially protected here. you like your work, don't you?" "i love it!" susannah protested with fervor. "then i think you will do well to ignore the incident. come, my child,"--mr. warner was now a combination of guiding pastor and admonishing parent,--"forget this deplorable incident. when mr. cowler comes in this afternoon, meet him as though nothing had happened. undoubtedly he is now bitterly regretting his mistake. unquestionably he will apologize. and the next time he asks you to go out with him, he will have learned how to treat a young lady so admirable and estimable, and you can accept his invitation with an untroubled spirit." "if i meet mr. cowler i will treat him exactly as though nothing had happened," susannah declared steadily. "i mean that upon meeting him i will bow. i will even--if you ask it--give him any information he may want about the business. but as to going anywhere with him again--i must decline absolutely." "but that is one of the services which we shall have to demand from time to time. clients come to town. they want an attractive young lady, a lady who will be a credit to them--a description which, i may say, perfectly applies to you--to accompany them about the city. that will be a part of your duties in future. had the occasion arisen before, it would have been a part of your duties in the past. if mr. cowler asks you again to accompany him for the evening, we shall expect you to go." "you never told me," said susannah after a perceptible interval, during which directly and piercingly she met mr. warner's gentle gaze, "that you expected this sort of thing." "my dear young lady," replied mr. warner with a kind of bland elegance, "i am very sorry if i did not make that clear." "then," said susannah--so unexpectedly that it was unexpected even to herself--"i shall have to give up my position. please look for another secretary. i shall consider it a favor if you get her as soon as possible." another pause; and then mr. warner asked: "would you mind waiting here for just a few moments before you make that decision final?" "i will wait," agreed susannah. "but i will not change my decision." mr. warner did not seem at all surprised or annoyed. he arose abruptly, started toward byan's office. this time he entered and closed the door behind him. a moment later, susannah realized from the muffled sounds which filtered through the partition that the partners were in conference. she caught the velvety tones of byan; o'hearn's soft lilt. and as she sat there, idly tapping the desk with a penholder, something among the memories of that confused morning crept into her mind; spread until it blotted out even the memory of mr. cowler. that letter--what did it mean? in her listless, inattentive state of mind, she had opened it carelessly, read it through before she realized that it was addressed not to the women's department, but to the company. had anyone asked her, a moment after she laid it down, just what it said, she could not have answered. now, her perplexed loneliness brought it all out on the tablets of her mind as the chemical brings out the picture from the blankness of a photographic plate. she glanced at the desk. the letter was not there--mr. warner had taken it with him. the man with the illegible signature wrote from nevada. he had seen, during a visit to kansas city, the circulars of the carbonado mining company. after his return, he had passed through carbonado. "i wondered, when i saw your literature, whether there had been a new strike in that busted camp," he wrote. "there hadn't. carbonado now consists of one store-keeper and a few retired prospectors who are trying to scrape something from the corners of the old buffalo boy property. that camp was worked out in the eighties--and it was never much but promises at that." as for the photographs which decorated the carbonado company's circulars, this man recognized at least one of them as a picture of a property he knew in utah. finally, he asked sarcastically just how long they expected to keep up the graft. "it's the old game, isn't it?" he inquired, "pay three per cent for a while and then get out with the capital." three per cent a month--that _was_ exactly what the carbonado company was paying. she wondered-- conjecture for susannah would have been certainty could she have heard the conversation just the other side of that closed door. at the moment when the contents of this letter flashed back into her mind, the letter itself lay on mr. byan's polished mahogany table. beside it lay a pile of penciled memoranda through which fluttered from time to time the nervous hand of h. withington warner. susannah would scarcely have known her genial employer. the mask of actor and clergyman had slipped from his face. his cheeks seemed to fall flat and flabby. his eyes had lost their benevolence. his mouth was set as hard as a trap, the corners drooping. across the table from him, too, sat a transformed byan. his smooth, regular features had sharpened to the likeness of a rat's. his voice, however, was still velvety; even though it had just flung at warner a string of oaths. "i told you we ought to've let go and skipped six weeks ago," he said, "that was the time for the touch-off. secret service still chasin' heinies--everythin' coming in and nothin' going out. the suckers had already stopped biting and then you go and hand out two more monthly dividends and settle all the bills like you intended to stay in business forever. what did we want with this royal suite here, and ours a correspondence game? what do we split if we stop today? twelve hundred dollars. twelve hundred dollars! we land this cowler--see!" warner, unperturbed, swept his glance to o'hearn, who sat huddled up in his chair, searching with his glance now one of his partners, now the other. "mike," he said, "you're certain about your tip on the fly cops?" "dead sure!" responded o'hearn. "the regular bulls ain't touching mining operations just now. it's up to the secret service. in two weeks more they'll be all cleaned up on the war, and then they'll be reorganizing their little committee on high finance. that there inspector laughlin will take charge. he knows you, boss. then"--o'hearn spread his hands with a gesture of finality--"about a week more and they'll get round to us. three weeks is all we're safe to go. they stop our mail and then--the pinch maybe. the tip's straight from you-know-who. the pinch--see!" at the repetition of that word "pinch," byan's countenance changed subtly. it was as though he had winced within. but he spoke in his usual velvety tone. "less than three weeks--h'm! how much is cowler good for?" "about a hundred thou'--big or nothing," replied warner. he was drawing stars and circles on the desk blotter. "he can't be landed without the girl. if he'd tumbled for the lizzies you shook at him--but he didn't--it's this red-headed doll in our office or nothing. and i've told you--" here o'hearn threw himself abruptly into the conversation. "lave out th' girrul," he said. usually o'hearn's irish showed in his speech only by a slight twist at the turn of his tongue. now it reverted to a thick brogue. "i'll not have anythin' to do--" "we'll leave in or take out exactly what i say," put in warner smoothly. "exactly what i say," he repeated. at this direct thrust, byan lifted his somewhat dreamy eyes. he dropped them again. then warner, his gaze directly on o'hearn's face, made a swift, sinister gesture. he drew a forefinger round his own throat, and completed the motion by pointing directly upward. o'hearn, his face suddenly going a little pale, subsided. warner broke into the sweet, christian smile of his office manner. subtly, he seemed to take command. his personality filled the room as he leaned forward over the table and summed everything up. "as for your noise about quitting six weeks ago," he said, "how was i to know that the suckers were going to stop running? we looked good for three months then. we've got three weeks to go. all right. as for the pinch, they won't get us unless the wad gives out. every stage of this game has been submitted to a lawyer. we're just a hair inside--but inside all the same. _but_ if we can't come through liberally to him when we're really in trouble, we might as well measure ourselves for stripes. he's that kind of lawyer. with a hundred thousand dollars--" he seemed to roll that phrase under his tongue--"we can stay and make snoots at the secret service or beat it elsewhere, just as we please. ozias cowler can furnish the hundred thou'. but he'll take only one bait. i've tried 'em all--flies, worms, beetles, and grasshoppers--and there's only one. and that one is trying to wriggle off the hook. i thought last night when i sent her out with him that maybe she would fall for him. the rest would have been easy. but she only worked up a case of this here maidenly virtue. on top of that, she reads this letter. of course, she has read it, though she don't know i know. i squeezed that out of her. "there," concluded warner, "that's the layout, isn't it?" he turned to byan; and his smiling, office manner came over his expression. "what would you say, joe? you're by way of being an expert on this kind of bait." in the carbonado mining company, warner ruled partly through his quality of personal force, but partly through fear, the cement of underworld society. just as he shook at o'hearn from time to time the threat conveyed by that sinister gesture, he held over byan the knowledge of that trade and traffic, shameful even among criminals, from which byan had risen to be a pander of low finance. at this thrust, however, byan did not pale, as had o'hearn. his expression became only the more inscrutable. "you should have let me break her in when i wanted to, months ago," he said. "i'd 'a' had her ready now. he won't fall for anyone else. i've offered those other molls to him, but he's crushed on her and won't look at anybody else. so we've got to put the screws on her. they're all cowards inside--yellow every one." "meaning?" inquired warner. "she's in it up to her neck with us," said byan. "we saw to that. all right. if we should go up against it, she'd have a hell of a time proving to a jury that she didn't know what her letters to customers were all about. now wouldn't she? ask yourself. looked like hard luck to me when she saw that letter just when she'd slapped the face of this cowler. but maybe it's a regular godsend. put it to her straight that this business is a graft, that we're due to go up against it in three weeks unless something nice happens, and that she's in it as deep as any of us. when she's so scared she can't see, let her know that she has got one way out--fall for cowler and help us touch him for his hundred thousand. make her think that it's the stir sure if she don't, and a clean getaway if she does." "suppose," continued warner in the manner of one weighing every chance, "she goes with her troubles to some wise guy?" "she's got no friends here," said byan. "i looked into that. runs around with one fluff, but she don't count. if she's scared enough, i tell you, she'll never dare peep--and she'll come round." "suppose she beats it?" suggested warner. "well, mike and i can shadow her, can't we?" replied byan. "if she tries to get out by rail, we can stop her and put on the screws right away. the screws!" repeated byan, as one who liked the idea. "and if she does hold out a while, nothin's lost. you've got the old dope worked up to the idea she's interested in him, haven't you? well, if she don't fall right away, you can take a little time explaining to him why she acted that way last night. maybe best to dangle her a while, anyway--get him so anxious to see her that he'll fall for anything when you bring her round. i'll be tightening up the screws, and when he's ripe i'll deliver her." "the screws," repeated o'hearn. "meanin'--?" "leave that to me," said byan. "i know how." warner smiled; but it was not the genial beam of his office manner. for when the corners of his drooping mouth lifted, they showed merely a gleam of canine teeth, which lay on his lip like fangs. "i suppose, when it's over, she's your personal property," he concluded. "oh, sure!" responded byan carelessly. "you'll not--" began o'hearn; but this time it was warner who interrupted. "mickey," he said, "any arrangements between this lady and byan are their own private affair--after the touch-off, which may stand you twenty-five thousand shiners. besides--" he did not make his threatening gesture now, but merely flashed that smile of fangs and sinister suggestion. then he rose. "all right," he said. "come on--all of you--and i'll give her that little business talk, before she's had time to think and work up another notion. maybe she'll fall for it right away." "not right away, she won't," byan promulgated from the depths of his experience, "but before i'm through, she will." * * * * * the three men came filing into the room where susannah sat, her elbows on the desk, her chin on her hands. she rose abruptly and faced them, eyes wide, lips parted. mr. warner wore his office manner; his smile was now benevolent. "i have been telling mr. byan and mr. o'hearn about your experience and your decision, miss ayer," began mr. warner. susannah blushed deeply; and for an instant her lashes swept over a sudden stern flame in her eyes. then she lifted them and looked with a noncommittal openness from one face to the other. "i think i have nothing to add," she said. "yes, but perhaps we have," mr. warner informed her gently. "sit down, miss ayer. sit down, boys." the three men seated themselves. "thank you," said susannah; but she continued to stand. byan rose thereupon, and stood lolling in the corner, his vague smile floating on his lips. o'hearn dropped his chin almost to that point on his chest where his folded arms rested. his lips drooped. occasionally he studied the situation from under his protuberant forehead. "miss ayer," warner went on after a pause, "you read that letter--the one you handed to me this morning?" susannah hesitated for an almost imperceptible moment. "yes," she admitted, "entirely by mistake." "i am going to tell you something that it will surprise you to hear, miss ayer. what this fellow says is all true. carbonado is merely a--a convenient name, let us say. in other words, we are engaged in selling fake stocks to suckers. to be still more explicit, we are conducting a criminal business. we could be arrested at any moment and sent to jail. to the federal penitentiary, in fact. i suppose that is a great surprise to you?" though she had guessed something of this ever since she recalled the contents of the letter, the cold-blooded statement came indeed with all the force of a surprise. susannah's figure stiffened as though she had touched a live wire. the crimson flush drained out of her face. and she heard herself saying, as though in another's voice and far away, the inadequate words: "how perfectly terrible!" "exactly so!" agreed warner. "only you haven't the remotest idea how terrible. miss ayer, this company--you as well as the rest of us--needs money and needs it right away. ozias cowler has money--a great deal of money. somebody's bound to get it--and why not we? we use various means to get money out of suckers. there's only one way with cowler. he's stuck on you. you can get it from him. we want you to do that--we expect you to do that." susannah stared at him. "mr. warner, i think you are crazy. i could no more do that ... i couldn't ... i wouldn't even know how ... my resignation goes into effect immediately. i couldn't possibly stay here another minute." she turned to leave the office. "just one moment!" mr. warner's words purled on. his tone was low, his accent bland--but his voice stopped her instantly. "miss ayer, you don't understand yet. unless we get some money--a great deal of money--we shan't last another two weeks. the situation is--but i won't take the time to explain that. unless we clean up that aforesaid money, we go to jail--for a good long term. if we get the money--we don't. never mind the details. i assure you it's true." "i'm sorry," said susannah, her lips scarcely moving as she spoke, "but i fail to see what i have to do with that--" "i was about to go on to say, miss ayer, that you have everything to do with it. you must be aware, if you look back over your service with us, that you are as much involved as anyone. your name is on our letterhead. you have signed hundreds and perhaps thousands of letters to woman investors. putting a disagreeable fact rather baldly, what happens to us happens to you. if it's the stir--if it's jail--for us, it's jail for you." susannah stared at him. she grew rigid. but she roused herself to a trembling weak defense. "i'll tell them, if they arrest me ... all that has gone on here ..." she began. "if you do," put in mr. warner smoothly, "you only create for yourself an unfavorable impression. you put yourself in the position of going back on your pals, and it will not get you immunity. if mr. cowler comes through, you are entitled to a share of the proceeds. whether you take it or no is a matter for your private feelings. but the main point is that with cowler in, this thing will be fixed, and without him in, you are in jail or a fugitive from justice." he paused now and looked at susannah--paused not as one who pities but as one who asks himself if he has said enough. susannah's face proved that he had. "now of course you won't feel like working this morning. and i don't blame you. go home and think it over. your first instinct, probably, will be to see a lawyer. for your own sake, i advise you not to do that. for ours, i hope you do. if he tells you the truth, he will show you how deeply involved you are in this thing. no lawyer whom you can command will handle your case. what you'd better do is lie down and take a nap. then at about five o'clock this afternoon, send for hot coffee and doll yourself up--mr. cowler will call for you at seven." * * * * * susannah took part of mr. warner's advice. she went home immediately. but she did not take a nap. instead, she walked up and down her bedroom for an hour, thinking hard. she could think now; in her passage home on the subway, her first wild panic had beaten its desperate black wings to quiet. what warner had told her she now believed implicitly. she was as much caught in the trap as any one of the three crooks with whom she had been associated. the only difference was that she did not mean to stay in the trap. she meant to escape. also she did not mean to let it drive her from the city in which she was challenging success. she meant to stay in new york. she meant to escape. but how? if there were only somebody to whom she could go! she had in new york a few acquaintances--but no real friends. besides, she didn't want anybody to know; all she wanted was to get away from--to vanish from their sight. but where could she go--when--how? fortunately she had plenty of money on hand, plenty at least for her immediate purposes. she owned a few pawnable things, though only a few. but at present what she needed, more even than money, was time. she must get away at once. but again where? for a moment resurgent panic tore her. then common sense seemed to offer a solution. here she was in the biggest city in the country; the biggest in the world. she had heard somewhere that a big city was the best place in the world to hide in. she would hide in new york. then-- she had forgotten one terrifying fact. byan boarded in the same house. she realized why now. a fortnight before--shortly after mr. cowler appeared in the office--he had come to her for advice. he had given up one bachelor apartment, he said, and was taking another. repairs had become inevitable in the new apartment. he did not want to go to a hotel. did she know of a good boarding-house in which to spend a month? she did, of course--her own. byan came there the next day; although, curiously enough, she saw but little of him. they had separate tables, and his meal-hours and hers were different. byan usually came in at about six o'clock. but today he might follow her. she must work quickly. she pulled her trunk out from under the bed and began in frenzied haste to pack it. down came all the pictures from her walls. into the trunk went most of her clothes; some of her toilet articles; her half-dozen books; her stationery; all her slender lares and penates. when she had finished with her trunk, she packed her suitcase. as many thin dresses as she could crush in--inconsequent necessities--her storm boots; her tooth-brush-- then she wrote a note to her landlady. it read: "dear mrs. ray: i have been suddenly called away from the city. will you keep my trunk until i send for it? yours in great haste and some trouble, susannah ayer." she put it with her board money in an envelope, addressed to mrs. ray, and placed it on the trunk. at three o'clock, her suitcase in one hand, her bag and her umbrella in the other, her long cape over her arm, she ventured into the hall. it was vacant and silent. she stole silently down the stairs. she met nobody. she noiselessly opened the front door. apparently nobody noticed her. she walked briskly down the steps; turned toward the avenue. at the corner something impelled her to look back. byan, his look directed downward, two fingers fumbling in his side pocket for his key, was briskly ascending the steps. iii lindsay drove directly from the quinanog station to the quinanog arms. the arms proved to be a tiny mid-victorian hotel, not an inexact replica--and by no means a discreditable one--of many small rustic hotels that he had seen in england and france. indeed quinanog, as he caught it in glimpses, might have been one part of france or one part of england--that region which only the english channel prevents from being the same country. the motor, which conducted him from the station to the arms, drove on roads in which high wine-glass elms made gothic arches; between wide meadowy stretches, brilliant with buttercups, daisies, iris; unassertive, well-proportioned houses with roomy vegetable plots and tiny patches here and there of flower garden. he arrived at so early an hour that the best of the long friendly day stretched before him. he felt disposed to spend it merely in reading and smoking. he had plenty to smoke; he had seen to that himself in new york. and he had plenty to read; spink sparrel had seen to that in boston. the bottom of one of his trunks was covered with lutetia murray's works. but although he smoked a great deal, he did not read at all. until luncheon he merely followed his impulses. those impulses took him a little way down the main street, which ran between comfortable, white colonial houses, set back from the road. he walked through the tiny triangular common. he visited the little, poster-hung post-office; looked into the big neatly arranged general store; strolled back again. his impulses then led him to explore the grounds of the arms and deposited him finally in the hammock on the side porch. after a simple and very well-cooked luncheon, his languor broke into a sudden restlessness. "where is the murray place?" he asked of the proprietor of the arms, whose name, the letterhead of the arms stationery stated, was hyde. "the murray place!" hyde repeated inquiringly. he was a long, noncommittal-looking person with big pale blue eyes illuminating a sandy baldness. "oh, the _murray_ place! you mean the old murray place." "i mean the house, whichever and wherever it is, that lutetia murray, the author, used to live in." "oh, sure! i get you. you see it's been empty for such a long spell that we forget all about it. the old murray place is on the road to west quinanog." "it isn't occupied, you say?" "lord, no! hasn't been lived in since--well, since lutetia murray died. and that was--let me see--" hyde cast a reflective eye upward. "ten, eleven, twelve--oh, fifteen or twenty, i should say. yes, all of fifteen years." "does it still belong in the murray family?" "lord bless your soul, no. there hasn't been a murray around these parts since--well, since lutetia murray died." "who owns it now?" "the turners. they bought it when it came up for sale after miss murray's death." "well, weren't there any heirs?" "there was a niece--her brother's little girl. they had to sell the place and everything in it. there never _was_ a sale in quinanog like that. why, folks say that the mahogany would bring fancy prices in new york nowadays." "didn't they get as much as they should have?" lindsay asked idly. "oh lord, no! and they found her estate was awful involved, and the debts et up about all the auction brought in." "what became of the little girl?" "some cousins took her." "where is she now?" "never heard tell." "has anybody ever lived in the murray place since the family left?" "no, i believe not." "is it to let?" "yes, and for sale." "well, why hasn't it let or sold?" "oh, i dunno exactly. it's a great big barn of a place. kinda ramshackle, and of course it's off the main-traveled road. you'd need a flivver, at least, to live there nowadays. and there ain't a single modern improvement in it. no bathroom, nor electric lights, not set tubs, nor any of the things that women like. no garage neither." "every disability you quote makes it sound all the better to me," lindsay commented. he meditated a moment. "i'd like to go over and look at it this afternoon. is there anyone here to drive me?" "yes, dick'll take you in the runabout." hyde appeared to meditate in his turn, and he cocked an inquiring eye in lindsay's direction. "you wasn't thinking of hiring the place, was you?" lindsay laughed. "i should say i wasn't. no, i just wanted to look at it." "i was going to say," hyde went on, "that it's a very pleasant location. city folks always think it's a lovely spot. if you was thinking of hiring it, my brother's the agent." lindsay laughed again. "hiring a house is about as far from my plans at present as returning to france." "well," hyde commented dryly, "judging from the way the quinanog boys feel, i guess i know just about how much you want to do that." "how soon can we go to the murray place?" lindsay inquired. "now--as far as dick's concerned." "by the way," hyde dropped, as he turned toward the garage, "the murrays called the place blue medders." "blue meadows," lindsay repeated aloud. and to himself, "blue meadows." and again, though wordlessly, "blue meadows." it was apparent that he liked the sound and the image the sound evoked. the runabout chugged to blue meadows in less than ten minutes. the road branched off from the state highway at the least frequented place in its ample stretch; ran for a long way to west quinanog. on this side road, houses were few and they grew fewer and fewer until they left blue meadows quite by itself. its situation, though solitary, was not lonely. it sat near the road. perhaps, lindsay decided, it would have been too near if stately wine-glass elms, feathered with leaves all along their lissom trunks, in collaboration with a high lilac hedge now past its blooming, had not helped to sequester it. from the street, the house showed only a roof with two capacious chimneys, the upper story of its gray clapboarded façade. dick, a gangling freckled youth, slowed down the machine as if in preparation for a stop. "i've got the key," he volunteered, "if you want to go in." until that moment lindsay had entertained no idea of going in. but dick's words fired his imagination. "thanks, i think i will." dick handed over the long, delicately wrought key. he made no move to follow lindsay out of the car. "if you don't mind," he said, "i'll run down the road to see a cousin of mine. how soon before you'll want to start back?" "oh, give me half an hour or so," lindsay decided carelessly. the runabout chugged into the green arch which imprisoned the distance. alone, lindsay strolled between lilac bushes and over the sunken flags which led to the front door. then, changing his mind, he made an appraising tour about the outside of the place. blue meadows was a big old house: big, so it seemed to his amateur judgment, by an incredible number of rooms; and old--and here his judgment, though swift, was more accurate--to the time of two hundred years. outside, it had all the earmarks of colonial architecture--plain lines, stark walls, the windows, with twenty-four lights, geometrically placed; but its lovely lines, its beautiful proportions, and the soft plushy nap which time had laid upon its front clapboardings mitigated all its severities. the shingles of the roof and sides were weather-beaten and gray, the blinds a deep old blue. at one side jutted an incongruous modern addition; into the second story of which was set a galleried piazza. at the other side stretched an endless series of additions, tapering in size to a tiny shed. "this is lutetia's house!" lindsay stopped to muse. "is it true that i spent two years with the french army? is it true that i served two more with the american army? oh, to think you didn't live to see all that, lutetia!" a lattice arched over the doorway and on it a big climbing rose was just coming into bud. the beautiful door showed the pointed architrave, the leaded side panels, the fanlight, the engaged columns, of colonial times. it resisted the first attack of the key, but yielded finally to lindsay's persuasion. he stepped into the hall. it was a rectangular hall, running straight to the back of the house. pairs of doors, opposite each other, gaped on both sides. at the left arose a slender straight stairway, mahogany-railed. lindsay strolled from one room to the other, opening windows and blinds. they were big square rooms, finished in the conventional colonial manner, with fireplaces and fireplace cupboards. the wallpaper, faded and stained, was of course quite bare of pictures and ornaments. he stopped to examine the carving on the white, painted panels above the fireplace--garlands of flowers caught with torches and masks. smiling to himself, lindsay returned to the hall. "oh, lutetia, i should like to have seen you here!" he remarked wordlessly. behind the stairway, at the back, appeared another door. he opened it into darkness. fumbling in his pocket, he produced a box of matches, lighted his way through the blackness; again opened windows and shutters. this proved to be the long back room so common in colonial homes; running the entire width of the house. there were two fireplaces. one was small, with a franklin stove. the other--lindsay calculated that it would take six-foot logs. four well-grown children, shoulder to shoulder, could have walked into it. this room was not entirely empty. in the center--by a miracle his stumbling progress had just avoided it--was a long table of the refectory type. lindsay studied the position of the two fireplaces. he examined the ceiling. "you threw the whole lot of little rooms together to make this big room, lutetia. you're a lady quite of my own architectural taste. i, too, like a lot of space." he continued his explorations. from one side of the long living-room extended kitchen, laundry; servants' rooms and servants' dining-room; an endless maze of butteries, pantries, sheds. lindsay gave them short shrift. at the other side, however, lay a little half-oval room, the first floor of that victorian addition which he had marked from the outside. "oh, lutetia, lutetia, how could you, how could you?" he burst out at first glance. "to add this modern bit to that fine colonial stateliness! perhaps we're not kindred souls after all." hugging the wall of this room and leading to the second floor was a stairway so narrow that only one person could mount it at a time. lindsay proved this to his own satisfaction by ascending it. it opened into a big back room of the main house, the one with the galleried piazza. lindsay opened all the windows here; and then went rapidly from room to room, letting in the june sunshine. they were all empty, of course--and yet, in a dozen plaintive ways--faded wall spaces, which showed the exact size of pictures, nails with carpet tufts still clinging to them, a forgotten window shade or two--they spoke eloquently of habitation. indeed, the whole place had a friendly atmosphere, lindsay reflected; there was none of the cold, dead connotation of most long-empty houses. this old place was spiritually warm, as though some reflection of a long-ago vivid life still hung among its shadows. from the dust, the stains, the cobwebs, it might have been vacant for a century. from the welcoming warmth of its quiet rooms, it might have been vacant but for a day. through the back windows, lindsay looked down onto what must once have been a huge rectangle of lawn; and near the house, what must once have been an oval of flower garden. the lawn, stretching to a stone wall--beyond which towered a chaos of trees--was now knee-deep in timothy-grass; the garden had reverted to jungle. he studied the garden. close to the house, an enormous syringa bush heaped into a mountain of fragrant snow. near, a smoke-bush was just beginning to bubble into rounds of blood-scarlet gauze. strangled rosebushes showed yellow or crimson. afar an enormous patch of tiger lilies gave the effect of a bizarre, orchidous tropical group. the rest was an indiscriminate early-summer tangle of sumac; elderberry; bayberry; silver birches; wild roses; daisies; buttercups; and what would later be queen anne's lace and goldenrod. from a back corner window, it seemed to him that he caught a glint of water; but he could not recapture it from any other point of view. however, he lost all memory of this in a more affording discovery. for the front windows gave him the reason of the name, blue meadows. across the road stretched a series of meadows, all bluish purple with blooming iris. lindsay contemplated this charming prospect for a long interval. "and now, lutetia," he suddenly turned and addressed the empty rooms, "i want to find _your_ room. which of these six was it?" retracing his steps, he went from room to room until, many times, he had made a complete survey of the second floor. he crossed and recrossed his own trail, as the excitement of the quest mounted in him. "ah!" he exclaimed aloud, "here it is! you can't escape your soul-mate, lutetia." it was not because the room was so much bigger than the rest that he made this decision; it was only because it was so much more quaint. at one side it merged, by means of a slender doorway, with the galleried piazza. from it, by means of that tiny flight of stairs, lutetia could have descended to the first floor of that mid-victorian addition. "i take it all back, lutetia," he approved. "middle of the nineteenth century or not, it's a wonder--this combination." at the back of lutetia's room was a third door; as slender as the door leading to the gallery, but much lower; not four feet high. lindsay pushed it open, crawled on hands and knees through it. he had of course, on his first exploration, entered the small room into which it led. but he had gone in and out without careful examination; it had seemed merely a four-walled room. coming into it, however, from lutetia's bedroom, it suddenly acquired character. the walls were papered in white. and on the mid-victorian dado scarcely legible now, he suddenly discovered drawings. drawings of a curious character and of a more curious technique. he followed their fluttery maze from wall to wall--a flight of little beings, winged at the shoulders and knees, with flying locks and strange finlike hands and feet; fanciful, comic, tender. "oh!" lindsay emitted aloud. "ah!" and in an instant: "i see! this room belonged to that child hyde spoke of." he ascended to the garret. this was of course the big storeroom of the colonial imagination. it too was quite empty. at one spot a post--obviously not a roof-support--ran from floor to ceiling. lindsay gazed about a little unseeingly. "i wonder what that post was for?" he questioned himself absently. after a while, "what's become of that child?" he demanded of circumambient space. as though this offered food for reflection, he descended by means of the main stairway to the lower floor; sat on the doorsteps a while. he mused--gazing out into the green-colored, sweet-scented june afternoon. after an interval he arose and repeated his voyage of exploration. again he was struck with the friendly quality of the old place. that physical dampness, which long vacant houses hold in solution, seemed entirely to have disappeared before the flood of june sunshine. the spiritual chill, which always accompanies it--that sinister quality so connotative of congregations of evil spirits--he again observed was completely lacking. as he emerged from one room to enter another, it seemed to him that the one back of him filled with--_companionship_, he described it to himself. as he continued his explorations, it seemed to him that the room he was about to enter would offer him not ghostly but human welcome. that human welcome did not come, of course. instead, there surged upon him the rich odors of the lilacs and syringas; the staccato greetings of the birds. after a while he went downstairs again. sitting in the front doorway, he fell into a rich revery. this was where lutetia murray wrote the books which had so intrigued his boyish fancy. mentally he ran over the list: _the sport of the goddesses_, _the weary time_, _mary towle_, _old age_, _intervals_, _with pitfall and with gin_, _cynthia ware_-- details came up before his mental vision which he had entirely forgotten and now only half remembered; dramatic moments; descriptive passages; conversational interludes; scenes; epigrams.... he tried to imagine lutetia murray at blue meadows. the picture which, in college, he had cut from a book-house catalogue, flashed before him; he had found it among his papers. the figure was standing.... he had looked at it only yesterday, but his masculine observation retained no details of the gown except that it left her neck and arms bare. the face was in profile. the curling hair rose to a high mass on her head. the delicate features were _mignonne_, except for the delicious, warm, lusciously cut mouth-- was she blonde or brunet he wondered. she died at forty-five. to david lindsay at twenty-two, forty-five had seemed a respectable old age. to david lindsay at twenty-eight, it seemed almost young. she was dead, of course, when he began to read her. oh, if he could only have met her! it was a great pity that she had died so young. her work--he had made a point of this in his thesis--had already swung from an erratic, highly colored first period into a more balanced, carefully characterized second period; was just emerging into a third period that was the union of these two; big and rounded and satisfying. but death had cut that development short. in the last four years lindsay had seen a great deal of death and often in atrocious form. he had long ago concluded that he had thought on the end of man all the thoughts that were in him. but now, sitting in the scented warmth of lutetia's trellised doorway, he found that there were still other thoughts which he could think. * * * * * the runabout chugged up the road presently. "ben waiting long?" the freckled dick asked with a cheery shamelessness. "no, i've been looking the house over. wonderful old place, isn't it?" "don't care much for it myself," dick answered. "i don't like anything old--old houses or that old truck the summer folks are always buying. things can't be too new or up-to-date for me." lindsay did not appear at first to hear this; he was still bemused from the experiences of the afternoon. but as they approached the arms, he emerged from his daze with a belated reply. "well, i suppose a lot of people feel the way you do," he remarked vaguely. "mr. hyde tells me that the murray place hasn't been let for fifteen years. i expect the rest of the people around here don't like old houses." "oh, that ain't the reason the murray house hasn't let," dick explained with the scorn of rustic omniscience. "they say it's haunted." * * * * * "what rent do they ask for the murray house?" lindsay asked hyde that evening. hyde scratched the back of his head. his face contracted with that mental agony which afflicts the yankee when an exact statement is demanded of him. "well, i shouldn't be surprised if you could get it for two hundred dollars the season," he finally brought out. lindsay considered, but apparently not hyde's answer; for presently he came out with a different question. "why do they say it's haunted?" hyde emitted a short contemptuous laugh. "did you ever hear of any house in the country that's been empty for a number of years that worn't considered haunted?" "no," lindsay admitted. "i am disappointed, though. i had hoped you would be able to tell me about the ghost." "well, i can't," hyde asserted scornfully, "nor nobody else neither." the two men smoked in silence. after a while lindsay made the motions preliminary to rising. he knocked the ashes out of his pipe; put his pipe in his pocket; withdrew his feet from their comfortable elevation on the piazza rail. finally he assembled his full height on the floor, but not without a prolonged stretching movement. "well," he said, halfway through the yawn, "i guess you can tell that brother of yours that i'm going to hire the murray house for the season." hyde was equally if not more _dégagé_. he did not move; nor did he change his expression. "all right," he commented without enthusiasm, "i'll let him know. how soon would you like to go in, say?" "as soon as i can buy a bed." lindsay disappeared through the doorway. * * * * * two days later lindsay found himself comfortably settled at blue meadows. upstairs--he had of course chosen lutetia's room--was a cot and a bureau of soft wood. downstairs was a limited assortment of cheap china; cheaper cutlery; the meagerest possible cooking equipment. but there was an atmosphere given to lindsay's room by lutetia's own picture hanging above the bureau. and another to the living-room by lutetia's own works--a miscellaneous collection of ugly-proportioned, ugly-colored, late-nineteenth-century volumes--ranged on the broad shelf above the fireplace; by lindsay's writing materials scattered over the refectory table. economical as he had been inside, he had exploded into extravagance outside. a gloucester hammock swung at the back. a collection of garden materials which included a scythe, a spade, a sickle, a lawn-mower, and a hose filled one corner of the barn. already--his back still complained of the process--he had cut the spacious lawn. he was at one and the same time sanely placid and wildly happy. every morning he awoke with the sun and the birds. adapting himself with an instant spiritual content to the fact that he was no longer in france and would not have to fly, he turned over to take another nap. an hour or two later, he was up and eating his self-prepared breakfast. the rest of the day was reading lutetia; musing on lutetia; "scything" or "sickling," as he called it in his letters to spink, in the garden; reflecting on lutetia; exploring the neighborhood on foot; meditating on lutetia; reading and rereading the mass of spink's data on lutetia; hosing the garden; making notes on spink's data on lutetia and thinking of his notes on spink's data on lutetia. he awoke in the morning with lutetia on his mind. he fell asleep at night with lutetia in his heart. he had come to realize that lutetia, the author, was even better than he had supposed her. his college thesis had described her merely as the mrs. gaskell of new england. now, mentally, he promoted her to its jane austen. his youth had risen to the lure of her color and fecundity, but his youngness had not realized how rich she was in humor; how wise; what a tenderness for people informed her careful, realistic detail. it was a triumph to find her even better than the flattering dictum of his boyish judgment. exploring lutetia's domain gave results only second in satisfaction to exploring lutetia's mind. it was obvious at his first inspection that the garden had once stretched contrasting glories of color and perfume. a careful study from the windows was even more productive than a close survey. there, definitely, he could trace the remains of flower-plots; pleached paths; low hedges and lichened rocks. resurrecting that garden would be an integral part of the joy of resurrecting lutetia. by this time also, he had explored the barn. there, a big roomy lower floor sustained only part of a broken stairway. the equally roomy upper floor seemed, from such glimpses as he could get below, to be piled with rubbish. some day, he promised himself, he would clean it out. beyond, and to the right of the barn, bounded by the stone wall, scrambled a miniature wilderness. that wilderness evaded every effort of exploration. only an axe could clear a trail there. another day he would tackle the wilderness. but in the meantime he would devote himself to garden and lawn; in the meantime also loaf and invite his soul. after all, that was his main reason for coming to quinanog. whenever he thought of this, he took immediately to the gloucester hammock. every morning he walked briskly over the long mile of road, shaded with wine-glass elms, slashed with vistas of pasture, pond, and brook which lay between blue meadows and the quinanog post-office. when he had inquired for his mail--usually he had none--he strolled over to the general store and made his few simple purchases. he had followed this routine for ten days before it occurred to him that he had not seen a newspaper since he settled himself at blue meadows. "i'll let it go that way, i guess," he said to himself. he noticed at first with a little embarrassment and then with amusement that the groups in the post-office waiting for mail, the customers at the general store, were all quietly watching him. and one morning this floated to him from behind a pile of cracker boxes: "he's the nut that's taken the murray place. lives all alone--batching it. some sort of highbrow." gradually, however, he made acquaintance. silas turner, who owned the next farm to blue meadows, offered him a ride one morning on the road. out of a vague conversation on the weather and real estate, mr. turner dropped one interesting fact. he had known lutetia murray. this revelation kept lindsay chatting for half an hour while mr. turner spilled a mass of uncorrelated details. such as miss murray's neighborliness; the time her cow ran away and art curtis brought it back; how miss murray admired mis' turner's beach plum jelly so much that mis' turner always made some extra just for her. as they parted he let fall dispassionately: "she was a mighty handsome woman. fine figure!" he added, still dispassionately but with an effect somehow of enthusiastic conviction, "she kept her looks to the last day of her life." useless, all this, for a biography, lindsay reflected; but it gave him an idea. he bought that day a second-hand bicycle at the quinanog garage; and thereafter, when the devil of restlessness stirred in his young muscles, he trundled about the countryside in search of those families mentioned in lutetia's letters. some were utterly gone from quinanog, some were not affording, and some added useful detail; as when old mrs. apperson produced a dozen letters written from europe during lutetia's first trip abroad. "i'd have admired to go to europe, but it never came so's i could," said mrs. apperson. "when miss murray went, she wrote me from every city, telling me all about it. i read 'em over a lot--makes me feel as though i'd been there too. and every decoration day," she added inconsequently, "i put a bunch of heliotrope on her grave. she just loved the smell of heliotrope." somehow, lindsay had never even thought of lutetia's grave. the next day he made that pilgrimage. the graveyard lay near the town center, overtopped by the pine-covered hill which bore three austere white buildings--church, town-hall, and grange. the grave itself was in a patch of modern tombstones, surrounded by the flaking slabs of two centuries ago. the stone was featureless, ill-proportioned; the inscription recorded nothing but her name and the dates of her birth and death. the note which most often came out of these wayside gossipings was a high one--of the gaiety and the brilliancy of the blue meadows hospitality. apparently people were coming and going all the time; some distinguished; some undiscovered: but all with personality. when lindsay returned from such a talk, the old house glowed like an opal--so full did it seem of the colors of those vivacious days. but he was not quite content to be long away from his own fireside. the friendly atmosphere of the murray house continued to exercise its enchanting sway. he always felt that one room became occupied the instant he left it, that the one he was about to enter was already occupied--and this feeling grew day by day, augmented. it brought him back to the house always with a sense of expectancy. "lutetia's house is my hotel-lobby, my movie, my theater, my grand opera, my cabaret," he wrote spink. "there's a strange fascination about it--a fascination with an element of eternal promise." at times, when he entered the trellised doorway, he found himself expecting someone to come forward to greet him. it kept occurring to him that a neighbor had stopped to call, was waiting inside for him. sometimes in the middle of the night he would drift slowly out of a delicious sleep to a sense, equally delicious, of being most gently and lovingly companioned in the room; sometimes in the morning he would wake up with a snap, as though the house were full of company. for a moment the whole place would seem brilliant and gay, and then--it was as though a bubble burst in the air--he was alone. "it's almost as good," he wrote spink, "as though you were here yourself, you goggle-eyed hick, you!" once or twice he caught himself talking aloud; addressing the empty air. he stifled this impulse, however. "people always have a tendency to get bughouse," he explained to spink, "when they live alone. i used to do that in your rooms. i'm going to try to keep sane as long as possible." ten days increased rather than diminished this impression. by this time he had burned his thesis and was now making notes that were part the direct product of spink's data and part the byproduct of lutetia's own works. the syringas were beginning to run down; but the roses were coming out in great numbers. the hollyhocks had opened flares of color under the living-room window. the lawn was as close to plush as constant care could make it. the garden was not yet quite cleaned out. he was glad, for he liked working there. it was not a whit less friendly than the house. indeed, he felt so companioned there that sometimes he looked up suddenly to see who was watching his efforts to resurrect a neglected rosebush; or to uproot a flourishing patch of poison ivy. the evenings were long, and as--consciously girlish and in quotation marks he wrote spink--"lovely." his big lamp made a spot of golden color in the shadowy long room. one northeaster, which lasted three days, gave him dark and damp excuse for three days of roaring fire. much of that time he sat opposite the blazing logs in the big, rush-bottomed piazza chair which he had purchased, smoking and reading lutetia. now and then, he looked up at lutetia's picture, which he had finally brought down from his bedroom. perhaps it was the picture which made him feel more companioned here than anywhere in the house or out. the living-room was peculiarly rich with presence, so rich that he left it reluctantly at night and returned to it as quickly as possible in the morning; so rich that often he smiled, though why he could not have said; so rich that in the evening he often looked up suddenly from his book and stared into its shadowy length for a long, moveless--and breathlessly expectant--interval. indeed that sensation so concretely, so steadily, so persistently augmented that one evening-- he had been reading ever since dark; and it was getting late. finally he arose; closed the door and windows. he came back to the table and stood leaning against it, idly whistling the _sambre et meuse_ through his teeth, while he looked at lutetia's portrait. he took up _the sport of the goddesses_ just to look it over ... turned a page or two ... became immersed.... suddenly ... he realized that he was not alone.... he was not alone. that was conclusive. that he suddenly and absolutely knew; though how he knew it he could not guess. his eyes stopped, in the midst of lutetia's single grim murder, fixed on the printed line. he could not move them along that line. he did not mind that. but he could not move them off the page. and he did mind that; for he wanted--most intensely wanted--to lift his gaze. after lifting it, he presently discovered, he would want to project it to the left. whoever his visitor was, it sat at the left. that he knew, completely, absolutely, and conclusively; but again, how he knew it, he did not know. an immeasurable interval passed. he tried to raise his eyes. he could not accomplish it. the air grew thick; his hands, still holding the book, turned cold and hard as clamps of iron. his eyes smarted from their unwinking immobility. this was absurd. breaking this deathly ossification was just a matter of will. he made himself turn a page. five lines down he decided; he would look up. but he did not look up. he could not. he wanted to see ... but something stronger than desire and will withheld him. he read; turned another page. five lines down.... ah ... the paralysing chill was moving off.... in a moment ... he was going to be able.... in a moment.... he lifted his eyes.... he gazed steadily to the left.... iv before night susannah had found a room which exactly suited her purpose. this was as much a matter of design as of luck. she had heard of the place before. it was a large building in the west twenties which had formerly been the imposing parsonage of an imposing and very important church. the church had long ago gone the way of all old manhattan buildings. but the parsonage, divided into an infinite number of cubby-hole rooms, had become a lodging-house. a lodging-house with a difference, however. for whereas in the ordinary establishment of this kind, one paid rent to a landlady who lived on the spot, here one paid it to an agent who came from somewhere, promptly every monday morning, for the purpose of collection. it was a perfect hiding-place. you did not know your neighbor. your neighbor did not know you. with due care, one could plan his life so that he met nobody. susannah, except for a choice of rooms, did not for an interval plan her life at all. she made that choice instantly, however. of two rooms situated exactly opposite each other at the back of the second floor, she chose one because it overlooked a yard containing a tree. it was a tiny room, whitewashed; meagerly and nondescriptly furnished. but the door-frame and window-frame offered decoration. following the ecclesiastical design of the whole house, they peaked into triangles of carved wood. susannah gave scant observation to any of these things. once alone in her room, she locked the door. then she removed two things from her suitcase--a nightgown and the miniature of glorious lutie. the latter she suspended by a thumbtack beside the mirror of her bureau. then she undressed and went to bed. she slept fitfully all the rest of that day and all that night. early in the morning she crept out, bought herself, at a seventh avenue delicatessen shop, a jar of milk and a loaf of bread. she lunched and dined in her room. she breakfasted next morning on the remains. her sleep was deep and dreamless; but in her waking moments her thoughts pursued the same treadmill. "glorious lutie," she began one of the wordless monologues which she was always addressing to the miniature, "i ought to have known long ago that they were a gang of crooks! why don't we trust our intuitions? i suppose it's because our intuitions are not always right. i can't quite go with anything so magic, so irrational as intuition! and then again i'm afraid i'm too logical. but i'm always having the same thing happen to me. perhaps i'm talking with somebody i have met for the first time. suddenly that person makes a statement. instantly--it's like a little hammer knocking on my mind--something inside me says: 'that is a lie. he is lying deliberately and he knows he lies.' now you would think that i would trust that lead, that i would follow it implicitly. but do i? no! never! i pay no more attention to it than as though it never happened. and generally my intuition is right. but always i find it out too late. now that little hammer has been knocking its warnings about the warner-byan-o'hearn bunch ever since i started to work for them. but i could not _make_ myself pay any attention to it. i did not want to believe it, for one thing. and then of course the work was awfully interesting. i kept calling myself all kinds of names for thinking-- and they _were_ kind. i _wouldn't_ believe it. but my intuition kept telling me that warner was a hypocrite. and as for byan--" perhaps susannah could not voice, even to glorious lutie, the thoughts that flooded her mind when she conjured up the image of byan. for in her heart susannah knew that byan admired her overmuch, that he would have liked to flirt with her, that he had started-- but warner had called him off. the enigmatic phrase, which had come to her from warner's office and in warner's voice, recurred. "keep off clients and office employ--" susannah knew the end of it now--"employees" of course. warner's rule for his fellow crooks was that they must not flirt with clients or the office force. again and again in her fitful wakefulness she saw byan standing before her; slim, blade-like; his smartly cut suit adhering, as though pasted there, to the lithe lines of his active body. and then suddenly that revolver which came from--where? byan was of course the most attractive of them all. that floating, pathetic smile revealed such white teeth! that deep look came from eyes so long-lashed! warner with his pseudo-clergyman, pseudo-actor oratory, deep-voiced and vibrant, was the most obvious. o'hearn, his lids perpetually down, except when they lifted swiftly to let his glance lick up detail, was the most mysterious. but byan was the most attractive-- "yes, glorious lutie, i was always receiving letters which started that little hammer of intuition knocking. i was always overhearing bits of conversation which started it; although often i could not understand a word. i was always trying to piece things together--wondering-- well, the next time i'll know better. i've learned my lesson. but oh--think, think, _think_ what i've helped to do. they robbed widows and orphans and all kinds of helpless people. of course i didn't know i was doing it. but that's going to haunt me for a long, long time. i wish there were some way i could make up. i've come out of it safe. but they--oh, i mustn't think of this. i _mustn't_. i can't stand it if i do. oh, glorious lutie, believe me, my guardian angel was certainly on _that_ job. otherwise i don't know what would have become of me. are you my guardian angel, i wonder?" when susannah finally arose for good, she discovered, naturally enough, that she was hungry. she went out immediately and, in the nearest child's restaurant, ordered a dinner which she afterward described to glorious lutie as "magnanimously, munificently, magnificently masculine." it consisted mainly of sirloin steak and boiled potatoes, "and i certainly ate my fill of them both." then she took a little aimless, circumscribed walk; returned to her room. she unpacked her tightly stratified suitcase; hung her clothes in her little closet; ranged her small articles in the bureau drawer. as though she were going to start clean in her new career, she bathed and washed her hair in the public bathroom on the second floor. coming back into her room, she sat for a long time before the window while her dripping locks dried. she sat there through the dusk. "after all, glorious lutie," she reflected contentedly, "why do i ever live in anything bigger than a hall bedroom? all a girl needs is a bed, a bureau, one chair and a closet, and that is exactly what i've got. and for full measure they have thrown in all those ducky little backyards and a tree. i don't expect you to believe it, but i tell you true. a tree in manhattan. how do you suppose it got by the censor! and just now, if you please, a tiny new moon all tangled up in its branches. it's trying its best to get out, but it can't make it. i never saw a new moon struggle so hard. honest, i can hear it pant for breath. it looks like a silver fish that tried to leap out of this window and got caught in a green net. i suppose your glorious susie must be thinking of annexing a job sometime, glorious lutie. or else we'll cease to eat. but for a few days i won't, if you don't mind; i'm fed up on jobs. and i've lost my taste for offices. no, i think i'll take those few days off and do a rubberneck trip around manhattan. i feel like looking on innocent objects that can't speak or think. and for a time i don't want to go any place where i'd be likely to see my friends of the carbonado mining company. after a while the thought of them won't bother me so. probably by this time they have hired some other poor girl. perhaps she won't mind mr. cowler though. anyway, i'm free of them." when susannah awoke the next morning, which was the third of her occupancy of the little room, some of her normal vitality had flowed back, her spirits began to mount. she sang--she even whistled--as she bathed and dressed; and she indulged in no more than the usual number of exasperated exclamations over the uncoilableness of her freshly shampooed, sparkling hair. "why do we launder our tresses, i ask you, glorious lutie?" she questioned once. "and oh, why didn't i have regular gold hair like yours instead of this garnet mane? i look like--i look like--azinnia! but oh, i ought never to complain when i reflect that i've escaped the curse of white eyelashes." a consideration first of the shimmery day outside, and next of the clothes hanging in her closet, deflected her attention from this grievance. she chose from her closet a salmon-colored linen gown, slightly faded to a delicate golden rose. it was a long, slim dress and it made as much as possible of every inch of susannah's long slimness. moreover, it was notably successful in bringing out the blue of her brilliant eyes, the red of her brilliant hair, the contrasting white of her smooth warm skin. that face now so shone and smelled of soap that, the instant she caught sight of it in the glass, she pulled open the top drawer of her bureau and powdered it frantically. "i always shine, glorious lutie, as though i had washed with brass polish. i don't remember that you ever glistened. but i do remember that you always smelled as sweet as--roses, or new-mown hay, or heliotrope. i wonder what powder you did use? and it was a very foxy move on your part, to have yourself painted in just that soft swirl of blue tulle. you look as though you were rising from a cloud. i wonder what your dresses were like? i seem to remember pale blues and pinks; very delicate yellows and the most silvery grays. it seems to me that tulle and tarlatan and maline were your dope. do you think, glorious lutie, when i reach your age, i shall be as good-looking as you?" glorious lutie, with that reticence which distinguishes the inhabitants of portraits, made no answer. but an observer might have said that the young face, staring alternately at the mirror and at the miniature, would some day mature to a face very like the one which stared back at it from the gold frame. both were blonde. but where glorious lutie's eyes were a misty brown-lashed azure, glorious susie's were a spirited dark-lashed turquoise. glorious lutie's hair was like a golden crown, beautifully carved and burnished. glorious susie's turbulent mane was red, and it made a rumpled, coppery bunch in her neck. however, family resemblances peered from every angle of the two faces, although differences of temperament made sharp contrast of their expressions. glorious lutie was all soft, dreamy tenderness; susannah, all spirit, active charm, resolution. susannah spent three days--almost carefree--of of what she described to the miniature as "touristing." she had very little time to converse with glorious lutie; for the little room saw her only at morning and night. but she gave her confidante a detailed account of the day's adventures. "it was the bronx zoo this morning, glorious lutie," she would say. "have you ever noticed how satisfactory little beasties are? they don't lay traps for you and try to put you in a tortured position that you can't wriggle out of?" though her question was humorous in spirit, susannah's eyes grew black, as with a sudden terror. "no, _we_ lay traps for _them_. i guess i've never before even tried to guess what it means to be trapped?" or, "it was the art museum this afternoon, glorious lutie. i've looked at everything from a pretty nearly life-size replica of the parthenon to a needle used by a little egyptian girl ten million years ago. i'm so full of information and dope and facts that, if an autopsy were to be held over me at this moment, it would be found that my brain had turned into an encyclopædia britannica. in fact, i will modestly admit that i know everything." or, "it was the aquarium this morning, glorious lutie. why didn't you tell me that fish were interesting? i've always hated a fish. they won't roll over or jump through for you and practically none of them bark or sing--or anything. i have always thought of them only as something you eat unwillingly on fridays. but some of them are really beautiful; and interesting. i stayed there three hours; and i suppose if it hadn't been for the horrid stenchy smell i'd be there yet." but in spite of these vivacious, wordless monologues, her spirits were a long time rising to their normal height. the frightened look had not completely left her eyes; and often on her long, lonely walks, she would stop short suddenly, trembling like a spirited horse, as though some inner consideration harassed her. then she would take up her walk at a frantic pace. ultimately, however, she succeeded in leaving those terrifying considerations behind. and inevitably in the end, the resilience of youth conquered. the day came when susannah leaped out of bed as lightly as though it were her first morning in new york. "glorious lutie," began her ante-breakfast address, "we are not a millionairess; ergo, today we buy all the morning papers and read them at breakfast in order to hunt for a job via the ads. and perhaps the next time your glorious susie begins to earn money, you might advise her to save a little against an unexpected situation. of course i shouldn't have squandered my money the way i did. but i never had had so much before in my life--and oh, the joy of having cut-steel buckles and a perfectly beautiful raincoat--and my first set of furs--and perfumery and everything." the advertising columns were not, she found (and attributed it to the return of so many men from france), very fecund. each newspaper offered only from two to six chances worth considering. one, which appeared in all of them, seemed to afford the best opening. it read: "_wanted_: a stenographer, lady-like appearance and address, with some executive experience. steady job and quick advancement to right woman. apply between and , room , carman building." "i am requested to apply for this spectacular job at the office itself, glorious lutie," she confided on her return to her room, "and i'm going out immediately after it. it's a romantic thing, getting a job through an advertisement. i hope i float up to the forty-sixth floor of a skyscraper, sail into a suite of offices which fill the entire top story; all turkish rugs on the highly polished floor; all expensive paintings on the delicately tinted walls; all cut flowers with yard-long stems in the finely cut crystal vases. i should like to find there a new employer; tall, young, handsome, and dark. dark he must be, glorious lutie. i cannot marry a blond; our children would be albinos. he would address me thus: 'most beauteous blonde--you arrive at a moment when we are so much in need of a secretary that if you don't immediately seat yourself at yon machine, we shall go out of business. your salary is one hundred dollars a week. this exquisite rose-lined boudoir is for your private use. you will find a bunch of fresh violets on your desk every morning. may i offer you my rolls-royce to bring you back and forth to work? and,' having fallen in love with me instantly, 'how soon may i ask you to marry me?'" susannah took the subway to wall street; walked through that busy city-cañon to the carman building. she strode into the elevator, almost empty in the hour which followed the morning rush; started to emerge, as directed by the elevator-man, at the tenth floor. but she did not emerge. instead, her face as white as paper, she leaped back into the elevator; ascended with it to the top floor; descended with it; hurriedly left the building. that first casual glance down the corridor had given her a glimpse of h. withington warner sauntering slowly away from the elevator. "say, eloise," she said late that afternoon over the telephone to the friend she had made at the dorothy dorr home. "when can i see you?... yes.... no.... well, you see i'm out of a job at present.... no, i can't tell you about it. this is a rooming-house. there is no telephone in my room. i am telephoning from the hall. and so i'd rather wait until i see you. but in brief, i'm eating at child's, soda-fountains and even peanut stands. i'm really getting back my girlish figure. only i think i'm going to be a regular o. henry story. headlines as follows: _beautiful titian-haired_ (mark that _titian-haired_, eloise) _blonde dead of starvation. drops dead on fifth avenue. too proud to beg._ i hope that none of those wicked reporters will guess that my new shoes with the cut-steel buckles cost thirty-five dollars. all right! all right.... the 'attic' at seven. i'll be there promptly as usual and you'll get there late as usual.... oh yes, you will! thanks awfully, eloise. i feel just like going out to dinner." eloise, living up to her promise, made so noble an effort that she was only ten minutes late. then, as usual, she came dashing and sparkling into the room; a slim brown girl, much browner than usual, for her coat of seashore tan; with narrow topaz eyes and deep dimples; very smart in embroidered linen and summer furs. the attic restaurant occupied the whole top floor of a very high, downtown west side skyscraper. its main business came at luncheon, so the girls sat almost alone in its long, cool quiet. they found a table in a little stall whose window overhung the gray, fog-swathed river which seamlessly joined gray fog-misted sky. a moon, opaque as a scarlet wafer, seemed to be pasted at a spot that could be either river or sky. the girls ordered their inconsequent dinner. they talked their inconsequent girl chatter. they drank each a glass of may wine. susannah had quite recovered her poise and her spirit. she described her new room with great detail. she suggested that eloise, whom she invariably addressed as, "you pampered minion of millions, you!" should call on her in that scrubby hall bedroom. in fact, her narrative went from joke to joke in a vein so steadily and so augmentingly gay that, when eloise had paid the bill and they sat dawdling over their coffee, suddenly she found herself on the verge of breaking her vow of secrecy, of relating the horrors of the last week. "eloise," she began, "i'm going to tell you something that i don't want you ever to--" and then the words dried on her lips. her tongue seemed to turn to wood. she paled. she froze. her eyes set on-- o'hearn was walking into the attic. he did not perceive that instant terror of petrification; for it happened he did not even glance in their direction. he walked, self-absorbed apparently, to the other end of the room. but his face--susannah got it clearly--was stony too. it had the look somehow of a man about to perform a deed repugnant to him. "what's the matter, sue?" eloise asked in alarm. "you look awfully ill all of a sudden." "the fact is," susannah answered with instant composure, "i feel a little faint, eloise. do you mind if we go now? i really should like to have a little air." "not at all," eloise answered. "any time you say. come on!" they made rapidly for the elevator. susannah did not glance back. but inwardly she thanked her guardian-angel for the fortuitous miracle by which intervening waiters formed a screen. not until they had walked block after block, turning and twisting at her own suggestion, did susannah feel safe. "oh, what was it you were going to tell me, susannah," eloise interrupted suddenly, "just before we left the attic?" "i don't seem to remember at this moment," susannah evaded. "perhaps it will come to me later." * * * * * susannah did not sleep very well that night. but by morning she had recovered her poise. "glorious lutie," she said wordlessly from her bed, "i think i'll go seriously to the business of getting a job. it'll take my mind off--things. i'm going to ignore that little _rencontre_ of yesterday. don't you despair. the handsome young employer with his romantic eyes and movie-star eyelashes awaits me somewhere. and just as soon as we're married, you shall be hung in a manner befitting your birth and station in a drawing-room as big as central park. i wish it weren't so darn hot. somehow too, i don't feel so strong about answering ads in _person_ as i did two days ago." on her way to breakfast she bought all the newspapers. she spent her morning answering advertisements by letter. she received no replies to this first batch; but she pursued the same course for three days. "glorious lutie," she addressed the miniature a few days later, "this is beginning to get serious. i am now almost within sight of the end bill in my wad. in point of fact i will not conceal from you that today i pawned my one and only jewel--my jade ring. you don't know how naked i feel without it. it will keep us for--perhaps it will last three weeks. and after that-- however, i don't think we'll either of us starve. you don't take any sustenance and i take very little these days. i wish this weather would change. you are so cool living in that blue cloud, glorious lutie, that you don't appreciate what it's like when it's ninety in the shade and still going up. i'm getting pretty sick of it. i guess," she concluded, smiling, "i'll make out a list of the friends i can appeal to in case of need." the idea seemed to raise her spirits. she sat down and turned to the unused memorandum portion of her diary. her list ran something like this: new york-- no. --first and foremost--eloise, who, being an heiress and the owner of a check-book, never has any real cash and always borrows from me. providence-- no. --barty joyce--always has money because he's prudent--and the salt of the earth-- p.s. eloise never pays the money back that she borrows from me-- "will you tell me, glorious lutie, why i don't fall in love with barty and why he doesn't fall in love with me? there's something awfully out about me. i don't think i've been in love more than six times; and the only serious one was the policeman on the beat who had a wife and five children." providence again-- no. --the coburns--nice, comfy, middle-aged folks; not rich; the best friends a girl could possibly have. no. -- but here she yawned loudly and relinquished the whole proceeding. that afternoon susannah visited several employment agencies which dealt with office help. she answered all the inquiries that their questionnaires put to her; omitting any reference to the carbonado mining company. it was late in the afternoon when she finished. she walked slowly homeward down the avenue. outside of her own door, she tried to decide whether she would go immediately to dinner or lie down first. a sudden fatigue forced decision in favor of a nap. she walked wearily up the first flight of stairs. ahead, someone was ascending the second flight--a man. he turned down the hall. she followed. he stopped at the room opposite hers; fumbled unsuccessfully with the key. as she approached, she glanced casually in his direction. it was byan. v dear spink: this is the kind of letter one never writes. but if you knew my mental chaos.... and i've got to tell somebody about the thing that i can speak about to nobody. if i don't.... what do you suppose i've done? i've bought a house. yep-- i'm a property owner now. of course you guess! or do you guess? it's the murray place. i could just make it and have enough left over for a year or two or three. but after that, spink, i'm going to work because i'll have to. i suppose you're wondering why i did it. you're not puzzled half as much as i am; although in one way i know exactly why i did it. perhaps i didn't do it at all. anyway, i didn't do it of my own volition. somebody made me. i'm going to tell you about that presently. yes, it's all mine: beautiful old square-roomed house with its carved panelings and its generous colonial fireplaces; its slender doors and amusing door-latches; an upstairs of ample bedrooms; an old garret with slave quarters; the downstairs with that little, charmingly incongruous, galleried, mid-victorian addition; barn; lawn; flower-garden. and how beautiful i'm making that flower-garden you'll never suspect till you see it. but you won't see it for quite a while--i withdraw all my invitations to visit me. i don't want you now, spink; although i never wanted you so much in my life. i'll want you later, i think. of course it isn't from you personally--you beetle-eyed old scout--that i'm withdrawing my invitation; it's from any flesh-and-blood being. if you had an astral self-- i don't want anybody. i never wanted to be alone so much in my life. in a moment i'm going to tell you why. and the wine-glass elms are mine; and the lilacs and syringas and the smoke-bush and the hollyhocks; and all the things i've planted; my canterbury bells (if they come up); my deep, rich dahlias and my flame-colored phlox (if ditto). all mine! gee, spink, i never felt so rich in my life, because what i've enumerated isn't twenty-five per cent of what i own. in a minute i'm going to tell you what the remaining seventy-five per cent is. this place is full of birds and bees. i watch them from the house. spink, we flying-men are boobs. have you ever watched a bee fly? i spend hours, it seems to me, just studying them--trying to crab their act. and the other day there was an air-fight just over my roof. a chicken-hawk attacked by the whole bird population. it was a reproduction in miniature of a bombing-machine pursued by a dozen combat-planes. spink, it was the best flying i've ever seen. you should have seen the sparrows keeping on his tail! the little birds relied on their quickness of attack, just as combat planes do. they attacked from all angles with such rapidity that the hawk could do nothing but run for his life. the little birds circled about, waiting for the moment to dive. a combat-plane dives; its machines go ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta and it turns off before the gunner can swing his guns over. the birds dived, picked furiously at his eyes while the hawk turned bewildered from one attack to another. but the little birds did something that planes can't even attempt--they hovered over him almost motionless, waiting their moment to attack. here i am talking of flying! flying! did i ever fly? when i got to new york, greenwich village seemed strange and unnatural, just a pasteboard dream. pau--avord--verdun--were the only real things in my life. now _they're_ shadows like greenwich village. quinanog--the murray place--and lutetia--seem the only real things. i'm going to tell you all about it in a moment. i sure am. the world seems to be full of landing-places, but for some reason i can't land. every time, i seem to come short on the field; or overshoot it. perhaps it's because i feel it ought not to be told-- perhaps it's because i feel you won't believe me-- but i've got to do it. so here goes! spink, the remaining seventy-five per cent that i own in this place is-- this place is haunted. not by a ghost, but by _ghosts_! there are not one of them, but four. three i see occasionally. but one of the quartet--i see her all the time. she is lutetia. it began-- well, it all goes back to your rooms in new york. they're haunted too, but you don't know it, you wall-eyed old grave-digger, you. not because you're inept or unsensitive or anything stupid-- it's because there's something they want to say to _me_--a message they want to give to me alone. but i can't stop to go into that now. to return to your apartment, _something_ ... used to come ... to my bed at night ... and bend over me ... i don't know who it was or what it was, except that it was masculine. and how i knew that, i dunno. it bothered me. one reason why i came down here was that i thought i was going crazy. perhaps i have gone crazy. anyway, if i have i like it. but here i am again! it's as though the world slipped out from under me. i can fly on and on or climb, but it's the coming down that baffles me. when i cut the motor off and the noise dies away, i feel sick and afraid; the bus seems to take its own head. now for a landing--even if i do smash. from the moment i entered this house, i felt as though there were others here. not specifically, you understand. at first, it was only a sensation of warmth in the atmosphere that grew to a feeling of friendliness that deepened to a sense of companionship until-- well, i found myself in a mood of eternal expectancy. something was going to happen but i didn't know what or how or when.... oh yes, in a _way_ i knew what. i was going to see something. some time--i felt dimly--when i should enter one of these rooms, so stark and yet so occupied, somebody would be there to greet me ... or some day turning a corner i should come suddenly on.... i did not dread that experience, spink, i give you my word. i reveled in the expectancy of it. it was beautiful; it was rich. i wasn't anything of what you call _afraid_. i wanted it to happen. and it did happen. one evening, as usual, i was reading lutetia. i was sitting in my big chair beside the refectory table. outside, it was a perfect night i remember; dark and still, and the stars so big that they seemed to spill out of the heavens. inside, the lamp was bright. my eyes were on my book. suddenly.... i was not alone. don't ask me how i knew it. only take it from me that i did. i knew it all right. for--_oh, spink_--(i've underlined that just like a girl) all in a flash i didn't want--to look up. i wanted to go away from this place and to go with considerable speed, not glancing back. it was the worst sensation that i have ever known--worse even than a night raid. after a while something came back; courage i suppose you'd call it; a kind of calm, a poise. anyway, i found that i was going to be able to look up presently and not mind it.... of course i knew whom i was going to see.... i did look up. and i did see-- it was lutetia. spink, if you try to say those things that people always say--that it was imagination, that i was overwrought, that my mind, moving all the day among the facts and realities of lutetia's life, suddenly projected a picture--i'll never speak to you again. there she sat, her elbow resting on the arm of her chair, her chin in her hand, looking at me. i can't tell you how long she stayed. but all the time she was there she looked at me. and all that time i looked at her. i don't think, spink, i have ever guessed how much eyes can say. her eyes said so much that i think i could write the whole rest of the night about them. except that i'm not quite sure what they said. it was all entreaty; oh, blazing, blasting, blinding entreaty.... of that i am sure. but what she asked of me i haven't the remotest idea. after a while ... something impelled me to look down at my book again. when i lifted my eyes lutetia was gone. that wasn't all, spink; for that night, or the next day-- but i'm going to try to keep to a consecutive story. i didn't go to bed immediately. i didn't feel like sleeping. you can understand it was considerable of a shock. and very thrilling. literally thrilling! i shook. it didn't bother me an atom after it was over. i wasn't the least afraid. but i vibrated for hours. i walked four or five miles--where, i don't know. i must have passed the fallows place, because i recall the scent of honeysuckle. but i assure you i seemed to be walking through the stars.... she is beautiful. i can't tell you how beautiful because i have no colors to give you; no flesh to go by. perhaps she is not beautiful, but lovely. what queer things words are! i have called females _pretty_ and _stunning_ and even _fascinating_ and _beautiful_. i think i never called any woman _lovely_ before. i've been that young. but i'm not as young as i was yesterday. i'm a century, an age, an æon older. i was obsessed though. if you believe it, when i went to bed, i had only one idea in my mind--a hope that she would come back soon. she didn't come back soon--at least not that night. but somebody else did.... in the middle of the night, i suddenly found myself, wide-eyed and clear-minded, sitting upright in bed and listening to something. i don't know what i had heard, but i remember with perfect clearness--spink, you tell me this is a dream and i'll murder you--what i immediately did and what i subsequently saw. i got up quite calmly and lighted a candle. then i opened the door. do you remember my writing you that the chamber, just back of the one i occupy, must have been the room of a child--lutetia's little niece? the door of that room, of course, leads into the hall as mine does. as i stood there, shading my candle from the draft, that door opened and there emerged from the room--what do you suppose? a little girl. i say--a little girl. she wasn't, you understand, a real little girl. nor was she a dead little girl. instantly i knew that--just as instantly as i had known that lutetia _was_ dead. i mean, and i hope this phraseology is technically correct, that lutetia, as i saw her, was the ghost of someone who had once lived. this little girl was an apparition; an appearance projected through space of some one who now lives. that or--oh, how difficult this is, spink--a sloughed-off, astral self left in this old place; or--but i won't go into that. i stood there, as i said, shading my candle. the little girl closed her door with a meticulous care. did i hear the ghost of a click? perhaps my ear supplied that. by one hand she was dragging a big doll--one of those rag-dolls children have. i couldn't tell you anything about lutetia--except that she was lovely--ineffably lovely. but i can tell you all about this little girl. she was pigtailed and freckled. the pigtails were short, very thick, so tight that their ends snapped upwards, like hundreds of little-girl pigtails that i have seen. there was a row of tangled little ringlets on her forehead. she didn't look at me. she didn't know that i was there. she proceeded straight across the hall, busily stub-toeing her way like any freckled, pigtailed little girl, the doll dragging on the floor behind her, until she reached the garret stairs. she opened the garret door, closed it with the same meticulous care. the last i got was a little white glimpse of her down-dropped face, as she pulled the rag-doll's leg away from the shutting door. i waited there a long time--until my candle guttered to nothing. she did not return. i did not see her or anybody else again that night. i went back to bed and fell immediately into a perfectly quiet, dreamless sleep. the next morning early, i went over to hyde's brother--his name is corning--and bought this house. perhaps you can tell me why i did it. i don't exactly know myself; for of course i couldn't afford it. i realized only that i could not--i simply and absolutely could _not_--let anybody else buy lutetia. you think, of course, that i've finished now, spink. but that isn't all. not by a million persian parasangs--all. she has come again. i mean lutetia. for that matter, they both have come again. but i'll try to tell my story categorically. it was a night or two later; another dewy, placid large-starred night-- strange how this beautiful weather keeps up! i had been reading as usual; but my mind was as vacant as a glass bell from which you have exhausted the air. i was rereading, i remember, lutetia's _the sport of the goddesses_. spink, how that woman could write! and.... again i became aware that i wasn't alone. just as definitely, i knew that it was not lutetia this time; nor even little pigtails. this time, and perhaps it's because i'm getting used to this sort of thing, i had a sense of--not _fear_--but only of what i'll call a _spiritual diffidence_. yet instantly i looked up. he--it was a _he_ this time--was standing in the doorway, which leads from this big living-room into the front hall. we were vis-à-vis--tête-à-tête one might say. he was looking straight at me and i--i assure you, spink--i looked straight at him. spink, you have never heard of a jovial ghost, have you? i'm sure i haven't. but this was or could have been a jovial ghost. he was big--not fat but ample--middle-aged, more than middle-aged. he wore an enormous beard cut square like the men in assyrian mural tablets. hair a little long. i assure you he was the handsomest old beggar that i have ever seen. he looked like a portrait by titian. i got--it's like holding a photographic negative up to the light and trying to get the figures on it--that he wore a sort of flowing gown; it made him stately. and one of those little round caps that conceal or protect baldness. i can't describe him. how the devil _can_ you describe a ghost? i mean an apparition. for he isn't dead either--any more than the little girls is. he's alive somewhere. well, our steady exchange of looks went on and on and on. if i could have said anything it would have been: "what do you want of me, you handsome old beggar?" what he would have said to me i don't know; although he was trying with all his ghostly strength to put some message over. how he was trying! it was that effort that kept him from being what he was--_is_--jovial. god, how that gaze burned--tore--ate. it grew insupportable after a while--it was melting me to nothingness. i dropped my eyes. suddenly i could lift them, for i knew he was gone. somehow i had the feeling that a monstrous bomb had noiselessly exploded in the room. his going troubled me no more than his coming. i remember i said aloud: "i'm sorry i couldn't get you, old top! better luck next time!" i got up from my chair after a few minutes to take my usual before-going-to-bed walk. i walked about the room; absent-mindedly putting things to rights--the way women do. my mind--and i suspect my eyes too--were still so full of him that when, on stepping outside, i came across another--i was conscious of some shock. again not of fear, but of a terrific surprise. are you getting all this, spink? oh, of course you're not, because you don't believe it. but try to believe it. put yourself in my place! try to get the wonder, the magic, the terror, the touch now and then of horror, but above all the fierce thrill--of living with a family of ghosts? this one--the fourth--was a man too. about thirty, i should say. and awfully charming. yes, you spaniel-eyed fish, you, one man is saying this of another man. he was awfully charming. short, dark. he wore--again it is like holding a negative up to the light--he wore white ducks or flannels. he stood very easily, his weight--listen to me, his _weight_--mainly on one foot and one hand curved against his hip. in the other hand, he carried his pipe. he looked at me--god, how he looked at me! how, for that matter, they all look at me! they want something, spink. of me. they're trying to tell me. i can't get it, though. but, believe me, i'm trying. this was worse than the old fellow. for this one, like lutetia, was dead. and he, like her, was trying to put his message across a world, whereas the old fellow had only to pierce a dimension. how he looked at me; held me; bored into me. it was like sustaining visual vitriol.... how he looked at me! it became horrible.... pretty soon i realized i wasn't going to be able to stand it.... yet i stayed with it as long as he did, and of course we continued to glare at each other. i don't exactly know what the etiquette of these meetings is; but i seem to feel vaguely that it's up to me to stay with them as long as they're here. this time, it must have been all of five minutes, although it seemed longer ... much longer ... and i, all the time, trying to hold on. then suddenly something happened. i don't know what it was, but one instant he was there, and another he wasn't. don't ask me how he went away. i don't know. he simply ceased to be; and yet so swifter-than-instantly, so exquisitely, so subtly that my only question was--even though my mind was still stinging from his gaze--had he been there at all. it was as though the tree back of him had instantaneously absorbed him. it was a shock too--that disappearance. well, again i went out for a hike. i walked anywhere--everywhere. how far i don't know. but half the night. again it was as though i marched through the stars.... i haven't seen the old painter again--i call him painter simply because he wore that long robe. and i haven't seen the young guy again. but i see lutetia all the time. she comes and goes. sometimes when i enter the living-room, i find her already there.... sometimes when i leave it, i know she enters by another door.... we spend long evenings together.... i can't write when she's about; but curiously enough i can sometimes read; that is to say, i can read lutetia. i try to read because moments come when i realize that she prefers me not to look at her. it's when she's exhausted from trying to give me her message. or when she's girding herself up for another go. at those moments, the room is full of a frightful struggle; a gigantic spiritual concentration. it seems to me i could not look even if she wanted me. oh, how she tries, spink! it wrings my heart. she's so helpless, so hopeless--so gentle, so tender, so lovely! it's all my own stupidity. the iron-wall stupidity of flesh and blood. perhaps, if i were to kill myself--and i think i could do that for her.... only she doesn't want me to do that.... but what does she want me to do? if i could only.... * * * * * lindsay had written steadily the whole evening; written at a violent speed and with a fierce intensity. now his speed died down. his hands dropped from the typewriter. that mental intensity evaporated. he became aware.... he was not alone. the long living-room was doubly cheerful that night. the inevitable tracks of living had begun to humanize it. a big old bean-pot full of purple iris sat on one end of the refectory table. lindsay's books and notebooks; his paper and envelopes; his pens and pencils sprawled over the length of table between him and the iris. that the night was a little cool, lindsay had seized as pretext to build a huge fire. the high, jagged flames conspired with the steady glow of the big lamp to rout the shadows from everywhere but the extreme corners. no more than--after her coming--he was alone was lutetia alone. it was, lindsay reflected, a picture almost as posed as for a camera. lutetia sat; and leaning against her, close to her knee, stood a pigtailed little girl. she might have been listening to a story; for her little ear was cocked in lutetia's direction. that attitude brought to lindsay's observation a delicious, snub-nosed child profile. she gazed unseeingly over her shoulder to a far corner. and lutetia gazed straight over the child's head at lindsay-- they sat for a long time--a long long time--thus. the little girl's vague eyes still fixed themselves on the shadows as on magic realms that were being constantly unrolled to her. lutetia's eyes still sought lindsay's. and lindsay's eyes remained on lutetia's; held there by the agony of her effort and the exquisite torture of his own bewilderment. after a while he arose. with slow, precise movements, he gathered up the pages of his letter to spink. he arranged them carefully according to their numbers--twelve typewritten pages. he walked leisurely with them over to the fireplace and deposited them in the flames. when he turned, the room was empty. the next day brought storm again. * * * * * the coolness of the night vanished finally before the sparkling sunshine of a wind-swept day. lindsay wrote for an hour or two. then he gave himself up to what he called the "chores." he washed his few dishes. he toiled on the lawn and in the garden. he finished the work of repairing the broken stairway in the barn. at the close of this last effort, he even cast a longing look in the direction of the rubbish collection in the second story of the barn. but his digestion apprised him that this voyage of discovery must be put off until after luncheon. he emerged from the back entrance of the barn, made his way, contrary to his usual custom, by a circuitous route to the front of the house. he stopped to tack up a trail of rosebush which had pulled loose from the trellis there. he felt unaccountably tired. when he entered the house he was conscious for the first time of a kind of loneliness.... he had not seen lutetia, nor any of her companions, for three days. he admitted to himself that he missed the tremendous excitement of the last fortnight. but particularly he missed lutetia. he paused absently to glance into the two front rooms, still as empty as on the day he had first seen them. he wandered upstairs into his bedroom. from there, he journeyed to the child's room beyond; examined again the dim drawings on the wall. it occurred to him that, by going over them with crayons, he could restore some of their lost vividness. the idea brought a little spurt of exhilaration to his jaded spirit. he returned to his own room, just for the sake of descending lutetia's little private stairway to what must have been her private living-room below. he walked absently and a little slowly; still conscious of loneliness. he did not pause long in the living-room, although he made a tentative move in the direction of the kitchen. still absently and quite mechanically he opened the back door; started to step out onto the broad flat stone which made the step.... most unexpectedly--and shockingly, he was not alone. a tiny figure ... black ... sat on the doorstep; sat so close to the door that, as it rose, his curdling flesh warned him he had almost touched it. a curious thing happened. lindsay swayed, pitched; fell backwards, white and moveless. vi "how did they find me, glorious lutie?" susannah asked next morning. "how _did_ they find me? if i could only teach myself to listen to the warning of those little hammers. something told me when i saw warner walking along the corridor of the carman building that he was not there by accident. something told me when i ran into o'hearn at the attic the other night that _he_ was not _there_ by accident. they have been following me all the time. they've known what i've been doing every moment. just as byan knows where i am now. how did they do it? i've never suspected it for a moment. i've never seen anybody. i'm frightened, glorious lutie; i'm dreadfully frightened. i don't know where to turn. if i only had a real friend-- but perhaps that wouldn't help as much as i think. for i'm afraid--i'm too afraid to tell _anybody_--" all this, she said as usual, wordlessly. but she said it from her bed, her eyes fixed in a lackluster stare on the little oval gleam of the miniature. "i don't know what i'd do without you, glorious lutie, to tell my troubles to. you're a great deal more than a picture to me. you're a real presence-- oh, if you could only see for me now. i wonder if byan is still in his room? i wonder what he's going to do. i mean--what is the next move? oh, of course he's there! he wants to talk with me. but i won't let him talk with me. i'll stay in this room until i starve! and he can't telephone. how can he put over what he wants to say?" that question answered itself automatically when she dragged herself up from bed. a white square glimmered beside her door. she pounced upon it. "dear miss ayer: "of course we have known where you were and what you were doing every instant since you left the office. we did not interfere with your quitting your boarding-house because we preferred to give you a few days to think things over. i hope you've been enjoying your little excursions to the museum and the aquarium. we knew you'd come to your senses after a while and be ready to talk business. that is why you've had those little, accidental meetings from time to time. that advertisement for a job in the carman building was a decoy ad. it is useless for you to try to get away from us. "and in the meantime the situation is getting more and more desperate. you know why. now listen. we can clean up on that little business deal in three days. do you know what that means? maybe a hundred thousand dollars. we'll let you in. your share would be twelve thousand five hundred. don't that sound pretty good to you? you can avoid any trouble by going away with us. or you can go alone and nobody will bother you. we'll give you the dope on that; for believe me, we know how. and you wouldn't have to do a thing you don't want to do. we've got grandpa tamed now in regard to you. we've told him that you're a lady, and won't stand for that rough stuff. he's wild about you, and crazy to see you, and make it all right again. now why not use a little sense? slip a note under my door across the way and tell me that you'll doll yourself up and be ready to go to dinner with him tonight at seven." a postscript added: "this is unsigned and typewritten on your own typewriter and so couldn't be used by anyone who didn't like our way of doing business. for your own safety though, i advise you to burn it." this last was the one bit of advice in the letter which susannah followed. she lighted a match and burned it over her water basin. then she forced her protesting throat to swallow a glass of milk. she ate some crackers. after that she went to bed. what to do and where to go! over and over again, she turned the meager possibilities of her situation. nothing offered escape. a hackneyed phrase floated into her mind--"woman's wit." from time immemorial it had been a bromidiom that any woman, however stupid, could outwit any man, however clever. was it true? perhaps not all the time, and perhaps sometimes. that was the only way though--she must pit her nimble, inexperienced woman's wit against their heavier but trained man's wit. her problem was to get out of this house, unseen. but how? all kinds of fantastic schemes floated through her tired mind. if she could only disguise herself-- but she would have to go out first to get the disguise. and byan was across the hall, waiting for just that move. if there were only a convenient fire-escape! but of course he would anticipate that. if she could only summon a taxi, leap into it and drive for an hour! but she would have to telephone for the taxi in the outside hall, where byan could hear her. on and on, she drove her tired mind; inventing schemes more and more impracticable. for a long time, that woman's wit spawned nothing-- then suddenly a curious idea came to her. it was so ridiculous that she rejected it instantly. ridiculous--and it stood ninety-nine per cent chance of failure; offered but one per cent chance of success. nevertheless it recurred. it offered more and more suggestion, more and more temptation. true, it was a thing barely possible; true also, that it was the only thing possible. but could she put it through? had she the nerve? had she the strength? she must find both the nerve and the strength. she bathed and dressed quickly and with a growing steadiness. she packed her belongings into her suitcase, put glorious lutie's miniature in her handbag. she sat down at her bureau and wrote a note: "if you will come to my room, after you have had your breakfast, i will talk the matter over with you. i will not leave the building before you return. i will be ready to see you at ten o'clock." she opened her door, walked across the corridor; slipped the note under the door of byan's room. then she hurried back; locked her door; sat down and waited, her hands clasped. her hands grew colder and colder until they seemed like marble, but all the time her mind seemed to steady and clarify. after a long while she heard byan's door open. she heard his steps retreating down the hall and over the stairs. ten minutes later, susannah appeared, suitcase in hand, at the janitor's office on the first floor. "i'm miss ayer in no. , second floor," she said. "may i leave this suitcase here? i've just thought that i wanted to go to a friend's room on the fifth floor and i don't want to lug it up all those stairs." the janitor considered her for a puzzled second. of course he was in byan's pay, susannah reflected. "sure," he answered uncertainly after a while. "i'm expecting a gentleman to call on me," susannah went on steadily. "tell him i'll be on the fifth floor at no. . my friend is out," she ended in glib explanation, "but she's left her key with me. there's a little work that i wanted to do on her typewriter." the janitor--she had worked this out in advance--must know that room , fifth floor--was occupied by a woman who owned a typewriter. susannah established that when, a few days before, she had restored to its owner a letter shoved by mistake under her own door. susannah deposited her bag on the floor in the janitor's office. she walked steadily up the stairs to the second floor. she felt the janitor's gaze on the first flight of her progress. she stopped just before she reached her own room, glanced back. she was alone there. the janitor had not followed her. perhaps byan's instructions to him were only to watch the door. with a swift pounce, she ran to byan's door, turned the knob. it opened. she ran to the closet; opened that. as she suspected, it was empty. indeed, her swift glance had discovered no signs of occupancy in the room. even the bed was undisturbed. byan had hired it, of course, just for the purpose of being there that one night. susannah closed the closet door after her, so that the merest crack let in the air she should demand--and waited. in that desperate hour when she lay thinking, the idea had suddenly flashed into her mind that there was only one place in the house where byan would not look for her. that place was his own room. but it would not have occurred to her to take refuge there if she had not noted, even in her taut terror of the night before, that when byan entered his own room he had omitted to lock the door after him. as indeed, why should he? there was nothing to steal in it but byan. moreover, of course byan had sat up all night--his door unlocked--ready to forestall any effort of hers to escape. * * * * * an hour later susannah heard a padded, rather brisk step ascending the stairs, coming along the hall. it was byan, of course--no one could mistake his pace. he knocked on the door of her room; at first gently, then insistently. a pause. then he tried the knob, again at first gently, then insistently. his steps retreated down the hall and the stairs. he must have got a pass-key from the janitor, for when, a long minute later, she heard his steps return, the scraping of a lock sounded from across the hall. she heard her somewhat rusty door-hinges creak. there followed a low whistle as of surprise, then an irregular succession of steps and creaks proving that he was looking under the bed, was inspecting the closet. she heard him retreat again down the stairs, and braced herself to endure a longer wait. at last, two pairs of feet sounded on the stairs. had her ruse fully succeeded--would they mount at once to room , fifth floor? no--they were coming again along the second-floor corridor. with a tingle of nerves in her temples and cheeks, she realized that she had reached the supreme moment of peril. they began knocking at every door on the second-floor corridors. once she heard a muffled colloquy--the impatient tones of some strange man, the apologetic voice of the janitor. at other doors she heard, shortly after the knock, the scraping of the pass-key. now they were in the room just beyond the wall of the closet where she was crouching. she heard them enter and emerge--the moment had come! but their footsteps passed her door; an instant later, she heard the pass-key grate in the door of the room on the other side. then--one hand shaking convulsively on the knob of byan's closet door--she heard them go flying up the stairs to the third story--the fourth-- * * * * * before noon of that haunted, hunted morning, susannah found a room in a curious way. when she escaped from the house in the west twenties, she had walked westward almost to the river. in a little den of a restaurant just off the docks, she ordered breakfast and the morning newspapers. but when she tried to look over the advertising columns with a view to finding a room, she had a violent fit of trembling. the members of the carbonado mining company, she recalled to herself, were studying those advertisements just as closely as she; and perhaps at that very moment. hiding in a great city! why, she thought to herself, it's the only place where you can't hide! susannah dawdled over breakfast as long as she dared. she found herself wincing as she emerged onto the busy dingy street of docks. she stopped under the shade of an awning and controlled the abnormal fluttering of her heart while she thought out her situation. she dared no longer walk the streets. she dared not go to a real-estate agent. how, then, might she find a room and a hiding-place? then a salvation army girl came picking her way across the crowded, cluttered dock-pavement toward her awning. and susannah had a sudden impulse which she afterwards described to glorious lutie as a stroke of genius. she came out to the edge of the pavement and accosted the blue bonnet. "do you know of any place where a girl who's a stranger in new york may find a cheap and respectable lodging?" she asked. the salvation army girl gave her a long, steady scrutiny from under the scoop of her bonnet. "my sister keeps a rooming-house up on eighth avenue," she said finally. "she always has an extra room, and she will take you in, i guess. have you a bit of paper? i'll write her a note." susannah flew, swift as a homing dove, to the address. the landlady, a shapeless, featureless, middle-aged blonde, read the note; herself gave a long glance of scrutiny, and showed the room. susannah's examination was merely perfunctory. in fact, she looked with eyes which saw not. probably never before did a shabby, battered bedchamber, stained as to ceiling, peeling as to wallpaper, carelessly patched as to carpet, indescribably broken-down and nondescript as to furniture, seem a very paradise to the eyes of twenty-five. the bed was humpy, but it was a double bed; and clean. susannah sank on to it. she did not rise for a long time. then, true to her accepted etiquette on occasions of this kind, she drew the miniature from her handbag and pinned it on to the wall beside her bureau. "glorious lutie," her thoughts ran, "i'm as weak as a sick cat. if there was ever a girl more terrified, more friendless, more worn-out than i feel at this moment, i'd like to know how she got that way. i want to crawl into that bed and stay there for a week just reveling in the thought that i'm safe. safe, glorious lutie. safe! alone with you. and nobody to be afraid of. our funds are running low of course. i've nothing to pawn except you. but don't be afraid--i'll never pawn you. if we have to go down, we'll go down together and with all sails set. i've got an awful hate and fear on this job-hunting business now. heaven knows i don't want much money; only enough to live on. i guess i won't try to be a high-class queen of secretaries any longer--or at least for the present. my lay is to lie low for a month or two. i'll rest for a few days. then i'll go into--what? what, glorious lutie, tell me what? i've got it! domestic service. that's my escape. i've certainly got brains enough to be a second girl and they never could find me tucked away in somebody's house, especially if i never take my afternoons out. which, believe me, glorious lutie, i won't. i'll spend them all with you. oh, what an idea that is! i'll wait around here for about a week and then i'll tackle one of the domestic service agencies. if i know anything about after-the-war conditions, i'll be snapped up like hot cakes." keeping her promise to herself, susannah stayed as much as possible indoors. the landlady consented to give her breakfast, but she would do no more--even that was an accommodation. in gratitude, susannah took care of her own room. she kept it in spotless order; she even pottered with repairs. with breakfast at home, she had no need to leave the house of mornings. she went without luncheon; and late in the afternoon, before the home-going flood from the offices, she had dinner in a child's restaurant round the corner. for the rest of the time, she read the landlady's books--few, and mostly cheap. but they included a set of dickens; and she renewed acquaintance with a novelist whom she loved for himself and who called up memories of her happiest times. but her mood with dickens was curiously capricious. his deaths and persecutions and poignant tragedies she could no longer endure--they swept her into a gulf of black melancholy. on the second day of her voluntary imprisonment, she glanced through _bleak house_; stumbled into the wanderings of little jo through the streets of london. suddenly she surprised herself by a fit of hysterical, trembling tears. this explosion cleared her mental airs; but afterward she skipped through dickens, picking and choosing his humors, his love-passages, his gargantuan feasts in wayside inns. when her eyes grew weary with reading, or when she ran into one of those passages which brought the black cloud, susannah gazed vacantly out of the window. her lodging-house stood on a corner; she had a back, corner room on the third floor. the house next door, on the side street, finished to the rear in a two-story shed. its roof lay almost under her window. the landlady, upon showing the room, had called her attention to this shed. "we've got no regular fire escapes, dearie," she said, "but in case of trouble, you're all right. you just step out here and if the skylight ain't open, somebody'll get you down with a ladder. a person can't be too careful about fires!" across the skylight lay a few scanty backyards--treeless, grassless, uninteresting. this city area of yards and sheds seemed to be the club, the rialto for all the stray cats of eighth avenue. susannah named them, endowed them with personalities. their squabbles, their amours, their melodramatic stalking, gave her a kind of apathetic interest. the interest lessened as three days went by, and the apathy deepened. "it's my state of mind, glorious lutie," she apprised the miniature. "it's this weight that's on my spirit. it's fear. just as soon as i can get my mind off--i mean just as soon as i become convinced that i'm never going to be bothered again, it will go, i'm sure. of course i can't help feeling as i do. but i ought not to. i'm perfectly safe now. in a few days those crooks won't trouble about me any more. it will be too late. and i know it." she reiterated those last two sentences as though glorious lutie were a difficult person to convince. the next morning, however, came diversion. work--roofing--began on the shed just under her window. susannah watched the workmen with an interest that held, at first, an element of determined concentration. the roofers, an elderly man and a younger one, incredibly dirty in their blackened overalls, which were soon matched by face and hands, were very conscious at first of the brilliant tawny head just above. once, muffled by the window, she caught an allusion to white horses. but susannah ignored this; continued to watch them disappearing and emerging through the open skylight, setting up their melting-pot, arranging their sheets of tin. before she was out of bed next morning they were making a metallic clatter with their hammers. in her normal state, susannah was a creature almost without nerves. she even retained a little of the child's enjoyment of a racket for its own sake. but now--the din annoyed her, annoyed her unspeakably. she crept languidly out of bed, peeped through the edge of the curtain. they were just beginning work. it would keep up all day. "i can't stand this!" said susannah aloud; and then began one of her wordless addresses to the miniature. "i guess the time has come, anyhow, to strike into pastures new. behold, glorious lutie, your glorious susie descending from the high and mighty position of pampered secretary to that of driven slave. tomorrow morn i apply for a job as second girl. if it weren't for this headache, i'd do it today." however, the hammering only intensified her headache; she must get outside. so when the landlady arrived with her breakfast, susannah inquired for the address of the nearest employment office. she dressed, and descended to the street. as always, of late, she had a shrinking as she stepped out into the open world of men and women. when she had controlled this, she moved with a curious apathy to the old, battered ground-floor office with yellow signs over its front windows, where girls found work at domestic service. presently, she was registered, was sitting on a long bench with a row of women ranging from slatternly to cheaply smart. she scarcely observed them. that apathy was settling deeper about her spirits; her only sensation was her dull headache. somehow, when she sat still it was not wholly an unpleasant headache. then the voice of the sharp-faced woman at the desk in the corner called her name. it tore the veil, woke her as though from sleep. she rose, to face her first chance--a thin, severe woman with a mouth like a steel trap. this first chance furnished no opening, however; neither, as the morning wore away, did several other chances. the process of getting a second maid's job was at the same time more difficult and less difficult than she had thought. susannah had forgotten that people always ask servants for references. she had supposed her carefully worked out explanation would cover that situation--that she had been a stenographer in providence; that she had come to new york soon after the armistice was signed, hoping for a bigger outlook; that the returning soldiers were snapping up all the jobs; that she had tried again and again for a position; that her money was fast going; that she had been advised to enter domestic service. housekeepers from rich establishments and the mistresses of small ones interviewed her; but the lack of references laid an impassable barrier. in the afternoon, however, luck changed. a suburbanite from jamaica, a round, grizzled, middle-aged woman, desperately in need of a second girl, cut through all the red-tape that had held the others up. "you're perfectly honest," she said meditatively, "about admitting you've had no experience, and you _look_ trustworthy." "i assure you, madam,"--susannah was eager, but wary; not too eager. she even laughed a little--"i am honest--so honest that it hurts." "the only thing is," her interlocutor went on hesitatingly; "you must pardon me for putting it so bluntly; but we might as well be open with each other. i'm afraid you'll feel a little above your position." "well," susannah responded honestly, "to be straightforward with _you_, i suppose i shall. but i give you my word, i'll never _show_ it. and that's the only thing that counts, isn't it?" the woman smiled. "i must confess i like you," she burst out impulsively. "but how am i going to know that you're--all right?" susannah sighed. "i understand your situation perfectly. i don't know how you're to know i'm all right--morally or just in the matter of mere honesty. for there's nobody but me to tell you that i'm moral and honest. and of course i'm prejudiced." "well, anyway i'm going to risk it. i'm engaging you now. it is understood--ten dollars a week; and alternate thursdays and sundays out. i don't want you until tomorrow because i want my former maid out of the house before you come. now will you promise me that you'll take the nine train tomorrow?" "i promise," susannah agreed. "but that reminds me," the woman came on another difficulty, "what's to guarantee that you'll stay with me?" "i guarantee," susannah said steadily, "that if you keep to your end of the agreement, i'll stay with you at least three months." the woman sparkled. "all right, i'll expect you tomorrow on the nine train. i'll be there with the ford to meet you. here are the directions." she scribbled busily on a card. susannah walked home as one who treads on air. the veil of apathy had broken. and in spite of her headache, which caught her by fits and starts, her mood broke into a joy so wild that it sent her pirouetting about the room. "glorious lutie, i never felt so happy in my life. so gayly, grandly, gorgeously, gor-gloriously happy! all my troubles are over. i'm safe." and on the strength of that security, she washed and ironed her lavender linen suit. her headache was better again. perhaps if she went out now to an early dinner, it might disappear altogether. but how languorous she felt, how indisposed to effort. she would sit and read a while. she opened _pickwick papers_ on its last pages. she had almost finished the book. "i suppose it will be a long time before i have a chance to do any more reading," she meditated. "so i think i'll finish this. you've helped me through a hard passage in my life, charles dickens, and i thank you with all my heart." but she could not read. as soon as she sat down by the window and settled her eyes on the book, the headache returned. the men were still at work on the roof, hammering away at one corner. every blow seemed to strike her skull. midway of the roof, the skylight yawned open; their extra tools were laid out beside it. at five o'clock they would quit for the day. usually she disliked to have them go. in spite of their noise, she felt that still. they gave her a kind of warm, human sense of companionship. and they had become accustomed to her appearances at the window. their flirtatious first glances had ceased for want of encouragement. they scarcely seemed to see her when they looked up. but now--that hammering at her skull! susannah suddenly rose and closed the window, hot though the day was, against this torrent of sound. as though its futile shield would give added protection, she drew the curtain. in the dimmed light she sat rocking, her head in her hands. her face was fire-hot--why, she wondered-- the hammering stopped. they were soldering now. they were always doing that; beating the tin sheets into place and stopping to solder them. there would be silence for a time. in a moment, she would open the window for a breath of air on her burning face.... she started at a knock on her door, low, quick, but abrupt. before she could answer, it opened. his face shadowed in the three-quarters light, but his form perfectly outlined, instantly recognizable--stood warner. behind warner was byan, and behind byan, o'hearn. all the blood of her heart seemed to strike in one wave on susannah's aching head, and then to recede. she knew both the tingling of terror and the numbness of horror. prickling, stinging darts volleyed her face, her hands, her feet; and yet she seemed to be freezing to stone. they came into the room before anyone spoke--warner first. byan lolled to a place in the corner; the three-quarters light, filtering through the thin fabric of the flimsy, yellow curtain, revealed his clean profile, his mysterious half-smile. o'hearn stood just at the entrance. he did not continue to look at her. his eyes sought the floor. warner was speaking now: "good-evening, miss ayer. we have come to finish up that little piece of business with you. it has been delayed as long as it can be. pardon us for breaking in upon you like this. your landlady tried to prevent us, but we assured her that you would want to see us. as i think you will when you come to your senses and hear what i have to say." he stopped, as though awaiting her reply. but susannah made no answer. she had dropped her eyes now; her hands lay limp in her lap. and in this pause, a curious piece of byplay passed between warner and o'hearn. the master of this trio caught the glance of his assistant and, with a swift motion of three fingers toward the lapel of his coat, gave him that "office" in the underworld sign manual--which means "look things over." o'hearn, moving so lightly that susannah scarcely noted his passage, stepped to the window, lifted the edge of the curtain. he took a swift, intent look outside and returned to warner. his back to susannah, he spoke with his lips, scarcely vocalizing the words. "no getaway there, boss--straight drop--" he said. warner was speaking again. "your landlady says we may have her parlor for our conference. wouldn't you prefer to make yourself presentable for the street and then join us there--in about ten minutes, say?" ten minutes--this gave her a chance to play for time--the only chance she had. she looked up. nothing on the clean-cut, pearl-white exterior of her face gave a clue to the anarchy within; nothing, even, in her black-fringed, blue gaze the tautly-held scarlet lips. her fire-bright head lifted a little higher and she gazed steadily into warner's eyes, as she spoke in a voice which seemed to her to belong to someone else: "i can give you a few minutes, but i have not changed my determination." "but i think you will," said warner. "i really think you will. before we go, i might remind you that we have been extremely gentle and patient with you, miss ayer. i might also remind you that you have never succeeded in giving us the slip. you were very clever when you escaped from your last lodging. we don't know yet exactly how you did it. perhaps you will tell us in the course of our little talk this afternoon. but you were not quite clever enough. you did not figure that with such important matters pending, we would have the outside of the house watched as well as the inside. so that you may not think our meeting this afternoon is accidental, let me remind you that you have an engagement for tomorrow afternoon in jamaica--to take a job as second maid. what we have to offer you this afternoon will probably be so attractive that you will overlook that engagement." he paused. "i will be with you in ten minutes," said susannah. she was conscious of no emotion now--only that her head ached, and that the faded roses in the old carpet were entwined with forget-me-nots--a thing she had never noticed before. "thank you." warner made her a gallant little bow. "mr. byan and i will wait in the parlor. until we come to an understanding, we shall have to continue the old arrangement. it will therefore be necessary for mr. o'hearn to watch in the hall. if you do not arrive in ten minutes--this room will probably do as well as the parlor. until then, miss ayer!" he opened the door, passed out. byan retreated after him, flashing one of his pathetically sweet, floating smiles. susannah looked up now, followed their movements as the felon must follow the movements of the man with the rope. o'hearn had been standing close to susannah, his veiling lashes down. he fell in behind the other two. but before he joined the file, those lashes came up in a quick glance which stabbed susannah. his hand came up too. he was pointing to the window. and then he spoke two words in a whisper so low that they carried only to the ears of susannah, scarce three feet away--so low that she could not have made them out but for the exaggerated, expressive movement of his lips. "skylight--quick--" he said. he made for the door in the wake of the other two. for the fraction of an instant susannah did not comprehend. and then suddenly one of those little intuitive blows which she was always receiving and ignoring gave, on the hard surface of her mind, a faint tap. this time, she was conscious of it. this time, she trusted it instantly. this time, it told her what to do. "i'll be with you as soon as i get dolled up," she called. "that's right," came the suave voice of warner from the hall. she closed the door. she listened while two sets of footsteps descended the stairs. she heard a third set, which must be o'hearn's, retreat for a few paces and then stop. she fell swiftly to work. she put on her hat and cape. she took the miniature, thumbtack and all, from the wall, and put it in her wrist bag. "help me, glorious lutie," she called from the depths of her soul. "help me! help me! help me! i'm lost if you don't help me! i can't do it any more alone." vii when lindsay pulled back from the quiet gray void which had enshrouded him, he was lying on the grass. far, far away, as though pasted against the brilliant blue sky, was a face. gradually the sky receded. the face came nearer. it topped, he gradually gathered, the tiny slender black-silk figure of a little old lady. "do you feel all right now?" it asked. lindsay wished that she would not question him. he was immensely preoccupied with what seemed essentially private matters. but the instinct of courtesy prodded him. "very much, thank you," he answered weakly. he closed his eyes again. he became conscious of a wet cloth sopping his forehead and cheeks. a breeze tingled on the bare flesh of his neck and chest. he opened his eyes again; sat up. "do you mean to tell me i fainted?" he demanded with his customary vigor. "that's exactly what you did, young man," the old lady answered. "the instant you looked at me! i was setting with my back to the door. you could have knocked me down with a feather, when you fell over backwards." "have i been out long?" "not more'n a moment. i flaxed around and got some water and brought you to in a jiffy. you ain't an invalid, are you?" "far from it," lindsay reassured her. "i'm afraid, though, i've been working too long in the hot sun this morning." "like as not!" the little old lady agreed briskly. "i guess you're hungry too," she hazarded. "now you just get up and lay in the hammock and i'm going to make you some lunch. i see there was some eggs there and milk and tea. i'll have you some scrambled eggs fixed in no time. my name is spash--mrs. spash." "my name is lindsay--david lindsay." lindsay found himself submitting without a murmur to the little old lady's program. he lay quiescent in the hammock and let the tides of vitality flow back.... mrs. spash's prophecy, if anything, underestimated her energy. in an incredibly short time she had produced, in collaboration with the oil stove, eggs scrambled on bread deliciously toasted, tea of a revivifying heat and strength. "gee, that tastes good!" lindsay applauded. he sighed. "it certainly takes a woman!" "what are you doing here?" mrs. spash inquired. "batching it?" "yes, i think that describes the process," lindsay admitted. after an instant, "how did you happen to be on the doorstep?" "well, i don't wonder you ask," mrs. spash declared. "i didn't know the murray place was let and--well, i was making one of my regular visits. you see, i come here often. i'm pretty fond of this old house. i lived here once for years." lindsay sat upright. "did you by chance live here when lutetia murray was alive?" "well, i should say i did!" mrs. spash answered. "i lived here the last twenty years of lutetia murray's life. i was her housekeeper, as you might say." lindsay stared at her. he started to speak. it was obvious that conflicting comments fought for expression, but all he managed to say--and ineptly enough--was: "oh, you knew her, then?" "knew her!" mrs. spash seemed to search among her vocabulary for words. or perhaps it was her soul for emotions. "yes, i knew her," she concluded with a feeble breathlessness. "you've lived in this house, then, for twenty years," lindsay repeated, musing. "yes, all of that." mrs. spash appeared to muse also. for an instant the two followed their own preoccupations. then as though they led them to the same _impasse_, their eyes lifted simultaneously; met. they smiled. "i've bought this house, mrs. spash," lindsay confided. "and you never can guess why." mrs. spash started what appeared to be a comment. it deteriorated into a little inarticulate murmur. "i bought it," lindsay went on, "because when i was in college, i fell in love with lutetia murray." and then, at mrs. spash's wide-eyed, faded stare, "not with miss murray herself--i never saw her--but with her books. i read everything she wrote and i wrote in college what we call a thesis on her." "sort of essay or composition," mrs. spash defined thesis to herself. "exactly," lindsay permitted. "she was--she was--" mrs. spash began in a dispassionate sort of way. she concluded in a kind of frenzy. "she was an angel." "oh yes, she's that all right. i have never seen anybody so lovely." mrs. spash made a swift conversational pounce. "i thought you said you'd never seen her." lindsay flushed abjectly. "no," he admitted. "but you see i have a picture of her." he pointed to the mantel. "yes, i noticed that when i came in to get some water." strangely enough mrs. spash did not, for a moment, look at the picture. instead she stared at lindsay. lindsay submitted easily enough to this examination. after a while mrs. spash appeared to abandon her scrutiny of him. she trotted over to the fireplace; studied lutetia's likeness. "i don't know as i ever see that one--it don't half do her justice--i hate a profile picture--" she pronounced "profile" to rhyme with "wood-pile." "none of her pictures ever did do her justice. her beauty was mostly in her hair and her eyes. she had a beautiful skin too, though she never took no care of it. never wore a hat--no matter how hot the sun was. and then her expression-- well, it was just beautiful--changing all the time." lindsay was only half listening. he was, with an amused glint in his eyes, studying mrs. spash's spare, erect black-silk figure. she was a relic perfectly preserved, he reflected, of mid-victorianism. her black was of the kind that is accurately described by the word decent. and she wore fittingly a little black, beaded cape with a black shade-hat that tilted forward over her face at a decided slant. her straight, white, abundant hair was apparently parted in the middle under her hat. at any rate, the neat white parting continued over the crown of her head to her very neck, where it concealed itself under a flat black-silk bow. her gnarled, blue-veined hands had been covered with the lace mitts that now lay on the table. her little wrinkled face was neat-featured. the irises of her eyes were a faded blue and the whites were blue also; and this put a note of youthful color among her wrinkles. but lindsay lost interest in these details; for, obviously, a new idea caught him in its instant clutch. "oh, mrs. spash," he suggested, "would you be so good as to take me through this house? i want you to tell me who occupied the rooms. this is not mere idle curiosity on my part. you see miss murray's publishers have decided to bring out a new edition of her works. they want me to write a life of miss murray. i'm asking everybody who knows anything about her all kinds of questions." mrs. spash received all this with that unstirred composure which indicates non-comprehension of the main issue. "of course i'm interested on my own account too," lindsay went on. "she's such a wonderful creature, so charming and so beautiful, so sweet, so unbearably poignant and sad. i can't understand," he concluded absently, "why she is so sad." mrs. spash seemed to comprehend instantly. "it's the way she died," she explained vaguely, "and how everything was left!" she walked in little swift pattering steps, and with the accustomed air of one who knows her way, through the side door into the addition. "this was miss murray's own living-room," she told lindsay. "she had that little bit of a stairway made, she _said_, so's too many folks couldn't come up to her room at once. not that that made any difference. wherever she was, the whole household went." with little nipping steps mrs. spash ascended the stairway. lindsay followed. "did miss murray die in her room?" lindsay asked. "how did you know this was her room?" mrs. spash demanded. "i don't know exactly. i just guessed it," lindsay answered. "i sleep here myself," he hurriedly threw off. "yes. she died here. she was all alone when she died. you see--" mrs. spash sat down on the one chair and, instantly sensing her mood, lindsay sat down on the bed. "you see, things hadn't gone very well for miss murray the last years of her life. her books didn't sell-- and she spent money like water. she was allus the most open-hearted, open-handed creature you can imagine. she allus had the house full of company! and then there was the little girl--cherry--who lived with her. at the end, things were bad. no money coming in. and miss murray sick all the time." "you say she was alone when she died," lindsay gently brought her back to the track. "yes--except for little cherry, who slept right through everything--childlike. cherry had that room." mrs. spash jerked an angular thumb back. lindsay nodded. "yes, i guessed that--with all the drawings--" "the weejubs! mr. gale drew them pictures for cherry. he was an artist. he used to paint pictures out in the backyard there. i didn't fancy them very much myself--too dauby. you had to stand way off from them 'fore they'd look like anything _a-tall_. but he used to get as high as five hundred dollars for them. oh, what excitement there was in this house while he was decorating cherry's room! and little cherry chattering like a magpie! mr. gale made up a whole long story about the weejubs on her walls. lord, i've forgotten half of it; but cherry could rattle it all off as _fast_. miss murray had that door between her room and cherry's made small on purpose. she said cherry could come into her room whenever she wanted to, as long as she was a little girl. but when cherry grew up, she was going to make it hard for her. but she promised when cherry was sixteen years old she shouldn't have to call her auntie any more--she could call her jess lutetia. queer idea, worn't it?" mrs. spash's old eyes so narrowed before an oncoming flood of reminiscence that they seemed to retreat to the back of her head, where they diminished to blue sparks. for a moment the room was silent. then "let me show you something! you'd oughter know it, seein' it's your house. there's some, though, i wouldn't show it to." she pattered with her surprising quickness to the back wall. she pressed a spot in the paneling and a small square of the wood moved slowly back. "you see, miss murray's bed ran along that wall, just as cherry's did in the other room. mornings and evenings they used to open this panel and talk to each other." lindsay's eyes filmed even as mrs. spash's had. mentally he saw the two faces bending toward the opening.... "but you was asking about miss murray's death-- as i say, things didn't go well with her. i didn't understand how it all happened. folks stopped buying her books, i guess. anyway, when she died, there was nothing left. and there was debts. the house and everything in it was sold--at auction. it was awful to see miss murray's things all out on the lawn. and a great crowd of gawks--riff-raff from everywhere--looking at 'em and making fun of 'em-- she had beautiful things, but they went for nothing a-tall. they jess about paid her debts." lindsay groaned. "but her death--" "oh yes, as i was sayin'. you see, miss murray worn't ever the same after mr. lewis died. you know about that?" lindsay nodded. "he was drowned." mrs. spash nodded confirmatively. "yes, in spy pond--over south quinanog way. he was swimming all alone. he was taken with cramps way out in the middle of the pond. finally somebody saw him struggling and they put out in a boat, but they were too late. miss murray was in the garden when they brought him back on a shutter. i was with her. i can see the way her face looked now. she didn't say anything. not a word! she turned to stone. and it didn't seem to me that she ever came back to flesh again. they was to be married in october. he was a splendid man. he came from new york." "yes. curiously enough i spent a few days in what used to be his rooms," lindsay informed her. "that so?" but it was quite apparent that nothing outside the radius of quinanog interested mrs. spash deeply. she made no further comment. "was she very much in love with lewis?" lindsay ventured. "in love! i wish you could see their eyes when they looked at each other. they'd met late. miss murray had always had lots of attention. but she never seemed to care for anybody--though she'd flirt a little--until she met mr. lewis. it was love at first sight with them." she proceeded. "well, miss murray died five years after mr. lewis. she died--well, i don't know exactly what it was. but she had _attacks_. she was a terrible sufferer. and she was worried--money matters worried her. you see, little cherry's mother died when she was born and her father soon after. miss murray'd always had cherry and felt responsible for her. i know, because she told me. 'it ain't myself, eunice spash,' she said to me more'n once. 'it's little cherry.' anyway, she was alone when her last attack came. she'd sent for a cousin--i forget the name--to be with her, and she was up in boston getting a nurse, and i was in the other side of the house. i never heard a sound. we found her dead in the middle of the floor--there." her crooked forefinger indicated the spot. "seemed she'd got up and tried to get to the door to call. but she dropped and died halfway. she was all contorted. her face looked--not so much suffering of the body as-- well, you could see it in her face that it come to her that she was going, and cherry was left with nothing." "what became of that cousin?" lindsay inquired. "i have asked everybody in the neighborhood, but nobody seems to know." "and i don't know. she went to boston, taking cherry with her. for a time we heard from cherry now and then--she'd write letters to the children. then we lost sight of her. i don't know whether miss murray's cousin's living or dead; cherry either." lindsay felt that he could have assured her that cherry was alive; but his conclusion rested on premises too gauzy for him to hazard the statement. mrs. spash sighed. she arose, led the way into the hall. "this was mr. monroe's room; and mr. gale's room was back of his. he liked the room that overlooked the garden. mr. monroe--" "that's the big man, the sculptor," lindsay hazarded. "how'd you know?" mrs. spash pounced on him again. "oh, i've talked with a lot of people in the neighborhood," lindsay returned evasively. "that mr. monroe," mrs. spash glided on easily, "was a case and a half. nothing but talk and laugh every moment he was in the house. i used to admire to have him come." "where is he?" lindsay asked easily. he hoped mrs. spash did not guess how, mentally, he hung upon her answer. "he went to italy--to florence--after miss murray died." mrs. spash stopped. "he was in love with miss murray. had been for years. she wouldn't have him though. he was an awful nice man. sometimes i thought she would have him. but after mr. lewis came-- queer, worn't it? i don't know whether mr. monroe's alive or dead." again lindsay felt that he could have assured her that he was alive, but again gauzy premises inhibited exact conclusions. "the last i heard of him he was in rome. 'tain't likely he's alive now. _land_, no! he'd be well over seventy--close onto seventy-five. mr. gale was in love with her too. he was younger. i don't think he ever told miss murray, i never _did_ know if she knew. you couldn't fool me though. well, i started out to show you this house. i must be gitting on. you've seen the slave quarters and the whipping-post upstairs?" "yes. _everybody_ could tell me about the whipping-post and the slave quarters. but the things i wanted to know--" "well, it's natural enough that folks shouldn't know much about her. miss murray was a lady that didn't talk about her own affairs and she kept sort of to herself, as you might say. she wasn't the kind that ran in on folks. she wrote by fits and starts. sometimes she'd stay up late at night. she _allus_ wrote new-moon time. she said the light of the crescent moon inspired her. how they used to make fun of her about that! but she'd write with all of them about, laughing and talking and playing the piano or singing--and dancing even. the house was so lively those days--they was all great trainers. and yet she could fall asleep right in the midst of all that confusion. well--so you see she wasn't given to making calls. and then there was always so much to do and so many folks around at home. have you been upstairs in the barn?" "no--not yet. the stairs were all broken away. i had just finished mending them when i had the pleasure of making your acquaintance." they both smiled reminiscently. "let's go up there now--there must be a lot of things--" she ended her sentence a little vaguely as the old sometimes do. but the movement with which she arose from her chair and trotted toward the stairs was full of an anticipation almost youthful. "the garden used to be so pretty," she sighed as they started on the well-worn trail to the barn. "miss murray worn't what you might call practical, but she could make flowers grow. she never cooked, nor sewed, nor anything sensible, but she'd work in that garden till-- there was certain combinations of flowers that she used to like; hollyhocks, especially the garnet ones so dark they was almost black, surrounded by them blue canterbury bells; and then phlox in all colors, white and pink and magenta and lavender and purple. i think there was some things put out here," she interrupted herself vaguely, "that nobody wanted at the auction. there wasn't even a bid on them." she trotted up the stairs like a pony that has suddenly become aged. lindsay followed, two steps at a time. the upper story of the barn was the confused mass of objects that the lumber room of any large household inevitably collects. broken chairs; tables, bureaux; rejected pieces of china; kitchen furnishings; a rusty stove, old boxes; bandboxes; broken trunks; torn bags. "there! that's the table miss murray used to do her writing at. she said there never had been a table built big enough for her. i expect that's why nobody bought it at the auction. 'twas too big for mortal use, you might say. the same reason i expect is why the dining-room table didn't sell either." "where did she write?" lindsay asked, measuring the table with his eye. "all summer in the south living-room. but when it come winter, she'd often take her things and set right in front of the fire in the living-room. then she'd write at that long table you're writing on." "this table goes back to the south living-room tomorrow," lindsay decided almost inaudibly. "can you tell me the exact spot?" "i guess i _can_. lord knows i've got down on my hands and knees and dusted the legs often enough. miss murray said, though it was soft wood, it was the oldest piece in the house. she bought it at some old tavern where they was having a sale. she said it dated back--long before revolutionary times--to colonial days." "could you tell me, i wonder, about the rest of miss murray's furniture?" lindsay came suddenly from out a deep revery. "do you remember who bought it? i would like to buy back all that i can get. i'd like to make the old place look, as much as possible, as it used to look." mrs. spash flashed him a quick intent look. then she meditated. "i think i could probably tell you where most every piece went. the drakes got the field bed and the ivory-keyhole bureau and the ivory-keyhole desk; and miss garnet got the elephant and mis' manson got the gazelles--" "elephant! gazelles!" lindsay interrupted. "the gazelles," mrs. spash smiled indulgently. "well, it does sound queer, but miss murray used to call those little thin-legged candle tables that folks use, _gazelles_. the elephant was a great high chest of drawers. mis' manson got the maple gazelles--" she proceeded in what promised to be an indefinite category. "do you think i could buy any of those things back?" lindsay asked after listening patiently to the end. "some of them, i guess. i have a few things in my attic i'll sell you--and some i'll give you. i'd admire to see them in the old place once more." "you must let me buy them all," lindsay protested. "well, we'll see about that," mrs. spash disposed of this disagreement easily. "have you seen the dew pond yet?" "the dew pond!" lindsay echoed. "the little pond beyond the barn," mrs. spash explained. then, as though a great light dawned, "oh, of course it's all so growed up round it you'd never notice it. come and i'll show it to you." lindsay followed her out of the barn. this was all like a dream, he reflected--but then everything was like a dream nowadays. he had lived in a dream for two months now. mrs. spash struck into a path which led beyond the barn. the trail grew narrower and narrower; threatened after a while to disappear. lindsay finally took the lead, broke a path. they came presently on a pond so tiny that it was not a pond at all; it was a pool. water-lilies choked it; forget-me-nots bordered it; high wild roses screened it. lindsay stood looking for a long time into it. "it's the merry mere of _mary towle_," he meditated aloud. mrs. spash received this in the uninterrogative silence with which she had received other of his confidences. she apparently fell back easily into the ways of literary folk. "i remember now i got a glint of water from one of the upstairs bedrooms," lindsay went on, "the first time i came into the house. but i forgot it instantly; and i've never noticed it since." "wait a moment!" mrs. spash seemed afraid that he would leave. "there's something else." she attempted to push her way through the jungle in the direction of the house. for an instant her progress was easy, then bushes and vines caught her. lindsay sprang to her assistance. "there's something here--that was left," she panted. "folks have forgotten all about--" she dropped explanatory phrases. heedless of tearing thorns and piercing prickers, lindsay crashed on. mrs. spash watched expectantly. "there!" she called with satisfaction. on a cairn of rocks, filmed over by years of exposure to the weather, stood what lindsay immediately recognized to be a large old rum-jar. the sun found exposed spots on its surface, brought out its rich olive color. "after mr. lewis died," mrs. spash explained, "miss murray went abroad for a year. she went to egypt. she put this here when she came home. then you could see it from the house. the sun shone on it something handsome. she told me once she went into a temple on the nile cut out of the living-rock, where there was room after room, one right back of the other. in the last one, there was an altar; and once a year, the first ray of the rising sun would strike through all the rooms and lay on that altar. worn't that cute? i allus thought she had that in mind when she put this here." lindsay contemplated the old rum-jar. mrs. spash contemplated him. and suddenly it was as though she were looking at lindsay from a new point of view. lindsay's face had changed subtly in the last two months. the sun of quinanog had added but little to the tan and burn with which three years of flying had crusted it. he was still very handsome. it was not, however, this comeliness that mrs. spash seemed to be examining. the experiences at quinanog had softened the deliberate stoicism of his look. rather they had fed some inner softness; had fired it. his air was now one of perpetual question. yet dreams often invaded his eyes; blurred them; drooped his lips. "it's all unbelievable," lindsay suddenly commented, "i don't believe it. i don't believe you. i don't believe myself." mrs. spash still kept her eyes fixed on the young man's face. her look had grown piercing. "have you a shovel handy?" she surprisingly asked. "yes, why?" mrs. spash did not answer immediately. he turned and looked at her. she was still gazing at him hard; but the light from some long-harbored emotion of her dulled old soul was shining bluely in her dulled old eyes. "i want you should get it," she ordered briefly. "there's something right here," she pointed, "that i want you to dig up." viii susannah let herself lightly down on the tin roof; it was scarcely a step from her window. with deliberate caution, she turned and drew the shade. then she tiptoed toward the skylight. the workmen were still soldering; the older man, with the air of one performing a delicate operation, lay stretched out flat, holding some kind of receptacle; the younger was pouring molten lead from a ladle. try as she might, she could not prevent her feet from making a slight tapping on the tin. the older man glanced sharply up. "look out!" called the younger, and he bent again to his work. almost running now, she stepped into the gaping hole of the skylight. the stairs were very steep--practically a ladder. as she disappeared from view, she heard a quick "what the hell!" from the roof above her. susannah hurried forward along a dark passage, looking for stairs. the passage jutted, became lighter, went forward again. this must be the point where the shed-addition joined the main building. she was in the hallway of a dingy, conventional flat-house, with doors to right and left. one of these doors opened; a woman in a faded calico dress looked her over, the glance including the traveling-bag; then picked up a letter from the hall-floor, and closed it again. susannah found herself controlling an impulse to run. but no steps sounded behind her--she was not as yet pursued. and there was the stairway--at the very front of the house! she descended the two flights to the entrance. there, for a moment, she paused. as soon as warner discovered her flight, they would be after her. the workmen would point the way. the street--and quick--was the only chance. noiselessly she opened the door. at the head of the steps leading to the street, she stopped long enough for a look to right and left. only a scattered afternoon crowd--no warner, no byan. an eighth avenue tram-car was ringing its gong violently. on a sudden impulse of safety, she shot down the steps, ran past her own door to the corner. an open southbound car had drawn up, was taking on passengers. she reached it just as the conductor was about to give the forward signal, and was almost jerked off her feet as she stepped onto the platform. steadying herself, she looked, in the brief moment afforded by the bumpy crossing of the car, down the side street. the entrances of her own house at the corner, the entrances to the house she had just left, were blank and undisturbed; no one was following her. she paid her fare, and settled down on the end of a cross-seat. and now she was aware not of relief or reaction or fear, but solely of her headache. it had changed in character. it had become a furious internal bombardment of her brows. if she turned her eyes to right or left, she seemed to be dragging weights across the front of her brain. yet this headache did not seem quite a part of herself. it was as though she knew, by a supernormal sensitiveness, the symptoms of someone else. it was as though suddenly she had become two people. anyway, it had ceased to be personal. and somewhere else within her head was growing a delicious feeling of freedom, of lightness, of escape from a wheel. her evasion of the carbonado mining company did not account for all that; she felt free from everything. "i'm not going to take any more rooms," she said to herself. "i'm going to sleep out of doors now, like the birds. people find you when you take rooms. where shall i begin?" she considered; and then one of those little hammers of intuition seemed to tap on her brain. again, she did not resist. "why, washington square of course!" she said to herself. the car was threading now the narrow ways of greenwich village. it stopped; susannah stepped off. the rest seemed for a long time to be just wandering. but that curious sense of duality had vanished. she was one person again. she did not find washington square easily; but then, it made no difference whether she ever found it. for new york and the world were so amusing when once you were free! you could laugh at everything--the passing crowds, surging as though business really mattered; the carbonado mining company; the grisly old fool in their toils, and susannah ayer. you could laugh even at the climate--for sometimes it seemed very hot, which was right in summer, and sometimes cold, which wasn't right at all. you could laugh at the headache, when it tied ridiculous knots in your forehead. there was the arch--washington square at last. but it wasn't time to sleep in washington square yet. the birds hadn't gone to bed. sparrows were still pecking and squabbling along the borders of the flower-beds. besides, new york was still flowing, on its homeward surge from office and workshop, down the paths. susannah sat down on a bench and considered. she had a disposition to stay there--why was she so weak? oh, of course she hadn't eaten. people always had dinner before going to bed. she must eat--and she had money. she shook out her pocketbook into her lap. a ten-dollar bill, a one-dollar bill, and some small change. she must dine gloriously--free creatures always did that when they had money. besides, she was never going to pay any more room rent. susannah rose, strolled up fifth avenue. the crowd was thinning out. that was pleasant, too. she disliked to get out of the way of people. she was crossing twenty-third street now; and now she was before the correct, white façade of the hague house. a proper and expensive place for dinner. susannah found it very hard to speak to the waiter. it was like talking to someone through a partition. it seemed difficult even to move her lips; they felt wooden. "a petite marmite, please; then i'll see what more i want," she heard herself saying at last. but when the petite marmite came, steaming in its big, red casserole, she found herself quite disinclined to eat--almost unable to eat. she managed only two or three mouthfuls of the broth; then dallied with the beef. perhaps it was because instantly--and for no reason whatever--she had become two people again. perhaps it was because she had been drinking so much ice-water. it couldn't be because h. withington warner was sitting at the next table to the right. it couldn't be that--because she had told him, when first she saw him sitting there, that she was no longer afraid of the carbonado company. and indeed, when she turned to the left and saw him sitting there also--when by degrees she discovered that there was one of him at every table in the room, she thought of alice in the trial scene in wonderland, and became as contemptuous as alice. "after all," she said, "you're only a pack of cards." with a flourish, the waiter set the dinner-card before her, asking: "what will you have next, madame?" oh yes, she was dining! "i think i can't eat any more--the bill, please," she heard one of her selves saying. that self, she discovered, took calm cognizance of everything about her; listened to conversation. as the waiter turned his back, that half of her saw that mr. warner wasn't there any more; neither at the table on her right, nor anywhere. but when she had paid the bill, tipped, and risen to go, the other self discovered that he was back again at every table; and that with every warner was a byan and an o'hearn. "i am snapping my fingers at them, though nobody sees it," she said to both her selves. "i can't imagine how they ever troubled me so much. they don't know what i'm doing! i'm sleeping out of doors; they can find me only in rooms!" as though staggered by her complete composure, not one of this triplicate multitude of enemies followed her outside. "now i'll go to washington square," she said, realizing that her personalities had merged again. "the birds must be in bed." she took a bus; and sank into languor and that curious, impersonal headache until the conductor, calling "all out," at the south terminus, recalled to her that she was going somewhere. "i must have been asleep," she thought. "isn't this a wonderful world?" the long, early summer twilight was just beginning to draw about the world. the day lingered though--in an exquisite luminousness. all around her the city was grappling tentatively with oncoming dusk. on a few of the passing limousines, the front lamps struck a garish note. near, the fifth avenue lights were like slowly burning bonfires in the trees; in the distance, seemingly suspended by chains so delicate that they were invisible, they diminished to pots of gold. the six-o'clock rush had long ago ceased. now everyone sauntered; for everyone was freshly caparisoned for the wonderful night glories of midsummer manhattan. susannah sat down on a bench in washington square and surveyed this free world. though her eyes burned, they saw crystal-clear. all about her italian-town mixed democratically with greenwich village; made contrasting color and noise. fat italian mothers, snatching the post-sunset breezes, chattered from bench to bench while they nursed babies. on other benches, lovers clasped hands. children played over the grass. the birds twittered and the trees murmured. every color darted pricklingly distinct to susannah's avid eyes, burning and heavy though it was. every sound came distinct to her avid ears, though it sounded through a ringing. the fifth avenue busses were clumping and lumbering in swift succession to their stopping-places. how much, susannah thought, they looked like prehistoric beetles; colossally big; armored to an incredible hardness and polish. and, already, roped-off crowds of people were patiently waiting upstairs seats. as each bus stopped, there came momentary scramble and confusion until inside and out they filled up. she watched this process for a long, long time. "i can't go to sleep yet," she said to herself finally, "the people won't let me. one can't sleep in this wonderful world. where does one go after dinner? oh, to the theater, of course! on broadway!" she found herself drifting, happily though languorously, through the arch and northward. twilight had settled down; had become dusk; had become night. new york was so brilliant that it almost hurt. it was deep dusk and yet the atmosphere was like a purple river flowing between stiff cañon-like buildings. everywhere in that purple river glittered golden lights. and, floating through it, were mermaids and mermen of an extreme beauty. susannah passed from fifth avenue to broadway. she stopped under one of the most brilliant palace-fronts of light, and bought a ticket in the front row. the curtain was just rising on the second act of a musical comedy. susannah would have been hazy about the plot anyway, for the simple reason that there was no plot. but tonight she was peculiarly hazy, because she enjoyed the dancing so much that she became oblivious to everything else. indeed, at times she seemed to be dancing with the dancers. the illusion was so complete that she grew dizzy; and clung to the arm of her seat. she did not want to divide into two people again. after a while, though, this sensation disappeared in a more intriguing one. for suddenly she discovered that the audience consisted entirely of her and the carbonado mining company. h. withington warners, by the hundred, filled the orchestra seats. byans, by the score, filled the balcony. o'hearns, by the dozen, filled the gallery. but this did not perturb her. "you're only a pack of cards," she accused them mentally. and she stayed to the very end. "i thought so," she remarked contemptuously as she turned to go out. for the carbonado mining company had vanished into thin air. she was the only real person who left the theater. when she came out on the street again, her headache had stopped and the languor was over. there was a beautiful lightness to her whole body. that lightness impelled her to walk with the crowd. but--she suddenly discovered--she was not walking. she was _floating_. she even flew--only she did not rise very high. she kept an even level, about a foot above the pavement; but at that height she was like a feather. and in a wink--how this extraordinary division happened, she could not guess--she was two people once more. new york was again blooming; but this time with its transient, vivacious after-the-theater vividness. crowds were pouring up; pouring down, deflecting into side streets; emerging from side streets. everywhere was light. taxicabs and motors raced and spun and backed and turned; they churned, sizzled, spluttered, and foamed--scattering light. tram-cars, the low-set, armored cruisers of broadway, flashed smoothly past, overbrimming with light. the tops of the buildings held great congregations of dancing stars. light poured down their sides. susannah floated with the strong main current of the crowd up broadway and then, with a side current, a little down broadway. eddies took her into forty-second street, and whirled her back. and all the time she was in the crowd, but not of it--she was above it. she was looking down on people--she could see the tops of their heads. susannah kept chuckling over an extraordinary truth she discovered. "i must remember to tell glorious lutie," she said to herself, "how few people ever brush their hats." while one self was noting this amusing fact, however, the other was listening to conversations; the snatches of talk that drifted up to her. "let's go to a midnight show somewhere," a peevish wife-voice suggested. "no, _sir_!" a gruff husband-voice answered. "li'l' ole beddo looks pretty good to muh. i can't hit the hay too soon." "what's broadway got on market street?" a blithe boy's voice demanded. "take the view from twin peaks at night. why, it has broadway beat forty ways from the jack." "i'll say so!" a girl's voice agreed. theaters were empty now, but restaurants were filling. in an incredibly short time, this phantasmagoria of movement, this kaleidoscope of color, this hurly-burly of sound had shattered, melted, fallen to silence. people disappeared as though by magic from the street; now there were great gaps of sidewalk where nobody appeared. susannah--both of her, because now she seemed to have become two people permanently--felt lonely. she quickened her pace, her floating rather, to catch up with a figure ahead. it was a girl, just an everyday girl, in a white linen suit and a white sailor hat topping a mass of black hair. she carried a handbag. susannah found herself following, step by step, behind this girl whose face she had as yet not seen. she was floating; yet every time she tried to see the top of that sailor hat her vision became blurred. it was annoying; but this stealthy pursuit was pleasant, somehow--satisfying. "they've been shadowing me," said susannah to herself. "now i'm shadowing. i've helped the carbonado company to rob orphans. i'm going to break my promise to go to jamaica tomorrow. isn't it glorious to float and be a criminal!" so she followed westward on forty-second street and reached the public library corner of fifth avenue, which stretched now deserted except where knots of people awaited the omnibusses. such a knot had gathered on that corner. suddenly the girl in white raised her hand, waved; a woman in a light-blue summer evening gown answered her signal from the crowd; they ran toward each other. they were going to have a talk. susannah floated toward them. the air-currents made her a little wabbly--but wasn't it fun, eavesdropping and caring not the least bit about manners! "my train doesn't start until one," said the white linen suit. "it's no use going back to my room--the night is so hot. i've been to the summer garden, and i'm killing time." "oh," asked blue dress, "did you sublet your room?" "no," said the white linen suit, "i'll be gone for only a month, and i decided it wasn't worth while. i'll have it all ready when i get back. i've even left the key under the rug in the hall." "i wouldn't ever do that!" came the voice of the blue dress. "well," said the linen suit, "you know _me_! i always lose keys. i'm convinced that when i get to boston, i shan't have my trunk key! and there isn't much to steal." "still, i'd feel nervous if i were you." "i don't see why. nobody stays up on the top floor, where i am--that is, in the summer. all the other rooms are in one apartment, and the young man who lives there has been away for ages. the people on the ground floor own the house. i get the room for almost nothing by taking care of it and the hall. i haven't seen anyone else on the floor since the man in the apartment went away. that's why i love the place--you feel so independent!" "i think i know the house," said blue dress. "the old house with the fanlight entrance, isn't it? mary merle used to have a ducky little flat on the second floor, didn't she?" "yes--number fifty-seven and a half--" susannah was floating down the avenue now. but floating with more difficulty. why was there effort about floating? and why did she keep repeating, "number fifty-seven and a half, washington square, top floor, key under the rug?" she met few people. a policeman stared at her for a moment, then turned indifferently away. how surprising that her floating made no impression upon him! but then, there was no law against floating! once she drifted past h. withington warner, who was staring into a shop window. he did not see her. susannah had to inhibit her chuckles when, floating a foot above his head, she realized for the first time that he dyed his hair. why could she see that? he should have his hat on--or was she seeing through his hat? she was passing under the arch into washington square. but she wasn't floating any longer. she was dragging weights; she was wading through something like tar, which clung to her feet. she was coughing violently. she had been coughing for a long time. night in new york was no longer beautiful; glorious. tragic horrors were rasping in her head. there was warner. and there was byan. she could not snap her fingers at them now.... but she knew how to get away from them ... she must rest.... she cut off a segment of washington square, looking for a number. there was a fanlight; and, plain in the street lamps, seeming for a moment the only object in the world, the number "fifty-seven and a half." the outer door gave to her touch. a dim point of gaslight burned in the hall. she floated again for a minute as she mounted the stairs.... she was before a door.... she was on her hands and knees fumbling under the rug.... she was dragging herself up by the door-knob.... the key opened the door. light, streaming from somewhere in the backyard areas, illuminated a wide white bed. "i am sick, glorious lutie--i think i am very sick," said susannah. "watch me, won't you? keep warner out!" fumbling in the bag, she drew out the miniature, set it up against the mirror on the bureau beside the bed--just where she could see it plainly in the shaft of light. she locked the door. she lay down. ix lindsay sat in the big living-room beside the refectory table. mrs. spash moved about the room dusting; setting its scanty furnishings to rights. on the long table before him was set out a series of tiny villages, some chinese, some japanese: little pink or green-edged houses in white porcelain; little thatched-roofed houses in brown adobe; pagodas; bridges; pavilions. dozens of tiny figures, some on mules, others on foot, and many loaded with burdens walked the streets. a bit of looking-glass, here and there, made ponds. ducks floated on them, and boats; queer oriental-looking skiffs, manned by tiny, half-clad sailors; chinese junks. in neighboring pastures, domestic animals grazed. roosters, hens, chickens grouped in back areas. "that's just what miss murray used to do," mrs. spash observed. "she'd play with them toys for hours at a time. and of course cherry loved them more than anything in the house. that's the reason i stole them and buried them." "how did you manage that exactly?" lindsay asked. "oh, that was easy enough," mrs. spash confessed cheerfully. "between miss murray's death and the auction, i was here a lot, fixing up. they all trusted me, of course. those toys was all set out in little villages by the dew pond. nobody knew that they were there. so i just did them up in tissue paper and put them in that big tin box and hid them in the bushes. one night late i came back and buried them. folks didn't think of them for a long time after the auction. you see, nobody had touched them during miss murray's illness. and when they did remember them, they thought they had disappeared during the sale." mrs. spash paused a moment. her face assumed an expression of extreme disapproval. "other things disappeared during the sale," she accused, lowering her voice. "who took them?" lindsay asked. all the caution of the yankee appeared in mrs. spash's voice. "i don't know as i'd like to say, because it isn't a thing anybody can prove. i have my suspicions though." lindsay did not continue these inquiries. "where did miss murray get all these toys?" "well, a lot of 'em came from china. miss murray had a great-uncle who was a sea-captain. he used to go on them long whaling voyages. he brought them to her different times. miss murray had played with them when she was a child, and so she liked to have little cherry play with them. sometimes they'd all go out to the dew pond--miss murray, mr. monroe, mr. gale, mr. lewis, and spend a whole afternoon laying them out in little towns--jess about as you've got 'em there. there was two little places on the shore that miss murray had all cut down, so's the bushes wouldn't be too tall. they useter call the pond the pacific ocean. one of them cleared places was the china coast and the other the japanese coast. they'd stay there for hours, floating little boats back and forth from china to japan. and how they'd laugh! i useter listen to their voices coming through the window. but then, the house was always full of laughter. it began at seven o'clock in the morning, when they got up, and it never stopped until--after midnight sometimes--when they went to bed. oh, it was such a gay place in those days." lindsay arose and stretched. but the stretching did not seem so much an expression of fatigue or drowsiness as the demand of his spirit for immediate activity of some sort. he sat down again instantly. under his downcast lids, his eyes were bright. "these walls are soaked with laughter," he remarked. "yes," mrs. spash seemed to understand. "but there was tears too and plenty of them--in the last years." "i suppose there were," lindsay agreed. he did not speak for a moment; nor did mrs. spash. there came a silence so concentrated that the sunlight poured into it tangible gold. then, outside a thick white cloud caught the sun in its woolly net. the world gloomed again. "she's sad still," lindsay dropped in absent comment. "yes," mrs. spash agreed. "i wonder what she wants?" lindsay addressed this to himself. his voice was so low that perhaps mrs. spash did not hear it. at any rate she made no answer. another silence came. mrs. spash finished her dusting. but she lingered. lindsay still sat at the table; but his eyes had left the little villages arranged there. they went through the door and gazed out into the brilliant patch of sunlight on the grass. there spread under his eyes a narrow stretch of lawn, all sun-touched velvet; beyond a big crescent of garden. low-growing zinnias in futuristic colors, high phlox in pastel colors; higher, canterbury bells, deep blue; highest of all, hollyhocks, wine red. beyond stretched further expanses of lawn. one tall, wide wine-glass elm spread a perfect circle of emerald shade. one low, thick copper-beech dropped an irregular splotch of luminous shadow. beyond all this ran the gray, lichened stone wall. and beyond the stone wall came unredeemed jungle. mrs. spash began, all over again, to dust and to arrange the scanty furniture. after a while she spoke. "mr. lindsay--" lindsay started abruptly. "mr. lindsay--that time you fainted when you first saw me, setting out there on the door-stone, you remember--?" lindsay nodded. "well, who was you expecting to see?" lindsay, alert now as a wire spring, turned on her, not his eyes alone, nor his head; but his whole body. mrs. spash was looking straight at him. their glances met midway. the old eyes pierced the young eyes with an intent scrutiny. the young eyes stabbed the old eyes with an intense interrogation. lindsay did not answer her question directly. instead he laughed. "i guess i don't have to answer you," he declared. "i had seen her often then.... i had seen the others too.... i don't know why _you_ should have frightened me when _they_ didn't.... i think it was that i wasn't expecting anything human.... i've seen them since.... they never frighten me." mrs. spash's reply was simple enough. "i see them all the time." she added, with a delicate lilt of triumph, "i've seen them for years--" lindsay continued to look at her--and now his gaze was somber; even a little despairing. "what do they want? what does _she_ want?" mrs. spash's reply came instantly, although there were pauses in her words. "i don't know. i've tried.... i can't make out." she accompanied these simple statements with a reinforcing decisive nod of her little head. "i can't guess either--i can't conjecture-- there's something she wants me to do. she can't tell me. and they're trying to help her tell me. all except the little girl--" "do you see the little girl?" mrs. spash demanded. "well, i declare! that's very queer, i must say. i never see cherry." "i wish i saw her oftener," lindsay laughed ruefully. "_she_ doesn't ask anything of me. she's just herself. but the others--gale--monroe-- my god! it's killing me!" he laughed again, and this time with a real amusement. mrs. spash interrupted his laughter. "do you see mr. monroe?" she asked in a pleased tone. "well, i declare! aren't you the fortunate creature. i never see _him_!" "all the time," lindsay answered shortly. "if i could only get it. i feel so stupid, so incredibly gross and lumbering and heavy. i'd do anything--" he arose and walked over to the picture of lutetia murray which still hung above the fireplace. he stared at her hard. "i'd do anything for her, if i could only find out what it was." "yes," mrs. spash admitted dispassionately, "that's the thing everybody felt about her, they'd do anything for her. not that she ever asked them to do anything--" lindsay began to pace the length of the long room. "what is happening? has the old ramshackle time-machine finally broken a spring so that, in this last revolution, it hauls, out of the past, these pictures of two decades ago? or is it that there are superimposed one on the other two revolving worlds--theirs and ours--and _theirs_ or _ours_ has stopped an instant, so that i can glance into _theirs_? i feel as though i were in the dark of a camera obscura gazing into their brightness. or have those two years in the air permanently broken my psychology; so that through that rift i shall always have the power to look into strange worlds? or am i just piercing another dimension?" mrs. spash had been following him with her faded, calm old eyes. apparently she guessed these questions were not addressed to her. she kept silence. "i've racked my brain. i lie awake nights and tear the universe to pieces. i outguess guessing and outconjecture conjecture. my thoughts fly to the end of space. my wonder invades the very citadel of fancy. my surmises storm the last outpost of reality. but it beats me. i can't get it." lindsay stopped. mrs. spash made no comment. apparently her twenty years' training among artists had prepared her for monologues of this sort. she listened; but it was obvious that she did not understand; did not expect to understand. "does she want me to stay _here_ or go _there_?" lindsay demanded of the air. "if _here_, what does she want me to do? if _there_--where is _there_? if _there_, what does she want me to do _there_? is her errand concerned with the living or the dead? if the living, who? if the dead, who? where to find them? how to find them?" he turned his glowing eyes on mrs. spash. "i only know two things. she wants me to do something. she wants me to do it soon. oh, i suppose i know another thing-- if i don't do it soon, it will be too late." mrs. spash was still following him with her placid, blue, old gaze. "there, there!" she said soothingly. "now don't you get too excited, mr. lindsay. it'll all come to you." "but how--" lindsay objected. "and when--" "i don't know--but she'll tell you somehow. she's cute-- she's awful cute. you mark my words, she'll find a way." "that's the reason i don't have you in the house yet, mrs. spash," lindsay explained. "oh, you don't have to tell me that," mrs. spash announced, triumphant because of her own perspicuity. "it's only that i have a feeling that she can do it more easily if we're alone. that's why i send you home at night. she comes oftenest in the evening when i'm alone. they all do. oh, it's quite a procession some nights. they come one after another, all trying--" he paused. "sometimes this room is so full of their torture that i-- you know, it all began before i came here. it began in an apartment in new york. it was in jeffrey lewis' old rooms. he tried to tell me first, you see." "did you see mr. lewis there?" mrs. spash asked this as casually as though she had said, "has the postman been here this morning?" she added, "i see him here." "no, i didn't see him," lindsay explained grimly, "but i felt him. and, believe me, i knew he was there. he was the only one of the lot that frightened me. i wouldn't have been frightened if i had seen him. it was he, really, who sent me here. i work it out that he couldn't get it over and he sent me to lutetia because he thought she could. i wonder--" he stopped short. this explanation came as though something had flashed electrically through his mind. but he did not pursue that wonder. "well, don't you get discouraged," mrs. spash reiterated. "you mark my words, she'll manage to say what she's got to say." "well, it's time i went to work," lindsay remarked a little listlessly. "after all, the life of lutetia murray must get finished. oh, by the way, mrs. spash," lindsay veered as though remembering suddenly something he had forgotten, "do other people see them?" "no--at least i never heard tell that they did." "how did the rumor get about that the place was haunted, then?" "i spread it," mrs. spash explained. "i didn't want folks breaking in to see if there was anything to steal. and i didn't want them poking about the place." "how did you spread it?" "i told children," mrs. spash said simply. "less than a month, folks were seeing all kinds of ridic'lous ghosts here. nobody likes to go by alone at night." "it's a curious thing," lindsay reverted to his main theme, "that i know her message has nothing to do with this biography. i don't know how i know it; but i do. of course, that would be the first thing a man would think of. it is something more instant, more acute. it beats me altogether. all i can do is wait." "now don't you think any more about it, mr. lindsay," mrs. spash advised. "you go upstairs and set to work. i'm going to get you up the best lunch today you've had yet." "that's the dope," lindsay agreed. "the only way to take a man's mind off his troubles is to give him a good dinner. you'll have to work hard, though, eunice spash, to beat your own record." lindsay arose and sauntered into the front hall and up the stairs. he turned into the room at the right which he had reserved for work, now that mrs. spash was on the premises. at this moment, it was flooded with sunlight.... a faint odor of the honeysuckle vine at the corner seemed to emanate from the light itself.... instantly ... he realized ... that the room was not empty. lindsay became feverishly active. eyes down, he mechanically shuffled his papers. he collected yesterday's written manuscript, brought the edges down on the table in successive clicks, until they made an even, rectangular pile. he laid his pencils out in a row. he changed the point in his penholder. he moved the ink-bottle. but this availed his spirit nothing. "i am incredibly stupid," he said aloud. his voice was low, but it rang as hollowly as though he were from another world. "if you could only speak to me. can't you speak to me?" he did not raise his eyes. but he waited for a long interval, during which the silence in the room became so heavy and cold that it almost blotted out the sunlight. "but have patience with me. i want to serve you. oh, you don't know how i want to serve you. i give you my word, i'll get it sometime and i think not too late. i'll kill myself if i don't. i'm putting all i am and all i have into trying to understand. don't give me up. it's only because i'm flesh and blood." he stopped and raised his eyes. the room was empty. that afternoon lindsay took a walk so long, so devil-driven that he came back streaming perspiration from every pore. mrs. spash regarded him with a glance in which disapproval struggled with sympathy. "i don't know as you'd ought to wear yourself out like that, mr. lindsay. later, perhaps you'll need all your strength--" "very likely you're right, mrs. spash," lindsay agreed. "but i've been trying to work it out." mrs. spash left as usual at about seven. by nine, the last remnant of the long twilight, a collaboration of midsummer with daylight-saving, had disappeared. lindsay lighted his lamp and sat down with lutetia's poems. the room was peculiarly cheerful. the beautiful murray sideboard, recently discovered and recovered, held its accustomed place between the two windows. the old murray clock, a little ship swinging back and forth above its brass face, ticked in the corner. the old whale-oil lamps had resumed their stand, one at either end of the mantel. old pieces, old though not lutetia's--they were gone irretrievably--bits picked up here and there, made the deep sea-shell corner cabinet brilliant with the color of old china, glimmery with the shine of old pewter, sparkly with the glitter of old glass. many chairs--windsors, comb-backs, a boston rocker--filled the empty spaces with an old-time flavor. in traditional places, high old glasses held flowers. the single anachronism was the big, nickel, green-shaded student lamp. lindsay needed rest, but he could not go to bed. he knew perfectly well that he was exhausted, but he knew equally well that he was not drowsy. his state of mind was abnormal. perhaps the three large cups of jet-black coffee that he had drunk at dinner helped in this matter. but whatever the cause, he was conscious of every atom of this exaggerated spiritual alertness; of the speed with which his thoughts drove; of the almost insupportable mental clarity through which they shot. "if this keeps up," he meditated, "it's no use my going to bed at all tonight. i could not possibly sleep." he found lutetia's poems agreeable solace at this moment. they contained no anodyne for his restlessness; but at least they did not increase it. her poetry had not been considered successful, but lindsay liked it. it was erratic in meter; irregular in rhythm. but at times it astounded him with a delicate precision of expression; at moments it surprised him with an opulence of fancy. he read on and on-- suddenly that mental indicator--was it a flutter of his spirit or merely a lowering of the spiritual temperature?--apprised him that he was not alone.... but as usual, after he realized that his privacy had been invaded, he continued to read; his gaze caught, as though actually tied, by the print.... after a while he shut the book.... but he still sat with his hand clutching it, one finger marking the place.... he did not lift his eyes when he spoke.... "tell the others to go," he demanded. * * * * * after a while he arose. he did not move to the other end of the room nor did he glance once in that direction. but on his side, he paced up and down with a stern, long-strided prowl. he spoke aloud. "listen to me!" his tone was peremptory. "we've got to understand each other tonight. i can't endure it any longer; for i know as well as you that the time is getting short. you can't speak to me. but i can speak to you. lutetia, you've got to outdo yourself tonight. you must give me a sign. do you understand? you _must_ show me. now summon all that you have of strength, whatever it is, to give me that sign--do you understand, _all you have_. listen! whatever it is that you want me to do, it isn't here. i know that now. i know it because i've been here two months-- whatever it is, it must be put through somewhere else. an idea came to me this morning. i spent all the afternoon thinking it out. maybe i've got a clue. it all started in new york. _he_ tried to get it to me there. listen! tell me! quick! quick! quick! do you want me to go to new york?" the answer was instantaneous. as though some giant hand had seized the house in its grip, it shook. shook for an infinitesimal fraction of an instant. almost, it seemed to lindsay, walls quivered; panes rattled; shutters banged, doors slammed. and yet in the next infinitesimal fraction of that instant he knew that he had heard no tangible sound. something more exquisite than sound had filled that unmeasurable interval with shattering, deafening confusion. lindsay turned with a sharp wheel; glared into the dark of the other side of the room. * * * * * lindsay dashed upstairs to his desk. there he found a time-table. the ten-fifteen from quinanog would give him ample time to catch the midnight to new york. he might not be able to get a sleeping berth; but the thing he needed least, at that moment, was sleep. in fact, he would rather sit up all night. he flung a few things into his suitcase; dashed off a note to mrs. spash. in an incredibly short time, he was striding over the two miles of road which led to the station. there happened to be an unreserved upper berth. it was a superfluous luxury as far as lindsay was concerned. he lay in it during what remained of the night, his eyes shut but his spirit more wakeful than he had ever known it. "every revolution of these wheels," he said once to himself, "brings me nearer to it, whatever it is." he arose early; was the first to invade the washroom; the first to step off the train; the first to leap into a taxicab. he gave the address of spink's apartments to the driver. "get there faster than you can!" he ordered briefly. the man looked at him--and then proceeded to break the speed law. washington square was hardly awake when they churned up to the sidewalk. lindsay let himself in the door; bounded lightly up the two flights of stairs; unlocked the door of spink's apartment. everything was silent there. the dust of two months of vacancy lay on the furnishings. lindsay stood in the center of the room, contemplating the door which led backward into the rest of the apartment. "well, old top, _you're_ not going to trouble me any longer. i get that with my first breath. i've done what _she_ wanted and what _you_ wanted so far. now what in the name of heaven is the next move?" he stood in the center of the room waiting, listening. and then into his hearing, stretched to its final capacity, came sound. just _sound_ at first; then a dull murmur. lindsay's hair rose with a prickling progress from his scalp. but that murmur was human. it continued. lindsay went to the door, opened it, and stepped out into the hall. the murmur grew louder. it was a woman's voice; a girl's voice; unmistakably the voice of youth. it came from the little room next to spink's apartment. again lindsay listened. the monotone broke; grew jagged; grew shrill; became monotonous again. suddenly the truth dawned on him. it was the voice of madness or of delirium. he advanced to the door and knocked. nobody answered. the monotone continued. he knocked again. nobody answered. the monotone continued. he tried the knob. the door was locked. with his hand still on the knob, he put his shoulder to the door; gave it a slow resistless pressure. it burst open. it was a small room and furnished with the conventional furnishings of a bedroom. lindsay saw but two things in it. one was a girl, sitting up in the bed in the corner; a beautiful slim creature with streaming loose red hair; her cheeks vivid with fever spots; her eyes brilliant with fever-light. it was she who emitted the monotone. the other thing was a miniature, standing against the glass on the bureau. a miniature of a beautiful woman in the full lusciousness of a golden blonde maturity. the woman of the miniature was lutetia murray. the girl-- x she felt that the room was full of sunshine. even through her glued-down lids she caught the darting dazzle of it. she knew that the air was full of bird voices. even through her drowse-filmed ears, she caught the singing sound of them. she would like to lift her lids. she would like to wake up. but after all it was a little too easy to sleep. the impulse with which she sank back to slumber was so soft that it was scarcely impulse. it dropped her slowly into an enormous dark, a colossal quiet. presently she drifted to the top of that dark quiet. again the sunlight flowed into the channels of seeing. again the birds picked on the strings of hearing. by an enormous effort she opened her eyes. she stared from her bed straight at a window. a big vine stretched films of green leaf across it. it seemed to color the sunshine that poured onto the floor--green. she looked at the window for a long time. presently she discovered among the leaves a crimson, vase-like flower. "why, how thick the trumpet-vine has grown!" she said aloud. it seemed to her that there was a movement at her side. but that movement did not interest her. she did not fall into a well this time. she drifted off on a tide of sleep. presently--perhaps it was an hour later, perhaps five minutes--she opened her eyes. again she stared at the window. again the wonder of growth absorbed her thought; passed out of it. she looked about the room. her little bedroom set, painted a soft creamy yellow with long tendrils of golden vine, stood out softly against the faded green cartridge paper. "why! why have they put the bureau over there?" she demanded aloud of the miniature of glorious lutie which hung beside the bureau. with a vague alarm, her eyes sped from point to point. the dado of weejubs stood out as though freshly restored. but all her pictures were gone; the four colored prints, spring, summer, autumn, winter--each the head of a little girl, decked with buds or flowers, fruit or furs, had vanished. the faded squares where they had hung showed on the walls. oh, woe, her favorite of all, "my little white kittens," had disappeared too. on the other hand--on table, on bureau, and on commode-top--crowded the little chinese toys. "why, when did they bring them in from the dew pond?" she asked herself, again aloud. with a sudden stab of memory, she reached her hand up on the wall. how curious! only yesterday she could scarcely touch the spring; now her hand went far beyond it. she pressed. the little panel opened slowly. she raised herself in bed and looked through the aperture. glorious lutie's room was stark--bare, save for a bed and her long wooden writing-table. her thoughts flew madly ... suddenly her whole acceptance of things crumbled. why! she wasn't cherie and eight. she was susannah and twenty-five; and the last time she had been anywhere she had been in new york.... lightnings of memory tore at her ... the carbonado mining company ... eloise ... a salvation army woman on the street ... roofers. yet this was blue meadows. she did not have to pinch herself or press on her sleepy eyelids. it _was_ blue meadows. the trumpet-vine, though as gigantic as jack's beanstalk, proved it. the painted furniture proved it. the chinese toys proved it. yes, and if she wanted the final touch that clinched all argument, there beside the head of the bed was the maple gazelle. this really was not the final proof. the final proof was human and it entered the room at that moment in the person of mrs. spash. and mrs. spash--in her old, quaint inaccurate way--was calling her as cherry. susannah burst into tears. * * * * * "oh, i feel so much better now," susannah said after a little talk; more sleep; then talk again. "i'm going to be perfectly well in a little while. i want to get up. and oh, dear mrs. spash--do you remember how sometimes i used to call you mrs. splash? i do want as soon as possible to see mr. lindsay and his cousin--miss stockbridge, did you say? i want to thank them, of course. how can i ever thank them enough? and i want to talk to him about the biography. oh, i'm sure i can give him so much. and i can make out a list of people who can tell him all the things you and i don't remember; or never knew. and then, in my trunk in new york, is a package of all glorious lutie's letters to me. i think he will want to publish some of them; they are so lovely, so full of our games--and jingles, and even drawings. couldn't i sit up now?" "i don't see why not," mrs. spash said. "you've slept for nearly twenty-six hours, cherry. you waked up once--or half-waked up. we gave you some hot milk and you went right to sleep again." "it's going to make me well--just being at blue meadows," susannah prophesied. "if i could only stay-- but i'm grateful for a day, an hour." * * * * * later, she came slowly down the stairs--one hand on the rail, the other holding mrs. spash's arm. she wore her faded creamy-pink, creamy-yellow japanese kimono, held in prim plaits by the broad sash, a big obi bow at the back. her red hair lay forward in two long glittering braids. her face was still pale, but her eyes overran with a lucent blue excitement. it caught on her eyelashes and made stars there. a slim young man in flannels; tall with a muscular litheness; dark with a burnished tan; handsome; arose from his work at the long refectory table. he came forward smiling--his hand outstretched. "my cousin, miss stockbridge, has run in to boston to do some shopping," he explained. "i can't tell you how glad i am to see you up, or how glad she will be." he took her disengaged arm and reinforced mrs. spash's efforts. they guided her into a big wing chair. the young man found a footstool for her. "i suppose i'm not dreaming, mr. lindsay," susannah apprised him tremulously. "and yet how can it be anything but a dream? i left this place fifteen years ago and i have never seen it since. how did i get back here? how did you find me? how did you know who i was? and what made you so heavenly good as to bring me here? i remember fragments here and there-- mrs. spash tells me i've had the flu." lindsay laughed. "that's all easily explained," he said with a smoothness almost meretricious. "i happened to go to new york on business. as usual i went to my friend sparrel's apartment. you were ill and delirious in the next room. i heard you; forced the door open and sent at once for a doctor. he pronounced it a belated case of flu. so i telephoned for miss stockbridge; we moved you into my apartment and after you passed the crisis--thank god, you escaped pneumonia!--i asked the doctor if i could bring you over here. he agreed that the country air would be the very best thing for you, and yet would not advise me to do it. he thought it was taking too great a risk. but i felt--i can't tell you how strongly i felt it--that it would be the best thing for you. my cousin stood by me, and i took the chance. sometimes now, though, i shudder at my own foolhardiness. you don't remember--or do you?--that i went through the formality of asking your consent." "i do remember now--vaguely," susannah laughed. "isn't it lucky i didn't--in my weakness--say no?" lindsay laughed again. "i shouldn't have paid any attention to it, if you had. i knew that this was what you needed. you were sleeping then about twenty-five hours out of the twenty-four. so one night we brought you in a taxi to the boat and took the night trip to boston. the boat was making its return trip that night, but i bribed them to let you stay on it all day until it was almost ready to sail. late in the afternoon, we brought you in an automobile to quinanog. you slept all the way. that was yesterday afternoon. it was dark when we got here. you didn't even open your eyes when i carried you into the house. in the meantime i had wired mrs. spash--and she fixed up your room, as much like the way it used to be when you were a child, as she could remember." "it's all too marvelous," susannah murmured. new brilliancies were welling up into her turquoise eyes, the deep dark fringes of lash could not hold them; the stars kept dropping off their tips. fresh spurts of color invaded her face. nervously her long white hands pulled at her coppery braids. "there are so many questions i shall ask you," she went on, "when i'm strong enough. but some i must ask you now. how did you happen to come here? and when did the idea of writing glorious lutie's--my aunt's--biography occur to you? and how did you come to know mrs. spash? where did you find the little chinese toys? and my painted bedroom set? and the sideboard there? and the six-legged highboy? oh dear, a hundred, thousand, million things. but first of all, how did you know that, now being susannah ayer, i was formerly susannah delano?" "there was the miniature of miss murray hanging on your wall. that made me sure--in--in some inexplicable way--that you were the little lost cherry. and of course we went through your handbag to make sure. we found some letters addressed to susannah delano ayer. but will you tell me how you _do_ happen to be susannah ayer, when you were formerly susannah delano, alias cherry--or cherie?" "i went from here to providence to live with a large family of cousins. their name was ayer, and i was so often called ayer that finally i took the name." susannah paused, and then with a sudden impulse toward confidence, she went on. "i grew up with my cousins. i was the youngest of them all. the two oldest girls married, one a californian, the other a canadian. i haven't seen them for years. the three boys are scattered all over everywhere, by the war. my uncle died first; then my aunt. she left me the five hundred dollars with which i got my business training." the look of one who is absorbing passionately all that is being said to him was on lindsay's face. but a little perplexity troubled it. "glorious lutie?" he repeated interrogatively. "oh, of course," susannah murmured. "i always called her glorious lutie. she always called me glorious susie--that is when she didn't call me _cherie_. and we had a game--the abracadabra game. when she was telling me a story--her stories were _marvels_; they went on for days and days--and she got tired, she could always stop it by saying, abracadabra! if i didn't reply instantly with abracadabra, the story stopped. of course she always caught my little wits napping--i was so absorbed in the story that i could only stutter and pant, trying to remember that long word." "that's a peter ibbetson trick," lindsay commented. * * * * * the talk, thus begun, lasted for the three hours which elapsed before miss stockbridge's return. two narratives ran through their talk; lindsay's, which dealt with superficial matters, began with his return to america from france; susannah's, which began with that sad day, fifteen years ago, when she saw blue meadows for the last time. but neither narrative went straight. they zig-zagged; they curved, they circled. those deviations were the result of racing up squirrel tracks of opinion and theory; of little excursions into the allied experiences of youth; even of talks on books. once it was interrupted by the noiseless entry of mrs. spash, who deposited a tray which contained a glass of milk, a pair of dropped eggs, a little mound of buttered toast. susannah suddenly found herself hungry. she drained her glass, ate both eggs, devoured the last crumb of toast. after this, she felt so vigorous that she fell in with lindsay's suggestion that she walk to the door. there she stood on the door-stone for a preoccupied, half-joyful, half-melancholy interval studying the garden. then, leaning on his arm, she ventured as far as the seat under the copper-beech. later, even, she went to the barn and the dew pond. before she could get tired, lindsay brought her back, reestablishing her in the chair. then--and not till then--and following another impulse to confide in lindsay, susannah told him the whole story of the carbonado mining company. perhaps his point of view on that matter gave her her second accession of vitality. he paced up and down the room during her narrative; his hands, fists. but he laughed their threats to scorn. "now don't give another thought to that gang of crooks!" he adjured her. "i know a man in new york--a lawyer. i'll have him look up that crowd and put the fear of god into them. they'll probably be flown by that time, however. undoubtedly they were making ready for their getaway. don't think of it again. they can't hurt you half as much as that bee that's trying to get in the door." he was silent for a moment, staring fixedly down at his own manuscript on the table. "by god!" he burst out suddenly, "i've half a mind to beat it on to new york. i'd like to be present. i'd have some things to say--and do." somewhere toward the end of this long talk, "i've not said a word yet, mr. lindsay," susannah interpolated timidly, "of how grateful i am to you--and your cousin. but it's mainly because i've not had the strength yet. i don't know how i'm going to repay you. i don't know how i'm even going to tell you. what i owe you--just in money--let alone eternal gratitude." "now, that's all arranged," lindsay said smoothly. "you don't know what a find you were. you're an angel from heaven. you're a christmas present in july. for a long time i've realized that i needed a secretary. somebody's got to help me on lutetia's life or i'll never get it done. who better qualified than lutetia's own niece? in fact you will not only be secretary but collaborator. as soon as you're well enough, we'll go to work every morning and we'll work together until it's done." susannah leaned back, snuggled into the soft recess of the comfortable chair. she dropped her lids over the dazzling brilliancy of her eyes. "i suppose i ought to say no. i suppose i ought to have some proper pride about accepting so much kindness. i suppose i ought to show some firmness of mind, pawn all my possessions and get back to work in new york or boston. girls in novels always do those things. but i know i shall do none of them. i shall say yes. for i haven't been so happy since glorious lutie died." "oh," lindsay exclaimed quickly as though glad to reduce this dangerous emotional excitement. "there comes the lost anna sophia stockbridge. she's a dandy. i think you'll like her. it's awfully hard not to." * * * * * the instant susannah had disappeared with miss stockbridge up the stairs, mrs. spash appeared in the long room. apparently, she came with a definite object--an object in no way connected with the futile dusting movements she began to emit. lindsay watched her. suddenly mrs. spash's eyes came up; met his. they gazed at each other a long moment; a gaze that was luminous with question and answer. "she's gone," lindsay announced after a while. mrs. spash nodded briskly. "she'll never come back," lindsay added. again mrs. spash nodded briskly. "they've all gone," lindsay stated. for the third time mrs. spash briskly nodded. "when cherie came, _they_ left," lindsay concluded. "they'd done what they wanted to do," mrs. spash vouchsafed. "brought you and cherry together. so there was no need. she took them away. she'd admire to stay. that's like her. but she don't want to make the place seem--well, _queer_. so, as she allus did, she gives up her wish." "mrs. spash," lindsay exploded suddenly after a long pause, "we've _never_ seen them. you understand we've never seen them; either of us. they never were here." mrs. spash nodded for the fourth time. * * * * * that night after his cousin and his guest had gone to bed, lindsay wandered about the place. the moon was big enough to turn his paths into streams of light. he walked through the flower garden; into the barn; about the dew pond. the tallest hollyhocks scarcely moved, so quiet was the night. the little pond showed no ripple except a flash of the moonlight. the barn was a cavern of gloom. lindsay gazed at everything as though from a new point of view. an immeasurable content filled him. after a while he returned to the house. his picture of lutetia murray still hung over the mantel in the living-room. he gazed at it for a long while. then he turned away. as he looked down the length of the living-room, there was in his face a whimsical expression, half of an achieved happiness, half of a lurking regret. "this house has never been so full of people since i've been here," he mused, "and yet never was it so empty. my beloved ghosts, i miss you. but you've not all gone after all. you've left one little ghost behind. lutetia, i thank you for her. how i wish you could come again to see.... but you're right. don't come! not that i'm afraid. you're too lovely--" his thoughts broke halfway. they took another turn. "i wonder if it ever happened to any other man before in the history of the world to see the little-girl ghost of the woman--" * * * * * blue meadows had for several weeks now been projecting pictures from its storied past into the light of everyday. could it have projected into that everyday one picture from the future, it would have been something like this. * * * * * susannah came into the south living-room. her husband was standing between the two windows. "davy," she exclaimed joyfully, "i've located the lowboy. a mrs. norton in west hassett owns it. of course she's asking a perfectly prohibitive price, but of course we've got to have it." "yes," lindsay answered absently, "we've got to have it." "i'm glad we found things so slowly," susannah dreamily. "it adds to the wonder and magic of it all. it makes the dream last longer. it keeps our romance always at the boiling point." she put one arm about her husband's neck and kissed him. lindsay turned; kissed her. "at least we have the major pieces back," susannah said contentedly. "and little lutetia murray lindsay will grow up in almost the same surroundings that susannah ayer enjoyed. oh--today--when i carried her over to the wall of the nursery, she noticed the weejubs; she actually put her hand out to touch them." "oh, there's something here for you--from rome--just came in the mail," lindsay exclaimed. "it's addressed to susannah delano too." "from rome!" susannah ejaculated. "susannah delano!" she cut the strings of the package. under the wrappings appeared--swathed in tissue paper--a picture. a letter dropped from the envelope. susannah seized it; turned to the signature. "garrison monroe!" she ejaculated. "oh, dear dear uncle garry, he's alive after all!" she read the letter aloud, the tears welling in her eyes. "how wonderful!" she commented when she finished. "you see, he's apparently specialized in tomb-sculpture." she pulled the tissue paper from the picture. their heads met, examining it. "oh, how lovely!" susannah exclaimed in a hushed voice. and "it's beautiful!" lindsay agreed in a low tone. it was the photograph of a bit of sculptured marble; a woman swathed in rippling draperies lying, at ease, on her side. one hand, palm upward, fingers a little curled, lay by her cheek; the other fell across her breast. a veil partially obscured the delicate profile. but from every veiled feature, from every line of the figure, from every fold in the drapery, exuded rest. "it's perfect!" susannah said, still in a low tone. "perfect. many a time she's fallen asleep just like than when we've all been talking and laughing. when she slept, her hand always lay close to her face as it is here. she always wore long floating scarves. you see he had to do her face from photographs ... and memory.... he's used that scarf device to conceal.... how beautiful! how beautiful!" there came silence. "mrs. spash says he was in love with her," susannah went on. "of course i was too young. i didn't realize it. but it's all here, i think. did you notice that part of the letter where he says that for the last year or two his mind has been full of her? and of all his life here? that's very pathetic, isn't it? now there will be a fitting monument over her.... he says it will be here in a few months. we must send him pictures when it's put on her grave. how happy it makes me! he says he's nearly eighty.... how beautiful.... you're not listening to me," she accused her husband with sudden indignation. but her indignation tempered itself by a flurry of little kisses when, following the direction of his piercing gaze, she saw it ended on the miniature which hung beside the secretary. "looking at glorious lutie!" she mocked tenderly. "how that miniature fascinates you! sometimes," she added, obviously inventing whimsical cause for grievance, "sometimes i think you're as much in love with her as you are with me." "if i am," lindsay agreed, "it's because there's so much of you in her." the end "_the books you like to read at the price you like to pay_" _there are two sides to everything_-- --including the wrapper which covers every grosset & dunlap book. when you feel in the mood for a good romance, refer to the carefully selected list of modern fiction comprising most of the successes by prominent writers of the day which is printed on the back of every grosset & dunlap book wrapper. you will find more than five hundred titles to choose from--books for every mood and every taste and every pocketbook. _don't forget the other side, but in case the wrapper is lost, write to the publishers for a complete catalog._ _there is a grosset & dunlap book for every mood and for every taste_ https://archive.org/details/trueghoststories carr transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). true ghost stories by hereward carrington author of "the physical phenomena of spiritualism," "the coming science," "death: its causes and phenomena," "death deferred," etc. [illustration] new york the j. s. ogilvie publishing company rose street copyright, , by j. s. ogilvie publishing company _to_ my dear friends the marshalls contents biographical sketch preface chapter i what is a ghost? the terror of the dark what is a ghost? historic investigations death coincidences are they due to chance? the explanation experimental apparitions telepathic hallucinations ghosts which move material objects photographs of ghosts the "double" and the spiritual body what happens at the moment of death how the soul may leave the body theories of haunted houses the ghosts of animals the clothes of ghosts telepathy from the dead the psychic atmosphere forms created by will physical manifestations can haunted houses be "cured"? chapter ii phantasms of the dead--i a russian ghost grasped by a spirit hand "i am shot!" "heave the lead!" the rescue at sea how ghosts influence us how a ghost warned the king the stains of blood face to face "julia, darling!" the cut across the cheek the invisible hand the apparition of the radiant boy fisher's ghost harriet hosmer's vision the apparition of the murdered boy the ghost in yellow calico chapter iii more phantasms of the dead--ii compacts to appear after death lord brougham's vision the tyrone ghost dead or alive! the scratch on the cheek a ghost in hampton court half-past one o'clock my own true ghost story chapter iv haunted houses the record of a haunted house proofs of immateriality conduct of animals in the house b---- house willington mill the great amherst mystery brook house chapter v ghost stories of a more dramatic nature disease-phantoms the tale of a mummy face slapped by a ghost alone with a ghost in church a haunted house in france a haunted house in georgia shaken by a ghost the house and the brain appendix a historical ghosts appendix b the phantom armies seen in france appendix c bibliography publisher's note. hereward carrington, author of "true ghost stories," is well known in this country, and in europe, as a prominent scientific writer on psychical and occult subjects. he has been a member of both the english and american societies of psychical research for more than years; has written over a dozen books on the subject--a number of which has been translated into foreign languages (such as japanese and arabic), and he has lectured in london, paris, rome, venice, milan, genoa, turin, etc.--before scientific organizations. his writings are well known, and have earned him a high place in psychical circles. he's a late member of the council of the american scientific society, of the american geographical society, and of the american health league. he collaborated in the "american encyclopædia," "the standard dictionary," etc. his experience in the investigation of psychical mysteries is unrivalled. he has travelled all over the country investigating "cases," spending nights in "haunted houses," and accounts of his investigations have appeared in the reports of the various psychical societies, and also in his own publications. in "true ghost stories," mr. carrington presents a number of startling cases of this character; but they are not the ordinary "ghost stories"--based on pure fiction, and having no foundation in reality. here we have a well-arranged collection of incidents, all thoroughly investigated and vouched for, and the testimony obtained first-hand and corroborated by others. the chapter on "haunted houses" is particularly striking. the first chapter deals with the interesting question, "what is a ghost?" and attempts to answer this question in the light of the latest scientific theories which have been advanced to explain these supernatural happenings and visitants. it is a book of absorbing interest, and cannot fail to grip and hold the attention of every reader--no matter whether he be a student of these questions, or one merely in search of hair-raising anecdotes and stories. he will find them here a-plenty! preface the following little book endeavors to bring together a number of "ghost stories" of the more startling and dramatic type,--but stories, nevertheless, which seem to be well authenticated; and which have been obtained, in most instances, at first hand, from the original witnesses; and often contain corroborative testimony from others who also experienced the ghostly phenomena. some of these incidents, indeed, rise to the dignity of scientific evidence; others are less well authenticated cases,--but interesting for all that. these have been grouped in various chapters, according to their evidential value. chapters ii. and iii. contain well-evidenced cases, some of which have been taken from the _proceedings_ and _journals_ of the society for psychical research (s. p. r.), or from _phantasms of the living_, or from other scientific books, in which narratives of this character receive serious consideration. chapter v., on the contrary, contains a number of incidents which,--striking and dramatic as they are,--cannot be included in the two earlier chapters, as presenting real evidence of ghosts; but are published rather as startling and interesting ghost _stories_. chapter iv., devoted to "haunted houses," contains brief accounts of the most famous haunted houses, and of the phenomena which have been witnessed within them. appendix a gives a list of a few of the important "historical ghosts," appendix b describes the "phantom armies" lately seen by the allied troops in france--while appendix c lists a number of books of ghost stories which the interested reader may care to peruse. a short glossary, at the beginning of the book, explains the meaning of certain terms used,--which are not, perhaps, ordinarily met with in books of this character. in the introductory chapter, i have endeavored to explain, very briefly, the nature and character of ghosts; what they _are_; and the various scientific theories which have been brought forward, of late years, to explain ghosts. i hope that this may prove of interest to the reader; in case it does not do so, he is invited to "skip" directly to chapter ii., which begins our account of "true ghost stories." i wish to express my thanks in this place to the council of the english s. p. r. for special permission to quote and to summarize several striking cases here reproduced; also to miss estelle stead, for permission to utilize several cases previously printed at length in mr. wm. t. stead's collections of ghost stories. h. c. glossary of terms used agent--the person who, in thought-transference experiments, endeavors to impress his thoughts upon the "percipient" or "receiver." death-coincidence--a case in which an apparition or other ghostly phenomenon has taken place, at the moment of the death of the person represented by the phantom. ghost--an apparition, a phantom. some contend that all ghosts are "subjective" or purely mental (hallucinations); others that some ghosts are "objective"--that is, space-occupying entities, which exist apart from the seer, who sees them. these points will be found fully discussed in this book. hallucination--a mental experience, in which a phantom is seen, a voice heard, etc., when there is no real external cause for this seeing or hearing. hallucinations are more complete than mere "illusions." pact--an agreement, entered into before death, between two persons, that, whichever one dies first, shall appear to the other one. these are here called "pact cases." [a pact may also mean an agreement between a necromancer of some spirit-intelligence, as in magic; but the word is not used in that sense in this book.] percipient--the receiver of the telepathic or other message. the one who experiences the phenomenon. phantasm--a phantom; an apparition; a "ghost." the word is more inclusive than any of the words suggested; and is used by preference, by most psychic students. telepathy--mind-reading; thought-transference. true ghost stories chapter i what is a ghost? ghosts have been believed in by every nation, at every time and at every stage of the world's evolution. no matter where we may go, we find them stalking through the pages of history;[ ] and even in our own cynical and materialistic age, we not only find "ghosts" still; but the evidence for their existence is stronger than ever! it is nonsense to say that "no sensible person believes in ghosts," because many thousands of them _do_. why do they believe? would they believe if they had no cause to do so? [ ] see appendix a. the "terror of the dark," which we all have more or less, from which every child suffers (how intensely!) during its early years--a terror which is, to a certain extent, shared by animals and even insects--does all this signify nothing? those who have looked into this question thoroughly, believe that there is, in every truth, a terrible reality justifying this instinctive fear; that evil and horrible things lurk about us in the still, weird hours of the night; that there are truly "powers and principalities" with which we often toy, without knowing or realizing the frightful dangers which result from this tampering with the unseen world. yes; there is a true "tyranny of the dark." phenomena and ghostly manifestations take place in darkness which would never occur in light; and which cease when a light is struck. all ghostly phenomena are associated with darkness, and the "wee small hours of the night." all this is exemplified in the following interesting narrative, which i may entitle: the terror of the dark "all my life i have been afraid of the dark," said an acquaintance to me the other day, when we were discussing psychical matters. "i know that it is childish," he continued, "and i ought to have outgrown it years ago; but, as a matter of fact, i haven't. after all, isn't there some reason for the fears that we all feel, more or less, at that time? doesn't the bible speak of 'the terrors of the dark;' and are not all animals, and even insects, afraid of the dark--so much so that you cannot induce them to enter a dark place if they can help it? light not only enables you to see what is around you; but it acts in a certain positive manner over 'the powers of darkness,' whatever they are, and prevents their operation. all spirit mediums will tell you that materialization and manifestations of that character cannot take place in the light; it prevents their occurrence. so, after all, as i said, isn't there some reasonable ground for one's fear at such times?" i said nothing; but gazed into the fire. after all, were not his arguments somewhat impressive? "but," continued my friend, "it is not altogether because of these speculative reasons that i fear the dark; it is because of a terrible experience i once had, and which has left me terror-struck, ever since, whenever i am left without light even for an instant. i will tell you the story, and let you judge for yourself. "it was several years ago; in an old house we rented at that time, and from which we removed soon after the event i am about to relate. i was afraid of the dark, even then, and always left a night-light burning by the side of my bed when i went to sleep. one night i woke up, feeling the springs of the bed on which i was lying vibrate in a peculiar manner, impossible to describe. "looking up, i saw, standing by the side of my bed, a young man, dressed in rags, having a face ghastly white, and showing every indication of dissipation. he was regarding me intently. "i shall never forget the shock i received on beholding that figure; not only because of the unexpected appearance; but because of the fact that i could perceive the opposite wall and furniture _through_ the body. i knew at once that i beheld a spirit; and my blood ran cold at the thought. what i had dreaded all my life was at last fulfilled! "my next thought was 'i am so glad the night-light is burning. what should i do if i were in darkness?' as though the form read my thoughts, and was intent on torturing me to the limit of endurance, it leaned over, and the next instant had snuffed the candle! the phantom and i were alone in the black darkness! "words cannot describe my feelings at that instant. the blood froze in my veins, and the tongue clave to the roof of my mouth. i tried to speak, but could not. i only held out one hand as if to ward off the awful presence by pressing it away. "the next instant i felt the bed-clothes gently turned down on the further side of the bed, and partly pulled off me. the springs of the bed were depressed, and i knew that the fearsome visitor was crawling into bed! it would lie down by my side; perhaps touch me; perhaps--who could tell? the agony of mind i experienced in those few moments i shall never forget! my only wonder is that my reason did not give way! "then a curious thing happened. even in the state of mind, as i was then, i could perceive that the bed was gradually rising up again into its normal position. the weight upon it was growing less and less. finally, it was again level, and i felt the bed clothes carefully replaced over me. the phantom had withdrawn! "for hours i lay awake, not daring to move. after what seemed a century, the first faint shafts of light fell across the room, betokening the welcome morn. finally glorious day broke. glorious light! hateful darkness! cannot you see why i hate it so?" but, fortunately, this evil and horrible side of ghost-land is not universal. ghosts do not always present themselves as so formidable and gruesome! some of them prove helpful; others seem to wish to right a wrong; some even seem to have a sense of humor! so there are all sorts of ghosts, just as there are all sorts of people; and the variety is just as great in the one case as in the other. what is a ghost? but, after all, what _is_ a ghost? what do we mean by this? where do ghosts live, and how? what do they do with themselves? how do they manifest? why do they return? these are some of the questions which the average man asks himself--unless he totally disbelieves in them. most men, it is true, disbelieve in ghosts--unless they have had some experience to convince them to the contrary. yet, after all, why should they? as mr. w. t. stead once remarked: "real ghost stories! how can there be real ghost stories when there are no real ghosts? "but are there no real ghosts? you may not have seen one, but it does not follow that therefore they do not exist. how many of us have seen the microbe that kills? there are at least as many persons who testify that they have seen apparitions as there are men of science who have examined the microbe. you and i, who have seen neither, must perforce take the testimony of others. the evidence for the microbe may be conclusive, the evidence as to apparitions may be worthless; but in both cases it is a case of testimony, not of personal experience." the average conception of a ghost is probably somewhat as follows: that it is a thin, tall figure, wrapped in a sheet, walking about the house, clanking chains behind it, and scaring out of his wits anyone who sees it. according to this view, a ghost would be as material and substantial a thing as a buzz-saw or a lap-dog, and exists just as fully "in space." such, however, is not the conception of the ghost which modern science entertains. many investigators who have examined this question closely have come to the conclusion that ghosts _do_ actually exist; but when we come to the more troublesome question: _what are they?_ we are met at once with difficulties and disagreements. the recent scientific theories and explanations of the subject are complex and subtle; and necessitate a certain preliminary knowledge on the part of the student in order for him to understand them. i shall explain as briefly and clearly as possible exactly what these theories are. for the moment, i wish to speak, first of all, of the history of psychic investigation; and particularly that portion of it which deals with apparitions or "ghost hunting." historic investigations here and there, serious investigators have always existed. in the sixteenth century dr. glanvil pursued this study with great genius and patience; dr. johnson also was a firm believer in the reality of "ghosts"; sir walter scott and others of his time were investigators, the famous dr. perrier wrote a treatise on apparitions, and similar investigations have been continued up to the present day. the first organized and systematic attempt to solve the problem, and to find out exactly _what ghosts are_, however, was made by the society for psychical research (s. p. r.) in . practically all the investigations which have been carried on since then have led to important results. soon after the above mentioned society was founded, and material began to be collected, it was found that many cases had to do with haunted houses, many with apparitions, but the greater number of them hinged around the one point--the coincidence of apparitions with the death of the persons represented. an apparition of a certain person would be seen in london, let us say; and some hours later a telegram would arrive, conveying the news that this person had just been killed. when the time was compared, it was found to agree exactly; the hour of the death and that of the apparition tallying to the minute. chance, you say? perhaps so. _one_ case of this character might be explained in such manner; but could _fifty_? could a _hundred_? it became a question of statistics--of figures; these alone can answer our question. before considering these, however, let us give a few examples of cases of "death-coincidences," so that the reader may see the character of the evidence presented. he may then appreciate the value of a great mass of such evidence, when published _in extenso_. death-coincidences the first case we take is from m. flammarion's book, _the unknown_ (p. ), and is as follows: "my mother ... who lived in burgundy, heard one tuesday, between nine and ten o'clock, the door of the bedroom open and close violently. at the same time, she heard herself called twice--'lucie, lucie!' the following tuesday, she heard that her uncle clementin, who had always had a great affection for her, had died that tuesday morning, precisely between nine and ten o'clock...." in the following instance, the notification is in visual, instead of auditory form, and is taken from the _proceedings_, s. p. r., vol. x., pp. - : "about the th of september, , my sister and i felt worried and distressed by hearing the 'death watch'; it lasted a whole day and night. we got up earlier than usual the next morning, about six o'clock, to finish some birthday presents for our mother. as my sister and i were working and talking together, i looked up, and saw our young acquaintance standing in front of me and looking at us. i turned to my sister; she saw nothing. i looked again to where he stood; he had vanished. we agreed not to tell any one.... "some time afterwards we heard that our young acquaintance had either committed suicide or had been killed; he was found dead in the woods, twenty-four hours after landing. on looking back to my diary, i found that the marks i made in it corresponded to the date of his death." the following case is reported in podmore's _apparitions and thought transference_, p. : "the first thursday of april, , while sitting at tea with my back to the window, and talking with my wife in the usual way, i plainly heard a rap at the window, and, looking round, i said to my wife, 'why, there's my grandmother,' and went to the door, but could not see anyone; and still feeling sure it was my grandmother, and, knowing that, though eighty-three years of age, she was very active and fond of a joke, i went round the house, but could not see anyone. my wife did not hear it. on the following saturday, i had news that my grandmother died in yorkshire about half an hour before the time i heard the rapping. the last time i saw her alive i promised, if well, i would attend her funeral; that was some two years before. i was in good health and had no trouble; age, twenty-six years. i did not know that my grandmother was ill. "rev. matthew frost." mrs. frost writes: "i beg to certify that i perfectly remember all the circumstances my husband has named, but i heard and saw nothing myself." the following case is from _phantasms of the living_, vol. ii., p. : "on february th, , i was awake, for i was to go to my sister-in-law, and visiting was then an event for me. about two o'clock in the morning my brother walked into our room (my sister's) and stood beside my bed. i called to her, 'here is ----.' he was at the time quartered at paisley, and a mail-car from belfast passed about that hour not more than a mile from our village.... he looked down on us most lovingly, and kindly, and waved his hand, and he was gone! i recollect it all as if it were only last night it occurred, and my feeling of astonishment, not at his coming into the room at all, but where he could have gone. at that very hour he died." mr. gurney writes: "we have confirmed the date of death in the army list, and find from a newspaper notice that the death took place in the early morning, and was extremely sudden." cases such as the above could be multiplied into the hundreds; but it is not necessary. for our present purposes, the above samples will at least serve to show the character of these "death-coincidences," and how accurate and how numerous they often are. are they due to chance? the cases of "death-coincidences" came in so thick and so fast that, some time after its foundation, the society for psychical research published an enormous book in two volumes, called "phantasms of the living," which contained some cases of this character. the possibility of "chance coincidence" was very carefully worked out; and it was ascertained that the number of collected cases was many thousand times more numerous than chance alone could be supposed to account for. a "connection" of some sort was thought to be proved. but objections at once began to be heard! "in order to prove your point you must collect a greater number of cases than this; you must get more facts before we can consider your point proved!" so the investigators again set to work, and carried on a far more extensive investigation, in several countries, covering a period of several years. the results were the same. after collecting some , cases, and calculating the number of death-coincidences contained in this number, it was again proved, and most conclusively, that the number of coincidences was far more numerous than could be accounted for by any theory of chance. professor sidgwick's committee, therefore, signed the following joint statement, at the conclusion of their lengthy report: "_between deaths and apparitions of the dying person a connection exists which is not due to chance alone. this we hold as a proved fact...._" these are weighty words. they represent an important forward step in our investigation of these involved and complex questions. _something_ takes place at death, which serves to unite, in some sort of spiritual bond, the dying and the still living relatives or friends. _what is_ this connection? in what may it be supposed to consist? the explanation for an explanation, we must begin by going back to experimental thought-transference. we know that it is possible, under certain conditions, for one person to affect another, otherwise than through the regular avenues of the five senses. this "telepathic" action between mind and mind is now pretty well known, and operates more or less throughout life. by means of this, it is occasionally possible for one person to impress a scene or a picture upon the mind of another, so that the other shall see before him, as it were, in space, a vivid mental picture of the scene in the other's mind. this being so, it seems plausible to suppose that it might be possible to convey the impression or picture of _one's self_ to another--since this may be supposed to be the most precise and best-known picture we have. would it not be possible to think of one's own appearance so intensely as to cause a mental representation of it to appear before another person, distant some miles away? apparently this _has_ been done, many times. "experimental apparitions" of this character have frequently been _induced_; accounts of a few of which will be found in this volume. the picture is mental, in such a case; it is an imaginative creation; it is a hallucination,--although it was caused or created by another, distant mind. it was, it is true, a hallucination; but as it was induced by telepathy, we have for such apparitions the name of "telepathic hallucinations." it is this theory of "telepathic hallucinations" which is invoked to explain many of these cases of death-coincidences, or apparitions of the dying. experimental apparitions the following types of "experimental apparitions" are good examples of the ability to induce a phantasmal form at a distance by "willing" to do so. as to the nature of this figure: there is as yet no unanimity of opinion--some authorities preferring to believe that such cases represent merely an extension of the power of thought-transference, known to us; others, on the contrary, contending that such cases prove the existence and travelling powers of the "astral" or "spiritual body." of this, however, more later. here is a case of this nature, experienced by the english investigator, the rev. william stainton moses, who corroborates the following account, which is furnished by the agent:-- "one evening i resolved to appear to z., at some miles' distance. i did not inform him beforehand of the intended experiment, but retired to rest shortly before midnight, my thoughts intently fixed on z., with whose rooms and surroundings i was quite unacquainted. i soon fell asleep, and woke next morning unconscious of anything having taken place. on seeing z. a few days afterwards, i inquired: 'did anything happen at your rooms on saturday night?' 'yes,' he replied, 'a great deal happened. i had been sitting over the fire with m., smoking and chatting. about : he rose to leave, and i let him out myself. i returned to the fire to finish my pipe, when i saw you sitting in the chair just vacated by him. i looked intently at you, and then took up a newspaper to assure myself that i was not dreaming; but on laying it down i saw you still there. while i gazed, without speaking, you faded away.'" in the case which follows, the initials only are used; but the writer of the account was known to the officers of the s. p. r., who vouched for the general trustworthiness of the writer: "on a certain sunday evening in november, , having been reading of the great power which the human will is capable of exercising, i determined, with the whole force of my being, that i would be present in spirit in the front bedroom of the second floor of a house situated at hogarth road, kensington, in which room slept two young ladies of my acquaintance,--namely, miss l. s. v. and miss e. c. v., aged respectively twenty-five and eleven years. i was living at the time at kildare gardens, at a distance of about three miles from hogarth road, and i had not mentioned in any way my intention of trying this experiment to either of the above ladies, for the simple reason that it was only on retiring to rest upon this sunday night that i made up my mind to do so. the time at which i determined to be there was one o'clock in the morning; and i had a strong intention of making my presence perceptible. on the following thursday i went to see the ladies in question, and, in the course of my conversation (without any allusion to the subject on my part), the elder one told me that on the previous saturday night she had been much terrified by perceiving me standing by her bedside, and that she screamed when the apparition advanced towards her, and awoke her little sister, who also saw me. "i asked her if she was awake at the time, and she replied most decidedly in the affirmative; and, upon my inquiring the time of the occurrence, she replied, 'about one o'clock in the morning.' "this lady at my request wrote down a statement of the event, and signed it...." mr. gurney (one of the authors of _phantasms of the living_) became deeply interested in these experiments, and requested mr. b. to notify him in advance on the next occasion when he proposed to make his presence known in this strange manner. accordingly, march d, , he received the following letter: "dear mr. gurney:--i am going to try the experiment to-night of making my presence perceptible at morland square, at p. m. i will let you know the result in a few days. yours very sincerely, "s. h. b." the next letter, which was written on april , contained the following statement, prepared by the recipient, miss l. s. verity: "on saturday night, march , , at about midnight, i had a distinct impression that mr. s. h. b. was present in my room, and i distinctly saw him, being quite awake. he came toward me and stroked my hair. i voluntarily gave him this information when he called to see me on wednesday, april , telling him the time and the circumstances of the apparition without any suggestion on his part. the appearance in my room was most vivid and quite unmistakable." miss a. s. verity also furnishes this corroborative statement: "i remember my sister telling me that she had seen s. h. b. and that he touched her hair, before he came to see us on april ." the agent's statement of the affair is as follows: "on saturday, march , i determined to make my presence perceptible to miss v. at morland square, notting hill, at twelve midnight; and as i had previously arranged with mr. gurney that i should post him a letter of the evening on which i tried my next experiment (stating the time and other particulars) i sent him a note to acquaint him with the above facts. about ten days afterwards i called upon miss v., and she voluntarily told me that on march , at twelve o'clock, midnight, she had seen me so vividly in her room (whilst wide awake) that her nerves had been much shaken, and she had been obliged to send for a doctor in the morning." these cases will at least prove the possibility of such a thing as "experimental apparitions," and, explain them as we may, they are, at all events, most interesting and significant. they prove the reality of "telepathic phantasms"--of apparitions produced in another by the power of mind. this is, at least, the modern conception of the facts. telepathic hallucinations how may the theory be said to work? how can a telepathic impulse from a distant mind cause a picture to appear in space, as it were, before the recipient? here is the last word of modern science in this direction; here is the theory which has been advanced to explain puzzling cases of this character. when we look at and see an object, the sight-centers of the brain are roused into activity; unless they are so aroused, we see nothing, and whenever they are so aroused, _no matter from what cause_, we have the sensation of sight. we _see_. but we get no further than this; we do not reason about the thing seen, or analyze; or think to ourselves, "this is a red apple; i like red apples," etc. no, we only see or perceive the object. all the reasoning _about_ the object takes place in the higher thought-centres of the brain. a diagram will, perhaps, help to make all this clear. [illustration] when light-waves coming from the eye, a, travel along the optic nerves, and excite into activity the sight-centers--at b--we have the sensation of sight, as before said. nerve currents then travel _up_ the nerves, going from b to c, and in these higher centers, they are associated and analyzed, and we then "reflect" upon the thing seen, etc. this is the normal process of sight. now, if the eye, or the optic nerves, or the sight-centers themselves become diseased, we still have the sensation of seeing, though there is no material object there; we have ordinary hallucinations of all kinds--delirium tremens, etc. if the sight-centers are stimulated _as much_ as they would be by the incoming nerve stimuli from the eye, we have "full-blown hallucinations." now, it is obvious that one method of stimulating the sight-centers into activity is for a nervous current to come _downwards_, along the nerves running from c to b. it is probable that something of this sort takes place when we experience "memory pictures." if you shut your eyes and picture the face of some dear friend, you will be able to see it before you more or less clearly. the higher psychical centers of the brain have excited the sight-centers into a certain activity; and these have given us the sensation of dim, inward sight. if the stimulus were stronger, we should have cases of intense "visualization"; such as the figures which occur in the crystal ball, etc.--they being doubtless produced in this manner. although the "sluice-gates," so to speak, running from c to b are, therefore, always open _slightly_; they are never open wide; it is not natural for them to be so. but if, under any great stress, thought or emotion, the downward nervous current were as strong as that ordinarily running from a to b; then we should appear to see as clearly; the object would appear just as solid and real and outstanding to us as any other entity. we should experience a "full-blown hallucination." all this being so, it is almost natural to suppose that _one_ method by which these psychical sluice-gates could be more widely opened would be under the impact of _a telepathic impulse_. if we assume that this in some manner arouses into instantaneous and great activity the higher psychical centers (c), these would very probably communicate this impulse to b--downwards, along the nerve-tracts connecting the two (or to the hearing centers, when we should experience an auditory hallucination, and hear our name spoken, etc.). in this way we could account for a telepathic hallucination, originating in this manner; and it is surely to be supposed that, at the moment of death, some peculiar quickening of the mental and spiritual life takes place--the peculiar flashes of memory by those drowning, etc., seeming to show this. so, then, we arrive at a sort of explanation of many of these cases of apparitions, occurring at the moment of death; for we have shown them to be "telepathic hallucinations." this is also the correct explanation, doubtless, for many cases in which apparitions of the living have been seen--in which a phantasm of a living person has appeared to another, during sleep, or in hypnotic trance, etc. but how about those ghosts which appear some time after death? they, at least, cannot be explained by any such theory. what has been said by way of explanation of these cases? it will be remembered that telepathy is the basis of the explanation thus far. let us extend this. we have only to suppose that the spirit of man survives the shock of death, and that it can continue to exert its powers and capacities also. for, if a living mind can influence the living by telepathy; why not a "dead" one? why should not the surviving spirit of man continue to influence us, by telepathy? if they could, we should still have cases of telepathic hallucinations--induced from the mind of a discarnate, not an incarnate, spirit. the "ghost" might still be a telepathic hallucination. and if several persons saw the figure at once, we should, on this theory, have a case of collective hallucination--in which one mind affected all the rest equally and simultaneously. ghosts which move material objects such is the theory--rather far-fetched, it is true; but certainly the most rational and common-sense so far advanced to explain many of the facts. it is probable, however, that this explanation will not serve to explain _all_ of them. thus, in those cases where the apparition moved a material object, opened a door, etc., such a theory would have to be abandoned, for the simple reason that a mental concept, an hallucination, cannot open doors and move objects! there must be an outstanding, material entity to effect this. there must be a real ghost. and in those cases where the apparition has been seen by several persons at once, or even photographed, it seems more reasonable to suppose that a material, space-occupying body was present rather than to assume that the various witnesses or the camera were hallucinated. in the following cases, for example, the apparition performs a definite physical action--snuffs a candle with its fingers, an action which a pure hallucination could hardly be supposed to perform. the account is by the rev. d. w. g. gwynne, m.i., and is printed in _phantasms of the living_, vol. ii., pp. - . after telling of certain minor phenomena, he proceeds: "i now come to the mutual experience of something that is as fresh in its impression as if it were the occurrence of yesterday. during the night i became aware of a draped figure passing across the foot of the bed towards the fireplace. i had the impression that the arm was raised, pointing with the hand towards the mantlepiece, on which a night-light was burning. mrs. gwynne at this moment seized my arm, and the light _was extinguished_. notwithstanding, i distinctly saw the figure returning towards the door, and being under the impression that one of our servants had found her way into the room, i leaped out of bed to intercept the intruder, but found, and saw, nothing...." [mrs. gwynne confirms the story, adding, "i distinctly saw the hand of the phantom placed over the night-light, which was at once extinguished."] photographs of ghosts again, it is claimed that ghosts have sometimes been photographed, though very rarely. in a number of cases, attempts have been made to photograph ghosts seen in haunted-houses; but, though the figures have been seen by all present, the photographic plate has failed to record any impression of the phantom. in other cases, on the contrary, definite impressions _have_ been obtained; and, though there is doubtless much fraud among professional mediums, who claim to produce "spirit photographs," there are many cases on record in which no professional medium was employed, and in which faces were certainly seen upon the developed plate. experiments have also been made in photographing the body at the moment of death; to see if any impression could be made upon the plate--by the soul, in its passage from the body; and, though many of these have proved negative, dr. baraduc, of paris, has obtained a number of photographs which have never been explained. again, numerous researches in the region of so-called "thought photography" have given some basis for the belief that thought may be, under certain conditions, photographed--as for example, in the experiments of dr. ochorowicz and others. it may be said, therefore, that some progress is being made in this direction by psychic investigators (particularly by the french observers, who are far ahead of the rest of the world in these branches of psychic investigation), and that, with increased sensitiveness of film and plate, and greater perfection of lens and camera, it is to be hoped that the time is not far distant when it will be possible to photograph the unseen just as we photograph living persons. there are "ghosts," therefore, which are hallucinations; and there are ghosts which are genuine phantasms--the "real article." it becomes a question, in each instance, of sifting the evidence; finding out _which they are_. yet, if there are real, objective, outstanding ghosts, how can we explain them? in what do they consist? in short, we are back to our original question: what are ghosts? the "double," and the spiritual body before we can answer this question satisfactorily, we must consider one or two preliminary questions. first of all, we must speak of the "double"--the astral or spiritual or ethic body, which resides in man, as well as his physical body.[ ] [ ] theosophists distinguish between all these various bodies; psychic students strive, for the most part, only to prove the objective existence of any one of them. st. paul constantly emphasized the fact that man has a material body and a "spiritual body." this inner body is the exact shape of the physical body--its counterpart, its double. in life, under ordinary conditions, the two are inseparable; but at death, the severance takes place and man continues to live on in this etheric envelope. this inner body has been studied very carefully by students of the occult; and a good deal is now known about it--its comings and goings, its composition, and the method of its departure at death. for our present purposes, however, it is enough to say that such a body exists, and that it is the vehicle man continues to use and manipulate, after his death and his departure from this plane. it so happens that, under certain peculiar conditions, the inner body of man is capable of being detached or separated from the physical body. this usually occurs in trance, sleep, hypnotic and mesmeric states, etc.; or may be performed "experimentally," by some who have cultivated this power in themselves. when this body goes on such "excursions"--leaving the physical body practically dead, to all appearances--it may be seen by those in its immediate vicinity, just as a material body would be--if they are sufficiently sensitive or receptive. the following interesting case, (recorded in _phantasms of the living_, vol. i, pp. - ) is a good example of the apparent traveling of the body to another place, and the perception of that body by a second person, who happens to be there. two individuals, at all events, shared in the experience, which is otherwise hard to account for. the case is recorded by the rev. p. h. newnham, and is as follows: "in march, , i was up at oxford, keeping my last term, in lodgings. i was subject to violent neuralgic headaches, which always culminated in sleep. one evening, about p.m., i had an unusually violent one; when it became unendurable, about p.m., i went into my bedroom, and flung myself, without undressing, on the bed, and soon fell asleep. "i then had a singularly clear and vivid dream, all the incidents of which are as clear in my memory as ever. i dreamed that i was stopping with the family of a lady who subsequently became my wife. all the younger ones had gone to bed, and i stopped chatting to the father and mother, standing up by the fireplace. presently i bade them good-night, took my candle, and went off to bed. on arriving in the hall, i perceived that my fiancee had been detained downstairs, and was only then near the top of the staircase. i rushed upstairs, overtook her on the top step, and passed my two arms around her waist, under her arms, from behind. although i was carrying my candle in the left hand, when i ran upstairs, this did not, in my dream, interfere with this gesture. "on this i woke, and the clock in the house struck ten almost immediately afterwards. "so strong was the impression of the dream that i wrote a detailed account of it the next morning to my fiancee. "_crossing_ my letter, _not_ in answer to it, i received a letter from the lady in question: 'were you thinking about me very specially last night, just about ten o'clock? for, as i was going upstairs to bed, i distinctly heard your footsteps on the stairs, and felt you put your arms round my waist.'" [mrs. newnham wrote a confirmation of this account, which was also published.] what happens at the moment of death in all these cases, of course, the psychic body of the subject returns and re-animates the physical body; for if it did not do so, death would take place. when death does actually take place, this is what occurs; and psychics and clairvoyants assert that they are able to see and follow this process perfectly; and many of them have described exactly what takes place at the moment of death. the following description, for example, given by andrew jackson davis, is taken from his _death, and the after life_, pp. - , and is as follows: "suppose the person is now dying. it is to be a rapid death. the feet first grow cold. the clairvoyant sees over the head what may be called a magnetic halo--an etherial emanation, in appearance golden, and throbbing as though conscious. the body is now cold up to the knees and elbows, and the emanation has ascended higher in the air. the legs are cold to the hips and the arms to the shoulders; and the emanation, though it has not risen higher in the room, is more expanded. the death-coldness steals over the breast and round on either side, and the emanation has attained a higher position nearer the ceiling. the person has ceased to breathe, the pulse is still, and the emanation is elongated and fashioned in the outline of a human form. beneath, it is connected with the brain. the head of the person is internally throbbing--a slow, deep throb--not painful but like the beat of the sea. hence the thinking faculties are rational, while nearly every part of the person is dead. owing to the brain's momentum, i have seen a dying person, even at the last feeble pulsebeat, rouse impulsively and rise up in bed to converse with a friend, but the next instant he was gone--his brain being the last to yield up the life principle. "the golden emanation, which extends up midway to the ceiling, is connected to the brain by a very fine life-thread. now the body of the emanation ascends. then appears something white and shining, like a human head; next, in a very few moments, a faint outline of the face divine, then the fair neck and beautiful shoulders; then, in rapid succession, come all parts of the new body down to the feet--a bright, shining image, a little smaller than its physical body, but a perfect prototype or reproduction in all except its disfigurements. the fine life-thread continues attached to the old brain. the next thing is the withdrawal of the electric principle. when this thread snaps the spiritual body is free, and prepared to accompany its guardians to the summer-land. yes, there is a spiritual body; it is sown in dishonor and raised in brightness." it is doubtless this spiritual body which is the true cause of many apparitions--of many ghost stories. it is this body which is seen by the seer or percipient in many a ghost story; it is this body which moves objects and touches the individual who sees the ghost. this body is detached at death, as we have seen, and afterwards is free to rove at its own free will. apparitions of the dead might thus be accounted for; while all those cases of apparitions of the dying which are with difficulty explained as due to pure telepathy might also thus find their explanation. the spiritual body, freed at that moment, would manifest its presence to the distant percipient as it did after death. so far so good, but how about apparitions of the living? how explain those cases in which the apparition of a living person has been seen, when the spiritual body is supposedly safely attached to the physical body? many of them are doubtless cases of telepathy; but in those cases which seem to demand the presence of a body of some sort, we may suppose that the spiritual body may become detached, at times, under certain peculiar conditions, from the material body which it inhabits and animates, and can then manifest independently at a distance. the following cases are illustrative, apparently, of this fact; showing us that the "etheric body" can manifest on occasion at will at a distance from the physical body. how the soul may leave the body "... i put out the light and returned, but no sooner had i done this than ... i could feel a creeping sensation moving up my legs. i got up and lit the gas and went back to bed; with pillows arranged in such a way as to make me comfortable. in a comparatively short time, all circulation ceased in my legs, and they were as cold as those of the dead. the creeping sensation began in the lower part of the body, and that also became cold.... there was no sensation of pain or even of physical discomfort. i would pinch my legs with my thumb and finger, and there was no feeling or no indication of blood whatever. i might as well have pinched a piece of rubber so far as the sensation produced was concerned. as the movement continued upward, all at once there came a flashing of lights in my eyes and a ringing in my ears, and it seemed for an instant as though i had become unconscious. when i came out of this state, i seemed to be walking in the air. no words can describe the exhilaration and freedom that i experienced. at no time in my life had my mind been so clear and so free. just then i thought of a friend who was more than a thousand miles distant. then i seemed to be traveling with great rapidity through the atmosphere about me. everything was light and yet it was not the light of the day or the sun, but, i might say, a peculiar light of its own, such as i have never known. it could not have been a minute after that i thought of my friends, before i was conscious of standing in a room where the gas-jets were turned up, and my friend was standing with his back toward me, but, suddenly turning and seeing me, said: 'what in the world are you doing here? i thought you were in florida'--and he started to come toward me. while i heard the words distinctly, i was unable to answer. an instant later i was gone; and the consciousness of the memorable things that transpired that memorable night has never been forgotten. i seemed to leave the earth, and everything pertaining to it, and enter a condition of life of which it is absolutely impossible to give here any thought i had concerning it, because there was no correspondence to anything i had ever seen or heard or known of in any way. the wonder and the joy of it was unspeakable; and i can readily understand now what paul meant when he said 'i knew a man, whether in the body or out of it i know not, who was caught up to the third heaven, and saw things which it is not possible (lawful) to utter.' "in this latter experience there was neither consciousness of time nor of space; in fact, it can be described more as a consciousness of elastic feeling than anything else. it came to me after a time that i could _stay_ there if i so desired, but with that thought came also the consciousness of the friends on earth and the duties there required of me. the desire to stay was intense, but in my mind i clearly reasoned over it--whether i should gratify my desire or return to my work on earth. four times my thought and reason told me that my duties required me to return, but i was so dissatisfied with each conclusion that i finally said: 'now i will think and reason this matter out once more, and whatever conclusion i reach i will abide by.' i reached the same conclusion, and had not much more than reached it when i became conscious of being in a room and looking down on a body propped up in bed, which i recognized as my own! i cannot tell what strange feelings came over me. this body, to all intents and purposes, looked to be dead. there was no indication of life about it, and yet here i was apart from the body, with my mind perfectly clear and alert, and the consciousness of another body to which matter of any kind offered no resistance. "after what might have been a minute or two, looking at the body, i began to try and control it, and in a very short time all sense of separation from the physical body ceased, and i was only conscious of a directed effort toward its use. after what seemed to be quite a long time, i was able to move, got up from the bed, dressed myself, and went down to breakfast.... "i may add that the friend referred to as having been seen by me that night was also distinctly conscious of my presence and made the exclamation mentioned. we both wrote the next day, relating the experience of the night, and the letters corroborating the incident crossed in the post." such strange doings certainly tend to prove that the human spirit can leave its body and rove abroad, at times; and if this is the case, it shows us that our body is far more detachable than we usually suppose; and hence that it can probably continue to exist after the death of the physical body, when it is detached altogether. once this is proved, all objection to the reality and existence of "objective" ghosts will have been done away with. theories of haunted houses if we grant that certain houses may be "haunted," in the sense that they may be the centers of influences and forces as yet unseen and unknown, the question is: how explain such cases? what hypotheses can we advance to explain cases of haunted houses, which will recognize the reality of the phantom witnessed therein, and attempt to explain them as rationally as possible? four main theories have been advanced by way of explanation, which i shall briefly outline. ( ). there is the theory that the figures seen in houses of this nature are genuine, outstanding entities--real beings, which are just as real, though less solid and tangible, as any of the living inhabitants of the house. this is, of course, the popular conception of the ghosts seen in haunted houses, and it must be admitted that such a theory covers and explains the facts more completely and fully than any other. there are also many facts telling in its favor. for instance, when two persons see a figure from different angles or viewpoints; and one describes it in profile, while the other describes it as presenting a full face likeness; and if this is the angle in each case from which a real figure would naturally be seen, this surely seems to indicate that a solid form of some sort was present. again, when three or four or more people see a figure at the same time, it is surely a strain upon our credulity to believe that a number of persons were similarly "hallucinated" at precisely the same time and in the same manner; and easier to believe that they all saw a figure at the same time, though in differing degrees of vividness and detail. thirdly, we have the evidence from photography. in some instances, these figures have been photographed; and though there is doubtless much fraud in this connection, there is evidence that, in certain cases, genuine photographs of this nature have been taken. this is discussed elsewhere in this volume, however. fourthly, we have the behavior of animals, in haunted houses. they often appear to see figures visible or invisible to others present at the time--bark at them, rub against them, stare at them, act as though terrified at what they see, etc. this will be noticed in many of the stories; and can be explained only with difficulty if we are to believe that the figures seen are merely hallucinations. the ghosts of animals, etc. i have elsewhere spoken of the apparent ability of animals to see phantasmal forms and figures. the reverse of this is also true. ghosts of animals have been seen--spectral dogs, cats, horses as well as human beings. these apparitions are very perplexing, and raise the question of the immortality of animals--a very vexed question, which has given rise to much discussion. mr. h. rider haggard records the case of his own dog, whose apparition he saw at the very moment that the dog was killed by an express train some miles away. did the animal succeed in affecting his master by telepathy? if not, why the coincidence? i myself have recorded a case in which a (real) cat spat at a phantom dog, seen independently by a clairvoyant, who had described it a few moments before to a group of spectators. such cases are very interesting. they tend to prove that dogs, cats, horses and other animals also survive death--a conclusion which is certainly the most humane and logical to many minds. in addition to these animal apparitions, there are also grotesque, horrible, monstrous and undefinable ghosts. one or two cases of this character are described in this book. sometimes the "seer" sees something awful, but cannot describe in words what it is. many of the phantoms of the imaginative type are of this character. again, there are grave-yard ghosts; banshees, gnomes, elementals, pixies, fairies, brownies, nature-spirits, hobgoblins, sylphs, salamanders, dragons, vampires, wraiths, corpse-candles, and many other awful beings which have been described from time to time in the past. we need not consider these in a book of this character, however. but, to return to our argument for the objective reality of "ghosts." fifthly, we have those cases in which the apparition has produced a physical effect in the material world--snuffed a light, opened a door, pulled back the bed-curtains, etc. a hallucinatory figure could not do this. it has been suggested that all this is only a part of the hallucination, but when the thing is found to have been moved in reality, we must explain this somehow; for otherwise how did it change its place? sixthly, we have cases in which the same apparition has been seen by several separate and independent persons in the same room or house, and afterwards they have recognized the features of this person in a photograph shown them--the photograph of the person supposed to haunt that particular house. if we were to believe that a simple hallucination caused the figure, how account for this identification? surely the theory is far-fetched! for all these reasons, therefore, and others it would be possible to mention, there is much to be said in favor of this theory of haunted houses; the theory which says that the figures seen are real, semi-material entities. the clothes of ghosts ( ). the second view, opposed to that mentioned above, is this: someone living in a house has experienced a hallucination, and then seen the same thing over and over again, by reason of auto-suggestion; or, if he moves away, and another tenant takes the house in turn, the thoughts of this second tenant are influenced, through thought-transference, by the first tenant, who broods and thinks over his experiences in the "haunted house," wonders whether the people now living in it are experiencing phenomena, etc. in this way, the minds of those living in the house are constantly influenced by thought-transference by living minds; and hallucinatory figures are produced in them, just as the picture of a playing card is induced in experimental thought-transference. there are two things to be said in favor of such a theory. in the first place, we have the analogy which telepathic experiments give us, in which certain visual images are undoubtedly transmitted from one mind to another; and it is natural to assume that an extension of this same process might account for many of the phantasmal forms seen in haunted houses, as explained elsewhere. in the second place, we immediately surmount the difficulty presented by the ghost's _clothes_. this is a stumbling-block to many investigators. however much we might believe that an etheric or astral or spiritual body might continue to persist after death, it is hard to believe that the clothes of the person who died also had "spiritual counterparts," and returned with him, to visit the earth and the scenes of former joys and miseries! we seldom read of a ghost without clothes; nude ghosts are not the fashion! yet if we cannot believe this, how are we to explain this difficulty--and the fact that ghosts wear ghostly garments? if the ghost were a hallucination, we could understand all this easily enough. the clothes were imaginary, just as the figure was; they formed part of the mental image, just like the figures seen in dreams, etc. this, therefore, is one very strong point in favor of this hypothesis; but if the ghost is a real, outstanding entity, how account for his clothes? several tentative explanations have been forthcoming. in the first place, it has been suggested that all ghosts are in reality partial "materializations" and that it is possible for a spirit to materialize and form drapery as well as solid flesh and bone. both are a sort of condensation of matter, in varying degrees. again, it has been suggested that a spirit has the power to create objects by the power of will; by merely thinking and willing to do so. in this way, man would be a real creator, in a miniature scale, and certain analogies could be found for this in the material world. the returning spirit would desire to return clothed; and this very desire would create the fitting garb. other theories have been advanced, but the above are the simplest and most intelligible, and are all we need consider at present. all these difficulties, however, tell against the substantiality of ghosts; and in favor of this second theory of haunted houses. telepathy from the dead ( ). the third theory which has been advanced, is an extension of the second. thought-transference is still the agency invoked to explain the facts--but from the minds of dead, and not living persons. that is, assuming telepathy to be true, and possible between living minds; and assuming that individual consciousness survives the change called death; we can readily imagine that those who have "passed over" might affect and influence the living by thought-transference also, just as they did in life. on this theory, therefore, the ghost would still represent a hallucination; a mental or imaginary figure, and it would still be induced by telepathy from a distant mind; but that mind would be that of a so-called dead person. after death, we might suppose, this person would be thinking or dreaming over the past events; the scenes of his joys and sorrows; and these dreams would tend to influence the minds of those still living, and cause them to see the figures seen. the figures, on this theory, would be hallucinatory, but they would have a real, objective basis and starting-point for all that; and, as such, would represent the continued existence and activity on the part of the dead. against this ingenious theory may be urged all those arguments which have been cited in favor of the materiality of apparitions. the psychic atmosphere ( ). a fourth theory is that which says that some _subtle psychic atmosphere_ is present in certain houses; and that this "atmosphere" affects and influences all who live within them, just as their physical atmosphere would, only in a different manner and degree. everyone has doubtless experienced this atmosphere in certain houses, if they are at all sensitive. they either "like" a house or "dislike" it--for no apparent reason. some houses rest and refresh you; others irritate you, etc. this theory contends that every living human being is constantly giving off a peculiar vital emanation or aura or effluence; and that this charges-up or impregnates the material objects in his immediate neighborhood, which soak it up like a sponge, and retain it after being removed from its presence. it is because of this fact that articles presented to trance mediums often recall the person to whom they belonged; it is because of this that "psychometry" is possible--that is, the ability of some persons to give the past history of an object by merely handling it; and it is because of this that certain houses become so charged with this magnetic aura, or whatever it may be, that they remain "charged" for some time; and, in discharging, create psychic disturbances and impressions which are seen or experienced as phantasmal appearances. the chief objection to this theory is that it is difficult to see how this general and impersonal "charging" process can create definite and clear-cut forms, possessing all the appearances of reality. doubtless each theory contains much truth; and haunted houses represent, in many cases, a combination of _all_ these causes, working together and combining into one complex and unfortunately ill-understood whole. it is the duty of the future to disentangle this maze, as best it can; and explain the various factors which go to make up a haunted house of this character. forms created by will ( ). besides these theories, another might be suggested, which has never so far been advanced, so far as i am aware. it is that the phantasmal forms seen in haunted houses are real substantial _creations_, manufactured by the thoughts or will of the discarnate spirit, who fashions it out of "such stuff as dreams are made of." it has been said that "thoughts are things," and many believe that this is literally true. certain it is that a limited number of peculiarly constructed persons can produce phenomena which seem to be solid creations of the will. so, if thought could ever be proved to be really creative; if it could not only _formulate_ but _objectify_ and _project into space_ images and forms, we should have here a rational explanation of many ghosts, as well as of their behavior. and just here a few words as to this latter may not be out of place. it has often been objected that ghosts cannot be realities; they cannot be real spirits, for the reason that they act in such a senseless manner. they seldom speak or reply, when spoken to. they seldom have any definite purpose. in short, they betray no intelligence. this being so, they must be hallucinations and not the realities they claim to be! the answer to this objection is found in the following consideration. even granting all this to be true, many believing in ghosts do not for an instant contend that such ghosts represent the actual person the figure symbolises. it is a mere projection; a shell; a form created by the discarnate spirit, a resemblance, a phantasm. the central consciousness which animated and still animates that person is not _in_ the ghostly form, but elsewhere. the phantasm represents, merely, a sort of impersonal wraith, and, as such, cannot be expected to possess intelligence or human characteristics. none are present within it. it is a very different thing from the real person it represents. the insipid and unintelligent behavior of ghosts, therefore, is only what we should expect. this fact is no argument against their reality, when rightly understood and interpreted. physical manifestations in addition to haunted houses of this type, there are others, which must be referred to very briefly. thus, in some cases, no figures have been seen, but remarkable sounds have been heard--sounds which have never been accounted for. bangs, knocks, monotonous reading aloud, whispering, footsteps, etc., are some of the noises and sounds which have been heard in this way, and their origin often remains a mystery. it would take too long to discuss the various explanatory theories which have been advanced by psychic students to account for these sounds. in other types of haunted houses, physical manifestations take place, though nothing unusual is either seen or heard. thus, in one case recorded by lombroso (_after death: what?_) numbers of bottles were broken one after the other, for no apparent cause, when he was actually looking at them. in still other cases, furniture has been upset, crockery broken, doorbells rung, etc., by no visible agency. john wesley was persecuted in this manner for several years; and the reason was never discovered. such cases are technically known as "poltergeists," and may be found in abundance in the "history of the supernatural." can haunted houses be "cured"? one question of considerable interest remains. it is this: can so-called haunted houses be _cured_? many of those who live in houses of this character would like to have these influences removed; but are unable to rid themselves of them. can this be done? in some cases, this has doubtless been accomplished; while in others it has failed. we know too little as yet to lay down any arbitrary laws or rules which may be followed with safety in cases of this character. sometimes one method succeeds, while another fails. i have known of cases where "exorcism" worked a complete cure; of others in which it failed miserably. i have known of cases in which suggestion, rightly applied, rid the house of its ghost; in other instances, no result was produced by similar methods! in a few instances mediums and psychics have been able to assist; in others their presence only seemed to make matters worse. we can but experiment and learn. those who may be more interested in this aspect of the question will find it treated in chapter xv. of my book "_the coming science_," which is devoted to "haunted houses and their cure." chapter ii phantasms of the dead--i. in the following chapter, i shall give a number of cases in which "ghosts," or "phantasms of the dead," as they are called, have appeared to one or more persons at one time; sometimes telling them something they did not know; sometimes moving material objects in the room; sometimes pulling the bed-clothes off, etc. nearly all these cases are well authenticated, and have been narrated at first-hand. many of them have the corroborative testimony of several other persons, who also saw the phantasmal figure, or in some way shared in the experience. i shall begin with-- a russian ghost the following story is vouched for by mr. w. d. addison, of riga, and sent by him to mr. w. t. stead, who published it in _borderland_: "it was in february, , that the incidents i am about to relate occurred to me, and the story is well-known to my immediate friends. "five weeks previously my wife had presented me with our first baby, and our house being a small one, i had to sleep on a bed made up in the drawing room--a spacious but cozy apartment, and the last place in which one would expect ghosts to select for their wanderings. "on the night in question i retired to my couch soon after ten, and fell asleep almost the moment i was between the sheets. "instead of sleeping as, i am thankful to say, is my habit, straight through till morning, i woke up after a short dreamless sleep with the dim consciousness upon me that some one had called me by name. i was just turning the idea over in my mind when all doubts were solved by my hearing my name pronounced in a faint whisper, 'willy.' now the nurse who was in attendance on the baby, and who slept in the dressing room adjoining our bedroom, had been ill for the past few days, and on the previous evening my wife had come and asked me to assist her with the baby. as soon, therefore, as i heard this whisper, i turned round thinking, 'ah, it is the baby again.' "the room had three windows in it, the night was moonless but starlit; there was snow on the ground, and therefore, 'snowlight,' and the blinds being up the room was by no means dark. "the first thing i noticed on turning round was the figure of a woman close to the foot of the bed, and whom (following the bent of my thoughts) i supposed to be my wife. 'what is up?' i asked, but the figure remained silent and motionless, and my eyes being more accustomed to the dimness, i noticed that it had a gray looking shawl over its head and shoulders, and that it was too short in stature to be my wife. i gazed at it silently, wondering who it could be; apparitions and ghosts were far from my thoughts, and the mistiness of the outlines of this silent figure did not strike me at the moment as it did afterwards. "i again addressed it, this time in the language of the country, 'what do you want?' again no answer. and now it occurred to me that our servant girl sometimes walked in her sleep, and that this was she. behind the head of my bed stood a small table, and i reached round for the match-box which was on it, never removing my eyes from the supposed somnambulist. the match-box was now in my hands, but just as i was taking out a match, the figure, to my astonishment, seemed to rise up from the floor, and move backwards toward the end window; at the same time it faded rapidly and became blurred with the gray light streaming in at the window, and 'ere i could strike the match it was gone. i lit the candle, jumped out of bed and ran to the door: it was fastened! to the left of the drawing room there was a boudoir, separated only by a curtain, this room was empty too, and the door likewise fastened. "i rubbed my eyes. i was puzzled. it struck me now for the first time that the figure was hazy looking, also that my wife was the only person who called me 'willy,' and certainly the only person who could give the word its english pronunciation. i first searched both drawing room and boudoir, and then, opening the door, stepped into the passage, and went to my wife's door and listened. the baby was crying and my wife was up, so i knocked and was admitted. knowing her to be strong minded and not nervous, i quietly related my experience. she expressed astonishment, and asked if i was not afraid to return to my bed in the drawing room. however, i was not, and after chatting for a few moments went back to my quarters, fastened the door, and getting into bed, thought the whole matter over very quietly. i could think of no explanation of the occurrence, and, feeling sleepy, blew out the light and was soon sound asleep again. "after a short but sound and dreamless slumber, i was again awakened, this time with my face towards the middle window; and there, close up against it, was the figure again, and owing to its propinquity to the light, it appeared to be a very dark object. "i at once reached out for the matches, but in doing so upset the table, and down it went with my candlestick, my watch, keys, etc., making a terrific crash. as before, i had kept my eyes fixed on the figure, and i now observed that, whatever it was, it was advancing straight towards me, and in another moment retreat to the door would be cut off. it was not a comfortable idea to cope with the unknown in the dark, and in an instant i had seized the bed-clothes, and grasping a corner of them in each hand, and holding them up before me, i charged straight at the figure. (i suppose i thought that, by smothering the head of my supposed assailant, i could best repel the coming attack.) "the next moment i had landed on my knees on a sofa by the window with my arms on the window-sill, and with the consciousness that 'it' was now behind me--i having passed through it. with a bound i faced round, and was immediately immersed in a darkness impalpable to the touch, but so dense that it seemed to be weighing me down and squeezing me from all sides. i could not stir; the bed-clothes which i had seized as described hung over my left arm, the other was free, but seemed pressed down by a benumbing weight. i essayed to cry for help, but realized for the first time in my life what it means for the 'tongue to cleave to the roof of the mouth'; my tongue seemed to have become dry and to have swelled to a thickness of some inches; it stuck to the roof of my mouth, and i could not ejaculate a syllable. at last, after an appalling struggle, i succeeded in uttering, and i know that disjointed words, half prayer, half execrations of fear, left my lips, then my mind seemed to make one frantic effort, there seemed to come a wrench like an electric shock and my limbs were free; it was as tho' i tore myself out of something. in a few seconds i had reached and opened the door and was in the passage, listening to the hammerings of my heart-beats. all fear was gone from me, but i felt as though i had run miles for my life and that another ten yards of it would have killed me. "i again went to the door of my wife's room, and, hearing that she was up with the baby, i knocked and she opened. she is a witness to the state i was in: the drops rolling down my face, my hair was damp, and the beatings of my heart were audible some paces off. i can offer no explanations of what i saw, but as soon as my story became known, the people who had occupied the house previously told me that they had once put a visitor in that same drawing room, who had declared the room to be haunted and had refused to stay in it...." grasped by a spirit hand the following account is vouched for by major c. g. macgregor, ireland, who writes as follows: "in the end of the year i went over from scotland to pay a short visit to a relative living in a square on the north side of dublin. "in january, , the husband of my relative, then in his eighty-fourth year, was seized with paralysis, and, having no trained nurse, the footman and i sat up with him for sixteen nights during his recovery. on the seventeenth night, at about : p.m., i said to the footman: 'the master seems so well, and sleeping soundly, i shall go to bed; and if he awakes worse, or you require me, call me.' i then retired to my room, which was over the one occupied by the invalid. "i went to bed and was soon asleep, when some time afterwards i was awakened by a slight push on the left shoulder. i was at the time lying on my right side facing the door (which was on the right side of my bed, and the fireplace on the left). i started up and said: 'edward, is there anything wrong?' i received no answer, but immediately received another push. i got annoyed and said, 'can you not speak, man, and tell me if anything is wrong?' still no answer; and i had a feeling that i was going to get another push when i suddenly turned around and caught (what i then thought) a human hand, warm, soft and plump. i said: 'who are you?' but i got no answer. i then tried to pull the person towards me, to endeavor to find out who it was, but although i am nearly thirteen stone, i could not move whoever it was, but felt that i myself was likely to be drawn from the bed. i then said, 'i will know who you are,' and having the hand tight in my hand, with my left i felt the wrist and arm--enclosed, as it seemed to me, in a tight sleeve of some winter material with a linen cuff; but when i got to the elbow all trace of the arm ceased! i was so astonished that i let the hand go, and just then the house clock struck a.m. i then thought no one could possibly get to the door without my catching them; but lo! the door was fast shut as when i came to bed, and another thought struck me--the fact that, when i pulled the hand, i heard no one breathing, though i myself was 'puffed' from the strength i used! "including the mistress of the house, there were in all five females, and i am assured that the hand belonged to no one of them. when i related the adventure, the servants exclaimed, 'oh, it must be the master's old aunt betty,'--an old lady who had lived for many years in the upper part of the house, occupying two rooms, and had died over fifty years ago, at a great age. i afterwards learned that the _room_ in which i felt the hand had been considered 'haunted,' and many curious noises and peculiar incidents had occurred there, such as the bed-clothes being torn off. one lady got a slap in the face from some invisible hand, and, when she lighted her candle, she saw something opaque fall, or jump off the bed. a general officer, a brother of the lady, slept there two nights, but preferred going to an hotel rather than remaining a third! he never would say what he heard or saw, but always asserted the room was 'uncanny.' i slept for months in that room afterwards and was never in the least disturbed. i never knew what nervousness was in my life, and only regret that my astonishment caused me to let go the hand before finding out the purpose of the visit. whether it was meant for a warning or not, i may add that the old gentleman lived three years and six months afterwards...." "i am shot!" the next case is well authenticated, and appeared in the _proceedings_ of the society for psychical research (s. p. r.): after some preliminary remarks, the writer proceeds: "i awoke and saw standing by my bed, between me and the chest of drawers, a figure, which, in spite of the unwonted dress--unwonted, at least, to me--and of a full, black beard, i at once recognized as that of my old brother officer. he had on the usual khaki coat, worn by the officers on service in eastern climates.... his face was pale, but his bright black eyes shone as keenly as when, a year and a half before, they had looked upon me as he stood with one foot on the hansom, bidding me _adieu_. "fully impressed for the moment that we were stationed together in ireland or somewhere, and thinking i was in my barrack-room, i said, 'hello, p., am i late for parade?' p. looked at me steadily, and replied, 'i'm shot!' "'shot!' i exclaimed, 'good god, how and where?' "'through the lungs,' replied p.; and as he spoke his right hand moved slowly up to his breast, until the fingers rested over the right lung. "'what were you doing?' i asked. "'the general sent me forward,' he answered; and the right hand left the breast to move slowly to the front, pointing over my head to the window, and at the same moment the figure melted away. i rubbed my eyes, to make sure i was not dreaming, and sprang out of bed. it was then . a.m. by the clock on my mantelpiece. "two days later news was received that he had been killed at lang's neck between and o'clock on the night in question." * * * * * the following is a nautical story: heave the lead! in the year , captain thomas rogers, commander of a ship called the _society_, was bound on a voyage from london to virginia. the vessel being sent light to virginia, for a loading of tobacco, carried little freight in her outward hold. "one day when they made an observation, the mates and officers brought their books and cast up their reckonings with the captain, to see how near they were to the coast of america. they all agreed that they were a _hundred leagues_ from the capes of virginia. upon these customary reckonings, and heaving the lead, and finding no ground at a hundred fathoms, they set the watch, and the captain turned in. "the weather was fine; a moderate gale of wind blew from the coast; so that the ship might have run about twelve or thirteen leagues in the night, after the captain was in his cabin. "he fell asleep, and slept very soundly for about three hours, when he woke again, and lay still till he heard his second mate turn out and relieve the watch. he then called his first mate, as he was going off watch, and asked him how all things fared? the mate answered that all was well, though the gale had freshened, and they were running at a great rate; but it was a fair wind, and a fair, clear night. "the captain then went to sleep again. "about an hour after, he dreamed that some one had pulled him, and bade him turn out and look abroad. he, however, lay still and went to sleep again; but was suddenly re-awakened. this occurred several times; and, though he knew not what was the reason, yet he found it impossible to go to sleep any more. still he heard the vision say: 'turn out and look abroad.' "the captain lay in this state of uneasiness nearly two hours, until finally he felt compelled to don his great coat and go on deck. all was well; it was a fine, clear night. "the men saluted him; and the captain called out: 'how's she heading?' "'southwest by south, sir,' answered the mate; 'fair for the coast, and the wind east by north.' "'very good,' said the captain, and as he was about to return to his cabin, _something_ stood by him, and said: 'heave the lead.' "upon hearing this the captain said to the second mate: 'when did you heave the lead? what water had you?' "'about an hour ago, sir,' replied the mate; 'sixty fathom.' "'heave again,' the captain commanded. "when the lead was cast they had ground at eleven fathoms. this surprised them all; but much more when, at the next cast, it came up _seven_ fathoms. "upon this, the captain, in a fright, bid them put the helm alee, and about ship, all hands ordered to back the sails, as is usual in such cases. "the proper orders being observed, the ship 'stayed' and came about; but before the sails filled, she had but four-fathoms-and-a-half water under her stern. as soon as she filled and stood off, they had seven fathoms again, and at the next cast eleven fathoms, and so on to twenty fathoms. they then stood off to seaward all the rest of the watch, to get into deep water, till daybreak, when, being a clear morning, the capes of virginia were in fair view under their stern, and but a few leagues distant. had they stood-on but one cable-length further, as they were going, they would have been ashore, and certainly lost their ship, if not their lives--all through the erroneous reckonings of the previous day. _who_ or _what_ was it that waked the captain and bade him save the ship? that he has never been able to tell!" * * * * * the incident which follows is somewhat similar--though more dramatic--being also a nautical story: the rescue at sea the following famous narrative is taken from mr. robert dale owen's collection, printed in his _footfalls on the boundary of another world_, and _the debatable land between this world and the next_. it is quite a famous case, and is vouched for by mr. owen. it is as follows: "mr. robert bruce, descended from some branch of the scottish family of the same name, was born in humble circumstances about the close of the eighteenth century at torbay, in the south of england, and there bred up to a seafaring life. when about thirty years of age (in the year ), he was first mate on board a barque trading between liverpool and st. john's, new brunswick. "on one of her voyages, bound westward, being then some five or six weeks out, and having neared the eastern portion of the banks of newfoundland, the captain and the mate had been on deck at noon, taking an observation of the sun; after which they both descended to calculate their day's work. "the cabin, a small one, was immediately at the stern of the vessel, and the short stairway, descending to it, ran athwart-ships. immediately opposite to this stairway, just beyond a small, square landing, was the mate's state room; and from that landing there were two doors, close to each other--the one opening aft into the cabin, the other fronting the stairway into the stateroom. the desk in the stateroom was in the forward part of it, close to the door; so that anyone sitting at it, and looking over his shoulder, could see into the cabin. "the mate, absorbed in his calculation, which did not result as he expected, varying considerably from the 'dead reckoning,' had not noticed the captain's motions. when he had completed his calculations, he cried out, without looking round, 'i make our latitude and longitude so-and-so. can that be right? how is yours, sir?' "receiving no reply he repeated the question, glancing over his shoulder and perceiving, as he thought, the captain busy at his slate. still no answer! thereupon he rose, and, as he fronted the cabin door, the figure he had mistaken for the captain raised his head and disclosed to the astonished mate the features of an entire stranger. "bruce was no coward, but as he met that fixed gaze, looking directly at him in grave silence, and became assured that it was no one whom he had ever seen before, it was too much for him; and, instead of stopping to question the seeming intruder, he rushed upon deck in such evident alarm that it instantly attracted the captain's attention. "'why, mr. bruce,' said the latter, 'what in the world is the matter with you?' "'the matter, sir? who is that at your desk?' "'no one that i know of.' "'but there _is_, sir, there's a stranger there.' "'a stranger? why, man, you must be dreaming! you must have seen the steward there, or the second mate. who else would venture down without orders?' "'but, sir, he was sitting in your arm chair, fronting the door, writing on your slate. then he looked up full in my face; and if ever i saw a man plainly and distinctly in the world i saw him.' "'him! who?' "'heaven knows, sir; i don't! i saw a man and a man i have never seen in my life before.' "'you must be going crazy, mr. bruce. a stranger, and we nearly six weeks out!' "the captain descended the stairs, and the mate followed him. nobody in the cabin! they examined the staterooms. not a soul could be found. "'well, mr. bruce,' said the captain, 'did not i tell you that you had been dreaming?' "'it's all very well to say so, sir; but if i didn't see that man writing on the slate may i never see home and family again!' "'ah! writing on the slate. then it should be there still!' and the captain took it up. 'by heaven,' he exclaimed, 'here's something sure enough! is that your writing, mr. bruce?' "the mate took the slate; and there, in plain, legible characters, stood the words: 'steer to the nor'-west.' "the captain sat down at his desk, the slate before him, in deep thought. at last turning the slate over, and pushing it toward bruce, he said: 'write down: "steer to the nor'west."' "the mate complied; and the captain, comparing the two handwritings, said: 'mr. bruce, go and tell the second mate to come down here.' "he came, and at the captain's request, he also wrote the words. so did the steward. so in succession did every man of the crew who could write at all. but not one of the various hands resembled, in any degree, the mysterious writing. "when the crew retired, the captain sat deep in thought. 'could anyone have been stowed away?' at last he said. 'the ship must be searched. order up all hands.' "every nook and corner of the vessel was thoroughly searched; not a living soul was found. "accordingly, the captain decided to change the vessel's course according to the instructions received. a look-out was posted; who shortly reported an iceberg, and then, shortly after, a vessel close to it. "as they approached, the captain's glass disclosed the fact that it was a dismantled ship, apparently frozen to the ice.... it proved to be a vessel from quebec, bound for liverpool, with passengers on board. she had got entangled in the ice, and finally frozen fast; and had passed several weeks in a most critical situation. she was stove, her decks swept; in fact, a mere wreck; all her provisions and almost all her water gone. her crew and passengers had lost all hope of being saved, and their gratitude at the unexpected rescue was proportionately great. "as one of the men who had been brought away in the third boat ascended the ship's side, the mate, catching a glimpse of his face, started back in consternation. it was the very face he had seen three or four hours before, looking up at him from the captain's desk! he communicated this fact to the captain. "after the comfort of the passengers had been seen to, the captain turned to the stranger, and said to him: 'i hope, sir, you will not think i am trifling with you, but i would be much obliged to you if you would write a few words on this slate.' and he handed him the slate, with that side up on which the mysterious writing was not. "'i will do anything you ask,' replied the passenger, 'but what shall i write?' "'a few words are all i want. suppose you write: 'steer to the nor'-west.' "the passenger, evidently puzzled to make out the motive of such a request, complied, however, with a smile. the captain took up the slate and examined it closely; then stepping aside so as to conceal the slate from the passenger, he turned it over and gave it to him the other side up. "'you say that this is your handwriting?' said he. "'i need not say so,' replied the other, looking at it, 'for you saw me write it.' "'and this?' said the captain, turning the slate over. "the man looked first at one writing, then at the other, quite confounded. at last: 'what is the meaning of this?' said he. 'i only wrote _one_ of these. who wrote the _other_?' "'that's more than i can tell you, sir. my mate here says you wrote it, sitting at this desk, at noon to-day!' "the captain of the wreck and the passenger looked at each other, exchanging glances of intelligence and surprise; then the former asked the latter: 'did you dream that you wrote on this slate?' "'no, sir, not that i remember.' "'you speak of dreaming,' said the captain of the barque. 'what was this gentleman about at noon to-day?' "'captain,' rejoined the other, (the captain of the wreck), 'the whole thing is most mysterious and extraordinary; and i had intended to speak to you about it as soon as we got a little quiet. this gentleman--pointing to the passenger--being much exhausted, fell into a heavy sleep, or what seemed such, some time before noon. after an hour or more, he awoke, and said to me: 'captain, we shall be relieved this very day.' when i asked him what reason he had for saying so, he replied that he had dreamed that he was on board a barque, and that she was coming to our rescue. he described her appearance and rig, and, to our utter astonishment, when your vessel hove in sight, she corresponded exactly to his description of her! we had not put much faith in what he said; yet still we hoped there might be something in it, for drowning men, as you know, catch at straws. as it turned out, i cannot doubt that it was all arranged by some overruling providence.' "'there is not a doubt,' replied the captain of the barque, 'that the writing on the slate, let it come there as it may, saved all your lives. i was steering at the time considerably south of west, and i altered my course for the nor'-west, and had a look-out aloft, to see what would come of it. but you say,' he added, turning to the passenger, 'that you did not dream of writing on a slate?' "'no, sir. i have no recollection whatever of doing so. i got the impression that the barque i saw in my dream was coming to rescue us; but _how_ that impression came i cannot tell. there is another very strange thing about it,' he added. 'everything here on board seems to be quite familiar; yet i am very sure that i was never in your vessel before. it is all a puzzle to me! what did your mate see?' "thereupon mr. bruce related to them all the circumstances above detailed." how ghosts influence us the following is a very interesting case, which brings vividly before us the fact that ghosts often draw power from those who witness their manifestations--just as they draw vitality from a materializing "medium," during a seance. as cases of this character are rare, the following is of considerable value: "it was an afternoon, last autumn, about six o'clock. i had returned from a stroll and was sitting in my own apartment on central park west, reading _vanity fair_. while turning over its pages i became suddenly aware of a novel and indescribable sensation. my chest and breathing became inwardly oppressed by some ponderous weight, while i became conscious of some 'presence' behind me, exerting a powerful influence on the forces within. on trying to turn my head to see what it could be, i was powerless to do so; neither could i lift a hand, or move in any way. i was not a little alarmed, and began immediately to reason. my mind was alive, though physically i was unable to move a muscle. it was as if the current of nerve force within seemed forcibly drawn together and focussed on a spot in front of me. "i gazed motionless, as though with something intenser than ordinary eyesight, on what was no longer vacant space. there an oval, misty light was forming--elongatory, widening, yes, actually developing into a human face and form. was this hallucination, or some vision of the unseen, coming in so unexpected a fashion? before me had arisen a remarkable figure, never seen before in a picture or life--dark-skinned, aged, with white beard, the expression intensely earnest, the features small, the bald head finely moulded, lofty over the forehead, the whole demeanor instinct with solemn grace. "he was speaking to me in deep tones, as if in urgent entreaty. what would i not give to hear words from such a figure! but no effort availed me to distinguish one articular sound. i tried to speak, but could not. with desperate effort i shook out the words, 'speak louder.' the face grew more intent, the voice louder and more emphatic. was there something amiss with my own hearing, then, that i could distinguish no word amid these deeply emphasized tones? slowly and deliberately the figure vanished--through the same stages of indistinctness, back to the globular lamplike whiteness, till it faded to nothingness. before it had quite faded away, the face only of a woman arose, indistinct and dim. the same emphatic hum, though in a subdued note; the same paralysis of voice and muscle, the same strange force, as it was overshadowing me. with the disappearance of this second and far less interesting figure, i recovered my power of movement and arose. "my first impulse was to look around for the origin of this strange force; my second to rush to the looking-glass to make sure of myself. there could be no illusion. there i was, paler than usual, the forehead bathed in perspiration. i threw open the window. it was no dream. there were the passing trolley cars below, clanging up and down, while a crowd of noisy youngsters were playing in the park across the way. i sponged my face, and, greatly agitated, walked hurriedly to and fro. if this is real, i thought, it may recur. i would sit in the same position, try to be calm, read a book, remain as still and passive as i could, and see the result. "to my intense interest, and almost at once, the strange sense of some power operating on the nerve-forces within, followed by the same loss of muscular power, the same wide-awakeness of the reason, the same drawing out and concentrating of the energies on that spot in front, repeated itself--this time more deliberately, leaving me freer to take mental notes of what was happening. again arose the noble, earnest figure, gazing at me, the hands moving in solemn accompaniment to the deep tones of voice. the same effort, painful on my part, to hear, with no result. the vision passed. again the woman's face, insignificant and meaningless, succeeded it as before. she spoke, but in less emphatic tones. it flashed upon me that i _would_ hear. after a frantic effort, i caught two words--'land,' 'america'--with positively no clue to their meaning. "i was wide awake when the first apparition appeared, and in a highly excited state of mind on its re-appearance." how a ghost warned the king kings and queens are not exempt from visitations of the supernatural; indeed, a large number of royal dignitaries have seen "ghosts," and have been haunted by specters in as unpleasant a manner as any ordinary mortal. were we to hunt through the pages of history, we should find many of these--some of which it will doubtless be of interest to give at some future time. the following account is taken from the _annals of the kingdom of scotland_, and is told in queer old english, with long 's's,' and so on, making it very hard to read in the original! i interpret it into modern english as best i can, maintaining its form: "while james iv. stayed at linlithgow, to gather up the scattered remains of his army, which had been defeated by the earl of surrey, at flodden-field, he went into the church of st. michael there to hear evening prayer. while he was at his devotion, a remarkable figure of an ancient man, with flowing amber-colored hair hanging over his shoulders, his forehead high, and inclining to baldness, his garments of a fine blue color, somewhat long and girded together, with a fine white cloth, of comely and very reverent aspect, was seen inquiring for the king; when his majesty being pointed out to him he made his way through the crowd till he came to him, and then, with a clown's simplicity, leaning over the cannon's feet, he addressed him in the following words: 'sir, i am sent hither to entreat you to delay your intended expedition for this time, and proceed no further; for if you do, you will be unfortunate, and not prosper in your enterprise, nor any of your followers. i am further charged to warn you, not to follow the acquaintance, company or counsel of women, as you value your life, honour and estate.' "after giving him this admonition, he withdrew himself back through the crowd and disappeared. "when service was ended, the king enquired earnestly after him, but he could not be found or heard of anywhere, neither could any of the bystanders (of whom many narrowly watched him, resolving afterwards to have discoursed with him) feel or perceive how, when or where he passed from them, having in a manner vanished from their sight. "this caused the king to feel some uneasiness; 'for,' said he, 'if he were mortal man, how did he go so quickly hence, and how did he give me such advice, which i, of all men, know at this time to be of value?' the king was sorely puzzled; and called the warden of the church to him, and questioned him as to the man whom he had seen. "and when the warden had heard the tale from the king, he questioned him in turn, as to the man's appearance--whether he was this and that; and of the man's manner of speech. and when the king had answered to his satisfaction, he turned pale; and said: 'oh, king, the personage whom you saw to-day was not mortal man; but one dead long ago; one who lived and died close here; and known to many of us well. he has been known to come before in times of great stress; and his advice has always been good. truly, my lord, you have this day seen an apparition of a dead man.' "and the king marvelled at what he had seen." thus ends the curious old narrative. it will be seen that several others saw the ghost besides the king. these are called "collective cases" by those engaged in psychical studies; for the reason that several persons saw the figure at the same time, or "collectively." such cases have never been satisfactorily explained. for, if the phantom were a mere hallucination, as many claim, how did several see it at once? the stains of blood the following narrative was personally related to robert dale owen, by a clergyman of the church of england, who was chaplain, at the time, to the british legation in florence. it is as follows: "in the year , i was staying with my wife and children, at a favorite watering place. in order to attend to some affairs of my own, i determined to leave my family there for three or four days. accordingly, on the th of august, i took the railway, and arrived that evening an unexpected guest at the hall--the residence of a gentleman whose acquaintance i had recently made, and with whom my sister was then staying. "i arrived late, soon afterwards went to bed, and before long fell asleep. awaking after three or four hours, i was not surprised to find that i could sleep no more--for i never rest well in a strange bed. after trying, therefore, in vain to induce sleep, i began to arrange my plans for the day. i had been engaged some little time in this way, when i became suddenly sensitive to the fact that there was a light in the room. turning round, i distinctly perceived a female figure; and what attracted my special attention was that the light by which i saw it emanated from itself. i watched the figure attentively. the features were not perceptible. after moving a little distance, it disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared. "my first thoughts were that there was some trick. i immediately got out of bed, struck a light, and found my bedroom door still locked. i then carefully examined the walls, to ascertain if there was any other concealed means of entrance or exit, but none could i find. i drew the curtains and opened the shutters, but all outside was silent and dark, there being no moonlight. after examining the room in every part, i went back to bed, and began thinking calmly over the whole matter. what had i seen? and why did _it appear_? "in the morning, as soon as i was up and dressed, i told my sister what i had seen. she then informed me that the house had the reputation of being 'haunted'; and that a murder had been committed in it; but not in the room in which i had slept. later in the day i left--after making my sister promise to do all she could to unravel the mystery. "on the following wednesday morning, i received a letter from my sister, in which she informed me that, since i left, she had made inquiries and had ascertained that the murder _was_ committed in the very room in which i slept! she added that she proposed visiting us the next day, and that she would like me to write out an account of what i had seen--together with a plan of the room, and that on that plan she wished me to mark the place of the appearance and disappearance of the figure. "this i immediately did; and the next day when my sister arrived, she asked me if i had complied with her request? i replied, pointing to the drawing room table: 'yes, there is the account and the plan.' "as she rose to examine it, i prevented her, saying: 'do not look at it until you have told me all you have to say, because you might unintentionally color your story by what you may read there.' "thereupon she informed me that she had had the carpet taken up in the room i had occupied, and that the marks of blood from the murdered person were there, plainly visible, on a particular part of the floor. at my request she also then drew a plan of the room, and marked upon it the spots which still bore traces of blood. the two plans--my sister's and mine--were now compared; and we verified the most remarkable fact that _the place she had marked as the beginning and ending of the traces of blood coincided exactly with the spots marked on my plan as those on which the female figure had appeared and disappeared_!" face to face! the following case is recorded by the wife of colonel lewin, and is reported in the _proceedings_ of the s. p. r.: "in january, , i took a house close to hastings.... one night there was a heavy storm, the weather was bitterly cold, and a fire was burning in my bedroom when i went to bed at . . i tried to go to sleep, but it was no use; the noise of the wind and the rain kept me awake. i must have been lying like this for a couple of hours when i became conscious of what seemed like a light in the room.... i thought the fire must have re-kindled itself, and crawled along on my knees on the bed to look at the fire over the high wooden foot, to see how this might be. i had no thought of anything but the fire, and was not nervous in the slightest degree. as i raised myself on my knees and looked over the foot of the bed, i found myself face to face, at a distance of about three feet, with the semblance of a man. i never for a moment thought he was a man, but was struck with the feeling that this was one from the dead. "the light seemed to emanate from round this figure, but the only portions which i saw clearly were the head and shoulders. the face i shall never forget; it was pale, emaciated, with a thin, high-bridged nose, and eyes deeply sunk and glowing in the sockets with a sort of glare. a long beard was seemingly rolled in under a white comforter, and on the head was a slouched felt hat. i had a nervous shock, and felt a dead person was looking upon _me_--a living one, but had no sensation of being actually frightened, until the figure moved slowly as if interposing between me and the door, then horror overcame me and i fell back in a dead faint. how long i remained unconscious i know not, but i came to myself cold and cramped; the room was quite dark and nothing was visible. thoroughly tired out, i got into bed, and slept soundly until morning." julia, darling! the next example is from the _proceedings_ of the s. p. r. (vol. v., pp. - ), and mr. myers states that the writer was well known to him. the account reads in part: "my mother died on the th of june, , at slima, malta, where we were then residing for her health. seven nights later she appeared to me.... i seemed to have been sleeping some time when i woke, and, turning over on the other side towards the window, saw my mother standing by my bedside, crying and wringing her hands. i had not been awake long enough to remember that she was dead, and exclaimed quite naturally, 'why, dear, what's the matter?' and then suddenly remembering, i screamed. the nurse sprang up from the next room, but on the top step flung herself on her knees and began to tell her beads and cry. my father at the same moment arrived at the opposite door, and i heard his sudden exclamation of 'julia, darling.' my mother turned towards him, and then to me, and, wringing her hands again, retreated towards the nursery and was lost. the nurse afterwards stated that she distinctly felt something pass her.... my father ordered her out of the room, and telling me that i had only been dreaming, stayed until i fell asleep. the next day, however, he told me that he, too, had seen the vision, and that he hoped to do so again, and that if ever she came to see me ... i was not to be frightened ... but she never appeared again." the cut across the cheek in the narrative which follows, the apparition conveyed--by its very appearance--information which the percipient could not possibly have known. it is from mr. h. walton, of dent, sedburgh, england, and was sent to mr. stead, who published it: "in the month of april, , i was located in norfolk, and my duties took me once a fortnight to a fishing village on the coast--so i can guarantee the following facts: it is customary for the fishing smacks to go to grimsby 'line fishing' in the spring. the vessels started one afternoon on their journey north. in the evening, a heavy north-east wind blew, and one of the boats mistook the white surf on the rocks for the reflection of a lighthouse. in consequence the boat got into shallow water, a heavy sea came, and swept two men from the deck. one man grasped a rope and was saved; the other, a younger man, failed to save himself, though an expert swimmer. it was said that he was heard to shout about o'clock. "towards one o'clock, the young man's mother, lying awake, saw his apparition come to the foot of the bed, clad in white, and she screamed with fright, and told her husband what she had seen, and that j. was drowned. he sought in vain to calm her by saying that she must have been dreaming. she asserted the contrary. next day, when her daughter came in with the telegram of the sad event, before her daughter had time to speak, she cried out: 'j. is drowned,' and became unconscious; she remained in this state for many hours. when she regained consciousness, she told them particularly and distinctly what she had seen; and what is to the point is this remarkable thing: she said: 'if ever the body is found, it has a cut across the cheek,'--specifying which cheek. the body was found some days after, and exactly as mother had seen it, was the cut on the cheek." the invisible hand the following account was sent to the s. p. r. ghosts are usually _seen_; they are sometimes heard; they are very rarely _felt_. the account which follows is an example of the latter class, in which the ghost was not only seen but touched. after stating that she was visiting a friend of hers in the country, when the event occurred, the narrator proceeds: "we went upstairs together, i being perhaps a couple of steps behind my friend, when, on reaching the topmost step, i felt something suddenly slip behind me from an unoccupied room on the left of the stairs. thinking it must be imagination, no one being in the house except the widow and servant, who occupied rooms on another landing, i did not speak to my friend, who turned off to a room on the right, but walked quickly into my room, which faced the staircase, still feeling as though a tall figure was bending over me. i turned on the gas, struck a light, and was in the act of applying it, when i felt a heavy grasp on my arm of a hand, minus the middle finger. upon this i uttered a loud cry, which brought my friend, the widow lady, and the servant girl, into the room to inquire the cause of my alarm. the two latter turned very pale on hearing the story. the house was thoroughly searched, but nothing was discovered. "some weeks passed, and i had ceased to be alarmed at the occurrence, when i chanced to mention it whilst spending the afternoon with some friends. a gentleman asked me if i had ever heard a description or seen a 'carte' of the lady's late husband. on receiving a reply in the negative, he said, singularly enough, he was tall, had a slight stoop, and has lost the middle finger on his hand! on my return, i inquired of the servant, who had been in the family from childhood, if such were the case, and learned that it was quite correct, and that she (the girl) had once, when sleeping in the same room, awakened on feeling some one pressing down her knees, and on opening her eyes saw her late master by the bed side--on which she fainted, and had never dared to enter the room after dark since. she is not an imaginative girl; nor am i. when i was grasped, however, _i_ did not _see_ anything. "but worse was to follow! it so chanced that i had to sleep in that room once again, as the house was full of company, and there was nowhere else for me to go. i had by this time got over my fears, and hardly minded the idea of sleeping in the room at all. i left the room door open, turned out the light and was soon sound asleep. "some time in the early hours of the morning i awoke with an indescribable feeling. i was _suddenly_ wide awake--without the slightest traces of sleep; yet i did not know _how_ i awoke; and had not any recollection of waking. but there i was wide awake, and staring up at the ceiling with wide-open eyes. my right hand was hanging over the side of the bed; so that it fell outwards, into the room. imagine my horror, then, in feeling a hand suddenly grasp my hand, and i felt distinctly that it was _minus the middle finger_. the hand was icy cold, and of a peculiar hardness. i hung on to the hand, however, determined to go to the bottom of the affair. i gripped tightly; and still retained the hand in my grip. bending over, i stretched out my left hand, and, with the fingers of that hand, felt over the hand and wrist i was holding. i then commenced to trace it up the arm. i had about reached the elbow--or a little below--when the arm suddenly ended--came to nothing; was no more! yet the hand in mine was as solid as ever. this gave me such a shock that i let go the hand i was holding, and sank back onto my pillows. then terror took possession of me; and i do not know what happened later. i only know that i had brain fever, which laid me low for several weeks. the occurrence has never been explained." the apparition of the radiant boy the following is a famous case, well-known as the "apparition of the radiant boy." it was seen by the marquis of londonderry, and frequently spoken of by him afterwards. at the time of the appearance, lord londonderry was on a visit to a friend in the north of ireland. the apartment assigned to him was one calculated to foster the belief in ghosts, because of its richly carved paneling--its huge fireplace, looking like the open entrance into a tomb--and the vast, ponderous draperies that hung in thick folds around the room. lord londonderry examined his chamber; he made himself acquainted with the forms and faces of the ancient possessors of the mansion, whose portraits hung around the room. then, after dismissing his valet, he retired to bed. his candles had not long been extinguished when he perceived a light gleaming on the draperies of the lofty canopies over his head. conscious that there was no fire in the grate--that the curtains were closed--that the chamber had been in perfect darkness but a few minutes before, he supposed that some intruder must have accidentally entered his apartment; and, turning hastily around to the side from which the light proceeded, saw, to his infinite astonishment, not the form of a human visitor, but the figure of a fair boy, who seemed to be garmented in rays of mild and tempered glory, which beamed palely from his slender form, like the faint light of the declining moon and rendered the objects nearest to him dimly and indistinctly visible. the spirit stood but a short distance from the side of the bed. certain that his own faculties were not deceiving him, lord londonderry got up and moved towards the figure. it retreated before him; as he slowly advanced, and with equal pace, slowly retired. it entered the gloomy arch of the capacious chimney, and then sank into the earth. lord londonderry returned to his bed, but not to rest; his mind was harassed by the consideration of the extraordinary event which had occurred to him. was it real? was it the work of imagination? was it the result of imposture? it was all incomprehensible. he resolved in the morning not to mention the appearance till he should have well observed the manners and countenances of the family; he was conscious that, if any deception had been practised, its authors would be too delighted with their success to conceal the vanity of their triumph. when the guests assembled at the breakfast table, the eye of lord londonderry searched in vain for latent smiles--those conscious looks--that silent communication between the parties, by which the authors of such domestic conspiracies are generally betrayed. everything, apparently, proceeded in its ordinary course. at last the hero of the tale felt bound to mention the occurrence of the night. at its conclusion, his host said: "the circumstances which you have just recounted appear very extraordinary to those who have not long been inmates of my dwelling; and are not conversant with the legends of my family; and to those who are, the event which has happened will only serve as the corroboration of an old tradition that has long been related of the apartment in which you slept. you have seen the 'radiant boy'; be content--it is an omen of prosperous fortunes. i would rather that this subject should not be mentioned." and here the affair ended. fisher's ghost the following incident comes from australia, and is well-known in that part of the world. it is usually known as "fisher's ghost," and is to the following effect: "a number of years ago, a free settler, named john fisher, who had long successfully cultivated a grant of land in a remote district, and who was known to be possessed of a considerable sum of money, had been missing for some time after having visited the nearest market town, whither he had been in the habit of repairing with cattle and produce for sale. "an inquiry was instituted by his acquaintances; but his head servant, or rather his assistant on the farm--an ex-convict, who had lived many years with him in that situation--declared that his master had left the colony for some time on business, and that he expected him to return in a few months. as this man was generally known as fisher's confidential servant, his assertion was believed--though some expressed surprise at the settler's abrupt and clandestine departure; for his character was good in every way. the 'month's wonder' soon subsided, however, and fisher was forgotten. his assistant, meanwhile, managed the farm, bought and sold, and spent money freely. if questioned, which was but rarely, he would express his surprise at his master's delay, and pretend to expect him daily. "a few months after he had been first missed, a neighbouring settler, who was returning late on saturday night from the market town, had occasion to pass within half a mile of fisher's house. as he was riding by the fence which separated the farm from the high road, he distinctly saw the figure of a man seated on the railing, and at once recognized the form and features of his lost neighbor. "he instantly stopped and called to him by name; but the figure descended from the railing, and pointing appealingly toward the house, walked slowly across the field in that direction. the settler, having lost sight of him in the gloom, proceeded on his journey, and informed his family and neighbors that he had seen fisher and spoken to him. on inquiry, however, fisher's assistant said that he had not arrived, and affected to laugh at the settler's story--insinuating that he had probably drunk too freely at the market. "the neighbors were, however, not satisfied. the strange appearance of fisher, sitting on the rail and pointing, with so much meaning, toward his own house aroused their suspicions, and they insisted upon a strict and immediate investigation by the police. "the party of investigators took with them an old and clever native. they had not proceeded far in the underbrush when they discovered a log, on which was a dark brown stain. this the native examined, and at once declared it to be '_white man's blood_.' he then, without hesitation, set off at a full run, toward a pond not far from the house. "he ran backwards and forwards about the pond, like a dog on the scent; and finally, borrowing a ram-rod from one of the settlers, ran it into the earth. he did this in one or two places; and finally said: '_white man here._' "the spot was immediately dug up, and a corpse, identified as that of fisher, was discovered, its skull fractured, and evidently many weeks buried. "the guilty assistant was immediately arrested, and tried at sydney, on circumstantial evidence alone--strong enough, however, to convict him, in spite of his self-possession, and protestations of innocence. he was sentenced to death; and, previous to his execution, made an ample confession of his guilt." harriet hosmer's vision lydia maria child relates the following interesting narrative: "when harriet hosmer, the sculptor, visited her native country a few years ago, i had an interview with her, during which our conversation happened to turn on dreams and visions. "'i have had some experience in that way,' said she. 'let me tell you a singular circumstance that happened to me in rome. an italian girl named rosa was in my employ for a long time, but was finally obliged to return to her mother on account of confirmed ill-health. we were mutually sorry to part, for we liked each other. when i took my customary exercise on horseback, i frequently called to see her. on one of these occasions, i found her brighter than i had seen her for some time past. i had long relinquished hopes of her recovery, but there was nothing in her appearance that gave the appearance of immediate danger. i left her with the expectation of calling to see her again many times. during the remainder of the day, i was busy in my studio, and i do not recollect that rosa was in my thoughts after i had parted from her. i retired to rest in good health, and in a quiet frame of mind. but i woke from a sound sleep with the oppressive feeling that someone was in the room. i wondered at the sensation, for it was entirely new to me; but in vain i tried to dispel it. i peered beyond the curtains of my bed but could distinguish no objects in the darkness. trying to gather my thoughts i reflected that the door was locked, and that i had put the key under my bolster. i felt for it and found it where i had placed it. i said to myself that i had probably had some ugly dream, and had waked with a vague impression of it still on my mind. reasoning thus, i arranged myself comfortably for another nap. "'i am habitually a good sleeper and a stranger to fear, but do what i would, the idea still haunted me that someone was in the room. finding it impossible to sleep, i longed for daylight to dawn, that i might rise and pursue my customary avocation. it was not long before i was able dimly to distinguish the furniture in my room, and, soon after, to hear familiar noises of servants opening windows and doors. an old clock with ringing vibration, proclaimed the hour. i counted one, two, three, four, five, and resolved to rise immediately. my bed was partially screened by a long curtain looped up at one side. as i raised my head from the pillow, rosa looked inside the curtain, and smiled at me. the idea of anything supernatural did not occur to me. i was simply surprised and exclaimed: "why, rosa! how came you here when you are so ill?" "'in the old familiar tone to which i was so much accustomed, a voice replied, "i am well now." "'with no other thought but that of greeting her joyfully, i sprang out of bed. there was no rosa there! when i became convinced that there was no one in the room but myself, i recollected the fact that my door was locked, and thought i must have seen a vision. "'at the breakfast table, i said to the old lady with whom i boarded: "rosa is dead." i then summoned a messenger and sent him to inquire how rosa was. he returned with the answer that she died that morning at o'clock.' "i wrote the story as miss hosmer told it to me, and after i had shown it to her, i asked her if she had any objection to its being published without suppression of names. she replied: 'you have reported the story of rosa correctly. make what use you please of it. you cannot think it more interesting or unaccountable than i do myself.'" the apparition of the murdered boy at the commencement of the french revolution, lady pennyman and her two daughters and her friend, mrs. atkins, retired to lisle, where they had hired a large and handsome house. a few weeks after taking possession, the housekeeper, with many apologies for being obliged to mention anything that might appear so idle and absurd, came to the apartment in which her mistress was sitting, and said that two of the servants who had accompanied her ladyship from england had that morning given warning, and expressed a determination of quitting her ladyship's service, on account of the mysterious noises by which they had been night after night disturbed and terrified. the room from which the sounds were supposed to have proceeded was at a distance from lady pennyman's apartments, and immediately over those that were occupied by the servants. to quiet the alarm lady pennyman resolved on leaving her own chamber for a time and establishing herself in the one which had been lately occupied by the domestics. the room above was a long, spacious one, which appeared to have been for a long time deserted. in the center of the chamber was a large iron cage. it was said that the late proprietor of the house--a young man of enormous wealth--had in his minority been confined in this cage by his uncle and guardian and starved to death. on the first night or two of lady pennyman's being established in her new apartment, she met with no interruption. this quiet, however, was of very short duration. one night she was awakened from her sleep by a slow and heavy step pacing the chamber overhead. it continued to move backwards and forwards for nearly an hour. there were more complaints from the housekeeper, no servants would remain. lady pennyman began herself to be alarmed. she requested the advice of mrs. atkins--a woman devoid of every kind of superstitious fear, and of tried courage. mrs. atkins determined to make the cage room itself her sleeping quarters. a bed was accordingly placed in the apartment, and mrs. atkins retired to rest attended by her favorite spaniel--saying, as she bade them all good-night, "i and my dog are able to compete with a myriad of ghosts." mrs. atkins examined the chamber in every imaginable direction; she sounded every panel of the wainscot to prove there was no hollowness that might argue a concealed passage; and having securely bolted the door of the room, retired to rest, confident that she was secure against every material visitor, and totally incredulous of the airy encroachments of spiritual beings. she had only been asleep a few minutes, when her dog, which lay by her bedside, leaped, howling and terrified, on the bed. the bolted door of the chamber slowly opened and a pale, thin, sickly youth came in, cast his eyes mildly toward her, walked up to the iron cage in the middle of the room, and then leaned in the melancholy attitude of one revolving in his mind the sorrows of a cheerless and unblest existence. after a while he again withdrew, and retired by the way he entered. mrs. atkins, on witnessing his departure, felt the return of her resolution. she persuaded herself to believe the figure the work of some skillful imposter, and she determined on following its footsteps. she took up her lamp and hastened to the door. to her infinite surprise, she discovered it to be fastened, as she had herself left it on retiring to bed. on withdrawing the bolt, and opening the door, she saw the back of the youth descending the staircase. she followed till, on reaching the foot of the stairs, the form seemed to sink into the earth. the event was related to lady pennyman. she determined to remain no longer in her present habitation. another residence was offered in the vicinity of lisle, and this she took under the pretext that it was better suited to the size of her family. the ghost in yellow calico the rev. elwyn thomas, , park village east, n. w., london, has published a very remarkable experience of his own. it is as follows: "twelve years ago," says the doctor, "i was the second minister of the bryn mawr welsh wesleyan circuit, in the south wales district. it was a beautiful evening in june when, after conducting the service at llanyndir, i told the gentlemen with whom i generally stayed when preaching there, that three young friends had come to meet me from crickhowell, and that i meant to accompany them back for about half a mile on their return journey, so would not be home before nine o'clock. "when i wished good-night to my friends it was about twenty minutes to nine but still light enough to see a good distance. the subject of our conversation all the way from the chapel until we parted was of a certain eccentric old character who then belonged to the crickhowell church. i walked a little further down the road than i intended in order to hear the end of a very amusing story about him. our conversation had no reference whatever to ghosts. personally i was a strong disbeliever in ghosts and invariably ridiculed anyone whom i thought superstitious enough to believe in them. "when i had walked about a hundred yards away from my friends, after parting from them, i saw on the bank of the canal, what i thought at the moment was an old beggar. i couldn't help asking myself where this old man had come from. i had not seen him in going down the road. i turned round quite unconcernedly to have another look at him, and had no sooner done so than i saw, within half a yard of me one of the most remarkable and startling sights i hope it will ever be my lot to see. almost on a level with my own face, i saw that of an old man, over every feature of which the putty colored skin was drawn tightly, except the forehead which was lined with deep wrinkles. the lips were extremely thin and appeared perfectly bloodless. the toothless mouth stood half open. the cheeks were hollow and sunken like those of a corpse, and the eyes which seemed far back in the middle of the head, were unnaturally luminous and piercing. the terrible object was wrapped in two bands of old yellow calico, one of which was drawn under the chin, and over the cheeks and tied at the top of the head, the other was drawn round the top of the wrinkled forehead and fastened at the back of the head. so deep and indelible an impression it made on my mind, that, were i an artist, i could paint that face to-day. "what i have thus tried to describe in many words, i saw at a glance. acting on the impulse of the moment, i turned my face toward the village and ran away from the horrible vision with all my might for about sixty yards. i then stopped and turned around to see how far i had distanced it, and to my unspeakable horror, there it was still face to face with me as if i had not moved an inch. i grasped my umbrella and raised it to strike him, and you can imagine my feelings when i could see nothing between the face and the ground, except an irregular column of intense darkness, through which my umbrella passed as a stick goes through water! "i am sorry to say that i took to my heels with increasing speed. a little further than the space of this second encounter, the road which led to my host's house branched off the main road. having gone two or three yards down this branch road, i turned around again. he had not followed me after i left the main road, but i could see the horribly fascinating face quite as plainly as when it was close by. it stood for a few minutes looking intently at me from the center of the main road. i then realized fully that it was not a human being in flesh and blood; and, with every vestige of fear gone, i quickly walked toward it to put my questions. but i was disappointed, for, no sooner had i made toward it, than it began to move slowly down the road keeping the same distance above it until it reached the churchyard wall; it then crossed the road and disappeared near where the yew tree stood inside. the moment it disappeared, i became unconscious. two hours later i came to myself and i made my way slowly to my home. i could not say a word to explain what had happened, though i tried several times. it was five o'clock in the morning when i regained my power of speech. the whole of the following week i was laid up with a nervous prostration. "my host, after questioning me closely, told me that fifteen years before that time an old recluse of eccentric character, answering in every detail to my description (yellow calicoes, bands, and all) lived in a house whose ruins still stand close by where i saw the face disappear." chapter iii more phantasms of the dead--ii. the cases included in this chapter are also very well authenticated--some of them being longer and more detailed than those included in the last chapter. i shall begin with a group of so-called "pact" cases--cases, that is, in which a pact or agreement was made before death--to appear after death, if possible; when that promise seems to have been kept. the first case of this character is short, and merely illustrative of the kind of ghostly phenomena to be expected in cases of this nature. the latter cases are better attested. i give first the case of the marquis of rambouillet. compacts to appear after death the story of the marquis of rambouillet's appearing after his death to his cousin, the marquis de precy, is well authenticated. these two noblemen, talking one day concerning the affairs of the next world, in a manner which showed they did not believe much about it, entered into an agreement that the first who died should come and give intelligence to the other. soon afterwards the marquis of rambouillet set out for flanders, which was then the seat of war, and the marquis de precy remained in paris, being ill of a violent fever. about six weeks after, early one morning, he heard someone draw the curtains of his bed, and turning to see who it was, discovered the marquis of rambouillet in a buff coat and boots. he instantly got out of bed, and attempted to shake hands with his friend, but rambouillet drew back, and told him he had only come to perform the promise he had formerly made; that nothing was more certain than another life; and that he earnestly advised him to alter his mode of life, for in the first battle he would be engaged in, he would certainly fall. precy made a fresh attempt to touch his friend, but he immediately withdrew. precy lay upon his bed wondering upon the strangeness of the circumstances for some time, when he saw the same appearance re-enter the apartment. rambouillet, finding that precy still disbelieved what he was told, showed him the wound of which he had died, and from which the blood still seemed to flow. soon after this, precy received a confirmation of rambouillet's death, and was killed himself, according to the prediction, in the civil wars, at the battle of faubourg st. antoine. lord brougham's vision the promise to appear was given and kept in the case of the apparition seen by lord brougham. the story is given as follows in the first volume of "lord brougham's memoirs": "a most remarkable thing happened to me, so remarkable that i must tell the story from the beginning. after i left the high school i went with g----, my most intimate friend, to attend the classes in the university. there was no divinity class, but we frequently in our walks discussed many grave subjects--among others the immortality of the soul and a future state. this question, and the possibility of the dead appearing to the living, were the subject of much speculation, and we actually committed the folly of drawing up an agreement, written with our blood, to the effect that whichever of us died the first should appear to the other, and thus solve any doubts we had entertained of the 'life after death.' after we had finished our classes at the college, g---- went to india, having got an appointment there in the civil service. he seldom wrote to me, and after a lapse of a few years i had nearly forgotten his existence.... one day i had taken, as i have said, a warm bath, and, while lying in it and enjoying the comfort of the heat, i turned my head round, looking towards the chair on which i had deposited my clothes, as i was about to get out of the bath. on the chair sat g----, looking calmly at me! how i got out of the bath i know not; but on recovering my senses, i found myself sprawling on the floor. the apparition, or whatever it was that had taken the likeness of g----, had disappeared. this vision had produced such a shock that i had no inclination to talk about it, or to speak about it even to stewart, but the impression it made upon me was too vivid to be easily forgotten, and so strongly was i affected by it that i have here written down the whole history, with the date, december th, and all the particulars, as they are now fresh before me. no doubt i had fallen asleep, and that the apparition presented so distinctly before my eyes was a dream i cannot for a moment doubt; yet for years i had had no communication with g----, nor had there been anything to recall him to my recollection. nothing had taken place concerning our swedish travels connected with g----, or with india, or with anything relating to him, or to any member of his family. i recollected quickly enough our old discussion, and the bargain we had made. i could not discharge from my mind the impression that g---- must have died, and that his appearance to me was to be received by me as a proof of a future state. this was on december th, ." in october, , lord brougham added as a postscript: "i have just been copying out from my journal the account of this strange dream. _certissima mortis imago!_ and now to finish the story begun about sixty years ago: soon after my return to edinborough there arrived a letter from india announcing g----'s death, and stating that he died on december th." lord brougham attempts to account for this vision by stating that it was probably a dream. but this is negatived by the fact that he was so startled by it as to scramble out of the bath in a great hurry--which would not be at all likely had it been a dream--for, as we know, nothing surprises us in dreams, or seems unlikely. and even granting that it were a dream, we still have the _coincidence_ to account for. _why_ should lord brougham have dreamed this particular dream at the very moment his friend died? that fact has yet to be accounted for. the tyrone ghost this is also known as the beresford ghost, and is one of the most famous cases of its kind on record. the account, as herein given, is that supplied by the granddaughter of lady beresford, to whom the experience came; and hence may be considered as accurate as it can be made. it furnishes us with a definite example of a "ghost that touches," and leaves a permanent mark of its visit, ever afterwards. here is the account: "in the month of october, , sir tristram and lady beresford went on a visit to her sister, lady macgill, at gill hall, now the seat of lord clanwilliam.... one morning sir tristram arose early, leaving lady beresford asleep, and went out for a walk before breakfast. when his wife joined the table very late, her appearance and the embarrassment of her manner attracted general attention, especially that of her husband. he made anxious inquiries as to her health, and asked her apart what had happened to her wrist, which was tied up with black ribbon tightly bound round it. she earnestly entreated him not to inquire more then, or thereafter, as to the cause of her wearing or continuing afterwards to wear that ribbon; 'for,' she added, 'you will never see me without it.' he replied: 'since you urge it so vehemently, i promise you not to inquire more about it.' "after completing her hurried breakfast, she made inquiries as to whether the post had yet arrived. it had not yet come in, and sir tristram asked: 'why are you so particularly eager about letters to-day?' 'because i expect to hear of lord tyrone's death, which took place on tuesday.' 'well,' remarked sir tristram, 'i never put you down for a superstitious person, but i suppose that some idle dream has disturbed you.' shortly after, the servant brought in the letters; one was sealed with black wax. 'it is as i expected,' she cried, 'he is dead.' the letter was from lord tyrone's steward to inform them that his master had died in dublin, on tuesday, october, at p.m. sir tristram endeavored to console her, and begged her to restrain her grief, when she assured him that she felt relieved and easier, now that she knew the actual fact. she added, 'i can now give you a most satisfactory piece of intelligence, _viz._, that i am with child, and that it will be a boy.' a son was born the following july. "on her forty-seventh birthday, lady beresford summoned her children to her side, and said to them: 'i have something of deep importance to communicate to you, my dear children, before i die. you are no strangers to the intimacy and affection which subsisted in early life between lord tyrone and myself.... we had made a solemn promise to one another, that whichever died first should, if permitted, appear to the other.... one night, years after this interchange of promises, i was sleeping with your father at gill hall, when i suddenly awoke and discovered lord tyrone sitting visibly by the side of the bed. i screamed out and vainly tried to arouse sir tristram. "tell me," i said, "lord tyrone, why and wherefore are you here at this time of the night?" "have you then forgotten our promises to each other, pledged in early life? i died on tuesday, at o'clock. i have been permitted thus to appear.... i am also suffered to inform you that you are with child, and will produce a son, who will marry an heiress; that sir tristram will not live long, that you will marry again, and you will die in your forty-seventh year." i begged from him some convincing sign or proof so that when the morning came i might rely upon it, and that it was not the phantom of my imagination. he caused the hangings of the bed to be drawn in an unusual way and impossible manner through an iron hook. i still was not satisfied, when he wrote his signature in my pocketbook. i wanted, however, more substantial proof of his visit, when he laid his hand, which was cold as marble, on my wrist; the sinews shrunk up, the nerves withered at the touch. "now," he said, "let no mortal eye while you live ever see that wrist," and vanished. while i was conversing with him my thoughts were calm, but as soon as he disappeared i felt chilled with horror and dismay, a cold sweat came over me, and i again endeavored, but vainly, to awaken sir tristram; a flood of tears came to my relief, and i fell asleep....' "that year lady beresford died. on her deathbed, lady riverson unbound the black ribbon and found the wrist exactly as lady beresford had described it--every nerve withered, every sinew shrunk...." "dead or alive" in the following case the ghost kept its promise to appear--doing so, to all appearances, in spite of great obstacles. the incident is reported in mr. w. t. stead's _real ghost stories_, pp. - : "the following incident occurred to me some years ago, and all the details can be substantiated. the date was august , , at midnight. i was then residing in the neighborhood of hull, and held an appointment under the crown which necessitated my repairing thither every day for a few hours duty. my berth was almost a sinecure; and i had for some time been engaged to a young north country heiress, it being understood that on our marriage i should take her name and 'stand for the county' or rather for one of its divisions. "for her sake i had to break off a love affair, not of the most reputable order, with a girl in hull. i will call her louise. she was young, beautiful, and devoted to me. on the night of the th of august we took our last walk together, and a few minutes before midnight paused on a wooden bridge running across a kind of canal, locally termed a 'drain.' we paused on the bridge, listening to the swirling of the current against the wooden piles, and waiting for the stroke of midnight to part forever. in the few minutes interval she repeated _sotto voce_, longfellow's 'bridge,' the words of which, 'i stood on the bridge at midnight,' seemed terribly appropriate. after nearly twenty-five years i can never hear that piece recited without feeling a deadly chill, and the whole scene of two souls in agony again rising before me. well! midnight struck and we parted; but louise said: 'grant me one favor, the only one that i shall ever ask you on this earth; promise to meet me here twelve months from to-night at this same hour.' i demurred at first, thinking it would be bad for both of us, and only re-open partially-healed wounds. at last, however, i consented, saying, 'well, i will come if i am alive.' but she said, 'say alive or dead.' i said, 'very well, then, we will meet, dead or alive.' "the next year i was on the spot a few minutes before the time; and, punctual to the stroke of midnight, louise arrived. by this time i had begun to regret the arrangement i had made; but it was of too solemn a nature to put aside. i therefore kept the appointment; but said that i did not care to renew the compact. louise, however, persuaded me to renew it for one more year; and i consented, much against my will; and we again left each other, repeating the same formula, 'dead or alive.' "the next year after passed rapidly until the first week in july, when i was shot dangerously in the thigh by a fisherman named thomas piles, of hull, a reputed smuggler. a party of four of us had hired his ten-ton yawl to go yachting round the yorkshire coast, and amuse ourselves by shooting sea-birds amongst the millions of them at flamborough head. the third or fourth day out i was shot in the right thigh by the skipper piles; and the day after, one and a quarter ounce of number shot were cut out therefrom by the coastguard surgeon at bridlington quay (whose name i forget for the moment), assisted by dr. alexander mackey, at the black lion hotel. the affair was in all the papers at the time, about a column of it appearing in the _eastern morning news_, of hull. "as soon as i was able to be removed (two or three weeks) i was taken home, where dr. melburne king, of hull, attended me. the day--and the night--(the th of august) came. i was then unable to walk without crutches, and that for only a short distance, so had to be wheeled about in a bath chair. the distance to the trysting place being rather long, and the time and the circumstances being very peculiar, i did not avail myself of the services of my usual attendant, but specially retained an old servant of the family, who frequently did confidential commissions for me, and who knew miss louise well. we set forth 'without beat of drum' and arrived at the bridge about a few minutes to midnight. i remember that it was a brilliant starlight night, but i do not think that there was any moon--at all events, at that hour. 'old bob,' as he was always affectionately called, wheeled me to the bridge, helped me out of the bath chair, and gave me my crutch. i walked on to the bridge, and leaned my back against the white painted rail top, then lighted my briar-root, and had a comfortable smoke. "i was very much annoyed that i had allowed myself to be persuaded to come a second time, and determined to tell louise positively that this should be our last meeting. besides, _now_, i did not consider it fair to miss k., with whom i was again 'negotiating.' so, if anything, it was in rather a sulky frame of mind that i awaited louise. just as the quarters before the hour began to chime i distinctly heard the 'clink, clink' of the little brass heels, which she always wore, sounding on the long flagged causeway, leading for yards up to the bridge. as she got nearer, i could see her pass lamp after lamp in rapid succession, while the strokes of the large clock at hull resounded through the stilly night. "at last the patter, patter of the tiny feet sounded on the woodwork of the bridge, and i saw her distinctly pass under the lamp at my side. when she got close to me i saw that she had neither hat nor cape on, and concluded that she had taken a cab at the further end of the flagged causeway, and (it being a very warm night) had left her wraps in the cab, and, for purposes of effect, had come the short distance in evening dress. "'clink, clink,' went the brass heels, and she seemed about passing me, when i suddenly, urged by an impulse of affection, stretched out my arms to receive her. she passed _through_ them, intangible, impalpable, and as she looked at me i distinctly saw her lips move, and form the words 'dead or alive.' i even heard the words, but not with my outward ears, with something else, some other sense--what, i know not. i felt startled, surprised, but not afraid, until a moment afterwards, when i _felt_, but could not see, some other presence following her. i could _feel_, though i could not _hear_, the heavy, clumsy thud of feet following her; and my blood seemed turned to ice. recovering myself with an effort, i shouted out to old bob, who was safely ensconsed with the bath chair in a nook out of sight round the corner: 'bob, who passed you just now?' in an instant the old yorkshire-man was by my side. 'ne'er a one passed me, sir.' 'nonsense, bob,' i replied, 'i told you that i was coming to meet miss louise, and she just passed me on the bridge, and _must_ have passed you, because there is no where else she _could_ go. you don't mean to tell me you didn't see her?' the old man replied solemnly: 'maister rob, there's something uncanny about it. i heered her come on the bridge, and off it, and i knaw them clickety heels onywhere! but i'm domned, sir, if she passed me! i'm thinking we'd better gang.' and 'gang' we did; and it was the small hours of the morning (getting daylight) before we left off talking over the affair, and went to bed. "the next day i made inquiries from louise's family about her, and ascertained that she had died in liverpool three months previously, being apparently delirious for a few hours before her death, and, our parting compact evidently weighing on her mind, as she kept repeating, 'dead or alive--shall i be there?'--to the utter bewilderment of her friends, who could not divine her meaning--being, of course, entirely unaware of our agreement." * * * * * this completes the examples of the so-called "pact" cases. in the following example, the phantasmal form conveyed a piece of information to the percipient which he could not well have known by any normal means. the scratch on the cheek the case appeared in the _proceedings_ of the amer. s. p. r., and the high character of the witnesses was vouched for by dr. hodgson and prof. royce. it is to the following effect: "_january , ._ "sir: replying to your recently published request for actual occurrences of psychical phenomena, i respectively submit the following remarkable occurrence to the consideration of your distinguished society, with the assurance that the event made a more powerful impression upon my mind than the combined incidents of my whole life.... i was never in better health or possessed a clearer head and mind than at the time the incident occurred. "in , my only sister, a young lady of eighteen years, died suddenly of cholera, in st. louis, mo. my attachment for her was very strong, and the blow a severe one to me. a year or so after her death, i became a commercial traveller, and it was in , while on one of my western trips that the event occurred. "i had 'drummed' the city of st. joseph, mo., and had gone to my room at the pacific house to send in my orders, which were unusually large ones, so that i was in a very happy frame of mind indeed. my thoughts, of course, were about these orders, knowing how pleased my house would be at my success. i had not been thinking of my late sister, or in any manner reflecting on the past. the hour was high noon, and the sun was shining cheerfully into my room. while busy smoking a cigar, and writing out my orders, i suddenly became conscious that some one was sitting on my left, with one arm resting on the table. quick as a flash i turned, and distinctly saw the form of my dead sister, and for a brief second or two looked her squarely in the face; and so sure was i that it was she, that i sprang forward in delight, calling her by name, and, as i did so, the apparition instantly vanished. naturally i was startled and dumbfounded, almost doubting my senses; but the cigar in my mouth, and pen in hand, with the ink still moist on my letter, i satisfied myself i had not been dreaming and was still awake. i was near enough to touch her, had it been a physical possibility, and noted her features, expression, and details of dress, etc. she appeared as if alive. her eyes looked kindly and perfectly naturally into mine. her skin was so perfectly life-like that i could see the glow or moisture in the surface, and, on the whole there was no change in her appearance, otherwise than when alive. "now comes the most remarkable confirmation of my statement, which cannot be doubted by those who know what i state actually occurred. this visitation, or whatever you may call it, so impressed me that i took the next train home, and in the presence of my parents and others i related what had occurred. my father, a man of rare good sense and very practical, was inclined to ridicule me, as he saw how earnestly i believed what i stated; but he, too, was amazed when later on i told them of a bright red line or _scratch_ on the right-hand side of my sister's face, which i distinctly had seen. when i mentioned this my mother rose trembling to her feet and nearly fainted away, and as soon as she had sufficiently recovered her self-possession, with tears streaming down her face, she exclaimed that i had indeed seen my sister, as no living mortal but herself was aware of that scratch, which she had actually made while doing some little act of kindness after my sister's death. she said she well remembered how pained she was to think she should have, unintentionally, marred the features of her dead daughter, and that, unknown to all, she had carefully obliterated all traces of the slight scratch with the aid of powder, etc., and that she had never mentioned it to a human being, from that day to this.... yet i saw the scratch as bright as if just made...." [confirmatory statements were obtained from the narrator's father and brother; his mother having died in the interval.] a ghost in hampton court miss x. (mrs. hans spoer) relates the following interesting case, as occurring to herself, on a visit to the well-known hampton court. (_essays in psychical research_, pp. - ): "i recently found myself the guest of a lady occupying a pleasant suite of rooms in hampton court palace. for obvious reasons i cannot specify the name of my hostess, the exact date of my visit, or the precise whereabouts of her apartment. "of course i was familiar with the hampton court ghost legend.... i examined the scene of the occurrences, and was allowed to ask questions at will. the ghost, i was told, visited habitually in a dozen different rooms--not, however, in the bright, dainty drawing room in which we were chatting, and where it was difficult to believe that we were discussing recent history. "as a matter of fact, it was very recent, indeed. but a few nights earlier, in a certain small but cheerful bedroom, a little girl had been awakened out of her sleep by a visitant so dramatic that i wondered whether the child had possibly gone to sleep again, after her original fright, and dreamed the later and more sensational part of the story. "my room was quaintly pretty, but somewhat peculiar in arrangement, and lighted only from the roof. i have seen 'ghosts' before, have slept for months together in haunted houses; and, though i find such visitants somewhat exciting, i cannot say that my prospects for the night filled me with any degree of apprehension. "at dinner and during the evening ghostly topics were avoided; there were other guests, and music and chat occupied us till o'clock, when my hostess accompanied me to my room. i asked various questions as to my neighbours above and below, and the exact position of other members of the household, with a view to knowing how to interpret any sounds which might occur. about a third of the ceiling of my room was skylight; the servant's bedroom being situated over the remainder. two sides of the room were bounded by a corridor, into which it opened; a third of the wall by the state apartments, while the fourth opened by folding doors upon a room for the time unoccupied (except by a cat, asleep upon a chair) out of which there opened a door, leading by a secret passage to the bank of the river. "i ascertained that the folding doors were locked; moreover, a heavy table stood against them on the outer side, and a wardrobe on the inner. the bedstead was a small one, without curtains; indeed, the room contained no hangings whatever. the door into the room opened so nearly to the head of my bed that there was space only for a small table, upon which i took care to place two long candles, and a plentiful supply of matches, being somewhat addicted to late and early reading. "i was tired, but a sense of duty demanded that i should not sleep through the 'witching hours,' so i sat up in bed, and gave my best attention to lord farrer's problem, 'shall we degrade our standard of value?' in the current number of the _national review_, and, on the principle of always trying to see both sides of a question, thought of several reasons why we should not, with the author, come to a negative conclusion. the matter did not, however, excite me to the pitch of wakefulness; and when i finished the article, as the clock struck half-past one, i considered myself absolved from further responsibility, put out my lights, and was asleep before the next quarter sounded. "nearly three hours later i was suddenly awakened from dreamless slumber by the sound of the opening of a door against which some piece of furniture was standing, in, as it seemed, the empty room to my right. i remembered the cat, and tried to conceive by what kind of 'rampaging' she could contrive to be so noisy. a minute later there followed a thud apparently on _this_ side of the folding doors, and too heavy for even the prize animals of my home circle, not to speak of a mongrel stray, newly adopted and not yet doing credit to her keep! 'a dress fallen in the wardrobe,' was my next thought, and i stretched out my hand for the match-box, as a preliminary to enquiry. "i did not reach the matches. it seemed to me that a restraining hand was laid upon mine; i withdrew it quickly, and gazed around me in the darkness. some minutes passed in blackness and silence. i had the sensation of a presence in the room, and finally, mindful of the tradition that a ghost should be spoken to, i said gently: 'is anyone there? can i do anything for you?' i remembered that the last person who entertained the ghost had said: 'go away, i don't want you!' and i hoped that my visitor would admire my better manners and be responsive. however, there was no answer--no sound of any kind; and returning to my theory of the cat and the fallen dress, though nevertheless so far influenced by the recollection of those detaining fingers as not to attempt to strike a light, i rose and walked round my bed, keeping the right hand on the edge of the bedstead, while, with my left arm extended, i swept the surrounding space. as the room is small, i thus fairly well satisfied myself that it contained nothing unusual. "i was, though somewhat perplexed, about to grant myself license to go to sleep again, when in the darkness before me there began to glow a soft light. i watched it increase in brightness and in extent. it seemed to radiate from a central point, which gradually took form and became a tall, slight woman, moving slowly across the room from the folding doors on my right. as she passed the foot of my bed i felt a slight vibration of the spring mattress. at the further corner she stopped, so that i had time to observe her profile and general appearance. her face was insipidly pretty; that of a woman from thirty to thirty-five years of age, her figure slight, her dress of a soft dark material, having a full skirt and broad sash or soft waist-band tied high up, almost under her arms, a crossed or draped 'kerchief over the shoulders, sleeves which i noticed fitted very tight below the elbow, and hair which was dressed so as not to lie flat to the head, either in curls or bows, i could not tell which. as she appeared to stand between me and the light, i cannot speak with any certainty as to the color, but the dress, though dark, was, i think, not black. in spite of all this definiteness, i was, of course, conscious that the figure was unsubstantial, and i felt guilty of absurdity in asking once more: 'will you let me help you? can i be of use to you?' "my voice sounded preternaturally loud, but i felt no surprise at noticing that it produced no effect upon my visitor. she stood still for perhaps two minutes--though it is very difficult to estimate time on such occasions. she then raised her hands, which were long and white, and held them before her as she sank upon her knees and slowly buried the face in her palms, in the attitude of prayer--when, quite suddenly, the light went out, and i was alone in the darkness. "i felt that the scene was ended, the curtain down, and had no hesitation in lighting the candle at my side. "i tried to examine the impression the vision conveyed. i felt that it was definitely that of reproach, yet of gentle resignation. there was no force, no passion; i had seen a meek, sad woman who had succumbed. i began to turn over in my mind the illustrious names of former occupants of the chamber. i fixed on one--a bad man of the worst kind, a mad fool of that time of wickedness and folly, the regency--i thought of the secret passage in the next room, and began to weave an elaborate romance. "'this will not do here and now,' i reflected, as the clock struck four; and, as an act of mental discipline, i returned to my _national review_.... i turned to mr. myers' article on 'the drift of psychical research,' which i had already seen. i read: "'... where telepathy operates, many intelligences may affect our own. some of these are the minds of living persons, but some appear to be discarnate, to be spirits like ourselves, but released from the body, although still retaining much of the personality of earth. these spirits appear still to have some knowledge of our world, and to be in certain ways able to affect it.' "here was, so to speak, the text of my illustration. i had quite enough to think about--more than i needed for that occasion. i never heard the clock strike five! * * * * * "let us try to examine this, a type of many ghost stories. "elsewhere i have classified visions of persons, whether seen in the crystal or otherwise, as: " . visions of the living, clairvoyant or telepathic, usually accompanied by their own background, or adapting themselves to mine. " . visions of the departed, having no obvious relations to time and space. " . visions which are more or less of the nature of pictures, such as those which i voluntarily produce in the crystal from memory or imagination, or which appear in the background of real persons as illustrative of their thoughts of history. this is very often the case when an impression reaches me in visual form from the mind of a friend who, it may be, imperfectly remembers or is imperfectly informed as to the form and color of the picture his mind conveys. "again i emphasize the fact that i am speculating, not dogmatizing--that i am speaking from internal evidence, with no possibility of corroboration, and that i am perfectly aware that each reader must take this for what it seems to him worth. such being the case, i venture to classify the vision under class iii. again, to borrow from mr. myers, i believe that what i saw may have been a _telepathic impression of the dreams_ (or i should prefer to say '_thoughts_') _of the dead_. if what i saw were indeed veridical or truth-telling--if my readers will agree to admit that what i saw was no mere illusion, or morbid hallucination, or imagination (taking the word in its commonly-accepted sense)--then i believe that my visitor was not a departed spirit, such as it has before now, perhaps, been my privilege to meet, but rather an image as such--just as the figure which, it may be, sits at my dining table is not _really_ the friend whose visit a few hours later it announces, but only a representation of him, having no objective existence apart from the truth of the information it conveys--a thought which is personal to the brain which thinks it. "i have already said that, preconceived notions apart, i had no impression of reality. i recognized that what i saw and felt was an externalization of impressions unconsciously received, possibly from some discarnate mind...." half-past one o'clock the following case is in many ways classical. mrs. claughton, to whom the experience came, was a widowed lady, living in good social circles. the full account of her experience is to be found in the _proceedings_ of the society for psychical research (vol. xi., pp. - ), and contains statements and personal investigations by dr. ferrier, andrew lang, mr. myers and the marquis of bute as well as corroborative testimony from the clerk at meresby, mrs. claughton's governess, copies of letters, diaries, memoranda, etc. the whole case is very complicated and impressive; and embodies a combination of apparent spirit communication, clairvoyance, telepathy, precognition, apparitions, and supernormal dreams. the chief and most interesting account is the statement made by mrs. claughton to the marquis of bute, and recorded by him as follows: "she was staying in with her two children at blake st., a house belonging to mrs. appleby, daughter of the late mrs. blackburn ... but let to mrs. buckley. she had heard the house was haunted, and may have heard that the ghost was mrs. blackburn's. she had been told also that water was spilt on the floors inexplicably. they arrived on october th. about . a.m., monday, october th, mrs. claughton was in bed with one of her children, the other sleeping in the room. mrs. claughton had offered to be of any use she could to miss buckley, who had arrived from london on the saturday, not feeling very well. she had been asleep, and was awakened by the footsteps of a person coming downstairs, whom she supposed to be a servant coming to call her. the steps stopped at the door. the sounds were repeated twice more at the interval of a few moments. mrs. claughton rose, lit the candle, and opened the door. there was no one there. she noticed the clock outside pointed to . a.m. she shut the door, got into bed, read, and, leaving the candle burning, went to sleep. woke up, finding the candle spluttering out. heard a sound like a sigh. saw a woman standing by the bed. she had a soft white shawl round the shoulders, held by the right hand towards the left shoulder, bending slightly forwards. mrs. claughton thinks the hair was lightish brown, and the shawl partly over the head, but does not remember distinctly, and has no impression of the rest of the dress; it was not grave-clothes. she said: 'follow me.' mrs. claughton rose, took the candle, and followed her out of the room, across the passage, and into the drawing-room. she had no recollection as to the opening of the doors. the house maid next day declared that the drawing-room door had been locked by her. on entering the drawing-room, mrs. claughton, finding the candle on the point of extinction, replaced it by a pink one from the chiffonier near the door. the figure nearly at the end of the room, turned three-quarters round, said 'to-morrow,' and disappeared. mrs. claughton returned to the bedroom, where she found her elder child (not the one in the bed) sitting up. it asked: 'who is the lady in white?' mrs. claughton thinks she answered the child: 'it's only me--mother; go to sleep,' or the like words, and hushed her to sleep in her arms. the baby remained fast asleep. she lit the gas and remained awake for some two hours, then put out the lights and went to sleep. had no fear while seeing the figure, but was upset after seeing it. would not be prepared to swear that she might not have walked in her sleep. pink candle, partly burned, in her room in morning. does not know if she took it burnt or new. "in the morning she spoke to mr. buckley, on whose advice she went to ask dr. ferrier as to the figure about p.m. he and his wife said the description was like that of mrs. blackburn, whom mrs. claughton already suspected it to be. thinks dr. ferrier already told her that miss blackburn (mrs. appleby) had seen her mother in the same house. mrs. claughton cannot recognize the photograph of mrs. blackburn shown to her by mr. y. (who got it from mrs. m.). she says the figure seemed smaller, and the features were more pinched and attenuated, like those of a person in the last stages of consumption, which was also the general appearance. by his advice, mr. buckley put an electric bell under mrs. claughton's pillow, communicating with miss buckley's room, as mrs. claughton determined to sit up that night and watch. "that night mrs. claughton sat up dressed, with the gas burning. about she partly undressed, put on a dressing gown, and lay down outside the bed, gas still burning, and fell asleep reading. woke up and found the same woman as before, but the expression even more agitated. she bent over mrs. claughton and said: 'i have come, listen.' she then made a certain statement and asked mrs. claughton to do certain things. mrs. claughton said: 'am i dreaming, or is it true?' the figure said something like: 'if you doubt me, you will find that the date of my marriage was * * *.' (this was the date of the marriage, which took place in india, of mrs. blackburn to mr. blackburn, who is alive and married again. mrs. claughton first learned the corroboration of the date from dr. ferrier on the following thursday). after this mrs. claughton saw a man standing on mrs. b.'s left hand--tall, dark, well made, healthy, sixty years old, or more, ordinary man's day clothes, kind, good expression. a conversation ensued between the three, in course of which man stated himself to be george howard, buried in meresby churchyard (mrs. claughton had never heard of meresby or of george howard) and gave the date of his marriage * * * and death * * *. [entries of these dates seen by me in mrs. claughton's pocketbook, as torn out and lent to me. f. w. h. myers.] he desired mrs. claughton to go to meresby and verify these dates in the registration, and, if found correct, to go to the church at the ensuing . a.m. and wait at the grave therein (s. w. corner of s. aisle) of richard hart, died * * *, ætat * * *. she was to verify this reference also in the registers. he said her railway ticket would not be taken, and she was to send it along with a white rose from his grave to dr. ferrier. forbade her having any previous communication with the place, or going in her own name. said joseph wright, a dark man, to whom she should describe him, would help her. that she would lodge with a woman who would tell her that she had a child (drowned) buried in the same churchyard. when mrs. claughton had done all this, she should hear the rest of the history. towards the end of the conversation, mrs. claughton saw a third phantom, that of a man whose name she is not free to give, in great trouble, standing, with hands on face (which he afterwards lowered, showing face) behind mrs. blackburn's right. the three disappeared. mrs. claughton rose and went to the door to look out at the clock, but was seized with faintness, returned and rang the electric bell. mr. buckley found her on the ground. she was able to ask the time, which was about . a.m. then fainted, and the buckleys undressed her and put her to bed. "that morning, tuesday, mrs. claughton sent for dr. ferrier, who corroborated certain matters so far as she asked him, and ascertained for her the date of mrs. blackburn's marriage (she received his note of the date on thursday). she went to the post office, and found that meresby existed. returned, and ascertained that it was in suffolk, and so wrote that evening to dr. ferrier, and went to london with her daughters that (thursday) evening. "friday night, mrs. claughton dreamt that she arrived at , after dusk, that a fair was going on, and that she had to go to place after place to get lodgings. also, she and her eldest daughter dreamt that she would fail if she did not go alone. went to station for noon train on saturday. went to refreshment room for luncheon, telling porter to call her in time. he went by mistake to waiting room, and she missed train and had to wait (going to the british museum, where she wrote her name in jewel room) until . , as stated. house where she finally found lodgings was that of joseph wright, who turned out to be the parish clerk. she sent for the curate by porter, to ask as to consulting registers, but as he was dining out he did not come till after she had gone to bed. sunday morning, mrs. wright spoke to her about the drowned child buried in the churchyard. went to forenoon service, and immediately afterwards went into vestry and verified the registers; described george howard to joseph wright, who had known him and recognized description; then was taken by joseph wright to the graves of richard hart and george howard. on the latter there is no stone, but three mounds surrounded by a railing overgrown with white roses. she gathered rose for dr. ferrier, as had been directed. walked and talked with curate, who was not sympathetic. after luncheon went with mrs. wright and walked round howard's house (country house in park). attended evening service, and afterwards, while, watching the lights put out and the church furniture covered up, wondered if she would have the nerve to go on. back to supper; afterwards slept and had dream of a terrorizing character, whereof has full written description. dark night, hardly any moon, a few stars. to church with joseph wright at a.m., with whom searched interior and found it empty. at . a.m. was locked in alone, having no light; had been told to take bible, but had only church-service, which she had left in vestry in the morning. waited near grave of richard hart; felt no fear. received communication, but does not feel free to give any detail; no light. history begun at blake street then completed. was directed to take another white rose from george howard's grave and gathered rose for miss howard, as had been directed. home and bed, and slept well for the first time since first seeing mrs. blackburn. "next day went and sketched church and identified grave of mrs. rose, on whose grave, she had been told in church, she would find a message for herself. the words engraved were * * *. "then called on miss howard and recognized strong likeness to her father. carried out all things desired by the dead to the full, as had been requested. has had no communication from any of them since. nothing since has appeared in blake street. the wishes expressed to her were not illogical or unreasonable, as the ratiocination of dreams often appears, but perfectly rational, reasonable, and of natural importance." my own true ghost story the following narrative was told to me by a very well-known artist; who maintains the strict accuracy of every word in his account, as given below: "i had been living in paris for some months when i decided to change my quarters, and move into a studio more in keeping with my present allowance. after a brief search, i saw one which exactly suited me. it was a large room, at the end of a long, dark rambling passage, with doors leading into other studios on either side all the way down. as my neighbours turned out to be a very jolly, happy crew, i liked the life immensely, and everything promised well for the new abode. "i had been there for, perhaps, two weeks when i had my first 'ghostly' adventure. i had been out rather late, having had late supper, and perhaps a little too much wine for my best health. at the same time, i was absolutely sober, and in full possession of all my senses. i felt a little happy and convivial--that was all. "walking along the passage, i was approaching my door when i distinctly heard the rustle of a silk skirt walking down the passage ahead of me. as the hallway was dark, i could not see whether or not the girl was just in front of me, or some distance away. it never for a moment struck me that it was not a flesh-and-blood visitant. my only thought was: one of the boys has been having a little supper, and this must be one of his visitors going home. i called aloud: 'mayn't i strike a light and show you the way along this dark hall?' and, suiting the action to the word, i struck a match, and held it up over my head. nothing was visible! i peered into vacancy; no female figure could i see. i listened for the sound of steps, or the swish of a silken petticoat; but not a sound could i hear. i walked along the passage; not a sign of life was anywhere manifest. everything was dark, lonely and deserted. "i came to the conclusion that i must have been deceived; and thought no more about it. i went to bed and to sleep. "it was, perhaps, two nights later when the same thing occurred. coming home, about o'clock at night, i heard the same swish of the skirt; the same soft, feminine footsteps. this time the hall was light, and i could _see_ that no one was there. i recalled the incident of the other evening, and a cold chill began to creep up my backbone. i entered my room, however, lit the lamp, leaving my door open. 'now,' thought i, 'if anyone passes that door again, i shall surely see them.' i put on a dressing gown and a pair of slippers, and sat down to read--facing the door. "perhaps five minutes had elapsed when i saw the door very slowly open still further on its hinges. a moment later i felt in the room a 'presence,' which i distinctly felt to be that of a young woman, about twenty years of age. so vivid was the mental picture i formed of this person that her very features and coloring were sensed by me--though, of course, i had no means of knowing whether or not i was right. "the presence glided across the room, and sat itself upon the edge of my sofa, about three feet distant from where i sat. i looked at the spot intently, and felt that the eyes of my invisible visitor were upon me, regarding me intently, as though studying my character to the best of her ability. she had a comfortable sort of feeling about her, which made me seem at once at home with her; so that, without further ceremony, i said to the presence: 'pray make yourself at home. if i can do anything for you, let me know.' "i waited, but of course there was no response. only i thought i caught again the faintest rustle of silk, as the figure seated itself in a more comfortable position. i put down my book, and began to paint. the feeling of loneliness, which i had experienced ever since my removal into the new studio, vanished immediately. i felt that a living, human--if invisible--being was with me, watching my work and keeping me company during the long hours of discouragement and unproductive effort. "several times, during the course of the evening, i spoke to the presence; but received no reply. only i felt its proximity, and knew when the figure changed its position, as it did once or twice. once it came over and stood by my side, as though looking at the canvas, and criticising it with me. then it went back to its seat at the end of the sofa. "bed time came. i felt almost abashed to go to bed with this feminine presence in the room! however, as there was nothing left for me to do, i undressed, got into bed, and blew out the light. the presence came over and sat on the side of my bed. when i went to sleep, it was still sitting there. "the next morning it had gone. i felt inexpressibly lonely. i missed the presence, whom i now began to call 'her' instead of 'it,' and wished she would return and keep me company! it did not do so, however, until the following evening, when, about nine o'clock, i again felt her approach, felt her entrance through my studio door, and felt her seat herself in my easy chair, and turn her eyes upon me. i knew that she was regarding me intently--perhaps critically--and i felt almost angry that i, in turn, could not see her. i gazed at the chair _determined_ to see her; but nothing save empty space met my gaze! with a gesture of impatience and irritation, i turned away, and went on with my painting. "presently, i was aware that she was standing beside me, examining the painting upon the easel. 'well, do you like it?' i said almost caustically. the presence immediately returned and sat in the chair, and i knew that i had offended her. i threw my brush and pallet aside and apologized. so she came and stood by me again; and again she remained with me until i closed my eyes in sleep. "this sort of thing went on for several weeks. every evening the presence visited me, kept me company, making the day seem long and dreary until she came. i waited for her appearance with growing impatience. i could never see or feel anything; my spoken words brought no response; yet there she was; and i felt just as assured of the presence, in my studio, of a feminine spiritual being as of my own existence. every evening the presence was with me when i went to sleep; every morning it had vanished. the sense of friendliness and companionship was complete and unmistakable. "one evening my visitor failed to appear! i could do no work; i paced the floor, i could do nothing, think of nothing! the sense of desolation and loneliness was absolute. i hardly realized, until then, how completely i had grown accustomed to the presence of my invisible visitor. i missed her more than i ever dreamed i could miss anyone in life. forlorn and forsaken, i went to bed, and finally dropped into a fitful and broken sleep. "for about a week things went on in this way. i had grown gradually reconciled to my lonely life, and was painting hard for an exhibition which was near at hand. one evening i came into the studio, and i found the presence waiting for me--seated in the easy chair, by the fire. "i felt my heart and whole being give a throb of joy and recognition--just as it would at the sight of an old and very dear friend. i knew how much i had missed her! i knew that she had risen, and was standing, facing me, as i entered. before i had time to check myself, or think what i was doing, i had rushed forward, crying 'dearest,' with outstretched arms, and had embraced the spot where i knew her to be standing! i grasped the empty air, but i somehow felt two hands placed upon my shoulders, and the imprint of a delicate kiss upon my lips. "i no longer felt lonely. i whistled, i sang, i took off my coat, and, donning jacket and slippers, set to work with joy upon my picture. i painted hard, and all the while the presence stood by me, criticising--approving or disapproving--and in every instance i felt her criticism and judgment to be right. "a year went by. i had to give up my studio, and return to america, on my father's sudden death. the parting with the presence i shall never forget. had two lovers in the flesh parted from one another, it could not have been more real, more touching, more sincere. for my own part i was heartbroken. the presence, too, i knew to be weeping. the parting was long and sorrowful. finally, i tore myself away. "i have never seen or felt anything from that day to this. but of the reality and objective existence of that presence i am as assured as i am of any event in my life. no one can tell me that it was a trick of the imagination--i know better! she was as real to me as any personality i have ever known. yes, the unreal is real, of that i have no doubt whatever. my own experience with the ghostly world has proved that to _my_ satisfaction!" chapter iv haunted houses when "phantasms of the dead" constantly appear in one house, and there only, that house is said to be "haunted" and, in such a case, the phantasms seem to be attracted to the _locality_ more than to the individuals living in it. this is usually the case in so-called haunted houses; no matter _who_ lives within them, they one and all see the spectral forms; but this is not invariably so. in the case of the "great amherst mystery," for example--given below--the haunting seemed to be associated with the _person_ more than the _house_, so that we might be said to have here a case of a haunted man (or woman). but this is the exception, not the rule. the cases that follow are all well-attested; and the phenomena have been witnessed by many persons. the original reports, for the most part, have appeared in the _proceedings_ of the s. p. r., and the facts were carefully investigated at the time, by competent investigators. the first instance is particularly interesting, because of the experiments which were tried to ascertain the nature of the "ghost," and if many more such experiments were conducted, we might hope, in time, to know something about them. i shall begin with a carefully recorded example, which i may call-- the record of a haunted house the case of a haunted house here given is very well authenticated, and corroborated by six written and signed statements, as well as that of the original informant. the account originally appeared in the _proceedings_ of the s. p. r., vol. viii., pp. - , and is drawn up by miss morton, a lady of scientific training who resided for a long time in the house in question. she was well-known to mr. myers, then hon. sec. of the society. very interesting experiments were conducted to test the nature of the "ghost" as the following brief account will show: "my father took the house in march, , none of us having then heard of anything unusual about the house. we moved in towards the end of april, and it was not until the following june that i first saw the apparition. "i had gone up to my room, but was not yet in bed, when i heard someone at the door, and went to it, thinking it might be my mother. on opening the door, i saw no one; but on going a few steps along the passage i saw the figure of a tall lady, dressed in black, standing at the head of the stairs. after a few moments she descended the stairs, and i followed for a short distance, feeling curious what it could be. i had only a small piece of candle, and it suddenly burnt itself out; and, being unable to see more, i went back to my room. "on the night of august , the footsteps were heard by my three sisters and by the cook, all of whom slept on the top landing--also by my married sister, mrs. k., who was sleeping on the floor below. they all said the next morning that they had heard them very plainly pass and repass their doors.... these footsteps are very characteristic, and are not at all like those of any people in the house; they are soft and rather slow, though decided and even. my sisters would not go out on the landing after hearing them pass, but each time when i have gone out after hearing them, i have seen the figure there. "on the evening of august , we were sitting in the drawing-room, with the gas lit but the shutters not shut, the light outside getting dusk--my brothers and a friend having just given up tennis, finding it too dark; my elder sister, mrs. e., and myself both saw the figure on the balcony outside, looking in at the window. she stood there some minutes, then walked to the end and back again, after which she seemed to disappear. she soon after came into the drawing-room, when i saw her, but my sister did not. "the apparitions were (always) of exactly the same type, seen in the same places by the same people, at varying intervals. "the footsteps continued, and were heard by several visitors and new servants, who had taken the places of those who had left, as well as by myself, four sisters and brothers; in all by about twenty people, many of them not having previously heard of the apparitions and sounds. "other sounds were also heard in addition which seemed gradually to increase in intensity. they consisted in walking up and down on the second floor landing, of bumps against the doors of the bedrooms, and of the handles of the doors turning. the bumps against the doors were so marked as to terrify a new servant, who had heard nothing of the haunting, into the belief that burglars were breaking into her room.... "during the year, at mr. myers' suggestion, i kept a photographic camera constantly ready to try to photograph the figure, but on the few occasions i was able to do so, i got no result; at night, usually only by candle light, a long exposure would be necessary for so dark a figure, and this i could not obtain. "i also tried to communicate with the figure, constantly speaking to it and asking it to make signs, if not able to speak, but with no result. i also tried especially to _touch_ her, but did not succeed. on cornering her, as i did once or twice, she vanished. "one night, my sister e. went up to her room on the second story, but as she passed the room where my two sisters l. and m. were sleeping, they opened their door to say that they had heard noises, and also seen what they described as a _flame_ of a candle, without candle or handle visible, cross the room diagonally from corner to corner. two of the maids opened the doors of their two bedrooms, and said that they also heard noises; they all stood at their doors with their lighted candles for some little time. they all heard steps walking up and down the landing between them; as they passed they felt a sensation which they described as a 'cold wind' though their candles were not blown out. they saw nothing. the steps then descended the stairs, re-ascended, again descended, and did not return.... "the figure became much less substantial on its later appearances. up to about it was so solid and life-like that it was often mistaken for a real person. it gradually became less distinct. at all times it intercepted the light; we have not been able to ascertain if it cast a shadow. i should mention that it has been seen through window glass, and that i myself wear glasses habitually, though none of the other percipients do so. the upper part of the figure always left a more distinct impression than the lower, but this may partly be due to the fact that one naturally looks at people's faces before their feet. proofs of immateriality " . i have several times fastened fine strings across the stairs at various heights before going to bed, but after all others have gone up to their rooms.... i have twice, at least, seen the figure pass through the cords, leaving them intact. " . the sudden and complete disappearance of the figure while still in full view. " . the impossibility of touching the figure.... " . it has appeared in a room with the doors shut. conduct of animals in the house "we have strong grounds for believing that the apparition was seen by two dogs. "twice i remember seeing our dog suddenly run up to the mat at the foot of the stairs in the hall, wagging his tail, and moving his back in the way dogs do when expecting to be caressed. it jumped up, fawning as it would do if a person was standing there, but suddenly slunk away with its tail between its legs, and retreated, trembling, under a sofa. we were all strongly under the impression that it had seen the figure. its action was peculiar, and was much more striking to an onlooker than it could possibly appear from a description. "in conclusion, as to the feelings aroused by the presence of the figure, it is very difficult to describe them; on the first few occasions, i think the feeling of awe at something unknown, mixed with a strong desire to know more about it, predominated. later, when i was able to analyze my feelings more closely, and the first novelty had gone off, i was conscious of a feeling of _loss_, as if i had lost power to the figure. "most of the other percipients speak of a feeling of cold wind, but i myself have not experienced this...." b---- house this is a very famous case of "haunting," which was investigated by sir oliver lodge, mr. f. w. h. myers, colonel taylor (a specialist on haunted houses), miss x., the marquis of bute, etc. the chief reports of the occurrence are due to the last three named persons; and from the journal kept during their occupancy of the house the following extracts are made: "_february , thursday._ i awoke suddenly, just before a.m. miss moore, who had been lying awake for over two hours, said: 'i want you to stay awake and listen.' almost immediately i was startled by a loud clanging sound, which seemed to resound through the house. the mental image it brought to my mind was as of a long metal bar, such as i have seen near iron-foundries, being struck at intervals with a wooden mallet. the noise was distinctly that of metal struck with wood; it seemed to come diagonally across the house. it sounded very loud, though distinct, and the idea that any inmate of the house should not hear it seemed preposterous.... "i also had an experience this morning which may have been purely subjective, but which should be recorded. about a.m., i was writing in the library, face to light, back to fire. mrs. w. was in the room, and addressed me once or twice; but i was aware of not being responsive, as i was much occupied. i wrote on, and presently felt a distinct, but gentle push against my chair. i thought it was the dog, and looked down, but he was not there. i went on writing, and in a few minutes felt a push, firm and decided, against myself which moved me on my chair. i thought it was mrs. w----, who, having spoken and obtained no answer, was reminding me of her presence. i looked backward with an exclamation--the room was empty! she came in presently, and called my attention to the dog, who was gazing intently from the hearth-rug at the place where i had expected (before) to see him.... "as the day began with the above, and as i had had a quiet rest, i went to 'the copse' at dusk. the moon was bright, and the twilight lingered. we waited about in the avenue to let it get darker, but it was still far from dark. then we made our way up to the glen--miss moore, miss langton and myself. "i saw 'ishbel' and 'marget' in the old spot across the burn. [two 'spirits' who had been seen about the house, several times before]. 'ishbel' was on her knees in the attitude of weeping, 'marget' apparently reasoning with her in a low voice, to which 'ishbel' replied very occasionally. i could not hear what was said from the noise of the burn. we waited for perhaps ten or fifteen minutes. they had appeared when i had been there for three or four. when we regained the avenue (in silence) miss moore asked miss langton, 'what did you see?' (she had been told nothing, except that the colonel, who did not know details then, had said in her presence something about 'a couple of nuns.') she said: 'i saw nothing, but i heard a low talking.' questioned further, she said it seemed close behind. the glen is so narrow that this might be quite consistent with what i heard and saw. miss moore heard a murmuring voice, and is quite certain it was not the burn. she is less suggestible than almost any one i know.... the dog ran up while we were there, pointed, and ran straight for the two women. he afterwards left us, and we found him barking in the glen. he is a dog who hardly ever barks. we went up among the trees where he was, and could find no cause.... "this morning's phenomenon is the most incomprehensible i have yet known. i heard the banging sounds after we were in bed last night. early this morning, about . , i was awakened by them. they continued for nearly an hour. then another sound began _in_ the room. it might have been made by a very lively kitten jumping and pouncing, or even by a very large bird; there was a fluttering noise too.[ ] it was close, exactly opposite the bed. miss moore woke up, and we heard the noise going on till nearly eight o'clock. i drew up the blinds and opened the windows wide. i sought all over the room, looking into cupboards and under furniture. we cannot guess at any possible explanation...." [ ] this fluttering noise, as of a bird, is very often met with in the literature of the occult, and is typical of 'haunted houses.' in the famous case of lord lyttleton, for instance, this was recorded, and was said to announce his death. he died three days later, in bed. a few weeks later, miss x., wrote in her "journal": "the general tone of things is disquieting, and new in our experience. hitherto, in our first occupation, the phenomena affected one as melancholy, depressing and perplexing, but now all, quite independently, say the same thing--that the influence is evil and horrible--even poor little 'spooks' (the dog) who was never terrified before, has been since our return here. the worn faces at breakfast are really a dismal sight." soon after this the investigators left the house. willington mill this is one of the most famous haunted houses on record. the case has been described in various books on ghosts, the most complete account being that contained in the _journal_ of the psychical research society.... mr. proctor lived for several years in the haunted mill, and got quite used to the apparitions, which stalked about the place at all hours. visitors, however, did not like them as much as he did. the following extracts will suffice to explain the general character of the haunting in this case-- "when two of mrs. proctor's sisters were staying at the mill on a visit, their bed was suddenly violently shaken, the curtains hoisted up all round to their tester and then as rapidly let down again, and this again in rapid succession. the curtains were taken off the next night, with the result that they both saw a female figure, of mysterious substance and of a greyish-blue hue come out of the wall at the head of the bed and lean over them. they both saw it distinctly. they saw it come out of and go back again into the wall.... mrs. davidson's sister-in-law had a curious experience on one occasion. one evening she was putting one of the bedrooms right, and, looking toward the dressing table, saw what she supposed was a white towel lying on the ground. she went to pick it up, but imagine her surprise when she found that it rose up, and went up behind the dressing-table over the top, down on the floor across the room, disappeared under the door, and was heard to descend the stairs with a heavy step! the noise which it made in doing so was distinctly heard by mr. proctor and others in the house. "on one occasion, mr. mann, the old mill foreman, with his wife and daughter, and mrs. proctor's sister, all four saw the figure of a bald headed old man in a flowing robe like a surplice gliding backwards and forwards about three feet from the floor, level with the bottom of the second story window; he then stood still in the middle of the window and part of the body which appeared quite luminous showed through the blind. while in that position, the framework of the window was visible, while the body was as brilliant as a star, and diffused a radiance all round; then it turned a bluish tinge, and gradually faded away from the head downwards. "the children, however, were the chief ghost-seers. on one occasion one of the little girls came to mrs. davidson and said: 'there is a lady sitting on the bed in mamma's bedroom. she has eyeholes but no eyes; and she looked so hard at me.' on another occasion a boy of two years old was charmed with the ghost, and laughed and kicked, crying out: 'ah dares somebody--pee, pee!' on one occasion the mother saw through the bed curtain a figure cross the room to the table on which the light was burning, take up the snuffers and snuff the candle.... "several experiments were made with a clairvoyant by the name of jane, to ascertain the cause of the mystery. in the mesmeric trance she described the house accurately; described the nature of the disturbances which were going on within it; and stated that the chief cause of the trouble was to be found 'in the cellar.' this was not verified. the full story, as narrated, is certainly one of the most curious to be found anywhere." the great amherst mystery this is one of the most remarkable cases on record. it is the case of a haunted house, in which many _physical_ manifestations of all sorts took place, and were observed by nearly a hundred persons, all of whom testified as to the reality of the facts. the house in question is situated in amherst, n. s.--hence the name. residing in this small house were (when the events occurred) mr. and mrs. teed, their children, willie, aged five years, and george, aged seventeen months. his wife's two sisters, jennie and esther cox, also lived with them--esther being the person around whom nearly all the phenomena centered. john teed and william cox also boarded at the house--brothers of mr. and mrs. teed, respectively. the manifestations began in a very peculiar manner. the two girls, who had just gone to bed (they slept together) were on the point of falling asleep, when esther suddenly jumped out of bed with a scream, exclaiming that there was a mouse in the mattress. a careful search failed, however, to reveal the presence of any mouse. the same thing happened the next night; and when the girls got up to search for the mouse, a paste-board box, which was under the bed, jumped up in the air and fell over on its side. they decided to say nothing about it; got into bed again, and were soon asleep. the next night manifestations began in earnest. esther began to swell; her body became puffed all over, and she thought she was going to burst. she screamed with pain. just then, however, three terrific reports shook the room, and the swelling suddenly subsided. she was placed in bed; but no sooner had she been placed upon it than all the bed-clothes flew off her, and settled in the far corner of the room. "they could see them passing through the air by the light of the kerosene lamp which was lighted and standing on the table, and both screamed as only scared girls can, and then jennie fainted." the bed-clothes were replaced. no sooner was this done than the pillow flew out from under her head, and landed in the center of the floor. it was replaced, but again flew out, hitting mr. teed in the face. three deafening reports then shook the house; after which all manifestations ceased for the night. the next night, these manifestations were repeated; the bed-clothes flew off, in view of all; and in the midst of this, the sound of scratching became audible, as of a metallic object scraping plaster. "all looked at the wall whence the sound of writing came, when, to their great astonishment, there could be plainly read these words: 'esther cox, you are mine to kill.' every person in the room could see the writing plainly, and yet but a moment before nothing was to be seen but the plain kalsomined wall!... these things continued day after day, and were seen by many persons. articles would be thrown about the house; dr. carrittee, the family physician, saw "a bucket of cold water become agitated, and, to all appearances, boil while standing on the kitchen table." a voice was heard, in the atmosphere of the house, talking to esther; and telling her all manner of horrible things. soon after this, to the consternation of all present, "all saw a lighted match fall from the ceiling to the bed, having come out of the air, which would certainly have set the bed-clothing on fire, had not jennie put it out instantly. during the next two minutes, eight or ten lighted matches fell on the bed and about the room, out of the air, but were all extinguished before anything could be set fire by them...." this fire-raising continued for several days. the family would smell smoke, and, on running up into the bedroom, they would find a bundle of clothes placed in the center of the floor, blazing. or they would descend to the cellar; and there find a pile of shavings alight and blazing merrily. they lived in constant danger of having the house burned over their heads. soon after this, things got so bad that esther cox had to leave home, and went to visit a friend by the name of white, in the hope that the manifestations would cease, when she was removed from her own home. for four weeks things went well; then they began again just as ever. knocks and raps were heard all over the house, which answered questions asked them; and told the amount of money people had in their pockets, etc. articles of furniture were thrown about; voices sounded; and, worst of all, esther now began to _see_ the ghost; and described it to those about her. among other terrifying phenomena, which took place at mr. whites' house, the following should be mentioned-- "... a clasp-knife belonging to little frederic white was taken from his hand, while he was whittling something, by the devilish ghost, who instantly stabbed esther in the back with it, leaving the knife sticking in the wound, which was bleeding profusely. frederic pulled the bloody knife from the wound, wiped it, closed it and put it in his pocket, which he had no sooner done than the ghost obtained possession of it again and, quick as a flash of lightning, stuck it into the same wound...." some person tried the experiment of placing three or four large iron spikes on esther's lap while she was seated in the dining-saloon. to the unutterable astonishment of mr. white, frederic and other persons present, the spikes were not instantly removed, as it was expected they would be, but, instead, remained on her lap until they became too hot to be handled with comfort, when they were thrown by the ghost to the far end of the saloon--a distance of twenty feet. this fact was fully corroborated. it was at this stage of the proceedings that the spot was visited by walter hubbell, an actor, who remained some time in amherst, studying the case, and who has written a whole book about it--"the great amherst mystery." on the night of his arrival, they all sat round a table, in full light, to see what they could see, and knocks and raps resounded immediately. "we could all hear even the scratching sound of invisible human finger nails, and the dull sounds produced by the hands, as they rubbed the table, and struck it with invisible, clenched fists, in knocking in response to questions." the next day, mr. hubbell records the following facts, among others: "i had been seated about five minutes when, to my great astonishment, my umbrella was thrown a distance of sixteen feet, passing over my head in its strange flight, and almost at the same instant a large carving knife came whizzing through the air, passing over esther's head, who was just then coming out of the pantry with a large dish in both hands, and fell in front of her, near me--having come from behind her out of the pantry. i naturally went to the door and looked in, but no person was there. "after dinner i lay down on the sofa in the parlor; esther was in the room seated near the center in a rocking chair. i did not sleep, but lay with my eyes only partially closed so that i could see her. while lying there a large glass paper-weight, weighing fully a pound, came whizzing through the air from a corner of the room, where i had previously noticed it on an ornamental shelf, a distance of some twelve or fifteen feet from the sofa. had it struck my head, i should surely have been killed, so great was the force with which it was thrown.... "on monday, june , they commenced again with great violence. at breakfast, the lid of the sugar bowl was heard to fall on the floor. mrs. teed, esther and myself searched for it for fully five minutes, and had abandoned our search as useless, when all three saw it fall from the ceiling. i saw it, just before it fell, and it was at the moment suspended in the air about one foot from the ceiling. no one was within five feet of it at the time. the table knives were then thrown upon the floor, the chairs pitched over, and after breakfast the dining-table fell over on its side, rugs upon the floor were slid about, and the whole room literally turned into a pandemonium, so filled with dust that i went into the parlor. just as i got inside the parlor door a large flower pot, containing a plant in full bloom, was taken from among jennie's flowers on the stand near the window; and in a second, a tin pail, with a handle, was brought half-filled with water from the kitchen and placed beside the plant on the floor, both in the center of the parlor, and put there by a ghost. just think of such a thing happening while the sun was shining, and only a few minutes before i had seen this same tin pail from the dining-room hanging on a nail in the kitchen, empty! and yet people say, and thousands believe, that there are no haunted houses! what a great mistake they make in so asserting; but then they never lived in a genuine one, where there was an invisible power that had full and complete sway. by all the demons! when i read the accounts now in my 'journal,' from which my experience is copied, i am almost speechless with wonder that i ever lived to behold such sights.... "on this same day, esther's face was slapped by the ghosts, so that the marks of fingers could be plainly seen--just exactly as if a human hand had slapped her face; these slaps could be plainly heard by all present. i heard them distinctly, time and again.... "on thursday, june , jennie and esther told me that the night before bob, the demon, had been in their room again. they stated he had stuck them with pins and marked them from head to foot with crosses. i saw some of the crosses, which were bloody marks, scratched upon their hands, necks and arms. it was a sad sight. during the entire day, i was busy pulling pins out of esther; they came out of the air from all quarters, and were stuck into all the exposed portions of her person, even the head, and inside of her ears. maggie, the ghost, took quite an interest in me, and came to my room at night, while the lamp was burning, and knocked on the headboard of my bed and on the wall near the bed, which was _not_ next to the room occupied by the girls, but on an outside wall facing the stable. i carried on a most interesting conversation with her, asking a great many questions which were answered by knocks.... "a trumpet was heard in the house all day. the sound came from within the atmosphere--i can give no other description of its effect on our sense of hearing.... i wish to state, most emphatically, that i could tell the difference in the knocks made by each ghost just as well as if they had spoken. the knocks made by maggie were delicate and soft, as if made by a woman's hand, while those made by bob nickle were loud and strong, denoting great strength and evidently large hands. when he knocked with those terrible sledge-hammer blows, he certainly must have used a large rock or some other heavy object, for such loud knocks were not produced with hard knuckles...." in july the phenomena became so bad that the landlord came and told the teed family that either esther would have to go, or they would all have to leave the house. it was decided that esther should go, which she did, visiting some friends by the name of van amburgh. from the time she left her home the second time, she was never afterwards troubled with the ghosts. some years later, she married and went to live in another town--where she was interviewed by the present writer in . this account was sworn to by mr. hubbell before a notary public, and he asserts under oath that every word of the account is true. he has also produced the written confirmatory testimony of a score of still-living witnesses of the phenomena in amherst. a very similar case occurred in tennessee, in , and is recorded in full by m. v. ingram, in his book, "the bell witch." many other cases of a like nature are to be found in the "history of the supernatural." _for ghosts of the dead through infinite ages have wandered and lurked in earth's atmosphere; watchful and eager for victims to torture to follow and kill, or make tremble with fear. yes, ghosts of the dead revengeful and evil, still come in hordes from the stygian shore; entering houses to torment our maidens burning and wrecking our homes evermore._ brook house the following case is given in full by mr. w. t. stead in his _real ghost stories_, and i extract from his narrative some of the most striking and interesting passages. it is a truly remarkable narrative, well worthy of careful perusal. mr. ralph hastings, of broadmeadow, teignmouth, wrote in october, , enclosing the following extracts from his diary, which he had kept in the haunted house: "i was spending some months of the summer of ' at a favorite watering place in the s.e. coast. one afternoon i went to visit some old friends who lived in an old house which stood in a quadrangle, and was approached from the church by a narrow lane. brook house was a commodious, red-brick structure of three stories, faced by a court, with its ground-floor windows unseen from the outside by reason of the lofty wall which encircled them. "on the day in question, as i approached the house from the church side, i happened to glance at the window to the right on the second floor. there i saw, to my astonishment, the apparent figure of miss b., standing partially dressed, arranging her hair and looking intently at me. on entering the house, i was at once shown into the drawing-room, and i found miss b. reading. in reply to my question, she told me she had been there an hour! "my curiosity was now fully aroused, and i went to the house the next day, july , accompanied by a lady, a mutual friend. we went up into the room in which i had seen the figure, threw the window open--it being very hot--looking on to the garden, and then went downstairs into the drawing-room, where we had some music. we went up again in about half an hour's time. the window was _shut_.... we went back into the garden, and looked up at the window. presently, to our horror, a figure appeared resembling miss b., yet most unlike her--its fearful eyes were gazing at me without movement and totally expressionless. what, then, caused the arresting of the heart's pulsation (as it felt) and blood--that the moment before had burnt as it coursed madly through the veins--to be chilled to ice? this--one was face to face with a spirit, and withered by the contact. those eyes--i can see them--i can feel them--after a lapse of nearly twenty years. miss b. had incontinently fainted when she saw the shoulders (as she described it) of the figure. i continued gazing spellbound; like the 'wedding guest' i was held by the spirit's eye, and i could not choose but look. the dreadful hands were lifted automatically; they rested on the window sash. it came partly down, stayed a moment, then noiselessly closed, and i saw a hand rise and clasp it. i gazed steadfastly throughout. what impressed me strangely was this peculiarity, that as soon as the sash had passed the face the latter vanished, the hands remained; the unreality of the actual movement of the window, as it descended, also seemed to contradict me: it suggested (for want of a better comparison) the mechanical passage of stage scenery, and some sorts of toys that are pulled by wires; it made no noise whatever. now i distinctly recognized the shape as that of rhoda, miss b.'s elder sister, who had been dead some twelve years.... we looked again, and saw the backs of two hands on the _outside_ of the window, but they did not move it. "we then went in, coming out again almost directly, and saw the window nearly closed; then went upstairs into the room; and again i flung the window as wide open as it would go, and before leaving set the door open, with a heavy chair against it; but previous to this (i omitted to mention) as we were looking up at the window after the appearance of the hands, we saw a horrible object come from the right (the apparition invariably did); it resembled a large, white bundle, called by miss b., who had before seen it, 'the headless woman'; it came in front of the window and then began walking backwards and forwards. after a lapse of half an hour, we went upstairs again, and found the chair by the window, and the door closed; whereupon i wrote 'it' a letter to this effect: 'miss b. and mr. h. present their compliments to the "lady headless" and request her acceptance of this fruit from their garden; they hope it will please, as she has often been seen admiring it. a reply will oblige, but the bearer does not wait for the answer.' we put the chair once more against the window, placing the fruit and note on it; two or three times we went up, but nothing had changed. "we then went and stood outside the summer house, whence a clear view of the window could be obtained; presently there came forward the headless figure; and distinctly bowed two or three times, then immediately afterwards a deafening slam of the door. the apex of this figure, which was rotund, _i.e._, headless, once or twice dilated, and we feared seeing something, we knew not what; it then vanished, and we saw a beautiful arm come from the curtain and wave to us. upstairs again, the door was shut; on entering we saw the chair overturned in the middle of the room, the fruit scattered in all directions, and, to our horror, the note, which i had folded crosswise, was charred at each corner. i took it up; but lacked the courage to open, and perhaps find a possible reply. placing it in a plate i burnt it. the process was a very slow one; and it distilled a dark mucus. "the whimsical idea now possessed me to arrange the room like a theatre, the armchair and others i placed facing the stand; on them i laid antimacassars, and books for programmes. we then went down to the end of the garden which commanded a view of the room, and looked: blank space, nothing more--stay! a curious filmy vapor begins to float in the air, which slowly cohered, evolved vague phantasms; they unite, and gradually assume a definite shape. the headless woman fronts us at the window, she vanishes, and an immense sheet is waved twice or thrice from the right side of the window, something is flung out; we walk quickly up the garden and there, under the window, lies one of the books. what had hastened our steps was the frantic gesticulating of the servant. she was frightened out of her senses by the peculiar sounds proceeding from the room; but she could not describe them, saying that they seemed to be a terrible hurrying to and fro, accompanied by strange noises.... we took the bible and entered the room, which was in disorder: the flower-stand was thrown down, the two chairs widely apart, one of the antimacassars was tightly folded up under the recumbent towel horse, the other with the towel was airing itself on the gigantic tree some seven feet from the window.... "the next day we went into the room, and discovered an impression in the bed, as though some 'thing' had lain in it. on closer inspection, we distinctly saw the coverlet gently moving, resembling the very gentle respiration of a body beneath. we returned to the garden, having thrown open the window. after waiting for a long time, we saw what looked like a hand appear on the center of the window sill, then from the curtain came the white figure. "it disappeared and after a moment or two the hand also; but there must have been a _something_ besides crouching under the window, for it heaved upwards and seemed to fill the window for an instant. it then sank, the hand vanished, and we saw no more. we waited a long time, till i spoke of going. i had noticed as a curious thing that almost always, when i had wearied of looking, seeing _nothing_ and about to leave, something was sure to happen.... "this ends my personal experiences. my health became impaired, and for upwards of two years i was invalided, but as time wore on and the impressions waned, i gradually recovered. i often wander back in imagination to the many mysteries that in the long ago held sway at brook house." chapter v ghost stories of a more dramatic nature in the cases which are adduced in the present chapter, the standard of evidence cannot be considered so high; many of them have been recorded in good faith as actual experiences, but they will probably fail to carry conviction to the same extent as those which have gone before. still, many of these narratives are singularly striking and interesting; and for this reason deserve to be included in this volume. the reader may therefore place any construction he may choose upon these cases; as they are presented not as evidence but as entertainment. i shall begin with some personal experiences of a scotch seer, who, according to his own accounts, has experienced some of the most dramatic and remarkable manifestations conceivable. disease-phantoms mr. elliott o'donnell--a man about whom it has been said that "the gates of his soul are open on the hell side," has had many strange experiences with spirits, mostly evil and horrible, and has recorded these in his books "ghostly phenomena," "byways of ghostland," etc. from his voluminous writings on his own personal experiences, i cite a few cases, to show the character of the phenomena: "i have, from time to time, witnessed many manifestations which i believe to be super-physical, both from the peculiarity of their properties, and from the effect their presence invariably produce on me--an effect i cannot associate with anything physical. one of the first occult phenomena i remember, appeared to me when i was about five years of age. i was then living in a town in the west of england, and had, according to the usual custom, been put to bed at six o'clock. i had spent a very happy day, playing with my favorite toys--soldiers--and, not being in the least degree tired, was amusing myself with planning a fresh campaign for the following morning, when i noticed suddenly that the bedroom door (which i distinctly remember my nurse carefully latching) was slowly opening. thinking this was very curious, but without the slightest suspicion of 'ghosts,' i sat up in bed and watched. "the door continued to open, and at last i caught sight of something so extraordinary that my guilty conscience at once associated it with the devil--with regard to whom i distinctly recollected to have spoken that afternoon in a sceptical, and i frankly admit, very disrespectful manner. but far from feeling the proximity of that heat which all those who profess authority on satanic matters ascribe to satan, i felt decidedly cold--so cold, indeed, that my hands grew numb and my teeth chattered. at first i only saw two light glittering eyes that fixed themselves upon me with an expression of diabolical glee, but i was soon able to perceive that they were set in a huge, flat face, covered with fulsome-looking yellow spots about the size of a threepenny bit. i do not remember noticing any of the other features, save the mouth, which was large and gaping. the body to which the head was attached was quite nude, and covered all over with spots similar to those on the face. i cannot recall any arms, though i have vivid recollections of two thick and, to all appearances, jointless legs, by the use of which it left the doorway, and gliding noiselessly over the carpet, approached the empty bed, placed in a parallel position to my own. there it halted, and thrusting its mis-shapen head forward, it fixed its malevolent eyes on me with a penetrating stare. on this occasion, i was far less frightened than on any of my subsequent experiences with the occult. why, i cannot say, as the manifestation was certainly one of the most hideous i have ever seen. my curiosity, however, was far greater than my fear, and i kept asking myself what the thing was, and why it was there? "it did not seem to be composed of ordinary flesh and blood, but rather of some luminous matter that resembles the light emanating from a glow-worm. "after remaining in the same attitude for what seemed to me an incalculably long time, it gradually receded, and assuming all of a sudden a horizontal attitude, passed head first through the wall opposite to where i sat. next day, i made a sketch of the apparition, and showed it to my relatives, who, of course, told me i had been dreaming. about two weeks later i was ill in bed with a painful, if not actually dangerous, disease. i was giving an account of this manifestation at a lecture i delivered two or three years ago in b., and when i had finished speaking, i was called aside by one of the audience who very shyly told me that he too had had a similar experience. prior to being attacked by diphtheria, he had seen a queer-looking apparition which had approached his bedside and leaned over him. he assured me that he had been fully awake at the time, and had applied tests to prove that the phantom was entirely objective. "a number of other cases, too, have been reported to me, in which various species of phantasms have been seen before various illnesses. hence i believe that certain spirits are symbolical of certain diseases, if not the actual creators of the bacilli from which these diseases arise. to these phantasms i have given the name of _morbas_...." the tale of the mummy "during one of my sojourns in paris," says mr. elliott o'donnell, in his "byways of ghost land," "i met a frenchman who, he informed me, had just returned from the east. i asked him if he had brought back any curios such as vases, funeral urns, weapons or amulets. 'yes, lots,' he replied, 'two cases full. but no mummies! mon dieu! no mummies. you ask me why? ah! thereby hangs a tale. if you will have patience, i will tell it you.' "the following is the gist of his narrative: "'some seasons ago i traveled up the nile as far as assiut, and when there, managed to pay a visit to the grand ruins of thebes. among the various treasures i brought away with me was a mummy. i found it lying in an enormous lidless sarcophagus, close to a mutilated statue of anubis. on my return to assiut, i had the mummy placed in my tent, and thought no more of it till something awoke me with startling suddenness in the night. then, obeying a peculiar impulse, i turned over on my side and looked in the direction of my treasure. "'the nights in the soudan at this time of year are brilliant, one can even see to read, and every object in the desert is almost as clearly visible as by day. but i was quite startled by the whiteness of the glow which rested on the mummy, the face of which was immediately opposite mine. the remains--those of met-om-karema, lady of the college of the god amen-ra--were swathed in bandages, some of which had worn away in parts or become loose; and the figure, plainly discernible, was that of a shapely woman with elegant bust, well-formed limbs, rounded arms and small hands. the thumbs were slender, and the fingers, each of which was separately bandaged, long and tapering. the neck was full, the cranium rather long, the nose aquiline, the chin firm. imitation eyes, brows, and lips were painted on the wrappings, and the effect thus produced and in the phosphorescent glare of the moonbeams, was very weird. i was quite alone in the tent, the only european who accompanied me to assiut, having stayed in the town by preference, and my servants being encamped at one hundred or so yards from me on the ground. "'sound travels far in the desert, but the silence now was absolute, and, though i listened attentively, i could not detect the slightest noise--man, beast and insect were abnormally still. there was something in the air, too, which struck me as unusual; an odd, clammy coldness that reminded me at once of the catacombs in paris. i had hardly, however, conceived the resemblance, when a sob--low, gentle, but very distinct--sent a thrill of horror through me. it was ridiculous, absurd. it could not be, and i fought against the idea as to whence the sound had proceeded, as something too utterly fantastic, too utterly impossible. i tried to occupy my mind with other thoughts--the frivolities of cairo, the casinos of nice; but all to no purpose; and soon, on my eager, throbbing ear there again fell that sound, that low and gentle sob. my hair stood on end; this time there was no doubt, no possible manner of doubt--the mummy lived! i looked at it aghast. i strained my vision to detect any movement in its limbs, but none was perceptible. yet the noise had come from it, it had breathed--breathed--and even as i hissed the word unconsciously through my clenched lips, the bosom of the mummy rose and fell. "'a frightful terror seized me. i tried to shriek to my servants; i could not ejaculate a syllable. i tried to close my eye-lids, but they were held open as in a vice. again there came a sob that was immediately succeeded by a sigh; and a tremor ran through the figure from head to foot. one of its hands then began to move, the fingers clutched the air convulsively, then grew rigid, then curled slowly into the palms, then suddenly straightened. the bandages concealing them from view then fell off, and to my agonized sight were disclosed objects that struck me as strangely familiar. there is something about fingers, a marked individuality, i never forget. no two persons' hands are alike. and in these fingers, in their excessive whiteness, round knuckles, and blue veins, i read a likeness whose prototype, struggle how i would, i could not recall. gradually the hand moved upwards, and, reaching the throat, the fingers set to work at once to remove the wrappings. my terror was now sublime. i dare not imagine, i dare not for one instant think, what i should see. and there was no getting away from it; i could not stir an inch, and the ghastly revelation would take place within a yard of my face! "'one by one the bandages came off. a glimmer of skin, pale as marble; the beginning of the nose, the whole nose; the upper lip, exquisitely, delicately cut; the teeth, white and even on the whole, but here and there a shining gold filling; the under lip, soft and gentle; a mouth i knew, but--god, where? in my dreams, in the wild fantasies that had oft-times visited by pillow at night--in delirium, in reality, where? mon dieu! where? "'the uncasing continued. the chin next, a chin that was purely feminine, purely classical; then the upper part of the head--the hair long, black, luxuriant--the forehead low and white--the brows black, firmly pencilled; and last of all, the eyes!--and as they met my frenzied gaze, smiled, smiled right down into the depths of my living soul, i recognized them--they were the eyes of my mother, my mother who had died in my boyhood! seized with a madness that knew no bounds, i sprang to my feet. the figure rose and confronted me. i flung open my arms to embrace her, the woman of all women in the world i loved best, the only woman i had ever loved. shrinking from my touch, she cowered against the side of the tent. i fell on my knees before her and kissed--what? not the feet of my mother, but those of the long-buried dead. sick with repulsion and fear i looked up, and there bending over and peering into my eyes was the face, the fleshless, mouldering face of the foul and barely recognizable corpse! with a shriek of horror i rolled backwards, and, springing to my feet, prepared to fly. i glanced at the mummy. it was lying on the ground, stiff and still, every bandage in its place; whilst standing over it, a look of fiendish glee in its light, doglike eyes, was the figure of anubis, lurid and menacing. "'the voices of my servants, assuring me they were coming, broke the silence, and in an instant the apparition vanished. "'i had had enough of the tent, however, at least for that night, and, seeking refuge in the town, i whiled away the hours till morning with a fragrant cigar and a novel. directly i had breakfasted, i took the mummy back to thebes, and left it there. no thank you, mr. o'donnell, i collect many kinds of curios, but--no more mummies!'" face slapped by a ghost the following remarkable event occurred to a friend of mine--an elderly, married lady, whom i have known for some time. she is now making her home in brooklyn, but at the time of her gruesome experience was residing in england. it is some years since this occurred, but the incident, she assured me, lives just as vividly in her mind as though it all happened yesterday. this is her story, just as she told it to me: "i was staying with some friends in the country. they had an old, rambling house, with long, draughty halls and corridors all over it. as the house was already full of guests, i had to sleep in a large room, at the end of the long passage, on the ground floor. the room in itself was comfortable enough--large and warm. yet there was an atmosphere about that apartment which i did not quite like; in fact, the whole house made me feel 'creepy,' for no reason that i can give. "bed-time came all too soon; and i took my candle and was shown my room. my hostess saw that i had everything i needed; and then, saying good-night, went upstairs to bed. "i had half undressed when i saw the door of my room gently and quietly opened, as though a stealthy hand were softly pressing it open. i gazed transfixed, until, when wide open, i could see that no one was, in reality, on the other side of the door. at that i drew a breath of relief. 'a draught,' i thought, 'coming down the hallway. it is nothing.' and i chided myself on my fears; shut the door, and proceeded to undress. "i had not gone far, however, when to my amazement the door opened again; just as quietly and stealthily as before. again i closed the door, and proceeded with my undressing. i had by this time finished, and had donned my night-gown preparatory to getting into bed. "at that moment i was horrified to see my door open for the _third_ time, just as it did before--slowly, slowly, until it rested on its hinges, wide open to the hall. i now determined to investigate; so, taking my candle in my hand, i stepped out into the hall and proceeded down towards the front door. "i had not taken more than three or four steps, however, when the candle in my hands was extinguished--as though a breath of wind, coming from nowhere, had blown it out. i did not much relish this, as the matches were in my room. but i determined to keep on, in the dark, and see what the cause of this could be. so i kept on and on, down the dark hall--my left hand holding the extinguished candle; my right extended so that i could feel the solid masonry all the way down the corridor. "i had proceeded, perhaps, half way, when a strange thing occurred. i suddenly felt myself slapped on the left cheek by something cold and moist and clammy. i put my hand up to my face, and felt it was wet. for an instant i hesitated; then i proceeded, down the hall, until i came to the front door. that i found closed and locked. having thus explored the whole length of the hall and found nothing, i turned back to regain my room. still holding the candle in my left hand, and still feeling the wall with my outstretched right hand, i crept cautiously along, not knowing what to expect. "again, i had proceeded about half way down the hall when i felt the same cold, quick slap in the face (this time on the right cheek) and again i found it was wet. "thoroughly frightened now, i fled to my room as fast as my legs could carry me. once within, i closed and secured the door by placing a chair against it. next, finding my box of matches, i relighted my candle. then i surveyed myself in the mirror, to see what could be upon my face. "imagine my horror when, on looking in the glass, i discovered two long streaks of blood, one upon either cheek! i was so terror-struck that i gazed at myself for a few moments unable to move or speak. then i screamed, and after that i have no very clear recollection of what happened. i have a hazy recollection of anxious faces bending over me; of a low hum of voices; then oblivion. "it took me many weeks to recover from the shock of that night." alone with a ghost in a church the following case is sent me by a correspondent: i once knew a young man by the name of charles d. bradlaugh, who took a delight in ridiculing ghost stories and, whenever possible, in proving them to be due to fraud, trickery or hallucination. he stated he was "afraid of nothing." i said to him one day in conversation: "if you are as fearless as you say, would you be willing to spend a night alone, locked up in a church with a corpse freshly placed in its coffin?" he replied that he would do it any time; so the test was shortly arranged. one of the parishioners had just died, and had been placed in the crypt of the church, with the lid of the coffin removed. the lights were all extinguished; we locked the door after us, and went away, leaving bradlaugh and the spirits to fight it out between them. what occurred during the night must be told in bradlaugh's own words, as nearly as i can recall them: "when i heard the key turn in the door, that night, i confess that a strange feeling came over me for the first time in my life. i wanted to get out; but of course i knew it was useless; and in the next place my pride forbade my leaving. shaking off the superstitious fear that had settled upon me, i turned away; and proceeded to explore, as best i could, the whole of the church. "a bright moonlight fell in through the windows, casting queer shadows in various directions; and across the long rows of pews and the altar at the far end of the church. i walked about, looking at everything curiously, as it had been long since i found myself inside a church. then i proceeded to the crypt, and, walking boldly up to the coffin, i gazed long and earnestly at the corpse lying within it, as though to familiarize myself with it. i went on the principle that 'familiarity breeds contempt.' when i had done this, i went back to the nave of the church, and, finding a comfortable place, i lay down, and was soon in a state bordering on sleep. i should have been asleep, probably, very soon; but, just as i was dropping off, i heard a faint sound coming from the direction of the crypt. it was like a deep sigh, and this was followed by other sounds which i find it hard to describe. all i know is that, in the quiet and stillness of that awful place, those sounds, slight as they were, were truly appalling, and chilled the very blood in my veins. their very indistinctness added to their terror. i could not conceive what could make such uncanny noises. i sat up, and strained my eyes in the darkness, trying to penetrate the gloom. then i heard the first faint footsteps coming up the stairs from the crypt! at first, these were faint, but they became louder and louder; until finally i could hear them plainly. undoubtedly they were foot-falls, as though a human being were mounting the steps from the crypt where the corpse had been laid! "i rose from my seat, my hair standing on end, while queer, cold shivers ran up and down my back. i advanced one or two paces toward the door, hardly knowing what to expect. then, as i looked, i saw step into the bright moonlight, the corpse that a few moments before i had seen lying in the coffin downstairs! "frantic with fear, i rushed at the corpse, still shrouded, as it was, in the white wrappings which, torn and dishevelled, still enveloped the body. i raised one hand as though to strike the ghost, and thrust the hateful thing from me; when i felt a stunning blow on the point of my jaw, and a moment later i had lost sensibility. when i awoke, you were all round me. you know the rest." to make a long story short, it turned out that the supposed "corpse" was not really dead at all, but in a sort of trance; and had been buried prematurely. he had revived in the night; and was advancing into the church when he encountered bradlaugh in the doorway. thinking him a robber or an assassin, he had struck first; and, being a powerful man and a good boxer, he had knocked out bradlaugh by a blow on the jaw. when we arrived in the morning, we found bradlaugh senseless, and the "corpse," now stripped of his grave clothes, bending over him, dashing cold water in his face! a haunted house in france the following case, said to be authentic, is quoted here because of the incident of the "shouts and laughter" which were heard, and which serve to throw an interesting sidelight on the case which follows it. the rev. f. g. lee, in his book, _sights and shadows_, gives the following account, sent to him, of a haunted house in france: "in the spring of the year , great excitement was occasioned by a disembodied spirit in a haunted house in leport, at nice. this is situated in a terrace close to the quarries, where, after the reports concerning it, as many as two thousand persons were often gathered round it. the spirits haunting it--never visible, however--would beat the inmates so unmercifully that the blows would leave bruises. hundreds of persons saw the result, and testified to the undoubted facts. the local police, on being appealed to, and having heard the evidence of numerous eye-witnesses, and of those persons who were inconvenienced, formed a body of organized inquirers, who, shrewd enough in mundane matters, utterly failed to discover anything or anybody. "on one occasion, thirteen men sat up in three rooms which had been well lighted, and some of them played cards for several hours to while away the time. during the whole of this occurrence, the strangest noises were heard in various parts of the building. it seemed, at one time, as if a whole regiment of soldiers were tramping up the chief staircase. pictures swung to and fro upon the walls, without any visible motive effect.[ ] then heavy blows were heard on the walls, and it appeared that the closed doors and the shutters were being violently struck and thumped, as if with a large hammer wrapped in cloth. [ ] this is a common feature of haunted houses.--h.c. "on two occasions, a room on the ground floor was found to be in the densest darkness, though outside the house the sun was shining. on another occasion, just before midnight, when certain persons were specially present to note any supernatural occurrences, all the lamps in the house were suddenly put out; while shouts and laughter were heard in every part of the place, more particularly from the empty rooms. at the same time, heavy blows were experienced by those present, who were very severely bruised, and a large bottle of ink was thrown by invisible hands from the top of the staircase. "every attempt was made to discover the source of these extraordinary disorders, but without avail. they were reported to have ceased for several months, but to have commenced again at a later period. a local communication says that they still 'occur at intervals.'" a haunted house in georgia the following account is taken from the report of the san francisco _examiner_, and is certainly one of the most striking cases of the character on record. it is not put forward as strictly "evidential," but its interesting nature certainly warrants its insertion in this volume. "soon after the walsinghams took up their abode in their new home, they began to be disturbed by strange sounds and odd phenomena. these disturbances generally took the form of noises in the house after the family had retired and the lights had been extinguished--continual banging of the doors, things overturned, the doorbell rang, and the annoying of the house dog, a large and intelligent mastiff. "one day don cæsar, the mastiff, was found in the hallway barking furiously and bristling with rage, while his eyes seemed directed to the wall just before him. at last he made a spring forward with a hoarse yelp of ungovernable fury, only to fall back as if flung down by some powerful and cruel hand. upon examination it was found that his neck had been broken. "the house cat, on the contrary, seemed rather to enjoy the favor of the ghost, and would often enter a door as if escorting some visitor, whose hand was stroking her back. she would also climb about a chair, rubbing herself and purring as if well pleased at the presence of some one in the seat. she and don cæsar invariably manifested this eccentric conduct at the same time, as though the mysterious being were visible to both of them. "the annoying visitant finally took to arousing the family at all hours of the night by making such a row as to render any rest impossible. "this noise, which consisted of shouts, groans, hideous laughter, and a peculiar, most distressing wail, would sometimes proceed, apparently, from under the house, sometimes from the ceiling and at other times in the very room in which the family was seated. one night miss amelia walsingham, the young lady daughter, was engaged at her toilet, when she felt a hand softly laid on her shoulder. thinking it her mother or sister, she glanced at the glass before her, only to be thunderstruck at seeing the mirror reflect no form but her own, though she could plainly see a man's broad hand lying on her arm. "she brought the family to her by her screams, but when they reached her all sign of the mysterious hand had gone. mr. walsingham himself saw footsteps form beside his own while walking through the garden after a light rain. "the marks were those of a man's naked feet, and fell beside his own, as if the person walked at his side. "matters grew so serious that the walsinghams became frightened, and talked of leaving the house, when an event took place which confirmed them in this determination. the family was seated at the supper table with several guests who were spending the evening when a loud groan was heard in the room overhead. "this was, however, nothing unusual, and very little notice was taken of it until one of the visitors pointed out a stain of what looked like blood on the white table cloth, and it was seen that some liquid was slowly dripping on the table from the ceiling overhead. this liquid was so much like freshly-shed blood that it horrified those who watched its slow dropping. mr. walsingham, with several of his guests, ran hastily upstairs and into the room directly over the one in which the blood was dripping. "a carpet covered the floor, and nothing appeared to explain the source of the ghastly rain; but, anxious to satisfy themselves thoroughly, the carpet was immediately ripped up, and the boarding found to be perfectly dry, and even covered with a thin layer of dust, and all the while the floor was being examined the persons below could swear the blood never ceased to drop. a stain the size of a dinner-plate was formed before the drops ceased to fall. this stain was examined the next day under the microscope, and was pronounced by competent chemists to be human blood. "the walsinghams left the house next day, and since then the place has been apparently given over to spooks and evil spirits, which make the night hideous with the noise of revel, shouts and furious yells. hundreds from all over this county and adjacent ones have visited the place, but few have had the courage to pass the night in the haunted house. one daring spirit, however, horace gunn, of savannah, accepted a wager that he could not spend twenty-four hours in it, and did so, though he declares that there is not enough money in the country to make him pass another night there. he was found the morning after by his friends with whom he made the wager, in a swoon. he has never recovered from the shock of his horrible experience, and is still confined to his bed suffering from nervous prostration. "his story is that shortly after nightfall he endeavored to kindle a fire in one of the rooms, and to light the lamp with which he had provided himself, but to his surprise and consternation, found it impossible to do either. an icy breath, which seemed to proceed from some invisible person at his side, extinguished each match as he lighted it. at this peculiarly terrifying turn of affairs mr. gunn would have left the house and forfeited the amount of his wager, a considerable one, but he was restrained by the fear of ridicule. he steadied himself in the dark with what calmness he could, and waited developments. "for some time nothing occurred, and the young man was half-dozing, when, after an hour or two, he was brought to his feet by a sudden yell of pain or rage that seemed to come from under the house. this appeared to be the signal for an outbreak of hideous noises all over the house. the sound of running feet could be heard scurrying up and down the stairs, hastening from one room to another, as if one person fled from the pursuit of a second. this kept up for nearly an hour, but at last ceased altogether, and for some time mr. gunn sat in darkness and quiet, and had about concluded that the performance was over for the night. at last, however, his attention was attracted by a white spot that gradually appeared on the opposite wall. "the spot continued to brighten, until it seemed a disc of white fire, when the horrified spectator saw that the light emanated from and surrounded a human head, which, without a body, or any visible means of support, was moving slowly along the wall, about the height of a man from the floor. this ghastly head appeared to be that of an aged person, though whether male or female it was difficult to determine. the hair was long and gray, and matted together with dark clots of blood, which also issued from a deep jagged wound in one temple. the cheeks were fallen in and the whole face indicated suffering and unspeakable misery. the eyes were wide open, and gleamed with an unearthly fire, while the glassy eyes seemed to follow the terror-stricken gunn, who was too thoroughly paralyzed by what he saw to move or cry out. finally, the head disappeared and the room was once more left in darkness, but the young man could hear what seemed to be half a dozen persons moving about him, while the whole house shook as if rocked by some violent earthquake. "the groaning and the wailing that broke forth from every direction was something terrific, and an unearthly rattle and banging as of china or tin pans being flung to the ground floor from the upper story added to the deafening noise. gunn at last roused himself sufficiently to try and leave the haunted house. feeling his way along the wall, in order to avoid the beings, whatever they were, that filled the room, the young man had nearly succeeded in reaching the door when he found himself seized by the ankle and was violently thrown to the floor. he was grasped by icy hands, which sought to grip him about the throat. he struggled with his unseen foe, but was soon overpowered and choked into insensibility. when found by his friends, his throat was black with the marks of long, thin fingers, armed with cruel, curved nails. "the only explanation which, can be found for these mysterious manifestations is that about three months before, a number of bones were discovered on the walsingham place, which some declared even then to be those of a human being. mr. walsingham pronounced them, however, to be an animal's, and they were hastily thrown into an adjacent limekiln. it is supposed to be the outraged spirit of a person to whom they belonged in life which is now creating such consternation." shaken by a ghost the following narrative is vouched for by mrs. h. s. iredell, of tunbridge wells, england, a relative of the rev. dr. lee, who gives the case in his _sights and shadows_: "the haunted house in question is near wandsworth common. the late occupants of it were a man, his wife and their child. they had to leave it, for they could get no rest in it at night for the fearful noises which went on incessantly, like sounds as of a sledge-hammer wrapped in flannel struck against the walls. the sister-in-law of the late occupants, who told me of it, had spent some days at the house, so i heard all the story first-hand. one night she likewise felt as if someone had taken her by the shoulders and she was being roughly shaken from side to side. her husband, who was with her, saw her at the time she was being shaken by an invisible power, stretched out his hand to take hold of her; but he felt right up his arm to his shoulder a _shock_, as it were of electricity, which made him instantly draw back and cry out. nothing was ever seen, but in the special sleeping-room which seemed to be haunted, the clothes used to be pulled off the bed at night and thrown on the floor, and then they used to raise or rear themselves up again on the bed.... "since the above was written, it is reported, that no less than five families have respectively occupied the house as tenants, who one and all have left it as soon as possible. it is now said to be permanently untenanted." * * * * * this case is given because of the incident of the "electric shock" which the percipient received, when attempting to interfere with the "spirit"; and serves as an interesting modern and apparently well-authenticated instance of what occurred in lytton's story, which follows. the house and the brain bulwer lytton's story, "the house and the brain," is, perhaps, the most remarkable ghost story of this character on record, and is considered, by many, the best ever written. the phenomena occur in a house which is reputed to be haunted; no one will live in it. at last one brave soul determines to pass the night within its walls; he and his servant take up their abode in it, and, after various startling adventures of a minor character, the "grand climax" of the night is reached. as the author sat reading by the fire, the following occurred, which is told in his own words: "i now became aware that something interposed between the page and the light--the page was over-shadowed; i looked up, and i saw what i shall find it very difficult, perhaps impossible, to describe. "it was a darkness shaping itself forth from the air in very undefined outline. i cannot say it was a human form, and yet it had more resemblance to a human form, or rather shadow, than to anything else. as it stood, wholly apart and distinct from the air and light around it, its dimensions seemed gigantic, the summit nearly touching the ceiling. while i gazed, a feeling of intense cold seized me. an iceberg could not more have chilled me; nor could the cold of an iceberg have been more purely physical. i feel convinced that it was not the cold caused by fear. as i continued to gaze, i thought--but this i cannot say with precision--that i distinguished two eyes looking on me from the height. one moment i fancied that i distinguished them clearly; the next they seemed gone; but still two rays of pale blue light frequently shot through the darkness, as from the height on which, i half believed, half doubted, that i had encountered the eyes. "i strove to speak--my voice utterly failed me; i could only think to myself, is this fear? it is _not_ fear! i strove to rise; in vain; i felt weighed down by an irresistible force. indeed, my impression was that of an immense and overwhelming power opposed to my volition; that sense of utter inadequacy to cope with a force beyond man's, which one may feel _physically_ in a storm at sea, in a conflagration, or when confronting some terrible wild beast--or rather, perhaps, the shark of the ocean, i felt _morally_. opposed to my will was another will, as far superior to its strength as storm, fire and shark are superior in material force to the force of man. "and now--as this impression grew on me--now came, at last, horror--horror of a degree that no words can convey. still i retained pride, if not courage; and in my own mind i said: 'this is horror, but it is not fear; unless i fear i cannot be harmed; my reason rejects this thing; it is an illusion--i do not fear.' with a violent effort i succeeded at last in stretching out my hand towards the weapon on the table; as i did so, on the arm and shoulder i received a strange shock, and my arm fell to my side powerless. and now, to add to my horror, the light began slowly to wane from the candles--they were not, as it were, extinguished, but their flame seemed very gradually withdrawn--it was the same with the fire; the light was extinguished from the fuel; in a few minutes the room was in utter darkness. the dread that came over me, to be thus in the dark with that thing, whose power was so intensely felt, brought on a reaction of nerve. in fact, terror had reached that climax, that either my senses must have deserted me, or i must have burst through the spell. i _did_ burst through it. i found voice, though the voice was a shriek. i remember that i broke forth with words like these--'i do not fear, my soul does not fear'; and at the same time i found the strength to rise. still in that profound gloom i rushed to one of the windows--tore aside the curtain--flung open the shutters; my first thought was--light. and when i saw the moon high, clear and calm, i felt a joy that almost compensated me for my previous terror. there was the moon; there also was the light from the gas lamps in the deserted, slumberous street. i turned to look back into the room; the moon penetrated its shadow very palely and partially--but still there was light. the dark thing, whatever it might be, was gone--except that i could yet see a dim shadow, which seemed the shadow of that shade against the opposite wall. "my eye now rested on the table, and from under the table (which was without cloth or cover--an old mahogany round table) there rose a hand, visible as far as the wrist. it was a hand, seemingly, as much of flesh and blood as my own, but the hand of an aged person--lean, wrinkled, small too--a woman's hand. that hand very softly closed on the two letters that lay on the table; hand and letters both vanished. then there came the same three loud, measured knocks i had heard on the bed-head before this extraordinary drama commenced. "as these sounds slowly ceased, i felt the whole room vibrate sensibly; and at the far end there rose, from the floor, sparks or globules, like globules of light, many colored--green, yellow, fire-red, azure. up and down, to and fro, hither, thither, as tiny will o' the wisps, the sparks moved, slow and swift, each at its own caprice. a chair (as in the drawing-room below) was now advanced from the wall without apparent agency, and placed at the opposite side of the table. suddenly, as forth from the air, there grew a shape, a woman's shape. it was distinct as a shape of life--ghastly as the shape of death. the face was that of youth, with a strange, mournful beauty; the throat and shoulders were bare; the rest of the form in a loose robe of cloudy white. it began sleeking its long, yellow hair, which fell over its shoulders; its eyes were not turned towards me, but to the floor; it seemed listening, watching, waiting. the shadow of the shade in the background grew darker; and again i thought i saw the eyes gleaming out from the summit of the shadow--eyes fixed upon that shape. "as if from the door, though it did not open, there grew out another shape, equally distinct, equally ghastly--a man's shape--a young man's. it was in the dress of the last century, or rather the likeness to such dress (for both the male and the female, though defined, were evidently unsubstantial, impalpable, simulacra, phantasms), and there was something incongruous, grotesque, yet fearful in the contrast between the elaborate finery, the courtly precision of that old-fashioned garb, with its ruffles and lace and buckles, and the corpse-like aspect and ghost-like stillness of the flitting wearer. just as the male shape approached the female, the dark shadow started from the wall, and all three for a moment were wrapped in darkness. when the pale light returned, the two phantasms were as if in the grasp of the shadow, that towered between them, and there was a blood stain on the breast of the female; and the phantom male was leaning on its phantom sword, and blood seemed trickling fast from the ruffles, from the lace; and the darkness of the intermediate shadow swallowed them up--they were gone. and again the bubbles of light shot, and sailed, and undulated, growing thicker and thicker and more wildly confused in their movements. "the closet door to the right of the fireplace now opened, and from the aperture there came the form of an aged woman. in her hand she held letters--the very letters over which i had seen the hand close; and behind her i heard a footstep. she turned round as if to listen, and then she opened her letters and seemed to read; and over her shoulder i saw a livid face, the face of a man long drowned--bloated, bleached--seaweed tangled in its dripping hair, and at her feet lay a form as of a corpse, and beside the corpse there towered a child, a miserable, squalid child, with famine in its cheeks and fear in its eyes. and as i looked in the old woman's face, the wrinkles and lines vanished; and it became the face of youth--hard-eyed, stony, but still youth; and the shadow darted forth and darkened over these phantoms as it had darkened over the last. "nothing now was left but the shadow, and on that my eyes were intently fixed, till again eyes grew out of the shadow--malignant, serpent eyes. and the bubbles of light again rose and fell, and in their disordered, irregular, turbulent maze, mingled with the wan moonlight. and now from these globules themselves, as from the shell of an egg, monstrous things burst out; the air grew filled with them; larvæ so bloodless and so hideous that i can in no way describe them except to remind the reader of the swarming life which the solar microscope brings before the eyes in a drop of water--things transparent, supple, agile, chasing each other, devouring each other--forms like nought ever beheld by the naked eye. as the shapes were without symmetry, so their movements were without order. in their very vagrancies there was no sport; they came round me and round; thicker and faster and swifter, swarming over my head, crawling over my right arm, which was outstretched in involuntary command against all evil things. sometimes i felt myself touched, but not by them; invisible hands touched me. once i felt the clutch of cold, soft fingers at my throat, i was still equally conscious that if i gave way to fear i should be in bodily peril; and i concentrated all my faculties in the single focus of resisting, stubborn will. and i turned my sight from the shadow--above all, from those strange serpent eyes--eyes that had now become distinctly visible. for there, though in nought else round me, i was aware that there was a will, and a will of intense, creative, working evil, which might crush down my own. "the pale atmosphere in the room began now to redden as if in the air of some near conflagration. the larvæ grew lurid as things that live on fire. again the room vibrated; again i heard the three measured knocks; and again all things were swallowed up in the darkness of the dark shadow--as if out of that darkness all had come, into that darkness all had returned. "as the gloom receded, the shadow was wholly gone. slowly, as it had been withdrawn, the flame grew again into the candles on the table, again into the fuel in the grate.... "the room came once more calmly, healthfully into sight. "nothing more chanced for the rest of the night. nor, indeed, had i long to wait before the dawn broke...." appendix a historical ghosts royalty and well-known personages have seen ghosts in all ages of the world's history; certainly they are not exempt from the common run of humanity so far as ghostly visitations are concerned! mr. stead has compiled a number of notable cases of this character, of which the following are probably the most noteworthy: royal _henry iv._ of france told d'aubigne that, in the presence of himself, the archbishop of lyons, and three ladies of the court, the queen (margaret of valois) saw the apparition of a certain cardinal afterwards found to have died at the moment. _abel the fratricide_, king of denmark, still haunts the woods of poole, near the city of sleswig. _valdemar iv._ haunts gurre wood, near elsinore. _charles xi._, of sweden, accompanied by his chamberlain and state physician, witnessed the trial of the assassin of gartavus iii., which occurred nearly a century later. _james iv._, of scotland, was warned by an apparition against his intended expedition into england. he, however, proceeded and fell at flodden field. _charles i._, of england, was also warned by an apparition, but paying no heed, was disastrously defeated at naseby. _queen elizabeth_ is said to have been warned of her death by the apparition of her own double. emperors _trajan_ and _caracalla_ both saw apparitions, which they recorded. _theodosius_ and _julian the apostate_ both beheld apparitions, at important crises in their lives. famous men _sir robert peel_ and his brother both saw lord byron in london when he was in reality lying dangerously ill of a fever in patras. during the same fever, he also appeared to others. _julius caesar_, _xerxes_, _drusus_, _pausanius_, _dio_ (general of syracuse), _admiral coligni_ all saw apparitions, which made a deep impression on them in every case. _napoleon_, at st. helena, saw and conversed with the apparition of josephine, who warned him of his approaching death. _blucher_, on the day of his death, was also told of it by an apparition. _general garfield_ saw and conversed with his father, latterly deceased. _lincoln_ had a certain premonitory dream which occurred three times in relation to important battles, and the fourth on the eve of his assassination. _dante_, son of the poet, was visited in a dream by his father, who conversed with him and told him (correctly) where to find the missing thirteen cantos of the "commedia." _goethe_ saw his own double riding by his side under conditions which really occurred years later. _tasso_ saw and conversed with beings invisible to those about him. _cellini_ was dissuaded from suicide by the apparition of a young man who frequently visited and encouraged him. _mozart_ was visited by a mysterious person who ordered him to compose a _requiem_, and came frequently to inquire after its progress, but disappeared on its completion, which occurred just in time for its performance at his own funeral. _ben johnson_ was visited by the apparition of his eldest son with the mark of a bloody cross upon his forehead at the moment of his death by the plague. _thackery_ wrote: "it is all very well for you who have probably never seen spirit manifestations to talk as you do, but had you seen what i have witnessed you would hold a different opinion." _hugh miller_, _maria edgeworth_, _captain marryat_, _madame de stael_, _sir humphrey davy_, _william harvey_, _francis bacon_, _martin luther_, _george fox_, _cardinal newman_, _bishop wilberforce_, and many others have seen apparitions, or held converse with the unseen world in one form or another, as recorded by themselves. among the famous historical hauntings, we must not forget to mention the famous _cock lane ghost_ which occurred about . according to a brief paragraph printed in the _london ledger_, , we read that: "for some time a great knocking having been heard in the night, at the officiating parish clerk's of st. sepulchre's, in cock lane near smithfield, to the great terror of the family, and all means used to discover the meaning of it having failed, four gentlemen sat up there last friday night, among whom was a clergyman standing withinside the door, who asked various questions. on his asking whether anyone had been murdered, no answer was made; but on his asking whether anyone had been poisoned, it knocked one and thirty times. the report current in the neighborhood is that a woman was some time ago poisoned, and buried in st. john's clerkenwell, by her brother-in-law." these knockings and phenomena occurred for a considerable time, until the whole community became interested in the manifestations. while various theories were advanced at the time--and since--to explain this ghost, no definite conclusion has ever been arrived at. the _drummer of tedworth_ is a still older and equally famous ghost, who flourished about a hundred years before the cock lane ghost, and was investigated (and the results carefully recorded) by sir joseph glanvil, f.r.s., who wrote a book about the case: "_sadducismus triumphatus_," which was also devoted to the general phenomena of witchcraft. here, also, we find records of unaccountable "knockings" and similar phenomena, which lasted for a considerable time, and which have never yet been explained. the ghost which invaded _john wesley's_ house stayed with them for several years, and manifested his presence in a variety of elaborate and ingenious ways. those who are interested in this ghost and his doings should read wesley's _journal_; also the various discussions, _pro_ and _con._, which have appeared in the _proceedings_ of the society for psychical research, from time to time. it is a most curious and suggestive record. the _devils of loudon_ might also be cited as an interesting case of psychic phenomena; and here trance, automatic speech, etc., were observed--as well as the usual physical phenomena. this is perhaps one of the earliest cases which was closely observed, and in which skeptical criticism was applied. this case will be found recorded in mr. h. addington bruce's "_historic ghosts and ghost hunters_." appendix b the phantom armies seen in france history abounds in cases showing the apparent intrusion of spiritual help in time of trouble, and in the annals of military history, these accounts are not lacking. on several occasions, the crusaders thought that they saw angelic hosts fighting for them--phantom horsemen charging the enemy, when their own utter destruction seemed imminent. in the wars between the english and the scotch, several such cases were cited, and the napoleonic wars also furnished examples. but the most striking evidence of this character--because the newest--and supported, apparently, by a good deal of first-hand and sincere testimony, is that afforded by the phantom armies seen in france during the retreat of the british army from mons--the field of agincourt. cut off by overwhelming numbers, and all but annihilated, the british army fought desperately, but the , were opposed by , germans, backed by a terrific fire of artillery, and were indeed in a critical position. they were only saved, as we know, by the heroism of a small force of men--a rearguard--who were practically wiped out in consequence. at the most critical moment came what appeared to be angelic assistance. the tide of battle seemed to be stemmed by supernatural means. in a letter written by a soldier who actually witnessed these startling events, quoted by the hon. mrs. st. john mildmay (_north american review_, august, ), the following graphic account is given. our soldier writes-- "the men joked at the shells and found many funny names for them, and had bets about them, and greeted them with music-hall songs, as they screamed in this terrific cannonade.... the climax seemed to have been reached, but 'a seven-times heated hell' of the enemy's onslaught fell upon them, rending brother from brother. at that very moment, they saw from their trenches a tremendous host moving against their lines. five hundred of the thousand (who had been detailed to fight the rear-guard action) remained, and as far as they could see the german infantry was pressing on against them, column by column, a grey world of men-- , of them, as it appeared afterwards. there was no hope at all. some of them shook hands. one man improvised a new version of the battle song tipperary, ending 'and we shan't get there!' and all went on firing steadily.... the enemy dropped line after line, while the few machine guns did their best. everyone knew it was of no use. the dead grey bodies lay in companies and battalions, but others came on and on, swarming and advancing from beyond and beyond. "'world without end, amen,' said one of the british soldiers, with some irreverence, as he took aim and fired. then he remembered a vegetarian restaurant in london, where he had once or twice eaten queer dishes of cutlets made of lentils and nuts that pretended to be steaks. on all the plates in this restaurant a figure of st. george was printed in blue with the motto, _adsit anglis sanctus georgius_ (may st. george be a present help to england!) the soldier happened to know 'latin and other useless things,' so now, as he fired at the grey advancing mass, yards away, he uttered the pious vegetarian motto. he went on firing to the end, till at last bill on his right had to clout him cheerfully on the head to make him stop, pointing out as he did so that the king's ammunition cost money and was not lightly to be wasted.... for, as the latin scholar uttered his invocation, he felt something between a shudder and an electric shock pass through his body. the roar of the battle died down in his ears to a gentle murmur, and instead of it, he says, he heard a great voice louder than a thunder peal, crying 'array! array!' his heart grew hot as a burning coal, then it grew cold as ice within him, for it seemed to him a tumult of voices answered to the summons. he heard or seemed to hear thousands shouting: "'_st. george! st. george!_ "'_ha! messire, ha! sweet saint, grant us good deliverance!_ "'_st. george for merrie england!_ "'_harow! harow! monseigneur st. george, succour us, ha! st. george! a low bow, and a strong bow, knight of heaven, aid us!_' "as the soldier heard these voices, he saw before him, beyond the trench, a long line of shapes with a shining about them. they were like men who drew the bow, and with another shout their cloud of arrows flew singing through the air toward the german host. the other men in the trenches were firing all the while. they had no hope, but they aimed just as if they had been shooting at bisley. "suddenly one of these lifted up his voice in plain english. 'gawd help us,' he bellowed to the man next him, 'but we're bloomin' marvels! look at those grey gentlemen! look at them! they're not going down in dozens or hundreds--its _thousands_ it is! look, look! there's a regiment gone while i'm talking to ye!' "'shut it,' the other soldier bellowed, taking aim. 'what are ye talkin' about?' but he gulped with astonishment even as he spoke, for indeed the grey men were falling by the thousands. the english could hear the guttural scream of their revolvers as they shot, and line after line crashed to the earth. all the while the latin-bred soldier heard the cry 'harow, harow! monseigneur! dear saint! quick to our aid! st. george help us!' "the singing arrows darkened the air, the hordes melted before them. 'more machine guns,' bill yelled to tom. 'don't hear them,' tom yelled back, 'but thank god, anyway, that they have got it in the neck!' "in fact, there were ten thousand dead german soldiers left before that salient of the english army, and consequently--_no sedan_. in germany the general staff decided that the english must have employed turpenite shells, as no wounds were discernible on the bodies of the dead soldiers. but the man who knew what nuts tasted like when they called themselves steak, knew also that st. george had brought his agincourt bowmen to help the english." such accounts have been confirmed by others. thus, miss phyllis campbell, writing in "_the occult review_" (october, ), says: "i tremble, now that it is safely past, to look back on the terrible week that brought the allies to vitry-le-francois. we had not had our clothes off for the whole of that week, because no sooner had we reached home, too weary to undress, or to eat, and fallen on our beds, than the 'chug-chug' of the commandant's car would sound into the silence of the deserted street, and the horn would imperatively summon us back to duty--because, in addition to our duties as _ambulancier auxiliare_, we were interpreters to the post, now at this moment diminished to half-a-dozen. "returning at . in the morning, we stood on the end of the platform, watching the train crawl through the blue-green mist of the forest, into the clearing, and draw up with the first wounded from vitry-le-francois. it was packed with dead and dying and badly wounded. for a time we forgot our weariness in a race against time--removing the dead and dying, and attending to those in need. i was bandaging a man's shattered arm with the _majeur_ instructing me, while he stitched a horrible gap in his head, when madame de a----, the heroic president of the post, came and replaced me. 'there is an english in the fifth wagon,' she said. 'he wants something--i think a holy picture!' "the idea of an english soldier wanting a holy picture struck me, even in that atmosphere of blood and misery, as something to smile at--but i hurried away. 'the english' was a lancashire fusilier. he was propped in a corner, his left arm tied-up in a peasant woman's handkerchief, and his head newly bandaged. he should have been in a state of collapse from loss of blood, for his tattered uniform was soaked and caked in blood, and his face paper-white under the dirt of conflict. he looked at me with bright, courageous eyes and asked for a picture or a medal (he didn't care which) of st. george. i asked him if he was a catholic. 'no,' he was wesleyan methodist, ... and he wanted a picture or a medal of st. george, _because he had seen him on a white horse_, leading the british at vitry-le-francois, when the allies turned. "there was an f.r.a. man, wounded in the leg, sitting beside him on the floor; he saw my look of amazement, and hastened in: 'it's true, sister,' he said. 'we all saw it. first there was a sort of yellow-mist like, sort of risin' before the germans as they came on the top of the hill--come on like a solid wall, they did--springing out of the earth just solid--no end to 'em! i just give up. no use fighting the whole german race, thinks i; it's all up with _us_. the next minute comes this funny cloud of light, and when it clears off, there's a tall man with yellow hair in golden armour, on a white horse, holding his sword up, and his mouth open as if he was saying: "come on, boys! i'll put the kybosh on the devils!" sort of "this is my picnic" expression. then, before you could say "knife," the germans had turned, and we were after them, fighting like ninety....' "'where was this?' i asked. but neither of them could tell. they had marched, fighting a rearguard action, from mons, till st. george had appeared through the haze of light, and turned the enemy. they both _knew_ it was st. george. hadn't they seen him with a sword on every 'quid' they'd ever seen? the frenchies had seen him too--ask them; but they said it was st. michæl...." much additional testimony of a like nature might be given--and has been collected by students of psychical research. if the spiritual world ever intervenes in matters mundane, it assuredly did so on this occasion. and it could hardly have chosen a more opportune time. could the aspiring thoughts of the dead and dying, and those still living and fighting for their country, have drawn "st. george" to earth, to aid in again redeeming his country from a foreign foe? could a simple "hallucination" have been so widespread and so prevalent? or might there not have been some spiritual energy behind the visions thus seen--stimulating them, and inspiring and encouraging the stricken soldiers? we cannot say. we only know what the soldiers themselves say; and we also know the undoubted effects upon the enemy. for on both occasions were the germans repulsed with terrible slaughter. perhaps the vision of st. george led our soldiers into closer touch and _rapport_ with the consciousness of some high intelligence--or the veil was rent, separating the two worlds--as so often appears to be the case in apparitions and visions of this character. appendix c bibliography ghost stories of an antiquary. m. r. james. wandering ghosts. f. marion crawford. john silence. a. blackwood. modern ghosts. demaupassant, (and others). twenty-five ghost stories. w. bob holland. a book of ghosts. baring gould. the shape of fear. peattie. book of dreams and ghosts. andrew lang. cock lane and common sense. a. lang. real ghost stories. w. t. stead. more ghost stories. w. t. stead. the great amherst mystery. walter hubbell. the bell witch. m. v. ingram. the alleged haunting of b---- house. miss x. haunted houses and haunted men. hon. john harris. ghostly phenomena. elliott o'donnell. byways of ghost land. elliott o'donnell. historic ghosts and ghost hunters. h. a. bruce. posthumous humanity: a study of phantoms. d'assier. apparitions and thought-transference. frank podmore. the new view of ghosts. f. podmore. _proceedings_ and _journals_ of the s. p. r. borderland (magazine). _ed. by_ w. t. stead. haunted houses of great britain. ingraham. the night side of nature. catherine crowe. the house and the brain. bulwer lytton. nightmare tales. h. p. blavatsky. apparitions: a narrative of facts. b. w. saville. startling ghost stories. anon. sights and shadows. f. g. lee. dracula. bram stoker. the phantom of the opera. gaston leroux. [note.--the above list does not pretend to be in any way exhaustive nor are the books quoted in any way equal in evidential value. they are merely types or examples of ghost stories, from various points of view; which, if the reader is interested, he may read with both pleasure and profit.] transcriber's note: small capitals were changed to all capitals. the following missing section headers were added to the table of contents: the ghosts of animals p. , proofs of immateriality p. , and conduct of animals in the house p. ; but minor differences between the section headers in the table of contents and in the text were not corrected. errors in punctuation were corrected. several badly printed words were guessed from the context and filled in. otherwise the original was preserved, including unusual and inconsistent spelling and hyphenation and unmatched double quotation marks. the following corrections were made, on page "par's" changed to "paris" (in london, paris, rome, venice) "occuping" changed to "occupying" (space-occupying entities) "wierd" changed to "weird" (in the still, weird hours of the night) "polteregists" changed to "poltergeists" (technically known as "poltergeists,") "boundry" changed to "boundary" (footfalls on the boundary of another world) "occurence" changed to "occurrence" (mention the occurrence of the night) "mutally" changed to "mutually" (we were mutually sorry to part) "trysing" changed to "trysting" (distance to the trysting place) "exterminalization" changed to "externalization" (what i saw and felt was an externalization of impressions) "lynig" changed to "lying" (while lying there a large glass paper-weight) "gneuine" changed to "genuine" (they never lived in a genuine one) extra blank line removed within poem (to follow and kill,/or make tremble with fear.) "possesed" changed to "possessed" (the whimsical idea now possessed me to arrange the room) "etxent" changed to "extent" (conviction to the same extent as those) "slink" changed to "slunk" (but suddenly slunk away with its tail between its legs) "has" changed to "had" (the impression that it had seen) "fright-than" changed to "frightened than" (far less frightened than on any of my subsequent experiences) "pantasms" changed to "phantasms" (to these phantasms i have given the name) "familiary" changed to "familiarity" (familiarity breeds contempt) "assasin" changed to "assassin" (the trial of the assassin of gartavus iii.) "batallions" changed to "battalions" (companies and battalions) "gutteral" changed to "guttural" (could hear the guttural scream of their revolvers) "vitry-le-francoise" changed to "vitry-le-francois" (draw up with the first wounded from vitry-le-francois). transcriber's note minor punctuation inconsistencies have been silently corrected. variable, archaic and unusual spelling as well as apparent printer's errors have been retained as they appear in the original. the poems "bohemians, hail!" and "sonnet on shares" do not appear in the table of contents. mark up: _italics_ [illustration] spook ballads by w. theodore parkes. _crown vo, cloth gilt, s._ popular edition s. london: simpkin, marshall, hamilton, kent, & co., limited. _and all booksellers._ cheers of the press! "ingoldsby, thomas hood, w. s. gilbert,--these are the names that occur to one in trying to 'place' mr. parkes after reading this volume of rollicking, verbal and pictorial fun. the spook ballads are in no sense imitations of any of those classics of the comic muse, yet we find in them the same thorough abandonment to 'the humour of the thing.'"--_the publisher's circular._ "a substantial volume introducing a comic poet, who in the future may give us a modern ingoldsby. mr. parkes has an intellectual touch to his drollery and his sense of the possible humours of versification is pleasantly keen, the spook ballads is far above the contemporary average of the lighter rhymesters. mr. parkes wields a sprightly pencil, and he has illustrated his verses lavishly and with effect."--_the stage._ "not only are the literary merit of these fantastic ballads of a high order, but the illustrations by the author are of such a humorous nature as to give a unique pleasure to the reader."--_the morning leader._ "well written, well illustrated, and funny is a combination of good qualities not often met with even in the spook world, so messrs. simpkin, marshall, hamilton, kent, and co., ought to be well pleased with their publication."--_the illustrated sporting and dramatic news._ "dealing largely with ghosts and legends embracing a dash of diablerie such as would have been dear to the heart of ingoldsby. there is a rugged force in 'the girl of castlebar' that will always make it tell in recitation; and even greater success in this direction has attended 'the fairy queen,' a story unveiling the seamy side, with quaint humour and stern realism. it is specially worthy of note that mr. parkes's skill in versification has received the warmest acknowledgment from those best qualified to appreciate the bright local coloring as well as the blending of fancy and fun."--_lloyd's weekly newspaper._ "a cheery and spirited production, and full of fun; the style reminds one of 'bon gaultier,' the style and illustrations combined inevitably recall the famous 'bab ballads.' indeed it is hard to say which is the most felicitous, the draughtsman or the poet."--_the bookseller._ "in the attractive spook ballads, the talented irish artist has displayed qualities to a remarkable degree. there are many pieces reciters will be glad to lay hold of, while the ballads and illustrations are full of the pleasing humour which characterises all mr. parkes' work, and which will serve to cheer and to amuse many readers."--_the sun._ "as the combined production of a clever pencil and a clever pen, this volume may be said to be unique. these poems are pure fun of the most entirely frolicsome kind, hung upon the peg of a quaint idea. 'the german band' rises to a really tragic pathos. the illustrations are either quaint, droll, or dainty, or partake of broad caricature."--_the citizen._ "it contains a store of humour that will delight and amuse the reader, who will be sure to re-read the many capital lays. just the thing for reciters. the artist, his own illustrator, shines here as conspicuously as in the kindred branch of authorship."--_british and colonial printer and stationer._ "mr. parkes is clever and polished alike in the expression of humour and pathos. indescribably funny is his story of the deluge as told by 'antediluvian pat o'toole,' and a note of grim tragedy is struck in the tale of 'john mckune.' rollicking lays, many of them admirably adapted for recitation, go to make a delightful book, which has the uncommon merit of being well illustrated by mr. parkes, who is as skilful an artist as he is an author."--_photographic journal._ "spook ballads possess an amount of boisterous humour and variety of quaint versification which make them excellent and refreshing reading. the book owes a good deal of its charm to the author's clever and laughable illustrations which are plentifully besprinkled in its pages."--_the weekly sun_. "there is a good store of pleasant humour in spook ballads, by theodore parkes, who also has a happy gift with the pencil, as witness the illustrations, the fare he provides certainly deserves a really grateful 'grace after meat.'"--_the people._ "in his attractive volume, the spook ballads, mr. theodore parkes has shown himself to be not only an author but an artist of considerable talents."--_weekly budget._ "the fun is good humoured and light-hearted, and better than most popular verse as to rhyme and metre. the illustrations are really clever and range from broad farce to charming little head and tail pieces that are graceful and suggestive."--_borderland._ "---- ballads all of which are undeniably clever. a book which will be gratefully turned to by all who seek occasional relaxation in the best of good company."--_the surveyor._ [illustration] "a clever collection of poems illustrated by their author and deserve great popularity. the author is well known in london literary circles in which he has given several of the pieces here presented as recitations."--_the lamp._ "irrespective of the pleasure to be derived from reading the ballads, the book is well worth obtaining for the author's remarkably clever illustrations."--_south london press._ "a facile flow of versification, keen sense of humour, and a good mastery of english as she is spoke by irish, german and other nationalities, as well as how she should be spoken, characterise this book of ballads. the sketches are well adapted to the themes."--_manchester courier._ "'the colonel and the cook' is not only genuine farce in conception, but felicitous anti-pathos in the execution."--_manchester guardian._ "these ballads are as original and racy and facetious as any i have come across for a long time; parkes's pencil is a lively companion for his pen; the two of them rollick and frolic down page after page in a state of hilarity that would dissipate and dispose of the worst attack of 'blues.' the sun does not shine every day, and when the hour is dark and dreary there will be found enlivement and joviality and wholesome entertainment within the covers of this volume."--_free lance in the weekly irish times._ "if any of our readers wish to enjoy a long and pleasant life let them ask for spook ballads! there is abundance of mirth, fun, wit and merriment in this beautiful volume."--_munster express._ "about as laugh-inspiring verse as perhaps ever issued from the press, the spook ballads are one and all conceived in a most exuberant spirit of drollery. there is a laugh almost in every line, fun galore bubbles through every page. where could one find a more touching combination of humour and pathos than the dedication lines 'bohemians hail!' there are lines in it worthy of some of the best touches of poe. the book is a book for _bon vivants_. it is a veritable ode to conviviality, and its pages teeming with most artistic illustrations. alive with ever-recurring flashes of wit and drollery, will afford many a pleasant hour to all to whom a laugh is welcome."--_united ireland._ "a delightful diverting volume, from cover to cover, of the sixty-one ballads before us; not one halts, they are all boisterous with bubbling mirth and frolic. happy the man who in a moment of ill humour, lights on a copy of spook ballads. fun of this kind is contagious, and before he has dipped far into mr. parkes' pages he will have forgotten his temper or his ennui. the book is full too of social satire, with touches of biting realism."--_the freeman's journal._ "most amusingly humorous verses cleverly and quaintly illustrated, and, like all genuine humour, teaches many a needed and important lesson in morals and the conduct of life, and hits sharp blows at hypocrisy and current shams and humbugs. surely the author must have had jabez balfour and the liberator swindle in his mind when he composed the scathing ballad entitled 'the devil in richmond park.'"--_the christian age._ "this is a very charming and winning volume. everything about the book is an incentive to make a prompt acquaintance with its literary merits. mr. parkes is a consummate artist in verse, and through all runs the same vein of drollery, of pungency, of real humour difficult to resist, and which makes us wish for more, and much more from so entertaining a pen."--_the carlow sentinel._ "a collection of humorous verses quaintly and cleverly illustrated by his own pencil. the author has a broad vein of humour."--_evening news_ (_london_). "when parties perusing this volume have completed its pages they will only regret that it is not double its size."--_the irish times._ "the naivete of the wit is most irresistible, and the humour most amusing. 'the ghost of hampton court' and 'the spirit that held him down' are both decidedly clever, but it is to 'the girl of castlebar,' 'the fairy queen' and 'why did ye die?" we turn for all that is most original and sparkling. the volume itself is as tastefully finished outside as it is wittily furnished and illustrated inside."--_king's county chronicle._ "the spook ballads will greatly amuse the class of readers who prefer a good hearty laugh to the emotions produced by 'paradise lost' or 'hamlet.' the book is crammed with fun of the funniest sort, though it contains many passages which possess a value above mere jollity."--_glasgow herald._ "there is no lack of rollicking fun in the spook ballads. the pieces are always amusing in idea, and the free sweep of the verse has a certain buoyancy which carries a reader pleasantly along."--_the scotsman._ "the humourous drawings are charming, and the figure subjects and decorative designs show great versatility and skill. mr. parkes has a wonderful way of introducing odd expressions, quaint conceits, and grotesque imagery. many a hearty laugh will be got out of the spook ballads."--_the aberdeen journal._ "the illustrations by the author copiously strewn throughout the work are exceedingly clever, and are in themselves enough to commend the book, and will appeal to readers endowed with a particle of humour. altogether the book is the kind to cheer the winter fireside or make the summer holiday slide joyously into autumn."--_kirkudbrightshire advertiser._ "the pages abound in illustrations and marginal etchings, and these display rare artistic skill and a genuine spirit of comicality."--_the derry journal._ "john m'kune is racy of the soil, and rests on something stranger than fiction."--_the tyrone constitution._ the spook ballads. the spook ballads [illustration] by wm. theodore parkes _author of "the barney bradey brochures"_ illustrated by the author london: simpkin, marshall, hamilton, kent & co., limited. contents. the spook ballads page the ghosts of hampton court ye filial sacrifice madame stiffin's ghost sonnet on parting his bouquet the girl of castlebar the german band out of plumb a ward in the chancerie the fairy queen the devil in richmond park saved a most remarkable case a tour to svitzerland joy! on seeing a flying spring the mate of the mary anne an umbrella case the spook of rotten row the magic specs ye curious tayle leather versus law heads and tails the colonel and the cook the spirit that held him down his future state a fight in the phoenix park an abdicated crown tears in law he followed the fox the honest young cashier the road to london antediluvian pat o'toole the lucky sixpence a wallflower sonnet paradoxical words a cantabile on music, art and law woman's tears heraldic fruits the polis and the princess granauille a horror of london town a confidential sonnet a tram car ghost margate sands john mckune i'll go for a sojer ode here! the smuggler's fate the late fitz-binks a fugitive kiss the bedroom curse a gun solo the semi-grand piano canticrank an ill wind blew him good a kleptomaniac's doom caught in the breach the ghost of hiram smike why did ye die? a pretty little land i know how they enlist the kindergarten way [illustration: bohemians, hail!] the daylight dreams of many a time, when song, and rhythmic story, were tuned, and voiced for bigot, and in gay bohemian ears, bring welcome wraiths of joyous nights, thro' whirling clouds of glory; the incense of the social weed, o'er spirit cup that cheers. with hail! to cycle speedmen, and the boaters of dunleary, clontarf, and the harmonic, where we sang with midnight chimes, the smokers of conservatives, and liberal unions cheery, i weave regretful tribute to their jovial social times; for autumn gales of life have blown those festal hours asunder, and scattered far by land and sea, the steps of many a one, and some alas! beneath the sod, for evermore gone under, have left a rainbow thro' the mist of grief that they have won. but slantha! to the hearts, and hands, of those who yet remaining, do carry down traditions of that bright bohemian throng, and slantha! to the soulful sheen, of life-light never waning from old eblana's heaven of her social art, and song. and here's to all bohemians, of whatever rank, or station, whatever tint, or black or tan, or creed you are by birth, sweet voices of the earth's romance, of every land, or nation, hail! brothers, in the carnival of music, song, and mirth: so fill we tankards, or the glass, for draught with lusty cheering, of honor to a crowning toast, with greeting heart and hand, as everlasting goal, for letters, art, and song, and beering, hip, hip, hurrah! vive! hoc! and skoal! to fleet street and the strand! [illustration] [illustration: the ghosts of hampton court] in the following verses, a remarkable supernatural interview is narrated. it is now for the first time launched into publicity, on the authority, and with the approbation of a quaint old friend of mine, professor simon chuffkrust, a savant who has daringly groped his way through certain gloomy mysteries of occult science. the confidential and impressive manner of chuffkrust, is jewelled with eyes of sparkling jet, semitoned behind a screen of moonblue spectacles. his voice is of such convincing suasion, that it is a novel and interesting experience to hear him relate with circumstantial enthusiasm, the ghostly interview afforded him by a fortuitous chance within the interesting grounds of hampton court. his is a testimony most reliable, and calculated to establish as a fact the actual presence of supernatural shadows in that historic locality. it also hints at the necessity, and use, of making the ghost a more familiar study, whereby the belated world would rid itself of much unnecessary fright, consequent on the invariable habit of spasmodically avoiding the familiar advances of the common or bedroom spook. in hampton court i wandered on a twilight evening grey, amidst its mazy precincts i had lost my tourist way, and while i cogitated, on a seat of carven stone, i heard beneath an orange tree, an elongated groan! i crinkled with astonishment, 'twas not a fit of fright, for loud elastic wailings, i have heard at twelve at night, the midnight peace disturbing in the lamplit streets below, but this was uttered in an unfamiliar groan of woe, and hampton court i wot had got some questionable nooks, in which it harboured spectres, and disreputable spooks, in which it shrouded headless queens, and shades of evil kings with ill-conditioned titled knaves, in lemans leading strings. [illustration] i listened! 'twas a voice that cried as 'twere from out the dust of time, that clogged its music, with a husk of mould and rust, a voice that once as tenor, might have won a slight repute, but combination now of asthma, whooping cough, and flute. [illustration] i sauntered towards the orange tree, and lo! the gloaming thro' i saw a man in trunk and hose, and silver buckled shoe, with ruffles and embroidered vest, in wig without a hat, inclining to the contour, which is designated fat. just then the waxing moonlight bloomed behind, and lifed the stain of color thro' him, like a saint upon a window pane, i could not spare such noted chance; so stepping from the gloom, i bowed politely and exclaimed "a spectre i presume?" with glad pathetic wondered look, but still in tones of woe, he answered thus, "alack! ah me i am exactly so" and confidential gleam of hope across his features grew, which gave me courage thus to start a social interview. "i pray of thee to speak, alas! why grims it so with thee? some evil canker nips thy peace, divulge thy wrongs to me, that i may give thee hope, for i am one to sympathize with manhood's lamentation, as with womanhood, her sighs, but ha! mayhap it fits your jest, with elongated groan, to seek to fright me, as i'm here in hampton court alone, to wreck my spirits as of old has been the game of spook," the spectre turned upon me with a sad reproachful look. and cried, "alack! that living men, so long have held it good, to flee from ghosts, and hence the ghost is not yet understood, now as for me, i moan it not, for jest of idle sport, my task, it is as murdered ghost, to haunt in hampton court! i play the victim to a spook, who chucked me down a stair, thro' being caught too near my lady's bedroom unaware." "poor shade of ill mischance!" i sobbed, the while a wayward tear, tricked out along my nose, and lodged upon my tunic here, "i pray that thou would'st tell me all, withholding ne'er a jot, for i might do thee service, in some most unlikely spot," "o blessed chance!" the ghost exclaimed, "thou art the only one of all men else, who spoke me so, they always turn and run! thou art the first, that i have seen drop sympathetic tears, responsive to my moanings, aye for full one hundred years! and so i feel that i can speak in unreserving tone, and give thee cause for this alack! my chronic nightly groan! when i was in my thirties, i engaged to mind the spoons, of colonel sir john bouncer, of the sixty-fifth dragoons, and tho' of lowly stature, i am proud i was by half, more manly than the footman, by step, and chest, and calf. with frontispiece well favored, in a frame of powdered wig, i wot amongst the female sex, i joyed a game of tig, i played the captivating spark, till colonel bouncer caught me jesting with my mistress, and he spake with furious haught, expressed him his disfavor loud, unto my lady thus, "an' thou do not discharge the knave, 'twill cause some future fuss, the cock-a-dandy bantam, pillory graduate, and scoff on manhood, give him notice!" but no, she begged me off. * * * * * it was not long thereafter, an early postman bore a warrant for the colonel, to start for singapore, he sailed, and in the august, 'twas just ten months away he stayed, and he was due in town, upon the first of may, twas on that ninth of august at twelve o'clock at night, 'thro bouncer hall i wandered, to see that all was right; and in my course of searching, to check the silver stock, i chanced upon the key, with which my lady wound the clock, a louis clock she valued, it was on the mantel shelf in her boudoir, her habit was to wind it up herself, i brought it to her bedroom, and scratched a single knock, and asked her through the keyhole, if she had wound the clock. [illustration] my words were scarcely uttered, when from another door, i heard a foot, that should have been that night in singapore! i saw an eye, that should have seen that night a foreign shore, "ha! caitiff knave!!" he shouted, 'twas all i heard, no more, he collared me by neck, and breech, and swept me off the floor, and bore me down the corridor, and hoisting me as light as cork, an act i could not check, he flung me down the oaken stair, and wanton cracked my neck! for that he paid the penalty, one day on tyburn tree, alack! it was the sorest deed, the law could wreak for me for when it made a ghost of him, he came, and sought me out, where haunting at my lady's door, i heard the self-same shout, of "caitiff knave!!" the pity on't! he took me unaware, once more by gripping of my breech, and tossed me down the stair! [illustration] night after night he compassed it, nor recked he who was there but by my crop, and grip of trunks, he bumped me down the stair! thus mortified by evil fate, his widow nightly wept, to hear the periodic row, and scarce a wink she slept; she daily sought to lay his ghost by penance and by prayer, and got a brace of saintly monks, to exorcise the scare with holy water sprinked about, a jot he did not care! but seized me with a fiercer grip, and jocked me down the stair! and mocked the frightened monks, who flew, with fringe of standing hair. at last his widow could not reck his evil conduct there, she moved to otherwhere. the only tenants that remained in bouncer hall, were rats, until 'twas taken down, to build some fashionable flats, and when the workmen moved the stair, i wot he was cut up, to see its broken banisters, upon a cart put up. but vengeance of his hate for me, remained a danger yet, to find a suitable resort, to work it out he set, and tapped the telephone, until he heard of that resort; it is an antient oaken stair, that's here in hampton court, 'twas vacant of a ghost, i faith, a lobby to be let, and with some royal spook, he had a ghostly compact set, and then he brought me here to work, his midnight murder yet. an hour ago, accosting me, says he to me, "prepare! be ready! for once more to-night, i'll crock thee down the stair! [illustration] to-night, a cousin german of the noble house of teck will occupy the bedroom, and i'll have to crack thy neck!" in yonder wing, and up the stairs as high as thou canst go, there is the bedroom, with a door, of casement rather low, and if thou stay a night therein, thy sleep might wake for shock, of scratching on the door, and keyhole cry, to wind your clock, and then the shout of "caitiff knave!" and if thou'rt bold and dare, to peer out on that lobby then, he crocks me down the stair! and leaves thee shivering in thy shirt, with fright and besomed hair! i've heard the county council, for the city weal is rife, i'd hold it as a favor, if thou'ds't intimate that life is perilled on that lobby, and suggest in thy report, that lifts would be more suitable, than stairs in hampton court. [illustration] then with a comprehensive wail of anguish at his fate, he gradually vanished thro' the grating of a gate, and left me sorely puzzled, in a sad reflective state, then up a creeping tree, and spout, with stern resolve of hate compressed within my breast for bouncer's evil ghost i clomb, and slipping thro' the window frame with feline caution dumb, i slid behind a folding screen, and with a craning neck, i listened for the snoring of the colonel van der teck, but not a soul had come that night into the room to rest, there was no cousin german, and the bed was yet unpressed; a knavish and mendacious trick it was of bouncer's ghost, to crack his butler's neck again, but with some beans and toast, i picketed behind the door, on eager ear to catch, the slightest human murmur, thro' the keyhole of the latch, at last it came! the midnight yet, was booming from a clock, when lo! a scratching on the door, and half-way thro' the lock, i heard the question, and with shout, i gave the ghosts a shock, by springing to the lobby, like a chip of blasting rock! and bounded twixt the spectres, with the rage of fighting cock, [illustration] then facing colonel bouncer's ghost, "thou caitiff spook" i cried, "was it for this, that shakespeare wrote, and colonel hampden died? for this! that cromwell lopped a royal head as traitor knave? for this! that all his cuirassiers were sworn to pray and shave? was it for this we lost a world! when george the third was king? for this! that laureates have lived of royal deeds to sing? for this! the printing press was made, torpedoes, dynamite? the iron ships, and bullet proof cuirass to scape the fight? was it for this! we've wove around the world a social net of speaking steel, that thou should'st perpetrate thy murder yet? out! out on thee! as traitor of thine oath unto the crown! by gripping of thy butler, by his breech to jock him down, was it for this! that justice wrung thy neck on tyburn tree, to expiate the direful debt to justice due by thee? for this! did lord macaulay write "the lays of antient rome?" for this! did government send out to bring us jabez home? have we been privileged to pay our swollen rates and tax? and legislative rights imposed upon the noble's backs? for this! was england parcelled out amongst the norman few, that thou should'st haunt in hampton court thy noisome work to do? for this! is london soaring up, to babel flights of flats as cross between a poorhouse, and a prison?--are top hats still worn by busmen, beadles, undertakers, men of prayer! that thou should'st cause the lieges to irradiate their hair, with horror at thy felon work? paugh! out upon thee! there! thou misbegotten sprite! was it for this! we fought and flew, on many a bloody battle field, right on to peterloo? thou gall embittered martinet! what boots it if thou crack thy butler's neck? unto that lock, he'll still be harking back, and grow envigorated, by thy ghastly midnight work, like shooting of the chutes, or breezing down the switchback jerk! "psha! that unto thee!" and i snapped my finger at him "bosh! go, give thy vengeful spirit to contrition, for the wash, and with the soap of keen remorse, erase the stain of blood, from out thy soul, and straight atone, with deeds of useful good, go, croak behind the marble arch, or take a flag and stand in grosvenor square, as captain of a hallelujah band, do anything, but mockery of murder, in the dark, ay even spout in windy speech, from wagons in the park, thou thing of misty cobwebine! thou woman frighter go! and never more be seen again, to make thyself a show. for children's fears, or if thou would'st a manly vengeance dare, pick up this fourteen stone of mine, and jock me down the stair thou idiot spook, thou ill-conditioned cloud concocted sprite with the immortal bard i cry, avaunt! and quit my sight!" so fiercely did i thus denounce, his evil midnight trick, the vigour of the vengeful scowl upon his brow grew sick with quail of deep abasement, to behold a mortal's blood on fire, to beard a felon spook, and ghosts were understood, a transposition of remorse, upon his features came, until he shook before me, in an abject wreck of shame, and cried with tones of keen reproach, "adzooks! alack! ah me! oddsbodikins, well well! heigho! that i should die to see, my ghost derided, with contempt of scoffing stock from thee! but of thy clacking caustic tongue, i prithee give no more, i'll take my passage by a breeze, to-night for singapore, or anywhere the wind may blow, japan! or timbuctoo! to rid me of thy clapper jaw, a flout on thee! adieu!" he then evaporated, and with some pride embued, i turned, for an expression of the butler's gratitude, but he was gone! and from his place, with india rubber shoe, a lamp was flashed upon my face, by number , q, they're never where they're wanted, and that blue, belted elf, did hail me up for trespass, and for shouting to myself! [illustration] [illustration: ye filial sacrafice] he was ye wrothful widowere, unto his child spak he, "thou art not wise in this my son, to court with susan lee, a mayde, ye least that's prattled of, ye safer for her fame, bethink thee, thou art jabez gray, respect thy sire, his name! [decoration] "ye reputation of ye mayde, is dewdrop to ye root of wedded life, that canks ye blight, or ripes ye wholesome fruit, then part thee boy, from susan lee, her ways and lightsome game, as jabez gray, behave thee well, respect thy sire, his name!" [illustration: willow oh and wallow!] ah! well a day, for jabez gray, o wallow was his woe, it stung his heart with pain and rue, that mayden lee should go, alack! ah! me, that such should be, but compensation came, for he was true, as jabez gray, unto his sire, his name. he gave unto ye mayde, ye sore, and sorry last farewell, ye pang unto his crinkled heart, was gall of woe to tell! but from his conscience, filial faith, with healing balsam came his heart unto, for he was true, unto his sire, his name. [illustration] o then 'twas his, 'twas jabez gray's reward and recompense, to hear his sire bespeake ye mayde, in fond and future tense, he pry'd it in ye dark of night, beyond ye garden gate, "i'll wed thee sue, myself, to save thy name from evil prate." [decoration] he heard ye sire bespeak ye mayde, in tender guise, ye same, as he did plead, before ye split, to save ye sire, his name. he heard ye parent, tell to sue, ye lack of manly sense, of him, ye son, and with ye kiss, he spake in future tense. [decoration] ye little month did pass, and then, ye parent wed ye mayde, and this, ye counsel to ye son, in confidence he say'd, "ye spinster sue is now ye wife, of fair and goodly fame, be duteous to her, as ye son respect thy sire, his name!" [illustration] [illustration: madam stiffin's ghost] in burton crescent, on the semi-circle apex there, i lodged some little period up a six flight four foot stair, it came about by freak of chance, 'twas in a cul-de-sac, i found myself one morning, and compelled to tramp it back, whilst blessing gates of london town that bar the traffic yet, i saw a window label, lettered, "lodgings to be let," a gloomy habitation 'twas, to give the nerves the creep! but possibly a comfortable roosting place to sleep, of knockers on its oaken door, it bore a double stock, i took those knockers, and i struck duet of double knock, and just as i was rounding off my rallantando din, the door was gently opened and a lady cried "come in!" i must confess, i fluttered with a flick of some surprise, to see a lady so petite, and with such piercing eyes, an artificial bloom was on her cheek, and nose, and neck, her gown was of a quaint brocade in antique floral check. by transmutating hand of time, and his assistant care, the golden sheen to silver light was paling thro' her hair, and from the dentistry of art, that crowned her rippled chin, she greeted me with pearly smile, the moment i stepped in. i noted on her fingers small, some antique diamond rings, and in her slippers russet brown, she tripped as 'twere on springs, a dainty wrap, completed her little quaintly self, she seemed a living watteau, that stepped from off a shelf. she seemed a living watteau, from out a canvas sprung, she wasn't--no, she wasn't--well you could not call her young. she greeted me upsmiling, with business kindled fire, and volunteered the question, "what rooms do you require?" it wasn't my intention, to move upon that day, my humor was to dawdle, in idle sort of way, so left it to her option, if twenty rooms or one, in earth upon the basement, or garret near the sun. she showed her approbation of my eccentric style, and greeted me politely, with confidential smile, "i have a room, the lodger is yet remaining there, but leaving soon--i'll show it, if you will step the stair.-- she mounted up before me, her little cloak, like wings, did supplement her flexor, and her extensor springs, she paused upon each lobby, to note the pleasing scene, of leaves amongst the chimneys, that lent a tint of green. the sanitary question, she settled with some pains, explained, the county council had just been down the drains, [illustration] and thus discussing features, and questions to be met, we landed on the landing of lodging to be let. upon the door with knuckle she struck a low rum-tin, and tardily was answered by husky voice "come in." to purpose of her visit, he gave a mild assent, which somewhat indicated a debt of backward rent. we entered the apartment, and gaunt, and wan, and scared! from tangle of the blankets, blear-eyed, and towsel-haired, a moment rose the lodger, then underneath the clothes, he snapped himself like oyster, and only left his nose. i took a swift synopsis, again we stepped the stair, she bowed me to her parlour, and all around me there, were virtue objects, suited for curioso sale, art of the reign of louis, and good old chippendale, cameo ware of wedgewood, and worcester bric-a-brac, miniatures of beauties, and oriental lac, a cabinet and tables, in marquetry of buhl, and feminine arrangements, of bombazine and tulle. old mezzotint engravings of regent, buck and lord, between the window curtains, an agèd harpsichord.-- the instrument she fingered, and sang an olden rune, she sang with taste, but slightly, the strings were out of tune, she warbled of the regent, of sheridan and burke, buck nash, and of beau brummel, and of the fatal work, enacted in a duel, then struck a broken string, and with a sigh she faltered, and then she ceased to sing. i told her, composition of song, was in my line, then, with a look intended as tender and divine, and mode of days of brummel, in manner and in style, she lauded up the bedroom with captivating smile, electro-biologic, magnetic in her glance, she fixed me like a medium, as tenant in advance! * * * * * i entered occupation, as soon as i could get, and everything in order, was for my comfort set, the room was daily garnished, and swept, my bed was made, in this was comprehended the lot for which i paid, my daily mastication, in public grill was frayed, monotonous, and easy, with quiet self-content, i went and came in silence, in silence came and went, was no domestic welcome when i came in, not one! and in the morning ditto, till i was up and gone. no sound of brush or bucket! no jar of door, or delph! no foot upon the stairs, except the pair i have myself! no smutty wench to greet me with cloud of dusty mat! no snarl of vicious lap dog, or hiss of humping cat! no slavey whiting up the steps, did ever strike my sight! yet everything was fixed for me, when i came home at night! [illustration] but often on my pillow, when darkness was my ward, i heard the muffled numbers of distant harpsichord! i heard a plaintive ballad, to measured cadence set, of long ago, that sounded for lordly minuet! in wierdly notes it fluttered and lingered on the wing, with wailing for the duel! the sigh! and broken string! * * * * * but once when i was taking a smoking circumflex, around the burton crescent, and just at its apex, i heard a voice behind me, that put me on some toast, "look! there's the man, that's living with madame stiffin's ghost!" i turned, and in the lamplight, distinctly i could see, a woman's dexter finger, was indicating me! "he's living as a lodger, above the second floor of yonder house, that's haunted, with double-knockered door, look! isn't he a cough-drop? it's only such a scare, would live in such a lodging, with madam stiffin there!" i never felt so worried at anything before! could scarcely find the keyhole of double-knockered door, and up the stairs i tottered, as in a walking trance, next morning, she'd be coming for payment in advance, next morning, at the striking of twelve upon the clock, i started from my slumber, it was her double knock! i jumped up at the summons, and leaping out of bed, i answered, and she entered, and unto her i said, "i'm here thro' false pretences; _i understand you're dead_!" [illustration] a peal of mocking laughter, the little watteau shook, and with her arms akimbo, an attitude she struck, she made an accusation of drink, and with a glance of keen reproach, demanded, her payment in advance! i had already promised myself, that none should boast, of knowing me in future, as tenant of a ghost, so got my cash, pretending to settle there, and then, and just as she was lifting my eagle pointed pen, said i "perhaps you'll give me receipt for also this?" with that i would have tested her presence with a kiss! i think my arm went thro' her, of that i can't be sure, but with the table circuit, she took the bedroom door, i took it quite as quick, and abreviated sight, i caught of her next landing, and on her hasty flight, from lobby down to lobby i chased her like a hare, i tracked her to the kitchen, but lo! she wasn't there! i flew into the area, back up the stairs i flew, in drawing-room and parlour, in every bedroom too, to overtake and seize her, with skidding foot i sped, and under every sofa, and under every bed, i searched,--it was a marvel!--exploited every flue, unlocked a couple of wardrobes and looked them thro' and thro', until in all its horror, the grim conviction grew, i had in fact been lodging unconscious with a spook! i rushed to get my waistcoat, pants, traps, and took my hook! [illustration] [illustration: sonnet on parting] he travelled by the mail, on incognito scale, with cautious care, and reck, of varied tricks of art. for he had made a bag, of most extensive swag, from bank where he was sec., and didn't want to part. but story of his trick, by telegraphic tick, brought him to book, and check, it gave him quite a start, he had it by a neck, 'twas rough to have to part! [illustration] [illustration: his bouquet] it has been proved by more than one observant social philosopher, that the impressionable star gazer of the music halls is one who often scatters rose leaves, and harvests thorns; let us hear what muffkin moonhead has to sing, concerning his own experience. it cost a florin square, her photo i declare, to wear, with care of uttermost esteem, in pocket of my breast, that picture lay at rest, and blest, with zest, that fluttered thro' my dream; my dream of love, where she was posed, in extacy, of gay phantasmagoria, of beauty unto me. [decoration] ten other bobs, i pay, for hothouse plant bouquet, when she, on tree, of pantomimic treat in semi-raiment stood, as geni of the good, i could, and would, down cast them at her feet. the feet of love where she was posed, in extacy, of bright phantasmagoria, of beauty unto me! i took a numbered seat, in stall select, and neat, to treat my sweet! and when she did appear, i flung the flow'rs i wis, she took them, and with this, o bliss a kiss! that thrilled me, while the cheer of gods applaudingly, did greet with storm of glee, the loved phantasmagoria of beauty unto me! [decoration] sweet osculating scene of bouquet, and my queen, and smug chaste hug, of posies to her nose, as poising on her toe, and then subsiding low, a glow flushed so, on my cheek, like a rose, the while she bowed the knee, then skipped away o.p., that lithe phantasmagoria, of beauty unto me! * * * * * i waited by the door, classic door! out they pour, a score, or more, escorting her, i say! and ha! may i be blest, upon each jerkin breast, confest, were drest, the buds of my bouquet! said she to me "ta ta! go home to your mamma!" it wrought the rude evanishment of love of her from me! the moral it is this, don't dally with such bliss, a miss, is kiss unto thee from the play, a kiss for gods, and stall, the pit, and tier, on all to fall and small the fig, for your bouquet, when it has brought the balm, of the applauding palm, she shares it with the supers, and she gives the chill to thee! [illustration] [illustration: the girl of castlebar] the sun was setting in a gloam of purple and gold, as i basked in the grass on the staball hill one autumn evening, the stirring tuck of the tattoo rolled up the slope from the adjacent barracks; it affected me like a tonic, my blood circulated quicker, the spirit of an amateur ghostly seer took possession of me! i felt as one inspired. a scene of early days of anglo-foreign strife rose before me like a wraith of second sight. the tramp of sea-bound red coats, fifes and drums, the woe-mongering cries of parting wives. i saw two lovers on the staball hill, heard their vows. a rhyming fever tingled to my fingers' ends, my only manuscript medium to hand, the stump of a lead pencil, and blank margin of the morning paper. upon that virgin border i jotted the sketch of the following founded on fact ballad. the reader will perceive in it a beautiful inverse lesson of the mutual commotion of two loving hearts. the bugle horn was sounding through the streets of castlebar, and many a gallant soldier, was bound unto the war, and one upon the staball hill, his sweetheart by his side swore many a rounded warlike oath, that she should be his bride. "o maggie!" cried the corporal, "there's war across the sea, and when i'm parted from thee, i would you'd pray for me, and i will tell you what you'll do, when i am far away, you'll come up to the staball, and kneel for me, and pray." and this to him she promised, and this to him she said, "i'll still be ever true to thee, be thou alive, or dead! i'll still be ever true to thee, and o if thou dost fall, thy soul at eve will find me here, upon the old staball." and then he swore a clinker oath, of what a vengeful doom, would him befal, who dared to win her from him, then the bloom came to her cheek again, "o jim i'll never love but you," "i'm blowed but i'm the same!" he cried, and then they tore in two! [illustration] she saw her soldier leaving, she heard the music sweet, of "the girl i left behind me" sounding sadly up the street, she saw the shrieking engine, that bore him far away, then went back to the staball, to weep for him and pray. and as the summer faded, and gloaming nights came round, a maid anon was kneeling, upon that trysting ground, and fearless of the winter, and of its falling snow, that maiden sweet, and constant, unto her tryst would go. till on a certain evening, a stranger in the town, came sauntering up the staball, and found her kneeling down, he tipped her on the shoulder, and speaking soft, and low, "o what on earth possesses you, to pray upon the snow." she told him all her story then, and why so kneeling there, she told him of her sorrowed heart, the object of her prayer, she told him of her soldier lad, so far across the sea, "i'd like to be a soldier lad, with you to love!" said he. said he "you're very lonely: if you have need to pray, i'll come agrah! and help you, with 'amens' if i may, it's very hard acushla! to pray alone each night," and the colleen shyly answered, "she thought perhaps he might." the tryst became more social for while the colleen prayed, the stranger tooted "amens" unto the kneeling maid, until at last he muttered "this pantomime must stop, i'll buy the ring to-morrow, i've got a watch to pop!" [illustration] at length the war was over, she heard the beaten drum, and up again thro' castlebar, the scarlet men did come, and her heart grew cold within her, to think how wroth he'd be to learn she had been faithless, while he was o'er the sea. then, pleading to her husband "o hide yerself!" she said, "aye even up the chimbledy, or undhernate the bed! for if he ketches howld of you, i don't know what he'll do, it's maybe let his gun go off, an' maybe kill the two! i'll try an' coax the grannies, to brake it to him first, for if he's towld it sudden by me, 'twill be the worst, they'll have to put it softly, i cannot be his bride, so while i'm gone to tell them, do you run off an' hide." * * * * * "o break it to him, grannies, the shocking news," she said "that i have wed another, and him i cannot wed! o put it to him gently, for great will be his pain, that we'll never more be meeting on the staball hill again." they broke it to him softly, 'twas in a public bar, a foaming pint before him, and on his brow a scar, they broke it to him gently, and spoke it to him plain, he needn't think to meet her, on the staball hill again. he swigged the pint before him, then heaved a bitter sigh, "what? blow me, your a chaffin'!" "o divil a word o' lie!" then first he took his shako, and tossed it to the roof, then to each nervous grannie, "here take the bloomin' loof." "come, wots yer shout for liquor? it's dooced well!" cried he, "i'm buckled to a blackimoor, i met beyond the sea, "you've taken a load from off of me! my mind is now at par, she wouldn't have left a ribbon on the girl of castlebar!" [illustration] [illustration: the german band] ve are ze vhandering shermans, ve cooms vrom o'er ze sea, ve plays ze lovely music, of all ze great countree, ve all of us have romance, of life, so bigs to say, i'll sing a verse for each man, ze vile ze band vill play. vings zerring zanzeraza, ve cooms from o'er ze sea, ve plays ze lovely music, of all ze great countree. zare's herr von zingerpofel, no prouder man vos he, zan ven he loved ze fraulien afar in shermanie. but ven he found ze noders golds ring upon her hand, he played on ze thriangles, und left ze sherman land! zare's blunder bogle fogen, vot bangs on ze big dhrum, thought all ze poor, und rich man, should own ze even sum; ze government vos differed, but on ze prison valks, he doubled up ze gaoler, und zen, he valked ze chalks! zare's dreker mandertoofel, ze opheclide he plays, he'll never more see nodings, of all his happiest days; he only blows ze music, because it brings ze cheer, of great big pipes of shmokin', und shugs of lager beer! zare's him vot puffs ze oboe, in oder days vos he, of heidelberg, a student ze pride of shermanie, but he did love der lager, zoo mooch of docter-vien, he killed ze man in duel! und he vos no more seen. zare's mungen val tarara, a sherman born in cork, und he vos von too many, because he vould not vork, he left his home von mornings, mit all his back hair curled, he jangs upon ze cymbals, to bring him round ze vorld. now you vill be imagine, zat i must oondherstand, zat i vill tell ze story of leader of ze band, but if i must, i'll speaks it, all in ze simple rune, so i vill stop ze music, ze tale is out of tune! 'twas i vos vonce a uhlan, who rode mit all ze band, zat von alsace, und lorraine, from vrance vor vaterland, ven in ze pits at gravelotte, i lay von night to die, i voke! for i vos faintings to hear ze voman sigh! und shust vere i vas vounded, i saw ze voman's zere, vos bound mine arm from bleeding, mit her own golden hair! she nursed me through ze danger, und ven zere's peace again, i svore zat i vould ved her, ze fraulein of lorraine. i kissed my love von mornings, her vite face on my heart, mit sobs her eyes vos veeping, ze time vos come to part. ze var vas not yet ended, i heard ze thrompet blow, zat i must rise, und answer, und leave ze sveetheart so! mine blood run cold zat mornings, und i felt somedings here, vos in my throat come choking, und on my cheek ze tear, vor o i vould not lose her, ze glory on me now, zat i vos hope to bless me, mit cosette vor mine frau. i marched avay to paris, vere all around vos dire, mit shmoke, und blood, und thunder, und fret, und woe und fire! und ven ze siege vos over, mit thrumpet und mit dhrum, vonce more again thro' lorraine, ze sherman bands did come. i vent to find ze sveetheart, but grass vos on ze slain, ze cruel var had murdered ze fraulein of lorraine!-- shust vere mine heart is beating, i keep ze treasure zare, mit mine own blood upon it, von braid of golden hair, und all dried up und vithered, und gone to dust again, von flower zat vonce vos jewelled ze grave zats in lorraine. ah vot is deed of glory, ven blood is on ze vings of love, zat makes ze heaven on earth, und vot are kings? auch! i vill have no patience. strike up ze band again, or i grow mad mit dhreamings, vot happened in lorraine! vings zerring zanzaraza, ve cooms from o'er ze sea, ve plays ze lovely music, of all ze great countree. ve all of us have romance of life so bigs to say, vings zerring zanzaraza, ze vile ze band vill play. [illustration: out of plumb.] i laid out pounds, and pounds, in entertainment rounds, and worked a score of credit pretty thick, for i heard she had a plumb, so invited her to come, to the altar at shortest notice quick, when i asked her for my plumb, she was all but deaf and dumb, i found that i was married thro' a trick, to have lifted off the shelf, a maiden without pelf, was unbusiness-like, i felt it was a stick, of the candle, all i had was but the wick, a moody retrospection, makes me sick! [illustration: a ward in the chancerie] he was a cabman grey i feck, all weird and wry to see; his face was ribbed like the turtle's neck, his nose like the strawberrie. if you think he was old, to you i say, your thought obscures the truth-- despite the years that had passed away, he was still in his second youth. "ha! ha!" quoth he, "how fair she looks," one morn, as he did see, a maiden sweet with her school-books, a ward in the chancerie. "how fair she looks!" quoth he, and put a load in his old black clay, and he didn't care if he hadn't a fare, the whole of the live-long day. [illustration] that night he looketh into the glass, with his nose like a strawberrie, "i know they'll say i'm a bloomin' goose but fate is fate you see." and he looketh into the glass once more, where yet was another drain. quoth he, "i've wedded three before," "the fourth i'll wed again." next day he was out in the open street, and standing upon the stand, he heard the trip of her coming feet, 'twas sweet as a german band. and forth he went and accosted her, he could not brook delay, "hey up, look here, little gurl," said he, "i saw you yesterday." "i saw you yesterday. my 'eart went out across your feet, and from your beauty came a dart that fixed me all complete; and all last night i dreamed a dream, to my bedside you came-- you'll marvel at these words of him who does not know your name. "i saw you yesterday. you smile." his eyes, like burning beads, took root in her inmost soul the while, as deep as the ditch-grown weeds. "you smile. ha, ha! to smile and laugh is better than aye to frown it's fitter to whiffle away the chaff that covers a golden crown. "it's better to whittle away the cheat of mankind if you can." and he cracked his whip. "it's a fair deceit and i am a curious man-- yes i am a curious man, my badge is seventeen seventy-seven, but wot is a badge? it's a very small thing to the matches wot's made in heaven!" [illustration] "how sweet he speaks!" the maiden thought "he's a lord in a rough disguise, as a cabman old he's coming to woo and give me a grand surprise; he seeks to hide himself in a mask, with a nose like a strawberrie, but i've read too many of three vol. novs., he couldn't disguise from me. "the lord of burleigh while incog. did wed an humble bride, and legend lore recounteth more of love like his beside. i've heard the ballad of huntingtower, and some i forget by name, and when he's got rid of his strawberrie nose he'll maybe be one of the same!" [illustration] and she fondly looked on him, i ween, sweet as the hawthorn spray, when all in bloom of white and green, it decks the month of may. "oh, dearest cabman," spoke she then, "no brighter fate were mine than this: to be thine own laydee, my life with thee to twine. "but i am poor and lowly born, and never a match for thee-- a girl a man like you would scorn, a ward in the chancerie, with only a hundred thousand pounds, it may be less or more; but do not wreck a confiding heart, it often was done before." [illustration] "wo! ho!" quoth he, and in his sleeve he grinned, "it's a big mistake. the chancerie is only a blind, but, yet, i am wide awake. if a hundred thousand pounds wor her's, she wouldn't be makin' free; i'd have to court her a little bit more, before she'd be courtin' me. "i haven't the smallest doubt of this-- the truth you tell," he began; "but i think that you misunderstand me miss, i am not a marryin' man. i only thought if you wanted a cab that i wouldn't be high in my fare," and he shuffled the nose-bag round the jaw of his patient, hungry mare. she walked away, nor bade good day, while he thought of the probate court. "she's a girl, i twig, could give me a dig of a barrister's wig for sport. [illustration] i have only escaped the courts of law," quoth he, "by a single hair!" as he finished the knot of his canvas bag on the nose of his hungry mare. [illustration: the fairy queen] many an intelligent reader will perceive that the following is a pathetic plaint founded on fact. a moral, conveyed in a polyglot sample of weak passages from many a knowing man's career. in one noted instance, the writer while reciting the ballad, closely escaped the chance of assassination, at the hand of a member of the audience, that he fancied it was a versification of his own particular experience, made public, and brought so circumstantially home to him, that he felt the eyes of all were concentrated upon him as the hero of the ballad. happily he did not carry a revolver, or it would most likely have exploded suddenly in the direction of the platform. but mutual explanations and further enquiry elicited the information that more than one man of that audience occupied the same lamplit boat of retrospect misfortune. corney keegan relates his adventure with the picturesque force, derived from practical experience, and many an aching heart will go out to him in sympathy. his story teaches a comprehensive, solemn, and beautiful lesson. me mother often spoke to me, "corney me boy," siz she, "there's luck in store for you agra! you've been so kind to me! down be the rath in reilly's park they say that larry shawn that's gone away across the say, once cotch a leprechawn. he grabbed him be the scruff so hard, the little crather swore, that if bowld larry'd let him go, he should be poor no more! "just look behind ye larry dear," screeched out the chokin' elf, "there's hapes of goold in buckets there, it's all for larry's self! if larry lets the little man go free again, he'll be no longer poor but rich an' great!" so larry let him free. some say he carried home the goold an' hid it in the aves, but some say when the elf was gone 'twas turned to withered laves. "if larry cotch a leprechawn," me mother then 'ed cry, "why you may ketch a fairy queen, ma bouchal by an' by!" near balligarry now she sleeps, where great o'brien bled, and often since i took a thought, of what me mother said. at last i came to dublin town, to thry an' sell some pigs, and maybe then i didn't cut a quare owld shine of rigs. i sowld me pigs for forty pound, for they wor clane an' fat, an' thin we hadn't american mate, so they wor chape at that! "well now," sez i, "me pocket's full, i'll not go home just yit, i'll take a twist up thro' the town an' thrate meself a bit," i mosey'd round to sackville street, when starin' round me best, i seen a darlin' colleen there, most beautifully dhressed. a posy in her leghorn hat, an' round her neck, a ruff of black cock's feathers, jacket too, of raal expensive stuff, a silver ferruled umberell' in hand with yalla kid, an' thro' a great big hairy muff her other hand was hid, [illustration] o like a sweet come-all-ye, in a waltzin' swing, she swep' the toepath, with the music of her silken skirt, an' step, to see her turn the corner, thro' the lamplight comin' down, you'd think she owned the freehowld of that part of dublin town! you'd think she owned the sky above, it's moon with all the stars, the thraffic in the streets below, their thrams, an' carts, an' cars! you'd think that she was landlady, of all that she could see, an' faith regardin' of meself, she made her own of me! "o corney is it you?" siz she, an' up to me she came, i took a start, to hear her there, pronouncin' out me name; "o corney, there ye are!" siz she wid raal familiar smile, an' thin begar she took me arm, most coaxingly the while; i fluttered like a butterfly, that's born the first of may, wid pride, as if i had the right hand side, the judgment day! i felt as airy as a lark that skies it from the ground, to think she'd walk wid me, poor chap, wid only forty pound! she took me arm, an' thrapsed wid me, all down be sackville sthreet, an' colleens beautifully dhressed, in two's and three's, we meet, an' men that grinned, a greenish grin, of envy from their eye, to see me wid that lady grand, like paycock marchin' by. till comin' to a lamp, i turned, an' gazed into her eyes, me heart that minute took me throat wid lump of glad surprise, siz i, "me jewel, thim two eyes, are sparklin' awful keen, "i'm sure," siz i, "i've come across, me mother's fairy queen!" "o corney yis," siz she, "i am, a fairy queen;" siz she, "an' i can make yer fortune now, if you'll just come with me." wid that, i ups and says "of coorse!" as bowld as i could spake, "an' sure i will me darlin', if its only for your sake." [illustration] well, whin we passed the statutes white, up to o'connell brudge, the fairy queen smiled up at me, an' gev a knowin' nudge, "corney!" siz she, "i want a dhrink!" "do ye me dear?" siz i, an' on the minute faith i felt, meself was shockin' dhry. well then she brought me coorsin off, down be the liffy's walls, an' up a narra gloomy sthreet, up to a palace halls! an' there they wor, all splindid lit, "come in me love," siz she. i thought me heart'ed brake, to hear her spake so kind to me! well in we wint, an' down we sat, behind a marvel schreen, an' there we dhrank, of drink galore, me an' the fairy queen. she spoke by alphabetic signs, siz she, "we'll have j.j. an' whin we swalley'd that, siz she, "l.l. is raal o.k." we tossed them off like milk, siz she, "at these we need'nt stick, d. w. d.'s a quench you'll find, a. i, an' up to dick!" well thin she left the alphabet, an' flying to the sky, "the three star brand's the best" siz she, "to sparkle up your eye," thin "here!" says she "just taste owld tom," but augh! agin me grain it wint! siz she "it's mum's the word, we'll cure it, wid champagne!" i never drank such sortin's, of the drink, in all me life, signs on it, in the mornin', me digestion, was at strife! at last, we qualified our drooth, an' up she got, siz she, "we'll just retire to private life, so corney, come wid me." but just before i stood to go, i siz quite aisy "miss, you might bestow poor corney k. one little simple kiss." "ah! corney tibbey, sure," said she, "two if ye like, ye thrush!" o have ye saw the blackberries, upon the brambly bush? the johnny magory still is bright, whin all the flowers are dead, her hair, was like the blackberries! her dhress, magory red! o have you ever saunthered out upon a winther's night, whin the crispy frost, is on the ground, an' all the stars, are bright? then have you bent your awe sthrick gaze, there, up aginst the skies? the stars are very bright, you think, well thim was just her eyes [illustration] were you ever down at the strawberry beds, an' seen them dhrowned in chrame? well that was her complexion, and her teeth, wor shockin' white! an' the music of her laughin' chaff, was like a beggar's dhrame, whin he hears the silver jingle, and his rags are out of sight! i thought the dhrop of dhrink was free, but throth i had to pay! i thought it quare, but then i thought, it was the fairy's way; "howld on" siz i, "she's thryin' me, have i an open heart, before she makes me fortune," so, begar! i took a start of reckless generosity, an' flung me money round, 'twas scatthered on the table! in her lap, an' on the ground! i seen it glitter in the air, before me wondherin' eyes, like little yalla breasted imps, all dhroppin from the skies! o then i knew that it was threw, she was a fairy queen, the goold, came dhroppin'! whoppin'! hoppin' the like was never seen! i gave a whipping screech of joy! whin, wid a sudden whack, some hidden wizard, riz his wand, an' sthruck me from the back, down came the clout upon the brain, an' froze me senses quite, an' over all me joy at once, there shot the darkest night! * * * * * i knew no more, till i awoke, an' found meself alone, i thrust me hand, to grasp me purse, me forty pounds wor gone! o then, with awful cursin', if i didn't raise the scenes, "bad luck!" siz i, "to leprechauns, bad scran, to fairy queens! bad luck to them, that spreads abroad, such shockin' lyin' tales, bad scran has me, that tears me hair, an' forty pounds bewails!" with that, i seen a man, come up, a dark arch, marchin' thro', as if he hadn't any work, particular to do. he measured me, wid selfish eye, as cat regards a rat, an' whin he spoke, begor i found, 'twas just his price at that! siz he "what's all this squealin' for? what makes ye bawl?" siz he, siz he, "i'm a dissective, so, you'll have to come wid me!" siz he, "yer shouts wor almost loud enough, to crack the delph! an' in the mornin' i must bring ye up, before himself!" "arrah! what for?" siz i, an' thin, i towld him all me woe, an' how i woke, an' found meself asleep, an' lyin' low. i towld him of the whipsther, that had whipped me forty pound, an' left me lyin' fast asleep, in gutther, on the ground. then leerin' like, he turned, and siz, "you're a nice boy! complate! to go wid fairy queens, like that, an' lose yer purse, so nate. corney!" siz he, "go home!" siz he, "she might have sarved ye worse, i'll thry me best, to ketch the fay, an' get you back yer purse. but look! don't shout like that again, it was a shockin' shout, it sthruck me, 'twas a house a-fire! you riz up such a rout. i thought you'd wake me wife! she sleeps, down in a churchyard near!" wid that, the dark dissective turned, an' bursted in a tear! i dhribbled out a few meself, me brow, wid shame i bint, an' like a lamb, from slaughter, slow, wid tottherin' steps i wint, but never, never from that day, was any tidins' seen, of me owld purse, me forty pound! or of the fairy queen! then, whin i thought of norah's wrath, an' what a power she'd say, me fine black hair, riz on me skull, an' grew all grizzle gray! o never more, to dublin town, i'll come, to sell me pigs! i walk a melancholy man, like one, that's got the jigs, an' in the town of limerick, if you ever chance, to meet a haggard man, wid batthered hat, come sthridin down the sthreet, an' if he stops, by fits and starts, an' stares at nothin' keen! say "there goes corney, look he's mad! he cotch a fairy queen." and if you chance in sackville sthreet, or any other way, to meet, all beautifully dhrest, a lovely colleen gay; an' if she chances on the name, that you wor christened by, an' laughs, as if she knew ye, with a cute acquaintance eye, an' if she takes your arm, an' siz, that she's a fairy queen, start back in horror, shout aloud, o woman am i green! am i before a doctor's shop, where coloured bottles be? is there a green light, on my face, that you should spake to me? go home, o fairy queen, go home! at once, an' holus bolus! remimber, corney keegan's purse, an' think of the dublin polis [illustration] [illustration: the devil in richmond park] i was walking about, in a casual way, thro' the ferns, in richmond park, 'twas just at the fringe of the twilight hour, on the skirt, of the time called dark, and the wind was rough, and i couldn't succeed, to kindle my three-penny smoke, when a gentleman stepped from behind a tree, and coughed, and hemmed, and spoke: "you'll pardon me, sir, you're in want of a light," said he, with a bow to me, and straight producing a braided star, he struck it against his knee, and with an expression of much concern, to see that my weed was right, he manipulated the light himself, with a courtesy most polite. i am one, who is quickly impressed, and won, by measure of courteous act, so deeming it right, to appreciate, in response of appropriate tact, i spake to him thus, "it's rare that a man in a gentleman's dress like thine, doth care to assist, the frivolous wants, of a miniature vice like mine, so reckon it not, as a rudeness wrought, of an ignorant wish to know, but i'd certainly like to learn the name, of the gent, who has touched me so! then he glittered a grin, from his cat-like eye, thro' a coal black lash on me, and he bowed, with his lifted silk top hat, "i'm the devil himself!" quoth he. good gracious! yes, i was certainly struck, so suddenly thus to be with the devil himself! but soon, or late, he was bound to appear to me. so screwing my nerves, to concert pitch, to play up my soul, for wealth, with a supplemental proviso made, for excellent mortal health, i offered to scribble my autograph, in blood, old-storied style, to deed, for a compensating line, from his notable strong room pile. but he looked on me, with a pitying glance, i counted somewhat queer, and answered me thus,--in a friendly way, with a slight sarcastic leer. [illustration] it's a long time, sir, i assure you, since i endeavoured, to so combine, my games of spoof, for the human soul, in the bartering oofftish line. i suffered by many a measly cheat, when mortals made those sales, you'll read of their shuffling knavish tricks, thro' the mediæval tales, if you think, that by selling your soul to me, is the way to get rich, it ain't, you'll have to become, a devil yourself, in the garb, of a modern saint. "it's the fashionable way, to play the game, of hypocritical spoof, you have only to tailor your saintly robe, to cover your tell tale hoof, you have only to hypnotise mankind, and teach them, to gaze on high, and while you have mesmerised them thus, with eyes, to the upward sky, "you can plot, exploit, and sneak, and trick, and cram your wallet, with wares, and earthly stocks, as you boom the run, on the new jerusalem shares, you can rob the widow, and orphan child; but reputably go to church, and if, by the clogging of circumstance, your pinched, in the doomdock lurch, the greater the pile of swag, you've made, the fewer the blanks, you'll draw, from the lottery wheel, of the english bench, in the name, of the english law. it's merely a mode, of paying yourself, in advance, a liberal wage, for the government work, you'll have to do, in the broad-arrow-branded stage. say thirty thousands of pounds, you filch, five years, is the time you'll do, six thousand a year, in advance, you see, to enjoy, when you've pulled it thro'. or, seizing your pile, by a dextrous coup, before they have time, to look down, from the castles, in the air, you have built for them there, you can take a foreign ticket from town. "and tho' you are lagged, at the ends of the earth, you'll still find a breach, or a flaw, whereby you can slip, thro' the quips, that confuse, extradition--international law. "now that is how i teach, the quickest way to cure, your impecuniosity complaint, you must collar the swag, as a devil yourself, in the garb, of a modern saint. there's another way to pinch, whereby you may keep, your character, apparently sound, go pray, and exhort, teach the vanity of wealth, and pay, half-a-crown in the pound! "now bear it in mind, if you're wanting to make, let this, be your measureless plaint, the misery of wealth, get a halo, and preach, in the garb, of a modern saint." again he lifted his silk top hat, and bowing an adieu to me, he vanished away, with a lordly crawl, in the trunk, of the nearest tree, and thus, were my mediæval hopes of wealth, by a caustic blow, dispersed, and a lesson of evil taught, by the devil, who touched me so. [illustration: saved!] i pictured out my passion, in florid fretwork fashion, expostulating! waiting! stating, mating we must be, and subtle thought, relating, to scheme, of emigrating, with bride, to land of bashan, was exercising me; when, peering like a picket, or a cricket, from a thicket, thro' the wicket, came another, on the scene, and we were three! 'twas the spinster, in a hurried fit of minorhood, i married, she succoured me from bigamy, said she, "come home to tea!" i went, and drank it boiling,-- a mug of strong bohea!-- i drank it, without sugar, a tannic dose, for me! [illustration: a most remarkable case] 'twas an incident matrimonial, the probate court the place, and 'twas for the co-respondent, a most remarkable case, for good was the leading counsel, and moral the words spake he, and fashionable ladies listened, to writ macfee, q.c. he rose to his feet and setting his most magniloquent frown, he fingered his brief for a moment, a moment, and laid it down, then out of his golden snuffbox, he powdered his pampered nose, and then with a pull back rustle of silk, to its wonted pose, he heliographed to the jury, a glitter of eyeful glee, and as he surveyed the respondent, most rep-re-hen-siv-lee, he mounted his golden pinc-nez, and on this wise spake he. "me lud, and o gents of the jury, it's a most remarkable case! and i don't hesitate for a moment, my cause in your hands to place, for o," said the counsellor, purring, with subtle seductive leer, "i never beheld such a jury, in the length of my long career! i assure you it makes it easy for an advocate like to me, to open the most remarkable case _ver._ tommins, l.r.c.p." then marking his condemnation, with voice like a double bass d. "the co-respond' is a doctor, john tommins, l.r.c.p., a leech of the muddiest water, a pill, that has given the sick, an emetic of truth, a plaister of pitch, with a warrant to stick, it's o when consumptive virtue, is treated by such, you see the ruin, like that enacted by tommins, l.r.c.p. he was called to attend the lady may monica pendigrew, from a fit of the blues he roused her, and prettily pulled her through, but managed her like a pilot, who getting a treacherous grip, sails out into deeper water, to scuttle and sink the ship! o gents, by æsthetical fraud, he played on the lady's mind, with shakespeare collar and fur, a sunflower, and such kind, he called her too utterly too, and posed in a limpish style, and droned in a minorly key, of love, like a fretwork file. me lud, and o gentlemen, gents, the co-respond' may smile, your sympathy thus to win, by means of trover of guile, but no! you will give him a check, whereby you will take your place, as the most remarkable twelve, of the most remarkable case!" [illustration: jury box] 'twas thus, with vigour, and vim, and verve, and casuist glee, the raftered roof re-echoed, the shouts of writ macfee, while envious briefless bees, admired his logic, and gist, accentuate note, and pause, well marked by his thumping fist, he stood on the councillor's seat, with one of his feet--the left, and the stuffy compression of air, with whirling silk he cleft, and this, was his winding up, "o father, brother, and son, oh this is a case, concerning each individual one, and confident of your verdict, now into your hands i place, o gentlemen, gents of the jury, this most remarkable case!" with quiver of deep emotion, one hypnothetical glance, he photophoned to the jury, at tommins he looked askance, then daintily mopped his forehead, some virtuous beads of heat, he sopped in his red bandana, and then he resumed his seat. then "oh!" said the ladies in court, "wasn't that lawyer a treat?" concussion of parasols, sticks, hands, and stamping feet, till the usher expostulated, aloud in a startling shout, "silence!!!" and his ludship sternly threatened, to bundle the audience out, [illustration] poor tommins had then to listen to evidence from the box, and now, and again, it dealt him, a stagger of nasty knocks; acquaintances there subpoenad, identification swore, and others, who sneaked the keyhole, of sitting apartment door. what mattered the osculation, with which he smacked the book, a fig for his indignation, a jot for his injured look, the jury, and judge, decided the damage, and costs, to be three thousand pounds, to the client of writ macfee, q.c. [illustration: extra special most remakable case verdict] * * * * * [illustration] the tweezers of time, had sparsed his hair, when tommins, l.r.c.p. was mooning around, to a neighbouring square, to join in an evening tea, when a tremulous maiden, checked his steps, and cried him, "o mister man, me mother's afeered, that the two pair back, is goin' to kick the can! o mister medical sir, he's sick, an' owin' a quarter's rent, an' that's the most, of the cause for why, of the hurry, that i was sent, o mister medical man, sir please, o please sir folly me quick, you might be able to worry him thro' from the fit of the stiffnin' sick! oh! come sir, please sir, do sir come, o hurry an' come with me quick!" from sympathetic professional heart, for indigent sick alway, he gave a positive kind response, to the girl, who thus did pray, and on thro' court, and alley, and lane, he followed her devious track, then mounting a rickety deal wood stair, he entered a two pair back, and there, in the glim of a halfpenny dipt, he gazed on a ghastly man, and he counted his pulse, said the girl "do you think he's likely to kick the can?" the sick man rose to an elbow prop, at tommins, to blink and stare! he seemed an anatomy, made for show, of eyes, and nose, and hair, he peered awhile thro' the starving glim, and then, with a moan cried he, "o god, have you come to haunt me here, john tommins, l.r.c.p.? o is it with pills, or senna and salts, your 'shake up the bottle' and mess of slops, to avenge for the deed i've done? have mercy and i'll confess! o pester me not to swallow your stuff, i will not allow you to bleed! o spare me tommins, i'm guilty, guilt, is what i'm about to plead!" the doctor shrank with a searching gaze, that clung to the startled ghost, in doubt awhile, for the rounded lines of his manhood's prime were lost, till memory striking the evil past, the doctor's eye did trace, with a shock to his heart, the writ macfee of the most remarkable case! his memory jarred on the probate court, with all its sorrowful shame, disastrous check, to his early hopes, of honor, and medical fame, and with a potion of pity, and hate, he knew the furrowy face of the grim, of the writ macfee, q.c., of the most remarkable case. the bloom of his pampered nose was gone, 'twas shrivelled, and pinched, and shrunk! his adipose peach of cheek, was fled, 'twas lean, and withered, and sunk, a derelict there; by the prosperous port of wealth, and power, and place, he lay the identical writ macfee, of the most remarkable case! [illustration] "o spare me doctor! for i'll confess,--i should have been in your place. as the treacherous co-respondent, of the most remarkable case, t'was i, was the homestead wrecker, but never as writ macfee, i played me, a knave's deception, as tommins, l.r.c.p.! i bought from a needy super, the beard, moustaches, and wig, i managed to coach my tailor, to model me in your rig, and thus i received a welcome, to lunch, and dinner, and tea, as tommins the medical doctor, but never as writ macfee. o doctor tommins have mercy! i beg to legacy thee, with thirty tickets of pawn to name, of writ macfee, q.c. in a brief bag under the bed, tied up in a worn-out wig, you will find a memento there, of mock æsthetical rig, the spats and the collar and vest, i wore when i went to see, the lady monica pendigrew, as tommins, l.r.c.p. o doctor tommins forgive! the cost and the foul disgrace, of debt, for the illsome guilt, of the most remarkable case, o doctor tommins have grace!" he rose with a greedy stare, and gripped with his reedy fists, the mat of his weedy hair! then moaning a hungry sigh, for life, with a choking breath, he fell with accusing cry, "o tommins you've brought me death! but i won't have a pauper's coffin! so give me a decent show-- whew!--eh--what's this? o thunder thun--un--der and lightning----oh! ah!--mercy me lud! o mercy! thun--un--der an' light--ning----oh!! it's a sine die, the morrow for me, ah! mercy me lud, oh!----oh!" the girl ran out of the two pair back, and down the stairs she ran, with shouts, as she took three steps at a time, "the lodger has kicked the can! mother, o mother, we've lost the rent, the lodger has kicked the can! it's just what you said of the two pair back, he's gone an he's kicked the can!" [decoration] [illustration: a tour to svitserland] said she, "the parkinses have gone, and all the doolys, too, the mcriartys, and the dunns, and mrs. old machugh; the dalys and fitzpatricks, with all their kin, and kinds, have mounted crumpled papers, on all their window blinds. ah! stop that old piano, you ding it all the day, it's only when your pupils are here, you make it pay; and all your pupils' parents, and all their kin, and kinds, have all got crumpled papers, on all their cotton blinds." he stopped the old piano, and "vot of zat?" said he, "regarding which, we'll have to do exact the same," said she. "for if we don't, we'll be the talk for many a day to come, that when all others went abroad, the zazels kept at home. it's positively foolish, affects your daughter's hopes--" "vel, zhere," said he, "go pack ze thronk, i'll tie it vit ze ropes; and you discharge ze servong, ze moment zat you find, she's pinned ze crumpled papers, on all ze cotton blind: and put ze gossip on her tongue, for svitzerland ve sail, ze-morrow in ze dover boat, vot brings ze voreign mail; and say, its oh, so secret, by shings, but she vill blow ze news, around ze town, until ze all ze people know." * * * * * [illustration] the dover boat had started, when, lo! prospecting round, a man upon the windows, those crumpled papers found. "hello!" said he, "such houses are always left for me," and crept into the fanlight, and foraged round with glee. he stole away the silver, he stole away the clocks, he augured out the secret, of the children's savings' box; he laughed, and he did chuckle, and cackling "ha!" said he, "the men who leave their houses thus, are men who toil for me." alas! that in my ballads, i have to tune my song, to many flats, and minors, to show where sharps go wrong. [illustration] he donned a suit, next morning, and sought an auctioneer-- "i'm ordered out to china, so harken, and look here; bring up your ivory hammer to the house, where you will see, the blinds in crumpled papers, and cant the lot for me." he auctioned off the carpets, the suites of every room, he canted to a builder, the villa for its doom; he made him sign a docket, to take down every brick, within the shortest notice, so he commenced it quick. they first upset the chimneys, and then unstitched the slates, they lifted off the rafters, and rooted out the grates; the door, and window casings, they took in several hauls, and carted off, the debris of bricks, that made the walls. [illustration] at length a workman picking with crowbar, in the rear, let fall his pipe in terror, his knees went loose with fear, a chill of woe electric, begirt his heart, like lead, he found a row of corpses, and every corpse was dead! i've sketched him, with the crowbar, and falling pipe, to show his awful fright, and sorrow, the fact is, such a blow might paralize his senses, unfit him for his trade-- i hope some kindly ladies, will have collections made. but yet a glamoured beauty was on them all, so nice, he felt like pins and needles, in glass of strawberry ice, he shambled round a corner, "o constable!" he said, "i've found a row of corpses, and every corpse is dead!" i like that honest fellow, tho' poor, with eye forlorn, said he, "o mister pleeceman, i wish i wasn't born"-- i've sought again to sketch him, above their ghastly rest, he indicates a label, on every corpse's breast. [illustration] 'twas down an empty cellar, below the bottle shelves, they looked as they were sleeping, in fact, they looked themselves, the daughters of herr zazel, the wife of zazel, and the pleeceman asked for zazel, was he in switzerland? the oldest native, answered a deputating clutch of specials, that there never before did happen such, and so they wrote sensations, and from the civic band, a posse of detectives, went scoot for switzerland. [illustration] the crowner's morgue was opened, the jurymen were caught, and every man protested, although he didn't ought, they went to view the corpses. "mein gott, vots them?" said one, "votever has there happened, vots been, and gone, and done? i could'nt spare ze money, avay mit me, so many, and so tinks i, i'll mesmer zem all, i vont brings any, i wraps 'em up mit labels, vots tied upon zem zare, ven i comes home, to vake 'em, and sorts 'em up mit care. i vos in my purse, only ze cash enough to stand, for vot you calls, von single man, avay in svitzerland. and so i mesmerised my vife, my daughters, von by von, and now i'll vake 'em all, and zen, by shings, you zee me run!" he party pumped his arms, he made a maze of passes, with flashing eyes of flame, that lit his pinc nez glasses. he clawed with his phalanges as he were going to seize some hidden ghost, when lo! at length, his wife began to sneeze, his wife commenced the sneezing, the girls took up the que, "now zee me run, or you vill find, too moosh vor me to do," he cried, and off he started, and took the tram for home, when peering thro' the twilight, of autumn's evening gloam, he saw a shocking poster, that curdled up his blood, "this ground to let for building," on which his house had stood, he laughed a weird, and woful, idiotic laugh at fate, he took a second tram-car, and sought a barber straight, and sitting down, he uttered a low despairing groan, "i'm vot you calls vor bedlam, so shaves me to ze bone!!" [illustration] [illustration: joy! on seeing a flying spring.] i made him quite at home, in a villa just by rome,-- an italian, of the antient noble style,-- but i saw him 'neath a star, and the tink of his guitar, was an irritating thing, that made me smile, his object, was my spouse for to beguile, but when he caught it hot, with sporting gun, and shot, he took a flying spring, across a stile! his object, was my spouse for to beguile. [illustration: the mate of the mary anne] "i'm the mate," quoth he, "of the 'mary anne,'" as she opened the door to him, and i'm all the way from the state of new york, with a present, i've got from jim!" "o dear!" said she, "it's a pleasure to see a friend, who has known my son, we've a party, enjoying the evening tea, and you're just in time for fun." "ah! thank you," said he, "i would like to explain, the chest, is a cumbersome weight, i'd have brought it myself; but i hadn't the dimes, to cover the cost of the freight. "it's a matter of seventeen shillings and six, but you see, i am one of the crew, i'd have paid it myself, for sake of your son, if i could have lifted my screw." "ah! jim was the very best pal that i knew," she got out the cash for him, "now hang up your hat, and come in to the tea, and tell us a lot about jim." he hung up his hat, and went in to the tea, said he to a girl, who was there, "you're the livin' dead image of my chum jim, regardin' yer figure, and hair." said he to another, "yer like yer mother, but still the expression of jim, is a playin' around yer beautiful smile, a perfeck sister of him. "i guess you are soft, on the ring that i wear," and he 'splayed his horney fist, "i'd like you to wear it, for honor of jim, 'twould almost bangle your wrist! "for savin' his wife, from a shark, i got the trinket, at scooperaboo, from a monarch, who gave it me, out of his nose, i'm proud to present it to you. "the ring is too grand, for my tanned hand, it's a valuable old gew gaw, i'm skeered, i'd be robbed o' the thing some night, in the grip of a lawless claw. "it's a putty gay keepsake, that you've got there, i'd be glad for sake of poor jim--" and he paused, "o yes you may have it," said she, "ah! thanks! when i'm back with him. "i guess he'll be proud to see it, and hear, that i have presented to you, the ring that i got, for savin' the wife, of the monarch of scooperaboo. "i've a bauble that's here, on a link of my chain, it's made of a nugget i got, i never can know it, i'll maybe be darned! or drowned! or skivered! or shot! "it's a nugget to waste, with a fellow like me, to be sportin' it out of the shop, here! take it by gum! you're the mother of jim! or maybe i'd put it in pop." "ah! sir" said the mother "you're far too kind!" as he fastened it on to her chain, "will you keep this locket in place of it? there, i will never require it again," "aha!" said he, "it's a moral, to see you're the spirit of jim all out, i'll have it, and wear it, for honour of jim, without no manner of doubt. "eh! what's the time, i am bound to an hour, i'd like to remain, if i can, but the captain's keepin' the cable taut, on the men of the 'mary anne.' "let somebody travel with me to-night, who will carry the luggage ashore, i'll bring all your compliments out to jim, if i may not see you no more." said a girl, who was there, with auburn hair, who hadn't been talking free, "the weather is dark, and you say the ship, is out some yards at sea, "it's better that two, should travel with you, the journey's a little too far, and one'll take charge of the present from jim, the other, can go for a car." so two of the gentlemen, offered to go, who had been at the evening tea, and they all shook hands, and the three took tramp, to the wall, by the wailing sea. "i guess that we ought to be havin' a quench," said the mate, "for i always do, i never go thirsty, aboard at night," so he went, and treated the two. they sat in a room, at the back of the bar, discussing three tumblers hot, "i'm darned, if we won't have a couple of smokes!" said he, "and i'll settle the shot." "you'll pull a cigar with me, by gum! i'll get them 'and jest you set,'" he went with his purse, to the bar to pay, and they have not seen him yet! but whether he's shot, or whether he's drowned, or darned, the host did say, behind the bar, as he pulled a pint, that "the drink was still to pay!" * * * * * she laughed a laugh, when the twain returned, "you're a mighty discerning pair!" and she posed her nose, with a tilted tip, did the girl, with the auburn hair. they all suggested, a different way, of finding the missing mate, "put out your brains," said the auburn hair, "on a clean, blue pattern plate. "and twig a few of the cobwebs off, from scooperaboo, look there! we've brumagem trinkets, of glass, and brass!" said the girl, of the auburn hair. [illustration: an umbrella case.] i saw a dress! 'twas of my wife, she stepped along with frivol rife, and by her side, a man of strife a guardsman of the line. ha ha! so ho! was here a cause, to agitate the probate laws, for a divorce, i did not pause, with guardsman of the line, i had an umbrella stout, i lifted it, i flung it out, in semicircle, with a shout, at guardsman of the line! ah! me, for an unlucky wight! beneath the sick electric light, she turned, o shock unto my sight! she was no wife of mine! he didn't draw, i wasn't slain, but of that blow, he did complain, and made me wipe away the stain, with legal brief, and twine. a story told by jones [illustration: the spook of rotten row] one evening, as in troubled mood, i sampled rotten row, across my scapula, i got a sharp conclusive blow! a flat concussion of a palm, was quick, and deftly laid, with rude familiar frowardness, against my shoulder blade! the impact curled up my blood; and almost in a thrice, my heart refrigerated, to an imprompt lump of ice! i feared it was a bailiff, and i sprang from off the sod! "i'm but a ghost!" said he, "you need not start" said i "thank god! "i must confess, that i eschew a bailiff's companie, "a ghost, is much more welcome, to a person fixed like me." thus into swift acquaintanship, familiarly did glide, the spook of rotten row, and i, and walking side by side, we chatted in a varied way, and slowly sauntered round, until we came upon a lone, and sparsy plot of ground, then halting there, the spectre cried, in accents like a knell, "t'was here i fought a duel once, and there it was i fell! behold a thistle growing there, and yon a shamrock too, and there in every season past, a little wild rose grew, a nursery in miniature, of sign of kingdoms three, that sprang spontaneous thro' the sod, from blood, that flowed from me, for lo! my sire was rupert smith, my mater was a lynch; my grandmother per pater, was a flora jane mac tinch, an uncle, on the mother's side, a belfast macinfee, this made the union perfect, and embodied thus in me, was typed the british empire, per my consanguinitee. and it's an interesting fact, that wales can share the fame, and pride, of my nativity, for, jones, it was the name, my mother first accepted, as a matrimonial claim; but jones was testily inclined, and all about a myth, in jealous hate, he fell before the blade, of rupert smith! then rupert smith, he minded of the widow's wail, and tear, and in remorse, he married her, as consequence, i'm here! the record of my gallant sire, to hot complexion grew, in me, till i was minded of a cause, for fighting too. i knew a maid, and for her sake, my daily life was fuss, it is not always for a maid, a man's affected thus; but when she wasn't by my side, i felt how lonely, space would be, if man could not behold, a single woman's face. and so i fondled, petted her, and worried, wrote some rhymes, and even got them published, in a small, suburban times, i took some pestilential pains, to learn the minuet, and trained my voice, to harmonise, with her's, in the duet. [illustration] we married were, i faith! it was a festal day, for hope, to care we gave the congè, and to pleasure, extra scope, until one day, my joy was washed away, like scented soap! 'twas on this wise,-- in rotten row, midst fashionable life, i found a promenader there, in converse, with my wife! i parleyed not a moment, but asserting manhood's law, [illustration] i tweaked him by the nose, and cried, "defend thyself and draw!" resenting my impetuous way, the old command, to teach, he roused him to impromptu fire, of indignation speech, and with a sneer, that galled my quick, he swore me, i must die! but with a rough right royal oath, i sneered him back the lie! "thy name?" quoth i, "i am," said he, "a man of deeds, and loans, and auction sales, i come from wales, my name is mervyn jones!" "what? mervyn jones of pontypridd?" "exactly so, the same," said he,--i heard of him before, and quivered at his name! for 'twas the name, thro' which the world had come to hear of me, by pruning blade of smith, on jones; his genealogic tree, "yes i am jones!" quoth he, "by loans, and mortgaged, for her life, thro' debts to me, attorney's power, i hold upon thy wife, so skin thy blade, i'll give thee cause, to tweak my nose!" he saith, "i'll auction thee, unto the bid, of good old broker death!"-- hereditary fate it seemed, that i must fight with jones, i would have shirked it, but for those, his irritating tones, i feared a compensating fate, might strike an even deal, betwixt the house of smith, and jones, but skinning forth my steel, i smote at him, by hip, and thigh, by carte, and aye by tierce, i held him to his guard, with quick, aggressive strokes, and fierce, but lo! the cunning of my wrist, a moment lapsed! with art of subtle fencer, past my guard, he pinked me, in the heart! it skivered me, just like the fork, that spoils a grilling steak, i shivered, with a yell, and then, a woman's cry,--and crake of joy from him, with mighty pang, i leaped in air, and fell! a muffled music thrilled my brain; for me, the passing knell, from numbing toe, and finger tip, the graduating thrill of life's collapse, crept over me, i wriggled, and lay still! then, from the chrysolid of flesh, light spirited i rose, and gazed upon my corse, as on a suit of cast off clothes, my widow shrieked, and fainted, but a golden vinagarette, my slayer lifted from his fob, and to her nose, he set the bauble, while he pinched her, slapped her hands, and brought her to, then speaking to my mortal wreck, said he, "now as for you, i have avenged the slur upon my nose, thy tweak hath wrought, thou art the loser, in the game of combat, that thou sought, but lo! thy widow, will not weep it long, for i may say, she'll shed her weeds, and she will wed with me, the first of may! then, with my spouse upon his arm, he turned, and sneaked away, and left me here, a widowed ghost, aye, even to this day!" my indignation at his wrongs, i told the grateful spook: "gramercy!" cried he, as with misty fist, my hand he shook, and charged me thus, with eager verve, of deep revengeful tones, "if ever thou dost meet a man, who deals in deeds, and loans, who bears the patronymic, and the shield, of mervyn jones, i care not how, by forgery! by fist, or aye by knife! by sneaking of his fiancée, or mayhap of his wife! by burgling of his premises, or pelting him with stones! avenge me, on the offspring, of the man, called mervyn jones!" i sware him, if such christened man, did ever dare my sight, in widest open day, or from the nooks, of darkest night! it mattered not, if extra tall, or what his weight, or width, _i'd borrow from him_, to avenge the wrongs, of rupert smith! "i thank thee well!" the spectre cried, with chuckle, sad, and grim, "adieu!" and lo! he vanished thro' the hazy gloaming dim: he vanished, and i thanked my luck, he left no aching bones! for i'm a male descendant, of the man, called mervyn jones! and mervyn, haps my christian name, a broker, i am he, a windfall fructifaction, of that genealogic tree. * * * * * next evening, when i told this tale, to doctor bolus chuff, incredulous, and unimpressed, with mien, erect, and tough, presenting a prescription, for some tonic tempered pills, said he "thro' too much spirits, you have got d.t.'s and chills!" [illustration: the magic specs] he wrought a specs, with magic rim, of strange, and subtle parts, for by those optics made by him, he saw men's inmost hearts, the grim old sage, 'twas of his fads, to wear those wrysome lamps, for evermore, and find the lads, the worldly-wise, and scamps. he saw the plottings, and the strife, he saw the woes, and tears! the murky glooms of unknown life, the spring of hopes, and fears, the sham of face, the sham of name, the sham of heart within; he sifted all, and wrote for fame, record of unknown sin. "ho, ho!" cried he at length, "i wis, the dross of men is such, 'tis surfeit, thus to seek for this, it palls me overmuch; i'll seek a gem of human hearts, and find it, if i can,"-- he sought at home, and foreign parts, to meet an honest man. in that pursuit, a year and seven, did on his labours fall; "heigho!" cried he, "outside of heaven, they're masks, and faces all! they're masks, and faces all!" quoth he, and from the world he went to bide alone, beside the sea, in selfish self-content. now, this old sage, thro' many a year, had never thought of self, before he used the specs: in fear, his mirror, on a shelf, he set, with face down evermore, lest by a glance, that he should pry into the evil store, of his own villainie. but, fishing in a pool one day, the sage forgot his specs-- to take it from his nose,--and hey! a horror, to perplex his soul with fear, was under him; for, in the glassy wave, he saw his heart reflected grim! he saw his new-made grave: he saw, that he himself was worst, of all that he had seen; by sight of conscience, he was curst, the evil deeds, had been dry rotting in his blackened heart, the place he feared to search, and self-reproach, did send a dart, that knocked him off his perch; the rod and line, fell from his hand, the specs fell off his nose: and he was drowned, in sight of land, in all his sunday clothes. [illustration] [illustration: ye curious tayle of ye uncivil fight of ye civil warre] oddzooks! ye civil war was rough, 'twixt cavalier, and roundhead tough, thence, for thy pale of cheek, and wail, now hearken, to ye curious tayle, ah! me. [illustration: ye fanatick fytte] they met, to meet, was cause for strife and hunger, for each other's life! alack ah! me, that such should be, where posies, pied beneath ye tree, ah! me. [illustration: ye fytte of ye blude thurst] in derring do, they straightway play, and cut, and slash, ye time away; ye evil grue, this derring do, when earth, was wide enough for two, ah! me. lo! one at length, in bonds did pine, ye squirrel came, and nipped ye twine; reproof of spite, from woodland mite, for truce to ye fanatic fight, ah! me. [illustration: ye refreshment fytte] but hey alack! again they rise, and swish their blades, in murderous wise; 'tis pain, to sing, of sword, in swing, where butterflies, did spread ye wing, ah! me. [illustration: ye fytte of ye seconde bout.] [illustration: ye retaliation fytte.] at length, one trussed his foe, but lo! a bat, did cut ye cord, ho! ho! ye moral flat, of gracious bat, that men, should drop ye hate, like that-- ah! me. ye wrath of wrong, is still to do, ye loathsome vengeance, starts anew, o pity! wrong, should wreak so strong, where birds, did pipe ye evensong, ah! me. [illustration: ye nervous fytte.] ye strife waxed hot, in air they spring,-- no fiercer fray, did minstrel sing,-- but why spill here, ye tender tear, for roundhead, or ye cavalier? ah! me. [illustration: ye fytte of ye timely spring.] [illustration: ye fytte of ye discovery] they scuffle, till each wig, and nose, fell off, and nature's truths, disclose, ye wild surprise, doth swiftly rise, ye brows, above ye startled eyes! ah! me. for lo! they recognise each one, each was his father's other son! ye clasping spree, of filial glee, is here depicted, as you see, ah! me. [illustration: ye fraternal fytte.] [illustration: leather versus law] an instance of calculating foresight and prudence is illustrated in the following verses. if men would rely on the mutual study of a spirit of equity, and enter more confidentially into the claims of each, what beautiful pictures, of repentant resignation to a just castigation, would be afforded, by certain of those who misunderstand the rights of property. an excellent lesson of this kind, is taught by the experience of the first tramp. he parted from the farmer, with comprehensive impressions, of the farmer's energy, and application to business, a fact, which he took the earliest opportunity, of advertising in the nearest hospital. thro' the second case, also runs a beautiful lesson, to the farmer, it may not have happed so well, as to the tramp, but the record serves to show, that an action at law, should only result, as a mutual alternative, agreeable to both parties; thereby the air of the law courts, would be considerably purified, of the stuffiness, that oppresses the impetuous litigant. said one tramp, to the second tramp, "the dark is comin' on the sun, do you prowl in to this 'ere barn. and i'll dodge on to yonder one. "i allus likes to sleep alone, besides you see, it runs' em tight, the varmers, when a pair o' tramps turns up, so bill, i'll say good night." the chanticleer, did early trump, a tonic note, upon his pipe, and woke the husbandman, to view, how thick, and tall, his crops, and ripe. and in his barn, he found a tramp! "ho, trespasser, what shall i do?" he cried "shall i evict by law? or take the law myself, on you?" "well varmer, i have had with cranks, of legal jaw, too much," said he, "so with your leave, i'd rather you, would take the law, yourself on me." "ha! that's exactly to my form!" he gripped him by the neck, "here goes! whew! now take this! and that, and this," with that, he gave him all his toes. he kicked him, thro' the barn door, he rolled him, in the grunty stye, and up, and down, and round the yard, and then, he bunged him in the eye! he ducked him, in the horses' pond, he slung him, right across a load of dung, he kicked him thro' the gate, and wiped him up and down the road! he kicked him black! he kicked him blue! he kicked him green! and red and white! he kicked him, till he could not kick, for then the tramp was out of sight! that tramp did never more appear around that neighbourhood, he passed away, just like a whiff of smoke, that scuds before the autumn blast! [illustration] * * * * * a second husbandman that morn, was quick astir, he fancied he did hear, a wailing in his barn, a moan, as of the wild banshee! he thought to catch the female sprite, for truth, he was a festive scamp, but got a sort of snub, when he, discovered but a snoring tramp! the sleep was deep, for with his foot, he had to supplement the blow, or box, he gave him on his ear, and shouted in that ear "hello! you'll pardon me, my friend, but 'ere, i thought, this barn belonged to me! now shall i chuck you out myself, or seek injunct, from chancerie?" the startled tramp, did rub his nose, and stared that farmer, in the eye, then stretched himself, and spoke as he, would fain enjoy a longer lie. "well boss, i've been so often chucked, that it would be relief to stay, and in the court of chancerie, arrange it in a friendly way." they took the case to chancerie, and argued it, from every point, but in the end, they always found, the arguments, were out of joint! the prosecuting counsel, cranked the cogs of all the tramp's defence, and also in his turn, was spanked, and thus, they cribbed the farmer's pence. they argued it, on every side, with judge's whim, and lawyer's yarn. but still the tramp, remains at home, his home, is in the farmer's barn! the case, has not been ended yet, it crops up now, and often then, you cannot tell, when it may crop, it might crop up, next week again, but when that tramp, will have to go, i cannot tell it, nor can he, the farmer cannot, nor can they; the lawyers of the chancerie. thus tho' we may not take the law, into our hands, it's often meet, to serve extemporaneous writ by sharp eviction, from the feet. [illustration] [illustration: heads and tails] twas in the daisy bell, i met him, quite a swell, his style, was very taking, and off hand, "no thanks!" said he "i think we'll toss up, for the drink, i'm independent, as there's in the land!" i tossed him, and i lost, said he "that was a frost, i'll toss you now, a consolation toss, i'll toss you, for a bob" i lost! "i wouldn't rob" said he "i wouldn't see you, at a loss. "by gum! here's what i'll do, i'll toss you now for two, it's double now, or quits, that we will try," again i lost; 'twas queer, again, said he, "look here, your fortune, will be lifting by and by." i thought that it must turn, but soon i had to learn, his way was rather taking, and off hand, a goodly sum was due, said he "i've made off you, six quid, and sixteen tanners, you will stand," "your double coin," said i, "has just now caught my eye, and the dust, from your jacket, i must whack!" his jacket, with malacca, i did crack! his hide, was very taking, at the back! [illustration: the colonel and the cook] oh colonel i could love you, with faithful heart," said she; "but you are far too noble-- too grand a man for me, for you're commander of the horse, and hardly could be higher, while, i am only just a cook, around the kitchen fire." said she "i could not marry you, for you are all so grand; i'd be a most unhappy wife-- the saddest in the land." said he, "i did not ask you; but when i'm far from you, and on the field of battle, i'll see what i can do." said he, "i never thought of it, and only now, i see-- perhaps you are the woman, would suit to wed with me, and that is just the cause of them-- the words, i said to you-- when on the field of battle, i'll see what i can do." [illustration] the town, was all in tumult of women's wail alack! for many a gallant soldier, would never more come back, and even he (the colonel) might fall--the first or last; and that's the chiefest reason, that cook was weeping fast. and tho' it was not proper, to see the colonel, look with visage of dejection, upon a humble cook, yet nature won't be cheated, despite of high degree. "adieu; i'll come back worthy, my love, to wed with thee." and that is how they parted, and those, the words he said: and oft, when she was cooking, it came into her head, the promise he had uttered, of sweetest memory-- "adieu; i'll come back worthy, my love, to wed with thee." [illustration: as this peeves me now at present] she took a thought one morning, and bought a copy-book; said she, i'll study pothooks, they're suited for a cook. i'll write his name, in roundhand, a letter, i will send, with the words "no more at present"-- my pet name, at the end. she wrote his name, in roundhand, a letter, she did send, with "no more now at present," her pet name, at the end. but it never, never reached him, and he did languish yet, for the cook, at home in erin he never could forget. but lo! a taste for learning, is like a taste for drink, while working on the pothooks, she then began to think. and thought, is like a snowball, that gathers every turn; she studied read-'em-easys, while joints began to burn. she studied, night and morning, at languages, and paint, at poetry, and musty prose, and legends, old, and quaint. she wrote a three-vol. novel, and got a fancy price, became a photo beauty; "oh, this," quoth she, "is nice!" she then appeared in drama, while posing there, with grace of gauze, and limelight glowing upon her lovely face; a common soldier, shouted from the olympian rail-- "o 'evans!" its my 'arriet, and turning deadly pale. [illustration] he darted for the stage door, her carriage grand, was there, she was about to enter, with all the fuss, and flare, of mashers buzzing round her; and plunging forth, said he-- "i'm wot was once a colonel, who went across the sea. "of course you must remember, the words, i said to you-- 'when on the field of battle, i'd see what i could do.' i never make a promise, but to my word, i stick. the man, who breaks his promise, is but a broken brick." i'm wot was once a colonel, and for your love, i strove, to be reduced, into the ranks, for sake of you, my love; i ran away in battle, i several times got drunk, was challenged to a duel, and purposely took funk. they whittled my commission, into a major's rank, and still i acted badly, and several times i drank, i managed to get nibbled, down to a sergeant then i stole a pint of whiskey, was put amongst the men. [illustration] "i've been all over europe, a lookin' out for you, i have eschewed my grammar, to prove my 'eart, was true; i've parted with my surname, that all might well combine, which now, i'm private miggins, of the seventy-seventh line. "i've got a vulgar accent, and vulgar sayin's too. i drink, from common pewter. it's all along of you, and generally, my manners, are much about the styles, you'll find amongst the manners, of the people of st. giles. "but here, i say, look, listen! you have not acted straight, but made us yet the victims, of a lobsided fate; while i've been levellin' downwards, to suit with your degree, you've been, and gone, and levelled up, contrarywise to me. "you had not ought to take me, so short as this, i say; you've worked a mean advantage, while i was far away. but still, we'll go to-morrow, and make our love complete." "get out!" she cried, and vanished, in her brougham, down the street. [illustration] [illustration: the spirit that held him down] he was one of the middle age men i wot, a troubadour bedight, who lost himself, in a lonely wood, an exceptional sort of night, for the moon, was only beginning to wax, and the clouds, were muggy, and black, and there wasn't much chance, of finding his way, to the trail, of the beaten track. but troubadours, were stout and strong, of tough, and stubborn, stuff, and took the rough, with the sleek, and smooth, the smooth, with the rusty rough, so up thro' the drift, of the hummocky ruck, of the clouds, he searched for a star, to serenade, with the thringumy-thrang, of the thrum, of his new guitar. the glint of one, thro' a galloping cloud, he caught, and he screwed his wire, and gave a twist, to its patent head, and toned the catgut higher. then flung the cape of his cloak aside, and in an æsthetic strain, he pitched his voice, to the concert key, and twanged on the strings amain. [illustration] but having expressed himself in song, with a quivering verse or two, his favourite string gave out, with a bang, and stopped his impromptu. he muttered a satire upon that string, and sat on a bank, close by, when he heard the trip of a female foot, and lisp of a female sigh! she was one of the guardians, of the piece of ground, that was round him there, an ariel spirit in azure blue, and fluffs of auburn hair, that framed a very attractive face, of cream, and strawberry pink, and she greeted the troubadour bedight, with a captivating wink! "o troubadour, what brings you here, so lone and sad?" said she, just throw your guitar across your back, and wander away with me. i'll show you the fairy dells, of mine, all tricked around with sheen, of glittering gold, and sparkling gems, with electric lights between. [illustration] "i'm a single woman, and never was once in love, with a man, till this!" and then she stooped to his quivering lip, imprinting a dainty kiss. "why don't you get up out of that?" she cried, and make no longer stay. but a spirit within, still held him down, in a magical sort of way. "o troubadour, you're a suitable man, to live in the woods with me, we'll dance to the charms of elphin song, down under the greenwood tree." and she coaxed him again, with a dainty kiss, "oh, sweetheart, come, be gay!" but a spirit within, still held him down, in a magical sort of way. "i hope, that you don't imagine," said she, "that i am a frivolous flirt, i'm the woman, that's new, the fashion to-day, with rational trunks, for skirt, i can ride, on a bicycle, made for two, or 'tec out the sins of town," but all he could do, was give her a grin, from the spirit that held him down! he'd have given the world, to get up out of that, but a tantalising sprite, had taken possession of him, you see, in the early part of the night. the fact of it is, that he couldn't get up, if she gave him a kingly crown, and all he could do, was give her a grin, from the spirit, that held him down! twas woe! to see an attractive maid, so slurred, by a knightly bard, a misery this, for her plaint of love, to be grinned at, snubbed, and marred! yet ever again, did she give him a kiss, and a lingering, coaxing smile, but the spirit within, still held him down, in a magical sort of style! "o come get up out of that!" she cried, and gave his collar a shake, with a kick in the ribs, that bustled him up, and startled him wide awake! and her raiment shrunk to the belted blue, of a burly man, said he, "yer out very late, in a dress like that, so track it along with me." "get up out of that," the constable cried, "and don't make no delay," but the spirit within, still held him down, in a magical sort of way. the spirit within, still held him down, but the constable bent his back, and hooshed him up, and carried him off, at once to the beaten track. [illustration] the troubadour, came into the dock next day, in a crowded court, and the rig of his garb, to the modern herd, was a source of evil sport. but the modern beak had no romance, and the sum of a couple of crown, he fined the unfortunate troubadour, for the spirit that held him down! his future state. i found him, sitting on a seat, with sad reflective mien, a drowsing pathos, in his eye, tinged with a tint of green, i sat him by "good friend" i said, "of pilgrims, the resort, is this a church?" "i wish it wor!" cried he, "it's bow street court!" [illustration] and then again, i looked at him, once more, i spoke him kind, "thy far off gaze, doth indicate, some presence, on thy mind, some haunting thought, of grave import, connected with the fate, perchance, that thou, mayhap, may meet, when in the future state. o speak the burden of thy heart, that i may note it down," "it be's i was a boozin', and i'm fined a quid and crown, my far off look, is for that fine, to dodge the prison gate, and warders' lock on fourteen days, that quads my future state. [illustration: a fight in the phoenix park] a most attractive lady, of middle class degree, when in the ranelagh gardens, was thus addressed, as she beheld a man, she jilted, "theresa mary jane, you didn't think to see me back in town, so soon again; it's most exasperating, that when my back i turn you pace the ranelagh gardens, with cotton-ball o'byrne." the linen draper started, and with indignant shout, said he, "she loves me only, you ferule-fingered lout, your time you're only wasting, so take a thought, and spurn, the idle hopes, that lure ye," said mister pat o'byrne. just then up came a stranger, with bending courtesy, he doffed his triple tilted, "good-night, mam'selle," said he, then turning to o'gorman, and then, to pat o'byrne, "ze manners of ze shentlemans, ze both of you should learn; to wrangle round ze lady, i'm shames of you, by dam! if ye don't know ze fencin' of ze duel, go, and cram, don't bring ze crowds around her, but mit ze mornin' lark, vash out in blood, ze quarrels all in ze phoenix park." "i'm on," said kit o'gorman. "begor, an' so am i," said pat o'byrne. the lady, then gave a tender sigh, she told them each, she loved him, and though her heart did bleed, expressed a wish, he'd combat on a small arabian steed. "the duel's getting prosy, invest it with a fling of tournamental glory, you'll find it's now the thing, to gild, with knightly glamour, your daring feat of strife, and he who kills the other, i'll be his wedded wife; till then i'm queen of beauty," so spake that lady fair, "i give you both a fortnight, that each may well prepare, and then i'll send you chargers, on which to combat so" (her father dealt in horses), "now, sirs, good-night, and go." the fix was fraught with danger, for each of those two men, existence is too precious, man can't be born again; they ne'er had used a weapon, they never strode a horse, it was extremely awkward, and couldn't well be worse. so while o'gorman practised with foil, and mask. o'byrne, was in a circus riding, and then he took his turn, before a fencing-master, to guard, and thrust, and fool, while pat o'gorman, cantered around a riding school. at length the fencing-master, he says to pat o'byrne, "you're perfect mit ze fencing, you've nodings more to learn." the man who taught him riding, did compliment him too, and kit o'gorman also had "nodings" more to do. * * * * * the fortnight was now over, the morning came at last, the rising dawn, was ushered with snow, and biting blast, as on the fifteen acres, all in the phoenix park, the duellists were waiting the arab steeds, when, hark! they heard a distant braying, as 'twere a trump of brass, 'twas followed by a donkey, and then a second ass, came guided by his halter, unto the fated spot, said pat o'byrne and o'gorman, "o, powdhers, this is rot!" but yet a queen of beauty was their's the prize to win. "we better pause no longer, but instantly pitch in," said pat o'byrne, and gorman. they tossed for choice of ass, and pick of blade, then wheeling, they faced upon the grass. i was for kit o'gorman a second on that day, to see the flashing rapiers, to hear the donkeys bray was sight and sound to think of, the sylvan haunts were rife with echoes reverbrated from crash of deadly strife; up went each donkey backwards, while scintillating wales of flashing steels, were echoed, by lashing of their tails, for lo! the fight was doubled, the skittish donkeys sought, to variegate the contest, and capered round, and fought; they gave no chance. the foemen, with awkward clink of steels, struck now and then, while skew-ways the donkeys fought with heels,-- 'twas six o'clock commencing, and now, the strokes of ten, were sounding from the city, and still these mounted men, had not received abrasion, a cut, a prod, or crack, when both were somersaulted, from off each asses' back; the weapons went in splinters, as on the frosty grass, each foeman sprawled a moment, and loudly cursed his ass. the assmen, quickly bounded unto their feet again, and watched the seconds, chasing the donkeys round the plain; and when at length, we caught them, and brought them back once more, with fits of indignation, the baffled foemen swore; "bad scran to it!" said gorman, "o'musha, yis bad scran" cried pat o'byrne, "it's not a fight, for any dacent man, four mortial hours we've struggled--an' i'm all in a sweat!" said gorman "pon me sowl, i got no chance to kill ye yet!" "the fight has been protracted, and divil a thing is done, i vote we go and tell her", said o'byrne, "that it's no fun, to fight, as we've been fighting. tib's eve might come, and go, we'd still be found here fooling her donkeys thro' the snow." * * * * * they felt a queer foreboding of something, going down parkgate-street, on that morning, till journeyed back to town; they sought the girl, to tell her the fix that they were in, when a larky-looking servant in the hall, began to grin. "she's not at home at present, but breakfast sure is laid, she's gone off to be married," outspoke the sneering maid; "le beau, the fencin'-master is now the blissful man; you'll see them soon, they're comin' in a satin-lined sedan." "o, blur-an-owns!" said gorman, "o tear o'war," said byrne, machugh, the other second, and i got quite a turn! the man, who heard them quarrel, in ranelagh-walk that night, was le beau, the man who sent them to phoenix park to fight. he taught them both in fencing, and yet they did not know, that each, was being instructed by his rival, mons. le beau. they tied her pair of donkeys, unto her garden pier, when from the topmost window, that servant shouted "here, a note she left to give you, for both of you to learn." 'twas written: "kit o'gorman, and mister pat o'byrne, i've sent a couple of donkeys, i thought that they might teach what fools you are, for fighting, for what's beyond your reach, but, silly as my donkeys, if both of you remain, remorse for death, will follow, i'm yours, theresa jane." we sought a pub, and pondered, and drank, and sadly swore, we would not be connected, with duels evermore, i drank of stout, o'gorman, and byrne, of harder stuff, they swore of duel fooling, they both had quite enough,-- now, here's the bunch of fives, boys, there is no better rod to 'venge our wounded honour, than the weapons made by god! [illustration] [illustration: the abdicated crown.] he was jolly, round, and fat, and with a bright top hat, a chain beneath his burly bosom set, in good old fashioned way, said he to me, "i say old boy, i have a thing that's to be met, a pressing little debt, the dunner has me set, my pocket is unfurnished, to be let! five bob is all i ask," i 'sponded to the task, that abdicated crown is debit yet! [illustration: tears-in-law] i found him wet with tears, 'tis woe! to see a strong man thus, "o reginald fitz alpine smyke, why, wherefore, whence, this fuss? o is she dead, thy wife? for that, alone can justify, a bearded man to sob, and spring the sentimental eye." he raised his agonised brows, with tears, all steaming hot, "ah woe!" cried he, "you think my wife is gone, alas! she's not, this anniversary seven years, my mother-in-law pegged out, i never pass the day, without a lamentating shout, her wealth is settled on my wife, and thus for some i bid, with wails of woe, i take on so,-- for every filial tear-in-law, she stands a shining quid!" i left him weeping up the stairs, i met his wife below, "i'll call," said i "another day, your husband takes on so," "and so he may take on," she said, "his crocodiles may fall, 'twill drain some water from his brain, and do him good, that's all, to-day in the domestic stocks, he'll find a sudden fall!" alas! for poor fitz alpine smyke, his confidence was meant for me alone, but she was there, in slippers, on the scent! then came an action for divorce, with all its quips, and cranks, and _nisi_ was the laws _decree_ that dropped him to the ranks, and then he sought for many cribs, the cribs he did not suit, but he could well dissimulate, so he became a mute, his wife took the hymeneal bond again, and then she died, and hired mutes with sorry mien, were by her coffin's side. but when the funeral was o'er, the widower he went and greeted one of those--the mutes-- with feeling compliment, he lightly pinched him by the crape "o mister mute, i say, i wish i could have wept the tears, that you have dropped to-day!" "ah! me alack!" the mute exclaimed, "my sorrow was sincere, and were i not the ass i am, we wouldn't both be here; for i am he, fitz alpine smyke, thro' tears, i let her slip, and now by tears, i eke it out in salary and tip." [illustration] [illustration: he followed the fox.] i followed the fox, tally ho! i followed the fox, with a go, by joe! as swift as a swallow, or crow, wo ho! the ditch, is a cropper, hello! i am in it! and out, and a show! am asked to the next, won't go! [illustration: the honest young cashier] he was a courteous manager--a bosser of the bank, he filled the post of chairman, and other seats of rank. but he was never envied, his screw was almost nil-- ten thousand pounds per annum, and chances from the till. one day, when he was wiping his specks, thought he, "i hold, i'm working all for nothing by a heap of solid gold. i'll make of it a custom, a couple of months or so, to leave the strong room open as in and out i go. and fitfully in absence of mind, i'll drop my bunch of keys about, and leave them when going down for lunch. the point of which is plainly, that on a certain night, i'll seize on all the bullion, and fix it out of sight. i will not be suspected, i'll do whate'er i please, for i have clinked the vintage with nobles and m.p.'s; and though i know he's honest, i'll make it so appear, that i will prove the robber, is the honest young cashier. [illustration] they'll pass a vote of censure, that i did leave behind, my keys, and strong room open, but, pshaw! i need not mind. 'twill come out on the trial, i'll make it sure and clear, 'twas all of too much trust in the honest young cashier." he left the strong room open; he left his keys about, upon his mantle-shelf, and desk, anon when he went out-- a custom not unnoticed by him, the young cashier, who got a stick of wax, and what he did with it is clear. one night there was a darkness, like crape upon the land, and such a gust and thunder, a man could hardly stand. the tempest was so fearsome, that if you spoke in shouts, 'twould only be a tangle of tipsy words and doubts. 'twas on that gloomy evening, the honest young cashier, bespoke him to the manager, and "sir," said he, "look here, the staff is nearly idle, and so i think you might excuse me now, i'm wanting to do a thing to-night?" [illustration] "well, you may go and do it." he went, and down he stole into the lonely coal-hole, behind a lump of coal, and trussed him like a hedgehog upon the slack till sure, he heard the distant slamming, that closed the outer door. then stole him from the coal-hole, he stole him up the stairs, he ambushed on the landing, for fear of unawares. he stole into the strong-room, and stealing out his key, he stole it to the keyhole, and opened cautiously. he looted off that evening as much as he could hold, 'twas close on half a million, and all in solid gold. * * * * * [illustration] 'twas on that self-same evening the chairman thought 'twas right, to work his own manoeuvre, 'twas such a roughish night. three overcoats were on him, with pockets every side, ten carpet bags he carried, and all were deep and wide. he also had a hatbox, and novel thought, and bright; he stitched a row of stockings behind him out of sight, he loaned a sealskin wallet, a whalebone gingham tent, and through the garden gate he skid, and down the town he went. he skirmished through the darkness, he skulked against the wind, he spankled by some people, and left them all behind. he slewed around a corner, and up the lane he slank, and shuffled thro' the wicket of the courtyard of the bank. he ducked into the back door, and picking up the stair, he sneaked into the strong room, and, heavens! what was there? the iron door was open, and all the heap of gold was gone! he sank with horror, and to the floor he rolled. [illustration] and from beneath the tables and corners of the room, three coppers scrambled on him, like shadows of his doom. they put him on his trial, and heedless of his rank, he got an awful sentence, for robbing of the bank. it proves that men are mortal, the sequel i have here, the bankers called a meeting, they called the young cashier. said they, "you have impressed us with great integritee, we'll give the future management of all the bank to thee." they made a testimonial, and signed it every one, 'twas cornered with the pictures of specious deeds he'd done; and on the scroll in beauty, of art did there appear, the tribute of their homage to the honest young cashier. when you prepare for robbing, don't leave your keys about, for fear a wax impression be taken while you're out; and do not come in second, or it might be your doom to chance upon three bobbies from the corners of the room. [illustration] [illustration: the road to london.] pretty maiden, all the way, all the way, all the way, pretty maiden, why so gay, on the road, to london? "will you give that rose to me?" "that's the flower, of love," said she, "i'll not give this rose to thee, on the road, to london." "i have got a love, and he, is a good heart, true to me, 'tis for him, this rose you see, on the road, to london." "where is now, that love?" asked he, "he's away from me," cried she, "but he'll soon return to me, on the road, to london." "would you know him, an' he be waiting there, by yonder tree?" "aye would i, on land or sea, or the road, to london!" "then my sweetest, i am he, give that rose of love to me, i have come, to greet with thee, on the road, to london!" then he flung his cloak aside, "i have come to make a bride, of the fairest, far and wide, on the road, to london." then she laughed at him, and chaffed, unromantic, chaffed, and laughed; till he thought, that she was daft, on the road, to london. [illustration] "no!" said she "that's not the way, parted lovers, meet to-day, 'tis by note, or wire, they say 'on the road, to london.' "so 'twere best, thou didst by flight, take thy footsteps, out of sight, lest my love, per fortune, might strike the road, to london! "we've been having shrimps and tea, he's a champion knock out; he could knock spots off you," said she, on the road, to london. "see! my spouse, from yonder gap, cometh like a thunder clap!" "ho! then here's for the first lap! on the road, to london." [illustration] [illustration: antediluvian pat o'toole and all his fleet of sail] while poking my umbrella into the cracks and crannies that serve to vary the monotonous setting of the stones of a certain pyramid of egypt, i scraped away a portion of mortar or cement, and was agreeably surprised, by discovering a roll, of what i fondly hoped might be a bundle of faded bank of england notes; but on closer inspection, it proved to be a scroll of papyrus, thickly covered with curious hieroglyphics. they throw a misty light on the history of the o'tooles, for written in a strange mingling of blank verse, and ballad metre, they purport to give a correct version of the account of the deluge; in which disaster, it appears that a worthy ancestor of the said family played a conspicuous, and important part. an addenda accounting for their presence in the pyramid is appended, and contains the plausible statement, that it was actually a descendant of the said o'toole, who designed and built the tombs of the pharoahs, and adopted this subtle means of sending his name down to these remote ages. some savants and egyptologists will cavil at this startling information, but i happen to be in possession of a three cornered cypher that runs thro' the composition of their architecture, which will be of convincing merit, when i have time to issue the seven folio volumes, which i am not preparing at present, in connection with this important subject. the opening line proves that the ballad must have been composed at a much earlier period than that of the deluge. 'twas in the raal ould antient times, when there wasn't any probability of thruth at all in anything, before the world was dhrownded, an' the people spoke in irish, with a wonderful facility, before their undherstandin's wor be foreign tongues confounded, it was just about this pariod of the fine ould anshint history of the murnful earth, that pat o'toole, the irishman was born, he gev the information, in a noisy intimation of his presence, rather early, on a whitsun monday morn, but it's not all out particular, or anything material, to the thruth consarnin' all about the narrative i've spun, the story of his birth, or the mirth upon this earth, that shook his father's rafthers, with rousin' rounds of fun. * * * * * whin pat at last had come of age, it took a hundred years or so, for then the men lived longer, and a minor wasn't free, to slip out of the chancery, an' from his legal infancy, to come into his property, till the end of a century; well it was just about that time a floatin' big menagerie, was bein' built by noah, in the exhibition thrade,-- he advertised, an' posted it, got editorial puffs on it, explainin' that 'twould be the best, that ever yet was made. he had it pasted up on walls, dhrawn out in yalla, red, an' green, a lion tamer too was dhrew, in puce, an' royal blue, a hairy bowld gorilla new, he got from mossoo doo shalloo, an elephant with thrunk, hooroo! the plaziozarus, and emu, a wild hoopoo, a cockatoo, an' the boxin' kangaroo, he had it hoarded round, away from thim that didn't want to pay, an' guarded all be polis, in a private public park, he paid a man that cried "hooray!" in shouts you'd hear a mile away, "come in, an' see the menagerie, that's cotch for noah's ark, come look at the wild menagerie, before the flood of wet comes down, for thin ye won't have time to see, ye'll all be dhrownded thin! the glass is goin' down to-day an' sure from far americay, a blizzard's on the thrack i hear, so lose no time, come in!" [illustration] twas thin o'toole, the irishman, pushed wid his elbows thro' the crowd, he dhropped his tanner, an' he wint into the show that day, an' as he thrapsed along the decks, an' in the howld, an' up an' down, he sudden got a pleasin' thought, an' thin he went away, he kep' the saycret to himself, an' never towld a single sowl, he kep' it dark, so there was none to budge, or tell the tale, he wint to father mooney, an' he took the pledge agin' the drink, an' in the sheds of his back yard, he built a fleet of sail, he whistled as he worked, an' took a soothin' whiff of honest weed,-- that wasn't 'dultherated wid cabbage laves, or such,-- "i'll prove that noah's out of it," he sung, an' took an airy fit of step dancin', "i'll make a hit, an' lave him on a crutch!" he saw that noah advertised, in notices around about, he'd have to charge the passengers, to save them from the flood, 'twas such a dirty selfish thrick, that nobody could stand to it; but like a thrue born irishman, siz pat, siz he, "i could collect thim all, both great an' small, an' won't give him a chance at all, i'll spoil his speculation, an' i'll save thim from the flood!" [illustration] wid that he wandhered round the world, an' gathered curiosities, of every sortins of the male, an' of the faymale kind, an' thin embarked thim in his fleet, until he had them all complate, he didn't lave a quadruped, or bird, or midge behind, he kep' the saycret to himself, an' never wint upon the dhrink, an' out of every pub, they missed his presence round the town, until the sky was gettin dark, an' thin the hatches of the ark, wor overhauled by noah, an' the wet kem peltin' down, thin japhet, shem, an' ham, stood on the threshowld of their father's ark, an' shouted to the thousands, that wor in the teemin' rain, "shut up yer umberellas quick, an' save yerselves for half-a-crown, ye'll never have a chance like this, in all yer lives again! for if ye want to save yer wives, or if ye'd like to lave yer wives, or maybe wish to save yer lives! it's half a crown, come in, the world will all be dhrownded soon! we know it be the risin' moon, a wheel of mist is round her boys, come in, an' save yer skin!" the charge was rather high, an' so they didn't get a sowl to go, for thin the royal mint was low, an' everyone was poor, "ah! what's the use of bawlin' there?" siz noah, from his aisy chair, "yer only blatherin to the air! come in an' hasp the door," just thin the wathers risin' high, the people all began to cry, an' scrambled to the places dhry, as fast as they could whail; whin all at once they seen a show, for from the distance down below, came captain pat o'toole hooroo! an' all his fleet of sail! [illustration] he scattered life belts in the flood, an' empty casks, an' chunks of wood, an' everything he possibly could, with nets, an' ropes, an' thongs he dhragged thim in by hook, or crook, a tinker, king, a thramp or duke, by fishin' line, or anchor fluke, an' several pairs of tongs, [illustration] the elephant loaned out his thrunk, to male or faymale, in their funk of wather,--without whiskey,--dhrunk; an' risin' thro' the wreck of the cowld deluge, teemin' round, giraffe, an' ostrich, scoured the ground, an' every dhrownin' sowl they found, they saved them by a neck! for pat was known, to bird, an' baste, of kindly heart, an' so a taste, of pleasin' gratitude they placed, for help of captain pat, while fore, an aft, an' every tack, the captain scrambled like a black,-- with freight of men, his punts to pack-- in specks, an' bright top hat. on larboard, or on starboard side, whatever dhrownin' crowds he spied, he dhragged them in wid wholesale pride, as quick as jumpin' cat! the blind an' lame, the short, an' tall, the wild, an' tame, the great, an' small, wid tubs he came, an' saved them all, the skinny, round, an' fat. [illustration] he didn't care, at front or rare, or head or tail, no matther where, he didn't fail, by skin, or hair, whin once he cotch a grip, he hawled thim in with frightened howls, upon the decks, as thick as rowls; till all the world of livin' sowls, wor safe in every ship!! [illustration] he saved the king of snookaroo, he had no trowsers on, its thrue, but what is that to me or you? he saved him all the same, there was no bigotry in pat, an' in the bussel of the king, he stuck a boat hook, with a spring, an' saved him all the same! the rooshan bear he did not shirk, he cotch him on a three-pronged fork, and wrastlin' with a furious turk, he dumped thim on the deck, [illustration] the chinese emperor; he squat around a lamp, siz he to pat, "o captain take me out of that," pat scruffed him be the neck, "o do not save the jap he said, he has no pigtail on his head, the bad pernicious chap!"--but pat hauled in the jap. [illustration] outside a public house, the sign was loaded with the muses nine, they shouted "pat ah! throw a line, we've all been on the dhrink," siz pat "although i'll never brake the pledge meself, here, thry an' take howld of the teeth of this owld rake," and raked thim in like wink! three judges of a county coort, wor by the wathers taken short, o throth, it must have been the sport, to see their dhreepin' wigs! "ketch on to this!" said pat o'toole, an' like a soft, good natured fool, he flung a lawyer's 'lastic rule, an' dhragged thim in like pigs, we'd all be innocent, in bliss, with ne'er a polis, but for this, the judges shouted, "do not miss"--and dashed their dhreepin' wigs, "o save the polismen!" they cried, "there's thirteen on a roof outside;" an' with some knotted sthrips of hide, he mopped them in like pigs, "now ships ahoy!" siz pat, "we may put out to say, without delay, an' while its day, we'll start away, before the rising gale," thin from a bog oak, three-legg'd stool, he took the sun, with a two foot rule, an' round the world, went pat o'toole, an' all his fleet of sail! [illustration] 'twas on st. swithin's day, the wet began, an' rained for forty days, an' forty nights, it blundhered out the thunder, lift an' right, whin like a merricle it stopped, the sun came out, said pat o'toole, "hooroo! there's land ahoy! the tops of wicklow are in sight!" [illustration] an' then he brought his ships around, an' dhropped a cargo everywhere, in counthries where they'd propagate, an' where he thought they'd fit, he made a present to the blacks, of lions and the tigers, and the serpents and the monkeys, and such awkward perquisit, he gev the esquimaux, the bears, an' with the rooshins, left a few, an' dhropped a hungry wolf or two, to make the bargain square, the mustang, and the buffaloe, the red man of the wilderness, to bowld amerikay he gev, an' still you'll find thim there, [illustration] to hindoostan, the elephant, an' hippopotamus he gev, the alligator, crocodile, the simple vulture too, the divil for tasmania, the 'possum, an' the parakeet, he brought out to osthreelia, with the boundin' kangaroo. he left the isle of man the last, an' gev a three-legged cat that passed one day, beneath a fallin' mast, an' cut her tail in two! the only thing he missed, in this regard of all the captain done, he didn't save the irish elk, 'twas dhrownded be the flood, but still we can't find fault with him, he made it up to erin, for he didn't lave a reptile there, an' did a power of good. but while the captain, pat o'toole, was coastin' round, an' dhroppin' men, an' elephants, an' butterflies, behind him in his thrack, the ark with noah, and his wife, an' childer, sthruck on ararat, an' sprung a leak, an' all at once, became a total wrack! whin noah got his specks, an' saw by manes of different telegrams, how pat o'toole had been at work, his heart within him sunk, siz he unto his familee, "let one of you's, sit up for me," thin slipped around the corner, and he dhrank till he got dhrunk. but pat o'toole, he always kep' the pledge, he took before the flood, he lived for eighteen hundred years, a blameless sort of life, and whin he died, the hill of howth was built up for his monument, and ireland's eye was modelled out, in memory of his wife. [illustration] [illustration: sonnet on shares.] to fill his glass as host, was honour i did boast, and he spake to me one day, with a smile, "you wish to make a mark, then to my counsel hark, in the co., for which i'm chairman, put your pile." he was noble, he was good, of the upper ten, his blood Ã�sthetic tint of azure, all the while, a tone to conjure with,--i put my pile. the shares went down, o my! was not a fool to buy; if i had been a savage on the nile, i needn't pen this sonnet, with a sigh! [illustration: the lucky sixpence] you can't exist on nothing, when launched in wedded life-- so a lucky battered sixpence, was all i gave my wife, and said to her one morning, "when another vessel starts i'll scoot, and make my fortune, in romantic foreign parts." and so i went and scooted, but how the thing was done, was not like any pic-nic, or passage made for fun. we had hardly left the channel, and were in the offing yet, when the steward heard me snoring in the quiet lazarette. [illustration: i found a purse] it wasn't quite successful--the voyage--after this, and when we got out foreign, i didn't land in bliss. i worked my passage over, but the captain wasn't kind, and all i got for wages, was a compliment behind! and thus i was a failure, my later life was worse, when twenty years were over, at last i found a purse. it made me sad, and homesick, and tired of foreign life, "i'll start," says i, "for europe, and try and find my wife." i sought her when i landed, but everything was changed, and high and low i wandered, and far and near i ranged; i put her full description in several ads.--at last my flag of hope that fluttered, came half-way down the mast. i went, and i enlisted all in the bluecoat ranks; and took to promenading along the liffey banks. i made a measured survey of curbstones in the squares, and prowled behind the corners, for pouncing unawares. twelve months of measured pacing, had gone since i began; i hadn't run a prisoner, the time was all i ran; and when the year had vanished, said the sergeant, "halt, o'brine! you haven't run a prisoner, you'll have to draw the line." [illustration] that night i went and drew it--'twas peeping through a blind!-- i got some information, of suspicious work behind. the act i had my eye on, was a woman with some lead, i watched her squeeze a sixpence, in wad of toughened bread. a chance of some distinction was here, i could not shirk, i peeled my worsted mittens, and bravely went to work. i double somersaulted the window--'twas a do i picked up in australia, from a foreign kangaroo. [illustration] i lighted on the table, not quite upon my feet, but, ah! her guilty terror was evidence complete. "wot's this," said i, impounding the lead, and bread, and tin; "i've caught you in the act, ma'am, i'll have to run you in." they put her on her trial, and the evidence began, i swore my information, like a polis and a man; i showed a silver sixpence, with a hole in it defined, and showed them how i telescoped my presence thro' the blind. [illustration] the jury found her guilty, the judge condemned her then, to go into retirement, where she couldn't coin again. "o, sure i wasn't coinin', mavourneen judge asthore, 'twas the sixpence of my sweetheart that's on a foreign shore. a lucky one he gave me, he stayed away too long. i wanted for to change it, and thought it wasn't wrong to take its little photograph, for the sake of bein' his wife." said the judge, "it doesn't matter, i've sentenced you for life!" i saw her disappearing, from my eye behind the dock, o, ham an fowl! it's awful, to think upon the shock. i staggered with my baton to the sergeant, and i swore, he had made me run too many, i'd seek a foreign shore. [illustration] [illustration: a wall flower sonnet.] she was charming, full of grace, a hostess, you could place in a higher sphere, than that in which she shone, "i've a partner you should meet, a girl, extremely sweet!" and for the dance she always put me on, but meetings of regret, were maidens that i met, my hostess was a gay designing one, her wallflowers were too plain, the waltz did give me pain, i took a b. and s. and i was gone! she played with me, too often put me on, my hostess was a gay designing one! [illustration] [illustration: paradoxical words] he was up on the hustings, and thrashed with his tongue, the air in a socialistic vein, and as an employer, for the workers he felt, by proxy,--a sympathetic pain! a pang, that the few could wallow in their wealth, whilst many--their brothers--should sweat, "but ha!" shouted he, with a chuckle, and a grin, "you'll be having a millenium of it yet!" he taught that the masters should share with the men, he scouted, with pitiless vim, the right of the master, to more than his man, for his man was the master of him, then they flourished their hats, for the precept, with hope, that to practice, he might be content; but the confidence trick, is a hustings resource, and to part, wasn't just what he meant: he spoke, as a speech is the fashion to-day, in loud paradoxical words, as a titled premier of the commons, would shout, "down down with the house of lords." but still, 'twas a hopeful, and beautiful proof, that the cause of the toiler, was just, and he wouldn't have to wait, very long for a snack, from the sugar ornamented upper crust, in a very little time, he'd be gathering his whack, from the azure-fired diamond--upper dust, "you'll be having a millenium of it yet, working men, put me into parliament, and then, you'll find it a fact, we'll pass every act, for your chums, and your kids, working men, the hours you will work, will be eight, working men, on saturday, not quarter so late, and another holiday, in the middle of the week, we'll give you, by the laws of the state, with a capon, or a duck, on your plate, o put me into parliament, and _wait_! you'll be having the land parcelled out into bits, you'll be all of you fixed in the soil, and spontaniety of crops you will reap, without any trouble or toil. the screw will extend for each working man, employers will have to screw back, till tailored by the act, in polished top hats, you'll all be as gents in the track! we'll cut away the taxes, by the laws that we'll pass! you won't have to pay any rate! you'll be having a millenium of it yet, working men, o put me into parliament, and _wait_!" and thus with emotional foliated flights, he spoke like the clashing of swords, as a titled premier of the commons would shout, "down down with the house of lords!" he finished his speech in a thunder of cheers, the welkin was knocked into splits, and he smuggled off home, by the rear, or his trap, they'd have looted for souvenir bits! * * * * * with the conscience of one, who believes he has done, what was really the best, for himself, he retired into bed, that night, and he fell fast asleep, like a saint on a shelf. it might have been a very short period of time, or maybe it might have been long, when he woke with a buzz like a bee in his ear, or the purr of a tom cat's song. it might be the bizz of a wasp, or the hum, of a foraging blue bottle fly, but no! 'twas the sound of the whizz of a drill! 'twas then that he opened his eye. he jumped up in bed, and he cried with an oath, "what's that, that you're doing, you scamp?" to a burglar brave, who was sampling his room, with a bag, jemmy, brace, and a lamp. then the burglar grinned in an amicable way, for a diplomatic cracker was he, and he wouldn't take offence at the oath of a man, who had only awoke, said he, "i was down at the meetin' an' heerd every word, when you gave out the socialist pay, an' i am a bloke wot swears by the truth of the beautiful words that you say. that's whoy i am here, for my slice of the swag, that you've pinched, by employin' your men. i'm tottin' up the stock, in a confidential way, for an equal division of it then, for mate, i'm a pal of a socialistic turn, wot tries to do everythink straight, we'll halve them between us, the jewels and coin, an' make an even deal of the plate." [illustration] but out from the bed, with a jump in his shirt, the candidate sprang to the floor, said he, "i may preach, but to practice is bosh!" and leaped with a shout to the door. but the cracker of cribs, with a colt in his fist, was first, and with that at the nose of the candidate, muttered "you'll die of the cold, if you don't burrow under the clothes! "so don't make a row," said that burglar brave, "but jerk into bed out of sight, i hate to be put upon when i'm at work, an' boss, this is my busy night! "now jest let me fasten a gag on yer mouth, you know that it's wrong, to alarm your neighbours at night, when they're wantin' to sleep, quick! into this noose with each arm, there! now, with that beautiful knot on your pins, you cawn't say as how yer to blame, if i pinch all i can in the regular way, of the grabber's contemptible game!" he opened the safe, and he smashed the bureau, he looted the drawers, and shelf, of the plate, and the clocks, and the watches, and cash, from the cabinet, quick as an elf. slid everything down to his pal, with a rope, and then he slid down it himself, they drove with the swag, from the terrace amain, in a couple of hired out traps; and the city, was billed on the following day, with the special editions in caps! * * * * * 'twas a reasonable period, from the incident above, that a solemn deputation came down, for the candidate to speak in a socialistic vein, to the voters of the east of london town: "we'll be looking for you there, on waggon no. i. near the arch, that's of marble, in the park," but he pointed to the door "o tell them that i'm dead; for cram it! i am not up to the mark," [illustration: a cantabile on music, art, and law.] ho! there, pumps and castanets for three, we would dance a brief measure. o you will wonder why we're here, and wish that we were far, by wig, and gown, it doth appear, we're members of the bar, and tho' we are, we say to you, we all of us opine, that we may justly claim our due, in an artistic line. we are the type of one, you know, as well as we can tell, he is a burly splendid beau, a stately howling swell!-- a signor of the lyric stage, an operatic don,-- and by similitude, we'll wage that he, and we are one! 'tis true, tho' he is mostly stout, we're nearly always thin, but if you turn us inside out, we're stouter men within. for he is all a puff, and smoke, a sound that dies away; but we are they who crack a joke, that lasts for many a day. he has his crotchets; we do harp, on clients, this, and that, he has his sharps, and we are sharp, his flats, and they are flat; he blows away his notes, but we, are shrewder men by far, the notes we get professionly, we stick them to the bar! his quavers, they are nothing to the rallantando thrills, that shake our clients, when we screw the rosin on their bills. they often simulate, as deaf, when we do charge a case, our time is on the treble cleff, and their's is on the base. we make a loud fortissimo, when pleading in the wrong, and often pianissimo, when we should put it strong, but still we pull our fees the same, tho' suits may not be won, and by our tongue, we conquer fame, like that conceited don. and to the jury, we do plaint, upon a mauling stick, and from our pallets, clap the paint, around their craniums thick, we mould them from their purpose dense, like hods of plastic wax, and sculp into their common sense, and then climb down their backs! our song is done, for we are brief, and we will sing no more,-- and to my own intense relief, i thought they'd take the door, but no! they did not go, and each, put forth his kidded fist, "while we've been trying thus to teach, our fees we almost missed! remember this is christmas eve, three chrismas waits we be, the more the reason you should give, our consultation fee. we have our instruments, and they are of the parchment tough, with which we play, while men do pay, we wot we've said enough. and wherefore, and whereas for this, aforesaid, told to thee, moreover, we must have, we wis, our consultation fee. five guineas unto each of us, refreshers each, a pound,"-- i rose to kick them into bruss, they bolted through the ground! my future suppers, must be free of nightmare risk; the cause of that cantabile of glee, on music, art, and laws; was merely this, that i did run, the danger of such rig, by feeding on a goose, they hatched, inside a lawyer's wig. [illustration] [illustration: woman's tears.] the tears were in her eye, said i "what makes you cry?" and my sympathy was such, that i sighed; for it gives my heart the creep, to see a woman weep,-- especially the one to be my bride. "alas!" said i, "ah! me, it grieveth me, to see that trickle, at your nostril, by the side." "'twas the onions, i was cutting," she replied. [illustration: heradic fruits of a family tree by a lyin' king of arms] [illustration] when cha, the first, was run to ground, an ancestorial mite was found; by rails in pale, at dexter chief, from judges' wig, he pipes his grief. his deeds, of later life, did tend, to prove him of the sinister bend; as boozing charge, he takes his place, from sinister chief, to dexter base. [illustration] [illustration] his son, did charge in sable chief, a sword, or he had come to grief; that chief above, from sinister, part, has got,--per fesse-- that sword in heart! another son, of prudent parts, doth pawn his arms, for peaceful arts; from dexter or, on shield of gu, in pale, reguardant sinister jew. [illustration] [illustration] another son, from want appeald, to art, for charge, on argent shield, and so, upon his coat he drew a garb, that he might dare, and do he sought to void a hen-coup, he is trussed above it, on a tree; couchant, in chief, with spade, in fesse, a sorry wight, he must confess. [illustration] [illustration] at length, an orient pile, he took, then counterchanged, his coat for luck! this dexter treatment, is not right; he's or, on ar, the lawless wight! but ah! at last, his fate was healed and by command, got royal shield; a dexter king, reguardant, won! he dyed, and left an "only son." [illustration] [illustration: the polis and the princess grana uille] the man who confidently seeks to set up a new idea, by upsetting an old theory, or tradition, is one who lives in advance of his time, whereby he forfeits many valued amenities of contemporaneous courtesy. but he is to be extolled for the moral heroism that impells him, to advance new facts, into the study of history, or explode errors so steadfastly grounded on the popular belief, that he finds himself, pen to pen with a hostile army of savants, antiquarians, historians, and critics: some stirred with spirit of envy, others with a craving for notoriety, but all unanimous, and up in arms, with loaded pens and arsenal of inkpots. in this regard i find myself, by placing the correct revision of a popular tradition before my discerning readers. i have to confess that it was not thro' deep and industrious research, that i am thus enabled to challenge the truth, of the accepted records. it was thro' the chance, afforded by an hour of breezing sea-scape recreation, that i discovered the mysterious chronicle. the popular tradition, is thus related by dr. walsh. "the celebrated grana uille or grace o'mally, noted for her piratical depredations in the reign of elizabeth, returning on a certain time from england, where she had paid a visit to the queen, landed at howth, and proceeded to the castle. it was the hour of dinner--but the gates were shut. shocked at an exclusion so repugnant to her notions of irish hospitality, she immediately proceeded to the shore, where the young lord was at nurse, and seizing the child, she embarked with, and sailed to connaught, where her own castle stood. after a time, however, she restored the child; with the express stipulation, that the gates should be thrown open, when the family went to dinner--a practice which is observed to this day." when the hill of howth was covered, by a city great, and grand, and nuggets still were gathered, like cockles on the strand; on the shore, around by sutton, a children's maid was met, who was wheeling of a baby, in a sky blue bassinet. and as that maiden cycled that infant by the sea, down the boreen from the bailey, came number b; and he sudden lit his eye on, he sudden had her set, that slavey, with the baby, in the sky blue bassinet. he held aloft his baton, saluted like a man, said he "i'm almost certain, you're name is mary anne, the sergeant up the boreen, in the distance there is gone, we'll make the distance greater, if you and i move on. for fifty years i've ambushed, and watched around me bate, but never met a sweetheart, that took me so complate, and what's a bate? it's nothin' to a polis, whin he's gone! i'm gone on you me darlin', let you and i move on." "o hoky smoke! avourneen, i never seen yer like, as sure's me name is dooley, with the christian name of mike, i sware it, by this number, on my collar, which you see, i'm shockin' fond of you agra," said no. b. he took that trusting maiden, to the adjacent strand, "a punt is on the shingles, convaynient here to hand, put the bassinet into it," said the blue official fox, "we'll go and look for winkles, thro' seaweed on the rocks." now whether or for winkles, or what it was they went, they stayed away much longer than was their first intent, a thoughtless time, that stranded them in a piteous plight, the tide was in, o moses! the punt was out of sight. upon that woeful morning, the fact we may not shunt, the little lord st. lawrence, was kidnapped by a punt, and reverbrated wailings, of his nurse is echoed still, with oathings of the polis, around ben heder hill! but then it struck that polis, a hopeful thought of mark, and to the weeping servant, he muttered, "whist! an' hark!" then put his index finger, abaft his coral nose, "howld on! i'll go, an' square it, i've got a schame, here goes!" the crafty rogue departed, and told the specious tale, of how the child was stolen by the princess granauille, he told the weeping mother, he almost thought he knew, from information he received, that he had got a clew, when granauille was challenged, it struck her, she could make a profitable bargain, in re her nephew's sake, 'twas just before his teething; his nose was but a blob, like every other baby's, so she could work the job. as tourist come from connaught, she owned that it befel, that she had left her galley, to find a cheap hotel, but when she reached the castle, with appetite, it shocked her, when she found the outer door, at dinner time was locked! she thought it mean, and stingy, the child she lifted then-- and told that subtle polis, she'd give the child again, in safety to its father, if he would leave the door, at dinner, always open, on the latch for evermore. upon lord howth, she fathered her nephew in this way, that he might be ancestor of viscount howth to-day, and if you want a dinner, i'll give you all a tip, there's just a fleeting moment, i've always let it slip,-- the minute hand records it, upon the castle clock, and if you're up that moment, you have no need to knock, walk in, the door is open, and make "a hearty male," and thank that crafty polis, and the princess granauille. * * * * * and now about the baby, his voyaging began, before he'd had his teething, and still he's not a man, he's yet a child! whose ravings across the ocean flew, of "who am i? and where am i? and what am i to do?" [illustration] he's never grown a whisker, he's never known a beard! of hair upon the cranium, he never yet has heard! and so he is not altered, he's still in statu quo, as bald and snub, and chubby, as three hundred years ago! three hundred years are over, and lo! he's living yet, he made a sleeping cabin, from the sky blue bassinet, he made the punt commodious, with wreckage that he found, but of a human sinner, he's never heard a sound! he lives without a purpose, an object or intent, three hundred years of waiting, in ignorance are spent, he lives; and for this reason, because he never knew, of who he is, or where he is, or what he is to do! he never saw a sailor! he never hailed a sail! the pensive penguin harkened unto his lonely wail; the albatross did follow he shrieked him for the clew, "o who am i? and where am i? and what am i to do?" he pleaded to the swallow, and mother cary's chicks, of his expatriation, and in his devilish fix, besought the mild octopus, and all the ocean crew, "o who am i? and where am i? and what am i to do?" he hailed the great sea serpent, the comprehensive whale, the flying fish, to answer, the burden of his wail, of what the deuce had happened, that life was all so blue! "o who am i? and where am i? and what am i to do?" [illustration] he is not dead, it's certain, i'll merely mention here, he may be in mid ocean, or yet he may be near, the north wall boat may hail him, it's prophesied that yet, hell be thrown up at sutton, in the sky blue bassinet. be watching all the papers; for soon or late some day, in leaded type, you'll see it, and with a big display of capitals above it, of claimant, who will know, of what to do, and do it, and one who'll have to go! now most of you will question, the record i recite, to clear your doubts upon it, i think it's only right, to tell you, i was searching for cockles at blackrock, when lo! my heart was fluttered with interesting shock! i saw a feeding bottle, that lay upon the strand, i stooped anon and gripped it, with sympathetic hand, i thought it might be jetsam, of baby that was drowned, but looking thro' the bottle, a manuscript i found. and there in broken irish, it states the fact, that he had sealed it in his bottle, and still he's on the sea, with anxious intimation, that yet he seeks the clew, of who he is? and where he is? and what he is to do? [illustration: marvelous relic a message from the c----] a horror of london town. on london streets by a gin shop door, in the blaze of a noontide sun, with horrible zest of a thirst for gore, was a desperate murder done, on the sainted flags of a christian town, i saw this outrage planned, and three little boys, in crime, sere brown were there with a helping hand. 'twas a group of seven--i counted them all, a group of seven strong men, and summing them up, with the criminals small, their total i think was ten, with umbrellas, and sticks, and stones, they hunted a sad wretch down, mid random of kicks, and ogerous groans, a shame unto london town! but while was fought the unequal fight, that murder of ten to one, there came an ominous venger of right, they call him a copper for fun, and i said he'll be pulling the lot of them; then the villians ha! ha! shall see there are dungeons dark for the murderous ten, in the walls of the old bailee! but no! he paused, and he gravely stood, and the never a stir, stirred he, as he saw them compass the deed of blood, to its end with a ghastly glee, and o 'twas pity to hear the tones, of the suppliant's voice in pain, as he sought to fly from the sticks and stones, and the yells of "hit, hit him again!" a drayman flourished the butt of his whip, i am sure it was loaded with lead, and his laugh was wild, as a terrible clip, he aimed at the victim's head! alas! too sure, by the jugular vein, he was struck, and he dropped and died, and the drayman shook, as he laughed amain, for blood was the caitiff's pride! but o i proved, ere i wandered home, there yet was a friend most true, who bore the corse to a silent tomb, ah! yes, and embalmed it too, a kind purveyor came walking by, and he stopped on the edge of the flag, then turned to his boy, and exclaimed with a sigh, "jim, slip the dead rat in your bag." [decoration] [illustration: a confidential sonnet] i met him one night there, north east of leicester square, within about a quarter of a mile, "i've confidence," said he, "in all humanity, i'll leave my bloomin' purse with thee awhile!" he left it, went away then coming back, "i say," said he, with an insinuating smile, "now lend your watch to me, for i am like yourself without no guile," he took it, went away, and from that evil day, i keep that man's description on my file. [illustration: a tram car ghost.] the last car at night, is a vehicle laden with varied symptoms of mysterious hauntings that more or less oppress the fares, some toned down by the lassitude of overwork, drop gratefully into their seats, and quickly fall into fitful slumber, others seem to court a spasmodic notoriety by loud and disjointed converse. a weary of world expression clouds the features of a few with an unuttered protest, for the disagreeable fact of their birth, whilst others seem by their grumpy glances to suggest a jealous objection to other people's existence. a select few, unconsciously advertise a flippant gratification at the possession of life, and squeeze festivity from it, as colour from a blue rag. but all are haunted with the mysterious workings of unseen spirits, that usually accompany the fares, in the latest car at night. there wasn't a soul in the tramway car, well not that myself could see, but the sad conductor took my arm, and steadfast gazed on me-- then pointing up to the corner seat, "look! that's his regular game, i'm sorry to have it to say of a ghost, but he hasn't a tint of shame!" you'll think the tram conductor was drunk, his breath was sweet as mine, like the orris root, or a tint of mint, or scent of a similar line. it might be a ginger cordial; but the air of the night was strong, and it wouldn't be proper to say i'm sure, i might perhaps be wrong. "will you slack?" said i, but he caught my arm "the man that i killed is there! i hate to have it to say. but no, i can't recover my fare! i asked it from him one winter's night, but full as a tick with drink, the only answer he gave to me, was just a chuckle and wink. with this american tink-a-ting, i couldn't defraud the co., so caught his collar, and chucked him off the back of the tram car, so. there wasn't a soul that saw the deed, not even the driver knew, and there he lay on the tramway track, till the townward car was due. it broke his neck, and his shoulder blade, his legs, and arms, its broke, and laid him out, a squirming trout, 'twas then he awoke, and spoke! said he, "what's up? is the dancing done? the waltz has made me sore!" and wriggling out on the frosty ground, he never spoke no more! heigho! the murder was caused by me, was never a soul who knew, that i am the man, who chucked the man, that the townward tram car slew! and everybody on earth was done with the murdered man, but me! the very next night, in the corner seat, i looked, and there was he! i thought at first that he might be a twin, and asked his thruppeny fare, but he sneered at me, i turned away, and left him sneering there! thinks i, i'll watch him, and jot my tot, and when he is goin' to go, i'll chuck him the same, as i did before, for sake of the tramway co. i calculated the list of fares, then turned around to look, but hey! i'm blowed, if he hadn't gone off, gone! with his bloomin' hook! but how it was done, or whither he went, i never could guess, or think, for the ventilators all were shut, there wasn't an open chink! and i was up at the door so tight, he couldn't have passed me by, i never did close an eye that night, no lid of a bloomin' eye! i hates to see the company done, and that was a cheated fare, i'd rather lose my regular meals, than wrong the company, there! i'd rather work from ante m, six till three of the a.m. clock, than wrong the tramway co. of a coin, that wasn't my legal stock. there's nobody sees the ghost but me, because he's a sneaking sprite, he always comes when i take my turn on the latest car at night. that's him! he's there in the corner seat, the man that i killed is there, i hate to have it to say, but no, i can't recover my fare! i've this american tink-a-ting, and tickets of sortin's three, but that embezzling raw will come to cheat, and sneer at me. i cawnt tell why, but he worry's me so, i'd collar him if i could, he hasn't a scruff, or any a crop, o' the neck, or flesh or blood, he hasn't a waistband, i could grip, nor anythink i could kick, i'd like to fetch him a trip, but ah! to think of it, makes me sick he hasn't a face, to black his eye, or even a hat to block, but all the same, in the corner there, he gives the fares a shock! he dosses himself in the favourite seat, and while he's nestlin' there, the passengers cawnt shove up to the end, to make my regular fare. for some insist that the seat is cold! and others complain it's hot! and some it's damp, and some remark, it's a most infernal spot! and some keep shovin' their sticks above, to let in the atmosphere, while others are closin' them up with a curse, the thing is devilish queer. it's pisonous hard on a man like me, who lives on what he can get, but i'll have to try and see if i cawnt, jest manage to shuffle him yet. ha! there, he's gone! i knew that he would, waltz out of my bloomin' sight! his regular trick with my thruppeny fare, now--jump with the car, good night." [decoration] margate sands. she was five, or six, he four years old, when they met on the margate sands, and he gravely looked in her great blue eyes with hold of her little fat hands, and he said, "i love oo well rosie; i know, dat i'd rather have oo, dan all de lickel girls on de sands to-day, iss, even dan de girl in blue!" "i'm glad oo do; and i love oo too!" thro' a heaven of golden hair, like silvery bells, was her sweet response, on the ozoned rose lit air, and then with his bucket, and spade, he built for his love, on the sand, that day, a castle, and pie, till the tide came in, and washed his castle away. * * * * * in many a year thereafter 'twas, in a box in drury lane, said a gent, as he used his opera glass, "yon lady's remarkably plain!" and the lady exclaimed, at the self-same time, when she saw his glass in hand, "what an ugly fright!" they did not know, they had loved, on the margate sand! [illustration: john mc kune] o paddy murphy--carman of the stand in college green-- you've had your sudden ups and downs, and busy days you've seen, we're waiting for your story; how the mare struck up the tune, of sparks amongst the gravel, on the road to knockmaroon. "o faith an' i may tell you, you will not be waitin' long, whin the piebald mare asooker, is the sweetheart of me song, for sure it was a mastherpiece, of how she dhragged mckune, behind her whiskin' tail, along the road, to knockmaroon. 'twas in the busy period, whin the fenians wor at war, i mopes'd around the dargle, on a newly painted car; whin, creepin' from the ditches, like a bogey in the moon, a man proposed the journey of a dhrive to knockmaroon. he might as well have axed me on the minute, for a run, to roosha or to paykin, or the divil or the sun! he might as well have axed me, for a rocky mountain jaunt; so i bounced him with an answer of the sudden words, "i can't!" the boys to-night are risin' an' i darn't go impugn me car into the danger, of a dhrive to knockmaroon!" [illustration] thin spakin' wid the dacency, of a remorseful tone, "in fact," siz i, "me car's engaged, in bray, by mick malone; besides the mare is nervous, an' me wife expects me soon, for the army's out, i hear, upon the road to knockmaroon!" he didn't stop to parley, but he jumped upon me car, an' showed a livin' pixture, of the brakin' of the war, by pointin' a revolver at me nose! "i'm john mckune, dhrive on," siz he, "i'll guard you on the road to knockmaroon!" i never knew that powdher smelt so flamin' strong before, it smelt as if a whole review, was stinkin' from the bore! the steel of that revolver shone, like bayonets in the moon, of all the british army on the road to knockmaroon! an' hauntin' round its barrel, the ghosts of every sin, i done in all me life before, wor there, in thick an' thin! so like a fiddler in a fight i quickly changed me tune, "bedad!" siz i, "it's i'm yer man, we're off to knockmaroon." "you see, i've got a takin' way," says he, an' with a grin, he put his barker back into his breeches fob, agin, "now whail around, an' thro' the bog,--the featherbed,"--says he, "i'll guard you, by the barracks of the polis, at glencree, an' dhrive, as if yer car was late, to bring the royal mail! whip up! as if the divil sat upon your horse's tail!" i gev the mare a coaxer, of the knots upon me whip, an' rowlin thro' the darkness, where the road begins to dip, i bowled upon me journey, with the load of john mckune, an' fits of wondher, why he dhrove that night to knockmaroon; an' just as we were wheelin' out, beyond the feather bed, the boys put up their lamplight, an' alightin' down, he said some hurried words an' whisperin's, then with a cheer for him, presentin' arms, "dhrive on," they cried, "god speed you wicklow jim!" i dhrove as if the phooka was the horse beneath me whip, we flew, as if the jauntin' car was on a racin' thrip, we scatthered dust, an' whizz of wheels, an' sparks upon the air, when all at once, i pulled her up, at shout of "who comes there?" it was a throop of sojers, an' me heart began to croon, wid jigs, aginst me overcoat! siz he, "i'm john mckune,"-- he sprang from off the cushion, an' a little while was gone, then comin' back, a captain gev the password, to dhrive on! he leaped upon the car again, an' says to me, once more, "now, dhrive me 'cross the grand canal, and on to inchicore," but when we got around a turn, an' in a lonely place, he whipped his waypon out again, to point it at me face! siz he, "yer car is weighty, an' yerself's a dacent bulk, you say the mare is nervous, an' she might begin to sulk; we mustn't let that meddle with the work that i've in hand, so skip your perch this minute, like a lark, at my command, come, hop yer twig, unyoke her, in a slippy lightenin' crack! just double up that rug, an' sthrap it tight across her back, an' shorten up the reins, an' swop yer overcoat an' hat, quick! flutther up, as if you wor a blackbird from a cat!" i never felt so brave, in all me life, me courage rose, to bid him go to blakers!--but the barrel at me nose, brought down me heart like wallop, till i felt it, in me brogue, an' so i done his dirty work, the ugly thievin' rogue! i loosed the crather from the shafts, and sthrapped the rug, an' then, he vaulted on her back, an' faced her up the road again, "you'll find her in the mornin', on the grass in phoenix park," he shouted, as with skelpin' whip, he galloped thro' the dark, an' left me cursin' in a fit, beside me sthranded yoke, as if i got the headache of a mapoplectic sthroke! next night, whin i was frettin', that i'd never see her more, i heard the mare asooker's hoof, beside the stable door; i darted out, she kissed me, with a whinney loud and long, that made her ever afther, as the sweetheart of me song! * * * * * when fifteen years wor over, an' meself was down in cork, i read it on a paper,--in the bowry of new york,-- of a pub around a corner, where a lonely man in june, was sittin', when two men came in, says they, "you're john mckune!" [illustration] he dhropped his glass of cock-tail, with a crash upon the floor; and looked, as if he'd jump the sash, of window, or the door, he looked, as if he'd rather be in hell, or on the moon; said they, "at last we have you, for a traitor, john mckune!" he didn't spake an answer, but he quickly thried to grip, the bright revolver waypon, from the fob, behind his hip, he hadn't time to dhraw it, like a flashin' lightenin' dart, two loaded levelled weapons, wor against his jumpin' heart! "hands up!" they shouted "damn you! ye scaymin' divil's limb; we've come to scotch the serpent, we know as wicklow jim," said they, "at last we have you for oaths you gave to men, an' swore them for your purpose, to bethray, an' sell them then!" he didn't make an answer, but he thried to whip a knife, from collar of his cota--it was there to guard his life-- he hadn't time to dhraw it, for a crack of shots! an' soon, a pool of blood, was spurtin' from the corpse of john mckune. [illustration] [illustration: i'll go for a sojer.] "o where is my johnnie acushla?" says she, he left me last night, an' "maggie" says he, "it's meself an' yerself mam that couldn't agree, be dang but i'll go for a sojer!" he took all the cash that i had in the till, i followed him round to the butt of the hill, "go back, or yerself is the first that i'll kill!" says he, "whin i'm gone for a sojer!" i hung to his neck, an' i axed him to stay, ye might as well ax for the night to be day; but wringin' his neck from me, shoutin' "hooray!" says he "whoo! i'll go for a sojer!" i set the dog afther him, thought that he'd stick in the tail of his coat, he was up to the thrick; for he turned on his heel, an' he skelped him a lick, of the stick, "i am off for a sojer!" "o whisht! arrah there, look he's comin'!" she cried, as far in the distance, her jack she espied, with corporal quirk on the march by his side, he's comin' back home with a sojer. when johnnie came near enough to her to spake, "o johnnie avourneen!" said she, "did ye take the shillin'?" "no faith, for i'm too wide awake, i only wint off for a sojer." [decoration] ode here! i dyed away the grey, from my sparsy head of hair, i buttered up the fur upon my tile, i darned the ventilators in my garments here, and there, and with my go-to-meeting stick, and smile, i went to see a widow, i had courted long ago; she had just been to the probate for a pile! said she, "you are a person that i really do not know" her tone was rather cutting, like a file! a serious alteration in her style; i knew her when a maiden without guile, she wouldn't even loan me from her pile, a widow's mite; it agitates my bile! [illustration: the smuggler's fate] a seaside idyll this; to teach how oft amiss, doth fall the fate of men who would be free: it makes me cry heigho, in minor cadence low, when i do mind me of the fate of three, to shun hymenial perils, and tired of mashing girls, a smuggler's cave, they took beside the sea, and formed a reckless crew, that swallowed their own brew, of whiskey, punch and coffee, beer and tea; [illustration] but most of beer, and whiskey, as you see, and that's the reason that i cry heigho! [illustration] they wrestled with the wave, [illustration] then ran into their cave; [illustration] but telescopes above, were taking stock, thus fate was on their track, and soon alas! alack! the smiles of fate fell on them from the rock, thus mesmerised by mirth, they climbed the rocks, and earth, with fascinated recklessness alack! [illustration] my sympathy to show, again i say heigho! 'twere better to their cave they had gone back. ah! me, the smugglers three, were blind their fate to see, and lo! capitulation followed soon; [illustration] for spite of all their pains, they soon were in the chains, that fettered them in bondage 'neath the moon, [illustration] that shone on double case, of treble spoon; too like the moon, that wanes; and that is why i sing in minor tune, and cry again with sympathy, heigho! thus ever day by day, in bondage still they lay, surrendering provisions, and their brew, [illustration] until the crew did go into the town, and lo! [illustration] a parson had some triple work to do, they're captives now, [illustration] hard labour is their due, alack! the hapless crew; i cry again with sympathy, heigho! the late fitz-binks. it was about an hour they call the small, and the mysterious, an hour wherein the ghosts are wont to take their constitutional, 'twas twenty-four o'clock; an hour that's oftimes deleterious to many a liver wetted swell, pugnacious or emotional. the beggared corporation lights, did flick in the nor'wester gale, that blistering nose, and finger-tips, were loaded well with sleet, when binks harrangued a constable, "good night, it's cold, you're looking pale," from where he backed a lamp-post, at the end of brunswick street. "ah! sergeant," said fitz-binks, "it's late, or i could treat you decently, and 'twouldn't be too dusty, if we had a flying drink; but chap, of vic., is strict, they passed in parliament so recently," the bobbie was a thirsty one, he winked a thirsty wink. "ha! ha!" said binks, "you know the lines, so don't be too particular, there's some back door that's open," said the constable, "you're right; just move an' there thro' yondher lane an' hide up perpendicular, beyant the lamp, i'll folly whin there's nobody in sight." the thing was managed gracefully, and with an open sesamè, the constable had stolen to a quiet bar with binks, produced a clay, said he, "i hope yer honor won't think less of me, to pull a pipe," "by jove! i don't," said binks, and bought the drinks. the moment was so contraband, it gave unto that liquor bar, a zest, he asked the constable to take another neat, but lifting out his ticker, says the bobbie, "well be quick or 'gar! the sergeant might come whop on me! he's out upon his beat." the constable decanted it, said he, "howld on until i look, now fly!" said he, and while they dived again into the night, he fished from out his overcoat, and deftly in his mouth he stuck, a friendly lump of orris root, to make his breath all right. that bobbie was a wily one, the act was rather opportune, for they had scarcely managed to get half-way up the gut when he was made aware that he must coin a whited whopper soon, for hark! it was the tramping of the sergeant's heavy foot! said he, "we must dissimble, or i'm ruined, and a shapable, excuse i'll have to make!" * * * * * * "what brings the two of you down here?" "i'm makin' just a pres'ner, sir, he's dhrunk, an' he's incapable," exclaimed the bobbie, gripping binks, just under binks's ear! 'twas somewhat ominous for binks, though he protested not, he chewed the cud of thought, until he saw that sergeant out of sight; he had not comprehended yet, the patronising turpitude of bobbies, who will take a treat, "well now," said he, "good night," but spake that constable, said he, "good night is best for you, ye see, but it won't answer now for me, i darn't let you go, it's quietly, and aisily, and dacently, you'll come wid me, yer dhrunk, an' yer incapable! i towld the sergeant so." fitz-binks fell plump in mire of doubt, 'twas shocking! thus to realize, such treachery, and subterfuge, of ingrate sneak of sin, but x was bigger in his figure, by a deal of size, and little binks, was little, so the bobbie ran him in! the sergeant,--he who took the charge--was grave, and staid, particular! he entered binks upon his book, and sent him to the cell, and binks did forfeit half a sov., for standing perpendicular, before the beak, and leaving court, he cursed that bobbie well! he said the act was scandalous, and of the gutter order, he,-- that bobbie was, "ah whisht! ye see, an' howld yer tongue, shut up it's fond of me, you ought to be, if i swore ye wor disordherly, it would have cost ye exthra, or you'd maybe be put up!" it used to be a sermonising habit, and methodical, to tag a moral story, with a warning at its end and bobbie entertainments in the midnight, might be quodical! so leave him to his duty, if you'd keep him as a friend. [illustration: a fugitive kiss.] i was on the carpet kneeling, and fondly, and with feeling, i pressed her metacarpus, to my osculating lip, when flexor, and extensor, of stern parental censor, incontinent did greet me, and took me near the hip! i rolled into the fender, with broken silk suspender, and motive movement sharp, as her pater gave the tip! he didn't back the winner, for sport was not his grip. the above brief but touching confession of disastrous failure, recorded by timothy pipkins,--a sporting student of st. jago's hospital,--is indicative of the nemesis from an offended fate, that frequently foils the improvident hunter of matrimonial adventure. [illustration: the bedroom curse and the murdered cockatoo] tim doolin was a well known jock, an active sprite, and light and trim, and time there was, that jocks did funk, to mount, and run the race with him. he won by length, he won by head, he saved the race by nose, and ear, till all the jocks, around their pints, exclaimed the thing was devilish queer. but fortune is a gay coquette; by fickle fortune, doolin lost, till every one who backed him, soon did find him out a fraud and frost. i've seen him lose at punchestown, i've seen him last, at baldoyle too, at fairyhouse i've seen him fall--his colours then were black and blue. he stood and scratched his head amain, beside the stable door one night; he had been drinking tints of malt, and felt as he were almost tight. a race was on to run next day; he totted up his chance to win, when turning thro' the stable-door, he saw a gentleman within! he thought the thing extremely strange, and asked the man, why he was there, and stoutly gave the hint, that he was there, to sneak, and dose the mare. the gentleman, he laughed a laugh. "i've backed the beast myself, by gum! and you must win, or i will be the loser of a tidy sum." "well, look," said doolin, "pon me sowl, i have me doubts that she's in form." the stranger glared at doolin, and with voice, as of a rising storm, accused the jock of practices, that were not meet for honest men, and asked him how he won so oft, and could not pass the post again? "well, yis, yer honor, 'pon me faith, it puzzles me the same as you, that i can't jerk the horse ahead, and win as once i used to do. i never drink before the race. i always pray before i mount: and yet i find it's all the same; my prayers have come to no account!" "i used to curse and swear, but, ah, bedad, my swearing days are done!" "then how on earth could you expect to be the man who could get on?" "i may not dare to curse and swear. i have a rich, religious aunt, i'm in her will, and i would lose the fortune if i did, and shan't. she often heard me curse and swear; but warning me one day, says she: 'if you go on to curse and swear, i'll have no more to do with thee! i've made my will, and left you all my worldly goods, and money, too; i've got it written, signed and sealed, so you be careful what you do!' i promised her, upon my oath, that i would neither curse nor swear, and i have kept my word, and i will keep my word to her, so there! she lent to me a cockatoo, and cautioned me, i must not lack, to treat him well; he's in the room i occupy, till she comes back." "ah, that, indeed. well, here's a tip: when in the morning you get up, keep cursing all the time you dress, and swear at night, before you sup, by this no human ear will catch the oathings that will make you light, and take a load from off your mind, and you will win the race--good night." that very night when he went home, he slyly locked the bedroom door, and up and down around the room he scattered curses, and he swore, he cursed before, he cursed behind, he cursed until his face was red, by dint of cursing, and at last he stripped, and tumbled into bed. next morning many oaths he made, and sandwiched them with many a curse, that sounded weird, and wry, and strange; his oathings they could not possibly be worse. he cursed because he had to rise, he cursed to leave the bed so nice, and warm, and soft, he cursed because the water was as cold as ice. he cursed around the basin-stand, he cursed the water jug, alas! the towel and the soap he cursed, with oath that almost broke the glass. he cursed a button that was loose, he cursed the thread and needle, new, he cursed the irritating starch, he cursed his washerwoman, too. he curbed his braces--they were tied with bits of string, that broke in twain, he fixed them with a pin; it stuck into his spine--he cursed again; he cursed the postman for his knock--'twas by his tailor he was sent; he cursed the landlady who brought the bill; and asked him for the rent. before, behind, above, below, at right or left, he was not loath to drop a detonating curse, or fling an alternating oath. he cursed the razor and the strop, he cursed the wart upon his nose, he cursed his hair that wouldn't grow, he cursed the corns upon his toes. he cursed a stud and button-hole that was too big; and in the street, he saw a burly constable, and cursed the man upon his beat, he cursed the helmet on his head, the number on his collar, too; he cursed the stripe upon his arm, his mittens, and his suit of blue. he cursed his baton right and left, he cursed it also upside down, he cursed him to the county gaol and back again, and into town. he cursed the lining of his sleeve, a bottle in his pocket--who had put it there he could not tell--he cursed his aunt, her cockatoo. he cursed the laces of his boots, the cockatoo he cursed again, again he swore, unlocked the door, and gaily started for the train. hurrah! he won the race that day, and everything for him went right, and surreptitiously he cursed and swore, and cursed again that night. a painful shocking thing, that men should stoop to acts like this, for fame or pelf. thro' all my friends there's not a man would act so shocking but himself. his calender grew bright again with fortune's sunlight o'er it cast, but there must be an end to such, and retribution comes at last. his aunt returned to town again; he gave her back her cockatoo, 'twere better he had slain him first; it's what, i think, and so will you. one day a mortuary note did come--alas! his aunt was dead! he buried her with decent haste, and then her latest will was read. but by that testament, he found that he had not been left her purse, it intimated this, that he had taught her cockatoo to curse! it intimated this, that she thro' that, had met her death, alas; and in a codicil expressed a wish they'd send the bird to grass. no mortal eye but his, beheld the deed he then essayed to do-- 'twas murder! for he wrung the neck of his dead aunt, her cockatoo, no mortal eye beheld the deed; but things again with him went queer, till one day looking down the street, he saw a stranger prowling near. the man who told him thus to swear, 'twas on a dark november eve, he knew that stranger held a secret stone for him inside his sleeve; he knew that he had run a score of heavy debt, was due for sin, and darting back, he closed the door. said he to bridget "i'm not in. just say that i am out," said he, and quickly up the stairs he flew, the stranger knocked. "ah, let me see," and up the stairs he mounted, too. the servant sneaked the key-hole then, and saw a struggle on the bed, then ran below--"mavrone, asthore, come up, agrah, the lodger's dead!" * * * * * the moral is of gentlemen you do not know, you should beware: you should not use your bedroom, for a hiding-place, to curse, and swear. to curse a harmless constable upon his beat, is even worse; 'twas he who caught the jurymen, who gave the verdict on his corse. that shocking room is haunted now; it may not raise a shock in you, but every dark november eve, there comes a shrouded cockatoo, and gliding in his pallid shirt, a wretched spectre doth rehearse, the record of his oathings dire! the cockatoo then shrieks a curse! the man of easy habits then will see the deadly deed anew, of how the neck was wrung by him, who slew his aunt, her cockatoo. the man of easy habits then, will see the evil sprite of gloom, come prowling for his guilty soul, and bear it down the trap of doom. the landlady can never make the lodgers in that room content, they never stay, beyond the day that she has asked them for the rent, but men are not so wicked now; they will not swear an oath for pelf. they're much about the same as you--almost exactly like myself. a gun solo. [illustration] by a lonely dried up fountain, in a purple irish mountain, my talk was interesting, with a female of that spot, when she sprang from off my knees; for rasping thro' the trees, a bullet stopped our jesting, i started at the shot! "it's my husband's gun!" she murmured, i sauntered from the spot!! [illustration: the semi-grand piano] i was walking thro' the darkness of the pleasant town of birr, 'twas late, and very lonely, you could not hear a stir when turning round a corner, i heard the music sweet, of a semi-grand piano, and a singing down the street. you will say it's not uncommon to hear the pleasant sound, of a semi-grand piano upon a midnight round, but o the silver music, of the voice that mingled there, with the semi-grand piano, was wonderful, and rare! i waited on in rapture, and harkened to the strain, i paused until she finished, and commenced the song again, and o the magic pathos, of her voice was such, i say'd "i'll warble when she's finished, an italian serenade." and so anon i warbled a heart bewitching thrill, all in the friendly darkness, beneath her window sill, i thought it might remind her, of the troubadours of old, tho' 'twasn't too romantic, for the night was dev'lish cold! it wasn't all italian, but it was much the same, it was a sweet impromptu, a song without a name, and if it doesn't bore you, i'll sing you just a verse, you'll say it might be better; but i think it might be worse. "o lady who was singing with happy semi-grand, a troubadour is waiting, he's asking for your hand, carrissima! mia! agrah! from other lands i roam, be ready with the trousseau, i'll come, and take you home! recordar, how i love you, this lay of mine will tell, o willow! willow! wirrasthrue! mavrone! i love you well! l'ami l'amo l'amantibus ri foldherando dum, mein fraulein cushla bawn agrah! get up your traps, and come!" it wasn't all italian, this song of mine you see, it wasn't like a tarantelle; 'twasn't like a glee, 'twas thought of on the spur, its thus that brightest songs are made, i think that you'll agree with me, 'twas a compo serenade. i felt the song was working, 'twas amorous, and new, 'twas making an impression, a thing i always do, as tho' the middle ages, were back again in birr, hark! hark behind her lattice, at last i heard a stir! o there's nothing like the feeling that passes through the mind when you know a lovely lady is pulling up her blind, and my heart was all a-flutter, in that lonely street of birr, when i heard the curtains rustle, with the sylphid hand of her. i saw the window open, i saw a face to scarce! i heard a voice that muttered "what are ye doin' there?" and over me was emptied a full and flowing can! which made me hurry homewards, a wet and wiser man! i sang my song that midnight, with voice of dulcet tone, my dulcet voice next morning was like a bagpipe groan, a blanket round my shoulders, my feet were in a pan, some doctor's stuff beside me, a sad and wiser man! [illustration] canticrank. if you have æsthetic notions of the classic beauty rare, you would never for a moment say that nature took the prize, for the elegance of figure, or tint upon her hair, of mother becca canticrank, you wouldn't like her eyes; her nose you couldn't admirate, her teeth are in a chippy state, her voice is like a corncrake, her manner like a knife; a cutting way of dealing with sentimental feeling, you wouldn't altogether care to choose her for a wife. but ah! she is the casket of a compensating excellence, the odour of a sanctity peculiarly her own, she knows she is, without a doubt, intensely moral out and out, and so she sits in judgment on a self-constructed throne. as censor of corruptousness, of nature in voluptousness, she rails in holy horror, with a puritanic rage, that beauty's form is shocking, in semi-raiment mocking, her own upholstered scragginess in picture or on stage. her loathing is the ballet; for lo! from court and alley, the thousand cinderellas are fairy clad and bright, a direr deed of sinning-- by dint of beauty winning their bread, than by the needle, in the murky candlelight, o mother becca canticrank, the ways of earth are very rank; but women live by beauty, intelligence, and toil. and toil is overcrowded, mam, intelligence is got by cram; and what's for lovely sally of the garret, shall she spoil? no! pray for her, and set her, as toiler for the sweater, or freeze her in the winter, on your doorstep in the street, with penance to her bones, by whiting up the stones, that you may moil her handiwork with smirch of dirty feet. or pray for her, and crape her, as vestal to the draper, to do the woful penance, of canticranks to please; till worn out and weary, unto her bedroom eyrie, she staggers up at midnight, then bring her to her knees; do anything, but let her enjoy a way, to better the miserable midnight of her life, into the day of brighter fortune's light; aye, crush her back to night, and teach her how to thank you, by kneeling down to pray. yes, hound away the ballet, destroy the chance of sally, for she has many prizes in the marriage market won. by hypocritic prudity, go boom the semi-nudity, of drawing room and salon, for the first and second son. [illustration: caught in the breach.] of fascinating parts, he played with female hearts; 'twas reprehensible, as you may guess; but still it was his way, continued he to play, until a maiden asked him for redress, and folly bore the fruit, of breach of promise suit, he owns a couple of thousand pounds the less, he's a sorry man to-day, he does confess, and the wily way of woman he does bless, and his pipe is all that he will now caress, he doesn't care to think of it, the mess! [illustration: a kleptomaniac's doom.] the lord of masherdudom wore on his essencèd curls a golden zone of strawberry leaves, and rays with pips of pearls, tho' he was called an englishman his blood was prussian blue, which unto his complexion gave a gallimaufry hue, the earl of masherdudom, he was just as he began, he seemed in perpetuity, a fossil ladies' man, and yet he wasn't what you'd call an absolute success, he hankered to be more, than most; he wasn't, he was less, for he was poisoned with the grip of miser hungered greed, and racking rent upon the screw, he made his tenants bleed. he loved his parson; for he taught that gold was dross, and scutch, to men who of the sinful chink, had not got overmuch; he taught by unctions homily, how really false, the leaven of gold is to a tenant here, compared with gold in heaven; but man with base ingratitude is rife, they did not bless the earl of masherdudom, so he wasn't a success. one day 'twas ruminating thus, alone, and in his club, "my politics do fail" he said "to fail, aye there's the rub, i was a high conservative; i am, what am i now? an india rubber ball of wind, a pinhole in my brow, evaporated of my brain, a shrunken rag, and dust, a something must be done i wot, i wis a something must;" he took a portly bottle up, and from its tinselled neck, he poured the buzzing nectar forth, and without pause or reck, into his æsophagus then decanting it straightway he lit a weed,--he was a man who never smoked a clay,-- "oddsbodkins to that liberal!"--he swore in antient guise of quaintly oath--"he's more than i, i wot, for he is wise unto the leading, and the light that gives to men a glim of what they know is just, i'm but a farthing dip to him," twas thro' his indignation he did make a vulgar slip and coined so rude a simile,--in re the farthing dip; "i find my brains have broken loose, my occiputs to let, but ha! i've got a last resource, that none may wot of yet, i'll take my diamond ring to-night, and use it round his panes, and in a mask i'll burgle him, and steal his liberal brains!" [illustration] he quaffed the glorious fizz again, a swill both deep and strong nor witted he, nor wotted he, it was a lawless wrong to steal another's brains. he then invested in some crape, and putty, thus to make his nose more liberal of shape; he turned his coat, its lining was of party colored trim, and got a life preserver "now i'll go and burgle him!" [illustration] that night he sneaked the toepath o'er, with serpentine device, and round a postal pillar red, he scouted slyly twice, until on india rubber soles, at length he reached the goal, and up the garden wall he clomb, and down the wall he stole! then knotting on his mask of crape, with spry ambition fain, he slid, and worked his diamond ring around the window pane, he crept into the servant's hall, no maid, or cook was there; he took his boots, and gaiters off, and climbed along the stair; he sought to catch the banister, to guide his pilot fist; but headlong down the flight he fell, the banister he missed! and lo! from every room above, the shrieks of horror rose, from girls in papered tresses, bereft of daylight clothes, and full for twenty minutes by the clock, their cries increase, of "ho! police" and "robbers hi!" and "murder ho police!" the butler fired a pistol shot, the cook discharged a spit! the boots let fly a bootjack, and the footman all his kit! the groom ran down the stable stairs with horsey oathings dire, and a constable came knocking said he "are you's on fire?" he put his bull's eye on him "ha! well here's a putty case! you needn't hide, behind that putty nose upon your face; i'm on the 'wanted' tack for you a couple of months or three, so don't you be disorderly, move on, and come with me," they put him on his country, and the evidence was queer, but said his lordship solemnly, "the crime that we have here, is rare in english jurisprud', a noble drinks, and goes with mask of crape upon his eyes, and putty on his nose, to burgle certain premises, but drink being in his head, mistook the house, attacked his own, and burgled it instead! now this is queer; but i have here, a very antient law, and from its context, you will mark, i this deduction draw, that should a man by suicide, attempt to sneak away, from curses that grow thick on him, we make the coward stay, and if a man by putty nose, and mask, and diamond ring, do burgle his own home, it's just a similar sort of thing, and so unto the upper house, for thy remaining years, i sentence thee!" and with his wig, the judge mopped up his tears. [illustration] [illustration: an ill wind blew him good!] i was to the windward walking, of love and marriage talking, when, zephyr like a feather, took my topper on its wing and i hollo'd! and i hollo'd! while another fellow followed, it stopped, they came together, with his foot upon the thing! Ã�sthetic oaths i uttered, a threat for damage muttered, and my popping of the question, had also lifted wing. * * * * * she's wedded to another, and now i cannot smother, my blessing on that zephyr, and that fugitive top hat, for had i not been checked, my happiness was wrecked, i wouldn't be so rosy to-day, and round and fat. the ghost of hiram smike. she was a dainty lady, with golden hair, and cream of roses, her complexion, belike a charming dream. her eyes were sapphire lighted, her lips, with peachen bloom, paterre of pearls were framing, but in her heart a tomb; for many loves lay buried, that cemet'ry below-- o fie on it for ladies, with love, to trifle so. at last unto a stranger, her stony heart, did strike, his wealth was most romantic, his name was hiram smike. 'twas on her mother's sofa he looked at her, said he, "i'm kinder sweet on you, love, will you accept of me? i've travelled half this orange, and never saw your likes; i calculate you oughter join the wigwams of the smikes." his wealth was most romantic, she answered him with tact, said he, "i'm off to-morrow, my trunk is ready packed; i must be off to 'frisco, to see my corn is barned, don't marry in my absence, for if you do, i'm darned! now play some tune, that's proper, to show that you're engaged, expressive of your promise, and how your heart is caged; strike up some soothin ballad, to tell how you'll be true, and i'll work in a chorus, of yankee-doodle-do." her fairy fingers wandered, along the ivory keys, of her new rosewood cottage, like warble thro' the trees; she sang, that she'd be faithful, all in a soothing strain, while he worked in a chorus--and then he crossed the main. it was a level twelve months, a fortnight, and a day, since hiram smike departed, and yet he stayed away; but she did wait no longer, and they were back from church, it was the wedding breakfast, she's left him in the lurch. "a health unto the bridegroom," and up they rose to drink; when hark! a cry was uttered that made the lady think; a voice of an old woman, employed upon that day, to do some extra tending, "look here," said she, "i say, i guess you do not know me because i've shaved my chin, i'm dressed like an old woman, but i'm a man within; i'm hiram smike, your lover, who left the yankee shore, to come back here to wed you, i'm darned for evermore. you've lifted me like thunder, but you shall never boast of how you jilted hiram--i'm off to make a ghost!" he said, tucked up his flounces, and, fluttering through the door, he left them all astounded, and he was seen no more. next morning in the dodder, upon the city side, a man beheld a woman, come floating down the tide. and far away in london, a bride, and bridegroom fled from their hotel at midnight--a ghost was round the bed! they sought a second lodging, but in the room, as host, was waiting to receive them that sad, intruding ghost. they tried a cabman's shelter, but it was all in vain, that tantalizing spectre was by their sides again. aye, even in the daylight, in rotten row, aloud they heard an awful murmur like water thro' the crowd; a moan as from neuralgia did on each tympan strike, "his ghost is on the war path avenging hiram smike." they tried the penny steam-boats, the railway underground, the busses and the tramcars, but still they always found that busy ghost around them, their lives could not be worse. "o thunder!" shrieked the bridegroom, "i'll seek for a divorce." but when the court was opened, the judge refused to sit, for every pleading lawyer had got a sneezing fit; and then there came the earthquake, the ruddy sunsets came, when lo! quite unexpected, one night, they saw a flame. a flash like a vesuvian, did by the table strike, with a satanic whisper, "you're wanted, hiram smike." and from that curious moment, there is no more to tell, they're having every comfort, i hear they're doing well. [decoration] [illustration: why did ye die?] "o pat, the blush is on your face, you're white, an' cowld an' still, i'm all alone, an' by your side, upon the bleak damp hill. the beatin' from your heart is gone! the starlight from your eye, mavrone asthore, o pat agra! arrah! why did ye die? a sthrake of blood is on your breast, an' blood is on your brow, o let me die meself, an' rest, it's all i care for now. i want to go where you are gone, an' in your grave to lie! ah! pat avrone, i'm all alone, arrah! why did ye die? me curse is on the men avick! that brought you out this night, that took you off an' made me sick, an' coaxed ye to the fight, o sure 'twas wrong to give your life, an' lave your wife to cry, ah! pat you should have stayed at home, arrah! why did ye die? you wouldn't take me warnin', pat, an' shun the moonlight boys,"-- "ah! biddy whisht! wake out of that, you're dhramin'! stop yer noise! ye've dhragged the blankets off of me, i'm jammed against the wall, an' you're bawlin' all for nothin' for i'm not dead at all!" [illustration] [illustration: a pretty little land i know] a pretty little land i know, surrounded by the pearly spray; it's where the em'rald shamrocks grow in fertile propagation. the great bear in the polar sky can see it at the fall of day, when peeping with his glistening eye, towards britain's mighty nation. for when the sun is rolling down into the ocean for the night, in all his radiant golden crown, and purple-flecker'd rays; while tucking on his dreaming cap, inside the crimson curtains bright, the great warm-hearted kingly chap, looks back with loving gaze. and where the shining waters dance across the wild atlantic deeps, he takes a sudden, pleasing glance; and when the twilight cometh grey on other shores, with coaxing glow, he winks his eye before he sleeps, upon that charming land i know, that's jewel'd in the pearly spray. there, lore of bravest deeds enshrine great phantoms of historic days; there, myrtle wreaths of memory twine o'er many storied graves; there, many marble brows are bound by sculpture of the poet's bays, the while their souls are still in sound from harp strings to the waves. with glorious wealth of hair in curls, and beauty, real elating, boys, it's there you'll find most darling girls in plentiful diffusion. and cupid, with his bow and darts, his murders perpetrating, boys, don't care at all what crowds of hearts he slays by love's delusion. [illustration: how they enlist] two guardsmen, and a dublin boy were drinking in a bar the dublin boy was standing treat, unto the men of war, and thus to one, he speaketh so-- the taller of the two-- "i wonder how men come to go and list, now how did you? the soldier grinned a stately grin, in military style, he meant it for the dublin boy as patronising smile! "it kind of sort like worries me,-- this was the cause of that, i always liked to feed on lean, i couldn't bolt the fat! "one day, it was at dinner, see, a big disgustin' lump of fat, was dumped upon my plate, i got the bloomin' hump! i merely took the thing upon my fork, and with a sigh, i let my father have the fat whop in his bloomin' eye! "a sign of partnership dissolved between my boss, and me, i took the shillin', and became a guardsman, as you see, but there! my appetite has been most tricky like, and mean, now i can eat a pound of fat, and i detest the lean!" [illustration] [illustration: the kindergarten way.] in a perfumed orange grove, ajacent to cordova, i taught the english grammar unto a lady gay; the verb "to osculate" i taught to conjugate, corporeally depicted, in kindergarten way. but by eavesdropping trick, a caballero quick, with lapse of condescension,-- but where i may not mention,-- in dexter handed flick, the spanish verb to "stick" corporeally inflicted, in kindergarten way. the verb "to do," he did it, for spanish laws forbid it; to translate free, corporeallee, the verb "to love," and practice it, upon the pupil, 'tis unfit, to illustrate, its active state, when passive hate, behind a gate, doth lie in wait, to teach the verb "to suffer," in kindergarten way; he taught the verb "to suffer," by impromt sword display, i learnt the verb "to suffer!" and would not, could not stay, so left upon that day, my fee he did not pay, his ingrate, spanish way! [illustration: curtain] opinions of the press on the barney bradey brochures by wm. theodore parkes. "it is pleasant to turn from these gloomy details to the hearty, rollicking, honest, joyous spirit of barney bradey. he sings the prince's installation to the tune to which _ingoldsby_ sang the queen's coronation, and with very much of the same spirit and success. the details are full of real good humour, and are thus picturesquely concluded with a touch of the ulster king at arms.... barney bradey's eye was pretty well everywhere but it failed to see one incident of the day.... all this is worthy of being sung by such a bard as the author of 'st. patrick's ruction.'"--_athenæum._ "most people know barney bradey, and the more you know of him the better you like him. perhaps very few of your comic poets have achieved such legitimate success as barney, whether in 'st. patrick's ruction' or, the 'queer papers,' or even in the fugitive pieces which come to us from time to time. the whole story of napoleon's war is told in verse, with a genuine irish humour, abounding in good points and suggestive images. the fun is quite of an original kind, and is really _sui generis_. the author has great command of language, expressive yet simple, and manages meter with uncommon skill. the strange inversions, provoking hyberbole, and quaint terms characteristic of irish humour, are here lavishly displayed; and the man who would not laugh with barney, while yet appreciating his satirical truth, must be unhappy indeed. the range of thought, though extensive, is very germane, and the humourist discovers a tinge of that byronic happiness in soaring high and still keeping the game in sight. we regret that we cannot quote a stanza or two from 'the christening cake' to prove to our readers that our praise is as well deserved as it is genuine."--_freeman's journal._ "this is a humourous extravaganza, by the author of 'st. patrick's ruction' and other comic rhymes, and is characterized by the same cleverness and quaint drollery. the 'baptism of fire,' the proclamations, letters, telegrams, projects, and incidents of the war, are represented in fantastic forms of illustration. the effect is as ridiculous as the author intends it to be."--_daily express._ "welcome barney!--in many a quaint, merry, and most grotesque "fytte," our rollicking irish rabelais runs over the most marked opening incidents of the franco-prussian war. all the outlandishness of diction; the funniness of hibernian phonetic spelling; the strange, wild, yet always true, similes and comparisons; the madcap, boisterous, merry-making that characterized 'st. patrick's ruction,' and the 'queer papers,' are repeated, equalled, aye, surpassed in the christening cake. barney's history of the war ends at saarbruck. we long to hear him on weissembourg, sedan, strasbourg, metz, and paris. we lately noticed 'st. patrick's ruction,' a work as full of real irish witticisms as any we ever perused, and one that has won its author unstinted praise. the orthography of the present brochure is as comically outrageous, the similes and comparisons as far-fetched, and yet as true to nature--the whole dainty tome as full of genuine, rollicking, open-hearted irish fun and humour as 'the installation' or 'sods from puncherstown.' it is pathetic, comical--true to nature, true to art."--_tyrone constitution._ "it is seldom in these days that one comes upon anything thoroughly and undeniably irish in the matter of witty writing. but the productions of 'barney bradey' are a refreshing exception to this doleful rule. in 'st. patrick's ruction,' and the 'queer papers,' we rejoiced to find that an original had arisen among us; and now, in another production, we are pleased to see our first opinion verified. the design of the piece lies in the combination of fifteen poems in one 'harmonious whole.' the story ends with the capture of saarbruck, and all throughout runs a vein of most pungent and telling satire."--_post._ "the clever author of 'st. patrick's ruction has presented the public with another exceedingly witty pamphlet. the language is well chosen, and is sure heartily to amuse the reader; there is a vein of well-directed satire in every line that exhibits the thoughtfulness of the apparent careless writer."--_limerick chronicle._ "barney sings in anglo-irish doggrel of the most exquisite and original kind. his readers, whose name is legion, will find him quite as entertaining in those 'queer papers' as when his comet-like genius first blazed upon the world in 'st. patrick's ruction."--_limerick reporter._ "barney bradey is a poet of no ordinary powers. it is not going too far to say that he has acquitted himself to his own satisfaction, and also to that of others. his orthography is peculiar, and his fun and wit are thoroughly irish. the droll and clever barney is a queer character, but he is so full of humour and says so many witty things that he must become a favourite with every one."--_dundalk democrat._ "this poem under notice is merry in the extreme, and displays an accurate knowledge of irish character, and of the peculiar english in which it likes to display itself. the author wishes everybody to be agreeable, and sets a good example himself. here is a description of the ladies present at the installation service, full of the gentlest satire.... in addition, there is prose, entitled 'sods from the turf of puncherstown.' it makes merry, but most good-humouredly, with everybody and everything, and by many readers will be regarded as fully equal to most of artemus ward's attempts. we have not seen his 'tails and ballids,' but it is spoken of highly, and we do not think the present attempt is deserving of less praise."--_portadown news._ "this is a whimsical and clever little production, written in a style of orthography peculiarly its own, and conveying a vast amount of humour. the lines entitled 'o law! there's a star from the sky,' are rich and full of humorous comicality, greatly heightened by their droll versification."--_derry journal._ "the grand processions, crushing, crowding, cheering, are all graphically detailed by the poetic 'barney.' altogether, a very pleasant hour may be spent in company with our facetious friend, 'barney bradey.'"--_carlow sentinel._ "barney bradey has acquired considerable success in his treatment of irish wit and character, partly in prose and partly in poetry: the latter runs on in a clear stream of merriment, while the former, with rollicking fun, possesses an undercurrent of light wit, and occasionally of caustic sarcasm. taken as a whole the little book is exceedingly readable, and as a bold venture on a very delicate field of literature, may be looked on as a decided success."--_herald._ "barney bradey will cause a merry laugh to many by his piquant humour and droll conceits. they display at times an acuteness of observation and a pungency of wit which is heightened by the quaint mode of expression used."--_king's county chronicle._ "over barney bradey's papers every reader is sure to laugh. they are full of fun and jollity. the only fault is their brevity."--_malvern news._ "barney bradey is one gem of the isle. he understands the 'boys,' and expresses their opinions in a very cute sensible way."--_kirkcudbrightshire advertiser._ "barney bradey's papers are so droll that we cannot do better than give our readers the one 'matrimonial.'"--_eastern post._ "barney bradey's papers will afford considerable amusement.'--_ayrshire express._ "barney bradey's papers are full of genuine humour."--_greenwich gazette._ "the facetious style has an excellent exponent in the person of barney bradey."--_brighton daily news._ "prose or verse come equally facile to his exceedingly humorous and racy pen."--_ecclesiastical gazette._ (https://archive.org/details/americana) note: images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/ghostworld dyer transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). the ghost world by t. f. thiselton dyer author of 'church lore gleanings' etc. london ward & downey york street covent garden all rights reserved contents chapter page i. the soul's exit ii. temporary exit of soul iii. the nature of the soul iv. the unburied dead v. why ghosts wander vi. ghosts of the murdered vii. phantom birds viii. animal ghosts ix. phantom lights x. the headless ghost xi. phantom butterflies xii. raising ghosts xiii. ghost laying xiv. ghosts of the drowned xv. ghost seers xvi. ghostly death-warnings xvii. 'second sight' xviii. compacts between the living and dead xix. minders' ghosts xx. the banshee xxi. see phantoms xxii. phantom dress xxiii. haunted houses xxiv. haunted localities xxv. checks and spells against ghosts xxvi. wraith-seeing xxvii. ghostly times and seasons xxviii. spirit-haunted trees xxix. ghosts and hidden treasures xxx. phantom music xxxi. phantom sounds index the ghost world chapter i the soul's exit in the iliad,[ ] after the spirit of patroclus has visited achilles in his dream, it is described as taking its departure, and entering the ground like smoke. in long after years, and among widely scattered communities, we meet with the same imagery; and it is recorded how the soul of beowulf the goth 'curled to the clouds,' imaging the smoke which was curling up from his pyre. a similar description of the soul's exit is mentioned in one of the works of the celebrated mystic, jacob boehme,[ ] who observes: 'seeing that man is so very earthly, therefore he hath none but earthly knowledge; except he be regenerated in the gate of the deep. he always supposeth that the soul--at the deceasing of the body--goeth only out at the mouth, and he understandeth nothing concerning its deep essences above the elements. when he seeth a blue vapour go forth out of the mouth of a dying man, then he supposeth that is the soul.' the same conception is still extensively believed throughout europe, and the russian peasant often sees ghostly smoke hovering above graves. the kaffirs hold that at death man leaves after him a sort of smoke, 'very like the shadow which his living body will always cast before it,'[ ] reminding us of the hero in the arabian romance of yokdnan, who seeks the source of life and thought, and discovers in one of the cavities of the heart a bluish vapour--the living soul. among rude races the original idea of the human soul seems to have been that of vaporous materiality, which, as dr. tylor observes,[ ] has held so large a place in modern philosophy, and in one shape or another crops up in ghost stories. the basutos, speaking of a dead man, say that his heart has gone out, and the malays affirm that the soul of a dying man escapes through the nostrils. hogarth has represented the figure of time breathing forth his last--a puff of breath proceeding from his mouth; and a correspondent of 'notes and queries'[ ] relates that, according to a popular belief, a considerable interval invariably elapses between the first semblance of death and what is considered to be the departure of the soul, about five minutes after the time when death, to all outward appearances, has taken place, 'the last breath' may be seen to issue with a vapour 'or steam' out of the mouth of the departed. according to some foreign tribes, the soul was said to dwell mainly in the left eye; and in new zealand men always ate the left eye of a conquered enemy. at tahiti, in the human sacrifices, the left eye of the victim was always offered to the chief presiding over the ceremony. it was further believed in new zealand that 'in eating the left eye they doubled their own soul by incorporating with it that of the conquered man. it was also thought by some people in the same archipelago that a spirit used to dwell in both eyes.'[ ] the supposed escape of the soul from the mouth at death gave rise to the idea that the vital principle might be transferred from one person to another; and, among the seminoles of florida, when a woman died in childbirth, the infant was held over her face to receive her parting spirit. algonquin women, desirous of becoming mothers, flocked to the bed of those about to die, in the hope that they might receive the last breath as it passed from the body; and to this day the tyrolese peasant still fancies a good man's soul to issue from his mouth at death like a little white cloud.[ ] we may trace the same fancy in our own country, and it is related[ ] that while a well-known lancashire witch lay dying, 'she must needs, before she could "shuffle off this mortal coil," transfer her familiar spirit to some trusty successor. an intimate acquaintance from a neighbouring township was sent for in all haste, and on her arrival was immediately closeted with her dying friend. what passed between them has never fully transpired; but it is asserted that at the close of the interview the associate received the witch's last breath into her mouth, and with it her familiar spirit. the powers for good or evil were thus transferred to her companion.' in order that the soul, as it quits the body, may not be checked in its onward course, it has long been customary to unfasten locks or bolts, and to open doors, so that the struggle between life and death may not be prolonged--a superstition common in france, germany, spain, and england. a correspondent of 'notes and queries' tells how for a long time he had visited a poor man who was dying, and was daily expecting death. upon calling one morning to see his poor friend, his wife informed him that she thought he would have died during the night, and hence she and her friends unfastened every lock in the house; for, as she added, any bolt or lock fastened was supposed to cause uneasiness to, and hinder, the departure of the soul.[ ] we find the same belief among the chinese, who make a hole in the roof to let out the departing soul; and the north american indian, fancying the soul of a dying man to go out at the wigwam roof, would beat the sides with a stick to drive it forth. sir walter scott, in 'guy mannering,' describes this belief as deep rooted among 'the superstitious eld of scotland;' and at the smuggler's death in the kaim of derncleugh, meg merrilies unbars the door and lifts the latch, saying-- open lock, end strife, come death, and pass life. a similar practice exists among the esquimos, and one may often hear a german peasant express his dislike to slam a door, lest he should pinch a soul in it. it has been suggested that the unfastening of doors and locks at death may be explained by analogy and association. thus, according to a primitive belief, the soul, or the life, was thought to be tied up,[ ] so that the unloosing of any knot might help to get rid of it at death. the same superstition 'prevailed in scotland as to marriage. witches cast knots on a cord; and in a perthshire parish both parties, just before marriage, had every knot or tie about them loosened, though they immediately proceeded in private to tie them each up again.'[ ] another explanation suggests that the custom is founded on the idea that, when a person died, the ministers of purgatorial pains took the soul as it escaped from the body, and flattening it against some closed door--which alone would serve the purpose--crammed it into the hinges and hinge openings; thus the soul in torment was likely to be miserably squeezed. by opening the doors, the friends of the departed were at least assured that they were not made the unconscious instruments of torturing the departed.[ ] there is a widespread notion among the poor that the spirit will linger in the body of a child a long time when the parent refuses to part with it, an old belief which, under a variety of forms, has existed from a primitive period. in denmark one must not weep over the dying, still less allow tears to fall on them, for it will hinder their resting in the grave. in some parts of holland, when a child is at the point of death, it is customary to shade it by the curtains from the parents' gaze, the soul, it is said, being detained in the body so long as a compassionate eye is fixed upon it. a german piece of folk-lore informs us that he who sheds tears when leaning over an expiring friend increases the difficulty of death's last struggle. a correspondent of 'notes and queries' alluding to this superstition in the north of england writes: 'i said to mrs. b----, "poor little h---- lingered a long time; i thought when i saw him that he must have died the same day, but he lingered on!" "yes," said mrs. b----, "it was a great shame of his mother. he wanted to die, and she would not let him die; she couldn't part with him. there she stood fretting over him, and couldn't give him up; and so we said to her, 'he'll never die till you give him up,' and then she gave him up, and he died quite peacefully."'[ ] similarly, it is not good to weep for the dead, as it disturbs the peace and rest of the soul. in an old danish ballad of aage and else, a lover's ghost says to his mistress: every time thou weepest, for each tear in that flood, the coffin i am laid in is filled with much blood. or, as another version has it: every time thou'rt joyful, and in thy mind art glad, then is my grave within hung round with roses' leaves. every time thou grievest, and in thy mind are sad, then is within my coffin as if full of clotted blood. a german song tells us how a sister wept incessantly over her brother's grave, but at last her tears became intolerable to the deceased, because he was detained on earth by her excessive weeping, and suffered thereby great torment. in a fit of desperation he cursed her, and in consequence of his malediction, she was changed into a cuckoo, so that she might always lament for herself.[ ] mannhardt relates a pretty tale of a young mother who wept incessantly over the loss of her only child, and would not be comforted. every night she went to the little grave and sobbed over it, till, on the evening preceding the epiphany, she saw bertha pass not far from her, followed by her troop of children. the last of these was one whose little shroud was all wet, and who seemed exhausted by the weight of a pitcher of water she carried. it tried in vain to cross a fence over which bertha and the rest had passed; but the fond mother, at once recognising her child, ran and lifted it over. 'oh, how warm are mother's arms!' said the little one; 'but don't cry so much, mother, for i must gather up every tear in my pitcher. you have made it too full and heavy already. see how it has run over and wet all my shift.' the mother cried again, but soon dried her tears. we may compare a similar superstition among the natives of alaska, when, if too many tears were shed by the relatives during the burial ceremonies, it was thought that the road of the dead would be muddy, but a few tears were supposed just to lay the dust.[ ] the same idea is found in a hindu dirge: 'the souls of the dead do not like to taste the tears let fall by their kindred; weep not, therefore;' and, according to the edda, every tear falls as blood upon the ice-cold bosom of the dead. we may trace the belief in ireland, and sir walter scott says[ ] it was generally supposed throughout scotland that 'the excessive lamentation over the loss of friends disturbed the repose of the dead, and broke even the rest of the grave.' the presence of pigeon or game feathers is said to be another hindrance to the exit of the soul; and, occasionally, in order to facilitate its departure, the peasantry in many parts of england will lay a dying man on the floor. a sussex nurse once told the wife of a clergyman that 'never did she see anyone die so hard as master short; and at last she thought--though his daughter said there were none--that there must be game feathers in the bed. so she tried to pull it from under him, but he was a heavy man, and she could not manage it alone, and there was none with him but herself, and so she got a rope and tied it round him, and pulled him right off the bed, and he went off in a minute quite comfortable, just like a lamb.'[ ] in lancashire, this belief is so deep-rooted that some persons will not allow sick persons to lie on a feather-bed; while in yorkshire the same is said of cocks' feathers. shakespeare alludes to the practice where timon says[ ]-- pluck stout men's pillows from below their heads. and grose remarks: 'it is impossible for a person to die whilst resting on a pillow stuffed with the feathers of a dove, for he will struggle with death in the most exquisite torture.' this is also a hindu and mohammedan belief, and in india 'the dying are always taken from their beds and laid on the ground, it being held that no one can die peaceably except when laid on mother earth.'[ ] in russia, too, there is a strong feeling against the use of pigeon feathers in beds. the summons for the soul to quit its earthly tenement has been thought to be announced, from early times, by certain strange sounds, a belief which flatman has embodied in some pretty lines: my soul, just now about to take her flight into the regions of eternal night, methinks i hear some gentle spirit say, 'be not fearful, come away!' pope speaks in the same strain: hark! they whisper, angels say, 'sister spirit, come away!' and in 'troilus and cressida' (iv. ), the former says: hark! you are called; some say, the genius so cries 'come!' to him that instantly must die. as in days gone by so also at the present time, there is, perhaps, no superstition more generally received than the belief in what are popularly known as 'death-warnings,'[ ] reference to which we shall have occasion to make in a later chapter. it has been urged again, that at the hour of death the soul is, as it were, on the confines of two worlds, and hence may possess a power which is both prospective and retrospective. in 'richard ii.' (ii. ), the dying gaunt exclaims, alluding to his nephew, the young and self-willed king: methinks i am a prophet, new inspired, and thus expiring do foretell of him. nerissa says of portia's father in 'merchant of venice' (i. ): 'your father was ever virtuous; and holy men at their death have good inspirations.' this idea may be traced up to the time of homer,[ ] and aristotle tells us that the soul, when on the point of death, foretells things about to happen; the belief still lingering on in lancashire and other parts of england. according to another notion, it was generally supposed that when a man was on his death-bed, the devil or his agents tried to seize his soul, if it should happen that he died without receiving the 'eucharist,' or without confessing his sins. in the old office books of the church, these 'busy meddling fiends' are often represented with great anxiety besieging the dying man; but on the approach of the priest and his attendants they are represented as being dismayed. douce[ ] quotes from a manuscript book of devotion, of the time of henry vi., the following prayer to st. george: 'judge for me when the most hedyous and damnable dragons of helle shall be redy to take my poore soule and engloute it into theyr infernall belyes.' one object, it has been urged, of the 'passing bell' was to drive away the evil spirit that might be hovering about to seize the soul of the deceased, such as the king speaks of in henry vi. (iii. ): o, beat away the busy meddling fiend, that lays strong siege unto this wretch's soul, and from his bosom purge this black despair. we may find the same idea among the northern californians, who affirmed that when the soul first escaped from the body an evil spirit hovered near, ready to pounce upon it and carry it off.[ ] it is still a common belief with our seafaring community on the east coast of england, that the soul takes its departure during the falling of the tide. everyone remembers the famous scene in 'david copperfield,' where barkis's life 'goes out with the tide.' as mr. peggotty explained to david copperfield by poor barkis's bedside, 'people can't die along the coast except when the tide's pretty nigh out. he's a-going out with the tide--he's a-going out with the tide. it's ebb at half arter three, slack water half an hour. if he lives till it turns he'll hold his own till past the flood, and go out with the next tide.' in the parish register of heslidon, near hartlepool, the subjoined extract of old date alludes to the state of the tide at the time of death: 'the xith daye of maye, a.d. , at vi of ye clocke in the morninge, being full water, mr. henrye mitford, of hoolam, died at newcastel, and was buried the xvi daie, being sondaie. at evening prayer, the hired preacher made ye sermon.' mrs. quickly in 'henry v.' (ii. ) speaking of falstaff's death says: ''a made a finer end and went away an it had been any christom child; 'a parted even just between twelve and one, even at the turning o' the tide.' in brittany, death claims its victim at ebb of the tide, and along the new england coast it is said a sick man cannot die until the ebb-tide begins to run. it has been suggested that there may be some slight foundation for this belief in the change of temperature which takes place on the change of tide, and which may act on the flickering spark of life, extinguishing it as the ebbing sea recedes. footnotes: [ ] xxiii. ; keary's _outlines of primitive belief_, p. . [ ] _the three principles_, chap. xix. 'of the going forth of the soul.' [ ] letourneau's _sociology_, p. . [ ] _primitive culture_, , i. p. . [ ] st s. ii. p. . [ ] letourneau's _sociology_, p. . [ ] tylor's _primitive culture_, i. p. ; brinton's _myths of the new world_, p. . [ ] harland and wilkinson's _lancashire folk-lore_, , p. . [ ] st s. i. p. . [ ] cf. 'nexosque resolveret artus,' virgil on the death of dido. Ã�neid iv. . [ ] see dalyell's _darker superstitions of scotland_, p. , and _notes and queries_, st s. iv. p. . [ ] _ibid._ i. p. . [ ] st s. iii. p. . [ ] kelly's _indo-european folk-lore_, pp. - . [ ] dorman's _primitive superstitions_, p. . [ ] in a note to _redgauntlet_, letter xi. [ ] _folk-lore record_, i. pp. - . [ ] _timon of athens_, iv. . [ ] henderson's _folk-lore of northern counties_, pp. - . [ ] see tylor's _primitive culture_, i. p. . [ ] _iliad_, ii. . [ ] _illustrations of shakspeare_, , pp. - . [ ] dorman's _primitive superstitions_, p. . chapter ii temporary exit of soul many of the conceptions of the human soul formed by savage races arose from the phenomena of everyday life. according to one of the most popular dream theories prevalent among the lower races, the sleeper's soul takes its exit during the hours of slumber, entering into a thousand pursuits. now, as it is well known by experience 'that men's bodies do not go on these excursions, the explanation is that every man's living self, a soul, is his phantom or image, which can go out of his body and see, and be seen itself, in dreams.'[ ] in the opinion of the savage, therefore, dreams have always afforded a convincing proof of the soul's separate existence, and dr. tylor considers that 'nothing but dreams and visions could ever have put into men's minds such an idea as that of souls being ethereal images of bodies.' thus the dayaks of borneo believe that in the hours of sleep the soul travels far away, and the fijians think that the spirit of a living man during sleep can leave the body and trouble some one else. but mr. e. im thurn, in his 'indians of guiana' ( - ), gives some very striking instances of this strange phase of superstitious belief: 'one morning, when it was important to me to get away from a camp on the essequibo river, at which i had been detained for some days by the illness of some of my indian companions, i found that one of the invalids, a young macusi indian, though better in health, was so enraged against me that he refused to stir, for he declared that, with great want of consideration for his weak health, i had taken him out during the night, and had made him haul the canoe up a series of difficult cataracts. nothing could persuade him that this was but a dream, and it was some time before he was so far pacified as to throw himself sulkily into the bottom of the canoe. at that time we were all suffering from a great scarcity of food, and, hunger having its usual effect in producing vivid dreams, similar events frequently occurred. more than once the men declared in the morning that some absent men whom they named had come during the night, and had beaten, or otherwise maltreated them; and they insisted on much rubbing of the bruised parts of their bodies.'[ ] another evidence in savage culture of the soul's having its own individuality, independently of the body, is the fact that a person through some accident may suddenly fall into a swoon, remaining to all outward appearance dead. when such a one, however, revives and is restored to consciousness, the savage is wont to exclaim that he died for a time until his soul was induced to return. hence mr. williams informs us[ ] how the fijians believe, when anyone dies or faints, that the soul may sometimes be brought back by calling after it; and in china, when a child is at the point of death, the mother will go into the garden and call its name, thinking thereby to bring back the wandering spirit. on this account divination and sorcery are extensively employed, and certain 'wise men' profess to have a knowledge of the mystic art of invoking souls that for some reason or other may have deserted their earthly tenement.[ ] the rev. w. w. gill, in his 'myths and songs from the south pacific' ( - ), gives a curious instance of the wandering of the soul during life. 'at uea, one of the loyalty islands, it was the custom formerly, when a person was very ill, to send for a man whose employment it was to restore souls to forsaken bodies. the soul doctor would at once collect his friends and assistants, to the number of twenty men, and as many women, and start off to the place where the family of the sick man was accustomed to bury their dead. upon arriving there, the soul doctor and his male companions commenced playing the nasal flutes with which they had come provided, in order to entice back the spirit to its old tenement. the women assisted by a low whistling, supposed to be irresistibly attractive to exile spirits. after a time the entire procession proceeded towards the dwelling of a sick person, flutes playing and the women whistling all the time, leading back the truant spirit. to prevent its possible escape, with their palms open, they seemingly drove it along with gentle violence and coaxing. on entering the dwelling of the patient, the vagrant spirit was ordered in loud tones at once to enter the body of the sick man.' in the same way, too, according to a popular superstition among rude tribes, some favoured persons are supposed to have the faculty of sending forth their own souls on distant journeys, and of acquiring, by this means, information for their fellow creatures. thus the australian doctor undergoes his initiation by such a journey, and those who are not equally gifted by nature subject themselves to various ordeals, so as to possess the supposed faculty of releasing their souls for a time from the body. from this curious phase of superstition have arisen a host of legendary stories, survivals of which are not confined to uncivilised communities, but are found among the folk-tales of most countries. mr. baring gould,[ ] for instance, quotes a scandinavian story in which the norse chief ingimund shut up three finns in a hut for three nights so that their souls might make an expedition to iceland, and bring back information of the nature of the country where he was eventually to settle. accordingly their bodies soon became rigid, they dismissed their souls on the errand, and on awakening after three days, they gave ingimund an elaborate description of the country in question. we may compare this phase of belief with that which is commonly known in this country as second sight.[ ] among the hervey islanders, mr. gill says: 'the philosophy of sneezing is that the spirit having gone travelling about--perchance on a visit to the homes or burying-places of its ancestors--its return to the body is naturally attended with some difficulty and excitement, occasionally a tingling and enlivening sensation all over the body. hence the various customary remarks addressed to the returned spirit in different islands. at rarotonga, when a person sneezes, the bystanders exclaim, as though addressing a spirit, "ha! you have come back."' then there is the widespread animistic belief, in accordance with which each man has several souls;--some lower races treating the breath, the dream ghost, and other appearances as being separate souls. this notion seems to have originated in the pulsation of the heart and arteries, which rude tribes regard as indications of independent life. thus this fancy is met with in various parts of america and exists also in madagascar. it prevails in greenland, and the fijians affirm that each man has two souls. this belief, too, is very old, evidences of its existence being clearly traceable among the ancient greeks and romans.[ ] indeed, classic literature affords ample proof of how the beliefs of modern savages are in many cases survivals of similar notions held in olden times by nations that had made considerable progress in civilisation. footnotes: [ ] tylor's _anthropology_, , p. . [ ] see further instances in tylor's _primitive culture_, i. pp. , . [ ] _fiji and the fijians_, i. p. . [ ] see sir john lubbock's _origin of civilisation and the primitive condition of man_, , p. . [ ] _werewolves_, p. . [ ] see chapter on second sight. [ ] see tylor's _anthropology_, p. ; and sir john lubbock's _origin of civilisation and the primitive condition of man_, p. ; and h. spencer's _principles of sociology_, , i. p. . chapter iii the nature of the soul it has from time immemorial been a widely recognised belief among mankind that the soul after death bears the likeness of its fleshly body, although opinions have differed largely as to its precise nature. but it would seem to be generally admitted that the soul set free from its earthly tenement is at once recognised by anyone to whom it may appear, reminding us of lord tennyson's dictum in 'in memoriam': eternal form shall still divide the eternal soul from all beside; and i shall know him when we meet. despite the fact that the disembodied spirit has been supposed to retain its familiar likeness, we find all kinds of strange ideas existing in most parts of the world as to what sort of a thing it really is when its condition of existence is so completely changed. thus, according to a conception which has received in most ages very extensive credence, the soul has substantiality. this was the greek idea of ghosts, and 'it is only,' writes bishop thirwall, 'after their strength has been repaired by the blood of a slaughtered victim, that they recover reason and memory for a time, can recognise their living friends, and feel anxiety for those they have left on earth.' a similar notion of substantiality prevailed among the hebrews, and, as herbert spencer points out, 'the stories about ghosts accepted among ourselves in past times involved the same thought. the ability to open doors, to clank chains, and make other noises implies considerable coherence of the ghost's substance.'[ ] that this conception of the soul was not only received but taught, may be gathered from tertullian, who says: 'the soul is material, composed of a substance different to the body, and particular. it has all the qualities of matter, but it is immortal. it has a figure like the body. it is born at the same time as the flesh, and receives an individuality of character which it never loses.' he further describes[ ] a vision or revelation of a certain montanist prophetess, of the soul seen by her corporeally, thin and lucid, aerial in colour, and human in form. it is recorded, too, as an opinion of epicurus, that 'they who say the soul is incorporeal talk folly, for it could neither do nor suffer anything were it such.' it was the idea of materiality that caused the superstitious folk in years gone by to attribute to ghosts all kinds of weird and eccentric acts which could not otherwise be explained. and yet it has always been a puzzle in animistic philosophy, how a ghost could be possessed at one moment of a corporeal body, and immediately afterwards vanish into immateriality, escaping sight and touch. but this strange ghost phenomenon is clearly depicted in sacred history, where we find substantiality, now insubstantiality, and now something between the two, described. thus, as herbert spencer remarks,[ ] 'the resuscitated christ was described as having wounds that admitted of tactual examination, and yet as passing unimpeded through a closed door or through walls.' and, as he adds, the supernatural beings of the hebrews generally, 'whether revived dead or not, were similarly conceived: here, angels dining with abraham, or pulling lot into the house, apparently possess complete corporeity; there, both angels and demons are spoken of as swarming invisibly in the surrounding air, thus being incorporeal; while elsewhere they are said to have wings, implying motion by mechanical action, and are represented as rubbing against, and wearing out, the dresses of rabbis in the synagogue.' all kinds of strange theories have been suggested by perplexed metaphysicians to account for this duplex nature of the disembodied soul; calmet having maintained that 'immaterial souls have their own vaporous bodies, or occasionally have such vaporous bodies provided for them by supernatural means to enable them to appear as spectres, or that they possess the power of condensing the circumambient air into phantom-like bodies to invest themselves in.'[ ] in fiji the soul is regarded quite as a material object, subject to the same laws as the living body, and having to struggle hard to gain the paradisaical bolotu. some idea, too, of the hardships it has to undergo in its material state may be gathered from the following passage in dr. letourneau's 'sociology' (p. ): 'after death the soul of the fijian goes first of all to the eastern extremity of _vanna levou_, and during this voyage it is most important that it should hold in its hand the soul of the tooth of a spermaceti whale, for this tooth ought to grow into a tree, and the soul of the poor human creature climbs up to the top of this tree. when it is perched up there it is obliged to await the arrival of the souls of his wives, who have been religiously strangled to serve as escort to their master. unless all these and many other precautions are taken, the soul of the deceased fijian remains mournfully seated upon the fatal bough until the arrival of the good ravuyalo, who kills him once and for all, and leaves him without means of escape.' according to another popular and widely accepted doctrine, the soul was supposed to be composed of a peculiar subtle substance, a kind of vaporous materiality. the choctaws have their ghosts or wandering spirits which can speak and are visible, but not tangible.[ ] the tongans conceived it as the aeriform part of the body, related to it as the perfume and essence of a flower; and the greenlanders speak of it as pale and soft, without flesh and bone, so that he who tries to grasp it feels nothing he can take hold of. the siamese describe the soul as consisting of some strange matter, invisible and untouchable. while dr. tylor quotes a curious passage from hampole,[ ] in which the soul, owing to the thinness of its substance, suffers all the more intense suffering in purgatory: the soul is more tendre and nesche (soft) than the bodi that hath bones and fleysche; thanne the soul that is so tendere of kinde, mote nedis hure penaunce hardere y-finde, than eni bodi that evere on live was. then there is the idea of the soul as a shadow, a form of superstition which has given rise to many quaint beliefs among uncultured tribes. the basutos, when walking by a river, take care not to let their shadow fall on the water, lest a crocodile seize it, and draw the owner in. the zulu affirms that at death the shadow of a man in some mysterious way leaves the body, and hence, it is said, a corpse cannot cast a shadow. certain african tribes consider that 'as he dies, man leaves a shadow behind him, but only for a short time. the shade, or the mind, of the deceased remains, they think, close to the grave where the corpse has been buried. this shadow is generally evil-minded, and they often fly away from it in changing their place of abode.'[ ] the ojibways tell how one of their chiefs died,[ ] but while they were watching the body on the third night, his shadow came back into it. he sat up, and told them how he had travelled to the river of death, but was stopped there, and sent back to his people. speaking of the human shadow in relation to foundation sacrifices, we are reminded[ ] how, according to many ancient roumenian legends, 'every new church or otherwise important building became a human grave, as it was thought indispensable to its stability to wall in a living man or woman, whose spirit henceforward haunts the place. in later times this custom underwent some modifications, and it became usual, in place of a living man, to wall in his shadow. this is done by measuring the shadow of a person with a long piece of cord, or a ribbon made of strips of reed, and interring this measure instead of the person himself, who, unconscious victim of the spell thrown upon him, will pine away and die within forty days. it is an indispensable condition to the success of this proceeding that the chosen victim be ignorant of the part he is playing, therefore careless passers by near a building may often hear the cry, warning, "beware, lest they take thy shadow!" so deeply engrained is this superstition, that not long ago there were professional shadow-traders, who made it their business to provide architects with the necessary victims for securing their walls.' 'of course, the man whose shadow is thus interred must die,' argues the roumenian, 'but as he is unaware of his doom, he does not feel any pain or anxiety, and so it is less cruel than walling in a living man.' at the present day in russia, as elsewhere, a shadow is a common metaphor for the soul,[ ] whence it arises that there are persons there who object to having their silhouettes taken, fearing that if they do, they will die before the year is out. in the same way, a man's reflected image is supposed to be in communion with his inner self, and, therefore, children are often forbidden to look at themselves in a glass, lest their sleep should be disturbed at night. it may be added, too, as mr. clodd points out, that in the barbaric belief of the loss of the shadow being baleful, 'we have the germ of the mediæval legends of shadowless men, and of tales of which chamisso's "story of peter schlemihl" is a type.'[ ] hence the dead in purgatory recognised that dante was alive when they saw that, unlike theirs, his figure cast a shadow on the ground. but, as mr. fiske observes,[ ] 'the theory which identifies the soul with the shadow, and supposes the shadow to depart with the sickness and death of the body, would seem liable to be attended with some difficulties in the way of verification, even to the dim intelligence of the savage.' again, another doctrine promulgated under various forms in animistic philosophy is, that the existence and condition of the soul depend upon the manner of death. the australian, for instance, not content with slaying his enemy, cuts off the right thumb of the corpse, so that the departed soul may be incapacitated from throwing a spear; and even the half-civilised chinese prefer the punishment of crucifixion to that of decapitation, that their souls may not wander headless about the spirit world. similarly the indians of brazil 'believe that the dead arrive in the other world wounded or hacked to pieces, in fact, just as they left this.' european folk-lore has preserved, more or less, the same idea, and the ghost of the murdered person often appears displaying the wounds which were the cause of the death of the body. many a weird and ghastly ghost tale still current in different parts of the country gives the most blood-curdling details of such apparitions; and although, in certain cases, a century or so is said to have elapsed since they first made their appearance, they still bear the marks of violence and cruelty which were done to them by a murderous hand when in the flesh. an old story tells how, when the earl of cornwall met the fetch of william rufus carried on a very large black goat, all black and naked, across the bodmin moors, he saw that it was wounded through the breast. robert adjured the goat, in the name of the holy trinity, to tell what it was he carried so strangely. he answered, 'i am carrying your king to judgment; yea, that tyrant, william rufus, for i am an evil spirit, and the revenger of his malice which he bore to the church of god. it was i that did cause this slaughter.' having spoken, the spectre vanished. soon afterwards robert heard that at that very hour the king had been slain in the new forest by the arrow of william tirell.[ ] this idea corresponds with what was believed in early times, for ovid[ ] tells us how umbra cruenta remi visa est assistere lecto. again, some modes of death are supposed to kill not only the body but also the soul. 'among all primitive peoples,' writes mr. dorman,[ ] 'where a belief in the renewal of life, or the resurrection, exists, the peace and happiness of the spirit, which remains in or about the body, depend upon success in preventing the body, or any part of it, from being devoured or destroyed in any manner.' the new zealanders believed that the man who was eaten was annihilated, both body and soul; and one day a bushman, who was a magician, having put to death a woman, dashed the head of the corpse to pieces with large stones, buried her, and made a large fire over the grave, for fear, as he explained, lest she should rise again and trouble him. the same idea, remarks sir john lubbock,[ ] evidently influenced the californian, who did not dispute the immortality of the whites, who buried their dead, but could not believe the same of his own people, because they were in the habit of burning them, maintaining that when they were burnt they became annihilated. it may be added, too, that the belief underlying the burial customs of most american tribes was to preserve the bones of the dead, the opinion being that the soul, or a part of it, dwelt in the bones. these, indeed, were the seeds which, planted in the earth, or preserved unbroken in safe places, would in time put on once again a garb of flesh, and germinate into living human beings.[ ] this animistic belief has been amply illustrated by mythology and superstition. in an aztec legend, after one of the destructions of the world, zoloti descended to the realm of the dead, and brought thence a bone of the perished race. this, sprinkled with blood, grew on the fourth day into a youth, the father of the present race. the practice of pulverising the bones of the dead, practised by some tribes, and of mixing them with the food, was defended by asserting that the souls of the dead remained in the bones, and lived again in the living.[ ] the peruvians were so careful lest any of the body should be lost, that they preserved even the parings of the nails and clippings of the hair--expecting the mummified body to be inhabited by its soul; while the choctaws maintain that the spirits of the dead will return to the bones in the bone mounds, and flesh will knit together their loose joints. even the lower animals were supposed to follow the same law. 'hardly any of the american hunting-tribes,' writes mr. brinton, 'before their original manners were vitiated by foreign influence, permitted the bones of game slain in the chase to be broken, or left carelessly about the encampment; they were collected in heaps, or thrown into the water.' the yuricares of bolivia carried this belief to such an inconvenient extent that they carefully put by even small fish bones, saying that unless this was done the fish and game would disappear from the country. the traveller on the western prairies often notices the buffalo skulls, countless numbers of which bleach on those vast plains, arranged in circles and symmetrical piles by the careful hands of the native hunters. the explanation for this practice is that these osseous relics of the dead 'contain the spirits of the slain animals, and that some time in the future they will rise from the earth, re-clothe themselves with flesh, and stock the prairies anew.' as a curious illustration of how every spiritual conception was materialised in olden times, may be quoted the fanciful conception of the weight of the soul. thus in mediæval literature the angel in the last judgment 'was constantly represented weighing the souls in a literal balance, while devils clinging to the scales endeavoured to disturb the equilibrium.'[ ] but how seriously such tests of the weight of the soul have been received, may be gathered from the cases now and then forthcoming of this materialistic notion of its nature. these, writes dr. tylor,[ ] range from the 'conception of a basuto diviner that the late queen had been bestriding his shoulders, and he never felt such a weight in his wife, to glanvil's story of david hunter, the neatherd, who lifted up the old woman's ghost, and she felt just like a bag of feathers in his arms; or the pathetic superstition that the dead mother's coming back in the night to suckle the baby she has left on earth, may be known by the hollow pressed down in the bed where she lay, and at last down to the alleged modern spiritualistic reckoning of the weight of a human soul at from three to four ounces.' but the heavy tread which occasionally makes the stairs creak and boards resound has been instanced as showing that, whatever may be the real nature of the soul, it is capable of materialising itself at certain times, and of displaying an amount of force and energy in no way dissimilar to that which is possessed when living in the flesh. just, too, as souls are possessed of visible forms, so they are generally supposed to have voices. according to dr. tylor,[ ] 'men who perceive evidently that souls do talk when they present themselves in dream or vision, naturally take for granted at once the objective reality of the ghostly voice, and of the ghostly form from which it proceeds;' and this principle, he adds, 'is involved in the series of narratives of spiritual communications with living men, from savagery onward to civilisation.' european folk-lore represents ghostly voices as resembling their material form during life, although less audible. with savage races the spirit voice is described 'as a low murmur, chirp, or whistle.' thus, when the ghosts of the new zealanders address the living, they speak in whistling tones. the sorcerer among the zulus 'hears the spirits who speak by whistlings speaking to him.' whistling is the language of the caledonians, and the algonquin indians of north america 'could hear the shadow souls of the dead chirp like crickets.' as far back as the time of homer, the ghosts make a similar sound, 'and even as bats flit gibbering in the secret place of a wonderful cavern, even so the souls gibbered as they fared together.'[ ] ghosts, when they make their appearance, are generally supposed, as already noticed, to have a perfect resemblance, in every respect, to the deceased person. their faces appear the same--except that they are usually paler than when alive--and the ordinary expression is described by writers on the subject as 'more in sorrow than in anger.' thus, when the ghost of banquo rises and takes a seat at the table, macbeth says to the apparition-- never shake thy gory locks at me. and horatio tells marcellus how the ghost of hamlet's father was not only fully armed, but-- so frown'd he once, when in angry parle, he smote the sledded polacks on the ice. the folk-lore stories from most parts of the world coincide in this idea. it was recorded of the indians of brazil by one of the early european visitors that 'they believe that the dead arrive in the other world, wounded or hacked to pieces, in fact, just as they left this;'[ ] a statement which reminds us of a ghost described by mrs. crowe,[ ] who, on appearing after death, was seen to have the very small-pox marks which had disfigured its countenance when in the flesh. as in life, so in death, it would seem that there are different classes of ghosts--the princely, the aristocratic, the genteel, and the common. the vulgar class, it is said, delight to haunt 'in graveyards, dreary lanes, ruins, and all sorts of dirty dark holes and corners.' an amusing anecdote illustrative of this belief was related by the daughter of 'the celebrated mrs. s.' [siddons?] who told mrs. crowe that when her parents were travelling in wales they stayed some days at oswestry, and lodged in a house which was in a very dirty and neglected state, yet all night long the noise of scrubbing and moving furniture made it impossible to sleep. the servants did little or no work, for they had to sit up with their mistress to allay her fears. the neighbours said that this person had killed an old servant, hence the disturbance and her terror. mr. and mrs. s---- coming in suddenly one day, heard her cry out, 'are you there again? fiend! go away!' but numerous tales similar to the above are still current in different parts of the country; and from time to time are duly chronicled in the local press. footnotes: [ ] _principles of sociology_, , i. p. . [ ] _de anima_, p. ; see tylor's _primitive culture_, i. p. . [ ] _principles of sociology_, , i. p. . [ ] see tylor's _primitive culture_, i. p. . [ ] dorman's _primitive superstitions_, p. . [ ] tylor's _primitive culture_, i. p. . [ ] letourneau's _sociology_, p. . [ ] see tylor's _anthropology_, , p. . [ ] _nineteenth century_, july , pp. - , 'transylvanian superstitions,' by madame emily de laszowska gerard. [ ] ralston's _songs of the russian people_, p. . [ ] _myths and dreams_, , p. . [ ] _myths and myth-makers_, , p. . [ ] see hunt's _popular romances of the west of england_, p. . [ ] _fasti_, v. . [ ] _primitive superstitions_, p. . [ ] _the origin of civilisation, and the primitive condition of man_, , p. ; see letourneau's _sociology_, p. . [ ] brinton's _myths of the new world_, , p. . [ ] dorman's _primitive superstitions_, , p. . [ ] see lecky's _rationalism in europe_, , i. p. ; cf. maury's _légendes pieuses_, p. . [ ] _primitive culture_, i. p. . [ ] see andrew lang's _myth, ritual, religion_, i. p. . [ ] _odyssey_, xxiv. [ ] tylor's _primitive culture_, i. p. . [ ] _night side of nature._ chapter iv the unburied dead the greeks believed that such as had not received funeral rites would be excluded from elysium. the younger pliny tells the tale of a haunted house at athens, in which a ghost played all kinds of pranks owing to the funeral rites having been neglected. it is still a deep-rooted belief that when the mortal remains of the soul have not been honoured with proper burial, it will walk. the ghosts of unburied persons not possessing the _obolus_ or fee due to charon, the ferryman of styx, and acheron, were unable to obtain a lodging or place of rest. hence they were compelled to wander about the banks of the river for a hundred years, when the portitor, or 'ferryman of hell,' passed them over _in formâ pauperis_. the famous tragedy of 'antigone' by sophocles owes much of its interest to this popular belief on the subject. in most countries all kinds of strange tales are told of ghosts ceaselessly wandering about the earth, owing to their bodies, for some reason or another, having been left unburied. there is a well known german ghost, the bleeding nun. this was a nun who, after committing many crimes and debaucheries, was assassinated by one of her paramours and denied the rites of burial. after this, she used to haunt the castle where she was murdered, with her bleeding wounds. on one occasion, a young lady of the castle, willing to elope with her lover, in order to make her flight easier, personated the bleeding nun. unfortunately the lover, whilst expecting his lady under this disguise, eloped with the spectre herself, who presented herself to him and haunted him afterwards.[ ] comparative folk-lore, too, shows how very widely diffused is this notion. it is believed by the iroquois of north america, that unless the rites of burial are performed, the spirits of the dead hover for a time upon the earth in great unhappiness. on this account every care is taken to procure the bodies of those slain in battle. certain brazilian tribes suppose that the spirits of the dead have no rest till burial, and among the ottawas, a great famine was thought to have been produced on account of the failure of some of their tribesmen to perform the proper burial rites. after having repaired their fault they were blessed with abundance of provisions. the australians went so far as to say that the spirits of the unburied dead became dangerous and malignant demons. similarly, the siamese dread, as likely to do them some harm, the ghosts of those who have not been buried with proper rites, and the karens have much the same notion. according to the polynesians, the spirit of a dead man could not reach the sojourn of his ancestors, and of the gods, unless the sacred funereal rites were performed over his body. if he was buried with no ceremony, or simply thrown into the sea, the spirit always remained in the body.[ ] under one form or another, the same belief may be traced in most parts of the world, and, as dr. tylor points out,[ ] 'in mediæval europe the classic stories of ghosts that haunt the living till laid by rites of burial pass here and there into new legends where, under a changed dispensation, the doleful wanderer now asks christian burial in consecrated earth.' shakespeare alludes to this old idea, and in 'titus andronicus' (i. ) lucius, speaking of the unburied sons of titus, says: give us the proudest prisoner of the goths, that we may hew his limbs, and on a pile _ad manes fratrum_ sacrifice his flesh, before this earthly prison of their bones; that so the shadows be not unappeas'd, nor we disturb'd with prodigies on earth. hence the appearance of a spirit, in times past, was often regarded as an indication that some foul deed had been done, on which account horatio in 'hamlet' (i. ) says to the ghost: if there be any good thing to be done that may to thee do ease, and grace to me, speak to me. in the narrative of the sufferings of byron and the crew of h.m. ship 'wager,' on the coast of south america, we find a good illustration of the superstitious dread attaching to an unburied corpse. 'the reader will remember the shameful rioting, mutiny, and recklessness which disgraced the crew of the "wager," nor will he forget the approach to cannibalism and murder on one occasion. these men had just returned from a tempestuous navigation, in which their hopes of escape had been crushed, and now what thoughts disturbed their rest--what serious consultations were they which engaged the attention of these sea-beaten men? long before cheap's bay had been left, the body of a man had been found on a hill named "mount misery." he was supposed to have been murdered by some of the first gang who left the island. the body had never been buried, and to such neglect did the men now ascribe the storms which had lately afflicted them; nor would they rest until the remains of their comrade were placed beneath the earth, when each evidently felt as if some dreadful spell had been removed from his spirit.' stories of this kind are common everywhere, and are interesting as showing how widely scattered is this piece of superstition. in sweden the ravens, which scream by midnight in forest swamps and wild moors, are held to be the ghosts of murdered men, whose bodies have been hidden in those spots by their undetected murderers, and not had christian burial.[ ] in many a danish legend the spirit of a strand varsler, or coast-guard, appears, walking his beat as when alive. such ghosts were not always friendly, and it was formerly considered dangerous to pass along 'such unconsecrated beaches, believed to be haunted by the spectres of unburied corpses of drowned people.'[ ] the reason, it is asserted, why many of our old castles and country seats have their traditional ghost, is owing to some unfortunate person having been secretly murdered in days past, and to his or her body having been allowed to remain without the rites of burial. so long as such a crime is unavenged, and the bones continue unburied, it is impossible, we are told, for the outraged spirit to keep quiet. numerous ghost stories are still circulated throughout the country of spirits wandering on this account, some of which, however, are based purely on legendary romance. but when the unburied body could not be found, and the ghost wandered, the missing man was buried in effigy, for, as it has been observed, 'according to all the laws of primitive logic, an effigy is every bit as good as its original. therefore, when a dead man is buried in effigy, with all due formality, that man is dead and buried beyond a doubt, and his ghost is as harmless as it is in the nature of ghosts to be.' but sometimes such burial by proxy was premature, for the man was not really dead; and if he declined to consider himself as such, the question arose, was he alive, or was he dead? the solution adopted was that he might be born again and take a new lease of life. 'and so it was, he was put out to nurse, he was dressed in long clothes--in short, he went through all the stages of a second childhood. but before this pleasing experience could take place, he had to overcome the initial difficulty of entering his own house, for the door was ghost-proof. there was no other way but by the chimney, and down the chimney he came.' we may laugh at such credulity, but many of the ghost-beliefs of the present day are not less absurd. footnotes: [ ] yardley's _supernatural in fiction_, p. . [ ] letourneau's _sociology_, p. . [ ] _primitive culture_, ii. p. ; douce's _illustrations of shakespeare_, pp. , . [ ] henderson's _folk-lore of northern counties_, p. , note. [ ] thorpe's _northern mythology_, ii. p. . chapter v why ghosts wander a variety of causes have been supposed to prevent the dead resting in the grave, for persons 'dying with something on their mind,' to use the popular phrase, cannot enjoy the peace of the grave; oftentimes some trivial anxiety, or some frustrated communication, preventing the uneasy spirit flinging off the bonds that bind it to earth. wickedness in their lifetime has been commonly thought to cause the souls of the impenitent to revisit the scenes where their evil deeds were done. it has long been a widespread idea that as such ghosts are too bad for a place in either world, they are, therefore, compelled to wander on the face of the earth homeless and forlorn. we have shown in another chapter how, according to a well-known superstition, the _ignes fatui_, which appear by night in swampy places, are the souls of the dead--men who during life were guilty of fraudulent and other wicked acts. thus a popular belief reminds us[ ] how, when an unjust relative has secreted the title-deeds in order to get possession of the estate himself, he finds no rest in the other world till the title-deeds are given back, and the estate is restored to the rightful heir. come must the spirit of such an unrighteous man to the room where he concealed the title-deeds surreptitiously removed from the custody of the person to whose charge they were entrusted. 'a dishonest milkwoman at shrewsbury is condemned,' writes miss jackson in her 'shropshire folk-lore'[ ] (p. ), 'to wander up and down "lady studley's diche" in the raven meadow--now the smithfield--constantly repeating: "weight and measure sold i never, milk and water sold i ever."' the same rhyme is current at burslem, in the staffordshire potteries. the story goes that 'old molly lee,' who used to sell milk there, and had the reputation of being a witch, was supposed to be seen after her death going about the streets with her milk-pail on her head repeating it. miss jackson further relates how a mid-shropshire squire of long ago was compelled to wander about in a homeless state on account of his wickedness. murderers cannot rest, and even although they may escape justice in this life, it is supposed that their souls find no peace in the grave, but under a curse are compelled to walk to and fro until they have, in some degree, done expiation for their crimes. occasionally, it is said, their plaintive moans may be heard as they bewail the harm done by them to the innocent, weary of being allowed no cessation from their ceaseless wandering--a belief which reminds us of the legend of the wandering jew, and the many similar stories that have clustered round it. in 'blackwood's magazine' for august this passage occurs: 'if any author were so mad as to think of framing a tragedy upon the subject of that worthy vicar of warblington, hants, who was reported about a century ago to have strangled his own children, and to have walked after his death, he would assuredly be laughed to scorn by a london audience.' but a late rector of warblington informed a correspondent of 'notes and queries' ( th s. xi. ), 'it was quite true that his house was said to be haunted by the ghost of a former rector, supposed to be the rev. sebastian pitfield, who held the living in .' a strong prejudice against hanging prevails in wales, owing to troublesome spirits being let loose, and wandering about, to the annoyance of the living. the spirits of suicides wander, and hence cross-roads in various parts of the country are oftentimes avoided after dark, on account of being haunted by headless and other uncanny apparitions. the same belief exists abroad. the sioux are of opinion that suicide is punished in the land of spirits by the ghosts being doomed for ever to drag the tree on which they hang themselves; and for this reason they always suspend themselves to as small a tree as can possibly sustain their weight. with the chinese the souls of suicides are specially obnoxious, and they consider that the very worst penalty that can befall a soul is the sight of its former surroundings. thus, it is supposed that, in the case of the wicked man, 'they only see their homes as if they were near them; they see their last wishes disregarded, everything upside down, their substance squandered, strangers possess the old estate; in their misery the dead man's family curse him, his children become corrupt, land is gone, the wife sees her husband tortured, the husband sees his wife stricken down with mortal disease; even friends forget, but some, perhaps, for the sake of bygone times, may stroke the coffin and let fall a tear, departing with a cold smile.'[ ] but, as already noticed, the same idea, in a measure, extends to the west, for in this country it has long been a popular belief that the ghosts of the wicked are forced to periodically rehearse their sinful acts. thus, the murderer's ghost is seen in vain trying to wash out the indelible blood-stains, and the thief is supposed to be continually counting and recounting the money which came into his possession through dishonest means. the ghost is dogged and confronted with the hideousness of his iniquities, and the young woman who slew her lover in a fit of jealous passion is seen, in an agonised expression, holding the fatal weapon. but such unhappy spirits have, in most cases, been put to silence by being laid, instances of which are given elsewhere; and in other cases they have finally disappeared with the demolition of certain houses which for years they may have tenanted. on the other hand, the spirits of the good are said sometimes to return to earth for the purpose of either succouring the innocent, or avenging the guilty. 'those who come again to punish their friends' wrongs,' writes miss jackson, in her 'shropshire folk-lore' (p. ), 'generally appear exactly as in life, unchanged in form or character. a certain well-to-do man who lived in the west of shropshire within living memory, left his landed property to his nephew, and a considerable fortune to his two illegitimate daughters, the children of his housekeeper. their mother, well provided for, was at his death turned adrift by the nephew. her daughters, however, continued to live in their old home with their cousin. a maid-servant who entered the family shortly after (and who is our informant) noticed an elderly man often walking in the garden in broad daylight, dressed in old-fashioned clothes, with breeches and white stockings. he never spoke, and never entered the house, though he always went towards it. asking who he was, she was coolly told, "oh, that is only our old father!" no annoyance seems to have been caused by the poor old ghost, with one exception, that the clothes were every night stripped off the bed of the two unnatural daughters.' german folk-lore tells how slain warriors rise again to help their comrades to victory, and how a mother will visit her old home to look after her injured and forsaken children, and elsewhere the same idea is extensively believed. in china, the ghosts which are animated by a sense of duty are frequently seen: at one time they seek to serve virtue in distress, and at another they aim to restore wrongfully-held treasure. indeed, as it has been observed, 'one of the most powerful as well as the most widely diffused of the people's ghost stories is that which treats of the persecuted child whose mother comes out of the grave to succour him.'[ ] and there perhaps can be no more gracious privilege allotted to immortal spirits than that of beholding those beloved of them in mortal life: i am still near, watching the smiles i prized on earth, your converse mild, your blameless mirth.[ ] as it has been observed, no oblivious draught has been given the departed soul, but the remembrance of its earthly doings cleaves to it, and this is why ghosts are always glad to see the places frequented by them while on earth. in galicia, directly after a man's burial, his spirit takes to wandering by nights about the old home, and watching that no evil befalls his heirs.[ ] occasionally the spirit returns to fulfil a promise as in compacts, to which reference is made in another chapter. the reappearance of a lover, 'in whose absence his beloved has died, is a subject that has been made use of by the folk-poets of every country, and nothing,' it is added, 'can be more characteristic of the nationalities to which they belong than the divergences which mark their treatment of it.'[ ] another cause of ghosts wandering is founded upon a superstition as to the interchange of love-tokens, an illustration of which we find in the old ballad of 'william's ghost': there came a ghost to marjorie's door, wi' many a grievous maen, and aye he tirl'd at the pin, but answer made she nane. 'oh, sweet marjorie! oh, dear marjorie! for faith and charitie, give me my faith and troth again, that i gied once to thee.' 'thy faith and troth i'll ne'er gie thee, nor yet shall our true love twin, till you tak' me to your ain ha' house, and wed me wi' a ring.' 'my house is but yon lonesome grave, afar out o'er yon lee, and it is but my spirit, marjorie, that's speaking unto thee.'[ ] she followed the spirit to the grave, where it lay down and confessed that william had betrayed three maidens whom he had promised to marry, and in consequence of this misdemeanour he could not rest in his grave until she released him of his vows to marry her. on learning this, marjorie at once released him. then she'd taen up her white, white hand, and struck him on the breist, saying, 'have ye again your faith and troth, and i wish your soul good rest.' in another ballad, 'clerk sanders,' there is a further illustration of the same belief. the instances, says mr. napier, differ, but 'the probability is that the ballad quoted above and "clerk sanders" are both founded on the same story. clerk sanders was the son of an earl, who courted the king's daughter, lady margaret. they loved each other even in the modern sense of loving too well. margaret had seven brothers, who suspected an intrigue, and they came upon them together in bed and killed clerk sanders, whose ghost soon after came to margaret's window. the ballad, which contains much curious folk-lore, runs thus:[ ] 'oh! are ye sleeping, margaret?' he says, 'or are ye waking presentlie? give me my faith and troth again, i wot, true love, i gied to thee. 'i canna rest, margaret,' he says, 'down in the grave where i must be, till ye give me my faith and troth again, i wot, true love, i gied to thee.' 'thy faith and troth thou shalt na get, and our true love shall never twin, until ye tell what comes o' women, i wot, who die in strong travailing. 'their beds are made in the heavens high, down at the foot of our lord's knee, weel set about wi' gilliflowers, i trow sweet company for to see. 'oh, cocks are crowing a merry midnight, i wot the wild fowls are boding day; the psalms of heaven will soon be sung, and i, ere now, will be missed away.' then she has ta'en a crystall wand, and she has stroken her throth thereon; she has given it him out of the shot-window, wi' many a sigh and heavy goan. 'i thank ye, margaret; i thank ye, margaret; and aye, i thank ye heartilie; gin ever the dead come for the quick, be sure, margaret, i'll come for thee.' then up and crew the milk-white cock, and up and crew the gray; her lover vanished in the air, and she gaed weeping away. madness, again, during life, is said occasionally to produce restlessness after death. 'parson digger, at condover,' remarked an old woman to miss jackson,[ ] 'he came again. he wasn't right in his head, and if you met him he couldn't speak to you sensibly. but when he was up in the pulpit he'd preach, oh! beautiful!' in hungary, there are the spirits of brides who die on their wedding-day before consummation of marriage. they are to be seen at moonlight, where cross-roads meet. and it is a danish tradition that a corpse cannot have peace in the grave when it is otherwise than on its back. according to a scotch belief, excessive grief for a departed friend, 'combined with a want of resignation to the will of providence, had the effect of keeping the spirit from rest in the other world. rest could be obtained only by the spirit coming back, and comforting the mourner by the assurance that it was in a state of blessedness.'[ ] the ghosts of those, again, who had some grievance or other in life are supposed to wander. the droitwich canal, in passing through salwarpe, worcestershire, is said to have cut off a slice of a large old half-timbered house, in revenge for which act of mutilation, the ghost of a former occupier revisited his old haunts, and affrighted the domestics. once more, according to another animistic conception which holds a prominent place in the religion of uncultured tribes, the soul at death passes through some transitionary stages, finally developing into a demon. in china and india this theory is deeply rooted among the people, and hence it is customary to offer sacrifices to the souls of the departed by way of propitiation, as otherwise they are supposed to wander to and fro on the earth, and to exert a malignant influence on even their dearest friends and relatives. diseases, too, are regarded as often being caused by the wandering souls of discontented relatives, who in some cases are said to re-appear as venomous snakes.[ ] owing to this belief, a system of terror prevails amongst many tribes, which is only allayed by constantly appeasing departed souls. believing in superstitions of this kind, it is easy to understand how the uncivilised mind readily lays hold of the doctrine that the souls of the departed, angry and enraged at having had death thrust on them, take every opportunity of wandering about, and annoying the living, and of wreaking their vengeance on even those most nearly related to them. in this phase of savage belief may be traced the notion of manes worship found under so many forms in foreign countries. indeed, once granted that the departed soul has power to affect the living, then this power attributed to it is only one of degree. with this belief, too, may be compared the modern one of worship of the dead; and as dr. tylor remarks: 'a crowd of saints, who were once men and women, now form an inferior order of deities active in the affairs of men, and receiving from them reverence and prayer, thus coming strictly under the definition of manes.'[ ] a further illustration may be adduced in the patron deities of particular trades and crafts, and in the imposing array of saints supposed to be specially interested in the particular requirements of mankind. footnotes: [ ] see gregor's _folk-lore of north-east of scotland_, p. . [ ] edited by c. s. burne. [ ] countess evelyn martinengo-cesaresco, , _essays in the study of folk-songs_, p. . [ ] _study of folk-songs_, p. . [ ] _study of folk-songs_, p. . [ ] ralston's _songs of the russian people_, p. . [ ] _study of folk-songs_, p. . [ ] _folk-lore record_, , iii. pp. , , [ ] _folk-lore record_, , iii. pp. , . [ ] _shropshire folk-lore_, p. . [ ] gregor's _folk-lore of north-east of scotland_, p. . [ ] sir john lubbock's _origin of civilisation_, p. . [ ] _primitive culture_, ii. p. . chapter vi ghosts of the murdered it is commonly supposed that the spirits of those who have suffered a violent or untimely death are baneful and malicious beings; for, as meiners conjectures in his 'history of religions,' they were driven unwillingly from their bodies, and have carried into their new existence an angry longing for revenge. hence, in most countries, there is a dread of such harmful spirits; and, among the sioux indians the fear of the ghost's vengeance has been known to act as a check to murder. the avenging ghost often comes back to convict the guilty, and appears in all kinds of strange and uncanny ways. thus the ghost of hamlet's father (i. ) says: i am thy father's spirit, doomed for a certain time to walk the night, and for the day confined to fast in fires, till the foul crimes, done in my days of nature, are burnt and purged away. till the crime has been duly expiated, not only is the spirit supposed to be kept from its desired rest, but it flits about the haunts of the living, that, by its unearthly molestation, it may compel them to make every possible reparation for the cruel wrong done. any attempt to lay such a ghost is ineffectual, and no exorcist's art can induce it to discontinue its unwelcome visits. comparative folk-lore proves how universal is this belief, for one of the most popular ghost stories in folk-tales is that which treats of the murdered person whose ghost hovers about the earth with no gratification but to terrify the living. the chinese have a dread of the wandering spirits of persons who have come to an unfortunate end. at canton, in , the wife of an officer of government had occasioned the death of two female domestic slaves, from some jealous suspicion it was supposed of her husband's conduct towards the girls; and, in order to screen herself from the consequences, she suspended the bodies by the neck, with a view to its being construed into an act of suicide. but the conscience of the woman tormented her to such a degree that she became insane, and at times personated the victims of her cruelty; or, as the chinese supposed, the spirits of the murdered girls possessed her, and utilised her mouth to declare her own guilt. in her ravings she tore her clothes, and beat her own person with all the fury of madness; after which she would recover her senses for a time, when it was supposed the demons quitted her, but only to return with greater frenzy, which took place a short time previous to her death.[ ] according to mr. dennys,[ ] the most common form of chinese ghost story is that wherein the ghost seeks to bring to justice the murderer who shuffled off its mortal coil. the following tale is told of a haunted hill in the country of the assiniboins. many summers ago a party of assiniboins pounced on a small band of crees in the neighbourhood of wolverine knoll. among the victors was the former wife of one of the vanquished, who had been previously captured by her present husband. this woman directed every effort in the fight to take the life of her first husband, but he escaped, and concealed himself on this knoll. wolverine--for this was his name--fell asleep, and was discovered by this virago, who killed him, and presented his scalp to her assiniboin husband. the knoll was afterwards called after him. the indians assert that the ghosts of the murderess and her victim are often to be seen from a considerable distance struggling together on the very summit of the height.[ ] the siamese 'fear as unkindly spirits the souls of such as died a violent death, or were not buried with the proper rites, and who, desiring expiation, invisibly terrify their descendants.'[ ] in the same way, the karens say that the ghosts of those who wander on the earth are the spirits of such as died by violence; and in australia we hear of the souls of departed natives walking about because their death has not been expiated by the avenger of blood. the hurons of america, lest the spirits of the victims of their torture should remain around the huts of their murderers from a thirst of vengeance, strike every place with a staff in order to oblige them to depart. an old traveller mentions the same custom among the iroquois: 'at night we heard a great noise, as if the houses had all fallen; but it was only the inhabitants driving away the ghosts of the murdered;' with which we may compare the belief of the ottawas: on one occasion, when noises of the loudest and most inharmonious kind were heard in a certain village, it was ascertained that a battle had been lately fought between the ottawas and kickapoos, and that the object of all this noise was to prevent the ghosts of the dead combatants from entering the village.[ ] european folk-lore still clings to this old belief, and, according to the current opinion in norway,[ ] the soul of a murdered person willingly hovers around the spot where his body is buried, and makes its appearance for the purpose of calling forth vengeance on the murderer. the idea that, in cases of hidden murder, the buried dead cannot rest in their graves is often spoken in our old ballad folk-lore. thus, in the ballad of the 'jew's daughter,' in motherwell's collection, a youth was murdered, and his body thrown into a draw-well, and he speaks to his mother from the well: she ran away to the deep draw-well, and she fell down on her knee, saying, 'bonnie sir hugh, oh, pretty sir hugh, i pray ye, speak to me!' 'oh! the lead it is wondrous heavy, mother, the well, it is wondrous deep, the little penknife sticks in my throat, and i downa to ye speak. but lift me out of this deep draw-well, and bury me in yon churchyard; put a bible at my head,' he says, 'and a testament at my feet, and pen and ink at every side, and i will lay still and sleep. and go to the back of maitland town, bring me my winding sheet; for it's at the back of maitland town that you and i shall meet.' the eye of superstition, we are told, sees such ghosts sometimes as white spectres in the churchyard, where they stop horses, terrify people, and make a disturbance; and occasionally as executed criminals, who, in the moonlight, wander round the place of execution, with their heads under their arms. at times they are said to pinch persons while asleep both black and blue, such spots being designated ghost-spots, or ghost-pinches. it is also supposed in some parts of norway that certain spirits cry like children, and entice people to them, such being thought to derive their origin from murdered infants. a similar belief exists in sweden, where the spirits of little children that have been murdered are said to wander about wailing, within an assigned time, so long as their lives would have lasted on earth, had they been allowed to live. as a terror for unnatural mothers who destroy their offspring, their sad cry is said to be 'mama! mama!' if travellers at night pass by them, they will hang on the vehicle, when the most spirited horses will sweat as if they were dragging too heavy a load, and at length come to a dead stop. the peasant then knows that a ghost or pysling has attached itself to his vehicle.[ ] the nautical ghost is often a malevolent spirit, as in shelley's 'revolt of islam'; and captain marryat tells a sailor story of a murdered man's ghost appearing every night, and calling hands to witness a piratical scene of murder, formerly committed on board the ship in which he appeared. a celebrated ghost is that of the 'shrieking woman,' long supposed to haunt the shores of oakum bay, near marblehead. she was a spanish lady murdered by pirates in the eighteenth century, and the apparition is thus described by whittier in his 'legends of new england': 'tis said that often when the moon, is struggling with the gloomy even, and over moon and star is drawn the curtain of a clouded heaven, strange sounds swell up the narrow glen, as if that robber crew was there; the hellish laugh, the shouts of men and woman's dying prayer. many west indian quays were thought to be the haunts of ghosts of murdered men; and sir walter scott tells how the buccaneers occasionally killed a spaniard or a slave, and buried him with their spirits, under the impression that his ghost would haunt the spot, and keep away treasure hunters. he quotes another incident of a captain who killed a man in a fit of anger, and, on his threatening to haunt him, he cooked his body in the stove kettle. the crew believed that the murdered man took his place at the wheel, and on the yards. the captain, troubled by his conscience and the man's ghost, finally jumped overboard, when, as he sank, he threw up his arms and exclaimed, 'bill is with me now!' in most parts of the world similar tales are recorded, and are as readily believed as when they were first told centuries ago. a certain island on the japanese coast is traditionally haunted by the ghosts of japanese slain in a naval battle. even 'to-day the chousen peasant fancies he sees the ghostly armies baling out the sea with bottomless dippers, condemned thus to cleanse the ocean of the slain of centuries ago.'[ ] according to an old chinese legend the ghost of a captain of a man-of-war junk, who had been murdered, reappeared and directed how the ship was to be steered to avoid a nest of pirates.[ ] in this country, many an old mansion has its haunted room, in which the unhappy spirit of the murdered person is supposed, on certain occasions, to appear. generation after generation do such troubled spirits return to the scene of their life, and persistently wait till some one is bold enough to stay in the haunted room, and to question them as to the cause of their making such periodical visits. accordingly, when a murder has been committed and not discovered, often, it is said, has the spirit of the murdered one continued to come back and torment the neighbourhood till a confession of the crime has been made, and justice satisfied. mr. walter gregor,[ ] detailing instances in scotland of haunted houses, tells how 'in one room a lady had been murdered, and her body buried in a vault below it. her spirit could find no rest till she had told who the murderer was, and pointed out where the body lay. in another, a baby heir had its little life stifled by the hand of an assassin hired by the next heir. the estate was obtained, but the deed followed the villain beyond the grave, and his spirit could find no peace. night by night the ghost had to return at the hour of midnight to the room in which the murder was committed, and in agony spend in it the hours till cock-crowing, when everything of the supernatural had to disappear.' the ghost of lady hamilton of bothwellhaugh, who always appears in white, carrying her child in her arms, has long been, as mr. ingram says,[ ] 'an enduring monument of the bloodthirsty spirit of the age in which she lived.' whilst her husband was away from home, a favourite of the regent, murray seized his house, turned his wife, on a cold night, naked, into the open fields, where, before morning, she was found raving mad; her infant perishing either by cold or murder. the ruins of the mansion of woodhouslee, 'whence lady bothwell was expelled in the brutal manner which occasioned her insanity and death,' have long been tenanted with the unfortunate lady's ghost; 'and so tenacious is this spectre of its rights, that a part of the stones belonging to the ancient edifice having been employed in building or repairing the new woodhouslee, the apparition has deemed it one of her privileges to haunt that house also.' samlesbury hall, lancashire, has its ghosts; and it is said that 'on certain clear still evenings a lady in white can be seen passing along the gallery and the corridors, and then from the hall into the grounds; then she meets a handsome knight who receives her on bended knees, and he then accompanies her along the walks. on arriving at a certain spot, most probably the lover's grave, both the phantoms stand still, and, as they seem to utter lost wailings of despair, they embrace each other, and then melt away into the clear blue of the surrounding sky.' the story goes that one of the daughters of sir john southworth, a former owner, formed an attachment with the heir of a neighbouring house; but when sir john said 'no daughter of his should ever be united to the son of a family which had deserted its ancestral faith,' an elopement was arranged. the day and place were overheard by the lady's brother, and, on the evening agreed upon, he rushed from his hiding-place and slew her lover. but soon afterwards her mind gave way, and she died a raving maniac.[ ] mrs. murray, a lady born and brought up in the borders, writes mr. henderson,[ ] tells me of 'a cauld lad,' of whom she heard in her childhood during a visit to gilsland, in cumberland. he perished from cold, at the behest of some cruel uncle or stepdame, and ever after his ghost haunted the family, coming shivering to their bedsides before anyone was stricken by illness, his teeth audibly chattering; and if it were to be fatal, he laid his icy hand upon the part which would be the seat of the disease, saying: cauld, cauld, aye cauld! an' ye see he cauld for evermair. st. donart's castle, on the southern coast of glamorganshire, has its favourite ghost, that of lady stradling, who is said to have been murdered by one of her family. 'it appears,' writes the late mr. wirt sikes,[ ] 'when any mishap is about to befall a member of the house of stradling, the direct line, however, of which is extinct. she wears high-heeled shoes, and a long trailing gown of the finest silk.' while she wanders, the castle hounds refuse to rest, but with their howling raise all the dogs in the neighbourhood. the little shelsey people long preserved a tradition that the court-house in that parish was haunted by the spirit of a lady lightfoot, who was said to have been imprisoned and murdered;[ ] and cumnor hall has acquired a romantic interest from the poetic glamour flung over it by mickle in his ballad of cumnor hall, and by sir walter scott in his 'kenilworth.' both refer to it as the scene of amy robsart's murder, and although the jury agreed to accept her death as accidental, the country folk would not forego their idea that it was the result of foul play. ever since the fatal event it was asserted that 'madam dudley's ghost did use to walk in cumnor park, and that it walked so obstinately, that it took no less than nine parsons from oxford to lay her.' according to mickle-- the village maids, with fearful glance, avoid the ancient moss-grown wall; nor ever lead the merry dance among the groves of cumnor hall. about half a mile to the east of maxton, a small rivulet runs across the old turnpike road, at a spot called bow-brig-syke. near this bridge is a triangular field, in which for nearly a century it was averred that the forms of two ladies, dressed in white, might be seen pacing up and down, walking over precisely the same spot of ground till morning light. but one day, while some workmen were repairing the road, they took up the large flagstones upon which foot-passengers crossed the burn, and found beneath them the skeletons of two women lying side by side. after this discovery the bow-brig ladies, as they were called, were never again seen to walk in the three-corner field. the story goes that these two ladies were sisters to a former laird of littledean, who is said to have killed them in a fit of passion, because they interfered to protect from ill-usage a young lady whom he had met at bow-brig-syke. some years later he met with his own death near the same fatal spot.[ ] mr. sullivan, in his 'cumberland and westmoreland,' relates how, some years ago, a spectre appeared to a man who lived at henhow cottage, martindale. starting for his work at an early hour one morning, he had not gone two hundred yards from his house when his dog gave signs of alarm, and, on looking round, he saw a woman carrying a child in her arms. on being questioned as to what was troubling her, the ghost replied that she had been seduced, and that her seducer, to conceal his guilt and her frailty, had given her medicine, the effect of which was to kill both mother and child. her doom was to wander for a hundred years, forty of which had expired. the occurrence is believed to have made a lasting impression on the old man, who, says sullivan, 'was until lately a shepherd on the fells. there can be no moral doubt that he both saw and spoke with the apparition; but what share his imagination had therein, or how it had been excited, are mysteries, and so they are likely to remain.' but as grose remarks, ghosts do not go about their business like living beings. in cases of murder, 'a ghost, instead of going to the next justice of the peace and laying its information, or to the nearest relation of the person murdered, it appears to some poor labourer who knows none of the parties, draws the curtains of some decrepit nurse or alms-woman, or hovers about the place where his body is deposited.' the same circuitous mode, he adds, 'is pursued with respect to redressing injured orphans or widows, when it seems as if the shorter and more certain would be to go to the person guilty of the injustice, and haunt him continually till he be terrified into a restitution.' from early days the phantoms of the murdered have occasionally appeared to the living, and made known the guilty person or persons who committed the deed. thus cicero relates how 'two arcadians came to megara together; one lodged at a friend's house, the other at an inn. during the night, the latter appeared to his fellow-traveller, imploring his help, as the innkeeper was plotting his death; the sleeper sprang up in alarm, but thinking the vision of no importance, he went to sleep again. a second time his companion appeared to him, to entreat that, though he had failed to help, he would at least avenge, for the innkeeper had killed him, and hidden his body in a dung-cart, wherefore he charged his fellow-traveller to be early next morning at the city gate before the cart passed out. the traveller went as bidden, and there found the cart; the body of the murdered man was in it, and the innkeeper was brought to justice.'[ ] of the many curious cases recorded of a murder being discovered through the ghost of the murdered person, may be quoted one told in aubrey's 'miscellanies.' it appears that on monday, april , , william barwick was walking with his wife close to cawood castle, when, from motives not divulged at the trial, he determined to murder her, and finding a pond conveniently at hand, threw her in. but on the following tuesday, as his brother-in-law, thomas lofthouse, 'about half an hour after twelve of the clock in the daytime, was watering quickwood, as he was going for the second pail, there appeared walking before him an apparition in the shape of a woman, "her visage being like his wife's sister's." soon after, she sat down over against the pond, on a green hill. he walked by her as he went to the pond, and, on his return, he observed that she was dangling "something like a white bag" on her lap, evidently suggestive of her unborn baby that was slain with her. the circumstance made such an impression on him, that he immediately suspected barwick, especially as he had made false statements as to the whereabouts of his wife, and obtained a warrant for his arrest. the culprit when arrested confessed his crime, and the body of the murdered woman being recovered, was found dressed in clothing similar, apparently, to that worn by the apparition. ultimately barwick was hanged for his crime.'[ ] a similar case, which occurred in the county of durham in , and is the subject of a critical historical inquiry in surtees's 'history of durham,' may be briefly summed up.[ ] 'one walker, a yeoman of good estate, a widower, living at chester-le-street, had in his service a young female relative named anne walker. the results of an amour which took place between them caused walker to send away the girl under the care of one mark sharp, a collier, professedly that she might be taken care of as befitted her condition, but in reality that she might no more be troublesome to her lover. nothing was heard of her till, one night in the ensuing winter, one james graham, coming down from the upper to the lower floor of his mill, found a woman standing there with her hair hanging about her head, in which were five bloody wounds. according to the man's evidence, she gave an account of her fate; having been killed by sharp on the moor in their journey, and thrown into a coal pit close by, while the instrument of her death, a pick, had been hid under a bank along with his clothes, which were stained with her blood. she demanded of graham that he should expose her murder, which he hesitated to do, until she had twice reappeared to him, the last time with a threatening aspect. 'the body, the pick, and the clothes having been found as graham had described, walter and sharp were tried at durham, before judge davenport, in august . the men were found guilty, condemned, and executed.' in 'ackerman's repository' for november , there is an account of a person being tried on the pretended evidence of a ghost. a farmer, on his return from the market at southam, co. warwick, was murdered. the next morning a man called upon the farmer's wife, and related how on the previous night her husband's ghost had appeared to him, and, after showing him several stabs on his body, had told him that he was murdered by a certain person, and his corpse thrown into a marl-pit. a search was instituted, the body found in the pit, and the wounds on the body of the deceased were exactly in the parts described by the pretended dreamer; the person who was mentioned was committed for trial on the charge of murder, and the trial came on at warwick before lord chief justice raymond. the jury would have convicted the prisoner as rashly as the magistrate had committed him, but for the interposition of the judge, who told them he did not put any credence in the pretended ghost story, since the prisoner was a man of unblemished reputation, and no ill-feeling had ever existed between himself and the deceased. he added that he knew of no law which admitted of the evidence of a ghost, and, if any did, the ghost had not appeared. the crier was then ordered to summon the ghost, which he did three times, and the judge then acquitted the prisoner, and caused the accuser to be detained and his house searched, when such strong proofs of guilt were discovered, that the man confessed the crime, and was executed for murder at the following assizes. footnotes: [ ] _the chinese_: j. f. davis, , ii. pp. , . [ ] _folk-lore of china_, p. . [ ] see dorman's _primitive superstitions_, p. . [ ] _primitive culture_, ii. p. . [ ] see dorman's _primitive superstitions_, , pp. , . [ ] thorpe's _northern mythology_, ii, p. . [ ] thorpe's _northern mythology_, ii. pp. , . [ ] griffis, _the mikado's kingdom_. [ ] denny's _folk-lore of china_; see bassett's _legends and superstitions of the sea_, p. . [ ] _folk-lore of north-east of scotland_, , p. . [ ] _haunted homes of england_, , p. . [ ] _haunted homes of england_, nd s., pp. - . [ ] _folk-lore of northern counties_, p. . [ ] _british goblins_, pp. , . [ ] _gentleman's magazine_, , part ii. p. . [ ] see henderson's _folk-lore of northern counties_, pp. - . [ ] quoted in tylor's _primitive culture_, i. p. . [ ] see ingram's _haunted homes_, , pp. - . [ ] see _book of days_, ii. p. . chapter vii phantom birds one of the forms which the soul is said occasionally to assume at death is that of a bird--a pretty belief which, under one form or another, exists all over the world. an early legend tells how, when st. polycarp was burnt alive, there arose from his ashes a white dove which flew towards heaven; and a similar story is told of joan of arc. the russian peasantry affirm that the souls of the departed haunt their old homes in the shape of birds for six weeks, and watch the grief of the bereft, after which time they fly away to the other world. in certain districts bread-crumbs are placed on a piece of white linen at a window during those six weeks, when the soul is believed to come and feed upon them in the form of a bird. it is generally into pigeons or crows that the dead are transformed. thus, when the deacon theodore and his three schismatic brethren were burnt in the year , writes mr. ralston,[ ] 'the souls of the martyrs appeared in the air as pigeons.' in volhynia dead children are believed to come back in the spring to their native village under the semblance of swallows and other small birds, endeavouring, by soft twittering or song, to console their sorrowing parents. the bulgarians say that after death the soul assumes the form of a bird; and according to an old bohemian fancy the soul flies out of the dying in a similar shape. in the 'chronicles of the beatified anthony'[ ] we find described fetid and black pools 'in regione puteolorum in apulia,' whence the souls arise in the form of monstrous birds in the evening hours of the sabbath, which neither eat nor let themselves be caught, but wander till in the morning an enormous lion compels them to submerge themselves in the water. it is a german belief that the soul of one who has died on shipboard passes into a bird, and when seen at any time it is supposed to announce the death of another person. the ghost of the murdered mother comes swimming in the form of a duck, or the soul sits in the likeness of a bird on the grave. this piece of folk-lore has been introduced into many of the popular folk-tales, as in the well-known story of the juniper tree. a little boy is killed by his step-mother, who serves him up as a dish of meat to his father. the father eats in ignorance, and throws away the bones, which are gathered up by the half-sister, who puts them into a silk handkerchief and buries them under a juniper tree. but presently a bird of gay plumage perches on the tree, and whistles as it flits from branch to branch: min moder de mi slach't, min fader de mi att, min swester de marleenken, söcht alle mine beeniken, und bindt sie in een syden dodk, legst unner den machandelboom; ky witt! ky witt! ach watt en schön vogel bin ich! --a rhyme which goethe puts into the mouth of gretchen in prison.[ ] in grimm's story of 'the white and the black bride,' the mother and sister push the true bride into the stream. at the same moment a snow-white swan is discovered swimming down the stream. swedish folk-lore tells us that the ravens which scream by night in forest swamps and wild moors are the ghosts of murdered men whose bodies have been hidden by their undetected murderers, and not had christian burial. in denmark the night-raven is considered an exorcised spirit, and there is said to be a hole in its left wing caused by the stake driven into the earth. where a spirit has been exorcised, it is only through the most frightful swamps and morasses that it ascends, first beginning under the earth with the cry of 'rok! rok!' then 'rok op! rok op!' and when it has thus come forth, it flies away screaming 'hei! hei! he!--i!' when it has flown up it describes a cross, but one must take care, it is said, not to look up when the bird is flying overhead, for he who sees through the hole in its wing will become a night-raven himself, and the night-raven will be released. this ominous bird is ever flying towards the east, in the hope of reaching the holy sepulchre, for when it arrives there it will find rest.[ ] then there is the romantic breton ballad of 'lord nann and the korrigan,' wherein it is related how-- it was a marvel to see, men say, the night that followed the day, the lady in earth by her lord lay, to see two oak trees themselves rear, from the new made grave into the air; and on their branches two doves white, who there were hopping, gay and light, which sang when rose the morning ray, and then towards heaven sped away. in mexico it is a popular belief that after death the souls of nobles animate beautiful singing birds, and certain north american indian tribes maintain that the souls of their chiefs take the form of small woodbirds.[ ] among the abipones of paraguay we are told of a peculiar kind of little ducks which fly in flocks at night-time, uttering a mournful tone, and which the popular imagination associates with the souls of those who have died. darwin mentions a south american indian who would not eat land-birds because they were dead men; and the californian tribes abstain from large game, believing that the souls of past generations have passed into their bodies. the içannas of brazil thought the souls of brave warriors passed into lovely birds that fed on pleasant fruits; and the tapuyas think the souls of the good and the brave enter birds, while the cowardly become reptiles. indeed, the primitive psychology of such rude tribes reminds us how the spirit freed at death-- fills with fresh energy another form, and towers an elephant, or glides a worm; swims as an eagle in the eye of noon, or wails a screech-owl to the deaf cold moon. it was also a belief of the aztecs that all good people, as a reward of merit, were metamorphosed at the close of life into feathered songsters of the grove, and in this form passed a certain term in the umbrageous bowers of paradise; while certain african tribes think that the souls of wicked men become jackals. the brazilians imagined that the souls of the bad animated those birds that inhabited the cavern of guacharo and made a mournful cry, which birds were religiously feared. tracing similar beliefs in our own country, may be compared the lancashire dread of the so-called 'seven whistlers,' which are occasionally heard at night, and are supposed to contain the souls of those jews who assisted at the crucifixion, and in consequence of their wickedness were doomed to float for ever in the air. numerous stories have been told, from time to time, of the appearance of these 'seven whistlers,' and of their being heard before some terrible catastrophe, such as a colliery explosion. a correspondent of 'notes and queries' relates how during a thunderstorm which passed over kettering, in yorkshire, on the evening of september , , 'on which occasion the lightning was very vivid, an unusual spectacle was witnessed. immense flocks of birds were flying about, uttering doleful affrighted cries as they passed over the locality, and for hours they kept up a continual whistling like that made by sea-birds. there must have been great numbers of them, as they were also observed at the same time in the counties of northampton, leicester, and lincoln. the next day, as my servant was driving me to a neighbouring village, this phenomenon of the flight of birds became the subject of conversation, and on asking him what birds he thought they were, he told me they were what were called the "seven whistlers," and that whenever they were heard it was considered a sign of some great calamity, and that the last time he heard them was the night before the great hartley colliery explosion. he had also been told by soldiers, that if they heard them they always expected a great slaughter would take place soon. curiously enough, on taking up the newspaper the following morning, i saw headed in large letters, "terrible colliery explosion at wigan," &c.' wordsworth speaks of the 'seven whistlers' in connection with the spectral hounds of the wild huntsman: he the seven birds hath seen that never part-- seen the seven whistlers on their nightly rounds, and counted them. and oftentimes will start, for overhead are sweeping gabriel's hounds, doomed, with their impious lord, the flying hart to chase for ever on ærial grounds. a similar tradition prevails on the bosphorus with reference to certain flocks of birds, about the size of a thrush, which fly up and down the channel, and are never seen to rest on the land or water. these are supposed to be the souls of the damned, and condemned to perpetual motion. among further instances of the same belief may be mentioned one current among the manx herring fishermen, who, from time immemorial, have been afraid of going to sea without a dead wren, for fear of disasters and storms. the story goes that once upon a time 'a sea spirit hunted the herring track, always attended by storms, but at last assumed the form of a wren, and flew away.' accordingly they believe that so long as they have a dead wren with them all is snug and safe. similarly, in the english channel a rustling, rushing sound is occasionally heard on the dark still nights of winter, and is called the herring spear, or herring piece, by the fishermen of dover and folkestone. but this strange sound is really caused by the flight of the little redwings as they cross the channel on their way to warmer regions. stories of disembodied souls appearing as birds are very numerous. an old well-known cornish legend tells how, in days of old, king arthur was transformed into a chough, 'its talons and beak all red with blood,' denoting the violent end to which the celebrated chieftain came. in the same way a curious legend in poland affirms that every member of the herburt family assumes the form of an eagle after death, and that the eldest daughters of the pileck line take the shape of doves if they die unmarried, of owls if they die married, and that they give previous notice of their death to every member of their race by pecking a finger of each. a wild song sung by the boatmen of the molo, venice, declares that the spirit of daniel manin, the patriot, is flying about the lagunes to this day in the shape of a beautiful white dove.[ ] there is the ancient irish tradition that the first father and mother of mankind exist as eagles in the island of innis bofin, at the mouth of killery bay, in galway; indeed, survivals of this old belief occur under all manner of forms. there is the popular legend of the owl and the baker's daughter which shakespeare has immortalised in 'hamlet' (iv. ), where ophelia exclaims, 'they say the owl was a baker's daughter; lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be.'[ ] gervase of tilbury tells how the stork was formerly regarded as both bird and man, on account of which superstition it is carefully protected in prussia from any kind of injury. the stork, too, is still held in superstitious dread by the chinese, who, on the twenty-first day of the period of mourning for the dead, place three large paper birds resembling storks on high poles in front of the house of mourning. the birds are supposed to carry the soul of the deceased person to elysium, and during the next three days the buddhist prays to the ten kings of the buddhist hades, calling on them to hasten the flight of the departed soul to the western paradise.[ ] the virginian indians had great reverence for a small bird called pawcorance, that flies in the woods, and in its note continually sounds that name. this bird flies alone, and is heard only in twilight. it is said to be the son of one of their priests, and on this account they would not hurt it; but there was once a profane indian who was hired to shoot one of them, but report says he paid dearly for his act of presumption, for a few days afterwards he disappeared, and was never heard of again.[ ] the indians dwelling about the falls of st. anthony supposed that the spirits of their dead warriors animated the eagles which frequented the place, and these eagles were objects of their worship. in the 'sæmund edda' it is said that in the nether world souls as singed birds fly about like swarms of flies-- of that is to be told what i just observed, when i had come into the land of torment: singed birds, that had been souls, flew as many as gnats. the finns and the lithuanians speak of the 'milky way' as the bird's way--the way of souls. according to kuhn, the notion of the soul assuming the form of a bird is closely allied with the primitive tradition of birds as soul-bringers. thus, as it has been suggested, 'the soul and the bird that brought it down to earth may have been supposed to become one, and to enter and quit the body together.' in the egyptian hieroglyphics a bird signified the soul of man; and the german name for stork, writes grimm, is literally child, or soul-bringer. hence the belief that the advent of infants is presided over by this bird, which obtains so wide a credence in denmark and germany.[ ] the idea of the bird as a 'soul bringer' probably gave rise to the popular belief that it is unlucky when a bird hovers near the window of a sick-room, a superstition to which mrs. hemans has prettily alluded: say not 'tis vain! i tell thee some are warned by a meteor's light, or a pale bird flitting calls them home, or a voice on the winds by night. there are various stories told of mysterious birds appearing at such a time in different localities. in devonshire the appearance of a white breasted bird has long been considered a presage of death, a notion which is said to have originated in a tragic occurrence that happened to one of the oxenham family. a local ballad tells how on the bridal eve of margaret, heiress of sir james oxenham, a silver-breasted bird flew over the wedding guests just as sir james stood up to thank them for good wishes. the next day she was slain by a discarded lover, and the ballad records how-- round her hovering flies, the phantom-bird, for her last breath, to bear it to the skies. in yorkshire, berry well was supposed to be haunted by a bogie in the form of a white goose, and the rev. s. baring-gould informs us how lew trenchard house is haunted by a white lady who goes by the name of madame gould, and is supposed to be the spirit of a lady who died there, april , . 'a stone is shown on the "ramps" of lew slate quarry, where seven parsons met to lay the old madame, and some say that the white owl, which nightly flits to and fro in front of lew house, is the spirit of the lady conjured by the parsons into a bird.'[ ] similarly, whenever the white owls are seen perched on the family mansion of the noble family of arundel of wardour, it is regarded as a certain indication that one of its members will shortly be summoned out of the world. in count montalembert's 'vie de ste. elizabeth' it is related how 'duke louis of thuringia, the husband of ste. elizabeth of hungary, being on the point of expiring, said to those around him, "do you see those doves more white than snow?" his attendants supposed him to be a prey to visions; but a little while afterwards he said to them, "i must fly away with those brilliant doves." having said this he fell asleep in peace. then his almoner, berthold, perceived doves flying away to the east, and followed them along with his eyes.' we may compare a similar story told of the most beautiful woman of the knistenaux, named 'foot of the fawn,' who died in her childbirth, and her babe with her. soon afterwards two doves appeared, one full grown, and the other a little one. they were the spirits of the mother and child, and the indians would gather about the tree on which they were perched with reverential love, and worship them as the spirit of the woman and child.[ ] there is lord lyttelton's well-known ghost story, and the belief of the duchess of kendal that george i. flew into her window in the shape of a raven. another well-known case was that of the duchess of st. albans, who, on her death-bed, remarked to her step-daughter, lady guilford, 'i am so happy to day because your father's spirit is breathing upon me; he has taken the shape of a little bird singing at my window.' kelly relates an anecdote of a credulous individual who believed that the departing soul of his brother-in-law, in the form of a bird, tapped at his window at the time of his death;[ ] and in fitzpatrick's 'life of bishop doyle' it is related, in allusion to his death, that, 'considering the season was midsummer, and not winter, the visit of two robin redbreasts to the sick-room may be noticed as interesting. they remained fluttering round, and sometimes perching on the uncurtained bed. the priests, struck by the novelty of the circumstance, made no effort to expel the little visitors, and the robins hung lovingly over the bishop's head until death released him.' a singular instance of this belief was the extraordinary whim of a worcester lady, who, imagining her daughter to exist in the shape of a singing-bird, literally furnished her pew in the cathedral with cages full of the kind; and we are told in lord oxford's letters that, as she was rich, and a benefactress in beautifying the church, no objection was made to her harmless folly. footnotes: [ ] _songs of the russian people_, p. . [ ] quoted by gubernatis, _zoological mythology_, , ii. pp. , . [ ] countess evelyn martinengo-cesaresco, _study of folk-songs_ p. ; thorpe's _northern mythology_, i. p. . [ ] henderson's _folk-lore of northern counties_, p. ; thorpe's northern mythology, ii. p. . [ ] see dorman's _primitive superstitions_, pp. , . [ ] jones' _credulities, past and present_, p. . [ ] see dasent's _tales of the norse_, , p. . [ ] jones' _credulities, past and present_, p. . [ ] dorman's _primitive superstitions_, pp. , . [ ] hardwick's _traditions, superstitions, and folk-lore_, p. ; thorpe's _northern mythology_, i. p. . see kelly's _indo-european folk-lore_, p. . [ ] see henderson's _folk-lore of northern counties_, pp. - . [ ] dorman's _primitive superstitions_, p. . [ ] _indo-european folk-lore_, pp. , . chapter viii animal ghosts it is the rule rather than the exception for ghosts to take the form of animals. a striking feature of this form of animism is its universality, an argument, it is said, in favour of its having originally sprung from the old theory of metempsychosis which has pertinaciously existed in successive stages of the world's culture. 'possibly,' it has been suggested, 'the animal form of ghosts is a mark of the once-supposed divinity of the dead. ancestor worship is one of the oldest of the creeds, and in all mythologies we find that the gods could transform themselves into any shape at will, and frequently took those of beasts and birds.'[ ] at the same time, one would scarcely expect to come across nowadays this fanciful belief in our own and other civilised countries, and yet instances are of constant occurrence, being deeply rooted in many a local tradition. acts of injustice done to a person cause the soul to return in animal form by way of retribution. thus, in cornwall, it is a very popular fancy that when a young woman who has loved not wisely but too well dies forsaken and broken-hearted, she comes back to haunt her deceiver in the form of a white hare.[ ] this phantom pursues the false one everywhere, being generally invisible to everyone but himself. it occasionally rescues him from danger, but invariably causes his death in the end. a shropshire story tells[ ] how 'two or three generations back there was a lady buried in her jewels at fitz, and afterwards the clerk robbed her; and she used to walk cuthery hollow in the form of a colt. they called it obrick's colt, and one night the clerk met it, and fell on his knees, saying, "abide, satan! abide! i am a righteous man, and a psalm singer."'[ ] the ghost was known as obrick's colt from the name of the thief, who, as the peasantry were wont to say, 'had niver no pace atter; a was sadly troubled in his yed, and mithered.'[ ] sometimes the spirit in animal form is that of a wicked person doomed to wear that shape for some offence. a man who hanged himself at broomfield, near shrewsbury, 'came again in the form of a large black dog;' and an amusing shropshire story is told of the laying of an animal ghost at bagbury, which took the form of a roaring bull, and caused no small alarm. this bull, it appears, had been a very bad man, but when his unexpected presence as a bull-ghost terrified the neighbourhood, it was deemed desirable by the twelve parsons whose help had been invoked to run him to earth in hyssington church, with candles and all the paraphernalia employed on such occasions. but the bull, becoming infuriated, 'made such a bust that he cracked the wall of the church from the top to the bottom.' their efforts were ultimately successful, for they captured him, and as he was compressible, they shut him up in a snuff-box, and laid him in the red sea for a thousand years. lady howard, a devonshire notable of the time of james i., in spite of her beauty and accomplishments, had many bad qualities, and amongst others was not only guilty of unnatural cruelty to her only daughter, but had a mysterious knack of getting rid of her husbands, having been married no less than four times. her misdemeanours, however, did not escape with impunity, for, on her death, her spirit was transformed into a hound, and compelled to run every night, between midnight and cockcrow, from the gateway of fitzford, her former residence, to oakhampton park, and bring back to the place from whence she started a blade of grass in her mouth, and this penance she is doomed to continue till every blade of grass is removed from the park, which she will not be able to effect till the end of the world. many spectral dogs, believed to be the souls of wicked persons, are said to haunt the sides of rivers and pools, and the story goes that there once lived in the hamlet of dean combe, devon, a weaver of great fame and skill. after a prosperous life he died, but the next day he appeared sitting at the loom and working diligently as when he was alive. his sons applied to the parson, who, hearing the noise of the weaver's shuttle above, cried, 'knowles! come down; this is no place for thee.' 'i will,' said the weaver, 'as soon as i have worked out my quill' (the quill is the shuttle-full of wool). 'nay,' said the vicar, 'thou hast been long enough at thy work, come down at once!' so when the spirit came down, the vicar took a handful of earth from the churchyard, and threw it on its face, and instantly it became a black hound. then the vicar took a nutshell with a hole in it, and led the hound to the pool below the waterfall. 'take this shell,' he said, 'and when thou shalt have dipped out the pool with it, thou mayest rest, not before.'[ ] on the west coast of ireland, fishermen have a strong prejudice against killing seals, owing to a popular tradition that they enshrined 'the souls of them that were drowned at the flood.' it was also said that such seals possessed the power of casting aside their external skins, and disporting themselves in human form on the sea-shore. within the parish of tring, hertford, a poor old woman was drowned in for suspected witchcraft. a chimney-sweeper, who was the principal perpetrator of this deed, was hanged and gibbeted near the place where the murder was committed; and while the gibbet stood, and long after it had disappeared, the spot was haunted by a black dog. a correspondent of the 'book of days' (ii. ) says that he was told by the village schoolmaster, who had been 'abroad,' that he himself had seen this diabolical dog. 'i was returning home,' said he, 'late at night in a gig with the person who was driving. when we came near the spot, where a portion of the gibbet had lately stood, he saw on the bank of the roadside a flame of fire as large as a man's hat. "what's that?" i exclaimed. "hush!" said my companion, and suddenly pulling in his horse, made a dead stop. i then saw an immense black dog just in front of our horse, the strangest looking creature i ever beheld. he was as big as a newfoundland, but very gaunt, shaggy, with long ears and tail, eyes like balls of fire, and large, long teeth, for he opened his mouth and seemed to grin at us. in a few minutes the dog disappeared, seeming to vanish like a shadow, or to sink into the earth, and we drove on over the spot where he had lain.' occasionally, when loss of life has happened through an accident, a spectre animal of some kind has been afterwards seen. some years ago an accident happened in a cornish mine, whereby several men lost their lives. as soon as help could be procured, a party descended, but the remains of the poor fellows were discovered to be mutilated beyond recognition. on being brought up to the surface, the clothes and a mass of mangled flesh dropped from the bodies. a bystander, anxious to spare the feelings of the relatives present, quickly cast the unsightly mass into the blazing furnace of an engine close at hand. but ever since that day the engineman positively asserted that troops of little black dogs continually haunted the locality. then there is the pretty legend mentioned by wordsworth in his poem entitled, 'the white doe of rylstone,' in which is embodied a yorkshire tradition to the effect that the lady founder of bolton abbey revisited the ruins of the venerable structure in the form of a spotless white doe: which, though seemingly doomed in its breast to sustain a softened remembrance of sorrow and pain, is spotless, and holy, and gentle, and bright, and glides o'er the earth like an angel of light. so common in france are human ghosts in bestial form, 'that m. d'assier has invented a darwinian way of accounting for the phenomena. m. d'assier, a positivist, is a believer in ghosts, but not in the immortality of the soul. he suggests that the human _revenants_ in the guise of sheep, cows, and shadowy creatures may be accounted for by a kind of atavism, or "throwing back," on the side of the spirit to the lower animal forms out of which humanity was developed!'[ ] according to a german piece of folk-lore, the soul takes the form of a snake, a notion we find shared by the zulus, who revere a certain kind of serpents as the ghosts of the dead; and the northern indians speak of a serpent coming out of the mouth of a woman at death. it is further related that out of the mouth of a sleeping person a snake creeps and goes a long distance, and that whatever it sees, or suffers, on its way, the sleeper dreams of. if it is prevented from returning, the person dies.[ ] another belief tells us that the soul occasionally escapes from the mouth in the shape of a weasel or a mouse, a superstition to which goethe alludes in 'faust': ah! in the midst of her song, a red mouseskin sprang out of her mouth. turning to similar beliefs current among distant nations, we are told that the andaman islanders had a notion that at death the soul vanished from the earth in the form of various animals and fishes; and in guinea, monkeys found in the locality of a graveyard are supposed to be animated by the spirits of the dead. as mr. andrew lang remarks:[ ] 'among savages who believe themselves to be descended from beasts, nothing can be more natural than the hypothesis that the souls revert to bestial shapes.' certain of the north american indian tribes believe that the spirits of their dead enter into bears; and some of the papuans in new guinea 'imagine they will reappear as certain of the animals in their own island. the cassowary and the emu are the most remarkable animals that they know of; they have lodged in them the shades of their ancestors, and hence the people abstain from eating them.'[ ] spiritualism, we are told, is very widely spread among the esquimos, who maintain that all animals have their spirits, and that the spirits of men can enter into the bodies of animals.[ ] in the ladrone islands it was supposed that the spirits of the dead animated the bodies of the fish, and 'therefore to make better use of these precious spirits, they burnt the soft portions of the dead body, and swallowed the cinders which they let float on the top of their cocoa-nut wine.'[ ] in most parts of england there is a popular belief in a spectral dog, which is generally described as 'large, shaggy, and black, with long ears and tail. it does not belong to any species of living dogs, but is severally said to represent a hound, a setter, a terrier, or a shepherd dog, though often larger than a newfoundland.'[ ] it is commonly supposed to be a bad spirit, haunting places where evil deeds have been done, or where some calamity may be expected. in lancashire, this spectre-dog is known as 'trash' and 'striker,'[ ] its former name having been applied to it from the peculiar noise made by its feet, which is supposed to resemble that of a person walking along a miry, sloppy road, with heavy shoes; and its latter appellation from its uttering a curious screech, which is thought to warn certain persons of the approaching death of some relative or friend. if followed, it retreats with its eyes fronting its pursuer, and either sinks into the ground with a frightful shriek, or in some mysterious manner disappears. when struck, the weapon passes through it as if it were a mere shadow. in norfolk and cambridgeshire this apparition is known to the peasantry by the name of 'shuck'--the provincial word for 'shag'--and is reported to haunt churchyards and other lonely places. a dreary lane in the parish of overstrand is called from this spectral animal 'shuck's lane,' and it is said that if the spot where it has been seen be examined after its disappearance, it will be found to be scorched, and strongly impregnated with the smell of brimstone. mrs. latham tells[ ] how a man of notoriously bad character, who lived in a lonely spot at the foot of the south downs, without any companion of either sex, was believed to be nightly haunted by evil spirits in the form of rats. persons passing by his cottage late at night heard him cursing them, and desiring them to let him rest in peace. it was supposed they were sent to do judgment on him, and would carry him away some night. but he received his death-blow in a drunken brawl. in the neighbourhood of leeds there is the padfoot, a weird apparition about the size of a small donkey, 'with shaggy hair and large eyes like saucers.' mr. baring-gould relates[ ] how a man in horbury once saw 'the padfooit,' which 'in this neighbourhood is a white dog like a "flay-craw."' it goes sometimes on two legs, sometimes it runs on three, and to see it is a prognostication of death. he was going home by jenkin, and he saw a white dog in the hedge. he struck at it, and the stick passed through it. then the white dog looked at him, and it had 'great saucer e'en'; and he was so 'flayed,' that he ran home trembling and went to bed, when he fell ill and died. with this strange apparition may be compared the barguest, bahrgeist, or boguest of northumberland, durham, and yorkshire, and the boggart of lancashire; an uncanine creature, which generally assumes the form of a large black dog with flaming eyes, and is supposed to be a presage of death. the word 'barguest,' according to sir walter scott, is from the german 'bahrgeist'--spirit of the bier; and, as it has been pointed out, the proverbial expression to 'war like a barguest,' shows how deep a hold this apparition once had on the popular mind. there is a barguest in a glen between darlington and houghton, near throstlenest, and another haunted a piece of waste land above a spring called the oxwells, between wreghorn and headingly hill, near leeds. on the death of any person of local importance in the neighbourhood the creature would come forth, followed by all the dogs barking and howling.[ ] another form of this animal spectre is the capelthwaite, which, according to common report, had the power of appearing in the form of any quadruped, but usually chose that of a large black dog. it does not seem to have appeared of late years, for tradition tells how a vicar of beetham went out in his ecclesiastical vestments to lay this troublesome spirit in the river bela.[ ] in wales, there is the gwyllgi, or 'dog of darkness,' a terrible spectre of a mastiff which, with a baleful breath and blazing red eyes, has often inspired terror even amongst the strong-minded welsh peasantry. many stories are told of its encountering unwary travellers, who have been so overcome by its unearthly howl, or by the glare of its fiery eyes, that they have fallen senseless on the ground. a certain lane, leading from mowsiad to lisworney-crossways, is said to have been haunted by a gwyllgi of the most terrible aspect. a farmer, living near there, was one night returning home from market on a young mare, when suddenly the animal shied, reared, tumbled the farmer off, and bolted for home. the farm-servants, finding the mare trembling by the barn door, suspected she had seen the gwyllgi, and going in search of their master, they found him on his back in the mud, who, being questioned, protested 'it was the gwyllgi, and nothing less, that had made all this trouble.'[ ] it is a popular belief in wales that horses have the peculiar 'gift' of seeing spectres, and carriage horses have been known to display every sign of the utmost terror when the occupants of the carriage could see no cause for alarm. such an apparition is an omen of death, and an indication that a funeral will pass before long, bearing to the grave some person not dead at the time of the horses' fright. another famous dog-fiend, in the shape of a shaggy spaniel, was the 'mauthe doog,' which was said to haunt peel castle, isle of man. its favourite place was the guard-chamber, where it would lie down by the fireside. according to waldron, 'the soldiers lost much of their terror by the frequency of the sight; yet, as they believed it to be an evil spirit waiting for an opportunity to hinder them, the belief kept them so far in order that they refrained from swearing in its presence. but, as the mauthe doog used to come out and return by the passage through the church, by which also somebody must go to deliver the keys every night to the captain, they continued to go together; he whose turn it was to do that duty being accompanied by the next in rotation. on a certain night, however, one of the soldiers, being the worse for liquor, would go with the key alone, though it really was not his turn. his comrades tried to dissuade him, but he said he wanted the mauthe doog's company, and would try whether he was dog or devil. soon afterwards a great noise alarmed the soldiers; and when the adventurer returned, he was struck with horror and speechless, nor could he even make such signs as might give them to understand what had happened to him; but he died with distorted features in violent agony. after this the apparition was never seen again.' then there are the packs of spectral hounds, which some folk-lorists tell us are evil spirits that have assumed this form in order to mimic the sports of men, or to hunt their souls. they are variously named in different parts of the country--being designated in the north, 'gabriel's hounds'; in devon, the 'wisk,' 'yesk,' 'yeth,' or 'heath hounds'; in wales, 'cwn annwn' or 'cwn y wybr'; and in cornwall, the 'devil and his dandy-dogs.' such spectral hounds are generally described as 'monstrous human-headed dogs,' and 'black, with fiery eyes and teeth, and sprinkled all over with blood.' they are often heard though seldom seen, 'and seem to be passing along simply in the air, as if in hot pursuit of their prey'; and when they appear to hang over a house, then death or misfortune may shortly be expected. in the gorge of cliviger the spectre huntsman, under the name of 'gabriel ratchets,' with his hounds yelping through the air, is believed to hunt a milk-white doe round the eagle's crag, in the vale of todmorden, on all hallows eve.[ ] mr. holland, of sheffield, has embodied the local belief in the subjoined sonnet, and says: 'i never can forget the impression made upon my mind when once arrested by the cry of these gabriel hounds as i passed the parish church of sheffield one densely dark and very still night. the sound was exactly like the questing of a dozen beagles on the foot of a race, but not so loud, and highly suggestive of ideas of the supernatural.' oft have i heard my honoured mother say, how she has listened to the gabriel hounds-- those strange, unearthly, and mysterious sounds which on the ear through murkiest darkness fell; and how, entranced by superstitious spell, the trembling villager nor seldom heard, in the quaint notes of the nocturnal bird, of death premonished, some sick neighbour's knell. i, too, remember, once at midnight dark, how these sky-yelpers startled me, and stirred my fancy so, i could have then averred a mimic pack of beagles low did bark. nor wondered i that rustic fear should trace a spectral huntsman doomed to that long moonless chase. in the neighbourhood of leeds these hounds are known as 'gabble retchets,' and are supposed, as in other places, to be the souls of unbaptized children who flit restlessly about their parents' abode. the yeth hounds were heard some few years ago in the parish of st. mary tavy by an old man named roger burn. he was walking in the fields, when he suddenly heard the baying of the hounds, the shouts and horn of the huntsman, and the smacking of his whip. the last point the old man quoted as at once settling the question, 'how could i be mistaken? why, i heard the very smacking of his whip.' but, as mr. yarrell has long ago explained, this mysterious noise is caused by bean-geese, which, coming southwards in large flocks on the approach of winter--partly from scotland and its islands, but chiefly from scandinavia--choose dark nights for their migration, and utter a loud and very peculiar cry. the sound of these birds has been observed in every part of england, and as far west as cornwall. one day a man was riding alone near land's end on a still dark night, when the yelping cry broke out above his head so suddenly, and to appearance so near, that he instinctively pulled up the horse as if to allow the pack to pass, the animal trembling violently at the unexpected sounds. an amusing account of the devil and his dandy-dogs is given by mr. j. q. couch, in his 'folk-lore of a cornish village,' from which it appears that 'a poor herdsman was journeying homeward across the moors one windy night, when he heard at a distance among the tors the baying of hounds, which he soon recognised as the dismal chorus of the dandy-dogs. it was three or four miles to his house, and, very much alarmed, he hurried onward as fast as the treacherous nature of the soil and the uncertainty of the path would allow; but, alas! the melancholy yelping of the hounds, and the dismal holloa of the hunter, came nearer and nearer. after a considerable run they had so gained upon him that on looking back--oh, horror! he could distinctly see hunter and dogs. the former was terrible to look at, and had the usual complement of _saucer-eyes_, horns, and tail accorded by common consent to the legendary devil. he was black, of course, and carried in his hand a long hunting pole. the dogs, a numerous pack, blackened the small patch of moor that was visible, each snorting fire, and uttering a yelp of indescribably frightful tone. no cottage, rock, or tree was near to give the herdsman shelter, and nothing apparently remained to him but to abandon himself to their fury, when a happy thought suddenly flashed upon him and suggested a resource. just as they were about to rush upon him, he fell on his knees in prayer. there was a strange power in the holy words he uttered, for immediately, as if resistance had been offered, the hell hounds stood at bay, howling more dismally than ever, and the hunter shouted, "bo shrove," which means "the boy prays," at which they all drew off on some other pursuit and disappeared.' gervase of tilbury informs us that in the thirteenth century the wild hunt was often seen by full moon in england traversing forest and down. in the twelfth century it was known as the herlething, the banks of the wye having been the scene of the most frequent chases. in wales, the cwn annwn, or dogs of hell, or, as they are sometimes called, 'dogs of the sky,' howl through the air 'with a voice frightfully disproportionate to their size, full of a wild sort of lamentation,' but, although terrible to hear, they are harmless, and have never been known to commit any mischief. one curious peculiarity is that the nearer these spectral hounds are to a man, the less loud their voices sound; and the farther off they are, the louder is their cry. according to one popular tradition, they are supposed to be hunting through the air the soul of the wicked man the instant it quits the body. this superstition occupies, too, a conspicuous place in the folk-lore of germany and norway. mr. baring-gould, in his 'iceland, its scenes and sages,' describes it as he heard it from his guide jon, who related it to him under the title of the 'yule host.' he tells us how 'odin, or wodin, is the wild huntsman who nightly tears on his white horse over the german and norwegian forests and moor-sweeps, with his legion of hell hounds. some luckless woodcutter, on a still night, is returning through the pine-woods when suddenly his ear catches a distant wail; a moan rolls through the interlacing branches; nearer and nearer comes the sound. there is the winding of a long horn waxing louder and louder, the baying of hounds, the rattle of hoofs and paws on the pine-tree tops.' this spectral chase goes by different names. in thuringia and elsewhere it is 'hakelnberg' or 'hackelnbärend,' and the story goes that hakelnberg was a knight passionately fond of the chase, who, on his death-bed, would not listen to the priest, but said, 'i care not for heaven, i care only for the chase.' then 'hunt until the last day,' exclaimed the priest. and now, through storm and sunshine, he fleets, a faint barking or yelping in the air announcing his approach. thorpe quotes a similar story as current in the netherlands,[ ] and in denmark it occurs under various forms.[ ] in schleswig it is duke abel, who slew his brother in . tradition says that in an expedition against the frieslanders, he sank into a deep morass as he was fording the eyder, where, being encumbered with the weight of his armour, he was slain. his body was buried in the cathedral, but his spirit found no rest. the canons dug up the corpse, and buried it in a morass near gottorp, but in the neighbourhood of the place where he is buried all kinds of shrieks and strange sounds have been heard, and 'many persons worthy of credit affirm that they have heard sounds so resembling a huntsman's horn, that anyone would say that a hunter was hunting there. it is, indeed, the general rumour that abel has appeared to many, black of aspect, riding on a small horse, and accompanied by three hounds, which appear to be burning like fire.'[ ] in sweden, when a noise like that of carriage and horses is heard at night, the people say, 'odin is passing by,' and in norway this spectral hunt is known as the 'chase of the inhabitants of asgarth.' in danzig, the leader of the hounds is dyterbjernat, _i.e._ diedrick of bern. near fontainebleau, hugh capet is supposed to ride, having, it is said, rushed over the palace with his hounds before the assassination of henry iv.; and at blois, the hunt is called the 'chasse macabee.' in some parts of france the wild huntsman is known as harlequin, or henequin, and in the franche comté he is 'herod in pursuit of the holy innocents.' this piece of folk-lore is widespread, and it may be added that in normandy, the pyrenees, and in scotland, king arthur has the reputation of making nightly rides. another form of spectre animal is the kirk-grim, which is believed to haunt many churches. sometimes it is a dog, sometimes a pig, sometimes a horse, the haunting spectre being the spirit of an animal buried alive in the churchyard for the purpose of scaring away the sacrilegious. swedish tradition tells how it was customary for the early founders of christian churches to bury a lamb under the altar. it is said that when anyone enters a church out of service time he may chance to see a little lamb spring across the choir and vanish. this is the church lamb, and its appearance in the churchyard, especially to the grave-digger, is said to betoken the death of a child.[ ] according to a danish form of this superstition, the kirk-grim dwells either in the tower or wherever it can find a place of concealment, and is thought to protect the sacred building; and it is said that in the streets of kroskjoberg, a grave-sow, or as it is also called, a 'gray-sow,' has frequently been seen. it is thought to be the apparition of a sow formerly buried alive, and to forebode death and calamity. footnotes: [ ] _shropshire folk-lore_, p. . [ ] hunt's _popular romances of the west of england_, p. . [ ] _shropshire folk-lore_, pp. , . [ ] see _ibid._ pp. - . [ ] see hartshorne's _salopia antiqua_, p. [ ] _notes and queries_, st s. ii. p. . [ ] _nineteenth century_, april , p. . [ ] see thorpe's _northern mythology_, ii. pp. , . [ ] _nineteenth century_, april , p. . [ ] letourneau's _sociology_, p. . [ ] _ibid._ p. . [ ] _ibid._ p. . [ ] _book of days_, ii. p. . [ ] see harland and wilkinson's _lancashire folk-lore_, p. . [ ] 'west sussex superstitions,' _folk-lore record_, i. p. . [ ] henderson's _folk-lore of northern counties_, pp. , . [ ] henderson's _folk-lore of northern counties_, p. . [ ] see henderson's _folk-lore of northern counties_, pp. - . [ ] see wirt sikes' _british goblins_, pp. - . [ ] see roby's _traditions of lancashire_; homerton's _isles of loch awe_; hardwick's _traditions, superstitions, and folk-lore_, pp. - . [ ] _northern mythology_, iii. p. . [ ] _ibid._ ii. pp. - . [ ] _northern mythology_, ii. pp. , . [ ] see thorpe's _northern mythology_, ii. pp. , , . chapter ix phantom lights stories of mysterious lights suddenly illuminating the nocturnal darkness of unfrequented spots have long been current throughout the world. in the 'odyssey,' when athene was mystically present as odysseus and telemachus were moving the weapons out of the hall (xix. - ), telemachus exclaims, 'father, surely a great marvel is this i behold! meseemeth that the walls of the hall, and the fair spaces between the pillars, and the beams of pine, and the columns that run aloft, are bright as it were with flaming fire. verily some god is within of them that hold the wide heaven.' odysseus answers, 'lo, this is the wont of the gods that possess olympus.' in theocritus, when hera sends the snakes to attack the infant heracles, a mysterious flame shines forth. the same phenomenon occurs in the sagas of burut njas, when gunnar sings within his tomb. the brilliance of the light which attends the presence of the supernatural is indeed widely diffused, and, as mr. andrew lang writes,[ ] 'philosophers may dispute whether any objective fact lies at the bottom of this belief, or whether a savage superstition has survived into greek epic and idyll and into modern ghost stories.' although science has years ago explained many such phosphoric appearances as governed by certain atmospheric laws, superstitious fancy has not only attributed to them supernatural causes, but associated them with all kinds of weird and romantic tales. according to one popular notion, strange lights of this kind are the spirits of persons who, for some reason, cannot remain quiet. thus a spectre known as the 'lady and the lantern,' has long been said to haunt the beach at st. ives, cornwall, in stormy weather. the story goes that a lady and her child had been saved from a wreck, but the child was swept away and drowned, and she is supposed to be hunting for its body. similar tales are told elsewhere, but the object of search is not always the same. a light, for instance, hovers about a stone on the cornish coast, locally designated 'madge figg's chair,' which is supposed to be the ghost of a wrecked lady whom madge stripped of her jewels. in scotland the appearance of a spectral 'lady of the golden casket' was attended by a phantom light, and it is also related how the ghost of a murdered woman is seen by her lover at sea, approaching in the shape of a bright light, which assumes the human form as it draws nearer. she finally calls him, and he springs into her arms, and disappears in a flash of fire.[ ] there is the popular legend of the 'radiant boy'--a strange boy with a shining face, who has been seen in certain lincolnshire houses and elsewhere. this ghost was described to mr. baring-gould[ ] by a yorkshire farmer, who, as he was riding one night to thirsk, suddenly saw pass by him a 'radiant boy' on a white horse. to quote his own words, 'there was no sound of footfall as the boy drew nigh. he was first aware of the approach of the mysterious rider by seeing the shadow of himself and his horse flung before him on the high road. thinking there might be a carriage with lamps, he was not alarmed till, by the shortening of the shadow, he knew that the light must be near him, and then he was surprised to hear no sound. he thereupon turned in his saddle, and at the same moment the "radiant boy" passed him. he was a child of about eleven, with a fresh bright face. "had he any clothes on? and if so, what were they like?" i asked. but the old man could not tell. his astonishment was so great that he took no notice of particulars. the boy rode on till he came to a gate which led into a field; he stooped as if to open the gate, rode through, and all was instantly dark.' at the commencement of the present century the little village of black heddon, near stamfordham, in northumberland, was greatly disturbed by an apparition known as 'silky,' from the nature of her dress. she suddenly appeared to benighted travellers, breaking forth upon them in dazzling splendour, in the darkest and most lonely parts of the road. this spirit exercised a marvellous power over the brute creation, and once, it is said, waylaid a waggon bringing coals to a farm near black heddon, and fixed the team upon a bridge, since called, after her, 'silky's brig.' do what he could, the driver could not make the horses move a step, and there they would have stayed all night had not another farm servant come up with some mountain ash about him. it was generally supposed that silky, who suddenly disappeared, was the troubled phantom of some person who had died miserable because she owned treasure, and was overtaken by death before she had disclosed its hiding-place. an old barn situated near birchen tower, hollinwood, which was noted for the apparition of madame beswick on dark and wintry nights, at times, it is said, appears to be on fire, a red glare of glowing heat being observable through the loopholes and crevices of the building. sometimes the sight is so threatening that the neighbours will raise an alarm that the barn is in flames. but when the premises are searched, everything is in order, and nothing found wrong.[ ] and a welsh romance tells how, after howel sele slew his cousin glendower, and buried him in 'a broad and blasted oak, scorched by the lightning's vivid glare,' pale lights on cader's rocks were seen, and midnight voices heard to moan. such phantom lights are not confined to land, and most of the tales of spectre ships speak of their being seen by the affrighted crews. in the 'salem spectre ship' we are told how the night grew thick, but a phantom light around her path was shed. they are generally dreaded as foreboding a catastrophe, and have given rise to a host of curious stories. a light is said to hover about in sennen cove, which is thought to be an ill-omened apparition; and a welsh story speaks of a ghost, the 'cyhyraeth,' that appears on the beach, in a light, with groanings and cries.[ ] flames are reported to issue from the eider river, and from several lakes in germany. where ships have been wrecked, blue lights are supposed to faintly glimmer, occasionally accompanied by the spirits of wrecked or injured persons. a notable instance is told of sable island,[ ] where, with the leaping flames, is seen the 'lady of copeland' wrecked and murdered by pirates from the amelie transport. she has one finger missing on her hand. sometimes weird lights flickering in solitary places are thought to be the unhappy spirits of wicked persons who have no rest in the grave. milton refers to this fancy in his 'paradise lost' (ix. ): a wandering fire, compact of unctuous vapour, which the night condenses, and the cold environs round, kindled through agitation to a flame, which oft, they say, some evil spirit attends, hovering and blazing with delusive light, misleads the amazed night wanderer from his way to bogs and mires; and oft through pond or pool there swallowed up and lost from succour far. hence they were doomed to wander backwards and forwards carrying a light. a tradition current in normandy says that a pale light occasionally seen by travellers is the unquiet spirit of some unfortunate woman who, as a punishment for her intrigues with a minister of the church, is doomed to this existence. there are various versions of this story, and one formerly current in this country tells how the hovering flame--the cause of terror to many--is the soul of a priest who has been condemned to expiate his vows of perpetual chastity by thus haunting the scenes of his disobedience. brand, quoting from an old work on 'lights that lead people out of their ways in the night,' informs us that the lights which are seen in churchyards and moorish places were represented by the popish clergy to be 'souls come out of purgatory all in flame, to move the people to pray for their entire deliverance, by which they gulled them of much money to say mass for them, everyone thinking it might be the soul of his or her deceased relations.' according to another explanation, it is believed on the continent that the ghosts of those who in their lifetime were guilty of removing their neighbours' landmarks are fated to roam hither and thither, lantern in hand, 'sometimes impelled to replace the old boundary mark, then to move it again, constantly changing their course with their changing purpose.' a swedish tradition adds that such a spirit may be heard saying in a harsh, hoarse voice, 'it is right! it is right! it is right!' but the next moment qualms of conscience and anguish seize him, and he then exclaims, 'it is wrong! it is wrong! it is wrong!'[ ] it is also said that these lights are the souls of land-measurers, who, having acted dishonestly in their business, are trying to remedy the wrong measurements they made. a german legend tells how, at the partition of the land, there arose between the villages of alversdorf and röst, in south ditmarschen, great disputes. one man gave fraudulent measurements, but after his death he wandered about as a fire sprite. a flame, the height of a man, was seen dancing about till the moor dried up. whenever it flared up higher than usual, the people would cry out, 'dat is de scheelvalgt'--that is the land-divider. there is a tale told of a certain land-measurer near farsum, in the netherlands, who had in his lifetime acted dishonestly when he had a piece of land to measure. he suffered himself 'to be bribed by one or other, and then allotted to the party more than was just, for which offence he was condemned after death to wander as a burning man with a burning measuring-staff.' popular fancy, too, has long identified phantom lights as being the souls of unbaptized children. because such souls cannot enter heaven, they make their abodes in forests, and in dark and lonely places, where they mourn over their hard lot. if at night they chance to meet anyone, they run up to him, and walk on before to show him the way to some water where they may be baptized. the mysterious lady, frau bertha, is ever attended by troops of unbaptized children, whom she takes with her when she joins the wild huntsman. one tradition relates how a dutch parson, happening to return home later than usual, was confronted with no less than three of these fiery phenomena. remembering them to be the souls of unbaptized children, he thoughtfully stretched out his hand, and pronounced the words of baptism over them. but, much to his unexpected surprise, in the same instant hundreds of these moving lights made their appearance, which so frightened him that, forgetting his good intentions, he ran home as fast as he could. in ireland unbaptized children have been represented as sitting blindfolded within fairy moats, the peasantry supposing such souls 'go into nought.' a somewhat similar idea may be found in longfellow's 'evangeline,' where we have introduced among the _contes_ of an arcadian village notary allusion to the white létiche, the ghost of a child unchristened, died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children. closely allied with the notion of phantom lights are the strange phosphoric appearances said occasionally to be seen about the dying. in russia, the soul under certain circumstances is believed to assume the form of a flame, and such a ghostly apparition cannot be banished till the necessary prayers have been offered up.[ ] according to a sussex death-omen, lights of a circular form seen in the air are significant, and it is supposed that the death of sick persons is shown by the prognostic of 'shell-fire.' this is a sort of lambent flame, which seems to rise from the bodies of those who are ill, and to envelope the bed. on one occasion, considerable alarm was created in a sussex village by a pale light being observed to move over the bed of a sick person, and after flickering for some time in different parts of the room, to vanish through the window. but the difficulty was eventually explained, for the light was found to proceed from a luminous insect--the small glow-worm.[ ] marsh[ ] relates how a pale moonlight-coloured glimmer was once seen playing round the head of a dying girl about an hour and a half before her last breath. the light proceeded from her head, and was faint and tremulous like the reflection of summer lightning, which at first those watching her mistook it to be. another case, reported by a medical man in ireland, was that of a consumptive patient, in whose cabin strange lights had been seen, filling the neighbourhood with alarm. to quote a further instance, from the mouth of a patient in a london hospital, some time since, the nurses observed issuing a pale bluish flame, and soon after the man died. the frightened nurses were at a loss to account for this unusual sight, but a scientific explanation of the phenomenon ascribed it to phosphoretted hydrogen, a result of incipient decomposition.[ ] dante rossetti, in his 'blessed damozel,' when he describes her as looking down from heaven towards the earth that 'spins like a fretful image,' whence she awaits the coming of her lover, depicts the souls mounting up to god as passing by her 'like thin flames.' another form of this superstitious fancy is the corpse-candle, or 'tomb-fire,' which is invariably a death-warning. it sometimes appears 'as a stately flambeau, stalking along unsupported, burning with a ghastly blue flame. sometimes it is a plain tallow "dip" in the hand of a ghost; and when the ghost is seen distinctly, it is recognised as that of some person still living, who will now soon die[ ]--in fact, a wraith.' occasionally the light issues from the person's mouth, or nostrils. the size of the candle indicates the age of the person who is about to die, being large when it is a full-grown person whose death is foretold, small when it is a child, still smaller when an infant. when two candles together are seen, one of which is large and the other small, it is a mother and child who are to die. when the flame is white the doomed person is a woman, when red a man. a carmarthenshire tradition relates how one evening, when the coach which runs between llandilo and carmarthen was passing by golden grove, the property of the earl of cawdor, three corpse-candles were observed on the surface of the water gliding down the stream which runs near the road. a few days afterwards, just as many men were drowned there. such a light, too, has long been thought to hover near the grave of the drowned, reminding us of moore's lines-- where lights, like charnel meteors, burned the distant wave, bluely as o'er some seaman's grave, and stories of such uncanny appearances have been told of nearly every village churchyard. it should be added that, according to a popular idea, the presence of ghosts was announced, in bygone years, by an alteration in the tint of the lights which happened to be burning--an item of folk-lore alluded to in 'richard iii.' (act v. sc. ), where the tyrant exclaims as he awakens-- the lights burn blue. it is now dead midnight, cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh. * * * * * methought the souls of all that i had murder'd came to my tent. so in 'julius cæsar,' (act iv. sc. ), brutus, on seeing the ghost of cæsar, exclaims: how ill this taper burns! ha! who comes here? phantom lights have also been associated with buildings, as in the case of the ancient chapel of roslin, founded in the year by william st. clair, prince of orkney. it is believed that whenever any of the founder's descendants are about to depart this life, the chapel appears to be on fire, a weird and terrible occurrence graphically portrayed by harold's song in 'the lay of the last minstrel': o'er roslin all that dreary night, a wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'twas broader than the watch-fire light, and redder than the bright moonbeam. it glared on roslin's castled rock, it ruddied all the copse-wood glen; 'twas seen from dryden's groves of oak, and seen from cavern'd hawthornden. seem'd all on fire that chapel proud, where roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie; each baron, for a sable shroud, sheathed in his iron panoply. seem'd all on fire, within, around, deep sacristy and altar's pale; shone every pillar foliage-bound, and glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. blazed battlement and pinnet high, blazed every rose-carved buttress fair; so still they blaze when fate is nigh, the lordly line of hugh st. clair. but notwithstanding the fact that the last 'roslin,' as he was called, died in , and the estates passed into the possession of the erskines, earls of rosslyn, the old tradition has not yet been extinguished.[ ] sir walter scott also tells us that the death of the head of a highland family is sometimes announced by a chain of lights, of different colours, called dr'eug, or death of the druid. the direction which it takes is supposed to mark the place of the funeral.[ ] a correspondent of 'notes and queries' gives a curious account of a house at taunton which possessed 'a luminous chamber,' for, as common report said, 'the room had a light of its own.' as an eye-witness observed, 'a central window was generally illuminated.' all the other windows were dark, but from this was a wan, dreary light visible; and as the owners had deserted the place, and it had no occupant, the lighted window became a puzzle. with the north american tribes one form of spiritual manifestation is fire; and among the hurons, a female spirit, who was supposed to cause much of their sickness, appeared like a flame of fire. of the new england indians it is related that 'they have a remarkable observation of a flame that appears before the death of an indian, upon their wigwams, in the dead of night. whenever this appears, there will be a death.'[ ] the eskimos believe that the inue, or powerful spirits, 'generally have the appearance of a fire or bright light, and to see them is very dangerous, particularly as foreshadowing the death of a relation.'[ ] footnotes: [ ] the _nineteenth century_, 'comparative study of ghost stories,' , xvii. pp. , . [ ] rev. w. gregor, _folk-lore of north-east of scotland_, , p. . [ ] _yorkshire oddities_, ii. p. . [ ] see ingram's _haunted homes_, nd s. pp. , . [ ] see wirt sikes' _british goblins_, pp. - . [ ] 'secrets of sable island,' _harper's magazine_. [ ] see thorpe's _northern mythology_, ii. pp. , , ; iii. pp. , , . [ ] _songs of the russian people_, , p. . [ ] _folk-lore record_, , i. p. . [ ] _evolution of light from the living subject._ [ ] _transactions cardiff natural society_, iv. p. . [ ] wirt sikes, _british goblins_, p. . [ ] see ingram's _haunted homes_, nd s. pp. - . [ ] see 'essay on fairy superstitions' in the _border minstrelsy_. [ ] rink's _tales and traditions of the eskimos_, p. . [ ] josselyn's _two voyages_, p. . chapter x the headless ghost localities where any fatal accident has happened, or murder been committed, are frequently supposed to be haunted by that uncanny apparition known as 'the headless ghost.' many curious tales are still told by the peasantry of this mysterious spectre, whose weird movements have long been the subject of comment. sir walter scott, it may be remembered, speaking of the irish dullahan, writes: 'it puts me in mind of a spectre at drumlanrick castle, of no less a person than the duchess of queensberry--"fair kitty, blooming, young, and gay"--who, instead of setting fire to the world in mama's chariot, amuses herself with wheeling her own head in a wheelbarrow through the great gallery.' but it has often puzzled the folk-lorist why ghosts should assume this form, although the idea is by no means a modern one, for, as dr. tylor has pointed out,[ ] a people of wide celebrity are pliny's blemmyæ, said 'to be headless, and accordingly to have their mouths and eyes in their breasts--creatures over whom prester john reigned in asia, and who dwelt far and wide in south america.' stories, too, like that of st. denis, who is said to have walked from paris, _sans tête_, to the place which bears his name, show that the living, as well as the dead, occasionally managed to do without their heads--a strange peculiarity which kornmann, in his 'de miraculis vivorum,' would attempt to account for philosophically. princess marie lichtenstein, in her 'history of holland house,' tells us that one room of this splendid old mansion is believed to be haunted by lord holland, the first of his name, and the chief builder of holland house. to quote her words, 'the gilt room is said to be tenanted by the solitary ghost of its just lord, who, according to tradition, issues forth at midnight from behind a secret door, and walks slowly through the scenes of former triumphs with his head in his hand. to add to this mystery, there is a tale of three spots of blood on one side of the recess whence he issues--three spots which can never be effaced.' such a strange act, on the part of the dead, is generally regarded as a very bad omen. the time of the headless ghost's appearance is always midnight, and in crofton croker's 'fairy legends of ireland' it is thus described: 'tis midnight; how gloomy and dark! by jupiter, there's not a star! 'tis fearful! 'tis awful! and hark! what sound is that comes from afar? a coach! but the coach has no head; and the horses are headless as it, of the driver the same may be said, and the passengers inside who sit. according to the popular opinion, there is no authority to prove that headless people are unable to speak; on the contrary, a variation of the story of 'the golden mountain,' given in a note to the 'kindermärchen,' relates how a servant without a head informed the fisherman (who was to achieve the adventure) of the enchantment of the king's daughter, and of the mode of liberating her. there is the belludo, a spanish ghost mentioned by washington irving in his 'tales of the alhambra.' it issues forth in the dead of night, and scours the avenues of the alhambra, and the streets of granada, in the shape of a headless horse, pursued by six hounds, with terrible yellings and howlings. it is said to be the spirit of a moorish king, who killed his six sons, who, in revenge, hunt him in the shape of hounds at night-time. in some cases, as it has been humorously observed, the headless ghosts of well-known persons have continued to set up their carriage after death. thus, for years past, it has been firmly believed that lady anne boleyn rides down the avenue of blickling park once a year, with her bloody head in her lap, sitting in a hearse-like coach drawn by four headless horses, and attended by coachmen and attendants, who have, out of compliment to their mistress, also left their heads behind them. nor, if tradition is to be believed, is her father more at rest than she, for sir thomas boleyn is said to be obliged to cross forty bridges to avoid the torments of the furies. like his daughter, he is reported to drive about in a coach and four with headless horses, carrying his head under his arm.[ ] young lord dacre, who is said to have been murdered at thetford, through the contrivance of his guardian, sir richard fulmerston, in , by the falling of a wooden horse, purposely rendered insecure, used to prance up and down on the ghost of a headless rocking-horse. another romantic story is told[ ] of a large field at great melton, divided from the yare by a plantation, along which the old norwich road ran. 'close to the edge of where the road is said to have run is a deep pit or hole of water, locally reputed to be fathomless. every night at midnight, and every day at noon, a carriage drawn by four horses, driven by headless coachmen and footmen, and containing four headless ladies in white, rises silently and dripping wet from the pool, flits stately and silently round the field, and sinks as silently into the pool again.' the story goes that long, long ago, a bridal party driving along the old norwich road were accidentally upset into the deep hole, and were never seen again. strangely enough the same story is told of fields near bury st. edmunds, and at leigh, dorsetshire.[ ] another norfolk story, amusingly told by the late cuthbert bede,[ ] informs us how, 'on the anniversary of the death of the gentleman whose spectre he is supposed to be, his ghostship drives up to his old family mansion. he drives through the wall, carriage and horses and all, and is not seen again for a twelvemonth. he leaves, however, the traces of his visit behind him; for, in the morning, the stones of the wall through which he had ridden over-night are found to be loosened and fallen; and though the wall is constantly repaired, yet the stones are as constantly loosened.' in the little village of acton, suffolk, it was currently reported not many years ago that on certain occasions the park gates were wont to fly open at midnight 'withouten hands,' and that a carriage drawn by four spectral horses, and accompanied by headless grooms and outriders, proceeded with great rapidity from the park to a spot called 'the nursery corner,' a spot where tradition affirms a very bloody engagement took place in olden times, when the romans were governors of england.[ ] a similar tale is related of caistor castle, the seat of the falstofs, where the headless apparition drives round the courtyard, and carries away some unearthly visitors. at beverley, in yorkshire, the headless ghost of sir joceline percy drives four headless horses at night, above its streets, passing over a certain house which was said to contain a chest with one hundred nails in it, one of which dropped out every year. the reason assigned for this nocturnal disturbance is attributed to the fact that sir joceline once rode on horseback into beverley minster. it has long been considered dangerous to meet such spectral teams, for fear of being carried off by them, so violent and threatening are their movements. in 'rambles in northumberland' we are told how, 'when the death-hearse, drawn by headless horses, and driven by a headless driver, is seen about midnight proceeding rapidly, but without noise, towards the churchyard, the death of some considerable personage in the parish is sure to happen at no distant period.' night after night, too, when it is sufficiently dark, the headless coach whirls along the rough approach to langley hall, near durham, drawn by black and fiery steeds; and many years ago a headless boggart was supposed to haunt preston streets and neighbouring lanes. its presence was often accompanied by the rattling of chains. it presently changed its form, and whether it appeared as a woman or a black dog, it was always headless. the story went that this uncanny apparition was at length 'laid' by some magical or religious ceremony in walton churchyard.[ ] many spots where suicides have been buried are supposed to be haunted by headless ghosts attired in white grave-clothes. some few years ago, as a peasant was passing in a waggon with three horses a 'four-lane-end' in lyneal lane, ellesmere, shropshire, where a man was buried with a forked stake run through the body to keep it down, a woman was seen without a head. the horses took fright, and started off, overturning the waggon, and pitching the man into the drumby hole, where the waggon and shaft-horse fell upon him. the other horses broke loose and galloped home, where they arrived covered with foam, and on a search being made, the dead body of the waggoner was found in the hole.[ ] exactly twelve months afterwards, his son, it is said, was killed by the same horses on the same spot. as miss jackson points out, the headless ghost in this story is of a different sex from the person whose death is supposed to cause its restlessness. the same, she adds, is the case 'with the ghost of the mary way, a now almost forgotten spectre of more than a hundred years ago. the figure of a woman in white was supposed to haunt the spot where a murderer was buried--more probably a suicide--at the cross roads about two miles from wenlock, on the bridgnorth road, which is known as the "mary way," no doubt from some chapel, or processional route, in honour of the virgin.' another story is told of the baschurch neighbourhood, where the ghost of a man who hanged himself at nesscliff is to be seen 'riding about in his trap at night without a head.' a tragic case is recorded by crofton croker, who tells how, many years ago, a clergyman belonging to st. catharine's church, dublin, resided at the old castle of donore, in the vicinity of that city. from melancholy, or some other cause, he put an end to his existence by hanging himself out of a window near the top of the castle. after his death, a coach, sometimes driven by a coachman without a head, and occasionally drawn by headless horses, was observed at night driving furiously by roper's rest. referring to spots where murders have taken place, a shropshire tradition informs us how, at a certain house at hampton's wood, near ellesmere, six illegitimate children were murdered by their parents, and buried in a garden. but, soon after this unnatural event, a ghost in the form of a man, sometimes headless, at other times not so, haunted the stables, rode the horses to water, and talked to the waggoner. once it appeared to a young lady who was passing on horseback, and rode before her on her horse. eventually, after much difficulty, this troublesome ghost was laid, but 'the poor minister was so exhausted by the task that he died.'[ ] there is a haunted room at walton abbey frequented by a spectre known as 'the headless nun of walton.' the popular belief is that this is the unquiet spirit of a transgressing nun of the twelfth century, but some affirm it to be that of a lady brutally beheaded in the seventeenth century.[ ] another instance is that of calverley hall, in the same county. in 'the yorkshireman' for january , , the particulars of this strange apparition are given, from which it appears that walter calverley, on april , , went into a fit of insane frenzy of jealousy, or pretended to do so. money-lenders were pressing him hard, and he had become desperate. rushing madly into the house, he plunged a dagger into one and then into another of his children, and then tried to take the life of their mother, a crime for which he was pressed to death at york castle. but his spirit could not rest, and he was often seen galloping about the district at night on a headless horse, being generally accompanied by a number of followers similarly mounted, who attempted to run down any poor benighted folks whom they chanced to meet. these spectral horsemen nearly always disappeared in a cave in the wood, but this cave has now been quarried away.[ ] it would seem that in years gone by one of the punishments assigned to evil doers guilty of a lesser crime than that of murder, was their ceaselessly frequenting those very spots where in their lifetime they had committed their wicked acts, carrying their heads under their arms. numerous tales of this kind have been long current on the continent, and at the present day are told by the simple-minded peasantry of many a german village with the most implicit faith. it is much the same in this country, and mr. henderson[ ] has given several amusing anecdotes. at dalton, near thirsk, there was an old barn, said to be haunted by a headless woman. one night a tramp went into it to sleep; at midnight he was awakened by a light, and, sitting up, he saw a woman coming towards him from the end of the barn, holding her head in her hands like a lantern, with light streaming out of the eyes, nostrils, and mouth. hunt, too, in his 'popular romances,' notices this superstition as existing in the west of england; and mrs. latham, in her 'sussex superstitions,' tells us how spirits are reported to walk about without their heads; others carry them under their arms; and one haunting a dark lane is said to have 'a ball of fire upon its shoulders in lieu of the natural finial.' at haddington, worcestershire, there is an avenue of trees locally known as 'lady winter's walk,' where, it is said, the lady of thomas winter, who was obliged to conceal himself on account of his share in the gunpowder plot, was in the habit of awaiting her husband's further visits, and here the headless spectre of her ladyship used to be seen occasionally pacing up and down beneath the sombre shade of the aged trees. lady wilde[ ] has given a laughable specimen of the headless ghost as believed in by the irish peasantry. one denis molony, a cow-jobber, was on his way to the great fair at navan when he was overtaken by night. he laid down under a hedge, but 'at that moment a loud moaning and screaming came to his ear, and a woman rushed past him all in white, as if a winding sheet were round her, and her cries of despair were terrible to hear. then, after her, a great black coach came thundering along the road, drawn by two black horses. but when denis looked close at them he saw that the horses had no heads, and the coachman had no head; and out sprang two men from the coach, and they had no heads either; and they seized the woman and carried her by force into the carriage and drove off.' it appears that the woman denis saw was 'an evil liver and a wicked sinner, and no doubt the devils were carrying her off from the churchyard, for she had been buried that morning. to make sure, they went next morning to the churchyard to examine the grave, and there, sure enough, was the coffin, but it was open, and not a trace of the dead woman was to be seen. so they knew that an evil fate had come on her, and that her soul was gone to eternal tortures.'[ ] connected also with the legend of the headless ghost is the old belief that persons prior to their death occasionally appear to their friends without their heads. dr. ferrier, in his 'theory of apparitions,' tells of an old northern chieftain who informed a relative of his 'that the door of the room in which they and some ladies were sitting had appeared to open, and that a little woman without a head had entered the room; and that the apparition indicated the sudden death of some person of his acquaintance.' the 'glasgow chronicle' (january, ) records how, on the occasion of some silk-weavers being out of work, mourning-coaches drawn by headless horses were seen about the town; and some years ago a very unpleasant kind of headless ghost used to drive every saturday night through the town of doneraile, ireland, and to stop at the doors of different houses, when, if anyone were so foolhardy as to open the door, a basin of blood was instantly flung in his face. footnotes: [ ] _primitive culture_, i. p. . [ ] see _the norfolk antiquarian miscellany_, , i. pp. , . [ ] _eastern counties collectanea_, p. . [ ] see _notes and queries_, st s. xii. p. , for another hole or pit story. [ ] _the curate of cranston, and other stories_, , 'carriage and four ghosts.' [ ] _notes and queries_, st s. v. p. . [ ] hardwick's _traditions, superstitions, and folk-lore_, p. . [ ] _shropshire folk-lore_, p. . [ ] _shropshire folk-lore_, pp. , . [ ] a full account will be found in a paper by mr. f. ross, in the _leeds mercury_, , entitled 'yorkshire legends and traditions.' [ ] see ingram's _haunted homes_, nd s. pp. - . [ ] _folk-lore of the northern counties_, pp. - . [ ] _ancient cures, charms, and usages of ireland_, pp. , . [ ] see notes to crofton croker's _fairy legends and traditions of the south of ireland_, where much curious information will be found on this subject. chapter xi phantom butterflies departed souls, according to a cornish piece of folk-lore, are occasionally said to take the form of moths, and in yorkshire, writes a correspondent of 'notes and queries,' 'the country people used, and perhaps do still, call night-flying white moths, especially the _hepialus humuli_, which feeds while in the grub state on the roots of docks and other coarse plants, "souls."' by the slavonians the butterfly seems to have been universally accepted as an emblem of the soul. mr. ralston, in his 'songs of the russian people' (p. ), says that in the government of yaroslaw one of its names is _dushichka_, a caressing diminutive of _dusha_, the soul. in that of kherson it is believed that if the usual alms are not distributed at a funeral, the dead man's soul will reveal itself to its relatives in the form of a moth flying about the flame of a candle. the day after receiving such a warning visit they call together the poor and distribute food among them. in bohemia there is a popular tradition that if the first butterfly a man sees in the spring-time is a white one, he is destined to die within the year. according to a servian belief, the soul of a witch often leaves her body while she is asleep, and flies abroad in the shape of a butterfly. if, during its absence, her body be turned round, so that her feet are placed where her head was before, the soul will not be able to find her mouth, and so will be shut out from her body. thereupon the witch will die. the bulgarians believe that at death the soul assumes the form of a butterfly, and flits about on the nearest tree till the funeral is over. the karens of burma 'will run about pretending to catch a sick man's wandering soul, or, as they say with the ancient greeks, his "butterfly," and at last drop it down upon his head.'[ ] the idea is an old one, and, as gubernatis remarks in his 'zoological mythology' (ii. ), 'the butterfly was both a phallic symbol and a funereal one, with promises of resurrection and transformation; the souls of the departed were represented in the forms of butterflies carried towards elysium by the dolphin.' according to another belief, the soul was supposed to take the form of a bee, an old tradition telling us that 'the bees alone of all animals descended from paradise.' in the engadine, in switzerland, it is believed that the souls of men emigrate from the world and return to it in the forms of bees. in this district bees are considered messengers of death. when someone dies, the bee is invoked as follows, 'almost as if requesting the soul of the departed,' says de gubernatis, 'to watch for ever over the living':[ ] bienchen, unser herr ist todt, verlass mich nicht in meiner noth. in russia gnats and flies are often looked upon as equally spiritual creatures. 'in little russia,' says mr. ralston,[ ] 'the old women of a family will often, after returning from a funeral, sit up all night watching a dish in which water and honey in it have been placed, in the belief that the spirit of their dead relative will come in the form of a fly, and sip the proffered liquid.' among north american tribes we are told how the ojibways believe that innumerable spirits appear in the varied forms of insect life,[ ] while some tribes supposed that 'most souls went to a common resort near their living habitat, but returned in the daytime in the shape of flies in order to get something to eat.'[ ] footnotes: [ ] tylor's _primitive culture_, i. p. . [ ] _zoological mythology_, ii. p. . [ ] _folk-songs of the russian people_, p. . [ ] dorman's _primitive superstitions_, p. . [ ] _ibid._ p. . chapter xii raising ghosts the trade of raising spirits has probably existed at all times in which superstition has been sufficiently prevalent to make such a practice a source of power or of profit, and nations--the most polished as well as the most barbarous--have admitted the claims of persons who professed to be able to control spirits. one of the most graphic illustrations of an incantation for evoking spirits is in connection with the appearance of the shade of darius in the 'persæ' of Ã�schylus, which is very nobly given. after receiving news of the great defeat of her son xerxes at salamis, atossa has prepared the requisite offerings to the dead--milk from a white cow, honey, water from a pure fountain, unadulterated wine, olives, and flowers--and she instructs the ancient counsellors of the deceased king to evoke his shade. they who form the tragic chorus commence an incantation from which we quote the following: royal lady, persia's pride, thine offerings in earth's chamber hide; we, meanwhile, with hymns will sue the powers who guard hell's shadowy crew, till they to our wish incline. gods below, ye choir divine, earth, hermes, and thou king of night, send his spirit forth to light! if he knows worse ills impending, he alone can teach their ending. &c., &c., &c. the incantation is successful, but darius assures his friends that exit from below is far from easy, and that the subterranean gods are far more willing to take than to let go. indeed, the raising of spirits was a trick of magic much in use in ancient times, and the scene that took place at endor when saul had recourse to a professor of the art is familiar to all. the egyptian magicians, simon magus, and elymas the sorcerer, all, it is said, exhibited such corporeal deceptions. tertullian, in his tract 'de anima,' inquires whether a departed soul, either at his own will, or in obedience to the command of another, can return from the 'inferi'? after discussing the subject, he sums up thus: 'if certain souls have been recalled into their bodies by the power of god, as manifest proof of his prerogative, that is no argument that a similar power should be conferred on audacious magicians, fallacious dreamers, and licentious poets.' among certain australian tribes the necromants are called birraark. it is said that a birraark was supposed to be initiated by the 'mrarts' (ghosts) when they met him wandering in the bush. it was from the ghosts that he obtained replies to questions concerning events passing at a distance, or yet to happen, which might be of interest or moment to his tribe. an account of a spiritual séance in the bush is given in 'kamilaroi and kurnai' (p. ): 'the fires were let down; the birraark uttered the cry "coo-ee" at intervals. at length a distant reply was heard, and shortly afterwards the sound as of persons jumping on the ground in succession. a voice was then heard in the gloom asking in a strange intonation, "what is wanted?" at the termination of the séance, the spirit voice said, "we are going." finally, the birraark was found in the top of an almost inaccessible tree, apparently asleep.' in japan, ghosts can be raised in various ways. one mode is to 'put into an andon' (a paper lantern in a frame) 'a hundred rushlights, and repeat an incantation of a hundred lines. one of these rushlights is taken out at the end of each line, and the would-be ghost-seer then goes out in the dark with one light still burning, and blows it out, when the ghost ought to appear. girls who have lost their lovers by death often try that sorcery.'[ ] shakespeare has several allusions to the popular belief of certain persons being able to exorcise, or raise, spirits, and he represents ligarius, in 'julius cæsar' (iv. ) as saying: soul of rome! brave son, derived from honourable loins! thou, like an exorcist, has conjured up my mortified spirit. now bid me run, and i will strive with things impossible; yea, get the better of them. in days gone by, it would seem, numerous formalities were observed by the person whose object was to 'constrain' some spirit to appear before him. it was necessary to fix upon a spot proper for such a purpose, 'which had to be either in a subterranean vault hung round with black, and lighted by a magical torch, or else in the centre of some thick wood or desert, or upon some extensive unfrequented plain, where several roads met, or amidst the ruins of ancient castles, abbeys, monasteries, &c., or amongst the rocks on the sea-shore, in some private detached churchyard, or any other solemn melancholy place, between the hours of twelve and one in the morning, either when the moon shone very bright, or else when the elements were disturbed with storms of thunder, lightning, wind, and rain, for in these places, times, and seasons it was contended that spirits could with less difficulty manifest themselves to mortal eyes, and continue visible with the least pain in this elemental external world.'[ ] great importance was attached to the magic circle in the invocation of spirits, the mode of procedure being thus: 'a piece of ground was usually chosen, nine feet square, at the full extent of which parallel lines were drawn, one within the other, having sundry crosses and triangles described between them, close to which was formed the first or outer circle; then, about half a foot within the same, a second circle was described, and within that another square correspondent to the first, the centre of which was the spot where the master and associate were to be placed. the vacancies formed by the various lines and angles of the figure were filled up by the holy names of god, having crosses and triangles described between them.... the reason assigned for the use of circles was, that so much ground being blessed and consecrated by such holy words and ceremonies as they made use of in forming it, had a secret force to expel all evil spirits from the bounds thereof, and being sprinkled with pure sanctified water, the ground was purified from all uncleanness; besides, the holy names of god being written over every part of it, its force became so powerful that no evil spirits had ability to break through it, or to get at the magician and his companion, by reason of the antipathy in nature they bore to these sacred names. and the reason given for the triangles was, that if the spirit was not easily brought to speak the truth, they might by the exorcist be conjured to enter the same, where, by virtue of the names of the essence and divinity of god, they could speak nothing but what was true and right.'[ ] we are further informed, that if the ghost of a deceased person was to be raised, the grave had to be resorted to at midnight, when a special form of conjuration was deemed necessary; and there was another for 'any corpse that hath hanged, drowned, or otherwise made away with itself.' and in this case, it is added, 'the conjurations are performed over the body, which will at last arise, and, standing upright, answer with a faint and hollow voice the questions that are put to it.' the mode of procedure as practised in scotland was thus. the haunted room was made ready. he 'who was to do the daring deed, about nightfall entered the room, bearing with him a table, a chair, a candle, a compass, a crucifix if one could be got, and a bible. with the compass he cast a circle on the middle of the floor, large enough to hold the chair and the table. he placed within the circle the chair and the table, and on the table he laid the bible and the crucifix beside the lighted candle. if he had not a crucifix, then he drew the figure of a cross on the floor within the circle. when all this was done, he seated himself on the chair, opened the bible, and waited for the coming of the spirit. exactly at midnight the spirit came. sometimes the door opened slowly, and there glided in noiselessly a lady sheeted in white, with a face of woe, and told her story to the man on his asking her in the name of god what she wanted. what she wanted was done in the morning, and the spirit rested ever after. sometimes the spirit rose from the floor, and sometimes came forth from the wall. one there was who burst into the room with a strong bound, danced wildly round the circle, and flourished a long whip round the man's head, but never dared to step within the circle. during a pause in his frantic dance he was asked, in god's name, what he wanted. he ceased his dance and told his wishes. his wishes were carried out, and the spirit was in peace.'[ ] in wraxall's 'memoirs of the courts of berlin, dresden, warsaw, and vienna'[ ] there is an amusing account of the raising of the ghost of the chevalier de saxe. reports had been circulated that at his palace at dresden there was secreted a large sum of money, and it was urged that if his spirit could be compelled to appear, that interesting secret might be extorted from him. curiosity, combined with avarice, accordingly prompted his principal heir, prince charles, to try the experiment, and on the appointed night, schrepfer was the operator in raising the apparition. he commenced his proceedings by retiring into a corner of the gallery, where, kneeling down with many mysterious ceremonies, he invoked the spirit to appear. at length a loud clatter was heard at all the windows on the outside, resembling more the effect produced by a number of wet fingers drawn over the edge of glasses than anything else to which it could well be compared. this sound announced the arrival of the good spirits, and was shortly followed by a yell of a frightful and unusual nature, which indicated the presence of malignant spirits. schrepfer continued his invocations, when 'the door suddenly opened with violence, and something that resembled a black ball or globe rolled into the room. it was enveloped in smoke or cloud, in the midst of which appeared a human face, like the countenance of the chevalier de saxe, from which issued a loud and angry voice, exclaiming in german, "carl, was wollte du mit mich?"--charles, what would thou do with me?' by reiterated exorcisms schrepfer finally dismissed the apparition, and the terrified spectators dispersed, fully convinced of his magical powers.[ ] roscoe has given an interesting account[ ] of benvenuto cellini's experiences of raising spirits by incantation, but the sicilian priest who acquainted him with the mysteries of his art of necromancy, as it has been remarked, had far greater knowledge of 'chemistry and pharmacy than he required for his thurible or incense pot.' his accomplices, of course, could see and report sights of any wonderful kind. those who penetrate into 'magic circles may expect startling sights, overpowering smells, strange sounds, and even demoniacal dreams.' instances, it is stated, are recorded of many who perished by raising up spirits, particularly 'chiancungi,' the famous egyptian fortune-teller, who was so famous in england in the seventeenth century. he undertook for a wager to raise up the spirit 'bokim,' and having described the circle, he seated his sister napula by him as his associate. 'after frequently repeating the form of exorcism, and calling upon the spirit to appear, and nothing as yet answering his demand, they grew impatient of the business, and quitted the circle; but it cost them their lives, for they were instantaneously seized and crushed to death by that infernal spirit, who happened not to be sufficiently constrained till that moment to manifest himself to human eyes.' among the many curious stories told of ghost-raising may be mentioned a somewhat whimsical one related by a correspondent of a bradford paper, who tells how, in his youthful days, he assisted in an attempt to raise the ghost of the wicked old squire of calverley hall. 'about a dozen scholars,' to quote his words, 'used to assemble close to the venerable church of calverley, and then put their hats and caps on the ground, in a pyramidal form. then taking hold of each other's hands, they formed a "magic circle," holding firmly together, and making use of an old refrain: old calverley, old calverley, i have thee by the ears, i'll cut thee into collops, unless thee appears. whilst this incantation was going on, crumbs of bread mixed with pins were strewn on the ground, the lads meanwhile tramping round in the circle with a heavy tread. some of the more venturesome boys had to go round to each of the church doors, and whistle aloud through the keyholes, repeating the magic couplet which their comrades in the circle were chanting. but, at this critical point, a pale and ghostly figure was expected to appear, and, on one occasion, some kind of apparition is said to have issued forth from the church, the lads in their terrified haste making their escape as quickly as they could.' in the search after the philosopher's stone, and elixir of life, the most revolting ingredients were turned to use, such as blood and dead men's bones, but occasionally with unexpected results. on one occasion, for instance, three alchemists obtained some earth mould from st. innocent's church, paris, thinking that from it might be extracted the philosopher's stone. but, after subjecting it to distillation, they perceived in their receivers forms of men produced which caused them to desist from their labours. the paris institute took up the matter, and the result of their inquiries appears in the 'miscellanea curiosa.' an abstract of one of these french documents was published by dr. ferrier in the 'manchester philosophical transactions,' which we quote below: 'a malefactor was executed, of whose body a grave physician got possession for the purpose of dissection. after disposing of the other parts of the body, he ordered his assistant to pulverise a part of the cranium, which was a remedy at that time administered in dispensaries. the powder was left in a paper on the table in the museum, where the assistant slept. about midnight he was awakened by a noise in the room, which obliged him to rise immediately. the noise continued about the table without any visible agent, and at length he traced it to the powder, in the midst of which he now beheld, to his unspeakable dismay, a small head, with large eyes, staring at him. presently two branches appeared, which formed into arms and hands. next the ribs became visible, which were soon clothed with muscles and integuments. next the lower extremities sprouted out, and, when they appeared perfect, the puppet (for his size was small) reared himself on his feet; instantly his clothes came upon him, and he appeared in the very cloak he wore at his execution. the affrighted spectator, who stood hitherto mumbling his prayers with great application, was simply awe-struck; but still greater was his bewilderment when the apparition planted himself in his way, and after divers fierce looks and threatening gestures, opened the door and went out. no doubt the powder was missing next day.' a similar strange experience is recorded by dr. webster in his book on witchcraft, on the authority of dr. flud, the facts of which were thus: 'a certain chemical operator, named la pierre, received blood from the hands of a certain bishop to operate upon, which he, setting to work upon the saturday, did continue it for a week, with divers degrees of fire. but about midnight the friday following, this artificer, lying in a chamber next to his laboratory, betwixt sleeping and waking, heard a horrible noise like unto the lowing of kine or the roaring of a lion; and continuing quiet, after the ceasing of the sound in the laboratory, the moon being at the full, and by shining enlightening the chamber, suddenly, betwixt himself and the window he saw a thick little cloud condensed into an oval form, which after, by little and little, did seem completely to put on the shape of a man, and making another and sharp clamour did suddenly vanish. and not only some noble persons in the next chambers, but also the host and his wife, lying in a lower room of the house, and also the neighbours dwelling on the opposite side of the street, did distinctly hear the bellowing as well as the voice, and some of them were awakened with the vehemence thereof. but the artificer said that in this he found solace, because the bishop from whom he had it did admonish him that if any of them from whom the blood was extracted should die in the time of its putrefaction, his spirit was wont often to appear to the sight of the artificer with perturbation. also forthwith, upon the saturday following, he took the retort from the furnace and broke it with the slight stroke of a little key, and there, in the remaining blood, found the perfect representation of a human head, agreeable in face, eyes, nostrils, mouth, and hairs, that were somewhat thin and of a golden colour.' webster adds: 'there were many ocular witnesses, as the noble person lord of bourdalone, the chief secretary to the duke of guise, and he (flud) had this relation from the lord of menanton, living in that house at the same time, from a certain doctor of physic, from the owner of the house, and many others.' in recent years the so-called spiritualism has attracted much attention, and 'as of old, men live now in habitual intercourse with the spirits of the dead.... the spirits of the living as well as of the dead, the souls of strauss and carl vogt as well as of augustine and jerome, are summoned by mediums to distant spirit-circles.'[ ] but for further information on this subject reports of the psychical research society should be consulted.[ ] footnotes: [ ] miss bird's _unbeaten tracks in japan_, i. p. . [ ] _occult sciences_, , elihu rich, p. . [ ] for works on this subject may be consulted, colin de plancy's _dictionnaire infernal_; the _malleus maleficarum_ of the germans; del rio's _disquisitiones magicæ_; and _occult sciences_, paper by elihu rich, pp. - . [ ] gregor, _folk-lore of north-east of scotland_, pp. , . [ ] , i. p. . [ ] see 'ghosts and ghost-lore,' _leisure hour_, , pp. - . [ ] _life of benvenuto cellini._ [ ] tylor's _primitive culture_, i. p. . [ ] see also _real ghost stories_. edited by w. t. stead. chapter xiii ghost laying in his amusing account of the art of 'laying' ghosts, published in the last century, grose tells us 'a ghost may be laid for any term less than a hundred years, and in any place or body, full or empty; as a solid oak, the pommel of a sword, a barrel of beer, if a yeoman or simple gentleman; or a pipe of wine, if an esquire or a justice.' but this, as dr. tylor writes,[ ] 'is one of the many good instances of articles of serious savage belief surviving as jests among civilised men.' however whimsical the idea of laying a ghost may seem to the prosaic mind, an inquiry into the history of human belief shows how widely this expedient has been resorted to in times past, although st. chrysostom is said to have insulted some african conjurors of old with this quaint and humiliating observation: 'miserable and woful creatures that we are, we cannot so much as expel fleas, much less devils.' it was not so very long ago that, at the trial of laurie for the murder of mr. rose,[ ] sergeant munro, on being asked by the dean of faculty a question as to the disappearance of the murdered man's boots, replied that he believed they had been buried on the beach at corne, below high-water mark. this curious ceremony seems to have been adopted by the highland police, with the intention of laying mr. rose's ghost--an object which, according to tradition, might be attained by burying his boots under water. the expedient resorted to by the highland police was founded not upon any inadequate estimate of the powers of ghosts, but upon an intimate knowledge of their likes and dislikes. they are known to entertain a strong objection to water, an antipathy which is sufficiently strong to make them shun a spot on which water is to be found; in fact, as mr. hunt writes,[ ] spirits are supposed to be unable to cross water. a story is told of 'dary pit,' shropshire, a dismal pool, which was a much dreaded spot, because it was said spirits were laid under the water, and might, it seems, in spite of being so laid, walk abroad. this belief may be traced in various parts of the world, and 'one of the most striking ways,' writes mr. james g. frazer,[ ] 'of keeping down the dead man is to divert the course of a river, bury him in its bed, and then allow the river to resume its course. it was thus that alaric was buried, and commander cameron found the same mode of burial in vogue amongst a tribe in central africa.' among the tipperahs of chittagong, if a man dies away from home, his friends stretch a thread over all the intermediate streams, so that the spirit of the dead man may return to his own village; 'it being supposed that,[ ] without assistance, spirits are unable to cross running water,' and hence streams are occasionally bridged over in the manner afore-said.[ ] a somewhat similar idea prevails among the fijians, and we are told how those who have reason to suspect others of plotting against them occasionally 'build themselves a small house, and surround it with a moat, believing that a little water will neutralise the charms which are directed' to hurt them.[ ] the idea of water as a barrier against ghosts has given rise to many strange customs, some of which mr. frazer quotes in his paper on 'the primitive ghost.'[ ] among the metamba negroes, a woman is bound hand and foot by the priest, who flings her into the water several times over with the intention of drowning her husband's ghost, who may be supposed to be clinging to his unfeeling spouse. a similar practice exists in angola, and in new zealand those who have attended a funeral plunge several times into the nearest stream. in tahiti, all who assisted at a burial plunged into the sea; and in some parts of west africa, after the corpse has been deposited in the grave, 'all the bearers rush to the waterside and undergo a thorough ablution before they are permitted to return to the town.' according to mr. ralston, the lusatian wends place water between themselves and the dead as they return from a burial, even, if necessary, breaking ice for the purpose. and 'in many parts of germany, in modern greece, and in cyprus, water is poured out behind the corpse when it is carried from the house, in the belief that if the ghost returns he will not be able to cross it.'[ ] a danish tradition says, 'if a person dies who, it is feared, will reappear, as a preventive let a basinful of water be thrown after the corpse when it is carried out'[ ] and there will be no further cause of alarm. in bohemia, after a death, the water-butt is turned upside down, for if the ghost bathe in it, and anyone should happen to drink of it afterwards, he would be a dead man within the year. in pomerania, after a funeral, no washing is done for some time, lest the dead man should be wet in his grave. drake, in his legends of new england, alludes to a story of a wreck at ipswich, and says that, when the storms come, the howling of the wind is 'harry main'--a legend which has thus been versified by a. morgan: he blasphemed god, so they put him down, with his iron shovel at ipswich bar, they chained him there for a thousand years, and the sea rolls up, to shovel it back. so when the sea cries, the good wives say, 'harry main growls at his work to-day.' similarly the chibchas in their mythology had a great river that souls had to pass over on floats made of cobwebs. on this account they never killed spiders. the araucanian soul is borne across the stygian flood by a whale, and the potawatomis think 'the souls of the dead cross a large stream over a log, which rolls so that many slip off into the water. one of their ancestors went to the edge of the stream, but, not liking to venture on the log, he came back two days after his death. he reported that he heard the sounds of the drum on the other side of the river, to the beat of which the souls of the dead were dancing.'[ ] the ojibways speak of a similar stream, across which lies a serpent, over whose body the soul must cross. a favourite mode of capturing a ghost in days gone by was to entice it into something small, such as a bottle, and as a decoy, to doubt its power to do so--a mode of exorcism which would seem to have suggested our 'bottle-imps.' an amusing story of laying a ghost by this means, and which illustrates the popular belief, is recorded in the 'folk-lore record' (ii. ), on the authority of the late thomas wright. 'there lived in the town of ----, in that part of england which lies towards the borders of wales, a very curious simple kind of a man, though all said he knew a good deal more than other people did not know. there was in the same town a very old house, one of the rooms of which was haunted by a ghost, which prevented people making use of it. the man above mentioned was reported to be very clever at dealing with ghosts, and so the owner of the haunted house sent for him, and asked him if he could undertake to make the ghost quit the house. tommy, for that was the name he generally went by, agreed to do this, on condition that three things were provided him--an empty bottle, a bottle of brandy with a tumbler, and a pitcher of water. so tommy locked the door safely inside, and sat down to pass the night drinking brandy and water. 'just as the clock struck twelve, he was roused by a slight noise, and lo! there was the ghost standing before him. says the ghost, "well, tommy, how are ye?" "pretty well, thank ye," says he, "but pray, how do you know my name?" "oh, very well indeed," said the ghost. "and how did you get in?" "oh, very easily." "not through the door, i'm sure." "no, not at all, but through the keyhole." "d'ye say so? none of your tricks upon me; i won't believe you came through the keyhole." "won't ye? but i did." "well, then," says tommy, pointing to the empty bottle, which he pretended to have emptied, "if you can come through the keyhole you can get into this bottle, but i won't believe you can do either." now the ghost began to be very angry that tommy should doubt his power of getting into the bottle, so he asserted most confidently that the thing was easy to be done. "no," said tommy, "i won't believe it till i have seen you get in." "here goes then," said the ghost, and sure enough into the bottle he went, and tommy corked him up quite tight, so that he could not get out, and he took the bottle to the bridge where the river was wide and deep, and he threw the bottle exactly over the keystone of the middle arch into the river, and the ghost was never heard after.' this cunning mode of laying a ghost is very old, and reminds us of the amusing story of the fisherman and the genie in the arabian nights. the tale tells how, one day, a fisherman drew a brazen bottle out of the sea, sealed with the magic seal of suleyman ben daood, out of which there issued an enormous genie, who threatened the fisherman with death. the latter, feeling his life was at stake, bethought him of doubting the genie's ability to enter so small a vessel, whereupon the affronted genie returned thither to vindicate his character, and so placed himself in the fisherman's power. in the same way a bulgarian sorcerer armed with a saint's picture will hunt a vampire into a bottle containing some of the food that the demon loves; as soon as he is fairly inside, he is corked down, the bottle is thrown into the fire, and the vampire disappears for ever. miss jackson[ ] quotes a story from montgomeryshire, of how the spirit of lady jeffreys, who for some reason could not rest in peace, and 'troubled people dreadfully,' was 'persuaded to contract her dimensions and enter a bottle. she did so, after appearing in a good many hideous forms; but when once in the bottle it was corked down securely, and the bottle was thrown into the pool underneath the short bridge, over the severn, in llanidloes; and in the bottle she was to remain until the ivy that crept along the buttresses overgrew the sides of the bridge and reached the top of the parapet; then when this took place she should be released from her bottle prison.' in the 'collectanea archæologica' (vol. i. part ) we are told on the authority of one sarah mason, of baschurch, that 'there was a woman hanged on a tree at cutberry, and she came again so badly that nine clergymen had to be fetched to lay her. so they read and read until they got her into a bottle, and they buried it under a flat sandstone in the road. we used to go past the stone every time we went to church, and i've often wondered if she was still there, and what would happen if anyone was to pull the stone up.' and as a further safeguard a correspondent of 'notes and queries,' writing from ecclesfield, says it is best in laying ghosts to cheat them to consent to being laid while hollies are green, for hollies being evergreen, the ghost can reappear no more. in wales, the objectionable spectre must be conjured in the name of heaven to depart, and return no more, the strength of the exorcism being doubled by employing the latin language to deliver it, which, to be perfectly effectual, must be done by three clergymen. the exorcism is usually for a stated time, seven years is the favourite period, and one hundred years the limit. instances are recorded where a ghost which had been laid a hundred years returned at the end of the time to its old haunts. according to mr. wirt sikes,[ ] 'in all cases it is necessary the ghost should agree to be exorcised; no power can lay it if it be possessed of an evil demon. in such cases the terrors of heaven must be rigorously invoked, but the result is only temporary. properly constituted family ghosts, however, will lend a reasonable ear to entreaty backed by prayer.' candles have generally played an important part in the ceremony of ghost laying, one popular idea being that ghosts have no power by candlelight. thus, in many tales, the ghost is cheated into a promise not to return till the candle is burnt out, whereupon the crafty parson immediately blows it out, throwing it into a pond, or burying it in the earth. the belief is an old one, for, in one of the sagas quoted by mr. baring-gould,[ ] the tomb-breaking hero finds an old viking sitting in his dragon-ship, with his five hundred comrades motionless about him. he is about to depart, after possessing himself of the dead man's treasures, when the taper goes out, whereupon they all rise and attack the intruder, who barely escapes by invoking st. olaf's aid. in all shropshire stories, we are told that the great point is to keep the candles lighted in spite of the ghost's utmost efforts to blow them out; an amusing instance being that of the bagbury ghost, which appeared in the shape of a bull, and was so troublesome that twelve parsons were required to lay it. the story goes that they got him into hyssington church; 'they all had candles, and one blind old parson, who knowed him, and knowed what a rush he would make, he carried his candle in his top-boot. and he made a great rush, and all the candles went out, all but the blind parson's, and he said, "you light your candles by mine."' miss jackson also tells[ ] how 'squire blount's ghost' long haunted kinlet hall, because his daughter had married a page-boy. at last it was found necessary to pull down kinlet old hall, and to build it again on a fresh site, 'for he would even come into the room where they were at dinner, and drive his coach and four white horses across the dinner table.' but 'at last they got a number of parsons together and lighted candles, and read and read till all the candles were burnt out but one, and so they quieted him, and laid him in the sea. there was, it is reported, a little bottle under his monument in kinlet church, and if that were broken he would come again. it is a little flat bottle seven or eight inches long, with a glass stopper in it, which nobody could get out; and if anyone got hold of it, the remark was made, "take care as you dunna let that fall, for if it breaks, old blount will come again."' according to mr. henderson[ ] there was a house in a village of arkingarthdale which had long been haunted by a bogle. at last the owner adopted the following plan for expelling it. opening the bible, he placed it on a table with a lighted candle, and said aloud to the bogle, 'noo thoo can read or dance, or dea as ta likes.' he then turned round and walked upstairs, when the bogle, in the form of a grey cat, flew past and vanished in the air. years passed without its being seen again, but one day he met it on the stairs, and he was that day killed in the mines. at leigh, worcestershire, a spectre known as 'old coles' formerly appeared, and would drive a coach and four over the great barn at leigh court, and then cool the fiery nostrils of his steeds in the waters of the teme. this perturbed spirit was at length laid in a neighbouring pool by twelve parsons at midnight, by the light of an inch of candle; and as he was not to rise again until the candle was quite burnt out, it was thrown into the pool, and to make all sure, the pool was filled up, and peaceful ever after slept old coles's shade.[ ] but sometimes, when the candles burn out their time, it is an indication that none of the party can lay the ghost, as happened in the case of a certain dartmoor vicar's unquiet spirit described by mr. henderson.[ ] 'a jury of seven parsons was convoked to lay it, and each sat for half an hour with a candle in his hand, but it burned out its time with each. the spirit could afford to defy them; it was not worth his while to blow their candles out. but the seventh parson was a stranger and a scholar fresh from oxford. in his hand the light went out at once. he was clearly the man to lay the ghost; he laid it at once, and in a beer-barrel.' according to another way of ejecting or laying ghosts, there must be two or three clergymen, and the ceremony must be performed in the latin language, which, it is said, will strike the most audacious ghost with terror. allan ramsay mentions, as common in scotland, the vulgar notion that a ghost cannot be laid till some priest speaks to it, and ascertains what prevents it from resting. for well we wat it is his ghaist wow, wad some folk that can do't best, speak tol't, and hear what it confest. to send a wand'ring saul to rest 'tis a good deed amang the dead. and in the 'statistical account of scotland' (xiii. ) the writer, speaking of the parish of locharron, county of ross, alludes to the same idea: 'there is one opinion which many of them entertain, and which, indeed, is not peculiar to this parish alone, that a popish priest can cast out devils and cure madness, and that the presbyterian clergy have no such power. a person might as well advise a mob to pay no attention to a merry andrew, as to desire many ignorant people to stay from the priest.' on a small island off scotland, called ledge's holm, writes mr. bassett, there is a quarry called 'the crier of claife.' according to a local tradition, a ferryman was hailed on a dark night from the island, and went over. after a long absence he returned, having witnessed many horrible sights which he refused to relate. soon afterwards he became a monk. after a time the same cry was heard, and he went over and succeeded in laying the ghost where it now rests. but bourne, who has preserved a form for exorcising a haunted house, ridicules the fancy that 'none can lay spirits but popish priests,' and says that 'our own clergy know just as much of the black art as the others do'--a statement which is amply confirmed. thus, a ghost known as 'benjie gear' long troubled the good people of okehampton to such an extent that, 'at last,' writes mr. james spry, in 'the western antiquary,' 'the aid of the archdeacon was called in, and the clergy were assembled in order that the troubled spirit might be laid and cease to trouble them. there were twenty-three of the clergy who invoked him in various classic languages, but the insubordinate spirit refused to listen to their request. at length, one more learned than the rest addressed him in arabic, to which he was forced to succumb, saying, "now thou art come, i must be gone!" he was then compelled to take the form of a colt; a new bridle and bit, which had never been used, were produced, with a rider, to whom the sacrament was administered. the man was directed to ride the colt to cranmere pool, on dartmoor, the following instructions being given him. he was to prevent the colt from turning its head towards the town until they were out of the park, and then make straight for the pool, and when he got to the slope, to slip from the colt's back, pull the bridle off, and let him go. all this was dexterously performed, and the impetus thus gained by the animal with the intention of throwing the rider over its head into the pool, accomplished its own fate.' another curious account of laying a ghost is connected with spedlin's tower, which stands on the south-west bank of the annan. the story goes, that one of its owners, sir alexander jardine, confined, in the dungeon of his tower, a miller named porteous, on suspicion of having wilfully set fire to his own premises. being suddenly called away to edinburgh, he forgot the existence of his captive until he had died of hunger. but no sooner was the man dead, than his ghost began so persistently to disturb spedlin's tower, that sir alexander jardine summoned 'a whole legion of ministers to his aid, and by their efforts porteous was at length confined to the scene of his mortal agonies, where, at times, he was heard screaming, "let me out, let me out, for i'm deein' o' hunger!"' the spell which compelled his spirit to remain in bondage was attached to a large black-lettered bible used by the exorcists, and afterwards deposited in a stone niche, which still remains in the wall of the staircase. on one occasion the bible, requiring to be re-bound, was sent to edinburgh, whereupon the ghost of porteous recommenced its annoyances, so that the bible was recalled before reaching edinburgh, and was replaced in its former situation. but, it would seem, the ghost is at last at rest, for the bible is now kept at jardine hall. then there is the ghost of 'madam pigott,' once the terror of chetwynd and edgmond. twelve of the neighbouring clergy were summoned to lay her by incessantly reading psalms till they had succeeded in making her obedient to their power. 'mr. foy, curate of edgmond,' says miss jackson,[ ] 'has the credit of having accomplished this, for he continued reading after all the others were exhausted.' but, 'ten or twelve years after his death, some fresh alarm of madam pigott arose, and a party went in haste to beg a neighbouring rector to come and lay the ghost; and to this day chetwynd hall has the reputation of being haunted.' it is evident that 'laying a ghost' was far from an easy task. a humorous anecdote is told[ ] of a haunted house at homersfield, in suffolk, where an unquiet spirit so worried and harassed the inmates that they sent for a parson. on his arrival he commenced reading a prayer, but instantly the ghost got a line ahead of him. happily one of the family hit on this device: the next time, as soon as the parson began his exorcism, two pigeons were let loose; the spirit stopped to look at them, the priest got before him in his prayer, and the ghost was laid. clegg hall, lancashire, was the scene of a terrible tragedy, for tradition tells how a wicked uncle destroyed the lawful heirs--two orphans that were left to his care--by throwing them over a balcony into the moat, in order that he might seize on their inheritance. ever afterwards the house was the reputed haunt of a troubled and angry spirit, until means were taken for its expulsion. mr. william nuttall, in a ballad entitled 'sir roland and clegg hall boggart,' makes sir roland murder the children in bed with a dagger. remorse eventually drove him mad, and he died raving during a violent storm. the hall was ever after haunted by the children's ghosts, and also by demons, till st. anthony, with a relic from the virgin's shrine, exorcised and laid the evil spirits. according to mr. nuttall there were two boggarts of clegg hall, and it is related how the country people 'importuned a pious monk to exorcise or lay the ghost.' having provided himself with a variety of charms and spells, he quickly brought the ghosts to a parley. they demanded as a condition of future quiet the sacrifice of a body and a soul. thereupon the cunning monk said, 'bring me the body of a cock and the sole of a shoe.' this being done, the spirits were forbidden to appear till the whole of the sacrifice was consumed, and so ended the laying of the clegg hall boggarts. but, for some reason or other, the plan of this wily priest did not prove successful, and these two ghosts have continued to walk.[ ] with this idea of sacrifice as necessary for laying ghosts may be mentioned the apparition of a servant at waddow hall, known as 'peg o' nell.' on one occasion, the story goes, she had a quarrel with the lord or lady of waddow hall, who, in a fit of anger, wished that she 'might fall and break her neck.' in some way or other peggy did fall and break her neck, and to be revenged on her evil wisher she haunted the hall, and made things very uncomfortable. in addition to these perpetual annoyances, 'every seven years peg required a life, and it is said that "peg's night," as the time of sacrifice at each anniversary was called, was duly observed; and if no living animal were ready as a septennial offering to her manes, a human being became inexorably the victim. consequently, it grew to be the custom on "peg's night" to drown a bird, or a cat, or a dog in the river; and a life being thus given, peg was appeased for another seven years.'[ ] at beoley, worcestershire, at the commencement of the present century, the ghost of a reputed murderer managed to keep undisputed possession of a certain house, until a conclave of clergymen chained him to the red sea for fifty years. at the expiration of this term of imprisonment, the released ghost reappeared, and more than ever frightened the inmates of the said house, slamming the doors, and racing through the ceilings. at last, however, they took heart and chased the restless spirit, by stamping on the floor from one room to another, under the impression that could they once drive him to a trap door opening in the cheese-room, he would disappear for a season.[ ] a curious case of laying a ghost occurs in 'an account of an apparition attested by the rev. w. ruddell, minister at launceston, in cornwall,' , quoted in gilbert's 'historical survey of cornwall.' a schoolboy was haunted by dorothy dingley, and he pined. he was thought to be in love, and when, at the wishes of his friends, the parson questioned him, he told him of his ghostly visitor, and showed him the spectral dorothy. then comes the story of the ghost-laying. 'the next morning being thursday, i went out very early by myself, and walked for about an hour's space in meditation and prayer in the field adjoining to the quartills. soon after five i stepped over the stile into the disturbed field, and had not gone above thirty or forty paces when the ghost appeared at the further stile. i spoke to it with a loud voice in some such sentences as the way of these dealings directed me; thereupon it approached, but slowly, and when i came near it, it moved not. i spoke again, and it answered again in a voice which was neither very audible nor intelligible. i was not the least terrified, therefore i persisted till it spoke again, and gave me satisfaction. but the work could not be finished this time, wherefore the same evening, an hour after sunset, it met me again near the same place, and after a few words on each side it quietly vanished, and neither doth appear since, nor ever will more to any man's disturbance.' local tradition still tells us that 'madam dudley's ghost did use to walk in cumnor park, and that it walked so obstinately, that it took no less than nine parsons from oxford "to lay her." that they at last laid her in a pond, called "madam dudley's pond," and, moreover, wonderful to relate, the water in that pond was never known to freeze afterwards.' heath old hall, near wakefield, is haunted by the ghost of lady bolles, who is commonly reported to have been conjured down into a hole of the river, locally known as 'bolles pit.' but, as in many other cases of ghost-laying, 'the spell was not so powerful, but that she still rises, and makes a fuss now and then.' various reasons have been assigned for her 'walking,' such as the non-observance by her executors of certain clauses in her will, whilst a story current in the neighbourhood tells us that a certain room in the hall which had been walled up for a certain period, owing to large sums of money having been gambled away in it, was opened before the stipulated time had expired. others assert that her unhappy condition is on account of her father's mysterious death, which was ascribed to demoniacal agency.[ ] but of all places the most common, in years gone by, for laying ghosts was the red sea, and hence, in one of addison's plays, we read, 'there must be a power of spirits in that sea.' 'this is a locality,' says grose, 'which ghosts least like, it being related in many instances that ghosts have most earnestly besought the exorcists not to confine them in that place. it is, nevertheless, considered as an indisputable fact that there are an infinite number laid there, perhaps from its being a safer prison than any other nearer at hand.' but when such exiled ghosts did happen to re-appear, they were thought more audacious, being seen by day instead of at night. in an amusing poem entitled 'the ghost of a boiled scrag of mutton,' which appeared in the 'flowers of literature' many years ago, the following verse occurs embodying the idea: the scholar was versed in all magical lore, most famous was he throughout college; to the red sea full many an unquiet ghost, to repose with king pharaoh and his mighty host, he had sent through his proverbial knowledge. addison tells us in the 'spectator,' alluding to his london lodgings at a good-natured widow's house one winter, how on one occasion he entered the room unexpectedly, where several young ladies, visitors, were telling stories of spirits and apparitions, when, on being told that it was only _the gentleman_, the broken conversation was resumed, and 'i seated myself by the candle that stood at one end of the table, and, pretending to read a book that i took out of my pocket, heard several stories of ghosts that, pale as ashes, had stood at the bed's foot, or walked over a churchyard by moonlight; and others that had been conjured into the red sea for disturbing people's rest.' as it has been humorously remarked, it is not surprising that many a strange ghost story has been told by the sea-faring community, when we remember how many spirits have been banished to the red sea. footnotes: [ ] _primitive culture_, ii. p. . [ ] _see daily telegraph_, nov. , . article on 'ghost laying.' burns's 'tam o' shanter' turns on this point, and it is noticed by sir walter scott in 'the lay of the last minstrel' (canto iii. stanza ): 'the running stream dissolv'd the spell.' [ ] _romances of west of england_, p. . [ ] _contemporary review_, xlviii. p. . [ ] lewin, _hill tracts of chittagong_, p. . [ ] see sir john lubbock, _origin of civilisation and primitive condition of man_, , p. . [ ] _fiji and the fijians_, i. p. . [ ] _contemporary review_, xlviii. p. . [ ] _folk-songs of russia_, p. . [ ] thorpe's _northern mythology_, ii. p. . [ ] dorman's _primitive superstitions_, p. . [ ] _shropshire folk-lore_, pp. , . [ ] _british goblins_, p. . [ ] _shropshire folk-lore_, pp. , . [ ] _shropshire folk-lore_, pp. , . [ ] _folk-lore of northern counties_, p. . [ ] jabez allies, worcestershire. [ ] _folk-lore of northern counties_, p. . [ ] _shropshire folk-lore_, p. . [ ] henderson's _folk-lore of northern counties_, p. . [ ] see harland and wilkinson's _lancashire legends_, pp. - . [ ] ingram's _haunted homes_, nd s. p. . [ ] see _gentleman's magazine_, , part ii. pp. , . [ ] see ingram's _haunted homes_, nd s. pp. - . chapter xiv ghosts of the drowned on the coast of brittany there is the 'bay of the departed,' where, it is said, in the dead hour of night the boatmen are summoned by some unseen power to launch their boats and to ferry to a sacred island the souls of men who have been drowned. on such occasions the boat is so crowded with invisible passengers as to sink quite low in the water, while the wails and cries of the shipwrecked are clearly heard as the melancholy voyage progresses. on reaching the island of sein, the invisible passengers are numbered by unseen hands, after which the wondering, awestruck sailors return to await in readiness the next supernatural summons. at guildo, on the same coast, small phantom skiffs are reported to dart out from under the castle cliffs, manned by spectral figures, ferrying over the treacherous sands the souls of those unfortunate persons whose bodies lie engulfed in the neighbourhood. so strong is the antipathy to this weird spot that, after nightfall, none of the seafaring community will approach near it.[ ] similar superstitions are found elsewhere, and in cornwall, sailors dislike walking at night near those parts of the shore where there have been wrecks, as they are supposed to be haunted by the ghosts of drowned sailors, and the 'calling of the dead has frequently been heard.' 'i have been told,' writes mr. hunt,[ ] 'that, under certain circumstances, especially before the coming of storms, but always at night, these callings are common. many a fisherman has declared he has heard the voices of dead sailors "hailing their own names."' he further tells how a fisherman, or a pilot, was walking one night on the sands at porth-towan, when all was still save the monotonous fall of the light waves upon the sand. suddenly, he distinctly heard a voice from the sea exclaiming: 'the hour is come, but not the man.' this was repeated three times, when a black figure, like that of a man, appeared on the top of the hill. it paused for a moment, then rushed impetuously down the steep incline, over the sands, and was lost in the sea. in different forms the story is current all round the cornish shores, and on the norfolk coast, when any person is drowned, a voice is said to be heard from the water, ominous of a squall. on the continent the same belief, with certain variations, is found. lord teignmouth, in his 'reminiscences of many years,' speaking of ullesvang, in norway, writes: 'a very natural belief that the voice of a person drowned is heard wailing amidst the storm is, apparently, the only acknowledged remnant of ancient superstition still lingering along the shores of the fiords.' in germany, it is said that whenever a man is drowned at sea, he announces his death to his relations, and haunts the sea-shore. such ghosts are supposed to make their appearance at evening twilight, in the clothes in which they were drowned.[ ] according to a schleswig version of this belief, the spirits of the drowned do not enter the house, but linger about the threshold to announce their sad errand. a story is told of a young lad who was forced by his father to go to sea against his will. before starting, he bid farewell to his mother, and said, 'as you sit on the shore by the lake think of me.' shortly his ghost appeared to her there, and she only knew too well afterwards that he had perished. among maine fishermen there are similar stories of the ghost of the drowned being seen. mr. w. h. bishop, in 'harper's magazine' (sept. ) tells us 'there was particularly the story of the hascall. she broke loose from her moorings during a gale on george's banks, and ran into and sank the andrew johnson, and all on board. for years afterwards the spectres of the drowned men were reported to come on board the hascall at midnight, and go through the dumb show of fishing over the side, so that no one in gloucester could be got to sail her, and she would not have brought sixpence in the market.' a block island tradition affirms that the ghosts of certain refugees, drowned in the surf during the revolution, are often seen struggling to reach the shore, and occasionally their cries are distinctly heard.[ ] there is the well-known anecdote which lord byron, says moore,[ ] used sometimes to mention, and which captain kidd related to him on the passage. 'this officer stated that, being asleep one night in his berth, he was awakened by the pressure of something heavy on his limbs, and there being a faint light in the room, could see, as he thought, distinctly the figure of his brother, who was at that time in the same service in the east indies, dressed in his uniform, and stretched across the bed. concluding it to be an illusion, he shut his eyes, and made an effort to sleep. but still the same pressure continued; and as often as he ventured to take another look, he saw the figure lying across him in the same position. to add to the wonder, on putting his hand forth to touch this form, he found the uniform in which he appeared dripping wet. on the entrance of one of his brother officers, to whom he called out in alarm, the apparition vanished, but, in a few months afterwards, he received the startling intelligence that on that night his brother had been drowned in the indian seas. of the supernatural character of this appearance, captain kidd himself did not appear to have the slightest doubt.' a strange antipathy has long existed against rescuing a drowning man, one reason being that the person saved would at some time or other do injury to the man who rescued him. in china, however, this reluctance to give help to a drowning man arises from another form of the same superstitious dread, the idea being that the spirit of a person who has been drowned continues to flit along the surface of the water, until it has caused by drowning the death of a fellow creature. a person, therefore, who is bold enough to attempt to rescue another from drowning is believed to incur the hatred of the unquiet spirit, which is supposed to be desirous, even at the expense of a man's life, of escaping from its unceasing wandering. the bohemian fisherman shrinks from snatching a drowning man from the water, fearing that the water-demons would take away his luck in fishing, and drown him at the first opportunity. this, as dr. tylor points out,[ ] is a lingering survival of the ancient significance of this superstition, the explanation being that the water spirit is naturally angry at being despoiled of his victim, and henceforth bears a special grudge against the unlucky person who has dared to frustrate him. thus, when a person is drowned in germany the remark is often made, 'the river spirit claims his yearly sacrifice,' or 'the nix has taken him.' similarly the siamese dreads the pnük, or water spirit, that seizes unwary bathers, and drags them underneath the water; and the sioux indians tell how men have been drowned by unktahe, the water demon. speaking of the ghosts of the drowned among savage tribes, herbert spenser says:[ ] 'an eddy in the river, where floating sticks are whirled round and engulfed, is not far from the place where one of the tribe was drowned and never seen again. what more manifest, then, than that the double of this drowned man, malicious as the unburied dead ever are, dwells thereabouts, and pulls these things under the surface--nay, in revenge, seizes and drags down persons who venture near? when those who knew the drowned man are all dead, when, after generations, the details of the story, thrust aside by more recent stories, have been lost, there survives only the belief in a water demon haunting the place.' we may compare the practice of the kamchadals, who, instead of helping a man out of the water, would drown him by force. if rescued by any chance, no one would receive such a man into his house, or give him food, but he was reckoned as dead. footnotes: [ ] jones: _credulities past and present_, p. . [ ] _romances of west of england_, p. . [ ] thorpe's _northern mythology_, pp. , . [ ] quoted in bassett's 'legends of the sea,' from livermore's _history of block island_. [ ] _life of byron._ [ ] see tylor's _primitive culture_, i. p. . [ ] _principles of sociology_, p. . chapter xv ghost seers according to the popular creed, some persons have the peculiar faculty of seeing ghosts, a privilege which, it would seem, is denied to others. it has been urged, however, that under certain conditions of health there are those who are endowed with special powers of perception, whereby they are enabled to see objects not visible at other times. thus, as sir william hamilton has observed, 'however astonishing, it is now proved, beyond all rational doubt, that in certain abnormal states of the nervous organism, perceptions are possible through other than the ordinary channels of the senses.' but, without entering into this metaphysical question, folk-lore holds that persons born at a particular time of the day have the power of seeing ghosts. thus it is said in lancashire, that children born during twilight are supposed to have this peculiarity, and to know who of their acquaintance will next die. some say that this property belongs also to those who happen to be born exactly at twelve o'clock at night, or, as the peasantry say in somersetshire, 'a child born in chime-hours will have the power to see spirits.' the same belief prevails in yorkshire, where it is commonly supposed that children born during the hour after midnight have the privilege through life of seeing the spirits of the departed. mr. henderson says[ ] that 'a yorkshire lady informed him she was very near being thus distinguished, but the clock had not struck twelve when she was born. when a child she mentioned this circumstance to an old servant, adding that mamma was sure her birthday was the rd, not the th, for she had inquired at the time. "ay, ay," said the old woman, turning to the child's nurse, "mistress would be very anxious about _that_, for bairns born after midnight see more things than other folk."' this superstition prevails on the continent, and, in denmark, sunday children have prerogatives far from enviable. thorpe[ ] tells how 'in fyer there was a woman who was born on a sunday, and, like other sunday children, had the faculty of seeing much that was hidden from others. but, because of this property, she could not pass by the church at night without seeing a hearse or a spectre. the gift became a perfect burden to her; she therefore sought the advice of a man skilled in such matters, who directed her, whenever she saw a spectre, to say, "go to heaven!" but when she met a hearse, "hang on!" happening some time after to meet a hearse, she, through lapse of memory, cried out, "go to heaven!" and straightway the hearse rose in the air and vanished. afterwards meeting a spectre, she said to it, "hang on!" when the spectre clung round her neck, hung on her back, and drove her down into the earth before it. for three days her shrieks were heard before the spectre would put an end to her wretched life.' it is a popular article of faith in scotland that those who are born on christmas day or good friday have the power of seeing spirits, and even of commanding them, a superstition to which sir walter scott alludes in his 'marmion' (stanza xxii.). the spaniards imputed the haggard and downcast looks of their philip ii. to the disagreeable visions to which this privilege subjected him. among uncultured tribes it is supposed that spirits are visible to some persons and not to others. the 'natives of the antilles believed that the dead appeared on the roads when one went alone, but not when many went together; and among the finns the ghosts of the dead were to be seen by the shamans, but not by men generally unless in dreams.'[ ] it is, too, as already noticed,[ ] a popular theory with savage races that the soul appears in dreams to visit the sleeper, and hence it has been customary for rude tribes to drink various intoxicating substances, under the impression that when thrown into a state of ecstasy they would have pleasing visions. on this account certain tribes on the amazon use certain narcotic plants, producing an intoxication lasting twenty-four hours. during this period they are said to be subject to extraordinary visions, in the course of which they acquire information on any subject they may specially require. for a similar reason the inhabitants of north brazil, when anxious to discover some guilty person, were in the habit of administering narcotic drinks to seers, in whose dreams the criminal made his appearance. the californian indians would give children certain intoxicants, in order to gain from the ensuing vision information about their enemies. and the darien indians used the seeds of the _datura sanguinea_ to produce in children prophetic delirium, during which they revealed the whereabouts of hidden treasure. in our own country various charms have been practised from time immemorial for invoking spirits, and, as we shall show in a succeeding chapter, it is still a widespread belief that, by having recourse to certain spells at special seasons in the year, one, if so desirous, may be favoured with a view of the spirits of departed friends. footnotes: [ ] _folk-lore of northern counties_, p. . [ ] _northern mythology_, ii. p. . [ ] tylor's _primitive culture_, i. p. . [ ] chap. ii. chapter xvi ghostly death-warnings the belief in death-omens peculiar to certain families has long been a fruitful source of superstition, and has been embodied in many a strange legendary romance. such family forewarnings of death are of a most varied description, and are still said to be of frequent occurrence. an ancient roman catholic family in yorkshire, of the name of middleton, is supposed to be apprised of the death of any one of its members by the apparition of a benedictine nun; and sir walter scott, in his 'peveril of the peak,' tells us how a certain spirit is commonly believed to attend on the stanley family, warning them by uttering a loud shriek of some approaching calamity, and especially 'weeping and bemoaning herself before the death of any person of distinction belonging to the family.' in his 'waverley,' too, towards the end of fergus macivor's history, he alludes to the bodach glas, or dark grey man. mr. henderson says,[ ] 'its appearance foretold death in the clan of ----, and i have been informed on the most credible testimony of its appearance in our own day. the earl of e----, a nobleman alike beloved and respected in scotland, was playing on the day of his decease on the links of st. andrews at golf. suddenly he stopped in the middle of the game, saying, "i can play no longer, there is the bodach glas. i have seen it for the third time; something fearful is going to befall me." he died that night as he was handing a candlestick to a lady who was retiring to her room.' according to pennant, most of the great families in scotland had their death-omens. thus it is reported 'the family of grant rothiemurcus had the "bodach au dun," or the ghost of the hill; and the kinchardines the "lham-dearg," or the spectre of the bloody hand, of whom sir walter scott has given the subjoined account from macfarlane's mss.: "there is much talk of a spirit called 'ly-erg,' who frequents the glenmore. he appears with a red hand, in the habit of a soldier, and challenges men to fight with him. as lately as the year he fought with three brothers, one after another, who immediately died therefrom."' the family of gurlinbeg was haunted by garlin bodacher, and tulloch gorms by may moulach, or the girl with the hairy left hand.[ ] the synod gave frequent orders that inquiry should be made into the truth of this apparition, and one or two declared that they had seen one that answered the description. an ancestor of the family of mcclean, of lochburg, was commonly reported, before the death of any of his race, to gallop along the sea-beach announcing the death by dismal lamentations; and the banshee of loch nigdal used to be arrayed in a silk dress of greenish hue. reference is made elsewhere to the apparition of the black friar, the evil genius of the byrons, supposed to forebode misfortune to the member of the family to whom it appeared, and mr. hunt has described the death-token of the vingoes. it seems that above the deep caverns in a certain part of their estate rises a cairn. on this, it is asserted, chains of fire were formerly seen ascending and descending, which were frequently accompanied by loud and frightful noises. but it is affirmed that these warnings have not been heard since the last male of the family came to a violent end.[ ] whenever two owls are seen perched on the family mansion of the family of arundel of wardour, it is said that one of its members will shortly die. the strange appearance of a white-breasted bird[ ] was long thought to be a warning of death to a family of the name of oxenham, in devonshire. equally strange is the omen with which the old baronet's family of clifton, of clifton hall, in nottinghamshire, is forewarned when death is about to visit one of its members. it seems that, in this case, the omen takes the form of a sturgeon, which is seen forcing itself up the river trent, on whose bank the mansion of the clifton family is situated. with this curious tradition may be compared one connected with the edgewell oak, which is commonly reported to indicate the coming death of an inmate of castle dalhousie by the fall of one of its branches. burke, in his 'anecdotes of the aristocracy' ( , i. ), says that 'opposite the dining-room at gordon castle is a large and massive willow-tree, the history of which is somewhat singular. duke alexander, when four years of age, planted this willow in a tub filled with earth; the tub floated about in a marshy piece of land, till the shrub, expanding, burst its cerements, and struck root in the earth below; here it grew and prospered, till it attained the present goodly size. the duke regarded the tree with a sort of fatherly and even superstitious regard, half believing there was some mysterious affinity between its fortunes and his own. if an accident happened to the one by storm or lightning, some misfortune was not long in befalling the other.' it may be remembered, too, how in the park of chartley, near lichfield, has long been preserved the breed of the indigenous staffordshire cow, of sand white colour. in the battle of burton bridge a black calf was born, and the year of the downfall of the house of ferrers happening about the same time, gave rise to the tradition that the birth of a parti-coloured calf from the wild herd in chartley park is a sure omen of death within the same year to a member of the family. thus, 'by a noticeable coincidence,' says the 'staffordshire chronicle' (july ), 'a calf of this description has been born whenever a death has happened to the family of late years.' it appears that the death of the seventh earl ferrers, and of his countess, and of his son, viscount tamworth, and of his daughter, mrs. william joliffe, as well as the deaths of the son and heir of the eighth earl and of his daughter, lady francis shirley, were each preceded by the ominous birth of the fatal-hued calf. this tradition has been made the subject of a romantic story entitled 'chartley, or the fatalist.' walsingham, in his 'ypodigma neustriæ' ( , p. ), informs us how, on january , , just before the civil wars broke out between the houses of york and lancaster, the river ouse suddenly stood still at a place called harewood, about five miles from bedford, so that below this place the bed of the river was left dry for three miles together, and above it the waters swelled to a great height. the same thing is said to have happened at the same place in january , which was just before the death of charles i., and many superstitious persons 'have supposed both these stagnations of the ouse to be supernatural and portentous; others suppose them to be the effect of natural causes, though a probable natural cause has not yet been assigned.'[ ] the following curious anecdote, styled 'an irish water-fiend,' said to be perfectly well authenticated, is related in burke's 'anecdotes of the aristocracy' (i. ). the hero of the tale was the rev. james crawford, rector of the parish of killina, co. leitrim. in the autumn of , mr. crawford had occasion to cross the estuary called 'the rosses,' on the coast of donegal, and on a pillion behind him sat his sister-in-law, miss hannah wilson. they had advanced some distance, until the water reached the saddle-laps, when miss wilson became so alarmed that she implored mr. crawford to get back as fast as possible to land. 'i do not think there can be danger,' replied crawford, 'for i see a horseman crossing the ford not twenty yards before us.' miss wilson also saw the horseman. 'you had better hail him,' said she, 'and inquire the depth of the intervening water.' crawford checked his horse, and hallooed to the other horseman to stop. he did stop, and turning round, displayed a ghastly face grinning fiendishly at crawford, who waited for no further parley, but returned as fast as he could. on reaching home he told his wife of the spectral rencontre. the popular belief was that whenever any luckless person was foredoomed to be drowned in that estuary, the fatal event was foreshown to the doomed person by some such apparition as crawford had seen. despite this monitory warning, mr. crawford again attempted to cross the ford of the rosses upon september , , and was drowned in the attempt. a correspondent of the 'gentleman's magazine' speaks of a superstition prevalent among the peasantry in worcestershire, that when storms, heavy rains, or other elemental strifes take place at the death of a great man, the spirit of the storm will not be appeased till the moment of burial. 'this superstition,' he adds, 'gained great strength on the occasion of the duke of wellington's funeral, when, after some weeks of heavy rain, and one of the highest floods ever known in this country, the skies began to clear, and both rain and flood abated. it was a common observation in this part of the country, in the week before the interment of his grace, "oh, the rain won't give over till the duke is buried."' in germany several princes have their warnings of death. in some instances it is the roaring of a lion, and in others the howling of a dog. occasionally a similar announcement was made by the tolling of a bell, or the striking of a clock at an unusual time. then there is the time-honoured white lady, whose mysterious appearance has from time immemorial been supposed to indicate some event of importance. according to a popular legend, the white lady is seen in many of the castles of german princes and nobles, by night as well as by day, especially when the death of any member of the family is imminent. she is regarded as the ancestress of the race, 'shows herself always in snow white garments, carries a bunch of keys at her side, and sometimes rocks and watches over the children at night when their nurses sleep.' the earliest instance of this apparition was in the sixteenth century, and is famous under the name of 'bertha of rosenberg,' in bohemia. the white lady of other princely castles was identified with bertha, and the identity was accounted for by the intermarriages of other princely houses with members of the house of rosenberg,[ ] in whose train the white lady passed into their castles. according to mrs. crowe[ ] the white lady was long supposed to be a countess agnes of orlamunde; but a picture of a princess called bertha, or perchta von rosenberg, discovered some time since, was thought so to resemble the apparition, that it is a disputed point which of the two ladies it is, or whether it is or is not the same apparition that is seen at different places. the opinion of its being the princess bertha, who lived in the fifteenth century, was somewhat countenanced by the circumstance that, at a period when, in consequence of the war, an annual benefit which she had bequeathed to the poor was neglected, the apparition appeared more frequently, and seemed to be unusually disturbed. the 'archæologia' (xxxiii.) gives an extract from brereton's 'travels' (i. ), which sets forth how the queen of bohemia told william brereton 'that at berlin--the elector of brandenburg's house--before the death of any related in blood to that house, there appears and walks up and down that house like unto a ghost in a white sheet, which walks during the time of their sickness and until their death.'[ ] cardan and henningius grosius relate a similar marvel of some of the ancient families of italy, the following being recorded by the latter authority: 'jacopo donati, one of the most important families in venice, had a child, the heir to the family, very ill. at night, when in bed, donati saw the door of his chamber opened and the head of a man thrust in. knowing that it was not one of his servants, he roused the house, drew his sword, went over the whole palace, all the servants declaring that they had seen such a head thrust in at the doors of their several chambers at the same hour; the fastenings were found all secure, so that no one could have come in from without. the next day the child died.' burton, in his 'anatomy of melancholy,' says that near rufus nova, in finland, sweden, 'there is a lake in which, when the governor of the castle dies, a spectrum is seen, in the habit of arion, with a harp, and makes excellent music, like those clocks in cheshire which (they say) presage death to the master of the family; or that oak in lanthadran park, in cornwall, which foreshows as much.' one of the most celebrated ghosts of this kind in britain is the white lady of avenel, the creation of sir walter scott. in the highlands it was long a common belief that many of the chiefs had some kind spirit to watch over the fortunes of their house. popular tradition has many well-known legends about white ladies, who generally dwell in forts and mountains as enchanted maidens waiting for deliverance. they delight to appear in warm sunshine to poor shepherds, or herd boys. they are either combing their long hair or washing themselves, drying wheat or spinning, they also point out treasures, &c. they wear snow-white or half-white black garments, yellow or green shoes, and a bunch of keys at their side. all these and many other traits that appear in individual legends may be traced back to a goddess of german mythology who influences birth and death, and presides over the ordering of the household.[ ] an interesting instance of a death-warning among uncultured tribes is told by mr. lang,[ ] on the authority of mr. j. j. atkinson, late of noumea, new caledonia, which is curious because it offers among the kanekas an example of a belief current in breton folk-lore. mr. atkinson relates how one day a kaneka of his acquaintance paid a visit and seemed loth to go away. after some hesitation he explained that he was about to die, and would never see his english friend again, as his fate was sealed. he had lately met in the wood one whom he took for the kaneka girl of his heart, but he became aware too late that she was no mortal woman, but a wood-spirit in the guise of his beloved. as he said, so it happened, for the unlucky man shortly afterwards died. 'this is the ground-work,' adds mr. lang, 'of the old breton ballad of "le sieur nann," who died after his intrigue with the forest spectre!' a version of the ballad is printed by de la villemarque, barzaz-breiz (i. ), and variants exist in swedish, french, and even in a lowland scotch version, sung by children in a kind of dancing game.[ ] another story quoted by mr. lang tells how, in , a maneroo black fellow died in the service of mr. du ve. 'the day before he died, having been ill some time, he said that in the night his father, his father's friend, and a female spirit he could not recognise, had come to him, and said that he would die next day, and that they would wait for him.' mr. du ve adds that, 'though previously the christian belief had been explained to this man, it had entirely failed, and that he had gone back to the belief of his childhood.' but cases of this kind, it would appear, are not uncommon among rude races, and have a special value to the student of comparative folk-lore. footnotes: [ ] _folk-lore of northern counties_, p. . [ ] see _sir walter scott's poetical works_, , viii. p. . [ ] _popular romances of west of england_, p. . [ ] see chapter on 'phantom birds.' [ ] _gentleman's magazine_, , p. . [ ] see moncure conway's _demonology and devil lore_. [ ] _night side of nature_, , p. . [ ] see _notes and queries_, th s. xi. p. . [ ] chambers's _encyclopædia_, , x. p. . [ ] the _nineteenth century_, april , p. ; _myth, ritual, and religion_, , i. p. . [ ] fison's _kamilaroi and kurnai_, p. . chapter xvii 'second sight' the power of seeing things invisible to others is commonly known as 'second sight,' a peculiarity which the ancient gaels called 'shadow sight.' the subject has, for many years past, excited popular interest, and demanded the attention even of our learned men. dr. johnson was so favourably impressed with the notion of 'second sight,' that after, in the course of his travels, giving the subject full inquiry, he confessed that he never could 'advance his curiosity to conviction, but came away at last only willing to believe.' sir walter scott, too, went so far as to say that 'if force of evidence could authorise us to believe facts inconsistent with the general laws of nature, enough might be produced in favour of the existence of "second sight."' when we recollect how all history and tradition abound in instances of this belief, oftentimes apparently resting on evidence beyond impeachment, it is not surprising that it has numbered among its adherents advocates of most schools of thought. although, too, of late years the theory of 'second sight' has not been so widely preached as formerly, yet it must not be supposed that the stories urged in support of it are less numerous, or that it has ceased to be regarded as great a mystery as in days gone by. in defining 'second sight' as a singular faculty 'of seeing an otherwise invisible object without any previous means used by the person that beholds it for that end,' we are at once confronted with the well-known axiom that 'a man cannot be in two places at once,' a rule with which it is difficult to reconcile such statements as those recorded by pennant of a gentleman of the hebrides said to have had the gift of foreseeing visitors in time to get ready for them, or the anecdote which tells how st. ambrose fell into a comatose state while celebrating the mass at milan, and on his recovery asserted that he had been present at st. martin's funeral at tours, where it was afterwards declared he had been seen. but it must be remembered that believers in 'second sight' base their faith not so much on metaphysical definitions as on the evidence of daily experience, it being of immaterial importance to them how impossible a certain doctrine may seem, provided it only has the testimony of actual witnesses in its favour. hence, in spite of all arguments against the so-called 'second sight,' it is urged, on the other hand, that visions coinciding with real facts and events occurring at a distance--oftentimes thousands of miles away--are beheld by persons possessing this remarkable faculty. thus collins, in his ode on the 'popular superstitions of the highlands,' alludes to this belief: to monarchs dear, some hundred miles astray oft have they seen fate give the fatal blow. the seer, in sky, shrieked as the blood did flow when headless charles warm on the scaffold lay. accounts differ largely respecting the faculty of 'second sight.' some make it hereditary, and according to an account communicated to aubrey from a gentleman at strathspey, some of the seers acknowledged the possibility of teaching it. a correspondent of the 'gentleman's magazine'[ ] says 'the visions attendant on "second sight" are not confined to solemn or important events. the future visit of a mountebank or piper, the arrival of common travellers, or, if possible, still more trifling matters than these, are foreseen by the seers. not only aged men and women have the "second sight," but also children, horses, and cows. children endowed with that faculty manifest it by crying aloud at the very time a corpse appears to a seer. that horses possess it is likewise plain, from their violent and sudden starting when their rider, or a seer in company with him, sees a vision of any kind, by night or by day. it is observable of a horse, that he will not go forwards towards the apparition but must be led round, at some distance from the common road; his terror is evident, from his becoming all over in a profuse sweat, although quite cool a moment before. balaam's ass seems to have possessed this power or faculty; and, perhaps, what we improperly style a startlish horse may be one who has the gift of the "second sight." that cows have the "second sight" is proved by the following circumstance. if a woman, whilst milking a cow, happen to have a vision of that kind, the cow runs away in a great fright at the same instant, and cannot, for some time, be brought to stand quietly.' it is further added, that persons who have not long been gifted with 'second sight,' after seeing a vision without doors, on coming into a house, and approaching the fire, will immediately fall into a swoon. all those, too, who have the 'second sight' do not see these appearances at the same time, but if one having this faculty designedly touches his fellow seer at the instant that a vision appears to him, in that case it will be seen by both. goethe relates that as he was once riding along a footpath towards drusenheim, he saw, 'not with the eyes of his body, but with those of his spirit, himself on horseback coming towards him, in a dress that he then did not possess. it was grey, and trimmed with gold. eight years afterwards he found himself, quite accidentally, on that spot, on horseback, and in precisely that attire.'[ ] in a scottish lawyer, sir george mackenzie, afterwards lord tarbat, when driven to the highlands by fear of the government of cromwell, made very extensive inquiries concerning this supposed supernatural faculty, and wrote an elaborate account of its manifestations to the celebrated robert boyle, published in the correspondence of samuel pepys. aubrey, too, devoted considerable attention to the subject, and in the year appeared the treatise of 'theophilus insularum,' with about one hundred cases gathered from various sources. it was, however, in scotland that this belief gained a specially strong footing. in the year , a traveller writing of the peasants of kirkcudbrightshire relates: 'it is common among them to fancy that they see the wraiths of persons dying which will be visible to one and not to others present with him. within these last twenty years it was hardly possible to meet with any person who had not seen many wraiths and ghosts in the course of his experience.' indeed, we are told that many of the highlanders gained a lucrative livelihood by enlightening their neighbours on matters revealed to them through 'second sight;' and mr. jamieson writes: 'whether this belief was communicated to the scotch by the northern nations who so long had possession of it, i shall not pretend to determine, but traces of the same wonderful faculty may be found among the scandinavians.' one of the best illustrations of this superstition as it prevailed in the highlands is that given by dr. johnson in his 'journey to the hebrides': 'a man on a journey far from home falls from a horse; another, who is perhaps at work about the house, sees him bleeding on the ground, commonly with a landscape of the place where the accident befalls him. another seer, driving home his cattle, or wandering in idleness, or musing in the sunshine, is suddenly surprised by the appearance of a bridal ceremony, or funeral procession, and counts the mourners or attendants, of whom, if he knows them, he relates the names; if he knows them not, he can describe the dresses. things distant are seen at the instant when they happen.' 'at the literary club,' says boswell, 'before johnson came in, we talked of his "journey to the western islands," and of his coming away "willing to believe the 'second sight,'" which seemed to excite some ridicule. i was then so impressed with many of the stories which i had been told, that i avowed my conviction, saying, "he is only willing to believe--i do believe; the evidence is enough for me, though not for his great mind. what will not fill a quart bottle will fill a pint bottle; i am filled with belief." "are you?" said george colman; "then cork it up."' it is not many years ago since a man lived at blackpool who was possessed, as he pretended, by this faculty, and was visited by persons from all parts anxious to gain information about absent friends. this belief, it may be added, is not confined to our own country, curious traces of it being found among savage tribes. thus captain jonathan carver obtained from a cree medicine man a correct prophesy of the arrival of a canoe with news the following day at noon; and we are told how, when mr. mason brown was travelling with the _voyageurs_ on the coppermine river, he was met by indians of the very band he was seeking, these having been despatched by their medicine-man, who, on being interrogated, affirmed that 'he saw them coming, and heard them talk on their journey.' again, persons gifted with 'second sight' are said not only to know particular events at a distance precisely at the same moment as they happen, but also to have a foreknowledge of them before they take place, for-- as the sun, ere it is risen, sometimes paints its image in the atmosphere, so often do the spirits of great events stride on before the events, and in to-day already walks to-morrow. dr. tylor, in his 'primitive culture,' relates the case of a shetland lady who affirmed how, some years ago, she and a girl leading her pony recognised the familiar figure of one peter sutherland, whom they knew to be at the time in edinburgh. he turned a corner, and they saw him no more, but next week came the news of his sudden death. a curious old story illustrative of 'second sight,' of which there are several versions, is that of 'booty's ghost,' an account of which occurs in kirby's 'wonderful and eccentric museum' (ii. ). it was an action for slander of a deceased husband brought by the widow, and the following extract, which contains an outline of the strange tale, is from the journal of mr. spinks: '_friday, may , ._--we had the observation of mr. booty this day. captain barrisby, captain bristowe, captain brown, i, and mr. ball, merchant, went on shore in captain barnaby's boat to shoot rabbits upon stromboli; and when we had done, we called our men together by us, and about half an hour and fourteen minutes after three in the afternoon, to our great surprise, we all of us saw two men come running towards us with such swiftness that no living man could run half so fast as they did run, when all of us heard captain barnaby say, "lord, bless me! the foremost is old booty, my next door neighbour," but he said he did not know the other that run behind; he was in black clothes, and the foremost was in grey. then captain barnaby desired all of us to take an account of the time, and put it down in our pocket-books, and when we got on board we wrote it in our journals; for we saw them into the flames of fire, and there was a great noise which greatly affrighted us all, for we none of us ever saw or heard the like before. captain barnaby said he was certain it was old booty, which he saw running over stromboli and into the flames of hell. it is stated that captain barnaby told his wife, and she told somebody else, and that it was afterwards told to mrs. booty, who arrested captain barnaby in a thousand pound action for what he had said of her husband. captain barnaby gave bail to it, and it came on to a trial in the court of king's bench, and they had mr. booty's wearing apparel brought into court, and the sexton of the parish, and the people that were with him when he died; and we swore to our journals, and it came to the same time within two minutes. ten of our men swore to the buttons on his coat, and that they were covered with the same sort of cloth his coat was made of, and so it proved. the jury asked mr. spinks if he knew mr. booty. he answered, "i never saw him till he ran by me on the burning mountain."' the chief justice from april to february was sir robert wright. his name is not given in the report, but the judge said: 'lord, have mercy on me, and grant that i may never see what you have seen. one, two, or three may be mistaken, but thirty can never be mistaken.' so the widow lost her suit.[ ] it appears, also, that coming events are mostly forecasted by various symbolic omens which generally take the form of spectral exhibitions. thus, a phantom shroud seen in the morning on a living person is said to betoken his death in the course of the day; but if seen late in the evening, no particular time is indicated, further than that it will take place within the year. if, too, the shroud does not cover the whole body, the fulfilment of the vision may be expected at some distant period. but these kind of omens vary largely in different countries; and, on the continent, where much misplaced faith is attached to them, they are frequently the source of much needless dread. footnotes: [ ] , part ii. pp. , . [ ] quoted in mrs. crowe's _night side of nature_, , p. . [ ] see _notes and queries_, st s. iii. . chapter xviii compacts between the living and dead sometimes ghosts appear in consequence of an agreement made before death with some particular friend, that he or she who first died should appear to the survivor. numerous tales are told illustrative of this belief, one of the best authenticated being that recorded by lord brougham,[ ] who, speaking of his intimate friend at the university, writes: 'there was no divinity class, but we frequently in our walks discussed and speculated upon many grave subjects, among others, on the immortality of the soul and on a future state. this question and the possibility, i will not say of ghosts walking, but of the dead appearing to the living, were subjects of much speculation; and we actually committed the folly of drawing up an agreement written with our blood, to the effect that whichever of us died first should appear to the other, and thus solve any doubts we had entertained of the "life after death."' years afterwards--on december , --when lord brougham had almost forgotten the existence of his friend, as he was taking a warm bath, he appeared to him; but, as he adds, 'no doubt i had fallen asleep, and the appearance presented to my eyes was a dream. i recollected quickly enough our old discussion, and the bargain we had made. i could not discharge from my mind the impression that my friend must have died, and that his appearance to me was to be received by me as a proof of his future state.' in october lord brougham made this postscript: 'i have just been copying out from my journal the account of this strange dream--_certissima mortis imago_. and now to finish the story begun about sixty years since. soon after my return to edinburgh, there arrived a letter from india, announcing g----'s death, and stating that he had died on the th of december.' a curious story is told by john darley, carthusian monk, who relates that, as he was attending upon the death bed of father raby, in , he said to the expiring man, 'good father raby, if the dead can visit the living, i beseech you to pay a visit to me by-and-by;' and raby answered, 'yes;' immediately after which he drew his last breath. but on the same afternoon, about five o'clock, as darley was meditating in his cell, the departed man suddenly appeared to him in a monk's habit, and said to him, 'why do you not follow our father?' and i replied, 'why?' he said, 'because he is a martyr in heaven next to the angels.' then i said, 'where are all our fathers who did like to him?' he answered and said, 'they are all pretty well, but not so well as he is.' and then i asked him how he was, and he said 'pretty well.' and i said, 'father, shall i pray for you?' to which he replied, 'i am as well as need be, but prayer is at all times good,' and with these words he vanished.[ ] there is the well-known beresford ghost tale, about which so many accounts have been given. it appears that lord tyrone and miss blank were orphans, educated in the same house 'in the principles of deism.' when they were about fourteen years old their preceptor died, and their new guardian tried to persuade them to embrace revealed religion. the boy and girl stuck to deism. but they made a compact, that he or she who died first should appear to the survivor, 'to declare what religion was most approved by the supreme being.' miss blank married st. martin beresford, and one day she appeared at breakfast with a pale face, and a black band round her wrist. on her death-bed she explained how the ghost of lord tyrone had appeared to her at the hour of his death, and had correctly prophesied her future: 'he struck my wrist; his hand was as cold as marble; in a moment the sinews shrank up, every nerve withered.... i bound a piece of black ribbon round my wrist.' the black ribbon was formerly in the possession of lady betty cobb, who, during her long life, was ever ready to attest the truth of this narration, as are, to the present hour, the whole of the tyrone and beresford families.[ ] as mr. andrew lang points out in the 'nineteenth century,'[ ] lord tyrone merely did what many ghosts had done before in the matter of touching lady beresford's wrist. thus, as he says, according to henry more, 'one' (bogie) 'took a relation of melanchthon's by the hand, and so scorched her that she bore the mark of it to her dying day.' before melanchthon the anecdote was improved by eudes de shirton, in a sermon, who tells how a certain clerk, serlon, made with a friend the covenant which miss blank made with lord tyrone. the friend died, and appeared to serlon 'in a parchment cloak, covered with the finest writing in the world.' being asked how he fared, he said that this cloak, a punishment for his love of logic, weighed heavier than lead, and scorched like the shirt of nessus. then he held out his hand, and let fall a drop which burned serlon to the bone-- and evermore that master wore a covering on his wrist. before eudes de shirton, william of malmesbury knew this anecdote. his characters are two clerks, an epicurean and a platonist, who made the usual compact that the first to die should appear to the survivor, and state whether plato's ideas, or epicurus in his atoms, were the correct reply to the conundrum of the universe. the visit was to be paid within thirty days of the death. one of the philosophical pair was killed, and appeared to the other, but after the time arranged, explaining that he had been unable to keep his appointment earlier, and, stretching out his hand, let fall three burning drops of blood, which branded the brow of the psychical inquirer. mrs. grant, in her 'superstitions of the highlands,' tells how a widow, returning home through a wood at dusk, was met by her husband's ghost, 'who led her carefully along a difficult bridge, but left a blue mark on her wrist which the neighbours had opportunities of seeing during the week; she survived the adventure.' a similar circumstance is related by richard baxter,[ ] in connection with a lady, soon after the restoration, when parliament was passing acts which pressed sore on the dissenters. while praying for the deliverance of the faithful from the evils which threatened them, 'it was suddenly given her, that there should be a speedy deliverance, even in a very short time. she desired to know which way, and it being set strongly on her as a revelation, she prayed earnestly that if this were a true divine impulse and revelation, god would certify her by some sign, and she ventured to choose the sign herself, and laid her hand on the outside of the upper part of her leg, begging of god, that if it were a true answer, he would make on that place some visible mark. there was presently the mark of black spots, like as if a hand had burnt it, which her sister witnessed, there being no such sign before.' in scott's well-known ballad, the phantom knight impresses an indelible mark on the lady who has been his paramour, and in the tartan stories, written by a frenchman, a ghost appears to prince faruk in a dream, and touches him on the arm. the prince finds the mark of the burn when he awakes.[ ] there are numerous stories of this kind scattered here and there in the traditionary lore of this and other countries, and such indelible marks, left by ghosts of their visits, have been held as a mysterious proof of their materialistic power. a correspondent of 'notes and queries' ( nd s. v. ) vouches for the authenticity of the following 'incontrovertible facts,' which, he says, 'occurred to a friend of my own, and to the companion of his early youth, who, having obtained a cadetship, went to india.' the story runs thus. 'the former was towards evening driving across a long barren heath. suddenly, by his side in the vehicle, was seen the figure of his playmate. happening to turn his head from him to the horse, and on looking again, the apparition had vanished. remembering the conversation that they had held together at parting, he doubted not but that his friend was at that moment dead, and that in his appearing to him, he was come in the fulfilment of their mutual promise, in order to remove all pre-existing doubts as to the possibility of a denizen of a higher sphere appearing to its friend on earth. by the next indian mail was received intelligence of his death, showing the exact coincidence as to the time of the two events.' in the biography of william smellie is the history of a compact he made with his friend william greenlaw, whereby it was mutually agreed that whoever died first should return and give the other an account of his condition after death. shortly after the anniversary of his death, the ghost of greenlaw is reported to have appeared to smellie, and in a solemn tone informed him 'that he had experienced great difficulties in procuring permission to return to this earth, according to their agreement; that he was now in a much better world than the one he had left,' but added 'that the hopes and wishes of its inhabitants were by no means satisfied, as, like those of the lower world, they still looked forward in the hope of eventually reaching a still happier state of existence.' another case of a similar kind is that of the appearance of the rev. theodore alois buckley, formerly one of the chaplains of christ church, oxford, to his friend mr. kenneth mackenzie. the story, as narrated in newton crosland's 'theory of apparitions,' is, that about the year the two friends, when at oxford, entered into a compact of the kind already described, the signal of appearance arranged between them being the laying of a ghostly hand on the forehead of the surviving friend. on january , , mr. buckley died, and on february , it is said, kept the agreement, for as mr. mackenzie 'was lying in bed, watching the candle expiring, he felt placed over one eye and his forehead a cool, damp hand, and on looking up saw buckley in his ordinary apparel, with his portfolio under his arm standing by his bedside.' the duchess of mazarin is said to have appeared to madame de beauclair, in accordance with a solemn compact made in life, that whoever died first should return, if it were possible, and inform the other of the existence of the future state. but it was some years after her death that the duchess kept her promise, and when she did, it was to make this announcement: 'beauclair, between the hours of twelve and one this night you will be with me.' the non-appearance of her friend's spirit for so long had caused madame de beauclair to doubt the non-existence of a future life.[ ] but in some cases such compacts have not been kept. dr. chance tells us in 'notes and queries' ( th s. ii. ) that in - , as a young man, he made such a compact, but when his friend died in he did not appear, neither has he ever done so. to quote dr. chance's words: 'it is true my friend died about noon, and that i knew of his death the same evening, so that if he had appeared to me i should have learnt nothing new, whilst in most, if not all, of the recorded cases the apparition has been the first to convey the intelligence of the death. but this did not exonerate my friend from his promise; and if he did not keep it, i must take it that he could not come, for nothing but inability would have kept me from fulfilling my share of the compact if i had been called upon to do so.' in mather's 'remarkable providences' the failure of a spirit to keep a promise of appearing after its separation from the body is referred to, the author being of opinion that there is great hazard attending such covenants. to quote his words: 'it may be after men have made such agreements, devils may appear to them pretending to be their deceased friends, and thereby their souls may be drawn in woful snares. who knoweth whether god will permit the persons, who have thus confederated, to appear in the world again after their death? and if not, then the survivor will be under great temptation unto atheism, as it fell out with the late earl of rochester, who (as is reported in his life by dr. burnet) did in the year enter into a formal engagement with another gentleman, not without ceremonies of religion, that if either of them died, he should appear, and give the other notice of the future state if there were any. after this the other gentleman was killed, but did never appear after his death to the earl of rochester, which was a great snare to him during the rest of his life. though, when god awakened the earl's conscience upon his death-bed, he could not but acknowledge that one who had so corrupted the natural principles of truth as he had done, had no reason to expect that such an extraordinary thing should be done for his conviction. or if such agreement should necessitate an apparition, how would the world be confounded with spectres; how many would probably be scared out of their wits; or what curious questions would vain men be proposing about things which are (and it is meet they should be) hid from mortals?' footnotes: [ ] _life and times of lord brougham_, written by himself, . [ ] see brand's _popular antiquities_, , iii. p. . [ ] dr. f. g. lee: _glimpses of the supernatural_; the subject has been discussed in _notes and queries_. [ ] _comparative study of ghost stories_, april , pp. , . [ ] _certainty of a world of spirits_, p. . [ ] yardley's _supernatural in fiction_, p. . [ ] t. m. jarvis: _accredited ghost stories_, chapter xix miners' ghosts mines have long been supposed to be haunted, a fact which is no cause of wonderment, considering the many unearthly sounds--such as 'the dripping of water down the shafts, the tunnelling of distant passages, the rumbling of trains from some freshly-exploded lode'--constantly to be heard there. in early times it was thought that all mines of gold, &c. were guarded by evil spirits, a belief to which falstaff alludes in henry iv. (act iv. sc. ), where he speaks of 'learning a mere hoard of gold kept by a devil.' the peruvian indians affirm that the treasures in emerald mines are guarded by evil spirits, and stevenson, speaking of the emerald mine in the neighbourhood of los esmeraldos, writes: 'i never visited it, owing to the superstitious dread of the natives, who assured me it was enchanted, and guarded by a dragon, which poured forth thunder and lightning on those who dared to ascend the river.' the spirits that haunt mines are considered to be unfriendly, because, as an old writer quoted by reginald scot remarks, 'they do exceedingly envy every man's benefit in the discovery of hidden treasure, ever haunting such places where money is concealed, and diffusing malevolent and poisonous influences to blast the lives and limbs of those that dare attempt the discovery thereof.' and 'modern authors,' adds fuller, 'avouch that malignant spirits haunt the places where precious metals are found, as if the devil did there sit abrood to hatch them, cunningly pretending an unwillingness to part with them; whereas, indeed, he gains more by one mine minted out into money than by a thousand concealed in the earth.' it is supposed by the people who live in the neighbourhood of largo law, in fife, that there is a very rich mine of gold under and near the mountain, which has never yet been properly searched for. so convinced are they that this is so, that, whenever they see the wool of a sheep's side tinged with yellow, they think it has acquired that colour from having lain above the gold of the mine. many years ago a ghost made its appearance upon the spot, supposed to be acquainted with the secret of the mine, but, as it required to be spoken to before it would condescend to speak, the question arose as to who should accost it. at length a shepherd volunteered to ask the ghost the cause of its haunting this locality, and to his surprise it proved very affable, promising to appear on a particular night at eight o'clock, when, said the spirit, if auchindownie cock disna craw, and balmain horn disna blaw, i'll tell ye where the gowd mine is in largo law. true to its promise, the ghost came ready to divulge the secret, when tammie norrie, the cowherd of balmain, either through obstinacy or forgetfulness, 'blew a blast both loud and dread,' at which the ghost vanished, after exclaiming-- woe to the man that blew the horn for out of the spot he shall ne'er be borne. the unfortunate horn-blower was struck dead on the spot, and as it was found impossible to remove his body, which seemed, as it were, pinned to the earth, a cairn of stones was raised over it, known still as norrie's law, and which is regarded as uncanny by the peasantry.[ ] again, frequent accidents in mines were thought to be a proof of the potency 'of the metallic spirits, which so tormented the workmen in german mines, and in those of other countries, by blindness, giddiness, and sudden sickness, that they were obliged frequently to abandon mines well known to be rich in metals.'[ ] strange noises are oftentimes a puzzle to the miner, and suggest a supernatural agency. in the mine at wheal vor, where there appears to have been a general belief in 'tokens' and supernatural appearances, a man one morning, on being relieved from his turn as watcher, reported that during the night he had heard a sound like the emptying of a cartload of rubbish in front of the account house where he was staying. on going out nothing was to be seen. the man, considering the strange sound as a warning, pined away and died within a few weeks. the cornish miner too has long been a firm believer in the existence of a mysterious being known as the 'knocker.' the late charles kingsley, in his 'yeast,' asks, 'who are the knockers?' to which question tregarra answers: 'they are the ghosts, the miners hold, of the old jews that crucified our lord, and were sent for slaves by the roman emperors to work the mines.... we used to break into the old shafts and adits which they had made, and find fine old stag's horn pickaxes, that crumbled to pieces when we brought them to grass. and they say that if a man will listen on a still night about these shafts, he may hear the ghosts of them at work, knocking and picking, as clear as if there was a man at work in the next level.' in some districts the knockers are designated 'the buccas,' and, generally speaking, they work upon productive lodes only. an interesting illustration of these strange beings is given in carne's 'tales of the west,' wherein we read how 'the rolling of the barrows, the sound of the pickaxes, and the fall of the earth and stones, are distinctly heard through the night, often, no doubt, the echo of their own labours; but sometimes continued long after the labour has ceased, and occasionally voices seem to mingle with them.' in wales, when a mysterious thumping, not produced by any human being, is heard, and when, in examining the spot from whence the sound proceeded, indications of ore oftentimes are detected, the sturdiest incredulity is shaken.[ ] in such cases, 'science points out that the noise may be produced by the action of water upon the loose stones in fissures and pot-holes of the mountain limestone, and does actually suggest the presence of metals.' furthermore, as the late mr. wirt sikes rightly suggests, 'in the days before a priestley had caught and bottled that demon which exists in the shape of carbonic acid gas, when the miner was smitten dead by an invisible foe in the deep bowels of the earth, it was natural that his awe-struck companions should ascribe the mysterious blow to a supernatural enemy. when the workman was assailed suddenly by what we now call fire-damp, which killed him and his companions upon the dark rocks, scorching, burning, and killing, those who survived were not likely to question the existence of the mine-fiend.' hence, too, originated the superstition of basilisks in mines, which destroyed with their terrible gaze.[ ] in the 'colliery guardian' for may , , many strange superstitions are described, in which it is stated that the pitmen in the midland counties have or had a belief unknown to the north, in aerial whistlings warning them against the pit. who or what the invisible musicians were, nobody pretended to know, but they generally consisted of seven, as the 'seven whistlers' is the name they bear to this day.[ ] an instance of this superstition is given in the 'times' of september , . owing to certain nocturnal sounds, a large number of the men employed at some of the bedworth collieries in north warwickshire refused to descend the coal-pits in which they were employed. during sunday it was stated that these sounds had been distinctly heard in the neighbourhood of bedworth, and the result was that on the following morning, when labour should have been resumed, the men pointedly refused to work. the northern mines were supposed to be haunted by two goblins. one was a spiteful elf, who indicated his presence only by the mischief he perpetrated. he rejoiced in the name of 'cutty soams,' and appears 'to have amused himself by severing the rope-traces or soams, by which an assistant putter, honoured by the title of "the fool," is yoked to the tub. the strands of hemp, which were left all sound in the board at "kenner-time," were found next morning severed in twain. "'cutty soams' has been at work," would the fool and his driver say, dolefully knotting the cord.' the other goblin was no other than a ghostly putter, and his name was 'bluecap.' sometimes the miners would perceive a light blue flame flicker through the air, and settle on a full coal-tub, which immediately moved towards the rolley way, as though impelled by the sturdiest sinews in the working. industrious bluecap was at his vocation, but he required to be paid for his services; therefore, once a fortnight, his wages were left for him in a solitary corner of the mine. if they were a farthing below his due, the indignant bluecap would not pocket a stiver; if they were a farthing above his due, bluecap left the surplus where he found it. a hewer was asked if bluecap's wages were nowadays to be left for him, whether they would be appropriated. the man shrewdly answered he thought they would be taken by bluecap, or somebody else. but as most mines are productive, more or less, of the same weird echoes, we find similar stories current in different localities of strange hammerings and knockings. a story is told in north ayrshire of a miner who, day by day, heard the sounds of a pick on the other side of the coal into which he was digging, which so terrified him, that at last he sought the help of a minister to protect him 'from the machinations of the devil.' the good man having asked him how many 'holings'--the depth of coal displaced by one blasting--there were before the wall between him and the evil spirit could be broken through, sent him back to work until there was only one 'holing' between them. then he was to take a piece of bread, and crumble it all down in a train to the mouth of the pit, and again resuming his pick, to strike through the dividing coal. the moment this was done, he was to cry 'the hole's mine!' and make for the mouth of the pit as fast as he could. these directions the miner carefully followed, but he had a narrow escape, for he had no sooner reached his place of safety than the walls of the pit came close together with a thundering crash. another story, recorded in 'communications with the unseen world,' tells how, for many years, the overseer of a mine at whitehaven was a cumberland man, but being found guilty of some unfair proceedings, he was dismissed by the proprietors from his post, though employed in an inferior one. the new overseer was a northumberland man, to whom the degraded overseer bore the strongest hatred, and was heard to say that some day he would be his ruin. one day they were both destroyed by fire-damp, and it was believed in the mine that, preferring revenge to life, the ex-overseer had taken his successor, less acquainted than himself with the localities of the mine, into a place where he knew the fire-damp to exist, without a safety lamp, and had thus contrived his destruction. but, ever after, in the place where the two men perished, their voices might be heard high in dispute, the northumbrian burr being distinctly audible, and also the well-known pronunciation of the treacherous murderer. the mysterious apparition of a woman who committed suicide was supposed to haunt polbreen mine, cornwall, locally known as 'dorcas.' she appeared to take a malicious delight in tormenting the miner when at work, calling him by his name, and enticing him from his duties. this was carried on by her to such an extent that when 'a tributer' had made a poor month, he was commonly asked if he had 'been chasing dorcas.' on one occasion only, dorcas is said to have acted kindly. it is stated[ ] that two miners, who may be styled martin and jacky, were at work in their end, and at the time busily engaged 'beating the borer.' the name of jack was distinctly uttered between the blows. he stopped and listened--all was still. they proceeded with their task, a blow on the iron rod--'jacky!' another blow--'jacky!' they pause--all is silent. 'well, thee wert called, jacky,' said martin, 'go and see.' jacky, however, disregarded the sound, work was resumed, and 'jacky! jacky! jacky!' was called more vehemently and distinctly than before. jacky threw down his hammer, resolved to satisfy himself as to the person who was calling him. but he had not proceeded many yards from the spot on which he had been standing at work, when a mass of rock fell from the roof of the level weighing many tons, which would have crushed him to death. martin had been stooping, holding the borer, and a projecting corner of rock just above him turned off the falling mass. he was securely enclosed, but he was extricated without injury. jack declared to his dying day that he owed his life to dorcas. a similar experience is recorded by mr. john lean in the 'west briton,' who relates how, when he was underground hundreds of fathoms distant from any other human being at wheal jewell, a mine in the parish of gwennap, 'as he was walking slowly and silently through the level, his thoughts, as it were, absorbed, examining the rich course of copper ore in the roof or back, he was aroused as though by an audible voice, "you are in the winze!" he at once threw himself flat on his back in the bottom of the level, and on shifting from this posture to that of a sitting one, he discovered that his heels were on the verge of the end of a winze, left exposed and open, embracing all the width of the gunnis, communicating with the next level, ten fathoms below. at the moment he received this singular warning, his foot was lifted for the next step over the mouth of this abyss, a step to eternity, had it not thus been prevented.' on the continent, similar tales of phantoms haunting mines are current. in the mines about clausthal and andreasberg a spectre was formerly seen who went by the name of the 'bergmönch.' he was clad as a monk, but was of gigantic stature, and always carried in his hand a large tallow candle, which never went out. when the miners entered in the morning, he would stand at the aperture with his light, letting them pass under it. it appears that the bergmönch was formerly a burgomaster or director, who took such delight in mining that, when at the point of death, he prayed that instead of resting in heaven, he might wander about till the last day, over hill and dale, in pits and shafts, and superintend the mining. to those towards whom he is well disposed he renders many a kind service, and appears to them in a human form and of ordinary stature; while to others he appears in his true form. his eyes sprout forth flames, and are like coach-wheels; his legs are like spiders' webs.[ ] associated, too, with the german miners' superstitious fancies is the belief in the 'cobal,' or 'kobold,' a supernatural being who is generally malicious, and rarely heard but when mischief is near. but still more to be feared were the 'knauff-kriegen,' of whom professor ramazzini of padua thus writes: 'i took the story of devils haunting mines to be fabulous, until i was undeceived by a skilful hanoverian operator in metals, who is now employed by our duke in tracing the metallic veins in the mountainous parts of modena. for this man told me seriously, that in the hanoverian mines the diggers have frequent falls, which they say are occasioned by their being knocked down by devils, which they call "knauff-kriegen," and that after such falls they often die in the space of three or four days; but if they outlive that time they recover.' french mines are haunted, and many tales are told of a spectral hare which at times is seen. one story tells how 'a miner was frightened one day by seeing a white object run and conceal itself in an iron pipe. he went forward, and stopped up the two ends of the tube, and called one of his fellow men to examine the pipe with him. they did so, but found nothing within, the hare spirit had vanished.'[ ] 'similarly at wheal vor,' says mr. hunt,[ ] 'it has always been and is now believed that a fatal accident in the mine is presaged by the appearance of a hare, or white rabbit, in one of the engine houses. the men solemnly declare that they have chased these appearances till they were hemmed in apparently, without being able to catch them; and they tell how the white rabbit on one occasion was run into a "windbore" lying on the ground, and though stopped in, escaped.' with this belief may be compared one which was common in sussex a few years ago, closely resembling the french superstition of the fétiches, animals of a dazzling whiteness which appear only in the night-time, and vanish as soon as anyone attempts to touch them. a blacksmith's wife at ashington, the daughter of a small farmer, was found one morning much depressed in mind, and on being questioned as to the cause of it said, 'i shall hear bad news before the day is over; for late last night as i was waiting for my husband what should i see on looking out of the window, lying close under it, but a thing like a duck, yet a great deal whiter than it ought to have been, whiter than any snow.' it was suggested that it might have been a neighbour's cat, and that it looked whiter than usual on account of the moonlight. 'oh, dear no!' she replied, 'it was no cat, nor anything alive; those white things were sent as warnings,' but no sad news came as she expected.[ ] she nevertheless remained firmly convinced that a warning of some kind had been supernaturally sent to her. footnotes: [ ] chambers's _popular rhymes of scotland_, pp. , . [ ] jones's _credulities past and present_, p. . [ ] see hunt's _popular romances of west of england_. [ ] wirt sikes: _british goblins_, p. . [ ] see chapter 'phantom animals.' [ ] hunt's _popular romances of west of england_, p. . [ ] thorpe's _northern mythology_, iii. p. . [ ] jones's _credulities past and present_, p. . [ ] _popular romances of west of england_, p. . [ ] _folk-lore record_, i. p. . chapter xx the banshee one of the grandest and wildest legends of ireland is that relating to the banshee--a mysterious personage, generally supposed to be the harbinger of some approaching misfortune. the name of the banshee 'is variously pronounced banshi and benshee, being translated by different scholars, the "female fairy," the "woman of peace," the "lady of death," the "angel of death," the "white lady of sorrow," the "nymph of the air," and the "spirit of the air."' the many romantic incidents in which this weird figure has, at different times, made its appearance are treasured up among the household stories of our irish peasantry. it must not be forgotten that in a country abounding in natural beauties such a superstition would harmonise with the surroundings of the picturesque scenery, and so gain a firm hold on the mind of the inhabitants. unlike, also, many of the legendary beliefs of this kind, the popular accounts illustrative of it are related on the evidence of all sections of the community, many an enlightened and well-informed advocate being enthusiastic in his vindication of its reality. it would seem, however, that no family which is not of an ancient and noble stock is honoured with this visit of the banshee, and hence its non-appearance has been regarded as an indication of disqualification in this respect on the part of the person about to die. 'if i am rightly informed,' writes sir walter scott, 'the distinction of a banshee is only allowed to families of the pure milesian stock, and is never ascribed to any descendant of the proudest norman or boldest saxon who followed the banner of strongbow, much less to adventurers of later date who have obtained settlements in the green isle.' thus, an amusing story is contained in an irish elegy to the effect that on the death of one of the knights of kerry, when the banshee was heard to lament his decease at dingle--a seaport town, the property of those knights--all the merchants of this place were thrown into a state of alarm lest the mournful and ominous wailing should be a forewarning of the death of one of them, but, as the poet humorously points out, there was no necessity for them to be anxious on this point. although, through misfortune, a family may be brought down from high estate to the rank of peasant tenants, the banshee never leaves nor forgets it till the last member has been gathered to his fathers in the churchyard. the maccarthys, o'flahertys, magraths, o'neils, o'rileys, o'sullivans, o'reardons, have their banshees, though many representatives of these names are in abject poverty.[ ] 'the banshee,' says mr. mcanally, 'is really a disembodied soul, that of one who in life was strongly attached to the family, or who had good reason to hate all its members. thus, in different instances, the banshee's song may be inspired by different motives. when the banshee loves those whom she calls, the song is a low, soft chant, giving notice, indeed, of the close proximity of the angel of death, but with a tenderness of tone that reassures the one destined to die, and comforts the survivors; rather a welcome than a warning, and having in its tones a thrill of exultation, as though the messenger spirit were bringing glad tidings to him summoned to join the waiting throng of his ancestors.' to a doomed member of the family of the o'reardons the banshee generally appears in the form of a beautiful woman, 'and sings a song so sweetly solemn as to reconcile him to his approaching fate.' but if, during his lifetime, the banshee was an enemy of the family, the cry is the scream of a fiend, howling with demoniac delight over the coming death agony of another of his foes. hence, in ireland, a source of dread to many a family against which she has an enmity is the 'hateful banshee.' 'it appears,' adds mcanally,[ ] 'that a noble family, whose name is still familiar in mayo, is attended by a banshee of this description--the spirit of a young girl, deceived, and afterwards murdered by a former head of the family. with her dying breath she cursed her murderer, and promised she would attend him and his for ever. after many years the chieftain reformed his ways, and his youthful crime was almost forgotten even by himself, when one night, as he and his family were seated by the fire, the most terrible shrieks were suddenly heard outside the castle walls. all ran out, but saw nothing. during the night the screams continued as though the castle were besieged by demons, and the unhappy man recognised in the cry of the banshee the voice of the young girl he had murdered. the next night he was assassinated by one of his followers, when again the wild unearthly screams were heard exulting over his fate. since that night the "hateful banshee" has, it is said, never failed to notify to the family, with shrill cries of revengeful gladness, when the time of one of their number has arrived.' among some of the recorded instances of the banshee's appearance may be mentioned one related by miss lefrau, the niece of sheridan, in the memoirs of her grandmother, mrs. frances sheridan. from this account we gather that miss elizabeth sheridan was a firm believer in the banshee, and firmly maintained that the one attached to the sheridan family was distinctly heard lamenting beneath the windows of the family residence before the news arrived from france of mrs. frances sheridan's death at blois. she added that a niece of miss sheridan's made her very angry by observing that as mrs. frances sheridan was by birth a chamberlaine, a family of english extraction, she had no right to the guardianship of an irish fairy, and that therefore the banshee must have made a mistake. then there is the well-known case related by lady fanshawe, who tells us how, when on a visit in ireland, she was awakened at midnight by a supernatural scream outside her window. on looking out she saw a young and rather handsome woman, with dishevelled hair, who eventually vanished with two shrieks similar to that which had at first attracted her attention. on communicating the circumstance in the morning, her host replied, 'a near relation of mine died last night in the castle, and before such an event happens, the female spectre whom you have seen is always visible.' this weird apparition is generally supposed to assume the form of a woman, sometimes young, but more often old. she is usually attired in a loose white drapery, and her long ragged locks hang over her thin shoulders. as night time approaches she occasionally becomes visible, and pours forth her mournful wail--a sound said to resemble the melancholy moaning of the wind: who sits upon the heath forlorn, with robe so free and tresses worn? anon she pours a harrowing strain, and then she sits all mute again! now peals the wild funereal cry, and now--it sinks into a sigh. oftentimes she is not seen but only heard, yet she is supposed to be always clearly discernible to the person upon whom she specially waits. respecting the history of the banshee, popular tradition in many instances accounts for its presence as the spirit of some mortal woman whose destinies have become linked by some accident with those of the family she follows. it is related how the banshee of the family of the o'briens of thomond is related to have been originally a woman who had been seduced by one of the chiefs of that race--an act of indiscretion which ultimately brought upon her misfortune and death. 'sometimes the song of the banshee is heard,' writes mr. mcanally,[ ] 'at the beginning of a course of conduct, a line of action, that has ended fatally.' a story is told in kerry of a young girl who engaged herself to a youth, but at the moment the promise of marriage was given, the low sad wail was heard by both above their heads. the young man deserted her, she died of a broken heart, and, on the night before her death, the banshee's ominous song was heard outside her mother's cottage window. on another occasion, we are told by the same authority, one of the flahertys of galway marched out of his castle with his men on a foray, and, as his troops filed through the gateway, the banshee was heard high above the towers of the fortress. the next night she sang again, and was heard no more for a month, when he heard the wail under his window, and on the following day his followers brought back his corpse. one of the o'neils of shane castle, antrim, heard the banshee as he started on a journey, but while on the same journey he was accidentally killed. according to lady wilde, 'at lord o'neil's residence, shane's castle, there is a room appropriated to the use of the banshee, and she often appears there, sometimes shrouded and in a dark, mist-like cloak. at other times she is seen as a beautiful young girl, with long red-gold hair, and wearing a green kirtle and scarlet mantle, covered with gold, after the irish fashion.' she adds that there is no harm or fear of evil in her mere presence, unless she is seen in the act of crying. but this is a fatal sign, and the mournful wail is a sure and certain prophecy that the angel of death is waiting for one of the family.[ ] mr. crofton croker, in his 'fairy legends and traditions of the south of ireland,' has given several entertaining stories of the banshee; but adds, that since these spirits have become amenable to vulgar laws they have lost much of their romantic character. the introduction of the banshee in the following stanza of a 'keening'--an irish term for a wild song of lamentation poured forth over a dead body by certain mourners employed for the purpose--indicates the popular feeling on the subject. it was composed on a young man named ryan, whose mother speaks-- 'twas the banshee's lonely wailing, well i knew the voice of death, on the night wind slowly sailing o'er the bleak and gloomy heath. if a member of an irish family dies abroad, the banshee notifies his misfortune at home. when the duke of wellington died, the banshee was heard wailing round the house of his ancestors, and during the napoleonic campaigns she often announced at home the death of irish officers and soldiers--an occurrence which happened on the night preceding the battle of the boyne. 'indeed,' says mr. mcanally, 'the banshee has given notice at the family seat in ireland of deaths in battle fought in every part of the world; from every point to which irish regiments have followed the roll of the british drums, news of the prospective shedding of irish blood has been brought home.' 'the welsh have also their banshee, which generally makes its appearance,' writes mr. wirt sikes,[ ] 'in the most curdling form,' and is regarded as an omen of death. it is supposed to come after dusk, and to flap its leathern wings against the window where the sick person happens to be. nor is this all, for in a broken, howling tone, it calls on the one who is to quit mortality by his or her name several times. there is an old legend of the 'ellyllon,' a prototype of the scotch and irish banshee, which usually appears as an old crone with streaming hair and a coat of blue, making its presence manifest by its ominous scream of death. the welsh have a further form of the banshee in the 'cyhyraeth,' which is never seen, although the noise it makes is such as to inspire terror in those who chance to hear it. thus, in some of the welsh villages it is heard passing through the empty streets and lanes by night groaning dismally, and rattling the window-shutters as it goes along. according to the local belief it is only heard 'before the death of such as are of strayed mind, or who have been long ill; but it always comes when an epidemic is about to visit the neighbourhood.' as an instance of how superstitions are remitted from one country to another, it is told that in america there are tales of the banshee imported from ireland along with the sons of that soil. footnotes: [ ] mcanally: _irish wonders_, p. . [ ] _irish wonders_, , p. . [ ] _irish wonders_, p. . [ ] _ancient cures, charms, and usages of ireland_, p. . [ ] _british goblins_, pp. - . chapter xxi sea phantoms the romance of the sea has always attracted interest, and, as buckle once remarked, 'the credulity of sailors is notorious, and every literature contains evidence of the multiplicity of their superstitions, and of the tenacity with which they cling to them.' this is not surprising, for many of the weird old fancies with which the legendary lore of the sea abounds originated in certain atmospherical phenomena which were once a mystery to our seafaring community. in a 'new catalogue of vulgar errors' ( ) the writer says: 'i look upon sailors to care as little of what becomes of themselves as any people under the sun; yet no people are so much terrified at the thoughts of an apparition. their sea-songs are full of them; they firmly believe in their existence, and honest jack tar shall be more frightened at the glimmering of the moon upon the tackling of a ship, than he would be if a frenchman were to place a blunderbus at his head.' the occasional reflections of mountains, cities, and ships in mirage gave rise to many strange stories of spectral lands. early instances of this popular fancy occur, and mrs. jameson, in her 'sacred and legendary art,' quotes an old venetian legend of , relating to the ring with which the adriatic was first wedded. during a storm a fisherman was required to row three men, whom he afterwards learns were st. mark, st. george, and st. nicholas, first to certain churches, and then over to the entrance of the port. but there a huge saracen galley was seen with frightful demons on board, which spectral craft the three men caused to sink, thus saving the city. on leaving the boat, the boatman is presented with a ring. in the venetian academy is a painting by giorgione of this phantom ship, with a demon crew, who, terrified at the presence of the three holy men, jump overboard, or cling to the rigging, while the masts flame with fire, and cast a lurid glare on the water. collin de plancy, in his 'sacred legends of the middle ages,' tells us how at boulogne, in , while the people were at prayers, a strange ship--without guide or pilot--was observed approaching the shore, with the virgin on board, who indicated to the people a site for her chapel--delusions which may be classed in the same category as the 'phantom ship.' novelists and poets have made graphic use of such well-known apparitions, variations of which occur in every maritime country. but the author accounts for this philosophically, adding that 'a great deal may be said in favour of men troubled with the scurvy, the concomitants of which disorder are, generally, faintings and the hip, and horrors without any ground for them.' there were few ships in days gone by that 'doubled the cape' but owned among the crew some who had seen the 'flying dutchman,' a phantom to which sir walter scott alludes as the harbinger of woe. this ship was distinguished from earthly vessels by bearing a press of sail when all others were unable to show an inch of canvas. the story goes that 'falkenburg was a noble-man who murdered his brother and his bride in a fit of passion, and was condemned to wander towards the north. on arriving at the sea-shore, he found awaiting him a boat, with a man in it, who said, "expectamus te." he entered the boat, attended by his good and his evil spirit, and went on board a spectral bark in the harbour. there he still lingers, while these spirits play dice for his soul. for six hundred years the ship has wandered the seas, and mariners still see her in the german ocean, sailing northwards, without helm or helmsman. she is painted grey, has coloured sails, a pale flag, and no crew. flames issue from the masthead at night.'[ ] there are numerous versions of this popular legend, and o'reilly, in his 'songs of southern seas,' says-- heaven help the ship near which the demon sailor steers! the doom of those is sealed to whom the phantom ship appears, they'll never reach their destin'd port, they'll see their homes no more, they who see the flying dutchman never, never reach the shore. captain marryat made this legend the basis of his 'phantom ship,' and longfellow, in his 'tales of a wayside inn,' powerfully tells of-- a ship of the dead that sails the sea, and is called the carmilhan, a ghostly ship, with a ghostly crew. in tempests she appears, and before the gale, or against the gale, she sails, without a rag of sail, without a helmsman steers. and ill-betide the luckless ship that meets the carmilhan! over her decks the seas will leap, she must go down into the deep, and perish, mouse and man. there are, also, a host of stories of spectral ships, some of which are still credited by sailors. the germans have their phantom ships, to meet which is regarded as an omen of disaster. in one instance, the crew is said to consist of ghosts of condemned sinners, who serve one hundred years in each grade, until each has a short tour as captain. this mysterious vessel is described by oscar l. b. wolff in 'the phantom ship': for the ship was black, her masts were black, and her sails coal-black as death; and the evil-one steered at the helm, and laughed, and mocked at their failing breath. swedish sailors have a vessel of this kind. she is so large that it takes three weeks to go from poop to prow, and hence orders are transmitted on horseback. danish folk-lore has its spectral ship, and a schleswick-holstein tradition relates how a maiden was carried off by her lover in a spectral ship, as one day she sat on the shore bewailing his absence. in 'mélusine' for september ,[ ] it is stated that, 'in many localities in lower brittany, stories are current of a huge ship manned by giant human forms and dogs. the men are reprobates guilty of horrible crimes; the dogs, demons set to guard them and inflict on them a thousand tortures. such a vessel wanders ceaselessly from sea to sea, without entering port or casting anchor, and will do so to the end of the world. no vessel should allow it to fall aboard, for its crew would suddenly disappear. the orders, in this strange craft, are given through huge conch-shells, and, the noise being heard several miles off, it is easy to avoid her. besides, there is nothing to fear, if the "ave maria" is repeated, and the saints appealed to, especially st. anne d'auray.' stories of phantom ships are found, more or less, all over the world, and are associated with many a romantic and tragic tale. bret harte[ ] relates how some children go on board a hulk to play, but it breaks away from its moorings, drifts out to sea, and is lost. yet at times there are heard: the voices of children, still at play, in a phantom hulk that drifts away through channels whose waters never fail. and whittier[ ] tells how the young captain of a schooner visits the labrador coast where, in a certain secluded bay, two beautiful sisters live with their mother. both fall in love with him, and, just as the younger is about to meet her lover and fly with him, she is imprisoned in her room by her mother, whereupon her elder sister goes in her stead, and is carried to sea in the vessel. the disappointed lover, on learning the deception, returns only to find his loved one dead. but the schooner, adds whittier, never returned home and: even yet, at seven isle bay, is told the ghastly tale of a weird unspoken sail. she flits before no earthly blast, with the red sign fluttering from her mast, the ghost of the schooner breeze. in dana's 'buccaneer,' the pirate carries a lady to sea, who jumps overboard, and on the anniversary of her death: a ship! and all on fire! hull, yards, and mast, her sails are sheets of flame; she's nearing fast! occasionally a spectre ship is seen at cap d'espoir, in the gulf of st. lawrence, which is commonly reported to be the ghost of the flagship of a fleet sent to reduce the french forts by queen anne, and which was wrecked here, and all hands. on this phantom ship, which is crowded with soldiers, lights are seen, and on the bowsprit stands an officer, pointing to the shore with one hand, while a woman is on the other side. the lights suddenly go out, a scream is heard, and the ill-fated vessel sinks. under one form or another, the phantom ship has long been a world-wide piece of folk-lore, and even in an ojibway tale, when a maiden is on the eve of being sacrificed to the spirit of the falls, a spectral canoe, with a fairy in it, takes her place as a sacrifice. dennys, in his 'folk-lore of china,' gives a novel variety of the phantom ship. the story goes that a horned serpent was found in a tiger's cage near foochow by a party of tiger-hunters. they tried to ship it to canton, but during the voyage the serpent escaped, through a flash of lightning striking the cage and splitting it. thereupon the captain offered a thousand dollars to anyone who would destroy the monster, but its noxious breath killed two sailors who attempted the task. eventually the junk was abandoned, and is still believed to cruise about the coast, and cautious natives will not board a derelict junk. one of the chief features of many of these phantom-ship stories is the idea of retribution for evil deeds, as in the following, told by irving in the 'chronicles of wolfert's roost.' a certain ramnout van dam had 'danced and drank until midnight--saturday--when he entered his boat to return home. he was warned that he was on the verge of sunday morning, but he pulled off, swearing that he would not land until he reached spiting devil, if it took him a month of sundays. he was never seen afterwards, but may be heard plying his oars, being the flying dutchman of the tappan sea, doomed to ply between kakiot and spiting devil until the day of judgment.' moore in his account of the phantom ship seen in the description of deadman's island, where wrecks were once common, writes: to deadman's isle, on the eve of the blast, to deadman's isle, she speeds her fast, by skeleton shapes, her sails are furled, and the hand that steers is not of this world. turning to our own country, similar phantom vessels have long been supposed to haunt the coast, and mr. hunt[ ] describes one that visited the cornish shores on the occasion of a storm, and to rescue which delusive bark help was despatched: 'away they pulled, and the boat which had been first launched still kept ahead by dint of mechanical power and skill. at length the helmsman cried, "stand by to board her." the vessel came so close to the boat that they could see the men, and the bow oarsman made a grasp at the bulwarks. his hand found nothing solid and he fell. ship and light then disappeared. the next day the "neptune" of london was wrecked, and all perished. the captain's body was picked up after a few days, and that of his son also.' among other cornish stories may also be mentioned those known as the 'pirate-wrecker and the death ship;' and the 'spectre ship of porthcurno.' occasionally off the lizard a phantom lugger is seen, and bottrell[ ] tells how, at times, not only spectral ships, but the noise of falling spars, &c., are heard during an incoming fog. scotch sailors have their stories of phantom ships. thus a spectral vessel--the ghostly bark of a bridal party maliciously wrecked--is said to appear in the solway, always hovering near a ship that is doomed to be wrecked; and cunningham[ ] has given a graphic account of two phantom pirate ships. the story goes that, for a time, two danish pirates were permitted to perform wicked deeds on the deep, but were at last condemned to perish by wreck for the evil they had caused. on a certain night they were seen approaching the shore--the one crowded with people, and the other carrying on its deck a spectral shape. then four young men put off in a boat that had been sent from one ship, to join her, but, on reaching the ship, both vessels sank where they were. on the anniversary of their wreck, and before a gale, these two vessels are supposed to approach the shore, and to be distinctly visible. a highland legend records how a large ship--the 'rotterdam'--which went down with all on board, is seen at times with her ghostly crew, a sure indication of disaster. but perhaps this superstition has been most firmly riveted in the popular mind by coleridge's 'ancient mariner,' wherein an ominous sign is seen afar off prefiguring the death of himself and his comrades. it is a spectre ship in which death and life-in-death play at dice for the possession of the crew--the latter winning the mariner. her lips were red, her looks were free, her locks were yellow as gold; her skin was white as leprosy, the night-mare life-in-death was she, who thicks man's blood with cold. stories of ghosts having appeared at sea have been told from early days, and have everywhere been a fruitful source of terror to sailors. but this is not surprising for, as scot says,[ ] 'innumerable are the reports of accidents unto such as frequent the seas, as fishermen and sailors, who discourse of noises, flashes, shadows, echoes, and other things, nightly seen or heard upon the waters.' brand,[ ] for instance, narrates an amusing tale of a sea ghost. the ship's cook, who had one of his legs shorter than the other, died on a homeward passage and was buried at sea. a few nights afterwards his ghost was seen walking before the ship, and the crew were in a panic. it was found however that the cause of this alarm was part of a maintop, the remains of some wreck floating before them that simulated the dead man's walk. on another occasion a ship's crew fancied they had not only seen but 'smelled' a ghost--a piece of folly which so enraged the captain that he ordered the boatswain's mate to give some of the sailors a dozen lashes, which entirely cleared the ship of the ghost during the remainder of the voyage. it was afterwards ascertained that the smell proceeded from a dead rat behind some beer-barrels. in the same way, many a ghost story might be explained which, proceeding from natural causes, has been the source of superstitious dread among the seafaring community. cheever, in his 'sea and sailor,' referring to the credulity of sailors, says: 'the sailor is a profound believer in ghosts. one of these nocturnal visitants was supposed to visit our ship. it was with the utmost difficulty that the crew could be made to turn in at night. you might have seen the most athletic, stout-hearted sailor on board, when called to take his night-watch aloft, glancing at the yards and tackling of the ship for the phantom. it was a long time, in the opinion of the crew, before the phantom left the ship.' it may be remembered that sir walter scott[ ] relates how the captain of an english ship was assured by the crew that the ghost of a murdered sailor, every night, visited the ship. so convinced were the sailors of the appearance of this phantom that they refused to sail, but the mystery was cleared up by the discovery of a somnambulist. occasionally, the ghost of a former captain is supposed to visit a vessel and to warn the crew of an approaching storm. symondson in his 'two years abaft the mast' records the appearance of such an apparition, at one time 'to prescribe a change of course, at another, in wet and calm weather, quietly seated in his usual place on the poop deck.'[ ] sometimes similar warnings have come from other sources. thus a curious occurrence is told by mary howitt, which happened in to captain rogers, r.n., who was in command of the 'society,' a vessel bound from england to virginia. the story goes that 'he was heading in for the capes, and was, as he reckoned, after heaving the lead, three hundred miles from them. a vision appeared to him in the night, telling him to turn out, and look about. he did so, found all alert, and retired again. the vision appeared again, and told him to heave the lead. he arose, caused the lead to be cast, and found but seven fathoms. greatly frightened, he tacked ship, and the daylight showed him to be under the capes, instead of two hundred miles at sea.'[ ] with this story may be compared a mysterious story told in the 'chicago times' of march, . it appears that, as two men had fallen from the topmast head of a lake-vessel, the rumour spread that the ship was an unlucky one. accordingly, writes one of the crew, 'on its arrival at buffalo, the men went on shore as soon as they were paid off. they said the ship had lost her luck. while we were discharging at the elevator, the story got round, and some of the grain-trimmers refused to work on her. even the mate was affected by it. at last we got ready to sail for cleveland, where we were to load coal. the captain managed to get a crew by going to a crimp, who ran them in, fresh from salt water. they came on board two-thirds drunk, and the mate was steering them into the forecastle, when one of them stopped and said, pointing aloft, "what have you got a figurehead on the mast for?" the mate looked up and then turned pale. "it's bill," he said, and with that the whole lot jumped on to the dock. i didn't see anything, but the mate told the captain to look for another officer. the captain was so much affected that he put me on another schooner, and then shipped a new crew, and sailed for cleveland. he never got there. he was sunk by a steamer off dunkirk.' another curious phantom warning to sailors seen in years gone by was the 'hooper,' or the 'hooter,' of sennen cove, cornwall. this was supposed to be a spirit which took the form of a band of misty vapour, stretching across the bay, so opaque that nothing could be seen through it. according to mr. hunt,[ ] 'it was regarded as a kindly interposition of some ministering spirit, to warn the fisherman against venturing to sea. this appearance was always followed, and often suddenly, by a severe storm. it is seldom or never now seen. one profane old fisherman would not be warned by the bank of fog, and, as the weather was fine on the shore, he persuaded some young men to join him. they manned a boat, and the aged leader, having with him a threshing-flail, declared that he would drive the spirit away, and he vigorously beat the fog with the "threshel," as the flail is called. the boat passed through the fog, and went to sea, but a severe storm arose, and no one ever saw the boat or the men again, since which time the "hooper" has been rarely seen.' similarly a mist over the river cymal, in wales, is thought to be the spirit of a traitoress, who lost her life in the lake close by. tradition says she had conspired with pirates to rob her lord of his domain, and was defeated by an enchanter.[ ] but sailors' yarns are so proverbially remarkable that the reader must estimate their value for himself, not forgetting how large a factor in their production is the imagination, worked upon by nervous credulity and superstitious fear, a striking instance of which is recorded by a correspondent of the 'gentleman's magazine:' 'my friend, captain mott, r.n., used frequently to repeat an anecdote of a seaman under his command. this individual, who was a good sailor and a brave man, suffered much trouble and anxiety from his superstitious fears. when on the night watch, he would see sights and hear noises in the rigging and the deep, which kept him in a perpetual fever of alarm. one day the poor fellow reported upon deck that the devil, whom he knew by his horns and cloven foot, stood by the side of his hammock the preceding night, and told him that he had only three days to live. his messmates endeavoured to remove his despondency by ridicule, but without effect; and the next morning he told the tale to captain mott, with this addition, that the fiend had paid him a second nocturnal visit, announcing a repetition of the melancholy tidings. the captain in vain expostulated with him on the folly of indulging such groundless apprehensions; and the morning of the fatal day being exceedingly stormy, the man, with many others, was ordered to the topmast to perform some duty among the rigging. before he ascended he bade his messmates farewell, telling them that he had received a third warning from the devil, and that he was confident he should be dead before night. he went aloft with the foreboding of evil on his mind, and in less than five minutes he lost his hold, fell upon the deck, and was killed on the spot.' footnotes: [ ] see bassett's _legends and superstitions of the sea_, pp. , . [ ] quoted in bassett's _legends of the sea_, p. . [ ] poems: _a greypoint legend, _. [ ] _the wreck of the schooner breeze._ [ ] _romances of west of england_, pp. - . [ ] _traditions and fireside stories of west cornwall._ [ ] _traditional tales of the english and scottish peasantry_, p. . [ ] _discoverie of witchcraft._ [ ] _pop. antiq._ iii. p. . [ ] _letters on demonology and witchcraft._ [ ] quoted by bassett in his _legends and superstitions of the sea_, p. . [ ] _ibid._ p. . [ ] _romances of west of england_, p. . [ ] wirt sikes: _british goblins_. chapter xxii phantom dress according to a popular ghost doctrine, the spirits of the departed 'generally come in their habits as they lived,' and as george cruikshank once remarked,[ ] 'there is no difference in this respect between the beggar and the king.' for they come-- some in rags, and some in jags, and some in silken gowns. and he adds that all narrators agree that 'the spirits appear in similar or the same dresses which they were accustomed to wear during their lifetime, so exactly alike that the ghost-seer could not possibly be mistaken as to the identity of the individual.' horatio, describing the ghost to hamlet, says-- a figure like your father, armed at all points, exactly cap-à-pé. and it is further stated that the ghost was armed 'from top to toe,' 'from head to foot,' that 'he wore his beaver up;' and when hamlet sees his father's spirit he exclaims-- what may this mean, that thou, dead corse, again, in complete steel, revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon? it is the familiar dress worn in lifetime that is, in most cases, one of the distinguishing features of the ghost, and when sir george villiers wanted to give a warning to his son, the duke of buckingham, his spirit appeared to one of the duke's servants 'in the very clothes he used to wear.' mrs. crowe,[ ] some years ago, gave an account of an apparition which appeared at a house in sarratt, hertfordshire. it was that of a well-dressed gentleman, in a blue coat and bright gilt buttons, but without a head. it seems that this was reported to be the ghost of a poor man of that neighbourhood who had been murdered, and whose head had been cut off. he could, therefore, only be recognised by his 'blue coat and bright gilt buttons.' indeed, many ghosts have been nicknamed from the kinds of dress in which they have been in the habit of appearing. thus the ghost at allanbank was known as 'pearlin jean,' from a species of lace made of thread which she wore; and the 'white lady' at ashley hall--like other ghosts who have borne the same name--from the white drapery in which she presented herself. some lady ghosts have been styled 'silky,' from the rustling of their silken costume, in the wearing of which they have maintained the phantom grandeur of their earthly life. there was the 'silky' at black heddon who used to appear in silken attire, oftentimes 'rattling in her silks'; and the spirit of denton hall--also termed 'silky'--walks about in a white silk dress of antique fashion. this last 'silky' 'was thought to be the ghost of a lady who was mistress to the profligate duke of argyll in the reign of william iii., and died suddenly, not without suspicion of murder, at chirton, near shields--one of his residences. the "banshee of loch nigdal," too, was arrayed in a silk dress, green in colour. these traditions date from a period when silk was not in common use, and therefore attracted notice in country places.'[ ] some years ago a ghost appeared at hampton court,[ ] habited in a black satin dress with white kid gloves. the 'white lady of skipsea' makes her midnight serenades clothed in long white drapery. lady bothwell, who haunted the mansion of woodhouselee, always appeared in white; and the apparition of the mansion of houndwood, in berwickshire--bearing the name of 'chappie'--is clad in silk attire. one of the ghosts seen at the celebrated willington mill was that of a female in greyish garments. sometimes she was said to be wrapped in a sort of mantle, with her head depressed and her hands crossed on her lap. walton abbey had its headless lady who used to haunt a certain wainscotted chamber, dressed in blood-stained garments, with her infant in her arms; and, in short, most of the ghosts that have tenanted our country-houses have been noted for their distinctive dress. daniel de foe, in his 'essay on the history and reality of apparitions,' has given many minute details as to the dress of a ghost. he tells a laughable and highly amusing story of some robbers who broke into a mansion in the country, and, whilst ransacking one of the rooms, they saw, in a chair, 'a grave, ancient man, with a long full-bottomed wig, and a rich brocaded gown,' &c. one of the robbers threatened to tear off his 'rich brocaded gown'; another hit at him with a firelock, and was alarmed at seeing it pass through the air; and then the old man 'changed into the most horrible monster that ever was seen, with eyes like two fiery daggers red hot.' the same apparition encountered them in different rooms, and at last the servants, who were at the top of the house, throwing some 'hand grenades' down the chimneys of these rooms, the thieves were dispersed. without adding further stories of this kind, which may be taken for what they are worth, it is a generally received belief in ghost lore that spirits are accustomed to appear in the dresses which they wore in their lifetime--a notion credited from the days of pliny the younger to the present day. but the fact of ghosts appearing in earthly raiment has excited the ridicule of many philosophers, who, even admitting the possibility of a spiritual manifestation, deny that there can be the ghost of a suit of clothes. george cruikshank, too, who was no believer in ghosts, sums up the matter thus: 'as it is clearly impossible for spirits to wear dresses made of the materials of the earth, we should like to know if there are spiritual outfitting shops for the clothing of ghosts who pay visits on earth.' whatever the objections may be to the appearance of ghosts in human attire, they have not hitherto overthrown the belief in their being seen thus clothed, and byron, describing the 'black friar' who haunted the cloisters and other parts of newstead abbey, tells us that he was always arrayed in cowl, and beads, and dusky garb. indeed, as dr. tylor remarks,[ ] 'it is an habitual feature of the ghost stories of the civilised, as of the savage, world, that the ghost comes dressed, and even dressed in well-known clothing worn in life.' and he adds that the doctrine of object-souls is held by the algonquin tribes, the islanders of the fijian group, and the karens of burmah--it being supposed that not only men and beasts have souls, but inorganic things. thus, mariner describing the fijian belief, writes: 'if a stone or any other substance is broken, immortality is equally its reward; nay, artificial bodies have equal good luck with men, and hogs, and yams. if an axe or a chisel is worn out or broken up, away flies its soul for the service of the gods. the fijians can further show you a sort of natural well, or deep hole in the ground, at one of their islands, across the bottom of which runs a stream of water, in which you may clearly see the souls of men and women, beasts and plants, stocks and stones, canoes and horses, and of all the broken utensils of this frail world, swimming, or rather tumbling along, one over the other, pell-mell, into the regions of immortality.'[ ] as it has been observed, animistic conceptions of this kind are no more irrational than the popular idea prevalent in civilised communities as to spirits appearing in all kinds of garments. footnotes: [ ] _a discovery concerning ghosts_, p. . [ ] _night side of nature._ [ ] henderson's _folk-lore of northern counties_, p. . [ ] see _all the year round_, june , . [ ] _primitive culture_, i. p. . [ ] see letourneau's _sociology_, p. ; sir john lubbock's _origin of civilisation, and primitive condition of man_, , p. . chapter xxiii haunted houses a jolly place, said he, in days of old, but something ails it now: the spot is curst. wordsworth. a variety of strange causes, such as secret murder, acts of treachery, unatoned crime, buried treasures, and such-like incidents belonging to the seamy side of family history, have originated, at one time or another, the ghostly stories connected with so many a house throughout the country. robert browning has graphically described the mysteries of a haunted house: at night, when doors are shut, and the wood-worm picks, and the death-watch ticks, and the bar has a flag of smut, and a cat's in the water-butt-- and the socket floats and flares, and the house-beams groan, and a foot unknown is surmised on the garret stairs, and the locks slip unawares. although in some cases centuries have elapsed since a certain house became haunted, and several generations have come and passed away, still, with ceaseless persistency, the restless spirit hovers about in all kinds of uncanny ways, reminding us of hood's romance of 'the haunted house.' for over all there hung a cloud of fear, a sense of mystery the spirit daunted, and said, as plain as whisper in the ear, the place is haunted! corby castle, cumberland, was famous for its 'radiant boy;' peel castle had its 'mauthe doog;' and dobb park lodge was noted for 'the talking dog.' cortachy castle, the seat of the earl of airlie, is noted for its 'drummer;' and a noted westmoreland ghost was that of the 'bad lord lonsdale,' locally known as jemmy lowther, which created much alarm at lowther hall; but of recent years this miscreant spirit has been silent, having, it is said, been laid for ever under a large rock called wallow crag. strange experiences were associated with hinton ampner manor house, hampshire,[ ] and when, in , it was pulled down, 'under the floor of the lobby was found a box containing bones, and what was said to be the skull of a monkey. no regular inquiry was made into the matter, and no professional opinion was ever sought as to the real character of the relic.' wyecoller hall, near colne, is visited once a year by a spectre horseman; and some years ago hackwood house, an old mansion near basingstoke, purchased from lord bolton by lord westbury, was said to have its haunted room, the phantom assuming the appearance of a woman clothed in grey. ramhurst manor house, kent, was disturbed by weird and mysterious noises, and at barton hall, bath, in , a phantom is said to have appeared, displaying a human countenance, but devoid of eyes. allanbank, a seat of the stuarts--a family of scotch baronets, has long been haunted by 'pearlin jean,' one of the most remarkable ghosts in scotland. on one occasion, seven ministers were called in to lay this restless spirit, but to no purpose. creslow manor house, buckinghamshire, has its ghost, and glamis castle has its famous 'haunted room,' which, it is said, was walled up. at hilton castle there was the time-honoured 'cold lad,' which surtees would lead us to suppose was one of the household spirits known as 'brownies.' but, according to one local legend, in years gone by a servant-boy was ill-treated and kept shut up in a cupboard, and is supposed to have received the name of 'cold lad' from his condition when discovered. sundry apparitions seem to have been connected with newstead abbey, one being that of 'sir john byron the little, with the great beard,' who was wont to promenade the state apartments at night. but the most dreaded spectre was the 'goblin friar,' previously alluded to, who-- appeared, now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in shade, with steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard. this strange, weird spectre has been thought to forebode evil to the member of the family to whom it appears, and its uncanny movements have been thus pictured by the poet: by the marriage-bed of their lords, 'tis said, he flits on the bridal eve; and 'tis held as faith, to their bed of death he comes--but not to grieve. when an heir is born, he is heard to mourn, and when aught is to befall that ancient line, in the pale moonshine he walks from hall to hall. his form you may trace, but not his face, 'tis shadowed by his cowl; but his eyes may be seen from the folds between, and they seem of a parted soul. holland house has had the reputation of being haunted by the spirit of the first lord holland; and, in , there was published in 'notes and queries,' by the late edmund lenthal swifte, keeper of the crown jewels, the account of a spectral illusion witnessed by himself in the tower. he says that in october, , he was at supper with his wife, her sister, and his little boy, in the sitting-room of the jewel-house. to quote his own words: 'i had offered a glass of wine and water to my wife, when, on putting it to her lips, she exclaimed, "good god! what is that?" i looked up, and saw a cylindrical figure like a glass tube, seemingly about the thickness of my arm, and hovering between the ceiling and the table; its contents appeared to be a dense fluid, white and pale azure. this lasted about two minutes, when it began to move before my sister-in-law; then, following the oblong side of the table, before my son and myself, passing behind my wife, it paused for a moment over her right shoulder. instantly crouching down, and with both hands covering her shoulder, she shrieked out, "o christ! it has seized me!" it was ascertained,' adds mr. swifte, 'that no optical action from the outside could have produced any manifestation within, and hence the mystery has remained unsolved.' speaking of the tower, we learn from the same source how 'one of the night sentries at the jewel-office was alarmed by a figure like a huge bear issuing from underneath the jewel-room door. he thrust at it with his bayonet which stuck in the door. he dropped in a fit and was carried senseless to the guardroom.... in another day or two the brave and steady soldier died at the presence of a shadow.' windsor castle, as report goes, was haunted by the ghost of sir george villiers, who appeared to an officer in the king's wardrobe and warned him of the approaching fate of the duke of buckingham.[ ] according to johnson, the 'old hummums' was the scene of the 'best accredited ghost story' that he had ever heard, the spirit of a mr. ford, said to have been the riotous parson of hogarth's 'midnight conversation,' having appeared to a waiter; and boswell, alluding to a conversation which took place at mr. thrale's house, streatham, between himself and dr. johnson, thus writes: 'a waiter at the hummums, in which house ford died, had been absent for some time, and returned, not knowing that ford was dead. going down to the cellar, according to the story, he met him; going down again, he met him a second time. when he came up he asked some of the people of the house what ford could be doing there. they told him ford was dead. the waiter took a fever, and when he recovered he said he had a message from ford to deliver to some women, but he was not to tell what, or to whom. he walked out, he was followed, but somewhere about st. paul's they lost him. he came back, and said he had delivered the message, and the women exclaimed, "then we are all undone."' there is the so-called 'mystery of berkeley square,' no. having been reputed to be haunted. but a long correspondence on the subject in the pages of 'notes and queries' proved this to be a fallacy, the rumour, it would seem, having arisen from 'its neglected condition when empty, and the habits of the melancholy and solitary hypochondriac when occupied by him.' lord lyttelton, however, wrote in 'notes and queries' of november , , thus: 'it is quite true that there is a house in berkeley square (no. ) said to be haunted, and long unoccupied on that account. there are strange stories about it, into which this deponent cannot enter.' what these strange stories were may be gathered from 'mayfair' of may , --an interesting illustration of how rapidly legendary stories spring up on little or no basis. 'the house in berkeley square contains at least one room of which the atmosphere is supernaturally fatal to body and mind. a girl saw, heard, and felt such horror in it that she went mad, and never recovered sanity enough to tell how or why. a gentleman, a disbeliever in ghosts, dared to sleep in it, and was found a corpse in the middle of the floor, after practically ringing for help in vain. rumour suggests other cases of the same kind, all ending in death, madness, or both, as the result of sleeping, or trying to sleep, in that room. the very party walls of the house, when touched, are found saturated with electric horror. it is uninhabited, save by an elderly man and woman who act as caretakers; but even these have no access to the room. that is kept locked, the key being in the hands of a mysterious and seemingly nameless person, who comes to the house once every six months, locks up the elderly couple in the basement, and then unlocks the room and occupies himself in it for hours.' berry pomeroy castle, devonshire, was long said to be haunted by the daughter of a former baron, who bore a child to her own father, afterwards strangling the fruit of their incestuous intercourse; and all kinds of weird noises are heard at ewshott house, hampshire. bagley house, near bridport, is haunted by the ghost of a squire lighte, who committed suicide; and at astwood court, once the seat of the culpepers, was an old oak table, removed from the side of the wainscot in , respecting which tradition declares that it bore the impress of the fingers of a lady ghost who, it has been suggested, probably tired of appearing to no purpose, at last struck the table in a rage and vanished for ever. holt castle was supposed, in bygone years, to be haunted by a mysterious lady in black who, in the still hours of the night, occasionally walked in a certain passage near the attics. it was likewise said that the cellar had been occupied by an ill-favoured bird like a raven, which would sometimes pounce upon any person who ventured to approach a cask for drink, and, having extinguished the candle with a horrid flapping of wings, would leave its victims prostrate with fright. a solution, however, has been given to this legend that 'would imply a little cunning selfishness on the part of the domestics who had the care of the ale and cider _depôt_.'[ ] at althorp, the seat of earl spencer, is said to have appeared the ghost of a favourite groom, and cumnor hall, the supposed scene of the murder of lady amy bobsart, was haunted by her apparition. according to mickle-- in that manor now no more is cheerful feast and sprightly ball; for, ever since that dreary hour, have spirits haunted cumnor hall. the village maids, with fearful glance, avoid the ancient moss-grown wall; nor ever lead the merry dance among the groves of cumnor hall. full many a traveller oft hath sighed and pensive wept the countess's fall, as, wandering onward, they espied the haunted towers of cumnor hall. powis castle had once its ghost, and cullaby castle, northumberland, the seat of major a. h. browne, is haunted. according to a correspondent,[ ] in the older part of the castle, which was the pele-tower of the claverings, there was known to be a room walled up, 'which mrs. browne, during her husband's absence, had broken into;' but the room was found to be quite empty. she says, however, that 'she let a ghost out who is known as "the wicked priest." ever since they have been annoyed with the most unaccountable noises, which are sometimes so loud that one would think the house was being blown down. i believe the ghost has been seen--it is a priest with a shovel hat.' the seat of the trevelyans is haunted with the incessant wailing of a spectral child, and the ruins of seaton delaval castle are said to be haunted. churton hall, at one time the seat of the duke of argyll, 'has marked tyneside with the ghost of the duke's mistress, who is locally known as "silky."' 'tyneside,' writes mr. w. t. stead, 'abounded with stories of haunted castles; but, with the doubtful exception of dilston, where lady derwentwater was said to revisit the pale glimpses of the moon to expiate the restless ambition which impelled her to drive lord derwentwater to the scaffold, none of them were leading actors in the tragedies of old time.' bisham abbey, report says, is haunted by the ghost of lady hoby, who treated her son by her first husband so unmercifully, on account of his antipathy to study, that he died. as a punishment for her unnatural cruelty she glides through a certain chamber, in the act of washing blood-stains from her hands. one of the rooms at combermere abbey, cheshire, formerly known as the 'coved saloon,' is tenanted by the ghost of a little girl, the sister of lord cotton, who had died when fourteen years old.[ ] then there was the famous 'sampford peverell' ghost, which created much interest at the commencement of the present century,[ ] and rainham, the seat of the marquis townshend, in norfolk, has long been haunted by the 'brown lady.' at oulton house, suffolk, at midnight, a wild huntsman with his hounds, accompanied by a lady carrying a poisoned cup, is said to take his ghostly walk; and clegg hall, lancashire, long had its restless spirits, and the laying of these 'clegg hall boggarts,' as they were called, is described elsewhere. at samlesbury hall, near blackburn, a lady in white attended by a handsome knight is seen at night;[ ] and a headless lady walked about walton abbey. hermitage castle, one of the most famous of the border keeps in the days of its splendour, has for years past been haunted, and has been described as-- haunted hermitage, where long by spells mysterious bound, they pace their round with lifeless smile, and shake with restless foot the guilty pile. till sink the mouldering towers beneath the burdened ground. the story goes that lord soulis, 'the evil hero of hermitage,' made a compact with the devil, who appeared to him in the shape of a spirit wearing a red cap, which gained its hue from the blood of human victims in which it was steeped. lord soulis sold himself to the demon, and in return he could summon his familiar whenever he chose to rap thrice on an iron chest, on condition that he never looked in the direction of the spirit. once, however, he forgot or ignored this condition, and his doom was sealed. but even then lord soulis kept the letter of the compact. lord soulis was protected by an unholy charm against any injury from rope or steel; hence cords could not bind him, and steel could not slay him. when, at last, he was delivered over to his enemies it was found necessary to adopt the ingenious and effective expedient of rolling him up in a sheet of lead and boiling him to death: on a circle of stones they placed the pot, on a circle of stones but barely nine; they heated it red and fiery hot, and the burnished brass did glimmer and shine. they rolled him up in a sheet of lead-- a sheet of lead for a funeral pall; they plunged him into the cauldron red, and melted him, body, lead, bones and all. this was the end of lord soulis's body, but his spirit still lingers on the scene. once every seven years he keeps tryst with red cap on the scene of his former devilries: and still when seven years are o'er is heard the jarring sound, when hollow opes the charmèd door of chamber underground.[ ] hugh miller, in his 'schools and schoolmasters,' says that, while working as a stonemason in a remote part of scotland, he visited the ruins of craighouse, a grey fantastic rag of a castle, which the people of the neighbourhood firmly believed to be haunted by its goblin--a miserable-looking, grey-headed, grey-bearded old man, who might be seen, late in evening and early in the morning, peering out through a narrow slit or shot-hole at the chance passenger. he further adds that he met with a sunburnt herd-boy who was tending his cattle under the shadow of the old castle wall. he asked the lad whose apparition he thought it was that could continue to haunt a building whose last inhabitant had long been forgotten. 'oh, they're saying,' was the reply, 'it's the spirit of the man who was killed on the foundation-stone, soon after it was laid, and then built intil the wa' by the masons that he might keep the castle by coming back again; and they're saying that a' varra auld hooses i' the country had murderit men builded intil them i' that way, and that all o' them hev their bogie!' among irish haunted houses may be noticed the castle of dunseverick, in antrim, which is believed to be still inhabited by the spirit of a chief, who there atones for a horrid crime; while the castles of dunluce, of magrath, and many others are similarly peopled by the wicked dead. in the abbey of clare the ghost of a sinful abbot walks, and will continue to do so until his sin has been atoned for by the prayers he unceasingly mutters in his tireless march up and down the aisles of the ruined nave. the 'cedar room' at ashley hall, cheshire, was said to be tenanted by the figure of a white lady, reminding us of similar so-called apparitions at skipsea and blenkinsopp castles. at burton agnes hall, the family seat of sir henry somerville boynton, there is a spirit of a lady which haunts the ancient mansion, known in the neighbourhood as 'awd nance.' the skull of this lady is preserved at the hall, and so long as it is left quietly in its resting-place all goes well, but should any attempt be made to remove it, all kinds of unearthly noises are raised in the house, and last until it is restored.[ ] denton hall has for many years past attracted interest from being inhabited by a spirit known by the names of 'old barbery' and 'silky,' and waddow hall, yorkshire, is haunted by a phantom called 'peg o'nell.' bridge end house, burnley, was said to have its ghost; crook hall, near durham, has its 'white ladie;' south biddick hall, its shadowy tenant, 'madam lambton;' and netherby hall, a 'rustling lady' who walks along a retired passage in that mansion, her dress rustling as she moves along.[ ] there was the famous willington mill, alluded to in the previous chapter, which some years ago became notorious in the north of england, having been haunted, it is said, by a priest and a grey lady who amused themselves at their victims' expense by all kinds of strange acts.[ ] a correspondent of 'notes and queries' ( th s. x. ) referring to the willington ghost says: 'the steam flour mill, with the house, was in the occupation then of messrs. proctor and unthank; the house was separated from the mill by a space of a few feet, so that no tricks could be played from the mill. the partners alternately lived in the house. a relation of mine asked one of those gentlemen if there was any truth as to the current rumours. he remarked, "well, we don't like to speak of it; my partner certainly cannot live comfortably in the house, from some unexplained cause, but as to myself and family we are never disturbed."' several parsonages have had their ghosts. southey, in his 'life of wesley,' speaking of epworth parsonage, which appears to have been haunted in the most strange manner, and alluding to the mysterious disturbances that happened in it, says: 'an author who, in this age, relates such a story, and treats it as not utterly incredible and absurd, must expect to be ridiculed, but the testimony upon which it rests is far too strong to be set aside because of the strangeness of the relation.' in the 'gentleman's magazine' is recorded an account of an apparition that appeared at souldern rectory, oxfordshire, to the rev. mr. shaw, who had always ridiculed the idea of ghosts, announcing to him that his death would be very soon, and very sudden. suffice it to say that shortly afterwards he was seized with an apoplectic fit while reading the service in church, and died almost immediately. this strange affair is noticed in the register of brisly church, norfolk, under december , : 'i, robert withers, m.a., vicar of gately, do insert here a story which i had from undoubted hands, for i have all the moral certainty of the truth of it possible.' the old parsonage at market, or east, lavington, near devizes--now pulled down--was reputed to be haunted by a lady supposed to have been murdered, and, it has been said, a child came also to an untimely end in the house. previous to , a correspondent of 'notes and queries' ( s. i. ) says: 'a witness states his father occupied the house, and writes "that in that year on feast day, being left alone in the house, i went up to my room. it was the one with marks of blood on the floor. i distinctly saw a white figure glide into the room. it went round by the washstand by the bed, and there disappeared."' it may be added that part of the road leading from market lavington to easterton, which skirts the grounds of fiddington house, used to be looked upon as haunted by a lady, who was known as the 'easterton ghost.' in , a wall was built round the road-side of the pond; and, close to the spot where the lady was seen, two skeletons were disturbed--one of a woman, the other of a child. the bones were buried in the churchyard, and no ghost, it is said, has been seen since. occasionally, churches have been haunted. the famous phantom nun of holy trinity church, micklegate, york, has excited a good deal of interest--an account of which is given by mr. baring-gould in his 'yorkshire oddities.' the story goes that during the suppression of religious houses before the reformation, a party of soldiers came to sack the convent attached to the church. but having forced an entry they were confronted by the abbess, a lady of great courage and devotion, who declared that they should only pass it over her body, and that should they slay her and succeed in their errand of destruction, her spirit would haunt the place until the time came that their sacrilegious work was expiated by the rebuilding of the holy house. many accounts have been published of this apparition, the following being from the 'ripon and richmond chronicle' (may , ): 'in the middle of the service,' writes a correspondent, 'my eyes, which had hardly once moved from the left or north side of the [east] window, were attracted by a bright light, formed like a female, robed and hooded, passing from north to south with a rapid gliding motion outside the church, apparently at some distance. there are four divisions in the window, all of stained glass, but at the edge of each runs a rim of plain transparent glass, about two inches wide, and adjoining the stone-work. through this rim especially could be seen what looked like a form transparent, but yet thick (if such a term can be used) with light. the robe was long and trailed. about half an hour later it again passed from north to south, and, having remained about ten seconds only, returned with what i believe to have been the figure of a young child, and stopped at the last pane but one, and then vanished. i did not see the child again, but a few seconds afterwards the woman reappeared, and completed the passage behind the last pane very rapidly.' it is said to appear very frequently on trinity sunday, and to bring two other figures on to the scene, another female, called the nurse, and the child. likewise, on one of the windows of the abbey church, whitby, was occasionally seen-- the very form of hilda fair, hovering upon the sunny air. according to a correspondent of the 'gentleman's magazine,' a ghost appeared for several years, but very seldom, only in the church porch at kilncote, leicestershire. folk-lore tells us that ghosts are occasionally seen in the church porch, and, in years gone, it was customary for young people to sit and watch here on st. mark's eve, from at night till o'clock in the morning. in the third year, for the ceremony had to be gone through three times, it was supposed the ghosts of all those about to die in the course of the ensuing year would pass into the church. it is to this piece of superstition that james montgomery refers in his 'vigil of st. mark': ''tis now,' replied the village belle, 'st. mark's mysterious eve; and all that old traditions tell i tremblingly believe. 'how, when the midnight signal tolls, along the churchyard green a mournful train of sentenced souls in winding sheets are seen. 'the ghosts of all whom death shall doom within the coming year, in pale procession walk the gloom, amid the silence drear.' a strange illustration of this superstition is found among the hollis manuscripts in the lansdowne collection. the writer, gervase hollis, of great grimsby, lincolnshire, was a colonel in the service of charles i., and he professes to have received the tale from mr. liveman rampaine, minister of god's word at great grimsby, lincolnshire, who was household chaplain to sir thomas munson of burton, in lincoln, at the time of the incident.[ ] a curious and somewhat unique advertisement of a haunted house appeared some years ago, and ran thus: 'to be sold, an ancient gothic mansion, known as beckington castle, ten miles from bath, and two from frome. the mansion has been closed for some years, having been the subject of proceedings in chancery. there are legends of haunted rooms, miles of subterranean passages, &c., affording a fine field of research and speculation to lovers of the romantic.' it was no doubt true of the ghost of this, as of most other haunted houses-- we meet them on the door-way, on the stair, along the passages they come and go, impalpable impressions on the air, a sense of something moving to and fro. footnotes: [ ] see ingram's _haunted homes_, nd s. pp. - . [ ] see lord clarendon's _history of the rebellion_, and _notes and queries_, july . [ ] _gentleman's magazine_, , pt. ii. pp. , . [ ] _more ghost stories_, p. . [ ] _all the year round_, december , . [ ] see ingram's _haunted homes_, nd s. pp. - . [ ] _ibid._ see p. . [ ] _more ghost stories_, w. t. stead, , p. . [ ] henderson's _folk-lore of northern counties_, pp. , . [ ] _henderson's folk-lore of northern counties_, pp. , . [ ] see _ibid._ p. ; ingram's _haunted homes_, pp. - ; _more ghost stories_, w. t. stead. [ ] quoted in _book of days_, i. p. . chapter xxiv haunted localities spirits in most countries are supposed to haunt all kinds of places, and not to confine themselves to any one locality. local traditions show how the most unlikely spots, which can boast of little or no romance, are supposed to be frequented by ghosts; the wayfarer along some country road having oftentimes been confronted by an uncanny apparition. indeed, the superstitious fear of places being haunted by ghosts not only led to the abandonment but even destruction of many a dwelling-place, a practice which, amongst uncultured tribes, not only 'served as a check to material prosperity, but became an obstacle to progress.'[ ] but even in civilised countries the same antipathy to a haunted house is often found, and the ghostly tenant is allowed uninterrupted possession owing to the dread his presence inspires. the hottentots deserted the house after a decease,[ ] and the seminoles at once removed from the dwelling where death had occurred, and from the neighbourhood where the body was buried. among the south slavonians and bohemians, the bereaved family, returning from the grave, pelted the ghost of their deceased relative with sticks, stones, and hot coals. and the tschuwasche, a tribe in finland, opened fire on it as soon as the coffin was outside the house. in old calabar, it was usual for a son to leave his father's house for two years, after which time it was considered safe to return. if a kaffir or maori died before he could be carried out, the house was tabooed and deserted.[ ] the ojibways pulled down the house in which anyone had died, and chose another one to live in as far off as possible. even with the death of an infant the same fear was manifested. one day, when a friend visited a neighbour whose child was sick, he was not a little surprised to find, on his return in the evening, that the house had disappeared and all its inhabitants gone. among the abipones of paraguay, when anyone's life is despaired of, the house is immediately forsaken by his fellow inmates, and the new england tribes would never live in a wigwam in which any person had died, but would immediately pull it down. if a deceased creek indian 'has been a man of eminent character, the family immediately remove from the house in which he is buried, and erect a new one, with a belief that where the bones of their dead are deposited, the place is always attended by goblins.'[ ] the kamtchadales frequently remove from their dwelling when anyone has died, and among the lepchas the house where there has been a death 'is almost always forsaken by the surviving inmates.'[ ] occasionally, it would seem, the desertion is more complete. after a death, for instance, the boobies of fernando po forsake the village in which it occurred, and of the bechuanas we read that 'on the death of mallahawan ... the town [lattakoo] was removed, according to the custom of the country.'[ ] ghosts are supposed to find pleasure in revisiting the places where they have experienced joy, or sorrow and pain, and to wander round the spot where they died, and hence all kinds of precautions have been adopted to prevent their returning. in europe, sometimes, 'steps were taken to barricade the house against him. thus, in some parts of russia and east prussia, an axe or a lock is laid on the threshold, or a knife is hung over the door, and in germany as soon as the coffin is carried out of the house all the doors and windows are shut.'[ ] and conversely, it is a common custom in many parts of england to unfasten every bolt and lock in the house that the spirit of the dying man may freely escape. but, as mr. frazer shows in his interesting paper on the 'primitive ghost,' our ancestors knew how to outwit the ghost in its endeavour to find its way back to the house it left at death. thus the practice of closing the eyes of the dead, he suggests, originated in 'blindfolding the dead that he might not see the way by which he was carried to his last home. at the grave, where he was to rest for ever, there was no motive for concealment; hence the romans, and apparently the siamese, opened the eyes of the dead man at the funeral pyre. and the idea that if the eyes of the dead be not closed, his ghost will return to fetch away another of the household, still exists in germany, bohemia, and england.' with the same object the coffin was carried out of the house by a hole purposely made in the wall, which was stopped up as soon as the body had passed through, so that, when the ghost strolled back from the grave, he found there was no thoroughfare--a device shared equally by greenlanders, hottentots, bechuanas, samoieds, ojibways, algonquins, laosians, hindoos, tibetans, siamese, chinese, and fijians. these 'doors of the dead' are still to be seen in a village near amsterdam, and they were common in some towns of central italy. a trace of the same custom survives in thüringen, where there is a belief that the ghost of a man who has been hanged will return to the house if not taken out by a window instead of a door. similarly, for the purpose of misleading the dead, the bohemians put on masks, that the dead might not know and therefore might not follow them, and it is a matter of conjecture whether mourning customs may not have sprung from 'the desire to disguise and therefore to protect the living from the dead.' among further methods in use for frustrating the return of the dead, may be noticed the objection to utter the names of deceased persons--a superstition which mr. frazer shows has modified whole languages. thus, 'among the australians, tasmanians, and abipones, if the name of a deceased person happened to be a common name, e.g. the name of an animal or plant, this name was abolished, and a new one substituted for it. during the residence of the jesuit missionary dobritzhoffer amongst the abipones, the name for tiger was thus changed three times. amongst the indians of columbia, near relatives of a deceased person often change their names, under the impression that the ghost will return if he hears the familiar names.'[ ] the sandwich islanders say the spirit of the departed hovers about the place of its former resort, and in the country north of the zambesi 'all believe that the souls of the departed still mingle among the living, and partake in some way of the food they consume.' in the aleutian islands, it is said that 'the invisible souls or shades of the departed wander about among their children.' but one of the most favourite haunts of departed spirits is said to be burial-grounds, and especially their own graves, reminding us of puck's words in 'a midsummer night's dream' (act v. sc. ): now it is the time of night, that the graves all gaping wide, everyone lets forth his sprite, in the church-way paths to glide. 'the belief in ghosts,' writes thorpe,[ ] 'was deeply impressed on the minds of the heathen northmen, a belief closely connected with their ideas of the state after death. the soul, they believed, returned to the place whence it sprang, while the body, and the grosser life bound to it, passed to the abode of hel or death. herewith was naturally combined the belief that the soul of the departed might, from its heavenly home, revisit the earth, there at night-time to unite itself in the grave-mound with the corporeal shadow released from hel. thus the dead could show themselves in the open grave-mounds in the same form which they had in life.' indeed, it has been the current opinion for centuries that places of burial are haunted with spectres and apparitions. ovid speaks of ghosts coming out of their sepulchres and wandering about, and virgil,[ ] too, quoting the popular opinion of his day, tells us how 'moeris could call the ghosts out of their tombs.' in short, the idea of the ghost remaining near the corpse is of world-wide prevalence, and, as dr. tylor remarks,[ ] 'through all the changes of religious thought from first to last in the course of human history, the hovering ghosts of the dead make the midnight burial-ground a place where man's flesh creeps with terror.' we may further compare hamlet's words (act iii. sc. ): 'tis now the very witching time of night, when church-yards yawn. and puck also tells how, at the approach of aurora, 'ghosts, wandering here and there, troop home to churchyards.' tracing this superstition amongst uncultured tribes, we find the soul of the north american hovering about its burial-place, and among the costa ricans the spirits of the dead are believed to remain near their bodies for a year. the dayak's burial-place is frequented by ghosts, and the explorer swan tells us that when he was with the north-western indians, he was not allowed to attend a funeral for fear of his offending the spirits hovering about. from the same authority we learn how at stony point, on the north-west coast of america, a burial-place of the indians was considered to be haunted by spirits, and on this account no indian ever ventured there.[ ] this dread of burial-grounds still retains a persistent hold, and is one of those survivals of primitive belief which has given rise to a host of strange superstitious practices. keppel, in his 'visit to the indian archipelago,' says that in northern australia the natives will not willingly approach graves at night, alone, 'but when they are obliged to pass them, they carry a firestick to keep off the spirit of darkness.' there is still a belief that the ghost of the last person watches round the churchyard till another is buried, to whom he delivers his charge. crofton croker says that in ireland it is the general opinion among the lower orders that 'the last buried corpse has to perform an office like that of "fag" in our public schools by the junior boy, and that the attendance on his churchyard companions is duly relieved by the interment of some other person.' serious disturbances have resulted from this superstition, and terrific fights have at times taken place to decide which corpse should be buried first. the ancient churchyard of truagh, county monaghan, is said to be haunted by an evil spirit, whose appearance generally forebodes death. the legend runs, writes lady wilde,[ ] 'that at funerals the spirit watches for the person who remains last in the graveyard. if it be a young man who is there alone, the spirit takes the form of a beautiful young girl, inspires him with an ardent passion, and exacts from him a promise that he will meet her that day month in the churchyard. the promise is then sealed by a kiss, which sends a fatal fire through his veins, so that he is unable to resist her caresses, and makes the promise required. then she disappears, and the young man proceeds homewards; but no sooner has he passed the boundary wall of the churchyard than the whole story of the evil rushes on his mind, and he knows that he has sold himself, soul and body, for a demon's kiss. then terror and dismay take hold of him, till despair becomes insanity, and on the very day month fixed for the meeting with the demon bride, the victim dies the death of a raving lunatic, and is laid in the fatal graveyard of truagh.' the dead, too, particularly object to persons treading carelessly on their graves, an allusion to which occurs in one of the songs of greek outlawry:[ ] all saturday we held carouse, and far through sunday night, and on the monday morn we found our wine expended quite. to seek for more, without delay, the captain made me go; i ne'er had seen nor known the way, nor had a guide to show. and so through solitary roads and secret paths i sped, which to a little ivied church long time deserted led. this church was full of tombs, and all by gallant men possest; one sepulchre stood all alone, apart from all the rest. i did not see it, and i trod above the dead man's bones, and as from out the nether world came up a sound of groans. 'what ails thee, sepulchre? why thus so deeply groan and sigh? doth the earth press, or the black stone weigh on thee heavily?' 'neither the earth doth press me down, nor black stone do me scath, but i with bitter grief am wrung, and full of shame and wrath, that thou dost trample on my head, and i am scorned in death. perhaps i was not also young, nor brave and stout in fight, nor wont, as thou, beneath the moon, to wander through the night.' according to the guiana indians, 'every place is haunted where any have died;' and in madagascar the ghosts of ancestors are said to hover about their tombs. the east africans 'appear to imagine the souls to be always near the place of sepulture,' and on the gold coast 'the spirit is supposed to remain near the spot where the body has been buried.' the souls of warriors slain on the field of battle are considered by the mangaians to wander for a while amongst the rocks and trees of the neighbourhood in which their bodies were thrown. at length 'the first slain on each battlefield would collect his brothers' ghosts, and lead them to the summit of a mountain, whence they leap into the blue expanse, thus becoming the peculiar clouds of the winter.'[ ] and the mayas of yucatan think the souls of the dead return to the earth if they choose, and, in order that they may not lose the way to the domestic hearth, they mark the path from the hut to the tomb with chalk.[ ] the primitive doctrine of souls obliges the savage, says mr. dorman,[ ] 'to think of the spirit of the dead as close at hand. most uncultured tribes, on this account, regard the spot where death has taken place as haunted. a superstitious fear soon instigates worship, and this worship, beginning at the tombs and burial-places, develops into the temple ritual of higher culture.' the iroquois believe the space between the earth and sky is full of spirits, usually invisible, but occasionally seen, and the ojibways affirm that innumerable spirits are ever near, and dwell in all kinds of places. european folk-lore has similar beliefs, it having been a scandinavian idea that the souls of the departed dwell in the interior of mountains, a phase of superstition which frequently presents itself in the icelandic sagas, and exists in germany at the present day. 'of some german mountains,' writes thorpe, 'it is believed that they are the abodes of the damned. one of these is the horselberg, near eisenach, which is the habitation of frau holle; another is the fabulous venusberg, in which the tannhäuser sojourns, and before which the trusty eckhart sits as a warning guardian.'[ ] departed souls were also supposed to dwell in the bottom of wells and ponds, with which may be compared the many tales current throughout germany and elsewhere of towns and castles that have been sunk in the water, and are at times visible. but, as few subjects have afforded greater scope for the imagination than the hereafter of the human soul, numerous myths and legendary stories have been invented to account for its mysterious departure in the hour of death. shakespeare has alluded to the numerous destinations of the disembodied spirit, enumerating the many ideas prevalent, in his day, on the subject. in 'measure for measure' (act iii. sc. ) claudio pathetically says: ay, but to die, and go we know not where; to lie in cold obstruction, and to rot; this sensible warm motion to become a kneaded clod, and the delighted spirit to bathe in fiery floods, or to reside in thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice; to be imprison'd in the viewless winds, and blown with restless violence round about the pendent world.[ ] indeed, it would be a long task to enter into the mass of mystic details respecting 'the soul's dread journey by caverns and rocky paths and weary plains, over steep and slippery mountains, by frail bank or giddy bridge, across gulfs or rushing rivers,' to its destined home. according to the mazovians the soul remains with the coffin, sitting upon the upper part of it until the burial is over, when it flies away. such traditions, writes mr. ralston,[ ] 'vary in different localities, but everywhere, among all the slavonic people, there seems always to have prevailed an idea that death does not finally sever the ties between the living and the dead. this idea has taken various forms, and settled into several widely differing superstitions, lurking in the secrecy of the cottage, and there keeping alive the cultus of the domestic spirit, and showing itself openly in the village church, where on a certain day it calls for a service in remembrance of the dead. the spirits of those who are thus remembered, say the peasants, attend the service, taking their place behind the altar. but those who are left unremembered weep bitterly all through the day.' in some parts of ireland, writes mr. mcanally, 'there exists a belief that the spirits of the dead are not taken from earth, nor do they lose all their former interest in earthly affairs, but enjoy the happiness of the saved, or suffer the punishment imposed for their sins in the neighbourhood of the scenes among which they lived while clothed in flesh and blood. at particular crises in the affairs of mortals these disenthralled spirits sometimes display joy and grief in such a manner as to attract the attention of living men and women. at weddings they are frequently unseen guests; at funerals they are always present; and sometimes, at both weddings and funerals, their presence is recognised by aerial voices, or mysterious music, known to be of unearthly origin. the spirits of the good wander with the living as guardian angels; but the spirits of the bad are restrained in their action, and compelled to do penance at, or near, the place where their crimes were committed. some are chained at the bottom of lakes, others buried underground, others confined in mountain gorges, some hang on the sides of precipices, others are transfixed on the tree-tops, while others haunt the homes of their ancestors, all waiting till the penance has been endured and the hour of deliverance arrives.' harriet martineau, speaking of the english lakes, says that souter or soutra fell is the mountain on which ghosts appeared in myriads at intervals during ten years of the last century. 'on the midsummer eve of the fearful , twenty-six persons, expressly summoned by the family, saw all that had been seen before, and more. carriages were now interspersed with the troops; and everybody knew that no carriages had been, or could be, on the summit of souter fell. the multitude was beyond imagination; for the troops filled a space of half a mile, and marched quickly till night hid them, still marching. there was nothing vaporous or indistinct about the appearance of these spectres. so real did they seem, that some of the people went up the next morning to look for the hoof-marks of the horses; and awful it was to them to find not one footprint on heather or grass.' this spectral march was similar to that seen at edge hill, in leicestershire, in , and corresponds with the tradition of the tramp of armies over helvellyn, on the eve of the battle of marston moor. with such phantoms may be compared the mock suns, the various appearances of halos and wandering lights, and such a phenomenon as the 'spectre of the brocken.' calmet relates a singular instance at milan, where some two thousand persons saw, as they supposed, an angel hovering in the air: he cites cardan as an eye-witness, who says that the populace were only undeceived when it was shown, by a sharp-sighted lawyer, to be a reflection from one of the statues of a neighbouring church, the image of which was caught on the surface of a cloud. the mirage, or water of the desert, owes its appearance to similar laws of refraction. mountain districts, we know, abound in these illusions, and 'the splendid enchantment presented in the straits of reggio by the fata morgana' has attracted much notice. at such times, 'minarets, temples, and palaces, have seemed to rise out of the distant waves;' and spectral huntsmen, soldiers in battle array, and gay but mute cavalcades, have appeared under similar circumstances, pictured on the table of the clouds. it was thus, we are told, that the duke of brunswick and mrs. graham saw the image of their balloon distinctly exhibited on the face of a cumulous cloud, in ; and travellers on mont blanc have been startled by their own magnified shadows, floating among the giant peaks.[ ] it is difficult to say how many of the apparitions which have been supposed to haunt certain spots might be attributed to similar causes. footnotes: [ ] dorman's _primitive superstitions_, p. . [ ] see tylor's _primitive culture_, ii. p. . [ ] _contemporary review_, xlviii. p. . [ ] schoolcraft's _indian tribes_, v. p. . [ ] see herbert spencer's _principles of sociology_, , i. p. . [ ] _ibid._ p. . [ ] the _contemporary review_, xlviii. p. . [ ] the _contemporary review_, xlviii. p. . [ ] _northern mythology_, ii. p. . [ ] _bucolics_, viii. p. . [ ] _primitive culture_, ii. p. . [ ] see dorman's _primitive superstitions_, p. . [ ] _ancient cures, charms, and usages of ireland_, p. . [ ] _essay in the study of folk-songs_, pp. , . [ ] gill: _myths and songs from the south pacific_, pp. , . [ ] see dorman's _primitive superstitions_, p. . [ ] _ibid._ p. . [ ] _northern mythology_, i. p. . [ ] cf. _othello_, act v. sc. . [ ] _songs of the russian people_, pp. , . [ ] _occult sciences_, ; _apparitions_, pp. , . chapter xxv checks and spells against ghosts amongst the qualities ascribed to the cock was the time-honoured belief that by its crow it dispelled all kinds of ghostly beings--a notion alluded to by the poet prudentius, who flourished at the commencement of the fourth century. there is, also, a hymn said to have been composed by st. ambrose, and formerly used in the salisbury missal, in which allusion is made to this superstition. in blair's 'grave' the apparition vanishes at the crowing of the cock, and in 'hamlet,' on the departure of the ghost, bernardo says: it was about to speak when the cock crew; to which horatio answers: and then it started like a guilty thing upon a fearful summons. i have heard the cock, that is the trumpet to the morn, doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat awake the god of day; and, at his warning, whether in sea or fire, in earth or air, the extravagant and erring spirit hies to his confine: and of the truth herein this present object made probation. whereupon marcellus adds the well-known lines: it faded on the crowing of the cock. some say that ever 'gainst that season comes, wherein our saviour's birth is celebrated, the bird of dawning singeth all night long; and then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad; the nights are wholesome; then no planets strike, no fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, so hallow'd and so gracious is the time. even the devil is powerless at the sound of cock-crow. an amusing story is told on the continent of how a farmer's wife tricked the devil by means of this spell. it appears that her husband was mourning the loss of his barn--either by wind or fire--when a stranger addressed him, and said: 'that i can easily remedy. if you will just write your name in your blood on this parchment, your barn shall be fixed and ready to-morrow before the cock crows; if not, our contract is void.' but afterwards the farmer repented of the bargain he had made, and, on consulting his wife, she ran out in the middle of the night, and found a number of workmen employed on the barn. thereupon she cried with all her might, 'cock-a-doodle-doo! cock-a-doodle-doo!' and was followed by all the cocks in the neighbourhood, each of which sent forth a hearty 'cock-a-doodle-doo!' at the same moment all the phantom workmen disappeared, and the barn remained unfinished. in a pretty swedish ballad of 'little christina,' a lover rises from the grave to console his beloved. one night christina hears light fingers tapping at the door; she opens it and sees her betrothed. she washes his feet with pure wine, and for a long while they converse. then the cocks begin to crow, and the dead get them underground. the young girl follows her sweetheart through the white forest, and when they reach the graveyard, the fair hair of the young man begins to disappear. 'see, maiden,' he says, 'how the moon has reddened all at once; even so, in a moment, thy beloved will vanish.' she sits down on the tomb, and says, 'i shall remain here till the lord calls me.' then she hears the voice of her betrothed, 'little christina, go back to thy dwelling-place. every time a tear falls from thine eyes my shroud is full of blood. every time thy heart is gay, my shroud is full of rose-leaves.' these folk-tales are interesting, as embodying the superstitions of the people among whom they are current. a similar idea prevails in india, where the cock is with the hindoos, as with the english peasant, a most potent instrument in the subjugation of troublesome spirits. a paragraph in the 'carnatic times' tells us how a hindoo exorcist tied his patient's hair in a knot, and then with a nail attached it to a tree. muttering some 'incantatory' lines, he seized a live cock, and holding it over the girl's head with one hand, he, with the other, cut its throat. the blood-stained knot of hair was left attached to the tree, which was supposed to detain the demon. it is further supposed that 'one or a legion thus exorcised will haunt that tree till he or they shall choose to take possession of some other unfortunate.' it was said that chastity was of itself a safeguard against the malignant power of bad ghosts; a notion to which milton has referred: some say no evil thing that walks by night, in fog or fire, by lake or moorish fen, blue meagre hag, or stubborn unlaid ghost, that breaks the magic chains at curfew-time, no goblin, or swart faery of the mine, hath hurtful power o'er true virginity. the cross and holy water have, too, generally been considered sacred preservatives against devils and spirits, illustrations of which will be found in many of our old romances.[ ] fire, like water,[ ] has been employed for the purpose of excluding or barring the ghost, and mr. frazer writes how 'the siberians seek to get rid of the ghost of the departed by leaping over a fire. at rome, mourners returning from a funeral stepped over fire,' a practice which still exists in china. a survival of this custom prevails among the south slavonians, who, on their return from a funeral, are met by an old woman carrying a vessel of live coals. on these they pour water, or else they take a live coal from the hearth and fling it over their heads. the brahmans simply touched fire, while in ruthenia 'the mourners merely look steadfastly at the stove or place their hands on it.'[ ] it is noteworthy that in the highlands of scotland and in burma, the house-fires were always extinguished when a death happened; for fear, no doubt, of the ghost being accidentally burnt. the eskimos drive away spirits by blowing their breath at them,[ ] and the mayas of yucatan had evil spirits which could be driven away by the sorcerers; but they never came near when their fetiches were exposed. they had a ceremony for expelling evil spirits from houses about to be occupied by newly married persons.[ ] the natives of brazil so much dread the ghosts of the dead that it is recorded how some of them have been struck with sudden death because of an imaginary apparition of them. they try to appease them by fastening offerings on stakes fixed in the ground for that purpose.[ ] mutilations of the dead were supposed to keep his ghost harmless, and on this account greek murderers hacked off the extremities of their victims. australians cut off the right thumb of a slain enemy that his ghost might not be able to draw the bow. and in arabia, germany, and spain, as the ghosts of murderers and their victims are especially restless, everyone who passes their graves is bound to add a stone to the pile.[ ] in pekin, six or seven feet away from the front of the doors, small brick walls are built up. these are to keep the spirits out, which fly only in straight lines, and therefore find a baulk in their way. another mode of keeping spirits away in the case of children is to attire them as priests, and also to dress the boys as girls, who are supposed to be the less susceptible to the evil influence. in fact, most countries have their contrivances for counteracting, in one way or another, the influence of departed spirits--a piece of superstition of which european folk-lore affords abundant illustrations. thus, in norway, bullets, gunpowder, and weapons have no influence on ghosts, but at the sight of a cross, and from exorcisms, they must retire. the same belief prevails in denmark, where all kinds of checks to ghostly influence are resorted to. it is said, for instance, to be dangerous to shoot at a spectre, as the bullet will return on him who shot it. but if the piece be loaded with a silver button, that will infallibly take effect. a danish tradition tells how once there was a horrible spectre which caused great fear and disquietude, as everyone who saw it died immediately afterwards. in this predicament, a young fellow offered to encounter the apparition, and to endeavour to drive it away. for this purpose he went at midnight to the church path, through which the spectre was in the habit of passing, having previously provided himself with steel in various shapes. when the apparition approached, he fearlessly threw steel before its feet, so that it was obliged instantly to turn back, and it appeared no more.[ ] a common superstition, equally popular in england as on the continent, is that when a horseshoe is nailed over the doorway no spirit can enter. it is also said that 'if anyone is afraid of spectres, let him strew flax seed before the door; then no spirit can cross the threshold. a preventive equally efficacious is to place one's slippers by the bedside with the heels towards the bed. spectres may be driven away by smoking the room with the snuff of a tallow candle; while wax-lights attract them.' and at the present day various devices are adopted by our english peasantry for warding off from their dwellings ghosts, and other uncanny intruders.[ ] footnotes: [ ] see e. yardley's _supernatural in fiction_, pp. - . [ ] see chapter on 'ghost laying.' [ ] _contemporary review_, xlviii. p. ; ralston's _songs of the russian people_, p. . [ ] dorman's _primitive superstitions_, p. . [ ] _ibid._ p. . [ ] _ibid._ p. . [ ] 'the primitive ghost,' _contemporary review_, xlviii. p. . [ ] thorpe's _northern mythology_, ii. p. . [ ] see harland and wilkinson's _lancashire folk-lore_, , p. . chapter xxvi wraith-seeing closely allied to 'second sight' is the doctrine of 'wraiths' or 'fetches,' sometimes designated 'doubles'--an apparition exactly like a living person, its appearance, whether to that person or to another, being considered an omen of death. the 'fetch' is a well-known superstition in ireland, and is supposed to be a mere shadow, 'resembling in stature, features, and dress, a living person, and often mysteriously or suddenly seen by a very particular friend.' spiritlike, it flits before the sight, seeming to walk leisurely through the fields, often disappearing through a gap or lane. the person it resembles is usually known at the time to be labouring under some mortal illness, and unable to leave his or her bed. when the 'fetch' appears agitated, or eccentric in its motions, a violent or painful death is indicated for the doomed prototype. such a phantom, too, is said to make its appearance at the same time, and in the same place, to more than one person.[ ] should it be seen in the morning, a happy longevity for the original is confidently expected; but if it be seen in the evening, immediate dissolution of the living prototype is anticipated. it is thought, too, that individuals may behold their own 'fetches.' queen elizabeth is said to have been warned of her death by the apparition of her own double, and miss strickland thus describes her last illness: 'as her mortal illness drew towards a close, the superstitious fears of her simple ladies were excited almost to mania, even to conjuring up a spectral apparition of the queen while she was yet alive. lady guilford, who was then in waiting on the queen, leaving her in an almost breathless sleep in her privy chamber, went out to take a little air, and met her majesty, as she thought, three or four chambers off. alarmed at the thought of being discovered in the act of leaving the royal patient alone, she hurried forward in some trepidation in order to excuse herself, when the apparition vanished away. she returned terrified to the chamber, but there lay the queen in the same lethargic slumber in which she left her.' shelley, shortly before his death, believed he had seen his wraith. 'on june ,' says one of his biographers, 'he was heard screaming at midnight in the saloon. the williamses ran in and found him staring on vacancy. he had had a vision of a cloaked figure which came to his bedside and beckoned him to follow. he did so, and when they had reached the sitting-room, the figure lifted the hood of his cloak and disclosed shelley's own features, and saying "siete soddisfatto?" vanished. this vision is accounted for on the ground that shelley had been reading a drama attributed to calderon, named 'el embozado, ó el encapotado,' in which a mysterious personage who had been haunting and thwarting the hero all his life, and is at last about to give him satisfaction in a duel, unmasks and proves to be the hero's own wraith. he also asks, "art thou satisfied?" and the haunted man dies of horror.' sir robert napier is supposed to have seen his double, and aubrey quaintly relates how 'the beautiful lady diana rich, daughter to the earl of holland, as she was walking in her father's garden at kensington to take the air before dinner, about o'clock, being then very well, met her own apparition, habit and everything, as in a looking-glass. about a month after, she died of small-pox. and it is said that her sister, the lady isabella thynne, saw the like of herself also before she died. this account i had from a person of honour. a third sister, mary, was married to the earl of breadalbane, and it has been recorded that she also, not long after her marriage, had some such warning of her approaching dissolution.' the irish novelist, john banim, has written both a novel and a ballad on this subject, one which has also largely entered into many a tradition and folk-tale.[ ] in cumberland this apparition is known by the peasantry as a 'swarth,' and in yorkshire by the name of a 'waff.' the gift of wraith-seeing still flourishes on the continent, and examples abound in silesia and the tyrol. 'with regard to bilocation, or double personality,' writes a catholic priest,[ ] 'there is a great deal of very interesting matter in st. thomas of aquin, and also in cardinal cajetan's "commentaries of st. thomas." the substance of the principles is this: bilocation, properly so called, is defined by the scholastics as the perfect and simultaneous existence of one and the same individual in two distinct places at the same time. this _never_ does and never can happen. but bilocation, improperly so called, and which st. thomas terms _raptus_, does occur, and is identical with the double, as you call it, in the cases of st. gennadius, st. ignatius, &c. 'st. thomas quotes as illustrations or instances, st. paul being taken up to the third heaven. ezekiel, the prophet, was taken by god and shown jerusalem, whilst at the same time he was sitting in the room with the ancients of the tribe of judah before him (ezekiel viii.), &c. in which the soul of man is not wholly detached from the body, being necessary for the purpose of giving life, but is detached from the _senses_ of the body. st. thomas gives three causes for this phenomenon: ( ) divine power; ( ) the power of the devil; and ( ), disease of the body when very violent sometimes.' bardinus tells how marsilius ficinus appeared at the hour of his death on a white horse to michael mercatus, and rode away crying, 'o michael, michael, vera, vera sunt illa,' that is, the doctrine of a future life is true. instances of this kind of phenomenon have been common in all ages of the world, and lucretius suggested the strange fancy that the superficial surfaces of all bodies were continually flying off like the coats of an onion, which accounted for the appearance of apparitions; whilst jacques gaffarel suggested that corrupting bodies send forth vapours which, being compressed by the cold night air, appear visible to the eye in the forms of men.[ ] in one of the notes to 'les imaginations extravagantes de monsieur oufle,' by the abbé bordélon, it is said that the monks and nuns, a short time before their death, have seen the images of themselves seated in their chairs or stalls. catharine of russia, after retiring to her bedroom, was told that she had been seen just before to enter the state chamber. on hearing this she went thither, and saw the exact similitude of herself seated upon the throne. she ordered her guards to fire upon it. in scotland and the northern counties of england it was formerly said that the apparition of the person that was doomed to die within a short time was seen wrapped in a winding-sheet, and the higher the winding-sheet reached up towards the head the nearer was death. this apparition was seen during day, and it might show itself to anyone, but only to one, who generally fell into a faint a short time afterwards. if the person who saw the apparition was alone at the time, the fainting fit did not come on till after meeting with others. in the 'statistical account of scotland' (xxi. ), the writer, speaking of the parish of monquhitter, says, the 'fye gave due warning by certain signs of approaching mortality'; and, again ( ), 'the fye has withdrawn his warning.' some friends observing to an old woman, when in the ninety-ninth year of her age, that, in the course of nature, she could not long survive, she remarked, with pointed indignation, 'what fye-token do you see about me?' in the same work (iii. ) the minister of applecross, county of ross, speaking of the superstitions of that parish, says: 'the ghosts of the dying, called "tasks," are said to be heard, their cry being a repetition of the moans of the sick. some assume the sagacity of distinguishing the voice of their departed friends. the corpse follows the track led by the "tasks" to the place of interment, and the early or late completion of the prediction is made to depend on the period of the night at which the "task" is heard.' the scotch wraith and irish fetch have their parallel in wales in the lledrith, or spectre of a person seen before his death. it never speaks, and vanishes if spoken to. it has been seen by miners previous to a fatal accident in the mine. the story is told of a miner who saw himself lying dead and horribly maimed in a phantom tram-car, led by a phantom horse, and surrounded by phantom miners. as he watched this dreadful group of spectres they passed on, looking neither to the right nor the left, and faded away. the miner's dog was as frightened as its master, and ran away howling. the miner continued to work in the pit, and as the days passed on and no harm came to him he grew more cheerful, and was so bold as to laugh at the superstition. but the day he did this a stone fell from the roof and broke his arm. as soon as he recovered he resumed work in the pit; but a stone crushed him, and he was borne maimed and dead in the tram along the road where his 'lledrith' had appeared.[ ] 'examining,' says dr. tylor,[ ] 'the position of the doctrine of wraiths among the higher races, we find it specially prominent in three intellectual districts: christian hagiology, popular folk-lore, and modern spiritualism. st. anthony saw the soul of st. ammonius carried to heaven in the midst of choirs of angels, the same day that the holy hermit died five days' journey off in the desert of nitria. when st. ambrose died on easter eve, several newly-baptized children saw the holy bishop and pointed him out to their parents; but these, with their less pure eyes, could not behold him.' numerous instances of wraith-seeing have been chronicled from time to time, some of which are noteworthy. it is related how ben jonson, when staying at sir robert cotton's house, was visited by the apparition of his eldest son, with a mark of a bloody cross upon his forehead, at the moment of his death by the plague. lord balcarres, it is said, when in confinement in edinburgh castle under suspicion of jacobitism, was one morning lying in bed when the curtains were drawn aside by his friend viscount dundee, who looked upon him steadfastly, and then left the room. shortly afterwards the news came that he had fallen about the same hour at killiecrankie. lord mohun, who was killed in a duel in chelsea fields, is reported to have appeared at the moment of his death, in the year , to a lady in james street, covent garden, and also to the sister of glanvill, famous as the author of 'sadducismus triumphatus.' it is related how the second earl of chesterfield, in , saw, when walking, a spectre with long white robes and black face. regarding it as an intimation of some illness of his wife, then visiting her father at networth, he set off early to inquire, and met a servant from lady chesterfield, describing the same apparition. anna maria porter, when living at esher, was visited by an old gentleman, a neighbour, who frequently came in to tea. on this occasion, the story goes, he left the room without speaking; and, fearing that something had happened, she sent to inquire, and found that he had died at the moment of his appearance. similarly maria edgeworth, when waiting with her family for an expected guest, saw in a vacant chair the apparition of a sailor cousin, who suddenly stated that his ship had been wrecked and he himself the only one saved. the event proved the contrary--he alone was drowned.[ ] one of the most striking and best authenticated cases on record is known as the birkbeck ghost, and is thus related in the 'proceedings of the psychical research society': 'in , mrs. birkbeck, wife of william birkbeck, banker, of settle, and a member of the society of friends, was taken ill and died at cockermouth while returning from a journey to scotland, which she had undertaken alone--her husband and three children, aged seven, five, and four years respectively, remaining at settle. the friends at whose house the death occurred made notes of every circumstance attending mrs. birkbeck's last hours, so that the accuracy of the several statements as to time as well as place was beyond the doubtfulness of man's memory, or of any even unconscious attempt to bring them into agreement with each other. one morning, between seven and eight o'clock, the relation to whom the care of the children had been entrusted, and who kept a minute journal of all that concerned them, went into their bedroom, as usual, and found them all sitting up in bed in great excitement and delight. "mamma has been here," they cried; and the little one said, "she called, 'come, esther!'" nothing could make them doubt the fact, and it was carefully noted down to entertain the mother when she came home. that same morning, as their mother lay on her dying bed at cockermouth, she said, "i should be ready to go if i could but see my children." she then closed her eyes, to reopen them, as they thought, no more. but after ten minutes of perfect stillness she looked up brightly, and said, "i am ready now; i have been with my children;" and at once passed peacefully away. when the notes taken at the two places were compared, the day, hour, and minutes were the same.' baxter, in his 'world of spirits,' records a very similar case of a dying woman visiting her children in rochester, and in a paper on 'ghosts and goblins,' which appeared in the 'cornhill' ( , xxvii. ), the writer relates how, in a house in ireland, a girl lay dying. her mother and father were with her, and her five sisters were praying for her in a neighbouring room. this room was well lit, but overhead was a skylight, and the dark sky beyond. one of the sisters, looking towards this skylight, saw there the face of her dying sister looking sorrowfully down upon them. she seized another sister and pointed to the skylight; one after another the sisters looked where she pointed. they spoke no word; and in a few moments their father and mother called them to the room where their sister had just died. but when afterwards they talked together about what had happened that night, it was found that they had all seen the vision and the sorrowful face. but, as the writer observes, 'in stories where a ghost appears for some useful purpose, the mind does not reject the event as altogether unreasonable, though the circumstances may be sufficiently preposterous;' but one can conceive no reason why the vision of a dying sister should look down through a skylight. according to a lancashire belief, the spirits of persons about to die, especially if the persons be in distant lands, are supposed to return to their friends, and thus predict the event. while the spirit is thus away, the person is supposed to be in a swoon, and unaware of what is passing. but his desire to see his friends is necessary; and he must have been thinking of them.[ ] it is related from devonshire, of the well-known dr. hawker, that, when walking one night, he observed an old woman pass by him, to whom he was in the habit of giving a weekly charity. as soon as she had passed, he felt somebody pull his coat, and on looking round he recognised her, and put his hand in his pocket to seek for a sixpence, but on turning to give it to her she was gone. on his return home he heard she was dead, but his family had forgotten to mention the circumstance.[ ] a correspondent of 'notes and queries' ( rd s. vi. ) tells how a judge of the staffordshire county courts, being on one occasion in the north, went with his sisters into the church of the place to inspect its monuments. while there they were surprised to see a lady, whom they knew to be in bath, walk in at one door and out through another. they immediately followed, but could neither see nor hear anything further of her. on writing to her friends, it was found that she was dead, and a second letter elicited the fact that she had died at the very same time at which she had been seen by them in the north. patrick kennedy, in his 'legendary fiction of the irish celt,' speaking of the irish fetch, gives the following tale of 'the doctor's fetch,' based, it is stated, on the most authentic sources: 'in one of our irish cities, and in a room where the mild moonbeams were resting on the carpet and on a table near the window, mrs. b., wife of a doctor in good practice and general esteem, looking towards the window from her pillow, was startled by the appearance of her husband standing near the table just mentioned, and seeming to look with attention on the book which was lying open on it. now, the living and breathing man was by her side apparently asleep, and, greatly as she was surprised and affected, she had sufficient command of herself to remain without moving, lest she should expose him to the terror which she herself at the moment experienced. after gazing on the apparition for a few seconds, she bent her eyes upon her husband to ascertain if his looks were turned in the direction of the window, but his eyes were closed. she turned round again, although now dreading the sight of what she believed to be her husband's fetch, but it was no longer there. she remained sleepless throughout the remainder of the night, but still bravely refrained from disturbing her partner. 'next morning, mr. b., seeing signs of disquiet on his wife's countenance while at breakfast, made some affectionate inquiries, but she concealed her trouble, and at his ordinary hour he sallied forth to make his calls. meeting dr. c. in the street, and falling into conversation with him, he asked his opinion on the subject of fetches. "i think," was the answer, "and so i am sure do you, that they are mere illusions produced by a disturbed stomach acting upon the excited brain of a highly imaginative or superstitious person." "then," said dr. b., "i am highly imaginative or superstitious, for i distinctly saw my own outward man last night standing at the table in the bedroom, and clearly distinguishable in the moonlight. i am afraid my wife saw it too, but i have been afraid to speak to her on the subject." 'about the same hour on the ensuing night the poor lady was again roused, but by a more painful circumstance. she felt her husband moving convulsively, and immediately afterwards he cried to her in low, interrupted accents, "ellen, my dear, i am suffocating; send for dr. c." she sprang up, huddled on some clothes, and ran to his house. he came with all speed, but his efforts for his friend were useless. he had burst a large blood-vessel in the lungs, and was soon beyond human aid. in her lamentations the bereaved wife frequently cried out, "oh! the fetch, the fetch!" and at a later period told the doctor of the appearance the night before her husband's death.' but, whilst many stories of this kind are open to explanation, it is a singular circumstance how even several persons may be deceived by an illusion such as the following. a gentleman who had lately lost his wife, looking out of window in the dusk of evening, saw her sitting in a garden-chair. he called one of his daughters and asked her to look out into the garden. 'why,' she said, 'mother is sitting there.' another daughter was called, and she experienced the same illusion. then the gentleman went out into the garden, and found that a garden-dress of his wife's had been placed over the seat in such a position as to produce the illusion which had deceived himself and his daughters. in 'phantasms of the living'[ ] very many strange and startling cases are recorded, in which the mysterious 'double' has appeared, sometimes speaking, and sometimes without speech, although such manifestations have not always been omens of death. thus the late lord dorchester[ ] is said to have seen the phantom of his daughter standing at the window, having his attention aroused by its shadow, which fell across the book he was reading at the time. she had accompanied a fishing expedition, was caught in a storm, and was distressed at the thought that her father would be anxious on her account. in fitzroy's 'cruise of the beagle' an anecdote is told of a young fuegian, jemmy button, and his father's ghost. 'while at sea, on board the "beagle," about the middle of the year , he said one morning to mr. byno, that in the night some man came to the side of his hammock, and whispered in his ear that his father was dead. mr. byno tried to laugh him out of the idea, but ineffectually. he fully believed that such was the case, and maintained his opinion up to the time of finding his relations in beagle channel, when, i regret to say, he found that his father had died some months previously.' this story is interesting, especially as mr. lang says it is the only one he has encountered among savages, of a warning conveyed to a man by a ghost as to the death of a friend.[ ] footnotes: [ ] _gentleman's magazine_, , pt. ii. p. . [ ] see _popular irish superstitions_, by w. r. wilde, p. . [ ] _more ghost stories_, collected and edited by w. t. stead, , p. . [ ] see mrs. crowe's _night side of nature_, , p. . [ ] wirt sikes, _british goblins_, p. . [ ] _primitive culture_, , i. p. . [ ] _real ghost stories_, w. t. stead, p. . [ ] harland and wilkinson, _lancashire folk-lore_, p. . [ ] quoted by mrs. crowe, _night side of nature_, p. . [ ] messrs. gurney, myers, and podmore. [ ] _phantasms of the living_, ii. p. . [ ] _nineteenth century_, april , p. . chapter xxvii ghostly times and seasons shakespeare, quoting from an early legend, has reminded us that at christmastide 'no spirit dares stir abroad.' and yet, in spite of this time-honoured belief, christmas would seem to be one of the favourite seasons of the year for ghosts to make their presence felt in all kinds of odd ways. many an old baronial hall, with its romantic associations and historic legends, is occasionally, as christmastime comes round, disturbed by certain uncanny sounds, which timidity is only too ready to invest with the most mysterious and unaccountable associations. one reason for this nervous credulity may be ascribed to the fact that, as numerous old country seats are supposed to be haunted, christmas is a fitting opportunity for the ghost to catch a glimpse of the family revelry and mirth. but, judging from the many legendary tales which have been handed down in connection with christmas, it would seem that these spirit-members of the family intrude their presence on their relatives in the flesh in various ways. in ireland, the ill-fated banshee has selected this season on more than one occasion, to warn the family of coming trouble. according to one tale told from ireland, one christmas eve, when the family party were gathered round the festive board in an old castle in the south of ireland, the prancing of horses was suddenly heard, and the sharp cracking of the driver's whip. imagining that one of the absent members of the family had arrived, some of the young people moved to the door, but found that it was the weird apparition of the 'headless coach and horseman.' many such stories might be enumerated, which, under one form or another, have imparted a dramatic element to the season. with some of our country peasantry, there is a deep-rooted dread of encountering anything either bordering on, or resembling, the supernatural, as sometimes spirits are supposed at christmastide to be unfriendly towards mankind. in northamptonshire, for instance, there is a strange notion that the ghosts of unfortunate individuals buried at cross-roads have a particular license to wander about on christmas eve, at which time they wreak their evil designs upon defenceless and unsuspecting persons. but conduct of this kind seems to be the exception, and ghosts are oftentimes invoked at christmastide by those anxious to have a foretaste of events in store for them. thus, the anxious maiden, in her eager desire to know something of her matrimonial prospects, has often subjected herself to the most trying ordeal of 'courting a ghost.' in many countries, at the 'witching hour of midnight, on christmas eve,' the candidate for marriage goes into the garden and plucks twelve sage leaves, 'under a firm conviction that she will be favoured with a glimpse of the shadowy form of her future husband as he approaches her from the opposite end of the garden.' but a ceremony observed in sweden, in years past, must have required a still more strong-minded person to take advantage of its prophetic powers. it was customary in the morning twilight of christmas day, to go into a wood, without making the slightest noise, or uttering a word; total abstinence from eating and drinking being another necessary requirement. if these rules were observed, it was supposed that the individual as he went along the path leading to the church, would be favoured with a sight of as many funerals as would pass that way during the ensuing year. with this practice may be compared one current in denmark, where, it is said, when a family are sitting together on christmas eve, if anyone is desirous of knowing whether a death will occur amongst them during the ensuing year, he must go outside, and peep silently through the window, and the person who appears at table sitting without a head, will die before christmas comes round again. the feast of st. agnes was formerly held in high veneration by women who wished to know when and whom they should marry. it was required that on this day they should not eat--which was called 'fasting st. agnes' fast'--if they wished to have visions of delight, a piece of superstition on which keats has founded his poem, 'the eve of st. agnes:' they told me how, upon st. agnes' eve, young virgins might have visions of delight, and soft adorings from their love receive, upon the honey'd middle of the night, if ceremonies due they did aright; as supperless to bed they must retire, and couch supine their beauties, lily white, nor look behind, nor sideways, but require of heaven, with upward eyes, for all that they desire. laying down on her back that night, with her hands under her head, the anxious maiden was led to expect that her future spouse would appear in a dream, and salute her with a kiss. various charms have long been observed on st. valentine's eve, and poor robin's almanack tells us how: on st. mark's eve, at twelve o'clock, the fair maid will watch her smock, to find her husband in the dark, by praying unto good st. mark. but st. mark's eve was a great day for apparitions. allusion has been made in a previous chapter to watching in the church porch for the ghosts of those who are to be buried in the churchyard during the following months; and jamieson tells us of a practice kept up in the northern counties, known as 'ash-ridlin.' the ashes being sifted, or riddled, on the hearth, if any one of the family 'be to die within the year, the mark of the shoe, it is supposed, will be impressed on the ashes; and many a mischievous wight has made some of the credulous family miserable, by slyly coming downstairs after the rest have retired to bed, and marking the ashes with the shoe of one of the members.' in peru it is interesting to trace a similar superstitious usage. as soon as a dying man draws his last breath, ashes are strewed on the floor of the room, and the door is securely fastened. next morning the ashes are carefully examined to ascertain whether they show any impression of footsteps, and imagination readily traces marks, which are alleged to have been produced by the feet of birds, dogs, cats, oxen, or llamas. the destiny of the dead person is construed by the footmarks which are supposed to be discernible. the soul has assumed the form of that animal whose tracks are found.[ ] there is st. john's, or midsummer eve, around which many weird and ghostly superstitions have clustered. grose informs us that if anyone sit in the church porch, he will see the spirits of those destined to die that year come and knock at the church door in the order of their decease. in ireland there is a popular belief that on st. john's eve the souls of all persons leave their bodies, and wander to the place, by land or sea, where death shall finally separate them from the tenement of the clay. the same notion of a temporary liberation of the soul gave rise to a host of superstitious observances at this time, resembling those connected with hallow eve. indeed, this latter night is supposed to be the time of all others when supernatural influences prevail. 'it is the night,' we are told, 'set apart for a universal walking abroad of spirits, both of the visible and invisible world; for one of the special characteristics attributed to this mystic evening is the faculty conferred on the immaterial principle in humanity to detach itself from its corporeal tenement and wander abroad through the realms of space. divination is then believed to attain its highest power, and the gift asserted by glendower of calling spirits "from the vast deep" becomes available to all who choose to avail themselves of the privileges of the occasion.'[ ] similarly, in germany on st. andrew's eve, young women try various charms in the hope of seeing the shadow of their sweethearts; one of the rhymes used on the occasion being this: st. andrew's eve is to-day; sleep all people, sleep all children of men who are between heaven and earth, except this only man, who may be mine in marriage. the story goes that a girl once summoned the shadow of her future husband. precisely as the clock struck twelve he appeared, drank some wine, laid a three-edged dagger on the table and vanished. the girl put the dagger into her trunk. some years afterwards there came a man from a distant part to the town where the girl dwelt, bought property there, and married her. he was, in fact, the identical person whose form had appeared to her. some time after their marriage the husband by chance opened the trunk, and there found the dagger, at the sight of which he became furious. 'thou art the girl,' said he, 'who years ago forced me to come hither from afar in the night, and it was no dream. die, therefore!' and with these words he thrust the dagger into her heart.[ ] it may be added, that by general consent night-time is the season when spirits wander abroad. the appearance of morning is the signal for their dispersion. the flocking shadows pale, troop to the infernal jail; each fettered ghost slips to his several grave, and the yellow skirted fays, fly after the night-steeds, leaving their noon-loved maze. the ghost of hamlet's father says, 'methinks i scent the morning air,' and adds: 'fare thee well at once! the glow-worm shows the matins to be near.' according to a popular notion formerly current, the presence of unearthly beings was announced by an alteration in the tints of the lights which happened to be burning--a superstition alluded to in 'richard iii.' (act v. sc. )--where the tyrant exclaims as he awakens: 'the lights burn blue. it is now dead midnight, cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh. * * * * * methought the souls of all that i had murder'd came to my tent.' so in 'julius cæsar' (act iv. sc. ), brutus, on seeing the ghost of cæsar, exclaims: 'how ill this taper burns. ha! who comes here?' footnotes: [ ] dorman's _primitive superstitions_, p. . [ ] see _book of days_, ii. pp. - . [ ] see thorpe's _northern mythology_, iii. p. . chapter xxviii spirit-haunted trees according to empedocles 'there are two destinies for the souls of highest virtue--to pass into trees or into the bodies of lions,' this conception of plants as the habitation of the departing soul being founded on the old idea of transmigration. illustrations of the primitive belief meet us in all ages, reminding us how dante passed through that leafless wood, in the bark of every tree of which was confined a suicide; and of ariel's imprisonment: into a cloven pine, within which rift imprison'd, thou didst painfully remain a dozen years.... ... where thou didst vent thy groans, as fast as mill-wheels strike. in german folk-lore the soul is supposed occasionally to take the form of a flower, as a lily or white rose; and, according to a popular belief, one of these flowers appears on the chairs of those about to die. grimm[ ] tells a pretty tale of a child who 'carries home a bud which the angel had given him in the wood; when the rose blooms the child is dead.' similarly, from the grave of one unjustly executed white lilies are said to spring as a token of the person's innocence, and from that of a maiden three lilies, which no one save her lover must gather, a superstition which, under one form or another, has largely prevailed both amongst civilised and savage communities. in iceland it is said that when innocent persons are put to death, the sorb or mountain ash will spring over their grave, and the lay of runzifal makes a blackthorn shoot out of the bodies of slain heathens, and a white flower by the heads of fallen christians. the well-known story of 'tristram and ysonde' tells how 'from his grave there grew an eglantine which twined about the statue, a marvel for all men to see; and though three times they cut it down, it grew again, and ever wound its arms about the image of the fair ysonde.' with which legend may be compared the old scottish ballad of 'fair margaret and sweet william': out of her breast there sprang a rose, and out of his a briar; they grew till they grew to the church top, and there they tied in a true lover's knot. it is to this time-honoured fancy that laertes refers when he wishes that violets may spring from the grave of ophelia,[ ] and lord tennyson has borrowed the same idea: and from his ashes may be made, the violet of his native land.[ ] some of the north-western indians believed that those who died a natural death would be compelled to dwell among the branches of tall trees, and the brazilians have a mythological character called mani[ ]--a child who died and was buried in the house of her mother. soon a plant--the mandioca--sprang out of the grave, which grew, flourished, and bore fruit. according to the iroquois, the spirits of certain trees are supposed to have the forms of beautiful females; recalling, writes mr. herbert spencer,[ ] 'the dryads of classic mythology, who, similarly conceived as human-shaped female spirits, were sacrificed to in the same ways that human spirits in general were sacrificed to.' 'by the santals,' he adds, 'these spirits or ghosts are individualised. at their festivals the separate families dance round the particular trees which they fancy their domestic lares chiefly haunt.' in modern greece certain trees are supposed to have their 'stichios,' a being variously described as a spectre, a wandering soul, a vague phantom, occasionally invisible, and sometimes assuming the most widely different forms. when a tree is 'stichimonious,' it is generally considered dangerous for anyone 'to sleep beneath its shade, and the woodcutters employed to cut it down will lie upon the ground and hide themselves, motionless, and holding their breath, at the moment when it is about to fall, dreading lest the stichio at whose life the blow is aimed with each blow of the axe, should avenge itself at the precise moment when it is dislodged.'[ ] this idea is abundantly illustrated in european folk-lore, and a swedish legend tells how, when a man was on the point of cutting down a juniper tree, a voice was heard saying, 'friend, hew me not.' but he gave another blow, when, to his horror and amazement, blood gushed from the root. such spirit-haunted trees have been supposed to give proof of their peculiar character by certain weird and mysterious signs. thus the australian bush-demons whistle in the branches, and mr. schoolcraft mentions an indian tradition of a hollow tree, from the recesses of which there issued on a calm day a sound like the voice of a spirit. hence it was considered to be inhabited by some powerful spirit, and was deemed sacred. the holes in trees have been supposed to be the doors through which the spirits pass, a belief which reappears in the german idea that the holes in the oak are the pathways for elves, and that various diseases may be cured by contact with these holes. it is not surprising, too, that the idea of spirit-haunted trees caused them to be regarded by the superstitious with feelings of awe. mr. dorman tells us[ ] of certain west indian tribes, that if any person going through a wood perceived a motion in the trees which he regarded as supernatural, frightened at the strange prodigy, he would address himself to that tree which shook the most. similarly, when the wind blows the long grass or waving corn, the german peasant is wont to say that the 'grass-wolf,' or the 'corn-wolf' is abroad. under a variety of forms this animistic conception is found in different parts of the world, and has been embodied in many a folk-tale--an austrian märchen relating, for instance, how there sits in a stately fir-tree a fairy maiden waited on by a dwarf, rewarding the innocent and plaguing the guilty; and there is the german song of the maiden in the pine, whose bark the boy split with a gold and silver horn. footnotes: [ ] _teutonic mythology_, ii. p. . [ ] _hamlet_, act v. sc. . [ ] see _folk-lore of plants_, pp. , . [ ] dorman's _primitive superstitions_, p. . [ ] _principles of sociology_, , pp. - . [ ] _nineteenth century_, april, , p. ; _superstitions of modern greece_, by m. le baron d'estournelles. [ ] _primitive superstitions_, p. . chapter xxix ghosts and hidden treasures the presence of troubled phantoms in certain localities has long been attributed to their being interested in the whereabouts of certain secreted treasures, the disposal of which to the rightful owner having been frustrated through death having prematurely summoned them from their mortal existence. traditions of the existence of large sums of hidden money are associated with many of our own country mansions. such a legend was long connected with hulme castle, formerly a seat of a branch of the prestwich family. the hoard was generally supposed to have been hidden either in the hall itself or in the grounds adjoining, and was said to be protected by spells and incantations. many years ago the hall was pulled down, but, although considerable care was taken to search every spot, no money was discovered. secreted treasure is associated with the apparition of madame beswick, who used to haunt birchen tower, hollinwood;[ ] and an eccentric spectre known as 'silky,' which used to play all kinds of strange pranks in the village of black heddon, northumberland, was commonly supposed to be the troubled phantom of a certain lady who had died before having an opportunity of disclosing the whereabouts of some hoarded money. with the discovery of the gold, this unhappy spirit is said to have disappeared. the story goes that one day, in a house at black heddon, a terrific noise was heard, which caused the servant to exclaim, 'the deevil's in the house! the deevil's in the house! he's come through the ceiling!' but on the room being examined where the noise occurred, a great dog's skin was found on the floor, filled with gold, after which time 'silky' was neither seen nor heard. equally strange is the legend related of swinsty hall, which tells how its original founder was a poor weaver, who travelled to london at a time when the plague was raging, and finding many houses desolate and uninhabited, took possession of the money left without an owner, to such an extent that he loaded a waggon with the wealth thus acquired, and, returning to his home, he built swinsty hall. but he cannot cleanse himself from the contamination of the ill-acquired gold, and at times, it is said, his unquiet spirit has been seen bending over the greenwell spring rubbing away at his ghastly spoil. mr. henderson[ ] gives the history of an apparition which, with retributive justice, once haunted a certain yorkshire farmer. an old woman of sexhow, near stokesley, appeared after her death to a farmer of the place, and informed him that beneath a certain tree in his apple orchard he would find a hoard of gold and silver which she had buried there; the silver he was to keep for his trouble, but the gold he was to give to a niece of hers living in great poverty. the farmer went to the spot indicated, found the money, and kept it all to himself. but from that day his conscience gave him no rest, and every night, at home or abroad, old nanny's ghost dogged his steps. at last one evening the neighbours heard him returning from stokesley market very late; his horse was galloping furiously, and as he passed a neighbour's house, its inmates heard him screaming out, 'i will, i will, i will!' and looking out they saw a little old woman in black, with a large straw hat on her head, clinging to him. the farmer's hat was off, his hair stood on end, as he fled past them uttering his fearful cry, 'i will, i will, i will!' but when the horse reached the farm all was still, for the rider was a corpse. tradition asserts that the 'white lady' who long haunted blenkinsopp castle, is the ghost of the wife of bryan de blenkinsopp, who quarrelled with her husband, and in a fit of spite she concealed a chest of gold that took twelve of the strongest men to carry into the castle. filled with remorse for her undutiful conduct, the unhappy woman cannot rest in her grave, but her spirit is doomed to wander back to the old castle, and to mourn over the accursed wealth of which its rightful owner was defrauded. an old farm, popularly known in the neighbourhood as 'sykes' lumb farm,' from having been inhabited for many generations by a family of the name of sykes, was long haunted by an old wrinkled woman who, one night, being interrogated by an occupier of the farm as to the cause of her wandering about, made no reply, but proceeding towards the stump of an old apple tree in the orchard, pointed significantly to the ground beneath. on search being made, there was found buried deep in the earth a jar of money, on the discovery of which the phantom vanished. anecdotes of treasures concealed at the bottom of wells are of frequent occurrence, and the 'white ladies' who dwell in the lakes, wells, and seas of so many countries, are owners of vast treasures, which they occasionally offer to mortals. tradition says that in a pool known as wimbell pond at acton, suffolk, is concealed an iron chest of money, and if any person approach the pond and throw a stone into the water, it will ring against the chest--a small white figure having been heard to cry in accents of distress, 'that's mine.'[ ] scotland has many such stories. it is popularly believed that for many ages past a pot of gold has lain at the bottom of a pool beneath a fall of the rivulet underneath craufurdland bridge, about three miles from kilmarnock. many attempts have been made to recover this treasure, but something unforeseen has always happened to prevent a successful issue. 'the last effort made, by the laird of craufurdland himself,' writes mr. chambers,[ ] 'was early in the last century, at the head of a party of his domestics, who first dammed up the water, then emptied the pool of its contents, and had heard their instruments clink on the kettle, when a voice was heard saying: pow, pow! craufurdland tower's a' in a low! whereupon the laird left the scene, followed by his servants, and ran home to save what he could. of course, there was no fire in the house, and when they came back to renew their operations, they found the water falling over the lin in full force. being now convinced that a power above that of mortals was opposed to their researches, the laird and his people gave up the attempt. such is the traditionary story, whether,' adds mr. chambers, 'founded on any actual occurrence, or a mere fiction of the peasants' brain, cannot be ascertained; but it is curious that a later and well authenticated effort to recover the treasure was interrupted by a natural occurrence in some respects similar.' vast treasures are said to be concealed beneath the ruins of hermitage castle, but, as they are in the keeping of the evil one, they are considered beyond redemption. venturesome persons have occasionally made the attempt to dig for them, but a storm of thunder and lightning has generally deterred the adventurers from proceeding, otherwise, of course, the money would have long ago been found. it is ever, we are told, that such supernatural obstacles come in the way of these interesting discoveries. mr. chambers relates how 'an honest man in perthshire, named finlay robertson, about a hundred years ago, went with some stout-hearted companions to seek for the treasures which were supposed to be concealed in the darksome cave of a deceased highland robber, but just as they had commenced operations with their mattocks, the whole party were instantaneously struck, as by an electric shock, which sent them home with fear and trembling, and they were ever after remarked as silent, mysterious men, very apt to take offence when allusion was made to their unsuccessful enterprise.'[ ] in scotland and the north of england, the brownie was regarded as a guardian of hidden treasure, and 'to him did the borderers commit their money or goods, when, according to the custom prevalent in wild insecure countries, they concealed them in the earth.' some form of incantation was practised on the occasion, such as the dropping upon the treasure the blood of a slaughtered animal, or burying the slain animal with it.[ ] according to the welsh belief, if a person die while any hoarded money--or, indeed, metal of any kind, were it nothing more than old iron--is still secretly hidden, the spirit of that person cannot rest. others affirm that it is only ill-gotten treasure which creates this disturbance of the grave's repose; but it is generally agreed that the soul's unquiet condition can only be relieved by finding a human hand to take the hidden metal, and throw it down the stream of a river. to throw it up a stream is useless. the spirit 'selects a particular person as the subject of its attentions, and haunts that person till asked what it wants.' a story is told of a tailor's wife at llantwit major, a stout and jolly dame, who was thus haunted until she was worn to the semblance of a skeleton, 'for not choosing to take a hoard honestly to the ogmore'--the favourite river in glamorganshire for this purpose. to quote her own words, 'i at last consented, for the sake of quiet, to take the treasure to the river, and the spirit wafted me through the air so high that i saw below me the church loft and all the houses, as if i had leaned out of a balloon. when i took the treasure to throw it into the river, in my flurry i flung it up stream instead of down, and on this the spirit, with a savage look, tossed me into a whirlwind, and how ever i got back to my home i know not.' the bell-ringers found her lying insensible in the church lane, on their return from church, late in the evening.[ ] no piece of folk-lore is more general in ireland than that gold or silver may be found under nearly all the raths, cairns, or old castles throughout the island. it is always a difficult task to exhume such buried treasure, for some preternatural guardian or other will be found on the alert. these buried treasures are usually deposited in 'a crock,' but whenever an attempt is made to lift it, some awful gorgon, or monster, appears. sometimes a rushing wind sweeps over the plain, or from the opening made, with destructive force, carrying away the gold-seeker's hat or spade, or even, in various instances, the adventurer himself, who is deposited with broken bones, or a paralysed frame, at a respectful distance from the object of his quest. 'on the banks of a northern river, and near a small eminence,' writes a correspondent of the 'gentleman's magazine,'[ ] 'is a beautiful green plot, on which two large, moss-covered stones over six hundred feet apart are shown. it is said two immense "crocks" of gold lie buried under these conspicuous landmarks, and that various attempts have been made to dig round and beneath them. in all those instances when a persistent effort has been made, a monk appeared in full habit, with a cross in his hand to warn off sacrilegious offenders.' similar legends are found in different parts of the world. 'the isle of yellow sands,' says mr. dorman,[ ] 'derives its chief interest from the traditions and fanciful tales which the indians relate concerning its mineral treasures and their supernatural guardians. they pretend that its shores are covered with a heavy, shining, yellow sand, which they are persuaded is gold, but that the guardian spirit of the island will not permit any to be carried away. to enforce his commands, he has drawn together upon it myriads of eagles, hawks, and other birds of prey, who, by their cries warn him of any intrusions upon the domain, and assist with their claws and beaks to expel the enemy. he has also called from the depths of the lake, large serpents of the most hideous forms, who lie thickly coiled upon the golden sands, and hiss defiance to the steps of the intruder. a great many years ago, they say, some people driven by stress of weather upon the island, put a large quantity of the glittering treasure in their canoes and attempted to carry it off; but a gigantic spirit strode into the water and in a tone of thunder commanded them to bring it back'-- listen, white man, go not there! unseen spirits stalk the air; ravenous birds their influence lend, snakes defy, and kites defend.... touch not, then, the guarded lands, of the isle of yellow sands. the 'ceylon times' records a remarkable instance of superstition among the tamul population employed as labourers on a coffee estate. 'it is the belief of all orientals,' says the writer, 'that hidden treasures are under the guardianship of supernatural beings. the singhalese, however, divide the charge between demons and cobra da capellos. various charms are resorted to by those who wish to gain the treasures, the demons requiring a sacrifice. blood of a human being is the most important, but, as far as it is known, the cappowas have hitherto confined themselves to the sacrifice of a white cock, combining its blood with their own, drawn by a slight puncture in the hand or foot.' many curious stories are on record of persons having been informed by ghosts of the whereabouts of hidden money, and of their having been directed to the spot where the hoarded treasure has lain for years secreted in its undetected recess. in the 'antiquarian repertory' is a singular narrative of a man named richard clarke, a farm-labourer at hamington, northamptonshire, who was haunted by the ghost of a man who declared that he had been murdered near his own house years, months, and days ago, and buried in an orchard. he added that his wife and children, who had lived in southwark, never knew what became of him; that he had some treasures and papers buried in the cellar of a house near london, and that he (clarke) must seek for it, and that he (the ghost) would meet him in the cellar, to assist him in the search. the ghost added that as soon as the money and the writings were found, and duly delivered to certain relatives of his in southwark, at such an address, removed from him in the fourth generation, he would cease to visit him, and would leave him in peace. clarke went to town, and on london bridge the ghost passed him, and conducted him to the house, where his wife had lived four generations before. clarke found everything answering the description which the ghost had given him; the money and the documents were discovered, the writings on vellum found, but those on paper decayed. clarke divided the money, and acted as the ghost of the murdered man directed him to do; and the latter 'lookt chearfully upon him, and gave him thankes, and said now he should be at rest, and spoke to those other persons which were of his generation, relations, but they had not courage to answer, but clarke talkt for them.' footnotes: [ ] see ingram's _haunted homes_, nd s. pp. , . [ ] _folk-lore of northern counties_, p. . [ ] _notes and queries_, st s. v. p. . [ ] _popular rhymes of scotland_, pp. - . [ ] _popular rhymes of scotland_, p. . [ ] henderson's _folk-lore of northern counties_, pp. - . [ ] wirt sikes: _british goblins_, pp. - . [ ] , pt. ii. pp. - . [ ] _primitive superstitions_, p. . chapter xxx phantom music many of those weird melodious sounds which romance and legendary lore have connected with the enchanted strains of invisible music have originated in the moaning of the winds, and the rhythmical flow of the waves. in several of their operatic works, our dramatic composers have skilfully introduced the music of the fairies and of other aerial conceptions of the fancy, reminding us of those harmonious sounds which caliban depicts in the 'tempest' (act iii. sc. ): the isle is full of noises, sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not; sometimes a thousand twangling instruments, will hum about mine ears, and sometimes voices that, if i then had waked after long sleep, will make me sleep again. most countries have their stories and traditions of mysterious music which, in many cases, has been associated with certain supernatural properties. under one form or another, the belief in phantom music has extensively prevailed throughout europe, and in many parts of england it is still supposed to be heard, occasionally as a presage of death. it has been generally supposed that music is the favourite recreation of the spirits that haunt mountains, rivers, and all kinds of lonely places. the indians would not venture near manitobah island, their superstitious fears being due to the weird sounds produced by the waves as they beat upon the beach at the foot of the cliffs, near its northern extremity. during the night, when a gentle breeze was blowing from the north, the various sounds heard on the island were quite sufficient to strike awe into their minds. these sounds frequently resembled the ringing of distant bells; so close, indeed, was the resemblance that travellers would awake during the night with the impression that they were listening to chimes. when the breeze subsided, and the waves played gently on the beach, a low wailing sound would be heard three hundred yards from the cliffs.[ ] sometimes music is heard at sea, and it is believed in ireland that when a friend or relative dies, a warning voice is discernible. the following is a rough translation of an irish song founded on this superstition, which is generally sung to a singularly wild and melancholy air: a low sound of song from the distance i hear, in the silence of night, breathing sad on my ear. whence comes it? i know not--unearthly the note, and unearthly the tones through the air as they float; yet it sounds like the lay that my mother once sung, and o'er her firstborn in his cradle she hung. when ships go down at sea, it is said the death-bell is at times distinctly heard, a superstition to which sir walter scott alludes: and the kelpie rang, and the sea-maid sang, the dirge of lovely rosabelle. at the present day, indeed, all kinds of phantom musical sounds are believed to float through the air--sounds which the peasantry, in days past, attributed to the fairies. the american indians have a similar piece of legendary lore. gayarre, in his 'louisiana,' says that mysterious music floats on the waters of the river pascagoula, 'particularly on a calm moonlight night. it seems to issue from caverns or grottoes in the bed of the river, and sometimes oozes up through the water under the very keel of the boat which contains the traveller, whose ear it strikes as the distant concert of a thousand Ã�olian harps. on the banks of the river, close by the spot where the music is heard, tradition says that there existed a tribe different from the rest of the indians. every night when the moon was visible, they gathered round the beautifully carved figure of a mermaid, and, with instruments of strange shape, worshipped the idol with such soul-stirring music as had never before blessed human ears. one day a priest came among them and tried to convert them from the worship of the mermaid. but on a certain night, at midnight, there came a rushing on the surface of the river, and the water seemed to be seized with a convulsive fury. the indians and the priest rushed to the bank of the river to contemplate the supernatural spectacle. when she saw them, the mermaid turned her tones into still more bewitching melody, and kept chanting a sort of mystic song. the indians listened with growing ecstasy, and one of them plunged into the river to rise no more. the rest--men, women, and children--followed in quick succession, moved, as it were, with the same irresistible impulse. when the last of the race disappeared, the river returned to its bed. ever since that time is heard occasionally the distant music, which the indians say is caused by their musical brethren, who still keep up their revels at the bottom of the river, in the palace of the mermaid.' it was a popular belief in years gone by, that it was dangerous to listen long to the weirdly fascinating influence of phantom music, or, as it was sometimes called, 'diabolic music,' as it was employed by evil-disposed spirits for the purpose of accomplishing some wicked design. tradition tells how certain weird music was long since heard in an old mansion in schleswig holstein. the story goes that at a wedding there was a certain young lady present, who was the most enthusiastic dancer far and near, and who, in spite of having danced all the evening, petulantly exclaimed, 'if the devil himself were to call me out, i would not refuse him.' suddenly the door of the ball-room flew open, and a stranger entered and invited her to dance. round and round they whirled unceasingly, faster and faster, until, to the horror of all present, she fell down dead. every year afterwards, on the same day as this tragic event happened, exactly at midnight, the mansion long resounded with diabolic music, the lady haunting the scene of her fearful death. there are numerous versions of this story, and one current in denmark is known as 'the indefatigable fiddler.' it appears that on a certain sunday evening, some young people were merrymaking, when it was decided to have a little dancing. in the midst of an animated discussion as to how they could procure a musician, one of the party boastingly said, 'now, that leave to me. i will bring you a musician, even if it should be the devil himself.' thereupon he left the house, and had not gone far when he met a poverty-looking man with a fiddle under his arm, who, for a certain sum, agreed to play. soon the young people, spellbound by the fiddler's music, were frantically dancing up and down the room unable to stop, and in spite of their entreaties he continued playing. they must have soon died of exhaustion, had not the parish priest arrived at the farmhouse, and expelled the fiddler by certain mystic words. sometimes, it is said, the sound of music, such as harp-playing, is heard in the most sequestered spots, and is attributed to supernatural agency. the welsh peasantry thought it proceeded from the fairies, who were supposed to be specially fond of this instrument; but such music had this peculiarity--no one could ever learn the tune. cortachy castle, the seat of the earl of airlie, has long had its mysterious drummer; and whenever the sound of his drum is heard, it betokens the speedy death of a member of the ogilvie family. the story goes that 'either the drummer, or some officer whose emissary he was, had excited the jealousy of a former lord airlie, and that in consequence he was put to death by being thrust into his own drum and flung from the window of the tower, in which is situated the chamber where his music is apparently chiefly heard. it is said that he threatened to haunt the family if his life were taken,' a promise which he has fulfilled.[ ] with this strange warning may be compared the amusing story popularly known as 'the drummer of tedworth,' in which the ghost or evil spirit of a drummer, or the ghost of a drum, performed the principal part in this mysterious drama for 'two entire years.' the story, as succinctly given by george cruikshank,[ ] goes that in march , mr. monpesson, a magistrate, caused a vagrant drummer to be arrested, who had been annoying the country by noisy demands for charity, and had ordered his drum to be taken from him, and left in the bailiff's house. about the middle of the following april, when mr. monpesson was preparing for a journey to london, the bailiff sent the drum to his house. but on his return home, he was informed that noises had been heard, and then he heard the noises himself, which were a 'thumping and drumming,' accompanied by 'a strange noise and hollow sound.' the sign of it when it came was like a hurling in the air over the house, and at its going off, the beating of a drum, like that of the 'breaking up of a guard.' after a month's disturbance outside the house, it came into the room where the drum lay. for an hour together it would beat 'roundheads and cockolds,' the 'tattoo,' and several other points of war as well as any drummer. upon one occasion, when many were present, a gentleman said, 'satan, if the drummer set thee to work, give three knocks,' which it did at once. and for further trial, he bid it for confirmation, if it were the drummer, to give five knocks and no more that night, which it did, and left the house quiet all the night after. 'but,' as george cruikshank observes, 'strange as it certainly was, is it not still more strange that educated gentlemen, and even clergymen, as in this case, also should believe that the almighty would suffer an evil spirit to disturb and affright a whole innocent family, because the head of that family had, in his capacity as magistrate, thought it his duty to take away a drum from no doubt a drunken drummer, who, by his noisy conduct, had become a nuisance to the neighbourhood?' in many parts of the country, phantom bells are supposed to be heard ringing their ghostly peals. near blackpool, about two miles out at sea, there once stood, tradition says, the church and cemetery of kilmigrol, long ago submerged. even now, in rough weather, the melancholy chimes of the bells may be heard sounding over the restless waters. a similar story is told of jersey. according to a local legend, many years ago, 'the twelve parish churches in that island possessed each a valuable peal of bells, but during a long civil war the bells were sold to defray the expenses of the troops. the bells were sent to france, but on the passage the ship foundered, and everything was lost. since then, during a storm, these bells always ring at sea, and to this day the fishermen of st. ouen's bay, before embarking, go to the edge of the water to listen if they can hear the bells; if so, nothing will induce them to leave the shore.' with this story may be compared one told of whitby abbey, which was suppressed in . the bells were sold, and placed on board to be conveyed to london. but, as soon as the vessel had moved out into the bay it sank, and beneath the waters the bells may occasionally be heard, a legend which has been thus poetically described: up from the heart of the ocean the mellow music peals, where the sunlight makes its golden path, and the seamew flits and wheels. for many a chequered century, untired by flying time, the bells no human fingers touch have rung their hidden chime. to this day the tower of forrabury church, cornwall, or, as it has been called by mr. hawker, 'the silent tower of bottreaux,' remains without bells. it appears the bells were cast and shipped for forrabury, but as the ship neared the shore, the captain swore and used profane language, whereupon the vessel sank beneath a sudden swell of the ocean. as it went down, the bells were heard tolling with a muffled peal; and ever since, when storms are at hand, their phantom sound is still audible from beneath the waves: still when the storm of bottreaux's waves is waking in his weedy caves, those bells that sullen surges hide, peal their deep tones beneath the tide-- 'come to thy god in time,' thus saith the ocean chime; 'storm, whirlpool, billow past, come to thy god at last.' legends of this kind remind us of southey's ballad of the 'inchcape bell,' founded on a tragic legend. the abbots of aberbrothock (arbroath) fixed a bell on a rock, as a kindly warning to sailors, that obstruction having long been considered the chief difficulty in the navigation of the firth of forth. the bell was so fastened as to be rung by the agitation of the waves, but one day, sir ralph the rover 'cut the bell from the inchcape float,' and down sank the bell with a gurgling sound. afterwards, sir ralph the rover sailed away, he scoured the sea for many a day, and now grown rich with plundered store, he steers his course for scotland's shore. but the night is dark and hazy, and-- they hear no sound, the swell is strong, though the wind hath fallen they drift along, till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock. 'o christ! it is the inchcape rock!' but it is too late--the ship is doomed: sir ralph the rover tore his hair; he cursed himself in his despair. the waves rush in on every side; the ship is sinking beneath the tide. but even in his dying fear one dreadful sound could the rover hear, a sound as if with the inchcape bell, the devil below was ringing his knell. indeed, there are all kinds of whimsical stories current of phantom bells, and according to a tradition at tunstall, in norfolk, the parson and churchwardens disputed for the possession of some bells which had become useless because the tower was burnt. but, during their altercation, the arch-fiend quickly travelled off with the bells, and being pursued by the parson, who began to exorcise in latin, he dived into the earth with his ponderous burden, and the place where he disappeared is a boggy pool of water, called 'hell hole.' notwithstanding the aversion of the powers of darkness to such sounds, even these bells are occasionally permitted to favour their native place with a ghostly peal. similarly, at fisherty brow, near lonsdale, there is a sort of hollow where, as the legend runs, a church, parson, and congregation were swallowed up. on a sunday morning the bells may be heard ringing a phantom peal by anyone who puts his ear to the ground. occasionally, it is said, phantom music, by way of warning, is heard just before a death, instances of which are numerous. samuel foote, in the year , while visiting at his father's house in truro, was kept awake by sounds of sweet music. his uncle was at about the same time murdered by assassins. this strange occurrence is thus told by mr. ingram.[ ] foote's maternal uncles were sir john goodere and captain goodere, a naval officer. in the two brothers dined at a friend's house near bristol. for a long time they had been on bad terms, owing to certain money transactions, but at the dinner-table a reconciliation was, to all appearance, arrived at between them. but, on his return home, sir john was waylaid by some men from his brother's vessel, acting by his brother's authority, carried on board, and deliberately strangled, captain goodere not only unconcernedly looking on, but furnishing the rope with which the crime was committed. the strangest part of this terrible tale, however, remains to be told. on the night the murder was perpetrated, foote arrived at his father's house in truro, and he used to relate how he was kept awake for some time by the softest and sweetest strains of music he had ever heard. at first he tried to fancy it was a serenade got up by some of the family to welcome him home, but not being able to discover any trace of the musicians, he came to the conclusion that he was deceived by his own imagination. he shortly afterwards learnt that the murder had been consummated at the same hour of the same night as he had been haunted by the mysterious sounds. footnotes: [ ] dorman's _primitive superstitions_, p. . [ ] see ingram's _haunted homes_, p. . [ ] _a discovery concerning ghosts_, , pp. , . [ ] _haunted homes_, p. . chapter xxxi phantom sounds the deceptiveness of sound in olden times was very little understood, and hence originated, in most countries, a host of traditionary tales descriptive of sundry mysterious noises which were generally attributed to supernatural agencies. hence, it is impossible to say how many a ghost story would long ago have found a satisfactory solution if only attention had been paid to the properties of sound. but by disregarding the laws which regulate the conditions upon which sound is oftentimes more or less audible, the imagination has frequently conjured up the most fantastic reasons for some mysterious rumbling which has suddenly trespassed on the silence of the night. thus, dr. tyndall has proved how the atmosphere is occasionally in an unusual degree more transparent or opaque to sound as well as to light, and supported this theory by referring to the audibility of fog-signals, which vary according to the state of the weather. facts of this kind are of the utmost importance in accounting, it may be, for some apparently inexplicable sound. it is sometimes forgotten, too, that sounds are far more audible at night time than during the day, and what would fail to attract notice, even if heard during the hours of sunlight, would probably be treated in a different aspect when once the darkness of evening had set in. there is perhaps no superstition so deeply rooted in the popular mind as the belief in what are generally termed 'death-warnings'; the common opinion being that death announces its approach by certain mysterious noises, a powerful illustration of which occurs in 'macbeth' (act ii. sc. ), where lennox graphically describes how, on the awful night in which duncan is murdered-- our chimneys were blown down: and, as they say lamentings heard i' the air; strange screams of death: and prophesying, with accents terrible, of dire combustion, and confused events, new hatch'd to the woeful time. modern folk-lore holds either that a knocking or rumbling in the floor is an omen of death about to happen, or that dying persons themselves announce their dissolution to their friends in such strange sounds.[ ] in recent years one of the most interesting instances of a phantom voice occurred in connection with the death of mr. george smith, the well-known assyriologist. this eminent scholar died at aleppo, on august , , at about six o'clock in the afternoon. on the same day, and at about the same time, as dr. delitzsch--a friend and fellow-worker of mr. smith--was passing within a stone's throw of the house in which he had lived when in london, he suddenly heard his own name uttered aloud 'in a most piercing cry,' which a contemporary record of the time said 'thrilled him to the marrow.' the fact impressed dr. delitzsch so much that he looked at his watch, made a note of the hour, and recorded the fact in his note-book, this being one of those straightforward and unimpeachable coincidences which, even to an opponent, is difficult to explain. there can be no doubt that many of the unearthly noises heard near and in lonely houses on the coast were produced by an illicit class of spirits, that is, through the agency of smugglers, 'in order to alarm and drive all others but their accomplices from their haunts.' thus, in a house at rottingdean, sussex, all kinds of strange noises were heard night after night, when suddenly they ceased. soon afterwards one of a gang of smugglers confessed to their having made a secret passage from the beach close by the house, and that, wishing to induce the occupiers to abandon it, they had rolled at the dead of night tub after tub of spirits up the passage, and so had caused it to be reported that the place was haunted.[ ] george cruikshank tells how, in the wine cellar of a house somewhere near blackheath, there were sometimes heard strange noises in the evening and at night-time, such as knocking, groaning, footsteps, &c. the master of the house at last determined 'to lay the ghost' if possible, and one evening, when these noises had been heard, went with his servants to the cellar, where they discovered an under-gardener in a drunken state. it seems that he had tunnelled a hole from the tool-house through the wall into the cellar. in numerous cases, too, there can be no doubt that strange noises heard in the silent hours of the night have been due to some cleverly-devised trick for the purpose, in many cases, of keeping the house uninhabited, and thereby benefiting, it may be, some impecunious care-taker. a story is told of a ghost--which turned out to be the trick of a franciscan friar--that answered questions by knocking in the catholic church of orleans, and demanded the removal of the provost's lutheran wife, who had been buried there.[ ] but one of the most eccentric instances of spiritual antics was the noises said to have been heard at epworth parsonage in the time of the rev. samuel wesley, these sounds having consisted of 'knockings' and 'groanings,' of 'footsteps,' and 'rustling of silk trailing along,' 'clattering of the iron casement,' and 'clattering of the warming pan,' and all sorts of frightful noises, which frightened even a big dog, a large mastiff, who used, at first, when he heard the noises, 'to bark, and leap, and snap on one side and the other, and that frequently before anyone in the room heard the noises at all; but after two or three days he used to creep away before the noise began, and by this the family knew it was at hand.' mr. wesley at one time thought it was rats, and sent for a horn to blow them away. but this made matters worse, for after the horn was blown the noise came in the daytime as well. some of the wesley family believed it to be supernatural hauntings, and explained the cause of it thus: at morning and evening prayers, 'when the rev. samuel wesley commenced prayer for the king, a knocking began all round the room, and a thundering knock attended the _amen_.' mr. wesley observed that his wife did not say '_amen_' to the prayer for the king, but mrs. wesley added she could not, for she did not believe that the prince of orange was king.[ ] ewshott house, hampshire, was disturbed by equally strange sounds, and glamis castle, with its secret room, has long been famous for the mysterious noises, knocking, and hammering heard at night-time, which a lady once remarked reminded her of the erection of a scaffold. the miscreant ghosts of wicked people are supposed to make all kinds of unearthly noises, for as they cannot enjoy peace in their graves, they delight in annoying the occupants of their mortal haunts. lowther hall, the residence of the 'bad lord lonsdale,' was disturbed by such uncanny sounds that neither men nor animals were permitted to rest, and many of the ghost stories told of our old country houses describe the peculiar noises made by their ghostly tenants. the mother of the premier, george canning, used to tell her experiences of a haunted house in plymouth, where she stayed during a theatrical engagement. having learnt from a mr. bernard, who was connected with the theatre, that he could obtain comfortable apartments for her at a moderate price, she accepted his offer. 'there is,' said he, 'a house belonging to our carpenter that is reported to be haunted, and nobody will live in it. if you like to have it you may, and for nothing, i believe, for he is so anxious to get a tenant; only you must not let it be known that you do not pay any rent for it.' it turned out as mr. bernard had informed her, for night after night she heard all such noises as are wont to proceed from a workshop, although, on examining every part of the house herself, she found nothing to account for this extraordinary series of noises. occasionally, it is said, before the perpetration of any dreadful crime, as murder, a supernatural sound is heard. a murder was committed, for instance, at cottertown, of auchanasie, near keith, on january , , in connection with which the following facts have been recorded: 'on the day on which the deed was done, two men, strangers to the district, called at a farmhouse about three miles from the house in which lived the old folk that were murdered. shortly before the tragic act was committed, a sound was heard passing along the road the two men were seen to take, in the direction of the place at which the murder was perpetrated. so loud and extraordinary was the noise that the people left their houses to see what it was that was passing. to the amazement of every one, nothing was to be seen, though it was moonlight, and moonlight so bright that it aroused attention. all believed something dreadful was to happen, and some proposed to follow the sound. about the time this discussion was going on, a blaze of fire arose on the hill of auchanasie. the foul deed had been accomplished, and the cottage set on fire. by next day all knew of what the mysterious sound had been the forerunner.'[ ] at wheal vor mine an unaccountable noise has been generally supposed to be a warning. on barry island, near cardiff, it is said that certain ghostly noises were formerly heard in it--sounds resembling the clanking of chains, hammering of iron, and blowing of bellows, and which were supposed to be made by the fiends whom merlin had set to work to frame the wall of crags to surround carmarthen. the following extract from lockhart's 'life of sir walter scott' records a strange noise which was heard while the new house at abbotsford was being built, the novelist living in an older part, close adjoining: 'walter scott to daniel terry, april , .... the exposed state of my house has led to a mysterious disturbance. the night before last we were awakened by a violent noise, like drawing heavy boards along the new part of the house. i fancied something had fallen, and thought no more about it; this was about _two_ in the morning. last night, at the same witching hour, the very same noise occurred. mrs. s., as you know, is rather timbersome, so up i got, with beardie's broad sword under my arm-- bolt upright, and ready to fight. but nothing was out of order, neither can i discover what occasioned the disturbance.' mr. lockhart adds: 'on the morning that mr. terry received the foregoing letter in london, mr. william erskine was breakfasting with him, and the chief subject of their conversation was the sudden death of george bullock, which had occurred on the same night, and nearly as they could ascertain at the very hour when scott was aroused from his sleep by the "mysterious disturbance" here described. this coincidence, when scott received erskine's minute detail of what had happened in tenterdon street (that is, the death of bullock, who had the charge of furnishing the new rooms at abbotsford), made a much stronger impression on his mind than might be gathered from the tone of an ensuing communication.' it seems that bullock had been at abbotsford, and made himself a great favourite with old and young. sir walter scott, a week or two afterwards, wrote thus to terry: 'were you not struck with the fantastical coincidence of our nocturnal disturbances at abbotsford, with the melancholy event that followed? i protest to you the noise resembled half a dozen men at work, putting up boards and furniture, and nothing can be more certain than that there was nobody on the premises at the time. with a few additional touches, the story would figure in glanville or aubrey's collection. in the meantime you may set it down, with poor dubisson's warnings, as a remarkable coincidence coming under your own observation.' in a paper by mrs. edwards, in 'macmillan's magazine,' entitled 'the mystery of pezazi,' an account is given of constant disturbing sounds of nocturnal tree-felling heard near a bungalow in ceylon, where examination proved that no trees had been felled. mrs. edwards, her husband, and their servants were on several occasions disturbed by these sounds, which were unmistakable and distinct. the singhalese attribute these noises to a pezazi, or spirit. a description of precisely the same disturbances occurs, writes mr. andrew lang,[ ] in sahagun's account of the superstitions of the aztecs, and it seems that the galapagos islands, 'suthard of the line,' were haunted by the midnight axe. 'de quincey,' adds mr. lang, 'who certainly had not heard the ceylon story, and who probably would have mentioned sahagun's had he known it, describes the effect produced by the midnight axe on the nerves of his brother, pink: "so it was, and attested by generations of sea-vagabonds, that every night, duly as the sun went down and the twilight began to prevail, a sound arose--audible to other islands, and to every ship lying quietly at anchor in that neighbourhood--of a woodcutter's axe.... the close of the story was that after, i suppose, ten or twelve minutes of hacking and hewing, a horrid crash was heard, announcing that the tree, if tree it were, that never yet was made visible to daylight search, had yielded to the old woodman's persecution.... the woodcutter's axe began to intermit about the earliest approach of dawn, and as light strengthened it ceased entirely, after poor pink's ghostly panic grew insupportable."' among the american indians all the sounds that issued from caverns were thought to be produced by their spiritual inhabitants. the sonora indians say that departed souls dwell among the caves and nooks of their cliffs, and that echoes often heard there are their voices. similarly, when explosions were heard, caused by the sulphurous gas from the rocks around the head-waters of lake ontario, the superstitious indians attributed them to the breathing of the manitous.[ ] the modern dayaks, siamese, and singhalese agree with the esths as to noises being caused by spirits. european folk-lore has long ascribed most of the unexplained noises to the agency of spirits, and to this day franconian damsels go to a tree on st. thomas's day, knock three times, and listen for the indwelling spirit to inform them from raps within what kind of husbands they are to have. hence the night is known as 'little knocker's night.' there is the poltergeist of the german, a mischievous spirit, who wanders about the house at night making all kinds of strange noises. footnotes: [ ] tylor's _primitive culture_, i. p. . [ ] mrs. latham's 'west sussex superstitions,' _folk-lore record_, i. p. . [ ] see tylor's _primitive culture_, i. p. . [ ] see southey's _life of wesley_. [ ] walter gregor: _folk-lore of north-east of scotland_, pp. , . [ ] _nineteenth century_, vol. xvii. p. . [ ] dorman's _primitive superstitions_, p. . index abbot, ghost of, in abbey of clare, abbotsford, - abipones, superstitions of, , , accidents, ghosts appear at scene of, african beliefs, , - , , agnes', st., fast, alaska belief, albans, st., duchess of, aleutian islanders, algonquin indians, , , allanbank, ghost at, allhallow eve, althorp, apparition seen at, american indian beliefs, , , , , , , , , ancestor worship, andaman islanders, andrew's eve, st., angel of death, angola, belief in, animal ghosts, - arabian belief, ash-ridlin, ashley hall, cheshire, assiniboins, belief of, astwood castle, australian beliefs, , , , , , , , , awd nance, ghost so called, aztec legend of creation, ---- belief, , bad lord lonsdale, , bagley house, bahrgeist, balcarres, lord, banshee, , - , , barguest, barton hall, haunted, basutos, belief of, baxter, r., story told by, bean-geese, bear, soul as, beckington castle, bees, soul in form of, bell, passing, bells, legends of, ---- phantom, ---- tolling of, belludo, spanish ghost, benedictine nun, ghost of, benjie gear, ghost so called, ben jonson, benshee, bergmönch, spectre so called, berkeley square, mystery of, - berry pomeroy castle, bertha of rosenberg, beswick, madame, ghost of, , bible in ghost laying, , biddick hall, south, bilocation, or double personality, birchen tower, hollinwood, bird near sick-room, birds as soul bearers, ---- phantom, - ---- singed, souls as, ---- the way of, birkbeck ghost, - birraark, - birth, superstitions relating to, black dog, spectral, - ---- friar, ghost of, , ---- heddon, northumberland, bleeding nun, ghost of, blenkinsopp castle, , bloodstains, indelible, bloody hand, spectre of, bluecap, ---- lights, bodach au dun, ---- glas, bodacher garlin, boggan, boggart, at clegg hall, boguest, bohemian belief, , , , , , , boleyn, lady ann, bolivia, yuricares of, bolles pit, bolotu, bones of dead preserved, - booty's ghost, - borneo, dayaks of, , bothwell, lady, ghost of, , bottle imps, bottreaux, bells of, brandenburg, elector of, brazil, indians of, , , , , , brides, ghosts of, bridge end house, brocken, spectre of, brougham, lord, brownies, , brown lady at rainham, bulgarian belief, , , bull, ghost as a, burial-grounds, haunted, burma, burton agnes hall, butterflies, phantom, - byron, lord, , ---- sir john, the little, caistor hall, ghost at, calabar superstition, californian beliefs, , , candles in ghost laying, ---- snuff of, taken for ghost laying, ---- spectral, canning, george, capelthwaite, cassowary, castle, sunken, cedar room at ashley hall, chappie, ghost so called, chartley park, chasse macabee, checks against ghosts, - chevalier de saxe, chiancungi, fortune-tellers, chibchas, chinese belief, , , , , , , , , , , , , , choctaw belief, , chough, king arthur in form of, christmastide, ghosts at, - church ghosts, - ---- lamb, ---- porch, - , ---- yard spectres, churton hall, clegg hall boggart, , clock superstition, cloud, soul as white, cobal, ghost so called, cock-crow, - cocks' feathers hinder exit of soul, cold lad, colt, ghost as a, combermere abbey, compacts between living and dead, - copeland, lady of, corby castle, ghost at, cornish beliefs, , , , , , , , , , , ---- legend of king arthur, cornwolf, corpse candle, - cortachy castle haunted, , courting a ghost, coved saloon at combermere abbey, cows, ghosts in form of, craighouse, creslow manor house, criminals, ghosts of, crook hall haunted, cross, check against evil spirits, , cross-roads, ghosts at, , cruikshank, george, cullaby castle, cumberland, , , , cumnor hall, , cutty soams, cwn y wybe, cyprus, dandy dogs, , , danish superstitions, , , , , , , , , , , , dead, mutilation of, - ---- unburied, - ---- worship of, death bell, ---- birds presage of, - ---- warnings, , , , , delitzsch, dr., demon, soul as, denis, st., denton hall, departed, bay of the, derwentwater, lady, desert, water of, devil, compact with lord soulis, ---- powerless at cock-crow, ---- tries to seize soul at death, devonshire beliefs, , , diedrick of bern, dishonesty in life causes soul to wander, doe, white, of rylstone, dogs of hell, ---- spectral, - ---- the sky, donart's castle, st., doors unfastened at death, dorcas, ghost so called, dorchester, lord, dorsetshire, doves in ghost-lore, , doyle, bishop, death of, dreams, proof of soul's existence, , dress, phantom, - drowned, ghosts of, - drummer, mysterious, ---- of tedworth, duck, soul as, durham, dutch belief, - dyterbjernat, eagle, , easterton ghost, the, ebb of tide, death at, - edge hill, strange phenomenon at, edgewell oak, edgeworth, maria, effigy, burial in, elixir of life, elizabeth, queen, and her fetch, elymas, the sorcerer, epworth parsonage haunted, , eskimo belief, , , , essex, ewshott house haunted, , exorcism, , eye, soul in the, , fairy music, fata morgana, feathers, game, hinder exit of soul, - female fairy, fetches, - fiddler, the indefatigable, fijian beliefs, , , - , , , , finland, custom in, fire, check against ghosts, fish animated by souls, flame, soul in, flax-seed, charm against ghosts, flies, souls as, flying dutchman, , foot of the fawn, foote, samuel, foundation sacrifices, french beliefs, , , , , , , , furious host, fye, or wraith, gabriel hounds, , ---- ratchets, - galicia, belief in, game feathers hinder exit of soul, - german beliefs, , , , , , , , , , - , , , , , , , , , , , , ghosts and hidden treasures, - ---- checks against, - ---- different classes of, ---- headless, , , , - , , ---- times of appearing, - ---- why they wander, - ghost laying, , - ---- of the hill, ---- raising, - ---- seers, - glamis castle haunted, , gnat, soul as, goblin friar, golden mountain, gould, madame, grass-wolf, grave-sow, graves, haunted, ---- treading on, gray sow, greece, beliefs in, , , greenland, beliefs in, , , grief causes soul to wander, gunpowder and ghosts, - gurlinbeg, family of, hackwood house haunted, hairy left hand, girl with, hallow eve, hamilton, lady, of bothwellhaugh, hanged, ghosts of, hare, ghost as, , harlequin, haunted houses, - ---- localities, - headless ghosts, , , , - , , heart, seat of soul, , hell hole, henequin, herburt family, hermitage castle, , herring piece, ---- spear, hidden treasures and ghosts, - hilton castle, hindu beliefs, ---- dirge, hinton ampner manor house, hoby, lady, holland house, , holly and ghost laying, ---- charm against evil spirits, holt castle, hooper of sennen cove, horse, spectre as, ---- shoe, hottentot customs at death, , hound, ghost as, house-fire put out at death, houses, haunted, - howard, lady, ghost of, hugh capet, hulme castle, treasures at, hungary, belief in, hunt, spectral, - huntsman, wild, hurons of america, belief of, hyssington church, ghost at, ignes fatui, ghost as, - incantations against ghosts, inchcape bell, - india, beliefs in, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , insect life, irish superstitions, , , , , , - , , - , , , , , , , iroquois of north america, beliefs of, , , italian belief, ---- burial custom, jackals, ghosts as, japanese ghost story, ---- mode of raising ghost, jeffrey, lady, ghost of, jemmy lowther, juniper, spirit-haunted tree, kaffir beliefs, , kaneka superstition, - karens, beliefs of, , , , kendal, duchess of, kilncote church porch, kinchardines, kirk-grim, knauff-kriegen, knockers, lady of copeland, ---- of death, ---- of the golden casket, ---- of the lantern, ---- winter's walk, lamb buried under altar, ---- church, lambton, madame, lancashire, - , , - , - , , , , lavington, east, parsonage, lightfoot, lady, lights, phantom, - lily, soul as, - lincolnshire, lion, little knocker's night, lledrith, locks unfastened at death, , lowther hall haunted, ly-erg, lyttelton, lord, madagascar, beliefs in, , madge figg's chair, madness causes soul to wander, magic circle, malay belief, malevolent spirits, manes worship, manx fishermen, maori belief, mark's, st., eve, , martyrs, ghosts of, mary way, spectre so called, mauthe doog, - , may moulach, mazarin, duchess of, mermaid, mexican belief, midsummer eve, milky-way, the, miners' ghosts, - , - mines, ghosts in, , - mirage, mohun, lord, money hidden by ghosts, - monkey, soul as, mountain, abode of spirits, mourning customs, mouse, soul as, mouth, escape of soul from, - murder discovered through ghost, - ---- preceded by supernatural sounds, - murdered, ghosts of, , - murderers, ghosts of, - , , music, phantom, - ---- at sea, necromancy, netherby hall, newstead abbey, new zealanders, beliefs of, , , nix, river spirit, norfolk, , , , , northamptonshire, - , - northumberland, , norwegian beliefs, , , nostrils, exit of soul through, nun, bleeding, ---- of walton, spectre so called, nymph of air, oak, holes in, obrick's colt, ojibway, beliefs in, , , , , , , , , old barbery, ghost so called, - ---- hummums, orleans, catholic church of, ottawas, beliefs of, , oulton house, suffolk, ouse, river, owls and arundel of wardour, , ---- as souls, - oxenham family, death-omen of, padfoot, papuans of new guinea, belief of, parsonages, haunted, - passing bell, pawcorance, small bird, pearlin, jean, peel castle haunted, - , peg o'nell, ghost so called, , percy, sir joceline, personality, double, peruvian beliefs, , , pezazi, mystery of, - phantom bells, - ---- birds, - ---- butterflies, - ---- dress, - ---- lights, - ---- music, - ---- sounds, - philosopher's stone, pig, ghost as, pigeon feathers hinder exit of soul, - ---- ghost as a, pigott, madame, pileck family, pirate wrecker, polish legend, poltergeist, a spectre in germany, polynesian belief, pomerania, belief in, porter, anna maria, potawatomis, powis castle, prophecy at death, - pysling, form of ghost, rabbit, radiant boy, , rainham, story marquis of townshend, ramhurst manor house, ravens as ghosts of the murdered, , ---- omens of death, red sea, ghosts laid in, , - redwing, noise caused by, rich, lady diana, robin redbreast, - robsart, amy, , , roof, hole made in for exit of soul, rose, white, soul as, roslin chapel, rothiemurcus, roumenian legend, rufus, william, fetch of, russia, catharine of, russian beliefs, , , , , , , , , rustling lady, the, sacrifices, foundation, ---- to souls of departed, samlesbury hall, sampford peverell ghost, sandwich islanders, scotch beliefs, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , - scott, sir walter, - seals, spectral, sea-phantoms, - seaton delaval castle, second sight, , - seminoles of florida, , serpent comes out of mouth, servian belief, seven whistlers, sexhow, ghost at, shadow sight, ---- soul as, - sheep, ghosts as, shelley and his wraith, shell fire, shrieking woman, the, shropshire, , , - , - , - , shuck's lane, siamese superstitions, , , - siberian belief, silky, name of a ghost, , , , , silky's bridge, simon magus, singed birds, souls as, singhalese superstitions, , - skipsea castle, skull at agnes burton hall, smellie, w., smith, george, the assyriologist, smoke, soul as, smugglers, snakes, ghosts in form of, - sneezing, explanation of, soul-bringer, soul, appearance of, - ---- bringing back of, ---- destination of, ---- duplex nature of, ---- existence of depends on manner of death, - ---- exit of, - ---- materiality of, - ---- nature of, - ---- temporary exit of, - , ---- voice of, - ---- weight of, - souldern rectory, souter, or soutra, fell, spanish beliefs, , spectral child, ---- dogs, ---- hunt, - ---- ships, - , spells against ghosts, - spirit of air, staffordshire rhyme, steam, soul as, stichios, a kind of spectre, storks, , stradling, lady, strand varsler, striker, sturgeon, death omen, suffolk belief, , - suicides, ghosts of, sunday children, sunken towns, sunrise, ghosts disappear at, sussex beliefs, , , , swallow, ghost as, swan, soul in form of, swarth or fetch, swedish beliefs, , , , , , , - swinsty hall, switzerland, sykes lumb farm, - tahiti beliefs, , talking dog, tasks, or wraiths, tasmanian belief, tears hinder exit of soul, - tedworth, drummer of, thomas's day, st., thuringia, duke louis of, sign of his death, tibetan belief, tide, life goes out with, - tipperahs of chittagong, tongan belief, tower of london haunted, - trash, spectre dog so called, treasures and ghosts, - ---- guarded by evil spirits, - trees, spirit-haunted, - trevelyan, seat of, haunted, trinity church, york, ghost at, tulloch gorms, tyrolese superstitions, unbaptized, souls of, valentine's eve, st., vampires, vapour, soul as, vingoes, death token of, violets spring from graves, waddow hall, waff, or fetch, wallow crag, ghost laid under, walton abbey, , warwickshire, water, relation of ghosts to, - weasel, soul as, wells, haunted, welsh superstitions, , , , , , , - , - , wheal vor, mine haunted at, , whistlers, the seven, whistling, voice of souls, whitby abbey, white-breasted bird, , white doe of rylstone, ---- lady, , - , , - ---- ---- of skipsea, ---- ---- of sorrow, wicked priest, willington mill, , willow tree, anecdote connected with, wimbell pond haunted, wisk hounds, witchcraft, , woman of peace, worcestershire, , , , , , wraith-seeing, - wren, superstition connected with, wyecoller hall, yellow sand, isle of, yesk hounds, yeth hounds, - yorkshire, , , , - , , , , , zambesi superstition, zulus, beliefs of, , , printed by spottiswoode and co., new-street square london * * * * * * transcriber's note: a table of contents was missing from the original and has been added. footnotes were renumbered and gathered at the end of the chapter to which they belong. errors in punctuation, capitalisation, and missing letters and footnote numbers have been corrected without note. if necessary for the placement of quotation marks or the footnote number, the source of some quotations was verified on internet archive. the following corrections were made, on page "ledy" changed to "lady" (the lady in earth by her lord lay) "brazials" changed to "brazilians" (the brazilians imagined that the souls of the bad) nd "to" removed (a belief to which falstaff alludes in) "ann" changed to "amy" (the supposed scene of the murder of lady amy bobsart) "ninty-ninth" changed to "ninety-ninth" (when in the ninety-ninth year of her age) "becklington" changed to "beckington" (beckington castle, ) "bergmouch" changed to "bergmönch" (bergmönch, spectre so called, ) "bodach gartin" changed to "bodacher, garlin" (bodacher garlin, ) and the word order changed "cassioway" changed to "cassowary" (cassowary, ) "chibehas" changed to "chibchas" (chibchas, ) "gurlinheg" changed to "gurlinbeg" (gurlinbeg, family of, ) "lledwith" changed to "lledrith" (lledrith, ) "wray" changed to "way" (mary way, spectre so called, ) "mazarine" changed to "mazarin" (mazarin, duchess of, ) "mohin" changed to "mohun" (mohun, lord, ) " - " changed to " - " (money hidden by ghosts, - ) "padfoit" changed to "padfooit" (padfooit, ) "padfoot" added (padfoot, ) "josceline" changed to "joceline" (percy, sir joceline, ) "potawatomies" changed to "potawatomis" (potawatomis, ) "peverel" changed to "peverell" (sampford peverell ghost, ) "waddon" changed to "waddow" (waddow hall, ) and in footnote : words exchanged between lines, "indo-" and " " (_folk-lore_, p. ; thorpe's _northern mythology_, i. p. . see kelly's _indo-european folk-lore_). otherwise the original was preserved, including unusual, archaic and inconsistent spelling and hyphenation. additional: "vanna levou" in the quote on page should probably be "vanua levu" also known as "sandelwood island", fuji. haunted places in england haunted places in england by elliot o'donnell author of "some haunted houses of england and wales" "twenty years' experience as a ghost hunter" etc. etc. london sands & co. king street, covent garden preface in presenting this volume to the public, i wish to emphasise the fact that all the names of people and houses mentioned in it (saving in chapter x.), in connection with the hauntings, are fictitious. elliot o'donnell. _may , ._ contents chap. page i. the chair ii. the head iii. the cupboard iv. the empty leash v. the dressing-room vi. the reticule vii. the coombe viii. the trunk ix. the cough x. the syderstone hauntings xi. the green vapour xii. the stepping-stones xiii. the pines haunted places in england chapter i the chair the case of a haunted house in red lion square i am not a psychometrist--at least not to any great extent. i cannot pick up a small object--say an old ring or coin--and straightway tell you its history, describing all the people and incidents with which it has been associated. yet, occasionally, odd things are revealed to me through some strange ornament or piece of furniture. the other day i went to see a friend, who was staying in a flat near sloane square, and i was much impressed by a chair that stood on the hearthrug near the fire. now i am not a connoisseur of chairs; i cannot always ascribe dates to them. i can, of course, tell whether they are oak or mahogany, chippendale or sheraton, but that is about all. it was not, however, the make or the shape of this chair that attracted me, it was the impression i had that something very uncanny was seated on it. my friend, noticing that i looked at it very intently, said: "i will tell you something very interesting about that chair. it came from a haunted house in red lion square. i bought it at a sale there, and several people who have sat in it since have had very curious experiences. i won't tell you them till after you've tried it. sit in it." "that wouldn't be any good," i answered; "you know i can't psychometrise, especially to order. may i take it home with me for a few nights?" my friend smilingly assented. the chair was put in a taxi, and in less than half an hour was safely lodged in my chambers. i was living alone just then, for my wife had been suddenly called away to the country, to the bedside of an aged and ailing relative. i say alone, but i had company--a lady tabby that, apparently abandoned by her lover, persisted in showering her attentions upon me. for hours at a time she would perch on the writing-table in my bedroom, whilst i was at work, and fix me amorously with her big green eyes. the moment, however, this most eccentric of feline beauties perceived the chair, she sprang off her pedestal and dived under the bed; and from that hour to this i have never seen her. the chair did not frighten me, but it brought a new, and i cannot say altogether pleasant, atmosphere into the place. when i was in bed and the gas was out, i could swear the chair moved, that it shifted nearer and nearer the window--always the window, as if it was most anxious to make its escape and hie back to its old home. and again there were times when, barred from this avenue of escape, it rocked. yes, i could distinctly hear it rock backwards and forwards on the parquet floor with ever increasing rapidity and violence, as though blind with fury at being balked. and then, again, it groaned, groaned in the deepest and most hopeless misery--misery that the eternally damned alone can know and suffer. certain now that there was something there that badly needed human consolation, i addressed the chair, and, failing to get any verbal answer from it, i tried a code of raps. that failing, i sat in it for several hours two successive nights, and experimented in automatic writing. the result was nil. resolving to give it another trial, but this time without a planchette, i chose a friday night when the moon was in the crescent, and placing the chair on one side the hearth, facing the window, i threw myself back in it and closed my eyes. for some minutes i was still vividly conscious of the old surroundings: the flickering fire flames--seen through my closed lids; the old grandfather clock on the landing outside solemnly ticking; the eternal whistling and hooting of the taxis as they whizzed along in the street beneath. then by degrees, quite imperceptibly, i lost cognisance of all these things; and, intuitively, i began to feel the presence of something strange and wholly novel in the room. i felt it steal forth from a piece of dark and ancient tapestry my wife had hung on the wall. it was merely a shadow, an undefined shadow, a shadow such as the moon, when very low in the heavens, might possibly fashion from the figure of a man; but yet it was not a man, nor a woman, nor anything with which i was in any way familiar. for a moment it stood still, watching me from its vague, formless, indefinite eyes. then it made a forward movement, stood still again, and yet once again advanced. coming up behind my chair, it bent low over me, and placing its long, cool spirit hands over my eyelids, imparted to me a steadily increasing sense of numbness. all thought was gradually annihilated; it was succeeded by a blank, just such a blank as suddenly comes to one when in the hands of the anæsthetist. now, up to this evening, i had presumed, as nearly everybody does presume, that, in the case of mental blanks, every particle of consciousness is lost, totally arrested, and held, for the time being, in complete subjection. but on this occasion--at the very moment memory reasserted itself--i had recollections of some great metempsychosis, some stupendous change in my entire constitution, a change that affected all that we term mind, and spirit, and soul. i struggled earnestly and desperately to recall the exact nature and process of that change, which i now believe underlies all so-called blanks, and i achieved this much: i recalled travel--a mad, rushing plunge or descent into something--something quite different from anything i had known before--a descent into some plane, or sphere, or condition, wholly and completely apart from the physical, and what is generally understood and classified as the mental plane, sphere, or condition. in my efforts to recollect, i have arrived at that same pitch since; but whenever i have been on the verge of getting beyond it, of forcing back a minute recollection of how that metempsychosis was enacted, of all the stages in it, there has been a lapse--my memory has dimmed. yet brief and slight as these remembrances have been, they have assured me of one great truth, namely--that the state of blank never actually exists. some part of us--the part that alone retains consciousness--is extracted and borne far away from the actual material body; but on its return, on its reunion with the physical--with our gross and carnal, earthly self--all memory of this delicate and finely poised consciousness is at once swallowed up and obliterated. if such were not the case, if everything were indeed a blank, and the spiritual as well as the material part of us were suspended during what we term unconsciousness, we should be forced to the conclusion that the soul has no separate existence, that it cannot survive the body, and that the immortality of man, the infinite perpetuation of our identity, in which we have so fondly believed, is but a chimera. i am, however, certain--i could, if need be, swear to it--that even in the deepest slumber, in the wildest delirium, in the most seemingly omnipotent and annihilating blank, all is not lost, something remains, and that something is the psychic and spiritual consciousness, the very thing that constitutes what we term soul. in the first stage, then, of my cognisance of thought, again i struggled with memory, and the struggle overcoming me, i gradually lapsed into the mere consciousness of existence without thought. how long this condition lasted i cannot say, but with startling abruptness thought returned, and i became madly anxious to ascertain my present state--how it differed from my former--and my whereabouts. i was conscious of sound and light and motion, but conscious of them merely from the point of observation, as things quite outside myself--things that in no way sensibly affected me. what particularly impressed me was the silence--the passivity--of what, i believed, constituted my body. i could detect no heart movement, no pulsation whatever. i seemed to be there--to have a very familiar form--but to be nothing more than form--to have no tangibility. so far my eyes had seen; but, purposely, i had not allowed myself to discriminate objects. i was intuitively certain my power of vision had become supernormal; and i dreaded to employ it for fear i should see too much--too acutely. i had a stupendous sense of impending horror. at length, however, i was impelled by an irresistible fascination to look. i did so, and in an instant became the spectator of a drama. before me, seated at a grimy wooden table, were two men, clad in the fascinating garb of the latter part of the eighteenth century--long coat, befrilled vest, knee breeches, and peruke. two mugs of ale were placed in front of them, and the one man kept on sipping, while the other, seldom touching the ale, took long and vigorous puffs at a pipe. the room had a very low ceiling, blackened with smoke, and traversed by enormous oaken beams; a chimney corner, in which sat an old man, munching something out of a very dirty-looking bag, and, at the same time, taking occasional pinches of snuff; and a couch, stowed away in one corner, and piled several feet high with a variety of books, papers, cushions, and wearing apparel. the general atmosphere of the place suggested an inn or tavern. it was with the two men in the foreground, however, that something told me i was most concerned. they appeared to be about the same age and of the same class; but there all similarity ended. the one was tall and thin, with dark, deep-set, and very restless eyes--and oddly noticeable hands. they were large and sinewy, with peculiarly long fingers and protruding knuckles. his companion was small and shrivelled, with watery blue eyes and a particularly weak mouth. "strange we should meet like this, john," the shorter of the two remarked, taking a big gulp of ale. "ten years since we last saw one another, and that was in bristol. do you recollect the occasion?" "do i recollect it?" the other responded. "can i ever forget it? you had just come from her. she had accepted you. money, of course. i had nothing to offer her but love. love! what's the good of love without prospects?" "it was a fair fight, john." "fair fight, wilfred!" john replied. "you may call it fair, if you like, but i don't. what chance had i when you pointed to your bank-book and said, 'if i die i can settle all that on her'? i could promise nothing. i hadn't a cent in the world beyond my weekly pay. thirty shillings. and how pleased you were with yourself when you came to see me that last evening in bristol. do you remember what you said? 'it's the fortune of war, my boy. you'll soon get over it. work.' as if i didn't work! but i took your advice, though i hated you for it; and i left bristol. after what had happened i loathed the place. an uncle of mine offered me a clerkship in his office in holborn, and i stuck so hard to my job that i eventually became a partner." "then you're a rich man, john?" "comfortable, but not rich, wilfred." "and you've forgiven me? got over that little love affair, eh? well, well. matrimony is not all bliss, john. at least that was my experience. poor jenny! but of course i have not told you. i'm much to be pitied, john." "she's dead!" "she is," wilfred said, filling his mug with ale and raising it to his lips, "and i'm a lonely widower. but how did you know?" "you wouldn't believe me if i told you," john replied. "i get my information through channels that are barred to men like you." "witchcraft, i suppose," wilfred said, with a sneer. "but why this mystery? someone in bristol city wrote to you." "no, they didn't," john answered. "i know no one in bristol city now. your first suggestion was nearer the truth. your wife, wilfred, often comes to see me. i know all about the way in which you treated her." "the way in which i treated her!" wilfred cried, starting upright in his chair, his face flushing angrily. "god's truth, man, what do you mean by such a statement?" "i mean exactly what i say," john answered. "for the first two years you treated her tolerably well. then someone else caught your fancy. jenny was neglected, despised, and on one occasion actually beaten." "it's a lie!" wilfred gasped, springing to his feet, as if to leave the table. "no, it's not," john retorted, "and you know it. come, sit down, man, and go on drinking. love never was in your line, drink is. besides, as you say, she's dead, and what's the use of quarrelling over a corpse, even though she were beautiful as--as----" he didn't finish his sentence, but leaning forward thrust wilfred back into his chair. for some seconds the two men sat and looked at one another--wilfred sullen, frightened, and resentful; john imperturbable save for the perpetual restless movement of his eyes, and an occasional peculiar twitching of his upper lip and hands. "a rum," john said at length, "or a gin? or both?" "rum." "very good, let it be rum." he called the waiter, and a rum was served. "you're not drinking to-day, john," wilfred remarked, taking a long pull at the rum and looking more amiable. "no, i'm quite off spirits," john replied--"at least, spirits of that kind." "spirits of that kind!" wilfred sniggered. "why, whatever other kind of spirits are there? what a mysterious fellow you are, john." "am i?" john laughed. "perhaps i've reason to be. i live in a big house, all alone, in red lion square." "new houses, aren't they?" wilfred commented. "and big rents?" john nodded, the same nod answering apparently both questions. "but you haven't told me yet," wilfred went on, "how you knew jenny was dead." "i've seen her," john said very quietly. "she comes to me regularly." "seen her? comes to you regularly? you must be mad, john--mad or hoaxing. how can you see her, and why should she come to you?" john shrugged his shoulders. "i told you you wouldn't believe me," he replied. "no one does. yet i can swear to you it's true. she appeared to me last night and told me you would be here this afternoon. that is how i happened to meet you." "you overwork yourself, john," wilfred said, taking another long pull at the rum. "too much work is just as harmful to one's temperament and chances in life as too little. moderation, my boy, moderation, i say. that's always been my keynote. i should like to see this house of yours." "you shall," john said, "and the spirits. not hers--i don't think you will see hers--but the rum and brandy. i've excellent brands of both--smuggled over from abroad last week." "and yet you don't drink!" "no, i got them in entirely for your benefit. come. we will go to my house. it's more comfortable than here. a big fire, nice easy chairs, tobacco, and bottles--bottles with plenty in them." "and you've forgiven me, john?" "forgiven you!" john replied, rising from the table and putting on his hat. "forgiven you! do you think i should ask you round to my house, to drink the best vintage london can offer you, if i hadn't? come. come along at once." wilfred rose with some difficulty from his seat, and the two men went out into the street. the scene then changed, and i found myself in a big, gloomy house, following them up a long flight of wooden stairs. the moment i entered the house i became the victim of an anomalous species of fear. i saw nothing, but i instinctively knew that strange, indefinable presences were there, watching us with sphinx-like faces. i felt them, standing in the doorways, lurking in the angles of the hall and landings, and peering down at us from over the balustrades. i felt that they were merely critical at present, merely deliberating what attitude they should adopt towards us; and i felt that the whole atmosphere of the house was impregnated with a sense of the utmost mystery--a mystery soluble only to those belonging, in the truest sense, to the spirit world--neutrarians--spirit entities generated solely from spirit essence and never incarcerated in any material body--spirits initiated into one and all of the idiosyncrasies of spirit land. the man john gave no outward signs of being in any way affected by these presences; but it was otherwise with wilfred. the silence and darkness of the house unmistakably disturbed him, and as he panted up the staircase, following his long and lean host with none too steady a step, he cast continual looks of apprehension about him. first, i saw him peer over his shoulders, down the stairs behind him, as if he fancied something, to which he could apply no name, might be treading softly at his heels; then i watched his eyes wander nervously to the gloomy space overhead; and then, as if drawn by some extremely unwelcome magnet, to the great, white, sinewy hands of john. arriving on the second floor, they crossed a broad landing and entered a spacious room, which was fitfully illuminated by a few dying embers in a large open grate. john produced a tinder box, lighted a trio of tall wax candles, and resuscitated the fire. he then left the room, reappearing in a few minutes with an armload of bottles. "make yourself comfortable, wilfred," he said. "take that easy chair and pull it up in front of the fire. rum or brandy?" wilfred, whose eyes glittered at the sight of the spirits, chose rum. "i'll have a little brandy afterwards," he said, "just to wash down the rum. moderation is my password, john, everything in moderation," and, helping himself to the rum, he laughed. john sat opposite him, and i noticed, not without some emotion, that the chair he took was the exact counterpart of the one in which i had left my material ego. "john," wilfred exclaimed after a while, "this house is most extraordinarily still. i--i don't like such stillness----" he was more than half drunk. "why do you live alone? damned silly habit to live alone in a house like this." then he swallowed a big gulp of rum and leered. "all habits are silly," john replied. "all life is silly. death alone is sensible. death's a fine thing." then there was a pause; and a gust of wind, blowing up the staircase, set the door jarring and made the windows rattle. "i don't like that remark of yours, john," wilfred suddenly stuttered. "death's a fine thing?--death's the work of the devil. it's the only thing i fear. and the--the wind. what's that?" from the hall below there came a gentle slam, the soft closing of a door. john shrugged his shoulders and stirred the logs until they gave out a big blaze. "it's a noise," he said. "this house is full of noises. every house is full of noises, if only you take the trouble to listen for them." another pause, and wilfred helped himself to some brandy. "noises, like women," he said, "want keeping in their places. they've no business wandering about on nights like this. hark!" the faintest sound possible broke the stillness of the house; but it suggested much. to me it was like a light, bounding footfall on the first flight of stairs, those nearest the hall. after listening a moment john spoke. "it's only jenny," he said; "at least, i fancy it's only jenny. but there are others. god alone knows whence they come or why. the house at times is full of them. so far i have only felt their presence--and heard. pray to heaven i may never see them--at least, not some. do you hear that?" there was a gentle rustling on the landing, a swishing, such as might have been caused by someone in a silk dress with a long train. "it is--it's jenny!" john went on. "i told you--she comes every night." wilfred made no reply, but the hand that held the glass shook so much that the brandy ran over and splashed on the floor. there was again silence, then a creak, the faint but very unmistakable turning of a door handle. wilfred's face blanched. he tried to look round, but dared not. "i'm afraid too," john murmured, his teeth slightly chattering. "i never can get over my initial terror when she first arrives. god! what horror i have known since i lived here." the latch of the door gave a click, the sort of click it always gives when the door springs open, and a current of icy air blew across the room and fanned the cheeks of both men. wilfred attempted to speak, but his voice died away in his throat. he glanced at the window. it was closed with heavy wooden shutters. "it's no use," john sighed, "there's no escape that way. make up your mind to face it--face her. ah!" he sank back as he spoke and closed his eyes. i looked at wilfred. his vertebrae had totally collapsed; he sat all huddled up in his chair, his weak, watery eyes bulging with terror, and the brandy trickling down his chin on to his cravat. all this scene, i must tell you, was to me most vivid, most acutely vivid, although i was but a passive participator in it. the same feeling that had possessed me on my entrance into the house was with me even in a greater measure now. i felt that pressing on the heels of this wind, this icy blast of air, were the things from the halls and landings, the distractingly enigmatical and ever-deliberating things. i felt them come crowding into the room; felt them once again watching. something now seemed to go wrong with the wicks of all three candles; they burned very low, and the feeble, flickering light they emitted was of a peculiar bluish white. while i was engaged in pondering over this phenomenon my eye caught a sudden movement in the room, and i saw what looked like a cylindrical pillar of mist sweep across the floor and halt behind john. it remained standing at the back of his chair for a second or so, and then, retracing its way across the floor, disappeared through the door, which, opening wide to meet it, closed again with a loud bang. john opened his eyes and reaching forward poured himself out some brandy. "i told you i didn't drink spirits," he said, "but her visit to-night has made a difference. come, wilfred, pull yourself together. the ghosts--at least her ghost has gone; and as for the others, well, they don't count. even you may get used to them in time. come, come, be a man. for a sceptic, a confirmed sceptic, i never saw anyone so frightened." appealed to thus, wilfred slowly straightened himself out, and peeping round furtively at the door, as if to make sure it really was shut, he helped himself to some more brandy. john leaned forward and regarded him earnestly. after some minutes wilfred spoke. "those candles," he said, "why don't they burn properly? i have never seen candles behave in that fashion before. john, i don't like this house." john laughed. "matter of taste and habit," he said. "i didn't like it at first, but i like it now." another pause, and then john said suddenly, "more brandy, wilfred?" "no, i've had enough," wilfred replied, "enough. john, i must be going home. see me to the door, john; the front door, i mean, john. see me to the door, there's a good fellow." he tried to rise, but john put out one hand and pushed him gently back into his seat. "it's early yet," john said, "far too early to go home. think what a long time it is since we last met. ten whole years. to some people almost a lifetime. are you tired of life, wilfred?" "tired of life?" wilfred echoed. "tired of brandy, perhaps, but not of life. what a question to ask! why?" and again glancing furtively at the door he tried to rise. once more john put out his hand and thrust him back. "not yet," he said; "the hour is far too early. what were we talking about? being tired of life. of course you are not. how foolish of me to ask you such a thing! you who are so rich, respected, admired, beloved. you are happy in spite of your sad bereavement. you are a man to be missed. with me it is otherwise. i long to go to the spirit land, for it is there only i have friends, really genuine, loving friends. i am not afraid to die. i want death. i yearn for it. yearn for it, wilfred." "spirits! death! always spirits and death in your company," wilfred responded. "let's talk of something else--something more cheerful. i want cheering, john. this house of yours is depressing--most horribly depressing. you say it is new?" "comparatively new," john replied, and he started fumbling in his vest pocket. "comparatively new," wilfred repeated, his eyes watching john's fingers attentively,--"and it has ghosts. why, i thought it was only old houses that were haunted." john chuckled. "so people say," he replied, "and they tell me i am mad to think there are ghosts here. they say it is impossible. what is your opinion, wilfred?" "why," wilfred said, watching john's movements with increasing interest, "that's my opinion too. a house to be haunted must have a history. and this house has none, has it? john!" the last syllable was uttered in an altogether different tone. it was not the voice of a drunken man. for a brief moment john hesitated, trembled. he seemed to be in the throes of some great mental strain, some acute psychological crisis. but he speedily overcame it, and drawing his hand out suddenly from his vest, he produced a huge, murderous-looking clasp knife. "true!" he said, "true. so far this house has no history. no history whatever. but it will have one, wilfred. it will." and baring the blade of his formidable weapon, he crouched low and crept forward. * * * * * the next day i took the chair back to its owner. i had had enough of it--quite enough; and i told him my experiences. "odd!" he said, "very odd. the impressions you received when sitting in the chair are almost identical with those of the other people who have sat in it. i wonder if a murder did actually take place in that house? i shouldn't be at all surprised. there is an old stain on the floor of one of the rooms on the second landing, and they say that, despite the most vigorous washing, it still retains its colour--red, blood-red." chapter ii the head a derbyshire haunting some few years ago, two men were trudging along a road, not twenty miles from sudbury, swearing heartily. it was not the first time they had sworn, not by any means, but it is extremely doubtful if either of them had ever sworn before quite so vehemently. there were, one must admit, extenuating circumstances. having missed the last train, they were obliged to walk home, a distance of twelve or more miles, and having been overtaken by a rainstorm, they were soaked to the skin. true, the rain had now ceased, but as they had covered only six miles, they still had six more to go, and at every step they took, the water in their boots soaked through their socks and squished between their toes. just as they arrived at a spot where the road swerved a little to their left and took a sudden dip, a clock from a distance solemnly chimed twelve. the younger of the two men came to a halt and lighted his pipe. "hold on a minute, brown," he shouted; "i can't keep up this infernal pace any longer. let's take an easy." brown turned and joined his companion, who had seated himself on a wooden gate. below them, in the dip, the darkness was sepulchral. the hedges on either side the road were of immense height; and high above them rose the trunks of giant pines and larches, the intertwining branches of which formed an archway that completely obliterated the sky. a faint speck of light from afar flickered occasionally, as if through a gap in the foliage; but, apart from this, the men could see nothing--nothing but blackness. "a cheerful spot!" brown remarked, "as gloomy a bit of road as i've ever seen. and how quiet!" the other man blew his nose. "not so quiet now," he laughed, "but how everything echoes! what's that? water?" both men looked, and, apparently, from the other side of the hedge, came the gentle gurgle of quick flowing water. "must be a spring," brown observed, "flowing into some stream in the hollow. the darkness suggests the styx. a match, if you please, reynolds." reynolds gave him one, and for awhile the two men puffed away in silence. suddenly something whizzed overhead; and they heard the prolonged, dismal hooting of an owl. "this is getting a bit too eerie, even for my liking, brown," reynolds remarked; "supposing we move on. i always associate noises like that with a death." "i wish it were my mother-in-law's," brown laughed, "or my own. but there's no such luck. i'm cold." "so am i," reynolds replied. "deuced cold! come on, do!" he slid off the gate as he spoke and strode into the centre of the road. the moon, temporarily unveiled, revealed as wet a landscape as one could possibly imagine. everything dripped water--bushes, trees, ferns, grass, hats, clothes--whilst every rut of the road, every particle of soil, shone wet in the moon's rays. a deep, settled calm permeated the atmosphere. it was the stillness of night and moisture combined. "what's the matter? aren't you coming?" brown asked impatiently. "one moment," reynolds replied. "i believe i heard footsteps. hark! i thought so, they're coming this way! someone else lost their train, perhaps." brown listened, and he, too, distinctly heard the sound of footsteps--high-heeled shoes walking along with a sharp, springy action, as if the road were absolutely hard and dry. "a woman!" he ejaculated. "odd hour for a woman to be out here." brown laughed. "pooh!" he said. "women are afraid of nothing nowadays except old age. hullo! here she comes!" as he spoke the figure of a woman--slight and supple, and apparently young--shot into view, and came rapidly towards them. her dress, though quaint and pretty, was not particularly striking; but her feet, clad in patent leather shoes, with buckles that shone brightly in the moonlight, were oddly conspicuous, in spite of the fact that they were small and partially hidden 'neath a skirt which was long and frilled, and not at all in accordance with the present fashion. something about her prevented both men from speaking, and they involuntarily moved nearer to one another as she approached. on and on she came, tripping along, and never varying her pace. now in a zone of moonlight, now in the dark belt of shadows from the firs and larches, she drew nearer and nearer. through the hedge, brown could dimly perceive the figure of a cow, immensely magnified, standing dumb and motionless, apparently lost, like he was, in spellbound observation. the silence kept on intensifying. not a breath of air, not a leaf stirring, not a sound from reynolds, who stood with arms folded like a statue; only the subdued trickle, trickle of the spring, and the hard tap, tap, tap of the flashing, sparkling shoes. at last the woman was abreast of them. they shrank back and back, pressing farther and farther into the hedge, so close that the sharp twigs and brambles scratched their faces and tore their clothes. she passed. down, down, down, still tripping daintily, until the sepulchral blackness of the dip swallowed her up. they could still hear her tap, tap, tap; and for some seconds neither spoke. then reynolds, releasing his clothes from the thorns, muttered huskily: "at last i've seen a ghost, and i always scoffed at them." "but her head!" brown ejaculated, "where was it?" "don't ask me," reynolds replied, his teeth chattering. "she had no head. at least i didn't see any. dare you go on?" "what, down there?" brown said, nodding in the direction of the dip. "well, we must, if we are to get home to-night," reynolds retorted, "and i'm frozen." "wait till that noise ceases, then," brown answered. "i can't stand seeing a thing like that twice in one night." they stood still and listened, until the tapping gradually died away in the far distance, and the only sound to be heard was that of the water, the eternal, never ceasing, never varying sound of the water. then they ran--ran as they had never run since long ago rugby days--down through the inky darkness of the hollow and out--far out into the brightness of the great stretch of flat country beyond; and, all the time they ran, they neither looked to the right nor to the left, but always on the ground just ahead of them. * * * * * for a week the horror of what they had seen was so great that neither of the two men could bear to be alone in the dark; and they kept a light in their respective rooms all night. then a strange thing happened. brown became infatuated, he did nothing but rave, all day, about the ghost. she had the prettiest figure, the whitest hands, the daintiest feet he had ever seen, and he was sure her face must be equally lovely. why couldn't he see it? there was nothing about the neck to show she had been decapitated, and yet the head was missing. why? he worried reynolds to death about it, and he gave no one else any peace. that waist, those delicate white fingers, those rosy, almond-shaped nails, those scintillating shoe buckles! they got on his brain. they obsessed him. he was like a maniac. at last, at the suggestion of reynolds, who wanted to get rid of him for awhile, he came up to london and paid visits to most of the professional mediums and occultists in the west end. some advised him one thing, and some another. some immediately went into trances and learned from their controlling spirits all about the headless phantom, who she was, why she paraded the high road, and what had become of her head. but it was significant that no two told him alike, and that the head he so longed to see had at least a dozen different hiding-places. at last, when he had expended quite a small fortune, and his brain was much addled with psychic nomenclature, with detailed accounts of the astral plane, karmas, elementals, elementaries, white lodges, and what not, he interviewed a woman, living somewhere in the bayswater direction, who suggested that he should hold a séance in the haunted hollow, and who promised, with a great show of condescension, to act as his medium if he would pay her the trifling sum of twenty pounds. at first brown declared the thing impossible, since he did not, at that moment, possess twenty pounds, which was literally true; but the prospect of seeing the ghost's face at length proved too much for him, and he decided to pawn all he had, in order to gratify his longing. he closed with the offer. when the night fixed for the séance arrived, the weather conditions were all that could be desired; the air was soft and calm, the moon brilliant, the sky almost cloudless, and promising only the finest weather for days to come. as the medium insisted upon a party of at least four, brown persuaded a mr. and mrs. de roscovi, russians, to come, and they all set out together from sudbury shortly after ten o'clock. brown had made many inquiries in the neighbourhood as to the phantom figure, but he had only come across two people who would tell him anything about it. one, a farmer, assured him that he had on several occasions seen the ghost when driving, and that, on each occasion, it had kept abreast of his horse, even though the latter was careering along the road half mad with fright. but what terrified him most, he said, was that the apparition had no head. the other, a blacksmith, said he had seen the woman twice, and that each time he had seen her she had been carrying something tucked under her arm, which he had fancied was a head. but he had been too scared to look at it very closely, and he only knew for certain that where her head should have been there was nothing. both he and the farmer said they had heard all their lives that the road was haunted, but for what reason they had never been able to discover, as within the past sixty years, at any rate, neither murder nor suicide was known to have taken place near the hollow. this is as far as brown had got with his investigations when he set out from sudbury on the night in question. the de roscovis did not think, for one moment, that the ghost would appear. they said, few people apparently had seen it; its visits in all probability were only periodical; and weeks, months, or even years might elapse before it put in an appearance there again. "that may be, but then we have a medium," brown argued. "i engaged her to invoke the ghost, provided it would not come of its own accord. you can invoke it, can't you, madame valenspin?" madame valenspin now seemed rather dubious. "i have never tried in the open before," she said, with a slight shiver, "but i will do my best. the conditions seem favourable; but i can't say definitely till we arrive at the exact spot." brown, however, could not help observing that the farther they advanced into the country, which became more and more lonely, the more restless and uneasy madame valenspin grew. once or twice she halted, as if irresolute whether to go on or not, and the moment she caught sight of the hollow she came to a dead stop. "not down there," she said. "it's too dark. we'd better stay here." it was frightfully still. brown listened for the murmuring of water. there was none. the recent hot sun had probably dried up the spring. through the same gap in the hedge he saw a big cow--possibly, so he thought, the same cow--and he took it as a favourable augury for the appearance of the ghost that the animal, as before, was gazing fixedly into the open space, as if momentarily expecting to see something. behind it, away back in the broad expanse of field, were other cattle, their skins startlingly white; all motionless, and all in attitudes suggestive of a sense of anticipation, of a conscious waiting for something. the sepulchral hush was uninterrupted saving by bats, assuredly the biggest and blackest brown had ever seen, wheeling and skimming, with the faintest perceptible whiz, whiz, whiz, in and out the larches; and the soft intermittent fanning of the leaves as the night breeze came rustling over the flat country and continued its career down into the hollow. a rabbit scurried across the road from one gate to another, its white breast shining silver, and some other small furry creature, of a species undetected, created a brief pandemonium in a neighbouring ditch. otherwise all nature was extraordinarily passive. "the figure went right down into the hollow," brown said. "i think we ought to try there. what do you think, mrs. de roscovi?" "i am of the same opinion as madame valenspin," mrs. de roscovi replied, glancing apprehensively at the dip. "i think we had far better stay where we are." "very well, then," brown said, "let's begin. you are mistress of the ceremonies, madame valenspin. will you tell us what to do?" madame valenspin moved to one side of the road, and stood with her back resting against a gate. "keep quite close to me," she said, "and i will try and go under control. ah!" she ejaculated the last syllable so sharply that brown and mrs. de roscovi both started. she then began to mumble something, and then, breaking into a shrill, high-pitched key, stated that she was no longer madame valenspin but a spirit called anne heathcote, who was her temporary control. anne heathcote, so the audience were informed, was the ghost of a girl of very great beauty, who had been murdered in an adjoining field, close on a hundred years ago. there was no apparent motive for the deed, which was accomplished in a peculiarly barbarous fashion, the head being cut right off and thrown in a pit that had long since been filled in. the criminal was never caught. "can't you appear to us with your head on," brown asked, "just as you were in your lifetime?" "no," the alleged spirit replied. "i am forbidden to do so. my visits are only periodical, and i shan't be able to materialise again here for at least ten years." "then there is little hope of my ever seeing you," brown said, bitterly disappointed. "none," was the somewhat abrupt answer. "but why should you haunt this place at all?" mr. de roscovi asked. "what reason is there for your being earth-bound?" "my sins," the control replied. "i was a very wicked girl." "i don't care whether you were wicked or not," brown put in mournfully. "i want to see you. if your face is in keeping with your limbs and figure, it must indeed be lovely. is there no way of seeing you--just for a second?" "none," the control answered. then, with much more emphasis, "none." but hardly had the alleged anne heathcote spoken, when far away in the distance came the sound of footsteps. tap, tap, tap! "why! by jove!" brown shouted, "there she is! i recognise her step. i should know it in a million." for a minute everyone was silent, the tapping growing more and more audible. then madame valenspin, in quite her own voice, exclaimed excitedly: "let us be going. the spirits tell me we mustn't remain here any longer. let's go back by the fields." she fumbled with the latchet of the gate, against which she had been leaning, and hurriedly tried to raise it. mrs. de roscovi said nothing, but gripped her husband by the arm. the steps approached rapidly, and presently the same dainty form, brown had previously seen when with reynolds, once more figured on the horizon. "it is--it is she!" brown whispered. "look--the waist, the arms, the hands, the shoes. silver buckles! how they flash!" an exclamation of horror interrupted him. it was from mr. de roscovi. he had moved to one side of the road, dragging his wife with him, and the two were standing huddled together, their eyes fixed in a frenzied stare at the phantom's neck. brown, forcing his attention away from the long slim hands which so fascinated him, followed their glances. the neck was not as he remembered it, white and slender as far as it went, but it ended abruptly in a grey nothingness, and beyond this nothingness brown fancied he discerned the dimmest of shadows. he was appalled but fascinated, and intense curiosity far outweighed his fear. he was certain she was beautiful--beautiful to a degree that immeasurably excelled any feminine loveliness he had hitherto encountered. he must see her face. he did not believe her head was missing; he believed it was there on her body right enough, but that for some specific reason it had not materialised. he turned to madame valenspin to inquire the cause, and was greatly astonished to see her beating a hasty retreat across the fields. the figure had now come up to where he was standing, and tripping past him, it sped swiftly down the dip. brown at once gave chase. he had not gone many yards before the darkness of the dip was on him; and the only clue he had to his quarry's whereabouts was the sound of the shoes--the constant tap, tap, tapping. on and on he went, however, and at length, emerging from the darkness, he perceived a wooden stile and beyond it a tiny path, threading its way through a clump of firs that gradually grew thinner and thinner till they finally terminated in what appeared to be a broad clearing. mounting the stile and springing off on the other side, the woman tripped along the path, and, turning for a moment to beckon brown, disappeared from view. the intense loneliness of the spot, emphasised a thousandfold by the eerie effect of the few straggling moonbeams that fell aslant the stile and pathway, and the knowledge that he had left his companions far behind made brown falter, and it was some seconds before he could gather up the courage to continue his pursuit. a light girlish laugh, however, proceeding apparently from the spot where the figure had vanished, determined him. he saw once again vividly before him that willowy waist, those slim, delicate fingers, and those coquettish little feet. were the devil itself to bar his way he must see her face. sweating with terror, and yet withal obsessed with a passion that defies description, brown mounted the stile and hastened in the direction of the laugh. again it rang out, charged to overflowing with innocent fun and frolic, irresistibly girlish, irresistibly coy. this time there was no mistaking its locality. it came from behind a small clump of trees that bordered on the clearing. wild with excitement and full of love madness, brown dashed round the clump, and then halted. floating in mid-air was a head, a head that looked as if it had long since been buried and just disinterred. the eyes alone lived, and they were fixed on brown's with a mocking, baneful glitter. hanging on either side of it was a mass of long fair hair, suggestive of a woman. every detail in the face stood out with hideous clearness in the brilliancy of the moonlight, and as brown stared at it, petrified with horror, the thing laughed. chapter iii the cupboard a case of hauntings near birmingham people often wonder why new houses--houses without any apparent history--should suddenly begin to be haunted, often by a variety of very alarming phenomena, and then, just as suddenly, perhaps, cease to be haunted. of course one can only theorise, but i think a very possible and feasible reason is suggested, in the case i am about to relate. five years ago sir george cookham was living at "the mayfields," a large country house some ten or twelve miles south-east of birmingham. he was greatly interested in criminology, inclining to the belief that crime is almost entirely due to physical malformation; and used to invite all the great experts on the subject to stay with him. it was one week-end, towards the middle of september, that dr. sickertorft came; and he and sir george had some very heated arguments. sir george was one of the most eccentric men i have ever met, and one of his many idiosyncrasies was to carry on his discussions walking. on the morning of sickertorft's departure he and sir george were arguing--sir george, at the same time, perambulating the corridor of the ground floor of the house, for about the hundredth time--when dr. sickertorft suddenly remarked: "i wonder if this house is haunted?" "haunted!" sir george laughed. "why, of course not. it's new. my father built it only sixty years ago. a house to be haunted must be old, must have some history. and the only tragedy that has occurred here was when a servant i once had, losing control of his temper, killed one of my most valuable dogs. that was a tragedy, both for the servant and the dog. there has been nothing else to my knowledge--nothing beyond one or two quite peaceful deaths from natural causes. but why do you ask?" "because," sickertorft replied, "that cupboard over there, opposite the foot of the stairs, to me, strongly suggests a ghost. something peculiarly diabolical. something that springs out on one and imparts the sensation of being strangled." "the only ghosts that haunt that cupboard," sir george chuckled, "are boots and shoes, and, i believe, my fishing rods. ghosts are all a delusion--a peculiar state of the brain due to some minute osseous depression or cerebral inflammation." "i don't agree with you," sickertorft said quietly. "i am positively certain that there are such things as ghosts, that they are objective and of many kinds. some, in all probability, have always existed, and have never inhabited any human body; some are the earth-bound spiritual egos of man and beast; and some we can create ourselves." "create ghosts!" sir george cried. "come, now, we are talking sense. of course we can create ghosts. pepper did, maskelyne and devant still do, and so do all the so-called materialising mediums." "i don't mean spoof ghosts," sickertorft responded. "i mean real ones. real superphysical, objective phenomena. man can at times create them, but only by intense concentration." "you mean materialised thought forms?" "if you like to term them such," sickertorft replied. "i believe they are responsible for a certain percentage of hauntings, but not all." "well, i've never seen any of your ghostly thought forms nor, in my opinion, am i ever likely to," sir george growled. "show me one and i'll believe. but you can't." "i don't know so much," sickertorft muttered, and, with his eyes still on the cupboard, he followed sir george into his study. * * * * * a week later lucy, a maid at "the mayfields," was walking past the cupboard on her way to the dining-room, when something, as she subsequently described it to the cook, came over her, and she ran for her life. "i didn't hear anything nor see anything," she explained. "i only felt there was something nasty hiding there, ready to spring out." the following night she had the same experience, and her terror was so great that she ran shrieking into the dining-room, and it was some moments before she could make any coherent statement. lady cookham was very angry with her, and said it was all nonsense. there was nothing whatever wrong with the cupboard, and, if it occurred again, she must go. it did occur again, the very next night, and lucy, without waiting for her dismissal, gave notice. she said this time she heard a laugh, a low chuckle, very sinister, and suggestive also of the utmost glee. the door of the cupboard creaked and, she believed, opened a little; but on this point she could not be absolutely certain. she only knew her horror was infinitely greater than it had been on former occasions, and that when she ran, she was convinced something very dreadful ran after her. the following evening, just about the same time, the butler went to the cupboard for a pair of shoes. he had just picked them up, and was about to go off with them, when someone breathed in his face. he sprang back in astonishment, striking his head somewhat badly against the edge of a shelf, whereupon there was a laugh--a short, sharp laugh, expressive of the keenest satisfaction. this was too much for the butler. dropping the shoes, he dashed out of the cupboard and never ceased running till he was in the servants' quarters. he told the housekeeper, and the housekeeper mentioned the matter to the head parlourmaid; so that in a very short time the whole household got to know of it, and the cupboard was given as wide a berth as possible. the next victim was the governess. sir george had two children, both girls, and at present they were too young to go to school. the governess was a cambridge graduate, who boasted of being utterly materialistic and of having a supreme contempt for weak nerves, and, to quote her own words, "poor simpletons who believe in ghosts." she was passing the cupboard one evening, three nights after the butler's experience, when an irresistible impulse came over her to explore it. she opened the door and stepped inside, then someone closed the door with a bang and laughed. "who are you?" the governess demanded. "let me out at once. how dare you!" there was no reply, but when she stretched out her hand to feel for the door, she encountered something very cold and spongy, and the horror of it was so unexpected that she fainted. in falling she struck the door violently. it flew open, and she was found some seconds later in a state of semi-insensibility, lying half in the cupboard and half across the corridor. when lady cookham heard of what had happened, she was furious. "the cupboard can't be haunted," she declared, "it's ridiculous. someone is playing us a trick. i'll call in the police." the local inspector being summoned, examined the cupboard and cross-questioned the servants. but he discovered nothing. lady cookham now determined to unravel the mystery--if mystery there were--herself. she gave all the servants save one--the new maid hemmings, whom she had engaged in the place of lucy--a fortnight's holiday, and got in a supply cook from coventry. the governess was allowed to remain, but she was strictly forbidden to go anywhere near the cupboard after midday. when evening arrived, lady cookham, arming herself with a revolver and horsewhip, commenced to watch. her first vigil passed uneventfully; but the next night, just as she had arrived at the cupboard and was taking up her stand facing it, the door slowly began to open. lady cookham is about as good a specimen of the thoroughly practical, strong-minded english sportswoman as one could meet anywhere. up to the commencement of the present war she rode regularly with the pytchley hounds, had a cold douche bath every morning, and spent a month at least every summer yachting in the english channel. she had never known fear--never, at least, until now. "who's there?" she demanded. "you had better speak sharp, or i'll fire!" there was no reply, however, and the door continued opening. had she seen anything, she doesn't think she would have been so frightened, but there was nothing--absolutely nothing visible. her impressions were, however, that something was coming out, and that that something was nothing human. it moved stealthily towards her--and she could define a soft clinging tread, just as if it had tentacles that kept adhering to the boards. she tried to press the trigger of the revolver, but her muscles refused to act, and when she opened her mouth to shout she could not articulate a sound. it was now close to her. one of its large, clammy feet touched her, and she could feel its clammy, pungent breath fanning the top of her head. then something icy cold and indescribably repulsive sought her throat and slowly began to throttle her. she tried to beat it off and to make some kind of noise to attract help, but it was all to no purpose. she was powerless. the grip tightened. all the blood in her veins congealed--her lungs expanded to the verge of bursting; and then, when the pain and horror reached its climax, and the identity of the hellish creature seemed about to reveal itself, there was a loud crack, and with it the acme of her sufferings, the final conscious stage of excruciating asphyxiation passed, and she relapsed into apparent death. she supposes that, for the first time in her life, she must have fainted. the crack was the report of her revolver. in her acute agony, her fingers had closed convulsively over the trigger, and the weapon had exploded. the noise proved her salvation. no psychic phenomena can stand violent vibration, and sir george cookham, arriving on the scene at the sound of the report, found his wife lying on the ground unconscious, but alone. he heard her story, and refused to be convinced. "it's a case of suggestion," he argued. "lucy was a highly strung, imaginative girl. she had, in all probability, been reading spook tales, and hearing a noise in the cupboard had at once attributed the sound to ghosts. that was quite enough for wilkins. servants are ready to believe anything--especially if it is propagated by one of their own class. miss dennis is a hypochondriac. all governesses must be. the nature of their work necessitates it. she heard a well-garnished account of what was supposed to have happened from wilkins, probably from lucy too, and the neurotic state of her nerves did the rest. of course when it comes to you, my dear," he said, "it is more difficult to understand. but as there are no such things as ghosts--as they are a scientific impossibility--it must have been suggestion." "i'm certain it was not," lady cookham retorted, "and i'm going to leave the house and take the children with me. it's not right for them to stay." sir george protested, but lady cookham had her own way, and in less than a fortnight there were notices in the _field_, and other papers, to say that "the mayfields" was to be let furnished. "we'll give it a year's trial," lady cookham said, "and, if the people who take it are not disturbed by anything unusual happening, we will conclude the hauntings are at an end and return." a few days after this conversation sir george met dr. sickertorft on the platform of coventry station. though the day was almost sultry, the doctor was muffled up in an overcoat, and appeared very pale and thin. "so you are leaving 'the mayfields,'" sickertorft remarked. "has the ghost been too much for you?" "ghost!" sir george cried angrily, "what the deuce do you mean? we have let the house for awhile, but not on account of any ghost. my wife wants to be nearer london." "then the stories that have got afloat are all moonshine," sickertorft replied, with a smile, "and you are still just as sceptical as ever." "i am," sir george responded; "and if you hear any more reports about 'the mayfields' being haunted, kindly contradict them." sickertorft smiled. "i will make a bet, sir george," he said, "that you will be converted one day." "you may bet as much as you like, but you'll lose," sir george answered furiously. and turning his back on sickertorft, he walked away from him without another word. the following day lady cookham and the children left, and sir george finding himself the sole occupant of the house, the servants having left at midday, telephoned to sydney n. morgan, a well-known private detective who specialised in cases of theft and blackmail, asking him to come. on his arrival at "the mayfields" that same evening, morgan listened to all sir george had to say, and then made an exhaustive examination of the premises, paying particular attention to the cupboard in the hall. "well?" sir george asked. "what is your opinion? rats?" "not human ones, at any rate," morgan replied. "anyhow, i can find no traces of them. i incline to your theory of nerves." "imagination first and then suggestion." sir george grunted. now that he was alone there with the detective, he began to have misgivings. the house seemed strangely large and silent. but ghosts! bah! there were no such things. he said as much to morgan, and they both laughed. then they stared at one another in amazement, for, from afar off, there came an answering echo, a faint yet distinctly audible--chuckle. they were standing at one end of the corridor on the ground floor when this happened, and to both of them the sound seemed to emanate from the cupboard. "what was that?" sir george asked. "the wind?" "it may have been," morgan said dubiously, "but there's no getting away from the fact that it was a queer noise for the wind to make. i made sure i looked everywhere." "i'll go upstairs and get my revolver," sir george observed. "it may come in handy. will you remain here?" they looked at one another furtively, and each thought they saw fear in the other's eyes. both, however, had reputations to sustain. "i'll wait down here, sir george," morgan said, "and keep an eye on the cupboard. you'll call if you want me." "i will," sir george replied. "i shan't be gone more than a minute. be on your guard. it's just about this time the alleged disturbances begin." he hurried off, and morgan watched his long legs cross the hall and hastily ascend the main staircase. the hall occupied a large space in the centre of the house, and overlooking it was a gallery connecting the east and west wings. sir george's room--that is to say, the room he was reserving for himself on this occasion--was in the east wing, the first to be reached from the gallery, and morgan could almost see it from where he stood in the hall. his gaze was still fixed on sir george's retreating figure when a noise from behind him made him turn hurriedly round, and he distinctly saw the cupboard door open a few inches. moving towards the cupboard, he then saw, as the door opened wider, a huge indefinable something emerge from it. morgan admits that the most sublime terror seized him, and that he shrank back convulsively against the wall, totally unable to do anything but stare. the shape came towards him with a slow, shambling gait, and morgan was at length able to compare it with an enormous fungus. it had arms and legs truly, but they were disproportionately long and crooked, and hardly seemed to belong to the body. there was no apparent head. the whole thing was vague and misty, but suggestive of the greatest foulness and antagonism. morgan's horror was so great as it passed him that he believes his heart practically stopped beating, and so tightly had he clenched his hands that the print of his finger nails remained on his palms for days afterwards. it left him in time, however, and he watched it shuffle its unwholesome way across the hall and surreptitiously begin to ascend the staircase. he tried to shout to sir george to put him on his guard, but his voice refused to act and he could do nothing. up and up it went, until at last it reached the gallery and crept onward into the east wing. he then heard sir george cry out, "hullo, morgan! is that you? anything----" there was then a moment of the most intense silence, and then a shriek. morgan says it was like a woman's shriek--it was so shrill, so uncontrolled, so full of the most abject terror. for a moment it completely paralysed morgan, but he seems then to have partially recovered. anyhow, he pulled himself sufficiently together to run up the stairs and arrive outside sir george's door in time to hear sounds of a most violent struggle. tables, chairs, washstand, crockery, were all hurled to the ground, as sir george raced round and round the room in his desperate efforts to escape. once he caught hold of the handle of the door and turned it furiously. "let me out!" he shrieked. "for mercy's sake let me out!" and again morgan heard him rush to the window and pound madly on the glass. then there came another spell of silence--short and emphatic--then a shriek that far eclipsed anything morgan had hitherto heard, and then a voice--a man's voice, but certainly not sir george's--which, speaking in sharp, jerky sentences that conveyed with them a sense of strange far-offness, said: "you'll believe now, sir george. you'll believe now. damn you, you'll believe now!" then there were sounds as if someone was being shaken very violently to and fro, and morgan, utterly unable to stand it any longer, turned tail and--fled. * * * * * when morgan returned some half an hour later, accompanied by the lodge-keeper and one of the under-gardeners, they found sir george lying in a heap on the floor--unconscious. he did not die, however, neither did he go mad; but his heart was badly affected, and he subsequently developed fits. nothing would induce him to describe what had actually taken place, and this, added to the fact that he never again set foot within "the mayfields," caused his friends to draw their own conclusions. morgan told me all about it, and i at once wrote to dr. sickertorft. i was too late, however; dr. sickertorft had been dead some weeks--he had died of cerebral tuberculosis exactly three months after morgan's visit to "the mayfields." i was informed that he attributed the fatal malady to supernormal concentration. chapter iv the empty leash a case of haunting in st. john's wood i have so often been accused of writing too exclusively about the horrid types of spirit, such as earth-bound murderers, suicides, and elements, that i am more than pleased to be able to present to my readers a case of a different kind. until quite recently barcombe house, st. john's wood, was haunted by the ghost of a very lovely little girl, who, it is believed, died of a broken heart because a dog to which she was very much attached had to be destroyed. i obtained particulars as to the hauntings from a mr. john tyley, whose verbatim account i will endeavour, as nearly as possible, to reproduce. "guy darnton is a very intimate friend of mine. some people call us inseparables, and i suppose we are--though at times, i believe, no two men could so thoroughly hate one another. indeed, to such an extremity has this spirit of execration and dislike been carried that i have on occasions actually accused him of being my very worst--my most cruel, and certainly my most subtly destructive--enemy. but even then, even at the moment when my abhorrence of him has been most acute, i have always accorded him--reluctantly, i admit--one great redeeming quality--his affection for and kindness to ghoul. "ghoul was an irish terrier, just an ordinary-looking irish terrier, with all the pugnacious and--as some unkind critics would add--quarrelsome characteristics of his race. he hated fops, those little brown pekinese and king charles horrors that ladies scent and comb, and stuff to bursting-point with every imaginable dainty; and whenever he saw one mincing its way along the street, he would always block its path and try to bite it. "yet he was an idealist. it's all nonsense to say that animals have no appreciation of beauty. ghoul had. he was fond of biscuits truly; but he liked other things more, far more than food. i have known him stand in front of a rose bush and gaze at it with an expression which no one but the most unkind and prejudiced sceptic could possibly misinterpret for anything but sheer, solid admiration; and i used to notice that whenever he was introduced to several ladies, he always wagged his tail hardest at the prettiest of them. but most of all ghoul admired pretty children--dainty little girls with fluffy yellow curls and big, smiling eyes. he adored them, and he hated with equal fervour all children who were in any way physically ill-favoured. i have known him bark furiously at a boy who squinted, and snarl at and refuse to go near a girl who had a blotchy, yellow complexion and a cavernous, frog-shaped mouth. "but i am speaking as if ghoul were my property. he was not--at least, not in the legal sense. darnton paid for his licence--and housed and fed him--and so had every apparent right to call himself ghoul's master. "in spite of this, however, i knew intuitively that ghoul regarded me as his actual master, and i believe the explanation of this circumstance lay in the superphysical. i am psychic, and i am convinced that the unknown is nearer, far nearer to me than it is to most people. now dogs, at least most dogs, have the faculty of second sight, of clairvoyance and clairaudience, very acutely developed--you have only to be in a haunted house with them to see it; and there is nothing they stand in awe of more--or for which they have a more profound respect--than the superphysical. now ghoul was no exception. he saw around me what i only felt; and he recognised that i was the magnet. he respected me as one true psychic respects another. "one day we were out together. darnton had gone to the dentist, and ghoul, tired of his own company, resolved to pay me a visit. he wandered in at the wicket gate of my garden just as i was about to set off for a morning constitutional. i greeted him somewhat boisterously, for ghoul, when extra solemn, always excited my risibility, and, after a brief skirmish with him on behalf of my cat, an extraordinarily ugly tom, for whom ghoul cherished the most inveterate hatred, we set off together. it was pure accident that led me into the adelaide road. i was half-way along it, thinking of nothing in particular, when someone whistled behind me, and i turned round. as a rule, one may see a few pedestrians--one or two at least--at all times of the day in the adelaide road, but oddly enough no one was in sight just at that moment, and i could see no traces of ghoul. i called him, and getting no reply, walked back a little distance. at last i discovered him. he was in the front garden of barcombe house, sitting in the centre of a grass plot, his eyes fixed on space, but with such an expression of absorbing interest that i was absolutely astounded. thinking something, perhaps, was hiding in the bushes, i threw stones and made a great shooing; but nothing came out, and ghoul still maintained his position. the look in his face did not suggest anything antagonistic, it was indicative rather of something very pleasing to him--something idealistic--something he adored. "i shouted 'ghoul!' he did not take the slightest notice, and when i caught him by the scruff of the neck, he dug his paws in the ground and whined piteously. then i grew alarmed. he must either have hurt himself or have gone mad. i examined him carefully, and nothing appearing to be the matter with him, i lifted him up, and, despite his frantic struggles, carried him out of the garden. "the moment i set him down he raced back. then i grew determined. a taxi was hailed, and ghoul, driven off in it, speedily found himself a close prisoner in darnton's exceedingly unromantic study. "that afternoon i revisited barcombe house alone. the premises were to let, and, judging by their neglected and dilapidated appearance, had been so for some considerable time. both front and back garden were overgrown with a wild profusion of convolvulus, thistles, and other weeds; and an air of desolation, common to all abandoned houses, hung about the place. all the same, i could detect nothing unpleasant. "i was unmistakably aware of some superphysical influence; but that influence, unlike the majority of those i had hitherto experienced, was decidedly attractive. "it seemed to affect everything--the ruddy rays of sunlight that, falling aslant the paths, turned them into scintillating gold; the buttercups and dandelions more glorious yellow than i had ever remembered seeing them; the air--charged to overflowing with the rich, entrancing perfume of an abnormally generous summer's choicest flowers. all nature here seemed stimulated, cheered and glorified, and the longer i lingered the longer i wished to linger. at the far end of the garden was an arbour overgrown with jasmine and sweet honeysuckle, and on its moss-covered seat i espied a monstrous teddy bear adorned with a piece of faded and mildewy pink ribbon. the sight filled me with a strange melancholy. the poor teddy bear, once held so lovingly in the tight embrace of two little infantile arms, was now abandoned to the mercies of spiders and wood-lice, and the pitiless spoliation of decay. how long had it been left, and where was its owner? i looked at the sunshine, and, in the beams that gilded everything around me, i felt an answer to my queries. most haunted places scare me, but it was otherwise here; and i was so fascinated, so eager to probe the mystery to its core, that i left the garden and, crossing a tiny stone yard, approached the back of the house. the premises were quite easy of access, as the catch of one of the windows was broken, and the shutter of the coal-house had come off its hinges. one has always supposed that the basement of any house that has stood empty for a long time must become cold and musty, but here i could detect neither cold nor mustiness. even in the darkest recesses the sun made its influence felt, and its beams warmed and illuminated walls and flagstones alike. i now entered a large and lofty apartment, with a daintily tiled floor, spotlessly clean ceiling, artistically coloured walls, and scrupulously clean dresser. here again the devastating hand of decay was nowhere to be seen, and indeed i thought i had never been in such a pleasant kitchen. "i intended waiting there only until i had consumed a sandwich, but when i rose to go, something held me back, and i tarried on and on, until the evening set in and dark and strangely formed shadows began to dim the walls and floor. "as i was mounting the stairs to explore the upper premises a gentle gust of wind blew in my face and filled my nostrils with the most delightful odour of 'cherry-pie.' intoxicated, i halted, and, leaning against the banisters, inhaled the perfume to the full extent of my lungs. then i listened. the breeze rustling past me down the stairs rattled the window panes and jarred the doors, and seemed to disseminate, in its wake, new and even more perplexing shadows. presently a door slammed, and i distinctly heard footsteps cross the hall and begin to ascend the stairs. "it was now for the first time that terror laid hold of me, but the fascination of it was so compelling that i lowered my head over the balustrade to listen. i tried to reason the thing out. why, i asked myself, should these footsteps alarm me? what was it that made them different from other footsteps? surely there was no difference. and yet, if that were so, why was i certain that they were not the footsteps of any trespasser from outside? i debated earnestly, desperately, but could arrive at no other conclusion than that there was a difference, and that this difference did not lie in the sounds themselves, but in the sense of atmosphere they conveyed, an atmosphere that was peculiarly subtle and quite incompatible with the natural. at last i knew for certain that the sounds were superphysical, and yet such was my dread of the unknown that i fought most frantically against my convictions. "the steps had, by this time, so i calculated, reached the first landing, and i now noticed in them a cautiousness that i had not remarked before. what should i see? there was still time for flight, but whither could i go? behind me were a row of half-open doors, through which the sun, sinking fast, shone its last rays. the effect--a sad one--forcibly reminded me of the end of all things--death; and the sadness of it harmonised well with an air of silent expectation that seemed suddenly to have filled the whole house. my fears grew. i was certain that the oncoming footsteps could only emanate from a phantom of the most startling and terrifying description, and i bitterly repented of my rashness in coming to the house alone. with a supreme effort, i averted my gaze and turned to seek refuge in one mad headlong plunge, should there be no other haven, through a window; but the power to do so was denied me. i was paralysed. the steps came nearer, and now, some distance below me, moving rapidly up the staircase, came something bright. i watched it pass swiftly round one bend, and then another, and at the moment my suspense had reached its limit and i felt i was on the border-line of either death or insanity, it turned the last corner and shot fully into view. the reaction was then so great that i reeled back against the wall and burst out laughing. instead of some distorted semblance of humanity, instead of some grotesque, semi-animal elemental, something too grim and devilish for the mind to conceive and survive, i saw--a child: a girl of about twelve, dressed in the most becoming frock of soft white satin, high in the waist, and from thence falling in folds to her feet. she had long bright golden hair hanging in loose curls on either side of her low white forehead; delicately pencilled eyebrows that were slightly knit, and wide open blue-grey eyes that were fixed on me with an expression of the gravest anxiety, mingled with a something enigmatical, something sorely puzzling and with which i seemed to be familiar. again and again i have tried to diagnose it, and at times the solution has seemed very near; but it has always eluded me in the end, and the mystery is still as great and as poignant as ever. the child held a leash in one hand, whilst she stretched out the other confidingly towards me. "always a worshipper of beauty, i was stooping down to kiss her little hand, when, to my consternation, she abruptly vanished, and i found myself standing there--alone. "an intense sadness now seized me, and throwing myself on the floor i gave way to an attack of utter dejection. the vision i had just seen was in very deed the embodiment of all my boyhood's dreams, and for the moment, but only for the moment, my old self, a little pensive boy adoring heart and soul a girl's fair face, had lived again. "it was all too cruelly brief; for with the vision my old ego vanished too; and i felt--i knew it had been wrested from me and hurried to some far-off place where the like of my present self could not be admitted. i rose at length chilled and hopeless, and tearing myself away from the landing with a desperate effort, wandered home. i could not rest. an intense dissatisfaction with myself, with my whole mode of life, my surroundings, obsessed me. i longed to alter, to become something different, something unsophisticated, simple, even elementary. this change in me brought me into closer sympathy with ghoul, who, as i have said, was strangely altered himself. he avoided darnton with the most marked persistence, and was always hovering round my doorstep and lying on the lawn. at last one day i could stand it no longer. 'ghoul,' i said, 'the same yearning possesses us both. it's the child--the child with the lovely eyes. we must see her. you and i are rivals, old fellow. but never mind! we'll visit the house together and let her take her choice. come along!' "ghoul's joy on entering the garden of barcombe house knew no bounds. he tore in at the gate, capered across the grass, barked, whined, wagged his tail furiously, and behaved like the veriest of lunatics. gaining admittance into the house as easily as before, i quickly made my way to the third-floor landing, ghoul darting up the stairs ahead of me. without a moment's pause he bolted into a room immediately in front of us, and springing on to the sill of a large casement window that was wide open, peered eagerly out, exhibiting, as he did so, the wildest manifestation of excitement. following the direction of his eyes, i looked down into the garden, and there, gazing up at us, her curls shining gold in the hot summer sun, stood the little ghost. the moment she saw me, she smiled, and, moving forward with a peculiar gliding motion, entered the house. once again a door slammed, and, once again, there came the patter of ascending footsteps. ghoul ran to meet her. she stooped over him, patted his head and fastened the leash to his collar, whilst i, merely a spectator, felt the bitterest pangs of jealousy. then she looked up, and instantly the joy in her face was converted into pity--pity for me. without a doubt ghoul had triumphed. "still patting him on the head and urging him forward, she ran past me, and, mounting the window sill, glanced round at me with a mischievous smile. even then i did not comprehend the full significance of her action. i merely stood and stared--stared as if i would never grow tired of staring, so fascinated was i by the piquante beauty of that superhuman little face. i was still staring when she put one foot through the open window; still staring when the other foot followed; still staring when she waved her hand gleefully at me and sprang out--out into the sunny brightness of the hot summer noon. i thought of ghoul. he had sprung, too. sprung barking and whining with a joy unequalled. "i ran to look for him. he lay where he had fallen, his neck broken and his spirit fled. "darnton, of course, would not believe me. we had a stormy interview, and we have never spoken to one another since. "the house--barcombe house--is now let, and the occupants inform me that they have never once been troubled--at least not by ghosts." chapter v the dressing-room cases of hauntings at the prince regent and other theatres the idea of a theatre being haunted--a theatre where everything is bright and everyone full of life--must, for the moment, strike one as preposterous. why, the mere thought of the footlights, to say nothing of the clapping of hands and thunders of applause from the gods, conjures up a picture which is the very antithesis of ghosts. besides, why should a theatre be haunted? to be haunted, a place must have a history--someone must have committed a crime there, such as murder or suicide; and surely no such thing has ever happened in a theatre! imagine a murder, a real one, at drury lane, or a suicide, say, at the gaiety! why, the thing is monstrous, absurd! and as to a ghost--a _bona fide_ ghost--appearing on the stage or in the auditorium, why, such an idea is without rhyme or reason; it is, in fact, inconceivable, and the public--the all-wise public--would, of course, laugh it to scorn. but stop a moment. does the general public know everything? is not the theatre, to it, simply the stage, and is it not profoundly ignorant of all that lies beyond the stage--away back, behind the hidden wings? is it not profoundly ignorant, also, of the great basement below the stage with its dark and tortuous passages; and profoundly ignorant of the many flights of cold and carpetless stairs, leading to story upon story of seemingly never-ending dressing-rooms and corridors? what does it know, too, of the individual lives of the many generations of actors and actresses, call-boys and dressers who have toiled wearily up those stairs and along those dimly lit passages in between the acts? what does it know of the thoughts of all that host of bygones--of their terrible anxieties, their loves, their passions? what does it know of the tragedies with which, doubtless, many of these people have been intimately associated, and of the crowd of ghosts they have, wittingly or unwittingly, brought with them from their own homes?--for ghosts, even as they haunt houses, haunt people and mercilessly attach themselves to them. moreover, although they have long since been forgotten, tragedies have occurred in some of the oldest of the london theatres. hunt up the records of eighty and ninety years ago, and you will find that more than one dressing-room witnessed the tragic ending of some lesser star, some member of the crowd, a mere "walker on"; that duels were not infrequently fought in grim earnest on the boards; and that more than one poor super has been found hanging from a cobwebby beam in a remote corner of the great maze-like basement of the building. again, think of the site of a london theatre! prehistoric man or beast may well lie buried there; witches accused of practising their nefarious rites on or near that site may well have been burnt there. think, too, of the houses that once may have stood there! inns, with dark tell-tale stains on their boards; taverns, tainted with vice--the rendezvous of truculent swashbucklers and painted jades; and even more terrible still, cruel and ghastly slaughter-houses. ground, then, and houses alike, all may have had their hauntings; and the ghosts may have stayed on, as ghosts often do, haunting anew each successive building. yes, more than one london theatre is haunted--and several of these theatres have more than one ghost. the proprietors affect ignorance and of course tell you nothing. they like to see long queues of people waiting for admission to their show, but they have no desire to see a corresponding crowd at the box office seeking permission to sit up all night in the theatre to see the ghost. no, if you want to find out if a theatre is haunted, you must not apply to the proprietor, you must inquire of the actors themselves; and, in order to stand a really good chance of discovering the truth, you should, if possible, for a time become one of them. it was for the purpose of making such a discovery that i took it into my head one day last year to apply for a walk on at the mercury. i had often wondered if the mercury was haunted. i speedily found out that it was not. still, i was not altogether disappointed, for i learned from some of my fellow-walkers on and from one of the stage hands of several very interesting cases of hauntings at other of the london theatres. there is the prince regent's, for instance, which, as recently as the late nineties had a dressing-room, , that was always kept locked. it was in the autumn of that john w. mayhewe was engaged to play a small but rather important part there in _the merciful pirate_. the cast was an unusually large one, and mayhewe discovered that he had to share dressing-room with another actor called talbotson. the opening night of the play, however, talbotson was laid up with influenza, and mayhewe had room to himself. being one of those over-anxious people who err on the side of being ultra-punctual, he arrived at the theatre at least an hour before the curtain went up, and, on the way to his room, he paused to chat with the stage doorkeeper. "i noticed," he remarked, "when i was dressing for rehearsal yesterday that my room smelt very musty. isn't it often used?" "it hasn't been used since i've been here," was the reply. "why?" said mayhewe. "i can't tell you," the doorkeeper answered surlily. "if you want to know, you had better ask the stage manager." not caring to do this, mayhewe made no further remarks, but hastened upstairs. no one was about, and the noise of his footsteps sounded strangely loud in the silent emptiness of the passages. he entered his room at last, hung his coat and hat on the door, and, crossing to his seat in front of a small mirror, sat down. "after all," he said to himself, "i'm glad talbotson won't be here to-night. i'm not in a mood for talking, and the fellow bores me to distraction." he lit a cigarette, leaned back in a more comfortable attitude, and for some minutes allowed himself to revel in the luxury of a perfectly blank state of mind. suddenly the handle of the door turned--a solitary, isolated sound--and he sat up sharply in his chair. "who's there?" he shouted. there was no response. "i couldn't have latched it properly," he reasoned, and once again he leaned back in his chair and smoked. five or six minutes passed in this fashion, and he was thinking of beginning to dress, when there was another noise. something behind him fell on the floor with a loud flop. once again he turned swiftly round. it was his hat--a hard felt bowler. it had fallen from the door peg on which he had hung it, and was still feebly oscillating. "it is curious how one sometimes notices all these little things," he reflected. "i dare say door handles have turned and hats have fallen a thousand times when i might have heard them and haven't. i suppose it is because everything is so very quiet and i'm alone in this part of the building." then he glanced at his coat--a long, double-breasted ulster--and rubbed his eyes thoughtfully. "why," he exclaimed, "what a curious shape the thing has taken! it's swelled out just as if someone were inside it. or has my eyesight suddenly gone wrong?" he leaned forward and examined it closely. no. he was not mistaken. the coat was no longer untenanted. there was something inside it--something which filled it like he had done; but it was something to which he could ascribe no name. he could see it there, and mentally feel that it was peering at him with eyes full of the most jibing mockery and hate; but he could not define it. it was something quite outside his ken, something with which he had had no previous acquaintance. he tried to whistle and appear nonchalant, but it was of no avail. the coat--his coat--had something in it, and that something was staring back at him. what a fool he had been to come so early. at last, with a supreme effort, he took his eyes from the door, and, swinging round in his chair, resumed smoking. he sat thus for some moments, and then a board close behind him creaked. of course there is nothing in a creak--boards and furniture are always creaking, and most people attribute the creaking to a change in the temperature. so did mayhewe. "the room is beginning to get warm--the gas has heated it," he said; "that is why." still he gradually lowered his eyes, and when they rested on the mirror in front of him, he gave the barest suspicion of a start. in the mirror were reflected the door and the coat, but the latter hung quite limply now. there was nothing whatever filling it out. what in heaven's name had become of the thing? where had it got to? close beside mayhewe was the grate, and a sudden rustling in it, followed by a hurried descent of soot, made him laugh outright. the explanation was now so very simple. the wind was responsible for it all--for the door handle, the hat, the coat, and the creak. how truly ridiculous! he would dress. with that object in view he threw the end of his cigarette in the fender and, rising, was about to quit his seat, when his eyes fell on his gloves. he had thrown them quite carelessly on the wash-stand, almost immediately in front of him, and he had noticed nothing remarkable about them then. but now--surely it could not be the wind this time; there were hands in them, and these hands were strangely unlike his own. whereas his fingers had blunt, spatulate tips, the tops of these fingers were curved and pointed like the talons of some cruel beast of prey, and the palms were much longer and narrower than his own. he stared at them, too fascinated to do otherwise, and it seemed to him that they shifted their position and came nearer to him, with a slow, stealthy, silent motion, like that of some monstrous spider creeping murderously towards its helpless victim. he watched them for some moments quite motionless, and then, yielding to a sudden fit of ungovernable fury, he threw his tobacco pouch at the nearest. it rolled convulsively over on its back after the manner of some living stricken creature, and then, gradually reassuming its shape, stealthily began once more to approach him. at last his nerves could stand it no longer. a demoniacal passion to smash, burn, torture it seized him, and, springing to his feet, he picked up his chair, and, swinging it round his head, brought it down with the utmost frenzy on the wash-stand. he was looking at his handiwork--the broken china, chair legs, and gas shade--when the door of his room opened and the call-boy timidly entered. mayhewe kept the stage waiting some minutes that night, but the management did not abuse him nearly so violently as he had anticipated, and the next evening he was allotted another room. then it transpired, leaked out through one of the old supers who had worked at the theatre for years, that room had always borne the name of being haunted, and that, excepting in circumstances such as the present, it had invariably been kept locked. some two years ago, according to the old super, when just such another emergency had occurred and the room had been used, the same thing had happened: the gentleman who had been put there had been seized with a sudden fit of madness, and had broken everything he could lay hands on; and some time before that a similar experience had befallen an actress who had unavoidably--there being no other room available--occupied room . now had mayhewe not heard of these two cases, he might have concluded, in spite of feeling sure that he had been in a normal state of mind upon entering the room, that what he had gone through was due merely to an over-excited imagination; but since he now knew that others had witnessed the same phenomena, he saw no reason to doubt that there was some peculiarly sinister influence attached to the room. as to the cause of the haunting, he could elicit nothing more authentic or definite than the somewhat vague recollections of a very old actor. according to this rather doubtful authority, shortly after the opening of the theatre, one of the performers had suddenly developed madness and had been confined in room till a suitable escort had been found to take him to an asylum. it was the only tragic occurrence, he asserted, that had ever taken place in that theatre. now, supposing this to be true--that a madman really had been conducted from the stage to room and temporarily confined there--might one not reasonably believe that in this incident lay the origin of the hauntings? it was in this room, in all probability, that the outbreak of madness passed its most acute stage--that psychological stage when the rational ego makes its last desperate stand against the overwhelming assault of a new and diseased self. and again--supposing this incident to be a fact--what more likely than that the immaterial insane ego of the afflicted man would, at times, separate itself from his material body and revisit the scene of its terrible conflict, permanently taking up its abode there after its material body had passed away? this theory--a very possible one, to my mind--would have strong support from parallel cases, for half the most malignant forms of haunting are directly traceable to the earth-bound spirits of the insane. there are several houses within a short walking distance of bond street that were once the temporary homes of mentally afflicted people, and they are now haunted in a more or less similar manner to room . if this story of the old actor's is not correct--if his memory played him false--then of course one must look around for some other solution; and as, apparently, there is no history attached to the prince regent theatre itself, one must assume either that the site of the theatre was haunted prior to the erection of the present building; or that the ghost was originally attached to some person who once occupied room , and that it subsequently left that person and remained in the room; or that some article of furniture in room , possibly even a fixture, was imported there from some badly haunted locality. there is, indeed, evidence regarding the first point; evidence that, either on or close to the site of the theatre, the remains of prehistoric animals--animals of a singularly savage species, which makes it more than likely that they met with a violent death--were unearthed; and as ghostly phenomena in the form of animals are quite as common as ghostly phenomena in the form of human beings, the hauntings of room may very possibly be due to the spirit of one or more of these creatures. or again, they might be caused by what is generally known as a vice elemental, or "neutrarian"; that is to say, a spirit that has never inhabited a material body, but which is wholly hostile to the human species. such spirits are often, i believe, drawn to certain spots by the lustful or malicious thoughts of individuals, and this might well be the case at the prince regent's theatre. * * * * * it was also during my engagement at the mercury that i heard of a haunting at the lombard. this theatre, it appears, has a ghostly visitant in the form of a particularly malevolent-looking clown. according to one report, a lady and her daughter--mrs. and miss dawkins--occupied box one january night during the run of an exceedingly pretty modern version of _cinderella_. the lights were down and all eyes were focused on cinderella, one of the prettiest and daintiest little actresses in london, dressed in pink and sitting before a very realistic make-belief of a kitchen fire, when miss dawkins, who had her elbows resting on the balustrade and was leaning well forward, heard a faint ejaculation from close beside her. fearing lest her mother was ill, she turned sharply round, and was somewhat surprised to see that mrs. dawkins had left her seat and was leaning against the wall of the box with her arms folded and a most satirical smile on her face. both the attitude and the expression were so entirely novel that miss dawkins could only conclude that her mother had suddenly taken leave of her senses; and she was deliberating what to do, when a feeling that a sudden metamorphosis was about to take place held her spellbound. bit by bit her mother seemed to fade away, to melt into the background; the dim outline and the general posture remained, but instead of the actual body and well-known face, she saw something else gradually begin to form and to usurp their place. her mother had very delicate and beautifully shaped hands, but these vanished, and the hands miss dawkins now looked on were large and red and coarse--horribly coarse. fearful of what she might see next, but totally unable to fight against some strange, controlling agency, she continued to look. first, her eyes rested on a pair of sleeves--white, baggy, and soiled; then on a broad, deep chest, also clad in white and decorated in the most fantastic manner conceivable in the centre; then on a short, immensely thick neck; and then on the face. the shock she now received was acute. instinct had prepared her for something very startling, but for nothing quite so grotesque, nor so wholly at variance with the general atmosphere of the theatre. it was the painted, crinkled face of a clown--not a merry, jesting grimaldi, but a clown of a different type--a clown without a smile--a clown born and fully trained to his business in hell. as he stood there glaring at the footlights, every feature, every atom of his person breathed out hate--hate of a nature so noxious and intense that it seemed to miss dawkins as if the very air were poisoned by it. being a devout catholic, she at once crossed herself and, although almost powerless with horror, began to pray. the face then faded till it entirely disappeared, and miss dawkins once again found herself gazing upon the well-known countenance of her mother. "why are you standing?" she asked. "i am sure i don't know," mrs. dawkins replied. "but i don't like this box. i think there is something very unpleasant about it. i haven't been myself for the last few minutes. when i was sitting by you just now, i suddenly became obsessed with a bitter hatred against everyone on the stage. the very sight of them maddened me. it seemed to me i had met them all in a former existence and that they had done me some irreparable injury. i got up and began to plot how i could best get even with them. then the idea of setting fire to the theatre seized me. i had clear visions of a small, dimly lighted room, with which i was strangely familiar, down below the stage in a dark, draughty basement. i knew every inch of the place as if i had lived there all my life. 'i will go there,' i said to myself, 'and apply a match. if anyone sees me, no one will suspect. they will only say, "it's old tom. he didn't get the chuck after all. he's come back."' i was repeating the words 'it's old tom,' and 'fire,' when something seemed to strike me very forcibly on the forehead. this caused me the greatest agony for a moment. then you spoke, and i was myself again." "would you like to go home?" miss dawkins asked anxiously. "i think i would," was the response. and they went. subsequently, a few judicious inquiries elicited no little light on the matter. many years before, an old actor, called tom weston, had been employed annually in pantomime at the lombard as clown. like so many of his profession, however, particularly the older ones, he took to drink; and he was so often intoxicated on the stage that the management were at last obliged to dismiss him. he took his dismissal very badly, and one night, having gone to the theatre in disguise, he was discovered in the act of setting fire to a room immediately beneath the stage. in consideration for his many years' service and age, the management did not prosecute, but recommended his friends to keep him under close supervision. tom, however, very soon ceased to cause the management any anxiety, for, two days after he had attempted, in so diabolical a manner, to wreak his vengeance on all who had been associated with him at the theatre, he shot himself dead in his own home. but on every anniversary of his death, so it is affirmed, he is either seen or heard, or his presence is in some way demonstrated, in box of the lombard theatre. that his spirit should frequent that particular spot in the theatre seems to be a fact for which no reason can be assigned. chapter vi the reticule between norwich and swaffham, low down in a little valley, there once stood a mill. it is now a ruin, and all the people round studiously avoid it after nightfall. it must be admitted that they have some reason for doing so in view of the incidents i am about to relate. some years ago on an early autumn afternoon two ladies, miss smith and miss raven, fashion designers to the firm of kirsome & gooting, sloane street, london, set out from norwich for a tramp into the country. both girls--for they were only girls--were typically modern; that is to say, they were bonny and athletic, and, despite the sedentary nature of their vocation, extremely fond of outdoor life. miss raven, the elder of the two, was nice-looking without perhaps being actually pretty; but miss smith was undeniably a beauty. had she been a lady of title or an actress, all the society papers would have been full of her. she did not, however, crave for notoriety; she was quite content with the homage of most of the young men whom she knew, and the unspoken admiration of many men whom she did not know, but who looked at her out of doors or sat near to her in theatres and restaurants. she was much attached to miss raven, and as the two strode along, swinging their arms, their tongues wagged merrily and without intermission. on and on, down one hill and up another, past wood and brook and hamlet they went, till a gradual fading of the light warned them it was about time to think of turning back. "we must go as far as that old ruin," miss raven said, pointing to a tumble-down white building that nestled close to a winding stream. "i've never seen anything quite so picturesque." "and i've never seen anything quite so weird," miss smith replied. "i'm not at all sure i like it. besides, i'm desperately thirsty. i want my tea. we'd much better go home." they had an argument, and it was eventually agreed that they should go on--but not beyond a certain point. "not an inch farther, mind," miss smith said, "or i'll turn back and leave you." the ruin lay in a hollow, and as the two girls descended the slope leading to it, a mist rose from the ground as if to greet them. they quickened their steps, and, approaching nearer, perceived a mill wheel--the barest skeleton, crowned with moss and ferns and dripping with slime. the pool into which it dripped was overgrown in places with reeds and chickweed, but was singularly bare and black in the centre, and suggestive of very great depth. weeping willows bordered the stream, and their sloping, stunted forms were gradually growing more and more indistinct in the oncoming mist. the space in front of the house, once, no doubt, a prettily cultivated garden, was now full of rank grass and weeds, and dotted here and there with unsightly mounds consisting of fallen bricks and mortar. some of these mounds, long, low, and narrow, were unpleasantly suggestive of graves, whilst the atmosphere of the place, the leaden-hued and mystic atmosphere, charged to the utmost with the smell of decayed trees and mouldy walls, might well have been that of an ancient churchyard. a sense of insufferable gloom, utterly different from any they had ever before experienced, took possession of the two girls. "this place depresses me horribly. i don't know when i've felt so sad," miss smith observed. "it's very stupid of me, i know, but i can't help thinking some great tragedy must have taken place here." "i feel rather like that too," miss raven responded. "i've never seen such dreariness. do you see those shadows on the water? how strange they are! there's nothing that i can see to account for them. there's certainly nothing the least like them in the sedge. besides, there oughtn't to be any shadows there. there are none anywhere else. look! oh, do look! they are changing. they are completely different now. see, i'll throw a stone at them." her throw, missing its mark, was so characteristically girlish that miss smith, despite her leanings to suffragism, laughed. miss raven threw again, and this time a deep plomb announced her success. "there," she cried triumphantly. "now do you see it?" "i see something," miss smith answered. then, with sudden eagerness: "yes, you are right. the shadows are continually changing. they seem to separate themselves from the sedge, and fall like live things into the pool. by the way, the pool seems to be growing darker and bigger. i don't like the place at all. for heaven's sake let's get away from it!" miss raven, however, was too fascinated. stepping carefully, so as to avoid the mud and long grass, she went right up to the pool and peered into it. "how fearfully deep and still it is," she said. "what a beastly place to end one's days in." then she gave a sudden cry. "aileen! here! come here, quick!" miss smith hastened up to her. "what is it?" she said. "how you frightened me!" miss raven pointed excitedly at the water. it was no longer tranquil. the chickweed round the edges began to oscillate, white bubbles formed in the centre, and then, quite suddenly, the entire surface became a seething, hissing, rushing, roaring whirlpool, which commenced rising in the most hideous and menacing manner. seizing miss raven by the arm, miss smith dragged her back, and the two fled in terror. the fog, however, was so thick that they missed their way. they failed to strike the road, and, instead, found themselves plunging deeper and deeper into a fearful quagmire of mud and the rankest compound of rushes, weeds, and grass. they were just despairing of ever extricating themselves when miss smith felt a light tap on her shoulder, and swinging round, was almost startled out of her senses at the sight of a very white face glaring at her. miss raven, noticing that her companion had stopped, also turned round; and she too received a shock. the face she saw was so very white; the eyes--intently fixed on miss smith--so strangely luminous; the head--covered with red, shaggy hair--so disproportionately large; and the figure--that of a hunchback youth--as a whole so extraordinarily grotesque. he made no sound, but, signing to them to follow him, he began to move away with a queer, shambling gait. the girls, thankful enough to have found a guide, however strange, kept close at his heels, and soon found themselves once again on the roadway. here their conductor came to a halt, and producing from under his coat what looked like a lady's reticule, he was about to thrust it into miss smith's hand when their eyes met, and, to her intense astonishment, he uttered a bitter cry of disappointment and vanished. his action and disappearance were so inexplicable that the girls, completely demoralised, took to their heels and ran without stopping till the ruins were far in their rear, and they were well on their way home. they related their experience to the people with whom they were staying, and were then told for the first time that the ruin was well known to be haunted. "nothing will persuade any of the villagers to visit the mill pond after dusk," their hostess remarked, "especially at this time of the year, when they declare the water suddenly rises and follows them. the place has a most sinister reputation, and certainly several people, to my knowledge, have committed suicide there. the last to do so was davy dyer, the hunchback, whose ghost you must have just seen. his was rather a sad case, as i have good reason to know. would you like to hear it?" the girls eagerly assented, and their hostess told them as follows: "ten years ago there stood on the spot you visited this afternoon a very picturesque house called the 'gyp mill.' it was then extremely old, and as its foundations were faulty, it was thought a severe storm would, sooner or later, completely demolish it. partly for this reason, and partly because the mill pool was said to be haunted, it stood for a long time untenanted. at last it was taken by a widow named dyer. mrs. dyer was quite a superior kind of person. she had at one time, i believe, kept a fairly good class girls' school in bury st. edmunds, but losing her connection through illness, she had been obliged to think of some other means of gaining a livelihood. when she came to the gyp mill she cultivated the garden and sold its produce; provided teas for picnic parties in the summer; and let out rooms, chiefly to artists. "she had one son, davy, a very intelligent boy of about eighteen, but hopelessly deformed. he was not only hunchbacked but he had an abnormally large head; and what was quite unpardonable in the eyes of the village children, who tormented him shamefully, a mass of the brightest red hair. "well, one day, a girl whom i will call beryl denver, came to stay with me. beryl was extremely pretty and horribly spoilt. she had gone on the stage against her parents' wishes and had been an immediate success. at the time i am speaking of she had just had an offer of marriage from a duke, and it was to hear what i had to say about it--for i am, i think, the only person from whom she ever asks advice--that she was paying me this visit. after being with me three days, however, and changing her mind with regard to the duke's offer at least a dozen times, she suddenly announced that she must seek some more countrified place to stay in. 'i want to go right away from everywhere,' she said, 'so that i can forget--forget that there is such a place as london. don't you know of any pretty cottage or picturesque old farm, near here, that i could stay at?' "i suggested the gyp mill, and she started off at once to look at it. "she came back full of enthusiasm. 'it's a delightful spot,' she said. 'i'm glad i went to see it--the flowers are lovely, and the old woman's a dear--but i couldn't stay there. i couldn't stand that hunchback son of hers. his white face and big dark eyes alarmed me horribly. i don't think it's at all right he should be at large.' "'poor davy,' i remarked. 'his appearance is certainly against him, but i can assure you he is absolutely harmless. i know him well.' "beryl shook her head. 'you know my views, aunty,' she said (she always calls me aunty although i am not related to her in any way). 'all ugly people have a kink of badness in them somewhere. they must be either cruel, or spiteful, or treacherous, or, in some way or other, evilly disposed. i am quite certain that looks reflect the mind. no, i couldn't endure that boy. i can't stay there.' "in the morning, however, as i had fully anticipated, she changed her mind. a fly was sent for, and she drove off to the gyp mill, taking all her luggage with her. how mrs. dyer ever got it up her narrow staircase i can't think, but she must have managed it somehow, for beryl stayed and, contrary to my expectations, for more than one night. "davy, she afterwards informed me, soon got on her nerves. always when she went out she caught him covertly peeping at her from behind the window curtain of the little front parlour; and if ever she stood for a moment to chat with his mother, she could see him slyly watching her through a chink in the doorway. she had seldom, so far, met him out of doors; but as she was returning from a walk one afternoon, she came across a group of village children shouting at and jostling someone very roughly in their midst, and approaching nearer saw that the object of their abuse was davy, and that, in addition to pushing and pummelling him, they were tormenting him with stinging nettles--a very favourite device of the children in this district. filled with disgust, rather than pity (beryl, like most modern girls, is wanting in real sentiment, and in this instance simply hated to think that anyone could derive amusement from so ungainly a creature), she interfered. "'you abominable little wretches!' she cried. 'leave him alone at once. do you hear?' "had a bomb fallen, the children could not have been more surprised. one or two of the boys were inclined to be rude, but on the rest the effect of beryl's looks and clothes (the latter in particular) was magical. gazing at her open-mouthed, they drew back and allowed davy to continue his way. "after this, davy peeped more than ever, and beryl, losing patience, determined to put a stop to it. catching him in the act of following her through the fields one morning, she turned on him in a fury. "'how dare you?' she demanded. 'how dare you annoy me like this? go home at once.' "'this is my home, lady,' davy replied, his eyes on the ground and his cheeks crimson. "'then you must choose some other route,' beryl retorted; 'and for goodness' sake don't be everlastingly looking at me. i can't stand it. no wonder those children rounded on you, you----' she was going to call him some very strong name--for beryl when roused didn't stick at trifles--but suddenly checked herself. she began to realise that this queer, distorted little object was in love with her. now no girl in london, probably, had more admirers than beryl. peers, politicians, authors, men of all vocations and classes had succumbed to her beauty, and she had deemed herself pretty well blasé. but here was a novelty. a poor, ostracised rustic hunchback--the incarnation of ugliness and simplicity. 'you know how the horrible often fascinates one,' she said to me later, 'for instance, a nasty tooth, or some other equally horrible defect in a person's face, which one keeps on looking at however much one tries not to--well, it was a fascination of this kind that possessed me now. i felt i must see more of the hunchback and egg him on to the utmost.' "apparently it was owing to this fascination that beryl, changing her tactics, encouraged davy to talk to her, and assuming an interest in the garden, which she knew was his one hobby, gradually drew him out. very shy and embarrassed at first, he could only very briefly answer her questions; but soon deceived by her manner--for beryl could act just as cleverly off the stage as on it--he grew bolder, and talked well on his favourite subject, natural history. he really knew a great deal, and beryl, despite the fact that she could hardly tell the difference between a hollyhock and marigold, couldn't help being impressed. "she walked home with him that day; and for days afterwards she was often to be seen in his company. "'he'll miss you dreadfully when you go, ma'am,' mrs. dyer said to her. 'he thinks the world of you. he told me last night that he only wished he could do something to show you how grateful he is for your kindness to him.' of course, mrs. dyer did not say that davy was in love--but beryl knew it. she knew that to him she was a deified being and that he absolutely adored her. thus matters stood, when a letter from the duke made beryl decide to leave gyp mill at once and return with all speed to london. she walked to the post office to dispatch a telegram, and davy went with her. beryl knew that this would be the last time, in all probability, that she would ever walk with him; and feeling that she must find out how far his love for her had progressed she agreed to his proposal that they should return home by a rather longer route. he wished, he said, to show her a garden which was by far the prettiest in all the country round, and it would not take them more than a quarter of a mile or so out of their way. of course beryl looked upon this suggestion as a mere pretext on davy's part for prolonging the walk, and she wondered whether he would say anything, or whether his passion would be held in check by his natural respect for her superior social position. she was disappointed. although she saw love for her shining more brightly than ever in his eyes, he did not speak of it; he talked only of flowers and of the great beauties of nature. bored to distraction, she at last cut him short, and, declaring that she had no time to waste, hurried on. it was not until they had reached home that she discovered she had lost her reticule, containing not only a purse full of sovereigns but the letter she had just received from the duke. she distinctly remembered having it with her, she said, when davy was prosing over the stupid flowers, and she supposed she must have left it somewhere in the garden, probably on the seat where they had sat for a few minutes. davy, of course, went back at once to look for it, but when he returned an hour or so later and in crestfallen tones told her that he could not find it, her anger knew no bounds. she did not actually call him a fool, but she made him clearly understand she thought him one; and he set off again almost immediately to have another look for it. he did not come back this time till close on midnight, and he had not the courage to tell her of his failure. his mother did it for him. beryl went away early the following morning, too indignant to shake hands with either mrs. dyer or her son. 'if davy didn't actually take the reticule,' she wrote to me some days later, 'it was all owing to him--to his bothering me to see that rotten garden--that i lost it; but i firmly believe he has it. ugly faces, you know, are indicative of ugly minds--of a bad kink somewhere.' "of course the affair of the reticule soon became public property. it was advertised for in the local papers, and the woman in the post office told everybody that she remembered seeing it in beryl's hand when she left the shop. 'davy,' she said, 'was with miss denver at the time, and i particularly noticed that he walked very close to her and watched her in a peculiarly furtive manner.' "now the villagers, with whom the dyers had always been unpopular, were not slow in taking up the cue, and consequently davy, now waylaid by armies of children calling him thief, and even beating him, never had a moment's peace. "at last he was found one morning in the mill-pond drowned, and it was generally believed that remorse for his sins had made him commit suicide. his mother alone thought otherwise. i did not see beryl nor hear anything of her for at least two years after davy's death, when to my surprise she drove up to the door one day with her usual pile of luggage. "'who is it this time?' i said, after we had exchanged greetings. 'the duke again!' "'oh dear no,' beryl replied. 'i broke it off definitely with him long ago. he was too boring for words, always dangling after me and never letting me go out with anyone else. if he had been tolerably good-looking i might have stood it, but he wasn't. he was hopelessly plain. however, i made some use of him, and he certainly gave me good presents. i have been engaged several times since, and i've come now to ask your advice about the earl of c----'s eldest son. shall i marry him or not? do you think he's worth it?' "i did not answer her at once, but let her ramble on, till she suddenly turned to me and said, 'do you remember the last time i was here? two years ago! you know i stayed at that delightful old mill house--the gyp something, and lost my reticule. well, i found it some time afterwards in my hat-box. i hadn't taken it out with me that day after all. and i could have sworn i had. wasn't it funny?' "'extraordinary, perhaps,' i remarked, with rather more severity in my voice than i had ever used to her before, 'but hardly funny.' and i was about to relate to her all that had occurred in the interim, when something checked me. after all, i thought, it would be just as well for this spoilt, heartless little london actress to go to the gyp mill and find out for herself. "'oh, i suppose i ought to have written to the people and let them know,' she said carelessly, 'but i was really too busy. i always have such lots to do. such heaps of correspondence to attend to, and so many visits to make. if it's a fine day to-morrow i'll walk over and explain.' "i did not, of course, expect beryl would go, but greatly to my surprise, soon after luncheon, she came into my bedroom in her hat and coat. 'i'm off,' she said. 'i think the walk will do me good. and, look here, don't wait dinner for me, because in all probability i'll stay the night. it all depends upon how i feel. if i'm not back by eight you need not expect me till to-morrow. bye-bye.' "she stole to my side and kissed me, and, armed with an umbrella and mackintosh, set off up the street. i watched her till she turned the corner. then i lay down and wondered what sort of a reception she would meet with at the hands of mrs. dyer. as the afternoon waned the sky grew ominously dark, and the wind rose. presently big drops of rain spluttered against the window, and there was every indication of a very severe storm. had beryl been on good terms with mrs. dyer my mind would have been at rest, as she would have been able to take refuge at the mill, but, knowing mrs. dyer's feelings towards her, i doubted very much if mrs. dyer would allow her to set foot within the house; and she would have some distance to walk before she could reach another shelter. "down came the rain in grim earnest, and that night witnessed the worst storm norwich had known for many years. beryl did not return. i sat up till twelve wondering what had become of her--for despite this wayward child's many faults i was much attached to her--and slept very little for the rest of the night. in the morning my maid came into my room in a breathless state of excitement. "'oh, mum,' she exclaimed, 'the storm has destroyed half norfolk.' (this, of course, i knew to be an exaggeration.) 'what do you think! simkins' store is blowed down, nearly all the chimneypots are off in fore street, and the milkman has just told me the gyp mill is under water and mrs. dyer is drowned!' "'what!' i shrieked. 'the gyp mill under water! are you sure? miss denver was staying there last night. call a cab--i must go there at once.' "the maid flew; and i was feverishly scrambling into my clothes, when, to my utmost relief, in walked beryl. "'so you've heard,' she said, looking rather pale, but otherwise quite composed. 'the gyp mill valley is under water, and old mrs. dyer is drowned. it was rather lucky for me that i didn't go there after all, wasn't it? quite a narrow escape, in fact.' "'thank god, you're safe!' i exclaimed, drawing her into my arms and kissing her frantically. 'tell me all about it.' "'oh, there isn't much to tell,' she said. 'when i got a mile or two on the road i found i had quite forgotten the way, so i inquired of the first person i met, a labourer, and he said, "when you come to the duck pond bear sharply to your left." well, i trudged on and on, and i am sure i must have gone miles, but no duck pond; and i was beginning to despair of ever seeing it, when a sudden swerve in the road revealed it to me. the sky was very dark and threatening, and the wind--you know how i detest wind--sorely tried my temper. it was perfectly fiendish. well, when i got to the pond i found there were two roads and i had quite forgotten which of them i had to take. i was standing there shivering, feeling horribly bored, when to my joy a figure suddenly hove in view. it had grown so dark that i could not make out whether the stranger was a man or a woman. besides, i couldn't see a face at all, only a short, squat body clad in some sort of ill-fitting fustian garment. i shouted out, "can you tell me the way to the gyp mill?" but could get no reply. the strange creature simply put out one hand, and taking the road to the right, beckoned to me to follow. then i suddenly remembered that the other person--the labouring man--had told me to take the road to the left, and i ran after the curious-looking individual shouting, "the gyp mill.--do you hear?--i want to go to the gyp mill. mrs. dyer's." again i got no response, but the hand waved me on more vigorously than before. "'it was now so dark that i could hardly see where i was treading, and the wind was so strong that i had the greatest difficulty in keeping my feet. i battled on, however, and after what seemed to me an eternity, we eventually stopped outside a building that showed a twinkling light in one of the windows. my conductor opened a wicket gate and, signing to me to follow, walked me up a narrow winding path to the front door. here he halted and, turning suddenly round on me, showed his face. it was the dyer boy--davy, i think they called him. davy the hunchback.' here beryl paused. "'are you quite sure?' i asked. "'absolutely,' she replied. 'i couldn't mistake him. there he was--with his hunchback, huge head, cheeks looking whiter than ever--and red hair. how i could see that it was red in the dark i can't tell you, but all the same i could, and moreover, the colour was very clear and distinct. well, he stood and looked at me for some seconds beseechingly, and then said something--but so quickly i couldn't catch what it was. i told him so, and he repeated it, jabber, jabber, jabber. then i grew angry. "why have you brought me here?" i shouted. "i wanted to go to the gyp mill." he spoke again in the same incomprehensible way, and holding out his hands as if to implore my forgiveness, suddenly disappeared. where he went to is a mystery. the rain had now begun to fall in torrents, and to attempt to go on was madness. consequently, i rapped at the door and asked the woman who opened it if she could put me up for the night. "yes, miss," she said. "we have a spare room, if you don't mind it's being rather small. the gentleman that has been staying here left this morning. did anyone recommend you?" "mr. dyer brought me here," i said, "and, i believe, he is somewhere outside." "mr. dyer!" the woman exclaimed, looking at me in the oddest manner. "i don't know a mr. dyer. who do you mean?" "why, davy dyer," i replied, "the son of the old woman who lives at the mill. davy dyer, the hunchback." "'then, to my amazement, the woman caught me by the arm. "davy dyer, the hunchback!" she cried. "why, miss, you must either be dreaming or mad. davy dyer drowned himself in the mill pool two years ago!"'" chapter vii the coombe a case of a wiltshire elemental people are not half particular enough about new houses. so long as the soil is gravel, so long as the rooms are large and airy, the wall-papers artistic, and there's no basement, the rest does not matter; at least not as a rule. few think of ghosts or of superphysical influences. and yet the result of such a consideration is what would probably weigh most with me in selecting a newly built house. but then, i have had disagreeable experiences, and others i know have had them too. let me quote, for example, what befell my old acquaintance, fitzsimmons. robert fitzsimmons was for years editor of the _daily gossip_, but finally retired from the post owing to ill health. his doctor recommended him some quiet, restful place in the country, so he decided to migrate to wiltshire. after scouring the county for some time, he alighted on a spot, not very far from devizes, that attracted him immensely. it was prettily wooded, at least he called it prettily wooded, within easy walking distance of the village of arkabye, and about a quarter of a mile from the site of an ancient barrow that had just been removed to make way for several cottages. fitzsimmons loved beeches, particularly copper beeches, which he noticed flourished here exceedingly, and the thought of living surrounded by these trees gave him infinite satisfaction. he finally bought a small piece of land in the coombe, getting it freehold at a ridiculously low figure, and erected a house on it, which he called "shane garth" after a remote ancestor. the first month seems to have passed quite uneventfully. it was true the children, bobbie and jane, said they heard noises, and declared someone always came and tapped against their window after they were in bed; but fitzsimmons attributed these disturbances to mice and bats with which the coombe was infested. one thing, however, greatly disturbed his wife and himself, and that was the naughtiness of the children. prior to their coming to the new house they had been as good as gold and had got on extremely well together; but the change of surroundings seemed to have wrought in them a complete change of character. they were continually getting into mischief of some sort, and hardly a day passed that they did not quarrel and fight, and always in a remarkably vindictive manner. bobbie would creep up behind jane, and pull her hair and pinch her, whilst jane in revenge would break bobbie's toys and do something nasty to him while he slept. then their language was so bad. they used expressions that shocked everyone in the house, and no one could say where they had picked them up. but worst of all was their cruelty to animals. the nurse came to mrs. fitzsimmons one morning to show her a fowl that was limping across the yard in great pain. bobbie had pelted it with stones and broken its leg. he was punished; but the very next day he and jane were caught inflicting the most abominable tortures on a mouse. jane rivalled the chinese in the ingenuity of her cruelties. she scalded insects very slowly to death, and scandalised the village children by showing them a rabbit and sundry smaller animals which she had vivisected and skinned alive. one does occasionally hear of epidemics of cruelty breaking out in certain districts. a year or two ago, cats came in for especially bad treatment in the neighbourhood of red lion square, and the culprits, girls as well as boys, were invariably excused, it being suggested that the war had excited their naturally high spirits. i remember, too, in cornwall, not so very long ago, children being seized with a mania for torturing birds. they caught them with fish-hooks, and never grew tired of watching them choke and writhe and otherwise distort themselves in their death agonies. in wales, too, there are periodical outbursts of similar passions. some years ago a child was prosecuted in south wales for pulling a live rabbit in half; but the magistrates acquitted the accused on the plea that it was only following the example of nearly all the other children in the district. well, robert fitzsimmons wondered if his children had fallen victims to one of these epidemics, and he suggested to his wife that they should be sent away to a boarding school. to his astonishment, however, mrs. fitzsimmons took a more lenient view of their conduct. "it's no use being too hard on them," she said. "i don't believe for one moment that bobbie and jane realise that animals can feel as we do--that human beings have not the monopoly of the nervous system. we must get a governess--someone who can explain things to them with tact and patience, and not get out of temper, like you do, robert. the children must be treated with kindness and sympathy." fitzsimmons could hardly believe that it was his wife speaking; she had been such a keen champion of animals, and had boxed the ears of more than one london ragamuffin whom she had caught ill-treating a dog or cat. however, he gave way, and agreed that the children should be committed to the care of a benevolent old lady whom mrs. fitzsimmons knew, and who might be engaged as governess and domiciled in the house. this matter was barely settled when mr. merryweather, an artist friend of robert fitzsimmons, came to stay at shane garth, and it was on the evening after his arrival that fitzsimmons first came to realise that the coombe was haunted. he had been out all day fishing, alone, his friend, merryweather, being engaged painting a portrait of mrs. fitzsimmons and jane; and the evening having well set in, he was now on his way home. passing the site of the ancient barrow, he could see in the hollow beneath him the welcome lights of shane garth. he paused for a moment to refill his pipe, and then commenced to descend into the coombe. it was an exquisite night, the air warm and fragrant with the scent of newly mown hay, the moon full, and the sky one mass of scintillating stars. fitzsimmons was enchanted. again and again he threw back his head and drew in the air in great gulps. when halfway down the hill, however, he became aware of a sudden change; the atmosphere was no longer light and exhilarating, but dark, heavy, and oppressive. he noticed, too, that there were strange lights and that the shadows that flickered to and fro the broad highway continually came and went, and differed, in some strangely subtle fashion, from any shadows he had ever seen before. but what attracted his attention even more was a tree--a tall tree with a trunk of the most peculiar colour. in the quick-changing light of the coombe it looked yellow--a lurid yellow streaked with black after the nature of a tiger's skin--and fitzsimmons never remembered seeing it there before. he halted for a moment to look at it more intently, and it seemed to him to change its position. he rubbed his eyes to make sure he was not dreaming and looked again. yes, without a doubt it was nearer to the roadway, and very gradually it was getting nearer still. moreover, although the night was still, so still that hardly a leaf of any of the other trees quivered, its branches were in a state of the most violent agitation. fitzsimmons was not normally nervous, and on the subject of the superphysical he was decidedly sceptical; but he could not help admitting that it was queer, and he began to wonder whether there was not some other way of getting home. ashamed, however, of his cowardice, he at length made up his mind to look closer at the tree, and ascertain if possible the cause of its remarkable behaviour. he advanced towards it, and it moved again. this time the moonlight threw it into such strong relief that it stood out with photographic clearness, every detail in its composition most vividly portrayed. what exactly he saw, fitzsimmons has never been prevailed upon to say. all one can get out of him is "that it had the semblance to a tree, but that the semblance was quite superficial. it was in reality something quite different, and that the difference was so marked and unexpected that he was immeasurably shocked." i asked fitzsimmons why he was shocked, and he said, "by the obscenity of the thing--by its unparalleled beastliness." he would not say any more. it took him several minutes to sum up courage to pass it, and all the while it stood close to the roadside waiting for him. fitzsimmons had been a tolerably good athlete in his youth--he won the open hundred at school--and though well over forty, he was spare and tough, and as sound as a bell with regard to his heart and lungs. bracing himself up, he made a sudden dash, and had passed it, by some dozen or so yards, when he heard something drop with a soft plumb, and the next minute there came the quick patter of bare feet in hot pursuit. frightened as he was, fitzsimmons does not think his terror was quite so great as his feeling of utter loathing and abhorrence. he felt if the thing touched him, however slightly, he would be contaminated body and soul, and would never be able to look a decent person in the face again. hence his sprint was terrific--faster, he thinks, than he ever did in the school close--and he kept praying too all the while. but the thing gained on him, and he feels certain it would have been all up with him, had not a party of cyclists suddenly appeared on the scene and scared it off. he heard it go back pattering up the coombe, and there was something about those sounds that told him more plainly than words that he had not seen the last of it, and that it would come to him again. when he entered the house he encountered merryweather and his wife together, and he could not help noticing that they seemed on strangely familiar terms and very upset and startled at seeing him. he spoke to his wife about it afterwards, and though she vehemently denied there was any truth in his suspicions, she could not meet his gaze with her customary frankness. merryweather was the last person on earth he would have suspected of flirting with anyone, and up to the present time mrs. robert fitzsimmons had always behaved with the utmost propriety and decorum; indeed, everyone regarded her as a model wife and mother, and particular, even to prudishness. the incident worried fitzsimmons a great deal, and for nights he lay awake thinking about it. the governess was the next person to experience the hauntings. her room was a sort of attic, large and full of quaint angles, and it looked out on to the coombe. well, one night she had gone to bed rather early, owing to a very bad headache which had been brought on by the behaviour of the children, who had been naughty with a naughtiness that could scarcely have been surpassed in hell, and was partly undressed when her eyes suddenly became centred on the wall-paper, which had a curious dark pattern running through it. she looked at the pattern, and it suddenly took the form of a tree. now some people are in the habit of seeing faces where others see nothing. the governess belonged to the latter category. she was absolutely practical and matter-of-fact, a typical midland farmer's daughter, and had no imagination whatever. consequently, when she saw the tree, she at once regarded it in the light of some peculiar phenomenon, and stared at it in open-mouthed astonishment. at first it was simply a tree, a tree with a well-defined trunk and branches. soon, however, the trunk became a vivid yellow and black, a most unpleasant, virulent yellow, and the branches seemed to move. much alarmed, she shrank away from it and clutched hold of the bed. she afterwards declared that the tree suddenly became something quite different, something she never dare even think of, and which nothing in god's world would ever make her mention. she made one supreme effort to reach the bell, just touched it with the tips of her fingers, and then sank on the bed in a dead swoon. she told her story next morning to mrs. fitzsimmons, and although asked on no account to breathe a word of it to the children, she told them too. that night she took her departure, and mrs. fitzsimmons refused her a character. curious noises were now frequently heard in the house. door handles turned and footsteps tiptoed cautiously about the hall and passages at about two o'clock in the morning. mrs. fitzsimmons was the next to have a nasty experience. going to her room one evening, when everyone else was at supper, she saw the bed valance suddenly move. thinking it was the cat, she bent down, and was about to call "puss," when a huge striped thing, shaped, so she thought, something like the trunk of a much gnarled tree, shot out and, rolling swiftly past her, vanished in the wainscoting. she called out, and fitzsimmons, who came running up, found her leaning against the doorway of their room, laughing hysterically. two days later, on his return from another fishing expedition, he found that his wife had gone, leaving a note for him pinned to the dressing-table. "you won't see me again," she wrote. "i'm off with dicky merryweather. we have discovered we love one another, and that life apart would be simply unendurable. take care of the children, and try and make them forget me. get them away from here, if you possibly can. i attribute everything--my changed feelings towards you, and bobbie and jane's naughtiness--to the presence of that beastly thing." * * * * * of course it was a terrible blow to fitzsimmons, and he told me that if it had not been for the children he would have committed suicide there and then. he was devotedly attached to his wife, and the thought that she no longer cared for him made him yearn to die. however, bobbie and jane were dependent on him, and for their sakes he determined to go on living. a week passed--to fitzsimmons the saddest and dreariest of his life--and he once again came tramping home in the twilight. not troubling now whether he saw the ghost or not, for there was no one to care whether he was good or bad, or what became of him, he slouched through the coombe with his long stride more marked and apparent than usual. on nearing the house and noticing that there was no bright light, such as he had been accustomed to, in any of the front windows, but only the feeble flare of the oil lamp over the front door, a terrible feeling of loneliness came over him. he let himself in. the hall was in semi-darkness, and he could hear no sounds from the kitchen. he could see a glimmer of light, however, issuing from under the kitchen door, and he promptly steered for it. the cook, agatha, was sitting in front of the fire, reading a sixpenny novel. "why is the house in darkness?" fitzsimmons asked angrily. "surely it is dinner-time." the cook yawned, and looking up at fitzsimmons, said: "it's not my place to light up. it's rosalie's." "where is rosalie?" fitzsimmons demanded. "i don't know," the cook replied. "i can't be expected to know everything. the cooking's enough for me--at least for the wages i get. rosalie's been gone somewhere for the last two hours. i haven't seen or heard anything of her since tea." "and the children?" fitzsimmons inquired. "oh, the children's all right," the cook answered--"at least i suppose so; and, you bet, they'd have let me know fast enough if they hadn't been. i don't know which of the two hollers loudest." "well, get my supper, for mercy's sake, for i'm famishing," fitzsimmons said; and he stalked back again into the darkness. after groping about the hall for some time and knocking over a good few things, he at length put his hands on a match-box, and lighting a candle made straight for the nursery. the children had got into bed partially undressed, and were sound asleep, with their heads well buried under the bedclothes. fitzsimmons contrived to uncover their faces without waking them, and kissing them both lightly on the forehead, he left them and went downstairs to his study. here he drew up a chair close to the fire and, throwing himself into it, prepared to wait till the gong sounded for supper. a slight noise in the room made him look round. across the window recess, from which the sound apparently came, a pair of heavy red curtains were tightly drawn. fitzsimmons rather wondered at this, because rosalie did not usually draw the curtains before she lighted up; so he was still looking at them and wondering, when they were suddenly shaken so violently that the metal rings made a loud rattling and jarring on the brass pole to which they were attached. fitzsimmons watched in breathless anticipation. every second he expected to see the curtains part and some ghoulish face peering out at him. drawn curtains so often suggest lurking horrors of that description. instead, however, the curtains only grew more and more agitated, shaking violently as if they had the ague. then, all of a sudden, they were still. fitzsimmons rose and was about to look behind them, when they started trembling again, and the one nearest the fireplace began to bulge out in the middle. fitzsimmons stared at it with a sickening sense of foreboding. at first it had no definite form, but, very gradually, it assumed a shape, the shape he felt it would, and moved nearer him. for some seconds he was too overcome with horror to do anything, but his recollections of what it had looked like in the coombe that night, and his utter detestation of it, increased his fear, and in a frenzy of rage he snatched up a revolver from the mantelpiece and fired at it. fitzsimmons thinks it was the bullet that made it suddenly collapse; but i am inclined to think it was the sound of the report--as sound undoubtedly does, at times, bring about dematerialisation. there are, i think, certain sounds that generate vibrations in the air favourable to the manifestation of spirits, and other sounds that create vibratory motion destructive to the composition of what are termed ghosts. and here was an instance of the latter. fitzsimmons waited for a few minutes, until he felt sure the thing was gone altogether, entirely quit of the premises, and then, revolver in hand, pulled aside the curtains. the next moment he reeled back, stupefied with horror. lying at full length on the floor, her white face turned towards him, with a hideous grin of agony on her lips, was rosalie. "good god!" fitzsimmons said to himself. "good god! i've killed her. what in heaven's name can i do?" he deliberated shooting himself; and then the cries of the children, who had been wakened by the noise, reminding him of his duties to them, he grew calmer, and telephoned at once for the nearest doctor. the latter, happening to be at home, was speedily on the spot. "you say you shot her," he remarked to fitzsimmons, after he had examined the body very carefully. "you must be dreaming, sir. there's not the slightest sign of any bullet. moreover, the girl's been dead at least two hours. from the look of her, i should say she died from strychnine poisoning." the doctor was right. the girl's death was due to strychnine, and from the bottle that was found in her possession and a message she scribbled on the study wall, there is no doubt whatever she committed suicide. "i was a nice enough girl till i came here," she wrote, "but it's the coombe that's done it. mother warned me against it. coombes make everyone bad." after this, fitzsimmons decided to clear out. indeed, he could hardly have done otherwise, for shane garth was now placed under a rigorous ban. agatha left--she did not even wait till the morning, but cleared out the same night--and after that it was impossible to get a woman to come in, even for the day. consequently, fitzsimmons had not only to cook and look after the children, but to do all the packing as well. at last, however, it was all over, and the carriage stood at the door, waiting to take him and the children to the station. as he came downstairs, followed by bobbie and jane, someone, he fancied, called his name. he turned, and bobbie and jane turned too. bending over the balustrades of the top landing, and looking just like she had done in her lifetime, save perhaps for the excessive pallor of her cheeks, and a curious expression of fear and entreaty in her eyes, was rosalie. she faded away as they stared, and close beside the spot where she had stood, they saw the dim and shadowy outline of a gnarled tree. chapter viii the trunk a strange case of haunting in sydenham the other day i went to a matinée at "the st. james's." i am fond of french revolutionary plays, and _the aristocrat_ appealed to me, not only by reason of its picturesqueness, which is happily unimpaired by any slavish adherence to historical accuracy, but also, and mostly, perhaps, by reason of its pretty and unimpeachable sentiment. the abandoned woman--a type so many of our modern dramatists consider cannot be dispensed with--apparently did not figure in this play at all. on this particular afternoon one of the principals happened to be away, but as the part was played to perfection by my young and charming compatriot, miss nina oldfield, instead of being disappointed, i only experienced an additional pleasure. i was leaning back in my seat during the interval, thinking of danton, desmoulins, marat, and other of the romantic figures of that period, when someone touched me on the shoulder and whispered, "ghost man." not recognising the voice, i turned round sharply. it was john boulton, late dramatic critic of the _arctus_, now a staff captain, home on leave from egypt. "i've just heard of a case that will interest you," he said. "it bears out two of your theories, namely, that all animals and insects have spirits, and that spirits of all kinds, when freed from the material body, can assume dimensions far exceeding--in height especially--the dimensions of the material body that they once inhabited. but come on to my club as soon as this show is over, and i'll tell you all about it." i accepted boulton's invitation, and subsequently listened to the following: "some friends of friends of mine, the parminters, recently took a small house in sydenham. now sydenham is not in the hey-day of its popularity. scores of the bigger houses are to let, and the smaller ones--the majority at least--have not even that air of genteel respectability which characterises houses of the same size in some of the less remote suburbs. of course the train service is responsible for much--even to think of a twenty-five minutes' journey into town by train, when one can go any distance on tube in next to no time, is both intolerable and demoralising. but the decay of the palace--the palace that twenty years ago all london flocked to see--is in itself sufficient to have generated that all-pervading atmosphere of sadness that seems to have permeated people and houses, alike, with its spirit of abandonment and desolation. however, as a set-off against the many disadvantages of sydenham, including its high rates and dull, unattractive shops, there is its wonderful air--the purest, so many doctors say, in england. and, after all, what is of more consequence than pure air which means health? at least, so the parminters argued when they gave up the idea of living right in town and bought this little two-storeyed villa close to the crystal palace station. "it had stood empty for years and was in a sad state of dilapidation; but the owner, being on the verge of bankruptcy, had no money to lay out on it. "'i will let you have it for a very low figure,' he had said to them, 'provided you take it as it stands.' "the sum named was £ , and this the parminters considered, in spite of there being a pretty stiff ground rent, a bargain price. consequently, they closed with the offer, had the house renovated, and eventually moved in. on the day after their arrival mrs. parminter made a discovery. stowed away in the loft was a long, weather-worn, bolster-shaped, brown wooden trunk, bearing on it two steamship company's labels, one marked suez and the other london. "there was no address on it--no name. the parminters made inquiries of the builder who had done the repairs and of the late owner of the house, and neither could give them any clue as to the person to whom it belonged. the landlord declared that he had gone through all the rooms, including the loft, immediately before giving up the keys to mrs. parminter, and that he could swear that when he did so there was nothing in the house at all, no trunk of any description; whilst the builder declared that both he and his men, when doing the repairs, had seen the trunk in the loft and had concluded that it belonged to the parminters. "'well, as nobody seems to want it, we had better keep it,' mrs. parminter remarked. 'i wonder what it contains! it would be a pity to force the lock, we must get a key to fit it.' "as no one happened to be going out just then, the trunk was pushed on one side, and the parminters, having many other things to occupy their minds, did not give it another thought. tired out with all the worry and work of 'moving in,' they went to bed early that night, in the room immediately beneath the loft, and fell asleep almost as soon as they had lain down. parminter had the digestion of an ox and, never over-taxing his brain, slept, as a rule, right through the night. on this occasion, however, he awoke with a violent start to hear a strange, scraping sound on the floor overhead. "it was just as if someone was drawing the rough edge of a stone backwards and forwards on the floor. "this went on for some seconds; then it abruptly ceased, and the stairs, leading from the landing outside the parminters' room to the loft, gave a series of loud creaks. of course stairs often creak, and one excuses their conduct on the ground of natural causes. the wood, we say, cannot expand or contract, when certain changes in the temperature take place, without making some little noise, and vibration due to the passing by of some heavy vehicle must be accompanied by some slight sound. but why, i ask, do we not hear creaks in the daytime, when the traffic is more constant and changes in the temperature quite as marked? parminter was not an imaginative man; on the contrary, he was practical to a degree. he had a hearty contempt for anything in the nature of superstition, and regarded all so-called psychists either as charlatans or lunatics. yet, when he listened to this creaking, he was bound to admit that there was something about it that bothered and perplexed him. he got up and opened the door. there was no moon, but, on the staircase, there was a long streak of leadish blue light, that moved as parminter stared at it, and slowly began to descend. the stairs creaked under it and, though he could see nothing beyond the light, he could hear the most peculiar rattling, scraping sound, as if some metal-clad body was in course of transit. the thing, whatever it was, at last arrived on the landing, where it remained stationary. a feeling of unutterable horror and repulsion now came over parminter, and, springing back into the room, he shut and locked the door. the noise awoke his wife, and they both stood by the door and listened, as the creaking and rattling was renewed and the thing crossed the landing and descended the stairs into the hall. presently there came a savage snarl, which ended in a shrill whine, that was almost human in the intensity of its agony and terror, and after that, silence. "'puck!' mrs. parminter ejaculated, her teeth chattering. 'what can have happened to him?' "'god knows,' parminter replied. 'i'm not going to see.' "they stood there shivering in their night clothes, until, from the absolute stillness of the house, they concluded that the thing had gone; then they lighted candles and, slipping into their dressing-gowns, descended the stairs. puck was crouching on the mat by the drawing-room door, in an attitude he often assumed when well scolded. they called him by his name. he did not answer. then they bent over him and patted his head. still he did not stir, and when they came to examine him more closely they discovered he was dead. "determined to get to the bottom of the mystery, parminter, the following night, sprinkled the stairs all over with flour and sand. the same thing happened. first of all the scraping immediately overhead, then the creaking and rattling on the stairs, then the pause, and then the slow and stealthy descent, accompanied by the same combination of noises, into the hall. when all was still again, they examined the flour and sand. there were no imprints on it of any kind, and apparently it had not been touched, for it bore no sign whatever of anything having passed over it. "still parminter would not acknowledge the possibility of the superphysical. 'the noises we've heard,' he remarked, 'are simply the result of some curious acoustic property, not uncommon, perhaps, if we only knew it, in houses of this description. and what i saw on the stairs is, of course, merely the effect of some trick of the light which anyone who understands natural science could easily explain.' "'well, all i can say is that i should like to have the whole thing explained, and to know what these natural causes that you're so fond of talking about really are,' rejoined mrs. parminter. "'so should i,' parminter replied. 'but i can't explain it, because i'm not a scientist.' "'well, get one,' was the reply. 'get professor keipler.' "professor keipler was the only scientist the parminters knew. he was a german, and at that time happened to be living in penge. at parminter's request he came over to sydenham and accepted an invitation to stay the night. parminter showed him the loft, and the professor made a very careful examination of it, pulling up one or two boards and peering into all the cracks and crevices. he tested the walls and stairs too, and admitted that he could discern nothing there that could account for some, at least, of the noises the parminters described. when bedtime came, instead of retiring to rest, parminter lowered all the lights, and they all three sat on the landing and waited. "precisely at the same time as on the previous night they heard the scraping sound in the loft, then the gentle opening of a door, then a rattling of metal; and then--parminter caught the professor by the arm--a long, luminous something came into view. instead, however, of descending the stairs, it mounted the wall and suddenly shot down towards them like a streak of lightning. "mrs. parminter screamed, parminter tightened his hold of the professor, and the next thing they knew was that they were all three rolling on the floor with something huge and scaly crawling over them. it conveyed the impression that it was some gigantic, venomous, and indescribably hideous insect, furnished with many long and dreadful legs, and they shrank from its touch just as they would have shrunk from the touch of an enormous spider, black-beetle, or other creature to which they had a special aversion. the professor had brought with him a very powerful electric torch. in the first panic it had slipped from his grasp and rolled away into the darkness, but his fingers eventually coming into contact with it, he pressed the button. in an instant the landing was flooded with light, and the thing of horror had gone. parminter then lit the incandescent gas, and they all three went downstairs into the dining-room and had brandies and soda. "'well, how do you account for it?' parminter said to the professor. 'what do you think it was?' "'nothing that i can explain by any known physical law,' the professor replied. 'i never believed in the possibility of the superphysical before, but i am convinced of it now. what struck me most about that thing, even more than its extraordinary property of completely vanishing under the influence of light, was its malignancy. didn't you feel how intensely antagonistic it was to us?' "'yes,' parminter said. 'i did.' "'well,' the professor went on, 'such antagonism, such concentrated spleen and venom and bloodthirstiness--i felt the thing wanted to crush, tear, mangle, lacerate, poison me--could only originate in hell--in a world altogether distinct from ours, where cruelty and maliciousness attain dimensions entirely beyond the scope of the physical. my advice to you is to quit the house with all haste, lest something really evil befall you.' "having only just moved in, and spent a lot of money on the place, the parminters naturally did not feel inclined to carry out this advice. "'if the place is haunted,' they argued, 'we can surely get rid of the ghost by exorcism or some other device.' "they consulted several of their friends, and were finally persuaded to call in a priest--an anglican, from a parish in the east end, that mrs. parminter used to visit when they lived in town. "the parminters did not tell me exactly what father s---- did (i believe there is a special form of exorcism practised in the church), but anyhow he could not proceed; his nerves, so he himself admitted, went all to bits, and directly the long streak of light began to crawl towards him he turned tail and fled. "another clerical friend whom the parminters called in to exorcise the ghost did, i believe, complete the service; but it had no effect--the thing mounted the wall, just as it had done before, and darting downwards put the exorciser to instant flight. the parminters next resolved to try a west end occultist. it was an expensive proceeding; but terms were at length agreed upon, and the following night the renowned psychic arrived to lay the ghost. when it was time for it to appear, this exorciser insisted upon the parminters retiring to their room, whilst he himself remained outside on the landing alone. "they heard him repeat a lot of gibberish, as parminter afterwards described it to me; and then he rapped at their door and told them they need not worry any more as he had seen the ghost, the spirit of a monk, and given it the consolation it needed. "'but why did the monk crawl and make such a queer rattling noise?' mrs. parminter inquired. "'because just before he died he lost the use of his limbs,' was the reply. 'spirits, you know, always come back in the state they were in immediately prior to their death. the rattling was due to the fact that he wore armour; so many of the old monks combined two professions, that of soldier and priest.' "'but how about the speed with which the thing darted at us,' parminter said, 'and the feeling we all had that it possessed innumerable legs? that doesn't look much like a disabled monk, does it?' "'he didn't appear like that to me,' the occultist replied. 'in all probability you had that impression because your psychic faculties are not sufficiently developed. at present you see spirits all out of focus, as it were--not in their true perspective. if you went through a proper course of training at some psychic college, you would see them just as i do.' "'possibly,' parminter said, 'but how about the gas? i see you had it full on all the time.' "'that would make no difference in my case,' the occultist replied, 'because to anyone of my advanced learning ghosts can materialise in the light just as well as in the dark.' "'then you feel certain the hauntings have now ceased?' mrs. parminter observed. "'that is what the monk told me,' was the reply; 'and now, if you will kindly pay me my fee, i will go.' "parminter gave him a cheque, and he went. an hour later, when the parminters were in bed and the house was still and dark, they heard the scraping on the floor overhead, and the thing came down. this time neither of them stirred, and the thing, as before, passed their room and descended into the hall. "the following morning mrs. parminter received a letter from her sister, mrs. fellowes, asking her if she could put up the two children, flo and maisie, their maid, and herself for a week. it was extremely inconvenient just then for mrs. parminter to have visitors, and had it been anyone else she would have refused; but she was devoted to this particular sister, and at once wrote back bidding her come. "the house was rather oddly constructed. on the top story were three rooms, two quite a decent size, but the third barely big enough for a bed, and having two doors, one of which opened on to the landing and the other into the loft. the loft was very large, but so dark and badly ventilated that it could not possibly be used for sleeping purposes. every room in the house being required, mrs. fellowes' nursemaid, lily, was put to sleep in the room adjoining the loft, whilst flo and maisie occupied one of the two larger rooms, and the parminters' cook and housemaid the other. for the first two nights after the arrival of the visitors there were no disturbances, although lily complained that she had never slept worse in her life. on the third day of their stay the children were invited out to tea, and their mother accompanied them. when they returned they inquired for lily, and being told that she had been in her room all the afternoon, they ran upstairs to see if anything was the matter with her. "maisie knocked, and receiving no reply, opened the door and peeped in. "lily was lying on the bed, and on the top of her, its long antennæ waving over her face, was an enormous scaly thing with a hideous jointed body and hundreds of poisonous-looking black legs. its appearance was so terrific, so unmistakably evil and savage, that maisie was petrified, and stood staring at it, unable to move or utter a sound. "flo, wondering what had happened, peeped over her sister's shoulders, and was equally shocked. just then someone came running upstairs, making a great noise, and the thing slowly vanished. the children then recovered the use of their tongue, and shrieked for help. "parminter, happening to enter the house at that moment, ran to the assistance of the children, and in a few moments the whole household was on the top landing. lily was unconscious, and for days she was so ill that the doctor held out very little hope of her recovery. in the end, however, she pulled round, but both her throat and heart were permanently affected. soon after this event the parminters resold the house, as they felt they could not remain in it any longer. they had stored a good many things in the loft, and, on removing them, they came across the trunk. "'why, we never opened it,' mrs. parminter cried, trying in vain to lift up the lid. "'no; we were going to get a key, and then forgot all about it,' parminter replied. 'but we'll soon remedy that. i'll send for a locksmith at once.' "he did so, and the man, at last finding a key that fitted, opened the box. "it was not quite empty; on the bottom of it, stuck firmly down with two big hatpins, its long legs spread out on either side of it like a hideous fringe, was a black indian centipede." chapter ix the cough a case of haunting in regency square, brighton i know a man called harrison. so, in all probability, do you; so, in all probability, do most people. but it is not everyone, i imagine, that knows a harrison who delights in the christian name of pelamon, and it is not everyone that knows a pelamon harrison who indulges in psychical research. now some people think that no one unless he be a member of the psychical research society can know anything of ghosts. that is a fallacy. i have met many people who, although they have had considerable experience in haunted houses, have never set a foot in hanover square; and, vice versa, i have met many people who, although they have been members of the psychical research society, have assured me they have never seen a ghost. pelamon harrison belongs to the former category. he is by vocation a gentleman undertaker, and he lives in sussex. some years ago, after the publication of my novel _for satan's sake_, which was very severely criticised in certain of the religious denominational papers, pelamon harrison, championing my cause, wrote me rather an interesting letter. i went to see him, and ever since then he has not only supplied me with detailed information of all the hauntings he has come across, but he has at times sent me accounts of his own experiences. this is one of them. pelamon was seated in his office one day reading poe, when the telephone at his elbow started ringing. "hullo!" said pelamon. "who's there?" "only me--phoebe hunt," was the reply. (phoebe hunt was pelamon harrison's housekeeper.) "anything the matter?" pelamon asked anxiously. "what is it?" "oh, nothing," mrs. hunt replied, "only a rather queer-looking gentleman has just called and seemed most anxious to see you. he says he has been told about you by mr. elliot o'donnell, and he wants you to go at once to a house in regency square, brighton, no. --. he says it is very badly haunted." "what's his name?" pelamon demanded. "nimkin," mrs. hunt answered, and she very carefully spelt the name--"n i m k i n." "i'll think it over," pelamon said, "and if i'm not home by seven o'clock, don't expect me till the morning." he then rang off, and thinking it was time he did some work, he took up his account book. try as he would, however, he could not keep his mind from wandering. something kept whispering in his ear "nimkin," and something kept telling him that his presence was urgently needed in regency square. at last, unable to stand it any longer, he threw down his pen and, picking up his hat and coat, hurried off to the railway station. at seven o'clock that evening he stood on the pavement immediately in front of no. -- regency square. all the blinds were down, and this circumstance, combined with an atmosphere of silence and desolation, told him that the house was no longer inhabited. somewhat perplexed, he asked the servant next door if she could tell him where mr. nimkin lived. "not in heaven," the girl replied tartly. "he did live in no. -- till his wife died, but after that he went to live on the other side of the town. he died himself a few days ago, and i believe his funeral took place this afternoon." "and no. -- where his wife died is now empty," pelamon observed. "yes, it's been empty ever since," she replied, and, sinking her voice to a whisper, "folks say it's haunted. i can't altogether bring myself to believe in ghosts--but i've heard noises," and she laughed uneasily. "had he any children?" pelamon asked. "no," the girl answered, "and he has left the money he hoarded--he was the meanest of old sticks--to the hospital for consumptives." "a worthy cause," pelamon commented. the girl nodded. "his wife was a consumptive," she went on. "i remember her well--a pretty, fair-haired creature with a lovely skin, and"--here she shuddered--"a shocking cough." then, thrusting her head close to pelamon, and fixing him with a frightened glance, she whispered, "it was the cough that killed her!" pelamon stared at her in astonishment. "why, of course," he said. "it's the cough that kills all consumptives. i've buried scores of them." the girl shook her head. "you don't understand," she said, "but i daren't tell you any more; and, after all, it's only what we thought. anyhow, he's dead now, and a good job too. did you want to see him?" "oh, it was nothing very particular," pelamon replied. "who has the keys of the house?" the girl's jaws dropped and her eyes grew as big as turtle's eggs. "the keys!" she exclaimed. "mercy on us, you don't intend going there?" "that's my business," pelamon replied haughtily; and then, not wishing to offend her, he added: "i heard the place was to be let, and as i want a house in this particular locality, i thought i would call and look at it, that's all! i am not a burglar!" the girl giggled. "a burglar!" she said. "oh no, you're not sharp enough for that. besides, the house is empty." "what!" pelamon exclaimed. "has all the furniture been taken away?" "all but the blinds," the girl nodded. "there was a sale here the day after mrs. nimkin was buried, and at it crowds of people; some of the furniture fetched an enormous price. i did hear that the house was sold too, but i'll ask the missus to make sure." she ran upstairs, and returned in a few minutes. "yes," she said, "the house is sold, and the new people are coming in soon." "then that settles the matter," pelamon said, and, thanking her in his usual terse and precise way, he withdrew. he took a brief turn on the sea front, thinking all the time of regency square and the mysterious individual who had interviewed mrs. hunt, and who must be, he thought, related to the nimkin who had been buried that afternoon. at nine o'clock he was once again in the square. entering the garden of no. --, he crept round to the back of the house and, finding the catch of one of the windows undone, he raised the sash and climbed in. he had an electric torch with him, and consequently he was able to find his way about. pelamon is very susceptible to the influence of the superphysical, and is probably far more of a psychic than the majority of those who earn their living as professional mediums. he told me afterwards that he knew no. -- was haunted the moment he set his foot inside it. he could detect the presence of the superphysical both in the atmosphere and also in the shadows. frequently in the death chambers which he had attended he had seen a certain type of shadow on the floor by the bed; and it was this same queer kind of shadow, he said, that now crept out from the wall to meet him. but it was not the only phenomenon. from just where the shadow lay, there came a cough, a nervous, worrying cough, a regular hack, hack, hack, and when pelamon moved, the cough and the shadow moved too. he went all over the house, into every room; and the cough and the shadow followed him. hack, hack, hack, he could not get rid of it. at first it merely irritated him; but after a while he grew angry, infuriated, maddened. "damn you!" he yelled. "stop it! stop that vile, infernal hacking. damn you! curse you! stop it!" but the coughing went on, and in a hideous fit of rage, pelamon flew at the shadow, jumped on it, stamped on it, and drawing out his clasp knife, knelt down and deliberately stabbed it. still it went on, untiringly, ceaselessly, significantly, hack, hack, hack. pelamon was still on the floor cutting, stabbing, blaspheming, when a taxi suddenly drew up outside the house, and the next moment the front-door bell gave a loud birr. pelamon waited till it had rung twice; then he answered it. a chauffeur stood on the doorstep. "you've come to the wrong house," pelamon said to him. "no taxi is wanted here." "this is no. --, ain't it?" the man ejaculated. "yes," pelamon replied. "it is no. --, but that doesn't simplify matters. who sent for you?" "a gentleman as lives on t'other side of the town," the chauffeur replied. "he called out to me as i was passing his house. 'do you want a job?' he says. 'will you drive to no. -- regency square and fetch a lady and gentleman? you'll find them there waiting for you. the gent's name is harrison' (pellijohn harrison, i think he said, but i couldn't quite catch it). 'never mind the lady's. bring 'em both here.'" "that's very extraordinary," pelamon exclaimed, "for that's my name, without a doubt. but i don't know who the gentleman could have been, and there's no lady here." "maybe there ain't no lady in the house now," the chauffeur said dryly, "because she's just got in the taxi. but she was there a second or two ago. you do like your bit of fun, don't yer?" pelamon, in a great state of bewilderment, was about to say something, when from the direction of the taxi came the cough, hack, hack, hack. he knew it too well. "there you are," the chauffeur said, with a leer. "you must admit she's in there right enough, and waiting till you're ready to join her." possessed with the feeling that he must see the thing through, pelamon hesitated no longer. he got into the taxi. the coughing went on, but he could see no lady. they drove right through the town, and at last stopped outside a small villa facing a church or chapel. concluding this must be their destination, pelamon got out and, bidding the chauffeur wait, rang the front-door bell. there was no response. he looked at the windows; there was not a vestige of light anywhere and the blinds were all tightly drawn. he rang again, and rapped as well, and was about to do so a third time, when a window in the next house was raised and a voice called out: "there's no one there. there's been a funeral to-day and the house is empty." "whose funeral was it?" pelamon asked eagerly. "mr. nimkin's," was the reply; "he died last tuesday." "why, what are you a-talking about?" the chauffeur called out, descending from his perch and joining pelamon on the doorstep. "nimkin! why, that was the name of the bloke as was here less than an hour ago and told me to fetch this gentleman. no one in the house indeed, why, he's in it, and the lady that came along with this gentleman here, she's in it too. listen to her coughing," and, as he spoke, from the other side of the closed door came the familiar sounds, hack, hack, hack. chapter x the syderstone hauntings some years ago i published in a work entitled _ghostly phenomena_ (werner laurie & co.) an account, sent me by the late rev. henry hacon, m.a., of searly vicarage, north kelsey moor, of hauntings that once occurred in the old syderstone parsonage (the present rectory has never, so i understand, been in any way disturbed). thanks to the kindness and courtesy of mr. e. a. spurgin of temple balsall, warwickshire (grandson of the rev. john spurgin), i am now able to reproduce further correspondence relative to the same case, written at the time of the occurrence--over eighty years ago. the following paragraphs appeared in the _norfolk chronicle_, june , :-- "a real ghost "the following circumstance has been creating some agitation in the neighbourhood of fakenham for the last few weeks. "in syderstone parsonage lives the rev. mr. stewart, curate, and rector of thwaite. about six weeks since an unaccountable knocking was heard in it in the middle of the night. the family became alarmed, not being able to discover the cause. since then it has gradually been becoming more violent, until it has now arrived at such a frightful pitch that one of the servants has left through absolute terror. the noises commence almost every morning about two, and continue until daylight. sometimes it is a knocking, now in the ceiling overhead, now in the wall, and now directly under the feet; sometimes it is a low moaning, which the rev. gentleman says reminds him very much of the moans of a soldier on being whipped; and sometimes it is like the sounding of brass, the rattling of iron, or the clashing of earthenware or glass; but nothing in the house is disturbed. it never speaks, but will beat to a lively tune and moan at a solemn one, especially at the morning and evening hymns. every part of the house has been carefully examined, to see that no one could be secreted, and the doors and windows are always fastened with the greatest caution. both the inside and outside of the house have been carefully examined during the time of the noises, which always arouse the family from their slumbers, and oblige them to get up; but nothing has been discovered. it is heard by everyone present, and several ladies and gentlemen in the neighbourhood, who, to satisfy themselves, have remained all night with mr. stewart's family, have heard the same noise, and have been equally surprised and frightened. mr. stewart has also offered any of the tradespeople in the village an opportunity of remaining in the house and convincing themselves. the shrieking last wednesday week was terrific. it was formerly reported in the village that the house was haunted by a rev. gentleman, whose name was mantal, who died there about twenty-seven years since, and this is now generally believed to be the case. his vault, in the inside of the church, has lately been repaired, and a new stone put down. the house is adjoining the churchyard, which has added, in no inconsiderable degree, to the horror which pervades the villagers. the delusion must be very ingeniously conducted, but at this time of day scarcely anyone can be found to believe these noises proceed from any other than natural causes. "on wednesday se'nnight, mr. stewart requested several most respectable gentlemen to sit up all night--namely, the rev. mr. spurgeon of docking, the rev. mr. goggs of creake, the rev. mr. lloyd of massingham, the rev. mr. titlow of norwich, and mr. banks, surgeon, of holt, and also mrs. spurgeon. especial care was taken that no tricks should be played by the servants; but, as if to give the visitors a grand treat, the noises were even louder and of longer continuance than usual. the first commencement was in the bed-chamber of miss stewart, and seemed like the clawing of a voracious animal after its prey. mrs. spurgeon was at the moment leaning against the bed-post, and the effect on all present was like a shock of electricity. the bed was on all sides clear from the wall; but nothing was visible. three powerful knocks were then given to the side-board, whilst the hand of mr. goggs was upon it. the disturber was conjured to speak, but answered only by a low hollow moaning; but on being requested to give three knocks, it gave three most tremendous blows apparently in the wall. the noises, some of which were as loud as those of a hammer on the anvil, lasted from between eleven and twelve o'clock until near two hours after sunrise. the following is the account given by one of the gentlemen: 'we all heard distinct sounds of various kinds--from various parts of the room and the air--in the midst of us--nay, we felt the vibrations of parts of the bed as struck; but we were quite unable to assign any possible natural cause as producing all or any part of this. we had a variety of thoughts and explanations passing in our minds _before_ we were on the spot, but we left it all equally bewildered.' on another night the family collected in a room where the noise had never been heard; the maid-servants sat sewing round a table, under the especial notice of mrs. stewart, and the man-servant, with his legs crossed and his hands upon his knees, under the cognisance of his master. the noise was then for the first time heard there--'above, around, beneath, confusion all'--but nothing seen, nothing disturbed, nothing felt except a vibratory agitation of the air, or a tremulous movement of the tables or what was upon them. it would be in vain to attempt to particularise all the various noises, knockings, and melancholy groanings of this mysterious something. few nights pass away without its visitation, and each one brings its own variety. we have little doubt that we shall ultimately learn that this midnight disturber is but another '_tommy tadpole_,' but from the respectability and superior intelligence of the parties who have attempted to investigate into the secret, we are quite willing to allow to the believers in the earthly visitations of ghosts all the support which this circumstance will afford to their creed--that of _unaccountable mystery_. we understand that inquiries on the subject have been very numerous, and we believe we may even say troublesome, if not expensive." (_norfolk chronicle_, june , .) * * * * * "syderstone parsonage "_to the editor of the norfolk chronicle._ "sir,--my name having lately appeared in the _bury post_, as well as in your own journal, without my consent or knowledge, i doubt not you will allow me the opportunity of occupying some portion of your paper, in way of explanation. "it is most true that, at the request of the rev. mr. stewart, i was at the parsonage at syderstone, on the night of the th ult., for the purpose of investigating the cause of the several interruptions to which mr. stewart and his family have been subject for the last three or four months. i feel it right, therefore, to correct some of the erroneous impressions which the paragraph in question is calculated to make upon the public mind, and at the same time to state fairly the leading circumstances which transpired that night. "at ten minutes before two in the morning, '_knocks_' were distinctly heard; they continued at intervals, until after sunrise--sometimes proceeding from the bed's-head, sometimes from the side-boards of the children's bed, sometimes from a three-inch partition, separating the children's sleeping-rooms; both sides of which partition were open to observation. on two or three occasions, also, when a definite number of blows was requested to be given, the precise number required was distinctly heard. _how_ these blows were occasioned was the subject of diligent search: every object was before us, but nothing satisfactorily to account for them; no trace of any human hand, or of mechanical power, was to be discovered. still, i would remark, though perfectly distinct, these knocks were by no means so powerful as your paragraph represents--indeed, instead of '_being even louder, and of longer continuance that night_, as if to give _the visitors a grand treat_,' it would seem they were neither _so_ loud nor _so_ frequent as they commonly had been. in several instances they were particularly gentle, and the pauses between them afforded all who were present the opportunity of exercising the most calm judgment and deliberate investigation. "i would next notice the '_vibrations_' on the side-board and post of the children's beds. these were distinctly felt by myself as well as others, not only once, but frequently. they were obviously the effect of different blows, given in some way or other, upon the different parts of the beds, in several instances while those parts were actually under our hands. it is not true that '_the effect on all present was like a shock of electricity_,' but that these '_vibrations_' did take place, and that too in beds, perfectly disjointed from every wall, was obvious to our senses; though in what way they were occasioned could not be developed. "again--our attention was directed at different times during the night to certain sounds on the bed's-head and walls, resembling the scratchings of two or three fingers; but in _no_ instance were they '_the clawing of a voracious animal after its prey_.' during the night i happened to leave the spot in which the party were assembled, and to wander in the dark to some more distant rooms in the house, occupied by no one member of the family (but where the disturbances originally arose), and there, to my astonishment, the same scratchings were to be heard. "at another time, also, when one of mr. stewart's children was requested to hum a lively air, '_most scientific beatings_' to every note was distinctly heard from the bed-head; and at its close, '_four blows_' were given, louder (i think) and more rapid than any which had before occurred. "neither ought i to omit that, at the commencement of the noises, several feeble '_moans_' were heard. this happened more than once; after a time they increased to a series of '_groanings_' of a peculiarly distressing character, and proceeding (as it seemed) from the bed of one of mr. stewart's children, about ten years of age. from the tone of voice, as well as other circumstances, my own conviction is, that these '_moans_' could not arise from any effort on the part of the child. perhaps there were others present who might have had different impressions; but be this as it may, towards daybreak four or six shrieks were heard--not from any bed or wall, but as hovering in the atmosphere in the room, where the other noises had been principally heard. these screams were distinctly heard by _all_, but their cause was discoverable by _none_. "these, sir, are the chief events which occurred at syderstone parsonage on the night alluded to in your paragraph. i understand the '_knockings_' and '_sounds_' have varied considerably in their character on different nights, and that there have been several nights occurring (at four distinct periods) in which _no noises_ have been heard. "i have simply related what took place under my own observation. you will perceive that the noises heard by us were by no means so loud and violent as would be gathered from the representations which have been made. still, as you are aware, they are not on that account the less real; nor do they, on that account, require the less rational explanation. i trust, however, mr. editor, your readers will fully understand me. i have not related the occurrences of the night for the purpose of leading them to any particular views, or conclusions upon a subject which, for the present at least, is wrapt in obscurity: such is very remote from my object. but mr. stewart having requested me, as a neighbouring clergyman, to witness the inconveniences and interruptions to which the different members of his family have been subject for the last sixteen weeks, i have felt it my duty, as an honest man (particularly among the false statements now abroad) to bear my feeble testimony, however inconsiderable it may be, to their actual existence in his house; and also since, from the very nature of the case, it is not possible mr. stewart can admit the repeated introduction of strangers to his family, i have thought it likewise a duty i owed to the public to place before them the circumstances which really did take place on that occasion. in the words of your paragraph, i can truly say: '_i had a variety of thoughts and explanations passing in my mind before i was on the spot, but i left it perfectly bewildered_,' and i must confess the perplexity has not been diminished by the result of an investigation, which was most carefully pursued for five days, during the past week, under the immediate direction of mr. reeve, of houghton, agent to the marquis of cholmondeley, the proprietor of syderstone and patron of the rectory, and who, on learning the annoyances to which mr. stewart was subject, directed every practicable aid to be afforded for the purpose of discovery. mr. seppings and mr. savory, the two chief inhabitants of the parish, assisted also in the investigation. a '_trench_' was dug round the back part of the house, and '_borings_' were resorted to in all other parts of it to the depth of six or seven feet, completing a chain round the entire buildings, for the purpose of discovering any subterranean communication with the walls, which might possibly explain the noises in question. many parts of the interior of the house, also, such as '_the walls_,' '_floors_,' '_false roofs_,' etc., have been minutely examined, but nothing has been found to throw any light upon the source of the disturbances. indeed, i understand the '_knockings_' within the last four days, so far from having subsided, are become increasingly distressing to mr. stewart and his family--and so _remain_!--i am, sir, your obedient servant, "john spurgin. "docking, _june , _." * * * * * "_to the editor of the norfolk chronicle_. "norwich, _june , _. "sir,--the detail of circumstances connected with the _syderstone ghost_, as reported in the public papers, is in my opinion very incorrect, and calculated to deceive the public. if the report of noises heard on other evenings be as much exaggerated as in the report of the noises which five other gentlemen and myself heard on wednesday evening, the th of may, nothing could be better contrived to foster superstition and to aid deception. i was spending a few days with a friend in the neighbourhood of syderstone, and was courteously invited by mr. stewart to sit up at the parsonage; but i never imagined the noises i heard during the night would become a subject of general conversation in our city and county. as such is the case, and as i have been so frequently appealed to by personal friends, i hope you will afford the convenience of correcting, through the medium of your journal, some of the errors committed in the reports made of the disturbances which occurred when i was present. if the other visitors thought proper to make their statements known to the public, i have no doubt they would nearly accord with my own, as we are not, though so represented in the _bury post_, 'those who deal in contradictions of this sort.' "the noises were _not loud_; certainly they were not so loud as to be heard by those ladies and gentlemen who were sitting at the time of their commencement in a bedroom only a few yards distant. the noises commenced as nearly as possible at the hour we had been prepared to expect they would--or at about half-past one o'clock a.m. it is true that knocks seemed to be given, or actually were given, on the side-board of a bed whilst mr. goggs' hands were upon it; but it is not true that they were 'powerful knocks.' it is also true that mr. goggs requested the ghost, if he could not speak, to give three knocks, and that three knocks--gentle knocks, not 'three most tremendous blows'--were heard as proceeding from the thin wall against which were the beds of the children and the female servants. i heard a scream as of a female, but i was not alarmed; i cannot speak _positively_ as to the origin of the scream, but i cannot deny that such a scream may be produced by a ventriloquist. the family are highly respectable, and i know not any good reason for a suspicion to be excited against any one of the members; but as it is _possible_ for one or two members of a family to cause disturbances to the rest, i must confess that i should be more satisfied that there is not a connection between the ghost and a member of the family if the noises were distinctly heard in the rooms when _all_ the members of the family were known to be at a distance from them. i understood from mr. stewart that on one occasion the whole family--himself, mrs. stewart, the children, and servants--sat up in his bedroom during the night; that himself and mrs. stewart kept an attentive watch upon the children and servants; and that the noises, though seldom or never heard before in that room, were then heard in all parts of the room. this fact, though not yet accounted for, is not a proof but that some one or more of the family is able to give full information of the cause of the noises. "mr. stewart and other gentlemen declared that they have heard such loud and violent knocking, and other strange noises, as certainly throw a great mystery over the circumstance. i speak only in reference to the knockings and the scream which i heard when in company with the gentlemen whose names have been already made known to the public; and confining my remarks to those noises, i hesitate not to declare that i think similar noises might be caused by visible and internal agency. "i do not deny the existence of supernatural agency, or of its occasional manifestation; but i firmly believe such a manifestation does not take place without divine permission, and when permitted it is not for trifling purposes, nor accompanied with _trifling effects_. now there are effects which appear to me _trifling_, connected with the noises at syderstone, and which therefore tend to satisfy my mind that they are _not caused by supernatural agency_. on one occasion the ghost was desired to give ten knocks; he gave nine, and, as if recollecting himself that the number was not completed, he began again, and gave ten. i heard him beat time to the air of the verse of a song sung by miss stewart--if i mistake not, 'home, sweet home'; and i heard him give three knocks in compliance with mr. goggs' request. "mr. editor, noises are heard in syderstone parsonage the cause or agency of which is at present unknown to the public, but a full, a diligent investigation ought _immediately_ to be made--mr. stewart, i believe, is willing to afford facility. if, therefore, i may express an opinion, that if two or three active and experienced police officers from norwich were permitted to be the sole occupants in the house for a few nights, the ghost would not interrupt their slumbers, or, if he attempted to do it, they would quickly find him out, and teach him better manners for the future. the disturbances at the parsonage house, epworth, in , in some particulars resemble those which have occurred at syderstone, but in these days we give little credit to tales of witchcraft, or that evil spirits are permitted to indicate their displeasure at prayers being offered for the king, etc.; and therefore i hope that deceptions practised at syderstone, if there be deceptions, will be promptly discovered, lest that parsonage become equal in repute to the one at epworth.--i am, sir, your humble servant, "samuel titlow." (_norfolk chronicle_, june , .) * * * * * syderstone parsonage "_to the editor of the norfolk chronicle._ "sir,--having already borne my testimony to the occurrences of the night of the th ult. in the parsonage at syderstone, and finding that _ventriloquism and other devices_ are now resorted to as the probable causes of them (and that, too, under the sanction of certain statements put forth in your last week's paper), i feel myself called on to state publicly that, although a diligent observer of the different events which then took place, i witnessed no one circumstance which could induce _me_ to indulge a conjecture that the _knocks_, _vibrations_, _scratchings_, _groanings_ etc., which i heard, proceeded from any member of mr. stewart's family, through the medium of mechanical or other trickery:--indeed, it would seem to me utterly impossible that the scratchings which fell under my observation during the night, in a remote room of the house, could be so produced, as, at that time, every member of mr. stewart's family was removed a considerable distance from the spot. "while making this declaration, i beg to state that my only object in bearing any part in this mysterious affair has been to investigate and to elicit the _truth_. i have ever desired to approach it without _prejudging_ it--that is, with a mind willing to be influenced by _facts_ alone,--without any inclination to establish either the intervention of _human_ agency on the one hand, or of _super-human_ agency on the other hand:--at the same time, it is but common honesty to state that mr. stewart expresses himself so fully conscious of his own integrity towards the public that he has resolved on suffering all the imputations and reflections which _have_ been or which may be cast either upon himself or upon his family to pass without remark; and as he has, at different times and upon different occasions, so fully satisfied his own mind on the _impossibility_ of the disturbances in question arising from the agency of any member of his own household (and from the incessant research he has made on this point, he himself must be the best judge), mr. stewart intends declining all future interruptions of his family, by the interference of strangers. "perhaps, mr. editor, your distant readers may not be aware that mr. stewart has not been resident at syderstone more than fourteen months, while mysterious noises are _now_ proved to have been heard in this house, at different intervals and in different degrees of violence, for the last thirty years and upwards. most conclusive and satisfactory affidavits on this point are now in progress, of the completion of which you shall have notice in due time.--i am, sir, your obedient servant, "john spurgin. "docking, _june , _." (_norfolk chronicle_, june , .) * * * * * these declarations were inserted in the _norfolk chronicle_, june , :-- "syderstone parsonage "for the information of the public, as well as for the protection of the family now occupying the above residence from the most ungenerous aspersions, the subjoined documents have been prepared. these documents, it was proposed, should appear before the public as affidavits, but a question of law having arisen as to the authority of the magistrates to receive affidavits on subjects of this nature, the declarations hereunder furnished have been adopted in their stead. the witnesses whose testimony is afforded have been all separately examined--their statements, in every instance, have been most cheerfully afforded--and the solemn impression under which the evidence of some of them particularly has been recorded, has served to show how deeply the events in question have been fixed in their recollection. without entering upon the question of causes, one fact, it is presumed, must be obvious to all (namely): that various inexplicable noises have been heard in the above residence, at different intervals, and in different degrees of violence, for many years before the present occupiers ever entered upon it: indeed, the testimony of other respectable persons to this fact might have been easily adduced, but it is not likely that any who are disposed to reject or question the subjoined evidence would be influenced by any additional testimony which could be presented:-- * * * * * "_elizabeth goff_, of docking, in the county of norfolk, widow, now voluntarily declareth, and is prepared at any time to confirm the same on oath, and say: that she entered into the service of the rev. william mantle about the month of april , at which time her said master removed from docking to the parsonage at syderstone, and the said elizabeth goff further states, that at the time of entering upon the said parsonage, two of the sleeping rooms therein were nailed up: and upon one occasion, during the six months of her continuance in the service of her said master, she well remembers the whole family were much alarmed in consequence of mrs. mantle's sister having either seen or heard something very unusual, in one of the sleeping rooms over the kitchen, which had greatly terrified her.--this declaration was made and signed this th day of june , before me, derick hoste, one of his majesty's justices of the peace for the county of norfolk. "the mark (x) of elizabeth goff." * * * * * "_elizabeth_, the wife of george _parsons_, of syderstone, in the county of norfolk, blacksmith, now voluntarily declareth, and is prepared at any time to confirm the same on oath, and say: that she married about nineteen years ago, and then entered upon the occupation of the south end of the parsonage at syderstone, in which house she continued to reside for the space of nine years and a half. that she, the said elizabeth parsons, having lived at fakenham previously to her marriage, was ignorant of the reputed circumstances of noises being heard in the said house, and continued so for about nine or ten months after entering upon it; but that, at the end of that time, upon one occasion during the night, she remembers to have been awoke by some 'very violent and very rapid knocks' in the lower room occupied by them, immediately under the chamber in which she was sleeping; that the noise appeared to her to be as against the stove which she supposed must have been broken to pieces; that she, the said elizabeth parsons, awoke her husband, who instantly heard the same noise; that he immediately arose, struck a light, and went downstairs; but that, upon entering the room, he found everything perfectly safe, as they had been left upon their going to bed; that her husband hereupon returned to the sleeping room, put out the light, and went to bed; but scarcely had he settled himself in bed, before the same heavy blows returned; and were heard by both of them for a considerable time.--this being the first of the noises she, the said elizabeth parsons, ever heard, she was greatly alarmed, and requested her husband not to go to sleep while they lasted, lest she should die from fear; but as to the causes of these noises, she, the said elizabeth parsons, cannot, in anywise, account. and the said elizabeth parsons further states, that about a year afterwards at midnight, during one of her confinements, her attention was particularly called to some strange noises heard from the lower room. these noises were very violent, and, as much as she remembers, were like the opening and tossing up and down of the sashes, the bursting of the shutters, and the crashing of the chairs placed at the windows: that her nurse hereupon went downstairs to examine the state of the room, but, to the surprise of all, found everything perfectly in order, as she had left it.--and likewise the said elizabeth parsons further states, that besides the occurrences hereinbefore particularly stated and which remain quite fresh in her recollection, she was, from time to time, during her residence in syderstone parsonage, constantly interrupted by very frightful and unusual knockings, various and irregular;--sometimes they were heard in one part of the house, and sometimes in another;--sometimes they were frequent, and sometimes two or three weeks or months or even twelve months would pass, without any knock being heard. that these knocks were usually never given till the family were all at rest at night, and she has frequently remarked, just at the time she hoped she had got rid of them, they returned to the house, with increased violence.--and finally the said elizabeth parsons declares, that during a residence in the syderstone parsonage of upwards of nine years, knocks and noises were heard by her therein, for which she was utterly unable to assign any cause.--this declaration was made and signed this th day of june , before me, derick hoste, one of his majesty's justices of the peace for the county of norfolk. "elizabeth parsons." * * * * * "_thomas mase_, of syderstone, in the county of norfolk, carpenter, now voluntarily declareth, and is prepared at any time to confirm the same on oath, and say: that one night, about eleven years ago, while mr. george parsons occupied part of the parsonage at syderstone, he happened to be sleeping in the attic there; and about midnight he heard (he thinks he was awoke out of sleep) a dreadful noise, like the sudden and heavy fall of part of the chimney upon the stove in the lower sitting-room.--that the crash was so great that, although at a considerable distance from the spot, he distinctly heard the noise, not doubting the chimney had fallen and dashed the stove to pieces:--that he arose and went downstairs (it being a light summer's night): but upon examining the state of the room and stove, he found, to his astonishment, everything as it ought to have been. and the said thomas mase further states, that, upon another occasion, about eight or nine years ago, while sleeping a night in syderstone parsonage in a room at the south end thereof, the door of which room moved particularly hard upon the floor, requiring to be lifted up in order to close or open it, and producing a particular sound in its movement, he distinctly heard all the sounds which accompanied its opening.--that he felt certain the door was opened, and arose from his bed to shut it, but, to his great surprise, he found the door closed, just as he had left it.--and finally the said thomas mase states, that the circumstances above related, arose from causes which he is totally at a loss to explain.--this declaration was made and signed this th day of june , before me, derick hoste, one of his majesty's justices of the peace for the county of norfolk. "thomas mase." * * * * * "_william ofield_, of syderstone, in the county of norfolk, gardener and groom, now voluntarily declareth, and is prepared at any time to confirm the same on oath, and say: that he lived in the service of the rev. thomas skrimshire, about nine years ago, at which time his said master entered upon the occupation of the parsonage at syderstone, and that he continued with him during his residence in that place. the said william ofield also states, that, as he did not sleep in the house, he knows but little of what took place therein during the night, but that he perfectly remembers, on one occasion, while sitting in the kitchen, he heard in the bedroom immediately over his head, a noise resembling the dragging of furniture about the room, accompanied with the fall as of some very heavy substance upon the floor.--that he is certain this noise did take place, and verily believes no one member of the family was in the room at the time.--the said william ofield likewise states, that the noise was loud enough to alarm part of the family then sitting in the lower room, in the opposite extremity of the house; that he is quite sure they were alarmed, inasmuch as one of the ladies immediately hastened to the kitchen to make inquiry about the noise, though his said master's family never seemed desirous of making much of these occurrences:--that he, the said wm. ofield, was ordered to go upstairs to see what had happened, and upon entering the room he found everything right:--he has no hesitation in declaring that this noise was not occasioned by any person in the house. the said wm. ofield likewise states, that, at different times during the evenings, while he was in his said master's service, he has heard other strange noises about the house, which he could never account for, particularly the rattling of glass and china in the chiffonier standing in the drawing-room, as if a cat were running in the midst of them, while he well believes no cat could be there, as the door was locked. and the said wm. ofield likewise states, that he has been requested by some of the female servants of the family, who had been frightened, to search the false roof of the house, and to quiet their alarms, he has done so, but could never discover anything out of order.--this declaration was made and signed this th day of june , before me, derick hoste, one of his majesty's justices of the peace for the county of norfolk. "william ofield." * * * * * "_elizabeth_, the wife of john _hooks_, of syderstone, in the county of norfolk, labourer, now voluntarily declareth, and is prepared at any time to confirm the same on oath, and say: that she entered the service of the rev. thomas skrimshire, at syderstone parsonage, about seven years ago, and continued with him about four years; that in the last year of her service with mr. skrimshire, about christmas-time, while sitting by the kitchen fireside, she heard a noise resembling the moving and rattling of the chairs about the sleeping rooms immediately over her;--that the noise was so great that one of mr. skrimshire's daughters came out of the drawing-room (which was removed a considerable distance from the spot in which the noise was heard) to make inquiry about it: that the manservant and part of the family immediately went upstairs, but found nothing displaced;--and moreover that she verily believes no member of the family was upstairs at the time.--the said elizabeth hooks also states, that, upon another occasion, after the above event, as she was going up the attic stairs to bed, with her fellow-servant, about eleven o'clock at night, she heard three very loud and distinct knocks, as coming from the door of the false roof. these knocks were also heard by the ladies of the family, then separating for the night, who tried to persuade her it was someone knocking at the hall door. the said elizabeth hooks says, that although convinced it was from no person out doors, yet she opened the casement to look and, as she expected, found no one;--indeed (being closest to the spot on which the blows were struck) she is sure they were on the door, but how and by whom given she is quite at a loss to conjecture.--and finally the said elizabeth hooks states, that at another time, after she had got into her sleeping-room (the whole family besides being in bed, and she herself sitting up working at her needle) she heard noises in the passage leading to the room, like a person walking with a peculiar hop: that she was alarmed, and verily believes it was not occasioned by any member of the family.--this declaration was made and signed this th day of june , before me, derick hoste, one of his majesty's justices of the peace for the county of norfolk. "the mark (x) of eliz. hooks." * * * * * "_phoebe steward_, of syderstone, in the county of norfolk, widow, now voluntarily declareth, and is prepared at any time to confirm the same on oath, and say: that about twenty years ago, a few days after michaelmas, she was left in charge of syderstone parsonage, then occupied by mr. henry crafer; and about eight o'clock in the evening, while sitting in the kitchen, after securing all the doors, and no other person being in the house, she heard great noises in the sleeping rooms over her head, as of persons 'running out of one room into another'--'stumping about very loud'--and that these noises continued about ten minutes or a quarter of an hour:--that she felt the more alarmed, being satisfied there was, at that time, no one but herself in the house.--and the said phoebe steward further states, that on whitsun-tuesday, eighteen years ago, she was called to attend, as nurse, on mrs. elizabeth parsons, in one of her confinements, then living in syderstone parsonage:--that about a fortnight after that time, one night, about twelve o'clock, having just got her patient to bed, she remembers to have plainly heard the footsteps, as of someone walking from their sleeping-room door, down the stairs, step by step, to the door of the sitting-room below:--that she distinctly heard the sitting-room door open, and the chair placed near one of the windows moved; and the shutters opened. all this the said phoebe steward is quite sure she distinctly heard, and thereupon immediately, on being desired, she came downstairs, in company with another female, whom she had awakened to go with her, being too much alarmed to go by herself: but on entering the room she found everything just as she had left it.--and the said phoebe steward further states, that about a fortnight after the last-named event, while sleeping on a bureau bedstead in one of the lower rooms in syderstone parsonage,--that is, in the room referred to in the last statement,--she heard 'a very surprising and frightful knock, as if it had struck the head of the bed and dashed it in pieces': that this knock was so violent as to be heard by mrs. crafer in the centre of the house:--that she, the said phoebe steward, and another person who was at that time sleeping with her, were very much alarmed with this heavy blow, and never knew how to account for it. and finally, the said phoebe steward states, that, during the forty-five years she has been in the habit of frequenting the syderstone parsonage (without referring to any extraordinary statements she has heard from her sister, now dead, and others who have resided in it), that she, from her own positive experience, has no hesitation in declaring, that in that residence noises do exist which have never been attempted to be explained.--this declaration was made and signed this th day of june , before me, derick hoste, one of his majesty's justices of the peace for the county of norfolk. "the mark (x) of phoebe steward." * * * * * "_robert hunter_, of syderstone, in the county of norfolk, shepherd, now voluntarily declareth, and is prepared at any time to confirm the same on oath, and say: that for twenty-five years he has lived in the capacity of shepherd with mr. thomas seppings, and that one night in the early part of march , between the hours of ten and eleven o'clock, as he was passing behind the parsonage at syderstone in a pathway across the glebe land near the house, when within about twelve yards of the back part of the buildings, his attention was arrested all on a sudden by some very loud 'groanings,' like those 'of a dying man--solemn and lamentable,' coming as it seemed to him from the centre of the house above:--that the said robert hunter is satisfied these groans had but then just begun, otherwise he must have heard them long before he approached so near the house.--he also further states, that he was much alarmed at these groans, knowing particularly that the parsonage at that time was wholly unoccupied, it being about a month before mr. stewart's family came into residence there:--that these groans made such an impression upon his mind, as he shall never lose, to his dying hour. and the said robert hunter likewise states, that, after stopping for a season near the house, and satisfying himself of the reality of these groans, he passed on his way, and continued to hear them as he walked, for the distance of not less than yards. the said robert hunter knows yards is a great way, yet if he had stopped and listened, he, the said robert hunter, doubts not he could have heard them to a still greater distance than yards: 'so loud and so fearful were they, that never did he hear the like before.'--this declaration was made and signed this th day of june , before me, derick hoste, one of his majesty's justices of the peace for the county of norfolk. "the mark (x) of robt. hunter." * * * * * "we, the undersigned chief inhabitants of the parish of syderstone, in the county of norfolk, do hereby certify that elizabeth parsons, thomas mase, william ofield, elizabeth hooks, phoebe steward, and robert hunter, who are now residing in this parish, and whose declarations are hereto annexed, have been known to us for some years, and are persons of veracity and good repute. "witness our hands, this th day of june . "thomas seppings. "john savory." chapter xi the green vapour near bournemouth there is a house called the caspar beeches that never lets for any length of time. it has a very remarkable history, which, in the words of mr. mark wildbridge, i now append. (mr. mark wildbridge, by the way, was a clever amateur detective who died about the middle of last century, and many of his experiences, including the following, were narrated to me by one of his descendants.) i had been attending to some newly planted shrubs in my garden, and was crossing the lawn on my way to the back premises to wash my hands, when the gate was swung open vigorously and a voice called out, "can you tell me if mr. mark wildbridge lives here?" i looked at the speaker. he was a tall young man, slim and clean built, obviously an athlete, a public schoolman, and very much the gentleman. i was by no means in the mood to receive strangers, but as his type especially appeals to me, i decided to be gracious to him. "i am mark wildbridge," i replied. "can i be of any service to you?" "are you mr. wildbridge?" the young man said in astonishment. "somehow i had formed such a different picture of you. but, of course, there is no reason why a detective should carry his trade in his face any more than an artist or author." "rather less reason, perhaps," i responded dryly. "have you come to consult me professionally?" the young man nodded. "yes," he answered. "may i speak to you in private, somewhere where there is no chance of our being overheard?" i conducted him to my study, and, after seeing him seated, begged him to proceed. "mr. wildbridge," he began, leaning forward and eyeing me intently, "do you believe in family curses?" "it depends," i said. "i have come across cases where there seems little doubt a family is labouring under some malign superphysical influence. but why do you ask?" "for this reason," he replied, sitting up straight and assuming an expression of great intensity. "two years ago i was living with my parents at the caspar beeches, near bournemouth. my brother was coming home from india on sick leave, and my father and i had gone up to town to meet him, when, the day after we arrived, we got a wire to say that my mother had died suddenly. she had been absolutely well when we left her, so that the shock, as you may imagine, was terrible. of course we hastened home at once, but the news was only too true--she was dead, and, at the inquest which followed in due course, a verdict of death from asphyxiation--cause unknown--was returned. well, mr. wildbridge, exactly six months later my father was also found dead in his bedroom, and, as everything pointed to his having died in exactly the same manner as my mother, my brother and i had a detective down from scotland yard to inquire into the affair. he could, however, make nothing of it. the door of my father's room was found locked on the inside, the windows were all fastened, so that no one could have gained admission; and, besides, as nothing had been touched, and not a single article was missing, there was no apparent motive for a crime. at the same time, my brother and i were far from satisfied. although, as the detective had pointed out to us, my father was alone when he met his death, it seemed to us that his end must have been brought about by some unnatural and outside agency. the coroner's verdict was death from asphyxiation, the medical evidence tending to show that he had died from the effects of some poisonous gas. yet whence came the gas and how was it administered? the sanitary authorities, whom we called in, declared, after a very careful examination, that all the drains were in the most excellent repair, so we simply didn't know what to think. my brother, who had imbibed mysticism in india, at length came to the conclusion that there was some curse on us. he said that my father had on several occasions spoken very gloomily about the parents' sins being visited on their children, and i, too, had noticed that my father at times was very despondent; but i had attributed this despondency merely to moodiness, and at the time pooh-poohed my brother's suggestion that there existed a mystery--something sinister in connection with some member of our own family. but since then i have altered my opinion, for my brother, who inherited the property, has also been found dead--killed by the same diabolical agency that for some unknown reason brought about the deaths of my mother and father. the caspar beeches is now mine, mr. wildbridge, and i have come to ask you what i had better do." "you think, of course, that you may share the fate of your mother, father, and brother?" i asked. "i think it extremely likely," he replied. "you are the only one left in your family?" "yes," he said, "the only one." "and what are your plans with regard to the caspar beeches?" i inquired. "do you think of residing there?" "i haven't made up my mind," he replied; "that is one of the points upon which i want your advice. i want to know what you think about these deaths. do you think they were due to some as yet undiscovered physical cause, as, for instance, some unknown disease, or some gas the sanitary authorities have not been able to trace--or, to the superphysical?" "i can form no opinion at present," i replied; "i must first have more details. but from what you have said, i think this case presents some novel and very extraordinary features. i should like to see the house. by the way, you haven't told me your name." "mansfield," the young man said--"eldred mansfield." "the son of sir thomas mansfield, the bornean explorer?" "yes." "then you are the present baronet?" the young man nodded. "and in the event of your death," i remarked, "to whom do the title and estates revert?" "i believe to some distant relative," sir eldred replied. "i cannot say definitely, for i have never inquired. i have no first cousins, and i know nothing about any others." "that is rather odd," i observed, "not to know who succeeds you. now, tell me--of whom does your household at the caspar beeches consist?" "the butler parry, his wife, who is housekeeper, and four other servants." "have the parrys been with you long?" "about four years." "do you like them?" "not altogether," sir eldred replied. "parry is rather fussy and officious, and his wife much too soapy. my father, however, found them honest, and i don't suppose i could improve on them." "well," i said, "as i have already remarked, i can't give you an opinion till i've seen the house. supposing you engage me as your secretary?" "an excellent idea," sir eldred cried, his face lighting with enthusiasm. "to tell the truth, i don't much like the idea of sleeping there alone. will you go back with me to-night? i will wire to parry to get a room ready for you." as my time was my own just then, i agreed, and that afternoon saw me tearing off in a taxi to meet sir eldred at waterloo. the caspar beeches, a large old family mansion, is situated nearer winton than bournemouth proper, and in the midst of the most lovely forest scenery. an air of impressive sadness hung around it, which, although no doubt largely due to the season and lateness of the hour, still, i thought, owed its origin, in part, to some very different cause; and when, on entering, i glanced round the big, gloomy, oak-panelled hall with its dim, far-reaching galleries, i inwardly remarked that this might well be the home of a dozen hidden mysteries, a dozen lurking assassins, that could prowl about and hide there, without the remotest fear of discovery. the door had been opened to us by a tall, thin, bald-headed old man, with small and rather deep-set eyes of the most pronounced blue, and a rather cut-away chin. he expressed himself overjoyed to see his young master back again, and was most emphatic in his assurances that our rooms were quite ready for us. his wife, an elderly woman with dark, keen, penetrating eyes and slightly prominent cheekbones, met us in the hall. i knew, of course, that she was mrs. parry, when she spoke, but her voice came as a surprise. in striking contrast to her appearance it was soft and low, and not altogether unmusical. the other servants did not interest me much--they were the type one sees in all well-to-do establishments--and yet i felt that if i were to get at the bottom of the mystery that unquestionably shrouded the deaths of sir eldred's three relatives, i must watch everyone very closely; for the key to a great secret is often found where least expected. we dined at eight o'clock, and after dinner i took a brief survey of the house. this enabled me to form some idea of the general arrangement of the rooms and where certain of them were situated. my bedroom, i found, was separated from that of sir eldred by the entire length of a corridor, and at my suggestion the room adjoining his own was allotted to me instead. mrs. parry demurred a little at the change, remarking that the room next sir eldred's had not been aired; but i told her i was not in the least degree likely to catch cold, as i had often slept in queer places, having spent a considerable portion of my life in the backwoods of canada. sir eldred laughed. "you don't know what care we are taken of here," he said. "i can assure you, if i were to feel even the suspicion of a draught it would be considered a most terrible calamity." "yes, indeed," mrs. parry said, with a sigh, "after what has happened, sir eldred's life is so precious we feel we cannot be too careful." "have you any idea what killed your late master and mistress?" i asked her aside. "what terrible times you have gone through!" "ay, terrible indeed," she said. "a kinder master and mistress no one could have had. parry and i always thought something blew in from outside. there is too much vegetation in the grounds, and it grows so near the house. they do say the place is built on the site of a morass." "a morass, and in hampshire!" i laughed. "why, that sounds incredible. the soil is surely gravel." "so it may be--now," she replied. "i'm speaking of many years ago. the house is very ancient, sir." i asked sir eldred afterwards if there was any truth in her remark, and he said, "yes, i believe there was a swamp here once; at least there is mention of one in a very old history of hampshire that we have in the library. it was drawn off towards the end of the sixteenth century when the house was built. but i'm surprised at the parrys knowing anything about it, for i've never heard anyone allude to it--not even my father." "are the parrys of the ordinary servant class?" i asked. "i believe so," sir eldred replied; "but i really know nothing of their antecedents, for i seldom encourage them to speak. as i told you, they both rather get on my nerves." that night, some hours after the household had retired to rest, i took a rope out of my portmanteau, and, fixing one end of it securely to the bedstead, lowered myself out of the window on to the ground beneath. then, keeping under cover of the pine trees, and evading the moonbeams as much as possible, i made a detour of the house. the night air smelt pure and sweet. heavily charged with the scent of pinewood and heather, there was absolutely nothing about it even remotely suggestive of poisonous gas. as i was about to emerge from the trees to re-enter the house, i heard a slight crunching sound on the gravel. i sprang back again into the gloom, and as i did so, two figures--a man and girl--stole noiselessly past me. the girl i could not see distinctly, as her head was partly enveloped in a cloak, but the face of the man stood out very plainly in the moonlight--it was the face of a black! what could a black man and a young girl be doing prowling about the grounds of the caspar beeches at that hour of night? who were they? i did not say a word to anyone, but the following night--at the same hour--i again hid amongst the trees, and the same figures passed me. then i stole out of my lair and followed them. on quitting the premises they took the high road to bournemouth, and finally entered a house in the holdenhurst road. making a mental note of the number of the house, i retraced my steps homeward, and early the next morning i sent the following telegram to vane, who often accompanies me on my expeditions, and to whose quick wits i owe much: "have an important case on hand. meet me this evening entrance to bournemouth pier p.m." after dispatching this telegram i returned to the beeches, and asked sir eldred to show me the rooms in which the three deaths had taken place. i then examined these rooms most minutely, but i could discover nothing in them that could in any way help me to form a theory or even get a suggestion. "when were the deaths first discovered?" i asked. "not until the morning," sir eldred replied, "when the servants, getting no reply to their knocks, became alarmed, and eventually the doors were forced open." "and in each case death had taken place in bed?" "yes." "did you have the same doctor to all three of your relatives after their deaths had been discovered?" i asked sir eldred. "yes," he said. "dr. bowles. he has attended us for years." "what age is he?" i inquired. sir eldred thought a moment. "about sixty-four or five," he replied. "he attended my father long before he was married." "then he would be a little old-fashioned," i said. "he might not, for instance, have much knowledge of the newest poisons. new poisons, you know, both in the form of liquid and gases, are constantly being discovered. many are imported from germany and the east. might i see dr. bowles?" "certainly," sir eldred replied; "but i fear he cannot help you much, as all he knew he made public at the inquests." sir eldred was right practically. in my interview with dr. bowles, i found that he could tell me little beyond what i already knew. "can you," i asked him, "describe the appearance of the bodies and the effect on them of the gas which you say, in all probability, caused the asphyxiation? was there anything specially remarkable in the facial contractions or colour of the skin?" "yes," he said, "there was an infinite horror, such horror as i have never seen in human faces before," and he shuddered as he spoke. then he gave me a minute description of the bodies, which i took down in my notebook and posted to a specialist in oriental poisons whom i knew in london. "was there nothing else in the three cases that struck you as unusual?" i asked dr. bowles. "no peculiarity in common?" he thought for a moment, and then said, "nothing beyond the fact that all three died precisely at the same time--ten minutes past two in the morning." "the time when human vitality is at the lowest, and superphysical phenomena the most common. were the victims in a normal state of health? was there any family or hereditary disease?" "yes, valvular weakness of the heart." "which would render them more susceptible to the influence of poison?" "poison and shock. the inhalation of certain poisons has a particularly deadly effect on people suffering from cardiac defection." "could the poison have been self-inflicted? are people suffering with such a disease prone to suicide?" "only, as a rule, when the disease is in a very advanced state--you then get delirium, hallucinations, and morbid impulses." "and none of these symptoms were noticeable in the deceased?" "not in a sufficiently marked degree to warrant the suggestion of suicide." "have you no theory?" the doctor shook his head. "none whatever," he said; "and yet i'm sorry to say i can't help feeling there is something very sinister about it all--something that bodes ill for sir eldred." much disappointed, i returned to the caspar beeches, and was making another inspection of the room in which one of the tragedies had occurred when, chancing to glance at the mirror over the mantelshelf, i caught the reflection of a pair of dark eyes fixed inquiringly at me. i looked round, and a figure passed along the passage. it was mrs. parry. she had evidently been peeping at me through the slightly open door, which i could have sworn i had closed. this made me careful. if i meant to unravel this mystery, i must on no account be seen doing anything that might arouse suspicion as to my real identity. hence i determined to confine myself more to the study in future, and the rest of the morning i spent taking down in shorthand letters which sir eldred dictated. walls have ears, and the sound of sir eldred dictating to me, i argued, might prove convincing. a week passed and i discovered nothing. there was nothing in the demeanour of any of the servants to give me the slightest reason for suspecting them; if any of them were "in the know" they kept their secret absolutely to themselves. at night, as soon as i deemed it safe, i slipped on a pair of rubber shoes and crept about the house and grounds, but with no result. on the morning of the eighth day i received two letters--one from vane, who had taken furnished apartments next door to the house i had noted in the holdenhurst road, and the other from craddock, the poison specialist. "i have at last found out something about those two people," vane wrote. "they call themselves effie and george tyson. tyson is an assumed name; the girl is the daughter of parry, sir eldred's butler, and the man is henry mansfield, nephew of sir thomas." "great heavens!" i could not help exclaiming. "this is news indeed. sir eldred assured me that he had no very near relatives." "their bedroom is only separated from mine," the letter went on, "by a very thin wall, and when i had removed a brick i could catch every word they said. there's some mystery, and i'm going to try and solve it for you. watch at the beeches. i believe there is something extra in the wind. effie has been there already this morning, and she and george are both going there again late this evening." the other letter, from craddock, was as follows: "there's only one gas that produces all the effects you describe," he said, "and that has certainly been hitherto unknown in england; indeed, the knowledge of it has been strictly confined to one region--a district in the south-east of borneo. the natives there worship a great spirit, which they name the arlakoo or hell-faced one, and they never invoke it save when they desire the death of a criminal, or some very aged, useless member of the tribe. they then prepare a mixture of herbs and berries, which they first of all dry, and, at the psychical hour of two in the morning, put in an iron pot and take into the presence of their intended victim. then, having set fire to the preparation, which, though rather difficult to ignite, burns slowly and surely when once aflame, they close all the openings of the hut or room and beat a precipitate retreat. a few minutes later the spirit they have invoked appears, and, simultaneous with its materialisation, the mixture burns a bright green and emits a peculiarly offensive gas. the result is invariably death: the shock produced by the harrowing appearance of the apparition, coupled with the poisonous nature of the fumes, is more than the human mechanism can stand. of course all this would be mere moonshine to anyone who is uninitiated in eastern ways and doesn't believe in ghosts. the bournemouth doctors would pooh-pooh it altogether. there is no other gas that i know of that produces the effects you have described. if there is another case, let me know, as i should much like to see the victim." a ghost! a ghost employed for the purpose of murdering someone! even to me, confirmed believer in the unknown as i am, the idea seemed wildly improbable and fantastic. and yet, what else could have produced that look of horror in the faces? what else could have killed them? that evening, sir eldred and i sat in the smoke-room after dinner and chatted away as usual. we had our coffee brought to us at nine o'clock, and at ten-thirty we retired to bed. sir eldred had appeared fidgety and nervous all the evening, and, as we were ascending the stairs, he asked me if i would mind sitting up with him. "i feel i shan't sleep to-night," he said, "as i've got one of my restless moods on. if it won't be tiring you too much, will you come and sit with me?" i said i would with pleasure, but i did not join him at once, as i wanted the servants to think we had gone to our respective rooms and to bed as usual. i also wanted whatever there might be in the wind to mature. on entering my room, i opened the window with as little noise as possible, and was on the verge of lowering myself into the garden when i espied someone among the trees. i was going to draw back, when the figure signalled, and i at once knew it was vane. another minute and i had found him. "he's here," he whispered, "be on the qui vive, and if you want help call. see, i'm armed." and he pointed significantly to his breast pocket. he was going to say something else when we heard steps--soft, surreptitious steps that hardly sounded human--coming in our direction. i immediately withdrew to the house and hastened to sir eldred. at my suggestion we both sat by the window, which i noticed was shut--sir eldred, i knew, was very susceptible to the cold--and i arranged the curtains so that we could not be seen from the outside. sir eldred occupied a sofa and i an easy chair. for some time we talked in low voices, and then sir eldred grew more and more drowsy till he finally fell asleep. it was one of the most exquisite nights i had ever seen--the moon, so full and silvery, and everywhere so calm, so gentle, and so still. not a breath of air, not a leaf stirring, not a sound to be heard; nothing save the occasional burr of a great black bat as it hurled itself past the window and went wheeling and skimming in and out the tall, slender pines. i sat still, my eyes wandering alternately from the window to sir eldred. whence would come the danger my instinct told me threatened him? how calmly he slept! how marked and handsome were his boyish features! suddenly from afar off a distant church clock began to strike two, each chime falling with an extraordinary distinctness on the preternatural hush. hardly had the last reverberating echoes ceased before there was a loud click from somewhere near the fireplace, and the next moment came a faint smell of burning. then i confess--remembering all craddock had told me--i was afraid. everything in the room--the big, open fireplace, the dark, gleaming wardrobe, the quaintly carved chairs, the rich but fantastically patterned curtains, the sofa, and even sir eldred himself--i hardly dared look at him--seemed impregnated with a strange and startling uncanniness. the green light! was this the prelude to it? was the terrible bornean phantasm getting ready to manifest itself? i struggled hard, and, at last, overcoming the feeling of utter helplessness that had begun to steal over me, rushed to the windows. frantically throwing them open, i was preparing to do the same to the door, when a low, ominous wail, sounding at first from very far away, and then all of a sudden from quite close at hand, brought me to a standstill, and the whole room suddenly became illuminated with a glow, of a shade and intensity of green i have never seen before. again there came an awful struggle. i felt eyes glaring at me, eyes that belonged to something of infinite hideousness and hate, to something that was concentrating its very hardest to make--to force--me to look; and it was only by an effort that smothered my chest and forehead in beads of cold sweat i desisted. groping my way across the room, with my eyes tightly closed, i eventually reached the sofa. thank god! sir eldred was still asleep. tired with a day's hard exercise, he had fallen into the soundest of slumbers. putting one hand over his eyes, and seizing him by the shoulder with the other, i speedily roused him. "quick, quick!" i shouted. "for the love of god get up quick! keep your mouth tightly shut and follow me." pushing and dragging him along, i made for the direction of the door. the poison fumes now began to take effect; my temples throbbed, my brain was on fire, a tight, agonising feeling of suffocation gripped my chest and throat, and, as i staggered with sir eldred across the threshold on to the landing beyond, a sea of blackness suddenly enveloped me, and i knew no more. * * * * * on coming to, i found myself lying on the floor of the corridor with vane bending over me. "i was just in time," he said. "i saw you at the window, saw you suddenly throw up your arms and stagger away from it, and, guessing what was happening, i ran to the house and, climbing up the rope you had left hanging out of your window, i managed to reach you." "sir eldred?" i panted. "oh, he's all right," vane replied. "he wasn't really so far gone as you. a few minutes more, though, and you would both have been dead. now keep cool and don't say anything about it. as soon as the air has cleared--quite cleared mind--go to bed, and come down in the morning as if nothing had happened. fortunately you made no noise, and i feel sure no one saw me enter the house. if you will let me take the lead in this affair, i think we may ferret the whole thing out. but we must go carefully. you don't mind my playing the part of instructor?" "no," i laughed, "i don't mind how despotic you are so long as we get to the bottom of this mystery. fire ahead." "very well then," vane said. "get up now and hurry off to bed. and remember--both of you--not a word to anyone." vaulting on to the window-sill as he spoke, he caught hold of the rope and was speedily lost to view. when we came down in the morning we were very careful to make no allusion to the night's happening before the servants, but strove to appear quite normal and unconcerned. i watched parry's face when he first encountered us, but it was quite immobile. "he is either quite innocent," i thought, "or a very old hand." when we were alone, sir eldred was very anxious to hear what i thought. "have you been able to form any theory," he asked, "because i haven't. i don't see how any of the servants could have let that infernal stuff loose in the room last night. i can swear there was no one there but ourselves. and for the life of me i can't see any motive. if any living person is responsible for it, he must be a lunatic, for no one here has anything to gain by my death." "you are quite sure you have no near relatives?" i said. "absolutely," he replied. "to the best of my knowledge i am the very last of the hampshire mansfields." our conversation was abruptly ended by the entrance of a maid with a sealed note. it was from vane. "at eleven o'clock to-night," he wrote, "get sir eldred to tell the parrys they must sit up with him and you in his bedroom. see that he doesn't let them off, as they are sure to make excuses. also get craddock to come down by an early afternoon train, and tell him to call round and see me immediately he arrives. leave the rest to me." this note needing no reply, i hastened off at once to the general post office and telegraphed to craddock. fortunately he was at home, and wired that he would leave waterloo by the two o'clock train. the remainder of the day passed very slowly. at ten o'clock that night someone whistled from the pines, and i knew at once that it was vane. craddock was with him. i conducted them both into sir eldred's room, where they were closeted together for some time, neither sir eldred nor i being allowed to enter. at last eleven o'clock arrived, and sir eldred went to fetch the parrys. both strongly demurred. parry declared he was unwell, and mrs. parry said she had never heard of such a thing; but sir eldred insisted, and they were obliged at last to follow him upstairs. vane and craddock had hidden themselves so that the parrys only saw me. "what do you want us to do?" parry asked nervously. "merely to sit up with us and watch," sir eldred said. "mr. anderson" (my alias) "and i have a presentiment that something may happen to-night and we don't relish the idea of facing it alone." "i'd really rather not, sir," parry faltered. "that doesn't matter," sir eldred said sternly. "it is my wish. come, if you talk like that, i shall begin to think you are both afraid. we will arrange ourselves round the fireplace. i've an idea that whatever comes will come down the chimney. you sit there, parry, next to mr. anderson. mrs. parry shall sit by me." and without further to do he pushed them both into their seats. i could see they were very much agitated, but they both lapsed into silence, and for some considerable time no one in the room spoke. my thoughts, as i presumed did sir eldred's, chiefly centred round the question as to what was the great surprise vane had in store for us. what had he discovered? what had he been so carefully plotting with craddock? on flew the minutes, and at last sir eldred struck a match; for the moon was temporarily hidden by big, black, scouring clouds. "egad!" he said, "it's close on two. the hour fatal to my family. if anything is going to happen to-night it should take place almost immediately." "if i was you, sir," mrs. parry burst out, "i wouldn't sit up any longer. i feel sure nothing will happen to-night, and if it does, our being here can do no good." "that's the truth," parry echoed. "you must wait a little longer," sir eldred said. "see, it's almost on the stroke!" as he spoke, the moon shone out again in all her brilliant lustre, and every object in the room became clearly visible. every eye was fixed on the clock. "i'm going," mrs. parry cried, springing to her feet. "i'm going, sir eldred, if you give me notice to leave. i've had enough of this nonsense." she was about to add more, when there was a sudden click, exactly similar to the click we had heard the preceding night, the dome-shaped top of the clock flew open, and the smell of something burning, but a far sweeter and more subtle odour than that of the night before, filled the room. in an instant the whole place was in an uproar. mrs. parry shrieked for help, and declared she was being choked, whilst parry, falling on his knees, clutched hold of sir eldred and implored his forgiveness. "now i'm about to die, sir," he whined, "i'll confess all. it's that cousin of yours, george, who you never heard tell of. he's married to my daughter effie, and he wanted to come into your property. he put us up to it; we only acted at his bidding." "that's a lie," a voice called out, and from behind the window-curtain stepped vane, closely followed by craddock. "you see, you can't help lying, parry, even when death stares you in the face. open the window a little wider, mr. craddock, so that all this smoke, which is quite harmless, by the way, can get out, and i'll explain everything. the two people who have been in the habit of prowling about your premises at night, sir eldred, are effie, the daughter of these miscreants here, and george mansfield, the son of your uncle richard, whom parry, truthful for once in his life, said you had never heard of. your father never mentioned his nephew to you because he was a half-caste, richard mansfield, to your father's undying disgust, having married a native of borneo. george was brought up in borneo, and only came to england for the first time three years ago, shortly after his father's death. he had heard all about the family quarrel, and, arriving in this country with none too friendly feelings towards your parents, sought an interview with sir thomas, who, if george's version of it is correct, was very curt, forbidding him ever again to enter the house. filled with intense hatred against you all, george mansfield went to london, and about that time met effie parry, who was then on 'the halls,' acting under the name of grahame. in due course of time he married her, and it was she who first suggested to him the idea of contriving by some means or other to come into the family estate. it is easy enough to gather what lay at the back of her brain when she used the euphemism 'some means or other.' life in the south-eastern states of borneo, from which george mansfield hails, is held of small account; he at once tumbled to the suggestion, and decided to summon to his assistance a spirit they worship out there called arlakoo. in order to invoke the arlakoo it was essential that certain herbs should be procured, and this necessitated time and expense. eventually, however, through the agency of friends--borneans--they were obtained. then came the question of introducing them into the right quarters. effie's parents both inherit criminal tendencies: parry's uncle james was a notorious forger, and mrs. parry's grandmother was hanged for baby-farming. you needn't look so indignant, you two, for i've been to the c.i.d.--you know what the c.i.d. is--for my information. well, the parrys were taken into confidence, and sir thomas, being in need of both a butler and housekeeper just then, the two applied for the posts and got them. the rest was comparatively easy. george is an engineer by profession and has a good inventive faculty. coming to this house when the family were all away, he espied the clock you see on the mantelshelf, in the room your mother and father slept in, and, on examining the dome, discovered that it opened, and that there was a cupid inside it which, when in proper working order, bounced out whenever the hour struck. it appears to have been in your family a good many years, sir eldred, for george mansfield had previously come across a reference to it in one of his father's diaries, and his fertile brain now conceived the idea of using it in the process of carrying his scheme into effect. in the place of the cupid he resolved to insert a miniature brazier containing the herbs and supplied with an electric fuse, the mechanism of which could be so contrived that whenever the clock should strike two, and two only, the dome would fly open, the brazier spring up, and the herbal preparation be ignited. he was only too well aware of the hereditary tendency of the mansfield family to heart disease, and calculated that the shock of seeing so awful an apparition as the arlakoo (which he firmly believed he could call up), together with the poisonous fumes that accompanied it--provided the door and windows were shut, which could be accomplished with the assistance of the parrys--would encompass the deaths he desired. he chose, for his first victim, your mother. the day you and your father went to london to meet your brother, parry smuggled george mansfield into the house, and the latter, seizing an opportunity when your mother was out, fitted up the clock with the brazier containing the herbal preparation and the fuse. as you know, his diabolical scheme succeeded only too well, not only your mother, but your father and brother falling victims to it. this morning mrs. parry paid a visit to her son-in-law, and i overheard their conversation. great surprise was expressed at the failure of the clock yesterday, and it was decided to try it again to-night. this is the result. the vapour you saw come out of the clock just now was a quite harmless gas which mr. craddock substituted for the original preparation george mansfield had put there. we caught george nicely in the garden shortly after nine. we threatened to treat him in a thoroughly bornean fashion"--and vane produced his revolver--"and he then confessed everything. he is now in the safe custody of the c.i.d. men." "how did you come to suspect the clock, vane?" i asked. "you forget the hole in the wall," he said, laughing. "i overheard continual allusion to the clock, and 'filling and charging' it again, and as i knew it was not customary to fill and charge clocks, i at once smelt a rat. my suspicions were confirmed when i came to your rescue last night and saw tiny spirals of the green vapour still emanating from the dome-shaped top. i consulted with mr. craddock, and with his assistance i was able to carry out this little plot which, i think, we will all agree has succeeded almost beyond expectation. any more questions?" "not for the present, mr. vane," sir eldred said. "i must, first of all, express my deep sense of gratitude to you for the clever way in which you have managed to frustrate the plot to take my life. you have captured one villain; it now remains to deal with these scoundrels here. i wish to goodness my cousin had not been involved in it. i suppose, by the way, there is no doubt that this george mansfield is my cousin?" "i fear none whatever," vane said. "i called at his rooms when i knew he was out, and found documents there which fully established his identity. i'm afraid you must prosecute him with the others." but sir eldred, fortunately, was spared that degradation; for hardly had vane finished speaking when one of the c.i.d. men arrived at the house and informed us that george mansfield was no more. he had evaded justice by swallowing a poisonous lozenge which he had secreted in his handkerchief. the parrys were let go; the law does not acknowledge the superphysical, and sir eldred recognised the futility of prosecuting them. they eventually went to canada and were heard of no more. the caspar beeches, however, had got a sinister name; no tradespeople would venture within its grounds after dusk, and no servants would stay there. sir eldred himself lived in a constant state of fear, and confided in me that he frequently heard strange noises--doors opening and shutting of their own accord, and soft, inexplicable footsteps. eventually the house was shut up, and, although it has since been periodically occupied, no one ever cares to remain in it for long. when once invoked, it seems that spirits, especially evil ones, have an unpleasant habit of clinging to a person or place, and, in spite of what some people assert, can seldom, if ever, be laid. chapter xii the stepping-stones between coalbrookdale and the wrekin, in a charmingly wooded valley, flows a stream crossed by seven stepping-stones, and on one bank of the stream are the ruins of what was once a farmhouse. people shun the spot at night, and tell strange tales of the uncanny things that are seen there. the following narrative may very possibly afford an explanation of the alleged hauntings. about noon one stifling hot day in august, rather more than thirty years ago, robert redblake casson, senior partner of the firm of casson, hunter & co., ivory merchants, of old queen street, london, walked into the fox and greyhound inn, coalbrookdale, and ordered luncheon. while he was eating--there was no one else in the dining-room at the time--his eyes wandered to a large oil-painting hanging on the wall facing him. it represented a stream spanned by seven large stepping-stones. in the background of the picture, and leading to the bank of the stream, was a broad and very white pathway, bordered on either side by a thickly planted row of lofty pines. the artist, casson thought, had depicted this scene with a more than ordinary touch of realism. the trees were no mere paint-and-canvas duds, but things of life--things that stood out prominently, each with an individuality of its own. he could almost see them move, see the rustling of their foliage and hear the creaking of their gently swaying bodies. their shadows, too, were no empty, meaningless daubs, such as one too often sees in pictures, but counterparts, living, breathing counterparts, that, while conveying a sense of the physical, conveyed also a suggestion of the inexplicable. as to the water in the stream which rippled and babbled as it flowed, casson could feel the speed and gauge the shallowness of it everywhere, saving round the centre stepping-stone, where it was green, and seemed to possess the stillness that great depths alone can generate. there was sunlight everywhere on the surface of the water, and here and there it shone and sparkled with all the brilliant lustre of the goldfishes' scales; but despite this animation, a sense of utter loneliness, a feeling of intense isolation, seemed to permeate the whole thing, and casson, as he gazed, felt both chilled and depressed. he was still looking at the picture, and wondering what there could be in it to cause such a sensation of chilliness, when something made him glance at the stepping-stones, and, to his utter amazement, he saw the centre one suddenly begin to oscillate. thinking it must be some kind of optical illusion, casson rubbed his eyes and looked again, but the stone was still shaking, and he fancied he could discern the shadowy and indistinct outline of something or someone standing on it, swaying violently to and fro. the phenomenon lasted some seconds, and then very abruptly ceased. casson got up from the table and walked right up to the picture. he examined it closely, and, oddly enough, although he was standing on the floor a foot or so away from the canvas, he yet felt he was absorbed by it, and part and parcel of the surroundings it depicted. the stone was quite motionless now, but despite this fact, the fact that it now lay firmly embedded in its cup-like basin, casson was acutely conscious that it had moved. moreover, its present stillness was of the most impressive nature; it was, as it were, the stillness that only comes after great emotion. casson looked for the name of the artist, and at last, in one corner of the canvas, painted in sepia to tone with the general colouring, he found the signature. it was "ralph l. wotherall." "good heavens!" he ejaculated; "this must be my old friend. there cannot be two ralph l. wotheralls. besides, i remember he used to be fond of painting, and, judging from this specimen, he must have taken to it professionally. how i should like to meet him again!" his memory ran back a clear score of years. he and wotherall had been the staunchest of friends; they had shared a study in dempster's house at harley. wotherall was quite the best boy in the school in drawing; indeed, it was about the only subject he was good in; and he had often remarked to casson that whatever his father, who was a big timber merchant, might desire to the contrary, he meant to go to the slade school in london and be an artist. he decorated the walls of the study with sketches and caricatures of the boys and masters--casson even now laughed as he thought of some of them--and during his last term at the old place he had executed an oil-painting. if casson remembered correctly, it depicted a river (wotherall had always evinced a very strong fascination for water scenery), and was hung in a very conspicuous place over the mantelpiece. wotherall had not been popular at harley. he was no good at games, and did not take the trouble to conceal his dislike of them. besides, he had no respect for conventions; he did not have a fag, and inveighed hotly against those who did; he thought nothing of the "caps" and other big-wigs, and was invariably in trouble, either with a master, a house sixth, or somebody of an equally recognised importance. still, for all that, he had been a most excellent chum, and he, casson, had repeatedly felt a longing to see him again, if only to chat about the many escapades they had had together. what had become of him, he wondered? strange that that stone in the picture should have attracted his attention--should have led him to look for the name of the artist, and to discover in it his old friend! of course the rocking of the stone was a hallucination. probably his sight had played him a trick or his brain had suddenly become giddy. how could a stone in a picture--a thing of mere paint and canvas--suddenly start rocking? the thing was too fantastic for words, and he walked back to his seat, laughing. ringing the bell, he asked to see the landlord, and when the latter appeared, he inquired of him how he had come by the picture, and if he knew the artist. "i bought that picture, sir," the landlord replied, "of a woman of the name of griffiths. i happened to be passing her house--stepping-stone farm, they call it--one day, when she was having a sale of some of her live stock, together with a few odds and ends in the way of surplus furniture, books, pictures, etc. i am very fond of a good landscape, sir, particularly with a bit of water in it, and there was something about this one that specially appealed to me. that, sir, is the stream that flows outside the old woman's house, and it was painted, so she informed me, by an artist who used to lodge with her, but had to leave in the end because he was stony-broke, and hadn't the wherewithal to go on paying the rent. a not uncommon happening with artists, sir, so i have always been given to understand. from what i gathered he owed the old woman pounds, and the few things he left behind him--knick-knacks and a couple of pictures--i bought the lot--was all the compensation she could ever get out of him." "you don't know where he went, i suppose?" casson said. "no," the landlord replied, shaking his head. "mrs. griffiths did not volunteer that information, and, as i was not particularly interested in the fellow, i didn't ask her. she doesn't live very far from here, however, and if you would like to see her, sir, you could hire a trap and drive over, or even walk--though, maybe, you'd find walking a bit too tiring this weather." casson thanked the landlord, and, feeling particularly fit and well, decided to set off at once on foot to stepping-stone farm. he had little difficulty in finding the way, thanks to the prodigality of the local authorities in their distribution of signposts, and the sun had hardly begun to set, when a sudden swerve of the road showed him an avenue of trees that he instantly identified as that depicted in wotherall's picture. everywhere he encountered the same atmosphere of intense loneliness and isolation, not untinged with a melancholy, that had the most depressing effect, and filled his mind with a hundred and one dismal reflections. advancing over the white soil he soon heard the rushing of water, and saw, straight ahead of him and apparently barring his progress, a broad stream, that seemed unusually full of water for the time of year. as he drew near he perceived the stream was spanned by seven stepping-stones, and, drawing nearer still, he saw that, just as in wotherall's picture, the water on either side the middle and largest of the stones formed two big pools, one of which was singularly green and suggestive of very great depth. on the opposite side of the stream, almost on its very bank, a farmyard encircled a long, low building, the walls of which were barely visible beneath a profusion of pink and white roses, clematis and honeysuckle. casson thought he had never seen anything quite so enchanting, and, being a man who invariably acted upon impulse, decided to ask mrs. griffiths, whose house it undoubtedly was, to put him up for the night. to do that, however, he would of course have to cross the stream. now casson had often crossed deep rivers in norway by stepping-stones, and in crossing these rivers he had twice seen a man slip and, with one agonising shriek of despair, plunge headlong into the seething foam, his body, bruised and battered and hardly recognisable, being found many days later, calmly floating in some obscure nook maybe a mile or so away; and compared with these scandinavian rivers the stream that now faced him was but a brooklet. all the same, he had never experienced such an intense fear and feeling of insecurity as now, when, stepping lightly over the first three stones, he landed on the centre one and gazed into the green, silent depths of the largest and deepest of the two pools that lay on either side of it. there was something curiously unnatural about this pool; he had never seen such a pronounced green in fresh water before, and its depth was in such marked contrast to the shallow, babbling water all around it. as he peered into it, a dark shadow seemed to well up to its surface, but he could trace no likeness in it to himself, and the trees were too far off for it to be produced by any one of them. he was asking himself how it could have come there, when his eyes wandered to the stone on which he was standing. what an odd shape it was, nearly round and slightly convex, like the back of a turtle or some other queer amphibious creature, and it moved; he was positive of that, but it did not move with the rocking, vibrating movement he had witnessed in the picture; it moved with a furtive, sidelong, crawling action, as if it were alive. the sensation was unendurable. he turned to go, and, as he leaped through the air to the fourth stone, something whose attitude towards him he could not exactly define seemed to rise out of the green pool with astonishing celerity and leap with him. arriving on the seventh and last stone, he was conscious of a strong restraining influence, an enigmatical something that seemed to be trying to pull him back, and it was only by exerting every atom of his will power that he succeeded in forcing himself forward. however, the moment his feet touched the bank and he was quite clear of the water, he was himself again. he turned and looked at the stone. it was absolutely motionless, while a stray sunbeam, gilding the surface of the silent pool, made it appear quite ridiculously cheerful. vexed with himself for being such a fool, casson now crossed the farmyard and, going up to the house, knocked at the door. it was opened by a middle-aged woman, who might once have been the village belle, but who was now thin and worn. "yes," she said, running her eyes carefully over casson's face and clothes. "what is it?" "are you mrs. griffiths?" casson ejaculated. "i am a friend of mr. wotherall. i understand he once boarded with you." "that's right," the woman replied. "he lived with me more than six months, and left two years ago last may. he didn't owe you anything, did he?" "oh no," casson replied quickly; "far from it. he and i were old schoolfellows. i saw a picture of his at the place i lunched at to-day, and, hearing he had been in the neighbourhood, i thought i would like to find out his present whereabouts." "if you've come to inquire of me, i'm afraid you'll be disappointed," mrs. griffiths responded, "for i've neither seen him nor heard from him since he went away, and he would not leave any address for letters to be forwarded, as he said he had written to all his friends to tell them not to write here any more. a good many bills, but nothing else, came for him after he left, and those i have returned to the dead letter office. he was very hard up, poor gentleman, and it's my opinion he didn't want his creditors to know what had become of him." "i suppose he must have lost money then," casson murmured, "for i always understood that his people were very comfortably fixed, and that he was an only child. poor old wotherall, i should so like to have met him again! do you still let rooms?" "yes, sir," mrs. griffiths replied; "a top bedroom and parlour. the same two as mr. wotherall had. the last people that occupied them, a commercial traveller and his wife from leeds, only left last week. would you like to see them?" casson acquiesced, and, liking the look of the rooms immensely, took them for a fortnight, which was all that remained of his seven weeks' holidays. "it is a charming spot," he argued, "and i can easily amuse myself mooching about the fields or lying by the stream reading. rest and quiet, and a plain, wholesome diet, such as one always gets at a farm, are just the very things i need." he had a gorgeous tea that evening--strawberries, freshly gathered from the garden, cream, delicious butter and bread, none of that mysterious substitute that is palmed off on one nowadays in most of the london hotels and restaurants, but real home-made bread, which tasted far nicer than anything he had ever eaten in bond street or piccadilly--and he enjoyed the meal so much, in fact, that he felt in a particularly amiable frame of mind, and thoroughly well satisfied with the world in general. presently he got up, intending to go out. he crossed the stone-flagged hall, and, passing the kitchen, the door of which was slightly open, he perceived mrs. griffiths busily engaged at a pastry-board rolling away as if for dear life. wishing to be sociable, he called out, and as soon as she invited him in, opened up a conversation with her, inquiring how many cows she kept, how much land she rented, and had she a good crop of fruit. whilst she was answering these questions, expatiating to no small degree on the trials and drawbacks of having to run a farm without a husband to look after it (she had, she remarked, with much emphasis and a dangerous approach to tears, been married twice, her first husband, "the best man as ever breathed," dying of consumption, and her second, a drunkard and a bad lot in every way, deserting her and going off to america, so she had always believed, with some other woman); whilst, i say, she was engaged telling him all this, he suddenly found himself gazing at an object hanging on the wall near the grandfather clock. it was a striped chocolate, white, and blue scarf, with the letters h.c. in white standing out in bold relief. he recognised the colours at once; they were the colours of dempster's house at harley. evidently wotherall had left the scarf behind as part of the personal effects that he had had to hand over to mrs. griffiths, in order to appease her indignation at his failure to produce the rent. poor beggar, he must indeed have been hard pushed to part with so sacred a memento of his early life. casson, like every other harleyan, had the greatest reverence and affection for everything associated with the old school, the mere thought of which even now sent a thrill of genuine emotion through him. "i see you have got a souvenir of my friend over there," he said, pointing to the scarf. "i suppose he made you a present of it when he left." "what do you mean?" mrs. griffiths demanded, abruptly breaking off from her pastry-making "a souvenir of your friend? i don't understand." "i mean that scarf hanging on the wall there," casson cried, again indicating with his hand its whereabouts. "it's my old school, or rather house, scarf. but what makes it blow about so? there doesn't seem to be any wind." "house! scarf! colours!" mrs. griffiths ejaculated. "i never heard tell of such things. you must be crazy. there's nothing on the wall saving that almanac that was given me by the grocer over in coalbrookdale for a christmas present. have you never seen an almanac before?" "not made of wool and behaving like that," casson remarked. then, going a few steps nearer, he gave vent to a loud exclamation of surprise. there was no scarf there at all, not the vestige of one, only a picture almanac representing an intensely silly-looking girl holding a lawn-tennis racket. "my liver must be very wrong and i must be more than ordinarily bilious," casson said. "i could have sworn it was a scarf." "you're run down; been working too hard, mr. casson," mrs. griffiths observed. "what you want is a rest. go to bed early, and don't try your eyes over books and letter-writing." casson thanked her for her advice and, turning on his heels, left the kitchen. for one brief second he paused to look back. mrs. griffiths was staring after him, and in the depths of her large china-blue eyes, the pupils of which seemed to have grown to an unusual size, he read an expression of curiosity intermingled with fear. the next few hours casson spent lying on the grassy bank of the stream. there was something wonderfully soothing in the constant rustling of the leaves of the big trees in the avenue, and the eternal babble, babble, babble of the water. at times he construed the sounds into real sighings and whisperings, and fancied he could hear his name called, "casson! casson! casson!" very softly and plaintively, but occasionally with such reality that he started, and had to reassure himself earnestly that it was all imagination. then the shadows on the white soil of the avenue riveted his attention. that they were only the shadows of the trees he had no doubt, and yet he queried every now and then if he had ever before seen shadows flit about and contort themselves in quite such an incomprehensible manner. the emptiness of the avenue, too, seemed so emphasised. why was it so deserted? why weren't there people about--living beings among those dark swaying trees and bushes like there were in the london parks? he did not know if he altogether liked the avenue now, when twilight was coming on. his eyes had tricked him in the kitchen; might they not trick him again out here, and in a rather more alarming manner? he would not look at the avenue again, not till it was broad daylight; he would turn his attention to something else. and then, of course, his eyes rested on the stepping-stones. one, two, three, four, he counted. there was that confounded queer-shaped middle stone again, and that pool! how black and sinister they both looked in the semi-darkness! he would sound the pool in the morning and see if it was really as deep as he fancied. he turned away his eyes and tried to keep his attention concentrated on something else, but it was never any good, and in the end he invariably caught himself gazing at the stones, and particularly at the middle one. at last, tearing himself away with an effort, he went indoors and had supper, and at ten o'clock by his watch wended his way upstairs to bed. just outside his door he suddenly pulled himself up sharply. another step, and he felt he would have collided with something or somebody, and yet, when he looked there was nothing--nothing save space. more convinced than ever now that there was something wrong either with the place or himself, casson entered his room and proceeded to get into bed. the exertions of the day had made him tired, and he was soon asleep. he supposed he slept for about three hours, for he awoke with a start to hear the kitchen clock hurriedly strike two. his heart was beating furiously, and he had the most uncomfortable feeling that there was someone besides himself in the room. he fought against this feeling for some time, until, at last, unable to endure it any longer, he got out of bed, lit the candle, and searched the room thoroughly. the door was locked on the inside--he remembered locking it--and he was quite alone. "it must be nerves," he said, getting back into bed and blowing out the light. "a strong tonic is what i want. i will write to dr. joyce for one to-morrow. but i've never been afflicted with nerves before! and in all consciousness i live simply enough; so i don't know why i should suddenly develop biliousness." then seized with a sudden desire to blow his nose, and recollecting that his handkerchief was on the chair by the bedside, he was putting out his hand to grope for it, when he felt it quietly thrust into his palm. after that he pulled the bedclothes tightly over his head and kept them there till the morning. with the sunlight all doubts and uneasiness vanished, and casson got out of bed fully convinced that all his experiences of the previous night were due to mere nervousness. "i'm a londoner," he argued, "and, not being used to the quiet and loneliness of these out-of-the-way places, i got the wind up." breakfast made him even more confident, and he went out into the yard in the cheeriest mood possible. after amusing himself watching the poultry, pigs, and other animals, he wandered through a wicket-gate into a field, and then through another field down to the stream. while he was threading his way back to the farm, through a mass of gorse and other undergrowth, he came upon a boy bending over a fishing-rod, busily intent on putting something red and raw--like uncooked meat--on a hook. "whatever's that horrid-looking stuff," casson said. "you'll never catch fish with bait like that. why don't you use dough?" "'cos i know they like this best," was the answer, and the boy looked up at casson and grinned. casson was now so taken up with the boy's appearance that he forgot all about the bait. he had never seen such an unpleasant, queer, malshapen face before. the cranium was disproportionately large; the forehead and sides of the head immediately above and behind the ears were enormously developed; the chin was small and retreating; the ears, which stood very pronouncedly out from the head, were very big and pointed; the mouth huge; the eyes big, dark, and very heavily lidded; the skin yellow and unhealthy. the face was unprepossessing enough in repose, but when the lips opened and it smiled, the likeness to some ghoulish, froggish, and wholly monstrous kind of animal was increased a hundredfold, and casson started back in dismay. "who are you?" he demanded, "and what right have you to fish here?" "i like that--i do," the boy grunted. "why, i've every right. i'm ephraim owen lloyd. my mother, her you're staying with, was mrs. owen lloyd before she married again and took the name of griffiths. no right to fish here! you tell my mother that and see what she says." and, grinning wider than ever, he picked up the baited hook and flung it far into the stream. not wishing to have any further conversation with him, and feeling thoroughly disgusted and repelled, casson walked on towards the stones. "fancy being under the same roof with a young degenerate like that!" he said to himself. "i wish now i hadn't decided to stay so long." slashing at the grass and other herbage with his stick--a trick casson always resorted to when unsettled or annoyed--he reached the stones, and was about to turn into the yard when he received something of a surprise. a man in flannels, with a chocolate, white, and blue striped blazer, passed him by and, crossing the yard, vanished round an angle of the house. casson did not see his face, but the back of his head, his figure, and walk at once recalled wotherall. "if that's not ralph," casson exclaimed, "i'll eat my hat! i wonder why he's come back? it will give him a bit of a surprise when he sees me." at the front door he ran into mrs. griffiths, who, with an apron full of french beans, was making for the kitchen. "have you seen him?" casson inquired. "seen who?" mrs. griffiths rejoined. "the man in the blazer, of course," casson replied. "mr. wotherall, wasn't it?" "mr. wotherall!" mrs. griffiths exclaimed, stopping short and staring hard at casson. "you seem to have got mr. wotherall on the brain. mr. wotherall is nowhere near here--leastways, if he is, i've seen no signs of him." "why, there he is!" casson cried excitedly, pointing at a window, through which he saw a figure in the familiar harleyan house blazer saunter slowly by. "that is wotherall. he hasn't altered in the least. see, he's looking straight in here--at me! i'll go and speak to him!" he ran to the door and threw it open. to his astonishment, there was no one there but young ephraim lloyd, who met his puzzled expression with an impudent leer. "where's mr. wotherall?" casson cried. "what's become of him?" the boy's countenance instantly underwent a change. "mr. wotherall!" he stammered. "what do you know of mr. wotherall?" "know of him?" casson retorted angrily. "that's my business. he was here a few seconds ago, and now i can see no trace of him. where is he, i say?" by this time mrs. griffiths had deposited the beans on the kitchen table and joined the two at the door. "take no notice of the gentleman," she said to ephraim, "it's overwork. been a-studying too hard. i've told him he must throw aside his books and letter-writing while he is here, and rest." "do you mean to tell me," casson said "that neither of you saw a man in a blazer pass here just now?" "naw!" ephraim drawled. "i ain't seen no one. there's no man in a blazer or in any other kind of thing anywhere about here. there's no man at all except yourself." "that's right!" mrs. griffiths chipped in. "i told the gentleman so, only he won't believe me." "i must have been dreaming, then," casson replied reluctantly; "but, at all events, i am awake now, and should like my dinner, mrs. griffiths, as soon as you can get it." that ended the incident. casson retreated to his parlour, and the other two, after mumbling for awhile in the hall, retired together to the kitchen. the rest of the day passed uneventfully, and, once again, casson found himself, candle in hand, wending his way upstairs to bed. just outside his door the same thing happened as on the previous night. he thought he saw someone standing there, and pulled himself up sharply to avoid a collision. once inside his room he locked the door, and then looked everywhere to make sure no one was hiding. that preliminary over, he stood for a while by the window smoking, then undressed, and got into bed. leaning on his elbow, he was about to blow out the candle, which was on the chair by his side, when there was a big puff and it was blown out for him. no thought of investigating this time entered casson's mind; he dived deep under the bedclothes, and did not emerge till mrs. griffiths, almost thumping his door down, announced that his breakfast was on the table getting cold. after breakfast he went for a ramble in the fields, and as he had no desire to come in contact with ephraim, towards whom he had taken a most violent dislike, he headed in a direction away from the stream. he had not gone many yards, however, when he heard a cat screaming as if in fearful pain. thinking some dog had got hold of it and was worrying it to death, and being very fond of cats, casson at once made for the sounds, and in an open space, within a few yards of the stream, came upon a spectacle that he felt he could never forget, even if he lived a thousand years. tied down securely with cord to the top of a big wooden box was a black and white cat. ephraim had hooked out one of its eyes, which was on the ground near his fishing-line, and was now about to hook out the other. the mystery of the bait casson had seen him using the day before was thus explained. with something like a howl of fury casson rushed at ephraim, and, seizing him by the scruff of his neck, thrashed him until his arms ached. then flinging him on the ground with the remark, "you little devil, i hope i've killed you," he untied the cat. weak with pain and loss of blood, the wretched animal had not the strength to move, and casson, lifting it tenderly up, carried it to the house. going straight into the kitchen, he showed it to mrs. griffiths. "this is your son's work," he said. "i'm going to show it to the police at once, and i only hope he'll get a thorough good birching." mrs. griffiths ceased what she was doing and looked at casson defiantly. "what do you want to interfere with ephraim for?" she remarked. "he ain't done nothing to you, has he?" "he's done nothing to me, perhaps," casson retorted, "but he's done something to this cat. you can see for yourself." "well, he's only a boy," mrs. griffiths responded; "and if he has ill-treated the cat, there's not much harm done. i expect it's the same cat that has been after the chickens. the cats about here are a perfect pest." "that's no excuse for hooking their eyes out," casson said hotly. "i intend leaving at once. here's a week's rent," and, taking some money from his pocket, he deposited it on the table. at that moment there were sounds of steps on the gravel outside, loud hullabalooings, and ephraim burst into the kitchen. "the gentleman's been hitting me," he bellowed. "he struck me on the head and boxed my ears." "you struck him!" mrs. griffiths screamed, her cheeks white with fury. "you dared to strike him! i'll have the law on you, see if i don't. there, there, ephraim, cease crying, and you shall have what is left of that custard pudding you liked so much yesterday." this bribe apparently taking effect, mrs. griffiths gave her offspring a final cuddle, and then veered round with the intention of renewing an attack upon casson. before she could open her mouth to speak, however, there was another howling on the part of ephraim, and casson, under cover of it hurried off to his bedroom to collect his things. as he went upstairs, both the boy and his mother showered abuses on him, and he thought he heard ephraim say something to the effect that he wished they could serve him as they had served someone else--the name of the someone else being drowned in a loud hush from mrs. griffiths, who afterwards began to speak very excitedly in welsh. on reaching his room casson sought to revive the cat. he gave it some brandy from his flask, but the animal had been so badly mauled that all his efforts were in vain, and in a very few minutes it succumbed. he was thinking how he should carry it to the police station, when he heard a growl, and, looking round, saw a big black retriever dog, with a bright steel collar, standing on its hind legs, with its back towards him, gazing out of the window. wondering whose dog it was, and what it was growling at, casson went to the window, and, looking out, saw mrs. griffiths and the boy, each armed with a long pole, making off in the direction of the stream. once or twice they peeped round, (whereupon casson quickly hid himself behind the curtain), and then, apparently satisfied that they had not been seen, kept on following the course of the stream till they arrived at the stepping-stones. crossing the first two, they stood on the third, and, thrusting the tops of their poles under the middle one, began to lever it up. casson now thought it high time to depart. he felt convinced that they were setting some kind of trap for him, and that the exact nature of it was only known to themselves. thanking his lucky stars that he had happened to look out of the window in time to see their little game, and determining to escape at once, avoiding the stepping-stones at all costs, he was preparing to leave the room, when he suddenly thought of the dog. it was nowhere to be seen, and the door and the window were both shut. where could it be? he looked under the bed, in the cupboard, everywhere; it was useless--the dog had vanished! "the sooner i am out of this house," he muttered, as he ran downstairs and out at the kitchen door, "the better." and taking care, as he crossed the yard, to keep well out of sight of the stepping-stones, he ran in an opposite direction, without stopping for at least a mile. eventually he crossed the stream by a bridge, and found his way to a village, from whence he was able to proceed by train to coalbrookdale. arriving at the latter place, he went at once to the police, and telling them first of all about the cat, went on to narrate all that had happened to him at the farm. the police were not altogether unsympathetic; they could, however, so they said, do nothing with regard to the cat without corroborative evidence, and, as to the other matter, they were afraid the law did not take cognizance of the superphysical, or suspicion founded on anything so immaterial as ghosts, although they themselves would not like to go as far as to deny their existence altogether. at length, being unable to prevail upon the police to do anything, casson, by offering a handsome remuneration, persuaded two labourers to accompany him back to the stream. arriving at the stepping-stones, they cautiously examined the middle one, and found it to be so poised that anyone standing on it would, by its unexpected tilt, suddenly be precipitated into a deep hole directly underneath it. after considerable difficulty the stone was sufficiently moved on one side to enable the workmen to explore this hole, and at the bottom of it the skeletons of two men and a dog were discovered. there was nothing on the one skeleton that could in any way help to identify it; but remnants of clothes, ragged and rotten, still adhered to the other, and from the name engraven on a card-case in the pocket of the coat, which tallied with the initials on the undergarments and a signet ring, there was little doubt but that the remains were those of ralph wotherall. [from subsequent inquiries it was ascertained that the friends and relatives of ralph wotherall had heard from him immediately prior to the time he was supposed to have left stepping-stone farm, but had not heard from him since, a fact to which they had attributed little importance, as wotherall, on more than one occasion, had suddenly decided to go abroad, where he had stayed for a couple of years or so without letting anyone know where he was or what he was doing. the story, they said, of his being so hard up as to be unable to pay the rent could be discredited by his solicitors, who would testify to the fact that they had but recently invested a large sum of money for him, from which he was deriving a not inconsiderable income.] a steel collar bearing the initials r. l. w. was found round the neck of the third skeleton, and as several people remembered having seen a big black retriever with wotherall while he was staying at the farm, it was pretty certain that the canine remains were those of his dog. however, mrs. griffiths, who appeared to be quite as astonished as anyone at the discovery of the skeletons, still stuck to her original story that wotherall had left the neighbourhood, taking his dog with him, and against her statements casson could only reiterate his surmises. he was quite certain that mrs. griffiths and her evil-faced son were guilty of murder, that, having done away with wotherall and some other man by means of the stepping-stone, they had deliberately set the same deathtrap for him, and that he had only been saved from falling into it by the apparition of his old friend's dog; but he could not, of course, expect the police to work up a case, which, from their point of view, rested upon such an unsubstantial foundation, and as on examination the skeleton showed no evidence of foul play, there was no alternative, the usual verdict of "death from misadventure" had to be returned. chapter xiii the pines "who is the most interesting person in this institution?" my friend dr. custance remarked, repeating my words. "if you mean from your point of view--ghosts, i should say dacre, george richard dacre. he is pretty old now--close upon seventy, and very possibly you have never heard of him. the case, with which he was somewhat closely connected, took place in cumberland about forty years ago, and the spot is still said to be haunted. if you would like to hear all about it, come along, and i will introduce you to him." custance led me into a room, where an old man, with a glistening bald head and white beard, sat, leaning back in his chair, and examining his hands with an air of strange intensity. "mr. dacre," custance remarked, "i have brought you a visitor, a mr. elliot o'donnell, who is very interested in the supernatural, and would much like to hear some of your experiences." the old man raised his eyes; they did not look at me, but beyond, far beyond, into a world that seemed known only to himself. "i have only had one experience," he said, "and that was a long while ago; so long that, at times, it seems as if it must have happened to me in another incarnation, when i was something out of doors--a pine or an elm--something growing in a wood. i can still, occasionally, smell resin, after one of those long hot summers we used to have,--seventy or eighty years ago,--and occasionally hear the wind, the deliciously cool, evening breezes, rustling and sighing, as it were, through my branches and fanning my perspiring bark. sit down, and i will tell you all about it. * * * * * "it was a cold night. rain had been falling steadily not only for hours but days--the ground was saturated. as i walked along the country lane, the slush splashed over my boots and trousers. to my left was a huge stone wall, behind which i could see the nodding heads of pines; and through them the wind was rushing, making a curious whistling sound--now loud, now soft--roaring and gently murmuring. the sound fascinated me. i fancied it might be the angry voice of a man and the plaintive pleading of a woman, and then, a weird chorus of unearthly beings, of grotesque things that stalked across the moors and crept from behind huge boulders. nothing but the wind was to be heard. i stood and listened to it. i could have listened for hours, for i felt in harmony with my surroundings--lonely. the moon showed itself at intervals from behind the scudding clouds and lighted up the open landscape to my right. a gaunt hill covered with rocks, some piled up pyramidically, others strewn here and there; a few trees with naked arms tossing about and looking distressfully thin beside the more stalwart boulders; a sloping field or two, a couple of level ones, crossed by a tiny path; and the lane, where i stood. the scenery was desolate--not actually wild, but sad and forlorn; and the wood by my side lent an additionally weird aspect to the place, which was pleasing to me. "suddenly i heard a sound--a sound, familiar enough at other times; but, at this hour, and in this place, everything seemed different. a woman was coming along the road--a woman in a dark cloak, with a basket under her arm; and the wind was blowing her skirts about her legs. "i looked at the trees. one singularly gaunt and fantastic one appalled me. it had long, gnarled arms, and two of them ended in bunches of twigs like hands--yes, they were exactly like hands--huge, murderous-looking hands, with bony fingers. the moonlight played over and around me--i was bathed in it. i had no business to be on the earth--my proper place was in the moon. i no longer thought it--i knew it. the woman was close at hand. she stopped at a little wicket gate leading into the lane skirting the northern boundary of the wood. i felt angry; what right had she to be there, interrupting my musings with the moon! the tree with the human hands appeared to agree. i saw anger in the movements of its branches--anger, which soon blazed into fury. it gave a mighty bend towards her, as if longing to rend her in pieces. "i followed the woman; and the wind howled louder and louder through those rustling leaves. "how long i scrambled on i do not know. as soon as the moonlight left me, i fell into a kind of slumber--a delicious trance, broken only by the restless murmurings, the sighings and groanings of the wind. sweeter music i never heard. then came a terrible change. the charm of my thoughts was broken--i awoke from my reverie. "a terrific roar broke on my ears, and a perfect hurricane of rain swept through the wood. i crept cold and shivering beneath the shelter of the trees. to my surprise a hand fell on my shoulder: it was a man, and, like myself, he shivered. "'who are you?' he whispered, in a strangely hoarse voice. 'who are you? why are you here?' "'you wouldn't believe me if i told you,' i replied, shaking off the man's grasp. "'well,--tell me,' he rejoined; 'for god's sake tell me.' he was frightened--trembling with fright. could it be the storm, or was it--was it those trees? "i told him then and there why i had trespassed. i was fascinated--the wind--and the trees--had led me thither. "'so am i,' he whispered; 'i am fascinated. it is a long word, but it describes my sentiments. what did the wind sound like?' "i told him. he was a poor, common man, and had no poetical ideas. the wildly romantic had never interested him--he was but an ignorant labouring man. "'sounded like sighing, groaning, and so on?' he said, repeating my words, and shifting uneasily from one foot to another. he was cold, horribly cold. 'was that all?' "'yes, of course. why ask?' i replied. then i laughed. this stupid, sturdy son of toil had been scared; to him the sounds had been those of his moorland bogies--things he had dreaded in his infancy. i told him so. he didn't like to hear me make fun of him. he didn't like my laugh, and he persisted: 'was that all you heard?' "then i grew impatient, and asked him to explain what he meant. "'well,' he said, 'i thought i heard a scream,--a cry. just as if some one had jumped out on some one else and taken them unawares. maybe it was the wind--only the wind. but it had an eerie sound.' "the man was nervous. the storm had frightened away whatever little wit he may have possessed. "'come, let us be going,' i said, moving off in the direction of the wall. i wanted to find a new exit; i was tired of paths. "the man kept close to me. i could hear his teeth chatter. accidentally his hand brushed against mine. his flesh was icy cold. he gave a cry as if a snake had bitten him. then the truth flashed through me. the man was mad. his terror, his strange manner of showing it, and now this sudden shrinking from me revealed it all--he was mad--the moon and trees had done their work. "'i'm not going that way,' he said, 'come along with me. i want to see which of the trees it was that cried.' "his voice was changed; he seemed suddenly to have grown stranger. there was no insanity in his tone now. but i knew the cunning of the insane, and i feared to anger him, so i acquiesced. what an idea! one of the trees had cried! did he mean the wind? "he grew sullen when i jeered at him. he led me to a little hollow in the ground, and i noticed the prints of several feet in the wet mud. then i saw something which sent the cold blood to my heart. a woman bathed in blood lay before me. somehow she was familiar to me. i looked again--then again. yes, there was the dark shawl, the basket--broken, it was true, with the contents scattered; but it was the same basket. it was the woman i had seen coming down the road. "'my god, whatever is this!' the man by my side spoke. he swayed backwards and forwards on his feet, his face white and awful in the moonlight. he was sick with terror. 'oh god, it is horrible--horrible!' then, with a sudden earnestness and a crafty look in his eyes, he bent over her. "'who is it?' he cried. 'who is the poor wretch?' "i saw him peer into her face, but he didn't touch her--he dreaded the blood. then he started back, his eyes filled with such savageness as i had never seen in any man's before. he looked a devil--he was a devil. 'it's my wife!' he shrieked. 'my wife!' his voice fell and turned into what sounded like a sob. 'it's mary. she was coming back to helvore. it was her cry. there--see it--confound you! you have it on your arm--your coat--all over you.' "he raised his hand to strike me. the moonlight fell on it--a great coarse hand--and i noticed, with a thrill of horror, a red splash on it. it was blood. the man was a murderer. he had killed his wife, and, with all the cunning of the madman, was trying to throw the guilt on me. "i sprang at him with a cry of despair. he kicked and bit, and tried to tear my arms from his neck; but somehow i seemed to have ten times my usual strength. "and all the time we struggled a sea of faces waved to and fro, peering down at us from the gaunt trees above. "he gave in at length. i was no longer obliged to hold him with an iron grip, and help came eventually in the shape of a policeman, who seemed to grasp the situation quite easily. there had been a murder; the man i had secured was known to him. he was a labouring man of unsteady habits; he had been drinking, had met and quarrelled with his wife. the rest was to be seen in the ghastly heap before us. "the wretch had no defence. he seemed dazed, and eyed the bloodstains on his face and clothes in a stupid kind of way. "i slipped five shillings into the policeman's hand when we parted. he thanked me and pocketed the money; he knew his position and mine too; i was a gentleman, and a very plucky one at that. so i thought as i walked back to my rooms; yet i lay awake and shuddered as visions of the nodding heads of pines passed before me; and from without, across the silent lanes and fields, there rose and fell again the wailing of a woman--a woman in distress. * * * * * "the murder in the wood was an event in helvore. the people were unused to such tragedies, and it afforded them something to talk about for many weeks. the evidence against the husband was conclusive. he had been caught red-handed, he was an habitual drunkard, and he paid the penalty for his crime in the usual manner. "i left helvore. i had seen enough of cumberland and thirsted for life in london once again. yet, often at night, the sighing of the wind in the trees sounded in my ears, bidding me visit them once more. "one day as i was sitting by my fire with a pile of books at my side, taking life easily, for i had nothing to do but to kill time, my old friend, frank leethwaite, looked me up. he had been at sedbergh with me in the far-off eighties, and he was the only friend of the old set with whom i had been out of touch. "he had not altered much, in spite of a moustache and a fair sprinkling of white hairs. i should have known him had i met him anywhere. he was wearing an albert coat, and his face was red with healthy exercise. "'how are you, old chap?' he exclaimed, shaking hands in the hearty fashion of true friendship. "i winced, for he had strong hands. "'fit enough,' i said, 'only a bit bored. but you--well, you look just the same, and fresh as a daisy.' i gave him the easy-chair. "'oh, i'm first rate--plenty of work. i'm a journalist, you know. it's a bit of a grind, but i'm taking a holiday. you look pale. your eyes are bad?' "i told him they got strained if i read much. "'i daresay you will think me mad,' he went on, 'but i'm going to ask you rather a curious question. i remember you used to be fond of ghosts and all sorts of queer things.' "i nodded. we had had many discussions on such subjects, in my study at school. "'well, i'm a member of the new supernatural investigation society.' "i smiled doubtfully. 'well, you can't say it has discovered much. the name is high-sounding, but that is all.' "'never mind. some day, perhaps, we shall show the public what we can do.' "leethwaite lit a cigarette, puffed away in silence for a few seconds, and then went on: "'i am undertaking a little work for the society now!' "'where?' "'in cumberland. ever been there?' "i nodded. leethwaite was very much at his ease. "'been to helvore?' "i knew by instinct he would mention the place. "he thought i looked ill, and told me i had been overdoing it. "'it is merely a case of "flu,"' i assured him. 'i had it six weeks ago, and still feel the effects.' ("the woman in the hollow was before me. i saw again her shabby shawl and the blood round her throat.) "'there was a murder down there a short time ago.' "'i heard of it,' i remarked casually. 'it was a wife murder, i believe.' "'yes, just a common wife murder, and the fellow was caught and hanged.' "'then why the ghost?' "'well, that is the odd part of it,' leethwaite said slowly, leaning back in his chair, his long legs stretched out. "'i have heard from two helvore residents that screams have been heard in the wood about twelve o'clock at night. not the time for practical jokers, and the cumberland peasantry are too superstitious to try their pranks in unsavoury spots. besides, from what i have heard, the spot is not only unsavoury, it is singularly uncanny.' "'they haven't seen anything?' i asked. "'no, only heard the cries, and they are so terribly realistic that no one cares to pass the place at night; indeed, it is utterly banned. i mentioned the case to old potters--you must have heard of him, he used to write a lot for the _gentleman's magazine_--and he pressed me to go down and investigate. i agreed; then i thought i would look you up. do you remember your pet aversion in the way of ghosts?' "i nodded. 'yes, and i still have the aversion. i think locality exercises strange influence over some minds. the peaceful meadow scenery holds no lurking horrors in its bosom; but in the lonely moorlands, full of curiously moulded boulders, one sees, or fancies one sees, grotesque creatures, odd and ill-defined as their surroundings. as a child i had a peculiar horror of those tall, odd-shaped boulders, with sneering faces--featureless, it is true, but sometimes strangely resembling the faces of humans and animals. i believe the wood may be haunted by something of this nature--terrible as the trees.' "'you know the wood?' "'i do. and i know the trees.' "again in my ears the wind rushed, as it had on that memorable night. "'will you come with me?' "leethwaite eyed me eagerly. the same old affection he had once entertained for me was, ripening in his eyes; indeed it had always remained there. should i go? an irresistible impulse seized me, a morbid craving to look once more at the blood-stained hollow, to hear again the wind. i looked out of the window; the sky was cold and grey. there were rows and rows of chimneys--chimneys everywhere--and an ocean of dull, uninviting smoke. i began to hate london and to long for the countless miles of blue sea, and the fresh air of the woods. i assented though my better judgment would have had me refuse. "'yes,' i replied, 'i will go. as to the ghost, it may be there, but it is not what you think; it is not the apparition of a man. it may be, in part, like a man, but it is one of those cursed nightmares i have always had. i shall see it, hear it shriek--and if i drop dead from fright, you, old man, will be to blame.' "leethwaite was an enthusiast, and psychical adventure always allured him. he would run the risk of my weak heart, he said, and have me with him. "a thousand times i prepared to go back on my word; a thousand tumultuous emotions of some impending disaster rushed through me. i felt on the border of an abyss, dark and hopeless; i was pushed on by invisible and unfriendly hands. i knew i must fall; i knew that those black depths would engulf me eternally. i took the plunge. we talked over sedbergh days, and arranged our train to the north. leethwaite looked very boyish, i thought, as he rose to go, and stood smiling in the doorway. "he was all kindness; i liked him more than ever. and yet, somehow, as we stood looking at one another, a grey shadow swept around him, and an icy pang shot through my heart. * * * * * "it was night once more, and the moonlight poured in floods from over the summit of the knoll where the uncanny boulders lay. every object stood silhouetted against the dark background. a house, with its white walls, stood grim and silent; the paths running in various directions up and alongside the hill were made doubly clear by the whiteness of the beams that fell on them. there were no swift clouds, no mists to hide the brilliance of the stars, and it was nearly midnight. the air was cold, colder than is usual at helvore, and i shivered. leethwaite stood by my side. i glanced apprehensively at him. why did he stand in the moonlight? what business had he there? i laughed, but i fear there was but little mirth in the sound. "'i wish you would stop that infernal noise,' he said; 'i am pretty nervous as it is.' "'all right,' i whispered; 'i won't do it again.' "but i did, and he edged sharply away from me. i looked over his head. there was the gaunt tree with the great hands. i fancied once again the branches were fingers. i told him so. "'for god's sake, man, keep quiet,' he replied. 'you are enough to upset any one's nerves.' he looked at his watch for the hundredth time. 'it's close on the hour.' "i again looked at the trees and listened. suddenly, although there had been absolute silence before, i heard a faint breathing sound, a very gentle murmur. it came from over the distant knoll. at first very soft and low, but gradually getting louder and louder, it rushed past us into the wood beyond. i saw once more the great trees rock beneath it; and again i heard those voices--those of the woman and the man. "leethwaite looked ill, very ill, i thought. i touched him on the arm. 'you are not frightened,' i said; 'you--a member of the new supernatural investigation society?' "'something is going to happen,' he gasped. 'i feel it--i know it. we shall see the murder--we shall know the secret of death. what is that?' "away in the distance the tap-tapping of shoes came through the still night air. tap--tap--tap, down the path from the knoll. "i clutched leethwaite by the arm. 'you think you will see the murder, do you? and the murderer!' "leethwaite didn't answer. his breath came in gasps; he looked about him like a man at bay. "'and the murderer! ha! it comes from there. see, it is looking at us from those trees. it is all arms and legs; it has no human face. it will drop to the earth, and then we shall see what happens.' "tap, tap, tap--the steps grew louder--nearer and nearer they came. the great shadows stole down, one by one, to meet them. i looked at leethwaite. he was fearfully expectant; so was i. "a woman came tripping along the path. i knew her in an instant--there was the shabby shawl, the basket on her arm--it was the same. she approached the wicket. "i looked at leethwaite. he was spellbound with fear. i touched his arm. i dragged him with me. 'come,' i whispered, 'we shall see which of us is right. you think the ghostly murderer will resemble us--will resemble men. it will not. come.' "i dragged him forward. he would have fled, but i was firm. we passed through the gate--we followed the figure as it silently glided on. we turned to the left. the place grew very dark as the trees met overhead. i heard the trickling of water and knew we were close to the ditch. "i gazed intently at the pines. when would the horror drop from them? a sickly terror laid hold of me. i turned to fly. "to my surprise leethwaite stopped me. he was all excitement. 'wait,' he hissed. 'wait. it is you who are afraid. hark! it is twelve o'clock.' and as he spoke, the clock of the parish church slowly tolled midnight. then the end came. an awful scream rang out; so piercing and so full of terror that i felt the blood in my heart stand still. but no figure dropped from the pines. not from the pines, but from behind the woman a form darted forward and seized her by the neck. it tore at her throat with its hands, it dragged and hurried her into the moonlight; and then, oh damning horror, i saw its face!--it was my own." printed in great britain by morrison and gibb limited, edinburgh some recent books published by sands & co. fiction. god's fairy tales. stories of the supernatural in everyday life. by enid dinnis. cr. vo. price = s.= net. mystics all. by enid dinnis. cr. vo. price = s.= net. the call of the past. by florence roch. cr. vo. price = s. d.= net. the onion peelers. a novel. by r. p. garrold. cr. vo. price = s.= a more excellent way. a novel. by felicia curtis. cr. vo. price = s.= o'loghlin of clare. a novel. by rosa mulholland. cr. vo. price = s. d.= net. the tragedy of chris. by rosa mulholland. cr. vo. price = s. d.= net. the return of mary o'murrough. by rosa mulholland. illustrated. cr. vo. price = s.= net. molly's fortunes. by m. e. francis. cr. vo. price = s. d.= net. the mother, and other stories. by p. h. pearse. cr. vo. price = s. d.= net. with the french red cross. tales founded on fact. by alice dease. cr. vo. price = s.= net. my man sandy. by j. b. salmond. price = s.= net. poetry. dreams and realities. poems. by rosa mulholland. cr. vo. price = s.= net. the station platform, and other verses by margaret mackenzie. price = s. d.= net. through the night, and other poems by mina doyle. cr. vo. price = s. d.= net. turquoise. verses. by l. d'o. walters. price = s.= net. poems of adoration. by michael field. large cr. vo. price = s.= net. new edition, with glossary and notes. cloth. price = s.= net. pages. large super-royal vo, ¼ by ¼ inches. the falstaff shakespeare. contents. the tempest. the two gentlemen of verona. the merry wives of windsor. measure for measure. the comedy of errors. much ado about nothing. love's labour lost. a midsummer night's dream. the merchant of venice. as you like it. the taming of the shrew. all's well that ends well. twelfth night; or, what you will. the winter's tale. the life and death of king john. the life and death of king richard ii. the first part of king henry iv. the second part of king henry iv. the life of king henry v. the first part of king henry vi. the second part of king henry vi. the third part of king henry vi. the tragedy of king richard iii. the famous history of the life of king henry viii. troilus and cressida. coriolanus. titus andronicus. romeo and juliet. timon of athens. julius cæsar. macbeth. hamlet, prince of denmark. king lear. othello, the moor of venice. antony and cleopatra. cymbeline. pericles. poems. venus and adonis. the rape of lucrece. sonnets. a lover's complaint. the passionate pilgrim. the phoenix and the turtle. glossary and notes. in this, the "falstaff" edition of shakespeare's works, the order in which the plays are presented is that of the first folio edition of --"pericles," which was not included in that edition, and the poems being added at the end of the volume. no new reading of the text is attempted; and only those variations from the text of the early editions are included which have been accepted by the best shakespearean critics. the task of the present editor has consisted solely in the choice between the readings of these critics, where they disagree. for the most part the text of delius has been followed. travel, history, and biography. the memoirs of baron hyde de neuville. outlaw, exile, and ambassador. translated from the french by frances jackson. in volumes. with full-page illustrations. demy vo. price = s.= net. these volumes relate the hairbreadth escapes of m. hyde de neuville under the terror, the directory, and the empire; his two diplomatic missions to the united states, and his adventurous embassy to portugal. a papal envoy during the reign of terror. being the memoirs of mgr. de salamon, internuncio in paris during the french revolution ( - ). edited by the abbÉ bridier; translated by frances jackson. with portraits, and many interesting views of old paris and its surroundings. demy vo. price = s.= net. "a remarkable addition to the historical materials concerning the revolution. presented with the vivid simplicity of an eye-witness and of one who again and again stood near to death."--_daily telegraph._ a history of the royal family of england. an account of the private, as opposed to the public, history of the several kings and queens, of their children, and of such of their immediate descendants or relatives as have played any part in english history, or have lived in england. by frederic g. bagshawe. pages. with genealogical tables. demy vo. price = s. d.= net. the mirror of oxford. a catholic history of oxford. by the rev. c. dawson, s.j. with maps and numerous black and white illustrations. cr. vo. price = s. d.= net. london: king street, covent garden, w.c. ; george street, edinburgh; and cambridge street, glasgow. transcriber's note text in italics has been surrounded with _underscores_, bold with =signs=, and small capitals changed to all capitals. the following corrections have been made, on page "frienzied" changed to "frenzied" (eyes fixed in a frenzied stare) : added (obvious to all (namely): that various inexplicable noises) . added (phenomena the most common. were the victims) " changed to ' (tell me.' he was frightened) " changed to ' (horrible--horrible!' then) ' removed (a bit bored. but you) " changed to ' (doubtfully. 'well, you can't say) ' added (show the public what we can do.') x ' added (yes,' i replied, 'i will go.) " changed to ' (keep quiet,' he replied.) . added ( vo.). otherwise the original has been preserved, including inconsistent spelling and hyphenation. transcriber's note: every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including non-standard spelling and punctuation. some changes have been made. they are listed at the end of the text. italic text has been marked with _underscores_. the minor drama. no. cccci. a christmas carol; or, the miser's warning! (adapted from charles dickens' celebrated work.) by c. z. barnett, _author of fair rosamond, farinelli, the dream of fate, oliver twist, linda, the pearl of savoy, victorine of paris, dominique, bohemians of paris, &c._ +-------+ samuel french (canada) limited | price | - university avenue | | toronto - canada | | +-------+ new york | london samuel french | samuel french, ltd. publisher | southampton street west th street | strand _the middle watch_ a farcical comedy in acts. by ian hay and stephen king-hall. produced originally at the times square theatre, new york. males, females. modern costumes and naval uniforms. interior scenes. during a reception on board h. m. s. "falcon," a cruiser on the china station, captain randall of the marines has become engaged to fay eaton, and in his enthusiasm induces her to stay and have dinner in his cabin. this is met with stern disapproval by fay's chaperon, charlotte hopkinson, who insists that they leave at once. charlotte, however, gets shut up in the compass room, and a gay young american widow accepts the offer to take her place, both girls intending to go back to shore in the late evening. of course, things go wrong, and they have to remain aboard all night. by this time the captain has to be told, because his cabin contains the only possible accommodations, and he enters into the conspiracy without signalling the admiral's flagship. then the "falcon" is suddenly ordered to sea, and the admiral decides to sail with her. this also makes necessary the turning over to him of the captain's quarters. the presence of the ladies now becomes positively embarrassing. the girls are bundled into one cabin just opposite that occupied by the admiral. the game of "general-post" with a marine sentry in stockinged feet is very funny, and so are the attempts to explain matters to the "old man" next morning. after this everything ends both romantically and happily. (royalty, twenty-five dollars.) price cents. _nancy's private affair_ a comedy in acts. by myron c. fagan. produced originally at the vanderbilt theatre, new york. males, females., interior scenes. modern costumes. nothing is really private any more--not even pajamas and bedtime stories. no one will object to nancy's private affair being made public, and it would be impossible to interest the theatre public in a more ingenious plot. nancy is one of those smart, sophisticated society women who wants to win back her husband from a baby vamp. just how this is accomplished makes for an exceptionally pleasant evening. laying aside her horn-rimmed spectacles, she pretends indifference and affects a mysterious interest in other men. nancy baits her rival with a bogus diamond ring, makes love to her former husband's best friend, and finally tricks the dastardly rival into a marriage with someone else. mr. fagan has studded his story with jokes and retorts that will keep any audience in a constant uproar. (royalty, twenty-five dollars.) price cents. a christmas carol; or, the miser's warning! (adapted from charles dickens's celebrated work.) by c. z. barnett, _author of fair rosamond, farinelli, the dream of fate, oliver twist, linda, the pearl of savoy, victorine of paris, dominique, bohemians of paris, &c._ new york | london samuel french | samuel french, ltd. publisher | southampton street west th street | strand dramatis personÆ. ebenezer scrooge, the miser mr. r. honner frank freeheart, his nephew mr. j. t. johnson mr. cheerly mr. hawkins mr. heartly mr. green bob cratchit, scrooge's clerk mr. vale dark sam mr. stilt characters in the dream. euston, a ruined gentleman mr. lawler mr. fezziwig mr. dixie old joe, a fence mr. goldsmith ghost of jacob marley mr. morrison ghost of christmas past mr. lewis ghost of christmas present mr. heslop ghost of christmas to come * * * dark sam mr. stilt peter, bob's eldest son miss daly tiny tim master brady mrs. freeheart mrs. hicks ellen, scrooge's former love mrs. h. hughes mrs. cratchit mrs. daly first produced at the royal surrey theatre, feb. th, . costume. scrooge--brown old-fashioned coat, tea colour breeches, double-breasted white waistcoat. nd.--dressing gown and slippers. frank--private dress. mr. cheerly--blue coat, cord breeches, and gaiters. mr. heartly--green coat, black breeches, top boots. bob cratchit--black old-fashioned coat, black trousers. dark sam--dark green shooting coat and breeches, ragged. second dress--shabby black coat. euston--shabby private clothes. mr. fezziwig--black coat, black breeches, double-breasted waistcoat, and striped stockings. marley's ghost--slate coloured coat, waistcoat, and pantaloons, black boots, white frill, white band. christmas past--white dress trimmed with summer flowers, rich belt, fleshings and sandals. christmas present--long green robe, trimmed with ermine, flesh body and legs, wreath round head. christmas to come--very long black gown. tiny tim--blue jacket and trousers. all the ladies--modern dresses. a christmas carol. act i. scene i.--_chambers of scrooge, the miser. one side of it is filled up with a desk and high stool, the other is a fireplace, fire lighted. easy chair table, with candlestick upon it, etc., etc._ _scrooge, the miser, discovered near fire. bob cratchit, writing near desk, l. h. as the curtain rises he descends from stool--approaches fire to stir it._ scrooge. bob--bob, we shall be obliged to part. you'll ruin me in coals! bob. ruin you--with such a fire in such weather! i've been trying to warm myself by the candle for the last half hour, but not being a man of strong imagination, failed. scr. hark! i think i hear some one in the office. go--see who it is. bob. (_aside._) marley's dead--his late partner is dead as a door nail! if he was to follow him, it wouldn't matter much. (_exit e. l. h._ scr. marley has been dead seven years, and has left me his sole executor--his sole administrator--his sole residuary legatee--his sole friend--his sole mourner! my poor old partner! i was sorely grieved at his death, and shall never forget his funeral. coming from it, i made one of the best bargains i ever made. ha, ha. folks say i'm tight-fisted--that i'm a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, clutching miser. what of that? it saves me from being annoyed by needy men and beggars. so, this is christmas eve--and cold, bleak, biting weather it is, and folks are preparing to be merry. bah! what's christmas eve to me? what should it be to them? _enter frank and bob, e. l. h._ bob. there's your uncle, sir. (_aside._) old covetous! he's worse than the rain and snow. they often come down, and handsomely too, but scrooge never does! (_exit e. l. h._ scr. who's that? frank. a merry christmas, uncle! scr. bah! humbug! frank. uncle, you don't mean that, i'm sure. scr. i do. merry christmas! what right have you to be merry? you're poor enough. frank. (_gaily._) come, then, what right have you to be dismal! what reason have you to be morose? you're rich enough. scr. bah! humbug! frank. don't be cross, uncle. scr. what else can i be, when i live in such a world of fools as this? merry christmas! out upon merry christmas. what's christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without money--a time for finding yourself a year older, and not an hour richer. if i could work my will, every idiot who goes about with merry christmas on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart--he should! frank. uncle! scr. nephew, keep christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine. frank. keep it! but you don't keep it. scr. let me leave it alone, then. much good may it do you. much good it has ever done you. frank. there are many things from which i might have derived good by which i have not profited, i dare say, christmas among the rest, but i am sure i have always thought of christmas time, when it has come round, as a good time--a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time i know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys, and, therefore, uncle, though it has not put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, i believe that it has done me good, and will do me good, and i say, heaven bless it! bob. (_looking in._) beautiful--beautiful! scr. let me hear another sound from you--(_to bob._)--and you'll keep your christmas by losing your situation. bob. (_aside._) he growls like a bear with a sore head! (_disappears._) scr. you're quite a powerful speaker. i wonder you don't go into parliament. frank. don't be angry. come--dine with me to-morrow. scr. no, no---- frank. but why not? scr. why did you get married? frank. because i fell in love. scr. because you fell in love! bah! good evening. frank. i want nothing--i ask nothing of you. well, i'm sorry to find you so resolute--we have never had any quarrel--i have made the trial in homage to christmas, and i'll keep my christmas humour to the last--so, a merry christmas, uncle. scr. good evening! frank. and a happy new year! scr. good evening! _enter bob, e. l. h._ frank. and a happy christmas, and a merry new year to you, bob cratchit. (_shaking him by the hand._) bob. the same to you, sir, and many of 'em, and to your wife, and to your darling children, and to all your friends, and to all you know, and to every one, to all the world. (_exit frank, e. l. h._) scr. (_aside._) there's another fellow, my clerk, with fifteen shillings a week, and a wife and family, talking about a merry christmas. i'll retire to bedlam. bob. two gentlemen want you, sir, as fat as prize beef--shall i call 'em in? (_goes to side._) walk this way if you please, gentlemen. _enter mr. cheerly and mr. heartly, e. l. h., with books and papers._ cheer. scrooge and marley's--i believe i have the pleasure of addressing mr. marley! scr. mr. marley has been dead these seven years. cheer. at this festive season of the year, it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute--many thousands are in want of common necessaries--hundreds of thousands are in want of common comfort, sir. scr. are there no prisons? and the union workhouses, are they still in operation? cheer. they are still--i wish i could say they were not. scr. the treadmill and the poor law are in full vigour then? cheer. both very busy, sir. scr. oh! i was afraid from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course. i'm very glad to hear it! cheer. under the impression that they scarcely furnish christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude, a few of us are endeavouring to raise a fund to buy the poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth. we choose this time because it is a time of all others, when want is keenly felt and abundances rejoice. what shall we put you down for? scr. nothing! cheer. you wish to be anonymous? scr. i wish to be left alone. i don't make merry myself at christmas, and i can't afford to make idle people merry--i help to support the establishments i have named--they cost enough--those who are badly off must go there. cheer. many can't go there--many would rather die! scr. if they'd rather die, they'd better do it, and decrease the surplus population. however, it's not my business, so good evening, gentlemen. cheer. i am sorry we disturbed you. (_as they are about to exeunt, bob approaches them--scrooge retires up._) bob. beg pardon, gentlemen, i've got an odd eighteen-pence here that i was going to buy a new pair of gloves with in honour of christmas day, but my heart would feel warmer though my hands were colder, if it helped to put a dinner and a garment on a poor creature who might need. there take it. cheer. such acts as these from such men as you sooner or later, will be well rewarded. bob. this way, gentlemen. i feel as light as my four-and-ninepenny gossamer! (_exeunt e. l. h._) scr. (_coming down._) give money--humbug! who'd give me anything, i should like to know? _re-enter bob, e. l. h._ bob. a letter, sir. (_gives it and retires up._) scr. (_opens it--reads._) ah! what do i see? the mary jane lost off the coast of africa. then frank is utterly ruined! his all was embarked on board that vessel. frank knows not of this--he will apply to me doubtless--but no, no. why should i part with my hard gained store to assist him, his wife and children--he chooses to make a fool of himself, and marry a smooth-faced chit, and get a family--he must bear the consequences--i will not avert his ruin, no, not by a single penny. bob. (_coming down._) please, sir, it's nine o'clock. scr. already! you'll want all day to-morrow, i suppose. bob. if quite convenient, sir. scr. it's not convenient, and it's not fair. if i was to stop half-a-crown for it, you'd think yourself ill-used, i'll be bound, and yet you don't think me ill used when i pay a day's wages for no work. bob. christmas comes but once a year. scr. a poor excuse for picking a man's pockets every twenty-fifth of december! well, i suppose you must have the whole day. be here all the earlier next morning. here's your week's money, fifteen shillings--i ought to stop half-a-crown--never mind! bob. thank you, sir! i'll be here before daylight, sir, you may depend upon it. good night, sir. oh, what a glorious dinner mrs. c. shall provide. good night, sir. a merry christmas and a happy new year, sir. scr. bah! humbug! (_exit bob, e. l. h._) so--alone once more. it's a rough night! i will go to bed soon--that will save supper. (_takes off his coat, boots, etc., and puts on morning gown and slippers, talking all the time._) 'tis strange now the idea of marley is haunting me to-night--everywhere i turn his face seems before me. delusion--humbug! i'll sit down by the fire and forget him. (_takes basin of gruel from hob._) here's my gruel! (_sits in easy chair by fire--puts on night cap, and presently appears to dose. suddenly a clanking of chains and ringing of bells is heard--he's aroused, and looks up terrified._) that noise! it's humbug! i won't believe it! (_the door slowly opens, and the ghost of marley glides in. a chain is round his body, and cash boxes, ledgers, padlocks, purses, etc., are attached to it._) how now! what do you want with me? ghost. much. scr. who are you? ghost. ask me who i was. scr. who were you, then. you're particular for a shade--i mean to a shade. ghost. in life i was your partner, jacob marley. you don't believe in me! why do you doubt your senses? scr. because a little thing affects them. a slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. you may be an undigested bit of beef--a fragment of an underdone potato. there's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are. ghost. (_unfastening the bandage round its head._) man of the worldly mind, do you believe me or not? scr. i do--i must! but why do spirits walk the earth? why do they come to me? ghost. it is required of every man that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow men, and travel far and wide--if not in life, it is condemned to do so after death. it is doomed to wander through the world, oh, woe is me!--and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness. scr. you are fettered! ghost. i wear the chain i forged in life--i made it link by link. is its pattern strange to you? oh, no space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunities misused. scr. but you were always a man of business---- ghost. business! mankind was my business--charity, mercy, were all my business. at this time of the year i suffered most, for i neglected most. hear me! i am here to-night to warn you that you have a chance and a hope of escaping my fate. you will be haunted by three spirits---- scr. i--i'd rather be excused! ghost. without their visits you cannot hope to shun the path i tread. expect the first when the clock strikes one. look to see me no more. for your own sake, remember what has passed between us. (_binds wrapper round its head once more--slowly approaches the door and disappears. scrooge follows the phantom towards the door._) scr. it is gone. the air seems filled with phantoms--shades of many i knew when living--they all wear chains like marley--they strive to assist the poor and stricken, but in vain--they seek to interfere for good in human nature, but have lost the power forever. (_the clock strikes one--scrooge staggers to a chair--the room is filled with a blaze of light--the ghost of christmas past rises through trap--as described in work, page ._) are you the spirit whose coming was foretold to me? st spirit. i am! scr. who and what are you? st spirit. i am the ghost of christmas past. your welfare--your reclamation brings me here. turn, and behold! (_the stage, becomes dark--a strong light is seen behind--the wall of the miser's chamber fades away and discovers a school-room--a child is seated reading by a fire._) all have departed but this poor boy. scr. my poor forgotten self--and as i used to be! st spirit. look again! (_a figure of ali baba is shown beyond the child._) scr. why it's dear old honest ali baba! yes, one christmas time, when yonder poor child was left alone, he _did_ come just like that! (_the figures of valentine and orson appear._) ha! and valentine and his wild brother orson, too! (_robinson crusoe and friday appear._) ha! and robinson crusoe, and his man friday! poor boy! he was left alone, while all the rest were making holiday. (_the figures of ali baba, etc., disappear. as he speaks, a little girl enters the school-room, and approaches the boy._) girl. i am come to bring you home, dear brother--we are to be together this christmas, and be so merry! (_she leads him out. scene fades away._) scr. my sister! poor little fanny! st spirit. a delicate creature, whom a breath might have withered. she died a woman, and had, as i think, children. scr. one child! st spirit. true--your nephew. know you this place? (_the scene at back is again lighted up, and discovers fezziwig's warehouse. fezziwig and characters grouped as in frontispiece of work. scrooge, as a young man._) scr. why, 'tis old fezziwig, to whom i was apprenticed--he is alive again! my fellow-apprentice, dick wilkins, too--myself, as i was _then_. 'tis christmas eve there. the happiness he gave at so small a price was quite as much as though it cost a fortune. (_the tableau fades away. the stage becomes dark. enter ellen in mourning. during the fading of the tableau scrooge puts a cloak around him, etc., and seems a younger man._) i feel as if my years of life were less. ha! who is this beside me? st spirit. have you forgotten your early love? scr. ellen! ellen. ebenezer, i come to say farewell forever! it matters little to you--very little--another idol has displaced me, and if i can cheer and comfort you in time to come, as i would have tried to do, i have no just cause to grieve. scr. what idol has displaced you? ellen. a golden one--the master passion. gain alone engrosses you. scr. i have not changed towards you. ellen. our contract is an old one--it was made when we were both poor. you are changed--i am not. that which promised happiness when we were one in heart, is fraught with misery now we are two. how often and how keenly i have thought of this i will not say. i _have_ thought of it, and can release you. scr. have i ever sought release? ellen. in word--no, never! scr. in what, then? ellen. in a changed nature--in an altered spirit--in every thing that made my love of any worth or value in your sight. if this had never been between us, tell me, would you seek me out, and try to win me now? ah, no! scr. you think not---- ellen. i would think otherwise if i could--but if you were free to-day, can even i believe that you would choose a dowerless girl--you who weigh everything by gain? or did you so, do i not know your repentance and regret would surely follow. i do--and i release you, with a full heart, for the love of him you once were. you will forget all this--may you be happy in the life you have chosen! (_she slowly exits r. h. scrooge throws aside his cloak, and appears as before._) scr. spirit, show me no more! why do you delight to torture me? st spirit. one shadow more. she whom you resigned for gold--for gain--for sordid ore--she you shall now behold as the tender wife of a good and upright man--as the happy mother of smiling children. you shall see them in their joyous home. come, thou lonely man of gold--come! scr. no, no! st spirit. i told you these were the shadows of the things that have been--that they are what they are do not blame me. come---- scr. no, no--i've seen enough--haunt me no longer! (_the spirit seizes him--he seizes the cap presses it upon the spirit's head, who sinks under it, and disappears in a flood of light while scrooge sinks exhausted on the floor._) scene ii.--_a street. houses covered with snow._ _enter dark sam, l. h._ sam. it's very odd! i an't nimmed nothing to-night. christmas eve, too--when people's got sich lots of tin! but they takes precious good care of it, 'cos i s'pose they thinks if they loses it, they shan't be able to get no christmas dinner. if i can't prig nothin', i'm sure i shan't be able to get none. unless this trade mends soon, i must turn undertaker's man again. there is a chance, in that honourable calling of a stray thing or two. somebody comes! i wonder if i shall have any luck now. _enter bob, r. h._ bob. i shall soon be home! won't my martha be glad to see me--and what a pleasant happy christmas day we shall spend. what a dinner we shall have! i've got fifteen shillings--my week's wages--and i'm determined to spend every farthing of it. won't we have a prime goose, and a magnificent pudding! and then the gin and water--and oranges--and the--oh, how jolly we shall be! and tiny tim, too--he never tasted goose before--how he will lick his dear little chops at the sage and onions! and as for martha--my dear martha, who is a dress-maker, and can only come to see us once in about four months--she shall have the parson's nose. let me see--a goose will cost seven shillings--pudding five--that's twelve. oranges, sage and onions, potatoes, and gin, at least three shillings more. oh, there will be quite enough money, and some to spare. (_during this speech sam advances cautiously and picks his pocket._) sam. (_aside._) some to spare! it can't fall into better hands than mine, then! (_exit r. h._ bob. i've a good mind to buy the goose going home; but then if it should turn out fusty--i think i had better leave it for mrs. c. the moment i get home, i'll pop the money into her hands, and--(_feeling in his pockets._)--eh?--what--what's this? somebody has been having a joke at my expense. eh? my week's salary--my fifteen shillings--it's gone! i'm ruined--lost----undone! my pocket has been picked! i've lost my christmas dinner before i've got it! oh, how can i face mrs. c., and bob, and martha, and tiny tim! oh, what can i do? _enter frank, l. h._ frank. what my worthy friend bob cratchit--how is this, man? you look sorrowful, and on christmas eve, too! bob. some of those boys whom i was sliding with on the ice in cornhill must have done it. frank. done it! done what, man? bob. stole my christmas dinner--my--salary--i mean my fifteen shillings, that your uncle paid me not an hour ago. frank. that's unfortunate! bob. unfortunate! think of tiny tim's disappointment--no goose--no pudding--no nothing! frank. tiny tim shall not go without his christmas dinner notwithstanding your loss--no, nor you either--nor any of your family, bob cratchit. at such a time as this, no one should be unhappy--not even my hard-hearted uncle, much less a worthy fellow like you. here, bob, here's a sovereign--you can return it when my uncle raises your wages--no thanks, but go and be as happy as you deserve to be--once more, a merry christmas to you! (_exit r. h._ bob. he's a regular trump! i wanted to thank him, and couldn't find the words! i should like to laugh, and i feel as if i could cry. if tiny tim don't bless you for this my name's not bob cratchit! i've lost fifteen shillings, and i've found a sovereign! (_dances._) tol lol li do! oh, mrs. cratchit! oh, my little cratchit! what a happy christmas day we shall spend, surely! what a pity christmas don't last all the year round! (_exit l. h._) scene iii.--_scrooge's chamber, as before._ _scrooge discovered, sleeping in a chair. the stage becomes suddenly quite light, and the ghost of christmas present discovered, as in work, page , the wall at back covered with ivy, holly, and mistletoe--heaped upon the floor, almost to form a throne, are turkeys, geese, plum puddings, twelfth cake, etc._ (_see page ._) nd spirit. know me, man? i am the ghost of christmas present. look upon me. (_scrooge rises, approaches, and gazes at the figure._) you have never seen the like of me before? scr. never! nd spirit. have never walked forth with the younger members of my family, meaning, for i am very young, my elder brothers born in these latter years. scr. i'm afraid i have not. have you had many brothers, spirit? nd spirit. more than eighteen hundred! scr. a tremendous family to provide for! (_the spirit rises._) spirit, conduct me where you will--if you have ought to teach me, let me profit by it. why do you carry that torch? nd spirit. to sprinkle the light and incense of happiness every where--to poor dwellings most. scr. why to poor ones most? nd spirit. because they need it most. but come--touch my robe--we have much to see. (_as scrooge approaches nearer to him, the scene changes._) scene iv.--_a bleak and barren moor. a poor mud cabin._ (_painted in the flat._) _the second spirit and scrooge enter._ scr. what place is this? nd spirit. a place where miners live, who labour in the bowels of the earth--they know me. see! (_as he speaks, the window is lighted from within. the spirit draws scrooge to window._) what seest thou? scr. a cheerful company assembled round a glowing fire--an old man and woman, with their children, and children's children all decked gaily out in their holiday attire. i hear the old man's voice above the howling of the wind upon the barren waste; singing a christmas song, while all swell out the chorus. nd spirit. come, we must not tarry--we will to sea--your ear shall be deafened by the roaring waters. scr. to sea? no, good spirit! nd spirit. see yonder solitary lighthouse built on a dismal reef of sunken rocks. here we men who watch the light, have made a fire that sheds a ray of brightness on the awful sea, joining their horny hands over the rough table where they sit, they wish each other a merry christmas in can of grog and sing a rude lay in honour of the time. all men on this day have a kinder word for one another--on such a day--but come--on--on! (_as he speaks the scene changes._) scene v.--_drawing-room in frank freeheart's house._ _frank, caroline his wife, mr. cheerly, and male and female guests discovered--some are seated on a sofa on one side, others surround a table on the other side. scrooge and the spirit remain on one side._ (_at opening of scene all laugh._) frank. yes, friends, my uncle said that christmas was a humbug, as i live! he believed it, too! omnes. more shame for him. frank. he's a comical old fellow! however, his offences carry their own punishment. cheer. he's very rich! frank. but his wealth is of no use to him. he don't do any good with it. he don't make himself comfortable with it. he hasn't the satisfaction of thinking--ha, ha, ha!--that he is ever going to benefit us with it! ladies. we have no patience with him! frank. but i have! i'm sorry for him! i couldn't be angry with him if i tried. who suffers by his ill whims? himself! he loves a good dinner--pleasant moments, and pleasanter companions than he can find in his own thoughts, or in his mouldy chambers. he may rail at christmas till he dies, but he can't help thinking better of it, i defy him! if he finds me going there, year after year and saying, uncle scrooge, how are you? if it only puts him in the vein to leave his poor clerk fifty pounds, that's something, and i think i shook him yesterday! (_all laugh._) well, he has given us plenty of merriment so here's his health. uncle scrooge! omnes. (_drinks._) uncle scrooge! frank. a merry christmas and a happy new year to him wherever he is! scr. spirit, their merriment has made me so bright and gay, that i could almost pledge them in return, and join in all their innocent mirth! _a servant enters, l. h. and gives a letter to frank, then exits._ frank. (_opens it and reads. aside._) ah! what do i see, the vessel lost at sea that bore my entire wealth within her! then i'm a lost and ruined man! (_his wife approaches him._) cheer. no ill news, i hope, mr. freeheart. frank. (_aside._) the stroke is sudden and severe but i will bear it like a man! why should i damp the enjoyment of those around by such ill tiding? no, it is christmas time--i will not broach such bad news now--no--at least to-night. all shall be happy--nor word of mine shall make any otherwise. (_to his friends._) come, friends, let's have a merry dance, shall we not? omnes. a dance! a dance! (_short, country dance, in which scrooge joins without being observed by the rest. towards the conclusion of it the spirit advances--draws scrooge back from the group--a bright glow lights up the scene, as the spirit and scrooge sink through the stage unnoticed by the groups._) end of act i. act ii. scene i.--_humble apartment in bob cratchit's house. table, chairs, etc., on._ _mrs. cratchit and belinda cratchit discovered laying the cloth. peter cratchit is by fire. scrooge and the spirit of christmas present rise through the stage, and stand aside and observe them._ scr. so, this is my clerk's dwelling, spirit--bob cratchit's. you blessed it with the sprinkling of your torch as we passed the threshold. bob had but fifteen _bob_ a week. he pockets on saturdays but fifteen copies of his christian name, and yet the ghost of christmas present blessed his four-roomed house. (_two of cratchit's younger children, boy and girl, run in._) boy. oh, mother--outside the baker's we smell such a goose! it must have been ours--no one has got such a goose. oh, gemini! (_they dance round the table in childish glee._) mrs. c. whatever has got your precious father, bob, and tiny tim. and martha warn't as late this christmas day by half an hour! _enter martha, l. h._ mart. here's martha, mother! children. here's martha, mother--hurrah! there's such a goose, martha! mrs. c. (_kissing martha, and assisting her off with her bonnet, etc._) why bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are! mart. we'd a deal of work to finish up last night, and had to clear away this morning, mother. mrs. c. well, never mind, so long as you are come. sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm. lord bless ye! children. (_looking off._) father's coming! hide, martha, hide! (_martha runs behind closet door in f. bob cratchit enters with tiny tim upon his shoulder, l. h._) bob. (_looking round._) why, where's our martha? mrs. c. not coming. bob. not coming upon christmas day! martha. (_running towards him._) yes, dear father, yes. (_they embrace._) children. come, tiny tim, into the washhouse, to hear the pudding singing in the copper! (_they carry tim out--peter exits l. h._) mrs. c. and how did little tim behave? bob. as good as gold. somehow he gets thoughtful sitting by himself so much, and thinks the sweetest things you ever heard! (_the children re-enter with tim._) children. the goose! the goose! (_peter re-enters carrying the goose--it is placed on the table, etc. all seat themselves at table._) scr. bob's happier than his master! how his blessed urchins, mounting guard upon their posts, cram their spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn arrives to be helped! and now, as mrs. cratchit plunges her knife in its breast, a murmur of delight arises round the board, and even tiny tim beats the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cries hurrah! bob. beautiful! there never was such a goose. it's tender as a lamb, and cheap as dirt. the apple sauce and mashed potatoes are delicious--and now, love, for the pudding. the thought of it makes you nervous. mrs. c. too nervous for witnesses. i must leave the room alone to take the pudding up and bring it in. (_exit l. h._ bob. awful moment! suppose it should not be done enough? suppose it should break in turning out? suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the back yard and stolen it? (_gets up, and walks about, disturbed._) i could suppose all sorts of horrors. ah! there's a great deal of steam--the pudding's out of the copper! a smell like a washing day--that's the cloth! a smell like an eating-house and a pastry cook's door to each other, with a laundress's next door to that--that's the pudding. (_mrs. cratchit re-enters with pudding, which she places on table. bob sits._) children. hurrah! scr. mrs. cratchit looks flushed, but smiles proudly, like one who has achieved a triumph. bob. mrs. cratchit, i regard this pudding as the greatest success you have achieved since our marriage. mrs. c. now that the weight's off my mind, i confess i had my doubts about it, and i don't think it at all a small pudding for so large a family. bob. it would be flat heresy to say so. a cratchit would blush to hint at such a thing! scr. their merry, cheerful dinner's ended, but not their sweet, enjoyment of the day. (_mrs. cratchit, etc., clears the table. a jug and a glass or two are placed on it. bob fills the glasses._) bob. a merry christmas to us all, my dear--heaven bless us! (_they drink and echo him--tiny tim is near his father, who presses his hand._) scr. spirit tell me if tiny tim will live? nd spirit. if the shadows i see remain unaltered by the future, the child will die. scr. no, no--say he will be spared. nd spirit. if he be like to die--what then? he had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. scr. my own words! nd spirit. man--if man you be in heart, and not adamant--forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered what the surplus is, and where it is. will you decide what men shall live--what men shall die? to hear the insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust. bob. my dear, i'll give you, "mr. scrooge, the founder of the feast!" mrs. c. the founder of the feast indeed! i wish i had him here--i'd give him a piece of my mind to feast upon! bob. my dear--the children--christmas day---- mrs. c. it should be christmas day, i'm sure, on which one drinks the health of such an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man as mr. scrooge. you know what he is, robert--no one better. bob. my dear--christmas day---- mrs. c. i'll drink his health for your sake not for his. long life to him! a merry christmas and a happy new year! he'll be very merry and very happy, no doubt! (_all drink._) nd spirit. your name alone has cast a gloom upon them. but they are happy--grateful--pleased with one another. scr. and they look happier yet in the bright sprinkling of thy torch, spirit. (_as he speaks the stage becomes quite dark. a medium descends, which hides the group at table. scrooge and the spirit remaining in front._) we have seen much to-night, and visited many homes. thou hast stood beside sick beds, and they were cheerful--by struggling men, and they were patient in their greater hope--by poverty, and it was rich. in almshouse, hospital and jail--in misery's every refuge, thou hast left thy blessing, and taught me thy precepts. nd spirit. my life upon this globe is very brief--it ends to-night--at midnight--the time draws near. scr. is that a claw protruding from your skirts? nd spirit. behold! (_two children, wretched in appearance, appear from the foldings of his robe--they kneel, and cling to him._) oh, man--look here! scr. spirit, are they yours? (_see plate in work, page ._) nd spirit. they are man's--and they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. this boy is ignorance--this girl is want. beware all of their degree--but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow is written that which is doom, unless the writing be erased. admit it for your factious purposes, and bide the end. scr. have they no regular refuge or resource? (_scrooge shrinks abashed._) nd spirit. are there no prisons--no workhouses? hark, 'tis midnight! i am of the past! (_the children exeunt--the spirit disappears through trap--at the same moment the ghost of christmas to come, shrouded in a deep black garment rises behind medium, which is worked off, discovering_---- scene ii.--_a street. night._ _the spirit advances slowly. scrooge kneels on beholding it._ scr. this spirit's mysterious presence fills me with a solemn dread! i am in the presence of the ghost of christmas yet to come! (_the spirit points onward._) you are about to show me shadows of things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us? (_the spirit slightly inclines its head._) though well used to ghostly company by this time. i fear this silent shape more than i did all the rest. ghost of the future, will you not speak to me? (_the spirit's hand is still pointing onward._) lead on, spirit! (_the spirit moves a few steps on, then pauses. scrooge follows. the stage becomes light._) _enter cheerly and heartly._ heart. he's dead, you say? when did he die? cheer. last night, i believe. heart. what has he done with his money? cheer. i haven't heard, he hasn't left it to me. it's likely to be a very cheap funeral, for i don't know of any one likely to go to it. heart. well, i don't mind going to it if lunch is provided. i'm not at all sure i was not one of his most particular friends. cheer. yes--you used to stop, and say "how d'ye do?" whenever you met. but, come--we must to 'change. (_exit r. h._ scr. a moral in their words, too! quiet and dark beside me stands yet the phantom, with its outstretched hand. it still points onward and i must follow it! (_the spirit exits slowly followed by scrooge._) scene iii.--_interior of a marine store shop. old iron, phials, etc., seen. a screen extends from r. h. to c. separating fireplace, etc., from shop. chair and table near the fire._ old joe _seated near the fire, smoking. a light burns on the table. the spirit enters, followed by scrooge._ scr. what foul and obscure place is this? what place of bad repute--of houses wretched--of people half naked--drunken and ill-favoured? the whole quarter reeks with crime--with filth and misery. (_shop door opens, and mrs. dibler enters. she has hardly time to close the door when it opens again, and dark sam enters closely followed by mrs. mildew. upon perceiving each other they at first start, but presently burst into a laugh. joe joins them._) sam. let the charwoman alone to be the first--let the laundress alone to be second--and let the undertaker's man alone to be the third. look here old joe, here's a chance! if we all three haven't met here without meaning it. joe. you couldn't have met in a better place. come into the parlour--you're none of you strangers. stop till i shut the door of the shop. ah! how it shrieks! there an't such a rusty bit of metal here as its own hinges--and i'm sure there's no such old bones here as mine. ha, ha! we're all suitable to our calling. we're well matched. come into the parlour. (_they come forward by screen._) mrs. m. (_throwing down bundle._) what odds, then, mrs. dibler? every person has a right to take care of themselves. he always did. sam. no man more so, so don't stand staring as if you was afraid, woman--who's the wiser? we're not going to pick holes in each other's coats, i suppose? omnes. no, indeed! we should hope not! mrs. m. who's the worse for the loss of a few things like these? not a dead man, i suppose? omnes. (_laughing._) no, indeed! sam. if he wanted to keep 'em after he was dead, a wicked old screw, why wasn't he natural in his life time? mrs. m. if he had been, he'd have had somebody to look after him when he was struck with death, instead of lying, gasping out his last, alone there by himself--it's a judgment upon him! open that bundle, old joe, and let me know the value of it. sam. stop! i'll be served first, to spare your blushes, though we pretty well knew we were helping ourselves, and no sin neither! (_gives trinkets to joe._) joe. two seals, pencil case, brooch, sleeve buttons! (_chalking figures on wall._) five bob! wouldn't give more, if you was to boil me! who's next? (_mrs. dibler offers bundle which he examines._) there's your money! (_chalks on wall._) i always give too much to ladies--it's my weakness, and so i ruin myself. if you asked for another penny, and made it an open question, i'd repent of being so liberal, and knock off half a-crown! (_examines mrs. mildew's bundle upon his knees._) what do you call this? bed curtains? you don't mean to say you took 'em down, rings and all, with him lying there? mrs. m. yes. i do! why not? joe. you were born to make your fortune, and you'll certainly do it! blankets! his blankets? mrs. m. whose else's? he won't take cold without 'em! joe. i hope he didn't die of anything catching! mrs. m. no, no! or i'd not have waited on such as he! there, joe, that's the best shirt he had--they'd ha' wasted it, but for me! joe. what do you call wasting it? mrs. m. putting it on him to be buried, to be sure! somebody was fool enough to do it, but i took it off again! if calico ain't good enough for such a purpose, it ain't good enough for anybody! it's quite as becoming to the body! he can't look uglier than he did in that one! scr. i listen to their words in horror! joe. there is what i will give you! (_chalks on wall, then takes out a small bag, and tells them out their money._) mrs. m. ha, ha! this is the end of it, you see--he frightened every one away from him when he was alive, to profit us when he was dead--ha, ha, ha! (_all laugh._) scr. (_shuddering._) spirit, i see--i see! the case of this unhappy man might be my own--my life tends that way now. let us be gone. (_the spirit points onward. the scene changes._) scene iv.--_a chamber. curtain drawn over recess. the spirit points to it--then approaches it, followed by scrooge trembling. the curtain is withdrawn--a bed is seen--a pale, light shows a figure, covered with a sheet upon it._ scr. (_recoiling in terror._) ah! a bare uncurtained bed, and something there, which, though dumb, announces itself in awful language! yes, plundered and bereft, unwatched, unwept, uncared for, is the body of this man! (_the spirit points towards the bed._) it points towards the face--the slightest movement of my hand would instantly reveal it--i long yet dread to do it. oh, could this man be raised up and see himself! avarice, hard dealing, griping cares! they have brought him to a rich end, truly! he lays alone in a dark empty house, with not a man, woman, or a child, to say--"he was kind to me--i will be kind to him!" spirit, this is a fearful place! in leaving it, i shall not leave its lesson. let us hence. if there is any person in the town who feels emotion caused by this man's death, show that person to me, i beseech you. (_as he speaks the scene changes._) scene v.--_a chamber. scrooge and spirit on l. h._ _enter ellen, r. h., second dress, followed by euston, l. h._ ellen. what news my love--is it good or bad? eus. bad! ellen. we are quite ruined! eus. no! there is hope yet, ellen! ellen. if he relents, there is--nothing is past hope if such a miracle has happened. eus. he is past relenting! he is dead! ellen. dead! it is a crime but heaven forgive me, i almost feel thankful for it! eus. what the half drunken-woman told me last night, when i tried to see him and obtain a week's delay, and which i thought a mere excuse to avoid me, was true,--he was not only ill, but dying then! ellen. to whom will our debt be transferred! eus. i don't know, but before that time we shall be ready with the money, and were we not, we can hardly find so merciless a creditor in his successor. we may sleep to-night with light hearts, ellen. come! (_exeunt r. h._) scr. this is terrible! let me see some tenderness connected with a death in that dark chamber, which we left just now, spirit--it will be for ever present to me. (spirit _points onward and slowly exits followed by scrooge._) scene vi.--_apartment at bob cratchit's._ (_mrs. cratchit, peter, and the two younger cratchit's discovered. candle lighted. the spirit enters, followed by scrooge._) scr. as through the old familiar streets we passed, i looked in vain to find myself, but nowhere was i to be seen. mrs. c. (_laying down her work. mourning._) the colour hurts my eyes, and i wouldn't show weak eyes to your father. it must be near his time--he walks slower than he used, and yet i've known him walk, with tiny tim upon his shoulder, very fast indeed--but he was very light to carry, and his father loved him, so that it was no trouble--no trouble---- _enter bob, l. h. mrs. c. advances to meet him--the children crowd around him._ bob. there, wife, i've returned at last. come, you have been industrious in my absence--the things will be ready before sunday. mrs. c. sunday! you went to-day, then? bob. yes, my dear! i wish you could have gone--it would have done you good to see how green a place it is. but you'll see it often--i promised him i would walk there of a sunday--my little--little child--(_with much emotion._) mrs. c. don't fret! bob. fret! i met mr. scrooge's nephew just now, who, seeing that i looked a little down, asked me what had happened. ah, he's the pleasantest spoken gentleman you ever heard--he told me he was sorry for me and for my good wife--but how he knew _that_ i don't know! mrs. c. knew what? bob. why, that you were a good wife! and he was so kind--it was quite delightful! he said he'd get peter a better situation--and, mark me, whenever we part from one another, i am sure we shall none of us forget poor tiny tim, shall we, or this first parting that was among us? omnes. never! never! (_the children crowd around their parents, who kiss them tenderly. a medium descends and hides the group._) scr. spectre, something informs me that our parting moment is at hand--tell me, ere you quit me, what man that was whom we saw lying dead? (_the spirit points onward slowly traverses the stage._) still he beckons me onward--there seems no order in these latter visions, save they are in the future. through yonder gloom i can see my own dwelling--let me behold what i shall be in days to come--the house is yonder--why do you point away? ah! that house is no longer mine--another occupies it. ah! why is this? (_the medium is worked off, and discovers._) scene vii.--_a churchyard. on slab centre, is engraved "ebenezer scrooge."_ scr. a churchyard! here, then, the wretched man who's name i have now to learn, lays underneath the ground! (_the spirit points to centre slab. scrooge advances, trembling, towards it._) before i draw nearer to the stone to which you point, answer me one question. are these the things of the shadows that will be, or are they the shadows of the things that may be only? (_the spirit still points downward to the grave._) men's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in they must lead--but if the courses be departed from the ends will change--say is it thus with what you show me? still as immovable as ever! (_draws nearer to grave._) "ebenezer scrooge!" my own name! (_sinks on his knees._) am i that man who lay upon the bed? (_the spirit points from the grave to him, and back again._) no, spirit! oh, no, no! (_see plate, page . the figure remains immovable._) spirit! (_clutching its robe._) hear me! i am not the man i was--i will not be the man i must have been but for this intercourse! why show me this if i am past all hope? (_the hand trembles. scrooge sinks on his knees._) good spirit, your nature intercedes for me--assure me that i yet may change these shadows you have shown me, by an altered life! (_the hand trembles still._) i will honour christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year--i will live the past, the present, and the future--the spirits of all three shall strive within me--i will not shut out the lessons that they teach--oh tell me i may sponge away the writing on this stone! (_in his agony he catches the spectre's hand--it seeks to free itself--his struggles become stronger in his despair--the spirit repulses him--he sinks prostrate to the earth--the spirit disappears, as the medium is worked on. clouds roll over the stage--they are worked off, and discovers._) scene viii.--_scrooge's chamber. same as scene i, act i. it is broad day--the fire is nearly extinguished--the candle nearly burnt down to the socket. the stage arrangement in other respects, precisely the same as at end of scene i, act i._ scrooge _discovered, sleeping in his chair. he appears restless and uneasy, then starts up, exclaiming._ scr. pity me! i will not be the man i have been! oh, no, no! (_pauses, and looks around him._) ah! here! could it all have been a dream! a dream--ha, ha, ha! a dream! yes! this table's my own--this chair's my own--this room's my own--and happier still, the time before me is my own to make amends in! i will live the past, the present, and the future! heaven and the christmas time be praised for this! i say it on my knees--on my knees! my cheek is wet with tears, but they are tears of penitence! (_busies himself in pulling on his coat, throwing off his cap, etc., and speaking all the time._) i don't know what to do--i'm as light as a feather--i'm as happy as an angel--i'm as merry as a school-boy--i'm as giddy as a drunken man! a merry christmas to every body--a happy new year to all the world! hallo, there! whoop! hallo! there's the jug that my gruel was in--there's the door where the ghost of jacob marley entered. it's all right--it's all true--it all happened--ha, ha, ha! i don't know what day of the month it is--i don't know how long i've been among the spirits--i don't know anything--i'm quite a baby--never mind, i don't care--i'd rather be a baby! hallo! whoop! hallo, here! (_runs to window--opens it._) here, you boy! what's to-day? boy. (_without._) why, christmas day! scr. ah! i haven't missed it! glorious! i say--go to the poulterer's round the corner, and buy the prize turkey for me! boy. (_without._) wal-ker! scr. tell 'em to send it, and i'll give you half a crown. he's off like a shot! i'll send it to bob cratchit's. how astonished he'll be. (_coming down._) i'll write a cheque for that society that they called on me about yesterday. oh, i'll make every one happy, and myself, too! (_knocks heard without._) that must be the turkey! (_opens door._) as i live, it's bob cratchit! _enter bob cratchit, e. l. h._ bob. excuse my calling, sir, but the fact is, i couldn't help it. that worthy gentleman, your nephew, is ruined. i said, ruined, sir---- scr. i'm glad of it! bob. glad of it! there's an unnatural cannibal! _enter frank, e. l. h._ frank. oh uncle, you know all! i come not to ask your assistance--that would be madness--but i come to bid you farewell. in three days' time, with my unfortunate family, i shall quit england. scr. no, you shan't. you shall stay where you are! frank. you mock me! scr. i say you shall stay where you are! (_writes at table._) there's a cheque for present use--to-morrow i will see how i can make up your losses, and at my death you shall inherit all my wealth--but i don't mean to die yet, you dog! frank. this generosity---- scr. no thanks. i'll dine with you to-day, frank--and as for you, bob, tiny tim shall be my care, and your salary's trebled from this hour. bob. oh, this can't be my master! oh, i'm quite sure it must be somebody else. yes--it is him, too! he must have gone mad! i've a great mind to knock him down with the ruler, and get mr. frank to help me to fit him on a strait waistcoat! well, i never! scr. a merry christmas, frank--a merry christmas, bob--and it _shall_ be a merry one. i have awoke a better man than i fell asleep. so may it be with all of us! oh, may my day dreams prove as happy as my night ones? (_as he speaks, the gauze medium is lit up behind, and the ghost of christmas past, the ghost of christmas present, and the ghost of christmas to come, with the other characters in the miser's dream, are seen in separate groups._) their remembrance haunts me still. oh, my friends--forgive but my past, you will make happy my present, and inspire me with hope for the future! the curtain falls. _the bat_ a mystery play in acts. by mary roberts rinehart and avery hopwood. produced originally at the morosco theatre, new york. males, females. interior scenes. modern costumes. miss cornelia van gorder, a maiden lady of sixty, has leased as a restorative for frayed nerves, a long island country house. it had been the property of a new york financier who had disappeared coincidentally with the looting of his bank. his cashier, who is secretly engaged to marry miss van gorder's niece, is suspected of the defalcation and is a fugitive. the new occupants believe the place to be haunted. strange sounds and manifestations first strengthen this conviction but presently lead them to suspect that the happenings are mysteriously connected with the bank robbery. any sensible woman would have moved to the nearest neighbors for the night and returned to the city next day. but miss van gorder decided to remain and solve the mystery. she sends for detectives and then things begin to happen. at one time or another every member of the household is suspected of the theft. the audience is kept running up blind alleys, falling into hidden pitfalls, and darting around treacherous corners. a genuine thriller guaranteed to divert any audience. (royalty, twenty-five dollars.) price cents. _the haunted house_ comedy in acts. by owen davis. produced originally at the george m. cohan theatre, new york. males, females. interior. modern costumes. a newly married couple arrive to spend their honeymoon in a summer cottage owned by the girl's father, who has begged them not to go there, because he claims the house is haunted. almost immediately after their arrival, strange sounds are heard in the house. the bride leaves the room for a few moments and when she returns, her husband is talking very confidentially to a young woman, who he claims has had trouble with her automobile down the road, and he goes out to assist her. but when he comes back, his wife's suspicions force him to confess that the girl is an old sweetheart of his. the girl is subsequently reported murdered, and the bride believes her husband has committed the crime. a neighbor, who is an author of detective stories, attempts to solve the murder, meantime calling in a prominent new york detective who is vacationing in the town. as they proceed, everyone in the action becomes involved. but the whole thing terminates in a laugh, with the most uproarious and unexpected conclusion imaginable. (royalty, twenty-five dollars.) price cents. _louder, please_ a comedy in acts. by norman krasna. produced originally at the masque theatre, new york. males, females. interior scene. modern costumes. the breathless and amusing comedy has to do with the efforts of criterion pictures to keep one of its stars, polly madison, before the public gaze, and press agent herbert white is called in to promote the necessary ballyhoo. he conceives the brilliant but ancient idea of having polly get "lost at sea" in a motor boat. there is a law making it a punishable crime to fake a false news report to the press, but what is a law to herbert if he can get over the necessary publicity? he broadcasts the news that polly has strangely disappeared and is lost at sea. consequently the forces of the law get busy, the coast guard sends out a fleet of airplanes to rescue the lost film star, with the result that the front pages of the papers are loaded with stories of the frantic search for the actress, and the world at large is on its ear. detective bailey becomes suspicious of the fake and puts the criterion staff through a stiff third degree. a prison cell looms up for herbert white and he has to resort to the most desperate measures to make the fake story appear true. (royalty, twenty-five dollars.) price cents. _skidding_ comedy in acts. by aurania rouverol. produced originally at the bijou theatre, new york. males, females. interior. modern costumes. a fresh, sincere picture of american family life, showing marion hardy, a modern college girl who falls ecstatically in love with wayne trenton just as a career is opening up to her, and the difficulties she has in adjusting her romance. then there are the two pretty young daughters who chose to marry before they finished their education and want to "come home to mother" at the first sign of trouble. mother hardy is so upset at the modern tendencies of her daughters, that she goes on strike in order to straighten out her family. young andy hardy is an adorable adolescent lad with his first "case"--a typical booth tarkington part. he keeps the audience in a gale of merriment with his humorous observances. grandpa hardy touches the heart with his absent-mindedness and his reminiscences about grandma; and the white satin slippers he makes for marion to be married in, have a great deal to do with straightening out her love affair. humor is blended with pathos and a deliciously garnished philosophy makes "skidding" more significant than the average comedy. it is life. "skidding" is one of our most popular plays for high school production. (royalty, twenty-five dollars.) price cents. transcriber's notes: the line "happy as my night ones? (_as he speaks, the gauze_" was duplicated in the original. the following is a list of changes made to the original. the first line is the original line, the second the corrected one. _author of fair rosamond, fairinelli, the dream of fate,_ _author of fair rosamond, farinelli, the dream of fate,_ christamas carol. a christmas carol. _easy chair table with candlestick upon it, etc., etc._ _easy chair, table with candlestick upon it, etc., etc._ (_binds wrappr round its head once more--slowly_ (_binds wrapper round its head once more--slowly_ either--nor ony of your family, bob cratchit. at either--nor any of your family, bob cratchit. at mrs. c. sunday! you went to day, then? mrs. c. sunday! you went to-day, then? remorseless? not a bit of it, no matter what they say! here's the genuine, inside, light-hearted story of---- death and taxes by h. a. hartzell [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, may . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] "it's a crime, your honor," said the young man with the dreamy eyes and paint-smeared sport-shirt. "the council not only proposes tearing down this picturesque landmark, but would thereby destroy the home of our only local ghost." "really, mr. masterson!" the mayor smiled to show he knew jerry masterson was only kidding, then brandished a state highway commission report recommending that the antiquated waukeena lighthouse be demolished. "mr. masterson, we respect your feelings as an artist, and are well aware of the local superstition regarding the ghost of captain macgreggor, but this building is over seventy years old and needs expensive repairs. the financial burden is too great for our metropolis of less than fifteen hundred souls. the state has disavowed responsibility, and--" "your honor!" "the chair recognizes mr. higgins." "as president of the historical society, i wish to state we vigorously oppose the wrecking of this building. one by one, our landmarks have fallen. are we to hand down to our children a community without pride of ancestry? are we--?" "your honor," bellowed another voice. "as a member of the taxpayers league...." for two hours, sentiment battled hotly with double-entry bookkeeping. then the city council expressed its deep regrets to the historical society--and unanimously accepted the bid of sam schultz salvage company. mr. schultz handed the council his check for five hundred dollars and was authorized to begin wrecking immediately. "first thing tomorrow morning," mr. schultz promised. * * * * * tomorrow morning! as he walked into the spring night, toward the old, decaying house where he lived alone, jerry masterson felt sadness. his own difficulties had prepared him to admit life was geared to financial considerations. but things had come to a pretty pass when even a ghost was not safe from dollars and cents. "poor captain wully," he said without realizing he spoke aloud. "aye, aye," said a voice. "poor wully macgreggor. as a ghost in good standing, a dues-paying member of asmodeus local of the united lighthouse haunters of america, wully never done nothin' to deserve this. evicted! got a smoke, matey?" jerry masterson did a double-take. out of reflex courtesy, he proffered a cigarette and was about to strike a match when his companion reached slightly to the left, where several coals glowed in mid-air. selecting one, the stranger said, "thank you, junior. you can go now." he turned, lit jerry's cigarette and his own. "all right, joker," said jerry. "show me how you did it and i'll show you a couple of card tricks and a disappearing penny routine." "later," said the stranger. "right now, matey, my sails is draggin' and i need spiritual reinforcement--liquid. and _you're_ buying." "there's a fifth of scotch in my studio, but i'm not pouring for any phony tricksters. i've been saving it till i sold a canvas." "scotch," sighed the stranger ecstatically. "shades of the loch ness monster! quit scratching, gertrude." "gertrude?" "my cat--she's black. a handsome beastie if you overlook a hole in her head. a twenty-two caliber hole. gertrude, materialize for the nice man." nothing happened, and jerry diplomatically sought to ease a situation that was rapidly becoming embarrassing. "maybe she's bashful." "not gertrude. just temperamental. she could materialize if she wanted to. she doesn't want to. now take junior...." "junior?" "he's the conscientious type. tries too hard, poor boy." "about that scotch," said jerry. "you don't think maybe a couple of cups of black coffee...." the stranger's face registered horror--and trust betrayed. "for shame, laddie. to be insulted in my darkest hour! me, captain wully macgreggor!" "sure. you're wully macgreggor--and i'm napoleon." "watch." there was nothing to watch. the stranger had disappeared. a disembodied voice said, "now about that scotch? if waukeena light is being torn down tomorrow, i'll be homeless. i've got a lot of haunting to do in the little time that's left. and here we stand, waggin' our jaws." jerry's first impulse was to run like hell. "but i don't believe in ghosts!" his voice sounded. "of course you do. if you didn't, you couldn't have seen me." he'd heard of self-hypnosis--apparently the session with the mayor had upset him. "all right, so you're wully macgreggor. why pick on me?" "because i like you," said the ghost. "you said a kind word for me to the city council and i'd like to do something nice for you." "if you can't help yourself, i don't see how you're going to be much help to me, but what've i got to lose?" he was too numb to worry further. ghosts, yet...! * * * * * next morning, jerry masterson awoke with a hangover. he dimly remembered floating lights, red, yellow, blue and green. he remembered captain wully scaring a couple of lovers with noises the young lady described as "something like bagpipes in an echo chamber." and he seemed to remember that, toward the end of the evening, gertrude had deigned to materialize--along with a headless black ox and a white stag. he shook his head and reached for the aspirin. "as of now," he promised himself, "i'm on the wagon." he seemed to recall a snake too, a seven-headed snake with a gleaming carbuncle in the middle head. _permanently_ on the wagon! a scraping noise came from above. he listened. the noise occurred again. it seemed to emanate from the tower room on the third floor. he raced up the winding victorian staircase, on up the narrow stairs to the attic, and stopped. from behind the tower room door, came thin, eerie skirling of bagpipes. "hey, you in there," he called. "matey!" boomed captain wully's voice. "come on in." captain wully was seated on an old sea-chest, the bagpipes still tucked under his arm. "hope my practicing didn't disturb you. i play second bagpipe in the banshee band." "but the scraping noise...." "my sea-chest. i had a little trouble getting you home by cockcrow, and i had to move the sea-chest on overtime. i want to say right now it was right decent of you to offer me a home on such short acquaintance. i appreciate it, and i promise to show my--" "look," said jerry. "all this time i was being so big-hearted, did i also say i was going to have to sell the house for non-payment of taxes?" "you didn't. if i'd a-known that, i'd put you wise to grabbing celeste's carbuncle. it's good luck." "it didn't bring _you_ any luck." "i'm not eligible. employees, relatives etc." "why can't i get it now?" "too late. celeste only materializes once every seven years. those canvases you mentioned. for sale?" "no bidders, and the critics all agree. competent draftsmanship, highly finished technique--but carefully unimaginative, middle-class." "the pictures--where are they now?" "downstairs. i was going to crate them today, and send them to the art festival at northport, but i've got the shakes too bad." captain wully pushed back the tam on his head, scratched his balding dome. "i've got it. you catch yourself a nap, matey. i'll crate the pictures for you and batten down the hatches all nice an' ship-shape." * * * * * jerry masterson, when he draped himself over the bumpy carvings on the studio love seat, intended to take only a quick forty winks. but the morning was well spent when he awakened, stiff and cramped. two sturdy crates stood near the door and, from the skylight end of the studio, wafted a rich fragrance of latakia. captain wully drew deeply on a scotch briar filled with jerry's private blend of tobacco, waved his pipe toward the easel and said, "a right bonnie lass, matey. your betrothed?" jerry shook his head dolefully. "her family are covered wagon. you've no idea what that means in a small town like this. my uncle lived here fifteen years and was still a 'newcomer' when he died and left me the house. i've been here two years, but that's a johnny-come-lately to the higginses. her name's heather, and i doubt if she knows i'm alive." captain wully twirled his mustache, which curled luxuriantly at either end and was of an improbable shade jerry classified as hunter's pink. so was his beard. "what did you say her name was?" "heather higgins." "you sighed the second time you said it, too. i just wanted to be sure." jerry crossed to the unfinished canvas. "hair like sunshine on slightly oxidized copper. eyes blue like the sea where it meets the horizon on a summer day." "_gertrude!_" yelled captain wully. from the turbulence of the air current which marked gertrude's passing, jerry decided the invisible cat had been in a hurry. "and who are _you_, and what are _you_ doing here?" captain wully yelled at a second slipstream. distinctly audible was a high pitched caterwauling. in addition, there was a sound that made jerry's curly hair crawl--the baying of a wolf? "i better look into this," captain wully muttered and dashed outside. as he reached the doorway, his figure melted into transparency, then into air. jerry loaded the crated paintings into his car and took them to the express office. they wouldn't sell--they never did. but he couldn't afford to pass up the chance that they might. when he returned home, there was no sign of captain wully, only a few paper candy wrappers on the floor. he started to pick them up, but remembered he wanted to imprison a highlight on heather higgins's nose and forgot the papers. someone had been into his paints. a tube of payne's gray had been pressed dry. the cap was off the gamboge, and a new tube of bice green had been squeezed in the middle. nor had the intruder bothered to scrape the palette, which gleamed with puddles of color. a dab of ivory, the hint of rose madder and a suspicion of cadmium yellow fused under his brush tip. creative fury struck him, and he failed to notice a figure that paused at the outside front gate. the figure stooped, picked up something, then carefully scanned the inside walkway. here, too, she picked up something. she stooped momentarily on the front porch, and again in the hallway. * * * * * then heather higgins stood in the studio. her gaze swept the floor, and she bent over to pick up a candy wrapper. "you don't have to do that," jerry said. "i was getting around to it--eventually." she whirled to face him. her eyes turned from azure to ultramarine. "you might tell me what's going on around here!" "suppose _you_ tell _me_. i'm still trying to catch up with it myself." "_thief!_" "thief?" "stealing scotch whiskey and my new plaid skirt! but you made a mistake on the rum butter toffee. i trailed the wrappers." the scotch whiskey and rum toffee jerry could see a reason for--but not the plaid skirt. "so help me, i'm innocent." "so you're innocent!" she dashed to a corner behind the easel and snatched a plaid skirt from the floor. "you'll just have to believe me. i had nothing to do with it." "oh no?" "look at me. do i look like a criminal?" as she looked her expression softened slightly, but she said, "i always picked the wrong picture in psychology tests. it's you innocent looking fellows that always turn out to be the crooks." jerry tried his best to look desperate. the result was too much for heather higgins, who laughed. "hold it," jerry said. "i want to catch your eyes." he grabbed his brush and made several quick strokes on the canvas. "why," she said, "it looks like _me_--a little. but i'm not that pretty." "you are. and it'd look more like you if i didn't have to do it from memory." and that was how heather higgins reluctantly happened to promise jerry masterson she'd return next morning for a sitting. she left, and jerry was eating dinner when captain wully walked in to the whistled measures of _comin' through the rye_. "_rye!_" said jerry. "you? rye?" "i borrowed her old man's scotch, if that's what you're gettin' at. and if you think i enjoyed eatin' all that candy just to leave a trail--i hope i don't see another piece of candy for three hundred years." "just to satisfy my curiosity," jerry pleaded, "where does the plaid skirt come in?" "the macgreggor tartan? i needed a kilt." "all of a sudden you need a kilt. why?" "it's a long story. but first--" he reached into a cupboard and produced jerry's safety razor--"do you mind if i borrow this? and where do you keep the scissors?" it took fifteen minutes to locate the scissors. "we were discussing a kilt," jerry prompted. "if a body kiss a body, need a body cry," sang captain wully's baritone. but, eventually, captain wully and the scissors were seated at the table behind a round magnifying mirror. "it begins with gertrude. you remember how she scooted through the studio this afternoon with a werewolf after her?" "how stupid of me not to realize." "i felt gertrude needed help. i caught up with the werewolf and gave him a piece of my mind. 'pretty small potatoes,' i says, 'when a werewolf chases cats. you must be pretty second-rate to have fallen so low. a regular lamb in wolf's clothing.' 'i'll have you know,' he says, 'i'm pretty hot stuff. related to dracula on my mammy's side, and to frankenstein on my pappy's.'" the scissors snipped rapidly, and bits of pink mustache littered the unswept floor. "'a renegade,' i says. 'your family must be awfully proud of you. chasing cats!' ouch--" as the scissors slipped. "i says, 'where do you live?' and he says, 'down the road a piece. i'm lapdog for an indian princess.' 'i think,' i says, usin' my head real quick like, 'i better see you home and see what your mistress has to say about this.'" the mustache having been whittled to a tailored toothbrush. captain wully started on his beard. "you should see her, laddie. a real indian princess, left over from a lovers leap. bein' four hundred years old, she's real aristocracy and doesn't mingle with younger ghosts, which is why i never seen her before. myself, i'm three score and hardly in her class. although i must say she took a shine to me. but indian braves don't wear beards." captain wully put down the razor and revealed that he too was beardless. "sporran, silver buckles and all the fixin's i got in my sea-chest--but my kilt went down wi' my ship." when captain wully realized heather higgins had taken the plaid skirt home, he was inconsolable. * * * * * heather higgins kept her appointment to sit next morning. she was greeted at the mailbox by a subdued young man, who hastily shoved in his pocket a letter promising drastic action in the matter of "tax liens against property situate, to wit, etc." "the oddest thing has happened," she said. and jerry knew. "the plaid skirt is gone again." she gave him a chilly look. "see here! for a young man who claims to know nothing about--" "it's my handyman," he babbled. "my handyman's a kleptomaniac." "lem butler's the only handyman in town. don't try to tell me lem--" "since the person concerned is progressing toward a cure, i can't mention names. couldn't you let me pay for the skirt?" it took a lot of fast talking, and it took time--but he finally diverted her attention. she was a patient model. he quickly blocked in the flowing waves of her hair. but a listening look had come over her. jerry listened too. down the stairwell drifted muted notes of a bagpipe, striving to adapt its chromatic limitations to '_indian love call_.' another instrument was audible also. "funny thing about this house," he said. "when i first moved in, i used to think i heard bagpipes." "accompanied by a glockenspiel?" "is that what it is?" the upper half of a very elderly gentleman bobbed in. "_junior!_" bawled captain wully from the stairs. "leave me alone," pleaded the elderly gentleman. "lemme concentrate." captain wully dashed in. "for shame, junior. _stealing!_" junior's eyes filled with tears. "just one more nip, and i know i could have relaxed enough to finish materializing." heather's fascinated gaze wavered between the bottomless junior and captain wully's kilt. the kilt had a zipper placket exactly like a lady's skirt. "i think i'm losing my mind," she said. jerry masterson attempted to explain the inexplicable. he recounted events of the preceding several days and concluded, "no matter what you think, you couldn't see him if you didn't believe." "what about the glockenspiel?" she asked weakly. "that's red skeleton," said captain wully. "he uses a couple of ball-peen hammers on his ribs. we was tunin' up to serenade pocahauntus." "the cat," said heather. "she's left out." "oh, no, she ain't. gertrude sings coloratura." "_that_ even _i_ don't believe," said jerry. * * * * * junior's upper half poised before the easel, and he flourished a brush. "just a touch about the eyes. and another here." he flicked at the mouth. "get away from there!" yelled jerry. junior burst into tears again. "i was only trying to help. besides, it did need--" "well, i'll be...." jerry looked at the canvas. "junior was right." "about gertrude," insisted captain wully. "if you don't believe it, why don't you come serenadin' with us, you and miss heather?" jerry looked inquiringly at heather. "i'll hate myself if i do," she said. "then we won't go." "but i'll hate myself worse if i don't." he called that evening to take her to the serenade, and met her family. mr. higgins was very pleasant. mrs. higgins was very pleasant. but jerry was uncomfortably aware of a large photograph on the mantle. the photograph was of a young man, and it was not pleasant. its eyes followed heather higgins possessively. the photograph's tailored suit intimated its pockets were not lined with tax liens. mrs. higgins noticed jerry's interest. "that's wesley tatom." "of the first national bank tatoms," said mrs. higgins. "his great grandfather was ephraim tatom," said mrs. higgins. ephraim tatom, so jerry gathered in the next half hour, had practically blazed the oregon trail single-handed. "wesley is attending the state bankers convention right now," said mr. higgins. mrs. higgins gave jerry a meaningful look. "we're _very_ fond of dear, sweet wesley," she said. jerry was understandably relieved when it came time to depart. as for the serenade, gertrude was in fine voice. her words were incomprehensible, but no more so than foreign opera. captain wully puffed through _indian love call_ and a pibroch or two on the pipes, ably assisted by red skeleton on the glockenspiel and junior on the mouth-harp. princess pocahauntus was impressed by captain wully's full dress. she fingered the flowing shoulder plaid, tsk-tsking over the fineness of such a blanket. and the silver buckles--only a big chief would possess such wealth. gertrude bristled, and oscar, the werewolf, dashed up with a limp and furry trophy, which he laid at the princess' feet. "what's that?" heather gasped. "a sidehill gouger," explained pocahauntus. "see?" * * * * * she put the little animal upright, or as nearly upright as circumstances permitted, for the gouger's left legs were three inches shorter than his right ones. reaching into her reticule, she produced a couple of artistically carved bone pegs, which she fastened to the abbreviated left legs. "prosthetics. relics of our last gouger, who migrated to switzerland." "somebody ought to write a book," mused heather. "lots of books have been written," said pocahauntus, "but not one from the 'inside.' what we spirits need is a john gunther. now take the subject of lovers leaps. more twaddle has been written about--" "i've done a couple of regional articles for the _covered wagon quarterly_, but nobody wants to print my historical fiction," said heather. "what about lovers leaps?" "now take my own. i was really running away from a greasy warrior. he chased me to the cliff edge and, in my girlish innocence, i jumped. what price virtue!" "too bad _i_ wasn't around," mourned captain wully. "i'd a-caught you." "if i had it to do over again, i wouldn't jump." her black eyes flashed, and she drew herself up regally. "i'd push that feather-headed casanova off instead." then, graciously, she suggested barbecuing a salmon over the open fire, but heather was afraid it would take too long and her parents might worry. so she and jerry excused themselves and left captain wully to his courting. as jerry walked heather up the front steps, the scent of lilacs was an invitation to romance, the moon a lover's promise. "good night," said heather. "it's been such fun." her handclasp carried a hint of finality that went beyond words, and jerry said, "_been?_" "wesley gets back tomorrow." without being told, jerry knew that heather's portrait would have to be finished from memory. any man worthy of the name, jerry told himself, would have argued the point--unless he was broke and jobless _and_ had a tax lien in his pocket. he tried to work on her picture next morning, sought to imprison the laughter of her eyes, the song of her lips. but then he realized that the laughter was for somebody else. the song too. from above came a few experimental notes on the glockenspiel. presently junior's mouth harp joined in. the melody staggered uncertainly, finally emerged as mendelssohn's _wedding march_. jerry threw down his brush and left the house. he walked toward the lighthouse. that once stately saltbox had already lost its lensed cupola and most of its siding. he watched for a long time as the sam schultz salvage company pried board from board and piled all in a stack of jack-straws. maybe he could go to work for sam schultz and make enough to pay off the taxes. and, if he observed all the horatio alger niceties, maybe some day he'd own the company and could seek heather higgins' hand in marriage--only to discover she had long since married wesley. he walked along the beach. climbing to a jutting promontory, he watched waves break against the rocks below. why not throw himself into the sea? he could become a ghost, and maybe find a lady ghost, and.... * * * * * he went home and forced himself to work on heather higgins' portrait. he filled an entire sketch pad with brief line drawings of her until, late at night, he finally fell asleep in his chair. he awakened to broad daylight--and the whistling of the postman. the letter was from eloise wright, chairman of the northport art festival, and concerned his canvases. _ellis is positively dithy-rambic! claims you've caught a hauntingly spiritual quality, and wants to buy the storm canvas for his san francisco galleries. barret, the chicago barret, is lyrical about the spectral lights and shadows, and is writing his new york dealer about a showing. have sold four canvases. enclose certified check--_ jerry reached for a chair. four canvases? his asking price for four canvases had never come to any such figure as the check represented. the letter contained a postscript. _barret is out of his head over "gertrude." impressionism at its finest, with an eerie, imaginative quality unsurpassed by any american artist. soul of the eternally feminine, as typified by a cat with a hole in the head. social satire in oil. picture not priced. he asks what will you take within reason? one thousand?_ jerry was sure of only one thing. he'd never painted any picture of gertrude. there was, however, the matter of that tube of bice green squeezed in the middle, and the gamboge left capless. he ran to the stairwell and yelled for captain wully, who presently appeared. "i have here a letter--" "i didn't do it," captain wully protested. "'twas junior touched up the paintings. and 'twas junior painted gertrude. me? all i did was help junior dry the paint and boost your prices a wee muckle." "how much?" "by nothing at all, you might say. a zero on the end?" jerry looked at the check. "i feel like i've been obtaining money under false pretenses. junior doesn't even get any credit." "but he does. every one of those paintings was signed 'j. masterson-junior.'" "i feel more honest about banking the check," said jerry. when he made out his deposit slip and totaled his bank balance, jerry reflected how quickly an inferiority complex can melt in financial sunshine. he made a brief stop at the post office, where he mailed a check to the county assessor. he then headed straight for heather higgins' front door. she had company. "glad to know you." jerry acknowledged introduction to wesley tatom and stared with helpless fascination at the latter's necktie--of macgreggor plaid. "you arrived just in time to give me a little moral support," said heather breathlessly. "now, heather, we mustn't bore masterson with our personal difficulties." "i've started a story about oscar the werewolf, but wesley thinks--" wesley interrupted. "i'm looking at it from a business standpoint. some day i'll step into my father's shoes at the bank. and what would the board of directors think of a bank president's wife who wrote claptrap about werewolves and spare-rib glockenspiels?" "i doubt if they'd think anything at all--particularly if it paid well," said jerry, and stared at wesley tatom's tie. the knot had begun to ease gently. "if she thinks she wants to write, why can't she stick to covered wagons, and--" "how stuffy of you!" said heather. wesley tatom felt uncertainly of his tie, tightened the knot. "as a matter of curiosity," jerry addressed his rival, "what makes you so sure heather is going to marry you?" "it's one of those taken-for-granted matters. we've gone together since--_say!_ what business is it of yours, anyway!" now heather, too, was watching wesley's necktie. "i don't think women like to be taken for granted," jerry said. one end of the necktie became longer and longer as its opposite end shortened. with a final but quiet jerk, the necktie came free, hesitated for a moment opposite wesley's belt buckle, then folded itself neatly and floated away. heather giggled. "were you laughing at me?" wesley demanded, "heather," said jerry, "will you marry me?" in the free-for-all that followed, nobody settled anything. * * * * * all that occurred some time ago, of course. meanwhile, what collector hasn't heard of j. masterson-junior, whose canvases are lauded for their "other world" quality? and, if you have children, you probably know by heart the little book chronicling the fortunes and misfortunes of oscar, the werewolf who fainted at the sight of blood. and there's harriet, the hodag. and gary, the stone-eating gyascutus. and robert, the sidehill gouger. recently in print is a story of oscar's love for vi, the vitiated vampire. mr. and mrs. jerry masterson are widely respected. she writes the books. he illustrates them in his spare time. such a delightfully zany couple! always joking about a scottish sea captain who lives in the attic and is married to an indian princess. no wonder the masterson children are overly imaginative--warning their playmates not to sit on gertrude, not to step on oscar's tail. but all kids go through a phase like that. only a few of them are lucky enough to grow up and make money out of it--lots of highly respectable money--like the mastersons. true tales of the weird true tales of the weird _a record of personal experiences of the supernatural_ by sidney dickinson _with an introduction by_ r. h. stetson _professor of psychology oberlin college_ _and a prefatory note by_ g. o. tubby _assistant secretary american society psychical research_ [illustration: logo] new york duffield and company copyright, , by duffield and company printed in the united states of america contents page prefatory note vii introduction author's preface i a mystery of two continents "a spirit of health" the miracle of the flowers the midnight horseman ii the haunted bungalow chapter page i. the condemned ii. the crime iii. the flight and capture iv. the expiation v. the house on the hill vi. on the wings of the storm vii. a ghostly co-tenancy viii. the dead walks ix. the goblins of the kitchen x. a spectral burglary xi. "rest, rest, perturbÉd spirit!" xii. the demons of the dark prefatory note it is a pleasure to testify that the ms. of this volume of stories has been submitted with abundant testimonies from the individuals who knew their author and his facts at first hand, to the american society for psychical research for approval or disapproval. no more interesting or better attested phenomena of the kind have come to our attention, and we have asked that a copy of the ms. be filed permanently in the society's archives for preservation from loss. these accounts by mr. dickinson bear internal evidence to their true psychic origin and to the trained observer scarcely need corroboration or other external support. they ring true. and they are, in addition, moving human documents, with a strong literary appeal. gertrude ogden tubby, asst. sec., a. s. p. r. april , . introduction this account of striking and peculiar events by mr. sidney dickinson is but the fulfillment of an intention of the writer interrupted by sudden death. mr. dickinson had taken careful notes of the happenings described and, being a professional observer and writer, it was inevitable that he should preserve the narrative. he had been slow to prepare it for publication because of the prominent and enabling part played by his wife in the occurrences. after her death, when an increasing interest in the subject had developed, it seemed to mr. dickinson that the narrative might be received as he had written it--as a careful and exact account of most remarkable events. in reverence to the memory of his wife and out of respect to the friends concerned he could not present it otherwise to the public. as the narrative is of some time ago and the principal witnesses are dead or inaccessible the account must stand for itself; the endorsement of the american society for physical research testifies to its intrinsic interest. but the character and personality of the writer is a vital consideration. mr. sidney dickinson was a professional journalist and lecturer. after graduation from amherst in he served on the springfield _republican_ and the san francisco _bulletin_. later he was prominent as an art and dramatic critic on the staff of the boston _journal_. after extended study of art in european galleries he lectured before many colleges, universities and art associations. he spent some years in australia, where many of the events of this account took place. while travelling in europe and australia he was correspondent for a number of papers and magazines, including _scribner's monthly_, the new york _times_, the boston _journal_, and the springfield _republican_. during a visit to new zealand he was engaged by the colonial government to give lectures on new zealand in australia and america. his work and his associates testify to careful observation and sane judgment. mr. dickinson had an unusual memory, a keen sense of accuracy and he was cool and practical rather than emotional or excitable. no one who was much with him in the later days could doubt the entire sincerity of the man. there could have been no ulterior motive as the account itself will show. the narrative was written because he felt that it might well be a contribution of some scientific interest. r. h. stetson, professor of psychology, oberlin college. author's preface these stories are not "founded upon fact"; they _are_ fact. if i may claim any merit for them it is this--they are absolutely and literally true. they seem to me to be unusual even among the mass of literature that has been written upon the subject they illustrate; if they possess any novelty at all it may be found in the fact that the phenomena they describe occurred, for the most part, without invitation, without reference to "conditions," favorable or otherwise, and without mediumistic intervention. i have written these stories with no purpose to bolster up any theory or to strengthen or weaken any belief, and i must say frankly that, in my opinion, they neither prove nor disprove anything whatsoever. i am not a believer, any more than i am a sceptic, in regard to so-called "spiritualism," and have consistently held to my non-committal attitude in this matter by refraining, all my life, from consulting a medium or attending a professional séance. in the scientific study of psychology i have a layman's interest, but even that is curious rather than expectant;--my experience, which i think this book will show to have been considerable, in the observation of occult phenomena has failed to afford me anything like a positive clue to their causes or meaning. in fact, i have long ago arrived at the opinion that any one who devotes himself to the study of what, for want of a better word, we may call "supernatural" will inevitably and at last find himself landed in an _impasse_. the first steps in the pursuit are easy, and seductively promise final arrival at the goal--but in every case of which i, at least, have knowledge the course abruptly ends (sometimes sooner, sometimes later) against a wall so high as to be unscalable, not to be broken through, extending to infinity on either hand. that disembodied spirits can at least make their existence known to us appears to me as a well-approved fact; that they are "forbid to tell the secrets of their prison-house" is my equally firm conviction. i am aware that such an opinion can be only personal, and that it is hopeless to attempt to commend it by satisfactory evidence; those who have had experiences similar to those which i have recorded (and their number is much greater than is generally supposed) will understand how this opinion has been reached--to others it will be inconceivable, as based upon what seems to them impossible. if what i have written should seem to throw any light, however faint, upon the problem of the mystery of existence in whose solution some of the profoundest intellects of the world are at present engaged, my labor will have been worth the while. i submit the results of this labor as a record, with a lively sense of the responsibility i assume by its publication. true tales of the weird a mystery of two continents this story, as well as the one that immediately follows it, was first related to the late wilkie collins, the noted english novelist, with whom i had the good fortune to be acquainted--and who, as all his intimates know, and as those whose knowledge of him is derived from his romances may surmise, was an earnest and careful student of occult phenomena. i placed in his hands all the concurrent _data_ which i could secure, and furnished the names of witnesses to the incidents--which names are now in possession of the publishers of this volume--equipped with which he carried out a thorough personal investigation. the result of this investigation he made known to me, one pleasant spring afternoon, in his study in london. "during my life," he said, "i have made a considerable study of the supernatural, but the knowledge i have gained is not very definite. take the matter of apparitions, for instance, to which the two interesting stories you have submitted to me relate:--i have come to regard these as subjective rather than objective phenomena, projections from an excited or stimulated brain, not actual existences. why, i have seen thousands of ghosts myself! many a night, after writing until two o'clock in the morning, and fortifying myself for my work with strong coffee, i have had to shoulder them aside as i went upstairs to bed. these apparent presences were nothing to me, since i knew perfectly well that their origin was nowhere else than in my overwrought nerves--and i have come to conclude that most cases of visions of this sort are to be explained by attributing them to a temporary or permanent disorganization of the brain of the percipient. mind, i do not say _all_ cases--there are many that are not to be set aside so readily. again, it is not easy to arrive at the facts in any given case; even if the observer is honest, he may not have cultivated the habit of exact statement--moreover, stories are apt to grow by repetition, and a tendency to exaggerate is common to most of us. now and then, however, i have come upon an account of supernatural visitation which seems an exception to the general run, and upsets my theories; and i must say that, having from time to time investigated at least fifteen hundred such instances, the two stories you have furnished me are of them all the best authenticated." some years ago, in the course of a tour of art study which took me through the principal countries of europe, i found myself in naples, having arrived there by a leisurely progress that began at gibraltar, and had brought me by easy stages, and with many stops _en route_, through the mediterranean. the time of year was late february, and the season, even for southern italy, was much advanced;--so, in visiting the island of capri (the exact date, i recollect, was february ) i found this most charming spot in the vesuvian bay smiling and verdant, and was tempted by the brilliant sunshine and warm breezes to explore the hilly country which rose behind the port at which i had landed. the fields upon the heights were green with grass, and spangled with delicate white flowers bearing a yellow centre, which, while smaller than our familiar american field-daisies, and held upon more slender stalks, reminded me of them. having in mind certain friends in then bleak new england, whence i had strayed into this land of summer, i plucked a number of these blossoms and placed them between the leaves of my guide-book--baedeker's "southern italy,"--intending to inclose them in letters which i then planned to write to these friends, contrasting the conditions attending their "washington's birthday" with those in which i fortunately found myself. returning to naples, the many interests of that city put out of my head for the time the thought of letter-writing, and three days later i took the train for rome, with my correspondence still in arrears. the first day of my stay in rome was devoted to an excursion by carriage into the campagna, and on the way back to the city i stopped to see that most interesting and touching of roman monuments, the tomb of cecilia metella. every tourist knows and has visited that beautiful memorial--so i do not need to describe its massive walls, its roof (now fallen and leaving the sepulchre open to the sky) and the heavy turf which covers the earth of its interior. this green carpet of nature, when i visited the tomb, was thickly strewn with fragrant violets, and of these, as of the daisylike flowers i had found in capri, i collected several, and placed them in my guide-book--this time baedeker's "central italy." i mention these two books--the "southern" and the "central italy"--because they have an important bearing on my story. the next day, calling at my banker's, i saw an announcement that letters posted before four o'clock that afternoon would be forwarded to catch the mail for new york by a specially fast steamer for liverpool, and hastened back to my hotel with the purpose of preparing, and thus expediting, my much-delayed correspondence. the most important duty of the moment seemed to be the writing of a letter to my wife, then living in boston, and to this i particularly addressed myself. i described my trip through the mediterranean and my experience in naples and rome, and concluded my letter as follows: "in naples i found february to be like our new england may, and in capri, which i visited on 'washington's birthday,' i found the heights of the island spangled over with delicate flowers, some of which i plucked, and enclose in this letter. and, speaking of flowers, i send you also some violets which i gathered yesterday at the tomb of cecelia metella, outside of rome--you know about this monument, or, if not, you can look up its history, and save me from transcribing a paragraph from the guide-book. i send you these flowers from naples and rome, respectively, in order that you may understand in what agreeable surroundings i find myself, as compared with the ice and snow and bitter cold which are probably your experience at this season." having finished the letter, i took from the guide-book on "central italy" which lay on the table before me, the violets from the tomb of cecilia metella, enclosed them, with the sheets i had written, in an envelope, sealed and addressed it, and was about to affix the stamp, when it suddenly occurred to me that i had left out the flowers i had plucked at capri. these, i then recalled, were still in the guide-book for "southern italy," which i had laid away in my portmanteau as of no further present use to me. accordingly i unstrapped and unlocked the portmanteau, found the guide-book, took out the flowers from capri which were still between its leaves, opened and destroyed the envelope already addressed, added the daisies to the violets, and put the whole into a new inclosure, which i again directed, stamped, and duly dropped into the mail-box at the bankers'. i am insistent upon these details because they particularly impressed upon my mind the certainty that both varieties of flowers were inclosed in the letter to my wife. subsequent events would have been strange enough if i had not placed the flowers in the letter at all--but the facts above stated assure me that there is no question that i did so, and make what followed more than ever inexplicable. so much for the beginning of the affair--in italy; now for its conclusion--in new england. * * * * * during my year abroad, my wife was living, as i have said, in boston, occupying at the winthrop house, on bowdoin street--a hotel which has since, i believe, been taken down--a suite of rooms comprising parlor, bedroom and bath. with her was my daughter by a former marriage, whose mother had died at her birth, some seven years before. on the same floor of the hotel were apartments occupied by mrs. celia thaxter, a woman whose name is well known in american literature, and with whom my wife sustained a very intimate friendship. i am indebted for the facts i am now setting down not only to my wife, who gave me an oral account of them on my return from europe, four months later, but also to this lady who wrote out and preserved a record of them at the time of their occurrence, and sent me a copy of the same while i was still abroad. about ten days after i had posted my letter, inclosing the flowers from capri and rome, my wife suddenly awoke in the middle of the night, and saw standing at the foot of her bed the form of the child's mother. the aspect of the apparition was so serene and gracious that, although greatly startled, she felt no alarm; moreover, it had once before appeared to her, as the reader will learn in the second story of this series, which, for reasons of my own, i have not arranged in chronological order. then she heard, as if from a voice at a great distance, these words: "i have brought you some flowers from sidney." at the next instant the figure vanished. the visitation had been so brief that my wife, although she at once arose and lighted the gas, argued with herself that she had been dreaming, and after a few minutes extinguished the light and returned to bed, where she slept soundly until six o'clock the next morning. always an early riser, she dressed at once and went from her bedroom, where the child was still sleeping, to her parlor. in the centre of the room was a table, covered with a green cloth, and as she entered and happened to glance at it she saw, to her surprise, a number of dried flowers scattered over it. a part of these she recognized as violets, but the rest were unfamiliar to her, although they resembled very small daisies. the vision of the night before was at once forcibly recalled to her, and the words of the apparition, "i have brought you some flowers," seemed to have a meaning, though what it was she could not understand. after examining these strange blossoms for a time she returned to her chamber and awakened the child, whom she then took to see the flowers, and asked her if she knew anything about them. "why, no, mamma," the little girl replied; "i have never seen them before. i was reading my new book at the table last night until i went to bed, and if they were there i should have seen them." so the flowers were gathered up and placed on the shelf above the fireplace, and during the morning were exhibited to mrs. thaxter, who came in for a chat, and who, like my wife, could make nothing of the matter. at about four o'clock in the afternoon of that day the postman called at the hotel, bearing among his mail several letters for my wife, which were at once sent up to her. among them was one that was postmarked "rome" and addressed in my handwriting, and with this she sat down as the first to be read. it contained an account, among other things, of my experiences in naples and rome, and in due course mentioned the enclosure of flowers from capri and from the tomb of cecilia metella. there were, however, no flowers whatever in the letter, although each sheet and the envelope were carefully examined; my wife even shook her skirts and made a search upon the carpet, thinking that the stated enclosure might have fallen out as the letter was opened. nothing could be found--yet ten hours before the arrival of the letter, flowers exactly such as it described had been found on the centre-table! mrs. thaxter was summoned, and the two ladies marvelled greatly. among mrs. thaxter's friends in the city was a well-known botanist, and she at once suggested that the flowers be offered for his inspection. no time was lost in calling upon him, and the flowers were shown (without, however, the curious facts about them being mentioned), with the request that he state, if it were possible, whence they came. he examined them carefully and then said: "as to the violets, it is difficult to say where they grew, since these flowers, wherever they may be found in the world (and they are of almost universal occurrence, through cultivation or otherwise) may everywhere be very much alike. certain peculiarities in these specimens, however, coupled with the scent they still faintly retain and which is characteristic, incline me to the opinion that they came from some part of southern europe--perhaps france, but more likely italy. as to the others, which, as you say, resemble small daisies, they must have come from some point about the bay of naples, as i am not aware of their occurrence elsewhere." "a spirit of health" "a spirit of health" it is common, and, in the main, a well-founded objection to belief in so-called supernatural manifestations, that they seem in general to subserve no purpose of usefulness or help to us who are still upon this mortal plane, and thus are unworthy of intelligences such as both love and reason suggest our departed friends to be. the mummeries and too-frequent juggleries of dark-séances, and the inconclusive and usually vapid "communications" that are vouchsafed through professional mediums, have done much to confirm this opinion, and the possibility of apparitions, particularly, has been weakened, rather than strengthened, in the minds of intelligent persons by the machinery of cabinets and other appliances which seem to be necessary paraphernalia in "materializing" the spirits of the dead. that the departed _ever_ reappear in such form as they presented during life i am not prepared to affirm, even in view of many experiences of a nature like that which i am about to relate. in the generality of such cases i am decidedly in agreement with the opinion of the late wilkie collins, as set forth in the preceding story--although i should be inclined to extend that opinion far enough to include the admission of the possibility that it was the actual presence which so worked upon the mind of the percipient as to cause it to project from itself the phantom appearance. this may seem somewhat like a quibble to confirmed believers in apparitions, of whom there are many, and perhaps it is--while those who are impatient of ingenious psychological explanations may find in the following story a confirmation of the conviction which they hold, that the dead may appear in the form in which we knew them, bringing warning and aid to the living. * * * * * it is now thirty-one years ago that the wife of my youth, after less than a year of married life, was taken from me by death, leaving to me an infant daughter, in whom all the personal and mental traits of the mother gradually reproduced themselves in a remarkable degree. some three years later i married again, and the child, who, during that period, had been in the care of her grandparents, at regular intervals, on either side of the house respectively, was taken into the newly-formed home. a strong affection between the new mother and the little girl was established at once, and their relations soon became more like those of blood than of adoption. the latter, never having known her own mother, had no memory of associations that might have weakened the influence of the new wife, and the step-mother, as the years passed and she had no children, grew to regard the one who had come to her at her marriage as in very truth her own. i often thought, when seeing those two together, so fond and devoted each to each, that if those we call dead still live and have knowledge of facts in the existence they have left behind, the mother of the child may have felt her natural yearnings satisfied in beholding their mutual affection, and even have found therein the medium to extend from her own sphere the influence of happiness which some may believe they see exercised in the events that this narrative, as well as others in the series, describes. at the time in which these events occurred, i was traveling in europe, and my wife and daughter were living in boston, as stated in the story with which this book opens. in the adjoining town of brookline there resided a lady of wealth and social prominence, mrs. john w. candler, wife of a gentleman who had large railway interests in the south, and who was, moreover, representative for his district in the lower house of congress. mrs. candler was a woman of rare beauty and possessed unusual intellectual gifts; she was also a close personal friend of mrs. thaxter, whom i have before mentioned and who introduced her to my wife--the acquaintance thus formed developing into an affectionate intimacy that ended only with mrs. candler's death, a dozen years ago. as her husband's business interests and legislative duties frequently compelled his absence from home, it was mrs. candler's delight to enliven her enforced solitudes by dispensing her large and unostentatious hospitality to her chosen friends--so that it often happened that mrs. thaxter, and my wife and child, were guests for considerable periods at her luxurious residence. one afternoon in mid-winter, mrs. candler drove into the city to call upon my wife, and, finding her suffering from a somewhat obstinate cold, urged her, with her usual warmth and heartiness, to return home with her for a couple of days, for the sake of the superior comforts which her house could afford as compared with those of the hotel. my wife demurred to this, chiefly on the ground that, as the weather was very severe, she did not like to take the child with her, since, being rather delicate that winter although not actually ill, she dared not remove her, even temporarily, from the equable temperature of the hotel. while the matter was being discussed another caller was announced in the person of miss mae harris anson, a young woman of some eighteen years, daughter of a wealthy family in minneapolis, who was pursuing a course of study at the new england conservatory of music. miss anson was very fond of children, and possessed an unusual talent for entertaining them--and thus was a great favorite of my little daughter, who hailed her arrival with rapture. this fact furnished mrs. candler with an idea which she immediately advanced in the form of a suggestion that miss anson might be willing to care for the child during my wife's absence. to this proposal miss anson at once assented, saying, in her lively way, that, as her school was then in recess for a few days, she would like nothing better than to exchange her boarding-house for a hotel for a while, and in consideration thereof to act as nursemaid for such time as might be required of her. it was finally agreed, therefore, that miss anson should come to the hotel the next morning, prepared for a two or three days' stay;--this she did, and early in the afternoon mrs. candler arrived in her sleigh, and with my wife was driven to her home. * * * * * the afternoon and evening passed without incident, and my wife retired early to bed, being assigned to a room next to mrs. candler, and one that could be entered only through that lady's apartment. the next morning she arose rather late, and yielding to the arguments of her hostess, who insisted that she should not undergo the exertion of going down to breakfast, that repast was served in her room, and she partook of it while seated in an easy chair at a table before an open fire that blazed cheerily in the wide chimney-place. the meal finished and the table removed, she continued to sit for some time in her comfortable chair, being attired only in dressing-gown and slippers, considering whether she should go to bed again, as mrs. candler had recommended, or prepare herself to rejoin her friend, whom she could hear talking in the adjoining room with another member of the household. the room in which she was sitting had a large window fronting upon the southeast, and the morning sun, shining from a cloudless sky, poured through it a flood of light that stretched nearly to her feet, and formed a golden track across the carpet. her eyes wandered from one to another object in the luxurious apartment, and as they returned from one of these excursions to a regard of her more immediate surroundings, she was startled to perceive that some one was with her--one who, standing in the full light that came through the window, was silently observing her. some subtle and unclassified sense informed her that the figure in the sunlight was not of mortal mold--it was indistinct in form and outline, and seemed to be a part of, rather than separate from, the radiance that surrounded it. it was the figure of a young and beautiful woman with golden hair and blue eyes, and from both face and eyes was carried the impression of a great anxiety; a robe of some filmy white material covered her form from neck to feet, and bare arms, extending from flowing sleeves, were stretched forth in a gesture of appeal. my wife, stricken with a feeling in which awe dominated fear, lay back in her chair for some moments silently regarding the apparition, not knowing if she were awake or dreaming. a strange familiarity in the face troubled her, for she knew she had never seen it before--then understanding came to her, and the recollection of photographs, and of the features of her daughter by adoption, flashed upon her mind the instant conviction that she was gazing at the mother who died when the child was born. "what is it?" she finally found strength to whisper. "why do you come to me?" the countenance of the apparition took on an expression of trouble more acute even than before. "the child! the child!"--the cry came from the shadowy lips distinctly, yet as if uttered at a great distance. "go back to town at once!" "but why?" my wife inquired. "i do not understand what you mean." the figure began to fade away, as if reabsorbed in the light that enveloped it, but the voice came again as before:--"go to your room and look in your bureau drawer!"--and only the sunlight was to be seen in the spot where the phantom had stood. for some moments my wife remained reclining in her chair, completely overcome by her strange vision; then she got upon her feet, and half ran, half staggered, into the next room where mrs. candler and her companion were still conversing. "why, my dear!" exclaimed mrs. candler, "what in the world is the matter? you are as pale as a ghost!" "i think i have seen one," panted my wife. "tell me, has anyone passed through here into my room?" "why, no," her friend replied; "how could anyone? we have both been sitting here ever since breakfast." "then it is true!" cried my wife. "something terrible is happening in town! please, please take me to my rooms at once!"--and she hurriedly related what she had seen. mrs. candler endeavored to soothe her--she had been dreaming; all must be well with the child, otherwise miss anson would at once inform them;--moreover, rather than have her brave a ride to town in the bitter cold of the morning, she would send a servant after luncheon to inquire for news at the hotel. my wife was not convinced by these arguments but finally yielded to them; mrs. candler gave her the morning paper as a medium for quieting her mind, and she returned with it to her room and resumed her seat in the easy chair. she had hardly begun her reading, however, when the newspaper was snatched from her hand and thrown to the opposite side of the room, and as she started up in alarm she saw the apparition again standing in the sunlight, and again heard the voice--this time in a tone of imperious command--"go to your rooms at once and look in your bureau drawer!" at the utterance of these words the apparition vanished, leaving my wife so overwhelmed with fear and amazement that for some time she was powerless to move--then reason and control of action returned to her, and she was able to regain her friend's room and acquaint her with the facts of this second visitation. this time mrs. candler made no attempt to oppose her earnest purpose to return to town, the horses and sleigh were ordered from the stables, my wife hurriedly dressed herself, and in half an hour both ladies were speeding toward boston. when they reached the entrance of the hotel, my wife, whose excitement had increased greatly during the drive, sprang from the sleigh and rushed upstairs, with mrs. candler close behind her, burst into the door of her rooms like a whirlwind, and discovered--the child absorbed in architectural pursuits with a set of building blocks in the middle of the sitting-room, and miss anson calmly reading a novel in a rocking chair by the window! the picture thus presented was so serene and commonplace by comparison with what my wife's agitation had led her to expect, that mrs. candler at once burst out laughing; my wife's face also showed intense bewilderment--then, crying, "she said 'look in the bureau drawer!'" she hurried into the bedroom with mrs. candler at her heels. the bureau, a conventional piece of bedroom furniture, stood at the head of the child's bed, and presented an entirely innocent appearance; nevertheless my wife went straight up to it, and, firmly grasping the handles, pulled out the topmost drawer. instantly a mass of flame burst forth, accompanied by a cloud of acrid smoke that billowed to the ceiling, and the whole interior of the bureau seemed to be ablaze. mrs. candler, with great presence of mind, seized a pitcher of water and dashed it upon the fire, which action checked it for the moment, and miss anson flew into the hall, arousing the house with her cries. mrs. thaxter, who was at the moment coming to my wife's apartment from her own, hurried in and saw the blazing bureau and the two white-faced women before it and turned quickly to summon help--employes came running with an extinguisher, and in five minutes the danger was over. when the excitement had subsided, an examination was made as to the cause of the conflagration, with the following result: my wife, who was a skilful painter in oils, and devoted much of her time to this employment, was accustomed to keep her colors and brushes in the upper drawer of the bureau in her bedroom. she had also, and very carelessly, placed in a corner of the drawer a quantity of loose rags which had become thoroughly saturated with oil and turpentine from their use in cleaning her palette and brushes. i am indebted for the above facts not only to mrs. thaxter and mrs. candler, both of whom i have frequently heard relate this story, but, particularly, to miss anson herself, who has been, at the time of writing this, for several years connected with the editorial staff of the minneapolis _journal_. in a letter which she sent me in response to my request that she should confirm my recollection, she set forth clearly the causes of the conflagration in the following words: "some time before she [my wife] had put a whole package of matches into a stewpan, in which she heated water, and set the pan in with these paints and rags. then, one night, when in a hurry for some hot water, she had gone in, in the dark, and forgetting all about the matches, had dumped them upon the tubes of oil paints when she pulled out the pan. "every one of the heads of these matches had been burned off, evidently through spontaneous combustion. i went through them all, and not one had been ignited. the rags were burned and the whole inside of the drawer was charred. the fire could not have been kept under longer than the following night, and would probably have burned the child and me in bed, before anyone dreamed there was a fire." the miracle of the flowers the miracle of the flowers among the "phenomena" which attend the average spiritualistic séance a favorite one is the apparent production from space of quantities of flowers--to the supernatural source of which credence or doubt is given according to the degree of belief or scepticism inherent in the individual sitters. having never attended one of these gatherings, i am not able to describe such an incident as occurs under such auspices; but the suggestion recalls to my mind two very remarkable events in which flowers were produced in a seemingly inexplicable manner, and without the assistance (if that be the right word) of mediumistic control. in one of these experiences i personally participated, and in both of them my wife was concerned--therefore i can vouch for their occurrence. some months after the happenings recorded in the two previous narratives, i was spending the summer following my return from europe in northampton, massachusetts, at the residence of my father, having with me my wife and daughter. the mother of the child, who, as i have said, died in giving her birth, was a resident of the town at the time of our marriage, and her body reposed in our family's lot in the cemetery. the circumstance of this bereavement caused the warmest affections of my father and mother to centre upon my daughter, she being then their only grandchild. the little girl was passionately fond of flowers, and her indulgent grandfather, himself a zealous horticulturist and grower of choice fruits, had that summer allotted to her sole use a plot six feet square in his spacious gardens, which became the pride of her heart from the brilliant array of blooms which she had coaxed to grow in it. her favorite flowers were pansies, with the seeds of which she had planted nearly one-half of the space at her disposal. they had germinated successfully and flourished amazingly, and at the time of which i write that part of the bed devoted to them was a solid mass of pansies of every conceivable variety. at about four o'clock one afternoon my wife and i set out for a walk through the famous meadows that stretched away from the back of the grounds, and on our return, some two hours later, we saw at a distance the child standing upon the terrace awaiting us, clean and wholesome in a fresh white frock, and bearing a large bouquet of her favorite pansies in her hand. as we approached she ran to meet us and extended the pansies to my wife, saying:--"mamma, see these lovely pansies! i have picked them for you from my pansy-bed." my wife thanked the child and kissed her, and we went upstairs to our room together to prepare for supper that was then about to be served. a vase stood on the shelf at one side of the room, and in this, first partly filling it with water, i placed the bunch of pansies. after supper i suggested to my wife that we should call upon some relatives who lived about a quarter of a mile away, and went with her to our room while she made her preparations for our excursion. while waiting for her i took from the shelf the vase containing the pansies, and we examined and commented upon them for some time; then, her toilette being completed, i restored the vase and flowers to their former position, and we left the room, and immediately thereafter the house, together. * * * * * we found our friends at home and spent a pleasant evening with them, leaving on our return at about ten o'clock. the night was warm and perfectly calm, and, as there was no moon, the way was dark save where, here and there, a street lamp threw about its little circle of light. as we turned into the street which led to my father's house we passed under a row of maple trees whose heavy foliage made the darkness even more profound than we had known it elsewhere, and beside a high hedge which enclosed the spacious grounds of a mansion that stood at the corner of the two highways. this hedge extended for a distance of about fifty yards, and as many feet beyond the point where it terminated a lighted street lamp dimly illumined the pathway. we were at a point about midway of the hedge when my wife, who was the nearer to it, suddenly stopped and exclaimed: "was it you that gave that pull at my shawl?" and readjusted the garment--a light fleecy affair--which i at once observed was half off her left shoulder. "why, no," i replied, "i did not touch your shawl. what do you mean?" "i mean," she answered, "that i felt a hand seize my shawl and try to draw it away from me." i pointed out the fact that i could not well have reached her shawl on the side on which it had been disarranged, and suggested that it might have caught upon a projecting twig; but although she accepted this explanation as reasonable she still insisted that she had the consciousness of some person having laid a hand upon her. after a few moments we went on, and had left the hedge behind us and were within a few feet of the street lamp, when my wife stopped a second time, declaring that her shawl had been seized again. sure enough, the garment was as before, lying half off her shoulder, and this time obviously not because of any projecting twig, since we were in a perfectly clear space, and could look about us over an area of several yards in every direction. this we did, puzzled but not alarmed at the twice-recurring incident; then, on a sudden, my wife seized my arm with a convulsive grip, and, raising her eyes until i thought she was looking at the light in the street lamp before us, whispered: "heavens! do you see _that_?" i followed the direction of her gaze, but could see nothing, and told her so, in the same breath asking her what she meant. "it is minnie!" she gasped (thus uttering the name of my dead wife) "and she has her hands full of flowers! oh, minnie, minnie, what are you doing?" and hid her face in her hands. i clasped her in my arms, thinking she was about to faint, and gazed fearfully above us in a vain effort to discern the declared apparition--and at the same moment i felt a shower of soft objects strike upon my upturned face and upon my straw hat, and saw against the light before me what seemed like blossoms floating downward to the ground. as soon as i could quiet my wife's agitation and induce her to look again for the appearance which she believed she had beheld, but which she told me had now vanished, i made a search upon the sidewalk for the objects whose fall i had both felt and seen. they were plainly evident, even in the dim light, and i gathered up a number of them and carried them under the lamp for examination. they were pansies, freshly gathered, and with their leaves and stems damp, as if just taken from water. hastening to the house, we went directly to our room, and lighting the gas looked eagerly toward the shelf where we had left the vase filled with pansies some three hours before. the vase was there, half-filled with water, but not a single flower was standing in it. * * * * * the next day was sunday and all the family went to morning service at the church. as my wife and i, with our daughter between us and following my father and mother at some distance, reached the scene of our adventure on the previous night, we saw lying on the sidewalk a half-dozen pansies which we had evidently overlooked, owing to the dim light in which we had gathered up the others. at sight of them the little girl dropped my hand, to which she was clinging, and with a cry of surprise ran to pick them up. "why," she exclaimed, "how did these come here? they are the pansies i picked for mamma yesterday from my pansy bed!" "oh, no, dear," i said; "these are probably some other pansies; how can you tell they came from your bed?" "why," she replied, "i know every one of my pansies, and this one"--holding up a blossom that was of so deep and uniform a purple as to appear almost black--"i could tell anywhere, for there was no other in the bed like it." so she collected all the scattered flowers and insisted on carrying them to church, and on returning home they were replaced, with their fellows, in the vase from which they had been so mysteriously transferred the night before. * * * * * it has been my purpose, in preparing these stories for publication, not to permit myself to be led into any attempt to explain them, or even to embellish them with comment, and thus perhaps weaken what i desire to present as a plain statement of fact--yet this incident of the pansies seems to me (although for quite personal reasons) so touching, and so tender in its suggestions, that i cannot forbear a word or two concerning it. in thus indulging myself i am aware that the reader may think he finds a contradiction of the statement i have made in the preface of this book as to my non-committal attitude regarding spiritualism. on this point i can only say that while i am not convinced as to the origin of the phenomenon, i should find much comfort if i could with assurance attribute it to a spiritualistic source. there are doubtless many who will thus refer it, and i write these lines in sympathy, even if somewhat doubtingly, with their point of view. in every way this event stands unique in my experience--in place of its occurrence, and in all its circumstances. the town was the scene of my youthful wooing--the street one in which my _fiancée_ and i had walked and talked a thousand times on the way between my home and hers. to this town, and to this familiar path, the new wife had come with me, and with us both the child of _her_ love and sacrifice. is there no significance, is there no consolation, not only to myself but to others who have been bereaved, in this episode? the loving gift of flowers to her new guardian by the innocent and unconscious child; the approval of the offering through its repetition, by the apparent spirit of the mother that bore her!--these things may mean nothing, yet in me whom they approached so nearly they have strengthened the hope that lives in every human heart, that the flame of our best and purest affections shall survive the seeming extinguishment of the grave. science, to be sure, has its explanation, and in fairness that explanation should be heard. to quote an eminent authority who has favored me with his views on the subject:--"the power that moved the pansies was a psychic force inherent in the human personality [of your wife] and exercised without the knowledge or cooperation of the objective self." (dr. john d. quackenbos.) in other words, it was not the spirit of the dead wife that lifted the pansies and showered them upon us, but what we must call, for want of a better term, the living wife's "subliminal self." the vision that appeared and seemed to be casting the flowers was a freak of the psychical consciousness--there was no apparition save in my wife's overwrought imagination. to quote again: "but that does not preclude the possibility of the levitation of the pansies, which levitation was accomplished by the lady herself, however ignorant of the operation of this psychic force she used objectively. the fact that she was thus objectively ignorant would be no obstacle to her subjective mind using in the objective earth-life her own super-sensible attributes and powers." the principal objection to this argument seems to me to lie in this:--the pansies did not first fall upon us, and thus, by suggestion or otherwise, so excite my wife's imagination that she thought she saw the apparition; the apparition was first manifest, and the rain of flowers followed. that is to say, an appearance of the immaterial was followed by a tangible manifestation--there was nothing imaginary about _that_. had the conditions been reversed, the fall of the flowers might very well have excited apprehension of the vision--but i cannot see where there was any place for fancy in experience of this incident. * * * * * the second episode to which i have alluded in the opening paragraph of this narrative occurred in the following winter, and was, in a certain sense, a sequel to the first. business took me from my home in boston, and during my absence my wife and daughter were invited by the lady i have already mentioned to spend a few days at her house in brookline. her husband was away on one of his frequent business trips, leaving with his wife her widowed sister, mrs. myra hall, his daughter, a girl of eighteen, and a young german lady, fräulein botha, whose acquaintance the hostess had formed abroad, and who at the time was at the head of the department of instruction in art at wellesley college. all these were witnesses, with my wife, of the remarkable event which i am about to describe. on the afternoon of the second day of my wife's visit, the child became suddenly ill, and as evening drew on exhibited rather alarming symptoms of fever. a physician was summoned who prescribed remedies, and directed that the patient should be put to bed at once. this was done, and at about ten o'clock my wife, accompanied by the ladies i have mentioned, went quietly upstairs to observe her condition before retiring for the night themselves. the upper floor was reached by a very broad staircase which branched near the top to give access to the chambers upon a wide hall, from every part of which one could look down over a railing upon the floor below--and the room in which the child lay was about half-way around this hall on the left-hand side. the ladies entered the chamber and the hostess turned up the gas, showing the child peacefully slumbering and with forehead and hands moist with a wholesome perspiration, although her face was still somewhat flushed. as the night was a bitter cold one in mid-january, the mistress of the house suggested that some additional covering should be placed upon the bed, and produced from another room an eider-down counterpane, covered with scarlet silk, which was carefully arranged without waking the sleeper. all then left the room and started downstairs again, the hostess being the last to go out, after lowering the gas until it showed only a point of light. * * * * * they were near the bottom of the staircase when my wife suddenly cried out: "oh, there is minnie! she passed up the stairs by me, all in white, and has gone into the room! oh, i know something dreadful is going to happen!"--and she rushed frantically to the upper floor, followed by the others in a body. at the half-open door of the child's room they all stopped and listened, not daring for the moment to enter, but no sound came from within. then, mustering up courage and clinging to each others' hands, they went softly in, and the hostess turned up the gas. with one accord they looked toward the bed, and, half-blinded by the sudden glare of the gaslight, could not for a moment credit what their eyes showed them--that the sleeping child was lying under a coverlet, not of scarlet, as they had left her hardly a minute before, but of snowy white. recovering from their astonishment, an examination revealed the cause of the phenomenon. the scarlet eider-down counterpane was in its place, but completely covered with pure white lilies on long stalks, so spread about and lying in such quantities that the surface of the bed was hidden under their blooms. by actual count there were more than two hundred of these rich and beautiful blossoms strewn upon the coverlet, representing a moderate fortune at that time of year, and probably unprocurable though all the conservatories in the city had been searched for them. they were carefully gathered and placed about the house in vases, jugs, and every other receptacle that could be pressed into service to hold them, filling the rooms for several days with their fragrance until, like other flowers, they faded and died. the midnight horseman the midnight horseman on a brilliant moonlit evening in august, , a considerable party of friends and more or less intimate acquaintances of the hostess assembled at the summer cottage of mrs. thaxter at appledore island, isles of shoals. included in the company were the then editor of the new york _herald_, rev. dr. hepworth,--also well known as a prominent divine and pulpit orator--two of the leading musicians of boston (julius eichberg and prof. john k. paine)--of whom one occupied a chair in harvard university,--and, among others, my wife and myself. the cottage was the charming resort which the visitor would be led to expect from the well-known refinement and artistic taste of its occupant, and its interior attractions might well have been suggested even to the casual passer-by who looked upon its wonderful flower-garden, wherein seeds of every variety had in spring been scattered broadcast and in profusion, and now, as autumn approached, had developed into a jungle of blooms of every conceivable color. we had some music, as i remember, and after that an interesting conversation, which, in consequence of the many varied and brilliant intellects there assembled, took a wide range, coming around finally--i do not recall by what steps--to occultism, clairvoyance, and the phenomena of so-called "spiritualism." in the course of the discussion of this topic, the editor interested us by a humorous account of some recent experiences of his own in "table-tipping" and "communications" by rappings--and incidentally remarked that he believed any assembly of persons who wished could experience similar phenomena, even though none of them possessed what it is usual to describe as "mediumistic" powers. some one else then suggested that, as our company seemed to fulfil this condition, the present might be a favorable time to test the theory--whereupon we all proceeded to the adjoining dining-room with the view of making experiment by means of the large dinner table that stood in the middle of it. (i may here state that although my wife had already had some abnormal experiences, only mrs. thaxter and i were acquainted with the fact, and even these had come to her unsought in every instance.) somewhat to our disappointment, the table failed to show itself susceptible to any "influence" other than the law of gravitation, but remained insensible and immovable, even though we sat about it under approved "conditions" for half an hour or so--lights lowered, and our imposed hands touching each other in order to form upon it an uninterrupted "circuit." we finally tired of this dull sport, turned up the lights, and pushing back our chairs from the table, fell into general conversation. hardly had we done so, when my wife suddenly exclaimed:--"how strange! why, the wall of the room seems to have been removed, and i can see rocks and the sea, and the moonlight shining upon them!" at this interruption our talk naturally ceased abruptly, and one of us asked her to describe more in detail what was visible to her. "it is growing stranger still," she replied. "i do not see the sea any more. i see a long, straight road, with great trees like elms here and there on the side of it, and casting dark shadows across it. there are no trees like those and no such road near here, and i cannot understand it. there is a man standing in the middle of the road, in the shadow of one of the trees. now he is coming toward me and i can see his face in the moonlight. why! it is john weiss!" (naming the liberal clergyman and writer whom most of us had known in boston, and who had died some five or six years before) "why, is that you? what are you doing here, and what does this mean? he smiles, but does not speak. now he has turned and gone back into the shadow of the tree again." after a few moments' pause:--"now i can see something coming along the road some distance away. it is a man on horseback. he is riding slowly, and he has his head bent and a slouch hat over his eyes, so that i cannot see his face. now john weiss steps out of the shadow into the moonlight; the horse sees him and stops--he rears up in the air and whirls about and begins to run back in the direction from which he came. the man on his back pulls him up, lashes him with his whip, turns him around, and tries to make him go forward. the horse is terrified and backs again, trying to break away from his rider; the man strikes him again, but he will not advance. "the man dismounts and tries to lead the horse, looking about to see what he is frightened at. i can see his face now very clearly--i should know him anywhere! john weiss is walking toward him, but the man does not see him. the horse does, though, and plunges and struggles, but the man is strong and holds him fast. now john weiss is so close to the man that he _must_ see him. oh! oh! he does see him, and is horribly frightened! he steps back but john weiss does not follow--only points his hand at him. the man jumps on his horse and beats him fiercely with his whip, and the two fly back down the road and disappear in the distance. tell me, john weiss, what it all means? he smiles again and shakes his head--now _he_ is gone, too; i can see nothing more." we were all profoundly impressed by this graphic recital and spent some time discussing what possible meaning the strange vision could have; but we were compelled to abandon all efforts to elucidate it, and it was not until some seven months later that the sequel to the mystery was furnished--a sequel that for the moment seemed about to offer an explanation, but, if anything, beclouded the matter even more deeply than before. early in march of the following year a party of eight or ten persons was dining at the house of mrs. candler, in brookline, already mentioned in this series, and after dinner went up to the sitting-room of the hostess, upon the second floor. the weather for a week previous had been warm and spring-like, but on the day in question a heavy snowstorm had been raging, which cleared at nightfall, leaving a foot or so of snow upon the ground. of the dinner-party only my wife and i had been at the isles of shoals the previous summer when the incident above narrated had occurred;--but all present were acquainted with the circumstance, which had been a frequent subject of conversation among us at our frequent gatherings at one another's houses during the autumn and winter that had followed. as i sat near the door and let my eye wander about the apartment, i idly noticed, among the many souvenirs of foreign travel which it contained, two japanese vases set upon brackets in opposite corners, and about six feet from the floor. these vases were, perhaps, twenty feet apart--the width of the room. the vase on the bracket at my right was empty, while the other contained a bunch of "pussy-willows," which attracted my attention as the usual season for these growths had not arrived. i commented upon this circumstance to my hostess, who replied:--"yes, it is very early for them, is it not? i was driving yesterday, and was surprised to see a willow-tree bearing those 'pussies' in a sheltered spot beside jamaica pond. i had the footman get down and gather them, and when i reached home i put them in that vase." this remark, of course, drew all eyes to the bracket bearing the vase filled with the "pussies"--which, thereupon and at the instant, disappeared, leaving the vase in its place, but quite empty; a soft thud was heard as two or three of the stalks fell upon the carpet midway between the two brackets, and a rustling sound in the right-hand corner attracted the attention of all present to the singular fact that the "pussies" were now standing in the vase on the second bracket as quietly as if they had been there at the outset. it is to be noted that no one in the room was within a dozen feet of either of the two vases, and that neither of them could be reached by anyone who did not stand upon a chair for the purpose. moreover, the room was brilliantly illuminated by several gas-jets. we had been accustomed to singular happenings in this particular house, and consequently were amused rather than startled by the whimsical nature of this one. in discussing it some one suggested that peculiar influences seemed to be about, and it was agreed to invite them to further manifestations if possible. consequently the centre of the room was cleared and a large table moved into it--around which, after locking the door that led into the hall, and extinguishing all the lights but one (which also was turned down to a faint glimmer), we drew up our chairs and awaited developments. a half-hour passed without anything whatever happening--whereupon, deciding that conditions were unfavorable, we relighted all the gas-jets and fell into general conversation, although leaving the table still in its position in the middle of the room. in a few minutes our hostess said:--"oh, by the way, i want you to see the new decorations i have had placed in my daughter's room. you know it is her birthday"--in fact, i believe that evening's dinner party was in honor of the event--"and i have had her room entirely refitted, since she is no longer a girl, but a young lady." so, following her lead, we all trooped away to inspect the new arrangement. in doing so we passed down the hall for a distance of some fifty feet, and entered the room in question, which was at the front of the house and overlooked its extensive grounds. the apartment was decorated with all the luxury and display of taste that large means and the command of expert skill could provide, and we spent some time in examination of its rich and beautiful details. one item that particularly attracted our attention was a small but very heavy clock that stood on the mantelpiece, its case of japanese carved bronze, and its interior mechanism giving forth a very peculiarly musical and rapid "tick-tock, tick-tock" as its short pendulum swung to and fro. it was, in fact, a unique and curious ornament, and all the members of the party admiringly examined it--for my own part, i was so struck with its rare character that i stood regarding it after the others had left the room, and turned from it only when our hostess, who alone remained, playfully inquired if i intended to study the clock all night, and, extinguishing the light, passed out into the hall with me. returning to the sitting-room, we decided to make some further experiment, and, again extinguishing the lights and relocking the door leading into the hall, seated ourselves around the table as before. we had not been in this position more than a few minutes when there came a tremendous thump upon the table, like the fall of some heavy object. being nearest to the lowered gas-jet which gave the only light to the room, i jumped up and turned it on to its full capacity--whereupon everyone present saw standing, in the exact centre of the table, its "tick-rock, tick-tock" ringing out sonorously, the carved bronze clock which we had so recently inspected in the distant bedchamber, and which had been passed in some mysterious fashion along fifty feet of hall space, and through a shut and locked door, to astonish us by its present appearance. * * * * * forming ourselves into a committee of the whole, we carried the clock back to its former place, which, it need not be said, we found unoccupied--then returned to the sitting-room, where, with lowered lights, we discussed the strange occurrences of the evening. although curious to see if any other manifestations would occur, we made no effort to invite them beyond dimming the lights, and as we found the room had become rather warm and close, we opened the door into the hall for the sake of better ventilation. the hall was only partially lighted, but objects in it were easily visible in comparison with the almost total darkness that shrouded the sitting-room. our talk was of ghosts and of other subjects uncanny to the uninitiated, and might have seemed unpleasantly interesting to anyone listening to it from the hall--as we were afterward led to believe was the case. directly facing the open door, and the only one of the company so seated, was my wife--who suddenly startled us all by springing to her feet and crying out:--"there he is! there is the man i saw at the isles of shoals last summer!" "what is it?" we inquired; "an apparition?" "no, no!" she exclaimed; "it is a living man! i saw him look around the edge of the door and immediately draw back again! he is here to rob the house! stop him! stop him!"--and she rushed out into the hall with the whole company in pursuit. the servants, who by this time had gone to bed, were aroused and set to work to examine the lower floors, while we above searched every room, but in each case without result. next to the sitting-room was a large apartment some thirty feet long by twenty wide, which was used for dancing parties, and dinners on occasions when many guests were invited. it was at the time unfurnished, except, i believe, that a few chairs were scattered about it, and along one side was a row of several windows, before which hung heavy crimson draperies that completely covered them. we lighted the gas in this room, but a glance was sufficient to show that it was unoccupied and afforded no possible place of concealment. i passed through it, however, and, as i did so, felt a current of cold air, which i immediately traced, by the swaying of one of the heavy curtains, to a window which its folds covered. going up to the drapery and drawing it aside, i saw that the window behind it was half open, and on the sill and the stone coping outside i perceived, in the several inches of snow that covered both, marks which showed the passage of what was evidently a human body. reaching nearly to the window was the slanting roof, formed by heavy plate glass, of the conservatory, which opened from the dining-room on the lower floor--and in the snow which covered this was a furrow which indicated that someone had by this means allowed himself to slide from the second story to the ground. further investigation below showed, by the tell-tale marks in the snow, that the person who had thus escaped from the house, and who, after gliding down the glass roof of the conservatory, had fallen sprawling under it, had lost no time in picking himself up, and making good his escape. the footsteps of a man running with long strides were traced through the grounds to the street, two hundred yards away, where they were lost in the confused tracks of the public highway--and from that time to the present the mystery has remained unsolved. the haunted bungalow the haunted bungalow prefatory note the annals of crime contain few chapters more lurid than those contributed to them by the record of frederick bailey deeming, who suffered the extreme penalty of the law on the scaffold of the melbourne (victoria, australia) jail on the morning of the twenty-third of may, in the year one thousand, eight hundred and ninety-two. the details of his misdeeds, his trial, and his punishment were set forth by me at the time in letters to the new york _times_ and the boston _journal_--of which, as well as of several other publications, i was accredited correspondent during several years of residence and travel in australasia and the south seas. in the narrative that follows, so far as it describes atrocities which shocked the whole english-speaking world, i have endeavored to subordinate particulars in the presentation of a general effect; my purpose has been, not to picture horrors, but to suggest the strange and abnormal personality that lay behind them. in regard to the peculiar manifestations which followed the criminal's execution, and for which some undefined influence that survived his physical extinction seemed, in part at least, to be responsible, i can advance no opinion. chapter i the condemned when i called upon the colonial secretary, in the government offices at melbourne, with a request that i might be allowed to visit the prisoner as he lay in jail awaiting execution, i was informed that such permission was contrary to all precedent. i had sat directly under the eye of the culprit four weary days while the evidence accumulated that should take away his life. i had watched his varied changes of expression as the tide of testimony ebbed and flowed, and finally swelled up and overwhelmed him. i had heard against him the verdict of "the twelve good men and true" who had sat so long as arbiters of his fate, and the words of the judge condemning him to "be hanged by the neck until he was dead," and commending his soul to the mercy of a god who seemed far aloof from the scheme of human justice so long and so laboriously planned. short shrift had been allowed him. condemned and sentenced on a monday, the date for his act of expiation had been set for the early morning of the monday then a scant three weeks away;[ ] an appeal for a respite had been quickly and formally made, and as quickly and formally disallowed; the days granted for preparation had glided by with portentous speed, and now but five remained between him and his introduction to the gallows and the cord. as a special and gruesome favor i had received one of the few cards issued for the execution; and it was perhaps due as much to this fact as to that of my newspaper connections (as already stated) that the colonial secretary finally consented to waive in my interest the usual rule of exclusion, and handed me his order for my admission to the jail. i cannot confess to any high exultation when the mandate of the secretary, bravely stamped with the great seal of the colony of victoria, was placed in my hands--particularly as it was accompanied by a strict injunction that no public account should be given of the interview. "at least," said the colonial secretary, "not at present. the trial has been so sensational, the crimes traced home to this unhappy man so atrocious, that popular feeling has risen to such a pitch as to make it desirable to add thereto no new occasion of excitement. moreover, i have refused many requests similar to yours from the local newspapers; you may imagine the position i should find myself in if it became known that i had discriminated in favor of a foreign journalist--therefore i rely upon your discretion." thus the colonial secretary--in consideration of whose injunction i made no professional use of my opportunity at the time, and report upon it now only because of its relation to this present record of events. not that i asseverate the existence of such a relation, or theorize upon it even if it were, for the sake of argument, accepted as containing the nucleus of a mystery that, after many years of consideration, remains a mystery still. i was not alone in my visit to the condemned cell in which, heavily ironed and guarded day and night by the death-watch, frederick bailey deeming awaited his doom.[ ] my wife, who was included in the warrant from the colonial secretary, accompanied me; she who had been my companion in journeys that had taken me twice around the globe, and who had shared with me many of the inexplicable experiences to which i have alluded in my "preface;" and who, seeming throughout her life more sensitive than most of us to occult forces that at times appear to be in operation about us, has since crossed the frontier of the undiscovered country, there to find, perhaps, solution of some of the riddles that have perplexed both her and me. intensely human as she was, and in all things womanly, her susceptibility to weird and uncomprehended influences must always seem a contradiction--and the more so since they always came upon her not only without invitation, but even in opposition to a will of unusual force and sanity, which, until the incidents occurred that i am about to relate, kept them measurably in control. a memento of my interview with the murderer stands before me on the table as i write:--a memento also of my wife's skill in modeling, on account of which i had with difficulty induced her to be my companion on my sinister errand--an impression in plaster of his right hand; the hand against which had been proved the "deep damnation of the taking-off" of two women and four children, and in whose lines thus preserved those learned in such matters profess to discern the record of other like crimes that have been suspected of him, but could not be confirmed. i will not weary the reader with the histories that have been read to me from this grisly document, and no one now may ever know whether they be true or false:--at all events the hand that made this impress was duly found guilty of the atrocities i have recorded against it, and the price that was exacted for them will seem to none excessive, and to some a world too small. i remember being much struck at the time with the interest which the condemned man manifested in assisting me to secure the record. my warrant from the colonial secretary included permission to obtain it, and the consent of the prisoner followed promptly on the asking. it came, in fact, with a sort of feverish readiness, and i fancied that his mind found in the operation some brief respite from the thoughts that his position, and the swift approach of his fate, forced upon him. he regarded with intentness the moistening of the plaster, and its manipulation into the proper degree of consistency; followed intelligently the instruction to lay his hand with even pressure upon the yielding mass, and when the cast had hardened, and was passed through the bars for his inspection, he examined it with an appearance of the liveliest satisfaction. "do those lines mean anything?" he asked. "many think so," i replied, "and even profess to read a record from them. for myself, i am ignorant of the art." "i have heard of that," he returned. "they call it 'palmistry,' don't they? i wish you could find out whether they are going to hang me next monday. but they'll do that, right enough. i'm thirty-nine now, and my mother always said i would die before forty. _she_ died a good while ago--but she keeps coming back. she comes every night, and of late she comes in the daytime, too. what does she bother me so for? why can't she leave me alone?" (glancing over his shoulder.) "she's here now--over there in the corner. you can't see her? that's queer. can't _you_ see her?"--addressing the governor of the jail, who accompanied me, and who shook his head to the question. "i thought perhaps you could. but you don't miss much. she ain't pretty to look at, crying all the time and wringing her hands, and saying i'm bound to be hanged! i don't mind her so much in the daylight, but coming every night at two o'clock, and waking me up and tormenting me!--that's what i can't stand." "is this insanity?" i asked the governor as i came away. "i don't know what it is," he replied. "we all thought at first it was shamming crazy, and the government sent in a lot of doctors to examine him; but he seemed sane enough when they talked with him--the only thing out about him was when he complained of his mother's visits; just as he did to you. and it is certainly true that he has a sort of fit about two o'clock every morning, and wakes up screaming and crying out that his mother is in the cell with him; and talks in a frightful, blood-curdling way to someone that nobody can see, and scares the death-watch half out of their wits. insanity, hallucination, or an uneasy conscience--it might be any of them; i can't say. whatever it is, it seems strange that he always talks about visitations from his mother, who, as far as i can learn, died quietly in her bed, and never of apparitions of his two wives and four children whose throats he cut with a knife held in the hand whose print you've got there under your arm. perhaps you won't mind my saying it--but it strikes me you've got a queer taste for curiosities. i wouldn't be able to sleep with that thing in the house." i laughed at the worthy governor's comment; yet, as it turned out, his words were pregnant with prophecy. chapter ii the crime in the month of march, eighteen hundred and ninety-two, the people of melbourne were startled by glaring headlines in the morning newspapers announcing the discovery of a murder in the suburb of windsor. during the historic "boom" that started into life all manner of activities in and about the victorian capital during the middle and later "eighties," a great stimulus to building operations had been felt, not only in the city itself, but also through all the extensive district outlying it. the suburb of windsor enjoyed its share in this evidence of prosperity, and sanguine speculators, viewing through the glasses of a happy optimism a rush of new inhabitants to the fortunate city, erected in gleeful haste a multitude of dwellings for their purchase and occupancy. new streets were laid out across the former barren stretches of the suburb, and lined on either side by "semi-detached villas"--imposing as to name, but generally more or less "jerry-built," and exceedingly modest in their aspect.[ ] these structures were of what we might now call a standardized pattern--housing two families side by side with a dividing partition between them, and of a single story, with an attic above. between each two connected dwellings (which were fronted by a shallow veranda, and contained three or four rooms for each resident family) ran a narrow alley, hardly wide enough for a real separation between one building and the next, but sufficiently so to justify the description of "semi-detached" which their inventor, by a happy inspiration, had applied to them. the "great melbourne boom"--as i believe it is still referred to as distinguishing it from all other "booms," of various dimensions, which preceded or have followed it--spent its force, unfortunately, before the hopes of the speculators who had ridden into windsor on its flood had been realized; and amid the wreck and flotsam that remained to mark its ebb, some mournful miles of these "semi-detached villas" were conspicuous. so complete was the disaster that many of the owners of these properties paid no further heed to them:--and it was with an emotion akin to surprise that, on a day in the month and year above mentioned, the agent of a certain house in andrew street received a visit from a woman with a view to renting it. why the prospective tenant should have selected this particular "villa" out of the scores of others precisely like it that lined both sides of this street, is not known--nor might she herself have had any definite reason for her choice. perhaps it was chance; perhaps providence--the terms are possibly synonymous:--but at all events her action proved to be the first and most important of the threads that wove themselves together in a net to entrap, and bring to justice, one of the craftiest and most relentless murderers of the age. the agent, apprised by his visitor of her desire to examine the house, eagerly prepared to accompany her, but could not find the key. a search among his records followed; from which the fact resulted that, in the previous december, he had rented the house to a gentlemanly stranger, who, in lieu of affording references, had established confidence by paying three months' rent in advance. in the prevailing depression of the local real estate business the agent had given so little attention to his lines of empty properties that he had not since even visited the house in question--the more so as the period for which payment had been made was not yet expired. assured by his visitor, however, that the house was certainly unoccupied, he went with her to the door, which he opened with a master-key with which he had equipped himself. the house was in good order throughout--in fact it seemed never to have been occupied. the prospective tenant inspected it carefully and with approval, and could discover but one objection; she was sure she noticed a disagreeable odor in the parlor. her companion (as is natural to agents with a house to dispose of) failed to detect this:--if it existed it was doubtless due to the fact that the house had been closed for some time; he would have it thoroughly aired and overhaul the drains--after which she could call again. this she agreed to do, gave the agent her name and address, and departed. left to himself, the agent began an investigation. with senses quickened, perhaps, by the favorable prospect of business, he became aware that the atmosphere of the parlor was undoubtedly oppressive; and as he moved about in search of the cause he observed that near the open fireplace it was positively sickening. examining this feature of the room more carefully, he discovered that the hearth-stone had been forced up at one end, cracking and crumbling the cement in which it had been set, and from the inch-wide aperture thus formed came forth a stench so overpowering that he recoiled in horror, and gasping and strangling, staggered into the open air. the police authorities were notified, and a mason was sent for with his tools. the hearth-stone was wrenched from its place, and in the hollow space beneath, encased in cement, knees trussed up to chin and bound with cords, lay the body of a young woman--nude save for the mantle of luxuriant dark hair that partly shrouded her, and with her throat cut from ear to ear. * * * * * about a week before christmas of the previous year, the north german lloyd s. s. "kaiser wilhelm ii." from bremen to plymouth _via_ the suez canal and colombo, debarked its passengers at the port of melbourne. among the second-class contingent who had taken ship at plymouth were "albert williams" and his wife emily. they had not been long married, and their destination was understood by their fellow-passengers to be colombo; but on reaching that port they remained on board and continued to melbourne. it was remarked that mrs. williams, who up to that time had been the life of the company, fell thereafter under increasing fits of uneasiness and melancholy--until, at the time of arrival at melbourne, she had drawn so far aloof from her former friends of the passage that none concerned themselves regarding her plans, or even final destination, in the new land.[ ] no such change, however, was noted in the demeanor of her husband. he was well to the fore in all the interests and amusements that offer themselves on shipboard, rallied his wife in no very refined or considerate terms upon her growing depression, and devoted most of his spare time to a pet canary, which he had brought aboard in an elaborate gilt cage; keeping it constantly near him on deck by day, and at night sharing with it his stateroom.[ ] a month's association with him had not increased the liking of his fellow-voyagers. the compulsory intimacies engendered by a long journey by sea afford a trying test of character, and to it the temperament of the so-called albert williams failed satisfactorily to respond. strange and contradictory moods were noticed in him. at times he was morose and "grouchy," at times feverishly jovial and even hilarious, and the transition from one to the other of these states of mind was often startlingly abrupt. he seems, indeed, to have "got on the nerves" of all his associates on the voyage--and so at length it happened that when he went ashore, carrying the cage and canary solicitously in his hand and followed by his silent and sad-faced wife, both passengers and officers were at one in the aspiration that they might never see his sort again. repairing to a "coffee-palace"--by which sounding title temperance hotels in australia are identified--the couple spent some days in its respectable retirement; then their belongings were entrusted to a carrying-company, and were by it conveyed to the "semi-detached villa" in windsor. the canary, chirping and fluttering joyously in its cage, which was promptly hung in the veranda, excited for several days the mild interest of the neighbors and a few casual passers-by--but of the people in the house very little was seen. now and then a gentleman in smoking-jacket and embroidered velvet cap was observed in the veranda, feeding and chirruping to the canary, but his companion seems to have kept herself in complete seclusion. her murder may, indeed, have followed swiftly upon her entrance into the house; however that may be, some ten days later the canary was no longer seen in the veranda, a carrier came with his cart and took away a quantity of trunks and boxes, and as he deliberately drove away his employer kept pace with him on the sidewalk, jauntily swinging the cage with its feathered occupant in his hand. the trunks and boxes were taken to an auction-room in melbourne, where, after due advertisement, their contents were offered for public sale; women's garments and jewelry, for the most part, and heterogeneous odds and ends. the owner of these properties was present when the sale took place, and seemed much interested in their disposition:--but when the canary and its cage were offered he suddenly declared that he would not sell them, and when the auction closed took them away with him. he subsequently appeared in the town of sale, several hundred miles away, and at other remote localities--perhaps with the idea of misleading possible pursuit or for some other purpose unknown:--but in all his wanderings he took the canary with him, and by his devotion to it attracted an attention to himself which had much to do with his identification when he was finally apprehended. returning to melbourne, where he had before assumed the new _alias_ of "baron swanston," he finally disposed of the cage and the canary to the auctioneer of his former acquaintance. then he disappeared as completely as though the earth had opened and engulfed him--his crime successfully committed and unsuspected, his very name unknown, his tracks as completely covered as was the nearly decapitated body of his victim beneath the cemented hearth-stone of the house at windsor. but even then the mysterious power of chance--or providence--was at work to his undoing. a peculiarity of many australian dwellings--a peculiarity which the hastily-constructed "villas" in windsor shared--is found in the fact that they have no cellars. this assists the work of rapid building, so important when a "boom" is on:--so the ground upon their sites had simply been levelled, a surface of cement laid, and the buildings set above it upon a layer of beams and brickwork. nothing could be easier, under such a principle of construction, than to remove the hearth-stone, dig a grave under it through the thin layer of cement and into the soil below, conceal the body therein, restore the earth to its place, and fix the stone in position again. what emotion the murderer may have felt when, after excavating under the cement to the depth of about eighteen inches, his tools struck upon solid rock, and he could dig no further, may be left to the imagination. perhaps he felt no emotion whatever, not appreciating the fatal nature of this check to his plans. at all events he had no choice but to accept the situation, crowd the body into the shallow space, and by pouring cement about it and the covering hearth-stone insure the lasting secrecy of the crime. he may have been ignorant, too, of the enormous expansive power of the gases released by decomposition, which under ordinary conditions might have been absorbed by the covering and underlying soil:--here, however, with solid rock below, they struggled in their close confinement until their barrier at its weakest point gave way, and forcing up the hearth-stone disclosed to the world the horror that it had concealed. and here is the strangest circumstance of all. although it had been known to a few surveyors and builders, and to certain owners of buildings that had been erected, that a large part of the land on which the suburb was built rested upon a rock formation, examinations that were made subsequent to the discovery of the murder showed that at no point did this impenetrable foundation approach nearly to the surface of the soil, save under this particular house of the tragedy! ages ago this flat table of stone had been laid down--and to the dwelling fortuitously built upon it, with hundreds of others lying empty about it for him to choose, the murderer had been guided across fifteen thousand miles of sea, there to prepare for himself detection not only for one crime, but for the other even more heinous which had so briefly preceded it. chapter iii the flight and capture prominent among the many commonplaces current among men is the one that "truth is stranger than fiction," and the other that life, in building up her dreams, employs "situations" which the boldest playwright would hesitate to present upon the stage. yet the lines that life lays down for her productions are, in the main, closely followed by those who are ranked as among the world's greatest dramatists. she, like them, leads up to a climax by a mass of incidents that may severally be trivial, but combine together with tremendous weight; she follows farce with tragedy, and lightens tragedy with comedy; she brings her heroes in touch with clowns, her lovers with old women and comic countrymen--and in the complexities of her plots mingles them together so bewilderingly that the wonder and interest of the audience are kept vigorously alive until the curtain's fall. so in this sordid windsor tragedy she introduces between the first and third acts a second, where the tension is relaxed and the milder interest of romance appears. * * * * * it was not the purpose of the murderer to remain near the scene, or even in the country, of his crime:--he was a shrewd as well as merciless villain, and he turned his face towards sydney, evidently with the intention of taking a steamer then about to sail for san francisco, and sinking his identity in the vast areas and amid the swarming millions of the united states. nemesis accompanied him, but in the disguise of cupid. on the coastwise steamer by which he traveled to sydney was a young woman by the name of rounsfell, who was returning to her home in the interior of new south wales from a visit to her brother near the border-line between victoria and south australia. she was about eighteen years of age, and from an interview i later had with her i estimated her as an attractive and modest girl, not strikingly intellectual, but of kindly disposition and affectionate nature. to her the fugitive, introducing himself by his latest-assumed name, paid regardful court, and relieved the tedium of the voyage by devoted attentions; and when the boat arrived at sydney, where she was to remain a few days, he escorted her to one hotel and saw to her satisfactory accommodation, while he himself, with admirable delicacy, took up quarters at another. during her stay he continued his attentions with equal respect and assiduity; his attitude, as she told me afterward, was more like that of an elder brother than a lover--this attitude being confirmed by judicious advice and counsel, and even by moral admonition:--as when he gently chided her for her confessed fondness for dancing, sagely implying that he regarded this form of amusement as one of the most insidious wiles of the adversary. it was at coogee, on the shores of the beautiful harbor of sydney, that this chaste and improving courtship culminated in his asking her to marry him. he was a man of wealth, he told her, a mining engineer by profession, and with several lucrative positions in australia at the moment waiting upon his selection. to these practical considerations he added the plea of his devotion. he had "lately lost his wife" (delicate euphemism!) he said, and stirred her sympathies by eloquent and tearful descriptions of the lonely and unsatisfactory life he led in consequence of this bereavement--the hollowness of which life he felt more acutely than ever now that she had crossed his path. she was, as i have said, a tender-hearted girl, and what more natural than that she should willingly incline her ear to words which every woman loves to hear?--the more so when they were uttered by a man whose history indicates him to have inherited all the persuasiveness of the original serpent in dealings with the sex, and who, as my interview with him in the condemned cell caused me to remark, possessed one of the sweetest and most sympathetic voices i ever heard in human throat. it would be no discredit to miss rounsfell if she had accepted him then and there; but it speaks well for her prudence and self-command that she asked for delay in giving her answer until she could lay the matter before her parents. to this he promptly assented, adding the suggestion that he should accompany her to her home, and give her friends an opportunity to become acquainted with him. this plan was carried out, and the successful conquest of the daughter was completed by the capitulation of the family; the engagement was formally announced, and the joyful contract sealed by the installation upon the hand of the _fiancée_ of the costly diamond ring so lately worn by the woman whose mutilated body was at the moment mouldering under the hearth-stone at windsor. * * * * * the ecstasy of the betrothal inspired a consideration of ways and means to hasten the wedding. the ardent lover pleaded for the celebration of the nuptials without further ado; but his more prudent mistress urged the possession of a home, and definite employment as surety of maintaining it. this point conceded, the question arose as to what particular section of the colonies seemed to offer the most attractive opportunities. the bride-elect objected to new south wales as being too near home (she had always been a home-body, and wished to see the world); victoria, also, was not to her taste for some other feminine but conclusive reason; western australia had just begun to come into notice as likely to become one of the world's greatest gold-producers--there, it seemed to her, was the land of promise for a young and experienced mining-engineer. this opinion prevailed, and the fugitive, abandoning any idea he may have had of escaping to america, set out for the new el dorado; and in a few weeks his _fiancée_ was cheered by a letter giving news of his arrival at southern cross--a mining-camp some hundred and fifty miles in the interior--where he had secured the post of manager for a company which owned a rich deposit, and where he was already preparing for her coming. thus some weeks passed, until another letter came informing her that a house had been secured and fitted up for her, and enclosing sufficient funds for her journey. she replied, fixing the date of her departure from sydney, and on the day appointed took train for melbourne, intending to continue thence to albany by sea. arriving at melbourne the following morning--where by chance she took a room in the same "coffee palace" to which her prospective bridegroom had resorted upon his arrival from england--she despatched a note to a young man who was a long-time friend of her family, and when he called in the evening went out with him for a stroll through the city. as they passed the office of _the age_ newspaper on collins street, they saw an excited crowd surrounding the bulletin-board, and crossed the roadway to read the announcement that it bore. as her eyes rested upon it, miss rounsfell gave a piercing shriek, and fell senseless upon the ground. the announcement upon the board was this: "baron swanston, the windsor murderer, arrested at southern cross." taken to her hotel and revived with difficulty, she told her sensational story, with which the newspapers of the whole country were filled next day; then, broken and trembling, she returned to her home, there to remain until summoned again to melbourne to give her testimony at the trial which took place a month later. most strangely had it happened that by her unwitting influence the criminal career of frederick bailey deeming had been brought to an end. had she consented to live, after her anticipated marriage, in new south wales or victoria, he might never have been apprehended. in these two colonies--except for the seeming impossibility of the murdered body being discovered--he might have come and gone without suspicion; his only peril being the almost negligible one that some associate of his voyage from england, or one of the very few persons in melbourne who had seen him with his former wife, might encounter him and inquire as to his changed name and partner:--but the extrication of himself from such an entanglement would have been merely a stimulating mental exercise to deeming, whose record, as searched after his latest crime was known and the hue-and-cry was on his trail, shows him to have been a most accomplished swindler, and a man of singular address in all forms of deceit. in these comparatively populous sections, too, the free and wide circulation of newspapers would have brought immediate warning, by announcement of the discovery of the windsor murder, of the danger he was in, and thus have aided his escape; for it was not until several days after the body was found that its identity was revealed, and many more before any clue was found to deeming's whereabouts. with railways extending to ports in new south wales, victoria, south australia and queensland, his opportunities for quitting the country quickly and secretly were numerous; and once away before the search for him had even been started, the chance of capturing him would have been poor indeed. in western australia, whither miss rounsfell had been innocently instrumental in sending him, the situation was entirely different. no railways connect the colony with the others, and ingress and egress are alike possible only by sea. moreover, being the latest of the colonies in which the old english system of penal-transportation was abolished, and still harboring many of the former subjects of that _régime_, western australia at this time maintained through its police a close system of espionage over all who arrived or departed by the few seaports of the district. thus did the murderer walk into a _cul-de-sac_; and when the pursuit (by an extraordinarily sagacious piece of deductive work on the part of the melbourne detectives, which it would interfere with the purpose of this narrative to describe) reached albany, the officers, armed with warrants for his arrest and learning from the local police records that a man such as they described had "gone up country" and had not returned, had only to endure the tedious desert journey to frazer's gold-mines at southern cross, and apprehend him in the very house he had prepared for his awaited bride. chapter iv the expiation run to earth, and captured like a rabbit at the end of its burrow, the murderer was brought to albany, and shipped to melbourne by the liner "ballaarat." as a relief from the general lack of events of interest that marked his return progress, it may be noted that the train on which he traveled from freemantle to albany, was stormed at york by an indignant populace, who voiced the sentiment universally pervading all the colonies against his atrocities by a determined effort to visit a rude, if original, form of justice upon him by tearing him to pieces between two bullock-teams, and were dissuaded with difficulty from this intention by a display of revolvers by his guards. his feelings were outraged also on the steamer, where he expressed himself as much distressed by the light and profane conversation of certain unregenerate marines who were on their way to the australian station, and strongly rebuked them therefor:--thus illustrating anew the strange contradiction in his nature which was before shown in his reproach of miss rounsfell's fondness for dancing. in fact, all who at various times came in contact with him--including and ending with his guardians in the melbourne jail--remarked upon his scrupulousness of language and nicety of conduct. * * * * * i have gone thus at some length into a description of this monster and his crimes for two reasons:--in the first place because it seemed essential to show the causes of the repulsion and horror which his very name inspired, and thus to place the reader in a position to appreciate the effect upon the popular mind of later incidents which i am about to record; and, in the second place, because the close study which i was able to give alike to the man and his deeds convinced me that his case was one possessing far more interest for the psychologist than even the criminologist. the ingenious sir william s. gilbert, in the song of the sentimental police sergeant in "the pirates of penzance," wherein it is recited that "when the enterprizing burglar isn't burgling, when the cutthroat isn't occupied with crime, he loves to hear the little brook a-gurgling, and listens to the merry village chime"-- voiced a truth which has been marked in the cases of many malefactors. it has been observed of deeming that, in the intervals of swindling, lying and homicide by which his career is chiefly remembered, he bristled like a copybook with virtuous and noble sentiments--nor is his sincerity to be doubted in their utterance. it is unquestionable that he was a man of singular address and subtlety--not only among men skilled in business affairs and experienced in reading character. he was a clever mechanic, and able to adapt himself quickly and efficiently to any occupation:--as is shown by the fact that although there is nothing in his history to indicate that he had had any previous experience in mine-management, he more than fulfilled all the requirements laid upon him at southern cross, increased the output of gold by ingenious inventions, and was esteemed by the company as the most capable manager it had ever had. he had a marked, if imperfectly developed, fondness for music and literature, and although his conversation included many grammatical solecisms, it was effective and often eloquent. his taste in dress, although rather flamboyant in the matter of jewelry, of which he always wore a profusion, was noticeably correct--the frock-coat, light trousers and perfectly-fitting patent-leather shoes which he wore at his trial were evidently from the hands of the best london outfitters, and would have graced (as they doubtless had done) the fashionable afternoon parade which is a feature of melbourne's collins street. the anomaly that is suggested by these established facts regarding him is of minor interest, however, in comparison with more striking contradictions that were remarked after his capture. it was my fortune to have a place near him at the inquest which resulted in his commitment for trial, as well as at the trial itself that duly followed. popular feeling against him was so intense and violent that the authorities did not dare to land him at the steamboat pier, but smuggled him aboard a tug when the "ballaarat" entered the harbor, and brought him ashore at the suburb of st. kilda, whence he was hurried in a closed cab to the melbourne jail. brought into the court where the inquest was held, his appearance was so brutal and revolting that a murmur of horror and disgust arose at his entrance which the judge and officers with difficulty quelled. there was in his deeply-lined and saturnine face no indication of an understanding of his position. his lips were drawn in a sardonic sneer, and his eyes--steely, evil and magnetic--glistened like those of the basilisk as he looked boldly and with a sort of savage bravado at the faces about him. he disdained to pay any attention to the proceedings, and was seemingly deaf to the testimony that was advanced against him by more than thirty witnesses. yet he evinced a lively, if contemptuous, interest in minor details, and audibly expressed his views regarding them. when the canary that had played so singular a part in his australian experiences was produced, still in its ornate gilded cage, he cried out: "hullo! here comes the menagerie! why don't the band play?" of a reporter taking notes at a table near him he remarked that "he wrote like a hen," commented upon the weak utterance of a certain witness that "he had no more voice than a consumptive shrimp," and interjected ribald criticisms on the words of the judge that were fairly shocking under the circumstances. when, at the termination of the proceedings, the judge ordered his commitment for trial, and stated that a rescript would be issued against him for the wilful murder of his wife, emily williams, he shouted, in a shrill, cackling, strident sort of voice: "and when you have got it, you can put it in your pipe and smoke it!"--looking about with a demoniac grin as if expecting applause for an effective bit of repartee. as the constables seized him and dragged him to the door, his eyes fell upon a comely young woman standing on the edge of the crowd, who regarded him with horrified amazement. breaking away from the officers, he danced up to her, chucked her under the chin, and with his leering face close to hers ejaculated: "o, you ducky, ducky!" and disappeared amid the cries of the scandalized lookers-on. * * * * * i do not know what the emotions of other attendants on the trial may have been, but i remember my own mental attitude as one of distaste that my duties as a correspondent required my presence. to see one weak human being contending for his life against the organized and tremendous forces of the law is always a pitiful and moving spectacle; in this case, with recollections of the repulsive incidents of the inquest in mind, one nerved oneself for some scene of desperation and horror. the dock, surrounded by a spiked railing and already guarded by a posse of white-helmeted constables, stood in the centre of the courtroom, its platform, elevated some three feet from the floor, being furnished with a trap-door that communicated with the cells below by a spiral iron staircase, which the prisoner must ascend. the audience watched this trap-door in somewhat that state of hesitating eagerness with which a child awaits the spring of a jack-in-the-box, not knowing what grotesque or terrifying thing may appear:--and when it lifted, and the murderer stepped to his place beneath the thousand-eyed gaze that was fastened upon him, a murmur in which amazement was the dominant note ran through the room. my own first feeling was that my eyesight was playing me a trick; my second, that by some change of program of which i had not been informed, the trial of deeming had been postponed. in this frock-coated, well-groomed and gentlemanly person in the dock there was no trace whatever of the ruffian who had been the central figure of the inquest. in age he seemed to have dropped some twenty years; his manner was perfect, showing no trace either of apprehension or bravado:--in short, the impression he conveyed (as i described it in my correspondence at the time) was of a young clergyman of advanced views presenting himself to trial for heresy, rather than of one of the most brutal murderers of his generation. this impression prevailed during the four days his trial lasted; only once or twice could one detect in his eye the former flash of implacableness and ferocity. it was not as if he made an effort to keep himself in control, but rather as if he were a man with two strongly opposed and antagonistic sides to his nature, of which one or the other might manifest itself without any conscious exercise of will. it was also evident to anyone who could observe him dispassionately that the details of the murder, as they were brought out in the testimony, were all as news to _him_:--and when, in the address he made to the jury before it retired to consider its verdict, he admitted knowledge of the subsidiary facts brought out (as to his acquaintance with miss rounsfell, for example), but swore he was as innocent as he was incapable of the murder of his wife, i, for one, believed him sincere, although i could perceive in the faces about me that i was alone in that opinion. a suggestion that this man might illustrate the phenomenon of "dual personality" and should be subjected to hypnotic suggestion at the hands of qualified experts, rather than have swift condemnation measured out to him, would doubtless have been received with derision by the hard-headed audience that was the real jury in the case; but i felt at the time, and feel now even more strongly, that if frederick bailey deeming had been tried in a country where psychological aberrations have been the subject of study, he would have been committed, not to the hangman, but to a lifelong restraint wherein science might have gained from his extraordinary personality much valuable knowledge. the man whose life was choked out of him on the gallows three weeks later was the man of the inquest, not the man of the trial--and in this fact is some occasion for satisfaction. he was more subdued, as though he appreciated--as any other animal might do--what the sinister preparations for his ending meant:--but when, as he hung beneath the open trap, the death-cap was lifted from his face, there were plainly to be seen the hard and brutal lines about his mouth, and the wolfish sneer upon his lips, which one could not but feel, with something like a shudder, had distinguished his features in the commission of the atrocities for which at last he had paid such insufficient price as society could exact. * * * * * the scaffold of the melbourne jail is a permanent structure with several traps; and across and above it runs a heavy beam, its ends fixed in the solid masonry of the walls, and the greater part of its length scarred and grooved by the chafing of the ropes which, from time to time, have given despatch to the souls of several hundred murderers. as i looked up at this fearsome tally-stick, i turned to the oldest warder of the jail, a man of nearly seventy years, who had been present at my interview with deeming a few days before, and who now stood beside me. "i want to ask you a question," i said, "unless your official position may prevent your answering it." "what is it, sir?" he inquired. "you have been for many years a warder here, and must have seen many men under sentence of death." "yes," he replied. "i was first here in the bushranging days, and have been here ever since. i fancy i have seen two hundred men depart this life by the route of that gallows." "then," said i, "you should be a good judge of the character and mental state of a man who is awaiting a death of that sort. here is my question:--what is your opinion of deeming?" "mad, sir," replied the warder. "mad as a march hare." this verdict might be qualified, but i believe it to be essentially just. chapter v the house on the hill in beginning this chapter i find myself facing a dilemma--one not so puzzling as that which gave hamlet pause, and evoked his famous soliloquy, and yet like it, too, in that it forces me to hesitate before the mystery of the unseen. thus far my story has the support of incontrovertible facts and permanent and referable legal and criminal records; i must now cut loose from these, and trust my weight upon the assertion that the last half of my narrative, which i now launch upon, is in every detail and particular as true as the first. in the stress of the responsibility thus assumed it might seem natural to marshall about me such facts and persons as i might invoke as corroborative witnesses. of these there are not a few:--but although there is (sometimes) "wisdom in a multitude of counsellors," conviction in the actuality of truth in narrations of so-called "supernatural" phenomena is as likely as otherwise to be befogged in exact proportion to the size of their "cloud of witnesses." therefore i have, after reflection, decided to "take the stand" myself and unsupported, and to throw myself upon the mercy of the court--my readers--in so doing. * * * * * thus, then, i shall not reveal the exact location of the house on the hill, nor the name of the owner, from whom, for a year, i rented it. it is doubtful that he be now living, for he was a man of advanced age when he left his house in my hands, and departed with his two unmarried daughters (themselves of mature years) for a twelve-months' tour in europe. on his return i handed him the keys without any reference to the strange occurrences that had come to me from my bargaining with him:--nor do i know to this day whether he had similar experiences after my departure, or even whether they may have enlivened him and his family prior to my tenancy. his evident anxiety to lease the house for a time (i took it furnished, and at a rental absurdly low--in fact, just one-half his original demand) may have had no special significance, although i often fancied afterwards that i had found a reason for it:--but on consideration i decided not to refer to certain features of the house that he had failed to enumerate as among its attractions, and to restore him without remark to their renewal--if he knew of them--or to discover them for himself--if he did not. it is probable that few of my readers have spent a year in a "haunted house"--i use this expression, although it defines nothing, for want of a better:--but those who cherish such an experience will understand why, on the one hand, i did not wish to alarm an elderly gentleman and his amiable daughters, or "give a bad name," as the saying is, to his property; and why, on the other, i did not care to run the risk of living in his recollection, and in the minds of his neighbors to whom he might relate my story, as a person of feeble intellect, if not a lunatic outright. but i would give a good deal to know what _he_ knew about that house. a circumstance that i took no note of at the time, but which afterwards seemed to have a possible significance, occurred at the house one evening when i had called to complete negotiations by signing the lease and going through other formalities precedent to taking possession. the owner had told me that one of his reasons for desiring a change of scene for a time was that his wife had died three months before after a lingering illness that had completely worn out his daughters as well as himself:--and when the business of his final evening was completed, the younger woman uttered this strange remark:--"well, it will be a relief not to see mother about all the time!"--and was immediately checked by her sister. i had before noted her as a nervous-mannered, somewhat anæmic-looking person, and her observation touched my mind too lightly to leave any impression upon it. * * * * * there was nothing at all peculiar in the appearance of the house. it stood upon a breezy hill-top in the outskirts of one of melbourne's most attractive suburbs; the train from town landed me, every evening, at the village station, and a ten-minute walk up a rather steep road brought me comfortably to home and dinner. the house was a delightful one when you got to it. it occupied a corner lot, and had extensive grounds around it; there was a large orchard at the rear, filled with grape-vines, and pear, lemon, and fig trees--although none of them did much in the matter of bearing. there were two trees in the front yard that gave profusely of pomegranates (a decorative fruit, but one whose edible qualities always seemed to me greatly overrated); there were spacious flower beds on both sides of the building, and the nearest neighbors were at least two hundred yards away. on the other side of the street which ran in front of the house was a large, unimproved lot which gave a touch of the country by the presence in it of several ancient gum trees, in which the "laughing jackasses" cackled and vociferated both morning and evening:--and when my wife and i, and the gentleman of scottish ancestry and of advanced middle-age, whom, as our best of friends, we had induced to share the enterprise with us, looked about upon these things on the first afternoon of our occupancy, we pronounced them all "very good." the house was not a large one, comprising six living-rooms and a kitchen, besides a bath and a commodious storeroom and pantry. it was of the bungalow pattern, a type which is a favorite one in australia, where the high average temperature of the year makes coolness and airiness prime essentials in a dwelling. it had no cellar, but was raised above the ground upon brickwork, thus forming a dry air-chamber below, and above its single story was a low, unfinished attic, which afforded another air-space, and stretched without partitions from front to back of the house. there was no floor to this attic, and on the only occasion when i explored it, i had to crawl from beam to beam, the pointed roof being so low that i could barely stand upright even under its ridgepole. the only means of access to this part of the house was a ladder, which could be brought into the bathroom, and from which could be raised a light trap-door in the ceiling. a veranda ran along the front of the house, and a wide hall extended, without turn or obstruction, from front to back. on one side of this hall--beginning from the veranda--were the parlor, dining-room, bedroom, and pantry; on the other, my wife's bedroom, the bathroom, our friend's room, a "spare-room," and the kitchen:--while a few yards behind the house stood a one-story structure, fitted up as a laundry. the "spare-room" here mentioned i furnished as a smoking-room; and further equipped it by building a bench across the space before the single window, whereat i employed myself now and then in preparing the skins of birds of which i was making a collection, and which i either shot myself in frequent excursions into the country, or which were sent to me by agents, both whites and "blackfellows," whom i employed in various parts of the colonies. one, and perhaps the most peculiar, feature of the bungalow remains to be described. this was a small apartment, about five feet square, between the bathroom and our friend's room (but without any means of direct communication with either), and entered only by a narrow door which swung outward into the hall. it was unlighted, and was provided with air by a ventilator at the end of a shaft which was carried through the ceiling into the attic and ended in the roof. its floor was of thickly-laid concrete, and in its centre, and occupying nearly the whole ground space, was a sunken portion about two feet deep, and equipped with wooden racks upon which boxes of butter, pans of milk, and various receptacles containing similar perishable articles of food were accommodated. this chamber was of real use in a country where--at the time at least--ice was scarce and expensive, and where summer temperatures of a hundred and ten degrees in the shade might be expected; since, being placed in a part of the house which was wholly removed from the direct rays of the sun, the air in it was always cool and dry. i am particular in describing this room because of a strange incident that later occurred in it. the house was well, almost luxuriously, furnished. the parlor contained a fine piano, and several pictures of merit adorned the walls; heat (seldom necessary in that mild climate except on rainy days in autumn and winter) was furnished to this and other rooms by open fireplaces, and vases and other _bric-a-brac_ stood upon the mantels; the bed and table linen was all of excellent quality, there was a sufficiency of crockery and glass and silverware and culinary utensils:--and as we sat down to our inauguratory dinner, and contrasted our condition with the three years' previous experience of travel and steamer and hotel life in all parts of australia, new zealand, tasmania and the fiji islands, we congratulated each other that we had found a "home" indeed. we set about forthwith to improve our temporary property. on one side of the house, and separated from it by a fence that inclosed the lawn and flower gardens, was a grassy "paddock" that might formerly have pastured a horse or a cow. as we had no use for either of these animals, we turned this space into a poultry yard, and populated it with chickens, ducks and geese--which thrived amazingly, and in due time furnished us all the eggs and poultry required for our table. our friend (by nature and early training an ardent horticulturist, but whose energies in that science had for many years enjoyed no opportunity for exercise in the soil of the melbourne stock exchange, of which he was a member) joyously took the flower gardens under his control, and achieved miracles therein. it was delightful, as i sat in the shady veranda on the hot saturday afternoons, with a steamer chair to loll in, and a pipe and cooling drink at hand, to contemplate his enthusiasm as he delved and sweated to prepare new ground for the gorgeous blooms which he coaxed from the willing soil--at the same time extolling my own sagacity in asking him to share the place with us; to which he would respond in appropriate language. our household was so small that we were not exposed to the annoyances of the "servant-girl" problem:--our friend and i lunched in town, and a capable woman who lived nearby assisted my wife in cooking and serving our dinners, and attended to the duties of house-cleaning--returning to her own home when her work was accomplished, and leaving us to ourselves in the evenings. we were near enough to town to run in for theatres and concerts whenever we were so minded, and on sundays did some modest entertaining:--in short, we settled into a phase of existence as nearly arcadian as is often possible under modern conditions of civilization, and although it seemed likely to be commonplace and uneventful, we were in mood to find it all the more desirable and pleasant on that account. that the most startling experiences of our lives were soon to come upon us never entered our heads, and for some six weeks we lived in serenity and happiness amid surroundings that day by day grew more attractive. chapter vi on the wings of the storm my interview with the murderer, as described in the first chapter, took place upon a thursday. the next day was one of the general holidays that are so profusely celebrated in australia:--i do not remember the occasion, but it is safe to assume that some important horse race was to be run at flemington--the epsom of the antipodes. at all events, i took advantage of the opportunity to go into the country with my gun on a collecting trip, and returned at night with a fine assortment of cockatoos, parrots and other brilliantly plumaged or curious birds which make the colonies a paradise for the ornithologist. the day following--saturday--opened with a heavy rain, and a strong wind off the sea. i had no particular business to call me to town, and, anyhow, all activities and occupations would cease at noon in deference to the usual weekly half-holiday. moreover, i had several hours' work before me in removing and preserving the skins of the birds i had shot; so i suppressed the faint voice of duty that suggested that i might find something of importance awaiting me in melbourne, and after breakfast sat down to the congenial labor of my taxidermist's bench. our friend departed for the stock exchange, and my wife and i were left alone in the house. i had no more than made the preliminary incision in the breast of a purple lorrikeet when the doorbell rang. answering the summons i found in the veranda a black-haired, sallow-faced individual, his garments sodden with rain, who offered for my purchase and perusal "the history and last confession of frederick bailey deeming," for "the small price of sixpence." more in commiseration for the wretched and bedraggled appearance of the vendor than from any other motive (for i was already acquainted with the "history," and gave no credence to any announcement that a "confession" had been made) i bought the pamphlet and returned to my room. finding, as i had suspected, that this piece of literature contained no new facts whatever, and was totally lacking in anything even the most remotely suggesting confession, i threw it into the fire that blazed on the hearth and took up my interrupted work.[ ] the incident of the water-soaked vendor and his pamphlet had had the effect, however, of turning my reflections into a very unpleasant channel. in spite of all efforts to apply myself to the task in hand, the thought of the despairing man in the condemned cell, my visit to him two days before, and my anticipated presence at his execution within forty-eight hours, pressed upon my spirit with a weight which i found it impossible to lift. an incident which had occurred on the previous day had also added a certain element of pathos to the situation. during my absence a letter had come to my wife through the morning mail, which, to her astonishment and disquiet, proved to have been written by the murderer. it ran as follows: "h. m. gaol "melbourne " - - "dear madam: "i beg to tender you my sincere thanks for your extreme kindness on my behalf, in trying to get miss rounsefell to come and see me. i assure you that if she had come i could have died happy, as it is i shall die most unhappy. i am very sorry indeed that you did not find her as kind and as christian like as yourself. again thanking you, "i beg to remain "most respectfully yours "b. swanston. "you may show miss rounsefell this if you wish. b. s." this remarkable document, from a man at the moment standing on the brink of eternity, greatly disturbed (as i have said) its recipient; but she did not hesitate. as the letter intimates, she had already, in pursuance of a promise she was almost compelled to make through the earnest plea of the murderer when she saw him in the condemned cell, seen miss rounsfell (this is the correct spelling of the name, not that used by the writer of the above letter) with the lack of success that the letter suggests. now, however, she determined to see the girl again:--and showing her the letter, she urged her to see the man--or at the least write to him--and grant her pardon to a dying creature who seemed to have no hope of pardon elsewhere, either here or hereafter. the interview was a touching one:--miss rounsfell was deeply affected, and (greatly to her credit, i think) consented to undertake in person the charitable mission that she had been asked to perform. but her brother so strenuously opposed the idea--even to the minor extent of writing--that she was compelled to abandon it; and deeming went to his death without the consolation that he had so simply and eloquently craved. thus in many ways i had been brought into this tragical affair much more intimately than i liked, and i could not keep my mind away from it. the day itself added to the gloom that fell upon me. the storm had steadily increased in violence since early morning; rain fell in torrents, and the wind roared and whined alternately about the house; the heavy clouds that passed close overhead cast upon the earth a series of shifting shadows as their substance thickened or thinned under the rending force of the gale--if the powers of darkness ever walk abroad by day, they could hardly find an occasion more eerie and fitting than this. yet no such suggestion occurred to me:--i could hear the rattle of dishes in the kitchen and the voice of my wife in song as she attended to her household duties; i lighted my pipe as another means of affording the companionship that i somehow craved, and for an hour or so applied myself assiduously to the task in hand. i was seated facing the window, my back to the open door that led into the hall. suddenly, and without the slightest warning, i heard behind me a long and dismal groan. "a-a-ah!"--thus it came; a woman's voice, apparently, and with an indescribable but certain accent in it of mental or physical pain. it is no exaggeration to say that this awful and ghastly sound froze me where i sat; i could feel my hair move upon my scalp, and a chill, as though i had been dashed with ice-water, ran up and down my spine. for a moment an inexpressible horror possessed me--then i felt my blood, which seemed on the instant to have stopped in its course, flow again in my veins, and with a mighty effort i arose and faced the open door. there was nothing there--nor in the dim hall, into which i shortly ventured:--i removed my slippers and silently explored every room; still nothing to be seen, and the only sound the splash of rain, and of the wind that sobbed and muttered around the house. i crept to the kitchen and peeped in cautiously:--my wife was quietly engaged in her work, and i was glad to think that she had heard nothing. indeed, her undisturbed demeanor encouraged the opinion i had begun to form, that some peculiar effect of the wind in the open fireplace or the chimney of my room was responsible for the sound i had heard. yet i was by no means satisfied with this explanation:--the cry was too human, the distress it evidenced too poignant, to be thus counterfeited, and as i returned to my bench, it was with full expectation that i should hear it again. i was not disappointed. in a few moments it came, more distinct and lugubrious than before, and seemingly within the very room itself; and as i whirled about to confront i knew not what, the groan was repeated, coming from the empty air before me and dying away in an unutterably sad and plaintive sigh. i made another swift and noiseless survey of the house, but it was as resultless as before, and regained my room much shaken, i will confess, but still unwilling to admit that the sounds could not be referred to natural causes. but i found no solution that convinced me. i might have attributed their first occurrence to hallucination, but the second hearing weakened that hypothesis--the groan and the following sigh were inimitably those of an old woman, who was either at the point of death or overwhelmed with distress of mind and body. this resemblance was absolute, and i sat for some time revolving the strange thing in my mind. i thought of relating my experience to my wife, but feared to alarm her, and finally went back to my birds. almost immediately there came for the third time that ghastly wail and sigh--so close to my ear that, had any living person uttered them, his face must almost have touched my own. i am not ashamed to say that the effect upon me was so unmanning and terrible that i uttered a cry of horror and fell backward with the chair i sat in, and lay sprawling on the floor. at the same instant i heard my wife scream from the kitchen; and as i gathered myself up and ran to her, i saw her standing with her back against the wall, staring with horrified eyes, and with a look of repulsion and fear upon her face, at something invisible to me, on the other side of the room. i rushed to her and grasped her hands:--they were cold as ice, and her fixed and rigid gaze into what to me was emptiness, frightened me beyond measure. "in heaven's name," i cried, "what is it?" "it is deeming's mother," she answered, in a whisper i could hardly hear. "deeming's mother!"--i echoed her words:--"how do you know it is deeming's mother?" "i saw her with him in his cell at the jail," she replied. "then what he said was true, that his mother comes back to trouble him?" "yes, it _was_ true; and now she comes to _me_! go away!" she cried, addressing something _i_ could not see. "i cannot help you; why do you torment me! ah!"--with a sigh of relief--"she has gone!" and she sank exhausted into a chair. we had a long and memorable talk after that, which i will briefly summarize. my wife had not heard the groans that had been audible to me until their second repetition; then the sound that had seemed beside my ear came at the same instant close to hers, and her cry that joined with mine had been wrung from her by the sight of the apparition which on the instant presented itself to her. this was not the first time, however, that it had appeared:--it had closely followed upon the receipt of deeming's letter the day before, and its cries of distress and appeals for help had been so agonizing that it was as much on that account as because of the plea of the murderer himself that she had decided to see miss rounsfell again. the apparition did not reappear that day, and there was no recurrence of the wailing lamentations--but we were soon to have further experience of them for all that. the storm spent itself during the late afternoon, and was succeeded by a beautiful evening. the wind was still high, and the sky filled with broken masses of clouds, through which the full moon waded heavily:--and as my wife and i descended the hill, soon after dinner, to the railway station on our way to keep an engagement to call upon the consul-general of the united states at his residence at st. kilda, we agreed that the night was just such a one as might inspire doré in some one of his fantastic compositions. after the day's gruesome events we had hesitated about leaving our friend alone during our absence; but we finally united upon the opinion which my wife advanced, that as she seemed to be the sole object of the apparition's visit, he was not likely to be molested. so we left him (albeit with some misgiving) comfortably seated before the dining-room fire in a large easy-chair, and with his pipe and a new novel for company, and took our departure. it was after midnight when we returned. the gale had blown itself out, and the moon looked down upon a world that seemed resting in sleep after the turmoil of the day. my wife went at once to her room to lay aside her outer garments and i repaired, with much curiosity and a little apprehension stirring me, to the dining-room. i found our friend as we had left him, book in hand and with his smoked-out pipe lying on a table beside him. he was not alone, however--our two dogs--a wire-haired scotch terrier and a fox-terrier--which i had as usual chained up for the night in their kennels at the back of the house, were dozing together on the hearth-rug. "hullo!" i exclaimed; "what are those dogs doing here? you know they are never allowed to come into the house." "well," our friend replied. "i felt lonely, and so i brought them in to keep me company." "that's an odd idea," i rejoined. "i thought your book and pipe would be society enough. besides, there is plenty of 'scotch' and soda on the sideboard." "i tried that, too," he confessed. "but, do you know? this has been the most infernally unpleasant evening i ever spent in my life. the wind has been making the most uncanny noises--i would swear there were people moving all over the house if i did not know i was the only person in it. i have been all over the place a dozen times, but could find nothing. at last i couldn't stand it; so i unchained and brought in the dogs. somehow they didn't seem to have much use for the place--i had to drag them in by their collars." "they knew they had no right to be here," i commented. "the matter with _you_ is, you've been smoking too much, and got your nerves on edge. come and help me put up the dogs before my wife sees them, or you'll 'get what for,' as your english expression is." this office performed, we returned to the dining-room, where i suggested a "scotch-and-soda" before retiring for the night, and together at the sideboard we prepared each a modest potion. as we touched glasses to a good sleep and happy awakening, there sounded from the air behind us that weird and terrible cry! my friend's face turned ashen on the instant and his glass fell from his hand and lay shattered on the hardwood floor. "my god!" he cried; "did you hear _that_?" i was startled, of course, but the morning's experience, reinforced by anticipation of some such happening, had steeled my nerves. "did i hear _what_?" i asked. "look here, old man, you are certainly in a queer way to-night. what _should_ i hear?--everything is as quiet as death." "do you mean to tell me," he demanded, looking at me incredulously and with alarm still in his face, "that you did not hear that awful groan?"--but meanwhile i had filled another tumbler for him, which he hastily emptied, although the glass rattled against his teeth as he drank. "come, come!" i said; "go to bed, and you will be all right in the morning;"--but the words had but left my lips when, right between us as it seemed, there swelled again upon the air that utterance of anguish, followed by the dying cadence of a sigh. "there!--there!--there!" stammered my companion:--"did you hear it _then_?" "yes, i did," i replied; "and the first time as well. is that what has disturbed you to-night?" "no, not exactly that--nothing so awful; but all sorts of strange noises; i can't describe them. i say--what kind of a house _is_ this? i have always believed the stories of haunted houses were bally nonsense; but in heaven's name what does all this mean?" i was unable to enlighten him:--and although i called my wife from her room and described to him our morning's experience with the voices, i thought it best to keep the feature of the apparition a secret. in fact, he never did learn of it, or of many other things that did not come directly to his personal apprehension. what he _did_ see and hear, in the months that followed, was bad enough, god knows!--and i am convinced that one of the reasons (and that not the least considerable) which prevented him from leaving us on any one of a dozen different occasions, and ourselves from abandoning the house outright, was the consideration (on his part) that it would be unseemly for one of his nation to confess himself inferior in pluck to an american, and (on ours) that we should be untrue to all our country's traditions if we permitted a britisher to see us in retreat. this reason may seem extreme, and even fantastical; but it has its weight in explaining why--at the outset, at least--we held our ground. in the long discussion which followed, that night, it was evident that each party was urgent that the other should suggest abandonment of the premises. neither, however, would broach the subject, and we separated for bed at last with the implied understanding that we were to remain. chapter vii a ghostly co-tenancy such was the first manifestation of a possession which held the house for more than nine months. that we endured it is to me now sufficient cause for wonder, and the reasons why we did so (reasons which presented themselves by degrees) may require some explanation. it must be said that with the exception of a few visitations which i shall duly describe, there were no occasions so terrifying as those which happened on the day of the storm. moreover, as my wife and i had made acquaintance in former years with many inexplicable things and had never seen any serious results come from them, our attitude toward these new phenomena was one compact more of curiosity than anything else. the experience could hardly be called agreeable, but it was strange and unusual, and we wanted to find out what it all meant. we never _did_ find out, by the way, but the anticipation (which was constant) that we should, kept us interested. the amiable reader may be disposed to credit us with unusual courage, but we never looked at the matter in that light. besides the influence of national pride which i have mentioned as supporting both our friend and ourselves, there was also the consideration that we had covenanted for the house for a year, and had paid the first six-months' rent in advance--and yankee and scottish thrift alike moved us to desire our money's worth; and although we might hope to annul our bargain if we could plead that the dwelling was infested with rats, we had doubts as to our standing in court in case we should set up a defense that it was overrun with ghosts. moreover, we liked our quarters so well that we could not make up our minds to leave them merely because an unseen co-tenantry insisted on sharing them with us; therefore we remained, and in time even managed to extract some entertainment from the quips and cranks that were more or less constantly going on. a saving feature of the situation was the fact that the manifestations were not continuous, and rarely occurred--until near the end of our term--at night. this, i think, must be set down as an unusual circumstance, but it was one that brought us considerable relief. it need not be pointed out, for example, how much less terrifying it is to hear muffled footsteps and the rustle of women's garments up and down the hall by daylight than in darkness, and to see, under the same conditions, chairs and light tables shifted about in apparent accordance with some invisible person's notion of their proper arrangement. it is somewhat disquieting, to be sure, when walking through the hall, to hear the bell above one's head break out in rattling clangor, and, looking through the wide-open front door, to perceive that no visible visitor was at the other end of the wire:--and in spite of many former experiences, we could not restrain ourselves from jumping in our seats when, at dinner, all the doors in the house would slam in rapid succession with a violence that set the dishes dancing on the board. and the singular thing about this performance was that although the sound was unmistakably that of banging doors, the doors themselves seemed to have no part in it. more than once we arranged them in anticipation of this manifestation, leaving some closed, some wide open, and some ajar at various angles which we carefully noted. presently would come the expected thunderous reverberations--and running from the dining-room we would find every door precisely as we had left it. occasionally, what seemed like a rushing wind would sweep through the hall between the wire-screened doors at either end of the house, although a glance out of the window showed that the leaves of the trees in the yard were pendent and lifeless in an utter calm:--and this circumstance reminds me of a curious thing that was several times repeated. we rarely used the parlor, which, as i have said, was on the right of the hall as one entered the house, with windows giving upon the veranda. to the decorations of this room which had been left by our landlord, we had made some considerable additions--photographs of new zealand scenery, curios and wall hangings from fiji, and other such matters. now and then would break out in that room a racket as though a dozen devils were dancing the tarantelle, accompanied by a sound as of a maëlstrom of wind whirling in it. we never had courage to enter while the disturbance was in progress--in fact we had no time to do so, as it always ended within a few minutes; but when we opened the door after the noise had subsided, we invariably found the same condition of affairs--every article in the room that belonged to _us_ piled in a heap on the floor, and all the possessions of the absent family standing or hanging undisturbed in their usual places. we were disposed to regard this demonstration as a gentle hint that our continuation in the house was not desired, and that the "spooks," as we came familiarly to call them, had in furtherance of this idea gathered together such of our belongings as they could reach in order to facilitate our packing up for departure. but we paid no heed to the implied suggestion, restored the room to its former condition, and in a short time this particular form of annoyance was discontinued. these were minor occurrences, and i am not relating them with any reference to the order in which they came. as they seem to belong to the general run of phenomena that have been frequently noticed in accounts of "haunted houses"--so called--i will not dwell upon them; merely observing that the effort to produce them was entirely misplaced if its purpose was to frighten us, and in any case unworthy of any intelligent source. i more than once announced this opinion in a loud tone of voice when the rustlings and footfalls, and their often accompanying groans and sighs became too persistent, or wearisome in their lack of variety--and it was curious to see how effective this remonstrance always was. a dead silence would immediately ensue, and for hours, and sometimes even for days, the house would be as orderly and commonplace as possible. it is my recollection that the mother of deeming (if, indeed, she it were) made no further appearance after her son's execution. she seems to have expressed herself in one supreme and futile appeal for help, and then to have gone to her place. several others followed her, whom i could hear from time to time as they moved about, and whom my wife, whose clearness of sight in these matters i never shared, described as an old woman, another much younger, and a girl-child some four or five years of age. they never attempted any communication with us; in fact, they seemed quite unaware of our presence; and were evidently not concerned in any of the bizarre and seemingly meaningless manifestations that were continually going on. we fancied that the shade of the elder woman was that of the former mistress of the house, whose death, as i have already noted, had occurred therein some three months before we took possession:--but as she ignored us entirely, we respected her seeming disinclination to a mutual introduction, and left her to go to and fro in the way she preferred. this way was not altogether a pleasant one. she wore a black gown, my wife said, with a neckerchief of some white material--the rustle of her gown, which i could plainly hear, indicated that it was of silk; she seemed unhappy (we thought it might be that she did not understand the absence of her husband and daughters) and was forever sighing softly and wringing her hands. the younger woman (the two never seemed to be conscious of each others' existence--if that is the right word) was in a state of evident discomfort also, although she was always silent, and appeared to be constantly in search of something she could not find. altogether we found these shadowy guests of ours a rather cheerless company; but as we had had no voice in inviting them, and feared that their departure (if they should accept any intimation from us that it was desired) might make room for others even more objectionable, we were fain to adapt ourselves to the situation that was forced upon us. the child-ghost, however, was of quite different disposition. she had something with her that seemed to take the place of a doll, and would sit with it by the hour in a corner of the room where we all were, at times crooning to it in a queer, faraway, but still quite audible voice. it was a "creepy" thing to hear, but strangely sweet and musical, for all that. on rarer occasions she would sing to herself a song, but one in which no words could be distinguished; in all her utterances, indeed, there was never anything that sounded like speech. she was not quite sure of herself in this song. now and then she would strike a wrong note; then silence for a moment, and she would begin the song again. as she reached the note at which she had before stumbled, she would pause, then take the note correctly, give a pleased little laugh, and go on successfully to the end. this extraordinary performance was repeated on many occasions. one bright sunday afternoon i was sitting in talk with my wife in her room, when this weird chant started up in the farthest corner. i listened through the whole of the usual rendition--the beginning, the false note, the return for a new trial, the note rightly struck, the satisfied laugh, and so on to the conclusion. then the thing began all over again. i said, rather impatiently: "don't sing that again! can't you see that we want to talk?" "oh, you shouldn't have said that!" remonstrated my wife. "she has gone away"--and in fact the song had stopped, and it was many days before we heard it again. i have not particularly mentioned our friend in this recital of minor happenings, although he had his share in most of them, and carried himself throughout in a plucky and admirable manner. we were very fond of him, as he evidently was of us to endure adventures with us which he must have found uncongenial, to say the least--he being a man of quiet tastes, and one not prone to go out of his way in search for excitement. an incident that happened one night, however, came very near to ending his residence with us. at about eight o'clock of an evening in june (the time of year when the days are at their shortest in that latitude), he and i were smoking and chatting in my "den," my wife being in her own room at the front of the house. all at once the two dogs who were chained in the back yard broke out in a terrific chorus of barking. they were ordinarily very quiet animals, and whenever they gave tongue (which was only when some tradesman or other person came upon the premises by the back gate) it was merely by a yelp or two to inform us that they were attending to their duty as guardians. on this occasion, however, one might have thought there were a dozen dogs behind the house instead of two:--they seemed fairly frantic, and there was a strange note in their voices such as i had never heard before. "what on earth is the matter with those dogs?" i exclaimed. "one might think they were being murdered." "they are certainly tremendously excited about something," my companion rejoined:--"let's go out and see what the trouble is"--and he was out of the room, and unlocking the back door, before i could leave my easy-chair to accompany him. as i reached the hall i was just in time to see the large pane of groundglass with which the upper half of the outside door was fitted, fly inward--shattered into a thousand pieces by a jagged fragment of rock as large as my fist, which whizzed by my friend's head with such force that it went by me also, and brought up against the front door at the other end of the hall. my companion, who had escaped death or a serious injury by the smallest possible margin, fell back against the wall with his hands over his face, which had been cut in several places by the flying glass; but he quickly recovered himself, and when i had hastened back to my room and provided myself with a revolver, we rushed together into the open air. nothing was to be seen, nor could we hear a sound. we went into the street, which was lighted by scattered gas lamps, and listened for retreating footsteps, but the street was vacant as far as we could see in both directions, and the silence of the night was like that of the grave. we dragged the dogs out of the kennels to which they had retreated, and turned them loose in the hope that their peculiar intelligence would enable them to guide us to some lurking miscreant in the shrubbery about the yard or amid the trees and vines in the obscurity of the orchard:--but they were trembling as if in abject fear, we could get no help from them, and when released they bolted into their kennels again and hid themselves in the straw at the farthest corners. it was evident that they had seen something that terrified them greatly, but what it was we could only surmise. the scotch terrier was a gentle creature, and his evident alarm did not so much surprise me. the fox-terrier, on the other hand, was full of "bounce" and confidence, and nothing in canine or human shape had any terrors for him. when it came to devils, that might be another matter--an idea that passed through my mind at the time, but did not then find lodgment. it was strengthened in view of another incident which occurred later, and which i shall describe in a subsequent chapter. chapter viii the dead walks the incident of the flying stone and the broken glass much disquieted us, and furnished matter of anxious discussion for several days. it gave us the first hint we had received that the influences that seemed to be busy about us included any of a malign or violent nature, and inspired a lively apprehension of other sinister happenings of which it might be the forerunner. there was, of course, the doubt as to whether the affair might not be due to human agency; had it stood by itself, no other idea would have occurred to us:--but although we tried to satisfy ourselves that some reckless or malicious person was the culprit, the attendant circumstances seemed to point away from that opinion. the force with which the missile was hurled indicated that no mischievous boy could have aimed it, while it appeared incredible that any man would take the risk of passing the clamorous dogs and crossing the wide yard to take a point-blank shot at the door--as the direct course of the stone showed had been done. nor could it have been thrown from any considerable distance:--the laundry outhouse before mentioned, was not more than thirty feet from the door and protected it from any attack outside that limit. it was the behavior of the dogs, however, that puzzled us the most. instead of welcoming our coming, as would naturally have been the case, they shrunk from the touch of our hands and gave no heed to our voices, but shook and shivered as if in an ague fit. in spite of these facts, the event so much smacked of the material, and was so opposed in its nature to anything else that had happened, that we hesitated to attribute it to the agency of unseen powers; and as the week that followed was free of any alarming incident we decided to keep it out of the debit column of our account with the "spooks," and give them the credit of having had no part in it. * * * * * it was, i think (although i am uncertain about the exact date) about a fortnight after the stone-throwing episode, that i came home one afternoon much earlier than usual; and as my wife met me at the door i saw at once that look upon her face which had on several occasions advised me that something quite out of the ordinary had happened during my absence. it is hardly necessary for me to mention, in view of the record already made of the experience she had shared with me in that ill-omened house, that among her notable characteristics were high courage and self-control. on this occasion, however, her appearance alarmed me greatly. there was a presence of fear upon her; she was _distraite_ and nervous, despite her evident effort to appear unconcerned; and the strange expression which i had often seen when her gaze seemed to follow the movements of shapes invisible to my grosser sense, still clouded her eyes. i did not at once question her, although i was consumed with curiosity, and tried to quiet her evident, although suppressed, excitement by talking of the commonplace incidents of my day in town. but it was apparent that she did not hear a word i said:--indeed, her attitude and manner were as of one who listened to another voice than mine; and i soon lapsed into silence and sat watching her with a growing anxiety. suddenly the obsession with which she seemed to be contending passed away:--she turned impulsively to me and cried: "we must leave this house! i have endured all i can! i will not remain here another day!" "i knew that something was wrong the moment i saw you," i said. "something very bad has happened--do you want to tell me what it is?" "oh, i cannot, i cannot!" she exclaimed. "it is too horrible; it would frighten you to death if i should tell you!" "anything that you have gone through, i ought to be able to hear of," i replied. "i think you had better tell me your story, and get it off your mind, before our friend comes home." "oh, he must never know it!" she cried. "promise me that you will not tell him!" "of course i will not tell him, if you do not wish it," i assented. "and now let me know what has alarmed you." during our conversation i had imagined all sorts of terrifying incidents as having occurred--but my wife's next words sent a shiver through me. "deeming has been here," she said. "deeming!" i exclaimed; "that devil!" "yes," she replied. "he did not try to harm me, but if there is a hell he came from it. oh, he is so wretched and unhappy! in spite of the horror of seeing him, i was never so sorry for any creature in all my life. just to look at him was enough to make me know what is meant by 'the torments of the damned'--such awful suffering! i shall never get his sad and frightful face out of my mind!"--and she covered her face with her hands, as if still seeing the terrific vision that she had described. when she had partially recovered her composure, she began at the beginning and told me the whole story. it so impressed me that, even at this distance of time, i remember perfectly every detail of the narration, and almost its every word, and with this recollection i set it down. "it was about an hour before you came home," she began, "and i was sewing at the front window of my room, when i heard the latch of the gate click. i looked up, and saw that someone was coming into the yard. it was a man--a peddler, i thought--and i went to the door to tell him that i did not wish to buy anything. the door was open, although the outside screen door was shut and bolted. i had no idea at all that it was not a living human being; but when i got to the door and looked at the figure, which was standing just inside the gate and facing the house, i knew it was nothing that belonged to _this world_. it was misty and indistinct, and i could not make out any details of face or costume, except that the clothes seemed mean and cheap. "i don't know how long i stood there," she continued, after a pause; "but by-and-by the thing began to come toward me up the walk. it didn't seem exactly to walk--it just _moved_, i cannot tell you how; and as it got nearer, although i couldn't distinguish the features, i began to see the clothes quite clearly." "what were the clothes like?" i here interrupted. "they were the strangest-looking things i ever saw on anybody," she replied. "there was no style or fit to them, and they seemed more like clothes made of flour sacks than anything else--very coarse and ungainly. and an odd thing about them was that they had queer triangular black designs on them here and there. but the cap the figure wore was the strangest thing of all:--it was of dingy white cloth and fitted close to the head, and it had a sort of flap hanging down behind almost to the shoulders:--what did you say?"--for i had uttered a sudden ejaculation. "nothing," i replied:--"please go on." "well," she continued, "the figure came up to the two steps leading to the veranda, and i think, it would have come up to the door; but i said, 'stop!' and it stood still where it was. it was still indistinct, and i felt as though it strained my eyes to see it; the face was vague, and did not seem like any face i had ever seen before. "i said: 'who are you, and what do you want?' "the thing held out something it had in its hand, but i couldn't make out what it was, and made the strangest reply. it said: 'madame, do you want to buy some _soap_?'" "gracious powers!" i exclaimed:--"it was deeming?--and he asked you to buy _soap_?" "i did not know it was deeming until later," replied my wife; "but i have told you what he said in his exact words. what could he mean by offering to sell me soap?" "i have an idea about that which i will tell you of presently. but first let me hear the rest of the story." "well," she went on, "i told him i did not want any soap. 'but,' he said, 'i must sell some, and i beg of you to buy it'--and when i again refused, his voice took on the saddest, most pathetic tone, and he said: 'i thought you would. you were kinder to me when you saw me in the jail.' 'i never saw you before in my life!' i said--for truly i did not recognize him even then; but he said: 'oh, yes, you have, and you tried to get miss rounsfell to come and see me.' 'what!' i cried; 'are you deeming?'--and he said: 'yes, madame, i am that unfortunate man.' "i don't quite know what i said after that. i felt as though i should die of fright, and i think i screamed to him to go away, that the thought of his dreadful crimes horrified me so that i could not look at him, and that he must never come to me again. he looked at me reproachfully and turned away. i watched him go to the gate, open it as anyone might have done, and close it after him--then he vanished instantly, the moment he had got into the street. but i know he'll be back! he is suffering, and i am the only one he can reach. i don't know what he wants, but i cannot see him again. it will kill me or drive me mad if we stay here!" * * * * * i certainly felt that i had parted with my own wits by the time this astounding tale was concluded. it was so awful in its facts and in its suggestions, its details combined in such a mixture of the hideous and the grotesque, that i looked anxiously at my wife in the fear that what i personally knew to have taken place in the house had upset her mind, and produced this dreadful hallucination. but how to attribute to hallucination certain items in the story which referred to facts with which _i_ was acquainted, but of which she was ignorant until her experience of the afternoon had revealed them to her? at her express desire i had told her nothing of the execution which i had witnessed, and she had strictly refrained from reading about it in the newspapers:--yet she had described accurately, and in all its details, the garb he wore on the scaffold--the uncouth trousers and jacket of sacking, stamped with the "broad arrow" that marked both it and its wearer to be the property of the crown, and the ghastly "death cap," with its pendent flap behind which was pulled forward and dropped over his face just before the trap was sprung! and the _soap_!--that, as i explained to her, seemed the most gruesome feature of all. my theory regarding it may have been fanciful:--yet what was this poor bedeviled ghost more likely to have with him than a sample of the material that had been used upon the rope that hung him, to make it smooth and pliant, and swift of action in the noose? but why had he wished to sell it, and what help could he hope to gain thereby? he had evidently come, not to frighten, but to crave relief from some distressed condition, and when he failed to gain it he had gone away disappointed, but in sorrow rather than in anger. when morning came, after a night of which we spent the greater part in discussion of this new and disconcerting development, my wife surprised me by saying that she had changed her mind about leaving the house, and had decided to remain. i strongly remonstrated against her exposing herself to a more than possible danger, but she continued firm in her resolution--said she was convinced that the apparition had no purpose to harm or even alarm her, and that it might be her duty, as it would certainly be her effort, if it came again, to ascertain the cause of its disquiet, and, if possible, remove it. this decision caused me great uneasiness for several days:--but as the spectre did not return i began to think that its first visit was also its last, and began to interest myself anew in the cantrips with which the house goblins continued to amuse themselves and mystify us. chapter ix the goblins of the kitchen among the things that impressed us amid the general goings-on about the house was the evidence of a certain sort of humor in the makeup of the influences that were seemingly responsible for them. that this humor did not particularly appeal to our taste, i must admit; it seemed distinctly lacking in subtlety, and suggested that its authors might be the spirits of certain disembodied low comedians of the bladder-and-slapstick variety. to some such agency, at least, we came to attribute the phenomena of the slamming doors, jingling door bell, and occasional upsetting of the parlor; and from time to time other things occurred to break this monotony of elfish sprightliness, and to show us that our spookish friends were not mere creatures of routine, but were full of waggish resource. the indoor incidents that i have already narrated may seem to have borne the ancient ghostly--or "poltergeistic"--trademark, and to have been contrived and employed after a conventional and long-approved plan:--but if there is anywhere a shadowland patent office, the originators of the pranks i am about to describe should be enjoying its protection for their ingenious inventions. i was sitting in my room at about noon, one day, awaiting a call to the luncheon which my wife was preparing. suddenly i heard her call out from the front hall: "come here, quick! i have something queer to show you!" i went out at once, and found her standing at the door of the dark chamber i have previously described, wherein we were accustomed to keep milk, butter, and other such provisions, for the sake of coolness. "look in there," said my wife--and i looked in accordingly; but i observed nothing unusual, and so reported. "look up," she said again. i did so, and saw a large milk pan resting motionless in the air just under the ceiling several feet above my head and just beneath the perforated opening of the ventilator. i naturally inquired how it had got there. "i hardly know," replied my wife; "the thing was done so quickly. the pan is full of milk, and was resting on the floor of the hollow space when i came to get some of the milk for our lunch. i had taken up the pan, when it was snatched from my hands and floated up to the place where you now see it." "this is something new," i remarked, "and rather interesting. i hope the spooks are not drinking the milk"--and as i spoke, the pan began deliberately to descend. when it was within reach i caught hold of the handle on each side, and tried to accelerate its motion. it stopped immediately, and although i employed considerable force i could not budge it. (the effect was not at all as if i were pulling against a physical force like my own; the pan was as immovable and inert as though it were a component part of the masonry of the chamber about it.) i stood aside, therefore; whereupon it began to float down again, and shortly settled in its former place on the floor, touching it so lightly that the contact did not cause even a ripple upon the surface of the milk. we tasted that milk very carefully before venturing to use it for our repast, but found nothing wrong with it. * * * * * a few evenings after the episode of the levitating milk pan, we all three went into melbourne after dinner to attend the theatre. after the performance and while on the way to our train we passed a cook-shop, in whose window was displayed a quantity of roasted duck and teal, the game season then being at its height. they looked so appetizing that i was moved to go in and purchase a pair of teal for a shilling or two (these birds were astonishingly plentiful, and correspondingly cheap in australia at the time), had them put into a paper box, and carried them home with the view to a light supper before we should go to bed. as it seemed hardly worth while to use the dining-room, we went into the kitchen; where i put the teal on a platter and prepared to carve them while my wife was arranging the plates and necessary cutlery. the carving knife was in its usual place in the knife-box, but i could not find the fork that went with it, and so remarked. "why," said my wife, "it's there with the knife, of course." she spoke with conviction and authority, for among her conspicuous traits was a love for orderliness in all things pertaining to the household. nevertheless, the fork was _not_ there; nor could we find it, although we overhauled everything in the cupboard in search for it. meanwhile our friend, actuated by the laudable purpose of keeping out of the way of our preparations, was standing near the door, with his hands in his pockets. "i see it!" he suddenly exclaimed, and withdrawing one hand from its confinement, he pointed upward. my eye followed the direction thus indicated, and i also saw the missing utensil:--it was stuck into the upper part of the window casing, just under the ceiling, and a folded paper was impaled upon its tines. i got upon the table and took the fork from its position. it required considerable force to do so, for the tines were deeply imbedded in the woodwork. then i unfolded the paper. it was about four inches square, and drawn upon it, with much spirit and a strict adherence to the principles of realism in art, were a skull and crossbones. these were done in a red medium which at first we thought was blood, but which we finally decided to be ink, since it retained its color for weeks, and did not darken, as blood would have done. there was no writing whatever on the sheet; therefore we had no reason to regard it as an attention from the "black hand"--another reason being that we had never heard of the "black hand" at that time. we had no red ink in the house, nor any paper like that upon which the design was drawn--and nothing ever occurred to throw any light on the matter. this incident--like that of the hurled stone--seemed so palpably referable to human agency that it revived the rather feeble hope we had from time to time entertained that we might, after all, be the victims of some ingenious trickery. therefore our friend and i devoted one afternoon to a close search of the house, outhouse, and the premises generally, particularly exploring the dusty attic for concealed machinery--in short, for anything that might give a clue to the mystery. we emerged from the attic looking like a couple of sweeps, but this was the only result achieved; nor did we accomplish anything else in all our investigations. as for the attic, nobody could get into it otherwise than by bringing the ladder into the house from the outhouse and raising it to the trap-door in the ceiling of the bathroom. as to outside origin of the various pranks that had been played upon us, we could see no way in which they could be performed in view of the fact that we had every facility to observe the approach of any mischief-maker:--since we had a wide street on two sides of us, and the houses on each of the other two sides were at least a hundred yards away. the fact that most of the "manifestations" with which we had been favored had occurred in the daytime added to the puzzle; the only two things that we could explain as perhaps the work of beings like ourselves (the episodes of the thrown stone and of the fork) had occurred under the cover of darkness:--therefore, hoping that, with these data to go upon, we might get to the cause of our annoyances, we set a trap with the hope that if any practical joker were at work, he might walk into it. in furtherance of this purpose i sent my wife and our friend to the theatre, a few evenings later, accompanying them to the railway station after extinguishing all the lights in the house in order to create the impression in the mind of any possible watcher of our movements that we were all three equally on pleasure bent in town, and returning by a devious route which finally brought me by a scramble over the orchard fence to the back door. i quietly let myself into the house, arranged an easy chair at a point where i could command the hall in both directions, and sat down amid utter darkness, with my revolver in my jacket pocket and my shot gun, heavily charged in both barrels, across my knees. i was fully determined to test the materiality--or otherwise--of any shape that might present itself, by turning my artillery loose thereon without any preliminary word of challenge; but although my vigil lasted until midnight, i was obliged to report to my returning companions that nothing whatever had happened. i may add that that evening was the longest and least agreeable i ever experienced. * * * * * it may be that the incident with which i shall close this rather rambling chapter was promoted by the same humorists who devised the conceit of the floating milk pan, and was employed as a means of enabling us to recognize therein the authors of the former whimsicality. the two pleasantries seemed, at all events, to have been conceived in the same spirit, and although both were equally odd and purposeless, the superior elaborateness of the second distinctly showed an advance over the first, and gained our applause accordingly. there was no connection between these episodes in point of time; in fact, the second occurred several months after the first, in the hottest part of the year. our friend being a briton by birth and an australian by adoption, he had enjoyed rather a narrow experience in dietetics, particularly in the vegetable line. during the early part of our housekeeping we had found much difficulty in securing for our table any garden delicacies outside the conventional list of potatoes, "vegetable marrow," and cauliflower--until providence brought to our back door an amiable chinese huckster, who, with several compatriots, had established a small truck-farm in the neighborhood. earnest representations regarding our vegetableless conditions inspired his interest, and the promise of good prices awakened his cupidity; and as a result of the agreement of these motives it was not long before our table greatly improved. and i cannot help saying--although this is a digression--that our often-expressed words of satisfaction to our purveyor stimulated him to produce and bring to us everything of the best that he could raise. in his way he was an artist, with an artist's craving for praise--so that now and then he would appear with a gift of some new product for us to try, and occasionally with a small packet of choice tea or some other celestial delicacy, for which he would invariably refuse payment. "you should not bring me these things," my wife said to him one day. "you can't afford them." "me likee bling 'em," he replied. "an' me likee _you_. you no ploud. mos' lady too ploud"--and swinging his baskets to his shoulder he departed. it was my wife's delight to tempt our friend's appetite with all sorts of culinary novelties, which the new and more liberal order of things allowed her to prepare. with true british conservatism he would venture gingerly upon an unfamiliar dish, admit it "wasn't half bad," and end by eating as much of it as both of us others together. it was finally discovered that a particularly effective way of appeal to his nature was through the medium of baked stuffed tomatoes:--of these he seemed never to have enough, and, as a consequence, they were frequently upon our bill-of-fare during the summer. it seems incredible--and lamentable--that a man should have got well into the fifties without ever having eaten a baked stuffed tomato:--such, however, was our friend's unhappy case, and my wife made strenuous efforts to ameliorate it. "i have a treat for you to-night," she said to our friend. "guess what it is." "baked stuffed tomatoes," he responded promptly--and baked stuffed tomatoes it was. "now," continued my wife, "you two men must eat your dinner in the kitchen to-night. the woman who cooks for me is ill to-day, and you will have to take pot-luck. i have let the fire in the stove go out, and have been using the gas range; so you will find the kitchen cooler than the dining-room, and by eating there you will save me work, besides." so we went into the kitchen, where we found the table already laid for us. "before we sit down," said my wife, turning smilingly to our friend, "i am going to show you the treat you were so clever in guessing. but you are not to have it at once; that will come after the cold meat. the tomatoes are nice and hot, and i have put them in here to keep them from cooling too fast:"--and with these words she kneeled upon the floor and opened the iron door which shut in a wide but shallow cavity in the masonry that formed the base of the open fireplace. this fireplace was an unusual feature in a modern kitchen, and we, at least, had never put it to any use. it projected slightly into the room, and on the sides of it, and against the wall in each case, were, respectively, the cook stove and gas range. under its hearth, and but a few inches above the level of the room, was the hollow space i have mentioned--i believe it was what is sometimes called a "dutch oven"--eight inches high, perhaps, two feet wide, and eighteen inches deep. from this space my wife partly drew out for our inspection an iron baking pan, in which an even dozen of deliciously cooked, golden-and-red, crumb-stuffed tomatoes were sociably shouldering each other:--then, after hearing our expressions of satisfaction with their appearance, she pushed the pan back again, closed the iron door, and sat down with us to dinner. the table stood against the wall, directly under the window. my wife was seated at the end next to the fireplace, i was opposite her, and our friend was at the side, his back to the hall door and his face to the window. thus he and my wife were each within two feet of the fireplace and the chamber under it, and the iron door guarding our treasure was in direct range of my own eyes from the position i occupied. having despatched the earlier portions of the repast, my wife arose, removed the used dishes to a side table, set others in their places, and with the remark: "now for the tomatoes!" swung open the iron door under the fireplace. the interior, however, was absolutely empty:--the tomatoes, and the heavy baking pan that had held them, had disappeared! our friend and i sprang from our chairs in astonishment and incredulity--but the fact was undoubted; the treat which had been so much anticipated had been snatched, as it were, from our very lips. our friend turned from one to the other of us a face so comically set between wonder and disappointment that i burst out laughing in spite of myself. but my ill-timed levity was promptly checked by my wife, who was at the moment giving a competent imitation of a lioness robbed of her whelps. "oh!" she cried, seemingly addressing nothing in particular, although she might have felt--as i did--that she was speaking to a derisive audience; "that is too bad of you! to steal my tomatoes, when i worked over them so long! bring them back instantly!" but they remained invisible, and over all a sarcastic silence brooded. then she turned upon us unfortunate men. "have you been playing me a trick?" she demanded. "do _you_ know what has become of those tomatoes?" "certainly not"--this to both questions. neither of us had moved from his chair since we sat down to dinner and she had shown us the pan and its contents. nor had she, for that matter, except when she had risen to change the dishes, and even then she had not left the room. all that could be said was that the tomatoes had been exhibited, and then had been shut up again behind the door. there was no possible doubt about that--it was equally certain that they had vanished. very well, then let us search for them! this we did, and with great thoroughness, all over the house, and in every part of the grounds; the outhouse at the back was also carefully inspected. i even got the ladder and went, in turn, upon the roofs of both structures, looked down the chimneys:--"nothing doing" (to employ an oriental expression not then, unhappily, in use); nowhere any trace of the missing pan or of the tomatoes. we gave it up finally, and went back to our dessert and coffee. my wife refused to be satisfied that the tomatoes were actually gone. she was constantly getting up to open the iron door and view the emptiness behind it--as if she expected the apparent dematerialization of the pan and tomatoes to be reversed,--while our friend looked on with an aspect of forced resignation. i left them after a time, and went out for an after-dinner smoke on the back doorstep. i had hardly lighted my pipe when i heard a cry blended of two voices in the kitchen--a shriek from my wife, and a mildly profane ejaculation from our friend. rushing in, i saw an astonishing sight--our friend, with staring eyes and blanched face, supporting himself against the table as if staggered by a blow, my wife kneeling in front of the open iron door beneath the fireplace, and the baking pan and its dozen tomatoes lying before her on the floor! it was some time before i could get a coherent account of what had happened. it was finally developed, however, that after i had left the room the conversation continued on the inexplicable conduct of the tomatoes. "i can't believe they are not there!" my wife asserted, and, for the dozenth time or so, she again knelt on the floor and again opened the door. "i was standing right behind her," said our friend, "and saw her swing the door open, but there was nothing inside. at the same instant i heard a thump on the floor, and there the whole outfit was, just in front of her. i don't know where the things came from--perhaps down the chimney:--at any rate, one moment there was nothing there; the next, the pan and the tomatoes were on the floor." after we had regained our composure we considered what we should do with the tomatoes. our friend said he didn't think _he_ wanted any of them, and i confessed to an equal indifference--so capricious, and often influenced by slight circumstances, is the appetite! my wife, as usual, settled the matter. "take them away!" she said. "throw them into the garbage barrel!"--which was accordingly done; melancholy end of a culinary triumph! yet we ought at least to have tasted those tomatoes: under the title "_tomato à la diable_" they might have found a place in the cook books. chapter x a spectral burglary i cannot but consider it an interesting circumstance that the varied happenings in the house on the hill seemed to arrange themselves into two rather strictly defined classes--the sportive and the terrible--and that the respective influences responsible for them appeared carefully to refrain from interfering with each others' functions or prerogatives. as among our earthly acquaintances we number some who are entirely deficient in appreciation of the ridiculous, and others so flippant as to have no sense of the serious, so, it seemed to us, the unseen friends who so diversely made their presence known were in like manner to be differentiated. in this connection another singular fact is to be noted. while the clownish performers in the juggling of the milk pan, the prestidigitation of the baked stuffed tomatoes, and other such specialties, always remained invisible, even to my wife, what i may call the more dramatic manifestations were accompanied by apparitions that were the evident actors in them. it also occurred to us that if the "acts" that were staged for our benefit were to be regarded as presenting what passed for entertainment in the dark world, there must be drawn there, as here, a sharp line of distinction between vaudeville and "the legitimate;" incidentally, too, it would seem that ghostly audiences were like many in the flesh in their capacity for being easily entertained. however that may be, we somehow came to the opinion that while the more impressive of the phenomena with which we were favored appeared to be due to the action of beings that had aforetime been upon the earth--for in every such case the attending spectres were to be identified as _simulacra_ of persons whose previous existence was known to some one (and generally all) of us,--the tricksy antics that seemed to come from nowhere might find their impulse in elementary entities or forces which had not yet exercised their activities upon the earth plane (and, indeed, might never be intended to do so), and thus had never assumed a material form. i do not put this forward as a theory, but simply as a passing impression that lightly brushed our minds:--and to repel the temptation of being led into the seductive regions of speculation, i will re-assume my _rôle_ as a mere narrator of facts and describe a quite inexplicable affair that occurred near the close of our tenancy. * * * * * the bedroom which i have before described as being at the front of the house, with two windows overlooking the veranda, was occupied at night by my wife and myself. between the windows was a ponderous mahogany dressing table, surmounted by a large mirror. this article of furniture was so broad that it extended on either side beyond the inner casing of the windows, and so heavy that it required the united strength of both of us to move it--as, during the cleaning of the room, we sometimes had to do. the windows were protected by wire screens, secured by stout bolts which were shot into sockets in the woodwork, and fitted flush with the surface of the outer window casing. in february--the time of which i am writing--the weather was at its hottest, and we slept at night with the windows open, trusting our security to the strong wire screens. one morning, after an untroubled night's sleep, i awoke soon after sunrise, and from my place in bed, nearest the window, looked lazily out upon the day. still half-asleep, i lay for some time without noting anything unusual; but as my sensibilities revived i observed that the screen was missing from the left-hand window, and that the dressing table, instead of standing in its usual place against the wall, was turned half-way around, and projected at right angles into the room. i was out of bed in an instant, and at the window--looking out of which i saw the screen lying flat on the floor of the veranda. i went out and examined it. it was uninjured, and the bolts still projected from either side to show that they had not been drawn; but two deep grooves in the woodwork of the casing indicated that the screen had been dragged outward from its place. how this damage could have been done to the stout casing, without marring in the least the comparatively light frame of the screen, i could by no means understand--particularly as there was no possible way by which one could get a hold upon the outside of the screen except by the use of screws or gimlets to act as holds for one's hands; and of these there were no marks whatever. i had made this examination so quietly that i had not awakened my wife:--now, however, i returned to the bedroom and aroused her. her first thought, on seeing the condition of affairs, was that burglars had visited us:--my idea had been the same until i had observed the peculiar facts that i have just noted. tacitly accepting this theory for the moment, i assisted her in making an inventory of our portable valuables. while i satisfied myself that my purse and watch were safe, my wife took her keys from under the pillow (where she always kept them at night) and went to the dressing table, in one of whose drawers was her jewel box. the drawer was locked, and so was the jewel box, and the latter, on being opened, seemed to hold all its usual contents intact. "no," she said, after mentally checking off the various articles; "everything is here; nothing has been taken. wait! i am wrong; one thing is missing. do you remember that rhinestone brooch in the shape of a butterfly you bought for me one evening in paris, four years ago?" "why, yes," i replied; "i got it in a shop under the arcades on the rue de rivoli, and paid five francs for it. you don't mean to say that the thieves, or our friends the 'spooks,' or whoever it may be, have taken that trifle and left your diamond rings and other things really valuable untouched!" yet such appeared to be the case--the cheap and unimportant brooch was the only thing unaccounted for, nor had anything else been disturbed throughout the house. it seemed incredible that any burglar who had passed merely the kindergarten stage of schooling in his profession could have been deceived into supposing that this commonplace _article de paris_ had any value; besides, why should _this_ have been taken and the real jewelry that lay with it in the same box have been left? and how had it been extracted from the locked box inside the locked dressing table? the keys of both were on the same ring under my wife's pillow, and although a robber might extract them without awaking her, it seemed unreasonable to suppose he would take the additional risk of replacing them when he had completed his work. but for these and other questions that presented themselves we could find no satisfactory answers. we ate our breakfast in a state of mild expectation that the brooch might be returned as mysteriously as it had been taken. the adventure seemed to be constructed on lines similar to those laid down in the affair of the baked stuffed tomatoes, and we were disposed to credit it to the same agency;--but if the sprites who were responsible for the former prank had contrived this later one also, they either intended to carry it no further, or were preparing a different _dénouement_. this last conjecture proved to be the true one, but we had to wait a long time for the fact to be developed. we gave our "spooks" sufficient time to consummate their joke (if, indeed, they were responsible for it), and finally concluding that they were not inclined to embrace the opportunity, we again took under consideration the burglar theory, and i went to the local police station to report the occurrence. two heavyweight constables returned with me to the house and gravely inspected the premises. their verdict was speedy and unanimous:--"housebreakers." there had been similar breakings-and-enterings in the town recently--therefore the facts were obvious. i showed them the drawer and jewel box, and described the singular and modest spoil of the supposed thieves; i also exhibited the unmarred frame of the screen and the scarred window casing, and asked them how they explained _that_. this puzzled them, but they fell back easily upon the obvious and practical. "housebreakers," they repeated. "we shall make a report"--and marched away as ponderously as they had come. i did not acquaint them with the goings-on in that house for a year past:--had i done so, my prompt apprehension as a suspicious character would doubtless have followed. * * * * * in july of the following year i went from philadelphia, where i was then living, to spend a few days with my wife at savin rock (near new haven, connecticut), where i had rented a cottage for the summer. the morning after my arrival i was awakened by my wife, who had risen but the moment before, and who, as i opened my eyes, exclaimed excitedly: "look! look at what is on the bureau!" following with my eyes the direction of her pointed finger, i saw upon the bureau the pin-cushion into which i had stuck my scarf pin the night before, beside which, and in the centre of the cushion, appeared the butterfly brooch which i had last previously seen in australia, sixteen months before! "where did you find it?" i asked, forgetting for the moment, and in my half-awake condition, the incident in which it had figured as above described. "i didn't find it," my wife replied; "it is less than a minute ago that i saw it. it was not on the pin cushion last night; how in the world did it come here?"--"and from where?"--thus i completed the question. neither of us had any reply to this:--so i merely advanced the suggestion that it was pleasant to think that our spookish friends had not altogether forgotten us, although on our part we had no desire to cultivate their better acquaintance. this expression of sentiment may have had its effect:--at any rate, with the return of the brooch came an end to the mystery of "the house on the hill." chapter xi "rest, rest, perturbÉd spirit!" i think it was because such lighter incidents as those that i have described in the two preceding chapters were freely introduced among more weighty happenings, and thus gave a certain measure of relief from them, that we managed to fill out our term in the house on the hill. absurd and impish as the general run of these performances was, there was still an element of what i may almost call intimacy in them--a sort of appeal, as it were, to look upon the whole thing as a joke; which, while they caused us amazement, brought us no real alarm. much as has been attributed to the influence of fear, i believe curiosity to be the stronger passion; and few days passed without a fillip being given to our interest by some new absurdity, while events of graver suggestion were few and far between. i need not say that the affair which had been most sinister and disquieting was the coming to my wife of the evident apparition of deeming. this visitation had been so awful and unearthly that by tacit agreement we had not spoken of it since the afternoon of its occurrence:--yet i had never been able to get it out of my mind, and every day i spent in town was darkened by forebodings of what might happen at home before my return. each night as i came in sight of the house i looked anxiously for the figure of my wife standing on the veranda to welcome me, and each night i drew a breath of relief as i saw in her serene and smiling face that my apprehensions had been vain; and so i came by degrees to dismiss my fears in the conviction that that uneasy spirit had been laid at last. but this comforting assurance suddenly failed me, when, one evening about two weeks after the ghost's first coming, i read in my wife's eyes that it had appeared again. yet, greatly to my relief, i saw no fear in them, but, rather, an expression of pity. her manner was quiet and composed, but i was sure she had been weeping. "yes," she said, in reply to my anxious inquiries; "deeming has been here, and i have been crying. oh, that poor tortured, despairing soul!--he is in hell, and one infinitely worse than that we were taught to believe in; a hell where conscience never sleeps, and where he sees what he might have been--and now never can be! he frightened me terribly at first, but i know he tried not to do so, and now i am glad he came, for i believe i have helped him, although i cannot understand how. i feel weak and faint, for i have been under a great strain, but i shall be better now that you have come home--and i know, too, that i shall never see him again. come into my room, and i will tell you all about it:"--and when i had done so, and had tried, with some success, to quiet the agitation that, in spite of her words, still possessed her, she told me the amazing story of her experience. "it was about eleven o'clock this forenoon," she began, "and i was alone in the house--in the kitchen. i had been airing the house, and all the doors and windows were open, although the screens were in place. all at once i heard the back gate creak as it always does when it opens, and 'schneider' and 'tokio'" (such were the names of our two dogs) "who were loose in the yard, barking at somebody. i supposed it was the butcher or the grocery man and looked out the back door--and just then the dogs came tearing by with their tails between their legs, and disappeared around the corner of the house. the next instant i saw a man standing just inside the gate. he was not looking at me, but his eyes seemed to be following the flight of the dogs; then they turned to meet mine, and i saw that it was deeming. i shut the back door instantly and locked it--then ran to the front door and fastened _that_; i wanted to close and bolt the windows, too, but did not dare do so, for i was afraid i might look out of any one of them and see him. i prayed to god that he might go away, but he did not. i stood in the hall and saw him move by outside the window of your room. by-and-by he passed the dining-room window on the other side of me as i stood there, having gone completely around the house. but he did not look in. "i did not see anything more of him for some time, and i began to think that he had given up trying to communicate with me, and had gone away again. i finally went into the bedroom and peeped out into the veranda. he was there, standing near and facing the door! he did not seem to notice me, and i watched him for some time. he was dressed just as he had been before, and looked the same; but i could see him much more clearly than the first time, and if i had not known who it was, i should have thought it was a living man. "i don't know how it was, but as i stood watching him i found that i wasn't afraid of him at all. he looked so sad and pitiful, and stood there so patiently, that i began to feel as i might toward some poor beggar; he seemed just like one, waiting for something to eat. then i thought how he had pleaded the other day for assistance, and how i had turned him away--and although it was like death to face him again, i went into the hall and opened the door. "the screen door was closed and locked, and we looked at each other through it. i could see every detail of the figure's face and dress as it stood there in the bright sunlight:--it was within three feet of me, and it was deeming's without a shadow of a doubt. "i don't know how long i stood there. i seemed to be in another world, and in a strange atmosphere which he may have brought with him. i had to make a strong effort, but finally succeeded in seeing and thinking clearly, and as he only looked appealingly at me and seemed not to be able to say anything, i was the first to speak. "'i know who you are, this time,' i said. 'i told you never to come here again. why have you done so?' "'madame,' he replied, 'i have come for help.' "'i told you the other day i could do nothing for you,' i said. "'but you can, if you will,' he answered, 'and there is nobody else i can reach. don't be afraid of me--i won't hurt you. i need some one to show me christian charity, and i thought you were kind and would help me.'" "'christian charity!'" i exclaimed, interrupting the recital for the first time: "was _that_ what he said?" "those were his exact words," said my wife; "and it seemed almost blasphemy for such a creature to use them." "they seem to me," i commented, "more like one of those stock phrases of which nearly every man has some, of one sort or another. do you remember, in the letter deeming wrote to you from the jail when you could not induce miss rounsfell to come to see him, how he said he was sorry you did not find her 'as christianlike as yourself?' it may be a small point, but this appeal to your 'christian charity' seems to confirm your belief that it was the apparition of deeming that made it to you to-day. but what happened then?" "well," said she, taking up the thread of her story, "while he was saying this he kept his eyes on mine--great, pleading eyes like those of a dog:--they made me think he was trying to say things for which he could not find words, and--i don't know why--i began to feel sorry for him. "'i don't understand at all what you mean,' i said. 'your awful crimes horrify me, and i can hardly bear to look at you. why should you distress me as you do?' "'i don't want to distress you,' he replied, 'but i must get out of this horrible place!' "'what do you mean by "this horrible place"? i cannot understand you.' "'i can't make you understand,' he said. 'they won't let me.' i don't know what he meant by 'they,' but i thought it was some beings that controlled him, though i could see nothing. then he went on in a long, confused talk which i could only partly follow. "the substance of what he said was this, as nearly as i could gather it. his body was buried in quicklime in a criminal's unmarked grave; i think he said under the wall of the jail, but of this i am not sure--and as long as a trace of it remained he was tied down to the scenes of his crime and punishment. if he could only find some one who would pity him, and show it by 'an act of christian charity'--he used the expression again--his term of suffering here would be shortened, and he could 'go on;' that was the way he put it, although he did not seem to know what it meant. his talk was vague and rambling, and seemed to me very incoherent; but his distress was plain enough, and when he stopped speaking (which was not for some time, for he kept going back and repeating as if he were trying to make his meaning clearer) i had lost all feeling except that here was a creature in great trouble, and that i ought to help him if i could. "when he had finished i asked him how i could show him the 'christian charity' he had spoken about. "'by giving me something,' he replied, 'and being sorry for me when you give it.' "'i _am_ sorry for you,' i said. 'isn't that enough?' "'no,' he answered, 'that isn't enough. you might have done it if you had bought the soap from me the other day.' "'so it is money you want?' i asked. "'yes,' he said, 'money will do, or anything else that you value.' "'will you stay where you are until i can get some?' i asked:--and he said, yes, he would stay where he was. "so i went into my room and took some money from my purse, and went back and showed it to him; there was a half-crown, a shilling and some coppers--there they are, on the dressing table beside you." "so you did not give them to him, after all?" i inquired, taking up the coins and examining them. "oh, yes, i did," replied my wife; "and that is the strangest part of the whole thing. "as i said, i showed him the money and asked him if that would do; and he said it would. "then i said: 'i am not going to open this door. how can i give these coins to you?' "'you don't need to open it,' he answered. 'there is a hat rack there behind you, with a marble shelf in it--put them on that shelf.' "i stepped back to the hat rack and put the money on the shelf, watching him all the time. i glanced at the coins an instant as i laid them down, and when i looked at the door again there was nobody there. i instantly turned to the hat rack again, but the shelf was bare--the coins had disappeared, too! "i rushed to the door to unlock it and run into the street, for i thought deeming had got into the house:--but just as i had my hand on the key i heard his voice in front of me. "'don't be afraid,' the voice said. 'i haven't moved.' "'but how did you get the money?' i asked. "'you wouldn't understand if i should tell you,' replied the voice. "'but i can't see you!' i exclaimed. "'no,' said the voice, 'and you never will again. i have gone on.' "'but you are not going away with my money, are you?' i asked. 'do you need it now?' "'no,' the voice replied, 'i do not need it. you gave it to me because you pitied me--i have no more use for it.' "'can you give it back to me?' i asked. "'i _have_ given it back,' said the voice. 'look on the hat rack.' "i heard something jingle behind me, and as i turned around i saw the coins all lying on the shelf again." * * * * * the conclusion of this prodigious history found me in a state very nearly approaching stupefaction. it was not so much the facts themselves which it embodied as the suggestions they inspired that appalled me, and the glimpse they seemed to afford of mysteries the human race has for ages shrinkingly guessed at, chilled me to the marrow of my bones. "can such things be?" was the question i asked myself again and again as i struggled to regain my composure:--and although this experience seemed a natural and fitting sequence in the drama that had been enacted in that house under my own eyes, i am free to say i could not on the instant credit it. my wife detected my hesitation at once, and said: "i see you cannot believe what i have told you, and i do not wonder at it:--but it is true, for all that." "i know you think so," i replied; "and in view of the very many other strange events you have taken part in--and i with you in a number of them--i ought to have no doubts. but this is the most staggering thing i ever heard of. are you sure you were not dreaming?" "well," she said, with a laugh, "i am not in the habit of dreaming at eleven o'clock on a bright, sunny morning, and when i have the care of the house on my hands. and then, the dogs:--do you think _they_ were dreaming, too?" "ah, yes!" i exclaimed; "what about the dogs?" "i told you," she replied, "how they ran to the gate, barking, and then suddenly turned tail and rushed away in a panic as soon as they saw what was there. when deeming had gone, i went out to look after them, but for a long time i could not find them. i called and i coaxed, but to no purpose. finally i discovered them out in the farthest corner of the paddock, under the thick bushes, crowded together in a heap, and trembling as though they had been whipped. i had to crawl in and drag them out, but i couldn't induce them to come near the house; at last i had to carry them in, and all the afternoon they have stuck close to me as though they felt the need of protection. it is only half an hour ago that i got them into their kennels and chained them up. you had better go out and see them." i did so, and found one kennel empty, and both dogs lying close together (as the length of their chains allowed them to do) in the straw of the other. i had never seen them do this before, since each was very jealous of intrusion by the other upon his quarters, and i was impressed by the circumstance. the poor brutes still showed unmistakable evidences of terror, whimpered and whined and licked my hand as i petted them, and set up a concerted and agonized howl of protest when i left them. there was no doubt whatever that they had been horribly frightened--if not by the ghost of deeming, by what?--it was certainly no merely physical agitation that their actions showed. chapter xii the demons of the dark true to his promise, deeming did not reappear, nor was there any subsequent manifestation that seemed referable to him. to what new plane he had "gone on," and whether to one higher or lower, we could only guess; the door that had closed upon his exit had evidently shut in forever (as had been our experience in certain other like cases) a mystery to which, for a moment, we had almost felt we were about to hold the key. of the problem of the future life we had a hint of the terms of the solution, but the answer vanished before we could set it down below the ordered figures of the sum. such, i believe, has been, is, and will be the constant fortune of all who venture far into the _penetralia_ of the unseen. now and then there seems to be an illumination--but it is not the radiance of discovered truth:--it is the lightning flash that warns away the profane intruder, and if defied it blasts him in body or in mind. it was because of this conviction that my wife and i, although having experience during many years of incomprehensible occurrences whose narration, should i set it down, would fill many books like this, steadfastly refrained from allowing ourselves to assume a mental attitude that might, so to speak, encourage them. far from finding the influences (whatever they were--and on this point we were careful to make no inquiry, and never formulated any theory) reluctant to invitation to display themselves, we were at times compelled to offer strenuous opposition to their approach:--even a passive receptivity to strange phenomena was not free from peril, and our previous knowledge of the unbalancing of more than one inquiring mind that had pursued the subject of the occult with too great a temerity had convinced us that "that way danger lies"--and a very grave danger, too. to that danger we ourselves, as i believe, finally came to be exposed in our life in the house on the hill:--not because we were lured to seek out the origin and nature of the forces about us, and thus gave ourselves up to their influence, but because the more or less constant exercise of that influence could not fail to have that effect, in spite of ourselves:--and it is to show how, as it seemed, and why, this effect--at first unsuspected--grew toward its sinister culmination, that i undertake the writing of this final chapter. * * * * * meantime, i may say that the incidents attending the two spectral appearances that i have recorded, gave us occasion for much curious speculation, in which there was a certain relief in indulging ourselves. the garments from the wardrobe of the hangman; was the murderer doomed to go through all eternity in this hideous attire? the offered sale of soap; is the occupation of "drummer" or "bagman" practiced beyond the styx, and for what ghostly manufacturers are orders solicited? was the soap a sample? was it for the toilette or the laundry? what was its price per cake, and was there any discount by the box? then the shade's appeal for "christian charity," and the acceptance of it in the tangible form of coin of the realm! the money was returned again, but had it meanwhile been entered in some misty ledger to the credit of its temporary bearer? if deposits are made, and balance-sheets issued in the dark world, then might deeming's account seem to be heavily overdrawn. dealing in phantom money, and liquidating of shadowy notes-of-hand!--do we carry with us into the beyond not only our characters and personalities (as some believe) but also our occupations and ways of doing business? if deeming's discarnated action was thus to be explained, he must have been in hell, indeed! reflections such as these may strike the reader as flippant, but they were among the natural results of the circumstances. there was something so personal and intimate in these mid-day visits of the apparition, it was itself so seemingly tangible and even human, and in its expressions of thought and manifestations of emotion seemed to have experienced so slight an essential change from the conditions with which the living man had been acquainted, that there was little to excite horror in the event, after all. if the phantom had imparted to us no information, it had at least given us a hint that there was progress in the realms of the hereafter, and had awakened a vague belief that at the end of all there might be pardon. this suggestion was tenuous and elusive; but it was afforded, nevertheless, and i still cling to the hope that it inspired. * * * * * in writing this strange chronicle i have not attempted to set down all our experiences in that house of mystery, but only such as have seemed to me unusual, or representative of the manifestations as a whole. there were certain other phenomena so vague and evasive that i am unable to find words whereby to describe their nature or to convey the impression they caused:--all that i can say of them is that they seemed to invite us to an inquiry into some secret which the house contained, and to beckon to the success of such an investigation. we often discussed this apparent suggestion, but never acted upon it:--chiefly because, as i think, we were not at all sure it was not of subjective, rather than objective, origin--the natural result of the mental ferment which such a protracted series of weird happenings might be expected to cause. moreover, as everything that had so far occurred had been without any conscious encouragement on our part, we felt some fear (as i have intimated above) of what might befall us if we endeavored to place ourselves completely _en rapport_ with the agencies that seemed to be at work about us. therefore we maintained as well as we could our isolated and non-conductive position, and refrained from all encouragement to the suggestions that were more and more forcibly borne in upon us that we should seek an understanding of the meaning of the things that had so much disturbed us. yet i cannot refrain from stating my conviction that the phenomena which i have endeavored to describe in these pages had their origin, not in any disturbed or morbid condition of the mind in any of the three persons who were affected by them, but in some undiscovered cause local and peculiar to the place of their occurrence. if this were not the case, it seems singular that manifestations of a like nature did not present themselves at other times and in other places. any such persistent and startling incidents as those that were displayed in the house on the hill were, happily, foreign elsewhere both to my wife's experience and to my own--such other influences as have seemed to come about us having apparently been unaffected by conditions of period and locality, and being almost always of a mild and gentle nature. whether our tacit refusal to seek a solution of the mystery that had so long brooded over us had anything to do with the even more serious and startling events that occurred during the final period of our residence, i cannot tell. i have often thought so:--at all events this record would be incomplete without setting them down. it is not to be denied that the adventures in which we had participated for nearly a year, came finally to have a serious effect upon us, both physically and mentally. our curiosity and interest had long ago become sated, and of late we had felt the slow but steady growth of something like apprehension:--an apprehension even more acute than that which might be inspired by any definite occasion for fear, since it looked forward to uncertainties for which there seemed to be no definition. but the days passed slowly by until only two weeks remained before the expiration of our lease, and, since the incident of the brooch which i have described, nothing seriously untoward had occurred. yet we had lately been conscious that the character of the influence that had so long possessed our habitation seemed to be undergoing a change. i cannot describe this change except to say that it took the form of an ominous quiescence. the elfish entities whose cantrips had served more to amuse and mystify than to annoy us, seemed suddenly to have abandoned the premises as if retiring before some superior approach, and the wraiths of the women and the child were no more seen or heard about the rooms or in the hall:--instead of these, we vaguely recognized the presence of a mighty force, which made itself manifest neither to the eye nor the ear, but was evident through some latent or inner sense whose function was to apprehend it. i cannot explain how the impression was conveyed, but we somehow knew that this presence was malignant and foreboded harm; and a disturbing uneasiness grew upon us rather than diminished as time elapsed, and everything remained upon the surface serene and calm. while the familiar occurrences to which we had been accustomed never lost their sense of strangeness, the present cessation of them seemed more uncanny still; we had an uneasy and growing sense of something serious being about to happen, and often expressed to each other our common feeling of alarm. the circumstance that disquieted us most was that, whereas nearly all the events in which we had shared hitherto had taken place by day, this new obsession was felt chiefly at night:--it seemed to enwrap the house in an equal degree with the gathering darkness, and each evening at sundown we lighted every gas-jet, and sat or moved about together under the influence of an urgent craving for companionship. we were like spectators sitting in a theatre between two acts of a compelling performance; behind the lowered curtain a situation was preparing whose nature we could not guess; we apprehended rather than perceived that the stage was being reset, the scenery shifted, a new development provided for--and we feared beyond measure to see the curtain lift again, as we felt assured it would. the climax came at last, and in a sudden and awful manner. our nameless apprehension had caused us, of late, to spend as many evenings as possible abroad--visiting friends and acquaintances, or attending entertainments in the city. returning late one night from the theatre, our friend and i went into the dining-room, while my wife retired to her chamber to prepare for bed. we had been chatting a few moments when we heard a piercing shriek from my wife's room; and rushing in we were horrified to see her standing close against the wall, her face white and drawn with terror, apparently striving to free herself from some being that held her firmly in its clutches. her aspect was so unearthly that we stood for a moment literally frozen on the threshold:--then she seemed to be lifted up bodily and thrown across the bed, where she lay with eyes protruding, and hands frantically tearing at her throat as if trying to free herself from some powerful grip that was choking her. we rushed to her and raised her to a sitting position, but she was torn from us again and again, and from the gasping and throttled sounds that came from her throat we felt that she was dying. we cried out in incoherent frenzy to her unseen tormentors to be gone, and struck wildly at the air as if there were about her palpable objects of our blows. this dreadful struggle lasted for several minutes; at times we apparently prevailed, again we were overwhelmed:--finally the influence seemed to pass, and i laid her back upon the pillows, still panting and trembling but no longer suffocating, as she whispered: "thank god, they have gone!" this experience had been so frightful, and so foreign to all others that had befallen us, that i found myself reluctant to refer it to unnatural agencies, and tried to explain it as a fit of some kind by which my wife had been attacked--although i knew that she had never had such a seizure in all her life, and was in perfect physical and mental health. moreover, when she soon complained of her throat hurting her, i looked more closely, and with amazement saw upon both sides of her neck the marks that no one could have mistaken as other than those left by the fingers of a pair of powerful hands! at this sight the little courage that remained to me abandoned me entirely, and i could see that our friend was equally unmanned. "we must leave this house!" we exclaimed in the same breath:--and as we spoke my wife cried out: "oh! they are here again!" and at once the ghastly combat was renewed. this time our friend and i made no effort to fight against the demons--if such they were; we seized the half-conscious woman in our arms, and partly carried, partly dragged her out of the house. the possession seemed to leave her at the door, and the fresh air soon revived her. but there was no going back for any of us that night. it was late summer, and the air was warm:--so, bareheaded, and with my wife guarded between her two male protectors, we walked the deserted streets until the rising of the sun gave us courage to return home. i shall not forget those hours of midnight and early morning:--the serene and amethyst-colored australian sky strewn with star-dust and set with twinkling constellations, and the dark earth about us--across which, as from time to time we approached the house from which we had been expelled, the light from its windows and from its open door gleamed balefully. all was silent within, but we feared the lurking presence and dared not enter, and after one or two returns remained only within view of it until daybreak was well advanced. our conversation throughout the vigil need not be recorded, but the reader may guess its import:--the awful experience through which we had passed had brought powerfully to our minds the thought of deeming in the feature of the throttling hands, since in all his murders there was evidence upon the throats of his victims that strangulation had preceded the operation of the knife. but my wife opposed this grisly suggestion:--it was not the shade of the murderer, she affirmed, that had attacked her, although she could give no description of her assailants--they were dark, formless shapes--resembling neither man nor beast; things more felt than seen, even to her. yet in spite of this assurance, when i re-entered the house and saw in its usual place above my writing table the plaster mould which i had carried from the murderer's cell in the melbourne jail, i recalled with a new appreciation of their appositeness the words of the worthy governor. whatever the influence was that had appalled us, we had not sufficient courage to oppose it, and so hastened our preparations for departure that we finally quitted the house a week before our lease expired; and within a month saw the shores of australia fade behind us as our steamer turned its prow toward aden, suez, and marseilles. there was one recurrence of the phenomenon i have just described during the last few nights of our possession, but we evaded it by taking to the street again, and again passing the night therein. it was on a sunny morning in early march--the month answering in the inverted seasons of the antipodes to september of northern latitudes--that we turned the key that locked us out for the last time from that house of shadows. as we reached the street we turned with one accord to look back upon it:--how inviting it appeared in the brilliant sunshine, amid its attractive surroundings of grassy lawn set with shrubs in flower, its smiling orchard and garden! we looked into one another's faces, and each saw therein the reflection of his own thoughts:--there was the relief such as they feel who awake from an oppressive dream; yet the place had been our home! the end footnotes: [ ] this is in accordance with the terms of the english law in capital cases:--whereby a condemned prisoner is allowed two sundays to live after the pronouncement of his sentence, and is executed on the morning following the second. thus deeming had the longest respite possible under the statute--twenty days. the shortest lease of life (fifteen days) would be allowed to a prisoner who had been sentenced on saturday. [ ] this was the murderer's real name, as disclosed by investigations in england among relatives and acquaintances living there. his execution was, as the warrant for it recited, "upon the body of albert williams," this being the _alias_ under which he came to australia, as described later. [ ] this activity in building (which is still seen in concrete form in the palatial parliament buildings and other costly structures of melbourne) was largely inspired by the published calculations of an enthusiastic statistician on the future growth of the colonies:--which were, in effect, that by their population would be thirty-two millions, and by , one hundred and eighty-nine millions!--some eighty per cent in excess of that of the united states at present. it speaks loudly for australian enterprise that these windsor builders, as well as many others, took such prompt measures to provide for this increase. [ ] this woman (_née_ emily lydia mather) was the daughter of john and dove mather, respected residents of rainhill, a small town near liverpool, england. to this town came deeming, under his _alias_ of "williams," representing himself as an officer in the indian army who had been sent to england to purchase supplies therefor. this claim he strengthened by occasionally appearing in a resplendent uniform--which seems to have been of his own invention--and reciting his many exploits "in the imminent deadly breach;" confirming also his free assertions of the possession of large wealth of his own by liberal expenditures in all directions. no such splendid personage had ever before been seen in quiet rainhill, and the whole town succumbed to the glamor of it--including miss mather and her parents, whose acquaintance the fascinating officer somehow made, and followed up by a respectful but ardent courtship of the daughter. an engagement between the pair was soon announced and a valuable diamond ring, as well as other gifts of jewelry and rich attire, was bestowed by the prospective bridegroom upon the bride-to-be:--and although the celebration of the wedding was announced for so early a date as to cause some unfavorable gossip, the fact was condoned in view of the military necessity of a speedy return to india. at this point williams--to use the name by which he was then known--encountered what to any less bold and unscrupulous villain would have been a decided check:--this in the form of a letter from his then living legal wife, whom, with his four children by her, he had some time before deserted, and who--in some manner unknown--had now traced him to rainhill. this letter, it is believed, announced her intention of descending upon him:--at any rate, with characteristic audacity, he gave out the information that his _sister_ and her children were coming to live in rainhill, and that he had received a letter asking him to rent a house for them. he secured a house accordingly; but expressed dissatisfaction with the somewhat worn wooden floor of the kitchen--and as the owner demurred to undertake the expense of a cement floor, williams said he knew about such things, and would do the job himself, and ordered the necessary materials and tools. when, and by what means, the woman and children arrived in rainhill, seems to be somewhat of a mystery:--that they _did_ arrive is shown by the fact that after the windsor murder had come to light, and the identity of the victim was discovered by a curious chain of circumstances too long to find place in this narrative, the skilfully-laid cement floor with which the old wooden floor had been replaced was torn up, and the half-decapitated bodies of the five were found embedded in it. those who are curious in such matters may see this tragedy depicted at madame toussaud's, london. [ ] this detail--of a murderer carrying about with him a canary as a companion--is effectively employed by the late frank norris in his california novel, "mcteague." as that story was published in , eleven years after the execution of deeming,--he, like mcteague, a wife-murderer,--the source of norris' idea would seem obvious. [ ] i had good personal reasons for discrediting any rumor that deeming had made confession, for the reason that, with the sanction of the authorities in his case, and assisted by his own counsel, i had made every effort to secure it myself--and had failed. when the matter was suggested to deeming, and he was assured that the money that was offered to him for his memoirs would be paid to miss rounsfell as some slight recognition of the wrong he had done her, he eagerly assented; and being supplied with pens (quill--for not the least article in steel was allowed him) he went to work, and in a few days had turned out a large amount of manuscript. examination of it, however, was disappointing. it began encouragingly, and there were lucid passages in it; but as a whole it was utterly incoherent--and to those who had dispassionately studied the man, an undoubted proof of his insanity. transcriber's note: --obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected. [illustration: cover art] [frontispiece: "there appeared three figures, dripping from head to foot." (p. .)] our den by e. m. waterworth, author of "master lionel, that tiresome child," etc. london: s. w. partridge & co. , paternoster row. [illustration: contents headpiece] chapter i. the savages are expected chapter ii. they arrive--unexpectedly chapter iii. our den is fortified chapter iv. fish or fowl for supper chapter v. tied to the bell buoy chapter vi. punishment and escape chapter vii. the mysterious visitor chapter viii. the oak chest chapter ix. the mystery deepens chapter x. how the stranger helped chapter xi. a day of surprises chapter xii. the lost will [illustration: contents tailpiece] [illustration: chapter i headpiece] our den. chapter i. the savages are expected. "i think it is our duty, john." "stuff and nonsense. how can it be our duty to turn our house into a bear-garden for the sake of a lot of young savages? let them spend their holidays at school." i was reading, as i generally was in those days, but the word "savages" made me look up. it was fun reading about such people, but i was not at all sure that i should care to see even one alive, and here was father talking about a lot of them. mother laughed merrily. somehow, she generally did laugh when other people would have cried; and i know now that it was mother's merry laugh that made the sunshine of our home. "why, john, how can you make savages into bears? they would not even hug you if you looked as fierce as you do now." then glancing towards my little sofa, mother's face became sweetly grave as she added in a low voice, "besides, dear, we should like people to be good to edric if we were not here; and, after all, they may do him good. you know the london doctor said he would have more chance of getting strong if he had plenty of play with brothers and sisters, instead of always having a book in his hand." the colour came to my face, and i turned hot and cold all over, while i listened for father's answer. it was about six months since they had taken me to london to see a famous physician, and i had never heard them mention what he had said about me. i was the only child, and, owing to a fall downstairs when i was quite a tiny trot, there was a slight curvature in my spine. i did not know what was the matter then, but i knew that i was not like other children. i dreaded the noise which my few friends made in the room when they came to see me. i had lived in an iron frame for about two years; and when i was taken out of it, and was supposed to be allowed to walk a little, the desire to move had gone. my parents did not like to urge me, and so six months passed away and i was still carried from room to room, still lay reading most of the day, and was quietly content. it was only now and then that mother's anxious look at me told that she was not satisfied; father and i seemed to have made up our minds that i was to be an invalid for the rest of my life, so i listened anxiously for his answer to mother's remark about the doctor. "do you really think it would do the boy good to be tormented by a lot of rough, strong children? then let them come, but keep them out of my sight. i hate noise almost as much as edric does." "i had settled all that, dear, before i ever spoke to you about it. there's the tower room--it is big and airy, and right at the top of the house--i thought they should have that for their playroom." "you'd better call it their den at once," said father, leaning over my shoulder to read the title of my book. "there are about twenty panes of glass in it now. i wonder how many whole ones there will be when the holidays are over. how do you like the idea of the invasion of the savages, my boy?" he added, in the tender tone in which he always addressed me. "who are they, father?" i asked, laying my thin white hand in his brown, strong one. "your uncle george's children, dear. he sent them to school at bath, and intended to be in england for their summer holidays, but he was prevented from leaving sydney just at the last minute; and your aunt mary has written to ask if we will let them all spend the time here. there are four of them, three boys and a girl who is as big a boy as any of them, i believe. what do you think of it, edric?" "i think i shall like seeing cousin kathleen," i said, rather shyly; even with my parents it was rather difficult for me to speak my thoughts. "she has often sent nice messages to me, and this is the book-marker she made for me. perhaps she will read to me, and show me how to play chess." "we will burn all those books, lad," said father, sweeping a little heap off my sofa to the floor. "let me carry you out to see the high tide." "not just now, father, please," i said, cuddling the last remaining book in my arms. "i want to see what becomes of rupert in the redskins' camp." "that's good," said father, laughing heartily. "your eldest cousin's name is rupert, and we shall soon be wanting to know what becomes of edric in rupert's den." "when are they coming?" i asked, with a faint trembling at my heart. mother had taught me to be kind in my thoughts of every one, but i began to be a little afraid of these stranger cousins. "they may be here next week; but i am not sure what day the school breaks up." "well, i will go and see about getting the tower room ready," said mother, when father had gone out to look at a new horse which he had bought for the farm. "do you want anything before i go, darling?" "no, thank you, mother." as she bent down to kiss me before she left me, mother looked longingly into my face. "i believe you look better already, dear. don't you think that---- why, darling, what's the matter; there are tears in your eyes." of course it was silly for a boy of twelve to begin to cry because his cousins were coming to stay with him, but i feel bound to let you know the whole truth about myself. i couldn't possibly say what i was crying for, but i suppose that i was in a weak and morbid state. "you'll love me still, mother, won't you," i whispered, clinging to her neck; "and you won't let them make me do anything i don't want to?" poor mother! if i had only known, that was just the very reason she wanted my cousins to come; but she comforted me, and promised faithfully i should be left to myself as much as i liked. "they will have their den, as your father calls it, and you needn't go in it unless you like. now i will go and see about getting it ready. it will want brightening up a bit. nobody has ever used it since i have lived here, and that is nearly fourteen years. good-bye, dear; don't read too much." she had her hand on the door before i could summon courage to speak what was in my mind. "i've never been in the tower room, mother. do you think i might go with you, just to see it before they come?" [illustration: chapter ii headpiece] chapter ii. they arrive--unexpectedly. there was a joyous ring in my dear mother's voice as she called out of the window for father to carry me upstairs; and i noticed that they both looked at each other with a satisfied nod as i was deposited on a long rattan chair, which, with the exception of a great oak chest, was the only piece of furniture in the den. it was a glorious day in july. the tower room was almost walled with glass on three sides, and looking out i saw such a view as i had never imagined could be seen from our own house. in front of me i could gaze across the field to the back-water of the river which made our farm into an island at high tide; beyond that, again, lay a narrow neck of land, then the main stream, which, running to the left, widened and widened till it entered into the sea. across the river were some few houses of a small seaside town, and beyond those houses i knew was the sea; the open sea on which i had never been but once. i knew that summer after summer yachts sailed from the pier at craigstown round the eagle point, and up the river to the old watermill, or from the mill to the pier. sometimes i would watch the tops of the sails from my bedroom window; but i could see little more, and never wished to be in the vessels. here in the tower room i could see the whole course of the river when mother dragged my chair to the different windows, and i exclaimed, "oh! i am glad i came, mother: doesn't the water look lovely?" "yes, darling, it is a very high tide to-day. if you look down there to the right of that large tree you will see that our road to craigstown is quite covered up. they may well call this island farm; you would have to swim across the little stream whichever way you wanted to go now. now, edric, you can help me; tell me what i shall put in this room to make it nice for your cousins. remember, their parents are thousands of miles away, and we must try to make them happy. fancy how you would feel if you were in australia without me." i didn't fancy it at all; but i know what mother meant, and suggested that first one thing and then another should be brought upstairs. there was my tool chest--of course i should never use it; it was such a funny thing for father to give me. i did not realize that he had bought it hoping to rouse me to try to use some of the tools. there was a box of lovely stone bricks. i could play with them, and used to enjoy making designs out of my own head, which pleased my parents and made them prophesy that i should be an architect some day. there were paint boxes and puzzles. there was even a fishing rod and a landing net; i almost laughed when mother brought them up from a cupboard in my room. "it seems a pity that father should buy me such things, doesn't it, mother?" i said, and then i felt sorry. mother came across the room to me, and said softly, "you see, dear, the london doctor said he quite hoped that you would be able to get about like other children some day, though you would always have a little twist in your back, which would prevent you being as straight and strong as they are. your father loves you so, that he cannot bear to think you ore different from others; and so he keeps giving you things just as if you were well and strong, hoping that some day you will be able to use them. now where shall i put this flag?" you would not believe what a change mother made in the room. by dinner time it looked quite pretty; and i was actually so hungry that i was glad when the dinner bell sounded, and father came up the creaky stairs two at a time to carry me down. "i think the change of rooms has done you good, laddie," he said, as he took me in his arms. "you had better have that rattan chair moved, mary," he added to my mother; "there won't be much of it left by september if you don't." "oh, don't move it, please, father," i said. "it will do so nicely for me to lie in when i go there." "so it's going to be your den as well as theirs, is it, young man? and, pray, what do you think we shall feel like when we come into this room and see your empty sofa?" glancing at father, to see how much he meant, i fancied that there was a merry twinkle in his eye. at all events, i am certain that we had a brighter dinner than we generally had, and i remember particularly that i asked for a second helping of meat. "what shall i bring you from colchester?" said father, after dinner. "i am going to try the new mare, and i'll bring you back anything you like to name up to five shillings." "there's a new book of kingston's, father--i forget the title--if you wouldn't mind getting that. i have nearly finished _rupert and the redskins_." "oh, no more books," said father, impatiently. "i'd like to burn the lot of them. i'd rather buy you a cricket bat. there, don't look miserable, laddie. you shall have the book, but i'd give a five-pound note to hear you say, 'take me with you in the dog-cart.' now, good-bye. i shan't be starting for another hour, till the tide is down, but i don't suppose you will see me again before i go. shall i send a telegram to bath to say the youngsters can come? perhaps they will like to look forward to it. and is there anything else you want, to rig up their den?" we both laughed, and mother said something about believing father would be delighted to see the savages after all. "oh! i don't care, as long as you keep them out of my way. i'll bring them a couple of boxes of soldiers; that's sure to keep them quiet for a time." "girls don't like soldiers," i remarked. "don't they, though, if they have half a dozen brothers and no sister. i suppose you'd like me to buy miss kathleen a workbox, and she wouldn't know which finger to put the thimble on, i'll be bound. what on earth is that?" well might he ask. a succession of shouts and yells, interspersed with loud "c-o-o-e-e, c-o-o-e-e," disturbed the usual placid silence which reigned on a summer afternoon in our island farm, especially when the tide was up, and we were cut off from the mainland. angry expostulations from some of the labourers followed; and then, to our utter amazement, there appeared on the lawn at our open window three figures, dripping from head to foot. [illustration: chapter ii tailpiece] [illustration: chapter iii headpiece] chapter iii. our den is fortified "stand back! stand back!" shouted father, as the boys made straight for our new carpet. "who in the world are you?" "don't you know us, uncle?" said the eldest, shaking the water from him like a newfoundland dog. "the old fellow drove us from colchester station, and actually wanted us to wait the other side of that stream till the tide went down. it wasn't likely we should do that, was it? so we just walked through. kathleen got her shoe stuck in the mud, but she's coming along presently. now, aren't you glad to see us, uncle?" there was something irresistible in the impudent, freckled face turned up to father's; and although my first thought was that rupert was decidedly ugly, i soon came to see that there was the beauty of goodness in eyes and mouth and general expression. mother was the first to regain her self-possession. "you naughty children," she said, stepping out on the lawn, "you will catch your death of cold, and i suppose you haven't even got any other clothes to put on. edric's won't fit any of you but harold." "don't you fret, auntie," said jack, who had been capering about, and leaving little rivulets of water wherever he went. "we don't think anything of wet clothes, we just run about till they are dry." "but where's your box?" said father. "it's the other side of the water," said rupert, laughing; "i know now what king john felt like when he lost all his luggage in the wash. we lost half our things in the wash at school, and now we've lost the other half in your wash. my word, hasn't the tide gone down quick! the old fellow was right after all. why, it's only up to kathleen's ankles now. here she comes, shoes and all. ugh! go away, you horrid, wet girl." a well-aimed shoeful of water went over jack's head, and then with a queer, uneven step, due to having one shoe off and one on, my cousin kathleen advanced to greet my father and mother. "what do you think of that, uncle john?" she said, putting her dry arm round his neck. "those naughty boys left me to get on as well as i could with one foot stuck in the mud; but i'll pay them out. ah, there's cousin edric," and there was such a change in the merry face, that a glow of pleasure spread over mine. "we know each other already, don't we, dear? isn't it lovely to think that we are going to be here six whole weeks? can't you really walk, edric?" there was something so very funny in the whole scene, the dripping boys outside, the girl with hat thrown back and tumbled, curly hair, with skirts wet to the waist, and one shoe in her hand, that i burst out laughing. of course, everyone joined, and it was thus that we received the savages into our home circle. but mother now interposed, and marched them all off to their bedrooms, while father sent a man in one of the carts to fetch the boxes, which the colchester fly-driver had so unceremoniously deposited on the other side of the stream. we found out in the course of time, that the boys' school had been suddenly closed, owing to the death of the master's wife. my cousins had heard from their father that they would probably spend the summer holidays with us, and the master had thought it best to send them straight to us, taking their sister with them. the telegram which should have prepared us for their arrival, came about half an hour after we were all sitting down to tea. what a tea that was! father was, of course, away, having merely looked in to say good-bye to me and whisper, "don't let the young rogues tire you, laddie; they can go upstairs to their own room. i shall be back in time to carry you to bed if you stop up a little later than usual." kathleen took me under her wing at once. her chair must be next to my sofa, and she must hand me everything i wanted. we were all ready; i had taken one or two bites of bread and butter, and saw to my surprise that none of my cousins had begun eating. "why are you waiting?" asked mother. "for grace," said jack, the second boy. we had always been accustomed to say grace before and after dinner, but it never seemed to have entered our heads to say it at any other meals. i glanced at mother. "say it then, dear," she said, kindly, and rupert said it; then they fell to and made a hearty tea. from that day forward we never forgot to give thanks for every meal which was put before us. i don't think i ate much, for i was laughing so heartily. it was quite a new phase of life to me, and my cousins seemed so possessed with the spirit of fun that it was quite infectious. "now, auntie, where's our den?" said rupert, when tea was over. "father had a den in sydney. he called it his den, but it was the jolliest place in the house, except----" "except when rupert went into a rage and hit harold, then father told him to meet him in his study, and you should have seen rupert's face," interposed jack. "rupert ran away and hid under the tank," continued kathleen, with a broad smile on her face. "the clergyman was staying with us, and he went to fish him out. rupert saw him coming, and cried out, 'i say, mr. wilson, is father after you, too?' you should have heard them laugh. of course rupert didn't get his caning, so father's den is still the jolliest place in the house." "and so will ours be," was the general shout as they filed upstairs behind mother. the sunshine seemed gone out of the room when they left it. i tried to go on with my reading, but i found myself listening for any sound from the tower room. it was too far away, however, for me to hear anything but the loud bang of the door at the bottom of the little staircase, so i was obliged to go back to my book with a sigh. it was not likely strong, healthy, rackety children would want poor sickly little me. "bo! twopence for your thoughts, edric. oh, did i hurt you? i didn't know you would be really frightened. what's the matter?" "it's nothing," i said, hastily, trying to breathe quietly again, and smiling at rupert. "you see i am so used to being alone that a sudden noise makes me jump." "i'm sorry," said rupert, sitting on the edge of my sofa, and swinging his legs so violently that he almost made my teeth chatter. "what pretty hair you've got, edric. it is all wavy like mother's, and just the same colour. you'd have made a splendid girl. there, now, i've hurt you again, and i didn't mean to either. you'll be a big man and a clever one some day, i expect; anyway, no one can call you carrots as they do me. halloa, kathleen, what do you want?" "let's carry edric upstairs," said kathleen; "he can tell us where to find things;" and, before i could say yes or no, they had taken me in their arms, so carefully, so tenderly, that after the first moment i was quite happy. "there, captain," said jack, as they pulled the long chair into the middle of the room. "now we want your orders. this is our castle, but what is a castle without fortifications? you might as well have a plum pudding without any plums! we've got to barricade this place, so that the enemy can't get in unless we wish it." "but if they can't get in, we can't get out," i said, hastily. "of course we can, you owl! what's the good of lovely windows like those, with old ivy climbing outside? i've been down to the garden already that way," said harold. "but edric can't go in and out of the window," said kathleen; "and i don't think i should care to very often; it is rather awkward with petticoats. let us fortify the castle, but we must do it so that we can go in and out if we wish. now, captain, tell us where to find wood." there was plenty to be had in the outhouses, and they worked so hard that they had made several rough defences for door and window before it was dark, and mother came up anxiously to look for me. "how ever did you get up here, darling?" she asked. "by the same way that he's going back, auntie," and as rupert spoke my two cousins raised me in their arms and carried me as carefully as if i were made of egg-shell china. [illustration: chapter iii tailpiece] [illustration: chapter iv headpiece] chapter iv. fish or fowl for supper. it would take too long to tell you of all the things which happened in our den. little bits of fun which would sound nothing to you, were great events in my life. i had lived so long on my invalid couch that both griefs and joys were intensified to me. i was too young to think such things; but if i had been older i should have asked myself very often, "is this the same _me_ that used to lie reading for hours, and never left his sofa if he could help it?" why, i actually had forgotten to see what became of rupert among the redskins. my four cousins were all so busy making the most of their holidays that i didn't seem to have time to breathe. whatever they did, edric must at least look on--if he would help, so much the better; so it ended in my seeing very little of my parents. father still persisted in refusing to let the young savages have meals with him, though i felt sure, from the look he gave them when he happened to peep in our room, that he was getting to like them; and i overheard him once say to mother: "our laddie looks fatter and brighter; i suppose it's those young scamps' doings. i wish they had come before." "i'm sure they have done him good," said mother, heartily; "and they have done no harm to anyone, in spite of all the mischief you prophesied." "wait and see," said father, grimly. "that young jack reminds me of a volcano; it looks quiet enough one minute, but it may swallow you up the next. if they get through the holidays without an eruption, i'll give them a sovereign between them when i drive them to colchester." sudden news from london took father away that very evening, and hastened the explosion which he had prophesied. "now, what shall we do this afternoon?" said rupert the next day, when dinner was over and i had been carried by my two faithful bearers into the den. "i vote we go fishing," said jack, proceeding to inspect my fishing rod and line. "we have been here a fortnight and haven't been fishing once. what do you say, captain? shall we be like the monks who hid in the old water mill, and fish for our dinner? what's the matter? you look quite glum." "of course he does," said kathleen; "he doesn't wish to be left alone. i'll stay with you, edric." "why shouldn't he go, too?" suggested harold. "it's a regular tub of a boat, rather different from the one we had at sydney." "perhaps your river was rather different from ours," i said, colouring at the slight cast upon my father's boat. "you forget that this is a tidal river; there's only a small part of it fit for a boat at all at low water, and if there's much wind it runs like a racehorse just past our back-water to the bay." "all right, captain, we beg your boat's pardon, and as it is so big we will make good use of it. you shall come out fishing with us," said rupert, marching out of the room as if he considered that his word was law, instead of mine. i know i was very naughty, but i had perfect confidence in my two bearers; and when kathleen had tried to find mother all over the house and failed, i let my wishes silence my conscience and said, "all right, i'll come if you will put me in carefully; but mind, i don't know anything about boating." "oh, rupert knows enough for all of us. father says he can manage a boat as well as he can. let's get some food out of our cupboard and start at once." our den was always well provided with eatables, so there was no difficulty on that score, and the dread of being stopped at the last moment made me hurry them all as much as possible. i was quite relieved when rupert appeared with my hat and a plaid. "we'll take this in case it gets cool. now, then, kathleen. heave ahoy!" i was carried down those stairs more rapidly than i had ever been before. i shut my eyes and bit my lips to avoid showing how frightened i was. when i looked up i was in the bottom of the boat. harold, with loving thoughtfulness, had put in some cushions, and i felt as comfortable as on my sofa. "push her off, jack." jack did it skilfully, and sprang in just as my heart came into my mouth for fear he should fall into the water. "hurrah!" they all cried, at the top of their voices, but my cheer was a feeble one; i had caught sight of something in the bows, and if there is one thing i have hated all my life it is a gun. "what have you got that for?" i said to rupert. "always best to have two strings to your bow, captain. if jack can't catch any fish, then i'll shoot something; we must have either fish or fowl for supper to-night." "did mother say you might have it?" jack made a grimace, and said something about rupert not being half as stupid as he looked; but i soon forgot all about the gun in my enjoyment of the water. rupert and harold rowed well together, and kathleen steered till we came to the main stream, when jack put out his line. if fish can hear and understand, they certainly must have thought that there never was a noisier crew come out to look for them. we laughed till we couldn't laugh any more, and our rowers had to rest on their oars to recover strength to pull them. "just look!" said jack, suddenly. "there's a tiny footmark. i should think that fellow wears nineteens." "hold hard a minute, and let us trace them," said rupert, leaning over the side. "talk of footprints in the snow, they are not half as beautiful as footprints in the mud under the river." he guided the boat skilfully, so that we followed the steps, till they went up the bank on the side nearest craigstown. "the old fellow comes from there, then; i wonder where he goes, and where he comes from. it's a queer sort of place to choose for an afternoon walk. halloa, what's that? push off quick, jack, or we shall stick, and on the wrong side, too." [illustration: "he was thrown to the bottom of the boat."] jack sprang up, and put the oar down with a force which sent the boat out into the current again, but the next instant he fell. he had overreached himself, the oar stuck, and he was thrown to the bottom of the boat. there was consternation in every face for a moment. rupert was the first to recover himself. "take that stretcher, jack, and see what you can do to help me. you will pull stronger than harold. i'll just turn her round and go home." it was very easy to say, but impossible to do; pull as they would they could only get the boat half round, so that she was more than ever in the power of the stream. i looked at kathleen anxiously. she was as white as her frock. "the tide has turned," she cried, "and we are going out to sea." [illustration: chapter iv tailpiece] [illustration: chapter v headpiece] chapter v. tied to the bell buoy. i expect i fainted, for when i looked at kathleen again she was bathing my face and hands with sea water, and the shores were ever so much farther off than they had been. "oh, edric, what shall we do? what will uncle and aunt say? are you better now? what is the time, rupert?" "half-past four," said rupert. "the tide runs out six hours, so we can't be back any way before midnight." "then i vote we have something to eat," said jack, as usual the first to recover himself. "i say, rupert, is it any good fagging away with that oar to keep her in the middle of the stream? don't you think we might as well let her run aground?" rupert was standing in the bows, guiding the boat as they do the gondolas in venice, and looked tired and anxious. "i think we ought to go on," he said, quietly. "edric has never been on the water but once, and i want to get him home. if we get stranded we are bound to stay till the tide comes up and floats us, and then there's a doubt whether we can get this heavy tub home with one oar. i think our best chance is to go down with the stream, till we get into the bay. perhaps a boat will pass, and take us round to craigstown." "we could easily drive home from there at low water," said i, trying to speak cheerily, though i felt fearful. what a different party we were then, as the boat went swiftly down the river, widening and widening every moment. "now, captain, your eyes are good, whatever your legs and arms may be. just keep a sharp look out, and shout 'ship, ahoy!' the instant you see anything." "what's that?" cried harold, suddenly. "i heard a bell. i say, isn't it getting rough; don't pitch me overboard, please. you'd better sit down, rupert, or you'll take a header. there's no one here to fish you out, and there isn't a towel on board. stewardess, you'll please to take a month's notice for forgetting them." with such little jokes we tried to hide the fear which sat heavily on every heart. "there it is again," said kathleen, looking eagerly around. "it sounds like a bell." i raised myself on my elbow. "it must be the bell buoy," i exclaimed. "i have heard father talk about it. it is a great big buoy, painted red and white. there's a bell on the top, and four hammers which swing up against it with the waves." "is there danger there?" said rupert, standing up again, and grasping his oar. "not for us, i think. i almost forget; but i think father said it was put to show the steamers their course when they are up the chiswell to barford." "what! is there another river up there? no wonder we have such a tossing. there's the bell again--we must be getting nearer to it. there it is. ship, ahoy! why didn't you shout, captain?" we were making straight for the bell buoy, but i saw that we were also making straight for the open sea. in an instant a prayer came to my lips, and i said aloud: "oh, god, show us what we ought to do." like a direct answer from heaven, which we all believed it was, kathleen said, "tie the boat to the buoy, rupert." in the excitement, eager to help, eager to see, i raised myself to my knees, and then dropped back; i had never done so much in my life before. it was a terrible moment of suspense, and then rupert almost fell into kathleen's arms. "bravo!" she cried; "you've done it, darling." he had tied the painter skilfully round the iron frame which supported the bell. "yes, it's done, dear; the question is, how long will the rope last. it isn't like being moored to a tree at the side of a river. oh! i'm tired, i must rest a moment; you two look out, and signal if you see any vessel." as he spoke he kicked something. "what a set of idiots we are," said jack, crawling carefully along the bottom of the boat, which was pitching in a manner fearful to describe. "here's the gun; let's fire it till someone sees us." a bang, a flash, a sharp pain in my hand, and a cry of misery. shall i ever forget those few minutes? i didn't know where i was hurt at first; but the marvel was we were not all turned into the sea as my cousins rushed to me. if our boat had not been, as jack said, a regular old tub, you would never have read this tale, for i should never have written it. the bullet had just grazed my left hand and carried away my little finger. of course, i have missed it very often since, and groaned over the pain then; but if i had to go through that afternoon's experience again, i would certainly still let that bullet work its mischief. care for me, staunching the blood, and tearing handkerchiefs into strips to stop the circulation at the wrist, which idea i had gathered from various books of war and bloodshed, all took time and distracted our thoughts for a while from the danger which threatened us all. "i see a boat!" said harold, with a gasp of joy. "give me the gun, quick," cried rupert. "don't be frightened, edric; i won't hurt you. it is our only hope." bang, bang, bang--three shots in the air as quickly as possible. [illustration: "don't be frightened, edric. it is our only hope."] "she sees us, she's turning this way," we cried, with voices in which tears and joy struggled for the mastery. but we were not yet out of danger. even as we uttered that cry, we gave another. "look! the rope is broken. we are adrift!" [illustration: chapter v tailpiece] [illustration: chapter vi headpiece] chapter vi. punishment and escape. it was ten o'clock when we were driven through the gates of our home. father had only just returned from london, so he had been spared the long hours of agony which mother had passed after missing us at the usual tea hour. what a miserable party we must have looked as one by one we got out of the cart. of course, i was last; and as father lifted me in his arms, he caught sight of my hand, which had been bandaged by the doctor at craigstown, and was now in a sling. "it's only my little finger, father," i said; "i shan't miss it." then i remembered that, of course, he knew nothing that had happened, and said no more. no prisoners in the dock ever felt more wretched than we did, as we stood in the dining-room wondering what would be our fate. my gentle mother came to the rescue. "i'm sure you must all be starved; eat your supper first, and then tell us what you have been doing." i tried to eat; but every mouthful seemed to choke me, and mother's sorrowful look at my maimed hand, and tenderly whispered words of love were almost too much for me to bear. i felt how wicked i had been to give her such pain as she must have borne since she went upstairs and found our den empty, then heard from one of the farm labourers that he had seen us in the boat. my cousins were stronger in mind and body than i was; and although they looked conscience-stricken enough, they managed to eat a hearty supper. when the things were cleared away, father put down his newspaper, and called us to account. "now, what have you to say for yourselves?" he asked, in a stern voice. i looked up and began to speak, but rupert stepped forward and silenced me. "i'm the eldest," he said, "and all the blame is mine. i'll tell you about it, sir." something in the honest face, now pale with fatigue and excitement, yet made noble by its fearless expression, seemed to touch us all. "you'd better sit down," said father, less sternly; but rupert took no notice. with eager words, which seemed to come rushing out, he described our adventures as far as you know them. "when the rope broke," he continued, "i thought it was all up with us. edric fainted for the second time, and i thought he was dead. i knelt down then and prayed god to forgive me for what i had done, and let me die, too, and to take the others safe home; but the fishing smack came along almost directly, and one of the sailors caught hold of our boat. they lifted us all into their boat; and we lay down amongst the fishes and nets and lines, and went to sleep, i believe, till they landed us at craigstown pier. one man, philip they called him, took edric to the doctor to have his hand done. it had begun bleeding again almost directly we got in the boat; but philip bound it up splendidly. then we got into that cart, and here we are. i don't know what you mean to do to us, uncle; but i'd like to tell you we are all bitterly sorry, and will go back to school tomorrow if you wish it." "that won't put edric's finger on again, or cure his back if you have hurt it by those hours of exposure. do you know he hardly ever goes out except in the long perambulator, which is pushed as gently as possible?" "please, uncle," said jack, who had been fretting at the long silence to which rupert had condemned him, "i don't think we did him any harm, except about his finger. he knelt up in the boat once." "perhaps you'll try to make me believe that he can do better with nine fingers than ten. well, you can go to bed now. i cannot send you back to school because mr. barton has gone abroad and there is no one there, so you will have to remain here for the rest of the holidays. you have prepared means of barricading your tower-room; i shall use them on the outside instead of your using them on the inside. you will be locked in there for two days. your meals will be brought to you, and you will be let out to go to bed; but until thursday night you are my prisoners; and i expect you to be honourable ones." father glanced at rupert as he spoke; but rupert made no sign. "will edric come, too?" asked kathleen. "not exactly. i think he has been punished enough. you will not see edric till you are released from prison. you can all go now; good-night." with bent heads and dejected steps my cousins left the room, but mother went after them; and i heard afterwards that she did not say good-night to them till she had joined them in asking god's forgiveness, and in thanking him for the great mercy shown to us all. what a wretched day the next one was for me. i could not read, and i hardly felt inclined to talk even to mother. i thought of the prisoners in the tower-room, and wondered what they were doing. the day was so long, and my hand was rather painful, so that at last when tea-time came i felt quite cross and miserable. "don't you think i might go upstairs for a few minutes," i said to mother when she came in with her bonnet on; "it's so dull." "i am sorry, darling, i must go out, but i shall not be gone more than half-an-hour. here's a book you have not read. the time will soon pass, and you will be able to go upstairs again; but you must not disobey father." i did try to read, but i could not. i was not quite happy, because i felt that there was something unfair in my cousins being punished and my being let off with only a finger less. at last i turned round on my sofa and had what jack called "a little weep." a light touch on my shoulder startled me--jack stood by my side. "oh jack! how could you?" i whispered; "you have broken your word of honour." "that's what rupert says, so he is sticking up in that room, fretting himself to fiddle strings. i never promised anything, and so i'm not bound to stay there. i nearly broke my neck corning down, my foot caught in the ivy. but what do you think i found out? there's a regular ladder up to one of the windows on the side that looks towards the water-mill." "a ladder! nonsense; how could a ladder be there without our seeing it?" "oh! you matter-of-fact creature. i don't mean a ladder of wood or a ladder of rope thirty yards long. i found that there were little places cut in the bricks just to put your toes in. i counted six of them; but there was a noise, and i didn't dare to count any more. how are you, old man? they all want to know badly; they seem to think we had almost killed you, but i know better--i believe we did you good. i must go now; if uncle found me here he'd eat me." "wait a minute. what did you say about those steps? i wonder whether---- do you know both our servants left last year because they said the place was haunted? of course it was all rubbish, because there are no such things as ghosts, but nothing that mother could say would make them happy; they said if it wasn't ghosts it was burglars or smugglers, and off they went." "what a joke!" said jack, standing close to the window; "that's the way the ghost went up and down, then. hush! who in the world is that? there's somebody in white creeping among the rhododendron bushes. i'm off. cooee, cooee!" the australian cry sounded weird enough, and i gasped for breath as i saw jack's figure disappear at full speed among the rhododendrons. an instant afterwards there was a scream, and then dead silence. [illustration: chapter vi tailpiece] [illustration: chapter vii headpiece] chapter vii. the mysterious visitor. if any one had told me i was a coward, i should have been very indignant, and i think rightly so; but i must confess that i lay and trembled, as i looked through the open window, and wondered who had screamed and what was the matter. the steps in the wall, the white figure skulking among the bushes, and finally the scream; was that not enough material wherewith to make a very nice little chapter of horrors? never had i so much regretted my helplessness. if i had only been able to walk, nothing would have prevented my going upstairs and telling rupert that i thought jack had got into trouble; as it was, i could only exercise my brains for some other way to let him know. mother came in just then, and exclaimed at my white face. that was the best thing that could have happened. i made her promise not to get jack into further trouble, and then i told her all about it. she went into the garden at once, and found him lying on the ground writhing with pain, with his foot caught in a man-trap, which he had himself found in the loft the day before, and put in the path out of mischief, and then forgotten to remove it. cautioning him not to struggle, for he would only make the pain greater and get more firmly fixed, she ran to find father, who came with some men to release the prisoner. [illustration: "father came with some men to release the prisoner."] father then carried him into the room where i was lying, and put him on a sofa near me. "it has broken your ankle, i'm afraid," he said, examining jack's foot carefully. "send george for the doctor at once, mary." then poor father walked up and down the room as if he were worried almost out of his mind. "i was after the ghost," said jack, presently, in a timid voice; "i was creeping behind him, and was just close up when my foot was gripped by that thing. i believe i screamed once; if so, he heard me, and won't come again." "don't talk such nonsense," said mother, who had returned by this time. "there are no such things as ghosts." "of course, i know that," said jack, recovering a little of his usual spirit. "the ghost i was after wore a white mackintosh coat and a pair of big sailor's boots. i wonder--oh, edric, do you remember the footmarks in the mud?" "what of them?" said father, sternly. "do you remember, young gentleman, that you are a prisoner, and have no business at all out of that room; and here you are with a broken ankle talking nonsense about ghosts and footmarks in the mud. why did you leave the tower when i told you not to do so?" "for two reasons, uncle. first, i wanted to see edric. you see we all like edric, and we felt----" a little pause, and jack seemed to choke; "we felt sorry about yesterday. i dreamt of fingers all night, uncle, indeed i did--covered with blood, too." "go on," said father, gravely. "well, we wanted to know how edric was. the servant who brought our meals was as dumb as any old monk who had promised never to speak, so we couldn't get anything out of her. i was standing by the window at about eight o'clock, wondering whether i dared climb down the ivy and run round to the dining-room to see edric, when all of a sudden i saw something moving in the bushes. i put my head out without saying a word to the others, who were all busy writing to tell father and mother how naughty we have been; and what do you think i saw? a man, in a white coat and sailor's slouch hat, beginning to climb up the ivy. i waited till he had got half-way up, and then i sneezed; like this." jack sneezed so naturally that we all laughed. "that's the way i get the windows shut at school if it's cold. mother told mr. barton to be particularly careful that we didn't catch cold; so when we want the windows shut i just keep on sneezing till he does it." "what happened next?" asked father, speaking in his natural manner for the first time since our escapade. jack's sensitive nature felt the change at once. "you should have seen him," he said, brightly. "he dropped down like a cat, and bolted." "did he look up?" "i don't know. i took my head in quick, for fear he might owe me one if he should ever see me again. i waited a minute, and then climbed down after him. i couldn't see him anywhere, so i went to look at edric." now, although i have told you all that my cousin said without any breaks, you must remember he had a broken ankle, and many times he stopped in great pain in the middle of a sentence. father noticed this; and as soon as he had heard all that he required, he put his hand on jack's head and told him to lie quietly till the doctor came. "you can't think of all the dreadful things i was going to do to you," he said. "you will learn some day that everything we do wrong brings its own punishment. it does not come perhaps directly, as edric's lost finger and your broken ankle did; but it does come, my boy." "but he wanted to help you, father," i said, hastily, sorry that my hero should be looked upon as a culprit. "that was right enough, laddie; but he set to work the wrong way. it is no use doing evil that good may come; good never does come in the end from such work. he should have obeyed me first, and helped me afterwards." it was a bit of a puzzle to me then; but now that i am older, i know that father was right. as it was, i am afraid that i was not as grieved about jack's broken ankle as i should have been. for the next few days, at all events, i knew he would be my constant companion, for he would lie on the sofa near me. nothing more was said by my parents about our mysterious visitor, though, of course, jack and i were never tired of talking about him. we made him out to be everything in turns, from a russian nobleman to a london burglar in disguise. thursday evening came, and brought welcome release to the other prisoners in the tower-room; and on friday morning my two bearers came and carried me off to the den, where we talked till it was a wonder our tongues did not ache. they had heard nothing about the cause of jack's accident, and great was their amazement when they were told of the stranger who knew so well the way to the tower-room. "how long is it since this room was used?" asked rupert. "it has never been used that i can remember," i replied. "mother thought it would make a good playroom for you because it is so far away. when i first came into it with her, it was thick with dust, and had nothing in it but that oak chest and this chair." "then i'll be bound that man knows more about it than you do," said rupert. "you'll find out some day; i only hope it will be whilst we are here." [illustration: chapter vii tailpiece] [illustration: chapter viii headpiece] chapter viii. the oak chest. the mysterious visitor was forgotten, my hand had healed, and jack's ankle was in a fair way to recovery, when a letter arrived from mr. barton to say that, owing to his wife's death, he felt he could not return to bath. he had taken a house at brighton, but the necessary business of moving would make it impossible for him to receive his pupils at the time fixed. he hoped, therefore, that my father would not object to keeping the boys a fortnight longer. with what a shout the letter was welcomed! i glanced anxiously at father; he did not look half as displeased as i thought he would. "can you make yourselves happy till the beginning of september?" he asked. "just give us the chance, uncle. we will let you see what we can do. but what about kathleen? we can't let her go before us?" rupert looked at me with a mysterious sign. "no, please father, don't send her away yet. i want her particularly." "mischief again?" said father, just catching my knowing look across at kathleen. "i should have thought you had enough of getting into trouble by this time." "it isn't mischief, father," i cried. "it's good, it's a beautiful secret, it's----" then i broke down and burst into tears. it was only then, i think, that my parents realized that i had not done such a thing lately. "why, laddie," said father, soothing me gently, "i haven't seen any tears since the invasion of the goths and vandals. here, young alaric, carry him off, and bring back the smiles. of course, kathleen shall stay as long as you do, but i warn you"--and here father's face became very grave--"you have risked my son's life once, you had better not do it twice." harold was going to make some reply; but rupert put his hand hastily over his mouth, and swung him out of the room before he and kathleen came to lift me. whether it was that his foot was much better, or that jack was delighted at the thought of spending a fortnight more than he expected at the island farm, i do not know; but he seemed that day to be possessed of twice his usual spirits. of course, he was not allowed to put his foot to the ground; but it was cased in plaster of paris, and he managed to hop with the help of a stick if he really wished to move. "now, commodore," said i, at last--for we had pretended he had been wounded in battle--"i wish you would keep still, you give me the fidgets; i know you'll damage that foot again; and you do look so queer hopping about like a wounded stork. i might as well try to get about--i believe i should do it as well." "so you will, old fellow, only not just yet. rub, rub, rub, scrub, scrub, scrub, kathleen, and then he will go like a bird." "do keep still," said rupert, presently. "i've tried three times to make a straight line on this piece of wood, and each time you've shaken the table. what do you want? tell me, and i'll get it; but don't keep bobbing about like a lame duck." "that oak chest is bothering me," said jack, coming to an anchor at last, with his bad foot on the chest itself. "what's inside of it." "how should i know? you heard edric say it was here when he first came up. i expect it has old clothes in it. curiosity killed a cat; and when you know that a cat has nine lives, you can see what a deadly poison curiosity must be. it's a glorious bench to carpenter on; and it makes a good place to lie on, if you are fearfully tired and don't mind pretending you are on a stone bench." "and it would be a splendid place to----" "to what?" we all asked, looking up at jack. "never you mind; i know what i know, and i'm not going to tell anybody." but, unfortunately, he did tell somebody, and that was harold, who was the very last person who should have been told. a few days afterwards jack was not well--it was merely a passing indisposition, headache and cold; but as there was so much difficulty in keeping him quiet when he was up, mother thought it best to make him stay in bed. my parents were both going to spend the afternoon and evening at a friend's house, and so my cousins were told that they need not keep only to their den; they might have the run of the house, if they would promise to do nothing which they knew was wrong, and not to go outside at all, in case they might be tempted to mischief. "we promise," said rupert, gravely, and father knew he could trust him. they carried me into jack's room directly we were left alone, and there a certain mysterious operation went on, which had occupied us for half an hour twice a day during the last few weeks. a little reading, a good deal of talking, and then jack said his head was worse; so we all retreated into the dining-room, and wondered what we should play at. "i know," said kathleen. "we have permission to go anywhere; let's have a game of hide-and-seek. i believe you'd take half an hour to find me, there are so many ins and outs, and ups and downs." of course, i could not join in that game, so i begged them to carry me back into jack's room, where i lay reading, sometimes aloud, sometimes to myself, till, to my great delight, i saw him fall asleep. from time to time i could hear a merry peal of laughter in the distance, or the quiet footsteps of someone running past the door in search of a hiding-place. the sounds pleased me, and then i began to wonder whether i should ever be able to join in such a game. four weeks ago i should have laughed at the bare idea of such a thing; but now, things had changed. my cousins had brought fresh vigour to my mind; and if all were true that they told me, there seemed a hope that they might be the means of bringing new strength to my body. i lay building castles in the air after a fashion quite new to me. i had got as far as walking to church with mother on my arm when i was a young man, when suddenly the door was pushed gently open, and rupert whispered, "have you seen harold?" "no; he has not been here." "i told you he must have gone outside," said kathleen, peeping over his shoulder. "not he," replied rupert. "don't you remember we all three promised we would not go out of the house? he must be somewhere inside? let's hunt again." half an hour passed, and then my cousins came back. i signalled to them that jack was still asleep, and they could take me out of the room. "we can't find him anywhere," said rupert, as they carried me downstairs. "don't be anxious," i replied. "he must have gone outside; he will come back when he finds you do not go after him. or shall you go into the garden to look for him?" rupert looked at me in amazement. "didn't i tell you we all promised not to go out?" he said. "i don't believe harold is outside; if he is, i'll never speak to him again." of course, we laughed at the hasty speech which had ended in a promise that the speaker would certainly never keep. but by-and-by, as the light began to fade, and harold made no appearance, we grew anxious about him. "supper will bring him; he will be tired and hungry by that time," we said; but we had finished our supper when the door was pushed open, and jack entered in dressing-gown and slippers. "jane says you have been playing hide-and-seek, and have lost harold. have you looked in the oak chest for him?" "the oak chest?" we all repeated, with a terrified gasp. "if he has been shut in there for a couple of hours he will be dead!" [illustration: chapter ix headpiece] chapter ix. the mystery deepens. never had i longed so eagerly to walk, as i did that evening when all three cousins ran out of the room in pursuit of their missing brother. i had not really been anxious before, for harold, although only nine years old, was well able to take care of himself, and i had only regretted that he would probably get into trouble again with father for disobedience. it never entered my head that he could possibly be hidden in the house, far less that he should be in the oak chest, which for all i knew was locked up. the housemaid coming in just then, i begged her to carry me up to the tower-room, putting aside for the moment the fear i had always had, before my cousins came, of trusting myself to any one but father. when we reached our den the children were standing by the chest, which was open, and was empty. "he has been here," said rupert; "see how the things are pressed down." "i don't believe he could get in," said i; "it isn't long enough." but my doubts were silenced by kathleen stooping and lifting from one corner a handkerchief stained with blood, which was still wet. "this is harold's!" she cried. "whatever has happened to him!" "his nose has been bleeding," said jack, promptly; "you know it often does. it would be enough to make a mummy's nose bleed to be shut up in that old chest. i wish i had never told him what a splendid place it would be to hide in. it seems i'm always to be at the bottom of the mischief. we shouldn't have gone in that boat if i had not suggested fishing, and edric would still have had five fingers on each hand if i hadn't fired the gun. now poor old harold will get into a scrape for hiding so long, just because i went and showed him how the spring of the chest worked, after i had ferreted it out myself. halloa, what are you about, rupert? don't kill me; i didn't mean any harm." rupert had suddenly sprung at jack, and seizing him by the arm almost screamed out-- "spring, did you say? then it can't be opened from the inside." in another moment rupert had flung out the few odds and ends of old clothing which were in the bottom of the chest, and sprang into it; as he did so, his heels made a strange, hollow sound, which caught my attention. he was rather tall for his age, and had to double himself up in a way that would have delighted the heart of his gymnasium master before he could say-- "now shut it down, quick, and i'll see if i can open it; but mind you undo the spring directly i give three knocks." of course, he could do nothing; the box could only be opened from the outside by pressing the springs. we were glad enough to reply, to his signal, and release the prisoner. then we all stood with puzzled faces looking at the open chest. "what have you been up to?" said a cheery voice, and never were we more relieved to see my mother. she listened gravely and quietly to our account. "if he has really been in that box, and the handkerchief certainly seems to prove it, then some one must have got him out. perhaps one of the servants did. let us go and inquire. you had better all come downstairs; you look as white as the miller. there's nothing much to be frightened at, after all. if harold were able to get out of the chest, he certainly was not smothered. as to his nose bleeding, you know that won't hurt him. perhaps he is asleep in bed; have you looked?" "we've ransacked every room in the house, and the servants have not seen him since six o'clock." ten o'clock came, and with his usual punctuality father sounded the gong for prayers. he insisted on doing it with the outer doors wide open, so that if harold were within earshot, he would be reminded that it was bedtime. i had never been up to evening prayers before; and as i lay with my hands clasped, i looked out for a moment to the calm summer sky. there was a glorious moon, which made a path of silver among the rhododendron bushes. it all looked very beautiful, and my heart joined with delight in the words of thanksgiving which father was speaking. then he went on to pray that we might all be guarded through the night; i thought of harold, and said, amen. i had said my prayers night and morning ever since i was old enough to know who it was to whom i owed everything, but i am sure i had never really prayed before. a change came over me that evening; god seemed nearer to me, i seemed nearer to him, and i realised fully for the first time that he was my loving father and king. my eyes were closed for a moment in earnest, silent prayer; when i opened them again--could it possibly be fancy?--i thought i saw a figure going swiftly down the rhododendron path. "the ghost!" i cried, not waiting till the family were off their knees; "there's jack's ghost again!" father ran out of the window; but, of course, as he had not seen the mysterious visitor when he came before, he did not know which way he went, and turned to the left. that gave the man a start; and although i called out to father which way to go, he did not succeed in finding any one. we all waited in intense excitement till father came back; and then the finishing touch to our evening was given by our young coachman coming in with a broad grin on his face, without even waiting to knock at the door. "if you please, mum, master harold's sitting on my bed. i think he's summat light-headed, for he keeps on asking how he got there, and declares that he was in the oak chest and couldn't get out. do you mind coming to see him, mum?" robert had been out all the evening with my parents, and had only had time to attend to the horse and put the carriage away when the gong sounded for prayers, so he had not been in his room, which was above the coach-house, since he dressed at four o'clock. rupert and kathleen did a dance of delight round the table; while jack, who was still attired in his dressing-gown, had to content himself with playing the castanets with his fingers and whistling. "what a funny go," he cried, when his brother and sister had dropped breathless into the one big armchair. "listen! what do you say to my ghost being the one who rescued him? if so, he must have left robert's room when you saw him, edric. oh dear, what a thing it is to feel like a bottle of ginger beer, and yet have to behave as if you were as flat as ditch water, owing to your stupid foot." then, with his usual sensitiveness, jack felt that he had said something which might hurt me, and hastened to mend it. "that's my own fault, isn't it, edric? and that's just why it's harder to bear. virtue is its own reward, they say, and so is wickedness. here he comes! 'i've waited long for you, my man; oh, welcome safe to land,'" he sang, gently, as harold came in, holding mother's hand and looking rather bewildered. "now, young man," said father, "give an account of yourself. what do you mean by disobeying me and going out of the house when you promised not, and harrowing the hearts of your brothers and sister and all your relations?" "please, uncle, i didn't go out of the house," said harold, earnestly. [illustration: chapter ix tailpiece] [illustration: chapter x headpiece] chapter x. how the stranger helped. "curiouser and curiouser," quoted jack, from alice in wonderland; but we were all too astonished to laugh at his droll face. "i specs he walked in his sleep." harold looked angrily at his elder brother. "i promised i would not go out of the house, and i didn't." "coach-house doesn't count, i suppose," remarked rupert, who was, i fancy, a little annoyed by the uneasiness we had all felt. "don't tease him, my boy," said father, kindly; "let him tell his story in his own fashion." thus encouraged, harold sat down, and told us that he had got into the oak chest to hide. "i thought, of course, that you would hear me when i called, but you didn't seem to come into that room at all." "we did go there," said kathleen; "but you know there is no place to hide there but the cupboard, and that had been left wide open by rupert when he hid there at the beginning of the game. so we just ran up the stairs, put our heads in and saw that the room and cupboard were empty, and then ran off to what we thought were more likely places." "then that's why i did not hear your footsteps. the wood must be fearfully thick. i lay still till i began to feel suffocated, and then i tried to get out. i tried and tried, i pushed with my hands, then i lay on my back and pressed with my knees and kicked with my feet. it wasn't a bit of good, i only hurt myself and got more choky. then my nose began to bleed, and i gave up trying, and lay with my face to the side of the chest. oh, it was horrible, auntie! i thought that i should die; and i wondered how long you would be before you found me, and what poor father and mother would say when they heard about it." "there, there, don't pile it on," said jack, rubbing his hand across his eyes; "tell us how you got out, that's what we want to know. anyone could get in and be choked; but it's a regular maskelyne and cooke's dodge to get out again instead." "i can't tell you, i don't remember anything till i woke up in bed in a strange room. i know now it was robert's. your new man gave me a sandwich and something out of a little bottle, and i----" "my new man?" repeated father, with his eyes wide open. "why, i haven't one in the place that has been here less than five years." "oh! perhaps i made a mistake," said harold, rather wearily; "i didn't know his face, so i thought he must be a stranger. he had a white coat on like a coachman, and----" "hurrah!" cried jack, "my mysterious stranger went to the rescue. could he talk english, harold? was he very furious?" "he was very kind; but he didn't speak once, i remember. he bathed my face with water out of robert's basin, and i noticed that he kept looking out of the window. then i heard a noise like a bell; and he went to the window, stood there a minute, then he waved his hand to me, and unlocked the door and went." "why had he locked the door?" "how can i tell?" "how did you see all this in the dark?" "the moon shone right in at the window. i don't know who the man was, if uncle says he was not one of the servants; but i'm very tired, and don't want to talk any more." so we all were; but i am afraid if there had been any one sleeping in my little room i should have talked all night about our mysterious stranger. the next morning things went on much as usual, till kathleen and rupert came to carry me upstairs. then you would have laughed if you could have heard all the wild guesses we made as to the identity of our strange visitor. "let's have a good look at that chest," said rupert, when kathleen had declared she had done with it for the present. "your heels made a very queer sound in it last night, rupert," i said. "only for pity's sake let somebody sit on the edge of it whilst it is open. i don't want you to be guillotined or smothered." harold perched himself in such a manner that the lid could not possibly fall, and dangled his legs against the side. it was a wonderful old chest, and we have it still in our house. it is made of black oak, is just five feet long, and about two feet wide. "i know," said rupert, presently, springing out of the box. "where's the foot rule?" "what's the joke now?" said harold. "are you going to measure it to see if there's room for the mysterious stranger to hide in?" "that's it," exclaimed rupert, disdaining to answer his brother's remark. "that's it. there's a false bottom to it. look! it measures twenty inches inside and twenty-five outside. let's break it open; we shall find a treasure, perhaps. no wonder my heels rattled when i got in last night." "if it rattles," said jack, sagaciously, "there isn't much inside. but let's see if we can open it." they pushed and knocked in turns, but it was useless; they only grew tired and cross. for once my studious life gave me an advantage over them. i remembered that in all the wonderful tales i had read of hidden chambers and secret drawers, there was no force required to open them. i reminded my cousins of this. "there's some little trick about it; some panel or hidden spring. you will be more likely to find it just when you least expect." "get along, you stupid old thing," said harold, losing patience; "i'm sick of you." as he spoke he sprang from his perch and administered a kick to the obstinate box. kathleen was holding the lid on the opposite side, and saw the bottom of the box move. "look, look," she cried, "it is opening!" it did not spring up, it merely stood just enough away from the box for rupert to put his fingers under it and lift it out bodily. a low groan of disappointment escaped us all. they had pulled my chair close to the chest, and i was able to look into it as well, and certainly shared in the groan. i can't say what we had expected. it may have been gold, it may have been treasures of another kind. most certainly we none of us had expected to see a few packets of papers, yellow with age, and covered with dust. so engrossed had we been that we had not noticed a step in the room; and when rupert raised himself from the chest with a bundle of papers in his hand, declaring he would take them to uncle, my blood seemed to stand still and my heart almost to jump into my mouth when a voice, with a strong french accent, said-- "not too fast, young gentleman; those papers belong to me." [illustration: "not too fast, young gentleman; those papers belong to me."] by the side of my couch, almost touching me, stood the man whom we had named jack's ghost! [illustration: chapter xi headpiece] chapter xi. a day of surprises. "are you better, now?" said the stranger, laying his hand on harold's shoulder. "yes, thank you," replied harold, jerking himself away, while rupert gave expression to what we all felt and thought. "i wish you'd go about like other people, instead of sneaking up the sides of walls." as he spoke he went to the window. "uncle george!" he shouted at the top of his voice. an answer came from a distance. "make haste up here, there's a man who wants to see you." "i pity him if he is in your den," father called out merrily, after about two minutes during which time we had all been perfectly silent, kathleen and harold keeping a strict guard over the chest by sitting on it. it seemed to me a fearful time before father's footstep sounded on the stairs. i almost expected to see the stranger bolt out of the window, but he did not. he stood as still as if he had been cut in marble, until the door opened, and father entered with some joke on his lips which was never uttered. the mysterious stranger took his hat from his head, and father gazed at him for one brief second, then held out both his hands. [illustration: "father gazed at him for one second, then held out both his hands."] "what! you, joe?" "yes, i, george." the words meant little enough, but the tone spoke volumes, and, to our terrible distress, the stranger dropped on the oak chest and was convulsed with sobs. "right about face, quick march," whispered jack, hopping off as well as he could. "look after the baggage." the baggage meaning me, rupert and kathleen seized me with a rapidity which would have terrified me a month back; and in less time than it takes to write, we had made our retreat in disorder, and the enemy were left in possession. "never no more," said jack, whom we found resting on one of the landings, "will i pass my days in that den. i shan't have nerve enough to face a cricket-ball when i get back to school. to think that the ghost, the mysterious stranger, the rescuer of my beloved brother, should be called joe, and be on speaking terms with my uncle! after that, no more mysteries for me. i mean to live in the dining-room, and devote myself to bread and butter." "that's all providing that father will let you," i said. "no, it isn't. he will have to let me. i feel like the poultry in the farmer's yard, who declared 'twas hard that their nerves should be shaken, and their rest be marred by the visit of mr. ghost. oh, i'll go to brighton, if uncle likes; but pass the rest of my days in the tower-room, i won't." a burst of laughter restored jack's good temper, and then we all went into the dining-room and told mother about everything. i'm a good deal older now than i was then, but i have not yet got out of the way of wanting to rush off to tell mother everything. happy are the youngsters who have such a mother as i have, and who try all their lives never to do or say anything that they would be afraid or ashamed to tell her. let me see, i said "rush off," did i not? and i meant it; though at the time i am speaking about, i was dependent on other people's rushing instead of my own. mother was nearly as excited as we were about the stranger, only she seemed to know a little more about him. "your father had a half-brother named joseph," she said; "his mother was a frenchwoman, and when she died her little boy was sent by your grandfather to stay with her relations in france." "but why has father never mentioned him?" i asked. "there was some unhappiness about him, dear, and you know your father never speaks about anything like that. he bears it all, and says nothing. take care, edric! what are you going to do?" "take hold of me, mother." slowly and carefully i drew my legs round, and then, leaning on her arm, with rupert on the other side of me i put them to the ground. of course, it was but a poor attempt at walking, but still, it was an attempt, and mother seemed utterly amazed. nothing ever happens just as one has expected and planned it; i had so often gone through that little scene in my mind, and yet i had not the least intention of acting it that day. "well done, my darling, well done! how came you to think of trying that? why, you will walk as well as i do some day." "it is all kathleen's doing," i said, still standing propped up by their arms, and wondering at the peculiar feeling in my feet. "she had seen a child cured in australia by doing a few exercises daily. she had watched very carefully, and was sure she could do me good if i would only persevere. so she has made me do them twice every day, for half an hour, for five weeks." "but that was what the doctor ordered for you, darling; and you cried and said the woman hurt you, so we had to leave it off." "i know, mother," i said, colouring, for i was ashamed of myself now; "but in those days i did not really feel as if i cared to move about. i would rather not walk at all than be hurt as that woman hurt me. now, kathleen is different; she has not hurt me once, and yet she would not let me off a minute before the half-hour." "mary! mary!" said father's voice, "i want you for a moment." he pushed the door open and stood transfixed. "what! edric trying to walk? this is a day of surprises. whose doing is that?" "kathleen's," i said, making a sign to mother that i wanted to go back to my couch again. father came into the room and looked gravely at me. "do you know, laddie," he said, seriously. "i have found out that there is one thing in this world which always brings a reward, and that is unselfishness. it's your mother that's unselfish, not i. if it had not been for her, i should never have consented to have your cousins here. i hated the thought of it, and only consented to please her. wow see the reward we have got, far beyond what i, at least, deserve; my little helpless laddie is going to try to be like other children, and my half-brother is restored to his inheritance. come and see him, mary; i'll tell you all about it presently, children." [illustration: chapter xii headpiece] chapter xii. the lost will we spent the rest of that day in a state of effervescence. no one seemed to be able to settle down to anything; and we were so excited that even dinner had little attraction, especially as we were told that father and mother and the strange gentleman had driven off to colchester. "so we shall dine here, then," said rupert, with a look at jack, who had fixed himself in an armchair in a most determined attitude; "unless you prefer going up to the tower-room." "never again," said jack, gravely; "uncle says we've done him good, and when he comes back i mean to ask for our reward. 'tis a very good den that we live in, to laugh, or to talk, or to play in; but to hide or to think, or to be quite alone, 'tis the very worst den that ever was known." "bravo, jack! poor old hudibras wouldn't know his own lines if he were here. give us some more of that sort of thing to make the time pass till uncle comes home. i'm just burning with curiosity." a glass of cold water down his back, under pretence of extinguishing him, ended in the aggressor being put out himself. it seemed a long day in spite of all the fun we managed to get in one way or another; but "be the day weary, be the day long, at length it ringeth to evensong," and about seven o'clock we heard the horse's feet in the yard, and my parents came in alone. even then we had, of course, to wait a short time before they were ready to tell us what we were longing to hear. "now i'll tell you all about the mysterious stranger," said father, at last. "but i am tired, and you must not interrupt me. you will have plenty of time to ask questions another day. it is just fifteen years since my half-brother joe was in this room. his mother died when he was about three years old, and at her request your grandfather sent the little fellow over to normandy to be brought up by his mother's brother. this brother was a very rich man, and when my father married again he offered to adopt joe, bring him up as his own son, and leave him all he possessed, if my father would consent. he would not, however, do this, and insisted on joe returning home at once, so one of my first recollections is being carried about by my big brother joe. as i got older i used to spend most of my days in the tower-room, where joe was always busy with some carpentering, or work of one kind or another. your grandfather was a severe man, very harsh in his management of children, and joe often resented what he considered his unkindness. that oak chest, which was nearly the cause of your death the other night, harold, was the cause of our separation. one day the french count came to stay with our father, and joe, who was really very fond of him, owing to having spent his early years with him, wanted to go back with him; but our father would not consent. joe tells me now that he distinctly heard the frenchman say, 'well, i've made my will in his favour, and i shall leave it with you. i've made you executor, and when i am dead you will let the boy come over to normandy. it's a pity you won't let him go back with me, for there are people who would like to oust him out of his property if they could.' "years passed away, and one day, when joe had been imprisoned in the tower-room for some naughtiness, he ran away, climbing down by those very steps that he climbed up yesterday, and which he had made when quite a youngster, to be able to get in or out of his play-room as he liked. i said your grandfather was a harsh man; and when he heard of joe's flight, he knew of course he had gone to normandy, and he made a solemn vow that joe should never enter the house again. i was about twelve then, and old enough to see that, however harsh my father might be, he really loved his elder son. he was never the same again, and one morning we found him struck by paralysis. he recovered consciousness before he died, and seemed anxious to tell us something, but he could neither write nor speak distinctly, though i fancy he wanted to say something about joe. my mother and i lived alone here, writing occasionally to normandy, but never expecting to see joe again. one day, fifteen years ago, i was sitting writing, when a servant came to say that a stranger had called, and had pushed past her, saying he wanted to go to the tower-room. running upstairs quickly, i found your uncle joe kneeling at the oak chest, which stood open. i was angry at his impertinence, and seizing him by the collar as he knelt, i shook him violently and reproached him with killing our father, and then coming into the house in that fashion. he was pale with anger; but he is a noble character, in spite of all his faults. he remembered that we were brothers, and would not strike me. 'i came to see if i could find the count d'arcy's will,' he said; 'a cousin of his claims the estate, and i have nothing to prove that he made me his heir. i know the count gave it to our father.' 'and i know that our father forbade you to enter the house while he was alive. i shall not allow it now he is dead. go!' i replied, pointing to the door. he went, and i have never seen him till to-day." "what has he been doing all these years?" i asked, unable to restrain my curiosity any longer. "he has been working hard and making a name for himself at rouen, while the count's cousin has been squandering the estate. from time to time, he tells me, he has come over to england, stayed at the watermill, with the old woman who nursed him as a baby, and made occasional visits to the tower-room in search of the will which was to restore him to his rights, going and coming always by means of those steps." "whatever made him think of that place?" said jack, finding that my interruption was unreproved. "he says that he remembered your grandfather telling some one that there was a false bottom in the oak chest which made a splendid hiding-place. he had tried several times to get it open, but he had never succeeded. the last time he tried was on that evening when he heard from old jane that we had gone to colchester. when he opened the lid of the chest he found harold inside quite unconscious and almost suffocated. of course, he knew the ways of the house; so he carried him to the coachman's room, where he stayed with him till the gong sounded for prayers." "then they were his footmarks we saw in the mud," cried rupert. "what a joke. don't you tell him i said they were nineteens. what is he like? is he very cross?" "here he comes, so you can judge for yourselves," said mother, opening the door to admit our new-found uncle, who turned out to be just as jolly as any boys could wish. * * * * * years passed by. uncle joe, by means of the will, which was hidden in the oak chest, came into possession of a beautiful little estate in normandy, where we all spent many happy days with our french cousins, for he had married a frenchwoman. i say _we_, because, thanks to my cousins' good influence on mind and body, i became as strong as any one could expect, and was able to enjoy school life in a quiet way, though never fit for rough games, and always rather sensitive about the slight hump on my back. never shall i forget my grief when those first holidays were over, and father and mother and i stood at the door to wave our farewells. "god bless you, children," said father; "you've done us all good." "then you don't wish the savages had never come, uncle," shouted jack, with a merry smile. "no, no, no!" replied father; and then the carriage went out of sight, though the sounds of the australian "cooee" reached us for some minutes afterwards. the end. london: knight, printer, middle street, aldersgate, e.c.